Twisted Fortune - An Escaflowne Fanfiction
By Bonnejeanne and Nixers
Contact: bonnejeanne@yahoo.com and nixerchan@aol.com
Warnings: Spoilers,
Notes: Set a little over one year after Vision of Escaflowne's end.

****.....**** - A dream,

/...../ - thoughts.

Chapter Eight - A Strategic Return

Part 16

The lamp was guttering slightly, asking for more oil, when the light scratching on the study door came. The door opened, and Merle came in, balancing a tray in her arms. She had bathed and groomed and dressed in a longer smock, a soft rust color that brought out the gold highlights in her hair and fur. The tray was laden with food and drink but only one plate and cup.

Dryden sat up from the mild slump he'd fallen into while writing, and sprinkled a pinch of sand over the fresh ink. Setting his quill gently into the inkwell he turned to her, smiling slightly at the figure she made in the soft lamplight.

"Merle, you didn't have to," he admonished.

"Yes, I did," she said, setting the tray down on top of some books. "You didn't come in to dinner and they were closing up the kitchen. Now, eat!"

He chuckled quietly. "You still insist on stuffing me. I hope you intend to help me with this mountain." Picking up a slice of fruit from one of the plates, he nibbled at it without much interest. He'd completely forgotten dinner in his work, and his stomach still hadn't awoken to that fact.

"I've eaten," she said, and crawled up on the couch, tucking her feet under her neatly. She looked around the room. "Something's missing."

"I've moved some of the clutter out... I've made arrangements for some of my acquisitions in the mystic valley to be brought here.... after today," he said, putting aside the rind of the fruit, before looking at the tray tastelessly. Instead, he shifted his chair so that he could more easily face his guest.

"Mmm," she said. "I meant something tall and blond."

That drew a grin. "A little more difficult to move, but surprisingly he went to his own room tonight. He's..... changed a bit."

Merle tilted her head but didn't question it. The truth was, the catgirl was tired. Clean, but tired. However, she had no desire to crawl into her small lonely room to nap. Here, she could bug Dryden if he stayed up too late.

"That's good, I guess," she said. She yawned widely.

He caught her sleepy posture and quickly surmised her intent. With a fond smile he said, "There's still a blanket in the lower drawer if you'd like it."

"Mmmm," she purred softly. She simply curled up a bit more, her tail winding around to brush her nose lightly. "Only another hour, then you have to go to bed," she murmured.

"Of course," he said casually, turning back to the papers and blotting his quill lightly. The blackened tip glistened in the light as it paused over the note. He'd already finished composing his official letter to Asturia, and related what had been needed to Millerna... but he faltered on his usual serenades to the lovely, but distant woman.

Glancing back towards the figure curled up petitely on the couch he frowned, his mind wandering back to the conversation with Allen. Dipping the quill quickly, he refreshed the nib.

"And as a more personal note, I regret to inform you, dearest one, that my stay may be indefinitely sustained. I am kept in these wooded lands by my duties, my honor and my heart," he paused, about to cross the last word, but instead shook his head and filled the quill again. "It is with no ease that I say that I may not be able to honor my promise to return. I can only beg of you your understanding and your acceptance. With sincerity, Dryden Fassa."

With a sigh at the finality of the words, he put aside the feather and searched his desk for wax, rifling under the papers that had managed to accumulate.

Merle stirred slightly at the sound of shuffling. She jumped up and lifted the tray off the desk, placing it on a nearby chest to make his search easier. "Whatcha need?"

"Sealing wax," he answered, voice muffled as he rifled through some of the small drawers. "I'm afraid it would never get to Asturia without my seal on it."

Merle's eyes flickered at the mention of Asturia but she simply reached up and plucked the wax from a basket on one of the shelves and placed it in his hand. "When you're done I can take it to the house master, to go out tomorrow."

"Mmm. How did it get over there?" he mused, absently he nodded to Merle, fighting off sleep's advance. "If it's no trouble to you." He quickly folded both notes and heated the wax over the open flame of the lamp. Moving swiftly, he let a little dribble onto both notes, and pressed the cooling liquid with the face of his ring.

Merle waited until he was done and the wax cool and then took the notes. At the door, she paused, "Go to bed?" Then she darted off.

With one last glance about the desk to check that everything was in order, he fished out the blanket that he'd made reference to and wandered over to find the couch himself.

