Disclaimer: Usual applies.
I dedicate this chapter to the readers. - Becca
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Heero heard the sound of seagulls crying offshore in his ear, which was odd, and not a little bit eerie, as he was in space and nowhere near a body of salty water. Perhaps these sounds resonated from old memories flapping as aptly as his clothes in a sea breeze - sea breezes that could be found at the schools he had gone to last year, both remarkably close to the Atlantic, or the time he spent with Howard on the coast of the Pacific. Mighty oceans and their clamouring minions, he heard their sounds as clearly as if he was ankle-deep in sand, waiting for the tide to come in.
Physically, he could not be farther away from those conditions. He found himself on the flat, cement roof of an apartment building he sheltered in, at least ten stories high, a rectangular pillar supporting the near-invisible shell above the colony. It was easily one of the tallest buildings on the colony. Heero took a strange delight in being able to see to all corners of the colony - corners, ha!, it was round - feeling, perhaps, that he could escape immediately over the edge and into space if need be, exit doors were all around. Though, really, he had no need to be edgy - none at all.
Liar. Heero twisted his neck around until he heard the bones pop in quick succession. He still studied the round horizon surrounding him. Liar, he could never bring himself to trust the voice that soothed over his alarms like a soft hand blurring his fears - nothing was that dependable. Reliable and dependable - those were not interchangable words. Reliable suggested something stronger than simply being dependable - you can depend on someone close, but can you rely on them? Food for thought, Heero knew.
If only there was wind up here. But there wasn't. He felt covered in soot and ash from his travels, the constant picking up, abruptly disentangling himself from whatever he had been caught up in, and hastening to the next place, and the next, and the next, until he felt he could stop and rest and take a breath, then the next, and the next... It was a relentless existence, different from before - before had been first meaningless, then purely existential, then indifferent. Now it was relentless. Was there anything such as a satisfying existence? Heero had better stop trying to describe his every word as though closing a door were poetry, every action worth defining. He was stuck in this constant whirlwind made by his own body, his own feelings of alarm.
He had seen the doctor, across a hall, in an airport terminal. The first thing that sprung to Heero's (stunned) mind was 'wily'. The doctor certainly did look wily, his weak, pointed chin bared to the world - had he lost his beard? Heero had never seen him without his beard, had never believed there was anything such as Dr. J beardless - and his slitted eyes moving when he had to stand still in a line exiting the terminal. Heero found his breath again, felt his pulse, heard it beating in his head in one of those moments when everything is still but the blood in one's head, and he could hear the screams of the doctor instructing him and the screams of the Zero pushing him at the same time. His fingers cramped at his tightened hold on the bag containing the Zero, steady against his hip.
He turned, hunched his shoulders in a way that was entirely unnatural, and went on to his shuttle. It was going to take him opposite this place to a small, industrial colony, Colony U56. Heero sat rigidly, the Zero between his feet. He must have drunk four glasses of water on that flight. It took him the entire flight to realize the intense ways in which he had reacted to so familiar a foe resulted of a paranoia come true and terror. In some small way he knew he and Dr. J had yet to finish with each other but not yet! Not yet, now was too soon, far too soon. For one thing, he still had the Zero. With the Zero still in his possession, he felt much more in danger than he would with only his hands and teeth to fight the old man. Old man! Dr. J was becoming an old man, yet he still was to be fought.
Heero was jumpy now. It took days to settle down. He found a place to stay - small, only two rooms, with a view that opened up on all the rooftops spread about far below - and places to get food cheaply. He sometimes felt like burning his clothes, his bag - after certain missions he used to do that, in case anyone had seen him in those things, in case anything from the crime scene still clung to him. But he was suddenly an incredible pennypincher - his face grew pinched, his ribs stood out in a way that, while not unhealthy, reminded him he should eat more. Circles he had always had under his eyes grew darker. His clothes grew to feel like his second skin, soft, without putting up any resistance, and colorless. Habit made him wash himself regularly, launder his clothes weekly, appear minimally taken care of and out of the way. It was the traveling without a clear end or result that gave him a glimmer of hopelessness. He had grown used to expecting something for his efforts, good or bad, often bad - constantly going from place to place, often with less and less of his own things, wore him down.
