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

Notes:  Quatre finds himself thrust back into danger, just as Trowa returns home.

Warning:  Attempted rape and attempted murder.



Servitude, Retribution, and Enchantment



Part Thirty-One


Quatre looked out of the window with a smile on his veiled face.  The weather was fine and the sun was brightly shining . . .
and Trowa was due to come back.  If not this day, then the next.  Although Quatre knew that he should still be upset about
being bound to Trowa, he couldn't really feel all that bad about it.  After all, Catherine had told Quatre that Trowa knew what it
was like to be a slave.  She had told him of the tall youth’s life before he had met her . . . it was a story that had surprised
Quatre, that had made him think twice about being so bitter toward his handsome young master.

Still, he did not wish to be a slave, not even to Trowa.

His heart leapt in his throat as he caught sight of an approaching carriage.  “Mistress Catherine?  I think that Master Trowa is
returning.”  Quatre said, pointing out the window.

Catherine, who had been tending to her sewing, walked over to stand beside him.  She smiled brightly, laying her hand on his
back.  “You’re right, Quatre.  That IS Trowa’s carriage.  He’ll be so pleased that you’ve been eating better.”  She playfully
ruffled his hair.  “I’ll go down and meet him.  You stay here.  I think he would like the surprise of seeing that your strength has
returned.  I’ll bring him straight up.”

Quatre watched Catherine as she left and smiled.  He felt a sense of security now that Trowa was back, so he hadn’t objected to
Catherine leaving him alone.  And soon he would be meeting with Meiran once again.  He had missed his teacher and adopted
sister . . . it had been so long since he had seen her in person.  He looked forward to the day that he could hug her again.

His strength had been returning steadily over the past few days, yet he was not completely healthy.  He still vomited each
morning, and at various times during the course of the day.  Hopefully, Meiran would know how to remedy this illness.

He was lost in thought, going over the memories of the past, trying to come up with a reason for why he was ill . . . he didn’t
notice the intruder until it was far too late.

An arm circled his body, pining his arms to his sides, just as a heavy hand covered his mouth to silence a cry of fear.  “Say a
word and I’ll snap your pretty neck.”  A dark voice hissed from behind him.  “Do you understand, slave?”

Breathing heavily through his nose, Quatre nodded, his eyes wide with terror.  This couldn’t be happening.  What more could
happen to him?  What did this man want from him?  Surely, he couldn’t be so bold as to do anything now that Trowa had
returned.  Perhaps he meant to kill Trowa . . . to be here and wait for the youth to return before getting rid of the both of them.  
Quatre’s mind was aflare with questions and fears, his heart fluttering wildly.

The man’s reasons for coming to the bedchamber became obvious barely a moment later.  His thick, greedy hand ran down
along Quatre’s bared stomach, feeling the trembling muscles there.  Quatre whimpered, flinching out of reflex, trying to get
away from the sweaty hand that was pawing at him.

“I’ve been watching you for a long time, pretty . . . even before that Barton whelp took you from my king.  I think I’ll enjoy
taking what my true king wanted.”  The man cruelly whispered, his tongue slithering up along the column of Quatre’s throat.

Quatre’s heart and mind screamed in pure fear.  No, this couldn’t be happening.  Not again.  He struggled, trying to get away
from this sickening man, wriggling in the hope that the man would lose his grip on him.

The man only laughed at Quatre’s escape attempts.  He removed one hand from Quatre’s body, leaving the other still clamped
over his mouth.  When the other hand returned, Quatre ceased all movement.  The sharp blade of a silver dagger dug into the
skin of his throat, causing a wash of pain as it sliced through the layers of his skin, not deep enough to kill, but it got the threat
across.  He trembled, knowing that if the man put any more pressure on the dagger, he would be dead within moments.

“Come with me, my pretty . . . I have the perfect place to take that sweet little body of yours.”  He said, urging Quatre to walk.

