Trowa dried his hair with a thick towel and eyed the rain outside.

It was, as usual, rather cold inside the cottage, because no one meant for it to be used in autumn and there was no wood with which to feed the hearth. Trowa had idly gathered some boughs and twigs to light at his fancy for the sake of a fire, but he did not mind the cold, not after so many months- years- in space.

Space chilled people in a way that never thawed. Especially those born on Earth.

Little of consequence had happened to him since he'd arrived, almost a week ago, except for the time when the police had come knocking, suspicious at seeing lights in the cottage. He'd had no trouble setting them at ease, not with his charm and the owner's blessing.

Afterwards, everything had gone on fine and uneventful. He'd been fishing; and perhaps gotten a bit carried away- the fridge was stuffed with fresh catch, and he'd probably be eating river fish for the rest of his stay there. He was fond of fishing: on-and-off, he'd been doing it all his life. And getting carried away doing something was a welcome novelty, a break from himself, in a way.

He'd also kayaked his way through all the waterways he could find. He was now aware that ducks could became vicious and berserk when repeatedly, coolly poked with an oar; and that there was no way that otters were so innocent and lovely after (purposefully, it must be) getting in the way of his kayak time and time again; and must, therefore, be secretly evil creatures.

He had also been laughing a lot, which seemed to come naturally when no one was around to be surprised by the sound of it. He genuinely liked being outdoors, and the little things that made up nature bewitched him. Sometimes, he thought that was what being a child had to be all about- being fascinated by the great world around, without fear and without expectations.

Precious much to gain and worthless little to lose. He reasoned that he'd never known that because he'd been fixing engines instead of row-boats, and shooting bullets at enemies instead of home-made arrows at DIY cardboard targets.

Trowa found he liked to wait the twilight out sitting on the roof of the cottage, lazily drinking the tzuica he'd been given. He liked the sharpness of the alcohol on his tongue. He liked life there, at its simplest. It was easy to forget the past and the circus and think that all there was was the river and the sky and the foggy forest- that all the nature in the world was his. And, immersed in the permanent scent of river-water and the bickering of the myriad of swamp crickets, it was not hard to believe at all.

During the day, he sometimes strolled the winding road into town and watched the people and the tourists. He observed everything, and quickly learnt how to say hello and how are you. On the third or fourth day, he'd stepped into a store and bought a silvery flute.

Then, at dusk, he started to join the bickering of the crickets with long, melancholy notes; and although he had been playing from his heart, he promised himself to learn a couple of jigs, to maybe lighten up the crickets… and, who knew, maybe his own heart as well.

.

By the first night of his second week there, Trowa had run out of tzuica and bought a bottle of more familiar scotch to go with his evenings. He sat on the floor, by the hearth, where a small fire chirped, brightly and bluish, owing to the fact that it was burning driftwood.

He felt really at home and in peace there, right there, in the quiet of the night away from people and streetlights. He chased away displeasing thoughts and the ever-present lingering images of the war and mobile-suit debris floating weightless in space with a drag of scotch, straight from the bottle.

He had set himself a task.

A little notepad with a bright cover he'd bought recently sat on the coffee table, and reminded him that he was already falling a bit behind on the schedule he'd proposed to himself: he'd gotten much thinking done, in those few precious, private days. Although he had not thought of it that way, it was probably the first time in his whole life he had something akin to a vacation. And he had come to the conclusion that there must be a purpose to his being there then; and maybe he had left things halfway in his life- and maybe it was time he addressed them. Time that he dropped his mask and became honest with himself.

He had been, all these years, chasing after oblivion under the guise of happiness.

After the war, he had immediately returned to the circus.

Catherine had hugged the air out of his lungs and the Ringmaster had had that look of badly contained pride on his face- Trowa could see just how pleased the man was of what, who he was- and that he had stuck around, nonetheless. He'd felt a rare kind of warmth spreading through his chest, lighting up his soul. He'd allowed himself to be consumed by it, no questions asked. He'd become The Man; featured in every function: the secret hero, without whom the world would likely be no world at all.

All the same, as things were, what had actually transpired during the years AC 195-196 was a state secret. If the Ringmaster could have proclaimed Trowa's deeds to the audience, he would have done so over and over again (and lavishly), and the public would have clapped and cheered and sought him out. But it could not be, and, anyway, Trowa only liked the limelight when it was a literal limelight- stage, acrobatics, Cathy's knives- otherwise, he silently took to the shadows. He only basked in the pampering that had come with his war-hero status. Even despite Cathy's constant reminding him that he ought not to let it get to his head.

It was enough for him to know he was home. He'd made it to a haven of love and respect and care, which was surfeit more than he'd ever thought he'd have.

