The Memory of the Rose by Angelkate (kam904s@yahoo.com) Chapter Four "Life is a game. In order to have a game, something has to be more important than something else. If what already is, is more important than what isn't, the game is over. So, life is a game in which what isn't, is more important than what is. Let the good times roll." -Werner Erhard The Dueling hall was the only building on campus that didn't double as something else; most probably because this school had an incredible record on the fighting circuit. "Every year," the dean proudly announced on Sari's first day "at least one of _our_ students goes to an international fencing competition. That doesn't include how many kendo competitions we've won or martial art competitions. We are a very elite academy, Miss Himemiya. Most schools have fencing clubs," the dean explained with suppressed glee. "But we here at Bara Academy have a different kind of fencing team'. All kinds of swordplay is taught here, not only fencing. Our team fights at the international level, and many of our students in this program go on to Hollywood and the stage to choreograph fight scenes and the such. A graduate of our academy is currently holding the Gilded Rapier for winning in the International Fencing Competition in Paris this very year. So we encourage our students who are talented in this arena to consider the Dueling team a step up from ordinary swordplay. Only the very talented are accepted of course." Sari was duly impressed by such statistics, but more impressed by the look of the place. It was huge; one gigantic hundred by eighty foot room lined along the sides with sword cases, sword racks, medal cases, and competition banners. Trophies lined two shelves along the upper level; in the far corner she could see a delicate metal staircase wind around a pole up to the second level. "The offices and showers and changing rooms are up there," the dean explained. "The entire bottom floor is dedicated to our champions. If you're lucky, you may be able to train with a student for a year or so before tryouts in the fall. If you're particularly talented Mr. Tswabuki may decide to let you sit in on a class. If you're good, that is." Sari didn't consider herself anywhere close to a fighter, so calmly nodded her head as the dean rattled on about their great number of victories and their sister school Ohtori Academy in Japan. Her mother had gone there; Sari herself barely registered that fact, though inwardly she made a quick promise to ask the verbose dean more about Ohtori. But for the time being, something more caught her eye. A sword sat alone on a thin wrought metal wrack carved ornately with roses. It was the only weapon there that looked like it had never been used for practical fighting purposes. No wonder; if it was ever used it would be deadly. The sword was spun glass. At least it looked like it was. The dean caught her curious gaze and fell silent for once. "The instructor here," she began in hushed tones, "before our current teacher, was a genius for swordplay. This sword was made especially for him by the master sword smith Kyoichi Saionji of Okinawa, Japan. Apparently they'd known one another for years and this sword was crafted by Saionji the day our instructor lost a battle to him. He sent it as a gift and an apology. Thus it was placed in a place of honor and is carefully polished each day by the current instructor. It is actually made of very fine glass laced with those thin bits of hematite and iron. The hematite and iron make it strong enough to fight with - don't touch the edge, it is razor sharp- but the glass hides their purpose. However, according to Mr. Tswuabuki, it is made to withstand the vibrations from a dueling sword and nothing else. If someone were to break in and smash it against the floor it would most likely shatter." She had paused then, her face growing dark. Her voice deepened, sounding almost as if it belonged to someone else -someone Sari almost, not quite, recognized in the back of her mind. Pink, she thought crazily as the woman walked forward and laid one suddenly delicate hand on the hilt. The world is pink. The dean didn't look over at her as her fingers caressed the blade. Her pale, slender fingers. "If any student were to do such a thing I would worry about more than them merely being expelled. There are many people here who've studied daily with this sword standing watch. Almost all of them are masters with weapons now. To ruin such a beautiful object would be to upset them greatly." She had blinked then, suddenly, as if waking from a deep sleep and smiled warmly. "Anyway," she continued, "we've spent much too much time here. We need to show you your dorm, yes?" They left the building and Sari spared one glance back, as the crystallized sword shone in the dusky light. Months had passed since then. --but Sari, you can't believe how wonderful it is to be spending time with such a wonderful woman. Kozue is about the only person here who seems less than thrilled with her at all times. And to be perfectly honest, I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that her brother Miki will always call to talk to Juri first rather than Kozue. I mean, he talks to her, but he doesn't spend almost an hour on the phone. Their conversations are always so brief. I'm very excited- I get to meet him in a few weeks. He's taking a week off of writing to come here. Juri was talking about a reunion of sorts and the phone practically jumped out of her hand, he was yelling so loud. I guess he was happy; she was smiling when he finally quieted down enough to speak again-- "Sari! Lunch!" Himemiya Sari rolled over onto her stomach and propped her slender chin on her hands with a woefully sad expression. "Alex," she pleaded with alligator tears brimming in her limpid eyes, "can you please go down ahead of me and save me a seat?" Alex's two braids swished as she sighed and smiled. "Sure, Sari. But hurry up or we'll be late for drama practice." Sari just smiled at her roommate and returned to her letter. Adam, as usual, was highly secretive about the business portion of his new life with Juri, but he seemed happy all the same. She quickly skimmed the last page and was about to leave the room when the phone rang. Reading about all the fun he was having in Japan brought about a wave of home sickness for Yamika and St. Christopher's. Thus it was with little surprise that she found herself answering the ringing phone in typical Japanese fashion: "Moshi, moshi?" "Sari. You've been listening to my lessons then, huh?" Sari flushed and wrapped her fingers in little spirals around the cord. She easily recognized that voice; it had been in her dreams every night for almost six months now. "Mitsuru. Hello. I was just about to go to lunch, but I could wait a few minutes to talk with you." Certain that he could hear the naked eagerness in her voice, Sari tried not to blush. It was bad of her to have such a large crush on a man so incredibly older than herself, but she couldn't help it. His voice was smooth and amused on the other line. "No, that's quite alright, Sari-chan. But I do expect to see you after dinner for practice. The fencing competition is coming up and so is your dance recital." "And the drama competition," she interrupted, "I know. Yada yada yada. You know, Mitsuru, you really should worry more about getting a girlfriend and less about obsessing over your students." She grinned into the phone at that. Here was the part where he'd hem and haw and stutter; on his face would be a little boy caught up in his fantasy world dragged suddenly out by his ears. It really was a shame he was so much older than herself. Just a little closer to Adam's age and she'd be happier than a hentai in a porno store. "Or do you have one already?" she teased. There was a slight silence on the other end, almost a choked hiss, then: "I never told you about Nanami-san, did I?" His voice was heavy and tired. Angry almost. Blinking at his words, Sari shook her head, then cleared her throat when she realized he wouldn't see the motion. "Um., no- no you didn't. You have a girlfriend after all?" Not that she was surprised. It was foolish of her to hope otherwise. Mitsuru was the stuff girls' dreams were made of. Slender, but strong, he was blessed with thickly tousled honey-blond hair and intelligent green eyes. But the hordes of drooling students came from more than just the surface good looks. There was a sense of something not quite tranquil around the handsome young man- there were times to look at him was like looking at the eye of some great natural feat; he was so calm and cool and collected, but down deep inside there was something turbulent. Mitsuru was her favorite person here; in some ways he was the only one she felt safe coming to with her homesickness over Adam, with her longing to live up to the weekly letters her great-aunt sent. In some ways she felt as if the two of them were children, cast out in a flimsy boat on a troubled ocean. They had only one another to cling to. A silly notion. Was it her imagination or was there a sad note to his voice? "For years and years I wanted to be her big brother. Nanami is a very special person to me, Sari. Sometime I'll take you to meet her. You'll like her. She's so-- energetic." Quietly chastising herself for her sudden disappointment at this very special person in Mitsuru's life, Sari forced a smile. "I can't wait. For her to catch your eye she must be very special indeed. She's probably a model and a world class fencer to boot, huh? But, before you drag me off to meet the light of your life, can I kick some rear at the fencing competition?" A pause. A pause. A pause. Then his voice was the proverbial sun again; bright, cheery, not at all lost or dark or tense. "Sure! I can't wait to see how my favorite pupil does against these British fops." Not quite daring to breathe a sigh of relief, Sari moaned in childish exasperation. "Are you sure I'm ready though? I mean, I've only been fighting a few months. Some of these contenders have been in competition for years. Am I going to end up with my head sliced off?" "You over-exaggerate, Sari," Mitsuru protested. "First of all, the object isn't to kill one another, it's to get a medal. Secondly, with your blood lines and talent, you're a sure to at least place." Sari was confused. "My what and talent?" Your hard work and talent?" He was amused. "Hearing things again, Sari?" She chuckled. "No . . . I guess so . . . I don't know. I just thought you said blood lines, not hard work. I guess I'm loosing my hearing after all." "And at the ripe age of ten, no less," he teased. "Blood lines don't have anything to do with fighting, Sari. You know that. I've seen world class fencers and kendo instructors put their children in my master's care and they couldn't fight at all. It's more than just the ability, Sari, it's the will. And you are more than bloodthirsty enough to win. Trust me on that one." "Thanks," she dryly replied. "I feel so much better knowing you think I'm a bloodthirsty fiend with a rapier." He had to be grinning over the phone. There was no way a voice could make that sound unless he was talking through a wide smile. "Keep up your good work and I'll teach you how to use a scimitar or a bokken. That's real battle. Handling a dagger and a sword both at once...it's thrilling." Sari could imagine the look on his face; if he was good with a rapier or bokken or broadsword, he was ten times as experienced and talented when it came to a dual weapon approach. Once she'd been lucky enough to watch him work with an upper level senior. The senior had chosen a katana. Mitsuru had chosen the dagger and scimitar. The fight had been breathtaking if a little scary. It was also over in less than three minutes. Even though it wasn't quite good sportsmanship, when he fought with those weapons he was at his opponent's throat within seconds of the fight opening. With the other weapons he was tamer, quieter. With a dagger and scimitar...he was almost someone else. Someone golden and fierce; a prowling jungle cat set free. He wasn't nearly as polite about the whole fighting thing. "I would like that," she murmured quietly; oddly chilled at the naked eagerness in his tone. Misturu... when he got like that he almost, not quite, scared her. How could someone so gentle like fighting so much? "But I have to go. My lunch is getting cold." "I understand. I will see you in practice tonight. And Sari?" "Yes?" "Don't forget about our arrangement after practice, ne? He looks forward to meeting my favorite pupil. Ja." "Ja," she whispered, laying the phone down into its cradle. She would have to reply to Adam after practice this afternoon. Hopefully he wouldn't mind a short letter this time. It seemed like all she could do these days was rush from one activity to the next. Her great-aunt had a heavy schedule of classes on manners and etiquette and poise planned. She was feeling more adult and