Author's Note:
Dear All,
Pardon if this chapter doesn't go as well as I hoped it to be, but let's hope that writer's block deserts me forever serious! Inspiration only comes in bouts. It is just so hard to get words out, and this chapter had to be written in spurts. No one seems to believe me, that's all. Anyhow, I'm trying to imagine this chapter as a scene from an epic movie. :-) (just a more introspective version of it)
I'm so so glad you all loved the chapter on Ardeth's tortured self, dear ladies, Ruse, Deb, Sapphire Wine (I think the highest compliment is that my story can lure a hard-core Rick/Evy fan to read it! And yep, the names are a mix of Arabic and Sanskrit heehee), Deana, Lula and Mommints (Jealous? You've really gotta be kidding!), who were so vocal about wanting to hold Ardeth and never let go. So here's this additional bit, for those who really expressed interest in the upcoming fight that Ardeth rushed into, especially written for you all, a completely unplanned-for chapter since I really didn't think of writing the fight scene. Well, this chapter hopefully messes the structure of the story NOT, but what the heck. I'll think of something as we get along and the loose ends will be tied up, all in time to come.
Thank you for your encouragement. It is your reviews that make me want to sit in front of the computer and write and write, and force the words out. I anxiously await them, as again.
Please read, darlings, it's for you after all. And enjoy every bit of the man that is displayed before your eyes, flawed but completely irresistible. Testosterone alert, this post is.
Tell me what you think; I feel as if all words are emptied out and there's nothing more left. But I also somehow wrote myself excited in this chapter. Blame it on Ardeth. It's time to get him physical and dirtied.
Chapter 6: Into the Fray He Went
It was worrying to have left her face-down, spitting out bits of sand in his haste to ensure she suffered no hurts. But she would be alright, Ardeth Bay tried to reassure himself, for the peace of his own mind. Evelyn Carnahan, the woman resourceful enough to find him, would hopefully be equally resourceful in emergencies such as this.
He took no heed of her as his feet brought him to the threshold that separated the dead and the living; seeing bloodbaths made his own run cold and hot alternately.
Noise, confusion and madness. Pitiable wails of the dying that faded, curious stares of onlookers, and the inhuman howls of the badly injured.
And it overtook him for a long while, a solitary, unmoving figure possibly carved out of stone, standing at the periphery of the fray, scimitar in hand, glimpsing the flashes of silver reflected under the unrelenting sun, hearing explosions of gunshots around him, amazed that he was not yet taken down.
Ancient war cries, upon the honour of the Medjai were scattered about the street - he knew them as intimately as he knew his body, and he repeated them in his mind each time a cry was uttered, fortifying his strength, expanding the senses until plethoric visions lavishly encircled themselves within him, images of the numerous military victories of the fearsome Medjai he had witnessed as a child. Watching his faithful warriors now taking down the sea of people who so deceptively dressed as civilians roused indescribable wrath, incommunicable sadness. The savage, esoteric impulse pounded hard and deep inside, begging for a release that he would immediately satisfy.
Ardeth Bay emptied his lungs with a raw, piercing scream, shouting the same ancient cry which he could pour out without reserve, now that it was allowed to saturate and sustain his soul, that very insistent pounding shifting from the savage impulse to the savage, excruciating inundation of erupting fury manifested externally as he saw a nemesis magnified.
It blinded and shocked him, two contrasting emotions that he did not care to reconcile, catapulting with great force into the first offender he recognised at the speed of a camera click, a Medjai renegade who had the ill fortune of swinging wildly at him cut down without hesitation.
The triumph was short-lived as a quick but lengthy slice from a neighbouring scimitar slashed and loosened the fastenings of his robe and nicked the skin underneath, deflating that plush battlefield vision he was carrying but for a moment, just as the top of his robe hung limply, unbalanced off an arm.
He had hoped this day would never come, when the assault turned personal.
The one he knew who singled him out the moment he appeared at the doorstep of the museum, scimitar in hand. And they had to exchange blows today, the time of reckoning that probably determined if the madness would stop.
Ardeth Bay felt like a great fool, hoodwinked into brawl; such a thought now nagged at the back of his mind, replaying harshly the moment he mindlessly ran out into the fight, knowing only that he had to protect his own, yet not fully comprehending the reason why he fought.
