By Kurenai
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Gundam Wing or any of it's creators. I'm just doing this to quench my boredom. ^_^ Please don't sue... unless you want a couple sketchbooks and a few old art supplies. ^^;;
WARNINGS: Unfortunately, there isn't any Yaoi in here... This is a Songfic. In case you haven't figured, the song is Tum Balalaika-- I heard it at a choir concert, and I HAD to get the CD. It reminds me of Quatre. Yes, I know, it's meant for a choir, but only one woman sings it. You will guess why once you read it. ^_^ Enjoy, feedback please at webmistress@kurenai.htmlplanet.com. NOTE: The picture "Violin" by Baby-pen inspired me. And the song.
By the way, Tum Balalaika is by Brocker. Hope129 was kind enough to tell me this. Now I can get a better version... My thanks to Hope, and my.. other.. readers, such as Finny. ^.^;; also, I may write a mush to go along with this songfic.
All Quatre could see was blood. It glowed a rusty red by the light of the dim streetlight, and past that unholy crimson, the dark streets looked old and tired, as though it's very essence was dying, decaying of seeing far too many families being thrown into it's despair, to live off the dumpster and rat meat.
Still the victims continued to haunt him, their blood adorning Quatre's body and soul like a heavy shadow. It dribbled from his fingertips and onto the musical instrument that had kept him sane, playing it through the nights when he couldn't sleep through the rain. The blood had never come off his violin since the war. When would the killing stop?
Quatre drew his bow across the soft, taut stings of his violin, bringing forth a low, mournful sound that echoed across the seemingly abandoned buildings around him and ricocheted against the broken boards nailed across long since shattered windows.
As he slowly finished a note, Quatre felt eyes following his tears and a prickling at the back of his neck. He looked up to see an old woman standing near him raise one eyebrow in silent praise. Almost suddenly, a willowy, mournful voice flowed in a waterfall from her aged lips.
Mae-ta, Mae-ta, Tell me true..
What can grow without the dew?
What can burn for years and years?
What can cry and shed no tears?
Her depressing voice carried the unanswered question into Quatre's space heart, far into the recesses where something deep, something blossoming with truth, lay dormant. She continued to sing, one phrase and many notes flying to the sky with eagle-spread wings.
Tum Balalaika.....
He sat there, unable to move for several silent seconds that were full of a pregnant, pausing nature. This emotion stopped abruptly as Quatre once again felt his bow caress the strings of his stained violin, like lovers quelling each other's pain and suffering. The glorious music that filled the stale air blew like velvet through the grime covering the street. The homeless walked out of their condemned homes and braved the cold to hear this wonder, the few people passing by stopped and sat in front of the duo, as though in a reverie.
Quatre paused his heart-filled music after another long, sad note, and the old lady once again let go of the wistful notes that were held deep in her throat.
Meisana, an answer for you...
Souls can grow without the dew
Love can burn for years and years
Hearts can cry and shed no tears..
She continued singing, only this time, violin and voice flowed together as one. Her soulful tone danced around the velvet notes that fluttered from Quatre's violin, all though the many notes and one, single phrase.
Tum Balalaika.....
Quatre pulled his bow across the strings one last time in a fury of painful sorrow. The song ended, and as all of the people snapped out of their deep stupors, the old woman bent down to Quatre, her emerald eyes looking enlightened, yet hollow.
"My, you have a great talent," She said, smiling softly, warmly. "One must have an amazing soul to be able to play such heart-wrenching music."
"Thank you.." Quatre said brokenly. "Although, one does have a tainted soul and does not deserve to play such music."
She shook her head sadly. "Let me see your hands." She pulled one pale, sinewy hand towards her and curled her own fingers over it.
"Strange," she noted observantly, "I do not see any blood. Perhaps one feels as though oneself does not deserve to live, because he has killed so many.
"But one has to realize that death is expected in the midst of war. All of these soldiers... have lives. They are lives. And life is a gift. But the thing is, one who kills, but regrets it all the same, and yearns for a chance to be washed of one's sins, doesn't realize that one must live their life.. to honor the lost lives. None of these souls would blame you, boy. The only ones that would, if they had a chance, would jump to the same gun, and never regret it, given the chance.
The dead will haunt you, yes.. but they will also remind you to treat others the way you would want to repay your victims. Beauty is born from the bosom of pain and sorrow, but love grows on the strings of hope. Whatever happens, no matter what you have lost, no matter what you have broken, you must never give up. Never give up on hope, never give up on kindness, never give up on faith, and never, ever, give up on love."
The old lady's eyes seemed to burn with an undying passion as finished her speech. She gave Quatre his hand back, and sat next to him, looking up towards the heavens filled with sharp, fiery pinpricks, and the silver shadowed moon.
It was then Quatre realized that the old lady, was really no older than he, even younger. The large shadows that hung under her eyes, the bony cheeks, the old, picked scars splayed across her face, her thin, white skin, and her hair that was pulled back into the depths of an old cloak that looked suspiciously like a potato sack all gave the image she was ancient. Perhaps she was, but not physically. She had an old soul.
"Many make the mistake of calling me an old lady," She said, as if reading the blonde's mind. "They look at me and assume, not wanting to look further. I do not blame them, nor does this upset me. I feel... separated. Yet, I have always felt this way. It was as if I didn't belong. I don't wish I did, though the world is a beautiful place. You, little one, seem to belong. You, if I may say so myself, are a treasure for the world to cherish."
She stood up and looked at the awed look on Quatre's face. So many thoughts were running though the brain behind those aqua eyes... This girl reminded Quatre of emerald eyes, half-veiled by a shock of wild bangs, a soft, rare smile, and a soul much like a mirror. Only this mirror had hidden many mysteries behind it's unfriendly depths. This was a mirror that Quatre had walked though, reveled in it's waters, but then broke the mirror. He felt that he could never forgive himself.. but those emerald eyes that held a mirror would. They would always care.
Quatre was so lost in his revelation that he didn't notice the
retreating form of a potato sack cloak and a scarred, lonesome face that held
another set of emerald eyes that he would always remember. A slow,
hollow-sounding song still hung in the fog, and a stained violin had finally
lost it's crimson tint.