Disclaimer: Be-Papas's got dibs on Shoujo Kakumei Utena and all related characters. Poems by several authors are quoted below; see end for attributions.

Author's Note: Shiori's POV. * . . . * indicates italics.

Title: Shiori vanguardista (Part Four, Sub Rosa)
Rating: G

Category: Drama/Angst
Pairings: Nothing that isn't implied by the show.
Summary: Shiori's glad. Juri's sad. (Not to mention worried.)
Warnings: None I can think of.
Spoilers: Through Episode 28 (Whispers in the Dark).

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Sub Rosa

Part Four: Shiori vanguardista

Our Spanish literature teacher, as usual, starts class by filling the board with neat rows of romaji. Today, he has written as title: "The Fall of the Swan: From Modernismo to Vanguardismo."

Amid the impatient rustling of my classmates, I stretch delicately, then uncap my pen and trace characters in my notebook margin: Tsuchiya Ruka. With small flicks of the pentip, I craft his likeness: flyaway lock of hair, sharp chin, swooping brows . . .

Even so has his attention drawn me into existence here on the Ohtori campus. Once a miniscule violet, I've bloomed a great dark rose. Everyone--almost everyone--has changed towards me. Male and female classmates greet me respectfully, teachers call on me and praise my contributions.

The tapping of the teacher's chalk has stopped. I turn my gaze hurriedly to the board. "Modernismo," I copy down, "French Parnassians," "Ruben Darío." "Symbolism." "Aestheticism." Sensei's plain face glows in the afternoon sunlight as he croons the name of the Nicaraguan poet whose clean-cut verses celebrated a mix of the classical and the exotic.

The teacher has asked Biiko to read a bit of Darío: "Los Cisnes"--Swans. Dario's fond of these birds--they symbolize . . . well, a whole bunch of things to him.

"Faltos del alimento que dan las grandes cosas,

¿qué haremos los poetas sino buscar tus lagos?

A falta de laureles son muy dulces las rosas,

y a falta de victorias busquemos los halagos."

 . . .

Lacking the food that great things bring,

what shall we poets do but seek your lakes?

If we have no laurels, roses are very sweet;

bereft of victories, let us look for pleasures. (1)

Metered design, European-style orderliness--this poetry seems like Ohtori itself. I close my eyes and think of arched walkways, neoclassical fountains . . .  Kaoru Miki's piano ripplings . . . fencing too, in its formal, chilly grace.

My mind's eye conjures up one white-clad form immediately: foil perfectly extended, arm angled behind, copper curls escaping the back of the mask.

My mind's eraser quickly rubs it out.

Tsuchiya Ruka. His name is a talisman. I feel a different foil cradled in my palms, warm breath fanning my cheeks, soft lips marking me his.

 . . . I've clearly missed part of the lecture. The teacher is now discussing rebels against the modernist movement.

"First, we have Enrique Gonzalez Martinez. Takatsuki-san, would you turn to page 48 and read the first verse of his poem?"

Pleased to be called on, I rise and find my place in the book. "Tuércele el cuello al cisne," I read in a clear voice, "de engañoso plumaje/ que da su nota blanca al azul de la fuente;/ el pasea su gracia no mas, pero no siente/ el alma de las cosas ni la voz del paisaje."

*Wring its neck! The swan with deceitful feathers

that gives its white note to the fountain's blue.

It simply struts its grace but does not feel

the soul of objects nor the landscape's voice.*

The words flow out of me, take shape in the air and dissolve. As I sit, a flicker of white tugs the edge of my vision. Turning a little, I see her leaning against the wall opposite our classroom doorway. Heavy amber ringlets frame perfectly carved features, lap over her snowy Student Council jacket. Her eyes scan the page of the book she holds.

--Skreek.-- Our instructor underlines the name Vicente Huidobro with a long slide of chalk. "Good, now let us close with "Espejo de Agua." The whole poem--I think Kaoru-san for the first two verses, and Himemiya-san the last three, if you please."

Who knows how two underclassmen got into this sophomore-level class? Ohtori's rules are strangely malleable at times . . . and if Kozue is interested in something, she's not the type to let scruples (her own or anyone else's) stand in her way. Though she usually seems to lick her lips over the rolling sounds of Spanish, lately her voice has been muted, almost dull.

"Mi espejo, corriente por las noches,

Se hace arroyo y se aleja de mi cuarto.

"Mi espejo, mas profundo que el orbe

Donde todos los cisnes se ahogaron."

*My looking-glass turns liquid in the nights,

Becomes a creek that flows out of my room.

My looking-glass, deeper than the sphere

within which every swan has long been drowned.*

Himemiya Anthy--the deputy Chairman's sister--picks up there, her husky voice never losing its hint of remoteness. She doesn't have Kozue's obvious enthusiasm for the subject, but her mastery of the spoken language is perfect.

