Benediction
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…
The beads clicked quietly in his hands, only barely audible for the whispers that filled the vast church. He moved them again in silence. The tiny silver crucifix dangled below his loose fists and the soft light glistened on its every facet, making it indeed seem a talisman full of divinity rather than a meaningless relic. A vague smile crossed his face at this thought.
The rosary was not his, though it had been in his possession for many years now. The woman to whom it had belonged was long dead, nothing more than a gentle and distant memory.
He no longer knew the prayers that were to be spoken along with the movement of the beads. Too many years had passed since he had last uttered them; so many that they seemed to comprise an eternity. Perhaps it had been an eternity. After all, he was not that little boy anymore, that innocent child who had known both experience and naïveté at one. He was not the merciless soldier. He was not the god of death. He was something else entirely now, though what it was he had yet to learn.
He folded the rosary within his hand, closed his fingers around the small crucifix. He did not want to see it now. It offered him no solace, no absolution. And it was not even absolution that he sought. Forgiveness had never mattered to him. Let others seek it, those who had lost their souls to war and felt the pain of that loss. He had no need of it anymore.
Ironic how, now that the last war had ended and his time was no longer limited to his damnable mission, he was able to find comfort in isolation.
But he was hardly alone here. This church was one of the grandest in the city, and even at this late hour it was far from being empty. Small groups of people walked up and down the aisles and between the rows, merely staring at their surroundings with all a tourist's vacant observation. Some sat upon the cushioned pews, bowing heads and speaking fervently with impassioned lips pressed to rosaries. He could hear vaguely the singular sounds of a woman quietly weeping. Others prayed before statues and lighted little candles to petition the aid of the saints. They each had their own sorrows, their own reasons for their tears, even those who did not seem to pray. It was impossible for anyone to be in such a place as this and not feel some grand sense of spirituality.
What did they pray for, these nameless men and women who shared the cathedral with him this evening? He did not know. He did not care. And yet he could not help but wonder how many of their minds were turned to the wars that were now over. Had any of them been involved in those conflicts, and if so, was it forgiveness that they now sought? Forgiveness for all the lives that were lost, for all the blood of both innocence and villainy that had been spilt? Did any of them perhaps pray for all the souls that were sent early to their Creator? Or were these thoughts born merely out of foolish romantic notions, and the desire to believe that there were still others who were yet haunted by memories of all that had come to pass then.
Of course he knew there were others. He had even spoken with several of them within the past year, though often these communications were initiated by himself. This did not bother him; he was not one to wait humbly for someone to first contact him. Some of those with whom he had spoken had even been of the pilots who had shared in his terrible but necessary missions. He had seen Trowa once on this colony. At first he had not recognized him, for this hair was much shorter, and upon his arm he escorted a lovely woman whom Duo immediately identified as the Countess Midii Une, formerly one of OZ's greatest commanders. This had come as no surprise to him. It was hardly a secret among the colonies that the two of them had formed a rather close relationship since the war, possible even a romantic one.
He had spoken with Trowa only briefly that evening, as the Countess lay asleep in a quaint hotel bed, perhaps awaiting the silent warmth of his company, and throughout that conversation neither of them had referred to the war or what they had done therein. In fact, it had seemed as though they were making a point to avoid the subject. It loomed within their words like a great beast waiting to assail its prey, but never did they give voice to it.
Wufei had been easy enough to locate. He had been working with the Prevention Organization since the end of the infamous skirmish with the misguided child Mariemaia and her tyrannical grandfather, Dekim Barton, and had spoken with Duo without hesitation via computer. His attitude seemed to have changed quite considerably since their days as Gundam pilots, Duo had noted, for he seemed much lighter in spirit now, and his sense of honor seemed more subdued, replaced by something so close to human compassion that he hardly seemed the same person.
