Disclaimer: If any part of the story seems to you at all similar to
chronological events in the Lion King(Disney) then you would be right. It's
where I got the idea. I don't own any of the Gundam Wing characters. And,
those of you waiting for new chapters to my other fics(--;;) I'll get them
in eventually. I only wrote this one 'cause I started it in my spiral that
I can take to school.
Note: I did absolutely no research at all for this fic. If there's anything that's grossly wrong in here, it's because of my own ignorance and stupidity for including it. (sidenote) Microsoft Word botches up the text sometimes without my knowing it. So, the wording of the story might change from time to time.
*Thank you for reading this fic. I really hope you like it!
In a kingdom far to the south on the outskirts of Spider Desert where the soil was arable and wealth attainable, a large stone wall embraced the city of Lefore capturing the pungent aroma of curry and jasmine. The people of Lefore were by default open hearted people yet captives of their boundless pride. They were wild in their souls, but civilized and functioning under the rule of Saiid-Ahmoud Winner III who was aging fast and had yet to derive a son from his many courtesans and wives. He did, however, have dozens of daughters, all beautiful, but to all affairs of state, useless.
There was a very small celebration when he wed to his final wife, everyone having grown long accustomed to these affairs. After the wedding, however, the people were a little ashamed to realize that their new lady was by far the most splendid looking of any in the land. He hair was the color of white gold and was bound in glossy tresses resembling a waterfall kissed by dawn. Her lips were as perfect as a rosebud, her cheeks graced by a pretty pink blush, and her eyes the color of the sea on the eve of a storm. They changed color now and then with her ever-changing mood. She was nobility raised in the fertile Isis Valley to the east of Lefore. Her golden heart and dreamy charm quickly won the loyalty of the kingdom.
To her alone, Saiid-Ahmoud was not unkind. Yet, he was not saintly, either. Within the first four months of marriage, it was evident that Lady Fatima Winner was with child. Her belly had swollen and she became steadily more passionate about certain things. She read aloud to those who would listen, play the piano for hours on end, nurture her stepdaughters in knowledge, and fevrently combat the other wives' poisonous remarks to her. They were in their late twenties to early forties holding infinite rank over their sixteen-summer old adversary. They all feared her.
More conflict arose at the return of Abdel, the king's brother. He had been away in the west to study. It had been almost fourteen years since he'd last been seen. He was thirty-one now and very cultured in appearance save for the wild light in his eyes that he could not suppress.
Since childhood, he had been a queer seed. He collected spiders, snakes, and scorpions from the desert, then stuffed them into glass flasks of his own design. He enjoyed attempting to interbreed species or hold little death-matches for his own amusement. Often, he fell victim to illness and would lay feverish in his bed kicking and shrieking when he wasn't busy playing some sort of war game by himself. He had not the inborn political savvy of his older brother, but the demented mind of a conqueror.
Fearing for the political stability of his kingdom, Dhakar Winner sent his son abroad to study where his insanity could damage little.
Upon his return, he brought with him twelve old, ominous looking trunks. His procession to the Winner palace was short and almost unnoticed since he did not send word of his return ahead of time. Being abrupt was a thing he relished. The feeling of absolute control threatened to upturn his customary frown into a chesire cat's grin.
When his brother learned of his return, he was furious. He had not a thought about his brother since his departure years ago. His brother had been restored to his original quarters that he'd found so many musings in days long past.
Abdel was quite pleased at the familiarity of his old rooms, that no servant had dared venture inside. His collection of oddities still sat shelved and catalogued in a musty corner of his personal library. Books he'd read days before he left still lay open on his desk. Paper was strewn about haphazardly on the ground from his final temper tantrum.
Gaily he kicked a bit of the mess aside and sat himself down on his old armchair next to the fireplace. Coolly, he rang for a servant to make a fire for him, and then waited patiently for his brother to show.
He was not disappointed.
"I did not realize your return," Saiid said to his brother shrouded in the sharp shadows created by the dying embers in the hearth.
"I had every intent. . .to pleasantly surprise you," Abdel countered calmly. His voice was smooth with the slightest bit of inflection, but not enough to give him away. "Should you not be joyous that your only brother has now returned? Why do you not embrace me and speak like an old friend?"
He steadily held out his arms spreading his gloved fingers far apart.
Saiis sneered at the gesture and turned away, "Do not jest. Why have you come?"
"I heard that your and your lady are expecting," was the easy reply.
The king's frown deepened, "That message is not rare."
"Dear, dear brother," Abdel sighed and sat himself down on the hulking armrest. "I'm so glad that you are so pleased at my return! Let us indulge in more of this tete-a-tete later. I tire now The day wears thin, and you still hound me as you had in days long past."
