Entre las dos almas
Notes:
There is in this section a rather odd rear nudity scene. If you
would remotely be offended by it, please skip past that section. Its starts
with Trowa needing to relieve himself and ends when they begin to return to
camp. I just thought I would place that disclaimer, just in case. My guess is
most of you won't care.
Chapter Four
Alba
Trowa had slept for what had seemed like an eternity before he
awoke next. His eyes had cracked open to darkness, a soothing sign compared to
the blinding light that had met his eyes upon his last waking moments.
It had not taken him long to succumb to slumber. After the young
Berber-or Arab or whatever that damned blonde was- had left, there had been
practically nothing left to do again. He had looked about for awhile,
attempting to make sense of the unfamiliar surroundings. Unfortunately, his
head had begun to ache again, and heavy lids had dropped closed without
warning.
Shifting his weight about, the Basque quickly discovered that he
was lying flat on his back again. He didn't know if he fell or he had been lain
there so that his sleep would be more comfortable. It was arguable whether the
change in position had been of any benefit. As he stretched his body, a sharp
pain came from his lower back where his knuckles had dug into the skin. He
grimaced and tried to change their position, only to find that his arms were
numb again. On the up side, his headache had completely vanished.
That about the only good thing he discovered. The other was more
disorienting. His guard had disappeared. The brown haired youth wondered
briefly what had happened to him. He could be out for a drink, or just outside
waiting for any movement of escape-not that escape was even logical at this
point. He twitched his mouth, trying to think of a way out, gritting his teeth
angrily when he could think of none. The least he could do was get comfortable.
Trowa twisted his body, attempting, in vane, to roll himself to
a more comfortable position upon his stomach. His boots scuffed against the
ground as he fought with his beleaguered muscles. They were close to immobile,
from lack of sustenance or otherwise. The youth touched his tongue to his
teeth, realising all at once that his mouth was parched. He wondered morbidly
if that was how he would die-tongue swollen and lolling out of his mouth like a
mangy ferel dog.
His body fell to his stomach side with a thud, muscles giving
way without allowing him time to roll over more gracefully. On the up side, he
was now able to have feeling in his arms. However, on the down side, he
couldn't really see anyone who walked through the tent flap to
"visit" him.
"Dios," he muttered under his breath, realizing his
folly too late. No sense in taxing his muscles again so soon. They were stiff
and worn as it was. He sat and listened, hoping to catch any wind of any
conversations drifting around outside. It was night-time, where were those
Moors? Not asleep- no. They would have guards stationed. However, his appeared
to be missing and that bothered him. Maybe they were all doing incantations as
part of some heathen ritual.
He half expected the burly Moor to apparate in front of his
eyes, glaring under his red fez with black malignant eyes piercing outward and
into his soul from under his heavy black browns. His mind ran away with him,
visualizing the brown skinned man shifting his shape-becoming a red-skinned
devil with clawed hands poised to rip out his soul as sacrifice to Satan.
The visage caused his whole body to quake uncontrollably. He must be feverish. He needed water, badly. It was a remote thought, detached from the halluncination running rampant in his mind. He tried to scream, but his mouth was too dry to utter a sound. Then the vision broke, like shattered glass.
Trowa breathed heavily, pulse still racing with uncontrollable
fear. It was an illusion- a mind trick, he was fine. But what had released him?
He twisted his head as he heard the light scuffing of feet skittering across
the dirt in front of his tent. That was it, a noise had brought him back to
reality. It was a cat-like sound, barely audible except to the trained ear.
Hearing it, he knew it was any of the men from earlier- not the guard nor his
interrogators, Abdul and Rashid as he had heard others whisper. They had
footsteps like cattle, obnoxiously loud and thunderous. It had to be the boy-
Quatre. It was those footsteps that had snuck up on him in his sleep, allowing
him to be trapped in this horrid manner.
A soft, wet breeze siphoned through the tent as the flap was
opened. The coolness of it brought chills down Trowa's sweat covered back,
eating through his thin tunic to the tan skin underneath. Even after the flap
closed, the feeling remained for a few seconds. It was a brief moment of
refreshment from the tortured heat he was experiencing inside of his
make-shift, portable cell.
The Basque craned his neck backwards as he felt the vibrations
of the feet underneath him, hoping to God and all that was holy that he was
right about it being the young Moor. He couldn't tell, as the inconveniant
nature of his position did not allow him enough space to see. It would have
been easier, had his shield of long brown hair not fallen directly into his
line of vision. It was disconcerting.
