Being Athrun Zala

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: Sunrise. Or else I wouldn't write a fanfic, you see.

Notes: see Afterword.

Chapter 13

That day, when Athrun presented himself on her doorstep five years ago, Murrue Ramius had given Athrun a long stare.

“My ears have played a trick on me,” Murrue said. “That or you're playing a trick on me.” She leant forward, almost intimidating. “You did not tell me you wanted to take Captain Gladys’ son with you.”

He knew where this was going. He was not a good father figure candidate. He was a deserter in hiding, he was the son of a mad leader whose madness almost destroyed the Earth, and, above all, he was a man who never had a normal relationship with his father.

Behind them, Mwu La Flaga was quiet, leaning against the wall. He seemed to have something to say, but decided to keep his silence. After all, being an estranged son himself, he was not one to comment on Athrun’s sudden desire to father—in a way—the late Captain Talia Gladys’ only son.

“What is this? Did you owe Captain Gladys something?”

“I owe everyone something,” he replied. “This is not a repayment of debt, Murrue-san.”

Murrue groaned. “Santa doesn’t come before Christmas, you know.”

That made him smile, despite the nervousness, which he swallowed back into his stomach. Never in his wildest imagination did he think someone would call him Santa. Even La Flaga flashed a small smile.

A small boy, brown-eyed and messy-haired, chose at that moment to appear in the doorway. Noticing a stranger’s appearance in the house, he quickly hid behind La Flaga. Still, he did not stop looking at Athrun.

It’s him, Athrun said to himself. It’s him.

Murrue noticed where Athrun's eyes were engaged. Sighing, she raked a hand through her hair. “I can't make you say no, can I?”

Athrun smiled a little. “If Dietmar doesn't agree, you won't have to make me say no.”

And so began his days as Dietmar Gladys’ guardian.

A series of painful throbs on his wounded knee called him back from the land of memory. Correction, he reminded himself silently, It's not wounded. It’s destroyed. A dim ray of moonlight peeked through the gap between the curtain and the window. He guessed that it was past midnight already. He shifted a little to lessen the pain, but he found himself unable to. Ah.

He smiled wryly as he imagined what the press would say if they knew the world’s most famous political representative had spent a night with the world's most notorious crook.

Perhaps only Dietmar would give him a grin, with real happiness in his eyes.

He forced the stray thought to disappear. The pain on his knee couldn't compare to the pain of thinking about his boy. So he refocused on the sleeping Athha heir, whose hands were curled against his right arm, her face seeming to hide from everyone's view but his. In the dim light, she appeared as she did seven years ago—the first time they met—she slept uncaringly near an enemy in an unpopulated island. How many years had he spent trying to imprint this image of her in his mind, in his heart, in his soul? The profile of her high-boned cheeks, the proud bridge of her nose, this firm line of her mouth?

If he were a painter, he could make a portrait painting of her out of memory.

But then again, he was not sure if he knew her as well as he thought he did. What kind of painting would he make? What expression would he paint for her when he himself was not sure he could understand any of them?

War is always a part of politics, she once said in private, notwithstanding her significance as Orb’s leader, but it’s only soldiers who get the dirtiest job of all.

So says a leader for whom her followers would gladly give their lives, he countered at that time, realizing that it would bring out the worst possible feeling in Cagalli. After all, he knew how she felt knowing that the lives of far too many lay in her hands. She only had to know that her followers did so because they wanted to. Nothing else mattered, not even what she wanted.

Last night she admitted to him that she was, indeed, selfish.

If my wish makes me selfish, so be it.I am selfish, Athrun. I really am. I want you to feel this, realise this, admit this, admit that I’m not the only one being like this. Even if this will suffocate you, even if my wish will break you, I still want this. I want to leave a mark on you, a mark that is inerasable, unforgettable, undying. Even if it’s a scar. Even if it’s a wound. God, I want that.

It was truly overwhelming to see Cagalli letting it all out. For as long as he had known her, this was the first time that Cagalli had cornered him to this point, forcing him to see things her way. A part of him said that she did this for him, but another part of him said that she did this for her own sake so that she would not have to endure the pain, so that he would never forget her.

And all this time, he kept asking her if they could be more than what they were today.

Athrun the idiot, his mind berated.

He understood the answer to his question too late. We can’t, he answered for himself. We are too much alike. And no matter how that hurt, it was true.

And Cagalli wondered whether she should thank him for that. For saying the words I could never bring myself to say, she said.

It indeed felt like a punch at his stomach, a jab that forced him empty his bowels, food, intestines. And it made him angry, for fuck’s sake, angry that she wanted him to hurt as much as she did, angry that she still had such a tight hold over him even after everything, angry that even after everything that happened, he could not stop thinking about her, could not stop measuring himself by her needs, could not stop wondering about his past and his future by her presence, could not stop filling his head and mind and everything with Cagalli, Cagalli, Cagalli, .

Then she stopped his irate tirade even before it had the chance to start by placing her hands on his cheeks, effectively making him look at her. Look, you fool, she whispered, my thanks doesn’t have anything to do with the pathetic little game that you accused me of starting, or with The Talk—and I have to admit I admire you in using it as your sorry excuse. You see, it’s because I’m still the naïve little girl from seven years ago who still believes—realizes that she’s in love with someone she shouldn’t be. The light in her eyes was strange, and he could not make himself believe that this was really Cagalli. So look at us, look at what we could and could not become. We’re running in a circle, but that’s how it should be, because only in a circle we can still be with each other, because this way we have no beginning and no end. She took another pause, this time to sweep her thumbs across his cheekbones. And that's how selfish I want to be about you.

At that moment, some otherworldly power choked him, leaving him bereft with no single word to be realized. It was strange, he thought. With each of their darkness and fear exposed, finally ready to be settled, they had never looked so much alike.

Look at me. You don’t have to accept the person I’ve become; just look at me. I’m neither a shadow of your past nor your future. I’m just—this circle of ours—it’s just—it’s ours. We just have to accept it.

He did not know why she would always be the one to voice his mind, using the same words that he wanted to say. He just knew that she did.

And with that, gone was his treasured Rapunzel from her unreachable tower.

Now, with or without understanding, he wondered why he was not surprised as her eyes opened fully to stare back at him. He watched as a corner of her mouth rose in a tiny, rather sleepy smile.

