Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ The Destined Kind ❯ The Decisive Kind ( Chapter 1 )

The Destined Kind

 

By: Betrayal

 

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing does not belong to me. It belongs to Sunrise, Bandai, Sotsu Agency, and other parties associated with this lovely series. I'm using the series, characters, and such without any permission, but all for the benefit for readers like you.

 

A/N: So, after taking a nap recently, I finally came up with an idea for a 3+/x4 fanfic. They're my favorite couple and surprisingly I've never written anything for this couple. This will actually be my second, “official” (because it's posted online), Gundam Wing fanfic. Yes, I know. But hey, when the series came out, I was like….really young, and so, I couldn't possibly write a fanfic that was worth reading. Alas, I've waited patiently for my time, and well, here it is. By the time I actually started posting fanfiction online, I felt out of love with GW. But now I'm back, and here's a fanfic. Hope you all enjoy it. It's still fresh in my mind, so let me regurgitate it all out at soon as possible. And don't worry “Dear Cathy” readers, that story has two more chapters and it'll be done in the next month or so.

 

Warnings: 3+/x4, Shounen-ai, maybe yaoi later on. (Possible lemon, or glossy lemon, I'm thinking of whether or not to do one at all). Angst, tragedy, gore/blood, death, other mature themes. The rating will probably go higher as this story progresses. I'll give warnings at the beginning of each new chapter. I'll just tell you now; this isn't your happy, Trowa-Quatre get-together fic. Prepare yourselves.

 

The more important A/N: This story is obviously an AU, but I have no idea where the setting is. Just some made up place in a made up time. The story itself is not intended for romance, although there will be romance in it. If you want to read a story with Sap, Fluff, WAFF or whatnot, I can redirect you to some really good fanfiction. The portrayal of these characters will probably be OOC because it fits with the theme of the story. Someday, I might write an essay about who Quatre and Trowa really are and what I see in their make-believe relationship, but right now, I just want to get this idea out of my head. I hope you do enjoy it. Please review and let me know how I'm doing. Thanks!

 

--------------

 

Chapter One: The Decisive Kind

 

--------------

 

The wind whistled quietly through the tousled grass, almost unheard as it whispered its longings and secrets. Somewhere far away, in a tree that dotted the horizon, a group of hatchlings cried out as their mother stooped over them, opening her beak to deliver an early meal. It was normal for nature to continue her pace though the rest of the world, the human world, was at unrest. The people were in turmoil, the land was turned into a battlefield, month after month men would fall and countries taken.

 

This morning had come quietly and the human inhabitants who rose with the sun, quieter. It was neither a day of rejoicing or mourning for any side. For days, battles had been waged between hundreds of men. Men who faced off their opponents with newly-whetted swords and overflowing quivers. Captains and Generals shouted orders to their lower ranks, drafted plans on maps and paper and threw away ideas that were not quick enough, that would not bring them to the goal of conquering at the swiftest pace. It was only now, weeks after the first arrow had been fired and the first man slain, that the warriors were left at a stalemate. The hundreds of soldiers became a handful of battle-worn men. The earth was soaked up with blood and in her warmth she held the cold and unmoving bodies. The morning that had risen on this day was pronounced, by both sides, the last day of the war. One side would be conquered or the other side would be chased back to its homeland, to never return.

 

At the bottom of the valley, far away from the largest city in Blancro, rows and rows of armored men stood at attention. The wind continued to whistle and the birds continued to feed, as did all animals at this time of day, but the men stood still. They were statues, overburdened with the problems of their leaders, problems they were forced to solve due solely by their births. The armies stood opposite of one another, far away as to not hear one another's speech but close enough to see the fatigue on the faces of the men in the first row, for these faces were simply mirrors. At the head of each army stood a group of horses and on each horse was either a general or the king himself. There was much debating since the previous night and the kings had decided simultaneously and apart from one another that there would only be one way to decide the winner of the war. Now their horses slowly rode toward the center of both groups and when they came close enough to hear one another's speech, they stopped their horses, dropped their weapons and proceeded to approach one another on foot. When they met the two kings offered tired smiles and grasped one another's arms in a sign of temporary peace.

