"Travellers: I Remember"

Written By: Karina

Pairings: Zechs + Duo

Ratings: M 15+ [In Australia] Rated for a bit of violence.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or the characters.

Warnings: Extremely AU. Use of magic and a bit of violence.

Many thanks to ShenLong for her work betaing this fic.

Originally written as a birthday present for Dark Song, Travellers will continue with occasional updates as a succession of complete one off style fics. Not sure how many of these there will be, but while the muse wills it, there will be the occasional Travellers update which, I hope, those of you who asked for more will enjoy.

Summary: A look into Duo's origins.

"Travellers: I Remember"

Some people could sleep anywhere but in the case of his companion, curled tightly beneath the ragged cloak and tucked as far back beneath the overhang as he could possibly get, he really could not complain. It had been a long and eventful night and he well knew the use of magic was tiring. Magic such as his companion could wield was diminished by the simple use of the descriptive `magic'.

There was magic and then there was MAGIC.

How many years had passed since they had teamed up? They were more than a partnership, each a part of the other, linked at the soul. It was why they worked so well together. Why he had been chosen to be what he was.

Shield.

It was why he had been born.

So very long ago their story had begun and the smell of the burning castle across the valley brought back memories. It might have been yesterday and this rock overhang could almost be mistaken for the one that sheltered him and a different set of companions that fateful day when destiny called and brought him to his companion.

His heart's reason for beating.

The overhang might have been the same, but that rock overhang was half the world away and in the midst of a ruined city that once had been splendid. Even then, a thousand years ago, the city had been nothing more than a legend; even its name had been lost in time to all but the most avid of scholars.

He had run through its debris strewn streets, through its rubble that once had been buildings of great beauty and demons had dogged his heels whilst confusion clouded his mind and his heart ached at his abandonment of the battle.

He had wanted to believe…

———————————————————

Huddled under the overhang, grasping greedily for what meagre protection it offered in keeping the howling wind and driving rain from them, he inched a little closer to the meagre warmth of the low burning fire.

There were not many of them left, and of the six he was the only one relatively unscathed. Just a few minor wounds. He had been lucky. He would not have lit the fire but he would not have them die in darkness, prey to the demons stalking the ruins. These were good men and if they were to die, as die he knew they must, he wished them to see the light and think of The One and know there was a paradise awaiting them.

But after all this time he was very tired of fleeing into dark nights ahead of monsters that should not exist.

The rocks and rubble sheltered them from the wind, which in turn sheltered them from the full force of the roar of the burning castle and the periodic bursts of Old Magic that rent through the demons' ranks. The fight might last the entire night through and he should be up there, helping the defenders, but instead he was here, watching as his men died of their wounds and waiting for something to happen.

But the Shield and the Lord had said his destiny lay here, amidst the ruins, and that it was time. It was time for him to stand to face his destiny and he no longer would need to run from the demons who seemed to pursue him across the face of the world.

The first time they had entered his life he had been nothing more than a child of six winters. He could still remember the night, hiding, terrified `they' would find him. Terrified of dying, of being torn to pieces and being devoured by the night horrors.

He had learned no one believed the devils were real… until it was too late for them to run and hide. Old wives stories they said, stories to frighten a child into obedience. Stories sprouted by the Church to gather more power to those who stood high within its sanctified protection.

He had heard it all, every possible excuse for not believing the creatures were real.

But he knew they were real.

He had known it then, young as he was, before they had attacked the orphanage and destroyed his life, taking away from him his friends and the old priest who had cared for them all. He had listened to the stories told by the old man who had come one day, a traveller bound for the distant city. The old one had told entertaining stories, some to make the children laugh and some to make them fear and be thankful for the protection of the Church.

`They were safe on sanctified ground, fortunate they were, but beware for the darkness walked abroad and they would come in the night. One would rise to fight them, to be a shield for his fellow man, to learn the myriad of wonderful mysteries the world hid from all but the most daring and brave.'

The old man had seemed to be looking at him, talking directly to him, and he remembered the words long after the traveller had left.

The beasts, the devils, the `things' that came in the night… had destroyed all that he knew.

It was the not the last time he had run, merely the first of many times. He had been running from them all his life, and why did he think running this time would save his miserable hide? It was not his destiny to run this time.

He had become a wanderer, a traveller, since that awful night when he witnessed his friend's deaths. Torn apart, devoured… He had been a nobody wandering the roads, a wretch of the lowest order… and he felt not much more than that now.

War had been his salvation. The small, bloody wars fought between the Lords meant soldiers were always needed, and soldiers were fed and clothed by their liege lord. His first piece of armour had been a crudely padded sack with head and arm holes and his weapon had been nothing more than a green oak staff cut fresh from the nearby forest.

He had not even been afraid.

What was there to fear from wading into a battle between men when one had survived the horrors of the night beasts? He had found a kind of power in himself that first battle when he had discovered that if he hit the men coming at him, screaming like banshees in their fear of dying, each and every one of them intent on killing him just so they might stay alive and eat another meal, sleep another night, live another day… If he hit them they tended to fall down and stay down. It was he who survived to breathe and eat.

It had been a surprise at the end of that terrible day, to find himself alive; covered in blood and stinking of other men's guts and his own shit. He had been terrified but they had all moved so slowly and really, other than voiding his bowels as somewhere in the chaos of battle, two men had came at him screaming for his death… it seemed he had killed their brother… he was unharmed.

Alive and unharmed, just very, very tired.

