Author: Jessica Lynn S. (starsapphirez@aol.com)
Rating: PG, but the rating is high. I probably could've gotten away with "G", but I prefer to err on the side of caution.
Disclaimer: I do not own Escaflowne. I did, however, put a lot of thought and effort in to writing this. Please respect that. Archive? Sure, if ya ask first...and give me proper credit. MAJOR SPOILER WARNING FOR THOSE WHO HAVE NOT SEEN ALL 26 EPISODES OF ESCAFLOWNE. Read at your own risk.
Summary: A vignette from Hitomi's point of view, delving in to and examining her short-lived relationship with Allen during the series.
AN: Lucky people! Not only do you get the latest and longest chapter to date of "Beneath Two Moons" on this fine morning, you also get this weird little piece of randomness. My muse has been busy one! I don't know exactly what posessed me to write this; it just kinda sprung from my fingers. It has nothing to do with BTM or any of my other fics. And no, I'm not knocking Allen here. I think he's a great character. I'm just illustrating how hopelessly-flawed this romance was. I think my writing is a tad bit deeper when I write from the first-person, what do you think? Like I said, this is just a one-shot, so don't post any of those "WRITE MORE WRITE MORE WRITE MORE" sort of reviews, please. If you want to see more of my writing, just check my author page. Sankyuu!
Site Plug: www.opalwings.com/escaflowne (-Esca fanworks! More stuff by me, and some other amazing authors.)
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Days of peace have descended upon us; but it is a fragile and unsettling peace, a thin membrane of ice just barely holding us up. It could shatter at any moment, allowing the freezing waters below to fill our lungs and choke us from the inside out. It's funny that I use ice as a metaphor when the days have been so swelteringly hot. They are hectic as well, especially now that Folken has come to our aid. There are so many meetings; so much planning. Battle of incredible magnitude lays ahead of us, ominous as storm clouds on the horizon. But I should be happy, shouldn't I? There haven't been any visions for many days now. The air here is silent and still, like my mind, and the hazy heat of the day has faded in to the sunset. I can breathe.
It is quiet and peaceful, a stark contrast to the frenzied bustle of the day. It is just Allen and I alone with the stars, and my home hovering there in the sky; big and bright. I reach up my fingers absently, as if I could brush my fingertips against the hazy blue orb and hold it in my hands; my world, my city, my friends and family. My old life. I cannot touch any of it. Though he sits with his arm over my shoulder, Allen feels just as far away from me as Earth. His eyes stare out in to nothing, as if he is watching ghosts dance across the rooftop, moving in graceful piourettes to a sad and long-forgotten melody.
No, I can't breathe. My breath catches in my throat, like words unspoken. This is where he and Millernia kissed on the night when I drank too much vino. We sit on the opposite side of the roof now, but I can still turn my head to see the place where they stood, tangled in each other's arms. Despite my drunkenness, the sight was sobering. Their postures and expressions have been forever-burned in to my mind's eye. But the ghosts here - of memories I can't quite place - feel more ancient and ageless than even that. I wonder how many other womens' arms he has been in on this very rooftop; how many pairs of eyes he has likened to those bright diamond stars. I wonder if it should even matter, now that he is in mine. I should be happy, shouldn't I? This is what I wanted. But I'll tell you a secret. I'm not happy, not in the least.
The first time I ever saw Allen, I had mistaken him for Amano and launched myself in to his arms, dampening the stiff white and blue fabric of his uniform with my tears, tainting heavenly purity with salt and confusion. Slowly the illusion faded, giving way to something else; and I now must wonder if that wasn't only another illusion. He sparkled there in the starlight, his regal mane of golden hair falling like a curtain in to his gentle blue eyes. He sparkled even more in the sunlight, when he spoke to me tenderly, his voice wrought with kindness and concern for my well-being. With sword in hand, he moved like the wind. Every step he made was flawless. He was like a gem, an Australian opal. Bold and brilliant blue with a prismatic fire, framed in golden elegance. I fear that in my hands, that gem has lost its luster.
I cannot even begin to describe the gravity I had felt to him on that fated day on the bridge when I found myself wrapped in his embrace. It felt so unnatural; so strange...yet so essential that my body moved with barely any conscious thought. When he first kissed me, I felt enveloped in waves. Not cool and refreshing like those of the sea, but waves of a desperate and suffocating sadness. It echoed through me, threatening to become my own. I don't know what is my own anymore.
I can thread my fingers through his beautiful hair now, feeling its fine and silky texture slipping between them like a cascade of liquid gold. He doesn't move. My head rests against his chest feeling the rhythm of his breaths, shallow and controlled. He holds me dutifully against him, but his body is rigid. There is no warmth in his embrace. It is as if there is nothing in his heart but for a vast and empty cavern where voices can echo for an eternity. He kisses me, drawing my tongue in to his mouth, as gently as if I were glass. But he is still alone inside, lost in the echoes. So am I, really. My entire being cries out that this is not right, yet I long for touch and human comfort. I long to know that I am not myself a ghost who wanders through this world, invisible and unnoticed to all. When I reach around his neck and pull his lips to mine, I am swallowing air to feed the emptiness inside.
It is starting to dawn on me why I likened this existence to ice. He is ice; his empty eyes clouded by winter, by all the sorrow they have seen. The abandonment by his father, disappearance of his sister, and death of his mother. Things long-ago and far-away that I cannot even begin to imagine, that - to him - are still as real and present as his heartbeat. It is a constant, mournful, throbbing ache which my presence cannot abate. I am, at best, a minor distraction. He can bow gracefully and kiss my hand, he can protect me, and feel like perhaps he is doing something right. Is this really all that love is, this love that I was so sure I wanted?
I have never been totally happy here, but I have been happier than this. I was almost happy on those nights out in the woods with Van. They seem so far away now. It was nothing like this. There were no kisses or poetic nothings. We just laid on the grass, staring at the sky and talking about our lives. It was simple, open honesty. I miss that. If Allen is ice, then Van was fire, but even Van is different these days. What once was a passionate soul is now consumed in relentless hate. Hate for his brother, hate for Zaibach, hate for his situation, hate only for the very sake of hating. If he could, he would explode like a bomb of nuclear proportions, taking every last enemy of his with him. It angers me to look at him and see that total lack of regard for self in his empty eyes. Everyone's eyes are so empty these days, and I wonder if somehow, the fault is mine. If only I could go back home, it would set things right. I'd give up Allen in a second, if only I had the chance.
But I cannot go home, so I will snuggle deeper in to the folds of his clothing, trying to hide myself away, as he strokes my hair softly and compares me to an angel. I do not have wings. The delicate tone of his voice sounds almost as if it is meant for someone else. And I wonder, does he even know to whom he speaks?