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Privileged	By : NihilEtNemo Category: +. to F > Escaflowne Views: 1703 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Escaflowne, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Chapter 1
- 2-Chapter 2
- 1
- 2
TITLE: Privileged�� AUTHOR: setosgirl

DATE: 3-06�� FANDOM: Escaflowne�� DISCLAIMER: I don�t own Escaflowne.

PAIRINGS: ??/Folken�� TYPE:� angst�� OCs:
kidnappers & owners

CHAPTER:� 1 / ??�� RATING: PG-13�� WORDS: �4,351

WARNINGS:� none

SUMMARY: What if Folken wasn�t found by
Emperor Dornkirk and his Zaibach
lackeys, but someone else entirely? What if he were forced
to live on, not as a scientist, but as a slave? Is he lucky to be alive at all?

~~~~~~~~~~

Privileged

Chapter 1

He had
never expected to die.

Folken Lacoeur de Fanelia had been sure
of his abilities. Anyone would be nervous when they
were facing a dragon, but he had been so certain he would beat it, as every
other king in his land�s history had� It never occurred to him that he would actually be killed. It didn�t seem possible�

And now here he
was, lying in a spreading pool of his own blood that was steadily gushing from
the place where his right arm had been. He had screamed, at first � he was only
fifteen years old; he had no idea that such pain even existed � but he didn�t
have the strength left any longer.

He had
been sure the dragon was going to kill him after it had torn his arm off, but
when he had fallen, lost all interest in destroying it� it had simply run off.

And now he was
dying. He was barely conscious and could feel himself slipping away, away from
the pain and the blood-sodden ground on which he lay. He knew he was dying, and
he was desperate to live, in some vague, detached part of his mind, even though
he knew it was impossible.

He had
failed his mother, his brother, his father�s memory, and his country, and now
he was dying� He wasn�t sure which would be worse, though � for his body to
found and taken back so that his mother knew what had happened to him, so that
everyone would know that he was a failure� or to never be found, have his fate
be a mystery, and make his family worry�

It
ceased to matter as he finally fell into the blackness.

�Be
quiet, numbskull � there�s dragons in these woods.�

�Fucking
backwards country� any other kingdom would�ve wiped out the pests generations
ago.�

The sound
of the crackling of the underbrush as the men pushed their way through it was
loud enough to render any further consideration to silence useless. There were
a good half dozen of them, all dressed in light armor and carrying an
assortment of weapons. They were likely mercenaries, probably on their way to
fight for one faction or another in one of the permanent miniature wars that
always seemed to be going on in Asturia.

The
apparent leader held up one hand to stop the rest of them. �Hold up,� he said.
�Something�s not right� I smell blood nearby.�

Judging
from the amount of sneering and bickering his remarked
engendered, he was leader only by a fine thread, and any cooperation on the
parts of his comrades was purely coincidental. �Probably some dragon�s kill.�

�Let�s
get a move on � we�ve got a job waiting for us already.�

�We
don�t have time for sightseeing.�

He
ignored them, however, and veered off from the non-path they�d been following.
There must have been quite a lot of blood indeed for him to have
smelt it, and that much blood probably meant a dead body � and a dead
body meant loot.

The
others followed him, despite their complaints. They fell silent as they spotted
a small clearing, and the blood splashed on the trees across it. They didn�t see
the source of the smell, though, until the leader of the band pulled apart a
low wall of tall plants and they could see the ground.

There
was a pause of a few seconds as they all took in the macabre scene of the very
pale young man who had obviously very recently lost an arm, covered in his own
blood, which was still seeping from the gory wound.

�Loot
the body and let�s go already,� one of the men near the back said, after the couple seconds it took for them to make sure the scene was
safe. Three of them pressed forward immediately to do so. The other two
followed shortly.

�He ain�t dead yet,� one of them observed, as he rifled through
the young man�s shirt.

The
leader of the little band of thieves watched impassively as his men looted the body
for anything of any possible value. It was hard to tell what color the boy�s
hair might have been, through the blood that had soaked into it from the ground
around him, or anything else about him, save that he had obviously failed to
kill whatever he had been fighting.

�Fucking
hicks,� another said absently. �They know there are dragons here and they go
and get themselves killed by them��

�He
doesn�t even have any money.�

�He�s
barely got anything at all.�

The
boy�s arm wasn�t visible � probably eaten by the dragon. There was a sword,
though, bloodstained but otherwise undamaged, imbedded in a tree. The leader of
the mercenaries idly pulled it free with one hand and looked down the blade,
inspecting it. �He had a good sword, though,� he commented. �Too bad he didn�t
know how to use it.�

�Sword�s
about all he had,� one of his men grumbled, standing up and kicking the
unconscious man once in the limp leg.

�He�s
still alive, right?� He was still inspecting the fine blade as he spoke.

�For a
while yet. Why?�

He
looked up finally. �Stop the bleeding,� he commanded.

�Why?� one of the men demanded. �The asshole�s dead meat.�

�It�s his own fault for messing with those damned monsters.�

�Because,�
he explained, �we can make a hell of a lot more money off of him alive than we
can dead. As long as we make sure he�s alive, we can sell him for a couple
hundred or so, even with only one arm. We�ll get something for our time,
anyway.�

One man
went obediently to work, putting the pressure of his massive frame on the
wound. They were men of war; they knew how to make grievous injuries
survivable. Another was less cooperative, though.

�What
the hell is the use? We still have to feed his ass, and deal with some yappy,
whiny-ass kid till we get to a market.�

�He�ll
be unconscious for a while � days, maybe. That�s long enough to get to Asturia. We can sell him to a trader, who can sell him in
the East somewhere, away from Fanelia and Asturia, so he can�t be recognized.�

�Screw it.
Let�s just dump him off real quick and cheap in Fanelia.�
This was from the man who was steadily saving the young man�s life.

The
leader glared at him. �Problem with that is, Fanelia doesn�t allow slavery. Asturia
does, but they�re close enough together, someone�ll
probably recognize him eventually. He needs to get out of the region. So we
dump him with a traveling slaver, get whatever we can for him.�

�Who�d
want a one-armed slave anyway? He�s no good for any kind of work.�

�So we
sell him as a pleasure slave. He�s pretty enough, or probably will be, once we
get the blood off him.�

�There
probably isn�t a woman alive who�d want a one-armed pleasure slave, no matter
how pretty he is.�

�So we
make sure he gets sold to a man. There�re men who�ll take whatever they can
get, and he sure as hell won�t bring a whole lot of money � someone poor enough
will just have to take him. We�ll get a couple hundred from the slaver, anyway,
and then it�ll be his problem.�

�He�ll
live,� the man working on the boy�s wound interjected finally, without any
regard to the conversation. �Unless it gets infected. Let�s sell him before
that�s an issue.�

The
leader slid the bloody sword into his own belt.
�Right. Let�s find a place to wash the blood off him before he attracts more
dragons and get a move on.�

The
same man who had stopped the bleeding easily lifted the wounded young man and
slung him over his shoulder. None of them glanced back at the bloody clearing
as they walked off.

The boy
was still unconscious when they made camp. He was cleaned
of blood, the wound bandaged tightly around his body, and left on the edge of
the heat the fire provided. His sword was neatly in its scabbard, on the
leader�s belt.

�I
don�t trust him,� one of the men was saying around a mouthful of some
unfortunate animal that resided over the fire. �Look at his hair. That color ain�t natural.�

�He�s
gotta be a Draconian,� another agreed. �They�re the only ones with blue hair.
It�s bad luck to have him around.�

Yet
another glared at the unconscious boy. �They�re cursed. I say we kill him and
burn the body. It would have been smarter just to let the bastard die.�

The
entire group seemed to agree with the sentiments, but the leader just let them talk
without seemingly paying any attention. �Are you done?� he finally asked. They
grumbled but remained silent. �Good. He probably is a Draconian, you�re right�
but you know what else? Those backwards Fanelians
don�t seem to care � their king married a Draconian. Then he died. And one of
those backwards customs they have is that they have to kill a dragon before
they can be king.�

�You�re
saying that this little brat is supposed to be the next king of that shithole country?�

�I ain�t saying anything for sure. But he might be.�

They
were all silent for a few moments, regarding their guest in this new light. Royalty, huh�? After a long period of contemplation, one of
them spit a small bone derisively at his still form.

�Fuck
him,� he said. �I still say we kill the freak.�

�I�m
not going to waste all this effort,� argued the one who had saved him. �Sell
him � let�s at least get something for this.�

�We�re
not killing him,� the leader interrupted. �You don�t approve, then you don�t need your share of whatever we get for him.�

One of
the burly men was almost instantly on his feet. �What gives you the damned
right to decide that?� he demanded, hand on his sword. �You don�t own him. I
say, if we all want to kill him, he�s fucking dead meat.�

The
leader calmly, slowly got to his feet, and looked evenly at the other
mercenary, whom he looked down on from a height several inches superior and
outweighed by a couple dozen pounds. �You have a problem with my leadership?�
he asked calmly.

�Yeah,
I sure fucking do!� The belligerent man was oblivious to the warning signs in
the easy stance of the other, too angry or just too dense to foresee his own
doom. �I say you don�t deserve to be leader.�

�Really.�

The malcontent�s head thumped to the ground and was rolling
away before he had an opportunity to draw his own sword. His body tottered in the dead silence that had enveloped
the group, then fell in grotesque slow motion. Blood
soaked into the parched ground. All the while, the leader was inspecting his
sword, the sword he had taken from the object of their argument, the sword which had just beheaded the argumentative would-be
revolutionary.

�It�s a
damned fine sword,� he commented, then wiped the blood off with a piece of
cloth that he dropped onto the dead body, finally looking around to spear the
other four with his steely gaze.

�Anyone
going to clean up this mess?�

Two of
the men jerked to their feet without a word and carted off their dead
companion. The leader sat back down as they all continued their meal.

�He�s
waking up.�

The
leader glanced back at his men. The one who had taken charge of the boy�s life
was still carrying him, and it was he who had spoken.
He was looking at the slim body draped over his shoulder, which, upon closer
inspection, was stirring weakly.

�Then
set him down.�

The
group stopped as he set the boy down beside a tree, leaning him against it. �We
may as well camp here,� the leader continued, glancing at the late afternoon
sky. �We�ll have to deal with him before we can move on.�

The
other three began to set up their sparse camp, while the leader watched the boy
with the one who had been carrying him. He was slowly but steadily dragging
himself toward consciousness.

There
was a fire going before he opened his eyes. They could see by the light of the
sun still barely in the sky that they were blood red. That only confirmed their
opinions � he was one of the cursed people.

He
looked around as though confused � it made sense. He was leagues away from
where he had fought his ill-fated battle, and had doubtless expected never to
wake up. His confusion was natural.

His
injured shoulder moved as though he were trying to move his missing right arm.
He froze for a moment, then realization dawned on him.
They could watch the memory come back to him watching his face, watching how
his eyes got wide, then closed in resignation. His left hand finally came up
and rubbed over his face, then back through his hair as he leaned against the
tree.

Only then did he open his eyes again and actually take in any of
his surroundings. He looked around him, looking swiftly up into the faces of
the men around him. He must have felt intimidated; only the one who had taken
charge of him was crouching, anywhere near his level; the rest stood around him
in a semicircle.

�Whe�� he started hoarsely, then coughed a little and
cleared his throat. He glanced around at them one more time before he managed
to speak. His voice was clear, not, perhaps, as strong as it could be, but
understandable. �You saved my life?�

�Yep,�
the leader said, his arms crossed casually in front of him. The one crouching
in front of him nodded.�

The
young man nodded and drew in a deep breath. He moved to try to stand up; the
one in front of him placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and held him down.

�Don�t
try to stand up. You lost a lot of blood and haven�t had anything to eat
since.�

He
nodded again and rested his head back against the tree. �You have my thanks,�
he said, opening his eyes again. �And the thanks of Fanelia.�

�Why the
thanks of Fanelia?� the leader asked casually.
Testing the waters� just to see if they were right.

�I�m
sorry,� the young man said immediately. �Forgive me; I am Folken Lacoeur de Fanelia, prince of Fanelia and heir to the throne�� He trailed off, sounding a
bit bitter. Of course he did, though; he had just
failed miserably in his attempt to claim that throne, and he would never be
able to attempt to do so again, having lost his sword arm.

The
leader met the eyes of the crouching man, in a significant glance that did not go unnoticed by their charge. �What?� he asked,
instantly wary.

�We
thought you might have been Fanelian royalty,� the
leader said dismissively, turning away. �Feed him.� The other three dispersed
and proceeded to ignore him as the one who had been crouching in front of him
brought him a jug of water and some dried meat. Suddenly
ravenous, he thanked the man politely and dug in, trying to remain
inconspicuous and unobtrusive, not be a burden to those who had saved him.

