Disclaimer: I own nothing of GS/GSD. R&R please.
Chapter 10
The Rochester Manor was steeped in a general air of disconcertment. The body that Lord Tessington had stumbled upon had already been brought to the Cliffside, but the guests' minds were still on it.
Nobody knew what would happen to the body once the authorities came for it. Nobody knew how Nigel Ink, the butler, had really died. But the guests decided on one thing.
Rune Estragon was definitely innocent- that is; if there had even been a crime.
As far as most of them were concerned, the butler's death had resulted from an accident, not a conspiracy.
Now, the guests ambled about like semi-sedated animals, muttering in their annoyance, rubbing sleep from their eyes, struggling with their hangovers.
They should have been asleep, in the rooms the butler had allocated for them, but no, Tessington had to wake them up, had to make a big fuss over nothing-
For Lord Tessington had stumbled into the pantry for aspirin around six-forty five in the morning. Upon his arrival, he found a portly, avuncular looking butler, a syringe next to him and his mouth foaming. Nigel Ink had sported a gaping wound on his forehead, some blood bearing testimony on a table corner.
At that time, Lord Tessington had concluded that the butler had fallen, having stumbled from some kind of drug overdose. He'd hit his head, and died instantly.
So Lord Tessington fetched his aspirin as naturally and with as much dignity he could, stepping cleanly over the body's head.
Then he'd woken the other guests, the servants and the host with the indifference one ought to show to a butler.
Conversely, Lady Rochester had reacted with great agitation.
"That Ink," Rochester bellowed. "He died from a drug overdose and on my birthday night, no less. Shirking his duties for some heroin! The disgrace!"
Most knew that Nigel Ink had been long addicted to heroin for years. It was a tad strange that Ink should have chosen last night to have an overdose.
Whatever the case, a cardinal rule of The Isle was that every death had to be reported within one hour of discovery to an authority. A few servants had been instructed to bring the body to the drop-off point- the Cliffside. The authorities would handle it from there. The servants had returned quickly- the Cliffside was rumoured to be both haunted and out of bounds to anyone except the authorities.
There was no face to the authorities- they were invisible enforcers of The Isle's rules. Nobody knew who the main authority was, but nobody cared.
In truth, The Isle was for people who were escaping the societies they had come from, and any departure of a conventional system was accepted, if not, welcomed.
Still, the guests were free to discuss the butler's death.
"What if someone killed the butler, intentionally or unintentionally?" Tessington said aloud. Now that the body was out of sight, he felt more comfortable talking about it.
Now, the Magwitches leapt at the opportunity to insult their enemies, the Donovans. The Magwitches claimed that it was a conspiracy and that the Donovans were behind it.
Mickey Magwitch claimed loudly, "Ink probably spotted Wilfred Donovan being frisky with another female guest. I bet Ink threatened to tell Marie Donovan."
"So Ink was effectually blackmailing Wilfred, and Wilfred had had to silence the butler." His wife chimed in.
"Ho! A tall tale, right there! Only scum can weave such tales." Wilfred Donovan said brashly, brandishing his cigar.
"Right back at you, asshole!"
To settle the dispute and put her guests' mind at ease, Lady Rochester promised that the culprit would be caught.
"That is, if there was any besides Ink's carelessness," She drawled, taking a puff of her own brand of opium.
"Well," Tessington said pompously, quite enjoying the Sherlock Holmes role he had assumed, "Let's imagine that Ink died at someone's hands. Two possible scenarios- one, he offended somebody, who pumped an overdose into him. Two, he and another guest had a happy hour that cost him his life, but fortunately, not the other druggie's."
Ink had died early in the morning, around four, and his overdose and concussion had been instantly lethal.
"Logically, those who had left the party before four were probably not the perpetrators." Another guest reckoned.
A servant fetched a guest list, and Tessington took charge of it, a pen in his hand to strike off names. But who had left the party by that time?
With the wine and dancing, nobody could quite remember who had left and by what time. There were quite a few guests who had left early, that is, before four. But how early before four was questionable.
So the guests had bickered over this. Some servants had been too drunk to remember, including the valet and the head maid.
But the guests agreed that if there was one who could be cleared of all reasonable doubt, it was Rune Estragon. Rune Estragon was certainly not involved with all of this, assuming that there was even a murder and conspiracy.
How could that man be involved when he was so preoccupied with that woman he called his wife?
All the guests could remember Estragon's consort, she in the golden dress and her golden, cascading hair. The diamonds she wore were spectacular, and those outshone everything other women had.
Nobody really believed she was Estragon's wife, of course- he had far too many options to stick with just one woman.
"She can't have been his wife," Lady Yolanda sniffed. "As if he'd marry. As if he'd marry someone like her!"
"Maybe," Her husband said sharply. "He decided that she was the best damn thing he could find." He glared pointedly at his wife. "Maybe, Estragon told you that she was his wife so that you wouldn't throw yourself at him."
She flashed a mocking sneer. "Maybe he told you that she was his wife so that you'd keep your hands off his whore!"
The point was that Estragon and his consort had left early to carry on with their shenanigans. Everyone could remember how they had exited slightly after midnight, with a chauffeur who came promptly. A dozen guests had remembered the shamelessness of those two.
"Did you see anything like that dress?" One guest exclaimed. "Without a coat, no less!"
"Did you see anything like that tango?" Lady Jemima sniffed. The other women were looking scandalised.
"Did you ever see anything like that tango?" Lord Gargone repeated in an admiring voice. His wife shot him a look of pure poison.
So Rune Estragon was unlikely to have stayed behind to have caused Ink's demise in any way- he had been seen with his blonde consort the whole evening. Not once, had he left her side.
It was because everyone had their eyes on Lyra Delphius, and by extension, Rune Estragon, that they could attest to the couple's innocence. Estragon had been seen with that woman for an entire night, without meeting the butler even once. And because everyone had seen the couple leave early, they thought that it was unlikely that the butler's death was connected to him.
"Ink was around here, giving out the keys and the drinks when that couple were in the greenhouse," Rochester reminded everyone. "Estragon didn't even speak to Ink, even once, because he didn't leave his wife's side. How could he have a motive, or even the time to conspire against Ink? "
And unanimously, the guests agreed and confirmed that the Estragon couple had left particularly early. They had left too early to be involved with Ink.
"What time did they leave?" Someone asked.
"Ooh- twelve, definitely around there."
"Absolutely, I remembered the time too!"
"I, too, remember. Twelve, without a doubt."
A few servants swore that they had seen the couple enter the greenhouse before they'd suddenly returned to the main hall and announced their departure.
What had they been up to in the greenhouse?
"The usual mischief," Tessington said, shrugging.
But that was probably the only mischief they'd been up to. At that time, Ink had been alive, giving out keys to the guests who wanted to retire for the night, or have little, private parties in their allocated rooms.
Everyone could remember Lyra Delphius and her 'flu'. It had been very clear that Rune Estragon had taken his consort outside from the party for a bit of private fun and had came back to say goodbye so that they could continue back home.
"Good god," Lady Hertoise complained, "It was so obvious that they couldn't keep their hands off each other and wanted to go off early to bed! She was obviously a whore passing off as his wife! Whores like her are everywhere! No man would marry a woman like that!"
"I would!" Someone shouted. Suddenly, there was a chorus from a large group of males.
"She was a downright stunner," Lord Tessington said archly to Rochester. "I say, I could remember her face the whole evening, despite seeing over sixty guests. She certainly knew how to make an impression- everyone kept their eyes on them the whole evening."
And more than a few people had seen them leaving in a car, amongst them, Lady Sophie and Lady Ursula's husband- of course, nobody questioned what the two had been doing when they'd seen Rune Estragon leave in a car with Lyra Delphius.
Therefore, everyone decided that Rune Estragon and his consort couldn't have had anything to do with Ink's murder. It was so improbable, it was impossible.
But the Donovans weren't happy with this conclusion.
