Prelude to a scar
The light seemed blue in Folken's laboratory as Dilandau
wandered in. He had to see the core of
this problem. It was so late
already. Folken was generally
tenderhearted and weak. If the Emperor
and the Four Generals could allow for such bizarre eccentricities, Dilandau
wouldn't question. He had questioned
very little up to this point, until late that night when he saw Folken carry
the body of the guymelef pilot.
Something had changed in Folken. This boy had affected him.
But Folken's sentimentality had never come to odds with his
command before. Yet he was saving the
life of an enemy guymelef pilot. A cog, a phebe, albeit he was a damn fine
pilot. But he slept in a bed, not in a
cell rotting away.
Dilandau stepped into the laboratory softly. He had preternatural ability to keep quiet
when he wanted to.
The first thing he saw was Folken's true bed, the ratted
thin mattress he had shed into the laboratory, when they were going to throw it
out. Folken had shaken his head and proposed, "Maybe I might need one in the
laboratory." So they left it there ever
since.
Every night as his brain whirred out the inventions and
concepts that ran the empire, he'd work until he was ready to pass out.
Eventually he'd shrug off his cape and pass out on that nasty old thing. Sometimes he could rouse himself and make
the distance to his bedroom early in the morning to finish his sleep in his bed
and wake up around 11 or so. Even the
generals knew not to bother Folken before ten in the morning. No one ever complained when he did either,
despite the disciplined nature of the ship.
Folken occupied such a large amount of reverence and admiration that he
occupied a different realm and a different role.
They had thrust the young captain and the Strategos together
the day the imperial decree placed him and the Dragonslayers on Vione, Folken's
ship. It had seemed a diabolical
idea. Placing the two most dangerous
figures in Zaibach together: the Icon and the Strategos. But it had too large a gap to fill.
Dilandau was the Icon, Sword bearer, beloved and known by
all the people. His face was on every
magazine and telecast, his image was the center of countless shrines. He even replaced the heroes in their
shrines.
Yet Folken….no one knew him, unless you were in power. He was a shadow, a doctor, he was
everywhere, from health care reform to the command of his own legion. Strategos
was the term bestowed upon him, because he was no general, no sorcerer. Folken *was* Zaibach.
The bed was quite filthy.
Dilandau doubted Folken changed his linens in months, since it was only
the bed in his laboratory it never occurred to him that he would need it. There were some barbarous habits he would
never lose no matter how long he lived in Zaibach. Filthy sheets, eating with
his knife, whistling and humming. They
were so subtle no one ever noticed them besides Dilandau, who was his
peer. Then on the other hand would they
want an injured enemy pilot bleeding to death on one of the finer beds on the
Vione? Dilandau hoped that the pilot
would at least wake up one more time so they could question him. He was resting on a new flat sheet, a warmer
sort of blanket wrapped around him than the kind Folken normally used.
Dilandau hadn't killed the pilot. He was unscratched. With
all the damage he had done to that guymelef he should be crumpled, at least
bleeding. He was irritatingly tough.
He was stripped of his armour as he lied there, or must have
been, his red shirt plastered against his thin body with sweat. Dilandau looked closely. He had thin legs. They were very long and beautiful, well shaped by riding horses
and running instead of driving and flying everywhere and other such crap.
There was a healthy muscularity to the barbarian enemy. It was because of their primitive
lifestyle. Dilandau had never had the
chance to appreciate that muscularity up close while encountering the Asturians
on his emergency stop. They were dark and
strong. Generally smelly, sometimes
they didn't shave. They most definitely didn't bathe enough. The citizens of
Zaibach were pale, light haired and large eyed.
Dilandau sat on the bed, placing his hand on the boy's
chest. Could this frail creature be of the same species as he himself?
It was a potent illusion of thinness. Very.
The boy pilot's chest rippled with muscles. Dilandau tried to feel each
one. His eyes closed shut to feel the
sensation of touching another body. It
was entirely different feeling something that could feel back. The boy pilot's face curled up in a look of
annoyance, and then just accepted Dilandau's touch. He wasn't going to wake up.
His sleep would not break.
Dilandau almost felt frightened.
