Wings of Love Part VI (6/?) (3x4,4x3)
Feb. 17, AC. 197 :: 09:00
It was a difficult time for anyone who had been close to the war. Quatre's death was a shock and
a tragedy to all those who had survived the odds so long. Trowa's grief tinged the heart of
others, especially that of Lady Une, who had also lost a loved one to a war, and the heart of
Lucrezia Noin, as her beloved Zechs had been killed in a remote Oxygen accident on Mars. It
had been the even that brought her back to Earth, only to find that a completely different tragedy
had struck.
The funeral was as hard to plan as t was to perform. Trowa had little knowledge of the young
Arab's desires for burial. He had known him such a short time, they had never thought to think
about the end. But that end cam so suddenly, and he feared deciding the blond pacifist's final
resting place on his own. It seemed so many people knew now of the sacrifice of the Lamb: how
he hated killing and wished for pece, despite finding the necessity to fight. "War brings sorrow,
but we must fight to protect the ones we love from sorrow."
Those words echoed through Trowa's head on the shore of what had once been a fairytale
kingdom, lit by glimmering lights, and festive gallantry. Now all forgotten, bulldozed over by
machins of war in the year AC 195.
The Sanc Kingdom ... His beloved Quatre would have given his soul to rbing this world to life
again. He almost had given his life on several times for that ideal it had stood for.
"But we must fight to protect the ones we love from sorrow."
Quatre had stood by that, even in his final moments. "War brings sorrow ..." Quatre's death, all
for him. All for him and what was he worth? Spittle? A stone? He was the stone that struck
down the Lamb. The Cross on which he hung. "Protect the ones we love ..." Love? What was
love? He had thought he had known ... Quatre had loved him. He never gave him that ... There
was no word for it, but he should have returned that precious gift to his amor.
Emerald eyes cast themselves upon the sea, thinking back to a time as a child when he had stood
in a run-down South American church-seeking some name, some faith in life. He could almost
hear the bells ...
//
The bells pealed above him in a solemn inquiry. The air was hot, full of dew and moisture,
causing the shirt to cling to the skin, like wet leaves upon the ground. He was alone, the
mercenaries surrounding his world having destroyed much of this town not long before.
It had been ransacked, looted ... burnt to the ground. Yet, somehow, the bandits dared not to
touch this sacred ground.
Nanashi had never been devout. He had never known any God at all, let alone the Cristian one,
yet something possessed him to kneel at that altar. He hoped, hoped so greatky, that for once in
his life, there was such as thing as God, and the Messiah, forgiveness ... Faith. He needed faith.
And a name, but he had none at all.
Green eyes filled with tears suddenly. He had helped destroy this little village. Why? Why,
God, whoever you are, had he done such a thing. He looked upward, able to see the white
clouds swilring above him through cracks in the plaster and adobe. Communism ... They had
told him it was to protect the world from Communism. That hadn't been the name, but the
statement was true enough to history.
And innocent people had died for an ideal.
Footsteps padded softly behind him. The young Lion swirled around, startled and threatened all
at once. All that looked upon him was a black robed priest. Well, the robes had been black, but
hard labor had sun bleached them to a shade of grey. Their ends were tattered, and bits of dark
tanned skin revealed themselves in the owrn folds of the ancient cotton fabric.
"Que paso? Que paso que causaria lagrimas en un nino?" What happened that would move a
boy to tears? Nanashi just sat on his hauches, unable to answer. The kindness of the priest only
made his guilt a heavier burden upon his shoulders.
"You cry for this?" The old man gestured to the charred rubble out the window of the church,
brown eyes watering a little in his wrinkled and weathered face. "It is sad ... A tragedy, what
people do." He looked down into the emeralds and nodded. For a moment, he saw through the
mask of the mime, looking deep into his soul as though to see his destiny ... Seeing the Lion
within him.
"Let me tell you something, Ariel," he said. It startled the boy. Had he called him a name? The
raven robed prest smiled softly. "Yes, you are the Lion, Ariel. I can see it in your soul. Don't
weep for these people. They are in a better world. Don't go flying about in the wind crying over
things you can do nothing for.
"Hold fast to something. Fear not this death ... These things ... They come to pass all througout
this bloody planet. But God teaches me something and keep it with you now, little lion ...
"Greater love has no man than this ... Than to lay down his life for his friend." Eh, hold fast to
that. It will keep you strong, not matter your faith.
"You, now, leave from here. Get on with your life. You have a long way to go before burdens
like these make your back as crooked as a snake, hm. Adios, little lion."
Nanashi found himself being stood and hustled out of the church. When he glanced back into the
run down burden, the priest was gone. The Latin secretly wondered if he was ever really there.
