Disclaimer: I own nothing of GS/GSD. R&R please.
Chapter 7
For a long time, Rune Estragon sat in the annex, not quite thinking but pondering deeply enough about the captive in his house
It was Rune Estragon who thought in that highly precise, very systematic way. Athrun Zala did the same. The difference lay in Athrun Zala being unaware of his surroundings when he was in semi-thought, and Rune Estragon becoming more wary on his environment when he was inclined to think. And the greatest difference lay in the simple fact that in this room, there was only Athrun Zala, no Rune Estragon, no aristocratic, impersonal and intelligent businessman, no person who had no qualms about threatening and carrying out his threats.
It was here that the mask was peeled off, layer by layer, melting off and becoming a mist in the air as his eyes saw and registered everything of some importance. Rune Estragon saw nothing as important, nothing worth putting value to. The lights that danced about in the room were melding into each other, like pale, forsaken crows that left their flock to scavenge and return to taunt the others who had not gotten such prizes. He was accustomed to this flickering, and did not try to read in this place for his eyes' sake, and he was comforted by the drowsiness of the air and the scent of the candles. As Athrun Zala, he did not like to think of the shadows and the light as menacing. Too much light hurt his eyes after a childhood incident when he'd been accidentally burnt. Even now, he sometimes threw his hand up to his face when light was too close to his eyes, but he was drawn to light and the sun.
As Rune Estragon however, the shadows were a nuisance. Too much lurking in one corner. Too much to be conscious of, too much to take care of in case there was one concealed in the corner- although that was highly unlikely, of course. But Rune Estragon was never too careful. He stood up with that affliction of weary masculinity and withdrawn grace and lighted another lamp. There was no electricity in this room for no particular reason to Rune Estragon. For Athrun Zala, too much light would make the photographs dull faster.
It was simply that he had wanted revenge. It had been the strains of a wounded human affection compounded with the old contempt, although having her kiss him was another thing, of course. He wanted her to kiss him- he wanted her. The sun was already rising beyond the windows of this room, and it cast an uneven, mostly circular bloodstain over the gauze of the curtains. On his table, he had a few books he'd gotten from a safe that had been opened a few years ago with the Second Will his father had left behind. The First Will had been opened nine years ago. The third would be opened in two year' time. But for now, he had not been given more than five more businesses to take charge of, with the old things from his childhood and some of his father's old belongings. These lay on the elongated, fine shape of the table, along with a paraffin lamp that trapped a trembling, low leaf of a flame in its glass enclosure. Of course there were shadows-there were always shadows, like reminders of self-abasement and genuine, saving resentment towards Cagalli, the only person who had spurned him when it had mattered.
Holding the battered, childhood copy of Franny and Zooey he'd somehow gotten hold of was not the most sickening thing Athrun had ever done after surviving the wars. Children had been brought up with books on naughty, rather endearingly foolish rabbits that snuck into gardens and bloated themselves on forbidden lettuce. Athrun Zala was a different case altogether.
He was born a scion of an old family of old power and old money, and really, the Plants had its own hierarchy altogether, in spite of general free markets and the discouraging of economic monopoly for the established families. Of course the established families had been established enough to become the leaders of a new world once more, and they'd gained monopolies relatively quickly, so really, there was no point of having laws that benefited nobody. It was in this light and this kind of privileged background that he had been born into part of the high society. His father had told him that, drummed it in him with that heavy-handed way of his, providing a 'standard' education for all old families' heirs with proper lessons on etiquette and culture, giving him all the toys he could ever want, while insisting and threatening that his son would not spoilt. This was a surprisingly accurate diagnosis of the boy who had grown up to be Athrun Zala- a quiet, quietly handsome and intelligent but slightly introverted boy with guardedly innocent, trustingly doubtful eyes. His mouth was made to look like a finely-drawn crescent moon that was never quite defined as a smiling or weeping mouth, and those who saw it often thought it melancholy and beautiful, those who knew him and knew that he had many but few friends. His character was another thing- he never flew into a rage, but his temper was slow-burning and intense, and when he did show his ire, it was with a humorous poison. He was never sarcastic, but he had been distinctively wry in that maddeningly prepossessing manner. He'd been taught to be impersonal and courteous, well-mannered with a killer's instinct.
But that was a mixture of nurture and nature in itself, and Patrick Zala's way of involvement- as a man, a husband, a father, he could never quite let it be; always had to plunge his hand from the icy cold into the fire to warm it. So it had been that his son was brought up on a manual to observing the organized chaos of a dysfunctional family, perhaps without even realizing that the later parts of his life and whatever that remained of a relationship between the father and son mimicked his childhood novels.
Athrun couldn't remember how he'd gotten his hands on this particular book amongst others that were scattered around. Had his mother objected to his reading habits or more likely, the choice of book? No, she'd been pleased as all mothers inherently tended to be when their children were diagnosed as particularly gifted or unusually mature. In fact, most Coordinator children were. His first talk about spring and that sort of thing associated with girls had been at ten, amidst a school hall of giggling boys and surly, embarrassed girls. Coordinator children, in general matured fast. It was again, their nature and their parents' nurture in the backdrop scenery of a looming war and the history of how they'd been nearly eradicated by the Naturals. Small wonder that the adults tried to educate the children early, lest they die early, lest their own children die early, and lest the hatred was not passed on to the next generation. That sort of parenting attitude had been passed on to every kind of education available, even rather embarrassing talks the children snickered at and the educators cringed at. But to a young man, it had been a remarkable experience. His own practical education had begun early anyway; as early as he'd enlisted in the army and watched seniors get packed off to war at the grounds where the airships took off, leaving hysterically-crying girlfriends and that kind of things behind.