But instead he couldn't help wondering if those legs looked
as good naked as they felt through his clothes, like lean springs, coils of
tense flesh. His hand rubbed absently along his leg again, ignoring that last
problem. He found he enjoyed exploring
this body.
There was something exciting about it. He had always been greatly excited by
touch. The only one permitted to touch
him since his infancy was Jajuka. But
people who had actually got to touch him had emblazoned their way into his
mind. He could remember the way that one
night the Dragon Slayers got drunk and Miguel grabbed him by the wrist. His heart stopped, he was sure of it. And for that second it looked as if the
Dragon Slayer might kiss him. Miguel
was beaten for this offence, not harshly.
Any worse then Guimel and Dalet were for breaking into the
kitchen and having sex in the flour pantry.
Gatti had strangely gotten off with no punishment, despite the fact he
mouthed off to Folken and Dilandau. It
was Chesta that took the brunt of the punishment despite his genuine
contrition. Dilandau could remember his tearful half-drunk pleas
for mercy and oaths to about thirty different patrons. He was beaten worse. Dilandau remembered watching it kind of
coldy. He didn't enjoy it as much. Chesta was only two months older than him.
Miguel had been the only one of his Slayers who had ever
touched him (outside of when he administered discipline). He had done that twice.
Dilandau had never made an effort to touch anyone else. But this wasn't the same thing, was it? Being overcome by the sickness of lust
towards your own soldier, and that of a barely human barbarian, was very
different.
He untied the cord and rolled down his pants revealing his
naked legs. They still looked thin,
like women's legs. Runner's legs.
Dilandau had always thought he had long legs, and he was taller than the
boy. But this pilot was built like some
kind of deer. All the necessary parts that displayed his anatomy were
exposed. A darker blue loincloth
covered his modesty.
Dilandau removed the shirt.
The taut lean shoulders like his own, the thin beginnings of
tight muscle in his chest. A figure so
much more like his own than he had seen.
Thin lean and deadly. Like a
snake, or a cat. Yet all the
differences superficial, the smell of sweat and dissolving of primitive
Fanelian fat soap, the way his ear lobes weren't connected to his head, his
thick fluttering black eyelashes.
Dilandau knew he himself had thin eyelashes. This boy's were like two dark furwurms. They looked soft compared to the grimacing scowl his face was
making. Dilandau found himself rubbing his head against his just to feel them
tremble against his cheek.
One of them moaned, a cry of desperation welling from the
depths of his soul. Dilandau shook
himself, darting up. Why had he done
that? But he shrugged. It was only the
boy of course, struggling to breath. It
couldn't have been himself. Dilandau
was doing nothing that could produce such a sound. He was just examining, experimenting. He was not so out of control as to let such a primitive and
bestial sound escape his lips
The pilot's face twisted up in frustration, frightened at
the invasion of his body, aware that someone was touching him but unable to
break from his sleep.
Dilandau felt compelled by the uniqueness and similarity of
this pilot's body to his own. He brushed his face against the deeply dark
curves and slopes of the boy's muscles, his fishy-tasting, honey-coloured
skin. He smelled in his golden
warmth. He rubbed against his
shoulders, over his chest. Sliding his face under the young stomach , his lips
entering the crook of the pilot's navel.
Knowing the enemy.
Feeling the enemy.
This was no worthless slave, no soldier of his command, no
commander. This was the enemy. The ideal of all that he sought to embrace
and destroy.
The face was contorting in panic, the pilot's lips
trembled. Dilandau noticed their
movement, like a butterfly fluttering and trembling. He stared at them in a predatory manner, attracted by their
panicked and desperate motion.
And then he wondered, something very strange. What it would feel like to kiss
someone? Like he had seen so many
others doing while they thought he wasn't looking. What it must be like to let the wetness of his tongue penetrate
another's lips. To his tongue. To
connect fluids and bodies with another person.
The lips were trembling so desperately, so inviting. The way a butterfly looks before a
snake. Helpless.
Dilandau kissed the pilot.
His stern lips pressing against the panicked trembling ones, calming
them. He kissed deeper, tasting the inside of his mouth.
The lips kissed back.
