Ties of Blood

an Escaflowne fanfic

by Serenade

Part 2: Weapons

Author's Notes

Spoiler warning:
This story is set after the end of the Escaflowne series. If you haven't seen all the episodes, you may encounter a number of significant spoilers.

Disclaimers and other notes can be found in Part 1 of the story.

He had always expected to die upon the battlefield.

It was not that he had ever courted death, like other reckless would-be heroes. He had seen enough of it inflicted upon others to understand that it was messy, and painful, and typically futile. Besides, there was nothing to be achieved by losing.

Still, he had resolved some time ago that he would rather die than allow himself to be taken captive. Surrender seemed so shameful. To be placed at the mercy of your enemies, to be subject to whatever treatment they dealt you--it was an unthinkable prospect.

But here he was. He wasn't going to die.

Not from wounds taken on the field, at least. It was still possible that he would be executed as a war criminal, despite Allen Schezar's protests to the contrary. He was indisputably guilty of acts against the crown of Asturia. The idea didn't alarm him as much as it ought. He had had to absorb a number of alarming ideas recently. And he had time enough to consider them as he lay in bed, enduring the slow, arduous process of recovery.

He couldn't deny with confidence any of their assertions. There were vast chasms in his memory he would rather not explore. He suspected it was these lost memories which surfaced in the night to wrack his sleep. He had never asked anyone else what he might have revealed unknowingly, not even Migel.

Fate was such a strange beast. But when had his life ever been ordinary? If it were true--if the name of the child the sorcerers took had been Serena Schezar--well, what of it? He was not that child. He was an adult, and a soldier, and he had his own name. It was a name that was feared, and he took pride in having carved out that fear with his own deeds.

He still knew who he was; there was no reason for him to feel this strange, disturbing sense of dislocation.

There was a soft knock on the door. He jerked upright in bed, the sheets tumbling to his waist. Embedded training made his hand yearn for the shape of a weapon, but the only thing in reach was a silver water ewer on the bedside stand. Not the most intimidating of objects. So he let a defiant smile fall over his features, and waited for the hammering of his heart to quieten.

The door opened, without waiting for a response. Allen Schezar stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. "Good morning," he said.

Dilandau surveyed Allen with a wary displeasure. He looked immaculate as always, in his crisp blue surcoat and finely woven white shirt. Dilandau became conscious of his own disarray: the sleep-rumpled tunic he was wearing; his hair, without the circlet, falling into his eyes. He pushed it back with a brusque movement--when had it grown so long, anyway?--and stared brazenly back at Allen.

Allen displayed not a hint of having noticed Dilandau's barely veiled antagonism. Instead, he simply ran that quietly observant gaze over him. "How are you feeling today?"

"Fine," he said shortly. When the silence held, he was forced to add, "Better than last night, anyway." Tension knotted deep in his belly. What did Allen want from him? Dilandau couldn't tell from his face.

"You were ill for a long time," Allen said. "Not even the doctors knew if you would pull through."

"I've survived so far." He plucked at the threads of his blanket with restless fingers. "What's going to happen to me?"

"That remains to be seen. But I will do everything in my power to ensure your protection." Allen might have been speaking as a knight to some beleaguered damsel. The incongruity of the situation was laughable.

"You, protect me? Who do you think I am?" Dilandau threw off the covers, and swung himself off the bed.

Allen began sharply, "You're still not--"

The room darkened alarmingly. Dilandau barely caught the edge of the bed in time as his legs gave without warning. Allen moved forward, then checked himself as Dilandau flashed him a deadly look.

Dilandau levered himself back onto the bed, sitting so that he wasn't quite facing Allen, while not quite turned away. He had difficulty holding back the dismay that had surged up at this betrayal by his body. He threw Allen a fierce glare, challenging him to comment. Allen met his gaze steadily.

"It takes time to recover. The doctor said so. You'll be much stronger in a few weeks."

"I don't need your reassurances." He wished to be at full strength now, so he could break out of this room and escape. Escape this palace, and this city, and most of all Allen Schezar, who sat watching him with impenetrable eyes; Allen Schezar, who seemed as though he was trying to say something to the person in this bed, and finding that all the words were somehow wrong.

