Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Macbeth - A Squire's Tale ❯ Macbeth - A Squire's Tale ( Chapter 1 )

 

Macbeth - A Squire's Tale

 

By DRL

 

 

 

Quatre chafed his hands together and held them over the brazier. He had been cold for so long now that he had given up hope of ever being warm again. A year ago, as the fifteen-year-old son of a nobleman, he had jumped at the opportunity to act as squire to Duncan, the Scottish King, and in the course of his duties had been compelled to follow the King to war. He had hitherto led a sheltered life at his father's castle in the South and he soon found that he had no taste for the rigours of the battlefield. Some of the sights he had see since leaving the comfort of the castle had left him sickened and horrified and now he was both heartsick and homesick. He drew his cloak about him and looked around. The men were clustered about in groups, and the low rumble of conversation buzzed around the camp. The tension in the air was palpable, and the sense of anticipation increased as time passed.

 

 

 

Quatre looked over at King Duncan. True to his down-to-earth form, he had left his comfortable pavilion and was seated on the ground before a camp fire, among a group of his best warriors, which included his own sons Malcolm and Donalbain, as they all waited for news of the outcome of the three battles that were currently being waged in his name. The King, beset by treacherous enemies on three sides, appeared calm and confident as he spoke to the men. A wise and benevolent ruler, Duncan effortlessly won the loyalty of his men. As Quatre surveyed the soldiers seated around the camp, it occurred to him that there was not one man among them, himself included, who would not willingly lay down his life for this man.

 

 

 

Suddenly, amid the sound of thundering hoof-beats, a man on horseback rode into the camp. Grooms ran immediately to tend to the beast as the rider reined the lathered animal to a halt. The camp became a flurry of activity as the rider, filthy with dust and gore, dismounted and staggered towards the King.

 

 

 

“What bloody man is that?” The King exclaimed as he clambered to his feet. “He can report, as seemeth by his plight, of the revolt the newest state.”

 

 

 

“This is the Sergeant who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought `gainst my captivity.” Malcolm said excitedly as he rose beside his father. He crossed to the man and helped him to the cushioned seat that had been set out for the use of the King but which he had eschewed in favour of the hard ground. “Hail brave friend,” He said as he clapped the man on the shoulder, heedless of the blood and grime that covered him, “Say to the King thy knowledge of the broil as thou didst leave it.”

 

 

 

The man nodded but before speaking he took a deep draught from a canteen of water that had been pressed upon him. Having thus taken the edge off his thirst, he began.

 

 

 

“Doubtful it stood,” He said to his rapt audience, as everyone in the camp, Quatre included, had drawn near to hear the brave herald's report of the battle, “As two spent swimmers that do cling together and choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald…” An angry murmur greeted the name of this, King Duncan's mortal enemy, but the soldier held up a quelling hand and continued, “… worthy to be a rebel for, to that, the multiplying villainies of nature do swarm upon him - from the western isles of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied. And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, show'd like a rebel's whore. But all's too weak. for brave Macbeth…” Another murmur, but this time one of approbation, ran through the group at the name of Macbeth, the Thane of Glamis. The Sergeant nodded his agreement and continued. “… well he deserves that name - disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, which smok'd with bloody execution, like valour's minion, carv'd out his passage `til he fac'd the slave., which ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, til he unseam'd him from the knave to the chops and fixed his head upon our battlements.” A rousing cheer went up from the crowd at this.

 

 

 

“O valiant cousin,” King Duncan said approvingly, “Worthy gentleman!” The Sergeant reached again for the water bottle and drank deeply. He coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of a grimy hand, and continued his report.

 

 

 

“As whence the sun 'gins his reflection shipwracking storms and direful thunders break; so from that spring, whence comfort seem'd to come, discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had, with valour arm'd, compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels, but the Noweyan lord surveying vantage, with furbish'd arms and new supplies of men, began a fresh assault.”

