Author's Notes: Hi, everyone, welcome to the newest update, namely 'Ultimate Angst, Chess and Politics for Dummies'. :)) …No, seriously, it is about politics, chessboards and PMS. :D And about Avalon's reasons. Sort of.
Did I just scare you? …Good. Before we start, though:
As usual, I'm terribly sorry for the delay. The oncoming winter session, exams, social life and inborn laziness, you name it; it all stood in my way. Not to mention, I had a lot of problems with the structure of this chapter; the freaking thing had to be rewritten, what, five times in a row…? Yeah, something like that. I lost half of my hair in the process. And the final result is not as pleasing as I would like it to be. Akhem.
Neko Kuroban, Silver Chaotic, He-loves-me-not – I'm very, very happy that you're still interested in this story. SilverMist23, Valex – thanks for joining the show. Silvie-chan...
Silvie-chan, this particular update, imperfect or not, is dedicated to you. For obvious reasons. I know just how much you like Seymour's mother... so there, perhaps you'll enjoy reading this chapter. My interpretation of Avalon – or Analéa, if you prefer ;) – is naturally a bit different from the one you presented in your awesome 'Wish Upon a Star'… but, please, don't flame me too hard, ok? (…And, hopefully, you won't accuse me of plagiarism, either… :P)
PS: Everyone, I'm sorry about the italics and the present tense. It was a matter of consistency, of course. All flashbacks in my fic are written this way.
Part Six
Interlude: Her Reason
Avalon de C'renaville, a thin, pale woman in her early thirties, sinks deeper into her favorite armchair, fists unclenched, breathing soft and relaxed. The fleecy, woolen blanket tickles her cheeks; she absently rolls her head to the side, towards the open window. Five weeks after Shunbun, the vernal equinox, most nights on Baaj are still chilly, filled with the steady rumble of the ocean, whistling winds and the stifling, overpowering scent of vanilla. The rainy season ended but a few days ago; it left the island in a cacophony of thunderbolts and clattering shutters, sailed southwest, heading for Mi'ihen Plains and Luca. Ever since then, the green hills of Baaj have slowly been turning into a small paradise, drying up, steaming, blooming…
Blooming vanilla is not enough to kill a mixture of other, equally distinct scents, which fill the silent chamber. Mint, juniper, chamomile… Scents that have always been, and will always be, associated with medicine. Avalon sighs, raises a hand to rub her nose, pauses to stare at her smooth fingers. Meanwhile, a big, brownish moth flies into the room, past the silky curtains, towards a large, mahogany desk. For a couple of undecided moments it hovers over the dark top, over a white sheet of paper that lays there.
The candles keep on burning; their warm flames tremble slightly. So do the smooth fingers.
The woman in the armchair frowns.
Tragedy is for the weak, she thinks, as her hand falls down; for fools, those who resign themselves to their fate without a single word of protest, much like she once did, all those years ago. The brave do not despair, they do not surrender. The brave act. Always. Even if their decisions are dictated by necessity. Even if their choices are limited. Even if they are given no choice at all, forced into a dead-end situation…
…'a voluntary exile'. They, the Guado, always used this particular term, completely ignoring the lack of willingness on her part. Jyscal wasn't so ignorant, of course, she made sure of that before she left; made sure many, many times – …Avalon, please, don't start that again, I know how you feel, trust me, I understand your objections, you have the right to be scared, that's enough, don't raise your voice to me… – but, in the end, it didn't really matter. So what if he sympathized with her? If it pained him to say goodbye? The regret she saw in his eyes was genuine, she is certain of that, even now, and yet… it didn't stop him from making up his mind in less than half a week. From giving orders – eyes calm, face unreadable – no other person could give. No, she recalls, the damn bastard didn't even think twice, didn't even hesitate. Although he should have.
