Rain dotted the hillside as she stood in place, hands by her side and dark blue eyes fixated on the beautiful, horrible monsters striking at one another. She could not hear her mother yelling angrily for her to get inside, away from the violence outside so she might become a fixture of the violence in the apartment, and so she kept her back to the swollen city, perched on its outskirts. They were like giant, clumsy dancers, enormous mobile suits that lashed quickly, and then slowly, at each other, ringing the air with the dull thud of machine guns tearing. Crouching on the grass, feeling the cold wetness pierce her knees, she cheered in a quiet voice as her Champion, the one she deigned so through the miracle of imagination, fought powerfully, giving little ground to the hated enemy.
Even from the distance, she could feel the change in the air, the sudden shift of temperature upwards, warming the molecules in the air and charging them into kinetic motion. A flash of shivering, flexing green burned her eyes, a smooth curving streak of light and heat and power bursting forth from a metal staff, one that dwarfed most buildings in the slum areas she was standing outside of. The ground quaked beneath her feet and she slipped, tumbling down the soaked hill, her wet hair clinging doggedly to her skin as she dug her fingers into the softening soil, desperate for purchase in the thick mud as the grass tore away. She looked over her small shoulder, through the rain and the darkness of the storming clouds, and she could hardly breath.
Her black Champion, tall and cold, struck like a god would a mortal, the swift concussive blast of the glowing scythe smashing into heavy metal knocking her into the hill as it shot through the air, pinning her and holding her until the air in her lungs was stale and her eyes were watering from the vibrations spinning in her body. Once she was freed from the shock-wave, she inhaled deeply, sucked air into her lungs, and stared at the dark monster, frightening as it watched the smaller beast's smoking remains settle on the ground.
Her Champion, her warrior for this moment, was still for a minute more, and it began walking steadily, with loud booms, over the terrain of the beach away from her hill, slipping into the water. The rain was slick on her face, and she, years later, would remember the wetness coursing over her as she watched it vanish.
--
Requiem: Memoriam Un
--
On the train, she stayed quiet and motionless, a perfectly docile child with no shrieks or loud cries accompanying her as she kept her eyes cast downward, facing straight ahead. Not once did she look out the window and the elderly women sitting across the aisle murmured in pleased tones amongst themselves, about the sweet daughter - adopted, surely - of the dashing man with her. How delightful, they whispered, for a child kind enough to be so very obedient!
She knew not to speak, knew it would hurt if she did. He would punish her later, again, if she spoke, and the horrible pain in her body, traveling up and down her pre-adolescent length, would strike her as well, bringing tears to her eyes as she tried to breathe in short gasps to fill her lungs. The soft lights lining the aisle tossed the glistening highlights in her hair, shining them a dark green color amidst the blue, nearly black, and she kept her pale hands clasped in her lap, resting over the silken skirt of her white dress, a gift for her tenth birthday. The sun was setting in the backdrop of the inky sky, the last few defiant streaks of dark fire fading slowly. The mild pink vanished bit by bit from the clouds turning dusky periwinkle, and so its glaring fire had abandoned her body to the glow of night. She was as the moon, small and pale, with the colors of the ocean dashing in her hair, her eyes, and she kept still as a flower on a windless eve before the hunter trampled it underfoot.
She wanted deeply to run to the bay rushing past, toss herself into the water and laugh at the smooth coolness on her skin, like she had once, running after a great black monster into the beautiful, endless sea. But that was forbidden now, as was reading and speaking in the languages he deemed heathen, filthy and disgusting, and she forced her eyes to stare blankly ahead, away from the abominable temptation. His stiff black suit, pressed and cleaned, filled her nostrils with the scent of nothing, unassuming and easy to hide behind, and she moved, just a bit, away from him, closer to the window, trying to escape the scent and the truths he told her. To fill her mind, stop herself from the evils of hope and wistfulness, she remembered the Book of Truths, whispering in her head in his awful tobacco-cracked voice, one after another, addendums and footnotes and amendments listed, added, footed at the end of each mental page.
Minutes trickled into hours, stations bringing a sudden lack of movement before building speed once more, people coming and leaving and talking, humming the cloud of the world she was no longer a part of, until there were none in the long car but her and the-speaker-of-truths. It settled in her stomach, a dead weight, a lead orb meant to swell her with hopelessness and helpless acceptance, and she waited for the things he did when no one else was about. Nothing was done and she wondered if this was something she must add to the Book of Truths, fix onto the trailing end of a twisting rule. Must be silent but speak when asked but not if by for it should no something yet and furthermore not exactly only if--
"Here," he said in his stained voice, the tilts of the One language coating it. "We leave the train here."
She stood obediently, her eyes lowered that they might not sin and stare hatefully at his face, at the painful hair on his chin and the foul gleam in his own eyes. She took his hand when he offered it, stepping slowly, carefully, to keep from jarring the aches in her torso.
"We are going to the house you will stay in," he furthered, and she shuddered, a tiny shake in her shoulders. "You will stay there and be a dutiful bride, mistress of the house. The others have been waiting for you as I have taught you the ways." She was a good girl as they walked through the vast terminal, meek and silent and listening, while he brought her to the shuttle.