"If not one guest," Marie Donovan said sharply, "Then obviously another who met up with the butler! Maybe it was an accidental killing!"
She glared at the Magwitches, implying that they had been fraternising with the butler and perhaps force-feeding him an over dosage of heroin.
While Rochester tried to calm both couples down, Lord Tessington continued to think. A guest list was in his hands, and his eyes strayed to one name, far past Rune Estragon.
A potential suspect was Lord Selman Mullin. Other than him and the Estragon couple, no other guest had left Rochester's grounds. Mullin had vanished from the room he'd stayed in. Even the suitcase he had carried that night was missing.
Even when guests had been awoken by Tessington and they had filed out of the corridors, his room had remained locked. When the servants had unlocked it, they found not Mullin, but a rope extending from the window, anchored to the bedpost.
Everyone was sure then, that Mullin was connected to Ink's death. He was another heroin-addict, just like Nigel Ink.
Mullin had probably woken up in the morning at three-something, met up with the butler, had their happy hour with the drugs, and witnessed Ink's overdose. Everyone knew that Mullin dealt in the drugs business- he obviously did some personal quality control and sampling for himself.
Most probably, Mullin had probably become scared after realising that Ink had hit and killed himself. Then Mullin had gone and locked himself in his room from the inside, then ran by climbing out of the window with a rope he'd found. The man had even taken his suitcase with him to remove traces of his presence.
"Probably," Lord Miachelis boomed, "Mullin had heroin in the suitcase too. Found some in the room, didn't we? And the pantry too. Mullin got scared and climbed out of his window after locking himself in the room."
"So it was probably him and Ink's own carelessness with the heroin." Lord Tessington announced. Inwardly, he relished the role of producing the conclusion.
Rochester was bored by this time. "I say it was Ink's own carelessness. Mullin probably just witnessed it and got cold feet. Even if he did hold some drug party in the pantry, that butler had it coming. But to be sure, I'll have the servants look at the guest list and see about this in the meantime."
The guests stared at the guest list. There would be two hundred other suspects, assuming that Ink had died of anything except his own folly.
"I say," Lord Tessington announced loudly, "It's not worth the trouble."
The Donovans and Magwitches agreed heartily.
After all, it was nearly breakfast time and nobody cared about a butler except the gossip his death generated.
At twelve in the afternoon, Athrun sat at the head of the long table, listening quietly as five people debated amongst themselves.
That morning, the secondary aides had removed Nigel Ink's body from the Cliffside and buried it a few hundred feet below. Thousands of flowers grew in wild spurts of colour in that little sheltered region of the cliffside.
Four years ago, it had been Lyra's flower patch, only that she had never discovered why flowers grew so well there. She was after all, a native of The Isle, unlike those escaping the world outside it. If she had been one of those, she would have known that the Cliffside was out of bounds, save as a deposition area for bodies. She would have been able to deduce that the bodies were not just deposited there- they were buried in the vicinity.
But naturally, she was unaware of this, putting the land out of mind once Athrun had obtained the property from her and 'sold it to the authorities'.
Athrun found that his mind was distracted by more than these thoughts. He thought of the previous night and the events that had transpired.
In his mind, Cagalli's unfocused eyes, blurred with tears and the sweet, tanginess of champagne lingering in her mouth haunted him. Laid on the bed, she had been almost entirely accessible to him, save the sparse undergarments.
He felt an uncomfortable, but intensely pleasurable heat pool towards his loins, and he coughed a little.
Someone put a cup of coffee in front of him, and he looked up and smiled at the Third Eye, Barnett Romia.
Her short, auburn curls were arranged in an adorable stump of a ponytail, and she was very charming in a knee-length muslin tunic. Already, the Seventh Eye, Tom Edgeworth was staring away from his file of documents, but she was oblivious to this.
Athrun took the coffee gratefully and grinned at her.
They looked towards the other Eyes who were speaking furiously amongst themselves.
"I know you're tired out from that party," She whispered, reminding him of a jay with bright-eyes. "Rochester hasn't learnt after all these years, has she? She was accused of corruption, dealing with the contrabands, and embezzling tax funds for her parties. It got so bad, didn't it, that she had to flee from Jamaica? And she's still throwing those here!"
Athrun smiled slowly. "Old habits die hard."
"Her party worked in our favour," Barnett continued, still murmuring while the other Eyes continued their main discussion, "Thanks to you."
He smiled at her, flipping a page to suggest that she should return to her seat.
She took the cue well enough and moved back, two seats away from him, and Tom Edgeworth immediately turned to her.
Barnett Romia, twenty-two, had been a child prodigy and a brilliant chemist even by Coordinator standards. Most Coordinators graduated from universities by the time they were fifteen, but she had finished by the time she was nine.
She knew how every newly created poison might function. Being highly meticulous, she could time deaths and when a soufflé raised with accuracy measured by milliseconds.
Athrun relied very much on this ability of hers- although it had failed him once where Decant Corriolis' titanic will and murderous intent was concerned. Nevertheless, she had helped all of them last night, supplying the heroin and the various drugs that Athrun had needed for his plan to work.
But Barnett ignored Tom now, and Tom fell silent, looking a bit sulky.
Athrun tried to concentrate on the current issues as well. The Eyes were discussing the contents in Selman Mullin's suitcase that Tequila Clarriker had brought back.
Already, the Second Eye Lent Mortimer was discussing the next few steps with the Ninth Eye, Orlick Churchill.
At this point, Tom looked at him and said mockingly, "How did you enjoy Rochester's manhandling you last night?"
Barnett frowned but didn't say anything, and Tom didn't seem to notice her disapproval either.
Athrun smiled mildly, quite used to Tom's ways. "She was busy with her fiftieth birthday. She had hardly any time for me."
The Eighth Eye, Leopold Wasser, his carroty crop of hair a constant source of confusion for donkeys, broke into humour. He was thirty-six, and had a habit of putting all his weight onto one leg of the chair, like an irrepressible schoolboy.
"You're a lousy liar, and a horrible man. Did you really think that Rochester wanted diamonds for her birthday?" He grinned. "I think she probably wanted you to present yourself as her present."
Leopold's chair swivelled dangerously but kept its balance.
"Well," Barnett said hastily, "I'm sure Rune wouldn't have let her."
"Besides," Tom said lazily, "The Fifth Eye brought along someone to deter her advances."
"Exactly," Lent said heartily, his pleasant, unassuming face kind, framed by dark-rimmed spectacles. "They will never trace or even suspect that Rune Estragon was involved in the death of Ink. The guest list was taken out this morning to single out suspects. But Tequila tells me that your name was one of those to be immediately struck off it. Nobody really guessed how Lady Rochester's butler died."
Athrun, on the other hand, had a very good understanding of how Ink, the butler, had died.
Only Nigel Ink knew which rooms belonged to which guest. Knowing who slept in which room with who was information that could cause great scandal, and Rochester trusted only her butler to handle the delicate operation.
Out of sixty servants, only Ink allocated and knew the rooms assigned to each person and whether they stayed the night in another guest's room or not.
But Ink had a tiny little problem. He was a heroin-addict.
Nobody amongst the guests, save Athrun and the pretty Lady Dolce Mignonettie, the personal friend of Lady Donovan, knew that Ink had been locked up and rendered unconscious once the party started.
The butler who had appeared as Ink had been planted in from that point, and he had used a different guest list that Lady Dolce had secretly drawn up.
The new Ink had allocated the guests rooms to stay in, as the original Ink would have done.
The guests who had used the rooms assigned had simply taken the keys Ink had given them when they decided that they had partied enough.
Amongst the guests who had taken a key and stayed overnight was Lord Selman Mullin. He had carried a suitcase that Athrun was in charge of retrieving.
Now, the suitcase they had obtained was encased in glass, and Barnett Romia was staring at it, a sample of the powder in a tube, her fingers curled around it.
"So you see," Lent concluded briskly, "It was a job well done. Rune got the suitcase, and he left no trace of his involvement."
