Disclaimers: I do not own Gundam Wing or any of its characters.
Notes: Quatre wakes up and now he and Trowa have to deal with what happened between them last night.
Servitude, Retribution, and Enchantment
Sunlight streamed across Quatre’s skin and he moaned as it warmed him. He always did like the feel of sunlight on his body.
He stretched himself, yawning as he slowly came into wakefulness, then winced as pain quickly dashed him back into reality.
Quatre suddenly remembered last night, that stranger pounding into him, the feel of that hard shaft buried within him . . . which
would have attributed to the pain in his backside. He curled in on himself, tears spilling from his eyes as he shuddered, not even
noticing the warm arm wrapped around him or the strong, muscled body pressed against his back.
He had given in again. Although not to Dekim . . . he had let someone else control him. Why was he so easy to dominate?
Why did all this have to happen to him?
“I’m sorry.” A voice whispered from behind Quatre. That warm arm slipped from around his waist, a hand sliding up and
down the side of his body in what was probably supposed to be a comforting gesture. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of
Quatre rolled over, nearly gasping as he took in the features of the young man that had taken his virginity. He was gorgeous . . .
that body, that face . . . and those beautiful eyes. Even the presence of the blood staining his throat and body, from when it had
been spilled on him, didn’t mar his beauty. Quatre was tempted to forget himself and kiss those tempting lips, to caress that
handsome face . . . and he could just lose himself in those glimmering pools of jade.
However, he tore his gaze away, lowering his eyes to stare at the blankets that were wound about their bodies. “You’re not to
blame. I gave in . . . it’s my fault.” Quatre whispered.
A gentle hand stroked his face, but Quatre could not lift his eyes. “It's not your fault that Dekim manipulated your body. I
should have known better though. You weren’t thinking clearly. I really am sorry that I used you.”
“No . . . I was begging for it.” Quatre replied, finally looking up.
“It wasn’t your choice.” The stranger insisted.
“It wasn’t yours either. There was magic involved . . . I could feel it all around me. Walking into the room as you did, you
probably became a victim of the spell without even knowing it.” Quatre said, tears continuing to fall from his eyes. Then he
thought that if it hadn’t been this young man, it would have been Dekim. “Although, to be honest . . . I’m glad it wasn’t that
man. He wanted me to be nothing more than his sex toy.” Quatre shuddered, the very thought making him nauseous.
“He’ll never touch you again.” The young man said.
Realization dawned on Quatre. The spell . . . the purpose of last night coming to mind, at least what seemed to be the purpose.
It was all to make Quatre a loyal little slave . . . and this stranger had been the one to take him. Quatre broke down into fits of
tears. “You did it . . . you took his place . . . I’m yours now . . . nothing more than a slave.” Quatre whimpered, curling up and
“I don’t want a slave.” The young man said, his gentle fingers brushing along Quatre’s arm. “I was sent to rescue you.”
“T-To rescue me?” Quatre asked, sniffling as he raised his gaze. “How did you know how to find me?”
The stranger reached up and trailed his fingers across Quatre’s cheek, brushing aside the tears. He seemed so kind, Quatre
hoped that he didn’t mean to hurt him. “Queen Meiran sent me.” He said.
Quatre gasped. “Meiran? You’re an ally of Meiran?”
The young man nodded. “Yes . . . my name is Trowa, Trowa Barton.”
Quatre slid back away from the young man, taking quick glances between Dekim’s corpse and the face of Trowa. He didn’t
look like him . . . there was no true family resemblance. However, they shared the same last name.
Trowa frowned for a moment and followed Quatre’s gaze. “I’m of no relation to that. Trowa Barton isn’t even my real name.
I have no name of my own . . . I just took the one I use from a dead man.” Trowa said, looking away. “It was Dekim’s son . .
. on another mission for Meiran.”
Quatre didn’t need to hear anymore. If Meiran found him to be trustworthy, then he must have a kind heart. “There’s no need
to explain.” Quatre said, “Trowa is a fine name.”
Trowa nodded. They were both silent for a moment, just looking at each other. Then Trowa spoke. “I think we should leave
now . . . before someone finds us in here.” He said.
“Yes, that would probably be wise.” Quatre agreed, then looked down at himself. “But I don’t seem to have any clothes . . .
neither of us do.”
Trowa looked down and Quatre noticed a faint pinkish tinge to his cheeks. It was nearly enough to make him smile, although he
still didn’t like the idea of being anybody’s slave.
