Political Cage

[Tomorrow]

AN: This is a sort of introspective piece, dealing with what could have possibly transpired, psychologically, anyway, after Relena made her speech as Queen of the World. Warning: symbolism ahoy!



Disclaimers: I don't own Gundam Wing or anything associated with it. By the way, I'm not making any money off this.




She stood alone, kneading her hands absently in the moonlight, relishing the white satin that covered her fingers and draped the rest of her tired, delicate body. Her mind registered only that simple feeling, that quiet sound of cloth rustling against cloth in a resonant hush, covering warm and supple flesh. By some inclination, she looked down at her breasts, pushed together by the suffocating, confining fabric, and stared meticulously at the anomalous blotches of dull silver light that settled upon them. Looked down at her wrist wrapped in a glove, concentrating on the rhythmic beating of her pulse that pounded through the garment, as though attempting an escape from beneath its textile dungeon. Looked at the folds of her billowing skirt and noted how the night's shadows and moonbeams stalked up the fabric to nest in the deep ruffles and crisp wrinkles, creating a brig of silhouettes and reflections. Looked at the lace that trimmed her dress, stitched with intricate patterns and strips of gauzy material, tenuous and glowing like a spider's web-- Capturing her ankles.

All of her was trapped here. In that dress. In this place. Even her tiara held her ringlets prisoner, chained her mind in a beautiful cage of gold and jewels through which only to stare submissively--reminded her of that reverberant promise to Durmail.

She had to stay here. In this travestied palace. Bound by her word, by her compassion for her soldiers and those who fought for her kingdom and her family's philosophy. She was reduced to an idol, statue of a glass maiden that smiled prettily for the public and stood strong, unwavering? timeless.

Beautiful.

Prostrated before and with homage paid. But empty. Hollow. But polished in the gloss of her royal name. In the sheen of her reputation. The crystalline surface that covered her was clear, overtly shimmering and pristine. Mercifully deceptive. For within was filthy, dripping with grime of guilt and smudged with the fingerprints of the war's dead. Imprints of their faces marring it and clouded by their last breaths of life. So transparent, but only if one looked from the right angle. Only as he could.

Then he could see. Witness the streaks and ugly smears of the glass maiden. Easily shatter her into millions of razor-tipped shards of mirror that revealed his own corruption and inner filth. Revile his accursed image. She could be pieced back together? but never as perfect as before. Never as immaculate and na?ve as before. There would be cracks in that glass, darkness from the world creeping its way in and her redeeming light and hope leaking out.

She could no longer reflect the guiding moon and loving, warm sun and innocence. Her glass had become hazy and dim. Only the black, endless, starless sky. The void in men's hearts.

Vacant. Ostensibly dirty. Unprotected? not even by the coating of her title, anymore.

And he could break her waxed shell of nominalism and prestige, glazed over with her tender, suppressed tears of hope-- That boy with the Prussian blue eyes.

Everyone loved her, whether politically or genuinely. But him. Everyone supported her. But him. Everyone wanted her to reign. But him.

And herself.

So she looked up into his eyes. They were cold, but somehow mournful, regretful. Stale... yet respectful and smoldering reverence.

The pale drapes wafted from the wind, rubbing against each other like the satin of her gloves had done only moments earlier. The shadows of twilight, she noticed, slithered between those folds, too, erecting another penitentiary of shading and brightness. A spider's web was woven in one of the crevices of the window's corners, glistening in the moonlight, entangling a butterfly in its tortuous threads.

This palace and she were the same. If one fell, so the other would follow.

If she died, the dream of Romafeller, epitomized by this building, would also perish. This is why. This is why she had to be free.

Relena took Heero's limp hand in her gloved one and kissed his knuckles. Thanking him for what he knew? and loving him for it.

He raised the gun to her chest, cold and solid, watching as her eyes slid closed and a sad smile tugged at her lips. She knew what she had to do for peace. To keep people from fighting? to stop him from fighting. She wanted this.

And yet he knew she didn't. Because to stop war with death meant that her sacrifice wasn't enough. People wouldn?t be sated with her blood for long. But it would stop the fighting for now. Let him rest. Let her rest. Let both of them rest.

Knowing that? he couldn?t do it. Shattering the glass maiden meant his own misery, his own pain and damnation, as the shards would rain down upon him and cut his hands and face and chest-- And his purpose. Those crystal pieces of her own atonement meant he wouldn?t be needed anymore. Useless. He always thought his life meant nothing? and she just validated that. His misguided princess that looked upon him only with kindness, gentle sorrow, unabated need, and childish admiration was so broken that she would destroy herself, ignorant that she would take him with her.

This was not what the people needed. Not her surrender. They needed her passion, her hope. He needed her hope.

He would find another way to end this war. Because without Relena, his glass maiden? he was nothing.

He would go after her brother as he had originally planned, crumble the defiant idol of marble? stiff, solid, and daunting. Her brother was the enemy, casting the crystal sculpture of his sister in his deluded shadow. Deaf even to the singing of her glass skin when Heero dared to tap on it. Zechs was the enemy, she an inadvertent scapegoat.

So he left her. Left her standing alone in her bedchamber. Left her as she cried out to him, near tears and with her arm outstretched, trying to call him back. The arachnid emerged from its hovel in the curtain folds, waltzing swiftly across its web to wrap the butterfly in its sticky, glimmering cocoon. The fluttering drapes brushed against her shoulders softly, whispering for her to go after him-- When the breeze turned feral, ripping at the fabric and making it whine and shriek. Using it. It tied her with a sheer rope, flung across her chest and wallowing along her legs, fettering her to that room that was determined to hold her. Keeping her from running after him, forced to watch his form vanish into the darkness. She would remain a prisoner of this tyrannous organization. Lonely.

That's when she knew something else. She had been wrong. All the world hated her, condemned her-- But him. He needed her. His eyes... that's why. That's why he walked away. That's why they were cold and revering... because he realized it, too.

He would be the barrier to the glass maiden.

The harsh wind settled and the drapes stilled. A moth barreled into the delicate web, freeing the butterfly-- Enraging the spider that wobbled on the wilted gossamer. And the two flew away together into the moon-filled night, disappearing in the resplendence of the satellite, with light that sparkled from the tips of their wings, seeming to twinkle in the distance like two floating stars.

With Heero, she was always free. With him, she was never alone.