(Flashback) Where Horses Fear to Tread (Zaira)

[Abashai]

Timestamp: Early Spring, 508 AV
Location: Eyktol/Cyphrus Frontier

The grizzled mercenary observed the approaching pair with a trained and wary eye. He shifted slightly in his saddle, the worn leather creaking under his muscular bulk. Behind him, the slow moving caravan crept along the beginnings of a wide road. A brisk wind blew across the overcast frontier where the scrub, dust and cacti of northern Eyktol gave way to tall grasses and copses of short, gnarled trees. The southern border of Cyphrus was one of the most dangerous, the caravan guard captain knew well. Bandits, beasts and worse lurk where neither Eypharian patrols nor the clans of Cyphrus cared to venture.

One of the two spearmen flanking the mounted commander shuffled his feet impatiently, earning the derisive glare of his ill-tempered superior. As the two riders approached, the captain could see they were most likely Benshiran, though their clothes were less like the flowing garb of those people and more suited to travel. The male rider was of good stature, sitting upright and alert in the saddle, a khopesh sword dangling from his side. The other was a young woman, probably a good ten years younger than her companion.. She did not wear the typical head covering and veil of the Benshira, but rather let her long hair blow freely in the rise and fall of the breeze. The girl was very pleasing to the eye indeed, the hard soldier thought, though in a way very different from the brazen, kohl-eyed Eypharian women he found in Ahnatep.

The strangers stopped several yards from the captain and guards. The spearmen leaned their weapons forward, tips pointing at the mounted travelers. Abashai gauged the leader for a moment. The man was very large, his horse large as well, probably a northern breed. The soldier was a northerner too, by the looks of his blonde scraggly har and thick beard. Unlike the curved swords of Eyktol, the captain wore a long, broad straight blade. Abasha regarded the scarred, scowling face. A hard man for sure.

"We are traveling north", the Benshiran began in heavily accented common, "and with your permission, would like to follow the caravan for a while." Abashai didn't believe he needed permission to do anything, but it would do them well to put the caravan guards at ease. "I would offer my sword if the need arises."

As the gruff officer weighed Abashai's words, a thin man approaced from the direction of the caravan, now stopped on the road up ahead. The man was an old Eypharian clad in gaudy robes and jewlery, riding a mule with cheaply gilded tack. He barked at the captain in the Eypharia'ns archaic language, the pair of arms not holding the reins flailing dramatically.

The northerner, leaning with his arms crossed over his saddle horn, turned and grumbled in common. "I have everything under control." The Eypharian merchant glared at Abashai and Zaira, scoffed audibly and addressed the captain again in his language, displaying much indignation. "I decide what is best for the caravan while we travel, not you!" The soldier retorted harshly. "That is why you hired me, that was our agreement!"

After a quick glare at the mounted soldier, the merchant spun his mount around without a second look at the Benshiran pair and sulked back to the caravan. Abashai leaned over to Zaira and explained in Shiber the nature of the discussion. The caravan captain turned back to them, staring at each Benshiran. His gaze rested uncomfortably long on Zaira, and Abashai cleared his throat loudly and deliberately until the soldier's eyes met his. The old mercenary barked quickly "Very well, you may follow." He turned and rode back towards the caravan, the spearmen jogging to keep up.

Abashai turned to Zaira, her bright eyes questioning. Abashai had been attempting to teach her more of the common language, but she was still learning. He spoke to her in thier native tongue. "They are allowing us to follow behind." He gave her a broad smile. "I told you everything would be alright." Then Abashai gestured at the changing landscape. "See, already the earth is beginning to show its carpet of green grass. Is this what your dream looked like?"

[Zaira]

Her deep blue eyes glanced to her companion the nearer they came nearer to the distant figures. The unease of the new rider carried well to the beast that bore the slight figure. Zairas’ fingers played along Natick’s neck trying to ease the tension from the horse, let alone herself.

