A/N

I took the liberty (remember how I'm not dead? haha) to rewrite Chapter 1 to better flow with the rest of the story. I'd appreciate anyone who lets me know if they think it's improved. Thanks.

Also, remember Chapter 5, when I was like "blah blah blah putting Van through the wringer blah blah blah"? Well, I laugh now because *coughs* THIS chapter. So, yeah.

And again, remember how I mentioned in the veeeeery beginning that I'm a military wife? Well, you'd better believe I pulled from my experience for this one. My husband can be every bit as broody as Van (which is maybe why I love this couple so hard), so... yeah, I wanted to capture that.

Just wait for the next chapter, though. That's really something I drew from real life for sure.

Okay enough of this.

I want to dedicate this chapter to Woodlander8, who knows nothing about Escaflowne but still reads all my stuff and supports me. She's a military wife, too, and she approves of this chapter. Also, it's worth mentioning that she put together the original ONFTH playlists (there were three that I've combined and added to). So she definitely deserves thanks for that, too!

xo-CE

Warning: Van is not wearing plot armor.

Song Inspiration

Because even though this is kind of stupid, this is also kind of important.

Wicked Game by Ursine Vulpine, Bones by MSMR, Heat Wave (yes that Heat Wave, thanks for ruining it TikTok), and pretty much every broody song on my moody, broody, melodic, eclectic ICE playlist.

Chapter 12 - Brood and Grow

Flashes of their time together often came to him, especially when his mind had worn out other avenues of thought. Especially during the long days he'd been forced up here to properly recover, instead of down with the troops. Especially when his memories were his only distraction from the headaches and the discomfort and the boredom of healing.

So, in spite of the icy wind snapping against the frozen railing, in spite of the frosted, frigid landscape below and before him, and in spite of his throbbing head, his thoughts were in a warm moment. In his mind, he was holding Hitomi tight in his arms. He was pressing teasing, languid kisses down her neck as she threw her head back with a gasp of pleasure. He was dragging his fingers down the hot skin of her back while she tangled hers through his hair.

He let out a breath, opening his mind to let the warmth from the memory fill and relax his body.

A loud sucking sounds broke his concentration. Van glared up from where he was sitting to see an orderly poke her head through the opened door. When she made glancing eye contact with him, she winced and apologized before ducking back inside.

Van sighed and glowered at the closed door. The warmth from his thoughts had dissipated with the intrusion, and now he could feel the cutting wind against his skin again. It reminded him all too much of the sharp sting of defeat.

Temporary, personal defeat, but defeat nonetheless.

When he wasn't thinking about Hitomi, he ended up pining about, avoiding the other passengers, and wishing he was down dispatching Zaibach soldiers as he ought to be. He cursed himself for being in this position in the first place. Had he not left his country, he might have prevented Fanelia's burning. Had he been a better king, a better steward over his people, he might have prevented so much death. Had he swallowed his pride and returned to Fanelia when he had the chance, he might not be stuck here on this stupid hospital ship.

Brooding thoughts like this perpetually swirled in his mind, and Van, displaced King of Fanelia, was all too aware of his unworthiness as king, his weakness as a soldier, and his shortcomings as a man.

Recognizing that his thoughts were running away with him again, Van growled at himself and pulled the button from his pocket.

It was the size of a coin and shimmered white and pink. As he rotated it, the winter sunlight glinted off the flower etching on its face. He had a stirring recollection that in his surgical dream, it had looked different—something about six holes or petals—but he didn't know what or why. He tried not to think too hard about the whole dream, lest it encourage a headache, but if he relaxed, images and impressions from it returned to him.

He remembered Merle, and being in his study—that part physically hurt to think about—and of course, his naked wife at the end. But the part he liked best to remember had been when Dream Hitomi had inexplicably sewed her gift button onto his arm. Dwelling on that part never failed to lift his mood—it had seemed like such a good, logical idea in the dream—and now he breathed out a miniscule laugh, an almost invisible puff of air that whisked away with the wind.

