Entre los dos almas

Archived: http://fanfiction.net, http://geocities.com/lukleia/index3.html

World: Gundam Wing

Rating: R, violence and innuendos

Genre: A.U., historical

Warnings: Yaoi, violence

Pairings: 3x4, 4x3

Contact: Kasage_Starrunner@excite.com


Disclaimer:

The author has no affiliation with Sunrise, Bandai or any other organization licensing or holding © to Gundam Wing. This is a work of AU fanfiction for the entertainment of Gundam Wing fandom. The plot is techinically © me, though you'll have to thank the Moors and Christians who died for the history.

Chapter Five

El Viaje

The Guadalquivir made a lazy silver trail along the still russet grounds near its banks.  The sun shone like a heathen burning in hell and the humidity made skin and cloths stick, and once silken hair hang limply against dark and light shining foreheads.  It had been a day and a half since the Vascongado has begun his journey with Quatre to the city of Cordoba.  His utter weariness had never quite escaped him and it was difficult for the youth to stay atop his horse without a firm grip on the creature's neck.  Several times, he had almost fallen asleep but forced himself to keep his eyes open and his legs firmly locked around the barrel of Trueno's black belly.  More than once, the Basque had felt himself slipping even though he was awake.  The only thing keeping him on the horse was his pride-he would not appear weak before these hateful Moros.

The Berber youth escorting him glanced briefly to look at Trowa and smiled to himself.  There was such a look of pure determination in that ruggedly handsome young face.  The green eyes glinted with the coldness of a gem, determination burning like fire in his set brows.  They wrinkled his forehead, and the blonde could see the edges of weariness about them, being forced away by pure will.  However, the Basque could not eliminate the sunken purple crescents under his eyes.  Trowa's energy wasn't far from failing.

Quatre sunk further into the rocking stride of his mare.  The Basque was stronger than he first thought-though the strength he contained was different than brute force.  This catolico had a strong will stronger than any man's he had ever before seen.  Lids fluttered over blue eyes as he thought.  If he were in the position of the Vascongado, could he be as strong?  The youth doubted it, glancing to the pale, delicate hands lightly grasping the reins of his horse.  He was fragile, much more fragile than the Basque physically, he was sure.  Perhaps even Trowa's will was stronger.  Quatre had never before had it truly tested or not in this manner.  He had other trials collected to his name, but being captured by an enemy was not one of them.

He reined back Alba, slowing her to a walk so he could adjust his robes, turban, and hood, letting his mind wander as he scanned the land around.  Yesterday afternoon they had arrived at the shore of the Guadalquivir and thus far the river journey had been pleasant and unspoiled.  It was a beautiful oasis for those who had just crossed La Mancha into the realm of Andalusia.

Alba slowed and drew to a halt, stopping Trueno with her, as Quatre gazed as the beautiful world around him.  The soft gurgling water from the river could be heard, feeding life into the livening palms and semi-tropical trees.  A butterfly flew by.  The youth watched, amused by the multicolored wings, imagining the light touch of them brushing across his peach-fuzz face.

A blush rose to his cheeks like an inward smile.  This Life Allah had created was so precious.  Why did so many people wish to destroy it?  Tears prickled in his warm oceanic eyes.  All of this life here was so fragile, could so easily be destroyed by a torch or battle.  He brushed his hand across his cheek in an attempt to force back his child-like emotions.  Tears were for women and children.  A man could not afford to show weakness.  That was what his father told him and his father was to be obeyed, even now.

And yet …  Quatre looked to the Basque, staring deeply into his stark green eyes.  This man here had a soul, Allah had gifted him with life, just like he had all of the other soldiers they fought.  What gave them the right to destroy them?  Was it because they were Allah's chosen people?  No, that still did not give them a right to this needless carnage.  This jihad was foolishly wasting lives that could be brought to see the face of Allah.  Why was that concept so hard for el Almohad to understand.

Trowa watched the youth's facial gestures through the mask of his hair.  /What is that lunatic Moor doing?/ he thought, panting for want of breath and weariness.  He watched his face as the Moor's eyes filled with tears.  He couldn't help but admire those perfect sea colored eyes.  You could see the waves of the Mediterranean in them, and depending on his mood they seemed to change like the very water they appeared to be.  Now they were so soft.

Trowa drug his thoughts away, reinstituting his barrier.  Tears, it was childish of the youth.  He was a child.  What ever compelled the heathens to make that baby a soldier.  It was a mockery to the institution.  What was there to cry about?  First, the nino had thrown up because he had to touch the Basque and now this. 

Quatre seemed to think it foolish too, for shortly his eyes hardened again, returning to a solemn disposition.  Trowa turned away just when the Berber looked at him again, casting his eyes to the ground below, then thought better of it.  He would not allow the angel to believe he had any authority over the Vascongado.  Better to stare him in the face than look at the ground like a member of a harem, despite the kindness of the captor.

