Note: Since Tetsuni has asked, I will explain about magic in this story. The explanation can be found at the end of this chapter.
Fields of Feuds
Author: Jusrecht
Chapter Three
The day was bright, the sun was radiant, the leaves were green, the flowers were in full-bloom, and yet, guards were set at their guarding posts, ever apt and vigilant in their duty, unbothered by the merry chirps of sparrows and finches or the beauty of nature. It was something to be proud of – even if a little bitter it was – to stand on guard in front of the entrance of the Royal Castle, which was naturally the residence of the most important figure of ZAFT. Those with better, nobler background might not end up there, guarding the castle's entrance, but the lesser ones most likely would not be able to complain much.
All in all, there was still something they could do for their beloved kingdom, was probably the silent thought of the castle guards.
It was a young man – so young that his title and role might seem outrageous on others with equivalent age, but every one in the kingdom had learned to believe the stories told about this young man – who walked out of the castle that fine afternoon. His face, one that would make any mother proud with its chiseled fineness, and his impeccable manner had been widely renowned around the castle ground and often were brought up amidst streams of giggling and chattering of the castle maids with high reference. One of the Four Commanders of the Royal Army, also the foster son of the Prime Minister. And then, there were his eminent great deeds, which no one wasted any time to doubt upon, to go alongside his other excellences.
The guards promptly made a salute at his presence and the young man nodded, offering them a quick smile with small weary lines at the edge of his lips. Another trait which endeared this young man to his people was his eccentricity to lack the snobbishness of nobles. While royalties and nobles were to be revered, one could not help but to favor those with kinder, gentler heart. That and his other qualities often provoked a discussion to compare him with their royal prince.
However, the young man himself had never bothered his mind with such conception. Athrun Zala knew – always – where to put the line. He never wished to go against the King who owned the loyalty of the man he respected the most.
As he halted in the middle of his steps on the smooth rock-strewn path, his deep emerald eyes took in the vivid splendor of his surrounding. Springs had never been less beautiful at PLANT, as if the Goddess of Spring herself had decided to dwell there in the heart of the city, and the castle gardeners never put less than their best effort to keep the castle ground as magnificent as it had always been. A quiet sigh escaped his lips. It helped to lessen his uneasiness a bit, which always surfaced every time he found himself kneeling before the King.
In fact, as a soldier who had sworn allegiance to his king, he still was not sure where his loyalty truly lay. Most of ZAFT soldiers probably suffered a similar case, but the pride they had gained from winning so many wars and battles could as well patch the flaw. His Majesty might not be the worst of rulers, but certainly one could do with less warfare in one's life.
And of course, Athrun turned around, watching the intense glint of sunlight on the glossily polished castle wall, there was something quite wrong with castles built of costly limestone, its every space carved with excessive ornamentation. He strongly believed that castles were the defender of the city, should be made of sturdy grey stones which prices did not exceed a citizen's meal a block, and armed with catapults, not with plush seating or shiny but empty armors. This place was not a castle; it was a palace, as he had mentioned to his foster father once and the Prime Minister only laughed quietly, saying that ever since the King had lost his first queen and child, such luxuries had in fact lessened although there was an alarming increase of the cost for wines and weaponries. The castle and its embellishment, he had said, had only been the part of the past when laughter could still be easily heard coming from the King.
Losing a wife and a child could change someone drastically, he had learned that day and now, as he stared at the castle, still well kept although seeming cold and cheerless, the navy-haired young noble reflected that he might act the same if he were to lose his foster father and sister.
Turning away from the dismal thought, Athrun resumed his walk. He should not worry. At least, his foster father was the Prime Minister and also loved to the highest degree by the people. However, his temple was pulled into a frown, he knew that lately arguments had started to rise between the King and his second-in-command, mainly about the prolonged war with OMNI Alliance. His foster father had never agreed of war, but when a ruler of such vast powerful kingdom lost his family to a deceitful conspiracy, little could one do to stop war from brewing.
Who was he to put the blame on the King? Athrun almost laughed bitterly. He had been obeying the man for years, leading many battles to fulfill his orders, and bringing home victories under his banner. Not to disgrace the Clyne family name was the most he could do to repay his foster father.
His thought was put to an end when he noticed two other young men entering the gate of the castle. They also immediately recognized him and the darker of the two smiled.
