Title: Travellers

Author: 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 Deb for her work betaing this fic.

For Dark Song. I know you like a bit of fantasy, so Happy Birthday. I hope you enjoy.

Title: Travellers

The travellers came with the last rays of the setting sun, dusty, dishevelled and begging shelter from the road and the night bandits who hunted the unwary in the darkness. The old priest opened the doors of the orphanage to them, bidding them eat with the household and offering the loft above the ramshackle old stables single ancient donkey.

Rudimentary as the conditions were the travellers bowed deeply and offered the old man their thanks for his kindness, setting their few possessions by the door to later be carried to the loft. A child brought a basin of water to them and one at the time they dipped their hands into the chill water, washing off the travel dirt.

The old Priest was surprised when the travellers remained cloaked and hooded, settling at the place offered to them at the table, adjusting their tattered cloaks and shuffling that little bit closer to the meagre warmth of the fire. Flat bread was offered to the guests, torn from two loaves cooked by the Priest in the morning, scarcely enough to feed himself and the half dozen ragged children he cared for, but offered freely; and they took it and offered their thanks.

The children were uncommonly quiet at the table with the traveller's presence, twin dark shadows in the normally cheerful kitchen. Neither of the cloaked men spoke during the meal; they were surely men, their voices ambiguous enough to offer no clue, but what women would travel the roads in such times of unrest unless accompanied by adequate escort…? Even peasant women refused to travel unescorted, especially at night.

The Priest dished a single ladle of watery stew into chipped bowls and the children gravely passed them around, sipping from their own bowls before the welcome heat dissipated. The travellers ate in silence, dipping bread into their stew, sopping up the last bits of moisture and vegetables with somewhat more dignity than the children licking out their bowls.

When the meal was done, still in silence, the children removed the bowls, stacking them into the wash tub beneath the single window before huddling around the fire where a ceramic pot of water sat to one side of the coals, heating until a thin wisp of steam rose into the air. The old man dipped a hand in, spoke quietly to the eldest boy and watched as he ladled a small amount of hot water into two shallow bowls.

"Be quick before it cools and then to bed. I will be up to watch you say your devotions in a few minutes."

In the relative warmth of the fireside the children washed faces and hands quickly, towelled off on stained but recently washed cloths and, bidding the travellers a polite goodnight and 'The One Bless', climbed the narrow stairs. In their wake the old man stood at the foot of the stairs, studying the travellers in silence, watching.

They rose from the table and the shorter of the two moved to the fireside, the other to the door. Opening it a crack to peer out into the darkness of the night he appeared to be listening intently. The old man's heart clenched in fear and dread.

"I ask you to spare the children. We have little and what we have we share willingly with all who pass. Please. They have seen enough hardship in their young lives. In the name of the One I beg mercy for them."

"We mean neither you nor they any harm, good Priest. Your children are safe from us this night." The one by the fire turned to him and bowed low. "We give you thanks for the hospitality you have shown us."

"Who are you?"

"Travellers passing through." The taller of the two dropped the latch across the door, turning to pace close to the fire and other than the rustle of the cloak he moved silently, not even a footfall echoed in the kitchen. "Your children should not miss their devotions to the One."

"Good sir, see to your children. I was raised by one as kind as yourself in a place very much like this, and I respect the sanctity of the Holy Church. Please, see to the children. They are unsettled enough with our presence and we truly mean neither you, nor they, any harm."

The stairs creaked abominably as the old man climbed them and the travellers stood together, cowled heads turned not to the fire's heat but to the door and the single window near it. Overhead they could hear the priest's footsteps and the quiet murmur of voices.

"This brings back memories."

"Good or bad?" His voice deepened as the disguise was relaxed; rich, roughened velvet in the night.

"Both. We never had much, but what we had was shared equally amongst us and travellers were never turned away into the night. Will they come here?"

"Yes. Soon now."

The shorter of the pair sighed from within the shelter of his cowl and beneath the travel stained material a hand found the gauntlets tucked in his belt, pulling them on with practised ease; dropping a gloved hand to the hilt of his sword.

"I was in this exact situation once before, only there was no one then waiting for what was coming."

A shining wisp of the palest hair escaped the folds of the hood as his tall companion inclined his head down a little, and he knew he was being studied. One pale hand rose and long, slender fingers brushed the hair back beneath the shelter of the material.

"Will you be alright for this?"

"Past experience is only added incentive. Not one of them will reach the children or the old man. How long before we have company?"

"Minutes. I can hear them."

Stairs creaked and the shorter traveller strode to the foot of the stairs and looked up. The old priest froze, watching him, waiting. Looking like he expected doom to fall upon him and he would be right; if the orphanage was not graced this night with capable defenders.

"Go back upstairs, good sir. It is not for you, what will come this night. I bid you keep the children silent."

"What comes?" he whispered.

"Death, but not for you." The taller of the two moved once again to the door, listening for a moment. "Four… five."

