Disclaimer: The wonderful anime "Vision of Escaflowne" and all of its cast members are created and owned by Shouji Kawamori and Sunrise, Inc. If only use names and characters in the most illegal sense possible; this is, after all, a fanfic. Please don't sue me - I have no money to give you anyway! ************* "Feuerfest" by Kotetsu Part Three: The Arsonist ************* It was Folken who stopped Chesta in the hallway the following morning. “Give this to Dilandau, and be discreet about it,” the older man murmured as he slipped a small white pill into Chesta’s startled hand. “There’s going to be more Madoshi out and about this morning than I would have preferred.” “Sir . . . ?” “It’s hangover medicine.” “Ah.” Chesta continued his way down the shadowed halls of the Vione, whistling to himself nonchalantly. He was nearly knocked over when Dilandau came crashing out of his room, half-dressed and running, pulling on his shirt as he pelted along. Luckily, the commander managed to skid to a stop before he could run right over his own soldier. “OUT OF MY WAY! I’m late for a meeting with Folken--” “I just saw him. There’s no need to hurry.” Chesta held out the pill in the palm of his hand. “Hangover medicine? Folken-sama said that there would be Madoshi about this morning.” “Eh?” Dilandau blinked. “I’m not hungover.” Chesta faltered. “But last night . . . Dilandau- sama, you were . . .” The slap came hard and fast. “You know that I would never intoxicate myself,” Dilandau growled. Chesta rubbed his sore cheek. “But, Dilandau-sama, last night you were--” “Tsk.” Dilandau cut Chesta off with a disapproving click of his tongue. “If I had to come up with a reasonable explanation for last night - which, believe me, I have yet to accomplish - my explanation would be poisoned chicken.” “Ch . . . Chicken?!” Suddenly Dilandau remembered where he was going, why, and at what speed. “I’M LATE!” He screamed at nobody in particular as he shoved Chesta out of his way and pelted down the hallway. * * * Folken sighed and rubbed his temples, already feeling the beginning stages of a migraine sending its first exploratory tendrils through his brain. He had not intended for the other Madoshi to interrupt him that morning. “Lord Folken! If we could just have a word with you . . .” The three had surrounded him before he had a chance to protest. “Can this wait? I’m scheduled for a meeting with Captain Albatou.” “Actually . . .” The three exchanged quick, secretive glances, a habit of the other Madoshi that annoyed Folken to no end. The middle one seemed to speak for all three. “We need to talk to you about Captain Albatou.” “All right. Make it quick.” Again, that secretive glance. “Not here,” the middle one shook his head. He had a hooked nose, a long face, and dull, droopy eyes. “Classified information. The walls have ears.” “Funny. Not the last time that I checked.” “The Dragonslayers have ears.” “Now you’re making some sense. Let’s go.” The four made their way slowly toward Folken’s study, hampered by the slow, sombering walk that the Madoshi favored. Folken suppressed the urge to kick the middle one. But he maintained his anger, wadding it up into a tiny ball and swallowing it, until the four of them were settled uncomfortably into the shadowed recesses of Folken’s private library. The middle one spoke first, not even waiting for Folken to sit himself down. “Do you know where the Captain was last night?” “Fulfilling a death vendetta. It’s none of my business.” “You don’t keep track of the whereabouts of these soldiers?!” “If you want to keep a record of everyplace that the boy goes and when, be my guest. I’ve learned by now that Captain Albatou is too unpredictable to keep track of.” “We must find out exactly where the Captain was hiding himself last night.” “Why?” “We three--” the middle one gestured to include his two silent companions, “were monitoring Lord Dornkirk’s fate vibrators last night when something - and we have yet to determine what - send the fate vibrations skyrocketing right off the scale. The fate vibrations stayed abnormally high until just bout five minutes before the date-change, which is the exact moment that your logs record the Alseides docking.” “There are an infinite variety of occurrences that could create abnormally high fate vibrations,” Folken drawled. “Why do you think that it has something to do with the Captain?” “You aren’t listening. The fate vibrations went off the scale. I don’t think that you quite understand the implications of this matter.” “Of course I do. We need a bigger scale.” The middle Madoshi, whose