Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ The Destined Kind ❯ The Conflicted Kind ( Chapter 2 )

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: I'm starting this (a few hours after I submitted my first chapter) because I have no internet connection for some odd reason. Uhm…I was a bit stumped about where I should go with this fanfic. Like I said in the first chapter, I got the idea right after waking up. I mean, I did plan out everything, but it was basic stuff. Sigh. Hopefully inspiration will strike for the next how many more chapters. I'm still pondering about whether or not I should put this or that here or there. It's all very confusing, but hopefully it'll come together in time.

 

Thank you to all those who reviewed so far! And to any of those wondering, no, there is no character death. But there is and will be plenty of angst.

 

Warnings for this chapter: ?+/xQuatre, semi-NCS, shounen-ai/yaoi themes, confused Trowa. Aww. Tell me if I need to add any warnings for this chapter. Remember, the warnings will most likely change (toward the more mature end) as this story continues.

 

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

 

Chapter 2: The Conflicted Kind

 

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

 

He knelt by the stream, the morning wind chilling his naked back as he bent over to splash at his face with the crisp water. The sun had just passed over the horizon and the sounds of life awakening echoed softly around him. With a calloused hand, he rubbed at the dirt and sweat on his face and proceeded to scrub himself from the waist up with a rag. Fatigue bore down on him, making his movements slow, but he knew he had to keep going. He had gone for days without sleep before, so this journey was nothing. Hopefully by midnight he would be home, or at least close enough to it to camp outside safely.

 

There was a rustle of clothing and the crunching of rocks behind him that broke through his thoughts of home. He turned his head, his face and hair still drenched with the bone-chilling stream water, and watched as the young boy, Quatre, hesitantly slipped out of the upper part of his robe, the sash around his waist keeping the garment from entirely sliding off. Trowa looked at the fair skin that was peppered with smudges of dirt as well as other substances. Luckily, there were no signs of injury. He would have hated to care for an injured boy.

 

Quatre looked up at him, their eyes meeting for a chance second, before he bowed his head. As he came to Trowa's side, he kneeled close to the water's edge and like the soldier beside him, proceeded to clean the dirt and grime from his body. He too had a small rag, rough and torn from so many uses, and while it helped in scrubbing the dirt off it was still painful to rub it against his skin. Due to his constant exposure to the dirtiest of places, he had developed a slight skin problem that caused the thin, natural barrier to break out in red bumps if scrubbed or scratched. His poor nutrition in the palace also didn't help in keeping his skin strong and allowing it to easily heal itself.

 

Trowa watched keenly as the boy's skin began to blossom with red lumps and as his gaze continued to drift over the young body next to him, he noticed that the removal of the dirt caused the boy's body to look even more gaunt that he had last night. Now the ribs were easier to see and the boy's facial features were sunken, more tired than any war-torn soldier he'd ever laid eyes on.

 

Quatre felt the lingering gaze from the man kneeling beside him and took a chance to steal a glance in return. While scrubbing at a patch of dirt on his stomach that seemed to have grown into him, he slightly turned his head and under his long bangs looked out from the corner of his eye at the man called Trowa Barton. Their eyes locked immediately but Quatre did not feel he should back down. Instead, his gaze moved from emotionless green eyes to a scar dappled nose, down to the semi-parted lips that were split on the top and sides, and finally ended at a chin unsmoothed by the hairs of manhood. Quatre's gaze quickly moved back to lock with that of the other man's and he swallowed softly, his cleansing having ended with the arrival of his curiosity towards…

 

His thoughts came to a sudden halt. Towards what? Or better, towards whom? What exactly was this man to him? His new master? A savior? He turned his head away, gazing down into the stream where a small fish struggled against the tougher current, only to be swept away. He coughed in order to clear his voice from the gruffness that comes with morning and resumed the cleaning of his body.

 

“You…what do I call you?” he asked softly. The patch of dirt that had stuck to his skin for so long had finally begun to break down under the constant scrubbing and exposure to water.

 

Trowa turned to look across the stream and licked his lips, feeling where the cold of night had split them open. `What do I call you?' What other than my name?

 

“Are you my…master?” Quatre continued, “Or am I to be your companion during your travel?”

 

Trowa scoffed quietly at the questions, keeping any comments to himself.

 

“I've called you sir…but maybe it should be master or, my lord…or maybe you are my savior…” the boy mused.