"I've heard that you have returned from Gibraltar," he greeted with a grin, voice as brash as usual. "Another victory, eh, Athrun?"
"Not as well as you did in Banadia," Athrun replied politely, and then bowed slightly to the third person of their group. "My congratulation for your triumph, Your Highness."
Anger flashed in the eyes of the silver-haired prince. Even though Athrun had his soldier instinct to alert him, he hardly withdrew when Yzak Jule grabbed him by the collar and hissed threateningly, "Call me that again and I promise you'll regret it."
"My apology," the youngest commander inclined his head, trying to suppress a wince. The wound on his chest had not completely healed yet and his journey home on a horse had only worsened it somewhat. Obviously it was his own fault, but he had been away for months, in a battlefield with the smell of smokes and dead bodies all over the place. His yearn to go home was no longer containable.
Yzak only snorted disdainfully but released him nonetheless. Carefully avoiding making an eye contact with the prince, Athrun excused himself and nodded to Dearka before disappearing behind the castle gate. A pair of angry cerulean eyes followed his movement, and then Dearka, who had been watching his slighter companion for a while, commented gleefully, "You are going to kill someone with that look someday."
"I pray it will be him," Yzak retorted, his gaze spelling immense dislike.
Dearka almost laughed at his best friend's obstinacy to carry on the childish rivalry but refrained himself from doing so, and just pointed out with a serious note, "But you have to admit that his achievement is impressive. Defending Gibraltar from that huge of an attack from the Alliance isn't an easy task, even for the High General."
"I've never said that his ability was inadequate or something," the reply he received was quick and biting, but Yzak did not seem to realize the intensity of his own voice. "It's his personality I tremendously detest."
The taller commander shrugged nonchalantly. "At least Lord Klueze likes him. Most likely, if things remain as they do, our dearest friend will be appointed to be the next High General."
Yzak said nothing for a moment, but then turned around to stare accusingly at the grand palace in front of him. "Of all decent men in the Kingdom of ZAFT, why did my mother have to marry the King?"
"You don't want to be an heir of the throne?" Dearka asked incredulously.
"No, especially since everybody seem to cower before me just because I am now the prince," the silver-haired prince spat in distaste. "Lots of them think that I can become a commander merely because I wish to, not because I am able to. They think it is because I am the prince!" He whirled around, now facing his friend angrily. "And don't let me start with the bootlickers. They are growing in number everyday! Those things they are saying to me are in every sense disgusting! Someday I will kill one just to get rid of them!"
There was contrasting calmness on the other commander's face, one that was tinted by caution, as he told the fuming prince matter-of-factly, "And yet you haven't done a thing to get rid of me."
"Do you think I'm stupid, Dearka?" Yzak snapped at him, but one only had to look into his eyes and they would be able to see the hint of panic, also disappointment, palpable against the striking blue.
A small chuckle rose from Dearka and he answered sweetly, "Not in the least, my dear prince."
"That 'prince' title again!" Yzak threw his arm up in utter desperation, hiding his relief well under the enraged facade. "What is so flattering about being a prince?"
"Naturally, we commoners have to revere the man who will become our king," his friend kindly pointed out.
Probably it was the mocking tone of voice, or the second layer of inference lying beneath the words, but Dearka's statement annoyed the younger man. Roughly he reached out and took a handful of the other commander's clothing – the most he could do with their height issue – once again making threats, "I will have your head on a silver platter right now if you don't put a strict restraint to that mouth of yours, Dearka."
"And risking yourself the wrath of your stepfather?" Dearka's voice was laced with amusement, not the least bit perturbed by the threat. Leisurely, he brought forth his hand and let his finger to glide along the smooth silvery locks of the other's hair, continuing with a complacent manner, "You aren't that suicidal, my dear Yzak. You know well that I am also an important commander of ZAFT."
A wry smirk settled on the prince's lips. "Then I will wait until I inherit the throne and have the authority to put upon you such penalty."
"Didn't you just proclaim that becoming a king was the last in your list?" Dearka voiced his disapproval, hand absentmindedly straightening his ruffled clothes. Immaculacy was the only state allowed in order to have an audience with the King.
The smirk went wider for a notch and as he turned around on his heels, Yzak gave his reply smugly, "Ah, but one should be able to make the utmost of his situation, no matter how unfavorable it is, shouldn't he?"