 

“Broden! It's good to see you without having to peer between a wall of guards.”

 

“Same goes for you Sogran. It's a good feeling to not be surrounded by armed warriors when in the company of a good friend.”

 

The two men stood there, smiles on their faces, testing whether or not the temporary peace would hold. There was always that fear that one would hold a dagger, hidden in their clothes, or that an archer was hidden between the first and second row, ready to slay the opposing king. But it wasn't so today because the kings had been friends, and although the war had stumped their friendship, there was still that spark of interest in keeping the bond alive.

 

“I have a proposal for you,” one man said.

 

And the other replied, “As do I. But please, make yours first.”

 

There was silence again between them and then Sogran spoke.

 

“This war, as I know you are very much aware of, has gone on for far too long. If and when my men decide to return back to our homeland, they will be greeted by the grieving of women and children who've lost their husbands, brothers, and fathers. Important men in their lives who now lay buried in this vast field. I've lost so many, and my people have enough to grieve about if and when I do return my soldiers back home. So this is what I propose. You and I will send our best men forward and they will fight this last battle for us. Swords, arrows, spears. Whatever they choose to battle and slay one another, slay because that is the only way this war can be won, does not matter to me. What matters is that whichever soldier wins, the side he serves has won and the terms we will agree upon at this moment will be met.”

 

Broden thought on the proposal, for it was much like his. It would not be easy to accept though as he thought longer on it. Sogran, his one-time friend, had invaded his country, Blancro, in search of more land and more men for his army. If he agreed to his proposal, he would be risking the lives of all his people, of the whole country he had worked hard for. But then, there was also all the men he could still save with this one battle, and there was the chance that his side would win, therefore banishing Sogran and his men from Blancro for as along as the man stayed king. It was a risk, but then again, his whole life had been made up of risks. Either decision that he made would still be a risk for losing his country and the people that he loved, but it would be better now to minimize the deaths that would have to occur in battle.

 

“Alright,” he said after a long silence. He looked Sogran in the eye and held out his hand. “We send out our strongest man. If mine wins, you will not come to Blancro ever again on the grounds of war or conquest and if you win, then I will set down my crown and you will have my dear country to do with as you please.”

 

Sogran grasped the arm of his friend and temporary enemy and they shook once. “If I do win, Broden, I swear that I will not harm but help the country that you've put your life into building. I would only want the same for my country if our positions had been switched.”

 

Both men turned and signaled for their highest general to come forward. They discussed the proposal and after a few minutes the generals rode back to their respective armies to call upon the warrior that their king had personally chosen. The kings made their way back to their own men and as Sogran came upon his army, a foot soldier came running to him.

 

“My king, urgent news.”

 

Sogran narrowed his eyes, tired of the urgent news that for days his soldiers decided to plague him with. He said nothing, only waved a hand for the man to continue.

 

“The man you've called upon, he isn't here.”

 

Sogran turned an angry eye toward the man. “What do you mean he is not here? Is he still at the camps?”

 

The soldier shook at his king's anger but still answered, “He is not there, my lord. We have sent out a few men to find him.”

 

“Well hurry up about it!” Sogran shouted and then turned away angrily. Of all the days for his best man to be gone, it had to be this day. He grumbled low to himself and asked one of his generals to remind him about lowering the pay for the absent soldier.

 

--------------

 

His eyes opened slowly at the sound of galloping horses. The river nearby was not loud enough to drown out the noise that he had been aching to get away from. He heard his name called but did not turn. Instead, he walked farther away from the noise, throwing small rocks into the river while gazing at his reflection in the water. For only a small moment, the sounds of the rocks breaking the water's surface soothed him. But of course, his small moment of peace was spoiled by…

 

“Trowa! Sir, you are needed!”

