Escaflowne The Blaze Across My Nightgown

General Note: I'm only going to reformat my fics so much when this site is the one at fault. So if the formatting is weird, please check out my profile for more info. Thank you.

A/N: This fic is part of the _Driving Circles Around Me_ Arc, which you can find more about in my profile.

Takes place near the end of the series, after Folken defects.

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**The Blaze Across My Nightgown  
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_Bong…bong…_

Far down from her bedchamber, the hall clock chimed two in the morning. Eries sighed and finally threw off her covers.

This was ridiculous. She'd been trying to sleep for close to three hours now. First she had tossed and turned in an attempt to get comfortable, and then she had given up on that tactic and simply stared at her canopy, trying to bore herself into unconsciousness. But her body had proved a formidable foe and was obviously having none of it.

With another sigh, she swung her legs to the side of the bed and ran a hand over her face. Gods, she was _so tired_… All she wanted to do was close her eyes, but every time she did, her mind was assaulted by casualty lists and medical reports, appointments she had to keep and appeals she had to make. It was exhausting. So exhausting, it seemed she didn't even have the energy to fall asleep, contradictory as that was.

A sob gathered in her chest, helpless and hopeless, but before it could make its way out of her, Eries stood. She threw on her robe and shoved her feet into her slippers and, almost vengefully, cast open the double doors that led onto her balcony.

It was still summer, but nights were always cool in Palas; the sea saw to that. She finally took the time to secure her robe around her and breathed deeply of the night air, trying to calm herself. It helped, being outside—but she was still all too aware of the castle wall behind her, almost oppressive in its solidity, and for perhaps the first time, her balcony railing looked too much like prison bars, and she had the sudden, irrational urge to throw herself over it.

Eries dismissed the idea as quickly as it had manifested. All she wanted was a temporary reprieve from her thoughts, not a permanent escape. She sighed yet a third time and rubbed her arms.

Maybe she could go to the kitchens. Make herself a cup of tea, perhaps add a splash of brandy to it… Again, she threw the idea out the metaphorical window. The alcohol might help her sleep, but at what price? She'd heard enough tales about men—and _women_, for that matter—becoming too dependent on drink, and as it was, she'd already found herself more and more tempted to indulge in an extra glass of wine at dinner. Maybe she was being overly paranoid about the matter, but it was a road she really didn't want to risk traveling down. The last thing her country needed right now was a constantly soused princess.

Still, she had to do _something_. She'd go mad if she lay in her bed any longer, listening to the distant chime of the clock as it rang out the quarter-hour, the half-hour, the whole-hour…

As if on cue, it chimed again. Two-fifteen.

Eries bolted. She barely took the time to close her balcony doors before she was rushing out into the hall, down the dimly-lit corridor, past that infernal clock, because she could not _bear_ to hear it cry out again—

She could have gone to visit her father. That would be the sensible, dutiful thing to do. But helplessly watching him as he lay in bed was almost worse than helplessly lying in bed, herself, and before she knew it, her legs had made the decision for her, and there she was, at the back of the castle, the royal gardens spilling out in front of her.

It felt good, to be exposed to the night air again, though it seemed a little cooler this time around—perhaps due to the sheen of perspiration that had since broken out over her skin. Well. No turning around for a coat or cloak now, that was for sure. Eries folded the robe more tightly around her throat and set determinedly out.

She didn't often get a chance to take a turn about the gardens these days. It had been a favorite pastime of hers for years, strolling amongst the rows of roses and rhododendrons, the patches of patchouli and periwinkle. It was relaxing, to finally be able to do so again, and a relief, to not have to worry about handmaidens for once, but guilt began to gnaw at her after not too long. There she was, ambling through her well-groomed gardens when so much of the city was still in shambles, when so many people were still stuck in cramped, makeshift shelters…

A breeze came up, tugging at her clothes and making her shiver. The burst of capriciousness that had initially driven her outside had since faded, and practicality was beginning to reassert itself. She wasn't dressed properly for this sort of thing. Should never have run out there in the first place. Should have marched right back inside and crawled back in bed, and if sleep really, truly continued to evade her, well, then she should talk to one of the nurses or doctors about a sedative of some sort. Millerna might even be able to help her with that one, and Jichia knew their relationship could use every little excuse for communication it could get. Her sister had matured since absconding off to Freid, there was no doubt about that, but a little bit of maturity did not suddenly fix years' worth of tensions and misunderstandings. Their relationship was getting better, that was certain, but it was still far from perfect. And Eries was finally starting to see that the blame for the sorry state of their sibling bond didn't entirely rest on Millerna.

