Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency, Bandai
Studios, and TV Asahi. Sainan no Kekka and all
original characters and plot copyright 2000 by
Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant. Please ask permission
before reposting. 
 
SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING 
SAINAN NO KEKKA
Navidad 
  
II. VENI, VENI, EMANUEL
[Veni, veni Emanuel: captivum solve Israel,
Qui gemit in exilio, privatus Dei Filio
Gaude! gaude! Emanuel nascetur pro te, Israel] 
************ ************ ************ ************
************ ************ ************ 
Have her find me an acre of land // Parsley, sage,
rosemary and thyme
Between the sea and over the sand // And then she'll
be a true love of mine 
************ ************ ************ ************
************ ************ ************ 


Christmas Eve again. 

How time flies, Dermand Etille thought morosely to
himself as he pulled up in the lot two blocks from his
flat, turned off the engine, and grabbed his briefcase
and the paper bag of Chinese takeout he had stuffed
next to him in his chair. The Beijing traffic was
quiet tonight. People spending Christmas Eve at home
with their families, no doubt, or on holiday out of
the country. Christmas was a big event in China, a
kind of Independence Day as well as the traditional
holiday for a country whose inhabitants still bore
bitter memories of the past Communist rule even after
so many years. Most of his friends had left early,
heading to various parties, gone caroling, or just
gone home to be with family. 

While he had been working late at the office again, as
usual. 

It wasn't as cold tonight as it had been last night,
and the sky was clear, which was a good thing. He
didn't relish walking home in the snow. Making sure
the car was locked and that the alarm was turned on,
he slammed the door, walking briskly down the dimly
lit alleyway that led to the main road. He could hear
music and people laughing and as he emerged onto the
street, the smell of roast pig and burning incense
filled his nostrils. 

"Ah! Meestah Etille!" The pig foot seller two stalls
down called to him in bad English, recognizing him.
"Marri Kurismassi!" 

Etille smiled as he passed. "Merry Christmas," he
returned, turning right and crossing the street to
head down another dark road. The streets of Beijing
were safe, usually, and he really wasn't worried about
being attacked on the way home. Beijing pickpockets
had better places to hide out. 

He keyed in the code for the front door of the complex
and took the elevator up to his flat on the fifteenth
floor, letting himself into his dark, cold hollow of a
room. Turning on the light and placing the takeout on
the table, he turned up the heater and sat down on the
couch, flicking on the televid. 

"-can't help wondering what the world would be like if
Heero Yuy was still alive," the expertly dressed male
anchor was saying in Mandarin. Etille snorted and
picked up the takeout, digging his chopsticks into the
rice and turning down the TV so he wouldn't have to
hear it. 

People had cried war after the politician's death, but
war hadn't arrived, and he couldn't see why some
people kept dwelling on Yuy's tragic end. It had been
a horrible loss for the colonies and the world, but
there was no use crying over it, and if people didn't
move on, there would be war. It had been two years,
and they were still analyzing it, making him larger
than life, giving Yuy far more credit than he had ever
gotten when he was alive. 

The news had now moved to some of the Christmas Eve
celebrations taking place throughout the city, and he
sighed, crossed his legs, and picked up another chunk
of chicken with his chopsticks. His family had asked
him to come back to France for the holidays. He hadn't
seen them in three years, but OZ had needed him here
in Beijing, so here he was, alone on Christmas Eve,
eating takeout and watching television. 

The work he did was important, and he supposed it was
nice to know that he was wanted, but at the same time
he would have given almost anything to be back over
there in France, watching the snow fall. Being with
his family. He missed them. 

His cell phone rang. 

"Hello?" 

The voice on the other end of the line was his
secretary, wondering if he had confirmed his
reservation for the commander's Christmas party
tomorrow. He sighed, said he had, wished her a Merry
Christmas, and hung up. He'd almost hoped it was
someone interesting. But then again, no one
interesting would be calling him anyway. 

There was a picture on top of the televid and he found
himself suddenly staring at it instead of the moving
picture on the LCD screen. It was a picture of a
teenage boy with his arm around an equally young girl,
their faces bright, shining, hopeful, certain. The
girl was holding a bouquet of flowers and had a
colorful scarf wrapped around her shoulders. 

