Vision of Escaflowne: Soulmates
Written by: Meghanna Starsong
"Chapter Four"
Standard Disclaimer: Escaflowne is copyright to its creator, Shoji Kawamori, owners, and distributors. I am not making any money off of this fanfiction. None of the Escaflowne characters are mine, although I have inserted my own creations into this universe as well. Please do not steal my original characters or use them without my permission. This is a continuation of Escaflowne the series after Episode 26.
Author's Notes: In the anime, Hitomi's mother was never named. I took some liberty and chose Nao for her, which means "honesty." Hashi are what the Japanese call the wooden sticks they eat with.
I also want to extend a big "thank you" to the most recent reviewers, pandorababe and theladyhitomi, and to Penelopi, for taking up the task of being this fiction's beta. ^_^
Edited 6/5/2017: I've gone through this chapter at least twenty times now, and the words are blurring together. Dear readers, if you notice an error, please do let me know.
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Nao Kanzaki cracked open the pair of cardboard boxes and checked their contents. As far as she could tell, everything seemed to be in order on the pizzas, one cheese and honey and the other teriyaki chicken. They smelled bizarre to her, but they were at least hot and freshly made. Nibbling her lower lip, she stacked the boxes on the kitchen counter and mulled over the best explanation for her husband, Daisuke, and son, Mamoru. They would definitely be surprised at the lack of home cooking tonight.
Mamoru complains I fix the same things over and over. Because of that, I'll tell them I wanted to try something new, she decided. The Kanzaki family's first time eating pizza would certainly be that.
Hitomi peeked over her mother's shoulder at the pizzas. "I'm surprised you wanted to buy these, Mom."
"It was too late to cook with all that traffic. I thought pizza might do for one night."
"I'm sorry." Hitomi's blond-tipped lashes concealed her eyes. "I didn't mean to cause problems."
Nao smiled at her daughter, the wrinkles bunching around her lips. "Not at all. It's nice to have you home."
Hitomi grinned at her, pleased and a little embarrassed. "Thanks, Mom."
Yet again, Nao found herself marveling at her daughter's likeness to her own mother, Yuri. They shared the same shape of the face, arch of the eyebrows, and brown-gold hair. But to Nao, Hitomi resembled Yuri the most in the eyes. They were otherworldly and jewel-like, changing from a vibrant emerald to almost blue. Such eyes were bewitching; they shifted color according to the slant of light or a certain mood. Nao always regretted she did not inherit Yuri's eyes; hers were moss green, more mundane.
A hum from the garage warned the two women that Hitomi's father was home. For a moment, they froze over the pizzas, one in guilt, one in uncertainty. They listened to the thrum of the door opening and the purring engine of the family's second automobile. Gulping, Nao sprang into action. She fetched cups from the cupboard and sprinkled tea leaves into a well-used pot. Following her example, Hitomi located the dinnerware and began setting the table. While she did that, Nao boiled water in a kettle and hunted through the refrigerator for Mamoru's milk.
"It's almost eight. That seems a little late for Dad on a Saturday," Hitomi commented as she laid plates on the mahogany table. Paper napkins and smooth bamboo hashi followed.
"Your father's been working on the weekends. The office is still short staffed." Hidden behind some leftovers was the last small carton of Mamoru's milk. Nao drew it out victoriously and made a mental note to buy more tomorrow. "Mamoru had work today too, but he should be home any time now."
"Is he still at the ramen restaurant?"
Nao sighed, "Yes, but he's not busing tables anymore. They have him washing dishes. He says he prefers that."
"And baseball?"
"Never misses a practice. He's still the ace pitcher of Kamakita High."
Before Hitomi could reply, Daisuke Kanzaki dragged himself through the door connecting the garage to the kitchen. He wore a rumpled, slate gray suit and carried a scuffed leather briefcase. The wire frames of his glasses caught the overhead kitchen light, the lenses refracting beams. Nao worriedly noted her husband's ashen face and the bags beneath his eyes. He seemed to have aged years in a month's time. The creases around his lips were deeper, and the furrows in his forehead were almost slashed across there.
"Hey, Dad!" Hitomi greeted her father and rushed to hug him.
