Muse: Since M.E. appears to be out of it right now –
M.E.: ...Connie Willis...books...hair bobbing...
Muse: – I'll be writing for her today.
M.E.: ...impact of the Black Death on the development of western European society...
Muse: Sure, whatever you say. This was once as songfic to the song is "Skellig" by Loreena McKennitt before if was edited to conform to Freakiness. GW does not belong to either myself or my author. Warnings include shounen ai (1x2), OOC, angst (haha! I love it!), deathfic, AU, and an original character.
By: M.E. (Magnificent Entity)
(with help from her muse)
Leaning against the door, John watched quietly as the old man scribbled away furiously in the large, leather bound volume that rested on the table in front of him. Even though it was the beginning of dusk and getting harder to see, he could easily pick out the few pale streaks of brown that still remained in the priest's ivory-colored hair. John had had to cut it again the other day, it was strange that the man's hair continued to grow even in his old age.
Smiling, the boy moved forward, opening one of the cupboards that lined the room, removing an old candle stick holder from it. The squat bronze holder had obviously seen better days- spots of green were beginning to appear on it and the white wax dribbles around the base were more than an inch thick in some places. Frowning at the stub left in the holder, John wrenched it out and shoved it into his pocket. Turning back to the cupboard, he withdrew a new candle stick and jammed it into the holder. Taking out his lighter, he quickly lit the wick, turned, and placed the holder, candle and all, on the desk in such a way that it would easily cast light on the old man's book.
Living alone on this secluded hilltop as he did, it was no wonder that the man preferred the soft glow of a candle for company over that of a more brilliant electric light.
Noticing John for the first time, the priest straightened from his hunched position and smiled up at the younger face. Nodding, he indicated that the boy should seat himself in the extra chair beside him. "John," murmured the ancient relic, "I've told you about the war, haven't I?"
Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, John shook his head no. "You've told me about what caused the war, Father, and what happened afterwards, but never about the war itself."
The old man smiled slightly, "Ah, there is a story..."
Closing the volume before him and shoving it to the side, the priest turned to the young man next to him, his eyes appearing to be twin indigo stars in the twilight of the day, glowing with the wisdom of ages past. "You know, I wasn't always a religious man, John. When I was younger I believed that there was no God, that the only sure thing in life was death. Considering the mess that was the world at the time, it was not surprising."
Leaning forward, John's eyes sparkled. The priest was the oldest person on the tiny island he called home, and, in his opinion, the most interesting and mysterious. Most of the people in the town below ignored the tiny house perched precariously on the top of the highest rocky crag on the island, too busy with their own lives to pay any attention to its sole occupant. "Did you fight in the war, Father?"
The man gave the boy a queer look, one that John couldn't quite decipher. "Fight? Well now, I might have. Remember, I was only a kid then, a year or two younger than you are now."
"Well, did you ever meet any important people? You know, like war heroes..."
"I may have... If I did, they didn't seem important to me at the time... they were just regular people."
"Regular people? Well, maybe some of them were kind of average, but what about the Gundam pilots? I mean, they were so young, and they practically saved Earth and the Colonies from OZ all by themselves!"
"You have to remember, John, soldiers are regular people like you and me. They aren't any different then the rest of us, they just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They're certainly not the romantic heroes the media makes them to be."
Getting up to close the door- it was now dark out, and breeze from off of the ocean would be cold tonight, if the recent weather continued- John shrugged. Once the old man was set on something, there was nothing that could change his mind, so there was no point in continuing on that thread. "Well, do you know any stories about the Gundam pilots?" The teenager eagerly returned to his seat after making sure that the door was securely shut.
A sad smile made its way onto the priest's face, and he drew the large book that he'd been writing in earlier closer to himself, caressing the leather cover with his wrinkled hand. "What do you think I've been writing about, kid, for the last five years? I know all about the Gundam pilots- most of these books are filled with their stories. Someone has to tell the world about the people behind the mecha."
"You knew them, then?" The man shrugged off the youth's question, and John knew with a sinking heart that he wasn't going to get his question answered.
"There's a chance I met them more than once."
"To bad they all died before the war ended."
The priest shot the boy a sharp look, then relaxed. "It's a loss this world will never recover from... After the war, I traveled all over Earth and visited all of the colonies that remained. I was young at the time, and I wanted to find out everything I could about the 'heroes' that saved the human race."
Studying the boy next to him, the priest let out a small puff of air. "You want to hear about them, don't you?" Nodding eagerly, John leaned farther forward.
