The blood pouring down from his forehead ran into his eyes, blinding him. His hand, broken and almost limp, brushed against his face, trying to rub it away. He frowned at his hands feeble movements. The earth began to spin beneath his feet, his mind dizzy and torn. It hurt to be alive, after such a huge explosion. It hurt.

He wished that he'd died in his Mobile Suit. His eyes lost focus as his body smashed down on the sand. He was dying anyway. Alone and lost in the sand, unable to remember why he had ever began this grim war.

His heart beat faster, his mind reeling in pain as each beat came. His hands groped the sand weakly, struggling to make himself stand, but he felt his legs still. His body was still, not working with his commands, taking his own decisions. He frowned, angry that he was not in control. His lips tasted the crude sand around his mouth, his eyes blinded by the caked sandy blood. If he is dying this way, he'd rather take his own life quickly and end it. He buried his face in the sand, his eyes closed shut, the pain radiating over his back, like a knife cutting him into pieces.

The sudden flash of light made him cringe, his eyes flying open, wide, in fear. He raised his head, searching for the light that had hurt him, but there was nothing there. His mind is going insane. He clutched at his head as the light came again, only this time with a loud scream, a loud prolonged scream that bit into his skull. He shook his head, still clutching it with his hands, biting his lips hard until it bled. He whimpered softly, his head falling against the sand again, like a madman.

"Bastard!"

The young man rolled in the sand, his head in pain, his screams muffled by the sand. It hurts not to die. It hurts. He lifted his body weakly from the earth, his legs shaking as another flash of light invaded his head, and another. He felt himself convulse, his mind scared, his soul torn. The face. That face kept coming back, with each flash, but who was that man. Who was he?

"Murderer!"

The soldier came closer, his teeth bared, his eyes flared with anger. Pain. There was that pain against his ribs again, as the soldier hit him over and over again. Like a rag, his body smashed on the wall, his long wild hair over his eyes, his green eyes staring madly at the officer.

The face burst in red agony, red tears, red blood. The whole cell was a blood river as he himself shot at the guards, at the soldiers, each one taken without regret. The faces swam closer, and closer. Innocent faces. Cruel faces. Bastards and children. His father and mother. Members of the OZ. Ordinary civilians.

"Die, you little asshole... die...!"

The young man let out a terrible scream, his back arching backwards. Blood sprayed from his mouth, dark and horrible, and he landed inert, backwards on the sand, his body twisted in the sand. His green eyes lay open, staring at the nothingness, his mouth reddened with blood, his body broken and caked in blood. Blood that he had shed, with his own hands.

The young girl had dropped the things she was carrying the minute she saw him, her hands running over her face in worry. The young man, older than she was, lay sprawled over the sand, his face twisted in pain, like his scared body. Her mouth had been full with her scream, but, surprisingly enough, she had not let it out. She had only come closer, her brows knitted in a sad frown, and touched the boy's leg. Her eyes had clouded with tears, feeling the boy's leg stiffly move to the side as she touched it. Her hands reached to bring the boy's head forward gently, her eyes searching his handsome face, deformed by the blood and pain. He was indeed beautiful, she saw, her heart aching that perhaps he was dead.

The young girl lay a hand over the boy's chest, feeling for his heart, and almost cried out when she found it. Slow and soft, struggling to beat, but still alive. She smiled and brushed back the red hair from the boy's face, his still darkened face.

Leaning on the wall as she ran up the stairs to the room where the boy now lay, under soft covers and warm care, she stopped to think about what he'd say when she walks in. She lowered her eyes, her face pensive. Maybe he'd had wanted to die and she ruined his suicide. The footsteps below, her mother and brother, brought her back to attention. The boy's room, the only one that had been available for use, cleared by her mother, was the next door.

The young man was not in his bed. She startled, her heart in pain, not knowing what had happened, and ran inside the room. The window lay open, its crude curtains maddened by the breeze.

"Who are you?"

The little girl turned around, surprised by such a lethal tone of voice. She stared into the green eyes of the young man, his breath rattling in his chest, his body less than healed, but standing still and ready. She tried to remain calm.

"My name is Dos," she whispered, her mind racing. "I was the one that saved you in the beach..." He stared at her silently.

His legs gave way under his thin frame, his body falling forwards. She ran to catch him, ignoring the glance he gave her, helping him stand up again. He leaned on her, closing his eyes, surrendering to the uselessness of struggling against her kindness. Dos heard a soft murmur escape his mouth, as his eyes became blank again.

"Who are you?" she asked, when he had sat on the bed. "Why were you so hurt at the beach? Where you attacked?"

The young man looked at her, her small features drawn against the dark room in the early morning light, her soft yellow hair over her shoulders, falling over her childlike face, her blue eyes crystal. Beautiful. He shook his head, his hand feeling his temple.

"I am..."

Dos came closer to listen to him, barely able to hear his voice. She folded her hands over her dress, leaning over to listen. He stared up at her, his eyes still a bit alarmed.

