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Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV Asahi. Sainan no Kekka and all original characters and plot copyright 2000 by Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant. Please ask permission before reposting.
SAINAN NO KEKKA
Ii. VENI, VENI, EMANUEL
Have her find me an acre of land // Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme How time flies, Dermand Etille thought morosely to himself as he pulled up in the lot two blocks from his flat, turned off the engine, and grabbed his briefcase and the paper bag of Chinese takeout he had stuffed next to him in his chair. The Beijing traffic was quiet tonight. People spending Christmas Eve at home with their families, no doubt, or on holiday out of the country. Christmas was a big event in China, a kind of Independence Day as well as the traditional holiday for a country whose inhabitants still bore bitter memories of the past Communist rule even after so many years. Most of his friends had left early, heading to various parties, gone caroling, or just gone home to be with family. While he had been working late at the office again, as usual. It wasn't as cold tonight as it had been last night, and the sky was clear, which was a good thing. He didn't relish walking home in the snow. Making sure the car was locked and that the alarm was turned on, he slammed the door, walking briskly down the dimly lit alleyway that led to the main road. He could hear music and people laughing and as he emerged onto the street, the smell of roast pig and burning incense filled his nostrils. "Ah! Meestah Etille!" The pig foot seller two stalls down called to him in bad English, recognizing him. "Marri Kurismassi!" Etille smiled as he passed. "Merry Christmas," he returned, turning right and crossing the street to head down another dark road. The streets of Beijing were safe, usually, and he really wasn't worried about being attacked on the way home. Beijing pickpockets had better places to hide out. He keyed in the code for the front door of the complex and took the elevator up to his flat on the fifteenth floor, letting himself into his dark, cold hollow of a room. Turning on the light and placing the takeout on the table, he turned up the heater and sat down on the couch, flicking on the televid. "-can't help wondering what the world would be like if Heero Yuy was still alive," the expertly dressed male anchor was saying in Mandarin. Etille snorted and picked up the takeout, digging his chopsticks into the rice and turning down the TV so he wouldn't have to hear it. People had cried war after the politician's death, but war hadn't arrived, and he couldn't see why some people kept dwelling on Yuy's tragic end. It had been a horrible loss for the colonies and the world, but there was no use crying over it, and if people didn't move on, there would be war. It had been two years, and they were still analyzing it, making him larger than life, giving Yuy far more credit than he had ever gotten when he was alive. The news had now moved to some of the Christmas Eve celebrations taking place throughout the city, and he sighed, crossed his legs, and picked up another chunk of chicken with his chopsticks. His family had asked him to come back to France for the holidays. He hadn't seen them in three years, but OZ had needed him here in Beijing, so here he was, alone on Christmas Eve, eating takeout and watching television. The work he did was important, and he supposed it was nice to know that he was wanted, but at the same time he would have given almost anything to be back over there in France, watching the snow fall. Being with his family. He missed them. His cell phone rang. "Hello?" The voice on the other end of the line was his secretary, wondering if he had confirmed his reservation for the commander's Christmas party tomorrow. He sighed, said he had, wished her a Merry Christmas, and hung up. He'd almost hoped it was someone interesting. But then again, no one interesting would be calling him anyway. There was a picture on top of the televid and he found himself suddenly staring at it instead of the moving picture on the LCD screen. It was a picture of a teenage boy with his arm around an equally young girl, their faces bright, shining, hopeful, certain. The girl was holding a bouquet of flowers and had a colorful scarf wrapped around her shoulders. The scarf had been his mother's. His father had given it to her when they were married, and she'd given it to him when he had gone off to the Academy. This is my only charge to you, she had said. When you find the woman you truly love, give this to her. And he had, and she'd taken his love and run off with it. Betrayed him. Taken his mother's last gift to him and thrown it away. He didn't hate her for it…he could never hate her. But sometimes he had wondered how such a dazzingly alive, vibrant woman like her could still manage to be so cold, so cruel. And now she was dead. He really should throw that picture away, but it was his only link to the past, to her, and he somehow couldn't find it in him to let it go just like that. Maybe in a few years…when the memories had faded somewhat and he could take the next step forward… You've been telling yourself that for years. You'll never forget her. Etille shoveled the rest of the rice into his mouth, threw the chopsticks and the box into the trash, and grabbed his scarf and coat. It was too nice of a night to be sitting inside with the ghost of her, and he was going to go take a walk. He glanced at the digital clock as he left, locking the door gate behind him. It read 2243 hours. It was definitely one of the clearest Christmas Eves he'd experienced in a while, and as he walked back down to the well lit street, he looked up at the narrow space of sky that he could see between the tall walls of the buildings on both sides. So many buildings here, and not enough sky. "Back agaan? Perhaps you want some peeg?" Etille hesitated a little