Chapter Five
I
Night stole peacefully over the kingdom, creeping quietly in from the east, bathing the countryside not in darkness but in soft, gentle shadows. She often watched the sun set over the western gate, standing outside on the balcony when it was warm, remaining behind the great glass wall of her chambers in the winter. She had been tempted to step outside this evening despite the chill in the air, but at Pagan's advice she decided not to.
The Queen of Sanq gave a weary sigh and lifted a hand in response to a wave from one of the servants below, walking the grounds for one final time before nightfall. She turned from the window and crossed the room, her white dress rustling about her, to the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. She stared at her reflection for a moment, studying herself with a scrutiny that was fast becoming characteristic of her.
Was this the girl the world referred to as Queen Relena of the Sanq Kingdom? Was this solemn, pale waif of a woman really a monarch, and had she really once been one of the most influential people in all of Earth and space? And was it possible that this woman had once known the young people who had given so much to the citizens of the colonies and the Earth; was it at all possible that she had, in her own way, fought alongside them?
"What have you done to yourself, Relena Peacecraft?" she said, reaching to let down her long hair. No, not Peacecraft. Relena Darlian. She had never really been a true Peacecraft, only by name and by birth. Milliardo alone was worthy of the name, after years of having to fight for it, not she, and even he had returned to the name Zechs Marquise after the wars.
What had happened to her? That was not a relevant question. What had happened to them, all of them, herself, Heero, Milliardo, all the others. What had happened to them? Her hair fell down over her shoulders, cascading halfway down her back, dark blonde as her mother's had been rather than the platinum shared by her father and brother. She absently ran her fingers through it, then returned to the window for one final look at the darkening kingdom before she retired for the evening.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of movement near the palace gates. She looked toward it, expecting to see another one of her servants enjoying the gardens as the dew fell over them, then the figure stepped out of the shadows and she gasped.
"It can't be," she whispered, her hand going to her thundering heart, where she knew that it indeed could be.
He stood at the edge of the gardens. His hands were shoved into the pockets of the long coat he wore and his head was lowered, as though he didn't know that all this land and what lay beyond it rightfully belonged to him. His hair, worn in the same manner as all the men in their family before, fell past his waist now, colored amber by the fading sunlight, and although he stood four stories below her and several yards away from the palace, by the gates, there could be no mistaking who he was.
Relena ran from the window, through the generous suite of rooms that constituted the Queen's chambers, out into the hall. She sped as though the hounds of Hell themselves were after her, through the corridors, down the wide marble staircase, through another hall and down the next one, then, the heels of her white shoes clattering loudly on the floor, over the magnificent ballroom that now served as a room for reception, to the grand doors at the head of the palace.
Across the weltering deep she ran, a stranger thing was never seen.
The cold twilight air assaulted her as she threw herself across the threshold, stinging her exposed hands and shoulders. Her eyes watered and she lost sight of his tall, shadowy figure.
"Milliardo!" she cried out, fumbling forward as a swift, icy breeze arose, as though to further separate them.
The damned stood silent to a man, they saw the great gulf set between.
"Let the damned stay damned," she muttered in response to the untimely recollection of lines to the poem her brother had once read to her when they were young, her only memory of him, and she ran forward as her voice reached his ears and he looked in her direction.
He met her as she ran, sweeping her up into his arms like a warm angel of divine mercy.
"You'll freeze to death out here, Princess," he said calmly, though the usual monotony of his voice was broken by an underlying affection. He walked her back toward the palace, still holding her close against him, and only once the doors were firmly shut behind them did he allows himself to embrace her.
"How many months has it been," she asked, "since we last met like this?"
He pressed his lips gently to her forehead. "My Princess, I don't believe we ever have."
At last, moments after he had done so to her, she released her hold on him. He placed his hands on her shoulders and held her out from him.
"You've grown so much," he said, and they both knew he wasn't simply meaning physically. "Much more than I ever expected you to."
"Is that regret I hear in your voice, brother?"
"Perhaps." He offered her a warm smile. It was only in these past two years since the wars had ended that they had been able, as brother and sister, to smile to each other.
There was a sharp gasp behind them. Milliardo turned in time to see one of the servants, an older lady who had served under their parents years ago, rush forward at him.
"Prince Milliardo," she said happily, beaming at the man she had cared for when he was hardly more than an infant. She stopped a few feet short of him, made as if to bow, then, in her excitement forsaking the titles and formalities, she threw her arms around him.
He returned the embrace awkwardly, looking at Relena with an amused expression on his face. "How have you been, Lanka?" he asked when the old woman finally let go of him.
Lanka replied in an enthusiastic rush, explaining to her prince how much she enjoyed her life now that all armed forces had been abolished, how her children were, how much the people at the palace had missed him, going on as though she were completely unaware that the returned prince had just spent the past sixteen years of his life fighting as a top militant soldier. Many of the older servants did seem to be attempting to forget who the two heirs to the throne were and what they had done years before, Relena had noticed, and perhaps this was for the best.
Talking still, Lanka unconsciously went off into a florid torrent of Greek, of which Relena could only barely decipher a few words, and Milliardo flashed her a bewildered glance. She found herself wondering where Miss Noin was, for in the past, during her stint as captain of the Royal Guard, it seemed she had always been able to translate, regardless of what language.
