[Disclaimer: Escaflowne has not, will not, nor ever will be my property; I'm just trespassing harmlessly.]
[Author's note: There is a huge problem in tense near the end of this chapter but I haven't figured out how to fix it. I'm ashamed.]
[This part is dedicated to NickelS for more goodwill than I ever expected to find on the internet. I think the scene dedicated to you will be subtle, but obvious. Good luck on Mid Terms!]
Inititial Patricide, Part Two
Adel wasn't in the mood for urgent information, assuming it was yet another hopeless plea from another dwindling legion throwing their might against solid rock. However, the tone of the runner hadn't seemed as apprehensive as prior runners had.
From where he stood in ankle deep snow, he tracked another legion he'd dispatched to cover a series of retreats. He was loath to admit it was his last troop and anything but fresh. Many of the maniples that made up the legion were comprised of the remnants of others the Chadonian's solid defenses had forced back.
At length, he looked over one armored shoulder. "Spit it out," he snarled at the runner standing at a respectful distance.
The sudden outburst startled the runner for a moment. It wasn't any wonder; Adel had a well-known predilection for roughing up people who annoyed him. The runner advanced anyway; sure his news would be well received. "Sir, a hole has opened up in the Chadonian line!"
Adel whipped around in shocked interest, a demand on his lips. "Where?"
"Not far from the Rook's fouled shock troop drop," the runner exclaimed. "They survived and overran a central position about a kilometer in. Eagle peak, which overlooks the pass of the same name."
One swift step took Adel to the runner, while his mailed fists were sufficient to catch the unfortunate man by his arms and drag him within mere millimeters. "Recall the last legion," he hissed, then brutally propelled the runner away.
A series of plans and outcomes flowed from the strategic position his covertly favored maniple had secured. He found it more than slightly miraculous, but recalled the youngest soldier in the maniple as the only thing he had really regretted losing. It was an easy assumption to assign the capture's credit to the young man he'd been given nearly a year prior.
The boy had been a gamble, an uncertain investment, and he'd had no intention of testing him with such a suicidal run such as the Rook's captain had accidentally given him. The original plan had called for a longer period of time to acclimate the young soldier to life as a nameless soldier in a faceless maniple. He'd intended to strip him of any thoughts of uniqueness he might harbor whilst in the Black Dragon tribe. In other battles the boy had performed remarkably, being among the most skilled warriors he'd ever sent to war. With his Dragon power to tip the scales, the somber young man was virtually without equal.
It had been a good gamble, Adel mused, motioning for a subordinate to attend him, but the dangers were becoming clearer. Before long, the young Dragon would need to be tamed or broken. Lest he develop a will of his own.
The subordinate he'd summoned approached and bowed respectfully. "Sir?"
Adel noted the man's deference with some amusement; it was proof of his power and position as the Black Dragon tribe's supreme military commander. "Intensify cannon bombardment on either side of Eagle peak; it seems we've seized it."
The man nodded stoically, asking no questions. "Right away, sir."
"Follow with a push into that part of the frontier," Adel continued. "I want the pass the peak oversees. When we have it, I'll send you a legion to widen the gap and to begin cutting the Chadonians down from behind. This engagement is closer to over than the Elder Council thought."
The commander smirked slightly at Adel's words. "I take it, sir, that we are not going to follow the Council's orders?"
Adel chuckled, a sound akin to distant thunder, "I could care less what the Council of Elders says when it comes to war! Let the old men collect wrinkles while we soak in blood."
The warmth permeating Dune's body was too comforting to be disorienting, but it was misleading. His fatigue was slipping away, to be replaced by slow consciousness. It wasn't easy to comprehend where he was and, as comfortable as he found himself, he wasn't in any rush to try to. He was enveloped in warmth, not in immediate pain, and he wasn't willing to think beyond physical sensation.
When the garbled voices became apparent, it his deep-rooted paranoia finally forced his awareness. Having spent most his life without any sort of security, he could not dismiss the noise or his situation the moment people came into the equation.
