Chapter Twelve

The thunder woke him from his sleep.

He hadn't been asleep long – he didn't think – but it was late enough that it had gone completely dark, and there was only the light from the window for him to see by as he sat up slowly, searching the sky for signs of the lightning that always came after the rumbling boom.

It was a clear night, the stars shining down, but in the distance were the heavy black clouds that must hold his thunder storm. He'd always liked thunderstorms.

Carefully, he pushed the blankets back from his bed and allowed his feet to slide to the floor, wriggling his toes into the soft pile of his carpet. Going up on tiptoe, and listening carefully for any signs that he was going to get caught, he crept across his bedroom and climbed onto the window seat to look over the palace gardens.

There was a sliver of light coming around the door from the room beyond, and if he strained his ears over the roll of the thunderclaps, he could hear that Relena had woken up as well and was crying because she was afraid. For a moment he considered going to see her – she wouldn't be afraid if he was there, he knew – but then there was a flash through his window, and the chance to see the lightning won out over his worry for his sister. Her nurse would look after her.

The storm was coming in from the edge of the city, over the sea his mother liked to look at so much, and from the other side as well. He frowned – were there two storms at the same time? He'd never seen that before.

He'd never seen lightning that colour before either – and it seemed to be coming from the ground, not from the sky. He scowled, trying to puzzle this out, but soon gave it up in favour of asking his tutor in the morning.

The thunder rolled again, and he shivered. It sounded much closer this time, almost as if the storm were right on top of the palace. There was sound under the thunder that he didn't recognise. Kneeling up as much as he could, he put his hands against the glass for balance on the squashy cushions and looked out at his city.

He froze as the door from the corridor opened and somebody else crossed behind his door, plunging his room into complete darkness for a second or two.

"My Lady?" The nurse's voice seemed strange to the boy. "What's happening? Is it…?"

"Yes, they've come."

The voice that answered the nurse belonged to his mother, but there was none of her laughter in it – she sounded as serious as she did when she had to tell him off about something, and he wondered why.

"Dress the children, my dear, as warmly as you can," she continued, "and bring them downstairs to my husband's study. I'll meet you there – I have to try to contact someone…"

"Yes, my Lady."

"Good girl."

There was a rustle of silk on satin – his mother was still wearing her party dress – and then she was gone.

Carefully, the boy scrambled down from the window and made his way to his wardrobe. His mother had asked the nurse to dress them, but he was too old now to need help from her. He would dress himself, and then go and meet her in Relena's room. Quickly, he pulled on the first clothes his hands could reach and ran across his room.

His hand on the door handle, he stopped, some instinct making him go back for the brand new fencing foil his Aunt and Uncle had sent him for his birthday today, after their son had told them how good he was at sword play.

He pulled open his bedroom door, noting that Relena was still crying, and the same instinct that had made him get his sword, caused him to duck down and cover his head as a high, searing whistle split the air.

It saved his life.

The room exploded into flying glass and flame as the first shell struck the palace grounds.

"Mama! Maaama!"

Relena's terrified shrieks roused him from the stunned sprawl he had landed in on the floor. Dizzy, his hearing masked by a hollowringing in his ears, he pulled himself to his feet and ran, staggering, across the burning playroom. He was a Prince and it was a Prince's job to look after all Princesses. Especially this Princess.

"Maaaamaaa!"

He reached the door to her room and leaned against it with all his weight to force it open.

His sister was standing in the middle of the room, tears streaming down from her wide blue eyes. Her face and hands, her short golden hair and her pink wool dress were splattered with blood and a quick glance round showed him that it had come from the body of their nurse. A beam had fallen from the ceiling, crushing her beneath it.

He swallowed, trying not to be sick.

Relena shrieked again.

"Lena, shh! Come here!"

Her panicked cries for her mother stopped as she saw her brother in the door.

"Come on, Lena. Mama said we've to go downstairs!"

Unsteady steps brought her to his side, and he took her hand, pulling her from the collapsing nursery, through the playroom, coughing on the smoke rising from the burning furniture, and their toys, and out into the corridor. The air was clear here, and cool, but from all over the palace, he could hear the sounds of panic and the servants running.

Thinking quickly, he fastened the belt of his sword around his waist and picked up the little girl, balancing her slight weight on his hip, knowing he could run much faster than she could if they had to. He hurried for the stairs that led to the ground floor and ran down them as fast as he could.