 

 

 

“Dismay'd not this our captains Macbeth and Banquo?” The King asked apprehensively.

 

 

 

“Yes,” The Sergeant replied, but his smile was wry, “As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion.” The whole company laughed at the joke. When he once again had their attention, the Sergeant went on. “If I say sooth, I must report they were as cannons overcharg'd with double cracks; so they doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe: Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, or memorise another Golgotha, I cannot tell.” Suddenly he sagged in the chair and solicitous arms hastened to support him. “But I am faint,” He groaned, “My gashes cry for help.” King Duncan knelt at the man's side, concern etched on his patrician features.

 

 

 

“So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; they smack of honour both. Go,” He turned to Quatre, who had taken up a position near the King, the better to hear the Sergeant's report, “Get him surgeons.”

 

 

 

As Quatre departed on his errand, he heard the arrival of another horse. He stopped and looked back towards the sound and he saw that he recognised the rider. It was the Thane of Ross, another of the King's trusted Generals.

 

 

 

Quatre finally located the camp physician, and explained the situation to him. He led the doughty old man to where the Sergeant had been taken, fatigue after his arduous ride and the severity of the brave man's wounds having finally overcome him. Once Quatre had despatched his duty, he hurried back to where Ross was regaling the camp with his report of Duncan's further victories. This time the report told of the defeat of the Thane of Cawdor. Cawdor, along with Macbeth and Ross, was once one of the King's coterie of trusted thanes and generals, but the nobleman had attempted to use the eastern invasion of the Norwegians as an opportunity to overthrow the King and seize the crown, much as Macdonwald had attempted in the west. His attempted coup had apparently come to naught, Quatre concluded, as he returned in time to hear the end of Ross's account of the battle.

 

 

 

“… point against point rebellious, arm' gainst arm,” The worthy thane declared, reinforcing his words with expansive hand-gestures, “Curbing his lavish spirit' and, to conclude, the victory fell on us.”

 

 

 

“Great happiness!” The King exclaimed.

 

 

 

“That now Sweno, the Norways' King, craves composition. Nor would we deign him burial of his men till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's inch, ten thousand dollars to our general use.” The Thane of Ross continued.

 

 

 

Quatre smiled at this. Ross's boldness at insisting that the Norwegian King pay a ransom in order to obtain the bodies of his dead for burial was typical of the audacious thane. The King himself laughed uproariously, then his face darkened.

 

 

 

“No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive our bosom interest.” He said sepulchrally. “Go, pronounce his present death, and with his former title greet Macbeth.”

 

 

 

 

Quatre turned away at his point and wandered wistfully through the camp back to the brazier where he held his hands out to the glowing coals once more, as he allowed his mind to drift into a pleasant reverie. Macbeth's name had stirred a fond memory in him - a memory of startling green eyes and floppy cinnamon hair.

 

 

 

Later, back at the Royal Palace, Quatre was feeling much better. He was warm and clean, and he was once more filled with enthusiasm for his duties. He took a final look around the audience chamber, making sure that all was in order for the conference that was about to take place. He took up the small velvet cushion that the King used to support his ailing back as he sat upon the large, gilded chair situated at the head of the table, and pummelled the goose-feather filling with his fists before setting it back down. As he did so, the door opened and King Duncan strode confidently in, followed by his sons Malcolm and Donalbain. With them came Lennox, another nobleman. Lennox was distantly related to Quatre, and he gave the boy a kindly smile as he entered and, waiting until the King had settled himself in his chair, himself took a seat. Quatre placed a wine goblet before each man and filled it from a flask so large and heavy that he could barely lift it. There were still four more nobles expected at the meeting, so Quatre drew off to a discreet distance, close enough to be on hand if required, but not so close that he appeared to be eavesdropping, despite the fact that wherever he stood in the room, he could clearly see and hear all that transpired.

 

 

 

“Is execution done on Cawdor?” Duncan asked, looking from one to the other of the men seated around the great table. “Are not those in commission yet return'd?” Malcolm shook his head.