 

There was a pause and Trowa sighed, getting up and retrieving his tunic from where it hung on a low branch. “You can do whatever you want. I am to you what you wish me to be,” he answered softly and then turned to look at the huddled and confused boy.

 

“Now stop asking questions and hurry up with your washing,” he said more sharply and Quatre stiffened at the tone.

 

He turned away and trudged up the small hill toward where his horse stood grazing on the small grasses. It was only a few seconds later that he heard Quatre struggling to get up the hill. He whistled softly to Derringer and when the horse came to him, he reached into the sack and pulled out a bag containing oats that he stored for safe keeping. He took out a small handful and offered it to his animal companion, patting the strong neck and whispering soothing words like he always did. When Quatre came closer, he reached back into the sack and pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle. He undid the ties and unfolded the cloth to reveal three loaves of bread and a small wedge of cheese. He offered a loaf and a small bit of cheese to Quatre, who took the food and immediately stored more than half in a pocket inside of his still dirty robe. Trowa said nothing of the gesture, blaming only habit for the boy's desire to ration his food. He ripped one loaf in half for himself, rewrapped the food and placed it back in the sack.

 

“We need to keep riding or else we won't even be close to my home by the time night falls,” he said as Quatre positioned himself comfortably on the saddle. Trowa hoisted himself up behind the boy and grabbed the reins from around him.

 

“Just eat. If you need to relieve yourself, don't hesitate in telling me.” With that said, he clicked his tongue and they continued their journey toward the nearest town. Quatre took small bites from the hard loaf in his hand and nibbled on the soft cheese. According to Trowa, the next town was a two hour ride away. They would stop there for a few supplies and then continue on straight to Trowa's home in Ciann.

 

But the young soldier had yet to tell the former servant the real reason why they were stopping at the first town they would come across. Quatre had no idea that he'd be left behind.

 

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

 

By mid-day they came upon the small town of Sfayrus. It lay on the very edge of Blancro and in previous decades, kings had sent their armies to endlessly war with one another in order to lay claim on the once grand city. But new rulers came and with them came the ideas to build grand cities of their own instead of conquering and losing men. So while places like the former King Broden's flourished into grand citadels, Sfayrus seemed to shrink itself into a small and peaceful town, worthy only of visits from weary travelers. It was in this town that Trowa decided to leave Quatre. Not because it was small and peaceful or that it held a neutral status when concerned with political matters, but because it was the first they would come across. It would better to get rid of Quatre now then do it later when they were both used to the company of one another. Not that they were at all close to start with.

 

As Trowa led Derringer into the town, he kept a wary eye on his surroundings. Many people knew of his skills, but only those who truly wanted to bring him harm knew his face and sometimes his name. He hadn't had an unlucky encounter lately and with Quatre in his presence, he wanted to make sure that there would be no such encounters. If his enemies saw any connection between him and the fair-haired boy, then Quatre's life would surely be endangered. It was an idea that did not strike him as acceptable. Even if he wasn't planning on keeping Quatre, it still wasn't an excuse to risk the boy's life. He was a soldier and this was simply another mission: deliver the boy to a place where he would be safe. It was one of the first missions in a long time that wouldn't end in murder.

 

There were many people running to and fro in the town and from the looks on their faces and the music playing in the distance, there seemed to be a celebration. Two men were sitting outside of a house, surrounding a table that had a board and several different colored pieces atop it, and a group of men were huddled around them. The sound of rising bets could be heard as well as the laughter of men as one of their fellow comrades made a blunder during the course of the game. Trowa looked beyond this group of men and noticed that there were plenty of people, men, women and children, sitting outside playing leisure games or running around with smiles on their face. A celebration indeed, but of what, the soldier did not know.

 

He brought Derringer to a halt and dismounted after shaking Quatre awake, then led the horse to a building with the word “tavvurn” painted above the wide, curtained door. Quatre held on to the pommel with one hand while he rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the other. He gazed around him and a few people gazed back, than nodded their greetings which he reciprocated shyly. Trowa tied Derringer to a wooden fence in front of the “Tavvurn”—he had to hold back a snort at the horrible spelling—between two other horses and helped Quatre down. A small, dark-haired boy who Quatre had seen peeking out the window now hurried outside and up to Trowa. He offered a small gift wrapped in bright red cloth and Trowa reached into his pocket and handed the boy a few coins. The child counted aloud and, satisfied with the payment, pocketed the change and motioned for the new customers to follow him into the stone building. Trowa handed the bundle to Quatre and the boy took a peek inside the cloth, confusion marring his face when he spotted a small loaf of bread with nuts and fruit in it.