Still no wind. Heero moved away from the ledge and heard, abruptly, the sound of a door opening and being shut one-handedly, slamming back into its frame.
He turned, watching the other, new occupant of the roof.
An old man shuffled into view and, taken aback at the sight of the young man near the ledge, raised eyebrows that had grown long and curling into archs over small, wrinkled eyes. He held a large sack of something indescribable.
"Eh-yah?" He gruffed. "Whatcha' doing up here?" Heero stared at him, hard, thinking fast. The old man pursed thin lips, moistened with spit but very dry and cracked. "If you think of...eh, help me here, this's getting heavy." He dropped the bag, it fell with a stunted Thud. Then he walked on to a wall that separated one half of the roof from the other - a cement wall with a heavily barred door to which the old man held up keys. "Well? Do I have to yell for you?" He laughed, a surprisingly wholehearted sound. "You more deaf than me?"
He was at least seventy. Heero headed for the bag and picked it up, feeling the weight (it was heavy, how long had the old man kept it with him?). Glancing up, he saw the old man waiting, and advanced. He had to lean to one side with the bag in one hand; it leaned against his thigh, making walking in a straight line awkward.
He stopped once he was past the door the old man held out for him. He heard the lock click behind him and stiffened, the bag yet in his hand.
"Come on, you just gon'a stand there?" The old man blinked up into Heero's face; he had to crane his neck a little, standing at just above five foot. "I don't know you, do I?"
Heero shook his head.
"Just as well." The old man blinked a little more. "I'm Cloke Ikjen, if the conversation ever gets around to that." Heero paused before tilting his head quizzically.
"Iceland?" The old man gave him an appraising look.
"Thereabouts."
Heero glanced around; along the wall sat more bags, like a line of drunks that had fallen asleep on the street. After a questioning glance in Ikjen's direction he set the one he held against the rest, then stepped back. Turning around, he felt startled at the sight of a squat little greenhouse set in the middle of that half of the cement roof, one to which Ikjen now advanced in the most familiar manner. The old man glanced over his shoulder at Heero and gestured for him to follow.
"This here's mine." He pointed out. Heero felt a frown tighten his face.
"Mmh." He managed to grumble.
It was not the presence of the greenhouse - like a serene little glass buddah bursting with green stuff - that bothered him as much as its components: glass, which was extremely pricy, even on a colony whose population was almost entirely involved in the industry of turning raw materials into products, therefore who must have had easier access to glass; the metal trimmings holding the glass sheets together, which came of specialized work and could not be bought from this colony; the plants themselves came from earth, or the seeds once had. Obviously Ikjen's privacy - the cement wall cutting any other visitors off his greenhouse - had cost something since very few apartment buildings gave so much to its leasers. How had the old man gotten to so many materials during war times? Heero knew this colony had been affected by the war, it was not one of the few immune no matter that it was a distance from where any of the fighting had occured. On pondering it the situation felt very bizarre.
The old man continued to stare at the younger, growing more perplexed with the silence as it continued.
"So...what?" Heero took a moment before he responded by glancing back down at Ikjen.
"Did you build this?"
"Pretty much."
"How did you get the materials?" The appraising look gained suspicion and Heero knew himself to be walking on eggshells.
"I don't know what you mean." Ikjen waved him off, heading for the door with a key in his hand. "You better leave now." Heero allowed himself to be ushered out, feeling the old man's rough, bent fingers at his elbow when he was almost out the door. "Thanks for your help." Heero turned to watch the door close, now barred from Cloke Ikjen's greenhouse. He couldn't blame the old man for his behavior: he had acted oddly, quiet, then questioning. He would never have trusted himself where he in the old man's place. But it was not for him to hide himself anymore: as long as Dr. J could not catch up to him he could afford to make people uneasy. Besides, it warded them off.
