SWEET DARKNESS
Part 6
The room was a tangle of thin nets hanging from the ceiling, separating the area in tiny cells. It apparently was done to prevent sand from littering everything but it didn't work so well and the floor was layered with tiny ribbed dunes of golden gravel while dust clung to face and hands unbearably.
The lights, caught in the web of gauze, seemed reddish and dull and the figures of the doctors looked like vague white shadows, their voices distant humming. They were taking care of wounded; there were wounded among the men in fatigues; maybe, there were dead as well.
"Where are we?" Trowa's voice was hoarse, barely audible and his eyebrows drew together in pain as he talked.
"At the infirmary," I said. "On some planet. I don't know which one."
I'd barely had a glance at it, at the vast spaces of yellow sand under orange sky as we'd got out of the flyers. The men left us here, in a small space with two beds, separated with flimsy screens from the rest of the room. They also had taken the cuffs off of Trowa and me - which was good.
"Damn." Trowa's voice wavered.
His bloodless face with sunken closed eyes shadowed, teeth clenched hard. It was hot in the room, even stifling with all those nets catching the air, but he didn't stop shivering, even under the blanket, hugging himself, his narrow hands clasped on the dark-red material of his torn mucky jacket. I pulled a blanket from the other bed, piled it over him. His hair was hiding half of his face; I smoothed it away, probing his forehead. Well, it was nothing I wouldn't know without it: he was burning again. His eyelashes trembled as he tried to open his eyes, then shook his head.
"Go away. You're heavy."
I took my hand away quickly, still feeling the heat of his skin against my fingers.
"Trowa," I whispered. "I'll go call for someone. You're really sick."
"No!" For once there was strength in his voice, intensity making it louder. "Don't call for anyone. You're such a... pest."
I took a deeper breath, feeling how sharp hot pain pierced my side. The never-leaving tang of blood in my mouth became stronger; I fought pain and sickness and fear until I could be sure my voice would sound reasonably steady.
"Trowa... I'm sorry."
"What for?" His voice was inanimate again, the words slurred. His eyelashes never rose, as if too heavy for that. I leaned against the bed rails, holding my side, trying to take little small breaths to lull the pain away.
"If you didn't carry me, you wouldn't get so sick."
His eyebrows arched as if in misery.
"Baka."
"If you didn't come for me, you would be able to get away on a shuttle."
I knew that; I wasn't a fool, no matter what he said. If he hadn't returned for me, I would've likely been dead now. Or with Hannigan. A wave of panic flooded me at the thought of the morph's deadly white face, colorless lips and enormously long fingers, at the memory of a too loud sound of my ribs cracking under his fist.
"That's good, little flower. I like it so much when your eyes go all big and black."
No, it was just a memory, nothing more; Hannigan was dead, I reminded myself - he couldn't touch me any more.
"I did what I wanted to do," Trowa whispered; there was a weird expression on his face - so much determination... as if he wanted to convince himself in what he was saying. "It was my decision. You have nothing to do with it."
I chuckled quietly; yeah, maybe, I had nothing to do with it. He'd just saved my life.
I didn't say anything but he grew restless suddenly, tossed as if trying to escape something - a grip, a presence.
"Shut up! I don't want to hear it. Shut up!"
He was delirious again and I didn't know which way I preferred him. He could be so snappish when lucid - silent or antagonistic - but his tormenting deliriums when he argued with someone who wasn't here were even worse. I sat quietly in the bottom part of his bed, waiting for him to calm down.
"He said I would die there... but I didn't... I already got out... I'll leave here as well... I'll do what I have to, I didn't forget..."
I felt a little pang of misery at his anxiety, at his determination. He'd talked like this in prison, as well - about something he had to do, no matter what. Oh, surely he'd do it - I already knew Trowa well enough to believe that nothing could stop him once he decided. He'd leave here... and I wouldn't see him ever again.
"At first you have to get well," I said in a reasonable voice.
He must've heard it. His mouth curved in a wry smile as he shook his head.
"Silly. I can't get well."
There was something in his words... something that made me believe him - and made my heart sink hopelessly.
"You'll die? You can't die, can you?"
