One WIP down, 987247 to go...
I intended to post this last October but it wasn't finished yet. Better shockingly late than never, right?
Anyway around two years ago left_sider and I stumbled across news about Cyril Raffaelli's latest film, Djinns, a.k.a. Stranded. There was a minor Flailing Incident when we discovered that Cyril would be sporting period military gear, and then a major Flailing Incident when we discovered that one of his co-stars would be Saïd Taghmaoui. Then left_sider decided that, because she is completely shallow they were filming in Morocco, the delectable Saïd's character would obviously have to be some kind of Berber (and to be fair, Saïd does actually have Berber ancestry) and therefore wear the full-on robes and indigo veil and that it would be hot like burning. And after that...well, I think you see where I'm going with this.
The point is, this is for left_sider because it is totally all her fault I owe her a birthday gift. I have no other excuse, but in my defense I was going spare at work when I started writing and this kind of thing tends to happen when I spend a morning listening to Signal Fire on continuous loop. Apparently I got a little loopy, too.
Title: The Gift of the Djinn
Fandom: Djinns, more or less
Characters: Louvier and Aroui and Michel
Word Count: 10,440+ (WHAT IS MY LIFE WHAT ARE MY CHOICES)
Rating: M
Summary: Dans le désert les ennemis ne sont pas ceux que l’on croit.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my shame.
AN: I have not been able to watch the film, but the original synopsis I saw was this: Algeria, 1960. A section of French paratroopers is sent in search of a missing aircraft in the desert. The wreckage of the plane is quickly located, but there are no survivors, just a suitcase stamped "Top Secret." Stormed by enemy soldiers, the troops find refuge in a strange abandoned citadel. Despite warnings to leave at once, they wake up the Djinns, the mysterious evil spirits of the desert. That is...not the story I wrote.
~~~~~~
He is not dead. Realization comes gradually, his mind slow to accept the truth his body tells him. Improbable as it seems he must be alive because he can feel his heart still hammering painfully, his ears ringing with an echo of roaring wind and sand and piercing, inhuman cries. He is soaked with sweat, his uniform clinging to cramped limbs, and his throat aches, not simply parched but raw. Dimly he supposes he must have been shouting.
Cautiously Louvier opens his eyes. It takes him another moment to remember the cause of his blurred vision: he had wrapped his scarf around his head and it is now matted to his face, muffling the ragged sound of his breathing. He ignores the sudden sensation of suffocating that follows that thought and forces himself to focus on his surroundings. He is lying on hard, sun-baked ground, half curled around the rifle clenched in numb fingers. He hears no wind, no hint of the sandstorm-if that was truly what it was-and sees no movement through the thin cotton of his scarf.
Slowly, painfully, Louvier pushes himself upright. His body feels weighted with lead and his fingers fumble with the scarf but at last he manages to unwrap it and squint at the sky. The light around him is only the relentless glare of the blazing desert sun, not the dazzling, otherworldly brightness that had seemed to crackle with energy and shimmer like a mirage. The distant horizon is empty, and the citadel at his back is as silent and deserted as it appeared when the company stumbled into its shadow a week ago. Were it not for the dark-clad figure now stirring next to him Louvier might easily believe himself utterly alone, might wonder if all that has passed was nothing more than a nightmare or the fevered imaginings of one too long in the sun.
Beside him Aroui is sitting up stiffly, his eyes sweeping the sky and then the horizon before he faces Louvier. A dusting of sand coats his tagelmust and a few stubborn grains are caught in his eyelashes, but his gaze is steady and inscrutable as always. For what seems like the hundredth time Louvier wishes he could see the expression hidden behind his companion's veil.
'Is it over?' he asks. His voice comes out cracked, almost a whisper.
'It is over,' Aroui nods. He is hoarse, too, his words heavy with weariness and relief. 'The djinn have gone.'
~~~~~~
It isn't over, of course, not really. As soon as Louvier can force his battered body to move he limps toward the makeshift camp in the lee of the citadel. The desert may be a familiar enemy but it is no less deadly than the mysterious power that killed Vacard and Durieux and the rest of the company. Perhaps, thinks Louvier grimly, it has already claimed yet another life.
Sand is banked knee-high against the canvas and dread twists Louvier’s gut as he reaches the tent. He tugs the door flap open, ducks inside-and lurches to a halt with the business end of Michel’s rifle pointed between his eyes. The wounded man is propped against his pack, face bloodless beneath his sunburn and beaded with sweat, wide eyes fever-bright. He's visibly shaking from the effort of holding his weapon upright but his aim doesn’t falter.
‘Easy, Michel,’ Louvier soothes immediately, raising his hands. ‘It’s me, Louvier. The real me,’ he adds, remembering poor Malovitch. ‘They’ve gone.’
Michel stares up at him for a moment, then lets the rifle drop and collapses back onto his bedroll, breathing hard. ‘Then it’s over?’
‘They're gone,’ repeats Louvier, and doesn't mention that a different sort of battle is just beginning. Instead he kneels beside Michel and carefully starts to lift the blanket covering his shattered leg. He can sense Michel's apprehension and with an effort keeps his own expression blank, though he can't quite mask his relief once the leg is exposed.
Louvier has seen men die from less grisly wounds, and survive even worse; he knows better than to voice any expectations at this point. But there is no fresh blood seeping through the bandages swathing Michel's leg from ankle to thigh. It looks like the desperate, hurried attempt at surgery Louvier had guessed his way through last night might have bought them more time, if nothing else. It's the first bit of luck they've had since this ill-fated mission began.
'I'll be damned,' says Louvier, replacing the blanket and keeping his tone light as he meets Michel's anxious gaze again. 'The stitches weren't the prettiest but they're holding.'
Some of the tension leaves Michel's face and he manages a tired smile. 'Then I should thank you,' he says wryly. 'Women love men with scars.'
'So I’ve heard,' smiles Louvier in return, grateful that such bravado, however false, isn't yet beyond Michel. He opens the field kit to find another dose of the antibiotics that he hopes will ward off infection, only to drop it and grab for his gun when a shadow falls across Michel's bedroll.
But the silhouette in the doorway belongs to their last living companion, not another of the faceless enemy they struggled to drive away for so long, and at such terrible cost. Louvier lays aside the rifle and reminds himself to breathe again as Aroui stoops to enter the tent and offers Michel a freshly filled canteen.
'How is the leg?' he asks in his careful, heavily-accented French.
'Better,' Louvier informs him with as much conviction as he can muster.
'Yes, better,' echoes Michel.
'Good,' says Aroui, and Louvier thinks he might even be smiling behind the veil.
Michel gulps down the last of the water and takes the pills Louvier gives him, then sinks back against his bedroll. He seems exhausted by the exertion required just to sit up but flatly refuses Louvier's offer of another dose of morphine.
'Not yet,' he says, mouth drawn in a determined line, and changes the subject before Louvier can insist. ‘What happens now?’
Louvier meets Aroui's solemn gaze above Michel's head. He wishes he knew more than a few halting words of Arabic; he would prefer to discuss their chances in a language that Michel did not understand. Whatever the boy might already fear or guess it will do him no good to hear that his first mission could well be his last.
Still, their choices are few enough that it's easy to reach a common decision without speaking. Aroui casts a meaningful glance at Michel, then inclines his head slightly in silent support of what he knows Louvier is about to say.
‘You rest here,’ Louvier tells Michel. 'That's an order,' he continues firmly, interrupting the inevitable futile protest. ‘Aroui and I will check the citadel again. If it's safe we'll move camp inside. We'll stay put for tonight, and tomorrow we’ll work on finding a way to get the hell out of here.’
As plans go he’s certainly heard better ones, and he knows even the youngest member of his unit is experienced enough to be thinking the same thing.
Michel tries for a grin anyway. ‘Good, I fucking hate the desert.’
Louvier grins back, though it feels more like a grimace. ‘Try to get some sleep,’ he says as he follows Aroui out, pausing briefly in the doorway. Michel’s eyes are already closed, his hands clenched into the blanket hiding the bloodied wreck of his leg.
'We're going to make it,' Louvier promises, and hopes he sounds as if he believes it.
~~~~~~
They have a chance, at least, because they still have water. Had the well been as empty as the rest of the crumbling buildings they would all have perished days ago. Louvier does not acknowledge the thought that perhaps that would have been a kinder fate than what befell instead.
He begins his careful circuit of the citadel, occasionally glimpsing Aroui exploring from the opposite direction, and this time there are no whispers from the shadows. This time the only movement is the dust that stirs under his boots when he steps into each empty room. Now it appears the ancient walls will offer protection from the elements, not further terror, and a soldier's instincts make Louvier grateful for any cover in this open, desolate land. He will sleep easier with a wall at his back.
In one of the larger rooms he is surprised to find an ornate lantern suspended from the ceiling. Though the metal is tarnished with age and one of the cut glass panels is missing there is still oil in the reservoir, and when Louvier lights the wick the lamp warms the room with a soft glow and casts intricate patterns against the ceiling. It is startlingly beautiful, a reminder of the citadel’s vanished glory, and Louvier wonders anew about the history of this strange place. But it's pointless to waste time thinking about yet another mystery, yet more questions he will never be able to answer. Louvier blows out the lamp and returns to the dim passageway to finish his patrol.
He meets Aroui again in the little courtyard where the Imazighen had left their horses tethered. Only the dun-colored gelding remains, snorting and stamping as Louvier approaches, his withers still quivering and a frayed rope dangling from his halter. The rest must have bolted in their terror, leaving behind snapped tethers and hoofprints already erased by the wind.
Aroui is kneeling beside a dark, misshapen mound in the shadow of the eastern wall, one hand stretched out to rest against it. Bile rises in Louvier's throat when he recognizes the bay mare. Her body lies partially buried beneath a drift of sand, her neck twisted in grotesque mockery of its once graceful arch. Aroui's fingers tremble as they pass gently over sightless eyes and smooth the long mane, and Louvier thinks suddenly of the first time he saw the small band of Imazighen rising out of the dunes like a mirage, fierce and mysterious. Aroui had been riding the blood-red mare.
Louvier wavers, reluctant to disturb the grieving man, but the sun is already high overhead and there is much to do. He goes to Aroui’s side and puts a tentative hand on his shoulder.
'I'm sorry,' he offers quietly.
Aroui nods an acknowledgment and his hand covers Louvier's for a moment, pressing it briefly in gratitude. Then his shoulders straighten and he rises smoothly to his feet, automatically glancing at the position of the climbing sun. Louvier glimpses sorrow in his eyes, anger too, but no tears.
