The local village Treize had spoken of turned out to be a small hamlet almost three quarters of an hour's drive away from their resort, but its picturesque, Christmas card quality made it worth the journey. Timber-framed, thatched-roofed buildings lined narrow cobbled streets, and open market stalls surrounded the square in the centre of the town, vendors haggling and calling out as they sold their goods.

It was a charming step back into a world that hadn't truly existed for hundreds of years; an era that was only present in romanticized fashion in the classic literature Treize collected so avidly. That the whole village was designed to be a tourist trap was made obvious by the nature of the shops and businesses housed in the rows of buildings – antique shops, book sellers, tailors and souvenir stands – but somehow, that fact didn't detract from the appeal of the place and the two men spent a companionable hour or so wandering around and in and out of various shops.

At some point, Treize had tucked his arm through the younger man's, linking them together and slowing their pace to a lazy stroll, gesturing to things with his free hand as they walked and only letting go when he needed his hand for something. It was a charmingly intimate gesture, casually affectionate without being possessive.

"Where to next?" Treize asked Zechs. "Is there anything in particular that you wanted to look at?"

"Not particularly. You?"

Treize shook his head. "I'm content simply with the company – although, I confess, I wouldn't object to eating. If you think you can do so without turning that delightful shade of green you achieved at breakfast?"

Zechs glared his objection to his friend's teasing for a moment, then smiled. "I can try."

Treize returned the smile. "Alright then, where?"

"I'll leave that to you – given that you're the one who's actually hungry."

That response earned him a chuckle and a swift reversal of their steps until they came back to a small restaurant tucked down a side street that they had passed earlier in the day. Treize took the shallow steps up to the entrance two at a time and pushed open the door, making the bell fastened to the top of the doorframe ring brightly.

Given that it was the middle of winter, the weather was a little severe for most tourists, and the restaurant was almost empty, with only one or two tables filled. It took no more than a few seconds for a pretty young woman to come hurrying over to meet them. Her hair, pulled into a single braid along her straight, slender spine, was almost the shade of Zechs's own, and as Treize glanced round, he realised that the younger man was far less conspicuous this far north than he was in the heartlands of the Specials' operations. Although almost no-one had quite the same combination of bone structure, pale eyes and silvery hair, the Nordic complexion of the locals was a much closer match to the pilot's own than the darker hair and eye colouring of most of his fellow officers.

The little waitress stopped in front of them and smiled. "Hello – can I help you?" she asked, her voice accented.

"Har du en bordlägga för två som är, plaese?" Zechs murmured.

Treize's head whipped round in shock, and he stared at the younger man. The waitress's smile grew, but she was clearly surprised at being addressed in her native language.

"Yeas, naturligtvis, hitåt." Taking quick, little steps, she led the two of them over to a small table tucked into an alcove by a window and handed them menus, smiled again and hurried away.

Treize sat down, folded his hands on top of his menu and leaned across the table, lowering his voice. "What was that?" he asked.

Zechs looked up. "I asked her for a table. Swedish is very close to my own language."

"I gathered that much," the general replied, then hesitated. "You've surprised me," he admitted. "I didn't think you still knew much of your native language."

The pilot stared at him. "Of course I do," he corrected flatly, eyes sparking with some unnamed anger.

Treize sat back a little, raising an eyebrow. "Well, obviously. I just…didn't realise," he admitted.

"You thought I'd forgotten?" Zechs asked softly. "You should know better. I haven't forgotten anything, Treize. I never will. Of course I still speak my own language!"

"Clearly," Treize replied shortly, as it occurred to him that he'd just unintentionally opened a very sore subject between them.

In truth, though, Treize really hadn't thought Zechs remembered anything at all of his original language – certainly, he hadn't heard him use it before today in over a decade.

When Zechs had first arrived at the Khushrenada estates, he had already been fluent in the English the family used amongst themselves and had spoken it with no trouble, though he had, for the first few months, occasionally slipped if he was particularly excited about something. By the time Treize had left to join the military, lack of practice, and strong discouragement from his guardians – rightly believing it was too much of a clue as to his identity – had broken the boy of that habit.

Before his ninth birthday, Zechs had ceased to use his own dialect even in his dreams. When his nightmares made him scream, everything he said was clearly understandable.

That change had been comforting to no one. Treize had first heard it on leave from the Academy and could still recall the night with crystal clarity. After helping his mother settle the distraught child back to sleep, Treize had run back to his own rooms and all but collapsed onto his own bed. It had been one of the very few times he had cried since his own childhood.

The younger man gazed down at his menu without opening it, something other than anger flashing through his bright blue eyes that Treize couldn't identify.