“Done with your staring?”

“Did I wake you up?”

“Even asleep I could feel the prickles of your devoted stare.”

“Admiring you is a work that can never be completed, Cagalli.” Even with given the minimal lighting, the flush on her cheeks was still clear to his eyes. He winced a little when she slapped him on the arm.

“So says one of Earth’s most wanted bachelors,” she countered smartly, “who happens to be quite a Casanova.”

“Ex-Casanova,” he corrected. “A convict now, remember?” And just like that, the easy mood turned sour again. To watch her face fall did not bring Athrun any satisfaction, so he turned to look at the dark ceiling. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I’m sorry.”

She shifted, now pillowing her head with an arm. She was waiting, he knew.

“It seems I just can’t stop being fucked up in the head.”

“You?”

Her tone, despite the weight in the lone word and her hands on his cheeks, was comfortingly light. Her warm breath fell on his lips, and he wondered why he had never had the guts to admit it before, admit that wherever they would go, they would never get to the end of the line. Because, after all, it was a circle, right?

“We can’t stop,” he corrected, though rather uneasy, but it was only a beginning. He could learn.

She gave a weak laugh, short in the wake of her acceptance. “Yeah. We can’t.”

“Cagalli.” His hand rose to cup hers resting on his cheek. He brought her palm to his chapped lips, kissing it, worshipping it, knowing that it was finally the time for acceptance. “Cagalli.” He closed his eyes, basking himself in the knowledge of their acceptance, inhaling and filling his lungs, his soul, his everything with this familiar presence. “Cagalli.”

It’s us.

Dmitrij Feyedorov once told him that the colour black was intimidating and intimidating (1), like the colour of a wizard’s robe that taints the belladonna fruits with poison. It made Athrun think of what the man said when Feyedorov himself stopped by for a covert visit in a pullover and tweedy jacket. A change of season, his guest reasoned in his usual affable manner. Athrun just did not understand the man. He did not even know how Feyedorov could be here, given his own situation and the man’s significant fame.

This is the man responsible for everything, he reminded himself. Yet although it was true, Athrun was not sure if he hated Feyedorov for that fact.

“Actually,” Feyedorov eyed Athrun’s bandaged knee, “I come to say goodbye.”

“And to put a closure to your revenge?”

“Why the sarcasm, Athrun? I told you it isn't revenge.” The prime minister gave him a smile, but now it looked alarmingly like a predator’s smile. “I came to find my answer, yet you gave me another question.” Again, his eyes shot to Athrun’s knee. “Why?” With his hunched shoulders and the mix of curiosity, anger and long-due anguish on his face, Feyedorov actually looked Heimlich Westenfluss the man, rather than the Prince Charming he masked himself as. And said man in fact asked, Why did you do that, why did a bewildered man like you survive and a resolute Heine die, why are you still here?

“So that I will not run away.” Athrun himself was surprised that the answer came so effortlessly, though it wasn't without much long-suffering resolution. “Because I don’t want to anymore.”

When Feyedorov barked out a short laugh, it was a broken mix of cruel satisfaction, pity and resentment. “Very literal, aren’t you?” he said in between. Then he grew silent. “Have you found your answer, Athrun?”

“It will take me lifetimes to get there,” he replied. “And much slower now given my state of being.”

A sinister sneer appeared on the thin lines of Feyedorov’s mouth. “There is a difference between not wanting to run away and not able to run away.”

“As it is with the saying of Rome and roads.”

Feyedorov was quiet for a while before he reached into his jacket and took out a black flash disk. “My farewell gift, then.” He straightened his jacket. “Perhaps you could celebrate our parting with some friends from Neo Equator, some of Walter’s friends and also some friends from the media—including that pretty photographer friend of yours (2).” Feyedorov made a move to stand.

Athrun looked at the flash disk beside his leg and at Feyedorov again.

Feyedorov’s lips supported a thin smile. “You don’t tell a fisherman how to fish.”

The man then made a leave, but he was interrupted as Athrun said, “Where are you going from here?”

Feyedorov did not bother to turn and look at him, only giving Athrun a view of his broad, lonely back. “If only my heart were not so black today, I’d be glad to have tea with you again, Athrun.” He chuckled a little, laughing perhaps at nothing in particular—Athrun did not know. “You will not see me again, Athrun. That I assure you.”

The following day, Athrun followed the breaking news broadcasted by every TV station: the official helicopter that carried the Neo Eurasia Prime Minister Dmitrij Feyedorov and his two adjutants had crashed onto an uninhabited island during their flight to Indonesia from Orb. The Neo Eurasian contingent then returned to Orb immediately before beginning rescue team work. The incident, as well as its causes, was still under investigation until now.

The only thing that could give Athrun a guarantee that he had really talked to the fallen prime minister within the last 24 hours of said man’s life was the black flash disk and the data inside it.

Kira was breathless in front of his multipurpose notebook. Stunned would be an apt word to describe Kira now, Athrun thought.

“This—” Kira began, half choked. “Where did you get this from?”

He shrugged. “A wizard, a fisherman, who knows. Who cares about who I got that from?”

“Athrun.” There was a mild warning in his friend’s voice. “You can’t just show me all this data—the information about the whole conspiracy and say it comes from a wizard.”

“So you say,” he acknowledged.

His best friend grunted under his breath. “If you don’t want to tell me, fine.” He looked at his notebook screen again. “But this is beyond serious. You have the hands and how they did it, complete with the details. And look at the names. Military seniors, politicians, public figures...” Kira trailed off. “And the coverage—I don’t even know where to start—almost every country in the world is in on this.”

Athrun nodded quietly.

“What will you do with this?” asked Kira.

“Hunt them, catch them and make them pay?”

“Athrun, please. You know I’m here as an agent from the Office.”

“And I’m an avenger.”

Kira pushed his notebook slightly aside. “Don’t.”

“The data are just a start, Mark. It’s a bait; nothing more.” He clasped his hands. “It leaves me with how to drag them out.”

“But to think that Coordinator-haters and ZAFT deserter-hunters are all actually plotted in this...” Kira shook his head. “Whoever did this must have taken you seriously.” He glanced at Athrun's knee but said nothing.

