Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ The Dancing Fortress ❯ Chapter Two ( Chapter 2 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Heero is shorter and much darker than myself, but I have the damned gold-blonde hair that my dear family is so renowned for, as well as my darling mother's not-insignificant height, so that description could apply to a lot of people. However, Heero is darker than most everyone I've met-- his hair is a brown that looks nearly black, and his skin is a rich tan. His eyes are the only thing light about him, coloured a blue that's just a slight bit deeper than my own, though their shape is different enough to make them stand out as well. He's no native of any land I've ever visited, and I've been to quite a few-- so it was rather surprising to find him lying bleeding in the center of the road, far from anywhere that might have even thought about being as exotic as he, surrounded by farmsteads and their mud-haired, brown-eyed tenants.

Still, there he was, leaking blood into the dirt, flicking open his eyes to glare at me as I approached. I swear he snarled at me as I knelt down next to him, but he didn't have the strength to do much else. I, true to form, smiled back and triggered a quick healing spell.

I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone look more confused than he did at that moment.

So it was, some short time later, that we made a grand entrance into the nearest village, him sagging slightly next to me with an arm draped helplessly over my shoulder. With my loaned cloak hiding the sticky redness that covered an alarmingly large portion of his clothing, he almost appeared like he might be healthy, and merely hanging onto me because he wished to. In truth, he was far from well, and needed time and rest in order to finish healing, something I took it upon myself to provide for reasons I still do not fully understand. Perhaps some part of me recognized him as the key to breaking me out of my comfortable rut, which is something he certainly turned out to be.

Maybe I was just curious. Half-dead people in the center of roads do promise to have interesting stories behind them, after all.

We certainly caused a stir in the streets, the two of us looking like we do. I caught no few admiring or considering glances directed our way by the men we passed, before they fully noticed how close we were walking, drew their conclusions and turned away disappointed. I even noticed a few women looking at us, assessing us by whatever standard they use. The entire situation was highly amusing, I thought-- I was used to gaining a few stares, mostly due to my aforementioned hair, though never quite to this extent-- but I wasn't sure my as-yet unnamed companion had even noticed, until I glanced over and caught an faint blush struggling to show on his face.

A very amusing situation, all round.

A few minutes of searching found us the men's hostel, tucked away in the expected dark corner of town. A few more minutes saw us settling into a tiny room at the back, lavishly furnished with two tiny cots and a rickety table. I helped my burden to sit down on one of the cots-- he glared, but I was still too busy being amused to notice, remembering the expression of speculative relief that had been on the hostel keeper's face as I asked for a room with two beds. Yes indeed, something about my bleeding aquisition certainly managed to stir up attention in that village.

Still smirking faintly, I stepped back to consider. Still glaring, he watched me go. I lifted my eyebrows in question, he glared harder and aquired a distinct frown. I frowned, gently, in slight reproof. He sniffed disdainfully and turned his head away.

Thus went the beginning of an admittedly strange friendship.

Heero was a man of few words, as I came to realize rather quickly. He never asked me why I had helped him, on the road. He never explained the reasons behind his wounding, and after a while I gave up wanting to ask, hoping instead that he would one day offer. He conversed, where possible, in grunts and monosyllables, and yet somehow managed to get his point across with minimal difficulty.

It took me three days to get him to say his name.

Still, when I left that tiny village, he went with me. His reasons for doing so remain his own, but I like to think that perhaps he felt some of the same odd affinity that I did, the feeling that our futures were somehow connected. More likely he just felt some obligation to me for saving his life, but the fact remains that when I deemed him healed and began my departure preparations, he too readied himself to leave.

We left that village and began travelling together, as if we'd been doing so for years. I cooked, he washed. He took first watch at night and woke me when my turn came. When I went to finish my then-current job, he provided support that I hadn't realized I needed, proving himself very skilled with a blade. I'm not too shabby in that department, myself, but I discovered that I was able to do so much more with my magic once I didn't have to worry about being stabbed while my attention was on it. We became partners, by no conscious decision, and eventually friends, despite the fact that we knew precious little about each other.

Not to say I wasn't curious. But somehow I managed to hold it in, and not pry. There was a sense about him that was very tragic, very sad-- a hint of outraged anger boiling beneath the surface. It was just vague intuition on my part, guessing at some crippling events in his past, since as I've said he never volunteered any personal information. But something still told me that it was there, nonetheless. That's one of the reasons I never tried to turn us into anything more than friends, though the thought did cross my mind a few times; something told me he wouldn't be open to it.

Hindsight is a wonderful and frustrating thing, is it not? There are so many things that become so clear once they've passed you by.

And, too, things were-- were comfortable between us. We settled quite quickly into a casual, comfortable friendship and partnership, and I think we were both happy that way. My work reputation only increased as we became known as a team, landing us big jobs all across the country and even beyond, in the wild lands. Most mercenary mages spend their careers chasing after rogue monsters, banishing restless spirits or removing curses. Petty stuff, quite simple, yet paying decently enough. However, the truly interesting assignments only go to a select few, and it was in this group that Heero and I found ourselves. We investigated old legends and abandoned cities, went on quests for long-lost religious artefacts, and even occasionally took on some truly nasty and powerful creatures in battle.

It was satisfying work. Certainly never boring.

But then the rumours of the Dancing Fortress began again, and everything changed.