Escaflowne is property of its owners.
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Third Moon
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MYSTICA TERRA
(Oneshot)
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How strange it would be for the alive person to come across their own words —originally sealed, sent and meant for a pair of eyes only— compiled in chronological order along with an extensive analysis of their handwriting —the short and scrawled sentences indicate that he was either enraged or ashamed, while in other passages the punctuation is omitted and the words curve in his most intense emotions,— offering a catalogue of numberless people with whom they came in contact even for the briefest of moments —In the yellow summer of 1939, he worked as a kitchen-boy in the now renowned and luxurious restaurant "Crusade XIII", located at the corner of 5th and 11th avenue in Palas, Asturia; at that time, a too recently graduated 25-year old Millerna Aston could barely pay the loan she requested from the Royal Bank of Asturia (RBA) to open the restaurant,— and daring to suggest to the reader to whom, probably, were dedicated a word or two or none. Undressing the ties of adjectives and commas, claiming a divine and fantastical meaning to something that was surely written on a sleepless night, in underpants or without, with the dull ache of an empty belly and tobacco-clogged lungs. At best.
Luckily, dead writers won't ever find hoisted and moth-eaten compilations of their minuscule lives in tiny street stalls of second-hand books, attended by little old grey men, beside the street where cars and passerby guide each other in an accelerated dance outside the most crammed subway station in Zaibach's current capital.
Hitomi, a tender young woman with short blonde hair and jammed in generic office attire —dark flared trousers of soft fabrics with low-heeled shoes peeking out of them, a white blouse with funny ruffles across the chest, and a jacket so long it barely reached her waist,— was squatting in front of several books displayed on top of a brown cloth on the floor, a briefcase at her side. She raised above her head a tarnished book with a red hard cover and a reek of dampness and oblivion, showing the worn object to the bohemian peddler.
"How much?," she asked.
"Oooh!" the man of dirty and scraggly hair, a face and body swollen like a blowfish, and with clothes a size smaller than they should be, adjusted his old round black glasses on his old round nose and took the cigarette out of his mouth. His front teeth were huge for his small cavity. He must have been born of human and beast. "Amazing choice, young lady. Have you read the author before?" he inquired.
"Yeah, I've read a few," she replied with a roll of her eyes.
"We got a connoisseur then. I'll give it to you for 20 Gils."
"W-what?! 20 Gils!"
"It's an antique book," the creature explained. "It had a very limited and exclusive print run, includes a prologue written by Dryden Fassa and the excerpt from the last novel. His heirs haven't agreed to a reprint. You won't find it anywhere else, young lady, least of all in such good condition."
The young lady lowered the book and held it with both hands. She had hoped for the man to be an ignorant. Staring beyond the crimson cover, she saw all the math calculations that would astonish her former science instructors by the speed at with which she concluded that she and her mother would have to eat rice and vegetables without fish for a week or two if she dared to buy it.
The charming peddler took a long drag on his cigarette and squinted at the girl who seemed enraptured by the book.
"10 Gils" he said, breaking the spell on her.
"What?", she asked.
"10 Gils. Don't make me change my mind."
The girl looked at him, amazed, and stood up, reaching into her purse for the only bill it contained.
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Hitomi skipped into the subway station. With joyous shoves, she managed to get into a car, ignoring with a wide smile the numerous bodies pressed against hers. On her way out, she followed the crowd and climbed all the steps two at a time. The last leg home was done first at a jog and then as fast as her little heels would allow. She entered her apartment, running through her mother with her visit, having tea in a comfy living room surrounded by windows and bookcases. The woman called out her name before watching her disappear down the hallway leading to her bedroom. Hitomi didn't bother to lock the door; she jumped on the bed, lay on her back, and searched in her briefcase for her new acquisition. She raised the book over her face, arms extended to their highest limit.
It was such a beautiful book. Hardcover —probably had a dust jacket 70 years ago,— embossed in gold ink, with dragon figures on all edges. In the centre was the title in elongated Gothic letters:
"Letters to you"
Additional content in smaller ones:
"Mystica Terra"
Below them, the author:
"Van Fanel"
And the compiler's name was anything but important.
Hitomi opened the book, the earlier scent replaced by the warm, distinctive perfume of parchment and spices she loved so much. She lowered it to her face and brought her nose close to it, careful not to touch the paper; and enjoyed it as one who tastes the fragrance of a lover's skin. She smiled and looked up to start reading. All those pages —useless— dedicated to vanly analysing the author, were ignored. All those others dedicated to some sort of biography also fanded away in a turning of pages —she already knew it by heart. The prologue? Same fate. Dryden Fassa was a writer she didn't hold in high esteem. She found him rather petulant.
