SCHADENFREUDE
by Ash Wednesday Lee

The characters of Shin Kudoseki Gundam Wing belong to
Sotsu Sunrise Agency.  I am sure they are wonderful
people who I don't want to mess with ^.^.

Genre: Drama, Angst
Pair: 1xR
Keywords: 1xR, non-yaoi, Sylvia Noventa, Quatre Winner
Warnings: Just bad metaphors and characters under emotional torture.
Rating: PG-13 Summary: Heero and Relena learns what love
is and what it represents.  And in their education,
experiences its painfully beautiful depths.

Dedication: for Watsuki Nobuhiro (for giving us Rurouni Kenshin) and
           Miaka Mouse (Tanjobu Omedetou!... well, belated anyway)

CHAPTER 8: NECESSARY EVIL

Milliardo Peacecraft watched the early stirrings of what
promised to be another day under the gloomy shelter of
a temperamental sky.  The antiquated grandfather clock
off in the room's corner read ten forty-five but the
lit chandeliers and the crackling sound of wood being
burned into embers spoke of farewells to an adolescent
day.  His gaze shifted to the steaming, fresh fruit
pastries and an ornamental pot containing, what his nose
identified as chamomile tea.  Two porcelain cups lay in
quiet wait amongst other things in the heavy oak table,
their anticipation for his attention visibly bound for
disappointment as he shifted his eyes back to the
mansion's courtyard. 

Even until now, he hasn't given much care for the
extravagances afforded to him by his title and the new
times of peace.  It could easily be mistaken for
aristocratic arrogance, as taking for granted the small
luxuries of food or clothing, but anyone who knew
Milliardo Peacecraft would pay him no such regard.  Yet
even as he stood there exactly as he had in numerous
photo opportunities and media reports of political
events involving his sister-- immaculate hair resting in
stark contrast with the dark coat he preferred for the
rather cold day ahead, eyes distracted with the profound,
lips thinned in absent contemplation --nobody could lay
claim to knowing him.

Just as nobody could possibly tell that he was watching
the gardener expertly tie the stems of the low shrubs to
small wooden poles that he buried deep into the sodden
earth while keeping his straw hat from being snatched by
the violent gusts of wind.  The old man, Prescott if he
remembered well, was now attending to the small
shrubbery of gardenias and hyacinths.  He knew because of
the distinct dots of white and pink in a chaotic
confusion of greens and its varying hues.  He also knew
because he had planted them there himself.  He was
the one who had once tended the hydrangeas in the
garden on the east wing of the manor, the jasmines and
few subtropical flowering plants that had to be kept in
the greenhouse because they were finicky in their
temperature requirements.  Unconsciously, his thumb
smoothed over the palmar surfaces of
his fingers.  Just as how he once would do whenever he
trying to feel the soil for its texture and
temperature, deciding which would suit which shrub and
which would be better for cultivating the herbs.

His lips lifted tentatively to a smile as he watched the
straw hat finally be carried by the impulsive breeze
leaving the hapless gardener with nothing to do but
finish his work as quickly as possible so as to be
safe from the continuing tantrum of the weather.  For a
moment, he entertained the idea of actually missing his
childhood habit, and just as quickly lost interest.
It's hard for a thought to keep its appeal when no
memory comes to mind at its mention.  And he would've
wished that he could still remember that part of his
childhood, the actual joy of nurturing life and beauty
with his bare hands, had those very hands not been
stained by the blood of many in the name of
righteousness, of love and of philosophies whose truths
still elude him eight years after. 

He was, after all a soldier in whom things like regret,
emotions and yes, even gardening are but a distant
fable that he could very well speak of but never feel
for.  Even when he wants to.  There's just so much of
Zechs Marquise that lives in him that he wonders at times
where his soul has gone.  The soul that has been gifted
to him by the gods and not merely the painful
circumstances that the war chose for him.  And whenever
his thoughts stray to such introspections he can't help
the bittersweet joy that swells in his heart as his mind
identifies the answer for him.  While it is all but sad
that Milliardo Peacecraft has ceased to exist in him,
there's also the happiness to find him in places he
would expect and least expect to find him.  Like in
the quivering shrubs outside, in Noin's eyes, in
Relena and the dreams that define her.  That define
both of them (1).