<”Are you sure it will be safe? There are so many…”> Her words were spoken gently as they neared, it was useless really to speak, they were all going the same way, and while surely the man at her side could be persuaded to part from this path they were upon, with nothing but her own unease, Zaira could not ask such a thing. Countless days passed since the pair had met that night, three fourths of a year they had been together, and finally they were making it past the endless seas of sand. The lands of their home, to somewhere… else.

They came to a halt spans away from the foreigners that waited to greet them. One rode upon a horse like they. But was oddly, square in shape, same as his beast. The pair reminded the woman very much of stone mountains worn and shaped by the desert winds. Her eyes were curious flitting from the man upon his beast and the pair that held metal tipped spears upon the Beshirans. Zaira was quiet, listening as Abashai spoke, and waited to see if the lighter hair man would respond. The few traders they had encountered spoke the common tongue well for Zaira to hear the language in conversation, but those days were far too short and long between occurrences. Leaving only her companion as the vital source of her exposure to the more universal tongue.

Before the stone shaped man could respond to the words of Abashai though, another appeared. Eypharian, garnished and dramatic as one would expect, but to hear the many armed man speak, made the woman’s head cant curiously to the side, inquisitiveness had overcame the apprehension for a moment. The one from beyond the sands, the mountain man understood the Eypharian and responded. Zaira was not certain of much of what he said, but he spoke words similar in sound to those of Abashai’s, she was fairly certain. Her shoulders rose slightly at the raising tones of voices, crystalline eyes watched the exchange as her chin rose slightly and head turned minutely towards the one who could possibly understand all that was happening.

The dancer allowed her lashes to lower as Abashai leaned near enough to speak quietly of what had occurred, a finger rising to pull gently upon the gathered fabric around her neck as she nodded her head in understanding. It would be like a merchant and an Eypharian to deny them passage to tag along. But all in all, they could manage on their own, with or without the added company surely. There was silence when her eyes lifted, to find another set upon her. Deft fingers rose to touch her cheek, checking to see if there was a stray anything upon her skin. Even though she was fairly certain no stray bit of food marred her visage and the look was something else entirely.

The girl returned the gaze, the curiosity and youthful charm fading an older look, bordering on disapproval as the girl lifted her chin slightly, a sign clearly that anything the mountain man had in mind would be difficult with the woman before him. As Abashai cleared his throat though a light smile came to the woman’s lips. The words were said and the old man and her spear men rode away back towards the head of the caravan.

Her eyes went to her companion amusement and question, the words the stone man had spoken only made fractured sense to her, but the swift explanation made the smile flourish more fully, before her eyes rolled lightly and a chuckled came freely of parted lips. <”Yes, yes you said it would work well. I suppose it is best to be with them than against them, in this place. It feels more chilled.>

Zaira looked out to the land before the, Abashai was right indeed, the land was changing to the fields of green she saw in her dreams. Yet now that they were here, she wondered what would happen, where the visions would lead her next, or would the journey and visions end as they crossed the boarders, from their land to the next. But for that, she would not know for certain until the night.
--

Fire crackled and bare feet danced over soft cool grasses. The dancer left her veils in her tent, her hands were clapping lightly to the music and voice softly sung, she wasn’t dancing yet, not truly in the manner that best fit her skill and grace, but moved about the fire, she liked the feel of the grass, and the cool air that wrapped around her ankles as she twirled slowly barely getting the fabrics of her skirt to rise. The caravan was not too far away, but far enough that they were still within its protection, and far enough for privacy she supposed. The crossing to the grasslands had lifted soaring spirits, and renewed curiosity, in this new place and people to meet.

<”How far do you believe this road to take us, Abashai?”>

[Abashai]

Abashai looked up from the ceramic cup, the contents reduced to a few drops of dark tea thick with lees swirling at the bottom. He smiled at his friend, who now seemed much more relaxed as she moved lightly around their fire, a hint of contentment hidden in her graceful steps. He replied to hr question. <The road itself is said to go as far north as one can go."> He turned his gaze on the fire, his habitual point of focus when contemplating weightier things. "How far it takes us? I wish I knew.">

The pair had traveled together for more than two seasons. Abashai had believed he was to eventually leave Eyktol, and Zaira knew the place she saw in her dreams lay to the north. They could have come this way scores of days ago, but instead wandered the desert, the Redstone Cliffs, even the lands of the Eypharians. They were good at putting off that which they feared to dare. The will of Yahal was paramount to both the man and woman, but acknowledging it, following it beyond the comfort of the warm sands and dry winds, took a faith they were just begining to understand.