name Folken never did care enough to find out, because clenching his fists in anger. “We have every reason to believe that Captain Albatou was breaking the law last night--” “If I had a dime for every time that Captain Albatou broke the law, I would be a very rich man right now.” “We need information about the Captain--” “You,” said Folken as he deliberately tapped his fingers together, “are withholding information about the Captain from *me*.” “That’s classified information.” “You think that the Captain could single-handedly cause abnormally high fate vibrations? I think there’s something *very* important that you’re not telling me, and it’s information that I feel I have a right to, considering how I’ve been assigned to work with--” “FOLKEN!” With his usual composure and grace (that is to say, none,) Dilandau burst through the door of the study. He managed to put a stop to his momentum as soon as he spotted the three dark men filling up the scarce space in the cramped room. He gulped, unhinged. “Is this a bad time?” The middle Madoshi grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. “Ah, Captain Albatou. We were just about to send for you. Do come on in.” Dilandau stepped forward slowly, cautiously, swinging the heavy door closed behind him. He winced as it clicked shut. Folken settled back in his seat, momentarily contented. The next few moments promised to be very entertaining, indeed. Perhaps informative, but if not, at least entertaining. “Dilandau Albatou,” the Madoshi began, “would you mind divulging your whereabouts last night?” Dilandau bowed, grimacing as he forced his words to maintain a measure of politeness. “I was in the city, my Lord, carrying out a death-vendetta, as is my right in the Dragonslayer’s Code of Honor--” “A death-vendetta? Against whom?” “The bandits that escaped my squad earlier yesterday morning.” “You located them so quickly?” “I devoted all of my energy to the task, my Lord.” “That I do not doubt.” Folken tried very, very hard not to chuckle. The Madoshi continued, “We require more details.” “You want me to tell you how I killed them?” “How did you find them? Where did you find them? Who was with you? Who witnessed the event? Who was with you? Where did you drop your Guymelef? What weapons did you carry with you? What did you eat for dinner?” “I skipped dinner. I’m going on a diet.” Dilandau’s eyes briefly met Folken’s eyes. The latter raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but said nothing. “Hold out your hand,” the Madoshi commanded. Dilandau took a wary step backward. “Why?” “It is not your place to ask why. Do you wish to be punished?” Dilandau dropped his head. “No.” He obediently held out his hand. Quickly - certainly faster than Folken had ever seen a Madoshi move - the sorcerer darted forward, darted one hand out from underneath his robe, flashed a silver pair of tweezers, plucked a bit of skin from the web between Dilandau’s thumb and forefinger, and then darted backward before the startled captain could bite him. “OW! DAMMIT!” Sensing that he had just worn out the last of his welcome, the Madoshi nodded his head to his companions. “We shall take our leave of you. Good day, gentlemen.” There was a whispering of rustled robes, the door swung open and shut again, and the sorcerers were gone. “DAMMIT!” Dilandau kicked a table over. Glass crashed to the floor and Folken winced. The hurricane began . . . “I must apologize for the intrusion of my colleagues,” Folken began calmly, waiting for the younger boy’s rage to abate as he kicked and screamed and ripped apart a leather-bound book. “GODDAMN MADOSHI!!! JUST WHO IN THE HELL DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?!?!?!” “My sentiments exactly.” “THEY THINK THAT THEY CAN JUST COME IN HERE AND PUSH ME AROUND--” “-Unfortunately, they can--” “SOMEDAY I WON’T LET THEM GET AWAY WITH IT!!!!!!!!!” “Do you have any idea what they can do with that skin sample?” Dilandau paused in the middle of biting a steel compass in half. “Huh? What can they do with it?” “If they managed to get any capillaries, which they probably did, they can analyze every trace substance that was in your system over the past 48 hours. That includes both natural and artificial substances.” “Like . . .?” “Everything. Any drugs or alcohol ingested, what types of food you ate and when, hormone levels, blood cell count, exposure to chemicals inside the Guymelef . . . The Madoshi can find out exactly where you were and what you were doing--” “You’re lying!!!” “No, I’m not. But here’s the catch. It may take them weeks - maybe