Valhalla: Birth and Binding [6/7, 4xD]

[Terra]

Disclaimer: I do not own one particle of Gundam Wing nor do I get any money from adapting scenes in Ayn Rand?s The Fountainhead. I?m especially relying on her work this week.

A/N- Sylvia returns here (and she, too, will be a recurring character) along with Peter and Layla. And most unexpectedly, Treize Khushrenada somehow wandered into the picture. When I was writing this chapter, I had no idea that it would end up being so long, so I divided it into two parts. As usual, footnotes are here for your convenience.

Synergy means: the interaction of two or more agents or forces so that their combined effect is greater than the sum of their individual effects.


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Birth and Binding VI:
Synergy, Part I
by Terra
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Quatre did not think of Dorothy often, but when he did, the thought was not a sudden recollection; it was the acknowledgement of a continuous presence that needed no acknowledgement. He wanted to see her. He knew where to find her. He waited. It amused him to wait, because he knew that the waiting was unbearable to her. He knew that his absence bound her to him in a manner more complete and humiliating than his presence could enforce. He was giving her time to attempt an escape, in order to let her know her own helplessness when he chose to see her again. She would know that the attempt itself had been of his choice, that it had been only another form of mastery. Then she would be ready either to kill him or to come to him of her own will. The two acts would be equal in her mind. He wanted her brought to this. He waited.

On a morning several days after he returned from L1, Layla quietly reminded him of his promise to accompany her to the Society banquet. He sat in bed, reading the latest stock market numbers, his hands clasping the edge of the laptop to keep himself still. He was exhausted after thirteen hours spent in his office the previous day, and he thought he should be exhausted by the prospect of another day, but he could not feel it. He made his shoulders sag in an effort to achieve a relaxation that would not come. His long legs were spread apart, one straightened and resting on the bedspread, the other hanging down straight from the hip over the bed?s edge, swing impatiently. It was so difficult these days to force himself to rest.

?I still feel uneasy traveling to Earth.? Layla hesitated. ?But some of the most important names in the industry will be there, not to mention all the Society editors and writers.?

?I?ll go,? he said, abruptly.

She smiled brightly. ?I?ll probably have to wear some ludicrously expensive dress.?

?That seems to be the custom.?

Layla laughed. ?All right, I can take the hint. I?ll let you bury yourself in your work today.?

When she left, Quatre remained sitting on the bed for a long time. He had decided to go to the party, because he knew that it would be the last of all places where Dorothy could wish to meet him again.

As she exited one of the Winner company cars, Layla recoiled in surprise when a stealthy paparazzi cameraman unexpectedly dived directly in her path and began snapping photographs of her. Immediately, she reflexively flung her hand over her face. Glancing desperately along the avenue of boutiques, she ran into the nearest one. She smiled triumphantly as a security guarded barred her pursuer?s entry into the galleria. How do celebrities, she wondered, deal with constantly being stalked? Layla was no stranger to the press, since she had inadvertently become famous by her romantic connection to Quatre many months ago, but she would never be able to adapt to the paparazzi aspect of her now alarmingly public life.

Casting one last nervous glance at the photographer lurking by the door, she was surprised to see that he had not ceased taking pictures of her. Then, she cursed silently as she realized that the shelter she had run into was ironically a bridal shop. She could already envision the tantalizing headlines in tomorrow?s tabloids. Since the damage was now irrevocable, she held her chin up high in false indifference and resigned herself to perusing the gowns in the boutique for something suitable to wear to the Society banquet. When she emerged from the shop a little over an hour later, grimacing at the exorbitant price of her chosen dress, she forcefully parted the throng of paparazzi gathered outside the entrance.

Hailing and then stepping into the relative safety of a taxi cab, she promptly gave the driver the address of Quatre?s penthouse suite. Compulsively smoothing the wrinkles of her beige dress suit as she leaned back comfortably against the headrest, she thought that it was unusual of Quatre to forget his appointments, especially if they were with her. He had not said anything, but she knew that Quatre was distracted recently by something that made him more absentminded, harder working and often led him to sit alone, unaware of his surroundings, in contemplation. She didn?t approach him about her suspicions, because she knew that if he wasn?t willing to volunteer his thoughts then likely, she had no business interfering. Their relationship was founded on an absence of demands. She refused to ask him for more than he was willing to give.