He started for the stairs leading to his apartment on the twentieth floor. There were two working elevators which he didn't use - fire hazards.
He needed a break.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
When she worked, she missed meals. Whether through a lack of attention paid on her part or a dismissive attitude, Relena shirked eating regularly. It was something of a nasty cycle - Relena would stay up late, and in the morning not feel terribly hungry, some toast and a few cups of tea would tide her over until midday. She ate again when she felt hungry, maybe five hours later, then work herself into a lightheaded sweat for another three hours before eating what could pass as a full meal. By then (late afternoon) she would be absorbed into yet another thing that required her full attention and so she would pass into the evening full of ideas but empty of nourishment. Ah, to be young again. Something in her cramping gut seemed to remind her she wouldn't be able to committ the same folly a decade from then as all that saved her from a constant headache was her youth.
At least, that was they system slowly being worked out into full-fledged habit until Mrs. Darlian came along on the trips. As a mother notices the physical wellbeing of her brood she raised her eyebrows at Relena picking at her food daintily, one hand holding up something for her to read, usually a piece she had written the day before and was reading over for corrections. The first few times she only nudged her daughter toward food, a bowl of strawberries-and-yogurt, an omelette, these small baked vegetable pies that were light enough on the stomach to act as breakfast food. Relena ate with indifference - she didn't care, she could always catch something later, if she so desired, and mornings were ideal for correctional reading because nothing important was scheduled then.
Mrs. Darlian began meeting other people at the hotel they stayed at, mostly travelers like herself, a Mr. Eggardt especially. Mr. Eggardt was in advertising but on vacation at the moment, visiting family, and they often took tours around the nearer part of the city, usually ending up at some lunching place to discuss family and Mr. Eggardt's boyfriend back on Earth (Mr. Eggardt was fourty, his boyfriend thirty-eight, and don't let anyone tell you that only two years is hardly any difference at all, it is...).
"Reynold, if you're on vacation, why didn't you bring Marcus along?"
"Ha-hmm, well, 'vacation' means the same as 'funeral' in my family, and Marcus and my family don't get along - oh, no, they're just very quarrelsome, he's the most agreeable fellow, and when there's a funeral - well, they just get very chapped, its very hard to get along with them."
"Oh, is the funeral nearby?"
"Second colony over, right next door."
Relena worked doggedly, only it wasn't the kind of work her mother found suitable for one at the age to go University. It was awkward sometimes, not disagreeable. When Mrs. Darlian felt she should be holding up flashcards for a quiz or looking over a paper she helped Relena file reports on the latest going on in her team and briefed Relena with lists Relena made.
"Tomorrow?"
"See Elderidge about committee, finish X0-1, begin on X0-9."
"Thursday?"
"Uhm...lunch with Mrs. Barrow, shuttle to Colony R-53 for the afternoon (back at eight PM) to meet with Rigolda's team." - and so on.
One evening Mrs. Darlian prepared to go downstairs for dinner only to find Relena in the bathroom filling a shallow tub the size of a hat box with steaming water. She was dressed in the most casual clothes she had along.
"You're not coming downstairs for dinner?" Relena straightened, the tub in her hands, and shook her head.
"I have a small headache coming on, so I'm going to stay here for tonight, if you don't mind." Her mother shook her head.
"No, it's alright, as long as - you're not coming down with anything, are you?"
"No, no, don't worry. I'll eat with you tomorrow. Have a good time."
"Thank you. Well...I'll be downstairs if you need me."
Relena let her out and shut the door quietly, slowly turning the lock. She brought the tub of steaming water to the couch, set it on the floor, and sat down. Leaning over she then rolled the pantlegs of her spare pajama suit up to her knees and eased her feet into the hot water - it hurt at first, but she had been on her feet plenty, it felt. Leaning back, she raised her head until she felt herself cushioned from the bottom of her spine to the crown of her head, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Doing nothing.
