Quartre was stumbling in the midst of a grey haze. Barely, if he strained his eyes, he could just make out the outling of a shadowy form. It was a distinctive form though, the form of a tall, green-eyed, Gundam pilot.

"Trowa," he called out weakly, longing for the taller pilot's touch. As always, just as his fingers reached out to touch the other pilot, the figure would disappear. The shadow would reappear farther away in the greyish haze, taunting Quatre to catch it again. Quatre. desperate for a glimpse of the handsome pilot, followed doggedly, calling out his name all the while.

It seemed to Quatre, that he had been following Trowa's shadow for hours upon hours. At first, Quatre had been in too much pain to even move, let alone follow anything or anyone. He had lay listlessy, alone with his thoughts, allowing himself to drift towards a bright light that promised to ease his pain. It was tempting, for everytime Quatre moved, his body was wracked with intense pain, often making him black out for a few moments.

Movement set his skin ablaze, and his stomach turning gut-wrenching somersaults. He had to his horror, at one point, retched up blood and could not stop himself for several minutes. The light would take away all of his pain, and deliver him to a world with no fighting, filled with only peace. If he even wanted to, he could be reunited with his father and his sister again.

Laying like a broken doll in a puddle of his own blood, Quatre had prepared to give himself up fully to the light, when Trowa appeared beside him, in all of his magnificence. The tall pilot said not a word, but knelt beside him, tracing a long slender finger down Quatre's face. A single tear fell from one of Trowa's amazing green eyes, and fell onto Quatre's muck-stained, bloodied face, running a clear path down his cheek.

"Trowa, don't leave me." he had whispered, squeezing his eyes shut as another wave of pain washed over him. Blood flecked his lips, the light intensifying. Trowa brushed a strand of golden hair from Quatre's face. The silent pilot had spoken, sadness tinged in his voice.

"No my little one, don't you leave me." he had said rising with such grace that Quatre had come to appreciate. Trowa turned away, and began to walk into the thickening grey mists, directly away from the light.

"Don't leave me, don't leave me here Trowa!" Quatre had cried out desperatly. His worst fear, was to die alone. He understood death, he was a soldier no matter what anyone said, but it terrified him to the core to die alone...to die without love. To go to the light, was to give into that fear.

"Trowa, I won't leave you, I won't" he whispered. A shadow of the tall pilot, had caught Quatre's eye. Trowa's voice drifted to him, faintly.

"Then follow me, little one." Unable to manage more, Quatre struggled to his hands and knees and had begun to crawl deeper into the haze, away from the light.

As he had crawled farther and farther away from the light, he gradually became aware of a low chanting, fading in and out of his hearing, all around him. A little of his pain disappated just enough for him to, with great effort, break into a stumbling walk. As he lurched into the thick fog, the chanting began to get louder, the air all around Quatre tingling. The mist became incredible thick, enveloping him in a shroud, as if the Earth herself was wrapping him in a cocoon.

Something, instinct perhaps, told him that he shouldn't be afraid, even as he fell to his knees clutching his chest, coccooned in the Earth herself. For one moment, wrapped in a coccoon of darkness, his world stopped. His breath froze in his lungs, his heart stopped still in his chest, went blind as his vision left him, and deaf as the chanting was blocked out. Then, Quatre found himself spit back out of the womb of the Earth, sprawled onto his back in the grey haze. To his utter amazement, the breath came steadily in his lungs, his broken bones mended, and he bled no more.

Again, Trowa's shadow appeared out of the corner of his eye, beckoning him to the chase. Now, at a steadier pace, though still weak , Quatre had followed.

Quatre was tired, incredibly tired, weakened by blood loss, as well as sheer physical exhaustion. Still, the shadow kept eluding him. Suddenly, about to collapse in a exhausted heap, his legs barely able to carry him farther, the mists cleared to reveal a glade. In the center sat Trowa, playing his flute. He was a vision of immense beauty to Quatre, who found the energy to walk up to him, seemingly fully concentrated on his flute playing.

"Trowa," he breathed, almost afraid to touch the boy. Trowa turned around fixing him with a shining emerald eye.

"Little one, you have come thus far, now return to your world." He held out a hand to Quatre, which he accepted readily. As their fingers met, the mists fully cleared, and with a blinding flash, Quatre's world snapped into sharp focus.

Instead of finding himself staring into a pair of green eyes, a pair of slate grey regarded him with an intensity that confused Quatre. What confused him more, is when soft lips touched his delicate brow. This was not Trowa, but who?

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