‘I saw no danger,’ Aroui says then, indicating the silent buildings around them with a sweeping gesture, and his voice is steady. ‘And you?’
Louvier shakes his head. ‘There was nothing. I think we’ll be safe inside from now on.’ As safe as they may ever be, anyway; he has learned all too well that in this place things are not always as they appear. Nevertheless he tells Aroui of the lantern room and the smaller chamber next to it. They are situated near the well, in a part of the citadel that would be defensible should the need arise, and both have intact wooden doors.
‘We should move the camp there,’ Aroui agrees. ‘But first I must see to Asad.’
Louvier follows his gaze to the dun pacing a few yards away. The horse is watching them uneasily, the whites of his eyes showing and both ears laid back. Apparently undaunted Aroui approaches the spooked animal slowly and speaks to him in low tones. At first Asad shies away, tossing his head, but Aroui moves with him patiently and continues his coaxing until the horse stops retreating and allows him to grasp the halter.
‘Come,’ Aroui beckons to Louvier then, calmly stroking Asad’s neck. ‘He will stand for you now.’
Louvier notes the horse’s flared nostrils and heaving flanks and thinks privately that the opposite is more likely. Gritting his teeth he pushes such misgivings to the back of his mind and walks forward cautiously, following his companion’s example while Aroui murmurs commands to the horse in Arabic. To his surprise and relief Asad merely huffs against his outstretched palm for a moment, then lowers his proud head and permits Louvier to touch his velvety soft muzzle.
‘Good,’ approves Aroui, handing Louvier the lead rope and stepping back. ‘Hold him here and I will see if he is injured.’
Louvier watches him, absurdly grateful that Asad consents to remain still. He finds his eyes drawn to the sun-browned, capable hands moving carefully down the horse's legs and lifting each hoof for examination. Pale marks crisscross Aroui's knuckles, battle scars mingled with souvenirs of a hard life in a hard land. Louvier can’t help feeling curious about such a life, about all the things he has yet to learn regarding his enigmatic comrade in arms, until Aroui’s voice startles him out of his thoughts.
‘He is not lame, but he needs water.’ Aroui’s gaze flickers briefly toward the eastern wall. ‘And he will not stay here.’
‘I saw another courtyard close to the well,’ suggests Louvier.
‘Then I will follow you,’ says Aroui, taking Asad’s lead again, and together they pass like ghosts through the eerily silent city.
~~~~~~
Their remaining supplies are so pathetically few that setting up the new camp takes little time. While Aroui draws more water from the well and tends to the horse Louvier begins transferring their equipment and rations into the smaller of the two rooms. Together they carry the salvaged parts from the plane wreck, and then by unspoken agreement they both move their bedrolls and gear into the lantern room. Somehow they have grown used to guarding each other’s backs and only later does it occur to Louvier that there is no longer a need.
Using what is left of his parachute as a kind of sling they manage to move Michel into the supply room without jarring his wounded leg much, yet he is still gritting his teeth and shaking when they settle him on his bedroll again. Aroui props him up to drink from his canteen while Louvier selects another morphine syrette from the rapidly dwindling store in the field kit.
‘This is pointless,’ Michel gasps weakly, as white as his bandages.
Louvier faces him sharply. ‘Don’t you dare give up on me, soldier.’
‘Look at me,’ persists Michel. ‘I can hardly sit up. I’m not stupid, I know I won’t be walking out of here.’
Pointedly Louvier continues preparing an iodine swab. ‘That’s the pain talking,’ he says. ‘And if need be I’ll carry you out.’
‘No!’ Michel shakes his head, unsuccessfully trying to twist away from Aroui’s careful grip. ‘We’re already running out of rations anyway. You should leave while you still can.’
‘You know me better than that,’ snaps Louvier. ‘No one in this company has ever left a man behind and I don’t plan to be the first.’
Michel glowers up at him, jaw set in a stubborn line. ‘Well I don’t plan to let you die here because of me,’ he retorts.
‘Who said anything about dying?’ Louvier counters. ‘Look, since we missed the rendezvous there’s a good chance somebody’s already looking for us,’ he reasons, voicing the one hope that has kept his own despair at bay. ‘Even if we can’t make it back to the drop site we just need to hold on here until they find us.’
Michel looks unconvinced. ‘You really think they’re searching for us?’
‘Not for us,’ corrects Louvier, ‘for that.’ He nods toward the blood-spattered silver case stamped SECRET stacked amongst their supplies. ‘You think it’s standard procedure to mount a rescue mission every time a single plane goes missing? No, somebody wants whatever’s in that case badly enough to send us all the way out here, and I’m betting they’ll keep searching until they find it.’
‘Are you willing to bet your life on it?’ challenges Michel. ‘Because I think you’re a fool if you don’t get out of here when you have the chance.’
‘Maybe,’ Louvier shrugs, ‘but I’m the fool who still outranks you. And right now I’m ordering you to stop talking shit and get some rest.’
Michel stares back at him, chest heaving, then glances at Aroui, impenetrable as ever behind the veil. ‘Yes, sir,’ he sighs finally, and offers his arm for the injection. He is silent while Louvier checks his dressings again and they ease him carefully under his blanket, not speaking until Louvier is closing up the field kit.
‘What will you do now?’ he asks then, voice already slurring a little as the morphine begins its work.
Louvier pauses, thinking of the two broken figures shrouded in their parachutes and the beautiful bay lying crumpled and still in the drifting sand. Aroui catches his gaze from the doorway and he knows they are thinking the same thing: they must tend to their dead before the carrion birds arrive. They are still in a war zone, and even if this ancient, forgotten place does not appear on any maps they dare not risk drawing attention to their position.
‘We’ll respect the fallen,’ he answers simply as he stands to leave.
Understanding settles over Michel’s weary face. ‘Wait,’ he pleads, reaching up to catch Louvier’s sleeve. He fumbles in his jacket pockets and produces a nearly empty pack of Gauloises. ‘Take these,’ he offers solemnly. 'For Durieux.'
Louvier accepts the crumpled gift and looks at it for a moment, seeing instead countless identical packs in another pair of hands. ‘Thanks,’ he says around the tightness in his throat, slipping the cigarettes into his breast pocket. The tangle of dog tags already hidden there jingles faintly, and it sounds like a reproach.
Aroui is waiting for him in the passageway. Louvier shuts the door and faces him uncertainly, grappling with a nagging thought that he can no longer pretend to ignore. He takes a breath and tries to speak with a confidence he does not feel.
‘Michel was right, you know.’
Aroui’s brows draw together and he looks closely at Louvier in the dim light. ‘You would leave?’
‘No,’ Louvier shakes his head, oddly stung by the idea that Aroui might doubt his word. ‘I meant what I said in there, I’ll carry him if I have to,’ he repeats. ‘But it’s different for you. You have a horse, you should go back to your own people.’
Aroui is still regarding him intently, eyes nearly black and impossible to read in the shadowed passage. ‘You wish me to leave?’
‘No!’ blurts Louvier, more vehemently than he intended. Immediately he regrets his honesty. Of course he wants Aroui to stay; the man has proven to be a more than capable ally and his steady presence is an undeniable comfort. But those are selfish reasons, and Louvier knows the only logical course is for Aroui to ride out while there are still enough provisions for his journey.
‘There’s no need for you to stay,’ he hurries to explain. ‘Your people must be worried about you. Your family-’
‘I have no family now,’ interrupts Aroui, holding up a hand to forestall any reply. ‘No one waits for me,’ he continues calmly. ‘I will stay.’
Louvier is at a loss. He had assumed, based on the way Hafiz and Amazzal and even Kamel had deferred to him, that Aroui was a man of some standing amongst the Imazighen. He finds it difficult to believe Aroui’s claim that no one is missing him, and harder still to understand why the man would choose to face an uncertain fate in this place rather than attempt to return to his own people.
‘But why?’ he demands. ‘Why risk dying here for no reason?’
‘You saved my life,’ Aroui reminds him quietly.
‘And you probably saved mine,’ argues Louvier. ‘You owe me-us-nothing.’
Aroui merely shrugs. ‘I will stay.’
‘Why?’ Louvier asks again, searching Aroui’s impossibly dark eyes.
Aroui meets his gaze resolutely. ‘We start this fight together,’ he replies. ‘We must finish together also.’
And that, it seems, is the only answer Louvier will receive. He tries one more argument before conceding defeat.
‘We only have enough food for three days, four at the most,’ he points out.
‘I know.’ Aroui rests a hand on the hilt of the curved knife at his belt. ‘I will butcher the horse.’
Louvier opens his mouth to protest, thinks better of it, and nods a reluctant agreement. It is not his choice to make, and he can imagine what such a decision must have cost. Nevertheless Aroui seems to guess something of his unspoken objection.
‘In life Aminah saved me many times,’ he says softly. ‘Now in death she may save us all. We must not waste this gift and rob her death of purpose.’
Then he’s gone, disappearing swiftly into the labyrinthine streets. Louvier watches him go, more relieved than he has any right to be, and hating himself for it.
~~~~~~
Despite the unwelcome practice Louvier has had in the last week the ninth grave of this mission is no easier to dig than the first. It is a slow, miserable job under the merciless sun, and it is not only sweat that stings his eyes while he works. By the time the hole is deep enough Louvier’s arms and shoulders are aching, his palms beginning to blister in spite of their calluses. He retreats to the shade of the citadel for a drink from his canteen.
Aroui finds him there, his hands bloodstained and eyes more guarded than ever, and neither speaks of their grim labours. In solemn silence they carry the bodies of Vacard and Durieux to the grave and lay them gently side by side, careful not to disarrange the makeshift shrouds hiding faces still frozen in pain or terror. Louvier bends to tuck the pack of Gauloises into the folds of Durieux’s parachute before they begin refilling the grave.
When they are finished Aroui leaves him alone, walking away to sit by the piles of stones they’d used to mark Kamel’s grave the day before, and Amazzal’s the night before that. Already it seems an age has passed since the Imazighen first rode unafraid into the company’s camp, since Kamel held a knife to Louvier’s throat while they struck their uneasy truce. But that was before they found themselves fighting for their lives in the same waking nightmare, and in the end Kamel had choked out his last breath with Louvier’s hands pressed desperately to the worst of his wounds and his lifeblood still seeping swiftly into the sand...
Louvier forces the memory aside and stares down at the freshly smoothed sand at his feet. He thinks of the men now resting beneath it: grizzled veteran Vacard, always ready with a cynical remark yet quicker still to help a comrade; cheerful, chain smoking Durieux, notorious for his sweet tooth and love-hate affair with Olympique de Marseille.
