Hey, Rihaku here. This is the start of my new story, Empire, which I will be writing in conjunction with Inferno. I'll try to bounce evenly between the two as inspiration strikes me, but expect long stretches of me working first on one story, then the other - inspiration may stay for a week or a day.
Genres: Action/Adventure/Romance (I'm so original, I know)
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Seed or Gundam Seed Destiny.
Pairings: K x L, A x C, later Shinn x Stellar
Setting: Historic Imperial. The "Eastern" Lands are a mix of China and Japan. The "Western" Kingdoms represent High Middle Ages Europe.
Warnings: Violence, touching, innuendo, somewhat OOC Kira, kinda OOC Lacus, pretty OOC Athrun and really (or, depending on your point of view, not-at-all) OOC Cagalli. Everyone still retains the core of their personalities, unlike Inferno; I just adjusted them for plot and setting purposes. Please review after you're done! Reviews help me keep my inspiration up. As you may have guessed, one can find the end of this story in my profile: it was uploaded 12-13-06. If you're awesome, review that one as well.
A/N: This story has a much different 'feel' to it than Inferno. Descriptions are a bit longer; I'm aiming for a more poetic, sensorial mood than the brutal realism of Inferno. Final version.
"May I come in?" He peeked from the bushes, and leaves stirred as they were rustled to the ground. Around, birdsong twittered. She was resting on a bench which had grown from the interlaced vines of the trees. Her legs were crossed, barely visible through the diaphanous lavender silk of her dress. In the breeze, blossoms drifted idly. She raised a flawless hand to pop a grape into her mouth.
"You are always welcome here, Kira." She patted the spot next to her, on the curling wood.
Roses had sprouted at the edges of her bench. He maneuvered carefully through them, wary of thorns. She leaned back and stretched, muffled a yawn. "I'll have to start soon."
He nodded. "I know."
She smiled at him. The ornament in her hair flashed in the sun. "Would you like a grape?"
Her fingers plucked one from the vine on her lap, proffered it to him. He shook his head. "The food here doesn't fill me up."
She was insistent. "Still, the taste is fun. Try one, they're sweet."
The grape pressed cool against his chin. He dodged aside, deftly avoiding her attempts to feed him. She pouted cutely. "Oh, come on!"
Mutely he shook his head, containing a grin. She flounced around so that she was staring straight ahead; the grape disappeared into her mouth. Catching his gaze on the corner of her eye, she munched contentedly, then made an exaggerated swallowing motion. "Mmhm… You don't know what you're missing, Kira."
There was no response. He was looking very intently at her face.
"I think I do…"
She blushed and they averted their respective gazes. For a while the blossoms fell in peace.
He leaned back and surveyed the trees. "It's so tranquil here. I wish I could stay."
She craned her neck to stare at his face. "So why don't you come, for real this time?"
Wind rushed through the clearing and her braids swished around. "I'm not very far away, Kira. I know you can make it."
He sighed. "I don't understand why you can't just tell me where you are."
"If I could come to you I would, but…"
"I know." His gaze meandered across the wilds to settle upon the tree roots which thrust up from the earth, forever entangled in gnarled, serpentine coils.
Whenever he did that he would get moody. She tried a different tack. "How is your work?"
He smirked. "I don't know why you insist on calling it that. Apprentices aren't allowed to do any of the jobs. We just sit there and listen to Master Zao ramble on about philosophy."
Her fingers ran down the smooth edges of their seat. "Is that the droning noise I keep hearing?" Then, serious: "Kira, I told you not to come here during class!"
He gazed vapidly at her. "I'm not. Right now I'm lying down in a meadow, behind some hedges. We had today off; it was a holiday."
She sighed. "As much as I enjoy your company, Kira, you really should take some time for yourself. What are you going to do, after you become a Master?"
"I am taking time for myself, Lacus. It's not as if this is a chore." And then, looking puzzled: "And what do you mean, 'do' after I become Master? I'll do what all Masters do: absolutely nothing."