Lanka's cry had alerted another of the servants, and as she at last turned to resume her duties before going to bed, Pagan entered the ballroom. He did not seem surprised in the least to see her brother; rather, he smiled and bowed deeply as he had done in the Prince's presence for so many years.
"Welcome again to your kingdom."
Milliardo nodded. How awkward he seemed, Relena realized as she watched him, as if he had never in his life been treated as royalty.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Your Highness?" Pagan asked.
Milliardo's arm went around her waist. "Nothing for me, thank you," he said, his voice as solemn as it always was, "but I believe Her Majesty could use something especially warm to drink."
Pagan nodded and gave a knowing smile. "Very well then." He left them again to their own reunion.
Milliardo released her and crossed the great room, falling into a chair on the opposite side. She followed him. He was visibly more tired when she came to him, his eyes hazy and half-closed, sitting not as a prince would but rather with one leg lazily propped up on the chair's arm and his head resting against its back.
She reached out to him, took his hand between both of hers. "Is something wrong, Milliardo?"
He looked up at her. She always saw two people when he looked at her, one a strong, capable soldier, the other a scarred, broken but still innocent young man. But they were both her brother, both the man who was even now described as the Prince with the face of an angel and the one who had, for reasons she herself did not yet understand entirely, threatened the complete destruction of the Earth, and there was nothing either of them could do to change that.
She loved them both, the man with the mask and the one beyond. She knew that now, and she regretted all the times she had once thought otherwise. She loved him.
"Nothing is wrong," he replied, lightly kissing the hand that lay atop his. "Nothing is wrong, and yet at the same time everything is. Does that make any sense at all, my dear sister?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Will you please talk to me about it, Milliardo? Or am I asking for this too soon? You've just arrived and I don't even know why you've returned yet, and here I am asking you to empty out your troubled heart for me. Or perhaps it isn't for me to be there for you in that way. It seems to me that honor has only ever gone to Miss Noin." His expression fell at the name. Had she said something she shouldn't have?
"Milliardo?"
"Hmm?"
"Where is Miss Noin? I don't mean to pry, I'm only wondering if I should have one of the servants ready to receive her sometime tonight. Will she be joining you?"
He shook his head solemnly.
She felt a lump rise in the back of her throat. "Nothing has happened to her, has it?"
"No. Lucrezia is fine, physically at least. I cannot speak for her emotional state at the moment."
His cryptic response only further fueled her confusion and her concern.
His icy blue eyes met hers again, and he gave a weak smile, tightening his own hold on her hand. "I'm worrying you, aren't I?"
She nodded.
"I'm sorry, Princess. I know there is much for both of us to say, but as it is, I am too tired to even think tonight. Please forgive me."
"Let me give you a room then," she offered, pulling him to his feet. "There is nothing you should apologize for."
He merely nodded and sluggishly allowed her to lead him up the stairs, both flights on opposite ends of the palace, to the corridor opposite the one on which her own quarters were. She tried the third door from the hall's end and, upon finding it unlocked, led him inside. "This room is never used," she said, turning on a lamp and softly illuminating the palely colored parlor of the suite, "but it is kept clean in the event of any sudden visitors."
He released her hand, turned to survey the room. "It is not a guest room."
"The sudden visitor in mind was you."
He raised an eyebrow at her. Few men did not look condescending when they did this. Her brother was one of these. "Will this room do?" she asked.
"Why would it not?"
She smiled, a sincere loving smile in spite of her confusion.
"Please, if you'll excuse me," her brother said, obviously stifling a yawn.
"Of course." She stepped forward and embraced him once more. "Goodnight, Milliardo."
"Goodnight, Relena."
"Shall we talk more once you've rested?"
"If you'd like."
All of this said with both of them speaking in whispers like children who had stayed up long past their bedtime in the midst of some game or story. And weren't they still children? Yes, and that was how they would always seem to each other. Their youth together had been stolen from them years ago, and no amount of awkward, formal contact they could have with each other now could attain everything that had been lost then.
"Oh, Milliardo," she sighed into his ear, and though she had not felt them rising in her eyes a thin stream of tears fell down her cheeks. She sobbed and buried her face into his stone-hard chest.
"It's all right, Princess," he whispered, stroking her hair. "Whatever it is you cry for, it will be all right."
She tried to say something in agreement and could not, tried to nod and failed at this, too. The only thing she could do was step away from him and look into his cold eyes as they pierced hers; they were recognizably the eyes of her brother, but at the same time, they were the eyes of a stranger.
"I've missed you, Milliardo," she said, searching in vain to find some sort of emotion in his eyes. "I don't really even know you, but I've missed you so."
"We'll talk about this later," was his quiet reply, and he turned away from her, walking slowly toward the bedroom. She watched him disappear, then left his suite to return to her own, stunned still by her brother's sudden, inexplicable reentrance into her life. She even now only half-believed it had really happened.
Pagan met her at the door, holding an ornate silver tray, upon which rested a china cup.
"Prince Milliardo thought that something warm might be good for you," he said. "I believe this is what he had in mind."