The pilot felt so warm and soft against him. Dilandau wanted to touch all of him. He played with the knots of his loincloth,
trying to open it, to examine and compare that last bit of anatomy.
All of a sudden there was a jerk.
Dilandau, who had wrapped his arms around him, shrunk back.
The boy fell back on a pair of snow-white wings.
Dilandau gasped.
"The pilot… is…a…" His hand
raked through the feathers. He pulled a few loose ones out.
"Draconian." A voice cut into the realization.
Dilandau turned around.
"What are you doing in here?" Folken stared.
Dilandau got out of the bed, dropping the boy. "Don't you ever go to sleep?"
"No rest for the wicked."
Dilandau stood up.
"Well if you are going to be busy with him…"
Folken grabbed Dilandau's hand. Strangely this time he wasn't thrilled by it. Folken had no sense of decorum and was
always trying to shake his hand or pat him on the back or something. Folken looked at him. "If you did do something to him I'd have to
punish you."
Dilandau rolled his eyes.
"And I do mean anything." Folken's voice cut coldly through
the silence. He released Dilandau's
hand.
"I'll take that to heart." Dilandau said impishly ignoring
the edge to his voice.
"And I've gotten Dornkirk to agree with me. So don't cross
me."
Dilandau held his hand to his chest.
Folken sat on the bed and cinched up the pilot's loincloth
and retied it.
"How about I just say he looked hot so I undressed him."
Dilandau said as innocently as he could fake while being obvious
Folken ignored him holding the boy. "Or you can be forthright in your…
intentions towards him."
"I was curious. I've
never seen a real Fanelian before."
Folken bit his lip as if Dilandau had physically hit
him. There were some times the insults
about Fanelia could really hurt.
Strangely this time as Folken held him, the pilot didn't
budge, a look of peace came over his face as Folken dressed him, as if he was
somewhere else. "When he's asleep like this it's almost as if nothing has
changed. He looks like he did when he
was a child." Folken pet his cheek.
"But now he's your age, you know."
"Between 15 and death?" Dilandau said
"He was born in White, the 12th moon."
Folken tucked the boy's wings back inside his body. They slid back in quietly. "Sleep, Van. There is much to do tomorrow."
"His name is Van?" Dilandau asked, breaking the bubble
between them.
"Van."
Dilandau walked to a chair and sat down. "Who is he?"
"You saw him, he's the pilot." Folken blinked.
Dilandau hated Folken's games with language. The Strategos usually didn't even have to
lie. "Who is he to you?"
This time Folken ignored him. "Speaking of which, did your men ask questions? We must keep it from the Dragon slayers and
the others."
"Only you stay up this late at night. Lord Folken." Dilandau
yawned.
"No rest for the guilty."
"If they, ask I'll
tell them he's in your chamber. They'll
assume he is your bed slave."
Folken coughed a harsh laugh. "Where would I get a bed slave up here? Did I pluck one from the clouds?"
"He does have the wings.
You could have stolen him from a nest."
Folken stared icily at Dilandau. Whoever this Draconian pilot was, he was certainly aggravating
Folken.
The Strategos rub pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed
his forehead. "People never question
the depravity of a man with power.
There is no way I can salvage any sort of decent reputation out of
this. Is there, Dilandau?"
"You're upset you got caught."
"Caught what? I
prevented you from ruining the plan."
Dilandau stood up and stared him in the eye. He touched Folken's tattoo on his cheek,
intently gazing into the taller man's eyes.
The unmoving eyes, steadfast and pure. "You love him," Dilandau said,
letting go
"Yes, I do." Folken said.
Dilandau paced back.
"Who knew your weakness would be love?
That you could fall in love at all is laughable. But that you, Strategos of Zaibach, let yourself
fall in love with a Fanelian demon…."
"Van is half Draconian." Folken said. "And the Draconians
are not demons."
"Whatever." Dilandau laughed. "This is too precious seeing
you like this, Strategos."
Folken rolled his eyes, continuing to rub his aching head.
"And now he is the pilot of the dragon too. This is a strange sort of end to the
comedy." Dilandau waited a long
time. "You can save him, you know. We could always just say he is a bed slave
and that the pilot died." Dilandau
still pacing around his chair "But then you'd be in debt to me. Not that I don't mind that." Dilandau patted him on the cheek.