She laughed, grabbing his bicep and leaning her head against his shoulder. "You're so mean. Master Zao is a profound man."
Her hair blew around them, whisper-pink, and softly tickled the skin of his neck.
Ruminating on the warmness of her hands through the (really very thin) cloth of his shirt, he answered slowly. "You know, you're right. He is profoundly lazy."
She arched an eyebrow in a rare moment of cattishness, though her eyes were smiling. "And you're not?"
"Obviously I am. Talent recognizes talent. How did you think I got in the academy for free? I'll have you know that most of the students are successful merchant's second sons or heirs to nobility. Slacking off is a respected profession among the aristocracy – they practice it every day, so it's good to have experts on the subject.'"
He had calmed down now, and she hugged herself onto his shoulder and exhaled happily. "I'm glad you're here to keep me company. For a long time, it was just me and the birds."
Embarrassed, he sat blandly on the bench, gaping at her closed eyes and small smile. Then, summoning his courage, he laid his head on hers, let the world slip away. "One day I will find you. Just…not…today- urgh!"
She had bolted upright, jarring their two heads together. Letting out a startled squeak, she bounced away. "Sorry!"
He rubbed his temple. "It's alright. That ornament of yours is really hard, though."
She traced her palm over his, bringing his hand down, then stepped on her tiptoes, examining the bruise. "Oh, I really don't know how to deal with these…they don't really happen here…"
He gently waved her off. "It's nothing, Lacus. But why did you get up so sudden-"
"Oh! That's right, I've got to start! Sorry Kira, I don't think you'll be allowed to stay…"
"Already? I've still got hours to waste!"
She bent down, plucked a rose from beneath the bench, and brought it to her nose. Inhaling deeply, she held the breath for a silent moment before releasing it. A frown furrowed her brow.
The rose unfolded, revealing a lexicon of images on its inside petals. She pursed her lips, then looked uncomfortable. When she met his eyes he saw her concern.
"You'd better go. This song doesn't look like it'll be pleasant."
He nodded slowly, closed his eyes.
---
Field Marshall Athrun Zala, Captain of the Elite Guard, Lord of Skye's Lagoon, Marquis of Blackfields, Commander of the Western Front and Crown Prince of the Five Lands muttered testily to himself.
"Unbelievable. Three raids in the past week and they haven't suffered a single loss."
The sky above was cold-steel blue, a resonant cloudless shade sharper than his blade's edge. The air was filled with an endless clopping of hooves against earth as, around him, the Company rode in scattered ranks. Landscape peeled away, tree-swarmed mountains and lush grasses passing by to the jumping cadence of his horse's gallop. Whinnying, the beast threw its massive black stallion head up, foam flicking off the sides of its jaws and one brightly intelligent eye cocked at his. He pulled on the reins, and they cantered to a halt, the charger's luxuriant mane quivering as it slowed. The Company formed a rough semicircle flanking him and dismounted as one. He leapt off the saddle, helm held in the crook of an elbow and shield strapped securely across his back. Their ghoulish mask-helmets regarded him, silently attentive.
His sword held a naked blade of emerald green that sighed through the air as he jumped. When the sun shined it flashed deadlier than his gaze. He let the helmet go, felt their eyes follow it as it clattered against the earth. Deliberately, he stared at it until it went still.
"Now!"
His voice pierced the stillness like a javelin. They snapped to attention as he stalked among their ranks, a tiger through tall grasses. Athrun spoke with a nobleman's articulation - enunciation expertly timed, words sharp and clear and packed with force.
"What we are about to do is the essence of evil. Remember that. You will not enjoy this because enjoyment brings contentment and contentment brings dullness and dullness is death. You shall hate what you have been made to do and you shall hate yourself for doing it but most of all you shall hate your enemy for forcing your actions upon you." He turned, catching their eyes behind visor-slits.