Dearka said nothing in return, merely watching at the flapping white cape his friend wore as the prince made his way imposingly to the castle. It was his little secret, he reflected with satisfaction, to see Yzak in that different light. An adroit commander, one who would jump into the hectic battlefield to save a single of his soldier; a proud noble, yet at the same time also a refined young man whose incorruptibility had the power to purchase indemnity for every hauteur; then, above all, a just character who heavily opposed fraudulence and everything in the gist of bribery. No one, he supposed, had reached this level of comprehension regarding Yzak, though he sometimes suspected Athrun might have with his uncanny insight. Then again, no one possibly knew that Dearka had his loyalty, so fervently attached to the future king, unshakeable to the farthest point.
No, he shook his head amusedly, more than the farthest point. It had reached the end where matters such life and death were but trifles.
On second thought, his conscience told him quietly, perhaps Yzak knew. And that was why the prince trusted him.
---
---
It was with the hastiest of paces that Athrun made his way to his waiting steed. The handsome stallion, with reins firmly held by a stable boy, neighed softly at his approach. Athrun thanked the boy and slipped into his empty hand a few coins he managed to find lying around in his pocket. Appeased by the bright smile he got in return, the young commander mounted his steed and gave her scarlet mane small soothing caresses.
A present from his foster father for his graduation from the military academy, the stallion, Scula, had grown up together with him and they were so close that it troubled him to leave her even in the capable hands of the castle stable. An unusual breed, was perhaps the general opinion concerning his steed and it was not in the matter of colour only. Her flaming almost crimson hair alone implied nothing common, but a horse that only bowed to a single person surely one did not meet just everyday. Athrun rarely felt proud, but of his loyal steed, his pride was immeasurable.
He had barely started his ride home when a familiar cheerful voice called his name and made him turn around to its source. On a black proud stallion, sat a young man of his age with pale olive hair neatly combed atop his head. His smile was amiable, as always, and carried with it an air of innocence possessed by the most precocious of boys. Athrun beamed in reply and greeted warmly the only young commander out of the other three he was comfortable with.
"Nicol! Long time no see, my friend!"
"Almost three months isn't it?" the newly arrived young man approached him, a look of remorse ruling his expression all the way. "I am most regretful to be away when you were assigned to Gibraltar, Athrun. I and my company should have been able to go with you had I come back quicker from Carpentaria. You surely cannot imagine how relieved I was when I heard of the victory." Then the appearance of relief was replaced with a hearty laugh. "But of course it would be the most intolerable to expect less from the finest of ZAFT commanders, wouldn't it?"
"You are exaggerating things," Athrun pointed out dryly. "By the way, does your being here mean that you are summoned by His Majesty?"
"As perceptible as always," Nicol shook his head in amusement. "Indeed I do, but I come earlier than expected, so let me accompany you on the way to your house."
"My pleasure."
The two commanders guided their horses to cross a bridge over a small watercourse, which led them down a sloping lane to the city gate. Athrun breathed in the salubrious noon air with a sense of contentment; how he had missed the meadow breeze and the fulfilling scent of grass. The wind at Gibraltar was too humid, always saturating his tongue with a salty taste. Then again, he might not be able to reminisce the scent of the sea without recalling the smell of blood and the picture of deep blue water tinted with red. It surely made an awful memory.
It was why, Athrun reflected, glancing around to his green surrounding and the city gate, tall and sturdy in front of him, this vast meadow side by side the bustling city was his home. He had lived here since he had been able to remember his name, and although the flames which had forsaken his orphanage in black smoldering ruins left a trace of repulsion to fire in the depth of his mind, he could never ask for a better recompense than the kindness of the family that had adopted him. PLANT, in spite of everything, had always been his place to return to.
Aware of his company who had gone quiet, Nicol cast a wary glance at him and asked, "Did His Majesty say anything disconcerting?"
"No, nothing of the sort," Athrun replied quickly. "I was wondering how things were with your piano now."
Nicol's warm chocolate eyes lit up at once at the mention of his favorite subject and his tone was fervent when he answered, "Most wonderful! I met this man, exceptionally adept with his violin, and he played to me the most magnificent songs I have ever heard. And if I watch him flying his fingers over the piano, always I wish that it were I performing the song."