"He would get nothing finer then to spend the rest of his
days as your bed slave. Fewer than you
would know would ask a different fate, Folken Fanel." Dilandau smiled
seductively at the older man.
"And let him come to such a fate!" Folken roared. "He is no
mere bed slave… he's…."
"Who is he?"
Folken caught himself.
"The pilot of Escaflowne."
Dilandau should have known it wouldn't be as easy to get
Folken to reveal himself. Especially if
he were implicated with the pilot with some messy business. A torrid love affair with a lowly soldier,
something that would destroy his reputation.
Dilandau shrugged.
"Fine then, we'll just kill him after the questioning."
Folken shook his head.
"The Emperor will be angry."
"Then we'll do what the Emperor tells us. You can tell him your secret," Dilandau
said.
The night stretched over the comatose pilot's face. He turned in the bed, kicking the blanket
away. Dilandau stood over Folken's
chair. There was something between
them, something beyond Folken's infuriating mercy, but the Strategos would
reveal nothing.
"How did you know I love him, Lord Dilandau?"
"It's in your eyes."
"That's a cliché."
"Because it's true. I can see you don't want to hurt him.
You don't want him hurt at all, but you're afraid most of all you'll hurt him."
"Yes."
"This is no mere hostage.
He is precious to you. You
couldn't live with the guilt if he died.
Dilandau leaned in his head dangerously close to Folken's face. The
question came out of the young captain's mouth so softly.
"How long have you two been… lovers?" he whispered the last
word, hissing his breath seductively into Folken's ear. It felt so good to have an excuse to flirt
with and anger Folken.
"We're not lovers." Folken turned aside
Dilandau snorted. "A
pretty little boy like that and you haven't made love to him. Most generals I know would fuck him out of
principle, straight or not," Dilandau said, sliding his eyes over the boy's
form ravenously. Both people in the
room were now equally appealing. The
tall light haired Strategos, masculine and large, the thin boy. And intruding upon this secret connection
made them seem so similar. Dilandau's
thoughts gravitated on the idea of them together. Sharing in an act of love.
It ruminated in his mind. He
could barely shake it.
"He is not my lover.
And he never will be. It is not
that kind of love." Folken said simply.
With such clarity and honesty that even Dilandau's mind was cleansed of
its fancies.
"Than why should you be so effected as to spare his life?"
"He is a very valuable hostage. The information he will provide us with on how to control
Escaflowne is enough to pay for his life.
The assistance he will provide later shall aid Zaibach." Folken stood up still staring at the
boy. "Escaflowne is controlled by his
bloodpact with the guymelef. If he would die, none would ever be able to
control it. Without Van alive and in
league with us, it would become the largest 7.5 peizo's weight of rock in the
world. The dragon is better on a leash
then dead forever."
"I'd be content to rip the thing apart and drop the pilot
out of the Vione onto the rocks below.
If we did that we wouldn't have to worry about him," Dilandau said.
"He will live if he cooperates. Emperor Dornkirk agrees."
Dilandau returned to the bed. "Why waste your love on him Folken. So chaste and pure. So
eager to protect his virtue."
Folken closed his eyes.
He couldn't reveal something.
"We must not-"
"Why should we bother to coddle him? If he doesn't obey us we'll kill him. Then we won't have to worry about the dragon
at all. We'll have done our mission."
Folken tried to block out the words, but Dilandau continued
speaking.
"If he is to be our ally he must learn to submit to us. He must learn the order of things."
Dilandau brushed his hand along Van's arm. "I doubt his baser qualities won't go
unnoticed. It is up to us to gentle him
into this new way of life. If he will live."
Folken turned around trying to face away from any clue the
anger in his face might give Dilandau.
He could feel Dilandau hop on the bed next to him.
"If you will not lay claim to him I would. I doubt he'll be fit for anything else once
we interrogate him."
Folken spun around.
"If I would ever let you touch my brother…" Faster then the words, his hand struck Dilandau's cheek. The blow landed.
Dilandau fell over.