The desert man looked down at the palms of his hands, Yahal's symbols etched there clearly visible in the flickering orange light. A twinge of guilt swept arcross his heart. Guilt at the days he hesitated, knowing the path laid out for him ran away from the sands. He marvelled at how he could so easliy forget that day on the red cliffs, the day his God rewarded his faith with these markings. When he left that bloody plateau, his soul felt as if it walked on the shimmering waves of heat that hovered over the dunes... as if weightless, invisible steel armor made him invincible. He would have stuck his head into an angry Tsana's maw for the Holy One that day.

But time dulls the minds and memories of men, the clamoring needs and desires of the moment distract the faithful. Only recently did Abashai confess to Zaira that he could no longer resist what he knew he was supposed to do, that he was determined to step out and trust their God to take them on the journeys each must make. He had asked Zaira to come too, if she felt the same leading.

The boisterous revelling of the caravan guards and animal handlers drew his attention away. He could see the outline of men against their fires, passing around flagons of some intoxicant and laughing coarsely. Tonight he would keep an eye out for more than the dangerous preadators of these plains.

Abashai flung the puddle of tea in his cup into the fire, which disappeared instantly with a hiss, and set it aside. He subtly pulled the khopesh laying next to him closer and picked up his oud. Strumming softly, as he was accustomed to do around the evening fire, Abashai relaxed at the sound and the distraction. It was by the evening firelight the pair would speak more openly, the small ring of light creating a sanctuary in the vast darkness where intimate conversation seemed safe. He thought again about her question...how far would this journey take them? How far would it take them together? It was a question he repeatedly denied and locked away. <I am thankful that our paths have run together, Zai. I don't know if I would have crossed into this place if I did not have you to ride with me.">

The sound of laughter and drunken singing carried across the grass again, drawing the desert man's narrowing gaze.

Abashai clung to benshiran tradition, finding it easier to hide and protect his heart within its cutoms, finding security in its familiarities. He knew that the young benshiran girl chaffed at the traditional ways, frustrated by the rules the man insisted they adhere to. But Abashai was a reasonable man, and sometimes circumstances required creative interpretation.

<"I think tonight we should use the partition."> That was Abashai's way of saying he felt that, for safety reasons, they needed to stay in the same tent, a canvas partition separating it into two sleeping areas. Though each of the benshira typically stayed in their own tents, as was fitting their tradition, Abashai and Zaira had faced many dangers from storms to predators to no-man's-lands, and had grown close enough to stay under one roof when necessary.

[Zaira]

She hummed softly, the song she moved to, the beat her hands kept. It was by far her favorite that would come to mind with little thought to keep her occupied, it was her favorite, not even to dance to, but to hear, to sing to be wrapped within; not that she ever sang it to her companion. The road the caravan followed would take them north, far and long as land would go he said. In fewer words but still, it was what he meant. Yet his next words made the sweeping steps pause. So lost in thought he seemed to not notice the familiar eyes that rested upon him. The moment passed as eyes swept over the cool grasses and the dancing flame, and she smiled gently to herself moving again to the music she still created.

Fire did not mourn when the rain fell upon it. It danced even as it was being extinguished, her fiery heart being washed away and its colors muted. Fire did not bow out as the growing winds. It may waver at the winds strength but given a moment of peace it returned to his tall proud watch. It did not cower. Fire did not… do many things. Yet she was not made of flame.

Gawffing laughter brought eyes back from their wander, their gaze upon the bridge of the light and darkness that bordered their camp. The foreigners were, very strange. When they were not glaring and muttering to themselves, they were reckless and loud, warrior and merchants alike. From her side the flames sizzled as Abashai stirred from thought, casting the remnants of his tea to the hungry light his words… Zaira turned her head towards the man as he began to stroke the strings of his Oud. The surprise that held her feature blossomed into a shy smile before she laughed.

