The sun had just barely risen in the east when they got back to the palace.
Quatre closed Aquilla back in his stall then promised Rashid that after
he'd changed clothes, he would go down to the parlor to meet his father's
guests. Quatre slowly climbed the stairs that led to a back way to his
chambers, dragging his feet as much as possible; he wasn't looking forward
to being the perfect hospitable host to a snobby little rich boy the whole
summer. He could already hear the complaints now; "It's so hot here, who
ever heard of making their home in the stupid desert of all places?" or "My
father rules all of Russia, we're the richest family in all the country, my
Uncle talks to the King all the time. What about your father?"
"Master Quatre! Master Quatre! There you are; I've been looking all over for you!" Quatre looked back to find one of the servants rushing up the stairs toward him.
"I know. I forgot my father's guests would be arriving today. I'll just go change my-"
"No time now, we must hurry!" the servant grabbed Quatre by the arm and dragged him down the stairs toward the front entrance of the palace.
"But...I am not dressed properly." he protested weakly as he was hauled through the front door around a corner into the large, spacious parlour.
The servant stopped in the doorway and bowed deeply, I bring you your son, sire."
From his position behind the servant, Quatre had a good view of the whole room, his great grandfather had loved open spaces and sunlight, so he had, had the front parlour built to be as large as a ballroom, complete with massive windows covering three walls of the room. But it wasn't the room that had caught the young boy's attention; it was the occupants of the room.
His father sat regally in a huge wing backed chair, facing an elegant love seat where a huge bearded man sat squished into the cushions.
Both the man and his father turned toward them, "Thank you Amir, you may leave us." his father spoke brusquely to the servant and gave Quatre a look of severe disapproval when he saw his dishevelled state, but said nothing, "Quatre my son, I am glad you were able to join us. You have not met my dear friend Gosfridus Nikolaus Barton and his son, Trowa," he gestured toward the man on the love seat and to the tall brown haired boy standing off in the shadows.
Taking his cue, he obediently walked over to Gosfridus and shook his big, meaty hand. "Nice to meet you sir." he said politely, but he wasn't looking at him, he was watching the silent boy who stood behind him, near the window. His dark brown hair was swept forward over one eye, in a fashion Quatre had never seen before, but he liked the way it covered one of his dark green eyes, casting a mysterious and fascinating aura about him. He was surprised to find himself staring into not a face of haughty disdain, but a face with no expression at all. Slightly taken aback, he choked on the introduction he'd been about to make.
"Quatre..." his father warned.
"I...ah-"
His father let out an exasperated sigh, "Why don't you show Trowa around the palace here Quatre? Show him some of the guest rooms and the such? Gosfridus and I have some important business to attend to."
Quatre nodded, and regaining some of his composure turned to Trowa, "Come on Trowa, I'll show you the palace." he began to leave the room, but when he turned back, Trowa was still where he'd left him, blank face and all. What was it with this boy anyway? He'd never met a rich man's son who could be anything other than sickeningly shallow.
The boy turned his head toward Gosfridus, and Quatre could have sworn he saw him give his father a furious glare, but it was gone before he was sure it was ever there. Before he knew what had happened, the boy had unattached himself from the shadows and was standing just in front of him, looking off into the grand foyer.
As soon as he had closed the door he turned to him, "I don't think I properly introduced myself, I'm Quatre Raberba Winner." he held out his hand. The boy nodded his head silently and shook his hand. Wow, progress, he thought, now all I have to do is get him to talk. "Well, I don't know which guest room you'll be staying in, but I can show you the available ones upstairs, so maybe you can choose one since you're staying so long," he talked as he led Trowa up an intricately carved, winding staircase, "And I can show you the ball room if you'd like; that's where we have all our parties; we usually have most of them in the summer actually, so you'll probably be here for most of them. They all seem the same to me though, a bunch of papa's rich friends get together and congratulate themselves on being the richest people in the world. And the music room, yeah, that's one of my favourite rooms; it's really big and there's all these really cool paintings on the walls of some of my ancestors. Did you know one of my ancestors..."
Trowa glanced sideways at the small blond boy and wondered if he was ever going to shut up. He'd never wanted to come here in the first place but his father had 'insisted' that it was important that he come with him. Punishment for running away from home? he wondered. Although the 31 bloody slashes on his back seemed testimony enough.
"...and those stairs right there, lead up to the highest tower. Come on, I'll show you! It's really cool." His face lit up and laughing, the boy who called himself Quatre grabbed his hand and raced up the long curving steps.
Trowa blinked and watched the back of his white blond head. He'd meant to keep to himself as he always did when he'd arrived at this strange place out in the middle of the Arabian desert, but he had a feeling this little Arabian boy had no intention of leaving him alone. The highest tower, he soon realized was nothing more than a bare, circular room, with a small barred window, a wooden table with two chairs, and a beautiful cushioned window seat with disarrayed blankets thrown over it. Quatre bounded into the room like a happy puppy, dropping to the ground, doing a quick somersault then leaping through the air to land on the window seat. Trowa stood by the head of the stairs, watching him wearily, this boy was crazy! He suddenly felt a need to hurry away as fast as he could down the stairs.
Quatre had turned around on the seat, gazing out the small window, "I love watching the sun come up," he murmured dreamily, "it's such a pretty sight."
Trowa said nothing as he edged his way across the room to the small table and slid into the seat. Maybe he'll just forget about me while he's admiring his beautiful sunrise, he thought hopefully He silently pulled out his favourite deck of cards that he kept with him for safekeeping and began to shuffle them between his small, long fingered hands.