Her brow furrowed and she took the cup, took a small sip from it. The thick liquid burned her throat and its warmth spread all throughout her body, banishing from her blood the chill that had set in when she ran outside to greet her brother.
Brandy, she thought. Of course Milliardo would think of it.
"Thank you, Pagan," she said, opening the door to her room. "Bring me another in about fifteen minutes."
"As you wish, Miss Relena."
She retreated to her bedroom, glass of brandy tucked tenderly into her hand. She took another drink from it, hardly the ginger sip she had taken earlier. A year ago she would have cringed at the idea of herself drinking, but now she found it only befitting. Milliardo had told her she had grown, but she knew what he meant, and all those around her would wholeheartedly agree with him. She was not the innocent pacifistic girl she had been when she had first met the people presently in her life, her brother included. She did not know who she was now. But certainly, the sweet princess Relena, the proclaimed Orphan of Sanq, was forever gone, and it was a sad but good riddance to her.
She went to the wardrobe, selected from it a white French shirt and a loose burgundy skirt. She changed out of her white silken gown into these simpler clothes, but the transition from a queen's garments to those of a civilian did nothing to change her disposition.
She went then to her adjacent study and sat at her desk, drinking her brandy as the tears dried slowly on her face.
Milliardo had come home, after all these years away. For what reasons and for how long she did not care, but just knowing that he was here, safely asleep under this roof made her feel something, didn't it? Of course it did, though she was still too stunned by his sudden appearance to know exactly what.
Grown. Changed. Was that what he had seen in her eyes when he told her they would talk later and turned his back on her, that change? She was suddenly afraid that he had seen it. What would her beautiful brother do if he only knew what she had done in the many months since they had last spoken?
All innocence lost. She had heard that her father, the great King Peacecraft, had used those words to describe the young soldiers who lived through battle, and she believed it was an accurate description of herself as well. She was no longer innocent or pure as Milliardo had once asked her to remain, not in any way. She would even now rather die in her idealism than live the life of soldier, but underneath the elegant gowns and sweet pacifistic words, she bore her own battle scars. She had given it all away these past two years, her pride, her ideals, her hopes, most of her faith; even her body had she given, for no purpose whatsoever. Nothing remained of what she had been.
Warmed by the brandy, she smiled tightly at the thought of her brother's reaction if he were ever to find out that the quiet, virginal Queen of Sanq had taken a man into her bed. He would be angry, that was a given, regardless of whom the other party was; she herself was angry. But there was nothing she could do to change the past.
Her affair had been kept in the utmost secrecy. No one, not even a single one of the servants, had known about these confidential trysts and there could be no lingering effects of what she had done; the two of them had been careful enough to ensure that there was no child. Perhaps it would have been different if there were any emotion involved. She had never tried, not even as she closed her eyes and slowly ran her fingertips across his back as he moved over her, to convince herself that she was in love. There was no love from either of them, nor was there desire or even physical need. Enjoyment as well was absent from these interludes.
So why, she asked herself, did she endure them?
Would her people understand, if knowledge of her private life were ever to be made public? Would Milliardo? Perhaps, but more than likely not. There was obvious emotion in his relationship with Miss Noin, however badly concealed it might be. He was too inwardly reliant upon the former Captain of the Guard to be able to engage in any kind of relationship with her without endearing her with some emotion.
Why did she do these things then, knowing how meaningless it all was and how much she hated herself for it afterward? Only God knew, she supposed. She certainly did not.
She could only pray that Milliardo never found these things out.
She emptied the cup of brandy in one swallow. That was all right. Pagan would be bringing her another one soon.
"Heero," she muttered under her breath, speaking this name for the first time in months, "I've become worse even than you, haven't I?"
There could be no answer.
Warmed and lightened by the brandy, she leaned back in her chair and began to laugh softly to herself.
II
He had meant to send a message to Lucrezia before falling asleep, but by the time he had locked himself in the bedroom and fumbled his way out of his heavy coat he was, as he had explained to Relena, too tired to even think. He sat on the edge of the great bed and lazily pried off his boots, throwing them haphazardly into a corner across the room. He unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, and at long last threw back the covers on the bed. He unconsciously gathered the blankets up to his chin and buried himself in them in the manner of a child.
Lucrezia had often laughed at him when he had done this in their bed, but always with affection. When he had been too tired to move even after she laughed, she had simply wrapped her arms around the bundle into which he had nestled himself and they had slept like that.
He was suddenly aware that he missed her. It had been days since he had shared a bed with her, since he had even seen her, and he had become used to sleeping alone on the living room sofa on Mars, but lying alone in a bed for the first time in months without the knowledge that she was just in the next room was quite different.
But he was too tired to think even of his lovely, violet-eyed Luca now. He pressed his face into the pillow and sleep fell instantly over him.
In a dream he would not remember when he awoke, she held him, and rather than the silence of the palace, he heard only her voice.
III
He awoke sometime after midnight. Though he had slept but a few hours he felt well-rested, and silently he kicked the covers down to his ankles and rose from the bed.
His mouth was dry with some vile taste. Was it too late to ring for one of the servants to ask that a bottle of wine be brought to him? It probably was. That posed no problem, however. He knew where the wine was kept and how to get there without disturbing anyone.