"I am... a clown."

Trowa didn't look at her when she sat by the fence as well, moving her thin legs sideways to the rhythm of the song she was singing in her mind. He stared at the tree that grew next to her house, wondering what he'd do now, where he'd go. His Mobile Suit, no doubt, had not been found. What was left of it probably lay beneath the sea, dying alone under the water. His eyes flickered for a moment, wanting to go save his machine, but recoiled. He wasn't like the rest of the pilots, who loved their Suits like real friends. For all he cared, Heavy Arms could rot in the sandy bottom of the sea. He was not master when he drove him but a slave to the killing and madness. Together, Heavy Arms and him had bathed themselves in blood. Dark and evil.

He shook his head, the flashing light threatening to return, and stared at the house, willing his mind to stop spinning. The sky was becoming grey again, rain clouds lingering above them. Dos looked at him, wondering if the boy had had a house like hers, before he had been attacked. She smiled sadly. He was probably an orphan.

"It's a lovely day," she said. "I love it when it rains. Call me weird, but I like dark, cold evenings."

Trowa looked at her, his mind glad for senseless conversation. Dos looked at him, her brows saddened. She wished she understood the reason for his melancholy. The boy nodded.

"You have sat here all morning," she said. "Every morning, for the last days. What are you looking at?"

Trowa looked away at the trees, at the land that enfolded before him, at Earth. Not his land, not his people. He looked at the sky, his green eyes becoming darker and remained silent. Dos bit her lip, helpless. He wasn't going to talk to her, or to anyone. He just ate his food, silent and stoic, in the table, when food time came. He sat throughout out the meal as if nobody was there with him. Alone. He went to sleep early, speaking to no one, not even when her brother spoke to him. Her mother, while watching the dishes after last night's supper, told her that perhaps he was mute. Dos had frowned at her, telling her that he did speak. Trowa stayed in his room, alone, and then came down to sit by the fence, looking at the distance.

Dos felt her throat hurt, her eyes searching for signs of life behind his cold composure. He didn't look at her again, his back turned slightly from her. His mind was becoming scared again, full of the dreams, of the screams, of the evil. His eyes widened, their pupils dilating, his breathing speeding up. His mind is going crazy again. Make it stop!

The young boy turned suddenly, his eyes forced closed, and tried to gain serenity. Dos gasped, fearing for his safety, and reached out for his hand. Her touch, warm against his cold hand, brought him back. He opened his eyes, her face a blessed sight before her. Not those other faces, those evil, bloody faces.

"You must be reliving the terrible past in your head, ne?" she said. She dared to smile, wishing that he'd do so as well. He stared at her, forcing his breathing to slow down.

"What kind of clown are you, always moody like this?"

Trowa blinked at her sincere joke, her eyes shinning boldly, reaching out for him. He felt her eyes boring into his face, judging him, her soft voice calming him. He gasped silently as she let out a small laugh, her blue eyes sparkling. Dos wanted him to forget the past, whatever it was.

Dos stared at him for a long time, silently. He lowered his eyes, getting up to a standing position. She looked at him, her breath a bit caught, hoping that she'd not said anything that would make him go away, back to his room, to lock himself up again. Instead, he stood before her, giving himself some imaginary room and took a gracious bow. The little girl blinked.

He took another bow and straightened his back, his hands stretched above him, his thin arms twisted in a kind of dance, his eyes staring at her. He brought his hands down again, and with a bit of flourish, held them out to her, empty. Dos frowned, wishing she understood him. He twisted them again, and when he opened them again, before her eager face, a big, golden butterfly rested in his palms. She let out a delightful laugh, reaching over to touch the small beauty. The animal fluttered once, not flying off, resting placidly on Trowa's hand.

The boy watched her take it, his green eyes full of a strange light. Dos saw that light, saw it for a second, his laughter in his eyes, but when she looked at him again, it was gone. He stood before her, his thin arms on his sides, his wild hair over his eyes, his mouth set in a grim expression. He took another bow, as if he was on a huge audience, and looked at her silently. To his surprise, she bowed to, the golden animal on her hand, and smiled at him, her blue eyes sweet. Alive and free.

"Egao, clown."

Trowa lowered his eyes, staring at the floor, remembering the sound of the other voice that had told him that so many times. Katherine. She was so far away now in her own world, hoping he would still be alive. He wanted to run away from this place. This house is bringing to many memories to his head and he doesn't want to think. Dos came closer to him, reaching down to take his hand, but then the front door of the house opened and Dos's mother stepped out.

"Dinner is served."

Trowa's eyes glazed again, his feelings sinking into the dark shell inside him. He could feel Dos's disappointment, the way she bit her lip, her little face saddened. He walked back towards the house, ignoring the pain he felt in his throat, ignoring everything around him.

Dos scolded herself for being such a fool. She wasn't acting like herself. She looked down at the butterfly in her palm, wanting to see if it would want to fly away. She gasped, her voice sad.

The golden miracle was not there.