Dreams he has lost sight of as a soldier, but now he
protects.  And cherishes.  And reveres.  And for him,
that in itself is as good as dreaming with them. 

Three soft taps soon followed by the audible groan of an
opening door whose hinges needed oil.  He belatedly
turned to greet the newest occupant as he gave the
gardenias, waving to him in farewell, one last lingering
look. 

She too was dressed for the weather just as he.  The
lilac suit clearly served both aesthetic and warming
purposes.  She cast him an ephemeral smile while
relieving pale hands of deep purple gloves as she
approached the lively fire.  Her hair was in slight
disarray and there were small points of deep purple on
her shoulders, evidence of her brief encounter with the
tempest outside on her way to the manor from the security
personnel's quarters.  He was never one to be
interested with gossip among the servants, but the ones
concerning the new Vice Foreign Minister and Heero Yuy
were quite hard to ignore.  Especially when the
quarters prepared for her stay had been untouched for
the past three nights, according to one helper. 

It should really disturb him, these new developments
right in his very own household.  Particularly since it
would soon concern his sister, whether he likes it or
not.  Whether *she* likes it or not.  He has no care as
to what relationship exists between the stoic pilot and
Sylvia Noventa, and even feels a certain degree of
unfounded happiness for his
former rival and his newfound place in the peace that he
fought hard for.  What concerns him, naturally, is
Relena.  He has already been more than bothered by his
sister's recede.  Withdrawing from him, from them as the
days wore on.  He chose to turn blind and respect Relena
for the strong woman he knows she is.  Difficult as it
may be, he forced himself to clip his protective arm and
let her take on her problems on her own.  But the events
of two nights ago when she stumbled upon their unexpected
audience with Quatre, drenched and shivering, had turned
his anxiety to outright alarm. 

He could still feel the fragility of her shoulders as she
trembled in his hands as he asked her where she has been
and what happened.  The cold pit in his stomach that
rivaled her frigid skin  still torments his
memory-- as she answered him in unintelligible words
and broken syllables all the while staring at him flatly.
 As though seeing him and not knowing who he is.  Or what
he is, even.  He can't remember ever being that
frightened as he watched her neglected body endure the
delirium.  That was when he decided that soon after
everything has settled, he, they, would take Relena away
from it all and let time and distance heal whatever wound
has been inflicted on her. 

'Soon as everything is settled,' he thought as he watched
Sylvia pour the steaming tea into the two waiting cups
with the dexterity of a geisha.  Lissome fingers of one
hand artfully gripping the handle of the pot while the
other supported the snout.  Milliardo had no ill-regard
towards the young Noventa but found that he didn't like
her either.  True, she was attractive in an unearthly,
distant way but that alone seemed to serve some purpose.
As if she's not meant to be touched, not belonging to the
greater reality that existed in the world.  And his
indifference towards her should really qualify him as the
best man to discuss the matter at hand with her.  He even
wonders if Minister Petrov was in the same thread of
thought and not merely the unmistakable dread that
Milliardo identified from the older man when he was asked
to talk to Sylvia.  But everything else, the
circumstances, the terms and the new variable that is
Heero points to the other direction.  He took a deep
breath, 'But it has to be done.  And if it needs that I
play tea party with this child, then so be it,' he
thought in grim determination.

She wrinkled her nose after giving the tea a regal sniff,
"I must apologize for the tea.  I've specifically asked
for the jasmine blend but I'm guessing they had trouble
finding the box that carried it."  Zechs sat across
from her position behind the imposing table and took a
wary sip from his own cup.  "I think this blend suits the
weather just as well," he answered, contributing to the
banalities of small talk and waltzing around the issue at
hand.  The art of diplomacy, though not a particular
preference of his, has been deeply ingrained in his
nature and it amazes him to no end how easily it
surfaces the times in which it is actually required.
'Mother would've been proud,' he thought wryly.

She nodded, leaning back into the lush velvet of her
opulent seat and looked every bit the pampered aristocrat
that she is, "Isn't it?  The weather's been throwing
tantrums these past few days; I'm growing more and more
concerned of the coming harvest in the nearby states."
'Its funny how similar she and Relena are, but are
galaxies apart altogether,' he thought in mild
amusement.

