Disclaimer:
I do not own Gundam Wing or any of its characters ^_^
A/N: Ok, now I know some of you have been wondering what I've been doing—or where the hell I disappeared, huh… Well… This writer has been having some serious life issues the last year and I haven't had time to sit down at a computer for awhile.
Various personal reasons—very serious ones, actually---have forced me to continuously put this story on hold and I'm sorry to all those who have suffered through my numerous late chapters---this being my latest to date. And the chapters will still be late coming because my own health has somewhat deterred in the last few months---one of my many personal reasons being a pesky case of cancer.
Now—I hate to put anyone in one of those bummer mood---I just feel that I need to be honest, mainly so people understand that I'm not dead (and I'm not dying or anything—its completely curable, just time consuming) and that I'm not giving up on this fic—I Will Finish This Story---It's a personal goal now!
Thank you so much for going through this babble and for putting up with so much and continuing to show support for my work. I'm VERY grateful! And I hope you enjoy the latest chapter of D&M W—the story that just never seems to end *^__^*
PS---format may be slightly rough—new computer, so I'm uploading a way I'm not yet familiar with. Sawy.
In Loving Memory—
I know you didn't understand half of what I was saying when I'd tell you about this story and hundreds other—but you always listened. Thank you, Dad.
This is dedicated to my father for always lending a confused, but caring ear.
Dawn and Moon Wars
Chapter Twenty
[A small apology for this, but I have found a few mistakes in previous chapters: 1) Treize is Count, not a Duke—Dermail is a Duke, not a Lord, 2) The Mother has three forms: Crone, Mother, Maid—sorry, but had to fix that—my own fault for not proofreading well enough *^__^*]
Butter-soft, black gloves rested on the pure white railing of the grand balcony. From here, one could see all of Elysia and even outward toward the human realms, if one knew where to look. From here, those earthly creatures and their war seemed so far away, much too far to effect the glorious Elysians. Too far to be of any true concern to their soon-to-be King, who should be more focused on his own people, his own reign.
His people.
Because no matter how much Duo lived among the humans or cared about the humans, they would always be different from him… They would never be his people, never truly understand him as well as other Elysians could. No matter how much they might intrigue and entrance him…
No matter if she did hold an ounce of Elysian blood in her veins—she had been born and raised as a human…
The glove-enclosed fingers tightened their grip on the shining rail, a warm breeze tousling the long cape he wore. His hair hung down his back, constrained by its usual braiding, except the servants had seen fit to insert strands of thin gold wire and amethyst gems throughout the construction. The gems matched the coronet perched atop his head, a large cluster of the shining purple jewels glittering above his forehead.
One hand pushed aside his cloak, relinquishing its hold on the mistreated railing, revealing the knee-length velvet brocaded tunic the Elysian Prince wore, braids of gold rope at his right shoulder—each loop a mark for a won duel. Like the tunic, his pants were black—a soft, leathery cloth that matched the quality of his gloves. All together he was the perfect image of Elysian royalty…
Every inch of what the people, his court, wanted him to be.
And he felt every inch the fool in the heavy, embroidered fabric.
With a sneer, he turned away from the view, the cape flowing behind his form as he stormed back into his chambers. He felt like a doll, all dressed up and ready to follow the Council's orders. He was not half the fool he appeared to be—the looks, the whispers, the rumors… Duo began to pace across the silver-inlaid floor, his eyes narrowing as his mind rifted through the last few days observations.
Duke Dermail was plotting… A fact which really didn't surprise Duo; the Duke had disliked both his parents immensely and had always been open about his disapproval of their son ascending the throne. Duo would've been more surprised if he'd returned to find the Duke welcoming him with open arms.
No… The Duke wasn't the problem… The Count was.
Count Treize Khushrenada had been one of his father's closest advisors—which meant absolutely nothing to Duo. The Count's loyalty to his father had never been questioned, but when it came to the son, that was an entirely different matter. Treize had always followed his own strict, yet strange code of honor and loyalty. If he was made to believe that Duo could not be a good King then Duo had no doubt that the Count would openly denounce him.
A treasonous act, to be sure, but one that would carry the weight of too many nobles. The people liked the Count—he was fair and gracious. The soldiers also held a great deal of respect for the Count, as he was quite willing to risk his own life during attacks, and of course, his wife's former occupation as one of their Generals only helped add to their loyalty. Within the confines of the court, he was known as a Master of all arts, a powerful man not to be crossed lightly. His popularity could spell out the destruction of Duo, who had been gone for so long—whose only allies at the moment were a few relatives and two humans… As it was, he couldn't even count on Une's support—her love for her husband was obvious to any and all. If it came to choosing between her rightful King and beloved husband—Duo feared the result would not be in his favor.
His throne was in jeopardy… And yet, he had to somehow propose that he send Elysian forces into the human realms to fight a war that few would see as their problem. The very act of mentioning war could—no, would—lose him great bounds of support from every class. Elysians hated getting themselves involved in the problems of the outside world, especially when it came to humans. The only species held in less regard were the Tek'lier … How could he ever gain Dorothy the army she needed while holding onto the throne that rightfully belonged to him…
Nearby, a bell chimed, and Duo's pacing halted in mid-step, his gaze focusing on the strangely, non-gilded door leading into his chambers. The bell continued to chime, announcing it to be mid-morning, time for the bustle of cooking and cleaning to start, as many lords and ladies relented their rooms for the more cheery air of the mainland.
Sadly, Duo was not to be one of those many nobles… For as the bell chimed, Duo found himself adjusting his tunic one last time before entering the hall—royal duties called.
*
Heero wasted no time in wondering what had happened to the dark mage, instead his attention quickly turned to the trembling form at his feet. Kneeling beside the unconscious Dawn, uncertainty flashed across his features, his eyes narrowing in concern and confusion as he gently touched the collar that surrounded her throat. He remembered the design from the slave town, but he held no magick to remove the object and, if he remembered correctly, the mage that had placed the collar around her neck had to be the one to take it off.
He couldn't see any actual wounds, just scratches from their journey, but her skin burned and froze at the touch. She seemed encased in fire and ice, her body dying from within… He was an assassin of death—he knew the feel and smell of it.
Death surrounded the Dawn.
For the second time in his life, a sense of complete hopelessness fell over the Panther. He could not help Relena… And she would die without help… She would die.
'Relena is dying.' A moan fell from Heero's lips, his eyes wide and disbelieving as he stared down at the pale young woman. His body seemed unsure and clumsy, resembling the young human male that he appeared to be more than the stern, stoic predator within. He seemed incredibly young, something desperate written across his features—like a little boy who so desperately continued to cling to some impossible hope.
The hope that he could somehow do something for Relena, could somehow keep her alive by just wanting it—believing it. But every breath she took seemed to hammer into the insane hope crawling over Heero. The tiny, wheezing coughs were not good signs… And as his eyes took in the tiny drops of blood staining her lips, one hand began to tremble—wiping away the red, red blood.
Her lips were drawn in a thin line, a grimace occasionally passing over her features as waves of pain flowed through her small form. Sweat poured from her body, her hair wet and sticking to her face, while her hands seemed to be clawing at the ground. Her entire body screamed of pain and something inside of Heero hurt just by watching her.
No matter what he had said to her, no matter what he had done—a part of him had grown fond of the human. And now…
'Relena is dying.'
"Oy! Easy there, this thing's heavy!" Something crashed through nearby bush, causing the distressed male to jerk. The exclamation was soon followed by a series of explicit curses, as something heavy seemed to fall on the speaker. Laughter and more voices soon joined in, as the forest seemed to awaken to the sounds of humans. The noise and sounds of a large group setting up camp rang within the Panther's ears, his enhanced hearing catching the slow turning of wheels along with footsteps and voices.
Wagons.
Humans.
Heero's body had tensed, all expressions of hopelessness and loss disappearing beneath his stoic mask. The humans didn't sound dangerous, but one never knew… His mind told him to leave—to grab Relena and disappear farther into the foliage, away from the strangers so close.
But…
Relena was dying.