He ought to say something, Louvier knows, yet nothing seems adequate. He tries without success to remember the lines of a prayer he hasn’t heard since he was a boy. But deliver us from evil, he thinks bitterly, and the words sound hollow even in his head. If there is a God there was certainly no sign of his mercy when good men were being slaughtered by an enemy they could not fight.
No, there was no divine plan at work here. In his years of service Louvier has learned that there is no good or evil on the battlefield, only the divide between those who live and those who die. Once the killing starts it matters little which side you’re on because right and wrong are just empty words that have no meaning outside the politicians’ state rooms. Whatever might wind up in the history books about victor and vanquished Louvier knows the real truth is that everyone loses in the end.
His own losses torment him like an open wound. Louvier thinks again of the report he will have to give to his commanding officers, of the dog tags in his pocket and the visits he must make when he returns to France. What reasons can he give for the deaths of his comrades? What can he tell the woman whose photograph was always tucked in Vacard’s breast pocket? How can he explain to Durieux’s wife that the father of her children will never come home, when Louvier himself-a man with no family-was spared?
There is no explanation. Nothing he can do or say will ever make sense of what has happened here. Nothing will heal the ache of missing; words like ‘courage under fire’ and ‘sacrifice’ can never temper the grief of those the dead left behind. For a moment Louvier almost envies his brothers in arms. At least they are at peace, their struggles over, while he must carry on with his burdens alone.
Well, not entirely alone. Louvier turns to see Aroui rising from his brief vigil. The sun is setting, kindling the endless dunes into an ocean of fire and limning Aroui’s approaching silhouette in scarlet. He is also a man without family now, or so he claims. Louvier wonders if the same anger, the same guilt gnaws at him when he thinks of his own fallen friends. As usual Aroui’s gaze betrays no hint of what he might be feeling, and Louvier does not ask as they return to the citadel under a blood-red sky.
~~~~~~
Night falls quickly, and with it comes the biting cold that Louvier still isn’t used to even after days of living with the desert’s opposite extremes. The cooking fire is doubly welcome after his hasty venture deeper into the citadel to scavenge more wood. Louvier stretches his hands toward the flames and watches Aroui flavour the stew with spices from the little pouches he wears at his belt. The aroma rising from the pot is strange to Louvier, though not unpleasant.
‘It is nearly ready,’ Aroui pronounces, stirring the stew once more. Then he pulls a burning brand from the flames and steps away from the fire.
With a pang of sympathy Louvier guesses at once what he intends to do. ‘I could do that,’ he offers.
Aroui shakes his head. ‘I will do it,’ he says gravely. ‘But thank you.’ Then holding the firebrand like a torch before him he slips away to burn what remains of his afternoon’s grisly work.
Louvier follows his progress until darkness swallows the flickering light of the flame. Shivering, he turns back to the fire and crouches to check the stew. He lets it simmer for a few more minutes, then pours a small portion into his mess tin, blowing on it impatiently until it is cool enough to taste.
And the taste is...not what he might have expected. The meat is surprisingly tender and almost sweet, the stew itself quite savory. Louvier would actually enjoy it if he could only forget the bay mare and the stricken look he had glimpsed in Aroui’s eyes. But at least there is one person who may not guess the full cost of his dinner.
Michel replies immediately to Louvier’s knock and manages to sit up by the time the door is open. He still looks pale and strained, though not from pain this time.
‘About before-’ he starts hurriedly, but Louvier dismisses his would-be apology.
‘Forget it,’ he says, and smiles to soften the interruption. ‘I take it you’re feeling better.’
‘A little,’ nods Michel. ‘Is that dinner?’ he asks hopefully.
‘It is, if you think you can keep it down this time.’ Carefully Louvier kneels to offer him the mess tin.
‘I’m hungry enough to risk it,’ Michel tells him, accepting the tin and sniffing at the steam still rising from the stew. ‘But what is this?’
‘It’s food that didn’t come out of a can, for a change,’ says Louvier. ‘Eat up, you need to get your strength back.’
Michel looks slightly dubious but obediently begins eating, and after the first bite his expression changes to one of surprise. ‘Not bad,’ he decides. ‘Where did this come from?’
Louvier hesitates. ‘Aroui made it,’ he hedges, and hopes Michel won’t press him for more details.
Fortunately Michel is now too busy eating to question him further. ‘Tell Aroui he can have mess duty from now on,’ he quips between mouthfuls.
Louvier grins, relieved. ‘We’ll see.’
‘I wonder...’ Michel says thoughtfully after a moment. ‘Why didn’t he leave?’
‘I told him he should,’ says Louvier.
Michel looks up from his meal, startled. ‘What did he say?’
‘Not much, as usual,’ Louvier answers wryly. ‘But he seems to feel indebted to us.’
‘To you, you mean,’ infers Michel. ‘Fair enough, I guess. Strange as it is to say...I’m glad he’s here.’
‘So am I,’ admits Louvier quietly. And that, he knows, is where his trouble begins.
~~~~~~
When he returns to the fire the remaining meat is curing over the flames and Aroui is sitting cross-legged on his saddle blanket, meticulously cleaning his knives. Louvier goes to the pot and refills the tin Michel had emptied so readily, then joins Aroui on the blanket. They sit in silence apart from the crackling of the fire, each wrapped in his own thoughts, until Louvier has finished his dinner. He sets the tin aside and watches sparks dancing up toward the stars, feeling unaccountably shy.
‘I haven’t thanked you,’ he says finally, and Aroui turns to face him, head tilted slightly in puzzlement.
‘Thanked me?’
‘For helping with Michel,’ Louvier elaborates, ‘and with-with everything,’ he finishes vaguely, gesturing at the fire and the empty pot of stew.
Aroui seems to shrug. ‘There is no need,’ he replies. ‘Any man would do the same.’
‘No,’ Louvier argues, ‘not any man.’
‘But you would,’ says Aroui simply. It isn’t a question.
‘Yes,’ agrees Louvier, ‘I would.’ But you couldn’t know that, he doesn’t say.
‘Then you do not need to thank me,’ Aroui repeats, and goes back to his task as if there is nothing at all unusual about sharing a meal and a fire with a man he would probably be trying to kill under ordinary circumstances.
Not that there is anything ordinary about what has brought them to their current situation, concedes Louvier. And yet...this night, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Aroui...something about it feels oddly comfortable. There by the reassuring glow of the fire beneath a boundless canopy of stars it is hard to believe that the horrors he has witnessed could ever have occurred in such a place. A waxing moon is rising over the distant hills, so vast it seems to fill the horizon, bright enough to cast shadows across the dunes. In all his travels Louvier has never seen anything that compares to the desert at night, rich with the whisper of shifting sands and the glitter of constellations that look near enough to touch. The sight is beautiful beyond words, and the only thing he will miss if-no, when-they finally get out of the Sahara.
Or perhaps not truly the only thing, he thinks, glancing again at his companion. He can't explain what it is that draws him to the man. Despite all they have been through together Aroui remains mostly a mystery. They are from completely disparate worlds, from countries that are still at war. Louvier knows the commanders who sent him on this mission would instruct him not to trust Aroui and most likely to kill him at the first opportunity.
Yet he does trust Aroui, however foolish that might be. He no longer sees an enemy behind the veil but instead a keen mind and quiet strength, a man of unflinching courage and unexpected generosity. Somehow he feels an interest in the man that is beyond curiosity or the simple solidarity between those who have fought a common foe.
Maybe it is merely the challenge that intrigues him so. Even now, after days of living and fighting side by side, Aroui gives nothing away by look or word. Though he clearly understands and speaks French quite well he says little, and Louvier still isn’t sure if his reticence is a choice or simply the habit of someone who has been often alone. He finds himself wanting to know, to learn the answer to that question and so many others concerning the man beside him.
In another place, another time, Louvier might have allowed himself to consider the true nature of his interest. But this night he stands abruptly, leaving the warmth of the fire with a mumbled excuse about doing the last patrol, and tells himself he is only imagining Aroui's eyes following him into the darkness.
~~~~~~
In the morning Louvier wakes to utter silence. Judging from the dim light filtering in around the door he has slept later than he intended. He sits up stiffly, suppressing a groan at the pain in his shoulders and arms, and looks across the room. Aroui’s bedroll is already empty, his weapons no longer lined up beside it.
Louvier ignores the sudden, irrational lurch of fear and checks his own weapons, still within easy reach of his bedroll where he’d placed them last night. He knows Aroui must simply be checking the horse; he wouldn’t leave without his gear and there’d been no hint of any disturbance in the night for the first time since they set foot in this place. Louvier stretches his sore arms and back, scratches his jaw and wishes he could spare the time and water to shave. Instead he dresses quickly, returns his knife to its sheath in his boot, slings his rifle across his back, and hurries out into another blazing day.
Michel is awake when Louvier opens the door to his room. He’s sitting up, still wan but looking stronger.
Louvier’s smile comes easier at the sight. ‘Salut! You look slightly less like shit this morning.’
‘That makes one of us,’ Michel retorts with a passable attempt at his old grin.
‘Wiseass,’ grumbles Louvier, though he’s fighting his own grin. He crouches to examine Michel’s outstretched leg. ‘Is the pain any worse?’
‘No,’ answers Michel with a brief grimace. ‘I think I can handle it for a while longer.’
‘Only if you promise to tell me when you can’t,’ Louvier agrees. ‘The stitches seem to be holding but I want to change the dressings and get a better look later.’ He stands and crosses to the stack of supplies in the corner. ‘Have you seen Aroui this morning?’ he asks as he opens the box of rations.
Michel shakes his head. ‘No, not yet.’
‘Right.’ Louvier tosses him a packet of rations. ‘You eat breakfast, and when I come back we’ll deal with that leg.’
He’s two steps out the door with a mouthful of his own breakfast when Aroui’s voice echoes through the corridor, calling Louvier’s name. Louvier reaches back for his rifle and sprints toward the courtyard.
The glare of the sun is blinding as he dashes out of the shadowed passageway and skids to a halt, squinting at the sight before him. Asad is still tethered in the only shaded corner, drinking from a bucket of water that Aroui must have brought from the well. Aroui himself is standing in the middle of the courtyard and beside him is the big chestnut stallion that had once belonged to Hafiz. Louvier stares, trying to catch his breath
‘Our fortunes are changing,’ Aroui greets him. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes deepen and Louvier hears the smile he can’t see behind the veil. ‘Suhaib has returned to us.’