The tall figure of his father met him at the bottom and hurried him through to his study.

"Milliardo! Where's the nurse?" he asked, glancing over the two of them.

The boy looked up, still holding Relena. "She's – she's not coming. I heard mama say we'd to…"

"Clever boy!" His father smiled at him beneath his beard, his pale eyes showing his love for his only son and heir.

His mother came up from a small staircase he had never seen before, the entrance set into the floor so that it would be hidden by the carpet. "Milliardo! Relena! Thank God – I thought…" She closed her eyes for a moment, her hands shaking, then opened them again and looked at her husband.

"Did you get the messages through?" he asked, and she nodded.

"John promised he'd come, and Anna said Tristan was already on a plane. She's been trying to contact me all afternoon to warn us, but she couldn't get through. They must have cut the lines."

"Of course." He paused and took her shoulders into his hands. "Giselle – take the children and go. You can meet John or Tristan out of the city and…"

The Queen shook her head. "I'm too well known, Friedrich. If I were stopped, I'd be recognised and then they'd know who the children are. I won't take that risk."

"If you stay here… I won't fight."

"Of course you won't, my love." She rested a delicate hand on his cheek for a moment. "I've sent Pagan to the city – he's going to try to meet with Tristan and John."

"Giselle…"

"I'm your Queen, my love. My place is here."

The boy watched as his parents looked at each other for a moment, and then he jumped as another explosion tore through the Palace.

Friedrich Peacecraft shot one last, painful look at his children. "Make me proud of you, my son," he murmured and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. There were new voices, now, shouting and heavy footsteps.

"Hide, Milliardo! Take Relena and hide!" his mother hissed, stepping between her children and the door. "Down those stairs!" She pointed to the hatch he had seen her come out from. "Close the door behind you and no matter what happens, don't open it for anyone except Pagan, Mr Darlian, or Duke Khushrenada. Do you understand?!"

"Yes, mama." The boy forced down his fear, and straightened tiny shoulders – his mother was trusting him to protect his sister, and he would.

"Good boy." She knelt and pulled them both into her arms, kissing them once, each. The boy could smell the sweet scent of her perfume. "Remember, I love you…" she pleaded. "Now, go!"

He felt her hands on his shoulders as he ran for the door she had shown him and scurried down the steps. The door closed when he pulled on the handle, and he strained to reach up far enough to turn the key in the lock.

There were more screams now, and the sound of gunfire – recognised from the times he had seen his father and his friends target shooting on the grounds. Relena was crying softly, unable to understand what was happening and he put her down, holding her frail little body behind his own, as he peered through the keyhole into the study.

His father backed into the room, holding up his hands to show they had nothing in them, until he was standing almost on top of the hatch. Three men followed him, their uniforms marking them as military. Two held guns and one a knife.

His mother wrapped her hands around her husband's arm, speaking, arguing – though he couldn't hear what she was saying. She spat something else, and one of the men raised a hand and slapped her across the face, snapping her head round with the force. She would have fallen, but her husband caught her and steadied her. His face showed sudden anger. He took a step towards the man in the middle – the one who had struck his wife – and the man raised the gun in his hand, levelled it at the King's forehead, and fired.

The bullet shattered his skull – splashing bright blood and fragments of bone across the rich carpet.

The boy bit his lip to keep quiet, not noticing when blood began to spill down his chin. His hand across her mouth kept his sister from giving them away.

Giselle screamed her husband's name as she was dragged from the side of his fallen corpse. Light flashed off silver and her scream died as her throat was cut open, her blood pouring down the front of her dress. The man turned and left, and as her dress turned from white to scarlet, she collapsed to the floor, her body falling on top of the door that concealed her children.

The boy watched, unable to look away, as her blood began to seep through the latch. It fell warm onto his clothes, and her eyes fixed, staring, onto his, dull and lifeless, until the thunder began again and something struck him sharply on the temple, stealing away his consciousness.

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

Zechs jolted awake, the image of his mother burning behind his eyes, the echo of his cry dying in the close air of the car as it swerved wildly.

Treize shot him a horrified look, swearing fluently as he slammed his foot onto the brakes, throwing them both hard against their seatbelts as they screeched to a sudden halt. "Christ!" he gasped, letting go of the steering wheel and straightening up. "Are you trying to get us both killed!?" he demanded, feeling his heart leap in his chest.