He flipped them between his hands, cutting them, dicing them, making them stand up and fit together perfectly, all in an eerie pattern. He loved this trick, loved making the cards flip so fast, all that was visible was a blur. A small, secret smile played over his lips as he watched the swirling mass of the cards turn faster and faster. He found so little joy in his life, those who knew of his father, would have scoffed at the prospect of the almighty Gosfridus's son, finding amusement in strange card games.
He hadn't realized the blond boy had moved from the window seat until he felt a presence at his back. He turned his head slightly and saw the curious wonder in the boy's eyes as he gazed at his hands, moving the cards between them.
"Wow!" he exclaimed, peeking over his shoulder. "How do you do that Trowa? That's amazing! Are you a magician?"
"No."
The single word spoken by the tall, silent boy, startled Quatre enough that he stepped back and nearly tripped over his own feet. He managed to stop himself from falling on his face, and stood there, blinking at the boy's long, slim back. "You...talked." he said wonderingly, "I thought maybe because you were so quiet that you couldn't hear that great, and maybe you couldn't talk that well..."
"No." Trowa didn't turn around.
Deciding not to let that deter him, Quatre skipped over to the table and plunked himself down across from him. "Hey, can you show me how to do a card trick?"
Quatre waited patiently as he had been taught from childhood, watching as the boy idly shuffled through his cards, shuffling them slowly, one by one. It was amazing that he never dropped one of them. Is this, he wondered, what the sons of wealthy families did up in Germany? Learned strange card tricks?
"...Can you show me how to do that?" he asked again to the boy's bent head
Flip-Flip-Flip
"Er...excuse me, Tr-"
"Quatre! Oh, Quaaaaatre! Where are you my dear boy? It's time for your lessons!"
Trowa watched as the smaller boy slumped visibly in his chair. "Aww man, I thought maybe he'd forget since we have guests." he got up from his seat. "I guess I'll see you later then, Trowa." He heard him dragging his feet as he headed for the door, then suddenly the sound of rubber scraping against wood stopped.
Feeling a gentle pressure on his shoulder, he realized the blond boy had placed his hand there, "Don't think for a second that I'm gonna forget about that cool card trick, Trowa, I still want you to teach it to me." And before he even thought about turning around, the boy gave a quick; "Coming Abdul!" then skipped from the room.
Trowa reached up hesitantly and touched his shoulder, feeling a warm tingling sensation run up and down his back. So few people had ever touched him in gentleness, he wasn't sure he welcomed the feel of vulnerability it brought with it. He rose from his chair quickly and crossed over to the window that looked out over the east side of the palace. A few large buildings were scattered over the landscape but the largest one had fencing nearby with actual grass and small ponds inside of it. He wondered if that was the stables. He hoped so; maybe he could find a quiet getaway to go to in one of the empty stalls. He didn't think he could stand it if anyone in this beautiful palace ever saw his face after one of his brutal encounters with his father.
His decision made, he left the small tower and made his way outside. The giant stables seemed to be relatively empty, but he was glad he hadn't gone in through the front way; it had been crawling with people, some of the people he was sure worked at the palace, poor farmers, and a lot of palace workers. Having found an empty stall way at the back of the huge stables, he settled down with his special, crystaline marbles. He loved making little images appear in each clear orb, or lighting them on fire as he juggled them through the air.
He leaned back in the hay and tossed five of the marbles up in the air, watching with abstract fascination as they all caught on fire and changed colours as they swirled through the air.
"HREEE-he-he-he!"
Momentarily startled, he dropped the marbles with a small gasp, setting the hay all around him on fire. The horse in the next stall who had stuck his head over to find the boy, was reeling back in his stall nervously, his eyes wide, letting out a frightened whinny.
Feeling much like the horse at the moment he jumped up from the fast spreading fire and searched frantically for something to put it out. Finding nothing, he got down on his knees in the hay and frantically began slapping at the flaming hay pieces. He slowly chanted as he slapped at the fire, his hand movements slowly becoming more calm, soothing almost.
"Blue fire, cool the flames, let them burn no higher. Blue fire, cool the flames, let them burn no higher...."
Slowly, steadily, the flames died down, glowing a brilliant blue colour as they faded. Breathing hard, Trowa sat back on the perfectly intact hay. That had been too close. He was still so new the small magic tricks he'd begun to practice, sometimes it was hard to keep them under control.
With a relieved sigh he slumped back in the stall, wincing as his swollen hands rubbed against the rough hay. Looking down at them, he saw that the burn was a lot worse than he'd first thought. They were a bloody, blistering mess, raw and red and extremely painful. Instead of screaming and sobbing out his pain, like any other eight-year-old child, Trowa bit back his cries of pain. He'd learned long ago that any sign of weakness meant 15 more whips of his father's belt, or worse, his fists.
"What's going on back there? Magdalan, is something bothering you, boy?" The soft, feminine voice coming from the back of the stables had Trowa scrambling for better cover. What if the woman found him and reported to his father that he had been ghosting around their stables and bothering their prized stallions?
He had just found a nice, dark corner in the back of one of the stalls when he saw a pair of small, booted feet pass by his stall. In the next stall he could hear the horse; obviously Magdalan, skittering nervously around in his stall.
"Shhh, shhh, it's alright sweetheart. What's wrong, big boy? Did something give you a fright?"