The scarf had been his mother's. His father had given
it to her when they were married, and she'd given it
to him when he had gone off to the Academy. 

This is my only charge to you, she had said. When you
find the woman you truly love, give this to her. 

And he had, and she'd taken his love and run off with
it. Betrayed him. Taken his mother's last gift to him
and thrown it away. He didn't hate her for it�he could
never hate her. But sometimes he had wondered how such
a dazzingly alive, vibrant woman like her could still
manage to be so cold, so cruel. 

And now she was dead. 

He really should throw that picture away, but it was
his only link to the past, to her, and he somehow
couldn't find it in him to let it go just like that.
Maybe in a few years�when the memories had faded
somewhat and he could take the next step forward� 

You've been telling yourself that for years. You'll
never forget her. 

Etille shoveled the rest of the rice into his mouth,
threw the chopsticks and the box into the trash, and
grabbed his scarf and coat. It was too nice of a night
to be sitting inside with the ghost of her, and he was
going to go take a walk. He glanced at the digital
clock as he left, locking the door gate behind him. It
read 2243 hours. 

It was definitely one of the clearest Christmas Eves
he'd experienced in a while, and as he walked back
down to the well lit street, he looked up at the
narrow space of sky that he could see between the tall
walls of the buildings on both sides. So many
buildings here, and not enough sky. 

"Back agaan? Perhaps you want some peeg?" 

Etille hesitated a little by the door and then went in
to the tiny shop, dug in his pocket for some change
and accepted the stick of roast pig meat handed to
him. "Xie xie," he murmured, biting into it.
"Delicious as usual." 

"Yes, but no customers," the man bemoaned, lapsing
back into Mandarin. Etille knew that the pig seller
preferred to show off his English, which was really
not bad at all except for his heavy Chinese accent,
but there were fewer people on the street now and no
one to show off to. "All probably inside for family
gatherings, I suppose." 

"Why aren't you home?" Etille wondered, finishing the
pig and depositing the stick into the greasy trash can
by the store front. The man was picking up his wares,
emptying out pans and running the water in the sink.
"Surely your family is waiting for you." 

"Ehh�long story," the man said, grimacing. "My wife
decided to move to America with our daughter two
months ago, for her school, and so I�m here by
myself." 

"Oh," Etille said. After a moment, "I'm sorry." 

"Nothing to be sorry about," the man said, smiling. "I
send them some of the money I make and she's found a
job too. I'm going to join them there after the New
Year, most likely." He emptied the tub of pig grease
into the sink. "Say�what about you? Don't you have a
wife?" 

Etille shook his head. "I�m just not meant to marry, I
suppose." 

The pig seller snorted. "Nonsense! You're educated,
smart, and not bad looking. What woman 
would reject a man like you?" 

I wish it were that simple, Etille wanted to say,
pushing himself off the counter. "Perhaps someday," he
returned. "I'll be going now�Merry Christmas." 

"Same to you!" the man waved cheerfully. "Have a good
night!" 

He resumed his walk down the street. Most of the
vendors were already closed, and those who were not
were just pulling down their gates and taking out the
trash. The moon was high and he stopped for a moment,
watching his breath frost in the light of the
streetlamps. 

Alicia had loved the moon. They were alike, she and
the moon, mysterious and feminine and potent all at
once, strong and cold, and he�.he had been so unworthy
of her. 

The recorded message had come to his computer late
that September night four months ago as he was
attempting to finish one last report before heading
home, knowing that he was working himself too hard but
that they were on a time crunch. When his screen had
beeped, he hadn't even acknowledged it for a minute,
trying to scribble something down that required his
utmost attention. Funny, he couldn't remember what
that was now. 

The screen beeped again and he finally turned his
attention to it, noting that the message was marked
urgent. Frowning, wondering what had happened, he
clicked the button to retrieve it. It had then asked
for a password and he typed it in hurriedly. 

The screen blanked and then cleared to reveal the
image of a handsome man dressed in a silk suit and
tie, sitting in front of a desk. His face was grave
but blank, the careful blankness of a politician. But
it was the features that struck Etille the most: the
dark, curling hair, the exotic eyes fringed by long
lashes, the pale skin. 

