II.
Duettino. Recitative+Solo. Duettino-
Nobile. Irato. Lusingando.
Nobile
The tragedy of man is not that we die
But that some die without changing the world
For it's upon the change that humans rely
And only change can deny anonymity.
Irato
And will God raise me up from this hell
If I love my enemy as my brother?
If I forgive the puppeteer who
carefully moves the players
From one corner of the stage to another?
It hurts.
The Sun's as sick as my fevered brow
Retching from the sight below
Suffering's spawned from human row
And spreads in time with the bloodied flow.
Lusingando
The hermit thrush, its trilling song
Reminds me of my lover's lips.
How they purse when I am wrong
And how they brush the glass he sips.
The hermit thrush, its wondrous down
Reminds me of my lover's skin
Silken, golden-world renowned
And how it speaks of lust and sin.
The hermit thrush, its glassy glance
Reminds me of my lover's air
How he drifts off in a trance
And how it cruelly says beware.
The parlor was dark save the flickering fire and its comforting aura. He could feel the heat from the doorway and became entranced (as he quite often was) by the monstrous shadows on the walls. Quatre glanced up at Lieutenant Nichol, suddenly quite nervous.
"Don't worry- he just likes to be dramatic." Nichol offered with mild empathy. Quatre wrung his hands miserably and watched the Lieutenant as he left to return to his station.
Realizing that all this hesitation was making him appear weaker than he already was, Quatre took in a deep breath and entered his parlor.
"Y. . Your Excellency?" He cursed himself for stammering and he cursed his pretty, alto voice.
"Master Winner."
Quatre stopped in his tracks, ten meters from the hearth. The parlor was large but for some reason, he suddenly felt boxed in. He nervously glanced around. His eyes came to rest on a tall figure as it rose from the right hand chair. Quatre swallowed his pride-and the large lump of fear that had crawled it's way up his throat- and bowed low.
"Please. There is no need for that. Not between us."
The man's voice was smooth, trained and polished like abalone. It was a lyrical-even sweet- baritone high in its register. The speech pattern was perfectly pulsed with elegant diction and an aristocratic lilt.
It was not the voice of a tyrant, but of a hero.
He came forth and offered his strong hand to Quatre, which the young man accepted graciously, albeit nervously.
The Oz Commander eclipsed the fire, which cast warm shadows over the man's features, but Quatre cold tell that he not only sounded heroic, but looked the part as well.
Quatre's fear subsided and he smiled.
"Quatre Raberba Winner."
"Treize Kushrenada. Won't you join me at the fire, Quatre?"
With a nod, Quatre followed the duke to the large, burgundy leather armchairs that rested before the roaring fire. Treize took the one on the right, which left Quatre the one on the left.
'This. . .is my father's chair. . .'
He felt nervous and a little thrilled about sitting in his father's favorite perch, but his desire to stay in the duke's good favors won out over his discomfort. He sat and was comforted by the smell of his father's lingering cologne.
He was glad that he'd cried himself dry.
"Quatre, would you like something to drink?" Treize offered as one of the low ranked soldiers entered from the hall. "Please, do not take the offer as disrespect- I do not wish to assume your place as the head of this house. I only offer because my man is ready to serve you."
Had he been any more charming, Quatre would've been wary of Treize's kindness. But there was a knightly sincerity in his manner that Quatre had never witnessed. For some inexplicable reason, this man-who had ordered the attack on the Winner Foundation- had won Quatre's respect without the Winner heir even realizing it.
"Perhaps some herbal tea?" Treize offered. Quatre nodded.
"Yes, thank you- that would be lovely."
After nodding to his superior, the grunt exited hurriedly. Quatre watched Duke Kushrenada as he leaned his head against the back of the chair and inhaled.
Then, without noticing, the young beaurocrat did the same.
They sat in an eerily comfortable silence until their drinks came- Quatre's chamomile tea and Treize's sherry.
Treize took a sip from the small glass and stared intently into the fire.
"Quatre- While I don't wish to upset you more than I have, I must address my concerns before it becomes disrespectful. I apologize beforehand if I insult you or your family, for I do not mean to be cruel in the slightest. However, all humans interpret words differently, therefore, what I have to say to you might upset you. May I continue?"
Slightly flustered, Quatre nodded. With a comforting smile, Treize spoke into the fire.