At some time during the fight he had lost the quarterstaff he had been given and picked up someone's discarded sword, a rude, rusty thing, but still capable of dealing death.

His survival had been noted by the Lord, the one he had signed up with for the space of three years… if he should survive that long in service to the Lord he would be given a letter of recommendation and a purse of thirty silver coins. He would, thereafter, be free to go on his way should he so choose. His Lord had been pleased, very pleased in fact. He had found himself taken from the ranks of the survivors and handed over to the training master.

"So you are the one, eh? Thin, weedy little runt you are. Sure they didn't make a mistake? You don't look like much of a fighter to me."

But he had been trained and the man had been anything but kind. He had, however, been very good at his profession and, combined with attention from the Weapons Master, by instruction from their Lord, he had made a fighter out of the ragged peasant boy who had simply been trying to survive.

It was the start of his long road as a soldier of fortune, a mercenary, culminating at this point where he hid under a rock overhang in a haunted ruin. He was hiding and afraid the devils would, this time around, manage to kill him even as he was furious he was not up at the castle defending the Lord.

His had been a long life steeped in blood and guts, and in his knowing that he could not forever elude the Reaper - yet he had. For how much longer could he defy death? One day he would not be able to avoid that killing blow in battle, either from his fellow man or from the dark horrors that seemed to hunt him. On that day he, like so many before him, would pass into the Reaper's care and hopefully, if he had lived justly according to the laws of The One, he would be passed into the paradise provided by the One for those who were true to his credo.

`Some men in this world are born to live and die by the sword. You are one of those men, Maxwell.'

`I was not born into this world with a sword in my hand. I might have been a farmer's brat and grown to be a farmer. I would have liked to care for the land; to grow crops and sit and watch the sun set.'

`Not you, my friend. You were born to wield a sword. None does it better.'

Vorland was dead, like so many others. He had died thirty years ago after the battle in Hastings field, a spear through the gut, and it had taken him a week to die. Gut wounds were always the worst and they had had no decent Healer, only an old herb woman who had shaken her head, drafted him up to sleep and gone to patch up another with more chance of survival.

He was tired of living whilst others died around him.

Why did the sword always spare him? He should have been dead a hundred times over in his blood filled life, but here he sat, tossing sticks into a fire threatening to blow out with every stray gust of wind that made its way around the overhang.

Five of them now. At least Humphry's had died in his sleep, and with his boots on. The young fool had said that was what he had wanted when he had signed up with the Lord, twenty two years ago at the tender age of sixteen. Like him, an outcast from society just trying to stay alive. He'd been good with an axe, but not good enough to escape wounds; not good enough to escape a blow that laid him low and left him to wait for death to claim him.

It came to everyone; that was what they said… everyone but him.

What made him different? Why was he still alive after all this time? Why was he still the way he was, looking to be in his prime, young and vital… when he was so bloody old?

He had thought he was doomed to wander the world, killing for petty lords and their squabbles. He had prayed there was something better to fight for. There had to be some reason why he led a charmed life. Was he charmed… or cursed? Was it a blessing from The One, or was he bearing a curse for some past sin of his own or his unknown father, or his father's father?

Why was he still alive after two hundred and fifty years?

Man was not meant to live this long. It was unnatural and he was careful to keep moving, to hide how he did not age. Never more than a five year term of duty with one lord… never returning to a region unless a generation had passed lest someone recognise him. Never any more than five years…until he had come to this last Lord.

This one had looked at him with old eyes from a young face… and he had actually `looked' at him. Looked and recognised eyes as old as his in a face as young as his.

`Maxwell, you say your name is? There is a place here for you, Sir Maxwell. You are welcome.'

"I am no knight, My Lord, I am just a soldier seeking a place to call home for a time.'

`I beg to differ, Sir Maxwell. You are indeed a knight of the greatest order of knights, and I have waited a long time for your coming. You will join my standing army, Sir Maxwell, and you will teach them what you may. A Weapons Master and veteran of many battles such as yourself will have much to impart to them. Here you may rest until it is time."

`Time, Lord Khushrenada? '

`Time for the moon to walk and the darkness to be vanquished by our light. Welcome home, you who will be the Moon's Shield.'

He had no idea what the strange young Lord with the too old eyes meant, or why he should be greeted so kindly by the man. But there was something there that called to him, something about the Lord that drew him. Something he had never felt before. Something…

`Who are you, Lord Khushrenada? '

`A remnant of the past and a defender of the future. I stand as The One's Shield Arm and, at this time, I am the Moon's Guardian. The time draws near when you will find your destiny.'

After twenty five years residing in the household of the Lord Khushrenada he still did not understand, and following that initial meeting the Lord had answered no further questions. He had opened his castle and accepted the traveller in a way no one else had done in all his long years. Nor was the Lord Khushrenada the only one there, in that castle now burning with demon fire on the ridge above the vale, who had looked upon the world with old eyes in a young countenance.

The Lord Khushrenada' s Shield had tested him on a daily basis, the pair of them growing stronger in their skills as they sparred. Heero Yuy had been intense, mostly silent, deadly with every weapon imaginable and fiercely protective of the Lord Khushrenada.

`Heero is to me as you will be to the Moon. In time you will understand, Sir Maxwell.'

After twenty five years he was still waiting to understand and becoming heartily fed up with it too. But if living to be over two hundred taught one anything, it was how to be patient.

And how to envy a man a magnificent weapon.

