Title: Dreamers of the Day
Author: Carmarthen (caerfyrddin @ gmail . com)
Fandom/Pairing: Lawrence of Arabia; Lawrence/Sherif Ali
Disclaimer: Although Lawrence of Arabia is based upon the life of T.E. Lawrence, I consider it to be fiction and this to be FPS, as it is based upon the movie. The movie, obviously, is not mine, and belongs to David Lean and MGM, and T.E. Lawrence and Sherif Ali, in their originals, belonged to themselves. This story does not reflect my utterly meaningless opinion regarding the historical T.E. Lawrence's sexuality. No offense is intended nor profit earned by this piece of fiction.
Rating: PG-13 for implied violence and vague sex of a homosexual nature.
Spoilers: For the movie, and for the Mercedes Lackey short story "Jihad," in Fiddler Fair, which inspired this.
Warnings: Contains present tense, implied violence (rape and beating), homosexual behavior, and strong religious overtones of the "crazy prophet" variety. Very much an AU.
Summary: Lawrence encounters God in the desert. Ali angsts. There is Love in here, too.
Archive: My personal site (http://thewritegirls.populli.net/carmarthen); others ask.
Prompt: kiss, shadow, dust, bare, British, filth, sky, empty, endless (Adri, #15).
Notes: This is based on the movie, Lawrence of Arabia, but inspired by a Mercedes Lackey short story, "Jihad," in Fiddler Fair. The premise of the story is that, after Deraa, Lawrence meets God in the desert (much like Moses), and that Lawrence becomes Aurens and Aurens is a prophet of Allah. Aurens declares jihad and unites the tribes -- goes native with a vengeance, so to speak. This story takes a similar premise; it helps to read "Jihad," but this is not directly based upon it. I am no longer even remotely a Lackey fan, but "Jihad" is her at her best, and it's an intriguing premise. I do not describe Lawrence's meeting of God, but instead begin with the aftermath. This is not RPS: I based the characterization and order of events on the movie, and this is not directly based off of "Jihad" (which is Seven Pillars of Wisdom-based and much closer to RPF than the movie). This is, however, very definitely AU (not to mention even more unhistorical than the movie), and very definitely slash. I failed to include a word of the prompt (Adri knows which one). The last line is a slightly mutilated version of the first few lines of the poem introducing Seven Pillars of Wisdom.
This story was remixed by the amazing Derry for We Invented the Remix...Redux IV: I Know What You Did Last Remix. You can read "Dreamers of the Day (Across the Sky in Stars Remix)" at the Remix website or at Derry's website.
for Adri, who encourages me in my insanity and whose fault it is that I'm writing in this fandom at all with thanks to Amara for the excellent beta
"All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act out their dream with open eyes, to make it possible."
-T.E. Lawrence, from the suppressed introductory chapter to Seven Pillars of Wisdom
The sky is an endless stretch of blue above equally endless sands. It has been three days since Sherif Ali ibn el-Kharish of the Harith and the Englishman Lawrence went into Deraa, and three days since Ali returned alone. He has stood watching the empty horizon for those three days, and now, on the third, he is forced to admit to himself that Lawrence is not coming back.
He is nearly ready to give up hope when there, atop the next dune, is a speck of whiteness. As it grows closer, Ali sees, with a great and terrible joy, that it is Lawrence -- Lawrence, and he rides a mare that might be white under the dust, and that is all wrong, for they took no horses with them into Deraa, and this is too fine for a Turkish steed.
There is no time to think about that, for Lawrence slides from the saddle to land on his knees at Ali's feet, and the back of his robes are stained with dried blood and dirt, and there is blood crusted at his temples and at the corner of his mouth. Ali almost falls in his haste to catch Lawrence.
"Ali," he says, in a parched voice, and Ali fumbles with his water flask, nearly dropping it. This is something beyond his comprehension, that Lawrence is still alive, obviously beaten and with at least a day's ride in the desert without food or water -- and then there is the horse, which he has trouble looking at directly for longer than a moment.
Lawrence drinks slowly, carefully, and when he looks up to meet Ali's gaze, Ali shivers, for Lawrence's eyes burn with a fierce light. They had been blue before, but now they are azure, a brilliant flaming azure as pitiless and unforgiving as the desert sky.
Lawrence says nothing as Ali slides an arm around his shoulders, nothing as Ali's tribesmen gather around in a strange, awed silence. He enters Ali's tent, leaning on Ali without seeming to notice him.
Ali finds a soft rag among his belongings and helps Lawrence strip to the waist and lie down. He cannot bear to look at first, for the blood on Lawrence's robes frightens him. It is well that Lawrence is alive, by the grace of Allah, but he would not like for hope to have blossomed in his heart this much only to find Lawrence fatally wounded. There is too much blood for a simple whipping, and Ali does not know what else the Bey would have done. Finally he looks, and under the dried blood and filth that flakes away under Ali's gentle hands, he sees that Lawrence's bare back is criss-crossed with lines, old pale scars. They should not be healed yet, and Ali is afraid.
"What happened to you in the desert?" he asks finally, letting his fingertips rest lightly on Lawrence's shoulders.
Lawrence flinches slightly, and says in a cool, crystal-edged voice, every word precise, "La ilaha illa 'llah." There is no God but Allah.
Masking his surprise, Ali replies calmly, "I did not know you were a religious man, Aurens." Questions grow in his mind, but he cannot ask them yet.
"I am not a religious man," Lawrence says, and there is something half-wild and broken in his voice, in the still, tense line of his back. Ali flattens his palm against the warmth of Lawrence's skin instinctively, and Lawrence draws a long, shuddering breath. "There are things in the desert," he says slowly, "that a man cannot deny."