He retrieved his boots and quietly slipped out of his suite. The corridors were dark and empty, perfect for his expedition.
He took a candle from the decorative candelabrum that lined one side of the hall and lit it with a match from the pack he found beside it. The light the small flame produced was sufficient to guide him throughout the red-carpeted maze and down the staircases, through the vast kitchen to the narrow stairs beyond. He descended to the underground room, feeling the chill deepen with every stair, until he found himself standing before the largest wine cellar in the kingdom. So Relena had had this part of the palace reconstructed as well.
He was not as meticulous as Treize when it came to vintage; he walked down the first row and decided upon only the third bottle he picked up. Holding the neck of the bottle in one hand and the candle in the other, he ascended the cellar stairs, latching the door behind him.
He returned to the suite Relena had given him, set the wine on the desk in the parlor. He went to the bedroom and then to the large closet, hoping to find what he needed there.
A few shirts and pairs of pants hung on a porcelain rod. They were all his, things he had left when he had last been to Sanq. Relena must have had them all pressed again and moved to this room.
He felt along the shelf at the top of the closet, not quite tall enough to look into it even at his height. After only a few seconds his fingers grazed the item for which he searched.
With a satisfied grunt he reached up and withdrew the small computer from the shelf. A fine layer of dust lay atop its cover and he blew it off, then took it into the parlor and, because he feared the batteries were no longer useful, plugged it into the wall beside the desk.
The wine he made wait until he had finished this task.
He meant the message to be cursory and unrevealing of any remorse he was feeling at leaving her or for why he had been forced to leave, but, even while a planet away from him, she rendered him weak as she always did.
Luca,
I have reached the Earth and am staying in the Sanq Kingdom. Her Majesty Relena has been gracious enough to give me a room in the Imperial Palace. All is well here. I wish you luck on your current mission.
This was as far as he made it before he could no longer suppress the urge to make the message more personal. This was, after all, Lucrezia to whom he was writing, the only woman he had ever really loved despite his pathetic inability to put that emotion into words, and what he was writing so far sounded like something he would send to Midii Une.
Please forgive me for my irrational behavior over the past days. Nothing can justify the way I have acted toward you and I will not even try to do so. I can offer you nothing but my sincerest apologies, and a plea for your forgiveness.
Please try to understand, Lucrezia. You know how I feel toward you, and please be assured that the circumstances that made it necessary for me to come to Earth are not enough to alter that. I would explain them all, everything, to you if I could, but right now that is not possible.
I am sorry, Luca. Please understand.
He signed the message and commanded it to be sent to her computer. Weak, it was, every word of it. He had, even before the Eve Wars in which he had realized it, always been utterly spineless when it came to her.
He would have liked to believe that his father would have been ashamed of him if he knew of his son's weakness, but he knew the opposite was true. This was a shared trait between his father and Odin Lowe, the belief that without the expression of emotion life was meaningless. Zechs's stoicism, like that of so many who were best at feeling nothing, he had gained from warfare, from watching men die and then in turn killing their killers; he wondered how much different the proverbial and literal wars his father and Odin had fought had been.
Everything is a war.
He would never be worthy of being his father's son.
He closed the computer and shut off its power. Then, without even taking a moment to consider where he was going, he left his room again, chilled bottle of wine in hand.
He crept quietly to the other wing of the palace, where, he knew, the great library that had been his father's pride had been restored. He entered the room without a sound and closed the door behind him, then found the lamp on the table at the library's heart and fell into a large velvet chair beside it.
A portrait of his father hung on the eastern wall. He stared at it, rarely blinking, as though by permanently fixing his eyes to it he would eventually come to some great revelation, something akin to deciphering the patterns of wet tealeaves. He could just barely make out the golden inscription on the plate at the bottom of the portrait: God protect and keep the King, Francis Juilliard Peacecraft II, Crowned in the year After Colony 163.
Would he never lose the feeling of guilt and damnation that stole over him whenever he thought of his father? Perhaps not. Perhaps this was God's punishment for him, meted out in recompense for every life, both guilty and innocent, he had ever taken.
He opened the bottle of wine, turning his face away from the spewing foam. He decided it would be foolish to worry about the formalities and retrieve a glass. Instead, he tilted his head back and drank straight from the bottle.
He had gulped down the length of the neck of the bottle when he heard the door behind him open.
IV
She stopped in the doorway, shocked to find him there. He looked at her with the same astonishment.
"Milliardo, I thought you were asleep."
He nodded. "I was."
Her eyes drifted over him and she realized he was holding a bottle of wine in one hand. They were still strangers to each other but, she thought amusedly, it seemed they had already reached a pivotal moment in the sibling relationship: getting drunk together. She wondered if he had somehow known that she would request another glass of 'something especially warm' and what effect it would have on her.
She walked toward him, gingerly as though this were indeed a stranger she had stumbled upon in this room she frequented when she could not sleep. "Is something wrong, Milliardo?"
