Disclaimer: I don't own squat, not a damn thing. Well, I own a rather nice pair of red Converse high-tops, but that's it. As far as Ardeth, Evy, or Rick, no, sorry, not mine. The OC, however, is mine. Flames will be used to light my backyard barbecue pit. Please R&R, especially if you read the old version.
-Belle
There were two surprises in the camp of the First Tribe that day. Ardeth and his men hadn't been expected to return until nightfall. Additionally, the sight of an unconscious woman cradled in the arms of their chief was nothing short of a shock. The women who attended the healers immediately rushed forward, observing great care as the took the woman's limp body from Ardeth's arms. She was rushed into the cool shade of a tent and Ardeth was left to explain to the gathered council why he'd returned so early and with an outsider in tow. It would take an hour or two to gather all the councilmen, and so Ardeth made his way through the camp to his tent to see to his horse. It was shameful in his culture for a warrior to see to their own needs before those of his horse. Their society depended on these creatures to a large degree, and the care with which they bred the animals was practically an art form. Ardeth's horse, Marid, was one of the finest bred Arabians he'd ever seen. Not only was he a singularly magnificent animal, he was a gift from Ardeth's father.
Hatim Bay had been a brilliant leader. He loved his wife and only son with all his heart, and he protected his tribe to the last breath. He was all that they could ask for in a chief, and he taught Ardeth those very qualities from early on. It was, perhaps, that Hatim knew his time on earth would be short. Ardeth was given Marid as a gift at the age of thirteen. Marid had been a young colt, only recently separated from his mother. Ardeth fed, groomed, and saddle broke the horse all on his own. Still, when a roving band of bedouin raiders attacked his father and five of the elders during the night watch, there was nothing that Ardeth could do. He had ridden out with four others to relieve them, and they were just in time to see Hatim Bay, standing over the body of a fallen elder, holding off two of the Bedouin whilst the others watched and laughed.
Ardeth fought his way through the crowd, bringing down several of the outlaws, but losing sight of his father in the process. When he finally broke through, he saw Hatim Bay sprawled in the red sands, sword still in hand. The anger that consumed him at that moment led to the slaughter of dozens of bedouin. His four companions engaged many of the enemy, but it was from Ardeth that the brutes ran in fear. Upon returning to the encampment, his mother needed only to see her son standing alone in his blood-soaked robes to know what had happened. Hatim was buried the next day, for in the desert the dead cannot wait long. Since then, Dalal Bay had lived a shell of a life, existing only for her son's sake. Ardeth knew now that his mother and father had possessed the kind of love he'd only heard of in bedtime stories. A part of him wished that she could move on and so be with his father again, but he had also come to understand that no love can rival that of a parent for their child. No matter how wise and capable he grew, she would not leave him, not until she knew he had someone to watch over him. She would not leave her son alone.
The elders of the first tribe gathered in the spacious and decadent council tent. There was the constant murmur of voices in the air. These men, wise men as they were known, were as bad about gossip as the worst American housewife. Each had his own theories about Ardeth's early return and the mysterious woman. It had been confirmed by the healer Bahir that the woman was severely dehydrated, but would survive. Not even these shameless gossips would dare discuss the matters of the dead or dying. Still, when the flaps parted and Ardeth stepped through, the chatter stopped, and only the light desert breeze could be heard. The elders watched as their chief, the youngest man present, walked to the cedar wood chair at the head of the room. Ardeth turned to face the elders, inclined his head out of respect, and took his seat.
"As many here are aware, certain tribes of bedouin raiders have been particularly active in recent months." Ardeth began. Not a single one of the elders would stir as he spoke, "We have received word from agents in Cairo, Athens, Rome, Paris, and Berlin that a political interest in the so-called occult has been increasing. Our biggest concern lately has been the infiltration of special interest groups hoping to find whatever artifacts or relics might further their cause. Yesterday, myself and four elders were sent to a camp that had been spotted in the Valley of the Kings. We only traveled half the distance before finding a woman wandering the desert. She matched the description of one of the two inhabitants at the camp. Upon spotting us, the woman fled, and we followed, fearing not only that she may know the whereabouts of our camps but that she may simply be a lost soul to be taken by the desert. Upon confronting her, I was led to believe that these same Bedouin who have been praying on the camps of outsiders for months may have attacked her camp. I can only assume that the man who accompanied her has perished."
There was silence as the elders regarded one another from across the tent. No one was sure what to make of the situation. The woman could be a danger if she knew where to find their camps. On the other hand, it was their responsibility to care for a poor soul who was lost in the desert. Now they had to worry about the prospects of entire organizations coming to dig up the darkest most ancient secrets of Egypt.
"What about the woman?" one elder asked, "If she knows where we are camped she can neither be allowed to leave or trusted to stay in our midst."
"She can be blindfolded," Ardeth offered, "and taken to the city. In the meantime, it is the windy season. If we move the camps, there's sure to be a dust storm to cover our tracks."
