Pan- Thank you!
NeverEndingQuest- Hmm…Dilandau x Hitomi…I can't say I've actually read one of those before. That could work out well…we'll see…
me- We'll see what happens. Thank you for your suggestion!
Feye Morgan- For the most part, yeah, it'll switch back and forth between the main continent and the Mystic Valley…Kyrie Eleison is an exception chapter. Yes, Dornkirk chose Dilandau. They've spent too much money and time on him to let him get away so easily. Ano…Yuzuriha…can't say I've ever seen X/1999. Is Hitomi turning out badly?
A/N: Part I? Yes, I don't usually do chapters in parts, but after I wrote this one out I realized that it was too long for one chapter, so I had to split it in two. So, if it seems a little incomplete, that's why. Oh yes, and "Kyrie, eleison" is Latin for "Lord, have mercy."
Chapter 6- Kyrie Eleison, Part I
I smell like blood? Dilandau wondered, following Calantha out of the castle. Why would I smell like blood? A few days in this place, and he would probably smell like something, but blood probably wouldn't be it. Unless Jay was part shark-person, and she could smell the cuts on his feet from stepping on the sharp rocks yesterday. "Do I really smell like blood?" he asked. Calantha looked back over her shoulder, clearly confused.
"No. Why would you wonder something like that?"
"Because of that damn weird woman." Dilandau stared at the palms of his hands. Figuratively, of course, they were soaked red in the blood of the hundreds of fighters he had killed in his relatively short lifetime, but there wasn't literally blood on him. He found the notion that he smelled like blood rather disturbing, somehow.
"Don't pay attention to anything the Mistress Jay tells you," Calantha advised. "She doesn't really know what she's saying."
Yes. Well, that would make sense, wouldn't it? The girl walked into doors, for heaven's sake, she wouldn't know what he smelled like! She had probably heard the phrase somewhere and, like a child who imitates her parents, repeated it. But where did she get the idea that Dilandau was a woman? He knew that he was comely- bordering on effeminate, even- but he thought his gender rather obvious through his behavior, even to someone "not right in the head," as Arias had so tactfully put it. Maybe he looked female to some, but he knew he did not act female. Shays certainly could have tried harder to set Jay right. "Pretty face," indeed! Dilandau was getting sick of that. Back in Zaibach, he had once knocked a man unconscious for calling him pretty. (That man had been and still was the current general of Zaibach's Copper Army, and he now had a good deal more respect for Dilandau's fighting prowess. Dilandau didn't stand that kind of demeaning talk from anyone.) Geez, a woman? Why didn't they all just come out and say it? Jay was a damn lunatic, wasn't she? Dilandau hoped that Calantha would go back to using her husband to help her bring the food upstairs to Jay and Shays. He didn't know how long he could put up with Jay and still keep his temper in check. The reason the patience of Dilandau Albatou had gained fame across Zaibach was not because it was as unending as the night sky; Folken was the one who could sit in an uncomfortable chair for hours on end and listen to King Aston give a speech without so much as a foot going numb. Damn it all, he couldn't help his face!
And just when Dilandau had thought he had begun to learn his way around the dark hallways of his new home, Calantha pushed open a door and led him out to a side of the castle he had not yet seen. The sun had lifted itself above the land just enough to shoot out bright, lancing rays of light almost parallel to the ground, at the perfect angle to strike directly in the eyes of any who looked in its direction. Dilandau scowled and lifted a hand to shade his face. The chill of the night had already begun to fade, but the stones beneath his bare feet were still cold, and wet with the dew. The air was damp and heavy with early morning mists that clouded in low, white splotches. Those shoots of sunlight that did not manage to pierce through or dance around the fog lit up the clouds like substantial, tangible things. Zaibach never had such fogs, the air was too dry. Dilandau watched one, with the sunlight bouncing about inside it, and he wondered if it would be possible to catch it, to touch it, if he came close enough, so solid it looked. But when he neared the clouds they dissolved, pulling away from his pale hands, laughing musically at his curiosity, and he immediately felt foolish for trying to reach them.