The first time the demons had attacked Castle Khushrenada he had witnessed a miracle. He knew no one else saw it as such, but he was sure of what he saw and what it was. A miracle. He had always wondered why Heero never drew the sword at his hip, a hilt of gold and blue gems, tied by an elaborate knot of silk cord to prevent its being drawn.

Duo had long envied Heero that blade though he had never seen it in its entirety. Never drawn, always tied with red cord and never spoken of. Yuy ignored his questions, bowed and would move away until he had learned not to ask after the sword. When combat was required Yuy had used the heavy, two handed sword strapped to his back, itself a magnificent blade, deadly beautiful when wielded by the man who bore it.

Until the day the devils had appeared, five years ago, only the great double handed blade had been drawn in Duo's sight.

The monsters had come in the night, as they usually did, but this time the kill did not go their way. This time, somehow, Lord Khushrenada had known they were coming and the castle was prepared.

`You will need a sword that can slay devils, Sir Maxwell. Until the Moon presents you with your blade, accept this as substitute. I assure you, it will slice a devil's hide.'

Light in his hand, magnificent in appearance, it was the sort of weapon fit for a king to wield. The quality of workmanship matched the great two handed sword Yuy wielded. He had been awed by the gift and stunned at how well it could cut the devils hide, but he barely had begun to defend the castle when the knot had been slipped from that other sword.

The blade that was drawn was long and straight, the metal golden in the torchlight, but it had not remained the gold of reflected light for more than a moment. Lord Khushrenada had merely touched it, his hands shining with light, his fingers shimmering as though rings circled each finger… and he had glowed. One touch and the sword had blazed with green light, burning bright in the night and Yuy had advanced two paces to stand before his Lord.

It was his introduction to magic. Real magic, not the petty spells and incantations and the herbal brews mages and healers used. This was something else and they cut through the demons like a hot knife sliced through fresh butter. How he had fought off the horde and still witnessed so much of the magic he did not know, but he saw it all and he marvelled… and at the end the Lord had looked at him and smiled as the magic faded away as though it had never existed and the knot was tied, once again, around the magnificent sword.

`They will be back, Sir Maxwell, and you must be ready for when they return. They have found us now and I can not leave this place until the Moon walks free. Five years, I would think. They will gather as many of their kind as they can in that time and come to this place to rend us. When it comes, as come it will, and I tell you to go, you will go. You will do exactly as I say and this world will be well defended in the dark time to come.'

He had walked away without another word, bone aching tired, he could see that, but the Lord's back was ramrod straight and his spirit was high.

`We practise at dawn. You need to be ready for that day.' Yuy had bowed to him, a strangely formal bow, and his eyes had still been alight from the fires that had raged within his sword.

Dawn and dusk every day they had fought, each day becoming more intense and always the Lord Khushrenada had watched them, nodding in satisfaction when he could fight that little bit longer and that little bit fiercer each time.

Were they dead now? They had survived the initial conflagration that had come down upon the castle and ripped it open like an overly ripe fruit, but were they still alive now? It seemed the sky lit up with lightning in answer to his unvoiced question, and it was no effect of nature but of magic. Magic of the kind only the Lord Khushrenada had been able to wield.

`It is time for the Moon to rise.'

The Lord had been smiling even as he stared into the unnaturally dark night. They had gathered about the castle, an army of the horrible things that had haunted his dreams since his childhood. They had gathered and howled at the walls keeping them at bay, and the night had exploded into fire… and he had been sent away!

`You will go through the rear gate and down the cliff path into the vale, taking these ten men as escort. You will go down into the ruined vale and you will find there the means by which to awaken the Moon.'

He had not understood why he was being sent from the fight and Yuy had shaken his head at his protests, silencing him with a look, a heavily gloved hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

`This is your destiny. It is what you were drawn here for. Go down into the ruins.'

`Follow the path that will open to you, Sir Maxwell, and there you will find the Moon.'

`But you need me here!'

`Meet your destiny, Sir Maxwell, and become what you were born to be. Then shall you understand what and who you are. The One calls you to be the Shield of the Moon as The One once called Heero to become my shield. Go.'

And here he was, sitting by a dying fire with five men barely breathing at his back and the darkness gathering about them… wondering what the hell he was supposed to do next. The paths had all led here, to this overhang in the centre of the ruin, and he still had no idea what he was to do.

Rubbing at his face he wished he did not feel every day of his age. He ached, body and soul. His had been a long life and he was certain it would end this night. They had barely made it into the ruins and he was the only hale body amongst the survivors. Two of them might be able to defend this position for a few minutes, but if the horrors came in force, as he knew they would, they would die.

"Sir Maxwell?"

"What is it?" He turned, looking to the youngest of them, knowing it was the one who was blinded, his face a mass of burned flesh from demon fire.

"What is that light? And the warmth… it's wonderful."

Delusional. Hallucinating from the wounds he had sustained. It would probably be a kindness to a fighter such as this man had been to slit his jugular and end his misery. A kindness, but one he was tired of having to perform time and time again.

"It's just the fire, Bryce. Rest yourself now."

"The fire? It does not look like fire to me, Sir Maxwell. It's… it's like magic."

?

There was indeed light and it was coming from the wall at their back! Why had he not noticed before? The overhang was the remnant of an ancient building. Overgrown and in the darkness it had seemed the best place of their few options to rest and wait for the hour of moonrise. It certainly had not been glowing and emitting warmth when they had stopped here to rest after making a fourth circuit of the maze the ancient streets had become.

