Gundam wing is not owned by me.
All religious references in this fiction are for thematic purposes and are not necessarily the beliefs of the author. There is no intent by the author to offend the reader with these references.
Quest of the Martyr
A. Ruth Howe
Swine, pigs in a gilded pen, insignificant carrion, quaint and almost picturesque means to an end, those are the many incarnations of Romafellar. They are the authors of decadence and masters of romantic absurdities and opulent surroundings. Their food is gossip and amassed power. Their music, the swirl of expensive fabric, the chime of fine crystal, the gentle swaying of a feathered fan, such things define the inner world of Romafellar.
The sounds of their women giggling at the latest rumor is like the squeal of a dying hog to me, and their perfumes the musty scent of old cellars. Careless and artless towards each other, they gather in large ballrooms to celebrate themselves and dance their superficial lives away. No matter how sick it makes me, I am one of them now, remembered now in connection with such odious existence as the foundation has accumulated over its life, as I shall ever be.
Tonight is for me, which turns me more ill than usual; to know that all the swaying of gowns, fine wine, and false smiles are in celebration of me. They see it as the highest honor to pay such respect for me, rewards for my services to them. It is characteristic of them to believe that the actions I take are for their foundation, it proves their heedlessness and vanity. They would never dream of pondering my actual reasons and intentions.
The Duke heads off the festivities, ascending the stage and spewing vitriol and hyperbole for my introduction. All the ladies around me are listening, but their eyes are focused upon my unassuming visage. I have adopted the mask of modesty for their eyes tonight. It affords me the appearance of humility, something that is far removed from my persona. Inside, I smugly curse them and expose my arrogance to no one but myself. That is the power I possess. Though everyone around me may speak as if they are experts, none of them know my true nature.
I rise as my name is hailed throughout the ballroom, the cool appearance in done never giving evidence of my inner scorn. I hear words as I pass through the crowd to reach the stage. They call me handsome, brilliant, unequaled. Of course, I am all of these things, but those are the features I allow people to see. My speech is bland and without meaning, mere crowd-pleasing drivel. No one would appreciate what I would really have to say. It has always been thus. My words don't even carry any meaning to myself. The words are simply another means to an end.
With all this, one would have to wonder why I am here accepting the leadership of OZ. The reason is as simple as the execution is complex. This is part of the journey inside myself, to better understand me. I will understand Treize Khushrenada through perfecting him. The journey has been many years in the making but I am halfway there now. I don't intend to ever stop.
I remember being a young boy, sitting in the front pew of the cathedral, listening to the Archdeacon droll on in Latin about the Martyr. The idea repulsed me that a man such as the Savior could have wasted himself with such fervor. Then it hit me, the simplicity of his plan. In his death, he had become immortal. Not through any divine measure, but the mode of his death, his martyrdom had made him God in the eyes of men. To be able to last in the memory of generations, that was immortality. That was what I desired. My life's goal, to be engraved in the mind of humanity for all time. I knew I could do it.
That is the extent of my purpose I suppose. Everything that I have accomplished from that day has been for my goal. Part of achieving my immortality is to force people to see what I want them to see. First, I pulled the velvet over their eyes, for the people who dabble in my world would not hear of using wool, and make them hold me in their highest esteem. I am Adonis to the multitude, Caesar to the Military, Zeus to my subordinates.
But what I am I to myself? Why the same as I have always been. I am the Savior waiting to be crucified, the mortal who awaits his martyrdom so that he will realize his perfection. This has kept me in comfort all these years, days turning into nights, mornings turning into evenings, forever keeping my own truths. I am the After Colony epoch's rendering of Jesus Christ, waiting in the garden.
Is this madness? I do not think so. Why should a man not think himself the equal of a supposed God? He is only a God because we make him one right? There is no reason why I should not aspire to join his rank.
She disagrees though. Like the martyr, I will always have my disciples. Some bolder than others, who question me yet remain loyal. There is a Judas among my rabble, I know he will betray me. His own inner turmoil makes him loyal to only his instinct. Perhaps Zechs does not know it, but he is destined to be the villain to my hero. That is history and its assurance of repetition, telling the story endlessly.
There is a Mary Magdalene among the group as well. She is particular amidst the figures that surround me every day of my life. She has in her way, such singularity that I am compelled to listen and contemplate what she says to me. Like my Judas, the Lady Une attempts to understand me. I know she sees past the velvet blindfold I have so skillfully placed over the eyes of the universe. I hate her for it sometimes, yet I am oddly fulfilled by it. Her words, contradict my destiny, causing my perceptions to melt away. Like the cold water dripping off the elegant Ice sculpture in the center of the ballroom, I find myself melting away even as I speak. The memory of her hands on my shoulders, the pressure of the inconsistencies she points out in my vision, wear on me from behind the microphone.
Why did I ever tell her of my dream? I know it was because I was enchanted by the natural scent of her skin, so different from the rank of Romafellar perfume. Beguiled and beset all at once, I struggle now to remember that lust is a sin because it distracts man from assuming perfection. If I take anything of her, it will be her understanding and the ease it brings me. Love is unimportant in the quest, possibly even a hindrance. I will not allow myself to be deterred.
Still, there are moments when the clarity of my purpose seeps away from me like blood from a mortal wound. There are dueling ideas inside me and the possibilities seem endless. Not only could I live in the minds of humanity for all time, I could also exist in their hearts. For that to happen, they will have to exist in mine. Am I ready for such an undertaking? Mary Magdalene believes I am, Judas does not.
I stand at the crossroads this night. My destination unchanged and eternal, but the modes of travel undetermined. All paths lead to my end and I know that end will create a martyr. The question is which path do I take? Do I follow my pride and continue to work towards my own glorification, or do I listen to my heart and strive to know something beyond the dictates of my pride? Should I walk the path of agape love, or hubris? The choice should be obvious I suppose. Still, I am torn, but confident that the answer will come to me in the fullness of time
Fin