A retelling of The Sleeping Beauty
 
 

She took one, careful, measured step forward, closing the flap over her gun belt. She felt foolish for having reached towards her gun in the first place. She was a trained soldier, and had seen things far more dangerous than anything she had encountered so far. Countless of times. She had seen many of her men killed before her very eyes, helpless to do anything against their microsecond fates.

Thinning her lips, she moved aside the thick layers of cobwebs, spread thin and decaying over the wooden walls. The wood had lain untouched and uncared for almost twenty years. The fungi had grown a thick covering, slimy and repulsing, over worm eaten panels lying brown and yawning into the darkened abysses of the faded, putrid bowels of the castle. The pungent aroma of roses filled her nostrils. The flowers grew wild around the room, having broken over the room's one window of glass, trailing throned fingers over the faded, dusty carpet. Their red, carnal petals hung silent, untouched, over the grey, depressive atmosphere of the room.

Breathless, she reached out wondering, gloved fingers towards the inviting petals. She gasped softly as the precious, delicate flower fell apart slowly before her eyes, petals scattering to the floor, pooling into a blood red stain that stirred once, drifting up slowly, settling over the carpet, some coming to rest over the white, yellowing coverlet of the room's massive bed.

It was matrimonial in size, laid with lacy, crotchety white covers, stitched into myriad patterns of wild flowers impaled by birds of paradise and choking ribbons. A hopeful shroud for a hopeful Holy Matrimony. Beneath the sickened decay of the room's scarce, voluptuous furniture, she could see further traces of the delicate, whimsy design of a matrimonial chamber. A charming honeymoon suite, chaste and pure as the bride. And perhaps the groom.

She put a hesitant hand to the heavy curtains drawn over the head of the bed, covering its occupant, displaying only the virginal white covers, the tasselled edge of a royal banner, criss-crossed with the trails of ant mansions and palaces, built on the decay of this other, quiet husk.

She bit her lip, reaching for the tiny pin she had imbedded onto the sleeve of her ceremonial uniform. She had carried it with her for three months, never taking it off. Like the old man at the lab in distant Oslo had told her, squinting at her with revolving, nightmare eyes of metal and wire. He had pressed her hands together, patting them not unkindly with a clawed hand, cold metal and wire as well. She had pitied him his deformities, but kept her lips tight, taking in his instructions on how to best use the pin he gave her.

As she took it out now, she rehearsed all that the old man had told her in her mind. Her fingers trembled a little as she placed it over the greying coverlet, careful to impale the eye of the golden bird of paradise, the third from the top, rose on its talons...

Her breath was almost knocked out of her as she dodged, a thin, humming beam shooting out, smoking into the farthest wall, leaving behind itself tiny openings. The shrill hum remained in her ears for a while as she crouched near the bed. A loud, hollow groan came from the bowels of the castle, a slight rumble creeping through the masonry and wood panelling brought from countries still friendly to the AC 170 agreement of Versailles and Tulaires of the North. The rumble settled into a vibrant hum, singing ti itself, lodging onto her heart like a brass bell. Deep and sonorous, interrupted here and there by the high pitched echo of locks sliding out of confinement, of a whole, complex, monstrous security system creaking out of place, toppling in on itself, over the now fading insignias of the United Earth Federation.

She listened for a while longer, waiting for the thirteenth pitch that would mark the final shutdown of the entire system. It came with a deafening crescendo of silence, settling over the halls and stairwells, filling her with a sudden, inexplicable dread. The security system had drawn its last breath, its long, technologically enhanced respiration silenced by a single pin.

Le Heure Treize.

She drew in a sharp breath, holding her hand over her heart, forcing herself to calm down, to see the assignment through.

