Fan-fic Visions of Escaflowne: Shadow.

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Eveline aka Deadly, graag jullie rate 't verhaal zal meedere chapters bevatten maar hier eerst de 1é 2.


A shadow of Garnet Glory

Chapter 1 Searching Emotion



‘I hate you, Folken!’

A wine glass fell into thousand pieces on the floor, each reflecting the angry, or maybe furious would be a better description, Captain of the Elite Dragon Slayers. His hand searched for balance at a rich decorated wooden chair as the flaming red jewels that were his eyes searched for the object of his anger:
Strategos Folken Lacour de Fanel
The flaming red jewels met their opponent: a pair of calm, undisturbed Bordeaux eyes. The boy searched for anger in those eyes, for bitterness, for humiliation or sadness: for any emotion at all. But as usual, the eyes of the Fanelian Prince were free of such things.
‘He just stands there’ the boy thought, his heart pounding and breathing heavily ‘He doesn’t even care..’ This, somehow, seemed to upset him more than anything Folken had done or said to deserve the captain’s tirade.
Like nothing had ever happened, Folken closed the bottle of wine that had been standing between them, and without even looking at the boy, his deep voice reached the captain’s ears. ‘You can go now, Dilandau. I advise you take some rest, you look somewhat tired.’ But no true care for the furious one had been sounding in that deep voice.
All this was very confusing for Dilandau Albatou, for that was indeed the boy’s name. No soldier, no matter his age, rank of experience, could just stand there after receiving a tirade from the infamous Albatou. They would bow, crawl, apologise for even their mere existence, beg not to be punished by those sharp hands, that horrifying voice and thundering pools of red fire.
But not Folken.
Folken Fanel simply told him he was dismissed. No emotion ever appeared on the Strategos’ handsome face. The man turned around and took a critical look at the slightly panting captain, who was still leaning to the same, lifeless chair. An object without emotions, neutral under any circumstances. It matched the Strategos.
‘Is there anything wrong, Dilandau?’ His careless voice again the only sound heard in this lonely room. Dilandau Albatou looked up, his face a mixture of anger and tiredness. He opened his mouth to say what goes on between those silver tresses, but instead shook his head. He took his hand of the chair and walked to the only escape from this nightmare of not knowing: the door. The light from outside shined on his tired face and as the door closed behind him, he mumbled ‘Go to Hell, Folken.’
Because Dilandau Albatou, Captain of the Elite Dragon Slayers, will always have the last word.


The curse, said by a tired, girlish voice, made Folken Lacour de Fanel shake his head with amusement and annoyance. The Strategos is annoyed, because Dilandau, still a child in his eyes, can’t seem to have a normal conversation. Not with him, that is. Still, in all his rudeness, Dilandau is still amusing to one who made a study of his behaviour. A study without end, as it may seem.
This night had been a very good one for him, for anyone with the wish of ever being able to read Dilandau Albatou.
The reason of his anger had been the simple announcement that the Madoushi, or Sorcerers as they are called, will be visiting the Vione for a few days. Dilandau’s reaction had been heavier than Folken could ever expect. He got furious, obviously, but in his eyes, those deep jewels, Folken could clearly see the fear. Dilandau was terrified with the Madoushi. Folken tried to reassure the boy, telling him they were here only for a simple, innocent experiment that had nothing to do with him. True, but of course the boy did not buy it. Fear had overcome the reason, something Folken made sure of to never happen to himself.
When he asked that one, important to him, question, Dilandau had thrown the wine glass at him and screamed he hated Folken. ‘Does he really hate me?’ the Strategos thought. Of course not. The hate was born through fear, not fear of him, but of them: the Madoushi.

Folken shook his head, picked up the book he had been reading before this unpleasant happening, and only one more thought crossed his mind, before he was absorbed again by the world and illusions of reading:
Why?
Why was Dilandau so afraid of them?


