I would just like to take the time to say that I’m NOT dead . . .

Well . . . at least not TOTALLY dead. My imagination seems like it up and croaked but I’ve revived it momentarily. Which explains why this chapter took so long to complete, however, that isn’t the only reason *ahem* Let me clarify . . .

For all of you wondering what the hell took so long in getting this chapter out, here’s my answer, sometime between January 2001 and now I forgot that writing was supposed to be fun, not an obligation. With my mind thus poisoned, I unconsciously erected a very big, nearly impregnable wall o’ block which only served to make me stressed which in turn dried up ideas and totally eradicated any initiative I had when the whole fiasco began.

I’m not completely out of the trap I set up for myself, but I AM recovering. Please, just bear with me and hopefully this chapter will be worth the very long wait. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, written, and signed my guestbook ^_^

Warnings: Cussing, mature themes, some sexual content (translation: death, weird stuff that cannot be categorized, and lime!!! That’s right! 1XR LIME WAHAHAHA!!!! So if you’re under 18, skip this chapter). Oh yeah, and we are still in November . . .We're nearing the END folks! January, January, January WAHAHAHAHAH TWO MORE MONTHS!!!!

Oh, and PLEASE (this is important) PAY ATTENTION TO PLACE AND TIMES PROVIDED!!! Otherwise, you'll be confused --;

Disclaimer: *stares* Um, . . . no . . .

Made of You: Chapter 13

by Kysra

~ Central Cinq Kingdom, the day before Mai’s discovery ~

Gentle tears commemorated tragic death, the planes of many faces drenched by the bitter salt of sorrow while sympathetic rain pelted the makeshift roof of black nylon umbrellas. Mournful sobs tore from the throats of the masses as they followed a procession of robed figures, billowing white gowns flowing around the wind-blown bodies of the clergy. Behind them and preceding the saddened line were twenty-four men hefting four husk-filled caskets, their faces set in stony silence which symbolized those touched by the terrible fingers of icy death as black clad men, women, and children followed, the sounds of crunching gravel and the soft suction of heels exiting from wet mud accompanying their passing.

The gray sky overhead grumbled even as the heavy clouds belched jagged lines of light in a threatening spectacle of immense heat and blinding electricity. No birds took flight in such weather, no bittersweet song accompanied the unhappy tears and heart wrenching moans, and no lively cacophony rose up from the throats of a gospel choir rejoicing in the spirit’s rebirth as the body died. To these spectators, death was all and life was no more.

At the front of the mourning line, the Marquis Wayridge, flanked by Milliardo and Lucrezia Peacecraft to the right with his wife and family to the left, marched stiffly to the beat of a silent ceremonial drum, his gloved hands balled into harsh fists, old face holding the stiff countenance of one who has gained wisdom through hardship and eyes painted a dull red from the strain of resisting the stubborn flood of tears. Next came the multitude of close friends, Quatre and Dorothy Winner, Hilde Scheibecker, Commander Une, Sylvia Noventa, and a myriad of career politicians, friends of the departed, and extended family.

Joan Darlian was conspicuously absent, considering she had been the wife of the deceased’s employer for over twenty years, but no one gave any sign of noticing. They were too immersed in their pain to take note of one missing woman. More felt was the void left by the honorary grand-daughter of the dead William Pagan. Relena was their hope, and Hope had abandoned them.

The four gray and silver caskets carried lightly by the twenty-four pall bearers finally reached their last destination: four cold, dark holes in the ground, freshly dug. Four piles of mud sat waiting in a morbid display of anxiety, the quivering globs shining gleefully with the light of the flashing thunder.

Slowly, one by one, the caskets were lowered as the mourners watched with tear-filled eyes and shiny, pale faces, their forms at once solid and ghostlike, a massive organism of grim acceptance and desperate denial.

The priest’s hollow voice rang out to the multitude as Holy water was splashed upon the non-descript death box which held the charred remains of the beloved butler, the heaven blessed drops failing to affect the attempted benediction as harsh rain and uncaring winds carried God’s moisture away from the restless corpse.

