Beauty is in the eye of the Beholder
By: JerissicaCaryll

A Weiß Kreuz fanfic

Disclaimer: Weiss and Schwartz both belong to Koyasu, Seki, Hiro, and Miki. Calli, however, belongs to me.

Author's Notes: I initially wrote the first 21 chapters of this story over a year ago. I still think it's a good story but the writing isn't quite up to par with what how I write now so I'm rewriting it. Because I know you care. I only mention this because, if you've read the story before, parts have been changed and its better quality, and if you haven't read this before the rewritten and unrewritten parts are going to be just different enough to throw you. The story might not mesh quite right yet so I apologize in advance for that. And I also apologize for the fact that Calli is a tad bit odd, I can't seem to shake her offness. Please review, I really appreciate kind words but I love criticisms more, just be nice about them.

-----

The only time I ever liked my mother was when she used to tell me I reminded her of my father's brother. She would brush my black hair out of my face and say "You look so much like your Uncle." I don't know why I found it to be such a compliment. I'd never met my Uncle but somehow I knew it was a compliment. Even if she never meant it as one. She was always sad when she told me that. As if it made me even more of a disappointment then I knew I already was.

I asked her once why there were no pictures of my Uncle around. She bit her lip and chose her words very carefully. "I don't like him." She said. And for some reason that sparked my already volatile temper. I argued with her for several minutes about how I should have a picture of him. He was family, after all, and I should be allowed to meet this man I looked so much like. "Never," she told me, "He's walking evil, Calli. His is evil and every time he looks at you he's imagining you in your grave."

"No," I argued, "You're lying. He's imagining you in your grave." And I ran away from her, hid in my room and lost myself in cold computer text.

I never understood how my father put up with my mother's irrational hatred of his only brother. Then again I never understood how my father put up with my mother at all. I tried to mention it to him but he simply told me to listen to my mother. And, for some reason, I never asked again.

Sometimes, when my parents would go out, I would riffle through my father's desk. I don't know why, I was just strangely drawn to it as if there was something there I would find. And since I didn't know what I was looking for I don't think I ever found it. But hidden at the bottom of the largest drawer was a pile of letters, all of them addressed to me. I sat and stared at them for a long time, too afraid to open any of them. I didn't know who would be writing me and there was no clue on the outward envelope. Not a return address or, in some cases, any stamp at all as if they had just magically appeared at the bottom of my father's drawer. I finally put them back without opening a single one, only taking the top one and hiding it myself under the skirt of an old Japanese doll my grandmother had given me before she too had died, leaving me with no one but my mother and my father, when he was around.

It took me two months before I finally got up the courage to open the letter. I would take it out every night after my parents went to bed and stare at it, willing it to give up its secrets without my having to actually read it. I dreaded reading this letter with its odd international postage.

"Callidan," it read, "Such a beautiful name. I never tire of telling you that and because of it you are as well. Not that I don't believe that you would be beautiful without it.

"I sometimes wonder if you appreciate my letters. Do you run to the mailbox every day after school hoping there's another letter from me or do you dread them? Do you read them or do you stash them away unopened? Or do you just throw them away? No matter what the outcome I will never stop writing you. I know I don't always have much to say but I try and say everything that I have. I want you to know everything. And sometimes I don't want you to know anything. Keep you a perpetual child who never has to face the world in all its horrors. But I know I cannot shelter you. Certainly not from so far away. I'm sure you're parents are doing a good enough job on their own and trying to hide you away from adulthood.

"I had a dream about you last night. It was an interesting dream if you happen to believe that dreams are a window into the soul. We were in the park near my apartment. Cherry blossoms were in bloom and you were sitting on a park bench with the petals floating all around you. It was like a picture. I know I don't know what you look like but I can imagine. Imagine you as beautiful as your mother but with the extra bit of kindness that your father has always possessed in spades.

"For a while I just stood a watched you and after a minute you turned and looked at me. Your look was very stern, as if you were standing strong about something but I didn't know what it was. Then, after a bit, you lifted your arm and beckoned to me. And I went without consideration. You didn't stand up even when I was standing right in front of you. You kept staring where I had been as if your time hadn't quite caught up with mine. But when you did look up at me it wasn't a startled look or even the hard look you had been giving me before but one of gentle consideration. And that look suited you so much more than the one you had on before.

"I reached my hand down to help you up but you ignored it, instead reaching up to put your hand on my hip so when you did stand up we were very close together. But it didn't feel as inappropriate as I'm sure it was. Just felt natural, as if we were meant to stand so close we were touching.

"You kept considering me. Not looking me up and down but searching my eyes, looking for something that I don't think was there. I opened my mouth to say your name, I don't remember why, but you lifted the arm that wasn't on my waist to cover my lips. To tell me that words were unneccisary. And I understood better than I have understood anything in a long time. Then you stood up on your tip toes and kissed me. It was completely chaste but there was something there. That same consideration and searching. You were still looking for that thing in me that wasn't there.

"I didn't notice closing my eyes but I had because when I opened them you were looking at me again. We were still touching along our length but your hands were gone and one of them held a small dagger up to my chest. I could feel the cold steel through my suit but I wasn't surprised. Instead I felt relieved. You had the same sort of look, one of relief, as if you finally found what you were looking for. I should have been shocked or horrified but instead it was as if a weight had been lifted.

"And then I woke up.

"For a minute I was sad that the dream was over but the feeling passed and it was replaced with a feeling of satisfaction.

"I wrote most of this immediately after waking from my dream. Filling in the empty middle of my letter with a story that I felt compelled to tell you about. It still doesn't make much sense even now, a bit after the details started to fade, but I still feel like you should know about it.

"I'll admit to not having anything else to say so I'm going to end my letter now. I wish I had some fabulous tale of heroics to bestow upon you but I only have dreams. And I hope you aren't disappointed.

"I wish you could write me back, nothing would bring me more joy than to read about your days and know they're as uneventful as mine but you cannot. For this I have a hundred apologies, as always, but no solution. Tell your father that I say hello and give your mother as much love as she'll accept. That is of course, out of the little love that I have not already sent to you a hundred times.

"Yours Always, Uncle."

I reread the letter several times. I wanted more. I needed more. But it never occurred to be to go and get another letter or even check the mailbox to see if he wrote me again. In a way it was enough. He thought of me. He dreamed of me. It had to be enough. My only complaint was that he never told me his name.

My father acted like he didn't know I had taken the letter. But he did. And he was pleased.

----

Please review! I appreciate criticisms.