"And you shall temper yourself in hatred, let it fuel your strength, and when next we engage an enemy you shall loose that fury and destroy them. But you will not enjoy it. Duty is not ours to enjoy." Very rarely he raised his voice. They stood statue-rigid as he paced, examining their gear.
"We will proceed as the Training Marshall ordered, and flank the target on two sides. A stream runs through the town – try to force them back to the waters in order to expedite cleanup. When we are finished I will give the signal and you shall light the torches. This is not a capture mission: we're in too deep for wagons to escape pursuit. Destroy the granaries and only take small items of high value."
Athrun frowned.
"Tighten your sword." He bent down and motioned to one figure's scabbard, tied with a loose-hanging strip of leather. The warrior silently complied.
He crossed back to the horse, kicked his helmet into the air and caught it before swinging onto the saddle. His charger snorted and tossed its head, eager to be on the move. When he spoke again his eyes were on the horizon, barely a whisper that carried to their ears. "War is cruelty and you cannot refine it. Leave no one."
Their semicircle disintegrated as the Company mounted, wheeling in a wide arc around him before plunging west, the wind singing through their eyeslits. He released a long breath, wiped his brow with a cloth, and followed. They parted to let him through, and within seconds his pitch-black stallion was again urged to the front. Trees parted and mountains dropped away into the distance, leaving only huge expanses of grass and meadow. Hooves bit deep into loamier soil, gouging out great divots of earth. They sighted the town.
It was small, a border village, and would hardly have been of notice if it had not been housing the raiders. The homes were creaky wood and whitewash; thatch was their ceiling and dense-packed earth their floor. Crooked dead trees, limbs like arthritic fingers, reached for the sky. The streets were undefended and he could hear the clear ringing of a blacksmith's forge, hammering out scythes and spades. A cool, quick-flowing stream coursed down the meadows, and there were tiny figures reaching nets into the water, backs bent horizontal to catch silvery, darting fish. He narrowed it eyes.
It was beautiful.
Squeaking wheels came rumbling down the street and the Company formed ranks to block the wagon's passage. Its driver, an elderly man with faint white whips of beard, grumbled to himself, then raised his eyes to stare at them. His mouth gaped open, shut like a trap, and then he turned deathly pale.
"Ai-ya!" Screaming to his horses he flailed at the reins, turning clumsily around and throwing up a screen of dust. Athrun placed one gauntleted hand in front of his mouth to keep from coughing, then gestured with two fingers.
The cart was stumbling away from them, barrels of produce tumbling off its end and careening towards them. There was a whistle of wind and then the wagon stopped, its driver slumping over with a burst of white features protruding from his head. Athrun stepped off the saddle and stopped the barrels with the flat of his blade, then kicked them off to the sides of the road.
"They probably heard that. Let's go." In one seamless motion he pulled his shield from its straps and mounted. His blade pointed like a compass at the village and he hya'd the horse on.
"Zala." He said it thickly, resigned, as if it were an ill taste in the mouth.
"Zala!" They chorused, blades sliding from scabbards. As they thromped towards the village their scabbards beat hollowly against the sides of their armor, a chaos of war drums.
The fishers were first to spot them. One had turned at the noise, and was just about to issue a cry when an arrow zinged past Athrun's arm and pierced the man through his throat. He gagged, fountaining blood, landed limply in the stream. The fishes burst and swarmed around the corpse, dodging aside the blood-rich waters. Other fisherman, staring at their comrade, began sprinting towards the town, hands wildly fanning the air. Two more arrows flew from the back, dropping the forerunners. As Athrun reached the slowest one he dipped down and slew the man in one fluid stroke, his horse never breaking stride.
The remaining sprinters split into anarchy: some attempted to defend themselves, others sprang for the woods. A man wielding a fishing pole jabbed it at his black stallion's eye, and the massive horse bucked its head to the side and lashed out with its front legs, snapping the bamboo stick in half. Athrun let go of the reins and slid halfway off the horse, decapitating the man before stopping his own descent with a hand. Hoisting himself back up, he leapt over the falling cadaver. His troops caught up and rode down the survivors.
