~~~ This story is hereby dedicated to Emily Hato for her
continuous support, without whose encouragement I would probably not have
continued past the third chapter, and because she's just awesome. ~~~
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A/N: Whoa, I have an outline! For those of you who don't know me, this is very scary. I have never written anything from the beginning with a plan. I love reviews, and I really hope you review because it really makes my day. Thank you so much. Oh, and Zechs and Treize are only young teens in this prologue (notice the date changes) so their actions are much less rational or adult (as I think their actions would be at that age).
[For those of you who read my stories, I've been cut off from the computer for a while, so I'm sorry that I haven't been updating. I just found this idea out of my big pile of story ideas and thought this would be a perfect exercise to make sure I didn't have writer's block, but it actually turned out pretty good. Please tell me what you think.]
Warnings: Violence in this chapter, but it's very important to the story! I like angst, but I know when enough is enough. You'll see what I mean later, but at least you've been warned.
Disclaimer: I dreamt I found Heero in a cereal box once, but that's the closest I'll ever get to owning any of Gundam Wing.
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Prologue 1785:
They were out to kill. It was as simple as that, and there were no questions asked. He only stopped for one moment to look around, and that was all the time it took. He watched his comrades set the houses on fire, and as the buildings began to slowly decay inside screaming flames. He was the first to question.
Standing amidst the scene, in the horrid realization that no one deserved this, no matter what they had done to him or anyone else and clenched his fists tightly as he watched the city erupt into flames before his very eyes. It was one thing to support something, and another to actually carry it through. (This isn't a revolution; . . . it's a massacre. How could we do this to them) He recalled the starving people in the streets, the diseases, the deaths, and it was easy to see how they could be so angry, but it was no excuse to treat anyone like this. He listened to the screams of desperation echoing around him, and it was then he realized it would always be an eye for an eye, but it was a pity that they would all soon be blind.
"They had it coming, you know," he turned quickly at the voice of his friend rang out through the smoke and ash, "None of them ever cared that we were starving and dying all this time. . ."
"Maybe they didn't know. . ." he said almost in a whisper, as if he was talking to no one at all, continuing to observe the growing destruction around him as a disgusted shiver ran up his spine. His friend put a hand on his shoulder in consolation, but just as he was opening his mouth to speak, they both turned to a cry from the building to their side.
He dropped his tenacious hold on the stolen gun in his right hand as he saw three of his fellow peasants at the steps of the burning building, cornering an injured noblewoman who somehow seemed to have escaped. He gripped the gun tighter when one of the men moved so that the woman was out of view and took a step towards them.
"Where the hell are you going?" His friend ran in front of him and almost added 'it's none of our business what they do', but quickly caught his tongue. It was not so long ago that they were doing the same thing, but they hadn't always known it was wrong. "I can't watch this any longer." He said definitely, but a wavering quality in his voice as his friend's eyes widened, "I'm sorry."
With that said, he pushed his friend aside, angry at the display of what he thought to be cowardice, but too ashamed of himself to see concern. He knew what they would do to him as well as anyone else, but for once, he would be doing the right thing. He saw the blond leader of their group take a knife to the noblewoman's throat threateningly.
"I won't kill you, now, lady, if you'll just come with me," the blond threatened as the lady handled a package strongly against her breast, but at safe distance from the knife as if it was the last thing on earth. The folds on her scorched navy-blue dress were edged with blackened lace and shook as she trembled under the hands of death. She held her breath, and held her eyes shut, almost embracing it as tight as the package entangled with her arms. She would die to protect it, and the harder she closed her eyes to contain her tears, the faster they began to stream down her face.
"Did you hear me?!" the merciless revolutionary of about fifteen years old pressed the knife closer, and the lady gasped, eyes still closed and awaiting death, but it was then that he came through the crowd.
"I can take over from here." He said coldly, looking at the three and the blond gave him a look of disgust before turning back to his victim, "Treize put me in charge of this revolution, I'll have you know, and I don't expect to hear such snide remarks from my subordinates."
"I said I could take over." He said simply and apathetically, watching as the leader motioned for the other two to hold the lady while returning his knife to the ground and turning to him.
"Then, I propose you do just that," the blond remarked sourly and paused to look away, "kill her."
The woman's eyes opened with a start, and he saw her arms tighten around the package. It was then that he noticed her eyes. They were the most beautiful shade of purple, and he watched them widening as she waded in the terror of defeat. There was other way out for him except to miss the shot, but what then? They would only make her death long and painful after that, and maybe if he shot her, but only injured her, they would leave her alone. It was then that he proposed a question that he hadn't been able to ask himself in a long time; what was the right thing to do?
". . .Don't have the nerve?" The blond answered himself slyly, "I didn't think so." He was about to turn his back, but froze when the man with the gun threw a malicious stare at him.
"Some of us do." He said simply, and brought the weapon back into both hands, and his blond leader crossed his arms in amusement. He knew this man didn't have the nerve from the beginning. It was in his eyes, and yet, the man raised his weapon. What a fool.
The other men around him watched in uncertainty as he shakily leveled the gun at the violet-eyed woman who had enough dignity left to keep her eyes open, shining with her hidden fears, and then there was a scream from the street, which startled and shook his hand, forcing the trigger into action.
The shot rang out and held itself in the air. He hadn't meant to fire.
He watched as the noblewoman fell to the ground and the three men looked at him with the same terror he had felt only minutes ago before running away from the scene of the crime. And it was a crime.