Merle was back very shortly, and scowled when she saw him on the couch. She pulled the blanket off and began tugging at his wrist. "No.. no.. no... your bed, your own bed... now...." She kept pulling until she got him on his feet and then towed him down the hall to the room that was his, pushing him inside. She pulled off his outer layers and even undid his topknot, pushing him at the large bed's surface. Once she got him seated, she pulled off his shoes and then nudged him into the bed, pulling the covers over his substantial frame.

He settled into the often neglected bed with only mild protests at the treatment. His eyes, thought, belaying his claims of being "fine," slid shut nearly the instant he was prone and comfortable.

Merle moved about his room silently, picking up his discarded clothes and setting his shoes neatly beside the bed. She turned down the lamps and then paused, looking down at him. She watched his chest move and studied the dark crescents of his eyelashes against his cheek. She stood there for a while, then moved to the door. Just before opening it, she stopped. Then she went back to the bed, which was large enough for two or three someones even with his frame, and climbed up onto it, curling into a ball on top of the covers. She watched him for a little while longer, and then closed her own eyes, gently purring herself to sleep.

*****A phoenix lay on a battlefield ground, feeling its death approach as the dirt and dust beneath its fiery wings sizzled. It could see the landscape of its graveyard.

****

Dilandau awoke, gasping for breath and struggling against the weight that had entangled him. Frantically, he pushed Van off of him and reached under the shirt he wore below his discarded uniform. He held up the small jewel by the chain at eyes length, it did nothing more than glitter at him knowingly.

Catching his breath he glanced at Van, where he'd shoved the boy, memories of the dream, Jajuka's talk and of Van's transformation collided together in one resounded CLICK of information. "You're the dragon's soul," he hissed, red eyes narrow.

Van blinked, resting on his back and elbows where he'd landed. He tilted his head. "I don't understand," he said, trying to force his clouded awareness to sharpen. His eyes dropped to the pendant and then back to Dilandau's face.

Dilandau gave a short laugh. "There's a legend here, of a white dragon at the last battle and after it had fallen, a winged figure, its spirit, continued on and destroyed everything." He glanced at the boy sourly, imagining the welts that were on the other's turned back. "You have wings."

Van's eyes widened at the mention of the 'legend'. He hardly heard the rest. "No..." he said softly. "I went to get Hitomi... I left Escaflowne because *it* was the weapon. I didn't destroy..."

"You didn't.... destroy?" Dilandau growled. His mind had leaped back to another set of battles. His face twisted with anger as he got to his feet, fists clenched. "How DARE you claim that!"

Van looked up, reading the memories in the other boy's eyes. In turn, they summoned his own. Fire... Fanelia burning, the blood spilled... but the memories didn't anger him. They made him cold. The next memory was a dark place, shadows walking, himself a shadow among them. "I don't claim that," he said. "But even I... can't destroy *everything*."

Dilandau snorted, seemed to calm at the other's words as fast as he'd flown into a rage. "No, just enough." He scooped up the overcoat of his armor and the sword, both discarded last night in the confusion, and replaced them with ease born of practice. The simple trappings were enough for a small sense of stability for him in this now foreign world.

Van pulled his knees up, resting his arms and chin on them, watching. He had a soul-deep urge to weep, but he blinked burning eyes and kept his face impassive.

The albino glanced at Van, pausing in his quick preparations with an eyebrow raised. "We're leaving soon," he said curtly, "It would probably be in your best interests to get dressed," he finished, sarcasm creeping into his voice.

Van looked around and found the tunic, pulling it on with a slight wince to hang open. He glanced at Dilandau and then away, shadows beginning to leak into his eyes from an ever-present well within. "What makes you think I care about my best interests," he muttered, his eyes on an inner landscape.

"Nothing," Dilandau replied, frowning slightly. "If I hadn't know you were captured, I'd assume you came here seeking your death." The soldier shrugged. "You aren't who I fought. I'm waiting for him."

In a moment of intuitive clarity, Van pulled his shoulders up and said, "It's Escaflowne you want, not me."

Dilandau looked confused, but seemed to accept it. "And it was never recovered... It's in Fanelia, I suppose," he said dryly.

"I hope so," Van answered. "Shall I call it? Too bad you destroyed your guymelef. We could battle mindlessly here until we were both dead. That would satisfy you?" There was an edge of grief in his voice that hinted that he was almost considering such an option.

Dilandau's eyelid twitched. "If that guymelef was here, we'd have been dead long before this conversation took place," he said, evading the questions and the emotions he could hear.