Smiling to herself, she thought that these travel plans had come at a perfect time. They both needed a vacation and a change of location to a sunny Mediterranean island would, she felt certain, rekindle their intimacy.


Dorothy returned to Sicily. It had been only a month since her last visit to the Italian island. She had been the elder Lady Noventa?s guest at the Palazzo dei Normanni1 for a nameless, faceless soiree of one kind or another. She returned without purpose, merely because she could not stay on Majorca without seeing Trowa Barton and she would not stay there with Peter. She had to be in another part of the world; it was a sudden necessity, irresistible and senseless. She expected nothing of the city of Palermo. But she wanted the feeling of the streets and the buildings holding her there. In the morning, when she awakened and heard the muffled din of the crowd below, the sound was a humiliation, a reminder of where she was and why.

She went out alone for long walks. She had to be out in the streets, blank, purposeless for hours at a time. She had always hated the streets of a city. She saw the faces swirling past her, the faces made alike by fear ? fear of themselves, fear of all and of another, fear making them ready to pounce upon whatever was held sacred by anyone they met. But she had always felt its presence. She had kept herself clean and free in a single passion ? to touch nothing. She had liked facing them in the streets; she had liked the impotence of their hatred, because she offered them nothing to be hurt. But she was not free any longer. Each step through the streets hurt her now.

She was tied to him ? as he was tied to every part of the city, as he was tied to every part of any city. He was lost somewhere in these crowds, dependent on them, to be hurt by any one of them, to be shared by her with the whole world. She hated the thought of him on the sidewalks people had used. She hated the thought of a bum begging him for change. She hated the elbows touching his arms in an elevator. She hated Quatre Raberba Winner, because she could not forget in all the years that had passed the connection they shared. An understanding that should have faded as her body matured and her mind grew sharper, but did not. She never forgot.


?Dorothy, did you know that I?ve recently made quite the investment in the resource mining industry?? Peter said, as he adjusted his cufflinks in front of the mirror of their hotel suite. He had studied her articles for Society and discovered her immense dislike for the heir to the Winner Empire. He added, keenly: ?A few fellows and I have decided to give Winner a run for his money.?

?Is that so?? she inquired, politely.

?Well, I have it on the best authority that industry insiders are looking to mine Jupiter?s moons. Winner?s practically monopolized the best ore mines in the asteroid belt2, so the savvy entrepreneurs are moving ahead of him.?

?Have you been to see the moons of Jupiter??

?Gods, no!? Peter stared at her, at a loss. ?Whatever for? I wouldn?t be caught dead on such a backwater settlement.?

?Perhaps that?s the difference between you and Mr. Winner.? Her voice was flat, as if commenting on a weather forecast. ?He routinely visits his resource satellites and trusts no authority but his own.?

?Dorothy,? he insisted, earnestly. ?You don?t know this business like I do. Everyone is rushing to snatch up every last acre of Europa before Winner can3. If I waited any longer, all the best lots will be taken.?

?Of course, Peter.? She turned towards the mirror and carelessly fastened a thickly plaited diamond necklace around her neck. It hung like a sparkling noose.


?There is nothing as useless, my dear Andr?,? Sylvia Noventa said, ?as a rich woman who makes herself a profession of entertaining. But then, all useless things have charm. Like aristocracy, for instance, the most useless conception of all.?

Andr? Seward looked at their hostess bewilderingly. ?But ? Sylvia??

?Oh, I?ve said something shocking,? she smiled. ?You may safely ignore me on that ground.?

?Never start an argument with Lady Sylvia,? advised Merle Winthrop, Countess of Lancaster, a tall woman wearing a necklace of large diamonds, the size of the teeth she bared when she smiled. ?It?s no use. We?re beaten in advance.?

?Argument, Lady Winthrop,? she said, ?is one of the things that has neither use nor charm. Leave it to the men of brains. Brains, of course, are a dangerous confession of weakness. It has been said that men develop brains when they have failed in everything else.?