She had to pump her feet to keep from feeling cooked, but the hot water made a difference. She was wearing flats tomorrow, no more of that pump nonsense.
Light filtered in from outside through the almost sheer, white canvas curtains hanging in front of open windows. No breeze. She felt - not tired - sapped. Like one of those maple trees that people used to get syrup from. Amazing, that something as childishly luxurious as syrup came from trees. Syrup from trees, honey from bees, milk from cows...
She didn't realize she was falling asleep until she saw the light fade - light didn't fade that fast, not in a place where, technically, there was no night. The structure of colonies had a device along the rim of a colony that threw up a dark, gelled matter stretching over the glass shell above a colony, darkening it for a few hours, letting the citizens experience something they felt was their right to having. But this was not it, this was just her eyelides closing, blotting out the breezeless, light daylight in a room so seamlined it was the picture of modern simplicity.
She had an easy, if restless sleep, full of peeping dreams that ran about unended. One of her mother, growing old, smiling benignly in a way Relena had never known - her mother was the model of well-to-do widow/mother, but she could be very fierce. Another was of a long creeping shadow following her along streets that burnt under unforgiving sunlight, the pavement steaming, a bright, untamed yellow growing black under her feet.
Then she felt a deep, forceful wind unseat her, carrying her where it chose to go but playing pranks on her hair and snagging at her clothes - it pinched and teased, the trickster, until she had nothing on, riding continuously on a mighty air current, above thunderheads and the fleecy kind of clouds that made you want to a paint, using them as your brush. Being naked herself, seated as comfortably as on her father's chair in the study, back home, was utterly moving - the wind combed through her toes, passed along the back of her ear, around her hairline. She moved as restlessly as her dreams did. She was, finally, an unchallenged spirit.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
I apologize that this chapter isn't the usual length. I hope you enjoyed this - I know it was (very) long in coming. Thank you so much for your support! - Becca
I dedicate this chapter to the readers. - Becca
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Heero heard the sound of seagulls crying offshore in his ear, which was odd, and not a little bit eerie, as he was in space and nowhere near a body of salty water. Perhaps these sounds resonated from old memories flapping as aptly as his clothes in a sea breeze - sea breezes that could be found at the schools he had gone to last year, both remarkably close to the Atlantic, or the time he spent with Howard on the coast of the Pacific. Mighty oceans and their clamouring minions, he heard their sounds as clearly as if he was ankle-deep in sand, waiting for the tide to come in.
Physically, he could not be farther away from those conditions. He found himself on the flat, cement roof of an apartment building he sheltered in, at least ten stories high, a rectangular pillar supporting the near-invisible shell above the colony. It was easily one of the tallest buildings on the colony. Heero took a strange delight in being able to see to all corners of the colony - corners, ha!, it was round - feeling, perhaps, that he could escape immediately over the edge and into space if need be, exit doors were all around. Though, really, he had no need to be edgy - none at all.
Liar. Heero twisted his neck around until he heard the bones pop in quick succession. He still studied the round horizon surrounding him. Liar, he could never bring himself to trust the voice that soothed over his alarms like a soft hand blurring his fears - nothing was that dependable. Reliable and dependable - those were not interchangable words. Reliable suggested something stronger than simply being dependable - you can depend on someone close, but can you rely on them? Food for thought, Heero knew.
If only there was wind up here. But there wasn't. He felt covered in soot and ash from his travels, the constant picking up, abruptly disentangling himself from whatever he had been caught up in, and hastening to the next place, and the next, and the next, until he felt he could stop and rest and take a breath, then the next, and the next... It was a relentless existence, different from before - before had been first meaningless, then purely existential, then indifferent. Now it was relentless. Was there anything such as a satisfying existence? Heero had better stop trying to describe his every word as though closing a door were poetry, every action worth defining. He was stuck in this constant whirlwind made by his own body, his own feelings of alarm.
