Sorry it's taken me so long to update. I managed to get wrapped up in my other fic and didn't realize it had been so long. I'll saya bit more at the end, but for now I'll just leave you to read. Enjoy and please continue to leave feedback!

-sor

Chapter 9

Fire. Smoke. Blood.

He could feel the heat from the fire behind him, the fire from his burning melef. He was afraid it might explode and so he limped as quickly as possible away from the wreckage. He could practically feel the eyes of the other melef pilot watching him and as he fled, he waited for the blow to fall. He'd been no match for Escaflowne. Not in that damaged sluggish melef of his. He'd had no hope to begin with, even with the stealth cloak.

The alley was dark. It was safe. The soldiers were too busy going after Escaflowne to worry about one wounded Zaibach soldier. He watched them run past.

"I can't escape hurt like this…"

Despair. He'd let down Zaibach. He'd let down his father, his family. Who was he trying to fool, though? What really upset him was that he'd let down… The name floated on the edge of memory. It was there, if only he could reach out and grasp it.

"What am I going to do?"

It was overwhelming. The smell. Clean air turned putrid. He tried to take a breath, but something was preventing it. Something around his throat. Hands… a pair of cold, clammy hands, fingers like brittle bone yet strong as steel. He could feel the strength in them. Could not dislodge them.

He struggled. He flailed. He fought.

Those hands did not falter. The world grew darker…

"Dilandau-sama!"

The room was dark. It was too dark. He was in a soft bed nestled against fluffy, goose feather pillows, not laid out against cold, stone walls. There was no pain in his leg, no fire, no smoke, no death. He was in the palace. He was in his rooms, the shades drawn to allow him rest.

He remembered everything.

Slowly he sat up, one hand grasping his aching head. It was a trial to think around the pain, but as his vision became more focused and his thoughts clearer, he began to recall more. He'd been a prisoner. One of those priests had come to him.

"Folken-sama sent you." The words were whispered with a deep reverence. Reverence because he remembered Folken-sama. Not from the records kept of the war two years ago, but an actual memory. He'd seen Strategos Folken. He'd known how the man operated and he'd known right away he would send someone.

If only going back hadn't meant facing Dilandau-sama's disappointment. His fury. He'd failed. How could he have gone back to being a Dragonslayer after getting captured so easily by Allen Schezar and his band of nitwits?

Dilandau-sama! He'd forgotten Dilandau-sama. The thought nearly brought tears to his eyes. The bed creaked beneath him as he rose, moving carefully to the window where he would pull the shades open. It was morning. The gulls flew overhead from atop the palace down into the harbor. The harbor… Dilandau-sama had burned the harbor once. He remembered. Not two days before…

Before Freid. He remembered Freid clear as day. That priest and his smug looks as he'd forced him into a false hypnosis. How he'd lied to the Duke of Freid and pointed the finger at Allen Schezar.

He had to laugh. No wonder he hated Allen. The man was his enemy. It was Allen Schezar's fault he'd been captured. If he hadn't shown up, the dragon would have been theirs and Dilandau-sama would have had his revenge. He would have returned to Zaibach a hero with the rest of the Dragonslayers. He wouldn't have been just his father's son anymore. He would have been honored in his own right.

Miguel Lavariel: Hero of Zaibach.

But he shouldn't dwell on things that couldn't be changed. Years had passed since then and that Zaibach didn't even exist anymore. Now it was a pathetic excuse for a military power, controlled by those damn Madoushi and their weak cohorts. The proud, noble military tradition that he'd been raised on was in ashes, his father and his allies reduced to nothing. He couldn't imagine how Rafael Lavariel was dealing with defeat. He'd never taken defeat well.

If he was even alive.

The possibility that his father might be dead hit Miguel like a jolt. It was unlikely, of course, but still possible. The Zaibach delegation would know but he couldn't very well knock on the Madoushi's door and inquire about Rafael Lavariel without drawing unwanted attention. If they, or anyone else where to find out who he was, he'd be as good as dead. Zaibach would call him traitor and Asturia would call him spy.

He was neither traitor nor spy, but what was he? He couldn't very well call himself a knight! He wasn't this boy Baedan they all thought he was. Or was he? He certainly had been for the past two years. He could even say he had affections for his… for Baedan's parents. They were good people, if a bit snobby as Asturians tended to be. He couldn't break their fragile hearts and tell them their beloved son was really a former soldier from Zaibach. A Dragonslayer, no less! Dilandau-sama was infamous in Asturia.