Quatre was haunted by the coldness that suddenly appeared in the eyes.  Was this Vascongado playing a game with him, or was this ice a mask like so many soldiers wore?  He shifted in his seat, the saddle leather creaking beneath him.  Spanish saddles were so uncomfortable for the rider and you could not feel the horse underneath you.  He couldn't wait to exchange this cumbersome thing to something more to his taste-but the saddlebags were a convenient item.

Adbul's voice jarred him out of his saddle study.  "Master Quatre, Rashid asked me to see if you're alright."

"I'm fine," replied the fair youth, waving him off.  "I just stopped to enjoy Allah's creation.  Tell Rashid that we should stop for water here, and a bath.  I haven't cleaned myself in days and that's unsanitary, not to mention uncouth.  Besides, the Vascongado is exhausted, though he will not admit it."

Abdul scratched his dark head.  "I don't see why, but I'll tell him."

"Thank you."

The Maguanac returned to the front as Trowa glared at the Berber youth from behind.  "Why did you say that?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Because you are tired and too proud to say it.  You need a rest, that's all."

"I'm fine," he hissed.  It was a lie.  As he leaned toward the Moor to speak, the world swam underneath him.  He felt nauseated.  Everything moved in a swirling motion.  His body tilted wildly, his feet catching in the stirrups as his body slid.  His stomach lurched inside him as the ground grew closer.  Trueno jumped, frightened at the sudden unfamiliar weight change by his rider.

A pale hand darted to lift Trowa's floundering body back onto his disturbed stallion.   The young blond leapt from his horse and removed Trowa from his stirrups and then saddle before the body could sink out of control again.  The Basque didn't fight, only melted toward the ground, will destroyed by the touch of the Berber.

Trueno, unsure of what this stranger was doing to his master, reared as Trowa was pulled from his back, knocking Quatre to the ground and Trowa landing with a dead thump.  The horse snorted and paced, waiting for the Arab to move again so he could strike.

"Ho, Trueno.  No," mumbled Trowa, not even wanting to move now that he was horizontal.  The steed calmed himself at the sound of its master's voice and decidedly began to tease Quatre's golden mare, to which she responded with a kick.  The black horse snorted and backed away, allowing the snooty mare to ignore him for the time being.

The blond boy shook his head and sat up.  Looking over at the prostrate Basque.  "That's a very loyal beast."

"Mmm," Trowa muttered from the ground, having lost the energy to say anything remotely intelligent.

"You'll rest now?" question Quatre, standing to brush the grass and dirt from his robes.

The Vascongado just closed his eyes in response, letting sleep overcome him by the river.  His pride could no longer argue with his bodily needs-again.  Quatre nodded, and stood, brushing the red dust from the light embroidered burnoise and robes.

Abdul returned with Rashid, who glared under bear-like brows at the unconscious Trowa.  He stroked his beard and looked at Quatre, who was now removing his turban and cloak in preparation for his bath.

"Master Quatre?" Abdul questioned.

Quatre turned around and smiled.  "I told you, I want a bath.  If you two are so intent on staying dusty then you can stay and watch Trowa.  However, I insist that the other Maguanacs wash themselves."

The blond waved the two off and stepped over to the brush by the rivers side, peeling off the layers of travel worn, ruddy clothes down to bare ivory skin.  He heard the other men follow his lead, rushing much less silently to the bank to remove the grime that had built up from too long travel.

The thin white legs, waded into the river, squishing the mud between long toes.  The water felt like cold silk on his body--luxurious enough for a sultan.  The breeze rippled the river as it reached Quatre's naked belly, then chest, then neck.  Bare feet stroked the bottom on nimble toes.  Currents tickled, fish passing by on their lazy routes.

He watched the other men bathing without a qualm.  It made him smile to see them enlivened so.  There was no remnants of the strange, nauseous feeling that had overtaken the Berber at the thought of touching Trowa's pants.  These naked bodies brought no such feelings or temptations to purge.

Temptations.

Quatre suddenly dived under the water and held his breath, pulling his legs to his chest and kicking deep--deeper.  He hung their, like a fetus, trying to pull past the thoughts and emotions to the higher light of Allah.  However feelings that to him were impure wrenched across his chest and abdomen.

He clutched tighter, upside-down, head near touching bottom.  Bubbles of air escaped from his mouth like pure thoughts, but his thoughts were impure.  He wasn't thinking anything, but he knew that the thoughts were impure.

/What is wrong with me?\

Imagination, it was getting out of hand.  His breath bubbled out and Quatre somersaulted, surfacing with a gasp of breath.  The water glittered upward in the sunlight like so many diamonds, while beads pearled on the blondes pale and rosy face.  Only the heaving breaths came for a few seconds and then they subsided.