"You were unsafe, your have always been unsafe. Do not begrudge my caution, brother," Saiid threatened.
"Wouldn't dream of it brother," Abdel agreed gravely.
After his brother had exited the room, a maniacal light illuminated his face, "I've a long childhood to avenge, anyway. Even you can't deny me that."
Months into Abdel's return, no ill signs were to be seen. He seemed everything he wasn't when he was a little boy. He doted upon his eldest niece, Iria, who was a little older than Fatima and held higher rank above all of her sisters as well as her most recent step-mother.
The blood in Abdel's veins was teeming with electric anticipation. He was infatuated with Lady Fatima, but he knew the importance in extinguishing her seductive flame. She was a beacon of good, which fundamentally made her hazardous to his plans. She was charitable, at home with her people, not above lending her own two delicate hands in the chores of a challenged peasant, and many more such oddities. Often she would leave the palace in a very intricate gown and return in a peasant's frock. The people loved her. Everything she so much as uttered could compel any man, woman, or child to back her up. If she implicated Abdel in any future evils committed against the royal family, the people would feel empowered enough to literally tear him apart. So, rather than entertain his lust for his sister-in-law, he opted to spread his favor through Iria to his nieces. The general idea was much like stacking towels under a leaky faucet, eventually, they all get wet.
A week before Lady Fatima was expecting, Abdel paid a visit to the royal midwife in her small apartments near the far east side of the palace walls. It was well known to him, the recent passing away of her husband of thirty- five years as well as her only child's coming into the world a little over two years prior. She was old, widowed, impoverished, among other things, which made her a prime instrument for Lady Fatima's undoing.
He did not bother knocking, and instead entered the humble little house proclaiming loudly, "Does the old lady rise?"
The only other door in the abode creaked open timidly. "She wakes," the midwife's voice made round by years of coercing babes from mother's wombs, answered. "Is the Lady Winner ready to be delivered?"
Abdel cocked his handsome head to the side saying nothing.
The midwife Bloom frowned a little agitated, "M'lord, do you intend to make mockery of me?"
"Perhaps," was the feigned sympathetic reply. He self-consciously made his left-hand into a fist, the leather of his gloves groaning and mumbling with the friction. "It all depends, really. . ." Before the woman could respond, he help up his hand to silence her. "Your actions here on out determine your fate."
"What do you want," Ms. Bloom asked warily.
"A favor, I've to ask of you," Abdel replied simply.
"What 'favor'?"
Abdel looked up thoughtfully, "I was getting to that, my dear maid." He took a step forward while the midwife took a step back blocking the bedroom entrance. She resembled a cornered mouse, puffed up and trembling. "Calm, woman. I only wish now to have a glimpse at your progeny. Is it a sin for me to want to see the boy of my childhood friend?"
"Majesty, he sleeps," Ms. Bloom reasoned desperately.
Unfazed, Abdel pushed her gently aside, "Then, I shall take caution to se to it that he stays that way." He strode to the cradle by the bedside in the center of the slightly cramped room.
His heavy-soled boots sounded like horse hooves on the thick planks of the floor.
He stared into the crib as if his eyes could set it aflame if he wished hard enough. Bright burgundy colored locks fell into his eyes as he studied the thin long baby nestled in a cocoon of white cotton sheets. "This child, he did the last remnants of your late Theo."
"Yes," Ms Bloom replied feeling as if she were a bird with a viper coiled about her nest. Even when she watched over him when he was but a boy, he always managed to instill a certain degree of fear in her bosom. Even now, she could feel her fears blossoming, jagged points piercing her chest.
"He's lovely," Abdel commented absently twisting a bit of the baby's cottony auburn hair around his fingers. "He means a lot to you, doesn't he?"
Ms. Bloom worried her frock in apprehension, "Y-yes."
"I want you to do something I know will tear your heart," Abdel abruptly changed the subject. "Lady Winner will birth, and you will deliver your thousandth babe. I demand foul winds to steal her away."
"What do you imply?" Ms. Bloom whispered, fear brimming in her eyes.
Abdel's humor lightened as he spread his palm over her child's belly. "Many complications follow young maids in the giving of life. Some do not survive. I leave the means to you."
Midwife Bloom gasped and clutched her breast in horror, "And if I refuse?"
Gently, Abdel rocked the crib, never once taking his eyes off the baby. His voice was thick with honey when he answered, "Than, I will just have to extract a price from you. . .for wasting my time." He locked eyes with her meaningfully.