The peaceful, morning air had an unfamiliar scent to it, and Dilandau breathed it in deeply, trying to discern this new sensation. It was rich and fresh and he knew that he had smelled it somewhere else before, though definitely not in Zaibach. Despite the autumn season the air still smelled of life, he realized. Moreover, Fanelia had had that scent just before he burned it to the ground. He had never thought to pay attention to the smell of the air before.
Could he really be getting used to this place already?
No. He wouldn't. He would not let himself.
"Dilandau!" Calantha called, "what are you doing over there?" Dilandau stopped, a hand reached out to the mists. He turned, and answered her irritably.
"Nothing."
"Nothing? Dilandau, the masters don't like it when you do nothing! Come back over here!" Calantha waved him toward her. Dilandau sighed and trudged back across the gray, damp stone, loose blades of grass sticking to his wet feet. He tried to shake them off, but they clung to him stubbornly. "Dilandau!"
"I'm coming!" he snapped, and closed the distance between them. It wasn't that the grass was painful, or uncomfortable, or a detriment to him…it was just annoying, and the things that annoyed Dilandau Albatou were usually promptly removed and destroyed. "Time for a glorious day of grape-picking?" he muttered.
"Yes!" Calantha spread her arms to her sides, drawing in a deep breath. "We're still alive and we're still here, so it's a glorious day!"
"Oh, spare me." Damn, were they all this cheerful? She sounded like Arias!
"Here you go!" Calantha took from a rickety, wooden shelf along the wall a small knife and handed it to him. Dilandau examined the knife. It had only one edge, and not a very sharp one at that; the blade was no longer than his thumb. He wondered at the safety of giving the slaves sharp objects, but, then, he was the only one here who was not content with his station. Well, if worse came to absolute worst…now he knew he had one final escape from this place.
"And this is yours, too." Calantha held out a cylindrical basket to him. Dilandau took it uncertainly. Following her lead, he hooked it over his shoulders to let it hang not entirely comfortably down his back.
"What's this for?" he asked, adjusting the basket, trying to find a comfortable or at least a bearable spot on his shoulders.
"For the grapes," Calantha told him, in a tolerant tone. Dilandau shot her a sideways glare. How should he have known that? He had never picked a grape in his life! And where were the damn vineyards, anyway? Not that he was looking forward to the day's work, but he didn't remember seeing any, and a vineyard seemed like it would be something hard to miss. Calantha's voice interrupted his angry musings. "Follow me."
Dilandau adjusted the basket again with one hand, the knife in the other, and trudged after Calantha. The fog curled away as he walked, constantly revealing new features of the land and concealing the old ones they had passed, and presently the rising sun began to burn the mist away. Soon it had gone completely, and Dilandau could see all of the gilded forest in the distance, and the mountains that surrounded them. A simple, wooden fence lined the path, more to draw boundaries than to keep anyone out; it could be easily climbed. After all, all this land belonged to the Amaryllis family.
And this land that belonged to the Amaryllis family sloped gently downward from the castle, giving anyone who looked out a fairly good lay of the area. On this side of the castle the dead gardens were replaced with rows and rows of trellises, covered in vines still full and green, though if he looked up close Dilandau could probably see stems turning brown with the season. The branches, heavily weighted with grapes, bowed down to the ground. An almost sickeningly sweet smell had begun to waft through the air as the sun struck the fruit, warming it. The packed-soil ground was splashed with purple and the crushed and decomposing remains of grapes that had fallen from the vine and been crushed under slave feet. Dilandau looked out across the endless rows and wondered how anyone could possibly expect people to pick all of these.
Then he remembered that they were all slaves, and they would do what they were told; they would have to find a way to achieve the impossible, if they were ordered to do so.
Calantha took him past the other slaves already hard at work to an empty row. "Watch me," she instructed, "it's really easy." She reached out and took hold of the nearest bunch of grapes. "Be careful how you grab them. Don't squeeze too hard, or you'll bruise them." Dilandau nodded, bored, only half-listening, running his thumb along the edge of his little knife. The damn thing probably wasn't even sharp enough to cut bread. But Calantha took hers, sliced the bunch of grapes free, reached back over her shoulder, and dropped it into her basket. "You got that?"
