Disclaimer: this story will, in the advent of time, encompass themes of slash, rape and male pregnancy... oh my :3
Own nothing except T.E Lawrence's height... we're both 5'5'' ya see ;3
Summary: After Lawrence's rape at Deraa... if he should find himself pregnant then this is what I say happens next... read... enjoy... and R&R appreciated... Flames will NOT be appreciated...
Prologue
A Delicate Condition
"What I owe you is beyond evaluation."
The feeling which the Prince of Mecca uttered this simmered by the time the last few words parted his lips. Whether T.E. Lawrence heard Feisal or not, the English Colonel's back seemed irrevocably turned on the Arab revolt. The horror of Deraa and his horrific transformation left Lawrence the withered shell of a man he had once believed to be indestructible; he, like the remains of his Bedouin forces, grossly overestimated him.
By the time he reached the staircase his head whirled. His mind was foggy at best, filled as if by the all-pervasive stench of Turkish tobacco, the same smell of a certain Turkish general with his filthy hands on Lawrence's skin, his breath hot on his cheek.
With that thought still fresh in his memory, Lawrence felt his stomach give a dry heave. He'd climbed approximately eight steps before he had to stop and sit down. Ever since Daud's death, he'd learned it was impossible to cry. Were he not devoid of emotions, he would cry, right here in the center of Damascus inside the British embassy. He'd snivel and sniff and wipe his nose on the back of his hands and make an all around pathetic exhibition of himself. Let Lowell Thomas know that this was the real Lawrence of Arabia, the real Uncrowned King of Arabia: ravished then cast off like yesterday's clothes.
"You look bloody awful, sir," Brighton assessed, standing on the step just above where Lawrence was sitting. "You're liable to go off like a landmine if you're not careful."
"It's nothing, just this blistering air," Lawrence lied curtly.
Ten seconds passed in stony silence when, with a sigh, Brighton sat on the marble step next to Lawrence, his hands clasped in front of him.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Lawrence didn't answer, just stared straight ahead toward the awaiting portico, sunlight falling over the dusty cobbled causeways beyond. Years could've passed this way, he still wouldn't have budged.
"Where will you go now do you think?" Brighton tried again.
"Oxfordshire," Lawrence murmured, almost inaudibly.
Months spent leading Arab militia and blowing up Turkish railroads left him, amazingly, not anxious to go home. Any decent young man would long for his mother, his brothers, sister, father… lover. No. Not T.E. Lawrence. Thomas Edward Lawrence was devoid of human sentiments. He wasn't sure if he had a home, or a family. Even though he'd kept in contact with his mother, writing letters about his plans for a new and brighter Saudi Arabia, he didn't relish leaving here no matter what he'd said to Ali, to Feisal, to Allenby.
"Will you be going to the Château of Versailles in January, Lawrence?" asked Brighton, slowly. "I would think that Feisal already has designs on bringing you along as an intermediary at the Paris Peace Conference."
This suggestion strangely enough reminded Lawrence of an earlier one made by Auda Abu Tayi.
Come with me, Lawrence.
Where?
Back...
"Are you certain you're alright, sir?" continued Brighton when he wouldn't answer. He touched Lawrence on the shoulder warily as though any moment his superior might break. Lawrence should've been credited for concealing it this long, this condition of his, whatever it was. It had been nearly eight weeks since he'd been able to eat without insulting his stomach. Nevertheless, he wasn't about to see a doctor.
Feeling a hand press his shoulder, Lawrence stood up, clutching the banister for support as he fought a bout of nausea.
"It's too cold in Paris, especially in January," he said at last. "The mornings are freezing, evenings foggy and the nights inclement. Perhaps I'm getting sick. Yes, the flu." Lawrence tried to laugh but managed a wry mouth instead. "I'm of the opinion that the Château of Versailles has an excessive amount of steps, Brighton, too many."
He'd sustained this fever, or whatever it was, for longer than befitted a simple cold. He'd perceived it since Deraa, the mere reminder of which was sufficient enough to induce even more disagreeable infections.
"Madness… madness," he spoke aloud to himself, not caring if Brighton could hear him. Every time he thought of that garrisoned town, that cold wintry evening that… reminded him of Turkish tobacco…
Yes, the flu, his stomach gave another small heave and he attempted to descend again, one slow step at a time. He didn't hear Brighton calling his name or the irritated if not reluctant send-off.
"Stark raving mad," Brighton muttered bitterly just as the hot, Syrian sun enfolded Lawrence in its arms. Fortunately he didn't hear that either, or, like Feisal's words of gratitude, he chose not to.
To Be Continued...