"Quatre. . .I am truly sorry for your loss. The sorrow our coming has caused you and your family is inexcusable." Quatre felt himself tremble slightly. "This. . .unforgivable act. . .was never intended. When earth decided that the amalgamation of governments was essential, we never intended to truly overthrow the governing parties. I had planned on asking your father to join the Romefeller Foundation Council, so he could act as the stationed president of the L4 cluster. But. . .since the joining of the earth sphere alliance and the Romefeller foundation, there have been many issues that have arisen in the ranks. Some of the soldiers don't agree with our policies, while others follow orders religiously." He grimaced ruefully and put a delicate gloved hand to his forehead. "I'm afraid that I have been a poor leader for my troops- had I given them sufficient guidance, your father would be sitting in that chair with me tonight with you by his side. I. . .apologize and ask for your forgiveness. Your father was very brave- he died for his ideals and for the future of his family and world. His existence will forever be etched in my heart. Master Winner. . .please forgive me for implying a war that would not be."
Quatre watched in awe as tears shimmered in the Duke's eyes. He felt a slight pain grow in his chest at the sight of the repentant aristocrat.
'He. . .is truly sorry. His words are confusing but, for some reason, I understand. I. . father. . .would you forgive him? Should I? He's hurting so much and it wasn't even his fault. . .but, what of my hurt? And all of my family's? I. . .but he's so wounded, it's hurting me. . .'
"I. . .recognize the mistake, and I thank you for your sincerity." Quatre pronounced the words the poured out of his psyche. "I. . .will forgive you, but the wound is too fresh in my mind for my mouth to form the words themselves and to mean them."
The Duke accepted this wisdom and Quatre felt the pain subside.
Treize took another sip of his glass and jingled the ice delicately.
"Another issue I must address is that of your condition- how are you feeling?"
"My con. . .?" Quatre glanced down at his hand. "Oh, It's fine. The bullet simply hit the fleshy part of my hand and grazed my wrist. My sister told me it was a "gusher" though, since it grazed my wrist." He chuckled, as did the Duke. "I won't be able to play the piano or the violin for awhile, but I suppose that's better than losing my hand entirely, which I thought I had."
"Yes, your sister told my subordinate that you had gone into shock. It did look much worse than she's deemed it to be."
Quatre sipped his tea and nodded.
"She's a very skilled physician."
"She is . . ."Treize agreed and frowned. Then he paused. "Quatre. . .do you think she would be willing to tend to some of my men? On our way here we were attacked by a group of space pirates calling themselves the White Fang- my men were brave and we emerged victorious, but some of them have been badly wounded. Would it be proper to ask her to help us?"
"I. . .Irea is a professional and holds human life in the highest regard." Quatre's heart was pounding- the Duke had asked for his advice as if he were the head of the household! He suddenly felt a great surge of pride. "She may take a bit of convincing, but I know that she would never let your men suffer for long. She might become passive aggressive and skimp on their painkillers though." Treize chuckled.
"Thank you, Quatre.
"My pleasure." He smiled contentedly, all worldly pain momentarily lost, when he suddenly had a thought. "Your Excel. . .Treize? May I ask you a question?"
The young duke sipped his drink.
"Certainly."
"W. . why did you kill the man who shot my father?" Quatre's voice shook slightly.
"I personally did not kill that man. I had my subordinate do it."
"But why?"
"Are you upset by this?" Treize looked genuinely concerned. Quatre pursed his lips.
"A little, I must admit. It may be that I'm still in shock, but. . .I don't think it's right to kill. Anyone. That includes murderers."
"You felt no need for vengeance?" The Duke was truly curious. Quatre shook his head.
"I. . ."He faltered. He wasn't sure what he needed- he was too numb. But Treize seemed to understand.
"You're right- it was hasty. However- my battalion has an unyielding set of guidelines to follow. The soldier who killed your father betrayed his oath and needlessly killed a civilian- that is not the work of a soldier, but an assassin. We are not the old alliance army, Quatre- we do not brutally murder bystanders and politicians. My organization-Oz- fights for peace while upholding the set of ideals that will bring justice and balance to this united community. He. . .was in the wrong. But I should have put my policy on hold and first consulted with the head of the house."
"It's all right. . ."Quatre murmured dejectedly. "I. . .was just wondering, I suppose. What happened to the man that shot me? You didn't kill him did you? Or shoot him in the hand?"