Dilandau rolled his eyes. "I could have figured that out on my own." Calantha didn't have a reply for him. Apparently there wasn't much sarcasm or displays of sharp wits around here. Hell, the rest of the slaves' wits were probably as sharp as these pathetic knives. "What do I do once the basket is full?" he asked. Not that he planned to work hard enough to fill it, but it couldn't hurt to know. Better to be informed than not, even if the information seemed useless.
"Take it back up to the castle, someone will meet you and give you a new one." Calantha waved back over her shoulder. "Have fun, Dilandau!"
"Have fun," he muttered, sizing up the wall of green and purple before him, "she probably thinks this is fun." He looked around him. Now that Calantha had left, he was alone for the first time in what felt like a year. He could hear shaking branches and muffled footsteps, and even the occasional clumsy curse as the others went about their work, but he could not actually see anyone. The vines covered the trellises too thickly for his line of vision to pass through them.
He sighed. The solitude was a relief, at least for now. He had begun to feel claustrophobic with so many other people around him. Even back in Zaibach he had been uncomfortable at the annual parade and other events meant to raise patriotism. And when Zaibach had announced its new alliance with Asturia- had that ever been a nightmare! As one of Zaibach's highest-ranking soldiers, and as one remarkably young for his position, he had been forced to travel to Palas along with the generals and ambassadors; and he had had to wave at the people from the gondola, and smile and pretend that he took a personal interest in the well-being of their country and that their alliance had brought him a personal happiness. And he had had to dance with the women at the palace, he a dreary, black mark among their gay silks and laces, a severe style among their layers of flowing fabric and artfully tailored gowns; he, with his expression a carefully arranged mask to hide his absolute irritation and apathy, only speaking when spoken to and even then keeping his answers as short as possible; they, with their hair full of jewels and their mouths full of endless, polite small talk and gossip and their heads full of nothing. He had choked on the perfume-laden air and ignored them as they batted their eyes at him from behind feathered fans, he had tolerated the peasants and countrymen who held out bunches of wildflowers to him as he walked by as if he were a great hero who would come valiantly to defend their country against its foes. He had kept his face politically stoic and borne everything, all the while wanting to scream in frustration and run from the outstretched hands and pleading eyes and the cheers and the high, girlish giggles when he glanced at them. That was how he had felt here, last night, though it was not quite so overwhelming. Every time he turned around he nearly knocked over someone else, and he was not used to being in such close proximity to so many people. He supposed he would become accustomed to it in time.
No. He wouldn't be here long enough to become accustomed to it. He couldn't let himself start to think that he would be here for that long. Yes, they would find him. Folken would find him. Folken could do anything. Or he would escape. But how would he ever find his way home from the Mystic Valley?
Dilandau seized hold of a bunch of grapes and sawed angrily at the vine with his little knife. Well, he'd be damned if he had play the part of the proper aristocrat and danced with those empty-headed little girls all to never know if that alliance had even held! It had better hold!
He dropped the bunch of grapes over his shoulder into the basket and reached for another. Well, this could be worse. At least this menial kind of labor required no real thought on his part. He could set his body on automatic and allow his mind to wander, for all the good it would do him. With a task so simplistic, he didn't think he would be able to feel the satisfaction of a good day's work when he went to sleep tonight. For the first time in his life, he wouldn't even be able to enjoy the fruits of his own labor.
Dilandau smiled. Fruits of his own labor. A jest.
His smile changed quickly to a scowl as his hand slipped, and a line of red opened up on the side of his finger. He stuck the finger in his mouth, tasting blood metallic on his tongue, and glared at the grapes scattered on the ground, wasted. Damn these blunt knives!
Several hours and as many cuts later, Dilandau wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, closed his eyes, and arched back, trying to relieve some of the pain and stiffness in his body. He was used to physically demanding tasks, but this was the special kind of pain born from repeating the same movement for hours, the kind of pain that no kind of training or conditioning can ever prevent. The weight of all those grapes in the basket added up after carrying them on his back for so long.
