"What's this sensation?"
by Shelly Webster
Disclaimer: I don't own Escaflowne, but I do own some very nice ideas, occasionally very philosophical thoughts even. Now if only I could eat them or use them as currencyâ Ehhâin a perfect (or more open and thought-centric) world. I also own some nice paper, several charming pens and a handwriting style only a doctor's mother could love.
A/N: Thanks to my D for being an eternally charming and friendly beta, my muses for deciding I had suffered too much lately and giving me this chapter with no prying (to the point where they gave me it when I was away from my computer so I had to type it from notes), and Breakfast King. I wrote most of this while at a midnight breakfast there and it was pretty nice. I never knew that such a place could inspire me so. It even gave me a plot for the rest of the story! Expect to be shocked and horrified in the next chapter! Just ask D. She wasn't expecting what will happen even, when I asked her opinion on the plot the muses brought to me. Oh, and don't kill me unless you're not satisfied after chapter 5.
Warning: Some moreâadult themes shown. Not sexual, but certainly not happy kiddie stuff. Don't hurt me! I just obey the muses!
Shouts-outs:
Infinitis: Your wish was my command. I started this chapter as soon as I finished the last and wrote on nothing else until it was finished.
Ryuko-chan: Two reviews! Well, you know me. I wouldn't bother writing it if it was like everything else I read. There was no dreamsex. Yet, anyway (still don't know if there will be). Dream arousal, yes, but I decided not to go into it. He is always ever so arrogant and such a smartass that he had to comment on his own good-looks. And as you will read, no clue about Allen.
Sakura Shinguji-Albatou: Woo! I'm on someone's list, and it's not a hit-list. But I don't know if you'll like where this fic is headed
Threshie: Sorry to have misunderstood. I've read a few too many Harlequin romance novels (The shame! The horror!) and even a couple lately. In them, one cue that people will end up together is that they fight. A lot. And think/say they hate each other. I forgot that it's not always that way in the world of fan-fiction. I'm not certain how the mind thing works. I knew there was a wall, a white wall, but you know characters: you have to pry for explanations. It's not exactly another dimension, I know that. It's more like the mind is not a physical environment, but because people are accustomed to the physical world, he (and she) perceives it as a physical place when he dreams. Or at least, that's how I understand what they have said. Glad you're on the forum! D and I both think you're a joy to have there and look forward to the days when you will post more.
Chapter 3
Perfection as a way of Life
She glared at him.
He had no answer for the question she had just asked. He had been too tired – too busy resting for once, his energy too far gone to keep him focused even in her realm – to figure out whatever would have possessed him to make him kiss her like that. Even the thought of doing so made his stomach turn and flip-flop. It was clearly a repulsive concept.
When within his mind with her, he was technically asleep, but still thinking. However, he could go even deeper and his mind would sleep too. This was what he had been doing.
So he merely stood before her, silent and brooding.
He was good at brooding.
The glare went unchanged, as did his own lack of response. It was a battle to see who could keep silent longer, him not answering her question, her glaring as she waited for that answer.
She's not used to glaring. She'll have to cave soon. He certainly hoped this was true. He could never admit that he didn't know why he took the actions he had, whatever the actions may have been. Especially admitting this to her. It would be a sign of weaknessâ How can I be so weak in everything? It was starting to seem like all he did was hide weaknesses from one person or another.
A long while passed and still she glared. She had taken him from the rest his body and mind told him he needed with this fucking question, and now that he was coming more aware, he was very outraged by this. Where did she get off disturbing me like that?
He couldn't hold his tongue any longer, and didn't want to try anyhow. Not with someone like her, someone who pushed him to such extremes.
"A king can do what he pleases to and with his slaves, especially the lowest of them. Now off with ye." He waved her away, laying back down with his eyes shutting before he hit the ground. He would ignore her until he woke up – no matter what!
Inwardly he smirked, detecting the subtle clues which indicated that she was so outraged at his words that she could do nothing but stand there sputtering. He supposed she didn't realize he could hear her, but as a soldier, he was used to listening closely.
He thought as he lay. Hey, maybe that is what it was – a subconscious decision to have a display of power – show her once again who's the boss. It didn't feel particularly true, but it seemed as likely as anything else he had thought of – including being possessed by Van Fanel through that freaky girl the "king" kept making eyes at. Hey, it could happen! She's pretty freaky.
Celena ceased her sputtering, sounding a loud "humph!" as she turned on her heel and stalked away. He knew she did this because he peeked through his silvered lashes. He only did it to be sure she would leave him alone, he assured himself.
After all, she is always so damned annoying. Those long lashes framing big blue eyes begging for companionship – with anyone but me. Her lips pouting in a plea for freedom from me. He groaned. Better not to think about her at all.
He felt like he was being watched, but he wasn't about to look at her again. He wouldn't allow her the satisfaction of knowing he was aware she was near.
Letting himself fall asleep had been a huge mistake.
Dilandau almost gave serious consideration to asking Folken if he could provide something to keep him awake and aware, but it would give the interfering, controlling man knowledge of what might be a weakness and another reason to interfere with his routines and his warriors. Folken found enough such reasons on his own, none making much sense to Dilandau.
Another objection to asking this favor, Folken would see that the commander of the Dragon Slayers apparently couldn't do everything for himself. Just because he wasn't about to read some fucking book to find out what he could try didn't mean he couldn't do it. He just had better things to do with his time.
