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"Chosen"Written By: Clara Barton Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. The following
is an intellectual exercise with no intention of profit. That said,
these characterizations, words, and situations are mine. Please ask
before reprinting. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, magic,
drug use Pairings: 6x3 is the main pairing. Will update
side pairings as needed. Summary: In a frozen land, magic
is difficult to find, and those blessed with the ability are often
cursed. AN: Yes. ANOTHER WIP from me. If you've followed me, you understand. This is something I do. Also, the premise of this is heavily influenced/inspired by Uprooted by Naomi Novik.
"Chosen"
Chapter One Nanashi - Trowa, he reminded himself. I'm Trowa, now - was thrown onto a hard, cold, stone surface. He stayed down, cheek pressed to the stone, as he tried to get his bearings. They were certainly no longer in the guild hall. Certainly nowhere Trowa had ever been before. All around him were signs of wealth, of power. Things that the guild hall hadn't had in centuries - maybe not ever. Tapestries decorated the walls, while thick, plus carpets covered most of the floor. They were, Trowa guessed, in some sort of entrance hall. The war mage lived in a cliffside fortress, so the rumors went, filled with the bribes and gifts of those who wished for his intervention, and those who feared him. The sharp, precise staccato of well-made boots rang in Trowa's ears. He tilted his head and saw the war mage, still clutching his arm, striding swiftly away from the spot where Trowa lay. "Otto!" the mage bellowed. He looked over his shoulder, and though most of his face was obscured by the silver hood he wore, the man's cruel lips were twisted into a sneer that conveyed his utter loathing. "Get up," the mage snarled, and crossed to Trowa in three long, furious strides. Trowa grabbed the hand that latched onto his shirt, but the mage was stronger, and pulled Trowa to his feet. "You utter fool. Do you have any idea what you've done?" Trowa met the glinting, silver gaze, barely able to make out the mage's eyes through the hood. In truth, he had no idea what he had done, or even why he had done it. Biting the war mage, instead of offering him the kiss of peace? It had been foolish. It should have been the last foolish thing Trowa had ever done. But the war mage hadn't killed him on the spot. Then again, if the rumors were to be believed, he was saving that for some dark ritual that would drain Trowa's body of life and magic. He felt his lips curve into a sneer of his own. Too bad for the war mage. Trowa didn't have any magic for him to drain. That knowledge fueled his defiance, and after a moment of glaring down at him, the war mage made a disgusted sound and shoved Trowa away. "My lord?" They both turned at the new voice. The liveried man was tall, his brown hair an unwieldy crop of tight curls around his head. "Otto, please take our guest to his quarters." The man, Otto, looked at Trowa with poorly-concealed disdain. "This is the journeyman?" "So it would seem," the mage muttered. He once again turned away from Trowa, this time stalking from the hall, cape angrily swishing behind him and boot steps echoing and then receding. Otto shook his head. "At least you're powerful, huh?" he gestured to the scars on Trowa's face. Trowa ducked his head. The scars had marked him for as long as he could remember, a cruel joke that would never cease to taunt him. But Trowa couldn't contradict Otto. Not when he was masquerading as the most promising journeyman mage the guild had produced in decades. Instead, Trowa just arched an eyebrow, adopting the expression he had seen on Trowa's face more than once. "The war mage instructed you to take me to my quarters." Otto stared at him for a long moment, and then barked out a dry laugh. "Oh yes, he did, your lordship. Please, allow me to take you there." Trowa didn't remark on the sarcasm, and he fell into step just behind Otto. He was led through several corridors, up a flight of stairs, then another, and when Trowa paused to look out of one of the narrow windows, he gasped. They were high on the cliffs, with nothing but the cruel, gray ocean stretched out before them and the dark, angry clouds of a winter storm brewing overhead. Desolate didn't even begin to describe it. Otto finally came to a halt, opening a narrow wooden door, and gestured for Trowa to step inside. "Your quarters, my lord." Trowa gave him a dark look at the continued, sarcastic use of the title, but he stepped past the servant