Epilogue
A true war, by the standards of those involved rather than the eager spectators, does not end quietly, nor does it end with the clashing of armor as one army conquers another. A conclusion is not signified by the speeches of leaders or the surrender of the defeated, and the final moments are not marred by the victorious cries of triumph. No flags are planted and no palaces are taken, and, as in all such events, the Earth does not cease in its revolution. These things are myth, are mere phantoms cast by idealism.
The end of a war comes softly. It fades into the light of the slowly-rising morn like a lingering shadow; it ebbs as a gentle dream from the resting mind. Hell falls briefly silent and the voices of the seraphs and the saints grow quiet, and all falls away as the blood seeps into the ground like dew into the gossamer of a child's innocent fantasy.
A true war ends softly.
War is a lover, and peace is its silent spouse. The passion of war is futile in the absence of its following peace and likewise peace inevitably becomes mundane without a war to complement it. And if indeed everything is a war, then likewise all roads, whether intended good or in ill, will eventually lead to some kind of peace.
In the soft ending of the war that had, for a few weeks that despite their brevity held the world in utter terror, plagued the Southern European continent, the casualties would never be accurately totaled, the damages never accurately calculated, and there would certainly be no passionate speeches given by any military leaders. Those who had led the units into this war slipped quietly away into the darkness alongside the great battle, receiving no real recognition beyond that of their own comrades. And in regard to those who had instigated this war — one was discovered dead in the rubble of what had once been his own elegant base and the other never even emerged. For once the world seemed not to care that there was hardly anyone upon whom to place the blame and no one upon whom to give the praise. For once this truly did seem to be for the best.
The soldiers who had fought under the command of Treize Kushrenada dissipated soon after the unanimous surrender of the organization following the announcement of their leader's death, scattering quickly to the four winds and the emptiness of the colonies, perhaps in fear of incarceration, or in the cases of some, execution for the attack on the Council in Luxembourg. They could create a hell for themselves now.
The members of the counteroffensive likewise withdrew, the more knowledgeable ones to aid in the upcoming abandonment of the base in Vólos. The return of a house of war into a useless shell, perhaps. Such a thing shouldn't matter. God knew there were enough soldiers who had already gone through such a transition.
Zechs Marquise — who would soon undergo such an experience himself — regained consciousness two days following the battle. The disorientation was gone completely when he awoke, and though he was instantly greeted by the tired sight of Lucrezia, he was initially disappointed by the ending of the vision of seraphs and saints that had, during his flirtation with the verge of death, played out behind his eyes.
The following day he was allowed to leave the section of the base that had become a medical ward. He was escorted to the surface on one side by Lucrezia, who had refused against medical advice to leave his side even for a moment, and on the other by Odin Lowe, who, now that his role in this war was over, seemed content in silence.
Zechs had not told him of the revelations imparted upon him by Treize. He felt he did not need to. Odin would know that Zechs was now aware of his true intentions in becoming the protagonist of the next great war. He had known since the beginning of their involvement that this was to occur, and any paltry words spoken on the matter would merely desecrate the abrupt insignificance this battle had bestowed to him.
The corridors were quiet and dark still as they passed through them, but this silence was not the furtive one of days past, the silence of fear of fear and preparation for bloodshed. Zechs regarded this scene with something like a numb wonder, giving not pause for thoughts and realizations that normally would have plagued his mind. He silently took Lucrezia's hand in his own and thought instead of those whose contact he had neglected for the sake of his war-torn ambitions, of Midii Une and her companion, the former gundam pilot, of those he had not seen since his departure from the colony. He thought of a glimmer of silver in the candlelight and a young girl's whispered prayers. He thought of all the secrets that had, in their youth and even now, surrounded them. He thought of a Japanese woman with calm almond eyes that looked into the very soul and lips that were eternally curved into a cryptic smile, of how she had changed so much and yet the world had felt nothing.
But these things did not yet matter. Thoughts and realizations would come later, and so would thought and memory. For now, please God, let there be only nothing.
"You'd best pray, Marquise," Odin said as they neared the stairs that would take them aboveground, "that you have not kept her waiting long."
He cast an inquisitive glance at the man but stopped before he could put the question into words. He had a feeling he knew what had happened.