"Your skill, Nicol, is nothing to be taken lightly," the other commander reminded him, although a little hesitant it was. "But I do not know much about the subject. If it suits you, I will be very glad to let Lacus compile a better judgment. She enjoys music very much."
"Of course," Nicol nodded eagerly before a shadow fell on his face and his voice turned somber. "Besides, I do think that you should do that to comfort her. She will be very upset once you arrive."
For a while, no one exchanged any word as they passed through the city gate and were welcomed by the hustle and bustle of a capital city at the fairest noon. Most of the pedestrians, having recognized them at once, cleared the way for the two nobles and earned a smile or occasional word of gratitude, but Nicol every so often would take a quick look at the impressive armlet at his friend's arm.
"You were exerting your Phidias again, weren't you?" at last he inquired. The look in his face clearly said that he was not amused.
"It was necessary," Athrun's reply was defensive.
"Doubtless, and it is the exact reason why we, commanders, usually are assigned in a pair," the olive-haired commander declared with a frown. "I know of the triumph, but how bad are the casualties actually?"
Athrun did not seem to want handing out any verbal answer for a moment as his jade eyes stared meditatively to the crowded street. Scula, almost as if she could sense the reluctance of her master, started an erratic pace and the echo of her hoofs now sounded above any other noise. The agitation seemed to shake Athrun out of his pensive state and as he stroked his horse's mane soothingly, he answered to Nicol with a faraway look in his eyes, "Gibraltar was in total disarray. The assault had been begun when I arrived – at least for a month – and the morale of the soldiers was not advantageous for us. I had no idea how the Alliance could build so many ships without any of our spies knowing. Then, I proposed the most frantic defensive tactic that had ever crossed my mind and yet it seemed to be the best at the moment. For some reasons, it did work."
But the price had been high. In a situation as dire as that, he had reasoned to himself, better to save many and sacrifice a little than the other way round. All the same, it still haunted him again and again, the moment when he had sent out a legion with the knowledge in his mind and heart that none of them would ever return. Victories always made him lament why he had not led the fallen ones.
The triumph might have not been acquired if you did, a small sensible voice told him. Or was it because you knew what without a doubt would happen and was afraid of it? Another voice, more malicious, consequently accused and made Athrun wince. Searching for a distraction to lead him away from the guilt trip, he realized that his explanation had yet to finish and resumed with a tight voice, "The siege continued for almost three weeks since my arrival. Our provisions were thinning and none of the nearby village and town could spare their stock. I was praying for reinforcement and additional supplies from Junius 7 when the Alliance finally withdrew. Most likely, either their ammunition or supplies also ran out."
Athrun fell silent for a moment, a frown creasing his brow, and then said slowly, "They were, I ought to say, extremely persistent in winning the battle."
"They had not won once in these two years except in the most minor skirmishes, of course they would be determined to have this one," Nicol responded thoughtfully. "Too bad it was you they must confront there."
"I lost eleven of my men," there was a shrill note withheld in the voice of the navy-haired commander who was determined not to look on his friend's anxious face. "I cannot say for sure how many lives were sacrificed from the Fort of Gibraltar, but it must have reached one third of their entire force."
Nicol could not help but to sigh. While Athrun was not exactly like him, who had always kept tracks of the birthdates of those under his command, the other young man loved and was loved by everyone in his own company. He had never seen that kind of devotion for a leader as stanch as that Athrun had received from his soldiers and their loyalty had not been let down by their leader. Not just once or twice Nicol had been informed that his colleague was visiting his ill soldier when he had come to give the commander a small visit of himself.
To lose someone who had been as close as a brother – not merely comrade-in-arms – was devastating. The High General had carefully mentioned to his new commanders of their position and the risks and sacrifices they had to endure, but to be aloof had never been among the two friends's traits in the first place.
Another reason why commanders should be assigned in pairs, he realized, was to help each other going through this stage. Once he had broken down completely of losing more than fifty of his men to a slight miscalculation and it had been Athrun, with his sound way of thinking and calm wisdom, who had stayed by his side, unhesitatingly and unremittingly giving remonstrance to his every expression of self-reproach.
Friendship was a two-way road, and even though it might do little to console his friend, Nicol pronounced solemnly, "May their souls rest in peace."
