 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
PHASE 07: The Cosmic Joke
Malchio’s Island, C.E.73 5.13
Yzak was awake and dressing when he heard the knock, just before dawn.
“Yzak?” It was Dearka, calling quietly but urgently in the hallway. “Yzak, have you seen Athrun?”
Yzak opened the door. “Not since last night. Why?”
Dearka, rumpled and eyes red-rimmed, looked almost angry. “I just came from his room. His bed wasn’t slept in and I can’t find him.”
Pulling on his shirt, Yzak pushed past his friend and headed for Athrun’s room. “I already checked in the lavatories. He’s not in there, I tell you.” Dearka called behind him as they hurried down the hallway.
Yzak stuck his head into the room anyway and caught the lingering odour of blood and soap. Damn, he thought fiercely. Damn, damn, damn. They searched the house with no success. Then it occurred to him that Athrun might be down by the water.
“All right, look. He can’t be far away. Inform the others, I’ll search outside.” He told Dearka, and left without waiting for a reply.
The sun had barely begun to climb and the balcony was still in shadow, as was the shoreline far below. Anxiety and chill combined and Yzak began to shiver as he leaned over the wall, eyes sweeping the coast, hoping to find Athrun sitting on the rocks as usual, his back against the stone, hands dangling between his drawn-up knees.
The dawn came quickly now, a wash, a glow, a lightness, and then an explosion of fire as the sun arose out of the sea. Yzak put up his hands to cover his eyes, and then squinting in the glare, he found Athrun. For an exquisite moment, the colour of life appeared to blend, spread, disperse in a radiant mandala around the dark head; the shimmering patterns changing with every hypnotic wash of the waves.
He heard, as though from a distance, a wail and stared numbly around him, looking for the child who was sobbing somewhere nearby. There was no one there, of course, no one else anywhere to be heard.
Later, Yzak would have no memory of sliding down the slope or of leaping into the bloody surf: the scene registered at some level, but he could not be sure if it consisted of half-dreamt visions or of floating moments of reality. Most likely, it was a mixture of both.
In the dream, he was on the beach, with one of the orphans in the care of Malchio. He was apologising because, for some inexplicable reason, he didn’t seem to have the components required to complete the squirrel he was working on. The child looked at him with calm and strangely ageless eyes. “Well,” she said, with the confident practicality of the half-grown, “make something else then.”
Athrun woke up, breathing hard, disoriented. He could still hear the dream-child’s words and it seemed important to him not to forget what they were before he had had time to think about them. His right hand felt clubbed, swollen and throbbing, but the heavy immobility of bloodlessness kept him from looking at it.
“You’re finally awake.”
His head snapped up. Cagalli sat motionless to his right, outlined by the light from the window at her back, her face unreadable. Athrun let his head fall back on the pillow and looked at her wearily, resigned to another assault. Cagalli stood and began to circle the room slowly, placing no special emphasis on any of her words. “Many people have made decisions that have ended in tragedy,” she said very softly, holding Athrun’s eyes with her own; he did not look away. “Did you think you were the only one? Did you honestly believe that you were the only one ever to wonder if what you do is worth the price you pay? Is it possible that you are so arrogant?”
She came to rest now in front of Athrun, close enough to see the man’s eyes glittering. His face was waxen, the skin beneath his eyes purplish. “To put it more bluntly, I think you are wallowing in self-pity.”
For an instant, Athrun looked like a bewildered child, slapped for weeping.
“Do you know what it felt like?” Cagalli turned away slightly; she was trembling. “We thought you were going to die.”
It was always startling when Cagalli broke down. Athrun remained silent and waited, too exhausted to hope or offer comfort. “And do you know what the worst of it is? I loved you.” The crying stopped as suddenly as it had begun. She stood for a long while, staring at nothing, and then went to the window to look out at the rain. “It’s all ashes now. All ashes.”
So much, he was thinking, for keeping silent about what cannot be changed. So much for male pride. He felt sometimes like the seed head of a dandelion, flying apart, blown to pieces in a puff of air. Or a corpse subjected to autopsy. The humiliation was almost beyond bearing. He thought, and hoped sometimes, that it would kill him, that his heart would actually stop. Maybe this is part of the joke, he thought bleakly. “I’m sorry, Cagalli,” he said. “I wanted to tell you…”
“Tell me what?” She turned abruptly and walked a few steps towards him. “There’s no need to tell me anything, Athrun. I know.” There was a pause. “And I understand.”
Athrun gaped at her, uncomprehending.
Kira might have been better equipped to handle such situations. Kira might have understood the limits of human isolation, how much one might crave human intimacy and closeness. But Kira was dead.
In the quiet hours that followed the chaotic morning, Cagalli turned inward for a time and probed the sense of mourning that had come over her, tried to understand why she felt so strongly that something inside her was dying. It had nothing to do with the death of her only brother.
What was dying, she recognised in those hours, was the possibility of spending the rest of her life in blissful content with Athrun. Even after their break-up, she had not truly understood that she had kept part of her soul open to that possibility until she had watched Athrun call out in his drugged slumber. The ensuing cold wave of violent jealousy that gripped her was an almost physical pain.
But he’s my brother! A man! Granted, a really good-looking one: those violet eyes could just about melt the stoniest hearts. Still, it isn’t fair: it never, ever is.
She could think of dozens of things to say to someone in a similar situation: that nobody can make anyone else love them, that half the world’s misery was wanting someone who didn’t want you, that unavailability was a powerful aphrodisiac – none of it would help.
She did not flinch from the knife, cutting the thread cleanly. A lady of discretion. Her father would have been proud, she thought.
Now, Cagalli met Athrun’s astonished gaze as she saw him pause and consider; and she felt at that moment like a woman giving a child to adoptive parents – certain it was the right thing, best for the beloved child, good for all. But the grief was real.
... ... End of Phase 07 ... ...
Note: Read the Terms of Service at the main site if you want to display Okirun's fics at your own site.