 

“It's a gift from him, probably part of the celebration,” Trowa whispered as they followed the boy behind the curtain.

 

The tavern was surprisingly very tidy. Inside were neatly carved but plain wooden tables, ach surrounded by five matching chairs. There were quite a few travelers, Quatre guessed they were travelers from the way they were dressed, seated around the tables, eating and talking merrily with one another. At the opposite end of the tavern, a counter was placed in front of a curtained doorway where a few workers came out with food and drinks, and beside the table was a stairway that led up to an unseen floor. The little dark-haired boy led the two men to the back of the building and then disappeared behind the curtain, only to reappear in the arms of a petite woman, obviously his mother from the way she looked and cooed softly at him. Upon seeing the newcomers, she set the child down and walked up behind the counter and took out a large book. Before she could say anything though, Trowa spoke softly yet clearly.

 

“We won't be rooming here. I just need to ask you a few questions.”

 

The woman nodded and smiled. She turned to look down at her son who was holding on to her long skirt and after patting him softly on the head, told him to go and have water brought for the two men. The boy grudgingly let go of her clothing and disappeared behind the curtain again. She turned to Trowa and Quatre, introduced herself as Chris, and then led them both to a table where they all sat. Soon, one of the server girls came out, holding two cups of water and scolding the little boy who held a chunk of her skirt tightly in his small fist. She set the water in front of the two men, then picked the boy up and placed him on her hip as if he weighed nothing. Chris smiled at the two men, told them to drink, and then turned to Trowa. The young soldier swallowed down some water and then leaned back, crossing his arms loosely in front of his chest.

 

“Are you open for anymore workers?” he asked without hesitation. Quatre looked up at him, his brows furrowed and a small frown on his face. Not once did Trowa's gaze move to him.

 

Chris thought for a moment and then said, “No, I don't believe so. Lately, there've been many people offering up their services and so I believe we're full.”

 

Trowa looked down in thought and then calmly stood, finishing off the water in the cup. Quatre mirrored the movements as well, quietly standing behind Trowa as the young solder spoke again, “Do you know of anyone who is in need of more workers then?”

 

The woman stood and led the men to the front, parting the curtain for them. She pointed down the dusty street toward another building. “The man who owns that building, Septum, has asked for any extra hands. You can leave your horse here if you'd like while you go talk with him.”

 

Trowa nodded and reached into his pocket, but the woman shook her head, explaining with a smile that she was just trying to help a traveler. He nodded again, thanked her, and then began walking to the other place. Quatre thanked the woman as well and followed after Trowa. He unfolded the cloth from the bundle he still held in his hand and began eating small chunks of the nut and fruit bread, worry etched in his mind.

 

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

 

The inn that belonged to the man named Septum greatly contrasted that of Chris's tavern. The curtain door was tattered and when the two men went inside, they had to blink harshly against the contrast from late morning light to the barely lit room of the first floor in the inn. Tables were scattered here and there, some having three to six chairs, others having one or none at all. There were groups of men sitting a tables-width apart from one another and as the travelers came in, they gazed up with bleary, uninterested eyes, only to turn them down back to their drinks or to the friend they sat and spoke in whispered tones with. The place had an odd musty smell, as if the activities of the night, which were most likely heavy drinking, had yet to fade with the new day. Trowa peered around and, taking Quatre by the arm, walked up to the counter at the back of the room where a tall man sat, scribbling onto a book with an ink stick. Trowa felt hesitant to even ask if work was needed, considering the surroundings, but the need to be alone for the rest of the trip took hold of him and so he approached the man with his usual calm and coughed lightly.

 

The man looked up at Trowa and then sat up straight, placing the writing tool down and wiping the smudges of ink off his fingers and onto a nearby rag.

 

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked in a voice hinting at impatience.

 

“A woman named Chris told me that I could find work here,” Trowa said quietly. “Do you have any open spaces?”

 

The man, who Trowa presumed was Septum, scrutinized Trowa's appearance. He looked at the somewhat tall young man with the slightly built body, and then his eyes fell on the boy standing shyly behind him. He leaned forward a little and examined the smaller man. The flaxen-haired boy, feeling uncomfortable, moved behind Trowa to try and escape the oncoming gaze, and Septum could only smirk.

 

“Are you both looking for work?” he asked.

 

“No,” Trowa said and turned to Quatre. He took the boy by the arm and moved him in front, closer to Septum. “Just for him.”