boring already. Add to that her regular classes and the drama, dance, and dueling clubs she belonged to and it was getting to the point where she was practically planning every spare minute, a drastic change from her first few weeks here. As she passed down the richly paneled halls, she thought back to that day four months ago that she'd arrived on campus. Alone, scared, she'd been terrified of saying the wrong thing or insulting someone British. To her they represented a culture and dignity that she'd never even imagined could exist. But then there was Mitsuru. Ahhh, yes, Mitsuru; the sponsor of the Dueling team and her favorite teacher. They worked with all kinds of weapons there; sabers, broadswords, rapiers, daggers. If it was sharp and had a point, Mitsuru knew how to wield it. His master had been an expert swordsman; according to the reverent and hushed tones Mitsuru spoke of him with, he still was. Now, Mitsuru had a plan to make her as good a fighter, something Sari thought him loony for trying to do no matter how fast she was progressing. She appreciated the effort though. He was the first one to even look twice at the trembling New Yorker with the funny accent and false sense of bravado. It had been an accident really. She'd never intended on going back there...to the room with the spun-glass sword... It had started out as such a bright and pretty day. Anshi frowned as the sky darkened and thunder rumbled ominously. "Typical Ohtori weather," she muttered under her breath. "Akio had better not be the one making this day miserable for me," she continued as she laid one dark hand on the doorknob. The door swung open without a protest though, had anyone other than she, Utena, or her brother tried that, it would have remained stubbornly locked. Anshi took a deep breath of the sweet air and smiled. There was a faint smell of roses in the front foyer- Utena must have arrived. Anshi fluttered her eyes closed and tried to still her thudding heart. Granted, this day wasn't perfect; the letters she'd sent to Sari always came back "return to sender" or "address unknown'" so she couldn't reintroduce the child and mother, but at least she would see her Utena again. Utena. Sari. Anshi frowned slightly. According to Juri, the letters and postcards sent to her ward all had the same address. Adam had yet to complain about getting a returned letter himself so the only thing Anshi could come up with was that the slender girl didn't want to read letters from strangers. She'd fretted about the odd disappearance of Sari for quite awhile now, and had even gone so far as to travel to London and carefully coax information about any new students from every elite dance academy in London. Nothing. In reality it worried her more than a little, but Anshi assumed that she would feel it if something were wrong with the girl. They had a connection now. A link. But still . . . A soft humming interrupted her thoughts. There were more important things to do than worry about Utena's child at the moment. Utena was here. Perhaps she knew where her child had gone. Probably not. Anshi chewed her lip again and shook her head once. Her hair fell from its tight bun at the command, long and luxurious, cascading down her back in graceful waves. She didn't want Utena to see her with her hair pinned. She was free now, they both were. Utena was a prince, she was no longer a princess. Taking a deep breath, Anshi smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in her prim skirt and walked gracefully toward the stairs. "Utena," she murmured. "I'm here." The song was a lullaby, she realized as she neared the upstairs landing. Nanami had hummed it for weeks when she'd taken care of Chuchu. That stopped her steps. The song was lovely, even sung in such a raspy alto, but the thought of the monkey-mouse drew Anshi's happy features together in a momentarily worried expression. Chuchu. Four years were enough, weren't they? She shivered slightly and continued on. Her familiar was still there, in the back of her mind and heart; she would know if he were in danger. For now it was best to let that situation lie. He would return to her, Chuchu would travel to the ends of the earth for her. He was fine now, even with him. He was fine. She stepped up to the door and merely stood there, looking into the room. The sky, dark only moments before, now shone gently through their windows, bathing the room in soft, muted light. A table, their table, was clean and polished; it squatted in the middle of the room, already set with two delicate cups and all the feminine niceties and fripperies of a friendly afternoon tea. A woman leaned casually on the table, her elbow propping up her turned head as she gazed out the window at the balloons and birds winging by. Her left hand slowly fingered a dozen red roses gathered on the table. Her humming was slowing now; she was like a record nearing the end of its track. What surprised Anshi most about the figure was her hair; short, stylish, the woman's once abundant mane of bubblegum pink was cropped close to her head in a sassy pageboy. She was shorn. Perhaps Anshi made a slight sound, perhaps not. Either way the head turned; the soft gravely music stopped. A tired, worn, and beautiful face turned like a flower to Anshi's sun. The years had been good to her. "So it is you," Anshi breathed, her eyes watering as she sat across from the lovely woman. She carefully set her package of cookies on the table and then put them all on the empty serving platter. They piled up neatly; one, two, three. "Utena." Utena smiled gently, but said nothing; her own gaze was tender and loving and somehow tired as she poured the tea in the delicate porcelain cup. The liquid was some sort of berry mixture, Anshi supposed; it had that kind of almost too-sweet odor to it. Anshi took her cup in her right hand and an oddly shaped cookie in the other. She supposed it had been a vain and foolish thing, -to form the cookies in the shape of coffins- but to her, biting into them was vaguely symbolic. She crunched on one first, almost smiling with her efforts. This was all right. This was perfect. With each bite the crumbly cookie coffin was slowly devoured. It was rather freeing in a way. She felt safe, even here in their old dorm room in the tower. With Utena in front of her the room of their mutual imprisonment held no malice, just a dusty sort of bittersweet memory. So much had gone on in those eleven years; as Anshi stared hopelessly at her