Quatre whimpered, but strode where he was told to go.  They left the bedchamber.  With every step he took, Quatre looked
around for someone, anyone that could help him.  But there was no one.  The halls were oddly empty, as the servants and staff
were probably greeting the returning lord.

Quatre was led up a flight of stairs.  It wasn’t until he was shoved into the room at the top that he realized where he had been
brought.  He took in as sharp a breath as he could manage, his eyes taking in the sight of the room where Dekim had held the
ceremony to bind Quatre to him . . . the room where Trowa had taken his virginity.

The bodies of Dekim, the priests, and the two guards that Trowa had killed here had been removed, leaving behind only the
stains of blood where their bodies had lain.  The altar, where Trowa had pounded so wonderfully into his body, was gone as
well.  No doubt, Trowa had seen to it that these things had been gotten rid of.

The bed however, was still here.  Quatre remembered waking in Trowa’s arms the day after he had been taken for the first
time.  The sheets were pristine, freshly made.  The man behind him must have seen to this . . . as well as to the shackles that
hung from each of the four posts.

The man took the blade away from Quatre’s throat and shoved him roughly, knocking him to fall to his knees.  Quatre heard the
door slam shut behind him, knew that he was now trapped in this tower with someone who meant to rape him.  A harsh hand
grabbed his wrist, dragging him to his feet and over to the bed.  

It was then that Quatre saw his attacker . . . the man was a guard, the same guard that had groped him the morning that
Catherine had taken him outside for the first time.  He was a large man, his body garbed in the armor that Quatre had become
familiar with.  He must have been outside the chamber when Catherine had left, must have used the opportunity presented to him
to take what he had wanted while Quatre was alone.

Quatre renewed his struggles, pulling and kicking, trying to get away.  He couldn’t allow himself to go down without a fight.  He
wouldn’t be forced into this again.  No, he didn’t want this, not from anyone, never again.  He was tired of being a victim, of
being forced to do things against his will.

The man ignored his struggles.  With no other alternative, Quatre ripped the veil from his own face and bent his head.  He then
bit deeply into the man’s hand, falling backwards when the hand abruptly let go of his wrist.  Quatre scrambled to his feet,
rushing over to the door in the hope that he could still escape this horror.

He had just grabbed the handle, when a searing pain shot through his shoulder, a weight forcing him up against the door.  The
man was behind him again, pushing him against the door, a throbbing pain moving through his shoulder.  A sickening sound of
metal passing through flesh made Quatre’s eyes widen, the pain in his shoulder worsening tenfold.  He had been stabbed . . . the
man had stabbed him.  Quatre cried out as the pain increased, feeling as the blade retracted from his body.

“Next time, I won’t be so kind.”  The guard growled, the fingers of his hand wrapping around the back of Quatre’s neck.

“Let me go.”  Quatre whispered, his body trembling as the heated liquid of his blood seeped from the wound in his shoulder to
run down his back.

“I don’t think so.”  The man replied, forcing Quatre over to the bed and all but throwing him down onto it.

He grabbed Quatre’s wrists, shackling each of them in turn.  The pain in his shoulder as his left arm was moved, made Quatre
cry out once more.  Then his ankles were bound, leaving him to lie vulnerable on his stomach.

The loincloth was ripped from his body, leaving Quatre to shiver as cold air brushed across his exposed form.  “Stop.  Please . .
. Please stop this.”  Quatre begged, feeling as the man behind him pushed him to a kneeling position, his face buried against the
pillow.

The guard completely ignored his words.  Behind him, Quatre could hear the unmistakable sounds of clothing being removed
and he pulled against the bindings, desperate to get away.  Even as his shoulder pulsed in agony, Quatre continued, needing to
get out of this.

He stopped, his body frozen in terror as a distinct hardness brushed against his inner thigh, slipping up along the cleft of his ass,
then down again.  He shivered, tears mingling in his eyes as the guard moaned in pleasure . . . as he rubbed his thick arousal
along Quatre’s trembling form.