With Quatre it had been different. With Quatre he had felt no strange sense of displacement afterward. Quatre had not changed, at least not so much that the change was clearly discernible. He was still kind, still ever the peaceable one. After his father's death he had become chief heir of the Winner Corporation and its amassed wealth and following their final battle with Dekim he had claimed his inheritance. But his newfound wealth and power had not affected him deeply. He was cheerful and pleasant, and when Duo mentioned the war he had proceeded with a spontaneous and heartfelt speech about how the world had changed, how mankind itself had changed. He was confident, he said, that humanity had at last realized its great error and would now embark on an historic period without warfare. Duo could only grunt his agreement, but it was not sincere. Quatre would always be the innocent optimist. Some people simply needed to be, just as others needed to believe that the world would never change in order to change themselves. He himself found it unnecessary. He had never needed to disillusion himself. He had always been the one to take things as they came, without any true care as to what they meant to him.
In the end Quatre had invited him to his restored home on the L4 colony, and without hesitation Duo had accepted it. But he doubted that he would go there any time in the near future. He was still lost in this dream that had consumed him for so long.
He was not unhappy. He knew this without question, though others would find it unbelievable. And he certainly was not depressed. He existed now in a strange state of numbness, interrupted only by brief periods in which he felt something very close to happiness. It would pass in time, he thought, and when it did he would perhaps be the same person had been before. Until then, he was content to remain as he was, another vagrant soul outside the grand search for meaning.
He had been unable to contact Heero. He seemed to have disappeared from all existence. Perhaps he had. Perhaps he had finally found the right switch that would end his life, and had fulfilled his old desire to complete that final mission. After all, death was a goal that had motivated him to preserve the lives of so many in the past.
Strangely he found the idea of Heero committing suicide piteous. He had never understood him, of course, and for all his attempts at socializing he had never truly known his companionship. But the thought of any of them meeting so grotesque an end chilled him to the core.
Non e of the others had known what they had. They had known their own pain, those soldiers who had fought under those commanders who had shaped the new world that now lived in peace, and their own tribulations, but none of them could ever know what the five of them had experienced. The Gundam pilots had known both opposition from those whom they fought against and those whom they fought to save. They had been betrayed by the earth and the colonies and then, ultimately, by each other. Only they truly knew the purpose of their oft-misunderstood missions, and only they understand how their goals had at last been achieved. They knew no fame. Their names had been forgotten. And yet their own knowledge was sufficient for them, and they had parted silently, without needing a soldier's camaraderie to find understanding.
He had not truly been alone in the beginning. For several months he had resided in Hilde's small, comfortable apartment, sharing in her occupation with the salvage crew by day and her bed at night, until at last the sheer normalcy of it all had become too much for them. They had begun to speak less and retreat into their own respective silences more often. He began to sleep on the living room sofa rather than in her bed. She began going to confession. He accompanied her, an unspeaking ghost at her side, and waited for her to return from the darkened booth while sitting on the wooden pew, meditating on the holy mysteries of nothing. At last the evening came when he left the church without her. He had not heard from her since.
Maybe someday he would go back to her, and they would reclaim the blissful simplicity they had once known. He was not adverse to the possibility. But for now he felt the need to be alone, in a place where no one knew him at all.
He unfolded the rosary again and studied it, running his fingertips over the sparkling beads delicately as though they were made of glass. His hands seemed too large for it somehow, too rough against its crystalline beauty. It had belonged to a woman far more virtuous than he; it should have been buried with her, not bequeathed to one so lowly as himself.
He thought of Sister Helen often these days, and of the gentle priest with whom he had been raised. It had been they who had taught him all the virtue he knew. It had been Sister Helen who had braided his hair for him when he refused to let her cut it. Without the two of them he would have died on the streets, if not in a cell in the Alliance's juvenile prison, where the colony authorities had seemed to love sending homeless ruffians like him. His life was but the first thing he owed to them.
He had often wondered what had led his beloved Sister Helen to give up the life that could have been hers for that of a nun. She had been young still when he had met her and though he had only been a child he had still been able to recognize her beauty. She would have made a lovely wife and a caring mother had she not been vowed to celibacy.
The rosary was all he had of her now. It had fit perfectly in her small, pale hand, and for him to touch it seemed an insult to her.
Forgive me, Sister, for I have become a soulless murderer, and I can find no forgiveness for this sin.
And yet this thought did not disturb him. He had never truly known regret.
He leaned forward on the pew, pressing his forehead to his clasped hands. To anyone else it would seem as though he were praying.