In a moment of further discomfort, he felt the person-whoever it
was- step over him, each of his feet on a different side of the Basque's chest.
A blond head appeared upside down in front of him, grinning impishly at the
obvious discomfort of the Vascongado, but the latter was finally able to
breathe a silent sigh of relief.
"Hola, Trowa!" Came the delightfully laughing tenor
voice.
"Maldito Moro!" muttered the Basque is response.
The delicate lips twisted on the doll-like face, trying to
understand Trowa's contempt. Noting his position, he could not help but grin
again- eyes sparkling like a little child playing a game. "You knew it was
me, so don't be angry." He noted Trowa's ackward position facing away from
the door and giggled like a girl. "You're in a bit of a predicament aren't
you?"
Trowa spat, in a better position for it this time. Quatre,
however was already in the process of righting himself, having no intention of
being touched by the vile substance. Therefore, the flying missile went far
wide of its intended target, hitting the parched dust underneath which absorbed
it eagerly. Frustrated, the Basque dropped his head to the ground and waited
for the Moor to finish, or become bored with his current viewpoint.
Shortly, the blonde stepped over and around the bound body,
cloth-booted feet sending up clouds of dust that looked like smoke. The
tendrils crept down the Basque's throat and into his emerald eyes, causing him
to cough and tear up in the same instant. The Moor looked down upon him
apologetically, smile fading from his lips. He stood there, blinking until the
hacking passed, noting observantly how slow the still exhausted Basque was to
recover.
"Water?" he questioned, knowing full well the abuse
that the others may have put the prisoner through. The Maguanacs had good
intentions, but the methods that they used were not suitable to the young
Berber.
Trowa nodded in response, hair hiding the slight hint of
desperation evident in his paling face. He was quite dehydrated. After having
slept and been tortured without water for a day in this heat the young man was
quite ill. His earlier hallucination had been enough to warn him of the danger
his mind was in. Not that the Berber had seen the episode of madness. The dark
rings under Trowa's eyes had proved to the blonde that his strength was wearing
thin, and the youth would need it for any journeying that he was to undergo.
Seeing the necessity, the young Moor pulled his own cantimplora
from his loosely tied belt, bending down on one knee to offer it to the prostrate
Vascongado. Trowa craned his neck upward eagerly, letting Quatre pour the agua
into his waiting mouth. Finding it near impossible to drink, Trowa sought to
roll over again. The blond twitched at the movement, but upon seeing its caused
obliged in the Basque's unspoken request, rolling him over on his back and
sitting him up upon his knee to pour more of the life-giving fluid into him.
The water felt like it was sent from heaven, sweet and divine.
It was warm, but it was liquid. The agua ran down his dry throat, rejuvenating
his senses like the Fountain of Youth. It was better than any other drink in
the worlds at that second, a true nectar of the ancient pagan Greek gods. He
closed his eyes in happiness, letting Quatre dribble the water onto his lips
and tongue. For a brief moment again, el Moro Angel felt like a true angel sent
from God.
The youth pulled the flask away, capping the skin swiftly and
without hesitation. "That's enough, Trowa. Too much and you'll be sick.
I'll give you more before we move out."
"Move out?" Trowa's voice stumbled over the words. The
Moors ... They were leaving? A pang of fear seized his heart. They were moving
because of him, to take him somewhere. What were they going to do, sacrifice
him to the devil? His eyes searched around wildly for an escape again, moving
away whenever he spied the young Berber's face. He twisted in his bonds, not
certain of the black force that had come over him, and why it so compelled him
to escape. For the second time, the Basque began to act as a madman did.
Quatre saw the look and began to shake him, hoping to chase away
the demon before it caught hold and turned the Basque into something deadly.
Pallid hands clenched the broad shoulders firmly, drawing Trowa back to the
present and away from the fear. "Stop this! Yes, we are leaving for
Cordoba! Now throw that demon Iroul from your soul before it kills you."
Trowa's body slumped, muscles free of the adrenelin which
compelled him to quiver. The words of consternation allowed his mask to freeze
over his face and hide his emotions from the Moor once again. He felt foolish,
allowing himself to get so out of control- and in front of an enemy soldier.
His face reddened with shame, as he sought to put his mind back in order.