Carefully, the Panther lifted the trembling woman and stood, his eyes harsh and narrowed. He could not help her. But perhaps these humans could…
*
The cold marble floor slammed into Sylvia's knees, the pain ricocheting through her petite form, as her hands tried to grasp the slick stone. Blood rushed through her head creating waves of dizziness that pulsed behind her eyes, the room a swirling mass of colors and lights as she struggled to regain control over her body. Her skin tingled with the return of her weak magicks, running through her like a wave of fire that burned with harsh intensity. The sheer power she had been a part of was deadly…
And intoxicating.
She felt drunk on it, a victim of the intensity---the sheer sensual finesse and steel-like force of magicks that had been forced through her, from her. A person could die in ecstasy within a ring of that kind of power.
"You fool! Idiot!" The Moon's angry voice cut through the haziness that seemed to be coating the Representative's mind. Her eyes blinked lazily, as she tried to focus on where the former Evening Star stood. His form wasn't entirely clear, the edges blurred, but she could still make out his commanding form only yards away from where she kneeled.
Like one in a dream, Sylvia watched with a morbid curiosity as he lifted a shaking, cowering form and then tossed the person like a rag doll. The figure remained huddled where they lay, their form already bleeding and trembling---exhaustion hovered over the mystery person like a cloud. Slowly, the figure raised a haggard face toward the enraged Moon. Blonde locks and blue eyes were all Sylvia could make out in her addled state.
"Give me one reason---just one---why I shouldn't kill you." The Evening Star's voice was soft, silk laced with steel, as he kneeled before the barely breathing figure.
Sylvia shook her head, trying to clear her vision as she pulled herself closer to the scene. Her legs seemed like liquid and would not hold her weight, but her arms steadily pulled her across the marble flooring—her eyes seeking more of the figure.
The Moon stood before the person, his boots mere inches from their body. His form seemed to radiate anger and danger---something very bad was to befall the figure that had so suddenly appeared before them all.
"Speak, damn you!"
Blood struck her vision, as her eyes seemed to slowly clear themselves of their magick drunken haze. Blood staining a horribly beautiful young man---so terribly beautiful with blood streaming across his features that he seemed too heavenly to be of mere mortal seed. Sylvia felt her heart go out to the strange young man, there was something charmingly disturbing about the man… Something that called to her and repulsed her at the same time.
The male slowly raised his eyes toward the Moon's gaze, his mouth opening and closing but uttering no sound… And then he looked away, a weary acceptance painted across those angelic features. Millardo sneered, his lips curling back like an animal's, and he kicked at the male---emitting a sound of pain that seemed to echo through the throne-room.
It seemed very likely that the man was going to die for failing the Moon,
Sylvia's mouth opened, but something stopped her from speaking… In the shadows behind man and Moon, a figure motioned her to silence… And an unearthly light glowed from moon-shaped spectacles, as Jaclyn motioned toward the scene---the dead mouthed one word to the Representative.
Watch.
So, she did just that… And as the Moon seemed to be bringing himself to carry out the man's death, his face still contorted in deadly rage… Something different appeared… The crouching, trembling figure at his feet—so acceptant of the death that awaited him—jerked…
The man's blue eyes widened, his face an expression of shock and surprise. Then those angelic, bloody features twisted into something harsher. Something flashed within his blue gaze, as he turned his head to face the Moon's wrath once again. But this time his features were determined, fierce. Something seemed to have taken over the male; to have replaced the man he had been only mere seconds ago with someone dangerous and deadly.
"You will not kill me." The words were spoken with an unearthly strength, power emitted from the simple words with an intensity that struck her to the core. Magicks crackled around the strange male, his eyes a storm of flashing fire and light---the elements awakening in the very air around them all, as he slowly and confidently stood before the Moon. "You cannot kill me."
Sylvia gasped, as the blood coursing down his face began to reverse its flow, closing the wounds that scattered across his form. Cuts and bruises faded before her very eyes, as the male continued to wield the strange power radiating from the very earth and air. This wasn't mere elemental magicks at play, something stronger—something more potent had taken hold within the man. Something that seemed to put even the powerful Evening Star at unease—for Millardo had backed away from the blonde male, a million emotions flashing within the Moon's eyes as the male took a step toward him.
The man made a motion, barely a twitch of his fingers, and Sylvia could not help the scream that broke from her throat as the very air snapped around her. It sounded like the crack of a whip and she watched as glass showered down from the high windows, the sound's intensity and strength too much for the fragile glass.
"So this is the power of a bondling…" The Moon's voice sounded small compared to the harsh raging winds circling around the male, his hand seemingly wrapped around a whip of air. "But even with such power, you know you could never win against me."
The male smiled, a familiar smirk to Sylvia's confused eyes, "I don't need to win, my Moon." There was something decidedly ominous about the man's tone, an unneeded emphasis put upon the words as he spoke and then paused, eyeing the Moon. "After all, you are my liege, my lord. I wish only to serve you always." The words lacked sincerity, but the display of magicks disappeared and the male bowed. With his wounds gone, except for one strange scar, he seemed less heavenly—but no less unearthly. His smirk paired with innocent blue eyes gave the former Representative a cold shiver; heavenly was not the right word, but hellish seemed appropriate now that the man seemed to have regained his strength.
The Moon frowned as he stared down at the man's bowed head, apprehension and something very akin to fear flickered across his face, forced aside by an obviously fake smile. The expression was strained, but the man said nothing as Millardo motioned for him to stand. "A good show, bard…" Neither said a word, as the two men seemed to stare each other down, a test of wills… When suddenly the Moon turned away, one hand motioning toward a nearby guard.
"Show our friend to better chambers so he may rest after such a troubling day. We will speak later, bard." Millardo refused to face the bard, thus not seeing how the bard's right hand clutched at a dagger that wasn't there.
The bard bowed once more then turned, his eyes hooded as he viewed the chambers once. Sylvia felt herself recoil as his gaze met hers, again there was that pull---the man wasn't entirely human, wasn't entirely whole… A man like that was dangerous because he wasn't always dangerous—soft and deadly, innocent and demonic. She felt herself yearn for him while repulsed by his very presence all at once.
But as his eyes narrowed then widened, all emotions were replaced by one shockingly cold wave of fear. He recognized her.
*
The halls of Elysia were a catacomb to the unwary. Their bright, glittering walls of gold and silver and shining, polished wood distracted the eye from the various twists and turns. Only one born among the beauty and confusion could possibly know every turn and twist—and even then it was unlikely they would know them all. As it was, Dorothy had not been borne in the glittering maze, so she could only rely on her memory and Lylene's directions. Directions that now seemed useless, as the sorceress found herself passing a familiar statue for the third time.
The sorceress kept her aggravation within, though, as she now turned left instead of right. The servants and dallying nobility's gazes were hot on her flesh, their obvious disgust at her very presence felt in every step she took. Since leaving her chambers, they had made a point of either ignoring her or throwing condescending glances and words in her direction.
Usually, it would not have bothered her but she desperately needed to speak to Duo and their constant animosity made it impossible to break down and ask for another set of directions. So, as she continued to wander aimlessly, her anger grew and grew with every passing glance till she seemed more made out of ice and marble than flesh and bone.
The addition of a growing, bustling crown of servants in every corridor did not help matters. Everyone everywhere seemed to be preparing for Duo's coronation celebration. Though, Duo would not be crowned for two more days the Elysians held continuous rituals and revelries during a three-day period. They seemed to hold the number three with importance, as she had noticed a repetition of it in numerous pieces of art—even in the very clothing they wore.
However, her mind for once was not focused on the wealth of custom the Elysians offered or the upcoming coronation. Her mind was focused on actions farther away, actions more important to her than an Elysian King…
She had to speak with Duo, had to voice her reasons for being here before she lost her advantage. Before she lost everything to these damned elves and their damned King.
An ebony statue beckoned from ahead and her lips curved into a small relieved smile, as she recognized one of Lylene's descriptions. A turn to the right would lead her near the throne-room and that would either lead her to Duo or to servants that would know where he was---servants that would have to show some sort of respect toward her for being a companion of their liege.
