Author's Notes: This fanfic came on whim and was written when I could find nothing else to write. It's going to be different from most of the others that I've written in that I make use of a variety of characters and do a lot of scene changes in order to get a large cast in. As a result, this is going to be quite a few chapters in length, longer than anything else I've written solo before.

Just some facts to know about this piece itself. It's set in WWII; thus, it is an AU ficcie. I know you're thinking: "huh?" but let me explain. I shifted the entire time frame of FY into the time frame of 1941-42. The Mikos are from this era instead of the 90s. They still do find Shijin Tenchisho and meet their Seishi. This is set post that. It's a reincarnation fanfic. I hope everyone likes it. It'll seem a bit strange at first because I make abrupt scene changes, but it's meant to be like that.

I was originally going to call it Shades of Revolution but I changed my mind, so, it's as it is. I hope everyone likes it. It's a bit strange because I have somewhat butchered the time period in which this is set (changed some historical facts to make it fit my piece).

DISCLAIMER: I do not own FY, nor do I own any of its characters. They belong to Watase Yuu and co. All original characters are copyright of Chikita ©2001-2003.

A young man, about no more than perhaps twenty years of age, no more, no less, stood.  He had a small smile over his lips; a small morose smile.  His eyes were downcast, almost shimmering as though tears were at the floodgates.  His hair was matted to his face, mud on his face, caked on with assistance from the thick layer of perspiration that was in static motion of dripping from his face.

Next to this young man, was another of a slighter height.  He seemed to have lighter hair, indicting he might be a blond of sorts.  His face had a sharper contour to his, it his further apart, though showing the same emotion, as he faced in the same direction as his friend; the same level of distress written over his features.

His clothes, like that of his friend’s, were slightly torn, frayed at the edges and dirtied from what appeared to have been some type of battle grounds, as was reflected behind them in a sprawling scene of death.

This young man was mirrored on his right by someone who was evidently his twin brother.  The twin didn’t appear to be as fazed, perhaps it was apathy that had hardened him, maybe something else.  But, whatever it was prevented him from displaying the same emotion that was reflecting in his twin’s eyes.

In the far background, stood a pair hidden, concealed if you will, they appeared to be a man and a woman.  The woman had her hands over her eyes.  If not for the overtly sensual feminine shape she possessed, one would have thought her a man, for she was pressed against the body of a tall man, with pale hair, possibly blonde.  While she was disturbed, he seemed unfazed, at least in his expression.  Upon closer inspection, if one looked hard, they could see the signs of raw human emotion brimming over in his eyes.

Silhouetted behind all four was a final figure, a shadow.  He held a staff of sorts; his cape seemed to be caught on the wind, as it gracefully billowed out behind him, creating an air of mystery about him.

Each of these individuals captured in the simple black and white photograph that was preserved in a frame immensely fascinated a young girl who was in her mid-teens, as she sat, holding it.  She couldn’t help but to wonder why it was like this…

She sighed and looked over at her grandfather who sat in his rocking chair, holding his pipe in thoughtful contemplation.  She stood up and walked over, coming to kneel in front of him.  She held out the photograph to him and inquired.  “Granddad, who are these people, and why do they look so sadden?”

Taking the photo from his granddaughter, the elderly man took the glasses from his pocket and perched them on the end of his nose, as he examined the photograph carefully.  “Aye m’lass, th’year ‘tis 1943, at th’height o’ th’war with ‘em Nazis whence it was taken.  We was in France, jus’ followin’ a mighty dirty battle with ‘em bloody Nazis.”

“I thought you never were in the army.  Mama told me you had never gone to war…” the girl inclined her head, staring curiously at her grandfather.

“Aye, ne’er did tell yer ma or any o ‘er brothers that ‘cause yer grandma didn’t talk o’ it neither.  We ne’er planned on tellin’, best kept hidden; a stone best left unturned.  E’en so, th’battle was ne’er planned and merely done fer th’success of one snooty bloody American Captain by the name o’ JC Andreas.  ‘Course they was all crooked bastards, they didn’t care fer no one but ‘em selves.

“But we fought, ‘twas me friend’s idea.  He made me go after yer grandma sweet-talked me with th’battin’ of her long lashes and the touch o’ ‘er hand on me skin…”  The elderly man sighed wistfully as he thought of his wife.  She was alive still, but out of the house visiting an old friend of hers from the war.

He, however, was at home in their quaint one-bed room house with his youngest granddaughter kneeled in front of him, her eyes wide with an eagerness, prompting him to tell his story.

“Please, it’s been so long, can you tell me?  I’ve seen that photo lots and I want to know why everyone is so sad.  You’re reacting even now, are you going to tell me?”

A heart laugh escaped the elderly man as he reached out a hand, touching to his granddaughter’s face and brushing long strands of rusty red-brownish strands of hair from her face.

“Aye I shall lass, ay shall…”