Dreams were such strange things, processing events from real life in funny ways. And apparently his mind had found a way to explain the strange sensation of being stitched up and combine it with his fear of losing the button.

And he did not want to lose it. It had been the first thing he'd asked for once he had gotten his bearings. Dryden had handed him the pouch of his collected things and watched with a curious expression as Van had rushed to empty its contents before discovering the button at the very bottom. He'd collapsed back onto the bed and fallen back to sleep with it clutched in his fist, stubbornly ignoring Dryden's questions and the surgeon's remonstrations.

That button had been her parting gift and was the one physical thing reminding him of his time with Hitomi.

She had handled his departure with grace, considering how upset she had been on their midnight picnic. During their breakfast, she'd been unable to eat and had begged to not see him off, to instead hide in the library or up on the roof, but Van had been insistent. Whatever her feelings were in private, he'd told her, as a queen, in public, she was to remain dignified. She'd dried her tears, apologized, and tidied herself up. But before they had left the room, she'd gripped his arm with a warm hand and pulled him aside.

Her watery eyes had shone so unusually green against her blushing cheeks that Van had immediately paused his packing.

"I have something to give you—to remember me by," she'd said. "It's just a silly little thing. I stole it from my grandmother's sewing basket when I was little, because I thought it was pretty. I mean, she said I could have it, but that was after I felt guilty and confessed to her that I'd stolen it. It's stupid, really," she had rambled with bemusing bashfulness. "Anyway, I've had it for years, but I want you to have it." Then, she'd opened her hand to show a button on a string, explaining what the flower was before adding, her face a deep red, "You can think of me as your Freidian Starbloom."

Though he tried not to think about it, her gift and the meaning behind it had made his heart squeeze in a strange, almost painful way. Even now, close to two months later, his eyes still threatened to water and his throat tightened.

He'd taken it from her and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, all the while racking his own brain for something to give her in return. The best he had come up with was an almost-finished carving of a small mouse he had in his satchel. Whittling was something he could do in his down-time on the battlefield, and though he wasn't very good at it—Hitomi had mistaken it for a hedgehog—she had laughed and hugged him as gleefully as Merle used to do. Then she'd kissed him with an enthusiasm that made him regret the need to pack.

That had been their last kiss.

At least he could say that this parting with his wife had been a good one. At least he didn't have that regret hanging over him anymore.

It hadn't taken long for him to give up wearing the button around his neck, though. The string had annoyed his skin and the button didn't have enough heft to stay put. Instead, he'd taken to keeping it in his left trouser pocket, and it had become a habit over the last many weeks to feel for it automatically throughout the day. Thankfully, the layers of his pocket and trousers and armor had protected it from the blast and ensured it stayed on his person.

She hadn't told him, but he guessed that it had been one of a small collection of tiny items she had in her little sewing kit hairband. The button must have been special for her to have kept it for so long and traveled so far with it. Van thought with a bitter taste in his mouth how the other two gifts she'd given him—a wedding gift of a glass pen and matching inkwell, and, two months later, a birthday present of a leather-bound notebook with the great tree carved on its cover—were likely lost in the rubble of his palace. He'd never even bothered using them.

It was just another regret to add to his growing pile.

Pocketing the button again, Van slowly stretched his healing arm across his chest and gingerly rolled his shoulders. The surgeon was coming later today to remove the last stitches, and Van could hardly wait. In the meantime, he'd pass the hours sleeping, as Hitomi had ordered him to do.

He'd been unfortunately lucky, though he had no memory of what exactly happened. He remembered at the time being close to the front and approaching a Zaibach general—his last recollection was reaching for his sheathed sword—but according to witnesses, a ballista of some sort had hit nearby and dispatched the general for him. The king had been thrown back with a spray of debris and knocked out. Either he had hit his head or something had hit it, and a dagger-sized piece of shrapnel had lodged into the upper left part of his arm, right where Hitomi had sewn the button in his dream. He had awoken all bandaged up after his surgery to remove it, dizzy with a headache, weak from the loss of blood, and his entire body sore from being thrown back. Consequently, Dryden had banished him to the levi-ship to heal.