"He had help," Tom Edgeworth said briefly. The patch he wore on his left eye did little to distract from his dark hair, pale skin and handsome features, along with the single electric blue eye that peered at Athrun. "I want more coffee."
"Get it yourself," Barnett snapped. "I'm not your slave."
"Tut tut," Tom said laughingly, "I wasn't addressing you but you responded to my orders."
Athrun looked on with amusement. Orlick Churchill, shy of his forty-secondth birthday but with more grey than dark hair, puffed away and then tossed the cigar somewhere into a bin behind them.
He was the kind of man who overflowed from any chair he was given. He was by no means obese; merely a man whose voice and frame was larger than the average person's. He did not have a handsome face, but there was strength and dignity in it.
"Shut it, both of you. Bickering like children. Just obtaining that suitcase and they're all happy like cats with milk."
Barnett stuck out her tongue and Tom, who looked disgruntled.
"Relax," Lent Mortimer chuckled. "Selman Mullin took hook, bait and sinker. It was all thanks to Estragon that we got the suitcase and its contents."
"Yes," Churchill said, though a bit grudgingly. "Estragon sent men to stage a break-in last week to get Mullin all jittery about having that suitcase around. And Mullin took the suitcase out of his safe and carried it everywhere in him."
"That fool thought it wouldn't be safe in the house, so he brought it with him to Lady Rochester's birthday celebration. He counted on its contents to earn him some extra money with his businesses." Tom said triumphantly.
"It helps that Rochester owns nearly sixty percent market share of the world's drug companies." Barnett added. "Well, make that fifty, since we have that ten percent that Rune got from her last year."
Athrun kept his face impassive, not wanting to recall that unpleasant encounter.
The Sixth Eye suddenly spoke. Her voice was like wet velvet, and she had the air of charisma about her that made the others look at her. Sheba Velasco was one of those women who never had to raise their voices to be heard.
She tossed her beautiful head, and the snowy hair fell over her shoulders, one eye shaded, the other glinting in her bored face and her tan, honeyed skin inviting and dewy.
"So Rune planted Tequila Clarriker and Whigam Karasuma there as Dolce Mignonettie and the second Nigel Ink respectively. When Mullin wanted to retired for the night, he got the keys from Whigham-cum-Ink," She deduced. "He didn't know that it wasn't the real butler. He was sent to a room where Tequila and Tom were waiting. The real Ink was already unconscious, locked in a case, in that room."
The multiple and mismatched silver earrings glinted in her heavily pierced ears, and she might have passed off as a runway regular on any day.
"I didn't like that bit of the plan though," Leopold complained. "Whigham-cum-Ink sent Mullin to the room where Tequila, or should I say, Dolce Mignonettie, was waiting. What if Tequila was seen going into that room?"
"Nobody saw," Tom said drolly. "The only person who saw Tequila go into that corridor, into that room, was Whigham-cum-Ink. Whigham was Ink the butler by then, and he made sure nobody was around to see Tequila going into that room."
"Tequila knows what he's doing too." Lent said to Tom, adjusting his metal spectacles in a way that reminded Athrun of Sai Argle. "He wrote a new room-arrangement list in Ink's hand and left that list back at Rochester's estate. All Whigham-cum-Ink had to do was to follow the new room-arrangements."
"Poor Mullin," Leopold Wasser said suddenly, shaking his carroty head. "To be tricked like that. To be sent to a room, hoping for some fun, only to be rendered unconscious and captured."
Tequila Clarriker, Lent's aide, was a boy. A boy with pretty, soft features and plump, gentle hands, no doubt, but a boy nonetheless. Below the wig of long, red silky curls, he had mint-coloured hair that would have revealed his Coordinator background immediately. Of course, Tequila's true face was rarely seen, since he was often disguised. He had made Whigham look like Ink, and for himself, he had transformed into a Lady Dolce Mignonettie.
"With a total of two-hundred and fourteen guests, the original butler needed a list." Athrun said. "He never shared this list with anyone, because he had been ordered not to. So Tequila forged a list for our replacement butler to use."
"Why got through all that trouble? Why couldn't the replacement butler use the original list that you had obtained from the real butler?" Leopold asked.
"We needed a room that was easy to plant a trap in. The one we used was nearer to the area the car was stationed at, and it faced only trees and no other room." Athrun answered. "When Tom obtained Ink's list, he realised that the room faced many others and it was difficult to transport Mullin to the car from the original room. So Tom destroyed the original list before Ink was left in Rochester's pantry. The fake list that Whigham Karasuma had used all night was left on Ink's body as a replacement. Whigham also planted some heroin in Mullin's room, and later on the butler's body.
Leopold nodded. "No wonder the guests thought that the suitcase carried heroin and nothing very special."
"That's strange," Sheba said sharply. "The real Ink was supposed to be unconscious, not dead."
"He struggled," Tom said, shrugging nonchalantly. "He knocked himself on an open drawer and kicked the bucket. So we just injected heroin into him and made it look like he died of an overdose and a concussion as he fell. It was easier for us as well- because he died, Whigham could leave the body there in the pantry and scram fast. If he had stayed on into the morning, he would have had to appear as the butler. And he'd have been questioned about Mullin's disappearance. That would have been more difficult to handle."
"I see." Sheba said slowly. "And what about an autopsy? If Rochester arranges for one, the butler's time of death will not correspond with what his death looks like."
"Ah," Churchill said immediately. "But you forget the sixth rule here of The Isle. All corpses must be surrendered to the authorities within an hour of finding it. Nobody except the authorities are permitted to perform autopsies. In this case, we don't even have to bother."
"Knowing them," Leopold said in a brittle voice, "They would have dropped the body off very fast so they could get on with their partying. Nobody's going to care about a butler. Sheba's worries are unfounded."
"It was a perfect plan, even if Ink died." Tom insisted. "Mullin was knocked out with the shot Barnett gave us to use, and we tied and swung his body. It was like a cable car on a rope, from the window into Estragon's car boot. The trees everywhere blocked anyone from seeing something swinging above them."
"My aide had left the boot opened, and he locked it once Mullin was deposited in it. Then Whigham-cum-Ink stayed behind as the new butler to oversee the rest of the party. He made sure some guests saw him injecting stuff into himself and being a bit high. "Athrun told them. "Then when it was time, he took out the butler's body into the pantry, left the Rochester Estate, and reported back to the Seventh Eye immediately. "
Tom nodded, confirming this.
"I'm surprised though," Leopold admitted. "I can't believe that Mullin didn't suspect anything and went to that room so early."
"Mullin left the halls and went to his room early because Tequila had lured him there." Athrun told him. "Otherwise, he wouldn't have gone so early, and we wouldn't have gotten him into the car boot so quickly."
A dark look crossed Sheba's beautiful face. "Damn paedophile."
"Nobody would suspect a fifteen year old." Athrun said quietly. "Especially with that face of his. When Dolce Mignonettie left Rochester's manor, nobody thought that the child had anything to do with the butler's death."
Sheba sighed, twirling a strand of her brown hair, her eyes growing into slits. "I need to have assistants like yours and Lent', or should I say, Lady Dolce, is an asset. Even my primary aides are so careless that it's a wonder I haven't been found and blown up already. The secondary ones are even worse."
Athrun said nothing. He did not like talking about the welfare of their aides with her. He could not look at her in the eye and speak to her about keeping those under them safe. Not after Sanders' death.
Barnett and Tom did not take notice of those doing their bidding, and Lent was careful not to care too much about his assistants. Leopold trusted his aides, but he was indifferent about them outside work.
Of all the Eyes, Churchill was the most apathetic. That man had knowingly sent an eighteen year old boy to be a suicide bomber three years ago. That time, Sheba had actually pleaded with him to consider alternatives, going as far as to offer herself in return for Churchill's aide's safety. But the boy had gone anyway, and Sheba and Churchill had never agreed on anything after that.
