[Disclaimer: Escaflowne, and all the trademarks thereof, are not in anyway to be construed as belonging to me. This is good, for I'd compromise the plot in order to get certain male characters to spill more blood and show more skin. This is bad, because I'd write a better ending for the movie.]
[Note: This is set pre-movie, but still movie, and draws heavily from the radio dramas and a couple paragraphs from the Newtype art book as translated badly by me, but excellently by a friend of NickelS. (Read Nickels work for insightful, flowing, and intriguing fiction!)]
Initial Patricide, Part One
Adel surveyed the battlefield with terse irritation. The ebon tide of the Black Dragon was being turned back onto itself in the fifth day of relentless battle. Despite all his careful planning, if the black wave broke on the back of the snow-capped mountains, the whole war would shift disastrously in the favor of the enemy.
The fate of the entire invasion rested in Chadon's strategic mountain border because he had invested a good deal of the tribe's forces in creating a two front war. He knew the border had only been assaulted once in the country's very long history. In fact, it was a common saying in Gaia that only children were stubborn enough to throw themselves at Chadon's back. Of course, Adel prided himself on accomplishing the unlikely and crushing the impossible. It was just the kind of arrogant bastard he was.
The Chadonians had wisely reinforced the treacherous mountain strongholds on their northern border, but devoted most of their forces to their easily invaded western border. They had calculated crafty General Adel might use his superior command of airships to assault their mountains despite the thin air and extreme temperatures.
They knew it would be impossible for Adel to maintain the airships in the mountains for extended cannon rounds due to the climate's unfavorable conditions. Accordingly, they hadn't spent too much energy keeping up their mountain strongholds when the war seemed eminent, five months earlier. They poured most of their efforts into the western defense instead, which was holding remarkably steady against the bulk of the Black Dragon's aggression.
However, no one had expected Adel to use his airships to drop troops rather than maintain inconsistent cannon bombardment. It was a move precipitated by a new leap in technology that had made the drops possible. Before, the Black Dragon tribe had been forced to maneuver their ships to the ground to release the troops. The new tactic had yielded fast results and high body counts as shock troops poured into the gaps between Chadonian frontier lines.
The first two days had been an outright slaughter, with no sign of reinforcements for either side. On the third, though, the Chadonians managed to close ranks when they'd paid a heavy death toll to shoot down most of Adel's ships. On the fourth, he was nearly maddened to learn one of his last two ships had dropped his best legion in the midst of strongly held territory. The morning of the fifth, he'd received word from the Elder Council he would have to leave off his childish assault and reinforce the western front, which had become a proverbial meat grinder without his direct supervision.
He clenched his fists in frustration. Adel was a gambling man, and part of what made him good at it was recognizing when to cut his losses. As he gazed out to the mountains were his best legion went down, he couldn't help but sneer. Sometimes, he mused, one could make a mistake even when stacking the deck and this time it felt like he was losing a limb.
"Attend," he growled to an immediate subordinate commander. The man stepped coolly to the general. "The pilot of the Rook; a pity he didn't survive his mistake."
The commander opened his mouth to correct his general, for the pilot of the failing Rook, though misplacing Adel's best troop, had indeed survived. But when he saw the cold blood in the general's eyes, he understood. "Yes, sir. A pity." He moved away to make the proper arrangements.
Dune knew nothing but the powerful blasts of his mind and the death his sword inscribed in the vital organs of his adversaries. He was the point and impetus of the most fearsome and bloody drive any Black Dragon footman had seen. Crimson eyes crazed with agonized despair, he propelled himself through snow, previously churned with Chadonian blood. Before him, cleaved flesh parted and concussed bodies flew. None of the Chadonians had seen a beast like the young Black Dragon shock soldier, but they had heard legends.
Existing in the overlying present tense of muscle and motion, Dune dispensed mortal and crippling wounds with ease terrible to behold. He did not think of the injuries threatening to write his death in the snow, nor the debilitating mental fatigue beginning to unlace the perimeter of his mind. Dune only forged ahead to trade banal thought for murderous activity. He did not want rest, could not invite a break in the killing, and had no intention of stopping. The dead meat falling all around him in unfurling entropy kept worse things at bay.
