[Disclaimer: Escaflowne and related trademarks are more likely to own me than I them. They are the property of the legal entity, Sunrise Bandai, which has more right to existence than I do in almost any court of law. This is disturbing, but I'll deal with it since I'm not as committed as Folken.]
[Author's Note: This is the last of it and it well and truly is utterly anti-climatic. Also, there was supposed to be a nice action sequence in between these two scenes, detailing some fun death and destruction, but I didn't write it as the violence was beginning to feel repetitive to me. Instead you have the aftermath of that violence. Oh, and I can't decide how to spell 'Gaia'.]
PatricidaThe night was cool but relatively calm. The iron moon's eye was nearly closed by Gaea's shadow and a thin sheet of cirrus clouds. It gazed blurrily down through the sky's great window, an unreliable witness to a pale figure crouched mutely on a metal airship's hull.
The figure was long, but folded carefully in on itself in such a way as to hide its relative shape. To even an expert observer, the figure would be given little heed. The iron moon seemed ready to look away from the cold creature perched, like a gargoyle, on the lip of a maintenance rail.
The figure shivered slightly from the cold. Below, the night was calm, but so high in the air, the wind was fickle and strong. It snapped at his pant legs and sent his hair writhing about his head like a guttering candle flame. Had he been poetic, he might have found his situation coldly entertaining, but the only poetry left to him was that of movement.
In the indigo night, golden eyes tracked the floating castle below him. He knew where he was going and what he would do when he got there, all he was waiting for was the proper updraft and the nerve to leap out into space.
At last, a gust of warm air rushed up over him, blowing his shoulder length hair up and out of his eyes. Feeling the strength of the wind, he dove forward, his bare feet giving him more control on the metal below than his boots could have. As he leapt he called on his body to give up the secret he'd harbored for years.
A painful explosion of surging flesh propelled from the general area of his scapula; taking the swift shape of great wings. He did not look at them, only worried the slick feathers might draw the Iron Moon's gaze as he glided toward the tower he'd been waiting for. He followed a preplanned path that would shield him from view by using the airships' great bulk as cover.
The tower grew closer, clearly showing the winged figure the welcoming embrace of a stone balcony. He had calculated correctly; his momentum was great, but not so forceful that his Dragon power could not slow him down. He wanted to avoid flapping his wings, as they were not the type for silent hunting. As best he could, despite lack of landing experience, he pulled his legs up to his chest and stretched them out again in front of him.
His feet connected solidly with the stone rail and his mass eased forward on strong legs. A lifetime of physical activity kept him in control and unconscious grace. There was no discernible noise as he landed and the stone was far too sturdy to communicate the concussion of his body.
He crouched down low and stared at the door barring him entry to the balcony's adjoining chambers. His reflection stared back, black-winged and deadly. Willing the wings away, he advanced on hands and feet to look the door over. It was locked, but with careful concentration he could manipulate the tumblers within it and pull it open.
He thought about waking the man within, thought of telling him exactly why he would die, but he didn't need to explain himself to the general. Folken found that while he lately only felt alive in the heat and rush of battle, he didn't need to feel alive in order to kill a man. Perhaps that was what he thought he needed when he fought his father, but with the Black Dragon tribe's supreme military commander, Folken only desired clean efficiency.
His Dragon power came quickly to him, filling him with the heady feeling of vital energy. What he needed now was enough stealth to get the job done, but enough mess to make satisfy his needs. Armed with his inherited power and bare hands, Folken let flow carefully molded energy to pull the door back.
The room was large and opulently furnished. Artifacts of various origins filled every available space; most were certainly spoils of war, some were rewards bestowed throughout service, others were gifts from lands now conquered or soon to be. Folken's gaze flickered over twin gauntlets displayed in a prominent alcove. They were of a type used by Dragon kind and still spattered with dots of dried blood; most likely his own.
An upper lip curled slightly, but no other trace of annoyance took up residence on Folken's flesh or even in his heart. The room was an elaborate study, lined with books where trophies allowed. Following instinct, Folken turned his back to a doorway on his left and padded silently forward on bare feet. He could feel life in the next room as easily as the death in his hands.
Folken had never seen Adel sleep, though the man had plenty of opportunities to catch the Dragon unaware. He was the type to sleep on his back with both arms back under his pillow, appearing to rest under his head. There was no doubt in Folken's mind that the wisely paranoid general was actually sleeping with his hands around knife hilts. It was a habit he had kept until he'd refined his sleeping habits in conjunction with his ever-useful Dragon attributes.
The bed was large and Adel slept in the middle of it, making it difficult to attack him without a projectile weapon. Folken didn't mind. He simply followed the order of the evening: the extensive use of his telekinetic abilities. The feel of Adel's throat under his power was satisfying. The skin was rough with stubble, warm from pulsing blood, and perfectly insufficient protection for the arteries and spine it hid.
There was only one thing Folken desired more than killing the man right there and he planned to satisfy himself fully in that regard. A cold smile twisted Folken's lips as he constricted Adel's throat in sudden ferocity. The grip was sufficient to cut off breath and sound; Adel awoke thrashing, hands ending in deadly blades with nothing but air and sheets to dice. But there was no way to reach his assailant nor create enough noise to betray him.