--~--
*
--~--
Her weeping was excused in the dark, her face buried in the loose dip of cloth between her knees, pulled up into scissor arches, and she ignored the sticky stains darkening the white dress, the sheets of her new bed, cast in the pale glow of the security lights ringing the estate on Colony M-09 C33081. The gashes tracing over her ribcage had been reopened, spilling freshly, though slowly, and she hoped, in a morbid wish, that she might bleed to death, though he made sure every morn to 'heal' her as he so desired. Perhaps the one relief was his cleanly compulsion, his need to leave to wash his body free of blood, of semen, of dirt, giving her the time at night to find what she needed to clean the room. She would have peace, for a few hours, and she felt her tears slow, her shallow, erratic breathing slowing robotically. She slowly lifted her head, wiping hands over the slick wetness on her hollow cheeks, and gasped against her will, her mouth forming a startled O.
A woman stood at the foot of her bed, the elaborately carved door to her room cracked open, and she tried to remember hearing her enter, failing. She had a deep dish held in one hand, her skin the fairy white of Scandinavian blood, and, tucked in the arm of her other, a small animal, a ball of softly mewing black fur, a thin tail lashing irritably. A kitten, she realized, and she stared dumbly at her as she set the animal on the foot of the bed, taking care not to spill the dish, before making her way around the large bed to clamber on it, crossing her legs as she sat in front of her. She lifted a folded washcloth from the side of the dish, placing the dish itself in her lap, over her pale green apron, and lightly pushed aside the torn shoulder of the girl's dress, pressing the damp cloth on the sore recently cut along the pale skin. She glanced, unsure and thrown off-balance, at the soft terry cloth, then back at the woman. She had smooth cheekbones and slender cheeks that flowed gently to her sharp chin, her white eyelashes long but so light as to appear invisible. The curtain of her hair was a sleek swath of moonlight, cut tragically at her chin, falling straight. Her face was shorn of eyebrows, the skin above her eyes tender and red, but her eyes, the color of blue-tainted ice, were deadly, thinking and planning.
"Hello," she said in a voice that was breathless, the voice of one who is preparing for a leap of faith. "You're his bride, aren't you." Her voice brooked no question, a rhetorical sentence that repeated a statement to affirm it for her own benefit. The cloth moved from her shoulder to her chest, nimble fingers tugging her shredded dress down. She flinched, pulling back in basic instinct, and the woman smiled in bitter knowledge, pushing forward and touching the wet cloth to the highest cut on her chest, water mixing with the thicker substance of blood. "Don't worry," she continued, a cool strictness threading her words in the One language, and she subsided slowly, relaxing muscles. "I am Dorothy," she added, dipping the cloth into the crystal pool of water and wringing it, applying it in gentle swiping motions down her abdomen, sweeping clear the red liquid. From the first gash, a thin bubbling line of crimson was forming and she reached into a pocket in her apron, cautiously maneuvering to avoid spilling the dish, and she pulled a tube of gauze out, handing it to her. "You can put this on, right?"
She nodded, eventually, and gripped the end with her teeth, lifting and ripping a length free, gripping it between fingertips and applying it to the cut, repeating the process as she followed her cleaning. It hurt, of course, but the bleeding had been stopped and for this she was grateful, a smile, tentative and innocently jaded, curling her lips shyly.
She smiled shortly, eyes narrowing thoughtfully; the light pink tank-top she wore exposed her slim arms, white like the rest of her body, and she could see scars that mirrored her own. "Don't let him win," she told her, "Don't you let him ever win." And she did not understand what the woman meant, but she smiled anyway, and she smiled coolly, taking the washcloth from her body and placing it in the dish. Dorothy placed it to the side, pulling the protesting kitten to take its place. "She's yours," she explained, pinning the mewling creature down with a gentle grip on her nape, and she, the kitten, bit her hand, working her jaws in a feisty mood. "He does things like this every so often, to make his guilt fade. You can name her what you wish."
Younger eyes met older eyes, confusion in their blue depths, and she saw the understanding in her ice blue ones.
"He took your name from you," she said, absently petting the chewing kitten's small head, her ears set to twitching spasmodically, tail flicking happily. "That's a bitch of a trick, taking those precious things from you before you're locked." It was one of the terms that, for outsiders, would make little sense, a vague statement that needed deeper perusing to click, but she recognized it, acknowledged it with a sorrowful look. The white ice woman released the kitten, which yowled and leapt from the bed, skittering across the floor as she sallied forth to attack the drapes framing the vast, multi-paned window lining one wall. Chilled hands cupped her face in a friendly way, one vastly different from the way she had been grasped as of late. She murmured, in a voice that was warning, but without malice, "Break his rules before he can break what's left of you. We are the only ones left, and you can not lose this battled," and then, studying her curious face, she questioned, "Are you forbidden from speaking?" At her silence, her gradual nod, she smiled slyly, eyes narrowing in an encouraging manner. "Break it."
She smiled back, feeling the trill of heady danger, and whispered, "Okay."