If his best friend knew or suspected anything, he did not say it, and Athrun was glad he didn't.

“I didn’t know that there are people who hate you for deserting for good,” Kira said solemnly.

“We had taken an oath of fidelity to our motherland, and we broke it. It’s that simple.” He looked at the ceiling, so white now—unlike last night, so unlike him. “We were soldiers, and we should have understood that from the beginning.”

“It doesn’t mean you have to follow orders out of blind loyalty.”

“But there are some who can make change from the inside—like Yzak.”

“Different courses have different turns.” There was silence, then, “Why are you showing me this?”

Disbelievingly, he looked at his best friend again. “I didn't think that an Ultimate Coordinator would have to ask that question.”

“I mean,” Kira hesitated, “you know I can't bear to pull the trigger once again.”

“And that’s why!” His voice rose as his inner impatience built up. “If it were me or Shinn, without doubt we would resort back to what you hate. But you—you’re different. You see what I can’t, and that’s the determination I don’t have.”

Across the room, Kira looked strangely stricken with guilt. Athrun wondered if he had said something that rubbed the wrong way.

“Determination, eh?” Kira’s lips twisted into a humourless smile. “You put yourself at the very front in this and you said I have determination that you don’t? I hope you don’t forget who’s still in hiding right now.”

If they were still the children they were years ago, Athrun would have bopped Kira on the head, but things were different now. He should have known that, and he should have realized that his no longer hiding behind a fake persona must have been some kind of slap to the face for Kira.

“You hide because you must,” he said finally. There would only be more problems should Kira decide to leave the Mark Siegfried mask, and he shuddered to think of what would happen to Lacus, Elaine, Cagalli and countless others in acquaintance with Kira.

“And you don’t?”

“And I wouldn’t want to see you hold a weapon ever again,” he added glumly.

Kira avoided his eyes, staring out the window instead. “Will you forgive me, then?” Now not only was guilt present in Kira’s expression, but also there were shame and regret.

That alerted him. Somehow, now he could sense when things were going to go worse. “Mark?”

“Remember our first all-out fight? The one after you killed Tolle,” Kira said in very small voice, “and after I killed Nicol.”

It was something he was desperate to forget but could not. “We have moved on from that day.” Right now, he did not really want to talk about it.

“Actually,” Kira’s voice was now more akin to a whisper, “I was glad it's you that I killed.”

He waited, chest tightening and eyes starting to burn. He remembered the day when Cagalli held him down roughly to the cot, tearfully demanding his explanation what a life meant to him, what madness made him kill his best friend, why he did so, why he simply killed. Even today the memory of his fight with Kira was still powerful enough to leave him staggering with guilt and shame.

“It—my killing you, I mean—was such a hard blow, but it made me make up my mind and promise to myself I wouldn’t kill anymore.” Kira’s hair fell, hiding his face from Athrun’s eyes. “If it weren't you, I would still be a weapon of war.” A strangled sob. “I’m so ashamed.”

“Mark.”

“So, so ashamed to remember that I swung the beam sabre thinking that you’re going to be my last kill, that you—my best friend—would be the last on my dead count. There’s nothing I feel guiltier about than that, and I really deserved the post-fight nightmares. Every single beam sabre flash, every angry shout, every clash of metal that rang in my ears—they’re all mine to bear, and I never told you this because I don’t have the smallest bit of your courage.”

“Mark Siegfried,” he called again, louder.

His best friend raised his face slowly.

“I’ve done my crying for that. It’s no longer your burden more than mine.”

It was Kira, after all, the one brother that the Mighty Creator forgot to bless him with. Even in a burst of anger or when shadowed by guilt, he could never really hate Kira. And he knew that Kira could not, too. Being forgiven was Freedom, in its truest sense, and there was no better way to Freedom than to give Justice through forgiveness.

It was his best friend, after all.

There was a beginning of a wistful smile on Kira’s lips, which slowly brightened his face like the sun after a dark night. “Some say the more, the merrier,” he said. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

He could not help smiling back. “And you said you envy my front-liner guts.”

“Still not as courageous as you, though. I’m merely joining you there, partner.”

Two days later, Athrun received other visitors.

“—geez, if only you leave those beauties as they tell you, we’ll get this done much sooner, brat. He’s only a man with a hole on his leg, you know.”

“With all due respect, Lieutenant Colonel, this man with a hole on his leg bested me once out of anger when he was dying, so I have to decline your advice.” (3)

“Gentlemen, please. We’ve had enough with procedures, haven’t we?”

Athrun counted the steps until they paused in front of the door to his isolated room. There came a knock, and Young’s honey-brown head popped in.

“Good morning,” his defender greeted. “How are we doing?”

“Irritated because of two unwelcome guests,” Athrun replied dryly.

Dearka snickered smugly, while Shinn gave him a nasty look. Sighing, Athrun straightened his posture to a sitting position. Considering Young’s presence on top of the fact, he knew that the two ZAFT members had to be here for a reason. If it was a good reason, good for him. It if was bad... well, he could say he had had worse, couldn’t he?

“Spill it out.”

Dearka snickered again. “For a man who’s been shot twice in less than three months, you sure look feisty.”

Beside Dearka, Shinn looked very uncomfortable. “Major,” he tipped Dearka. “I think it’s best to just go straight to the point.”

“Oh, shuddup, brat. If it wasn't because of you, we’d have been here faster.”

“They had to go through the ransacking twice because First Lieutenant Shinn Asuka refused to leave his miniguns with the guards downstairs,” Young kindly informed him as his defender pulled a chair to sit next to his bed.

“So?” Athrun asked his two former teammates. “Any bad news for me? Or worse news?”

Shinn gave a cough once. “ZAFT has issued its stance in the Tribunal.”

“And that is?”

“ZAFT declines all calls for a military court for any of its former members except if they turned against ZAFT after their defections. All further decisions are now solely entrusted to the International War Tribunal.”

Somehow it was funny to witness Shinn’s formal side, but Athrun could not bring himself to laugh. There was still more for him to know—there was a reason why two prominent ZAFT members were personally present.