Besides, it was the fucking Strategos! He is just one step away fromâ Dilandau shuddered.
And Lord Dilandau Albatou, commander of the Dragon Slayers, asked no favors of anyone.
Finally Dilandau felt himself start to fade away from this mental torture chamber back into the waking world, leaving thoughts of Celena and Folken behind, for the time-being.
His night's rest left him energized, but in a more foul mood than any of his men had seen before. He was scowling before he was fully awake. My Dragon Slayers had better be prepared for intense practice today. He almost smirked at the thought. I'm back!
Dilandau opted for strenuous combat exercises, running mock battle scenarios that they had tested in the past at an easier pace. He appointed as many as three Dragon Slayers at a time to fight against him, this activity intended to benefit him more than his soldiers.
He swung his sword, sweat streaming down his brow, detracting nothing from the fierce grin his mouth instinctively had formed.
When he was as exhausted as he had been lately, he didn't feel the thrill of battle quite as well as he otherwise did. He just couldn't fight as aggressively, the aggressive action being the aspect of his fights that his extreme pleasure came from. He avoided thinking about this, or anything else.
Dilandau was too wrapped up in ecstasy to let himself be troubled with his knowledge that he would not find this bliss again for a very long while. He wouldn't be rested because rest meant her and she gave him no peace; no ability to rest.
Thrust. Parry. Look behind myself. Up. Down. He thought about the moves, barely noticing the thoughts as his actions echoed them.
His sword had become, in his mind, an extension of himself. It wasn't part of him like his Alseides, but part of him it was.
The focused commander fought viciously until he and his soldiers could scarcely lift their swords. Even then, the only reason he stopped was because the mess hall had rung the signal for supper and he had forced his men to miss their midday meal. Keeping them longer would only get him in trouble – trouble where he wasn't allowed any physical training with the Dragon Slayers for several days.
Medical had flipped out the last time he tried it. And they had flipped out every other time, he admitted to himself, but the last time their reaction was even more strong than usual.
He had just been giving them a real life experience of what hand-to-hand and sword combat on the field might be like during a long-lasting battle. It was a good, useful bit of knowledge for them! It wasn't his fault they were apparently "too weak." So what if they were a little dehydrated too? Battles are like thatâor at least, they could be.
He scowled thinking about this as he trekked his way to his own quarters to brood in the solitude and silence found therein. Once he walked through the door, he stripped to the waist, more comfortable that way. This room is so bare He had never really decorated, but it belonged to him and no one else, and that was the part that really mattered to him.
Someday he would make Medical understand that he knew what the hell he was doing. Soldiers are not meant to be mollycoddled. People won't go easy on each other in the battlefield. That's not what war is about!
He pictured the battle Medical seemed to think his men fought in, thinking of Allen Schezar and his billowy shirt, just the sort of man who looked to be exceedingly politeâ "Good sir, would you care to join me for a quick repast of hardtack and stale water? Or perhaps you'd care to nap in the midday heat?"
Now that he was thinking about it, there was something almost familiar to the knight. Dilandau couldn't place it, though, and decided it wasn't significant.
If all these men have joined the military, they know the road ahead of them might be tough. It ought to be tough, or it's not really worth much. This was even more true for his Dragon Slayers. They had to work twice as long, twice as hard – they had to be perfect. Nothing less was acceptable – nothing.
Perfection was more than an idle hope in Dilandau's eyes; it was a reality that he worked for endlessly with the same aggression found in all his other actions. If he could not achieve perfection in something, he felt it would prove him incompetent and undeserving to live.
He hid what flaws he could see. He knew he was on the brink of deserving to live, but felt he was still close enough to perfection, at least in his career, to keep working at it.
He sighed.
It was so difficult being the best of the best and still having to cope with everything else, especially the balance between leading a military team and his own personal life.
He drained his bottle of wine and slammed the empty container down on the table. He couldn't remember getting out the wine; he was so accustomed to it that it was automatic.
Why does everything have to be so complicated? So many things to think about, but all he wanted to do was forget. Thinking about them was too hard. He knew he ought to eat something, but really, the thought of no food was able to tempt him or appeal.
He smirked at his thoughts. Best of the best. Even if my men have to eat and sleep to fight well, I'm better and I don't.
The young man unsheathed his favorite dagger, toying with it idly. He ran the tip along the underside of his arm gently – almost absent-minded, yet very controlled. He traced out the blood vessels on his arm with the blade. He didn't mean anything by it. He never did – the times when he would mean it, Dilandau was already strapped down, so the dagger wouldn't do him any good.
Unexpectedly, someone pounded on his door.
He jerked, startled, and suddenly now the knife wasn't teasing his skin, but piercing it and the vein, blood spurting powerfully.
He gasped. Not perfect.
Dilandau vaguely heard the pounding once more. He dropped the knife; it clattered harshly on the floor.
The youth grasped his forearm. A part of him was fascinated with the sight of blood, even though it was his own this time. Another part knew he was supposed to staunch the blood-flow. He made no effort to do so, unsure of how to stop the vibrant crimson liquid. The part of him which was slowly becoming dominant was actually more of a numb haze.
The pounding faded into the cloudy white as he slipped unconscious.