by Lorena
“The Drama Club’s month is coming up,” Duo observed lazily as he lay on his back, his head resting on hands clasped behind it, his eyes glassy as he stared at the afternoon sky. “Wonder what kind of wild ideas they have this time around for the fair?”
Quatre looked at his friend. “What do you mean?”
“Oh—well—they have these strange ways of going about their fair. All the other clubs just put together game and food booths and all that—the Drama Club always goes out of its way to pull something bizarre.”
“Drama queens,” Wufei snorted without once glancing up from his book.
The three of them were lounging on the grass, whiling away the afternoon hours (much to Quatre’s delight) in idle chatter. It had been a very productive day all in all, and save for Heero, who was stuck with housekeeping duties that afternoon and Trowa, who was still confined in his room, the three boys thought it best to simply lie in the grass and absorb the comfort of the waning hours doing absolutely nothing. Wufei buckled eventually, however, not being used to leisure, and he’d pulled out a novel he’d been reading on the side amid his friends’ protests.
“Oh, I think that sounds pretty cool,” Quatre said, once again resting his chin on his arms as he watched a couple of dragonflies settle themselves on a nearby shrub. “It’ll be a great way of breaking up the monotony of the usual fair stuff we do. It can get pretty boring having nothing more than just games and food at the end of the Drama Activity Month.”
“I heard it’s going to be a weird theatrical production of King Lear.”
Wufei snickered quietly. “Define weird.”
“Who knows with these guys?”
“I think Alain said something about a dance marathon.”
Quatre blinked, and he raised his eyes to look at Wufei, who continued to read in spite of the conversation around him. He’d always had an uncanny ability to focus amid any and all sorts of distractions.
“Dance marathon? Really? How’s that going to happen? I thought that dances with St. Clare Academy were limited to the usual Junior Prom and Senior Ball.”
A pregnant pause followed before Wufei finally glanced up from his book, regarding his friends with an expression of sage-like calm.
“I never said anything about girls being present.”
The night seemed darker than usual, the white fog denser as it languidly rolled over the uneven terrain of the moor, making it virtually impossible for anyone to discern trouble spots from safer ground. Quatre studied the bleak environment grimly, pressing his lips into a tense, tight line. The risk he and his companions took in laying out this trap for their adversary was much too great, and doubts regarding their success began to filter through his mind.
“But it needs to be done,” he muttered, his breath hissing through his teeth as he continued to huddle against a jagged outcrop of rock, pressing himself against the rough surface to keep himself from being seen by any passerby. He pulled his collar up and adjusted his hat as he continued to peer into the gloom.
He didn’t even know to where his faithful aide had disappeared. One moment they were both huddled just beyond the low wall that stood in an ancient, protective barrier around Merripit House, talking among themselves and elaborating on a plan that was proving to be much too dangerous for everyone involved—and another moment they were suddenly separated from each other as they lay in ambush.
Strength lay in numbers, after all. They were up against forces about which they didn’t really know—a legend, woven by superstition and nurtured by terror over the recent, inexplicable death of Sir Charles Baskerville, an incident that only served to solidify the presence of a family curse.
They couldn’t fail now. They shouldn’t.
Using the baronet’s heir as bait made any and all chances of error on Quatre and Dr. Watson’s part unacceptable.
As he strained his ears in the silence, listening for sounds that would signal the planned ambush, Quatre shoved his hand in his coat and pulled out his gun. Even with his gloves on, the metal felt terribly cold against his palm, and the young detective couldn’t suppress a shiver that rippled through his body.
As he waited, his mind rewound itself and played over the recent conversation he’d had with Dr. Watson before they were separated from each other.
“Mrs. Stapleton wasn’t there,” the earnest physician whispered, a light of concern in his eyes. Quatre could barely stifle a knowing smile. His partner had always been a true gentleman to the ladies.
“She wasn’t at dinner? How about the other rooms?”
Dr. Watson shook his head. “All the other rooms were dark. I can’t even begin to guess where she went.”
Quatre pondered this in grave silence. “I don’t like this,” he presently said, his voice falling. “I don’t like this at all. But Sir Henry’s coming through with our plan?”
“He is.”
“Good.”
Quatre turned to watch the heavy, sluggish fog as it crept over Grimpen Mire. “This looks bad, Watson,” he added, nodding at the landscape. “This fog is the only thing that can throw off our plan. Our success and Sir Henry’s very life depend on whether or not he leaves for Baskerville Hall before the fog covers the path home.”
Dr. Watson took in a deep, sharp breath in response. “We won’t let that happen, Winner,” was the only thing he said before he was off in a flash, ignoring the detective’s orders to return and presently disappearing beyond a cluster of jagged boulders.