Something in Van seemed to snap. He moved to face the albino, staring into his eyes, much too close. "Would it satisfy you?!" he demanded. "Shall we get another for you? I promised... I promised I'd not dream without you... if this is your dream..."

Dilandau backed up reflexively, the feeling of someone so close unnerving him. His hand twitched, catching himself before he struck the offender. "No, it wouldn't. No it's not! It's all I know and it's all I have left, now shut up!"

Forcing his hands to steady, Dilandau started walking, instinctively southward. He was doing his best to forget the words he himself had said.

Van stood where he was, trying to control his own shuddering. Looking up at the gray sky, he said out loud, "What have I left? A country I'm unworthy of and... you."

Swallowing convulsively to force the conflicts down, he followed, but didn't bother to catch up, simply keeping the taller boy in sight.

Most of the journey that day was spent in silence. Short questions were asked only with necessity and answered just as curtly. The hard, uneven ground managed to wear the shock of impact even through the thick soles of the boots, and Dilandau, by the time the sun was on its downward set found himself slowing his pace to let the Fanelian boy catch up with him.

Always having been surrounded by *someone,* silence and boredom were never things that set well with the soldier; it gave him far to much time alone in his own head.

"Have you always been this quiet?" Dilandau asked, his eyes on the terrain in front of them.

A brief flash of memory, chattering happily to an older brother who was everything in the world to him came and left. "Yes," Van replied.

Dilandau growled kicking a rock midstride. "Why exactly again, do you *want* me to come with you," /Not that I'm complaining,/ Dilandau admitted silently to himself.

Van blinked. He'd been unsure where they were going and the sickness and confusion of the previous day had left him disoriented, something that stayed with him to some extent. "To... protect Fanelia," he said softly. Then, "Dilandau..."

"It's Basram that Adelphos wants, not Fanelia yet," Dilandau said, shrugging. Covertly, he watched the other's reaction out of the corner of his eye, feigning nonchalance.

Van pulled his concentration together. "Then... then Fanelia is not in immediate danger..." he said aloud. He closed his eyes briefly. Danger or not, there would be a panic at his disappearance. "They'll think otherwise. Why take a king if you mean no aggression to the country?"

"I wonder the same. Why were you with me?"

Van looked at Dilandau and realized he was back in the same paradox he'd been in before. "She... you... didn't want to know things before. And now? Do you truly want an answer?"

/She?/ The word, almost sounding like a slip of the tongue to Dilandau, made him pause mentally. He didn't want to think about the implications of that entirely. A chill swept through him briefly at the notion that things had always been much different than he'd always believed. "No," he said finally, his voice a little hoarse just from that small piece of information. "Not yet."

Van regarded the other boy for a moment. "I tried to protect... you... then... when I realized you were afraid. I'm not sure I can do that for much longer. The cost is... great."

Dilandau set his jaw. "I don't need any protection. If that's all you are here for..." He frowned. "I'm not so weak."

Van simply looked back. "I'm not here to protect you. They came for you. Had I a choice, I would have chosen to stop them. The second choice would have been to stay with you wherever you were taken to, but I take no credit for it. I was overpowered. Had I been left, I'd have torn apart the world to find you."

"You aren't talking about me," Dilandau said quietly. His eyes were still narrowed with anger. "I've seen none of this affection that you speak about in your eyes for me, just grief."

Van tilted his head. He stepped closer. "None?" he said quietly. He shrugged. "Once I might have agreed with you. I've been shown it's not that simple. And I wasn't speaking of affection. I was speaking of need."

Dilandau finally turned to look at Van, his expression was considering, almost calculating. "I can accept that."

"That's convenient," Van said, with a slight curve of one side of his mouth. He stepped away and sat on his heels, resting. "If I could get word to Fanelia that I was safe, it might not be so important to go back," he mentioned, picking up a small rock on the ground and tossing it. "You mentioned a job you had to do."

Dilandau had paused in his steps when he heard Van sit down, but had not turned around. He nodded slightly. "I have no love for the sorcerers," he began, his shoulders lifting a bit. "I was created for battle, but the job I gave myself was to make their lives hell. They've started again.... 27 people.... insane even for them."

Van snorted softly. "I have no love for them either," he said, with deep conviction. He picked up another little rock and tossed it after the first. "But your country relies upon them, does it not?" He stood up and dusted his hands on his pants. "What's to be done?"