bright prince she wasn't sure where to begin. As if sensing her mild distress, Utena leaned forward and inhaled the heady steam from the tea in one long slow breath."I brought you these roses. I don't know what came over me, but . . . I missed you." Anshi nearly choked on tears, but kept her composure as she smiled wearily. "I missed you too, Utena." Her arms were hungry for an embrace; one hug, one tight hug, that was all she wanted. But Utena, on second glance, was so thin. She was almost too tired and palely drawn to be real. The illusion had been the sun, casting dusky warm shadows across the room. Their warm comfortable room. Anshi's heart ached, her eyes stung with hard tears. Oh Utena. One hug...would she accept a small energy transfer? Would she even notice? "How's the tea?" Flushing slightly, Anshi drank a hefty swallow and tried not to grimace. Utena, despite her many talents, never had quite gotten the hang of making a perfect cup of tea. For all its sweet aroma, the tea was rather bitter with an almost coppery metallic taste. It almost tasted like the blood that filled her mouth all those years ago. With a shudder Anshi closed her eyes a moment, even now, remembering. The birds had wheeled around; their dark eyes and bright feathers the only company so high up, so far away from the rest of humanity. Caught up by the swords -through her hands, her feet, her calves and slender abdomen, through her knotted hair and her dark forearms...through the trunk of her body, through her pelvis and shoulders and ribs and breast- Anshi had swayed, swayed, swayed in the slight breeze as little droplets of sweat, of blood plinked down onto the arena floor below her...her coffin until Akio had been ready for her, her cage, her pen, until it was time for the Victor to be summoned...and she'd eventually stopped weeping, for there were no more tears left to cry... Shaking herself mentally for such morbid thoughts, Anshi coughed a bit and forced words through her lips. "I don't recognize the flavor," she hedged, trying to come up with a suitable answer so as to not bother Utena with such a small detail as botched tea. Inwardly she was still quaking over the suddenness of her gruesome recollection. Smiling with a false brightness, Utena cupped her own glass to her lips and wet her lips. "Take another sip Anshi. I made it special for this occasion. You might recognize the taste if you try it again." The sour taste of bile rose in Anshi's throat at the thought of taking another sip of that horrid tea, but the woman inwardly sighed. It was only polite after all. Utena looked so tired, so incredibly tired. If drinking the entire pot of the nasty stuff would make Utena look any less drained, Anshi would have done it happily. Steeling herself she raised the cup to her lips and drowned the rest in three large gulps. No lady-like sips for this junk; she would just vomit. "I'm sorry, Utena-sa Utena," she amended. "I really don't recognize the taste." "Rose hip," Utena murmured from over her own practically untouched drink. She set the dainty cup in its saucer and reached forward for a cookie. With a deft snap of those slender fingers the cookie cracked cleanly in the middle and she began nibbling cautiously at one end. "I remembered how you used to make that wonderful rose jam." "I did, didn't I?" Anshi smiled fondly in remembrance. "We had some on the table the night we joked about poisoning the tea with cantarella." "Did we?" Utena returned the sweet smile with a fond one of her own. "I barely remember that night." "I remember it perfectly," Anshi murmured as her eyebrows drew together. Her stomach was churning slightly, perhaps from nervous tension. She laid a hand on it and massaged gently, nearly wincing at the sudden sharp stab of angry fire beneath her belly button. It would calm down soon; she refused to become ill in front of Utena, not after all this time, all this waiting. It just wouldn't do. "It was right after you discovered my secret about Akio and that night I..." "Tried to end it," Utena's eyes were downcast. "There were times I wished you had, you know. Ended it. Ended me. These Swords...Anshi...I can't stand their weight sometimes. Sometimes it hurts so much I could cry..." Anshi bit back a cry of pain at her words. No wonder Utena looked so tired and haggard! In her selfishness, Anshi had forgotten that Utena was still new to the Swords, a baby really. They must still hurt with every move she made, with every wrong thought. "Ute . . . Utena " she whispered, horrified. "If I could take them from you..." Slowly, ever so slowly, bright blue eyes rose to meet her own anxious green. That thick lashed gaze, that sweet face . . . A crippling pain washed through Anshi's midsection like white lightning. Her hands thrust out and the table bucked under her thrashing arms. The roses scattered- their vase shattered to the floor sending bright chips of glass outward in a rainbow of botany and smooth glass. She struggled to remain upright for one moment more before collapsing under the weight of her own torment. Utena didn't look at all surprised as Anshi crashed to the ground, clutching her belly with both hands and screaming. Dimly, through her agonized wails she realized Utena had dropped to her knees beside her writhing form and was calmly wiping a cold compress against her heated flesh. Her face was blank again; blank and empty as any number of chalkboards throughout the school, not even the shadow of her past self was spelled out there in tiny laugh lines or a compassionate look as ghosts of past words are spelled out in dim letters on the boards. She could have been a stranger for all Anshi recognized the woman kneeling beside her. The worst part of it all wasn't the pain, Anshi realized. It was that blank look of eager joy in Utena's eyes. Her dexterous fingers unpinned Anshi's heavy locks and lay them out in a plum-colored fan on the floor as the woman panted and cried out, her midsection being torn in two by agony as if she were giving birth to some monstrous child with pale hair and dark skin...as if she were birthing the child Akio might have gotten on Kanae in another world, another reality. "I always loved your hair, Himemiya," she murmured, still calm and cool and tired and weak. "So long, so pretty. Mine always had so many split ends. I guess that's why I chopped it off. For the entire time I knew you I was always mildly jealous in the back of my mind. You were so pretty and lady-like. If I hadn't