Disclaimer: I do not own Teize and Une, nor do I own GW, and I’m not making any profit off of this. Okay? *g*

The ballroom was resplendent. Fluted marble columns rose up from the checkered floor to support a vaulted ceiling. Clusters of dignitaries in full formal regalia stood facing the orchestra’s stage, where a young man in military dress was making a speech, his blue eyes flashing with passion as he spoke. The tastefully colored lights brightened his ginger hair, giving it the air of a halo. When he finished, all of the dignitaries clapped politely and returned to their drinks. They’d heard it before – they were here to be seen, not to see.

All, that is, except for a wide-eyed young woman standing near the back. Dressed in a deep purple evening gown, her brown hair falling loosely over her shoulders, she stood entranced by the young man. She’d never seen such fervor before outside of a duel. This man… she’d never believed in fate before, but somehow she knew she’d follow him past the end of the world if he asked it.

"Lady Une?" She gave a start, snapped out of her trance by the intrusive voice of her aide.

"Hm?"

"Lady Une, the dancing is starting. It would be a good idea to join in, your mother says. She believes it would be a good way to make yourself known."

"Thank you."

She’d never much liked dancing and balls and public functions, but she saw the necessity of them. They stopped the elite from killing each other and gave them a sense of superiority, as well as the more practical (politics-wise) aspect which allowed the nobility to keep its faces in the papers. Some people seemed actually to enjoy them for the balls themselves, rather than for the maneuvering. But this was what was Done.

So she Did, allowing a man twice her age to lead her around the impersonal dance floor, steps perfect but too precise, only to be replaced with another pompous face. She bore it as well as she could, going through the motions that had been drilled into her since childhood: left, right, curtsey, smile, swish the skirt as you promenade, and thank your partner. And again. And again. Ignore the fact that your feet ache in your too-high heels, that you’d rather be somewhere else, anywhere else, that you aren’t watching your partner’s face but rather soaking in the color of the swirling skirts behind him. Be a Lady. Such a simple method of forming alliances, this. Such a complicated thing, to make oneself do.

It took a couple of hours, but once she had danced with everybody, she excused herself, and returned to her place at the back of the immense hall. She needed to get out, needed to go somewhere devoid of pretense. She needed a drink. Be a Lady. She had to Be A Lady. She could always hear the capital letters when she thought that. She was a Lady, first and foremost, heir to her family estates, and she must comport herself accordingly. She asked one of the butlers for a large glass of lemonade, chilled with a little extra sugar, replying politely to his ‘yes, madam’ and thanking him when he returned after but a moment. The trappings of wealth were well named – everything at your command, yet so very cold and too sweet.

Drink in hand, she glided – a Lady must never stride, or show haste – to the French doors in the center of one of the walls which led out to a balcony. She’d been there before, and it was her favorite refuge in this too empty place. Opening the doors, she breathed in the sight and smell of the familiar climbing roses which twined around the white latticework, simple and clean, before realizing that the roses were not the only hint of color here.

The young man from earlier was there as well, leaning on the rail and staring at the sky, absentmindedly twirling a rose between his forefinger and thumb. The blue of his coat and half-cape matched the dusky blue of the twilit sky so perfectly she’d only seen the silhouette of him against a still-pink cloud. At the sight, she could not stop a small ‘Oh!’ of surprise from escaping, and he turned around, a strange half-smile on his face as he proffered the rose.

"Lady Une." It was not a question, and his liquid voice wrapped around the words so beautifully that she took a moment to realize he’d spoken her name.

"You know me?" Her eyes widened as she sniffed the rose automatically. Such a deep shade of crimson.

"How could I not?" When he said it, it sounded perfectly rational. She was herself, and he was himself – naturally he would know her. In fact, she recalled his name from earlier.

"Lord Kushrenada?"

"Of course."