Avalon de C'renaville smoothes out the woolen blanket, pulls it up to her neck, careful to – take care of yourself, my lady, you mustn't catch a cold, really, in your condition it might prove fatal – keep herself warm. The moth, wings burnt at the edges but still relatively untouched, settles down for a short while, inches away from the white sheet of paper; stops moving.
It was all his idea, his decision, his responsibility. His mistake. A fatal one. Naturally, a small, rational part of her knows just how unfair this judgment is. Jyscal's choices have never been his own, he is only a king on the chessboard of Human and Guado politics, an important, yet surprisingly powerless piece. And, having been brought up on this chessboard as well, being but a piece herself, Avalon is perfectly, painfully aware of that. Aware that, until the rules change, the actual game will be carried out by someone else, by the two queens. Bevelle and the Council. No one else. And the Council, the Guado… it seems that they had made up their mind long before Jyscal ever did, swore to get rid of her at any cost; threatened to forsake their allegiance – not directly, of course – to instigate a rebellion… resorted to economic, political and emotional blackmail…
No, she cannot really blame her husband – it was all their fault, their idea, damn you all, you pompous, racist bastards, not his, never – and yet she does. She blames him for his weakness, for meaningless vows and promises that could never be fulfilled. She wishes he had been more adamant. More of a maester, less of a coward.
He… had a choice, hadn't he? A difficult one, that's for sure, but a choice, nonetheless, something she never had. And he chose what he thought was best for everyone…
Everyone but them. A wife. And a child. Mere pawns who happened to restrict the queens' movements. An obstacle that needed to be eliminated, shifted to a different square. Because the chessboard is no place for love, family ties and moral values. Here, in the world of the upper-class, there's no good or evil, only profit and loss, power and the lack of thereof, wealth and poverty. Only politics.
They wanted her dead, she knows, those cunning Guado vultures, caught up, hopelessly entangled in their sacred, ancient tradition of dubious, inhuman virtue and honor – oh, for Yevon's sake, why can't they see that the world's changing, Jyscal, why can't they understand? – along with her son. Wanted them dead, sent to the Farplane, forgotten; just another one of His Majesty's fleeting romances, a whim, a fancy, perverted desire and a child, born against law and nature, a meaningless bastard, it happened in the past, Your Majesty, we can deal with it, we will deal with it, accidents happen. Yet they couldn't even lift a finger. Wouldn't even lift a finger. They are far too clever for that.
Avalon smiles; eyes cold, pale lips curled into an unpleasant, mocking grimace. Ah, yes, she's not ignorant, understands exactly why everyone needs her here, in the middle of nowhere; why the Guado decided to keep her son alive, even though his very presence seems to infuriate them so. It's all very simple, really.
One thousand six hundred and fifty-eight miles, which separate Baaj from Guadosalam, are enough for the Council to pretend that Avalon de C'renaville doesn't even exist, along with her inconvenient child. Enough to forget about the whole 'awkward incident', to fall into a well-known routine. To imagine that His Majesty has never been married, that he can marry again anytime he wants (…and why not, she thinks bitterly; after all, it's perfectly logical, at least considering their customs), and that there has never been a son, a rightful heir to the throne. Here, on Baaj, the little prince is no longer a burden to his father. Not a threat to anyone's interests, plans regarding the dynasty. As good as dead.
Ah, but here comes the tricky part: he isn't dead. And neither is Avalon de C'renaville. No, they're both alive. Tangible and real, they do exist – and so does the union between the Church and the Guado, the extremely important alliance of inestimable value, advantageous to both parties, bought at a low cost of one woman, a boy… and a couple of meaningless servants.
Convenient, isn't it…?
The union is all about power and money, nothing else. The Church gains a lot of influence, jobs for the clergy, new followers – …naturally, my lady, they can believe in anything they want, keep bowing to these damn trees and worship their ancestors as much as they want, as long as they pay appropriate taxes… – not to mention new trade routes, or access to Spira's oldest libraries. The Guado, on the other hand, get their much needed financial support, subsidies and duty concessions, a remarkable economic boom and–
And Avalon? What did she gain? What does she have? Besides frequent headaches and panic attacks, of course?
