Political Cage

[Tomorrow]

AN: A revamp of a former fic? now almost completely unrecognizable. 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. Eyes traveled down to 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. They sauntered to 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. She squinted 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 promise which indentured her to Durmail's whim.

She had to stay here, in this travestied palace. The rings that manacled her fingers suddenly seemed tight, like a lariet cinching around her flesh, cutting off her circulation as they sucked the edges of her knuckle.

She attempted to twist the gold circles loose, but their smooth, metallic lips continued their assualt. It was no use; she was bound - 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.

She was 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 misplaced guilt and smudged with the fingerprints of the war's dead. Imprints of their faces marred it, their frightened eyes distinct and lips parted in a dismal, reticent scream... clouding it with 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. That would do, disgust even the most brutish of men as he came to look upon his image, unpolished and raw, as he comes to terms with what he's done.

How can it be otherwise?

A mirror is impartial, inanimate - it has no feelings towards that which it reflects. It shows only what is set before it - nothing more, nothing less. Bare bones. People are the ones who manipulate their reflections with makeup and exercise and wigs and wardrobes. The mirror, though, remains unaware of it all. Just staring back - silent, clear, and ignorant. Even funhouse mirrors reveal the truth; they can pervert it and stretch it a bit according to their own shapes and sizes, but it's still the truth. For what is truth to one man is fallacy to another.

And in this revelation, the onlooker stands in a splintered puddle of what had once been humanity's specious deliverance, brittle but consoling, nonetheless.

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, dripping down her artificial skin like luminous, restorative blood.

She could no longer reflect the surreal wisdom of the moon and loving, mothering sun that cradled mankind's fate. Her glass had become hazy and dim. Only the black, endless, starless sky could be echoed in her face. The void in men's hearts - an uncertain future.

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 inner, lucid tears of hope-- That boy with the Prussian blue eyes.

Everyone loved her, although perhaps not 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 apprehensive. She knew, because his right leg was trembling ever so slightly. Was he even aware of it? Yes, they were stale... yet respectful... almost deferential. She could tell because of the hitches in his breathing, the way his lips parted as she stood erect to his threat. Did he know how dry they were, how his clouding breath skimmed over the chapped edges?

The pale drapes wafted from the wind, rubbing against each other like the satin of her gloves had done only moments earlier and shushing her idle thoughts. 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, then the dream of Romafeller, epitomized by this building, would also perish. This is why. This is why she had to be free. She didn't want to fall into decadence like this building, this fleeting organization would someday. She wanted to be dead before the palace was reduced to ruins from mobile suits and shrapnel. If it came to such extremes, she wanted to be first, so that it could fall peacefully with the banners discarded and chandeliers taken down volunatrily, behind a premise of handshakes and smiles.

Relena took Heero's limp hand in her gloved one and kissed his knuckles. She said nothing, just continued to trace his fingers with her gaze - 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. He would kill her... so that more fighting would have to be done? People wouldn?t be sated with her blood for long, and others would demand retribution for her martyrdom. They would just crave more... and more...

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... aimless...

He fought his whole life for peace, and now that he was on the brink of attaining it, he realized that the object of his desire also meant his undoing. If one's life is to fight for peace, and peace means the end of fighting, then where does the one fit in once peace has been achieved?

One doesn't.

He always thought his life meant nothing? but he never thought... that she would--

And she just validated that.

His misguided princess that looked upon him only with naive pity, unabated desperation, and childish admiration was so broken that she would destroy herself, ignorant that she would take him with her.

He realized.

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 princess? 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. He walked off as she cried out to him, voice strained 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 and nudging her forward-- When the breeze turned feral. It ripping at the fabric, making it hiss and shriek - using it to remind her again. It tied her with a sheer rope, flung haphazardly across her chest and wallowing along her legs, fettering her to that room that was determined to hold her - wouldn't let her fall alone. The room kept her from running after him, forced her to watch his form vanish into the darkness. She would remain a prisoner of this tyrannous organization as far as it was concerned.

Lonely. A puppet.

Her eyes suddenly dried.

That's when she knew something else.

She had been wrong. All the world worshipped her - he the first on bended knee. The love of Romafeller and its sheep was mockery. 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 breadth of its resplendence, 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.

[Raspberry]

That was really beautiful. I'm speechless Great great work, Tomorrow! I loved last two paragraphs

[bookworm]

Definitely you, Tomorrow. Definitely you. (Meaning I've associated these kind of fics as yours.)

[Morrighan]

WOW!! Very, very, very nice! Like bookworm, I've definitely associated this type of writing with you... Excellent job (as always)!!!

[Kaili Charmer]

Beautiful, as always. Your style is as deep and hopeful as ever.

[Gracey Yuy]

...coool.. kinda angsty aint it? ah well its a real great work of writing

[Lady Casper]

I like this one!

a lot!

[lilac310]

Wonderful, as always!!!!!!!..You captured the true ambiance of the whole situation...just amazing...

[silent muse]

how did I not notice this fic before? simply amazing, Tomorrow.

-muse-

[Fatimai1]

really deep and soulful. Just so touching :razz: