I do not own the “Gundam
Wing” characters, nor did I make any money off of this project, so please no
suing. Various pairings, yaoi, AU.
The Completion Of Death
Words of Legend
Sea-green
eyes stared out a tower window, caressing the busy scene before him. People
darted back and forth throughout the dirt streets, arms full of objects,
customary and open smiles upon their faces. The crowd bustled and shifted like
one living entity, while children ran, laughing and skipping. Commotion, quiet
and pleasant, drifted up into the cloudless sky and wrapped warmly around the
person at the window in a comforting embrace.
“Your
Majesty! I have been looking everywhere for you, Master Quatre!”
Quatre
Raberba Winner turned around, facing his loyal servant. A smile, peaceful and
innocent, marked itself across his lips up to his angelic eyes. His blonde hair
shimmered in the noonday sun, purest gold against his soft features. Pale
purple robes of silk with pearls and golden thread sewn through hung off his
small body and brushed against the cold stone floor.
“I
was watching the city, Rashid,” the boy returned, smile still in place. “They
seem so happy from here.”
“Master
Quatre, there is someone waiting for you in the throne room,” the tall man
replied. His eyes shone with pure intensity at the young man, yet something was
hidden underneath, something almost fatherly. “He seems rather intent on a
meeting with you, my lord.”
“Did
he give a name?” the boy asked in return, walking towards the door.
“Yes,”
Rashid replied. “He said his name was Trowa Barton.”
Quatre’s
robes swished softly against the floor as his slippered feet swiftly carried
him across the stones. Sunlight streaked in through half-curtained windows
while tapestries as fine as human hands could produce covered the smooth gray
walls. A throne of ornate wood stood on a small platform against one wall,
purple velvet cushions resting upon it.
Quatre
walked to center on the room, his eyes quivering slightly as he looked upon the
man who kneeled respectively before him. He reached down, a trembling hand
softly caressing the cold worn armor that graced the lean boy, and then gently
tugged him upwards and to his feet.
Trowa
looked calmly down at the boy before him, face emotionless. His hair shielded
half his face, jutting out wildly before him in a shock of honey and auburn.
Green eyes like emeralds smoldered silently as his lips held only a grim
straight line.
“My
king,” Trowa said, bowing.
“Oh,
Trowa,” Quatre whispered, grabbing the other boy’s hand. “Must you always be so
formal?”
Trowa
said nothing, the uncovered eye staring down at the blonde young king who stood
before him. He mused, silently to himself, that Quatre had not changed one bit,
still so loving and kind with no sense of rank ruling over him, even now that
he was a king.
“It
has been ages since we have last spoken, Trowa,” Quatre said as we walked to
his throne. “I suppose something terrible has happened, otherwise you would not
have come.”
“Actually,”
the other boy answered, “Nothing at all has happened. I came on behalf of your
father’s death and to lend my condolence’s.”
Quatre
smile faltered for a moment as his eyes filled with tears. “Thank you so much,
Trowa,” he whispered. “Your care is appreciated. He was quite ill, however, and
now he is at peace. I can feel him.”
“So,
your gift is still intact?” the boy inquired, walking slowly to the king.
Quietly, he laid an encouraging hand upon his lord’s shoulder.
“Yes,”
Quatre answered, nodding his head. Quickly, he wiped the tears that had begun
to travel down his smooth cheeks. “I think it shall be with me until the day I
die.”
Trowa
said nothing, remembering the first time he had heard of his lord’s gift. The
boy had turned to him, eye’s so wide and delicate even at such the tender age
of seven, and said, “Dear friend Trowa, do not be afraid. Even though you are
going away to join the Knight’s, we shall meet again. Your father would not
like you to be frightened, you know.”
Trowa
had stared in silent contemplation. His face had never changed, not even when
he had been slightly afraid or that in his heart, he missed his recently deceased
father. “How do you know, Quatre?”
“I
can hear him,” he whispered, sea-green eyes clouding. “Not so much hear, as
feel him, I suppose.” His hand went to his chest, lying across it softly as he
stared tenderly at the child before him. “It’s in my heart; no, that’s not
right. It’s in my soul.”
“So,
Trowa, how is the scythe?”
“Fine,
my lord,” he replied, jarred back to the present. “It still rests beneath the
Tower.”
“You
have become a wonderful Knight of the Scythe,” Quatre replied, ignoring the
formality. He smiled, warm and trusting. “Your father is proud.”
“Hn.”
“You
must stay for dinner!” Quatre exclaimed, jumping to his feet. He grabbed
Trowa’s hand and dragged the boy through a long hallway. “And the night! Oh,
please, Trowa! I insist! There are other Knight’s at the Tower, correct?”
Trowa nodded.
“Yes, but they will worry if I do not return.”
“I
will send a messenger! That is settled! You are staying!”
“The
moon looks so peaceful,” Quatre mused. Wind rustled gently through the garden,
making leaves speak and flowers sway. The sweet smells of honeysuckle, rose,
and jasmine wafted around the boys, hanging softly in the air. The couple
relaxed as they sat on the slick marble bench in the center of the serene
garden, happy to be alone at last. The king’s face was turned up to the sky as
the moonlight rained down upon him, illuminating his entire body in an
unearthly glow. “It looks so inviting, doesn’t it, Trowa?”
“Yes,
my lord.”
