For Leslee
 
 

One: August

The arms of the old windmill traced idle fingers over the afternoon sky, creaking to itself as their laughter echoed across the fields spread around it. The tall grass whispered a compliant protest as they rushed after each other, laughing like children, his hand reaching for hers as she ran away from him.

He caught her, breathless and triumphant, pulling her down with him into the golden sea of wheat and barley. She laughed, the sound of her voice intoxicating and sweet, as he brushed away the loose tendrils of her hair, his fingertips light against her skin.

Their kisses were artless and abandoned, their breaths lost as they drank in each other, fingers fluttering lightly over hair and skin and fabric. Perhaps they held each other too tight, their urgency pulsing through every fiver of their being. But they were giddy with one another, their lips meeting again and again as their eager fingers stumbled over lacing and buttons, stockings and shoes.

She smiled up at him softly, her fingers trailing down his cheeks, as he lay her down. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the sweet fragrance of her skin, of the crushed barley beneath them. His lips trailed lightly up her skin, meeting her lips in a tender kiss, her arms rising to encircle his back.

"I love you," he murmured into her hair, feeling her gentle, even breathing beneath him. His fingers traced her lips. "I would marry you," he breathed, his eyes darkening with the intoxicating need for love, acceptance, and the soft silk of her fingertips.

"You silly boy," she whispered, laughing, her fingers combing through his dishevelled hair. "I know you love me. I love you, too."

Smiling, she drew him nearer, and he sighed as she kissed him, his body rising at the taste of her lips. His hands rose towards her cheeks, his fingers trailing down slowly.

They had run out into those golden fields of wheat and barley to leave the prying, demanding eyes of their elders, of those talkative old women and moralistic old men. There, they could loose themselves in each other, their sighs unheard, their passion unobserved save for the lazy clouds drifting above them and the windmill murmuring to itself.

There, they could bare their souls to one another, not afraid anymore, their wondering fingers free of constrains. There, they found one another, their hearts beating as one. Holding each other close, dreaming of forever.
 
 

Two: November

He turned his face away, gazing out the rain slicked window at the trunks and boxes lining the distant driveway. He wanted to shut out the voice of that hateful woman they had sent to his room. But he could not. He grit his teeth, the palm of his hand resting against the cold window pane.

"You understand, don't you, honey? She has to leave. The sooner, the better. Why, it's a miracle we could act so quickly. No one knows anything yet, thank God, his Holy Name be blessed.

He sighed as the old woman crossed herself, her nervous hands clasping together. He gazed in morbid fascination at the worn, wrinkled skin spread tightly over her bony fingers. I will be that old someday, he thought, raising his own hands before his eyes. He sighed softly as he clenched his fingers in the coarse fabric of his pants.

Leaning his forehead against the windowpane, he looked down again at the driveway. A porter was bringing down another bag, a lanky aid holding up an umbrella to shield him from the rain. A woman rushed out towards them, her handkerchief waving frantically at the trunks and bags lying around, drenched and becoming more so by the minute.

He could not hear her, and her face looked strangely grotesque and detached as her lips formed words he could not make out. The porter and his aid waved their hands at her as she shook her umbrella at them. A young girl rushed out into the rain, coming near the distraught woman. She took her hands and tried to lead her away.

"Do you understand?"

Blinking, he turned his head towards the woman in the room with him. He murmured that he did, his voice low and uninterested, his face turning once again to gaze outside the window. He heard the woman sigh impatiently.

"My boy, you do not seem to understand. She was not one of us. Could you imagine the scandal if anyone would have known? You might think that, because you are young, there would be no scandal, but I assure you there would."

He hmphed quietly to himself, turning to face her. "So it's scandalous when a young member of your precious society falls in love, but not if it's two old has-beens."

The woman thinned her lips, her eyes darkening. "How dare you. You have no respect for anyone, do you?"

Smiling, playing the perfect rebel she wanted him to be, he blew idly at his nails. Through hooded eyes, he gave her a mischievous smile, licking slowly at his fingertips. "You wouldn't have minded if it had been you, my dear," he murmured, the smile on his lips obscuring the edge in his voice.

She threw her hands up into the air, her cheeks scarlet. "You are impossible! Well, I give up on you, you selfish young man."

Turning sharply on her heel, she stormed from the room, her shoes clicking hollowly on the marble floor. "Let your mother deal with you. It matters little what you think. That... that woman will be gone by tomorrow. You will shape up then, hopefully. I  very much doubt it."

