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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 Two Trowa lost track of time and distance. He trudged through the snow, the thin linen of his work shirt plastered to his body from his own sweat and the salty spray of the ocean, and was now stiff and frozen. His boots had fared no better on the climb, the soft-soled leather ripped in several places, and with each step Trowa took he felt the cold prick of snow against his bare toes. Ahead of Trowa, tugging jerkily on the rope lead he had fastened around Trowa's wrists, the wild-haired man seemed entirely unaffected by the cold, by the relentless wind pushing against them, by the setting sun. The man had waited for Trowa to explain how he had come to be sprawled on the edge of a cliff, bloody and panting, and when Trowa had offered no explanation, frozen in fear at the crackle of the man's magic between them, he had sneered and dragged Trowa to his feet and secured his wrists. Trowa felt numb, from the cold, from his failure to secure his own freedom, from the realization that he was, once again, at the mercy of someone else. Someone who was clearly not sane. The man had been muttering to himself during the brisk trek, words too low for Trowa to make out clearly, and in a language that Trowa suspected was entirely of the own man's making. Every once in a while, he would look over his shoulder at Trowa, milky eyes roving over Trowa's shivering frame, and his lips would crack into a smile before he chuckled to himself and continued on. Trowa had fallen several times, stumbling in the snow, his muscles protesting nearly every step he took, and the man had simply jerked Trowa to his feet and continued on. It was dusk before they reached the scant cover of a forest, and the man's mutterings grew louder and more rapid as he navigated his way between the massive, soaring pine trees that grew around them. He stopped, finally, and shoved Trowa forward. Trowa hadn't been expecting the sudden halt or the jerk on his wrists, and he went sprawling face-first into the snow. He pulled himself up, gasping for air, face burning from the cold. The man cackled and kicked Trowa's rear. "Pick it up," he growled. Trowa had no idea what he was talking about, and he looked around wildly. Pick what up? He wondered if the man was hallucinating something, wondered if- The man kicked him again, and Trowa winced but bit back the hiss of pain that threatened to pass between his lips. "Pick it up," the man repeated. And then Trowa saw it. A snare was a few feet in front of him, partially hidden by a barren scrub bush. In the trap was a hare, still alive but only just barely. The man kicked him again, foot pushing Trowa in the direction of the snare, and Trowa crawled towards the struggling creature. Fearful, bulging eyes met his. Trowa had always had a way with animals, had been able to coax even the most feral of creatures to trust him and let him care for them. He reached for the animal, movements slow and steady. "Little one," he crooned, "stop struggling." The hare's movements slowed, though its chest continued to heave with strained breathing. Trowa's hands trailed over the soft fur, and the animal stilled completely. It turned its head, and Trowa felt the wet nose against his skin, felt the animal nuzzle at him, practically begging for help. Trowa's fingers found the snare, and he felt the warmth of blood where it had cut into the animal's skin. Gently, he pulled it loose, and caught the animal as it made a leap for freedom. The man laughed and plucked the shivering creature from Trowa's arms. In one swift motion, the man sliced the rabbit's quivering throat, and Trowa felt the spray of heat on his face and neck as the blood fell on him. The man laughed again and reached down, rubbing his thumb over Trowa's cheek, smearing the blood. "One for dinner, and one for dessert," the man cackled. He shoved the dead rabbit into Trowa's hands, and then roughly hauled him to his feet. They checked two more snares, but they were, thankfully, both empty. Finally, the man led Trowa towards a jumble of rocks that he recognized as the entrance to a salt mine. He felt a brief moment of hope. If there were miners- But no. As they neared, he saw the hanging leather curtain that separated the mine entrance from the frozen world and the spiked remains of small game, bodies exposed to the cold air and skins nowhere in sight. There were no miners here. This mine had long ago been abandoned, Trowa realized. And the mage who now held him captive had taken it over. The man came to a stop just beside the mine entrance, and he jerked Trowa down onto his knees. There were symbols carved into the rocks, figures of wild animals, scratches to count off time or something else, and as Trowa looked around the ring of dead animals, all missing their skin, he found his gaze drawn to the leather curtain that covered the mine entrance. Leather. Not fur. Trowa looked at the man again, at his crooked grin and milky eyes, at his leather cloak and leather tunic and leather leggings and leather boots. The leather was sewn together, large patches of it, the tan skin similar in color, but each patch slightly different, some a paler tone, some darker. It looked like no animal hide Trowa had ever seen before. Certainly not