The ballroom for the occassion had been constructed with such delicious skill that nobles felt it necessary to point out the fact to the Princesses upon the beginning of every conversation. Even after the twentieth similar remark, the two sisters continued to agree that the architect they'd commissioned had truly done a wonderful job.
From the main entrance, one could sample practically all the sights that were to beheld. A high, windowed ceiling let in both light from the sun and the pair of moons, lending a magical aura at night to a room moderately lit by slender, golden candlebras. The white alabaster that arced down from the ceiling met a small strip of simple plaster border, from which dropped walls decorated at precise intervals with a combination of both new and old tapestries. Emanating from these silk paintings were the spirits of men and women from vital moments in Asturian history; the oldest depicting the first King stabbing the ground that would later house the royal palace, the newest of Alliance and Zaibach Guymelefs and soldiers standing in friendship and triumph while a white dragon flew overhead.
Van stared at that one the longest.
Between the tapestries alternated unopened, high crystal windows and opened windowed doors. Noblemen and women of all the Allied countries (which now included a few black-cloaked Madoushi) mingled amongst magnificent marble pillars that swirled with subtle blues and greens. Their expensive shoes walked upon polished stone floors, some of which was covered with rugs exotically sewn with patterns of dragons, a gift of the young Duke of Fried to his friends and family. On the far end, solemnly watching over the festivities, their polished armour and swords glinting slightly in the pale candlelight, were selected Guymelefs from each Allied country. Noticeably empty was the middle throne that had been reserved for Fanelia's royal instrument, Escaflowne. Even though they had suggested replacing the dormant Guymelef with one from the country's samurai legions, the King had refused, quietly adding that his brother would have preferred the vacancy.
Flanking the empty space were the only other Guymelefs that could have rivaled Escaflowne in size. On the right sat Scherezade, the golden insignia on its blue cloak gleaming from the shadows. On the left sat a Zaibach Oreades model, officer class, made in deep blue and gray metals.
Celena's breath caught in her throat when she saw the hulking machination looming down at her. Her hands shook, vino dribbling onto her knuckles. If only they had been thoughtful enough to provide one in his personal reds...
She forced herself out of Dilandau's musings, spinning away from the looming reminder of her (his) past, only to spill the remainder of her drink onto a black cloak. The man turned to catch her, grabbing the glass before it could shatter upon the stones.
"Are you all right, miss?"
At the polite query, Celena looked up. Dread filled her heart at the familiar sight of the dark clasps and overlays that marked a Zaibach Madoushi from the rest of the crowd. The man was middle aged, of a slight build, and clearly had been handsome at one point. However, stress had etched fine lines around his eyes and mouth, and a pair of thin spectacles aged him even further. Long brown hair was neatfully tied back, some of which stubbornly sprouted out at the top, the remainder spilling down one shoulder. Her mind's eye brightened the color of his hair, removed the glasses and the creases, deepened the voice...
"I'm fine, thank you."
"Were you admiring the craftmanship?" The Madoushi looked up wistfully at the Oreades. "I admit, we really don't need such symbols of war anymore, although sometimes it serves as quite the reminder. Doesn't it, young lady?" He turned, only to find an empty space. Confused, he swiftly scanned the immediate crowd, only to see her silvery mop retreating towards one of the doorways.
"It's her, isn't it?"
He turned to his female companion. Despite the festivities, and his urging, she'd refused to put on more tasteful attire and instead remained in her Guymelef pilot's uniform. He patted her shoulder, mindful of the spike that jutted out from the shoulderpad. "Yes, my dear. We will need to watch her carefully."
The tall woman nodded, looking through the thick crowd of noblemen and royalty at Celena's retreating form. "This is dangerous. I should have been allowed my sword."
"With the bond between these countries as shakey as it is?" He chuckled. "No, if he is truly still a danger, I have taken my own precautions."
Van's eyes had followed Celena much of the night, in between being introduced to a few of the rather comely daughters of his peers. After the third girl (some painted second daughter of a portly Egzardian politician trying to weed his way into international circles), he muttered something halfway polite and began shoving his way through the crowd.
(In a far corner, Gaddes whispered a small cry out triumph, and a crew of gentlemen who looked distinctly uncomfortable admist the refinery handed him their bet money.)
Allen watched Van from the middle of the room. Surrounded by fawning dignitaries, their proposals and praises, he was unable to do anything other than smile and nod where he stood. The Asturian princesses, noticing his distress and their guest's sudden disappearance, were likewise trapped. All three silently cursed both their honour and their luck.
Van ignored the gibbering protests of the offended Egzardian and started shoving his way through the crowd. A few moved out of his way instantly, recognizing the face of the Fanelian king. Others had to be prompted by their fellows or pushed aside. These men and women turned their noses instantly at the ragged looking boy. In his unwillingness to decorate himself in a "kingly" manner (amongst all manner of objections from his friends and advisors), Van had simply worn what was comfortable to him; a sleeveless red tunic laced at the top, his pale slacks, leather boots, and the teardrop pendant.