The Moor's face softened as he forced his own tense muscles to
relax. Whatever demon had sought to take him was gone. Dainty lips twisted into
a frown, eyes filling with a twinge of sorrow. Perhaps if he could convert the
poor lost soul, these demonic creatures wouldn't attack him anymore. The
youth's soul filled with a kind of sympathy. Yes, maybe if he showed Trowa the
way of al-Islam his soul could be saved and el Almohad would spare him. Then,
the Basque could live a true and good life devoted to Allah-with none of the
tragedies of war to destroy him.
Quatre squatted to the ground, trying to peer at the green eyes
hidden behind the strands of mahogany brown hair. He wasn't a bad person-no.
Just misled. He was angry because he was confused. Maybe he could explain some
things.
"When do we leave ?" mumbled the joven through his
hair.
"At sunrise. We make ready to salir after the night guards
finish their salat."
The Basque looked up toward the pale Moor's face, brows
wrinkling his forehead in a confused expression. "Salat?"
"Prayer. We all must pray five times daily. The night
guards just pray at more unusual hours."
Trowa shook his head, picturing a group of Moros bowing down
before an idol, making heathen signs of worship to the devil. The demon
influence seemed to seep back in him as the youth's expression darkened,
currents of anger barely readable under his blank expression.
Quatre saw the look. "Ask a question," he stated,
hoping to curb the Basque's possible rage.
"What-who ..." The Vascongado's voice faded off, anger
with it, not quite certain of what he wanted to ask.
"What, what?"
"Prayer?"
"Do you not pray?"
"Yes. During every Mass and any other time necessary to
cleanse the soul to God." The voice came like ice, as though only a fool
would ask that question.
"Mass? That must be similar. We pray five times daily to
Allah facing the Holy City, Mecca. That's salat, ritual prayer. What's
Mass?"
"Recitations of the Holy Word-Scriptures, communion, and
the recitation of prayer to Dios. You've never heard of it?"
The blond shook his head, allowing Trowa another quick sip of
water as he spoke again. "You'd never heard of Salat. What's
communion?"
"Do you know Eucharist." Quatre shook his head again.
"Its the consumption of Bread, which his the body of Christ."
A startled look crossed over the Moor's sea green eyes.
"You /eat/ you God!" The hand holding the cantimplora trembled. He
was horrified. How pagan could these catolicos be?
To the blonde's surprise, Trowa laughed. "No, we don't
/eat/ our God. It's representative of the last Supper of the Son of Dios. He
said 'Take of this bread, which is my flesh.' So we honor his death by ... Well
..." He was stuck. It did rather sound like they were eating their God. "I
think it represents Dios's presence in our souls."
The Berber was still confused but not as frightened. "So,
its a metaphor?"
"To most, yes."
The blond breathed a sigh of relief. However, confusion set in
again. For a moment, Quatre had though he had known exactly why el Almohad had
said the Christians were barbarous. Now he was uncertain again. Maybe there
were a choice few who did believe in eating their God- yes that was it. That
was the barbary. Trowa was just different.
The Berber let out a mental sigh. He wasn't giving a very good
argument to himself. Still, it was rather sick minded to pretend that one was
eating his God.
"Its just bread."
Trowa watched the wide-eyed look of the young blonde for a few
more seconds and then began to look around the dark tent again. He wondered
briefly how he would be forced to journey. Would he ride alongside one of the
Moors, or would they keep him bound and tether his own horse to one of their
creatures?
He wasn't sure. Either way it went, the prospect was disconcerting.
How was Trueno? Maybe they'd killed him. He fidgeted in his bindings.
"Are you okay?" The Moor had recovered himself, and
was back to scrutinizing the Basque. Trowa nodded and fidgeted some more. He
had to relieve himself-badly, something he hadn't noticed until he started
fidgeting again.
"Vascongado?" questioned Quatre.
The brunnette muttered something under his breath about not
wanting to piss in his leggings and the Moor got the general idea, flushing,
more than a little embarrassed.
He twitched his mouth and bending over cut the cords binding
Trowa's feet. They'd have to remove those to take him anywhere anyway. Placing
his damask dagger delicately in the small of the taller youth's back, he
prodded him forward. "Come on," he hissed. "I shouldn't be doing
this at all."
Trowa obediently walked forward, sidling through the tent flap,
Quatre's hand on his shoulder. He let the Moor direct him, knowing that the
blond was attempting to keep far away from such figures as Rashid and Abdul.