?Now you don?t mean that at all,? Mrs. Winthrop said, although she smiled acceptingly as if it was the pleasant truth. She took possession of Sylvia and led her away as a prize stolen from Andr? Seward who had turned aside for a moment to greet new guests. ?But people of intellect are such children. They?re so sensitive. One must pamper people like you.?

?I wouldn?t do that, Lady Winthrop. We?ll take advantage of it. And to display one?s brain is so vulgar. It?s even more vulgar than to display one?s wealth.?

?Oh dear, you would say that, wouldn?t you. Now, I?ve heard that you?re some sort of a radical, but I won?t take it seriously. Not one bit. How do you like that??

Sylvia laughed, delightedly. ?I like it very much.?

?You can?t fool me. You can?t make me think that you?re one of the dangerous kind. The dangerous kind are all dirty and use bad grammar. And you have such a beautiful voice!?

?Whatever made you think that I aspired to be dangerous, Lady Winthrop? I?m merely ? how shall I put it? ? that mildest of all things, a conscience. Your own conscience, conveniently personified in the body of another person and attending to your concern for the less fortunate of this world, thus leaving you free of such concerns.? Sylvia leaned in, as if sharing a confidence. ?That?s what I?ve always felt politicians ought to be.?

?What a marvelous idea! I don?t know whether it?s horrible or very wise.?

?Both, Lady Winthrop. As is all wisdom.? Sylvia guided her companion to the clutches of another group and moved across the ballroom. She looked up at the glass ceiling, left untouched above the chandeliers, and she noted how far it was above the guests, how dominant and undisturbed. The huge crowd of guests did not dwarf her hall; it stood over them like the lid of a jewel case, unnecessarily large over a flat bottom holding a single small gem. The guests moved in a whirlpool, with her at the center. She was a familiar face, even to those guests who had never seen Sylvia Noventa. She possessed that quality of radiating warmth and inclusiveness that drew people to her like moths to a flame.

She told a somber young female who wore glasses and a low-cut evening gown: ?Darling, you will never be more than a dilettante of the intellect, unless you submerge yourself in some cause greater than yourself.?

She said to an obese gentleman with a face turning purple in the heat of an argument: ?But, my friend, I might not like it either. I merely said that such happens to be the inevitable course of history. And who are you or I to oppose the course of history??

Those around her were saying: ?Isn?t she witty? And such courage!?

Sylvia found Peter Weridge smiling fiercely, entertaining at the center of a small group of people. He was saying, ?The Winner monopoly?s over. After all, why should one man have so much wealth? He ought to share it with the rest of us.?

?Now, that?s a wonderful idea if I?ve ever heard one.? Sylvia interrupted, her voice flowing naturally, as if she had been present throughout the entire conversation. ?But here we are, living in this dreadful democracy. Those enlightened are quite overrun by the duller masses.?

Peter laughed like a boy emerging from a stream on a summer day, invigorated, restless with energy. ?Sylvia, I was beginning to worry that you were ignoring me. We haven?t seen each other since the receiving line4.?

?Happy, Peter? You?re quite the sensation tonight. But there?s someone here, though, who seems to be ignoring you quite flagrantly, isn?t she??

He winced, wondering whether it was so obvious to everyone. ?That?s not true. We came together, after all. It?s not necessary to spend every moment with each other.?

?Regrettable,? she continued, as if she had not heard him. ?I?ve always had the absurd idea that it would take a most unusual man to attract Dorothy Catalonia. So, of course, I thought of you. Just an idle thought. Still, you know, the man who?ll get her will have something you won?t be able to match. He?ll beat you there.?

Peter snapped, ?No one?s got her.?

?No, undoubtedly not. Not yet. That?s rather astonishing. Oh, I suppose it will take an extraordinary kind of man.?

?What are you saying? You don?t even like Dorothy Catalonia. Do you??

?I never said I did.? Sylvia smiled enigmatically. ?Oh, but there she is now. Standing quite alone.?

