Entre los dos almas

Chapter Two

Mentiras

A painful throbbing was what woke the hapless Basque from his unconscious state. Emerald eyes cracked open to painful sunlight streaming in on his tan face. The youth cringed and shut his eyes again, waiting for the throbbing to cease before attempting to combat the day.

The pain continued, and when he found that it wasn't about to cease anytime in the near future, he again opened his eyes to the blinding light. The youth grimaced as his pupils adjusted, head agitated further by the strain on his retinas. He blinked off and on to adjust, allowing the orbs to slowly assume a squint.

As his eyes began to focus, so did his mind. How the Hell had he gotten here? The last thing he remembered was lunging toward el Moro Angel, and if the stories were right, he should very well be dead.

Well, this wasn't Hell, so where was he?

The young man tried to lift his hand to his head to ease the pain, however, he found them bound behind his back, numb from where he had lain, unconscious, upon them for many hours. He strove to move them, tensing his muscles until the burning sensation of life returned. This accomplished he began to examine his surroundings.

The sunlight that had stung his eyes was streaming through the open flap of what appeared to be a large tent. The Moros were on the move, so it seemed, perhaps returning to Cordoba, and perhaps leaving it. Neither was a pleasant prospect. Why hadn't the angel destroyed him. To be a prisoner was far worse than death. It was certain that unpleasant prospects lay in his living future.

He'd rather have a dagger through his heart.

The light from the flap was broken as a figure passed through the doorway. Shadowed by the streaming white, he approached, examining the Basque prisoner as he went. Seeing he was awake, the figure approached with more caution, walking out of the line of light so that it could flood the youth's eyes again, allowing some time to change position to examine him.

When the imprisoned Vascongado again opened his thin green eyes, the Arab was standing right over him, staring about five inches from his face. With a startled twitch, the young man realized that this was again el Moro Angel, staring at him with his ocean eyes from behind the wraps of the scarf around his face. He wondered curiously what that face looked like under the scarf. The eyes were fascinating, especially compared to the brown of other Moors. The youth just assumed that was to disguise his demonic features. After all, what damned heathen had such eyes of a perfect Mediterranean blue. Trowa was certain that under the Moor's wrappings were a pair of pointy ears, horns, and bat-like wings from a nightmare. He wished that the devil creature would stop examining him.

That wish was not to be granted. The young Moor continued to stare at him, as though fascinated by the bound Vascongado and his rugged features. His eyes glinted with laughter at Trowa's unfortunate condition, which the Basque himself could not see was really quite humorous. However, if the Arab was in that position himself, the young Basque was certain that he would be as bitter and mal-adjusted as himself.

Rage overcoming him, he sought to spit at the face that mocked him. He only succeeded in allowing a dribble of saliva to flow out his mouth and down his chin, leaving him uncomfortable and even angrier. The youth gritted his teeth, now shamed beyond all words.

"That's unbecoming," giggled the hidden youth. Obviously this all was amusing to the pale-faced demon. The Basque snarled, more spittle escaping the curves of his lips. The giggle rose again, like a little boy's. "That's even worse, Vascongado."

The youth started. The Moor ... He had called him by his true nation, not Castillano as was the case last night. Green eyes stared in widened disbelief that these short hours could have caused some civility from such a heathen personage. He bit his tongue before acknowledging his surprise with words. However, his expression had already been noted, and the Angel was speaking to him again.

"Don't look so startled. Just because you're my prisoner doesn't mean I will be barbarous to you. You're defenseless. There is no need to goad a trapped and defenseless man. It only brings him to wrath, which needlessly causes him to get hurt. There's destruction enough without causing someone's Death by way of foolish and hateful words. If Castillano offends you than maybe you are not the camel manure I first thought you were."

The monster was actually making sense. Was he merely deceiving him, or was it the stories of el Moro Angel that were deceptive? He wasn't certain. His blood told him the Moor was not to be trusted, however, his soul whispered other more holy and forgiving words.

No. He was a Moor. The Moors were their enemies, a horrible curse to be driven out at all costs. They were the invaders. They had done wrong by taking over Espana and Vasconia. The race was a scourge to be destroyed. They were heathens, worshipping a pagan god, refusing to acknowledge the Savior. They were to be wiped from the earth like the Canaanites. These words, these words were only creations of his mind, meant to trick him into destroying his native land. He would not listen to the Moor. He was a demon, trying to steal his soul for the sake of turning this wonderful country to his pagan rule. His lies would fall upon deaf ears.

