Disclaimers:  I do not own Gundam Wing or any of its characters.

Notes:  Trowa goes to rescue the blonde prince that Meiran told him about.  He makes a few discoveries along the way.  Some
more Dekim with his hands all over Quatre squick.  But then it gets good.  Yaoi Lemon ahead!  It’s my first posted Yaoi Lemon,
I hope you enjoy it.



Servitude, Retribution, and Enchantment



Part Ten


Trowa crept silently throughout the corridors, not knowing where exactly he had to go. He was in Dekim’s castle and yet so far
there had been no signs of any palace guards.  Trowa found it both odd and disturbing.  Were the guards so frightened of
whatever magic Dekim was conjuring that they had to flee the castle, or were they off doing some other horrible deed for their
master?

He didn’t know which it was, but neither were appealing to Trowa.  Trowa sighed and shook his head, flexing his fingers on the
hilt of his sword as he continued moving.  He was following his instincts and just going upward . . . knowing that Meiran
preferred to cast some of her spells within the light of the moon.  He was hoping that Dekim, or whoever was doing this magic
for him, felt the same way.

As he walked, he heard a number of men talking.  Trowa approached the door that the voices were coming from, standing just
outside and listening in as they spoke.

“Those girls sure were beauties . . . all them blondes.”  One of the men said, most likely a guard that should be patrolling the
castle.

“We should thank Dekim for lettin’ us sample ‘em before he had ‘em all executed.”  Another laughed.

The first voice spoke up again.  “A shame though . . . killing those twenty-nine women, not to mention that child . . . he did
need their blood for that spell though so I guess it was worth it.”

“At least we got to have a little fun.”  The other laughed, “Too bad we were the ones to bury them.  My back is killing me from
digging all those graves.”

Trowa moved away from the door, quietly cursing the men inside.  If he hadn’t been in such a hurry to find this prince, he
would have gone in there and taught then not to take light the suffering of the dead.

As he passed by another door, he was sure that he heard the sounds of sobbing.  Perhaps this was the room he was seeking,
Trowa thought.  When he tried to open the door, he found it to be locked.  Smirking to himself, he pulled out a lock pick and
easily unlocked the door.  Then he carefully stepped inside.

He was surprised to see a young girl sitting by herself, especially when he had been expecting to find a prince.  The girl was
young, could be no more than seven, with bright red hair.  Her fine clothes suggested that she was royalty.

“Who are you?”  Trowa asked, closing the door quietly behind himself.

The girl gasped and spun, her gaze settling on his sword.  “W-what do you want?”  She asked, apparently afraid.

Trowa closed his eyes a moment.  He really didn’t have time to answer questions.  He sheathed his sword and stepped further
into the room.  “I want to know who you are.”  Trowa replied.

“My name is Mariemaia.”  The girl said.

“Why were you locked in this room?”  Trowa asked.

Mariemaia sniffled.  “Grandfather says I am the bastard child of a worthless soldier that my mother was a fool to love.  He says
I sicken him to look at, so he locked me away up here.”

Trowa blinked.  “He locks you away all alone?  Where’s your mother . . . your father?”

Mariemaia shook her head.  “He sends tutors up every day . . . and there are the servants so I guess I am never truly alone.  But
none of them talk to me.  My mother . . . she died when I was little.  I-I never knew my father.”  Tears spilled from her eyes,
falling along her pale cheeks.

Trowa didn’t have the heart to just leave her here.  However, he was hesitant to take her with him, not sure what kind of danger
he would be facing.  He turned to the door, just intending to see if there was anyone in the hall.

As soon as he had turned his back, Mariemaia jumped to her feet and ran over to him, throwing her arms around him.  “Please
don’t go!”  She begged, sobbing, her small arms clutching him desperately.  “I don’t want to be alone anymore.  Please . . .”