“Watson, you fool,” Quatre hissed as he hurried down the same path, scanning the area and unable to find his partner. He absolutely hated it when the doctor took it on himself to plunge into action, heedless of the danger and of the detective’s warnings.
He was forced to give up the search after several minutes of scouring the moor in the dark. It was impossible to find anyone in this kind of environment and especially with the night being uncharacteristically dark like this. And it was all Quatre could do to lie in wait for Sir Henry, pressed against a rock, gun in hand.
He didn’t know how long he waited there, watching with growing trepidation the fog as it crept slowly and determinedly along, carpeting the rugged landscape with a thick, lazy blanket of swirling white gas that seemed to rise from the deepest bowels of the earth. All he knew was that when the sound of footsteps presently reached his ears, he was very much in danger of falling asleep where he hid, and he shook himself awake, his body tensing up as he peered through the gnarled branches of the dead brush that partly covered him from view.
The black silhouette of a man walking down the path came into view. Quatre watched him pause on occasion, glancing apprehensively over his shoulder before carrying on and presently disappearing beyond a sharp turn.
The detective cocked his pistol, the clicking sound slicing through the thick, chill air.
“My God, it’s coming,” he hissed, swiping his tongue across his dried lips.
The soft patter seemed to echo the firmer, steadier footfalls of the baronet, and Quatre tried desperately to pinpoint the source. He stepped forward, straining his eyes in the inky blackness as the pattering grew louder. The sounds came from the fog, and before Quatre could think any more, the sudden shape of a gigantic hound appeared, tearing out of the shadows. He stumbled back with a cry of surprise but was able to keep his hold on his pistol as the ghastly animal bounded out, leaping over rocks and shrubs, its massive black form made all the more terrible by the flames that seemed to pour out of its mouth and lend its black, hollow eyes and muzzle a red, unearthly glow.
“The hound!” the detective cried as he staggered back to his feet, his eyes not once leaving the apparition that seemed to tower over him. “Watson, the hound!”
He quickly raised his arm and fired two shots at the creature’s flank. It let out a sepulchral howl that sent shivers up Quatre’s spine, and he took heart. Surely a ghost—a phantom—wouldn’t be affected by bullets. The creature ran off, injured, still intent on hunting down Sir Henry.
Quatre ran after it, stumbling and falling on occasion, but certainly buoyed by the realization that the Hound of the Baskervilles was mortal. There was no ghost, no family curse—only a dark legend now used for someone else’s gain.
“Watson!” he cried, his voice shrill and thin in the night air. “Where are you? Come, quickly!”
He heard a scream, and he doubled his pace, his breaths coming out in erratic pants. The hound had found its prey and had likely cornered Sir Henry. Quatre tore through dead brush, listening to his clothes ripping, his hat flying off his head as he barreled on, arm raised, gun poised.
He caught sight of Sir Henry lying on the ground, the hound hovering above him, diving for his throat while the hapless baronet desperately tried to fend the creature off with his arms. Quatre hissed and aimed, praying that he wouldn’t miss his mark and hit Sir Henry instead.
The sound of angry snarls and roars filled his senses, and he pulled the trigger in rapid succession, seeing nothing for several seconds but the smoke from his gun and the fire that outlined the hound’s jaws. More howls followed, and the detective ran on after emptying his barrel, tossing the gun aside and tackling the hound, sending them both tumbling to the ground, rolling several feet away and ensuring the baronet’s safety.
Quatre kept a tight hold on the beast, listening to it fill the air with its death cries and struggle against him. Sweat poured down his face in countless rivulets. His arms screamed from the pain of overexertion. But he held on, and the struggles continued. He gritted his teeth in grim satisfaction.
He did it.
He’d destroyed the Hound of the Baskervilles.
“You suck, Wufei.”
“Tough shit. You deserve it.”
Quatre turned to scowl at his friend, ignoring the pain of his black eye when he contorted his features. “Hitting me was uncalled for.”
“Oh? And what do you suggest I do, couscous brain?” Wufei snapped from where he sat, which was several chairs away from Quatre, with Alain wearily stuck in the center, serving as a human barrier to the two fighting boys. “How the hell would you react when someone jumps you from out of the blue? Huh? You got me back by reducing my balls to a fucking omelet, anyway, so deal with it.”
Alain winced.
The secretary cleared her throat emphatically as she glared at the two. “No cursing and obscene language in the principal’s office, please!” she retorted, irritably pushing her glasses against her nose while collecting a stack of folders and standing up with a huff. “You boys should know by now that proper decorum’s a given when you’re waiting for Mr. Gibson to call you.”
Without another word, she strode out of the office, her heels clicking sharply on the polished tile floor. The boys remained silent while they waited. Then, once assured of their privacy, they let it all out.