//
/Yes, the old priest was right, I just never understood/ thought Trowa. "Greater love has no man
than this, than to lay down his life for his friends./ That alone gave him strength. Strength to
watch his friend be buried beneath the soil. Strength, perhaps, to let go. Not of Quatre, but of
the regret gnawing at his soul like a guilty demon.
A sharp wind came over the ocean, and the Latin pulled his black coat tighter around him.
Calmly, he walked over the bridge of the rockly shore, back toward the light of his friends. He
could just hear the waves break over the rocky slopes behind him. It was mind numbing ... And
soothing.
But the cemetery he appoached was a soft mud. He could hear the sound of it, squishing under
his boots. The other mourners had gathered ... He'd missed the eulogy. The mime supposed the
Miss Relena had said some wonderfult hings about his koi, but Trowa himself hadn't the courage
to say them. /I never was that brave/ thought the youth, regretting again. He bit his lip and took
his place among the masses, close enough to see the procession of Maguanacs carrying the white
shrounded body of their late Master to his grave.
It was good that they followed the Moslem tradition, for the Arab's sake. Rasid and Abdul had
insisted quite adamantly that the youth be buried and not cremated. So here he was, being
carried to his resting place by the restless seas, to await the resurrection of his body, while his
soul resided in Paradise.
It was a lovely thought anyway.
Trowa briefly felt Catherine's eyes behind him. She had never approved of Quatre and his
relationship, but it seemed his sister had forgiven him enough to join him in this last rite toward
his love. He knew she was crying. She had always been emotional and her tears were
infectious, spreading to Hilde and Relena, even the Shinigami, Duo Maxwell himself, as they
tried to retain the calm best suggested by the Maguanac family. But then, Maxwell still pushed
it all away with a false smile, clenching fists giving away his true demeanor. He still felt that
unquenchable need to retain his manhood, and American casuality.
He knew Noin was there too. Noin had seen Quatre as a brother. One family member that she
hadn't lost to war. In the end, war had got him and Zechs too so it seemed. He felt a twinge of
remorse in his heart, feeling partly responsible for adding to the former Preventor's tragic life.
They had shared a love of space, Noin and Quatre had. She witheld a lot of tears ... Trowa knew
that she wished very much to cry as openly as Hilde and Catherine ... But she had the respect not
to.
Wufei, Lady Une, Dorothy ... They too hid their tears, covering their weaknesses with a will to
be strong unlike so many of the people Trowa had ever met. Their minds were like iron, and
they could stand this torture, if only to prove it to themselves. Sally Po had a harder time with
the whole ordeal. In a way, it was her fault-or at least in her mind it wasn't. She wasn't about to
share the blame with anybody, and her body slunk heavily with despair, like the great stone
figure of Atlas, muscles straining to hold up the world.
Standing in the distance, however, was the most surprising figure that Trowa spied. Heero Yuy
stood upon the headland, back to the crowd facing the sea, trying to ignore the turmoil that in
rejoining the others here today he faced. No one had noticed him come, but for the emerald eyes
that spied all. The warrior just stood their, facing the wind, fist clenched as if holding a spear,
face battleworn-weary. For all the world he wished the wind would blow him away from here,
away from life- where ever that little girl and her dog had gone ... Where ever Quatre had gone
now ... But it was to no avail. He was trapped, a lonely spirit in a human body, dreading each
step he took toward destiny. Why hadn't his worthless life been taken instead of Quatre's? The
Arab had always been so innocent, so free from the hatred and death that had burned holes in the
Zero pilots heart. The world had no need for a dead man. The world had no need for Heero
Yuy.
His fist clenched harder, digging the blunt ends of his dirty fingernails into his palms, leaving
crescent shaped marks hat would scar for perhaps five minutes or more.
/Do not be afraid to act on your emotions/
The thought was a breaking point for a broken man. A lone tear trickled down the young
soldier's face, escaping that prison in which he had locked them so long ago ...
And no one noticed.
The world was far too focused on the body that had been the shell of one that was a Lamb.
However, not one of them had known the Lamn near so well as Trowa. No one knew the pain,
physical and emotional, that the angel had felt each time another soldier fell. Not even Heero ...
But then, perhaps he did ... Some days it seemed Heero understood everyone.
He looked back to the man standing alone and sighed. There stood a man who would never
know love. He would not let himself. In his eyes he didn't deserve it.
But he shook his mind away, back to where the Maguanacs threw shovelfuls of dirt on the open
grave. He couldn't take it anymore. His Lamb, his angel, all gone- all that was left the husk
being buried in the soil.
He wished he were being buried with him. He wanted to be suffocated- to join his koi for
eternity. His mind closed off the pain, trying to suffocate it like he wanted to be suffocated.