It wasn't so much his weariness that bothered him. He was a Dragon Slayer, he had taught himself to ignore physical discomfort up to the point where it threatened his health. But the sun was a real problem. Maybe it had been winter at night, but now during the day it felt like full-blown summer. The sun blazed in the sky so brightly that it hurt Dilandau's sensitive eyes even if he didn't look up, so brightly that everything else in the world seemed to darken next to its intensity. It heated the air, and no wind blew. It heated his hair so that it burned his fingers to touch the back of his head. It seemed to leech all his energy right out of him. If he lifted a hand, he could see his exposed skin already beginning to turn pink, and he predicted that this day would not turn out well. Being albino, Dilandau had always found himself sensitive to the sun. His uniform covered most of his body, but in cases where the Dragon Slayers needed to be outside for a long period of time, he had found that he needed to cover himself further with a hood and dark glasses, or even a mask on several occasions. There was no way that this could end well. He huddled close to the trellises and the small amount of shade they offered. He had to get away from that sun! Was this truly the same sun that shone on Zaibach every day?
Dilandau twisted his fingers through the vines and leaned into the scant coolness of the green leaves. Just one moment. He needed a moment to rest out of the sun. He needed water. His mouth had gone dry. Damn the sun!
A soft breeze rustled the leaves, brushing his face sweetly. Ah, but it felt so good, so cool…
Cool? No, the wind in the middle of the day in this place was anything but cool.
And then he heard the scream from several rows over. Dilandau opened his eyes as droplets of blood pattered across his face like rain. Something solid thudded into the vines above his head and, being too heavy for them to hold up, slipped to the ground, shaking fruit off their stems. Dilandau blinked at the torn arm laying in the dust at his feet. What the hell? He looked up. Such bright sun…it glinted strangely in the air, as though sparkling off ice. Off ice?
And then the ear-splitting roar rattled the vines and sent grapes bouncing along the ground. Something moved above him-something, he couldn't see it, the light passed right through it. But in places the light bounced off, and Dilandau thought that he could make out the arch of a sinuous neck, the blink of an eye, and all the while the air had gotten noticeably colder. Was this another one of Shays's damn destiny tricks?
But another of the slaves identified the problem for him with a terrified scream of "mountain dragon!" before he was abruptly silenced with a grinding crunch.
Mountain dragon? Dilandau had heard of land dragons and sea dragons, but never mountain dragons. He dropped his basket to the ground and dashed to the end of his row, fingering the little knife. His first instinct was to fight, but he couldn't kill a lame squirrel with this poor excuse for a blade. And what if this was some weird culture that outlawed harming dragons? Shays could make his life miserable. He peered around a trellis to the next row. The worker there had hidden himself beneath the vines, trying to stay out of the dragon's sight. The next slave had done the same. Cowards, all of them.
He looked up the path that led up to the castle. One of his fellow Drifters, at least, had kept his wits about him, and was dashing away from the vineyard, crying "Master!" at the top of his lungs. Gone to get help, then?
The air around Dilandau became frighteningly chill, a shocking change to his body from the heat of the sun, and he jumped away as an icy claw slammed into the ground where he had just stood.
Shays sighed. "Gods, Jay, sit still!" he instructed. Jay squirmed in her chair uncomfortably, her eyes constantly going to the window and the bright sky through it. They had been in this room all day, ever since breakfast; she probably wanted out.
"Go outside!" she insisted. "Outside!" Yes, he had been right. Shays shook his head.
"You can't go outside. I'm not finished with you yet." Jay continued to gaze out the window. "Look at me, Jay," Shays told her. Jay ignored him. Shays sat back in his chair. "Jay. Jay. Pay attention, Jay. Jay. Jay!"
Jay looked back to him innocently. She traced the pattern of gold along the table with one finger. She kicked her legs; she was much smaller than her brother, and her feet dangled inches above the floor.
"Pay attention, Jay," Shays repeated. "We're almost done, and then Father will take you for a walk outside."
"Outside!" Jay's face lit up.
