Title: Princess, Princess
Author: Perch
Rating: T
Pairing: None
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters nor will I ever and I am not making any form of profit from this story.
Spoilers: If you haven’t seen the 13 episode anime or read the first two volumes of the manga for Gunslinger Girl than this will spoil you.
Summary: If Triela is the Princess, then Hillshire is….what?
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Princess, Princess

My period hurts like a bitch, but like I told Henrietta I feel like having one, month after month, like a clock striking twelve, let’s me know that I’m alive, truly alive and not just some wind up doll killer for the Social Welfare Agency.

It’s not that I’m not grateful to get a second chance at being alive, being a fully functional girl, but I’m not a normal girl, and that’s not your typical girl crap about being a goddess or a princess or one hundred percent unique and awesome. I’m not normal. Barely a teenager and a cyborg killer doesn’t make a girl normal.

I know this life is hard on all of us. Rico barely seems to be there most of the time and I keep waiting for the day that Claes stops remembering who we are. Angelica is dying to be back in the action, like that will somehow gain her the attention of Marco again and Henrietta? Henrietta is so besotted with Jose that I’m both envious and worried for her.

And me, the princess they call me, what am I to Hillshire and Hillshire to me?

He’s not my friend; he’s not my lover, or my father or even my brother. He’s barely even my handler and even that I push as hard as I can as often as I can.

I don’t know if I’m lucky or not that neither Henrietta nor I are getting the full treatment of brainwashing cocktail that the others are getting. We still get to have minds of our own. Thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams, wishes.

But not really, that’s really an illusion, a fantasy. What would we do if we didn’t do this? Where would I go if I’m not with Hillshire or at the compound? They’re not going to let me walk out the door and go back to being a normal girl and I wouldn’t be wheeled out that door to go back to my non-existence in a hospital somewhere.

I know my life is lived and my death is measured in minutes, missions here. I know I depend on Hillshire and his continued existence here to stay the way I am and what I am. Without him I could turn out to be like Claes, but would they really need a second tester?

So what is Hillshire to me? Bearer of a succession of Christmas teddy bears? Keeper? Potential friend? I don’t hate him, I don’t even really dislike him so much, it’s more that I don’t think he knows what to do with me, what to think of me, how to see me and I don’t know how I would want him to see me. So I guess I’m back at an impasse in my own mind. I’m Triella, the Princess, the cyborg doll killer for Social Welfare Agency, the second chance girl, the becoming woman, and he’s Hillshire. Just Hillshire.

Title: The Boys Who Chased Shadows and Clouds
Fandom: Last Exile (anime)
Rating: PG
Summary: A slice of life fic exploring the early lives of Dio and Luciola from their first meeting to right before the start of the series.
Spoilers: This pretty much spoils the whole show as while it deals with the characters lives pre-anime it touches on key moments that will matter later on.

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The Boys Who Chased Shadows and Clouds

He was the boy under the table.

He was a boy filled with the bored dreams of the immaculate and wealthy. He was a noble, the younger brother of the Maestro and Luciola’s master. The first time Luciola met him the room was filled with the cloying scent of the red roses the Maestro was holding, the same roses that created the line of red across Dio’s cheek.

Maestro Delphine’s calculated yet seemingly casual cruelty never left scars, though the thin line of pain across one cheek stung. It stung Luciola as well when Delphine presented him to Dio and was quickly ignored as the young boy rushed to Luciola’s side.

It was only a matter of time before Luciola had a matching scratch. Maestro Delphine was not one to be ignored, even when she was presenting a distraction.

Luciola was given his name by Dio. Fed by him when the Maestro saw it fit to neglect his dinner. Dio even called him friend, though only under the cover of a table, and only whispered in his ear. It was understood that this friendship had to be in secret, could never be mentioned aloud again, never acknowledged.

Luciola learned to accept Dio’s touch, his spontaneous hugs, Dio’s insatiable desire to touch and be touched, to be reaffirmed again and again, but he could not respond back. Could not hug back, or turn to him when he held him, could not initiate touches on his own unless it was to protect Dio’s life and eventually Dio’s spontaneous affection dwindled.

“Aren’t corpses simply fascinating,” Dio asked, as he touched the shroud covering the young boys face.

Luciola didn’t deign to comment, instead focusing on a spot on the wall to the right of Dio’s shoulder. It was Dio’s latest hobby, to run around uncovering the messy little death’s left behind by training or Maestro Delphine’s whims and to stare at the dead. Dio picked the habit up when they were fourteen, after learning chess and flying a plane.

Dio continued to touch the body, lingering over the hands under their light cover, the contours of the chest, running his fingers around the puncture wound. Luciola’s jewel flashed and he picked up the transmission, hesitating before he spoke.

“Lord Dio, I’m picking up a request…” he began.

“Yes, yes, later,” Dio said impatiently.

“It’s from Maestro Delphine,” Luciola finished.

Dio’s hands stilled sharply, jerking the shroud partially away and revealing the beginnings of sag on the face.