Sometimes it was so difficult, being the oldest. Marlene had always made it look effortless, but then, Marlene had made most everything look effortless—and with that thought, a nostalgic ache bloomed in Eries's chest, that made her eyes and nose sting with its strength. She blinked and swallowed hard, forcing the feeling down. As tempting as the urge to cry was, it wouldn't accomplish anything, she knew. And she had the—perhaps irrational—fear that if she _did_ allow herself to break down and finally indulge in her tears, she'd never stop. Defiantly, she set her shoulders. Let people think her cold for the lack of emotional displays if they wanted to. Better cold and capable than so overcome with grief as to render her incompetent.

She looked back at the castle. She needed to head back inside. She'd been putting it off for too long as it was. And as much as she didn't relish the idea, she wasn't going to get any warmer or get any closer to sleep by continuing to…continuing to…

Wait. Was that…was she hearing…_whistling?_

Eries strained her ears. With her change in direction had also come a change in sound, and…yes, that was definitely whistling. Faint and far away, but unmistakable. She paused anxiously in the middle of the grass.

It was probably nothing. Probably just a guard, trying to pass the still monotony of the night shift. But curiosity (the promise of a diversion, however temporary) got the better of her, and—after a moment of trying to pinpoint the direction from which it was coming—she set off toward the noise. Eventually, she came upon a small grove of trees, and leaning back against one of them—

There was Folken Fanel, his head tilted contemplatively up at the moons, whistling.

It was a slow song that came from his pursed lips. Sad in a way, and comforting in another. His arms hung down at his sides, one of his feet was propped up against the trunk, and there was a long-limbed lethargy about him that belied his usual stiffness. It made him look younger, in a lot of ways more like his brother, and Eries found herself staring.

If she was truthful with herself, she'd been avoiding him. Not that that was very difficult, considering their paths rarely crossed anyway, and he wasn't the sort of man to go out of his way to make friendly overtures, but still, it was a trend she had noticed. His visit to her chambers that one night had stirred something in her that she really didn't care to examine—couldn't _afford_ to examine, what with everything else she had on her plate—and so she'd done her best to shunt it, and consequently him, off to the side and out of sight in an attempt to forget about it. But standing there, watching him whistle under the light of the moons…

How things might have been different, she wondered, had he actually succeeded in the dragon-slaying ritual. Had he not joined Zaibach. To think, that her sister might have been queen of Fanelia instead of duchess of Freid. That they might have been brother and sister. That he might not be dying.

It was a stark reminder, and one she'd been repeating to herself ever since he'd revealed that piece of information to her—not out of some morbid sense of self-torture, but more out of a sense of realism. He was dying; it was going to happen. Denying the fact wasn't going to magically make it not true. And in a strange sort of way, there was some comfort in that inevitability. There, at least, was something certain in the face of all the uncertainties that had been plaguing her recently: Millerna and Allen's relationship. Millerna and _Dryden's_ relationship. Her father's health. Whether they could conceivably win this war. How, even if they did, the cost might be so great as to render the victory moot…

There she went again. She shook her head, as if to physically dislodge the thoughts, and maybe he heard her huff, or maybe he simply caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. Whatever the reason, Folken stopped whistling, and his attention snapped over to her.

"Princess," he said, just a bit surprised. He pushed himself away from the tree and straightened, and she suddenly felt like a voyeur. Belatedly, her cheeks flushed.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude—"

"No, by all means, you have more of a right to be here than I. If you'd prefer to be alone—"

"No! I… I don't mind." He stopped in his tracks, not even one full step back towards the castle, and looked at her. She in turn looked off to the side and conceded, "In all honesty, I could probably use the distraction."

"…Trouble sleeping?" he guessed—which was a rather obvious question when one was found strolling about the gardens in the middle of the night, but there was something to be said for small talk.