Mrs. Pagan’s body was the next to be hidden from the world, one missing arm and leg making the burdened carriers’ load a little lighter even as they were forced to say good-bye to such an ill-fated woman. Holy droplets no more reached her than they had reached her husband, the evils of the weather tearing God’s blessing away from the deserving dead.

Next was the more bittersweet of the burials as Pagan’s formerly pregnant daughter was lowered into the cold earth, her now-widowed husband breaking from the saddened crowd to throw himself upon the lifeless gray of the casket surface, his arms thrown out as if to somehow embrace the mutilated corpse inside just one last time. The young man sobbed uncontrollably as he clawed at the un-giving metal capsule and the onlookers found a new burst of sorrow to fuel their weary tears.

The last and smallest coffin, unlike the cool gray of its companions, was a pearly white in color, ironically the liveliest of the four. Housed within the confines of such a useless prison was Pagan’s second grandson, aged four years old. Never again would he run and play in the warmth and newness of spring. Never again would his voice ring out in the still air of winter as curiosity filled large violet eyes at the experience of the first snowfall of the year. Never again would the sound of innocent laughter fill his parents’ lives. Never again would he see the living world and all of its miracles. He had been forced into a different world, one that boasted utopian conditions and peace beyond mortal comprehension.

No one in that funeral procession believed such a place existed anymore.

A thousands pairs of bleary, watery eyes watched as one by one, the four coffins, and their occupants, were lowered into the remorseless, devouring earth. Their tombstones were already fixed at the area just above their disfigured heads, the engraved names and dates a mocking reminder of just how short life can be. A reminder that humans still had a long way to go before the path to peace was completed, before a world where terrorism and war were just a memory was achieved.

The Marquis Wayridge stepped forward to collect and embrace the young man whose wife and unborn child had been unfortunate victims of the bomb which killed the Pagans and their grandchild, the young man who just happened to be his own son. The Marquis cried then, his wife wrapping frail arms about her husband and heartbroken son, but such communal mourning would not lessen the pain. Nothing could lessen the pain.

Pagan’s third son, father of the boy who was now buried beneath the cold earth, stepped forward, his wife and mother of his dead child wrapped in the comforting arms of a sister. His violet eyes, eyes his son had inherited within the womb, were dazed and unbelieving as he read and reread the letters which spelled his son’s name before moving down to the numbers which outlined the boy’s short duration on earth.

They remained outside for a few more moments, standing beneath a gray sky tinged with occasional lightning as the rain poured down upon their saddened countenances. The priest said a few more blessings, again bestowing useless Holy water upon the uncaring air before solemnly bowing his wet bald head and clasping a black leather book with a gold cross emblem tightly to his chest. The procession was then led back to the large cathedral some distance away where the mourners would load into their various cars and return to their lives; however, Milliardo Peacecraft along with his wife and the Wayridge family remained.

Milliardo side-stepped pleasantries which would only mock the current location and situation. Life was too short for such meaningless greetings when time was no longer on your side, “Marquis Wayridge, I’m truly sorry for your loss, but you know why I came.”

Wiping his eyes, the distinguished diplomat stared at the pale haired man with a look of despair tinged weariness, “Indeed. William’s last act was surprising to you, I’m sure.”

“You could say that . . . Grand-father.”

***

~ Green Burrough, Relena's journal entry for November 15 (an hour after Mai's discovery) ~

I'm tired.

I don't know how else to describe how I feel except that one, tiny word: tired. I'm tired of worrying. I'm tired of the nightmares. But most of all, I'm tired of the lies.

Lies.

My life has been built upon lies, and it's truly sad that it took such stressful circumstances to free my precious memories from whatever vault I locked them up in. And now . . . they . . .

