"Long tailed cat; Aunt Maryse's rocking chair."
Pacing steadily back and forward across the antechamber, running over and over the answers he'd so recently drilled with Anne and Relena, Treize started visibly at the words, jumping at the sound and feel of another person so close to him when he would've sworn he was alone a bare few seconds earlier.
"What?" he asked uncharacteristically, spinning on his heel to put himself face to face with a smiling Dorothy.
"You," the woman said lightly. "You're coming across as nervous as a pussy-cat stuck in a room with old Aunt Maryse's rocking chair. Afraid someone is going to squash your tail?" she tweaked.
Resenting both the interference in the first place, and the specific nature of the comment, Treize shot his niece a look brimming with irritation and waved her off dismissively. "Shut up, Dors," he ordered brusquely, half-turning away again before something pulled him up short.
He turned back immediately. "I'm sorry," he apologised hesitantly, his eyes softening as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncertainly. "That was uncalled for."
"Somewhat," Dorothy agreed archly, but she was still smiling. "So?"
Treize shook his head. "I don't have a tail to squash," he pointed out, stating the obvious. He rubbed his thumb against the forefinger of his left hand uneasily, then began pacing again, forcing Dorothy to move with him if she wanted to keep talking to him.
"Self-evidently," she agreed. "Though you might consider the addition – I think it would be rather charming. I was speaking metaphorically."
"I'd assumed." Treize flicked the blonde woman a fleeting glance over his shoulder as he pivoted at one end of his orbit around her. "A literal answer to a metaphorical enquiry, Dors, is generally an allusion to the notion that the material isn't available for discussion."
Dorothy tilted her head. "Oh?" she queried. "Well, premeditated ignorance of that allusion is indicative of a refusal to capitulate so willingly." She canted Treize an eyebrow, symbolically passing him the baton as she waited for his response, wondering if he would run with the challenge she had set.
It was an old game they were playing, one started when Dorothy was still really quite young. Obsessed with her older cousin's grown-up sounding way of talking, and by how much more seriously the adults around them seemed to take him because of it, Dorothy had deliberately set out to learn as many big and complicated words as she could, seeking every opportunity she could to use them. It hadn't taken her long to realise that most of her guardians found it precociously charming, cooing over her attempts in a way that she could manipulate shamelessly.
Treize, though, had taken them entirely differently. At fourteen, he'd been singularly unimpressed with what he termed mindless mimickery, accusing her of being little more than a performing monkey and demanding that six-year-old Dorothy define every word she used to him that was a product of her thesaurus-swallowing. For a while, she'd been up to the challenge but as the struggle dragged on, and she was forced to learn new words ever faster, he'd begun catching her out.
Eventually, they'd hit the afternoon when Dorothy had, inevitably, slipped in her usage, tossing out a word in desperation that made no sense in the context she'd applied it and which she didn't have a hope of defining to him when he so ordered her. Standing in the library of his parents' house, sweating under the cool-eyed gaze he would later make the signature of his command-style, Dorothy had cracked, and dissolved into helpless, angry, frustrated tears.
She'd expected him to smile triumphantly and turn his back on her – rejecting her as the unimportant girl-child she was to their family at that time. Instead, he'd gone to his knees on the rug in front of her, offered his starched linen handkerchief to dry her eyes and pulled her little body against his own in their first ever hug.
"Don't cry, Dors," he'd begged. "You kept up longer than I thought you could. It was a good game."
"A… game?" she'd wondered. He'd thought they were playing a game?
"Well, yes – to see which one of us caught the other out first, of course." Treize had set her back from himself a little and smiled at her. "I had to know every word you used, as well, to know if you were getting them right, and you are a lot younger than me." He'd hugged her close again, putting his chin on top of her head and stroking one hand down her silky white hair slowly. "Words are important, Dors," he'd said softly, as though he was confiding something very important to him. "Their meanings and their subtleties vital. What we say, how we say it, defines how the world sees us. We make our mark with our actions and our presence, but our legacies will be written, recorded and talked about. A whisper in the right ear at the right moment will always be more powerful than any mobile suit."