The sun was out and high outside, a great orb of yellow like a vision of hope held in the embrace of the cloudless blue sky, like the vision of a welcome from the seraphs and saints that silently repeated themselves over and over in his mind. He closed his eyes as it lit upon his face and Lucrezia stepped close against him. He didn't believe he had ever truly realized how much loved her until this moment.
His eyes adjusted to the light and he saw, far away from them by the edge of the woods, sitting in a slumped crouch the boy, the sullen, silent Heero. Strangely, the sight of the pilot caused him to give a slight smile. And the boy was not the only one outside the base — standing by the car that would later that day take them to the airport where they would leave for Paris were Rhyn and Marguerite, their lips together in a deep kiss that did not seem likely to end soon and their hands clasped tightly at their sides. Rhyn opened a single eye and raised a hand with hers in tow in greeting, perhaps also in a farewell, but made no move to approach him. He had already said his goodbyes.
Zechs supposed that really all of them, the morose child of the forgotten pacifist leader included, had already said them.
These figures caught his eye only for a moment, however. Immediately he was drawn to her, to the spot where she stood dressed in white like one of the angels in the poem he had once so often read to her. Or perhaps she was more the narrative's leading lady than an angel: the young Malespina's bride, a woman disgraced and then redeemed, a woman who descended into Hell in blind devotion to an ideal and fought her way into Heaven no longer a fool but a youthful woman who would yield not even to the devil himself. Beside her stood Yuan-Chen, who had, no doubt, escorted her onto the base's secured property.
She stared at him for several moments, her breath coming out heavily, thickly, and her eyes reddening with tears.
"Milliardo," his sister said finally, taking a single step toward him. Her lips stuttered the beginning of an apology then failed her, and when she could not speak at all she rushed forward and threw her arms about him.
Everything is a war. Indeed everything, and thinking this he glanced around the base, at the silent boy who had again barricaded himself in his solitude, at the Chinese man he knew he would never see again after this was over. He glanced at the man at his side, the dark figure he had given up on understanding. He glanced at the pair a few yards away from him, and then he glanced at the woman beside him, the violet-eyed former lieutenant who had also once been a baroness. For the first time, strangely, he realized that the waist of her clothes was beginning to become tight with the swelling of her abdomen around the child that grew within her.
Everything is a war. Yes, so it all was, and then likewise each of these people was a war and must therefore fight a war, the wars within their own minds and those that would at different times in their lives occur. And if all these were wars and a war rests with everything, then at some point all of these wars will be fought and, for however brief a time, there would be peace. There must be peace. It was, after all, the only ending.
So would the seraphs and saints now welcome them all in, having fought all their current battles? Would Hell raise its great cheer as they all knelt at the seat of divine mercy? Would nothing of the sort ever seem likely, or would the fair meadow of Heaven open before them and would throngs of angels escort each to his own rest?
He silently returned his sister's embrace and decided that it didn't matter.
Finis
Author's Notes: There isn't very much to say about this epilogue. It is not necessarily a happy ending, but neither is it a tragic one. It has the potential for both. All involved are inherently the same as they were before the war, though they have endured what once might have been unthinkable. Relena and Zechs are reunited, but to what result is uncertain. She has her once again war-torn kingdom to attend to; he and Lucrezia, though they have been together for a long time, still have issues between them that must be resolved. Rhyn and Marguerite have nothing waiting for them. Heero is in a weakened state and is struggling to hold on to the only concept of himself he possesses. Odin is again without a purpose. The end of the war is but a moment in their lives, but nonetheless it is a moment that interrupts the uncertainty with which they are all, respectively, left. They are each left to their own endeavors with no sense of greater direction. None of them have a heightened sense of spirituality or bitterness: the end of this war does not involve a new closeness to God, to country, or even to one's own ideals. They have only each other now, and whatever decisions they make in light of this new conflict. The theme of this war was not idealism but rather the individuals who took part in it, for whatever reasons they had.
The first chapter of The Remnants of War, the sequel to this story, will be posted soon. It is not quite as long as Ballad, and it is written in what I feel is a better style (as there was at least a year between when I wrote Ballad and when I started Remnants), but I've had so many requests for it that I see no reason not to post it. It offers closure to the situation with Zechs, Lucrezia, and even Relena, but chiefly concerns a new ordeal that occurs involving Heero.