"Es un estanque verde en la muralla

Y en medio duerme tu desnudez anclada.

"Sobre sus olas, bajo cielos sonámbulos,

Mis ensueños se alejan como barcos.

"De pie en la popa siempre me veréis cantando.

Una rosa secreta se hincha en mi pecho

Y un ruiseñor ebrio aletea en mi dedo."

*It's a green pond upon the wall

and in it sleeps your nakedness at anchor.

On its waves, under sleepwalk skies,

my reveries recede like boats.

In the stern you'll always spot me standing, singing.

A secret rose is swelling in my breast,

A drunken nightingale flutters on my finger.*

The end-of-class bell shrills into the hush that follows the poem. Sensei shouts our homework assignment over the din of zipper-noises and buckle snaps. I write it down, then linger over my satchel, vibrating with blood and fierce language.

Slowly, I raise my eyes, acknowledge her presence by the door. "Oh, Juri-san. What's that look for?"

A slight curve of her neck as her gaze falls from mine. "Shiori . . . Don't go out with him, for your own good."

Startled, I utter an unladylike "Eh?"

Juri plows ahead. "I know this is a shock for you. But I'm worried about you. You can't trust him--"

"Juri-san!" I bark. She almost jumps. I press a hand against my heart as I look upon her. Who does she think she is, to besmirch *my* brightness? What does she know of me and my dreams, of this new power within me?

I hold the words poised on my tongue tip, then let them fly, swift and sure.

"You are really . . . just awful."

For a second my ears seem filled with a rushing sound, the frantic beating of doomed wings. Yet Arisugawa Juri just stands there, her eyes wide like bottomless, barely-rippled pools.

*Anyone ever tell you that people can drown in each other's eyes?* Ruka teased me yesterday. *I've known it to happen--quite a tragedy.*

A classmate calls from behind me.

"Coming," I say as I step carefully away from the brink. Swinging my satchel at my side, I leave Juri behind me.

"What's up?" someone asks, glancing past me into the room.

I manage to mutter, "Nothing." My heart seems to have grown too big for my chest.

"Isn't Arisugawa-san scary?" another girl breathes in my ear.

"Oh, is she?" I let my own breath out with a laugh.

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*Later that day . . .

*Shiori is seen in profile, putting books away in her locker. Against the wall behind her appear the silhouettes of two Shadow Play Girls.

*A-ko [wearing a beard, declaims]: The Tale of the Swan Brother!

*B-ko [in princess garb, runs towards the silhouette of a swan. She is holding out a shirt]: Here you go! [Swan reverses direction, moves off] Wait, come back! [She chases it offstage]

*A-ko [lifts a finger]: The only way to break the spell is for the princess to throw the shirt over her brother!

*B-ko [returns, dragging her feet] He flew away--again . . .

*A-ko [clutches head]: Oh no! Doesn't he want to be rescued?

*Shiori [closes her locker. Dulcetly]: I thought the point of this story was that the princess had to keep her mouth shut until the very end. *

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Only after my encounter with her in the classroom does it occur to me: perhaps Juri has an interest in Tsuchiya-sempai. *Perhaps this time, without even trying, I succeeded in taking something precious from her.*

For a blink of an eye, I try to picture Juri polishing the sword. I fail utterly.

In any case, I'm too attached to the image of myself in that role.

I never did, of course--the idea wouldn't have occurred to me. But, I reason, my behavior *now* makes up for that omission.

You, Tsuchiya-sempai, were a miracle.

Though aware of you in my early years at Ohtori, I had never spoken to you before your return. Yet when we met in the corridor with the lockers, it was as though my newborn desire, unspoken, achieved its own end. From strangers to lovers in the space of a brief exchange! I remember scrambling thoughts, my words feeding clumsily, eagerly off yours. Anything to make you think well of me, gift me with the smile that had all those fencers blushing.

And those few stammered words sufficed.

I sense purposefulness in all you do, Tsuchiya-sempai. Underneath your banter, deeper than your flirtations, burns determination: you want to shine. And by your every glance and action, you invite me to shine too. I've left frozen memories behind: I burn alongside you in the present.

Time moves in a blur now. Our moments together seem so brief that I run to you to make them last longer, not to waste even a second.

I am running to you now through Ohtori's dappled night. You've hinted that you need my help with something.

"Anything," drums my heart. "Anything."

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 (1) From "Los Cisnes" [The Swans] by Rubén Darío, translated by Sara Palmer.

(2) from "Tuércele el cuello al cisne" [Wring the Swan's Neck] by Enrique Gonzalez Martinez, translated by Sara Palmer

(3) from "Espejo de Agua" [Water-Mirror] by Vicente Huidobro, translated by Sara Palmer