Not Forsaken
A light rain, not much unlike a mist, clouded around the campus grounds on the early October morning. Clear droplets clung to each of the gold, red, brown, and orange leaves, as well as to the tip of every blade of grass. Low fog swirled between the feet of the traveler like small, mild twisters. He dug his hands deeper into his sweatshirt pockets, and blew uselessly at the stray strand of hair which hung over his left eye.
Earth...
The cold filled his lungs with every breath. Inhale. Exhale. His braid felt damp and heavy as he sulked along the paved path.
A college had once resided in this spot. He could see it in the ancient many pillared building on the hill which still held itself mostly together from AD 1849. He reached the crest of the hill, where the former cobblestone path was now a rough and muddy road. There, he placed his right hand on the west side of the third cold pillar, feeling the history come alive in his mind. Great learning had once taken place in this great hall. The images of sweater-clad teachers and students filled his mind's eye. Organization children hurried from one building to another. Two confident students enjoyed a cigarette beneath a red maple tree. Three professors walked together with their beards and briefcases and slacks and sweater vests. They laughed together as they left the campus for the day.
He envied them all. His eighteenth birthday loomed only a week away. His opportunity for attending such a school was close to none, he felt. How could a soldier--a terrorist such as himself fit in with other children who had only watched the war from their beds, as the screens lit their bedrooms in the middle of the night. They were not harmed. They cared not for the troubles of soldiers. They did not understand the ideals of Treize Khushrenada or Relena Darlian. They did not understand him.
Again he caressed the pillar and the ancient ghosts crossed the campus once more. This time his attention was lead to a small man with dark, graying hair, wearing khaki slacks and a hunter green button-down shirt, which bore no designer label as did the clothing on the other ghosts. In his hand he carried a black leather-bound book.
Duo's eyes grew and paled to only a light lavender as the ghost approached him. He was a clergy member--the campus chaplain. Father Maxwell and Sister Helen flashed before his eyes and then faded as the chaplain drew near. He came to a halt directly in front of Duo, the clergyman's eyes searching deep into his own as if he knew that Duo's soul had been calling for comfort and aid. Perhaps he could proffer an answer.
They stood there for many moments traveling into the other's eyes. All other apparitions faded. Even the great ancient hall disappeared as both Duo and the Chaplain were transported to a time-immune dimension. The clergyman was the first to break eye-contact. He did so smiling wryly and thoughtfully. Though the smile was not disarming or infectious, Duo felt he must smile as well, for the chaplain's joy and satisfaction was wholly evident through his body language.
He opened his Bible near the middle and pointed to a circled passage. Matthew 6:25-34: "'Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink: or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?
"'And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown in the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? So do not worry, saying 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things and you heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day ahs enough trouble of its own."
Duo read swiftly and lifted his face to acknowledge the generous spirit for his advice, but he found himself back down at the broken-down campus alone. The place was now void of all his imaginary apparitions.
Duo descended the hill rationalizing the day dream in his head as he walked. He was familiar with the passage, for Sister Helen had recited it to him often. When he was younger, he did not consider ther verses applicable to his situation. He had never really worried about clothes, especially for more than one day at a time. Food and water could always be stolen, though he did worry about those a bit. Of course, once he was in the orphanage, he had everything he needed. Now though, the anxiety had overcome. His thoughts had strayed too much upon the morrow. After all, was not living in the past or future not living, since any experiences were numbed by desires to be in a different time or place?
"Loss of identity," Father Maxwell had once said, "is one of the most grievous of the venial sins, for loss of personal identity means loss of sight of The Father."
Often Duo had remembered this quote over the years since Father Maxwell had been killed. Duo had considered Father Maxwell as being "the Father". He was the nearest example of absolute goodness Duo had ever known. His death had been avenged many times beyond that which was necessary. Duo had committed the mortal sin of murder, which meant he was forever separated from the god whom had forsaken him the day the Maxwell Church fell. He was alienated just as he had wanted to be, but as he neared the base of the old college hill, he wished he could remain with his family only longer. He longed to integrate and to reside in the comfort of old. The thought of eternal severance from peace brought only a heavy drought of despair upon his already weary spirit.
Duo returned to his hotel where he slept on the top of his shabby bedclothes for many hours. He awoke tremendously thirsty and with a grungy feeling to his scalp. The shower called to him, but the effort it would take to thoroughly cleanse his hair repelled him back to his bed where he lay in thought for a great while.
He traced his actions during the wars through his head. He remembered shooting Heero the night they first met, and he remembered saving Hilde from the dolls between Libra and Peacemillion. He smiled at the memory of his reaction to the girl's recklessness. She would always be dear to him. Heero would hold a place in his memory as well. If only he could find them both, perhaps he would feel more complete.
