Dilandau soaked his ribs, which he supposed felt nice, then wrapped a towel around his body and without bothering to dry himself off – it was too hot for that nonsense – went back into his bedroom for his clothes. They were ripped and bloody and sweaty, but they were still his clothes, dammit, and he had no others.
Except that they weren't there.
Instead, there was a dress draped across the bed.
Inexplicable.
He curbed his rising anger. He searched the room. He ripped out the contents of the cupboards and the closets. He searched again, then rang the bell. The maid was prompt, though she trembled slightly. Was it the same one? He didn't think so, but it didn't matter.
"Where are my clothes?"
"I don't know," she replied reluctantly.
"You don't know? They just disappeared, then? Is that what happened?"
She shook her head. "I don't know, my Lady."
Despite the pain in his throat, Dilandau was still capable of quite an impressive shout, and the maid backed up against the wall in sudden terror as he advanced on her.
"MY LADY?" he thundered. "Was that a joke? Are you making fun of me? I could kill you! Is this one of Schezar's jokes? I haven't got – " At the mention of Allen's name, the swift sting of recollection shot through his body –
Allen had called him by her name … and his body had buckled with realization …
– and he felt his shoulders sag as reality seeped back into the world. "Right. Yes. Well, if you ever call me that again, I'll gut you," he growled. His anger hadn't drained away, exactly, but it did fade under the weight of these new, unpleasant memories. Dilandau pushed them aside and tried to regain control. He suspected – correctly – that Schezar had given the maids specific instructions on how to address him. He also suspected that his threats would have more impact than Schezar's mild, tenderhearted orders.
He eyed the maid. "Let's try this again. Where are my clothes?"
"My Lady – " she began, but one sharp glance was enough to change her mind. "My Lord, I'm sorry, but Sir Allen had them burnt. He said he would give you new ones."
"Fine. Get out. No! Wait!" He hesitated for a moment, and then took a deep breath and made his decision. "Tell him I want to see him."
She looked for a moment as though she wanted to protest, but the moment Dilandau's pale, angry eyes met hers, she nodded, gave a cursory curtsey, and fled.
Dilandau ran his hands through his hair; it was already drying in the stuffy heat of the room. His anger had tired him, but the weight of his pulsing memory was worse. He hadn't talked to Schezar since – well, since before he'd been brought to Asturia. He quickly clamped down on that train of thought – busy, he needed busy hands. He ripped off the towel and threw on a dressing gown, taking extra care to wrap it tightly across his chest. His new-found embarrassment about his body didn't sit well, but he ignored that, too. He thumped down on the bed. No, that hurt his hips. He stood. That hurt his legs, but he felt better standing – more powerful, in charge. He'd meet Schezar on equal footing.
Schezar. Schezar. Godsdammit. Out of all the people in all the worlds, why Schezar? This had to be a joke, a great grand prank, the final act of Zaibach's emperor, to torment him like this.
He hadn't seen the man since he'd collapsed on the battlefield. He knew he was in the king's castle at Schezar's behest. He'd seen the man's face float through the stormy edge of unconsciousness as his brain fought against the muddy haze of doctor's drugs, but they hadn't talked, hadn't interacted, had not yet come face-to-face.
Shame and anger surged in his body; what could he say to the man?
Dilandau's legs shook. He dropped both arms onto the casement and looked out the window – Asturia. Oceans and sunlight. Out beyond the gardens and the sloping palace grounds, everything was white and clean and shimmering; beyond the seaport, the ocean glittered in the heatbath, white and frothy with merchants' sails. He felt ready to vomit; he was sweating, despite the cool droplets of water on his skin from the bath.
"Fuck!" he screamed; he grabbed the nearest thing his hands could find – something heavy and porcelain from the night table – and dashed it against the wall.
"May I remind you that we are guests here in the palace?"
The voice was quiet, yet it thrummed with bass resonance; it sent finger-licks of anger and anxiety up his spine.
That voice – he knew that voice. Oh, gods, how he hated that voice.
He turned.
