Disclaimer: Gundam Wing does not belong to me. But can't I invest in it? Just a couple shares? I'll pay you. Promise. :: Crosses fingers behind her back::
A Fish Out of Water- Chapter Eight
When Trowa entered the cave, Quatre's common sense, not to mention his magical instincts, was sent reeling like a fishing line. He could hear the singing, and feel the aura of a being he knew all too well. The music sounded beautiful (and Quatre knew music better than any other bird of his kind), luring him in…
He shook his head to clear it. No, he wouldn't do Trowa any good if he were under a spell, too. If someone looked at him at that moment with magical sight, they would see a pale blue barrier raise around him, blocking out magic, and another, clear one, that bounced the sound of him to where it could harm no one. Then he resumed following Trowa.
At first, he did it at a rapid pace, overcome with fear for his friend, but his rational mind forced him to be cautious. It would be no good rushing in making a fuss without any sort of plan first. And with a thought process more reminiscent of that of Socrates than that of Tweety Bird, he stopped himself to make one.
* * * * * *
Trowa opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the glare that the crystals made by reflecting only a small trickle of sunlight. The light came from a hole in the ceiling that looked about the size of his fist, from that distance. He could see that the entrance to the cave had been sealed off, which probably happened the moment he got in there. He lifted his arm to shield his eyes, but its movement was blocked by cold iron. He tried the other, but with no success. His lower half, still submerged in the water, was weighed down by a heavy iron ball chained just above his fins.
"Quatre!" he called automatically. Somehow the name for his friend had quickly stuck, and even though he'd been half-joking at the time, he was glad he asked for it. But only an echo came in response, so it mattered little. Still, screaming it did make him feel a bit better, strangely enough. "Quatre!"
Trowa heard a soft chuckle behind him (well, technically to his left, as his back was against the wall). "I'm afraid your little friend can't help you now," a vaguely familiar voice announced.
He turned his head slightly, feeling a dull ache in his neck as he did so. Apparently nearly choking him hadn't been enough to make sure he stayed unconscious (And apparently Wufei wasn't the only one around who was trained in the martial arts). The voice belonged to the same mermaid he'd seen before, except she was no mermaid. Splashing through the water, covered in breeches which looked too fine to be touched with a drop, were two legs where her tail was supposed to be. Not that this in particular repulsed him, but she didn't seem quite as attractive now as before. He began noticing things about her that he hadn't seemed to see: dark eyebrows that split off at odd angles, long fingernails, and an ice-cold stare. Instead of the seashells that mermaids used for modestly, she covered herself with a low-cut sleeveless shirt that extended below the waist, but possibly revealed more than the shells did. Trowa was also relieved to find that his head felt clear when he looked at her, unlike before, and that his common sense had returned.
"Let me out of here!" he demanded. "What do you want from me?"
Dorothy approached him and ran her fingers across his nicely toned chest. "Hmm," she murmured. "Impressive. No wonder he didn't want me."
Trowa frowned at her. "What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?"
She raised her eyebrows at him. "What? You mean you possibly don't know?" She put her hand to her mouth in a mock gesture of shock. Then she smiled. "Oh, now I remember, he couldn't talk to you, could he?"
Trowa glowered at her. "Explain yourself. Who are you and what do you want?"
"But still, I can't believe he never mentioned me." She waggled her finger in a disapproving gesture and started to walk away from him. "My name is Dorothy," she said, turning her head slightly so he could hear her clearly. She sunk down in a plush chair (miraculously waterproof) that floated over the water and crossed her legs, completely relaxed. "And what I want is for your little friend to be all mine."
Trowa felt his heart drop. He screamed again, but this time not for rescue. "Quatre!"
* * * * * *
As Dorothy recited her evil villainess lines, the tip of a yellow beak peaked over the edge of the hole that someone oh so conveniently had put in the ceiling for a slightly plump sea bird to come right in. If Quatre didn't know her so well, he'd thank the heavens for erosion, but he knew better than that. If Dorothy weren't trying to lure him there on purpose, then he'd never eat seafood again. He could feel longing and loneliness coming from her, not malicious intentions. It was this, made known to him by his powers, that told him Dorothy wasn't the evil witch she pretended to be. If she were, why be so drawn to him? A little sympathy and kindness had created an infatuation so great that she would set a trap like this just to bring him to her. Well, if she wanted him, she would get him; but he refused to let Trowa be involved in their quarrel. Heaven knew he had enough problems already.