“Tell them I’m not here, I’ve just left, anything,” Dio said, scrambling to his feet and running his hand down his face.

“Dio,” Luciola whispered as the doors opened and Delphine’s honor guard arrived.

Later in the cover of darkness Dio cried in Luciola’s arms, his body covered with painful welts from Delphine’s living roses. Lying impassive under Dio Luciola accepted the tears that rolled from the face above him, the blood that dripped from the wounds, the shudders that racked Dio’s too thin body.

“I still remember her,” Dio whispered, “I still remember the old Delphine before the Covenant.”

Luciola had no words to say and so he said nothing and eventually Dio dried his own tears with shaking fingers and allowed Luciola to help him dress his wounds. Eventually he let Luciola put him to bed as he had countless times and this night like many others Dio didn't ask Luciola to join him. He learned early on that even though Luciola would comply after protest he never lets himself enjoy the experience. It left the need in Dio unfulfilled.

That night like many other nights Dio slept alone, though Luciola was there watching over him.

Soon after Dio ran away again with Luciola tagging along behind him, always his shadow, always chasing him across the clouds and through the valleys of the lesser ants on the planet. They sat in the ruins of a Disith town and played chess along the tombs. They ran through the catacombs of an Anatoray crypt and met a young boy, around their age at the gates. This was the first time Dio pursued someone that was not born from the skies.

Afterwards they sat at a run down café and drank third water, grimacing over the taste of grit and walked along the cannels. In a quiet little boarding house Dio threw himself down on the bed and turned over to gaze up at Luciola.

“Wasn’t that just so much fun,” Dio asked, “did you enjoy yourself Luciola?”

“I suppose so my Lord,” Luciola responded, securing the door.

“Well then you should show it on your face,” Dio said, “how many times do I have to tell you, if you like something you should show it on your face.”

“My face,” Luciola whispered and stiffened slightly as Dio slung his arms around his shoulders.

“Yes your face,” Dio whispered, pressing a light kiss on the back of his neck, “Show me your smile Luciola.”

Luciola said nothing and continued to stare at the door.

“Oh Luciola, you’re no fun,” Dio said, letting him go and turning to stare at the sparse furnishings. He tugged open drawer after drawer of the bureau as Luciola watched.

“What are you doing Lord Dio?”

“I’m told that sometimes people leave things behind, I was curious,” Dio said as he opened the last of the drawers, “oh, it looks like there was nothing in here, how disappointing.”

“Lord Dio we should return soon.”

Luciola watched Dio stiffen and he looked down ashamed at the expression he placed on Dio’s face; his own still a smooth mask.

“Yes, yes, soon enough Luciola,” Dio finally responded, a smile coming to his lips, “But first I want to try sleeping on one of these beds.”

“As you wish my lord,” Luciola responded.

Dio removed his clothing, slowly and carefully and handed them over.

“M-my lord?” Luciola asked, puzzled.

“How am I supposed to enjoy this type of bed if I’m wearing my clothes?”

“Ye-yes my lord.”

Dio slipped between the sheets and lay down, and then he turned to his side and then his other side and then his stomach.

“Oh my, this bed is simply awful Luciola!”

In the dark Luciola strained to keep from smiling.

Title: Dolls of War
Fandom: Meine Liebe (anime)
Rating: PG
Summary: Set in the span of ten years from the end of the anime through 1946 this ficlet briefly touches on the lives of Camus, Ed and Naoji during World War II.
Spoilers: This does involve fairly minor spoilers for Naoji and Camus centric episodes and a key plot point for Ed. So in other words, it spoils the anime to a certain extent or at the very least the introductions of the characters.

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Naoji

The Ghost that Existed Only in the Reflection of the Pool

Fall 1937:

“One day I will go back,” Naoji said, the rain falling in a staccato against the covering he and Orphe stood under.

Orphe watched the quiet young Japanese man who had come to the Academy and joined the small elite circle of Strahl candidates. On most days Naoji was quiet, unassuming, a shadow that followed the others in their circle, while still conveying a sense of strength and loyalty. Naoji tended to undervalue himself, one of the few things Orphe and Lui agreed on, but when he raised his head he was a sight to see; proud and wet and dark and light under the canopy, his beautiful black eyes reflecting back every word he said.

Orphe believed him, though his first reaction was dismay that Naoji was leaving that day and his second resignation that Naoji was going to leave some day.

The Ghost that Could Only Follow With His Eyes

Summer 1945:

The news came across telegraph wires, in special documents, announced in the blared static of the radio to Ludwig’s ear. He had known days before what would happen in Hiroshima and Nagasaki and he kept silent, his mouth grimmer, lines now etched into the corners from years of frowning.

Naoji found out an hour later.

In the eight years since the night he declared to rain and cloud that he would go home he had strived to improve himself, to make himself worthy, to purify under water until he was smooth and perfect and round with experience. Emotions did not flit unchecked across his face anymore.

