The Mercenary, Prologue/?

[Tomorrow]

AN: Inspiration dawned on me, and so I had to heed to its beckoning. However, that doesn?t mean I?ve forgotten about ?A Simple Caress? or ?Dreamers? Prayer.? Before anyone reads, I want to assure that anything said in this prologue or in later chapters isn?t meant to be offensive (you?ll see what I mean). I?m simply trying to expand a character and create an atmosphere for this story. Something of even greater importance, though, is to keep in mind that this is based loosely (very loosely) on the movie ?Sleepy Hollow.? This is going to be one twisted, wild ride (no pun intended).

Disclaimer: I don?t own Gundam Wing, ?Sleepy Hollow,? or ?The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,? by Washington Irving.




He was a restless but familial merchant, with a monopoly over the spice trade between his Arabian homeland and the Western, supposedly more ?civilized? world. A corrupt land of Christians and shrewd businessmen who preferred silver to tradition and paper over prayer; "cultured? society that wrapped its daughters in whalebone and ribbons and powdered their supple, protuberant breasts in dust to make their paleness even more ghoulish and imperiously porcelain. Their superficiality could be no more transparent, he mused. Europe comprised itself of a nobility that forced its sons into contracts and politics and covered their idle, reprobate thoughts with wigs as soft, as daintily white as their sisters' bodices, only to find themselves bankrupt soon after - more aptly in the moral sense. Seduction instead of honor, they befriended. Secular rather than scrupulous. People of a resigned philosophy who abandoned religion to materialism and heretical gluttony. They attended Masses out of traditional obligation, walking out of the gothic edifice's doors with curses, yawns, pissing on the cornerstone. Eyes and imaginations wandered to the depictions of bloodied saints spattered with light and hooved, antlered renditions of Satan welded throughout the stained-glass windows that punctured the stone, rather than the deadpan sermons of the priests. During the Consecration, the sight of bread and wine made their stomachs growl and gurgle, inspiring famine in the spiritual essence. Made them wonder how to keep their families clothed and fed. Not how to save the souls of their children from swimming in the pool of fiery, dogmatic condemnation that awaited them in the afterlife. If any so existed, these people began to wonder.

God was dead to this world... edited out of the final drafts of mechanical laws and theories, erased from the right side of mathematical equations, showing how nature was as efficient as a clock, with its own set of infallible gears and cogs. There was no need for God and mysticism and intuition and faith, all swirling at the bottoms of beakers and eliminated empirically.

But he was among them, nonetheless, and much to his contempt, spent more time amidst Westerners than his own tribe, involuntarily adopting some temporal habits that he later repulsed - devoting himself to hours of ritual purity and jihad to redeem his holy constitution once again. He would lie awake and rigid in his bed after a day of forgetting his prayers, perhaps because he had been distracted when dining with a Scandinavian courtier, sipping imported tea and wrapped in furs and boots and haunting, foreign melodies.

Throwing the covers from his body, Quatre would fall to his knees with shaky heaving, laced with sighs of repentance, and press his forehead against the fortress's stone floor, grinding in into the tiles, relishing the feel of his skin tearing from the jagged texture. So cold. So base. So degrading

What he deserved.

It left a heathen etching for him to find at dawn. A brand of his infidelity that usually resmembled a character which signified "rebelliousness," "unfaithfulness," or even so far as "evil." He saw it, traced the ugly scar that Gabriel carved deep into his brow, scorching the bone beneath, most likely. The charred, deep slashes that spelled out his insubordination, clear as the mirror with which he spied it.

He pleaded that Allah could forgive him for his rashness and recited surah after surah of the Qur'an, voice taut with remorse and wavering from the weight of his incessant blasphemous conduct. But it wasn't enough. His breathing still trembled, still came in repetitive gasps. He'd drag himself to the desk and write the Book's poetic phrases in calligraphic, intricate pattens of praise and penance, reflecting the perfection of The One God in those labored strokes and colors... until he fell asleep, snores emitted in wheezes. Servants would try to pull the pen from his grip when daybreak came, but they found his hand cramped, clutching the pen with a fervent desperation that they could not unwind.