"I'll die first, you old hag!" he shouted at her back, the slam of the door blasting cold air at his face. The lock of the door clicked once as she fastened it again as it had been before she'd come in , trapping him inside. His lips drew back in silent rage, his hands gripping the sedan covering of the window seat. He cursed, his voice echoing back to him, offering him no comfort.

The silent room spread out before him, empty and accusing. Its silence oppressed him, filling him with uncertainty. Voices drifted up to him from downstairs. The old woman's voice, mingled with his mother's. To his clouded mind, it seemed as if they referred to him as little more than that annoying thing in the upstairs room.

Despairing, he turned towards the window, pulling at its hinges, locked as well. He beat uselessly at the window panes, the monstrous silence of the room swallowing his grunts, the sound of flesh against glass. He sobbed, his fingers clawing at it, his head throbbing with the knowledge of how worthless and childish his acts were.

He stared out helplessly at the rain soaked driveway. The porter and his aid were securing the last of the luggage into the trunk of the waiting limousine. The fretful woman and her companion stood by, the older woman calling out to the porter occasionally, her mouth forming silent words of reprimand.

He heard himself sob, the sound caught in his throat as his fingers came to rest over the window latches. His eyes closed for a moment, his breast heaving painfully. She had stepped out onto the driveway, her black bonnet obscuring her face. A strand of pale hair hung out, quickly damped into her bonnet, as she curtsied to the fretful woman and her companion. She took their hands, and they threw their arms about her, drawing her close in a last farewell. He saw her brush at her cheeks, her smile tremulous, and his hands rose, coming against the window panes, his heart aching.

He wanted to hold her again. He wanted a chance to say goodbye, at least, if it was inevitable that they part. His hands beat at the window panes, his voice a strangled sob. He did not want to say goodbye. He wanted her here, beside him. He called her name, his voice echoing in his ears, broken and despairing.

Her face snapped up, her eyes widening, a pale hand rising towards her throat. She looked around her, hopeful. Seeing her reaction, he kneeled up into the window seat, calling her name again, his heart racing. But below him, the limousine's chauffeur was motioning for her to enter the car. She drew away from him, still looking around her, her lips forming his name. He cried out to her, beating at the windows, hoping that, somehow, she would hear him.

But he was too far away, and the fretful woman was coaxing her kindly into the back seat of the limousine, patting her hand to steady her. She tried to draw her hand away, but the woman would not let her. He watched, helpless, as she hung her head, giving up, and turned to enter the limousine. He heard his voice crack, tears spilling down his cheeks.

He rushed to the room's doors, pulling at the latches, beating at the wood, pleading. He heard voices outside, full of worry, but they were soon gone. He remained a prisoner, his body spent with worthless struggle.

Stepping back, he let his head fall into his hands, his cry deafening in the silence. From outside, he heard the muffled roar of the limousine as it pulled away from the driveway. Taking her.

Leaving him.
 
 

Three: December

The arms of the old windmill ran tired fingers over the night sky, groaning to itself as he sighed, his voice a broken whisper as he gazed out at the snow covered fields spread out before him. The tall grass moaned to itself as the cold night air raked emotionless fingers up the lengths of their bodies poking out foolishly from their blanket of snow.

The door of the windmill's lower shed creaked quietly under the cold creeping up its wooden bones. Inside, smoking and covered with frost, lay the huge tractor that had cleared away the golden fields of wheat and barley that fall. She had still been with him then. They had come to the field, to lie among the sad remains of their golden sea, their hearts heavy, but their fingers clasped.

Sighing, he turned away from the sight. The brilliant white, kissed a shimmering silver by the moon's light, hurt his eyes. He leaned against the door of the windmill's shed, his gaze resting upon an old bucket, abandoned, its frozen water sinking slowly into the snow, laying out careful fingers of ice. He closed his eyes, his hand rising to cover them, and their shameful tears.

Taking a deep breath, he looked up into the impassive sky. The snow clouds ambled slowly before his sight, swallowing up the cold stars, casting long shadows over the silent fields. He wished the darkness would take him; that he could somehow block everything out, so that he would never have to hurt again.

He stared at his hands, gloved and useless, cowardly. They would never take his life. He clenched his fingers, his eyes rising, haunted and icy, towards the fields. He set his lips in a thin line, pushing away from the shed's rusted door.

Standing, alone and cold, his hands clenched at his sides, he turned his face, eyes closed, towards the sky. His lips parted slightly, whispering her name, his breath caught in his throat. He sighed, lowering his head.

"Never again. I will never come back here, beloved.

Beginning today, we are dead to one another."
 