She gave a very effeminate yawn while looking at the
covers of the pile of folders set on her table.  "You
look quite tired.  I'm hoping you're not having trouble
getting sleep in a foreign bed," he said, taking another
sip from his cup to keep himself from scowling over the
baiting question he just issued without intending.  But
she smiled instead, clandestine in more ways than one,
"I've been working quite late, actually, trying to catch
up with lost time."

He nodded, identifying her response as his cue to end the
pleasantries.  "I must say, I'm thoroughly impressed
with how you've handled the office thus far.  And I'm
practically sure that my sentiments are shared by both
Earth and colony representatives alike," he began,
casually setting the half-empty cup back on the saucer
with a whisper of a clink.  The evolution of her smile
from pleasant to that of trepidation failed to go missed
by Milliardo's observant eye.  Furthermore, the tense
timbre in her voice when she spoke, "Thank you,
Milliardo.  I try to do what I can on my own," then as an
afterthought, "your sister, after all, is a tough act to
follow."

He cocked an eyebrow at the evident pretense of her
comment but said none of it.  "That she is," he said
instead, "and that I know, you soon will be."  Again, the
imperceptible shift of tension in her small, frail form
that indicated her increasing disquiet.  But she smiled
on and even answered, "As I said, I try what I can."

Milliardo felt his lips quirk in a small failed attempt
to smile, "Do.  You mean, you *do* what you can, Vice
Minister," he corrected gently.

Her smile faltered and the unease became more palpable in
their distance, even as her countenance fell on the small
pile of paperwork set neatly in front of her.  As if
indicating there were more pertinent matters that
required her attention than tea and empty flattery.
'Ah, a very strong-willed woman-child but a diplomat
first and foremost,' he thought to himself, nearly proud
that Relena hadn't been replaced by a spineless
marionette.  "What can I do for you, Milliardo
Peacecraft?" she asked, eyes that reminded him of glacial
storms and placid fjords were now trained directly
against his... clearly indicating that she too meant
business as he.

He allowed himself a moment to wonder about this girl.
This was a task he didn't relish, even if he felt
complete indifference towards her.  He himself can't
classify if he carries good or bad tidings for her,
though he has a feeling it leans more towards the
latter.  But he was there anyway, drinking tea with the
Vice Foreign Minister.  Playing along her naïve belief
that everything was in its proper place in the chaos of
the universe, for as long as the pretense could hold on
its own.  He didn't like the task at hand, to break that
pretense, but it needs to be done.

And he will do it, if only to protect a dream that died
in him a long time ago.  A dream that no longer belonged
to him but to the vastness of space.  Where any person
who has been touched by goodness, touched by love,
exists.

He was after all, a soldier.

One deep breath and he began to tell a story that
happened two nights ago in his office downstairs...

----------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------------------

RELENA:

Strange as the occurrences of that night may be, they
were never spoken of.  As though a quivering dream,
carried away by the gusty winds to a distant shore, never
meant to be rediscovered.  Never meant to be remembered.

I stayed mostly in my room, suspended between existing
and not.  And whenever I did decide to leave my asylum,
I'd find myself fooling no one that everything was fine.
That I was fine.  But the sling that cradled my arm close
to my chest told too many stories for anyone to forget.
For anyone to overlook.  The pale skin, the glassy stare,
the empty smile... I just got bad at lying. 

And I know as difficult as it was for me to keep a facade
of normalcy, poor as I may be at it, it too was
difficult for them to try and follow my lead.  Zechs
tries not to look at me whenever we talk over tea, Noin
treats me as though I would break if she spoke a little
too loud and the household seem to pause and hold their
breath in expectation of me passing out while I walk down
the stairs.  They expect me not to see of course, and I
really should take such assumptions as an insult to my
intelligence, but instead it urged me to go and try
moving on.  Try and forget.  Find happiness in this new
freedom I've been rewarded with.  Find happiness in the
embers because it's all that is left for me to do.

'Find happiness without Heero,'

No.  That strange night where Quatre Winner graced my
house once more, where he merely brushed my shoulder as
though we never saw a war together, never dreamed the
same dreams, never knew me... that strange night never
existed.

Until today.

A day like the one before, with dark clouds scuffling
about and thunder thrumming in the distance.  And just as
when it seems like everything has receded to a
predictable rhythm, when I thought that each whisper of a
storm, each drop of rain I could foretell as to where it
would fall and the pattern it will create on the sodden
earth, all that was banal came to a screeching halt.