Dorothy stood uncompromising straight, swathed in a motionless sheer silk gown. When they approached, she made no effort to ignore them. She turned to them and with monotonous precision, said: ?Peter. Sylvia.?

Sylvia leaned over and clasped her hands. ?Dorothy, I?m honored you?ve deigned to make an appearance. I?ve been made to understand that you hate these sorts of gatherings.?

She laughed gaily. ?If you know that much, Sylvia, it?s a wonder you didn?t expect me.?

Peter tried to interject, but found to his astonishment that he could not. He felt helpless. Both of the women were smiling and saying the appropriate things, yet there was a dangerous fragility in the exchange, as if one wrong word would unleash some frightening truth he was unprepared to accept. Glancing away desperately, his eyes darted involuntarily to the entrance in time to see the infamous Quatre Raberba Winner enter the ballroom, accompanied by a forgettable brunette on his arm. He said, stupidly, ?What?s Winner doing here??

Sylvia?s face belied her surprise and then she was in motion, determined to intercept the other guests who had recovered from shock quickly enough to begin ambushing this unexpected guest. She managed to meet them at the doorway. ?Mr. Winner, it?s a pleasure.?

He spoke, softly, with unintended intensity. ?Likewise. Lady Noventa, we thank you for your hospitality.?

She was certain that he intended no insolence; it was not in his voice nor his manner, but insolence had been her first impression of him. He wore evening clothes and they looked well on his tall, thin figure, but somehow it seemed that he did not belong in them. Then, she realized with a start, her mistake: the formal attire fit him so acutely that it had seemed strange to her, because suddenly, it was her other guests ? the upper crust of Earth society who looked preposterous in their gaudy gowns and ostentatious tuxedos. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dorothy standing with Peter, quite a distance apart from the crowd. She did not look out of place. Instead, it was the crowd who looked awkward, each guest fervently seeking another warm body for protection from solitude.

She found herself saying, ?Whom do you want to meet first? ? There?s Dorothy Catalonia looking at us. I?ll be glad to introduce you.?

Quatre turned; he saw Dorothy standing across the room. There was no expression on her face, not even an effort to avoid expression; it was strange to see a human face presented as a simple anatomical feature, with no meaning, like an arm or a leg. She looked at them as they approached. Her feet stood spread oddly, as if there were no floor around her, but the few square inches under her soles and she were safe so long as she did not move or look down. He felt that she seemed too fragile to stand the brutality of what he was doing, but she was silently telling him that she would stand it. Sylvia?s voice sounded disembodied, unimportant: ?Lady Catalonia, may I present Quatre Raberba Winner??

Dorothy felt as if she were caught in a dreamlike sequence. But face was civilly blank and she was saying correctly: ?How do you do, Mr. Winner.?

?How do you do, Lady Catalonia.? Quatre bowed solemnly, and then raised his arm anchored in the grasp of the woman beside him. ?I present Miss Layla al-Nahdiyah.? In turn, she bowed.

Then Dorothy smiled, the correct, perfunctory smile with which one greets an introduction. She said, ?How do you do, Miss al-Nahdiyah.? She turned towards Peter. ?My escort, Lord Peter Keating Weridge.? He held out his hand, which Quatre shook politely.

When the salutations concluded, Dorothy continued, ?Mr. Winner, I recently had the great pleasure of speaking with your architect. May I commend you on a most unusual choice. There is no doubt in my mind that no one will be able to mistake Winner Tower when it is completed.?

?That was my hope.?

She inclined her head graciously. ?Miss al-Nahdiyah, I must compliment you on your gown. It?s very bold ? don?t you agree, Peter? One gets so tired of seeing the same designer.?

Peter looked startled at being asked to participate in the conversation. He murmured, ?Yes, it?s very different.?

Layla blushed prettily. ?Oh! Thank you. Yours is very beautiful, too, Lady Catalonia.?

?Please, call me Dorothy.?

?Well ? then, you must call me Layla.?