"Damn you, man!" The leader yelled with all his might, making the man flinch at the mention, but was unable to avert his eyes. "What have you done?! She wasn't supposed to die!" looking at the ground, almost regretfully, the blond hissed under his breath, "How . . . how could you . . .?"
It was too quick to see, but the man thought there were tears on his leader's face before his turned to run away as the rest had done. None of them ever really meant to kill, it was only expected. Blasted expectations!
The man thought he saw the at a fellow revolutionary across the way wave a nonchalant hand at the scene he stood in as if it meant nothing and went off most likely to cause more pain in the adjacent street from which could be heard new cries of the fallen.
He just stood there, gun still raised, but he felt nothing. There was nothing. He couldn't even cry. Empty. He let the gun drop to the ground and collapsed to his knees beside the woman. He had started to pray forgiveness when he noticed something moving amidst the folds of her stained dress, and thought she was alive for one glimmer of second before he was proven otherwise by a small cry from the fallen package.
He picked it up and un-wrapped the bundle to find a pair of violet eyes staring up at him . . . they were just like his mother's. . .
"What have I done . . . ?" He looked at the cherubic face of barely one year and felt the tears that failed him before trail down his cheek. A child . . . a child he had orphaned. There was no forgiveness here. He didn't deserve it. Looking out at the streets and at the burning buildings, he knew this was what it had come to, and he didn't want a part in it any longer.
Feeling a whimper from his arms, he looked down at the bloodstained cloth to see the child within it blink stunning purple eyes before erupting into a fit of tears. Glancing again at the murdered mother, he knew what he had to do. He couldn't stop anyone else from this horror, because it was their choice, but he was going to save the last thing that mattered to that woman. He didn't know how to take care of a baby, but he knew someone who would.
Avoiding the main streets and unwanted eyes, he ducked into an alley that would lead him to the same place he had always known for as many years as he had been in this town. It was an ally to all those oppressed by the rich and the one place he could be certain that no one would touch.
Nearing the Maxwell Church, he stopped suddenly to look once more at the child. He read the fear on the baby's eyes and let go of one hand on the child, reaching to the back of his neck where he found the chain with ease and plucked it off his neck. Staring at the gold cross for a minute, he narrowed his eyes at it and tucked under the folds of the blanket.
"I gave this up all too long ago," he said simply as he concealed his gift and placed the now crying child on the church doorstep, "I have no place here anymore. . ." He reminisced, but not even regretfully as he knocked on the door, hesitating a moment before quickly running away. To where, he wasn't sure, but he had been running all his life, and there was nothing different.
He knew that it wasn't just a slip of the hand that had killed the child's mother, it was fate. Perhaps he had only been fated to kill to save another, but for whatever reason, he ran away. The man didn't even look back once to watch as a very young boy on the streets ran past the child, but stopped momentarily. The boy saw the child, and fearing for its safety, took the baby into his arms before running away as a gunshot was heard around the corner. The boy bolted off down the street in search of safety with the child still wrapped tightly in his arms.
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The blond member of the third class and leader of this small revolution wandered around a corner, away from the destruction, still shaken from the last minute's experience. He was so sure the man wasn't going to kill her, but now he didn't know what to think. He had tried to accuse the man behind the gun, but the leader knew that he was the one who had truly killed the woman and would never forgive himself for that. He was so young and naïve that he didn't know what was right or wrong anymore. He never would.
The fair-haired young man was headed away for more reason than this, though. That woman wasn't supposed to die.
They had asked for her alive, he wasn't sure why, or even who she was, but now his carelessness might have cost him more than the mission. You could never tell with them. He could run away, but that wouldn't do him any good. They had ways of finding people, and he wasn't afraid. Especially not of him . . . He stopped thoughtfully before heading around another corner, making sure no one followed. However, he had never killed anyone until now, so he wasn't sure what would happen, and held full responsibility for his actions.
Walking into a passage, he looked up at the familiar fire escape before grabbing hold and climbing up slowly. The rust on the struts of the ladder felt rough against his hands, which had been slightly burnt in the process of setting a building on fire. How could he do such things?
Pushing in a window, the fair-haired man burst into the room, and watched the sitting shadow rise off the chair. An icy chill filled the room, but he was used to it by now. It was the coldness and emptiness of heart that resided in the room that filled all who entered with an overwhelming sadness. The man probably could have killed anyone in this room and feel no regret, but this wasn't the case.
"You've brought her, then?" The voice spoke-out knowingly, and harshly therefore, face still enveloped in darkness. The blond boy breathed quietly, without fear, awaiting the fiercest of anger upon his answering.
"No, sir," he stood at attention, devoid of fear, but to his surprise, there was no response, and still he feared nothing.
"Dead, then?" The voice asked reasonably, disappointment echoing within.
"Yes, sir," the blond hesitated, "I hold responsibility."
"I see . . ." the shadow inched closer, narrowing eyes that shone through the dimly-lit room, "But you didn't kill her, specifically. . ."
"No."
"Indeed." The figure stepped away for a second, but came into the light for a brief moment to reveal brown hair before turning away, "And the child?"
The blond boy froze a second, trying to think what mission his leader was referring to and why.
The question didn't make sense by all means, and during his pause he could determine the impatience of the figure and hurried himself along gently. The woman . . . the woman was holding something. . . An image flashed through his head of a slight movement cradled within her arms that he took for nothing at the time and shrugged it off. Could this package have been a child?
"Dead."
