[Yet another Disclaimer: If the rights to Escaflowne belonged to me, I wouldn't be writing fan fiction. Since they don't, I just have to make do.]
[Notes: I honestly envisioned this chapter as I wrote it, but I was trying to make it not run in any sort of 'adult' direction. In the end, story won over. Thanks to reviewers: I hope you enjoy the last of it. Special thanks to NickelS and Rai Dorian for particularly detailed encouragement/reviews.]
[Warnings: If you don't like angst, implied violence, sex, or people who just aren't reasonable, this last installment may not be your thing. Also, if you haven't seen the movie there is an Ending Spoiler in the second to last paragraph.]
Bound
Disrobed, Folken took up a warm cloth from the basin's darkening water and set about washing the blood that had run down his legs. It took firm strokes to remove the dried blood, but it was hardly something he was unused to. There was not a square inch of skin on his body that had not known the illicit taste of freshly spilled life. There was a certain enjoyment, he mused, in the feel of warm blood that was not unlike the distant pleasure of removing it.
When Sora replaced her cloth in the darkening water, he thought, perhaps, he could find it in his mind to miss her aid. It wasn't beyond him in his weakened state, but it did rankle in some growling corner of his mind. He continued to wash the last of his own stubborn blood away as Sora retrieved dry linen.
It was with detached surprise he found his body was so weakened that he could not dress himself without support. He had to move to his bedchamber and lean against the bed in order to pull the soft linen over his legs. Still at hand, Sora retrieved a ceramic jar from among others lining the interior of a recessed cabinet and approached him. The ceramic was of moderate size and weighed her porcelain hands down before her and rustled the gold trinkets on her wide bracelets.
He sat down heavily and looked up at her through spikes of hair, made somewhat damp from both of their cleaning efforts. "Is this more of your maternal nature shining forth?" His voice was neither insulting nor compassionate as he repeated his suspicions. "Or is it something else?"
She continued to frown at the subtle accusation underlying his words, but moved forward all the same. She placed the jar in his hands, boldly trying to force him to play a little by her rules for a moment. He accepted the burden without irritation or lowering hands; it was obvious he was humoring her. "Folken-sama, I am not your maid. Neither am I your mother." She carefully slid her fingertips into the jar and lifted out a small amount of salve, which she spread evenly over her palms before preparing to lay her delicate hands on him. "Each time you accuse me of being maternal I am reminding you of your limits. This time, I am not reminding you of your limits because you are finally aware of them."
As difficult as his gaze was to hold with his unevenly colored eyes, she did not look away. She read annoyance and interest mingled with the overlying weakness saturating nearly every level of his being. "Then, what now?"
An almost undetectable shift in her expression revealed her slight hope as a wan smile. He was too tired to even play games. "Now I will sooth your muscles, sing your mind to rest, and see you rise without ache from muscles long since used."
There was more to what she said than she was revealing, he reasoned, but seeing the rare lightening of her features, he assumed she was possibly thinking to take advantage of his depleted physical state. He couldn't say why, but the idea genuinely amused him. Even though there was no longer any physical pain from what was left of his winds, he sighed and turned on the bed to allow her access to his back. "If you must."
It was true that he was a man hardened by perceived betrayal and hatred. He'd had almost a decade to be refined and rarified by dark emotions and destructive desires. Sora didn't think the task of turning him away from the precipice of oblivion would be easy, but she had bided her time. She had cultivated his trust by trusting him in a way very few could understand. Sora trusted Folken to do his worst and trusted that Folken would misunderstand her trust and eventually accept her as less than a credible threat. In this, he had not betrayed nor disappointed.
Her hands were not meant for the task at hand, but she would do everything in her power to save the world and… she admitted… him. She was a mystic, a seer, and, she assumed, not unlike other moths that had been drawn to equally destructive flames. She saw to the core of his pain and part of her suffered with him, even though she knew he kept his pain close to his heart, like a jewel in the heart of a constellation of shrouds.
Quietly, she murmured a song as her hands swept over warm skin that had, moments before, kept his blood on the wrong side. She knew little of musculature or how to manipulate nerves to give up their tension. However, she knew from previous experience how to draw him into a state of deeper, almost emotional, trust. Despite his weariness, she drew her hands across his body in a manner she knew would yield the results they might both desire.
