Disclaimer: This is the part where I get to give credit where credit is due. I did not think these wonderful characters up, and they aren't in my possession. Neither, by the way, is this song "Malon's Bridge" by Mustards Retreat (though I have changed Malon to Maxwell. Disregard the 'Zechs'' in the first chapter. You know. . . Duo. . . an' Zechs. . . they're just. . . ::scratches head:: so easy to confuse? ^^; Yeah, well it's a long story, but I'll just tell you I'm insane and leave it at that. I'm sorry; it won't happen again.)

Head's up: More 3+4 this chapter, 2+1. . . and errr. . .descriptive injuries (?) and slightly OOC Heero

Also, this chapter has an awful lot of information near the end. I tried not to make it too confusing, but I thought it was better to put it all into one chapter than to draw it out, because it would be easier this way. I will keep bringing up this information, so if you don't catch it this time around, I'll make sure you do later on.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

"And so the story grew among the elders and their wives

And those who ventured over Maxwell's bridge after midnight

For some were heard to scream and some were never found alive

And some were rendered speechless after running for their lives.

Well, me, I'm no believer in such stories as their told

But things there are around us that can chill a heart so bold

And never will I laugh again at grandpa and his ale

For I have been across the bridge and lived to tell the tale."

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Continue:

Quatre smiled contently as he let down the clean plates in a pile on the table nearest the kitchen. He would spread them out later. It was quite a task to turn the inn into a small eating place day-to-day. It didn't attract many people, either, so he didn't really know why he bothered, but it kept him occupied, in any case. Going into the kitchen to get the clean glasses, his eyes were drawn quickly to the counter with a second smile, of a different sort. Trowa must have slipped in while he wasn't looking. The taller young man always had little ways of showing he cared. Perhaps they weren't as direct as Quatre might have expected, but it was hard for Trowa to show his feelings. Quatre understood the message, though, as he looked in at the fresh-cut flowers, still wet with morning dew from the garden, that lay with their stems wrapped carefully in a dry towel on the counter.

Reaching for the three-shelved cupboard above him on the wall, Quatre brought down a comfortably-sized, cream-colored vase. Rotating it to the left, he recalled the iris design that made its way up the side. Quatre never really had seen an iris, he noted this to himself as he poured some water into the vase, but Trowa had told him about them. Quatre had never really left this inn, this town, his whole life. Six years ago he inherited the house from his late father, because it was the only thing his father had left to give. At the age of ten, the young blond was managing the entire inn by himself. The legality of the situation didn't matter much; it was a common thing for parents to leave their children to finish what they had started, but most children would fail and ended up on the streets . . . but Quatre was far from the category of 'most children'. He caught onto his economic situation very quickly and made weekly trips to the store in the village about a mile away, carrying a weeks worth provisions back with him. He slaved to keep the inn in order, despite the cruel tendencies of his tenants. It became routine that a guest would get up early and leave before paying or that Quatre would ask and get beaten so badly he was unable to call for help. It was on one of those nights that he had met Trowa.

It was three long years ago, but Quatre could still remember it vividly. That night, waking from unconsciousness, the first thing he remembered the broken dishes that should have been scattered all over the floor; he had been carrying those dishes when the man took a strike at him. Strong as he was as a person, he wasn't particularly strong when it came to physical fighting, especially since he refused to hit anyone back without good reason.

Finally realizing his situation, he noticed that he was no longer on the floor, as he should have been. Suddenly afraid, he jerked his body to sit up too quickly, as he realized almost immediately his left ankle was bruised and elevated on a pillow. The blond closed his eyes again, only to open them again, startled by the footsteps coming into the room.

A tall boy with long bangs walked in casually and asked him how he was feeling. It turned out that Trowa had been passing by the inn, but when he knocked there was no answer. It was raining so when Trowa noticed the door wasn't locked, he thought it would be alright to let himself in to find whoever ran the place. Since it was late at night, it wasn't unusual that the innkeeper did not answer door. However, seeing Quatre and the mess on the floor, obviously no accident, he came to the young man's aid without hesitation.

