Author's Note: This is my first Escaflowne fic. It's a oneshot, so no other
chapters.
Disclaimer: I don't own Escaflowne or Bandai. Or anything else in
Escaflowne, except for the gas-torches, which are purely from my own
imagination. Unless they aren't. Um, never mind. Enjoy.
The frigid, stale, and conditioned air caressed his bare left arm, and froze the mechanical joints of the other. Folken Fannel, no Strategos, for he had long since disposed of the other name, ever since- his mind tried to say When the dragon ripped off my arm and he wouldn't let it- the bad time. He had to stop in his quiet pilgrimage to plant one hand against the wall to steady his dizzying thoughts. In the dimness created by the dark alloy walls, lit only by periodic gas lamps, Folken lowered his head, closing his garnet eyes. Walking often helped him compose his frequently hectic, and sometimes morbid and oppressive thoughts, so that was what he was doing. Yes, standing there in the heart of the floating fortress, the Vione.
The said objects were becoming increasingly morbid and oppressive, as he got older, and especially now when his fate was inexplicably spliced with his brothers'. He had been expecting the confrontation to arise all of the times he had been, quite literally, playing with fate. An old saying of his mothers rose to meet his frantically pacing thoughts; she always spoke it in a contrastingly lovely and harsh language: "Ou muther un dismal, ou chank op warl." And she would then say, "You kill an ant, you alter the world." Tragically, he had never understood that until now.
A gentle noise soothed across his hearing- the sound assimilated quickly into his brain to register as humming. It was an old lullaby, sung often to fussy, finicky children of Asturia. Not every note was right and some of the measures were never even completed; it sounded as if the singer were having troubles trying to remember the tune, simple as it was.
Some lost Asturian merchant? Folken didn't think so; when they were allowed on the floating fortress, they were encouraged to go to bed early and none ever seemed to want to tarry within the sterile walls of rock and steel. His heart started to pick up a beat of foreboding as he rounded the corner and saw the last person he expected to.
Dilandau Albatou stood on the bridge, staring out at the inky night surrounding them. The gas-torch he was standing under gave his bare chest a silvery quality that was reflected in his softly shimmering hair; even his leather pants seemed ghostly. The tune stopped. Dilandau turned his head, realizing he was being watched, and when Folken saw his face he involuntarily sucked in a breath. The boy's lava-coloured eyes were huge and his pupils dilated to pinpricks, his face deathly pale and with one bone-white hand, he held a golden narcissus flower to his cheek.
Silence as pregnant as the surrounding night ensued, broken only by the continuous hiss of the gas-torches. Dilandau continued to stare with his vaguely drugged look, a smile half-formed upon his sweet, boyish lips; when Folken began to think of something to say, Dilandau's voice, as soft and gentle as Folken had ever heard it, said something unexpected and unwanted.
"A long time ago, in a magical kingdom far away.... I forget after that. But it was about this flower. It was a sad story, that's all I can remember apart from the beginning. They all died." Dilandau's face was serene, as though what he was saying was not registering. He turned his face away slightly and took the flower from his face to look at it; it's petals and leaves gently dripping with fresh dew. Dilandau poked his tongue out and gently wet his lips as another heavy silence fell.
Folken stepped forward but Dilandau did not look over. He was murmuring something to himself, his lips moving rapidly and his breath coming fast; he only looked over when Folken gently placed his metal hand around his neck. The boys face looked frightened, but not alarmed. "Just like me." Dilandau said before Folken's needle-tipped finger inserted itself into his neck, administering a strong sleeping drug that, when coming into contact with spinal fluid, reacted instantly.
A peaceful sigh fluttered from Dilandau's lips and his haunted eyes became peaceful and rolled into his skull and he fell forward into Folken's arms, melding to him like a scarf.
Folken stood still and silent on the bridge, holding a sleeping teen general in his arms. Yes, of coarse Dilandau was high-strung; the amount of drugs he was given daily was as good an excuse as that he was emotionally disturbed. But what was the real reason for this troubling reversion?
Folken looked down into the boy's face, which was deceptively angelic in the eldritch light. It didn't take very long for him to pick up the boy and bring him back to the Dragonslayer dorms; the boys were all asleep and were understandably panicked when Folken brought their unconscious general into the room and put him to be with no other words than to say that Dilandau was not to be disturbed until next afternoon.
