Escaflowne is property of its owners.
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Introduction Notes
I've done my best to translate the stories I've been writing and I'll kindly receive any feedback or corrections so I can improve and your eyes may bleed less.
I'll be using this space to share all the (strange) stories I've been thinking and writing on my notepads. The title is "Causalities" and not "Casualties". The philosophical causality denotes that all events are connected. A "cause" is what provokes an "effect", and there's no event on Earth that hasn't at least one cause. We could call that chain of events "Fate", but nothing is predestined: the future is forged by causes and effects and not paved paths.
So, this is gonna be an oneshot series with a highly presumptuous title and introductory note :P
The rating will change to "M" because it will be needed the (near) future.
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Warning: Purple Prose.
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First Moon
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OUR KING
(Oneshot)
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King Van Slanzar de Fanel has died. Fanelia is in bloom. The great valleys of the kingdom are a festival of colours. In the capital, every family decorates the windowsills with vibrant flowers; the soft petals embrace us with their aroma, and the city opaques even the most beautiful spring.
Ballads pervade the streets. Siren, tenor, childhood voices, every one of them as beautiful as the other; all with words of courage, death, hope, war and love. They sing from the depths of their souls in their porticoes and windows. From the rocky paths howl the folks of wolves, cats, and beasts on their pilgrimage to the city. Merchants and princes hum on their levi-ships from the soaring skies. The choir is carried by the birds and dragons to the ends of Gaea, and in a murmur is recited by the Mystic Moon.
The books flood with stories. Quill pens of scribes carve out feats that now are legends; our Fanelian King will live forever in their traces. His wisdom will transcend the limits of time, and his name will be remembered by thousands even after our kingdom is gone. The ruins will continue to tell the story of his bravery during the wars, proud to have been lifted by his hands after the destruction.
The temples recite prayers. The incense smoke raises the whispers coming from the hearts of the parishioners, wishing for Escaflowne to welcome His Majesty between his wings. The high priest declaims on the divinity of his lineage, on the luminosity of his destiny, on the path of his life full of glory. The altar built to his figure alongside that of our queen will blaze within the walls of the sanctuary beyond this day, and prayers will be elevated to him as well.
Silence envelopes the castle. It shines in pristine brilliance above the city as part of the sky; the reflection of the stone on the mountains looking like wings about to take flight. The ancient forest shines like a dragon's eye energist. My own eyes start to sting, and I look away. Whether they are hurt by death or by the overwhelming sight, I cannot say. Both reasons are valid, scarce, and get stuck in my throat.
The palace corridors are lost in obscurity. The dim pink light from the power stones is not enough against the blackness that pounces on the hollow echo of my boots on the wood. I grope my way between large portraits of ancient rulers, all with their attention eternally fixed ahead, brandishing proudly that they were able to rule this ancient land of dragons.
The chambers shed tears. Sad murmurs hide behind each sliding door. Through the floor gap underneath, the light escapes, taking along words unvoiced and actions unachieved. They speak of youthful longing and belated repentance. Tears of gratitude are not found behind these walls.
The garden is covered in ash. A blaze consumed the body of His Majesty under a nocturnal sky. Over the black beholders long flames reflected the redness of his heart. They crisped and recited all the chants that could exist. Dozens of glances turned their memories to soot as our King returned to Gaea, from where he was born, and his soul rose to heaven, to our Winged God. The fire matched his bravery. The sparks from the funeral pyre struck us down with pride. The warmth embraced us, as he did in life. The darkest night was illuminated into a new dawn.
In the Cathedral, Escaflowne exists without an alliance. The one who gave it life abandoned his own. The Guymelef remains raised in the centre of the nave, almost surrounded by an armour of levi-stones; the helmet with a false gaze exposed, as if at any moment the King appeared to give it the order to defend their Kingdom. Escaflowne will never again listen to his commands. Never again will their wishes be one. The large upper gems are opaque, lifeless, in testimony to the peace that exists.
The Royal Family Monument has received the name of another of its own. Finally, the Warrior King accompanied his family. No more wars and intrigues. No more disappointments and hopes. No more laughter and tears. The love that he gave in life will never be extinguished: it will shine eternally in every person he loved; will multiply in every tree that he helped grow; will expand in every smile that he offered; will be preserved in every paper that he wrote... It will live and exist in every descendant, until no one is left.
A crimson light illuminates The King's Lake. It shimmers serenely, surrounded by the olive green of the Fanelian Forest. The crystalline waters reflect in its centre the twin moons that adorn our sky; the petals of the flowering trees create waves and seem to embrace the reflected figures. They envelop the reflection of the urn resting in my hands, anticipating its welcome.
The wind takes his last breath. I hold the wooden cover of the urn in one hand, the dark dust of its contents scattering upward like a wind dragon taking its place in the heavens. It rises towards the Mystic Moon, shining alongside the stars in the infinite darkness. A few small fragments fall into the lake. And I see him. I see the king. His face lights up like a sunset from the rosy light radiating from the pendant hanging from his neck. His black hair sways, like a leaf floating on water, over my forehead. The hard stare. The loyalty on his skin. The pride of his bearing. And his eyes. The nostalgic eyes of his… are mine. In my face, everyone sees him. Mine are the tears of gratitude. The empty urn slips out of my hands, and is caught by the small stones rocked by the water.
The path I followed to this place was paved with his sweat. The era of peace engulfing the kingdom was achieved with his blood. Every step I have taken and every echo that has resounded would not have existed had he not defeated destiny. The splendour of Fanelia, the hope for the future... his greatest gifts will now be held in my hands.
I will do the impossible to preserve everything you achieved.
Father, from your place by the Escaflowne of the Heavens, will you still be proud of me?
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Thanks for reading!
Zw