 

Quatre froze, the words having yet to fully process themselves in his mind. He looked up at Trowa, dread written plain in his eyes, and when Trowa neither spoke nor looked at him, the meaning behind the three words became clear. His heart sank and he looked downward as the men continued with the “deal.”

 

“Of course. I have a cleaning position for the boy.”

 

As he spoke, Septum flipped a few pages back in the book lying in front of him. He came to a certain page, read through it to the middle, and then taking up the ink stick began to write.

 

“What's your name boy? Have you any experience in cleaning?” he asked without looking up at Quatre.

 

Quatre looked up at Trowa again, only to receive an annoyed and impatient glare. “I-it's…Quatre. And yes, I've cleaned before, sir. With my…other master.” He looked to Trowa to see what he would say about the last spoken line, but the soldier said nothing, only stared straight at the book Septum was writing in. Quatre let out a defeated sigh. Septum finished writing and then stood.

 

“Come along then, and I'll show you to your room,” he said and began walking toward the nearby stairs. When he noticed that the boy didn't follow, he let out an impatient sigh and then headed up the stairs, calling back to the boy, “When you're ready, just head up here.”

 

Trowa nudged Quatre in the direction of the stairs and when the boy only looked at him with a pitiful gaze, he grunted and took Quatre by the arm, leading him toward and up the stairs.

 

“Why are you doing this?” came the broken whisper. “Did I do something wro—?”

 

“I don't need you.”

 

The reply was sharp and trimmed of any unnecessary words or emotions. Quatre realized the finality in Trowa's decision and at that moment he gave up. His shoulders dropped and he let Trowa drag him up the creaking stairs, to the place that would be his new place to live. Not a home and with a new owner.

 

Yet another one.

 

Septum and a young woman were speaking to one another with heated tones. By the time Quatre and Trowa made their way to the top, the short quarrel was over with and the woman left with a haughty turn down the hall, her chin up so her nose pointed skyward. The owner of the inn shook his head angrily and then turned to Quatre, a fake smile immediately plastering itself onto his face.

 

“Come now boy. Your room is over here.” Once again, he turned from the two and made his way down the hall in the same direction the woman had stomped off.

 

Quatre turned to look at Trowa, to see if he still had a chance, but the other man was already halfway down the stairs. The boy's heart sunk to its deepest point at the obvious show of abandonment and with the weight of misfortune on his shoulders, he turned and followed Septum down the musty and dim hallway, the cloth-bundled gift from the little boy clutched loosely in his hand.

 

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

 

An hour passed in Sfayrus as Trowa mounted Derringer. The large sack hanging from the horse's saddle was slightly heavier, but the weight was nothing the powerful stallion couldn't take for the rest of the day's traveling. Using a bit of money from his earnings with Sogran, Trowa bought enough food that, if rationed carefully, would keep him content until he came upon Ciann's forest. He had two pieces of fruit, two fresh loaves—he'd given the leftover half to Derringer, who could better chew through the hardened old loaf—and his flagon was almost overflowing with water drawn from the village well. The Sfayrens had been happy to give him the water for free since the next few days would be devoted strictly in helping out and giving blessings to all who passed through the small town.

 

Trowa nodded to a passing group of young girls who couldn't help but whisper and titter to one another while casting hopeful eyes at the young man. Before they could ask him to stay, like many youths in the village had done in the past hour, Trowa turned Derringer toward the northern exit of Sfayrus and with a click of his tongue, soldier and stallion were off at a leisurely trot. While perusing through the market stalls, Trowa had overheard a few villagers gossiping about the new king, Sogran. The citadel once known as Blancro was now called Lucem and from what it sounded like, Sogran was putting together the defeated army with his own and planning on capturing all the cities and villages that were reachable. The people of Sfayrus were worried of course because they'd always been independent and neutral and the town was so small that it couldn't produce its own army. The only guards were the men posted at each entry and exit of the town.

 

The young soldier did not worry though because any upcoming battles were not his own unless he was given a letter with the usual starting payment. Sometimes, even when the beginning wage was high, he would decline. This was because he only used money a few times in a month and because he only served kings who were worthy enough for his time. Even then, there were times when the letter would have to be delivered either by a close ally or at least with the signature of one. At those times, he was more likely to consider taking up the job.

 

Overall, he tried not to make a habit of fighting wars for others, no matter how close those “others” were to him.