 

Still, he did not turn but continue walking and throwing. The horses slowed to a trot and one stopped, followed by the ungraceful thud of boots hitting the riverbank. The soldier moved closer, keeping a short distance between him and the man who was dubbed one of the deadliest soldiers for hire.

 

“Sir…The king has asked--”

 

“--I know what your king has asked,” the other interrupted without taking his eyes off his reflection. He threw the rest of the rocks into the water, aiming for nothing in particular, and then turned to the soldier who could only cower under his scrutinizing gaze. “You can tell your king that I work for him no longer. He's already paid me enough for these past, wasted weeks. What are another few coins to me? I've already been offered other jobs and this one has dragged on long enough.” He walked back to where he had left his horse, tied to a tree but with enough length in the rope to graze on the lush greenery nearby.

 

The soldier followed only to stop as the taller soldier turned and struck him with a hard glare. He knew not to back down though and braved the dire consequences that might have come.

 

“But sir, my king has said that this will be your last day here. Whether or not he wins, you are free to go after this last battle. And it is maybe the most important of all battles in this war.”

 

Trowa paused in untying his horse from the tree to turn to the soldier. “And what makes your king so sure that this is the final day of his useless war?”

 

The soldier quickly debriefed the other man on the agreements made by the two kings and how Trowa had been called upon to serve as the most powerful soldier of King Sogran's army. At that, Trowa snorted softly and coiled up the long rope around his hand, stashing it into a sack that hung from one side of his saddle. He patted his horse, a dark-brown stallion named Derringer, softly on the side and ran his nimble fingers through the long mane before hoisting himself up and onto the saddle. He grabbed the reins and before the other soldier could say a word of thanks, was headed at a quick pace towards the valley that he had hoped never to return to.

 

By the time he arrived at the battlegrounds, Sogran was ready to tear off the head of any man who even looked about ready to suggest another soldier for the task. Trowa had come from behind the army and the quiet whispers from the men grew into a loud cacophony of cheers as he neared the frontlines. Sogran turned angrily to the opening that his soldiers in their rows made as the man he had asked for almost an hour ago finally showed up. Without a word, Trowa descended from atop his horse. He patted the tense neck and whispered softly to Derringer and in a few seconds, the horse was completely calm, eyeing his master as he silently made his way to the center of the field without as much as a glance to the angered, red-faced king who wanted nothing more than to trample the young soldier under the hooves of his own, larger horse.

 

Broden could only smirk as he saw the young soldier slowly make his way toward the center to where his own fighter had been waiting patiently. He turned his head slightly to his top general who stood by his side and said loudly, “A warrior late to battle is a man early to his death.” The man standing next to him and all surrounding others who had heard the statement chuckled lowly.

 

Trowa had heard the statement due to his keen hearing, a sure blessing from his father, and chose to hold back a retort. It would be easier to quickly kill the man in front of him now and be on his way home than to cause any trouble with a side that he was neither for nor against. A job was a job and this one paid enough money to keep him living well-off for the next few months. Those other jobs he had talked about with the foot soldier had been made-up or jobs he had decided never to take.

 

At long last he stood before a man who stood close to his height, only slightly taller and more muscles sewn into his body. But physical appearance said nothing. It was the skill in the man's body that would determine whether or not he'd live or die. They faced one another and after a brief lapse in sizing one another up, the larger man drew his sword and swiped at his enemy. Trowa easily dodged with a quick step to the side. He escaped the next slash that was aimed at his stomach by moving backwards and performing a quick, full turn of his body. This turn was the deadliest for his opponent, for in that second, Trowa had drawn one of the hidden daggers strapped to his thigh and with a quick snap of his wrist, sent it flying straight toward the center of the man's neck. It lodged itself to the hilt, splitting his throat in half and quickly ending any chance of noise. The man fell backwards, dead before his head hit the ground, and soon his clothing and the earth beneath him overflowed with his blood, turning from bright red to a glossy black.

