Author's note to all readers:

First of all, thanks so much for taking the time to look at this story. Normally I don't add author's notes, but I felt it was necessary for a story like this. I am a big fan of The Vision of Escaflowne and hope to share that interest with other fans through this story. Dilandau Albatou is a very important fictional character to me, my absolute favorite of all time, and I created this story just to see what it was like going into more detail about his past. Surprisingly this story has no actual big spoilers (though some minor ones), but I'll just go ahead and label it as having spoilers, so there's no risk in any mistakes. It's best that you watch the entire series before reading it. If you do not know the biggest spoiler of the series, it probably won't do much for you or make any sense. The story begins with a young Dilandau being about ten years old. For those of you who know his past from the series, you know that Dilandau really has no memory of his early childhood, including certain major events or changes in his life. I, myself, like to think that although he carries a few lingering memories from his "childhood" (which of course are brought out in episode 15), his more permanent "actual" memory started to form at the age I start him off at. You may disagree with that, and a lot of other things written, but this whole story is just my personal opinion on Dilandau as a character, whom I have studied like a nut job and the last thing I want to do is offend any other fans. So keep in mind that these are just some ideas I had, and I thought I would have fun compiling them in a story. The passage of time may be unclear in this story, as I believe that at this age, Dilandau has no real sense of time or age. I will try to hint at how much time passes as the chapters progress, because I plan on this story to take place over 5 years. I also tried to create some stories for characters who, in the show, we know very little about. I took this seriously by studying the characters and their relationships, and trying to create a plausible past for them. Thanks for reading my babble, enjoy the story.

My hands were so cold. I was sure that they had gone white, robbed of their once pure essence and an unholy will to live. I told myself that the pain was only temporary, and that it was merely a sign that the treatment was working. Though I had trouble finding any good in the situation.

They were monsters. Depraved monsters whose cold, unfeeling stare would poison even the purest of souls. As loud as I screamed and as sincere as I begged, they silently refused to loosen the binds that strapped me to a cold metal table. I really had no justifiable reason for having such a deep hatred for them; the cloaked men had gifted me with strength beyond that which any creature should ever possess. Now I find that over time, the power they had granted me was growing into a craving, an addiction. Now I find that I need that power, and no living creature in all of Gaea will deny me that intoxication.

Sometimes the memories will speak to me through bright flashes in my mind, but it's usually brief. I've become numb to all that was my past, but I do remember this: I know every time the needle broke my skin, I cried. Uncontrollable childish sobs that echoed through the stone corridors, yet never stirred a living creature, if any at all lingered. I was young and weak, and the tireless hands of the cloaked men punctured every untouched area of my flesh. That's why I hated them. That's why. I remember now. At times, I would resist the treatment, but the efforts were fruitless. Their hands were much stronger than my flailing arms and legs. They knew what was best for me. I tried to force myself to believe that, but I never really could.

The glass of Asturian wine I hold in my hand vaguely reminds of my first real taste of bloodshed. I remember an overpowering feeling of desperation. I was blessed when a bottle filled with a blue liquid clumsily fell to the ground and shattered. Anything sharp would have done, and in the rare moment that the cloaked men's eyes were no longer fixed on me, I grabbed a shard of glass and concealed it in the palm of my hand until the men left me to a night of rest, or "recovery" as they called it.

Alone in my chamber, I played with the shard of glass. Slowly guiding it along the blue veins in my pale arms. It was my only friend, really, the only one in this world that couldn't lie to me. It couldn't force me into anything against my will. It only spoke the truth, offering me two distinct choices: Live or die. I pressed the broken glass to my wrists and yearned for the courage to release myself from the endless daily torture. My voice trembled as softly I counted.

"1…" Place it.

"2…" Press it.

"3…" Want it.

One and two were easy.

But I didn't want it. I couldn't make myself want it.

Pathetic, I know.

I hated myself for being so weak, for damning myself to a fate that I knew I deserved, somehow. But a vision was there to guide me. Before my young eyes, in a fleeting moment, I had seen my fate on this path. I felt a sharp pain in my head as I saw a deep red sky fade into a dark horizon. People were there. Faces and voices were unclear, as if they were all drowning in an endless dark pool, but I sensed what breed of creature I would evolve into if the cloaked men willed it to be so.

They called me a monster.

They shouted that word at me repeatedly, and it somehow felt well deserved. It felt right.

With all my strength, I clenched my teeth and forced the glass into my skin. The pain quickly faded into peace as I closed my tearful eyes and accepted the inevitable gift.

I awoke after three nights had passed.

I was too weak…I could have pressed harder. I had failed myself. The cloaked men had found me in a puddle of my own cold blood. However…being the monsters they were, they salvaged my life and quenched my body's thirst with a new essence. New blood. Unfamiliar ravenous blood that coursed through my veins with an insatiable need for destruction. It was the first of many transfusions.

Sleep came a bit more easily as the months passed, though I'm certain that was due to some nameless chemical they injected into my bloodstream. But it was somewhat of a comfort knowing that my screams would no longer penetrate my deep sleep. They were my creators, this was my home.