I was heading back to my room, from where, I couldn't
remember.  I've been wandering around the house.
Everywhere and nowhere, listening to the whispers of
the empty halls and the laughter that was never there.
It truly was a lonely place to call home.  And its
melancholy served to heighten mine, bringing out the dull
thrum of my heartbeat, the sad story each breath had as
it was taken, then expelled in weary abandon.  It has
all gone to become tiring for me.  I clapped a hand over
my mouth to suppress an unwarranted giggle, stemming from
the depths of my emptiness.  Humor for nothing in
particular.  'This is what you wanted for yourself,
Relena,' I told myself, 'and now even your sanity seems
to be betraying you.'

I was on the brink of madness.  If I'm not there already.
 Or perhaps I've always been and this pain that's gnawing
my heart stems from the fact that the truths I've been
pushing away for so long were now looking me in the
eye.  Catching up at last.  You're crazy Relena.  Always
have been, always will be.  Chasing after a complicated
man who wants to kill you, abandoning everything in
your haste to keep pace.  Logic.  Family.
Self-respect.  I thought I could keep up.  I thought I
could give up something more.  I was never prepared to
run low on what little it was I had.  Even less to
confront the possibility of me being no longer part of
the equation.

And perhaps, it's best that I never know which hurt
worse.  Letting him go because I couldn't keep up.  Or
letting him go because he has found what I've been
offering him elsewhere.  Maybe in that blissful ignorance
I could keep what little reason he has left me
with... enough reason to be able to forgive myself for
all the mistakes that I've made, enough wisdom to
forget the last eight years of my life. 

"Good morning, Miss Relena," greeted someone, I turned
and gave the young maid the faintest of smiles.  Smiles,
I found, come too expensive for me these days.  Which I
found strange since I've been giving them away for free
since a time I can't even remember.  "Good morning," my
voice sounded strange, like someone else was there
speaking for me.  She was carrying a pile of sheets in
her arms and looked quite uncomfortable standing there,
in an empty hall with me.  "You're looking well, Miss,"
she stammered.

Hard as it was, I succeeded in suppressing a harsh bark
of laughter and nodded instead.  Not wanting to add to
the opening lie she just afforded me.  But she was a
smart girl and knew what she had just said out loud.
"I'm sorry.  But, I..." her contrition clearly reflected
in her face.  "It's alright," I said, my voice raspy
compared to her own.  She smiled, perhaps seeing that I
too was contrite for giving her an avenue to lie. 

We should've laughed at the next impulse-- like old
friends catching up.  But I couldn't even remember her
name and it was perhaps her first time to ever speak to
me.  So we settled for companionable silence, refusing to
fall prey to the offered comforts of lies and small talk.
 She walked along with me, and we said nothing to each
other.  I found there's small happiness in that simple
act of walking.  Of putting one foot ahead of the other,
shifting weights in synchrony with familiar paths and
remembered hallways.  And greater joy in sharing the
banality with someone.  Someone that didn't ask for me to
be something.  To be strong, to be mature, to be happy...
oh gods, especially not happy.  And I, in grateful
return, not asking anything from her.

It was almost normal.

We stopped by the stairs and she again bade me good
morning.  "I'll send up some tea to your room, Miss
Relena," she said, almost a promise.  My next smile
didn't feel as difficult as the first.  I thanked her
for her company and went on my way as well, catching a
glimpse of her own upturned lips as I did.  I gripped on
that captured picture and dwelled on the joy of making
one person smile. 

I'd barely pondered on the positive prospects of the
dreary morning when I heard a familiar monotone -- break
the recently restored stillness of the
hallway.  'Milliardo?' I thought, soon followed by a
soft, lyrical one, like delicate glasses kissing each
other.  Then the simple act of walking gained greater
difficulty as my feet felt like lead and the flat surface
of the floor seemed like it would disappear in my next
attempt to walk.  To escape.  To get away.  I would've
walked away.  I *should* have walked away.  But it seems
it was my place to be there and listen.  As though it was
necessary, for the natural course of things to take
place, for me to be there and listen among the very same
silence that kept my ancestors company before death dealt
them its final blow. 

