Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ These Bells That Ring ❯ These Bells That Ring Part 3 ( Chapter 3 )

THESE BELLS THAT RING

Chapter 3

Distracted by his thoughts, Zechs Merquise continued his wanderings through the dark streets of Paris. The hours passed slowly and he knew not where he went as his frozen feet plodded on relentlessly in search of shelter. With no small amount of trepidation, he glanced about him from time to time and noted that the buildings in this section of town - whichever section that might be - were old and decrepit with boarded up windows and holes gaping in roofs where tiles had once been. An air of abandonment shrouded the entire area and more than once the tall man felt that he was being watched. But no matter how often he scanned the building, he saw no outward signs of life.

Still, he pressed on knowing he could not return to the boarding house that had served as home these last few weeks as he had slaved away on his production piece. Sadly, he had squandered his last few coins on renting the Hall certain that his play would be a success. He had anticipated a fat sum of money for all of his efforts as fellow patrons of the arts would no doubt wish to sponsor the career of such a young, talented, and not to mention handsome, playwright. Unfortunately, those dreams of fancy had withered away before harsh reality and now he had not a single coin to call his own.

With no money and having only the clothes upon his back, the future was indeed beginning to look bleak. These dark realities settled heavily upon his soul and the young man began to seriously wonder if he would even survive the season. In his mind's eye he could see himself a few months from now, a frail and pallid ghost haunting the alleyways of Paris until the end of time. The very thought made him shudder with horror.

"I think not!" he declared aloud, his voice full of determination, "I would much rather become a pickpocket and risk the gallows! At least then I would have a quick, painless death!"

Pausing to gather his bearings, the young man caught a whiff of the most tantalizing aroma his nose had ever encountered. His stomach growled loudly in immediate response to that vaguely familiar scent for he had had nothing to eat since breakfast and even then he had been simply too nervous to even think of eating anything more than a crust of bread and a small piece of cheese with a glass of wine to wash it down and to help settle his nerves.

Eagerly he followed the scent trail like a bloodhound in pursuit of its quarry. With each step he took the aroma became more distinct and the rumbling of his stomach ever louder. Suddenly, rounding yet another corner, he at last came upon a huge crackling bonfire surrounded by a small ragtag group of strangers.

All in all, Zechs counted two women and three men in foreign looking clothes. The men, all fairly young and robust were talking animatedly as they warmed their hands before the blaze. Their voices were rough and guttural and despite his best efforts, Zechs was unable to comprehend a single word even though he was fluent in a host of languages including English, Greek, and Latin, and of course, his native French. The women, garbed in colorful skirts and shawls, were attending to a rather good-sized carcass of some creature, possibly a goat, that was spitted and being turned slowly near the fire. Both had long ebony hair and large expressive eyes and the first one, who was in what appeared to be the last stages of pregnancy, was stirring the bubbling contents of a large cast iron cauldron while the other, slightly younger girl attended the spit.

To Zechs' alert ears came the sizzle of rich fat dripping into the fire. Helplessly, his mouth watered yet he held his position and silently endured this most wicked seduction.

(From their manner of dress and their incomprehensible language, I would say that these people must be part of the larger Gypsy horde that has taken residence in our fair city.) Zechs speculated.

For several long agonizing moments the poor playwright was torn by indecision. Should he approach these strangers and beg the use of their fire and perhaps a meal, or should he continue on his way until he came upon his own kind? The last idea held little to no appeal, as the hour was late and getting later. What were the chances that he would meet anyone else this cold night?

He, like many of his fellow Frenchman, had heard the awful tales of kidnapping, thievery, and sorcery that seemed to follow the Gypsies wherever they went. But, unlike most of his countrymen, Zechs prided himself on having an open mind. Yes, these strangers were most likely Gypsies but they were first and foremost human beings. Why not give them the benefit of the doubt?