He turned the bottle up again. She had commissioned the palace to be fully restored to its original glory, with everything placed where it had been in her father's reign, and it seemed that her brother's memory had not faltered and he had been successfully able to locate the wine cellar. She didn't think he had toured the palace at all the last time he had visited, immediately after the Mariemaia incident.
"No, Princess. I simply woke up."
She tried to smile and gave up on it after only a minimal effort. Such masks did not seem befitting of them this evening.
He silently offered her the chair across the room from his. She sat habitually in the manner of the Queen of Sanq, and he smiled at this.
"When you first spoke to me," she said with a smile of her own, "I was afraid you were going to address me as 'Queen.'"
He gave a soft laugh and took another drink. Was he going to drink that entire bottle?
"To be honest, my dear sister, the thought never crossed my mind. You will always be a young princess to me." As an afterthought, he added, "Does this disturb you?"
"No, not at all. In fact I prefer it, either that or my name, but it seems that no one except for yourself, Miss Noin, and the Gundam pilots were ever capable of simply calling me 'Relena.'" She bit her tongue the second the words left her lips. "I shouldn't say such things. I know that the people of--"
She was interrupted by his laughter.
"How much did you drink this evening?" he asked. It seemed that alcohol brought out some kind of humor in him. Her hand went defensively to her chest. "I simply had what you asked Pagan to bring me. You were right, brother, it was quite warm."
"You drank the one for warmth, but would I be right in assuming you had another for your own enjoyment?"
She tried to flash him a shocked look and failed. The only person who would have been capable of mustering that expression right now was a dead girl who had lived in joyous peace for fifteen years before discovering that she was by birth a princess. She had been killed in battle, that girl.
Milliardo drained the bottle an inch more and returned to his usual somberness. It was all too sad — she felt more comfortable around him when he was this solemn, impenetrable rock of a human being than when he suddenly regained his ability to laugh.
"Forgive my question, Princess," he said. "You've no need to answer it, and it is improper of me to make such insinuations about the Queen of Sanq."
She did not reply.
They sat in silence for a while, she with her fidgeting hands, Milliardo with his bottle of wine that was fast becoming empty.
At last he threw his head back one final time and poured the rest of the wine into his throat. He stared at the empty bottle for a moment as if puzzling over what it was, then he laid it aside on the table next to his chair.
"Are you going back to bed now, Milliardo?" she asked, regretting that she had earlier hoped he would.
"No. Wine doesn't really make me tired anymore. It doesn't even make me that drunk."
This did not surprise her in the least.
"Shall we talk then," she asked, "or am I asking too soon?"
He gave an indifferent shrug.
"We barely know each other," she continued, hoping to draw some sign of emotion from him. "Should we talk then as a brother and sister who've barely even met?"
His eyes rolled up to meet hers.
"Are we truly brother and sister, Milliardo? In anything other than blood, are we truly siblings? Or are we really just acquaintances who are trying to progress to becoming friends?"
"My darling Relena," he sighed finally. "I believe we are closer to the latter."
"I'm afraid that I agree with you." She waited. When he remained silent, she took a deep breath and asked, "What has brought you back to Sanq?"
He sat up in the chair. Relena wondered if he, too, felt more like part of an interrogation than one engaged in civilized conversation.
"I have some business to attend to on Earth," he replied.
"Preventer business?"
"No. It's a bit more personal than that."
She took this as a warning not to question him further on the matter. "Is Miss Noin still on Mars?"
"Yes. It would not have been wise for her to leave with me."
Was he trying to feed her curiosity? "Then she really will not be joining you."
Milliardo raised a platinum eyebrow under the shadows of his platinum hair. "Were you hoping that she would?"
"I was only wondering. It's always seemed to me that everywhere you go she's at your side and when she's not, she's doing some great favor for you."
"She does do nothing to conceal her opinion of me," he agreed, but he sounded a bit hurt as he said it.
There was nothing but petty small talk between them for close to twenty minutes; the twenty minutes only reinforced within her the sense that for the past sixteen years, they had been related only by the blood shared between them.
It became apparent after some time that he was tiring of their triviality. He leaned forward in the chair, his eyes locking onto hers with a directness that almost frightened her. "Be honest with me, Relena. How have you fared since I left? Don't tell me that you're still simply adjusting to your new life. If I wanted to hear that, I would watch the damned news. Tell me honestly."
She had hoped they would not come to this point in the conversation. She had told herself that if they did come to it she would be able to lie artfully enough to convince him, and even as she opened her mouth to respond she still believed this, but something in his voice silenced her even before she spoke. She did not have to search for what it was; it struck her immediately, and with the force of each of the bullets she had earned in the past but had never received.
The expression on his somber face revealed no emotion at all but his voice betrayed him. He was not speaking of himself but of her, and all that she asked of her was honesty, yet she had never seen him so vulnerable.
You are his weakness, Miss Noin had once told her. Don't get me wrong, I know that somewhere within his heart he loves me just as I love him, but it's you he loves most. She knew this was no longer true; these most recent years that they could have spent trying to regain what they should have once had they had barely even spoken, and in that time an even larger rift had formed between them. Perhaps Miss Noin's half-sentimental, half-embittered words would have maintained their truth if Relena had not asked her brother to go to Mars. He had made his choice then, had he not? He had asked Miss Noin to accompany him to the planet, and less than a month after arriving there the two of them had dropped out of sight completely. Maybe he had once regarded her over Miss Noin —in fact, she was quite certain that he had— but in the end, given but a few moments to decide, it was Relena whom he had left behind.