 

 

 

“My liege, they are not yet come back, but I have spoke with one that saw him die, who did report that very frankly he confess'd his treasons, implor'd your highness' pardon and set forth a deep repentance. Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it. He died as one that had been studied in his death. To throw away the dearest thing he owed as `twere a careless trifle.” Duncan shook his head regretfully and spoke as if more in sorrow than in anger.

 

 

 

“There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face. He was a gentleman on whom I built an absolute trust.” All heads, including Quatre's, turned towards the door as it opened again, this time to admit the four remaining nobles - Macbeth, Banquo, Ross and Angus. “O worthiest cousins!” Duncan greeted them warmly.

 

 

 

The late arrivals seated themselves around the table and as Quatre served them wine, Duncan launched once again into florid expressions of gratitude for Macbeth's actions on the battlefield.

 

 

 

“The sin of my ingratitude even now was heavy on me.” The King enthused. “Thou art so far before, that swiftest wing of recompense is slow to overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserv'd, that the proportion both of thanks and payment might have been mine! Only I have left to say, more is thy due than more than all can pay.”

 

 

 

Un-noticed, Quatre rolled his eyes heavenward. He found Duncan's effusive appreciation towards Macbeth excessive, and in a monarch, not a little unseemly. Macbeth was one of the King's subjects, just like any of the other nobles or even the castle servants - Quatr himself included. In Quatre's mind Macbeth had done no more than his duty as a loyal subject, and Duncan should have accepted this as his rightful due rather than indulge in this display of fulsome thankfulness, which in Quatre's opinion served to reverse their positions, and almost cast Macbeth as the King and Duncan as merely the vassal. As he glanced across at Banquo, he realised that he was not the only one of this opinion. The nobleman sat rigidly, his gaze fixed on his wine goblet which he held tightly in both hands. The knuckles of his hands were white, betraying the tension of his body. Quatre looked at him with sympathy. After all, he had done no less than Macbeth, yet Duncan had made no more than a passing acknowledgement of his own achievements and successes on the field of battle. Macbeth smiled, somewhat superciliously, Quatre thought.

 

 

 

 

“The service and the loyalty I owe, in doing it pays itself.” He replied, echoing Quatre's thoughts. “Your highness' part is to receive our duties, and our duties are to your throne and state, children and servants, which do but what they should by doing every thing safe toward your love and honour.”

 

 

 

`Exactly!' Quatre though. Next, to the young Squire's satisfaction, the King turned to Banquo.

 

 

 

“Noble Banquo,” He began, “That hast no less deserv'd, nor must be known no less to have done so. Let me enfold thee and hold thee to my heart.” The King suited his actions to his words, rising to embrace the General and kissing him soundly on each cheek.

 

 

 

When all were re-seated and settled, the King went on to formally name his heir - his eldest son Malcolm, upon whom he conferred the title of Prince of Cumberland. This was a surprising move, which effectively replaced the prevailing Scottish law of succession, the law of Tannistry, with the system that existed in England, the law of Primogeniture. Quatre's tutors had taught him about both systems. Under the Tannistry system, every male relative in the extended royal family was technically eligible to ascend to the throne, so effectively, any of these potential rulers who disapproved of the way in which the present King was governing the kingdom, was perfectly at liberty to try to take over. In the infinitely more civilized method of primogeniture, only the eldest son was eligible to be King. This established a process of succession by law rather that by the sword. From the nods of approval that this received from most of the men seated around the table, Duncan's announcement met with the support and endorsement of his generals. However, it seemed to Quatre that Macbeth seemed less than pleased at the proclamation.

 

 

 

Curiously, his attitude seemed similar to Banquo's a moment earlier - face grim, shoulders tense and knuckles white. In fact, Quatre thought, it was as if Macbeth himself had designs on the throne, designs that Duncan's words had just thwarted. This absurd notion dispelled itself as Duncan then announced that he would travel to Macbeth's castle at Inverness, to pay a royal visit. This was a sign of high honour and great distinction, and Macbeth excused himself from the remainder of the conference in order to travel home immediately to prepare his wife for the King's visit. The news excited Quatre too, but for a very different reason.

