“But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread upon my dreams.”
- William Butler Yeats, He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

AC 193
Moscow

He didn’t let himself think as he helped her up, trying to get an arm around her in support without touching the blot on her left shoulder, didn’t allow himself to contemplate what she had just done as they made their slow way back to the hideout, didn’t bother to question what he was doing. So he kept moving, concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and making sure she did the same. Too slow, they were too slow and the other soldiers could catch up at any second. He did not dare look back, yet he heard no footsteps or yelled commands. But he couldn’t think of that now, for she had collapsed, and the cold grip upon his heart suddenly tightened painfully.

Later, he could not remember how they had made it to the small cabin that they had spent so much time in, could only recall the hellish storm buffeting them as he slowly trudged through the snow. He could still feel the dead weight of her body in his arms, still see the dark stain on her sleeve that threatened to encroach upon her too-white skin, still hear her breath flutter in her throat. Although now, in the warm safety of their hideout, he took comfort in the strong, steady beat in the shadowy nook between her chin and her neck, the blood flowing in her blue-veined wrists, he could still remember a fast, faint tremor there. And in the gauntlet he had just traversed, he shed all previous doubts and fears about her expectations and donned newer ones, heavier ones, ones that concerned themselves with the thin thread of life in his arms.

As he tended to her, delicately cutting off the shirt that had frozen to her arm, he carefully memorized the peaked face before him. He hadn’t looked, truly seen her for what seemed like years, even though he had faced her every day for the past twelve months. The gangly arms and legs of adolescence were gone, as was the soft curve of a rounded face, and in their place was a young woman, and for all her strength, a very delicate young woman whose life could have been snapped too easily by that bullet. Suddenly, the fear rushed back in waves, swamping him in terrible dread. This close. Just a palm length further, and the bloody hole in her body would have been through a lung, through the heart. Through his heart. Maybe even through the very fabric of his own life.

He had to take off his mask to wipe away the moisture that had somehow gathered in his eyes.

Her eyelids fluttered opened. The soft moan that escaped from her lips drew his attention to them, and he quietly, gently pressed two fingers against them as she tried to speak.

“Shh. You’re safe. I brought you back,” he whispered.

He swore to himself as he realized he had also effectively stranded her from medical help. The storm outside was now a raging blizzard that had already piled up five feet of snow in the time they had been inside, and it blockaded them from the outside world. The sheer panic that had gripped him when he saw her body knocked back by the bullet’s impact had erased all reason, and at that moment, anyone in uniform seemed capable of inflicting further harm. So he had dragged her up here, probably doing worse damage in the process.

“Glad . . . you’re here,” she managed to get out. A loud buzz, then silence, signaled a power outage, effectively blocking both of their expressions.

He would have drawn back before, carefully disentangled himself from her and all she represented. But with the specter of the final separation so close behind, he couldn’t bear to step back, for he finally saw his distance as fear of loss, baseless once confronted with reality.

“Yes,” he acknowledged. “How are you feeling?”

“Hurts. . . But better than . . . before.”

“Sleep. It’ll be fine.”

* * *

Zechs felt safe, curled up behind Noin with a mountain of blankets heaped on top, attempting to preserve warmth. He nudged her hair with his nose sleepily, wanting once more to reassure himself of her presence.

“Mmm,” she murmured, her soft voice breaking the spell of the encompassing dark.

Silence.

Then: “Why?”

He felt her turn her head towards him, perhaps startled by the low rasp in his voice. “Why what?”

“Why risk your life?”

Her long sigh hung for a moment as he could almost see her trying to find words.

“Because -- because he was a husband . . . and a father,” came the deliberate reply.

And after another pause, she added, “Because he could have been my father.”

A thicker silence, now.

He realized he knew nothing and everything about her.

“Who is -– who was he?” he asked quietly.

A sigh.

“I don’t know. He died when I was eight.”

“I understand.”

A long pause hung in the air before she decided to continue.

“We lived in the streets. I think I was happy back then; it was all I had ever known. Now, though, I would guess we didn’t belong there. My father always told me stories about the colonies and space; he painted them as a utopia free from the Federation. My favorite times were when he’d just hold me and tell me this fairy story about a man who had everything.”

“You told that to me once.”

“Did I?”

She sounded remote, lost in the vast sea of memory.

“You did.” He felt an irrational desire to draw her back to the present, away from the pain he knew remembrance could so easily inflict. “The day we decided we were best friends, remember?”

“Ah yes. So I did.”

“I’m sorry. Go on?”

He imagined her tongue wetting her lips as she prepared to continue, her mind perhaps spiraling down to some hidden place from which to draw strength.

“I can’t picture much of my mother, except that she was always worried about my little sister. She was very tired, too, probably from having to scrounge for food every day. I remember hunger. But I still recall the stories best of all.”

“What happened?”

“They died. Random shots from an inconsequential skirmish in a warehouse somewhere. No real reason; we were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Oh Noin . . .