Allen stood in the doorway, looking every inch the hero – wide-shouldered, slender, and taller than Dilandau half a span at least. He wasn't in uniform, but his clothes bore the insignia of Asturia's military. The man looked a little nervous, perhaps – he didn't look well-rested, that was for sure – but he was still smiling. Gentle. Gentle. Did he think Dilandau needed soothing, petting? There he was, all handsome, cautious optimism.
Dilandau hated him with every fibre of his body.
"No," said Dilandau, panting slightly, not at all embarrassed to have been discovered destroying the king's apartments. "You're a guest. I'm a prisoner. Where are my clothes? My armour? My weapons?"
"I ordered the maids to burn the clothes," said Allen, sidestepping the issue of the armour. Dilandau made a note of it, but he wasn't about to be sidetracked. "You don't need them here. We have clothes for you."
Nonplussed, Dilandau followed Allen's eyes to the bed, where the maid had placed the dress. It was small, white, simple and delicate, nestled in a protective bed of tissue paper.
"You mean that?"
Dilandau's tone, like his face, was blank.
"Well?" prompted Allen, smiling gently. It seemed to Dilandau that he was determinedly ignoring the mounting awkwardness of the situation. "Put it on."
Dilandau opened his mouth, then closed it again. He ran one of his own hands over his body compulsively – hard, firm, like it had always been.
Well, obviously not always, but … his mind ran out of solid memory to work with and that train of thought withered away. Allen frowned, looking slightly embarrassed now, and waited for Dilandau to say something.
Dilandau took a ragged breath.
"Schezar … is this a joke?"
The anxiety that Allen had managed to keep at bay for weeks now welled up in his chest. It wasn't supposed to go like this. It wasn't! He'd refused to even consider this possibility. The nightmares, the screaming, the panicked demands for the Dragonslayers … he thought they'd been symptoms of stress, of fever, of something else, of anything but this. He thought she'd been struggling to regain her real memories, her true identity. Surely now that Serena was awake, now that she'd been severed from her unconscious demons, she would come back to him.
But Serena's violence, her sneering peevishness, her incredulous tone, her barely-suppressed anger …
Suddenly, all Allen could feel was panic. He stared at the seething, impatient figure in front of him, uncertain of what he was actually seeing.
Who are you?
What if Serena had fallen back into herself? What if she was too inured, too weak to make it back to him? What if she still clung to that – that – He couldn't say "Dilandau," not even to himself, not now, not when they were so close it stung. But what if she were still grasping onto that other persona? That … thing, the other person she used to be.
And yet the memory was fresh in his mind: he had called her name, and she had seen him for who he was, and she had buckled at her knees on the battlefield, she had fallen …
"This – all this is a joke, isn't it?"
Dilandau felt clumsy and frustrated with the inanity of the conversation. Clearly someone was having a laugh.
"Do you remember nothing from the battlefield?" Allen asked. His face had turned paler, or maybe it was a trick of the light. His voice was gentle and cautious, though, purposefully soothing, and he held out the dress as she spoke. An invitation.
"Do not mock me!" snapped Dilandau; he would have swatted the dress away, but he couldn't bring himself to touch Allen.
Allen set his jaw, but still he held out the dress. "I'm not mocking you. I would never mock you." His voice was not tender now, but determined and firm.
"Schezar, this is ridiculous, and I'm not wearing that."
Allen shrugged, as though he couldn't see why. "It's the finest lace in the kingdom," he said mildly.
"I'm not a girl!" Dilandau thundered. The sudden rush of anger weakened his hold on the bedstead, but he remained standing.
Allen's eyes narrowed. "You are my sister."
Dilandau couldn't laugh at this absurdity – he was choked with rage. "This is idiocy! Who are you trying to convince, Schezar? Yourself? Open your godsdamned eyes! I'm not a girl! Are you blind?" He grasped at his dressing gown. His shaking fingers grappled with the knot at his waist, and he struggled to rip his limbs from the sleeves; he tore the garment from his upper body. "See? Look! Look at me!"
"Serena," Allen began gently, unwilling to pull his eyes away from Dilandau's face.
"Look at me!"
Allen paused, and then he looked.