a month or two - to test everything and analyze the results. Most often, it’s a process not even worth bothering with.” Folken leaned forward and gazed at the captain, deadpan but intense. “The Madoshi are very . . . *very* . . . interested in what you were doing last night.” Dilandau chewed thoughtfully on the tip of the compass. “Is there something that you wanted to see me about?” “Yes, there was. Triglyceride-oximonium, Agent Yellow, and Blue Fairy Dust.” “Oh . . .” “You were with the de Eowyn woman last night, weren’t you? You said that you had a death-vendetta against her, not against the bandits. But from what I understand, this woman is very much alive this morning. To be honest, I’m puzzled. And intrigued. So I thought that you might be interested in this.” Folken slid a thick stack of papers across his desk. “It’s her file from the Imperial archives. Nothing classified, and nothing particularly revealing; just whatever information is available to the common citizen. But there’s still quite a bit of . . . interesting information about our lady friend in the bluewood forest.” Dilandau snatched up the stack of papers. “Thanks, but . . . er, why?” “I beg your pardon?” “Why didn’t you tell the Madoshi that I was lying? Why pull up all these papers?” “Because I enjoy laughing at you.” “Excuse me?!?!” “Remember, it is not your place to question.” Dilandau stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. thought Folken sourly. * * * Dilandau Albatou settled down in his private quarters, spread out the stack of papers in front of him, and began to read. And he read. And read some more. And read some more. He shook his head and muttered softly, “Damn . . .” And read some more. And read some more. And in the end, he hardly noticed that five of his Dragonslayers had gathered in a silent cluster around him, and had been reading over his shoulder for about an hour. When the last page was read and done, there was a collective shaking of heads and soft muttering of “Da-a- a-amn . . .” Dilandau jumped from his seat and whirled around. “YOU WERE READING OVER MY SHOULDER?!?!” “Yes,” the five answered dutifully and truthfully. “Then prove to me that you learned something useful. REPORT!” Dilandau’s finger sought and pointed. Dalet gulped. “Muirne de Eowyn, Orinda. Daughter of a wealthy philanthropist and his third wife, both of whom were killed in a carriage accident when she was twelve. She inherited everything - *everything* - and was declared legally fit to live independently. She invested the inheritance in the Zaibach Library of Physics and Chemical Studies, which opened to the public after a year of construction. When de Eowyn was still thirteen years old, the library burned to the ground and all of the books and records within were destroyed. She turned herself in to the authorities the morning after, confessing to setting the library on fire. The confession - at least, the portion released on public record - describes a long history of mental instability and depression, combined with a childhood love of fire and symptoms of unhealthy levels of pyromania. De Eowyn was later implicated in numerous cases of petty arson that had occurred throughout the city of the span of at least five years. She was sentenced to fifty years in a high-security prison, although the state somehow granted her pardon after only one year in jail and she was released into the hands of the Madoshi. The public records are blank for one year; they pick up again after the Madoshi discharge and exile her for unknown reasons. De Eowyn bought the land in the bluewood forest with the last of her inheritance and has lived there for two years since. Although the Bluewood Protection Act was passed almost two years ago, de Eowyn *did* manage to legally acquire her land before the act was passed, and is now living there on special agreement with the Madoshi and a legal exemption authorized by the Emperor himself.” When it was all over and Dalet had fallen silent, the Dragonslayers were left staring expectantly at their commander. Dilandau tapped his fingers to his chin, eyes focused on some faraway point, furrowing his brow deep in thought. “Sir?” “What is it, Dalet?” “You didn’t ask for my opinion on the subject, sir.” “Well, then. And what is your opinion, Dalet?” “I think she’s scary, sir.” “Scary?” Slowly, serenely, a grin spread across the captain’s face. “Is she frightening?” The grin widened. “No, No . . . I think she’s incredible.” And with that, Dilandau suddenly whirled around and marched out of the room. “I’m going to run an errand, men - I’ll be back after supper,” he called over his shoulder as his steps receded down the hallway. A few moments later, a shuddering roar signaled that the Alseides had departed. The Dragonslayers stood, silent and stunned. “Is he . . . Is he . . .” Guimel stuttered. “But - but it’s only mid-morning! The Madoshi will kill him if they find out that he left for an entire day!” “I think that the Madoshi are the least of our worries right now,” Migel muttered drolly. “Something is very, very wrong here.” Chesta sighed with resignation. “I told you that the de Eowyn woman was a witch.” * * * Orinda was out in her yard feeding her chickens when the red Alseides came crashing down. The chickens screamed and squawked in fury, scattering to the edges of the forest and leaving a puff of angry feathers behind them. Orinda swore under her breath. “You’re supposed to give advance notice if you want permission to land guymelefs on private property!” she admonished Dilandau, who was climbing out of the cockpit. “Sorry ‘bout the chickens,” Dilandau muttered as he hopped to the ground. He didn’t sound as if he meant it. “Oh me oh my. What on Gaea are *you* doing back here?!” “You said that we had a date. Stories and food. And wine. I could go for some wine right now.” “Look, you can’t just barge in here and start demanding to be fed and entertained--” A look of genuine surprise flashed across Dilandau’s face. The thought had never actually occurred to him before. “Why not? The law says that soldiers of the Zaibach army can quarter in the homes of citizens. And besides, you *invited* me.” “I didn’t mean for you to come this early in the morning.” “Oh, don’t worry about me,” he said as he strode past her and made his way toward the cabin. “I can make myself comfortable.” Orinda marched after him. “Hey! Don’t think that you can just--” “Nice fire you’ve got going there,” Dilandau whistled appreciatively as he strode into the cabin and beheld the glowing blaze in the fireplace. Orinda closed the door behind her. “Sit down,” she ordered. Dilandau’s eyes narrowed momentarily as he assessed her tone of voice, but he decided to comply regardless. After a quick scan of the room - cleaning table and animal carcasses, dining table and chairs, and rustic leather couch by the fireplace - he chose the couch, and sat down obediently. “Got anything to eat? I skipped breakfast.” “Eggs.” “Fabulous.” Dilandau began taking off his armor. He removed the tiara from his head and sat it down on the floor. “What are you doing?” “Making myself comfortable. Did you say that you had eggs?” “I said that I had eggs. I didn’t say that I was going to cook anything for you.” “Well, then.” He stood up and stretched. “I hate to be a complete burden. I’ll help.” “Help?” “Fix scrambled eggs.” Orinda threw back her head and laughed. “Have you ever cooked before in your life?!” Dilandau blinked. “Why, yes. I’ve cooked on the battlefield, plenty of times. My men and I always end up camping overnight every time there’s a war. I do most of the cooking.” “That’s bizarre. I didn’t think that a prissy-boy captain like you would do dirty labor like cooking.” “I don’t do it because I like to cook.” He grinned. “I do it because I like to tend to the fire.” His grin was contagious, and Orinda couldn’t help but return it. “Fine. I’ll fix you some eggs. You don’t need to help - I’d rather I didn’t have a stranger messing around in my kitchen - so just sit here and make yourself comfortable.” Without waiting for a reply, Orinda trounced off into the kitchen. She hummed to herself a little as she plucked four eggs from a hanging basket and cracked them over a hot griddle. She whipped them into a scramble with her fork, absent-mindedly reflecting on her unusual guest waiting in front of her fireplace. the part of her brain that she didn’t like to listen to whispered. Orinda peeked out from behind the entrance to the kitchen, spying on her guest. He was lounging on the couch, idly staring off into space, head resting on cushions listlessly. He looked like a robot that had been turned off . . . Or like a weapon that, finding no particular reason to act out in a homicidal rage at that point in time, suddenly found itself wading into the treacherous and unfamiliar waters of deep interpersonal reflection. Orinda could see much more of the boy’s actual build and physique, now that the clunky red armor was removed. He might have been small and slender, but what little flesh he had was composed almost entirely of hard, wiry muscle. The sword strapped to his side initially appeared far too heavy