Sylvia thought that she had been mistaken. Standing between them, she had observed nothing strange in the meeting; in fact, there simply was nothing. She felt annoyed that Dorothy did not speak of architecture, as one would have expected her to do. She concluded regretfully that the Catalonia heiress disliked this man, as she disliked most people she met. She raised her hand and touched Peter?s elbow. She said, ?Peter, I believe I see Hadrian Kaiser from the judiciary. I know you?ve been wanting an introduction.?

He looked at her gratefully. He blurted, ?Yes! If Dorothy doesn?t mind, of course.?

?I don?t.? Dorothy consented, gravely. She watched their hasty departure for a long silent moment. Then, she turned to find Quatre looking straight at her, very politely, as any man would have looked, meeting her for the first time. She wished she could find some hint in his face, if only a hint of his old knowing smile; even mockery would be an acknowledgement and a tie. She found nothing. He spoke as a stranger. He allowed no reality, but that of a man introduced to her in a ballroom, flawlessly obedient to every convention of social etiquette. She thought that this was his form of mockery, after what he had not forgotten and would not acknowledge. She thought that he wanted her to be first to name it; he would bring her to the humiliation of accepting the past ? by being first to utter the world recalling it to reality, because he knew that she could not leave it unrecalled.

He spoke first: ?Are you attending as a writer or a sponsor, Lady Catalonia??

?I?m a Society columnist.?

Layla smiled, shyly. ?Quatre, she?s quite famous in journalism circles. She?s done some brilliant pieces, especially on the conditions in the Brussels housing projects after the Poor Man?s Fire. I expect you?ll be up for an award today.?

Dorothy replied, graciously: ?Thank you, but I?m not successful by half compared to you.?

?That?s not true!? she protested. ?I could never do investigative journalism.?

Quatre asked, ?I?m curious. How would you measure success??

?In our profession, you?re successful if it leaves you untouched.?

?How does one achieve that??

?In one of two ways: by not looking at people at all or by looking at everything about them.?

?Which is preferable, Lady Catalonia??

?Whichever is hardest.?

?But a desire to choose the hardest might be a confession of weakness in itself.?

?Of course, Mr. Winner. But it?s the least offensive form of confession.?

Before he could answer, someone came flying through the crowd, and an arm fell about Quatre?s shoulders. It was a Romefeller business associate. ?Winner, well of all people to see here!? he cried. ?So glad, so glad! Ages, hasn?t it been? Listen, I want to talk to you! Let me have him for a moment, Lady Catalonia.? He suddenly saw Layla. ?Miss, if you don?t mind??

Layla numbly shook her head. She released Quatre?s arm and he bowed to them, his arms at his sides, a strand of hair falling forward, so that she did not see his face, but only the blonde head bowed courteously for a moment, and he followed the other man into the crowd. She was startled when Dorothy said, ?You learn not to mind it.? She admitted, ?I?m afraid I?m still not used to this life.?

?Few of us are. It?s when you begin to enjoy it that people start questioning your sanity.?

?So much of it still seems surreal to me.? Layla smiled, relieved. ?Earlier, when I was shopping for a dress, I was practically attacked by the paparazzi. I had to escape into a bridal shop. I can just imagine the headlines that I left behind.?

Dorothy laughed, easily. Cocking her head, she asked, with interest: ?Is an engagement forthcoming??

?Oh! No, definitely not.?

?Why so adamant??

?I just mean, I wouldn?t want to tie him down right now. And we?re still so young. I have so many unfulfilled dreams. I?m not ready yet for children or to become the matriarch of the Winner family. Goodness knows there?s enough Winner women already5.?

?What kinds of dreams??

Layla hesitated. ?Well, for one, I want to publish a novel one day.?

?I doubt you?d find one publisher right now who would refuse you anything.?

?Yes, but they wouldn?t want my work for its own merits. I know it seems silly to waste this opportunity, but I don?t want to use Quatre?s name. It seems dishonest somehow.?

Dorothy smiled radiantly. ?I thought I would like you. I?m glad I wasn?t wrong.?

Astonished, looking at the Lady Catalonia, Layla was struck with a feeling of familiarity. Absurdly, this blonde, grey-eyed woman, whom she had never met before, reminded her powerfully of Quatre: they were similarly colored, but the resemblance went beyond physical features. It took a few moments longer for her to realize that there was something pure and pristine about them, an otherness that was painfully alike.