Yet, as she darted around two servants, the sound of ripping cloth caught her attention. With a frown, she turned, peering down at the length of torn gossamer fabric—tearing more with every movement she made because of the tiny, petite foot placed strategically upon the hanging cloth. Dorothy's gaze slowly traveled up the dainty foot to a green and silver draped alabaster figure with cool, amused eyes. The usual Elysian features of beauty were present in the woman's petite features—straight, small nose and rosebud lips, eyes glittering like a stalking cat's. Silver curls surrounded the young, pretty face giving the Elysian a godly glow.
Behind the woman were two Elysian males, both also nobility. One all golden, from his blonde locks to his golden skin and eyes, while the other seemed like a shadow with raven black hair and an onyx gaze, his skin so pale it seemed almost white. All three wore cruel expressions of amusement, as they stared down at the slightly shorter sorceress.
"Terribly sorry, my foot slipped." Scornful laughter edged the female's voice, her foot remaining perfectly still over the tearing fabric.
"Avila is so clumsy at times, you must forgive her." The golden male stepped forward, his face and tone a mockery of remorse. "You see, we were discussing the King's return when she just fell forward. But, I must say, she couldn't have fallen at a better time. We were just speaking of you."
"Yes, yes." The raven one, all silk and velvet as he also moved closer, careful to keep his flowing cape from grazing Dorothy's form. His lips curled into a friendly smile, made all the more mocking by the baring of his sharp, feline teeth. "We were curious as to why you have come here."
"I have business with the King." Dorothy's voice was flat, her features stoic and stern as she gazed back at the trio.
The woman laughed, "Well, that we have no doubt about. We're just surprised that his majesty would go as far as to actually bring you to our kingdom, into the very heart of his land. You must be very good at your occupation."
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind loaning your expertise to Ralyn here. It has always been a secret fantasy of his to have a human of your character apply her talents upon him." The golden one had barely finished speaking when the dark one, Ralyn obviously, angrily shot a glare in his direction.
"You go too far, Gareld. I will not allow you to disgrace my honor because of your interest in the King's Whore!" His pale features had flushed a dark crimson, as he took a step toward the blonde male. Anger radiated in every low spoken word of rage; the three were obviously young, allowing their emotions to be so obvious.
But Dorothy cared little about their rage or age… Instead, her own eyes snapped upward, lightning flashing within their gaze, her voice breaking the tension between the two males as it carried a silky tone of danger. "What did you call me?"
"The King's Whore." Avila practically flounced, her foot finally lifting from Dorothy's gown. "The entire court knows of his intentions with you—of your obvious occupation. It isn't rare for royalty to choose a courtesan of another race, but it is hard to see why he'd choose you over all the human females available. Your skin is much too milky, your eyes too dull, your hands callused not soft or gentle, your hair is not moon white or sun golden. All together you are much too plain to hold his interest for long."
"I am not Duo's whore." The words were bitten off, her tone akin to sharp acid as she spoke.
"There is no reason to be ashamed." Gareld appeared to have escaped Ralyn's wrath, as his tone beheld false sympathy. "After all, it is a rare human that can so aptly seduce their way into the very heart of Elysia. You should be proud of your skills."
"Insanity. Idiots." The insult was too close to Dorothy's own confused thoughts and feelings, her mind and emotions were spinning wildly at the idea of such a rumor circling the Elysian court. Such an insult was dangerous, not only because of hurt feeling but because it could lower her worth even farther before the eyes of the nobility she sought help from. No court or council would follow or even listen to someone branded a mere prostitute—in her own land, out of all the slaves the pleasure slaves had held the least amount of power. They were branded as mere toys to the noble women, passed about as gifts and rewards, their opinions had mattered least of all the slaves. Even the common worker slave had held more respect—pleasure slaves were to hold only matters of pleasure within their minds.
Pleasure slaves were not listened to in matters of war and politics.
Dorothy turned away from the trio of amused Elysians, only to feel the tug and rip of her dress as once again Avila placed her dainty, yet surprisingly unmovable foot upon the fabric. "Oh, don't hurry away. We've just met and it would be ever so rude of you to hurry off."
Something harsher and crueler than anger burned within the sorceress's gaze as she faced the three. "I would so hate to be rude to those worthy of my time and attention." Her voice was silky soft, her face expressing an air of growing boredom with every word. "However, I fear, that none here fit into that category. Mindless simpletons should not waste my time, especially when their words only reveal their idiocy with every syllable uttered. If I were the whore you speak of, then better a whore of a King than a whore of idiocy."
"How dare you! Half-breed bitch!" The woman's hands were curled, her sharp fingernails slashing the air as she tried to attack the smirking sorceress.
"Lay one finger upon my flesh and you will regret it." Dorothy raised her eyes to the enraged woman's—locking gazes with the Elysian, the shine of powerful and dangerous magicks shining within her blue-gray eyes. A dangerous twist of magicks lay within the sorceress and Ralyn glanced warily at the dagger that now shone within the sorceress's grasp.
"Avila, stop this. You do not wish to dirty your hands with her common blood. A human is not worth your time or effort. Come away." Strong hands gripped the Elysian woman, holding her away from the sorceress before blood was spilt… And he knew it would not the sorceress's.
The woman was too angry, though, to just allow herself to be so easily calmed. She strained against Ralyn's hands, but the male was too strong for her, nearly dragging her away from the silent sorceress. "He'll tire of you, half-breed! Already he ignores your safety, leaving you with us for so long! And when he tires completely—you're mine! Do you hear me, King's Whore?!" Avila's figure disappeared as the two male elves dragged her around a corner, ignoring the disapproving looks sent their way.
Dorothy stood there, her body quivering with suppressed magicks. Her mind was blank, her entire being focused on the calming effect of merely breathing. The Elysians's words had struck a nerve with their taunting of whore.
An ordinary whore has more decency than you.
She blinked once then turned, once again making her way down the hall. She had no time to worry over the past or the foolish ranting of an elf woman.
Dorothy had taken only two steps, when she realized the reasons behind the woman's last words… and the curious glances sent her way during the entire conversation. Mere feet away a dark man, draped in heavy royal fabrics, turned the corner before her—his long braid slapping against his back, as he hurried away.
Duo had seen the entire confrontation… He had seen, had heard, and had done nothing to try and cleanse her reputation… He had stood there and watched, had been seen by those also watching, and had done absolutely nothing to help her. His silence had merely proven what the trio of elves had said—she was a mere whore, a servant, to amuse him but not to gain his protection, his respect. The King would have come to the aid of a fellow diplomat…
In a single minute, Duo had ruined all her chances of credibility with the Elysian nobles.
*
"Open your eyes, child. Open your eyes."
The voice called through the timeless abyss of night and day—of fire and ice. The voice echoed through her, with her, over her—capturing all the pieces of her shattered self and running over them like silk. It brought momentary relief from the pain that had ripped her soul apart, piece by piece.
But it wasn't enough, a part of her knew that. It would never be enough. The voice could not keep the pain from tearing into her…
"Open your eyes. Come back to us. You must awaken."
But why? Why awaken to more pain? To more death? More fire and ice and fire and ice and death and Oh Mother help me! I can't take this anymore, I can't—I don't understand—why won't I die? Why won't I die?
"Awake, my child."
To all the pain of reality, to the pain of war and hatred and death and betrayal—to the confusion of life. At least here there's just pain. Just the endless pain… Eventually I'll die… I have to die… I have to leave… Why won't death come to me?
"No, my love. You must return to us. We need you. The world needs you."
FIND SOMEONE ELSE! Oh, please? Please! Please, leave me alone. Please, let me die.
"My child…"
I can't do it anymore.
"We need you."
Relena struggled away from the voice, her split soul pulling deeper and deeper into the abyss of fire and ice that surrounded her. But even as she fought the voices pull, she could feel the return of reality closing in on her. Already, she was losing that sense of just being—of just being a piece of something else—and returning to a state of knowing who and what she was…
She didn't want to remember. Didn't want to go back.
She was so tired of it all.