Dilandau shrugged. "It's the only thing that's kept me from slitting all their throats a long time ago.... When Folken was in charge of them, things were better. For his faults he was a little more humane." He laughed clasping his hands behind his back. "Probably why they hated him so much, made them figure things out instead of trial and error."

Van's face darkened. "Zaibach sorcerers stole my brother's soul," he said in a low voice. "He tried to take it back in the end but he paid for it with his life. He wanted peace... they used it to twist him." Van took a deep breath, a frown creasing his forehead. "As things stand, there could be another war. Folken would want... he would want it stopped. It doesn't matter who is beaten. It will just go on forever."

Dilandau tried to match the image that Folken's brother portrayed with the one he knew. It didn't click right with him. "He'd always told me that it was a dragon that made him that way." he shrugged. "Though twisted fits, his favorite order was no witnesses." A look of irritation was visible from what Van could see of the boy's face. "That and retreat,"

Van's hands clenched into fists. He turned away. "I wouldn't expect you to understand," he said in a low voice. "I didn't understand. I still don't understand. But I know he wanted peace. Sorcerers... or your Dornkirk... convinced him that your noble cause would fix everything, that whatever was done was justified for that ideal. In the end he stopped believing that. He remembered that some things can never be justified, and he tried to rectify his mistake by giving his life."

"Sounds like another justification," Dilandau said, smiling at the idea. "Some strange idea that the end of his life, or throwing a country back into the poverty that Dornkirk-sama raised it from, would justify the acts he did."

"I don't think he cared about that," Van swallowed, fighting the anger and pain. "No, he did not think it was justified. He just wanted the war to stop."

"Possibly," Dilandau conceded. "I only knew his senses of war and politics. In that he was a boring man with no taste."

Van swallowed and didn't bother answering, turning his back to the other boy.

Dilandau shifted his weight from one foot to another in the ensuing silence. A flash of concern and professional assessment rose up as he glanced at the other boy's back. "You seem better."

Van turned and glared. "I'm fine," he growled. Then his eyes closed and opened.

"Whatever you think of my brother," he said, "He was right. War is pointless. You and I are pointless. It should be stopped."

Dilandau sat down, facing Van, his chin and cheek cupped in one gloved hand. "All right. Let's say that all those points are correct. What is it that you are planning to do about it?"

"What are you planning to do about the 27?" Van returned.

Dilandau winced. "It was important to get you out.... I didn't think about going back."

Van sat on his heels again. "I didn't think at all," he admitted. His mouth curved the tiniest bit. "It's a bad habit."

Dilandau shrugged, returning the ghost of a smile. "I can't say I'm not guilty of that."

Van took a deep breath and let it out. "I need to get word to Fanelia," he said. "I would try and save the 27. I would... I would try and stop a war if one is coming. I don't know how. I was... created for battle as well."

"Considering that you didn't know how to work the bathroom, I doubt Fanelia has gotten to the point of communicators, even if I'd thought to bring one. As for the war... the easiest thing for you is to let Zaibach try and attack Basram, none of the other countries will stand for Zaibach getting that... bomb," Dilandau spit out the word, "So the two sources of trouble destroy each other. It's a lost cause for Zaibach, the attempt is going to kill them. It's why I left."

"Which leaves the last task," Van answered softly. He stood up. "With Escaflowne, we could get into the sorcerer's wing. I'm not sure about getting out. If we can get them out, I can bring them to Fanelia."

Dilandau's eyes lit up as he fingered the hilt of his sword. "I think I can manage to get them out," he said, almost cheerfully.

A spark lit Van's eyes with almost a touch of relief to have even the ghost of a plan for what to do. "Hn." He began pacing. He'd matured as a fighter, but had never been called on to be a strategist. There had always been someone else filling that capacity - Allen, or Dryden or even Folken.

"There is a way to get word to Fanelia," he said slowly.

The other boy merely waited for elaboration, there was nothing that he could see.

Van looked at Dilandau, and, almost hesitantly, began to explain. "It would depend on whether your General Adelphos wants to preserve his cover. Mmm... we return, to him... you saved the king of Fanelia from the sorcerers who were putting his life in jeopardy. This you did for the good of Zaibach. You've explained to me that it is a misunderstanding. I agree to explain as much to the other nations. Zaibach is not censured. And then we take the prisoners out, any way we can."