He did not know what the priests here thought of him. Here he was, a young man in a clerical uniform whom they had never seen before, sitting aimlessly in their church. Perhaps they thought nothing of him. After all, with this city being the capital of the colony and this church the reputed largest, surely they were accustomed to visiting priests making a brief stop to pray.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. He looked up to see a man moving quietly down the pew, studying him carefully. After a moment of hesitation he sat down near him.
Duo did not ponder the man's closeness to him. Some people simply needed physical closeness to feel comfortable, he supposed.
The man lowered his head but kept his eyes open. He seemed to be considering something rather than praying. Duo watched him for several minutes, examining his face carefully out of the corner of his eye. He was a young man, barely out of adolescence, it seemed, though he was quite taller than Duo. His hair was dark and long, falling in silken black waves down below his shoulders. His eyes were large and black as his hair, and strangely despite the hard set of his jaw and his severe nose his eyes seemed to hold an almost childish innocence. He had seen so many such eyes blinded forever in the war. He would have been quite handsome were it not for a large white scar that ran the length of his face, beginning above his eye and terminating beneath his chin.
The young man raised up finally, leaning his elbows on his knees. He glanced at Duo, then after another reluctant moment made the Sign of the Cross.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
He felt his eyes widen and gently he laughed. "I'm not a priest," he said apologetically, and almost without thinking he tucked the rosary back into his pocket.
The young man faced him, astonished. His eyes were filled with pained tears. "You are not? Please, Father, I must confess."
"The confessionals--"
"Are occupied. Are you truly not a priest?" His voice was tremulous, desperate. His scar seemed to become even paler as his cheeks flushed with tears.
Oh, what the hell. The boy needed absolution, and though he was not authorized to give it from God, the boy did not know this. And what would God deem a greater sin: pretending to be a priest in addition to dressing like one, or leaving this boy to his torment?
He forced a smile, and after but a moment the smile became genuine. "I am not a priest at this church," he amended, "but I will hear your confession if you wish."
A relieved sigh escaped the boy's throat. "Thank you, Father." Again he crossed himself and lowered his head. For several minutes he remained silent, perhaps weighing his words.
Duo thought of the priest, of his dear Sister Helen. What would they think if they could see him now, pretending to be of a station they had so desired for him, having to pretend because ultimately he himself did not care about it?
Briefly he feared he would not be able to do this. But such fears were irrational. He knew what to do and how he must do it, and though the only God he had ever truly believed in was that of death, this role was not the hardest he had ever had to play.
"Tell me your sins," he prompted, and clearing his throat he sat back against the pew.
"I am a murderer." No pause, no hesitation. His voice became flat and monotonous.
Duo blinked. "A murderer? Whom have you murdered?"
"My mother and father." He paused and swallowed audibly. "I have murdered my parents. I have murdered my lover. I have murdered my closest friends. My entire family. I have murdered thousands of innocent men, and I have felt no remorse."
He thought of the priest's voice, comforting and yet entirely placid, unbiased. "If you have felt no remorse, why have you come to confess?"
Another heavy sigh. He bit down on his lip in contemplation. "Because to feel no remorse is inhuman," he said finally. "I don't want to go to hell, Father."
God, he could not bear the sound of his broken voice, so empty, so devoid of hope. It was the voice of one about to die. "Tell me how you murdered them."
The boy raised his head, looking at him fearfully. His dark eyes were bloodshot. "You won't tell anyone, will you? I mean, I know you are bound to confidentiality, but…"
"I won't." He favored him with a smile. "I have no one to tell."
The boy seemed to understand this, even if he did not believe it. He returned the smile quite willingly. "You must understand, Father. They are not dead. To my knowledge they are all still living, but I have murdered them all the same."
"I'm sorry, I—."
He gave a soft, lighthearted laugh. "Of course, Father. It is hard to understand if you have not been in that situation. But may I ask something, Father?"
"Yes."
"Did your parents approve of you becoming a priest?"
"I never knew my parents." There was no bitterness in his voice, only calm reflection. "I was raised in a parish."
"Then you cannot know, I suppose." He considered for another moment, then continued. "I left home when I was sixteen. I wanted to join OZ. My parents mistrusted the organization, but I didn't share their suspicions."
He found this both surprising and not surprising at all. "Why did you want to join OZ?"
He shrugged and laughed again. "I wanted something to believe in. That's not a very good reason, I know, but it seemed good enough at the time."