Firm in his resolve, Zechs stepped out of the shadows and approached the small group with his arms held out to indicate that he meant no harm. The affects of his actions were instantaneous! In one split second the attitudes of those gathered near the fire had altered. Gone were the easy smiles and laughter as a deathlike silence fell and the once open faces stilled and turned cold and stony. The women abandoned their chores and huddled together glaring suspiciously at the tall, blond stranger. The older woman's hands flew to her stomach as if to protect the precious cargo within. Together, the men stepped forward in a united front, their kohl eyes narrowed and full of distrust. Anger glittered in ever pair of eyes and it was suddenly very apparent that his presence was not needed, wanted, or appreciated.

(Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all…)

Slowly, Zechs backed away from the approaching trio, his hands still raised before him as if in a warding off gesture.

One man in a tattered and faded purple overcoat raised a fist and spoke in harsh tones and while Zechs had no idea what had just been said, the raw anger in the voice had come through loud and clear.

"I- I don't understand what you are saying." Zechs exclaimed as he tried to keep the uneasiness out of his voice.

As he spoke he somehow managed to bump into something solid. Glancing back quickly Zechs realized that as he had made his retreat he had somehow managed to stray off course and was now backed against a wall. Lunging to his left in an attempt to correct this mistake, he found his escape blocked by a man with a blue muffler around his neck who appeared to be very strong and more than eager to deliver what he deemed a well deserved thrashing. His face was a horror of crisscrossing scars that just narrowly avoided his hate-filled eyes. Grinning unpleasantly the man produced a long and wicked looking blade from somewhere in his loose garments and as he jabbed it threateningly at the hapless poet, Zechs decided that this was clearly not a man to be taken lightly.

The first man spoke again, in the same angry tones, and suddenly, Zechs' arms were seized and twisted painfully behind his back as he felt strong arms wrapping about his body. Refusing to cry out, an enraged Zechs craned his neck to glare at his assailant, a tall powerfully built man that towered over him by at least five inches. The brute smiled down at him, his eyes mere slits as he offered a gap toothed grin. It was not a friendly smile, but one that offered promises of pain.

"Unhand me at once!" Zechs demanded, his voice low and filled with anger. The only answer he received was a sickening pain as a fist came into contact with his already swollen jaw. For the second time that evening Zechs felt his consciousness leave him as he slumped against the body of the one holding him captive.

*****

Some unknown time later Zechs stirred ever so slightly and hissed faintly as he opened his jaw in an experimental fashion. He was pleased that it didn't appear broken. However, it was plain that it would pain him for quite a few days. Although he didn't relish being in pain, it was infinitely better to being dead.

The first thing Zechs became aware of was the fact that he was warm for the first time in what felt like days. In fact, he was almost hot. He could hear a fire crackling at his back and was thankful for its warmth, though he was just a bit too close for comfort to the dancing flames. Beads of sweat were forming and trickling down his back, causing his shirt to stick to his torso. He dearly wanted to remove his heavy coat, but he found that he was unable to move. Slitting his eyes carefully open, he peered out through his long blond hair which had spilled across his face and took careful note of his surroundings and was none to pleased with the situation as it was presented to him. Things had definitely not improved any. In fact, they were much, much worse.

Zechs found that he was sprawled out on smooth stone tiles atop a scratchy and very tattered wool blanket and there were thick coils of coarse rope wrapped securely about his arms and chest. Wiggling his arms experimentally, he was dismayed to find that the knots appeared expertly done and there was little chance that he would be able to free himself any time soon. Sighing silently, he settled back against the hard ground and prepared to wait. Surely something would happen soon for good or ill. It wouldn't do any good to waste his waning energy on useless struggles.

From his vantage point he could make out little except that he was in some sort of indoor chamber and one of significant size for all around him came the steady surf-like murmur of many voices speaking at once. Once again, he was unable to make out even a single word that was spoken but the tones of the voices were obvious. A few of those gathered seemed rather amused, while others sounded indignant. A great many more, unfortunately, had their voices raised in anger and Zechs could see more than a few of the strange crowd talking excitedly, their hands gesturing wildly as they peered at their strange captive with faces burning with hostility.

