Where the Road Opens Out
Disclaimer: The Vision of Escaflowne is not my property. But these visions written here are.
NOTE:
Happy Birthday, Dilandau Albatou!
I always try to post something on this wonderful date, August 8 (8-8), to celebrate one of my favorite characters and the first character to really inspire me to write fan fiction.
This is another whimsical, almost stream-of-consciousness kind of piece that is set after the series. I've tried to imagine what kind of limbo Dilandau ends up in and this time, he isn't inside Celena. It's a very strange piece and I've struggled to get my bearings while writing it. Though it may start out quite dark, I try to end on a hopeful note.
Weird though it may be I hope you enjoy reading it.
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The wanderer trudged on, walking across the empty land. Swirling mist surrounded him and the sense that everything was all shades of grey.
He didn't know how long he had been like this, aimlessly wandering through an ineffable void. He no longer cared.
He was not alive.
And yet, he wasn't dead either. He knew what death was like or at least, he had some ideas, having come to the brink of death several times before. And this wasn't death.
"No," he thought, "when you are about to die, fear grips you, and the realization that you are about to disappear makes you panic, stings sharply, and you fight, fight until your last breath."
Here, he had stopped fighting. He no longer bothered. He wasn't gripped by fear or despair or anything really. He felt… nothing.
He was not alive and yet he was not dead. Neither here nor there – a tedious, incomprehensible in-between-ness.
He felt as if he was suspended in time or space, his existence a floating, fleeting thing. He didn't matter.
At first he thought he would go mad from the isolation – the stifling sensation of being utterly abandoned, left alone. He hated that feeling most of all.
Then, he realized that he wasn't the only one there – wherever that was.
There were others like him, shadows, drifting along without a sound, wraithlike figures that were almost insubstantial. And yet when he had tried to reach out to them, to wave them away or even just to feel something else again against his pale, cold skin – he had felt nothing. His hands passed through them as though he was trying to catch the wind.
They were not illusions and yet they were not real. His strange companions were like wisps of smoke that were blown this way and that. They were there, and yet they were not.
He was alone and yet he was not.
At length, he stopped thinking about the situation; he stopped trying to analyze it. He could ask all his questions but he would never find the answers.
Initially, he broke into a rage, screaming and thrashing about, unleashing all the violence that he was capable of. But all his efforts were futile. None of the shadows showed any hint of noticing him and for all the punches and kicks he threw about, he had hit nothing.
So he stopped, even though he wasn't really tired. He didn't feel strong either. He just felt… empty.
Memories, hazy and disjointed, flashed before him, but he could barely register any of them. Visions of cold, dark rooms and sharp needles sent shivers down his spine. Battlefields drenched in blood and consumed by flames made him feel slightly better. He saw faces of young men he knew but he could not remember their names.
He caught glimpses of his short, terrible life, death at every turn - always his doing. He saw his enemies fall as he slashed them with his sword or burned them with his guymelef. There was no greater joy for him than to win a battle. Perhaps because that was all he had ever known.
"I wish there was fire," he thought, "Fire makes everything better."
But there was not even a spark that could be found in that wasteland, in the dull, grey tones of the void.
"I hate this place," he muttered bitterly, "I wish I could get out."
He had long searched for some means of escape, for a doorway, an exit, a window – anything that would lead him out and away from the land of in-between. His desperation would die down every now and then, when he was burdened by the futility of it all, but these lapses were soon overcome.
He was never one to give up and when he was determined to find something, he would find it.
Crimson eyes darted around, peering, searching, and taking account of the surroundings. His gaze burned with resolve; he would not rot forever in this wretched desert.
"Damn it, I want to live!" he cried out passionately, for the first time in what seemed like ages.
He raised his fist to what would pass for the sky and dared whatever lay beyond it to defy him.
"Dilandau."
The voice came in a whisper and for a few moments, the wanderer could not believe what he had heard, could not believe that there was really someone else there.