But why then did he look at her with so piercing a stare, and what was this guarded vulnerability she heard in his voice? Still his weakness? No, not so much as she had once been, but certainly something of that nature to him.
She lowered her eyes from his. "I must admit," she replied, "that I have been in much better circumstances before. It seems I've overestimated myself and what I'm capable of, and if I don't find a remedy to the situation, the kingdom will begin to suffer."
He thought on this, obviously dissatisfied with her answer. The directness left his eyes and she stifled a sigh of relief at this.
Milliardo rose from the chair and walked behind her own. She turned her head to watch him, a little too wildly and with widened eyes, and upon seeing this he laughed quietly as he placed his hands on her shoulders.
"You used to be so good, so kind. Three years ago if I would have come to you like this, even knowing all that I have done, you wouldn't have flinched away from me as though you were afraid I was going to strangle you." His hands momentarily tightened at the base of her neck. "Even in the short time we've known each other," he continued, releasing her, "you have asked so much of me and I complied whenever I could, but there was only one thing I asked of you and already you have forsaken it."
"And what would that be, dear brother?" she asked, and too late she realized how embittered her voice had sounded. He sighed heavily, wearily. There was something vulnerable in that sigh just as there had been in his eyes, and at the sound of it tears sprang to her eyes. The sigh, the final sound of defeat, shamed her more than any harsh words could have done; it hurt her even more than would a punch delivered by his strong, outraged fist.
"You have forgotten it then," he mumbled dejectedly. She heard him turn away from her.
Why did he, the great soldier, have to sound so broken?
"No," she protested quietly, uselessly. "I don't know."
"I asked you, when you came on Libra, to always remain kind. That was all."
She had forgotten, she realized to her own chagrin as well as his, but only of recent. Before these past months that, according to her brother, had changed her so much, not a day had gone by that she had not recalled his final request that she had been too outraged to hear when he made it.
She rose from the chair, went to him, returned his gesture by placing her hand on his shoulder. He flinched under her touch just as she had under his. Was there a single person alive whose touch did not initially startle him?
"Have I failed you so badly, brother?" she asked, her chin quivering.
"Not intentionally, I don't believe." He paused, his head bowed. "But then I asked this when you were a child. Perhaps you haven't changed that much at all. Perhaps you've simply grown up."
A single tear rolled down her face. She tried to stifle a sob and failed miserably, and he turned to look at her.
"Why do you cry so, Princess?" he whispered, as an endearing smile crossed his face.
She could not answer. "Milliardo," she said, and without giving him a chance to move as she feared he would, she embraced him. After a stunned moment his arms, powerful enough to crush her, slid around her. He held her close against him, fiercely as he had tried to do on Libra once, as though he would never see her again after this night and was already grieving for her. Perhaps he was grieving for her, tearlessly weeping for a girl he had once watched from afar in admiration of her innocence, a girl whose kindness he had once fought and killed to preserve, a girl who had, in another world and another life, been his sister.
And I grieve for you too, Milliardo, she thought, closing her eyes lest her tears become one great, rushing flood. I grieve for the boy you once were, the beautiful prince, the Martyr of Sanq as they called you when it was believed you had died when our parents did, just as they called me the Orphan. The Orphan and the Martyr, like a pair of sainted children who died for some beautifully noble cause. Is that what we died for, Milliardo? Some noble cause? Or have we lost our lives in some great, meaningless battle, for no reason at all?
The Orphan and the Martyr; I grieve for them both, but I think that now I grieve for you more. I grieve for your own innocence, lost so many years before mine. I grieve for the absolution you deny yourself. I grieve for a time when you were not my protector, not my guardian, but simply my brother. I grieve for you because you will not do it for yourself. I grieve for Mother and for Father whom I never knew, for the mother and father whom I've betrayed. I grieve for every person who gave their lives for the two of us. I grieve for Miss Noin, for strangely I fear that she has lost you. For all the soldiers we tried to save. I grieve for the five pilots to whom I gave my heart, and for whom I would just as quickly have given my soul. I grieve for us all.
Let me do it, my brother. Let me grieve. Do not ask why I cry or why I've changed. Do not ask how I've been since you left or if something troubles me. Just please let me know that I am not dreaming this, that you are indeed here with me, and that all is forgiven between us. Let my cry on your shoulder. Hold me, my dear Milliardo with the face of an angel. Let the seraphs and saints with one great voice cry with us. Let this be the last rose placed on our graves.
"I love you, Milliardo," she whispered. "I've never been given a chance to say that, but I do."
Against her face, his breath caught in his chest and for one moment his hold on her loosened. He started to say something, stopped.
He did not have to return the sentiment. She knew without ever having him say it that he loved her and that he loved her more even than she, at this moment, loved him.
He held her until her crying ceased. He had spoken not a word, neither to comfort nor to condescend as she cried, nor did he speak when he released her. He crossed back to the table and plucked up the empty wine bottle, then carried it to the wastebasket by the door.