Tired of fighting and fighting and running and running. People everywhere dying or killing and everyone relying on her for some miracle. She was just a girl! Just a human! Nothing special, nothing grand—just so stupid and tired and lonely…
Why wouldn't they let her die? Why wouldn't they choose someone else?
She didn't care anymore if they needed her… If they wanted her, if the entire world collapsed and everyone just disappeared…
She didn't care.
She wouldn't care.
And with that Relena slid away once again, severing a little bit more of herself as she sought to forget herself in the pain of fire and ice, running away from the calm, little voice… Running… and fading.
"You said you could help her, old woman." Heero's voice was harsh, as he took a menacing step toward the petite healer. Only to meet a cool, onyx gaze that froze him in place, and silence cloaked the two within the Freeman wagon. A low growl broke the silence, but Heero refrained from speaking as he turned his attention back to the trembling Dawn—her skin growing paler with every second that passed.
The healer watched him a second longer before finally sniffing disdainfully and turning toward a steaming cup set on a small round table a foot away from where Relena rested within her cot. Her features were stern, as she added a pinch of some herb to the cup's mixture, but not disagreeable. Skin smooth and wrinkle-free made it hard to distinguish her age, but streaks of gray interrupted the night black color of her long hair. As she moved, the sound of bells could be heard, hidden among the folds of her long layered skirt and loose yellow blouse.
The distinct mark of a Freeman was located in the tattoo placed upon her neck, a strange picture of a moon and sun overlapping—the long, known symbol for a man or woman that rebelled against the Dawn and her ways of slavery… Yet also rebelled against the Moon, for it wasn't the royal in control that they despised, but the practice both forced upon their people. Freemen were exactly, as their name proposed—men and woman who lived under a code of freedom for all.
Most were former subjects of the Dawn, women that had disagreed with the slavery—some who had even fallen in love with a slave—and had been forced into exile, either by their own decree or by the Dawn's, while many of the men were former slaves, brought to freedom by a secret organization that worked under the Dawn and her court's very nose.
They wished to bring complete freedom to the Dawn lands, thus the reason they roamed the woods so close by. They lived like gypsies, in large tribes of families that traveled the woods via means of foot and wagon—the large, painted wagons their homes as they tried to bring more and more of their brethren to freedom.
All in all, they were people that Heero held no real dislike for when it came to himself, but when it came to Relena… He had feared bringing her into their midst, feared they would try and kill the symbol of male slavery… Feared so much that he had turned away, but the Freemen were excellent hunters, and he had found himself facing the tip of spear…
Though they had shown some reservation toward bringing the Dawn to their healer, Rosaline had hassled the men till they did her bidding. Rosaline had scolded them all for hesitating to bring anyone hurt to her healing hands, no matter if they were the Reborn Dawn. She would care for Relena till the girl regained her strength and pulled free of whatever illness held her…
Yet, she had made the Panther no promises about what happened after Relena awoke.
As it was, Heero held little fear of the Freemen warriors—if they tried to harm Relena, he would kill as many of them as he could while she got away… It was the healer named Rosaline that worried him…
She was a witch.
Heero had seen much of the world in his centuries of wanderings, had seen much of human civilization, of magick, of wars…
What he had always watched with the most apprehension was magick.
It was magick that had locked him in this human form, that had forced him to continue such a meaningless existence—not even allowed the freedom of death. Magick could never be fully understood, too much of what people thought they knew rested in myths and lies. In his lifetime, he had seen acts of magick that defied everything the humans and even other species believed. The very Dawn he sought to protect had defied the laws of magick—the power coursing through her veins was like none he had ever felt.
As it was, he knew that what humans believed to be the only version of magicks was a lie. Their belief in the power of the elements was very much real, but there were some humans that held a higher understanding of what many human sorcerers and sorceresses knew. There were some that could tap into all five elements with equal strength, that could call upon the power of the Mother and Father… And there were some that could call upon something else, as well…
Something as powerful as the Mother and Father, but entirely different… Something… Chaotic.
A chaos witch, a close cousin to the Web-Seers, whose webs were the twining of all three gods. But where Web-Seers created webs to view the future, a chaos witch held the power to change the future—if she was powerful enough…
He had felt the power of truly powerful chaos magick twice in his lifetime… And both were instances that he longed to forget.
Fortunately, Rosaline didn't appear to hold the amount necessary to wreak true havoc upon the world, but Heero was never one to forget a danger once he'd encountered it. For now, the witch deserved close observation—especially should she decide that destroying Relena would be better than healing her…
"Help me, beast. Lift her head so she can swallow." Rosaline returned to Relena's side, the cup now held in one hand. She waited impatiently for the Panther to obey her orders, then gently opened the Dawn's mouth, pouring the steaming mix down her throat.
"What is that?" Mistrust was obvious in the Panther's suspicion laced tone, causing the healer to smirk condescendingly in his direction before turning a gentler look on her patient.
"Lumiana. It should allow her to see the light and return to this reality. At the moment, she is torn—digging herself deeper and deeper within her own mind. This should bring her closer to the surface. Poor child…" The woman was almost matronly, as she sighed sadly before turning away to place the cup back on the table. Heero watched her every movement, his hand just hovering over Relena's, as he eyed the healer suspiciously.
"Speak to her, mangy beast!" Rosaline's voice cracked like a whip, causing the Panther to almost jump as she suddenly turned on him. "You must convince her to come back! Sitting there like a rock is not very enticing! Speak to her, convince her to come back to you! Idiot beast." The healer glared at the slightly surprised, yet stoic Panther as she stormed from the wagon.
By the time he had regained his senses enough to glare at the woman, she was already gone, leaving the two alone in the colorful wagon. Layers of fabric and paint had managed to give the shabby over-large box a cheery, almost fey feeling. Heero thought Relena would like it…
He glanced down at her face, watching as her mouth opened and closed in gasping little breaths. "Dawn?" There was no response from her cold form and he glanced around, checking for listeners. Satisfied, that no one was eavesdropping or watching, Heero lightly touched her hand. "Relena?"
Nothing.
"Relena, you must open your eyes. Your people," even now he could not keep it from sounding like an insult, "need you."
He stopped, staring at the hand beneath his own—had it moved? Silence filled the room, his eyes staring at her crimson little hand almost engulfed in his own. The seconds ticked by and her hand remained cold and motionless. Something dark and feral flitted within his blue eyes and his grip tightened over her small hand. The beast within him—that was him—was too close to the surface, had been growing stronger every day he passed in her company. He had forced all the emotions and passions, the hunt and chase, all pushed away. It had hurt too much to struggle through emotions that no longer had a true outlet.
But she pulled the panther free.
She pulled him free.
"Relena." The name was barely understandable, his lips pulled back in a snarl. Anger raged throughout his being, his entire form radiated with the pure emotion of rage as he stared down at Relena's unresponsive features. Anger at the mage for harming her, anger at himself for not being there, for not protecting the only person that could save him, and anger at her for being hurt and lost and for leaving him… She was leaving him.
"Relena…" At that one thought the anger just washed away, leaving his face as pale and drawn as her own. His eyes were narrowed, that darkness of beast shining beneath those deceiving human eyes. Then even that was hidden behind locks of brown hair, his chin nearly touching his chest as he bowed over her hand. "Relena…" His body fell forward, his forehead mere inches from the hand he still clutched.
His voice was low and soft, "You have to wake up, idiot human. You hold my cure. You cannot deny me that. You… Relena…" The words were right, the same thing he'd repeated to her again and again in some form, but they lacked the honesty they'd once held. He was silent, his eyes open yet hidden under layers of hair as he stared at the patch of crimson skin showing beneath his own tan fingers.
"I don't know what to say…" The words were whispered, flashes of hot breath against that crimson skin as he closed his eyes, resting his forehead against both their hands. "I don't know what to do…" And it killed him to admit that even to himself. It tore at his soul knowing that she was so close, yet so far away and he didn't know what he was supposed to do, to say.