Eries nodded uncomfortably, wrapped her arms around her, and dared to wander closer. "Just…a lot on my mind."

"A common affliction these days, it seems." His voice was low, and she looked back over only to find him gazing pensively out at the night. Was he referring to his own reasons for being awake at such a late hour, or…?

She never found out. He gathered himself, turned back to her, and politely inquired, "Might I ask how your father's doing?"

Her shoulders tensed, though whether it was because of the way his eyes met hers or the question itself, she wasn't sure. She took a long breath, and it came out a little unsteadily. A part of her didn't want to talk about it, and another part of her was almost grateful for the opportunity to confide in someone. If nothing else, his past with Zaibach—and thus, the uneasiness with which he was generally regarded in Palas—meant that he was removed enough from Asturian society, removed enough from the gossip of the courts, to qualify as safe in that respect. And she wanted…

She looked down and swallowed. "His cough has worsened. Other than that, he's stable. For now. I keep trying to keep news of the war away from him, but he keeps insisting he's 'not dead yet' and has a right to know what's going on his own country, and…" She broke off on a sigh. And after a moment, softly confessed, "It was stress that landed him in bed in the first place, and I just…" Tears pricked her eyes and started to close her throat, and she swallowed again, determined to keep her composure. "I'm worried," she finished simply, not daring to trust her voice with any more details.

He nodded sympathetically, his eyes distant. "I'm sorry." Useless words, but proper ones all the same. Eries nodded back in acknowledgement. She took a couple deep breaths and shook off the anxiety that threatened to overwhelm her.

"And you?" she asked. "What's your excuse?" Half of her just wanted a change in subjects, and the other half of her was genuinely curious. Avoiding him though she'd been, she hadn't been lying when she'd said she could use a distraction. And after all, they were in the gardens. It was different from the close, confining walls of a corridor, different from the privacy of her personal chambers. Safer, what with the open air and the wide expanse of earth. Surely nothing…nothing…_untoward_ would…

He let out a sigh of his own. "I needed a break from my lab."

She pressed her lips together. Of course. The equipment he'd salvaged from the _Vione_. Fate alteration. "How is it coming?"

"Tediously," he said, and his voice matched the word. "The calculations are…seemingly endless, and the variables to account for are near infinite. It's coming," he reassured, "just…slowly." Perhaps too slowly, for his tastes, if that hint of impatience in his tone was anything to go by. Again, she thought of his impending death. Black wings, he had said. She tried to picture what they might look like—great, dark things arcing out from his shoulder blades, the way the feathers might meld into skin, the musculature of his back… She blushed and looked away, embarrassed by the inappropriate turn her thoughts had taken. It must have been the lack of sleep, getting to her.

A silence settled between them. The light of the moons poured down on the flowers and grass. Eries shivered.

"That song you were whistling… What was it?" she asked.

The slightest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he tilted his head up to look at the sky. "Just an old Fanelian folk tune."

"It was pretty," she murmured.

He nodded in agreement. "I've always liked it."

Silence crept back between them. She watched him for a moment, his silvered profile—the high cheekbones, the aquiline nose, the carved lips—before looking away again. She hugged her arms tighter around her, suddenly wishing for the comforting armor of starched collars and stiff corsets. What had she been thinking, running outside in a mere robe and a nightgown? Even if it had been warm enough—which it wasn't—there was still the issue of it being thoroughly and entirely indecent.

The silk rippled around her legs, too sensitive without their usual stockings.

She should have left. Never should have kept _him_ from leaving. Never should have stopped to watch him in the first place. But all she had back in the castle at this time of night was a dark room, and dead silence, and an army of anxieties for which she had no defense. And she wanted a distraction. She wanted…

She _wanted_.

How stupid she'd been, to think that just because they were in the open space of the gardens, she was safe. She should have known better, should have…

Perhaps a part of her _had_. Perhaps a part of her had recognized the danger all along, and had actually _wanted_ to fall victim to it.

She shivered again.

"Are you cold?" he asked, and the sudden sound of his voice—_when had he moved closer?_—and the polite concern buried in it, made her jump.

"What?" she said, too sharp and too breathless. The words belatedly registered in her head, and she shook it. "No. Yes," she corrected. "I mean—" And she broke off, exasperated with herself.