The distance in her voice startled him. She lay still in his arms, and her tone, devoid of emotion, reminded him of his own, and he was afraid.

“What did you do?”

“Me? I survived.”

“Someone took you in?” Please say someone did.

“No. I lived on the streets, joined a band of kids.”

Something had hit a nerve, and he was vibrating in tune with her pain. Although his family had been torn from him, she should not have had to experience that utter loss.

“So why OZ? Why fight? And don’t tell me it’s because you love space.”

Make her angry, call sparks into her. Know her.

“I don’t know anymore. And so I bit the bullet.”

He winced at the turn of phrase.

“The recruiter originally used my band, saying if I joined, they’d be safe, warm, fed. Then, later, I convinced myself that we were doing the right thing even though I hated and still hate the fighting; I told myself that the Specials would protect those under Federation rule eventually. But now, after that? I don’t think I can. Not like this,” she said. “What about you?”

A long pause, a nervous one.

“Can you tell me?”

Her voice, though quiet, had lost its apathy, and underneath lay a current of untapped yearning and melancholy. He remembered the curious face turned towards his so innocently years ago, so unaware of what she had been asking for. And he would always see the mask that had fallen across her visage when he had cut her off. And he knew this was a testing of the waters that divided them and bound them. So he decided.

“You?” he started with a smile he knew she could not see. “Of course.”

Finally, she shifted, turned her body towards him oh so slightly. And he imagined there was an answering smile on her face that wiped the sorrow from her eyes. He took a deep breath and began.

“My name is Milliardo Peacecraft. My father was the king of the Sank Kingdom, and I loved him. They killed him, though, killed him and killed my mother, yet left my sister and me alive. I swore revenge there in the ruins of his kingdom, even though my father was the greatest advocate of absolute pacifism. It doesn’t matter what I must do to revive the Sank Kingdom, but I will. At any cost, I will. If there is too much blood on my hands, then let it pass to Relena. But it will be done.”

He regretted the ice in his voice, rued the fear it would draw forth. But there was only a terrible understanding in her eyes.

She masked it quickly though, hiding it behind a wry twist of the mouth.

“Please to meet you, Milliardo Peacecraft.”

“No. Don’t call me that.”

And before she could be hurt by his tone, he added, “Not unless I get to call you Lucrezia.”

She shook her head vigorously, spilling bangs everywhere and nearly hitting his nose. He nearly laughed until she said, “Only my family called me that. I became Noin when I joined OZ. I don’t think I am Lucrezia anymore; I think Lucrezia died long ago.”

“I think Milliardo Peacecraft has too.”

Their eyes met, and suddenly, the understanding between them was not so terrible after all.

“Zechs, then. Zechs, I would fight for you.”

He had a vision of her then, torn by the same demons that raged inside of him, distanced from humanity. He saw her die a thousand different times, for him, because of him. He saw her laughter fade away with the years, her vitality and strength sapped by a constant battle between his war and her values. And he saw what must be done, but he was too much a coward to do it.

So he fought by her side, shoulder to shoulder, through the months to come. And each battle, he watched her eyes grow so much dimmer, watched the idealism and optimism he so loved about her slowly seep away, replaced by harder, sterner stuff. He watched her resign herself to fighting among the stars in MS’s instead of living among the stars. So he cursed himself for what he was doing.

He had convinced himself long ago that she was the one thing he could ask for himself. But as he finally understood the cost would not be paid by himself, he accepted his burden, let the weight fall upon him, the heaviest yet. She would fight for him regardless of any words he could fling in her direction, for she knew him too well. But he knew he had made her afraid before with his distance, and now, he would use it again, this time, not to protect himself from losing her once more, but rather to guard her from himself. From the pain he would bring, had already inflicted. From the destruction she had called upon herself by taking on his onus. From the disillusionment and the loss, from the sorrow and the futility of it all, he would keep her. And because he had made her care for him, because he cared for her, he would push her away. Minute by minute, day by day, year by year, he would keep the mask on, fake indifference and disdain. He had made her believe it almost in the cabin, and eventually, even her strong heart would be worn down. How he would do without it, he would not think of.

So he walked away. In the end, it was easier than he thought it would be, more painless to don the mask and to play at politics with Treize.

But he secretly told himself in his heart of hearts that maybe some day, in the distant future, in a place where the Sank Kingdom and Milliardo Peacecraft had never existed, he could find her. And he would tell her why he had done everything, and she would forgive him, and all would be well. Mostly, he knew how ludicrous it was, and why he should not be forgiven for anything because he was Milliardo Peacecraft who had the blood of men on his hands. Yet, somewhere deep inside, there was a place she could still touch, a place that had not yet become hardened and brittle. And there, he gave her his own story: How there was once a boy who had everything, but his heart’s desire. And this boy gave away everything to gain his heart’s desire; yet, when he at last tasted it, it was ashes in his mouth, for he had already lost the only thing that was dear to him. So he too would look toward the stars, and maybe, as a man, could find the core of himself once more.