Of all people, Athrun knew that Sheba cared for those who did their bidding. She hated seeing the youngest of her aides become a cold-blooded assassin, but she was powerless to prevent this. It was the duty of aides to sacrifice themselves if necessary, and it was the duty of the Eyes to sacrifice others for their overarching mission.
For this, Sheba did not blame Athrun for Sanders' death. And for this, Athrun blamed himself even more.
He shrugged now, playing along with her. "You have incompetent aides? That's your misfortune, not mine."
She grimaced. "I know."
There was a common understanding between them. But the meeting was hardly over.
"What I want to know," Tom exclaimed violently and suddenly, "Is why Estragon brought the Orb Princess with him! He actually took her out of the manor, as his escort! If that's not madness, what the hell is?" He looked accusingly at Athrun.
Athrun had expected this inquiry. It was impossible to escape the mention of this issue here, before all The Eyes.
He forced his tone to be mild. "She was getting difficult to control, trapped and alone in that room of hers. I thought it would do me some good to distract her from her captivity. Nobody noticed who she was."
"Oh." Tom said sarcastically, "I suppose you mean that nobody noticed the Orb Princess in a whole congregation of famous people?"
Athrun said nothing.
"Let's see now. There was an assassinated royal couple from Poland walking around last night, a missing Chinese head official who appeared for the party, the head of the Interpol and his six children, a whole corporation of prize-winning, death-threat receiving nuclear-power scientists from America…Ooh, even the host's a corrupt politician who controls thousands of drug companies and had to scram out of Jamaica when that coup started! Oh, and even Patrick Zala's son was there! What's a little Orb Princess in a who's who party? I mean, who's going to even notice someone as low-profile as the Orb Princess when everyone there's a big shot! Oh wait, we're forgetting something. She's one of the bigger shots!"
Tom's voice was sarcastic, and his face a canvas for a strange, twisted expression.
"They didn't recognise her.' Athrun said firmly. "They've been in this place for a minimum of seven years, without information from the world outside The Isle. None of them know that the Orb Princess is currently missing, let alone amidst them. She looked quite different. Her hair has grown quite long, and it was curled. Besides, the princess knows nothing."
He was making a case out of nothing. The fact was that he had brought her out of the Manor and broken rules he should have observed.
But suddenly, Sheba was speaking.
"Alright." She said suddenly. "I can accept that."
Barnett nodded eagerly too, as did Lent and Churchill, albeit more reluctantly.
"Funny." Leopold said slowly. "Wouldn't it be strange if you told the Orb Princess that you had to leave early? Wouldn't someone suspect you of having some kind of plans? Wouldn't she feel that it was strange for both of you to leave suddenly?"
"Not at all." Athrun said emotionlessly. "There wasn't any reason to suspect that there was something happening while the party went on. And she didn't protest when I told her that we were leaving."
He recalled the way she had felt, struggling, and then welcoming him, pressed against the white marble, golden and pristine as he claimed her with his arms and mouth.
He had known what he had to do that night- sacrifice her trust for his mission. In so many respects, she was Lyra Delphius. Love was not an issue to be discussed- there was only duty.
She had been dazed, lips pink and kissed raw, willing to follow him, willing to do what he said and return to the manor. She had not known that Mullin's unconscious body had been locked into the boot, an oxygen mask plastered over his face, all while Athrun announced their departure. She had not known that as they sat in the car, Epstein driving, the unconscious Mullin had been transported away from Rochester's manor.
She had been blindfolded, after all.
Churchill, who had lighted his next cigar, nodded. "Well, seeing that you introduced her as Lyra Delphius, I don't think they recognised her entirely, or at all. And I think most of them were boozed out anyway."
Leopold snorted. "Do you actually bank on things like these for them to miss Cagalli Yula Atha?"
Churchill opened his mouth to justify his argument, but Lent moved in, always the pacifier.
Swallowing his coffee, Lent turned to her. "Listen, everyone. You've seen Lyra Delphius before, haven't you, Sheba?"
Athrun looked at Sheba, who was looking a bit tense.
"I spent some time spying on her, if that's what you mean." She answered curtly.
"Then you know the resemblance." Lent said reasonably. "Trust Rune on this, Leopold. He knows what he's doing. Since when has he gone wrong? He's never led us in the wrong direction since he took over from Sanders."
Leopold's lips tightened.
Lent continued confidently. "You're an expert at changing faces and appearances yourself, Sheba. Leopold and Tom don't believe that nobody recognised her as Cagalli Yula Atha. But Tom here tells me that the Orb Princess wore a gold dress and a diamond necklace with matching earrings. Her hair was long, in curls. Now tell me what Lyra Delphius has always been seen in at these events."
"That same outfit. Nothing more, nothing less." Sheba confirmed. "And I suppose the Fifth Eye was meticulous enough to use the exact same outfit, even the same jewellery and diamond necklace. The one with the pear-shaped diamonds."
Athrun did not answer, but she had already derived her answer from his silence.
"You know better than anyone here." Lent said firmly to Leopold and Tom. "The recollection of a face is really just an accumulation of impressions made by the articles a person wears."
Tom looked upset and Leopold looked impassive, but they knew Lent was correct.
"The same outfit, if worn exactly the same way, evokes the same memories and impressions even if the wearer is different. Add the advantage of both women being blonde and roughly the same height. With evening make-up, they would have been extremely similar. Add the advantage that the guests were boozed out or high. Add the advantage of Lyra Delphius not having made an appearance for what- three years? Add the contrast now, of what the Orb Princess usually looks like officially. A uniform, hair short, much less makeup, no jewellery."
It was clear that Athrun's wager had become a winning one.
"Okay, okay." Leopold said grumbling. "I accept. No harm caused by Estragon bringing the Orb Princess out for a night then. Thanks to you and Sheba covering for Estragon."
Sheba stood up very abruptly and went to refill her cup.
Smiling wanly, Athrun watched as Lent waved away his gratefulness.
"Rune's never led us down the wrong path. Not since he wanted to leave The Isle anyway," Barnett chimed in, "Gave me a right shock at that time. But you didn't leave, did you?"
Athrun paused, looking at the honest pair of eyes and Barnett Romia's youthful, attractive face. She didn't mean the hurt he'd felt from her statements.
"I didn't." Athrun answered honestly. "Not five years ago, and not now. Never."
"But we know why you stayed." Lent said gently. "You care about others so much that you ignore the sacrifices we have made and must continue to make."
Athrun looked at Sheba. She was drinking very quietly, and she said nothing.
Lent sensed Sheba's unease, and hastily cleared his throat. "I must mention this now. The new shipment has reached my manor. There's a baby girl- an orphan. The woman who's been looking after her is reluctant to continue. I've spoken to Plant about this, and they propose that she be brought up as an aide- a secondary one first, and if she shows promise, a primary one."
Athrun kept silent, and so did the others, but theirs was an indifferent silence.
"What's the issue?" Leopold said lazily. "If the superiors want that, then that's fine. We might as well have another female. There's only June Summon, Rune's twin assasins, and Lucretzia. None of them really appeal to men. We might as well have another girl to help us."
Tom snickered. "The last time we sent Lucretzia to seduce that fellow- oh what's his name?"
"Mithall." Athrun said quietly. "We acquired his steel empire just recently."
"Oh, yeah, that one."
His tongue had been cut out and his manhood stuffed in his mouth in replacement. Lucretzia did not take kindly to men laying their hands on her.
"The best we've got so far," Leopold chuckled. "Is Lent's third aide, Tequila. He seems happy to play the role of a girl though."
"It's settled then," Churchill boomed. "Lent-,"
"No, no," Lent said quickly. "I don't want my aides to be dividing their attention in bringing up that child. I was thinking of Rune. After all, he's got two young girls and that boy, what's his name, Epstein, right? They might provide a more conducive environment for that child."
Athrun shook his head. "I don't want her to be exposed to so much danger. She's too young. It would be better if she could learn the ways of a lady under Sheba."
Sheba's eyes softened.