His fears did not diminish when the voices faded away, rather they immediately forced him to begin evaluating his position. Not wishing to give away his consciousness, should he somehow be a prisoner, he kept his breathing even and his eyes shut. He trusted his other senses to gather what information was available. Often, he knew, one's eyes were the most fallible of senses.
Remembering the snow shrouded battlefield, his first conclusion on his comfortable warmth was that he had severed his spine in the fall, was succumbing to hypothermia or both. Paranoid as he was, it came as a small shock when he realized the warmth enveloping him was actually water.
Rationally thinking, Dune knew if he was in warm water it was probably a good thing. Prisoners of war in cold climates did not receive the courtesy of warm water to soak in. Irrationally, though, he knew he could easily be overpowered and drowned in his weakened state.
Dark amber eyes flew open wide, pupils dilated, swallowing up all but a thin rim of color as he tried to take in as much of his surroundings in as little time as possible. With nothing directly above him but a metal ceiling, dotted with orderly rivets, Dune shot up into a defensive crouch with his hands curled into claws before him. The shallow water he shared with the metal basin churned a great deal, some sloshing out noisily.
The dramatic pose was not conducive to Dune's continued comfort. Before he quite knew what was going on, he found his head swimming with a rush of blood, heart hammering, and a multitude of significant pains insinuating themselves into his immediate consciousness. All at once, the taxes on his body served to collapse his legs beneath him. His upper body fell back as his feet slid forward in the churning water. The resulting slide removed a greater portion of the water while the remainder of it rushed back to flow over him.
Blood rushed in his ears while blackness invaded his vision. Dune found himself helpless as his body fought his mind's attempts to harness it. Though his senses and body were momentarily out of his control, Dune did not miss the sound of low, sardonic laughter from what he had previously spied as the metal chamber's only entrance.
"Quite a performance," the amused voice droned. Dune didn't need to use his Dragon power to ascertain General Adel's identity; the man had presence to spare.
While Dune remained relatively still in the basin, the water sloshing back and forth over his injury-threaded body, Adel stepped closer and looked down. No amount of spotted vision could conceal the dark amusement written on the man's face as he observed the young Dragon.
"I'd heard sons of the White Dragon conducted themselves with more dignity," Adel smirked. With casual cruelty, he reached down and took a handful of Dune's pale hair and pulled him, struggling weakly, to a more upright position. He held the young man in that manner until the Dragon's tattooed hands came up and gripped the general's wrist. Adel was faintly pleased when he felt the young man's thumbs dig into the appropriate pressure point in an attempt to force the offending hand open.
Adel let go, but it was clear to Dune it had been a matter of the general's choice, not any sort of concession. "I see you are coming to yourself, boy."
Amber eyes, less defiant than frustrated, glared up mutely. Adel knew he was playing with fire, for the young man's abilities were well known to him. There wasn't a moment he forgot a scion of the White Dragon could employ his ample skills to rip him to crimson shreds. He found the dangers of playing with that kind of fire both intoxicating and intriguing, especially as the young man had sworn his loyalty to him with such serious abandon. The boy's need to be useful was his collar and leash. Having such a potent weapon to command pleased Adel to no end.
"I am the son," Dune spat viciously, "of no White Dragon."
"I see," Adel remarked in further amusement. He indulged himself with a comment calculated to maximize the young man's confusion. "Then whose son are you?"
A shocked expression passed over Dune's angular face. Several answers played with his lips, but none of them matched the ones in his head. He had a dual instinct to claim the Black Dragon and his mother, but the former was painfully close to admitting something that was hurting him and the latter was entirely too true.
Eyes growing distant and conflicted with suppressed emotion, Dune whispered as evenly as possible, "I am the son of the space between the stars."