He was too close. It was too late—in every sense of the word. Because she'd already made a fool of herself, because one could drown in twelve feet of water just as easily as six, and because she was just tired enough to not care, _just this once_—

"Oh, to hell with it," she said, and in one swift movement, turned to him, took his face in her hands, and pulled his mouth down to hers.

She could probably count on one hand the number of truly impulsive things she'd done in her twenty-one years, and this particular stunt had just managed to blow them all out of the water with its sheer insanity. Because as far as she could tell, insanity was the only explanation for it. The only explanation as to why staunch, sensible Eries Aston would be kissing a man in a moonlit grove, in the middle of the night, clad only in a robe and nightgown. And not just any man, but the man who had razed her capital, who had turned traitor to his own country, who had…

She didn't dare open her eyes. She stood there, breath held, and felt as his lips twitched against hers—but didn't exactly kiss her back. His left hand went to her waist, seemingly to push her away, but he never actually did; his fingers simply hovered there, lightly, hesitantly, and Eries held onto that detail like a lifeline. After a long moment, she pulled back, letting her hands slowly slide from his cheeks to his chest. They lingered over the leather of his uniform anxiously, as anxiously as his own hand still lingered at her side, and finally, almost fearfully, she raised her gaze to his.

"Princess," was all he said, and though there was a note of disapproval in his voice, she could feel his heart beating hard beneath her hand. Gathering her boldness, she splayed her palm against his breast, fingers pressing tentatively into his uniform and the muscle underneath it, and watched as his breath caught in his throat. Her eyes flicked back and forth between his, searching.

"You feel it, too, don't you?" she whispered. He must have, he simply _must_ have—

"That's not the point," he whispered back.

"Isn't it?"

His eyebrows dipped towards each other, though whether it was in concern or irritation, she couldn't tell. His voice, soft and low as it was, took on an extra edge, as if to help him drive his point home. "I'm dying, Eries."

The sound of her name on his lips, devoid of any proper title, sent a perverse thrill down her spine. Her blood thrummed wildly in her veins. "I know," she said. "You mentioned that before."

Something flared in his eyes. A warning, perhaps. His hand tightened on her waist, ever so slightly. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up. It was madness, what she was doing, utter madness. Playing with fire, because he wasn't ice—oh, how could _anyone_ mistake him for ice? He was a flame, blue and burning, and she was so _cold_ with worry—

Somehow they'd leaned closer. She could feel his breath, warm against her cheek. His body, hard as it brushed against hers. And his lips—

"This is a mistake," he murmured.

"Then why aren't you leaving?" she shot back.

"Because I'm a glutton for punishment, obviously." And with that, he let his mouth fall on hers.

Eries inhaled sharply. His fingers finally, fully pressed into her, dragging her closer, and his lips… Where they had been unresponsive before, they were now soft and warm, tentatively tasting, exploring… His hand moved from her side to her cheek, and her head tipped back in implicit submission. And then he finally shifted his other arm, wrapping it carefully, almost delicately around her waist, pulling her into him, and she almost gasped at the feel of it. Hard and metallic, and _gods_, she'd never be able to break free from such an embrace. Never _wanted_ to break free from such an embrace. For so long, she'd been the strong one, the sensible backbone that propped everything up, and it felt so _good_ to have someone prop _her_ up for once. Her hands found his shoulders, folded themselves around his neck, and she wanted to simply drown in the feel of him. He was so solid, so warm, and she wanted… She _needed_…

Almost instinctively, her mouth opened beneath his, and she felt, rather than heard, him groan. His fingers threaded through the hair at the nape of her neck, and his thumb pushed her jaw up, angling her head more advantageously, and if he'd been holding himself back before, he certainly wasn't anymore. Her back hit a tree, and his body pressed into hers, and she was burning, drowning, she didn't even know anymore. It didn't _matter_ anymore. Her hands pulled at him, and his mouth was hungry, devouring, almost _desperate_ in its intensity. She managed to turn her head away, gasping air into her breathless lungs, seeking a momentary respite from his ardent attention, but it was to no avail; not even a moment passed before she felt his lips against her cheek, her ear, blazing a trail along her neck, shooting lightning across her skin and down her spine.