"Rich." Churchill said loudly. "If she's brought up as an aide, do you think she'll avoid danger? Do you think any of them can unlearn what they have once they The Isle? Of all people, you should know, Estragon. You learnt how to kill from the best in Zaft, and have you unlearnt it? Can you unlearn it?"
Athrun fell silent, although his eyes were filled with hatred and anger he could not conceal. The other Eyes were muttering.
Tom's lips were tightened. "Don't be a bitch, Churchill."
"You're allocating resources inefficiently by passing her to Sheba." Churchill continued brazenly. "Sheba'll teach her painting and singing and that sort of things that the girl isn't brought here to do. And Sheba already has enough aides, there's that boy to carry out her orders, what's his name…"
"Hideki." Barnett said cheerfully and without guile. "Yes, he's a good worker. Wiped out that bunch of clowns single-handedly with a chainsaw. You taught him well, didn't you, Sheba?"
Her words had the opposite effect she had intended on the older woman. Sheba got up abruptly and left the room, her crisp, well-pressed suit framing her height and a contrast against her hair.
They watched in silence.
Barnett looked stricken, realising what she'd implied, and she stood up and ran out after Sheba. Sighing, Lent stood up and moved after them, as did Leopold, who had as usual, said very little. Churchill stubbed out his ash-grey cigarette, reached for another, lighted it calmly, then got up and moved out.
Tom looked at him sharply as they filed out of Churchill's board room.
The Ninth Eye had very Spartan tastes, and the only thing suggesting luxury was the box Churchill kept his cigars in. And even then, the box looked very simple.
Athrun turned to go too, feeling exceptionally tired.
"Hold it," Tom demanded. "I want to speak to you alone."
He blocked the doorway, a head shorter than Athrun but his uncovered eye an electric blue slit in his sharp-featured face. "What's going on with you and the Orb Princess?'
Athrun looked at him cynically.
"You got your way when you insisted on using the Orb princess as your dinner date. You offered me the same reasons Lent just offered all of us- that nobody would recognise her. Okay, convincing enough if you justify it that way."
"Tom," Athrun said warningly.
"No. Let me finish. Why couldn't you stick to the plans after that?" Tom argued. "You were supposed to create a reason for you both to leave early, a reason the other guests would remember."
Athrun nodded. "I know."
"Barnett gave you a special drug to make Atha feel dizzy at Rochester's place," Tom said directly. "She wouldn't even get ill if you gave her the antidote upon arrival back at the Fifth manor. We agreed that you'd slip it into her drink, use that as an excuse to leave, and get out of there fast."
Athrun said nothing.
"But you chose to pretend she had a flu so both of you could leave. And you did it by snogging her senseless. Are you going to say that it was more efficient? Or less suspicious? What? Let's see you try to wriggle your way out of this."
Athrun whipped away the cigar Tom was holding in his hand and stubbed it in Churchill's ashtray. He eyed Tom.
Tom glared at him with his one good eye. "What?"
"Churchill's fags are medicated. Yours are for leisure. Find something else to do instead of experimenting with your lungs."
A look of irritation crossed Tom's face, although he did not object to Athrun's act of taking away the cigar he had snuck from Churchill's stash.
"I saw you," Tom said tightly, "You told her that you had always loved her. What did you mean? Did you know her before she was brought to The Isle?"
"You planted a second camera there, didn't you?" Athrun said dryly. "And you didn't tell me that you had a second camera around. I should have guessed."
"You had the balls to take down the camera I planted under that white-flowering tree." Tom sputtered. "With the leftover wine you poured on the roots. If you knew where I planted the second camera, you'd have pissed on it, wouldn't you?"
Athrun's lips quirked.
Tom looked furious, his ears slightly red, "You had a perfectly fine excuse to get the hell out of Rochester's mansion once we'd settled Mullin. But you made this elaborate pretence, saying she had a flu when all you'd done in reality was make out with her! What the hell is with that about?"
"Nothing," Athrun said calmly. "It made a more memorable exit. Plenty of guests felt dizzy from the booze. It would be better to leave for a different reason."
Tom slapped his file down, transferring his weight to the hand resting on the table top. His good eye glared at Athrun.
"No," Tom said cunningly. "You're beginning to fall for her, aren't you? Imagine this- the invincible Athrun Zala falling for his captive! The Orb Princess, no less! That's why you brought her to the greenhouse! You wanted to get cosy with her!"
Athrun studied Tom, oblivious to his accusations. A remarkable boy, this one. He would go far if he didn't get himself killed first.
"You didn't even have to drug her wine- Tequila did it for you!" Tom raged on. "But you swapped goblets without her noticing, and threw the drugged wine you were supposed to feed her right near the trees! On my bloody camera! What are you up to, Zala?"
"Tom," Athrun said tonelessly, "Address me by the name I was assigned."
"You are Athrun Zala still!" Tom roared, losing his temper completely. "All of us have names that we try to forget, but we will never! You're hiding your past from me, from all of us. I'm your friend, aren't I? Don't I deserve to know?"
His young face crumbled. Touched, Athrun reached out to him.
"I follow the orders." Athrun reminded him. "I follow them well enough. I have The Isle's interests at heart. My past and yours doesn't matter."
Tom faltered, although a stubborn look was beginning to enter his face. "You've never been the same since five years ago. After Sanders died, you've never been the same- you and Sheba, and Lent! When the council presented you with those twin girls to train as assassins, you even refused to! You even threatened to abandon The Isle! I remember that day- Barnett was so worried that you would leave us, she even cried! I've never seen her cry before."
Athrun remained silent, staring at Tom.
"Even the General had to step in to ask you to stay. And then you were the first to know about the terrorists' plans he'd obtained. And that's just it! You've been obsessed about the terrorists' plans concerning the Orb Princess ever since then! Everything about this is strange!"
"What is?" Athrun said mildly.
"Three years ago, you insisted that you be the one, rather than Lent, to be the next spy within the Danish terrorists. For all these years, you've been working towards that single night when you brought Cagalli Yula Atha back, haven't you?"
He waited until Tom finished the outburst, and then spoke.
"She's the key to starting another great war." Athrun said coldly.
"Not just that, I think." Tom said insistantly. "I may not know you very well. I don't know who she is to you. But you're my friend and I know that there's something you've been keeping from all of us. Nobody seems to know the exact truth, except Sheba and Lent. And they won't say."
Tom took a deep breath. "But I trust my instincts. There's something about the Orb Princess. You could have brought any other woman to Rochester's place, but you chose to take the Orb Princess out of the fifth manor! Tell me what you know, Athrun! I'm your friend, aren't I? I want to help!"
Athrun looked away, angry at Tom's interference, but simultaneously touched.
"I'm only four years younger than you! I'm not a child you can dismiss." Tom argued. "I can smell a rat a thousand miles away. Heck, I can see a rat a million miles away-,"
Athrun stared at his patch.
"-and I know you're growing too close to the Orb Princess. I don't know what will happen, but we cannot screw this up."
Athrun smiled wanly and began to move to the door. "Your fears are unfounded Tom. The Orb Princess is merely a means to the end. Yesterday's mission was a success, thanks to you and your aide, Barnett and Tequila Clarriker. And just a word of advice-,"
"What?" Tom said looking tense. His fists were balled in earnest.
Such a child, that one. Filled with the energy of youth and the rashness of his abilities and intelligence. He wore 'alternative clothes', as Lent liked to say, jeans artfully ripped, his shirt a tad sloppy and dark hair somehow quite neat and boyish, a bit longish with a duck's tail at the nape. His fringe was long- it fell into his eyes.
Next to Athrun, he looked like a rockstar-cum-teenage-delinquent arguing with his suit-wearing manager. The description might have been quite accurate, in fact.
Tom had a piece of shrapnel embedded in his eye, after being on the wrong end of a minefield. The Zaft surgeons had certainly not wasted the opportunity. They had implanted a camera and laser scanner where the eye should have been, and Tom had risen to the top of the ranks as a sniper. Of course, he had been an elite soldier in the first place, but the implant sealed his fate.