He'd talked about having more two weeks or something like that, before - and I clung to this thought desperately. I saw his bluish eyelids move; a flash of his eyes was dimmed green.
"Why... why do you care?"
Why did *you* care, I thought; why did you care what would happen to me? I shifted, pulling my knees up to my chest. It made breathing more difficult but in a way I felt less vulnerable like that, as if my own body could give me some protection. It was an illusion, of course; if anything, my body had turned or was used against me countless times
Trowa's pale face, eyes closed again, was blank and tired, as if he was sleeping or unconscious. I listened to his breath, steady and quiet, feeling how this sound calmed me down somehow.
"Quatre." He shifted restlessly. "Have you gone somewhere?"
Hadn't he told me to go away?
"Nope," I said. "I'm here."
"Good." His frown smoothed a little. "Although I don't care, of course... you can go if you want."
"I don't want," I said.
"Quatre..." There was some strange, fluttering sound in his voice - and it let me know he didn't know what he was saying again, was delirious once more. "Pretty one. Little... little prince."
Little prince; that's how Hannigan called me, keen on various endearments that he inevitably made sound as insults. I closed my eyes, fighting the memories, intent not to let them crowd on me. It was Trowa who said it - Trowa who'd saved me from what I didn't want to recall; from Trowa these words sounded different, even if I couldn't understand why he wanted to say them.
"You make me feel wrong," he whispered, his fluctuating voice dream-like, distant. "Make me want to touch you... you to touch me... It's not right... I don't want it... I know what's right," all of a sudden his voice became strong, hard, almost unwavering. "I won't do any mistakes any more, Raymond."
I bit my lip, looking at him in misery. I wished so much I could reach to him, to pull him out of the world of hallucinations where he was. But I knew how he reacted when I touched him, so, I stayed where I was. There were blackish circles swaying in front of my eyes at the lack of oxygen since I couldn't take a normal breath. My side under my hands seemed throbbing with hot pain at every heartbeat. I held tighter, hoping for it to stop.
"So, let me see what you have there, young man."
The voice sounded behind me - and the touch came from there, too - a grip of cold metal on my elbow, very hard. I panicked even before turning back, thrashed, rolled down from the bed on the floor, wrenching out of the hold and looked up. A sound that escaped me was a strangled shriek.
"Hey, hey," the man said hastily, raising both his hands, of flesh and of metal. "I just wanted to see..."
"What happened?" Trowa was sitting on the bed, his eyes opened but glazed, unseeing. "Don't you touch him."
"...wanted to see if I can do something about your ribs."
The man had a white coat on; his grey hair was tossed away from a wrinkled face with such a strange kind of glasses I'd never seen before. He was a cripple - one of his hands was an elaborated device made of shiny metal, its fingers moving with almost morph-like speed. It must've been what had scared me so much. I sighed, feeling chagrined and unhappy with my own stupidity.
"You look like you can use a doctor, kid," the man said and then looked at Trowa. "And you too. Wataru!"
A man appeared, pushed the net away - a much younger one, blond and in gold-rimmed glasses - and stood silently looking at the other doctor.
"See to this one," the grey-haired man pointed at Trowa. "And I'll take care of the other."
He reached his hand to me and, as I took it, pulled me up to my feet.
The floor seemed a bit shaky and the man's face was suddenly too close, breaking in a smile as I gripped on his hand harder.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Doctor J. But you can call me simply 'sir'. And what's your name?"
"Quatre," I said.
On the next bed, Wataru was making a quick examination of Trowa.
"You're so messed up, both of you, kids," Doctor J said disapprovingly, pushing me to sit down. "Well, we'll see what can be done about it."
I saw Trowa resist weakly as Wataru pulled his blankets down, opened his jacket. The man turned to Doctor J suddenly, his eyes widened behind the glasses.
"I'm not sure, doctor, but it certainly looks like... Well, you'd better take a look."
I watched them cautiously as they bent over Trowa, the younger man's voice sounding very tight.
"Fever... these red lines on his ribcage, see there? It certainly looks like seizure-flu. We might be on the verge of an epidemic here."
I flew from the bed, stumbled forward, as if I could shield Trowa from them. Wataru's face looked sick with fear, Doctor J's face frowned and tense.
