12-Jan-2006
Title: Peace Be With You
Author: TB
Archive: GWA
Category: pre-Series introspective piece; one-shot
Characters: 13, 4, Quatre's father
Disclaimers: The characters and storylines of the Gundam Wing series
are used here without permission and without profit.
Rating: G
Warnings: Possibly some politically uncool, though timely, discussion
Spoilers: For the Gundam Wing: Ground Zero comics, though I went a
little TWT on those.
Notes: Assumes that Treize is already a Colonel and acting a little
ambassadorial on behalf of Romafeller.
Treize stirred when his companion reappeared on the south-facing balcony. He winced to himself even as he thought it; he would never be used to the lack of magnetic north in the colonies, the absence of such indicators of direction. The last of the bell-tones were fading into the artificial sunset. Beneath the balcony that faced what had been designated east, he knew, worshippers were rising from their crouch in the sand, gathering about each other in the dust to talk. In the city, just visible along the curve of the colony, the faithful would be shaking out their limbs and laughing to each other, chattering idly as they returned to their homes for the night.
Kadar Winner came to a halt some feet away from Treize. 'If you will accompany me,' he said, in that voice of almost clinical attachment that Treize remembered from the many years of their acquaintance. Treize turned on his heel, listening for the crunch of that ever-present sand beneath his sole and getting a slight rasp. He trailed Kadar through one of many arches littering his desert palace like so much architectural garbage, thankfully noting the absence of the many lackeys who had surrounded them since his arrival a few hours earlier.
'I dearly hope aliens never attack during prayers,' Treize said aloud. 'It would be inconvenient if the entire colony were caught unaware.'
It was meant to be a joke. It didn't sound funny, even to himself. Kadar, not a man known for his humour, most certainly didn't take it as one. Treize stopped immediately when Winner whirled about to face him, and was careful to look vaguely ashamed of his poor attempt at lightening the mood of their meeting. He got a long, appraising look for it, and had to hide a sigh when Kadar seemed to accept his sincerity.
'Not all of us have abandoned God,' the prince replied into that long pause. His blue eyes were keen in his pale face. 'But then, that is why the colonies were built,' he continued flatly. 'To provide a haven for those who were no longer welcome on Earth.'
'I believe history records the parting of brother from brother rather more kindly,' Treize countered.
The older man turned abruptly away from him, leading him onto a wide portico lining a broad square filled to bursting with an exotic desert garden. The hem of Kadar's white thoub fluttered about his shined black shoes as he strode in that oddly rigid way of the desert royalty. 'Your Western democracies preach religious tolerance,' Kadar said, not even turning his head back to see if Treize was listening. Assuming, with that princely arrogance, that he was. Treize found himself smiling as he followed at an appropriate distance. 'I see no evidence in history or in the present that this is a truth. You claimed the separation of the Church from the State even as you destroyed our ability to pray in public, to elect leaders who spoke the only the language of faith. In the name of tolerance you destroyed the separation that made it possible for us to live in communities of the faithful. It was the uniqueness and the isolation of our peoples that allowed us to live in 'tolerance' of each other. Your democracies did not consider that when they poached our land and our governments, inviting in your corporations to write us new constitutions endorsed by your God, not ours.' They reached their destination; Kadar Winner faced him with a little swirl of his robe, his hands clasped tightly behind him, his face expressionless. 'We came to the colonies to regain our sovereignty,' Treize was told.
Treize inclined his head to acknowledge the argument, not its validity. 'Was there ever a time,' he asked gravely, 'when that word -sovereignty- was not at the heart of our conflicts with each other?'
Again, he had the feeling of being swallowed, weighed, and rejected. Without even a flicker of response, Kadar brushed aside the gauzy hangings over the archway and entered a dim, rounded room. They were in one of the corner turrets, Treize recognised, forced to follow again. He was waved negligently to the boxy cushions in the centre of the room, where Winner was already sinking bonelessly onto his side, propped by an elbow. Treize, suddenly made ridiculous in his stiff Romafeller fashion, could only look awkward as he sat far more stiffly, struggling with his tall leather boots, his sword, and the long tails of his coat, immediately trapped beneath his seat. Throughout the process of adjusting, Winner never looked away, not even when he reached for the hose of an elaborately decorated hookah, lifting the mouthpiece to his lips and sucking lazily.