The guys were hiding a girl from me. Right here. In this house. I had begun to feel like this was home. This was where I belonged. I was finally able to find some measure of peace, and then I decided to collect Duo's dirty laundry. This is unbelievable, and of course, they are totally unrepentant. They seem to think they were protecting me. PROTECTING ME! It was all I could do to keep my hormones in check and stay my hands from strangling each of them . . . slowly, because they would never lift a finger to hurt me.

I know that. They know that. But that isn't what I wanted.

God, I'm such an idiot. And I'm crying again. This is so ridiculous! I'm praised for my cool-head, my unfailing diplomacy in dealing with my peers, my gracious manner when approached and criticized by condescending 'old school' politicians, and my standards of unwavering good behavior. Yet, for all of that, I still haven't earned a true friend.

I know Duo, Wufei, and Trowa love me in their own ways . . . and the girls respect me for who and what I am, but . . . I had hoped that - living together - they would somehow see me as a person, not just some title to protect and coddle because my big bad brother told them to. I want to be someone they trust and regard as an equal, but I guess that I was hoping for too much.

Damn it, they hid A GIRL!!! A WHOLE HUMAN BEING from me! Right under my nose and . . . I know they're hiding more. I know because they were forced to come clean after I threatened to walk out and leave. I know because I finally confessed my own secret.

I suppose I should start from the beginning, shouldn't I? After all Heero, if - no, when - you ever read this, I want you to understand everything that happened while you were away . . . in chronological order or at least something close to it.

Where to begin?

I suppose Sally's visit would be a good start. My exam went well but Sally suspects the baby and I may be suffering from a condition known as Placenta Previa. She wouldn't tell me anything specific about it, just that she would need to perform an ultrasound to be sure. I hope she's wrong and that the bleeding is from something entirely different. This baby is the only thing keeping me sane right now.

The boys never knew about the bleeding, though I suspect Sally may have said something to them about it. They never confronted me at any rate, so I was more than a little surprised when Wufei brought it up while I ranted at them about the Mai situation. I was in the midst of telling them just what I thought of secrets being kept from me when he just broke in- quite softly I might add - saying that they didn't particularly like the idea of me keeping things from them either. I promptly started crying of course . . . I hadn't meant any harm . . I just . .

They can't understand. They just can't. I'm a mother. I'm a mother whose life depends on five men with guns. I'm a mother who just happens to be the universe's most famous pacifist whose life depends on five men with guns. I cannot even begin to describe my feelings. I'm terrified I won't live long enough to at least give my daughter life. I'm angry that my own flesh and blood decided I wasn't good enough as a niece or a daughter, and therefore, I deserve to die. I'm exhausted. I can't take this much longer.

I'm tired.

And yet I know that my lot is not the worse in our tightly knit group. Lucrezia - God, Lucrezia . . . This is all my fault. All of this is my fault. And they took Devon, my little Devi who can get away with anything with just a smile . . . My sweet honorary nephew who hates baths but loves to swim, who can melt even the Perfect Soldier with just a look from those liquid gray eyes . . . My prayers that he might be found have yet to be answered.

I'm so scared. I don't know what to do. Everything is falling apart, and I'm not allowed to be there to help fix it. I can't speak to Milliardo. I can't communicate with the Circle to form a search party or some sort of Preventer contingent to infiltrate the ERIS compound and destroy it. I can't reach you. I feel useless. Like in the beginning when I saw my parents die. Like during the war.

What am I going to do? I can't stay here, but I can't leave either. They would never allow it, and I don't think I'm clever enough to slip away in the night. Besides, I have no idea where the ERIS compound is . . . yet I need to get there. This has to end, and I feel that a confrontation with my Aunt is the only way to end this. I have to find out why she did all of this, why she hates Milliardo and me so much.

In other words, I'm going to convince Mai to lead me to ERIS. I trust her. She reminds me of Milli when we were young, all energy and protective impulses. I feel a special sort of kinship with her that I don't really understand right now, but it's there and I can't ignore it. She's what I've always imagined a best friend should be. A perfect blend of everything complimentary to my own personality, though I can see the secrets behind her eyes. There's a strange sadness there . . . a sort of wistful melancholy that reminds me of you.