The wild argument was more visible than it seemed to the eyes of the spectator. The Moor could not help but see the moral dilemma going on in the eyes of the prisoner. It startled him to see such a human side in his enemy, but he had always known that all enemies were innately human. It was why at every death he announced an apology to Allah for the horrible deed committed at his hands. Even in war, killing felt like murder.

And yet, this Spaniard--no Basque: He was different still. His soul writhed in his eyes over what to do about a kind enemy. Obviously, he was confused by the Arab's own actions. The Angel wondered what lies the Castillanos told their soldiers. What lies did el Almohad tell their own? Was his perception false? These Catolicos ... Could they reason soundly and without hate like any Islamic man?

He shook off the thought. Their actions were always done with pure hate. They were hypocrites, killing all those around them in the name of their God not really knowing what God was. He had never seen one Catolico take time outside of Mass to call upon their God in some peaceful manner. Did they bow to their God on their own time? No. Did they endeavor in peaceful adventures such as poetry and philosophy to get closer to their God? No. He himself took time to bow to Allah in the Holy City more than necessary, as did his fellow soldiers in this camp. Los cristianos in all their so-called enlightenment knew nothing but hatred and destruction.

The pale Moor looked at the Vascongado lying tensely before him. There was an implanted anger in those eyes that he failed to understand, but something else. Pain? He noted the way the brown eyebrows knitted into the skull, wrinkling the tanned skin in obvious lines of distress. The youth shuddered as he felt a shadow of the pain in the other's head. He had done that to him.

Features that were once angry lightened in response to the knowledge. A sympathetic chord pulsed through his heart and veins. He had hurt the Vascongado. That was ... unforgivable. Despite what the Kalifate said, even those who fought them were innately human.

Taking leave of the prisoner for a moment, he stood and closed the tent flap, blocking the entrance of the light, which could only exaggerate the pain felt by the Basque. Besides, there were candles lit from where the guard had been stationed since Midnight. They provided the tent with enough light, and it was softer-flickering, like a true enlightened soul. That flicker would have to suffice for the duration of the day.

The young Moor looked back to the Spaniard where he lay with his eyes closed. He was an admirable specimen, compared to the other soldiers he had killed. He was a young man, 15 or 16. Either soldiers often came from his family or he was an orphan or third son. His youth was uncommon, as it was in the Moorish community, however the Moor himself had felt a great debt to his society. Maybe it was the same with the young Vascongado.

With adept fingers, he removed the scarf wrapped around his head, an object meant more to protect it from the harsh sunlight than anything else. Taking the ends, he dipped in into a small basin of water set aside for the duration of their stay near the arollo. He let it soak for a moment, watching the other again. It was strange how he let his mahogany hair fall over his face. It made him seem mysterious. He seemed like ... A child. He didn't belong to war. The features were too sculpted, body too perfect, emotions too ... strong. Yes, he was a child. Children weren't to fight battles.

But then, the Moor himself was a child. He was not a warrior either; at least not by definition. Who then as he to insult this prostrated man before him?

The youth lifted his scarf from the basin, wringing it in his hands until it was moist rather than dripping. Thus armed, he returned to the side of the prisoner, placing the scarf to the injured Basque's face to wipe of the spittle and alleviate any fever that may have come with the pain. He needn't keep his shame. The Berber would make him look like a boy again, instead of a drooling demon.

/Rashid would never approve of this./ No, an enemy did not deserve such preferential treatment, but he was not Rashid's prisoner. No it was the youth who had captured the Basque, and the Berber would do with him what he wanted.

The Basque felt the cool touch of the scarf against his lips and opened his eyes again. His mouth opened with them, releasing a breath in a labored fashion. The cool, it felt so wonderful on his beleaguered skin. Trowa focused his eyes once more, trying through the pain to discern what was going on. The blurred outlines of the Moor appeared before him. He didn't understand what was happening. Why was his captor cleaning his face? Didn't he know the Vascongado could just reach out and bite him? Why wasn't he doing just that? The green orbs winked in the dim light. The Moor had even shut the tent flap. Why?

The youth shifted his body again, trying to keep his arms from becoming numb once again. Meanwhile, the young moor continued his vigil, dabbing the scarf to the Vascongado's head as he become more comfortable. The youth finally stopped fidgeting, letting the coolness of the damp cloth carry away the throbbing pain in his head. It let his soul breath, a pleasant contrast to his life as it had been lately.