His heart pounded. It had been little over a year since he'd watched Hitomi disappear into the column of light. Each passing day made the ache in his heart grow a little more. There were times he thought he could see her standing with him in his personal chambers. Sometimes she was dressed in Millerna's gown, bringing back that one awkward moment that she had taken his breath away, sometimes she was in that strange short pleated skirt and jacket that she often preferred. He would tell her everything; how Fanelia was being recontructed, how Merle was growing, the troubles with his new responsibilities, how he missed her, how he wished he could touch her, how he wished that he could have done what was right more often while they had been together...
Her eyes would gaze at him lovingly, and she would nod sympathetically. When he would speak of that which could have been, she would become sad and turn away. He would reach out to gather her into his arms, to comfort her, to meet his lips on hers, and the apparition would disappear, leaving him only to his empty room of stone and wood. Merle would always be there afterwards. Her soft arms would wrap around his body, closing him in a tight embrace while the tears quietly fell. Only she knew of these late night moments, when the legendary boy King who'd rebuilt his country from ashes and rubble gave in to his loneliness and regret.
So when Celena's beauty took his breath away and stopped a pulse that had been racing with a buried anger, he nearly screamed aloud. What would all those moments of pain be worth if he found himself adoring that which he had sworn to hate?
Van clenched his fists and continued pushing his way through the seemingly endless throng of perfumed emissaries. He had to speak with her, if only to see the sneer n her face, hear the malicious tones that had to be in her voice, and gaze into eyes that would reveal the ugliness that lay within. Then he could deny lump in his throat and the ache in his heart.
There would be no way he would let himself love Dilandau Albatou.
A large group of more than slightly inebriated guests had congregated near the doorway Celena had been heading towards and had closed off any chance for escape. Their expressions were dark, and the lips that met the vino were pressed into thin lines. Obviously some of the dignitaries were rather disgruntled from being pressed into the same room as their former enemies and current rivals.
As her hand reached out to make a polite request for room, a small commotion erupted to her left. She looked over, where a crude looking young man dressed in an outlandishly casual tunic and pants was roughly making his way through sparkling dresses and expensive coats. A few brief moments passed before she was able to recognize the teardrop pendant swinging from his neck and the reddish black eyes that were bearing down on her like two sharp shot arrows.
She had to get away.
Desire for subtlety pushed aside by panic, she toppled a wigged Asturian councilmember and the robed Daedalian he was flirting with, neatly twirled to avoid a vino-bearing maid, and began winding her way through the maze of conversing gentlemen and women. She made her pathway erratic, going every which way she could, hoping to lose her pursuer. Yet every time she turned she caught the strange gleam of his signature pendant. She peered through the gap between a through a few tightly knit Basramlic scientists (slightly chilled by their nonchalant conversation concerning experimentations on small live mammals), finally finding what she'd hoped was an unlocked door. She began shoving her way through.
Warm fingers, calloused and strong, wrapped around her upper forearm. She turned, praying to all the gods that it was not who she thought it was, and her breath stopped. Their eyes met. All the conversation, music, the clinking of glasses, the shuffle of expensive cloth faded under the low throbbing of her heart. His mouth opened, to condemn her or to adore her she did not know...
...And remained that way, the words frozen in his throat.
Those eyes of hers! Just as arresting to a man's heart as Allen's were to a woman's, full of passion and beauty, set into a narrow, heart-shaped face that was soft on the edges and angled only in the nose. Her lips were neither full nor thin but made to look perfectly appropriate for her other features, correct for speaking, enough for kissing. Her dress, Asturian style, was tight at the top and bloomed into a skirt below, exposing the roundness of her breasts and the smallness of her waist, but leaving questionable the shape of her legs. The pale, exposed arm was soft to the touch, but hard within, which meant that unlike the flowery, giddy maids that he'd had the displeasure of meeting earlier, she was no stranger to physical exertion. To Van, everything was so wonderously inviting. He began to draw her closer.
Fear blurred the beauty, for it was then that he saw what he'd originally hoped for. The emotion in her eyes became touched by the hints of a malicious intent, burning with a hate that was all too recognizable. The shapely lips curled minutely, further blackening her appearance, as the psychotic within struggled to come to fore.
The interplay of desire and hate made the Van's face blur before her eyes while the remainder of the room swirled in the background. She fought tears of pain and frustration and tried pulling her arm away. "My Lord Van," she said, her voice surprisingly cold and steady, "did you need something of me? If you are looking for my brother, he is over there."
"I'm not looking for him," he returned.
Celena thought he sounded almost... disheartened. A snarl was Dilandau's only appraisal. She lowered her voice, conscious of a few people who had started to discreetly eavesdrop on what appeared to be Van's advancement on a possible candidate. "You are making a scene, my lord. Release my arm."