When Treize was as comfortable as he could be, Winner lowered the pipe, and two slender streams of smoke left his nostrils. 'Sovereignty,' he said, 'is the right to the proper worship of Allah. The Alliance have yet to show that it understands this very important fact.'
'We are not our ancestors,' Treize said with all the aplomb he could muster. 'The Alliance will not make the same mistakes. Has L4 been invaded? Have your people been issued demands?'
Winner inhaled from the hookah again. The spicy scent of its smoke wafted about Treize, making his eyes water slightly. 'The sanctions,' the prince said after a long pause.
Treize spread his hands. 'Can be lifted.'
Kadar played absently with the hose, blowing smoke onto his own pale fingers. 'I think it is very significant that they were put in place to begin with.'
'We were not dealing with your leadership at that time.'
The prince slammed the hose to the floor, though the slap was much cushioned by the deep carpets they lay on. 'And yet I have been in power for nearly five years and this is the first hint of negotiation? A military underling!' He rose sinuously to his feet, pacing to the window with his hands in that hard clasp behind his back again, as if he might wave his arms about wildly without strict control. Treize watched cautiously as Winner gathered his composure again, his straight shoulders somehow easing without ever slumping. When the tall man faced him again, his face was as calm as ever.
'You come to intimidate,' he said levelly. 'You enter my home with no ability to affect the relationship between my people and yours, only the tantalizing hint that accommodations can be made. My ancestors gave you oil, Colonel Khushrenada. My ancestors died under volleys of your so-called 'friendly' fire. What do I have that your people want so dearly now?'
Treize surprised him with equal bluntness. 'Your mines,' he said, courteous and quiet. 'We want your mines.'
'To fight a war,' Kadar elaborated. 'To subdue my sister colonies.'
'Would it make a difference if I denied it? You seem sure of our intentions.'
'You came here, to my home,' Kadar said, 'to convince me to sell you my resources. While they are still mine to give away.'
It was an appropriate time to stand, but he knew that getting up would be just as clumsy as sitting down had been. He did the best he could by straining in the thighs to rise just slightly, but he couldn't get any farther than that. He gave up trying quickly, speared by the prince's grim amusement.
It was past sunset, and their round little room was growing dark. It was hard to see Winner's face when he finally spoke again.
'Between the devil and the deep blue sea,' was what he said. A soft sigh followed it. 'Two things of yours which I have never seen.'
'You are committed to pacifism,' Treize replied indirectly. 'That is a long and worthy tradition of which you are justly proud. I believe you will continue to contribute to your cause by first contributing to mine.'
'Placing weapons in the hands of soldiers?' Winner said bitterly. He moved from the window, but not far, and when he did his face was lost to the darkness. 'The quicker to eliminate resistance from those I would betray.'
'Plainly; yes.'
'Your honesty offers no comfort,' the prince snapped. 'It brings death and disaster. And your imperialist Alliance with their greedy fists and their self-righteous idealism.'
Whatever answer Treize might have made to that was cut off by a single cautious word: 'Father.'
Treize turned his head, and found they were no longer alone. A boy no older than nine or ten, slender and tow-headed, stood half-hidden by the hangings at the arch. He did not wear a robe or turban, but clothes any European school child might have worn, a dress shirt of some light colour, khaki trousers. 'Father,' the boy repeated after a moment, his small voice uncertain.
Kadar's gesture caught the periphery of his sight, but it was the boy Treize watched, as he left the protection of the curtains and scurried across the room to Winner. Safe once again within the shelter of his father's arm, he looked wide-eyed and blank-faced at his unusual guest.
'My son,' Kadar announced heavily. His broad hand moved with surprising tenderness over the boy's wheat-coloured hair. 'Quatre. This is Colonel Treize Khushrenada. He visits us from Earth.'
Whatever that meant to the boy, it was impossible to read on his face. His round eyes flicked over Treize, up and down, pausing only a moment on his sword. 'Welcome,' he greeted Treize simply.