 

Both sides could only gape at the scene before them. The battle had ended with a few missed slashes of a sword and a flying dagger. King Broden looked down at the ground, realization of his loss not hitting him until he heard the cheers from the other army. It rang long and hard in his ears and he could only fall to his knees in shame and defeat. His men dropped their shields and weapons, unsure of what to do next now that their fate had completely changed in a matter of one man dying. How glorious it would have been to be defeated in battle then to watch as their only chance at freedom now laid dead and cold.

 

Sogran stiffly marched his way to the center of the field where the battle had just taken place. He watched as the hired soldier, his best man, bent down to close the eyes of the dead soldier before drawing out his knife from its temporary sheath. He wiped it on a cloth tucked into his belt and then laid the cloth on the dead man's face. With an emotionless face, he turned to Sogran while re-sheathing his dagger. The king said nothing, only handed Trowa a small bag heavy with coins, and then kept walking toward the other king, his once friend and now defeated enemy. Trowa tucked the bag into his belt and then gave an ear-piercing whistle. His horse came running to him and before any men could try to congratulate him on the victory, he was off to the campgrounds, ready to pack his things and head home.

 

--------------

 

There were many festivities in King Sogran's campground that night and the reason for the victories would take no part in it. Sogran was not his king, the land he came from and the land he recently gained was in no way Trowa's home. As he packed his valuables into one large sack, he thought about the place he called home. It was on the border between two countries, the different homes that his father and mother had come from. It was in that small house that Trowa, his parents, and his dear sister Catherine had lived together in peace, learning to love one another as family. At a young age though, Trowa's father died of an illness and his mother, some said, died of heartache. So the siblings took to caring for themselves. Eventually, Catherine was married off, much too young but it was all that she had in the way of survival, and Trowa was sent to fight in his king's army. After two years of fighting, he quit and returned home, taking up the job of a soldier for a hire, a mercenary willing to kill for money. Two years in the army had taught him enough to have his own private job. It was not a job he was happy with, but as the years went by, he learned to deal with the murderous acts as if they were part of everyday life. And to him, they were.

 

He searched around the tent, borrowed from King Sogran, for any of his items still lying around and when he found none he started tying up his sack. It was not too heavy since he did not have much to carry and it also would not burden Derringer on the long ride home.

 

There was a rustle at the opening to the tent and without looking up, he quietly whispered, “Who is there?”

 

The flaps of the tent slowly opened and another nameless foot soldier poked his head through the opening. Trowa turned, gave him a sharp look and then went back to his task of tying up his sack. The soldier coughed and then quietly replied, “King Sogran asks for your presence before you leave. He says it is very important.”

 

When he was given no reply he bowed and then left, the flap of the tent opening the only reminder that he had ever been there. Trowa picked up his traveling sack and carried it outside, hefting it up onto Derringer's back and tying it securely behind where he would be seated. He made sure that no part of the hard cloth would rub directly onto the horse's skin, moving around a thick cloth so that the entire back was protected from both saddle and sack.

 

“Come Derringer. I'll walk alongside you for now,” he said and walked ahead, the horse following him obediently. Trowa rarely used the reins to lead his horse when they walked together. He didn't have to. Derringer had been with him for many years and they had learned to trust one another.

 

As they walked throughout the campsite toward the king's tent, men came out to greet the young soldier who had granted them the chance at a better life. They thanked him for his services, blessed his name, and said anything they could to get on his good side. Trowa either nodded in each man's direction or he looked at them straight and let his emotionless, green eyes state what he was feeling. They knew to quickly back off, that he didn't like being disturbed, and for that he was grateful. It was mainly their king who he had most of the problems with.

 

He came closer to the tent and a servant came to tie his horse down while he went inside. Trowa just shook his head, stating there was no need for such an act, and after a pause he offered the servant his thanks. The servant bowed low and another came out to show him into the tent and before the presence of the king. He followed swiftly and quietly, again nodding and looking to the drunken men who littered the inside of the tent and offered their thanks and greetings to him.