 

 

 

They travelled to Inverness on horseback. The journey was long but not overly tedious. The weather had turned and the sun was shining, lending a pleasing radiance to the surrounding landscape and some welcome warmth to the atmosphere. The group travelled at a modest pace, discussing politics and policy as they rode. Macbeth had gone on ahead, but all those who were at yesterday's gathering were once again present - Duncan himself, plus his trusted inner circle: Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross. Angus, yet another nobleman, also accompanied them. Lennox, his kinsman, had drawn alongside Quatre and the two of them chatted amiably as they rode. The older man took a paternal responsibility for his younger kinsman, who was alone among virtual strangers and far from home, and Quatre was grateful for his concern and support. Without it, he was not sure whether he would have been able to continue in his post. He had been at court for a whole year but he still missed his home, his father - even his bevy of sisters - very much.

 

 

 

As they arrived at the stone fortress, Duncan reined in his horse and stared up at the high, sheer sheet of stone, 16 feet thick, that formed the walls of Glamis Castle, the seat of the Macbeths. The scene was peaceful and serene in its beauty, welcome to all in the small group after the privations of the battlefield. The burbling sound of running water reached their ears from where the Glamis Burn rushed and swelled its way through the estate, the sound melding with the cheeping of the swallows that nested on the upper walls of the castle, creating a most domestic scene.

 

 

“This castle hath a pleasant seat.” Duncan said, looking around him with an approving smile. “The air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself unto our gentle senses.” Banquo, halting his horse beside the King's, nodded in agreement.

 

 

 

“This guest of summer, the temple-haunting martlet, does approve. By his lov'd mansionry that the heavens' breath smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze, buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle. Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd the air is delicate.” The thane added.

 

 

 

A woman suddenly appeared in the open doorway - tall, willowy, slender as a reed and coldly beautiful. She wore a gown of midnight blue velvet, girdled at the waist with a strip of leather embellished with gilt and jewels. Her dark hair was coiled beneath a jewelled coif. She smiled in welcome as they approached.

 

 

 

“See, see, our honour'd hostess!” The King said as he spurred his horse onward. “The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you now you shall bid God `ild us for your pains, and thank us for your trouble.” Lady Macbeth, for this was indeed Macbeth's wife, stepped forward to meet them.

 

 

 

“All our service in every point twice done, and then done double, were poor and single business to contend against those honours deep and broad wherewith your majesty loads our house.” She said in a strong, clear voice. “For those of old, and the late dignities heap'd up to them, we rest your hermits.”

 

 

 

“Where's the thane of Cawdor?” Duncan asked. “We cours'd him at the heels, and had a purpose to be his purveyor. But he rides well and his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him to his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, we are your guest tonight.” Lady Macbeth gestured to a servant who stood waiting in the hall, a respectful distance behind his mistress. The lad now stepped forward and held Duncan's horse as he dismounted.

 

 

 

“Your servants ever have theirs, themselves and what is theirs, in compt to make their audit at your highness' pleasure, still to return your own.” Lady Macbeth said with fervour. The King extended a hand to his hostess.

 

 

 

“Give me your hand,” He said, “Conduct me to mine host. We love him highly and shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess.” She placed her hand lightly into the King's larger one, and they retreated into the castle, followed by the thanes.

 

 

 

As the royal servants dismounted and set about removing the King's luggage from the packhorses, Quatre sat upon his horse, transfixed. He watched as the serving boy that Lady Macbeth had beckoned forth took the Kings horse by the bridle. Before he led the large desrier to the stables, he raised his head and looked directly at Quatre, shaking a lock of cinnamon-coloured hair out of his eyes. His lips quirked in a shy, half-smile, and his bright, green eyes shone, lighting up his youthfully handsome face. Quatre smiled back, but for only a brief moment. A groom approached and took his horse's bridle. This brought Quatre back to the present situation. He dismounted and began busying himself with his squirely duties.