The furious clanging of warning bells resounded in the town and they charged into the dirt-path roads, pounding full gallop through narrow alleys and end-ways, pursuing their human prey.
Two hastily armed militia accosted him and he leapt from the saddle, shield bashing away their feeble blows before he rose in an elegant turn that eviscerated both at once. They crumpled and he shouldered his way past, dismissing his steed with a whistle. It snorted heavily, pawing the ground before cantering out of town, reins flapping loose around its face.
Athrun bulled his way into a mass of people, slashing deep, blade humming as it parted air. Blood flew in crimson arcs over his head and he kicked in a man's knee, then buried his blade to the hilt through his another's spine. The resister choked, blood spilling in clots from his mouth, and Athrun savagely retracted the blade, a look of disgust on his face as he tore into the scattering crowd.
He took off after a running woman with flowing purple locks, his boots stomping the ground with leaden speed. She screamed, cast a glance over her shoulder, gasping with exertion as she ran. Effortlessly he outpaced her, slicing cleanly through her collarbone. She turned, tears shining in her eyes, and pleaded with him. "Please, no, my son, please spare-"
Her voice faded to a wet gurgling as he split her jugular. Arrows streaked past him and into a house, and men staggered out, clutching shafts stuck deep in their shoulders. Another swept in from the other side, falling to his knees at the sight of the woman.
"Caridad!" He rushed Athrun with a frenzied shriek, lifting a blunted a rusty blade. Faced with two threats, Athrun lunged towards the arrow-ridden mob, launching his shield backwards. A vicious crunch sounded the man's death as twenty pounds of wood over steel smashed his Adam's apple. Like a viper Athrun struck, serpanthued edge snicking smoothly through tendon and bone. Around, the last of his enemies spun and fell. He lit a gunpowder flare and threw it into the sky; there was a resounding roar and the world dissolved into a mess of sound and fire and gore.
When it was over he heard his breath, panting through his sweat-soaked nose and blowing the untidy mass of blue hair which hung over his eyes. He removed the helmet - he had put it on to dampen the screams - and stared at its bloody eyeholes and tiny airslits choked with crimson. Rain was falling over the ruins, dribbling down the sides of his plate-encrusted shoulders, mixing with the sweat on his neck and the blood on his greaves to form rivers of pinkish, merging with the stream now muddied with soot and blood. The water flowed sluggishly, too heavy to run. As raindrops tinged off the steel of his shield the Company recovered.
Some vomited, hands on thighs and backs heaving like a hump. Others stared listlessly at the distance or the sky. A few were shivering, prying at the red caked on their hands, and a very few were openly sobbing into bloodied fists. Athrun strode among them, clapped one on the back.
"Tomorrow, you will graduate from the Academy and…join the ranks of the Elite Guard. Congratulations." He spat the words, tone bitter. Then, consolingly:
"You did not enjoy that. Good. Now, status reports."
A boy with straight black hair looked up at him. "Sir, we're not quite done reflecting-"
Athrun whirled on the teen, the intensity of his glare like a fire-poker. "Corporal Yu, do you think that your opponent, having seen you slaughter his family, will give you time to reflect?"
"W-well, no, sir-"
"Do you think that reflecting on what you have done will in any way mitigate its effects?"
"N-no, sir…"
"Is the Elite Guard a corps of philosophers?" Athrun's voice, which had been steadily diminishing, was a jagged, sibilant hiss.
"No, sir." The response was muted, defeated.
He reared up, surveying the troops. By Heaven I hate this job.
"Company up! Attention!" With ingrained speed they responded. Fourteen, fifteen, their boyish faces, dead and denuded, focused on him. He swallowed the bile in his throat, barked a command which rang through the hills.
"Now, status reports!"
"Lieutenant-in-training Hashou Sheng, Vice-commanding officer, sir! We encountered a group of apprentice calligraphists, led by a portly master named 'Zao,' in one of our hill-sweeps. No…"
Sheng, who sported extensive helmet hair and a persistent cowlick in back, gulped, blue eyes unseeing.