The first girl he'd been close to had been Lacus, but that was different. Lacus was someone far away from war, someone in her own white palace with her lovely face and shining eyes and ignorance of what happened in trenches and dark space where nuclear sounds and the final screams were silenced by the laws of physics that no sound would be heard in space. He hadn't thought of Lacus as a girl; more of a distant future if he survived the present. A wife, a fiancée for now, not a living, breathing entity, but a figure cut in alabaster with the eternal smile and pure heart that was too pure for her own good. He rarely thought of Lacus while in the trenches- which made him more obliging and courteous to her when he knew it was time to make a courtesy call during his breaks. He never desired her physically- it had never occurred to him that she might have had a strange sensuality because he had never thought of her as a mortal. She might have been an angel, an android, or a computer program for all he was concerned about- perfect, unadulterated, and even boring. The first girl he'd been with, the first real girl, had been kind and warm and alive, about five years older than him, red-eyed and cheerful as she waved her comrade and lover off.
He'd been amongst those who waved their loved ones off, quiet and withdrawn, a few months into the ZAFT forces with only the memory of his mother and her death on the commercial widescreen to keep him from going mad from the desire to hunt and kill. They'd bumped into each other and he'd apologized for making her drop her things, looking up and comprehending quite suddenly that his hands had accidentally brushed against her rear. She didn't register outrage or embarrassment, and he was glad that he didn't have to pretend to be affected by it.
He'd picked the things up for her, and realized that they'd been the things her boyfriend had left behind. He'd been puzzled- asked her why she was taking them away. She'd laughed, as if her swollen eyes didn't matter, as if her trembling hands were steady, like her voice wasn't hoarse from trying not to cry, and she teased his prying questions, and then sobered and told him that her boyfriend was simply not coming back. There was no chance of it at all. And she was right.
Two hours later, the news came that the ship had been annihilated for want of numbers against the sweeping Natural troops. He had thought about what she'd said and didn't feel quite sorry, only a dull satisfaction and that confirmation of the rage against the enemies worthy of his hatred.
Then he'd seen her walking towards a corner of the camp and without a conscious understanding of the need to comfort and be comforted, he followed after her. They didn't bother talking much after the initial greeting and his cautious questions. But they returned separately, three hours later.
She'd cried after that, told him she wasn't sorry however, that he'd been keeping her company. They had ended up in one of those abandoned warehouses even the runts avoided going to; there were rumors of it being haunted, and people did not like to provoke things like that in general. But she pooh-poohed those; on hindsight, he knew she hadn't been afraid of anything, not even death, much less the undead, and they spent the next few days returning, quietly seeking each other amongst the throngs of weeping comrades who had survived the dead ones.
The warehouse had smelt of various substances; sweetly musky rotted wood, talcum powder for boots, copper and rust, not surprisingly, and a popular perfume for the ladies. Amidst this were the more subtle things, the familiar scent of a man's desire, walnut benches, mossy fragrances and the tangy sweat of human bodies and exercise. Athrun sometimes suspected, were the source of the 'ghosts'. Purely speaking, he gained firsthand knowledge that there were no such specters, only the cries of his senior and their moans as they spent hour after hour in their desperate, needy lovemaking. He was convinced, after that, that the rumors had been encouraged to provide a sort of informal but official place for couples.
She taught him all there was to know, willingly because she had nothing left to live for and because she was a generous lover by nature, and he rather enjoyed himself as she did, once they'd moved past their initial grieving and mutual comforting. They used to enter, locking the door and fastening it haphazardly while they struggled to remove their clothing and reach each other. She had a thick mop of long, swinging auburn hair, a fringe that sometimes covered her very large, sorrowful eyes. Her face had been quite pretty, that much he was sure of; but if she had appeared a little lanky, slightly boyish figure with thin shoulders and legs that looked almost gangly in her pilot suit, then stripped bare, she had been otherwise.
In his arms, she'd been full and rounded with warm flesh and eager want of him, and he had enjoyed the curves he hadn't thought to notice, the way she knew how to engage him. It hadn't occurred to him then that she'd lost a lot of weight recently, with worrying and stress, but he had been fascinated by how her thin, small shoulders were sometimes hunched when she arched herself to him as he busied himself with her. He remembered her fair skin being quite freckly, although he was enamored by this imperfection and was physically attracted to her all the more for it. She had been slightly taller than him, which was unusual for a girl, but then he had been five years younger and was to soon experience another growth spurt anyway. They spent hours sprawled all over the low, nearly broken table, a clean towel she'd found and brought with her so they wouldn't suffer from splinters in their backs and limbs as they'd writhed and panted, her hands exploring him and his face unmasked and his aggressiveness obvious because of her encouragement.
And he was sorry to see her go and never return one day. But he didn't ask her to stay- that was simply impossible for two reasons. One, enlistment meant complete loyalty to ZAFT and the orders. Two, he did not love her although he was beginning to care. He hadn't even remembered her name; but then, she had never told him her name and he'd never asked. He did remember her unit however, and he was surprised to know that it was a highly-ranked GOUF unit. He did not pay homage to her memory- there was no need for that. He hadn't loved her, and they'd been almost-friends but not quite.
That was the kind of life the war showed them, and it was not a sordid one in spite of its nature. Little things like that persisted in his memory and the way his mouth was neither smiling nor crying. Above all, the knowledge, or more accurately, the belief that he had to avenge, had to eradicate the enemy lurked in him, in the way he smiled, the way he carried himself and the gun in his coat, the way he received the title of the Redcoat rank.
Had Lenore realized that his father had encouraged that belief? Perhaps not. The signature on the second last page of every book Athrun had was an embellished stamp of P.Z. Even at that point, his father had been reliant on a pre-cast signature. The birthday message had been embedded in the message of the book, at least, that was what the eight-year old had believed. After all, there hadn't been any handwritten message on the leaves of a book that may have well been the library book he borrowed on a weekly basis, the book with the crisp pages with that new smell and a stately, organized and significantly indifferent stamp.
His mother had been a simple, slightly underprivileged town girl whom Patrick had married when he had decided it was time to move on to the next stage of his life and ambitions- fathering a son to succeed the already thinned bloodline of the Zala House. The justification for his marriage to young girl barely on the cusp of womanhood when he'd been a thriving, ambition-led man in the prime of his life was as good as anybody's guess. But that was not to say that he did not love Lenore. Certainly, he had loved her enough to claim her as his own instead of stringing her along as one of those who appeared in society-magazines for a while and then faded into oblivion; there had been hushed reports of a man Patrick Zala had nearly beaten into unconsciousness for laying a hand on his wife in drunken desire, but that had been silenced because Patrick Zala was ceded to be part of the High Council in a few months.