"No." Treize chuckled. "But his commanding officer did fire a warning shot that skewered his coat-tails." Quatre bit back a smile. "He's been court martialed, but he's still alive."
"Good." Quatre sighed and sank into his father's. . his. . .chair. He held his mug in between his hands and enjoyed the wafting smell of lemon and honey. To his right, Treize finished his sherry.
"I was wondering," Treize cut into the silence. "If you would show me your gardens after you've finished your tea. I'm sure they're exquisite at this time of night, under the dying sun. Are you healed enough to go outside?" Quatre finished his tea and nodded.
"There is no reason for my wound to deter me from a simple walk." Quatre pointed out. "There is nothing wrong with my legs."
"Then shall we?" Treize asked, rising from his seat. The young heir nodded and stood as well.
"Let's."
They walked the cobblestone path through the gardens, chatting as only the best of friends and the best of enemies can.. The sun was dying, dripping down the horizon in a wash of gilded purples and oranges. Each of the indentations in the stones seemed to absorb the pallet, and the greenery shone with a hallowed, golden aura. Quatre found himself frequently glancing at Treize to gauge his reaction, desperately seeking his approval. But the young duke was obvious with his pleasure, as he took a moment here and there to study the munificent gardens.
"Your colony is so quiet. So beautiful." Treize murmured as the walked the stone path back to the front gate.
"Thank you very much." Quatre whispered, flushed with praise.
They stopped at the gate when the Duke placed his hand on the young heir's shoulder.
"Quatre. . .Until this entire ordeal is straightened out, my regime will be staying here on L4. If this bothers you, I need to know now. My men are currently residing in your home- I feel that I should discuss this with you. While we have invaded your colony, we do not wish to harm anyone else. I believe I will leave the decision up to you."
Quatre took a moment to ponder.
'Do I let them stay here? Is this what Treize is asking me? But. . .I can't say yes or no without. . .wait. . .It's my responsibility now, as the head of the family. . but. . .what will my sisters think? Will they think me weak? Am I weak? What would father do? Treize is so kind and. . .he. . .for some reason I want him to accept me. Why? Why do I care what some aristocratic tyrant thinks?. . .but he's no tyrant. I. . .want to be a good heir. I want to represent my kingdom well. They've already invaded, so I guess there isn't much point in me turning them away. . .Is that what you would do, father? I think that's my best choic. . .'
"I. . .would like to extend my hospitality towards you and your regime, Duke Kushrenada." He announced formally. "I will speak to my sister Irea and see what she can do about your wounded men. So, if you would, sir, please consider yourself guests in our home. If anyone needs anything, my staff can take care of. . ."
"Quatre- my men do not need to be coddled. But thank you for your kindness." Treize smiled sincerely and clasped Quatre's arm.
It was unlike any other handshake he'd felt. This. . .was a knight's handshake.
"Now, Master Winner, I should take my leave of you. I must inform my superiors of your decisions and try to solve this crises in the least painful way for all of us."
"Then I will say goodnight to you, Treize."
"Goodnight, dear Quatre."
Quatre watched the aristocrat leave and then made the long journey up to the fourth floor to his bedroom. He snuggled into his tightly-made bed , making sure to prop his right hand up on one of his many shammed pillows. The sun had disappeared and the moonlight now shone through the bay windows and settled onto the floor. It was so perfect and pure, in both shape and content and. . .
Quatre began to brutally weep.
He wept for his father. He dead,cold and rotting father. Killed by circumstance and ignorance and Oz.
He wept for sisters. Their screams filled his head- the banshee choir accompanied by the murdered piano.
But most of all, he wept for himself.
He was so god damn weak.
He cursed his own name- metaphorically spat on it.
He was a traitor to his family and to his father's pacifist ideals, trading them in for Treize Kushrenada's charisma and knightly romanticism.
He hero-worshipped the Oz knight. He wanted to be like him. To be charming and wise and powerful.
He wanted to make his dead father proud. . .but now, he would never know.
Never.
'I'm sorry. . .so sorry. I. . .this is all crazy. I'm an awful person and I'm attracted to an awful cause and an awful set of ideals. Please, father- what should I do? I. . .I'm hurting so very badly. I am so weak. I love you father- I do. We didn't say those things but. . .oh ,god, please- what am I doing? This. . .I can't handle this. My father's murderer- the man, not the weapon- is here. . .do. . .do I forgive him? Can I? It hurts so much not too. . .I'm sorry I ran. I ran away from your death like a cowardly child. . .which I am. . .I. . .damn. . .I. . .am such a fool.'