 

 

 

Later that same night, Quatre lay waiting in his bed, halfway between waking and sleep. He had intended to remain awake, but he was tired after the rigours of the journey and he drifted in and out of sleep. A light tapping at the door brought him fully awake. He sat up abruptly.

 

 

 

“Trowa?” He uttered the name aloud, but not loudly enough to be heard through the stout oaken door. Nevertheless, the door slowly opened, and the green-eyed serving boy from earlier entered the room. “Trowa!” Quatre exclaimed delightedly. The young serving boy bounded across the floor and flung himself into Quatre's outstretched arms.

 

_______________________________________

 

 

 

“I thought you would never come.” Quatre murmured drowsily as he lay clasped in Trowa, the green-eyed serving boy's arms and swaddled beneath the worsted wool bedcover. His tone was faintly admonishing, but this was tempered by the way in which he snuggled closer against the other boy's chest.

 

 

 

“I know - I'm sorry.” Trowa stroked Quatre's fine blond hair, then planted a tender kiss on the top of the head that rested against his heart, a heart that wholly belonged to the young squire. “My Lord and Lady were unusually restless this evening.” He said in a voice that was surprisingly strong, despite his youth, but calm and even. “They usually dismiss me once they retire to their chamber, but this evening they sat talking together long into the night. I had to attend them in case they needed anything, so I couldn't get away. In the end my Lord left and came through the anteroom where I was waiting, caught sight of me and dismissed me. In fact,” Trowa added pensively, “My Lord seemed quite taken aback to see me there. I think they had both forgotten all about me.”

 

 

 

“They were probably discussing the King's visit.” Quatre said. “I suppose it must be quite a burden on a household, a royal visit.” He added absently.

 

 

 

“Mmmm,” Trowa said doubtfully, “Possibly, but I don't think so. My Lady received a letter earlier on today, and she has been tense and restless ever since. Although I could hear their voices, I couldn't quite make out what they were talking about. I don't think it was about the King's visit though. ”

 

 

 

“Who was the letter from?” Quatre asked.

 

 

 

“It was from my Lord.” The other boy replied. “I don't know what he wrote in the letter, but as I said, she has been acting rather strangely ever since.”

 

 

 

“Perhaps he was telling her about the King's planned visit.” Quatre said. “That would explain her strange behaviour. She was probably anxious about the visit. It was rather short notice and doubtless she was worried that she didn't have enough in the pantry to feed us all.” Quatre giggled.

 

 

 

“No,” Trowa shook his head. “My Lord brought the news of the King's visit himself. He arrived at the castle after she received the letter.”

 

 

 

“Yes, that's true.” Quatre agreed, recalling that Macbeth excused himself from the meeting of the thanes, saying that he was going home to prepare his wife for the King's visit. “Anyway,” He said coquettishly, “I'm wounded that after I've come all this way to see you, all you can think about is the strange behaviour of your master and mistress.” Trowa chuckled, and in a swift but fluid motion, he switched their positions so that he now lay on top of Quatre, pinioning him to the mattress with the slightly greater weight of his body.

 

 

 

“They are by no means all I can think about.” He said, and he lowered his head and claimed Quatre's soft lips in a kiss.

 

 

 

Quatre moaned softly and opened his mouth beneath Trowa's, allowing the other boy to probe its moist depths with his tongue. With complete and wanton abandon Quatre spread his legs, the better to accommodate Trowa's body. Trowa kissed Quatre with all the passion of his adolescent desire, then he broke the kiss and transferred his attention to the rest of his young lover's willing, pliant body. Quatre had long since removed his voluminous nightshirt, and his supple, naked body lay completely exposed, ready to comply with Trowa's every whim.

