Version 1.0 [beta-read by CovertEyes...many thanks!]

'''

Brothers Sans Arms

He only half-noted the noise his metal fingers made as he tapped them impatiently on the equally metalic tabletop. It seemed to fit his uncharacteristically distressed state as he sat facing away from the unconscious figure on his bed.

If only they had kidnapped his brother and stolen the guymelef quietly; that was all he had asked for. They had all the right equipment. This was the kind of mission he designed the stealth cloaks for. Naria and Eriya were trained in covert techniques; if only he could use them, but no. Folken had no such luck. "They are not ready," were the specific words from the responsible army official.

Instead, he had to be assigned the flashiest, most narcissistic little bastard he ever knew: Dilandau Albatou. Being named a strategist over the unit led by Dilandau could have been taken as a bit of an insult. The captain had no plans, no tactics, and no patience. Just mad self-confidence and a bloodlust that couldn't be satisfied in the barracks.

And he had his loyal bunch of hand-picked, wide-eyed, boys–still–whom Dilandau himself had generously titled "Dragonslayers" upon revealing Zaibach's objective to them. Folken did not underestimate their strength, though. There was an undefined warning in their hungry gazes, the type seen in stray, beaten dogs. Someone who earned the uniform of a Zaibach elite and was armed with an Alseides, no less, was not to be taken lightly. Dilandau himself was the best of the academia; he'd slain a foreign general as a kid of just fourteen. Those boys were all soldiers already. Folken was not, and he was therefore certain their respect for him was seriously limited.

Folken had been trained to think. These boys were trained to kill.

That wasn't a good sign for Van's future.

Folken had long since recognized that the best way to protect his brother would be to have him here, with him. The only thing he needed was imperial approval, and–despite being assigned Dilandau– he was sure he still had Dornkirk's ear and favor. The other madoushi didn't despise him for nothing, after all. Besides, the Emperor himself seemed to be only interested in the Yspano guymelef.

Early on, Folken had tried proposing to steal Escaflowne in the night, before Van could be crowned and could activate it. That way, he could make sure his brother was safe with him, but the Emperor didn't need to know that. Once that was done, Folken would have just needed to convince Dornkirk that the prince of Fanelia was better in their hands. Diplomatically. Strategically.

But the Emperor had other ideas. "Something tells me I have to wait out the results of your brother's rite, Folken. It worked out so well in your case, didn't it?"

Chills had crawled up Folken's spine at the prospect. His little brother, sent to kill a dragon on his own? That anachronistic rite he had failed, which had almost cost him his life? He remembered his clumsy younger sibling. Could the boy be ready to succeed in such a trial? It troubled him.

Briefly, he had even entertained the foolish thought of jumping in a guymelef and following the prince into the depths of Fanelia's woods. Help out if needed. But that would have been seen as everything but a sign of loyalty to Zaibach.

He just needed Van safe on his side, that was all. He was sure his brother would understand eventually. That he would see the reflection of his own dream in the plan, like Folken did: A world without conflict, without the necessity of violence and suffering.

Folken had imagined many times how he would introduce Zaibach's endgame to Van: how he would make sure he understood, how he'd make him see the greatness of Zaibach that had impressed him so much. Even Van must realize that Fanelia would take generations before achieving anything near the level of the Empire.

Now that Dilandau had brought him the Yspano guymelef, and– locked and protected inside– an unconscious Fanelian king, Folken felt close to realizing his plan.

He wasn't bothered that the cockpit wouldn't open to anyone from outside.

Folken was, after all, the only living exception. Just a drop of his blood… yes… his presumption was correct; the energist reacted immediately.

Interesting.

He had to make sure to study the mysterious Yspano technology thoroughly. It had a strange, almost magical quality to it. But he would break the ancient spell, split it down into little pieces and explain it scientifically. He would discover all that lies behind, until there were no fake miracles and superstitions. That was what he enjoyed about his job. Dornkirk wanted to know why this posed a threat to him; well, he would get his answer.

Van's unconscious form was ejected from the seat rather violently, leaving him crumpled on the floor. It certainly wasn't the reunion he had imagined, but he felt a bit of relief not having to face him right away, especially under the scrutiny of another person.

"Him?!" Dilandau wondered briefly, seemingly recognizing him from somewhere.