“I did not see Alain! I saw your head from behind a bush, and that was it! I didn’t think that you’d be doing something that doesn’t involve books!” Quatre hissed, leaning forward in his seat.
“I was coming up for air when you jumped me!”
“I wouldn’t know that!”
Alain coughed and shifted, adjusting the collar of his shirt for the zillionth time. Buttons had gone missing from his shirt, after all, and his tie seemed to be doing a terribly ineffectual job hiding the telltale signs of a torrid necking session with Wufei in the more secluded garden near the seniors’ dorm. He was also sporting a swollen lip and a bruised jaw—nothing remotely of a bodice-ripper nature, of course—he was blessed with those when he jumped into the middle of the fray, attempting to separate the two embattled friends as they rolled all over the grass. He was, however, unable to keep Wufei from smacking Quatre with his fist (a reflexive move, apparently) and Quatre from kneeing the other boy where it hurt the most (again a reflexive move, learned and mastered by him at this point).
“I have a fucking life, too, Winner! What the hell did you expect me to do? Live in a cloister? Or do you think that you and Trowa or Duo and Heero are the only ones who can…”
“Let’s not get into that,” Alain broke in, crossing his arms on his chest and glowering at the closed door that led to the principal’s office. “Just chill out, both of you. We’re already in deep shit as it is.”
“You ditched me!” Quatre half-whispered hoarsely. “You promised that we’ll be working on our research paper today! I waited for you at the library for an hour, you know! And no way am I working on this project alone!”
“I did not say it was today!”
“Yeah, you did!”
“No, I didn’t!”
“You did!”
“Shut up! I didn’t!”
Gibson’s office door swung open, and the principal stepped out. He froze at the doorway, regarding the three bruised boys sitting in his waiting room. “What on earth happened to you?”
A brief pause followed before anyone could say anything.
Wufei stood up, brushing the leaves and grass off his rumpled uniform, flinching a bit when his hand accidentally touched his groin. “I’ve got a few words to say about the level of security in this school, Mr. Gibson,” he said with an irritated huff before striding past the amazed principal and into the awaiting office.
One of the requirements that the graduate students had was to teach a handful of classes with the seniors, and it was a bit of a treat walking to the Music Room watching a group of students wandering around in an awed daze while Fujimiya—or Aya, as his colleague called him—led them here and there, from the classroom to the video room to the auditorium and even the chapel, where he’d conduct lectures on History, Social Studies, and Economics (according to Alain). Quatre once paused in his tracks to watch the young man stand aside to let the line of students pass him, his eyes keenly surveying the group as he’d call out the occasional reprimand to those who dared speak or break ranks or lingered for whatever reason.
“Maintain silence all the way, gentlemen,” he called out, his voice loud and firm before taking his place at the rear of the line, his figure towering above most of the boys (which Quatre thought made the job of keeping an eye on them a good deal easier). And from there, holding a stack of books firmly against his chest, he’d walk on without another word while the boys nervously obeyed.
“Too bad he isn’t teaching us,” Quatre mused as he watched the line disappear around the corner, and he turned and continued his trek to the Music Room. “I’m sure Wufei would love him.”
He could see it, even—Wufei on his feet, engaged in a passionate dialogue with Aya, throwing ideas, theories, arguments, and counterarguments between them, while the air crackled with the intellectual electricity the boy simply devoured. He could see his friend monopolizing class time with his questions and challenges, while Aya smoothly satisfied his doubts with all the finesse of a gifted scholar.
A few times, while bored out of his mind in class, he’d glanced out the window to catch sight of Hidaka—or Ken as his colleague called him—standing on the lawn before a group of seated students, lecturing while twirling a soccer ball on his finger. Quatre could only guess that he must have been teaching a Physics class. Every so often Ken would toss the ball high and begin lecturing while pointing to the black-and-white leather globe before catching it with his hands or stepping back and bouncing it against his knee just before it reached the ground. And sometimes he’d kick the ball above the students’ heads, sending the startled boys cowering or falling to the ground as he continued to lecture, seemingly unmindful of anything.
There was a time, even, when Ken took it on himself to clamber up the grotto, perch himself beside the statue of the virgin near the top, and lecture from there, gesticulating wildly. Quatre was walking past when this was happening, and he caught the words “pyramidal structure,” “movement,” and “light and shadow.” Those, on top of the fact that the students were lugging around large sketchbooks, indicated that Ken was teaching an art class that time. The boy could barely stifle a snickering fit at the sight of the young man, clad in a somber, almost ecclesiastical suit, sitting rather precariously on a stony ledge while his students sat before him, busily sketching the grotto while he coached them on about perspective and shade.
Quatre marveled at the diverging styles that these two young men had in the way they approached their classes. Aya’s traditional brand of academia seemed stiff and severe and downright intimidating compared to Ken’s off-the-wall methods.