There was a doorway, the light was pulsing gently, filling his sight; an opening in the wall before him. He knew it had not been there just seconds before. This was indeed magic, the kind of magic he termed `real'. The sort of magic no hedge wizard, or learned mage, could perform despite a life time of studying. He could feel it rising and resonating in his bones and it was calling to him, singing to him, urging him…

To come.

"You had best hurry along, Sir Maxwell. We shall rest here. It was a pleasure to serve under you, Sire. Mayhap, one day, we might serve you again."

He barely heard the voice of his companion, so enchanting was that whispering song, but he was a commander of men who valued the lives of his men and he had seen enough death. He needed to protect his men, this light and sound would draw the devils and they would be slaughtered, unable to defend themselves.

"You can go through…"

He had moved? He was in the doorway and staring down a brilliant light that went on forever and, strangely, did not hurt his eyes. It was bright, glorious and it sang to him.

Turning he saw the overhang was gone and a room filled with soft radiance surrounded his men. They were sleeping, each relaxed, and was it his imagination the burns on that young face were healing?

He blinked and found himself walking, drawn inexorably into the light. The fleeting thought that he needed to return to the castle and help defend its walls was blown gently away by a light breeze; a zephyr of sweet scented moonlight caressing his face…

And he stood within a shadowed hall; half seen shapes surrounded him, whispers everywhere, all talking about him, all whispering his life's exploits, dragging out into the open his every waking thought, his every dream, his every nightmare. The whispers grew into a cacophony of sound that threatened to burst his eardrums, but something told him to endure it. To stand tall and strong and to wait and show his courage.

`He killed men. Many men that day…'

`What did it feel like to kill so many men?'

`We are...'

`What had they done to you…'

`To make you turn on them and kill them as you had?'

"Here you are then…'

`He cried as a baby. Should a hero cry even so young?'

"We are quite…'

`Should a hero cry at all?'

`The best hero's cry."

`I have not cried in so long…'

`He howled like a banshee…'

`This is the best four hundred generations can produce?'

`Four hundred generations of peasants!'

`I see courage and strength of limb.'

`Oh, fortunate one to shed a tear.'

`I see a raggedy `thing', nothing more.'

`Want to be a hero do you?'

`I see a survivor, strong and true.'

`Alone. Alone and afraid as he listens to our song…'

`I see… nobody…'

`Maybe a nobody can aspire to be a hero. Are there rules against it?'

`We are quite insane. It has been so long…'

`Too long have we slept.'

`We sing a song of insanity…'

`I grow so weary.'

`It would be good to lie down and find sleep.'

`I sleep all the time. There is nothing else to do.'

`Speak for yourself, I haven't slept a day in a thousand years.'

`Join us in the nightmare…'

`I would have thought for a Shield the one presented would be of the nobility at the very least, not this dross of the world.'

`Dross? Dross?! Is that even a word?"

`What is it, exactly?'

`Well, I would have thought that obvious. It is a man.'

`A man?'

`You mean… a human?'

`No. It's a dog.'

`Oh this is too much! A human?!'

`It was foretold the Shield would be human. Four hundred generations of human and the Shield would come.'

`But… a human! They smell.'

`Doubt you the Will of the One?'

`They stink of blood and guts and graveyard soil. From the day of their birth they reek of their death.'

`Everyone had bad days, even The One.'

`If He chose this offal then it was a very bad day!'

He thought he should be affronted, but curiously, he was unmoved. He had been called worse, after all. He had been born in a gutter somewhere, or maybe a stable, or perhaps in a shabby hut, if not a ditch by the road.

`Well, at least you acknowledge your gutter birth.'

He had survived his birth and poverty and he had survived the night of terror that set his feet on the road to the sword.

`Crawled into a hole and stuffed your fists in your mouth, didn't you?'

`Some hero.'

He had survived the training and the battles and the continual reappearance of the devils that ripped men limb from limb and devoured them.

`They rend and kill as you killed your fellow man. Think you better than they?'

`A killer is still a killer, no matter what race or species.'

He had survived assassins and magic gone wild in the hands of men who did not have knowledge enough to wield it.

`Think you so poorly of those who seek to use the Art?'

`Go down well that will.'

`At least he knows better than to try to use the Art himself.'

He had survived the sparing matches with Heero, and he had survived the conflagration that cracked the castle this night, and the run to the ruined vale.

`The rip grows wider, inches wide now and what dwells on the far side finds its way to this world with growing ease.'

`A dog of War.'

`A Shield for the Moon has been provided, are you to stand in the way of the will of The One?'

`It has been tested and it has survived.'

"It might have had a number of good days?'

`An old dog.'

`Oh please. Must you do this?"

"Of course."

"One must be certain.'

`An old dog who has fought and killed and survived.'

`Can you simply not have faith?'

`Where would the excitement in that be?'

`Not a dog…'

`We are not here to have excitement. We are not here to count the fleas on a dog's back.'

`It has fleas? Should it not be bathed then?'

`Are you trying to be funny?"

`Not a dog…'

`Well, I am the Court Jester.'

`It is not a dog, it is a…'

`Fool indeed.'

`A Wolf. It is a Wolf.'

`And I am the Knight General!'

`Be silent. Do you think we have all day?'

`Do you think the mortal world has the time for you to play these stupid games?'

`Four hundred generations of man have we waited to be forgiven our sins!'