Daughter to a politician, wife to a politician, does that make her any less human? Does that oblige her to submit to some 'greater good', blindly, without protest…? Does she have no right to normal, human desires? Is she supposed to give up on living, entirely? …No, of course not, she wasn't born to become nothing but a pawn in some grand political scheme, and neither was her son – a child growing up in the shadow of power struggles, intrigues, alliances… and ubiquitous intolerance. So far, she has managed to keep him relatively safe, untouched by the world's cruelty. She wants to protect him forever. And yet she is unable to.
Jyscal, she thinks, knuckles white, hands clenching, crumpling the blanket's rough fabric; you have no right to do this to me, no right to do this to us. We are not your trump card in your dealings with Bevelle. We are your family. Nothing less.
No, Jyscal had no right to force her into this. Still, for years, she has been deluding herself with his promises, convinced that this exile was only temporary, that it – …is not a death sentence, I've already told you that, darling, please, be reasonable, the continent isn't safe for the both of you, you have to understand, you have to agree… – would only last a couple of months… years, at best. That, as soon as the situation in Macalania became stable, everything would go back to normal; that she would return to Guadosalam, lead the life she once led, watch her son grow up and–
–and, of course, she never will. There is no more hope, she knows, neither for her nor for her child. Jyscal's most recent letter, the one she received exactly three weeks ago, was much, much longer than usual, almost apologizing in tone. Almost. Above all, though, it was wonderfully insightful.
They are supposed to remain on Baaj for as long as necessary, an unknown period of time, until the situation clarifies itself. Ah, but she is no fool, she can read between the lines just as effectively as he can conceal the truth with fine words. The real meaning of his letter is obvious. At least in her case.
She cannot afford to be patient, cannot wait 'until the situation clarifies itself'. She does not have 'an unknown period of time'. No, she is dying, slowly brought to her knees by an incurable disease, by blood cells that do not grow properly, my lady, but remain within the bone marrow and continue to reproduce in an uncontrolled way. Jyscal doesn't know, of course, she has never bothered to inform him of her illness, swore all servants to secrecy. She doesn't want to complicate things, just as much as she doesn't need his pity. Shame and compassion wouldn't change a thing. She can't leave the island. Period.
Of course, it isn't about her all at. She had already accepted her fate, to a certain extent – she has known about her illness for six months now, and six months is a lot of time, especially in a place like this, where there's never much to do, aside from thinking. Objectively speaking, what difference does it make if she dies here, in this lonely paradise, surrounded by rain and vanilla, or in a lovely, four-poster bed in Guadosalam? No, her feelings – hate, anger, despair, frustration – are of no importance.
It's all about Seymour.
What will become of him, after she is dead? Will he be forced to spend his whole life – and he's only ten, for Yevon's sake…! – on this damned island? Alone and completely powerless, cursing her name until the day he dies, much like she keeps cursing her husband? What does 'as long as necessary' mean? When will 'the situation clarify itself'? In four, five years? Ten? Twenty? Never? Will he ever see the continent again? See what a true life might look like? Or will he eventually become too inconvenient for everyone, his own father included? Die at some assassin's hands? Commit suicide, of out sheer despair? Ah, wouldn't that be so much more reasonable than living on false hope for the rest of– That's enough!
Avalon takes a deep breath, tries to calm herself down. She has been through all these scenarios many times before, ever since the good doctor decided to be honest with her – …there's nothing I can do, my lady, I'm terribly sorry, please, forgive me… – ever since she opened Jyscal's letter. Not that she blames any of them for their straightforwardness, of course. How could she? Now, at least, her situation is clear. And she has no more delusions.
If only she wasn't so helpless, dying… If only her husband's words weren't so definitive… Then, perhaps, she would have found the strength to fight for herself, for her son. Perhaps she would have resolved to remain patient. But no, there is no hope, no strength, no patience left. She has reached the final bend of her path.
