Promises
Part 2 A.C. 194
The hollow echo of his boots on the metal deck was drowned
out by the heavy thud of diligently marching feet underneath him. He glanced
down briefly as the Delta Flight exited the Y07 Hangar, the shrill voice
of their flight commander ringing in their ears. It was one of the exemplary
flights, always on time, always first to execute their drills and march
out, faces expressionless and concentrated, their feet a rumble of steady
thunder.
Stopping for a moment on the metal deck suspended above
them, he watched the flight exit completely. He gave them ample time to
become a dying rumble in the distance before he leaned on the cold handrails
and allowed himself to smile. They're a good flight.
Turning his back towards the handrails, he gazed up at
the silent, vigilant row of towering Mobile Suits lined up to his right.
It would only be a month before graduation, and, as much as he felt proud
of being one of the top wing commanders at the Lake Victoria Military Academy,
he knew that the graduation ceremony would be full of lauds and praises
for him. That sort of fame and recognition he could live without. It was
bad enough already.
Sighing, Cadet Colonel Zechs Marquise pushed away from
the handrails. He had never really expected not to gain some sort of reputation
at Lake Victoria. From his very first day of enlistment, already the Federation's
highest officials had marked him down as Treize's Boy, a term laced
with all of the contempt and mistrust usually reserved for members of the
Federation Armed Forces' Specials Team. That he would soon become officially
a part of the Specials would only serve to increment his reputation, in
the Federatives' eyes, at least, as a no merit upstart who had somehow
managed to slide up to Colonel Treize Khushrenada, the man who had created
the Specials. And whom they also dislike, he thought, a wry smile
playing across his lips.
Still, he concluded silently to himself, the sound of
his boots on the cold metal ringing steady and full in his ears, left,
right, flank, left, right, his questionable entry to the Academy was
by far not the sole reason for his less than reassuring reputation. Whether
the Federative officials would ever admit it or not, he had managed to
prove, over the years, that he was not some aristocratic brat looking to
have life delivered to him on a silver platter. He had worked long, diligently,
and hard to become the first of his class, soon to graduate with full honours
and become Lieutenant Zechs Marquise. He hadn't even planned to
become first in his class, he mused as he arrived at the elevator terminal.
Hearing the entry doors close behind him, and the elevator's
voice panel announce his floor choice, he smiled, sighing. Lucrezia
Noin. By all rights, she should have been first in class. She had the
drive and the skill for it. But she insisted in always letting him get
ahead. Perhaps she thought that he would not notice. She was wrong.
Exiting the elevator on the 3rd floor, Zechs caught a
look at himself in the deck's long row of look-out windows. He thinned
his lips. Looking back at him, silent and cold, was his own alien image.
Tall, standing straight, long platinum hair cascading down his back. A
silver mask hiding half his features.
Reaching up, Zechs put his fingers against the cold metal,
feeling it bite firmly into his skin. He had thought, at first, when he
had initially made the decision to put on the mask, that he would never
get used to the sensation of wearing it. His vision was impaired, the mask
itself becoming a barrier to his full field of view, and he could not count
the times when heat, sweat, and cold had clouded the glass covering his
eyes, costing him precious time and precision. And it certainly grabs
attention to yourself, doesn't it, Zechs ? Another good, simple way to
build a reputation around here. Cadet Colonel Zechs Marquise, the man with
the mask.
Smiling, Zechs turned away from his reflection. Without
a doubt, this would be a graduation the Lake Victoria Military Academy
would find very hard to forget, as unpleasant as he found it to attune
himself to such a fate. A distinguishing reputation was not what he had
come to seek here. But one seemed determined to follow him, no matter what
he did.
The doors to the officer's lounge moved aside with a whisper
of sound. He was glad to see that only the bartender and a young officer
standing by the phone turned to look at him as he made his way quietly
across the room. There had been a time when all heads would have turned
towards him.