"I think that's why most of its younger soldiers joined. We all need something to believe in."
A quick, hopeful, tearful glance. "Is that why you decided to become a priest?"
God would forgive him another lie, he supposed. He didn't believe in God anyway. "Yes."
"Then you understand. I believed that OZ would work to see peace throughout the world and the colonies. The Alliance's actions in the past had been questionable, but OZ was reformed. And I believed in Treize Khushrenada. I believed he was what the world needed then, a young but competent leader whose mind had not been corrupted by tales of heroism passed down from ages before by those who had forgotten the fear and pain of fighting and remembered only the ideal of it, with noble intentions. He seemed to me a man who could not be shaken, or bought for any price. A part of me loved him, I think, the way a new soldier loves his commander. But it was more than that, really. He was more like a king than a general to me. I honestly believed he was going to change the world."
"He did." He could not contain his cynicism.
The boy did not seem hurt. "But I believed those changes would be beneficial. He would be a great ruler, a despot, maybe, but an enlightened despot. I simply wanted to be a part of the cause."
He nodded in understanding. "Your parents did not support your decision."
The boy shook his head. "No. They didn't. No one did, really. My family was quite pacifistic. They were entirely opposed to warfare, and they even found the Alliance unnecessary. They said that the colonies and the countries of the Earthsphere should be granted autonomy."
"And you disagreed?"
He shrugged. "I tried not to have an opinion of it. I didn't believe that the Alliance was tyrannical, though, and I thought that OZ would rectify the Alliance's past mistakes."
"And the others?"
"Hmm?" His expression was genuinely perplexed for a moment, as though he become so enthralled in these memories that he had forgotten his purpose here. "They did not trust OZ, either. My friends did not want me to go, of course. But who would? We were very young then, much younger than we ever believed. We had all grown up together. It wasn't only that they didn't understand why I wanted to join the organization; they would not understand. Our colony had been torn apart by war; when we were young we played in the ruins without any awareness of what they meant. And there was never peace there. Always we lived under the threat of another battle."
"And when you decided you wanted to join OZ, they believed you would somehow be the instigator of it?"
He nodded. "But it was more than that, Father. It seemed to them that I was forsaking the fears we lived under, that I had forgotten how many of our families had been torn asunder by war, that I had forgotten all those we had known who had lost their lives to it. But I hadn't forgotten them, Father"—his voice became strained, almost tremulous—"I hadn't, and I think that maybe I only wanted to join OZ because it would make us all safer somehow. Does that make any sense, Father? Our colony would be untouched by war, because I would see to it that it would be. And I would be part of the force protecting it." He paused, chewing on his lower lip once more in reluctant deliberation. "And it would make me safer as well," he said finally, in a quiet and almost childish voice. "I knew it was selfish of me. I knew it was cowardice. But I could not help it. If I were a part of the force that was supposedly going to protect my colony, I could not be an innocent civilian killed in an explosion I did not even know had occurred. I could not be an innocent civilian gunned down on the slightest suspicion."
Duo, to his own chagrin, realized that he was holding back a scoff. These thoughts were naïve, but their naïveté was a very childlike one; such fears he had seen in both the very young and the very old over the years, and he could not begrudge this boy for them. He had seen even those he considered wise taken by such hopeful fancies.
"And your lover," he said, once he had swallowed his reaction. "You said you had murdered your lover?"
The boy nodded. "Yes. In the same way I murdered my parents and my friends. I would not listen to her appeals. She was an orphan, Father; both of her parents had been killed in a battle in which they were not even involved."
" 'Innocent civilians killed in an explosion they did not even know had occurred'?"
"Precisely. She was almost more adverse to warfare than my family. But my resolve was founded in fear, and thus it was almost unshakeable. I pleaded with her to come with me. I pleaded with all of them. And in the end when each and every one of them refused, I fled the colony, leaving them all behind."
"And that is how you murdered them?"
"Yes." His voice was thick with the tears that glistened in his eyes. "As surely as though I had launched an assault upon the colony or fired a gun at them."
All was silent for several minutes. Duo realized that many of the people he had seen in the church earlier were now gone, replaced by others come to perform the same quiet, private rites. No one saw them; no one paid any notice to them, the young priest and the young man who wept at his side.