Many brave men had died to secure an entry into the palace itself, placed under Federation control after five years of a political ambiguity. The Kingdom of Cinq had divided, fragmented, into three nations, more or less, after the capital had fallen in AC 182. None of the newly neighbouring nations had wanted to lay claim to the palace, rumoured since 182 to be cursed. The wasted, war scarred surroundings had been partitioned among the three nations, with one country going to a world power in lieu of its resources. The palace had remained untouched by the treaty drawn after the nations had been formally recognized, all had bypassed any direct dealings concerning the proprietorship of the place, and the Federation had simply claimed it as military booty under General Alexandre.

Sighing, she got to her feet, forgetting to brush the dust and fungi adhered to her uniform in her tremulous excitement to part the fading curtains. She placed her stark, white, gloved hand over the yellowing cover for the virginal resting place. She felt, almost, as if she were indeed about to gaze upon a forbidden union; vouyeur and sickened, her pulse quick and painful, throbbing in her temples.

Long, platinum hair hung over the coverlet, a pale curtain hanging, threading, over pale covers. A few strands had taken careful root into the fabric of the bed. The length of that hair was astounding. It hung over the side of the bed and into the darkened recesses of the curtain, pooling, unseen, onto the floor. A few, platinum strands were crushed under the body of the sleeper, from when he had shifted, in dream or nightmare, or discomfort, upon his rotting bed.

Upon closer inspection, she now saw that the bed had not withheld the strain of almost twenty years, and had collapsed at the bottom, tilting the sleeping figure, and the pillows which had been arranged once so stylishly around him. Now they lay in fevered, knotted clumps at the top of the bed, pushed aside in restless sleep. The royal banner, once draped ceremoniously over a ceremoniously still, six year old tragedy, had since been kicked aside, crumpled and worthless, to the bottom of the bed. The sleeper had sonambulously reached for covers, and they lay over his body in a careless triangle pulled up from the sides.

His back was to her, broad and white, pale from many years of a non-existence, creased with the heavy fountain of his hair and the biting fabric of his white matrimonial bed. The tattered remains of the pale grey uniform his child body had been laid out in lay crushed underneath him, scraps of it tossed and turned around him in his helpless thrashings as strange changes overcame his body, shooting fire up his nerve ends, leaving him cold and unsatisfied, the virginal covers that held him stained with a seed that could never bloom. He probably did not even realize what it was, or why it was, as he clawed at fabric around him, dreaming as he awakened to manhood.

She wondered fleetingly if he could have maddened in his unbreakable sleep. If what the old man who kept up the nearest bed and breakfast had told her was true, then this pale, long haired man had dreamed for twelve years. Twelve years of uninterrupted dreams. Had they taken any coherent shape at all for him? What became of dreams, and the dreamer, if they were ever to be held as the only existing truth?

He stirred in his sleep, and she stepped back, her heart racing. She hated herself for her cowardly act immediately, and she thinned her lips, leaning over the sleeping figure. She drew in a sharp breath, her heart softening even as it skipped a fluttered beat at the sight before her.

He seemed like a child, his brow clear and untroubled as his lips parted once, sighing to the silence, settling once again into a thin, pale line. One hand rose to rest idly over the one pillow he had pulled towards himself, crumpled beneath his cheek, moulded into a recline for the very hand that now lay over it. The nails in that hand were strangely manicured. Cut and clean. She stared for a while at that paradoxical incongruity, only then realizing that the sleeping figure should have had a beard. Long and knotted. He was clean shaved. His skin smooth and untouched.

She stepped back for a moment, almost afraid. She looked around at the mouldering room, searching for any signs of an entry other than her own. Nothing. The dust remained undisturbed, the spider webs complete in their circles and patterns, the ant trails healthy and thin. If anybody had entered, whomever it had been had stepped carefully over everything. And no one human could be capable of that.

As the thought crossed her mind, she blanched imperceptively, darting a weary look at the sleeping figure upon the bed. His breast rose and fell in easy, unperturbed slumber, completely impervious to her presence, to the ruin he reclined on; the world he lived in. He murmured something, nonsense, before he sighed again and fell silent once more. She drew in a breath, held it.