Which left Van feeling conflicted. Though he seethed at being sent away, though he hated himself for not finishing the general himself, though he resented his weak, human body, he secretly appreciated being able to sleep as much as he wanted. Even now, fatigue crept over him again and wooziness weighted his eyelids.

The surgeon had told him his left arm would need time and exercise to heal. Van had heard that before. This injury was barely a needle-prick compared to when the dragon had tried taking a bite out of him. This one barely hurt anymore, though the muscle might be a little damaged. After his slaying, he'd been secretly sick with a fever, fighting off the infection from the dragon's teeth for weeks. At least this time he didn't have that.

But his head… that was new. He wondered how long it might take to recover from the headaches and fatigue. Almost two weeks had passed, and only in the last few days had he noticed the dizziness diminishing and the headaches lessening. It would be another month, probably, before the fatigue left altogether, and he needed to strengthen his arm so he could lift it high enough to defend himself. He'd have to manage the war from the sidelines until then, a thought that left him wanting to knock himself in the head with a pommel if it wouldn't do more damage.

Grumbling, Van gripped the ice-cold railing and pulled himself to stand. With a hand pressed against the wall to steady himself, he trudged to the door. Heated air rushed at him when he pulled it open, blowing his shaggy hair back from his face. The shell of his ears ached from the sudden warmth.

Feet heavy, he shuffled down the hall–the passers-by ignoring him as he did them– to his closet of a room. Once there, he collapsed onto his cot, simultaneously pulling the covers over himself and reaching under his pillow to retrieve a creased letter. He fingered the broken seal, the small dragon a counterpart to his own insignia.

After the swift maneuver that had cleared the mountains of Basramian and Zaibach soldiers, the allied troops had shifted. Van had the opportunity to sidetrack to Fanelia during that brief time, but he had declined going. Since he was seeing success with the war, he had insisted that he wouldn't return to Fanelia until he could finish the job and return triumphant.

He'd meant well.

Or he thought he had. Now he wasn't so sure. Had he swallowed his pride and taken that opportunity, he wouldn't have been injured. He could have seen his homeland. He could have seen his people. He could have seen his wife.

But he'd chosen to cling to whatever kingly dignity and pride he'd thought he had left, to stay and fight, and now he suffered the consequences. How long would he suffer? Nobody knew. His head might feel better tomorrow, next month, or next year.

Van considered himself a fool—an unworthy fool.

Which made this letter all the more poignant.

It had reached him a week ago, handed to him personally by his father-in-law, who he hadn't seen since the wedding. While a majority of levi-ships continued pushing into enemy territory, General Kanzaki had overseen troop movement reverse-ways back over the mountains and through into Fanelia, both to secure the passes and to give his army a break from the front. During the shift in troops, he'd taken the opportunity to see his daughter for the first time since she had become a queen.

Van had just returned to his private closet of a room after the surgeon had removed the deeper layer of stitches from his arm as well as the stitches from his scalp. The former had been an incredibly painful procedure—he'd been awake for it and only partially drugged—and he had just wanted to sleep away the pain. But the General arrived, announced by an orderly. If the king had had any of his senses about him, he might have thought to be embarrassed. His skin crawled now at the idea of being seen in such a vulnerable condition, especially by a man he might actually care to impress, but he had been too drained and nauseated for such concerns at the time, and the General neither seemed to care nor did he seem interested in staying longer than a few minutes.

In complexion, Hitomi resembled her father, though the details of her face and features were different, softer, and far prettier. When the General sat on the only chair in the room, he had faced Van with sharp, green eyes reminiscent of hers, and Van had mustered enough energy to sit up.

According to General Kanzaki, Hitomi was worn out but well, and his citizens were clothed and not starving. Though, he had added, the winter was—to him, a Freidian—already hell. Van knew from other reports that it was actually starting out mild for Fanelia, but he didn't say anything.