Neither of them could pretend that it was a woman's body. It was small and it was slender, but there was nothing feminine about the square shoulders, the hard chest, or the way the angular collarbones protruded from the skin.
Allen winced as Dilandau slumped back onto the bed, worn out by his sudden exertions.
"I'm not a girl," he muttered, "and I'm not wearing that."
Allen felt weary, down to the very tip of his soul. He'd been completely unprepared for this battle, and now he was distressed and at a loss as how to proceed. He was silent for a moment as he watched Serena struggle for breath. She glared at him all the while. With a small twang of regret, he cast the dress aside. Serena's body, all harsh lines and jagged edges, seemed to be the ultimate refutation of his hopes. Ridiculous hopes. Daydreams. He shouldn't have been surprised. He knew that his wish that Serena would recognize him immediately, collapse into his arms and embrace him and make everything okay again … he knew that that had been foolish. This would take time, and caution.
"We're not going to have this argument now – you're not well, and you shouldn't be out of bed. We'll talk about it later. In the meantime – "
"Don't tell me what we are going to do and not do," Serena snapped. "You don't have any right."
Allen realized he would have to begin to insulate himself from these barbs. He sat himself down in the chair opposite Serena's bed, so that their eyes were nearer an equal height. "I'm your brother," he said, carefully and slowly, cautious about going any further just yet. "Siblings" might be easier than "sister," after all. The dress had obviously been one step too far, for the moment.
"Maybe." Serena glared – she did not have a comeback for that. Whatever she remembered or forgot, he knew she couldn't refute him 100% of the time.
"Alright. Wait here. I'll be back in a moment."
"Yes. Fine."
"I'm serious – stay here."
"Whatever."
"Promise me."
"Yes!"
Allen nodded grimly, and left the room.
He'd left the door unlocked. On purpose? Of course. Testing him. Dilandau heaved an irritated sigh, and flopped back on the bed. He pushed the events of the last few minutes from his mind and sat with a comforting blankness in his brain.
He did not have to think, he reminded himself. He was simply waiting. Waiting. For … Schezar. Ugh, no – that was unacceptable. He propped himself up on his protesting legs and limped over to the full-length mirror. He looked at his reflection. He liked his body quite well – it was a well-oiled, well-maintained, dependable machine. His face was attractive, except for that damned scar. And aside from the scar, it looked the same as ever it had. True, he knew, it looked a little feminine, if he put his chin at the right angle, but that was nothing new to him.
But now – there was something unhappy, something … embarrassing, about his body – and not because his body was any different than it had been last week. People were speculating about it, making decisions about it, looking at it differently. These thoughts infuriated him, and he could do nothing about them.
And it was all nonsense! He gritted his teeth. He was handsome, he was strong, he was young – what more was there? What could any of them object to?
He didn't have long to wait – Allen returned almost immediately, with an armful of clothes. He dumped them unceremoniously on the bed.
"Yours?" asked Dilandau pointedly.
"Yes."
"Fine. They'll do."
He spoke with curt finality, but Allen didn't leave. Dilandau gritted his teeth.
"You can go now."
"No. I would like to talk to you, if you are feeling able."
Dilandau opened his mouth to argue, but Allen sat down in the chair and gave him a long, steady look. Dilandau snapped his jaw shut.
He marched into the bathroom and pulled on the clothes. It took him a while, and it hurt, but he supposed the ignominy of striding around the palace in Allen's hand-me-downs was slightly less terrible than striding around the palace in one of the Princesses' old gowns.
"This is not the way I wanted to re-introduce you to the palace, or to Asturia," said Allen, when Dilandau came back into the bedchamber, and crawled, aching, onto the bed, "but since you're feeling well enough to destroy the king's property, perhaps you're well enough to discuss some business we have."
"Who is 'we'?" panted Dilandau.
"You and I."
"Hmm. And what's 'our' business?"
"You are allowed to be here – in this room, in this castle – because the king granted me favour."
"Because you're a hero."
Allen sighed inwardly, but he ignored Serena's sneer. "Because he wished to show his appreciation for my efforts in the war against Zaibach. His doctors nursed you back to health, and his servants feed and clothe you now. You are indebted to the king."
