"O how the darkness do crowd up, one against the other, in ye hearts!
What fear ye more than what ye have wroughten?"
- Robert Anton Wilson, The Principia Discordia

AC 188
Victoria Academy

"So, tomorrow at 5?"

"Sure."

Overhearing the other cadets' words, Noin urged herself to stay put, to stop listening, and most of all, to stop caring. It was a trivial matter, just a study break. Nothing more. Nothing to get worked up about. Not at all. She swallowed painfully, staring blankly at the floor, willing herself to don once more the mask of the cold model student who thought of nothing outside of her studies. The facade seemed harder to display every time, yet just as necessary, as always, with her forever sitting on the sidelines, watching the others having a try at life and at joy. And she knew to the core of herself that she would never be given a place in their midst and that she would always be overlooked and ignored, the very lack of malice in those doings more hurtful than any spiteful action could ever be. Maybe -- she hesitated, the thought too foreign -- maybe, just maybe, if she weren't at the top, maybe they would laugh with her. But no. Her mouth twisted, the bitter taste of pride and glory staining every swallow. Though she looked for friendship and intimacy, she only had her pride to go on, to keep her head uplifted through times like these.

"This is great! And everyone's invited?"

"Oh, of course! Tomorrow at 5, OK?"

She smiled, the pain warping the gesture into a grimace of irony and hurt. Of course everyone was invited. They always were. The room spun a little as her vision blurred; suddenly, she found it difficult to breath regularly. She got up with as much haste and dignity as she could muster, almost jogging to the classroom door in her attempt to escape their happy giggles and their inside jokes, only slowing down as she walked outside the building, her feet automatically directing her to the one sanctuary she had.

Noin made her way toward the pine grove, jaws clenched tightly, trying furiously to cage in the stinging tears that threatened to spill over any second. I will not cry. I cannot cry, she commanded herself, determined to preserve some shred of her former self. She derided herself for her sensitivity to others' opinions, berated herself for her dependence. She was never like this in the streets. She had been the leader, the one who managed everything, who was respected and loved. But now, here, respect was an empty thing earned through numbers, and love was barren, the fruit of false words and false gestures of praise. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she found herself curled up in a ball under a fir tree, the rough bark a welcome pain against her hot cheek. And with that motion, memories of her family emerged from the limbo of her subconscious, tormenting her with a brush of a cool hand against a burning forehead, the enveloping warmth of her father's embrace and the bright eyes of her little sister, whose gaze spoke eloquently of absolute trust. She bit her lip, feeling the sobs welling up in the back of her throat, threatening to wrench her hard-won control from her. As the slightly salty taste of blood filled her mouth, she smelled the acrid odor of gunpowder in the back of her nose and tasted not the warmth of her own blood, but rather, the metallic sharpness of war. Her shoulders began to heave as she sucked in air desperately, her legs tucked up toward her chest. Swaying slightly, she could feel grief and loneliness and fear sink their talons into her heart, firmly lodging there as she realized she was indeed crying heaving, wrenching sobs with only the faint impression of her mother's arms to comfort her.

As the black emptiness within her attempted to swallow her whole, she felt arms encircling her, their firmness and warmth leeching away the cold. She lowered her head, hiding behind her bangs in a futile attempt to mask her face and identity, trying one last time to preserve the perfect face she presented to the rest of the world.

"What's wrong?" a voice rumbled as soft bangs brushed against her cheek and sky blue eyes forced her to look up. She peered up through tear-spiked eyelashes as she reined in her sobs, only to dissolve in the empathy and concern and caring offered freely to her. Still balled up, she began to cry in earnest as he shifted her head to the crook of his shoulder, smoothing her back and stroking her hair.

"What's wrong?" he repeated softly, a quietly questioning look in his eyes.

"I wanna go home," she murmured incoherently into his shoulder, like the child she was never allowed to be. "I wanna go home."

"Where's home?" he asked softly. The question only made her cry harder, reminding her she could never go back to her family, or even to her band. She shook her head frantically, attempting to deny the cold reality of life.