--~--
*
--~--
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," he murmured, crossing with practiced ease, forehead, chest, left shoulder right shoulder, and he knelt in the shadows of the center aisle, facing the altar and the subdued cross behind it on the wall. A sense of unease crept along his shoulder blades, an irrational sense of discomfort at leaving his back unprotected to the doors back a ways, and he exhaled noisily, salvaging his intentions before he turned to check, make sure he was not being followed. War was over and he hated knowing his body might never learn to adjust to full relaxation. "It has been nine days since my last confession." On one level, he knew it was more accepted for him to enter the confessional and speak to the head of the church, but he had never been much of an acceptable Catholic and…it did not feel right.
"I feel awkward," Duo said after a long moment, his knotted hands held at a level angle from his waist, neither fully raised in proper reverence nor dropped low in forgetfulness. "I haven't been here in…years, not since they started rebuilding it. And I've never really believed in You the way Quatre does, 'cept he's a Muslim, anyway, but he's the kind of guy who'd be devoted and all." He blew his breath out, his long bangs fluttering out of his eyes at the gust of warm, stale air, and he rolled his violet eyes, reviewing his last sentence and thinking sarcastically on his gift at pointless rambling. "Not that any of that was logical or whatever." He fell silent, thinking and chewing on his lower lip, before he figured he might as well get it over with.
"Well, let's see…I've lusted after a woman I'm not married to, almost killed a guy, was pretty much drunk off my ass one day which was when I almost killed the guy, and I swore, a lot. Enough to make Wufei look like a saint, and he swears all the time." Shifting as he fought the ever-present urge to fidget, do something, move around, he released his hands, let the worn rosary plummet from his thumbs to the folds of his jacket, and crossed himself a second time, muttering, "Amen." He fiddled with the plastic loop on the zipper of his garnet zip-up, the fabric a sleek kind that reminded him greatly of vinyl, and he wryly noted he had worn the same outfit those four years ago during the Mariemaia conflict.
Duo stood, his braid swinging like a heavy pendulum, and he rubbed his palms over his tightly fitted pants nervously, stepping reluctantly to the ponderous, simply decorated slab that was the altar. A respectful image of Christ was shown, palms held down in a forgiving manner, over the heads of kneeling disciples, on the fore of the altar. It took a swell of effort to force his eyes down; his hands already traced the letters carefully etched into the stone.
His voice was hollow and empty when he spoke, echoing the words he read and felt, filling the arches of the cathedral and fitting into the corners, the rafters.
"'In loving memory of Father Maxwell and the many followers of Christ our Lord who died that day in AC 188. They are with the Lord our God in heaven and this church is dedicated in their honor, that they might never be forgotten by those who follow in their steps along Your path.'"
He hated crying and he loved the memories that sparked the crying, his fingers clutching at his braid as if it was a lifeline, swallowed in the river that was After Colony 188.
--
"That's stupid," he announced loftily as he wriggled onto Sister Helen's lap, opting for her gentler touch. He beamed when she hugged him, her face patiently smiling, and she lifted the brush on the small table beside her chair in an elegant gesture, running it through his loose brown hair. Father Maxwell smiled indulgently, willing to hear the boy out. Duo preened a bit, enjoying the attention and the feel of the brush smoothing out kinks in his locks, and he all but purred, kicking his chubby, though long, legs, already showing signs of what was to come. With some force of will, he directed his attention back to the topic at hand, gleaming iris eyes prepared for the stimulation of arguing, an activity he loved dearly. "I think fasting's stupid," he explained in greater detail.
"Fasting," Father Maxwell pointed out kindly, "is a way to grow closer to God, to clear one's mind of other thoughts. It cleanses oneself for a better relationship with God."
"Well," Duo drawled, squirming when Sister Helen tickled his side, "if God does exist, why would he want you to not eat? Eating kinda keeps people alive, y'know." He giggled as she stroked his neck quickly, in playful motions, tilting his head to one side in a reaction to keep her fingertips away. She laughed softly and began braiding his hair steadily, looping it carefully and neatly. "B'sides, it's hard to think of other things when you're hungry," he added knowledgeably, his serious expression at odds with his impish appearance.
"Of course, how silly of me," admitted the priest, his lined face folding into a subtle smile. "It must have slipped my mind."
"Perhaps you're hungry, Father?" Sister Helen suggested.
"It may be," he said thoughtfully in reply, sharing a humorous look with her.
Duo glared at both, at the woman and the man he had grown to love as parents, and he crossed his arms sulkily, pouting adorably. "You're making fun of me!"
"Of course, dear," she agreed, tying off his braid and pushing him lightly off her lap, pecking his cheek as he slipped off, landing silently on his feet. "Now, scoot, and get to chapel for prayers."
He slouched to the door, a dark child surrounded with light, and he paused, whirling around and lunging at them, surprising the pair with a tight hug each. "If I hafta not eat," he mumbled into Sister Helen's habit, grudgingly giving up a smidgen of his pride, "I won't."
Sister Helen merely laughed as Father Maxwell watched on, amused.
--
And then he was nineteen again, ripped from the world of AC 188 into the less volatile one of 199, and he breathed shakily, stumbling backwards and grasping the rosary, fingers tightening painfully around the gilded silver cross dangling at its apex. "I'm sorry," he managed. "I'm sorry, God, for whatever I did that made them pay, I'm sorry, please." His grip snapped the thin string of the rosary, scattering beads of polished wood, painted traditional red. He stared, unseeing, at the rolling orbs, before letting rage and hatred and the dark things that he had fueled himself with for every day of his life for the past eleven years explode past his sorrow, destroying his sense of sacred things, respect, trust, in a wave of inner death, temporary but brutal.