 

The king was surrounded by his generals as well as a few young women, and young men he noted, that were “prisoners” of the new king, though Sogran preferred to call them his new additions to his ever-growing world. The servant Trowa followed went up to the king and announced the young soldier's arrival. All the people quieted down as Trowa was formally announced. He walked straight up to the king, not bowing, not glancing down, and asked in a quiet voice why he was being called.

 

“Why,” Sogran explained, “you have been called because you must celebrate along with us. My country has gained a victory because you have been victorious!”

 

The men loyal to Sogran agreed and cheered, drinking and eating more to their stomach's content. Trowa though only kept a steady gaze at the king.

 

“I'm sorry King Sogran, but I must make my departure tonight if I wish to arrive at my home by tomorrow night. It's a long journey and I do not want to hold out any longer than needed,” he replied coolly.

 

Sogran was not pleased with the reply, but he made sure not to show it on his face. Instead, he smiled and said, “Is there someone waiting for you back home that causes you to be rushed in your return?”

 

This caused an outburst of laughter from the men, for they understood what exactly their king was hinting at. Trowa however kept his calm gaze, never faltering at the laughter that he waited for to die down.

 

“No, King. I just wish to get home and rest in my own bed as soon as I can. There is nothing like the feeling of being in one's own home,” he turned to leave.

 

“Or the feeling between the legs of a youth!” a nameless and very drunk man proclaimed. This caused Trowa to stop in his retreat and louder peals of laughter to erupt within the tent. He sighed under his breath and said nothing, not blinking, not even a cold glare toward the man whose face was buried in a young girl's lap.

 

After the laughter died away, the king stood and walked over to a curtained doorway at the side of the tent. He motioned Trowa to come his way and as soon as the young soldier was close enough, he carefully placed one hand on his shoulder while the other reached back to grab at the curtain.

 

“If you have no one, then surely you wouldn't mind taking this one back with you,” he said and pealed the curtain back. All eyes turned to the kneeling youth who was no exposed to their scrutinizing gazes.

 

Trowa's eyes narrowed as he stared down at the young boy. The dirty, fair-haired head turned up to him and glassy blue eyes stared deep into his own. All around, people whispered approval of the king's “gift,” even though he was a little dirty. Trowa stepped back when the king took his hand from his shoulder, but his eyes never left that of the boy's. He swallowed and then it was his vision that betrayed him. Slowly, he gazed at the kneeling figure before him. It was a boy, not too young but not very much a man, his arms shackled in front of him and wearing nothing but a torn and dirty robe. His skin was smudged with dirt and his eyes seemed to waver, looking at Trowa but trying not too gaze too long at one place.

 

“He's a gift from Broden. He cleaned out the fire places and such at the palace. After you left the battlegrounds, which was far to quickly in my opinion, Broden proposed that you be given a…farewell gift. He says he's never seen a soldier as quick and accurate as you.”

 

Trowa continued to look at the boy and finally broke the gaze. “A gift?” he whispered. Sogran caught the quiet murmur and chuckled.

 

“Come now Trowa, you're much more a man than anyone here. You certainly must have something useful to take back with you. You did say you had no one at home and this is a gift from a man who greatly admires you.”

 

Trowa looked to the boy again but he couldn't see the blue eyes. The boy had turned his head down and his legs were beginning to shake from having to kneel on the hard floor for so long. With a scowl, Trowa turned away from the pitiful sight and prepared to leave.

 

“I don't need him,” he spat and took the few steps toward the exit when Sogran's voice caught him.

 

“Then do you propose I should leave him to the other men?” he asked innocently and the “men” in question chuckled softly. Some even had the gall to lick their lips.