Hours later, when the party began to wind down, Dorothy slipped quietly out of the ballroom. She found herself at the mouth of a wide hallway that slowly narrowed, winding towards a set of ornately carved double doors at its end. Curious, she stepped through the doorway to discover a library.

The room was grandiose ? its colossal windows unblinking eyes to the breathtaking Eden without and flanked by voluminous shelves, a testament to millennia of man?s tangible legacy. Dorothy never cared for electronic books. For her, the physical sensation of turning a page, of soiling the cover with her fingerprints was proof that she had read it, that the book existed and that she, too, would become part of the work?s history, along with all those who had read it before her. It was that history which haunted her when she found that she loved a book. Thinking of all those who had ridiculed the text, fouled it with their ignorance and insulted each word with their indifference, Dorothy knew that she could not bear sharing such greatness a second time. She never opened again a book she loved.

The room ? with its lofty ceilings, luxurious cushions, and plush carpet ? was arranged curiously similarly to her late grandfather?s library in the Dermail main estate6. As a child, she had spent endless hours in that library: losing herself in other people?s dreams, learning to horde loneliness, to forget that her father had abandoned her. When the Duke had time for her, they often convened there and conversed over a game of chess. Her grandfather had taught her to love the game and she, in turn, inherited his ruthless style of play. Every encounter on the chessboard was dramatic, full of the Duke?s flair for the theatrical, and Dorothy learned that the closer she came to loss the better she played.

Her grandfather trained her to conquer; every move, derisive and mocking in order to undermine and ultimately, dominate the other player. Duke Dermail played not to win, but to cripple. Dorothy frequently lost to her grandfather, but it didn?t bother her, because she was never defeated the same way again and, because she found losing battles mesmerizing. She liked to see her own reaction to desperation and oftentimes, admired the brilliance her more capable opponents exhibited under that pressure. There was something beautiful in losing and, in the process, tasting the fruits of one?s potential.

Sweeping across the room, her eyes unconsciously sought the object of her thoughts and rested on an ornamental crystal chess set on a center table. Several black and white pieces lay discarded in a pile to the side, evidence of an evenly matched struggle. The game had not been completed. A white knight reared poised to checkmate, but the rumpled pillows and careless arrangement of the board gave her the impression of a hasty departure. Most likely, two servants had been playing, but were interrupted. Dorothy lifted the thwarted white piece and knocked over the black king.

She smiled, wryly, in memory of another unfinished game. Only on that evening, her escape from the festivities had been observed and she was discovered in the library by her cousin. Younger than him by nine years, she had been in awe of the handsome, charismatic Treize Khushrenada. She spent most of her days in the company of the family matrons, unnoticed, being too unimportant to warrant special attention. Hearing them gossip about her mysterious cousin, she knew that he was someone worth meeting. That night, within moments of encountering him, she had discerned the charisma that enveloped him like a second skin and staring into his perceptive liquid blue eyes, realized that he was a man she could respect. Suspecting that punishment would be forthcoming if he turned her in, she challenged him to a chess game. Confident in her ability, she set the terms: if he lost, he would keep silent.

After hearing her demand, Treize laughed, a resoundingly joyous sound. Then, he told her: ?For one so young, you drive a hard bargain. Very well.?

?Don?t be fooled by how I look!? she declared. ?I?m already eight years old.?

?Indeed. My mistake.? He smiled. When they had seated themselves beside a chess set in the library, he asked, ?Black or white??

?Black.? As a rule, Dorothy made the first move, but this time, she was curious about this newfound relation of hers. He was seventeen, but already rising in rank in the Alliance, much, she had heard, to the great displeasure of his elders. She noticed immediately an odd graceful air about him; it would take Dorothy many years to understand that her cousin was burdened by a terrible truth ? a keen awareness of people that surpassed that of the foremost leaders of their day.