'The brave do not die in silence' – a quote from a book… or is it something her father said, a long, long time ago…?
No, if she truly has to die – death, in itself, is not a tragedy, no one can escape their final journey to the Farplane – than why should she die here, like this, abandoned, lost and forgotten? In vain, in her own bed, torn by regret, driven mad by anxiety, for the son she would have to leave behind, for his fate, cursing her own powerlessness–? No! She mustn't leave her child all alone, in this hellish paradise… condemn him to despair, solitude… Four or forty years of 'temporary' exile, what does it matter? He will never make it without her. He will never… forgive her. And she… she can't sink into oblivion, either; yet another piece, a woman to be ignored…
A limited choice she has, but a choice it is. And she has already made up her mind. She will take her fate, her son's fate, into her own hands. Turn their meaningless existence into a beautiful sacrifice. Show them all – Jyscal, everyone – what she is capable of. What her child is capable of. Together, they will bring a new Calm to Spira, go down in history, stay alive forever. In death, in statues, legends. In people's memories. As saviors.
As martyrs.
And that will be like a slap in Jyscal's face. Her revenge, final laugh from beyond the grave, perverted delight, the last act of defiance… Yes, let him choke on his guilt, let him suffer, howl in regret – for regret he will, she knows him all too well, she–
–feels like crying. Like howling in frustration and choking on her fear. She restricts herself to biting through her lips, though. There is a brief stab of pain, some blood that can be easily licked off. The doctor will won't be pleased, of course. She doesn't care.
The brownish moth flies by, towards a different candlestick. Avalon watches it move, with unseeing, indifferent eyes. Then she stands up.
Yes, she knows exactly what to do. There isn't much time left – two months, to be exact, until the rains return to the island and sailing becomes impossible – and there probably won't be any second chances. Next year, it may already be too late. It doesn't matter, though, for everything is almost ready. The day after tomorrow, her life as a maester's wife will come to an end. And after the pilgrimage starts… there will be no time for farewell letters or regrets. Which is why tonight is her last chance to tell her husband how she really feels. To write down her every single thought, every regret, unfulfilled wish… to make him understand. Tonight…
…she feels tired, so very, very tired – …is perfectly normal, my lady, given your condition, please, you mustn't overexert yourself, or else the disease will progress quicker, I'd rather you stayed in bed from now on, it's for your own good, really, so how can you tell the doctor it's out of question… – yet cannot afford to rest, must overcome her weakness. She walks up to the table, leans her palms against the smooth top, bends forward; dark hair falling down in a torrent of chestnut and chocolate strands – I love the touch of your hair, darling, have I already told you that? yes, hundreds of times, ah, what are you doing, it tickles, stop laughing…! – brushing against the page, casting a shadow over the single word written at the top of her -unfinished? unstarted?- letter.
'Beloved…'
Avalon touches the paper, hesitates. She… has been the one to choose this word, hasn't she? Does it still reflect her feelings, after all these years? Or is it merely an empty sound, a meaningless cliché used between married couples? A nice start for her final, farewell confession, so much better than a cold, polite 'Dear Jyscal', or a heated, sarcastic 'Your Majesty'…?
She picks up the thin sheet, walks up to the nearest chair. The seat is nowhere near as comfortable as the armchair. Nowhere near as warm.
She's no longer certain, but… she thinks she may love him, even now. Oh, sweet Yevon, with eleven years of marriage, lies and betrayal, wrong choices and lost opportunities, is it even possible…? Apparently so. Of course, her feelings haven't remained exactly the same, changing from a naïve, girlish infatuation to a much darker, complex emotion. Hassliebe, it's called in her native tongue; a term which does not exist in the common language, and one can only wonder why. Love wrapped up in hate… or is it the other way around?