It was
difficult to eat with only one arm, his left arm especially. He was
right-handed, had never had to use his off hand for any reason. He supposed he
had better get used to it, though�

Folken
sighed and rested his head back against the tree, his hand coming up almost
instinctively to cup his opposite shoulder. It felt so strange� He still felt
as though he could move his right arm, when it was a fact that he didn�t have a
right arm� At least he could go home, though. He would never be king now� that
would have to fall to Van. He had failed, and would spend the rest of his life
as a cripple�

But he didn�t care
that much. He just wanted to go home. Even if it meant that everyone would know
that he was a failure� he could still go home. He had been so
sure that he was dying, and through some miracle these men had found him
and he had survived; he knew that he would treasure his life from now on,
however terrible his current circumstances might have seemed before� because he
was alive.

�� for ransom,� he heard, and frowned without opening his eyes,
going still to listen to the men taking around the fire. �They�ll pay to get
their crown prince back.�

They
wanted to hold him for ransom? After what he had been
through? They wanted to burden his family and country to buy back a crippled failure? He knew his family and country would do it, too� they�d want him back, no matter what. Fanelians were just like that� but he couldn�t allow this
to happen. He wasn�t worth it.

But the leader
spoke up again before he could confront them, making it unnecessary.

�Don�t
be an idiot, if you can help it. We keep their prince for ransom,
they send their army after us. I�ve heard about he Fanelian guard. They might not be up to par with Asturia, but they�d kill us all.� That was vaguely insulting;
Folken regarded Fanelia�s army as every bit as good as Asturia�s, if smaller. He
had trained with them. �We can�t hold him for ransom.�

�Then I
say we sell him to one of Fanelia�s enemies. They�d
pay good money for him, even if he is damaged.�

�Fanelia doesn�t have any enemies, you thickheaded
numbskull. They�re one of those pathetic, peace-loving kingdoms.�

�Then
he�s useless. What the hell are we keeping him alive for?�

�The
original plan goes forward.�

�No one�ll want a Draconian.�

Folken tensed
up again. How did they know he was a Draconian (half
Draconian, anyway)? They couldn�t have seen his wings; he would know.
It�s not like they could accidentally fall out. Maybe
they knew about his mother� Maybe it was his hair. He tried to keep it short so
it wouldn�t be so obvious� He just looked too much like his mother, though.
People could just tell�

�No one
has to know that he�s a Draconian, do they? He could just be a freak.�

What
were they talking about? Why would anyone �want� a
Draconian, or not? What was wrong with these men? Why couldn�t they just take
him home � if they wanted money, they would get money.
They had saved his life, after all. Anything they asked would be theirs. They
might never have to mercenary again.

He
suddenly felt sick. After what he had already been through� they were going to
do this to him? Hadn�t he already been through enough?
How was this in any way fair? He was a nice guy � he
had never done anything to anyone. He didn�t deserve this!

He
pulled himself up the tree and stumbled quietly away from it. His balance was
off, but he managed to stay upright for the few steps it took to find another
tree to lean against. There was no further warning as
his stomach revolted and he threw up what little food he�d
been given.

He was
leaning his forehead against his left arm on the tree; he wanted to wipe his
face, but he didn�t have a hand to do it with. This
was terrible� from what he could tell of his surroundings,
there was no way he could find his way home alone. They might already have been
in Asturia. He had to get away from them, though�

A heavy
hand landed on his injured shoulder, making the dull ache spike into a real
pain, though he barely noticed it. He jerked, startled, and looked up at the
man behind him; it was the same one who had been kneeling in
front of him when he woke up. The one who had brought him the food. He
didn�t think he�d heard him speak yet.

�Back
to camp,� he said tonelessly, and pulled him back. He stumbled; the man caught
him and set him back on his feet, and guided him back to camp, the hand on his
shoulder not too forceful, but immovable.

�You
don�t get any more food,� the apparent leader said dismissively as he was led back to them. �We don�t have that much to spare.�

Folken
knew it was a lie � they had already caught an animal for the evening, and it
would easily feed them all � but he didn�t really care.