"He's not going to cause any epidemic!" For some reason I didn't find anything better to prove it than taking Trowa's hand in mine. "He's not contagious at all. I was in the same cell with him - we slept under the same blanket - and I got nothing from him. I don't know what he has - but it's something different," I finished.
"How long were you in the same cell?" Doctor J asked.
"Four... five days." I exaggerated; but I had to make them believe it.
"And when did he fall ill?"
"He was like that already when they brought him."
"That you didn't get infected proves nothing," the old man shrugged, his fingers, real and metal, intertwined. "Some people have immunity to it. But if he's ill for so long... Seizure-flu kills overnight, that's I know."
"You don't... need to worry..." Trowa whispered; his head rolled on the pillow. "I won't... infect anyone."
"How can he know it?" Wataru snapped. I looked up at Doctor J pleadingly; of course, I didn't know the man, met him just minutes ago - but somehow it seemed to me he was not so pigheaded as his assistant. And there was no one else all the same.
"I'll make the analyses," the doctor said. A syringe appeared in his hands - and at the next moment Trowa's hand flew up, catching the man's metal wrist.
I watched Trowa push himself up into a sitting position forcefully, his eyes open, unblinking, with just thin lines of green around dilated pupils.
"The virus is not an active one. It's a vaccine."
"There's no vaccine from seizure-flu," Doctor J said mildly.
"There is," Trowa fell back again. His arms were wrapped around himself tightly and his face had a stubborn, sealed expression that I recognized so well. "I won't say anything else. I want to talk to the Captain."
"If he's contagious, it's a danger," Wataru said firmly. I saw Doctor J shrug thoughtfully.
"Treize brought him here. Go inform him about the situation. If he decides to talk to the kid, it'll be his choice."
I saw Wataru walk away and sighed out in relief a little.
"Here, I'll give you an anti-fever injection." There was no antipathy in Doctor J's voice as he talked to Trowa. "There's no reason for you to burn your brain out."
The silly one argued, of course - just as I knew he would:
"No... it can harm the vaccine..."
I could bet Doctor J was about to say something really scathing when the netting was pushed away again and, in front of Wataru, there was that very man who'd killed Hannigan and saved us, ordering to take us away.
* * *
"It's the infirmary, for Christ's sake," Doctor J kept complaining in a very quiet voice, drawing the nets behind us. "I have the right to be wherever I want to."
It was Trowa's wish - and for some reason the Captain went along with it - to talk tete-a-tete. Wataru interfered, of course, said that it was a risk, it could be some trap, an attempt of assassination or something - and the man gave him a brief, not unkind, rather indifferent look.
"There's always a risk. So, J? Will you kindly leave us alone?"
"All right, all right," the doctor muttered. "I really have things to do. Like putting some bandage on this kid's ribs."
I didn't want to walk away from Trowa - but surely there was no other way; Trowa wanted me to be gone with all others as he talked to the man with reddish-brown hair and calm blue eyes.
"Here." Doctor J stopped. "We won't hinder them here. Sit down, kid."
He talked barely audibly - and a moment later I understood why. Even though the Captain's silhouette looked dim, shadow-like now as he stood in front of Trowa's bed, his voice was clear and distinct, catching on us through the nets.
"So, now when we're alone - what did you want to talk to me about?"
I looked up at the doctor in surprise; his face was deadpan as he busied himself with some medical paraphernalia.
"You're Treize Khushrenada, right?" Trowa's voice was fainter but still distinct enough; behind it, I could feel the effort he was giving for it to sound steady. "I... recognized you."
"I am." The man's silhouette suddenly broke as he sat down on Trowa's bed. His voice was a bit softer now. "And you?"
"Trowa Barton. I belong to Misque Order. We got a vaccine from Oatta, for seizure-flu. I need to deliver it to the Order as soon as possible."
Even though Doctor J must've listened as attentively as I did, his hands never stopped moving, pulling my top up, probing my ribs. I shivered slightly at the difference of sensations from his warm human hand and cold metal one - but curiously, his touches didn't make me panic. There was something soft and yet business-like in them.
"One rib is broken, two fractured," he informed me. "I'll put fixating paste on them, so, it won't prevent you to take a shower."