 

 

 

The two had met on a previous royal visit - this time to the home of one of Duncan's other thanes. Macbeth had also been present, and Trowa had accompanied him in the capacity of bodyservant and valet. They had fallen in love instantly, and had consummated their love as often as they could, in the few brief moments two young servants could manage to steal together. From the moment Quatre had heard King Duncan voice his intention to visit Macbeth's castle, the young squire had existed in a state of feverish excitement, dreaming of this moment. Now he abandoned himself to it and to his lover.

 

 

 

 

Trowa's eager hands touched Quatre everywhere, his delicate, slender fingers searching out the blond's sensitive spots, as discovered during their previous couplings. He stroked and caressed teasingly between Quatre's splayed legs, seeking his sensitive, puckered nether entrance, then, finding it, he sliped two fingers inside and continued the massage. Trowa, his young body stiff and ready from the mere sight and sounds of his lover's pleasure, entered slowly but held back, pressed deeper, then pulled away. He watched the smaller boy's face, gauging his reaction. Quatre released a shuddering gasp and his eyes rolled back in his head as he almost swooned with ecstasy.

 

 

 

“Tell me…” Trowa coaxed. His lips lightly grazed Quatre's ear and then his cheek, moving towards his mouth, “Tell me what you want.” He kissed the ruby-red lips once again, forestalling any possible reply.

 

 

 

Quatre gave a guttural moan and wrapped his legs around Trowa, his ankles crossed in the small of the taller boy's back. His lover knew what the blond wanted, but he waited for Quatre to say it, although by now Quatre's brain was unable to form words, only meaningless syllables. Eventually Trowa's name escaped in a whisper that sounded like a plea and felt like a prayer. Trowa began to move inside Quatre, first shallow thrusts, then deeper and deeper, bringing Quatre to the edge of climax, only to pull away again.

 

 

 

“Come for me.” He was relentless, whispering this refrain again and again between kisses that left the blond breathless. They made love with all the fervour of two young lovers who have not seen each other for months. Despite their youth, they were both beyond inexperienced, adolescent fumbling and each strove to ensure the pleasure and fulfilment of the other.

 

 

 

 

When Quatre eventually let go he fell into a place where there was only the sound of his lover's voice and the rhythm of his movements, and at that point the words that Trowa wanted to hear spilled forth from him without restraint, triggering Trowa's own release. Afterwards, they lay motionless for long minutes, surrounding each other with sweaty limbs, their pulses slowing. Quatre, sated and exhausted, hoped that Trowa would fall asleep inside him, the way he always did. Suddenly Trowa raised his head abruptly, his eyes wide and his senses alert.

 

 

 

“What was that?” He said in a harsh whisper.

 

 

 

“I didn't hear anything.” Quatre replied dreamily, and he pulled Trowa's head back down against his breast. Trowa, however, disentangled himself from Quatre's embrace and rolled away, slipping flaccidly out of his lover. He lay on his back beside the blond, looking up at the hammer beam ceiling.

 

 

“The King sleeps in the next chamber?” He asked urgently.

 

 

 

“Yes,” Quatre replied, “But what's the matter? I didn't hear…”

 

 

 

“Ssshhh!” Trowa silenced the other boy, quelling him with an outflung, steadying hand. He sat up, swung his legs to the floor and rose, all in one swift, fluid, silent movement. Naked, he padded silently to the door, opened it and peered out. Almost immediately, he pulled his head back into the room and shut the door, but not completely. He took care not to engage the door latch.

 

 

 

Quatre hauled himself upright against the wooden bedhead. With growing alarm he watched Trowa's actions, but he knew enough not to question him any further. Seconds later, Trowa pulled the door open again, and looked out. This time he pulled his head back into the room only after the passing of several seconds. He closed the door, engaging the latch, and hurriedly crossed to the chair where earlier he had carelessly flung his clothes. Wordlessly, he quickly pulled on his hose, then crossed back to the door. With a hand on the door latch, he paused motionless for a moment or two, his head raised and slightly cocked, as if listening to catch any faint sound.