Of course. It seemed they’d known each other forever. She’d been taught what to say when introducing herself, but somehow it all seemed superfluous. There wasn’t anything more to say, really. It was obvious that, like her, he much preferred to be away from all of the pretense that awaited their return inside. They stood there in companionable silence for a while, as the sky grew darker and the stars came out. The orchestra played on behind them, managing to sound clearly despite the ever-present babble of voices.

Lady Une was staring at the stars, picking out the constellations, when his voice came at her left ear, whispering.

"Look, Lady. The stars themselves are dancing." They were, too. She thought she could see them spinning in time to the ancient waltz being played by a trio of cello, flute, and something else… a harpsichord, she thought. Generally such pieces were played by the full orchestra, but the fewer instruments gave it an ethereal quality, thin notes seeming to float on the wind itself, whirling in three beats.

He came around in front of her, and she didn’t need the stars anymore. Wordlessly, he held out a hand, and silently she accepted it. His other hand came to rest on her waist, and there was passion rather than perfection in his steps as he spun her in circles, one-two-three, one-two-three, repeating but different. The stars matched their spin above, and the wind was the music now, and as they waltzed she was smiling.

***************** 

Lady Une wiggled her toes in the grass, holding her expensive white sandals in one hand and her skirt in the other, high enough so that it didn’t get stained. This dress needed to stay white. Her hair fell down around her shoulders, longer than it used to be, shifting slightly with the breeze. The sky was the smoky purple of dusk, and somewhere to her left she could hear tree frogs singing love songs to their mates. She breathed in – sweet peas, daffodils, crocuses, but no roses. Roses weren’t right for this night. Roses were his, in her mind, and always would be.

"Lady?" Inwardly, she sighed. She couldn’t get her best friend to call her by her first name, even now. It had taken three years to get to Lady from Colonel, and she was still working at it. She turned around.

"Yes, Lu?"

 Une was slightly jealous. Lucrezia Noin was stunning in her maid of honor’s dress. Une herself was pretty, but her friend was exotic and unconsciously sensual, whereas she was more girl-next-door-ly attractive.

 "They’re ready for you."

"I’m coming." It was, after all, quite fashionable to be late for one’s own wedding, even if it wasn’t the one she’d originally hoped for.

 She put on the sandals and made her way to the edge of the cliff, where he waited for her, along with an honor guard of Preventers, all in full dress uniforms. She was impressed. The dress uniforms weren’t particularly comfortable. She suppressed a smirk – the honor guard was more populated than the seats reserved for the guests. The media had ‘accidentally’ been sent the wrong location, and this was as small and intimate as she’d always dreamed it would be.

 A blond man, a close friend to one of her best officers, struck up some quiet music on his violin. It wasn’t the traditional music for such an occasion, but it was simple and haunting, and just right. Noin beside her, she walked towards the man she was to marry as he turned to her, smiling.

 She came to a halt on the edge of the cliff just as the sun finished setting. The half-light tinted everything a melancholy blue, which seemed fitting. It wasn’t that she didn’t love the tall blond man who stood before her, looking at her like he was seeing his fiancée for the first time. On the contrary – Rémi filled her with warmth she never thought she’d find again. He had smiling brown eyes with just a hint of laugh-lines around them and was a genuinely nice, funny guy. But he wasn’t Treize.

The minister he’d chosen had finished the introductory section of the ceremony, and was talking to them now, asking the usual questions. She made the necessary responses, her eyes locked onto Rémi’s. But she didn’t see him. Instead, her mind’s eye furnished her with blue eyes, worn with too much responsibility but managing to shine anyway. Her nose was ignoring the sweet peas she held and conveyed the heavy scent of a hundred red roses, and she heard a waltz playing behind her.

#I promised Treize I’d follow him anywhere and everywhere. He wasn’t supposed to go the one place I couldn’t follow. He wasn’t supposed to leave me behind. I gave him everything I had. More than that! I wanted to follow…# These were far from appropriate thoughts for her wedding day. But her mind kept running in circles around the wedding she wished she was having. There was a nagging guilt that insisted she was being unfaithful, dishonoring all three of them by marrying Rémi today. Below the priest’s voice, she heard the faintest ghost of a whisper.