So what, then, could he do? The logical coarse was to simply go on with the façade that he was Baedan Trevelian and let the Asturians be none the wiser. He had a good life here. He was well liked among the soldiers and nobles alike. He was popular with the ladies. Celena certainly seemed fond of him. Or at least she had been until he'd been a fool and insulted her brother.

Allen Schezar… The mere thought of the man sent a cold shiver down his spine. That bastard had ruined everything for Dilandau-sama. It was Allen Schezar's fault he was captured and it was Allen Schezar's bastard crew of mercenaries that taunted him. He hated Allen Schezar!

It would serve Allen Schezar right if he did report directly to the Zaibach delegation! Then that damn bastard wouldn't be so smug!

But reporting to Zaibach meant reporting to the Madoushi. He hated the Madoushi almost as much as he hated Allen. The Madoushi had ruined Zaibach! They'd taken a proud military nation and turned it into a country of whining scientist types who didn't like to do their own dirty work. At one time, he'd been proud to be a member of Zaibach's military, the strongest in the world! Now that military was laughable. Nearly disbanded! He could only imagine how his father felt about such a humiliation.

His father who had been so proud of his family's military history… a history that had died when his only son never came home.

xxxx

"The Vione, Miguel! The Strategos' own ship!" Rafael Lavariel stood in the doorway, his son's orders clutched in one hand. "An elite unit on the most important ship in the fleet!" He laughed a bit, holding the papers tightly, refusing even to allow Miguel to lay a hand on them until he left for his posting.

Thank heavens he was leaving within the hour. It was nice to know his father was proud, but the man's enthusiasm was about to drive his son absolutely insane. All his life he'd been tugged this way and that, raised every inch the military brat. He'd learned to hold a sword when he was five and had been practicing all his life under the training of the best tutors money could buy. Even General Adelphos had given him a bit of attention due to his father's endless babbling. 'My boy is the greatest young swordsman on Gaea. My boy's prowess in a guymelef is unmatched. My boy this. My boy that.'

Hell, he wasn't Miguel. He was Lavariel's boy!

He'd been waiting all his life to prove himself… to prove to Zaibach that he was more than just a kid with an influential father. He was Miguel Lavariel, not some clone of Rafael Lavariel.

He glanced at his father's reflection in the mirror where he stood, adjusting the final touches of his uniform. Only nineteen had been made. A unique uniform for a group of elite young men. It made him stand out. He had to admit he liked it very much. "Don't worry so much, father. You know I'll make you proud."

"I should hope so!" General Lavariel strode forward to press the orders into his son's gloved hand. "I won't have you embarrass me, Miguel. This is your chance to show them that all I've said about you is true. I expect perfection. Do you understand, soldier?"

Fingers closed firmly around his orders and he battled the urge to crumple them and throw them back in his father's face. Accepted to an elite unit and the man still wasn't even a bit proud of him. Disappointment was masked, however, as he responded in the only way his father would allow. Despite the fact that his uniform jacket was not fully fastened and his sword belt still lay on the sofa, Miguel snapped to a quick attention, sharply saluting the reflection in the mirror. "Understood, sir!"

That, at least, seemed to please the general and he placed a hand on his son's shoulder for the briefest moment before turning away to march out the door and leave Miguel to his uniform.

Only when he heard the door closer did the boy's posture relax and only then did he allow himself to breath again. The orders clenched in his fist were carefully uncrumpled and placed on the table with the other papers he'd need. Military records, medical records, things that would go into his files on the Vione. So that was that. The pressure was on. He had to do well in this or his father would never forgive him.

"Don't worry so much about the old blowhard, oniichan."

Miguel looked up from the side table, startled by the unexpected voice. "Dulcea, don't sneak up on me like that!" Despite his words, though, he welcomed his sister with open arms, accepting her warm embrace, even lifting her a few inches off the ground.

Dulcea Lavariel was only a year younger than her brother and already she was attracting her fair share of suitors. She had her brother's blue eyes, but her mother's golden curls and the sweetest disposition in all of Zaibach. She was a bit of a tomboy, though she kept it hidden well behind her lacy dresses and rosy cheeks. When they were children, Miguel had tutored her in secret, teaching her every inch of what he learned with his swordmaster. Of course, their father never knew. He would have thrown a fit had he known his pretty little daughter was gallivanting around through the property in a pair of her brother's old breaches and wielding a wooden sword.