Inarguably, Patrick had loved her in the end; he'd become the insane genocidal beast for her, the most obvious declaration of obsessed love if there ever was one. And who could deny that he had loved her with all his soul, if he ever had one in the first place? Nobody in the Plants had truly noticed, with the instinctive repulsion towards Naturals and the sheer brilliance of Patrick Zala's fragmented mind blinding them each time with his election speeches, that Patrick Zala had gone mad in the months after his wife's demise.
It was all over the diaries Athrun kept in a box, locked away somewhere he did not like to try and remember; neat, very disciplined, flowing penmanship, a memo about meeting Lenore Zala for lunch and actually remarking what an enjoyable outing it had been. It had been three weeks after Lenore Zala had been eradicated with most of Junius Seven.
Things like that, scattered everywhere in the pages of a diary only Patrick had access to until it had been handed over to the family safe after his demise. The State had demanded it from Athrun Zala right after the First War had ended, but he had politely claimed it as his own. It had dangerous plans that involved other plans if Genesis had failed, but then Athrun wasn't; about to press the trigger and he felt a indelible sense of pity and ironic sentimentality for a man who had been ruined.
And nobody had quite known that the brilliant man who had gone to the top Universities by his own merit and a little push of family funding had started taking multiple wrong turns every evening as he had driven home, a mirror of the life that he was to forge for himself until the time came when he was to die. And his death had been completed in the whimpering manner Patrick Zala despised of others and yet showed during the crisis of the Genesis chaos he'd constructed for himself and the world.
When Lenore had married Patrick Zala, it had been the classic rags-to-riches story, never mind the twelve year age gap or how infamously stoic Patrick Zala was. It was fundamental that the wedding was the event of the year, there was a long checklist of ostentatious costs, suits, bridesmaids Lenore had probably never met until her wedding day, and the kind of posterity one could expect form a young, stunning and stunningly ordinary girl marrying into stations high above her middle-class profession social denomination.
She hadn't been ignorant, only ill-informed, and her training as a leading anthropologist hadn't quite prepared her for her social debutante. Naturally, she'd retreated into a sort of homely shell, allocating all her time to her son and her husband, adoring them both, having both of them adore her, and in the process, Lenore hadn't opposed to having countless of books being given to Athrun. This was especially when she was unaware of the history of certain prose that had induced a murder of a famous politician at one time or another. Patrick Zala had taken full advantage of that, of course. Between his office politics and limited family interactions, he'd decided that his son would be an educated gentleman.
In certain respects, Athrun was his father. He'd been brought up to be his father, without his mother quite understanding that, without his father understanding that he was destroying something in Athrun with the love he showered on the child with books adults grappled over to understand and shot themselves in the head when they found they could not.
But Athrun was never inclined to be suicidal; he'd tottered around as a child of eight, asking what this word and that word meant, asking what it meant to have a religion, asking why Franny's friend suggested that they get friendly when they were already friends, asking why Zooey talked about the Fat Lady, who the Fat Lady was-
In all assumed honesty to himself, he had never been because he was too engrossed in living for the dead to remember how it was to die while living. He'd died a few times- watched his mother being blown to smithereens on the giant diamond screens that took a break from advertising the latest tune-playing gadgets, killed a man and spent a whole day washing his hands and face until the skin was nearly torn, betrayed by his father, shot in the arm by the man who'd once bounced him on his lap, things like that.
But Athrun was not embittered, sophisticated yes; but not embittered. He was the kind of man who instinctively trusted without taking for granted that betrayals occurred everywhere and at any time, the kind of man who people did not dare to not respect, but the kind of man who was more assessing and critical of himself than anybody else. He despised himself but saw no better way of living
Be it for his wretched, unhappy parents or the comrades he'd lost, Athrun could not quite ignore their presence in his memory. And reading it every night as light reading before one slept made it a routine depression that he somehow found tension-relieving. It didn't make deep reading in his opinion- the thoughts of the Glass siblings, like organized chaos, was actually quite refreshing from the staid business reports. Again, he was far too concerned with the present to understand that he was living from a window in his past.
The copy lay amidst the other miscellaneous things. The place was bathed in beige and sepia tones of wood, masculine and somehow raw because Athrun had not bothered furnishing it, save for a simple couch he sometimes sat on to think. He could not do his business dealings here, let alone his planning- this place was far too sacred for anybody to desecrate, and yet it had that comforting, slightly musky smell of a place that was not over-sanitized but well-preserved.
It was the only place where Rune Estragon was a mere cover, a duvet over his head, a singly room that was worth a few rooms put together. Even after seven years, he had not changed a single thing in this room, akin to how he had not bothered changing himself physically. He was different, he knew that innately, something cold and comprehending in him, like an illness that he had not recovered from- not too sick enough to die, but not recovered enough to be irritable about its presence.
But she was tearing through all of that, each time she called him Athrun, looked at him with unconscious confusion in her eyes when he did something cruel or out of character, in her opinion at least. What was cruelty? Kicking a cat or hitting a child? Or making her understand that he saw her as a woman, not a war-comrade he could embrace without a certain depth of desire? There was always a sickening satisfaction when he saw that she sensed this and was frightened of him and herself. But he'd proven he didn't need her and had long forgotten about her, hadn't he?
When he had claimed his returns for supplying her information she had begged for, he hadn't liked the way she allowed him to kiss her possessively and almost desperately. Ideally, that was what he had wanted- for Cagalli Yula Atha to submit to him physically and by extension, mentally and emotionally, but the reality that she had made him slightly nauseous now.
It wasn't the kiss itself- no, she had been sweet and thrilling, raw and compellingly vulnerable, and the mere recollection of the way she had willingly uplifted her gaze and brought herself close to him made him slightly dazed. But the kiss evoked so many memories the pat seven years had once numbed and blocked out, that he feel something in him was at the point of rupture.
He was nearly inarticulate with irritation at her and himself.