He'd sighed gently, kissing the top of her head lightly. "You started memorising vocabulary because you saw what effect mine had on others; you kept at it because you wanted to prove to me that you were smart. If I offered to play another game with you, do you think you could learn to love the language we'd be playing with?"
Dorothy had considered carefully, and then nodded, already aware that she'd grown to enjoy the act of looking up new words and seeing how they fit in with all the others she knew. "Yes, please," she'd answered.
"All right, then. Here's the rules, then…."
Slowly, making sure she understood, Treize had explained his new game – a challenge of synonyms and meanings. Dorothy had thrown herself into it and the whole thing had grown organically as the two of them aged, evolving to take account of further education and the fact that both players were fluently multi-lingual by the age of ten.
When Treize began public speaking at Romefeller Convene's, nine-year-old Dorothy had delighted in listening to him, eagerly stealing his draft copies and hand-written notes as soon as he would let her have them. He'd made a Christmas gift of his first keynote speech to her one year, bundling all the rough copies up with a clean draft in his own hand, annotated with all his influences and intentions.
At age twelve, Dorothy had finally mastered Treize's last remaining unique skill - his art of insinuation. The moment she grasped how to twist a phrase to say anything other than what it actually did, the game between the cousins had stepped up again, becoming one of interpretation as well. The love of language became one of the strongest bonds between them, the source of many moments of shared, secret humour, and, eventually, a valuable, irreplaceable tool during their years of Romefeller service and during the wars.
As Dorothy had realised a decade after the fighting ceased, when Treize was apparently years too dead to share it with, the constant challenge between them had fundamentally shaped who they were. That Treize would always have been an unstoppable force was obvious – but would he have been one quite so young without his seemingly effortless ability to turn exactly the right phrase at the drop of a hat? Similarly, Dorothy could never have been anything but an agent for Romefeller – but could she have had her success as a honey-trap infiltrator if she hadn't been skilled at spinning even pure poison to sound like the sweetest of pillow talk?
She rather thought not.
Whether Treize would be interested in resuming their challenge now, though, remained to be seen. In countering his intentionally obfuscated phrasing with her own, she'd thrown down the gauntlet.
Her efforts won her a smile, at the least, which was more than he'd done in the rest of the time he'd been pacing the antechamber.
"Another time, Dors," he replied eventually. "I need to concentrate to play with you, and I need to concentrate on Zechs's press conference as well."
Disappointed, but also understanding, Dorothy nodded to him and turned her attention to the original reason she'd come to his side. "You needn't fret so," she said softly. "The Press these days isn't nearly so waspish as they used to be and they're hardly going to be gunning for you in the same way. They actually like the Royal family, particularly the younger members. Smile and be charming and they'll fall for you, too."
"I'm not fretting," he denied sharply, belying the words with his relentless pacing.
"Really?" She bit her lip delicately, being careful not to either smear her lipstick or stain her teeth. "Forgive me, Treize, but you look a little like you're going to be ill," she said quietly. "If you need anything…." she offered.
The man stopped his pacing for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. "Given my treatment of you today, that's more kindness than I deserve," he admitted wearily. He put a careful hand out to her, brushing sensitive fingertips across the right side of her face, where the darkening bruise left by his slap was just visible beneath her makeup. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I should never have."
Dorothy met his eyes with hers and shook her head. "Of course you should," she replied. "As I told my husband, and will tell him again if I have to. It's no different to what I did to you at dinner the other night."
"It is," Treize insisted but he didn't elaborate. "In my defence, I hadn't thought there was anything much to the war that I'd missed. Zechs had told me some details, but not that there was something so significant." He frowned, then dismissed his own words with a shrug. "I can't ever recall being so angry," he confessed.
