Two Worlds, One Love
Two worlds. Two lives. None of us remember when the dreams started, or whether they were dreams or something else, something real. In one world, it felt like the other was only a dream, and vice versa. Which had come first? We didn't know. We didn't know they were connected, or that we were connected by them. Not until we found each other...
The caravan wound slowly through the desert, a long train of carts and camels, a streak of darker color cutting through the endless sand and dust and heat. Quatre sat within the cool confines of his wagon, thankful for the comfort his status accorded him on the long journey. Had it been his choice, he would not have chosen to cross the desert, but where the healer's temple told him to go, he went. It was not his place to question them.
Tugging at the neckline of his white robes, he wondered how they could stand it, the merchants and the mercenaries. Even in the shaded interior of the wagon, the heat was terrible.
Suddenly, a shout was raised from front of the caravan, traveling back along its length, and he sighed in a mix of relief and frustration. They had come upon an oasis, but the journey was not yet over. Quatre felt the wagon speed up, and for want of something to do he raised the flap between himself and the driver.
"How long until we arrive?"
"Ah, sirrah, I don't know, but it seems we will be sharing water with another caravan. We will be stopped here several days, likely as not."
"Grand," he muttered, and let the flap drop back into place.
Having the wagon all to himself and no one to talk with, he fell into quiet reflection.
By the time the wagons had been parked and the drivers were beginning to tend to their mounts, dusk was beginning to spread over the desert. The din was terrible, and he sought a place away from the water where the sands muffled the sounds. People stepped out of his way, bobbing their heads in respect as they passed. He made his way to where the lanterns were beginning to burn, where a multitude of wagons from both caravans had set up shop and were hawking their wares in earnest. He was not interested in buying, only in looking; there was nothing he needed for himself, and no one he need buy trinkets for. It was merely a diversion, although he did have money if he discovered something which might be of interest to the temple.
He passed by wagons selling textiles, jewelry, pottery, and spices; he stopped once, to examine some scrolls, and then again to purchase a crumbling tart to curb his hunger until the campfires of his wagon train had been lit and dinner was prepared. With distaste he found himself approaching the end of the run, where the whores plied their trade and slaves were bought and sold. Normally, he would have turned around; dark was falling quickly, and he had no stomach for such sights. But something made him keep walking, and he was not one to dismiss such feelings lightly. The whores paid him no mind.
The slave wagons were mere cages, covered over in carpets during the day to keep out the heat but uncovered, now, to show off their wares. Quatre glanced over them in pity, but did not meet their eyes because he could not save them all.
A tent was set out near the wagons, a place for auctions, for buyers to examine their prospective purchases, and it was to this tent which Quatre was drawn. The night was young, and the auctions had just begun; a small crowd was gathered, mostly other slave-traders, but here and there a wealthy merchant seeking an extra hand. Quatre hovered at the edge of the crowd. Several people gave him strange looks, but it was not their place to question him. It was rare, but not unheard of, for a healer to take mercy on a slave and purchase their freedom. The current auction ended, and the next slave was brought forth.
Quatre's sharp intake of breath caught the attention of several of the crowd, and the auctioneer in turn glanced over towards him; but the slave remained where he was, staring at the ground.
There was no doubt in Quatre's mind, however, that he knew the slave. He didn't know how he knew; only that he recognized the face from his dreams, and a name sprung to his mind along with it, something only half-remembered in the early waking hours: Trowa.
"Does the healer wish to buy this slave's freedom?" the auctioneer asked him; and without a second thought Quatre gave him a curt nod.
"I do."
There was no haggling; Quatre would pay whatever price he asked, with the money provided to him by the temple. An assistant led the slave away to have his ankle and wrist chains struck off, and Quatre followed the auctioneer inside the tent to conclude the sale.
It puzzled Quatre somewhat that there had been no reaction; of course he would not connect Quatre's voice with a dream, but surely he had heard that his freedom was being bought, something that should make even the most sullen slave ecstatic. The thought did not worry him for more than a moment; the paper was signed, money exchanged hands, and Quatre found himself in possession of a slave. He left the tent and was presented with his new purchase, to do with as he willed.
Standing outside the glow of the lanterns in the half-light, Quatre found himself uncertain. Was this slave who he believed him to be? He seemed taller than in his dreams, darker of skin and more well-muscled, and Quatre had not gotten more than a glance at his bowed face.
"What is your name?"
"I have no name, master." His voice was quiet and calm, and the same as Quatre remembered from his dreams; and he thought he had heard the same words in the same voice once, long ago. Quatre frowned.
"I am not your master. I grant you your freedom."
"I refuse it."
Nothing could have prepared Quatre for those words. Gratification, thanks, any number of other reactions - anything but a refusal.
"Why?" If there was a hint of anger to his voice, he did not care to hide it.
"I am content to serve my master," the slave replied simply, his eyes still downcast.
Quatre took his chin in one hand and brought his face up. The same features, the same eyes... no, he had not made a mistake. Trowa's green eyes gazed calmly back at him, sapping Quatre's sudden anger. If he recognized his would-be savoir, his expression gave no indication of it.
"I am a healer! I cannot keep a slave," Quatre chastened him, and let his hand fall away from Trowa's face as he turned his back on him. Trowa said nothing.
Quatre felt tired. The heat of the desert, the weariness of travel, was wearing on him; he did not feel like arguing, not then. He began walking back towards where his caravan had set down, back to his wagon. There would be time enough in the morning. Trowa followed silently in his wake.
Quatre woke as the sun began filtering in through his curtains. Still half-asleep he thought that the night's dream had escaped him, the tedious caravan; but then it hit him full-force and for several moments he remembered, very clearly: Trowa, a slave, dark-skinned and well-muscled wearing nothing but a loincloth and both of them standing in shadow. He blushed furiously and rolled over, knees digging against the mattress as he buried his face in his pillow hiding a shy grin of embarrassment.
After a breather he glanced over at the clock and saw that he was up early; but the dream still stuck with him, that moment in the lantern-light, and he got up and headed for the shower.
As he washed his hair, Quatre considered what this meant. He couldn't remember when, precisely, the dreams had started; only that it seemed to have been sometime after the five of them had met. Sometimes unremembered, sometimes only half-remembered, but he could still follow the plot. He knew who he was in that place, though he hadn't been able to measure it precisely with words or thoughts until now. He remembered thinking this place a dream. He almost laughed out loud, but kept it to a giggle.
Was it real? He would have to talk with Trowa to find out. And was it only the two of them? He would have to ask the other three pilots as well.