He had seen the doctor, across a hall, in an airport terminal. The first thing that sprung to Heero's (stunned) mind was 'wily'. The doctor certainly did look wily, his weak, pointed chin bared to the world - had he lost his beard? Heero had never seen him without his beard, had never believed there was anything such as Dr. J beardless - and his slitted eyes moving when he had to stand still in a line exiting the terminal. Heero found his breath again, felt his pulse, heard it beating in his head in one of those moments when everything is still but the blood in one's head, and he could hear the screams of the doctor instructing him and the screams of the Zero pushing him at the same time. His fingers cramped at his tightened hold on the bag containing the Zero, steady against his hip.
He turned, hunched his shoulders in a way that was entirely unnatural, and went on to his shuttle. It was going to take him opposite this place to a small, industrial colony, Colony U56. Heero sat rigidly, the Zero between his feet. He must have drunk four glasses of water on that flight. It took him the entire flight to realize the intense ways in which he had reacted to so familiar a foe resulted of a paranoia come true and terror. In some small way he knew he and Dr. J had yet to finish with each other but not yet! Not yet, now was too soon, far too soon. For one thing, he still had the Zero. With the Zero still in his possession, he felt much more in danger than he would with only his hands and teeth to fight the old man. Old man! Dr. J was becoming an old man, yet he still was to be fought.
Heero was jumpy now. It took days to settle down. He found a place to stay - small, only two rooms, with a view that opened up on all the rooftops spread about far below - and places to get food cheaply. He sometimes felt like burning his clothes, his bag - after certain missions he used to do that, in case anyone had seen him in those things, in case anything from the crime scene still clung to him. But he was suddenly an incredible pennypincher - his face grew pinched, his ribs stood out in a way that, while not unhealthy, reminded him he should eat more. Circles he had always had under his eyes grew darker. His clothes grew to feel like his second skin, soft, without putting up any resistance, and colorless. Habit made him wash himself regularly, launder his clothes weekly, appear minimally taken care of and out of the way. It was the traveling without a clear end or result that gave him a glimmer of hopelessness. He had grown used to expecting something for his efforts, good or bad, often bad - constantly going from place to place, often with less and less of his own things, wore him down.
Still no wind. Heero moved away from the ledge and heard, abruptly, the sound of a door opening and being shut one-handedly, slamming back into its frame.
He turned, watching the other, new occupant of the roof.
An old man shuffled into view and, taken aback at the sight of the young man near the ledge, raised eyebrows that had grown long and curling into archs over small, wrinkled eyes. He held a large sack of something indescribable.
"Eh-yah?" He gruffed. "Whatcha' doing up here?" Heero stared at him, hard, thinking fast. The old man pursed thin lips, moistened with spit but very dry and cracked. "If you think of...eh, help me here, this's getting heavy." He dropped the bag, it fell with a stunted Thud. Then he walked on to a wall that separated one half of the roof from the other - a cement wall with a heavily barred door to which the old man held up keys. "Well? Do I have to yell for you?" He laughed, a surprisingly wholehearted sound. "You more deaf than me?"
He was at least seventy. Heero headed for the bag and picked it up, feeling the weight (it was heavy, how long had the old man kept it with him?). Glancing up, he saw the old man waiting, and advanced. He had to lean to one side with the bag in one hand; it leaned against his thigh, making walking in a straight line awkward.
He stopped once he was past the door the old man held out for him. He heard the lock click behind him and stiffened, the bag yet in his hand.
"Come on, you just gon'a stand there?" The old man blinked up into Heero's face; he had to crane his neck a little, standing at just above five foot. "I don't know you, do I?"
Heero shook his head.
"Just as well." The old man blinked a little more. "I'm Cloke Ikjen, if the conversation ever gets around to that." Heero paused before tilting his head quizzically.
"Iceland?" The old man gave him an appraising look.
"Thereabouts."