<”You would have made your way here, without me. Although I am glad, that our paths crossed, that I had you to ride with, Bashai.”> Her laughing words softened and her hands lowered from their clapping stance. Gliding steps brought the dancer near, the continued laughter was hardly new from their travelling companions, although their singing, off, was curious and that curiosity did beg her gaze to see what about they were amusing themselves with.

Again her companion’s words surprised her to turn her gaze back to the musician, not at his words, but the suggestion behind them. Her eyes went back to the drunken group in their laughter and singing and she shivered before sitting beside the man and flame giving the caravan her back and to not think upon the implications.

<”If it is for best. Surely they could conduct themselves…reasonably. With all this soft grass and cool dirt there are probably many tents to which they could visit and be welcomed. “> She left it at that a moment her hands stroking the cool grass with a faint smile upon her lips, still it was a novelty to see so much, so soft and green.

<”What thoughts steal you away from me this night?”>

[Abashai]

Abashai noted Zaira's subtle cringe as she looked over at the riotous men. He did not mean to cause her concern, but he recognized the glaring of some of the men. They were base RavkaShiber term for a non-benshiran, usually derogatory and he did not trust them. Nevertheless, he believed it was safer near the caravan.

When she settled in next to him, he paused from his strumming and looked into her reflective blue eyes. <First, I do not want you to fear. It's just that this land is strange and the dangers unfamiliar to me."> he glanced slightly towards the caravan's fires,< "and I am an over-protective stick-in-the-mud."> He smiled laughingly. He leaned sideways against her, teasingly knocking her over. The evening fires seemed to affect Abashai that way, lowering his walls enough to display such signs of affection.

He sat back up, knowing the benshiran woman could tell he had been deep in thought again. <"I was just wondering again."> Once more he looked down at the palms that should be blackened by the permanent penalty for impurity. Instead, they bore the sign of forgiving and faithful divinity. He had told Zaira the tale of how he recieved the marks from a divine messenger, a story that seemed to encourage them both. But he could not tell her why his hands should have been stained with the black tattoos of an adulterer.

<"You know, this is just the beginning. We will not be able to run back the the tents of the benshira, or the familiar oases, or even find someone who speaks our language. We will no longer be able to eat the fruits of the desert, feel the hot sand beneath our feet."> He plucked up a clump of the green grass. Usually the stoic anchor of the two travelers, Abashai felt his resolve unravel. He turned his gaze back to Zaira, his blue-green eyes slightly widened, brows furrowed with the heavy realization. His distress lessened at the familiar cerulean eyes. She seemed so young to have seen so much pain and uncertainty, he thought.

The woman had in fact been an anchor for him. As they wandered, Zaira had been a constant in his life. Yes, he knew Yahal was there, subtly nudging, invisible. But his friend was tangible, could be seen, touched, heard... a very real presence with him. Sometimes they bickered like siblings, teased like children, debated like scholars...and at times Abashai even found himself flirting like a teenager. He knew that her presence helped keep him sane.

<Sorry, just overwhelmed. I know everything will work out, I have to believe it will."> He wanted her to believe it too.

[Zaira]

The laughter returned as Zaira fell back lightly from her folded legs to her rear more firmly upon the grass; the playful nudge seemed to dispel the uncharacteristic worry that had briefly fell over the woman almost as if it had never been, with more ease than words could. A gentle reassurance and lightening of mood, all in a small and brief contact. It helped when he smiled. Aside the fact that the smile was pleasing to her eye, smiles were pleasing to the heart. Abashai did not give false smiles, or words of confidence and bravado. He was like a child in that aspect, that his smiles were meant as they were seen and rarely for anything else when she was near. At least from what she could tell from what she could see. They came with the feeling over came him, or not at all if it did not, and more easily with his instrument in hand and their shadows wavering upon the earth from the fire light.