“Concerning your service in ZAFT,” Shinn paused, now looking more and more uncomfortable, “ZAFT has come to two conclusions. One, that Athrun Zala decided on his own to leave ZAFT in the First War, was accepted an exile as decided by former Chairwoman of the Supreme Council of PLANT Eileen Carnaba and was pardoned by former Chairman of the Supreme Council of PLANT Gilbert Dullindal. Two, that in his capacity as a member of FAITH, Athrun Zala was stated one-sidedly as a defector by Chairman Dullindal and had acted on his own to overthrow Chairman Dullindal,” here Shinn took a relatively long breath, “as a deserter.”

Even Young, who was not a military member, knew what it meant.

“ZAFT cannot annul any of its past decisions,” Dearka said, “and furthermore, you’re an Orb civilian who serves Orb military. It’s a one-way ticket, you know.”

He closed his eyes. Yes, I know this will come, he said to himself. ZAFT would not set a trial for him because ZAFT saw he was labelled a traitor first then later deserted and not the other way around, yet ZAFT would not interfere with the Tribunal either. Furthermore, because he had served in Orb military as an active member, it would be forbidden for him to reenlist ever again in ZAFT.

“As for PLANT,” Shin continued, who right now looked like he did not know how to deal with mixed emotions of concern and pity, “the Supreme Council has decided that Athrun Zala is not to be present in PLANT and its sovereign territories until the Tribunal finishes its whole course of action.”

No one said anything—until the subject of the affair himself broke the silence.

“What about Dietmar?”

Shinn abruptly decided that time to hit the roof, however. “Think about yourself for once, will you? It’s your life we’re talking about!”

“Shinn—” Dearka tried to interrupt.

“This—this bastard!” Shinn spat. “Is it okay for you to be Judas? To the point that you’ll probably never see your homeland again?”

“I will never be okay with that,” Athrun said, looking down at his lap only to find that his hands were shaking. “But it’s my problem to deal with. Not Dietmar’s or anyone else’s.”

Shinn stomped on the floor childishly in his frustration, and Athrun could not help being a little amused. Yes, this was the Shinn Asuka he knew, the one who thought with his heart and always so honest in expressing what he felt.

“According to the Tribunal’s temporary assessment,” Dearka intentionally stressed, "Dietmar Gladys is to stay under neutral, standard care. I believe by that they meant his biological family or blood relatives.”

“He doesn’t have any.”

“I know,” Dearka raised a hand before he got cut further. “Well, where was I? Oh, right. Taking into consideration his late parents’ aptitudes in society—mind you, even Leopold Gladys himself was a renowned scientist, the Tribunal has decided to return him to PLANT.”

If the fact that he became an exile once again had not made his heart drop to his toes, this one did.

There were more details that Dearka updated him with, but he could not care. Everything simply felt wrong, and he felt drained. Every time he tried to pay attention to what Dearka was saying, his thoughts would return to Dietmar.

“So that’s all,” Dearka finished. “I think it’s time for us to leave. Shinn?” he eyed his younger teammate. “And you’ll be propose one or two new ideas for your defendant, right, Young?”

“No ideas for now, but of course I will,” Young replied. “Thank you.”

Athrun still could not retune with his surroundings when Young spoke.

“Will,” he paused, then continued hopefully, “if you... happen to see Dietmar, please tell him I’m sorry for everything." Another pause to swallow the bitterness. “Will you?”

Pausing at the doorway, his defender looked over his shoulder. “No, you’re not,” Young said softly. “If you are, you’ll only make the little guy sad, boss.”

The door shut, and Athrun was left with the thought that he did not want to be—was not sorry for every single moment that he spent with Dietmar.

During the break in his scheduled hearing session, he received visit from the Neftali Basoalto, the prosecutor he had almost violated in his previous session. Said man had nerves from steel, Athrun thought. Basoalto was not even flinching though he sat very close to Athrun.

“I think it’s best to be straightforward.” Even his voice was firm.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Zala—”

“Athrun.”

“Mr. Athrun Zala,” Basoalto corrected gently, “the Tribunal has set time for you to see Dietmar Gladys before he leaves for PLANT.”

It was like seeing a lotus bloom in the middle of a muddy pond. “I... can?”

Basoalto nodded. “Personally, I would be very glad to grant you this one small privilege.” The man’s smile turned a little pensive. “What the Tribunal did—ah—we didn’t think it would cost you this much.”

He did not want this pity. “Surely it isn't your first concern, is it?”

“We—I’m not the one to comment on that, nor will I ever be. To be honest, I only want the world to face the past and move on. After all, what will it take for a man, a nation, a world who’s afraid to know himself?” Basoalto said. “And it takes more than just being oneself to do that.”

It doesn’t mean anything, Athrun said to himself. Gaining respect from them won’t give Dietmar back.

“You’re too honest of a man, too noble to hide and leave the burden to others.” Basoalto stood. “The Tribunal is very honoured to have you in our court.” A small bow, a gratifying smile, and the prosecutor left. He did not even give Athrun the chance to bask in the simple respect Athrun would find in his expression.

He kept repeating in his head that it did not mean anything.

Or perhaps it did, a little, because after the hearing session, he had his private moment as promised. Dietmar appeared from behind the door, looking small and lost.

And behind Dietmar was his silver-haired former teammate.

“Fancy meeting you, Zala,” Yzak said in his usual haughty tone.

What did Yzak Jule have to do with this? he almost asked aloud, but the thought was cut as Dietmar threw himself forward to hug him.

“I—” For a while, he could not find his voice, and neither could Dietmar.

He tried his best to hug back without upsetting his knee. His wheelchair was definitely not the most comfortable place to sit on while hugging someone. “You’re taller,” he said into Dietmar’s hair. He did want to say that everything was going to be alright; it was not within his power, after all.

“Yzak-san’s friends play basketball with me.” Dietmar’s answer was muffled by the fabric of his sleeve.

His eyes felt hot. Has my father ever felt like this? Felt this pride to know that his son has grown? Across the room, his eyes found Yzak and Young, waiting for him. He knew that his time was limited.

“Here.” Dietmar took something out from the pocket of his jeans and shoved it onto Athrun's chest. It was the small, yellow duck figurine from his car. He had sold his cars and house; Dietmar must have known that. “Will says you don’t have the car anymore, so I want you to keep this for me.” The boy wiped his tears with the back of his hand. “Promise? I’ll take it back someday.”

His tear ducts chose that moment to openly fill his eyes with tears.