"I hate You!" he screamed, curling his fingers around the beads and lurching to his feet, hurling the specks of wood at the grieving, broken, loving man carved delicately on the vast ornament behind the altar, streams of painted, etched blood pouring from his hands and feet, silent and frozen. "What kind of God leaves His people to die?" He crouched and scrabbled for more beads, springing up in the flowing motion and tossing the beds in harsh, powerful movements, his face swallowed in the flood of tears engulfing his essence. "You're a shittin' bastard, Lord of Lords, King of Kings, whatever the hell You claim to be; You couldn't even save the people I loved, You let them die!" The bowed effigy of Jesus took the abuse, the pieces of blessed wood that struck His face, the face that wept for those left behind, and Duo could no longer see, his eyes clouded so by the tears that refused to leave him be. He screamed things he did not mean, things that had nonetheless burned in his soul, stopping his flinging weapons when his fingertips brushed the silver cross, closing around it and holding it to his palm until it felt as if it was part of his being. "Hypocrite! You lousy, filthy hy-hypo--"
He crumpled to the floor, folding his body together and weeping in absolution, strands of his dark hair melded to his face, and he nursed the wounds he had let fester for over a decade, hidden masterfully over time. Closing his eyes, his eyelashes clumping together from the gentle wetness of tears, he began praying in his heart, this time sincerely, and he wondered if now the wounds could heal.
--~--
*
--~--
When he came to her the night some time after she began to violate the sanctity of the Book of Truths, he did not smear her with red liquid, thick and warm and coppery, nor did he pound his vile flesh into her, but he grasped her arm and wrenched, letting her feel something tear in her shoulder as Dragon Kitten meowed plaintively, upset at seeing her mistress handled so, but she was silenced quickly with a thrust of his heavy boot. She screamed, then, did something she never had before and fought him, clawing his skin and screaming damnation at him in the heathen languages with a voice filled with such pain as a child should never know. She cried as she was dragged down the hall, hoping Dragon Kitten would appear behind her, ebony tail waving curiously behind her tiny body, even as she knew it would never happen. He slapped her once, twice, and then five times, leaving her cheeks puffed and red, bruising as her lower lip and her nose bled, the latter thankfully not broken. Her voice died, retreating in her throat, and he hauled her up by her short hair, clumps of her blue-black bob coming loose in his bony hand, mingled with the droplets of crimson dripping down her scalp, as he tossed her to the floor of a massive room she had never before seen.
"Clean, you whore," he snarled, striking her side with the same boot he had killed her precious Dragon Kitten with, and she felt the long scabs along her abdomen tear open once more. She snatched up the pathetic yellow sponge he gave her, dipped it in the porcelain pail of water, and stared emptily at the crusted red brown stains on the polished ivory floor, following, a sickened knot scratching nauseatingly in her gut, the pooling trail to the transparency of Dorothy.
He left her staring at the other thing most loved, the other thing precious to her, blue eyes large and riveted to the deep slit across the pale expanse of the swan throat, silver light hair dyed pink from her own blood, her black dress ironically immaculate, neither torn nor bloodied. Eyes were shut as if in a dream, nearly invisible eyelashes sweeping her spotted cheek, and she was horribly still, quiet and empty. The floor he desired clean, she knew, distantly in the part of her mind that was not shattering, slipping chaotically under the control of his words and his power and the conniving Book of Truths she was unconsciously adding to, and with that fraction of free will left in her, she touched the sponge to the throat, gently dabbing the blood away and peeling a ribbon out of her hair, dipping it in the pail before carefully tying it over the slender gash. Dragging the pail over, she skimmed off her own ripped dress, once white but turning dark pink, and dropped it in, bunching it up and letting the cloth soak in water. She lifted it out methodically and gathered up the beautiful pale hair, bundled it in the wet dress, not minding the chill cruelty of the room touching her naked, battered body. Tender wiping motions took the blood out of her hair, left it sleek, wet, and clean, and she arranged it around her pale face, moving her lifeless hands into a peaceful form over her shallow breasts.
To protect her precious ones, she learned that night, she would do what he said, be the good girl he wanted her to be, and slowly she forgot what it was to be other than a possession.
For that, she realized, was what she was.
--~--
*
--~--
Author's Notes: No, those aren't my personal opinions on God (Duo's rant). I love Him very much. :] And here, again, the plot thickens.
Confessional is based on what little I know from attending Catholic church with my Italian best friend. You rock, Joanna.
Hundreds of thanksies to Kaiya-chan for being the Greatest Beta-Reader in the World. Salute ya! You're a wonderfully kind person, especially with me constantly worrying you don't like my sending chapters so quickly. I love having a beta-reader so very much! And I finally edited this. 0o; It certainly took me long enough, you know. (I changed some edit-y things, though, and, yes, everyone, I know edit-y is not a word. *winks*)
Standard disclaimer; same distribution.