He poured himself twenty cents worth of dark coffee, taking
a small tube of milk, and, after paying the bartender, urging to keep the
change quietly, just because, he took a corner seat by the windows. Mixing
the milk slowly with a thin coffee straw, he turned to look outside at
the expanse of Lake Victoria in the distance. The blinking lights from
the Academy's working Control Tower drew shimmering patterns across its
surface, mingling gently with the cold light of the stars above. Leaning
back in his seat, one hand draped comfortably around its back, he took
a slow, tentative sip of his coffee. He grimaced. As prestigious a military
academy as Lake Victoria was, it certainly could stand a change of coffee
brand. Still, he preferred it to anything else.
Setting down his cup, watching as the steam rose lazily
towards the dim, overhead light, he smiled to himself. He glanced at the
lounge's clock. 10:50 p.m. It would only be a matter of time before
he would have to leave again. But he still had some minutes to kill. Leaning
his head back, by now accustomed to the mask pressing against his skin,
he closed his eyes, listening to the drowsy sounds of the officers around
him. He caught his name once, before the officer's companion had hastily
whispered for her to turn around, that there he was, sitting in that corner
table. His name did not come up again after that, and he was glad for it.
When the clock marked 10:57, he stood up. He tapped the
table's surface twice, quietly, before placing a tip near the ashtray.
Taking his own hand, he ran his fingers slowly across his knuckles. Some
habits died hard, and it seemed to him that the old habit was fitting tonight.
Chichiue.
It should not be that a son should remember his father for having tapped
the table after a meal... Smiling softly, he touched his knuckles to
his lips. Chichiue. Sumimasen deshita.
Turning, grimacing slightly at his habit of flanking every
time, he made his way across the now crowded lounge. As he made his way
across the empty hallways of the 3rd floor, his hand rose, almost unconsciously,
to finger the hilt of the sword he wore at his side. Even with gloves on,
he could feel its quiet shill. It was a decorative thing, hanging uselessly
at his side, like his gun. Symbols of loyalty, if they served any purpose
at all. Loyalty to the Specials and to his superior, and loyalty to a man
he thought he no longer knew, buried long ago under a cold, emotionless
silver mask. What he could have been, what he had chosen not to be till
his fate here had played itself out. Mirialdo Peacecraft.
The name sounded strange, detached, to him. He looked
briefly to his side, at his reflection hurrying, brisk and efficient, across
the glass windows of the deck. Zechs Marquise. He turned away, trying
not to see the platinum hair trailing down his back, lying crushed and
silent underneath his mask, his Zechs. Crushed in with his blue
eyes, so much like the eyes of that old man in the portrait he had last
seen eight years ago, before the Federation had once again taken complete
control of the devastated area that had once been the kingdom of Cinq.
Eight years ago. Coming to a stop before the elevator
shafts, he wondered briefly at how little that seemed to mean to him, even
now, as he made his way towards the very top floor of the Academy's west
wing, a wing commander, masked. Stronger, wiser, perhaps, than that child
who had stolen away from his caretaker eight years ago. Zechs closed his
eyes, leaning against the walls of the elevator, feeling its quiet rumble
run across his bones.
He startled slightly as the voice panel announced that
he had reached his destination, and he verided himself quietly for allowing
such a thing to happen.
Stepping out, he smiled grimly at the marked difference
between this floor and the remainder of the base. Truly the victoria
of the Academy, it seemed as if he had somehow stepped back in time. Even
the lamps lining the walls were not electrical, but antique oil lamps secured
especially for this quarters.
He made his way quietly across the carpeted floor, stopping
before a massive, wooden door. Taking one deep breath, he lay his palm
gently across the cool surface. Thinning his lips, he gave a single, quiet
tap to the door. A fraction of a second passed, caught in his throat, before
a hushed, slightly throaty voice answered.
"Come in."
The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open. The lights
in the room were dimmed, and it took him a while to grow accustomed to
the darkness. But he could not miss the one he had come to see.
He was standing by the huge, french windows, one hand
casually held behind his back, the other fingering the pale curtain hung
from the windows thoughtfully. The light of the full moon outside drew
his silhouette across the floor, illuminated his face, shrouding his back
in shadows. He did not turn around as Zechs came into the room, his hand
merely ceasing its slow caress of the curtain.