And really- that was the problem. He still loved Cagalli. If he had forgotten her, now he was falling for her all over again. Which was worst? The renewal of desire and affection or a reminder of something that inherently existed in him?
Athrun honestly didn't know.
His hand brushed across the cover of Franny and Zooey. She had read this copy once, when he'd been carrying his things in melancholy looking boxes when he'd lived at the Atha estate. She had hated it- he'd caught her sobbing even thought the book wasn't particularly sad, more disturbing than sad, really.
She had tried to excuse herself, but concerned and mostly curious, he'd asked her why she was crying. After all, the author had written a book with the same nuances as this one, and some manic had got hold of it and assassinated an American president a long time ago. He didn't want her to be too affected by it, lest she go berserk on him.
She hadn't been able to explain why. It was the power of that book, he thought now. That book had no conclusion, a reverse bildungsroman, really, and time seemed to never move for the flow of the story if you could call it that and not one long, twisted conversation two siblings shared over the phone during one of their religious crises in the story.
He wanted to remember something about the way she'd muttered, "Don't know why," but all he could think of was the turmoil inside, the way he had fervently sworn to protect her and make her love him. And that was the problem of youth. There was too much time and too little to do. And they'd let it go to waste in the end. They were now like the story in that time was not moving for them but actually reversing itself as the past was dredged up, little by little, until it was too late to see any possible alternative path to living.
He sat in front of the rows of faces, imagining all their voices, how high-spirited they had all been once. Wooden frames, glass covers, glossy colors. He had framed these and locked them away for a year, until he'd decided that he wanted them around still, even if they were irritating to see at times. Amongst the familiar people, a man, distinguished with a stern but somehow accepting softness in his face if one was perceptible enough, the grey strands in his hair combed neatly behind his ears as his son stood stiffly, certainly in awe, behind his father.
The slight reflections in the glass frames were warped, wavy even. He frowned at his own reflection, not seeing much of anything in the distortion, but lifting a hand to undo the cufflinks, depositing them at the side.
His father had influenced him from the way he carried himself to the way he dressed. Patrick and Athrun Zala were unconsciously imperceptible to many others, not because they desired to be so, but because Patrick had an innate habit of keeping his thoughts to himself although he was an influential speaker when he desired to be.
Therefore, Athrun was such a person- he'd began to lose the need to voice his thoughts once he'd reached his eighth birthday and decided that he was on his way to becoming the father that he idolized and later, but only on hindsight, idealized for too much of the man's actual credit.
He smiled grimly at his father's unsmiling image. "If you met her, you'd pity me for breaking her."
Patrick Zala was a shadow in his son's eyes. It lurked there, cold and mercenary at times, and it frightened Athrun in the deep of the night, when he awoke sweating, imagining a gun wound, and old one but nonetheless painful and searing, in his arm. His own father had shot him. He had been prepared to kill his father in front of Cagalli, only that someone had done it before him.
He was becoming his father. Oh God.
He could not bear to throw it away. It was a rare picture of Patrick Zala, a man who was first and foremost, the Senator Zala of Plant, then secondly, the father of Athrun. His wife was much younger than him, and Athrun had often overheard his mother teasing his father on how old he was becoming. Was that why Patrick Zala did all he could to make up for what he felt lacking in a husband's youth? Perhaps. And ironically, he sacrificed the remaining years of his prime to make up for this.
His father had been a madman, the trigger of the Genesis, the doomsayer of the era. It was frankly rather annoying since Athrun had looked up to the man as a child and in some ways, even at this stage, did until then. To give Patrick Zala credit, he had been unshakeable in his love for Athrun's mother, never mind that he'd gone mad chasing after that very thing once Lenore had died.
The human mind was a fragile one. Something in Athrun ultimately believed that Patrick Zala had ceased to exist after Lenore had been killed in a show of cold-blooded murder. His father had died long before Athrun had found him floating in a pool of his own blood in the gravity-defying cell, way before Patrick Zala had shot him, way before Patrick Zala had declared merciless war on the Naturals, way before Patrick Zala had looked at him coldly, barely registering the blood-red uniform Athrun was nearly trembling with the joy while wearing before his father.
What had his father said then? Oh-
"What is it? I'm busy."
It was then that Athrun muttered something only the smiling faces registered with their somberly composed merriment, for the camera's sake. Nobody really knew what he said to it, but then, he had been incoherent, the thoughts jumbled everywhere and his head throbbing.
But it was perhaps, as Cagalli had spat, impossible for him to be Patrick Zala. He was the son of a man like Patrick Zala, he had grown up idolizing Patrick, idealizing every of his flaws, glossing the tyranny of his father's ambitions over and over until he'd gone to war for those same ideals.
He was like a beast now, fighting for those ideals, using a woman he had loved and perhaps still did, in a bid to regain something of the past. She would be destroyed by all he was doing. But he could never be Patrick Zala because he inherently trusted and wanted to love the life around him.
That was the crucial difference.
His eyes fell on a separate row of photographs. A few showed him standing next to his friends or the comrades, some of who never lived past the years after the war if they had managed to outlive the unluckier ones.
He stood up, painfully, walking, one hand gentle on the panel, as he passed the rows of memories. Why did he still keep them here? He did not know why- he had no more need of such a past, but it was a pity to forget as well. There was good amongst the bad, and his eye suddenly fell on a lone photograph, nearly forgotten or overshadowed by the more prominently featured ones.
Cagalli was smiling at the camera, a pair of hands around her neck, her head pressed to somebody as he tilted her slightly backwards, and the camera out of focus while she clung onto that pair of hands. His, in fact.
Who had taken the photograph? He could not remember. The photography did not show his face, only hers. But he knew what expression he must have had. They had been about seventeen then, her face was aglow with that permanent, golden happiness and his must have mirrored hers.
He thought of Cagalli now. He was harming her. He had done so by bringing her here to The Isle, but at the same time, he was destroying himself, insidiously, from inside, the renewing of recollection and renewed pain working its way outwards.
Someone knocked at the door. "Milord- they want an explanation for the demise of Decant Corriolis."
Athrun cleared his throat. "I will go."
He looked at the photograph again. She had been his sky- the seven years had only festered the absence and the smile he was seeing now was a reminder of what he was secretly yarning for.