Louvier shoulders his rifle again and walks closer, eyeing the horse’s sweat-darkened flanks. ‘He’s not hurt?’
Aroui shakes his head. ‘No. He has run far, I think, but that is nothing strange to him.’ Absently he scratches at the whorl beneath Suhaib’s forelock and the horse sidles nearer, butting his head into Aroui’s chest as if asking for a rub.
Louvier watches them, amused. He knows the Imazighen train their mounts to bear them into combat and it’s disconcerting to see the stallion behaving more like an affectionate dog than a veteran warhorse. He has to admire the bond between horse and rider, the trust that allows Aroui to command such a formidable animal with merely a gentle touch or a soft word. Louvier has never been on horseback and he wonders whether Suhaib or Asad would tolerate him if Aroui asked it of them. If only there were some way for Michel to ride despite his wounded leg... That thought leads to another that makes his heart stutter and his smile fade.
Aroui sees the look on his face and turns to him sharply. ‘What is it?’
‘I think I have an idea,’ begins Louvier slowly, and then the words are tumbling out, a clear, complete plan taking shape rapidly while he speaks. Aroui’s eyes grow bright with excitement as he listens.
‘Will it work?’ Louvier asks him anxiously. ‘Will the horses do it?’
‘It is a good plan,’ Aroui assures him. ‘The horses are used to such work. If we allow them to rest today they will be ready to leave tomorrow.’
Tomorrow! After so many days of uncertainty and terror it hardly seems possible to believe that the nightmare may be coming to an end at last. But if they are to leave they all have plenty of preparations to make first.
~~~~~~
‘What can I do?’ Michel demands as soon as he has heard the plan.
‘First we’re going to change those dressings,’ Louvier reminds him. ‘Then we’ll need to make some rope. If you can braid the lines from our chutes together I think that might just make enough.’
‘I can do that,’ Michel agrees. ‘What else?’
Louvier looks over at the battered field radio perched on top of their supplies. ‘Do you think you can get the radio working? I want to know who else is out here before we go anywhere.’
Michel nods. ‘I can try. Maybe I can rig something with the parts from the plane.’
‘Good idea,’ approves Louvier. ‘Now let me take a look at that leg again.’
Maybe their luck really is changing. The wounds remain clean, with only slight swelling around the stitches and no stench of infection. After Louvier has secured the fresh bandages Michel accepts another dose of antibiotics but postpones the morphine injection, insisting he wants to keep a clear head while he works. Louvier leaves him carefully untangling the lines of their remaining parachutes and goes to rejoin Aroui.
It takes over an hour to scavenge the materials they need from around the citadel and drag everything into the courtyard with the horses. Then Louvier retrieves the finished lengths of braided lines from Michel and after that they make good progress, pausing only for an occasional drink from their canteens or to test the strength of each new knot. It feels good to be taking some measure of control over their situation at last and Louvier allows himself to hope that their efforts will not be wasted.
The travois is nearly complete when Michel’s shout echoes through the passageway. Louvier meets Aroui’s eyes, his heart in his throat, and together they race for the supply room. They can hear the unmistakable whine and crackle of the field radio even before they reach the door.
Michel is hunched over the radio balanced on his lap and doesn’t look up as they crowd into the room. ‘I heard voices!’ he exclaims breathlessly, working the controls with trembling fingers. ‘Listen!’
For a tense minute they all strain to hear anything other than the buzz of static. Impatiently Michel adjusts the controls again. The radio hisses, pops, and then suddenly a deep voice fills the room. Louvier releases the breath he’d been holding and sags against the doorway, almost dizzy with relief. Though the voice is somewhat garbled it is clearly speaking French, not Arabic.
Michel remains bent over the radio, his shaking hands poised at the controls, and both Louvier and Aroui lean closer to catch every word. The transmission cuts in and out-they’re only receiving one side of the conversation-but before it dissolves into static Louvier hears enough to be sure that the speaker is part of a search party. Help is not far away, and tomorrow they will set out to find it.
As the static fades into silence Louvier claps a hand on Michel’s shoulder. ‘Good work, Michel,’ he grins.
‘You were right, sir!’ Michel beams up at him, flushed with triumph. ‘They’re coming to find us! Should we try to make contact?’
Louvier shakes his head. ‘Not yet. I don’t want to advertise our position until we’re on the move. We don’t know who else could be listening.’
‘Right.’ Michel’s smile falters and he reluctantly sets the radio aside.
‘Don’t worry,’ Louvier reassures him, ‘they won’t miss us. Tomorrow we’ll head straight for the rendezvous site, that’s where they’ll start the search.’
Michel looks uncertain. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘It’s standard procedure,’ Louvier tells him. ‘And whatever happens they won’t be leaving in a hurry. That case means enough to someone for them to send two separate units all the way out here. Whoever’s looking this time probably has orders to cover every grain of sand from the drop site to the border.’
Michel looks over at the mysterious case still sitting amongst their supplies. ‘If you think it’s that important maybe we should open it,’ he suggests.
‘Forget it,’ Louvier says immediately. ‘Our orders were to recover the plane and any survivors, not snoop into government intel.’
Michel stares up at him in disbelief. ‘Don’t you want to know what’s inside?’
Louvier can feel Aroui’s gaze on him as well but he doesn’t have to think about his reply. ‘If I did it wouldn’t matter. All any of us needs to know about that case is that it’s the reason we’ll have a ride home soon.’
‘But-’ starts Michel, before Louvier cuts him off.
‘I said to forget it,’ he repeats firmly. ‘We’re not going anywhere if we waste time arguing. You need to take your meds, and Aroui and I need to get back to work.’
Michel casts one last disappointed glance at the case but mumbles an agreement and obediently rolls up his sleeve for the injection. Louvier and Aroui leave him slipping quickly into sleep and hurry back to the courtyard. Aroui is quiet, even more so than usual, and Louvier wonders if he is thinking about what will happen when they encounter the search party who will no doubt consider him an enemy. Yet when Aroui does speak his question is not at all what Louvier expects.
‘Tell me truly,’ he says abruptly, turning his keen dark gaze on Louvier. ‘Do you not wish to know the secret of the case?’
Louvier faces him readily. He knows the top brass wouldn’t appreciate what he is about to say, especially to a so-called hostile, but Aroui has more than earned his honesty. ‘I do feel curious,’ he admits. ‘But knowing what’s in that case won’t change what happened here, or bring back the men we lost. Maybe whatever is inside is worth the lives of good men, and maybe it isn’t. It won’t do any good to find out that my unit was slaughtered because someone got bad intelligence or gave the wrong order.’
‘You doubt your commanders,’ Aroui observes, sounding slightly surprised. ‘That is a strange confession for a soldier.’
‘Maybe,’ Louvier shrugs, selecting another length of improvised rope to secure the last part of the travois. ‘Sooner or later every soldier learns that sometimes the men giving orders make mistakes, or make the wrong decisions for the right reasons,’ he explains. ‘The way I see it, once I’m in the field or facing enemy fire the orders that put me there don’t really matter. All that matters is fighting for the men beside me. I figure my first duty is to them, whatever happens.’
‘You are an unusual man, Louvier,’ Aroui tells him quietly.
Louvier glances up from his work, unable to decide if the words are praise or censure, but Aroui is already turning back to his own task. Louvier sighs and forces himself to concentrate on the travois again. He’s not foolish enough to let himself examine why Aroui’s good opinion has begun to matter so much to him.
~~~~~~
The sun is sinking by the time they finish making their preparations. It took trial and quite a bit of error to rig a suitable harness that both the horses will tolerate, and they had to make sure the travois would bear Michel’s weight as well as the supplies that Louvier and Aroui will not be able to carry themselves. Louvier ties the final bundle of gear into place and rolls his stiff shoulders, pausing to admire the dusting of stars already glimmering on the horizon. If his plan succeeds tonight is one of his last opportunities to appreciate the Sahara’s unique beauty and he is startled to feel something almost like regret at the thought.
No one speaks much while they eat a simple dinner in Michel’s room, now mostly empty of supplies. They’ve already discussed what they need to do tomorrow, and talking about what will happen when they meet the search party feels like tempting fate somehow. Looking at Michel’s drawn face and Aroui’s shadowed eyes Louvier can guess what is also weighing on their minds. As anxious as they are to get away from this place none of them can forget the graves in the sand, the friends who will be left behind forever in the morning.
After their meal Aroui slips out to make sure the horses are securely tethered for the night while Louvier gives Michel his antibiotics and helps him get comfortable on his bedroll again.
‘I won’t be sorry to see the last of these four walls,’ sighs Michel as he stretches out. ‘This room feels like a prison cell.’
‘Better a prison than a tomb,’ Louvier points out quietly.
‘I know.’ Michel gives him a weak smile. ‘But the company leaves a lot to be desired,’ he adds with an attempt at levity, pointing to the flattened remains of a scorpion he’d smashed with the butt of his rifle.
‘Another one?’ Louvier makes a mental note to double check his own bedroll. ‘I stopped counting but I think you just passed Vacard’s record.’
‘Super,’ says Michel drily, pulling a face. ‘Have I mentioned I hate the desert?’
‘You may have let it slip once or twice-a day,’ teases Louvier.
‘Well it definitely bears repeating,’ Michel mutters somewhat sheepishly.
‘Fair enough,’ Louvier agrees. He helps Michel adjust the blanket over his wounded leg and stands to leave. ‘Will you be able to sleep now? We’ve got a long day ahead of us.’
Michel nods. ‘I’ll be fine.’ He picks up the flashlight, the beam casting stark shadows over his face, and pauses to meet Louvier’s gaze. ‘Thanks, Louvier,’ he adds before turning off the light.
Louvier catches the weight behind his words and hopes Michel will hear the smile in his voice. ‘Good night, Michel,’ he says softly into the darkness, and shuts the door behind him.
The air feels sharp on his face as he leaves the relative warmth of the room and passes through the corridors to the low tower that had once served as Saria’s favourite lookout point. Louvier stands watching the desert for a long minute, rubbing his arms against the chill. The night is cold and still, starlight silvering the barren dunes. The cloudless sky promises a clear day to follow, or so Louvier wants to believe. By his estimate they need only be spared the calamity of a sandstorm for a few more days, just long enough for them to reach their destination.
