I've decided to add this little note, since the end of this story seems to confuse everyone. This is all the story there is - there is no second part, continuation, next chunk, nada. Just like the show itself, this story has no definitive ending. ------------------------------------------------------------ It was the roses, of course. Even after all this time, a sudden glimpse of roses could strike her dumb and senseless. It was much less difficult now than it was at the beginning, but still...she would get a sight of a garden, or the whiff of a florist’s and her face would cloud, her eyes would become veiled. Now it lasted but a moment, then she would energize her lifeless limbs and reanimate her face through sheer force of will. But it never failed to remind her of her real reason for being there. This time it was a pushcart. She hadn’t seen it at first, her view had been blocked by a truck. But the truck had pulled out and she saw them, the roses. They were separated by color; red, white, pink. Her heart grew cold within her, as it always did. Such a stupid phobia, no, not a phobia, not even an aversion. Instead she almost perversely longed to touch them, to smell their fragrance, but she could not allow herself that liberty. They brought too much with them, their scent was too loaded with images, emotions, memories... Reminding herself to breathe, she glanced once again at the cart full of flowers, and she once again paused, this time not observing the flowers at all. A grey-clad figure approached the cart, leaned over to smell the roses, then pulling one small white rose from the bunch, proceeded to pay the flower seller. They exchanged a few words and the figure continued down the street. Her eyes followed the figure, and she allowed hope to blossom within her. She knew it was hopeless, as it always was, futile and frustrating, but never again would she deny hope a place in her heart. Too much had been lost to allow her that one thing. She crossed the road, following the figure at some distance, not seeming to follow at all. Why she should choose this person, this drab, loose-limbed creature, to be a receptacle of her now threadbare dreams, she could not say. But she had faith that her journeys were not in vain. She had been given back her faith, and she kept it now, when she had nothing else. The figure entered a shop, a stationer’s, she could see as she approached it. Ah, well, she thought, I could use a new pen and some pads for my journal. She watched the door for a moment, then stepped up, her hand hovering over the handle and thought of her long journey to this place. She had left the Academy, what was it now, 14 years ago? She had left to find something that had been taken from her. And if it meant that she had to travel the world to find it, then so be it. She realized how like him she sounded now, and a grim smile crossed her face. At first, the journal was to keep her company on the road. In the form of a letter (although she had specified no recipient,) the journal was a diary of sorts. Rather than face the turmoil within, she chose rather, to describe the chaos without. Every place she visited was cataloged in colorful and dramatic detail. She had kept her journal notebooks, transferring them eventually to the laptop she now owned. She preferred the simplicity of writing out the letters though, the sheer act of putting pen to paper was therapeutic, almost a daily mediation. Where had it been? London? Nice? Salzburg? She couldn’t remember the place, but the day had been a cold one, somewhere in Europe, when she had struck up a conversation with a woman. A woman who was starting a travel magazine. Her journals would be just the thing, the woman had said. And they had been, to her great surprise. The past decade had seen her become one of the leading travel writers on the globe. She couldn’t complain, her writing paid her few expenses, and maybe, maybe it would be seen by the eyes for which it was intended. With this thought she raised her eyes to the door, placed her hand on the doorknob and began to open it. There was the pressure of another hand on the other side and she pulled back, receiving the other’s push gracefully. As she stepped back from the doorway, a form clothed in grey passed her. She could see a pale, gaunt face, but the eyes and features were shaded. The clothing was shapeless, a hat covered the hair. Nonetheless, she knew. Hope had not betrayed her after all. She was almost immobilized with joy that filled her as music fills the vaulted spaces of a cathedral. The figure in grey passed her by, not even glancing up, while she stood, slowly turning, watching the figure retreat. When it had stepped past her, she took a deep breath and called out softly, "Utena? Tenjou Utena?" The figure slowed, stopped, turned. The pallid face looked at her without the slightest trace of recognition. Hope wavered within her. "I used to be Tenjou Utena." The woman paused, gazing levelly at her. "Do I know you? Have we met before?" The woman’s words caused her heart to bleed, but still, she did not give up hope. After all this time, she couldn’t afford to. "I’m Anthy. Himemiya, remember?" The woman’s pale blue eyes, almost grey with the weather and the clothes she wore, did not change their expression. "I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone named Himemiya." Once again she paused. "It's an unusual name, I expect I’d remember it." Even her voice was unusually drab, almost toneless. "From Ootori Academy." Anthy could barely get the words out, her body braced against the wave of anguish that those two words always brought. "No, I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about." Utena turned slightly, glancing at her watch. Her eyes met Anthy’s once again, then she smiled apologetically. "I really must be going. I’m sorry I’m not who you were looking for..." her tone held no apology, no emotion at all. Utena turned, and walked away, not looking back at the dark-skinned woman who stood still, watching her leave. "But you are the person I’m looking for." Anthy spoke quietly, watching the grey back disappear. It was no good following her. But Anthy had spent fourteen years looking for Utena, she would *not* lose her now. Anthy stepped off the curb and followed Utena once again, her easy gait belying the maelstrom of emotion within her. Today it would be enough to find out where she lived. That would be enough. Tonight she would decide how to approach her. After all these long years - she had found her Prince.
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