It was only in his own corridors, when he had shut off his lamps and stripped to nothing did he rest his mind. And wondered.
The frigid, stale, and conditioned air caressed his bare left arm, and froze the mechanical joints of the other. Folken Fannel, no Strategos, for he had long since disposed of the other name, ever since- his mind tried to say When the dragon ripped off my arm and he wouldn't let it- the bad time. He had to stop in his quiet pilgrimage to plant one hand against the wall to steady his dizzying thoughts. In the dimness created by the dark alloy walls, lit only by periodic gas lamps, Folken lowered his head, closing his garnet eyes. Walking often helped him compose his frequently hectic, and sometimes morbid and oppressive thoughts, so that was what he was doing. Yes, standing there in the heart of the floating fortress, the Vione.
The said objects were becoming increasingly morbid and oppressive, as he got older, and especially now when his fate was inexplicably spliced with his brothers'. He had been expecting the confrontation to arise all of the times he had been, quite literally, playing with fate. An old saying of his mothers rose to meet his frantically pacing thoughts; she always spoke it in a contrastingly lovely and harsh language: "Ou muther un dismal, ou chank op warl." And she would then say, "You kill an ant, you alter the world." Tragically, he had never understood that until now.
A gentle noise soothed across his hearing- the sound assimilated quickly into his brain to register as humming. It was an old lullaby, sung often to fussy, finicky children of Asturia. Not every note was right and some of the measures were never even completed; it sounded as if the singer were having troubles trying to remember the tune, simple as it was.
Some lost Asturian merchant? Folken didn't think so; when they were allowed on the floating fortress, they were encouraged to go to bed early and none ever seemed to want to tarry within the sterile walls of rock and steel. His heart started to pick up a beat of foreboding as he rounded the corner and saw the last person he expected to.
Dilandau Albatou stood on the bridge, staring out at the inky night surrounding them. The gas-torch he was standing under gave his bare chest a silvery quality that was reflected in his softly shimmering hair; even his leather pants seemed ghostly. The tune stopped. Dilandau turned his head, realizing he was being watched, and when Folken saw his face he involuntarily sucked in a breath. The boy's lava-coloured eyes were huge and his pupils dilated to pinpricks, his face deathly pale and with one bone-white hand, he held a golden narcissus flower to his cheek.
Silence as pregnant as the surrounding night ensued, broken only by the continuous hiss of the gas-torches. Dilandau continued to stare with his vaguely drugged look, a smile half-formed upon his sweet, boyish lips; when Folken began to think of something to say, Dilandau's voice, as soft and gentle as Folken had ever heard it, said something unexpected and unwanted.
"A long time ago, in a magical kingdom far away.... I forget after that. But it was about this flower. It was a sad story, that's all I can remember apart from the beginning. They all died." Dilandau's face was serene, as though what he was saying was not registering. He turned his face away slightly and took the flower from his face to look at it; it's petals and leaves gently dripping with fresh dew. Dilandau poked his tongue out and gently wet his lips as another heavy silence fell.
Folken stepped forward but Dilandau did not look over. He was murmuring something to himself, his lips moving rapidly and his breath coming fast; he only looked over when Folken gently placed his metal hand around his neck. The boys face looked frightened, but not alarmed. "Just like me." Dilandau said before Folken's needle-tipped finger inserted itself into his neck, administering a strong sleeping drug that, when coming into contact with spinal fluid, reacted instantly.
A peaceful sigh fluttered from Dilandau's lips and his haunted eyes became peaceful and rolled into his skull and he fell forward into Folken's arms, melding to him like a scarf.
Folken stood still and silent on the bridge, holding a sleeping teen general in his arms. Yes, of coarse Dilandau was high-strung; the amount of drugs he was given daily was as good an excuse as that he was emotionally disturbed. But what was the real reason for this troubling reversion?
Folken looked down into the boy's face, which was deceptively angelic in the eldritch light. It didn't take very long for him to pick up the boy and bring him back to the Dragonslayer dorms; the boys were all asleep and were understandably panicked when Folken brought their unconscious general into the room and put him to be with no other words than to say that Dilandau was not to be disturbed until next afternoon.
It was only in his own corridors, when he had shut off his lamps and stripped to nothing did he rest his mind. And wondered.