Silently, Trowa slid off of the bed, taking a blanket with him. Quatre grabbed a sheet, wrapping the cloth around his own body
as he followed Trowa, moving to sit on the edge of the bed while he watched Trowa walk over to the altar. The quiet young
man retrieved his clothes from where he had discarded them the night before, hastily pulling them on then dropped the blanket.
Lastly, he grabbing his sword.
“We’ll have to find you something to wear.” Trowa said, as he cleaned the blade off on the cloth that covered the altar. “Is
there anything else you need?”
“There is one thing.” Quatre said.
“Hm?” Trowa replied, sheathing his weapon.
“My sisters.” Quatre said, only hoping that they were safe. “Would you see that they’re released?”
Trowa turned to face him. “Sisters?” He asked, his face oddly pale.
“Yes. Dekim said that if I behaved, he’d let them go.” He smiled, wondering why Trowa was acting so strangely. “Are they
already free? Can I see them?”
Trowa closed his eyes, an act that confused Quatre once again. Trowa didn't answer right away, in fact he swallowed, taking
the time to inhale deeply before he said anything. “How many sisters di . . . how many sisters do you have?” Trowa finally
“Twenty-nine.” Quatre responded, wondering why Trowa wouldn’t answer him.
“And they’re all blondes?”
“That’s right.” Quatre said. “Can I see them now? Please?”
Trowa looked sad, but nodded as he walked over to Quatre, gently taking hold of one of his hand and helping him up. Quatre
held onto the sheet wrapped around him with his other hand, trying not to trip as Trowa led him over to a window that
overlooked a good deal of the countryside.
“I wasn’t sure if they could be seen from here . . . but . . .” Trowa said, then pointed outside.
Quatre looked, confused when he saw freshly dug earth. “Huh? What is . . . ?”
Trowa sighed then spoke, his voice choking out the words. “It seems that in the ceremony Dekim was performing, he needed
to sacrifice and use the blood of thirty females.”
Quatre’s eyes widened as the truth struck him. Dekim had lied to him all along. He reached up, brushing his hand across his
forehead where he could feel the blood that was caked to his skin, the blood the priest had smeared on him last night. “We were
celebrating the birth of my niece, Tia . . .” Quatre whispered, his words trailing off as he felt his very heart crumbling.
Everything was gone . . . his home . . . his family. He was alone now, and a slave to some stranger. It was just too much to
take . . . he didn’t want to feel anymore. He just wanted it to stop.
Trowa felt a tear trickling down his face, feeling sympathy for the young prince. He grew worried though as Quatre just let his
words trail off. Trowa grasped the blonde’s shoulders, turning the young man to face him, only to gasp in shock at the
emptiness he found within his aquamarine eyes.
“Quatre?” Trowa asked, waving a hand in front of the young man’s face, snapping his fingers only to get no reaction at all.
Trowa couldn’t help but feel this was his own fault. If he had only been able to control his own urges . . . maybe the blonde
wouldn’t have retreated into himself. Perhaps Quatre would have trusted Trowa enough to cry on his shoulder instead of hiding
within his own mind.
He leaned over slightly, just enough so that he could hook his arm under Quatre’s knees and pull him into his arms. Worriedly,
Trowa carried the young man over the to bed, arranging his prone body so that he would be more comfortable, making sure to
keep the sheet covering him. He knelt next to Quatre, reaching out with a trembling hand and touching his cheek, wondering
how he could possibly help him.
Trowa sighed, feeling nothing but self-hatred for what he had done to the beautiful prince. He had all but raped Quatre. Despite
the fact that the blonde was begging for it, he should have known better. Quatre hadn’t been thinking clearly, he was a victim
of Dekim’s manipulation and the magic surrounding the ceremony. No matter what Quatre had told him, Trowa couldn’t help
but hate himself . . . spell or no spell he shouldn’t have touched that pure young man.
Suddenly, the door was thrown open, a number of guards rushing into the room. Trowa rose from the bed, standing between
the guards and Quatre as he unsheathed his sword, getting ready for any attack that might come his way from this group of
The guards stopped at a dead halt as they saw the corpse of their King. One man turned to Trowa. “You killed our king!” He
Trowa narrowed his eyes, recognizing that voice from that conversation he had listened in on earlier. “Yes, he had to be
stopped.” Trowa said, searching the faces of the other guards and wondering which one had been the man’s conversation
His silent question was answered as another man jumped forward. “You son of a whore!”
The two guards leapt toward Trowa. Trowa smirked, seeing that these men were fools. They rushed in without thinking. For
that and for their lack of respect for the dead they had to pay. It was only right to gain revenge for Quatre’s sisters, for the lack
of respect with which those bastards had treated them.