I'm apprehensive of my decision. I know it won't be easy, and considering my condition, it probably isn’t the wisest plan of action; but I can't just sit here waiting for a stray bullet to hit its target. I will not put myself or my child in that position. Nor will I allow attacks on my loved ones to continue unchecked. Therefore, I will see you soon, Heero, even though I know you will not be very happy to see me.

I pray for your safety. Good night and sweet dreams.

With all my love,

Relena

~ With Heero, time of Mai's discovery ~

* I love you. *

An impression, syllables unconsciously whispered into his heart, awakening the sleeping blood in his frozen veins, arousing an answering warmth that was, at once, foreign and familiar, welcome but uninvited. Such simple words . . . causing a complex reaction as his skin spontaneously combusted in a sensual display of rippling muscle and flushed flesh, his body surrendering to the inevitability of their joining, allowing himself to finally hold her, touch her . . . kiss her.

Chills shook his body as their tongues met with aching sweetness, searching, finding, and tasting even as bitter tears of knowing farewell contaminated the honeyed nectar of genuine pleasure, their lips and mouths stealing living breath. His hands coasted lovingly, carefully over lush, bare curves heated with virgin shyness, perfumed, rosy skin pliant and yielding under gentle, knoweledgable fingers. She squirmed restlessly under his touch, wanting the possession he demanded, silently begging to be free of intense desire by receiving the cataclysmic release his eyes promised.

There was a rustling sound as he tread over the silken gown formerly pooled around her feet, a shining ivory symbol of her fallen purity trampled under the weight of his sins.

. . . purity . . . sins . . .

He groaned, pulling away from her tender embrace as the cold, dark swirling waters of doubt swept hot desire into oblivion, drowning him in reservations, the tide high with infinite reminders of his unworthiness. Her eyes fluttered open, vivid blue-silver gazing at him with unadulterated adoration as dusky rose tinted her cheek with embarrassed innocence and shivers ran through her exposed body at the loss of his heat.

Retreating, he sought distance from this veritable goddess of heavenly temptation and turned to flee the intimate situation he had unwittingly initiated, but she reached out, glittering, liquid sapphire betraying the hurt his perceived rejection caused, coral lips parted in a silent beckoning cry.

Wordless acquiescence was his answer as selfish want forced his arms to pull her close once more, his lips to seek hers with rough greed, and his hands to resume mapping her untried body eagerly; and she welcomed him with an irresistable kind of soft warmth that caused his breath to catch and his heart to race madly. Her arms were light and assuring against his shoulders, circling his neck with demanding gentleness. Small, sweet-scented hands traveled down his back before testing his sides to caress his front, soft fingers running teasingly down his still-clothed chest, pulling the hindering tank from his muscular body.

The kiss became brutal, his need rising as the velvet press of her naked form warmed his already heated length, his keen ears processing, relishing the low vibrations issuing from her throat as muffled moans of anticipation fought to escape her mouth only to be dominated by him.

They moved towards the nearby bed, his lips abandoning hers in favor of loving her neck, shoulders, and breasts, his arms supporting her as she lay on the plush mattress writhing in ecstasy beneath him.

“I . . . I love . . you . . .” she breathed, her voice soft and musical in its desire-haggard intensity, her words reflecting his own emotions as his mouth devoured the rosy flesh of a hard nipple, his hand finding the other and teasing the already rigid skin into further arousal. She tasted of salt and sweet cream, sweat and nectar, an addicting elixir which he could not hope to resist.

* I need you. *

His naked body hummed with a pleasurable pain as she touched him for the first time, her delicate fingers tentative and unsure as they experimentally brushed the very tip of his manhood before trailing up the shaft, unknowingly stretching his control to the very limit. Her face was open and honest . . . questioning . . . asking without words if she was doing the right thing, if she was giving to him as much as he was giving to her.

* I want you. *

Turning back was no longer an option, just as denying her had never been an option. He was caught in the most restricting, terrible snare, and he never wanted to be free again.