The general quit his struggling as soon as his eyes pierced the darkness and fell on his immediate subordinate. For quite some time, Folken had been the very picture of obedience and usefulness. Adel had never trusted him fully since the White Dragon massacre, but he trusted none of his subordinates to any remarkable degree. He had expected an eventual attempt of the nature he was being subjected to, only not as soon.
It took only a little additional effort for Folken to drag his commanding officer off the bed and carry him to the study. When Adel shrewdly flung a dagger at his captor, Folken caught it easily with his mind. He had a harder time catching the other one, aimed for a large and exceedingly fragile urn of exquisite Asturian make. In the end, he could only deflect it into a bookshelf or risk his hold on Adel.
A nod dipped Folken's head slightly in recognition of his commander's astute tactic, "I would prefer you didn't alert anyone to our rendezvous at this time."
Adel smirked, despite his continued lack of air. His vision was growing dark, but he couldn't help taking his assassination with an amount of wry humor. He should have known anything Orm would give away freely would be damaged goods.
Seeing limbs growing limp despite the man's stubborn efforts, Folken eased his grip long enough for the general to exhale stale air and gasp for a new breath. Before he could make an attempt at sound, the Dragon crushed his throat again. Leisurely, he studied the resilient general as he pulled him along to the balcony with him.
The Iron Moon's eye was now fully hidden by clouds, keeping it from witnessing the last exchange between two harsh men. Folken might have found the lack of the eye comforting, if he cared about such trivial or superstitious things anymore. The sad fact remained that he did not care. There was no poetry to him but the spinning of death and misery.
"Would you like to say anything before we take one last trip together?" Folken's tone was flat and uncaring. The words tasted bland and unappealing in his mouth, but somehow necessary. He released Adel's throat, instead opting to constrain the rest of the man's body in preparation for next leg of the assassination. He knew Adel was too proud to call for help in vain; the man was as good as dead and they both knew it.
"Not particularly," Adel replied, his voice rough with mocking humor. "You?"
Folken was irritated with the man's nonchalance, but it didn't affect him as much as he thought it would; he'd grown immune to Adel's acid wit. "What you left me with at the siege of Asturia and the end of the war on the White Dragon… I took it personally."
Adel shook his head ruefully; this was all dreadfully foreshadowed from the very start. "I should have ordered you to your death while you were still my faithful dog."
Folken nodded once, "I wouldn't have taken it personally back then."
A light, but resigned, chuckle escaped Adel's throat as a notion came to him. "I do have a last question." Adel planned his question to wreak maximum injury. "Why didn't you kill yourself as your father commanded?"
There was no pain in Folken's flat gaze as he contemplated Adel's amused countenance. "Because he commanded it. It was the best thing for Van and I had planned to do it, but when he commanded me to take my life before I could do it myself; it changed everything."
"Pride," Adel smirked, "was also my downfall, I see."
Folken didn't reply; tired of a needless conversation that was dredging up a past he wanted to be meaningless.
The Dragon climbed onto the balcony and pulled Adel over to him. When the general was in range, Folken stood and took him by the shoulders.
And tipped them both over the side.
Adel's eyes grew wide. He had heard Folken state they would take the last trip together, but he hadn't expected the man to be telling the truth. Despite all his will and instinctual poise, Adel's shock was plain on his harshly lined face as they sped rapidly toward the black ground.
On the way down, Folken protected himself with his Dragon power as he had the night he'd vaulted down to his homeland. As they gained velocity he observed the effect the fall had on his superior officer. At first the man had appeared far more shocked than Folken had guessed the man could look. As the fall was such a long one, Adel had time to see his assassin was still holding his shoulders so they fell together and that the other man was observing him clinically. He forced his face to reveal nothing after that.
The fall was far enough that before it was halfway over, Adel could no longer breathe, but his will was fed by his insurmountable pride and he never completely forgot his assassin's presence. He kept his face impassive, even when internal organs began to rupture from the force of the fall. Still, Folken continued to fall with the man, but readied his wings for imminent release. He wanted to make sure he could make it back to his quarters on one of the circling airships without blood on his person or an injury from the long fall.
Adel died long before he hit the ground, the victim of severe internal injuries and suffocation. It was satisfying in that the man was dead, but the operation seemed anti-climatic on the whole. The sight of the man's body exploding across the rocks below was only marginally satisfying. Folken's hastily summoned wings swept him up and away from the messy scene. He wondered if he might have enjoyed it more if he'd torn the man's head from his shoulders. As it was, Folken knew he could claim innocence if anyone asked him of the general's death. The only evidence of struggle would be the dagger in the bookcase; it was the perfect assassination.
"Will you kill all who offend you?"
He smiled distantly at the words as he stalked into the room. The dried blood and gore covering his armor offended her sense of smell and moral sensibilities. "Not who so much as everything I have no use for."
The elfin woman turned away from him. "Your mind always carries the stench of death, now your body as well. Again."