Internally torn and perturbed, suddenly wanting to castigate himself, knowing that there was enough blood to stain all the heavens. But he could not stop, no matter what menagerie of reasons his mind threw out, until he found himself entombed within the deepest levels of anguish and pain that completed and reinstated him as chief and leader, atoning for the endless and perhaps unnecessary bloodshed of the recent years.
Ardeth Bay swallowed the acrid taste in his mouth, the victim of guilt and sorrow, convinced of the sly hypocrisy that existed in everyone, bowed to his invisible masters as he fought now, on all levels, against his enemies, against himself.
You fight perhaps unnecessarily. He heard Lena Shirin's voice float mockingly out of each parry and thrust that his opponent advanced, singeing his flesh with her words, injuring it in rivulets of red.
No compromises, my son. It was Ishaq Bay's commanding voice that held him prisoner. Sometimes the greatest enemy is unseen. But be sure of it before you act.
Allah help us all, if you ever tried to take the place of rule and creator. Lena said again, the insolent woman who humbled him with her mix of sensuality and candidness.
Oh how he knew it, on a level that he had not cared to admit and explore until now; it seemed the most miscalculated time to philosophise.
But outwardly, all had turned into a visual choreography, iconographical and stunning in every move, robes that flapped with each flexible turn of the scimitar in his hand in the dance to death of one or the other. His muscles flexed, and bulged under the strain of the effort, loudly singing their strength, the virtuoso of resilience, steering clear of his opponent's blow, gracefully pitching back similar blows and missing no beats. The sumptuous display of physical dexterity dazzled in the stale air that now carried the smell of death, the final rounds of the great game set to a slow burn.
They dodged the surrounding smattering of gunfire with some effort, yet running in synchronisation and weaving around the injured bodies, still at blows with each other, correctly guessing each other's style of fighting, anticipating each carefully executed stance and backlash. A lift, a parry and a strike blurred, undefined, between the warriors, the sparring no longer friendly but tinged with craze, strained in the bloodshot eyes of the other.
His defection to the Wafd and renunciation of the Medjai heritage had cost Ardeth Bay great distress. And it was clear to both that one of them had to die today. The greatest price of unceasing malaise and plaguing disquiet, he thought perhaps, that one paid while choosing between the ancient and the modern.
The slice of the enemy's scimitar was close. His thick robes had thankfully protected him, torn in the process. The destroyed robe was hastily and violently shed from his body, leaving him clad only in his black pants and boots, the exposed olive torso, hard and exquisitely planed, gleamed with blood and earthy exertion, conspicuously visible in the swell of black bodies that moved towards and away from him, not unlike the ebb and flow of an ominous sea, great waves colliding in existential angst.
The unclothed state had made him feral and unforgiving; the physical exposure and vulnerability overcompensated by the barbaric turn that the brawl took as his ferocious attack increased in intensity. Caught in each other for indeterminate amount of time before he swung a defeating blow to the side of his enemy's thigh, and the buckling of knees and eventual collapse earned Ardeth Bay, poised as if for eternity to weep tears over his fallen enemy crouched and stretched on the ground.
The chief of the Medjai, dispassionate; the protocol was to lift his scimitar high and bring it down in a single, unmerciful blow - his enemy knew it well too. Too well to shiver in dreaded anticipation and expectancy, the execution performed with impeccable skill and matchless sorrow.
"I will finish it if you can't," There was a quiet voice at his side that shook him out of his deranged meditation, and he turned to see an equally bloodied Rick O'Connell who had made his way up to his side.
He looked down again, this time in wretchedness, towards Mejdan Bay, the younger brother of his that lay lame because of his faithful scimitar, knowing that the rift between them would only be bridged through death and the lingering early childhood memories of happier times.
"I am victorious today, only because I sensed your lapse in concentration." Ardeth Bay murmured softly.
He turned to Rick and gestured urgently. "Evelyn Carnahan is still in the museum. Find her."
Rick O'Connell was gone without so much of an additional prompt. Ardeth needed the time with that blood brother traitor of his.
The injured party twitched, a brusque smile lining his face.