It was a tense moment as Ms. Bloom stares at the gloved hand so carefully gripping the side of the crib, and than to the pale china blue eyes of her tormentor. For a moment, it must have been a trick of the mind, but she thought that she had seen a beast traverse from behind the irises of her majesty's eyes. Has her fear taken over to completely that it could manifest itself into this beast?
Lady Winner had been playing at the piano, when the sharp pains of contractions began to plague her lower extremities. Rather than stop her mini-concerto, she called for a nearby page to fetch the midwife. All the men and ladies that up to that point had been listening intently to their Lady's fingers dance across the keys politely excused themselves as it was custom for a woman to labor only in the confidence of a midwife.
Midwife Bloom wasted no time in reaching her Lady running with as much haste as she could muster. The hulking halls of the palace became nothing but colorful blurs and, her ragged breathing the only noise she could hear. The page has stayed behind to care for her baby. When she reached the music hall, Lady Fatima had reached the crescendo of her piece. Sweat beaded on her forehead and neck column, she hunched over the piano, but her fingers still flew defiantly.
"M'lady!" the midwife cried pulling her from her perch. The piano keys wailed under their master's fumbling palms. Her head was rested upon a crude, well worn pillow while her over clothing was removed. During all this, Lady Winner remained serene watching her maid.
Ms. Bloom rested a trembling hand on her Lady's belly while applying a sour smelling cream to her orifice. Lady Winner calmly rested her hand on the midwife's making her look up.
For the first time, she saw her country's hope. Lady Winner resembled a china doll, delicate and beautiful, but under all that burned a fire. Her eyes were innocent, yet strangely wise. If she had been born a king, things would have been grand.
"Alright, M'lady," the midwife said comfortingly. "Push now!"
Lady Fatima complied, the veins standing out on her swan like neck. Her eyes slid shut with the strain, and her delicate brows drew together. Rose overtook her cheeks, and tremors wracked her body. She looked like she would break. Finally, she fell back to take a series of quick, shallow breaths. She pushed again when prompted.
This pattern continued for two full days. The baby would not budge. Midwife Bloom's voice was failing, and her Lady looked ready to faint.
Feeling a slight light-headed, the midwife reached into her bag and extracted a long blade. "M'lady," she began shakily, "the cream I applied to you has not taken effect. The child will not come. I must extract it. . .by unorthodox means."
Lady Fatima espied the blade from the corners of her eyes and began singing a lullaby fervently like a prayer.
To be continued. . .
Note: I did absolutely no research at all for this fic. If there's anything that's grossly wrong in here, it's because of my own ignorance and stupidity for including it. (sidenote) Microsoft Word botches up the text sometimes without my knowing it. So, the wording of the story might change from time to time.
*Thank you for reading this fic. I really hope you like it!
In a kingdom far to the south on the outskirts of Spider Desert where the soil was arable and wealth attainable, a large stone wall embraced the city of Lefore capturing the pungent aroma of curry and jasmine. The people of Lefore were by default open hearted people yet captives of their boundless pride. They were wild in their souls, but civilized and functioning under the rule of Saiid-Ahmoud Winner III who was aging fast and had yet to derive a son from his many courtesans and wives. He did, however, have dozens of daughters, all beautiful, but to all affairs of state, useless.
There was a very small celebration when he wed to his final wife, everyone having grown long accustomed to these affairs. After the wedding, however, the people were a little ashamed to realize that their new lady was by far the most splendid looking of any in the land. He hair was the color of white gold and was bound in glossy tresses resembling a waterfall kissed by dawn. Her lips were as perfect as a rosebud, her cheeks graced by a pretty pink blush, and her eyes the color of the sea on the eve of a storm. They changed color now and then with her ever-changing mood. She was nobility raised in the fertile Isis Valley to the east of Lefore. Her golden heart and dreamy charm quickly won the loyalty of the kingdom.
To her alone, Saiid-Ahmoud was not unkind. Yet, he was not saintly, either. Within the first four months of marriage, it was evident that Lady Fatima Winner was with child. Her belly had swollen and she became steadily more passionate about certain things. She read aloud to those who would listen, play the piano for hours on end, nurture her stepdaughters in knowledge, and fevrently combat the other wives' poisonous remarks to her. They were in their late twenties to early forties holding infinite rank over their sixteen-summer old adversary. They all feared her.
More conflict arose at the return of Abdel, the king's brother. He had been away in the west to study. It had been almost fourteen years since he'd last been seen. He was thirty-one now and very cultured in appearance save for the wild light in his eyes that he could not suppress.