The gentle tenderness in the her voice lured him out of his stall and he took a peek over the board, only to duck back down again when his eyes met clear, blue ones. He didn't look up from his place in the shadows when the woman's small boots came into view. He had this crazy notion that she was going to take that horse whip she held in her gloved hand and start whipping him with it.
"Hi there," she said kindly, "You must be Trowa Barton, the famous Gosfridus's son. It's nice to meet you," her gloved hand came into view but he didn't take it. He didn't dare show her his bloody hands.
"Can you look at me, Trowa?" Came her gentle voice again, and finally, he was forced to look up into her sky blue eyes. He realized with a start that she wasn't a woman at all but probably a teenager, and from the look of her immaculate clothes and perfectly groomed blond hair, he guessed she must be a member of the palace.
She smiled at him, a smile so sweetly innocent she reminded him of an angel, or what he supposed an angel would look like, with her softly flowing short, blond hair and angel's eyes. "There now, I can finally look upon the face of the most handsome heir in all of Germany.
Trowa blushed hotly, looking down again.
She laughed, "Well Trowa, why don't you tell me why you're all the way out in here, instead of inside with my little brother?"
He looked back up at her, surprised. Did she mean Quatre? The small, blond boy with the deep, blue-green eyes? She did look something like him, could she really be his sister?
She must have seen the questions in his eyes because she held out her hand again, "I see you must have met Quatre," she chuckled, "Hope he didn't scare you, I know he can be a little over...exuberant at times, but he just thinks the whole world should be just as happy as he is. He'll make a great leader someday..."
Trowa watched a faraway look come into her eyes and tried to edge past her outstretched hand but he accidently brushed up against her arm and she looked down at him with a start, as if she had suddenly just realized he was there. Then she tilted back her head and let out a lilting, melodic laugh, "How silly of me, I didn't even introduce myself," she held her already oustretched hand toward him, "I'm Iria Winner, one of Quatre's many sisters.
Trowa hid his hand in his sleeve as he shook her hand, hoping she wouldn't find it strange that he was holding it that way. "It's nice to meet you, Miss. Iria. I'm sorry I startled your horse, I was just..."
"Oh, don't think a bit of it." another soft trill of laughter, and Trowa realized what the small, blond boy and Iria didn't share in looks, they certainly shared in personality. How more cheerfully angelic could one be?
Deciding he needed a better hiding place, he carefully manoeuvred himself out from the stall to a side door of the stables. "Quatre had to go to his lessons, and I wanted to see the horses, but I have to go now."
He was just out the door when he heard her voice, "Trowa, come back here, please." he considered pretending to not have heard her, but the lessons on manners that had been pounded into him from birth, had him stopping and turning around, going back into the stables. Out of habit, he hung his head as he walked slowly toward her, just as he always did when his father used that tone of voice, knowing that if he looked him in the eye, the punishment would be more severe. He hated being afraid.
"Trowa, show me your hands." It was a statement, not a question.
Looking up her, he muttered quietly, "I can't."
She crossed her arms, looking like a stern mother hen. "Why not?"
"I hurt them when I fell down, and I don't want to you to see them, I think they might upset you. Can I go find my personal servant?"
"Blood and gore doesn't bother me, can you show me?" she took his hands in hers, they were still covered by his sleeves.
Seeing no way out, he held out his hand. She took it gently and pulled up his sleeve, letting out a gasp when she saw his hand. "Oh, Trowa...this is a very serious burn!" she looked into his face intently, "What happened?"
"I was...it..." He couldn't get it past his tongue, his reply had somehow logged itself in his throat and he was glad that it had. The small, meaningless magic tricks he practiced were private and somehow special to him. He hoped to maybe someday get good enough to show them to a crowd of cheering people. They were the only soothing, comfort he had left after his encounters with his father; he couldn't have them taken away now...
"If I tell you, will you tell my father?"
Iria frowned concernedly, "Of course I would. Your father would want to know that you were badly hurt, any parent would!"
Trowa shook his head angrily, "No," he muttered. "He wouldn't care. He'd just get angry."
Looking at a loss for words, she knelt down so she was more level with him, "Tell me what happened." The look of sympathy in her eyes was blatantly obvious.
"I was playing with matches, and I burned myself."
She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. It was a complete lie and she knew it, but instead of saying a word, she got up and took one of his hands in hers. "Come on, I'll have Mahalah take a look at those hands and see what she can do about them." she paused. "Then we'll see about telling your father.
Mahalah, it turned out, was one of Quatre's many sisters. She was currently home for a few weeks of the summer, taking a break from med school. At first her rock hard jaw and no nonsense eyes had made him wary, but her gentle hands took away his worries as they gently soothed his hands with cream.
They had found her sitting patiently at the bedside of a small dark haired boy in one of the out buildings. He had overheard Mahalah explaining to Iria that this small tenant's son was suffering from a very serious case of pneumonia. Feeling guilty at first, he'd tried to convince Iria that he was alright,but both the women had forced themselves on him, and now he sat uncomfortably on an old cot with Mahalah's head bent over his hands and Iria hovering over both of them.
He studied Mahalah's short, chopped brown hair and blunt, boyish features and realized she didn't look anything like Quatre either. She didn't even share his cheerful flamboyant nature.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk." Mahalah shook her head as she finished wrapping the gauze. "I don't know what you got yourself into kid, but those hands of yours must hurt like a hell dragon."
He gave a curt nod, "Yes ma'am."
She tilted her head and studied him a minute, then nodded as if in acceptance of his response. "You're a tough little thing I must admit, but also a foolish one. You tried to put out the fire with your hands, didn't you?"