 "Be happy, Lady."

 The breeze caressed her cheek briefly and vanished.  

She blinked, and when she opened her eyes again, the ones gazing back at her were brown and sparkling. She heard the tail end of the minister’s question, and murmured a response.

"I do."

#Thank you, Treize.#

 They kissed, and she was there, not hearing the ‘Aw’ of the blond violinist, the rustle of Preventer uniforms as her honor guard saluted, not even the ‘WAHOO!’ of an old opponent turned friend.

The stars were coming out as they parted, and the violinist laid the instrument in its case – time to leave the music to the hired orchestra. Une took her shoes off again and leaned her head against Rémi’s shoulder, luxuriating in the tickle of grass against her toes. One-two-three, one-two-three, over and over. Other couples joined them. The violinist had with him a tall young man, Noin was dancing with the remarkably handsome agent who’d headed the honor guard, and the agent who’d cheered their kiss had grabbed the closest person and was leading them through a boisterous polka, quadrupling the tempo of the waltz. Une didn’t notice. This was right. She caught a whiff of roses and sweet peas mixed together, and she smiled.

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

Yet again she stood alone. The sun was high above her, but she barely felt its heat, lost as she was in thought. The honor guard of Preventers had long since left, taking with them the flag she’d refused to keep. The last brazen notes of Taps still echoed through her mind, though the trumpet that had keened them was now in a case somewhere, on its way back to headquarters.

It had been magnificent. There had been more people there than she’d ever imagined would be. All gone now. Everything gone. She turned as a gentle hand touched her on the shoulder; turned to look at the woman who should have been her daughter. Who was her daughter. There were still tears in the blue eyes, so much like her father’s, but the graying red hair was perfectly in place and the dark suit was immaculate, as befitted a politician.

"I’m sorry, Mother. He was a good man." Une wanted to shake her, to scream: ‘He was the closest thing you ever had to a real father. He was my husband! And all you can say is you’re sorry? Don’t you know how empty that sounds?’ She didn’t. She kept her voice even.

"Yes. He was."

She didn’t say anything more, returning her empty gaze to the mound of dark earth strewn with sweet peas. The delicate flowers had always been Rémi’s. Her eye was caught by a flash of red amongst all the paler blues and pinks, and she bent creakily to pick up the rose. Roses belonged to Treize, and they always would. Straightening with difficulty, she played with the flower, twirling it between her fingers before snapping off the stem to make it more manageable and tucking it securely behind her ear. It was blood red, and somehow that fitted her sense of continuity. It seemed appropriate for the occasion.

"I’m leaving now, Mother. I have to get back. Please come with me?" She remained silent, her features composed. "Please?"

"I’ll be all right, ’Meia. Go home."

"But – all right. Are you sure -?"

"Yes, dear."

Marimeia slumped a little, then bent to kiss her mother’s cheek gently.

"If you need anything…" The younger woman trailed off. There wasn’t any need to finish the sentence – she’d said it a million times before, and Une had never once taken her up on it. Wordlessly, she left. Une did not watch her go. She had other things occupying her mind.

It was strange. When Treize had died, when they’d told her that they couldn’t even find a body to give her, she’d felt an incredibly strong grief. She’d been unable to function for weeks, crying incessantly when awake and waking up screaming every night. She’d come to terms with it eventually, but it had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done. Whereas with Rémi, she just felt numb. She’d grieved, yes, but there had been none of the ripping sense of loss and anguish, just a vague feeling of floating outside of her body, watching it move and speak without her guidance. She contemplated the wound in the earth for a few more moments, then turned and left without looking back.

* * * * * * *

She walks. Unaware of the setting sun, oblivious to the pain in her aged body, she meanders without any goal, with no thoughts in her mind, no knowledge of anything save for the fact that she is walking. The hem of her black skirt is shredded, her one remaining stocking hangs sodden with mud and in tatters to her ankle, and the soles of her feet are raw and bruised. She has lost her shoes long ago, formal uncomfortable things, now lying with broken heels and cracked soles somewhere far behind her. She is cold and shivering, but she doesn’t notice.