She blinked her eyes open, feeling drunk or drugged. The night sky hung above her like a canopy, the moons like two enormous pearls floating on the deep sea, and something rippled through her, low and warm.

Was she really…? She had never… Not with anyone… But in a mad sort of way, she supposed it made sense, that she should be here, with him, doing this. The world was crumbling to pieces around her, and it only made sense that she, too, would somehow get drawn into the chaos. And in a way, it was a relief, to finally give in to something. To finally admit defeat, and surrender.

His lips were relentless. Her breathing, growing heavier by the second. Her hands clawed at his arms and back for support, her head positively dizzy. And then his mouth found the sensitive little hollow between her neck and collarbone, and she actually moaned, the sound rising softly and unbidden from her throat. Her body arched pliantly into his hands, her hips rolled instinctively against his, and—

He broke away, hands braced against the bark on either side of her, head bowed as he took in deep, unsteady breaths. "We can't," was all he said, low and hoarse.

Eries blinked her eyes back into focus. Swallowed thickly. The night air wafted over her, cooling her fevered skin, bringing her back to reality, and it only served to make her acutely aware of how desperately she needed a reprieve from it, how cold and duty-driven her life had become, and how little time they truly had left—

Her pulse was pounding in her veins like rain, like thunder, like something dark and primitive and reckless, and she heard herself say, "Why not?"

His gaze snapped up to hers, and she almost shivered at the expression she saw there. Dark, and dangerous, and _this_ was the man who had burnt his homeland to the ground, who had hunted his own brother, who had ordered an innocent girl kidnapped, and gods help her, she _wanted_ him.

"I mean it," she said. "Why not?" Her chest rose and fell frantically, and she closed her eyes against him—because she could not breathe, could not _think_— He was intimidating and intoxicating, and it was a miracle she'd been able to keep her composure about him for as long as she had. She swallowed, feeling as if she might start trembling at any moment, and was too tired to keep the words from coming out, was too tired to make any more excuses.

"Don't you ever get sick of it?" she wondered. "I'm so sick of feeling like this, of feeling like I can't _afford_ to feel. I'm so sick of being the strong, _dependable_ one that everyone looks to for guidance, and I—"

She never finished. His fingers pushed her chin up and his lips crashed down on hers and any other anxieties that had been about to pour out of her were swallowed up and swept away. The kiss went beyond hungry, even, was hard enough to qualify as downright _violent_, and by the time he finally broke it, she was gasping, clutching fistfuls of the fabric around his shoulders, and she was pretty sure that the mechanical arm around her waist, holding her flush against him, was the only thing that was keeping her from dropping straight to the ground.

Some unspoken understanding seemed to pass between them, then. They _could_. Oh, they _could_. Just not there, not in the middle of the garden— And before she could let herself think about the consequences, she found her feet and grabbed his good wrist. "Come on," she said, and she didn't recognize her own voice, didn't seem to be in control of her own body, even.

She dragged him through the hedge rows, back to the castle, not daring to slow down, not daring to look back, in through a side entrance, down one corridor and then another, until she came to a plain door in a narrow hall. She opened it, pulled them in, shut it again, and only then let go of him.

The room was pitch-dark, but that was no matter. Almost-forgotten muscle memory took over, steering her forward, her hands held out in front of her, feeling for—and there it was. The nightstand, the drawer, the candles and matches—and Eries almost laughed (cried?), the nostalgia was so sharp. Everything just as she had left it, all those years ago. Like nothing had changed. Except everything had.

A match flared to life, a brilliant yellow butterfly that flapped shadows around her before being caught and caged in a candle wick. The flame flickered once and then stabilized, and she turned around to finally face the man she'd brought there.

Folken blinked, then took a cursory look around once his eyes adjusted to the light. The room was small. Simple. A single bed, and a plain nightstand, and the tiniest of windows above a dresser that had clearly seen better days. A wardrobe sat in the corner, covered in an old dust sheet.

"Old servant's quarters," she explained. "I used to come here to read when I was a girl."

He looked at her, and arched an eyebrow at that. "A secluded corner of the library wasn't good enough?"