Shays held up six feathers, each dyed a different, brilliant color of the rainbow. "Which of these is blue, Jay?" he asked.
Jay studied the feathers intently, her face set in a frown of intense concentration. She reached out and plucked the purple feather from Shays's hand.
"Blue!" she proclaimed. Shays shook his head.
"No, Jay." Her face fell. He held out his hand, and she placed the feather in his palm. "This is purple," he told her. "Purple. Say it."
"Purple," she repeated sullenly.
There came a knock at the door. "Enter," Shays called, setting the feathers on the table. The door opened and a slave staggered in, exhausted by his sprint from the vineyards.
"Master!" he gasped, falling to his knees on the soft, dark carpet, "Master, mountain dragon!"
"Dragon!" Jay wailed, covering her face with her hands, "dragon!"
"Stop that!" Shays snapped, standing. She had already worn his patience thin enough for the day. "Where is it?" he asked the slave.
"The vineyards!" the slave panted, bowing his head. "It's in the vineyards, Master."
"Dammit!" Shays scowled. "It could ruin the entire harvest! Keep an eye on Jay," he ordered. "Don't let her near anything she could fit in her mouth. You have my permission to pull her back if you have to."
"Yes, Master."
And then Shays was no longer standing in the room.
Shays appeared on the path down the center of the vineyard amid the shouts. Yes, there it was, the great lizard that looked as though it could have been carved from ice. If it turned at the right angle, the light passed right through it, and it was all but invisible. Then it would turn just so, and the light would bounce off the dragon's armor, or enter and then find that it could not leave, and brought the dragon into full view with a brilliant, white light. The only thing that he could constantly see was its energist, softly glowing purple inside it.
It was a beautiful creature, yes, but not when it was tearing up his vineyards and killing his Drifters. Moreover, what was the damn beast even doing here at this time of the year? The dragons never even came down from the mountains so early, let alone this early and this far into the heart of New Atlantis, not when the day was still so hot, never. Perhaps it was deranged. Well, whatever its reasons for being here, it would not be hard to get rid of. Shays had taken care of mountain dragons before, even in the dead of winter. He simply reached out to the dragon, reached out and let destiny flow through his fingers and swirl about him, and willed it that the beast was not here, but back in the mountains where it belonged.
But nothing happened. Shays frowned. He reached up to grip the red ornament dangling from the left corner of his cloak, and he tried again. Nothing. What did this mean? Was the dragon meant to be here? Impossible! Extremely few things were ever meant to be, and they were always things vastly important, not dumb beasts! Perhaps he was approaching the problem in the wrong way. He had only encountered one instance where he could not change fate, and that did not count, because it wore a pretty white dress and a bright, innocent smile and went by the name of Jay, and there were more things wrong with Jay than not. The ornament clenched tightly in his fist, Shays changed tactics, swirling a hand through the waters of destiny's fountain. He willed it that the dragon was here, but dead.
The dragon knocked aside trellises with a claw and snapped at another slave. What was going on? Why couldn't he change it? What was different from the last time a dragon had come? What was different?
That new slave- Shays couldn't even remember his name now, but he thought it started with a "D" sound- stumbled away from the dragon, recovered his footing, and looked up at Shays. "Well?" the slave demanded defiantly, "aren't you going to do anything?"
Do anything? What did the slave think he was doing? Looking for shapes in the clouds? Why couldn't he change it? What was different this time? What? What?
"Or are you just going to stand there and let it kill us all?" the slave continued. Shays gave him a cold glance. He would have to be punished later. Really, the disrespect for a slave to address a High Artisan in that manner!
For a slave…
There! That was what had changed! Shays released the ornament on his cloak and pointed at the slave. "You."
The slave started. "Me? What about me? You think I have something to do with this damn dragon?" he asked, waving back at the lizard as it pinned a fleeing woman to the ground under its claw.
Of course! Shays had suspected that this slave was an unusual one! He was what was different from the last time a dragon had attacked!
Shays nodded to the dragon. "Kill it." He waited for the reaction, the 'there's no way in hell I can kill that thing' that he would probably receive.