"I would think you'd be used to it after what happened to your people," he replied coolly, hobnails clacking against the stone floor as he drew near her back. He watched her body stiffen with the cruelty in his words, though the tone he used was not violent, the effect was clearly painful.
"I knew you would do this," she whispered, musical voice tight with pain.
"Do what?" he murmured, gazing at the white hair that flowed down her back. He raised a hand to catch hold of the silk mass and move it off her back, over her shoulder. He assured himself, as he always did, that he felt nothing for her because he generally felt nothing but hate and rage and while she often irritated him, she rarely invoked his unforgiving ferocity.
"Slay those old men," she sighed, her head lowering. The action was one born of shame, but he only noticed the way it further bared the back of her pale neck. She shuddered violently as his bloody hand dropped her hair.
"They were greedy old men," he snarled, stalking away to a basin and pitcher of water on a table against one of the room's stone walls. He flung his heavy armor aside, filling the room with a resounding crash, and poured the basin full. "All they cared about was wealth, just like any other inhabitant of this pathetic world. They had no vision. They only suffered and caused suffering." He emphasized his point by slamming the pitcher back onto the table.
"So do you." The words, though quiet, were brave.
He did not pause in the motions of washing off blood; most of it had not penetrated his armor, but his hands were quite stained. "Don't think yourself innocent, Sora."
The trembling sigh behind him only irritated him further. He reminded himself that he needed her to keep assisting in his quest to locate and revive Escaflowne. "You only killed them because they offended you."
When had his seer become so belligerent? He continued washing the blood from his hands. "I killed them because their goals were limited and hampered mine."
It took her until he'd washed and dried his hands to find the courage to reply, though had he turned before she'd found that courage, she would never have found the it at all. "You killed them because you believe they betrayed your image of them."
The room grew still at her pronouncement. He looked at her over his shoulder's reflection in the mirror over the basin. Why was he bothering to explain why he'd slaughtered the Elder Council? Especially to somebody who was little more than a closely guarded tool? "Do you also plan to betray me?"
She looked over her own shoulder in knowing, but tired, annoyance. Their eyes met in the mirror but she was the first to look away. "You should know that I do not. Where would I go? Like you, I have nothing left. No country, nothing. You and this growing empire have seen to that. All of Gaia is filled with people who have lost their homelands."
"You should thank me," he replied, turning around to look at her, "for ending so much suffering. Gaia itself suffers; it should also be put out of its misery."
Sora shook her head sorrowfully. "Is there no reasoning with you?"
Her tone did not move him. "My reasoning is sound enough. All suffering, including my own, will cease when everything is gone. In order to accomplish this merciful goal," he ignored her pained expression, "you are aiding me. If you disagreed with what I'm doing you would not help me locate Escaflowne or call the Goddess of Wings."
As if to deny his words, she took a step away. "There is still time for you to understand," she whispered. Whether he heard her or not, she didn't know, but Folken wouldn't have cared anyway. He was set on his course of assured destruction and had no intention of ever faltering. All she could do, she mused, was continue to try to reason with an unreasonable man that had unwittingly played into fate's equally merciless hands and would never escape.
"Is Gaia," she whispered sadly, outside his hearing, "the last link in this chain of patricide?"
"There is nothing for me to understand," he returned to her previous statement, walking to her back yet again. His hands fell on her slim shoulders, as heavy to her as the weight of the world. "When everything is gone there will be no suffering, no cruel fate, no greed. Nothing. No new life born into pain, living in pain, dying in pain and suffering throughout it all. It will all fade away."
Nothing would exist to torment the creatures of Gaia. Not the heads of state that all preyed on their people, not the countries that made that possible, especially not the world that made it all possible.
*
[I apologize for the anticlimactic ending, but I made a dreadful error concerning Adel's death scene and Folken's complete disillusionment. It would have been better if Folken could have dredged up some anger in the end (he's so passionate when he's angry), but losing Van made that impossible as Van symbolized Folken's hope.]
[So, really, this was an epilogue, though I'd like to add a humorous omake to offset the oppressive seriousness of this fic.]
[Thank you to my reviewers; you all deserve medals of valor for braving movie Folken's unmitigated nihilism and angst in this fic. All five of you! (chuckle) I've wanted to answer your reviews but haven't been sure where to do that. Apologies to my personal cheerleader, NickelS, whom I promised Folken/Sora WaFF to before she jumped the pond.]
[Myst Lady: Thanks, I used to do freelance writing, but nothing of note.
Rai Dorian: Heh, the typos completely destroyed the mood, didn't they? I can't stop laughing when I see them as I keep thinking fowl = chickens and chickens = humor. I really should fix that, but I'm lazy.
Larania: I made the Gaou/Balgus figure pretty unforgivable; it seemed appropriate as the Newtype Artbook and radio dramas both mention that he ordered Folken to kill himself. That was actually part of what inspired this fic.
Etwato: Shenk yew. I've been writing movie Folken because I was so unsatisfied with what the movie gave of him.
NiS: Now we can go on and on about Cowboy Bebop and I can psychoanalyze Vicious!]