"You'll run again."
Celena swallowed. It had crossed her mind. She raised her tone. "I apologize for my rudeness earlier, my lord. Are you interested in my hand by chance? If so, you'll need to talk to my--" Van jerked her forward suddenly, bringing their faces within a handspan's of each other. From one side she heard the stifled, horrified gasp of a hopeful queen-to-be. "--brother," she finished, her tone barely above a whisper.
"Who are you really?" he hissed.
"I don't understand the question," she responded, much louder than was necessary. Her (his) anger was becoming more difficult to restrain. Dilandau grinned triumphantly, his fingers breaking through the fraying barrier between their minds. "Let go of me this instant."
Van's voice rose as well. He hadn't meant to goad her this far, but now that he'd started he didn't know how to stop. If she was -- if she still IS him -- he needed to prove it. Then, he could be finally disgusted with her, be done with this whole ridiculous infatuation, and return to thinking about the woman who truly mattered. "You know damn well what I mean." Unconsciously, he tightened the grip around her arm. Those nearest to them were blatantly staring at the outlandish conversation, creating a steadily growing bubble of silence with Van and Celena at the center. "Answer me!"
Celena backhanded him.
The crack of knuckle meeting cheekbone reverberated in a room that had become empty of sound only moments before. There was none of the prim and proper manner that a lady's slap would have entailed. This was a blow blessed with skill born of practise, and the explosion of a fury which had waited long for release. Van's rolled with the blow, staggering when he could have fallen, his mouth filling with the coppery taste of his own blood. He regained his footing, then stumbled a few steps backwards when Celena screamed.
Those eyes that had captivated him only minutes before were now wide and crazed, and he could swear that their blue depths had begun to redden. Tears were finding ragged pathways down her cheeks. Tufts of hair sprouted between fingers whose grasp destroyed the once elegant style. She screamed again, and fell to her knees. Van, as well as any nobleman or woman within arm's reach of her, stepped back in horror.
"Stop it, STOP IT!!"
You really don't know, do you? You don' t know what he's done to me!
A bright sword flashed. Pain seared up her right jaw.
The least of his transgressions.
Bloodcurdling screams filled her ears. Familiar boys' voices howled for aide and mercy, only to be cut off by the roar of flame-engulfed chemicals.
"No! No! Don't let me see!"
What about him? He who we both cared for...?
...Not Folken...
A kind face filled her vision, comforting to the both of them, smiling that wide, unusual way that only his people could. He held her when others were abusing her, stroking away tears of terror and loss, always understanding, being there when nearly no one else was, an affirmation that there was something else out there that was better than this...
He was loyal. Immeasureably loyal. Without the Strategos to direct him, with his Dragonslayers to idolize him, there was no one except for him. One lone beastman under his command, but one wealthy in skill. Under the obedient exterior was there, perhaps, a note of compassion...?
...And now he was crying out his last, desperate words. They echoed from the tiny speaker inside the Guymelef's chamber. Change back! Go back to that sweet girl you once were! Then that roar, the same one that had taken his compatriots... Escaflowne's terrible form approaching, suddenly blockaded by the swirl of a dark blue cape...
...Jajuka...
...Jajuka...
Sadness and anger colored the chilling shriek that burst from Celena's lips. She hunched over. Van took a few hesitant steps forward, horrified that he had been the catalyst to whatever fit she was having. He put a hesitant hand on her shoulder, then immediately snatched it back. Onlookers gasped, and someone called out for a doctor.
"By all the gods, let me through!" Allen desperately tried to get past the throng of gaping emissaries without being impolite, but most were unwilling to let go of a view to a most fascinating dilemma. After a few moments he lost all sense of propriety, and began shoving men and women out of his way. Someone began shouting for the castle guards. The elder princess began cajoling those that took offense, while the younger raced through the path left by the panicked war hero.
At Van's touch, Celena's shoulders expanded and retracted, almost as if she had taken an impossibly deep breath. Her dress ripped, as well as the corset underneath, exposing the pale flesh of her back. The king marvelled at the tone, wondering how a girl so delicate looking could have muscles that rivalled his, although he could swear that the general size of her had grown. Something inside of him cried warning, but he was far too immersed in guilt to notice. Celena grew suddenly calm, releasing her hair to transfix a gaze on her hands as if seeing them for the first time.
"C-Celena," Van stammered, trying to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay--"
A hand shot out and grasped his neck. He was pulled upwards, choking, the torn remanents of Celena' gown falling away to reveal a young man's hardened chest.
"Vannn..." Dilandau whispered, relishing the ability to vocalize the
abomination. His mouth stretched in an eager, bloodthirsty smile. "I'm
feeling quite well, thank you."
[ ...end part II ]