Dorothy laughed musically. "Is that why you look so pale beneath the powder?" she teased.
"As opposed to the hang-over?" Treize asked in turn, mocking himself with all the panache of a born cynic. "Or the stage-fright?"
"Stage fright?" Felix asked, closing the gap between himself and the former general from the other side of the room to his mother. Treize jumped visibly at the unexpected voice, turning his head to look for the speaker and leaving Dorothy free to glare at her son for his stealthy approach over Treize's shoulder. He was edgy enough already, without Felix making him worse.
The Doctor returned her look with his own, his expression completely free of apology. Apparently, he wasn't inclined to be kind towards the other man at the current time. "Stage fright?" he repeated, his voice just as incredulous as it had been the first time. "You? I don't believe that," he denied. "You gave hundreds of speeches in your career."
Treize nodded willingly. "I did – and I felt dreadful before every last one of them. Ask Une." He shrugged tightly. "It'll go away as soon as we start. Until then, I simply have to grit my teeth and bear it. Or smoke," he added, contemplatively. "But Zechs will raise hell if I try that in here."
He glanced around the room as he spoke, then down at the watch he was wearing around his right wrist. "Where is he, anyway?" he asked, showing a flash of his ill temper with the older man. "He should be here by now."
Dorothy looked around herself, then gave a graceful shrug of her shoulders, rustling the fabric of her velvet coat as she moved. Few women either would, Treize thought privately, or could have worn what she was, particularly for a formal photo call but Dorothy was carrying off her call-girl-chic designer suit with predictable flair. "He'll show when he's ready," she reassured, "as he always does. You needn't worry, Treize," she laughed, "he's had a fair amount of practice at this sort of thing over the years."
Treize nodded, then frowned and grimaced uncomfortably as he made some small wordless noise and turned away. Felix immediately made a move towards him but Dorothy shook her head – the former general didn't need cosseting; most likely, he just needed leaving alone.
They waited in silence, Treize pacing restlessly with Felix and Dorothy watching him closely, until the door to the room opened from the other side to admit a sudden flood of people.
Marie and Wufei were first, with Ning by his father's side. All three of them were in traditional Chinese finery and Treize couldn't help but be taken off guard by how his daughter looked in the fine, screen-printed silk dress she was wearing, her fiery hair swept up and back and held by ornate, jewel-tipped chopsticks. She smiled at him warmly, detaching from her husband long enough to come to him and embrace him lightly, a gesture he was more than grateful for.
Une was behind her adopted child, with Trowa by her side, both in the Preventer Dress uniform they'd been wearing since their arrival at the Palace. Trowa was chattering to Duo and Heero, both of whom were suit-clad and riding herd on Helen and little Katerina.
The youngest Peacecraft was Treize's first clue that he might have slightly misjudged the formality of the occasion. The girls were dressed similarly to all intents and purposes, if with a tad more maturity in Helen's case, but where Helen had her silky blonde hair pulled back with twin barrettes again, Katerina's was brushed to a smooth waterfall and arranged around the band of a delicate little tiara. It wasn't an obvious marker of Royalty, except that the other three women in the room were bareheaded in comparison.
Treize immediately began looking around for Relena, seeking to confirm or deny his suspicion, and found it instead in the form of Aleks as the Crown Prince stepped into the antechamber behind his cousins.
The boy wasn't wearing the formal Court dress he might have been, the white and brocade suit that he would have inherited from his father along with his title, and for that, Treize was unspeakably grateful. He didn't think his mood would have easily stood the flood of memories the sight might have triggered.
Aleks was, however, wearing a narrow metal band under his pale hair; a scant, sapphire-set, platinum inch showing against his forehead, between the falls of his untidy fringe. It was the first time Treize had seen any real evidence of the boy's status. It was also rather a wrenching sight, because the last person he'd seen wearing that circlet was a very young Milliardo, almost fifteen years before.