The captain fell on his bed, shuddering. He buried his head in the soft, satin, red pillow and tried to push away the fear, the emotions. He hated this. He hated not being the strong captain that people knew him to be. He hated his true identity: a child, a lost, abused, lonely child. He curled up into a ball, like a cat(a habit when he became scared) and sobbed once. Not the tears. The tears did not belong to him, the warrior. They belonged to the other one.

Dilandau Albatou could not understand the other one was a part of him too.

He pushed himself up cursing the upcoming pain in his head and took of his uniform jacket. He stumbled to a chair-why did those damn legs feel so heavy?-and carefully placed his jacket on it. Afterwards, he stepped back to look at it. Proud, he was so proud. That uniform made him feel so good, so satisfied. It made him a different person, an adult, it made his slumbering fears even less present. He smiled. Just as his Slayers did.
He sat down again, in the chair across his uniform, took of his boots and placed them next to the uniform chair. His room wasn’t as nicely decorated as Folken’s, its colours being black and red, and no presence of a window. He didn’t like to watch the world outside of his domain, the Vione. Here, he was a king, outside seemed so big and cold, too many souls were out there. A childish fear, he knew.
Last, he took of his tiara , his pride, and placed it on the black, shiny table. A bottle of wine seemed to call for him, but common sense told him a shower would be wiser.
The boy walked to his bathroom, a fairly big place, for a soldier that is, with white, shiny walls and floor, a mirror with beauty table(Folken would tease him with it, but Dilandau liked to be pretty), a shower, fairly large bath and toilet, all white and a light shade of blue. His feet sank away in a deep, soft carpet on the floor.
He debated between showering or taking a bath, but the pain in his head made him choose the first one. He undid his clothes, not too fast, and took a brief look of himself in the mirror.
He was pretty. His body was thin, but not skinny, there were muscles on his arms and he was well build. His legs were long and graceful, like a woman ‘I would look good in a dress’ he joked to himself. But the part he was the most proud of was his face. His crème coloured skin, long eyelashes, brilliant garnet eyes and fine lips: he adored each of them. His hair was soft like silk, shining like silver. Yes, he decided, he was a very handsome young man.
The more It disturbed him. It. The Scar He gave him. That Van gave him. His headache became even worse when thinking of that..that disgrace. ‘He ruined my face, my beauty..’ he thought bitterly. He hadn’t been feeling well since that moment. Like he was losing his mind. One of his fears had come true and that caused him to be terribly afraid. Of course, Dilandau Albatou could not be scared(or scarred for that matter) so he masked it with anger. But no one can stay angry all the time, just as someone always being happy cannot exist, and this began to build inside of him, causing migraine like he had now, having trouble to get out of his bed in the morning and see clear. Usually, some relaxation helped, but being a captain was a busy job and moments like now, where he let the soft water caress his skin, were rare.

Dilandau allowed his painful head to rest against the cold shower wall and sighed with relief. He wished he could stay here, just stand here, forever. Nothing to worry about. No Van. No Madoushi. No mirror that showed his scar. Just let the warm water stream over his body, let the soft soap clean and caress his pretty body..no Folken.
Folken. The name seemed to call him back to reality and he turned of the shower, stopping the release. Really, he didn’t have time for this nonsense. He had to go to sleep, tomorrow would, as usual, be a busy day and he had to be strong. He owed it to those who believed in him. To his Slayers.
He shivered with cold as he stepped out of the shower. He grabbed the nearest towel, soft as everything around him was, and draped it over himself. Nice, soft, warm. He walked out of his bathroom, opening the closet which kept his clothes. He chose for a long, silken, dark red shirt. He never wore pants in bed, a long shirt was enough for him, if it was made of a soft fabric of course. He quickly dressed, tried to dry his silver hair and got back into the bathroom. After brushing his pretty, white teeth, he looked at himself again. Yes, he was pretty, but now he also saw the dark circles under his eyes, indicating his exhaustion. His left hand brushed the hair out of his face, toughing his warm forehead. He closed his eyes, dizzy, and almost couldn’t stand the pain in his head anymore, but he wouldn’t ever think of taking a painkiller. He didn’t like medicines. It was like help, and help meant he couldn’t take care of himself anymore. Besides, he had always had some strange fear for everything concerning medical things..medicines, doctors..they were all Madoushi to him. Always forcing you into things..he shook his head, trying not to think about them anymore. No, he’d rather have the pain than that. So he left the mirror, and fell down on his bed. Quickly slipping himself underneath the warm sheets, he felt himself become drowsy. He turned of the light, buried his head in the same pillow again, and curled up to feel safe.
After five minutes, the only sound heard was that of a calmly breathing Dilandau Albatou, Captain of the Elite Dragon Slayers.