Since childhood, he had been a queer seed. He collected spiders, snakes, and scorpions from the desert, then stuffed them into glass flasks of his own design. He enjoyed attempting to interbreed species or hold little death-matches for his own amusement. Often, he fell victim to illness and would lay feverish in his bed kicking and shrieking when he wasn't busy playing some sort of war game by himself. He had not the inborn political savvy of his older brother, but the demented mind of a conqueror.
Fearing for the political stability of his kingdom, Dhakar Winner sent his son abroad to study where his insanity could damage little.
Upon his return, he brought with him twelve old, ominous looking trunks. His procession to the Winner palace was short and almost unnoticed since he did not send word of his return ahead of time. Being abrupt was a thing he relished. The feeling of absolute control threatened to upturn his customary frown into a chesire cat's grin.
When his brother learned of his return, he was furious. He had not a thought about his brother since his departure years ago. His brother had been restored to his original quarters that he'd found so many musings in days long past.
Abdel was quite pleased at the familiarity of his old rooms, that no servant had dared venture inside. His collection of oddities still sat shelved and catalogued in a musty corner of his personal library. Books he'd read days before he left still lay open on his desk. Paper was strewn about haphazardly on the ground from his final temper tantrum.
Gaily he kicked a bit of the mess aside and sat himself down on his old armchair next to the fireplace. Coolly, he rang for a servant to make a fire for him, and then waited patiently for his brother to show.
He was not disappointed.
"I did not realize your return," Saiid said to his brother shrouded in the sharp shadows created by the dying embers in the hearth.
"I had every intent. . .to pleasantly surprise you," Abdel countered calmly. His voice was smooth with the slightest bit of inflection, but not enough to give him away. "Should you not be joyous that your only brother has now returned? Why do you not embrace me and speak like an old friend?"
He steadily held out his arms spreading his gloved fingers far apart.
Saiis sneered at the gesture and turned away, "Do not jest. Why have you come?"
"I heard that your and your lady are expecting," was the easy reply.
The king's frown deepened, "That message is not rare."
"Dear, dear brother," Abdel sighed and sat himself down on the hulking armrest. "I'm so glad that you are so pleased at my return! Let us indulge in more of this tete-a-tete later. I tire now The day wears thin, and you still hound me as you had in days long past."
"You were unsafe, your have always been unsafe. Do not begrudge my caution, brother," Saiid threatened.
"Wouldn't dream of it brother," Abdel agreed gravely.
After his brother had exited the room, a maniacal light illuminated his face, "I've a long childhood to avenge, anyway. Even you can't deny me that."
Months into Abdel's return, no ill signs were to be seen. He seemed everything he wasn't when he was a little boy. He doted upon his eldest niece, Iria, who was a little older than Fatima and held higher rank above all of her sisters as well as her most recent step-mother.
The blood in Abdel's veins was teeming with electric anticipation. He was infatuated with Lady Fatima, but he knew the importance in extinguishing her seductive flame. She was a beacon of good, which fundamentally made her hazardous to his plans. She was charitable, at home with her people, not above lending her own two delicate hands in the chores of a challenged peasant, and many more such oddities. Often she would leave the palace in a very intricate gown and return in a peasant's frock. The people loved her. Everything she so much as uttered could compel any man, woman, or child to back her up. If she implicated Abdel in any future evils committed against the royal family, the people would feel empowered enough to literally tear him apart. So, rather than entertain his lust for his sister-in-law, he opted to spread his favor through Iria to his nieces. The general idea was much like stacking towels under a leaky faucet, eventually, they all get wet.
A week before Lady Fatima was expecting, Abdel paid a visit to the royal midwife in her small apartments near the far east side of the palace walls. It was well known to him, the recent passing away of her husband of thirty- five years as well as her only child's coming into the world a little over two years prior. She was old, widowed, impoverished, among other things, which made her a prime instrument for Lady Fatima's undoing.
He did not bother knocking, and instead entered the humble little house proclaiming loudly, "Does the old lady rise?"
The only other door in the abode creaked open timidly. "She wakes," the midwife's voice made round by years of coercing babes from mother's wombs, answered. "Is the Lady Winner ready to be delivered?"
Abdel cocked his handsome head to the side saying nothing.
The midwife Bloom frowned a little agitated, "M'lord, do you intend to make mockery of me?"
"Perhaps," was the feigned sympathetic reply. He self-consciously made his left-hand into a fist, the leather of his gloves groaning and mumbling with the friction. "It all depends, really. . ." Before the woman could respond, he help up his hand to silence her. "Your actions here on out determine your fate."
"What do you want," Ms. Bloom asked warily.