His eyes focused on a circlet of wallpaper reluctantly tearing itself from its wall and pondered himself. He was no longer Shinigami, as he had called himself during the One Year War. The aggression and, sadly, the enthusiasm that had soared through him then had flown after the Eve Wars. He was misplaced and useless.
Useless...not entirely. He did have skills. He could become a salvager--a junk man and live in the bowels of a colony until he died, and no one noticed until the space debris stormed upon the colony's hull. He was too angry to go unnoticed, and too forsaken to attempt to do any more good.
On a whim, Duo peeped beneath his bed, the only furniture the pitiful room had to offer. To his surprise a dust covered book lie beneath his bed. He grasped it, sat up, and trusting himself to fate, allowed the book to fall open to its chosen page.
Psalm 42
"As the deer pants for the streams of water,
so my soul pants for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?
My tears have been my food day and night,
while men say to me all day long,
'Where is your God?'
These thing I remember as I pour out my soul: how I used to go with the mutitude, leading the procession to the house of God, with shouts of joy and thanksgiving among the festive throng.
Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put you hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.
My soul is downcast within me; therefore I will remember you from the land of the Jordan, the heights of the Hermon--from Mount Mizar.
Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all you waves and breakes have swept over me.
By day the Lord directs his love, at night his song is with me--a prayer to the God of my life.
I say to God my Rock, "Why have you forgotten me? Why must I go about mourning, oppressed by the enemy?"
My bones suffer mortal agony as my foes taunt me, saying to me all day long, 'Where is your God?'
Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put you hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.
Licking his lips, Duo continued on to the next Psalm, anxious to read the despairing words of David.
Vindicate me, O God, and plead my cause against an ungodly nation: rescue me from deceitful and wicked men.
You are God my stronghold.
Why have you rejected me?
Why must I go about mourning, oppressed by the enemy?
Send forth your light and your truth, let them guide me; let them bring me to your hold mountain to the place where you dwell, to God, my youth and my delight.
I will praise you with the harp,
O God, my God.
Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.
He remembered learning about David at the church. They had told him that David was a great man, yet he had mourned and despaired just as Duo had for so many years. Somehow, Duo felt encouraged by such thoughts.
He tucked the book under his arm as homage to Father Maxwell and Sister Helen. Leaving the grungy, smutty hotel without paying, he did not feel so alone as he had before, knowing that even those who are not forsaken despair.
A light rain, not much unlike a mist, clouded around the campus grounds on the early October morning. Clear droplets clung to each of the gold, red, brown, and orange leaves, as well as to the tip of every blade of grass. Low fog swirled between the feet of the traveler like small, mild twisters. He dug his hands deeper into his sweatshirt pockets, and blew uselessly at the stray strand of hair which hung over his left eye.
Earth...
The cold filled his lungs with every breath. Inhale. Exhale. His braid felt damp and heavy as he sulked along the paved path.
A college had once resided in this spot. He could see it in the ancient many pillared building on the hill which still held itself mostly together from AD 1849. He reached the crest of the hill, where the former cobblestone path was now a rough and muddy road. There, he placed his right hand on the west side of the third cold pillar, feeling the history come alive in his mind. Great learning had once taken place in this great hall. The images of sweater-clad teachers and students filled his mind's eye. Organization children hurried from one building to another. Two confident students enjoyed a cigarette beneath a red maple tree. Three professors walked together with their beards and briefcases and slacks and sweater vests. They laughed together as they left the campus for the day.
He envied them all. His eighteenth birthday loomed only a week away. His opportunity for attending such a school was close to none, he felt. How could a soldier--a terrorist such as himself fit in with other children who had only watched the war from their beds, as the screens lit their bedrooms in the middle of the night. They were not harmed. They cared not for the troubles of soldiers. They did not understand the ideals of Treize Khushrenada or Relena Darlian. They did not understand him.
Again he caressed the pillar and the ancient ghosts crossed the campus once more. This time his attention was lead to a small man with dark, graying hair, wearing khaki slacks and a hunter green button-down shirt, which bore no designer label as did the clothing on the other ghosts. In his hand he carried a black leather-bound book.
Duo's eyes grew and paled to only a light lavender as the ghost approached him. He was a clergy member--the campus chaplain. Father Maxwell and Sister Helen flashed before his eyes and then faded as the chaplain drew near. He came to a halt directly in front of Duo, the clergyman's eyes searching deep into his own as if he knew that Duo's soul had been calling for comfort and aid. Perhaps he could proffer an answer.
They stood there for many moments traveling into the other's eyes. All other apparitions faded. Even the great ancient hall disappeared as both Duo and the Chaplain were transported to a time-immune dimension. The clergyman was the first to break eye-contact. He did so smiling wryly and thoughtfully. Though the smile was not disarming or infectious, Duo felt he must smile as well, for the chaplain's joy and satisfaction was wholly evident through his body language.