And then he felt it. It was so small a pressure that it took him by surprise, a tiny hand locking
into his. Startled, the Lion looked down into the wide blue eyes of the only other witness to the
gentle Arab's death. She looked back, those eyes reflecting the light like clouds in her sky blue
eyes. They were so wide, yet that flavor of innocence they had once held had been lost ... And
for some reason, that made Trowa sad.
/Wars make children grow too soon old/ he thought.
He felt pinpricks in his eyes. The tears were near and soon they would fall. Fall for so many
reasons unsaid.
"Do you want to die, Trowa-kun?" she whispered, eyes watering back at him. "I do too." The
voice was like the wind, soft and gentle. With that same gentleness, Marimeia leaned forward,
her tiny arms encircling the Latin youth's waist as best she could. She sniffled quietly as she
spoke, "He died for you, Trowa-kun ... And for me." Then suddenly the grief tore loose, and the
tiny girl buried her face in Triwa's abdomen and sobbed- frightened, sad, confused.
He held her therem soothing her with the touch of a calloused hand. Quatre had taught him that.
Quatre had taught him gentleness. "Quiet now, Maricita. It'll be okay."
The sobs softened and she murmured into his shirt, voice muffled by the cloth. "We can't die,
Trowa."
"Huh?" Trowa gazed down, confused, as her soft voice was hard to understand.
Marimeia looked up. "If we died, then Q-chan died for no reason. Then -then there would
have-have ..." She stopped.
"You entiendo, Maricita. I understand."
Feb. 17, AC. 197 :: 17:00
"Damn sonuvabitch," muttered Donaldson, his voice breaking over the hum of the medical
equipment. His hazel eyes shone with the same malice that the half sober Scots accent showed,
and Peterson skittered backward, unsure of how to react.
The other man just grinned, brushing his oily mop of dark brown hair back with a less than clean
hand. The red-head got a good look at those grimy finger nails and grimaced. /Does Mic ever
take a bath./ Like Mic Donaldson had read his mind, the candid, rotting smile faded into a look
of disgust.
"What's your problem anyway, eh Peterson. You been dancing like a chicken since I 'it my 'ead
on the door frame exiting that mess 'th the mercenary ESUN back at old 'ead Quarters."
"It just makes me nervous when you get so drunk you can't stand straight." The American
fidgeted more, not wanting to anger his friend. After the death fo that nice young ESUN boy, he
wasn't wuite sure what to make of his partner. It had been a frenzied act of rage, no calculation,
no idea of the consequence. The filthy man may have started a war over a trifle.
Mic just laughed at him. "You worry too much. I tell you, lad, I'll kill that bastard yet. He can
only run so long."
/And you can't run at all/ though the red head. "Listen, Mic, I got errands to run for the
Commander."
"Oh, sure, sure. I'll live alright. But I'm telling you, rat bastard's gonna die."
Peterson just waved him off and stepped into the hall, into saftey. How did he get in with these
people. If Donaldson wasn't his death he would be his own. The youth wiped his freckle face
with a well-worn hankerchief. What would happen now? He remembered waking up groggy
from the punch that had been launched by the now dead blond. He remembered Donaldson
firing ... The look on the blonde's face and his leap to saftey. He remembered grabbing
Donaldson from the floor and dragging his so-called friend, running, from the room, glancing at
the dead-shocked face of the strange haired brunnette who had been the target of Donaldson's
outrage.
And then the fool had hit his head, and ended up in the hospital to be detoxified. Idiot, talking
about revenge when he could barely take care of himself.
The youth retreated to the barracks, falling on his bed with weary easy. An old magazine was
laying their where his partner had left a few days ago, the naughty pictures on the cover a
tell-tale hint of what lay beneath. Mic had a sick mind.
Distantly, the carrot top heard a knock at the door. "Come in."
The door opened, and in stepped the figure of another solder. "You alright Peterson?"
He eyed the blond stepping through the door. He was a dainty man, reminding him of the guy he
shot, but his shoulders were wider, a hidden power. The eyes were slate grey, thin and cold, but
under that mask was a warmth of kindness not often seen with a Barton family member.
Terrance Barton was the orginal Trowa's Barton's cousin, but he had more strength and courage,
and his own reasons for fighting a hopeless war.
Peterson nodded quietly, brown eyes never leaving the pale face. "Better than Donaldson. Like
a seat?" He moved his feet from the bed, boots hitting the floor with a thud. Terrance joined
him.
"I'm sick of this. Why does Veinte keep on. The cause is dead, yet he still has us fight for
familoy honor."
"Dunno, Terrance. I'm not a Barton."
The straw haired youth look at him, trying to pierce into the casual man's inner demons-find out
what made him tick. It was disturbing. "Why are you here, Alan? You aren't a Barton, and the
majority of the United States of the Americas joined up with ESUN at the end of the Marimeia
Uprsising, along with its colony members. What makes you stay."