`You play the fool even now.'

`The One forgive us, we have learned nothing. Four hundred generations of mankind and all that has been learned is insanity."

`He remains unmoved, unbending beneath the wailing and weeping.'

`A wolf.'

`He mourns the deaths of friend and foe alike.'

`As does a Wolf.'

`He is practical in that he knows to live is to survive until the next test tries one's soul.'

`No, no. It is `to survive is to live until the next time one's soul is tested'.'

`As does the Wolf.'

`The One's scales are balanced with this human's soul.'

`Do you wish to pass little human?'

`Join us and we can dance!'

`He has a nice length of leg.'

`I could feel those thighs gripping me. He would offer me a wild ride.'

`He is not a horse.'

`He is a wolf, I have told you. Wolves know how to survive. They know how to hunt, how to fight for what is worth fighting for… food, a mate, the right to breed… the right to survive. Is that not so, little human?'

He blinked in the silence, waiting. Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard the drip of water. The absence of light was profound, and he wondered if he had not become blind from the previous light. It was as though there had been no one brushing past him unseen, no one whispering, no one there in the darkness which had been made up of light.

`Dare you take that step forward?'

`Do not!'

`Die you will… if you do.'

`Take a step forward… and survive.'

`Step forward and die.'

What should he do? Should he move? Should he take that step? Was the footing under his feet even or rough? He might land flat on his face and would that not be wonderful if he did? He might step forward onto the blade of a sword, beneath the swing of an axe blade… or fall into a pit trap with spiked death below waiting to impale him. How long did he dare stand here before he dared to do… something.

`I must apologise, Duo Maxwell. Please, of your courtesy, step forward into the light.'

That sounded like an invitation to him, and it was a new voice, female, sounding incredibly sane after the screaming and sobbing and wailing of the Voices that had held him. How long had he listened to them? It felt like years… Well, taking a step forward was better than standing like a dummy wondering if he would fall on his face… or on his arse. Whichever it was to be, doing something was better than doing nothing. He took the step…

Summer breeze wafted gently across his face and he looked out over a beach, the ocean vibrant blue and stretching to the horizon. Silk curtains, white as newly fallen snow, blew gently in the breeze and framed the window through which he looked over the scene. The whisper of silk behind him drew him around, making him turn his back to the stunning magnificence of the view.

`Welcome, Duo Maxwell, to the forgotten city of Sanc. You have been named by a Catalyst as Sir Maxwell, Shield of the Moon. Are you prepared to take up your destiny and face the darkness of another world in defence of the world of your birth?"

She was stunning; long dark blonde hair and the most intense blue eyes he had ever seen. There was something otherworldly about her beauty, something powerful about her that simmered beneath the gentle smile she turned on him.

`I must apologise once again for the state of the wards guarding the entry to this place. Those who survived the span of time were perhaps not the brightest, nor the least bigoted, of my former subjects.'

"Ah, s'okay. Ma'am. I've been called worse than a flea bitten old dog before."

"I am sad to say, bigotry is alive and well in every age and in every world. Those who rise above its corruption are treasures to The One."

"Ah, not meaning to be rude and all, My Lady, but… where am I? And who are you?"

"You are nowhere. Standing in the midst of a ward that stands between one place and the next; this is where you are. I am a Guardian who is weary and am most pleased to make your acquaintance. Your presence here was foretold a very long time ago by the reckoning of your race… and even my own. I am a remnant of a time long past and I have waited in this place for the one who would come and relieve me of my burden. You are that one."

"So… Forgive me, My Lady, this is all new to me. What am I supposed to be here to do?"

Her feet were bare and the black gown of flowing silken thread trailed behind her, whispering of mysteries and magic as she crossed the white marble to take a seat at the window. The sea breeze played with her hair and he was reminded by her beauty that he stood before her filthy, bloody and battered from combat, yet she seemed not to notice his stink.

"I am hopeful you will pass from this hall to standing as Shield to one who was wronged a long time ago and who, though wronged grievously by his kin, stayed true and earned The One's favour. It is said that you are to be his Shield and it will be your duty to fight along side Him, even as you protect him from the Darkness that encroaches on your lands."

The blue eyes seemed to grow more intense as they captured him.

`You will be to him as Sir Yuy is to the Khushrenada, who is the Catalyst he serves. You, as once Yuy was chosen, are to be guard-stone, warrior and, I pray to the One, also friend to the Catalyst they call the Moon."

Duo considered the willowy woman for a long moment, fighting the urge to laugh in her face. She was quite serious. He could see that knotted sword and the power flowing through it when it had been unbound, could see the Lord Khushrenada standing behind Yuy and Heero standing there, tall and strong, confident. Solid… like a shield.

`Shield… to a Catalyst. That's what Lord Khushrenada is?'

`They are few. Only four have been born since the world's creation. Only four, men and women of rare strength and sensitivity graced with the fortitude of heart and soul required to bear so heavy a burden. Dark times come, Sir Maxwell, and one Catalyst and Shield walk the lands of your world at this time. They are sore pressed and the darkness grows in power with the tear in the world's fabric. Where one Catalyst and Shield struggle to save the people, two may better serve. It is time my brother was awoken from his slumber to once more walk the world.'

"I think I'm a bit lost here, Ma'am."

He felt the world was closing in around him, that the room was darkening and the breeze was picking up into something that might more accurately be termed a wind. It made it hard to hear her, harder to understand what it was she was saying.