Trowa easily deflected the first man’s sword thrust, using skills he had picked up while with the circus troupe to flip over both
of their heads. He spun in the air, so that he landed facing their backs. Then he quickly plunged his own blade into the back of
the man closest to him, watching with some amount of satisfaction as he quickly fell to the floor.
“You bastard!” The other man nearly screamed, turning to run full force at Trowa, apparently deciding to use his sword as a
Trowa shook his head, finding this too easy. He deflected the blow, spinning as the man stumbled forward. With one swift
move, Trowa swung his sword, making a deep slash in the man’s back. The man fell to his knees, his sword clattering to the
floor as he fell forward on his face, coughing up his own blood.
Trowa got down on one knee, pulling a dagger from his boot. “You should have learned your manners.” Trowa said, then
raised the dagger, bringing it down to plunge it into the back of the man’s neck. He was dead within moments.
Then Trowa removed his dagger, wiping it and the blade of his sword off on the dead man’s tunic. He couldn’t leave his blades
stained with blood. He rose to his feet, glaring at the remainder of the guards.
The group of men looked amongst each other, then one by one dropped to their knees. “We pledge our allegiance to you, my
lord.” One of the men spoke up. “May we be honored to know the name of the king we now serve?”
Trowa shook his head. He didn’t want to be king. But for now, perhaps it would be beneficial to keep the title. He could
always hand the lands over to Meiran or one of her allies. “You may call me Trowa Barton.”
A number of the men looked up, then bowed their heads again. Apparently they had known the real Trowa Barton. Trowa
would have to keep an eye on them to make sure these men remained loyal for as long as he decided to stay.
“Is there anything you require of us, my lord?” A guard asked.
“Have these bodies removed . . . give them proper burials.” He said, then glanced over to Quatre. “And I need a messenger sent
to find a young woman in a nearby circus troupe. Her name is Catherine. Have her told to come here, but do not harm her in
any way.” Trowa said, knowing that Catherine might be of some help. At least he hoped she would be.
“Yes, sire.” A guard nodded, then quickly left, bowing before exiting the room. Several of the other guards went about cleaning
up the room.
Another guard spoke up. “Is there anything else, sire?”
“Clothing for my . . . slave . . .” Trowa said, hating that he was using that word. But that was what Quatre was seen as in this
kingdom. He had been taken as a prisoner of war, and that made him a slave by law. “Where are Dekim’s quarters?”
“Follow me, my lord.” The guard replied, rising to his feet then moving over to the door where he waited for Trowa.
Trowa sheathed his sword, not trusting these men, but not really having any other choice. He gently lifted Quatre into his arms,
keeping the sheet around him, and followed the guard out of the room. As they stepped from the last stair, Trowa remembered
something. “Stop. Wait a moment.” Trowa said. “Open that door.”
The guard complied, opening the door so that Trowa could step in. “Mariemaia? Are you still in here?” Trowa asked, keeping
his voice at a suitable tone so as not to frighten the child. “It is safe to come out.”
There was no reply. Trowa worriedly stepped further in. He looked around, frowning as he wondered where the girl was. He
looked at the floor, noticing that some of the dirt had been disturbed. He stepped over, kicking aside an old shield with his foot
since he was reluctant to put down the precious bundle that he was carrying. He smirked at the sight he found.
Mariemaia was curled up on her side, apparently sleeping peacefully. It wasn’t surprising . . . Trowa had left her there for the
entire night. A thought struck him. Mariemaia was the rightful heir to the throne . . . she was Dekim’s granddaughter. Trowa
wondered why the guard said nothing about her . . . perhaps he didn’t know who she really was. Trowa decided to keep his
mouth shut for the time being, not wanting to endanger the girl. He’d have to contact Meiran and ask what should be done.
“Bring her . . . and be gentle.” Trowa ordered.
The guard nodded, carefully scooping Mariemaia into his arms. He slowly stood, nodding to Trowa before he made his way.
“This way, sire.” The guard whispered.
A few minutes later, Trowa was standing by a large bed, looking down on the two young people lying on it. Mariemaia was
sleeping peacefully on one side . . . how she could sleep so soundly was a mystery to Trowa, but he wouldn’t disturb her.
Quatre lay on the other side of the bed, staring straight up, looking at nothing.
Trowa shook his head, sitting on the bed beside Quatre, curling his fingers in those blonde locks. “I'm sorry.” Trowa
whispered, hoping that Quatre would recover from this somehow.
To Be Continued . . .