Tapping the cover of the volume in front of him with a finger, the priest thought for a minute. Rising from his seat, he carried the book to one of the shelves around the room, returning it to its proper place. Straightening out his age-hunched back, he reached up, taking a similar book off of a much higher shelf. Taking his seat once again, he hefted the book onto the table, and opened it. Peering at the smooth cursive for a moment, he fumbled at his pocket, taking out the reading glasses that he'd taken off earlier when John had first arrived, and carefully putting them on. Smacking his lips, he studied the page before him, and then began.
–––
There were five in all, you know (the old man began). At first Earth had no names for them, and so instead called them by numbers. 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. Nobody knew where they came from in the beginning, though it soon became known that they were from the colonies.
Yes, I know that you already know this, John.
No, I'm not going to skip over the boring parts.
The original plan for the invasion was a lot different then the one that actually happened.
Hah. You didn't know that now, did you? They originally planned an all out war. Big explosions, lots of people killed, devastating results.
I've often wondered about that myself. It would have made a smash in the theaters- you young folks are always interested in those types of things.
Which one should I start with? 01? Okay then. Nowadays, of course, they know all of their real names, so I guess I should call him Heero Yuy- even though, I guess, that wasn't his real name.
What was Heero like? Well, he was impossible to explain, you know. To most people, he seemed kind of distant and sort of, well, driven. A lot of those closest to him called him "the perfect soldier," as a joke.
One thing that Heero always did was follow his feelings, no matter what. It got him in trouble with his superiors a couple of times, and caused him to almost die once. He was really passionate at times, though, and I think that affected the people around him.
What did he look like? You've seen the pictures in your textbook.
Well, of course they don't do him justice, no photograph could ever do that! He had these amazingly deep cobalt blue eyes, which was really striking when you first saw him, since he was Japanese and it's not very often that you see an Asian with blue eyes...
I do not sound like a schoolgirl yammering on about her first crush!
Stop that! Don't you know that you're supposed to respect your elders?
That's it! Out! I don't have to put up with that kind of attitude from you!
I'll see you tomorrow too, John.
–––
The priest sighed as he watched the boy leave the small cottage, carefully latching the door behind him. John just didn't seem to realize how hard it was for the old man to talk about the war, about what happened. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still see it. Still see the bright orange of the explosion that rocked the mentality of a race, causing so many to finally wake up to the senseless killing that they were causing. Even though it hadn't been long after that explosion that peace was finally declared, the man still lived in the war. So much of his life ended with that explosion that he'd never really gotten past it.
His conversation with the younger male caused old feelings to rise again, to reclaim his old and weary heart. The room around him was no longer empty, the shadows of long forgotten memories crowding around him, pushing him into the corner, forcing him onto his bed.
It wasn't fair. Wasn't fair that they had all died, that he alone had survived. Why, his mind asked him. Why didn't you go? Why weren't you on the shuttle when it exploded? Why are you still alive?
Why am I still alive, he wondered, tracing the patterns on the quilted bedspread beneath him. He was supposed to have been on that doomed flight, was supposed to have been one of the many casualties along with the other pilots. But, since he'd been late in getting there, he'd missed the departure of the shuttle, and had ended up waiting for the next one. He often wondered what would have happened if he'd been on the shuttle, if somehow history would have gone different... Shaking his head, he rose from the bed, moving around his cabin, getting ready to turn in for the night.
He'd moped around for the first few years after the war, trying to figure out the reason for his existence. According to official records, all of the five Gundam pilots had been on the shuttle that had exploded while under attack by OZ, taking along with it all passengers, a hundred and twenty two of them innocent civilians. When he'd finally come to terms with the fact that he was still alive, no longer contemplating suicide as the solution to the consecutive losses of his lover, identity, and job, he'd become a priest.
Climbing back into the bed, snuggling under the warm covers, he smiled as he remembered the years between when he'd first joined the priesthood and when he'd finally settled down on this tiny island. He'd traveled throughout what had once been Europe for a great deal of that time, visiting villages that were too small to have their own ministers, his working knowledge of a vast array of different languages helping him a great deal.
Most of the time he'd gone by foot, exploring the little footpaths that ranged across the back country of the continent. He'd immerse himself in the scenery, using nature to distract him from the painful memories that he carried with him wherever he went.
During those six decades he'd learned so much, his new knowledge overshadowing that which he'd learned during the war.
But during that time, he'd never learned a way to stop the ache in his heart, one that hadn't diminished since the explosion so many years before.
He couldn't help himself, even now, he still missed Heero.
Turning his back to the room so that he faced the wall, the old soldier drifted off to sleep.