Trowa grabbed her wrists and pulled her away from him, not appreciating the embrace.  He still did not like being touched . . .
the memories of the pain that those mercenaries had delivered to him was still clear in his mind.  He looked down at the girl,
frowning at the tear tracks that he saw trailing down Mariemaia’s face.  He reached out, brushing a few away with his fingertips
as he let a small smile curl his lips.

“I won’t leave you.”  Trowa said, sighing as he decided that he had to take her with him.  “Come on.”  

Mariemaia smiled, wiping the back of one hand over her eyes as she reached out and took hold of his hand.  “T-thank you.”  
She sniffled.

Trowa hesitantly clasped her hand, not truly comfortable with the contact, but seeing that the girl might need it.  He unsheathed
his sword once again, then opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, making sure that Mariemaia stayed behind him.

As Trowa walked, the sound of chanting slowly started to become louder.  Dekim must have started already, Trowa decided.  
Trowa shuddered, thinking about the possibilities of what kind of a spell Dekim was planning.  There were just too many options
. . . and he really didn’t know what Dekim wanted of this prince.

“You’re going to kill my grandfather, aren’t you?”  Mariemaia asked suddenly, startling Trowa for a moment before he
answered.

Trowa nodded.  “Yes.”  He answered truthfully.  

“I understand . . . he isn’t a very nice man.”  Mariemaia said, her voice laced with sadness.

“Please, stay quiet.  I can’t be caught . . . there is a life at stake.”  Trowa whispered, not looking down at the young girl.

“I’m sorry.”  Mariemaia replied, her voice quiet.

Only moments later, Trowa stopped in his tracks.  He stood before a staircase.  The chanting was apparently coming from
somewhere up there.  However, he didn’t want to take Mariemaia up there with him . . . there was no need for the girl to watch
her grandfather die.

Trowa glanced around and saw a narrow door close by.  He quickly walked over to it and opened the door, glancing around
inside to see that it was a storage closet of some kind.  And by the looks of it . . . all the cobwebs and dust . . . the room hadn’t
been used in a long time.

Trowa turned and knelt in front of Mariemaia, laying his sword to the side and grasping her shoulders.  “I want you to stay in
here, okay?”  He said, keeping his eyes locked on hers.

Fear swam in her eyes, but she nodded.  “Y-you’ll come back for me, right?”  She asked, a single tear falling from her eye.

Trowa nodded.  “Of course I will.  I just think that it might be too dangerous to take you with me.  So I want you to go in here
and hide yourself.  I will return to get you.”

“Okay.”  Mariemaia nodded.

“Good girl.”  Trowa said, picking up his sword and rising to his feet.  He ushered the girl into the room and closed the door
behind her, listening for a moment by the door to the sounds of her shuffling around inside, apparently in an attempt to hide
herself.  Satisfied that she would be safe in there for a while, Trowa ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time in the hopes that
he wouldn’t be too late to save Meiran’s friend.

The stairs ended with a door.  Trowa took a breath, reaching out to clasp the handle.  Then he slowly and carefully opened the
door, silently slipping into the room unnoticed.  There were veils of black and red cloths hanging from the ceiling, draping
around the room . . . some of them blocking the door from view of the rest of the room.  He moved behind the cloths, trying to
stay hidden until he was sure of the situation that awaited him.

He could hear gasps and moans and was confused as to why they didn’t sound pain-filled.  Then he pulled back one of the
cloths, peering in at the ceremony that had been hidden from his view until now.  He bit his bottom lip, his eyes widening at the
sight before him.

A lovely young blonde was chained to an altar of black marble which had a crimson cloth draped over it.  The blonde was
garbed only in a flimsy white robe and he rested on his hands and knees, his lower body rocking somewhat.  He had to be
Quatre, Trowa decided.  

Dekim was behind the blonde, his hands up underneath the robe that Quatre wore, doing something to the young man.  Trowa
couldn’t see Dekim’s hands, but he knew that whatever he was doing couldn’t be a good thing.  The fact that he was even
touching the blonde was bad enough . . . the fact that Dekim was completely nude was just so incredibly worse.