�I only
want to go home,� he said calmly, pulling away from the man who held him,
facing them all. He was staying calm, remaining reasonable. He wasn�t just some
dumb kid; he was a man of Fanelia, of the royal
house, and he couldn�t let some thugs ruin his composure. Even if it was hard
for him to stand on his own� �If you take me back,
you�ll all be handsomely rewarded for saving my life � you have no reason to
hold me for ransom� or whatever else you were planning��

The
others regarded him silently, occasionally glancing to gauge their leader�s
reaction. He sat there for a moment and appeared to consider him, then slowly
stood up. Folken held his breath� maybe he could talk some reason into this
man�

�You�ve
obviously been listening to us, kid,� he said. �Big ears don�t suit little
boys.�

�I�m
not a child,� he protested calmly. �I�m fifteen. I�m a man.�

�You�re
a kid, trying to play grown-up. That�s why you got your arm ripped off by that
dragon � because you�re a kid.� Folken winced� maybe he was right. He
obviously hadn�t been ready to face a dragon�

�And
you know what else? Little boys with big ears have big mouths.�

�I�what?�
Folken wasn�t as stupid as the sixth member of the mercenary party had been; he
read danger in the man�s every tiny movement, every calm pose. He didn�t know
what danger, though, or what he could do about it. He drew back slightly from the
man, but that wouldn�t do any good�

�You�ve
been listening to what we�ve been planning� and the minute we take you home,
you�ll have us all killed for intending to keep you.�

�No, I
won�t,� Folken said immediately. �You have my word� all I want to do is to go
home��

�Too
bad, kid. Grab him.�

Folken
was in the clutches of the second man before he realized that the last
statement hadn�t been directed at him. He struggled; he was an expert fighter,
with sword or unarmed� Unarmed. How funny. Because it was the fact that he was�
unarmed� that caused him to be horribly at the other�s mercy. It was pathetic.
He was pathetic.

�Hold
him still,� the leader said as he approached. Folken struggled regardless; he
didn�t know what they planned to do, but it couldn�t be good�

The man
pulled his head back sharply and pinned it against his shoulder, wrapping his
other arm around his chest to hold his arm in place. He couldn�t move. The
leader flicked is sword out, resting the point against Folken�s throat. He
froze.

�You
have a choice, prince.� Folken registered completely anachronistically
that it was his sword� the bastard had stolen his sword� �I can kill you
now. We�ll all be very unhappy if I have to do that, but I might.�

�No,�
Folken said immediately, quietly. �Please, don�t. I� I
don�t want to die.� He sounded so weak, so childish, even to himself� but he
just wanted to go home. He didn�t want to die, not here, at the hands of these
men�

�Then
you choose the second choice?�

�What
is it?� Even now, he wasn�t that stupid� to just accept
the second choice without hearing it. He knew he would accept it, he would do anything to stay alive� Not so long ago, he
would bravely have stood here and told this man to kill him. He would have
accepted it. Now, though� having been so close to death� he wanted to live,
more than anything else.

�No.
You either accept it, or I kill you now.�

He
swallowed and closed his eyes. He should tell the man to kill him. It couldn�t
be that bad; a moment of pain, then he would be dead. And
he would have died bravely, not whining and crying�

But it had to be
better than death. Anything was better than death.

Swallowing
thickly again, ashamed of himself, he nodded. He accepted.

�Good.�
There was a sudden, sharp pain in his lower throat that forced his eyes open;
the man had cut his throat with the sword. He had promised that he wouldn�t
kill him� He had promised!

His
hand fought up to his throat to hold in the blood. There wasn�t nearly as much
blood as there should have been, though�

The man
let him go and he fell to his knees, mostly from his lack of balance. He opened
his mouth � �You fucking liar!� he tried to yell. �Why? What did I do
to you?� But no sound came out. Nothing save a
rush of air escaped his lips, not even a recognizable whisper.

His
vocal chords. The man had neatly severed his vocal chords, and he would never
be able to speak again� He would never be able to tell what they had been
planning to do, or who they were�

The man
who had held him pushed him back onto the ground and began to hold a cloth over
the wound. To stop the bleeding. The leader was no longer even looking for him.

�Now,�
he said to the other three. �There is no going back. We�ll sell him to the next
trader we see, and we won�t ever have to deal with him again. Unless one of you
thinks we should still sell him back to his family?�

There
was no argument.
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Privileged

Privileged

Chapter 1