"They must, with what they have given us," Athrun replied right away and then pondered over his own words. It must be victory he had been referring to, but the term felt hollow to him. Tired of being puzzled, he dismissed it as a side effect of being away from home for too long.
In the meantime, they had reached the west end of the city where the grand estate of the Clyne family was situated. In front of them now was a white ornamented gate of immense height, flanked by a less towering row of wall at each side that went in circle about the residence until it met the edge of the lake. A man in his early twenty hastily approached the gate at their arrival, recognizing the two at once. Athrun turned his horse to face Nicol and was about to offer him to come in when his friend said, "I must go back to the palace now. Give my best regards to your family and just inform me when the lady will have her free time to visit my home."
"Of course. Thank you for everything, Nicol," Athrun smiled and watched until his fellow commander disappeared among the sea of people. He then maneuvered his steed to enter the gate, replying to the warm greeting he received with equal geniality, and breathed out in relief once the gate was closed behind him. Finally, he was home again, in his sanctuary.
For once, today he wasted no time to entertain his aesthetic taste and appreciate the beauty around him, and immediately crossed the verdant lawn, following the established path without dismounting his horse. Once he had arrived and left Scula to the care of his stable attendant – with a sincere promise to give her a visit later – he ascended the stairs leading to the front door. Before he could push the door open, it had swung backward, revealing in front of him the butler of the house.
"Welcome back, Young Master," the middle-aged man addressed him formally with his usual impassive tone, seemingly unsurprised by his return. Then again, the butler had never displayed anything that resembled an expression and had his way to always know about all in the Clyne household.
"Thank you, Nevtodoi. Are my father and sister home already?" Athrun made his inquiry as he stepped into the house.
"Lord Clyne and the lady are in the backyard, Sir. They have just returned from the temple," the reply came without delay, as expected from the butler. "Is there anything I can bring you, Sir?"
"No, thank you. I expect my things to arrive tomorrow morning. Please see to it," said Athrun.
"Certainly, Sir."
"Have a good day, Nevtodoi." With that, he left the butler and went deeper into the grand house with swift long strides. It was a fine residence, quite spacious and comfortable, as expected from the dwelling of the prime minister of such powerful kingdom, yet at the same time not overly lavish. Lord Sighgell Clyne appreciated luxury but never dwelled in it, acutely mindful that others less fortunate could make a better use of his family's overabundant wealth. Such disposition he had encouraged for his children to inherit and now looking at how compassionate the son and daughter were, he could certainly feel at ease.
The house was quiet – it rarely was not – but its quietude spoke of a time of peace, of warmth and serenity, not of aloofness and insurmountable nobility the sumptuous royal palace had often whispered to him. Tall glass panes, always kept open at daylight except during rainfall and blizzard, allowed sparkling streams of sunlight to brighten the vast halls and tidy chambers. At less cheerful nooks could be seen white daisies placed in equally enriching vases, for now it was spring and flowers were plentiful.
As he stepped out to the bright open verandah, Athrun could now discern the large green turf of grass followed by clear sparkling water under the sun. The lake extended vastly that the opposite shore was but a thin brownish-green line to his eyes. Merry twittering of birds told him that here peace still reigned, remaining unsullied by the cries of war at the other side of the continent. And amidst the portrait of harmony were the two he was looking for.
Lord Clyne was a man with no imposing physical stature. His height was of the average, his posture was rather small, and even the colour of his hair was an ordinary yellow. Nevertheless, one could not simply disregard his presence since the Prime Minister emitted about him an air of imperceptible power, strengthened by his unerring acumen, which was appreciated by the King to the highest degree. He also was kindhearted and, unlike most of his predecessors, unusually modest despite his family being one of the oldest nobilities in PLANT. On account of these virtues, there were even sayings that spoke that even though the King was respected and obeyed by the people, it was Prime Minister Clyne they loved.
To his left stood a young lady who bore conspicuous dissimilarities to him. While his hair was of a dull yellow, hers had the most striking shade of pink, flowing unrestrained past her waist like the most delicate weaving made of silk. Her features were among the most beautiful Athrun had ever set his eyes on, and in the way she moved there was an air of imperturbable elegance, fashioned by the noblest lineage and finest upbringing. But it was in their eyes where he could finally spot a trace of their semblance. In them he fathomed the ability to overcome the viciousness of temper, a seemingly unending field of patience, and the greatest of all, profound wisdom.