"Dilandau."
The word was repeated and he remembered that it was his name. Slowly, incredulously, Dilandau turned around. His eyes widened at what he saw, but his voice did not betray his wonder.
"What are you doing here?" the young man asked suspiciously, his scarlet eyes narrowed.
The taller man who stood before him smiled.
"Just the greeting I should expect from you, I suppose," he replied calmly.
"I don't have time for any of your games, Folken, why have you come?" Dilandau retorted, though he was smirking slightly.
It felt indescribably good to have someone to talk to again, some link to life.
"Believe it or not, I've come to help you," Folken explained, "even a bloodthirsty warrior doesn't deserve this end."
"What do you mean?" Dilandau asked.
"I'm sure somehow you know what you are, even if you don't understand it," Folken continued, "you are a result of Fate Alteration experiments conducted on Celena Schezar. For ten years, you have lived in her body, but lately, she has reclaimed what was rightfully hers and driven you away."
"To this miserable place," Dilandau concluded coldly, "I figured out as much. I would have been better off dead."
"But that's the problem," Folken said, "you can't truly die because you're no longer alive. I know it doesn't make much sense."
"Nothing makes much sense anymore," Dilandau said with a shrug, "so how come you're here? Didn't you actually die?"
"Yes, yes, I did," Folken replied, "and my soul is at peace now, in spite of all my crimes. But you have yet to reach such redemption, and for as long as you have no opportunity to atone for your sins or even add to them, you can never die."
"Cut the crap, Folken," Dilandau interrupted, "you said you'd come to help me. I don't want any of your pity but if you've come here to do something, then better do it now."
"Of course," Folken said with a smile, "I had almost forgotten how impatient you could be. The power to bring you back to the world is not in my hands, but I've brought someone who has it."
In a flash of brilliant light, another figure appeared beside Folken, a woman with white wings and long, dark hair. Dilandau stared at her in awe.
"Dilandau Albatou," she addressed him in a calm, soothing voice, not unlike Folken's, "do you truly want to live?"
"Of course," Dilandau snapped, "why are you even asking me such a question?"
The lady smiled gently and in slight amusement. She exchanged a knowing glance with Folken before nodding to Dilandau.
"I see that you have not yet given in to despair," she said, "that is a good sign."
Dilandau rolled his eyes.
"Folken, what is this?" the red-eyed soldier complained, "if this is one of your stupid tricks…"
"You know as well as I do that there's no point threatening me, Dilandau," Folken replied serenely, "I'm dead."
"Dilandau," the lady addressed him again, "the path you might take will not be an easy one; it will be fraught with much danger and suffering. Hardship is a price you will have to pay."
Dilandau frowned before shrugging, coming to a decision quickly.
"I don't care," he answered, "I've been through a lot before. Anything's better than staying here, wherever this is."
"Very well," the woman said, raising her hand and with a graceful, fluid motion, waved it in front of them.
In an instant, a road appeared before them, a long, weather-beaten path stretching out until the horizon.
"Where does this lead to?" Dilandau asked.
"Somewhere, if you walk far enough," the lady answered, "because at this moment, you are nowhere."
Dilandau stared at the road, at the escape he had been longing for so fervently. It was before him at last and he marveled at the sight.
"Good luck," Folken called cheerfully, "we will meet again…someday."
"Humph," Dilandau scoffed in reply, looking at Folken sneeringly, "go back to your afterlife or whatever it is you do."
Folken gave a short laugh at this.
"You're welcome," he replied good natured-ly before vanishing into thin air.
Dilandau rolled his eyes and glanced at the winged lady whose figure was also fading away quickly. He gave her a quick nod of farewell.
"Remember," she told him gravely, "I cannot offer you a good or happy life; that you should determine for yourself. I can only give you a chance."
"I'll take it," Dilandau replied firmly as he took his first few steps down the road that opened out before him.