`It is a long story and, alas, there is no time in which to tell it. The battle in the world beyond this place wears on and the foe is myriad. They must be taken down and such is their number that he you know as Lord Khushrenada can not succeed on his own.'

`I need to go back and help defend the castle.'

`The castle is already gone to ruin, my friend. It has served its purpose in defending the vale for four hundred generations of mankind. The rent between worlds grows larger, slowly, inexorably, but it grows. Ten thousand years ago the pride of my people birthed a tear in the fabric of reality and as punishment, rightfully, this city fell. The tear in reality grows stronger, wider and the darkness to be found on the other side leeches through into this world. It will decimate the world if it can not be stopped and only the Catalysts and the Knights that guard them can defend until the tear is sealed.'

She rose, proud and tall, turning to face him, her head back, eyes fierce and too blue.

`A thousand generations of mankind might you be required to serve as Shield. Perhaps more. Can you do this duty, Sir Maxwell? Will you serve The One and stand against the darkness? Will you bind yourself in blood to a Catalyst, living as he lives, dying as he dies. Can you stand firm to save your world?'

Yuy had told him he would know why he had been born, that he would learn who and what he was. He wanted to run in fear, to scream his terror of the duty she offered him. Two hundred and fifty years he had lived, a bare ten generations of mankind, and she offered him a thousand generations, perhaps more, before it would be done.

`Will it end? Will we win?'

`If none stand strong to defend, then no, there will be no salvation from the darkness.'

He could walk away. Suddenly he knew he could walk away and the death he had begun to look for would find him. He would finally be able to die.

`Will another come to be this Shield after me?'

Blue eyes shuttered and her head lowered as the wind began to whip the curtains wildly about the room and the darkness began to deepen. Beyond, down on the beach, the waves roared in, wind driven, crashing into the shore with a rhythmic roar. Thunder rumbled and lightning slashed across the sky.

"I will stand as Shield,… though I am not worthy. Are you sure it is me?'

"Treize thought so.'

`Treize?'

`Will you stand as Shield to the Moon, Duo Maxwell? Will you guard him at cost of your own life? Will you aid in the salvation of your race and this world? Will you accept into you the Will and the Word of The One?'

Drawing a ragged breath, dismissing the thoughts of a death he had thought he longed for, he nodded once, decisively.

"I will stand as Shield to the Moon.'

She curtsied to him, deeply and reverently and he could feel himself colour but he could not move, could not speak. Something held him in a vice while warmth enfolded him and grew to become a blazing inferno. The storm wracked room faded into brilliant light and passed to leave him standing in a cavern.

He could hear the drip of water somewhere beyond his field of sight. A soft radiance filled his vision, revealing the water at his feet and the island in the centre of the lake. The water itself seemed to radiate moonlight, and he was sure the light was that of a full moon riding high in the sky on a clear winter's night. Chill, magnificent. A light to see by, a light to remember the past; to hope for a better future.

A light by which to pray to The One for salvation.

There were standing stones on the island and each one pulsed with blue radiance. Slowly, steadily, pulsing like a heartbeat. He could feel it pulsing through his feet…

He was naked?!

Naked as the moment of his birth, standing on the shore of the lake and feeling through the soles of his feet the heartbeat of the stones. He was clean and his hair was unbound, flowing over his skin, reaching to his thighs, a chestnut cascade lit by moonlight.

`Take up your sword, Sir Maxwell.'

If she was there he could not see her.

The floor beneath him continued to pulse with the thrumming of the stones, and his feet moved without conscious direction from him. His feet knew where he was to go and he could do nothing but submit, feeling the song of the glowing stones vibrate through his blood and bones, drawing him closer.

There were six swords in the water, each resting upon a stone pedestal set in a circle. He stood within the circle, looking about him at the swords.

Six swords, but seven pedestals.

One column of stone was dark and silent; the pulse of the Standing Stones did not run through it as it did the other six. He knew the missing sword. He knew it as though he had witnessed it lying on the throbbing stone and knew it could be found bound by a silken cord and worn on the hip of another chosen to be a shield as he had been chosen.

A curved blade such as he had seen the desert folk wield, its hilt bound in silver and gold wire, a deep yellow stone set in the pommel.

A long, slender blade with a black leather grip and onyx lion's head, jaws opened in a snarl, ivory fangs bared as the pommel.

A long bladed sword, a slightly curving blade such as the golden skinned, dark haired people of the far Eastern mountains favoured; the hilt and guard fashioned to resemble a coiled dragon with fiery eyes.

A hand and a half sword, a ruby dark as any man's blood crowned the pommel of the sword and the leather grip was impressed with the design of a wolf's head. Fine chain links of gold and silver bound the cross-guard in an intricate pattern and the blade was long and straight.

A two handed sword with a massively heavy blade and flaring barbs as guard on the hilt. It was fashioned of dark metal that reflected the light, seeming to pulse with the stones song, its pommel a grinning skull with diamond eyes.

The last sword before him was a short, broad blade. Not a pretty weapon but functional and he distrusted its appearance. For all it looked shabby it was a master craftsman's work. It was plain of appearance and the squat hilt was marked by a single rune.

He was to choose a sword? His eyes ran again over the weapons and his feet moved him that little bit closer to the pedestals. One at the time he considered the swords and when he reached for the squat hilted sword his hand was rebuffed.

`Why do you choose a weapon which does not call to you?'

`I am not a Lord or a Knight to take a weapon fit for a King.'