Yet something seemed to pull the laughter away again and Abashai’s eyes drifted to his hands once more, the look that came to his face once again, was not unfamiliar. Zaira could not imagine the burden or worry Abashai might feel with the sign of their lord upon him. What she would have found a joyous confirmation of faith and purpose, seemed to give room for sacks full of worry and doubt. And yet even that was heartening Zaira thought, that despite his own worries and doubts, Abashai was one of Yahal’s chosen children.

He spoke, and the words he said, were true. She knew them to be true, yet perhaps it seemed like all a dream until this day when they finally managed to cross the border and finally, that dream was no longer simply a dream, but an actual reality. Home sickness had come and gone, longing for her mother, her sisters, the reassurance of her father and brothers, had came, but were easily soothed, the belief that if they were all under the same blue sky, on the same sandy earth, they were still together, still connected. Yet now, the earth had changed, and here, even the stars above, looked subtly different. The only familiar voice and words she had were his, and while he was a wonderful gift and a dear companion. She had to resolve to not be a burden, especially now.

“It…will. Trust.” The smile Zaira wore was too amusing, her broken common had barely formed a sentence but it was all a start.

With a sigh she straightened her posture as if to begin again lightly opening and closing her mouth as if to make it easier to try the words once more before trying.

<”It still feels oddly on my tongue, those words. “> “I will try more hard.”

[Abashai]

Abashai grinned broadly as Zaira mouthed the Common words as if she had a horse's bit in her mouth, the rough grammar like a child learning to speak. It sounded funny and sweet. <I know you'll learn it Zai, we'll work on it.">

It was moments like these when Abashai found Zaira the most endearing. She it secretly amused him to hear her attempt Common. With those three well placed broken Common words she had managed to dispel his demons and make him smile. She did not like to worry, and did not allow him the privilege of doing so either.

He laid aside his oud and picked up a thick stick, poking the splintered end into the fire. A swarm of fiery sparks ascended skyward to fade into the star-specked darkness. His attention on the fire, Abashai began to speak slowly in Common, allowing his friend to grow accustomed to the words. "I am holding a stick. I poke the stick into the fire. See the sparks fly up?"

"teachin' your pet to speak, bensheeeeeran?"

The voice was slurred, but unmistakeably taunting. Abashai looked up to see three men standing at the edge of the firelight. He recognized one of the spearman from earlier, the other two appeared to be baggage or animal handlers. They were dirty and reeked of sweat and alcohol. The desert man cursed himself for not detecting their approach, cursed again for leaving his weapon laying out of reach.

Abashai rose slowly, casually burying the tip of the branch deep in the coals. He looked up at the drunken guard, who leaned unsteadily on his spear. "We don't want any trouble, perhaps you'd like some tea." The benshiran tried to regulated his breathing, maintain his composure. He wanted to look back at Zaira, reassure her, but did not want to turn his back to the uninvited visitors.

"We don't want your shtupid tea, bensheeeeran. But you could show us some desert hoshpi..hoshpitality by sharing your pet with us." Abashai saw the spearman leer at the woman behind him, heard the other two drunks laugh like desert jackals. A rage welled inside the desert man and burst forth.

With a shower of sparks, Abashai kicked the flaming logs at the two scrawny handlers, who scrambled backward, caught in a barrage of flaming wood and coals. With a roar, the benshiran rushed at the spearman, grabbing the spear with his left hand and pushing it aside as the sluggish guard struggled to lower it in defense. Abashai lunged forward, shoving the glowing end of the branch to within and inch of the man's neck, the guard desperately tilting his head back and glaring at the sharp-ended, smoking brand with wide eyes.

Abashai glared, seethed through gritted teeth. "You filthy BenachagShiber insult, literally son of a locust ...if you lay one hand on her, even dare to lay your Ravka eyes on her, I will shove this through your ..." A subtle voice whispered, interupted his tirade. He did not hear it with his ears, but with his heart. Righteous anger, not rage. The wrathful benshiran paused, scowling, his panting breath slowing. Without lowering the burning wood, Abashai with one hand yanked the spear from the thug's grip, striking the shaft against the ground. The wood splintered with a loud crack and he tossed aside the broken weapon.

