Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Skywind ❯ Chapter 8 ( Chapter 8 )

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Gundam Wing, and I do not make any money from the writing of this fanfiction.

 

Chapter 8

 

The cold, damp cell was dark, far beneath the ground. But not as dark as the eyes of his captor. The mage cowered away from the man before him, whose eyes burned like coals.

 

“You failed me.” The voice was quiet, simply making a statement, but the mage was struck with absolute fear at its sound.

 

“Master, forgive me!” he begged. “I did not know the boy traveled with a reanlos! Give me another chance! I will not make another mistake, I swear it to you upon my life!”

 

The deadly man stirred then, and spoke in a voice of contempt. “I already own your life. Swear on something that still has worth.”

 

“I swear to you by the Nine Levels of Zanadro's Hell!” Sweat poured down the mage's face as he pleaded with his captor.

 

His captor raised an eyebrow. “Do you now?” he almost purred, and extended a hand. Black fire snake from it to wrap around the captive's throat. The mage stared, dumb with shock, as the magic sank into his own skin.

 

His captor smiled, and the prisoner knew the true meaning of life-threatening terror. “Vow sworn. I would be very careful of your actions from now on. Lord Zanadro does not take oath-breaking kindly.” The captor smiled, spun on his heel and left the cell, leaving the prisoner mage alone in the darkness once more.

 

***

 

One who was once known by a human name, but no longer, paced in the beautifully outfitted study designed specifically for magical use. He knew his slave would fail in his purpose. Oh, he would try - he had no choice, sworn as he was to Zanadro's Hells, but he would fail, and the Winner boy would escape once more.

 

The creature smiled grimly, almost pleased by that state of affairs. If you want something done right…

 

A sharp hum distracted him; he turned to his scrying crystal, which was glowing gold. He studied its contents, then let out a stream of powerful curses, his almost-good humor destroyed. Another warrior had awakened to threaten his Master's cause, one with power almost equal to that of the Winner boy. The Winner clan had been all but eliminated, at his order. The last of the most powerful reincarnations that existed within that clan would soon be out of the way. Who was this new threat?

His snarl increased in volume and hatred as his crystal revealed who the new enemy was. It was a warrior who, in long millennia before, he himself had battled. The skies around the tower he stood in darkened in response to his emotions; thunder crashed, and lightning lit the sky. A violent storm spanning hundreds of miles began to brew.

 

The one who was once a man clenched his fists. If his old enemy had been reborn, then the time was overdue to launch into the more intense phase of his Master's plans.

 

***

 

Trowa Barton filtered into the tomb as gradually and as silently as the dust of old age. It had taken him months to track down the location of the place, months more to find the entrance, but if there was one thing Barton possessed, it was patience.

 

The mage laid his palms on the door. A crack split the silence of the night as the ancient mechanisms sealing the door groaned under the pressure of his power. “Do not see this!” his magic cried as the door slowly swung open. “Do not hear it!”

 

Trowa pulled a shroud of… not invisibility, but reflection about him as he entered the tomb. It was not that he feared any mortal thing within the place; it had been sealed for more than three thousand years. But there were things within this tomb that were not mortal. Perhaps he could defeat them, perhaps not. It seemed wiser to Trowa to avoid the question altogether.

 

Three high-level demons patrolled the upper levels of the tomb, their eyes sharp enough to pierce even Trowa's shrouds of subtlety. They were identical triplets, their relationship increasing their power. They were all clad in red-pearl armor, and bore great brassbound maces. They guarded the door Trowa needed to pass to reach the lower levels. He waited.

 

One demon blinked, and he slipped between them in the instant that its eyes were closed. One sneezed, and then the great brassbound door was unlocked. Days later, one heard a sound from beyond the door. Finding it unlocked, the three demons departed in a rush of fetid air, having failed their millennia-long mission.

 

There were other obstacles to overcome. There were great crushing boulders that would have sealed him eternally, had he triggered them. There were stabbing blades and slashing blades, pitfalls and endless dead-ends. There were warding spells and deception spells, cages and traps, and a great, enchanted gem that stole the will from all that beheld it. He evaded the blades, ignored the pits and dead-ends, defeated the spells, overcame the gem, and came, at last, to the center of the tomb, far beneath the earth, deep within the land the dead had once treasured so much.

 

Mounted on a high dais was a magnificent gold sarcophagus, beautifully engraved with protective symbols and other elaborate carvings. Upon the lid of it was an engraving of a woman, decorated with the most brilliant and lifelike of enamels. Her skin was dark, like his, but she curved where he was willowy. Her hair was thick and rich as a horse's mane, and spilled over her shoulders just as his did when he allowed it to grow, which was only rarely. Her face was sharply defined, with high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and lines of both laughter and sadness around the mouth; a nose was tilted up just enough to give the face a touch of mischief. She was gentle and lovely, and Trowa both reeled and rejoiced to see the face that had once been his.

 

He lifted the lid of the sarcophagus, and saw the sad dust the effigy atop it had become. In the center of the sarcophagus lay a beautiful ebony bow, the head formed into the shape of an eagle, that the arrows would fly as far and as fast as one; the inserts and grip were of black diamond. The wood of the bow was still limber, and the string on the bow still taut after three centuries.

 

He looked inside the coffin for long time, studying the dust. “That was me, once,” he murmured aloud, heedless of the danger. He reached in and curled his hand around the bow, withdrawing it from its place of keeping for the first time in millennia. “And this is mine, again.”

 

And the great darkness that covered Lantall because of the one who had once been human grew just a little brighter, as the hero and his bow were reunited.