"Why do you want to go home?" he murmured. She shook her head once more, gently now, not wanting to reveal her fear, cringing at the thought of her cowardliness. Telling him would only mean exposing herself, giving someone else in this place yet another means to hurt her.

And as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, he whispered painfully, "You can tell me, you know. I won't hurt you. I won't ever hurt you."

She hiccupped, his words momentarily silencing her pain. Her eyes timidly sought his, a mix of pure terror and utter longing in them as she found her barriers suddenly falling to his unexpected kindness. He nodded then, holding her gaze with his own, seeming to tell her that he would always be there. The words poured out of her then, the last wall of trust irrevocably breached. In a quiet voice, she told him of the loneliness, the fear of being valued only for her grades instead of for her own qualities, the unwillingness to let go of her defenses, even for a gentle touch. She spoke of the cold gray dread that stole over her always and her inability to combat it. And through it all, her words were answered with only sounds of understanding, free of any trace of condemnation. And most surprisingly of all, he answered back, sharing himself and telling her that he felt the same when he watched them all, felt the same tight grip on his heart, telling her she was not alone in this, and never would be, for they had each other.

When she heard this, she looked up cautiously, her face streaked with the trail of tears, not quite trusting in his unvoiced promise.

"Always?" she asked hesitatingly, afraid to fully pronounce that irrevocable word.

"Always," he repeated emphatically. "Only each other at the last, right?"

She nodded slightly as a watery smile emerged, and though it did not chase the shadows out of her eyes, it called an answering smile from Zechs.

"Feeling any better?" he asked.

She nodded again, still sniffling a bit.

"Do you think you're ready to go back?" he continued gently.

She shook her head at this, eyes beseeching him to stay with her. He smiled and wordlessly rearranged himself next to her, keeping his arm around her shoulder and letting her rest her head on his. Noin closed her eyes and relaxed, her stiff posture sagging as she allowed herself to lean on him. Tired from the events of the day, she drifted off into the limbo between dreams and waking. And while there, while her defenses were still down, a small thought crept through her head, telling her that she might possibly be falling -- it was the most frightening thing she could possibly think of, as it meant a possible end to the something precious they had only just begun -- with the person who had held her through her tears without a trace of blame, who had made her laugh and smile and trust when she had almost forgotten that those words were attached to some ineffable beautiful light and golden thing that was . . . that was . . .

Zechs watched Noin gradually slip into the realm of dreams, his hand absent-mindedly brushing through her hair, attempting to pin back her bangs so that he could see her face. Although he had once more been surprised at his words, words that had no connection with Zechs Merquise, MS pilot and Specials cadet, but were intimately tied to someone yet unnamed inside him who had a soul, the relieved look on her face had been more than payment enough for what might have been vulnerability on his part. He hadn't realized she was capable of crying -- had no idea even that she had reason to cry, to feel lonely, or grieved. Dark-haired though she was, she was the brightest thing in his life. His star, he thought, with an odd little smile, recalling the story she had told him just a semester ago. He looked bemusedly at her sleeping figure, wondering at her naivete while treasuring it, her shining eyes acting as a balm to his cynical, dirtied soul. He had known when her walls had tumbled, felt her resistance to him give as he gifted her with a look at his own heart. How easily she trusted one who was willing to merely hold her and help her. Looking down at the dark eyelashes, still clumped together with traces of salt water, Zechs found himself desiring to know what had made it so that she, one so strong that the pressure of being the best only drove her to compassion for another caught in the same dilemma, would succumb to the lightest of touches and the gentlest of words. He thought, perhaps, just maybe, this unfamiliar desire to comfort and calm, this barely remembered feeling of safety and warmth could be, might be . . .

She stirred on his shoulder, one eye sleepily peeking through a shock of dark hair. Still lost to the waking world, her questioning thoughts led her to another conclusion. Maybe it was love.

"You know," she murmured as his attention drifted toward her, "I've always wanted an older brother."

To Into the Rose Garden