He sat on the bed in the room they'd given him, with its walls of metal and floors of stone, and contemplated his rebirth. After all, what else could be called? Rescued from the brink of death, granted a new body, a new focus, and a new allegiance; he was now what he once was in name only, and not in spirit.
At least, that's what he'd been telling himself.
It was more difficult than he thought. Not the studies that they'd thrust upon him. He'd devoured these magics -- no, these "sciences" hungrily, surpassing others in the school around his age with ridiculous ease, earning for himself a name to be whispered jealously on the lips of both his colleagues and his superiors. A potential problem, but not nearly as pressing as the one currently before him.
The loss of home.
A responsibility unfulfilled.
Mother. Brother.
They were thousands of miles away, mourning the death that he'd never experienced. Sometimes he'd pick up a quill, set it to parchment, the words of apology and regret beginning to form. Then he'd see the silver glint in the candlelight, a forever reminder of what was not to be, and the words would blur, then dissolve, leaving him to stare at a paper with nothing more than the first upswept beginnings of a letter (perhaps a name, perhaps a greeting). His hands would tremble, and he'd sweep the unfinished thing to the floor, later picked up by one of this place's many unseen workers. It had been a while, though, since he'd tried, and both the Emperor and his teachers were busy thrusting theory after theory at him, testing his mettle, demanding that he draw up some sort of schematic for this or that and the gods be damned if someone else had asked for something else first.
Schematic...
He stood, walked to the desk, and picked up the beginnings of one of the Emperor's requests (which, of course, took precedence over any of the others). A Guymelef, this time, with capabilities unforeseen by any Gaean country. There was one thing that was always lacking, he speculated, in the models back home. It was so difficult to see through the protective grates that were allocated in order to protect the pilot, and therefore left him blindsided to attacks from either the far right or the far left. What if there was a way to get around using human sight? Perhaps something else to even enhance it...?
His mind twisted and molded his new learning into physical possibilities onto the rich parchment. As of yet, he knew not enough of what they called "physics" and "chemistry" to put any of his theories to work, but the basics and his own intuition were enough to start speculating. It was a thankful, if impermanent, distraction from the haunts of his past.
Then there was a small creak, the sound of his door opening carefully. The intruder scrambled for his bed and shuffled underneath. For a moment he attributed it to rats; they had been quite common where the rooms were furnished with stone and wood, but then he realized that with this place's need for sterilization, and the tightly fused metal walls, there were no rodents.
He stood with a great commotion, pounding the mattress with one hand, hoping to startle the unwelcome visitor. "Who's there?" he demanded.
No answer.
Rather than take the chance of being surprised, he grabbed the side of his meager bed with one hand, slamming the furniture vertically against the wall, and grabbed for the intruder with his other. He'd been prepared to yell and fight, but what met his eyes shocked him to silence.
It was a girl. She couldn't have been more than five or six; she still bore some of her baby fat. The face was sweet, a touch of rose on each of the cheeks, framed by silvery blonde locks had been shorn so that the bottom of the curls graced the shoulders of her simple blue gown. She lifted a finger up to her lips.
He shook his head. "No one will hear us. What are you doing here?"
"I'm playing hide and go seek."
He blinked in confusion. Who could possibly be doing such a thing in here? The other residents were either students too young to be thinking of children, or instructors too single-minded to think beyond their work. "From who, little one?"
"From my invisible friend." She spoke candidly, using that berating voice children use when adults ask questions that had such obvious answers. "He can be kind of mean when he wins, so I'm not going to let him this time." Her feet dangled in the air and she began to casually swing them back and forth.
He smiled. The child had no fear at all, even though she had an incredibly close view of his unique disfigurement. "And what is his name?"
She smiled happily at the thought of he who must have been the most
wonderful person in the world. The little mouth opened and drew in a large
breath of air to appropriately make such an important announcement.
"Dilandau..."
Van regretted the momentary release of precious oxygen the moment it left his mouth. The fingers around his neck were surprisingly nimble, finding painpoints on his neck that he couldn't believe existed. Through the blood roaring in his ears he heard muffled screams and several bellows for the royal guardsmen. Only three sounds were distinct through the din; Allen's desperate pleas, Millerna's shrill commands, and his attacker's triumphant laugh. His pull on Dilandau's wrists yielded no results, serving only to drain what little strength remained. Blackness closed in.
Salvation was, thus, nearly too late, and whoever yielded the blow was curiously unidentifiable. All that could be seen was the flash of a tall figure wrapped in dark blue. A sweet gust of air then swept into his unsuspecting lungs, and a coughing fit ensued. Gentle hands caught him and laid him slowly onto the ground. His eyes became filled with pain induced tears, and thus his second benefactor also became a mystery.
Allen roared over the din - "VAN! CELENA!" - while continuing to shove his way through the fleeing masses. He'd already barked orders to the arriving palace guards to keep the guests calm and demand that they remain where they were. Unfortunately, the gentry had decided that either they had the right to know right now who had let such a diseased individual into their presence or that they had the right to be let loose from the premises with all possible haste. As a result, Allen found himself being pulled left and right by emissaries who had reached the conclusion that the Hero of the Knights had all the answers. Frustrated, both Eries and Millerna began sending them bit by bit back to their guest chambers under armed escort.
"Boss!" Gaddes waved frantically, wedged unfortunately between a few bulky Cesarian knights (who were trying to help calm down their fellows as best they could). "Celena, she's--"
"Gods, no!" Allen cried, tearing through the dignitaries with a renewed vigor towards where he'd last seen his foolish friend. He feared what Gaddes' panicked expression implied, and if Van had a hand in its doing he planned on tearing the King apart. He dove between several fleeing men and women to find the back of a slick armored Zaibach uniform. The soldier had a struggling figure in his grasp, one hand clamped around a pale wrist and the other in what Allen assumed was a binding chokehold. A glimpse of silver hair, and the soldier's victim was quickly identified.