Breathing deep to hold his composure against the wave of emotion that rose, Treize closed his eyes for a moment, sinking into the darkness and the illusion of privacy. It was a trick he had indulged in often and one that might have worked now if, when he looked up again, Aleks hadn't already stepped aside for his father.
The men of the party were, to a one, wearing modern business suits made from high-quality wools and linens, all clean lines and flattering, if subtle, tailoring. Zechs, on the other hand, seemed to have dressed from another century, abandoning the contemporary look of his family for the timeless elegance of the European Nobility. The frock coat, breeches and polished black knee-boots still looked better on him than any ordinary suit could have; his still trim, still powerful body was very evident under the fine smoke grey cloth of his jacket.
And if the colour of the coat made Treize think of Zechs's days as the commander of White Fang, then the impression was gone as quickly as it had come. As with his son, after the first breath, Zechs's clothing was completely irrelevant; it was the glint of metals and jewels that drew the eye.
It wasn't, Treize knew immediately, the full Crown of State that Zechs was wearing – that was a great, heavy thing with a velvet lining that was hundreds of years old. Like Aleks, Zechs had chosen a smaller, less elaborate signature of his rank, and probably as much for personal comfort as any other reason.
The circlet he was wearing, though, was probably the real prize of the Sanc Crown Jewels. It was a beautifully crafted weave of platinum and gold that looked as though it had been spun straight from the ore, so that fine strands of the metals chased each other through the King's loose hair, enhancing its pure silver-gilt colour and being enhanced by it in turn. Somehow, the crafter had worked with the metal as it cooled, shaping it intermittently into the oak-leaf and shooting-star pattern heraldry of the Peacecraft Royal House and lacing together the support at the centre of the band for a single, exquisitely cut red diamond. The stone, the Red Shield of Peace, had been in the Peacecraft family for centuries, coming to them though channels no one was quite sure of, renamed many times and recut at least once in its journey. The legends surrounding the stone suggested that no one but the true Peacecraft Monarch could don it without being cursed.
Seeing Zechs wearing the stone so casually now was a powerful reminder of all the changes in his childhood friend, making it so that Treize could no longer blind himself to them as he had been doing. The former general had heard Zechs called King Peacecraft several times in the past few days but he hadn't really acknowledged what that meant until that moment. When he did, it was crushing – the boy Treize had loved so much was lost almost completely in this new version of Zechs.
The wrench of it made Treize catch his breath but Zechs either didn't notice, or chose to give no sign that he had. Instead, he flicked his eyes around the room assessingly and gave a single nod. "Relena and Quatre have been warming the Press," he said steadily, when he'd gathered everyone's attention to himself with his gaze. "There's anticipation but Quatre says there's also a certain amount of resentment from some reporters," he warned. "There's a sense that we've been lying to them, and that we've been intending to dupe them further. I need everyone to be very careful what they say – stay on script, please."
There was a murmur of general agreement and Zechs's eyes fixed squarely onto Treize. "Are you ready?" he asked intently. "I have to warn you – there's a segment in there that's actively hostile to the idea of you."
Treize steeled himself with the fire of his anger towards the other man, met his gaze, and nodded curtly. "I'll be fine," he dismissed. "I've handled worse. Trust me a little," he suggested, then forced a smile he knew was cold. "I'm good at this, remember?"
Zechs smiled back uncertainly. "I do," he answered.
A moment later, he nodded to Heero, and the man threw open the second door.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," his voice rang out into a sudden wall of sound. "His Serene Majesty, King Milliardo Peacecraft of Sanc!"
"…Your Majesty! Was it your intention to lie to the general public…?"
"…Your Majesty! Is this the start of a new bid for power…?"
"…Your Majesty! Is it true you had General Khushrenada cloned...?"
"…Your Majesty! Are you sleeping with the son now that the father is dead…?"
Treize drew a steadying breath as he stepped back from the podium and the room erupted into pandemonium, glancing across the press pack fleetingly and being sure not to make direct eye contact with any of the television cameras scattered about.