There was no hiding it now. He had loved her deeply, hated her for betraying him, and loved her for it more, the way men often do when they are thwarted and spurned by women who they are convinced they want. But if it was even remotely possible, he was a different person now, changed and less ideal, and yet he wanted her, not because she was out of his reach, not because she had changed too and was unimaginably strong and beautiful in her vulnerability. He had been attracted to that part of her since the first time he'd met her-now, it was even more pronounced and it was besotting and frustrating to want her.
He looked at the portrait grimacing.
The entire genealogy of the Zala House plagued him in this room, whenever he chose to enter it. It should have been a reminder to him that he did not deserve her, that she had rejected him and he should have forgotten her for it.
But the entire irony was that he was falling in love with her on an island, not even for the first time.
Five hours later, he sat in his study, reading carefully while ignoring Epstein. He knew his assistant wanted to say something, something that Athrun himself was clearer of than anybody else, and yet, he did not want to address it at all.
Epstein looked irritated for a second, but masked his displeasure with a cough and an insidious straightening of his collar.
"What is it?" Athrun said, with that perennially unaffected tone which was somehow crisper than the average speaker without being pretentious. He did not glance up from the letter he was reading. It came with the lack of care as to how others perceived him. It came from the lack of care as to how others perceived him.
"Excuse my language," Epstein said rashly and very uncharacteristically. "But I think we're screwed."
"No," Athrun said mildly. "I haven't been wanting company for some time."
There was a curse from Epstein. "Estragon! Do you want a flying kick in the nether region?"
There was a pinched smile from Athrun. "I apologise."
His ward looked hastily disapproving and stood straighter to dampen the hacking coughs of snorted, nervous laughter. "On a normal day, I would have enjoyed the rather uncharacteristic humor. You were lucky you found me after I had been educated on these things."
"Thanks be to whoever who took charge of your holistic education. You majored in Social Science, History, Higher Mathematics, Chemical Engineering, and minored in how to snare a woman in bed. I can't think of a better combination myself."
"Oh quit that droll tone already," Epstein retorted, laughing openly now. "You aren't too bad yourself, are you? Political Science, Engineering, Economics, Law, and a degree in being the rake of the century."
Athrun gave a short bark of laughter and continued on as per normal. "As I said, that is highly exaggerated and mostly untrue. It's back to the whole issue of the lack of company in recent times."
"But Lyra would have stayed if you'd asked her to."
Athrun did not answer. He found no reason to. It was certain that Lyra would have made it a point to leave if Athrun had asked her to stay. She was that kind of person, too strong and too scared to be tied down to someone who could give her more than she expected.
There was a sound of disapproval from where Epstein sat across his desk, and Athrun could imagine what his expression was like. But he did not care to look up. The letter was more engrossing, and he gazed at the black and white photo of Kira Yamato, noting the clear resemblances to Cagalli, the stubborn eyes, the half-smile when he felt threatened but did not want to show it, the little things like that.
"Er-," Epstein said in a show of sarcasm, "If you'll allow me to go back to the whole picture, sir. We've been threatened to be flushed out of this place like common cockroaches, along with the good old threat of them killing the Orb Princess and the rest of us. You know they want to keep her with them so they have the bargaining chip- the only reason why you're keeping her here is for her protection and for us to use her as our bargaining chip. I doubt they'll try to use diplomacy on us, now that one of their men has died in the attempt to retrieve the Princess. The chances are that they are plotting our very deaths at this moment. I tell you, if we didn't have the protection, which you will always have as long as you remain his friend and ally, the terrorists will have our heads."
Athrun looked up with a bemused expression. "Are you afraid of the threats? That they will slaughter us? Did we not meet with them just only to clarify that her safety is the main imperative in this and that their little plans to kill her because of an unforeseen circumstance was really their own undoing? Their leader pledged his allegiance to me, just as I to him."
"I'm not afraid of any threat.' Epstein said immediately, somehow betraying the general impression he wanted to give those who looked upon him and asked to see a mature adult. "But you know it is a shaky relationship- both of you are only biding your time. You know as well as I do why he sent Corriolis to visit the Manor. That man was here to convince us to let him take the Princess back to their quarters and use her for drawing attention to them. Scandinavia's tight-lipped about their existence- having a missing Princess linked to terrorism and a planned capture would certainly disprove the notion that they don't exist."
"And what do you think they would have done to her if we had let them take her?" Athrun said stormily.
"Made her sign something that attributed her disappearance to their very existence, obviously," Epstein answered instantly. "And then the trouble would really start. The Orb troops would probably break into Scandinavia and blast Denmark just to find her."
"If you know all this," Athrun remarked, "Then why are you even questioning the decision to keep her here in the Manor?"
"Because she attracts danger, that's why!" Epstein cried. "She's like a trouble-magnet!"
"But if managed properly," Athrun said sharply, "Has immense use for us. Giving her to them will only prolong the period of her suffering before she is possibly killed. If it hasn't escaped you rattention, let us remind ourselves that the Orb Princess is an incredibly rash person. I doubt she would take kindly to being their captive. The whole point for them in capturing her is to draw attention to them so that they gain the power to bargain with the Swedish Heads for their independence. And this is part of our plan to, isn't it? That's why we are even in a collusion and agreement of sorts. If they want to do it as they please, without considering our interests, then there is no point sticking with the prior agreements."
"But they don't know we have other interests!" Epstein exclaimed in unintended comical impatience. "Unless you include the one they mentioned yesterday in attempting to gad you in revealing why you were so insistent on having her right here. You heard what they insinuated yesterday! Hello, sir, they offered you a replacement whore! You know what they were leering at! What, did you think those gangsters found you attractive?"
Athrun shrugged, although his lips twitched. "Let them think what they like. In any case, we cannot guarantee the Orb Princess' safety in their hands. Their insinuation yesterday only proves that they would crush her dignity, not for spite but for their own lack of control and self-respect. Acknowledging that I am capable of a rousing rape is the same as challenging the issue that so are they. The point is that we cannot hand her over to them."