"Well don't you look handsome?" As soon as her feet touched solid ground again, Dulcea began the serious task of fastening the last few clasps of Miguel's jacket. When she finished, she let her hands slide up his face where they pushed a few uncooperative strands of hair out of his eyes. "You really should have gotten a trim, you know. Do you think the Strategos will like having scruffy soldiers on his ship?"

With a bit of a laugh, he reached up to undo her work, letting those strands fall right into his eyes again. "Come on now, he doesn't care."

Rather than laugh with him, though, she simply let her hands fall to his armored shoulders, gripping the blue plating in her delicate palms. "You should look nice, Miguel. Lavariel's boy wouldn't have messy hair." Her attempt at humor fell short, though, when her soft voice cracked and the first hint of tears became visible in her eyes.

"Hey, now… Dulcea…" He hadn't expected this. He'd really only stopped to think about his father's reaction to his placing. Usually at his age he'd remain in training for at least another year. This placement had been so unexpected that he hadn't even stopped to think about Dulcea. "Don't worry about me." He lifted a hand, leather clad fingers brushing a tear from her cheek. "Nothing's going to happen."

"But you don't know that!" The sudden outpouring of emotion came as a shock and when she flung her arms around his neck, he was frozen for a time. Then slowly he wound his arms around her waist, giving her a reassuring squeeze. Still, it didn't silence her tears. "You're only fifteen, Miguel. You shouldn't be out there fighting. Why can't they send the more experienced soldiers? Why do you have to go fight?"

"Dulcea…" Slowly one hand rose to pet at her hair while his other hand gave her shoulders a gentle push, prying them far enough apart so he could look her in the eye. "Zaibach needs the best soldiers for this mission. They can't fall back on the typical soldiers. They need raw talent and… they need me for this. I can't let Zaibach down."

She seemed to understand, though it did little to dry her tears. Still, she nodded and smiled, just like he'd hoped she would, and flung her arms around him once more for a firm hug. Finally, when she released him, she seemed no worse for the wear, even reaching up to straighten his hair one last time. "Now, don't forget your sword, Miguel. Can't have Lavariel's boy showing up without his sword. What would your commander think?"

xxxx

That had been the last time he'd seen Dulcea. He'd received letters, of course. She would tell him how boring things had been at home without him. She would lament the loss of her swordsmanship lessons. She would tell him all about their father and his proud strutting. It was a welcome thing to laugh a bit to ease the homesickness. He'd only written back once, though, to tell her about the Dragonslayers and Dilandau-sama. He didn't say much, yet she was still able to judge from the tone of his writing the great admiration he had for his commander.

He'd written about Gatti, detailing the other boy's prowess in a melef and his steadfast dedication to the team. He'd written about quiet, seemingly fragile Shesta and his little cherub's face, a gentle boy who could still fight like a devil. He even wrote about arrogant, insufferable Dallet whom he enjoyed tormenting. Of course, he made himself out to be the hero in his letters and poor Dallet came off quite a bit worse than even he had intended. Maybe he shouldn't have been such an ass.

What did it matter, though? Dallet was dead now, just like the rest of them. Killed by Van Fanel. Dilandau-sama killed by Van Fanel.

His focus returned to the view from the window, pulling the shades wider to gaze down at the morning light reflection off the fountains littered among the multitude of courtyards and gardens. Asturian extravagance. It was ridiculous that one country should have so much when all the rest had so little. Why should Asturia control the waterways and trade? Why should men like Dryden Fassa continue to get richer while Zaibach starved?

The youth's fist clenched in his expensive curtains. "Damn you, Asturia. I hate you." He gave a firm tug, pulling the extravagant cloth down to the floor with a sharp rip. "And I hate you, Van Fanel."

Did anyone guess? Or were my hints too subtle? Or, more importantly, is my latest twist too stupid? Too confusing? Too anything? I realize I'm pushing the boundaries of the cannon here, but I don't think I've stepped out of bounds. And I will say, this really is the only instance in which I'm pushing things so I'd love to hear some feedback. Did I push too far?

-sor