The urge to cover my ears went forgotten, my hands fell
limply to my side as the very feet that refused me
freedom from this bondage to suffering, began to carry me
to the sound of their voices.  Gradually, I felt myself
relax, my senses opened to the very brink of
consciousness.  There was no use in denying myself the
torture.  No use in pretending fate is kind and small
walks with faceless people could heal wounds never meant
to mend but were inflicted to cause you pain again. 

And again.

And again.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------------------

If the walls could talk, they would speak of her lucid
eyes and make romantic prose about the clarity of her
skin, the shifting hues of her blue eyes.  She was a
study of light and shadows.  A chiaroscuro screaming
with mysteries waiting to be unfolded, to be solved by
those who chose to pay attention.  The walls would speak
of the ethereal glow that cloaks her deceptively frail
form, now shining through her in near blinding intensity.
 Should the walls be gifted with a voice, they would sing
of her evident joy and the love that escapes from each
breath that she expels, each sound that vibrates from
her. 

Such is a woman in love.

And if the walls could talk they would warn her of
happiness being cut short.  Of promises being broken.  Of
dreams faltering to nothingness.

"Several months before Relena left office, there was a
random attack in the southern border of the former
Switzerland," he began, his eyes never betraying any form
of emotion, "the Ministry publicized it as an accident in
one of the chemical laboratories happening to reside
close to the border to belie the growing suspicion of the
media that it was a deliberate hit by a V-1," Sylvia's
face remained equally impassive despite the weight of the
information she was receiving, "when in fact, it was a
newtype warhead that should really not exist, six years
after the war."

"So who did it?" Sylvia asked, finally finding her voice
while Milliardo seemed to be weighing his next words.  He
got up, suddenly finding the velvet-cushioned seats to be
stifling, and walked to the spot where she'd found him
earlier.  "We don't know.  Rather," he paused, "didn't
know."

"The Preventers have decided to pursue the matter in
stealth, away from the interest of the media.  Which they
found was quite easy considering the sudden wealth of
human interest stories going around on Earth and in the
colonies," he held both hands clasped behind him and she
can't help but notice just how much authority he commands
just by simply standing there.  "The Ministry of Foreign
Affairs downplayed the events succeeding the accident in
Switzerland but in truth, it has never seen so many
riots, insurgencies and random attempts at anarchy since
it was conceived.  Nobody wanted to put it into words,
but it looked like Earth and the colonies were ripe again
for a new war."

Keeping a detached expression was getting harder by the
minute, and Sylvia felt a mixture of fear and
anticipation well in her stomach.  "But the Preventers
did find who was responsible for the Switzerland
incident," she said slowly, carefully as though being
forced to ask something she doesn't really want to know
the answer to, "right?"

He appeared to be distracted, contemplating on matters
she wasn't privy to.  It was a good minute before he
actually moved, lifting a hand to the windowpane, "I
assume you've made acquaintances with Quatre Winner?" he
asked suddenly.

She eyed him with wariness, "I haven't been in office
long enough to actually meet him but I am aware of..."
she stopped, "so he bombed Switzerland?"

Milliardo had to allow himself a ghost of a smile at her
foresight, slightly impressed, more thoroughly curious as
to what role she would've played had she been a more
active participant in the war.  "One could say that," he
answered in a whisper, barely audible in the ruckus
developing outside.  A sudden gust of wind carried fallen
leaves along with it, like frightened children being
gathered in the arms of their mothers, somehow Milliardo
found that much more interesting than the actual play
of emotions on Sylvia's patrician features. 

"But, he was a Gundam pilot," she asked, evidently
confused.  "Indeed, he was," Milliardo confirmed, "after
the war, Winner almost immediately disappeared, leaving
the wealth of Winner Industries in the hands of his
eldest sister, Iria.  A physician by education I
believe," he answered, "then a year ago, he returned and
resumed his position in the family's business,
effectively turning the tides for Winner Industries
making it the single most powerful company in both space
and Earth."

He took lazy steps back to his chair, as though occupying
himself while contemplating his next words, but didn't
sit down.  Nor did he look up to meet Sylvia's
questioning gaze.  "Why are you telling me all of this
Mr. Peacecraft?" she asked, a tell-tale waver marring the
calm she was desperately trying to put up.  There was an
unsettling chill caressing her spine and trying to hide
her anxiety was not getting any easier.  He met her eyes
briefly before he answered her question.  Something in
him felt sad for her though he couldn't determine if it
was sadness out of pity or sadness borne out of the
thought that had this been Relena... he pressed his eyes
closed, blocking away the possibilities, the sight of his
sister's frail form being dealt a most unbearable blow...
and taking all of it in unflinchingly.