Another knock at the door, sudden and loud. Dilandau tensed again. Allen stepped quickly to the door and opened it. There was a grey-smocked servant standing there; she and Allen had a brief exchange of words. Dilandau also caught a glimpse of a guard beyond the door, poised sharply at attention.

Allen returned, carrying a tray laden with crockery. He set it down carefully on the table by the bed. "You have to have something to eat," he said.

Dilandau regarded the tray with doubt and hesitation. Half-familiar smells wafted from the covered dishes.

"It's not poisoned. Do you need me to demonstrate?"

"Hah. Does it matter? I have no choice, do I? If I don't want to starve." He wasn't sure why Allen seemed so intent on maintaining this show of cordiality, but he didn't feel like playing along.

In any case, he was aware that he was fearsomely hungry. The fever had burned him hollow.

He reached for a loaf of bread, tore off a generous chunk. It was light and floury, unlike standard mess hall fare. There was fresh butter as well, so he smeared on a thick coat. He was busy chewing it down when he became aware of Allen's attentive, unwavering observation. It was unsettling.

Irritated, he asked, "What is it? Should I have offered thanks or something?"

Allen shook his head silently. Perhaps sensing the awkwardness, he pushed himself up from his chair and launched into pacing around the room.

Dilandau went on with his meal. The scrambled eggs were somewhat richer than his stomach liked at the moment, but it was real food, and he needed the nutrients if he wanted to get out of here. It was actually kind of amusing, when he thought about the situation--here he was, being served breakfast in bed by Allen Schezar.

"Hey," he said between mouthfuls. "Do you really think they're going to let me go?"

The tossed off question fell into silence. Allen continued his measured tread across the carpet as if he had not heard. Dilandau felt his irritation stirring again, like a persistent itch. "Hey, I said--"

"So much depends on the unpredictable," Allen said suddenly. "I would have expected opposition in any case, considering their attitudes in the past. There are those in the court who will never support me, but I believe I have managed to overcome most of Princess Elise's reservations."

Dilandau cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" Allen's reputation with the ladies was notorious, even in Zaibach. "That may be good for you, but last I heard, it was King Aston who ruled in Asturia."

Allen's expression grew clouded. "His Majesty has been unwell for some time now. Elise is Regent while he is ill."

Interesting. It seemed that Asturia itself was moving through unstable times. Perhaps it wouldn't have long to celebrate its recent victories before other power-seekers circled in, sensing opportunity.

"I've managed to persuade most of them that your public renunciation would be more valuable than your execution," Allen was saying.

Dilandau put down his fork. "My what?"

"Just a brief, formal ceremony," Allen assured him. "But an important one nonetheless. Before you take your oath of allegiance, you'll need to renounce your crimes, and declare repentance. You should disavow any further connection with Zaibach for the atrocities it has committed."

Dilandau could feel the heat gathering beneath his skin, but he turned on a pleasant smile instead. "And my own part in these atrocities?" he inquired.

"You were manipulated, obviously. Coerced into obeying them." Allen's voice grew soft. "You were a victim of their schemes too."

Allen Schezar--Allen Schezar was sorry for him. The thought filled him with appalled anger. Allen had no idea what it had cost him to get to where he stood today. How hard he had fought to win a place of his own.

"Is that what you tell yourself?" he bit out.

"Do you say it is untrue, then?"

"Let me ask you a question," Dilandau said, not answering. "What if I don't want to do this?"

Allen's brows drew down.

"What if I don't feel like grovelling in front of your snobby little court and begging their forgiveness? What if I'd rather tell them all to go kiss Zaibach's ass instead?"

"Vulgarities are unnecessary, Dilandau."

"You can take your deal, and your mercy mission, and shove it all. I'm not going to roll over like a dog and lick their boots, just for the privilege of swearing loyalty to your fat king!"

"Dilandau, please don't be difficult..."

"Don't talk to me like I'm a child!" he snapped.

Allen locked his fingers over the back of the chair. "Can't you see, I'm trying to buy you your life!"

"No. You want me to sell it! I will not be Asturia's puppet. I owe Zaibach that much. They were the ones who fed me, and trained me, and made me into a soldier." It had been a harsh forging, but steel always needed tempering. So they had told him. "They made me who I am today."