`Humility is becoming in its place, Sir Maxwell, but in this place you must be true to your heart. The Will of the One must be obeyed. Take up your rightful weapon.'

He had to take up a sword? Not the sword he had thought might be his, which obviously was not his. The Will of the One? Well then, who was he to know the Will of the One? It would call to him would it? Then let the One choose for him.

Closing his eyes he turned himself around until he was sure he would not know which sword was where and then stilled, calming his heartbeat, listening. The sword would call to him? He would hear it…

Cool leather in his hand, a weight dragging at his shoulder muscles and he gripped the hilt more firmly with both hands, his feet automatically taking the ready stance. Hardly daring too, he never-the-less opened his eyes… The blood ruby filled his vision, the silver and gold chains in their intricate pattern… he knew, under his palm, there would be the impression of a wolf's head stamped into the leather.

This then was the sword that called to him.

`Release him.'

The seven pedestals, five now holding swords and singing, two silent and empty, vanished before him. The song of the stones picked up and his eyes were drawn to the Standing Stones.

Him?

He walked through the water which seemed more like liquid moonlight; his eyes centred on the stones, listening to their call, feeling their song pick up a beat. The heartbeat was closer to his own now, rising from a resting rhythm to something approaching his own life beat. He should he afraid, he should be excited… should be…

This close he could see between the stones into the heart of the circle and his breath caught in his throat, his heart skipped the beat of the stones and then raced madly.

In moonlight, suspended between two pillars of stone in the centre of the circle, was a magnificent creature. He was not human, he could not be, but he was magnificent to behold. His hair seemed to be moonlight strands that flowed unbound over broad shoulders and a deep chest. He was slender without being thin, muscled without being roped and corded and bulky. He was, quite simply, perfect.

And he was chained.

Naked, his arms spread wide to either side, broad cuffs of silver connected by golden chains sealed to the pillars at either side of him. His long feet were bound by silver shackles that tied his ankles together and a golden chain ran from the shackles to a stone set into the floor of the circle.

They were not the only chains binding him. Each toe was ringed in gold, a rune or a gem distinguishing the individual rings. The finest imaginable chains of gold ran from each ring, six strands of chain in a twisted plait connected each toe ring to the bands of gold that circled his ankles and then ran up those incredibly long legs to connect to the golden ring that circled the base of his sex. The chains then ran from that band up and across the flat belly, across the muscle ridged abdomen to a single, wider chain made up of a succession of plaited chains each no wider than a human hair.

From the belly chain more hair fine chains extended up, across the muscled chest to connect to the band of gold encircling the slender column of his neck. Chains ran from the neck band down across the broad shoulders and over the muscled arms to the bands of gold at his upper arms, and thence down the length of those well muscled arms to the wide bands circling his wrists. From the wristbands more multi plaited, delicate chains cascaded the length of his hands to join the ten rings marking the fingers of his hands.

He drew a shaking breath, his eyes moving over every inch of the Catalyst suspended in the magic that enslaved him. He looked up, seeking the face of him and found his vision blocked by a fall of over long bangs covering the man's face, his head lowered as though in sleep. Through the strands of moonlight that made up his hair he glimpsed the glint of metal, and he suspected the Catalyst was crowned by a golden band such as he had seen the Lord Khushrenada wear when he released his magic.

His hands went to the ringed hands, hesitated, hovering over the chains extending up to the wrist bands. Beneath the clothes he had worn had that other man too been bound in chains? Did the Lord Khushrenada' s chains extend to his full body as this man's did?

`Release him.'

Release him? How?

His eyes examined the chains binding the man to the side pillars and to the ground. They exuded magic and he had always had a deep respect for magic. Indeed, after surviving a number of miscast spells he had a healthy fear of it… but this was different. This was old magic, properly cast, not some hedge wizard or mage who thought he knew great magic. This was the real magic that lived in the world, in every blade of grass, in every breath of air, in every creature… and he had no idea of how he was to deal with it.

Release him? No one had given him instructions on how to do this and it was assumed he would know?!

The vision hit with the force of a lightning bolt, the chill of it invading muscle and bone. He watched as he took up his sword and pierced the heart of the bound man, his blood flowing in a warm cascade over the sword, over him… Bathed in the blood of the man who was no man, he drank the hot blood from the stilling beating heart and felt the power fill him, feeling the life and the magic drain from the Moon and fill him with vitality.

The sword ignited into red flame, a flame so darkly red it was as if blood was wielded in his hand and he saw himself slay demons by the hundreds. They fell before him as he cut a swathe through their ranks, his name called in a chant from those who followed him, rushing into the battle to die on the claws of the demons.

`NO!'

No, no, he could not do that. He would not do that. He could not pierce that beating heart. He would not bathe in the hot blood and he would not drink it to gain that sort of power.

`I am not that MONSTER! I am supposed to be his Shield! I am supposed to keep him alive; guard him from harm. I will not shed his blood!'

`You are a soldier. You have killed countless times before.'

`I will not kill him.'

`He will be reborn again.'

`I… Will… Not… Do it!' The words tore from his throat, each word painfully distinct, backed by every ounce of the willpower he could claim.

`No? Then you condemn the world to fall to the darkness.'

"Well, it's a dark thing you ask, no darker than those beasts that tear children apart and devour them! I am no murderer. I kill in equal combat on the battle field, I do not skulk in dark corners and slip a blade between unsuspecting prey's ribs to find their heart. I do not kill from the shadows, nor do I kill for the sake of killing. I am no psychopath to glory in the blood of others. I have always tried to fight with honour and honesty, not with trickery and deceit.'