Even though Quatre told the stranger several times over those six weeks that he would be fine on his own, Trowa refused to leave until Quatre's ankle had fully recovered. Quatre tried to make his way to the kitchen to cook and take care of the inn, but there was no way for the young man really to move, so his stubborn streak died after a couple of days. Trowa kept everything in order, though, and ran the inn every day just as Quatre had done for the past three years; he wasn't so generous as to let any customer leave without paying their bill, either. He told Quatre later that he wouldn't have done all that for just anyone. The truth was he had become much attached to and admiring of the young man. Quatre, in return, had slowly been enchanted by the taller one's silent kindness. So it had been that when Quatre's ankle healed, Trowa requested to stay a while longer. And from that request, Trowa had never really left.

Over the past three years they had grown very close, and Quatre once asked what really kept Trowa tied down to this place. After all, Quatre had seen how skilled the taller young man was, and talented, too. There were so many things that he was sure Trowa could do. Of course, Quatre would have been crushed if his friend ever chose to leave the inn. Things had become so much brighter for him, and he used to always be afraid that things would go back to the way they were. It was so lonely. . . But Trowa had looked at Quatre and smiled at this question with words that he'll never forget, 'didn't you know? You're the reason I don't want to leave.'

Quatre sighed happily at the memory, filling the vase with water. That was a long time ago, and it still rang in his mind with a fond and familiar melody. Placing the vase down on the counter, he took the flowers in hand and arranged them with care inside the small vase, struggling to find space for the last stem of Leander rose.

Just as he was stepping away from the display, Quatre noticed a slow, labored tapping echoed slightly through the hallway from the front door to the inn. The blond widened his eyes slightly in hearing someone so early. Abandoning the flowers, he walked to the door as the knocks became slightly heavier and more frequent.

"In a minute," Quatre raised his voice slightly so it would carry through the door as he unbarred it swiftly, but left the chain at the top and peered through the crack it allowed. Certainly he would not let even one escape becoming victim to his hospitality, but the rumors of demons, (even though he thought deep down they were just figments of people's imaginations) , made him take the extra caution.

"Oh my god. . ." the blond flung open the door, looking down at the black cloaked figure that held heavy breaths and a hunch as he glued his eyes to the steps almost desperately. Sweat of struggling with pain skimmed some blood off his face wounds, leaving diluted red streaks as they made their way down his cheeks. Looking up between breaths, he saw a face blur under his gaze. The young man, slightly delusional from blood loss, smiled slightly in relief at the petrified face before gagging a cough weakly. Blood from the bottom of the stranger's throat somehow found its way up nevertheless along with whatever he didn't eat for breakfast.

"Get m-me a. . ." the black-haired young man winced, ". . . doctor, goddammit!" he staggered. Quatre, who apparently had been holding a tenacious grip on the side of the door so hard his knuckles were white as snow, released his hand to give an arm to the stranger.

"Tro-. . .?" He whispered beneath his breath before realizing this was not at all a time for whispers, "TROWA?!" He called as loud as possible. Flinging the stranger's arm around his shoulders, the blond noticed the black cloak had hidden more than it let on. The entire side surrounding the young man's right arm was soaked in dark red blood that stained Quatre's white shirt in a dark red print all along the side. Stumbling into the kitchen, the innkeeper somehow was able to seat the young man in a chair steadily, and immediately began to pull away at the black covering around the stranger's right arm. Quatre's face blanched at the sight before him and widened his eyes in sympathy and surprise.

"I've never seen anything like this before; these are no ordinary wounds," Quatre mumbled to himself as he prepared to make a run for the alcohol and bandages.

". . .demons." The black-haired one breathed through his clenched teeth at the comment, turning the blond's head almost immediately. Quatre took this to be a side-effect of the blood loss, and disregarded his words, but played along with it to ease his nerves. And certainly, that was partly right. The slayer would have never given this information to anyone had he been in the right state of mind.