for him to wield effectively, but judging from their encounter yesterday morning, Orinda knew that not to be the case at all. She shook her head, tired of attempting to figure out the boy’s - no, the young man’s - enigma. She returned to her eggs, whipped them a few more times until they were crisp and golden, and then dished them out onto two china plates. She brought the plates to the dining table and set them down. “Bon appetit!” she called cheerfully. Dilandau didn’t move, but gazed at her with an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Are we really strangers?” “What do you mean?” “You said that I was a stranger. Are we really strangers?” “Well, I did just meet your for the first time yesterday . . . But no, I guess that we’re not strangers. Because I know your secret. I know the one thing that you’re afraid of.” His eyes narrowed again. “What would that be?” “The Madoshi.” “Hmph. You’re afraid of the Madoshi, too.” “I suppose you’re right.” She sat down at the table without bothering to question how he had reached that conclusion. “Come over here and eat these eggs. I went to all the trouble of fixing them, so you had better eat them.” “Oh.” He stood up and strode over to the table, pulled back a chair, and sat down. He stared at his plate for a few moments, then muttered clumsily, “Er . . . thank you. For the eggs.” Orinda suppressed a small giggle. He didn’t sound used to saying it, but it was somehow sweet and endearing, perhaps because of its unfamiliarity on his tongue. Dilandau began shoving eggs into his mouth. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he mumbled around mouthfuls of food. “How big is it really?” “Not that much bigger than what you’ve seen. There’s this room, and the kitchen, and a study, and a bedroom. But sometimes I sleep in this room, on the couch, when it gets to cold.” She puffed her chest with unconscious pride. “I built the whole house myself.” “Impressive.” He was blushing. Orinda squinted, unsure of her eyes were betraying her. No. He was most definitely blushing. “Are the eggs good?” she asked. “They’re great.” “You appear remarkably non-homicidal this morning.” “You said that you were going to tell me a story.” She laughed. “After we finish breakfast, and after you can help me with my chores.” “Hmm. Okay.” “Just okay? Just like that? No protests from my handsome, pampered captain about doing lowly chores?” “I said that it was okay.” He flushed deeper and scowled at his eggs, attacking them with his fork. She laughed again. “You’re unpredictable. I like that.” He finished the last of his eggs, coughed, and slid the empty plate aside. “Do you have anything to drink? I’d like some wine.” “So early in the morning?” She squinted at him again. It was strange . . . The symptoms that she had seen appear in him last night *after* the two glasses of wine were now making their appearance *before* any wine had been served. The deep flush, and the eyes that struggled to stay focused. As she stood up and made her way to the kitchen to fetch the wine, the evil little part of her brain that she could never get to shut up began whispering its hypothesis.
“Infatuation,” she finished under her breath as she grasped the wine flask with two hands, trying to steady herself. “Orinda,” she whispered to herself, her quiet kitchen, and her brain, “Orinda, I think that you’ve successfully aroused him. You’ve got the captain of the Zaibach Dragonslayers wrapped around your little finger.” And then, she grinned. * * * As the day wore on, Orinda had ample opportunity to study and analyze her guest. Once the wine had been drunk - all five glasses of it - then it was time for chores to begin. Clumsily, but strangely eagerly, Dilandau helped Orinda with her laborious tasks. He pumped well water, caulked the cracks in the logs that composed the outer wall of her cabin (and ate some of the caulk, despite her admonishments not to), helped her gather the chickens that the Alseides had scattered with its sudden arrival, and gathered eggs and pulled weeds from the flower garden behind her house. Orinda took careful notice of his every move, his every gesture. At every available opportunity, the young captain stood or sat close to her - and constantly edged himself closer. Unfortunately, the closer in proximity the two came, the more his blushing became noticeable. Orinda suspected that she was dealing with an abnormal young man, one who had - believe it or not - never been aroused in his life, and suddenly finding himself in such a state, had no idea how to handle it or how to calm himself