"I've met so many humans, killed so many of your kind, but not one of them…" His lips moved against her hand and his hand, sending more waves of warmth against both their skin. "When I was hired to kill you, I never thought you anything but another human, just another measly human waiting for death. I watched you, I saw you, and there's something…"
"You shine. Everything around you shines. And you made everything change…"
All his thoughts and attention were on the feel of her skin beneath his—all hot and cold and soft and crimson. He didn't see the tears streaming down her pale face. "You changed everything… You have to wake up. You have to come back."
Oh, Mother, no… Please… Make him stop…
"You have to wake up, Relena. You have to be strong… You have to come back…"
I don't want to. Don't make me care. Don't make me…
"Sometimes life falls down on you, it tears everything apart, but you're not the type of person to succumb, Relena. You're not like me. You have the strength to face your destiny—to face the world. This world is lying open for people like you, people that the world needs—it's open to all your hopes and dreams and don't you leave it!"
Stop… I can't! I can't!
"You have to wake up. People need you! Your kingdom needs you! I need you…" Heero lifted his head from their interlocking fingers and stared down at Relena's crying features. Her lips had parted, the breath coming out in soft, quick sobs. His own features were surprisingly serene. And determined. He gently wiped away her tears before speaking again.
Heero…
"Wake up, Relena."
And she did.
*
"We're moving."
Catherine jerked at the sound of Trowa's voice, watching with widening eyes as he snatched up their pack. His stride was wide and quick, his feet moving like a cat's across the leaf-strewn clearing, his eyes glassy orbs of emotionless green. He was reflecting everything back at her, ignoring the small sounds of confusion emitting from her throat as she followed his almost wild movements. "But—why? Where? Where are we going?"
"A village is nearby, I saw smoke." He stopped, staring down at the motionless Midii. She seemed to be ignoring them both now, her hands twisting into strange symbols and shapes, her mouth moving in a soundless rhythm. The Spy Mistress was trapped within her own twisted mind and he could do nothing for her mental stability… But he could protect her physical being.
With a surprisingly gentle grasp, Trowa lifted the woman by her left arm, keeping a firm grip as he forced her to stand. The sudden contact elicited a gasp from her petite lips and she glanced at him, but only for a second before quickly reverting to her silent chanting and downward gaze. He paid her actions no attention, just keeping a hold on her and the pack, as he walked past his sister.
Brassy curls, in need of a good washing, shook as Catherine jogged after him, his longer legs traveling more ground than hers even with his baggage of woman and bag. Above the three, the tree limbs shook slightly with every quick leap Galea's legs pushed her into. Occasionally, the catriffin would open her wings, soaring on the sparse wind before landing on another limb. Her eyes remained focused on the trio below her; she had big plans for the three humans…
They walked in silence for awhile, Catherine's mind trying to form the right words—the right subject, but she remained void of ideas… She disliked Midii's constant companionship, a fact that did not seem to be ending any time soon as her brother felt the spy of some use. However, the very sight of the other woman's flaxen wispy hair was enough to incite an endless fire of rage within Catherine. In the depths of her mind she could still hear Midii's young voice, so sweet and soft, whispering endless promises of friendship even while she stole both mother and brother from her in one night.
In one night she had destroyed everything Catherine had held dear. Her mother's life, her brother's companionship…
Their friendship.
One little girl so full of ideals of right and wrong and black and white, twisted and molded into the spy they had needed her to become, the Dawn had needed her to be… Midii had allowed herself to become something disturbingly gray—not white or black, but a person so terribly confused and tainted that she lived only a ghost life. Everything was painted in shades of gray. There was no absolute right or absolute wrong because one never knew who you had to kill or steal away in the middle of night.
Sometimes in her weakest moments, Catherine would allow herself to wonder about her former friend. She would imagine the daily regiments of training and torture Midii had had to go through to become the woman she was. Catherine would close her eyes and see the little girl of so long ago, all laughter and sweet smiles, and watch as she was forced to work night and day, forsake everything she'd once known—suffer the cruelty of human nature just so she could become something not quite human, yet not quite a monster either. Something above and below, something alive and dead… A spy.
And then she'd remember the look on her mother's face as the dagger pierced her skin, the cries of a loving mother so quickly snuffed. And she'd remember the blood… And she'd remember tearing her skin and clothes on thorns and branches, remember the feel of blood in her shoes as she stubbed her sensitive toes against rock and tree… Remember the feeling of absolute helplessness and loss, as she watched her brother be toted off like cattle by her best friend.
And she'd forget the little girl Midii had once been to her and only remember the spy that had stolen her life away.
Catherine blinked away hot tears of anger, looking up as she gritted her teeth. Her nose burned and she breathed in delicately, the woods thinning around them, as they seemed to gain more and more ground toward her brother's mystery village. Smoke coursed through her lungs and she coughed, wiping away at her already tearing eyes. Between the trees, she could make out great pillars of gray smoke, billowing up toward the sky like twining snakes…
And her insides turned cold, as the forest just seemingly opened, revealing what had once been a village…
Now, just burnt timber and smoke.
"Mother have mercy… What happened here?!" Catherine stumbled forward, her shoes blackening as she stepped into piles of soot and ash. Trowa didn't respond, having released Midii, and now also walking forward—his eyes blank as he eyed the destruction. "What happened here!? Trowa, answer me! Where are the people?" Her feet were unsteady as she struggled to make her way to him, eyes so wide it hurt her face as she took in more and more mindless destruction.
Houses, now just empty skeletons of black, crumbling wood—a town now just a giant ash pit…
Her foot caught on a fallen board and Catherine fell forward, her hands reaching out to catch her even as she gasped. Trowa was too far away to save her from the fall and she gasped as the breath was knocked out of her. Her hands dug into the layers of ash and she coughed, as the unsettled ash now tried to find its way down her throat. Something grazed her hand and, with another cough, she grabbed the thing just as Trowa's strong arms lifted her out of the mess.
Ash covered her clothing, staining her hands black, even her face had gained a grayish tint, but Catherine wasn't focused on any of that—or Trowa's gentle words of reproach as he set her on her feet. Her eyes were drawn to the small object she had managed to grab.
A doll. So simple in its making… A miracle it had survived the fire that had ravaged the village… A miracle.
Something instinctual told her what to do next, showed her the path she had to tread… And ignoring Trowa and Midii and everything she felt and wanted and saw and knew, Catherine gave into the alien feeling.
"Show me." She whispered, and everything around her faded as she stared into the doll's coal black eyes.
Sweet, brown curls framed a heart-shaped face, a little girl with a quick smile. Her name was Beryl and she was wearing her favorite calico dress, so soft she was sure even the Dawn would be jealous of it. Her one prized possession was a single doll that Max had made for her a month ago. She loved Max, he was so nice and he would always give her an extra piece of cake when momma wasn't looking. And her momma loved Max, too—Beryl had seen them sitting together, talking extra soft with their hands all locked together.
Momma had told her all about hand-holding and hugs—they were for special people, like herself and momma and Max. But she could never mention the special stuff between momma and Max to others or she'd be a very bad girl and get a lot of people in trouble. And she didn't want to get anyone in trouble.
It was early morning, her favorite time of the day for playing with her doll and eating cake and watching the people go by and watching for Old Woman Florney's flock to come in. She loved to pet the sheep. They were as soft as her dress.
Watching for the sheep was what allowed her to see the first shine of metal glinting in the sun's dawning light.
"Momma! Momma! Look! There's funny men all dressed in shiny clothes coming!" Her excited little voice had brought a warm smile from her mother, who had allowed herself to be dragged by the hand outside, so she could also see the funny men.
Beryl couldn't understand the expression that crossed her mother's face, couldn't understand why she suddenly gripped her little hand so tight. "Momma?"
"Get inside, Beryl! Stay there! Don't come out! Do you understand?" With a shove, Beryl was back in the house, the door slammed shut before she could even answer.
All shut inside, but there was a window… And with her doll clutched in one hand, Beryl climbed up on a chair and peered outside.