'Thank you,' Treize returned solemnly. 'Your home is very beautiful.'
Quatre pressed closer to his father's side.
Kadar sighed. 'Eat with us this evening,' he told Treize. 'And then be gone. My hospitality can only be strained so far.' He gripped Quatre on the shoulder, and gave him a light push toward the cushions. 'I will return shortly,' he muttered to them both, and left the room quietly.
Treize transferred his gaze to Quatre Winner again. He had known there was a son, but had never seen so much as a photograph. Kadar Winner could be, in some ways, a jealous man. That father and son looked so much alike was not startling, but to see such likeness in their eyes was. He could have been in the room with a miniaturized version of the man who had just left it, for all the feeling he could discern in Quatre Winner's deceptively open gaze. It was poise, and it was deeply ingrained.
'How old are you?' Treize began, a question that had always gone over well with his cousins and nieces.
But Quatre took his time with his reply, as if debating whether to answer him at all. 'Eleven,' he said finally. Another surprise. The boy was small for his age, but surely he couldn't be so shy, that old, in a culture that did not prize such sensitivity in its men.
He earned a little more time to think up a new question when an unobtrusive servant slipped into their sanctum, carrying a single candle and lighting a series of lamps with it. Golden, flickering light slowly filled the turret. He and the boy watched each other silently throughout, until the servant, making a discrete exit, suddenly dropped her candle with a horrified gasp.
'Quatre!' she exclaimed. 'Your shoulder!' She descended on him so quickly that he couldn't evade her grasping hands, though he tried to wriggle away. Treize, confused, stared until the light revealed what the darkness had hidden-- bandaging beneath the button-down, and blood seeping through both layers of cloth.
The return of Kadar brought the fuss to an abrupt halt before it could really begin. 'Mirza!' he snapped from the archway. 'Leave him.'
'His wound has opened,' she told him in a quavering voice.
'Then please fetch fresh bindings,' he ordered her stiffly. 'Enough with this shrieking. You'll bring the house down about our ears!'
Treize, glancing back at Quatre, thought he saw gratitude for the understanding. He remembered moments of his own, the shifting balance between boy- and man-hood, the indignities of being sent from a room to the mercies of a nurse and the triumphant permission to stay with the men.
A long and harsh look sent the woman fleeing. For the first time in their interview Treize found emotion on Kadar's face: exasperation, and a great weariness. Treize found himself ignored as Kadar knelt beside his young son, searching with careful fingers the extent of the damage.
'He was shot,' Kadar said suddenly.
Treize looked up. 'Your pardon?'
'My son was shot,' the prince repeated. 'An eleven year old boy, shot by an Alliance soldier.'
'I find that hard to believe,' Treize said, unwisely, and knew it was wrong when a pair of blazing blue eyes turned on him. 'Rather-- the circumstances?'
'He was shooting at Rashid Maganac,' Quatre said, glancing with those wide eyes between the two of them. He gained confidence when his father didn't hush him. 'From the Maganac family on Earth.'
'He took a bullet for a man,' Kadar clarified, looking down at his son with something raw working over his face. 'This is the result of weaponry. This is the danger of jingoistic politicking. An eleven year old boy with a war wound.'
Treize looked, really looked. Saw the paleness of the boy's skin, beneath the honey sheen from the oil lamps. The sweat tracking down the round cheeks. The brightness of the wide eyes that was fever. His throat was a little tight as he memorized what he saw, locking the image in his mind for the years to come. It wouldn't change anything, but he would remember it.
The nurse arrived in a flutter of her dark abayah and rolls of medicinal wrapping in her hands. Kadar rose, drawing the boy with him, and pushed him, very gently now, to the door. Quatre hesitated just out of reach of the woman, however. He turned back cautiously, but not to his father.
He bowed, just slightly, to Treize. He knew exactly how low to incline himself, Treize realised, just as Kadar must have known when he was a child.
That same instinctual grasp of the order of the universe, and his place in it.
It was a bow to an equal.
'Assalamu alaikum,' Quatre Winner said to him, and left with his nurse.
The End
(:./erin/peace)
