(Flashback) Where Horses Fear to Tread (Zaira)

[Abashai]

Abashai saw the change, it washed over Zaira's face like water. Her hands slipped away, the ardent concern on her face melted into something distant. He was not offended at her words, just noted that the spirit behind them had altered. His friend suddenly appeared vaguely like that distracted woman he had met at the oasis, sullen and introspective.

Zaira turned from him, poked at the scattered remains of the fire. he watched the sway of her long hair, listened to the tinkling of the beaten coins adorning her slim waist. On the one hand, there was relief. Her reaction had removed the opportunity to act on the emotions that had surfaced, so close to release. But now he worried about her, what had beset her. The night's events were stressful, the journey long and tiring. Perhaps that was all. Zaira was the only woman he had known, and, sometimes, reading her emotions was no easier to him than trying to divine the future with tea leaves.

Her question brought Abashai back to immediate concerns. What little he knew of Cyphrus was cause for concern indeed. Aside from dangerous creatures that lurk in the tall grasses surrounding the road, the people, the Drykas, were reputed to be fierce and wild. <"We will have to stick to the road. I do not believe we will have anymore trouble with the van guards. I think we should stay within sight of the caravan, for now, until another opportunity presents itself, or our Lord presents one."> After tomorrow morning...he still did not know where the path lay.

Abashai gathered his oud and khopesh. Shoving the weapon through his belt, he returned the instrument to his own tent. Next he retrieved a cord and a length of canvas and took it into Zaira's tent to hang the partition. He knew there were more words that needed to pass between his companion and himself, but they would come when they would.

[Zaira]

The bare head nodded at Abashais’ words. They would either be left alone by the guards, or set upon in greater numbers by the dogs. But without their commander it was unlikely, and for the night they would be safe. Zaria did not look back at Abashai as the dancer gathered the scattered logs of wood from the area, looking up as the male returned to his own tent. For a moment she pondered if he considered the danger for the night passed enough to no longer warrant the cloth.

Yet as if bidden by her thoughts the man reappeared with canvas and cord and turned to her tent to set up the partition. The sticks back upon the dying flames, bidden to return to life anew Zaria’s steps were slow as she neared the tent and the man within. She slowed her steps, and thoughts failed to bear fruit. What to say, what to do, nothing came to mind, nothing yet.

Her light steps retreated from the tent back to the glowing fire as she sat, and allowed the thoughts to filter through her mind, to come and fall as they liked. She breathed lightly, the fire aside, the night air here was warm, warmer than the nights upon the sand, and it was moist, gentler on sensitive airways, made the veils less necessary to breathe, and the only one around to look upon her usually was Abashai. The decorum to wear them the cover of modesty did nothing for the woman a performer could not be known could not be recognized beneath swatches of fabric.

Those were the thoughts and words of a child normally spoken to her family, and her tent, and it was understood. They were a small group, that did not venture far to the major cities, or meet often with the other nomads but for special occasions, and as she said, a dancer, could not truly dance with her veils, let alone with her flames.

But sitting there in the warm night upon cool grass, she wished the fire to ebb and die.

Let it die and the darkness fall and swallow up the light and features of all. Let it die so she could know silence and quiet clarity. Let it die, so the darkness could envelope her.

A slender hand lifted a branch and with it stirred the flames anew, letting the glow and reach grow. Its light a beckon still in this night. She let the light wash over her ever as she didn’t see it’s brilliance behind her closed eyes. She touched the back of her to her cheek, thankfully dry.

Hands gently clasped and the breeze tugging loose strands the woman sat before the flames in her darkness. A long moment passed before she rose, her speeding heart slowed, although the urge to shed tears had lessened, it had yet to dissipate, but the feeling was familiar, as the rush of her blood by now.

It was familiar, and it was safe.

<”I think I shall make breakfast in the morning.”>

[Abashai]

Abashai had not brought a lamp, relying instead on the dim firelight straining to reach through the open tent flap. He strung up the cloth partition, leaving a section less than a third of the tent for himself to sleep.

Through the opening he could see the back of Zaira sitting at the fire. She had approached and then retreated, obviously wrestling with some dilemma. He had gone back to his work, ensuring the canvas provided sufficient privacy for his friend. Then Abashai laid back. He had forgotten to bring his bedroll, but decided not to disturb Zaira by returning to his gear to get it.