"Are you sure?" the voice rang into his soul, sensing his uncertainty, but if the blond boy knew he had better be certain, even if it was to be certain of an uncertainty.
"Yes."
"Very well," the figure read into his lies, but there were more important things to worry about, "This is a disappointment, Milliardo, but you will be sure this doesn't happen again."
"Sir, I am not a murderer. I will never be. People need to be taught, not killed."
"They will learn. This is the only way." The brown-haired young man narrowed his eyes at the insolence of his follower. The blond boy never considered himself to follow anyone and always did things his own way. Fearless, if you will, and driven by his own pride, or rather lack thereof. He staggered forward threateningly at these words, quite convinced of the malicious arrogance that must have come with them.
"Teachers can barely expect their students to learn if they become frustrated and start a massacre. This is lunacy!" The young man narrowed his eyes challengingly to emphasize his disapproval of the higher leader's ideals.
"You are very right, but there are some who cannot be taught without motivation to learn." The figure smirked.
"You are a cynic in human potential, Treize, and I intend to see this stopped. Mark my words." Milliardo stopped for a second before whispering, "That woman didn't deserve to die."
Treize looked into the face of his challenger and saw the sadness there, but chose to ignore it. Feelings can corrupt the best of judgment. "And what of the child; did he deserve to die?"
"Of course not," the blond looked away.
"But you do not know that he is dead." The young man turned to Treize, unable to answer, "You're a horrible liar, you know. Do you know who that child is?"
Milliardo looked at Treize for a moment, still stunned that he could be caught lying so easily. He usually wasn't so conspicuous, but it was something about Treize's commanding presence that must have set him off balance. He thought about who the woman was for a second, but all he could think of was those purple eyes. What an odd color. . . and still, he didn't know where he might have seen them before, or perhaps he wouldn't have, but he had taken her out of a fairly well-furnished house before setting it aflame, so she must have been of some importance in society.
"I'll give you a clue," Treize motioned, knowing the question was near- impossible even for someone of Milliardo's intelligence. This was classified information that he had only come across by mere chance. "You don't know of them. No one does."
"Do tell." Milliardo crossed his arms at the egotistic leader, allowing Trieze his fifteen minutes of fame for the hidden information.
"Some time ago, at the end of our previous king's reign, there were happenings at the palace beyond the general public's knowing. The king's own cousin had a baby girl. Of course, none of this was ever announced to the public because they couldn't say who the father was." Trieze paused for a second to turn away from the fierce green eyes that drew holes through him even as he spoke.
"Under normal circumstances, they would have had her marry someone and say he was the father, but unfortunately, she caught ill with an unidentified infection and died soon afterward. The girl was raised outside the palace under the watch of a trusted royal advisor, and when she reached the age of 16, was able to keep her own. This is the very woman I asked you to bring to me, not for her, but for her child." Treize finished and let this sink in for Milliardo, who was feeling a bit nauseous at the thought of having killed a relative of the king, even though it was the king they were aiming to overthrow.
"But for what purpose would you have the child?" He asked quietly.
"Why, as an example, of course. The people love a good show." Treize chuckled a little at the comment, but Milliardo widened his eyes in shock.
"You would kill a child. . ."
"We would have to. You have said you disagree," Treize froze ominously, and edged over to the open window, "Come here a moment." He motioned outside to the street where almost nothing was visible through the smoke, but the cries of the people could be heard all around, cries of revenge and of revolution. Milliardo moved closer. These were the same cries he had been running from, and he knew now the path he must take. He was not a murderer.
"Milliardo, for these people to truly succeed in the revolution, there must be change! The king has not borne any children as of yet, and all of his relatives have been taken captive with the exception of himself. I was hoping the child would be the last successor following the revolution, and wouldn't it be very symbolic for the people and all of France to set the child as an example?" Treize inquired, fully basking in the envisioned moment of glory which, to Milliardo, seemed perfectly barbarous.
"Treize, I have listened to you speak of change and needs and wants, but the world is not solely for your toying with. I think it is my turn to teach you a lesson. Good judgment comes from bad experience, and much of this is from bad judgment. I have been a fool, and for that I suffer, but I now know what good has come from this. I see, now, that I can no longer fight for your cause." Milliardo said sternly, and turned away from the window and towards the other by the fire escape. He had heard enough.
"But you will fight, Milliardo." The blond caught this as he exited the window, but quickly flung his legs over the sill and walked on.
"I know, Trieze. We all must fight, but I will never kill again." His blond hair fell around his shoulders as he exited the fire escape and headed towards the heart of battle once again, but this time, with a different purpose.
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1797: The story begins:
"Hell of a game of tag . . ." The braided thief dripped sarcasm as the officer twisted the frail arms farther inward and slammed him into the adjacent brick wall. "Ow, man . . ."
"You see this, boy?" The policeman interrupted the boy, pinning him down skillfully with a single hand, using the other to reach into the rascal's pocket to retrieve an apple. The boy's heart-shaped face fell upon a glance, looking at the fruit hungrily for a second before writhing around in the policeman's grasp and trying to find a way out of it. Soon figuring out that it was useless, (especially lacking the strength that he did from hunger), the boy relaxed under the hold. The officer looked at the boy, awaiting another smart-aleck reply. When there was none and the boy hung his head, he was quite happy, and continued with his interrogation, "This is an apple; a stolen apple."