‘We have passed Asturia!’
‘Only two more hours until arrive at ship Vione!’

A large, bald man dressed in a long, black cloak smiled. Next to him, a nervous, somewhat smaller man in the same black cloak appeared. ‘Really’ he began ‘Should we do this, sir? He is so young..when I think of all the things that could go wrong..’
‘You think of the impossible.’ The cold voice of the man seemed to darken the already shadow filled room. ‘Everything will work out just as we planned. Number 082 had never failed us, has he?’ ‘N..no..’ the nervous one stuttered ‘So’ the cold one again said ‘I am positive this will go just perfect’ Discussion closed. It is a funny thing how such simple words can mean the difference between doom and saviour. Still, that was the fate of Dilandau Albatou, number 082 and experiment of the Zaibach Madoushi.

[super_kuikentje]

Chapter 2

Love Balance



‘So, I was like, well come on, and then suddenly she didn’t want it anymore! I mean..’ Laughs. ‘Miguel’ A voice came ‘You are horrible with women.’ The brown haired slayer tried to hide his blushing ‘Easy for you to say, Casanova!’ he shot at his attacker, the pretty Dallet, who was just pushing the long, brown hair out of his face. He grinned. ‘Now boys’ came the somewhat commanding voice of Gatti ‘Don’t fight, save that for our enemies.’ Dallet smiled but Miguel, still upset, mumbled ‘You sound just like Lord Dilandau’ ‘I’ll take that as a compliment’ came the gentle return. ‘You would’ Viole grinned.
As is it was decided by a higher might, at that moment, their Lord Dilandau entered the training room. The boys, all 19, stood straight, greeting their Lord. They received a short nod. Gatti felt a bit unusual. Their Lord hadn’t be eating with them that morning, as was his habit. He decided to observe his Lord’s mood, then see if it was wise to ask him about it. It was never wise to question his Lord when he wasn’t in a good mood.
However, Dilandau showed nothing of being in any mood for now. He just told his slayers to go practicing, as they did every day. He would be walking around and assisting them, as he did every day. Immediately, the 19 boys began to pair up and spar, or simply practice their sword skills.

The Dragon Slayers were divided in three ranks, although all 19 had been entering the elite squad in the same year, and all of them were around 15 years old, or should one say ‘young’? There was the Elite, Dilandau’s favourite slayers. The most skilled, most feared, those who had daily guymelef training in the evening and those who always went on missions with their Lord. The elite existed of only six boys: Gatti, who was second in command, Chesta, the living proof that puppies do have fangs, Dallet, pretty and vain but nonetheless not arrogant: Dilandau wouldn’t allow him to, Miguel, determined and very grateful for being an Elite, Guimel, who was silent often, but when he spoke always proved of his worth to them and Viole, the amusing one, not extremely skilled but creative.
These six boys were the most loyal to him: Lord Albatou. He gave them a chance, he loved them, no matter how hard he was on them and no matter how difficult he could be sometimes, they loved him. This feeling of loyalty and love was their strength and it made term come to the realisation that they followed their Lord, not Zaibach. Yes, he could be very reckless at times, but they trusted him with their lives. A heavy trust for Dilandau, who already had so much to carry, but also a relief and that one thing that kept him going: there were people who loved him, and who he loved.
It sounds strange to most of the world that someone who can kill merciless, can also love. The other Slayers, 9 in the second rang and 6 in the third, couldn’t possibly understand this, just like no outsider could ever understand why, Gods why, would they love each other: The captain slapped the boys, the boys got slapped by the captain. How could there be love underneath that unnecessary violence? Impossible.
The impossible love balance between the afraid captain, afraid of losing them, and the grateful, loyal soldiers was what brought Gatti to approaching his captain.