John did not see him the the next day as he had promised. Complications arose, and a year passed before John saw the priest who lived in the one-room house again. He'd been away at school- there was certainly no college on the island that he'd grown up on. Now, as he made his way up the hill, he couldn't help but notice the disrepair of the single path. John had never doubted that he was the only one in the village that paid the man any more attention than was absolutely necessary. To those down below, the retired priest was just another eccentric, some stranger from the mainland who had decided to settle on the island some three and a half decades before. Most likely the only times that any of them ever saw him- with the exception of the postman who brought up his mail and groceries every Monday- was when he went to church on Sundays, where he sat in the back and out of their peering eyes. He was a member of their great-grandfathers' generation, and they had no use for him.
When he finally reached the top of the hill, he was surprised to see the man outside, sleeping in the shade of the one tree that graced this windy spot. Even more surprising was the way that his friend had changed during his absence. The priest's hair no longer contained even faded streaks of brown, it was now completely white, and longer than he remembered. Furthermore, the figure under the tree seemed small and crabbed, and, for the first time, John realized that the priest was old– possibly over a hundred years old by now.
Coming up next to the man, John rested against the tree, watching as the other male slept, determined to let him wake up on his own.
He didn't have to wait long, only five minutes or so, before the small priest sat up somewhat stiffly. Yawning, he started when he noticed John standing above him. Glaring up at John, the priest huffed, "Don't sneak up on me like that ever again, kid." Shrugging, John said nothing, and reached down to help the man to his feet. Together, the two of them made their way to the cabin, a strange being made between the tall, strapping young man and small, hunched figure next to him.
Once inside, the older man sat down in his chair, which was now cushioned by a thick quilt from one of the many cupboards around the room. John took the seat next to him. "I haven't seen you for a while, John."
"I've been going to school on the mainland, Father. I'm studying to be a historian." Blushing slightly, he went on, "Actually, Father, it was your dedication that inspired me."
"That so? Hmph." No book lay on the table for once, and when John looked around he noticed that all the books were gone from the shelves, making the room seem bare and deserted.
"Where are all your books, Father?"
"Books...?" At first it seemed that the priest didn't know what John was talking about, but he brightened quickly, the answer coming to him. "Oh! The books... I put them in those boxes over there in the corner, so that they'd be ready."
"Be ready for what?"
"For you, when you finally came back. I was going to give them to Wufei, since he likes to study things, but I've seem to misplaced his address..."
John felt a flash of despair and sat up straight in his chair. He recognized the name from the histories that he'd read in school as being that of one of the five Gundam pilots. Remembering that the priest had seemed to have once known the pilots, he reached out and rested his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Wufei is dead, Father. He died almost ninety years ago, along with all the other Gundam pilots."
The priest gave John a suspicious look, "Dead? Hah! You can't fool me again Heero. You're the perfect soldier, you can't die- you can't even self-destruct properly!" A second wave of dismay passed over the young man as he realized that his friend was now mistaking him for Heero Yuy. He barely noticed as the priest leaned against him, head resting slightly lower than his shoulder, "I've missed you Heero. You're not going to leave me again, are you? Promise you won't leave me alone again, love."
In a period of only a few minutes, John found all of his questions from the year before being answered. Realization dawned upon him as he pieced together the facts, figuring out that the priest must have been a friend of the pilots, and, apparently, more than a friend to one of them. Still, the ramblings of the old man, and his mistaken identity, disturbed and scared him. "I'm not Heero, Father, I'm John. The pilots are all dead. Heero is dead. Wufei is dead."
Closing his eyes slightly, the priest shook his head, "They can't be all dead, can they? I'm still here. There's one left–" He broke off, coughing violently.
John stared at the person next to him, "How long have you been coughing like that, Father? You sound awful– we need to get you to a doctor. Father?" The older man had stopped coughing, and John watched as a smile slowly spread across his face.
John shook his friend, desperately trying to get him to open his eyes, "Father, wake up! Father? Father Maxwell!"
Alone in a one room house on the top of the a hill in the north Atlantic, a young man wept for a soldier who had lost everything in one orange explosion, a hero that the world had completely forgotten.
–––
Muse: Wai! I love a good, angsty fic, don't you? .
M.E.: ...bishop's birdstump...George's straw hat...
Muse: She'd agree with me if she wasn't still out of it. Please give M.E. C&C— she put a lot of work into this fic, and isn't sure if it's any good– just listen to her beg for feedback:
M.E.: ...even the Queen...Tupperware parties...hana-moon...
Muse: When her words are translated into normal speech, at least, she's begging. Trust me.