When he heard his black depthless eyes folded into themselves, his hand shook slightly, knocking over his tea. He re-read the news in front of him and slowly tears fell, one after another as he sank to his knees.

The others came, clustering around the open doorway, unsure what to say, making sympathetic noises with throats and teeth and tongues that Naoji could not understand. Camus came last, tugging on Ludwig’s sleeve as he had for decades, pulling him into the room.

There were few words mentioned that Naoji understood, few that he himself uttered.

“You knew,” he whispered, “from before?”

“Yes,” said Ludwig.

No other words mattered.

The Ghost that Walked with Feet of Rock and Ash

Spring 1946:

When the last name was signed and the last of the war was declared officially over Naoji packed his things. As he climbed down the stairs of the house he shared with Ludwig he paused at the library door, hesitating, unable to walk past without first going inside.

He let his image do the talking, hat, suitcase, hair still short with mourning.

Again, there were only a few words that mattered.

“I am leaving now,” he said.

“Stay. Your place is to walk beside me,” Ludwig answered, closing the book he was reading with a snap.

“Your side has too many shadows.”

Then Naoji left, boating across to the mainland and making the journey back home. In many places he was reviled, yelled at, had food thrown at him, the painful reality of war evident in the destruction and starvation that ran across Europe and Asia.

Through this Naoji went and when he arrived in Japan he raised the sleeves of his shirt and worked, taking the skills he learned from his tenure in Kuchen to help his people.

Ed

The Search for a Girl Made of Ribbons and Sunshine

Spring 1937:

“One day I will find her,” Ed said to himself, looking over the most recent documents the agency he was employing had sent. Each location searched had turned up blank, negative, the missing girl, now a young woman, had seemingly disappeared from the face of Kuchen.

Ed’s fingers reflexively crushed the papers together as his head bowed, “Erika,” one word, one of the only really important words in his vocabulary.

“Ed,” Orphe said quietly from the doorway, “Still no word?”

Ed shook his head in the negative, placing the papers on the table next to the scattering of other torn and tired pieces.

“I’m going to have to widen the area I look in,” Ed said, turning away from the paper.

The Search for the Young Lady with a Ribbon in Her Hand

Winter 1941:

There on the map in front of him Ed circled yet another portion of England, the fingers of his other hand gripping the crumpled paper of his latest report.

“Not here either,” he mumbled the latest reports of the war sitting to his right waiting.

The Search for the Woman Who Vanished

Fall 1945:

More circles had flown across the map, punctuated with the x’s of war, of occupation, of death. Ed sat, another report in hand, his head bowed.

“Ed,” Orphe called softly, placing one hand on his shoulder, “the world is in pieces, people are scattered, you have to be patient.”

“I’ve been patient for twenty years!” Ed shouted, pushing the small table over and grabbing Orphe, “How long do I have to be patient for?”

“We’ll find her,” Orphe whispered pulling his childhood friend into a hug, “we’ll find her.”

“My fault, I should have taken the documents she offered, should have asked for help sooner,” Ed whispered.

Camus

The Story of the Rose

Fall 1937:

Camus tended to his garden, his fingers caressing the blooms of the flowers. The last stop was a small bed of roses, gentle and fragile. There another man worked, tending to the soil as Camus slipped beside him and tenderly cradled a bloom.

“They’re small, but strong,” the man beside him stated, patting the soil.

“Yes, but also young and fragile,” Camus agreed, yet disagreed, aware of the man beside him.

“It’s a young time for them,” Elmunt replied, “They just need love and careful attention.”

“Yes,” Camus said his voice slightly shaky.

The Story of the Roses’ Children

Spring 1940:

Camus watched as the new seeds sprouted between the existing blossoms. This year like the last he noted they looked stronger, the roses that cradled them shining.

“Give them room, don’t crowd,” he said, his fingers moving among the blooms.

Beside him Elmunt kneeled, his own hands working in the bed.

Camus smiled, though it was hard to work the muscles of his face. It had been getting increasingly hard to get out of bed in the mornings, to go to work before coming home to the garden.

The Story of the Seeds Left Behind

Winter 1943:

By Summer Camus had taken to his bed permanently, his health deteriorating. Elmunt shunned the arranged marriage his parents had offered to stay with him.

“You can pull through this,” Elmunt whispered, holding Camus’ hand, “the flowers miss you.”

Camus pulled his lips into a facsimile of a smile, the closest he could come these days and let his fingers flutter under Elmunt’s.

“I miss them too,” he said.

Behind the closed door Orphe and Ludwig argued, Orphe’s voice rising and falling while Ludwig shot through straight and narrow.

“He needs better care than this, we need to push through more peace talks,” Orphe said.

“There is no better care currently and it is more vital that we keep our own borders safe,” Ludwig responded.

“How can you say that with Camus in there like that?” Orphe shouted.

“I’ve always told him he needs to distance himself from his feelings,” Ludwig said.

Inside Camus slipped into a dream, his body shuddering weakly as he visited a haunted world, a world of hungry flowers trampled under scared feet and torn by hard black boots.