"A vaccine for seizure-flu?" Treize repeated quietly. "I know they would be desperate for it in the Northern Region."
"The Order will take care of it," Trowa said unfalteringly. "I just need to take it there sooner. Immediately if possible. I got arrested by the morphs, it was a delay. And too many people died..." he added softly.
"I see." Treize's voice was thoughtful, very serious. "But I don't know what can be done about it. The planet is surrounded at the moment, neither flyer nor shuttle will be able to leave it. With time, we'll find corridors for travelling safely - but it'll take a while."
"Safety is not a priority," Trowa said in the expressionless, almost robot-like voice that he sometimes had as he talked about his duty. "I can take a risk."
"It won't be a risk. It will be suicide. As far as I understand, the vaccine will be lost if you die."
There was a pause when I seemed to hear how the nets were waving in the barest draft of the air. Then Trowa said quietly:
"I don't have much time, sir. The vaccine cannot be exposed, it's stored only inside a body. An adult body won't do, it'll kill an adult person. I can carry it for a while."
"How much time do you have?"
"Two weeks. Twelve days while I'll still be functioning."
I had known it; he was always repeating about this term. And it always seemed like something very long to me - maybe, because I didn't quite believe in what he said, half-considered it another delusion of his. But at this moment I felt something swelling in my throat, choking me. Two weeks... and then he'd die. Two weeks - it was so little, it was practically nothing!
I felt how Doctor J's hands stopped on my ribcage, his fingers touching through the film of fixating paste - and despite myself, I leaned into that touch, as if seeking protection from reality of Trowa's death in such a short time.
I had spent I didn't know how long with death hovering over me, surrounding me, in morphs' prison. But now, when we'd got out of it, when the system hadn't managed to destroy us...
"No, Trowa..." I whispered helplessly.
"A little fanatic, your friend," Doctor J said in sotto voce, taking hold on my hand, dabbing my raw wrist with disinfectant.
I bit my lip with stinging pain, my eyes filling with involuntary tears. I blinked them away angrily; it was not such a bad pain, nothing I couldn't bear.
"I see," Treize repeated. "We'll be checking for corridors and as soon as something is up, you'll get an opportunity to go. You might've heard various things about me but I'll do my best for the vaccine to get to the Northern Region."
"Thank you, sir."
"Two fanatics," Doctor J said, shaking his head. "No wonder they've come to consensus so easily."
"Trowa... Trowa is not a fanatic," I whispered; the doctor's steely glasses turned to me. "He's... he's a hero."
"For me, it's all the same," the man shrugged.
I saw Treize's figure straighten as he moved away from Trowa's bed, pulled the nets. The barriers of half-translucent material became thinner and thinner between us - and suddenly I saw him standing in front of me, his head lowered slightly, his calm eyes narrowed.
"Curiosity killed a cat, J. You should've known it in your age."
"What? I just mind my own business..."
"Yeah, right." There was no real anger in the man's voice. "And if you finished with your business - can I take the kid? I want to talk to him."
I looked up at him at loss. What could it be the Captain himself wanted to talk to me about? Did he want to re-check Trowa's story? I decided at once I'd confirm everything, what I knew and what I didn't.
"I don't know." J put a thin stripe of transparent plaster on my other wrist. "Wait behind the net, I have to check."
I could see it gave him enormous pleasure to say that. Treize walked out.
"Any other injuries you want to tell me about, kid?" J said. I knew by the tone of his voice what he was talking about and flushed, shaking my head. "You sure?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right. Treize, he's yours. And, Treize, you gotta find something for the kids to wear. This one can't... totter around here in two scraps of silk for the clothes."
My clothes were more than two scraps but I decided not to argue.
"I gotta..." Treize shrugged. "Okay, I'll see what can be done. Now follow me, will you, kid?"
"Where are you taking him? He has to be in bed."
I looked at Treize. There, in prison, during the attack, his self-confidence, his determination had a wonderful pacifying effect - as if nothing bad could happen when he was around; no bullet or fire could touch him or anyone he took under his protection. And he was beaming then - exhilarated with the battle, violently happy with all the havoc he created around him. Now this joy was gone; there was something quietly subdued in him' not less powerful - but something sad, almost sorrowful.