The father and daughter were conversing quietly when he advanced toward them. It was Lacus who took notice of his coming first as a surprised expression flitted across her countenance, followed a second later by a joyful exclamation of his name. It made her father turn around and he too exclaimed, "Athrun! You gave no words that you were returning today!"
Immediately the lord strode forward and engulfed his foster son in his arms before he had the chance to make a salute. Once he had pulled back, the man made an observation over Athrun's appearance and stated disapprovingly, "You look exhausted and emaciated. Haven't I told you that taking a good care of his own health was one of a commander's most essential obligations?"
"You have, Father," Athrun answered meekly, "but our provisions were little and of course I could not indulge myself while my soldiers were enduring hunger."
"Let us not speak of war now that you have just returned," his father said firmly but his countenance softened. "I am grateful enough that you have managed to come back safely."
And then the lord stepped aside, allowing his foster son to now stand before his daughter. Athrun bowed, but then was confounded to notice that Lacus did not extend her hand for him to kiss as usual. Instead, the young lady put her arms around his neck and gave him one of the embraces affectionate siblings often shared, which promptly impelled a faint shade of blush to rise to his cheeks. Living for seven years with her did not quite ease his awkwardness of close contacts, but he was quick to recover and a moment later had returned the embrace courteously.
"I am glad to have you back home, Athrun," Lacus said warmly as they pulled apart, her hands remaining on his arms. "Are you injured?"
"A little, but nothing you should trouble yourself over," he smiled reassuringly, which unfortunately did little to render his statement more convincing if her change of expression was anything to consider.
"I am obliged to say that I find it hard to believe," the young lady announced but Athrun only widened his smile, accustomed to this kind of argument whenever he returned from a long, hard-fought battle. Strolling wordlessly beside the pair as they headed to a gazebo in the middle of the lawn, Lord Clyne had his eyes unimpeded to study the sight before him with the utmost liberty.
The children were his pride in many aspects. Lacus, as a daughter, was one that no father could claim as a disappointment and he could barely imagine a daughter more endearing than his own – polite, gentle yet firm, beautiful but never vain. She was also the priestess whom most if not all people in the kingdom loved and cherished, who had saved the lives of many with her unrivaled magic when a plague had broken out a year ago. However, there were times when he – with a strong combination of joy and wistfulness – did wish that she were not so much a splitting image of her mother, whose eminent beauty had once left his hands full to save from harm, and Lacus inheriting this feature practically assigned him to the same responsibility once more.
But, when then his gaze and thought diverted to Athrun, an enigmatic smile crept to his lips.
It had been a rash decision of him, founded on nothing but spontaneity and clearly without much consideration, how the young man had come into the long history of Clyne family. All of it had started with an orphanage conflagration, a major one which left not only the institution in ruins, but also a considerable number of neighboring houses. Two days after, he had visited the area, partially because he was the Prime Minister and mostly out of his genuine commiseration. The sight which had greeted his arrival had been still hideous although any revolting smell had lessened a great deal during the gap of two days, leaving in the air a silent bitter aftertaste. It had dismayed him to think about the future those parentless children had no chance to experience and the fact that it was the slightest of petty negligence – somebody had forgotten to put the fire in the common room out – that had robbed them of those bright prospects.
On the other hand, if it was not due to the fire, he might never meet his foster son.
Wasn't it in the kitchen, he questioned himself thoughtfully. The memory was dimming but Lord Clyne could still recall a ten years old boy, crouching at a corner between a cookstove and half-ruined wall, face streaked and blackened by charcoal and ashes. Leaving no less deep impression in his mind were the rigid defiance, the pitiful defensive stance the boy had desperately set at his emergence, and then the dull partly-burnt knife, its edge directed at him, gripped by one trembling hand while the other was clutching a small piece of stale bread close to his chest like it was the ultimate treasure of the world.
Probably it had been the heart-rending paradox the picture before him embodied, but the noble lord then had reached out, gently as not to frighten the little child, and after much soothing and coaxing, gathered him into his arms. The boy had remained stiff and silent even during their journey in the carriage, his eyes, curious but still distrustful, giving him a sidelong look at every turn. When they had arrived at the Clyne estate, as he had stepped down from the carriage and looked around with somewhat dulled interest, he then had collapsed, unconscious.