"A favor, I've to ask of you," Abdel replied simply.
"What 'favor'?"
Abdel looked up thoughtfully, "I was getting to that, my dear maid." He took a step forward while the midwife took a step back blocking the bedroom entrance. She resembled a cornered mouse, puffed up and trembling. "Calm, woman. I only wish now to have a glimpse at your progeny. Is it a sin for me to want to see the boy of my childhood friend?"
"Majesty, he sleeps," Ms. Bloom reasoned desperately.
Unfazed, Abdel pushed her gently aside, "Then, I shall take caution to se to it that he stays that way." He strode to the cradle by the bedside in the center of the slightly cramped room.
His heavy-soled boots sounded like horse hooves on the thick planks of the floor.
He stared into the crib as if his eyes could set it aflame if he wished hard enough. Bright burgundy colored locks fell into his eyes as he studied the thin long baby nestled in a cocoon of white cotton sheets. "This child, he did the last remnants of your late Theo."
"Yes," Ms Bloom replied feeling as if she were a bird with a viper coiled about her nest. Even when she watched over him when he was but a boy, he always managed to instill a certain degree of fear in her bosom. Even now, she could feel her fears blossoming, jagged points piercing her chest.
"He's lovely," Abdel commented absently twisting a bit of the baby's cottony auburn hair around his fingers. "He means a lot to you, doesn't he?"
Ms. Bloom worried her frock in apprehension, "Y-yes."
"I want you to do something I know will tear your heart," Abdel abruptly changed the subject. "Lady Winner will birth, and you will deliver your thousandth babe. I demand foul winds to steal her away."
"What do you imply?" Ms. Bloom whispered, fear brimming in her eyes.
Abdel's humor lightened as he spread his palm over her child's belly. "Many complications follow young maids in the giving of life. Some do not survive. I leave the means to you."
Midwife Bloom gasped and clutched her breast in horror, "And if I refuse?"
Gently, Abdel rocked the crib, never once taking his eyes off the baby. His voice was thick with honey when he answered, "Than, I will just have to extract a price from you. . .for wasting my time." He locked eyes with her meaningfully.
It was a tense moment as Ms. Bloom stares at the gloved hand so carefully gripping the side of the crib, and than to the pale china blue eyes of her tormentor. For a moment, it must have been a trick of the mind, but she thought that she had seen a beast traverse from behind the irises of her majesty's eyes. Has her fear taken over to completely that it could manifest itself into this beast?
Lady Winner had been playing at the piano, when the sharp pains of contractions began to plague her lower extremities. Rather than stop her mini-concerto, she called for a nearby page to fetch the midwife. All the men and ladies that up to that point had been listening intently to their Lady's fingers dance across the keys politely excused themselves as it was custom for a woman to labor only in the confidence of a midwife.
Midwife Bloom wasted no time in reaching her Lady running with as much haste as she could muster. The hulking halls of the palace became nothing but colorful blurs and, her ragged breathing the only noise she could hear. The page has stayed behind to care for her baby. When she reached the music hall, Lady Fatima had reached the crescendo of her piece. Sweat beaded on her forehead and neck column, she hunched over the piano, but her fingers still flew defiantly.
"M'lady!" the midwife cried pulling her from her perch. The piano keys wailed under their master's fumbling palms. Her head was rested upon a crude, well worn pillow while her over clothing was removed. During all this, Lady Winner remained serene watching her maid.
Ms. Bloom rested a trembling hand on her Lady's belly while applying a sour smelling cream to her orifice. Lady Winner calmly rested her hand on the midwife's making her look up.
For the first time, she saw her country's hope. Lady Winner resembled a china doll, delicate and beautiful, but under all that burned a fire. Her eyes were innocent, yet strangely wise. If she had been born a king, things would have been grand.
"Alright, M'lady," the midwife said comfortingly. "Push now!"
Lady Fatima complied, the veins standing out on her swan like neck. Her eyes slid shut with the strain, and her delicate brows drew together. Rose overtook her cheeks, and tremors wracked her body. She looked like she would break. Finally, she fell back to take a series of quick, shallow breaths. She pushed again when prompted.
This pattern continued for two full days. The baby would not budge. Midwife Bloom's voice was failing, and her Lady looked ready to faint.
Feeling a slight light-headed, the midwife reached into her bag and extracted a long blade. "M'lady," she began shakily, "the cream I applied to you has not taken effect. The child will not come. I must extract it. . .by unorthodox means."
Lady Fatima espied the blade from the corners of her eyes and began singing a lullaby fervently like a prayer.
To be continued. . .