People were yelling outside, Miss Barner from down the road, ran by with a pitchfork quickly followed by more people, all carrying pitchforks or shovels—one or two had rusty, old swords, but that didn't interest Beryl. A pout crossed her young features, as she watched the adults yell and run around outside—why did they get all the fun while she was stuck in here? Why couldn't she see the funny men and touch their funny clothing that shone in the sun? They were just men, nothing to be afraid of—so why was everyone acting so excited?
With this thought in mind, Beryl jumped off her chair, and ran to the kitchen before pushing open the backdoor and quietly sneaking outside. Her small body was perfect for hiding and sneaking, so she quickly found herself near the front of their small house, watching with wide-eyes as the funny men grew closer and closer.
A crowd of people had set out to meet them, their faces set in pinched, angry features—like when momma had scolded her for lying that time… Except worse…
"Stand down." One of the funny men spoke, his words hollow and muffled sounding with all the metal wrapped around his head.
The crowd didn't move… There was silence, then the man that had spoken lifted his hand high in the air…
Then swung it down and everything exploded into chaos.
The funny men had large, shiny swords and they forced their way into the crowd of villagers with savage yells. Beryl began to whimper, as she watched their heavy blades lift upward—covered in blood and gore and so many people were lying on the ground… Why wouldn't Miss Barner get up? Why was she just staring up at the sky?
The men's armor stopped shining, as they continued to hack through the villagers—Beryl's ears echoing with the sounds of screams and yells… The armor turned black and red and dull… And then…
"Momma!"
Beryl shot forward, the sight of her mother too much for her poor heart. She needed her momma, needed a hug and a kiss to make this all better—momma could get Miss Barner to get up…
But once she'd entered the melee of chaos, she lost sight of her mother—all around her were people, villagers and soldiers and they were all so loud. She clutched her doll close, watching with wide eyes at the terror around her.
One of the soldiers lifted a torch…
"Momma!"
Fire and death and blood and she just couldn't understand any of it.
"Momma!"
Something slammed into her and she nearly fell, stumbling over something… Her eyes stared out and out, not looking down at the figure she had nearly fallen on… Not really seeing anything anymore, as suddenly strong arms wrapped around her little form and began to carry her away from the chaos of death and pain.
Her doll slipped from her fingers, falling to the ground, its arms and legs flailing in morbid parody of a living being…
"Oh, no… No…" Catherine's legs shook and she fell, ignoring the pain as she sat amongst the ash and timber and deadness. The doll was still clutched tightly in one hand, so tight the buttons lining its dress dug into her skin.
"Catherine?" Trowa was kneeling before her, his face all gentle and worried…
"I know where we are." The words were soft, her eyes looking away from his face and toward the doll. Her grip loosening till she was almost caressing the tiny toy. "I know what happened… We're in the Dawn lands… So many dead… Oh, Mother…"
From where she stood, hands and mouth still moving, Midii suddenly looked toward the sky. Her eyes half-closed, as she stared toward the smoky plumes climbing toward crystal blue skies. "Blessed be those that enter Her embrace, the innocent blood that flows through the waters of war… We are all damned."
Trowa jerked, turning to glance back at the once again silent spy before looking back at his sister, her own gaze locked on the strange doll she held…
We are all damned.
*
Quatre's eyes widened, as he met the frightened gaze of one of the kneeling women. She was younger than the rest, but her features and body were as bruised and beaten as the Galaxy Members moaning nearby. Her hair was dirty, flecks of dry blood clung to the limp strands of blonde hair. A red bruise decorated the area around her chin, where angry hands must have gripped painfully. Splotches of color adorned her pretty face, the marks of healing showing across her features.
Her torn garbs were as dirty and bloodstained as her hair, and they were ill fitted to hide the scarring of beatings and whippings that marred her flesh. Every aspect of her crouching form spoke of imprisonment, merely another of the Dawn ladies to fall into the hands of the Moon. Except something familiar shone within her eyes and her features whispered of past memories… Spoke of chains around his wrists and a lute in his hands. She brought back the feeling of strings dancing him about, as he followed the every whim of his mistresses.
The sudden fear that flashed within her gaze told him that she knew him… That wasn't the fear of a Moon soldier or a mage, but the fear of recognition. She knew him and was terrified that he knew her…
And some part of him did know her. A face held up in pride and young naiveté… All graceful beauty and serenity, full of overbearing pride in herself, as she sat so close to the Dawn… A voice that held authority with all the dignity her ranking could hold. His mind twisted down paths of memory—his own and another's—as he stared into the mystery woman's frightened gaze…
It was Dorothy's memories that supplied the name, his link with his bonded revealing the identity of the kneeling woman.
"Lady Sylvia…"
It was a mere whisper, just the lightest announcement of her presence, yet she winced. Sylvia jerked away from him, her eyes widening even more as she suddenly glanced away from and toward the form of the Moon. Quatre followed her gaze, staring at the back of his liege with slow understanding. She feared recognition… She feared her name because of the Moon…
"My liege, forgive me, but I must invade your time a moment further." Quatre enjoyed the slight twitch Millardo showed at his voice. The power and authority he had gained only moments ago had been a rare occurrence of his bonded—her power and being roaring through his usually obedient person. Or perhaps the madness that was slowly creeping upon him was becoming worse, his moments of rage and strange confidence becoming more abundant… He knew he would have to seek out the answers at some point, but for now there was a more easily solvable mystery nearby.
"What is it now, bard?" Anger laced the Moon's words, his calm dissolving with the constant presence of Quatre. The bard did not understand why his display of power had disturbed the man, but for the moment a part of him watched with mad glee at the powerful Moon's discomfort.
"I ask your patience in this, my lord. Among the women within this very chamber, there is one that has caught my interest. I would like to know her name."
Millardo's features were taut against his bones, his face a contorted mask of cold marble. Ice-blue eyes seemed to flare with unearthly intensity, as he turned to face the bard that continued to vex him. "I tire of you, bard. Get out of my sight."
"My liege—."
"Get Out!
The room thundered with Moon's words, throwing Quatre back and into the waiting hands of two Moon soldiers. Their thick, meaty grips were sufficient enough to drag the stunned bard out of the throne-room. Behind them, the large golden doors slammed shut, and with the noise the guards released the bard, returning to their posts at each side of the door.
Quatre watched the two soldiers, their faces blank stares—only their eyes revealing the hidden well of fear. Millardo must have been hard at work to force such terrible obedience into his men. If these two were an example of the majority, then he had managed to turn them all into servants by pure fear. Men that had once followed out of some belief of freedom and righteousness had been forced into a new form of slavery.
Dark times were brewing for the entire world if the Moon's control was allowed to strengthen.
And he had aligned himself with it all. He was a part of the madness lurking within Millardo's icy gaze, part of the terror growing over the land he had called both a home and prison. No matter what happened next, no matter what he did, he would always be a part of this chaos. He would never be free of the Moon.
The thought didn't hold the amount of horror it once might have. Instead, Quatre's handsome features merely settled into a small, innocent smile. He nodded cheerfully at the silent guards before making his way down the hall. His step was quick and confident, his smile growing into something darker as he distanced himself from his liege. The sound of banging and voices told him the kitchen was nearby and he repositioned himself to follow the sounds. Perhaps one of the servants would be able to lead him to an empty chamber.
He suddenly felt the urge to rest for awhile. Maybe it was time that he spent some time closer to his liege and lord… Time he stopped chasing after prophecy and focused on something closer… It was time he stopped chasing after his stolen bonded. It was time for Dorothy to learn who she belonged to, time for things to change.
Quatre remembered the gaze of terror within the Dawn woman's eyes. There had been a time when that same terror had been staring through his eyes. A time when chains had wrapped around his wrists and ankles and all he could look forward to was the cold, cruel gaze of a Driver. He had been forced to watch the power women had held over him and other slaves—could do nothing but watch.
Now, that power was his.
And he liked it.
*
The Macabre Chamber had once been used for torture, for entertaining the nobility. Centuries ago, its shining white walls had been splattered red, the white stone chosen for that purpose. Everything inside the tall, oval room had once been white, all but the victim would be adorned in clean, pristine white. Those that had entertained here had enjoyed the irony—the supposed innocence of so much snowy white, all stained in blood and gore.