They moved passed the various tents quickly and silently, stopping only when
they reached the cover of brush where the Basque could obtain some amount of
privacy.
The Moor turned his back, hands firmly gripping Trowa's binds.
"Now hurry."
Silence ensued for a moment, then Trowa spoke again. "My
leggings ..."
"What?"
"I can't-" he stopped himself before speaking any
further.
Quatre groaned. The Vascongado could not very well remove his
trousers with his hands tied behind his back. The Berber gulped. He couldn't
very well remove the bindings without risking the Basque's escape. And the
alternative ... The blonde twitched. This situation couldn't get much worse.
"Should I ... The belt." Quatre whispered, becoming
conscious of his face growing red. He fought it off, but upon turning around to
face the hapless Spaniard it turned bright crimson again.
Trowa looked at him incriminatingly. A man, touching near ...
Dios, what else could happen. He had to get these pants off-Now. Damn
captivity. Flustered, he forced consent from him lips. The only happiness he
obtained from the sentence was the grimace that crossed Raberba's face. At
least he wasn't twisted enough to ... He forced the thought from his head before
it had the chance to make a firm imprint on his brain, trying to find some
other thing to think about while the Berber fumbled with belt about his waist.
Finally completing the task, Quatre stumbled away from the older
man, hoping to purge the experience from his mind with the site of the
weathered grass and the campsite. He felt vomit rise in his body from such
unholy ... His body spasmed, and he fell to his knees, letting the release of
the crude substance in his stomach purge his soul clean from his ... duties.
Pressing the strange, unholy thoughts that surfaced from his mind and back into
the demon from whence they came.
Finally, the wretching subsided and he stood, spitting the last
bits of the poison from his lips. His face was much more pallid now, but he
felt better inside for it. Brushing off his robe, he turned back to the Basque
finding himself in another ... situation.
It seemed Trowa hadn't been able to get his pants back on
either. Quatre's pulse quickened as his panic rose. He didn't want to go
through ... that again. So much for things not getting worse, he now had a
man's barely covered buttocks glaring at him in the barely dawning light.
Trowa gave and apologetic, ashamed look back at the beleaguered
Moor. The Basque was enjoying this situation on about the same level as his
blonde fellow.
"Promise me that once these pants are belted back on my
waist," he begged, "That you will never speak of this to anyone
ever."
There was no arguing with that.
Quatre walked back to the pathetic soldier and bent down to
replace the fallen leggings. As he touched their leathery substance, he felt
the bile begin to rise again. He fought back the repulsion, drawing the pants
up the Basque's muscled legs and buttocks back to his waist where they belonged.
Strapping the belt, he vomited again- allowing the strange senstaions that so
repulsed his soul to fade with the spasms.
Trowa watched him, unnerved but sympathetic to the poor Moor.
Obviously these Berbers had some moral standards- and high ones- as he was
puking over being in such practically intimate contact with a man of his own
gender. It struck a chord of compassion in his heart, yet there was some
mocking tone in his mind, laughing at him and asking him why /could/ the Moor
be so upset with him.
He pushed it away, not wanting to know the answer, feeling it
was the key to some secret in his own soul that he could not let escape from
beyond its locked door. The Basque shuddered as he watched, not knowing truly
what prompted it.
The poor Moor ... He was really sick over this. "Moro- er,
Quatre. Will you be okay?"
The heaves dropped off and the blond stood again, an air of the
sickness still left in his eyes. "I'm fine," he replied weakly. He
spat at the ground again, then rinsed his mouth with the water of his
cantimplora. He swirled the liquid in his mouth, removing the remains of the
second dose of vile liquid he had this morning.
"Are you sure?"
The Berber nodded, walking back to the prisoner, who, to his
astonishment, had not bolted. He picked his loose dagger up from the ground,
stowing it in the belt of his robe. It was obvious that the threat was not
necessary anymore. Trowa had no intent of trying to escape while so obviously
exhausted. He grabbed the Basque firmly on the shoulder, wrinkling the tunic
under his gripping fingers.
"Come on, Trowa," he said with a tired tone, pressing
the brunette forward with a weary motion. The tall man walked with him, not
wanting to argue, just wanting the memory to fade with the dawning of morning.
He looked to where the light was beginning to skim the horizon.
"So we will ready to leave now?"