“Too bad our teachers can’t be like Mr. Hidaka,” Quatre murmured as he rested his chin on his hands, his gaze fixed at the scene beyond the windows while the lecture droned on around him. “At least he makes the effort to lighten up a boring class.”
“Mr. Winner, unless you’re witnessing a miraculous event outside, I’d appreciate it if your attention were on the lecture,” Mr. Rodriguez barked, instantly shredding the boy’s thoughts, and he sheepishly turned to face his History teacher.
“Sorry, sir.”
“All right now. We’ve got another ten minutes to spare. Open your books to page sixty-five, and read up on the tragedy of the Donner Party. We’ll be starting tomorrow’s session with a quiz on that.”
With a heavy, dejected sigh, Quatre turned the page of his history book as instructed, listening dully to the sound of shifting paper while the other students did the same thing. He proceeded to read half a paragraph and then stole a glance in his teacher’s direction. Seeing Rodriguez busy collecting his books and paperwork before settling down at the teacher’s desk for some reading time, the boy cautiously pulled out his other book from his satchel and opened it up before him.
He began to read.
And read.
And read.
And he didn’t notice the shadow that loomed before him, standing for several seconds in irate silence as the boy quietly giggled at what he was reading. He’d just turned the page when he finally noticed the tense, heavy silence that pervaded, and he felt his blood run cold.
He instinctively looked up, his face blanching at the sight of Rodriguez staring down at him, scowling darkly. Quatre thought he could see fire shooting out of the man’s ears. They regarded each other for a second or two, with the guilty boy slowly shriveling in mortification at being caught. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, acutely aware of all eyes being fixed on him from all around the room. He could only clear his throat weakly as he sat slowly back, closing the book and obediently handing it over to his teacher, who didn’t have to speak one word. Rodriguez took the book from him, gave it a cursory glance, before leveling the boy with yet another frown and then turning around to march back to the teacher’s desk, carrying the confiscated item with him.
Quatre sighed. He wanted desperately to kick himself, but in the same vein, he couldn’t help but defend his misbehavior.
If I didn’t feel so bored, I wouldn’t have to do this. I wish the school would cut us some slack on the schoolwork. I’m starting to feel like an old man, he fumed silently as he watched his teacher scribble on a familiar yellow slip and then motion for him to come to the front and retrieve it.
This would make it his second trip to the principal’s office in a week.
After school, Quatre walked into the principal’s office as expected, to find Ken sitting on one of the waiting-room chairs, idly flipping through a book on Ecclesiastical Latin. The boy winced as he approached, taking his seat nearby. Ken glanced up and regarded him with some surprise.
“Hey,” he said, nodding. “What happened to your eye?”
“My best friend hit me.”
“Whoa. Why?”
Quatre shrugged, coloring a little. “Because I jumped him.”
Ken regarded him for a moment in puzzled silence before realization dawned, and he shook his head, smiling knowingly. “And what’re you doing here?”
“I got caught reading my book.”
“Wait—don’t tell me—it’s a comic book, right?”
Quatre shrugged again, and Ken’s smile broadened. “Yeah, you can say that. It’s a collection of comic strips, sort of.”
“Let me guess—Calvin and Hobbes, right?”
The boy blinked. “How did you know?” he demanded incredulously.
“You’re a Calvinist.” Ken paused and laughed lightly. “I knew what you were into the day Father Brian caught you hiding in the confessional, talking to your calculator. You remind me of myself when I was your age. I used to play around like that all the time till my parents took my comic books away—though in this case I didn’t have Calvin to hang out with—only Batman.”
“That must’ve been fun.”
“Fun enough. I used to throw sticks around, pretending that I was using my Batarang. Of course, none of them ever returned to me, but that’s neither here nor there, I suppose. It never used to bother anyone till I started to destroy property with all my weapons.”
Quatre listened to all this in some surprise. Then he grinned. “Too bad you don’t work here,” he said just when the door to Gibson’s inner office opened, and Aya stepped out. “I think it would’ve been really cool being able to relate to one of our teachers for a change.”
Ken cocked an eyebrow at him before bursting out laughing. “Oh, I don’t know about that. You’d better be careful with what you wish for.”
“Your turn,” Aya said as he walked up to his friend and took his place beside him. “It’s not going to take long. Just routine stuff for the program.”
Ken nodded and then stood up, excusing himself to Quatre before sauntering through the open door and shutting it behind him. Silence fell on the waiting-room. Aya picked up the book that his friend was reading earlier and began to peruse it while Quatre watched him in some wonder. The young man was reciting some of the passages to himself, filling the waiting-room air with a steady, almost soothing stream of low murmurs, the Latin phrases lending an archaic touch to the sounds.