The beshiran stared at the dark roof of the small tent, listened to the faint crackling of the dying fire, the chirping of unfamiliar insects. Abashai raised his hands above him and examined the markings on his palms, barely visible in the meager light, then lowered them to his chest. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and tried to quiet his soul. Then his voice passed his lips in a soft whisper. <"Yahal, I have done it...I have left the sands and rock behind. Now I am in a strange land. I know no other way right now than to follow this road ahead. Do not let me stray from the path that is laid ahead."> He thought about Zaira, the pleasant scent of her flowing garb, her long dark glossy hair, then pushed the images aside. <"Oh, Holy One, was she sent by you? Am I to learn something by her presence or is she merely a temptation? Was I wrong to bring her here?"> He wanted to groan with the confusion, but dared not. <"And where is the path that she is to follow?">

Abashai knew he could not know another's path. He could not admit to his God, though surely the diety knew, that Zaira had drawn his attention away. The benshiran could not admit that he spent less time seeking wisdom and direction because of it. His mind grabbed for excuses, justification for his growing preoccupation.

Soft footfalls announced her approach as she mentioned something about breakfast.

[Zaira]

Skills to get cosmetology, herbalism, interrogation, medicine, meditation, poison, politics, seduction
There was silence from the tent at her words, and so for a moment she spoke no more moving into the tent hand stretched out and a light frown crossed her features, her finger tips could not touch the canvas, he had given her too much room again rather than a equal divide. The kindness, while unneeded, was touching and for a moment a soft smile flitted upon her lips.

The fading light did not bother her for darkness and sleep would sure to come and with it she gave thanks for her dreams. They were her guidance and comfort that confirmed the dancer was moving forward in the right direction. So the darkening light did not bother the woman although she had her lamp. From her corner Zaira unrolled her bedroll set her blanket upon her lap as she took the time to let her eyes close in silence.

‘Thank you, for your grace, for your protection, and your devoted. Thank you, for his protection.’ The words were but thoughts thought in silent darkness, like at the fire’s side the thoughts fled her mind but for those at the moment and these were only of gratitude. The confusion and tears of her heart left by the fire’s side. The woman stirred in silence binding her hair in a single bun at the nape of her neck. She stretched out upon the bed roll, and even pulled her blanket over her, although the cold night was warmer than those they were familiar with.

It is something quiet different between being in your tent alone with your darkness, than to be in your tent and trying to be alone in your darkness. If did not work, it was not the same, even with a tarp to separate the two bodies, you knew the other person was there. You were aware of them even with the night and cloth stealing your sight, you knew.

<”Are you certain you are unharmed Abashai?”>

[Abashai]

A smile crossed the man's face. <"Yes Zai, I am certain I am alright. Those dogs did not lay a hand on me."> Abashai's response was not made in annoyance, but instead laced with reassurance and gratitude.

Realizing he had no bedroll or blanket, he rose. <"I will be back, I forgot my bedroll."> Abashai carefully exited the tent, to return moments later. He laid out the bedding and took off his coat. Rolling the coat into a bundle, he laid it at the top for a pillow. Lying back down, he pulled the blanket over himself. Reaching to his side, he caressed the hilt of his archaic sword, assured it was close enough if needed.

Abashai stared at the fabric ceiling again. the rare nights with the partition were never completely comfortable for him. After all, he was sharing a tent with a woman. It chafed against his commitment to tradition. He would not admit it, but more discomfort rose from the more natural, juvenile reaction...he was sharing a tent with a woman!

And this particular 'partition night' was more uncomfortable than most. The encounter at the fire seemed to affect Zaira deeply, but he could not discern how. It made the tension thick, the silence deafening.

He had to speak. Pleasantries and idle conversation would sound glaringly trite. Abashai decided on an approach he did not usually take when addressing issues with Zaira, the direct approach. The whole situation made his heart pound and butterflies assault his stomach.

Abashai breached the silence, his voice low, but audible in the small tent. <"And I must ask you again, Zai, are you alright? You know you cannot hide your feelings by simply turning your back.">

[Zaira]

Silence answered Abashai and for a moment, on the other side of the canvas, Zaira laid beneath her blanket. In the darkness her eyes were open, her body stretched out upon the cushion as she thought upon the words her friend said. He was worried, concerned, and so questioned after her. They did not lie, but they did hide the truth it seemed, this truth she wanted to keep hidden, left alone in the dark to fade and wither, was a lie to her heart. She had little faith that leaving the emotion alone. Ignoring its breath and beat within her chest would give way to silence and stillness simply because she willed it so.

<“Some things may be best left where the light can neither find them, nor fade.”>
Her words were softly spoken with care, the light words carried over on to the other side of the partition. Fingers pulled the blanket near and her lithe form rolled lightly to its side. Were things to be given peace, to rest and fall as they were, words that longed to fly, to be breathed and given life could be bundled away. And she could not cherish the gestures and contacts of her friend, and peace again could be found on this journey. There were so many other things to worry over than the unrequited heartaches of words unspoken.