Many of the watchers would dress in the color then proudly display the stains of torture upon their layers of velvet and silk. They would smear the blood upon their lips then bring their neighbor into a kiss of blood and pain and passion… Centuries ago, the white, white room had been the epitome of grandeur—to be invited had been a great step into society.
Now, the room was empty except for a large black lacquered table and chairs. Duo leaned against one of the chairs, his hands gripping its back. His ancestors used to motion calmly and arrogantly from their thrones only feet from where he stood and with their motion the guards would drag in a crying figure. The figure would be stripped before the watching nobles, their eyes hungry for the spectacle of pain and shame before them. Hungry for power.
Then the real entertainment would begin and the walls would be red by the end of it… Dripping red…
Duo squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly grateful for the layers of clothing that separated his skin from the room around him. So much pain, so much death… No one could wash that away. No one could wash that many deaths away and for as long as he could remember this room had always sung to him. It wasn't a pleasant song, but one of sharp chords and low, wailing notes—like screams and sobbing. It rang throughout his being, touching him in places that burned… Dark places… Places that both abhorred the sound… and places that savored it.
Centuries ago, the Macabre had been the height of entertainment… Centuries ago, the Elysian race had been whole… Centuries ago, everything had changed…
"Your Highness."
Duo jerked, his braid swinging in a wide arch as he turned to face the intruder. His hand burned with power, an orb of spirit glowing within his gloved fingers. Too many years of assassins, duels, even the humans' war had forced him to gain an instinct of survival. An instinct that earned him a startled gasp from the wide-eyed servant. A series of conflicting emotions ran through the frightened man's slit eyes—shock, fear, panic, and then a sense of hopeless acceptance. For a brief instance, Duo saw what his ancestors must have once seen every night within this very room—a horrible acceptance of death, an understanding that nothing the unknown servant did would save him from the power running through Duo's veins.
And for the briefest of seconds something inside of Duo wanted him to unleash the power, to destroy the figure standing so still before him.
Duo turned his face away, fearful that his expression would betray his silent thoughts. The orb disappeared, snuffed out by his tightly clenched fingers. Beads of sweat dotted his temples, as shock and disgust threaded its way through his body. He had wanted to kill the servant, a part of him would have relished the feel of power and blood and pain. Even now, that part still called for death.
He had been here only days, yet this world was already tainting his spirit. It was one of the reasons he so despised his homeland, no matter how pretty they made the mask it would still only be a mask. Behind the beauty and wonders of Elysia, the very soul was contaminated—dark and twisted. Sometimes he wondered how different they really were from the Tek'lier.
His features were composed by the time he turned his attention back toward the silent servant. The male Elysian stood waiting patiently, reserved even, for whatever fate awaited him at the hands of his liege. Duo eyed the servant, memorizing the blue eyes with their silver irises and the short, curly black hair—the man would have been extraordinarily beautiful if not for the horribly crooked nose, almost twisted in two directions. Even so, he doubted the man had much trouble keeping women in his bed, vanity was a part of Elysian life and many women preferred their lovers to be handsome while not overly so for fear of being outshined by their partner.
Duo took in all that he could see, burning the man's image into his mind… A reminder… A reminder of the power he carried, or the moment he nearly destroyed for the mere pleasure of destroying… The moment his blood had sang of his ancestors' dark ways. The servant before him would be his reminder, a reminder of what he'd be destroying… A living being. A man. A soul.
He could not allow himself to fall into the darkness, like so many of his blood had…
"Well, what is it?" His voice was cool and even, as he arched one royal eyebrow. "What do you need?"
"Count Khushrenada of the Ozneian Isles has arrived. He wishes to speak with Your Highness before the council begins. Shall I send him away, Your Highness?"
Duo blinked once, the only sign of his surprise at the message. His mouth opened, the words for sending the Count away—not wishing to deal with another noble that believed he needed molding, when he paused. It had been many years since he'd seen the Count last, yet if his memory was correct the Count had been a man of elegance and action, a man only a few decades older than himself that had managed great leaps within the court circles with a quick mind and the grace of a weathered courtier. But what Duo remembered with most interest was the Count's attitude toward the old ways of life, toward the old traditions and the ancient lords and dukes that still controlled much of the Council…
"Send him in." His tone had changed, a hint of impatient hope edging the words, and the servant bowed quickly. The man had a quick-step and was at the door in a matter of seconds, almost gone from sight when Duo's voice halted his step. "What is your name?"
A flash of surprise across those delicate yet ruined features, "Berin, Your Highness."
"Berin… Well, Berin, don't keep the Count waiting. Go." Duo casually motioned the servant on, ignoring the speculative glance sent his way before the man was gone, disappearing behind the now closed door.
The Count had no love for tradition, Duo had agreed with many of his ideals before he'd left. Yet, he would have to tread carefully with the Count… Very carefully…
Caution was necessary when dealing with the man so many wished to replace you with.
*
The storm had struck after two blissfully uneventful days of constant travel. The first snow flurries had been a pleasure for Sally to see, softly floating down to the ground like delicate white lace. She had gleefully stuck out her tongue, ignoring Wufei's snort of disdain as she and Hilde caught the floating flurries on their tongues. The shock of cold against her hot flesh had even been a pleasant change to the dirty sweat coursing down her tired body. Even the icy winds hadn't seemed terribly bad, almost more of a cool breeze of relief after the hours of long, endless walking.
The trio had even managed to find a small conclave of evergreens, an almost perfect circle which had been the perfect place to settle for the night. A warm cheerful fire surrounded by her two companions was the last thing Sally remembered seeing before the darkness of sleep took her. She had dreamt of traveling through distant, unknown lands always accompanied by her two companions, their strength and confidence helping her as they encountered wondrous sights and people…
She had opened her eyes to a land so unfamiliar that she had believed herself still asleep, until she had seen the look in Wufei's eyes, as he gave her one last not ungentle shake awake. "Gather your things. We must move." Then he was gone, his own things already placed over one shoulder, his hand rubbing the cold hilt of his sword.
Slowly, she sat up, snow falling from her form, as she looked around. The fire had long gone out, the wood hidden beneath another layer of snow. Her hands, freed from their gloves, sank into feathery soft snow—the touch caused her to jerk in surprise, the icy touch burning and freezing her fingers. Hurriedly, she dug her gloves out of the small bag, pulling them over her blue-tipped fingers. Her eyes were wide, as she stared at the icy wonderland before her. Icicles hung from the tree limbs above, laden with hills of snow that with the slightest movement could come tumbling down over their heads.
She gathered her things in a numb state of disbelief. How? How could they not have felt the change of weather last night? How could it have so obviously snowed so hard and so fiercely and not have woken them? Even now, the snow was coming down in waves of lace—sometimes so thick she could barely see anything but their twirling shapes before her. Beside her, Hilde shared her look of disbelief—the blood warrior's eyes wide as she took in the vision around them. Her more alert senses should've picked up something…
Only Wufei seemed to be more focused on the most serious mystery—why hadn't they frozen to death beneath such a layer of ice and snow?
With her hands carefully shielded away for warmth, no one noticed that Sally's right hand had grown considerably paler. And no one would notice, as by the time her hands were ungloved, the power would have replenished itself…
So, the confused trio wandered their way through the snow and ice and not one considered the idea that their lives had been saved from certain death by the strange power within Sally's hand.
As the days continued on, they were quick to realize the growing cold was not their only problem. Nor was it even their greatest, as the weather had lessened to a slow, yet constant flow of snow. The air was cold, but had lessened in intensity from the morning's whipping gales. Their warm clothing and pure persistence would allow them to survive the weather for another few days…
But their shortage in both food and water would not.
The realization that they had only a single loaf of bread left and not an ounce of water had been hard to swallow. Another few days and it would be gone, leaving the snow they were forced to melt for water as their only sustenance.
