by Keita
Generations of nomads preceded him, and would follow him. It didn't matter that the fair-haired boy was not Arabian by birth, he was still a wanderer by blood, by heritage. The desert's sands coursed in his veins, and the sky encircling the golden sun—a sun that was reflected in his hair—was held in his eyes.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
For now his eyes were lined and creased, but echoing the cerulean heavens still, even through the ambling clouds that came hand in hand with age. His hair, now as pale as the bleached bones of the desert, was somehow still flaxen, still bright. And so he sat, quietly, staring into the blurry hearth, his hands folded over the half finished book in his lap. It had been such a long time since he had read it, reminded himself...
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
Adventures, travels, many hard won victories over the elements to see the world. Quatre's eyes had never been too filled with the wonders of the world, could never accept that he had seen it all. Colony born, the vastness of the earth fascinated him, and stirred up his blood, awakening the ancient desire to travel. He was a wanderer, but not lost, not searching, for what could he be looking for when he had all he wanted wandering, sharing, and discovering right along with him?
Both were restless spirits, never able to stay put for too long. It was in their pasts, their foundations, their souls. When the yearning called, they answered, and chronicled all their voyages in the pages of countless carefully waterproofed and later leather-bound books, the only constant in their lives.
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
So many joys, experiences, days filled with the rush of adventure, and nights filled with slow and languid caresses in the most unlikely places. Sometimes they stayed long enough to settle, long enough to create a home, but were always off again, sometimes returning, sometimes not, but always shifting. As time passed, the stays between adventures grew longer, homes more worn in, habits created, traditions enjoyed. Life became more constant, and old bones more prone to taking slow, peaceful trips, learning to enjoy the serenity of quiet, and the comfort of stillness and silence.
They felt the simple joy in seeing the same sun rise and set over the same hill, knowing that it would continue to do so as long as they wished, as long as they wanted to keep holding each other in an easy embrace, watching the birds and people rush on in their busy lives. They had won this peace, and enjoyed every second of it, even the ones spent in anger or sadness. For even in pain there was beauty. Even through tears, or perhaps because of them, the world was heartbreakingly beautiful.
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
But Trowa left on a voyage that Quatre could not follow, and Quatre settled in that small house, overlooking the hills to the west, and he sat watching sunsets, alone. However, when nights fell, he looked up into the sky, and though his eyes could not see quite so sharply, he could still pick out the glowing pinpoints that were his love's face, smiling shyly from behind his bangs once more, looking down with clear green eyes and waiting to begin the wandering anew.