"Good Evening, Zechs."
"Good Evening, sir." Bringing his heels sharply together,
Zechs saluted, his lips drawn in a thin line. He saw the other man turn
his head slightly, a smile playing across his lips. "Iie. Treize will do
for tonight, Marquise."
Zechs smiled. "Understood. Treize."
Turning, Treize smiled. Zechs could feel his approval,
still mocking, still slightly unnerving, as he looked him up and down quietly.
"You've changed quite a bit," he commented. He walked forward and stood
before Zechs, his eyes glittering mischievously. "And the eyes are hidden
now. Unable to come to terms with them?"
Zechs smiled softly. "Perhaps."
Treize cocked his head to the side, one finger tapping
thoughtfully at his lips. He looked at Zechs with the air of an incredulous
believer.
"Would you like a drink?" he said. Bowing formally, Zechs
accepted.
Treize turned the lights up, making the room only slightly
brighter, before walking over to the small wine cabinet by the far wall.
He asked many tiny questions as he brought the drinks, how he'd been,
how old Marquise was. Zechs looked around the room as Treize asked
his questions, giving only short answers. Fine. Better now, thank you.
He heard Treize sigh as he took a seat, setting his sword
beside him comfortably. Treize smiled in parental admonition, shaking his
head, as he handed Zechs his drink, settling into his own seat quietly.
"Such an interesting looking man," he said, "and such
a bore to invite over for a drink."
Sipping at his wine, Treize closed his eyes. Zechs watched
him for a while. He seemed little changed from eight years ago. He still
commanded the same, easy grace. He was taller, broader perhaps. But his
eyes were still as confident, still as mocking. Zechs turned his face away
and stood up going to the window. He could feel Treize's eyes following
him, he could almost feel his smile. He was surprised to see that, reflected
on the windows, Treize was not smiling. His eyes reflected a quiet expectation.
Zechs was both unnerved and strangely excited by that expectation.
Leaning against the cool glass of the window panes, he
smiled at Treize, who lowered his cup, holding his gaze. "Restless, Marquise?
Don't be. Finish your drink. Please, relax."
"You're much too calm, sir. Overconfident?"
Treize smiled, running a finger around the rim of his
cup. "I can't afford to not be overconfident, Zechs. It would mean that
I have given up before the battle has even started. Besides," he said,
finishing his drink slowly and setting aside his cup, "you'd like me to
be overconfident, wouldn't you? The more confident the enemy, the sweeter
the victory. Anything else would be an insult to you. And I assure you,"
smiling, he spread his arms wide in a sitting bow, "I have nothing but
the highest admiration for you."
"Should I clap that, sir?"
Treize raised one eyebrow, grinning, and Zechs felt his
mouth stretch into a smile of his own, his hand rising to caress the hilt
of his sword. He saw Treize's eyes lower towards it briefly before he leaned
back into his seat, eyes closed, his own hand rising to caress the hilt
of the sword at his side. "No rusted, harmless blades this time, young
Marquise," he murmured. His eyes fluttered open then, and he smiled, his
smile almost a perfect echo of the smile he had worn eight years past as
he had asked if he could fence.
Standing, he looked at Zechs. His eyes narrowed briefly
before he bowed and, placing his hand slowly over the hilt of his sword,
drew it out with deliberate show. He brought it to rest over the palm of
his hand, waiting silently.
Zechs put down his half empty cup and, in one swift, graceful
gesture, drew out his sword. He brought it down slowly to meet Treize's,
their eyes locking briefly across the blades, their hollow ring dying quickly
in the quiet atmosphere of the room. Neither of them smiled. There was
no need.
Dropping easily into the fencing position, Zechs watched
Treize do the same. He seemed completely relaxed, and, for a moment, a
bit of the uneasiness he had felt eight years before came back to him.