Suddenly, above the din of the crowd, a loud clear voice was heard. It was a voice that demanded instantaneous attention and all conversation came to a sudden halt and each and every pair of eyes turned in the direction from which that voice had come. Curious, Zechs raised his head as high as he was able, craning his neck for a better view. But from his place on the floor he could make out very little through the throngs of people.

Movement was seen within the group and suddenly, much to his dismay, the crowd parted to reveal the scarred man from earlier that evening. Another man followed in his wake but Zechs had eyes only for the menacing figure that stopped directly before him. The horribly scarred face twisted in a malevolent leer, the beetle-black eyes glittering in the dancing light of the fire. Harsh, incomprehensible words were hurled down at the man lying bound and helpless on the floor but Zechs remained still, his brow twisted in confusion. What did this man want of him? Worry bordering on fear wormed restlessly in his stomach as he stared up into small, decisively unfriendly, eyes.

With an inhuman snarl, the large man swung out his foot savagely, catching Zechs squarely in the gut. The pain was unbearable and the force of the blow robbed him of his breath as he curled into a protective ball. But he did not cry out and this seemed to infuriate his attacker. Another bruising kick was delivered then another and still the poet kept his silence, his breath coming in harsh gasps as he writhed on the floor. The next blow struck the side of Zechs head. Brilliant flashes of white agony filled his world and merciful darkness began to dance along the edges of his vision. Zechs closed his eyes against the pain the wracked his body.

Deep inside, a wave of indignation and rage bubbled up from the depths of his soul. What had he done to these people to deserve such treatment? What crime had he committed against them that warranted this unwarranted abuse?

More angry words were flung down at the semi-conscious playwright but they seemed so far off and faint. Dimly, Zechs felt himself being hoisted roughly to his feet by the front of his coat and his head snapped back as a powerful backhanded slap was delivered.

"That's enough."

These three syllables spoken so softly, yet with such authority, stayed the raised hand of the brute that held the poet suspended in the air by the front of his shirt. These words spoken in clear, unmistakable French pulled Zechs back from the edge of darkness. The accent was strange, but the words and meaning were clear. Hope flashed in Zechs' heart for surely if he could communicate with these people he would be able to talk his way out of this situation - or at least find out what crime he had supposedly committed.

Opening his eyes, Zechs came face to face with a tall thin young man with thick brown hair that fell haphazardly across half of his face. His garments, while obviously not new, were finely made from cloth the color of summer fields and looked well cared for. There were many small attentions to details including intricate needlework at the neck and cuffs of his shirt and a neat row of tiny pearl buttons down the front of the shirt. There was something oddly familiar about him, but Zechs was almost certain he had never meet anyone quite like this slender youth.

With a casual gesture this new stranger flipped his hair out of his face and regarded him calmly with eyes the color of green glass. Those eyes were cold and calculating, but in the depths of each burned an animalistic cunning, a shrewd intelligence. Surely, he could be no older than twenty and yet there was an invisible aura of power that surrounded him, an air of command. Here was obviously a person who demanded, and received, great respect. Thin yet shapely lips split into a small, almost impish smile as the green-eyed youth stood before the captive.

"Do you not recognize me, my dear playwright?" The words were quietly spoken and held just a touch of amusement. The voice was so familiar but Zechs could not place where he had heard it before.

Recognition came suddenly to Zechs and he was amazed that he hadn't seen it earlier. How could he have been so blind? The youth might have changed his garb and washed up a bit but his voice and brash mannerisms gave him away. Zechs' mouth opened in astonishment but no words came forth. Once more he attempted to speak and this time he was able to find his voice. Despite his desperate situation, his tone carried clear astonishment and indignation.

"You!" he sputtered in outrage. "You're that cheeky beggar who kept interrupting my play this afternoon!"

The smile became an even wider grin and the dark green eyes danced with merriment as he preformed a low, mocking bow that would have done credit to any courtier.

"Indeed, you are correct, monsieur! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Trowa Barton, King of the Gypsies, and I welcome you to the Court of Miracles!"

To Be Continued…