He wept in his down pillow, burying his face in its softness. He wanted to hug it and pretend it loved him, but his wound only allowed him a safe embrace.
He kept his sobs quiet, muffled, and soon they died down to a delicate whimper. His eyes were irritated from the tears and the pillowcase material, so he went to his en-suite bathroom to wash away the salty film. He avoided the mirror- he knew he looked horrid and didn't need to be reminded. After gulping down a couple glasses of water, Quatre stumbled back to his cool sheets and warm duvet. As he climbed in, he glanced over to the window to drink in the moonlight.
There was a bird.
Blinking, Quatre climbed out of his bed and padded over to the open window.
Yes- indeed, there was a bird hopping along the windowsill.
Quatre rarely had these types of visitors; because of the garden and the vast amounts of flora, the birds generally kept to their lofty perches.
He moved slowly and sank quietly onto the bench in the window box. The little feathered creature hopped back and forth and stared up at him. It ruffled its tiny, russet feathers. Quatre smiled.
"Why hello. I believe you're a hermit thrush."
It cocked its head slightly then took off suddenly, in a flash of flutter and song. Quatre closed his eyes and listened to that ariette- he often listened to the song and it always comforted him. Its coloratura was virtuosic and the jagged melodic line was so exotic. In a moment, the tiny singer would vocalize a similar sequence beginning on another pitch, perhaps in a slightly different mode. The thrush's song was so pure.
He longed to regain that purity.
Another chime-like strain skimmed the breeze.
And it was greeted with an echo.
Quatre opened his eyes in delight and searched for the second hermit thrush. It had a darker quality to the voice- almost human- and absolutely enthralling. He watched the first thrush soar by on an air current. It dove down and perched on the blossoming apple tree that just hung over their man-made lake. It sang again.
And its song was repeated.
The Hermit thrush changed its pitch and sang another strain.
That strain was echoed as well.
It sang yet again, and this time the other thrush joined the song and they sang a duet in unison that tore Quatre apart with a resentful sweetness.
'I. . .want to be that bird.'
Suddenly the song ended.
'I wonder what happened to the thrush?. . .'
Pushing the window as far open as it could handle, Quatre scanned the landscape for the thrush, which he could usually spot due to the moonlit-glean of its mirror-like eyes. But the trees were bare and he heard no song.
He looked further down-toward the beach- and found the cause.
There was an intruder.
A man. . . walking down the beach, toward the garden.
This left Quatre slightly embittered.
His one refuge-his one solace- taken, when he needed it most. . .
He was almost incensed enough to call out to the man- to tell him it was private property. He didn't care if the man was one of Treize' soldiers- in fact, he almost hoped that it would be. Perhaps Treize would take the 'subtle' hint and leave.
He shot invisible daggers from his eyes towards the man, who kept walking closer and closer. All Quatre could distinguish-aside from the tight Oz pilot suit- was his perfectly rhythmic gait and the strange way he held his arm up toward the sky. Just as Quatre was mentally commenting on it, the man brought his arm down to eye level.
'What is he doing out there? The sprinklers are going to go on any second. Maybe I should call out to him. . .'
As he came closer, Quatre prepared himself to call out. He tried desperately not to sound as angry as he was, for he really had no reason to take it out on the visitor. The young heir waited for the stranger to enter the garden so he could call out without waking the entire household. Reaching the pink-blossomed apple tree, the stranger stopped and turned towards the manor, which gave Quatre a perfect opportunity to call out and reprimand the intruder.
However, the words never fell from his lips.
Quatre drew back into the shadows with a slight whimper as the scene before him was manifested in its entirety.
The thrush. . .sat perched on the stranger's index finger.
But this was not even the most wondrous part.
Quatre shivered, swallowed hard and unconsciously stroked the organza curtains that were neatly tied to the wall.
The young man-for he was, indeed, young and a man- was flawless.
Quatre had never loved and had always loved- as a person he loved everyone. He was accepting, adoring and affectionate.
But this. . .was not like that.
This was something much different. . .
It. . .made his chest hurt. . .more like ache.
The hermit thrush suddenly burst out into it's heavenly aria and Quatre watched-utterly entranced- as the young man's sinful lips pursed and whistled out the perfect echo.