“I promise I will be good so you don’t have to be worried,” Dietmar says, obviously trying not to cry any harder. Athrun’s heart immediately went to his brave, brave boy.

“I promise.” Torn between the need to weep or crumble, he could only tighten his hold on Dietmar. Distantly he could hear what had passed unvoiced between them: I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here. A stark realization came that perhaps it would be years before they could see each other again. Perhaps they could not anymore. It was frightening as it was heartbreaking. “It’s a promise between two men.”

Minutes ticked, and he let go with a heavy will and an even heavier heart. He did not know whether to be disappointed or proud when Dietmar moved to stand near Yzak. His former teammate gave him a faint, knowing nod.

“Can I burden you with one more thing?” he asked Yzak. “There’s a photograph in my old room at ZAFT Headquarters—my mother and me. I don’t think the Tribunal took it as evidence.”

“I will see what I can do,” Yzak replied. “After all, there’s no use in keeping your belongings there.”

Despite the sarcasm, he was glad for this friend, the friend who had once gave him a brilliant assist in a football match years ago. (4)

Yzak added, “No need to thank me, though, Zala.”

That earned him a small yet grateful smile from Athrun. “Of course.”

A guard entered the room to move him back to the hospital. Yzak and Dietmar moved aside to give Athrun room. Outside, quiet guards stood in a row on his left and right. He looked at Young, eyes questioning, but his defender shrugged. The commander of the guards, the man who helped him after the previous incident with Basoalto, gave him a military salute.

Then his men followed him.

It was a small group of guards, but they were still part of the military. So why—

“Farewell, First Lieutenant Athrun Zala,” a voice said from behind.

When Athrun turned, Yzak was in formal salute posture. Next to him, Dietmar was crying.

“Look straight, boy,” Yzak said to Dietmar, giving a gentle pat on Dietmar’s shoulder. “A real man deserves your head up. Be proud of him.” And Dietmar held his head up, his proud posture betrayed only by the tracks of tears on his face.

Athrun did not look back again, but the yellow duck in his hand felt much heavier than before.

From the window of his hospital room, he could see a white trail of smoke in the sky, left behind by a swishing space shuttle above. It was heading for PLANT, he knew, and it marked the closure of his separation with Dietmar. Sighing heavily, he closed the curtain. He only hoped that Dietmar would not keep insisting to take his name—Yzak would make sure of that, thankfully.

Young had left earlier. Athrun had given him his bank account, which included the total sum of his house and cars. Young refused vehemently, saying that he had not done all of this for money, but it was the least Athrun could do for him. It’s not a payment, Will, he had said. I trust you; I know this would be of more benefit in your hands than in mine.

Then... numbness.

To count what he had lost hurt, but he did not know where to start counting what he still had. The wounds would fester, would still be there. It would be a reminder, and it would serve its purpose as long as he remembered. He just wondered how long he could endure before he collapsed under the wounds eating away at him, bit by bit.

At that moment, the bed dipped.

He sighed. “Should I ask you how you always manage to find me?” He was supposed to be quarantined and his room isolated, and she was the Head Representative. It was like the Pope visiting Stalin himself.

“Let’s just say I have my ways.”

Blearily, he opened his eyes—which he did not remember ever closing. Cagalli sat on the bed, not looking at him, feet dangling off the floor. Clad in her white uniform and basking in the dusk sunlight, she looked an illustration of innocence and patience.

“Lacus called me,” she said. “She told me about Dietmar. He’s in good hands, I believe. After all, he’s with PLANT’s future Minister of Defence, no?”

Athrun could not find the strength to smile.

She swung her feet to and fro. “Orb’s going to run the trial for Nkono and his compatriots. We’re not going to lose in this. We can’t. Also, we’ll deal with the Tribunal fairly. We’re not—let me quote the media—‘an asylum country for warmongers and scoundrels.’ Can you believe that?” There was a tint of distant sadness in her voice. “I bet Father never imagined Orb will take a stance like this.” Then she turned to meet his eyes, for the first time that evening. “...I’m scared.”

He knew how much it took her to admit it aloud. Had he overestimated her by thinking that she was stronger than him, so much stronger that she could support the both of them on her own? Or had he underestimated her by belittling her strength to admit her darkness and fears, thinking that she would always be too wrapped-up in self-righteousness to admit them herself?

“And can a blind man help another blind man?”

“You’re right.” She tilted her head a bit. “But I’m no man.”

“Cagalli,” he began shakily, too broken to remain unshaken. “I—” he swallowed, voice so desperately close to breaking, “I have nothing left.”

She curled beside him, laying her head next to his on the pillow. Tensing up, he stilled. Her breath fell between his collarbones. His arm trembled when she reached to grasp his hand.

“Just for now, Athrun,” she whispered. “Just for now.”

And somehow he heard it. It’s alright. There was something in her that Athrun was desperately holding on to. It’s alright. I’ve got you. It’s alright.

So he held her close, fiercely, selfishly, and she held him just as fiercely, just as selfishly in return. And he sagged against her, face buried between her shoulder and neck, and he cried. Maybe later he would prepare something for the ongoing trial. Maybe later he would ask Cagalli and Kira for tea or thank his friends in PLANT. Maybe later he could say that he was fed up with alright and fine, that he only wanted his dreams to be dreams and not nightmare anymore. Maybe later he would think of what he would do with no house to stay in or no belongings to use, no homeland to return to, no Dietmar to wake him up in the morning and to drive to school, nothing. Maybe later he could do something—anything—right.

Right now, in those arms, he just wanted to stop dying.

The Emirate of Orb

CE 85

It was not the first time.

Athrun Zala could only sigh when he found that half of his garden was destroyed beyond salvation. The rose bush was pulled off, its remains now scattered along with tulips, gerberas and bits. The lone, waist-tall lemon tree on the corner of his garden also was not spared from the vandalism either, its still green fruits trodden on the dirt. Here and there the grass that carpeted his garden had been stomped on or pulled.

It was not the first time, and he knew that it would not be the last either.

He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and crouched near the watermelon plant next to the lemon tree. One more day and the watermelons would have been served as a desert for his lunch or dinner. My poor watermelons, he thought. People really need to think twice before they run off destroying something.

“Good morning, Athrun-san!”