Such had been the mystery and the thoughts about the boy had stayed with the lord throughout the night. But at the next morning, after Nevtodoi had informed him that the young lad had been prepared to meet him properly, a youngster with virtually no resemblance to the timorous boy he had brought home just the day before had stepped into the dining room. Clean and neatly dressed, the boy had stood like a young aristocrat. He had been polite and handsome under the morning light, appropriately timid but with cords of confidence subtly interweaved in his conduct. Yet it was impossible, Lord Clyne had reminded himself, for a child to alter into such contrasting persona when one mere night was all that passed.
Still very much bewildered, he had beckoned the boy to approach and at a closer inspection, the answer had offered itself to his eyes. It had been saddening to see the boy concealing his anxiety with a mask of composure no one of his age should have mastered so skillfully. A child forced to maturity, he had assumed and been required to wonder what would happen now that the boy had practically no one to depend on.
And the similarity. His realization had surfaced immediately upon the first look with no need to peruse or question his memory further. Night blue hair falling classily about the pallid skin, then a pair of emerald eyes that held his gaze steadily with no traceable impertinence, and the proud outline of jaw and cheekbones framing the face which most assuredly would compel heads to turn and look at his direction; these features, the lord had been aware, was the traits only one old noble family inherited.
The Zala family, whose lineage at PLANT had ended ten years ago in a massacre which had yet to reveal its truth.
Once in awhile, he would feel this coldness crawling up his spine every time the particular incident was brought afresh to his mind. It was not pleasant at all to know that the security of PLANT could be so easily breached, because of course the slaughterer could not be one of the citizens. Despite their callousness in handling some matters, the family was generally liked. Furthermore, what kind of plan could easily sweep all members of family whose men were renowned as the best generals and commanders except a large-scale conspiracy?
It had been a time of chaos. A month before the incident, their Queen, Lenore Zala, had passed away when she had given birth and the long awaited crown prince – or princess, since no one could be sure – had been kidnapped by a Knight whose loyalty apparently did not lie with the King, leaving all present during the labor killed. The clandestine operation soon had been followed with the arrival of a demand for the King to withdraw ZAFT soldiers from every conquered OMNI cities and to relinquish Banadia, Gibraltar, and Jachin Due to the newly formed Alliance. However, in distress and anger of losing his wife, the King had refused and immediately dispatched troops to take over Victoria. The attack had failed and to him had been sent back the dead body of his son. The kingdom had had yet to recover from the loss when another heavy blow, the disappearance of the entire member of the Zala clan, strike.
However, the horror had not ended there. Two weeks after the unexplained disappearance, a patrolling guard had found each of the missing just outside the city gate, all covered by white cloth sullied by brown soil and dried blood, pale and lifeless.
It was rather surprising that the city had not plunged into absolute chaos afterwards.
The dark time had supposed to end by now, Lord Clyne had firmly convinced himself, but even after the King had taken a new queen consort, he vehemently rebuffed his Prime Minister's advice to cease the war. Nothing changed much in years and now, as he had stared at the enigmatic boy, questions began to rise.
In the end, the lord had to settle on the best guess he had been able to come up with. This boy, Athrun – now his name was at least known although there was no surname to follow – might be a son who had miraculously survived the Zala clan's carnage and no one knew about. Now that he had taken a liking to the child and his refined manner, the Prime Minister made a decision to adopt the boy since he had no son of his own. Nevertheless he had no proof of the boy's lineage and hence could do little but to announce formally that Athrun was the son of his distant relative who had married a fine Zala gentleman and lived at Jachin Due. The family had died in a carriage accident many years ago, but details were seldom fussed over there at PLANT as long as the incident did not happen in the city itself.
So far, nothing had roused in him the need to lament his hasty, possibly dangerous decision. His curious lineage aside, Athrun was the exact epitome of a wonderful son he had often dreamt. A boy who had made his precious daughter smile not the kind of gentle smile she offered everyone warmly, but a smile full of wonder, curiosity, and affection. Athrun was a promise that she would never again feel alone or neglected in the vast house.
That made him wonder sometimes.
Many young men, fine nobles and earls, had expressed their desire of his daughter's hand in marriage, each with their own numerous virtues and almost no lacking. Still, every time he observed her, he had a distinct impression that it was not her wish to do so. She was polite toward every one of them, yes, but entertaining no more than regular courtesy.
