Disclaimer: I don't own Escaflowne…. Don't sue… you know… the usual…
~*Chapter 2- Even Enemies have Hearts*~
The dimly lit room smelled of ash, dried blood, and aged walls. Only lit with small touches the color of blue and green. A fairly young boy, about the age of 17, silvery hair, dressed in blood red armor, sat on a throne of dark wood and velvet, lying there in a lazy position, eyes closed. If one didn't know better they would think he was asleep, and if tried to wake would be very… very deadly. Mumbling softly to him himself, he sat there, like every other day.
"Slayers"
was all one could hear, but barely because was so softly spoken.
"Slayers"
he called out a little louder but quite enough to be called a hoarse whisper, but his only response was only the soft sound of his breath.
"Slayers!!!!"
he yelled, so loud that would hurt ones ears. He waited a moment when he could hear the soft clicking of several pairs of boots running quickly on the hard stone floor in his direction from outside in the hall. Just a moment later almost 40 young men had rushed into the room forming 5 straight lines.
"Lord Dilandaul!"
they all said at once. Dilandaul got up slowly and examined the men, his men.
"Who am I?"
he said softly, barely even moving his lips. The Slayers were used to this ritual, their leader would ask this everyday, and then after assign at least 3 hours of unstop training.
"Sir Dilandaul Albatou sir!"
again said together. There was silence, nothing could be heard except the heavy breathing of some of the Slayers in the back, obviously that had to run all the way upstairs from downstairs.
"And who are my elites?"
Dilandaul spoke breaking the silence. All of the Slayers' eyes went wide. They're master had never spoken about his elite team before for two long years, and none of them dared to speak even a name of them in fear of being slapped or killed. One of them unfortunately had and was killed by his own master's hand.
His elite team was the 6 most brave, loyal, and strong warriors of all Giea. Chesta, Gatti, Viole, Miguel, Dalet, and Guimel. All of this ended when they died. Died by the wrenched hand of the king of Fanelia, Van Slanzar de Fanel, and even after, the elite's souls could be seen, still watching over their beloved master, their beloved Lord Dilandaul.
"Thought so."
Dilandaul sighed silently. He turned around to face his men.
"Go…."
His white, pale hand reached up to his crystal white hair and brushed it gently from his blood red eyes. His golden crown worn upon his pale forehead, shone brightly, and reflected the images of the confused looking Dragon Slayers standing before him. The ruby jewel placed in the middle of the golden crown shown as much as the crown itself, like a Zabach dragon's eye eying it's prey before it attacked and gobbled it up in it's massive mouth.
"I SAID GO! LEAVE!! I DID NOT CALL YOU! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!!!"
He yelled unexpectedly, almost screeching that his throat hurt. The Slayers jumped and quickly ran out of the room as fast as their armored feet could let them. Some still looked confused while other just looked terrified. When their Master Dilandaul was mad… he was mad, and no one could even think the slightest of what he might do.
"The elite should be honored with respect for their bravery, not forgotten…"
he whispered more to himself while walking slowly to his throne, head hanging low.
"Chesta, Gatti!"
he called straining his ears, hopping to hear those two lovely voices of the two light headed elites, wishing he could hear them once more… just once. Silence.
"Miguel… Guimel… Viole…. Dalet… anyone!!"
he screeched… but again silence. His head still hanging low he whispered again
"The elite should be honored with respect for their bravery, not forgotten….why can't I?"
And with that, tiredness overdrew him from all the sleepless nights, he fell asleep, a tear struggling to fall from the corner of his eye.
The damp, dark room was quite, nothing could be heard but the soft breathing of a sleeping general. If you there, at that very moment, and just stood there quietly not moving or making just a single sound, you just might have been able to catch six soft airy voices call gently, a touch of sadness in all of them, yet the owners could not be found, flowing as if it was carried by a gentle breeze, as if an invisible angle had breathed into your ear with great sorrow.
"Lord Dilandaul…"