What could she say to dispel the somber chill of her words, to lighten the darkness they brought, to sooth and lay the matter to rest? <”As we spoke by the fire, I have discovered a want, I shall not have, and what once seemed so easy, I have realized as you said, is no longer so.”> Her words, surely they could mean and connect to their words form before, their path only becoming harder now that they were far from the familiar paths and sands of home. Not of it that laid growing within her chest.

<”Nothing more Bashai.”>

[Abashai]

Reaching for his khopesh, Abashai found the hilt in the dark and laid the broad, angled blade across his body. He ran his fingers along the flat of the blade, feeling the smooth cold steel beneath his fingertips, traced the grooves along its length. It was an idiosyncrycy of his. When the benshiran's mind churned, he was compelled to busy his hands. That is why he liked to have his instrument while he pondered things, the leisurely strumming kept otherwise idle hands busy.

So tonight, as the air hung thick with weighty matters, both spoken and unspoken, he absentmindedly caressed his weapon and considered Zaira's words. There was no doubt that she wrestled with something. The dancer often danced with her words, and when Zaira spoke cryptically, Abashai knew his friend was facing a struggle within herself, one she was not ready or willing to reveal.

As he lay there, his hand closed around the weapon's leather-wrapped handle, emitting a soft creaking as he gripped tighter. He felt the muscles in his forearm tighten. He lifted the sword, felt the sword's weight bring more muscles to bear in order to hold it aloft. It made him feel strong. The length of sharpened deadly metal became an extension of his body. The sensation it gave him was that of power. Power to take life. It was a primal, carnal power that even the basest of men and women, even his adversaries tonight, could wield. It was a seductive power that could consume an undisciplined mind. That kind of power fed the apetites of the greedy with blood.

Abashai lowered the weapon again, gently laid it aside, resting his hands on the hilt and idly brushing it with his fingers. He was thankful that he was raised to fear and respect the power to take life, to know when to wield that power. But in the end, the reasons for extinguishing a life are inherently subjective. Had he killed someone tonight in his rage, would he have been right in doing so? Had he been killed, would they have been right?

The man sighed in frustration. Even the simple solace he found in the strength of his sword arm had become mired in an esoteric mindbender. He suddenly longed for the days of lone wandering. His concerns were driven by basic necessity, but were simple. Would he find Tents to share the evening with? Would he find water, would food hold out? The outcomes were easy to determine, either he did or he didn't.
Now, though the necesities of life still demanded attention, he faced dilemmas he felt ill-equipped to handle. His hand left the weapon's hilt and moved to run fingers through his hair.

He listened to Zaira's explanation of her melancholy. Indeed, their circumstances could warrant trepidation, longing for what they were leaving behind. He wondered, but her final comment was a door that was shut on the matter. To question her further would be to infer that she was lying, an accusation he would not level at her.

<"Very well Zai, sleep in peace, dear friend."> He tried to sanitize his words from the rich emotion behind them. Then Abashai lay silent, trying to ignore the presence of the beautiful dancer, a presence that filled the tent and breathed on him. His hand reached out again to the sword, as if the inanimate object could anchor his will. It seems they bought fought their own private wars, lying beneath the same roof.

[Zaira]

Morning came early for one who barely slept; only comfort to be had was the visions, and the sound of her name on dry breezes. She did not call for help or guidance from their god, most time’s she was silent. It was a strange dance within her mind, her anger and pain directed towards the holy one had begun to lessen as the days passed since she awaked after the flames ate away their tent. It was childish, she knew, as childish as silently showing her displeasure with her father or mother, giving them her silence while doing as she was bid.

The sadness that she held though sliced deeper than any careless word, and still it reverberated through the young one’s soul that she did not know if she could speak before softly spoken grace and thanks, without asking ‘why’. Why to so many things, to so much misery and pain, why. So she was silent, she rarely even danced, now joy or lightness returning enough to lighten her step send fly her heart. But one, one she buried deeply, hiding away from sight, that light feeling that arouse unbidden, creeping upon her and taking hold without her realization. Until hearts raced and touches lingered.

She missed her god then, as much as she missed her family. She missed the security, the love, and the sense of home. She missed having someone to confide those feelings that stirred, and the worry they brought with them. Stubborn, was a word her father called her. Prideful too, she supposed to some extent. She was not ready yet, to end her silence and seek the comfort readily waiting.

Zaira was outside of the tent, gathering the mix and match of supplies, a small fire made again to warm the, bread, softened with light glaze of water. Meat was put upon the flame as well, a longer process to heat the meat yet not burn it or make it grow harder than it was. Fruits dried long ago were divvied and water for tea heated. It was a hearty breakfast for their travels, a silent apology for the night before, the meal completed and gathered before the caravan is self seemed to stir.