"And that reinstates what I said," Epstein gritted, "We betrayed them in the first place. The agreement was for us to locate and convince her to come with us while they fought off the Scandinavian troops and her guards. And we were supposed to hand her over- obviously, that's not happening. And that's precisely why they sent Decant Corriolis to retrieve her or kill her so that their goal would still be met."
"We weren't sure of whether they could still use her even when she was dead," Athrun said quietly. "And I deliberately left her chamber unlocked so I could prove and confirm that he wanted to kill her. But you were more far-sighted than me- you couldn't trust Corriolis and poisoned him. I have you to thank. I was caught unprepared when he took a stun gun to my chest, in the form of his watch."
Epstein sighed.
"I wasn't any better." He said, clearly troubled. "Amazing how a single blow can render a man unconscious. The poison was merely a safeguard- I could not think of any other way to make sure that he would die incase we had already done so and could not prevent him from reaching the Princess."
"Mostly," Athrun commented, "I was sure that he would try to kill her. But I knew his wife personally-she was a friend of mine. It seemed unthinkable to remove him without first confirming his intent. But in retrospect, that was foolhardy. I risked the Orb Princess' life. I even had her drugged that night so she would not notice the unlocked door and try to escape from her cuff."
"The poison was timed to react when he was moving from the drawing-room to the passage outside her chambers," Epstein muttered. "But I probably underestimated him. Corriolis made it all the way into her room, did he not? Thank God you regained consciousness and removed him in time."
"Only because you woke be before you lost consciousness," Athrun said simply. "Ironically with the stun gun he left behind when he threw down his watch and fled after drinking his tea and fighting both of us."
"Obviously we won't go down without a fight," Epstein said with a trace of exasperation, "But taking into account that a month and a half has passed, and the Orb Princess is still with us, as you insist she be, it's hard to see us surviving for the remaining four months. It's clear that the whole cesspool of them want our blood, I think. We just finished off one of their leaders, didn't we? And you knowthey take revenge very seriously. Corriolis was the last of his family. First his two children, then his pregnant wife- all by that worm's hands. He was pretty much suicidal for even agreeing to this mission."
"You gave him salvation." Athrun said faintly, although there was firmness in his voice.
"I gave him poison." Epstein corrected.
They looked at each other with cool contempt, although they understood that it was not directed to each other.
Athrun stood up, walking over to where Epstein sat. He could see clearly, in the light, that Epstein's eyes were still young and a bit impressionable- he was ultimately young. A twenty-year old had no place in this, and yet, he had found Athrun and pledged allegiance. His mother would have rolled in her grave, after specifically leaving instructions to the survivors of the general devastation that her son was not to go to war.
"What's proper justification for a war?" Athrun inquired.
Epstein smirked. "Haven't you heard? All's fair in love and war, if you can bear the cliché."
"Then what's the proper justification for preventing a war?" Athrun said absent-mindedly.
His assistant's eyes flew to him. "What do you mean? If we're sacrificing the Orb troops, it is a war in itself-,"
"A woman I know once asked me," Athrun interrupted wearily. "What is the meaning of fighting for peace?"
He was met with silence. Epstein's eyes were wary. "Was it the Orb Princess who asked you that?"
"She wasn't the first one who did," Athrun said slowly. "Lacus Clyne asked me the question I'd been trying to avoid answering ever since I joined the war."
"But you knew the Princess during the war, didn't you?"
Athrun looked at Epstein and smiled regretfully. "Only as a comrade."
His ward accepted the explanation with nonchalance and a shrug, possibly because there was no need to suspect otherwise, possibly because there was no indication to the lie. "That makes sense. That's why you agreed to capture her and bring her to The Isle. If you had been friends or anything, you'd have probably refused to. But where do you draw the line? She's the twin of your friend- did that come into consideration?"
"She is herself, and not the twin of a friend I have not met in seven years." Athrun replied flatly. "I never once thought of the Orb Princess as only the twin of Kira Yamato. I said it once already- she was someone I met briefly in the war. That is all."
There was a knock on the door.
"Come in," Epstein called.
Cartesia peeked in. "Sir- will you meet the Orb Princess tonight? We are not sure if preparations are necessary."
Athrun exchanged a glance with Epstein, and it was fleeting without it being a searching one. Epstein made a movement that suggested irritation, and stood up. "Well, the Orb Princess' safety comes as the top of the priorities. I'm not sure about you entertaining her though. What is it that you wield over her?"
He felt a frisson of anger move in his body, anger at being misunderstood, anger directed at being partially understood, anger towards being nearly understood. But no. Epstein, for all his maturity, was too caught up in his own life to question Rune Estragon's. And Epstein was, as Athrun was convinced, quite ignorant about Athrun's other plans. This was possibly because Athrun's plans were usually articulated, during board meetings, during the daily interactions with his right-hand man and at times like those.
But then, Athrun himself did not quite have his plans made concrete- they had been developed as a sort of conversation topic his mind and his body had between themselves each time he saw her or remembered her. And he neither wanted to prolong this nor allow Epstein to suspect any deeper relationship with Cagalli other than captor and captive.
Epstein looked at him with something like a pained smirk. "Did she threaten to kill you upon her release unless you kept her amused?"
"No." He said coldly. "She has threatened to kill herself for that, however. But that was in the past."
Epstein looked miffed. "In that case, why don't you leave her alone?"
"I could." He remarked ambiguously. "And I shall."
Laplacia, from the corner of his eye, was pattering towards her sister. She caught sight of Epstein, made a small noise like an alarmed cat, and looked flustered. Epstein did not say anything but a slightly inconsistent look came over his face- bewilderment. Athrun saw this and made no comment. He would store this- use it as blackmail or a conversation-started with Epstein for some other time.
"Tell Her Excellence that I will not see her for some time."
There was always a choice. He would have his. And it would be a wish, and that wish would be fulfilled. Rune Estragon was that sort of person who had his way. Athrun Zala was the sort of person who worked for his way.
And Athrun looked at the letter on his desk, along with the photograph. Kira Yamato was probably worried to no end about his missing sister. But she was in safe hands, whether his friend was aware of it or not. For Athrun would personally remove whosoever who dared to harm Cagalli Yula Atha, Princess of Orb, Supreme Commander of the United Emirates, former war comrade, captive, and his golden filly.