The Prime Minister frowned. This matter was actually quite a burden for his mind and had been plaguing him since Lacus reached a marriageable age. Many noble families, all wealthy and influential, set their eyes on her as a prospect to gain the alliance of the Clyne family. The fact that he had no legal heir – a son, so to say – encouraged them even more. Marriage proposals had been sent, some of them outrageously blatant while the others repulsively praiseful, but none he had accepted. To marry for politics was one thing he did not wish to happen to his beloved daughter.
Especially now when he saw her talking softly to her brother, with a smile she had never given to anyone else but those whom she held dear in her heart. The Prime Minister could not help but to smile, though a little wistful it was. This idea had often crossed his mind, at times relieving and yet at others also dimming his vigor. Such idea as marrying Lacus, he knew, would never come from Athrun's mouth for he was unfortunately ever conscious of his unclear, ambiguous status.
He sighed and disposed the matter from his thoughts for the time being. Lacus had excused herself to prepare the afternoon tea and so he turned to his foster son.
"Have you reported to the palace? The King must be proud of your accomplishment."
"Yes, as soon as I have arrived," Athrun replied, and then added with a quiet hint of reserve, "His Majesty did not seem to find me satisfactory."
The Prime Minister waved his hand dismissively. "Do not let that trouble your mind. He has never showed much fondness to anyone since the incident, so you are hardly at fault."
It was true, but Sighgell Clyne was not sure how far. He did not mention that it was the uncanny resemblance Athrun had with the late Queen Lenore which most likely stirred the dislike within the King's heart. His navy-coloured hair and emerald eyes were entirely the reflection of hers, but then again so were most of other Zala family members – or would have been if they had been still alive.
But Athrun was his son.
The Prime Minister smiled and put an arm around the young man who was already as tall as he was, and said, "Let us go inside. I am sure Lacus has prepared some refreshments for you. And after that I want you to rest and think nothing of war as long as you are home."
Home. He knew Athrun's melancholy smile was invoked by that word. But Athrun was his son, which meant that this was also his home, a place for him to return to.
And whether or not this young man would marry his daughter in the future, he would remain to be a son Sighgell Clyne would eternally be proud of.
- To be continued -
Notes: Here is my explanation concerning magic in this fic.
Everybody in this world obtains a blessing. He or she can major whether in magic or physical strength or both in reasonable level. Those with great powers possess either a Phidias or a Rerum. Both can only be used for a certain time (according to its wearer's power) and if it is spent, it will enter a dormant state for a while until it can be used again. There is a folklore that one can possess both Phidias and Rerum, worthy of the title 'Elite'. However, such things have not happened for as long as people can remember and thus it becomes merely a legend.
Despite majoring at one of the two aspects, everyone has their elements. Basically everyone can use magic but their elemental attack and defense are determined by their magic power. The four elements are Fire (mostly attacking spells), Water (both attacking and healing spells), Earth (attacking and defensive spells) and Wind (attacking spells and a few healing spells). Apart from their ability to conjure spells, this will also affect them in the nature of each element such as a Fire is superior to a Wind, a Water to a Fire, and so on in the order as mentioned above. As for how many spells each individual can master, it depends on their own magic power and their will to learn. For example, the difference between a soldier of ZAFT and a peasant. Even though both possess equal blessing since birth, if the soldier learn more about magic and spells, he will be more well-versed in magic compared to the peasant who most likely will have no need to deal with any magic in his life.
If you want to find a comparison with an RPG, it will be Suikoden, the best RPG in my opinion. I have to admit that many ideas for this fic come from that game. All hail Konami!
Thank you for everyone who has read and reviewed. Hope you still enjoy this chapter. Review again?
Chapter 4: Kira and his group start their own adventure!
---
Yzak Jule
Age: 17
Rank: Knight
Element: Fire
Origin: PLANT
Statistics:
-- Strength: 110 (excellent)
-- Defense: 99 (good)
-- Magic: 113 (excellent)
-- Magic Defense: 108 (excellent)
-- Agility: 121 (excellent)
-- Accuracy: 92 (good)
-- Stamina: 106 (excellent)
I will no longer include specialty in the stats as I realize that it most likely will change as the characters develop.