 

Four: August, Seven Years Later

The car's engine rumbled quietly to itself as he stepped out, one hand resting over the window of the door he held open. There was a smile on his lips, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he gazed out onto the fields spread before him.

"Your excellency, should I turn off the car?" the young officer who had volunteered as chauffeur asked, his hand on the ignition key.

"No need," he answered, turning his head, hoping that his smile was reassuring enough. The OZ's officers were very loyal, but somewhat prone to worrying.

"I won't be long," he promised, closing the door behind him firmly. He saw the officer salute stiffly to the dashboard from the corner of his eye, and he chuckled, his boots crunching dully on the dusty pavement. He gazed down at the black, shinny tar beneath his feet. This road was new, the fields had been framed by little more than crude dirt roads seven years ago.

The tall grass whispered placidly to itself as he made his way into the abandoned fields, his hand parting the grass with a quiet reverence. He came to the old windmill, long since silenced, its arms suspended, tattered, and bony. It stood with a quiet dignity, framed against the clear blue sky, lazy clouds drifting above it.

Smiling, he lay his fingers over the wood, feeling its age even with gloves on. He removed the glove from his right hand, wishing to feel the old wood against his own flesh. He pressed his palm against it firmly, closing his eyes, feeling the breeze trail idle fingers through his hair.

He could hear a wind chime tinkling softly in that breeze, and he turned his head, wondering, his fingers drawing away from the wood.

He felt his lips part with silent disappointment, and he snapped them shut, thinning his lips. Sighing, he pulled his glove back on, turning to walk away from the quiet windmill.

Before him loomed a modest, wooden structure, reminiscent of the prairie houses he had seen once in America. It stood in the middle of the field, silent and at home, even as it was alien to his senses, who clamoured for the empty expanses of wheat and barley from his youth. The porch looked rickety, older than a mere seven years. A rocking chair was placed outside, a worn, yellowish cushion resting over its seat. Several baskets hung from the porch's rafters, filled with wild flowers, marigolds, chrysanthemums, and tiny posies.

He touched the tip of his fingers to their petals as he stepped silently unto the porch, feeling the wood shift under his alien weight. The curtains at the windows were drawn, the inside of the house obscured. But someone lived here. The flowers were too well tended, the porch tidy and recently scrubbed. Chuckling under his breath, he bent to pick up a dishevelled Barbie doll that had been abandoned at the porch, its legs painted a bright pink with markers. He smiled as he straightened her out, sitting her comfortably against the wall.

"Gaze, ye unbelievers, upon me! For I am the pleasure you seek! I am the paradise you dread!"

He turned his head, perplexed, one finger patting idly at Barbie's head, at the sound of that voice. It came from the tall grass beyond the house, high and youthful, a clear clarion call throughout the fields. He stood up, staring in mute wonder as the grass weaved from side to side, making way for the exalted speaker. The column nearest the house parted in subito, a breathless figure emerging, triumphant and radiant, finger pointed accusingly at the empty air.

"I am your queen!" it announced, eyes bright, flaming red hair drifting in the wind. It was a little girl, her stripped shirt and cut-off shorts dusty with pollen, her tiny feet muddy. He saw her eyes narrow dangerously, her finger pointing impassively at the empty air, before that same finger dropped slowly, her body stiffening as she turned her face towards him, her lips hanging in a guilty gasp. Her expression was so comical, he couldn't help but laugh.

But his laughter faded as he heard her thunder towards him, her bare feet slapping at the wooden porch. She pouted up at him, her red hair a wild flame around her round face. He felt his breath leave him as he gazed down into those eyes. Bright blue and coldly impassive, it was like looking down into a mirror. His lips thinned as she rushed into the house, the screen door clanging behind her, her voice ringing out in childish indignation.

"Mommy, there's a man on the porch! A big, ugly man! Make him go away!"

As startled as he was, he couldn't help but laugh at her words. One hand rose to rub at his chin. "Big, ugly man, huh?" he murmured to himself.

His amused smile faded away as he caught a glimpse of the child's mother coming towards the door, wiping her hands on an apron tied around her waist. Seeing that figure, he felt himself smile. He could see the child behind her, pulling at her apron, pointing at the door, at the big, ugly man. He saw the woman smile, her hand gentle on her daughter's forehead as she gazed out at the porch, her eyes bright.

Smiling, he turned away, looking out at the silent fields. He heard the screen door open behind him, heard the woman step out quietly and stand close to her house. She smelled faintly of cinnamon and flour. She wiped her hands slowly on her apron, her presence reaching out to him as he stood with his back to her. He smiled faintly, the sound of her breath bringing back a thousand memories.