Iria let out a shocked gasp and he averted his gaze.
Mahalah sighed and smiled grimly, "Just as I thought. Iria? Will you watch Ahli for me for a while? I'm going to take young Mr. Barton here back to the palace. Send a servant to me, if his condition changes."
Iria nodded, "Of course. But Mahalah..."
Mahalah turned back to her at the door. "What is it?" she asked bluntly
"Trowa doesn't want his father to know about what happened to his hands."
Mahalah brushed her off, "Oh don't worry about it Iria. Would you want your father to know that you'd been playing with matches and done something stupid? Of course not! Now please, little sis, let me handle this."
Iria nodded her consent but Trowa could feel her eyes on his back as he left the small house. Pity, he hated pity.
He followed one step behind her as Mahalah led the way toward the Winner palace. She led him into the palace, up a side stairway to what must have been the Winner family's private rooms. They stopped at a door near the end of a second long hallway and Mahalah raised her hand to the closed door, knocking softly.
She turned to him and gave him a stern look, "I'm going to leave you with Rashid, Quatre's personal body guard for the rest of the afternoon. Quatre won't be finished his lessons until after supper, and you need stay out of trouble and let those hands of yours heal or else they'll end up looking like a bunch of bloated raw hamburgers for the rest of your life.
Trowa gave her a severe look out of the deep green eye that was visible from his long bangs, but said nothing. It had been an out and out lie just to stick him somewhere and he knew it. He also knew that he wasn't going to convince her not to tell his father about what had happened, and he could feel the familiar cold prickle of dread run up and down his spine.
Turning back to the door Mahalah knocked harder, "Rashid, are you in there?" No response. She gave another loud knock, harder this time, "Rashid!" Still no response. She banged her deceptively small fists furiously against the hard wooden door, "RASHID YOU OPEN THIS DOOR IMMEDIATELY!!" Nothing.
Trowa smiled, and unfortunately Mahalah caught him. Her expressive hazel eyes opened wider and she jabbed a finger at his chest, barely touching him. "Not a word kid, do you hear me? Not a word."
He raised an eyebrow at her, finding himself enjoying her little loss of temper. She growled at him, then tuned around, raised her sturdy looking work boot, and kicked in the door. Trowa bit back another grin and followed her into the room, finding himself admiring this strange woman he'd only just met.
Trowa's first impression of Rashid was of a very large, lazy and overpowering man. He was lying spreadeagled across a giant Kind sized bed, fast asleep and snoring like thunder. He wondered if that was what a giant would look like if giants were real, or maybe an ogre? All Trowa knew was that he did not like big overpowering men, he didn't like men period. And he certainly didn't relish the idea of being stuck in this room all afternoon, alone with this giant.
Mahalah threw up her hands and grumbled something about lazy nincompoops who slept on the job, then left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.
The giant on the bed slept all afternoon and well into the evening while Trowa sat quietly in the corner by the window, perfecting the marble trick that he had failed to keep under control where it would have cost him the painful aching in his hands. He hoped his father would continue his long meeting with Quatre's father. He hoped the giant man sleeping on the bed didn't wake up. He hoped Mahalah forgot to tell his father about his little escapade. He hoped, he hoped, he hoped... Hope wouldn't do him any good he thought bitterly. It never did.
The bed creaked ominously as the giant whom Mahalah had called Rashid shifted. His loud, rythmic snoring had stopped and he was mumbling sleepily as he rolled over on the bed. Trowa shrank back in the corner, trying to make himself as invisible as he possibly could. Grumbling and growling, the bearded giant rolled off the bed and lumbered from the room, rubbing his eyes as he went.
Warily, Trowa crawled from his hiding place, looking around, then resumed the card trick he'd been practicing. A while later, Trowa woke from the tight ball he'd curled himself into on the floor of Rashid's bed chambers to the sound of the door crashing open. He blinked sleepily at the dark shape that stalked toward him. God no, it couldn't be...
The light switched on and the room was flooded in light. His father stood over him like a prison guard come to take the prisoner down death row. "I know why you're in here, Trowa." his father's voice was calm, monotone, "You were making trouble in the stables, bothering the horses, playing with matches. I'm very disappointed in you, Trowa. That's no way for the sole heir of the Barton clan to be acting in a guest's house, you know that."
Trowa felt a chill go down his spine as his father moved closer to where he was still half lying on the floor. He knew better than to move, or to look up, to even say one word. He didn't expect his father to reach down and grab one of his bandaged hands, pounding it against the wall with one of his meaty fists. He flinched at the pain, but was grateful it wasn't his face his father had been aiming at with his fist.
"Pathetic I say! Probably burned them just to get some sympathy!" his father's voice turned calm and controlled once more, "You're going to have to be taught a lesson, Trowa."
He could feel his father's rough hands reach down, haul him up then hurl him onto the big bed He hit the frame with such force his head knocked back against it and he saw nothing but stars. The sound of leather whispering through material warned him of what was to come.
Never saying a word, Gosfridus walked over to his son, tore off his shirt and cracked his whip of doom as Trowa liked to call it. Trowa silently endured the painful slashes to his slready, small, weak back, closing his eyes he went off into the private place in his mind where no one could find him; no one could ever reach him, not even his father.
When his father was done, he put his belt calmly back in his pants and left his small son, curled up on the bed, shivering from pain and anger. The door slammed. Someday; the small 8-year-old child promised himself, he wouldn't be afraid anymore, he'd get bigger, he'd get stronger, and someday, his father wouldn't be able to hurt him anymore. Someday, no one would ever be able to hurt him. Someday...