Quatre nodded, breathing heavily after his physical and mental
ordeal. "The sun is rising. We need to prepare the horses."
The word 'horses' drew Trowa's mind back to his own steed. He
was almost afraid to ask the question that followed. "And /my/
horse?"
Quatre tried to laugh, but the effort was strained. "You're
stallion is fine, but away from our horses. We didn't want him to cause
trouble." He looked at Trowa as they walked around the tent from whence
they came and headed toward the main camp area. "Your alforjas have been
confiscated- it's for safety."
The Basque nodded, a little offended. "Did ..." he
paused. "Did the Aguanatos look at them?"
"Maguanacs?" The blond smiled tensely, color finally
returning to his cheeks. "No, I have kept them. Only I will touch them
until el Almohad asks for them. Your items were curious and I am interested to
know about your diario. It is not in Castellano."
"No, its vasquence, Euskaldunak. It is the language of my
home country."
"You will have to tell me its contents."
"No, I won't. Its my private book and you don't need to
know."
"I have it in my robes."
Trowa's face reddened as Quatre took out the small leatherbound
book. Green eyes narrowed in frustration. He felt violated.
The blonde looked at him curiously. "I can't read it, and
only flipped through to see unfamiliar words." He opened the book. Trowa
could have kicked him, but decided against it when he spied Rashid watching
them intently from where the camp teardown was taking place.
Blue eyes examined the words, noting the form and strange abrupt
paragraphs. After a moment of annoying the Basque with his intense scrutiny,
the Berber realized that the words were in stanzas.
"This is poetry, not a diario!" he exclaimed. It was a
surprising discovery to the Moor, who had believed that the catolicos had lost
all sense of art and culture. He fingered the book with his white fingers, and
then careful placed it back into his robes, not being able to find a way to
return it to its rightful owner. No wonder the soldier was angry-poetry came
from the soul and the soul was something that one never wanted to reveal to a
stranger.
"Lo siento. It was more personal than events."
Trowa sighed, releasing his anger with the breath. "De
nada. Its ... words. Perhaps one day I will share them, if I am to be captured
long. It will spend time." He looked at where Quatre had stashed the book
with longing. How he wished that he could take the book back. He wished very
much now to empty his soul upon the paper with heartfelt words into the
heavens. Maybe on the paper he could understand these events better. Poetry
always spoke so much to him.
The Berber eyed the spot that Trowa stared at and sighed again.
"Maybe, you will have the chance to write more poetry in your book. I
didn't know the Spaniards were so cultured."
Trowa chuckled, anger completely faded. "Most aren't.
Mostly Catalunians and a few Castellanos. I don't know how many of us use
poetry instead of diaries to convey our feelings. Our race lacks the creativity
of some."
"I should like to hear your poetry. I'm sure it has a deep
and wonderful meaning. Maybe then, you could hear mine. Of course, you wouldn't
understand Berber or Arabic ..."
Trowa smiled. "Its not the language that holds the meaning.
That's the wonder of poetry."
Quatre quirked his eyebrows, looking at the Basque in a new
light. There was a lot of truth to what he said. Language was only a small
obstacle. If the soul spoke through the poem, it was irrelevant. That's what
made it so secret.
The camp had become busier now. There was the loud sounds of
canvas flapping and horses being herded to be girthed and mounted. Everyone was
busy with a task, except the two of them. Of course, Quatre was never
interrupted, so it was assumed by the prisoner that he never helped tear-down
camp unless he felt like it.
Trowa looked about the camp, overwhelmed by it all. Every thing
was moving so swiftly. By the time the sun had crept up the hills, The tents
were down and the gear was being loaded onto the Barbs that the Maguanacs chose
to ride. Trowa was in the middle of all this chaos, searching for Trueno and
waiting for Quatre to tell him what he needed to do.
"Quatre?"
"Hmm." The blond had dozed off for a few moments,
hypnotised by the rhytmic action of his counterparts. Oceany eyes blinked until
they were aware again. As if suddenly he remembered his purpose, the youth
yanked on the brunettes shoulder, leading him to the right.
"Ali!" he yelled to one of the dark-skinned men.
"Ali, saddle the Vascongado's caballo. I want him and Alba ready to go in
ten minutes. I want the stallion tethered to-" he paused. Boy, tethering a
stallion to his beloved mare might not be smart. He shook it off. "Find a
way to tether him onto my saddle."
