Sands Of Time

Chapter Three

The Green-Eyed Slave

The sun was completely down by the time Quatre led his new slave into his personal tent. He'd purposely bypassed Kushrenada's tent, knowing the older trader would have something to say about his purchase.

The moment the flaps of the tent closed, Quatre let out a breath, and turned to the slave. He took the key and moved to the take the slave's hands.

"I will not strike you, or kick you, or whip you... or starve you," he added after noticing the thin-ness of the slave under the sack-like clothes, "I'm going to remove these, now, but please don't try to run." He unlocked the shackles, relieved when the chains fell to the floor, and the slave stood there. Standing up and not hunched over,the slave was a few inches taller than himself. Quatre turned the hands over in his, noting the rawness from where the shackles had chaffed the wrists, and the marks on the arms from the whip. He moved to the wash basin, pouring a bowlful of water and dipping a clean cloth in it. When he turned back around, the slave was still standing there. "Come here, sit, please," he motioned to a richly padded seat. Slowly, ever so slowly- with those green eyes still locked onto him, the slave moved to the seat and sat down.

Quatre took the slave's hands and began to gently clean the wounds around those wrists, washing away the blood and dirt. "I'll have Duo find someone to bring a warm bath, and I'll see about getting some clothes brought, as well. And bandages," he muttered, cleaning out the open scars as gingerly as he could.

"Quat..." Duo peeked his head in, not surprised to see his blond friend on his knees, cleaning the wounds on the slaves wrists. "I just sent out for a bath to be brought, is that okay?"

Quatre sighed with a smile. "Duo- you read my mind."

Duo grinned. "Yeah. I been through this before, remember? I also brought a change of Heero's clothes. Figured you'd want to see him in clean dressings, y'know? But tailor's not open til sunrise and we're both too short." He set a bundle down just inside the tent. "Here's the clothes, bath should be here in... well, about now," he moved and motioned in as three slaves carried in a large but shallow basin filled with steaming water. They sat it in the center of the tent, then left.

"Y'need anything else?" Duo asked.

"No. And thank you, Duo," Quatre said.

"No problem," Duo smiled, then ducked back out.

"Why don't you go ahead and bathe," Quatre asked, pointing to the bath. The slave eyed the tub speculatively, then stood and went to it. "Hand me that sack you're wearing- I'll have it burned. And do you have a name? Mine is Quatre. Quatre Raberba Winner."

The slave obviously had no modesty issue, for he removed the cloth as bidden, then sank into the water. Quatre refrained from looking, but took the cloth. "I'll return in a little while. The clothes are in the bundle, as Duo said. Whether you're here when I return or not... well, that's up to you. You're free. You have your freedom."

With that, Quatre turned and moved to exit the tent.

"Thank you,"

The voice was so soft, Quatre almost missed it. He turned and looked over his shoulder at the slave, smiling. Green eyes met his squarely, still wary but un-afraid now.

"You're welcome," he returned, then moved to exit the tent again.

Green eyes followed the small, blond haired-blue eyed boy as he left the tent. Why did he say that? And what was with this boy? He was... different. First, his kind and gentle ways, his politeness, then cleaning his wounds... and now... granting him his freedom?

What was wrong with this boy? The slave knew how fair he was, having been told so often enough- usually followed by curses about his temperament. But this boy didn't seem to care about that. Or his temper. He had thought of bolting the moment he was clear of the market... but the boy had been kind. Polite to him. So, he'd found himself in the tent. And then the boy had removed the shackles, washed his aching, raw wrists. He had spoken in a soft, nice voice, and his hands had been gentle. And so... he'd stayed. He could have ran. But he'd stayed and now, he was free?

A part of him wanted to disbelieve it. But a part of him *knew* that this young man was different than any other he'd seen along his journey- both before and after slavery.

He took his time washing, scrubbing his skin clean of over a years worth of grime and filth. And when, long after the water had chilled, he deemed himself clean enough- though he still felt dirty- he dried and donned the clothes from the bundle the braided boy had left, wincing as the cloth slid over the whip wounds on his back. The sleeves and ankles were both too short, but at least they were clean and free from holes. He dried his hair, noting that it was far, far too long. It all reached past his shoulders in tangles; he would need to find someone to cut it- and soon. He'd never worn his hair this long before he'd become a slave.

He'd never done alot of things before he'd been a slave- and he swore never to do some of those things again. It was that moment that the blond returned, bearing a tray with some food on it.

Aquamarine eyes lit up when they saw him standing there in the center of the tent, unsure as to what to do.

"You stayed," was all the blond commented on. He moved, set the tray down. "I thought you might be hungry, if you did. I didn't bring much- I wasn't sure what kind of diet they had you on, and I don't want you to get sick from eating too much too fast. There's a light soup, and cheese, and some fruit. We'll gradually get you back up to normal portions... if you stay. I'm only at Kum for another three nights or so. Duo, Heero and I leave out with an Arabic merchant heading back towards Arabia." It was only at this point that the slave really thought. His savior was speaking Norman French, his own language, and had been since the very begining. He understood enough Arabic, and he knew Market Latin pretty well, but his native born language had been French.

It was food for thought.

"Thank you," he said again, surprised at how soft his voice came out. He was so unused to speaking, letting the bastards that enslaved him think he was mute. But he was speaking now.

"Y'know, you can talk to me if you like," the boy smiled, happy with those two words. "I know you just pretend to be deaf and dumb and mute and all that. I don't blame you. I would have too. But I don't mind talking... or listening."

The slave thought for a moment, considering this.

"I don't have a name," he said after a moment. "But if you must call me something... call me Trowa. Trowa Barton."

~*~*~*~

A/N: Okay... some parts of this aren't quite historically accurate. My vision of Venice is several years or so removed from the rather medieval time period everything else is based on. That should be the only *major* inconsistency. Of course, several names such as China and so on are simply used for clarification. Lots of names were different in that day in age. And of course, they're all speaking a different language. And most of the ideas come from the book 'The Unexpected Dragon', just in case you were wondering!