For many peaceful, blissful years, he couldn't care less about what happened to the rest of the world. He allowed himself to leave loose ends and fall out of contact. Sporadically he got news from Duo or Quatre. Once, Heero had dropped by to visit him when he was in town. And he made sure to always call the other pilots for their birthdays.

But there was peace, and life was calling, and everyone was too busy answering. So what if it was selfish- he'd done his share already. He deserved selfish.

And yet, one morning, like a divine punishment for his idleness, the peace he thought he'd gained had been upset. He'd sat outside, on the grass, by the cages of the animals, inspecting the wood in the swings and trapezes for minuscule signs of rot that could cause an accident. A lad in his late teens had come up to him, boots covered in mud that betrayed his walking for many miles, for many months, a sheen of sweat on his brow and dark rings around his eyes- a pair of very familiar, silver eyes.

'Good morning,' he'd called, 'I'm looking for a girl. Well,' the lad had reconsidered, 'She'd be a woman now... and going by the last name Bloom, if I'm lucky. Would that tell you anything?'

Trowa knew the spirited look in his eyes. Hopeful, but not too hopeful. Down to Earth. Just like Catherine. He had been slow in standing up; and not because he couldn't think, but rather, because he was thinking too fast.

'Of course,' he'd answered gently, 'If you excuse me, I'll get her for you'. He had, after a little, courteous bow (just the kind that he'd perfected for the audience), even if he knew that change would come in the shape of Triton Bloom; and even though he didn't know if he was ready for it.

And, yes, seeing the lad gaping at a freshly awoken Catherine had set something in motion in Trowa's soul that had left him perplexed at first, and haunted later, and had plagued his sleep many nights: together with Triton's soft breathing from the bed beneath his own, in the room they'd come to share.

And then, one night, a night just like any other; he'd had a dream.

He'd dreamt of being out in space again: an open, endless, freezing expanse of dim blackness devoid of stars or light. A heavy presence assured him that a colony stood behind him (although he couldn't see it). Slowly, as he'd become aware of his surroundings, he'd found himself in the impersonal cockpit of a Gundam that wasn't Heavyarms. And as if he always knew he'd be back there some day (a twisted kind of a day of reckoning); before his eyes, the Zero system began to play him; showing him all the people he had wronged and deceived in his life and all the chances he had had of backing away from a mission of dubious moral outcome, and had chosen not to. He had been shown peace. But, was there peace for the betrayers? For those that killed in cold blood, and moved on, unfeeling? A visionless, answerless void followed the unvoiced questions that the system conjured.

The final image that Wing Zero showed him was that of Triton Bloom beholding Catherine Bloom, silver eyes wide and unfocused as though he'd never truly believed he'd find her. And, outside of that image, he'd seen himself. Silent.

Not smiling.

Trowa had awoken with a start.

And with that, he knew that his time for selfish had been used up, and that, maybe, with the turmoil and unfamiliar (and non-detached) pangs of jealousy, and the disconcerting feeling of loss (loss?), it had also come the time for giving back.

What felt like ages after the moment of quiet realization that came with the dream (nightmare)... [ages after Trowa had been lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, with eyes open and mind reeling, and what felt like stop-motion images of Trowa slipping soundlessly from under the covers, of Trowa grabbing a change of clothes and all his money; of Trowa petting the lion one last time and walking into the darkness]; indeed, what felt like ages later, in a little cottage in a nameless town of the Romanian outback provinces, Trowa corked up the bottle of scotch and poked the embers with a fire iron.

On the notepad, the calmly wrote the title of the list- the purpose of his task: What Trowa Barton should give back, if it is within his power.

He sighed. It was a good, orderly way to set things straight with himself. To stop running in circles around the illusion of an inner peace too easily rattled, and put some ghosts to rest, finally.

.

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Hi dear readers!

I wanted to let you guys know that there will be humor and Gundam pilots later on in the story, but for now, it has to proceed a bit slowly, because Trowa has a lot of himself to unravel.

As a curiosity, I'll tell you I decided to set his soul-searching in Romania because, as his origins are unknown but they say they might be latin, I thought it was the country that best fit him. He's got a sexy gypsy feel... well, at least to me, that is :P

Well, I hope you like the story so far! I'd be delighted to read what you think about it :)

Take care, and we'll read eachother soon!

A/N (bis):

About the canon: I'm not taking Frozen Teardrop into account for this story.

A reply to Guest's review: the reason for this is twofold: first, I didn't read it :P Second, I didn't want to read it because most of the pilot's stories take a turn for the sadder, and I think they should've been through with the sadness once the OVA was over (that's the childish reason :P). I hope you can enjoy this story nonetheless! I wish you'll leave me a signed-in review so that I can answer your question fully without giving away details of the plot here ;) And I wanted to thank you for taking the time to review :)

A big thanks: to Hana-Liatris, Guest and Pokeyonekenobie, for their support 3