"Master Zala, it's good to have you back, sir," the old man greeted, taking his straw hat off as he got up from the garden bench. "Orb has tanned you quite a bit. Enjoying the beaches, are we?"
"No, no. Nothing like that. Mostly work," he replied with a small smile.
Jarvis has been a faithful steward of his family's estate for as long as he could remember. His skin was wrinkled and his back was bent from all the years of work. He remembered the endless candy supply in his pocket. Anytime he saw the old man, he'd offer him one.
"Right this way," the old man gestured.
The old Zala estate, what was left of it, stood in ruin after Patrick Zala's assassination. When the extremist faction of the ZAFT army caught wind that their leader was no more, soldiers took to ransacking the estate, burning all traces of their diabolical plan. They wiped the slate clean for themselves, unable to take responsibility for their shameful decisions. The names of other leaders who empowered and enabled Zala's ambitions were covered up and the former Supreme Council leader took all the blame, knives stuck on his back even after death.
Athrun looked around as the old man led him down the garden path to the storage rooms at the end of the property. The ivy had taken over the walls, the windows were boarded up, the brick walls that enclosed the property were cracked and collapsing in on its own weight.
It would be a lie to say he was happy to be back. He left home months ago to build himself a new one in Orb. He was full of promise then, so brazen in discarding everything he once was in exchange for the new man he wanted to become. It embittered him to think that he had not made any progress in understanding people after all that. He remained selfish and lost.
It dawned on him that while he always had the shadow of his father to blame for his indecisions, he hadn't quite made different choices even when it came down to him. He was blinded by his own vision of what should be and what needed to happen. He forced Cagalli in a box she wouldn't ever fit into. When she broke, he blamed her.
"Here we are," Jarvis interrupted his thoughts. A loud creaking of wooden doors on rusty hinges greeted him, followed by a waft of dust and mothballs.
"When the ZAFT forces stormed inside the estate, there was little I could save, you see. This was all that I could convince them not to burn on the account that these were family heirlooms and mostly your mother's things," Jarvis explained.
"Thank you," he responded in passing, not sure where to look first. The custodian claimed that all that remained was but a smattering of keepsakes and what not, but he found himself overwhelmed by the piles and stacks of boxes from every direction.
If he were being honest, Athrun couldn't careless. He was there mostly because his lawyer made it seem like he had no choice. But most importantly, he was afraid of facing the fact that no one was waiting for him back in Orb. He looked distractedly at the mess before him. He wasn't sure he was up for spending all afternoon and evening sifting through the boxes.
"I'm not quite sure which one—"
"Well, you could perhaps sell the last of the antiques, if you find they're not to your liking. I imagine you would prefer to keep some for your own family home one day. I'm certain you could get good money for the ones you sell. Your mother had quite an eye for art. And some of these had been passed on from a number of generations back through your father's side of the family."
The old man need not note that by generations back, he meant the Natural ancestors of the Zala family. For all of Patrick Zala's declarations of Coordinator superiority, there was no escaping everyone had common roots back in Earth. If he ever had a family of his own, what would he tell his children? That their grandfather lost his mind and tried to eradicate an entire planet? That their father couldn't quite make up his mind until it was almost always too late? He shrugged at the thought. No, a family seemed the furthest thing from possible now.
"Thank you, I'll see to it," he replied. "How much do we have left until they come to tear the place down?"
"In a fortnight, sir," the old man answered.
Athrun sighed and got to work.
xxx xxx xxx
He was drunk, he thought. Half a bottle of bourbon left ajar next to him beside a stack of old documents. He put all his mother's research documents in one pile, while her private letters and photos, postcards from travels sat in a separate heap. He shoved the box he was working on to one side. It was just old work records of his mother. That could go to the incinerator, he decided.
He kept at it at a relentless pace. He feared if he stopped and allowed himself a moment's quiet, the dread of having left Cagalli behind would sink to his bones.
But liquor was starting to slow him down. Why did he think this was a good idea in the first place? He was supposed to have left this all behind. Instead he was knee deep in the past. It was like venturing onto a territory laden with land mines.
He pushed himself to continue as he grabbed another box. It was labeled "from the vanity." He reckoned it would be filled with old make up and jewelry, though his mother never wore anything more than a pearl set.
He closed his eyes.
She always wore understated but elegant clothing. She kept her hair short because she said it's easier to deal with at work. She was soft spoken, kind and intelligent, but she also knew how to assert herself when she needed to keep her husband in check.
It hurt to remember his mother. It hurt even more when he was inebriated.