"I gotcha on that one, doc," One purple eye winked playfully as a smile and a hand wriggled loose, "I guess an apple a day doesn't keep the doctor away . . ." the rascal said impishly as he pushed the policeman away and ran off down the street again. Unfortunately for our little thief, it didn't last. There was much too little time to get a good head's start, especially on a morning as that on was. The streets were completely empty and it was only a matter of seconds before the officer caught him again. However, it was always worth a try, and he never gave up. You can be sure of that. No one can ever afford to give up at anything on the streets.
The boy was naturally quite thin, but years on the streets had made him grow thin to the point of limitation. It wasn't easy finding food, and it was even harder to steal it. That's what had gotten him in trouble that day, not that he hadn't given the good 'ol officer enough trouble before, of course. He didn't see what the big deal was, anyway. It was just an apple.
Coming down the street, he turned his head back to find an angry man in a black uniform chasing after him at full tilt. It was a good thing the boy's braid was tied back so carefully, or it would have gotten caught in all sorts of things on the way through the place. It was a not-so-recent discovery of his, and it worked quite well he had found through the years, even though he was constantly tortured by the others. It wasn't cruel, though; it was more like sibling rivalry. They were family.
And just like family, they know exactly the right time to come to the rescue. The braided boy flashed a grin to his friend who came up from behind him.
"Hey Duo, lovely morning, wouldn't you say?" The second, older boy with green eyes and a mop of dark brown hair came to his side, gasping for breath through his words as they passed an old lady with a flower stall, who shook a fist after them. Duo chuckled slightly, poor old lady McCullen still couldn't tell a pansy from a chrysanthemum, but she was nice enough to them, all things considered.
"Just peachy, Solo." Duo answered through hurried breaths, flipping his braid (which had somehow gotten around to his front) over his shoulder and letting it dangle in the air as they ran on. "So what's the plan?"
"What plan?" Solo said innocently to make it clear that he wasn't any less innocent than the devil himself as they kept on running. They didn't really have time to fool around, though. The policeman was gaining ground faster than they were, and they had a limited amount of time before he caught up to them both.
Solo looked at Duo quickly, who blinked purple eyes in confusion, "We'll loose him in the north alley." Solo said finally, and Duo nodded. That was the best possible move they could make in this situation. The south alley had traffic from the other street kids and they'd catch Hell if they took an officer down there, and Duo had already passed the alley by Juniper park even before Solo came to his rescue. The north alley was better than any of them, besides. It had plenty of nooks, crannies, and passages that only they knew. It was dangerous for them, though. If any of the officers were to find any of their hiding spaces, it would be a serious loss. Solo only took the most experienced members of the group in the north alley when they had an outsider on their tail.
Duo had been there before, but never with anyone outside the family. It was a big risk they were taking.
"Hey, ease up," Solo said between gasping breaths of hard running while Duo just kept pushing ahead in concentration. His legs were ready to give out any minute. He would be glad to do anything at this point so long as they were able to sit still! Solo always seemed to come in at all the right times. He had always looked out for Duo like a little brother, and was the only family the violet-eyed boy had ever known.
Duo didn't need to be told twice where the north alley was, because everyone who was anyone on the streets knew, and they quickly made a path all the way from the main roads to the entrance, where they were followed swiftly by the officer who had plenty of practice with these petty chases. On average, the officer wouldn't have bothered to follow them this far, but Duo had royally pissed him off this time, and the policeman had proof enough to convict the thief of the crime. He wasn't going to pass this chance up anytime soon.
The officer watched as the two headed into the mouth of the dark passageway between two three-story apartment buildings, and entered only to find they had completely disappeared. The officer paced up and down the alley before storming off, angry and frustrated. He was so sure he had the stealthy braided thief this time, but he supposed it would have to wait for another day. It was too bad; . . . he would have had an awful good story to brag about to the guys at the pub that afternoon had he caught the violet-eyed boy. Every man of the law in the province had been after that boy for years, but his fifteen minutes of fame would have to wait for another time, he thought to himself as he came out of the path and headed back to his post.
The two rascals watched the officer stew over his defeat in exiting their playing field. Checkmate. Duo could barely contain his laughter as he watched the officer's face transform into utter annoyance, but Solo hushed his braided friend with a hand over that loud mouth of his, until they could be certain the officer was gone.
Solo released his hand as Duo released the satisfied chuckles of a job well done before his stomach quickly reminded him how long ago he had actually eaten. Solo pushed open the grating on the cellar of the abandoned house they clambered into to avoid the stares of the law. Solo stepped out first, and Duo followed.
"We'd better get back, right buddy?" Duo said weakly, holding his stomach as a pain crept through his entire body.
"Duo, we may have gotten past that goon, but you haven't eaten in days! We're not going anywhere till you do." Solo looked at his companion. To anyone else, Duo would have urged them to keep going, but there was something that made it so that he couldn't argue with the dark-haired boy, or lie to him either. True, Duo never lied, but twisting the truth was almost as bad, and he couldn't do that in front of Solo.
Duo nodded in consent, almost too weak, now, for words, and stayed with Solo until they were sure the coast was clear on the main streets and they started out for some much-needed food.
Little did they realize a second presence hidden among the bricks of the alley that had been following them ever since the first avenue Duo had passed on his little escapade of thievery. However, this follower wasn't a messenger of the law, but rather of pride, by personal order of Treize himself.
"Omae o korosu . . ."