He went about as per normal. His suits were waiting for him, pressed and freshly-ironed. His clients were waiting for him, pressed and freshly-anxious. His meals were waiting for him, heated and re-heated. He ate them when he had the time to.
Epstein commented the other day that Rune Estragon was becoming too conspicuous for his own good. Had it been the recent killing or the recent killing or the recent killing? He pondered about this. The death of a man in his house was hushed. The business deals he'd enclosed were secrets.
It must have been the last killing Epstein had been referring to- Rune Estragon's companies must have closed down a few others with the recent outsourcing. But then, it might have been the girl he had made a point to be seen with. She was the niece of a man who appeared to be a normal person, a pretense the Isle-dwellers kept up pretty well. And Rune Estragon had pretended that she hadn't interested him because of her uncle's reputation. He had none here on this Isle.
And yet, by the end of that night, she had agreed to tell him whatever he needed. Something the niece of an important person would have been able to do. He hadn't minded her at all; she was the kind of conventionally beautiful woman who everyone admired and did not respect for being too lovely and smiling. Lacus Clyne had been unfortunate to have had the same makings of such a woman, only that she had turned around and shown the world her true nature. Hardly a simple princess, that girl.
Perhaps that was why Rune Estragon hadn't minded the niece so much- she reminded him of Lacus, and she had the potential to become a Lacus, if there were such a thing. But no, he was idealizing her. She had been morally sound- refused to let him hold her hand and kiss it while she fluttered her eyelashes and made coquettish remarks.
And of course, she'd been well brought up; she'd refused to let him come quite close to her while she played with the brooch she'd arranged at the trough of the décolletage. And she'd been pleasurable company- her small talk was enjoyable when she was allowed to speak between their frantic, heated kisses. Subsequently, he had been bored out of his wits.
Rune Estragon was by no way an unknown in his circles. And this was naturally so, for the man was rumored to be one of the most affluent here on The Isle and before that, a dozen other places. But he did not flaunt his wealth- the size of the manor was hidden by the cove of cliffs, grey and immense in their stateliness. If one were to visit his house, they would find an enormous, but compared to the cliffs, rather moderate a block of white. And it was a structured mammoth slab, but still unostentatious.
Nobody would have quite expected the extravagant tastes of the upper leisurely class in such a place, and it was accurate of Rune Estragon. He did not shun moving in these circles, but he did not move about frequently either. Some called him a recluse, but then, weren't all of them?
And everybody on The Isle minded their business well. The income disparity was almost non-existent, and the only one that existed was for the multi-billionaires and mere billionaires. Their tastes, however, did vary, as it was expected of those who could afford to have their tastes met.
Rune Estragon was one who did not like people probing into his past. Most of those on The Isle did not- they had come here and decided to never leave precisely because they did not want any associations with their past. But some were fine to reveal what they'd been before they had left their pasts and identities. Some, like Lyra, had been brought here as a child. They'd never known anything more than what they'd always been. She had been forthcoming about everything, the way she lived her life, what she expected of him, and the scars she carried on her arms and back.
His business deals were never easy to settle. Those included discussions across the world, through people he had contact with who didn't even know about The Isle, people who did best not knowing about The Isle.
He drove to the town edge, not too quickly, but fast enough so that he would reach punctually, where the cliffs where at its rockiest points. Anybody who fell over would meet certain death, and he was sure a few already had. He muttered something as somebody approached from the rocks behind, calling loudly to be heard over the shouts of the waves crashing on the rocks.
She had planted some flowers here, some hardy, yellow, deceptively-cheerful and delicate looking shrubs. He liked to call them weeds, but she called those the fighter-plants. She'd been interested in horticulture and politics, could dance decently and had a remarkable talent for organization. Of course, she had been allowed education in none of those except an involuntary learning on sordid affairs and how to gain an upper hand over men who were foolish enough to mistake her for a mere doll.
Athrun turned, although he knew who it was.
"What is it?" He said, although it was clearly not unkind. He had out a hand, and she took it, shaking it, not in the least awkward after their absence of contact after so long. Then he drew her into his arms, aware that she would not misunderstand. She laughed and the sea glimmered on her face and in her eyes.
"You know," She said thoughtfully. "I believe I ought to be afraid."
"And why are you not?"
He let go of her and sat where he had before.
Lyra Delphius smiled, and he was reminded of someone else immediately. But this was different- he had not met her for a year already, and it was unfair to focus somewhere else when meeting an old friend. "Because you never kill unless you have to protect."
She crossed up to him, arranging her fluttering skirts so she could sit by him, and he noticed how she had gained a little weight to fill out that raw, thin hunger he had once pitied in seeing. "I'd like to spend hour after hour catching up with you. You've changed."
"How so?" He asked, bewildered.
Lyra blinked once, then looked at him closely. "Your face is more guarded than before. But where are your gloves? You never left without them."
He looked at his hands, the way she was doing, with some skepticism and some sense of familiarity settling on both their faces. But the difference was that she looked at him with a sort of quiet sorrow and he looked at her with the blankness of one who did not want to risk feeling. They were bare and slightly chilly from the incessant wind. "I settled some things."
"But there's more than catching up," Lyra intercepted swiftly. "I need clarification."
He had predicted this already. Her eyes were sharp and keen, the way they were whenever he addressed her outside the bedroom, the way a clever, pitiful cat did when it knew when it was being addressed when it was not expecting a pt on the head. Some part of him grieved for her, but she did not need his pity. Lyra was a very different sort of person- fiercely independent, liberal and free-spirited, and he had been surprised by her open, slightly aggressive sensuality she displayed like a confident man, and not a delicate woman he sometimes thought her to be. She had been his business advisor, his confidante, and a good friend until she'd left for a less complicated life. They were comrades, seeking to live as fiercely as they could, always, and they had never quarreled once because their queer, yet powerful friendship was a disincentive for strife.