The Berber lifted his hand away, leaving the Basque with the scarf draped over his forehead. The youth's eyes followed him, wanting to learn more about the boy-for that was what he was-who had so skillfully knocked him unconscious. He now had a clear view of his captor, the first he'd had since they met through each other's reflections. It was a face that startled him, not for ugliness, but for beauty. His skin was indeed pure alabaster. He had a round, feminine face that complimented the beautiful eyes that had caught his interest from the start. His lips were effeminate, beautiful things like in the palace paintings from Italy, only more angelic. His hair was spun white-gold, falling lightly into his face like silken threads. The candlelight appeared to make it dance, flickers of laughter passing over all of his beautiful, innocent features.

That face was the last thing he expected. It had never once occurred to him that el Moro Angel might actually look like an angel, and he was indeed divine. The youth wondered how something so heaven sent could have been placed in such a heathen place. He didn't even look like a Moor.

The youth blinked, trying to regain his mental focus. He was an enemy. He should not be blind-sighted by his beauty. It was an illusion, set by the other Moors to trick him and render him helpless. Was he to think this creature innocent and then be stabbed in the back? No, he couldn't be distracted by appearances. He'd end up like some tragic Greek hero, or worse.

But he had to admit that something inside him had stirred-Something he wasn't certain he wanted to acknowledge.

The Berber youth sat back on his haunches and looked at the prisoner. "You know, you are probably going to be here for a while," he stated gently.

The Basque's face flushed an angry crimson as he moved to say something, however the pain shot back to his head and he was forced to calm his raging emotions. Besides, what the Moor said was sensible. The Moor had captured him. If he were let go, it would be a breach of their security. Castilla and Vasconia would have to bargain to get him back. He would definitely be in the Moor's hands longer than he wished.

However, in a sense he was lucky to be alive. Being alive was some feat indeed, as any other soldier would have been killed by el Moro Angel. Que suerte!

The Angel saw him relax and spoke again. "I don't hate you because you're my enemy. Allah would not like that." He tensed at the mention of Allah, fearing the reaction of the stranger.

"I'm the prisoner. It's your heathen religion and I can't stop you from it," muttered the Basque. It was the first thing he had said since being captured. The Arab relaxed when he found the voice more disgruntled than angry.

He trailed the ground with his fingertips, staring at the patterns made in the dirt that the tent was situated on. "We should get to know each other better," murmured the youth unconsciously. "There's no one else my age around here." He looked up, blue-green eyes tinted with a bit of loneliness. "I'd talk to an enemy if it meant having ..."

He cut himself off. What he was doing was traitorous in a sense. However, he couldn't deny that it was true. The Maguanacs were more of family than anyone else. He had never been near a human being that shared the same passions and actions as he. No one else was 15, but this prisoner maybe, and that gave him something interesting. He couldn't trust him- he was a Catolico-but someone to talk to was better than no one at all. Surely the Vascongado could see the sense in that.

The Basque tensed. There was something true in what the Moor was saying. If he was going to be stuck here, he wanted to be "comfortable". If the youth was going to converse with him like a civil human being he shouldn't just spit at the chance. After all, insight into one's enemy was a very valuable thing.

He grimaced. The damned arms were falling asleep again. He looked at the Moor. "If I'm going to be here for awhile," he said roughly, "please sit me up before my arms are useless."

The blonde looked to where the Spaniard's arms were pinned uncomfortably under his body. Taking a saddlebag, he propped up the Basque's body so that his fingers were free to move about. Grateful, the brunette began tensing his arm muscles, restoring full sensation to the abused appendages while the white Moor watched him intently.

"Gracias," he muttered reluctantly, thoughts centered in his new found "Libertad." He twitched his lip in thought, watching how the blond waited for his next request or movement. How civil this Moor could be. He wondered if there were others like this. The Catholics would never treat a Moor in this manner, or the majority anyway. They would be abused, even executed. The youth wondered if it was religion or just good-nature that made the Angel act this way.

It made the youth feel that he owed him something.

"Me llamo Trowa ..." The voice that came was quiet and reserved, as if the Basque were uncertain as to the morality of telling the demon Moor his name. Hands twisted in their bindings as he looked, quite shamefully to the ground. He was a disgrace for doing this. Surely God would punish him. He masked his shame quickly, not wanting the Moor to discern his embarrassment. However, the blond youth was not satisfied with this false display. He wanted the true face of Trowa.

Silently, the Moor grabbed the tan face and forced it to look back up at him, trying to pierce through the mask into the truth within. When he found it, the head was released, but Trowa kept his eyes upon the Moor's face, his own burning more than ever with verguenza.