"It would work... he won't buy the story. But he's a brute not a moron, they've got too much to hide... You and the prisoners would be sent back with all speed to avoid an attack before they were ready."

"Is it worth the gamble?"

"Yes," Dilandau said, a bit of a trouble grimace on his face. "It would be the most efficient way."

"Then what...?" Van asked, studying the other boy's expression.

"Then what? You go back to your kingdom. It seems obvious."

"And you?"

Dilandau grinned. "Oh, really. Do you think they'd let me walk out of there again? I'd wager a month's pay on that it was Adelphos who ordered I get returned. He's always appreciated me so much more when I wasn't around."

Van did not smile. "And how do you feel about it? Do you want to stay here?"

"I don't think I'd be here with you if I wanted to say," Dilandau said without a trace of sarcasm.

"Then you don't stay," Van said quietly.

"Well, it looks like we might be seeing battle after all. It will all depends on how vulnerable Adelphos is right now."

Van lapsed into a contemplative silence. Most of it would depend on Dilandau, and Van was both aware of it and uncomfortable with, but he had no hesitation about committing himself. As he saw it, he really had very little choice.

There were a few hours of daylight left and the two moved on, Van following Dilandau but keeping closer now.

As the sun edged down into the teeth of the mountains, its light a deep crimson, even more like blood than Dilandau could remember before, the albino spotted an irregularity in the terrain ahead. By squinting at it, he recognized the hemispherical shape of a nomad's shelter - a semi-permanent structure built and left by those scavengers who refused to civilize, and continued to roam the desert as their predecessors had done for generations before the coming of Dornkirk. There was no indication of smoke from the structure's chimney-like roof flap, indicating it was more than likely deserted.

Dilandau slowed his pace slightly. His disdain for those who choose to live without those benefits and achievements granted to them by Dornkirk-sama warred with their need for supplies and possibly shelter. The absence of signs of life was as reassuring as it was curious. The nomads rarely if ever abandoned their shelters, never wandering far from them even to hunt.

It would mean either the clan was nearby or gone for some unfathomable reason. The possibility of an ambush was, as far as Dilandau was concerned, a bright and likely one. He slid a glance towards Van. For a moment, he considered giving the boy in his trail some warning, but then figured that Van could and should take care of himself.

Van took in the structure, glanced at Dilandau but said nothing, waiting to see if they were going to move towards or away from it.

Dilandau caught Van's look and shrugged, beginning to again move in the direction of the shelter. "They might have something we'll need. Water at least."

The Fanelian king followed without comment. He could feel the temperature beginning to drop and pulled his uniform tunic together, fastening it down the front.

The structure, made from layers of hide, or other thick, flexible material stretched over a framework of lashed poles, was made sturdy enough to last for a while, and stable enough to withstand desert winds. There was one entrance, made by a flap dogged down with a peg, and the small building was empty and deserted. The interior had been stripped of all but a few items. A small pile of torches, which could be stuck into brackets in the support poles, a metal container with only a couple of cups of stale-looking water, and a bundle of mats for the floor, rolled to the side.

The albino looked around, his posture loosening a bit with disappointment. The torches wouldn't be useful without a tinderbox or something, but at least the bedrolls had enough blankets to stave off the increasing chill in the air. He removed his sheathed sword from his belt and sat, placing it across his knees.

Van examined the building curiously, walking around it. He picked up one of the torches thoughtfully, and sat on his heels, unsheathing his sword. He gouged a small depression in the packed ground, and carved a few shavings from the shaft of the torch into it. Then he looked around and closed his hand around a medium-sized rock, one of the chunks of stone that were so abundant here. Kneeling over the shavings, he angled his sword blade over them and then began striking the rock against the blade, at an angle, over and over.

After a few tries, the stone and metal sparked, and the shavings caught. Van lit the torch from the small flame and set it in one of the brackets.

Dilandau had watched the process with curiosity, at first wondering what had gotten into the other boy. He snorted, watching the fire dance. It would figure that one barbarian would know the secret of another. It took a while, he admitted grudgingly, but it worked.

Van pulled one of the rolls out, looking it over, and shaking it out before laying it on the ground. Sitting on it, he opened the tunic and began taking it off. This turned out to be a more involved process than it first appeared. The material was adhering to his back in places.

Dilandau sat without comment for a moment, before reaching for the half empty container of water and pushing it across the dirt floor. "Should loosen it without breaking the wound open again. I don't want to tend to you through a fever."