And that was how Quatre found him, curled up on his body guard's giant bed, bandages on his small hands, bloody slashes down his slim back and an expression of utter hopelessness on his face.
"Master Quatre! Master Quatre! There you are; I've been looking all over for you!" Quatre looked back to find one of the servants rushing up the stairs toward him.
"I know. I forgot my father's guests would be arriving today. I'll just go change my-"
"No time now, we must hurry!" the servant grabbed Quatre by the arm and dragged him down the stairs toward the front entrance of the palace.
"But...I am not dressed properly." he protested weakly as he was hauled through the front door around a corner into the large, spacious parlour.
The servant stopped in the doorway and bowed deeply, I bring you your son, sire."
From his position behind the servant, Quatre had a good view of the whole room, his great grandfather had loved open spaces and sunlight, so he had, had the front parlour built to be as large as a ballroom, complete with massive windows covering three walls of the room. But it wasn't the room that had caught the young boy's attention; it was the occupants of the room.
His father sat regally in a huge wing backed chair, facing an elegant love seat where a huge bearded man sat squished into the cushions.
Both the man and his father turned toward them, "Thank you Amir, you may leave us." his father spoke brusquely to the servant and gave Quatre a look of severe disapproval when he saw his dishevelled state, but said nothing, "Quatre my son, I am glad you were able to join us. You have not met my dear friend Gosfridus Nikolaus Barton and his son, Trowa," he gestured toward the man on the love seat and to the tall brown haired boy standing off in the shadows.
Taking his cue, he obediently walked over to Gosfridus and shook his big, meaty hand. "Nice to meet you sir." he said politely, but he wasn't looking at him, he was watching the silent boy who stood behind him, near the window. His dark brown hair was swept forward over one eye, in a fashion Quatre had never seen before, but he liked the way it covered one of his dark green eyes, casting a mysterious and fascinating aura about him. He was surprised to find himself staring into not a face of haughty disdain, but a face with no expression at all. Slightly taken aback, he choked on the introduction he'd been about to make.
"Quatre..." his father warned.
"I...ah-"
His father let out an exasperated sigh, "Why don't you show Trowa around the palace here Quatre? Show him some of the guest rooms and the such? Gosfridus and I have some important business to attend to."
Quatre nodded, and regaining some of his composure turned to Trowa, "Come on Trowa, I'll show you the palace." he began to leave the room, but when he turned back, Trowa was still where he'd left him, blank face and all. What was it with this boy anyway? He'd never met a rich man's son who could be anything other than sickeningly shallow.
The boy turned his head toward Gosfridus, and Quatre could have sworn he saw him give his father a furious glare, but it was gone before he was sure it was ever there. Before he knew what had happened, the boy had unattached himself from the shadows and was standing just in front of him, looking off into the grand foyer.
As soon as he had closed the door he turned to him, "I don't think I properly introduced myself, I'm Quatre Raberba Winner." he held out his hand. The boy nodded his head silently and shook his hand. Wow, progress, he thought, now all I have to do is get him to talk. "Well, I don't know which guest room you'll be staying in, but I can show you the available ones upstairs, so maybe you can choose one since you're staying so long," he talked as he led Trowa up an intricately carved, winding staircase, "And I can show you the ball room if you'd like; that's where we have all our parties; we usually have most of them in the summer actually, so you'll probably be here for most of them. They all seem the same to me though, a bunch of papa's rich friends get together and congratulate themselves on being the richest people in the world. And the music room, yeah, that's one of my favourite rooms; it's really big and there's all these really cool paintings on the walls of some of my ancestors. Did you know one of my ancestors..."
Trowa glanced sideways at the small blond boy and wondered if he was ever going to shut up. He'd never wanted to come here in the first place but his father had 'insisted' that it was important that he come with him. Punishment for running away from home? he wondered. Although the 31 bloody slashes on his back seemed testimony enough.
"...and those stairs right there, lead up to the highest tower. Come on, I'll show you! It's really cool." His face lit up and laughing, the boy who called himself Quatre grabbed his hand and raced up the long curving steps.
Trowa blinked and watched the back of his white blond head. He'd meant to keep to himself as he always did when he'd arrived at this strange place out in the middle of the Arabian desert, but he had a feeling this little Arabian boy had no intention of leaving him alone. The highest tower, he soon realized was nothing more than a bare, circular room, with a small barred window, a wooden table with two chairs, and a beautiful cushioned window seat with disarrayed blankets thrown over it. Quatre bounded into the room like a happy puppy, dropping to the ground, doing a quick somersault then leaping through the air to land on the window seat. Trowa stood by the head of the stairs, watching him wearily, this boy was crazy! He suddenly felt a need to hurry away as fast as he could down the stairs.
Quatre had turned around on the seat, gazing out the small window, "I love watching the sun come up," he murmured dreamily, "it's such a pretty sight."
Trowa said nothing as he edged his way across the room to the small table and slid into the seat. Maybe he'll just forget about me while he's admiring his beautiful sunrise, he thought hopefully He silently pulled out his favourite deck of cards that he kept with him for safekeeping and began to shuffle them between his small, long fingered hands.
He flipped them between his hands, cutting them, dicing them, making them stand up and fit together perfectly, all in an eerie pattern. He loved this trick, loved making the cards flip so fast, all that was visible was a blur. A small, secret smile played over his lips as he watched the swirling mass of the cards turn faster and faster. He found so little joy in his life, those who knew of his father, would have scoffed at the prospect of the almighty Gosfridus's son, finding amusement in strange card games.