"I'm called Quatre. Quatre Raberba. Mucho gusto, Trowa el Vascongado."

"Mucho gusto, Quatre Raberba."

******************************************************************************

The tall fez-clad form of Abdul paced up and down stretch of ground nearest the tent his master was situated in. Thick black eyebrows knit over pensive brown eyes, wrinkling his cinnamon forehead like an old man's. His stance was stooped as he marched across the ground, hands locked behind his back. He was worried. Master Quatre had spent far to long in the tent with that ... Thing. He should have returned by now. He would feel far safer once the guard was restored to his post and Quatre was safe within his sight.

Abdul's ears pricked. Footsteps coming from behind him. Startled he stopped in his tracks and turned around. However, he breathed a tense sigh of relief as he recognised the figure approaching. It was only Rashid. The grim bearded man looked at the younger Maguanac with stern reproach in his eyes as he walked toward him, as though it were wrong not to trust Master Quatre. Abdul slumped under the gaze, making himself appear more minute before the burly, tall form of his elder. Next to master Quatre, Rashid was the leader. What he said was done, for all of the Maguanac clan.

Abdul adjusted his belt, gathering his wits about him to speak. "I don't like him being alone in there, Rashid."

A bushy eyebrow raised, but Abdul knew that underneath the stern exterior, there was a shade of worry even within Rashid. Master Quatre was the world to them, some angel dropped straight from heaven, taken under their wing after his father had disowned him for defending his country and family. They protected him like a brother, and when danger was near all were nervous on his behalf.

Not that Quatre ever seemed to notice. He was often enough oblivious to their worry and his own, blocking out fear and taking on responsibilities that even a man of forty would resist. He was an admirable youth, one whose mind had saved them in more than one battle, and they all owed him their lives.

Abdul knew that Rashid understood this better than anybody.

"It could be dangerous." Abdul added after the elder man did not respond. "That young man fights on behalf of the Christians, those who would wipe us out like we were some plague. What if he works heathen magic upon him?"

"Abdul, the catolicos have no more mystic powers than we do. The devils seem to ignore them as much as Allah himself does. I trust Master Quatre to keep himself out of trouble. As long as the rebel remains bound he is harmless." The older man looked down from under his bushy eyebrows, stern voice reverberating through the foothills like the rumble of a bear.

"Do /you/ think there is any danger in him, Rashid?" The voice was curious, though casual, as though he knew the train of thought before it was spoken. Abdul had, in the duration of the conversation, relaxed slightly, allowing his muscles some rest- the first they'd had since the confrontation with the Castillano-or Vascongado as Master Quatre preferred.

The burly Maguanac's mouth twitched, as he lifted a finger to his beard. Locked in thought, the elder's words came out slowly. Rashid was a laboring tactician. His mind was much slower than the younger Quatre's. Its results, however delayed, were on the contrary nearly as sharp as the younger boy's, and often more rooted in common sense.

"The caballero was alone, which causes me to worry. Los Castillanos travel in groups into battle, seldom by themselves unless their ways are more devious. He could have been a scout for a larger band, or worse a spy heading toward Cordoba.

"I'll suggest to Master Quatre that we do not remain at this camp much longer. It could be dangerous to el Almohad if we do such. Returning to Cordoba would be our safest route. There he could be properly investigated. If they choose to ignore this threat, there are friends in Sevilla and Grenada who will deal with him more effectively."

Abdul nodded, apparently satisfied. Moving out would save them the trouble of a battle and if el Almohad decided to destroy the Christian, Quatre would not be able to argue. It would be in the hands of Allah.

The tent flap rustled open behind them. Abdul and Rashid turned around to watch their master approach.

"Salaam!" cried the blond youth good-naturedly. The two found it odd that after an encounter with an enemy, the youth could be so happy. However, Quatre Raberba was quite odd to begin with, sensitive and intuitive. Allah had gifted him greatly, and he would surely have a place set for him in Paradise.

"Salaam," replied the others, less enthusiastically. The blonde noticed the lack of emotion and paused. His friends were tense. Was the presence of the Basque that disturbing to them?

"Rashid, Abdul, is everything alright?"

"In the scheme of things, everything's fine Master Quatre," replied Rashid half-heartedly.

Quatre shook his head and smiled. "Something is bothering you. You're tense and reluctant to tell me something." He looked to Abdul, piercing him gently with his gorgeous eyes, seeking through the casuality of the young Maguanac to find the source of their worry.