"Yes. This is the new King of Fanelia," Folken stated in reply. Ignoring Dilandau's stare, he picked the fainted boy off the floor wordlessly and aimed for his quarters.

Van was all legs and arms, grown so much since the last time he saw him. But sleeping, he looked as childish as ever. Folken laid him down and took off his boots and sword belt, the closing mechanism, native to Fanelia, felt awkward in his fingers. After checking over his brother for injuries that might need treatment, he breathed out in relief when he found none.

Overall, things hadn't gone too badly.

The incident at the Asturian outpost should have been avoided. That might cause problems with their alliance with the merchant kingdom.

But Van would be alright, apart from some bruises. And Escaflowne was safely stacked on Vione.

In the end, Folken couldn't ask for better fortune. Now he could set his plans into motion.

Filled with new confidence, he started to whistle unconsciously.

Most important to his own plan, Van was here with him, and Folken just had to make sure he remained so.

Hopefully it wouldn't be too difficult.

His brother hadn't been hard to manipulate as a child. He had wanted to trust people, which made him very susceptible to tricks and teases. Van used to always crane his neck curiously, only to be flicked on the nose. He also couldn't lie, just stayed silent, even when being scolded. Their mother would berate him, but he wouldn't defend himself, wouldn't even make a sound… just search for Folken with his huge, begging eyes, waiting for him to come up with some distraction or excuse that would appease her.

He couldn't possibly be ready to face the political turmoil that was sure to come in the next few months as a king.

Things are better this way. You will understand that one day, little brother.

A movement in the corner of his eye told him Van was awake, even before he sprung up, asking him who he was. He could have snuck upon him–an enemy was showing his back to him, after all–but it was his naïve, unconcealed question that somehow caught Folken off guard.

"How do you know that Fanelian song?" his little brother asked sharply.

How, indeed? Funny, he never recognized it for what it was...

The boy almost immediately threw himself after his sword, reclaiming it without too much effort. Maybe it hadn't been a good idea keeping the weapon within his reach, but the point hadn't been to disarm him. His brother was no mere prisoner. Folken planned to treat him kindly as much and for as long as possible. The rest was up to the king.

Van turned his sword against Folken immediately, but the Strategos was prepared for that. He informed him graciously of his situation. He didn't have to lie. Indeed, the prisoner would have to fight an army before he could get out of Vione.

With a flick of his wrist, the boy flipped the blade and pressed it against his neck with his other hand.

"If the only way I'll live is as one of your pawns, then…"

This was something else Folken hadn't expected, but his hand was fast for a scientist, and surgically precise. The thin blade he rarely used efficiently knocked the royal sword out of his brother's hands. His eyes never left Van's as he showed his wings, an unmistakable trait that would reveal his identity.

What he saw in his brother's eyes made his plans tremble down to their foundations.

It was the gaze of a hunted, hurt animal. Zero trust.

And none of the old adoration.

Yes, Folken used to be a god in the eyes of little Van. Yes, but the cruel deity just struck down his biggest worshiper's altar out of boredom. And his whole hut along with it.

It's not like he hadn't been expecting this. He reminded himself of Fanelia's losses again. Whoever replaced Van's lost family in the recent years may very well lay dead in the aftermath of their attack. He had suspected a unit led by Dilandau could hardly proceed without dealing a lot of damage. From the report he'd read, they had surpassed his lamentable expectations.

Folken did not wish for it to go like that, but he was not in charge on the battlefield. The unit had been ordered to proceed cautiously and engage the enemy only as required. Their specific order had been to leave no witnesses who could identify Zaibach as the aggressor.

He was also well aware the Fanelian soldiers weren't going to give up without a fight, which only made the number of victims unnecessarily high. Folken had been preparing to deal with that.

However, this expression was something else. Here he saw the same huge dark eyes of his little brother, only wiser. Not lost or searching for a way, but knowing their own truth. Judging. Accusing. A mirror to Folken's. A reflection of him.

Yes, they were much like his own, except betraying more emotions than the Strategos had shown in years. He wondered if his father would look at him this way, with all that angry disappointment. Van was starting to look similar to the late king, he noted.

Father would never understand. No matter how I tried. And if Van is like him...

Wouldn't that be ironic? He was pretty sure Van didn't even remember their father properly. Yet he was growing to be more like him than Folken could ever hope to become.