He raised his head to find a girl waving at him from behind his low wooden gate, standing on tiptoe so she could see over. “Good morning, Sophie.” He smiled at the seven-year old girl, his neighbour by two houses. “On your way to school?”

“Un!” the girl nodded enthusiastically, her ponytail bouncing up and down. “Mama is still looking for her shoes, so I think I will say good morning to you while waiting for her.”

“So kind of you, Sophie.” He looked around to find a flower to give her. “Here, for you,” he said, handing her a fresh red gerbera, one spared from the wreckage. It was not in full bloom yet, but it would do. He laughed a little as Sophie squealed happily, thanking him.

Sophie’s mother chose that time to get her daughter. “Ah, g-good morning, Mr. Zala.”

Ignoring the silent protest from his left knee, he straightened and stood properly to greet his neighbour. “Good morning, Mrs. Groenmeyer.”

“Look, Mama. Athrun-san gives me this flower! It’s pretty, right?”

“Aah—y-yes, dear. Of course it is.” She looked nervously at her daughter and at Athrun and back at her daughter again. “We have to go now. Thank you for the flower, Mr. Zala. Now, Sophie. Come on. Hurry. You’re going to be late.” She walked away very fast for a plump woman in her forties, half-dragging her daughter behind her.

“See you, Athrun-san!” Sophie waved again at him before she and her mother disappeared at the end of the street.

“Enjoy your day, Sophie!” he called back, deliberately ignorant of Mrs. Groenmeyer’s disapproving look. He was used to that. And to this, he thought as he paid attention once more to what was once his beautiful garden. He had spent last night in his bunker, updating his data with new information from across the globe and PLANT; it was no wonder he did not hear anything happening above. Now he felt a bit regretful for not finishing his work earlier. “Now what should I do with you, huh?”

Six years down the road, he had grown to this kind of situation, really. His garden aside, he would not be surprised to find people giving him curious or spiteful eyes when he was doing his groceries or even sitting in his terrace for an evening reading. There were books written about him, too, and strangely he found that Lacus would always give the saddest and Young the angriest response.

Well, they can kiss your ass for all you care, man, Dearka commented. And his former blonde teammate, even in his brutal honesty, was not the only one who understood his sentiments and stood with him in his pursuit of truth. Shinn and Lunamaria changed their unit to intelligence; consequently, Athrun would get a coded message from a world’s end every now and then. He himself sometimes would relay the information to Hathaway and leave the rest to the authority. Yzak and his growing number of loyalists kept a sharp eye for any movement within ZAFT, and Athrun really could not ask for more than that—his long-time rival would surely act should ZAFT showed any sign of taking a wrong turn again. Young’s working with a non-governmental organization also helped him to gain first notice when if there was an increase in grass-root conflicts in any particular region.

His former defender had joined a non-governmental organization not too long after his trial ended. Specializing in dealing with asylum seekers, ex-soldier survivors and refugees, the organization had since become one of the leading parties to promote better treatment for its concern. Young himself was now well known as a vocal advocate of reformation in asylum-granting procedures. Our case lies in a good hand of a good man, Hathaway had once said.

One of the cases was his.

Once, his house—if he could call a cabin with one bedroom, a kitchen and a spare room that—had suffered the same, if not worse, vandalism that his garden got. By the time he got home—not that he could wander around the town freely, almost all windows were broken, his wall dirtied by obscene graffiti and his water tank pierced with numerous staplers. Well, at least they didn’t burn my house, he commented as Kira worried and worried more about his safety.

He wondered if people were upset because he dragged Orb in this or because Orb’s beloved living icon stood with him in this.

But, oh God, his heart still swelled every time he thought about her.

A year ago, Cagalli spoke regarding the result of the International War Tribunal. Accompanied by several executives from the Tribunal and leaders from countries around the world, she thanked the Tribunal for its work and also the people—Coordinators and Naturals, civilians and military members—for their acceptance and understanding. There was no large-scale conflict during the six years of the trial, but there were small riots between groups or factions everywhere. It’s only human for us to feel a different range of emotions about what our past has brought, she said. Yet a house divided is not a home, and that’s why we must build our home together.

Later, she gave another speech to underline her stead as the Head Representative of the Emirate of Orb. Not a word about Kira Yamato, a mysterious former ace mobile suit pilot, was mentioned even though people had been—and would still be—wondering about said pilot’s whereabouts. Let him disappear with the ghost of our nightmare, she said. Cagalli also said that she would step down after the building of Neo Heliopolis was completed. Not surprisingly, the most potential successor was retired Colonel Rene Hathaway, now fifty-four-year old, former Head of the National Domestic Security Affair Office.

However, the speech led to a public rumour and, later, suspicious accusations of her having an alleged affiliation with Athrun Zala since she refused to give any comment on her constant contact with him. Her political opponents had since filed a lawsuit against her under the charge of public deceit, thankfully to no avail. Still, it did not mean that the curiosity had been answered.

On the last Orb National Day, Athrun had received some kind of a gift. A TV station had asked random people about what they felt regarding Orb’s progress and current state. A university student who candidly happened to be interviewed said, It’s a pity Cagalli-sama is going to say bye to the government, but it’s an even greater pity that she is dumping her political career for something most people can’t help but be upset about.

He wondered if people would ever use his name directly, as it was in PLANT—where opinion on him was roughly divided into two opposing parties. In Orb, those who were most upset were so bitter about his hand in Cagalli’s history that they even supported the idea to change Orb into a republic. (5) One opinion that PLANT residents agreed upon was that he had helped to end both Wars, regardless of being a ZAFT traitor twice.

Here in PLANT they can’t forget your accomplishments in the Wars, Yzak once said, but they still can’t forgive the humiliation you brought on them either.

He knew that just fine. Overthrowing two official legal leaders of a nation, no matter how erroneous they were, was a harsh blow to a nation’s pride. Yet still, he longed to go home to PLANT even if it was only once before he died and be accepted in Orb for who he really was.

It was only ten minutes of crouching, but already his left knee could not take it. Wincing, he straightened up. Blood flowed more freely to his foot, relaxing it. Well. Patting his knee twice, he doubted that it would ever completely recover. It was his price, after all.

"Need a help with your garden?”

That voice.

