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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