Shoulders tense, fingers locked, she leans forward, resting her chin against the back of her hand. The ink smells of violets and pokeberries.
At the beginning, she recalls, there was no hate. Anxiety, perhaps. Mutual distrust, but that was to be expected. Hesitation, cultural differences, limits they both needed to overcome. Unsolvable mysteries that had to be solved. High expectations, harsh reality, difficult compromises.
Lust and desire.
He… used to love her, too, didn't he? He didn't ask her hand in marriage in the name of some unspeakably important alliance – that part came afterwards – he married her, because he…
-always thought you were special, let them say whatever they want, I cannot live without the sound of your voice-
…wanted to. She likes to think that raison d'état played a minor part in this. And she…
-must have married him out of greed, it's obvious, for money, why else, look at that necklace, sapphires and white gold, it must've cost fortune, for power, she's always been like that, look at her face, she's bursting with pride, I don't envy her, though-
…has always treated their marriage as a sort of a wild adventure, a journey into the unknown, literally and figuratively, a rebellion against the fossilized rules of her class…
…against common sense, her father eventually said, fingers twitching, as if he truly wanted to raise a hand to hit her. The blow never came, of course; there were only words, disappointment and contempt. She ran out of the mansion, back then, ran away like a child, furious and ashamed, into another man's arms, into his touch, tender caress, loving gaze…
Yes, Jyscal must have loved her once, a long, long time ago. Still, love was not enough, she thinks, straightening herself up, reaching for a quill. Noble intentions, dreams and desire, everything in vain. They both lacked common sense. Ran out of luck. Lost against reality. And if all their dreams have crumbled to dust, what is left?
Dispelled illusions. A feeling of loss. Bitterness and regret.
It's time to wake up.
There is a small, porcelain clock on the fireplace, nothing but an old piece of junk in the servants' opinion; its hands move with a great deal of effort, grating against each other every time they meet. Some maid would have already thrown it away, yet Avalon likes the funny, bulbous face, so out of place with the rest of her impeccably furnished chamber. Besides, the ancient device still works, as accurate as any other clock in the palace.
The hands scrape, suddenly, unexpectedly; Avalon stirs in her chair, startled. Five hours till sunrise, five hours to write down her final goodbye. Tomorrow, there will be only packing, sleeping the night off, long walks to the beach, supervising the servants, trying to avoid Seymour's difficult, unsettling questions… These five hours are all she will ever have.
So little time… ah, but there's never enough time for anything. Eleven years ago, she didn't have enough time, patience and self-control to argue with her father. Now, she doesn't have enough time, enough… courage to make her son understand– for he is still too young, sweet and innocent… so how can she tell him the truth? How can she explain that this pilgrimage is the only thing she can give him? The only way, her parting gift? Their only salvation?
Five hours till sunrise. The quill feels heavy in Avalon's fingers, as if it was made of wood, but she knows it must be her imagination.
'…and I shall pray that you will miss us, beloved. Farewell.'
…Then there was only her signature at the bottom – thin letters; an uncharacteristically pointed 'v', a very simple 'n', no flourish – and the page ended. For the fourth time this night, it ended with dozens of unanswered questions, hundreds of guesses, thousands of objections. With a sense of injustice, anger and utter frustration. With a faint scent of dust and violets.
The boy in the armchair lowered his hands, took a deep breath. Then another one, equally deep, equally suffocating. It didn't help. Nothing would. Neither tearing the letter to pieces, nor biting through his lips. Screaming. Cursing. Walking up to the window, leaning over the sill, diving into the pouring rain… no, that would only result in pneumonia. It was all useless, really.
Running away from the truth was useless, too.
As was fighting against it.
Three years ago, in Zanarkand, during his desperate attempt to get out of the City, he had fallen on his face, and discovered that he hadn't had enough strength to get up, no matter how hard he had tried. After a few unsuccessful attempts he had simply given up trying. It would be impossible to describe what he had felt back then, as he had laid there, motionless, for hours, with his eyes open and lips slightly parted, watching the sun sink between two unbelievably tall buildings. And it would be equally impossible to imagine what he had felt upon waking up, still in that very same position.
