She sits on the roof, her short blonde hair ruffled by the soft, sweeping caress of a cool spring breeze. Save for the quicksilver radiance of the moon, she sits in darkness, content to listen as the wind brings whispers of the world to her ears.
She thinks.
A noise comes from the edge of the roof, and she turns, startled. For a moment she sees nothing until, from the inky shadows, emerge a pair of eyes. They are old eyes, beautiful eyes, just a shade shy of violet. They are her daughter's eyes.
"Papa!"
She smiles, takes her daughter by the arm and sits with her, their feet dangling over the edge of the roof. A crisp wind rustles past, bearing the stale scent of the city, and she tugs her jacket off, draping it around her daughter's slender, almost fragile frame.
"We should go downstairs, papa," her daughter whispers, burrowing into the reassuring warmth of her side. "The others are all waiting for you."
She says nothing, merely nods, staring off into the distance. She closes her eyes as another wind comes, a breeze of memories borne aloft on silent, ethereal wings.
She remembers.
She remembers another time, another girl, another rooftop, another life. She is five years old and her father is sitting beside her. He is a tall man, but whipcord lean, and he smells of sweat and motor oil. They are watching the street below, and he is pointing out the cars, telling her everything he knows.
Later, and she always loves this part the best, they go down to his garage. He takes out his tools, shows them to her one by one, let's her run her hands over the cool, sleek metal. Later still, she sits beside him as he works, hunched beneath the lifeless bulk of a car, handing him the tools. The tools are heavy, and it is tiring, dirty work. Soon her arms ache and her hands are stained with soot. But the car is alive, its engine purring, roaring its power to the world. She loves these moments, loves him, more than anything in the world.
She's daddy's little girl.
She was seven years old when her mother realised she didn't like to wear dresses. They just got in the way. It was easier in pants, to crawl beneath the cars beside her father, to learn with her hands the supple but stern feel of a car's metal innards.
They were together on the roof again, the day she won her first race. She was nine years old and the fastest girl in school. Pressed against his side, her nostrils filled with the comforting scent of petrol and grease, she tells him everything. How the wind whispers in her ear when she runs, how it rushes past her, swift and beautiful, perfect in its wild, whimsical freedom.
Another two years pass and she's up on the roof again. Her father is beside her, one arm draped gently around her shoulders, whispering softly in her ear. But she doesn't hear his words, all she hears is her mother yelling at her. So what if she wanted to do karate? So what if she didn't like dresses or tea ceremonies or any of that? So what if she liked cars and sports instead?
Her father holds her, he understands, she just knows he does. For a long time they sit up there, just her father and her, bound by the black smudges on their over alls, and the scent of motor oil, heavy in the air.
She'll always be daddy's little girl.
Five more years go by in the blink of an eye. They are back on the roof, only the wind is harsher now. Things have changed. A storm is brewing, and the air is heavy with unspoken thunder.
Blood trickles from her broken lip, and all she can do is watch him, watch his hands. Those hands, the same hands that taught her everything she knows about cars, that guided the wheel the first few frightened times she drove, that copied, however clumsily, her grace on the piano or the power of her punches, are stained with her blood.
Slowly, he turns and she sees that he is crying. The tears are coursing down his cheeks, a river of salty moisture that carves a path through the soot that always seems to find its way onto his face. She is why he is crying.
All those years, all those hours spent together and he never understood. It didn't matter to him that she wasn't the proper little girl that her mother wanted, that she loved cars and the heady scent of machinery more than dolls or dresses. It didn't matter that she always hung out with the boys. Inside she had always been his little girl, daddy's little princess. But daddy's little princess, daddy's little girl wasn't supposed to like other girls.
"Please…" she says, and she's not even sure what she's asking for.
He just looks at her then at his hands, and for the first time the scent of the garage makes her sick, makes her dizzy.
"Go…" he whispers, his voice so soft that the steady hum of the street below almost drowns him out.
"Papa…" she begins, and now she crying too. "Papa please…" And her eyes, her eyes are begging him to understand, begging him to see that all her life, everything she's ever done, she's done because of him, because all her life she's had his love and all her life all she ever wanted to be was him.
"Just go." His voice is raw, like a broken machine. "Go."
And above them, the storm breaks, and drops of rain begin to fall. The sky is crying.
"Papa."
She blinks, her eyes slowly refocusing on the small, purple-haired bundle beside her.
"We really should go inside."