And... yet... he?d been negotiating with such dealers since he inherited the caravan almost three years before, shortly after his father?s death. Even still their bargaining techniques and ?ethics,? as they referred to their professional etiquette, seemed strange to him. As if he traveled to some hellion bowel when his transactions brought him to London, Paris, and even as far as Spain. His heart ached, his throat turning dry when he recalled his latest visit to Madrid, littered with embellished, idolatrous churches and gaudy cathedrals where infidels, like bovine camels at an oasis, gathered for monotonous homilies and the recitation of stale hymns...

Where once had reigned an empire of mosques; his grandfather so told him.

A sudden memory of the tales of his ancestors that had been massacred by papal knights during the crusades assaulted him; the legends of the Westerners? brutality and assailing waves of steel and covetous blood forced a shudder from his body as he sat reflective upon his horse - nearing the outskirts of the lonesome but quiet kingdom that offered him hospitality for the autumn. He?d been searching for a place to assimilate gradually with this indignant culture - necessary if he wanted to compete with his fellow Arabian, more secularized tradesmen - and after consulting with his lifelong guardian, Rashid, decided that Cinq, somewhat isolated from the rest of its ?sophisticated? neighbors with its antiquated policies of total pacifism, would be the ideal sanctuary.

Even more congruent, he knew the reagent of the kingdom, Milliardo Peacecraft, personally - one of the only infidels he ever encouraged fellowship with, admirable of the prince?s battle skills and inherent sense of honor and charity. For the sovereign had saved him once, when his caravan was being pillaged by gypsies on the way to a French purchaser. One of the itinerant thieves had him by the throat and brought down a blade to slit the exposed flesh, when a masked stranger intervened. Quatre could only prop himself on his elbows in wonder, ignoring the distinct red handprints that choked his neck, as the man fended off the small band with a bullet and a few swings of his sword. After recovering what valuables he could, the nameless savior mounted his horse and slid off the metal helmet, tossing his platinum blonde hair over his shoulders as he flashed the trader a glimpse of savage ice blue.

Then departed in the opposite direction.

One of his men, with latent astonishment in his voice, informed the Winner heir that their rescuer was Milliardo Peacecraft, the wayward son of the late king of Cinq - not yet three months buried. The servant was sure of this, even fidgeting in his saddle as he told his master, face blotched with sweat. Never could one be burned with the possession of that wild stare, he claimed, and resist its imprint on his memory.

In a gesture of thanks, despite the inner bitterness he felt at having to grovel before yet another Western prince, the Winner heir ventured to Cinq and offered the sovereign some of his finest spices in recompense. Milliardo refused his gift, however, which soon led to a heated dialogue with the defiant reagent and, ironically, a very unconventional friendship.

?Good evening, Lord Winner,? the green-eyed soldier murmured as the Arabian arrived at the country?s northern border. ?His majesty is waiting.?

?Yes, thank you, " Quatre replied, pulling his riding glove further down his wrist. "I?m awfully tired and wish to make it to the palace before nightfall." There was an arrogant shortness to his words, and, although involuntarily, he upturned his nose slightly when he adjusted himself on the saddle. He winced, his shoulders suddenly twitching, as the derision in his tone reached his ears - for this warrior was the servant of a friend. He should not be so hostile.

But the sentry with light brown hair seemed unfazed by the foreigner?s contempt. Actually, he seemed callous towards the Winner heir in general, his gaze focused on the dirt road and eyes dull and vacant to his guest?s presence and insinuations. He never even glanced his way, just patted the horse's neck to settle its stride.

Only after a period of silence, once Quatre thought his comment forgotten, did the soldier stop his beast amidst the moonlight, blanketing the fields and leaking through the windows of candlelit houses in a haunting glow, casting spectral shadows across the sentry?s glittering emerald stare. He whispered, ?In Cinq, one can never guarantee a nightly passage without incidence? at least from the occult.?

[Morrighan]

Ooh... This is so intriguing Tomorrow!! *shivers* You MUST write more!!

[Faye Faye]

Weeeee, I'm excited!! I look forward to Future Chapters!

[athena]

*blinkes*

WOW.

I really lost myself in this fic, I felt like I was actually there. You have the most amazing gift of detail and imagery, it's hard not to!

And the plot is so interesting! I can see what you mean about the wild ride, and believe me, I can't wait for it!

Thanks for posting this! I'm just off to read chapter 1!

love, athena