down. Dilandau didn’t seem embarrassed or self-conscious about his obvious attraction to her, but he did seem rather uncomfortable in his own body, and swore violently that sometimes he couldn’t even seem to stay upright on his own two feet. After the garden had been properly weeded, Orinda sternly ordered Dilandau to go back inside the cabin with her. “You look like you need a rest. The rest of the chores can wait until after lunch.” “But I’m not tired.” “I know that you’re not tired, but trust me, I think that you had better sit down.” He shrugged, and obeyed her orders, flouncing himself down on the leather couch as soon as he returned to the cabin. Orinda sat beside him. “Are you okay?” “I’m not drunk, if that’s what you mean.” “Then what is it?” Hie eyes unfocused momentarily, and he said something very strange. “I’m not programmed for this sort of thing.” Orinda flinched, suddenly frightened by the cold detachment in his voice. “What do you mean by that?!” His eyes cleared, and he shook his head, as if trying to dislodge an unpleasant thought from his brain. “Huh? What do I mean by what?” “You just said--” “Oh, no.” He buried his face in his hands. “I can’t remember what I just said. I HATE it when that happens.” In that moment, with his head in his hands and his curled bangs falling in a silvery shower over his face, he appeared very small, lonely, frightened, confused, and angry. Unsure of her own motives, Orinda reached out and tenderly smoothed back his bangs with one hand. She traced her fingers along his temple, then let her hand fall and rest on his knee. “It’s all right,” she said, although the moment that she said it she knew that it was an empty statement. He lifted his head up, and met her crystalline sapphire eyes with his exotic ruby irises. “You have soft hands, for someone who does hard labor all day.” “You are remarkably observant.” She grinned, trying to lighten up the mood in the room. “Did you know that you’re painfully handsome?” “You are remarkably observant.” But he was still unable to return her grin. “And you’re so young.” Her grin faded into a look of wistful sadness. “You’re so goddamn young.” “I’m sixteen,” he said proudly, “and only two years younger than you.” Both knew that it was a lie, but neither dared to challenge the truth behind the statement. “I know. Yesterday, I thought of you as a boy. But now I know that’s not the case.” A long moment of silence spun out between them. But it was not an uncomfortable silence. Carefully, hesitantly, Dilandau turned his body slightly so that he was facing Orinda. With the slow movements of one caught in a dream, he raised his hands and placed them on her shoulders. And then he leaned forward, waiting, gauging, giving her ample opportunity to escape. When she instead sighed and closed her eyes, he lazily lowered his own lids, brought his mouth toward hers, and then they kissed. He was awkward at first, uncomfortable with such an unusual situation. Had Dilandau been more aware of his own circumstances, he would have blamed his clumsiness on a lack of proper programming. But Orinda met his lips with a warmth and embrace of her own, teasing them and guiding them, flicking at them with her tongue and teeth. When it was over, he pulled his lips away from hers and rested his head on her soft chest, sighing contentedly. She sat, still and warm and relishing the peace of the moment, gently wrapping her arms around his thin torso. “I was right. You are unpredictable,” she laughed softly. “That was my first kiss,” he admitted sheepishly. “I know. But it was spectacular.” “Um . . . Thank you.” She brought one hand to his head and began running his silvery hair through her fingers. “Lord, but you’re handsome.” “I think that you’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever met.” Orinda doubted that he had seen very many women before, but the comment still caused her a warm glow to rise to her cheeks. She turned her face toward the ceiling. “What are we doing? What are we getting ourselves into? If anybody finds out - if the Madoshi find out --” He raised his head from her chest as she lowered hers, and their eyes met. “Do you want to stop?” “No. Not at all.” “So, then, we’re agreed . . . What now?” “Lunch. I need lunch. I’m hungry.” “Me, too. Do you need any help?” “I told you. I don’t allow anyone in my kitchen except Me, Myself, and I.” “Right.” Hey reluctantly slid their arms away from each other as Orinda climbed off the couch and stood up. “And after lunch, you owe me a story. About fire.” “It will be my pleasure.” -- End Part Three --