Blue eyes looked up to the still dark skies, her companion slept still although the smell of meat and tea were sure to draw him from his slumber soon. Alone, by her own violation, was such a lonely place to be. With a sigh, to herself and the dawning sky Zaira moved to the tent, and with a pull of the string removed the partition with an amused smiled at the silly thing.

<“Bashai. Abashai, wake. I have brought you tea. Your favored.”>

[Abashai]

He stirred at the sound of the canvas partition falling to the tent floor. Eyelids not yet parted, Abashai's senses were greeted with the scent of roasting meat and spiced tea. He heard the soft voice and squinted at the female figure in the dim light. He looked up, smiling. <" Falim, Zaira, Flower of the Desert."> His tone was playful, the emotion and drama of the night before temporarily forgotten in the groggy moments of waking.

Abashai sat up and reached for the offered tea, bringing the mug close to his nose to inhale its rich aroma. <"Thanks for the tea, and starting breakfast".> He sipped at the hot beverage, the steam warming his face. The recollection of the previous evening's events materialized as the awakening fog lifted. He looked past Zaira to the glowing horizon where Syna prepared her glorious sun for another dawning. Another day approached, what it held he could not know, but entrusted it unto Yahal. Sipping again at the hot tea, he put the night and its turmoil behind a veil and set his mind to the tasks of the day.

The blanket was thrown aside and Abashai stepped out of the tent to stand at full height. The morning air was cool, but not as much as in the desert, nor as dry. It brushed invigoratingly on his bare arms, and reached into his sleeveless tunic. He stretched his arms over his head, leaned back slightly to test stiff back muscles. He shook his head, combed his fingers through the unkempt shoulder-length hair, and surveyed the new landscape being unveiled in the dawning light. The expanse of tall grass extended in every direction, broken up only by the occasional solitary short, gnarled tree. Some had managed to grow into groups of three or four, but still appeared terribly lonely in the vast sea of grass.

As Zaira was busying herself with her tasks, Abashai took one more swallow of his tea before setting the cup aside and returning to the woman's tent. He gathered up the canvas partition and cord, his bedroll, coat and sword. He paused, caught the faint scent of Zaira that clung to her belongings around him. He wondered how the woman made that aroma. Whether with some perfume or spices or balm, he could not guess, woefully ignorant of the ways of women. Abashai had heard that the sense of smell, of all the senses, has the deepest connections with memories and emotions. Zaira's lingering fragrance did indeed touch something deep within in him. He stole another draught of the scent with a deep breath and hurried with his armfull of stuff out of the tent.

Across a short expanse of grass, the caravan was beginning to stir, fires were being rekindled and camps struck. Abashai checked on the tethered horses, the desertbred beasts feasting contently on the abundance of grasses surrounding them. He put on his coat and belt, sheathed his khopesh and shoved it through the belt. Then the benshiran began to pack up camp while waiting for their meal to cook.

The fresh air, bright dawn and promise of a new day gave Abashai some optimism. He wanted to share it with his friend, bridge any rift that may have opened between them. He looked over at the busy benshiran dancer, carefully tending to their breakfast. <"Hey Zai, do you think you could bonk one of those guys in the coconut with your sling from here?"> He nodded towards the figures milling around the caravan, making a flinging gesture with his hand. It was his awkward way of lightening the morning. He grinned a grin that he hoped would penetrate her melancholy. Truth was, she probably could hit them. She was every bit as skilled with the shepherd's weapon as he was with his bow.

[Zaira]

“Think? Bashai do you seek to harm my pride or insult my skill?” The words were said with a measure of even tones before it dissolved into lighter sounds, almost laugher as her humor shone through. She regarded the caravan and it’s wandering people, they were all really, well within her range. And her far from theirs’. Revenge from afar would be nice, for the night before, but even as the thought came Zaira shook her head. It was not in her to be like that. What was done or said when her temper raged was one thing. But without those burning feelings, the dancer was gentle as a lamb. Or a ram depending on who was asked.

But the jest Abashai made was well taken. The eyes that looked up from the fire and were smiling before lowering again focusing on turning the meat before taking them from the fire.

<”Come sit with me before you tempt me to cause us all trouble.”> The voice was lilting, half seriousness, half jest, and something more. She was well aware how a single person could be the source of such joy and mourning. Yet to shove it and her friend aside, might be more damaging to them both, than the guilt upon her heart to the betrayal of one already moved on. This was not to say she should lay bare her heart in confessions of undying affection, but she could not shove him away, or bury the blossoms in the sand.

<”We will need the horses to escape their ire. Perhaps I should give your meal to them?”>