and into the room beyond. It was, without a doubt, the largest and grandest room Trowa had ever been in. The furnishings were exquisite - a sturdy, four poster bed with rich, brocade curtains pulled back to display a luxurious full mattress and fine linens; a gleaming desk and a leather-backed chair; a tall wardrobe inlaid with intricately-detailed carvings; a polished chest at the foot of the bed; thick carpets on the floor; brilliant tapestries on the walls; a fire in the huge stone fireplace. "This is mine?" Trowa couldn't help but ask. Otto smirked. "Oh - is this not to your lordship's tastes?" "I'm no lord," Trowa finally snapped. "Right you are," Otto replied, stepping into the room and crowding Trowa against the mantle. He could feel the fire's warmth against the backs of his legs. He glared back at the servant, refusing to be cowed. "There's one lord here, and you'd do well to remember that. And to learn some manners." Trowa continued to glare. The Trowa would have unleashed a torrent of threats and sputtering magic at any servant who presumed to lecture him. Otto made a sound of distaste. "You will be fetched for the midday meal, sir." Otto gave a sarcastic bow, and then left, slamming the door shut behind him. Trowa waited for the sound of a bolt being thrown, but there was none. After a few moments, he crept over to the door and tried the handle. The door swung open easily. That was... unexpected. As was the room. It wasn't, Trowa couldn't help but think, the place you kept someone you intended to murder. But if it had to do with magic, if it was anything like the tedious, arcane rituals of the guild, then perhaps this was part of it. Perhaps, as some sort of sacrifice, Trowa had to be cared for in this manner? He had done his best to avoid the mages when they were at work in the guild, staying outside in the gardens as much as possible, coming indoors only after the evening meal, when the chill of winter was too great for him to remain out of doors after dark. Judging by the sun's position over the horizon, there were several hours yet until the midday meal. Hours that Trowa could spend in this gilded prison, or hours that he could use to escape. He didn't know what was in store for him - perhaps the war mage was simply waiting until after the meal before he killed Trowa? - and while the idea of food held no small measure of appeal, Trowa didn't want to squander this opportunity. So, he looked around the room, opening the chest and wardrobe and desk drawers, and found precious little that would be of use to him. A small dagger, which he shoved into his boot, a thick quilted shirt that he pulled on over his own rather threadbare garment, and a leather satchel. The rest of the items in the wardrobe - fine trousers, velvet jackets, brocade vests, linen undershirts - were less than useless. As soon as he had rearranged himself, Trowa eased out of the door and down the hall. He had tried to keep track of the path, when Otto led him up to the room, but even so, he quickly grew lost. Deeper into the bowels of the fortress, where none of the brilliant furnishings covered the dark, worn stone of the keep, where the chill of the winter sea steeped into the rocks and Trowa's bones. He kept going, though, the niggling sense that this way was the way pushing him onward. Trowa had learned, over the years, to trust his instincts. After what felt like hours of stealthily creeping along, Trowa came to a large, bolted door at the end of a corridor. He ran his hands over the age-smoothed wood and pressed his ear to it. Silence, still and dark. And then a sudden roar, a swell and crash and then the fading roll of anger. The ocean. Feeling his stomach curdle with fear, Trowa eased the locks free and swung the door open. What lay beyond was a massive cavern, open to the ocean at one end, allowing waves to pour in and pound against the outcroppings of rock. Trowa, standing on a precipice overlooking it all, saw a narrow path that led from his position down, lower and closer to the level of the water, to a sturdy dock and a handful of moored sloops. Another wave crashed into the cave, setting the boats to frantic dancing and Trowa's stomach to protesting. He hated the ocean. Had never, ever been this close to it. There was no way he could pilot one of those boats out of the cave - not at high tide, not ever. He looked again towards the mouth of the cave, eyes roving over the structure. Trowa swallowed hard. He could climb. He could scale the rock walls and work his way to the outside and- and hope that the exposed cliffside would have enough handholds for him to escape. That, or he would no doubt die. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was this or whatever nightmare awaited him back in the mage's keep. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Trowa had the chance to determine his own fate, the chance to be free. He swept the fur-lined cloak from his shoulders and tried to shove it into the satchel. It was too large, the lining too full, and the seams of the bag bulged and strained in protest with only half the cloak stuffed inside. With a grimace of regret, Trowa left the cloak on the floor at his feet. There was no way he could scale the walls with it around his shoulders, and while the warmth would be sorely missed, he couldn't risk it. Another deep breath, another slow exhale, and he forced himself to begin. By the time he made it to the mouth of the cave, his arms felt rubbery and weak, his thighs burned, his hands were blooded and scraped, and he was soaked, perspiration and the ocean swells working against him. If he managed to climb the cliff face, he would need to light a fire and warm himself as soon as possible. If. The furious ocean lept up, clawing at his feet and legs, making it all but impossible to find secure purchase. Trowa clung to the rocks and felt the bitter prickle of despair. There was no way. This was impossible. He was going to die here. Alone and forgotten, battered and drowned, bearing a dead man's name. Defeat choked him, stealing his strength and breath, and Trowa pressed his forehead to the rough, cold cliff. He felt tears prick his eyes as a fierce wind pushed and pulled at him, cold and sharp, leaving him gasping and sobbing. Beyond him, the ocean stretched out, gray and ceaseless, with small whitecaps dotting the desolate canvas. There was nothing, as far as he could see. No hope, no warmth. Unbidden, the memory of spring rose to his mind. Fragile stems breaking through the snow-cover, younglings stumbling to their feet under a mother's watchful eyes, blossoms unfurling for the first time under Trowa's fingertips. He would have liked to see another spring, to feel the sun warm on his face. No. He would see another spring. He would not die here, not now. Not after he finally had the chance to escape, not when freedom was this close, not when he could, at last, finally be his own man. If he did this, if he survived, he would be no one's boy ever again. For as long as he could remember, Trowa had struggled to survive, had had the good fortune to be amusing enough to capture the attention of a wandering bard and had travelled with the man for years, until a band of mercenaries had come upon them on the road one night and murdered the bard. The captain had decided Trowa had some worth, had decided he could be his boy - made to fetch and clean and serve the captain's needs. More years, more travel, until the mercenary group had taken a job that was far too ambitious, until they had been nearly wiped out, until only Trowa and the captain had been left alive, and even then, only just. And then, of course, the gardener had found them, an ancient, wiry mage who knew herbs and had the skill to heal them both - in exchange for Trowa. So he became someone else's boy, serving the gardener, travelling with him back to the far north of Mercansia, to the frozen, forgotten duchy on the northern coast, and he fetched and he cleaned and he served. Until Trowa Barton tried to make Trowa his boy too. The memory of that night - of last night - unleashed a dark, caustic swell of rage deep inside Trowa. His sobs turned into a furious, primal roar. He would not die here. He would see spring. He would be free. Trowa forced himself to move, forced himself to claw his way free from the cave, forced himself to keep going, forced himself to climb, forced himself to feel none of the pain, none of the fear. He would be free. He would see spring. He would not die here. And then, Trowa was reaching up for a new hand-hold and found nothing. He tilted his head back and tried to lever himself upwards. And cried in relief. He was there. He had made it. Trowa hauled himself over the edge and fell down, panting and empty, and tried to breathe. He was free. He would see spring. He would not die here. "Where the fuck did you come from?" Trowa rolled over onto his back and squinted up into the bright winter sky. A man dressed entirely in rags, scraggly hair and beard hanging in clumps, held a rough wooden staff pointed in Trowa's direction. His eyes were cloudy white, and magic crackled along his fingers and over the staff, lunging through the air towards Trowa. -o- TBC ~ * ~ |