"You've done well for yourself, Princess," he said finally, his back to her. "Whatever state you've been in as you did it, you certainly have done well."
"There are some who would beg to differ with you, Milliardo."
"There are some who still believe that the White Fang's actions were noble," he countered. "For every person, organization, or action that comes into existence, there will always be someone to support and someone to oppose. Had you not realized that yet, Princess?"
She sighed. "Unfortunately, I have. And you're not the first to tell me that. Something of that nature seemed to be one of Miss Noin's favorite sentiments when she was here." She went toward him, touched his arm. "Be honest with me, Milliardo. Is something wrong with Miss Noin? Is something wrong between the two of you? You may not publicize it, but your relationship is hardly a well-kept secret."
He gave a short, quiet laugh. "Wouldn't it be so much easier if it were something as simple as that?"
"Wouldn't what be easier?"
"Don't worry about it, Princess. It does not concern you. Not yet at least." He looked at her, and before she could question this cryptic statement, he said, "Goodnight, Princess" and left the room.
She watched after him, and when she finally was able to move again she rushed out into the hall behind him.
He was gone. He should not have been able to cross into another corridor already but nonetheless he was not there, and she could not hear the softest sound of his footsteps.
"Like a ghost," she said under her breath, smiling. "So have you always entered and exited my life, Milliardo."
She returned to the library, and the moment she stepped past the doorway something on the table caught her eye.
At the center of the table, in a shimmering golden censer, stood a lone candle, still burning, as it had been when she had entered the room to find her brother and his loosely clutched bottle of wine. How had she not noticed it until now?
Smiling still, she crossed the room to the table and softly blew out the flame. She extinguished the lamp and, bathed in darkness, returned to her own bedchamber, where she was at last able to sleep.
V
They did not see each other again until after noon the following day. Milliardo slept through breakfast — for which Relena herself was only half-awake — and was still asleep when she returned, clad in a burgundy riding uniform, from the stables after taking one of the horses around the palace grounds, from the entrance at the gates to the white seashore at its edge. She took another shower after this and changed into a simple blue dress, and when she passed her brother's room, still no sound could be heard from within. She rapped quietly against the door and once called his name, but received no answer.
"Did my brother call and ask for anything to brought up to him?" she asked Pagan when she came across him in the front hallway downstairs.
The response was negative to her relief, and she was again left to the assumption that he was sleeping off the wine. Sometime after she had eaten lunch she finally spotted him outside, walking by the gardens. She slid into a coat and went after him.
He never seemed surprised to see her. He was quiet but smiling, and there was no sign of how much he had drunk the night before upon his face. He was dressed as simply as she was, in black pants and a blue shirt with a black jacket over it. She was still getting accustomed to seeing him outside of military dress.
They talked only briefly as they walked, she taking his hand as though they were still children and he her guide in whatever youthful adventure they would embark on before their mother called them back inside.
"Last night," she said, glancing up at him.
"Hmm?"
"You said you'd asked only one thing of me."
"And?"
"You were wrong."
He stopped, looking at her quizzically.
She continued. "You once asked me to try to understand what you were doing with the White Fang."
He shook his head. "I never asked you to understand. I told you that I wished you had understood."
"Then why did you never ask me to try?"
He hesitated, sighed. "Because I knew you wouldn't be able to."
They started walking again. She had not been aware of how long they had walked until they found themselves at the shore. Milliardo released her hand and went to the shore's edge, where the water rushed in from the breaking waves. He pushed up his sleeves and let the water run over his hands, as though trying to wash away the blood he believed stained them.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said, crouching beside him.
He merely nodded. "I have to leave you for a while tonight," he said finally.
The smile that had been on her face fell. "But why?"
"Don't worry, Princess, I am coming back. I expect to return shortly before midnight."
"Where are you going, Milliardo?"
He did not answer. Another wave crashed in and he soaked his hands in it, watching the water with the fascination of a child. At last he spoke, but it was not to her, not, perhaps, to anyone. He looked up at the sky, where a few clouds had begun to gather, and whispered one word, then rose to his feet and began back toward the palace.
His voice had been low and all around them the waves had been churning and thundering, but still she had been able to make out what he had said, and it saddened her more than knowing he was going to leave.
Lucrezia.
VI
With a tap on the shoulder and a quick gesture toward the back of the craft, Une relieved her as the pilot. It was probably obvious how tired she was, she supposed, and though she had volunteered for the job of piloting the carrier to keep herself occupied, she was grateful for the relief.
Lucrezia exited the cockpit and sluggishly walked to the smallest of the cargo areas, where Sally Po seemed to have set up a makeshift office. The room was dark and cold and mostly empty, a morbid semblance of her mood.
Chang Wufei glanced up at her when she entered the room, then closed his eyes again and resumed his stiff, upright position in the corner. He had been sitting against the wall, eyes closed and hands clasped in meditation, since the ridiculous delay several hours before.
"Did Une order you to come back here or did she only request it?" Sally asked, not even glancing up from her computer.
"I don't know," she mumbled, and, having no furniture other than Sally's chair in the room, she fell into the floor across from Wufei.