 

The off-duty mercenary sighed in relief when he reached the northern gate of Sfayrus and he had to run his fingers down his Derringer's neck to reassure him that the sigh was not of negative undertones. He noticed that there was no guard at this gate, and that was probably because this entrance and exit were rarely used by travelers. He slowed Derringer down to a gentle walk, for there were plenty of rocks on the ground that he didn't want trapped between his stallion's hooves. It was when the horse passed over the rough terrain that he, the rider, chanced looking back at the village, to be certain no one was following him, and it was in this moment that he could only blame his cautious nature that caused him to see what he had hoped to forget.

 

In between two stone structures of very close proximity was a flash of white. Ragged white. White rags blotched with dirt, grime and who knew what else. They weren't floating rags; he knew even when he didn't want to, but rags that hung off of an emaciated form. It was with those rags that he could almost see the flaxen-hair and the mottled skin. And the glassy, sea-shaded eyes.

 

It was the curious and not cautious side of him that made him dismount Derringer and step back over the trodden, gravel path and back into the village. He walked close enough to look at those rags with a hopeful wish that it was a mere mind trick, but far away enough as to not seem suspicious or out of place.

 

And he saw it. Him.

 

He saw the man, the man from the Inn he had left only an hour ago, the man named Septum, pushing the young boy only named Quatre against a stone wall, and pressing his unshaven mouth tightly to the younger man's neck. The blonde tried to push at him, but the struggle ended shortly as both arms were caught at the wrist and held above his head. The rags were pulled up and when Quatre aimed a kick to the man's groin, the loose fist collided with his cheek, his clothing dropping to conceal himself once again, but now his face was turned to the outside world, swollen unevenly on one side. Septum continued touching with one hand and Quatre, with almost fully blackened sight, slumped against the wall.

 

It was at this moment that Trowa began to question Quatre, the man assaulting him, and of course himself. How had the former two come upon this place when the inn was at the opposite end of the village? And why was it that he, Trowa, had turned? And even when he did, even when he saw the flash of white, why did he stop to take a look? To watch as the boy he had kept for less than a day was quietly harassed? To save him?

 

Or maybe you are my savior…?

 

He continued to watch, too stunned with confusion to move. To even think. The only thinking he did was in the form of questions. The only movement to come to him was the pounding of his heart and the sweat rolling down his face from the harsh sun above.

 

And then Quatre's eyes lifted and like this morning, like the time at the stream only a few hours ago, their eyes locked. But those blue eyes didn't move about his face, mesmerized with the scars. They just locked and stayed there. No feeling in those eyes. There was no disgust for the man who was exploring him with wrinkled hands and Trowa was surprised to find no hatred toward himself, the man who had abandoned the boy who now needed a savior

 

my savior…?

 

more than anything else. There was just emptiness.

 

A void in the sea.

 

The boy had given up.

 

Trowa didn't want to think about any reasons, but maybe that, the giving up, was why his first movement involved the drawing of a dagger and the running toward the innkeeper and the boy who he suddenly had a yearning to save. He didn't throw the dagger. No. He just ran that short distance, his eyes never leaving that empty sea, and when he was an arms length within reach, when the man—Septum—turned to him with confusion, his right hand grasped at the man's shoulder and pushed him away while the other hand brought the sharpened dagger under the hairy throat. Pushed to draw blood but not pushed to draw life.

 

There was a pause. All three were breathing hard. One in confusion, one in anger

 

Anger…?

 

and the other from exhaustion.

 

Then the confused breathing became fear and Septum tried to pull away, begging for his life, saying that he, Trowa, had given the boy away and it was his business to do with his workers as he pleased. But Trowa would not be swayed. He shoved the taller man further down between the two buildings, his dagger pointed menacingly at him. He said nothing; just stepped back, reached behind him to find a warm hand waiting to clutch onto his, and without turning, he left the alley.

 

Derringer was right there at the entrance of the alleyway when his owner and the boy, Quatre, came out. It seemed the horse had become worried and tried to follow his master, but seeing that he could not fit into the small space, decided to just stay outside.

 

Trowa sheathed his dagger, helped Quatre up onto the horse, and then mounted it himself. Without wasting any time, the horse was galloping over the gravel that his master had wanted him to quietly glide over only a few minutes before. They, the three and not just two, were now outside of the village. There were no more questions, no more cautiousness. No groping or threatening or giving up.

 

Trowa knew not to look back.

 

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

 

End of Chapter Two

 

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

 

Please tell me that this ending didn't suck and wasn't clichéd. Sigh. Can I please have some milk now with a plate of reviews?