 

Trowa turned and looked at the boy who was now gazing up at him with pleading eyes. He thought about where a boy with such looks would end up if he left him there and knew that it wouldn't be a good place. Anywhere is better than here, he thought. After a few moments of deliberation he turned and stepped toward Sogran again. The king only nodded and ordered that a servant help Trowa bring the boy outside. Trowa shook his head and strutted powerfully to the boy whose shackles were now removed. Without another word, he took him into his arms and then left, not paying any mind to the useless chattering of the men who he hoped never to see again.

 

Outside, he placed the boy down and called to Derringer. The boy looked wearily at the horse and under bangs that looked eerily white in the moonlight, he cautiously looked up at Trowa. The green-eyed soldier motioned with a jerk of his head for the boy to get onto the horse. With a bit of hesitation, the boy grabbed onto the saddle and with help from Trowa was able to push himself up and onto the horse's back. He became increasingly nervous as the horse whinnied in protest against the unfamiliar weight and began to move around unsteadily. Trowa touched a hand to Derringer's neck, patting and smoothing out the mane while whispering softly to him. After a while, the horse calmed down enough to allow his master to mount and position himself behind the fair-haired boy who held the saddle's pommel with a terrifying grip.

 

“Relax yourself or this is going to be an uncomfortable ride for the both of us,” Trowa muttered. He put his arms around either side of the boy in order to hold the reins of his beloved horse. He clicked his tongue and without any hesitation, Derringer began to move forward, directed only by the slight tug that Trowa gave on the reins.

 

The boy lessened his grip and after a while he sank back against the man who was his new owner. He pulled the hood of his tattered robe over his head to keep the wind from chilling his face and kept his eyes ahead of him. When they finally came to the end of the camp ground, he turned his head around to gaze past the glowing tents and at the city that lay not too far away. It had been his home for most of his life and now he was here, leaning against a stranger and heading toward a place that he'd never heard of. He turned back around and sighed softly as the arms on either side of him tightened their grip around him.

 

“Are we going to be riding straight to your home…sir?” he asked softly.

 

Trowa kept his gaze ahead when he answered a simple, “yes”. After another few minutes of quiet riding, he added, “you can sleep if you want, as long as you answer one question.”

 

The boy nodded, yawning softly as sleep began to overtake him. “What is it, sir?” he asked so softly that Trowa could barely hear his voice, even with his keen hearing.

 

Trowa maneuvered Derringer around a patch of rocks. “What is your name?”

 

“They didn't call me anything at the palace--”

 

“--I asked what your name is. Not if they called you anything at all.”

 

The boy winced at the harshness in the other man's voice but chose not to comment on it.

“I am called Quatre, from what I can remember.”

 

Trowa chose this moment to snort. “From what you can remember?”

 

“Yes, my lord. It's been a long while since anyone called me anything other than `boy' or `slave.'”

 

A pause. The wind whistled softly through the air and the boy, Quatre, shivered in his tattered clothing. Trowa released the reins for a second to pull the cloak he wore tightly around the both of them, telling Quatre to hold the two edges close to him if he wanted to keep warm. The boy did so and as the minutes went on, his weight became heavier and Trowa knew he was fast asleep. He sighed and thought about what his plans for the boy would be. He knew there were at least three towns he would pass by on the way home. A few minutes later, his thoughts reached a consensus. The decision he made wasn't too difficult really. He would drop the boy off at the first town he came across. Give him a bit of money to survive for a month or two while he searched for a job. He held back a chuckle at the simplicity of the decision.

 

With the decision made, he clicked his tongue twice and Derringer began a quick trot through the sparse landscape. Trowa's arms tightened around the boy sitting in front of him, but even as he leaned forward, he could almost feel the weight disappear.

 

--------------

 

End Chapter 1

 

--------------

 

OH MY GOSH. What is with me and suddenly writing all these stories late at night? It's because I have no school…for now…Sigh. Well, I hope you guys enjoy this story. I'm sorry if it was really long and dragged on. I promise everything will get better. Please review! It's the only kind of stuff I eat anymore. That and milk. Yes, I eat milk.