needed to be a prince, a prince for you I might add, I could have been like that. Soft; attractive. Even Miki loved you. Saionji, Touga...him. He loved you best even until the end. And you never had to do anything; you just had to be there. That day, a year ago, when I decided to come here, and I sat on your bed, I remembered your hair." The woman reached into her pockets and drew out something that glittered sharply in the dusky light of their dorm. With a muffled moan, Anshi tried to turn her head away. The scissors were Anshi's own sewing shears from all those years ago; she could see her name engraved on the front blade in Akio's distinctive script. "And I'm going to cut it off now." "Ut...Utena " Anshi protested. Her screams had died down to brittle croaking moans. Her voice sounded as if she'd been ill for several months, so harsh and brittle was it. She didn't give a damn about her hair; she just wanted the nightmare in Utena's blank eyes to stop. The sweet tone of voice she'd earlier taken for fatigued humility was in fact just the singsong rattle of a wounded snake, prepared to strike. "If you could take them for me, Anshi," Utena continued, holding up the shiny silver blades up to the light and watching with morbid fascination as the dim blades reflected aimless little bits of light on Anshi's panting face, "you wouldn't. I know. After only a mere ten years of containing the hatred of humanity I know to what lengths one would go to get rid of it. After how many centuries of toting them around you wouldn't want them back. No one in their right mind would. No wonder you wanted to see me, Anshi. It's not everyday that you get a chance to gloat over the destruction of a prince, now is it?" Tears filled Anshi's eyes. Oh no. Not this one too, no please no... "U...Ut...Utena..." she forced out. "A...Ak..Akio..." A sneer flitted across Utena's face, her eyes a dark bluer than the roses Anshi would grow for Miki's battles all those years ago. She stabbed the shears point down into the wood beside Anshi's head and stood up with one fluid motion. She began to pace the room; she was a tiger in a cage, eager to be set free upon its keepers. Even in her anger, in her weary world-pain, this woman-child was lovely beyond compare. The years had only added to her beauty, not detracted. Physically it was as if the millstone of the Swords were no more than the weight of a small household pet in her arms- the light burden of a monkey-mouse perhaps. "Your dear brother," she spat, "I had such hopes in him, the father of my child. But in the time I was away, growing strong, he changed. He grew weak when I returned. Weak with the guilt and pain of what he made himself suffer in lieu of a prince to suffer for him." She ground her teeth together; Anshi clenched her fist at the horrible grating sound. "Now he's pathetic, a shell I use to manipulate the students of Ohtori." Utena's face brightened in a horrible twisted parody of her old easy grin. She even knelt beside the still writhing Anshi and began stretching as in days of old; first the left leg, then the right. Left, right, left, right. "You didn't see me, did you? I watched you pass right by him that day you found my letter. I put him there, you know. I told him not to recognize you and he didn't. Wonderful, ne? And then there is Sari. You tried so hard to bring her here to meet me ahead of time, didn't you?" Suddenly it occurred to Anshi where her letters could have gone. Her eyes were wide with more than just pain as she looked with horror on her friend. "You. Sari. You. You can't." Utena shot her a look her younger persona had usually reserved for Chuchu- mildly disapproving, but amused nonetheless. "Well a Victor needs a Rose Bride, Himemiya. You know that. Without one there can be no Sword drawn. Without the Sword of Utena there can be no Revolution. The Revolution has already occurred, Anshi. Now is time for the Apocalypse. Her absolute destiny. MY absolute destiny." Anshi panted on the floor, trying still to struggle to her feet. Utena, oh Utena, what had you done? With a great deal of her remaining strength, she sent a message, a single word, out across oceans of time and space, remaining silent until she felt a tiny pattering reply. The word: Treachery. The reply: He will be safe. As if hearing Anshi's horrified thoughts, Utena turned around, a gentle self-complacent smile on her lips. She looked so beautiful. So goddamn beautiful. Like an avenging angel Juri-sempai would appreciate the irony of it all. Thank god Adam was with her, safe with her and Miki and Kozue. Oh Miki, dear Miki, he wouldn't understand why her letters would just suddenly stop. He'd think it was something he did. But together, maybe, they would keep Adam safe. He would be her rope, he would be her salvation...he would have to be. "It hurts, doesn't it?" Utena asked almost conversationally. "It probably hurts as much as giving birth to Sar...the Sword did. As giving birth to them all does. I never knew it could be so painful until I carried them all crammed within me. You must have developed an amazing tolerance for pain." She looked down at the twitching woman and began to weep long slow tears of sorrow. "I'm sorry I have to do this Anshi, really I am. But but I have to. I have to do it now, the wheel's been set in motion." She knelt on the ground next to her Rose Bride and looked at the scissors with disgust. "I'm going to take a lock after you're dead," she murmured, "I won't cut it all, I promise. I don't know what I was thinking. You wouldn't look good bald." With a sigh she pulled Anshi's head into her own lap and brushed the sweaty bangs off her forehead. "I cried when they took her away, you know," she confessed. "I left her there, bawling on the steps of that school. She couldn't have been more than two or three, and all she wanted was her mommy. We'd been traveling for months by bus. I sang her all the songs I knew. But I wasn't Miki, I wasn't you. I ran out of music. I couldn't support her, Anshi. I couldn't support her and watch her grow up with her eyes so full of naive trust like mine used to be. That was in the before-- before I took control of the Swords, rather than letting them control me. Before I let them free to reshape this campus into something more than a dead monarch's delusion. They made this campus what it is now, you know. I rather like it. Especially the rose garden; they added that bench. They took a long time with that one." She sighed and rubbed