by the door and then went in to the tiny shop, dug in his pocket for some change and accepted the stick of roast pig meat handed to him. "Xie xie," he murmured, biting into it. "Delicious as usual." "Yes, but no customers," the man bemoaned, lapsing back into Mandarin. Etille knew that the pig seller preferred to show off his English, which was really not bad at all except for his heavy Chinese accent, but there were fewer people on the street now and no one to show off to. "All probably inside for family gatherings, I suppose." "Why aren't you home?" Etille wondered, finishing the pig and depositing the stick into the greasy trash can by the store front. The man was picking up his wares, emptying out pans and running the water in the sink. "Surely your family is waiting for you." "Ehh…long story," the man said, grimacing. "My wife decided to move to America with our daughter two months ago, for her school, and so I'm here by myself." "Oh," Etille said. After a moment, "I'm sorry." "Nothing to be sorry about," the man said, smiling. "I send them some of the money I make and she's found a job too. I'm going to join them there after the New Year, most likely." He emptied the tub of pig grease into the sink. "Say…what about you? Don't you have a wife?" Etille shook his head. "I'm just not meant to marry, I suppose." The pig seller snorted. "Nonsense! You're educated, smart, and not bad looking. What woman would reject a man like you?" I wish it were that simple, Etille wanted to say, pushing himself off the counter. "Perhaps someday," he returned. "I'll be going now…Merry Christmas." "Same to you!" the man waved cheerfully. "Have a good night!" He resumed his walk down the street. Most of the vendors were already closed, and those who were not were just pulling down their gates and taking out the trash. The moon was high and he stopped for a moment, watching his breath frost in the light of the streetlamps. Alicia had loved the moon. They were alike, she and the moon, mysterious and feminine and potent all at once, strong and cold, and he….he had been so unworthy of her. The recorded message had come to his computer late that September night four months ago as he was attempting to finish one last report before heading home, knowing that he was working himself too hard but that they were on a time crunch. When his screen had beeped, he hadn't even acknowledged it for a minute, trying to scribble something down that required his utmost attention. Funny, he couldn't remember what that was now. The screen beeped again and he finally turned his attention to it, noting that the message was marked urgent. Frowning, wondering what had happened, he clicked the button to retrieve it. It had then asked for a password and he typed it in hurriedly. The screen blanked and then cleared to reveal the image of a handsome man dressed in a silk suit and tie, sitting in front of a desk. His face was grave but blank, the careful blankness of a politician. But it was the features that struck Etille the most: the dark, curling hair, the exotic eyes fringed by long lashes, the pale skin. "Lieutenant Commander Etille, my name is León Dermail Catalonia." His voice was rich, deep, his English perfect with only a hint of the Castellano Spanish accent. "I am calling to inform you of the regretful incident of my sister Alicia Catalonia's death. She was killed yesterday in an engagement in the Middle East when her mobile suit was destroyed. Your name was on her will as one of the people to be contacted in case of her death. I have a small package to you from her which will be shipped as soon as possible." He paused, and then his face had relaxed somewhat, a bit of the emotion behind the dark eyes showing through. "I do not know what her relation was to you, but I am certain that she cared for you a great deal. Please, if you have any need to contact, me do so. My contact information is encoded in this message file, should you wish to use it. Again I regret leaving this news with you." End transmission. Thinking back, Etille didn't remember how he had reacted, only that he had somehow managed to make it home that night, and that he hadn't gone to work the next morning, calling in sick. It was all empty…a blank, as if with her death everything had ceased to exist. The package from León Catalonia had arrived in the mail a week later, but he already knew what it was before he opened it, before the golden ring fell out of the box into his waiting hand. The chain was still attached to it. It had been broken, he noted absently, fingering the cool metal. Broken because she had no longer wished to wear it? He wasn't sure he wanted to find out. He had wanted to delete that message when he finally managed to bring himself to look at it again, to relieve the terrible details from her brother's mouth, but something had prevented him from doing so, and so he'd saved it in one of the private encrypted folders on datapad and taken it home with him. Just in case. He wasn't sure just in case what, but simply that. Alicia had always said that. Just in case. She would do this or that just in case. There had been the time she had brought her portable electric heater with her on a camping trip in the middle of July, and they had ended up using it when it had suddenly stormed and soaked all their belongings. I'll keep this with me forever, she'd promised when he had given her his ring. And now it was back in his hands, which meant that it hadn't been with her when she died, because León had stated quite clearly what had happened to her mobile suit. She had left it at home. With her brother? In her private belongings? Whatever the case, she had lied. But perhaps she had kept the scarf, because there was only the ring in the package. Not the gypsy scarf with its hypnotizing lines and whirls of color that spoke of longing and desire. "Sir? Would you like to buy some candles?" Etille glanced down, saw a little boy holding up a basket of crudely made wax candles. The child came up to