Allen tackled him with more ferocity than he'd originally intended, sending all three of them sprawling onto the floor. The soldier let out a small oomph in surprise, and the high pitched tone immediately branded "he" as a "she." The other sound, a male's grunting curse, stole the last fleeting hope that his sister's situation was not as terrible as he thought. The fight in him fled, replaced by a growing feeling of guilt and misery, and all he was able to do was keep a futile hug on the Zaibach woman.
She was therefore the first to recover. She elbowed him hard in the chest, pushing herself away from him at the same time, and leapt to her feet. Almost immediately after was Dilandau, who let out an outraged roar and slammed into her hard enough to send them both back to the ground.
"Bitch, bitch, bitch!" the crazed boy shrieked, punctuating his words by driving his fist towards the woman's unprotected face. She deflected a few, but not all, and his perch on her stomach hindered her ability to defend herself. Then he stiffened, his eyes rolling back into his head, and he slumped forward, resting his head on her shoulder's plate armor. Behind him stood a Sorcerer, a spent hypodermic needle in one hand, a relieved look on his tired face.
"Are you all right, Zhi?" He bent down to lift the boy's unconscious body from hers when a swordpoint met his neck.
"Stand where you are," commanded the Asturian guardsman. They had formed a ring around the group, hands on their swords. Angry, Zhi violently shoved the boy's dead weight off of her, causing a chorus of withdrawn steel, and Allen caught him before he could hit the floor. She stood, and cast the soldiers a baleful glare.
"Celena," Allen whispered, though the sharp, arrogant features on the face before him were not truly the much-loved beauty of his sister. He drew Dilandau to his breast, choking at the lump in his throat and the pain in his heart.
Van rubbed the developing bruises on his neck. He took a step towards Allen, hoping to apologize, but found himself unable to form the right words. A guilt-ridden sigh left his lungs, and he took the brief moment of sanity to examine the Zaibach couple.
The Sorcerer was rather non-descript, only a few inches taller than himself, and though the features were young, his hair was shot through with gray and white. The lines that had started to form around his mouth were more suited for frowns than smiles. Had he told anyone that he'd just greeted his thirty-fifth year it was doubtful that they would have believed him. He stood calmly, a mixture of resolution and pity in his eyes, his form hidden underneath the high collar, floor-length black cloak.
The soldier, though, was outlandish. She stood at a comparable eye level with Allen, which meant that Van had to crane his neck slightly to see all of her. Upswept almond eyes, black and narrowed over high, pale cheekbones, and luxurious, though haphazardly shorn to chin-length, black hair marked her as a Freidian woman, though it was rare to see one outside the home, not to mention her country. Her body was slim, but by her actions earlier probably highly toned, and was encased in the tight, leathery uniform that was characteristic of only Zaibach's elite Guymelef squad, the Dragonslayers. Dark blue covered her from head to toe, peeking out from underneath only slightly lighter thigh high booths, arm coverings, and heavy shoulder armor (each of which sported a single, hand's-height spike). Gold trim lined the collar, the jacket split down her midsection, and the buckles that were wrapped in from her back to meet her chest. A skirt, open wide in both the back and the front, covered her from waist to knees, and an empty sword hilt hung from one side. He'd seen the uniform before and, like her companion's wear, the memories it brought were far from sweet. Fleetingly he wondered what psychotic led the young squad now. Or, perhaps, was she here to claim their treasured captain...?
"My Lord Van," Millerna called, gently making a pathway through her guardsmen, "are you hurt?"
"No."
"And you, sir?" she asked of the Madoushi.
"A little startled, but otherwise fine."
"Your name?"
The calm young man adjusted his glasses. "Strategos Dineer, my lady."
Millerna blinked, realizing that she faced the highest ranked official of the Zaibach Empire. She offered him a small bow. "My Lord."
"What did you do to her?"
The harsh question came from Allen, who stared angrily at the Sorcerer while still cradling Celena's -- Dilandau's -- unresponsive form. Dineer looked at him, expressionless. "A strong sedative. It will calm down his -- excuse me," he rectified, noting how the Knight's eyebrows furrowed, "her body and make it more welcome to change back to its original form. I have a bottle in my luggage, enough to last -- "
"You're not feeding her anymore of your... potions!" Allen snarled.
The Dragonslayer sneered. "Let her suffer, then."
"Zhi," the Sorcerer murmured. She rolled her eyes. He looked at the princess. "We will need a room, guards posted at the doors. A comfortable bed is a must, as well as a set of chairs, a small meal, plenty of candles. I'm certain that these three," he swept a hand towards Van, Allen, and Zhi, "would also feel more comfortable with their weaponry."
Millerna frowned, slightly irritated at the man's presumptuous demands. "My Lord Strategos--"
"Allow me to be more forward, my dear." Dineer straightened up, suddenly imposing, almost frighteningly authoritative. "Yes, I am the Strategos of Zaibach, second to only the Emperor himself. Though the Emperor is new to his position, I'm certain that my mistreatment will not go over well diplomatically. Furthermore," he gestured at Dilandau, "the notorious nature of this boy's role in the War of Destiny is known far and wide. Alone, he is thought to be responsible for the burning of an entire country, as well as rather numerous accounts of depravity. This recent incident was witnessed by representatives of every known country in Gaea, most of who have very long memories. I trust, then, that you realize my desire for haste in this matter and my lack of propriety.
"That," he continued, looking meaningfully at the young Fanelian King,
"and there are many answers about the man who once held my position that
it is time you hear."