Daisuke blinked several times before coming a little out of his fatigue. He raised his arms up and awkwardly patted his daughter's back around his briefcase. "Ah, Hitomi. What a nice surprise."
Nao placed Mamoru's carton of milk by his seat on the table. "Welcome home! Hitomi is staying the weekend. Isn't that great?"
"Yes. Great," Daisuke echoed. He removed his shoes and stumbled to a chair. "What's for dinner?"
"Oh, Hitomi and I bought pizza." Nao took the briefcase from her husband, dusted off its surface, and set it by the door leading to Daisuke's study.
"Pizza?"
"Yes, dear," Nao confirmed as the kettle whistled. She removed it from the burner and poured its contents into the pot. With a mitted hand, she set the hot pot of tea on the table.
"Er…are you sure?"
Hitomi plopped the pizza boxes into the middle of the table, pulled out a chair next to her father, and sat down. "American food is really popular, Dad."
"Aren't they expensive?" Daisuke loosened his tie and shed his suit jacket. Incredulous, he studied the alien circles on the table, even poked a slice with the tips of his hashi.
The banging of the front door interrupted the conversation. Mamoru Kanzaki, whistling, strode through the living room and into the kitchen. He wore his work clothes, faded jeans, a stained white t-shirt, and skid resistant shoes. An apron hung over his shoulder, the strings dangling loosely. Over the summer, Mamoru had a late growth spurt; now, he towered over both his parents. He stopped mid-stride in the living room doorway, one hand in his jean's pocket, one holding the strap of a backpack.
His eyes, so much like Nao's own, narrowed dangerously at the sight of Hitomi. "What're you doing here?"
"That's no way to talk to your sister." Daisuke frowned and kneaded his graying temples. "Don't you remember how to greet people properly?"
"Oh, sure. Hi."
Daisuke shook his head, scooped up a slice of pizza, and deposited it onto his plate. He used his hashi to collect the stubborn strings of cheese that stretched between the box and the plate. Under his breath, he grumbled about the modern generation's lack of respect. Nao patted her husband's hand comfortingly.
She smiled at her son, hoping to ease the tension between her children. "Welcome back. How was work?"
"Fine, Mom." Unfazed, Mamoru approached the kitchen table. "Again, why're you here?"
"I live here." Hitomi arched an eyebrow at her brother.
"No. I live here. You go to college. Shouldn't you be there doing something, like, dissecting frogs?" Mamoru fired back.
"Good to see you too, little brother." Hitomi bowed her head and dumped a wedge of cheese and honey pizza onto her plate. "Actually, the only thing I plan to dissect is this."
Daisuke chimed in, "It doesn't smell half bad."
Mamoru snorted his misgivings.
"Shall we eat? Please sit down, Mamoru," Nao encouraged and drew the chair next to hers out invitingly.
He glowered at the pizza disdainfully. "I'm not touching that crap."
"That's enough! You will show respect for your mother and sister!" Daisuke's voice whipped across the room.
The corded muscles in Mamoru's arms flexed. "Sorry, Mom. I'm not hungry. I have homework."
Nao's lip trembled. "B-But-"
"Night, everyone." Mamoru whisked the milk off the table and strode back into the living room. Nao heard the agitated stomp of his footsteps up the stairs.
Daisuke sawed at his pizza with the hashi. When that failed to break it apart, he dropped them to the side and grasped the slice between his hands. He tore a hearty chunk out of the teriyaki chicken and sucked the strands of greasy cheese up like noodles. Hitomi copied his fashion but chewed smaller, more delicate bites. Miserable, Nao counted the bits of chicken on top of her pizza until her vision no longer swam with tears.
She inhaled and started, "Daisuke, did you have to-"
"He can't treat Hitomi and you that way." Her husband shoveled the last bit of pizza into his mouth. He chomped firmly and swallowed. "He's a senior in high school, not some mannerless brat."
"He's having a difficult time lately. You know Akiko broke up with him."
"If he acted that way around her, I'm not surprised she cut him loose." Daisuke patted his lips with a napkin.
"Daisuke!"
"He's had this attitude for a while. It's not something new."
Nao frowned. "You know he doesn't handle surprises well."