“Benedictus es, Domine, Deus universi, quia de tua largitate acceptimus panem, quem tibi offerimus, fructum terrae et operas manuum hominum, ex quo nobis fiet panis vitae. Benedictus Deus in saecula.” Aya cleared his throat quietly. “See anything interesting?”
Quatre blinked. “Wha…? Sorry?”
Aya glanced at him, his eyes partially hidden in the shadows cast by the flame-red hair that framed his face. And even then, they seemed to slice through the air, spearing Quatre where he sat, and the boy felt a shiver course through his spine. It was a fairly common sensation whenever the older student looked at him.
Aya let a pause run its course before speaking. “Do I intimidate you?”
“Well…” Quatre fumbled a bit, intent on glossing over the truth, but his tongue betrayed him, and before he knew what was happening, he found himself blurting out, “A little, yeah.”
A nod. “Fair enough.” Aya turned his attention back to what he was reading. “Per hujus aquae et vini mysterium ejus efficiamur divinitatis—and I take it that Ken doesn’t?”
“Um—no, not really.”
“Why’s that?”
Quatre took a deep breath. He suddenly found himself shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He absently straightened his blazer, brushing imaginary lint off the maroon surface. This was so embarrassing.
“Well—he works in a lot of fun things when he teaches—like playing with the soccer ball or spending an hour lecturing on the grass or using the auditorium to demonstrate a few things. None of our teachers do that. They’re too strict.”
“I see.” Aya spoke without once looking back at his companion, pausing on occasion to read more Latin phrases. “Benedictus es, Domine, Deus universi, quia de tua largitate—do I strike you as strict? Severe? Be honest now.”
Quatre toyed with his tie. “Yeah, you do,” he replied, wondering where this was going.
“Would you believe me if I were to tell you that Ken has flunked more people than I have since we both started our internship?”
The boy stared at him, and Aya presently looked up to regard him closely—critically. “It’s true,” he added, his lips twitching a little into a faint, sardonic smile. “Ken’s the more inventive one of the two of us, and he’s the one who can relate much better with students. All the same, he’s the one with higher and more stringent standards, and he never fails to throw people off their guard with his methods.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“No—that’s because you let your judgment and your biases blind you. Don’t ever allow yourself to be fooled by impressions.” Aya looked back at the book he held on his lap. “It’s always amazing how much people complain about me and my methods—about how dull and strict I am—while wishing that they were being taught by ‘cool Mr. Hidaka,’ not knowing that they stand a greater chance at failing his class than they do in mine.”
“I’m sorry,” Quatre replied sheepishly.
“Don’t be. Stereotypes can throw anybody off. Besides, I happen to like intimidating people. It never fails in making them do what they need to do for the class without questioning every single thing I require.” The young man paused to sigh heavily before finally shutting out his companion. “In spiritu humilitatis et in animo contrito suscipiamur a te, Domine; et sic fiat sacrificium nostrum in conspectus tuo hodie, ut placeat tibi, Domine Deus.” [1]
Silence finally fell on the two, with Quatre mulling over what he’d just learned and feeling a little foolish at his misjudgments. Watching the pale young man nearby, sitting with his back straight in perfect posture, every inch of his suit perfectly pressed with every pleat and crease and fold seemingly set in its respective place—Quatre began to wonder how it might be sitting through one of Aya’s lectures. He could imagine the young man’s dull monotone filling the air, threatening to lull students to sleep. And yet—judging from the intensity which he tended to adopt with every task he’d undergo—Aya also seemed to promise lessons delivered with a certain degree of passion and energy that Quatre knew many of his own teachers lacked, and the boy softened, feeling all the more mortified at his blunder.
The door to Gibson’s office suddenly opened, and Ken stepped out, nodding at Aya. “Time to grade papers,” he said. His friend stood up and was about to walk toward the door when Ken strode up to Quatre and fished something out of his jacket.
“Here,” he said, lowering his voice as he held out Quatre’s book. He grinned when the boy stared at it in amazement. “I stole it off Gibson’s desk. Don’t let him see it on you, for God’s sake, or he’ll blow a gasket like he always does, and you’ll never see this again.”
“Thank you,” the boy stammered as he took the book from him.
“Like I said,” Ken continued, his voice falling once again to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t let yourself get caught.”
He winked at the boy and then left, with Aya trailing behind and giving the offending book a cursory glance. His eyes met Quatre’s, and another faint smile lit up his face.
“I think Rosalyn kicks ass,” he said before turning and striding purposefully out of the waiting-room, leaving Quatre standing, stupefied, not once heeding Gibson’s insistent calling of his name from within his inner office. [2]
“Quatre, you’re going to catch something. Get off.”
“You don’t have a fever anymore.”
“No, but my sheets haven’t been washed. It’s got all sorts of germs and shit on it.”
“That’s cool. I’ve built up my immune system from hanging out here before.”