I got up and walked to him. Doctor J had done something that made me keep on my feet almost steadily, the pain in my ribs turned into dull ache.
"It's right over there," Treize said. "My office."
* * *
This room was much smaller and void of nets completely. A narrow window, reminding me a loophole by its form, was covered with sand at its bottom for a few inches. It must've been night outside, the darkness ink-like, almost solid. I watched Treize walk up to the table and sit down silently. He reached to the screen of a TV transmitter, made the sound louder.
"Although no terrorist group assumed responsibility for this act, the Executive Board announced that they blamed for the attack so-called New Answer Brigade led by Treize Khushrenada, former Captain of United Force. Two years ago, as the truce between United Planets and Marotania was signed, Khushrenada refused to lay down arms..."
A flicker of Treize's wrist switched the channels. I saw the record of the attack starting, flyers approaching the huge glimmering disc of the prison.
"Central Prison, otherwise known as 'Ismail', considered escape-proof, had never been under attack since its foundation twelve years ago. How could it happen that it fell under one blow from a famous terrorist group?"
There was something in Treize's face, something that made me look at him rather than at the screen. I wondered if it was being called a terrorist that made his mouth tremble as if in pain.
"The government of Marotania already demanded apology from the Executive Board, as well as extradition of Khushrenada."
'Marotanians' was morphs' self-denomination, I recalled. No one else called them this way apart from media and politics, and even they not always.
"The number of casualties among morphs is unknown - but for other species it certainly could count for thousands, when the fugitives, who hijacked the shuttles from the prison's bay, entered the minefield surrounding the prison. This newest addition to the security system was unknown to anyone except prison officials. So, even though Marotanians couldn't prevent their captives from actually leaving the prison, they still could boast that no criminals escaped during this attack."
I looked at the screen blankly. There, rotund shapes of shuttles blasted silently in the darkness of space.
I recalled suddenly the quiet, insistent voice of the helmeted morph who'd stopped Trowa on his way.
"Don't go there. Don't."
If he... if we got to a shuttle, we would be dead now. If Treize hadn't taken us along, we would've possibly been dead or in a lock-up now. I looked at Treize in admiration.
He didn't look on the screen; his eyes were cast down at his hands that lay on his lap, intertwined, seemingly placid - if not for the white lines on their knuckles.
He had a grey strand in his hair, I noticed suddenly - white among reddish tresses. He looked at me, his eyes blazing with such pain that I flinched.
"Sit down." He showed at a chair and I obeyed. A brief, absent smile curved his lips. "So, they want an apology, don't they? They've just murdered several thousands of species, humans among them, in cold blood - and now they want an apology? How many of those 'criminals' were really guilty of something, I wonder - not were used just for demonstrating the power of the new masters of the universe - anthropomorphic monsters? How much time did you spend in the prison?"
The question was unexpected - all before then, during his speech, Treize almost seemed as if he didn't notice me. I swallowed nervously.
"I'm not sure what the date's today."
His intent eyes stopped on me for a few moments.
"July 12."
"Oh. It's eight months then, I believe."
I hadn't had an idea it was so long; time had started being confused a while ago but I still believed it was less, three or four months, maybe.
"Eight months?" Treize looked at me sharply. "It's supposed to be a transit prison, no one can be held there for more than a month or two."
I didn't know what to say for it but he seemed to grow agitated again - now in a good way, as if my words pleased him. I saw him get up, walk to a cupboard, pour transparent liquid into a glass for himself. Sharp tang of processed spirit caught on me.
His face was thoughtful as he took a sip.
"We need to reveal the truth about this prison, about morphs," he said with quiet intensity. "Whether they want to listen to us or not. We have to throw the truth in their faces as many times as it'll be necessary. Documents, testimonies - everything possible. One day - and I believe this day will come soon - they'll hear us. They will know who their real enemy is.
"Can you tell about your time in prison?" he asked avidly. I looked at him, not sure what to say, rubbing my plaster-covered wrists. What did he want to hear, anyway? "I want you to tell about it, kid. What is your name?"
"Quatre," I said.
"And full name?"