Though the hole was not supposed to be there, Dorothy's magic only caused what rain, ice and heat would eventually do in a few centuries or so, and Quatre could use that to his advantage. Easily breaking off small chunks of stone that were weak from her spell, he slowly built up a pile of them during Trowa's interrogation of his captor. Not that she would tell him anything yet, of course, but it was the perfect distraction he needed. Perhaps Trowa had instinctively know to keep her occupied until Quatre would come, or send someone, to rescue him. Probably not, since he really couldn't hear what information Trowa was trying to get out of her. But thinking that wouldn't hurt.
Pushing with all his strength, and literally putting his back into it, he dumped the pile of pebbles into the cave. The resulting splash was loud enough to cover the sound of his own dive (It was very fortunate that he was a bird who was able to swim). At this close angle, he could hear their dialogue, though a bit distorted by the water.
"Why do you want Quatre?" Trowa insisted on knowing. "What did he ever do to you?"
"It's more what he didn't do. But now, that's none of your business, unless of course, you and he really are…" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, and if seagulls could blush…
But since he couldn't, Trowa was more than willing to do it for him, his cheeks turning a bright tinge of pink. "I believe what you're implying is completely impossible," he responded, trying to keep his tone neutral, and for the first time in his life, failing miserably. "We're not even the same species," he reminded her, his voice squeaking a little.
Dorothy lifted up a finger, as if to correct him, but than changed her mind, determined to make him sweat until Quatre showed up (as she was positive he would). Instead she sighed dramatically. "Ah, yes, the age-old proverb: "A bird may love a fish, but where can they build a nest?" You poor dear," she said sarcastically. "But if it doesn't work out between you two," she said cheerfully, "and he remains stubborn, I'm sure I'll be available to cheer you up." She looked him over carefully, like a hungry animal eyeing a piece of fresh meat.
Coming out of the water for air, that was Quatre's breaking point. He would wait no longer. With his webbed feet, he propelled himself forward and took flight, his jaws wide open, ready for attack. He clamped down on her long blonde locks and pulled. Though Trowa's grooming was only a loving, though sometimes annoying, sign of affection, this extracted a bunch of long strands. Dorothy howled with pain and rage. No one ever dared touch her hair before. She flailed her arms, trying in vain to reach him, but he had the advantage of flight, and dodged them, pulling her (and her hair) around in circles as he did so.
It was an awfully funny sight, watching Quatre hang on for dear life, and Trowa couldn't help his lips from curling into a small smile. It was like they'd planned their own comedy routine, and it took away from what he had thought was a serious situation. For a moment, he thought it was just a game, a practical joke that Quatre had concocted, with whoever the hell Dorothy was to him, to cheer him up, just in case Trowa still felt depressed. After all that happened to them, it's amazing how those two could be so optimistic, isn't it?
Next, she tried the standard stop, drop and roll that was meant for getting rid of a fire, not a pissed off seagull. The two tumbled in the sea, turning Quatre into a watery ball of fluff (the salt water was not at all good for his feathers). Dorothy's own appearance, however, was still perfect, except for a small bald spot. It was as if she had some type of spell on her for protection.
What, did she waterproof everything in this place? Trowa asked himself. If it hadn't been apparent by her previous disguise earlier and her ability to capture him, he could tell now that she was a (very vain) sorceress. He watched them as they rolled about, like two pigs in a puddle of mud, or better said, two killer whales in an aquarium show. When that didn't work, she stood and tried shaking him off. As she did this, Dorothy inched closer and closer to the wall. Trowa thought he could see a shining glimmer of silver between the crystals, but figured it was just a trick of light. Dorothy was now in a corner, and Quatre let go of her, strangely assured that she had gotten tired and would no longer fight him. He rotated in the air to look for a means of setting his friend free, keys or some kind of magical device that would work.
Trowa tried to scream a warning, but his vocal chords weren't working. She must've put another spell on me. He tried thrashing his tail in the water and rattling his chains, but it was as if he, or Quatre, was deaf. His search completely fruitless, the seagull turned back to Dorothy for the answer. What he found was no set of keys, but the sharp point of a sword aimed directly at his chest.