Fingers dug into his hair, harshly pulling Quatre’s head back.  “I’m going to enjoy fucking you until you die.”  The man
laughed.  “Of course, I’ll enjoy fucking this sweet little body of yours even as your corpse cools.”

Quatre’s breath froze in his throat.  No . . . no . . . he didn’t want to die, not like this.  He opened his mouth, meaning to say
something, only to have his words cut off as his face was shoved down into the pillow.  He struggled, not able to breathe as the
man forcefully held his face down.

Panic and pain swept through him, the thick shaft of his attacker pushing against his opening.  A cry of pain was silenced by the
pillow suffocating him as the length was roughly pushed inside of his unprepared passage, not giving him time to adjust, simply
sinking deeper and deeper and leaving nothing but agony in its wake.  Quatre bucked, trying to get the guard off of him, as well
as raise his head, if only enough to take a breath.  It was useless . . . the man was so much stronger than him.

His throat burned, his lungs aching from the lack of air.  Darkness lingered in the fringes of his perception, the heartbeat that
was throbbing in his ears slowing with each passing moment.  He cried, regretting that this was the last thing he would
remember, that he would die this way.

And then so suddenly, before Quatre realized what was happening, he was free of the bindings and gasping for air.  He didn’t
understand it . . . the last thing he remembered, the guard was . . . he cried in fright, feeling as a pair of arms circled his body.  
He jerked away, raising shaking hands to pound against whoever it was, only to gasp as a soft, familiar voice spoke to him.

“Quatre . . . it’s okay.  I’m here now.”  It was Trowa’s voice.  Trowa was here.

Quatre blinked his eyes open, waiting until they focused on the visage of the young lord.  Still panting for air, Quatre threw
himself into Trowa’s arms, clinging to him even as the pain in his shoulder continued to throb, as his blood flowed from the
wound at his back.

He took a glance around, seeing that an unfamiliar young woman stood in the doorway . . . and there on the floor beside the bed
was the guard that had abducted him, that had tried to rape him.  He was dead, Trowa’s sword still sticking from the wound in
his throat . . . apparently, Trowa had stabbed him from behind, as if he had run the blade straight through his neck.

Quatre wept, thanking every deity he could think of now that he was safe, that Trowa had found him before it was too late.  He
curled his legs closer to himself, his body perched on Trowa’s lap.  He cared nothing for the wound that he had, didn’t care that
the strange woman was watching all of this.  He merely wanted the comfort, was desperate to know that he wouldn’t be hurt
again.

Trowa’s hands ran along his back, one of them leaving him briefly to pull the sheet from the bed.  He draped the soft cloth
around Quatre’s body, covering him, even as he hushed the trembling young man that he held.

“It’s okay, Quatre.  He won’t touch you ever again.  You’re safe now.”  He whispered in his attempts to soothe his slave.


*****


Trowa held Quatre as tightly as he dared to while he fought the trembling in his own body.  He thanked every god and goddess
known to him that he had insisted on continuing when Princess Noin had wanted to stop for the night.  Had they stopped,
Quatre would have been worse than dead.  Right now, he had to make sure that Quatre was tended to.  There was the shallow
cut on his throat, and the stab wound on his back, as well as some bruising and the terrible shock that he’d gotten.

Trowa securely wrapped Quatre in the sheet and lifted him.  “It’s okay, Quatre . . . Catherine and I will look after you.”  He
assured the shaken slave.  He wouldn’t take his anger out on Catherine.  She had assumed that Quatre would be safe for a short
time.  Plus, she would be blaming herself enough as it was.

He hastily strode out of the tower room, passing by Princess Noin as he rushed back to his own bedchamber.  In his arms,
Quatre sobbed and shivered, clutching to Trowa’s body.  Trowa barked out orders to the guards that he passed.  As soon as
Quatre was tended to, they’d be leaving.  Noin was here now and could take care of things from now on.  The sooner Quatre
was safe in Meiran’s lands, the better.



To Be Continued . . .