"Have you forgotten where Sanc is?" the pilot asked quietly, his tone vibrating with intensity.

His question caught Treize a little off guard and he felt his body still. "No – of course not," he replied sharply. "What does that…?"

"So why are you so surprised that I can speak Swedish?" Zechs accused, interrupting.

"Oh…." Treize hesitated, picturing a map of Europe in his head. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "I am sorry. I hadn't realised we were so close!"

"No, I know that now," Zechs shook his head, suddenly seeming a little sad. "I thought you'd done it deliberately, you know? Bringing me up here. It's… very much the same as home would have been. I thought you'd meant to bring me as close as you could. It doesn't matter, though, if you didn't. It's nice anyway." He gestured with one hand in the direction of the door, not having to even look up to know. "Newport City is that way," he murmured softly. "I could fly you there in a little over an hour."

Treize reached out and rested his hands over the one Zechs had left on the table, pressing briefly. "I know, Zechs, and I'm sorry. I hadn't realised and I certainly wasn't aware the tongue was the same."

The pilot shook his head. "There are differences… regional variations. I can't hold a detailed conversation, but I can make myself understood."

Treize nodded. "Obviously." There was an awkward silence for a minute or two, and then he forced himself to smile. "So, do you want to eat?"

*****************************

It began to snow as they resumed their stroll after their meal; soft, heavy flakes that clung to everything they touched, obliterating footprints and stains under a layer of white which turned the world cold and silent. Treize had glanced at the darkening sky and scowled, Zechs had merely shrugged.

Their walk had taken them out of the centre of the village, back in the general direction of their car, and though they roughly followed the route they had taken on their way in, there were some detours in order to look at things they had missed. The lake was one of those things, and the cries of children echoed in the still air as they drew closer to its edge and stopped to watch.

The general smiled. "I haven't done that in years."

"Hmm?"

"Skated," Treize clarified, gesturing to the children whizzing backwards and forwards across the frozen surface of the water.

Zechs returned his smile. "Neither have I. Would you care to try it now?"

"Good God, no!" Treize laughed. "I have no desire to make a fool of myself."

"I'm sure you wouldn't. I remember you being quite good."

"That was ten years ago, Zechs." The elder man glanced at his friend and smirked. "I won't stop you if you wish to, though."

The pilot shook his head. "Oh, no…"

"Are you sure? I'm quite content to sit and watch."

"No, I'm sure. I only suggested it because you seemed to want to."

"Ah." Treize chuckled suddenly. "You have snow in your hair, my friend."

Zechs raised one hand to his head, feeling for confirmation. "So do you," he returned, brushing the worst of the flakes away.

"Doubtless I have, but mine won't take till tomorrow to dry out."

"Not quite that long, but I agree with the sentiment. We should stop dawdling, shouldn't we?"

"What are holidays for, if not to dawdle?" Treize asked the air. "But, yes, we should be on our way back. I don't want to drive in snowfall much heavier than this."

"No, it wouldn't be wise," Zechs agreed, and cast one more wistful glance at the children playing on the ice before following the older man from the lake.

***********************

The car, as it had been the day before, was deliciously warm after the chill of the air outside, especially when Treize turned the heating to full as he pulled away from the car park.

"May I ask you something, Zechs?" the older man asked, as they turned onto the main road.

"Of course."

"Do you think Lucrezia would appreciate becoming a teacher?"

Zechs turned his head to look at his commander, surprised at the question and at Treize asking for his opinion in a military matter – something he had never done before. "Why do you ask?" he enquired.

"There's a post I'm going to need to fill in a few months – I was considering her for it, but I'm not sure she'd welcome it. I have no wish to displease so talented an officer by placing her where she doesn't want to be."

"It would depend on the nature of the post, I would imagine. What were you thinking of?"

Treize smiled slowly. "Senior Instructor at the Lake Victoria Academy."

Zechs blinked his shock. "That's… quite a promotion," he said, eventually.

The general laughed at him. "Yes, it is," he agreed. "I'm not fool enough to attempt it in one step – that's why I'm asking you now. What do you think?"

Zechs sat back, mulling it over in his mind. "Why Noin?" he asked.

Treize gave him one of his little quick glances and frowned. "You have noticed what I'm doing to the Specials, haven't you?"

The question was innocuous, but still Zechs got the impression that his answer needed to be what Treize wanted to hear. "If you mean, have I noticed the changes in personnel you've made, of course I have. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Everything." The general paused, and Zechs scowled – obviously, he had missed something he shouldn't have, and the older man was disappointed, but Treize should have realised by now that Zechs didn't have his head for plots and politics.