Trowa let his eyes wander around, taking in the rest of the room.  There were candles set up all over the place, most of them
already lit.  The others were being lit by two priests that were also chanting.  The moon was visible through a hole in the roof,
and the scent of incense lingered in the air.

“It is time, my lord.”  One of the priests said, approaching the altar now that the last candle had been lit.  The other priest circled
around the altar, picking up a bowl from a stone pedestal and then stood by the altar.

“Excellent.”  Dekim smirked, taking his hands from under Quatre’s robe.  “Let’s begin.”

Trowa took a step forward, then halted and stepped back, his eyes widening as that flimsy robe was torn from off of Quatre’s
body by Dekim.  The blonde gasped and Trowa found he couldn’t move as he surveyed that beautiful body.

Quatre was glistening with sweat, his member hard and erect, a metal band circled around the base.  He lowered his head, his
breath coming to him in short pants as he rocked his body slightly.  It was then that Trowa noticed something protruding from
the blonde’s rear, and blinked when he saw that it was a candle.

“P-please stop.”  Quatre begged, his voice a strained whisper.

Neither Dekim nor his priests seemed to pay attention.  The one priest stepped forward, a vial of some liquid in his hands.  He
spoke some words, nothing that Trowa could understand, then poured the liquid that had been in the vial over Quatre’s back,
arms, and legs.  The vial was set aside and the priest began to run his hands along Quatre’s body, spreading that liquid over the
blonde’s body.  It was oil, Trowa realized and his mouth dropped open as he viewed the bare glistening form that was Quatre’s
body, watching as the flames of the candles reflected in the oil covering him.

The sight sent a surge of unfamiliar emotions throughout Trowa, but he kept himself back, knowing that to interfere now would
only endanger the blonde.  With those men so close by, there was a danger of Quatre getting hurt.  He would have to wait until
one or more of them moved away.

The priest that had covered Quatre in oil moved aside, and the other stepped forward, still holding the basin that he had picked
up from the pedestal earlier.  The man dipped his fingers into the dark, red liquid inside and Trowa was appalled to realize that it
was blood.  The priest mumbled a phrase, then brought his blood-covered fingers up to Quatre’s forehead, smearing the blood
across.  He repeated that action over Quatre’s chest, then again as he covered Quatre’s erection in the blood.  Quatre whimpered
and thrust his hips forward, causing Trowa to wonder just how long he had been up there like that.

“Lower him!”  Dekim ordered.

The priests moved away from the altar, one of them turning a wheel and winding up a set of chains, effectively pulling Quatre
down to the surface of the altar until he was laying on his stomach, his body stretched out, his legs spread wide.  The other
priest just stood there, holding the bowl of blood in his hands as he chanted.

The priest that was not chanting stepped forward again, a goblet clutched in his hand.  He gripped Quatre’s hair roughly, forcing
his head back.  “Drink!”  The man ordered, holding the edge of the cup to Quatre’s lips.

Quatre didn’t open his mouth right away, not until the priest pulled on his hair.  Then he nearly choked as the priest all but
poured the entire contents of the goblet down his throat.  Most of the liquid dribbled from the corners of his mouth, dripping to
the surface of the altar.  Then the priest moved aside again.

“Give in to me.”  Dekim said, stepping over to the altar, his hand clasping the candle that was still partially embedded in the
blonde’s body.

“Never.”  Quatre replied, his voice filled with nothing but pure hatred.

Dekim laughed, pulling the candle out slightly, only to thrust it back in again.  “You'll give in eventually.”  Dekim replied,
continuing to maneuver the candle, causing the blonde the buck and moan as he was manipulated.

Trowa felt his own breath growing ragged, sweat beading on his skin as he watched.  He didn’t understand . . . wasn’t
altogether sure what this was he was feeling.  He tore his eyes away from the beauty writhing on the altar, noticing the bulge
that had appeared in his own breeches.  He remembered from his time with the mercenaries what one was supposed to do when
this happened, at least he had an idea.  He had always run away before any of them had touched him, and he had never stayed to
watch as they turned to each other.  