Still unable to move.
It was a feeling he would never forget. Right now… he felt exactly the same.
His mother… couldn't have written this letter–! His mother… had never been such a cynical, embittered… such a desperate woman. She would have never chosen… pride over reason, self-righteous indignation over…
…hope? '…your letter has left us no hope, beloved, and so I will act accordingly, by taking our fate into my own hands…'
'Our fate.' Hers. And his. No guilt, no regrets. Without a single word of explanation she had passed a sentence, dragged him into her spectacular suicide, led to Zanarkand, to…
'…glory and happiness he will never achieve in life, because you will never give him a chance. And such a life, completely devoid of hope, would be utterly pointless. Tragic.
Death, in itself, is not a tragedy. Sometimes, it is the only solution.'
And… why? What right did she have to assume that she had chosen '…a lesser evil, just like…' his father had, supposedly, all those years ago? His father, who '…condemned him, turned him into yet another one…' of his marionettes? Whatever that was supposed to mean?
Raison d'état, fatalism and hypocrisy, vague allusions and unclear parallels… no, Seymour didn't understand much of his mother's letter. There were some points, though, that he could comprehend. Points that were obvious, even to him.
Some things were never meant to happen.
His parents' marriage had been one of these things.
…No wonder the letter had never been sent, he thought suddenly, sharp fingernails almost cutting through the thin paper. It was… chaotic, too personal… filled with so much hate, anger and suffering that it literally hurt. And even if his father was a 'heartless bastard, putting his own interests over everything else' these words would have hurt him. Deeply.
Just as much as they hurt him. Then again, perhaps his mother had been right, and discovering the truth was better than living in a shadowy kingdom of illusions. Perhaps it was okay for the soap bubble to burst.
The storm was already dying down; the droplets had become soft and quiet, no longer a wild, insane staccato. Seymour slowly unclenched his fists, smoothed out the slightly crumpled paper, set to reread the letter for the fifth time. Even though he already knew its content by heart.
End of Part Six
Coming up next – Part Seven: Sealing the Past
Author's Notes:
So, have I just created a monster? ;) Are you going to flame me now? For writing about love, egoistical reasons and, say, perverted delight one can only find in revenge…:)) For making my Avalon slightly insane? (…Four years of constant worry can do that to a sensitive person, I guess.)
Before you start arguing with me, however, I believe that I owe you a couple of slightly random explanations. :))
1) The term 'Hassliebe' does, in fact, exist; I didn't make it up for the purpose of this fic. :) It's a German word, and its meaning doesn't differ that much from the one Avalon gives you. Btw, the Germans have some of the best words in the world. Such as 'Schadenfreude', for example. My favorite one. Hope you know what it means. :D
2) Speaking of non-English terms and their meanings… 'shunbun' translates as 'the vernal equinox', of course. And it's a Japanese word this time. My, my, who would've guessed…:P
3) Avalon writes her letter towards the end of the Flower Month (April), in a chamber 'filled with the stifling, overpowering scent of vanilla'. Now, truth to be told, vanilla doesn't bloom until May. It was a deliberate mistake on my part. Sure, I could've written: 'orchids' instead of 'vanilla'… but that would've been too vague and, besides, I like this particular scent. :))
4) Can you guess the name of Avalon's illness….? Well, it's leukemia. Not necessarily a lethal disease, but if we consider Spira's medical backwardness… Oh, well. Hope it makes at least some sense.
Reviews, anyone...? Flames and criticism? Would you humor an old lady? (…it's only three days till my twenty-first birthday, dammit…) Would you correct some of her most outrageous vocabulary/grammar mistakes? Well, in any case, thanks a lot for reading my stuff! See you around in the final (yes, this time it probably is final) chapter. :))