Disclaimer: Stephen Sommers and Universal Pictures own the character of Ardeth Bay. I do not profit from this work.
Author's Note: When TM first came out I wrote a lot of fanfic centering around Ardeth Bay. I wrote a lot of ficlets and started several longer pieces. Unfortunately I never finished most of them. I did end up with one short story that I reread recently and decided to share it, despite the slow waning of Mummyfic. I must mention that this is a little rough, and the historical accuracy is dubious at best. I am just going to try to simply retype it and post it here instead of revising it endlessly with snarky perfectionism, though I will probably have to edit the last chapter to bring it into an "R" rating.
Summary: This is very, very AU. The only thing Mummy about this story is Ardeth Bay, and he has been transposed into a Druze tribe. This story is for serious Ardeth fans! It tells the story of a Bedouin woman who crosses paths unexpectedly with a lovely, fierce, handsome---must stop typing adjectives!!---desert warrior.
Embrace of a Warrior by valis2
I stirred the ashes, settling the coffeepot deep into the embers to heat it. Outside of the tent I could hear the jingle of harnesses on the war-mares and the joyful exclamations of the young wives; it meant that my father had returned from his ghazu, and he would be displeased if the thick Bedouin brew was not waiting for him.
He pulled open the tent flap, scanning the interior. Beyond his silhouette I glimpsed the younger warriors celebrating, singing wildly and firing their weapons into the air. "Tuema," shouted my father, grinning wildly. "We have returned!" Letting the flap fall behind him he stood proudly, like a sheikh. As commander of the ghazu he had won prestige.
"Praise be to Allah," I murmured. What did I care for his new slaves or fancy rifles? I only wanted to be rid of him. His hand was heavy, always ready to strike. Worse yet, I was still single, though I had been of age for some time. He would not part with a single camel for my dowry; the other women in the tribe gossiped continually about this. Now I had heard that he was to sell me as a slave to the Rashid clan, and I knew my father well enough to know that it was the truth. Only the will of Allah kept me in his tent; He had made it clear. I was waiting for His sign, the omen from my dream. Once I received this, I would leave his fists and his curses behind forever.
"The Ghazu was blessed by Allah." He hooked his thumbs in his wide leather belt, his grin widening. "We struck the al-Din clan. Our revenge for their misdeeds, may their bellies split and rot! Allah charmed our swords and guided our rifles; we lost very few." His grin increased. "And I have a new slave!"
I was immediately alarmed. The al-Din clan had been our sworn enemies for more years than there were grains of sand. Even the women were like vipers, dangerous, poisonous, treasonous. "You---you took an Al-Din slave?"
"No, no," he said smugly.
Though it was an awful breach of etiquette, I blurted out, "Then---who?" She must be a rare beauty for him to be bragging of her to me, for I barely ranked above a slave. I calmed myself, folding my hands in my lap. At least she would distract him from me for some time at least, and Allah would do the rest. My father called out to my uncle to bring in the slave.
It took three men to grapple the stranger into the tent, though his hands were bound. Even in the poor light my eyes were overwhelmed. He was tall, dark haired, dark eyed, and easily the most handsome man I had ever seen.
His hair was not wound into the six braids of a Bedouin. Instead it hung free and wild to his shoulders in a mass of inky dark waves. His clothing, though torn and bloodstained now, had at one time been of a fine cut and material. Remnants of a silk sash still hung about his hips; the remainder bound his wrists, and his lean, supple fingers were clenched in anger. He bared gleaming white teeth in a snarl, his goatee in stark contrast, framing full lips. His bronzed cheeks bore dark stubble; my father must have ambushed him relatively close to our camp, explaining the exuberant battle fever of his warriors.
My father still watched me, smirking, waiting for some reaction. It was then that I realized that the darkened areas on his high cheekbones were not bruises. They were indigo tattoos. "Druze," I breathed in amazement, and my father leaned back his head and laughed with delight. "How---how---" I was thunderstruck. The Druze territory was twenty camel-rides to the North, and they rarely ventured out of their lands. Rumors of their legendary fighting skills circulated everywhere; they'd been one of the few tribes to successfully defend their homelands from the Turkish invaders.
"Does it matter?" gloated my father. "I have taken a Druze slave. Even the sheikh cannot claim this."
The slave glared at him, his mahogany eyes black with rage. "It is only because you leapt upon us in the dead of night that you succeeded," he said coldly. "We had wounded, and yet you attacked. Coward."
I held my breath, fully expecting my father to strike this man for speaking so disrespectfully. But my father only laughed at him. I exhaled slowly. This slave would not be a permanent addition to the household. The other warriors would torture him for sport and leave him to an ignoble death; a man such as this could never be an obedient slave or humble servant. His skin was pale beneath the bronze luster; bruises and cuts marred his elegant appearance. Doubtless he had not seen food or water since his capture; I was certain he had been forced to walk to the camp, despite his condition. I felt a pang of sympathy for this darkly handsome stranger. His would be a sorrowful end. Though it was improper of me, I could not help but drink in his beauty, partially hidden though it was by sand and dried blood. My gaze took in the high cheekbones, wandering to the knotted cords in his neck.
Then I saw the pendant nestled in the hollow of his throat.
I had to clench my hands and bite the inside of my cheek not to cry out aloud. Surely Allah could not mean this man to be my omen, the sign that spelled my freedom. But the dark carved stone that lay across the stranger's chest was the very one from my dream, and I was overwhelmed with hopelessness. Had Allah entwined my future with this man's, which was so cursed?
My uncle and the Druze were locked in a stare, a battle of wills, and I began to fear that he would simply kill him where he stood. I prayed silently for the tempers to cool, for reason to prevail.