"I know," Allen said, embers igniting in his eyes. He drew in a deep breath. "Look. Loyalty is an admirable thing, if you can be loyal to an empire like Zaibach. But Asturia is your home now. It has always been your real home."

"Asturia, Asturia," he mocked. "What has Asturia ever done for me?"

"You have a life ahead of you in Asturia, if you don't spurn this chance. For there's surely none left for you in Zaibach."

"You made sure of that, didn't you? You and your fine friends." Zaibach's heart had been in its army; into it had poured the wealth of a nation, the cream of its technology, the shining best of its youth. Now its heart had been cut out. It would take a generation to rebuild.

Most of that generation was now dead.

Dilandau's fingers tightened on the sheets as he remembered his own young soldiers, all of them killed on a distant green field somewhere outside of Freid. There was not even a cairn to mark where they fell, or give proof of their memory. Only he, who had survived, would remember who they were.

He had survived. He wondered why, if it all came to this.

Allen seemed to notice the darkness in Dilandau's eyes. "Perhaps I am being too hasty," he said at last. "You probably need some time to think it over."

That was the last thing he needed. Too much time confined here, trapped with his thoughts, could not be healthy for his mind. Or perhaps Allen was hoping to break him that way. "You already know what I think."

"Don't be so quick to discard your options. Believe me, this is the most palatable of the alternatives."

"Why should you care anyway? Why do you want to do this for me? And I don't want to hear any crap about duty. The only duty you have would be to lock me up as a prisoner of war."

"We are not at war, Dilandau," Allen said. "And you are not a prisoner."

"Oh, really? Then I suppose those guards outside would just let me stroll out of here?"

"I would advise you not to leave these rooms." Allen fixed a steely look upon him. "You're still not well enough to travel far. And the guards are for your own protection as much as anything else. There are those who see themselves as patriots..." He shook his head grimly. "If they knew you were here, they would not hesitate to act. And there are also those who should know better, who would be willing to turn a blind eye."

"I can protect myself."

"Against men with swords?"

"You could leave me a weapon."

Allen shook his head. "I don't think so. You might hurt yourself with it."

Stung, he was about to launch a scathing retort, when he realised that Allen wasn't casting a slur on his martial prowess, but referring to something quite different.

"I wasn't planning anything like that," he said, after a long moment.

"Good," Allen said. "Don't. It would be a meaningless gesture."

"I can't see that my welfare should concern you much."

"Oh, but you're wrong. What happens to you is a matter of great interest to me." Again, that intent, unsettling gaze.

"You don't have a reason to do this. I'm not--I'm not who you seem to think I am." And that was as close as he was going to come to acknowledging Allen's claims about him.

"Maybe so," Allen said. "But I think that you're not who you seem to think you are, either."

And what the hell was that supposed to mean?

The incessant sound of rain became the background to his days. The late summer storms which blew through Asturia and ravaged its shipping lanes also wreaked havoc upon the palace roof. Generations of weather-harried monarchs had gradually strengthened the structure against repeated battering, but the damage wrought on the capital by Zaibach's attack was not yet fully repaired. Consequently, there were sections of the palace fairly vulnerable to natural forces. Dilandau could occasionally hear the crash of a tile as it fell and shattered onto the courtyard below.

Allen came and went as he could, doubtless having knightly duties to attend to. He did not press for an answer on the subject of oaths, and Dilandau avoided the topic himself. Their exchanges were terse to the point of abruptness.

Dilandau always felt a sense of relief when Allen left, as though some tightly-wound spring inside him uncoiled. Not that he would ever let anyone sense the vast discomfort that assailed him. He had been commander of the Dragonslayers, who had brought down nations. Who was he to be rattled in the presence of the enemy? Even an enemy as blandly self-assured as Allen Schezar.

Allen might be assuming that his patient, unyielding stance would be enough to wear down Dilandau's rebellion, but Dilandau had no intention of remaining here that long. As soon as he was well enough, he planned to leave this place behind.

The first few times he'd tried to stand up, he'd experienced the same wrenching dizziness that had aborted his previous attempt. But he refused to crumble back into helplessness, forcing himself to continue trying until he could remain upright without support. By the end of the week, he could walk the length of the room unaided, albeit with slow care. He somehow neglected to inform Allen of his progress.