"But I came to warn you." She said swiftly, staring at him rather than the sea he had stared at before her arrival. "You have been a very careful man during the three years we worked together. Even until now, I am not clear on what your motivations are, or who you are. Estragon- that is the only person I know, except when you occasionally remind me that you have another name. But you are Estragon to me."
He opened his mouth to say something, but she stopped him with her fingers, pressing it to his lips.
"I know enough to suspect, however," Lyra continued urgently. "That Corriolis' death is not a simple one. I heard it from Herliose- she was his consort for most of the time. What made you kill him?"
"I didn't kill him," Athrun said tonelessly.
"He died while in your stronghold," Lyra reminded him. "Allowing him to die is the same as killing him. However, it is unlike you to allow someone to die in the afflicted manner he was rumored to have been killed by. Poison, no? More cowardly than I would imagine."
He gazed at her, trying to read her. But she had never looked more honest, more lovely, since the time he had signed her quietus est and asked her to leave. She had done so without a fuss, with a flippant smile on her face that showed nothing of her true emotions. He somehow envied that side of her, although he did not desire it in himself or anyone else.
"But you told me so many times," Lyra said quietly, "That you would do anything to ensure my protection. I know, of course, that the person you were whispering to wasn't me-Lyra Delphius. I have allowed my hair to grow long again, to my waist- see? But during that time, I kept it much shorter for you. Now that we are no longer under my contract, I will ask the question I dared not to ask for three years. Who is that person?"
Athrun shook his head. "You are perceptive indeed. But I cannot say."
"I know, however," Lyra murmured, "What the name is. And it is an important one, although I have not left The Isle or received any news for eighteen years. I suspect the name will be a secret to the end, unless you tell me of it. And I wish to know."
The sea pounded beyond them, and he stared into her eyes.
She smiled beguilingly, and perhaps by force of habit, traced his lips with the fingers still placed over them. She did this like a lover or mother would, although she was clearly not. And it was all unintentional that she had put on an attractive pastel dress that he understood, was clearly not at all what she was used to. She did not close her eyes, because she was not expecting a kiss. She did not move closer, because she was not expecting his embrace. But something in him recalled the way she had presented herself to others when she'd met them- the way they surrounded her like courtiers circling their queen. Without saying a word, without being overtly coy- she was Lyra, the one person people were not prone to forgetting.
Athrun had known then, immediately, that if Lyra Delphius had been born in a better family, she would have become a queen in her own rights. How fickle Fate was, that the intelligence, beauty and the heart she possessed were put in a single, tortured girl. She had been born a princess, died as a mere child and reincarnated as a captivating, soulless, and somehow very jaded woman. All on this Isle.
He looked at her, admiring her more than he had ever done so in his time with her. He had essentially been a fool, unlike Lyra, Lyra who always knew what she was doing, how to control herself, how to take things as detachedly as she had always done for the whole of her life, the way life had forced her to do.
"What will you do?" Athrun said soberly. "Tell Greyfriar of this?"
And Lyra scoffed in that incredibly winsome manner he remembered of her each time he asked what she needed. "Tell him? Of course not. He would think I was involved with you and his affairs, which I have mostly no idea about. Isn't there a saying that sleeping dogs must be allowed to lie? When he does, he snores like thunder, according to Herliose, and I do not wish to be involved with so weathered and unpleasant a person."
Her eyes twinkled, and they laughed for one moment. Greyfriars was ultimately a dangerous person, embittered by his loss, but a strong and nearly invincible warrior precisely because he had nothing to lose.
Athrun cleared his throat. "Are you disappointed that I cannot tell you anything?"
She shrugged. "I half-expected it. But I had hoped, at very least. No matter. I came mostly because I wanted to see your face. You have grown out your hair. When I first met you- even when I left, you had it short, at the upper limit of your neck. It is below your ears now, like how I've seen it to be in one of your old photographs with that boy, the boy with the brown hair and quiet eyes."
Smiling thinly, Athrun looked at her. "Some things don't change. You survive anywhere in this world."
She looked sad for a second, but it was gone in the next, because she would never lose the edge and defensive side of her. "Madame Chanteuse taught me that. But enough of the past. I will leave now, and I believe I will not see you for quite some time. I am busy- I own a small flower shop, thanks to you, and business has been good. Morbidly so."
"Yes," Athrun said morosely. "Funeral wreaths and the planting of saplings in the newly-allocated graveyards. Your business thrives on part celebration and part mourning. But in the recent years, it has been the latter type of business, I'm afraid."
Lyra showed no change in expression. "Yes. Only a week ago, I sent an entire bower of lilies to that man's grave. But Corriolis had it coming, did he not? His compatriots requested for those. And red clovers, of course. Those seem to be popular with Greyfriars and his men, although I cannot imagine why they would want a flower that is so commonly found on this coast. But the customers like to stay to chat- they are always welcome for a cup of tea. The flowers, I think, are secondary. And I have you to thank."
She leant forward and kissed him lightly on his cheek, affectionately and merrily casual in the way her eyes were tender. She never took herself too seriously, and he had appreciated that about her.
"I will go now," She said mildly, and he did not turn to look at her retreating figure.
The wind blew a little more, and the clouds threaten to darken but did not until an hour later. And in the relentless wind, the yellow heads of the flowers she'd planted bent, small and nearly insignificant in their light weights, but they did not break at all. They were too hardy for that.
She treaded her way carefully, to the paths that lay beyond him now. She would marry a man who was innocent and pure. He would treat her well and she would love him entirely, love him as entirely as he did for her. And then the scars would begin to fade and the flower-shop would be filled with little old women who bought roses to bake in cakes and young lovers asking for bright colored flowers, lovers who did not know how else to please each other. She'd offer them an interested listening ear and some tea, perhaps, instead of novenas and condolences. Rune Estragon did not buy flowers from her. But he had bought her freedom, and that had been more than what the flower-shop and she was worth. He did not like to admit that- instinctively she knew this. But she knew he was aware of this, and it made her all the more indebted to him.
Lyra's footsteps were not heard in the howl of the grieving winds as he lost himself to the thoughts flowing through his head
His eyes fixed themselves on the sea.
He never looked back to watch her.
There hadn't been a need to at that point.
4 months 25 days