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By Liz

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Treize entered the ship’s lounge and took his seat quietly in one of the upholstered chairs. "All right, Lady," he said. "You may begin."

I picked up the printout that was lying on the table and began reading off names to him. "Lieutenant Alexander Fray, Private Michael Shawman, Private John Barry…."

It was always a painful ordeal. Sometimes I thought that this must be the most difficult part of a battle; after all the fighting was over, when Treize insisted on putting himself through this same torturous session. He sat with his eyes closed and his head bowed, listening raptly as I read down the list of dead soldiers. His brow was furrowed, his mouth hidden behind one gloved hand.

Reading to him, I often wondered why he refused to stop the killing. He had the power to, and if he had wanted it so, he could have brought peace to the world at any time during the war. But now I understand. He knew that it would have only been a superficial peace, a temporary respite from the fighting; and even if it outlasted his lifetime, or even ten lifetimes, it would not have lasted forever. He wanted to prolong the war, exhaust people and make them sick of the killing. He initiated battle after battle after battle, until the world hated the very idea of war.

In the end, he was looked upon as the symbol that stood for all the violence and bloodshed, and so he was hated. People condemned him as the one responsible for much of the horrors of the war; they thought of him, and still do think of him, as an insane, power-hungry dictator. But that is the sacrifice he made. He forfeited his honor, his love of beauty and compassion, to bring peace to the world – and never receive any compensation for his pain and tireless work.

Treize loved peace. True, he also loved the battle, but only because it had its own sort of subliminal beauty. But everything he did was for his cause of ultimate peace. There were times of horror and bloodshed and cold-blooded killing, yes, but no matter how calm and detached Treize may have seemed on the outside, mentally and emotionally he never lost site of his ultimate goal.

I looked up at him, at that strong man who was inside so very tired. I thought to myself that he might have been praying for all the lost souls as he listened to me read. I loved him then, as a teacher who had shown me the truth of the world.

I would die for him, I thought. Someday I would give my life to realize his world of peace, and then he would know that I understood him. I wanted so badly for him to know that no matter what happened, I would always be standing respectively at his side, ready to carry out his bidding.

But I think he already knew. And maybe he loved me, too; I don’t know. He might only have thought of me as a tool to be used for the carrying out of his plan – though I wouldn’t have minded, if that had been the case.

But whatever his feelings were for me, I’ll never know.

Oh, Treize. What I wouldn’t give to be by your side now, watching, learning, as you steer history down its long and twisting course. If I could just have one more day, one more hour, to stand by your side.

I pick up a printout that is lying on the table beside me and glance up at the empty armchair in front of me. You never did have the chance to mourn the losses of that last great battle…. So I will mourn for you.

I look again at the empty armchair, and though you are not sitting there to listen, I speak. "May I begin, sir?" I ask, and when there is no answer, I pray silently:

After a minute, I begin. My voice drifts around the empty room, and I hope you are listening.

"Private Harrison Doah, Lieutenant Paul Frenner, Private James Wellson, His Excellency Treize Khushrenada…."

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~~~ END ~~~

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