Abashai only glanced out of the corner of his eye when he heard the singing of steel blades clearing leather sheaths. The two handlers had extinguished the flames that had kindled on their garments and had pulled out long thin knives. Their eyes were grim and dangerous.

Another tense moment passed as the antagonist's eye's darted from one to another, the presence of the woman now forgotten as more primal urges reigned. Suddenly, the two thin men were lifted to their toes, then flung aside, landing with a thud in the tall grass. The towering form of the captain loomed into the firelight. The cowardly jackals scurried off into the darkness.

The carvavan leader eyed Abashai, then the fiery brand in his hand, and finally his own soldier. The profusely sweating spearman now cowed with equal fear at the sight of his superior. The large northerner grabbed the soldier by the back of his tunic and, with a final emotionless glance at the stern benshiran, dragged the whimpering guard away toward the dimming caravan fires.

Abashai exhaled a great sigh, flung his makeshift weapon back onto the remains of the fire, and turned to Zaira. His heart pounded still with the adreneline in his veins, but his eyes softened to an almost aplogetic frown.

Walking over to her, Abashai held his hand out to Zaira. <Are you alright Zai?">

[Zaira]

Like that the lines of his face smoothed, replaced by those of amusement. She sounded foolish she knew it well; she even felt it trying to mouth the words in the foreign tongue. Yet the amusement shown did not feel like ridicule, so Zaira allowed it. Taking the mirth in exchange for mirth, the frustrations coming, and then fleeing. It was not worth her efforts to be trying and aggravated or frustrated by Abashai’s amusements, or her own slow learning. It was not her nature on such a matter, and would accomplish nothing which she desired. Which were indeed smiles, laughter, and learning the cursed tongue?

Music was set aside it seem with her broken common words. As Zaira watched, her fingers playing within the soft blades of grass as Abashai lifted a large stick; it was more solid and thicker than those that were often gathered for firewood home. The stick was used to prod the flames and the logs they harbored and dying lights, sparks, raised o the air to fade into nothingness. Bashai spoke slowly, in common and the dancer listened, when they lessons first began, were it not for the pattern of speech the language sounded like nothing but coarse grunts. Intelligible gibberish. Yet now though, she could pick out words in the sentences, and could even figure out what was to happen if she got the right words.

Yet even before her mouth could open to try a new, voices interrupted, taking the pair by surprise. At the edge of the fire’s light a trio stood, filthy and seeming to have partaken too much of their wine or what had they. They leaned on the spear, on each other and eyes were upon the pair and even as Zaira eased her body back away from the light and the new comers Abashai rose. She did not know all that was said, but for the phrase ‘perhaps you’d like some tea’ was known and familiar. Yet this only brought more confusion, she did not want them near, yet he offered them tea. The loud slurred words of the spearman made no sense, but beastly grunts. The emotion uncomfortably close to fear at the trio’s arrival lessened in a flash of blue eyes as the drunken man peered lasciviously upon her. Indignant ire chilled blue eyes before eyes widened in shock; rough housing was not uncommon, although of a tent more blessed with daughters than sons, still it was not a surprising event, but this.
Was not like anything she could recall, even the arguments among the young men was not like the surprise eruption of violence, from Abashai of all men. The fire was dispersed and the favored one held the spear man with the glowing end of the stick near the foul one’s flesh. His words were hard to hear, to understand. It was not to say that the woman had never given thought to, or saw Abashai the warrior. But the leering of a drunken man, uncomfortable was such a small matter. It is true she knew not what the fool had said, for he surely was a fool to have gotten one she would call gentle, transformed into this roaring lion.

The sound of steel came as the other two, once forgotten made their presence known once again as they drew their blades. The situation looked grim and he heart pounded within her chest breaths small and shallow. Before something miraculous occurred the metal wielding men were lifted and tossed aside, scrambling away into the night at the sight of the mountain man from before. He eyed Abashai and his man before her left, taking the mewling beast away back towards the caravan’s fires, and like they had never been there, it was silent.