Quatre fretted nervously as his hands shook in taking the bandages from the cupboard and made his way downstairs. The worst thing the young man could do at this point was to loose consciousness. There might not be any hope for him, then, and at least conversation might help. Quatre would have liked to say that this stranger was the only one ever to have come to his door seeking medical help. He guessed that since they were the only inhabited place for a few miles 'round, that it was a crucial role for them to provide aid to all those injured when there is no where else to go. Still. . . demons?

"Get him some water!" Trowa said from behind, catching Quatre by surprise. He was so nervous; the young man hadn't even heard him approaching. Trowa sat down and began to unwrap the bandage that Quatre had warily placed there and looked unnaturally shocked at what he saw.

"Get some water!" He commanded, not once looking into Quatre's eyes. Instead the long-banged boy rolled up his sleeves messily. Only when he didn't hear movement of feet to do what he asked did he look up at the turquoise eyes in a glance of utmost urgency.

Quatre nodded immediately, gulping down dry saliva as he backed away from the scene, breaking into a run as he reached the door. The well wasn't so far, but Trowa had acted as if it were important, not for him to get the water, but for him to leave. Quatre had the feeling there was a secret that he wasn't being told. There was something very wrong about all of this, but despite his predictions, he held steadfast to his trust in the young man who had always shown him kindness. He would be told eventually. He trusted in that, and without further question, went to fetch the water from the well.

Trowa knelt beside the black-haired young man, examining the wound.

"How many were there?" Trowa stressed as he tore a large strip off the roll of thin bandages and doubled it twice to create four layers.

"I don't know. . ." the slayer trailed off, numb to most of the pain that came with the application of the bandage, "maybe forty, fifty. . . I lost track once they disabled my right arm." Stopping for a second, the injured young man realized just the meaning of the question his second rescuer had asked. "You're. . . you're a. . ."

"I -was- a slayer, yes." Trowa announced emotionlessly, still wrapping the thick bandage, and the blood seeping through despite his efforts, "But that is not what I needed to tell you. You must not stay here, despite what Quatre tells you, or anything else. This place is cursed. I will see to it that you get transportation out of town, but you have to trust me. You shouldn't talk either. You'll pass out."

The young black-haired man narrowed his eyebrows even further, knowing the 'odd-haired one' (or so he had thought in his state of anemia) was right in the thought that he shouldn't talk, but refusing to let him be right was a hard thing altogether, especially if you couldn't talk.

"Cursed?" He managed to say. Trowa glared dangerously. He told the stranger not to speak for a reason. He was teetering with death.

"I'll tell you, but you have to promise to shut up," Trowa looked at the silent stranger who struggled with his injuries to keep from screaming in pain, and decided to continue, "There is a demon . . . a very powerful demon, who curses this place. Hundreds of years ago he lived in this village, trying to pretend he was human with the help of true human. Apparently he was found out and the story is they killed him and the one who helped hide his identity. They buried the demon on the other side of the river White with a spell to keep his soul within his grave of a ring of standing stones for all eternity. I don't know why but he's keeping us trapped but I suppose it has something to do with--"

Trowa stopped immediately as Quatre walked in the door with the water that had been commanded of him and placed it upon the counter. He looked disapprovingly at the two, as if he was being left out of something, but made sure to include that it was quite alright with him in his gaze, but Trowa could see better. He knew it made the blond feel that he did not trust him, but that wasn't at all true.

"Thank you," Trowa smiled warmly, touching the smaller man's hand with affection. "I'm sorry. We'll talk later."

"It's alright Trowa, you don't have to tell me," Quatre said, meaning to be helpful, but it only made it worse for the tall ex-slayer. He hadn't meant talk to tell Quatre anything, but now it almost made that an obligation. How would he explain what had happened in a way his love could understand without being hurt? . . . He thought this for a second, but quickly realized there was no way Quatre could not be hurt by what he had to say. That was his fault.

