(no subject)
Title: Disbelief
Fandom: Tenkuu no Escaflowne
Word Count: 372
Rating: G
Summary: Folken reflects
Author's Notes: SPOILERS. And a bit different, as this isn't V/H focused. But they're here, I swear! And... yeah, this fic was bothering me for WEEKS.
Folken liked to fancy himself to be an ideal, to be the kind of man people would admire, that would be regarded in history for having tried - and accomplished - the best-intentioned of goals.
He'd never thought, that at the age of 25, he'd be looking into the gaze of his brother and seeing only hate, hearing hissed accusations that turned into shouted insults. As if on auto-pilot, he heard his own voice respond that it was for the good of Gaea, for everyone.
Folken wasn't surprised that Van didn't believe him. A part of him protested, wanting to know where the lessons of humanity and ethics had gone.
They left when I lost my arm in that barbaric king-making ritual.
For a man of ideals, it always surprised Folken that he remained bitter about this. That, of all things, he would mourn the loss of flesh and bone, when he had remained alive, at least - unlike many, he could walk.
He had no right to be bitter, he knew that. Not when so many Fanelian heirs before him had failed, and paid for the result with their lives. Not when his own hate had resulted in the loss of his mother. Of family.
But Dornkirk saved me. And I can make sure it never happens again.
Folken had been horrified when he'd awoken with the new metal appendage. But he'd allowed the strange man (mostly machine, his mind whispered) to explain, to coax, to teach.
Unwittingly, he'd been drawn into a web, that now, had resulted in the destruction of his country (you said you'd make things better for them) and the hate of his brother.
"You were supposed to be dead!"
In a way, he already was. He was no longer the 'Folken' he'd been ten years ago, the 'Folken' he'd aspired to be, just a skewed, twisted formation that he himself could not explain.
But it was who he was now. And despite his growing discomfort with the Zaibach methods, the objectives, he would complete this goal, this once.
His wings were black, he would have no other chances. Whether or not this was the best course, Folken had to complete this, as he had nothing before.
Fandom: Tenkuu no Escaflowne
Word Count: 372
Rating: G
Summary: Folken reflects
Author's Notes: SPOILERS. And a bit different, as this isn't V/H focused. But they're here, I swear! And... yeah, this fic was bothering me for WEEKS.
Folken liked to fancy himself to be an ideal, to be the kind of man people would admire, that would be regarded in history for having tried - and accomplished - the best-intentioned of goals.
He'd never thought, that at the age of 25, he'd be looking into the gaze of his brother and seeing only hate, hearing hissed accusations that turned into shouted insults. As if on auto-pilot, he heard his own voice respond that it was for the good of Gaea, for everyone.
Folken wasn't surprised that Van didn't believe him. A part of him protested, wanting to know where the lessons of humanity and ethics had gone.
They left when I lost my arm in that barbaric king-making ritual.
For a man of ideals, it always surprised Folken that he remained bitter about this. That, of all things, he would mourn the loss of flesh and bone, when he had remained alive, at least - unlike many, he could walk.
He had no right to be bitter, he knew that. Not when so many Fanelian heirs before him had failed, and paid for the result with their lives. Not when his own hate had resulted in the loss of his mother. Of family.
But Dornkirk saved me. And I can make sure it never happens again.
Folken had been horrified when he'd awoken with the new metal appendage. But he'd allowed the strange man (mostly machine, his mind whispered) to explain, to coax, to teach.
Unwittingly, he'd been drawn into a web, that now, had resulted in the destruction of his country (you said you'd make things better for them) and the hate of his brother.
"You were supposed to be dead!"
In a way, he already was. He was no longer the 'Folken' he'd been ten years ago, the 'Folken' he'd aspired to be, just a skewed, twisted formation that he himself could not explain.
But it was who he was now. And despite his growing discomfort with the Zaibach methods, the objectives, he would complete this goal, this once.
His wings were black, he would have no other chances. Whether or not this was the best course, Folken had to complete this, as he had nothing before.