Disclaimer: Stephen Sommers and Universal Pictures own the character of Ardeth Bay. I do not profit from this work.
I could not sleep well. One of the nights I dreamt that my father had caught us and cut my throat, leaving me to die in the sand as he turned to kill Ardeth as well. I could do nothing. When I awoke it was some time before I could convince myself that I was far away. It became more and more difficult to even close my eyes as we crossed the Red Desert. Ibrahim was an expert tracker, and Ardeth had killed his son. The more I thought on it the more convinced I was that my uncle would not rest until revenge had been forced upon the Druze. Every noise unsettled me.
We had been in the Red Desert for eight days now. I sat in the saddle, dazed, the heat pounding upon me in waves. He stood in the sand, surveying the arid waste we were in, reading the desert to ascertain our location. I refused to give in to the feeling of despair that lurked just under my thoughts. We could not be lost; it was obvious that we were traveling north, and he seemed so certain of himself. The only thing he seemed to not know was the exact location of the small oasis, and so we wandered, exhausted, rapidly running out of supplies. In territory closer to my tribe I could have collected from rainwater pools, or secret reservoirs; here in the tortured lands I could do nothing but try to stay on the camel, forever looking over my shoulder for Ibrahim. Even the camels were grumbling, as there was little foraging for them, and we were driving them hard, scarcely pausing for rest.
He remounted his camel with grace. He was beginning to regain his strength, and I could see how truly fierce a warrior he was. Every motion he made was like poetry; the stiffness that had plagued him was almost entirely gone. We spoke little in the dry heat of the day, but at night, or when we made a rare encampment, he regaled me with fascinating stories of the Druze, safe in their retreats at the base of the mountains. I was sad that I had so few stories to add, but my own were tales of woe, ill-suited for our camp.
"The oasis is very close," he said, relieved.
"Praise be to Allah," I replied with feeling. I was worn down from the constant worry and the perpetual riding.
He echoed my thanks and led us over the next rise. Again I breathed to Allah, for I could see scrubby plants growing tenuously in the rocky soil. The oasis was small, ringed with green; I could see how it had been so difficult to find. Had we ridden a few feet too far in either direction we would have gone right past it. I dismounted, my legs aching and stiff as I half-staggered to the water. I filled the skins, allowing myself to drink more than I normally would have.
"Perhaps we could camp here," he said. He looked at me questioningly. It made me uneasy, the way he asked for my opinion; it was not a woman's place to give one. I looked around. The oasis seemed unknown. There was little to suggest that it was frequently used; the shifting red sand would make tracking difficult as well. I felt a little of the anxiety recede. "The camels need to forage..." I ventured.
He nodded and turned to his, unsaddling it. I followed suit, though I was bone-weary. My brain was dull form lack of sleep. I unpacked some necessities from the saddlebags, setting my saddle up next to a few rocks that could serve as a firepit. I cleared it out while he found fuel, and once the sunset had finally sank under the horizon we had a small, smokeless fire going. I was able to bake small, flat pieces of bread across the iron cooking plate that I had brought. Together with oil, cheese, and dried figs, it made for a satisfying meal. Leaning back against my saddle I could not ever remember feeling so happy. The stars filled the sky utterly. My sleep heart composed a silent exclamation of thanks to Allah, and I watched the moon begin its slow ascent.
His rich voice broke the immense stillness that had wrapped around the oasis. "There has been no rain here for some time."
"Bsatya has not been blessed with a true rainfall in eight years," I replied, wrapping myself deeper into my camelskin blanket. Already the chill night had crept into the air.
"Have you ever seen the samh bloom?" he asked. His voice seemed far away.
"Only once," I answered. "We gathered the berries, and made dough---you must eat it with honey, it is very sour."
He fell silent, and I somehow knew that he was thinking of his lost blood-brother Faris. A pang of guilt crept up, but I tried to dismiss it. I could not be answerable for my father's actions. He had chosen his own cruel path.
How odd it felt now to be without my own path. Always I had kept myself pointed towards 'the escape'; I found it hard to believe that I was adrift, at the mercy of a dark stranger in the desert, no more subject to my father. Which direction would I follow? Where could I go? The stars were as limitless and unfathomable as my own future. I had spent years preparing for the moment of my departure, and now I was past it, and my course was unclear. It was impossible to live alone in the desert. I had to find a tribe to take me in.
I had always assumed I would join my mother's people, but this stranger had appeared, and my tentative plans were upset. Because I had so foolishly brought him with me I had made my disappearance cause for a far larger search than if I had left on my own. And, far worse, my traitorous heart continually murmured an ever-growing desire to stay with him, though my mind understood that it was impossible. He was a chieftain's son, after all; I was the daughter of the man who had murdered his blood-brother, and I came from a tiny worthless clan. My tired thoughts wound round and round this track until I realized I was nodding off. Standing up, I yawned deeply and dragged my feet to the small tent, tossing aside my kuffiyah and pulling off my camel-hide boots. The night was cold, and I wriggled down into the blankets, wishing I had brought more with me. I yawned again.
He entered the tent, having removed his own headcloth and boots, and suddenly I found myself quite awake. So far he had acted with all honor, but we had not rested much, and I had been so consumed in our pursuers that I had given only scant thought to the danger inherent in being alone with him in the desert. My whole body tensed as he sank down into the blankets next to me. I could hear him breathing, could smell his masculine scent. The night wind rose and howled outside, and I shivered involuntarily.
He moved closer, and I tried to resist the urge to move farther away. "You are cold," he murmured, his warm breath moving across my ear. His lean body was next to mine, radiating heat. "Sleep now," he whispered, and a few strands of his hair stirred against the back of my neck. One strong arm found its way across my hip and locked protectively around my waist, pulling me even closer. I tensed, afraid; as a Bedouin woman I should have drawn my khanjar and placed it between us.
He sighed deeply and relaxed against me, and I forced myself to quell the rising anxiety. No man could want me, as I had passed the age of betrothal; the best I could hope for in any tribe that took me in would be to become a servant. It was the life I already knew, and this way I would at least retain some of my scant freedom. Perhaps I could work for a family in his tribe. The thought was interesting. But would I be able to see him every day and not be affected by his tall, graceful presence? Could I truly be satisfied with seeing him and not wanting more?
My weariness returned threefold, and I gave myself up to it, held fast in his embrace.