"Lieutenant Commander Etille, my name is Le�n Dermail
Catalonia." His voice was rich, deep, his English
perfect with only a hint of the Castellano Spanish
accent. "I am calling to inform you of the regretful
incident of my sister Alicia Catalonia's death. She
was killed yesterday in an engagement in the Middle
East when her mobile suit was destroyed. Your name was
on her will as one of the people to be contacted in
case of her death. I have a small package to you from
her which will be shipped as soon as possible." 

He paused, and then his face had relaxed somewhat, a
bit of the emotion behind the dark eyes showing
through. "I do not know what her relation was to you,
but I am certain that she cared for you a great deal.
Please, if you have any need to contact, me do so. My
contact information is encoded in this message file,
should you wish to use it. Again I regret leaving this
news with you." 

End transmission. 

Thinking back, Etille didn't remember how he had
reacted, only that he had somehow managed to make it
home that night, and that he hadn't gone to work the
next morning, calling in sick. It was all empty�a
blank, as if with her death everything had ceased to
exist. 

The package from Le�n Catalonia had arrived in the
mail a week later, but he already knew what it was
before he opened it, before the golden ring fell out
of the box into his waiting hand. The chain was still
attached to it. It had been broken, he noted absently,
fingering the cool metal. Broken because she had no
longer wished to wear it? 

He wasn't sure he wanted to find out. 

He had wanted to delete that message when he finally
managed to bring himself to look at it again, to
relieve the terrible details from her brother's mouth,
but something had prevented him from doing so, and so
he'd saved it in one of the private encrypted folders
on datapad and taken it home with him. Just in case.
He wasn't sure just in case what, but simply that. 

Alicia had always said that. Just in case. She would
do this or that just in case. There had been the time
she had brought her portable electric heater with her
on a camping trip in the middle of July, and they had
ended up using it when it had suddenly stormed and
soaked all their belongings. 

I'll keep this with me forever, she'd promised when he
had given her his ring. And now it was back in his
hands, which meant that it hadn't been with her when
she died, because Le�n had stated quite clearly what
had happened to her mobile suit. She had left it at
home. With her brother? In her private belongings?
Whatever the case, she had lied. 

But perhaps she had kept the scarf, because there was
only the ring in the package. Not the gypsy scarf with
its hypnotizing lines and whirls of color that spoke
of longing and desire. 

"Sir? Would you like to buy some candles?" 

Etille glanced down, saw a little boy holding up a
basket of crudely made wax candles. The child came up
to about his waist and he was wearing a tattered pair
of jeans and a thin jacket. The long, tangled black
hair had obviously not been cut in a while, and the
thin hand which held the basket was shaking. Reaching
into his pocket, Etille pulled out a few bills and
handed them to the child, taking four candles. 

"Is this enough?" 

The boy nodded, the almond shaped eyes looking too big
for his hauntingly thin face, and then was gone before
Etille could say another world, running towards the
direction of one of the alleys. Etille sighed. 

He might as well go home. Everything was closed now,
and it was getting colder. 

His flat was warm. He'd forgotten to turn off the
heater when he had gone out, and he shrugged out of
his jacket and scarf, not bothering to turn on the
lights. Pulling out a battered metal tray from under
the stove, he placed the candles on it and lit them
all at once. The dancing flames were reflected in the
picture on top of the now silent televid. 

Wondered suddenly what Le�n Catalonia was doing on
this Christmas Eve. 

He'd seen the man's face before on televid, but never
clearly, and he had never much liked politics anyway.
The Federation was full of it, which was why he was in
OZ, glad to be away from the scheming. 

Not knowing why he did so, he got up from the couch,
went into the tiny bedroom and began rummaging through
the sheaf of papers on the desk by the bed. There were
printouts of virus programs in there, dinner
arrangements that he was afraid he would forget, bills
needed to be mailed and military assignments� 

He found it. 

Etille stared at the paper for a moment, then silently
rose, turning on the vidscreen in the corner. The
machine beeped and he entered the number at the edge
of the paper, finding himself watching as if he were a
spectator, as if it was someone else's fingers who
were running over the keys, someone else's eyes
watching as the screen cleared, someone else's voice
responding as the well-dressed man with a glass of
wine in his hand answered. 