"Dad, it's my fault," Hitomi jumped in. "Ever since…since…"
"The past is the past. It's time he moves on." Daisuke deposited his napkin on the table. "Thank you for the food. I'm not feeling well. I'm going to bed early."
"We have to sort this out," Nao insisted. "You need to talk to-"
"Good night." Daisuke collected his jacket and trudged out of the kitchen. His footsteps up the stairs were slower and heavier than his son's.
Despondent, Nao completely disregarded table etiquette, lifted up her slice, and bit hard into the cooling crust. She tore off a large chunk and gnawed on it unforgivingly.
"I'm sorry," Hitomi whispered across the table.
Nao forced a watery smile. "It's not your fault. Everything will be better tomorrow. Think you and I can finish both of these?"
"Let's give it a try, Mom," Hitomi concurred and accepted a second helping.
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Hitomi lay across the bed in her old room, the clean sheets smelling of lavender, taking in her surroundings. Nothing had changed; her mother dusted and vacuumed in her absence but kept all her belongings in the same locations. Her desk retained its position beneath the window with its lilac-colored curtains. Next to the desk rested the squat vanity where Hitomi must bend double to see her reflection in the mirror. The wooden clock, carved with owls and songbirds, ticked stoically on the wall, unceasingly measuring the passing time. There was the bookcase with its assortment of novels, comics, music, and movies. Various framed photographs of Hitomi's family and friends hung scattered across the walls of the room.
It was her room. She knew all the furniture, the carpet, the paint on the walls. This was where she grew up, her place of refuge. She should feel safe in this room and welcomed in her family's house. Honestly, all Hitomi felt was depressed and anxious.
She rolled onto her side, her arm dangling off the bed. Her stomach bubbled irritably from the evening's unusual meal. To distract herself from the discomfort, Hitomi studied the photographs from high school. In one, Yukari and she posed comically in their school uniforms, carefree and grinning. Another picture showed Yukari, Amano, and her huddled together at a track meet, red-cheeked and triumphant. Back then, Yukari and Hitomi never argued over anything but who paid for what dessert. It all seemed so long ago, so far away.
Hitomi's cell phone jingled. She flopped once more onto her back and held the machine over her head to view the text message. She hoped it was from Yukari. Maybe she was relenting at last and responding to Hitomi's calls and repentant texts. In the end, it was not Yukari. Instead, the name "Kagame" flashed across the screen. She swallowed and bit down on the inside of her bottom lip. She hated fighting with Yukari, but how could she apologize if Yukari kept ignoring her?
I should at least see what Kagame wants, Hitomi thought. She pushed the button to expand the message and read through it twice.
"Hi, Hitomi! How're you feeling? I hope your weekend is going better. There's an American film festival Tuesday night on campus. Would you like to go with me if you're free?"
She winced and dropped the phone onto the mattress. Because of the drama with Yukari, Hitomi had forgotten about Kagame. She vaguely recalled leaving him yesterday with a halfhearted promise of another outing. Groaning, Hitomi covered her eyes with her hands and shook her head. He's a good guy. I know that. And cute. Even so, I can't see him as more than a friend. I want to, but I can't, she admitted remorsefully.
Yukari was right. Hitomi wouldn't allow herself to be romantically involved with anyone. Outwardly, she refuted her loneliness and pretended to be too busy for love. In reality, she watched the couples around her enviously and spent desolate nights entertaining hopeless fantasies and empty arms. When the solitude was too much to bear, she went on dates and flirted with guys. During those times, she told herself the same things Yukari had today. Still, she could only go so far-a peck, hand holding, dialogue-and then she withdrew from whomever showed her affection. No matter Yukari's logic or Hitomi's determination to leave the past behind, she wasn't able to do so. Yesterday's vision, where a winged man watched her somberly from a distance, proved that.
The image of the angel brought with it a terrible hope, one which Hitomi had run from for years. This hope sprang into being inside her guarded heart, despite her squashing and raging against it. She dreaded this spreading hope, for if it bloomed, she must forsake the safe persona and predictable reality she had constructed. And like a moth, she would follow the light of this hope to wherever it may lead and to whomever she would become. It was much easier, and safer, to sabotage this hope and wait for its death.