`The blade has been taken up. This is old magic, birthed in blood and fire and the Catalyst is no more than a receptacle for that magic. The sword is an extension of the magic and once drawn, it must know blood.'

`Then it will know mine and be sated!'

`Man, do you think you have the ancient magic within your weak blood and bones? Do you think your pitiful blood can fire the sword and release its powers? Do you think your polluted blood can seal its thirst? Think much of yourself you do.'

`I have no magic. I have nothing within me that will fire this blade and make it capable of killing those beasts that bring slaughter in the night. If it must have blood to be laid back down, then I will feed it mine and pray with my last breath that it goes back to where I found it.'

The throbbing of the stones filled his world, the pulse beat thrumming in time to his wildly beating heart.

`Very well. As your wish wills it, blood the sword and die. The Moon shall remain bound in chains as the world crumbles to ruin for want of able defenders.'

`Then so be it. I will not slay that which I am charged to defend.'

The light of the stones surrounded him and the song they sang was a cacophony that threatened to split his head asunder. Somehow he was suspended in the air before the blonde who had been named the Moon and the sword's tip rested against his chest; over his heart, between the strands of the chains. He could feel the sword desiring to drink, to draw blood, and he had broken the skin, a trickle of darkest crimson trailing over pale golden skin, smeared over the point of the sword.

"No! I will not!'

`It thirsts for a Catalyst's blood.'

It was hard to turn the blade aside. It fought him every inch of the way and that trickle became more than a trickle as he struggled, but he kept the blade from impaling the man. He would rule the sword, not have it rule him, and if it must have blood, if there was no way to avoid it, then it would drink his.

The pain as the blade pierced his heart was intense, enfolding him in agony…

But it would be brief.

A man could not live with a pierced heart for long, and his bones would rot away at the feet of one who did not deserve to be slain just to fire a sword's strength.

`Well done, Knight of the Shield, you who are indeed Shield of the Moon. Wake him.'

He stood within the stones, staring at the breaking chains; first at the left wrist, then the right wrist of the Moon. The shackles binding his feet were the next to fall aside and he was suspended only by magic, his arms falling gently to rest at his sides and the chains binding his body sang with awakened magic.

He was alive… somehow. Alive and his blood was on those chains, splashed over the broad chest of the Moon, mingling with the flow of blood from the wound he had given before he could turn the blade aside. When he looked his own chest was covered with blood, but there was no wound, only a scar where the sword had pierced his flesh. It was well healed and there was no pain.

He had pierced his own heart.

He raised stunned eyes to the Moon and reached out a trembling hand. That flesh was warm, alive, coursing with the heat and beat of magic. The blood, not his own where his hand touched, was hot with life and he ran his fingers over the wound, wishing with all of his soul that he had not been so weak and marked that pale golden flesh.

Weeping because he had been weak, aching because he had drawn blood and, whilst he had stabbed himself, he was now healed, but this man who had never done him wrong bled because of him…

He touched his lips to the open wound, his tears mingling with the blood, a hand pressed to warm flesh, his forehead to the broad chest.

"I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry.'

A deeper breath he felt through his palm resting over a dark nipple lifted the deep chest. The chains were alive with magic, singing, and he wondered that he was not burned to a crisp so hot was it this close to that ancient power.

He watched with widening eyes as the blood crawled and shaped into runes, running over the naked body so close to his. The wound closed, healing to a faint scar before his astonished gaze, and the growing intensity of the magic burned the blood from them both, bathing them clean in its light.

Their hair mingled, blown crazily by the currants of magic, knotting together, blowing free… chestnut and spun moonlight entwining.

He was surprised to realise the sword rested between their bodies, naked flesh pressed to naked flesh and he could feel the hot metal of the sword, the scalding enchantment of the chains. Blue flame blazed between them, pure and intense; alive.

Gasping with the wonder of it all he looked up…

Into crystal blue eyes.
———————

Dawn lay on the horizon, the first, faint lightening of the day beginning to banish the horrors of the night. The castle still burned on the far side of the valley and he wondered if anyone had survived to see the dawn. Perhaps someone had survived to escape the inferno that had split the mighty walls and would run to another settlement, perhaps to a farmers hovel… somewhere where man still lived.

Run and warn of the horror, of the demons that had taken down the castle, butchered the people and decimated the lands about it.

It had not been like that other castle, the walls of which had been strengthened by enchantments cast by a Catalyst. Even so, Castle Khushrenada had cracked like an egg shell long ago and now, if anything remained, it would be a few bits of overgrown rubble. Twenty five years he had spent there, learning from Yuy and failing to understand just what a precious gift to the world a Catalyst was.

His eyes drifted, as they always did, to the man sleeping, tucked up between the guttering fire and the protection of the solid rock. With the sunrise they would move on, but they had a little time yet. He had a little time to marvel at the wonders he had witnessed in his long life, and at the treasures that had been gifted to an unknowing world.

"Is it dawn?"

He loved to hear that warm husky voice. Roughened velvet, smooth and deep. Rich with an accent that even after a thousand years had not changed. There were only a few alive in this day and age who would recognise that accent for what it was.

"No, Milliardo, not yet. We have time. I'll stoke the fire and cook us some breakfast.'

End

Karina Robertson 2010

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