"�S�?" 

He felt extremely awkward. There was obviously a party
going on and he was sure he was interrupting
something. He always was. "Sir, my name is Dermand
Etille�I don't know if you remember me. I was a friend
of your sister's, and I�" 

He trailed off, as he saw the man's expression change
from carefully polite to alarmed, then to recognition.
"Oh! Mr. Etille�Commander Etille, is it? Of course I
remember you. Alicia was very fond of you." 

His heart leapt in his throat. "She talked about me?" 

Settled as Le�n shook his head. "No, she never did
talk about you. But I always knew that that ring was
from someone special. It has a great history, that
ring�you did receive it, correct?" 

Etille nodded dumbly. Le�n smiled. 

"Yes. Was there anything you wanted to talk about, in
particular?" 

"I err�well, no," he stammered, feeling very
inadequate in the face of this elegant man. Alicia had
had the same effect on him, making him stumble for
words. He realized again with a small shock how
similar the two looked. "I came across your number
while I was going through some papers and decided to
call�wish you a Merry Christmas." 

"Ah, yes�hold, please." The screen momentarily went
blank, and then Le�n was back. "My wife. She wanted to
know what I was doing." The smile he gave Etille was
joking. "Women�you never know with them." 

"No," Etille said softly. "You don't." 

Le�n must have realized that he had said something
wrong, because he immediately reached out one hand to
the screen. "I am sorry, Commander�.I didn't mean to
bring back any bad memories." 

"They're not bad," Etille said. "Not at all." 

"The best thing you can do for her," Le�n said gently,
"is to let her ghost go. She wouldn't want you to be
grieving over her still." 

"I tell myself that every day." 

"The scarf�" Le�n said suddenly. "It is yours, is it
not?" 

Etille narrowed his eyes. "How did you know about
that?" 

"I have it," the nobleman said. "She gave it to me,
for safekeeping before she went away." He seemed to
hesitate. "Would you like it back?" 

Etille was about to say, yes, give it back, and then
he saw the expression that the other man tried to hide
too late, the expression that said quite clearly he
hoped that Etille would not ask for it back, that he
did not want to let it go. A last link to his dead
sister, perhaps? 

"No," Etille said. "No, you can keep it." 

Le�n smiled. "I'll keep it then. Let me know if you
change your mind." 

"I will." An awkward pause. "Well�Merry Christmas,
sir." 

"Merry Christmas," Le�n said. "And thank you for
calling." 

The screen went dark. 

So she'd kept the scarf after all. Still had it, after
all these years. Then again, he wouldn't expect
anything else. Alicia had been a great romantic�a
cynical one, perhaps, but romantic nonetheless. She'd
told Etille it was in her Spanish blood. 

The best thing you can do for her is to let her ghost
go. 

He hesitated, then came to a conclusion, took up the
piece of paper in his hands and stuck it in the paper
shredder. The machine gulped it down, whirring and
tearing, and then was silent. He went out in the
living room and lit the fireplace, waiting until the
blaze was a healthy roar, bathing the small room in an
unearthly rosy glow, then took up the picture of the
two of them that sat on top of the televid. 

He eased the picture out of the frame, running a hand
over her cheek, his finger catching a bit on the
photo-paper. He looked at it, looked at the fire, and
then with a violent motion, dropped the paper into the
blaze. It caught at once in a glorious halo of colors.


Adi�s, mi se�ora bella�adi�s, fantasma mia. 

It must have been the sparks from the burning photo,
because his vision suddenly became very blurry as he
turned and fumbled through the darkness until his hand
found the knob of the drawer and he pulled it out,
reached inside for the ring that he knew would be
there. The amethyst sparkled in the red-orange light,
and this time his hand did not waver as he let it fall
into the fire. 


END II





=====
"No matter what the bible says, the battle always goes to
the strong. And I am strong. I don't need to prove that to
anyone anymore."
-Excerpt from Sainan no Kekka- Act Seven, Scene VII

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Quicksilver/
http://www.midnightrevolution.org/gundam

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