Feedback can be left at www.FanFiction.net or sent to alien_wolf@sailorjupiter.com.
'Through God all things are possible.'
-Traditional
To My Reviewers: I wish I had the time right now to thank each of you personally, but I don't. *sad face* Just know that I love you for taking the time to comment on what I've done! It's very appreciated and never fails to lift my spirits. *hugs for all*
Even from the distance, she could feel the change in the air, the sudden shift of temperature upwards, warming the molecules in the air and charging them into kinetic motion. A flash of shivering, flexing green burned her eyes, a smooth curving streak of light and heat and power bursting forth from a metal staff, one that dwarfed most buildings in the slum areas she was standing outside of. The ground quaked beneath her feet and she slipped, tumbling down the soaked hill, her wet hair clinging doggedly to her skin as she dug her fingers into the softening soil, desperate for purchase in the thick mud as the grass tore away. She looked over her small shoulder, through the rain and the darkness of the storming clouds, and she could hardly breath.
Her black Champion, tall and cold, struck like a god would a mortal, the swift concussive blast of the glowing scythe smashing into heavy metal knocking her into the hill as it shot through the air, pinning her and holding her until the air in her lungs was stale and her eyes were watering from the vibrations spinning in her body. Once she was freed from the shock-wave, she inhaled deeply, sucked air into her lungs, and stared at the dark monster, frightening as it watched the smaller beast's smoking remains settle on the ground.
Her Champion, her warrior for this moment, was still for a minute more, and it began walking steadily, with loud booms, over the terrain of the beach away from her hill, slipping into the water. The rain was slick on her face, and she, years later, would remember the wetness coursing over her as she watched it vanish.
--
Requiem: Memoriam Un
--
On the train, she stayed quiet and motionless, a perfectly docile child with no shrieks or loud cries accompanying her as she kept her eyes cast downward, facing straight ahead. Not once did she look out the window and the elderly women sitting across the aisle murmured in pleased tones amongst themselves, about the sweet daughter - adopted, surely - of the dashing man with her. How delightful, they whispered, for a child kind enough to be so very obedient!
She knew not to speak, knew it would hurt if she did. He would punish her later, again, if she spoke, and the horrible pain in her body, traveling up and down her pre-adolescent length, would strike her as well, bringing tears to her eyes as she tried to breathe in short gasps to fill her lungs. The soft lights lining the aisle tossed the glistening highlights in her hair, shining them a dark green color amidst the blue, nearly black, and she kept her pale hands clasped in her lap, resting over the silken skirt of her white dress, a gift for her tenth birthday. The sun was setting in the backdrop of the inky sky, the last few defiant streaks of dark fire fading slowly. The mild pink vanished bit by bit from the clouds turning dusky periwinkle, and so its glaring fire had abandoned her body to the glow of night. She was as the moon, small and pale, with the colors of the ocean dashing in her hair, her eyes, and she kept still as a flower on a windless eve before the hunter trampled it underfoot.
She wanted deeply to run to the bay rushing past, toss herself into the water and laugh at the smooth coolness on her skin, like she had once, running after a great black monster into the beautiful, endless sea. But that was forbidden now, as was reading and speaking in the languages he deemed heathen, filthy and disgusting, and she forced her eyes to stare blankly ahead, away from the abominable temptation. His stiff black suit, pressed and cleaned, filled her nostrils with the scent of nothing, unassuming and easy to hide behind, and she moved, just a bit, away from him, closer to the window, trying to escape the scent and the truths he told her. To fill her mind, stop herself from the evils of hope and wistfulness, she remembered the Book of Truths, whispering in her head in his awful tobacco-cracked voice, one after another, addendums and footnotes and amendments listed, added, footed at the end of each mental page.
Minutes trickled into hours, stations bringing a sudden lack of movement before building speed once more, people coming and leaving and talking, humming the cloud of the world she was no longer a part of, until there were none in the long car but her and the-speaker-of-truths. It settled in her stomach, a dead weight, a lead orb meant to swell her with hopelessness and helpless acceptance, and she waited for the things he did when no one else was about. Nothing was done and she wondered if this was something she must add to the Book of Truths, fix onto the trailing end of a twisting rule. Must be silent but speak when asked but not if by for it should no something yet and furthermore not exactly only if--
"Here," he said in his stained voice, the tilts of the One language coating it. "We leave the train here."
She stood obediently, her eyes lowered that they might not sin and stare hatefully at his face, at the painful hair on his chin and the foul gleam in his own eyes. She took his hand when he offered it, stepping slowly, carefully, to keep from jarring the aches in her torso.
"We are going to the house you will stay in," he furthered, and she shuddered, a tiny shake in her shoulders. "You will stay there and be a dutiful bride, mistress of the house. The others have been waiting for you as I have taught you the ways." She was a good girl as they walked through the vast terminal, meek and silent and listening, while he brought her to the shuttle.