"Zechs… in the last eight months, Lady Une and I have completely re-structured the Specials. We've redesigned the chain of command and the operation of the unit. We've reassigned, retired or removed over fifty officers in key posts and replaced them with our own choices – and I invite you to look at the names of those officers and draw your own conclusions as to why. We've opened five new bases, upgraded almost all of our existing ones and Marshall Noventa was absolutely right when he told Septum to suspect our reported strength was wrong. That report was one of the Lady's greatest works of fiction, and only she and I have ever seen the true figures." He glanced sideways again. "You had noticed some of that, hadn't you?"

Zechs stiffened. "I told you, I'd noticed the changes in personnel, and of course I'd noticed our new bases, but…" He shook his head. "Why would you do that? And what does that have to do with Noin?"

Treize smiled. Smiled in the fashion Zechs had only ever seen him direct at Alliance generals, or Colonial diplomats – slow, empty and sinister. "I'm merely obeying orders from above. Romefeller has its plans for us – you know that." He gestured with his free hand, and the smile suddenly became genuine. "As for the lovely Lucrezia Noin – the only place I haven't yet tackled is the Academy. The Alliance holds the reins of the Academy very closely to its chest, trying to ensure the Specials don't do exactly what I'm about to ensure they will. General Catalonia set the entry requirements carefully whilst he had command, but he had to fight against a lot of existing infrastructure. Around – oh, the middle of April or so – the current Senior Instructor is going to have a heart attack in his sleep. With only two weeks to the start of the new class, the Academy will have no choice but to accept whomever I choose to replace him with. I'm going to replace him with someone I know is loyal – to me. And change the lessons the cadets learn from the top down."

"So, Noin… because…?" Zechs asked, trying not to show his reaction to Treize's casual mention of assassination.

"Because she's the best possible choice for the job, of course. My justification would simply be the truth – one of our best pilots passing on her knowledge. I trust her, and I think she has qualities my cadets need to absorb." He shrugged. "Because she'd enjoy teaching – I hope. Am I wrong about that?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes – I told you, I won't put her where she won't be happy. I have five other options for her if that one won't suit."

Zechs bit his lip. "No… she'd like it, I think. She hates fighting."

"I know – that was my other reason. It will keep her out of front-line combat – about the only thing that will in the middle of a war."

"A war?" Zechs asked. "We aren't at war."

"Not yet," Treize agreed. "In two years we will be."

"How can you possibly know that!?" Zechs demanded.

Treize shot him another look. "I simply do," he replied, and sighed. "What did you think all this agitation on the part of the rebels was leading up to? We've been hearing rumours for months now about some plan of theirs – Operation 'M', I believe they've called it. Probability dictates that they'll launch a full scale attack before the next two years are out and we'll have no choice but to go to war." He shrugged, and, suddenly, that cold little smile was back. "And if they don't start it – I will."

The younger man stared at him. "Why?!" he demanded, feeling ice chase through him.

Treize tightened his fingers on the steering wheel, staring out at the road. "There's no such thing as a bloodless revolution, my friend," he said quietly. "I'm going to do what I promised you I'd do – destroy the Alliance and give you the peace your family has fought to achieve for centuries."

"By starting a war?!" Zechs shook his head. "My family were pacifists!"

"No – not a war," Treize corrected. "The last war." He caught Zechs's wrist with his free hand. "Pacifism won't accomplish anything whilst it simply dictates that it's wrong to fight. Destroying all the weapons in the world won't achieve a thing. It's the minds and hearts of the people that must be convinced."

Zechs quieted. "I've heard you say that before," he murmured, turning Treize's hand over in his own and running his fingers along the fine lines of the elder man's palm and the faint traces of calluses caused by hundreds of hours of piloting.

"I know you have – and it's the truth. I'm going to start a war so terrible that no one will ever consider fighting another, burn a hatred for battle into every person in the world – and then I'm going to give you back your crown. I'm not going to run the planet," Treize added with a smile, tweaking Zechs with his own words of the day before. "You are."

The younger man sat in silence for a moment, thinking, considering his father's reaction to this scheme. Slowly, decision made, he released his commander's hand, leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. "So be it," he agreed.

He felt the wave of approval and affection coming from his friend, but as he slid into the sleep cars always seemed to lure him into, he mentally edited Treize's vision – to include a child the older man didn't know was still alive.

The image of Relena, as he had seen her last – her honey coloured hair teased by the wind and her voice, sweet and high pitched, so clear and sure as she argued with him – floated in his mind as he tumbled under.

*****************************

Har du en bordlägga för två som är, plaese? – Have you a table for two, please?

Yeas, naturligtvis, hitåt. – Yes, of course, this way.