She had convinced herself she could continue to deny Gaea's call, but the second vision from this morning would not allow it. The malevolent entity braving the dawn destroyed what remained of Hitomi's willing blindness. The cadaver, with its soulless eyes and talon-like fingers, stripped her of any delusions of normalcy and disremembering Gaea. It impressed upon her the gravity of the call and its ability to reach her. The vision frightened her so terribly that she could not piece her old self, the carefully composed one, back together. That was why the row with Yukari happened and why Hitomi fled to the comfort of her parents.
She was scared.
I've been such a coward, running from all of the hard things. I wanted to protect myself, Hitomi reflected, scowling at the whorl-shaped patterns in the ceiling. To be normal, only normal. No visions, no wars, no darkness. I didn't want to lose more than I already had. What good did that do me? Near friendless, lover-less, at odds with my family, and disliking myself.
She scooped up a round, pink pillow and pressed it against her chest. There was a tightness there. It enclosed her heart, which she felt beating against the plushness of the pillow, in a constricting loop. She sat up on the bed and laid her cheek on the cushion. Her eyes, green as the earrings dangling in her earlobes, brimmed with unshed tears. I can't runaway anymore, she realized as she swiped the sleeve of her pajama shirt across her face.
Hitomi chucked the pillow over a shoulder and stood. She debated on retrieving a textbook from the backpack she brought with her and doing some homework. An early night's sleep sounded more appealing, though. She padded over instead to the messenger bag strewn across the desk. Inserting her left hand, Hitomi rummaged through an inner pocket of the bag. Her scraped palm brushed something fuzzy and warm; it made her entire arm buzz. She wrapped her fingers around it and pulled out the innocently gleaming feather. Even in the rush to pack and come home, she had made sure to bring it with her.
She smoothed the feather and whispered aloud to it, "If there's something I'm supposed to know, please show me tonight. I'm ready to listen."
With a flick of the switch, Hitomi doused the desk lamp and waded through the dimness back to the bed. She fluffed the pillows, slithered under the blanket, and watched the feather glow softly in the night. Her eyelids drooped just minutes after relaxing into her favorite sleeping position. The exhaustion she had held at bay all day finally won over her willpower. She drifted off into an all-encompassing sleep, her last thought of the feather.
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"Hitomi."
In an effort to control herself, Merle dug her fingers into the stone of the doorway where she lingered. The tips of her meticulously filed claws scratched marks into the coarse surface. The name Lord Van had whispered into the night filled her with pain and jealousy, even after all these years. She locked her jaw, fangs grinding into each other, and tasted a foulness in her mouth. The pupils of her twilight blue eyes, already wide against the dark, further enlarged with emotion.
You will not cry, stupid kitten, Merle ordered her distraught self. Her tan and black-striped tail whipped in agitation. Lord Van doesn't belong to you. You know that.
She consoled herself with the knowledge that the bearer of the name couldn't have Lord Van either. No, his future queen was one of the beautiful noble ladies awaiting him in the dining hall.
Merle's sable ears twitched and rotated back. From behind her, she heard the trod of booted feet up the spiraling stairs. The pace was labored but steady, likely belonging to an aged courtier. She had a good idea of who that courtier was: His Stuffiness, Sir Trigornia, on his way to drag Lord Van to the evening's meal. Initially, Trigornia had sent Merle to bring the king to dinner, and she had eagerly complied. However, upon sighting Lord Van, she fell back into the habit of spy-watching. It was rare these days to have moments alone with the king. She couldn't stop herself from admiring his raven's wing hair, his well-defined chest, and the snug fit of his breeches.
How much time had passed since she had come to fetch Lord Van? It certainly couldn't have been long enough to warrant a visit from Trigornia himself. I better interrupt Lord Van's pining now before the old coot does, she mentally sighed.
Merle collected the pleated skirt of her yellow dress and quietly shook out the bunched cloth. She licked her paws and buffed them against her cheeks. She rearranged the leather chord of her necklace across the modest bodice of her dress. From the chord hung the large, red oval of her nail file, a gift from Queen Varie. Inhaling, she abandoned stealth and marched out onto the moonlit roof. The thin soles of her fine slippers slapped against the stones, and her shadow stretched after her like a charcoal-colored ribbon.
