© May 23, 2002
'Tis My Battle Now
And yet I continue to battle. Why? My life has no significance, I have no home of which to call my own. So why must I continue?
I take aim, watching my enemy with eyes of indifference. He is only another who wishes to destroy me, to take my life. Without regret or remorse I fire, destroying him and his mobile suit. Another life taken, but this is a battle, this is a war.
He wished to take my life. Like it would matter much, for what life do I have? Killing others when it would be easier to let them take me instead? What would it matter to anyone else if I gave up? It would only be putting me out of my misery, showing me mercy. So why did I fight back? Why did I rebel?
"Quatre!" My voice screamed the word with urgency, for my fellow pilot was in unrealized trouble. Without thought, I move Heavyarms before my comrade's mobile suit, feeling the blast as it destroys part of my gundam, a part of myself.
My body is no more than a rag doll at the mercy of the Gods, a mere toy or pawn and nothing more.
A blinding white flashes before my eyes, then a deep red. Why was I fighting in the first place? To protect Libra from those who wished to destroy us and our freedom? Why not let the others fight their own battle?
"Trowa!" I can hear Quatre's frantic voice, it's calling to me but it sounds so distant. I cannot call back, nor can I move for a great weight is upon me. I can feel my breathing start to slow, the bitter taste of my own blood upon my lips. I'm dying, though what is there to lose when you don't have a life to begin with?
All falls silent, the battle finally ending. What difference did it make to me? I would soon cease to exist in the world, so why was it of my concern?
Yet another light meets my eyes, though this one was gentler, a kind warmth washing over me as I try to look about myself. The weight had been lifted from my chest as soothing voices filled my ears. In feeble attempts I try to move, but I am too weak, my body sore, battered, and bleeding.
Arms encircle my shoulders, pulling my limp body from the wreckage, cradling my weak form.
"Hang on Trowa, you're going to be fine..." Quatre's voice called again, though worry and fear filled it. Did they care that much for my life? Why?
Looking up with forced movements, I found my four comrades having gathered near me, deep concern filling their eyes. "...f..f-friends..." The word was torture to speak.
This is what I fought for, why I continued to live. I may not have had a home to call my own, but I did have my friends, my only family.
This is my battle now, I alone will fight it for I alone can. If I win, then I will have won back my life and only grow stronger. Yet now, I am too tired, too weak to fight at my fullest potential. 'Tis my battle now, and I only pray I will not lose. . .
'Tis My Battle Now
And yet I continue to battle. Why? My life has no significance, I have no home of which to call my own. So why must I continue?
I take aim, watching my enemy with eyes of indifference. He is only another who wishes to destroy me, to take my life. Without regret or remorse I fire, destroying him and his mobile suit. Another life taken, but this is a battle, this is a war.
He wished to take my life. Like it would matter much, for what life do I have? Killing others when it would be easier to let them take me instead? What would it matter to anyone else if I gave up? It would only be putting me out of my misery, showing me mercy. So why did I fight back? Why did I rebel?
"Quatre!" My voice screamed the word with urgency, for my fellow pilot was in unrealized trouble. Without thought, I move Heavyarms before my comrade's mobile suit, feeling the blast as it destroys part of my gundam, a part of myself.
My body is no more than a rag doll at the mercy of the Gods, a mere toy or pawn and nothing more.
A blinding white flashes before my eyes, then a deep red. Why was I fighting in the first place? To protect Libra from those who wished to destroy us and our freedom? Why not let the others fight their own battle?
"Trowa!" I can hear Quatre's frantic voice, it's calling to me but it sounds so distant. I cannot call back, nor can I move for a great weight is upon me. I can feel my breathing start to slow, the bitter taste of my own blood upon my lips. I'm dying, though what is there to lose when you don't have a life to begin with?
All falls silent, the battle finally ending. What difference did it make to me? I would soon cease to exist in the world, so why was it of my concern?
Yet another light meets my eyes, though this one was gentler, a kind warmth washing over me as I try to look about myself. The weight had been lifted from my chest as soothing voices filled my ears. In feeble attempts I try to move, but I am too weak, my body sore, battered, and bleeding.
Arms encircle my shoulders, pulling my limp body from the wreckage, cradling my weak form.
"Hang on Trowa, you're going to be fine..." Quatre's voice called again, though worry and fear filled it. Did they care that much for my life? Why?
Looking up with forced movements, I found my four comrades having gathered near me, deep concern filling their eyes. "...f..f-friends..." The word was torture to speak.
This is what I fought for, why I continued to live. I may not have had a home to call my own, but I did have my friends, my only family.
This is my battle now, I alone will fight it for I alone can. If I win, then I will have won back my life and only grow stronger. Yet now, I am too tired, too weak to fight at my fullest potential. 'Tis my battle now, and I only pray I will not lose. . .