Note: Takes place pre-series (though upon reading you should be
able to figure this out-- I hope)
The North American rights to Escaflowne are held by
AnimeVillage.Com, and not this worthless one's, who is using it
without permission. This worthless one is not doing so for profit,
he would never presume to do so.
Royal Tears
Folken Lacour de Fanel looked out the window of the ship.
Swords, arrows, Guymelefs, horses, screams, and blood-- mustn't
forget the blood. People dying, and animals dying and more and more
misery, spiralling ever upwards.
This war was different though. One side fought not to gain
resources, nor out of greed, or hate, or paranoia. Zaibach fought
to make the world a better place. A fight for all peoples, to lift
them from the fate of war.
If he was able to, Folken would cry-- one of the side effects
of what Dornkirk did to him rendered tears impossible.
Afterwards, walking through the battlefield-- a small town near
Zaibach's borders and now a ruined hulk --Folken was still in the
same contemplative mood, walking slowly down the street with his
cloak drawn tight, keeping the aftermath of the battle at bay.
There was a child on the street; a child standing there outside
an hollowed out burning wreck of a house. A child, four or at the
very oldest five, standing there with a blank, uncomprehending look
covering his young face and watching Folken with a strange
intensity. The emptiness of the child's face was (thankfully)
marred by a constant stream of tears the child seemed not to
notice, until, as if on its own volition, the boy's right arm came
up and wiped the tears, smearing them towards his ears.
When Folken returned to the Zaibach capital, the first thing he
did was go to a tattoo parlour. There were a variety of images on
the walls: samples of what could be done, some simple, some
complex, some beautiful and some not, some elegant and some
pornographic. An empty chair sat in the middle of the room, which
was the most well-lit part of the establishment.
A fat man, wearing a clean white, short-sleeved shirt which
stretched to encompass his girth, looked up.
"I would like a tattoo," Folken said without preamble.
"Then you came to the right place. If I can't do it, no one
can. Whaddaya want?" the man replied, showing no trace of the fear
one normally saw when confronted by Dornkirk's Sorcerors. "I have
quite a selection, as you can see." The man nodded to the walls.
"I want something different."
"Ah!" the man exclaimed happily. "You have something in mind
already. I suppose you would have a particular one in mind, coming
here, wouldn't you?"
"I want... I saw a child crying once. The small boy wiped the
tears away, just so," Folken mimicked the action with his left, his
real, arm. "I want that, the tears, or what would be left of them.
One around each eye."
"The smear?" the man said, somewhat disappointed at the lack of
challenge.
"Yes."
"Is there any colour you want?"
"Purple."
"You sound like you have a reason to do so. Do you mind if I
ask why?"
"So I don't forget what it is we're doing this for."
The fat man smiled and gestured grandly towards the chair.
"Then come into my parlour, and we shall see what we shall see."
And that was how Folken got the first two of his tattoos, to
remind himself of what they were fighting for: purple for the
colour of royalty, the majesty of the dream, and tears wiped away
in determination to see it through.
Another war. There was always another war. Now that they had
committed themselves totally to their plan to rid the world of war
and usher in a Golden Age, where all desires and all fortunes would
come true, all they did was war.
Folken felt along the edges of his two tattoos, tracing the
outlines gently as he watched the dispatched Zaibach forces fight
yet another endless battle. It had to be done. It was necessary.
The danger though, the danger was if they forgot what they were
fighting for. So easy to get caught up in the danger, and forget
what the striving was for. Rid the world of the wars, of war
itself. All they seemed to do was to increase the war and the pain
and the suffering, not end it. Some days it looked like all they
were doing was making the world worse.
Folken stopped tracing the tattoos. After all, they were
incomplete.
"I didn't think to see you in here again," the fat man greeted
Folken. The man stretched his clean white shirt even more this
time.
"I realised it was not done yet."
"Oh?" the man said, curiousity piqued.
"I need another one, just one, here." Folken placed one finger
on his cheek.
"And what would that be?"
"A single teardrop," Folken replied, easing himself down into
the chair.
"Purple?"
"Of course."
"Why, may I ask, do you want this one?"
"To remind myself of what we have lost trying to achieve our
goal."
A single tear, shed for the price their vision was incurring.
Author-type comments:
I dunno, Folken's tattoos just gotta mean something, I think to
myself, and I thought it would be cool to do a story about their
origins. Didn't come out to what I intended, mind you-- perhaps if
I had let it gel for another couple of months or something in my
head I could have come up with something better-- but I haven't and
didn't, so there we go and here we are. Comments? Criticisms?
And as I (finally) post this to RAAC, I suppose there is another
reason for it (well, the posting thereof, at least): there are
those (no names, of course) who believe that a story, a fanfic,
must have length, to be good, which leads to the reasoning that
bigger is better. I question that assumption. Authors, professional
writers, tend to tell you that a short story is much harder to
write than a full-length novel-- in a short story you have to
condense what you want to say in a short time, and are unable to
explore every little avenue and thought. Priorities are needed, for
what you want to include and exclude. In Science Fiction, it is the
short story where most new and vibrant ideas first take place.
And besides, which would you rather read, a short, bad fic, or
a long, bad fic? ^_^ Try writing small and compact, not everything
need be larger than life. Miniaturise your fics! Reduce them to
their basal essences, and see what happens! A short story is good
for getting your point across, moreso than a novel because it comes
through clearer! ;-)
Vive le petit conte! (
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