Lord Van turned slightly at the sound of her approach. "Merle?"
"Yes." She halted nearby. "Dinner is ready, Lord Van. Your guests are waiting."
"Ah, of course. I'm sorry." He raised a hand to his forehead and shut his eyes. "I…forgot."
With her sharp eyesight, Merle noticed the droplets of perspiration on his brow and a damp spot on the neck of his crimson shirt. The night was cool. Why was he sweating?
"Well, you've had more important matters on your mind," she pointed out and then beamed. "I can forgive you for not putting the roast duck first. I'm not sure I can say the same for the others though."
Lord Van offered Merle his characteristically lopsided smile. "Especially not Torg."
Torg Fireeater, one of the three Fanelian generals, possessed a very hearty appetite. When hungry, he was not known for his patience, even in the company of royalty.
"He probably downed the duck whole already," Merle giggled and linked her hands behind her back.
"Roast ducks. Elaborate feasts. Silk shirts. I hate all this pageantry, this…pretention," Lord Van grumbled and tugged at the laces of his shirt in aggravation.
"You always did," Merle agreed. She drew nearer to the young king, their arms almost touching. "I remember Sir Balgus chasing after you when we were kids, because you liked to run away during etiquette lessons."
He chuckled lightly. "I can't be blamed. There were so many more interesting things to do. Riding, games, and-"
"And flying?" she murmured.
Even in the dark, Merle saw the pink flush spread across Lord Van's golden skin. He lifted his head back to the sky, as if drinking in starlight. A companionable silence settled between them. Content just to be near him, Merle feigned interest in the heavens as well but stole another covetous glance at him. From this angle, his profile was stern and silver spangled, handsome and somehow fragile. Narrowing her eyes, she made out lines around his mouth and smudges beneath his eyes. He seemed strangely weary tonight.
She reached out and plucked at the sleeve of his shirt. "Lord Van, are you well?"
"Mmm, yes. Just tired, perhaps." He crooked his arm and offered it to Merle. "Shall we go, my lady?"
Her heart fluttered and cheeks grew hot. She looped her elbow through his. "We can't let Torg have all the duck."
Loud panting told Merle that Sir Trigornia had arrived at last. The older man leaned against the doorway, his silk shirt and jacket with the puffed sleeves disheveled. The lengthy climb up the stairs seemed to have drained him of some of his usual vehemence; even his gray mustache drooped. Once he caught his breath, he frowned at the joined arms of the king and his adopted sister. Sensing his train of thought, Merle reluctantly released Lord Van. It was improper for them to be so physically familiar with one another, even if they were the best of friends.
"Your Highness," Sir Trigornia greeted the young king. He straightened to his normal ramrod posture and bowed equally stiffly. "The feast has begun. Shall I accompany the Lady Merle and you to the dining hall?"
Lord Van winked at Merle. "Yes, yes. We're coming, Trigornia."
They were almost to the doorway when Merle discerned a shortening in Lord Van's strides. From behind him, she observed a peculiar trembling in his limbs; he shook like a leaf on a wind tossed branch. He extended a hand towards Trigornia and croaked a half-formed word. His knees locked and then buckled beneath him. Merle cried out and ran to catch him as he fell but was beaten by Trigornia. Despite his age, the old man retained good reflexes. He surged forward, grasped the unconscious king around the torso, and gently lowered him to the ground.
"Lord Van!" Merle knelt beside the man she loved. He was no more than a limp doll in Trigornia's arms. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, causing her tail to puff up. "Lord Van!"
Trigornia grunted, "Be quiet, girl! By all the gods, look. He lives."
"Thank goodness," she whispered, her eyes seeking the telltale rise and fall of Lord Van's chest.
"Now hurry! Bring the physician and generals!" Trigornia laid Lord Van's body in a more comfortable position and draped his coat across the king.
Merle nodded, knotted the skirts of her dress at her hips, and bolted down the stairs on all fours. She kicked her slippers off in haste and fully extended both sets of claws to better grip the stone. As she tore down the winding stairs, the echo of a scream not her own rang through her sensitive ears. It was impossible, she knew, but it reminded her of the voice of the girl from the Mystic Moon.
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To Be Continued