"Yes, Master Quatre."
Trowa started. It was the first time he had heard anyone call
him that. "Master Quatre."
The youth nodded. "Yes, they call me Master Quatre. I can't
get them to stop." He paused, cocking his head at the other youth.
"What is your horse's name?"
"Trueno, his name is Trueno."
"Ah, because he's black like a thunderbolt."
"Yes. Are all of your horses mares?"
"Yes," the youth snickered.
"But they aren't strong."
"Yes, yes they are, and quiet. Stallions always trumpet at
other horses. They have no stealth. I can't understand why you Spanish people
love stallions."
Trowa couldn't think of a reason either. He had always
considered them strong and powerful, able to carry an armored soldier and his
gear. However, a mare could do it, if she wasn't with foal- stallions didn't
have that problem.
"Master Quatre?" The voice was Ali, who had brought
the horses. Trowa breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that his Trueno was
unscathed. However, he started in surprise when he saw Quatre's mare.
The mare, Alba, was unlike any beast he had ever seen before.
She was a gorgeous creature, unlike the primative Barbs that the other Berbers
rode. No, she was an exquisite Arab mare with beautiful concave head and deep,
liquid brown eyes that stared out of her fine head with such an incredibly
gentle expression. Her whole body was delicate, but muscled. She was covered
with silken, gold fur and luxuriously long silver mane and tail that was like
not unlike moonbeams. She carried her tail proud where she stood and looked at
the world like she was saying: "I am Quatre Raberba's horse, the greatest
beast alive." She looked very much like the dawn that surrounded them, for
which she was named.
It took Trowa's breath away, much as Trueno had when he had
first spied him at auction. "She is precious, Quatre."
"I love her very much." He smiled at the sight of her.
"She was a gift from Iria, my sister,and she is the most precious thing I
own."
Trowa could easily see that. Quatre's face glimmered with
nostalgic happiness as he stared at the grand creature. It must have reminded
him of his boyhood and happier times. It made the Basque wonder where the
Berber had come from and who the rest of his family was.
Quatre turned away from the Basque, having seen a motion from
Rashid that prompted him to action. "Here, I'll help you onto your
horse."
Trowa took the prooffered hand, using it as a step to the back
of his steed, who grunted in protest. It took him a moment to get situated
without the use of his hands, Trueno sidling under him all the while. However,
with the use of his thighs he was soon settled and Quatre mounted up, urging his
mount forward with an invisible touch from his heels.
She started forward, yanking the black steed forward with a
jump. He pranced about as she trotted, full of energy and ego. Trowa could feel
that the stallion was showing off for such a lovely lady, and grinned inwardly
to himself. Quatre, oblivious to Trowa's amusement, urged Alba to a position in
the front of the mounted Maguanacs pausing there to receive any news from
Rashid.
"To Cordoba?" he questioned lightly.
"Yes, Master Quatre."
The youth nodded and dropped back slowly, letting the Vascongado
adjust to the lack of control that was unfamiliar to him. As he looked at the
other youth and the incredibly strange feeling that he had been repulsed by in
the dark surfaced again is his mind. He fought with it passively, hoping it
would fade without him ever discovering its unholy origin or purpose. As the
train moved forward he concentrated on the movements of his horse, pushing all
other thoughts from his soul.
As the troop moved forward, Quatre smiled to himself and sighed.
The journey to Cordoba had begun.
TBC.
Author's Notes::
1. Alba: Dawn. I think that this particular word is of Arabic
descent. I could be wrong. I thought it was pretty.
2. Dios: God
3. Maldito: Damned. And now, everyone knows a curse word in
Spanish.
4. Cantimplora: Canteen or flask.
5. Al-Islam: committing oneself unreserved to God. Its how Islam
gets its name.
6. Salir: to leave
7. Vasquence: Basque language
8. Lo siento: I'm sorry for it.
9. De nada: Its nothing.
10. Iroul: the angel of fear, sometimes called fell. I love
angel lore, and I swear that it pops up in everything I write. Its really one
of my current obsessions which evolved into an RPG instead of a fic.
Other Notes:
Alba is based off a horse I invented as a child. Lol. Just so you know^^.
If anyone finds flaw in my knowledge of Islam or Catholicism, feel free to correct me. The two religions are very important to this fic and if the research I have done proves flawed, I would like to fix my mistakes!!
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