'Because that's the way she is.' 

"Quatre wasn't solely responsible for the bombing in
Switzerland, at least that's what he claimed, but it was
his money.  As is the money responsible for the civil
unrest in L-1, the labor issues in Tripoli, the brewing
anarchy in sector 52 of L-3," he paused, hands still
clasped behind him, eyes still trained on her
apprehension.  "If you call the Press Secretary right
now, he will tell you that the demonstrations in Libya
have calmed down, the rebels in L3 have ceased their
advances and the hostilities in L1 have reached a
stalemate," he waited for any realization to dawn on her
but none came, "Everything hangs in the balance as we
speak, Ms. Noventa.  And it's you who holds the final
weight."

Surely she must've gone ghastly white, her skin the color
of paste, for she felt her blood draw away and stop in
her heart.  There was an answer niggling in the back of
her mind, eager to answer all her questions, but she
refused to confront it.  Refused to acknowledge the fact
that it indeed existed.  "And how could I tip the
balance in the favor of the Ministry then, Mr.
Peacecraft?" she asked, the delicacy of her throat
constricting then relaxing at every fall of silence. 

"By marrying him."

She looked at him lucidly, the folding of her hands on
her lap giving no clue as to what ran in her mind.  "I
can't do that," she answered as if she were refusing a
course in a meal.  There was a strange calm in her that
violated the very logic of calm.  She was enraged,
livid and coherent all at the same time while she gently
folded her hands in her lap.  It was as though her
silence amplified every minutia of anger and fury, the
faintest hint of a serene smile highlighted her tempered
wrath in a way that the next person could never afford to
miss. 

Again, an unexpected reminder of his sister came to mind.
 "You don't have a choice, Ms. Noventa," he countered.

"I'll make that decision, thank you."

"You make no decisions.  The general welfare of the
colonies and Earth decides for you."

She smiled mockingly, "Ah, but who derived that
conclusion, pray tell Mr. Peacecraft?"  He could see the
fine cracks in the mask she was desperately using to
keep in her evident anger. 

"Those who died and continue to suffer among the living
for peace," he answered coldly, his face unreadable while
hers was a study of pain and helpless anger.  "I don't
understand," she said in a trembling whisper, "why me? I
can't..." her eyes finally meeting his, pleading for
something he can't give. 

"It's not so much him marrying you.  It's more of him
marrying the Ministry.  Quatre has been very vocal in
his desire to run for colony representative this coming
election as his constituency has been equally vocal
in their censure of him. There are just too many
issues that he chose not to confront when he came back."

"Then arrest him!"

"We can't. The ESUN has grown much too dependent with
Winner Industries. We hurt him, we hurt ourselves," he
answered, almost apologetic.

"I don't see how marrying me solves his problem," she
shot back; she was now on her feet, trying hard not to
forget how to breathe while her mind ran ideas that
would free her of this mess.  "Marriage provides the comforting
illusion of stability, revealing a man's humanity in the
form of a woman. A partner. Quatre wants the Vice
Foreign Minister for a wife, Sylvia.  Someone the colony
looks upon with fondness and trust.  If Quatre can't
win the election on his own..."

"He'll win it through me," she finished, her voice a
whisper of defeat, the fiery passion in her eyes
seemingly dimmed by the realization.  It was as though
life granted her one more ticket to hell, just when she
thought everything was going to be alright.  Deceived
that the respite she deserved had finally dawned on
her.  'Heero,' came the pained thought.  She has come to
memorize the rich hue of his eyes, the feel of his hair
sliding past the skin of her fingers, the curve and
planes that perfected his face and yet she still yearned
for him.  Dissatisfied and famished with the calm that he
brought to her.  The nightmares of her childhood
dissolved in his presence and somehow, sleeping didn't
seem so dreadful as it has been for her in the last ten
years. 

She was safe.  The demons locked in a far away place
where they can no longer touch her. 