The young soldier was not unaware of what he was doing despite his almost trance-like state; rather, he rode on the crest of his own death. He gave over hordes of souls to appease the vacuum his life created. It wasn't enough; it was never enough. Living guilt and inner suffering drove him to actualize a physical representation of his inner turmoil. He felt gratitude to Adel for the opportunity to do so.
Dune also understood his ferocity and other powerful Dragon attributes were all that stood between the rest of his diminishing force and destruction. If they could only overtake one Chadonian defensive position, they could have a chance at survival and a hole in the enemy line to boot.
Their problems were many. Not only were they mostly surrounded in unfamiliar territory, they couldn't find any defensible positions to work out of. All they were left with was brute force of flesh and will and animal desperation: a potent combination that kept more than a handful on their feet when they likely should have already dropped dead.
The jutting rock just ahead of them was the focus of their undaunted charge. It was located atop a steep climb that would require two hands to scale in the worst spots. The rock marked the reinforced position that had been unleashing a steady stream of crossbow quarrels and troops since they'd crashed down the night previous. When the last of the troops used to defend its perimeter were exhausted, new waves of deadly projectiles flew forth.
There was no way Dune could stop even half the deadly missiles. It was increasingly difficult to pick out the ones headed specifically for him and his immediate comrades and redirect them harmlessly overhead. A few punched jarringly through their heavy armor only to be frustrated by the chain beneath, but more than a few had no solid metal to contend with and punched through chain sleeves or leather trousers to invade yielding flesh.
In the numbing cold, steam poured forth from Black Dragon mouths and open wounds. Sweat and blood alike beaded into sparkling jewels, freezing as it fell from their skin. Their rushing steps were muffled by snow, but the clang of swords and bolts on steel rang in the air. Still they advanced, Dune exerting all his power to get them to the base of the final climb.
As the only one who could directly ward off the worst of the speeding death, Dune knew he was slated to continue as the impetus of the rush. Without second thoughts, for only the first ones kept him alive in battle, he surged up the steep climb, one hand gripping his sword in a white-knuckled grip, the other clawing frantically at icy handholds.
When he vaulted up the first three yards, he could sense their enemies' astonishment and breathed in the spike of their fear. Renewed cross bolt fire slowed him, pinning him down for a moment when one bolt blasted into his shoulder cop and rebounded across his temple. He pressed his body into the snow and raised his heavier armored left arm over his head to ward off the quarrels as he shook his head clear.
The pause almost did him in; he felt a sudden wave of utter exhaustion building into a crushing weight at the moment's small pause. Fearing exhaustion more than his enemies, Dune again dug in his hands and spiked boots to renew his single-minded assault. Behind him the thinning ranks of his legion threw in with him in their own death drives.
It wasn't inevitable, wasn't even likely, but Dune continued his advance. He spent half the time sliding backwards as he scrabbled up the rise, but he didn't stop, couldn't stop; not even when the raining death moved off of him and onto his fellows at the base of the rise where he could not spare his attention. Instead, he found before him, waiting at the edge of the rock, a man with a pike. It seemed he was to be treated to a more direct form of repulsion.
Clarity struck within Dune in the split second it took to recognize the threat the man presented. The pike man was the last thing, the last barrier, keeping him from equal footing, rock at his back, and relative safety. Indignation reared its ugly head straight up from the darker side of his self. After everything else the Chadonians had thrown at him, the last challenge was a man with a wickedly shaped pike? They thought so little of him that a pike man was supposed to impale him the moment his hands were full of the jutting rock's only purchase?
Dune cultivated the last of his mental reserves in an intense stiletto of unadulterated rage meant solely for the Chadonian soldier eyeing his explosive advance. The result yielded everything he desired. As he surged to the last handhold, his sword hand fowled as he was forced to grip the icy rock with both hands, the pike man came forward to easily pick him off. The blast of Dragon power was great enough to propel the pike man bodily to the left, into several of the archers regularly being fed reloaded bows. At the same time, he felt a pop of mild pain behind his eyes. He'd bought himself and those directly behind him the seconds they needed to swarm up the last few meters.
If Dune had seen the two swordsmen directly behind the pike man he might not have been able to summon the necessary rage he needed to gain equal footing. As it was, his oversight left him open for a final attack. Swift Chadonian straight swords, made for stabbing, jumped directly for his heart and head. Without reserves, Dune could only think to stumble back to evade the deadly strikes while awkwardly batting the closest attack down.