Trowa nodded, looking at the black-haired man who struggled to stay awake on the chair. The blood had already begun to soak the bandages. The slayer was very strong to have held out this long, but he'd have to be stronger than that to stay alive. Trowa might have known these wounds would not respond well to bandages, but there was only a small chance he had been stung with their venom. Some demons, once they inflict a wound, even after their death, every time a wound closes, the demon spirit would keep it open and bleeding until the victim's death. But that's what the water was for.

"Quatre, keep him awake, please. I'm going to prepare the water. Change his bandages if you need to," Trowa poured the water into an iron pot and added a few more logs to the wood stove, bringing the fire to a slow boil along with the water. Going outside, Trowa quickly picked a few choice herbs and added them to the mixture. Someone looking in might think the choices were completely random, but Trowa was skilled as an apothecary. It was one of the trades he had learned on his travels as a slayer. The thing about demons is that most of them are lazy. Once they injure an opponent, they figure it will die and leave it alone. Few people are ever killed by demons; most people who come in contact with a demon die a while after they are injured. Trowa saved the lives of many people in his days as a slayer. It was one of the reasons he was so eager to give up the name. As a slayer all one would do is kill, but he didn't want to kill. Trowa wanted to heal.

Sifting off a portion of the potion with the foam that had bubbled up at the top, he dipped a small hand towel into the iron pot. Bringing out the scalding hot cloth, he let it steam off a couple of seconds, but only a couple. Rushing it into the kitchen where the patient lay, he took off the bandage on the slayer's right arm and laid the hot cloth on top. The black- haired one hissed in pain, but released a breath with almost surprise at the relieving sensation.

Taking the reddened towel off for the stranger to see, the wound had lessened bleeding and looked remarkably close to stopping and healing completely. Considering he didn't even have to have stitches, the slayer was very surprised.

"Thank you," he said wearily after a moment's silence, clutching the bottom of his right arm with his left hand, "My name is Wufei. I am forever indebted to you for saving my life."

He looked over at Trowa, almost to ask if the taller young man had meant what he said before about the curse, and sending him away from this village as soon as possible. Of course, Wufei wasn't complaining. He didn't need to be here, anyway, it was a sidetrack, but still he felt obliged to stay a while and repay his rescuers for their trouble. However, if his rescuers wanted him to leave, who was he to begrudge them that? He would be meeting Heero soon enough. He wanted to know more about this demon the man named Trowa had spoken of. Wufei wasn't sure of anything about this 'anataton kakon', but he really had an eerie feeling that this demon was the one they were looking for.

The demon had to die. That's what he had come here for. As soon as he found Heero, they would complete their mission. It was about time, too.

*********************

The mist shone across the water in a silver, moon-dipped cloud that adhered itself to the surface. The demon positioned one elbow on top of the nearest tombstone in waiting as he allowed his chin to rest on three knuckles that raised themselves to the opportunity. It wasn't so often he smiled to look out on the water like this. In this prison, looking like this usually only filled him with sadness. The demon looked away, hiding beneath a stray thicket of hair to let his expression drop quietly. A smile, in its own way, can be a prison, too.

Prison is a punishment. However, the demon did not commit any crime. Did he? He was a demon . . . if that was a crime in itself, then he was a criminal. Sighing heavily and forcefully, almost to get his mind off the subject, the demon lifted his head. It really wasn't healthy thinking over what he did or didn't do for hundreds of years. His recollection at this point was probably completely askew by this time, so there really would be no use in trying to remember again. Or was there?

The only thing he could take pleasure in remembering was that one face.

He had been hoping, of course, that Heero could help him. It was too much to ask. Their meeting was just a fluke, anyway. If Heero had really loved him, then he still would, right? The demon closed his eyes softly, remembering that kiss . . . the last one, as the last breath of life had left his mortal body. Heero hadn't known he could still feel it. Even a hundred years later, it still danced on his lips, with more life then the demon . . . no . . . Duo had felt for the first time.