With one last sweeping look over the dunes Louvier leaves the tower and begins his nightly circuit of the citadel, moving slowly and stopping often to listen-for what he could not say. They are so close to leaving this place yet after all that has happened he can’t shake the feeling that something will prevent their escape. But the silence remains unbroken apart from his own careful footsteps and the occasional muffled clink of his weapons, and the beam of his flashlight reveals nothing more than crumbling walls and deserted passageways dusted with drifts of sand.
~~~~~~
The room he shares with Aroui is dark and empty when Louvier returns from his uneventful patrol. He hurries to light the lantern, craving the illusion of heat as much as a respite from the darkness. His numb fingers fumble with the lighter but after several attempts the wick catches and a warm glow fills the room.
Turning to his bedroll Louvier arranges his gear in preparation for the morning, then methodically checks and cleans all of his weapons. It’s an unnecessary precaution; the blade of his knife is already gleaming and his guns are in perfect working order. But the familiar task is soothing, a welcome distraction from the unsettled thoughts that he knows will not let him rest. As much as he might wish to sleep he will not be able to truly relax until there are many miles between them and the strange terrors of this place.
It’s not easy to ignore years of drills and Louvier’s practiced hands complete their task all too soon. There is nothing else he can think of that must be done before they leave, no other reason to avoid his bedroll any longer. He shakes out his blanket, wary of scorpions and snakes, then begins to undress. The lamp is burning lower now, casting flickering light into the dark corners of the room. Louvier's fingers itch for his gun again and he has to remind himself that the shadows are only shadows, and were they not his weapons would be of no use anyway.
A faint jingle makes him pause as he bends to unlace his boots. Louvier pulls the bundle of dog tags from his breast pocket and carefully untangles them. One by one-Max, Ballant, Saria, Malovitch, Durieux, Vacard-he turns the tags over in his hands, trying to remember the men who wore them as they were in life rather than their senseless deaths in a war not of their choosing. By now the suffocating emptiness in his chest is familiar, if not easier to bear.
He’s too lost in thought to hear Aroui returning from his own nightly rounds of the citadel. The sound of the door closing startles him from his bittersweet memories, and he looks up to find Aroui watching him.
'We did all that could be done, Louvier,’ Aroui says quietly, guessing the direction of Louvier’s thoughts. ‘You should not blame yourself.'
Louvier shakes his head, returning the tags to his pocket. 'I don't,' he says, and it's the truth. His burden is a different sort of guilt.
Aroui says nothing, but his patient silence becomes a question in itself and Louvier gropes for the words to explain what he is ashamed to admit even to himself.
'My friends were good men,’ he begins. ‘They didn't deserve to die. They deserve to be remembered, but I-sometimes I wish I could forget what happened here,' he confesses in nearly a whisper.
Aroui takes another step closer. 'You also are a good man,' he tells Louvier with quiet conviction. Deliberately he reaches out and places his palm against Louvier's chest, over his heart. The space between them feels suddenly charged, heavy like the sky before a thunderstorm, and Louvier stands frozen, too surprised to move or speak as Aroui continues. ‘A good man, with a good qalb. And I think you will honour your friends. But,' he adds in a low voice, meeting Louvier’s eyes and not removing his hand, 'I will help you forget for a time, if you wish it.'
Louvier stares at him, wondering if he is dreaming. Of all the unforeseen, impossible things that have come to pass in this place it seems hardest to believe that his hidden yearning may be understood, and even shared. Yet the dark eyes gazing back at him are steady and solemn and in their depths he glimpses a warmth he has never seen before.
Louvier’s heart leaps painfully beneath Aroui's palm, hope and longing rising in his chest. He is weary of smoke and shadows, worn almost beyond endurance by the desperate struggle against enemies he could neither see nor understand. But he thinks he understands what Aroui is offering him now, and all that is silently asked in return. In this moment together they have a chance to seize something tangible, something true. Louvier finds his voice.
'I do wish it,' he accepts softly.
Aroui lets his hand drop and steps back, and for an awful wrenching moment Louvier thinks he has misunderstood after all. He wants to explain, to apologize, to curse his own foolishness-and then with another thrill of surprise realizes that Aroui has begun to carefully unwind his tagelmust. Louvier's breath catches at this rare, unexpected gift. He watches in silent wonder as the face he has longed to see is unveiled at last beneath a tumble of dark curls. It is a strong, proud face, with sharp bones and a stubborn jaw not quite hidden by a beard. Louvier’s eyes travel slowly over every feature, lingering on the generous mouth curving into the beginning of a smile.
Before he can stop himself Louvier reaches out, and far from objecting Aroui leans into him and slips a hand around the back of his neck. They're so close now that he can hear Aroui's shallow, uneven breaths and read the question in his eyes. In answer he takes a deep breath of his own, closes his eyes, and fits their mouths together.
The kiss is soft and almost chaste, tentative until Louvier begins to draw away. Then Aroui makes a low sound of protest, mouth opening against Louvier’s and one arm settling across his shoulders to pull him nearer. Louvier forgets his uncertainty and twines his fingers into rumpled hair, wrapping his other arm around Aroui and pressing their bodies together from chest to thigh with no room for doubt between them.
An immeasurable time later they part for breath, both of them panting. For a few stuttering heartbeats they simply look at each other in the wavering golden light. Louvier can see the pulse beating in Aroui’s throat where his robes have fallen open, skin the colour of cinnamon flushing darker still under his gaze. He feels heat thrumming beneath his own skin, and the strength of his desire startles him almost as much as the unmistakable hunger he sees mirrored on Aroui's face. Then as one they are leaning swiftly into another fierce kiss.
Aroui tastes faintly of strange spices, of heat and wind and the desert itself. His body is lean and hard; Louvier can feel shifting muscle even through the coarse cloth beneath his palms. But it isn’t enough, not nearly. Now that what he has wanted in secret is within his grasp he is aching with the need to feel more. Louvier clenches his fists into the robes and blindly bunches them out of the way while Aroui tugs in vain at the front of his jacket, normally deft fingers frustrated by the many buttons.
‘Wait,’ Louvier manages, reluctantly backing away and pushing Aroui’s hands aside to unfasten the uniform himself. Aroui watches him with heavy-lidded eyes, breathing raggedly, and when he sees the shirt beneath the jacket he mutters a curse in Arabic that makes Louvier’s own fingers falter. As he struggles with the last of the buttons Aroui shrugs out of his robes, letting them pool carelessly at his feet, then leans in to join their mouths again in a hard, demanding kiss.
With a smothered moan Louvier decides his uniform is an acceptable loss and just tears the shirt until Aroui can peel the sleeves down his arms and toss it aside. No hint of the day’s heat remains and Louvier shivers when the familiar cool weight of his tags settles against his chest. Then impatient hands are pulling him closer again and he’s not remotely cold anymore because Aroui is wonderfully warm, warm and eager and real. For the first time in days Louvier feels truly alive, his blood singing in his veins and skin burning beneath the touch of callused palms.
And it's strangely easy and right, as if their bodies already know each other. Both of them are trembling violently and Louvier is vaguely aware that the room seems to be tilting around them. He feels dazed and light-headed, breath coming in halting gasps when Aroui’s mouth leaves his to sear along his jaw. Boldly he lets his hands slide down over bared skin and discovers the faintly raised lines of scars, the pucker of an old wound in the crease of Aroui’s ribs. Aroui never flinches, only arches into his touch, pants brokenly against his throat, grips his shoulders hard enough to bruise. Louvier’s legs threaten to buckle then but Aroui’s arms are tight around him, guiding him down to the blankets when they stumble into his bedroll. Breathless and shuddering they strain together, mouths melding once more, hands tracing unsteady paths from shoulder to hip.
What a strange fate, Louvier thinks fleetingly, that the djinn who wreaked so much terror and destruction have also brought them to such a moment. And who can say what new twists the road ahead may take? Tonight it is enough for Louvier to accept this temporary peace, to forget everything but this brief measure of joy and feel only the heat of the body twined with his and Aroui’s heart beating swift and strong against his own.
Above them the lamp splutters and finally goes out with a hiss, yet for this night at least they will fear no darkness.
~~~~~~
AN: I wrote quite a bit of this at work in between rushed bouts of googling and glances at wikipedia, so I've probably played fast and loose with some of the cultural practices of the Imazighen. But according to my sources at least among certain tribes the tagelmust or cheche is worn only by adult males, and only taken off in the presence of close family; showing their features to strangers would be almost unthinkable. Yes, I really am that much of a romantic sap. I think I'll blame Snow Patrol for that, too.
Oh, and here are the translations of the Arabic names/words:
Asad - lion
Aminah - faithful
Suhaib - reddish
qalb - heart
ETA: Epilogue in the comments. Stupid character limit!
Anyway around two years ago left_sider and I stumbled across news about Cyril Raffaelli's latest film, Djinns, a.k.a. Stranded. There was a minor Flailing Incident when we discovered that Cyril would be sporting period military gear, and then a major Flailing Incident when we discovered that one of his co-stars would be Saïd Taghmaoui. Then left_sider decided that, because she is completely shallow they were filming in Morocco, the delectable Saïd's character would obviously have to be some kind of Berber (and to be fair, Saïd does actually have Berber ancestry) and therefore wear the full-on robes and indigo veil and that it would be hot like burning. And after that...well, I think you see where I'm going with this.
The point is, this is for left_sider because it is totally all her fault I owe her a birthday gift. I have no other excuse, but in my defense I was going spare at work when I started writing and this kind of thing tends to happen when I spend a morning listening to Signal Fire on continuous loop. Apparently I got a little loopy, too.
Title: The Gift of the Djinn
Fandom: Djinns, more or less
Characters: Louvier and Aroui and Michel
Word Count: 10,440+ (WHAT IS MY LIFE WHAT ARE MY CHOICES)
Rating: M
Summary: Dans le désert les ennemis ne sont pas ceux que l’on croit.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my shame.
AN: I have not been able to watch the film, but the original synopsis I saw was this: Algeria, 1960. A section of French paratroopers is sent in search of a missing aircraft in the desert. The wreckage of the plane is quickly located, but there are no survivors, just a suitcase stamped "Top Secret." Stormed by enemy soldiers, the troops find refuge in a strange abandoned citadel. Despite warnings to leave at once, they wake up the Djinns, the mysterious evil spirits of the desert. That is...not the story I wrote.
~~~~~~
He is not dead. Realization comes gradually, his mind slow to accept the truth his body tells him. Improbable as it seems he must be alive because he can feel his heart still hammering painfully, his ears ringing with an echo of roaring wind and sand and piercing, inhuman cries. He is soaked with sweat, his uniform clinging to cramped limbs, and his throat aches, not simply parched but raw. Dimly he supposes he must have been shouting.