************ TBC ***************
I have a background for the story! Yay! It's hardly even started, but I hope you enjoyed! I really love reviews and I take every suggestion and comment into account while writing. It really helps motivate me and I would be very grateful for anything you may have to say. Thanks! -Foxfire
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A/N: Whoa, I have an outline! For those of you who don't know me, this is very scary. I have never written anything from the beginning with a plan. I love reviews, and I really hope you review because it really makes my day. Thank you so much. Oh, and Zechs and Treize are only young teens in this prologue (notice the date changes) so their actions are much less rational or adult (as I think their actions would be at that age).
[For those of you who read my stories, I've been cut off from the computer for a while, so I'm sorry that I haven't been updating. I just found this idea out of my big pile of story ideas and thought this would be a perfect exercise to make sure I didn't have writer's block, but it actually turned out pretty good. Please tell me what you think.]
Warnings: Violence in this chapter, but it's very important to the story! I like angst, but I know when enough is enough. You'll see what I mean later, but at least you've been warned.
Disclaimer: I dreamt I found Heero in a cereal box once, but that's the closest I'll ever get to owning any of Gundam Wing.
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Prologue 1785:
They were out to kill. It was as simple as that, and there were no questions asked. He only stopped for one moment to look around, and that was all the time it took. He watched his comrades set the houses on fire, and as the buildings began to slowly decay inside screaming flames. He was the first to question.
Standing amidst the scene, in the horrid realization that no one deserved this, no matter what they had done to him or anyone else and clenched his fists tightly as he watched the city erupt into flames before his very eyes. It was one thing to support something, and another to actually carry it through. (This isn't a revolution; . . . it's a massacre. How could we do this to them) He recalled the starving people in the streets, the diseases, the deaths, and it was easy to see how they could be so angry, but it was no excuse to treat anyone like this. He listened to the screams of desperation echoing around him, and it was then he realized it would always be an eye for an eye, but it was a pity that they would all soon be blind.
"They had it coming, you know," he turned quickly at the voice of his friend rang out through the smoke and ash, "None of them ever cared that we were starving and dying all this time. . ."
"Maybe they didn't know. . ." he said almost in a whisper, as if he was talking to no one at all, continuing to observe the growing destruction around him as a disgusted shiver ran up his spine. His friend put a hand on his shoulder in consolation, but just as he was opening his mouth to speak, they both turned to a cry from the building to their side.
He dropped his tenacious hold on the stolen gun in his right hand as he saw three of his fellow peasants at the steps of the burning building, cornering an injured noblewoman who somehow seemed to have escaped. He gripped the gun tighter when one of the men moved so that the woman was out of view and took a step towards them.
"Where the hell are you going?" His friend ran in front of him and almost added 'it's none of our business what they do', but quickly caught his tongue. It was not so long ago that they were doing the same thing, but they hadn't always known it was wrong. "I can't watch this any longer." He said definitely, but a wavering quality in his voice as his friend's eyes widened, "I'm sorry."
With that said, he pushed his friend aside, angry at the display of what he thought to be cowardice, but too ashamed of himself to see concern. He knew what they would do to him as well as anyone else, but for once, he would be doing the right thing. He saw the blond leader of their group take a knife to the noblewoman's throat threateningly.
"I won't kill you, now, lady, if you'll just come with me," the blond threatened as the lady handled a package strongly against her breast, but at safe distance from the knife as if it was the last thing on earth. The folds on her scorched navy-blue dress were edged with blackened lace and shook as she trembled under the hands of death. She held her breath, and held her eyes shut, almost embracing it as tight as the package entangled with her arms. She would die to protect it, and the harder she closed her eyes to contain her tears, the faster they began to stream down her face.
"Did you hear me?!" the merciless revolutionary of about fifteen years old pressed the knife closer, and the lady gasped, eyes still closed and awaiting death, but it was then that he came through the crowd.
"I can take over from here." He said coldly, looking at the three and the blond gave him a look of disgust before turning back to his victim, "Treize put me in charge of this revolution, I'll have you know, and I don't expect to hear such snide remarks from my subordinates."
"I said I could take over." He said simply and apathetically, watching as the leader motioned for the other two to hold the lady while returning his knife to the ground and turning to him.
"Then, I propose you do just that," the blond remarked sourly and paused to look away, "kill her."
The woman's eyes opened with a start, and he saw her arms tighten around the package. It was then that he noticed her eyes. They were the most beautiful shade of purple, and he watched them widening as she waded in the terror of defeat. There was other way out for him except to miss the shot, but what then? They would only make her death long and painful after that, and maybe if he shot her, but only injured her, they would leave her alone. It was then that he proposed a question that he hadn't been able to ask himself in a long time; what was the right thing to do?
". . .Don't have the nerve?" The blond answered himself slyly, "I didn't think so." He was about to turn his back, but froze when the man with the gun threw a malicious stare at him.
"Some of us do." He said simply, and brought the weapon back into both hands, and his blond leader crossed his arms in amusement. He knew this man didn't have the nerve from the beginning. It was in his eyes, and yet, the man raised his weapon. What a fool.
The other men around him watched in uncertainty as he shakily leveled the gun at the violet-eyed woman who had enough dignity left to keep her eyes open, shining with her hidden fears, and then there was a scream from the street, which startled and shook his hand, forcing the trigger into action.
The shot rang out and held itself in the air. He hadn't meant to fire.
He watched as the noblewoman fell to the ground and the three men looked at him with the same terror he had felt only minutes ago before running away from the scene of the crime. And it was a crime.