The one with the power to make his heart swell—even if he just imagined she was there—had her elbows propped up against his gate. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Your Excellency. To what do I owe such an honour?”

She shrugged nonchalantly, a small smile on her lips. “All the things I know and all the things I don’t know bring me here.” With no black uniform, trademark of the Athhas, and no guards tailing her, she looked like a common passer-by. What was she thinking coming incognito like this? Really, she never failed to hold his attention. “Perhaps this kind-hearted garden master wouldn't mind having me for lunch?"

“This so-called garden master is an unemployed host, Your Excellency. His status aside, he also has an unhealthy obsession with coffee—no thanks to a certain someone, has more injuries than his fingers could count, tends to keep his thoughts to himself, takes things to heart and does a lot of brooding. Perhaps Your Excellency will find it too much?”

“Well, I’m a Representative with a crazy schedule, and it’s been crazier since the rebuilding of Heliopolis is nearing the end. Despite that, all I have is myself because I don’t want to hog the property belonging to the Athhas. Even my mansion is halved with the orphanage that my undercover brother runs. In two or three years, my term will end and I won’t run for the office again, so I’m still not sure how I'll afford my living expenses. In addition to that, I’ll probably have to endure the rest of my term in jeers since I publicly announced that I’m not an Athha by blood, keep in touch with a notorious crook and allegedly cover for a vagabond pilot.” She tilted her head. “I guess that will make us a good match.”

He opened the gate for her. “I believe it will—if Your Excellency finds that this humble host’s cooking is worthy of her presence.”

The expression on her face was enough to tell him the answer. “It’s a deal, then.”

A soft smile lit his face, outdoing his weariness, as he reached out a hand to her. That was all he could offer her after all—himself. “If you will have me?”

She took his hand gently in hers, thumb rubbing against the marred skin on the back of his hand, undeniable proof of the years of his still unfinished struggles to make peace with himself. She knew, understood and accepted all of him.

He still could not see the end of his road, but he would. Definitely.

“Always.”

Epilogue

Junius 3, PLANT

CE 87

‘Different reactions occurred following the launching of William Herbert Young’s novel, The Martyr, AP reported Sunday (19/4).

‘Young, former defender of Athrun Zala, probably world’s most infamous deserter, said that his debut novel was not a political novel. “Ever since the trial for Athrun Zala, we have a lot of heated discussions as well as learned debates about it. Also, many deserters and former military officers with MIA status from both ZAFT and the previous Earth Alliance have emerged to make themselves known,” said Young. “The war may have ended almost ten years ago, but it is still too early to say that everything is on the right track. With the end of the war, we’re facing the post-war effects. Veterans and deserters are just a small part of the big legacy of wars big legacy that we inherit.”

‘Politics analyst Hamilton Acton said that Young’s novel may have become the second Uncle Tom’s Cabin. “It’s Mr. Young’s personal experiences cleverly wrapped and handed over to readers,” said Acton. Literature critic Emilliana Eco also said that the novel “won’t be recommended a Nobel, but surely will be widely influential.” Eco said, “The Martyr will be noted for the controversial issues it brings up.”

‘On the other hand, The Martyr was also alarming. “For example, following the unexpected loss of political giant Dmitrij Feyedorov, Neo Eurasia is still on edge even until today. Being the biggest shelter country for Coordinators on Earth, a small clash will probably trigger a big conflict in the region,” said sociologist Angela Mead. “Young’s novel should be handled carefully, or else it will be that trigger.” Mead also hoped that the novel’s bringing up Athrun Zala’s trial would not split the world bipolar once again.

‘Despite the polar reactions, The Martyrhas attracted a large number of readers. There was a long queue in front of the bookstore where Young held his launch. Online bookstores such as The Papyrus and Amazon Book reported that they had had the novel ordered since a month ago.

‘The novel itself follows the life of its protagonist, Arlutha Naz, a Coordinator deserter-by-will who is struggling to find his place in a changing world. “We tend to forget people like Arlutha Naz, and The Martyr is supposed to remind us of it all. My novel is simply a story about people who lost—who were forced to lose,” said Young, a law practitioner-turn-to-human rights activist.’

Sighing, Meyrin put the morning newspaper on the coffee table. All’s well with the world, I guess, she thought. A second ring from her front door prevented her from thinking further about the article she had just read. Realizing who her guest would be, she got up to open her door.

Dietmar grinned at her the moment she saw his face. “Ready, Meyrin-san?”

She smiled. “Shouldn’t you say ‘good morning’ first?”

He bent to land a soft kiss on her cheek. “Good morning,” he said as he straightened. “Where are your suitcases? I’ll put them in the car.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Where’s your driver?”

Dietmar suddenly found the time to look sheepish. “I didn't forget to tell you, did I? I got my driving license last month. Yzak-san isn’t too pleased to let me drive on my own; he keeps saying there are a lot of chauffeurs in the Jule Household who would drive me anywhere. But,” he grinned wider, “where’s the fun in letting a chauffer drive when you have one hell of a car?”

“Good for Yzak-san, then.” Meyrin patted Dietmar on the back. “You really need to spoil him more. After all, the mighty Major General does need to have some fun.”

Dietmar entered the house and disappeared into the guest room. He appeared again with two large suitcases in both hands. Half complaining at what Meyrin could have packed into the suitcases to make them so heavy, he carried them to his car, a cool, luxurious car that Dietmar had always dreamed of having. Oh the joy of hedonistic life, Shinn once commented, sarcastic as he always was, about Dietmar’s taste in vehicles.

Dietmar sat in the drivers' seat and fastened his seatbelt. He scowled a little as his forehead struck the roof of the car. Standing tall at 5.83ft has its disadvantage sometimes, he grunted, annoyed. But it was not enough to erase the brightness in his eyes, the joyful light of being someone who was finally able to return to a place that had always been home to him. Meyrin understood, and she knew that Dietmar, too, had grown to understand it himself.

“And now off we go, Meyrin-san,” Dietmar said softly. “We’re going home.”

FIN

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

NOTES

(1) See Chapter 7.

(2) See Chapter 6, where Athrun had a talk with Miriallia in the Attha Mansion’s kitchen.

(3) Infinite Justice vs. Destiny, remember? The one with Athrun still all bandaged that he loses consciousness and reopens his wounds right afterward.