--~--
*
--~--
Her weeping was excused in the dark, her face buried in the loose dip of cloth between her knees, pulled up into scissor arches, and she ignored the sticky stains darkening the white dress, the sheets of her new bed, cast in the pale glow of the security lights ringing the estate on Colony M-09 C33081. The gashes tracing over her ribcage had been reopened, spilling freshly, though slowly, and she hoped, in a morbid wish, that she might bleed to death, though he made sure every morn to 'heal' her as he so desired. Perhaps the one relief was his cleanly compulsion, his need to leave to wash his body free of blood, of semen, of dirt, giving her the time at night to find what she needed to clean the room. She would have peace, for a few hours, and she felt her tears slow, her shallow, erratic breathing slowing robotically. She slowly lifted her head, wiping hands over the slick wetness on her hollow cheeks, and gasped against her will, her mouth forming a startled O.
A woman stood at the foot of her bed, the elaborately carved door to her room cracked open, and she tried to remember hearing her enter, failing. She had a deep dish held in one hand, her skin the fairy white of Scandinavian blood, and, tucked in the arm of her other, a small animal, a ball of softly mewing black fur, a thin tail lashing irritably. A kitten, she realized, and she stared dumbly at her as she set the animal on the foot of the bed, taking care not to spill the dish, before making her way around the large bed to clamber on it, crossing her legs as she sat in front of her. She lifted a folded washcloth from the side of the dish, placing the dish itself in her lap, over her pale green apron, and lightly pushed aside the torn shoulder of the girl's dress, pressing the damp cloth on the sore recently cut along the pale skin. She glanced, unsure and thrown off-balance, at the soft terry cloth, then back at the woman. She had smooth cheekbones and slender cheeks that flowed gently to her sharp chin, her white eyelashes long but so light as to appear invisible. The curtain of her hair was a sleek swath of moonlight, cut tragically at her chin, falling straight. Her face was shorn of eyebrows, the skin above her eyes tender and red, but her eyes, the color of blue-tainted ice, were deadly, thinking and planning.
"Hello," she said in a voice that was breathless, the voice of one who is preparing for a leap of faith. "You're his bride, aren't you." Her voice brooked no question, a rhetorical sentence that repeated a statement to affirm it for her own benefit. The cloth moved from her shoulder to her chest, nimble fingers tugging her shredded dress down. She flinched, pulling back in basic instinct, and the woman smiled in bitter knowledge, pushing forward and touching the wet cloth to the highest cut on her chest, water mixing with the thicker substance of blood. "Don't worry," she continued, a cool strictness threading her words in the One language, and she subsided slowly, relaxing muscles. "I am Dorothy," she added, dipping the cloth into the crystal pool of water and wringing it, applying it in gentle swiping motions down her abdomen, sweeping clear the red liquid. From the first gash, a thin bubbling line of crimson was forming and she reached into a pocket in her apron, cautiously maneuvering to avoid spilling the dish, and she pulled a tube of gauze out, handing it to her. "You can put this on, right?"
She nodded, eventually, and gripped the end with her teeth, lifting and ripping a length free, gripping it between fingertips and applying it to the cut, repeating the process as she followed her cleaning. It hurt, of course, but the bleeding had been stopped and for this she was grateful, a smile, tentative and innocently jaded, curling her lips shyly.
She smiled shortly, eyes narrowing thoughtfully; the light pink tank-top she wore exposed her slim arms, white like the rest of her body, and she could see scars that mirrored her own. "Don't let him win," she told her, "Don't you let him ever win." And she did not understand what the woman meant, but she smiled anyway, and she smiled coolly, taking the washcloth from her body and placing it in the dish. Dorothy placed it to the side, pulling the protesting kitten to take its place. "She's yours," she explained, pinning the mewling creature down with a gentle grip on her nape, and she, the kitten, bit her hand, working her jaws in a feisty mood. "He does things like this every so often, to make his guilt fade. You can name her what you wish."
Younger eyes met older eyes, confusion in their blue depths, and she saw the understanding in her ice blue ones.
"He took your name from you," she said, absently petting the chewing kitten's small head, her ears set to twitching spasmodically, tail flicking happily. "That's a bitch of a trick, taking those precious things from you before you're locked." It was one of the terms that, for outsiders, would make little sense, a vague statement that needed deeper perusing to click, but she recognized it, acknowledged it with a sorrowful look. The white ice woman released the kitten, which yowled and leapt from the bed, skittering across the floor as she sallied forth to attack the drapes framing the vast, multi-paned window lining one wall. Chilled hands cupped her face in a friendly way, one vastly different from the way she had been grasped as of late. She murmured, in a voice that was warning, but without malice, "Break his rules before he can break what's left of you. We are the only ones left, and you can not lose this battled," and then, studying her curious face, she questioned, "Are you forbidden from speaking?" At her silence, her gradual nod, she smiled slyly, eyes narrowing in an encouraging manner. "Break it."
She smiled back, feeling the trill of heady danger, and whispered, "Okay."
--~--
*
--~--
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," he murmured, crossing with practiced ease, forehead, chest, left shoulder right shoulder, and he knelt in the shadows of the center aisle, facing the altar and the subdued cross behind it on the wall. A sense of unease crept along his shoulder blades, an irrational sense of discomfort at leaving his back unprotected to the doors back a ways, and he exhaled noisily, salvaging his intentions before he turned to check, make sure he was not being followed. War was over and he hated knowing his body might never learn to adjust to full relaxation. "It has been nine days since my last confession." On one level, he knew it was more accepted for him to enter the confessional and speak to the head of the church, but he had never been much of an acceptable Catholic and…it did not feel right.