He hadn't realized the blond boy had moved from the window seat until he felt a presence at his back. He turned his head slightly and saw the curious wonder in the boy's eyes as he gazed at his hands, moving the cards between them.
"Wow!" he exclaimed, peeking over his shoulder. "How do you do that Trowa? That's amazing! Are you a magician?"
"No."
The single word spoken by the tall, silent boy, startled Quatre enough that he stepped back and nearly tripped over his own feet. He managed to stop himself from falling on his face, and stood there, blinking at the boy's long, slim back. "You...talked." he said wonderingly, "I thought maybe because you were so quiet that you couldn't hear that great, and maybe you couldn't talk that well..."
"No." Trowa didn't turn around.
Deciding not to let that deter him, Quatre skipped over to the table and plunked himself down across from him. "Hey, can you show me how to do a card trick?"
Quatre waited patiently as he had been taught from childhood, watching as the boy idly shuffled through his cards, shuffling them slowly, one by one. It was amazing that he never dropped one of them. Is this, he wondered, what the sons of wealthy families did up in Germany? Learned strange card tricks?
"...Can you show me how to do that?" he asked again to the boy's bent head
Flip-Flip-Flip
"Er...excuse me, Tr-"
"Quatre! Oh, Quaaaaatre! Where are you my dear boy? It's time for your lessons!"
Trowa watched as the smaller boy slumped visibly in his chair. "Aww man, I thought maybe he'd forget since we have guests." he got up from his seat. "I guess I'll see you later then, Trowa." He heard him dragging his feet as he headed for the door, then suddenly the sound of rubber scraping against wood stopped.
Feeling a gentle pressure on his shoulder, he realized the blond boy had placed his hand there, "Don't think for a second that I'm gonna forget about that cool card trick, Trowa, I still want you to teach it to me." And before he even thought about turning around, the boy gave a quick; "Coming Abdul!" then skipped from the room.
Trowa reached up hesitantly and touched his shoulder, feeling a warm tingling sensation run up and down his back. So few people had ever touched him in gentleness, he wasn't sure he welcomed the feel of vulnerability it brought with it. He rose from his chair quickly and crossed over to the window that looked out over the east side of the palace. A few large buildings were scattered over the landscape but the largest one had fencing nearby with actual grass and small ponds inside of it. He wondered if that was the stables. He hoped so; maybe he could find a quiet getaway to go to in one of the empty stalls. He didn't think he could stand it if anyone in this beautiful palace ever saw his face after one of his brutal encounters with his father.
His decision made, he left the small tower and made his way outside. The giant stables seemed to be relatively empty, but he was glad he hadn't gone in through the front way; it had been crawling with people, some of the people he was sure worked at the palace, poor farmers, and a lot of palace workers. Having found an empty stall way at the back of the huge stables, he settled down with his special, crystaline marbles. He loved making little images appear in each clear orb, or lighting them on fire as he juggled them through the air.
He leaned back in the hay and tossed five of the marbles up in the air, watching with abstract fascination as they all caught on fire and changed colours as they swirled through the air.
"HREEE-he-he-he!"
Momentarily startled, he dropped the marbles with a small gasp, setting the hay all around him on fire. The horse in the next stall who had stuck his head over to find the boy, was reeling back in his stall nervously, his eyes wide, letting out a frightened whinny.
Feeling much like the horse at the moment he jumped up from the fast spreading fire and searched frantically for something to put it out. Finding nothing, he got down on his knees in the hay and frantically began slapping at the flaming hay pieces. He slowly chanted as he slapped at the fire, his hand movements slowly becoming more calm, soothing almost.
"Blue fire, cool the flames, let them burn no higher. Blue fire, cool the flames, let them burn no higher...."
Slowly, steadily, the flames died down, glowing a brilliant blue colour as they faded. Breathing hard, Trowa sat back on the perfectly intact hay. That had been too close. He was still so new the small magic tricks he'd begun to practice, sometimes it was hard to keep them under control.
With a relieved sigh he slumped back in the stall, wincing as his swollen hands rubbed against the rough hay. Looking down at them, he saw that the burn was a lot worse than he'd first thought. They were a bloody, blistering mess, raw and red and extremely painful. Instead of screaming and sobbing out his pain, like any other eight-year-old child, Trowa bit back his cries of pain. He'd learned long ago that any sign of weakness meant 15 more whips of his father's belt, or worse, his fists.
"What's going on back there? Magdalan, is something bothering you, boy?" The soft, feminine voice coming from the back of the stables had Trowa scrambling for better cover. What if the woman found him and reported to his father that he had been ghosting around their stables and bothering their prized stallions?
He had just found a nice, dark corner in the back of one of the stalls when he saw a pair of small, booted feet pass by his stall. In the next stall he could hear the horse; obviously Magdalan, skittering nervously around in his stall.
"Shhh, shhh, it's alright sweetheart. What's wrong, big boy? Did something give you a fright?"
The gentle tenderness in the her voice lured him out of his stall and he took a peek over the board, only to duck back down again when his eyes met clear, blue ones. He didn't look up from his place in the shadows when the woman's small boots came into view. He had this crazy notion that she was going to take that horse whip she held in her gloved hand and start whipping him with it.
