by Ruth
The old cat growls as he tugs at the pan of ground meat. I hang on to it for a moment, making him fight for it before I let him drag it into his cage. He's old for a lion, his mane is thin and greying, his coat patchy. His meat has to be ground because his teeth aren't strong enough to rip apart raw joints or crack bones. Nevertheless he will be introduced as "the ferocious Hercules" as he is paraded around the center ring at the beginning of the show because he can still roar. He and Rosie, the elephant are the only animals we have left that are symbols of the "old-fashioned" circus.
He is the lion that nuzzled my hand to the astonishment of the Manager when I first joined. I thought it was because I wasn't afraid of him. Cathy told me later about how he'd been bottle fed as a newborn by her lost brother. I wonder if that's why I wasn't afraid, because I knew him. I wonder if, like Odysseus' hound, Argus, he knew me by scent after all those years. All it would take is a simple blood test, but I've avoided it. I'm afraid of the test. If I am Cathy's brother, then there was more than co-incidence leading me to the smallest traveling circus left in the Earth Sphere. I've learned to believe in chance, not Fate.
He licks his dish clean with a burp and a purr. I reach in and scratch his ears. "Good old fellow," I say. "I'll see you soon."
I can feel something is wrong before I set foot on the stairs that lead to the trailer. I skip the stairs, vaulting to the top step and flinging the door open.
Cathy is sitting on the couch, crying again. Her knitting spilling in a spider's web over her lap and the floor. Pastel green, pink, yellow and blue yarn; the blanket she'd begun to knit months ago. Quatre is hugging her. He's so much better at this than I am. She's just recovered from a second trimester miscarriage. Recovered physically, that is. She cries at night and the least thing can bring on tears. He beckons me over and I sit down behind her. She lets go of him and presses her head into my chest. I don't know what to do. The Manager has wondered if leaving the circus might be the best thing for her. I still think I should have killed the man that got her pregnant. Quatre says that wouldn't have helped. It would have made me feel better.
She calms down, but we switch roles for the matinee. I am the one throwing the knives because her hands are shaking. Quatre stands against the target. He's wearing the tight-fitting blue pants with the suspenders crossed over his lean chest. He's golden and beautiful and he knows it. I wish I'd worn the baggy clown pants instead of matching tight-fitting green pants. His smile is pure wickedness. Brat. The knives flick from my hands. Squeals and gasps from the crowd. They'd never be able to stand there. His smile never wavers. He looks at me with complete trust. He's always trusted me.
Always.
It was the most damnable surrender I'd ever heard of. I was completely surrounded by mobile suits, I'd run out of ammunition, I'd despirately tried the hand to hand combat functions only to find myself held in place. The other pilot popped open his suit and stood there with his fists clenched screaming at me.
"You and I shouldn't be fighting like this!" he shouted. He was about two inches shorter than I was, with pale golden hair shoved straight up and sideways by a bizarre pair of goggles.
I was tempted to ask him how he thought we should be fighting, but I raised my hands in the traditional gesture and stepped out.
"Put your hands down," he said. "I surrendered first, remember?"
He called that a surrender? It was only the first in a series of highly confusing events that dominated my days as Quatre Raberba Winner's guest.
I honestly thought I was a prisoner and stayed silent, asking no questions and observing everything. He wanted to talk to me, it was all over his face, but he respected my privacy. We were served tea. I prefer coffee, but I didn't say anything. He made quite a show of fixing it in front of me. He probably would have even tasted it to prove it wasn't poisoned or drugged if I had shown any more suspicion. I was too tired to push the matter.
It tasted like stewed flowers - all perfume and no bite. I don't see how he stands it.
It was Master Rashid who showed me to the guest room in the oasis mansion. I was expecting a cell. Instead, it was a huge bedroom with a king size bed, thick velvety carpeting and my own bath. I just stood there with my mouth open for awhile. This was a prison?
Rashid left me alone and I promptly investigated everything. The bathtub was big enough for my escort. I'd been a little too long without a real bath; on the colonies, water is precious so showers are the norm. Among the mercenaries, real baths happened only about once a week unless there was a river nearby. I succumbed to the temptation and was soon up to my armpits in warm water. There was an array of buttons set into the rim. I poked one and a scented oil slick covered the water. I almost choked on sandalwood. I touched another and added musk into the mixture. I almost stopped, but then I triggered the magic third button. The water bubbled and frothed as five massaging jets sent warm ripples all over my body.
I was melting. I was deeply, passionately in love with this bathtub. The old joke, "if this is torture, then chain me to the wall" wandered through my mind.
It began to dawn in my thick head that maybe I wasn't a prisoner.
I crawled out of the bathtub only after I fell asleep and accidently submerged. I wrapped up in a towel and padded to bed. It felt wonderful to lie on clean sheets top and bottom. I didn't need to be drugged, I was out in about two breaths.
I woke up, on the alert at a strange sound. It turned out to be the door carefully closing. I quickly scanned the room. My clothes were gone. All that had been left were my belt, boots and gun. A plushy looking robe was on the small settee and a covered tray on a wheeled cart sat next to it. I examined everything carefully. The robe was more plushy and soft than it looked.
I looked at the tray I'd uncovered; more tea, a small carafe of juice and one of water, what looked like flat bread and two skewers of some grilled meat. I meant to be cautious, I really did, except my stomach was growling so. . . It was grilled lamb with cumin and mint. It was delicious.
I did some exercises. I found a small news access. The battle at Corsica Base was being blared all over. There were other attacks reported. Someone or something else was attacking OZ facilities. Odd, Professor S never mentioned anyone else, but then, my taking over the suit was a bit last minute. Speaking of which, where was Heavyarms?
There was a tap on the door. I rolled to my feet, grabbing my gun and stuffing it under my robe. I felt very foolish when an older woman came in carrying my clothes. She looked me up and down, but I couldn't read any expression under her veil. The corners of her eyes crinkled. She said something I didn't understand and held out my clothes. I fumbled the gun into a pocket and took them from her. As soon as I did, I realized I hadn't belted the robe and the weight of the gun dragged it open.
I have no idea what she said, but she sounded like she was giggling. Much to my surprise, I found I could still blush. She left, still giggling. My clothes were clean, neatly pressed and a worn spot on the knee mended. I couldn't remember the last time I felt this silly.
I dressed and crept through the mansion. I dodged two guards. A sound froze me in place. It was a violin. I slipped around a corner. My host was in the middle of a large room of glass and light. I stopped and savored that word, host. It meant I was a guest, being treated like I was a person. I liked that feeling. My host was playing the violin. I knew that tune. A large cabinet nearby held a number of other instruments, including the sparkling silvery length of a flute.
I don't remember where or when I learned to play. It was something like the acrobatic ability I displayed that had been before the mercenaries found me. I twisted the pieces together, checked the pads and the keys. I blew softly across the mouthpiece. The music caught me and I was somewhere else, I was someone else. I felt alive.
I could feel the warmth and the joy glowing from him. I didn't understand what it was then. He turned towards me as we played and his look was one of total trust.
I wanted to deserve that trust.
We leave the ring to thunderous applause and he slides easily under my arm. His hair is darkened from sweat. He smells of the baby oil he'd put on to make his lean muscles glisten under the lights. His warmth glows through his smile. I am feeling warm too.
"What are you thinking?" he asks.
"I'm remembering your bathtub," I tease.
He laughs. "So, that's it, you didn't love me at first sight, you loved my bathtub."
"It was a very nice bathtub," I remind him. Hercules grumbles a little as we pass his cage.
He laughs again as we step into the shadows behind it. I bend over to kiss him.