He could feel nothing at the boy's testimony. How many others had done exactly what he had? How many fathers had reluctantly abandoned their tearful families in an attempt to protect them? How many women had left husbands or children? How many people had abandoned everything they had ever known out of fear that if they did not resort to such actions, it would all be taken from them? He was not angered, as the boy seemed to have expected, nor was he overly saddened. This boy's story was but one more chapter of a book he had too long desired to see closed.
Sister Helen, lovely and young and sweet, the old priest who had seemed wiser than the prophets…
Would this never end?
"You did not murder them," he said at last. He turned and faced the boy directly. "You feel as though you did, but you did not murder them. You have committed no sin save for that of fearful innocence."
The boy looked at him, astonished. "But, Father…"
"That is my judgment. You commit the folly that has bound mankind to unhappiness since the world began."
"And what is that?" Another tear fell and his brow furrowed, as though he did not know whether this was the insult which he sought or his hopelessly desired absolution.
"You blame yourself for sins which are not yours. It is not a sin to do what you did, for your intentions were noble, though naïve."
"The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, Father."
Duo scoffed, and almost deliberately he forsook his false priestly composure and tone. "And I suppose the road to Heaven is paved with wicked ones?"
The boy was stunned. "But, Father…"
"It is no sin to want to protect yourself and those you love. It is no sin to fall prey to fear. We tell ourselves that it is so we can feel that we must atone for something, when really there is nothing to atone for. Would a child ask forgiveness for being afraid of the dark? Then why should you ask it for being afraid of dying, of seeing your friends and family die?"
"I left them behind!"
"Do you not think that others have done the same thing? That is a soldier's duty, to make such sacrifices!"
"And what of those I killed in battle? What of them?"
"You were doing your duty." As were we all, as we did when the Gundams were given to us, we were only fulfilling our mission…
The boy lowered his head. "That is a cold way of thinking, Father."
"No, it isn't. It's honest. You surrendered yourself to a cause, and when that cause required you to act, you did."
"Then were those who waged war upon our colony absolved as well?"
"I'm not talking about absolution. I'm talking about what you would call a sin."
"But are you saying that God condones those acts?"
"I don't know. I know nothing of God. I never have. I know only my own instincts and what I have seen, nothing else. I have nothing to forgive you for. If you want absolution, you must take that up with God." He leaned forward, sighing heavily. Was this the ultimate effect of war, then? Not that men were killed, that cities were destroyed, but that those who survived were left forever questioning the merits of their actions to such a point that they believed they no longer had the right to live? That they were to exist forever in a living purgatory?
Perhaps they would have been better off living like Heero, for as far as he had ever known Heero had not given a damn one way or the other.
"Listen," he said finally, feeling the stab of his own indiscretion, "I see nothing wrong you have done. Did you wish to kill innocent civilians? Did you feel pleasure when you did it, or remorse? You did as you were told, but if you were then anything like you are now, you acted with conscience. You would not have personally harmed an innocent person? You did not torture them? You did not even see the faces of your enemies. For all either of us knows, you could have fought me."
The boy raised up, astonished. "You, Father? I do not understand."
He met his eyes finally and sighed. "I am not a priest. I was raised to be one, yes, I didn't lie about that, but I'm not a priest. Before last year I was a soldier."
"Then you…" He fell silent, unable to say more.
"You have received absolution from a soldier and nothing more."
For several minutes the boy did not speak. His eyes fell to his hands, which were still so tightly clasped that the white of his bones was clearly visible beneath his flesh. His expression did not betray his thoughts.
Forgive me, Sister Helen, forgive me…
A woman laughed somewhere in the church, a high and lovely sound that for one sweet moment filled the room. Her voice echoed from every corner, making it seem as though the statues of the saints were laughing with her, forgetting briefly the troubles that had been lain at their feet.
"Thank you," the boy said finally, once the laughter had faded to nothing. He looked up at Duo and smiled; his tears had ceased. The scar on his cheek seemed less prominent now, its former pallor darkened by the shadows of the candlelight. "I…I don't know what to say, really."
"Maybe there's nothing more to be said."
He nodded his agreement. "Maybe so."