"Damn you, man!" The leader yelled with all his might, making the man flinch at the mention, but was unable to avert his eyes. "What have you done?! She wasn't supposed to die!" looking at the ground, almost regretfully, the blond hissed under his breath, "How . . . how could you . . .?"
It was too quick to see, but the man thought there were tears on his leader's face before his turned to run away as the rest had done. None of them ever really meant to kill, it was only expected. Blasted expectations!
The man thought he saw the at a fellow revolutionary across the way wave a nonchalant hand at the scene he stood in as if it meant nothing and went off most likely to cause more pain in the adjacent street from which could be heard new cries of the fallen.
He just stood there, gun still raised, but he felt nothing. There was nothing. He couldn't even cry. Empty. He let the gun drop to the ground and collapsed to his knees beside the woman. He had started to pray forgiveness when he noticed something moving amidst the folds of her stained dress, and thought she was alive for one glimmer of second before he was proven otherwise by a small cry from the fallen package.
He picked it up and un-wrapped the bundle to find a pair of violet eyes staring up at him . . . they were just like his mother's. . .
"What have I done . . . ?" He looked at the cherubic face of barely one year and felt the tears that failed him before trail down his cheek. A child . . . a child he had orphaned. There was no forgiveness here. He didn't deserve it. Looking out at the streets and at the burning buildings, he knew this was what it had come to, and he didn't want a part in it any longer.
Feeling a whimper from his arms, he looked down at the bloodstained cloth to see the child within it blink stunning purple eyes before erupting into a fit of tears. Glancing again at the murdered mother, he knew what he had to do. He couldn't stop anyone else from this horror, because it was their choice, but he was going to save the last thing that mattered to that woman. He didn't know how to take care of a baby, but he knew someone who would.
Avoiding the main streets and unwanted eyes, he ducked into an alley that would lead him to the same place he had always known for as many years as he had been in this town. It was an ally to all those oppressed by the rich and the one place he could be certain that no one would touch.
Nearing the Maxwell Church, he stopped suddenly to look once more at the child. He read the fear on the baby's eyes and let go of one hand on the child, reaching to the back of his neck where he found the chain with ease and plucked it off his neck. Staring at the gold cross for a minute, he narrowed his eyes at it and tucked under the folds of the blanket.
"I gave this up all too long ago," he said simply as he concealed his gift and placed the now crying child on the church doorstep, "I have no place here anymore. . ." He reminisced, but not even regretfully as he knocked on the door, hesitating a moment before quickly running away. To where, he wasn't sure, but he had been running all his life, and there was nothing different.
He knew that it wasn't just a slip of the hand that had killed the child's mother, it was fate. Perhaps he had only been fated to kill to save another, but for whatever reason, he ran away. The man didn't even look back once to watch as a very young boy on the streets ran past the child, but stopped momentarily. The boy saw the child, and fearing for its safety, took the baby into his arms before running away as a gunshot was heard around the corner. The boy bolted off down the street in search of safety with the child still wrapped tightly in his arms.
________________
The blond member of the third class and leader of this small revolution wandered around a corner, away from the destruction, still shaken from the last minute's experience. He was so sure the man wasn't going to kill her, but now he didn't know what to think. He had tried to accuse the man behind the gun, but the leader knew that he was the one who had truly killed the woman and would never forgive himself for that. He was so young and naïve that he didn't know what was right or wrong anymore. He never would.
The fair-haired young man was headed away for more reason than this, though. That woman wasn't supposed to die.
They had asked for her alive, he wasn't sure why, or even who she was, but now his carelessness might have cost him more than the mission. You could never tell with them. He could run away, but that wouldn't do him any good. They had ways of finding people, and he wasn't afraid. Especially not of him . . . He stopped thoughtfully before heading around another corner, making sure no one followed. However, he had never killed anyone until now, so he wasn't sure what would happen, and held full responsibility for his actions.
Walking into a passage, he looked up at the familiar fire escape before grabbing hold and climbing up slowly. The rust on the struts of the ladder felt rough against his hands, which had been slightly burnt in the process of setting a building on fire. How could he do such things?
Pushing in a window, the fair-haired man burst into the room, and watched the sitting shadow rise off the chair. An icy chill filled the room, but he was used to it by now. It was the coldness and emptiness of heart that resided in the room that filled all who entered with an overwhelming sadness. The man probably could have killed anyone in this room and feel no regret, but this wasn't the case.
"You've brought her, then?" The voice spoke-out knowingly, and harshly therefore, face still enveloped in darkness. The blond boy breathed quietly, without fear, awaiting the fiercest of anger upon his answering.
"No, sir," he stood at attention, devoid of fear, but to his surprise, there was no response, and still he feared nothing.
"Dead, then?" The voice asked reasonably, disappointment echoing within.
"Yes, sir," the blond hesitated, "I hold responsibility."
"I see . . ." the shadow inched closer, narrowing eyes that shone through the dimly-lit room, "But you didn't kill her, specifically. . ."
"No."
"Indeed." The figure stepped away for a second, but came into the light for a brief moment to reveal brown hair before turning away, "And the child?"
The blond boy froze a second, trying to think what mission his leader was referring to and why.
The question didn't make sense by all means, and during his pause he could determine the impatience of the figure and hurried himself along gently. The woman . . . the woman was holding something. . . An image flashed through his head of a slight movement cradled within her arms that he took for nothing at the time and shrugged it off. Could this package have been a child?
"Dead."
"Are you sure?" the voice rang into his soul, sensing his uncertainty, but if the blond boy knew he had better be certain, even if it was to be certain of an uncertainty.