"Hi there," she said kindly, "You must be Trowa Barton, the famous Gosfridus's son. It's nice to meet you," her gloved hand came into view but he didn't take it. He didn't dare show her his bloody hands.
"Can you look at me, Trowa?" Came her gentle voice again, and finally, he was forced to look up into her sky blue eyes. He realized with a start that she wasn't a woman at all but probably a teenager, and from the look of her immaculate clothes and perfectly groomed blond hair, he guessed she must be a member of the palace.
She smiled at him, a smile so sweetly innocent she reminded him of an angel, or what he supposed an angel would look like, with her softly flowing short, blond hair and angel's eyes. "There now, I can finally look upon the face of the most handsome heir in all of Germany.
Trowa blushed hotly, looking down again.
She laughed, "Well Trowa, why don't you tell me why you're all the way out in here, instead of inside with my little brother?"
He looked back up at her, surprised. Did she mean Quatre? The small, blond boy with the deep, blue-green eyes? She did look something like him, could she really be his sister?
She must have seen the questions in his eyes because she held out her hand again, "I see you must have met Quatre," she chuckled, "Hope he didn't scare you, I know he can be a little over...exuberant at times, but he just thinks the whole world should be just as happy as he is. He'll make a great leader someday..."
Trowa watched a faraway look come into her eyes and tried to edge past her outstretched hand but he accidently brushed up against her arm and she looked down at him with a start, as if she had suddenly just realized he was there. Then she tilted back her head and let out a lilting, melodic laugh, "How silly of me, I didn't even introduce myself," she held her already oustretched hand toward him, "I'm Iria Winner, one of Quatre's many sisters.
Trowa hid his hand in his sleeve as he shook her hand, hoping she wouldn't find it strange that he was holding it that way. "It's nice to meet you, Miss. Iria. I'm sorry I startled your horse, I was just..."
"Oh, don't think a bit of it." another soft trill of laughter, and Trowa realized what the small, blond boy and Iria didn't share in looks, they certainly shared in personality. How more cheerfully angelic could one be?
Deciding he needed a better hiding place, he carefully manoeuvred himself out from the stall to a side door of the stables. "Quatre had to go to his lessons, and I wanted to see the horses, but I have to go now."
He was just out the door when he heard her voice, "Trowa, come back here, please." he considered pretending to not have heard her, but the lessons on manners that had been pounded into him from birth, had him stopping and turning around, going back into the stables. Out of habit, he hung his head as he walked slowly toward her, just as he always did when his father used that tone of voice, knowing that if he looked him in the eye, the punishment would be more severe. He hated being afraid.
"Trowa, show me your hands." It was a statement, not a question.
Looking up her, he muttered quietly, "I can't."
She crossed her arms, looking like a stern mother hen. "Why not?"
"I hurt them when I fell down, and I don't want to you to see them, I think they might upset you. Can I go find my personal servant?"
"Blood and gore doesn't bother me, can you show me?" she took his hands in hers, they were still covered by his sleeves.
Seeing no way out, he held out his hand. She took it gently and pulled up his sleeve, letting out a gasp when she saw his hand. "Oh, Trowa...this is a very serious burn!" she looked into his face intently, "What happened?"
"I was...it..." He couldn't get it past his tongue, his reply had somehow logged itself in his throat and he was glad that it had. The small, meaningless magic tricks he practiced were private and somehow special to him. He hoped to maybe someday get good enough to show them to a crowd of cheering people. They were the only soothing, comfort he had left after his encounters with his father; he couldn't have them taken away now...
"If I tell you, will you tell my father?"
Iria frowned concernedly, "Of course I would. Your father would want to know that you were badly hurt, any parent would!"
Trowa shook his head angrily, "No," he muttered. "He wouldn't care. He'd just get angry."
Looking at a loss for words, she knelt down so she was more level with him, "Tell me what happened." The look of sympathy in her eyes was blatantly obvious.
"I was playing with matches, and I burned myself."
She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. It was a complete lie and she knew it, but instead of saying a word, she got up and took one of his hands in hers. "Come on, I'll have Mahalah take a look at those hands and see what she can do about them." she paused. "Then we'll see about telling your father.
Mahalah, it turned out, was one of Quatre's many sisters. She was currently home for a few weeks of the summer, taking a break from med school. At first her rock hard jaw and no nonsense eyes had made him wary, but her gentle hands took away his worries as they gently soothed his hands with cream.
They had found her sitting patiently at the bedside of a small dark haired boy in one of the out buildings. He had overheard Mahalah explaining to Iria that this small tenant's son was suffering from a very serious case of pneumonia. Feeling guilty at first, he'd tried to convince Iria that he was alright,but both the women had forced themselves on him, and now he sat uncomfortably on an old cot with Mahalah's head bent over his hands and Iria hovering over both of them.
He studied Mahalah's short, chopped brown hair and blunt, boyish features and realized she didn't look anything like Quatre either. She didn't even share his cheerful flamboyant nature.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk." Mahalah shook her head as she finished wrapping the gauze. "I don't know what you got yourself into kid, but those hands of yours must hurt like a hell dragon."
He gave a curt nod, "Yes ma'am."
She tilted her head and studied him a minute, then nodded as if in acceptance of his response. "You're a tough little thing I must admit, but also a foolish one. You tried to put out the fire with your hands, didn't you?"
Iria let out a shocked gasp and he averted his gaze.
Mahalah sighed and smiled grimly, "Just as I thought. Iria? Will you watch Ahli for me for a while? I'm going to take young Mr. Barton here back to the palace. Send a servant to me, if his condition changes."