her hands together softly. Her touch ran up her ring finger as if she could slip off the ring again, leaving it with her pitifully small child in a city of metal and glass. "It'll be good to see her again in a few years, after she's been trained. What a mess she was, going there! I suppose being an orphan like that, she didn't have the time to learn the etiquette and grace the Rose Bride needs. She needs to be able to hold her head high when she walks through Ohtori's gates; I expect no less of my daughter." "Ut...Uten...Utena..." Anshi wheezed, desperate to draw air into her lungs as her heart beat frantically at her rib cage, trying to break free. "You mustn't... Ute . . . Utena " Utena had forced out those very words the day Anshi impaled her. For being a tired, scared little girl. For being somewhat like Sari was now. For trying. A single tear slipped down the pale, wan face and plopped down on Anshi's forehead. "I said that to you once, remember? But you took my sword anyway. It's all right; I forgave you then. You couldn't help yourself, right? The Swords...and Akio...I know, believe me, I know how strong they can be. Especially combined. The hurt of the world, the hurt of your prince. He's still my prince you know. Even now, even being such a weak, pathetic shell, he's still my prince. My dark Dios. My ebony god." NO! No! NO! The sun was setting so quickly now; the shadows of the room had lengthened almost to the door as they sat on the floor and Utena continued talking in that haggard conversational voice as if they were still sharing their cups of tea. It was while Anshi was in her final death throes that she realized Utena was weeping and talking at the same time. That she'd never stopped talking; her voice was hoarse and troubled. And she was apologizing. "Anshi, please forgive me. I have to do this. You can't be around to save her, to take the Swords into yourself again. I worked so hard to save you; I won't let you go back into bondage again. I won't! Then he'll have won! Then he'll sit up there on his ball and laugh at all of us pitiful mortals like the thankless god he is. He laughs right now; can't you hear him? I couldn't either until the Swords ripped away my ears and made me hear. This is the only way I can be sure you won't do something dumb like bearing the Million Swords again. The only way, don't you see? I will train my daughter to take your place; Sari will be stronger than the two of us combined. She'll have all my strength and loyalty, but she'll be tempered by your foresight. My daughter will be one to be reckoned with and when the new Revolution comes, she will have all of their backs against the wall. She'll make them take their damn swords back; oh yes, she will. Every single one of them will get their swords back ten-fold. I hope she takes her time stabbing them in. Then we'll both be free; don't you see? She'll save us." She leaned down and brushed her trembling lips across Anshi's. "I wish you had poisoned the cookies like you said," she confessed. "Then this would all be over. For both of us." Anshi closed her eyes and shuddered. "We'll shine, Utena-sama," she whispered in the dying light of day. "We'll shine together. That's . . . that's the kind of friends we are. Fight it Ute . . . Utena. Fight them." Utena looked so stunned; it was as if Anshi had used the last of her remaining strength to strike Utena the way Saionji would strike at her. "Anshi," she cried, her tears pouring down now. "Himemiya! I'm sorry! I take it back! Himemiya!" Licking her lips, Anshi sighed. "It's okay, Utena. It's warm here. And there are roses." She said no more and as Utena screamed and shook the limp body in her arms; a thin trickle of blood dripped from the corners of her eyes and mouth to pool on the white uniform pants Utena now favored. The once-prince held her friend tightly and cried. It was simply that. No more, no less. In her grief she didn't hear the door open or the soft tread of his shoes until he stood over her. Water dripped off his face, splattering the floor near the body. Outside, through the illusion, it was pouring down. "Utena." "Akio," she replied in her gravelly voice. "Did you come to tease me?" "No, love," he murmured, settling to his knees beside her and drawing the shaking woman into his arms. "She's free now. She'll wake up now- in another world." Sniffling, Utena buried her face in his neck. She was so trusting like this. So damn much like Tenjou of old. He ran his fingers through her hair, and her glorious shorn pink locks brushed over his wrists; he almost was sick. She was lucid now, but for how long and how strong was she against them? Would she let him do it? Would she welcome his dark caress with her blue eyes and pink lips? Would she insist that the horrible act be done now, right away, before anyone found them, before the Swords awoke? He wanted to do it so badly. He wanted to destroy her. Akio had to restrain himself from putting his large hands around her slender neck and snapping it like a twig. The Swords would know. The Swords would retaliate. She wasn't the only prince left. Not now. She shuddered in his arms as if she could sense the inner struggle. "Another world?" He nodded. "Another world. This place, Utena, this place is a memory of a dead dream. There are no more princes, remember? She's where she can choose her own destiny, where she can step beyond the bonds laid on her by her station. She's free." "I killed her." Looking down at the ravaged face of his younger sister, Akio fought back the strongest wave of nausea yet. She hadn't had a good death; her slender brown hands were hooked into claws and her eyes were still open, staring at the ceiling in silent, ghastly acceptance. It was eerie how similar the face she wore after such repulsive death throes looked to the one she wore as a Rose Bride. So horrifyingly similar. He cupped Utena's body close to his own once more and wished Anshi hadn't drunk all of her tea. No happy drop to speed him along? His lips twisted in a sad mockery of a smile at the thought. Being with Utena these past months had been so strange to him, so dreadfully strange. At times he felt more and more like the puppet he knew he had to be- some hard creation of a merciless god, originally formed to destruct, to destroy. Now he was the only thing standing between Tenjou and utter insanity. The irony was not missed. "I know, love," he whispered against her hair. "Go home. I'll take care of the body." She drew