"And to you, is that it?
Allen gave her a look. "Perhaps. But the king doesn't trust you."
"He shouldn't – I'm Zaibach. I'm an enemy and I'm in his house. But … he could let me go. Just – let me go. Easy. He'll never have to worry about me again. Problem solved."
Allen sighed. "All right, enough – this has been too much. You're tired and frustrated. His Majesty insists that I debrief you on the shielding technology of Zaibach's guymelefs, but I told him that could wait until you were better. I'll leave you now."
Serena frowned incredulously. It was an ugly look on her; it twisted her thin, pale face into something grotesque. "And why would I want to do that?"
Allen was taken aback for a moment. He said, very honestly and slowly, "I never thought that you wouldn't want to help us. I never thought you wouldn't tell us what you knew."
"Why would I tell you? Why would I betray my country?"
Allen barked a laugh. "You astonish me – if I honestly thought you cared anything for Zaibach, I'd die of shock. Your efforts were for yourself and your own gain, not your country. And in any case, you don't belong to Zaibach – you're Asturian now."
Serena's entire body snapped upright, like a soldier standing to attention. Her very limbs seemed to crackle with electric violence, and for a moment Allen felt a chill go up his spine. Had he pushed it too far, too soon?
"I am NOT Serena!" she screamed.
And that was too much for Allen. He stared at the furious raging thing on the bed in front of him, face clammy and distorted with rage, and his heart pulled away from her.
"I don't care what delusions you're labouring under – Zaibach is finished. Your Dragonslayers are dead. Lord Folken is dead. Your soldiers, your emperor, your friends, if you had any – they're all dead."
Dead, dead, dead.
Dilandau felt drained; he couldn't hold his head up. He was frozen, he couldn't respond. His eyes were squeezed tight, but the blackness didn't help ease the emptiness. He slumped onto the bed and pressed at the ache of frustration in his stomach – he could do no more than that.
Allen sat down beside him. The man seemed suddenly, strangely concerned. His weight on the bed pulled Dilandau closer. "Serena …" He slipped his hand through Dilandau's arm. "Zaibach has fallen – there's no going back – and the best proof of that is that you're here, now, with me."
Dilandau's eyes snapped open and he recoiled. He pulled his body out of Allen's reach and stood abruptly. It was his body – it wasn't Allen's, to touch and fondle when he felt like reassuring something.
Allen sighed, his tone aggrieved. "Serena – "
Dilandau did not meet his eyes, but instead stared through the window. Shimmering sky, that beautiful city stretching below him. Bile rose in his throat. "Schezar, if you ever touch me again, I promise you I will slit your throat."
The silence was loud; Dilandau dared to move his eyes from the window. Allen's face was firm, but the man couldn't quite disguise his look of shock, and that made Dilandau angrier. What had the man expected from him?
And he suddenly knew that this bubbling pain in his chest, this desperate, bruised anger was Allen's fault. It was all Allen's fault.
Dilandau rounded on him. "Don't parade your hurt feelings in front of me, Schezar! What did you think I'd say? Yes, yes, I want to stay here with you, big brother? I'm ever so sorry I led armies against you? Fuck you. I'm a warrior – I'm the elite! You think you're a knight, Schezar? Well, so am I! I'm a lord of battle! I led men to their deaths and I destroyed nations – and I'll never apologize for that, and certainly never to you."
Allen had remained carefully stoic throughout the tirade, and his face didn't change when Dilandau fell silent, out of breath and dizzy. He merely sighed. Dilandau was seized by a sudden fear that he wouldn't say anything at all, that he would just sit there, stoic and serene, like a pillar of stone in a sandstorm. He was suddenly afraid of battering himself against Allen's determination.
But then the man stood, and silently walked across the room. He put his hand on the door. Allen had large hands, quite unlike Dilandau's own. He looked back. "Serena. Do you remember … anything?"
Dilandau grinned and clacked his teeth. "Blood, Schezar – lots of it. Rains of blood. It was glorious."
Allen left.
