Chapter III
Reminiscence
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Fanelia spread in eight directions from the castle walls, full with houses, while storefronts spilled into the streets. Buffalo wagons groaning with mercantile goods coursed steadily in both directions. Children played carefree; elders lounged in the shade. Paddies shone in the distant hills. The castle sat majestically in the midst, its presence a protection and a comfort.
The forests once again sheltered Fanelia within their bosom.
After her sightseeing obligations, Merle soon delved into her favorite subject, reinforcing highlights with both whiskers and tail, and although Hitomi listened with interest to Van's deeds in haphazard chronological order, the reminiscence made Hitomi delve into her own memories of the past ten years.
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Hitomi had returned back to Japan into the same moment, that evening at the nurse's office. Amano still was the same—calm, confident, collected. But this time, Hitomi understood her feelings, understood the changes within her, understood what she wanted to do. She asked Amano to wait with her for Yukari. Amano complied and sat in the seat next to her bed, and although he smiled on her with gentle concern, she could tell he was surprised. She had never directly requested his presence, and had never asked as if she only expect acquiesce. When Yukari arrived, Hitomi also made her sit.
In a quiet voice, Hitomi began the tale—The Vision of Escaflowne.
Amano and Yukari were great listeners. They looked genuinely concerned as Chid restrained his tears at the burning remains of Godashim, were shocked as Millerna announced her wedding with Dryden, and grinned goofily as Van demolished the rogue guymelefs in the Palas coliseum in his return gesture of friendship. But after the tale was done, Yukari shook her head in disbelief, and Amano praised Hitomi for her imagination. The missing pendant was reasoned to have been dropped on the school grounds, and although Amano immediately offered to search for it, they didn't understand the true significance of its loss.
Hitomi sighed inwardly. She asked them to meet in front of Shibuya 109 on Saturday. They agreed, a little too quickly. Then she took her bag from Yukari, and headed home, alone.
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That Saturday, Hitomi had woken to a gray morning and the patter of rain at her window. She dressed with care—short, light skirts were suited to rainy days. She tucked toast into a plastic baggie and placed it in her jacket pocket, its warmth a fleeting pleasure.
When she stepped out into the muggy late summer rain with her boots and umbrella, Hitomi giggled a little. Amano and Yukari were certainly at Shibuya by now, their loyalty stronger than any dismal weather. The two would wait beneath the front of 109 for her arrival for another hour until they resign to their fate of abandonment. A whole afternoon indoors watching the rain and the pedestrians, with peppermint gelato and each other for company—was there any better recipe for romance?
The path uphill from the train station was a tricky trek through puddles and slippery steps. By now the rain had lessened to a drizzle, and its warm drops settled upon her honey-blond strands like a mantle of dew.
The trail of stairs into mountain seemed to be an entrance into a hidden world, its shadows full of formidable mysteries. Surrounded by the tall grim woods, the usual crimson torii gates were pallid and worn. Her steps were muffled by leaves underfoot, discolored and discarded on the sodden ground. The shimenawa ropes wept. Perhaps it was the dreary grayness, or perhaps it was a reflection of her mood, but the shrine seemed especially melancholy that day.
Hitomi settled underneath its tiled eaves, and took out her toast, cold and slightly soft by now, and a little notebook. As she leaned against a pillar and looked out across the little stone clearing where she first saw him in his carefree red shirt with his red energist, she began to write. It would be the true version, complete with intimate details she had left out in the telling for Yukari and Amano. She had to write it all down, before she doubted her own memories.
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Van tossed the last sheaf of papers across the table and reached absentmindedly for his cup. The tea was down to its sad cold dregs. Sighing, he glanced toward the unshuttered window to confirm the time—the twin moons were high in the sky, pale against the net of stars—past two already. The last report had occupied him for some time. Finding spare parchment underneath the paperweight, he wrote "continue surveillance" with a quill, signed it with his mark, then pressed his seal into the wax over the folded sheet. He held his handiwork up to the light and grinned. His council had requested permission to create a replacement official seal many times, the original lost in the fire ten years ago, but neither could he be bothered with an object not in his possession at all times, nor could he be bothered with a signet ring that would impede mobility. To the council's chagrin, Van had always used the most natural seal on his person—the Fanelian crest on his sword.
Letter and sword in hand, he went off to the residence wing of internal staff. His master recordkeeper was still up as usual, adding his summary comments in submitted documents for Van to read the next day. Handing over the letter and his customary instructions, Van bade the old man good night.