Fortunately for the soldiers behind the young Dragon, Dune's spiked heel scraped over the jutting rock's unyielding surface and not their gloved fingers. It was unfortunate for Dune that there was no purchase for those spikes, for the second step back, which freed him from metal death opened him up to a descent far more efficient than his previous ascent.
As his arms pin wheeled slightly and his body pitched backwards, Dune accepted his part in the battle seemed to be over. Perhaps the whole war was going to be over as well. If he was truly fortunate, he could even be at the end of his life.
Dune felt some small freedom when his feet left the ground and his back was slightly parallel to the steep mountainside. Several thoughts and impressions came to him. He instinctually thought to call his wings only to remember the move would do him no good wrapped in metal as he was. He was astounded by the peacefulness of the fall while all around him bloody chaos reigned. He thought of Van and dared to imagine his beloved little brother might shed a tear to know how his older brother had died.
Then his whole existence centered on the first collision as his left shoulder intercepted the side of the mountain, whipping his body around it. Subsequent collisions were no less violent, but he did not consciously follow the progression of the destruction. At some point, he found himself more or less on his back, gazing at a sky painted an unusual shade of crimson. He felt a warm stream of blood pour down the side of his face from his nose. He smelled crisp mountain air. His body he felt not at all.
Dune's eyes drifted closed.
"Sons of the Dragon do not cry."
Dune opened his eyes as wide as he could and tipped his head back, hoping the moisture would dry before leaping past the red rims of his eyes. He knew no one would see the guilty drops of moisture, but the admonishment rang in his mind anyway. His father's stern proclamation echoed within him. He did not understand why, but he felt as if he was actually saying, 'You aren't my son.'
The boy lifted himself up to the window in his spacious room and straddled the sill to stare at the glittering stars. He imagined his mother's spirit looked down at him from the cold points of light. Even from a distance so great, he felt she did still love him, but he could not feel it. He could not feel the warm embrace her loving gaze used to wrap around him. It was as if the cold distance ate her love as it reached for him and all that was left at the end of the trip was cool regard.
His father's new wife, lovely in every way, was not his mother. She was kind, but she did not fill the gap his mother had left. In Dune's young mind, there was no way she could ever be adequate. She came too soon, her belly swelled with his own replacement before he knew it, and she commanded more of his father's flagging attention.
Not that his father had much time for anyone but his advisors and subjects, but she still had more time with him than the boy. After all, did they not inhabit the same quarters at night? Dune saw him mostly in passing in the day when he was with his tutors. The absence did not make the child's heart grow more fond, rather, his chest ached at the lack of interest the man showed him. The coming child, that was the new recipient of Dune's small share of interest.
Dune looked deeper into the sky, at the spaces between the stars. Perhaps, his mother was there, rather than in the pinpoints of uncaring light. Looking at the negative space, he wondered if that was his true destiny. A sigh rattled his thin chest; his mother was replaced so easily and, it seemed, the same was true of him. Would he soon join her? It seemed unfair that he should be replaced even before he was gone. As if, despite his presence, he did not actually exist.
Lately, he didn't really think about the things he did. Whether he excelled in his lessons, vandalized his practice materials, or disrespected his teachers, it didn't matter. The most he received from his father was an admonishment cloaked in such toneless disapproval that the boy hardly believed the man really was his father at all. Of course, when he had voiced such concerns the man he wished to acknowledge him only stared at him grimly. "It is only true that you are my flesh and bone."
The pronouncement was somehow far more chilling than anything Dune's furtive imagination could concoct. He suspected the source of his father's dislike was rooted in the lack of prophecies his birth had failed to bring.
The boy didn't understand why there were no prophecies to confirm him. Convinced of the importance of such things, he had spared much of his free time to learn all he could of the omens surrounding an auspicious birth. Sometimes he made many very weak cases for vague auspices surrounding his short life, but it wasn't a behavior anyone supported or entertained. In short order, Dune was little more than a closet diviner, but he never rested his small head in regard to prophecies.
Of course, due to his intense interest, he did not fail to recognize the signs he lacked when his half brother was born.