ESCAFLOWNE WEEK 2021: Day 2: MACHINES | THE MOON
The Marionette and the Master
NOTE: Happy 25th Anniversary, Escaflowne!
These prompts had to lead to a piece about Folken. Even when I didn't know exactly what I would write yet, I already knew I would write about him.
Just two parts for this piece. And more of an introspective approach than the eventful nature of the first entry. There is more than enough going on in Folken's head at any given moment for us to explore. This is set during the series when he first joins Zaibach and when he escapes to Fanelia, before he meets up with Van.
Enjoy and let me know what you think. Thank you!
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Folken Fanel raised his new, metal arm before him, still trying to get accustomed to its being there, to its being a part of him now. It hurt slightly whenever he moved it, as if the metal was pulling against his flesh like a reminder that it was not natural, and that it had imposed itself on him somehow.
He frowned. More a claw than a hand, more a collection of serpentine wires than an arm, a paltry imitation of the real thing. The word "monstrous" came to mind, bringing with it the idea that if it was monstrous, then so was he. A failure and a disgrace, he might as well be a monster too.
He remembered how his sword arm had gone flying to the ground, torn from his body so easily by the dragon. He remembered clutching his shoulder, trying to stem the strong flow of blood as the beast stared at him, almost curiously, and certainly not with the malice he had so feared of it.
He had been capable enough with a sword, having trained with legendary warriors. But he never deluded himself about his limitations. He knew he would never be one of the greatest swordsmen in Gaea and he had been content with that. After all, he did not need to be the best, only good enough to slay a dragon for his country.
And he wasn't even that.
So what was he now?
Again, he stared at the metal arm, and under the light of the two moons, it almost seemed like there were silver strings connected to the appendage, controlling its movement, controlling him.
Was this the price he had to pay for his life? Did this new arm shackle him to Dornkirk so that he was bound to do the latter's bidding for as long as he lived?
For months, he could not get that image out of his head, the strings of moonlight on his arm, like some kind of tether restricting his movements. Each time he used the mechanic arm, he wondered if he was truly moving it of his own accord. And he could never be certain.
He watched the strange men in dark cloaks as they walked through the metal halls of Zaibach, the Sorcerers as they were called, and the Emperor's most trusted advisors. Folken wondered if they had strings too and if they were all puppets under the mysterious old man's control.
As a child, Folken had seen a marionette show when a troupe of entertainers had visited Fanelia. He had watched with fascination, ever a child who wanted to understand the inner workings of anything, as the performers controlled the movements of the marionettes, bringing myths and legends to life in such a creative and innovative way. Each figure had an elaborate costume and was capable of surprisingly complex movements, as the puppet masters made characters go on epic journeys through magical realms.
This was no such mystical adventure but a kind of waking nightmare, Folken thought, as he looked resentfully at the metal arm, still imagining the strings connected to it that were compelling him to follow orders. The Emperor had given him volumes and volumes to read about the complexities of destiny and various methods to both divine its secrets and to somehow bend it to one's will.
Folken Fanel had never been a rebellious prince. He had always been determined to do his duty. His instinct was always to do as he was told, whether it was to slay a dragon for his kingdom and his family's honor or to learn the ways of manipulating destiny to repay an old man for saving his life. And as much as he initially resisted, his inquisitive mind got the better of him and he began to take this new work more seriously.
Dornkirk's vision was eerily aligned with his own. The former wanted to reshape the world into one that no longer required constant chaos and conflict. Folken could not argue against that. He had long wished it was possible to achieve.
When he had tried to express his wishes to people in Fanelia, he had been advised against doing so. Destiny was a force not to be tampered with. The world was flawed but it had existed like this for centuries and there was no need to reinvent the wheel. Drastic change was dangerous and ought not to be attempted.
But Zaibach had undergone so much change recently and it had emerged triumphant.
The days of research and study gradually seemed less unwelcome to him. Folken realized that he would never have been allowed to pursue such topics had he remained in Fanelia. He would have simply followed in his father's footsteps, as generations of princes had done before him. And the world would have followed its usual course.
Would he have been content to have pursued such a life? Once, his answer would have been yes. But in the days after the dragon, he had developed a different perspective.
Fear was replaced with faith in the Emperor's plans. Folken through himself into the work that was assigned to him and he found it all so rewarding. This would make a real difference in the greater scheme of things. This was more than any king of Fanelia would have been able to achieve in many lifetimes.
He also grew more accustomed to using his metal prosthetic while re-learning to use a sword with his left hand. The metal appendage felt less and less like a burden and more like the useful tool it was meant to be. He had been given a gift and he was determined not to squander it. There was no shame in looking different. It was now an undeniable part of him, not the prince of Fanelia, but the Strategos of Zaibach.
Time passed and he learned to adjust, to adapt, and to thrive in his new environment. Perhaps he was meant to be here, to help Dornkirk lead Gaea to a better future. This was his purpose. This was his choice.
Eventually, he stopped seeing the strings in the moonlight.