"I see," Ali says, although he does not.
That night they sit in Ali's tent, sipping strong, sweet tea from small glasses looted from Aqaba. They do not speak; Ali because he is still surprised to find Lawrence alive, however changed, but mostly because his mind burns with questions he does not know how to put into words.
Finally he sets his glass aside. "What happened to you in Deraa, Lawrence?" He uses the English name deliberately, because he does not recognize the man before him. If he met Lawrence now for the first time, he would assume he was Circassian; but for the careful drawl he cannot see any English in the man before him now.
Lawrence is so still as he meets Ali's gaze, his blue eyes so blank that Ali wonders what he said wrong. Finally Lawrence looks away. "Lawrence is dead," he says flatly. "He died in Deraa. There is nothing now but Aurens and the will of Allah."
"I am sorry," Ali says quietly.
"Sorry?" Lawrence -- Aurens -- laughs softly, without a hint of mirth. He reaches over and rests his hand against Ali's cheek; it is almost impossibly hot, and it is all Ali can do not to flinch. "Lawrence was weak. Lawrence would have given you all up in a moment just to stop the pain. Lawrence was broken and worthless. It is better this way."
"That is a great pity," Ali says, "for I loved Lawrence." His throat feels tight, and he thinks that somewhere the old Lawrence is buried in this stranger, and perhaps, somehow, he can draw him out again. Ali can be patient when it suits him.
"Did you?" Aurens asks, a quiet, secret smile playing about his lips. His tone is light, almost teasing. "I do not think you knew Lawrence."
Ali shrugs. "Perhaps not. But I fought beside him, and slept beside him, and shared water with him. I do not know if it is possible to know a man more than that."
Aurens stares at him, then laughs, a harsh sound in the still night air. "Perhaps you are right," he says, and for a moment, with the shadows playing across his face, he appears a Bedu.
Then he takes Ali's face in his hands and kisses him lightly on both cheeks before pressing his lips to Ali's forehead. It feels like a brand, and it surprises Ali more than anything else Aurens has done since his impossible return.
"Inshallah," Aurens whispers, As God wills it, dropping his head to Ali's shoulder and embracing him as if Ali is the rock holding him to the world. Perhaps he is, Ali thinks, as he remembers the fierce burning fire in Aurens' too-blue eyes, the scars that healed too quickly, the horse that came from nowhere and, when brushed down, was whiter than the sun on the salt-flats and almost seemed to glow in the fading light.
Ali can do nothing but return the embrace and wonder if there is anything of Lawrence remaining in the man before him.
Aurens rides out over the next few days, clad in robes so white they nearly shine, on the strange white horse. Ali still does not ask him about the robes, or the horse, or about how he now speaks Arabic flawlessly, as one born to it.
The men start arriving at once, Bedouin of all tribes, Druse, Suni and Circassian, all riding for Aurens.
Ali would have said it was impossible that one man on horseback could reach so many tribes in so short a time, that one man -- an Englishman at that -- could unite so many people and turn the disparate tribes into a mighty Arab army.
But Aurens is no ordinary man, has never been ordinary, and where before he had only done the impossible, now he does the miraculous.
They take Deraa easily, too easily, and Ali can no longer deny that the hand of Allah has touched Aurens, and that He must have burned away the weaknesses of Lawrence, leaving behind the sword of God in human form. Ali thinks that he should be happy about this, for it brings them certain victory, but he is not.
Aurens sleeps in Ali's tent without asking. Sometimes at night, Aurens weeps into his blankets, harsh, guttural sobs that tear at Ali's heart. He is certain, for no good reason, that it is Lawrence, not Aurens, who weeps.
Ali wishes to go to him, to offer words of comfort, but there is no comfort for what he does not understand, so he lies awake and imagines he can see the stars through the roof of the tent. He tries not to hurt too much for Aurens, for Aurens hurts enough for a hundred men.
The night before they take Damascus, Ali wakes to find Aurens pressed against him, shivering violently, although his skin burns to the touch as if with a fever. His tears are hot against Ali's shoulders, and he murmurs broken words that Ali cannot quite make out, English and Arabic and perhaps a few other languages.
Finally, in Arabic, "Please, Lord, take this burden from me." Ali tightens his arms around Aurens and presses his lips fervently to Aurens' forehead, as Aurens had done to him that night after Deraa.
"Inshallah," Aurens whispers, desperate, against Ali's shoulder. "Inshallah."
Aurens kisses Ali's throat, and his jaw, his cheeks, his eyelids, the soft spot behind his ear, the corner of his mouth. Small, light kisses, like a benediction, as if he is almost unaware of what he is doing. Ali's heart nearly breaks, for this is not what he had imagined, when he had allowed himself to hope. He had wanted Lawrence, whole and lucid, coming to him willingly in the fierce intimacy of brothers-in-arms, not this mad, tragic, half-stranger in the night.
But Aurens is broken and beautiful and alive in Ali's arms, and Ali cannot deny him anything. He has loved Lawrence since they crossed the Nefud, and he is sure that Lawrence is still a part of Aurens. So he kisses him gently, and holds him as if he is the most wonderful and cherished thing he has ever touched.
Ali knows that he will still do anything for Aurens. Aurens is still Lawrence, and he is shining and bright. Ali feels strangely purified by Aurens' fire and Aurens is smiling freely for the first time in weeks, his blue eyes entirely human for now.
"I love you," he whispers, touching Ali's cheek lightly. "I love you, so I set my will across the sky in stars...."
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