Then he'd surprised Van by a sudden change in topic.

"Hitomi said you treat her well," he'd said. "Which I'm relieved to hear."

The man's eyes had bored into him, and the way Van's stomach churned had nothing to do with the sickening ache radiating from his arm.

"I was uncertain about you, Fanel," he'd said. "My Countess," he continued, and it had taken Van's sluggish mind a moment to realize he was speaking of Lady Kanzaki, "had heard rumors of your heartlessness. It's part of why, in spite of her bloodline, I didn't make any attempt to introduce Hitomi to you once she came of age."

Still low on blood after his injury, he had shivered and the room had spun.

"I was pretty shocked when we received your invitation—though not as shocked as Hitomi. You know she fainted when she saw it?" he had asked with a soft chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. "So after your gala, when you sent us an offer, you can understand our trepidations. To be frank, Fanel, even considering your position and your generous terms, she had to talk me and her mother into it. She is our only child, after all, and we were loath to send her to a marriage where she would be used and mistreated."

Van, already wallowing in self-condemnation, had taken this piece of knowledge about his in-laws like a pommel in the stomach. He had bent over the edge of the bed, thinking he might be sick, feeling the bile in his throat, and had reached for his glass on the floor to tamp down the urge.

"I don't blame you for the war. It happens without warning sometimes. But war can change men, Fanel," his father-in-law had continued as Van had taken a desperate sip. "For the worse, usually. But sometimes it makes us see what's really important. Your kingdom is the most important thing, of course, but—."

Van didn't want to hear anymore from someone who had reputedly spent a third of his marriage away from his wife. He didn't need to hear this criticism when he already beat himself up about this and everything else. "I don't need to hear this," he'd spat. "I'm well aware of the worth of your daughter, my wife and queen." The arm he was leaning upon shook, and he had to focus on holding himself up.

If his father-in-law had been bothered by his tone, he didn't show it. "Are you?" he'd merely asked, his voice thoughtful.

The king had done his best to meet his eyes with a determined look, but he saw two generals instead of one. Finally giving in, he had dropped to his pillow with a pathetic hiss.

"Perhaps," the General had murmured. "Perhaps you've already learned the lesson it took me much longer to learn. If so, I'll be happy for you." With that, he had stood, told Van he'd heal up just fine, and then pulled an envelope out of his breast pocket, handing it over with a simple bow and farewell. Van had taken it wordlessly and tucked it under his tunic to read later, when he was rested and his eyes could focus again.

At the time, he hadn't realized it was from Hitomi. Van had slept the remainder of that day and into the next, and it wasn't until he stepped into the cold air of the balcony that his eyes could focus and his mind became alert enough to read and comprehend a letter. He pulled it out.

It was his first time seeing Hitomi's seal on a letter meant for him, and his breath caught when he recognized it. His first fumbling attempt breaking the wax almost resulted in the paper being carried away by the wind, but, fueled by panic, he'd snatched it just in time and rushed inside faster than he'd been able to do since his injury.

From then on, he only read it in his room, where it—and he—was safe—from the wind, and from the curious glance of others. He especially liked to read it before sleeping.

He'd never tell anyone, but it helped him fall asleep.

Most of it contained updates on the conditions of his city and people, on what Hitomi was doing to manage the supplies from Asturia, how Arlott was dispensing food provisions, and their efforts to ensure orphans had families and families had shelter. Hitomi intentionally framed things in a positive light, Van knew that. He could only imagine that things were a struggle for her and his people, and that survival took effort.

If he dwelt on it too much, he hated himself again for not going to see things for himself when he had the chance, and for now being stuck with the need to heal.

But the last half kept him rereading the letter.

The spirit here trends towards hopefulness. In general, our people are cheered to see evidence that the war progresses in our favor. Whenever I ask what message they would have me send to you, they say to do such things with our enemies as I cannot repeat. Their ideas are quite elaborate and often leave me laughing for the shock. I'll leave it all up to your imagination, but trust me when I say that your people are behind you and supporting your efforts. We all pray to Escaflowne for you every day.