The castle corridors were now lit only by shaded torch stands; the broad expanse between each was obscure and somber. His footsteps rang hollow in the wooden halls, and assumed a different significance in the stillness of the night. Passing the solitary guard at the stairs, Van made a mental note to speak with the guard-captain tomorrow, although perhaps it was still too early for partners to be a necessity.
He walked past the study and stepped into his parents' room. No—it was his room, now. Despite his occupancy since his coronation, the space still felt too large and foreign. It didn't seem his, somehow. It had been unoccupied for so long, had been a place he both avoided and escaped to, that it seemed wrong to live in it, to call it his own. Housemother Sara had raised an eyebrow at its spartan state, but Van preferred its bareness. The brass bedframe, the indigo covering with its embroidered royal crest, the carved sidetables—everything was as the same as he remembered from childhood. The only feature he added to the reconstruction for fire damage was a side door to the adjoining study, so his tendency for work during certain insomniac nights would be unobserved by the household staff.
Van let out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. Despite the late hour, he decided to return to the staircase for the training hall on the uppermost floor.
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Standing at the center of the dark room, Van merged with the shadows, and only the slight reflection off the lacquer on his sword gave an indication of his position. On some nights, when he trained through familiar forms in this familiar room, he could almost feel the presence of Balgus.
No one could replace Balgus. To others, he was one of the legendary swordsmen of Gaea, but to Van, he was a loyal vassal, an indispensable mentor, an almost father. Beyond the lessons in diplomatic relationships, monarchy responsibilities, and warfare strategies, Balgus had also given him the ability to feel like other people.
It wasn't that he was ungrateful of his lineage, or despised his status. On the contrary, the weight of his obligations was so imbued into each decision since early childhood, that the full realization of "I am Fanelia" seldom intruded into his thoughts, except in times of doubt when his policies enforced greater good at the price of individual grief.
But, ah, sword practice was different. To exert physical effort, to sweat, to feel the same thirst and soreness after a difficult session—it was a different life.
After things had settled down in Fanelia, Van, to his disappointment, quickly learned to prefer solo practice. Although Balgus never ceased his deferential speech even in reprimands, he never let the difference between their statuses be an issue during training, but it seemed that no other person in the castle could look past Van's title in the training hall.
He crouched low, left foot in front, his left hand grasping the scabbard in a loose hold, his right hand hovering over the hilt. Van concentrated on the methodical breaths, the paradoxical feeling of relaxed control in his arms, the slight arch in his lower back that held the tension point of this starting position.
As his right foot made the decisive step forward, he seized the hilt, and unsheathed the sword in a perfect arc.
Solitude.
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Tonight while he trained, instead of Balgus, a different figure appeared in his mind's eye.
Van had been in another long council meeting, trying to hide his frustration. Kuon's captain of intelligence just reported on recent developments in Basram, and tensions were high among the staff, each feeling uneasy at possibilities that may now come to fruition. The news revealed an oversight with emissaries on both public and private fronts. Although Fanelia so far had been neutral in its position to Basram and Cesario's disputes, the benign survey may be misconstrued by either country. While his chief vassals weighed the next course of action in their tight circle, the junior staff's discussion on protocol changes soon escalated into allusions of derelict duties.
His first thought was to call them to order. Accusations and bickering weren't acceptable practices on his staff. More importantly, he needed them to concentrate on the tasks at hand. Van didn't want to deal with personnel issues in addition to this potentially insidious juncture.
But then, with some embarrassment, he remembered a certain hotheaded boy years ago. He decided to stand in front of the window instead, to wait and listen some more.
There was a flash of light at the edge of his vision, making him turn toward distant hills in the northeast, and he pressed his palms against the glass.
The steady beam of light was unmistakable. It had to be Hitomi.
"Council dismissed!" He yelled over his shoulder as he ran from the room, not caring if they heard his dismissal, not trusting to stop and give an explanation. Some things were best kept hidden, even from his most trusted advisors. Besides, what if she was found first by someone else?
On the long ride, he found himself urging his horse to higher speed as if it was Escaflowne, and wanted to laugh that his kinship with an animal was less than his bond with an ancient armor. A voice nagged at him for this preposterous behavior, and questioned him for his immediate certainty that it had to be her, but Van ignored it. Some things had to be.
The late afternoon now faded into dusk, and Van hastened his approach into the purple hills of Arzas. At the top of the crest, he dismounted to wade through the tall grass, leading Melidoul by his reins. The air was fragrant with herbs and tiny star-shaped white flowers that speckled the soft ground and peeked through gray blades and patches of briar.