His sigh broke the silence, as the clattering sound of wood upon wood, seemed to stir the dancer her hand touching her chest upon the still racing pulse. Abashai looked to her and his expression softened as his hand was held out and of all things; he asked if she was okay.

Her hand moved from her chest to the cup of his grasp, her body leaving the earth to stand and move near.

<”What nonsense is this Bashai? Are you alright? Yahal’s will, I do not know what I would have done if they harmed you. No slight of a fool Ravka is worth a drop of your blood spilt.”> Her hand tightened upon his a moment before dancing fingers touched his face, it was a familiar gesture, a worried one, just as her scolding tone has less to do of reprimand, and all the more of her concern. However needless now it seemed as her hands slowed in the search for wound that was not there.

[Abashai]

<"I'm fine Zaira."> Abashai gently took her hands in his, ceasing their vain search for wounds. <"I'm sorry, sorry you had to see that...see them.">

Their crude intentions, knowing what those lecherous men desired when they looked at Zaira, had enraged Abashai beyond reason. Had the voice not whispered to his soul, he very well could have killed them. Looking back, he could have been killed too. But the indignation that welled up to his friend's defense would not tolerate even an assault to Zaira's honor, let alone her physical body.

Abashai's breathing had subsided to an even pattern, but the emotional aftermath was still stirring. Yes, he would have risen to defend the honor of any benshiran woman. But with the same fierce passion? No, of course Zaira was not just another benshiran woman, but a friend.

The benshiran man beheld the woman's face, worry written across her amber features, felt the concern in the grasp of her slender hands. The two of them had seen dangerous times, and he had seen that look before, sure she had seen it on his face too. But tonight, gazing into her crystal-blue eyes, revealed something he had not seen, or refused to see, before. It was like hearing shocking news that you realize you already knew, somehow. Abashai realized he cared for Zaira deeply.

When he had met Zaira, Abashai could not let her travel alone and welcomed the company of the fellow benshiran. But he had no intention of growing close to the wandering woman. His was a journey with Yahal alone, and Abashai could not afford to let anything distract him while he sought to serve his Lord. But, as time passed, the desert wanderers became friends. The dancer was young, vibrant and beautiful...and a lovely distraction. Without seeing it, Abashai's resolve was eroding.

Now the highly emotional moment crested Abashai's mental dam, a confusion of feelings crashed in a flood against walls he had erected to protect himself. He struggled within to shore up the walls, to resist the urge to put his arms around her, to restrain the release of words that would inevitably complicate matters. He could not even define the sensation, name the emotions. He cried a cry in his spirit...Yahal!

With another deep breath, looking down into the dancer's sober face, Abashai simply stated, < "Zaira, to protect you, I would shed every drop of blood.">

[Zaira]

<”Such a foolish thing to say, Abashai.”> The hands Abashai held within his grasp trembled before they squeezed lightly and slowly withdrew. She inhaled and blew out a soft breath; her eyes had lowered to her clasped hands before back upward. To be so worried, to call him foolish struck of ingratitude. Even if the reasons behind her words and motions were not so.

<”Thank you, Bashai. Truly.”> The words felt deaden upon her lips, a shadow of what would be said. <”An oasis would be made of my tears, should that day ever come.”> The dancer turned away to look at the state of their camp, turned her back to Abashai to hide her expression and to not see his. The wild beating in her chest did not cease when the danger had passed, but sped.

The logs of their fire, some still burned, others were out, all were scattered. The dancer, of all things, was fleeing. She was letting something rest, something she wanted to stir and stroke as she did the dwindling fires. Yet, it was not time, it was far too soon, her heart still felt pangs of guilt, at her thoughts, in the gentle moments of realization of something changing.

Yet even that aside, it was… unlikely. For it whatever ‘it’ was, truly, to be returned, to be accepted, to be. And there was still the purpose they had yet to find, the task their lord had for them to perform.

<"What, should we do in the morning?">