That had been his name once. It only was because he had no other name to go by. Demons, unlike humans, are abandoned by their families upon birth. The thought being that if he was a strong demon, he would survive. The weak ones would obviously be preyed upon. It's how they kept making the demons grow stronger. It hastened the process of evolution. Twisted isn't it? The demon cocked his head in quiet experimentation, trying to think back far enough to remember his mother, but with no avail.

The demon had been strong, and therefore had survived, but bitterly. He killed his predator, an older demon, and he could remember crying, softly, as he looked into the lifeless face of his opponent. Were demons supposed to cry? That's when they had found him. Crying, he had somehow taken human form with long, wild hair that could only be tamed back in a braid that he had become insanely proud of over his life. But the truth is he wasn't human. Did that mean he had deceived them? Yes . . . he thought guilty. . . he had deceived them all, and he might have forgiven them. He would have forgiven them for murdering him. He had deserved it, but he would never forgive them for what they did to Heero.

Standing up with a dainty jump from his perch on one of the northern stones, the demon looked to the west, where the sun was setting.

Walking towards the south part of the ring of standing stones, the demon walked forward, but only felt the same wall that was already there. He was impatient. As soon as the last bit of the sun had descended beneath the earth's horizon, his soul would be free to see Heero again. That's all he wanted.

He could see the red glow that lingered just above the water that stretched from side to side of the river White, but he was too involved with the sunset, he didn't notice the figures that made their way to cross his bridge, until they stepped across to the other side. The fog cleared partly, and he saw a figure come through, and it looked like the figure held up a gun straight at him.

The demon smirked. He looked like a good shot, but whoever it was who came to challenge him had really bad timing. He was about to be released from his prison for the night in his solid form. However, the demon's face softened immediately when he realized who exactly had come his way.

"You're the demon, right?" Brown locks covered the man's eyes, blinded as were his motives, as he held the pistol up steadily in his right hand.

The demon seemed so shaken under the barrel of a gun, or rather, the one holding it, that he didn't even notice the sun had gone down and he was in his solid form once more.

It couldn't be. . . he said. . . he was. . . the kiss.

Shadowed eyes took a step forward with his feet leading the way, the pistol never wavering. The demon winced. This wasn't the person he knew.

"You're wrong!" the demon said defensively, "I never was a demon."

"Then what are you?" the young man reminded him.

The demon glared into the other's emotionless mission-driven eyes with what he an onlooker might have called love or hatred. The line was so thin between the two it was hard to tell as the demon changed his voice to an almost icy cold.

"Leave."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I intend to kill you." Heero said, but the demon looked deeper, watching as his face never flinched but his emotions were in turmoil.

"Somehow I doubt that," the demon smirked, looking at the intruder's face more carefully, Heero just narrowed his eyes further. The demon could tell that it was from fear, and not the bad kind. Not fear of dying or being hurt. Heero feared something else, and the demon smiled.

It was just like Heero to fear things unfamiliar to him . . . that meant especially emotions. The demon had been through all of this before. Heero was struggling with something, and his first response was to point a gun at the cause.

The demon relaxed and stepped farther forward to the shorter young man until he was at gunpoint. Then, slowly, the demon, still smiling, put a hand on the other's cheek.

Heero nearly dropped his gun, but fumbled a bit and caught it, stepping back instinctively, and turning heel.

"I. . . This. . . I'll be back," Heero said, narrowing his eyes, "This mission. My mission. I'll kill you."

Walking away, Heero never put away his gun, and the demon watched, amused, as his old love walked back across the bridge. Well, he was right about one thought . . . this was definitely far from over.

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Thanks for Reading ^^

Yay! All done with the third chapter! Phew. Did you know I stayed up until 2 am to write this?

Special thanks to all my reviewers! Thank you so so much! I hope this chapter answered some questions, and I'm sure it opened up some new ones as well! Hope you enjoyed.