Van looked up and then glanced at the water. It was a good idea, the main problem being that Van's arms weren't twice as long and double jointed. He'd no easy way to get the moisture to where he needed it, so he continued to slowly work the tunic from the edges he could grasp.

With a low sound of irritation, Dilandau pushed himself to his feet. Stopping Van's motion with none too gentle hands, he sat down behind the other boy on the bedroll, picking up the metal container. He unscrewed the lid with one hand, the other still gripping one of Van's arms from behind.

Van tensed, but stilled, waiting with almost uncharacteristic pliancy.

"Hmph. They did a job on you all right," Dilandau commented, eyeing the large encrusted stains that had soaked through the back of his tunic. He poured a measure of water into one of the cups, unwilling to waste more than was necessary. Slow enough to allow the tepid water to soak the fabric, he began working at loosening the material from the wounds.

Still tense, Van stayed quiet as this process was underway. He was no more comfortable being tended than the other boy was in doing the job, but he submitted, knowing pride was pointless under the circumstances.

Nearly three cups of water had to be poured out, greedily drunk by the material or the bedroll below. Slowly the shirt was pulled away, no hesitation or remorse in the taller boy when a twitch of muscle or subtle flinch betrayed that a portion wasn't entirely free from the clotted blood. The tedious work, that could only proceed an inch at a time, had already frayed on the silver-haired boy's short patience.

When the stained material was finally bunched entirely at Van's shoulders, he threw down the empty metal cup, feeling only marginally gratified at the clanging noise it produced.

Van reached up and lifted the tunic off his shoulders, dropping the garment with suppressed relief. The temperature was dropping outside as the sun vanished and darkness fell, and inside it was getting colder. Van felt a deep shiver start somewhere inside and got up abruptly, walking to the far side of the enclosure to cover the reaction. The space inside the shelter was large enough, and empty, but it suddenly felt very small and Van felt exposed in the slightest weakness to the sharp garnet eyes he hoped were looking elsewhere.

There was little luck in that respect, the movement drew Dilandau's attention instantly. As Van has passed Dilandau's previous spot, he stiffened, cursing and wondering at himself as to why he'd left his sword behind. When Van hadn't so much as slowed, he'd relaxed, standing to retrieve his blade.

A moment of consideration and red eyes again scanned the confines of the small enclosure, settling on the firepit normally used by the nomads for cooking. In short order, a few of the torches from the bundle were tossed into it, and the sole lit torch had started a small blaze before being replaced.

"It's not for you," Dilandau said defensively, pulling up his own bedroll near the fire. "I don't like the cold." Garnet eyes only turned from watching the flames to Van for a moment, to catch the reaction.

Van found himself placing a hand in front of his mouth, to cover a probably wildly inappropriate smile. He felt a little bit on the edge of hysteria again, and wondered why he seemed to experience that swing in mood and control. Shaking it off, he went over to where he'd left the tunic and picked it up. Then he unsheathed his sword and shoved the point in the ground next to the firepit, and hung the tunic on the upthrust hilt, near to the fire in the hopes of drying it before morning. He looked at the bedroll and rejected it as too sodden now, and pulled another from the pile, spreading it next to his sword. Instead of dropping onto it, though, he moved away, continuing to pace the empty space of the enclosure. Adrenaline, cold, nervous energy, something wouldn't let him settle even though his body was exhausted.

At the sound of Van's sword leaving its sheath, Dilandau's own sword instantly bore a few inches of steel in the firelight. He watched Van's actions with coiled tension, nearly drawing the rest of the blade as Van had planted his sword. His mood shifted back to thinly veiled annoyance as the pommel of his sword met the lips of his sheath again. Watching the boy pace was only interesting for the first ten seconds or so.

"What," he muttered, hand still wrapped around his weapon, "Are you doing?"

Van looked up, stilling, and then shook his head without answering. His eyes fell to the possessive grip Dilandau had on his sword and again an odd smile wanted to tug at his mouth. He remembered clutching his own close to him, refusing to sleep without it. Those not so far away days.

Dilandau's eyes narrowed slightly at Van's shift of expression, but he didn't voice anger or suspicions. It felt oddly reminiscent of his times with Folken, having to keep tight control to preserve.... preserve what this time? Dilandau turned away from the Fanelian king, hiding his expression in guise of returning to tend the fire.