The cinnamon skinned man shrugged from Quatre's gaze, "Salaaming" quickly and leaving him with only Rashid to speak to.

Disappointed, Quatre turned to the more intimidating of his fellows. "Speak your mind, Rashid. There's only Allah and his angels here to hear us."

The gruff man put his hands on the boy's shoulders, causing the young, pale face to look straight into his more haggard and imposing one. The boy felt so slight under his fingers. It was amazing what a boy Master Quatre was. He had the wisdom of an old man, yet Rashid could encircle the boy's waist with just his own two hands.

"Listen to me, Master Quatre," Rashid implored. "We are in a dangerous situation here in the foothills. That boy, that Basque- he is a member of the enemy, an enemy whose goal is to either destroy all of us Moors, or push us back into the desert. He could harm us. I know that you wish to get information from him, but it may be in our best interests to just destroy him and return to the city of Cordoba where we can warn el Almohad. The Spaniards are getting braver, Master Quatre. They would not hesitate to slit your throat while you dreamed in the arms of the Holy One."

The boy stumbled, oceanic eyes confused. They churned like the rough seas of the Atlantic, swirling about in hues of green, blue, and for a moment gray. His pupils dilated with fear and wonder. What Rashid was saying was against his principles-- even Allah's will. He was suggesting that they kill a helpless man. What justice was there in that? The boy sought to push away from his mentor, flimsy arms meeting up with broad iron shoulders.

His head dropped to the ground for a moment. He had to recover himself before his eyes could meet Rashid's again. Looking up they misted over with tears. "Rashid ..." his voiced quavered. "Rashid, Allah would never forgive me, forgive us. In a battle one has to defend one's life, one's country, but outside a battle a man is a man. A man can be one's enemy in battle, but a friend outside its grounds. I can't destroy him, and I can't let you. That would be murder."

Rashid released the boy and sighed. He could be so stubborn and yet ... There was justice to his statement. Quatre was right, however. Rashid was right, but the young blonde was right on a higher level. Killing a captive, helpless man would be a sin and unforgivable. For that, all of their graves would grow cold and the worms would eat their rotting corpses.

He would just have to do as he had first told Abdul- let the Law decide. Perhaps before that, the Vascongado would escape. That would make Master Quatre very happy he assumed.

Quatre quivered where he stood, not certain of what to make of Rashid's demeanor. He could be angry-he masked his emotions so well. Would he still insist on the destruction of the young man lying bound in the tent?

"Rashid ..." The voice was pleading. Quatre wasn't certain what the older man was feeling. "He's a boy Rashid. To me he's just a boy, un nino. He has a family and his name- He told me hi-"

A calloused hand reached forward and patted the blond head. "We shall move out, then Quatre. Your Spaniard prisoner will be taken to Cordoba. If Allah wants him, he'll see that el Almohad keeps him alive. You can relax your soul, young master."

The boy nearly fainted in response. His honor, his soul, it was saved. Rashid understood. "Thank you so much," murmured the boy. Mercy flowed over his soul like a rolling river, cleansing the guilt he had already begun to feel. He seemed to coo the words of thanks, as if he were but a tiny baby. Lips allowed a sigh of relief to escape and Rashid turned away, arms crossed over his chest.

"We leave tomorrow at sunrise, Master Quatre. Organize your supplies."

The youth watched the burly form march off into another tent, Abdul's he noted. As soon as he disappeared his body gave way to the ground and a relieved giggle fled his soul.

/He is safe./ thought Quatre. /He is safe, so I am safe./ He paused in his thoughts, feeling his heart beat strangely in his chest. There was something there, something different in its rhythm. He didn't understand what it was. Could it be that there were less-than-holy reasons for him to protect Trowa?

He shook it off as a sign from Allah.

TBC.

Author's Notes:

1. Mentiras: Lies, actually refering to the lies that they believe about each other. These are the lies that cause their hatred for each other- Stereotypes that are etched firmly in their minds.

2. Que suerte! : Literally, What luck!

3. Me llamo Trowa: My name is Trowa.

4. Verguenza: Embaressment.

5. Mucho gusto: In the Spanish culture this is typically said upon meeting someone. It means literally "Much pleasure." Its their equivalent of "Nice to meet you."

6. Cabellero: A knight, horseman, or noble. On this story it refers obviously to Horseman.

7. Salaam: An Islamic and Jewish greeting and parting. Literally "Peace."

8. Nino: spelled wrong in this text for lack of ~, "child".


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