His Excellency // Mar 10 // 3rd Dream
He's in a ballroom - a large ballroom, with a magnificent crystal chandelier above that must have cost millions of dollars. He is recognizably younger, his dress uniform not quite so decorative, but there is no mistaking the nobility in his posture as he easily weaves his way through the dancing crowds, his eyes focused on one young woman - how odd, her name isn't coming to him. She is his age, perhaps slightly younger, her hair a pleasant strawberry blonde, her eyes wide and green. She smiles at him as he approaches, and offers him a gloved hand.
Treize takes her hand, bowing before her and brushing a kiss across her fingers before straightening up and placing his other hand on her waist - the shimmering fabric of her dress is soft. There is a chamber orchestra playing - it's a waltz, of course. Three beats - the endless waltz, he thinks to himself with the smallest of smug smiles, before leading the woman in his arms. Every step is perfect as he twirls her, the two of them making their way across the dance floor in a slow circle.
All around them, there are officials and dignitaries and aristocrats who have been doing this their entire lives, but the young officer can tell that their eyes are on the young couple - their grace and beauty mesmerizing. The girl's eyes light up as she leans just ever so slightly closer to him, and he tilts his head down as she puts her lips to his ear and begins to whisper something -
- there's an explosion, and the large glass plate window shatters, smoke billowing into the room - the girl in his arms screams, and she's not the only one. Treize can hear gunfire, and the sound of heavy armor - Mobile Suits. Anti-Federation rebels, no doubt. How they ever got so close to such an important function can only be guessed, but he moves quickly, all but picking the girl up and moving over to an upturned table.
She understands without a word, crouching behind it, and as soon as she is off his arm, there is a flash of silver as he draws his sword in his right hand, his ceremonial revolver in his left. Ceremonial, yes, but loaded and functional. The smoke filling the room isn't just from a normal blast, he guesses - it was a smoke grenade. Whoever these rebels are, they mean to take hostages.
Heavy footsteps, now. A shadow sprints through the smoke, and Treize's arm is already moving, the revolver coming up - bang - the figure's head jerks back, and it crumples to the ground. He doesn't recognize the uniform. Another shadow, this one with a glinting knife. How foolish... he easily steps out of the knife's deadly path, his sword coming around to plunge into the man's stomach. He grunts, reaching down reflexively to grab the blade that's impaling him, but Treize's gun is already coming up.
For a moment, his cold blue eyes meet the man's - they're brown, filled with fear and certainty ... the certainty that only comes with death. Treize holds their shared gaze, looking the man in the eyes as he fires again, the bullet catching the unknown soldier in the middle of the forehead. He goes limp, still skewered on the sword.
He wonders what the man's name was as he pulls the bloody blade out of the corpse.
---
Hmm...
How odd.
Treize takes her hand, bowing before her and brushing a kiss across her fingers before straightening up and placing his other hand on her waist - the shimmering fabric of her dress is soft. There is a chamber orchestra playing - it's a waltz, of course. Three beats - the endless waltz, he thinks to himself with the smallest of smug smiles, before leading the woman in his arms. Every step is perfect as he twirls her, the two of them making their way across the dance floor in a slow circle.
All around them, there are officials and dignitaries and aristocrats who have been doing this their entire lives, but the young officer can tell that their eyes are on the young couple - their grace and beauty mesmerizing. The girl's eyes light up as she leans just ever so slightly closer to him, and he tilts his head down as she puts her lips to his ear and begins to whisper something -
- there's an explosion, and the large glass plate window shatters, smoke billowing into the room - the girl in his arms screams, and she's not the only one. Treize can hear gunfire, and the sound of heavy armor - Mobile Suits. Anti-Federation rebels, no doubt. How they ever got so close to such an important function can only be guessed, but he moves quickly, all but picking the girl up and moving over to an upturned table.
She understands without a word, crouching behind it, and as soon as she is off his arm, there is a flash of silver as he draws his sword in his right hand, his ceremonial revolver in his left. Ceremonial, yes, but loaded and functional. The smoke filling the room isn't just from a normal blast, he guesses - it was a smoke grenade. Whoever these rebels are, they mean to take hostages.
Heavy footsteps, now. A shadow sprints through the smoke, and Treize's arm is already moving, the revolver coming up - bang - the figure's head jerks back, and it crumples to the ground. He doesn't recognize the uniform. Another shadow, this one with a glinting knife. How foolish... he easily steps out of the knife's deadly path, his sword coming around to plunge into the man's stomach. He grunts, reaching down reflexively to grab the blade that's impaling him, but Treize's gun is already coming up.
For a moment, his cold blue eyes meet the man's - they're brown, filled with fear and certainty ... the certainty that only comes with death. Treize holds their shared gaze, looking the man in the eyes as he fires again, the bullet catching the unknown soldier in the middle of the forehead. He goes limp, still skewered on the sword.
He wonders what the man's name was as he pulls the bloody blade out of the corpse.
---
Hmm...
How odd.