She had never considered any danger beyond silencing the security system. He fingers reached nervously for the flap over her gun belt, closing over the comforting, cold metal she carried for the state, for her men, and herself. It seemed to her that the room had begun to spin. She allowed it to hurtle beneath her, giving in momentarily to disquieting fears.

She bit her lip, closing the flap over the gun, taking a grip over her pulsing nerves. She told herself sternly that her fears were for nothing. Why should signs of subtle, mysterious care for an entranced sleeper worry her? Sighing, she turned towards him again, leaning close. She gazed down into his still, quiet face, hoping to chase away any remaining fears. Thinning her lips, she made as if to move away, but found that she remained as she was. Their lips so close. Pale against healthy and pink. Moist breath to still air. She gasped, afraid, shaken.

Stepping back sharply, she found she was blushing, and she bit her lip. She was repulsing to herself, wanting to kiss an innocent, asleep, unaware. Her eyes trailed over the fine build of his body, drawn out almost grotesquely by the thin sheets he had pulled over himself. She found her eyes trailing downwards. Only a thin triangle of sheet covered his abdomen; and that part of himself that her schoolgirl friends had once giggled to themselves made a man, daring one another to confess any knowledge of it. She blushed scarlet and pulled at the sheets, making as if to cover him up.

His skin was warm to the touch, and she startled, sheet still held in her hand. He stirred in his sleep, a slight shill coming up his body as she moved his coverings against his pale, smooth skin. She gasped and released the sheet, stepping back. She took in several deep breaths, trembling, feeling the uncomfortable fire of lust climb up her back. Clenching her hands, she made as if to turn away.

Lips thin, heart racing, she leaned forward, taking up the edge of the sheet, pulling aside in one brusk, nervous movement. Eyebrows drawn tightly together, she gazed down at the sleeping figure. He sighed, once, fingers fluttering over the coverlet, but made no other movements. He remained as he was, still and asleep, beautiful and cursed. She looked upon him quietly, at once devouring him and pitying him. He would waste away in this sleep. So beautiful and white, laid out carefully for the roses and the dust and the putrid life that is not life. Sighing, she stretched out one hand towards him.

His cheek was smooth beneath the coarse fabric of her glove, and she rushed to pull it off, to feel his warm, pale skin with tingling fingertips, leaning closer to him. He smiled softly, stirring in his sleep, and she caressed his cheek, his forehead, gently, fingers trailing down his hair, so slowly. Entranced. Her breath caught in her throat. She leaned down closer to him, their lips almost touching, breath mingled with breath. Sighing, she trailed her fingers down his neck, watching as his smile widened slightly, his lips parting. His breath was like the pungent aroma of the roses around them. Enticing. She closed her eyes, loosing herself, her fingertips fluttering over his skin, trailing down his thighs, searching.

She could feel herself as if from a great distance, unaware, unable to stop. She could hear voices clamouring for her to stop, to leave the sleeping to their rest. But she was giddy with him, with herself. He was so beautiful. The skin so smooth. So soft and pale and tasting of time and dreams. She drank him in with her fingertips slowly, a fire climbing up her body. She heard him moan softly, a quiet grunt, as she grew bolder, taking him between her hands, and she felt her mind bursting. She longed to wake him and have him enfold her as she could enfold him. Sighing, she touched her mouth to his, taking a wild, abandoned kiss from still lips. Tasting the voluptuous red of the roses.

Crying out, she pulled back, panting. She was trembling, and her hands encircled her shoulders. Her mind reeled at what she had done, that one, personal touch shattering the spell his skin beneath her fingertips could not.

She gasped, drawing away. His eyelids were fluttering, platinum lashes caressing pale skin. His eyes opened slowly, tow bright blue orbs searching and finding her immediately, reflecting nothing, living inside themselves. He smiled softly, and she felt her breath leave her. He closed his eyes momentarily and sighed, his lips parting slightly. She felt her heart contract painfully, and she tried to look away; found that her eyes would not leave his face.