Iria nodded, "Of course. But Mahalah..."
Mahalah turned back to her at the door. "What is it?" she asked bluntly
"Trowa doesn't want his father to know about what happened to his hands."
Mahalah brushed her off, "Oh don't worry about it Iria. Would you want your father to know that you'd been playing with matches and done something stupid? Of course not! Now please, little sis, let me handle this."
Iria nodded her consent but Trowa could feel her eyes on his back as he left the small house. Pity, he hated pity.
He followed one step behind her as Mahalah led the way toward the Winner palace. She led him into the palace, up a side stairway to what must have been the Winner family's private rooms. They stopped at a door near the end of a second long hallway and Mahalah raised her hand to the closed door, knocking softly.
She turned to him and gave him a stern look, "I'm going to leave you with Rashid, Quatre's personal body guard for the rest of the afternoon. Quatre won't be finished his lessons until after supper, and you need stay out of trouble and let those hands of yours heal or else they'll end up looking like a bunch of bloated raw hamburgers for the rest of your life.
Trowa gave her a severe look out of the deep green eye that was visible from his long bangs, but said nothing. It had been an out and out lie just to stick him somewhere and he knew it. He also knew that he wasn't going to convince her not to tell his father about what had happened, and he could feel the familiar cold prickle of dread run up and down his spine.
Turning back to the door Mahalah knocked harder, "Rashid, are you in there?" No response. She gave another loud knock, harder this time, "Rashid!" Still no response. She banged her deceptively small fists furiously against the hard wooden door, "RASHID YOU OPEN THIS DOOR IMMEDIATELY!!" Nothing.
Trowa smiled, and unfortunately Mahalah caught him. Her expressive hazel eyes opened wider and she jabbed a finger at his chest, barely touching him. "Not a word kid, do you hear me? Not a word."
He raised an eyebrow at her, finding himself enjoying her little loss of temper. She growled at him, then tuned around, raised her sturdy looking work boot, and kicked in the door. Trowa bit back another grin and followed her into the room, finding himself admiring this strange woman he'd only just met.
Trowa's first impression of Rashid was of a very large, lazy and overpowering man. He was lying spreadeagled across a giant Kind sized bed, fast asleep and snoring like thunder. He wondered if that was what a giant would look like if giants were real, or maybe an ogre? All Trowa knew was that he did not like big overpowering men, he didn't like men period. And he certainly didn't relish the idea of being stuck in this room all afternoon, alone with this giant.
Mahalah threw up her hands and grumbled something about lazy nincompoops who slept on the job, then left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.
The giant on the bed slept all afternoon and well into the evening while Trowa sat quietly in the corner by the window, perfecting the marble trick that he had failed to keep under control where it would have cost him the painful aching in his hands. He hoped his father would continue his long meeting with Quatre's father. He hoped the giant man sleeping on the bed didn't wake up. He hoped Mahalah forgot to tell his father about his little escapade. He hoped, he hoped, he hoped... Hope wouldn't do him any good he thought bitterly. It never did.
The bed creaked ominously as the giant whom Mahalah had called Rashid shifted. His loud, rythmic snoring had stopped and he was mumbling sleepily as he rolled over on the bed. Trowa shrank back in the corner, trying to make himself as invisible as he possibly could. Grumbling and growling, the bearded giant rolled off the bed and lumbered from the room, rubbing his eyes as he went.
Warily, Trowa crawled from his hiding place, looking around, then resumed the card trick he'd been practicing. A while later, Trowa woke from the tight ball he'd curled himself into on the floor of Rashid's bed chambers to the sound of the door crashing open. He blinked sleepily at the dark shape that stalked toward him. God no, it couldn't be...
The light switched on and the room was flooded in light. His father stood over him like a prison guard come to take the prisoner down death row. "I know why you're in here, Trowa." his father's voice was calm, monotone, "You were making trouble in the stables, bothering the horses, playing with matches. I'm very disappointed in you, Trowa. That's no way for the sole heir of the Barton clan to be acting in a guest's house, you know that."
Trowa felt a chill go down his spine as his father moved closer to where he was still half lying on the floor. He knew better than to move, or to look up, to even say one word. He didn't expect his father to reach down and grab one of his bandaged hands, pounding it against the wall with one of his meaty fists. He flinched at the pain, but was grateful it wasn't his face his father had been aiming at with his fist.
"Pathetic I say! Probably burned them just to get some sympathy!" his father's voice turned calm and controlled once more, "You're going to have to be taught a lesson, Trowa."
He could feel his father's rough hands reach down, haul him up then hurl him onto the big bed He hit the frame with such force his head knocked back against it and he saw nothing but stars. The sound of leather whispering through material warned him of what was to come.
Never saying a word, Gosfridus walked over to his son, tore off his shirt and cracked his whip of doom as Trowa liked to call it. Trowa silently endured the painful slashes to his slready, small, weak back, closing his eyes he went off into the private place in his mind where no one could find him; no one could ever reach him, not even his father.
When his father was done, he put his belt calmly back in his pants and left his small son, curled up on the bed, shivering from pain and anger. The door slammed. Someday; the small 8-year-old child promised himself, he wouldn't be afraid anymore, he'd get bigger, he'd get stronger, and someday, his father wouldn't be able to hurt him anymore. Someday, no one would ever be able to hurt him. Someday...
And that was how Quatre found him, curled up on his body guard's giant bed, bandages on his small hands, bloody slashes down his slim back and an expression of utter hopelessness on his face.