/Must be clean … Must be pure.\

Quatre wretched, and on an impulse started grabbing handfuls of silt to rub his body with.  It scraped his sides white, like sand at home.  Purity, he was searching for purity as the abrasive substance rubbed off layer after layer of dead, unclean skin.  He wretched again and scraped harder, knowing that the silt was turning his skin red.  The blond rubbed all over, even in the unpleasant places that it near burned.  He didn't care.  His father had told him … unclean thoughts.

The blond dashed naked from the water, falling on his side in a bush, vomiting again.  /Unclean thoughts must be purged.  Unclean.\  He remembered his father's gagging.  He was his father's holy child.   Evil and unclean thoughts must be erased.

The bile spilled forth again and Quatre choked, hands clutched to his throat.  He knew that the other Maguanacs must hear him, but they didn't move.  Rashid had told them long ago about Quatre.  He had told them to let him be, without ever asking why.

The heaving ceased, but the Berber remained curled for a moment, shaking.  It had been two years since the purging feelings had come to him.  Two years since he had coughed up black bile because of sinful feelings.  Why now?  A sign from Allah? 

The golden head lifted weakly as the water dripped off of his chin.  Trowa?  Was this punishment for the Basque.  His stomach pained him as he stood up and stumbled forward.  So much chastising long ago.  He had forgotten what he had done.  Only that qadi and his father had tried to cure him of his ills.  They said he had the body of a prophet and one day Allah would speak to him, if he were pure.

Drip-drip.  The water congealing and then slipped down the alabaster frame as Quatre walked numb in his thoughts.  The brush and dust grabbed his naked feet.  Vague eyes saw the blue, empty sky and he wondered if his gaze looked like that.

He walked to Trowa, to Rashid and Abdul, to the open.  The white body had forgotten its nakedness.  The eyes barely registered the three.  A body ran toward him.

"Master Quatre, you must cover yourself."

The blond blinked as the rough bournoise was wrapped about his trembling, wet body.  Quatre coughed and nearly fell, but the large hands of Rashid caught him.

"Abdul, get Master Quatre's cloths.  He's had a fit again."

Quatre curled up on the ground.  A fit, so that was what they called it.  He pulled the bournoise close and gazed at the sleeping vascongado.

/Why are you here?  Oh Allah!  What are you doing to me?\

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

Trowa woke to an animalistic wailing sound.  He at first thought it was a wolf, crying lonely and quavering in the woods, however they were too far south for wolves to be that common.  He stretched his stiff limbs, hearing the crack as the startling sound continued.  Was it singing?

He shot up, a little too fast for his muscles, and looked around.  The berber!  That maldito moro was wailing like a demon.  Green eyes stared at him icily as the blond continued his foreign song.  It took a moment for Trowa to realize that there were indeed words being sung--though these words were Arabic.

There was something holy in Quatre's face as he sung.  His eyes gazed out at the horizon, as though he were only aware of a god or His angels singing in a choir with the berber.  Trowa watched the throat quiver on the slender neck. 

Devoid of his robe and singing with such emotion, Quatre looked fragile.

The vascongado looked off at the horizon himself and tried to ignored the sound, but it wove its way into him.  That which at first seemed heathen sunk into him and became the core of emotion itself, so diffirent from the bards and folksongs of his homelands.  The sound even conveyed a meaning. 

/This is what angels sound like.\

The sound suddenly stopped and Trowa looked about him, confused.  Quatre was staring straight at him, vacant eyes slowly realizing the Basque was awake.

"Oh, Trowa, you're awake."  He sounded muffled, like a punished child.  There was no smile or taunting just sorrow, and a rosy hint of embaressment brushed across his cheeks.

"Is that how Moros sing?"

"Those that can."  The golden head rested on knees pulled up to his chest.  He did not look at Trowa--could not look at Trowa.

"I thought it was a demon at first, but then, for a moment, thought you really were an angel."

"Even demons were angels once.  And I'm no angel."

They sat in silence for a moment before the brunnette spoke again.  "What were you singing, Quatre."

The blond looked up.  "You want to know."

"Yes." 

"I was singing about a man traveling across the desert to war, thinking of his love--his most perfect love, and their last night together before he left."

"Los cristianos do not have poems about love like that."

A smile crawled across Quatre's face.  "It is considered blasphemy back across the straight--in all countries obeying Al-islam but this one.  We are only supposed to love Allah.  However--"

"There is something beautiful about human love and compassion, yes.  The catolicos would burn me for heresy--loving something other than God."

"Then we have something in common after all."  He was confused again.  His enemy--he was supposed to hate him, and yet there was so much to like about the Basque--bravery, wisdom ...  He was like one of the Maguanacs to him--A prisoner!  A thoughtful catolico--he never would have guessed.