"Then they are likely to be the ones we tracked."

"Who are you?" The old man was half way down the stairs, eyes wide and bright in the flickering light of the oil lamp.

"Travellers who can defend themselves and those they may happen to seek shelter with. Please, sir. Go. Keep the children silent. What comes this night leave to us. You will know when it is done."

"What comes in the night?" Stubbornly the old man looked between the two, the figure at the foot of the stairs who had spoken to him and the taller one by the door.

"A timely prayer to the One might serve us well, Priest, given daemons stalk this night. You have heard the talk; you know why no one will walk abroad after dark." The taller of the two was watching him he was sure. "Now, I ask you to see to the children."

He went, fairly running up the stairs despite his aged and creaking joints. Much had he witnessed in his long life and he did not live to be the age he was without having seen terrible things. Whispering prayers to the One he stared at the children lying under frayed thin blankets and on pads filled with straw and wondered if any of them would see the light of day. Their eyes were bright as they stared back at him, afraid, not knowing what it was they feared; not knowing what it was they sensed.

Two men against five daemons? He had seen no sign of weapons, but then anything could have been hidden beneath those cloaks. Anything… including daemons.

"The One protect us!" He whispered fervently. "Be silent, children. Be silent and be safe."

Unless those below, who professed to be their saviours, were in fact their murderers.

"Daemon is old school, Milliardo, you are slipping."

The tall man snorted softly, his attention focused beyond the room on what was happening outside of the house. He stepped away from the door, his long fingered hand emerging from his cloak, sprinkling a white powder on the floor. He knelt and drew amidst the dust and powder an intricate rune, concentrating to the exclusion of all else in order to see it formed and shaped properly. It had been many years since he had mishandled magic; he had learned early the consequences of a mistake. Accuracy was vital.

Peering at the forming complexity of the runes patterning the floor his companion flexed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, feeling the surge of adrenaline beginning. They were near; even he could feel them now.

"I am trained in that old school, my friend, why do you think my magic works so well?"

"And you are so modest too."

"More so than my companion I believe."

Beneath the cowl of the cloak blue eyes narrowed with concentration as he studied the runes and their alignment. The rune work complete he stepped back, careful not to disturb the working with a careless sweep of his cloak and paced back to join his companion.

"What will it do?"

"Banish the first creature to cross it."

"One less, before we even begin. Good. You are a handy man to have around, lover, but you have got to let me have some fun tonight."

Blue eyes closed briefly and the sigh was more than a little exasperated. "Killing these things is not supposed to be fun, Maxwell."

"No, but it's a poor world if one can't get some enjoyment out of one's work. I have a history with their kind and I enjoy some small satisfaction from payback. Light me up, would you?"

The sword was old, ancient, and the man who wielded it threw back his cloak, shrugging it over his shoulders to clear his arms for combat. He was ready for the fight, his cowl falling back to reveal brilliant blue eyes bleeding into shades of violet as his blood heated to the coming challenge. A rope of braided chestnut hair fell over his shoulder tied off with black leather, gold thread marking the runes sewn carefully into the supple hide.

His companion reached out a fine boned hand, each finger ringed in precious metals and gems and from each ring a delicate, intricate plaited arrangement of chains extended to connect to the wide, rune marked golden band circling his wrist. A single uttered word, complex in its pronunciation and uttered in a language which flowed with almost musical connotations; the lightest of touches to the bared blade of Maxwell's sword and the weapon hummed, blue flame igniting along its length, runes blazing to life beneath the flames, marking the blade and sealing the magic.

"Praise to the One." Maxwell murmured, touching his lips to the hilt where a blood ruby burned crimson fire with the light from the blazing blade.

"They are here." Milliardo's quiet voice, deep and velvet rich, filled the room.

Maxwell's hands tightened on the hilt of the sword and he took a long step to the fore of his companion, balanced on the balls of his feet, light footed, alert; waiting. He could smell them, the fetid stench of the otherworld, hinting at everything foul a man could think of. He could hear the scrabble of claws on wood and for an instant his gaze met the crystal blue eyes of his companion.

"Let's send them back to the hell they came from."

A softly uttered word from the magic wielder and the fire in the hearth flared to life, burning bright in the grate and banishing the momentary darkness that had encroached on the room. The light drove back the shadows so that when the door burst open, it was not the darkness that flowed through it that enfolded the defenders, but the light which caught at the advancing creature, banishing its darkness.

The fanged monster screeched with the discomfort it received from the flood of light and the monster leapt into the room, claws extended; intent on rending those who dared to bring it pain. Taloned feet came down on the intricately crafted runes and the screech became an agonised howl as light erupted from the runes, engulfing the creature in a brilliant cascade before snuffing out, taking the beast with it.

The doorway was ripped open, forcefully widened to permit two of the creatures to enter at once whilst a third crashed through the window, taking a goodly portion of the wall with it into the room. Hissing and snarling with fury it was on its feet in the blink of an eye, its terrible gaze on the tall man who stood without a weapon drawn, silent and still.