The room Dilandau had been assigned was a modestly furnished chamber, probably used as guest lodgings in ordinary circumstances. It was perhaps a little smaller than his officer's quarters back on the flying fortress Vione, but the carved wooden panelling and the heavy wall hangings evoked comfort and taste. The most interesting feature, in Dilandau's eyes, was the door into the corridor. From what he could tell it was not kept locked, which was a rather condescending gesture since it seemed to be guarded around the clock.

The only window was on the facing wall, its curtains usually drawn back to let in the watery sunlight. He had made his way there as soon as he was able, tracing his fingers along the wall for balance.

He managed to locate the latch and thrust the glass pane open. The rain was still drizzling down endlessly, broken light touching the drenched city with reflections of grey and gold. The harbour wasn't visible from this angle, but he could hear the seagulls shrieking in the distance.

The grey flagstones of the courtyard were a long way below. Dilandau stared bleakly down for a space of moments, before closing the window tightly. It was true what he had told Allen--he was not prepared to contemplate that course of action yet.

He was abruptly reminded of another time when he had stood at the window of a locked room, thinking about alternatives to death. The window had had bars then, and he had not been offered many choices.

The memory set his heartbeat pulsing just a fraction more quickly. The stale smell of fear, the echoing emptiness. The rawness in his throat, hoarse from crying out. And the only answer he ever heard: You might as well stop it. No one's going to come for you.

The room seemed suddenly airless, its close confines oppressive. He had to force himself to breath deeply, to maintain his composure. It was nerves, he told himself. He was just keyed up from prolonged inactivity. He had always hated the process of waiting. It meant giving the initiative to your opponents, allowing them to determine the next move you made. He always preferred to take the offensive instead.

So why was he still waiting around? It wasn't as though someone was going to sweep in and rescue him from this... this pantomime. The only one he could rely on was himself.

He kept telling himself this as he curled his fingers around the polished grip of the door handle. He turned it slowly, as far as it would go, and then he pushed on it. A cool draft flowed through the crack in the door.

His room seemed to be at the far end of an isolated wing, presumably so he wouldn't be a menace to others. There were a pair of guards stationed a short distance down the corridor. They straightened up briskly when they saw the door open, and began moving towards Dilandau with alertness in their eyes.

"You're supposed to be resting in bed," one of the guards said.

"I'm sick of resting," Dilandau said, directing a flat stare at the men. "I'm sick of being stuck in this room."

"I'm afraid you can't go outside," the guard said. "The Commander doesn't want you wandering around."

"Yeah," the other guard added, "you're not well enough yet."

Is that Allen's excuse then? Dilandau felt a flare of anger thaw him from the remains of his black mood. "So I'm an invalid, am I? Do I look like I'm about to collapse and die?"

The first guard shrugged. "I'm sorry, but you're not the one who gives me my orders."

He would never have tolerated such insolence from his own men. Dilandau pushed forward, only to find the guards barring his way with their pikes.

"If you want to complain about this, you'll have to wait for Lord Allen to return."

"I don't want to wait. I hate this place. I hate this stupid room." His hand latched onto one of the intricate tapestries that adorned the walls. He gave it a vicious yank. There was a tearing sound as it snapped loose from its mounting and collapsed to the floor.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

Dilandau ignored the guard's question and moved along to the next tapestry on the wall. He ripped it down with a swift brutal movement.

"You'd better stop that, I'm warning you--"

"Make me," Dilandau said. He swept his arm across the top of a dresser, sending delicate porcelain figures crashing to the ground. Slowly and deliberately, he crunched the shards underfoot.

"You keep that up," growled the guard, advancing, "and you're going to be sorry."

Dilandau backed away, toppling chairs and candelabra. He reached behind him and found with his fingers the shape of the water ewer.

"I don't think so," he said, and swung its heavy bulk at the approaching guard. It smashed into the side of his head with satisfying solidity. The man crumpled to the ground like a doll. Dilandau had no time to check on his condition because now the other guard was coming through the door with a drawn sword in his hand.

The combat-high was pumping through him like a drug. He swooped down to grab a fallen candelabrum, and brandished the lit end at the guard who faced him. Little globs of burning wax spattered onto the carpet.

A wide, slow smile spread across Dilandau's face.

"You're not going to block my way, are you?"

continued in Part 3: Closer to Fire