Athrun knew he still had nightmares about the operation and the pain of the bomb erupting in his face, but Tom was young, reckless, and too proud to admit that he was young and vulnerable. He was also deeply in love with Barnett Romia, and somewhat jealous of Athrun's ability to attract girls, despite Tom's uncanny talent in this field too.
As Tom had complained, it seemed that the only girl he wanted wasn't attracted to him. But Athrun knew what Barnett was doing- it was called playing hard to get.
Athrun looked smilingly at Tom. "Try flowers and a suit. She'd probably go for those."
Tom looked confused, and then his one good eye brightened as Athrun moved out quietly and shut the door.
When Cagalli awoke, she was sober enough to feel the pain. Her head was pounding so much; it felt like she had smashed it into something.
Listlessly, she moved to get dressed, sensing that it was very late now. She opened the wardrobe, looking at all that glinted within it. The dresses within the wooden trove were a confusion of colours, and it reminded her of the Rochester Estate and the guests.
But she was sober and she was capable of thinking about all that she had tried to ignore the night before.
The facts that she'd put out of her mind by getting drunk were returning to her, and those stung badly in her soberness- he had had other lovers all these seven years.
He had brought them to events like the one last night. Her presence had been as inconsequential as those. Perhaps, her presence had been worth even less than the lovers he'd had all this time.
But what did she expect?
He had taken another woman to a party, four years ago. There had been a woman who must have looked similar to her, in a similar dress, in a similar way. That was the only logical explanation for what the guests at Rochester's party had said.
She rubbed a hand against her temple, willing her stinging eyes to regain their vision. The guests' voices, their words and their laughs rang in her ears. And the recollection of his silence made her bite her lips in anguish. That was the reaction she ought to have shown last night- the reaction she had felt but had been unable to express.
All night long, had Athrun expected her to be oblivious to something like this? Was she expected to not notice something so obvious?
She wasn't foolish enough to think that the guests were imagining things- 'We saw you four years ago'.
She hadn't dared to ask, afraid that it would confirm her suspicions.
Athrun had said nothing when the guests had spoken of seeing her four years ago. He had kept his silence, and it had seemed to her a challenge. Seated next to her, he had challenged her to act out his pretence, to act as if she was incapable of guessing the truth, to pretend as if she didn't care about anything that he'd done.
It had been a challenge she couldn't afford to ignore.
Pretending that she didn't care and that she didn't care to know what he did allowed her some dignity. For Cagalli, it was a form of revenge, no matter how insignificant it would seem to him. If she could go along with his pretence, she would show him, at that dinner table, in that massive estate, that he could have as many women as he wanted, that he could do what he wanted, that he could go to hell for all she cared.
So she'd accepted the challenge. She'd gone along with the pretence, she'd danced with him, she'd been civil to him to hide the pain in her. But Cagalli had only been able to do this by denying her reasoning faculties with alcohol.
Cagalli wasn't foolish enough to assume that he would remain alone even after he'd left Orb. She wasn't hypocritical enough to refuse him, and then expect him to pine as she had for seven years, even up till today.
She knew how women found him attractive. And she wasn't naïve enough to think that he would remain a celibate or recluse when he could have anyone he wanted. He had every right to love others. She had no right to feel hurt that he had this right.
Last night, she had known that he had brought a woman who must have looked a little like her at least, to a similar soiree. That had hurt her although she wasn't sure why- there was no point denying it. Cagalli wasn't even sure why she felt hurt that he had happened to bring someone who had happened to look like her.
Perhaps, the hurt came from how carelessly he'd picked his consorts, how one of them even looked like her. Obviously, he didn't even think of her as a unique individual or someone with an identity- he'd had lovers who fitted into his range of preferences, and she had happened to, a long time ago. In that sense, she was as faceless, as nameless as every woman he had been with. The guests had confirmed it for her.
They had looked at her, praising with their mouths, appraising with their eyes. Surely, he had asked her to behave as a call girl would because his previous lovers had been like that. She wasn't Cagalli Yula Atha- she was one of the consorts he used as props in his appearances. That was why she looked like whoever he'd been with four years ago, because all the women he had been with were merely props.
She brushed her hand over her mouth, feeling nauseous as she recalled the leers the men shot her and the scepticism in the eyes of the women. He expected her to go along with him, as if she were really his prop, as if she couldn't guess what he'd done. It was a ridiculous pretence when the evidence was everywhere- but she had gone along with it for the sake of her pride.
But as she had taken goblet after goblet of the fragrant, numbing wine, she knew the exact reason for her willingness to go along with his pretence.
She been nameless, faceless, even, while he held her close to him as they moved through the crowds. She wasn't really Cagalli or even Lyra Delphius to him- she was just another of the women he used for these appearances.
She didn't want to be that way to him- but at the same time, she wanted to be at least somebody to him. She'd gone along with him, knowing exactly what they were leading themselves into, but not knowing what she was really doing. If spending the night with him would make him love her for just a few hours at least, then she would do it.
In that greenhouse, his face beautiful in the soft, turquoise lights, he had told her that he had always loved her. But he had been lying. She had known the exact second he had told her that he loved her. He didn't love her. If she couldn't even love herself, how could he?
But she had wanted to believe him, just for a while, just long enough for her to experience loving him and having him love in her return. When he'd refused her, it had only confirmed that everything was a lie.
In truth, she wanted to be whoever he had been with four years ago. She had wanted him to need her as he had needed that person. Athrun's face had been impassive and unreadable, and she despised him but loved him even more. She wanted to know him, to have something to keep of him, even if it was as minor and as fickle as the memories of a one-night fling.
But he had denied her even that.
She felt sober; sickened by how he'd led her on and by how deeply she loved him. She was sickened by how he'd denied her even the dignity of being someone to him, even someone as insignificant as a bed partner for one night.
Her heart throbbed like a burning weight in her chest, and the pain of her head seemed to be merging with it. She took another glance at the array of dresses, gave up looking for something to wear, and sat gingerly on her bed.
Only then, did she notice a chilled bottle of aspirin sitting by her bedside. With some gratefulness, she took it, trying to nurse the headache and the hangover she had somehow sustained. When she felt slightly less nauseous, she took a small step forward.
The maids must have come in while she had been asleep, Cagalli reasoned, but like mice, quiet and efficient. The splendid golden dress she had worn the night before had been hung up again, and the diamond earrings were in a box on her vanity table.
With some embarrassment, she noticed that she was still wearing the diamond necklace, and her heels while clad in her underwear.
Hastily, Cagalli kicked them off and moved quickly to draw a bath. She wanted to forget everything that had happened last night.
When she re-emerged, her skin was pink from her scrubbing, and her eyes were swollen. But she had calmed down a great deal already, and she felt that she was ready to confront everything. Slowly, she opened the wardrobe with one hand, the other still holding the towel around her.
She tried to search for a shirt, but found only dresses that reminded her of the previous night. Angrily, she pushed them aside and found a simple shift she took quickly and wrapped herself in. She stared at the curtain of dresses and felt something twisting in her.
Within minutes, the dresses were strewn on the bed.
The first she'd taken out had been the ostentatious gold one the maids had placed back inside. It was more yellow than gold if one ignored the finishing, she thought. It sparkled everywhere, and was a slim sheath that was lacquered with gold dust. Even her hair was a paler shade of gold compared to this dress.
She'd removed a peach dress she briefly recalled wearing. There was a familiarity to it that she despised. And of course, the turquoise one too.
Then she'd yanked a red one off the hanger, then a champagne coloured one. Then there was a black one that she fingered delicately before discarding with a wanton carelessness. And maroon, azure, amber, cream, rose, colour after colour was splashed on the white spreads.