"I've never known you to tire so easily, woman," he said, with an amused smile rather than malice in his voice. "Or are you simply bored without Preventer Wind here to talk to?"
"Shut the hell up," she spat. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught them exchanging puzzled glances.
The bunker was silent save for the clicking of the keyboard under Sally's fingers for the next few minutes.
"Has Une contacted the colony yet?" Sally asked finally, perhaps trying to lighten the mood.
Lucrezia looked up at her. "I'm assuming she has — she's piloting now."
"Is she still angry?"
"She's just had her intelligence, her motives, and her rank questioned. Do you even need to ask?"
"I suppose you're right," Sally concluded, and turned back to her computer, abandoning all hope of getting anything other than a bitter response from her.
Lucrezia leaned forward, rested her head on her knees. There was nothing to do here, nothing even to think about, and if she did not keep herself occupied her thoughts would turn inevitably back to him. His calm, soft-spoken apologies. The new mission orders. Their final confrontation. Hitting him. How could she have hit him? Turning her back and waiting for him to leave her. She had to think about these things sometime, but not now. Please, God, not now.
Silently, she admitted to herself that she was indeed grateful that Une had decided to join them. Midii was the only one here who would understand, without being told, what she was going through, even if the only comfort she could offer was her emotionless voice and her hard, calculating mind. A little less emotion might do her good now.
Of course, Une had not accompanied them for Noin's benefit. Lucrezia was not idealistic enough to believe that. She was going to L3 to be near Trowa, her beloved Nanashi. The true nature of whatever relationship they might have was unknown to Lucrezia, but in the midst of a moment Une would only call weakness later, she had confided to her that they had once known each other, years before Nanashi adopted a name and became a Gundam pilot and Midii joined the ranks of OZ.
The end always went back to the beginning. As his life progresses man often finds that he has in some way returned to his past. If there were anyone who would say this for certain it was Lucrezia Noin. And wasn't this what Une seemed to be doing now?
She was no longer in the halfway decent mood she had met them in, though. An hour into their flight their ship had been forced to dock at a nearby port, in order to be searched for 'illegal weapons.' They had protested and Une had done so violently, leading to an order to see proper identification for each of them, which in turn led to the contacting of the Prevention base to receive confirmation that these four individuals were indeed members of the organization on official business and that one of them was indeed the organization's President Une. The ship was then searched extensively for the alleged illegal cargo, and when nothing was found, another team stepped in to search it again.
They were finally told what was going on after waiting two-and-a-half hours to learn whether or not anything had been found. The men of the ship who forced them to dock were part of some kind of peacekeeping force the L3 cluster had commissioned. A call had been received from an unknown source on the colony that a ship carrying illegally manufactured mobile suits was expected to dock sometime during the day, and these teams had all been deployed to intercept and disarm it.
The call, with all apologies to Miss Une, was now believed to have been a foolish hoax.
They were allowed to go after receiving clearance from whomever the colonial force answered to. There was an almost palpable air of tension about them as they left, with the exception of Wufei, who had amused their temporary captors with his abilities of deep meditation.
Lucrezia was no longer aware of how long they had been on the ship, but she felt she would lose her mind if she were forced to stay on it much longer. The weightless movement seemed to be taking its toll on her.
"Noin," Sally said, gingerly touching her shoulder as if to rouse her from sleep, "there's a message for you. I believe it's from Zechs."
Lucrezia opened her eyes and looked up at the woman in mild perplexity, until she remembered that it was her own computer Sally was using.
"Delete it," she muttered.
Sally blinked. "Are you–"
"Yes, I'm sure. Delete it."
She rolled over onto her side, suddenly feeling very sick.
Author's Notes: I found a relevant way to work A Ballad of Hell into this chapter, and after this it appears much more frequently. I genuinely do love that poem. It will eventually appear in its entirety at what I consider the apex of this story. While the plot of this story and that of the poem have ultimately nothing to do with each other, I have found that certain lines make nice parallels to some of the events that occur.
I suppose it's quite obvious that I don't like Relena now. Changes made to her character in this chapter and throughout the story are meant to reflect my own opinion of her character's innermost personality, as well as the changes that she must certainly have undergone throughout the events of the Gundam Wing series and Endless Waltz. She never had what one would call a "normal" life as she was always the child of privilege, but she was nonetheless in an instant taken out of her innocent world and thrust into the spotlight of international politics. The dialogue between her and Zechs is rather rigid but intentionally so, as I wanted this chapter to seem almost surreal.
I've received several comments regarding Zechs and Relena's relationship. Upon re-reading this chapter, I still do not see any actions and/or thoughts of a somewhat incestuous nature, but I will not disregard readers' interpretations of one. Admittedly, they do not act like brother and sister, and this is because for most of their lives, they have not known each other as siblings (particularly in Relena's case). However they do think of each other is yours to decide, and some of you lovely people seem to be having a lot of fun conjecturing this one. Any comments on this are certainly welcome, as I am always interested in seeing how this chapter is interpreted.
On a final note, although I usually do not make Japanese references unless the character and/or setting is distinctly Japanese, I have left Trowa's original identity as it was in the Episode Zero, as I feel that the term Nanashi is still relevant out of context.