Folken knew where she was headed before she'd begun to help him remove the blood. It wasn't something he hoped for or actively desired that night; he set his ardor on higher ambitions. He'd have rather rested in the comforting nothingness of true oblivion than in the artificial nothingness of a post-coital fugue. But the suffering would end the next day and he assumed Sora could aid him in finding dreamless sleep. After the rising memories of Van he knew he would appreciate the artificial oblivion. There was also the small thought that perhaps, just perhaps, Sora needed… something, too.
Thus, they twined together for a time: Sora singing forgiveness, Folken seeking a moment of nothingness.
And when the Mystic moon's orbit brought it's light from the main chamber to his bed, it found them veiled in strands of silver and pale hair. She continued to murmur her song, while he untangled the silken ties that bound them. Her heart was poured into her power and the effect was not lost on him. Though near true sleep, his light and dark amber eyes were hazed with what could only be the edge of emotion. Her window of opportunity was as open as it would ever be.
"Folken-sama," she whispered in melodious tones.
His gaze slanted up from his callused fingers' continued attempts at freeing them from their web and acknowledged her request for his attention.
She shifted under the blankets, moved against him in what she hoped was not an alarmingly intimate act, despite their prior activity. He was warm and the firm plains of his muscles had the potential to be more comforting than intimidating if his heart could soften. He did not draw away nor did he attempt to draw her into any kind of reciprocating embrace. It was, at least, better than the adverse.
"Folken-sama," she repeated before continuing in her musical voice, "in oblivion we will lose even comfort; we will not exist. The things you have done and built will be gone."
She was certain she'd affected him when he sighed and took on an almost commiserating aspect. "It is mercy. There will be no comfort but also no suffering. My suffering will cease as will…" A distinct frown compressed his lips. "Van's."
Sensing the rising tide of his hatred, anger and betrayal, Sora hastened to add, "Does not even the child deserve forgiveness? Children are manipulated so easily by adults."
He seemed conflicted for a moment, paused on the threshold of fate. Children were easily led and Van had been a naïve child… Van had emulated him in the most guileless manner. There were times the little boy had declared him the best at all the things only a child would find important. Before he'd gone on his rite of initiation, the young boy had been all wide-eyed admiration. The boy had had no room for doubts. Once… there had been overwhelming love in his heart for his little brother.
Sora felt a melting in Folken, a thoughtfulness that could lead to a better end. She dared hope tragedy could be averted. Carefully, she placed her hands on his chest, on the tattoos of his people.
But when he'd failed he'd proved a flawed vessel, unfit for leadership or storing even a young boy's faith in. When he'd failed, despite his best, strongest, sincere efforts, he had betrayed Van. Van's pain began the day Dune had returned a failure. Van's suffering could never be assuaged as long as his older brother was unfit to rule. It was an understanding Folken never wanted to remember.
If Van had never expected so much from him there would never have been an initial betrayal. There would have never been a need to return the favor by accepting his own eventual rite of initiation. If Van had refused, Folken wouldn't have been forced to raise his own army to prove himself. If Van had sided with him, even on the eve of the planned attack, there would have been few to no deaths incurred.
Becoming a leader hadn't satisfied Van; it hadn't proved there was no initial betrayal. It turned him even farther away and instilled a deeper hatred. Now… now not even if Van offered to join him, would Folken accept him. Now they could only be joined in death.
Folken's eyes narrowed to amber slits. His lips barely moved as he growled, "No, children ask for everything and give nothing in return."
As quickly as her moment of hope materialized, it was claimed by the destructive hatred lacing him together. It was now a crucial part of him, filling all the cracks in his personality. It had invaded the foundation of who he was. Without root deep hatred, Folken would fall apart. His chains were all that kept him together.
Sick with defeat, she turned away from him, fleeing his painful heat. Flashing bright in her mind, a veil was ripped wide, revealing the image of a cruel looking knife blossoming obscenely from the black breastplate he normally wore. There were no tears in her eyes, her sorrow was much too profound for that. Instead, her heart kept time to the dirge in her soul.
He did not reach out for her despite her sudden withdrawal. Perhaps it was best for her to learn that expecting too much from him always led to unavoidable betrayal. He much preferred sleep to continued suffering. Essentially alone, he slipped into oblivion and dreamt of nothing.