This was torture. This was hell. This was love . . .

“Please Heero . . . I . . I want --”

She screamed, cutting off her own plea as his fingers found the place he wished to inhabit within the near future. Caressing gently, he watched through hooded eyes as her head thrashed involuntarily, strands of hair standing as guilded gold upon her sweat slicked cheeks and shoulders, her body convulsing, unable to tolerate the tidal waves of pleasure his fingers were inducing.

His mouth found hers once more, his hand never leaving its happy place between her trembling thighs. She kissed him back frantically, seeking release, wanting more, unable to handle the purity of this sensual bliss; and suddenly, he was inside her, his hand replaced by that organ which had been reaching, yearning for her since before this act of lust tinged love began.

Heero watched her, his eyes consuming every nuance of expression, recording every moan, gasp, and cry while imprinting each overwhelming sensation just being near her, inside her, around her produced, their bodies moving together, dancing in an intimate coupling of flesh and spirit.

“Relena . . .” he shuddered, spilling himself inside of her, unable to see her pleasured first, too weak to hold onto his control, and as he collapsed against her love-flushed body, he found himself fully clothed and standing in the lush humidity of the rainforest . . . Relena nowhere to be seen.

However . . .

There against the bright, dew-sprinkled landscape was a girl-child who came up to his knee. She was dancing, her dirt-kissed toes digging into the damp earth as thin lines of blood created a painful web of dark red upon the soles of her tender feet. Short, sturdy legs, awkward in the art of locomotion, teetered below a pale, round body of baby fat and soft skin. Her hair looked downy soft, wisps of gold swirling around a cherubic face while startlingly clear blue eyes studied the world around her gaily.

She was absolutely beautiful, and he knew instinctively that she would be his and Relena’s child if they were ever to have a daughter.

“ . . . a dream . . .,” Heero murmured, his feet carrying him without conscience thought a few paces closer to the dancing sprite.

The little girl halted in her tuneless dance to regard him grimly, her pouty lips bowing in a soft, thoughtful frown and her youthful eyes darkening into a contemplative shade of navy beneath pale, drawn eyebrows, the smooth forehead stretched across the new skull tensely.

“Are you my Daddy?” Her voice was high and sweet, music all its own.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, staring, studying, and recording every detail he could about her.

Smiling suddenly, the child stepped unsteadily closer, “Mommy says you are.”

Heero found himself lowering to his knees before her, his arms reaching out just as she lifted her pudgy little arms to him, “And who is Mommy?”

She giggled as their hands touched for the first time, “I don’t know, but she loves me. She loves Daddy too. She loves everybody.”

There was something wrong . . . something . . . It burned into his chest and clamped around his heart as he tried to suck in breath, a suffocating sensation veiling his movements as he drew her tiny, cold body near his unbearably hot one. His arms shielded her from the nightmares trying to obliterate this dream, icy fingers caressing his skin, a warning panic screaming at him to wake, to see . . . to save . . .

“Relena,” he gasped, his arms tightening their hold upon this golden treasure as she silently accepted the pain of his love, and as her eyes closed and head shook a negative, the small pink lips spoke with his voice, “Devon . . .”

Heero’s body jerked into an upright position, a suppressive weight rolling from atop his chest to his lap with the abrupt motion as he fought for breath in the suffocating heat of his prison, wakefulness blooming in his sleep blanketed senses, the unbearable extreme temperatures of the little room lulling his usually sharp, precise reflexes into those of an untried civilian.

Looking about, the Perfect Soldier took in his unchanging surroundings, numbly accepting his imminent death before shifting his gaze downward to inspect the slumbering child upon his khaki clad lap.

Devon’s face, for once, was serene, a tiny curve of contentment lining his mouth while cotton-candy dreams colored his lip a dry pink. His ruddy complexion no longer sported the sheen of sweat Heero was so accustomed to seeing and had already begun to flake just a bit. The thick blond locks of hair which had been tidy and evenly cut at some point in the past now hung in messy, matted tangles to thin, skeletal shoulders.