"Yes."
"Very well," the figure read into his lies, but there were more important things to worry about, "This is a disappointment, Milliardo, but you will be sure this doesn't happen again."
"Sir, I am not a murderer. I will never be. People need to be taught, not killed."
"They will learn. This is the only way." The brown-haired young man narrowed his eyes at the insolence of his follower. The blond boy never considered himself to follow anyone and always did things his own way. Fearless, if you will, and driven by his own pride, or rather lack thereof. He staggered forward threateningly at these words, quite convinced of the malicious arrogance that must have come with them.
"Teachers can barely expect their students to learn if they become frustrated and start a massacre. This is lunacy!" The young man narrowed his eyes challengingly to emphasize his disapproval of the higher leader's ideals.
"You are very right, but there are some who cannot be taught without motivation to learn." The figure smirked.
"You are a cynic in human potential, Treize, and I intend to see this stopped. Mark my words." Milliardo stopped for a second before whispering, "That woman didn't deserve to die."
Treize looked into the face of his challenger and saw the sadness there, but chose to ignore it. Feelings can corrupt the best of judgment. "And what of the child; did he deserve to die?"
"Of course not," the blond looked away.
"But you do not know that he is dead." The young man turned to Treize, unable to answer, "You're a horrible liar, you know. Do you know who that child is?"
Milliardo looked at Treize for a moment, still stunned that he could be caught lying so easily. He usually wasn't so conspicuous, but it was something about Treize's commanding presence that must have set him off balance. He thought about who the woman was for a second, but all he could think of was those purple eyes. What an odd color. . . and still, he didn't know where he might have seen them before, or perhaps he wouldn't have, but he had taken her out of a fairly well-furnished house before setting it aflame, so she must have been of some importance in society.
"I'll give you a clue," Treize motioned, knowing the question was near- impossible even for someone of Milliardo's intelligence. This was classified information that he had only come across by mere chance. "You don't know of them. No one does."
"Do tell." Milliardo crossed his arms at the egotistic leader, allowing Trieze his fifteen minutes of fame for the hidden information.
"Some time ago, at the end of our previous king's reign, there were happenings at the palace beyond the general public's knowing. The king's own cousin had a baby girl. Of course, none of this was ever announced to the public because they couldn't say who the father was." Trieze paused for a second to turn away from the fierce green eyes that drew holes through him even as he spoke.
"Under normal circumstances, they would have had her marry someone and say he was the father, but unfortunately, she caught ill with an unidentified infection and died soon afterward. The girl was raised outside the palace under the watch of a trusted royal advisor, and when she reached the age of 16, was able to keep her own. This is the very woman I asked you to bring to me, not for her, but for her child." Treize finished and let this sink in for Milliardo, who was feeling a bit nauseous at the thought of having killed a relative of the king, even though it was the king they were aiming to overthrow.
"But for what purpose would you have the child?" He asked quietly.
"Why, as an example, of course. The people love a good show." Treize chuckled a little at the comment, but Milliardo widened his eyes in shock.
"You would kill a child. . ."
"We would have to. You have said you disagree," Treize froze ominously, and edged over to the open window, "Come here a moment." He motioned outside to the street where almost nothing was visible through the smoke, but the cries of the people could be heard all around, cries of revenge and of revolution. Milliardo moved closer. These were the same cries he had been running from, and he knew now the path he must take. He was not a murderer.
"Milliardo, for these people to truly succeed in the revolution, there must be change! The king has not borne any children as of yet, and all of his relatives have been taken captive with the exception of himself. I was hoping the child would be the last successor following the revolution, and wouldn't it be very symbolic for the people and all of France to set the child as an example?" Treize inquired, fully basking in the envisioned moment of glory which, to Milliardo, seemed perfectly barbarous.
"Treize, I have listened to you speak of change and needs and wants, but the world is not solely for your toying with. I think it is my turn to teach you a lesson. Good judgment comes from bad experience, and much of this is from bad judgment. I have been a fool, and for that I suffer, but I now know what good has come from this. I see, now, that I can no longer fight for your cause." Milliardo said sternly, and turned away from the window and towards the other by the fire escape. He had heard enough.
"But you will fight, Milliardo." The blond caught this as he exited the window, but quickly flung his legs over the sill and walked on.
"I know, Trieze. We all must fight, but I will never kill again." His blond hair fell around his shoulders as he exited the fire escape and headed towards the heart of battle once again, but this time, with a different purpose.
________________
1797: The story begins:
"Hell of a game of tag . . ." The braided thief dripped sarcasm as the officer twisted the frail arms farther inward and slammed him into the adjacent brick wall. "Ow, man . . ."
"You see this, boy?" The policeman interrupted the boy, pinning him down skillfully with a single hand, using the other to reach into the rascal's pocket to retrieve an apple. The boy's heart-shaped face fell upon a glance, looking at the fruit hungrily for a second before writhing around in the policeman's grasp and trying to find a way out of it. Soon figuring out that it was useless, (especially lacking the strength that he did from hunger), the boy relaxed under the hold. The officer looked at the boy, awaiting another smart-aleck reply. When there was none and the boy hung his head, he was quite happy, and continued with his interrogation, "This is an apple; a stolen apple."