the hide of any of the animals on display around them. The man pulled the hare from Trowa's hands and tossed it onto the snow, and then grabbed at Trowa's ankles. Trowa hadn't fought before, had been exhausted and devastated and fearful of the man's magic. But he struggled now, kicking at the hands that reached for him. The man grunted and then growled, baring his teeth at Trowa, and then shouting at him in that strange language. Trowa landed a sharp blow to the man's left knee, and he went down with a pained cry. Trowa scrambled to his feet, tripping and twisting his ankle in the process, but forcing himself to rise and stumble away. He felt the man jerk at the rope, but Trowa pulled with all of his might, managing to yank free, and- Something connected with the back of his skull, sharp and large and- -o- The sky was a vast swath of jet black ink, millions of salt crystals strewn across it and blinking down at Trowa. It was beautiful, and the immenseness of it made Trowa feel infinitesimal and insignificant. He blinked and frowned at the uncharacteristically poetic thoughts, and he wondered what had happened to his earlier panic, his pain and fear and despair. His constant companions. Trowa moved his head to the side, shifting his gaze away from the endless night, and he felt a sharp, sudden jolt of pain in his skull. He winced and tried to lift his hands to feel the wound, but as he moved, his hands stopped, held in place by a rope. He felt a corresponding tug on his ankles. Dimly, he realized that he had been trussed up like an animal, hands and ankles bound together. He wondered if he would be strung on a pole and roasted over a fire. Trowa stopped trying to move his hands, and he instead tried to focus on his surroundings. He could barely feel his limbs - everything felt numb. He didn't know if that was from the cold, or if he had suffered blood loss from the head injury. Images of men crawling across battlefields, the last of the life draining from gaping holes in their flesh, filled his mind. He pushed the thoughts away. There was a fire, not far away, blue flames crackling over slender logs. He felt no heat at all from the fire, and he wondered at that. If the flames were hot enough to burn blue, then surely- The wild mage sat on the other side of the fire, milky eyes luminous in the blue light, and Trowa realized the fire must be some conjuring of his. The man's eyes met Trowa's, and his lips split into a toothy grin that made Trowa shudder. The man rose to his feet, and Trowa instinctively tried to move away, struggling against his bonds. But the rope that secured his feet and hands together had been tied off somewhere, and Trowa found that he could only roll to one side or the other. The mage approached, and he laughed at Trowa's futile struggles. He reached towards Trowa, and Trowa saw the glint of a curved blade in the man's hand. The mage grabbed the loose hem of Trowa's shirt, and Trowa swung his bound hands forward, knocking the mage's grip free. He growled and lashed out with the knife, the blade sweeping across the backs of Trowa's hands. Trowa ignored the sudden, fiery pain, and he tried to roll away from the next swipe of the blade. He felt the metal sink into his skin, pain lancing through him, and he screamed into the snow, his entire world white, hot agony. The blade was pulled free, and the mage rolled Trowa over. "Stop struggling, little one." The man's voice was a parody of Trowa's earlier attempts to soothe the hare. Trowa felt nauseous - at the words, at the pain, and he fumbled weakly as the mage drew his hand back again. He managed to block the blade, and he felt the sharp edge skitter across his knuckles, the flesh separating and crimson seeping from the wound and down to the rope around Trowa's wrists. "Little one," the mage growled as he grabbed hold of Trowa's wrists. "Little one," he repeated, and cackled at the grimace on Trowa's face. The mage used his grip on Trowa's wrists to haul him closer to the fire, and Trowa saw the smear of blood on the snow, a shadow leaking from his soon-to-be corpse. Trowa was dropped down beside the fire, close enough that one of the logs brushed against his shoulder. He felt heat, and he tried to roll away from it, but the mage put one booted foot on Trowa's chest, holding him in place. Looking up into the glazed eyes of the mage, Trowa knew that he was about to die. Knew that his entire life, one cage after another, was about to end here, in the snow, under the stars, at the hands of a wild mage who would peel the skin from his body. There would be no more spring. "Little one," the mage said again, and he rocked the ball of his foot on Trowa's chest in a mocking caress. Trowa grabbed at the foot, trying to throw the mage off, but the attempt was so pathetic and weak that the mage didn't even have to fight back. He just laughed and laughed and laughed. The mage gestured, flicking his fingers towards the fire, and cobwebs of blue sprang from it, surging through the air and dancing closer and closer to Trowa. He held his breath as the world became a translucent blue shroud as the fire surrounded him. The mage laughed once more, and then Trowa felt everything and nothing all at once as the fire sank into his skin. The pain was unimaginable, reshaping Trowa's entire existence into agony. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out, and Trowa lay there, open-mouthed, unable to breathe, unable to think. "Little one, blue suits you, little one." The mage reached down, unconcerned by the writhing flames, and brushed Trowa's cheek with his thumb. That single point of contact was immediately free of pain, and Trowa tried to focus on it, gasping for breath, leaning into the touch even though it made the rest of his body ache and his muscles tremble with effort. He closed his eyes as the mage laughed again, and he felt all of his despair and pain and rage well up, choking him, forcing its way onto his tongue, the taste of it acrid and bitter, and then Trowa screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed, and all around him blue turned into red, the color of his blood, and the mage's eyes widened, and then he too started to scream. But his cry was weak, and trailed off into choking gasps that turned into wet, gurgling coughs. He stumbled away from Trowa and fell to his knees, clutching at his throat. His eyes bulged, and he dug his fingers into the neck of his leather shirt and cape, pulling at them, straining to breathe. "Please," he managed to gasp, "little one, please-" Trowa's roar of fury drowned out the plea, and the red flames swept away from Trowa and surrounded the mage, twisting around his body, curling into his flesh and lighting his clothing on fire. Trowa tried to rise to his knees, but only managed to roll onto his side, away from the dying campfire. He watched as the mage writhed on the ground, trying to extinguish the flames as they consumed him. But the snow simply melted away under him, and the scent of burning flesh filled the still night air. Trowa shuddered in revulsion at the too-familiar smell. He thought of the real Trowa Barton, at the way his entire body had turned incandescent as fire consumed him, at the ash on Trowa's hand from where they had touched. Other thoughts tugged at him, distant and half-formed, nightmares that had haunted him for as long as he could remember. Screams of terror. Burning homes. Cries for help. Charred bodies. And the all-consuming feeling of helplessness and terror. Bile rushed up Trowa's throat and he heaved, clutching at the snow as he emptied the contents of his stomach, pain surging through his body with each wretch. Finally, the mage was nothing more than a pile of black and gray sludge among the melted snow, and Trowa's body was empty. He fell back onto the snow, once again on his back, once again staring up at the endless sky that was so far away. He was alone, and he was bleeding out into the snow, and he would soon be dead. Trowa drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and then coughed and groaned as pain radiated from his side and the wound from the mage's knife. He fumbled with the ropes around his wrists, but his hands were numb and clumsy and weak. He gave up. Looking up at the stars, he could just barely make out the shape of a dragon. That's the great dragon Mega. She watches over all of her children. She's always there, even when you can't see her. She loves you, my dearest. She'll protect you. Trowa had no idea where the words, where the soft, lilting woman's voice came from. A memory? A dream? Was he being welcomed to the afterlife? There was something familiar about the words and the voice. Trowa had heard them before. Trowa knew that voice. He tried to think, tried to focus on the tendril of connection, but it seemed to evaporate almost immediately, and Trowa was left with tears in his eyes. Alone. There was something peaceful about that, at least. He was, after all of this time, finally free. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. All it had taken was death to release him. The ropes continued to chafe at his wrists, and Trowa looked away from the stars and towards the remains of the wild mage. He could see the knife, just to the side. Trowa gritted his teeth and forced himself to roll onto his belly, forced himself to ignore the blinding surge of pain and, after a few excruciating, gasping attempts to breathe, he managed to prop himself up on his hands and knees. He crawled over to the knife, struggling to pick it up with his numb fingers. First, he cut the rope around his ankles, and then the bloody rope around his wrists. Now he was free. Now he could die. Laying back in the snow once more, Trowa took one last deep breath, able to ignore the pain from his wounds, able to simply be for perhaps the only time in his entire life. And then he felt a tug, the sensation of a rope jerking beneath his ribcage, of his very heart being yanked forwards. He cried out at the new and unexpected pain and clawed at the spot over his chest, desperate to be free of the sensation. But there was nothing there. No rope, no binding, nothing that would- The darkness of the night sky was suddenly awash with the brightest, purest light Trowa had ever seen. He blinked, and then squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught. "You're alive." Trowa slitted his eyes open, still wary of the light, but then his eyes flew open wide in shock. Standing before him, his face pinched with fear, was the war mage. The last thing Trowa felt were the mage's gloved hands cupping his cheeks. And then, mercifully, he felt nothing. -o- ~ * ~ Chapter 4 |