Very soon, she was staring at the back of the closet. It was a large one, a very large one, in fact. The space smelt sweet in its masculinity, woody and comforting. There was nothing feminine about its smell, and she was glad for this. As a woman, she had no dignity left. But at least, she was learning the lesson once and for all. She had never been worth much as a woman to anything or anyone.
She stared at it, looking at the wood's grain, stroking it hesitantly. She cast a baleful glance at the dresses behind her, lying on the bed.
She thought about the pain in his face as he had pushed her away last night. It confused her. Why did he feel pain? It wasn't fair- why could he feel pain, and why could she sense his pain, when he was causing her hers?
Then Cagalli was groping for something in the darkness of the closet, and she sobbed for something, for someone. She wondered what this feeling was, this strange gnawing in her. It was somehow familiar, and she had the vague recollection of a small, barely-touched dinner on a table, laid for one in a beautiful, large, empty house.
Kira was always finding opportunities to invite himself and Lacus over, but she simply couldn't insist that they come to Orb to visit her on a weekly basis, like she was their favourite old aunt who deserved their attention. Now, the loneliness in her multiplied itself, and she thought of the emptiness of the night's passion and a gasping sob wrenched its way from her depths.
And she repeated Kira's name over and over again, then Lacus', her father, and then Aaron and Kisaka and Mana, just so she could remember them. She tried to recall all the faces she had seen before, but when she tried to remember Andrew Bartfield's, then Aisha's, and she failed to.
She knew what the name of the pain in her was. It was loneliness.
The darkness of the wardrobe was a lesson in itself. She didn't deserve to be loved. Neither could she give love to anyone.
She couldn't afford to gamble with her feelings and try to win his love when she could not return or deserve it. Not back in Orb, and certainly not here on The Isle.
He knew this all along. He had probably been mocking her all this time, even last night.
She hit the wall with her palm, anguished and her dry gulps of air threatening to usher in tears. But she was ashamed of crying, ashamed of weakness. She was even more ashamed of everything she had been so proud of, her ability to be stoic, mercenary, and manipulative.
An hour later, she woke up to find Cartesia staring at her. The light that stabbed into her eyes came from the parted doors of the wardrobe. Then she remembered that she had climbed and curled into the womb of the wood structure, sobbing without any tears. She had been hungry for something as she'd fallen asleep.
Her legs were hurt from being bent under her chin.
The girl looked frightened and relieved at the same time. Perhaps, Cagalli thought dully, they thought that she might have escaped when they had not seen her anywhere in her cage.
And yet, she had escaped, in a strange way of her own. She'd found another dimension of the cage. She hid her face with her hands, trying to fade back into the darkness of the closet. The smell of wood was everywhere. And perfume. The remnants of the scent that had been pressed into her wrists and neck. The remnants of last night's events, poisoning the steady, plain woodiness of the darkness. Suddenly, she wanted to throw up.
Her voice was cracked and hoarse. "Cartesia?"
'Milady?" The girl said softly, her eyes large and gleaming with sorrow at not understanding the cause of her mistress' own.
Cagalli paused, and the silence was cancerous. She did not know what to say. She could not find what was missing because she did not know what was. What did she want?
She was desperate for a sleep without the dreams of a black ocean and faces she did not quite recall, her father's, the dead Seirans, and Athrun Zala and all the nigtmares. But Cartesia couldn't give that to her.
She began to rub her eyes, trying to rub the confusion and lethargy from them.
"I'd like a drink." Cagalli said brokenly.
When Athrun returned to the Manor, he did not hesitate, turning sharply into the corridor that led to her room. That whole day, he had had thought of nothing except her. It was madness, to be so distracted as he was now. But some things could not be helped.
When entered the room, he spotted her, lying on the bed in slumber as the maids had placed her there. Cagalli looked almost faded, her colour poured onto the bedspread with the brilliant jewel colours of the dresses all around her, but none in her cheeks and lips. That she was wearing a crumpled white shift made her look like a rag doll.
But clutched in her hand was an empty glass flute. The maids had acceded to her request and tried to quench her thirst. But thankfully, they'd exercised judgement and given her only a little mead mixed with warm water.
The maids were quietly replacing the dresses in the wardrobe, one by one, and she was melting into the clinical shade of the bed sheets.
He thought, for a terrible second, that she wasn't breathing.
The maids were staring at him, standing by either side of the bed like guards. He did not look at them or give them any order, save the words that escaped from his gritted teeth. "Leave us."
They understood the turbulence of his mood and left quietly and quickly.
Cagalli opened her eyes in something like dull confusion, although her expression grew clearer and held hatred and mistrust. He strode over and wrenched the glass from her hand, setting it aside.
She began to sit up, studying his face as his studied hers. A dull flush crept under her cheeks, and she realised that the previous night was a haze of alcohol and desire. In fact, the only thing she remembered now, was that he had pushed her away. And that made her innards twist in anger and humiliation.
"What do you want?" She said sharply, regretting that the haze was leaving her.
"I want to talk." Athrun said evenly. "About last night. Before you get yourself pissed." There was a thinly-concealed anger in his voice.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "There's nothing to talk about. I was drunk. I behaved inappropriately. You can think that I'm easy or whatever you like."
Quite forgetting to keep his temper in check, his voice echoed rashly in the room. "This isn't about what I think of you! It's about us; it's about us needing to be honest with each other!"
Cagalli began to laugh, and it was sardonic and painful. "Honest? A bit rich eh?
"Look," Athrun said tensely. "I told you I can't tell you everything about The Isle and what I'm doing here on it as Rune Estragon, or why you're here for that matter. But why can't I be honest with how I feel about you? As Athrun Zala?"
Her eyes flashed. "Don't. Don't lie to me-,"
"I'm not lying." His voice was warped in its frustration. "And I don't want you to lie to yourself any longer."
"I'm won't." She said in a strange, wan voice. It struck him that she was of rather small stature when she was not standing in that proud, regal manner. "Not any more."
He took a step forward. "Then say you love me."
She looked at him, pale and her eyes large and dark in her white face. "I can't."
"You wanted me." He said tremblingly. "Didn't you?"
There was a warmth and fervour in his voice that made her recoil. She didn't like him as a cold, hostile person- it disconcerted her. But this was even worse- him treating her as if he cared after demonstrating that he didn't.
"What am I to you?" She said, with a kind of misery and resentment. "Why do you treat me like I matter to you when I don't at all? Am I some kind of toy you play mind games with then discard?"
She stared at him, and found a sadness in his face that began to show.
"It's precisely because you matter so much that I couldn't take you last night. I can't have you as a simple thing to become acquainted with and then discarded."
"Why? Am I not even worth what the women you strung along were worth?" She said brokenly.
"I'm not going to waste you on a one-night fling when you're not even sober enough to recognise who's with you. I've had enough of those." He said softly.
"But I wanted that!" She said heatedly. "Don't I deserve at least one night of your attention?"
He was staring at her, his face pale.
"What is it that you want?" She asked savagely. "If you don't even want a fling, then what can I offer you?"
He was still standing. But now, he bent, locking his arms perpendicular to the bed, trapping her within his circumference as she sank backwards, staring up at him. His voice was soft and molten, dark in its depth.
He stroked her cheek. "If it wasn't already clear, I'll say it again. I want everything."
She gaped at him, stunned. Why did he want anything from her when she was worth so little?
"I'm going to bring you away from The Isle." He said quietly. "As I promised to. For a while, at least."
She stared, not understanding.
He slipped next to her, not bothering to kick off his shoes, and turned her face towards him.
Within seconds, he was forcing her to lie into the bed, kneeling over her.
His voice was low and husky, filled with possessiveness. "You're going to give me what I want."
What did he want?
Everything.
She remembered the dim light and the way Athrun had kissed her. Had he wanted her? Or had it been another of his mind games?
And what about now? Did he want her? When he pushed her away again, would she break this time?
"Don't touch me," She said wildly, struggling as he held her by her shoulders, "Don't come near!"
In a flash, her hands found their way into his coat; her palms warm against his rib cage.