He
ignored the title, knowing full well that Trowa would not release the terms he
used. “Do you think we will ever set foot on it?”
“I
suppose one day,” he replied. “Far into the future, that is.”
“I
guess you’re right,” Quatre murmured, his face turning towards Trowa. “So, has
he come to the Tower?”
He
shook his head in response, his wild hair swinging back and forth. “No, sire.
Not once have I laid eyes upon him, although, I heard he struck down a man just
yesterday in some abandoned village.”
The
king sighed, his eyes finding the ground. “How far is the village from here?”
“About
a week’s journey, perhaps more.”
“Do
you know what direction he was headed in after that?” he inquired.
“From
what my informant told me,” Trowa replied, “in the opposite direction as here.”
“That
is good, then,” Quatre muttered. “It means he cannot feel the scythe and we do
not have to hide it again just yet.”
“Are
you sure of that?” Trowa asked. “Perhaps he was going to find something else.”
“Do
you mean-?”
“The
Angel, my lord,” Trowa said evenly.
Quatre
sat in silence for a moment, face strangely grim and serious. “I suppose he
could be in search of him, but I figured he would not seek him out until he had
the scythe.”
“As
did I,” Trowa muttered. “However, it makes no sense otherwise.”
“Death
never makes any sense,” the king whispered. “They cannot meet, Trowa!”
“I
know that.”
“The
legend cannot be allowed to be completed!” Quatre hissed. “We must do
everything within our powers to stop such a union!”
“‘We’,
my lord?”
“Yes,
Trowa,” Quatre said, raising his eyes and holding Trowa’s. “I shall go with
you.”
“My
lord, I cannot allow you to go!”
“Quiet,
Trowa!” he snapped. “If you cannot except my request as your friend, then I
will only lay this down as a command. I’m going with you!”
Trowa
sighed, knowing his argument was lost. “Rashid will not approve.”
“Then
we must go right now.” Quatre hopped to his feet, robes of silk falling softly
around him. “I will go leave a note and gather a few things. Meet me at the
stables in an hour.”
The
feminine curves and loops of Quatre’s handwriting still burned in Rashid’s mind
as he read the letter left for him one more time. He growled impolite phrases
under his breath, then stomped out of the boy king’s bedroom.
He
hurried through busy corridors, passed by murmuring crowds, stalked through
deserted rooms. His feet carried for ten minutes straight, not slowing down
once, until he reached a thick, dark wooden door with an ornate wrought iron
knocker in the center. Without a second though of the knocker, he pushed open
the door and dashed in.
A
foreign young man who sat in the center of the vast room opened his deep black
eyes and looked coldly at the newcomer. Raven colored hair that shimmered like
silk fell loose and slightly past his shoulders while his boyish face stared
angrily at Rashid. His skin was smooth and unblemished, the color of dark
honey. With the grace of a cat, he climbed to his feet, the ceremonial robe of
white satin falling down around his lean body.
“That
was extremely rude of you,” he growled, his voice dripping of malice. “I was
meditating.”
“I
apologize, General Wufei,” Rashid replied, bowing slightly. “However, we have a
situation.”
Wufei
walked to his immense bed and sat down upon the animal furs that graced it.
“What is it now?”
“Master
Quatre has run off,” Rashid answered.
“And
why this time?” the boy asked, annoyed.
Rashid
passed the letter that he had discovered, but explained it as well. “To chase
after Death.”
Wufei’s
dark eyes drifted over the parchment, than handed it back to the large servant.
“It does seem as though we have a fool for a king,” he muttered, rising from
the bed.
“General
Wufei,” Rashid snarled, “I would advise you to watch your mouth when speaking
of our lord.”
His
face turned towards the man, indifferent. “A fool he may be, but I will admit,
he is a courageous one. Very noble.” He walked to a small room, rustling behind
the drawn curtain. “I suppose you wish for me to follow him and make sure he
doesn’t wind up dead.”
“Yes,
sir,” Rashid muttered, eyes narrowing.
“Quatre
always had such a sense of duty and honor,” Wufei mused. “Even if it was more
in a compassionate nature rather than nobility. To chase after Death,
hmm.”
Wufei
yanked the curtain aside, standing in a pair of black loose pants and a dark
blue tunic. A sword, ornate and obviously loved, hung in a scabbard from his
back. He walked by Rashid without so much as a glance. “I suppose someone will
have to look after our willful king. All right. I’ll go after him.”
Rashid
grabbed his arm, halting him in his tracks. “That legend is true; you do know
this, correct?”
Wufei
pulled his arm away, sneering. “Of course I do! I am not a fool!”
He
sighed, large body sagging. “Master Quatre cannot be allowed to meet the Demon
or the Angel, nor can they be permitted to meet one another, lest the world be
forfeited.”
“However,
Rashid,” Wufei spat the name out, contempt dripping from the word. “As you
should also know, Death is nothing without the scythe.”
“There,
you are wrong, General!” the servant growled. “He is not as dangerous without
the scythe, however he is still extremely lethal, especially to our Quatre.”
“Yes,
fine, whatever you say, Rashid,” Wufei replied as he pushed past the older man.
“From what I have heard throughout the town, Death has headed west, which must
be the direction our lord has taken. Do not fear for him any longer, Rashid. He
will be fine under my eye.” His confident voice echoed throughout the room,
even after he was gone.