"People could still find me in the library," she said, and it sounded like a confession in the hushed glow of the room. And she suddenly realized that it _was_, in a lot of ways. Oh, she hadn't raised the blatant hell that Millerna had, with her dirty skirts and skinned elbows, but she had raised her own quiet sort of hell all the same; she could see that now. Sequestering herself away for hours at a time, driving her parents and nursemaids half-mad with worry when they couldn't find her, and what was the big deal? It wasn't like she was sneaking outside the castle or dangling her legs out one of the tallest tower windows, after all. She was just hiding. She liked being alone, and she was just hiding.

A part of her had to wonder if she had ever really stopped.

First it had been in disused parlors and dusty corners, and then it had been in petticoats and poise, in reason and responsibilities, until she could no longer recognize the girl underneath, could no longer find her, could no longer miss her.

She remembered when they'd first met, in the gardens of Fanelia. Marlene had gone off to talk with Mother, and Millerna was busy making mud castles with Van, and he'd found her under a tree with her nose buried in a book.

He'd found her.

Her heart was beating hard. The bed loomed beside her, and while a mere few minutes ago they had been pressed so intimately against one another, the short distance between them seemed immeasurable now. He stood just inside the doorway, not having moved since she'd let go of his hand, and seemed to sense how awkward this situation had suddenly become.

He shifted slightly. Looked off to the side. "Maybe we shouldn't…"

There was no maybe about it. They shouldn't, plain and simple. But she'd come too far (was too far gone) to turn back now. She was damned either way. It was either this or a return to stress and sleeplessness, and she'd already done so many improprietous things that night, what was one more? After all, she thought, with a grim streak of humor, Eries Aston was nothing if not thorough.

Slowly, silently, acting far braver than she felt, she untied the sash at her waist and let the robe slip off her shoulders. It puddled at her feet in a pile of silk and velvet, and she stood there in the candlelight, clad only in her thin, sleeveless shift of a nightgown.

Folken swallowed. Visibly.

His gaze dropped, flicking over the barely-concealed curves of her body, before rising to meet her eyes again. Slowly, silently, he finally stepped forward, reaching his left hand up to his right shoulder, tugging the length of beige fabric free and fully exposing his prosthetic to her for the very first time. Giving her the opportunity to change her mind, she knew, and while she swallowed at the way the light reflected off of it, she refused to be scared, refused to break eye contact with him, refused to back down, not now, not even when he moved closer, bringing himself right in front of her so that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him—

Her heart was hammering madly in her chest, and when his organic hand touched her waist again, searing skin through silk, she almost jumped—but then his lips were on hers, and everything made sense again. Or maybe it was that nothing made sense, and it only when his lips were on hers that she simply didn't care anymore. His arms pulled her into him, and she sighed, relishing the feel of him, reveling in it, and when his mouth turned passionate again, she couldn't help but respond in kind. That strange, exhilarating tension coiled in her once again, and she found herself fumbling with the fastenings of his uniform, pushing aside leather and the heavy linen of the robe underneath, her fingers ghosting over his chest, down the hard line of his torso, brushing across the taut muscles of his stomach—and he hissed into her hair, his left hand digging reflexively into her ribs.

The backs of her knees hit the bed, and she bounced down onto it, breathless—and then he was there, kissing, caressing, craning over her and easing her back onto the mattress. The straps of her gown slid off her shoulders and the hem bunched up around her waist, her legs parting instinctively, one of his thighs sliding between, and—

"Are you sure?" he breathed, so kindly, so considerately, and she'd never been surer of anything than she was in that moment.

"Yes," she whispered, and his body finally, fervently pressed into hers. Her breath caught, and her eyelids fluttered shut, and the word pushed out of her again, softly and sibilantly as she was suddenly lost to the sheer sensation of him:

_"Yes."_

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A/N: Well, hey, look at that—I haven't forgotten about this arc, after all! (Apologies for it having taken this long for me to get the next installment out—I can only hope it was worth the wait? ^^')

In other news (because here's as good a place to advertise this as any), I recently compiled a short Folken/Eries fanmix. (It could be seen as something of a soundtrack to this arc, but wasn't exactly intended as such?) Anyway, if you're interested, you can find a link to it in my profile.

Last but not least, thank you for reading (and for your patience, those of you who have been following these fics)! Here's hoping it doesn't take me another 5-6 months to get the final part out, OTL.


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