Cautiously Louvier opens his eyes. It takes him another moment to remember the cause of his blurred vision: he had wrapped his scarf around his head and it is now matted to his face, muffling the ragged sound of his breathing. He ignores the sudden sensation of suffocating that follows that thought and forces himself to focus on his surroundings. He is lying on hard, sun-baked ground, half curled around the rifle clenched in numb fingers. He hears no wind, no hint of the sandstorm-if that was truly what it was-and sees no movement through the thin cotton of his scarf.
Slowly, painfully, Louvier pushes himself upright. His body feels weighted with lead and his fingers fumble with the scarf but at last he manages to unwrap it and squint at the sky. The light around him is only the relentless glare of the blazing desert sun, not the dazzling, otherworldly brightness that had seemed to crackle with energy and shimmer like a mirage. The distant horizon is empty, and the citadel at his back is as silent and deserted as it appeared when the company stumbled into its shadow a week ago. Were it not for the dark-clad figure now stirring next to him Louvier might easily believe himself utterly alone, might wonder if all that has passed was nothing more than a nightmare or the fevered imaginings of one too long in the sun.
Beside him Aroui is sitting up stiffly, his eyes sweeping the sky and then the horizon before he faces Louvier. A dusting of sand coats his tagelmust and a few stubborn grains are caught in his eyelashes, but his gaze is steady and inscrutable as always. For what seems like the hundredth time Louvier wishes he could see the expression hidden behind his companion's veil.
'Is it over?' he asks. His voice comes out cracked, almost a whisper.
'It is over,' Aroui nods. He is hoarse, too, his words heavy with weariness and relief. 'The djinn have gone.'
~~~~~~
It isn't over, of course, not really. As soon as Louvier can force his battered body to move he limps toward the makeshift camp in the lee of the citadel. The desert may be a familiar enemy but it is no less deadly than the mysterious power that killed Vacard and Durieux and the rest of the company. Perhaps, thinks Louvier grimly, it has already claimed yet another life.
Sand is banked knee-high against the canvas and dread twists Louvier’s gut as he reaches the tent. He tugs the door flap open, ducks inside-and lurches to a halt with the business end of Michel’s rifle pointed between his eyes. The wounded man is propped against his pack, face bloodless beneath his sunburn and beaded with sweat, wide eyes fever-bright. He's visibly shaking from the effort of holding his weapon upright but his aim doesn’t falter.
‘Easy, Michel,’ Louvier soothes immediately, raising his hands. ‘It’s me, Louvier. The real me,’ he adds, remembering poor Malovitch. ‘They’ve gone.’
Michel stares up at him for a moment, then lets the rifle drop and collapses back onto his bedroll, breathing hard. ‘Then it’s over?’
‘They're gone,’ repeats Louvier, and doesn't mention that a different sort of battle is just beginning. Instead he kneels beside Michel and carefully starts to lift the blanket covering his shattered leg. He can sense Michel's apprehension and with an effort keeps his own expression blank, though he can't quite mask his relief once the leg is exposed.
Louvier has seen men die from less grisly wounds, and survive even worse; he knows better than to voice any expectations at this point. But there is no fresh blood seeping through the bandages swathing Michel's leg from ankle to thigh. It looks like the desperate, hurried attempt at surgery Louvier had guessed his way through last night might have bought them more time, if nothing else. It's the first bit of luck they've had since this ill-fated mission began.
'I'll be damned,' says Louvier, replacing the blanket and keeping his tone light as he meets Michel's anxious gaze again. 'The stitches weren't the prettiest but they're holding.'
Some of the tension leaves Michel's face and he manages a tired smile. 'Then I should thank you,' he says wryly. 'Women love men with scars.'
'So I’ve heard,' smiles Louvier in return, grateful that such bravado, however false, isn't yet beyond Michel. He opens the field kit to find another dose of the antibiotics that he hopes will ward off infection, only to drop it and grab for his gun when a shadow falls across Michel's bedroll.
But the silhouette in the doorway belongs to their last living companion, not another of the faceless enemy they struggled to drive away for so long, and at such terrible cost. Louvier lays aside the rifle and reminds himself to breathe again as Aroui stoops to enter the tent and offers Michel a freshly filled canteen.
'How is the leg?' he asks in his careful, heavily-accented French.
'Better,' Louvier informs him with as much conviction as he can muster.
'Yes, better,' echoes Michel.
'Good,' says Aroui, and Louvier thinks he might even be smiling behind the veil.
Michel gulps down the last of the water and takes the pills Louvier gives him, then sinks back against his bedroll. He seems exhausted by the exertion required just to sit up but flatly refuses Louvier's offer of another dose of morphine.
'Not yet,' he says, mouth drawn in a determined line, and changes the subject before Louvier can insist. ‘What happens now?’
Louvier meets Aroui's solemn gaze above Michel's head. He wishes he knew more than a few halting words of Arabic; he would prefer to discuss their chances in a language that Michel did not understand. Whatever the boy might already fear or guess it will do him no good to hear that his first mission could well be his last.
Still, their choices are few enough that it's easy to reach a common decision without speaking. Aroui casts a meaningful glance at Michel, then inclines his head slightly in silent support of what he knows Louvier is about to say.
‘You rest here,’ Louvier tells Michel. 'That's an order,' he continues firmly, interrupting the inevitable futile protest. ‘Aroui and I will check the citadel again. If it's safe we'll move camp inside. We'll stay put for tonight, and tomorrow we’ll work on finding a way to get the hell out of here.’
As plans go he’s certainly heard better ones, and he knows even the youngest member of his unit is experienced enough to be thinking the same thing.
Michel tries for a grin anyway. ‘Good, I fucking hate the desert.’
Louvier grins back, though it feels more like a grimace. ‘Try to get some sleep,’ he says as he follows Aroui out, pausing briefly in the doorway. Michel’s eyes are already closed, his hands clenched into the blanket hiding the bloodied wreck of his leg.
'We're going to make it,' Louvier promises, and hopes he sounds as if he believes it.
~~~~~~
They have a chance, at least, because they still have water. Had the well been as empty as the rest of the crumbling buildings they would all have perished days ago. Louvier does not acknowledge the thought that perhaps that would have been a kinder fate than what befell instead.
He begins his careful circuit of the citadel, occasionally glimpsing Aroui exploring from the opposite direction, and this time there are no whispers from the shadows. This time the only movement is the dust that stirs under his boots when he steps into each empty room. Now it appears the ancient walls will offer protection from the elements, not further terror, and a soldier's instincts make Louvier grateful for any cover in this open, desolate land. He will sleep easier with a wall at his back.
In one of the larger rooms he is surprised to find an ornate lantern suspended from the ceiling. Though the metal is tarnished with age and one of the cut glass panels is missing there is still oil in the reservoir, and when Louvier lights the wick the lamp warms the room with a soft glow and casts intricate patterns against the ceiling. It is startlingly beautiful, a reminder of the citadel’s vanished glory, and Louvier wonders anew about the history of this strange place. But it's pointless to waste time thinking about yet another mystery, yet more questions he will never be able to answer. Louvier blows out the lamp and returns to the dim passageway to finish his patrol.
He meets Aroui again in the little courtyard where the Imazighen had left their horses tethered. Only the dun-colored gelding remains, snorting and stamping as Louvier approaches, his withers still quivering and a frayed rope dangling from his halter. The rest must have bolted in their terror, leaving behind snapped tethers and hoofprints already erased by the wind.
Aroui is kneeling beside a dark, misshapen mound in the shadow of the eastern wall, one hand stretched out to rest against it. Bile rises in Louvier's throat when he recognizes the bay mare. Her body lies partially buried beneath a drift of sand, her neck twisted in grotesque mockery of its once graceful arch. Aroui's fingers tremble as they pass gently over sightless eyes and smooth the long mane, and Louvier thinks suddenly of the first time he saw the small band of Imazighen rising out of the dunes like a mirage, fierce and mysterious. Aroui had been riding the blood-red mare.
Louvier wavers, reluctant to disturb the grieving man, but the sun is already high overhead and there is much to do. He goes to Aroui’s side and puts a tentative hand on his shoulder.
'I'm sorry,' he offers quietly.
Aroui nods an acknowledgment and his hand covers Louvier's for a moment, pressing it briefly in gratitude. Then his shoulders straighten and he rises smoothly to his feet, automatically glancing at the position of the climbing sun. Louvier glimpses sorrow in his eyes, anger too, but no tears.
‘I saw no danger,’ Aroui says then, indicating the silent buildings around them with a sweeping gesture, and his voice is steady. ‘And you?’
Louvier shakes his head. ‘There was nothing. I think we’ll be safe inside from now on.’ As safe as they may ever be, anyway; he has learned all too well that in this place things are not always as they appear. Nevertheless he tells Aroui of the lantern room and the smaller chamber next to it. They are situated near the well, in a part of the citadel that would be defensible should the need arise, and both have intact wooden doors.
‘We should move the camp there,’ Aroui agrees. ‘But first I must see to Asad.’
Louvier follows his gaze to the dun pacing a few yards away. The horse is watching them uneasily, the whites of his eyes showing and both ears laid back. Apparently undaunted Aroui approaches the spooked animal slowly and speaks to him in low tones. At first Asad shies away, tossing his head, but Aroui moves with him patiently and continues his coaxing until the horse stops retreating and allows him to grasp the halter.
‘Come,’ Aroui beckons to Louvier then, calmly stroking Asad’s neck. ‘He will stand for you now.’
Louvier notes the horse’s flared nostrils and heaving flanks and thinks privately that the opposite is more likely. Gritting his teeth he pushes such misgivings to the back of his mind and walks forward cautiously, following his companion’s example while Aroui murmurs commands to the horse in Arabic. To his surprise and relief Asad merely huffs against his outstretched palm for a moment, then lowers his proud head and permits Louvier to touch his velvety soft muzzle.
‘Good,’ approves Aroui, handing Louvier the lead rope and stepping back. ‘Hold him here and I will see if he is injured.’
Louvier watches him, absurdly grateful that Asad consents to remain still. He finds his eyes drawn to the sun-browned, capable hands moving carefully down the horse's legs and lifting each hoof for examination. Pale marks crisscross Aroui's knuckles, battle scars mingled with souvenirs of a hard life in a hard land. Louvier can’t help feeling curious about such a life, about all the things he has yet to learn regarding his enigmatic comrade in arms, until Aroui’s voice startles him out of his thoughts.