Alan Peterson tried to shrug off the question, but the Barton continued to gaze at him with a
great and frightening intensity. "Quit it, man, you're scaring me. I guess I was in the wrong
place at the wrong time."
Terrance sighed, recognising defeat. If Peterson didn't want to talk about it, he wouldn't force
him. The last person he wnated to be like was Grandpa Dekim, the man who had seen no
promise in the soft-hearted youth. He would not grow hard to please his ends. He would stay
soft and patient, and give quiet force where necessary. With luck, after this new rebellion he
would be able to hide his Barton past and earn some political respect.
But that was a long time in coming. "So what's Donaldson raving about now, Al."
"Same old, same old. Has some ESUN mercenary with his name on it. The guy from
Headquarters. Goes as Trowa Barton, like your cousin."
Terrance nodded. "He was a Gundam pilot. I know him, or enough about him. He was a
mechanic for Trowa before he unfortunately died." The Barton didn't even pause. Trowa was a
jerk, and if a semi-homnorable fighter for peace had taken his name, so be it. "They called him
Nanashi, No-Name. He was a Latin, by best guess. Anyways, never thought much about him.
I'm just glad before he got to Trowa before he went totally crazy. Hope I don't go crazy too."
"Ah, you'll probably discover that you're adopted."
For a moment the cronies shared a grin. /God, its good to be alive/ thought Peterson. /Better
alive than dead./
Feb. 18th, AC. 197 :: 00:01
The night was cold, and the brisk sea breeze frigid. The waves seemed to be throwing a tantrum
in some dark place beyond the reach of human sight. It was silent but for that and the soft thud
of footsteps. Trowa Barton had a final good-bye to say.
The wind rushed at him as he strode into the night. His black coat caught the fierce breeze,
making a loud ripping sound-like a banner when caught by the gust of a sudden gale. Spray was
carried on the wind, tickling his bare skin with droplets from the writhing ocean. The dew-like
substance powdered his tawny hair with myriad watery beads, and the Lion shook his head
swiftly to clear the soft strands.
Approaching the grave of his koi, Trowa became suddenly aware of the metallic cold sensation
of the flute in his right hand. Standing before the headstone he beheld it-cold, lifeless- a tube of
metal with holes scientifically placed by some calculating mind, worthless and empty, until the
sweet sound of music flowed out by the carefully controlled breaths of a musician outpouring his
soul into a cruel world.
And for some reason, the people listened to the fool.
Like a jester, the mime lifted the flute to his lips, admiring the gentle elegance of his long
fingers ... Fingers that had inflicted so much pain. But that was nothing compared to the flute. It
was so simple, and yet ... Could be so complex. Breathing in, he flooded his nostrils with the
fresh smell of life.
/This ... This improvisation. It is my Magnum Opus ... For you, Quatre./
With that thought he began to play, his heart and soul floating into the melancholy tune. He
fingers found melodies he and Quatre had played togther, and with that created melodies all its
own to tell the story of their love. It seemed all at once that Time had slipped away, and all that
was left of the world was the Lion, his flute, the song ... and the thoughts and memories of a pure
and unselfish love floating from the depths of the soul up to the Heavens in a pleading voice. If
any of the gods of any times had any sympathy for the plight of Man, the prayer of that
mellifluous voice would have moved them to commit any act.
But at the moment they were deaf ... Or mute-mimed like the clown and his silver flute.
And as the last note faded into the sky, the emerald eyed man realized that the Aurora was
spreading rose and teal sprites across the sky to dance in the early morning night. And it seemed
befitting ... A peaceful and natural way to end this ... this pain. To leave it hear on Death's
doorstep.
For a moment, Trowa gazed, watching the dancing colors fade with the song that had come so
willingly to his lips. He sighed, and it seemed for all the world that his surroundings sighed with
him ... The wind, the sea ... even the sky.
Then the silence cracked. Like a broken glass, the magic was broken. However, when the Latin
glanced around to see what had broken his solitude, all he spied was the flash of phantom white,
disappearing over the headland like a mirage or spirit.
He wondered briefly if it were Quatre, but shoed the foolery away. Ghosts like Quatre did not
return. They went onward to a better place.
Wearily, the youth rubbed his eyes. "This is good-bye, beloved Quatre ... At least for now. I
cannot love you again until this hate inside me is gone. Life wills me ... Somewhere ... One day,
someday ... I'll come back. I promise I'll come back here!" He cried to the sky, cehst heving
with his silent sobs. He regained his breath, his composure. The sob still tickled his throat as he
walked heavily away.
But he left his chained soul behind at Quatre Winner's grave.