The conference had begun smoothly enough, the weight of Zechs's royalty in his own Palace more than enough to quash the initial ruckus. The King had spoken first, detailing the intention of the conference and asking that all questions be held until after Treize had been given chance to introduce and explain himself. He'd done little more than give the Press Treize's name and there'd been uproar. Treize hadn't been able to speak over the noise for a full five minutes.
When he had been able to talk, he'd relayed his own concocted history. Yes, he was the son of the late General Treize Khushrenada. No, his mother was not Lady Une, but Countess Sabine de Maury by way of Romefeller breeding contract in the summer of AC 195. No, he had not recently approached King Milliardo; his father had apparently asked the King to care for him in the event of his death and he was eternally grateful to His Majesty for honouring that final promise to his friend, both on his own behalf and for his sister. No, he was not going to start another war. No, he was not going to resurrect Oz. No, he had no desire to fight. No, he…. The barrage of questions had been endless.
And the moment Treize had stepped away from the podium again, the Press had turned back to the King, shouting and gesticulating wildly for his attention, until Treize could only make out one word in three.
Zechs somehow slipped himself between Treize and most of the press, gaining control over the crowd by the simple expedient of standing silently and answering none of them until they all settled down again. It was a trick Treize had taught Zechs personally, years before, but he hadn't thought to use it himself today.
"Either ask your questions in an orderly fashion, one at a time, or I'll answer none of you," the King said firmly. "And be reminded of the conditions of this conference – any vile or slanderous accusation or insinuation will result in the revocation of that individual's access to the Palace. My children are in the room, ladies and gentlemen. Behave accordingly," he warned. "I'll also remind you that there will be ample opportunity for you to take photographs and ask more detailed questions of the Family post-briefing."
He inclined his head as he finished speaking, and a raft of hands shot into the air.
"Emmeline Arnold, Your Majesty, from the British World Service," the first woman Zechs gestured to said politely. "Given the absolutely astonishing resemblance between the Treize standing with you today and the late General Khushrenada, do you maintain they are natural father and son? What would you to say to anyone thinking you've had your former lover cloned?"
"That they need to have their eyes tested," Zechs answered fluidly. He waited for the chuckles to die down. "Of course I maintain that they are natural father and son – I absolutely deny any possibility that Treize is a clone and I invite any detractors to examine the images taken here tonight against any archive footage of His Excellency. There are numerous differences between the two men, as will be obvious on such comparison. If it is merely a matter of fathers and sons looking too much alike, well…" He turned to the back of the dais for a moment, beckoning. "Aleksander, come here a moment, will you?"
There was a rustle across the room as Aleks stepped from his place in a chair at the back of the dais. Zechs's inclusion of his son was a change from the schedule – Treize had been given to understand that any accusations of cloning and similar nonsense were to be answered by denying them and moving swiftly on. It wasn't, as Relena had pointed out when Treize had expressed doubt about the success of that policy, as though they had to worry over the Press stumbling on the truth. That was so incredulous no one would ever believe it.
The Press rumbled and snapped photographs as Aleks drew level with his father, the puzzlement in his amethyst eyes masked by a winning smile for the cameras. "Yes, father?" he asked politely.
Zechs drew his son against his side with a gentle hand and looked back towards the British reporter directly. "It's been commented on before, but I'd like to point out that my son and I look rather strongly alike as well. Would anyone care to suggest that is due to cloning?" he asked quietly.
The momentary hush that fell told Treize that Zechs was hinting at something more than was obvious, tapping on some bit of history Treize wasn't aware of.
"Of course not, Your Majesty," the reporter answered swiftly, adding to Treize's suspicions. "But, with respect, the evidence of Queen Lucrezia's pregnancy was incontrovertible. That is not the case here. Given that there is some doubt still over the true origins of General Khushrenada's daughter, can you blame anyone for wondering about his son?"