"No students survived."
"And the Master?" Athrun was gentle but persistent.
"We…killed him too." Sheng fought to maintain composure, shoulders trembling.
"Alright, Lieutenant-graduate. At ease."
The boy exhaled and crumbled, eyes lolling to the back of his head. Two soldiers grabbed him by the arms, supporting him wearily.
Athrun turned to the next child.
I am a step closer, Mother.
---
"The Athha Border Lands, were, after much consideration and debate, assimilated into our Empire. This would be the fourth assumption of a throne under Zala…"
Cagalli Yula Athha snorted. If "consideration and debate" involved treason, crop sabotage, timely invasions and "generously" force-fed treaties, Yoohseis' sanitized history lesson might have some credibility. As it stood, the sessile old Education Minister's lecture was about as effective her father's criticism of her manners – that was, not. She traced a bleary eye to the sundial which stood in the open-air courtyard to their left, then perked up.
Six years of dial-gazing had honed her eye to hawklike precision and with a disdainful sniff she stood, walking out of the classroom. Her myopic tutor rambled on for a few seconds more before he realized that his only student had departed. Too attached to his desk to move, Yoohseis called shrilly after her.
"Young lady! What are you doing? Get back here this instant!"
She yawned, relishing the warmth of outside, the wind blowing through her orange-yellow sundress. "I just did my time, Yoohseis. We must be punctual, right?"
He looked vaguely stunned – not a major departure from his usual face – and slowly nooded. "Very well then. Go frolic and play, as your ilk are oft to do."
Cagalli sighed. He hadn't quite gotten it out of his head that she wasn't twelve anymore. Perhaps that was for the best – if he remembered her true age he might try to take advantage of her, the lecherous old buffoon. His brain was deteriorated enough to consider it. He probably thought that all those teachers were servicing him willingly.
Ugck. The Sun Princess clutched at her sleeves, dispelling those images from her mind. Quickly she strode across the courtyard, anxious to be as far away from that particular relic as possible.
The Zala Imperial Palace, seat of an empire that spanned ten thousand li, rose across the terrain with mountainous sovereignty, a million-pace-wide and twenty-story-high fortress of gray and red and gold that dominated the land and commanded its own wardrobe of mists. Stepped with enough boulevards, courtyards, treasuries, brothels, libraries, quarters, barracks, and armories to function as a small nation, it housed two hundred legions of stock infantry, seventy-five archer battalions, fifty thousand cavalry, and all five Companies of the Empire's shock troops, the Elite Guard. Cagalli had enough gold at her fingertips to gild every inch of her body, enough silk to clothe a city. She was waited on by six dozen handmaidens and "protected" by a small army of spearmen. She possessed absolutely zero (0) freedom.
Lucky, lucky, Cagalli, traded in as a royal ransom to ensure Athha's complicity (and survival) in Zala's conspiracy. She was the third-generation Sun Princess, virtually worshipped by the Border Lands and about as useful to her people as a peacock in a cage of gold.
"Amaterasu-sama." Two handmaidens bowed as she passed them. She rolled her eyes. Where to go, now that she was free from that historical sponge's clutches? None of the other governor's children were interesting – Joule was a bastard, Seiran a worm, Zala an icicle and Sahaku a germ – and she wasn't allowed to consort informally with anyone under her rank. The Grand Theatre had played last night; they wouldn't be holding a play for another whole week.
She didn't dislike the Theatre: the artists were clever, some were from Athha, and rarely they managed to sneak a few veiled references to true history beneath the censers' noses. Aisha, the producer, had taught Cagalli much of what she knew.
Absently she strolled into a drawing room which contained a rosewood tea table and cupboard. A figure dressed in a white mandarin frock-coat slowly revolved to glance at her. His hair hung low down his back and his pale lips were curled into a smile.