"Can you translate the song for me?"

"Hmm?"

"I would love to hear the song--spoken in castellano.  If you sing it that way, it would not be the same."

Quatre blushed.  "I sang:

            "Alone in the desert

            I long for you.

            You with your face

            Round like the full moon.

            Cinnamon eyes

            Gazing at me with

            Bashful affection.

            That last night

            I could taste the wine

            On your full lips.

            I could smell the lingering

            Of your perfume.

            I smell it now

            Even in the howling

            Of the desert wind."

"That was ... beautiful."  He knew that wasn't the right word, but it was all he had.  The Guadalquivir glinted through the trees.  He sighed.

"You didn't like it?"

"No, there is just no word for it.  I have never heard poetry like that, only written it."

"A poet is a lonely person."

The Basque raised an eyebrow.  "And?"

"And so is a musician."

"So, I am both."

"As am I, and we are both lonely warriors."

Trowa picked at the grass by his feet and Quatre pulled his knees closer.  Trueno grazed behind them, picketed near the vascongado and far away from the mares.  The brunnette turned his head to watch him for a moment, and then whistled.  The great black head lifted and the ears "looked" at the brunnette.

"Trueno."

The steed stepped over and sniffed his master throughly, nibbling slightly on the brown hair.  "Excuse me, Caballo, that is my hair, not grass."

Quatre chuckled a minute.  "It seems your closest friend is an animal."

"Horses only gossip to other horses.  They keep my secrets."  Trowa stroked the black stallion's nose, feeling the hot air rush in and out of the great nostrils.  The lips quivered and lipped at the tan hands, seeking salt.  Finding little, Trueno again turned to the grass, tail swishing away bugs.

"How do you Europeans find horses so big?"  The blue eyes stared in awe at Trueno's size and bulk.

"A long time ago, our war horses would have plowed fields.  Field horses don't get excited and can carry a lot.  So many war horses have come from their types.  Trueno has working blood in him, like me."

"Well, it is hard to plow fields in the desert--but you must travel many miles."

"That, Trueno cannot do so easily."

Trueno looked up as though offended, but then went back to eating his grass.  Quatre laughed again and stood, brushing the soil from his under-robes.

"Would he mind if I--"

"Let me come with you.  After all, you captured me and he is wary of strangers to begin with."

Quatre helped the Basque up onto his feet.  The two walked toward Trueno, who laid his ears back with unease.

"Whoa, Trueno.  Quatre won't hurt you.  He isn't bad, for a maldito Moro."

The horse snorted, but didn't balk as Quatre approached his head.  For a breath moment, he lowered his nose into the black steed's nostril and blew air into.  Trueno relaxed and pointed his ears toward the berber, blowing air back at him.  The blond reach a pale hand up and patted Trueno's neck.

"What were you doing?"  Trowa had never seen anything like the exchange of air.

"I am gaining his trust, just as anyone must do to get along.  That is how horses greet each other, Trowa.  Blowing air.  It helps them decided whether they mean any harm or not."

"They truly do that?"

"Yes.  You didn't know?  You should watch them."

"I never watched horses, only sheep."

"A shepherd?  That explains it."

"Explain?  What does it explain?"

"Why you are so gentle.  You are a David in a world of Goliaths, shepherd boy."

"And what are you?"

"I'd prefer not to talk about it.  My family is ... difficult."

"I understand.  I can not talk of mine."

Quatre looked at him curiously.

"It is hard to talk of a family that you do not know."

"Oh."  The berber watched the river.  "Well, its not good to have too large a family either ..."

Trueno nibbled at Quatre's golden hair, and Trowa swatted him away as best he could.  "Stop that."  This only caused the horse to rub his head on the Berber.  "He knows too."

The moro forced a smile again.  "You are a wiser horse than I though, Trueno."  He looked at Trowa bindings.  "I don't think you need these anymore.  Where are you going to run with 40 armed men around."

"Nowhere, but what will Ra-ra-"

"Rashid?"

"Rashid, yes.  What would he think?"

"I will just have to explain in to him."

The maguanacs were now becoming more active around the river.  Having showered and slept, things were again being strapped to horses. 

"It seems as though we are moving out."

Quatre nodded.  Cordoba ... What would Cordoba do with a vascongado?

TBC.

1.   Guadalquivir:  One of the southern rivers of Spain that travels alongside both Sevilla and Cordoba as I recall. 

2.   burnoise:  a cloak with a hood commonly worn by all of the Andalusians, but most often the Moors.

3.   qadi:  judge and "religious leader", but only sort of.  I'll explain more in a later chapter.

4.  The poem:  I made it up in the style of Andalusian poetry.  It is not in its traditional form, purely because I wrote it with the idea of a translation in mind.  Wine, women, and Allah were popular themes in poetry of the timeperiod.