He looked back to the altar, his eyes narrowing at Dekim as he watched the vile man touch that pale beauty.  Other than an
almost overwhelming urge to bed the blonde himself, there was pure unadulterated hatred for Dekim and those priests.  He didn't
know why he felt so strongly, but he did.

“Tell me you’ll give up your will for my pleasure, Quatre.”  Dekim said, continuing to manipulate that candle within Quatre’s
lithe body.

“N-no.”  Quatre said, his word turning into a moan as Dekim toyed with him.

“SAY IT!”  Dekim yelled.

“Please . . . uhhhhhh.”  Quatre’s voice became more strained and he repeatedly ground his erection into the altar, apparently
seeking some form of release.

“That’s not what I want you to say, little prince.”  Dekim stated.  “Tell me what I want to hear!”

“NEVER!”  Quatre shouted, then screamed in pain when Dekim gave a rough shove on the candle, harshly pushing it inward.

Last was the last straw.  Trowa couldn’t just sit by and idly watch any more.  He ran out of hiding, easily cutting down the first
priest as he crossed the room.  The man fell to the ground and didn’t move again, leaving only Dekim and one more priest to
deal with.

“How dare you interfere!”  Dekim shouted, fury in his eyes as he backed away from Trowa.

Trowa merely advanced on the man, his blood boiling in rage as he swung his blade, leaving a deep slash in the man’s throat.  
Trowa nearly smirked as he watched the man drop to his knees, gurgling as he covered his throat with his hands and fell to his
side, never to rise again.  

Trowa then turned his attention to the remaining priest, glaring at the man who had cowered in a corner, his bowl of blood
clutched in his hands.  With only a few steps, Trowa stood in front of him.  “P-please, mercy.”  The man whispered.

“No.”  Trowa hissed, pulling back his sword and driving the blade into the man’s torso.

The priest gasped, losing his hold on his bowl, the blood spilling out to cover Trowa’s body.  It ran down his neck, soaking
through his clothes, and dripped along his legs.  Trowa stepped back, pulling his sword free and watching in satisfaction as the
man crumbled to the ground.

A sultry moan coming from behind Trowa reminded him of Quatre’s presence.  Trowa turned, chest heaving as he struggled to
breathe as he looked at the young blonde.  Quatre was simply beautiful, even with the blood smeared over his body.  Trowa
couldn’t help but want him.

“P-please”  Quatre whispered, his nails digging into the surface of the altar as he ground himself against it.

Trowa dropped his sword, completely forgetting it as he stepped over to the altar, releasing the catch on the wheel so that it
loosened the chains binding the blonde.  Quatre rose to his hands and knees as Trowa reached the altar.  

Trowa found himself quickly losing control, knowing that something in the room had to be attributing to this.  He reached out,
curling his fingers around the back of the blonde’s neck, sweeping in and capturing his mouth hungrily.  He groaned, tasting the
sweet nectar of Quatre’s lips mixed with whatever had been in that goblet he had drank from.

Quatre responded eagerly, grabbing Trowa’s shoulders and pulling him closer, his tongue swiping along Trowa’s lips as he
demanded entrance.  Trowa already lost in the sensations warring through his body opened his mouth, thrusting his own tongue
forward to spar with Quatre’s.

Trowa pulled himself away, smirking to himself as Quatre whimpered, trying to pull him back with insistent fingers.  “More . . .
please . . . more.”  The blonde begged.

Trowa left him, moving around to the other end of the altar, stripping off his clothes with each and every step he took.  He
slowly pulled the candle from Quatre’s rear, every gasp and moan from the blonde sending a jolt throughout his body and
straight to his own erection.  He felt a need to bury himself within that body, his heartbeat throbbing in his ears and drowning
out every other sound besides Quatre’s sweet moans.