There was no reply. The pilot stayed bent forward, one hand pressed to his forehead under his hair, his breath coming in laboured pants. Treize put a hand on his arm and shook him roughly.

"Zechs!"

"Oh, God…" The younger man's voice was a ragged moan, and then he was moving – earning his reputation for speed as he freed his seatbelt, flung open the door and threw himself out into the snow, where he began retching convulsively.

The general stared after him for a moment, before he gathered enough composure to get out of the car himself. He walked around the front of the car, and then leaned on it, relaxing as the adrenaline rush subsided, staying a pace or two away from the pilot in an attempt at privacy. It became quickly apparent that, for all his body's efforts, there was nothing in his stomach for his friend to bring up – unsurprising, since his lunch in the restaurant had consisted of water – and that this was merely reaction to whatever had caused him to wake so violently.

Sighing, Treize bent down, scooped up a handful of snow and closed the distance between them. Using the heat from his hands to melt the snow, he swept the blonde's hair to one side and allowed the melt-water to trickle onto the back of his neck.

"Breathe, Zechs," he instructed quietly. "Just breathe."

The touch of the icy water brought a shuddering inhalation from the younger man. He swayed, stumbling and the general caught him, strong hands closing on his forearms, as the world faded to grey for a moment.

"Breathe," Treize repeated, bracing them both against the dead weight his companion became for a second. "You aren't going to do something so idiotic as fainting."

The pilot made a sound that could equally have been giggle or sob, but he steadied and pulled away from his commander's supporting hold. He took a few unsteady steps, putting space between them, and turned around. "… I'm sorry…" he murmured.

Treize waved his apology away, not liking the pallor of his friend's skin, nor the trembling in the hand that still clutched at his temple. He reached out and grasped the pilot's wrist, tugging gently. "Did you hit your head?" he asked.

"What…?" Zechs blinked, and let Treize pull his hand away. "No…"

There was no mark on his skin bar the imprints of his fingers, and the faint line of an old scar that was usually hidden under his hair. Treize brushed his thumb across that scar, remembering where it had come from. "You were dreaming," he stated, recognising now the dazed look in the boy's eyes. Despite the freezing air around them, he was starting to sweat and his skin was chilled and clammy beneath the general's hand.

"Yes."

Treize nodded, restraining the barrage of questions forming in his mind, at least for the moment. "Get back in the car," he ordered, dropping his hand and giving the pilot a push in the right direction. Zechs complied without protest, sliding his body into his seat, moving from memory and not thought.

Treize waited until he'd fastened his seatbelt, and then leaned across him, reached into the glove box and handed him the water stored there. "Here. Drink it."

"You look like your father," Zechs murmured, glancing up at him.

"I know." He stepped back, walked around the car and got in the driver's side. "What made you say that?" he asked as he started the engine.

Zechs was staring down at the water clutched between his hands. "I don't know. A flash of… something… Your father, leaning down and telling me to drink. I don't know when, though."

"Ah." Treize concentrated on the road for a moment. "Zechs, I didn't give you that for you to look at."

The pilot looked at his friend blankly, confused, then he twisted the top off the bottle and began taking small sips, resisting the sudden, overwhelming urge to gulp at the liquid.

"You were dreaming about Sanc, weren't you?" Treize asked eventually.

"Yes."

The general frowned. "Then I owe you an apology," he murmured, pulling the car to halt at the resort.

"Why?"

"I really shouldn't have brought you here. I didn't realise, but I should have. It's too… close. And I shouldn't have told you my plans like that…"

"It's not your fault – please don't think that it is. I love this place," he added, gesturing at his surroundings. "I enjoyed being able to talk in my native dialect again, even if it was only a few words. I'm glad that you trust me enough to tell me your plans for the future."

The general took all of this in as he unlocked the cottage, and shook his head. "That's as may be – but when it results in you having nightmares so severe you wake screaming, I know I've done you no favours, no matter what you say to convince me otherwise."

Zechs shrugged out of his coat and leaned against the wall. "It hasn't resulted in my nightmares. I was having them before you brought me here."

Treize turned from hanging up his own coat, forehead creased in concern. "For how long?"

"Most of the week – I haven't slept much since I spoke to Noin." He shrugged, turning away and making his way into the lounge. "You needn't worry. I'm used to them and they'll pass in a day or two. I only mentioned them to convince you that you hadn't done anything wrong." He could feel Treize's eyes on the back of his head and he wasn't surprised when the older man caught his arm.

