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How is one supposed to cope when your entire world has been destroyed in one day? Short Krelian-centric piece, set after Sophia's death.
Spoilers: Erm...the entire backstory with Krelian, Lacan, and Sophia. If you don’t know it, you can read it, but it won’t make much sense.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Xenogears. Whether or not it owns me is debatable.
Life was truly, truly cruel.
He didn't know how he'd gotten here, or who had carried him from the battlefield. He could barely remember anything, after the explosion. He supposed he had passed out. And now he was here, safe within his own bed, lying on his back between two thin, cool sheets and staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
The most terrible moment of all had been when he'd first woken up. For a moment--one peaceful, bliss-filled moment--he hadn't remembered. For one moment, the universe had seemed normal.
And then he'd remembered. In a single instant, everything had come rushing back at once.
The battlefield. Taking down Gear after Gear in his Amphysvena, and yet they still kept coming in hordes. The realization that they were outnumbered, desperately outnumbered, and that both he and everyone around him was most likely going to die. And he and Lacan, realizing in almost the exact same moment that Sophia had gone missing.
They'd lost precious time screaming at each other, trying to figure out where she had gone, each of them blaming the other for letting her slip away unnoticed. And then--they'd all realized.
He didn't think he'd ever forget those last few moments, as her voice crackled over the intercom from the Excalibur. He and Lacan both had begged her to come back, to not go through with it, and yet...she wouldn't listen. He'd tried to forge ahead, to try and stop her by force if necessary, but it was too late.
He could still see the Excalibur, plowing head-on into the Solarian ship. He could still hear her last words--not to him, not to any of her followers, but to the thrice-damned painter. And as the explosion lit up the countryside for miles, he could remember hearing screaming--and he hadn't known if it was himself, Lacan, or possibly both.
And then he'd woken up. To a single moment of blissful ignorance, followed by a rush of memories and the undeniable realization that Sophia--his sweet, beautiful, perfect Sophia--was gone.
Something inside him broke in that moment. Rolling onto his side, he buried his head into his pillow and began to cry, sobbing ever so quietly into the fabric.
What was it they had all believed in, all this time? Where was God when they had needed him most? He'd prayed for months that Sophia be kept safe, despite the war raging around them--and out on the battlefield, had cried, begged, pleaded that she somehow make it out alive. "I need her," he'd shouted to the heavens, voice cracking. "Please, God, I'll do anything you want of me, just please don't take her away from me! Keep her safe, God, please!"
And yet all his prayers had gone unanswered. Even as he'd screamed to the heavens for God to keep her safe, her life had casually been erased. Could that possibly be the reply of the kind of loving God Sophia had believed in? To ignore their prayers, to take away the one thing the entire Nisan sect had believed in, to completely destroy one of his most faithful servants?
Fingers clenching in the pillow, he flung it to one side, rolling over on his back to stare angrily at the ceiling. "Why?!" he shouted, not caring if anyone heard him. "Why do you do this to us all, God? Why do you have to hurt me so--fucking--much..."
The yelling disintegrated into sobs, wracking his entire body and making it impossible to breathe. He didn't know how long he laid there, hands clasped over his face, tears blinding him and streaking down his cheeks. It could have been minutes; it felt like hours.
Finally, there came a point where the tears refused to come. And still--there was no answer to his questions. No answer to his prayers. And there never had been.
Meeting Sophia had been perhaps the only truly good thing that had ever happened to him. Everything else was simply lies, being hurt, and growing more and more disdainful of humanity and the world around him. But Sophia...Sophia had been good. Truly good, to the very core of her being. And he'd loved her...God, he had loved her more than anything. So much so that even when the painter came from Lahan and he was cast aside in favor of a childhood friend, he tolerated it. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much he despised Lacan for taking away whatever chance he might have had to win Sophia's heart, he bore it all. He smiled as his heart was breaking, laughed when he felt more like crying, all for her sake. For her happiness. And if there was any way he could have gone back in time and replaced her at the helm of the Excalibur with himself, he would have done so in a heartbeat.
And yet the only good thing in his life, the thing around which he had built his entire universe, had all been ripped away from him in a matter of minutes. The only thing that had made life worth living, was gone.
And so he ended up lying on his back, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Eyes burning, unable to make more tears come, unable to feel anything but an aching emptiness--simply drained, of all emotion.
"God," he whispered. "If you'd like to kill me too, I would very much like that."
And of course, there was nothing. Never had been, and never would be. Either God was ignoring his prayers, or--more likely--simply wasn't there at all.
He laid there for what might have been hours. Feeling nothing, thinking nothing, barely moving but for the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Wishing simply for everything to end, so he wouldn't have to face the prospect of going on with his life. So he would never have to move, never have to get out of this bed, never have to feel or think or do anything at all. Simple oblivion--and reunion with his Sophia.
But he could still hear her voice, in his memories. Her last words to him--to take care of her people. And if nothing else, he had to fulfill her last request before he could let himself fall into an endless sleep.
But how was he to take care of anyone? How could he go and lead the people of Nisan in good faith, when he himself had finally realized the truth? That their faith was all a facade--that God was but a lie, that had never existed in the first place. One convincing enough to fool even Sophia, but a lie nonetheless.
It wasn't right. It wasn't the way the world was supposed to be. It wasn't what they had wanted--it wasn't the visions they had shared, when he and Sophia had stayed up late at night talking, before the accursed painter had ever entered the picture. It might have been reality, but it was all wrong.
Opening his eyes, he gazed toward the ceiling, mouth set in a determined line. Yes, it was wrong--and he'd never been one to sit around and accept injustices quietly. What wrongs there were, he would right. He would lock away his emotions, seal off his heart so the raw agony of losing her couldn't consume him. He would fulfill her last wish, and take his revenge upon Solaris for having taken her away from him. And then...
"Very well," he said quietly, to the ceiling. "If God does not exist in our world, then I will create God with my own hands."
A/N: Yes, I know, that’s totally not the circumstances under which he said that line in the game. I don’t care. I’m the fanfic author, I take creative liberties! Or something.