Just a random, little one-shot I thought about writing. Give me some input people, what do you think?
Disclaimer: I don't own Escaflowne.
Broken Doll
Children? The future generation? Did he really care about them? No, he didn't. They meant nothing to him. Sure, he'd blindly follow Dornkirk until the day he died, but he didn't kill for him. No, he never would. He never would. Dilandau killed for himself, and only himself. He needed it too. It was like an addiction, a compulsive need. He needed to have the blood washing over his hands, soaking and staining his pale hands through leathered and armored gloves.
That was his only sanctuary, his only escape from it all. Yes, he occasionally drank himself into a numb and half-dead state, but that was different. Vino didn't bring him the same satisfaction as the ear-splitting screams of the terrified and fallen. He smiled, nothing could ever compare to that.
War was where he would always be, the battle field was his home. His tired eyes stared down over the balcony. Home. His present, his future, but his past?
His past brought him to where he was today…broken beyond all belief.
He was just their toy, that's all. Just their perfect and broken toy. A child's plaything that needed attention constantly. When alone, he crumbled; he became that broken toy, remembering all of his life, all of his pain. He needed to constantly attend to something, something to do or dwell on other than his suffering.
That's why he had his Dragon Slayers. His perfect little team, his elitists that made him whole and as sane as he could be. His unfocused attention which led to his deep hysteria had something to concentrate on. And they were loyal, all of them. His perfect trained men, the very men who he had grown up with as a boy. But where were they now? They were dead…
He sighed and rolled the thin green stem of a flower between his fingers. He had taught them so much to only be struck down…dying in front of his paralyzed eyes. They had loved him more than life itself apparently. Those boys…those men were his friends. As much as he hated to admit it, Dilandau needed friends.
He closed his eyes for a minute. They were pained by his constant tears. His whole face hurt from crying, a petty habit that he had become accustomed to after the marring of his beauty. Tears flooded his face and dripped off, traveling in glittering balls down onto the earth of Gaea. Some traced the line of his scar, reminding him how broken he was. His internal structure had disintegrated and now it was reaching out to the world.
Goodbye.
The red flower slipped from his weak fingers and was carried off into the wind with his tears.
How pathetic he had become. It was war, people died, even his men…The flower drifted out of existence. A primal scream ripped loose from his throat and reverberated through the empty hallways. His face scrunched, contours digging deep into his youthful flesh. His men were gone; all because he was a broken toy who needed to see others die. Even if that meant the victims were his own men!
He screamed again with his head thrown back and clutched the guardrail in a death grip.
"Alone…"
No, it couldn't be that way. Now he would suffer more and break as a toy, to only be taped back together for temporary use.
"No…"
His back cracked as he slide one foot onto the top of the railing, another foot was soon placed up there. He found his balance like he knew he would and stood. The wind whipped past his dampened bangs. His breaths were slow and occasionally quick and erratic. Van had done this all…so had the girl. Their blood was what he needed to saturate his hands. He needed it soon too.
He closed his eyes. Perhaps he shouldn't rush to Van, after all, they did have one thing in common, they both could fly. And with that knowledge, Dilandau spread his arms out and leaned forward to follow his men, his tears, and his flower.