"I hated him for that one agreement," he murmured, his voice deep and quiet. "The kiss. I told him many times that it couldn't work... Who would kiss me?"

He sighed and raised his hand to brush away at the loose hairs framing his face. She found herself reaching out for that hand, staying it. His eyes laughed silently and allowed her to lower it gently. He must be tired, she said, or worried, it had been twelve years. She frowned as she explained to him what had happened. The fate of the kingdom, of his parents and his would be court, his would be virgin bride. He took it all in quietly, only sighing, once, a tortured breath, before the tears spilled down his cheeks.

She held him quietly, hesitantly, the nearness of his body more than she could bear, as he cried, his shoulders shaking under a platinum curtain of hair. She did not feel any real time elapsing as he cried, and she merely murmured soothing phrases to him as he sobbed and tried to compose himself. Stepping back, she watched him wipe at his tears, sitting up on his crumpled marriage bed, unaware of how beautiful he seemed to her as his lower lip trembled and his body moved in silent grief. He did not seem at all perturbed that he was covered by nothing more than empty space and his hair, and when he had regained composure of himself, he looked up at her.

"So what now?" he whispered.

She shook her head. She had been ordered to find him, to bring him back. No one had thought beyond that. He frowned at her words and sighed. Thinning his lips, he turned to look at his shattered window, at the roses and their thorns.

"They'll expect me to regain my kingdom. What else? According to every damn news reel on TV, only the re-emergence of this nation can unite the three new countries which are now at war."

She gasped slightly, asking how he knew about those countries. He merely smiled, not turning away from the windows. "Dreams," he murmured. She waited for him to explain his reply, but gave it up. She bit her lip and looked away, trying not to take in his body. She told him that they should leave soon, and made as if to walk away.

His hand felt warm on her shoulder, sending a thrill through her. He murmured something, something about coming with her. But he was turning her towards him, his breath on her skin, his blue eyes searching her own. He seemed lost, embarrassed, and she could not bear it.

She knew she was crying, but she didn't care. Her hands were coming up around his neck, drawing nearer to him. She was telling him about her life, about how lonely she felt, how beautiful he was, if he would kiss her, just once, perhaps kiss here, and her tremulous fingers searched out his warm, smooth skin, her tears salty on her lips.

He smiled softly as he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her near. He laughed quietly, his breath at her ear, as he stumbled across the complex trappings that made up her uniform. She sighed as the fabric slipped over her cold skin, her mind on fire, the world outside shattering as his fingers trailed over her skin, drawing her towards him as he lay back, bringing her to rest atop him, his breath sweet and enticing. She closed her eyes, feeling her body awaken to fire, feeling him draw in a sharp breath as his fevered dreams became reality, his need threatening to burn them both.

She blushed, looking down at him. Had he felt her touch...? He smiled and placed one finger over her lips. Yes.

Sighing, she touched her lips to his again, softly. Searcher taking the kiss from the sleeping prince, feeling herself awaken after years of a slumber aware of nothing but duty and grief in war. Feeling herself pulse with a fire that was life in his arms, aware of nothing but him, his taste, his self coming into her, soft moans escaping his lips, their quiet rhythm enfolding them in each other. She cried out, her cries mingling with his, the fire engulfing them both, threading silent fingers over them. Drawing them together, all else forgotten.

She would sleep here, in his arms, for as long as she could. She could feel his arms around her, gentle and warm, as he trailed tremulous fingers down her skin, his breathing laboured but satisfied; his lips trailing over her forehead and her hair. Drawing her deeper into a sleep that was not sleep, but the beginning of life.
 
 
 

Author's Note:

Well, it's probably not much on the way of anything... But if it came out weird or melodramatic, I'd like to blame it all now on Ellen Datlow.
 

> top

> mail

© May 22th, 1997 Team Bonet. Gundam Wing still remains © 1995 Sunrise Inc. Ellen Datlow's books are copyrighted by Avon Books, although I cannot remember the date. Heh. Thank you for reading.