He sighed and placed a hand upon the boy's shoulder. "Have you not seen any of them since the war ended?" It was a dumb question, he thought, but he asked it nonetheless.
The boy shook his head. "No. I have not had the courage to go back to the colony. I will someday, maybe even someday soon, but not now….I can't right now."
He thought of Hilde, of how he had left her without so much as a word. He understood this perhaps more than he did anything else the boy had said.
"There's nothing more I can tell you," he said at last, shifting in the pew and sitting in a position most devoid of pious contemplation. "I'm not a priest. I don't know anything about God. I don't even know anything about my own family. I've never truly been in your position. The only piece of advice I can offer you is to forget about it. Forget about all of it. Remember them the way they were before you decided to leave, and when you go back think of them all in that way. If there's one thing I've learned from my own experiences in the war, it was that if it hurts, forget it."
The boy gave a small but genuine laugh. "That's probably the best advice I've ever been given."
Duo shrugged modestly. "Well, I do try. I'm sorry that it's all I can offer."
"No. I came here for confession, after all."
"But you meant to confess to a priest."
"I had intended to, yes."
"And I'm not one."
The boy shrugged. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." He laughed and, after a brief moment of consideration, Duo joined him. The sound was a quiet one but nonetheless it echoed throughout the church, and several people paused to look at them. An elderly man shook his head. A woman crossed herself rapidly. Standing before a statue of a bearded saint a priest turned to see what had cause their slight commotion, and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, returned his gaze to the figure in front of him.
They did not speak again of the boy's misguided confession, or of the deception that had allowed him to give it. Several minutes passed; the evening outside became dark. For the moment Duo was able to forget the callous fact that all such changes on the colonies were unnatural, controlled by the hand of man. It did not matter ultimately, he supposed. In the end the sun was still the sun, though perhaps manufactured, and the stars were still stars, even when only illuminated by clever electrical wiring.
"It's getting late," the boy said finally, when beyond the high windows all seemed darkness, pulling on his gloves again.
Duo merely nodded.
"I don't suppose I'll ever see you again."
"Probably not." He could not help his answer. It was the truth. He had realized it in the strange quiet that had fallen between them: he would not be staying in this colony much longer, not now that he had spoken to someone there on more than casual terms, not now that he had been so noticed. Perhaps he would go to the Earth for a while, just for a few months, before at last he returned to the L2 colony. The chill of winter would find him there as well, he supposed, but Hilde's bed would be warm, or if not, at least her sofa would be.
"Best of luck, then." He extended a hand and smiling Duo shook it. It seemed a very inadequate gesture but it was all that was needed. For a moment he simply stared at him, and then smiling rather youthfully he added, "It's strange, isn't it? How we go to look for one thing and find something else entirely, and yet that something else feels like what you needed all along?"
He shrugged. "It works that way, I guess."
The boy rose from the pew and after a reluctant moment he nodded once more to Duo and took his leave.
He remained after the boy's departure for some time, thinking of nothing at all and leaning back against the pew quite comfortably. He did not care that several people stared at him, or that he received disdainful glances from those who passed through the aisles. Their opinions were nothing to him. After all, for all they knew, he was there for pious purposes as well. It was his experience that one could pray in a comfortable position just as well as when kneeling.
Ave Maria...
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
...Dominus tecum....
It's strange, isn't it? How we go to look for one thing and find something else entirely, and yet that something else feels like what you needed all along?
He gave a soft laugh, not caring if anyone heard him or not. Truer words, he supposed, had never been spoken, at least not in his presence.
Would you understand this, Sister Helen? Or are these sins too great? Did I sin at all, or for once have I done something virtuous? Am I even capable of virtue now?
He thought that perhaps it didn't matter. If the road to Hell were truly paved with good intentions then logistically speaking, the road to Heaven must be paved with evil ones, and that could not be so. Perhaps intentions truly did count for something.
He withdrew the rosary again, folded it over his hand. It glistened innocently in his palm, a small chain fully of all the mystery of the human mind itself.
If there's one thing I've learned from my own experiences in the war, it was that if it hurts, forget it.
He thought that perhaps the nun who had once owned this rosary, the beautiful woman who had taught him kindness when all the world had imparted only tragedy, would understand, even if God would not.
Comments extremely welcome.