Chapter 3: Meeting
Consciousness.
It came to him, though as a blessing or as a curse, he did not know.
The answer came to him in an instant.
Fire burnt around him.
At the moment he only knew of a heat; a flame that seemingly rose from the depths of his chest, consuming him from without; burning forth from within the hearts of hearts.
The heat caused his breaths to scald past the walls of his windpipe with each stolen breath, and escape as warm air from his lips; like a poison leisurely but surely seeping deeper and deeper into his lungs.
It was a terrible feeling, yet it did not feel foreign. Suffering was quite like an old friend to him… though he did not quite remember who he was.
He frowned as the thought surfaced, it had the consistency of smoke, and it slipped through the crevices between his fingers as would vapour. And he realized he was not capable of coherent thought.
Pain befalls all men, she is an impartial judge who reigns high above all.
The fire licked at his weakening resolve to not to succumb to oblivion. He did not understand why he had to endure this sort of torture; he did not know why he had to fight just to draw air. Somehow, he had mustered enough awareness to know that his person was not uninjured or whole, but he simply could not remember why.
Then there was pain.
It came, more persistent than the fires; more horrible than words can describe. It was everywhere the fire had seared, and took one more faces than a chameleon. It raged and pulsed like a vein of molten lava, the sensation was excruciating as it tore through his body in waves, ravaging what was left of his brokenness. He would have screamed if he could.
He desired to move- to escape from the horror of the flame and pain, but he realized he could not, no matter how he willed his body, his injured and sedated muscles would not budge. It should not come as a surprise; he could barely breathe in the first place. A terrible realization dawned on him, that he had become helpless and powerless in the face of danger once again. He had been reduced to a creature that was both vulnerable and weak, and he hated it. There was no use fighting, he could not win. He hated himself.
With all his heart, he wished for death to come...
Moisture of some sort dripped onto his face, and for an instant; the fire was quenched; defeated. It was a great measure of relief as the moisture ran down his skin, bringing a trail of cooling- healing - in its wake.
Like the clouds that melt, and with its train of drops gently soften the earth. Like the eyes that weep, and tears, pure and cooling, ran as spring water would over his hardened heart; causing his once-concrete resolve to waver- his resolve to die…
Hands touched his face, it was small and fluttery soft; like a bird, a feather. Hands that was cooler than the fire; that wiped the water from his face. Fingers gently trace the contours of his face; and were curiously playing a game of hide-and-seek. They touched him one time, two, then disappeared. He was alarmed; he yearned for the cooling touch to be bestowed to him once again. He yearned to be healed.
Those hands came again, and this time landed on his collar bone, and appeared to be fiddling and fumbling with something. After a few moments he realized the owner of those hands was removing his shirt.
For a moment, he panicked, he was not used to anyone undressing him. He attempted to move again, but what met his clumsy attempt to protest was a bout of sharp pain that flared from somewhere on his chest. He almost cried out, but could not find his voice.
The person paused, and her hand came to rest on his uninjured shoulder, and held him gingerly as if afraid she had been the one who hurt him. Her hands were miraculously reassuring, and for some reason; familiar. Those hands did not belong to an enemy, and they promised to be gentle. Athrun could not object even if he wanted to, so he drew a few more shaky breaths, and willed himself to relax.
The owner of those hands seemed to sense his resignment, for they resumed their action, this time somewhat more cautiously. The buttons came undone, one after another as it passed. All the way down they went, pausing to be extra gentle over his broken ribs. Cool air met his exposed skin, and it was cold in contrast, he shivered slightly.
Moisture touched his face again, this time in the form of a wet fabric. It wiped the perspiration off his face, and proceeded down his neck and chest. Quenching the heat, putting out the flames even just for a moment. Athrun felt better, and was utterly grateful to the pairs of hands who offered him salvation and redemption; even if it was transient and short-lived.
He realized he was able to feel parts of himself again, he was whole; but not whole. The sensations that met his arm and chest did not feel right. He was wrapped up in bandages, and he could feel the layers compressing the dressings, pressing them against his wounds. He could feel the dampness and warmth as it slide over his skin with each raspy breath. He could hear his own breaths, but he realized he could also hear a voice...
Someone was calling his name.
A cool, smooth and spherical trinket landed on his collar bone. And he could feel hands fiddling with clasps beside his neck. Next, the person buttoned up his shirt, and took both his hands and laid them over the stone.
She held on there, four hands and a little pebble hidden within. She muttered something like a prayer, and this time Athrun caught words. But more important than the words that were spoken was her voice, that voice!!
This was the first voice that Athrun had been hoping to hear if he actually survived. Even if he did not, he wished to at least be given the chance to say goodbye…
Her forehead touched his; he knew it was her forehead as the tip of her nose touched him as well. She made a choked sound now, and it was sad and desperate; each of her teardrops sprinkled onto his face, light and lonely. She sobbed quietly for a few more moments in the same position, head-to-head and heart-to-heart. As if by some means, hoping Athrun could understand the unspoken that were in her heart...
Cagalli...
Finally, when she spoke, Athrun could hear.
"Athrun…please wake up. Please…"
Cagalli.
His heart wrenched painfully, and all he wanted to open his eyes and touch her and embrace her and tell her everything is alright. He wanted to wipe away her tears and her hurts and then hold her some more. But he could not move. No matter how he willed his battered body to respond, nothing happened, he was like the captain of a ship with a broken steering wheel. He could not respond to her sorrow, he could do nothing to take it away.
Move, damn it!
But even as her face pulled away, even as he began to panic; there was nothing he could do to draw her back to him. Her sobs had become audible now, and was muffled, probably by her own hand. And at the moment, Athrun hated himself even more, despair claimed him as her hands left his own, it felt as if a chunk of flesh was torn off his heart. He had come so far, only to lose her again.
Cagalli!
Tears started rolling down the sides of his face, he had not realized, but he had started crying with her. He did not want to give up, and summoning the same willpower that had enabled him to grip onto the pendant when he was desperately wounded, he willed his hand to move, to reach out and tried to touch her one last time.
At last, he managed to crack open his eyes. White light flooded into his vision, and he grimaced, but was unwilling to take his eyes off the retreating back of the girl he love.
Cagalli was white, and beautiful as an angel, more beautiful than he ever remembered her to be. She was the miracle that he had hoped to see. Sobs wrecked her shoulders, and beside her was another familiar figure who placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, someone whom Athrun could not recognize at the moment. And at the periphery of his vision, was his own hand; pale and weak. Lifted barely centimeters off the sheets, forlorn and forsaken, crying out for her to return; to take his hands in hers once again…
Cagalli...!
In the end, he only managed to mouth her name, but no voice came forth from his parched throat...
The hand fell involuntarily as his strength failed, and the ground seemed to disappear beneath him; Athrun found himself plunging headlong into darkness. But this time, he was no longer afraid, he had seen, felt and heard Cagalli once more…
The pendant that now rested over his heart felt warm.
And…That's enough…it doesn't matter if he does not wake up ever again…
I'm so glad I met you…Cagalli.
oooooo
This is chapter 3. Hope you like it!
R & R please! And also, I uploaded a new illustration of Athrun and Cagalli on .com, the user name is 'Mingathur' and the title of the illustration is 'Desire'. Feel free to comment as well!
Yours
Ming