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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