"Quatre Winner." I didn't want to repeat it; sometimes I almost wished I could drop it all together. But Hannigan never let me forget it, his manner of calling me by name and surname similar to other morphs' - but he also knew I hated it, hated to be reminded who I was... and how I failed my family, how I couldn't keep my dignity in the end.
"Well, Quatre," Treize said softly. "Will you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Will you testify? We'll make a record, a videotape, where you'll tell everything. How you were arrested, how much time you spent in prison, how you were treated there..."
I felt the room start swirling in front of my eyes and clasped the seat of the chair. He couldn't mean that, could he? He couldn't want me to tell... I couldn't... I must've misunderstood.
"Quatre." As the haze cleared, I felt strong fingers holding mine - and Treize was near to me, squatting in front of the chair, his hand on mine.
I had no reason to be afraid of him, he'd saved both Trowa and me - but his closeness, the strength of his hand made me panic. I shrunk back in the chair, shivering.
His eyes were blue, radiant and very serious, compassion in them as warm as the touch of his hand.
"Don't be afraid, Quatre. I won't hurt you. No one here will hurt you. Do you understand me?"
I nodded.
"We need your help. You have to tell... People must know the truth - even if the Executive Board doesn't want to listen to it. Truth is a powerful weapon; I believe in it as much as I believe in my other weaponry. Think about people, in future, whom you can help by exposing the truth."
"I... I..." My thoughts messed up.
He must've been wrong about me; he probably thought I was a different one, a hero, someone who'd passed through that time in prison with honor and dignity - someone like Trowa. And what could I tell about - apart from my shame and weakness?
"I don't think it can be useful... what I can tell," I whispered. "It was not... like you think."
He kept looking at me - and then something changed in his eyes; as if he understood. I thought he'd leave me now, step away in disgust. But Treize's hold on my hand became just a bit tighter.
"What do you think I think? Why do you think I can't imagine it? You're wrong if you think I want some tale from you. I know the truth... there is no shame in it."
No shame... I suddenly knew that he didn't lie, didn't misunderstand. Of course, he knew - my clothes gave me away all right. And he still asked me to help.
I felt really cold suddenly, even in the stuffy room. How could I say 'no' to him?
"I'll do it," I said.
"Good." For a few seconds he stayed, smiling, and then got up. "I'll prepare everything for the recording tomorrow morning. There's no reason to delay with it, the statement should be sent as soon as possible."
He walked up to the table now, his fingers ran over the keyboard swiftly. I got up.
"Thank you," Treize turned to me briefly, with his smile of stunning radiance and infinite sadness. "You can go now. I'll tell someone to find you some clothes."
I nodded and left, pushing the door close behind me.
The infirmary was empty by then, and nearly dark. In the light coming from an adjacent room I walked between the nettings until finding my bed. Trowa in his lay flat under the blankets, his eyes closed. There was an IV needle inserted in his left arm and I thought that Doctor J apparently managed to convince him to take some medicine.
I still shivered minutely with tension as I slunk under the blanket. The bed was soft, warm, surrounding me seemingly from every side. I sighed contentedly - I'd almost forgotten how it was to sleep in bed; so good... So good that I almost could forget about the task waiting for me tomorrow and just sleep.
"Quatre?" Trowa's quiet voice caught on me. I looked out of the blanket cocoon and stared at him. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes," I whispered in reply. There was a small frown trembling between Trowa's eyebrows, as if in a worry. "He wanted me... to testify... about the prison."
There was a pause and then another question came.
"Did you agree?"
"Yes," I said again. I watched him cautiously, for a sign of disdain on his face, for surprise as to what I could tell.
"It's brave of you," he said. I wondered if he joked but he didn't look so - and his face smoothened as his breath grew lighter and steadier.
"Good night, Trowa," I said quietly, hugging the pillow, settling more comfortably. Trowa's tranquil face with light and shadows cast on it was the last thing that I saw before falling asleep.
***********************************************************
His fingers flew over the keys without the eyes following them - and his mind participated in what he did just as little. The documents were filed and ready to be sent. In the next coverage they'd say that Treize Khushrenada's group did assume the responsibility for the attack. But how many of them would mention the rest of the evidence he'd send - explain the reason why he did it, was going to keep doing it as long as he was alive?