A dark shape amid the knee-high grass suddenly enlarged into a formidable boulder, and as Van grasped his sword into a drawing position, it called out to him. Van relaxed and stepped forward. In his haste, he forgot that he already had stepped into the boundaries of Arzas. No man or animal can cross in safety unless recognized as a friend by the authority of the packleader.
Ruhm grinned down at him. "So the girl is back." He picked up his quarterstaff and slung his pack over a large shoulder. "Take care, Van. See you two around." And with that, he waved and walked off deeper into the shadowy meadow.
Van blinked, and then stared at the spot Ruhm had vacated. She was unconscious in the grass, wearing a light wool sweater and dark pants, strangely fragile amid the rough landscape. He looked down the hill at the clusters of cabins and huts, lit against the coming night, a bonfire in their midst. Sounds of cooking and singing rang across the village. "Thank you, Ruhm," he murmured.
He placed Hitomi on Melidoul, letting her head rest against his mane. Melidoul seemed to understand his charge, and stood still while Van swung up behind her and pulled her back against him. It was a little awkward to try to carry her, and after some deliberation and fidgeting, Van settled on nestling her in front, her weight against the hollow of his shoulder, an arm holding her close. She would be most comfortable sideways, although it was not an easy position for him—her legs dangled over one side and brushed against his thigh, her hair tickled his collarbone, and he held the reins unsteadily with the free hand.
Melidoul's pace was slower now, but the ride back also seemed more distant, somehow. He tried to ignore her warmth, her smell, but his senses, sharpened by the dark night, only drove the thoughts deeper—she was back on Gaea, and by god, she was in front of him.
It was late evening when he passed through the east gate, and although he knew that all but the main thoroughfares would be sparse with pedestrians at this hour, he still chose to wind through the back streets. No need to broadcast Hitomi's return. The fewer who knew about her, the better. At the inner castle, he entrusted Hitomi to Merle's care, then returned to the council. The chief vassals knew his moods, and didn't press him for any answers as they continued the meeting as if there hadn't been any intermission.
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Van halted. His forms hadn't been this loose, and his mind hadn't been so clouded, in a long time.
Despite becoming better at controlling his emotions in recent years—all the practice of acting confident when he was hesitant and cautious, all the times forced to be generous when he was frustrated—pretending that this impulse to find her was instead a routine duty of gallantry definitely surpassed his limits. Why had he played the rescue of the damsel in distress on his gleaming chestnut horse? Worry for Hitomi had displaced his attention to duty. It had blurred his better judgment.
And then there was his rash behavior in her room earlier today. Why did he get so emotional? Was it because, for a moment, he had blended Hitomi of the past and Hitomi of now together?
She had become a woman, although he didn't understand exactly how to describe it. She still kept her hair short, but it framed her face in a new way. And despite wearing a sleeveless white dress typical of Fanelian young women, she looked distinctly different.
Different. Not from this world.
He was suddenly angry. It was unfair for her to come back to Gaea now, to come back into his life so suddenly.
But what did he feel, anyway? Did he still love her? Ridiculous. He was upsetting himself over nothing. He couldn't even be sure that she was still Hitomi. The person who was in front of him on that horse, who was now in her previous room, despite her name, despite looking like her, despite her familiar smell, she was a stranger. Hitomi had left for her other life, her real life. And she, just like him, would surely be different now.
Van sheathed his sword by his side, and walked out of the training room, toward his chambers.
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Thank you for reading ch 3 and sticking by me so far! As an accompaniment to this ch, I have a drawing at jomiel,com/vanhitomi horse,jpg (remember to replace commas with periods), so now you can all know what I've envisioned the two to be like at 25 ;P Please do not link or post the drawing without first letting me know. Depending on access, I may take some necessary measures.
A slight aside: if you are not in the habit to log in or don't have an account on please consider it. You leave such lovely notes, but I have no contact information to write a thank you back. Reviews make me smile so much that I'd really love to write everyone back for your comments and critiques.
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Favorite story #2
Mystic Eyes
By Aishuu
Out of continuation fics set as reincarnation of Gaea characters on Earth, this story has been the best I've read. Beyond complicated backstories and great prose execution, Aishuu also researched heavily into tarot cards. Unfortunately for its sexy Van, she seems to be taking a hiatus from ff, but the story is still enjoyable and its possibility intriguing.
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sharlee
08/2006