He had changed much, true. But, deep inside, as hard as he tried to run
from that truth, he was still that boy from eight years ago, still Mirialdo
Peacecraft. That truth was still there, staring silently back at him whenever
he was alone and the day had drawn to an end and the lonely nights waited
for him again and the mask would come off. The truth would look at him
quietly then, sadly. When? it would whisper to him, its intense
blue eyes reaching deep into his soul.
Zechs thinned his lips, gripping his sword tighter. Concentrate,
Zechs. You can't lose this time. Squaring his shoulders slightly, he
lowered his head, closing his eyes. Without waiting for Treize to begin,
he brought his sword back swiftly. He saw Treize blink slightly in surprise,
his fingers tightening imperceptibly over the hilt of his sword. His surprise
became evident as Zechs swung his sword rapidly forward again, bringing
it inches from Treize's face. Treize looked at the blade silently, his
surprise quickly melting into a slow smile as he brought his gaze up towards
Zechs. He laughed quietly, closing his eyes.
As they fluttered open, he had already brought his own
sword forward, catching Zechs' second thrust. "Impressive," he remarked.
Zechs smiled. Thinning his lips, he lunged forward. He felt strangely detached
in this fight, he saw his sword thrust and parry as if it were not his
own. He could see Treize beyond him, a strange light in his eyes as he
carried out his own attacks and defence. Zechs gripped his sword tighter,
feeling the easy flow of his moves. He had never realized how simple it
could really be. He almost laughed out loud, but he knew better than to
grow too confident. He had learned, over the years, that the friendlier
Treize seemed, the deadlier he was. His attacks were neither overconfident
nor lazy. He was aware that Zechs was no longer the child he had been and,
if anything, he was even more ruthless in his attacks.
Zechs felt a sting at his cheek, but he had no time to
realize what had happened before he saw the blood sprinkle against the
sleeve of his uniform. Looking up, he saw Treize's eyes, cold and impassive,
his smile dazzlingly kind, as he brought his sword in again. Gritting his
teeth, Zechs brought his hand up in a desperate parry. He felt his body
lunge backwards and he cursed. He was loosing ground. Thinning his lips,
he feinted a blow to Treize's own face. Zechs saw Treize frown slightly
before he brought his sword down, then quickly up. He tried not to grin
as Treize stepped back, surprised, his own sword rising rapidly in a quick
parry.
Stepping forward, Zechs did not permit him to regain his
balance, barraging him with a steady flow of thrusts. He saw Treize give
another step back, his parries growing in intensity, his lips thinning.
Bringing his sword up in a wide arch, Treize turned to offensive, bringing
his hand back in a deep tuck, releasing it in an aim at Zechs' unprotected
centre. Zechs' eyes widened beneath his mask as he realized his fatal mistake.
He almost stumbled as he brought in a desperate block. He saw Treize's
eyes widen, and Zechs smiled. Cursing, Treize lunged forward, rushing to
meet Zechs blows head on.
Their swords locked with a shrill, metallic groan. Treize's
eyes narrowed as he looked at Zechs, his breath was coming in short, determined
gasps. His fingers tightened on his sword's hilt and Zechs smiled. His
breath was also coming in gasps, his teeth gritted. With a tight flick
of his wrist, he put more weight into his lock, and he could see Treize
do the same, his eyes a silent rage. The swords groaned softly to each
other, the hands wrapped around their hilts shacking slightly with the
strain of the unwillingness to back down, to give up. Then Zechs lowered
his head, his sword falling back slightly. Treize frowned, then pulled
his own sword slightly back, defensive as well as offensive.
His lips parted in a silent gasp as Zechs brought his
sword rapidly to the side. He tried to block Zechs' intended move, but
could only stare, his eyes wide, as Zechs dipped his arm down, below Treize's
sword and upwards. And forward. The thrust caught Treize by surprise, shattering
his centre of balance. His eyes never left Zechs' sword as he fell to the
ground, the fall shocking him back to reality.
Zechs stood above him, smiling, his sword held under Treize's
chin. He could see the complete disbelief in the other man's eyes, and
something more. Rage, silent rage. Mingled with an inexplicable what?