He opened by moving his king pawn forward two spaces. She mirrored his move with her own pawn. She knew that this illustrious man shared her grandfather?s love of opera, of the great drama. The Duke, too, had on occasion grudgingly acknowledged Treize?s prodigy. She felt certain that his style would hover on the melodramatic, rising to a climax before ensnaring an opponent in the throes of his carefully orchestrated denouement. She was disappointed when his next move placed his king?s bishop parallel to his pawn. As she countered, he continued to play the standard opening moves in a nonchalant, almost careless manner. Was this the real Treize? She knew it could not be, not if any of the rumors were to be believed. Surely, he was just biding his time for an operatic finale. Caught in her thoughts, she saw the end much too late to stop it.

?Checkmate,? he said, moving his queen into position. Then, as if to drive home a point Dorothy had failed to see, he reached over and with one elegant finger, toppled her king.

??oh!? she cried, frustrated. The moves she had thought too trite to suit his character had indeed been a disguise for something else, but it was not the dramatic finish she had expected. Dorothy had been fooled by the oldest trick in the book: the four move checkmate. It was a crude type of move that made quick work of novices. Only Treize hadn?t completed it in four moves; he had patiently feinted, capturing her attention on one side of the board while his queen prepared to overtake the other.

?You were expecting something else.? His amused voice, smooth as velvet, stated rather than asked.

?Yes,? she admitted, begrudgingly.

?Dorothy, you lost, because you overestimated me. The people who defeat us won?t always be our betters.? His smile was rueful. ?Especially for us.?

?What do you mean??

?You and I, we value action and ability. We demand proof of such from those who want to rule us. And in this world, we are a rare breed. Dorothy, there are so few of us who will fight for our beliefs.?

She felt uncomfortable under his piercing gaze, but there was nothing that could?ve induced her to look away. ?What do you believe in??

?That someday we?ll live without the stench of fear. Without the desire to cripple those of greater ability. Without the shame of a bystander. Without soldiers to fight for us, because we will fight for ourselves.?

Caught in the majesty of his words, she whispered, ?When will that be??

?That?s for you to decide, Dorothy,? he said, gently. ?But you mustn?t be afraid of them.?

She repeated slowly: ?Afraid of them??

?Of those who are not your equals, of those who seek to destroy you, because you want to save them.? His words were tender, captivating in intensity. ?Don?t let them hurt you.?

?Treize,? she tested the unfamiliar syllables of his name. Staring solemnly at him, she said, ?I won?t.?

In the percipient silence that followed, the heavy oak doors to the library had swung open and a servant had called her out. Her absence had been noticed by her grandfather, who impatiently summoned her. Cocooned in nostalgia, Dorothy recalled her sharp pang of disappointment when she had been forced to leave Treize?s company. Returning to the present, she glanced at her wristwatch and knew that she would soon be missed. Regretfully, Dorothy loosened her grip on the white knight and watched it fall, clattering hollowly against the crystal of the chessboard.




1The Palazzo dei Normanni in Palermo was the seat of the Kings of Sicily. It is the ancestral home of the Noventa family.

2The asteroid belt is a region of the solar system falling roughly between the planets Mars and Jupiter where the greatest concentration of asteroid orbits can be found.

3Europa is a moon of the planet Jupiter. It is the sixth nearest moon to Jupiter, and the fourth largest of Jupiter's moons. Due to the hypothesized ocean beneath its icy surface, Europa is one of the most likely places in the solar system to host primitive extraterrestrial life.

4A receiving line is a line of people formed (usually comprised of the hosts) to greet arriving guests individually, as at a formal gathering.

5Quatre has thirty elder sisters. He is the only male and, thus, sole heir to the Winner fortune.

6Located at Argeles sur Mer in French Catalonia (just north of the Spanish border), Palais du Dermail is the main Dermail estate. While the Catalonia family hailed from Spain, the Dermails? ancestors were French. Upon Duke Dermail?s death, the duchy and all its peripheral properties were passed down to Dorothy, as next of kin.


A/N- In the next part, Quatre confronts Dorothy in the library, and there will be cameos from Sylvia, Peter and Layla. The next chapter will be entitled: Synergy, Part II.

Valhalla will update next Tuesday, March 13th.