The death of his mother might as well have been the death of his father, he thought. His parents had lived apart for most of his childhood. Patrick was bound to PLANT by virtue of his responsibilities to the council, and Lenore's job as a scientist for the agricultural department required travel and research. But every time were reunited as a family, it was clear to him, even as a child, that Patrick adored Lenore very much. His father never smiled as much as he did when Lenore was around. The Spartan and relentless austerity that Patrick had so perfected would thaw. The kindness, that sometimes even Athrun doubted if it even existed in his father's heart, would finally show. Patrick listened intently to each and every one of Lenore's stories from work. Discreetly, woke up before the entire household to deliver fresh flowers ready to greet Lenore in her home office. Patrick was devoted to her and he loved her more than he had ever loved anything else.
Lenore did not have a wake and a funeral. There was no body that could be returned to any of the victims' families after all. With a brave face on, Patrick never shed a tear in front of Athrun. Patrick gave himself to his work, diving deeper and deeper into radicalization. He was featured on many news channels and he accepted all interview requests from various publications. Patrick gave impassioned rebuttals against anyone who dared disagree with his growing bigotry against Naturals. His anger translated to persuasiveness in debates against other more tolerant Coordinators. Patrick was everywhere but by Athrun's side. The day Lenore died, he stopped having family, despite still having a living, breathing son who was hurting just as much as him.
The loneliness that Athrun felt is something he could never qualify into words even to this day. He'd come home to an empty estate. Dinner was always a solo affair. The one time his father was home and awake at the same time as him some odd weeks after Bloody Valentine, he told Athrun to pack up because he was now enlisted with ZAFT. All that without even a goodbye.
He hated his father for a lot for things. He was a monster. He was a criminal. But perhaps for the first time, surrounded by fragments of a family that no longer was, he let himself admit that he also hated his father for his shortcomings as a parent.
He took another swig of his drink. He was tempted to just throw the box away, along with all that was in that room. But if he did that, he would just have time. And that terrified him.
When he opened the box, he was surprised to find a handful of journals, among the miscellany. A brown leather one, thick, creased and worn seemed to have been his mother's favorite based on how much use it got. He inspected it, afraid of how much force it would deal on him to revisit his mother's life. It was always the little details made it too real. The fullness of life that she once lived only made the reality of her death even more tragic.
An envelope slipped out as he peeled the journal open. He picked it up. The paper envelope felt brittle on his finger tips. It seemed quite old and god knows where it has been. On the cover, his name was written in her mother's typical cursive handwriting. It was a letter addressed to him.
He unfolded the papers slowly, readying himself for what he would soon read. But he already had tears forming in his eyes.
My dearest boy,
I am writing this while watching you nap under the oak tree in our backyard. Years and years from now I wonder if it will still be standing there for your children.
I'm not quite sure why I am writing this. Perhaps it's the thought that you will be eleven soon and your mother is feeling quite helplessly sentimental about it. Where did the time go? You'll be a teenager in no time, a young adult not long after. If I could I would freeze this moment in time, I selfishly would.
You don't know this yet. Your father maintains that you're still too young to be told, but he means to make a marriage between you and Sigel Clyne's daughter. Do not worry. I've met her several times and she seems like the sweetest little lady—a talented and pretty one at that.
I suppose this will have to be the new norm for your generation of Coordinators. It makes me melancholy in a way.
We've never told you the story, but your father and I met by chance at a scientific conference. He was there to supervise on behalf of the newly established colony government (you'll learn more about that in school eventually) and I was with a team of agriculturalists presenting new farming technology. He came to check in on our team constantly. He came to nitpick every experiment I performed, always with endless questions. When I asked him what the matter was with him and his interrogations, his face turned blood red like a tomato. He simply asked me out to lunch in response and the rest, as they say, is history.
Your father can be difficult. He struggles to express himself. He's exacting and serious and sometimes cold. He has a strong sense of what he believes to be right and just. He isn't a very forgiving man, least of all towards himself. Your father has had very little love to go on his whole life, living in secret as an illegal Coordinator. His work is his life but only because he never learned to show it any other way. I can see him from out here in the garden. He's inside his study, poring over documents even though it's a Saturday.
But I chose him and he chose me. And loving someone means holding them even when they're battered and torn apart by their own mistakes.
There isn't much I can explain about this sort of thing. Your mother is just a scientist and there is no logic to feelings more often the not. But please let me impart this one gift to you.