 

 

 

“Wait here.” He said at length, in a low, preoccupied growl and without so much as a glance towards the boy on the bed, opened the door a third time, peered surreptitiously up and down the passageway outside, then slipped out. With fists clenched and white knuckles pressed against bloodless lips, Quatre sat in silent apprehension, awaiting Trowa's return. He was gone only for half a minute or so. He re-entered the room and crossed directly to the chair that held his clothes.

 

 

 

“Get dressed!” He said in an urgent whisper, as he began pulling on the rest of his clothes. Quatre, confused and frightened by Trowa's behaviour, merely stared at him, blinking owlishly. “Quickly!” Trowa hissed sharply, as he looked across at his lover and saw him sitting unmoving on the bed. The sharpness of Trowa's tone spurred Quatre into anxious action, and he scrambled clumsily from the tangle of bedclothes and began dressing. “Forgive me love,” Trowa said in a more moderate tone of voice, realising that he was panicking the other boy, “I don't mean to frighten you, but we have to leave the castle… now!”

 

 

 

“Why?” Quatre asked plaintively as he fumbled his way into his linen tunic. “What's happened?” Trowa crossed to his friend and began tightening the neck-laces of the smaller boy's tunic, his slim, nimble fingers making short work of the criss-crossed leather thongs.

 

 

 

 

“The King is dead.” Trowa intoned, flatly and without emotion. Quatre halted in the midst of dressing. He shook his head in slow denial as he gaped wordlessly at Trowa, then his eyes filled with tears. Trowa took the blond boy in his arms, cradling the small, convulsing body.

 

 

 

“H… how?” Quatre hiccupped through his sobs.

 

 

 

“He's been murdered.” Trowa replied. “I don't have time to explain,” He said, cutting across the other boy's questions before he could voice them, “I have to get you away from here. This is going to be a pretty unpleasant, not to mention unsafe place to be when the murder is discovered. Come, get your boots on. I'll pack your things.”

 

 

 

“But where are we going?” The blond asked as he bestirred himself and finished dressing.

 

 

 

“I'm taking you back to your father.” Trowa replied as he hastily thrust what he deemed to be the most useful of Quatre's possessions into a leather bag. He threw a warm, fur-lined cloak around the other boy's shoulders, and fastened it with a jewelled pin.

 

 

 

“But Trowa,” Quatre asked in a quavering voice, his face ashen and his eyes wide with fear and trepidation, “If we run away, won't they think we did it - the… the murder?”

 

 

 

“I know who did it,” Trowa replied hollowly, “That's why I need to get you away from here.” He slung the bulging bag across his shoulders, took Quatre's hand and drew him towards the door. Before exiting, Trowa repeated his earlier precaution - opening the door a crack and peering out. After a moment or two, he led Quatre outside, pausing first to kiss him soundly, press him to be brave and to reassure him that, despite what he was about to witness, everything would be alright.

 

 

 

They passed quickly and quietly along the freezing passageway. As they picked their way carefully between the prone bodies of the royal guards who lay insensible on the floor outside the King's bedchamber, their faces and garments smeared with blood, Quatre whimpered with fear and revulsion. They stopped once to collect Trowa's belongings from his small cell in the servant's wing, then once more at the stables, where Trowa saddled Quatre's horse. The grooms had long since retired to their beds, so the boys were undisturbed, save for the soft snicker of greeting Quatre's mare gave upon seeing her master. They stowed their packs in the saddlebags, and Quatre mounted. On foot, Trowa led the placid horse to a side gate, but as he unbarred it he heard a loud knocking coming from the direction of the castle's main entrance. The faint muttering of the porter protesting about the interruption of his slumber as he shuffled off to attend to the visitors without reached their ears, and under cover of this diversion, they slipped out of the castle confines and galloped away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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