‘He is not lame, but he needs water.’ Aroui’s gaze flickers briefly toward the eastern wall. ‘And he will not stay here.’
‘I saw another courtyard close to the well,’ suggests Louvier.
‘Then I will follow you,’ says Aroui, taking Asad’s lead again, and together they pass like ghosts through the eerily silent city.
~~~~~~
Their remaining supplies are so pathetically few that setting up the new camp takes little time. While Aroui draws more water from the well and tends to the horse Louvier begins transferring their equipment and rations into the smaller of the two rooms. Together they carry the salvaged parts from the plane wreck, and then by unspoken agreement they both move their bedrolls and gear into the lantern room. Somehow they have grown used to guarding each other’s backs and only later does it occur to Louvier that there is no longer a need.
Using what is left of his parachute as a kind of sling they manage to move Michel into the supply room without jarring his wounded leg much, yet he is still gritting his teeth and shaking when they settle him on his bedroll again. Aroui props him up to drink from his canteen while Louvier selects another morphine syrette from the rapidly dwindling store in the field kit.
‘This is pointless,’ Michel gasps weakly, as white as his bandages.
Louvier faces him sharply. ‘Don’t you dare give up on me, soldier.’
‘Look at me,’ persists Michel. ‘I can hardly sit up. I’m not stupid, I know I won’t be walking out of here.’
Pointedly Louvier continues preparing an iodine swab. ‘That’s the pain talking,’ he says. ‘And if need be I’ll carry you out.’
‘No!’ Michel shakes his head, unsuccessfully trying to twist away from Aroui’s careful grip. ‘We’re already running out of rations anyway. You should leave while you still can.’
‘You know me better than that,’ snaps Louvier. ‘No one in this company has ever left a man behind and I don’t plan to be the first.’
Michel glowers up at him, jaw set in a stubborn line. ‘Well I don’t plan to let you die here because of me,’ he retorts.
‘Who said anything about dying?’ Louvier counters. ‘Look, since we missed the rendezvous there’s a good chance somebody’s already looking for us,’ he reasons, voicing the one hope that has kept his own despair at bay. ‘Even if we can’t make it back to the drop site we just need to hold on here until they find us.’
Michel looks unconvinced. ‘You really think they’re searching for us?’
‘Not for us,’ corrects Louvier, ‘for that.’ He nods toward the blood-spattered silver case stamped SECRET stacked amongst their supplies. ‘You think it’s standard procedure to mount a rescue mission every time a single plane goes missing? No, somebody wants whatever’s in that case badly enough to send us all the way out here, and I’m betting they’ll keep searching until they find it.’
‘Are you willing to bet your life on it?’ challenges Michel. ‘Because I think you’re a fool if you don’t get out of here when you have the chance.’
‘Maybe,’ Louvier shrugs, ‘but I’m the fool who still outranks you. And right now I’m ordering you to stop talking shit and get some rest.’
Michel stares back at him, chest heaving, then glances at Aroui, impenetrable as ever behind the veil. ‘Yes, sir,’ he sighs finally, and offers his arm for the injection. He is silent while Louvier checks his dressings again and they ease him carefully under his blanket, not speaking until Louvier is closing up the field kit.
‘What will you do now?’ he asks then, voice already slurring a little as the morphine begins its work.
Louvier pauses, thinking of the two broken figures shrouded in their parachutes and the beautiful bay lying crumpled and still in the drifting sand. Aroui catches his gaze from the doorway and he knows they are thinking the same thing: they must tend to their dead before the carrion birds arrive. They are still in a war zone, and even if this ancient, forgotten place does not appear on any maps they dare not risk drawing attention to their position.
‘We’ll respect the fallen,’ he answers simply as he stands to leave.
Understanding settles over Michel’s weary face. ‘Wait,’ he pleads, reaching up to catch Louvier’s sleeve. He fumbles in his jacket pockets and produces a nearly empty pack of Gauloises. ‘Take these,’ he offers solemnly. 'For Durieux.'
Louvier accepts the crumpled gift and looks at it for a moment, seeing instead countless identical packs in another pair of hands. ‘Thanks,’ he says around the tightness in his throat, slipping the cigarettes into his breast pocket. The tangle of dog tags already hidden there jingles faintly, and it sounds like a reproach.
Aroui is waiting for him in the passageway. Louvier shuts the door and faces him uncertainly, grappling with a nagging thought that he can no longer pretend to ignore. He takes a breath and tries to speak with a confidence he does not feel.
‘Michel was right, you know.’
Aroui’s brows draw together and he looks closely at Louvier in the dim light. ‘You would leave?’
‘No,’ Louvier shakes his head, oddly stung by the idea that Aroui might doubt his word. ‘I meant what I said in there, I’ll carry him if I have to,’ he repeats. ‘But it’s different for you. You have a horse, you should go back to your own people.’
Aroui is still regarding him intently, eyes nearly black and impossible to read in the shadowed passage. ‘You wish me to leave?’
‘No!’ blurts Louvier, more vehemently than he intended. Immediately he regrets his honesty. Of course he wants Aroui to stay; the man has proven to be a more than capable ally and his steady presence is an undeniable comfort. But those are selfish reasons, and Louvier knows the only logical course is for Aroui to ride out while there are still enough provisions for his journey.
‘There’s no need for you to stay,’ he hurries to explain. ‘Your people must be worried about you. Your family-’
‘I have no family now,’ interrupts Aroui, holding up a hand to forestall any reply. ‘No one waits for me,’ he continues calmly. ‘I will stay.’
Louvier is at a loss. He had assumed, based on the way Hafiz and Amazzal and even Kamel had deferred to him, that Aroui was a man of some standing amongst the Imazighen. He finds it difficult to believe Aroui’s claim that no one is missing him, and harder still to understand why the man would choose to face an uncertain fate in this place rather than attempt to return to his own people.
‘But why?’ he demands. ‘Why risk dying here for no reason?’
‘You saved my life,’ Aroui reminds him quietly.
‘And you probably saved mine,’ argues Louvier. ‘You owe me-us-nothing.’
Aroui merely shrugs. ‘I will stay.’
‘Why?’ Louvier asks again, searching Aroui’s impossibly dark eyes.
Aroui meets his gaze resolutely. ‘We start this fight together,’ he replies. ‘We must finish together also.’
And that, it seems, is the only answer Louvier will receive. He tries one more argument before conceding defeat.
‘We only have enough food for three days, four at the most,’ he points out.
‘I know.’ Aroui rests a hand on the hilt of the curved knife at his belt. ‘I will butcher the horse.’
Louvier opens his mouth to protest, thinks better of it, and nods a reluctant agreement. It is not his choice to make, and he can imagine what such a decision must have cost. Nevertheless Aroui seems to guess something of his unspoken objection.
‘In life Aminah saved me many times,’ he says softly. ‘Now in death she may save us all. We must not waste this gift and rob her death of purpose.’
Then he’s gone, disappearing swiftly into the labyrinthine streets. Louvier watches him go, more relieved than he has any right to be, and hating himself for it.
~~~~~~
Despite the unwelcome practice Louvier has had in the last week the ninth grave of this mission is no easier to dig than the first. It is a slow, miserable job under the merciless sun, and it is not only sweat that stings his eyes while he works. By the time the hole is deep enough Louvier’s arms and shoulders are aching, his palms beginning to blister in spite of their calluses. He retreats to the shade of the citadel for a drink from his canteen.
Aroui finds him there, his hands bloodstained and eyes more guarded than ever, and neither speaks of their grim labours. In solemn silence they carry the bodies of Vacard and Durieux to the grave and lay them gently side by side, careful not to disarrange the makeshift shrouds hiding faces still frozen in pain or terror. Louvier bends to tuck the pack of Gauloises into the folds of Durieux’s parachute before they begin refilling the grave.
When they are finished Aroui leaves him alone, walking away to sit by the piles of stones they’d used to mark Kamel’s grave the day before, and Amazzal’s the night before that. Already it seems an age has passed since the Imazighen first rode unafraid into the company’s camp, since Kamel held a knife to Louvier’s throat while they struck their uneasy truce. But that was before they found themselves fighting for their lives in the same waking nightmare, and in the end Kamel had choked out his last breath with Louvier’s hands pressed desperately to the worst of his wounds and his lifeblood still seeping swiftly into the sand...
Louvier forces the memory aside and stares down at the freshly smoothed sand at his feet. He thinks of the men now resting beneath it: grizzled veteran Vacard, always ready with a cynical remark yet quicker still to help a comrade; cheerful, chain smoking Durieux, notorious for his sweet tooth and love-hate affair with Olympique de Marseille.
He ought to say something, Louvier knows, yet nothing seems adequate. He tries without success to remember the lines of a prayer he hasn’t heard since he was a boy. But deliver us from evil, he thinks bitterly, and the words sound hollow even in his head. If there is a God there was certainly no sign of his mercy when good men were being slaughtered by an enemy they could not fight.
No, there was no divine plan at work here. In his years of service Louvier has learned that there is no good or evil on the battlefield, only the divide between those who live and those who die. Once the killing starts it matters little which side you’re on because right and wrong are just empty words that have no meaning outside the politicians’ state rooms. Whatever might wind up in the history books about victor and vanquished Louvier knows the real truth is that everyone loses in the end.
His own losses torment him like an open wound. Louvier thinks again of the report he will have to give to his commanding officers, of the dog tags in his pocket and the visits he must make when he returns to France. What reasons can he give for the deaths of his comrades? What can he tell the woman whose photograph was always tucked in Vacard’s breast pocket? How can he explain to Durieux’s wife that the father of her children will never come home, when Louvier himself-a man with no family-was spared?
There is no explanation. Nothing he can do or say will ever make sense of what has happened here. Nothing will heal the ache of missing; words like ‘courage under fire’ and ‘sacrifice’ can never temper the grief of those the dead left behind. For a moment Louvier almost envies his brothers in arms. At least they are at peace, their struggles over, while he must carry on with his burdens alone.
Well, not entirely alone. Louvier turns to see Aroui rising from his brief vigil. The sun is setting, kindling the endless dunes into an ocean of fire and limning Aroui’s approaching silhouette in scarlet. He is also a man without family now, or so he claims. Louvier wonders if the same anger, the same guilt gnaws at him when he thinks of his own fallen friends. As usual Aroui’s gaze betrays no hint of what he might be feeling, and Louvier does not ask as they return to the citadel under a blood-red sky.