The woman absorbed the contents like the earth imbibes pure rain. The book, published posthumously in 1952, was a collection of letters from the author to his beloved. Hitomi found herself so seduced by the reading that a few tears ran slowly down her cheeks. She caressed the paper and ink with her fingertips, catching the rhythm of love and passion that each of the pages distilled. Finally, when the lamp beside her bed had to be turned on, she reached the last letter. No condescending note from the unimportant compiler, nor some nosy and informative parenthesis, had to be on the way to know that was the end. She already knew what happened next: The Great Fanelia Fire.
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Green II, 25th Moon, 1948
Kingdom of Fanelia, Capital
To you:
I don't understand what you mean when you say "don't waste your time on me" if there's nothing that exists in all Gaia —neither on the moons nor in the galaxies nor in the infinite void of the universe— that I wouldn't want to waste with you.
The other day, Folken asked me about the trip to Egzardia for the presentation of the book in his country [1] —at what point did monarchies become obsolete? [2]. He didn't know I'd go with you. He wanted to come with me, but desisted when I mentioned our plans. See? We'll be alone.
You shouldn't worry about Merle, obviously. She's still mad at Freid's prudish critics criticising the book so harshly [3]. I no longer care. They get their coins and I get the bills.
That was so wrong. Erase it from your mind.
I miss you, but we'll see each other soon. My heart skips a beat at the thought of it.
In a separate envelope I included the levi tickets [4] in your name, along with the card with the address and name of the property [5] where we'll stay —it's quite close to the National Library [6], I was there once before, as a young tourist who ate only rice and fish. You'll love it. And I'll get a little jealous. I chose that mansion because, besides nearby, the baron [7] has a wide variety of books. Sometimes I wonder if you love books or me more. If I existed in a book, would you love me better? Forgive me. I am flesh bone and blood: my pages are skin, my letters sounds and the registration my misaligned blood. You bring your face to my neck, close your eyes and smile. I smell of sweat and metal, but you say it's parchment and cinnamon.
How's everything going with your father's new position [8]? Being a Zaibach's Sorcerer [9] is no small feat —I hope you enjoy living and studying in its capital [10]. I couldn't ignore the urgent tone of your previous letter. I hope everything has calmed down and you are more relaxed now. Send him my regards and eternal thanks. Also to your mother. Don't be so mean to her, and don't be upset because I'm reminding you. And since I'm as magnanimous as a king, to your brother too. I haven't seen him in a long time and he hasn't written to me —and I haven't written to him either. Is he still sensitive because I've been given his dear sister's hand? I know the news left him colder than the frozen ground of the Mystic Valley.
Speaking of which, I have an idea for a new story [11]. I'll tell you more about it when we meet, but I can disclose that I won't use a conventional narrative. It will probably remain "incomplete" [12]. Why? I won't tell you yet. I'm looking forward to your expectations —and your presence your mouth and your fair hair tangled in mine. I've said too much. Imagine that in the future —or in the present— someone finds out about all our correspondence. I can sense that you'd implode in embarrassment, but I'd blaze with indignation: my words can only be read with your eyes; my meanings can only be felt on your lips…
I must say goodbye now. I have only spoken of myself, as usual. But in the envelope and in the letter are implicit —I hope— my wishes to hear from you. I thank you for existing with me, even though for the moment we are so far away.
Always yours
Van Fanel
P.S. I found your package before I sealed the envelope. I don't know how I missed it and Merle never mentioned it to me. I appreciate that you have placed your heirloom in my hands [13]. Until we meet, I'll wear your pendant dangling proudly on my chest.
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Hitomi closed the book and clutched it to her chest. Her thoughts swayed erratically around what was mentioned in the old missives. She was intoxicated by Van Fanel: his romance, his yearning, his tragedy. Her face twisted in pain as she remembered Fanelia's catastrophe, which happened just a week before the Zaibach's Energist Disaster. His beloved never received the last letter, nor heard from his affable voice the unfinished story. A fresh wave of tears assaulted her, and she giggled, covering her shy smile behind her hands. The butterflies in her stomach took flight once more.
She set the book aside, and walked toward her desk. She reached up to the back of her neck, unfastening the chain, lifted it, and gazed at the pendant she was holding in front of her face. The family heirloom. A rose-coloured, teardrop-shaped gemstone that her grandmother swore dated from a long-forgotten era. It throbbed, pulsed, and beat as her own heart, having in the blood a desire so pure, ready to fulfil her assignment.
"I'll see you soon."
And she knew it would be so.
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A/N: I, personally, feel uncomfortable reading letter collections from authors. I feel like prying, those words weren't meant for the world to see.
Thanks for reading!
Zw