"Hello, Treize," she said, her voice sounding exactly the same as it had all those years past. "You've grown taller."

He laughed quietly, one hand rising in a gesture of accepted defeat. "All against my will, I assure you," he said, his laughter directed at the silent fields.

"But you're still the same." She laughed, and her laughter reached out silent fingers towards him. "No. Not the same. You seem more... graceful, more easy with yourself, somehow. I'm glad."

"You're still the same," he murmured. "Even living here among this fields, in this wooden house."

She shook her head. "No. I'm not the same, either. Did you see--?"

He reached up to finger the petals of a lone chrysanthemum. "Your daughter? Yes. I saw her. She's beautiful. She looks like her mother."

"And her father."

He closed his eyes, his smile faint. He clasped his hands at his back, feeling a slight uneasiness come from her. The whisper of a long held guilt, mingled with a silent pride, and unquestioning love.

"Do you blame me?"

She smiled, her hands coming to rest on the rocking chair placed on the porch. "No. I love her. She has been my strength for this past seven years. With her near, I felt that, even if they had driven us apart, you were still with me..."

His eyes closed again, his breath caught in his throat. He sighed as he heard her step forward, her hands clasping at her waist. He could feel his body tense, and he strove to seem relaxed. He looked out into the fields, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I had nothing save your memory. And I tried so hard to erase that as well..."

He let out a torturous breath as he felt her hands come around his shoulders, her head resting on his back. "It's all right, Treize. You don't have to be afraid to tell me that you don't love me as you did once anymore. We are both older now, and we both know what love can be."

Sighing, she stepped back and lay a gentle hand on his cheek. "I don't hate you. I never could. What I feel for you is strong, but I know that you would not want me to hold you down with a past you've left behind you."

She turned his face slowly to look into her eyes, her smile proud and gentle. Looking into her eyes, seeing her love, her acceptance of him reflected in them, he smiled, his own hand rising to caress her cheek.

"You will always be special to me," he murmured.

She laughed brightly and placed her fingers on his lips. "I should hope so, you silly boy. You wanted to marry me, remember?"

He smiled softly, kissing her fingertips. "Yes."

Stepping back, she smiled up at him, taking his hands. "You have grown tall." She laughed, her eyes bright. "I would invite you in for tea, or lemonade, I just made some, but I'm afraid our daughter doesn't like big, ugly men at the porch."

Standing on tip toe, she kissed his cheek lightly. She looked up at him, her eyes smiling faintly. "Besides, I Think someone is waiting for you."

He nodded, laughter in his eyes. Tilting her chin, he kissed her cheek softly, drawing her near for a moment before he stepped back, unable to say anything. She laughed and waved a hand at his face.

"Go on. You don't have to say anything, silly. This is enough, more than enough, for me."

He smiled as he stepped down her porch, turning to see her as she leaned against the railing's post, her hands crossed over her bosom, her smile gentle and warm. He bowed once, formally, before turning on his heel. He heard the screen door creak open and bare feet pad over to their mother's side. "Is the ugly man leaving?" he heard the child murmur, her mother's laughter clear as she drew her near.

As he approached the car, he saw the officer had obediently left it on, and was leaning against the front door, looking up at the sky thoughtfully. When he saw his superior approaching, he stepped away and executed a sharp salute.

"Sir. Are you ready, sir? We depart at your order."

Treize smiled, patting the young officer on the shoulder, enjoying the baffled expression on his face.

"Yes, we can leave now."

Looking back at the golden fields, he sighed softly, feeling her presence wrap around him, soothing his soul after seven long years. He smiled, whispering her name. He saw the officer perk up in interest beside him, but remain still. Chuckling to himself, he turned to open his own door, the officer slightly disconcerted.

"Let's go, officer. We have a long journey before us."
 
 
 

Author's Note

I HTMLed this story listening to the Interview With the Vampire soundtrack, in addition to my usual staple of Enya, Natalie Merchant, and Michael Nyman. But I also went old tapes-last-heard-Gott-knows-when mad for a while, and I pulled out some Chayanne and Berlin. Our resident Wufei lent me his Wong Fei cassettes.

The inspiration for this story came from two places: Sting's "Fields of Gold," don't know why, and a very special person, who knows who she is. [smiles]
 

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© April 29-30th, 1997 Team Bonet. Gundam Wing, and all of its characters, namely Treize Khushrenada,  remain © 1995 Sunrise Entertainment Inc. Making illegal copies of this story, although it is beyond me why you would want to do such a thing, is still illegal as far as I know, although I don't know why, either. Heck. Thank you for reading, chap!