Trowa sighed and fell silent, but he continued to push—or weakly attempt to push—Quatre off his bed. The other boy held firm, however, lying on his stomach and reading up on Calvin and Hobbes, munching on one of several bags of Trowa’s beloved Reese’s Peanut Butter Bites. He’d just been to the vending machines and had procured a virtual bagful of these treats in hopes of presenting them to his stricken lover as a get-well offering. As it was, Quatre had dug into one bag and soon found himself eating one package after another, and what had started out as a dozen dwindled down to eight.
“Quatre, that’s disgusting. You’ll make yourself sick,” Trowa piped up, and Quatre caught him grimace amid mussed-up, unruly bangs. “Besides, they’re mine. Hand them over.”
“They’re good,” the boy replied, tossing another handful of the candy in his mouth, munching them a little, and then opening his mouth wide to showcase the goopy carnage inside to his horrified companion.
“Yecchh! Get off my bed, you savage!”
Trowa managed to muster enough energy to reach out from under the covers, grab hold of Quatre in the midsection, and give a mighty shove that sent the smaller boy tumbling out of his bed with a loud squawk of surprise, arms flailing and yet still clinging to the open bag of candy he’d been devouring.
“That’s sick!”
A quick, dazed glance up showed Trowa reaching out for the remaining bags of candy and scooping them all in a pile and hiding them under the sheets with him, slithering down as he did until he was once again completely enveloped in layers of blankets. After several seconds of shifting about, the lump on the bed finally lay still, and Quatre heard the sound of a package being torn open followed by the sound of quiet munching. He rolled his eyes.
“You’re hogging the candy,” he stated dryly as he picked himself up from the floor and settled down beside the bed, resting his chin on the warm mattress as he watched the lump lie peacefully. “And you call me sick.”
“This is my candy. Keep your grimy hands off them.”
Quatre pulled out a piece of candy and pelted the blanket-covered lump, catching it as it rolled back to him and throwing it again, his aim varying.
“Are you bored?” came the muffled, incredulous voice.
“I’m rebelling.”
“From what?”
“Schoolwork.”
“Uh-huh.”
Trowa continued to eat his treats, still refusing to come out and still refusing to share.
“We all miss you. I miss you,” Quatre presently said, reaching out and gently patting the lump and savoring the warmth it radiated through the layers of covering. “Get better and hang out with me again. I miss kicking your butt during soccer matches.”
“Liar. I kick your butt.” Trowa paused and chuckled quietly. Then he shifted and pulled down the blankets to peer over them, his eyes crinkling into little green crescents as he smiled. “I miss you, too. I’d go after Wufei for giving you a black eye, but I think you’ve done enough turning his genitals to mush.”
Quatre smiled back and lightly tugged at Trowa’s rumpled hair before letting out a heavy sigh and then shifting to his feet.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I have a date with the detention monitor.”
“Leave your book here. I like Calvin and Hobbes, too.”
“Okay, but don’t wrinkle it.” Quatre reluctantly surrendered his beloved book, wondering if he could ask Iria to smuggle another volume the next time she visited him.
Quatre stared at the massive gray block of concrete that loomed above the lush collection of trees and shrubbery. How many times had he graced that building—or more specifically detention hall—with his presence? He couldn’t even begin to count. He was even amazed that he hadn’t been expelled from the school yet. His father was beginning to exchange stock tips with the detention monitor. Iria had even sent over some baklava to the man as a thank you gift for taking good care of her little brother.
The boy sighed.
“Going my way to the detention hall, too, stranger?”
“Oh, great,” Quatre muttered, and he turned in time to see Taylor saunter up to him, eyeing the staid gray building with a look of rueful resignation. “What did you do this time? Switch the incense stick with pot during morning mass?”
“That was last week.” The older boy turned to him and flashed him a crooked grin. “I’d rather not get into any detail about my sins, but let’s just say that Mr. Fujimiya’s really, really pissed off at me.”
Quatre nodded as they continued their walk down the paved pathway, the discouraging aspect of their sentence somehow tempered by the manicured lawn and the picturesque collection of greenery that flanked their trail.
“Wait a second.”
Quatre felt a hand grab his arm, and he stopped in his tracks. His chin was suddenly seized and firmly turned, and he was staring at a pair of startled hazel eyes.
“What the—is that a black eye? What the hell happened?”
“Someone hit me.”
“Who? Who? I’ll break the fucker’s arm!”
“I’d rather not say. I defended myself well enough. There’s no need to draw blood.”
Taylor eyed him carefully. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Thanks to you, I’ve gotten lots of practice for self-defense. I kneed him.” The boy broke out in a defiant smile, but to his amazement, Taylor’s hold lingered. In fact, he felt fingers tighten a little against his chin, and he was pulled closer.