"I gotcha on that one, doc," One purple eye winked playfully as a smile and a hand wriggled loose, "I guess an apple a day doesn't keep the doctor away . . ." the rascal said impishly as he pushed the policeman away and ran off down the street again. Unfortunately for our little thief, it didn't last. There was much too little time to get a good head's start, especially on a morning as that on was. The streets were completely empty and it was only a matter of seconds before the officer caught him again. However, it was always worth a try, and he never gave up. You can be sure of that. No one can ever afford to give up at anything on the streets.
The boy was naturally quite thin, but years on the streets had made him grow thin to the point of limitation. It wasn't easy finding food, and it was even harder to steal it. That's what had gotten him in trouble that day, not that he hadn't given the good 'ol officer enough trouble before, of course. He didn't see what the big deal was, anyway. It was just an apple.
Coming down the street, he turned his head back to find an angry man in a black uniform chasing after him at full tilt. It was a good thing the boy's braid was tied back so carefully, or it would have gotten caught in all sorts of things on the way through the place. It was a not-so-recent discovery of his, and it worked quite well he had found through the years, even though he was constantly tortured by the others. It wasn't cruel, though; it was more like sibling rivalry. They were family.
And just like family, they know exactly the right time to come to the rescue. The braided boy flashed a grin to his friend who came up from behind him.
"Hey Duo, lovely morning, wouldn't you say?" The second, older boy with green eyes and a mop of dark brown hair came to his side, gasping for breath through his words as they passed an old lady with a flower stall, who shook a fist after them. Duo chuckled slightly, poor old lady McCullen still couldn't tell a pansy from a chrysanthemum, but she was nice enough to them, all things considered.
"Just peachy, Solo." Duo answered through hurried breaths, flipping his braid (which had somehow gotten around to his front) over his shoulder and letting it dangle in the air as they ran on. "So what's the plan?"
"What plan?" Solo said innocently to make it clear that he wasn't any less innocent than the devil himself as they kept on running. They didn't really have time to fool around, though. The policeman was gaining ground faster than they were, and they had a limited amount of time before he caught up to them both.
Solo looked at Duo quickly, who blinked purple eyes in confusion, "We'll loose him in the north alley." Solo said finally, and Duo nodded. That was the best possible move they could make in this situation. The south alley had traffic from the other street kids and they'd catch Hell if they took an officer down there, and Duo had already passed the alley by Juniper park even before Solo came to his rescue. The north alley was better than any of them, besides. It had plenty of nooks, crannies, and passages that only they knew. It was dangerous for them, though. If any of the officers were to find any of their hiding spaces, it would be a serious loss. Solo only took the most experienced members of the group in the north alley when they had an outsider on their tail.
Duo had been there before, but never with anyone outside the family. It was a big risk they were taking.
"Hey, ease up," Solo said between gasping breaths of hard running while Duo just kept pushing ahead in concentration. His legs were ready to give out any minute. He would be glad to do anything at this point so long as they were able to sit still! Solo always seemed to come in at all the right times. He had always looked out for Duo like a little brother, and was the only family the violet-eyed boy had ever known.
Duo didn't need to be told twice where the north alley was, because everyone who was anyone on the streets knew, and they quickly made a path all the way from the main roads to the entrance, where they were followed swiftly by the officer who had plenty of practice with these petty chases. On average, the officer wouldn't have bothered to follow them this far, but Duo had royally pissed him off this time, and the policeman had proof enough to convict the thief of the crime. He wasn't going to pass this chance up anytime soon.
The officer watched as the two headed into the mouth of the dark passageway between two three-story apartment buildings, and entered only to find they had completely disappeared. The officer paced up and down the alley before storming off, angry and frustrated. He was so sure he had the stealthy braided thief this time, but he supposed it would have to wait for another day. It was too bad; . . . he would have had an awful good story to brag about to the guys at the pub that afternoon had he caught the violet-eyed boy. Every man of the law in the province had been after that boy for years, but his fifteen minutes of fame would have to wait for another time, he thought to himself as he came out of the path and headed back to his post.
The two rascals watched the officer stew over his defeat in exiting their playing field. Checkmate. Duo could barely contain his laughter as he watched the officer's face transform into utter annoyance, but Solo hushed his braided friend with a hand over that loud mouth of his, until they could be certain the officer was gone.
Solo released his hand as Duo released the satisfied chuckles of a job well done before his stomach quickly reminded him how long ago he had actually eaten. Solo pushed open the grating on the cellar of the abandoned house they clambered into to avoid the stares of the law. Solo stepped out first, and Duo followed.
"We'd better get back, right buddy?" Duo said weakly, holding his stomach as a pain crept through his entire body.
"Duo, we may have gotten past that goon, but you haven't eaten in days! We're not going anywhere till you do." Solo looked at his companion. To anyone else, Duo would have urged them to keep going, but there was something that made it so that he couldn't argue with the dark-haired boy, or lie to him either. True, Duo never lied, but twisting the truth was almost as bad, and he couldn't do that in front of Solo.
Duo nodded in consent, almost too weak, now, for words, and stayed with Solo until they were sure the coast was clear on the main streets and they started out for some much-needed food.
Little did they realize a second presence hidden among the bricks of the alley that had been following them ever since the first avenue Duo had passed on his little escapade of thievery. However, this follower wasn't a messenger of the law, but rather of pride, by personal order of Treize himself.
"Omae o korosu . . ."
************ TBC ***************
I have a background for the story! Yay! It's hardly even started, but I hope you enjoyed! I really love reviews and I take every suggestion and comment into account while writing. It really helps motivate me and I would be very grateful for anything you may have to say. Thanks! -Foxfire