'. . .this. . is holy. . .'Quatre sank back down to his seat and leaned his head against the window frame.
His eyes strayed over the human's features- an oval face with high cheekbones and a noble jaw line. His hair shone silver in the earth's moon's light, but it was dark and cast one eye in shadow.
Oh, what color were those eyes? A pacific blue? A fawn-like brown? Perhaps a stormy gray? The shadows teased the young heir mercilessly. The thrush song rose and fell in a chromatic, aural sine.
But Quatre had forgotten his song of refuge. He'd found another haven.
Suddenly, with a sweeping gesture, the divine visitor launched the twittering bird into the air- both creatures singing and whistling in perfect unison. With his subject's face now fully illumined by the moonlight, Quatre gasped and put his hands to his mouth.
"Green. Oh. . .they're green." He whispered breathlessly and moaned.
The rarest color of all.
The color God had picked for his holy earth.
His palpitating heart slowed a bit as it fell into synch with the bird's song. The little creature traversed across the landscape and bobbed along the wind.
And it was headed straight for his window.
'No. . .'Quatre prayed silently. 'Don't come here. . .he'll see me. He'll know I've been watching him. . .please. . .'
The bird landed on the window sill and sang its silly, irritating song. Quatre muttered a curse and ducked out of the line of view.
'Damn bird. . .'
It twittered and hopped along the sill.
"Is someone there?"
Quatre clutched at his chest- the organ fuelling his body with life-force burst into chaotic Bach capriccio.
That face.
Those eyes.
That voice.
That soft, powerful, rich voice. Measured and seductive and innocent. It was a cello and a wooden flute superimposed on renaissance court poetry. Quatre shook with fear.
'What is wrong with me. . .why is my heart hurting me?'
"Pardon me? Did you hear me?"
Quatre clutched at his chest again and grunted.
'I can't. . .pain. . .no. . .I need to. . .'
Taking in a deep breath he crawled away from the window, then, standing, he approached it nonchalantly.
It took every fiber in his being to remain standing.
"Hello there." Was the quiet greeting.
"Hello yourself." Quatre smiled and managed to utter. The mysterious figure was now standing a few feet from-and several below- his window. Quatre was staring- he knew he was staring- and yet, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the young pilot. Quatre shuddered as he let his eyes travel down the boy's aesthetic physique and he quickly dismissed the longing as it rippled through his feverish form.
"That hermit thrush likes you." The green-eyed youth remarked. Quatre couldn't bring himself to acknowledge the thrush. He was mesmerized.
"Not as much as it likes you." He blurted out. The young man arched his one visible eyebrow and Quatre immediately began to blush and stammer. "I. . I heard you whistling and saw it. ..with you." He finished lamely. A shadow of a smile graced the stranger's face. "You're really good. I couldn't tell the difference and I listen to them all the time. . ."
"Those who spend their entire lives listening are privy to such secrets." The boy murmured cryptically. Quatre's pulse was pounding. "Why don't you try it?"
"Try what, exactly?" Quatre forced out.
The young stranger demonstrated by whistling to thrush's sweet serenade.
"Oh. . I couldn't. . ."
"Why not?"
It was that simple.
"I. ..don't know."
"Just listen." The strange intruder repeated the tune. Quatre listened. "Now, try."
Licking his lips, he whistled .
'Uh. . .'
The thrush cocked his head. He blushed bright red.
But. . .for his troubles. . .he was given a present.
A firm but gentle laugh fell from the boy's lips. Had Quatre not despised the adjective "angelic" after having himself referred to as such, he would've thus dubbed the melodious laugh.
Lowering his head and still smirking, the stranger turned around slowly. His every movement was rhythmic and graceful like a tribal dancer or a leopard.
"That was pretty good. But you need to listen just a little more. . ."
And with that, he walked back along the beach.
Quatre was speechless. . .almost
"W. . Wait! My name's Quatre! Quatre Raberba Winner! What's. . ."
The boy walked until Quatre's eyes could no longer follow his form.
. . .
. . .
. . .Quatre blinked.
His heart slowed to a normal pace and the flush left his cheeks.
'I. . .think I'll go to bed.'
He fell asleep the instant his full-up head hit the pillow.
The hermit thrush watched its sleeping charge for a moment, then launched back into the twilight.