"I feel awkward," Duo said after a long moment, his knotted hands held at a level angle from his waist, neither fully raised in proper reverence nor dropped low in forgetfulness. "I haven't been here in…years, not since they started rebuilding it. And I've never really believed in You the way Quatre does, 'cept he's a Muslim, anyway, but he's the kind of guy who'd be devoted and all." He blew his breath out, his long bangs fluttering out of his eyes at the gust of warm, stale air, and he rolled his violet eyes, reviewing his last sentence and thinking sarcastically on his gift at pointless rambling. "Not that any of that was logical or whatever." He fell silent, thinking and chewing on his lower lip, before he figured he might as well get it over with.
"Well, let's see…I've lusted after a woman I'm not married to, almost killed a guy, was pretty much drunk off my ass one day which was when I almost killed the guy, and I swore, a lot. Enough to make Wufei look like a saint, and he swears all the time." Shifting as he fought the ever-present urge to fidget, do something, move around, he released his hands, let the worn rosary plummet from his thumbs to the folds of his jacket, and crossed himself a second time, muttering, "Amen." He fiddled with the plastic loop on the zipper of his garnet zip-up, the fabric a sleek kind that reminded him greatly of vinyl, and he wryly noted he had worn the same outfit those four years ago during the Mariemaia conflict.
Duo stood, his braid swinging like a heavy pendulum, and he rubbed his palms over his tightly fitted pants nervously, stepping reluctantly to the ponderous, simply decorated slab that was the altar. A respectful image of Christ was shown, palms held down in a forgiving manner, over the heads of kneeling disciples, on the fore of the altar. It took a swell of effort to force his eyes down; his hands already traced the letters carefully etched into the stone.
His voice was hollow and empty when he spoke, echoing the words he read and felt, filling the arches of the cathedral and fitting into the corners, the rafters.
"'In loving memory of Father Maxwell and the many followers of Christ our Lord who died that day in AC 188. They are with the Lord our God in heaven and this church is dedicated in their honor, that they might never be forgotten by those who follow in their steps along Your path.'"
He hated crying and he loved the memories that sparked the crying, his fingers clutching at his braid as if it was a lifeline, swallowed in the river that was After Colony 188.
--
"That's stupid," he announced loftily as he wriggled onto Sister Helen's lap, opting for her gentler touch. He beamed when she hugged him, her face patiently smiling, and she lifted the brush on the small table beside her chair in an elegant gesture, running it through his loose brown hair. Father Maxwell smiled indulgently, willing to hear the boy out. Duo preened a bit, enjoying the attention and the feel of the brush smoothing out kinks in his locks, and he all but purred, kicking his chubby, though long, legs, already showing signs of what was to come. With some force of will, he directed his attention back to the topic at hand, gleaming iris eyes prepared for the stimulation of arguing, an activity he loved dearly. "I think fasting's stupid," he explained in greater detail.
"Fasting," Father Maxwell pointed out kindly, "is a way to grow closer to God, to clear one's mind of other thoughts. It cleanses oneself for a better relationship with God."
"Well," Duo drawled, squirming when Sister Helen tickled his side, "if God does exist, why would he want you to not eat? Eating kinda keeps people alive, y'know." He giggled as she stroked his neck quickly, in playful motions, tilting his head to one side in a reaction to keep her fingertips away. She laughed softly and began braiding his hair steadily, looping it carefully and neatly. "B'sides, it's hard to think of other things when you're hungry," he added knowledgeably, his serious expression at odds with his impish appearance.
"Of course, how silly of me," admitted the priest, his lined face folding into a subtle smile. "It must have slipped my mind."
"Perhaps you're hungry, Father?" Sister Helen suggested.
"It may be," he said thoughtfully in reply, sharing a humorous look with her.
Duo glared at both, at the woman and the man he had grown to love as parents, and he crossed his arms sulkily, pouting adorably. "You're making fun of me!"
"Of course, dear," she agreed, tying off his braid and pushing him lightly off her lap, pecking his cheek as he slipped off, landing silently on his feet. "Now, scoot, and get to chapel for prayers."
He slouched to the door, a dark child surrounded with light, and he paused, whirling around and lunging at them, surprising the pair with a tight hug each. "If I hafta not eat," he mumbled into Sister Helen's habit, grudgingly giving up a smidgen of his pride, "I won't."
Sister Helen merely laughed as Father Maxwell watched on, amused.
--
And then he was nineteen again, ripped from the world of AC 188 into the less volatile one of 199, and he breathed shakily, stumbling backwards and grasping the rosary, fingers tightening painfully around the gilded silver cross dangling at its apex. "I'm sorry," he managed. "I'm sorry, God, for whatever I did that made them pay, I'm sorry, please." His grip snapped the thin string of the rosary, scattering beads of polished wood, painted traditional red. He stared, unseeing, at the rolling orbs, before letting rage and hatred and the dark things that he had fueled himself with for every day of his life for the past eleven years explode past his sorrow, destroying his sense of sacred things, respect, trust, in a wave of inner death, temporary but brutal.