The boy's weakness was spelled out for Adel's viewing pleasure. The display amused him, but concerned him as well. Showing such weakness was not in the general's best interest. The boy was his tool and there were those who would seek to break or steal a tool of such great power. For the sake of Adel's security, the boy had to learn better, because he'd rather eliminate such a valuable weapon than lose it.
Taking advantage of the young man's continued distraction, Adel placed his hand back on Dune's wet head. Startled by what he took as a warm act, Dune did not immediately react; a painful thudding in his chest froze him. It was short lived; Adel had no other intention than to shove down on Dune's head, pushing him smoothly under the water and holding him there until the young man's hands surged out of the water.
The general removed his hand before Dune could establish another grip on him. Instead, the tattooed hands gripped either side of the basin and ripped Dune free of the sloshing water.
"You mustn't be the son of the White Dragon," Adel commented, derision evident in his gravelly voice, "no child of his would parade such weakness."
Dune tried his best to sublimate his choking on the water he'd breathed in, but it seemed to only make his hacking worse. As helpless as he was with the throes of his lungs' rejection, he still found he could, at least, glare menacingly at his superior.
"But I fear that a name such as the one you hold," Adel continued, making no attempt to cover his disgust, "combined with the tales of your battle prowess might lead people to believe that you are indeed a son of the White Dragon."
The comment had the calculated effect of annoying Dune further while forcing him to subside. He wanted to shake off the sensible comment, but couldn't. The name was another attachment to a man who had ultimately betrayed him. It was a small leap to switch his anger from Adel to one infinitely more deserving.
Pride kept Dune from agreeing vocally. He sat in the warm water with hands raised slightly in paranoia that Adel might again make a grab at his now pounding head. His eyes remained on the crafty general, but he said nothing. Had anyone else treated Adel with such familiarity, he would have had their eyes out. It was a calculated concession on the general's part; Adel knew the price of Dune's loyalty was a little attention.
"Within a day," the general said, now switching to the authoritative voice most of the Black Dragon tribe knew him for, "we'll be arriving in the capital. Your wounds have been tended as was possible the past two weeks, though nothing could be done for your eyes. As it is, I find they'll make you look more fierce when you take your place in the honor detail for our arrival.
"I want you presentable for that march," Adel commanded, eyes narrowing to dangerous looking slits. "And I want Folken, soldier of the Black Dragon, to eradicate Dune, son of the White Dragon, before we dock."
Struggling magnificently, Dune kept shock off his face, his own eyes narrowing in order to cover what emotions might be read within them. "Yes, sir," he replied in typical battlefield fashion, his voice harsh to his ears within the ship's small infirmary.
A nod was all he had in return before Adel gave him the benefit of his back. Dune watched aimlessly as the man left and listened attentively as the man's boots spoke less and less loudly of the general's presence.
When he was confident the imposing man was truly gone, the young Dragon sighed and allowed his upper body to drift forward and down. His hands gripped the basin's edge and helped him ease his forehead to the smooth metal surface and his corded shoulders to the backs of his hands. Another shuddering sigh shook the young man's chest and left through lightly clenched teeth.
More confusion swirled through his mind than he'd felt since he'd come under the Black Dragon banner. There were too many things to think about, powerful parallels under the black banner and the white, and equally difficult things to be raked by. Of course, hadn't Adel always made it apparent that life was pain? It was a truth Dune didn't want to think about, but it was more than his father had ever told him.
At least Adel took an interest in him; found him of value. That was the one thing that made it more bearable when he'd commanded the death of Dune. A slightly mad laugh, hardly more than a few shaky exhalations of air, shook the Dragon's upper body. Here he was, under a different banner, and commanded the same things. It was only bearable this time because the death of Dune was only symbolic.
He wished very hard, eyes suddenly tight, laugh turning from madness to burning anguish, he could at least know the unconditional affection of his little brother while in the expanding empire of the Black Dragon. It was impossible, but it was the one thing that kept him alive before his choices had dwindled to only physical or spiritual death. Under the black banner, the only thing keeping him afloat was rage against betrayal and hope he might see Van again. It was a hope he never examined too closely, for fear it might, like the rest of his dreams, turn into a cruel twist of fate.