Gatti walked to the side of the training room that kept the weapons, where his Lord was sitting on one of the simple, wooden benches, decorated with only the Zaibach logo, polishing his sword. He stood still in front of the silver haired captain, not daring to speak or sit. The mood of the captain was still not certain. Silence between them. Dilandau seemed to enjoy it for a while, while it made Gatti terribly nervous, like one waiting in front of an injured enemy, deciding to help or run away, not knowing to possible danger. But Dilandau wasn’t his enemy. Finally, the captain seemed to have swallowed enough of the silence. ‘Anything wrong Gatti?’ he asked without looking up. Gatti took a deep breath. He wasn’t afraid of a possible punishment, but of the possibility of a growing distance between them if he asked the following question. ‘Why weren’t you eating with us this morning, Lord Dilandau?’ Silence first, then ‘Because I woke up late and wanted to buy time by eating in my own quarters.’ A simple, business like answer. Logical. Of course there was nothing wrong. Still, it didn’t feel right. The polishing stopped and Dilandau looked Gatti straight in the eyes: fiery red and compassionate blue together. ‘Anything else Gatti?’ The tone was so normal, so uninviting, Gatti, or anyone for that matter, could only answer ‘No, my Lord’ and turn away. The sound of a sword being polished sounded in his ears, long after the last word had been said.

‘Elite, at 9 in the Hangar. Second and third, you are dismissed for this day. Do something useful with your time, as you were without any exception horrible today.’
The order was spoken and the slayers left the training room, apart from some second and third who apparently had taken Dilandau’s comment personal and kept training. Dilandau himself decided to train some more himself, since he hadn’t gotten the chance this morning, assisting his second and third rang. ‘Incompetents..’ he murmured ‘If only all my soldiers were like the elite.. those idiots will get themselves killed one day.’ He walked to a small training room next to the main one, smiled and the emptiness of the room and began his training.
This felt good, really good. He was tired, his headache hadn’t faint, but the rhythm of fighting made him feel alive. It was like he and his sword were one, making movements like he was dancing, like there didn’t exist such a thing as gravity and he floated through air. So light, so wonderful.. like a dancer, a deadly ballet dancer he practiced his skills, floating through a dream..if he hadn’t, if he had went to the Strategos to ask more about the Madoushi’s plans, like he originally planned to, maybe he had taken notice of the following discussion..

‘I cannot let you do this, Vector.’

Folken turned his back to the large man behind him. The man was bald, with a long, sharp beard and sharp eyebrows. Folken felt his cold, blue eyes piercing through his cloak. The man’s lips played with a small smile. ‘You will. He is our creation.’ ‘He is not your creation.’ Folken sneered. He closed his eyes, trying to stay calm. ‘He is a human. A child. You can’t do this to him.’ A small chuckle left the Madoushi’s lips. ‘I can assure you, nothing will happen to your..’ his tone became sarcastic ‘precious.’ Folken sighed ‘Is this an order from Emperor Dornkik?’ The man called Vector smiled again ‘He allowed us to take an extract from his fate alterer. Therefore he must agree the experiment 082 cannot function at this rate any longer.’ Folken now had trouble fighting the very tempting idea of beating the man to bloody pulp and then kick him of the Vione, but he, Folken Fanel, would of course not do such a thing. ‘Is it absolutely safe?’ he whispered, admitting his defeat. Vector nodded and stepped closer ‘Believe me Folken, I would do nothing that could harm my favourite experiment. He will be safe. Scared, yes, but he will come out stronger. The perfect soldier.. think of it, Folken. No more rash actions, no more pyromania, you will finally be able to have a conversation with him..’ Folken closed his eyes and thought of it. It did sound very tempting.. Dilandau, finally obeying.. it would be very good to Zaibach. They would get the Dragon in no time, and Van..He turned around and after a close inspection of the mans eyes, which were sparkling with delight, he gave in to his selfish thoughts. ‘Very well then.’ To not have an even greater burden of possible mistakes, he added ‘But on one condition.’ ‘Which is?’ Vector looked a bit less confident when Folken looked him straight in the eyes ‘I will be there during the whole experiment, and if anything goes wrong, just the tiniest thing, you will leave and never set a foot on the Vione again.’ Vector nodded quickly ‘And..’ the man’s face tensed again as Folken slowly moved his metallic arm to the man’s throat. ‘After this, you will never come close, or do anything to Dilandau again.’ His metallic, sharp fingers ran across Vector’s throat, then held it in a pretty tight grip, making it hard to breath for the terrified man. Fear had never come to the Madoushi before, he had always brought fear. ‘Do we have a deal?’ Folken said, his eyes dark ‘Yes..’ Vector whispered ‘Just this one, that will be all..I promise, Folken.’ The Strategos held him for a few more seconds, then released the Madoushi who stumbled backwards. He quickly recovered, and said ‘We will start this afternoon.’ Then made his escape, followed by Folken’s sad eyes. As the door closed, Folken shook his head. ‘This doesn’t feel right..’ he mused ‘Dilandau is so afraid of them, they must have done something terrible to him.. poor child.’ He filled a glass with wine and let it play in his right hand. When he held it still, he could see his own reflection in the red liquid. He shook his head and looked away. Another sin on the Strategos’ list.


