Disclaimer: I do not own Escaflowne, nor any character therein.





The library was quiet. A small room made of weathered wood, it looked even smaller as rows of narrow shelves stood tall and full to the brim with books of all different shapes and sizes- like a dusty forest. It was at one of these book shelves that the maestro lingered- his pupil at a lone mahogany desk placed directly in the middle of the room. Immense stained glass windows ran from floor to ceiling across one end of the library. It was the windows that gave the room an overwhelming sense of character- for each pane was a riot of colours and shapes. The story of a great battle raged within the panes, splattering deep hues of red and blue onto the thick carpet.
The maestro breathed deeply, gathering as much of the musky scent of wood and age as he could. This was his favorite room, and it was where he took his favorite- and only student. The time was late, and the sun was sinking quickly, leaving a thin blanket of sunlight filtering through the glass windows. This was his favorite time of day- not quite evening, not quite night. Looking up from the various books lined neatly along the shelf, he stole a glance at his studious pupil. She was reading a particularly old text cradled in her lap.
With enthusiasm her face brightened, and he knew then that she had begun to understand the old book. After only two such lessons, she had already mastered one quarter of the books content. He had given her a particularly difficult passage today, with the confidence that she would decipher the text without his help- which saddened him. His composure was like stone, and he hid his displeasure at the idea of their time together in the old library being cut short. Her lips moved unconsciously, mouthing the words he knew by heart. Before he knew it, his own lips were mouthing the words as well. The sun's fading light played fitfully with the shadows that loomed in the darker corners of the room, as if anticipating things to come.
At the maestro's cue, his pupil began to recite her lesson aloud.

Ma sahuul avate solablu... A pair of sea green eyes stopped their decent mid page.Lifting her eyes from the old text on her lap, Hitomi regarded her teacher curiously.

He is so at home here...
His unusually tall frame was bent over a book shelf, like a composer before his score. Hitomi was suddenly very aware of his body; his long slender arms and solid broad back- the way his hair fell undisciplined across his temple in silky strands, then fell to brush his shoulders. She could imagine the pale strands pulled back into a pony tail tied with a black ribbon, his dark robes switched for a slender velvet coat of dark green and a creamy cravat at this throat. The image made her shiver, remembering the times she had gazed at such paintings of men long gone from the world, yet so vibrant and alive on the canvas. But here she was, far from her own familiar world and staring at a living, breathing man- similar and yet so different from those she remembered that she could barely keep herself from touching his pale face, to make sure he was real. Tearing her from these thoughts, a faint tapping caught her attention.
One of his hands was absently tracing the worn bindings with careful fingers. A flush spread quickly to her cheeks as she realized he was staring directly at her, a pair of wire rimmed glasses perched upon the tip of his nose. His fingertips stopped drumming on the bindings.
Continue, please. You're intonation has greatly improved.
His deep voice and gentle praise crept through her senses, and her grip on the leather bound pages tightened slightly.
Thank you. Hitomi grinned shyly into her book, lifting it up before her face to better focus her attention.
Halun de anafluu...
Folken perused the titles before him, but could only absorb the sweet lilt of her voice as Hitomi softly read the words.

She speaks, and I loose all reason...

The late evening sun warmed her, and she closed her eyes, feeling the soft texture of worn pages beneath her fingertips. Time seemed to slow to a peaceful slumber with each moment that passed within his company...

Min, de fortuta caluum... The same deep, smooth voice continued, picking up where Hitomi had left off. Hitomi's eyes opened with a start, her hands nearly dropping the old book.
He was directly behind her.
Folken's tall form cast a dark shadow across the pages. Hitomi could feel his presence wash over her in warm waves, sending a shower of tingles down the back of her neck. This was no painting- and her maestro was no figment of her imagination.
The soft words rolled off his tongue; exotic and rich with history. It was like music- each word a note, each passage a phrase brimming with melody. The room seemed to sway with his words. Hitomi closed her eyes, and let that sensual voice take her where ever it willed.
Folken looked down at Hitomi's bent head, her hair tinted a rich gold in the fading light. His hand rested lightly on the back of her chair. A soft smile flickered within his mind as he bent down to turn the page. His fingers brushed against hers. Yes, this pupil was becoming very dear to him indeed.

He touched me...


Bending his broad shoulders further, Folken regarded the worn pages with their bold black ink studiously. Gently, Folken began tracing the black symbols across the page, and Hitomi obliged him.

She did not draw back...

Anos, renen atadonis... She spoke quietly, hoping the passage would surface in her memory, as she became aware only of his long, pale fingers as they guided hers across the sculpted characters- and the rise and fall of his chest brushing against her back. His touch was light, but sure. A smile shone from her eyes. She continued to read aloud, for him.


I do not want this moment to end...