Knowing his continued survival depended on avoiding the draw of such depressive thoughts, he lifted his head and shook it slightly, as if to clear it. He needed to think of other things, of the future. That in mind, he jolted upright, recalling many of the more important things Adel had said.
He cursed himself for a fool as he realized that not only had they apparently won against Chadon in record time, but he also must have performed admirably in battle to be ranked with the honor detail. The information brought him to a further understanding; a name change was crucial to future promotions. A rebellious or cast off son of the White Dragon tribe could not be trusted to amount to anything but an eventual traitor. Certainly they would know he was exceptional by virtue of his Dragon attributes, but it wasn't unlikely they would willingly turn a blind eye if he were covered with the veneer of the Black Dragon tribe.
Turning to an easier problem, he thought two weeks of medical treatment seemed unusual. He looked himself over, connecting myriad pains with their physical representations. There were no splints, as one might have expected from the terrible fall he'd suffered; his kind were much tougher than that, but his flesh was as fallible as the next tribe's. In several locations he found swaths of colorful chain mail rashes, where the chain had bitten despite leather padding. He assumed the rashes were present where he'd hit the mountainside with the most force. There were crossbow punctures in his legs where the chain fell short and armor plates became too restrictive to be practical.
He didn't see two weeks of medical treatment even if his head hurt terribly and his thoughts seemed more jumbled. Bending down to the basin, he picked his reflection out of the metal surface's reflection despite the distortions. Immediately, he noticed the skin surrounding his eyes weas dark, as if he'd been struck repeatedly in the face. His eyes were devoid of white. His eyes resembled ruddy bronze discs floating in pools of blood.
The expenditure of power he didn't have came back to him. There had been a tiny explosion behind his eyes as he'd assaulted the pike man with contrived rage. He didn't recall ever being taught that such an injury could be incurred. The oversight was minimal in a short lifetime of isolation. He knew he would have to be more careful in the future.
To prove the origin of the injury, he cast about the room for an object to experiment on. His bruised eyes fell on a convenient towel. Focusing carefully, he summoned his will and began to reach out for the linen. No sooner than he began to pull at it did he feel a brief spasm of pain behind his eyes. A gasp escaped him, but he exhibited no expression. He wondered if it was going to take longer than two weeks to recover from the worst of his injuries.
Dune was determined to make his half-brother's life miserable from the moment he witnessed the first auspice. At first, it was easy to dislike him for he discovered babies were terribly annoying creatures. The problem with his planned intentions was the sad fact that when infants weren't cloaked in protective bodily fluids (such as saliva, mucus, and feces), they were sounding off claxon wailing. Between those deterrents, there was the not distasteful fact that his father's second wife was constantly with the child. There were also the moments their father came to look in on the robust child. If Dune were present when his father and baby brother were together, he would often be the beneficiary of subzero disapproval.
When the boy was a little over a year old, things became more difficult for Dune's small program of making Van cry. Dune, being the youngest child in the castle, was the first object of Van's attention. Overbalanced steps and wide brown eyes were an annoyance at first, then a curiosity. Miraculously, Dune finally found Van a welcome sight.
Van was the first person in years to seek him out with a smile and wide held arms. The child's innocent love and pure worship captivated the sullen eleven-year-old. Years of pent up pain and confusion hibernated in the presence of his tiny brother. How could he not try to return such boundless, unconditional, love?
Van's mother watched the budding relationship with bittersweet eyes. Their father continued on in disapproval, but said nothing to split the two up. For his part, Dune began to break out of his pain-induced solitude. He began to apply himself to his studies.