If Folken had ever wished to be like the late Goau, that is…

No, he was different. And he was capable of greater things. All he needed was to win Van for his cause. If not today, he would continue trying. He would make his brother see the light that made him survive after the dragon's attack.

He kept his silent act for a while longer, smiling bitterly as his brother piled one accusing question on another. He wouldn't listen right now. Let Van spill out his rage first. It didoesn't matter. Folken would just have to adjust his strategy. Take and give the necessary time…

When he realized he was being ignored, Van lashed out at him, trying to make Folken face him.

The Strategos pulled the boy-king closer and made him an offer, one that without a doubt sounded devilish in his ears. Folken knew him, after all.

"Brother, come with me and serve Dornkirk, the Emperor of Zaibach. There, we will set the future back on course."

He didn't have to wait for the answer though. He knew Van would resist. Just as he knew why he had refilled the sedative container in his artificial arm this morning. He had anticipated the sleep would not come easily to him tonight, either. It hadn't since Fanelia.

Neck is the fastest. A well-aimed shot of the substance would always put him down in seconds. He tested it successfully during his insomniac nights on Vione, and even before that, in the labs of Dornkirk's humongous factory of a palace.

But first, he would have to tuck his little brother in. He fell asleep out of bed again…

The drug was potent indeed. This time, Van felt like a log rather than a ragdoll, a convincing imitation of rigor mortis. A dreadful thought caught him unprepared: if he hadn't been fast enough with the sword earlier, he would be picking up Van's dead body like this. Or it could also have been buried under the rubble of the Fanelian castle, or inside the guymelef instead.

He clenched his teeth. Where had he been all that time?

Where had he been when the orders came to obtain the guymelef? And the king, dead or alive?

What was I doing?

That man, the Asturian knight, had been the one to protect his brother from harm. He had done the right thing, even as a stranger. For honor– for Van– he had let the fortress he was sworn to protect, fall.

Castello. He remembered when he first heard the word, first saw it marked on a crudely drawn map on a low table, the gruff voice of the samurai general, now likely dead, saying, Fancy Asturians think they can withstand our spirit with a puny fortress like that.

No, uncle, Folken had thought. In his head, he called everybody an uncle. This is how much of a threat they see us as.

If I'm to live only as your puppet, then…

Van had been ready to throw his life away so easily. Folken hadn't reckoned on that.

He wants to decide his own fate. Even if it's death…

And Folken could just see how he would wither away in Zaibach.

Not just now. He may never listen.

Folken closed the heavy door behind him.

Not much later, he was alerted by the commotion around the fortress. The motors were out, energists not reacting.

And his brother was out of his makeshift prison cell, running away.

Folken looked at the sword in his hand. The royal crest on the hilt. For Dornkirk, it was just another relic of a kingdom that ceased to exist, only to be laid at his feet.

For his brother, this may symbolize his will to stay alive.

With that realization, Folken's choice was easy.

If he ever hoped to have Van at his side, he would have to wait until he decided himself to lend it to Folken's cause.

But first, he needs to have it.

Folken saw Dilandau stalking through the smoke towards his brother.

He threw the sword down.

Author's note: Oh look, I wrote a thing! Sorry to those who are waiting for the new chapter of my long story, guess I needed to get this out of the way first. This first started as a Folken flashback in that story but then I decided I would not do flashbacks. But I still liked it a bit too much to discard it so I made a ficlet out of it. Then one artbook I was translating asked a rhetorical question and I sort of started thinking of it, expanding it a bit adding to the general idea, and yeah, here we are. I wanted to post it on several Folken birthdays already (and that tells you a lot about how long this has been marinating on my hard drive), but I guess the time has come! Huge thanks to CovertEyes who edited this and really polished it shiny! As much as my writing can be polished, that is. She practically made this happen, as I struggle with a major writer's block again (and life in general). Really grateful for her friendship.

P.S.: I once again confirmed my hate of thinking of story titles. This is not supposed to be about Folken's arm by the way, the whole thing is basically based on the question "Why did Folken throw Van the sword in episode 5"? The Escaflowne Filmbook asked this and compared Van's sword to his will (even though it may have been his will to fight for Fanelia's existence). And I was intrigued, because I never thought of it that way. So that kind of arm, "brothers in arms", and all that. Anyway, this episode is great and one of my favs of the series, so I hope I did it justice!

Thanks for reading, hope you are well, and see you next time (and I mean back on my main bs)!

~Rin