“Well—you can’t kick my balls for giving you a sympathy kiss,” the older boy murmured before leaning down and pressing his lips against Quatre’s cheek just right below his injured eye. He pulled away, his smile now taking on a devilish quality. “That’d be rather ungrateful of you if you did, Quatre, and I know you’re not that kind.”
He released the boy and walked on as though nothing had just transpired, leaving Quatre staring at him in numbed shock and feeling his eye twitch as well as an overwhelming urge to kick himself hard (if not dash his head repeatedly against the pavement) for being so stupid. As his mind raced to wrap itself around this momentary lapse in his guard, his eyes swept back to the administration building…
…and he found nothing but the massive, forbidding shape of Mount Doom looming before him. Black smoke issued out of fissures that snaked their serpentine way through the weathered rock, covering the surface with endless capillaries that belched disgusting essences that made him ill.
“I’m supposed to go there,” he groaned.
Why did he have to be the one chosen for this task? His life had been quiet—idyllic. And through a series of the most unlikely (and rather unsavory) events, he suddenly found himself carrying the burden of Middle-Earth’s survival on his shoulders. He’d traversed the most treacherous passes, had survived the most terrifying confrontations with the Enemy’s forces, had suffered the loss of his most beloved mentor in the black caverns of Moria. He’d torn himself away from his friends’ company in order to brave the final journey alone without further risk to anyone’s life. This was his task, after all. He owed it to everyone—to Gandalf—the successful destruction of the One Ring.
Had he not lost Sam, he would have borne the wearisome journey with a good deal more humor. It was very, very little comfort to find himself doomed to brave the dangers of Sauron’s stronghold in the company of…
His dazed and exhausted eyes flitted from the black, jagged shadow of Mount Doom to the ghastly, slimy, and altogether detestable figure of Gollum, who slunk before him, muttering and whimpering nonsensical ramblings to himself as he guided the heartsick and despairing hobbit toward their destination.
“It could’ve been worse, I suppose,” he told himself, grimacing as he watched the shriveled thing pause to dig into the mud, searching for food. “I just need to be on my guard with him. I wish Sam were here.”
Gollum glanced over his shoulder with a slobbery grin, baring sharp teeth to his view. Quatre shivered and stepped cautiously back. “Precious wants something to chew? Gollum. We wants to make sure that nice hobbitses are fed well, yes, precious, we do. Gollum, gollum.”
Quatre watched the wretched creature pull something out of God-knew-where and shoving it under the startled hobbit’s nose.
“Nice hobbitses like Pocky, don’t they, precious? We wants them to be happy and treat us gently—no cruel rope on our poor legs, no, no.”
Quatre shook his head vehemently, feeling the bile in his stomach rise up. He raised a hand to push the proffered sweet treats from him. “No—no thanks. I’ve got some supplies still. You eat them—they’re your favorite, aren’t they?”
Gollum blinked for a moment before shrinking before him almost reverently, his gray, leathery, and slime-covered skin barely hiding the smooth moving of ancient bone as he alternately crawled, slithered, and lurched about. A large, gnarled hand occasionally reached out as though in an effort to touch the hem of Quatre’s shirt as a worshipper would an idol standing before him.
“We’ll saves food for nice hobbitses, we will.” He nodded, an odd gleam flashing from his eyes before turning around and heading forward and before Quatre had a chance to read that momentary flash with some accuracy. “Precious must teach hobbits trust—must trust poor, poor Smeagol. Burden can gets too heavy for nice master, gollum, gollum. We wants to help, don’t we, precious? We help nice master.”
Quatre followed his guide cautiously as they picked their way through the rough, uneven ridges and shelves that would lead them deeper into the Enemy’s heart—and toward the fire, where the final reckoning was to take place.
Listening to his companion mumble, hum, and periodically sing as they struggled upwards, pausing several times to check the security of their path or to double back and take an alternative route after having discovered that the trail abruptly ended where a landslide had once occurred. Quatre quietly blessed the Lady’s gift of lembas, and he periodically reached into his pocket to break off portions to consume. His energy was nearly depleted, and he hadn’t even covered the first half of the mountain.
Fumes filled the air, invading his senses and causing occasional bouts of dizziness, the bleak environment of black, jagged rock nearby and the vast wasteland of Gorgoroth that encased Mount Doom around them. Everywhere he looked, he saw nothing but the dreary, mist-filled mountains of Ephel Duath and Ered Lithui bearing down on him, in addition to the ever-growing weight of the Ring around his neck. With every step he took closer to the Dark Lord’s seat of power, the more he felt himself being pulled down by a force against which he couldn’t fight, slowing his pace and dragging him to the ground till he felt as though he were practically crawling.