Zechs opened his mouth again to field the question, and closed it again sharply as Treize stirred next to him.
"Mariemeia is not a clone," the redhead said, voice pitched to carry. "My mother, Lady Sabine, was a personal friend of my father's, in addition to being a full member of Romefeller. She commented several times in my hearing that General Khushrenada would not have been pushed for the contract that produced me if Romefeller hadn't been troubled by the presence of his only child and heir in the hands of Dekim Barton and the colonies. That child was Mariemeia, product of an encounter between my father and Miss Leia Barton during his stay in the Barton Family Hospital."
There was another shocked flurry from the reporters and Treize sighed under his breath. He was sure he didn't recall the press being this excitable.
He waited for them to settle down again, much as Zechs had, using the time to cast furtive glances at the rest of the family. Zechs's expression hadn't changed, and neither had Relena's, or her husband's. Aleks was staring at him openly, Felix from under veiled eyes and Dorothy was smiling secretively. Une looked quietly thrilled and Mariemeia herself was looking back at him with eyes sparkling through tears. He'd confirmed his belief in her identity when they'd talked half the night before last away but hearing it stated so bluntly, in public and to the world press, must mean an awful lot when she'd wondered as long as she had.
Either the reporters hadn't noticed her reaction, or they weren't for giving the time for it. There were shouts of her name, demands for her to answer questions. Gracefully, she shook her head and refused them all.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," Zechs called, after a few seconds. "Thank you, Miss Arnold," he dismissed, and the British reporter sat down, quietly scribbling notes to herself. Zechs gestured again, and a dapper, greying man got to his feet.
"Patryk Kaminski, the Royal Sanc Clarion," he introduced himself. "I knew your father, Your Grace," he added slyly.
Treize flicked a glance at Zechs, who nodded imperceptibly, apparently thinking the redhead was seeking conformation of a suspicion. Treize let his look harden to a meaningful glare before he turned back to the reporter, who was watching the by-play avidly. Since Zechs hadn't bothered to warn Treize that the Patryk Kaminski on the press-list was one he would know, something Treize would have caught himself if he hadn't been so otherwise distracted, Treize had been given no chance to warn Zechs to keep the man away from him and now was left with no choice but to try to do damage control as best he could.
Working to that end, Treize drew a deep breath and faced the reporter calmly. "Did you now, Captain Kaminski?" he asked steadily.
He immediately heard the several sharp breaths taken by the Royal family and hoped the few wiser heads amongst them would prevent the others from doing something disastrous. It only appeared as though he'd made a fatal error.
"Captain?" the reporter fired back immediately, his voice heavy with calculated doubt. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but how would you know that was my last military rank?"
Treize smiled, forcing himself to keep his expression light and neutral rather than the predatory smirk the other man would be too familiar with. "Diaries, Captain," he answered easily. "You were mentioned several times, for your skill and your dedication to your duty."
As Treize had intended, the older man seemed thrown by the comment, his attention deflected away from the Treize on the stage and onto the one he had served with, so that he wouldn't realise they were one and the same. "Oh," Kaminski said flatly, then, "Ah. Nice to know," he admitted. He squared his shoulders and found his polite smile again. "To get back to topic, Your Grace, I was one of the reporters there last night when you were out with Prince Aleksander and Doctor Maxwell. What possessed you to do something so guaranteed to reveal your identity after keeping it hidden for so many years?"
They'd been expecting the question. Treize let his smile shade to one of embarrassment and bit his lip. "A touch of youthful stupidity, I'm afraid," he said, with the air of one confessing a sin. "Although," he continued, flicking a glance over his shoulder at Felix before he carried on to reveal one of the biggest out and out lies of their story, "you have seen me before. You just didn't know it."
As would have been predictable even if Treize hadn't already decided modern reporters were hyper, the room veritably exploded at that, becoming nothing more than a seething mass of shouted questions and flashing bulbs.