Heero glanced around; along the wall sat more bags, like a line of drunks that had fallen asleep on the street. After a questioning glance in Ikjen's direction he set the one he held against the rest, then stepped back. Turning around, he felt startled at the sight of a squat little greenhouse set in the middle of that half of the cement roof, one to which Ikjen now advanced in the most familiar manner. The old man glanced over his shoulder at Heero and gestured for him to follow.
"This here's mine." He pointed out. Heero felt a frown tighten his face.
"Mmh." He managed to grumble.
It was not the presence of the greenhouse - like a serene little glass buddah bursting with green stuff - that bothered him as much as its components: glass, which was extremely pricy, even on a colony whose population was almost entirely involved in the industry of turning raw materials into products, therefore who must have had easier access to glass; the metal trimmings holding the glass sheets together, which came of specialized work and could not be bought from this colony; the plants themselves came from earth, or the seeds once had. Obviously Ikjen's privacy - the cement wall cutting any other visitors off his greenhouse - had cost something since very few apartment buildings gave so much to its leasers. How had the old man gotten to so many materials during war times? Heero knew this colony had been affected by the war, it was not one of the few immune no matter that it was a distance from where any of the fighting had occured. On pondering it the situation felt very bizarre.
The old man continued to stare at the younger, growing more perplexed with the silence as it continued.
"So...what?" Heero took a moment before he responded by glancing back down at Ikjen.
"Did you build this?"
"Pretty much."
"How did you get the materials?" The appraising look gained suspicion and Heero knew himself to be walking on eggshells.
"I don't know what you mean." Ikjen waved him off, heading for the door with a key in his hand. "You better leave now." Heero allowed himself to be ushered out, feeling the old man's rough, bent fingers at his elbow when he was almost out the door. "Thanks for your help." Heero turned to watch the door close, now barred from Cloke Ikjen's greenhouse. He couldn't blame the old man for his behavior: he had acted oddly, quiet, then questioning. He would never have trusted himself where he in the old man's place. But it was not for him to hide himself anymore: as long as Dr. J could not catch up to him he could afford to make people uneasy. Besides, it warded them off.
He started for the stairs leading to his apartment on the twentieth floor. There were two working elevators which he didn't use - fire hazards.
He needed a break.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
When she worked, she missed meals. Whether through a lack of attention paid on her part or a dismissive attitude, Relena shirked eating regularly. It was something of a nasty cycle - Relena would stay up late, and in the morning not feel terribly hungry, some toast and a few cups of tea would tide her over until midday. She ate again when she felt hungry, maybe five hours later, then work herself into a lightheaded sweat for another three hours before eating what could pass as a full meal. By then (late afternoon) she would be absorbed into yet another thing that required her full attention and so she would pass into the evening full of ideas but empty of nourishment. Ah, to be young again. Something in her cramping gut seemed to remind her she wouldn't be able to committ the same folly a decade from then as all that saved her from a constant headache was her youth.
At least, that was they system slowly being worked out into full-fledged habit until Mrs. Darlian came along on the trips. As a mother notices the physical wellbeing of her brood she raised her eyebrows at Relena picking at her food daintily, one hand holding up something for her to read, usually a piece she had written the day before and was reading over for corrections. The first few times she only nudged her daughter toward food, a bowl of strawberries-and-yogurt, an omelette, these small baked vegetable pies that were light enough on the stomach to act as breakfast food. Relena ate with indifference - she didn't care, she could always catch something later, if she so desired, and mornings were ideal for correctional reading because nothing important was scheduled then.
Mrs. Darlian began meeting other people at the hotel they stayed at, mostly travelers like herself, a Mr. Eggardt especially. Mr. Eggardt was in advertising but on vacation at the moment, visiting family, and they often took tours around the nearer part of the city, usually ending up at some lunching place to discuss family and Mr. Eggardt's boyfriend back on Earth (Mr. Eggardt was fourty, his boyfriend thirty-eight, and don't let anyone tell you that only two years is hardly any difference at all, it is...).