Smiles had not graced Dune's face since his mother had passed away, but Van brought a slanting smirk to his face and energy to his life. With quick laughter, bright smiles, ingenious mischievousness, and unconditional devotion Van eased the stress of being unwanted. Dune matched the love as best he could and devoted himself to his brother whole-heartedly. He took the boy to watch sunsets astride his shoulders, he raced down corridors on all fours with Van clinging to his hair and shoulders, he even braved the pain of unfurling his wide wings to take the boy across the valley.
What love his tormented heart could offer was Van's alone, just as what happiness he had was only Van's to give.
Unfortunately, Dune was a child of unpleasant omens and circumstances. Given to secretive ways and silent habits even at sixteen, it didn't take him long to overhear the rumors that a disturbing prophecy had been given. It was whispered that the day would come when Dune would seek to slay his little brother and destroy the kingdom.
The information sent Dune reeling. Shocked and utterly unnerved, he stumbled uncertainly back to his spacious room and the precarious safety of its windows.
"I am flawed," he murmured, carelessly slamming his door behind him. The thought propelled him to the escape of a vaulted window. Under his hands, the sun warmed stone cooled, his short fingernails scraped against it ineffectually. He only noticed the tense tightening of his fingers when the tips began to ache.
His hands were strong from outdoor living, hard work, rough games, and endless bouts of training with a sword. They were callused and tan, roughened from the same things that made them strong, nimble with youth and practice. His hands were approved of by people he trained with, admired by a few girls, and looked on in awe by a little boy who only knew they were attached to an older brother.
They crashed ineffectually on the stone windowsill.
He lowered his head almost immediately to look at the wiry hands that were now throbbing weakly along the outermost knuckles. The pinky fingers and knuckles radiated dull pain. This, too, was a flaw.
"Only a fool tries flesh against stone," he whispered to himself. "Only a fool."
It was as if nothing good could ever come since Van's auspices had been read. Since then his training had scaled back and his teachers had lost their energy with him. The whole kingdom looked past him, dooming Dune to shadows and starlight.
Despair settled into his heart. He looked down from his window to the distant ground and felt the pull of gravity. The ground called him; it yearned for the impact of his body and the kiss of his blood, possibly to be hastened by white wings.
Dune knew the very love and devotion he felt for his little brother was killing him. The part that used to yearn for a father's approval had already withered, to be replaced by an ugly feeling wrapped in a tight chrysalis of pain. There could never be anything he could do to right the wrong of his flawed existence.
For the following weeks, Dune lived an empty life of sleep, lack of appetite, frustrated attempts at training, and introspection, punctuated with hormonal drives for girls and violence that left him feeling more terrible than before. He was developing a reputation for heartlessness and unpredictable outbursts of growing intensity. More and more, he found himself at the edge of his window, his heart imploring him to follow his gaze to the ground. He dreaded seeing his father above all since he'd heard the prophecy.
One frigid night, he stood at the window, like a criminal might stand at the door of a cell, watching the distant stars through the clouds of his breath. He was, as ever, alone within the fleshly prison of his body; alone within his own mind. Spilled across the floor behind was a semicircle of wine and glass, which twinkled in a miserable parody of the points above.
"What is the sin," he mused, "that lies at the core of who I am? What is the sin that blackens all prospects for happiness? What is the root of this pathetic suffering?"
Affection. He answered the question, but despite the conclusion he was determined to retain his feelings for Van. Affection might be the root of pain, but Van's affection for him was Dune's only source of happiness. Only… there was no longer joy to be found when he heard the boy's voice. It was just pain. He looked down at the ground again. The fall, even with his wings speeding him down to it, couldn't be certain to do the trick. Sighing heavily, his eyes fell on his sword. He'd do it sober. He'd hold his young brother one last time and then he'd do it. He'd do it, holding his brother's laughing voice in mind as a treasured capsule of suffering.
In his mind, the issue was settled. He would defy the prophets, protect his brother, and gain his freedom at the end a burst of speed and sword blade. Shuddering with the certainty of his decision, Dune slid down the stone wall under his window and fell into the welcoming refuge of sleep.
His only regret was that he could not take his father down with him.