about his waist and he was wearing a tattered pair of jeans and a thin jacket. The long, tangled black hair had obviously not been cut in a while, and the thin hand which held the basket was shaking. Reaching into his pocket, Etille pulled out a few bills and handed them to the child, taking four candles. "Is this enough?" The boy nodded, the almond shaped eyes looking too big for his hauntingly thin face, and then was gone before Etille could say another world, running towards the direction of one of the alleys. Etille sighed. He might as well go home. Everything was closed now, and it was getting colder. His flat was warm. He'd forgotten to turn off the heater when he had gone out, and he shrugged out of his jacket and scarf, not bothering to turn on the lights. Pulling out a battered metal try from under the stove, he placed the candles on it and lit them all at once. The dancing flames were reflected in the picture on top of the now silent televid. Wondered suddenly what León Catalonia was doing on this Christmas Eve. He'd seen the man's face before on televid, but never clearly, and he had never much liked politics anyway. The Federation was full of it, which was why he was in OZ, glad to be away from the scheming. Not knowing why he did so, he got up from the couch, went into the tiny bedroom and began rummaging through the sheaf of papers on the desk by the bed. There were printouts of virus programs in there, dinner arrangements that he was afraid he would forget, bills needed to be mailed and military assignments… He found it. Etille stared at the paper for a moment, then silently rose, turning on the vidscreen in the corner. The machine beeped and he entered the number at the edge of the paper, finding himself watching as if he were a spectator, as if it was someone else's fingers who were running over the keys, someone else's eyes watching as the screen cleared, someone else's voice responding as the well-dressed man with a glass of wine in his hand answered. "¿Sí?" He felt extremely awkward. There was obviously a party going on and he was sure he was interrupting something. He always was. "Sir, my name is Dermand Etille…I don't know if you remember me. I was a friend of your sister's, and I…" He trailed off, as he saw the man's expression change from carefully polite to alarmed, then to recognition. "Oh! Mr. Etille…Commander Etille, is it? Of course I remember you. Alicia was very fond of you." His heart leapt in his throat. "She talked about me?" Settled as León shook his head. "No, she never did talk about you. But I always knew that that ring was from someone special. It has a great history, that ring…you did receive it, correct?" Etille nodded dumbly. León smiled. "Yes. Was there anything you wanted to talk about, in particular?" "I err…well, no," he stammered, feeling very inadequate in the face of this elegant man. Alicia had had the same effect on him, making him stumble for words. He realized again with a small shock how similar the two looked. "I came across your number while I was going through some papers and decided to call…wish you a Merry Christmas." "Ah, yes…hold, please." The screen momentarily went blank, and then León was back. "My wife. She wanted to know what I was doing." The smile he gave Etille was joking "Women…you never know with them." "No," Etille said softly. "You don't." León must have realized that he had said something wrong, because he immediately reached out one hand to the screen. "I am sorry, Commander….I didn't mean to bring back any bad memories." "They're not bad," Etille said. "Not at all." "The best thing you can do for her," León said gently, "is to let her ghost go. She wouldn't want you to be grieving over her still." "I tell myself that every day." "The scarf…" León said suddenly. "It is yours, is it not?" Etille narrowed his eyes. "How did you know about that?" "I have it," the nobleman said. "She gave it to me, for safekeeping before she went away." He seemed to hesitate. "Would you like it back?" Etille was about to say, yes, give it back, and then he saw the expression that that the other man tried to hide too late, the expression that said quite clearly he hoped that Etille would not ask for it back, that he did not want to let it go. A last link to his dead sister, perhaps? "No," Etille said. "No, you can keep it." León smiled. "I'll keep it then. Let me know if you change your mind." "I will." An awkward pause. "Well…Merry Christmas, sir." "Merry Christmas," León said. "And thank you for calling." The screen went dark. So she'd kept the scarf after all. Still had it, after all these years. Then again, he wouldn't expect anything else. Alicia had been a great romantic…a cynical one, perhaps, but romantic nonetheless. She'd told Etille it was in her Spanish blood. The best thing you can do for her is to let her ghost go. He hesitated, then came to a conclusion, took up the piece of paper in his hands and stuck it in the paper shredder. The machine gulped it down, whirring and tearing, and then was silent. He went out in the living room and lit the fireplace, waiting until the blaze was a healthy roar, bathing the small room in an unearthly rosy glow, then took up the picture of the two of them that sat on top of the televid. He eased the picture out of the frame, running a hand over her cheek, his finger catching a bit on the photo-paper. He looked at it, looked at the fire, and then with a violent motion, dropped the paper into the blaze. It caught at once in a glorious halo of colors. Adiós, mi señora bella…adiós, fantasma mia. It must have been the sparks from the burning photo, because his vision suddenly became very blurry as he turned and fumbled through the darkness until his hand found the knob of the drawer and he pulled it out, reached inside for the ring that he knew would be there. The amethyst sparkled in the red-orange light, and this time his hand did not waver as he let it fall into the fire.
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