She pulled out a small pistol that he always carried and flipped him on his back.
She shoved the pistol against his temple, pushing him on his back. He stared at her, unafraid, like a child who did not understand what a weapon was.
"I'll kill you." She said in a low voice. "I can."
He looked at her with a strange, sad smile, tightening her hands around the pistol. "You'll be doing me that favour."
Cagalli stared at him.
She would be free of him, once and for all. If she could somehow manage it, she'd run from the manor and get out of this place, return to Orb. He would never come back to find her. She would never be manipulated by him again. She would be free.
She loved him so much- so much that it hurt and it hurt and she wanted him to die so she could forget him. There was a moment of déjà vu- the way she had once put a gun to his temples, thinking that he had killed Kira.
But now, she didn't know how to play his game. At that time, tears had spilled from his eyes. Now, he gazed at her without the familiar sorrow, and she felt a pang of guilt for his apparent inability to feel emotion.
She stared at him, not speaking.
"You've never killed anyone before." He whispered, "Have you?"
She looked away, and fearlessly, he brought her hand away. They were holding the gun together, one hand each, and the barrel pointed away from them.
He cradled her body to him.
He was murmuring that she was still innocent, still untainted and that he had no right touching her or wanting her the way other men could. His voice was low and trembling, telling her that he loved her. If she could love him back, she could give him redemption.
She heard only half of his murmuring voice, transfixed by his presence, hypnotised by her own thoughts.
So Cagalli did not respond. She could not tell him what she had done in the years while he had been living as Rune Estragon. If he found it in him to love her at this point, then the person he loved was someone else, a person he had met a long time ago. Even if she loved him as both Rune Estragon and Athrun Zala, he would never love her as the person she'd become.
He thought that she was untainted still. He wanted a relationship with her, not some fling. She knew that he didn't love her- he wanted to, because he thought that she could mend him in some way.
Athrun was stroking her cheek, and she looked at him mutely, knowing things about him that perhaps, he didn't even know.
He would fall out of love with her and she'd lose him after finding him again. There was no chance of her recovering from that. He would know, the instant they made love in complete soberness, that she couldn't mend him. He'd discover that no other man had ever touched her, and he'd guess correctly that no other man had even wanted to touch her. He would guess correctly that she had never been loved because someone like her couldn't be. He would leave, and she would never recover ever again.
But even now, she could not tell him that she wasn't worth very much. Not now, not when he wanted to be near her. She found that she couldn't push him away even though it was wiser to stay away before he could hurt her again. She didn't want him to realise that he had been right to push her away last night.
Her cheek lay above his heart, its powerful, steady rhythm unlike her own.
How could she tell him what she'd done after he'd vanished from Orb, how she'd personally removed every political opponent in her country?
If she did as he wanted and stayed by him, sober and conscious of her decision, she would not be able to ignore the past seven years- who he had been with, the secrets he had kept from her, all those things that she did not want to think about. She would not be able to ignore who she had been seven years ago.
And now, she finally knew why she had been unable to accept the way he lived here to survive. She resisted the way he lived so carelessly, throwing himself into work that seemed to be everywhere, living out his days in a place that was so cut off from the rest of the world.
She was eager to escape The Isle and his presence, for she instinctively rejected the way he returned to the Manor and the small little world he had, his ruthlessness and how little he trusted others.
It reminded her of herself.
When Athrun had killed Decant Corriolis, she had called him a monster, and she had judged him as one. But what Athrun had not known were her thoughts and memories when the blood sprayed everywhere, on the floor, on her hands and her face.
Perhaps Athrun did not understand exactly why she had reacted so adversely and so extremely to Corriolis' death. Perhaps, he had been surprised to find that she was affected to the extent of losing her speech. But he hadn't known that the loss of her speech had occurred before, a year after he'd left Orb.
If he knew the truth, he would have been horrified- he'd have looked at her like she was a monster. For when she had judged him to be a monster, she was doing the same to herself. She had been tainted long ago; she'd taken a gun to a man's temple and fired once, then five more times, before collapsing to the sound of her own screams.
His voice provided the intended, murmuring comfort. But it only deepened her wounds. "-and you don't belong here. You're still pure and good. I won't let anyone harm you again-,"
His voice ceased as he claimed her mouth. She let him kiss her over and over again, not reciprocating. He stopped when he realised that she was in his arms but unwilling to respond to him. Then he spoke again, and his voice had been harsher than she had ever heard.
"Do you feel anything for me?" He said, his voice trembling for the first time.
Ironic, she thought, that when he showed any emotion, it was a hybrid of everything, pain, joy, anger, tranquillity. Each time he did not bother with his mask, he could not control what he showed.
She nodded, because it was useless lying. And very tenderly, in unmistakable proof of humaneness and emotion, he kissed her forehead.
"That's good enough for me." He said quietly.
Deftly, he pried her fingers from the gun their two hands were still on, tossing it away. But she hardly noticed this.
"This place will drive us both mad," He muttered. "I need to bring you away. Somewhere else."
It was a deal much like the first one she'd made with him, that he'd bring her away if she agreed to be his consort last night. But now, it was another kind of promise.
She slipped her cool, bare arms around him, leaning her head against his chest.
She was hungry, aching for him to hold her like she was his child, hungry for something to fill the emptiness in her.
If he knew what she had done to become the woman the world praised, the face magazines put under the caption, "Most powerful people of the Cosmic Era", "Most capable women of the century", "Most successful people of today's times", he would despise her more than she despised herself.
She couldn't risk that, even though she couldn't find the will to push him away either.
He did not hear her release a small sob as he kissed her again.
4 months 2 days
A/N: Hello everyone! Thanks for the reviews and some really amusing conspiracy theories about The Isle! (Some even came close!)
Sorry for the long wait, but I had to do a bit of chapter reshuffling.
Yep, the OCs are confusing because there are many of them. Some readers liked the development of certain OCs, and wondered why so many unfamiliar names were mentioned without any particular use of them. Some wondered how to keep track of them. My response would be, "Don't."
If every OC was tracked by the readers, that would be insane. This is an entire Isle or should I say, entire Isles, crowded with people who have traded in their past lives and names.
To clarify (and sadly, give away some bits of the story that were supposed to come 2 chapters from now), OCs which are mentioned quite a bit are those which matter.
Other OCs which seem to appear only in name are random people. I did consider not giving these random people names, but the later chapters would get tough without some reference to the other Isle-dwellers. To help the people who've been PMing me and trying to get some clues on what Athrun's up to and who the people on The Isle are, (good tries, some of you!), here is a list of the OCs who DO matter. Hopefully, this'll help you to guess what the later chapters will reveal, since I know quite a few readers enjoy thinking of various outcomes of the plot.
OCs who matter
1. Epstein Cleamont and the maids
2. Lyra Delphius
3. Kitani Harumi
4. The Eyes (more about them in the next 4 chapters, if I remember correctly. They're related to Athrun in quite a few ways, and that's the reason why I had to spend time on Athrun's formative years. Their interactions with him will affect his relationship with Cagalli eventually.)
5. Greyfriars
6. Aaron Biliensky
If any other unfamiliar name is mentioned, those are random people. As many reviewers asked, 'Why are there so many random people in your story?'
My answer (as I've replied to a very small number of reviewers): Because that's what The Isle (literally) is made up of. These are random people who don't matter to Athrun (or Cagalli for that matter). These are people that they (and the readers) meet very briefly, understand very little of, and forget quickly. Ultimately, there are only two familiar people on The Isle who meet as strangers and end up knowing each other again- Athrun and Cagalli.
I'm also going to have to apologise if it looks convolluted. Things will get clearer for Cagalli (and the readers- since they mostly see things through her point of view). Every bit of the unknown and confusion that she (and readers) experiences can only be untangled by her. And that's where Athrun comes into the picture. Sorry again if you give up on the story, it would make me really sad but there are certain things that have to be here now for the sake of the conclusion and premise.
Thanks, you guys! :)
PP