"I hate You!" he screamed, curling his fingers around the beads and lurching to his feet, hurling the specks of wood at the grieving, broken, loving man carved delicately on the vast ornament behind the altar, streams of painted, etched blood pouring from his hands and feet, silent and frozen. "What kind of God leaves His people to die?" He crouched and scrabbled for more beads, springing up in the flowing motion and tossing the beds in harsh, powerful movements, his face swallowed in the flood of tears engulfing his essence. "You're a shittin' bastard, Lord of Lords, King of Kings, whatever the hell You claim to be; You couldn't even save the people I loved, You let them die!" The bowed effigy of Jesus took the abuse, the pieces of blessed wood that struck His face, the face that wept for those left behind, and Duo could no longer see, his eyes clouded so by the tears that refused to leave him be. He screamed things he did not mean, things that had nonetheless burned in his soul, stopping his flinging weapons when his fingertips brushed the silver cross, closing around it and holding it to his palm until it felt as if it was part of his being. "Hypocrite! You lousy, filthy hy-hypo--"
He crumpled to the floor, folding his body together and weeping in absolution, strands of his dark hair melded to his face, and he nursed the wounds he had let fester for over a decade, hidden masterfully over time. Closing his eyes, his eyelashes clumping together from the gentle wetness of tears, he began praying in his heart, this time sincerely, and he wondered if now the wounds could heal.
--~--
*
--~--
When he came to her the night some time after she began to violate the sanctity of the Book of Truths, he did not smear her with red liquid, thick and warm and coppery, nor did he pound his vile flesh into her, but he grasped her arm and wrenched, letting her feel something tear in her shoulder as Dragon Kitten meowed plaintively, upset at seeing her mistress handled so, but she was silenced quickly with a thrust of his heavy boot. She screamed, then, did something she never had before and fought him, clawing his skin and screaming damnation at him in the heathen languages with a voice filled with such pain as a child should never know. She cried as she was dragged down the hall, hoping Dragon Kitten would appear behind her, ebony tail waving curiously behind her tiny body, even as she knew it would never happen. He slapped her once, twice, and then five times, leaving her cheeks puffed and red, bruising as her lower lip and her nose bled, the latter thankfully not broken. Her voice died, retreating in her throat, and he hauled her up by her short hair, clumps of her blue-black bob coming loose in his bony hand, mingled with the droplets of crimson dripping down her scalp, as he tossed her to the floor of a massive room she had never before seen.
"Clean, you whore," he snarled, striking her side with the same boot he had killed her precious Dragon Kitten with, and she felt the long scabs along her abdomen tear open once more. She snatched up the pathetic yellow sponge he gave her, dipped it in the porcelain pail of water, and stared emptily at the crusted red brown stains on the polished ivory floor, following, a sickened knot scratching nauseatingly in her gut, the pooling trail to the transparency of Dorothy.
He left her staring at the other thing most loved, the other thing precious to her, blue eyes large and riveted to the deep slit across the pale expanse of the swan throat, silver light hair dyed pink from her own blood, her black dress ironically immaculate, neither torn nor bloodied. Eyes were shut as if in a dream, nearly invisible eyelashes sweeping her spotted cheek, and she was horribly still, quiet and empty. The floor he desired clean, she knew, distantly in the part of her mind that was not shattering, slipping chaotically under the control of his words and his power and the conniving Book of Truths she was unconsciously adding to, and with that fraction of free will left in her, she touched the sponge to the throat, gently dabbing the blood away and peeling a ribbon out of her hair, dipping it in the pail before carefully tying it over the slender gash. Dragging the pail over, she skimmed off her own ripped dress, once white but turning dark pink, and dropped it in, bunching it up and letting the cloth soak in water. She lifted it out methodically and gathered up the beautiful pale hair, bundled it in the wet dress, not minding the chill cruelty of the room touching her naked, battered body. Tender wiping motions took the blood out of her hair, left it sleek, wet, and clean, and she arranged it around her pale face, moving her lifeless hands into a peaceful form over her shallow breasts.
To protect her precious ones, she learned that night, she would do what he said, be the good girl he wanted her to be, and slowly she forgot what it was to be other than a possession.
For that, she realized, was what she was.
--~--
*
--~--
Author's Notes: No, those aren't my personal opinions on God (Duo's rant). I love Him very much. :] And here, again, the plot thickens.
Confessional is based on what little I know from attending Catholic church with my Italian best friend. You rock, Joanna.
Hundreds of thanksies to Kaiya-chan for being the Greatest Beta-Reader in the World. Salute ya! You're a wonderfully kind person, especially with me constantly worrying you don't like my sending chapters so quickly. I love having a beta-reader so very much! And I finally edited this. 0o; It certainly took me long enough, you know. (I changed some edit-y things, though, and, yes, everyone, I know edit-y is not a word. *winks*)
Standard disclaimer; same distribution.
Feedback can be left at www.FanFiction.net or sent to alien_wolf@sailorjupiter.com.
'Through God all things are possible.'
-Traditional
To My Reviewers: I wish I had the time right now to thank each of you personally, but I don't. *sad face* Just know that I love you for taking the time to comment on what I've done! It's very appreciated and never fails to lift my spirits. *hugs for all*