away, her eyes glimmering with the last remnants of guilt. It would soon be replaced with something more sinister, he knew. These days the Swords only remained at bay for the most intense of emotions. Anshi had been in a similar dilemma toward the end of her captivity; only Utena's sweet touch had been able to call the true Anshi to the foreground. The Swords they ate away at you piece by bloody piece until all you could do was go mad or give up. Utena, being utterly mortal, had given up. Anshi, being something not quite mortal, found a new way of avoiding the agony in the birth of his Sword. Oh Utena, brave Utena. She did her best; now she just did her worst. Daily, at that. "But, Akio-san, I . . . " He kissed her then; his lips ravished her own with an emotion so fierce they both bled before it was over. He yanked away, touching their bloody mouths with a tender hand. In her changing eyes he could see the rising Swords, gathering themselves to control her once again. "Go," he hissed, relishing that he'd stolen a bit of her, the true her, before they rose again to move their little pink puppet. "I'll be home soon." Her lids drooped down over eyes now dark. She understood what was happening, even if she were powerless to fight it. "I'll be waiting, Akio-san," she whispered. She padded silently away and he looked around the room as she left. It had been dusted and cleaned impeccably. Utena had probably done it, though he wouldn't put it past Anshi to come a day early and clean the filthy room herself, if only so things were nice when the time for their reunion came. The table had been carefully laid down to the last napkins. Nearby, his sister lay sprawled in that ugly parody of sleep, her face haggard and twisted for the first time in her entire existence. Roses littered the floor among the shattered remains of a crystal vase. The delicate petals gave up their final fragrance as he crushed them under his heels. Damned things. Even here she couldn't escape those roses. Not now, not ever. Beside her head a pair of silver shears had been embedded in the wooden floor with enough force to crack a long line through the wooden plank it had been shoved into. Akio carefully reached forward and closed Anshi's eyes with the tips of his fingers. Now she almost looked like she was truly asleep, if in the grip of nightmares. "Come on, Anshi," he murmured, scooping her body up. He stood there a moment. His left arm curled under her heavy legs; his right cupped her torso to his chest. With a grunt he hefted her weight more firmly to his chest and taking the elevator down. The incinerator still lay at the bottom of Nemuro Memorial Hall. Passing through the upper levels was no mean feat. Ghostly boys walked the halls, going to empty classrooms and attending long-emptied lectures as he passed by. They did not notice him; they were trapped in the halls of the damned and only one could free them. Well no one now. She was dead as those around her. The elevator creaked and groaned, begrudgingly trudging its way toward the basement as if doing penance. The soft chanting began, in their design a graceful touch of Anshi's repentance. Restitution for sins committed. When they'd built this mirage together she had insisted on the music going down into hell. It soothed her, she'd said. As the doors opened and he walked through the dimly lit area he was met with a rather sad surprise. Beside the dank and empty containers of water there stood a figure of a man. One obviously awake and one who'd obviously been waiting for a long, long time. "Mikage," Akio acknowledged a brief moment later. He'd been expecting a bit more violence to his welcome, not that stoic acceptance of his treachery. "When did she..." The impassive man shrugged and held up his opaque hand to the faded light. The skin was more substantial now, not quite the mockery of flesh it had been when Akio had held control. He was slowly becoming real. "I don't know, Ohtori-san. This has been happening slowly for the past few months." He looked over curiously to Akio's bundle with angry, tired eyes. "I can take him. I mean, her." Licking his lips, Akio looked down at Anshi's rain-drenched face. Water dripped off her pursed lips, but he welcomed it. The rain had washed the blood away. Yes it would be best if he left her here. She'd be safer here. He'd been lying to Utena, the real Utena, in the dorm room. He had to protect those last vestiges of innocence as they surfaced one by one. There was no escape for Anshi, for any of them really, and there wouldn't be for a long, long time. He'd spun his web of lies and deceptions all too well by anchoring it to the school as he had; it would take all the buildings falling down into rubble before any of them would ever truly be free. Anshi would just become another ghost haunting these halls like the one before him and the three hovering back in the shadows. Ahh, his children, coming home one by one. It was more than just sad; it was pathetic. "Mikage," he murmured, handing his younger sister over to the gentle embrace of the lean man. "When she arrives keep her happy for awhile. Please?" A ghost, one of the mysterious three, stepped from behind him before Mikage could answer. "We'll do our best, Ohtori-san," murmured Ruka as he drew one of the other specters forward by the arm. He, like Mikage, was loosing his opacity; was becoming flesh. "But how she reacts to us . . . " "Will be up to her," murmured a near-transparent Shiori. One side of her face still dripped blood, and Akio stepped back. He hated talking with the new dead. They were always so messy until they realized enough power to change their appearance. In a way, he felt guilty for doing so. It wasn't her fault she returned here rather than graduating. That fault belonged to the Swords and the Swords alone. The Swords and their puppet. Their puppet with ancient eyes. Akio nodded and turned away, trying to ignore the final ghost watching him with angry, impetuous eyes. "Fine then," he murmured. "I will visit when next I get a chance. She keeps me busy." There was a tittering laugh. "Not so easy being someone's sex-toy, is it Ohtori-san?" Akio chose not to reply to Nanami. The truth showed in her eyes. She already understood the circumstances they all did. With quick steps, Akio walked away, leaving Anshi's body without a second glance. The dead at Ohtori took care of their own. Like all of them, she may be dead, but she wasn't free. None of them were. Not yet at least. Not