Suddenly she can't stand to be on the roof a moment longer. The smell of the street wafts up, choking her, boxing her in. She has to get away, has to be free, like the wind. As they get off the roof, a single tear slips down her cheek. The wind catches it, and spreads her grief to every corner of the sky.
Later, much later, she is moving through the house, checking to see that all the windows are locked. The others have gone home, and her family is asleep. She alone is awake. As she moves through the dining room and the kitchen, she sighs.
Soon, she is upstairs, and she pauses at her daughter's room. Her daughter is old enough now, to want her privacy, to want her own, special place. After all, every princess needs a kingdom. But still, she likes to look in on her, to let her eyes wander over that gentle, gentle face.
Inside her daughter's room she finds herself in a forest of violet, so vividly purple that he she can't help but chuckle. Her eyes grow tender though, as she watches her daughter sleeping, shivering beneath the blankets.
She closes the open window, and pauses for a moment at her daughter's bedside. Her daughter's face is so serene when she is awake, that the sorrow on it now it almost painful to see. Whispering a word of comfort, she plants a soft kiss to the sleeping child's forehead. She leaves.
Outside, she sags against the wall. She knows what her daughter dreams of, or at least she thinks she does. She has dreams like that too, sometimes, of the wind, of the screaming song of a gale as it rips through steel and flesh. She hopes her daughter has kinder dreams as well, like the ones she has, sometimes, of flying, of drifting through the clouds, a mantle of winds wrapped tightly around her.
The last room she enters is her own, or rather the one she shares. As always she pauses at the door, drinking in the slender, graceful beauty of her love. Long aqua coloured hair and eyes the colour of the sea. Wordlessly she slips in beside her.
She sleeps then she dreams, and the dreams she has are not pleasant.
She dreams of other rooftops, of nights spent fighting, her own blood all over her, her breath coming in short, terrified gasps as she fights and fights and fights. Worse still is the part of the dream where she sees the others fall. Where she sees the light in their eyes die, when she feels her love's last breath against her cheek, or sees her daughter caught in the impossible ecstasy of her terrible power. Not all of it is imagined.
She wakes, as she always does, cold and afraid and wonders, wonders who she is. Is she her daddy's little girl, or the proper princess her mother always wanted her to be? Is she still the same woman who fought, tooth and nail, for respect on the racing circuit, who earned with blood and skill and sorrow, the admiration of those who despised her?
The woman in her arms stirs and she holds her tight, so tight that she is almost afraid she'll crush her. Is she something else? A warrior, a soldier for truth and love and all the other ideals her Princess still believes in? And if she is, why can't she just believe, like they do, that somehow, someway, everything will be all right?
Something cold and sharp brushes past her. The window in her room is open. She rises to close it, but stops as the door creaks open. Her daughter is standing there.
"Papa…"
The wind whispers through the window again and she turns, only to find herself reflected in the mirror by the bed, her face dimly illuminated by the light spilling through the door.
"Papa," her daughter says as she comes towards her. "I heard you…"
But her eyes are on the mirror. In it she sees herself. She sees cobalt blue eyes, no longer stern, but soft, tempered by love. She sees her love sitting up, her own, eyes, the colour of a turbulent sea filled with compassion, and she sees her daughter coming up behind her, wrapping her small, small arms around her waist.
"I heard you crying, papa," her daughter whispers.
And then she realises something she's known all along. She isn't her daddy's little girl, or the feminine princess her mother always wished she was. She isn't a driver, or a warrior, or anything else.
She's just herself.
But curled up against her love, with her daughter's arms around her, somehow, somehow, that's enough.
It will always be enough.
Author's Note
Yay! Finally, got another one done. Well, let me get the ball rolling by saying, up front, that this one is a lot longer than the others. Now before any of you shoot me and wonder why, it's not because I like Uranus more than the others, though she is awfully cool. The reason is, we never learn much about her family or about why she acts like she does, hence my creation of her father. But most of all, she's definitely one of the most complex scouts, because most of the time she's so strong, and yet, beneath all of that she can be fragile, she can be gentle, and that's what makes her special. So yeah, that's why I ended up writing so much, because really, more than the others, she needed a longer piece, one which really explored her character, which, hopefully I did.
As always, let me remind you, I live off feedback. So please, drop me a line and tell me what you think, good, bad, or just plain whatever ;.
To All Reviewers : Once again, let me express my sincere thanks. Knowing that you guys are actually enjoying this makes my day. As for my hand, it is getting better, and the swelling has gone down… so… care to guess who's next, you might be surprised… or you might not…
