Work Text:
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the film Lawrence of Arabia are owned by Columbia and David Lean and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.
First posted on 6th May 2001
Rating: R
Warning: Mentions male rape. Also, although this is based on the film you may wish to avoid if you consider this Real Person Slash.
There was a voice. There was always a voice. Somewhere in the distance beyond the pain. Sometime in the past before the shame. A voice that did not know he should be shunned as an outcast. Cast out of paradise, like Adam when he discovered he was made of clay.
He could ignore the voice. It was too far away to be heard. But a hand grasped at the rein of his camel so that he was stopped and the voice came a little closer.
"We must stop for the night. It is too late to reach the others. The ground is too treacherous in the dark."
Not as treacherous as the human soul, my friend, he thought.
He did not speak the thought aloud or utter any sound except a hiss of agony as Ali helped him to dismount. He was led to a tall, sheer rock and made to sit down by it, while Ali cursed and cajoled the camels until they descended, groaning, between them and the worst of the wind. They had no means of building a fire but the saddle rugs were laid on the ground and he was laid on top of them. Tenderly laid on his side, facing the rock. A body carefully settled down behind him, not close enough to touch his raw back but near enough to share body heat, and a sheepskin coat was thrown over them both. The voice was speaking again, rising and falling in the measured cadence of a prayer. Silence for a few moments as he watched the stone in front of his face, distantly astounded at how motionless the rest of the world remained. Then a hand reached over his shoulder and he tensed, only slowly relaxing as the voice was back with its soothing, velvety tones. The hand pressed against his mouth and his lips opened reflexively, his tongue tasted something warm and sweet. The sudden shock of sweetness pulled him into the present for the first time since Dera'a. He could smell the heavy animal musk of the camels, feel the melting coldness of a snowflake on his cheek. His mind examined the sensation in his mouth and he identified the substance as dates, half-chewed so they were easily digestible. He swallowed automatically as he listened to the words that enfolded him.
"When a newborn child first enters the world, we wrap him in cloth so no draught can chill him, whisper prayers in his ear so the first word he hears is the name of God, and rub dates over his gums so his first taste in the world is of sweetness." Ali's voice fragmented into shards of desperation when he spoke again. "Come back to me, Aurens, be born again."
Another date was pressed against his mouth and he ate that one and the handful more that followed until he reached up his hand to the other, indicating silently that he had eaten enough. It was the first time he had touched another willingly and Ali gave a muffled sound that might have been a cry of joy or a keen of distress and clasped his hand tightly.
"It will take time. You must eat and sleep. You are like one of the bare bushes that grow among the sands. Bleached by the sun and warped by the wind until they seem dead. But when the rains come they put forth new life."
And will your tears be the rain, Ali? For a moment he wanted to turn and look into those shining eyes to see if they were sheened with grief, but he was not ready to turn to life. Not yet.
"You will ride before us all, Harith, Howeitat, and Hazimi and it will be the Arabs that you lead to Damascus. You will enter riding over a carpet of flowers and your robes will be as fair as your skin."
He shivered convulsively and Ali pulled the sheepskin a little higher.
"Remember the afternoon we lay together in that empty house? Dark and fair joined close, our hearts sharing the same beat."
Yes, I remember, my love. The village had been deserted, abandoned by its inhabitants as the Turks advanced. The house had been little more than a one-room hovel, but it had a roof to protect them from the midday sun. He had spread out his rug and begun to strip, stopping only when he realised that Ali was covertly watching. He had trapped that regard with his blue eyes that equally fascinated and perturbed Ali, and raised an eyebrow in a challenge. Ali had sat up attempting to look affronted, but he had merely let his mouth quirk into a smile. Slowly Ali's hand had reached to his own clothes and unfastened them, then stopped, raising his own eyebrow. He had thrown back his head and laughed, then unwrapped his clothes a little further. When he stopped, Ali continued and like little boys they played their game faster and faster until the last covering was thrown to the ground and they stood together in startled nakedness.
Although they had lain together before this, as lovers in the dark night, this was the first time they had seen each other exposed. He had been shy of showing his own scrawny, too pale body and Ali had the modesty of the desert, where the only reward for going uncovered was death. He had felt exultant then that no other had seen or would see his lover like this, for Ali was beautiful. The scars of old wounds seemed like a coquette's beauty spots, applied just so to draw attention to a particularly exquisite feature. When he moved and walked towards him it was with the grace and fluid muscles of a wild animal. He had reached up his own hand to touch the satin skin and thought back to their first meeting. If he had only touched Ali then he would have known that there was no cruelty in this man. The desert was a harsh ruler whom he obeyed with honour, but the warmth and softness he felt beneath his hand was the true Ali, the true man. He had opened his mouth to try and say something of how he felt, but had been struck dumb with astonishment at his own beauty, reflected back at him by those luminous eyes. There had been no words great enough then, only foolish endearments that overflowed from brimming hearts.
Yes, he remembered. It had been glorious and it had been unreal. Dera'a was real; the bright slivers of agony flamed in his memory; the clever fingers stretched him skilfully; the husky voice whispered insults; the flesh of his lord impaled him. He had balanced on that knife-edge between pain and pleasure and it had been perfection. As he had floated away he had looked down at the screaming, writhing body and thought, with a sudden fond recognition,Yes, that is me.
Only when it was finished had he learnt what true torment was. It was the indifferent words of a sated man.
"Throw him out. This one is spoiled."
He had begged to be allowed to stay, promised anything, been willing to sell his soul, but he had been thrown into the darkness. Discarded and given over to gentleness. The sob of a lost child tore from his throat. He barely felt the hand that offered comfort as it caressed his arm. He let himself fall back into the marvellous pain, hiding behind the silence for a little longer. He would give that gift to his love for when he came back to the living it would be with honesty. He would lash out with word and action and Ali would never realise how much he was loved, since he would never understand that pain was the sweetest touch of all.
THE END