yet. It was midnight when Akio returned to the hell he and Utena shared. She was curled under the covers, shivering slightly as the storm thundered around the observatory. At some point she'd opened all the windows, inviting in the furious rain and thunder. The room faintly crackled with suppressed electricity; it was a miracle the projector hadn't yet been struck by lightning. Perhaps that was what she wanted. Perhaps that was what she needed. Akio flicked a switch and watched with no small sense of irony as the shutters and windows slid closed efficiently, the only light now the dim andles encased in protective glass. It would be a romantic moment were it not so grim. Utena shivered noticeably again and cried out in her sleep. "Akio!" She began to cry as he slipped in to the satin-cased bed beside her. He had stripped himself of his clothing; she was naked as well. They burned together, this bare bit of true self and the fallen angel. As it was nearing completion he forced her to look at him as the tears streamed down her face. "Utena," he hissed through clenched teeth. She bit his shoulder, scraped her nails down his back, and continued crying, even as her own intimate shudders racked her slender form. And it was done. "Sleep, love," he murmured in her ear as Utena, finally whole for a brief few moments, wept against his shoulder. It was only after such times, only after they had gone at one another like animals that he saw the fear behind the Swords. The pain behind the glass mask. His fingers brushed her hair slowly, tenderly, over and over and over again, softly brushing and barely sweeping the dark tips over her silky skin. "Sleep." His fingertips slid over her shoulder blades; barely massaging her neck, he ran his rough palm over her cheekbones and down again. "Utena?" he whispered, barely breathing her name against the downy satin of her flesh. She shivered a little, and he bared his teeth. Now. Carefully, cautiously, Akio continued his gentle sweeping motion with his hands. He ran his nimble fingers over the planes of her stomach, across the soft curves of her chest. Slowly, so slowly, his fingers closed about her neck. Dark-skinned thumbs pressed into her windpipe, not at all hard, but with just enough pressure that he could hear the first whistle of her shortened breath as she exhaled. "Ak...Akio..." she murmured as he continued with the pressure. Utena. Death. She deserved death. Look at her; lying so purposefully helpless in his bed, her pale naked limbs reflecting the starlight he hated so much. She was now the altar to his foolish pride, this girl-prince who stole his power and his heart all in one fell swoop. Damn her for her treachery, damn her for her pure unsoiled self. How dare she?! How dare she lie there even now, caught in innocent dreams with him while her swan-like neck was gripped in his hands? He had been wrong. He was no saviour. There are no such things as princes, she was the last and the Swords destroyed her, they chopped and hacked and ripped and clawed and tore her apart piece by slender, pale-skinned piece. This wasn't... Utena. Swords. The Swords made her this thing resting in his arms; this dark and dangerous creature with such plans for her own daughter, their own daughter. He wanted to hate her; he wanted to love her. Akio bit his lip and purposefully drew blood. He needed the coppery metallic taste of his bloody flesh between his teeth to remind him of her touch last night; her violent, painful, scathing touch. The innocent doe of before, the one he had made peak again and again and again in some random hotel room by a pier was gone. This one was the harlot, this one was the sick and twisted parody of all that was good and clean and pure and absolutely breathtakingly beautiful in this godforsaken world he and Anshi had created together with their own two hands and imaginations and dreams. This small child he'd drawn here with a promise and a ring and hope of future glory; this heroic girl-child named... Utena. Coffin. He could put her in her coffin permanently. All he had to do was press a little harder, push a little more. He could bury her next to Anshi, down in the crypt with the other wandering ghosts; down in that place where he himself would one day lie. A hundred dead boys, all with contracts, all with glorious destinies to die by a jealous madman's burning flame. Oh Mikage, he had been like her once. Now they stood together, shadows cast by the same fire, the cleansing and scouring fire of Ohtori Academy. But... Utena. Pink hair, soft tender lips, innocent and forthright smile. She wasn't completely gone yet; her tears were proof enough of that. Even Anshi couldn't cry in the end, only Utena had been able to drag those wet, salty drops of life from Anshi's barren eyes. Only Utena, with her constant stretching and worried mothering. Only Utena, with her nervous nibbling of her lower lip and damnable habit of always helping those in need whether they deserved her or not. Only Utena, with her tender touch and innocent cries of passion in the night. Only Utena, who could forgive treachery without a second thought. Only Utena, who had turned all their worlds upside down, topsy-turvy, wild and crazy and young and free and absolutely, perfectly, unmistakably true. Utena. Akio released her neck slowly and drew his hands away. She murmured sleepily as the shadow on the moon drifted away, and curled into his side. "I had a dream," she whispered against his thudding heart. "You and I were together on a beach and you forgot your towel. I leant you mine." Forcing himself to not begin crying, Akio began the tender stroking once more. "Was it hot out?" She nodded against his chest; a bare, slight movement of her chin. "We...we ate lunch," she murmured even more softly as she drifted off again, "and you held me while the children played. Ne...Akio-san..." "Hmmm?" "I didn't mean for this to happen," she huskily murmured, her lips pursing as she slipped over that final edge of sleep once more,"...I...just...came...to...bring...you...roses..." ~_^ Author's Note: All usual disclaimer information applies here. I think Nabiki just impounded my poodle, so now I'm officially poor. Just hoped you enjoyed the story. As always, special thanks to Alan Harnum. If he didn't plow through my first drafts this would already be a vastly different (and much less spiffy) story. You can visit my website at http://www.geocities.com/utena_skiss/index.html Thanks! Angelkate kam904s@smsu.edu