Gollum would pause occasionally to urge him on, grinning or cowering before him, that light in his eyes still there. Quatre tried to read it in spite of the poisonous atmosphere that ate away at his senses.
There was desire in those large, glassy eyes.
Desire for the ring?
Quatre covered his mouth in disgust at the possibilities. “The Ring—of course it has to be the Ring,” he hissed, unable to control the shuddering that racked his small frame. “He desires the Ring—nothing more—oh, God, not me! That’ll be nothing short of bestiality! That’s disgusting!”
“Master?” the repulsive creature hissed from somewhere. Quatre couldn’t tell; his mind was swimming in a torrent of the most unsavory thoughts. “The nice hobbit is ill, precious? He should’ve had some Pocky, he should. Gollum. We promises to take care of nice master, didn’t we? Take care of him, yes, yes, for sparing poor Smeagol’s life.”
Quatre dodged a hand held out in offering, and he stumbled along. “I’m fine,” he stammered. “Just—having an attack of the cooties. Let’s go and get this over with.”
He’d just have to hand the Ring over to Gollum and push the repulsive creature into the fire once they reached it.
“That’s it,” he whispered to himself. “Two birds with one stone.”
Gollum spoke to him, but he tried to shut him out, forcing his mind on other things instead. Memories of happier times—safer times—spent in the company of his friends in the rustic comfort offered by The Shire. Unfortunately for him, Gollum’s voice kept interrupting his thoughts, imposing itself with sporadic and nonsensical words that Quatre continued to ignore.
“Master?”
No response.
“Precious?”
The exhausted, exasperated hobbit carried on grimly, his mind bent on reaching the heart of Mount Doom.
“Quatre?”
The boy grumbled, silently hoping that the time would go fast. He didn’t know how much more of this he could bear.
“Quatre! Hello!”
“Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” the boy finally cried out, stopping and turning to face a shocked Taylor.
“Yes?”
Quatre nodded. “That’s what I said! What, do I need to spell it out for you?”
Taylor gaped at him for a second before a grin broke, and he stumbled back, clapping a hand on his forehead as he laughed heartily, his eyes not once leaving Quatre.
“What?”
“Oh, God—oh, God, I can’t believe you said yes!” the older boy cried, shaking his head. “Jesus, I must have done something good to warrant this!”
Quatre stared at him. “Huh?”
Taylor simply walked up to him and placed his hands firmly on the smaller boy’s shoulders, holding him in place as he peered into Quatre’s eyes, his grin permanently fixed, it seemed, on his face. “We’ll kick their asses at the dance marathon, Quatre! We’ll show them, won’t we?” He paused to laugh once more. “Shit, I need my smokes—this is too intense—I can’t believe you said yes! I’ll have to take it out on my Pocky stash.”
He fished around his blazer pocket and pulled out the familiar red box and started to munch away, offering some to his flabbergasted companion, who now gaped at him in his turn.
“What are you talking about, Taylor?” Quatre demanded though a small voice at the back of his mind told him what he didn’t want to admit.
“The dance marathon sponsored by the Drama Club, gorgeous. Wait—I guess I should call you partner instead.”
They’d reached the entrance to Detention Hall at this point, and Taylor had pushed the door open for his companion, bowing smoothly and gallantly allowing Quatre to step inside. The boy regarded him for a moment in stunned silence before walking on painfully. Maybe it would be better if he were to keep the Ring and throw himself in the fire instead.
And after they were conducted to the room by the detention monitor, Quatre discovered the all-too-real truth of spending his entire afternoon locked away in Taylor’s company and no one else’s.
“Why can’t someone shoot me now?” he whispered, his shoulders sagging, before a welcome sight met his eyes, and he perked up.
The guillotine stood poised, its blade smeared with blood of prior victims. It glinted in the French sun, the terrible sparkle of white light beckoning to Quatre. He smiled grimly. “I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out. It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.”
“So—are you going to ignore me for the rest of the time, Quatre?”
The boy sighed. His face remained buried in his arms as they lay folded on the desk on which he sat.
“You don’t talk to a victim of the guillotine,” he retorted. “Decapitated heads don’t speak. Leave me alone.”
He heard his companion scratch his head and shift in his chair. “Okay. Fine. Whatever. If you pass out, I suppose the burden falls on me to kiss you awake, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Shut up, Taylor.”
For those who aren't familiar with Calvin and Hobbes, it's a comic strip about a six-year-old kid who constantly loses himself in his fantasies, accompanied by his stuffed tiger (Hobbes), who also comes to life in his fantasy world. ^_^
[1] Taken from the Liturgy of the Eucharist.
[2] Rosalyn is Calvin’s babysitter and the only person he’s afraid of and can’t push around. ^_^
Scenes used in this chapter: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” Tolkien’s “The Lord of the Rings,” and Charles Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities.”