It was merely a choice of which would kill them first—starvation or cold. Sally was betting on the cold, while Hilde had not stopped mumbling about the lack of food. Wufei was unsurprisingly silent, as they trudged wearily through the snow, the monotone broken occasionally by the sudden dumping of snow from a tree or the more deadly fall of an icicle. One had nearly caught Hilde through the arm had not Wufei shoved her out of the way.
Their exhaustion had been made openly obvious at the reaction the warriors had had to the incident. Wufei had not snidely remarked on Hilde's weakening state, merely helped her from the snow and wearily made sure she could stand before turning away. While Hilde had hesitated in releasing the male's hand, thankful for the support he offered her tired body, not allowing her stubbornness to refuse help… The incident had filled Sally with a cold knot of terror, if her companions were suffering so badly then what would they do tomorrow.
Though tired, Sally did not suffer as much as the warriors. Every morning, she felt revitalized—convinced that the cold, morning air had awakened some hidden well of strength within her. Her companions did not question the fact that she continued to go on, her step slow but sure. Instead, as another day passed by, they grew to accept her strength as a gift—using it to support and encourage themselves…
But on the fourth day of no food and little rest, even Sally found it hard to shuffle her feet constantly forward. And then Wufei fell… The two women had continued on, sure the male would soon regain his step, but slowly Sally realized she did not hear his familiar shuffling beside her, the slight slap his sword would make as it hit his tired calves. She turned, looking behind them, and nearly causing Hilde to lose her step. For a second, she had not been able to see him. The snow was falling faster and faster every day that passed and his still form was nearly hidden beneath a white blanket.
Stumbling, Sally hurriedly made her way to his form, falling into the snow as she struggled to turn him over. Seconds later, Hilde fell beside her, helping the healer till they both could see Wufei's face. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady, as if he slept. Sally quickly checked his pulse and leaned back relieved when she found it. Exhaustion had finally driven the male to his knees and then forced his mind into the blackness of unconsciousness. Rest and food would quickly bring his strength back up…
But here… Helplessly, Sally scanned the world of white around them, a cold hand of despair clutching at her heart. Here, among the snow and cold… He would die.
"We're going to die out here." Hilde whispered, her eyes blank with shock and fear, as the truth of her words seeped through her skin and into her very bones.
Sally blinked, having forgotten the blood warrior was even there, then her eyes narrowed. "No, we're not!" With an angry jerk, Sally grabbed one of Wufei's arms and yanked on it till she could fit it over her shoulders. Painfully, the healer pulled both herself and the male up till she was standing with his weight on her. "We're going to find shelter. We're going to live. I am not going to die freezing in the snow while my country-women are dying fighting. Now, Get Up."
For awhile, Hilde merely continued to kneel in the snow—its icy wetness no longer bothering her as much as it once had. She watched, as Sally struggled through the snow, half-carrying and half-dragging Wufei along with her… Then slowly, she climbed to her own feet and followed them, forcing herself to take longer strides till she came alongside the healer. "Here, let me take his other arm."
Together, the two women continued on led by Sally's determination.
*
Three days had past since Relena had opened her eyes, awakening to the world of war and death that seemed to surround her. Forcing herself to confront reality had felt like a rebirth, her eyes had ached with the light and the colors while her ears had cringed at the sounds of so many voices, so many little noises. That first day had been the worst, every little sound, every tiny movement had brought back dark memories of the place she'd been—of fire and ice and death and pain… Every second she had expected it to swallow her again, to sink its claws and teeth into her, ripping her apart piece by piece.
The terrible despair of that place, that hell, had made all thoughts of living, of escaping only more painful because she… It had torn her apart, destroyed her till there was no her but only the pain and no escape—thoughts of escape only created more pain because there could be no other world than that one… Nothing had existed beyond the pain…
Nothing… And then…
Something…
Her forehead wrinkled, as her eyes stared into the distance, trying to remember. Moments of pain and despair and hopelessness were easy to recall, but the moment when all of that had been pushed aside… That moment when something had actually managed to become stronger than the eternity of hell… It was all hidden behind a haze, a stone wall that she couldn't break through. Something had brought her back, something had saved her… But what? Who?
And she feared that it hadn't come soon enough… Something was missing, something was gone… The dark place had managed to tear something away and she prayed the loss would not affect the outcome of this war.
That first night she barely slept, terrified she'd drift away, but some time during the night exhaustion had overcome and when the morning's rays woke her, a bit of the terror had faded. Her sight had returned and she could then make out clearly the face of her nurse, yet her hearing had taken another half day to return to normal. None of it had mattered that second day though, so tired and exhausted her soul had cried for rest and so she had past the second day in and out of consciousness.
It was the third day that she regained her senses and mind enough to actually study her surroundings. Colorful scarves served as both curtains and tablecloths, while painted wood carvings added another layer of color to the bright wagon. A shelf held a myriad of bowls, wooden, glass, copper, even gold and silver. She had to squint to see that even the bowls were covered in wild designs. Every where she looked there was color and carvings and herbs—the wagon smelled of herbs, the drying leaves hanging from the ceiling in tight bundles.
She liked the wagon, it seemed warm and cozy and very much alive with life. But she also knew what the colors and designs and the wagon period meant. Gypsies, refugees, Freemen…
Dangerous territory.
Relena could remember her mother ordering the "cleanings", a ritual consisting of Dawn soldiers sweeping the Forest and outer villages for any sign of the Freemen. Usually they were merely scared farther into the woods, but sometimes the soldiers were eager for fighting… Sometimes Freemen had died during the cleanings, sometimes they were enslaved once again… And sometimes there had been executions, terrible displays of pain and humiliation.
She would have to trod carefully…
But more important than her surroundings was the fact of how she had come to be among them.
Heero had returned to her. Helped her.
Why?
"Awake?" Rosaline's voice was harsh and thick, an unfamiliar accent edging the word as she entered the wagon, her arms laden with more herbs for drying. "About time. Now, get up and come wash yourself. There's water by the door. Hurry, now." There was a snap to the woman's tone, a voice to obey and Relena found herself kneeling over the basin of cold water within seconds of the command.
The water was frigid and it elicited a gasp from the startled Dawn, her eyes blinking owlishly up at the grinning witch. The older woman eyed her, watching as she readied herself for another icy slap of water. The girl surprised her, though, by instead dunking her entire head into the basin. One crimson hand waved blindly at her and with a snort, Rosaline snatched a handful of dry lavender leaves and slapped them into the girl's hand. The girl then happily went about rubbing the leaves into her dirty hair and face, the scent of lavender far more pleasing than dirt and grime.
The water was littered with leaves by the time Relena lifted her head, her hands wringing out her hair over the basin. Large blue eyes, too serene and old to belong to such a young face, met Rosaline's and for a moment the witch thought she saw something golden and ancient within the Dawn's gaze, but then the girl turned away, her hands folded demurely in her lap. "I do not know how to thank you enough for what you have done for me, for saving my life."
Rosaline's eyes narrowed and she paused before speaking, picking her words carefully. Too much relied on this moment… Too much relied on this girl. "We will leave no one hurting to fend for themselves. It is the way of all healers. We heal, no matter who it is we are healing. No matter if they are a Daughter of the Sun or a Son of the Moon."
Relena's head snapped up, "You would give refuge to the Moon's men?"
Rosaline met her gaze evenly, "Many of our sons and friends are with the Moon." There was a silence, as Relena absorbed that bit of information, her face calm even as her mind wildly spoke of the danger around her. However, Rosaline was not finished. "But then, many of our daughters seek the Dawn… And both have suffered the opposite's wrath. We are the Freemen. Our children, our friends are allowed to choose their own paths, as long as they remain loyal."
More silence, as Relena stared at her folded hands. The scent of lavender filled her nose with each breath, the scent almost suffocating as she struggled to think, to clear her mind.
"Wait here. I will fetch you new clothes and then you must face the Assembly."
"The Assembly?" The words were a bare whisper, as Relena struggled to see her future.
A bit of compassion softened the woman's voice, "The Assembly, where you will be judged for acceptance among our people."
Now those blue eyes were steely as they met Rosaline's, "And if I am not accepted?"
"I do not know, little one. I do not know."