She doesn’t notice anything. She walks.

The dusk is casting a soft blue light over the world, blurring the harsh edges and straight lines that surround her into fuzzy impressions of themselves, creating an intricate patchwork of shadows stretching forever. A strong breeze comes up, whipping her silver hair from the remnants of a tight bun and into her face, carrying a faded pink hair ribbon with it. It flutters before her eyes for a moment before falling limply into a puddle at her feet. Finally, she stops walking, captivated by the flash of pale pink against the blue tinged green of the grass. A thin hand, too-big wedding ring hugging its third finger, reaches hesitantly up to touch her hair. The questing fingertips still suddenly upon encountering the rose she placed there earlier, somehow still with her. Then they resume, absently caressing the drying petals as she stoops to collect the thin piece of silk from the ground.

She holds it gently, allowing it to lie flat across her palm. Something stirs within her mind. The ribbon is special to her, and her fingers close across it one at a time. It is the same color as her chipped nail polish, miraculously unstained and hardly damp. She stares at it, a faintly puzzled expression in her cloudy brown eyes as she tries to figure out its significance. The breeze returns, bringing with it the faintest ghost of a violin, playing one-two-three, one-two-three, and her lips part in a wistful smile.

Strong arms wrap around her waist, and she gives an involuntary star as a voice – an impossible voice, his voice – whispers tenderly in her ear.

"Look, Lady. The stars themselves are dancing."

She turns, afraid of the empty space logic tells her she must find there. But the hands caressing her waist are solid, and her now-clear brown eyes meet sparkling blue as she completes her spin. He smiles down at her, young and handsome and impossibly there. Smooth lips part, and the rich voice she remembers so well strokes her.

"Lady." She finds a voice.

"Lord."

"You look as beautiful as ever, Lady." She starts to demur, to protest that she is old and faded, no longer the woman he knew, but then looks down at herself as she realizes that she doesn’t feel nearly as tight anymore, that her limbs are like water. The smile explodes across her face, dimpling soft cheeks, and she executes a pirouette of joy. Thick brown hair trails behind her, and her feet are light on the ground. Her black clothes have lengthened, becoming a soft white gown that floats in the breeze, hugging her curves and newly firm breasts. She isn’t shivering anymore, despite the lighter clothing.

She laughs incredulously, and he smiles at her delight and glances upwards. She follows his gaze, and the stars she saw were spinning in a stately progression. The lone violin broadens to include other sounds – the rustle of trees, the howl of wind, the swish of the waves on a stony shore, supporting the violin, deepening the sound until it thrums through her very bones. The music is the voice of the Earth.

He smiles and takes a step forwards, bowing and wordlessly extending a white-gloved hand to her. Without hesitating, she curtseys and takes it, and he whirls her into a dance. She’s never danced this waltz before, never heard this music, but her grass-stained feet follow the steps unerringly. A new sound winds itself into the song, and as she looks up she realizes that it is the stars themselves, singing glorious arpeggios, exulting in being stars.

The dance becomes more and more intricate, reminiscent of willows bending near a lake, of a rose opening, of a hawk soaring over mountains. The song falls in love, gives birth, dies, is trapped and explodes with the exaltation of being alive. She feels buoyed by it, and at the same time is drowning in the depths of his eyes. He whispers to her,

"Look up." and she does, and gasps in wonder. The stars seem so much closer. She looks at her feet, realizing that she no longer feels the softness of the grass as her feet step, one-two-three, one-two-three. They’re flying, up and up and up, and she looks at him, suddenly afraid.

"It’s all right, Lady." He kisses her, still whirling in the dance.

A young man, walking his dog in the park the next morning, finds her wrinkled form lying crumpled on the grass with a bit of ribbon clutched in her hand and a dead rose by her side. Her eyes are open, staring at the sky with a childlike expression of awe, and she is smiling.

~Owari~