"Reynold, if you're on vacation, why didn't you bring Marcus along?"
"Ha-hmm, well, 'vacation' means the same as 'funeral' in my family, and Marcus and my family don't get along - oh, no, they're just very quarrelsome, he's the most agreeable fellow, and when there's a funeral - well, they just get very chapped, its very hard to get along with them."
"Oh, is the funeral nearby?"
"Second colony over, right next door."
Relena worked doggedly, only it wasn't the kind of work her mother found suitable for one at the age to go University. It was awkward sometimes, not disagreeable. When Mrs. Darlian felt she should be holding up flashcards for a quiz or looking over a paper she helped Relena file reports on the latest going on in her team and briefed Relena with lists Relena made.
"Tomorrow?"
"See Elderidge about committee, finish X0-1, begin on X0-9."
"Thursday?"
"Uhm...lunch with Mrs. Barrow, shuttle to Colony R-53 for the afternoon (back at eight PM) to meet with Rigolda's team." - and so on.
One evening Mrs. Darlian prepared to go downstairs for dinner only to find Relena in the bathroom filling a shallow tub the size of a hat box with steaming water. She was dressed in the most casual clothes she had along.
"You're not coming downstairs for dinner?" Relena straightened, the tub in her hands, and shook her head.
"I have a small headache coming on, so I'm going to stay here for tonight, if you don't mind." Her mother shook her head.
"No, it's alright, as long as - you're not coming down with anything, are you?"
"No, no, don't worry. I'll eat with you tomorrow. Have a good time."
"Thank you. Well...I'll be downstairs if you need me."
Relena let her out and shut the door quietly, slowly turning the lock. She brought the tub of steaming water to the couch, set it on the floor, and sat down. Leaning over she then rolled the pantlegs of her spare pajama suit up to her knees and eased her feet into the hot water - it hurt at first, but she had been on her feet plenty, it felt. Leaning back, she raised her head until she felt herself cushioned from the bottom of her spine to the crown of her head, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Doing nothing.
She had to pump her feet to keep from feeling cooked, but the hot water made a difference. She was wearing flats tomorrow, no more of that pump nonsense.
Light filtered in from outside through the almost sheer, white canvas curtains hanging in front of open windows. No breeze. She felt - not tired - sapped. Like one of those maple trees that people used to get syrup from. Amazing, that something as childishly luxurious as syrup came from trees. Syrup from trees, honey from bees, milk from cows...
She didn't realize she was falling asleep until she saw the light fade - light didn't fade that fast, not in a place where, technically, there was no night. The structure of colonies had a device along the rim of a colony that threw up a dark, gelled matter stretching over the glass shell above a colony, darkening it for a few hours, letting the citizens experience something they felt was their right to having. But this was not it, this was just her eyelides closing, blotting out the breezeless, light daylight in a room so seamlined it was the picture of modern simplicity.
She had an easy, if restless sleep, full of peeping dreams that ran about unended. One of her mother, growing old, smiling benignly in a way Relena had never known - her mother was the model of well-to-do widow/mother, but she could be very fierce. Another was of a long creeping shadow following her along streets that burnt under unforgiving sunlight, the pavement steaming, a bright, untamed yellow growing black under her feet.
Then she felt a deep, forceful wind unseat her, carrying her where it chose to go but playing pranks on her hair and snagging at her clothes - it pinched and teased, the trickster, until she had nothing on, riding continuously on a mighty air current, above thunderheads and the fleecy kind of clouds that made you want to a paint, using them as your brush. Being naked herself, seated as comfortably as on her father's chair in the study, back home, was utterly moving - the wind combed through her toes, passed along the back of her ear, around her hairline. She moved as restlessly as her dreams did. She was, finally, an unchallenged spirit.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
I apologize that this chapter isn't the usual length. I hope you enjoyed this - I know it was (very) long in coming. Thank you so much for your support! - Becca