"I needn't worry? Of course I'm worried! You haven't dreamed like this for years."

The gaze Zechs turned on him was sympathetic, a little sad, and far older than the man behind it. "I've never stopped having nightmares, Treize."

"I know you still do occasionally," Treize agreed, though, in truth, he had known no such thing and had assumed Zechs had grown out of the things years before. "But not like this. When was the last time you experienced this? The same thing every time you go to sleep?"

The younger man shrugged. "A while," he admitted. "It's not so surprising, really, and it will stop soon. Let it go, please."

"How am I supposed to let it go when it affects you like this?"

Zechs dropped onto the sofa wearily and looked up at his commanding officer, strongly wishing he hadn't let himself fall asleep in the car – if he hadn't, Treize would never have known he was dreaming and there would be no need for this, a conversation he did not want to have. "I'm fine," he insisted, taking more sips from his water.

The general shook his head, beginning to pace. "Do you really expect me to believe that?" He sat down on the opposite couch and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Zechs…"

The pilot interrupted. "Yes, I expect you to believe that!" he snapped. "I expect you to trust me and to treat me as an adult, not as a child you have to care for. I don't want to talk about this."

"Perhaps you don't, but has it occurred to you that you might need to?"

"I don't."

The general looked at his friend, wondering how to press his point home. The younger man was slumped into the corner of the couch, still pale, still trembling. Even the anger building in his gaze hadn't swept the stunned look from his eyes. Treize was sure that if he touched him, he'd find his skin still clammy, and his pulse racing. He got to his feet, made his way across the room and knelt at the side of the sofa. "Zechs, lie down."

"What?"

"Lie down." Reaching out, he took the water from the pilot's hands, set it on the table, and then turned back to catch his shoulders in his hands and press him into lying full length.

"What are you doing?" Zechs asked, as Treize threw the blanket from the back of the sofa over him.

"Trying to make sure we don't need to find a doctor. Are you warm enough?"

"Yes," Zechs answered automatically, then scowled. "A doctor?" he asked, puzzled.

Treize nodded, standing up as he did so. "This is why I think you need more help than you'll admit to. Should a simple nightmare be able to put a trained and experienced soldier into shock?"

"Of course not… but I'm hardly…"

"Stop arguing with me. I'm certainly no medic, but I know these symptoms when I see them." Carefully, he sat down on the edge of the couch. "If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?"

The younger officer blinked slowly, wondering at the level of distress in his friend's expression and the worry in his voice. "Of course I will…"

"How often do your nightmares leave you feeling the way you do now?" Treize asked quietly.

There was silence for almost a minute before Zechs replied, "Almost always. It's not… It's not this bad, usually. I'd never thrown up afterwards till this morning, and I've never even come close to passing out before, but…"

"But?"

"But, I never feel well, and it takes me a while to recover every time. It's better if I just get up and do something else, and don't think about it."

Treize looked away. "I thought I heard something, early on." He thought for a moment, then looked back, and pressed two fingers to his friend's throat, feeling for the pulse in the major artery lying beneath the delicate skin. "I don't doubt that being hung-over has made the reaction more severe," he commented, "and it's probably that, rather than anything else, that made you nauseous, but surely you've realised that something isn't right?"

Zechs shrugged, swallowing against the pressure of his commander's hand. "Maybe, but there's nothing I can do about it. I told you, I'll feel better if I do something to distract myself."

The beat under his fingers was slowing, the skin warming. Treize took his hand away and sat back to look at his friend, noting that his complexion had regained its customary faint-gold tanned cast. "What type of thing?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Zechs shrugged. "Read, catch up on paperwork, spend time in the gym – anything to distract myself."

"Ah." Treize tilted his head to one side and smiled. "Anything in particular you'd care to do now?"

Zechs regarded him steadily for a moment, then chose to ignore the slightly suggestive nature of the question and answer literally. "Well, I can't do my paperwork, and I don't think you'd let me try anything too active. I could read, but I don't have the book I was in the middle of with me… I don't know."

"I do – give me a minute." The older man got to his feet and crossed the room, passing behind the sofa so that Zechs couldn't see him.

"What are you doing?"

"Finding something for us to do."

There was a rustling sound, and then the general made his way back to his seat on the edge of the sofa and showed the younger man what he was holding. "Care to play cards?" he asked.

Zechs smiled at him.