One day, when you're a little more grown up, if you find that your heart belongs to someone other than Clyne's girl, promise me you won't let it come to pass, that you will fight for it. Break the engagement off out in the open and go to where your heart tells you to go wherever that may be. When you find love, hold on to it. Know how truly rare it is to have someone make your heart beat at the speed of light. Make sure they know you chose them because you wanted to, not just because you needed to. Protect it with all you've got.
Promise me you will allow yourself to feel. Feel it all, Athrun. You're a brilliant boy, a thinker by nature. I'm your mother and I know that about you. But do not be afraid of feeling. Even when it hurts too much, promise me you won't let it harden into anger. Do not let it turn you sour. Love is as painful as it is sweet. It wouldn't be worth all of this if it didn't hold that much power. And it wouldn't mean anything if you don't surrender to it.
I don't know how old you'll be when you read this, I don't even know if you will get to read it at all, but I want you to know, you were born out of love. You're here because we wanted you, because we love you. And I wish for you to live your life knowing what that feels, never starving for it, never feeling short of being able to share it. That is my dearest wish for you.
You are my treasure. I am very proud of you. Your father is too. Never doubt it.
With all my love,
Your mother
His hands were shaking as he folded the letter back into the envelope. He cried uncontrollably, sobbing for as loud as he needed to. He shuddered as he clasped the letter to his chest, feeling the embrace of his mother from beyond the grave. In the dimly lit storeroom of his childhood home Athrun emptied out all the shame that he kept inside him to give way to redemption. In the place he abandoned, from the people he desperately tried to outrun, he heard the echo of love. And through it, he found the resolve to try again.
xxx xxx xxx
He threw his luggage on the bed and began to pack his clothes. He finished sorting through his parents' things much faster than he thought. He changed the date of his flight to an earlier one. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, and puffy from having cried his heart out, but he felt better than he had in a long while.
For all his stubborn determination to be someone he could be proud of, he had no idea what that man ought to be. He turned his back on his history but that never made the path ahead any clearer. And though Cagalli stood there as a lighthouse to light his way through the fog and the dark, he remained stuck in a maelstrom, going around in circles.
Had he put all the weight on her shoulders? He thought that if he moved to Orb, then the ball would be in her court. She could make a public declaration, let it be known that they belonged to each other. He wanted her to do something, anything at all. Because she was the love of his life, because she was the reason for his being, he was convinced that she would be the one to keep him whole—that was what love meant to him then. But he knew now he understood nothing at all.
His expectations grew into a heavy burden and it spilled out of his mouth with every passive aggressive remark he threw her way. He was toxic. Even after all this time all he had done was dress up what was rotting on the inside.
He loved her for her, so he wanted to believe. But perhaps the truth was he mostly loved her for his own sake.
He stormed to her office, let slip words formed without thinking and threatened abandonment because Shinn had found out before him. He demanded for her to choose him and he allowed himself the arrogance that she owed him that much for what he gave up for her. It was entitlement.
He realized fully now that he had been failing to love Cagalli in all that she was and all that she could be. He held on to who she used to be, claiming that his love was true while demanding that his vision of her be the one that inhibit her body. He hadn't allowed her the right to be human and flawed.
He laid his mother's letter atop all his folded clothes in his luggage and stared at it a while.
Could he love her again, properly this time?
He needed to forgive himself first.
xxx xxx xxx
Athrun handed the keys to Jarvis as they stood before his old home, taking one last look before parting with the estate for good.
He looked around him. When he arrived, all he could see were the many ways in which it was damaged. It was only then that he noticed that his mother's garden had been tended to with care. Flowers bloomed and insects buzzed about to partake in the bounty. He couldn't let himself fall to despair now, he reminded himself.
"You've taken good care of my mother's garden all this time," he smiled. "I want you to know I appreciate it."
The old man shook his head. "It an my honor to have watched over this place, sir. It has been my life's work," he answered. "It's a shame to see it crumble in the end. But nothing lasts forever. At least nothing physical."
"Will you be alright once the place is gone?" He asked. "I meant it when I said I would find you a place and get you set up."
"I'm alright, sir, but you're very kind to offer," he answered. "I'll be moving in with my daughter's family. I'll be surrounded by my grandchildren with nothing but time on my hands."
Athrun was relieved to hear it.
"The place might no longer be here the next time you're back in PLANT," the old man continued. "But you'll always have your family with you."
He let those words seep inside him.
What he had been trying to erase all this time, that part of himself he so badly wanted to forget—it was where he found his strength after all. He knew that now and he refused to ever forget it again.
He would be leaving PLANT for Orb again but he wasn't running away from anything anymore.
The world seemed brighter that day.