Skeletal shoulders below which skin covered ribs lay unmoving.

Devon wasn’t breathing.

***

~ Somewhere in England, later ~

She stood, a solitary outline atop the snow-capped hill, the frosty wind tossing her hair with tearing violence while marauding ice flakes became tangled within the flying auburn strands. The calf-length sable coat twitched and swirled about her legs even as the turbulent lashing of vigorous blizzard currents threatened to steal her precarious balance though she stubbornly refused to allow its pleasure.

Her arms hung stiffly at her sides, head bowed while squinting eyes stared emotionlessly down upon the two marble slabs winking accusingly at her, still, permanent, and dead. The words inscribed upon the polished, snow-littered surfaces were plain and readable even in this harsh weather that beat at her uncovered, vulnerable face and froze her bloodless, bare hands.

Two roses, one white and the other red, shone brightly even in the darkness of the stormy night, the frigid thorns biting into the numb skin of her palm, warm blood dripping from Death’s grip to the sleeping earth shivering beneath her booted feet, but she didn’t notice the stinging pain nor the burning crimson washing the cold away, her mind obliviously set upon the two names staring out at her from the immortal stone.

Kneeling down between the twin outcroppings, she felt an inner calm, the comforting pressure of razor sharp rock cutting into her frozen legs reminded her that she was one of the living unlike the two people buried beneath her. Painted lips curved into a distinctive and beckoning grin, a faint flash of white teeth issuing from the slightly parted lips as she cradled the white rose to her insulated chest, the red sedately placed upon the first grave while one frosted hand stayed the young blossom from escaping such morbid guard duty with the passing winds.

Gazing at the red rose with something akin to displeasure, the woman watched as, one by one, the tender, bright crimson petals detached themselves one by one to first flourish before spiraling out into the ebony oblivion of the moonless world.

Frowning slightly, she set the white rose upon the other grave before a sinister smile twisted the rouge lips, her other hand disappearing into the thick overcoat before reappearing grasping the hilt of a silver knife. Death’s implement found its home first within the very life center of the ivory bud, pinning the sad flower to the frozen ground, the blade sinking into the shallow, earthen grave and piercing the decaying flesh of the female occupant buried there.

There was a moment of total silence as time halted, the world paused in its rotation, the tearing winds went still; and in that moment of respite, the woman shed one tear before normality resumed and the world once more accepted its turbulent life, a fountain of blood pouring from the impaled rose and desecrated tomb, the deep red, bright and visible through the blinding snow as it devoured the pristine white of the blanketed earth to encroach upon the woman’s space. It was a threat.

The artificial lines of the cherry lips formed into a solemn stroke of suppressed displeasure before the bow-like mouth opened to speak, the words lost in the wind, never to be heard by mortal ears, while the blood fountain pumped to splatter glistening Death upon her coat and leather pants.

Narrowed eyes closed completely before a frost bitten hand pulled the chilled metal of the knife from the violated land, the snow-masked gravel drawing warmed blood from her knees and legs. Abruptly she stood, auburn hair whipping about her face and shoulders and lightning struck a few yards away, her form outlined dramatically as the blinding light illuminated the two headstones for her perusal, even though she knew the inscriptions intimately.

The first, the receiver of the red rose, engraved in the blanched marble, read, “ Trajan Julius Peacecraft. July 24, AC 154 - December 24, AC 183. May His Majesty forever rest in the peace he strove so fearlessly to give all human-kind.”

The other, which had been so cruelly mistreated by such tender hands before bestowing the still occupant’s curse, boasted the inscription, “Anya Katerina Scripnikov-Peacecraft. February 23, AC 161 - December 24, AC 183. Beloved queen, wife, mother, sister, and friend, may Her Majesty reign beside her husband for eternity in love, peace, and prosperity.”

“Fuck you too, little sister,” mouthed the woman before grinning snidely and stalking across the piling snows, fighting against the forceful wind currents to the warmly lit mansion some distance away.