Maxwell grinned, eyes fever bright, sword extended as he danced forward. They had been following a trail of murder for weeks now, pursuing the daemons, intent on taking them down. The rift between worlds was widening and more and more creatures as vile as these were entering the world. It was his pleasure as much as it was his duty to send them on their way, back into the void to what ever world they had originated from… or to oblivion itself.

They could feel the pure energy of his flame and they shied from it, but they could scent the children too, and they hungered. He would not have it, they would not pass as once creatures not unlike these had come in the night to rend and slaughter innocents. He should have died that night, but he had survived and he would survive this night too, to defend others from such filth.

From the corner of his eye he saw the daemon charge his companion, claws extended, gaping maw filled with pointed fangs, hissing and slavering as it sought to kill. Maxwell dropped his shoulder, bringing his sword around, taking the creature in the chest and hearing it howl with the magic boiling blood and flesh.

A chained hand extended, the third ring glowing and Maxwell rolled himself over his leading shoulder, exposing the nearest of the beasts coming for him and lightning wreathed in purifying flame engulfed the daemon. The night was filled with the screaming as he continued to roll, passing the creatures and coming up with his blade extended, piercing the chest of the fifth beast just appearing in the doorway.

The magic contained within his sword flared anew and he watched the beast writhe, impaled on the blade and burning, seeming to evaporate into the cold night air and dissipate on the wind. Spinning, he blocked the reaching claws, grinning into the face of death with a smile filled with cold promise.

The magic wielder stood his ground, ringed hand raised, the delicate links of the chains crackling with visible energy. Two were closing in on him and he could see Maxwell take the fifth of the creatures down, engaging with another, smiling in the cold promise of no mercy.

They did not belong here. They preyed on the weak and the helpless, particularly the innocent and young. These beasts were not meant for this world and they could not be reasoned with. They knew only the need to feed.

He raised his ringed hand, flicking a finger; blue eyes alight with the energy of his link to the magic of the world. Flames, the purest blue of the hottest fires magic could feed, engulfed the leading creature and it continued to come at him even as it burned. Graceful, unhurried, he stepped to the side into the path of the second creature which screeched in triumph.

Perhaps there was one thing more appetising to these creatures than the life of a child… a life infused with the energy of the world they had come to…the Catalyst, a pure magic user. Its lust to feed on that magic made it eager, careless, and it impaled itself on the sword that appeared in his right hand, magic blazing from the conjured blade and the rings and chains which fed it magical energy… fire magic was no friend to the beast.

There was no means of extinguishing purifying flame once it was set to its task.

Maxwell parried a succession of taloned strikes, his smile growing wider with each strike, dancing on light feet, perfectly balanced, perfectly placed. He ran the beast through on the third stroke, casting it aside even as it began to dissipate and turn to dust. Never pausing he lunged back into the kitchen, throwing himself at the back of the nearest creature, thrusting the enchanted blade deep into the ridged back, watching as it screamed, burned and faded to dust.

Milliardo stood for a long moment, blue eyes closed against the light, his senses straining beyond the building and out into the night. After a moment he reached to touch the burning blade wielded by his companion and the blue flame died.

"I guess that means the night's clear." Maxwell sheathed the sword, turning to examine the wreckage of the door and wall. "Well, at least we never burnt down the building. The last time was a bit… messy."

"I will ward the door against entry; the spell will dissipate with the rising of the sun." The Catalyst moved to the table, placing a small leather pouch which clunked with the weight of coins as it contacted the table. "This will enable repairs."

"Where to from here?"

Maxwell drew the folds of the cloak more firmly about him, raising his cowl, once again becoming shrouded into anonymity. He watched the magic user move on to the door, watching the magic ignite and dance across the rings and chains adorning that slender hand, intricate motions of fingers setting protections against intrusion in place.

He wondered how long it would take the old man to speak, or if he would be too afraid to reveal his presence. He had watched much of the fight, his presence revealed by the outcry stifled by the medium of shoving his own fist in his mouth to muffle the noise. He had been wise enough to not wish to attract attention, even if he had not been wise enough to stay upstairs.

With the placement of the wards the chains faded from sight, the rings fading a moment later and the rune marked golden wristband regained the appearance of polished leather. Unadorned, the long fingers smoothed down the tattered cloak and he walked out into the night.

"East. There was another disruption at sunset; something came through. The hearth fire will burn to winter's end, Priest."

"Damn. I was hoping to make use of that loft," Maxwell muttered.

"Who are you?"

He paused on the threshold, looking back. The old Priest stood on the stairs, eyes wide with all that he had witnessed. After a moment Maxwell shrugged and stepped out into the night.

"Travellers. Thank you for your hospitality, sir. May the One protect you and the children."

The night, cold and clear, closed around them and for a long time there was only the sound of frost under boots.

End

Karina Robertson 2010