"No, your victory is mine. I give my life to freedom without prejudice, not lose it to an infidel," Mejdan Bay spat, evocative words that branded itself with stinging fire on Ardeth's open chest, containing more voltage than every firearm combined. "Do not bother. I do the honours cleaner than you ever would. The Almighty welcomes me into His paradise today."
Ardeth Bay gazed into the identical curling black hair and amber eyes of his own, powerless to prevent the feverish and direct arching sweep of his brother's own scimitar into his own belly that incised cleanly, his hands grasping the hilt tightly, gurgling up the asphyxiating stew of blood that he drowned in, seeing the last jerks fade into nothing.
"Defiant till your death," Ardeth whispered, oblivious to his own weapon dropping limply to the ground, feebly bending down to touch Mejdan's forehead in a fatigued farewell that bespoke a weariness beyond measure. The uncontrolled fury that he had loosed flickered and abruptly expired into soft glowing embers, its aftermath only a dull, icy cold emptiness that deceived, winked and mocked.
Ten years, twenty, perhaps a hundred could have passed in between, the redolently bitter and poignant moment timelessly captured, ornately crowning one fallen brother with a grace long forgotten and scoffed by men, cruelly apportioning - no, cursing the other one with bereavement simply because he lived.
The mourn was interrupted by a frantic holler and running footsteps that drew closer and closer.
"Ardeth! She is no longer there!" There was frustration evident in Rick's shout, approaching the scene of massacre, leaving little doubt who had remained alive.
Lena Shirin, Ishaq Bay, and now Mejdan Bay. Irrationally angry at this counterfeit emotion that promised neither reward nor fulfilment, that same pulsating and pounding in his blood roared lustily to life again, even if for a brief moment, its now vulgar head rearing itself in an aberrant, paganistic rave as he lunged recklessly at Rick O'Connell in a flawless pugilistic movement without picking up his scimitar. Its primordial imprint was lost on him; the force that propelled them both back into a wall breathtakingly severe.
"What in the name of Allah was that?" He ground out, hard, through gritted teeth, trembling hands nonetheless grabbing the lapels of O'Connell's previously pristine shirt.
"Listen to me -she must either have wandered off -"
"You fool, Allah's most despicable of creatures!" He growled, swinging his fist around to hit Rick O'Connell in the side of the cheek, earning himself a return punch on the other side of his face.
It was equally violent, this additional scuffle that took place as a vent of emotions, forcefully draining and wringing the insanity of the Medjai chief and bringing out the bewildered self-defense of the ex-French Legionnaire soldier who blocked the blows with increasing alarm.
"For the love of god, this maniac! Before we lose our senses!" Rick had grabbed him firmly on the shoulder; they both panted before falling onto the ground in a careless heap.
The sky was a horizontal, endless snapshot of blue and grey where they both lay looking up, sprawled inelegantly in the near deserted adjacent lane, feeling the inconsistent rhythm of retreating footsteps rattle the ground and the ensuing silence abnormally thunderous.
It was a desperately mellifluous plea to Allah; that was all he heard as he turned towards Ardeth, whose injured back was dirtied with sand and perspiration, yet pleased to see the shifting of the stormy emotion and its dark clouds.
Rick sighed. An apology had to do. If not Ardeth, then him.
"I'm sorry, I did not stop them soon enough." The apology was curt, brief, but he knew they were heartfelt enough to send the man spiralling down the path of contriteness. "Rather, the network is far too wide-reaching and influential."
"I want to assure you that all if well, but it is not," Ardeth stated simply, eyes tightly shut, the rigorous clean up ahead loomed, daunting. "But my absolute trust in you, my brother, has not wavered. You promised your loyalty to us a while ago and you have not taken that responsibility lightly. For that I already thank you deeply. It is my apology that you need, not the other way around. Evelyn Carnahan is a woman resourceful enough to take care of her own being."
It was recompense enough, erring on the side of caution.
"No guilt then." O'Connell's face morphed itself into a foolish grin, clapping Ardeth Bay soundly on the back.
The fragile moment between the two men, so different yet so alike, broke, replaced by a warmer camaraderie that kept the violence at bay, at least until their wounded were carefully tended to.
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Pssst: Ardeth Bay for order. $_ a piecegone! (I'm going nuts) Ok, Ok, no more nonsense from me.