Zechs wasn't sure. He did not want to read more into his eyes than what
was really there. But it almost seemed as if Treize admired him at that
instant, or perhaps he was just pleased. Some quiet, secret pleasure, as
he always seemed to have. The look was lost as Treize closed his eyes,
his lips stretching into a slow smile.
"You've changed quite a bit," he murmured.
Zechs brought his sword up slightly, touching Treize's
chin. The older man's smile never wavered, and now he seemed genuinely
pleased. Zechs thinned his lips.
"As you can see, sir, I am prepared now to start living
out my fate, whatever that may be. I am no longer the unfortunate child
from all those years past."
Treize's smile widened. "No, you're not. You have certainly
learned much. I have never been beaten before. I should be proud to have
been beaten by you, Mirialdo Peacecraft."
Zechs lowered his sword, smiling sadly. "Iie, sir. I am
Zechs Marquise. Mirialdo must remain dead for now, perhaps for a long time."
Turning away, he sheathed his sword. He could feel Treize's
eyes, heavy upon his back, as he pulled the man's sword from the carpet
where it had fallen. He held it for a while in his hands, feeling its unfamiliar
weight.
"It was my Father's," he heard Treize comment.
Looking back, Zechs couldn't help but smile. Treize was
spread out on the floor, his hands folded comfortably behind his back,
one leg draped casually over the other, tapping at the empty air.
Walking towards him, Zechs held out the sword. Treize
looked up at him, smiling. "Zechs," he said. "You're scaring me. I strongly
advice that you stop."
Sitting up, Treize took the sword, and Zechs searched
for the rage he had seen before in his eyes. There was no trace of it left,
only the usual, mocking good humour he had grown used to after all those
years.
"Sir," he said, holding out his hand to Treize. The older
man looked at it for a while, his eyes a bit perplexed. Zechs smiled and,
for a while, it seemed to Treize that he could catch a glimpse of two,
bright blue eyes from underneath the mask. Determined, quietly heroic,
so different from that young boy's eight years ago. They did not reflect
the heroism of an easy victory, but of inevitable, accepted doom. Accepting
all and nothing. Not afraid anymore of facing destiny.
Bringing his hand up slowly, he clasped it with Zechs',
allowing himself to be brought up. He grinned as he sheathed his sword.
"Eight years waiting," he said. Zechs closed his eyes briefly, his lips
twitching with a smile he did not want to give.
Turning, Treize walked towards the wine bottle he had
left by his empty cup, pouring himself a drink. Zechs watched him gulp
it down quickly, brows drawing together briefly as liquor met parched throat.
Clicking his heels together sharply, Zechs saluted.
"Cadet Colonel Zechs Marquise requesting permission to
leave."
Treize poured himself another drink and, cradling it in
his hand, looked at Zechs. He shook his head, smiling softly. "Yes, you're
excused, Zechs."
Flanking, Zechs went to the door, but he paused, his hand
on the cold handle. "What if I had lost..?" he asked quietly. He watched
as Treize took a slow sip from his drink, smiling at the darkness.
"You are like me, Zechs. Men like you never lose."
"Never, sir?"
"Yes," Treize murmured, as Zechs felt himself smile, "losing
to you took me by surprise, too. But we have both survived losing now.
Once mastered, it can never hurt us again."
"Yes," Zechs said quietly. Treize looked back at him then,
their eyes meeting briefly. Treize raised his glass. "Personal?" Zechs
nodded slowly.
"There's never any other real reason, Zechs Marquise,"
the older man said, draining his cup in one motion. As he set it down,
its sound was like an echo. Across time. Across a war scarred palace. The
first tick of a silent clock. It promised everything. And nothing.
(c) March 9th, 1997. Gundam Wing, and all of its characters
hereof, are (c) 1995 Sunrise Entertainment. Usage of this document, whether
in whole or in part, without the consent of the author is not only very
bad manners, but it is also punishable by law. Have a nice day, and thank
you for reading
Promises
By: Team Bonet