And now, marriage to a stranger for the sake of peace.
For the sake of Earth and the colonies.  For the sake of
a greater good than her own cheap happiness.  They were
asking her to seek that far away place, seek the demons
she's been running away from all her life and suffer all
over again.  She thought of Heero, the pain his voice
revealed when he uttered Relena's name in his dreams and
knew she can't lose this fight.  Her loss would be his
as well.  And she can't lose him now.  She can't let
*her* hurt him anymore than she has (2). 

"I am not marrying Quatre Winner," she said in defiance.
"I will not be bargained like a commodity in exchange for
the whims of a rich, spoiled brat who thinks he could
bully..."

"This is not a game, Sylvia.  We are talking of lives,"
his voice reflecting his near-snapping temper, "lives of
innocent men.  Women.  Children.  I shouldn't even be
telling you this.  You should've known your
responsibilities right when you took your oath into
office," his eyes trapped her with a glare, his stance
imposing.  "Being Vice Foreign Minister is not all
about sleeping with the Chief Security Officer."

The sound of skin contacting skin echoed in the room,
joining the cracking melody of the fire and the whispered
hymn of wind whacking against closed windows.  Milliardo
dwelled on the slight sting of the contact before lifting
his eyes to her own tearful ones.  Letting her know
that any apologies should not be expected. 

"Y-you have no r-right to..." she said and he saw she was
quivering, the hand that struck him folded in a trembling
fist.  "I know you are a smart woman, Ms. Noventa.  And I
know you will make the right decision," he said in
strained politeness. "Mr. Winner will be arriving
tomorrow around noon to seek your answer."  He stood
and watched her awhile longer.  Silken
hair, trembling full lips, eyes swimming in tears... even
in distress, she was beauty incarnate.  And he knew, that
whatever reminder of Relena she bore with her, ended in
the surface.

In more ways than one, she can never be Relena.

He turned and made his way to the door. 

"I don't believe you've been dismissed Mr. Peacecraft,"
she said out loud, her tears have been wiped and her
bearing restored.  He could've chosen to ignore her but
he stayed put nonetheless, keeping his back to her.
After all, she still needed to ask him something.

"And what if I still refuse?"

He turned his head slightly, "Then I will eliminate
that which keeps you from being compliant."  This time he
didn't wait for any more of her pretentious admonitions
and opened the door.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------------------

Relena let her eyes travel from the floor to the
questioning eyes of her brother.  He smiled at her while
she lifted her free hand to his slightly inflamed cheek.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, holding her lifted
hand gently.  "I was on my way back to my room," she
answered, her voice flat and devoid of any emotion while
her gaze was seeking for answers from him.  Answers she
knew, he too didn't have.

"Would you like me to walk you to your room?" he asked,
swinging the door slightly ajar.  She wanted to smile
then, because she knew he wanted her to.  But all she
could afford was a slight stretch in her pale lips and a
lie.  "Noin has been looking for you.  It sounded quite
urgent," she said.  Milliardo's gaze lingered on her for
a while, making her feel she was being read through her
eyes, then nodded.  "I'll go and see Noin, then," he said
and brushed a kiss on her forehead before leaving.

Relena watched his retreating form, her thoughts in
tumult over what she had just heard.  What sounded like a
sob roused her attention back to the slightly open
doorway.  She saw Sylvia's head buried in her arms on the
table mumbling incoherent words laced with tears.  She
stood there for a moment, a mass of hesitation and
perplexity.  Should she go in?

Without much of a sigh, she pushed the door and took a
step forward.  Then another.  Then another.

"Sylvia..." she began, the fatigue in her voice not
making her sound any more affable than she knew she
should. 

Sylvia lifted her head slowly, her tear-streaked face
cold and her soft blue eyes narrowed in distaste.  She
didn't say anything as Relena took a few more steps
towards her.

"Sylvia, I---"

"I suppose you've taken it upon yourself to listen," she
said scathingly, "it is after all expected of you, is it
not?"

Relena flinched at her accusation and bit her lip. 

"Are you happy now?" she demanded.  Sylvia has leaned
back on her chair and was eyeing Relena's frail form in
aversion, her hatred of her and everything she represents
mirrored in her gaze.

As if in defiance, Relena met her scrutiny with
unyielding calm, "do you expect me to be happy?" she said
softly as her voice could not allow her to say anything
in any other manner.