(4) See Chapter 9.

(5) See Chapter 5, where Athrun first began to think that Feyedorov nosed around too much in Orb’s domestic business

Afterword: On a Fic Titled Being Athrun Zala

I want to say I’m so thankful to be able to hold on this far. Uh~ alright. Pardon the inappropriate opening.

First of all, a huge THANK YOU to beloved Fledgling, the ever supportive, benevolent beta and critic. We’ve even once got trapped in an argument regarding the scene where Athrun and Cagalli mentions the Pandora Jar (I used the term ‘jar’ because it is what is drawn in classic Greek illustrations). Another time we’re arguing over why Lacus is allowed to be a member of PLANT Supreme Council. (Borrowing Fledgling’s words, it’s because she’s pink. And can sing. So yeah. XD) Then about Athrun’s un-Athrun-ness concerning Dietmar. Then about the rate of Athrun’s violence towards his closest people. Oh well. She’s the witness of my learning, process and progress (if there’s any) as a SEED fic writer, and straightforwardly, there’s no BAZ without her.

All in all, just accept it, Fled-love: you’re simply the bestest. Would you like me to bear your children? :)

(Please pardon our expression of domestic love. :3)

Another gigantic THANK YOU also to allreaders, who have walked with me and supported BAZ. I kept your reviews and reread them when I didn’t feel like writing or simply was too lazy to even move a finger. And I’m very moved by what you’ve written, I really am. Some are very detailed; some are short but equally supportive. All of them are wonderful, so THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!

And a special bear hug as I promised for mehj, who got my question right. Yep, darling, Neftali Basoalto is part of Pablo Neruda's real name—Ricardo Eliecer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto. He’s one of my favourite poets, and without his poem Walking Around and The Saddest Poem, I wouldn’t be able to write BAZ’s Athrun. Read them, will you? They’re good for your health. :)

So!

The throb to write BAZ emerged when I was reading one of my old fic, Selfishness. Some said it’s too sad that the Athrun in Selfishness never got a chance to tell Cagalli that he just couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop wanting to better the world. Couldn’t stop wanting to be freed of the burden forced onto him. Couldn’t stop being bitter and justice-driven as he was. And most of all, couldn’t stop wanting to be with Cagalli sans the name and the eye people gave him. (Put him in Cagalli’s shoes, and you’ll get a perfect disastrous leader.) Then I thought, Hey, why don’t I write a fic about that kind of Athrun? So I surrender to what the throb’s said and voila! You got BAZ served on a silver platter. And speaking of which, I tip my hat off to ghikiJ, who wrapped up the character that is BAZ’s Athrun very accurately even before this fic ends—let me quote: “...an individual atoning for his sins and past mistakes, and as someone who, after all the complexities of war, do not know where to turn and what to do ... lost and still indecisive ... in his search for justice, he lost his sense of self.” Bravo!

(I have to admit sometimes during writing I imagined if I were in Athrun’s shoes. Personally, I think he’s a right man in the wrong place and wrong time. He should have never joined up ZAFT; it’s not his place. He’s a romantic humanist (pardon the untimely intrusion of typical post-war Japanese humanist in anime), a lost boy and an idealist much, much more than Kira is. Over and over during GSD I want to bonk him on the head and say, ‘Athrun, you’re not Patrick!’)

Now, to the questions concerning of BAZ itself...

One, I inserted a lot of factual and historical references in BAZ. Let’s face it: politics stinks, but it’ll never disappear from Earth. It means for the good of the people if put and executed correctly by non-Machiavellian zoon politicon. My references are mostly backdated, so I hope I didn’t turn you off along the way.

The internal conflicts in PLANT/ZAFT are more or less inspired by the main report in the March 2003 edition of Newsweek. Somehow I end up writing a non-existent Slobodan Milosevic, a martyred Zoran Djinjic and a not-quite-there-but-indeed-haunting presence of Legija and the Legionnaire in BAZ. I’m not going to talk about that further, though. The rest was—well—you know what’s going on there in Iraq, Afghanistan, Myanmar and other regions still plagued by conflicts and dehumanisations.

And my favourite ZAFT soldier, Yzak, plays General George Patton here in BAZ, hehe...

Two, on naming the original characters. Let’s see... Dietmar and Elaine just popped up out of nowhere. I just like the name Dietmar. Rene Hathaway, well, if you’re a classic Gundam fans, you would’ve known already who I took that name from. I made up Young’s name to suit his initial WHY, because until the end I never give a clear line of his reason protecting Athrun. (And it’s not because Athrun is pretty :D) Next to Young’s WHY, Walter’s HOW explains how Operation Monitor and String Poor Athrun Zala is executed. In short, HOW is the practice department, WHY the theory department. I use them both to direct to Feyedorov a.k.a. Heimlich. If you think Heimlich’s revelation is kinda abrupt, hey, I’ve mentioned his brother Heine since Chapter 7. Oh, and don’t ask me about the Neo Equator terrorist Nkono. God knows how I could make his name up.

Say, have you noticed anything about the name of the protagonist in Young’s novel, Arlutha Naz? ;3

Three, my SEED materials. A friend asked me why I didn’t take much account from the Special Edition. Well, while the Special Edition gave us a lot of fan-joy, it screwed my logic. I couldn’t even fathom why they put Kira in a ZAFT uniform, considering how reluctant he is to get involved in wars first and foremost. And how could the government of Orb allow a former ZAFT soldier, much less the only son of their nemesis’s patriarch, to become an admiral in its military? And don’t start on Lacus if you’re trying to go logical. So yes, I only use the TV series and Kuori Chimaki’s GSD The Edge. Why, yes, I’m always eager to repeat my proclamation of how much I love, love, love The Edge. :

Four, will there be a continuation? Well, BAZ is one hell of a headache already, and I know when enough is enough. If there is one, it’ll be on a lighter tone. Once again, if.

So!

We’ve come to the end of the rainbow. If you first read BAZ wanting to get the mush or the sap, I’m sure by now you are disappointed. I’m sorry if you are, but I’m not sorry for putting BAZ’s end the way it is. For those who manage to read even to this mega-mega-boring self-advertising, I hope you enjoyed your reading, and you know for that reason alone I’m still writing fanfictions.

Thank you!

Until we meet again!