Folken looked fearfully
Dilandau stood up and glared. Folken was shocked at the outburst more than Dilandau was. They stared a long time before Folken turned
away and placed a blanket over his brother.
Dilandau looked darkly at them, with a mixture of
frustration added in. "This pilot is
your brother."
"Yes."
"That would make you Draconian too, I imagine."
"No," he lied.
Dilandau knew it.
"How much did they leave out about you when they assigned us
to this ship?" Dilandau said.
"I don't have to…"
"A Draconian. The
Strategos of Zaibach is a filthy Draconian?"
"Hmm."
"And his brother with an ugly white Guymelef. Van Fanel-"
Folken sat back, hoping that Dilandau wouldn't figure out
all of his secrets at once.
"I thought the name an alias. If you are Folken of Fanel, that would make you royalty. And him…" Dilandau continued thinking, a
pastime that he hated. Draconian,
royal, the only ones who could… that meant there were survivors in Fanelia,
and…
Dilandau pulled out his knife. "Nuts to this. I'm
killing him."
"No."
"In the long run. I think you'll thank me," Dilandau said.
"I'd thank you for killing my brother? You are one strange little satan boy."
"What's the point of this?
There has to be a good reason for him to be alive. Not because you
convinced Dornkirk and not because he is your brother."
"You're not going to kill him."
"Like hell I won't.
It just confuses everything. I
got the dragon. I'll stop it."
"You were ordered to capture Escaflowne alive."
"What's the use of it? Of him. So he WAS your brother, he
WAS King of Fanelia. Fanelia IS gone, and I doubt he will be so thrilled as to
see his brother again. A traitor, a
warrior of Zaibach.
Dilandau went on, "All of his utility is past. I wouldn't even need to keep him alive to
fuck him."
The thin knife stroked Van's chest.
"There is a place you can cut on the human body that will
produce such sensation, such overpowering rush of blood it induces an erection,
and then fades into death.
Folken grabbed his hand.
"The Emperor says to keep him alive."
"All I know is that you said that, Lord Folken." Dilandau sheathed his knife. "That dragon will bring us no end of trouble
if it survives. Spare his life if you
want, I don't care what you want to do with your brother. Kill him, strangle him, fuck him
unconscious. But let's just dump the stupid thing. I won't be satisfied till I've known I done my mission.
Dilandau turned to leave staring at the two figures in the
room, over his shoulder. "I'm going to
bed. If you need me I'll be in my
chambers."
Folken didn't look up, staring at his brother sleeping.
Now Dilandau knew everything, or could guess
everything. Which was as
dangerous. Despite his cunning
intelligence, confusion usually only fed his blood lust, his passion. When Dilandau was confused he became
violent.
The power he had over his brother's life had grown much too
fast. Folken knew that Van's life was
guaranteed if… when he agreed to join them.
But how could he keep him away from Dilandau? There would be no way.
Folken had never considered this fact when he had made such
plans. His plans had never involved his
innocent young brother with the most dangerous warrior in Zaibach.
Now that Dilandau had an interest in Van, there could be no
way of escaping his attention. Like a
butterfly before a lizard's tongue, ready to snap him into oblivion.
But it would be life.
It would go on. As long as
Folken was there to love and protect his brother, he could be spared from
Dilandau's insidious interest.
Finally it appeared that Van was going to sleep through this
entire night. Folken cast one look at
him, as he walked over to his desk. He
began to whistle.
Of course Dilandau's trek to his chambers took him the long
way: through the ship. He found himself
looking at the technicians and grunts climbing over the pale dragon. The source of his confusion, the source of
his failure.
Dilandau stared at the guymelef.
What had the point of this all been? To save Folken's stupid brother, to rescue
him. What was this? He had risked his men, himself in the battle
against him. Would they have allowed
Dilandau such luxuries?
Here he was a faithful soldier to Zaibach, his only duty,
his only identity, and they would risk his life for the brother of this
one-time traitor.
The pilot--the boy who had dared to strike back at
Zaibach--slept in its most powerful fortress.
It was lunacy.
"What is the big deal? It's just a lousy old antique."
He stared at the gem that looked so hard and clear. He placed his hand against it.
TBC