By the time you receive this, it will be nearing the anniversary of the gala. It feels like it's been so much longer, if I'm honest, and so much has changed. It occurred to me that this will be my first full winter here since I lived in Adom all those years ago. I'm very selfish to wish I could share it with you by my side, and in my bed….

Van, my love, whatever battle or struggle or pain you're experiencing, keep pushing through it. I know you're strong and capable, whatever else you might believe. Our people cheer for you. While you might have moments where you disagree or doubt, you're worthy of their confidence and their prayers. You're worthy of your crown.

My father, who will take this letter in the morning, says that you likely chose to push to the war front instead of sidetracking to Fanelia. I don't blame you. It's important to move with the momentum and continue forward with your successes. While I wish I could see you for my own selfish reasons, I cannot help but feel that your departure would have been doubly difficult. It's easier this way, and I can't help but think you'd agree.

In the meantime, please don't worry about things here. We're managing. Your focus should be on doing your best where you're at. And Van, if you need to rest, then rest. Part of being a good king is taking care of yourself. As your queen, I could simply order you to do so, that you might return to me safe and whole. However, as your wife and lover, I beg you to…

Return to me, my love.

Hitomi de Fanel

Reading those words from her never failed to warm his body after being outside in the frigid air. He had memorized her lettering, especially the ornate way she had written My Dear King in the beginning and the letters V, H, and F of their names. Below her signature, she had drawn a Freidian Starbloom, in the corner, she'd made a quick sketch of the great tree, and she'd taken the time to draw vines and flowers along the border. In this plain, homely closet of a room, her letter was something pleasing to the eye.

At first, however, Van didn't know how to handle her flowery show of affection on paper. Her usage of the term my love had so flustered him on his first read-through that he'd had to put the letter down before he could finish it. Now, he could read it and enjoy the comfortable sensations it brought.

They hadn't expressed any such thing as love out loud in person, though they had both come close, he suspected, on the night of their picnic in the garden. Of course, he'd tried to tell her in other ways. And, their last time making love, she'd captured his face between her warm hands and pressed kiss after hot kiss down upon his face and neck and lips. At the time, that had felt like love.

Now, the memory of it was… nourishing and invigorating and very warm. It made his insides pleasantly jittery, and even though a yearning ache spread through his core when his thoughts drifted that direction, he could manage that.

It was better than the cold, heavy specter of unworthiness and inadequacy and guilt that haunted him everywhere else. All too often, he'd read her words as a way to get himself out of his own head. Usually, normally, he didn't mind his own companionship, but here where he felt so useless, so defeated, and so regretful, he was on the verge of driving himself crazy.

But Hitomi believed in him. She thought he'd made the right choice. What's more, his people supported him.

He needed that reminder.

He needed the hope and grace and love offered in her letter.

Van fed off these more positive thoughts and feelings whenever he read it. He told himself that soon, he would return to the war and fight for and avenge his country. Things were progressing in their favor. He could still make a difference.

So he clung to this hope, determining that once he was allowed back into action, he'd redeem himself to his people, he'd be the king his people deserved. And though he didn't feel worthy of it, he clung to his wife's words, knowing that she was taking care of his people, that she was encouraging him, that she was waiting for him.

And that she loved him….

Van folded the letter and slipped it under his shirt, next to his skin. He'd put it back under the pillow when he awoke to get his stitches removed.

Eyes heavy, the king gave into the desire to close them and sink into blackness. As he drifted into slumber, the throbbing in his head eased, and he told himself that he was allowed to sleep. He was allowed to rest and recover. He was allowed this grace, so that when he returned to the war, he'd return a better fighter, and then he'd return home a better king…and a better husband.

After all, he didn't want to disappoint her.

A/N I hope nobody is bothered that I'm pretty much not going to cover the war with this story. It's been done so many times and so much better than I could do it. Besides, this story isn't about the war. This story is about our favorite couple. And kissing.

This story is about kissing.