He opened his Bible near the middle and pointed to a circled passage. Matthew 6:25-34: "'Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink: or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?
"'And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown in the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? So do not worry, saying 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things and you heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day ahs enough trouble of its own."
Duo read swiftly and lifted his face to acknowledge the generous spirit for his advice, but he found himself back down at the broken-down campus alone. The place was now void of all his imaginary apparitions.
Duo descended the hill rationalizing the day dream in his head as he walked. He was familiar with the passage, for Sister Helen had recited it to him often. When he was younger, he did not consider ther verses applicable to his situation. He had never really worried about clothes, especially for more than one day at a time. Food and water could always be stolen, though he did worry about those a bit. Of course, once he was in the orphanage, he had everything he needed. Now though, the anxiety had overcome. His thoughts had strayed too much upon the morrow. After all, was not living in the past or future not living, since any experiences were numbed by desires to be in a different time or place?
"Loss of identity," Father Maxwell had once said, "is one of the most grievous of the venial sins, for loss of personal identity means loss of sight of The Father."
Often Duo had remembered this quote over the years since Father Maxwell had been killed. Duo had considered Father Maxwell as being "the Father". He was the nearest example of absolute goodness Duo had ever known. His death had been avenged many times beyond that which was necessary. Duo had committed the mortal sin of murder, which meant he was forever separated from the god whom had forsaken him the day the Maxwell Church fell. He was alienated just as he had wanted to be, but as he neared the base of the old college hill, he wished he could remain with his family only longer. He longed to integrate and to reside in the comfort of old. The thought of eternal severance from peace brought only a heavy drought of despair upon his already weary spirit.
Duo returned to his hotel where he slept on the top of his shabby bedclothes for many hours. He awoke tremendously thirsty and with a grungy feeling to his scalp. The shower called to him, but the effort it would take to thoroughly cleanse his hair repelled him back to his bed where he lay in thought for a great while.
He traced his actions during the wars through his head. He remembered shooting Heero the night they first met, and he remembered saving Hilde from the dolls between Libra and Peacemillion. He smiled at the memory of his reaction to the girl's recklessness. She would always be dear to him. Heero would hold a place in his memory as well. If only he could find them both, perhaps he would feel more complete.
His eyes focused on a circlet of wallpaper reluctantly tearing itself from its wall and pondered himself. He was no longer Shinigami, as he had called himself during the One Year War. The aggression and, sadly, the enthusiasm that had soared through him then had flown after the Eve Wars. He was misplaced and useless.
Useless...not entirely. He did have skills. He could become a salvager--a junk man and live in the bowels of a colony until he died, and no one noticed until the space debris stormed upon the colony's hull. He was too angry to go unnoticed, and too forsaken to attempt to do any more good.
On a whim, Duo peeped beneath his bed, the only furniture the pitiful room had to offer. To his surprise a dust covered book lie beneath his bed. He grasped it, sat up, and trusting himself to fate, allowed the book to fall open to its chosen page.
Psalm 42
"As the deer pants for the streams of water,
so my soul pants for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?
My tears have been my food day and night,
while men say to me all day long,
'Where is your God?'
These thing I remember as I pour out my soul: how I used to go with the mutitude, leading the procession to the house of God, with shouts of joy and thanksgiving among the festive throng.
Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put you hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.
My soul is downcast within me; therefore I will remember you from the land of the Jordan, the heights of the Hermon--from Mount Mizar.
Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all you waves and breakes have swept over me.
By day the Lord directs his love, at night his song is with me--a prayer to the God of my life.
I say to God my Rock, "Why have you forgotten me? Why must I go about mourning, oppressed by the enemy?"
My bones suffer mortal agony as my foes taunt me, saying to me all day long, 'Where is your God?'
Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put you hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.
Licking his lips, Duo continued on to the next Psalm, anxious to read the despairing words of David.
Vindicate me, O God, and plead my cause against an ungodly nation: rescue me from deceitful and wicked men.
You are God my stronghold.
Why have you rejected me?
Why must I go about mourning, oppressed by the enemy?
Send forth your light and your truth, let them guide me; let them bring me to your hold mountain to the place where you dwell, to God, my youth and my delight.
I will praise you with the harp,
O God, my God.
Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.
He remembered learning about David at the church. They had told him that David was a great man, yet he had mourned and despaired just as Duo had for so many years. Somehow, Duo felt encouraged by such thoughts.
He tucked the book under his arm as homage to Father Maxwell and Sister Helen. Leaving the grungy, smutty hotel without paying, he did not feel so alone as he had before, knowing that even those who are not forsaken despair.