"Yes," Sylvia shot back, not even letting her finish.  A
parody of a smile played in her red lips, one that is
meant to ridicule this... this pretentious woman who
dared to approach her and fool her with false kindness
and unwanted comfort.  "You think you understand me,
Relena Peacecraft?  You think you know pain?  You know
suffering?" she prodded.

"Yes," she whispered, but no one was interested...as
always.

"You always claim to share the people's grief, carry the
same agony as everyone else.  But you don't know
anything.  You know *nothing*," she said, her glare both
accusing and hate-filled, "Have you been to hell
Relena?  Have you actually felt the flames lick your
skin?  Smelled the scent of souls burning into ashes?
Have you seen actual demons feast on your flesh?" she
walked towards her, each step she took made Relena fall
back. 

Perhaps it was her fascination with Sylvia's anger that
kept her from turning and leaving the room.  Or perhaps
it was her need to be hurt some more, hurt by somebody
else other than Heero.  She found herself incapable of
doing anything but watch Sylvia's fury through her
luminous eyes and listen to that musical voice that
sounded like crystals kissing each other convey hatred
Relena knew she could never match.

Even towards Heero.

"You don't know how it is to wake up each morning wishing
for nothing more than your life to be ended in that
day.  You don't know what it is like to suffer each
breath you take as you struggle to keep your sanity
intact because everywhere you look, everywhere you turn
you know no love awaits you.  You've been
sheltered into safety, all your life.  No one hurts you,
no one touches you.  All your dreams turn into reality,
all wishes granted in the snap of a finger. The world at
your feet."

"No," she wanted to say, but it was hurting so bad.
Something was being wrenched from inside her, taken away
from her reach. 

Sylvia's eyes traveled over her once more.  Taking in
the fragile front and innocent look with disgust.  While
her own eyes were brimmed with tears, Relena was looking
at her blankly, her lips parted slightly, like she spoke
a different language and none of her words hurt her.  And
if possible she hated her more for that. 

Because Sylvia wanted her to hurt just as it hurts her. 

"I pity you, Relena Peacecraft," she smiled forcibly,
mockingly, and even then Relena saw just how beautiful
she is, tears and all.  "I pity people who are like you
because you can never love," the tears broke free, drops
racing each other down her cheeks, "you can never, ever
fathom the true meaning of love."

Relena watched her lips move while her voice echoed in
each corner of her mind, lashing on her
wounded soul.  She watched Sylvia break down with
numbness.  She was sobbing uncontrollably yet no sound
registered in her ears.  There was only the deafening
symphony of Sylvia's lilting voice telling her she can't
love.  And a not so distant memory of Heero comforting
Sylvia while she wept, completing their heart-breaking
picture of perfection and beauty.

Relena found herself alone in the empty hallway, Sylvia's
sobs drowned by the ripe tempest outside.  And if it
weren't for the veritable tightness in her chest,
everything could've been a play of an overworked
imagination.  Or a nightmare that would soon be carried
away and forgotten along with the passing seconds of the
day.  Yet the echoes rang clear in her ears, the memory
she has unearthed still painfully beautiful.

'You don't know how to love.'

"But I do," she whispered to no one, "I wish I didn't but
I do."

And again, no one was interested.

As always.

END PART 8

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---------------------------

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

1. Meaning, Relena and Zechs.

2. Just so it's clear, she was pertaining to Relena here, okay? ^_^
   (I, myself got confused with all the 'she' and 'her' 0_o)

3.  It might be quite strange to have Zechs to talk to
   Sylvia (it was a toss up between him and Petrov) about
   such issue of great weight considering they're not well
   acquainted with each other.  But I figured Zechs was
   perfect for the job since he is duty bound and since he's
   emotionally detached from Sylvia, it would be easiest for
   him to talk to her.  Plus the fact that peace is being
   put in the line, something he feels he is bound by name
   and duty to protect.

4. Hopefully this chapter gave some insight on what is going to
   happen next and the fic in itself isn't just a big lump of
   aimless, incoherent and angry ramblings.

5.  I'd have to thank my friend Marbin for the Il Postino
   soundtrack she gave me (*huggles*) which I've been
   listening to while finishing this chapter.

6.  And of course, Iris-chan for the beta

Thanks for reading and whatever else you can spare.