Title: Sword

Author: Zalia Chimera

Rating: PG

Pairing: None

Summary: While his body is absorbed in the dance, he allows himself the luxury of letting his thoughts roam freely.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or the characters.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

He starts the dance slowly; no sense in rushing and making mistakes. He can increase the tempo later if he feels so inclined. For now he moves with slow precision, sword twisting in the intricate movements.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

He knows this dance, these movements, the tempo and rhythm of them, as well as he knows his own face in the mirror. Maybe more. He knows exactly where the sword should be at any given moment... where the rest of his body should be.

And so he loses himself in the movements, letting it absorb him.

Twenty-Three. Twenty-Four. Twenty-Five.

The sword cuts the air. He knows that it could cut flesh as easily.

Twenty-Nine. Thirty. Thirty-One.

He never takes these stolen moments of peace for granted, even though they have become an unshakeable part of his routine. He approaches them with a kind of reverence and they have become undeniably precious to him.

While his body is absorbed in the dance, he allows himself the luxury of letting his thoughts roam freely.

It has been something he has been avoiding lately, he knows, focusing instead on the small things that require little thought. But then, his thoughts have been taking increasingly dangerous turns lately. He learned long ago that it was safest to think while practising; no-one to interrupt him and keep him from realising the result of whatever action he ponders, no-one to dismiss his plans before he himself has decided upon them... and if they take too dark a turn and become too seeped in blood and violence, they can be dismissed, forgotten as if they never were as soon as the dance ends.

Seventy-three. Seventy-four. Seventy-five.

In a way, he supposes that this has become a method of security for himself. Something he knows will always be there, that will not hurt him or leave or change. Something to grasp when the darkness closes in.

Most people would think , he is sure, that a soldier would consider their mobile suit their security. But even they are too transitory for his tastes. Too easily destroyed, even the Gundams.

And so, while other people have their blankets, their toys, their homes, he has this slender piece of tapering silver steel and the dance.

Ninety-three. Ninety-Four. Ninety-Five.

He does not think that he will ever perform this dance again. He doesn't need to. Doesn't need the space to think any more. His mind is already made up, his path decided.

One Hundred.

The sword flashes as it is speared into the ground and stands there, swaying slightly.

Sooner or later, security must be set aside to embrace the future and whatever it may bring, good or bad. You cannot hide forever.

Treize Khushrenada smiles as he exits the room. He is leaving for space.

He knows he will die.