Adding another torch to bring the flames to a good, if not entirely satisfying, pitch again. There was no use in calling watches, unless one stayed guard outside, he decided. Neither would likely, in his estimation, be so foolish to sleep in the other's presence, the extenuating circumstances of the first day aside. The simple working out of the more mundane problems kept his mind busy. He had a vaguely trapped, almost compelled feeling about the whole situation; there was no place he could go, without Van, that he wouldn't be killed, imprisoned, or conscripted.

A bit of a smirk crossed his face. At least they could *attempt* one of those three things.

Van's pacing didn't resume as he found himself taking the opportunity afforded by Dilandau's preoccupation to study the other boy. There was something that drew him, drew his attention, and wasn't as simple as a resemblance to, or a sense of Serena. In fact, faced with Dilandau, Van admitted there were startling differences, but also that Serena had always carried the same magnetism... not similar - the same. It was getting hard, no it was already impossible, to think of them as separate persons, there were too many things ever present that denied it.

It remained a bittersweet paradox that drew and worried at him.

Standing still, he felt the shivering creep up on him again. After a moment of trying to master it, he reluctantly returned to the fresh bedroll and sat, only half facing the flames. He wrapped his arms around himself and closed his eyes.

Dilandau tracked the other boy's movement warily. The boy looked like hell frozen over. The marks on his wrists seemed to be fading, the purpling bruises regressing into a murky yellowish brown, but his blood-matted hair and pale tones beneath his tan did little to improve his bedraggled appearance. Still, most of the damage seemed now more cosmetic than worrying.

"Avoid getting hurt for a while," Dilandau said, breaking the silence. "By the looks of it, the drug is probably still in your system."

Van opened his eyes without lifting his head. The remark sparked another flash of hysteria and he tightened his arms, trying to suppress the silent laughter and keep it confined in his chest. He was too tired for the effort and the outcome was a series of small shudders and a little moisture leaking from the corner of one eye. "Got it," he whispered, when he could manage it.

The other boy's frown increased, taking in the shudders that were obviously no longer entirely from cold. /Great, he's losing it,/ he stared uncomfortably at the dark-haired boy, before sighing. "You might as well let it out," he offered, a bit of a half smile replacing the frown. "You'll probably feel better."

The slight smile stilled the hysteria more easily than anything else could have. Van's head tilted slightly and his eyes rested on the other boy's face as if drinking it in. Perhaps the hysteria wasn't quite stilled, but turned. A series of odd thoughts flashed through his mind, any of which would have been disturbing had it stayed to be examined.

He'd been taken aback as Van seemed to lose the outward traces and simply stared at him. Confusion warred with amusement as Dilandau chalked it up in his mind that Van's pride at it being pointed out was the source of it. Though the way the other was looking at him was not so much unsettling, almost distantly familiar. Maybe in Allen's little castle.... he vaguely remembered the boy there, all rage and indignation...

If he'd been able to read thoughts, they would certainly have disturbed him, as they might have disturbed Van had he been less exhausted and stressed. Van licked his lips and settled, reaching down absently to pull a corner of the bedroll around his shoulders. "Too bad," he murmured as he let his body sink a little. Sleep was finally coming.

"What?" Dilandau asked, more to himself than to the boy curling up, against common sense, to sleep. The boy had been one curiosity, confusion and frustration after another, and Dilandau felt no closer to understanding him yet than after the moment of pain-induced clarity in Van's cell.

A rare, reasonable voice, told him that it probably had to do with the question that he himself had backed away from, a missing year of his life. He glanced over the form bathed by the light of the fire and shrugged to himself. Maybe in the morning he'd ask and mean it.

However the answer came anyway, after the dark lashes closed over cinnamon eyes. "It was warmer last night... even without the fire."

Dilandau stared a moment, his mouth feeling inexplicably dry. "Last night," he said slowly but firmly, "You were delusional." He settled pulling his own blanket over his armor, his sword still cradled within easy reach.

"Mmm... but it was still warmer," Van murmured. Something with wide, dark wings swept down on him and lifted him away to a place where he could walk without sorrow, and stretch his wings without fear, where a hand reached out to take his with a firm, a strong grip, and in that moment he felt that he had come home.

"Probably, but you were still delusional," Dilandau said after Van's breathing had evened and deepened. His own eyes closed in faith that his instincts would wake him the second a noise was out of place.

THE END OF PART 16!

Twisted Fortune - part 17

Twisted Fortune - Index