"Move the camps? Again?" another elder asked incredulously, "For the fourth time this year?"
"If that's what it takes to spare a woman's life, yes." Ardeth defended, his voice beginning to rise.
"A woman who could very well be a spy, a saboteur!" another elder declared.
"She did try to strangle you after all, my lord." an elder named Fariq chimed in, and with that, the whole meeting seemed to erupt. The elders began to bicker, shout, and make erratic hand gestures. Ardeth shook his head in disbelief before rising to his feet.
"Stop!" he thundered, and the room went dead. Though many of the elders may have resented their younger chief, they all respected him. "I will not have this council degraded to the level of dogs fighting over a bone! This is a place of dignity and honor, and anyone who disagrees can leave." Ardeth looked around the room, the elders had sat back in their seats, many of them looking at one another so as not to look upon the terrible figure of anger before them. "Now," Ardeth continued calmly as he resumed his seat, "I refuse to murder an unconscious woman on speculation. She's weak, she's malnourished, and she's under our watch. There is nothing she can do to harm the tribes while she's unconscious. Will simply have to wait to asses her until she comes to."
There were no arguments to present against him, and so the council was called to a close. The elders filed out, shaking their heads, and Ardeth was left to return to his tent and send a message to the Fourth Tribe whose camp was closest to theirs. From there the message would be relayed to each of the Twelve Tribes. Horus was waiting patiently on the perch in his open cage. Ardeth had little worry about the bird leaving. He needed to hunt, and he always returned. It took only a moment for the message to be written and scrolled up to be tied to Horus's leg. The bird seemed to have a sense of duty and as Ardeth carried him outside and watched him take off, he knew the message would get there. It always did.
The strange woman was tended to non stop for three days and three nights. Her state demanded that they nourish her by dripping small amounts of sugar water in her mouth. Special pastes, made by mixing various nuts, fruits, and grains with water were spread along her gums and the walls of her mouth. They couldn't force her to eat for fear of choking her, but the people of the desert had long learned that moisture and nutrients could be absorbed to a certain extent by the gums. They worked hard to keep her body cool on during the day and warm during the night. She was constantly fed small amounts of water; enough to keep her gums moist without any going down her windpipe and drowning her. It was a demanding job, but any healer would agree that any success is worth the sleepless nights that proceeded it. Med-Jai were forced by their ancestral duty to live a violent life, but that's not to mean that these people did not value life.
Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, the body that had lain limp for so long began to stir. Bahir was called for and by the time he arrived she was tossing fitfully. Her eyes were clenched shut and her hands clutched at the blanket that covered her. Bahir knelt before the woman and took the moist cloth from her forehead before it could be tossed. He murmured softly to her in Arabic, almost chanting. After a few moments she calmed, her brow relaxing, and her hands letting loose the blankets. He saw her eyelids twitch, and he suspected that she was now conscious, but perhaps afraid to open her eyes. He called one of the women forward. She was not one of his assistants, but she took a motherly possession of many of his patients. He felt that, under the presumed circumstances, it would be best of the woman woke in the company of fellow women. Bahir exited the tent, sure of the elder woman's handle on the situation, and went to inform the chief that the outsider was finally waking and may soon be able to take questions.
In the meantime, Lira felt trapped in her own indecision. She was aware that she was on a soft cot. However, she was also aware by the sounds of a breeze on canvas and the smell of sand that she was still in the desert. These two situations taken separately were all well and good, but together they meant that she wasn't alone, but she was far enough from civilization that no one would hear her scream. She remembered hearing murmured voices among the delusions and dark clouds of her mind. She remembered feeling hands on her head, her hands, and even her feet. She couldn't remember anything inappropriate. Then again, her mind may have blocked anything too traumatic. In the end, she knew, she had to open her eyes. There was no more hiding, and no use trying to go back to sleep when her eyelids glowed red from the ambient light. Slowly, she flickered open her eyelids, the sudden influx of light burning her eyes.
"Careful, young one," an older female voice cooed, "Your sight is very sensitive, and you don't want to give yourself a headache." Lira instantly felt better. She slowly blinked here eyes, allowing herself to reacclimate to daylight. The woman before her had a kind but haunted face and a slow smile. She was in her mid fifties, Lira supposed, with deep brown eyes and graying black hair.
"Who... Where..." Lira began, thirty seven questions coming to mind right off the bat.
"Ssshhh, rest yourself. You are among friends, and that is all I can say. You need your rest, so try not to get up. My name is Dalal, and if there's anything you need, I will be happy to assist you."
A/N: Well, there's the second cahpter. As of this posting there haven't been any reviews. I have chapters 3 and 4 finished, but to be honest, if there's really as little interest as it seems, I may just have to bag the whole thing. Not to be grumpy, but I am rather busy. Besides, if no one enjoys it, then I clearly haven't done my job. So, not to be a review whore, but if anyone out there wants to see it continue, ANYONE at all, please review. One person is all it takes. Only you can prevent Florist Friars.