The sound of a glass touching a table sounded through the captains room. The glass was holding just a little bit of wine, and was held by a hand, which belongs to a tired, but satisfied Dilandau Albatou. Nothing better than a good glass of wine after a fantastic training, he thought. He was sitting in a chair, in only his black leather pants and short purple shirt. He slowly moved his left hand to his check, caressing his scar. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, he felt strange. The wine? But he had taken only one glass, and wine didn’t have a big influence on this young warrior.. He closed his eyes, leaning his head a bit backwards. Tired, he was tired.. he wanted to get up, his bed was calling for him, but his body didn’t want to move, those long, graceful legs didn’t seem to obey their owner. He slowly opened his eyes, the light of his room hurting his eyes, why would he want to see anyway? Everything seemed so far away.. it felt as if someone held his arm.. he managed a small smile. Dreaming, he was dreaming.. no one could get here without his password, which only Gatti and Folken knew. Gatti.. silly, silly boy.. another arm, beneath his pretty legs.. pretty.. the hand on his arm moved.. to his neck, to his back.. down.. suddenly, his eyes shot open. This wasn’t a dream, someone was holding him!
He turned his head to the right and saw an unfamiliar man. But what was familiar was his long, black cloak, his cold eyes with a desire to know.. know what? How many times had he seen eyes like those before, cold, not caring, when they strapped him down and..

‘No!’ he screamed weakly and began to struggle. Unfortunately, the man was strong and now lifting him of the chair, like nothing ever happened. An unnatural fear overcame the young soldier. ‘Don’t!’ he screamed ‘Let me go, go away!’ He tried to escape, but more hands touched his body, he almost couldn’t move anymore and began to panic even more. ‘Keep him still’ Dilandau’s eyes widened at hearing that voice. How many times had he heard that voice.. he turned his head and began to shiver with fear when he saw that man, that monster.. Vector, head of the Madoushi was looking at him, smiling.. ‘Hello Dilandau’ he said, as if this was a normal meeting between friends. The boy didn’t reply, just stared at this one person he feared so much, feeling a small tear trickling down his cheek.. ‘Go.’ Vector’s voice was cold again, no emotion or compassion for Dilandau. ‘Just as Folken’ he thought briefly, before he let fear overtake him and he was forced into darkness.

At nine, in the Guymelef Hangar, six boys waited for their Lord. But he wouldn’t come. He wouldn’t be there anymore. Gatti, looking at his Lord’s blood red Alseides, felt a tear on his lips, without really knowing why.

[super_kuikentje]

Niemand die het wil lezen? ik weet het is een lap tekst maar ik heb aleen nog maar positieve reacties gehad.