He climbed up behind the blonde as he tossed the candle over his shoulder.  Trowa gripped the blonde’s hips, then gasped, his
mind suddenly becoming clear.  No, this was wrong . . . this was everything he had feared from the mercenaries.  He couldn’t
do this . . . but his body wanted it so much . . . Quatre’s pleas taunted him to continue.

Trowa leaned forward, pressing his bloodstained chest against Quatre’s oil-slick back.  “I-I can’t.”  He whispered, tears falling
from his eyes.

Quatre shook his head, reaching back with one hand to pull against one of Trowa’s arms.  “Please . . . I want this . . . want you
. . . please . . . take me.”  Quatre said, breathlessly, thrusting his body back and rubbing his backside up against Trowa’s
hardened length.

“Oh, God.”  Trowa groaned, digging his fingers into Quatre’s hips as he pulled his body off of Quatre’s.  He took a breath,
removing one hand from Quatre’s hip to guide himself into the blonde’s already stretched opening, forcing himself to slowly
plunge himself inward.  “I’m sorry.”  He said, whispering the words over and over again until he was fully sheathed.

Almost immediately after he was impaled, the blonde pulled away, pushing back insistently.  “More.”  He gasped.

Trowa obliged, his body more in control than his mind was.  He wrapped his arm around Quatre’s waist, keeping the blonde up
as he began a series of short, shallow thrusts, groaning as the exquisite heat and tightness of Quatre’s body surrounded his
throbbing shaft.  It caressed him, surrounded him, urging him to go deeper, faster, as did the pleasurable cries of Quatre’s
voice.  

In mere moments, Trowa was pounding into the hot cavern with wild abandon, knowing nothing but carnal pleasure as he used
and was used by the beautiful blonde.  Sweat drenched them both, their breaths no more than panting gasps, deep throated moan
and groans, or urges to go harder faster or deeper.

Quatre met each thrust with a backward one of his own.  The slapping of flesh against flesh nearly echoed throughout the
room.  Finally feeling his own release lingering at the fringe, Trowa reached down with his free hand, stroking down the length
of Quatre’s shaft until he reached the cock ring.  With a thought of frustration, Trowa fought to remove the band.

His thrusts slowed slightly, much to Quatre’s apparent dismay.  However, Trowa smiled, returning to his earlier speed, as he
finally released the catch.  The cock ring fell from around Quatre’s engorged length, clattering as it hit the altar and fell to the
floor.

With just the barest touch of his hand, Quatre arched against him, screaming as his climax abruptly hit him.  The blonde’s
passage clamped down on Trowa’s length . . . however it wasn’t enough.  The blonde collapsed to the altar, his body
shuddering and twitching as his seed continued to spurt forth, lost in the throes of a mind-blowing orgasm.

Trowa laid across the young blonde, pressing against him as he urged his legs further apart, continuing to thrust into his
tightness.  Within a few moments, Trowa found his own release.  He released shot after shot of his own fluids, his hips
continuing to grind himself into Quatre’s body until he collapsed bonelessly against Quatre’s back.

After taking a moment to catch his breath, Trowa glanced down at the blonde.  Quatre was unconscious, his features twitching
every now and then.  Trowa looked around, noticing a bed across the room, mostly hidden by the cloths that hung from the
ceiling.

Mustering all of his strength, at least what was left, Trowa pulled himself out of the blonde and moved off of the altar, standing
to the side on shaky legs.  He moved as quickly as he could, removing the shackles from the young man’s wrists and ankles.  
Then he hefted the unconscious youth into his arms, slowly carrying him over to the bed on legs that threatened to give out on
him at any moment.

As soon as he had arranged Quatre in a suitably comfortable position, Trowa spooned himself up behind the blonde.  He brought
a blanket up around them, his mind quickly drifting off as he fell asleep, his arms winding their way around the young man
without his realization.



To Be Continued . . .