"Amaterasu-sama." She was never sure if Gilbertus Durandal's reverential tone was sincere or sarcastic. The Prime Minister seemed to be a decent man - he worked relentlessly to better the conditions of the populace and always projected an aura of reason - but Cagalli had never felt comfortable around him. He was constantly weighing options, slowly calculating, the gears in his head ponderous but massive.
"Prime Minister. Why are you here?"
He let out a small chuckle. "Direct as always, Amaterasu-sama. Allow me to explain…" He trailed off, gazing at a sunbeam which had come through the window.
"Well?" Cagalli tapped the edge of her golden slipper against the ground. "You're wasting my 'free' time, Prime Minister."
He cocked an amused eyebrow at her, then drew himself up to his full height, a bone-thin, bone-paled tower of presence. "The Emperor has granted you a great boon."
"I'm to be allowed forty-two live pigs slaughtered every day instead of forty? My deepest apologies, but I think I glut myself enough on the Emperor's generosity."
He laughed heartily, marble-sculpture chest shaking up and down. "You have a way with words, Amaterasu-sama. No; unfortunately this has nothing to do with your diet. The Emperor," Durandal's eyes turned harder than amber. "Has graciously granted your father's request for a-"
"-betrothal between myself and Athrun Zala. Great. I get to sit on a throne next to the iceblock for the rest of my life. Do I get a coat or scarf to complement my closet of sundresses?"
"Your intuition and insight amaze me, Amaterasu-sama. I was not, however, finished. Yes, you are to be married to the Crown Prince. However, since the escalation of our war with the Western Devils, we have decided to…fortify the spirit of the people with a bold statement of purpose. You will travel to the very edge of our territories and meet with the Prince, displaying our utter contempt for the enemy's prowess. After forty days we shall throw a lavish celebration on virgin soil and you two will be as one." Durandal raised his eyebrows suggestively.
"They say, Amaterasu-sama, that fire and ice together make the very fluid of our lives." With that parting shot Durandal strode away.
Cagalli blushed furiously. What was that? The Prime Minister had never had the impertinence to address her so gracelessly. Was he finally unveiling his true colors, now that she was to be shipped off? Or were his remarks a subtle reminder that her father had probably spent a lot of his political capital leveraging the marriage deal, and that he was now owed nothing at court?
She felt a tingling fear rise in her gut – Zala was straitjacketed enough by honor to refrain from killing her father, whom he loathed, so long as Uzumi Nara Athha held a blood-debt on him. But now the bloodthirsty Emperor would have no compunctions against taking the life of the longest thorn in his side.
And the Athha lands, 'unified' under a Zala heir, would be completely under the Empire's thumb.
Perhaps she could assassinate Athrun in bed? No, that wouldn't feel right. Athrun's issues weren't his fault: they had been thrust on him by his father, the Emperor.
His childhood had been marred by a stifling, constant pressure to perform. He had been a generous boy with expressive eyes, always melancholic and reading or doing finger-painting.
After his mother died two years ago, he drew within himself, forming a fierce rivalry with Joule and developing a ruthless intensity that sometimes scared even Cagalli. Besides, killing the Zala heir would definitely drive the aging Emperor off his rocker – and the country didn't need that in the middle of a war. Feeling oddly magnanimous (perhaps delayed jubilation at finally being allowed to leave the palace?), she even conceded that Zala wasn't all that bad-looking.
It could have been worse. But not, Cagalli insisted, by much.
If you review you will be cool. If you're already cool, you'll review. Please give me feedback - on my first story no one reviewed the first chapter and chapter length suffered because I couldn't muster the enthusiasm to write. I don't intend on ever ransoming my stories for reviews; it's just easier to write with them than without. Just a tiny bit of writing on your part equals hundreds of words on mine, I promise. Constructive criticism is the most appreciated. Thanks to kuronazox, the only reviewer of Song.
A/N: Athrun's "War is cruelty...refine it." quote is originally from William Tecumesah Sherman. The next chapter will be out soon.