Audio coverage kept sounding as a constant accompaniment.
"The Executive Board informs Marotanian government that, while Treize Khushrenada is considered a criminal and will be put on trial once captured, he won't be extradited to any other race."
He smiled mirthlessly at it. What courage! The EB decided to show they could take independent decisions as well, not to be just lapdogs of morphs. For him, it hardly changed anything; he was ready to be arrested one day, understood sanely that it might happen - just as he sanely was going to do everything to possibly avoid it.
He clicked 'sent' and watched the stream of data being dispatched, fingering a strand of hair. The white strand; he could find it unmistakably, without looking, and he knew exactly when it'd appeared in his hair. On the day when he'd gotten Wufei back.
Again, as always, pain flooded him at the memory; pain, amplified with cold anger, so strong that sometimes it seemed to him his heart was not going to bear it, would give up under the pressure. He tried to fight these feelings - they were not good advisors in what he was doing. But how could he forget...
And even if he tried to forget, there were always things that would remind him. Like that boy he'd finished talking to so recently... what was his name - Quatre... So thin you could count his ribs under this leaving nothing to imagination garment of his... Treize thought he should order to feed him well... to feed both of them kids well. And those huge dark eyes on the childish face - the eyes that seemed to be scared forever, hiding terror in their depth even when the boy smiled.
He recalled how Quatre backed away from him, as if a touch could hurt him, and felt his hands clench in fists convulsively. What kind of creatures morphs were... But of course he knew what kind: sparing no man or woman or child. How old was Quatre? Fourteen, fifteen? Wufei had been twelve...
Treize's memory prompted him quickly a picture of a skinny exuberant child, fiercely vivacious, guilelessly passionate. They had been doing so many things together, playing games, wrestling, talking of books, of music. Der Rosenkavalier, The Knight of the Rose... Wasn't it what Wufei called him?
The glass of wine was a saving anchor from those memories and Treize reached for it hastily, emptying it without feeling the taste. His fingers pressed on the glass too hard - before he noticed it, before the vessel burst in his hand in a waterfall of splinters.
"Whoosh... look what you've done..."
He talked to himself quietly, pulled out small bits of glass from his palm and wrapped his handkerchief around it. No reason to bother J with it... and earn a weird look from the doctor.
Then - four, three years ago - there had been nothing between him and Wufei. they both knew there would be, in some years - it seemed it couldn't be otherwise. But at that time there was nothing - but their joint work, their joint fight - the hatred to morphs they shared... Wufei's parents both dead because of the damn race... Hopes they had. And a kiss, an occasional touch, maddening in its shortness, sparkles of desire between them.
Nothing was as they dreamed. Everything happened sooner, uglier - so awful that Treize couldn't think about it, couldn't - if he still wanted to be functioning tonight.
Just one crime - one crime among the rest of what the morphs did. One... two lives ruined - what was it in comparison with thousands dead in that failed escape from the prison?
What kind of creatures could set that mining field around the prison?
Don't ask...
So many years of fighting - first on behalf of his homeland, as a military - and then as a partisan, maquis. Trying to separate humans and inhuman. Only recently Treize more and more believed that it was not so easy, that the line of justice was jagged and not everyone who had a human face could be called human. Sometimes it seemed to him there were too many of those who'd stepped beyond the line of inhumanity and stayed there. Including himself.
Treize got up on his feet, swaying slightly. The wine, combined with after-battle exhaustion, hit him fast and hard. But there was nothing to be done about it.
He wasn't an alcoholic, he drank not because he couldn't do without it... But because without the softening veil of inebriation, the world just had too sharp angles for him - unbearably sharp. The wine helped him to go on - not hindered him, never affected his duties.
He knew what his duty was now. The morph... They'd make him testify; make him tell all the dirty secrets of his race. No matter what it'd cost.
To be continued
Thank you to everyone who gives such wonderful feedback to my story: Kasra, ashley, Triton, Skippys Cat, Lady Priscilla, Katleen of the Fire, shampoo, Ravena Kaiou, Kay Willow and others! I appreciate it so much. Please keep stimulating me to continue this story - because I have so many goodies in my mind that I can't bear the idea of stopping writing it because no one wants to read it :-) Hugs!