~~~~~~
Night falls quickly, and with it comes the biting cold that Louvier still isn’t used to even after days of living with the desert’s opposite extremes. The cooking fire is doubly welcome after his hasty venture deeper into the citadel to scavenge more wood. Louvier stretches his hands toward the flames and watches Aroui flavour the stew with spices from the little pouches he wears at his belt. The aroma rising from the pot is strange to Louvier, though not unpleasant.
‘It is nearly ready,’ Aroui pronounces, stirring the stew once more. Then he pulls a burning brand from the flames and steps away from the fire.
With a pang of sympathy Louvier guesses at once what he intends to do. ‘I could do that,’ he offers.
Aroui shakes his head. ‘I will do it,’ he says gravely. ‘But thank you.’ Then holding the firebrand like a torch before him he slips away to burn what remains of his afternoon’s grisly work.
Louvier follows his progress until darkness swallows the flickering light of the flame. Shivering, he turns back to the fire and crouches to check the stew. He lets it simmer for a few more minutes, then pours a small portion into his mess tin, blowing on it impatiently until it is cool enough to taste.
And the taste is...not what he might have expected. The meat is surprisingly tender and almost sweet, the stew itself quite savory. Louvier would actually enjoy it if he could only forget the bay mare and the stricken look he had glimpsed in Aroui’s eyes. But at least there is one person who may not guess the full cost of his dinner.
Michel replies immediately to Louvier’s knock and manages to sit up by the time the door is open. He still looks pale and strained, though not from pain this time.
‘About before-’ he starts hurriedly, but Louvier dismisses his would-be apology.
‘Forget it,’ he says, and smiles to soften the interruption. ‘I take it you’re feeling better.’
‘A little,’ nods Michel. ‘Is that dinner?’ he asks hopefully.
‘It is, if you think you can keep it down this time.’ Carefully Louvier kneels to offer him the mess tin.
‘I’m hungry enough to risk it,’ Michel tells him, accepting the tin and sniffing at the steam still rising from the stew. ‘But what is this?’
‘It’s food that didn’t come out of a can, for a change,’ says Louvier. ‘Eat up, you need to get your strength back.’
Michel looks slightly dubious but obediently begins eating, and after the first bite his expression changes to one of surprise. ‘Not bad,’ he decides. ‘Where did this come from?’
Louvier hesitates. ‘Aroui made it,’ he hedges, and hopes Michel won’t press him for more details.
Fortunately Michel is now too busy eating to question him further. ‘Tell Aroui he can have mess duty from now on,’ he quips between mouthfuls.
Louvier grins, relieved. ‘We’ll see.’
‘I wonder...’ Michel says thoughtfully after a moment. ‘Why didn’t he leave?’
‘I told him he should,’ says Louvier.
Michel looks up from his meal, startled. ‘What did he say?’
‘Not much, as usual,’ Louvier answers wryly. ‘But he seems to feel indebted to us.’
‘To you, you mean,’ infers Michel. ‘Fair enough, I guess. Strange as it is to say...I’m glad he’s here.’
‘So am I,’ admits Louvier quietly. And that, he knows, is where his trouble begins.
~~~~~~
When he returns to the fire the remaining meat is curing over the flames and Aroui is sitting cross-legged on his saddle blanket, meticulously cleaning his knives. Louvier goes to the pot and refills the tin Michel had emptied so readily, then joins Aroui on the blanket. They sit in silence apart from the crackling of the fire, each wrapped in his own thoughts, until Louvier has finished his dinner. He sets the tin aside and watches sparks dancing up toward the stars, feeling unaccountably shy.
‘I haven’t thanked you,’ he says finally, and Aroui turns to face him, head tilted slightly in puzzlement.
‘Thanked me?’
‘For helping with Michel,’ Louvier elaborates, ‘and with-with everything,’ he finishes vaguely, gesturing at the fire and the empty pot of stew.
Aroui seems to shrug. ‘There is no need,’ he replies. ‘Any man would do the same.’
‘No,’ Louvier argues, ‘not any man.’
‘But you would,’ says Aroui simply. It isn’t a question.
‘Yes,’ agrees Louvier, ‘I would.’ But you couldn’t know that, he doesn’t say.
‘Then you do not need to thank me,’ Aroui repeats, and goes back to his task as if there is nothing at all unusual about sharing a meal and a fire with a man he would probably be trying to kill under ordinary circumstances.
Not that there is anything ordinary about what has brought them to their current situation, concedes Louvier. And yet...this night, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Aroui...something about it feels oddly comfortable. There by the reassuring glow of the fire beneath a boundless canopy of stars it is hard to believe that the horrors he has witnessed could ever have occurred in such a place. A waxing moon is rising over the distant hills, so vast it seems to fill the horizon, bright enough to cast shadows across the dunes. In all his travels Louvier has never seen anything that compares to the desert at night, rich with the whisper of shifting sands and the glitter of constellations that look near enough to touch. The sight is beautiful beyond words, and the only thing he will miss if-no, when-they finally get out of the Sahara.
Or perhaps not truly the only thing, he thinks, glancing again at his companion. He can't explain what it is that draws him to the man. Despite all they have been through together Aroui remains mostly a mystery. They are from completely disparate worlds, from countries that are still at war. Louvier knows the commanders who sent him on this mission would instruct him not to trust Aroui and most likely to kill him at the first opportunity.
Yet he does trust Aroui, however foolish that might be. He no longer sees an enemy behind the veil but instead a keen mind and quiet strength, a man of unflinching courage and unexpected generosity. Somehow he feels an interest in the man that is beyond curiosity or the simple solidarity between those who have fought a common foe.
Maybe it is merely the challenge that intrigues him so. Even now, after days of living and fighting side by side, Aroui gives nothing away by look or word. Though he clearly understands and speaks French quite well he says little, and Louvier still isn’t sure if his reticence is a choice or simply the habit of someone who has been often alone. He finds himself wanting to know, to learn the answer to that question and so many others concerning the man beside him.
In another place, another time, Louvier might have allowed himself to consider the true nature of his interest. But this night he stands abruptly, leaving the warmth of the fire with a mumbled excuse about doing the last patrol, and tells himself he is only imagining Aroui's eyes following him into the darkness.
~~~~~~
In the morning Louvier wakes to utter silence. Judging from the dim light filtering in around the door he has slept later than he intended. He sits up stiffly, suppressing a groan at the pain in his shoulders and arms, and looks across the room. Aroui’s bedroll is already empty, his weapons no longer lined up beside it.
Louvier ignores the sudden, irrational lurch of fear and checks his own weapons, still within easy reach of his bedroll where he’d placed them last night. He knows Aroui must simply be checking the horse; he wouldn’t leave without his gear and there’d been no hint of any disturbance in the night for the first time since they set foot in this place. Louvier stretches his sore arms and back, scratches his jaw and wishes he could spare the time and water to shave. Instead he dresses quickly, returns his knife to its sheath in his boot, slings his rifle across his back, and hurries out into another blazing day.
Michel is awake when Louvier opens the door to his room. He’s sitting up, still wan but looking stronger.
Louvier’s smile comes easier at the sight. ‘Salut! You look slightly less like shit this morning.’
‘That makes one of us,’ Michel retorts with a passable attempt at his old grin.
‘Wiseass,’ grumbles Louvier, though he’s fighting his own grin. He crouches to examine Michel’s outstretched leg. ‘Is the pain any worse?’
‘No,’ answers Michel with a brief grimace. ‘I think I can handle it for a while longer.’
‘Only if you promise to tell me when you can’t,’ Louvier agrees. ‘The stitches seem to be holding but I want to change the dressings and get a better look later.’ He stands and crosses to the stack of supplies in the corner. ‘Have you seen Aroui this morning?’ he asks as he opens the box of rations.
Michel shakes his head. ‘No, not yet.’
‘Right.’ Louvier tosses him a packet of rations. ‘You eat breakfast, and when I come back we’ll deal with that leg.’
He’s two steps out the door with a mouthful of his own breakfast when Aroui’s voice echoes through the corridor, calling Louvier’s name. Louvier reaches back for his rifle and sprints toward the courtyard.
The glare of the sun is blinding as he dashes out of the shadowed passageway and skids to a halt, squinting at the sight before him. Asad is still tethered in the only shaded corner, drinking from a bucket of water that Aroui must have brought from the well. Aroui himself is standing in the middle of the courtyard and beside him is the big chestnut stallion that had once belonged to Hafiz. Louvier stares, trying to catch his breath
‘Our fortunes are changing,’ Aroui greets him. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes deepen and Louvier hears the smile he can’t see behind the veil. ‘Suhaib has returned to us.’
Louvier shoulders his rifle again and walks closer, eyeing the horse’s sweat-darkened flanks. ‘He’s not hurt?’
Aroui shakes his head. ‘No. He has run far, I think, but that is nothing strange to him.’ Absently he scratches at the whorl beneath Suhaib’s forelock and the horse sidles nearer, butting his head into Aroui’s chest as if asking for a rub.
Louvier watches them, amused. He knows the Imazighen train their mounts to bear them into combat and it’s disconcerting to see the stallion behaving more like an affectionate dog than a veteran warhorse. He has to admire the bond between horse and rider, the trust that allows Aroui to command such a formidable animal with merely a gentle touch or a soft word. Louvier has never been on horseback and he wonders whether Suhaib or Asad would tolerate him if Aroui asked it of them. If only there were some way for Michel to ride despite his wounded leg... That thought leads to another that makes his heart stutter and his smile fade.
Aroui sees the look on his face and turns to him sharply. ‘What is it?’
‘I think I have an idea,’ begins Louvier slowly, and then the words are tumbling out, a clear, complete plan taking shape rapidly while he speaks. Aroui’s eyes grow bright with excitement as he listens.
‘Will it work?’ Louvier asks him anxiously. ‘Will the horses do it?’
‘It is a good plan,’ Aroui assures him. ‘The horses are used to such work. If we allow them to rest today they will be ready to leave tomorrow.’
Tomorrow! After so many days of uncertainty and terror it hardly seems possible to believe that the nightmare may be coming to an end at last. But if they are to leave they all have plenty of preparations to make first.
~~~~~~
‘What can I do?’ Michel demands as soon as he has heard the plan.
‘First we’re going to change those dressings,’ Louvier reminds him. ‘Then we’ll need to make some rope. If you can braid the lines from our chutes together I think that might just make enough.’
‘I can do that,’ Michel agrees. ‘What else?’
Louvier looks over at the battered field radio perched on top of their supplies. ‘Do you think you can get the radio working? I want to know who else is out here before we go anywhere.’
Michel nods. ‘I can try. Maybe I can rig something with the parts from the plane.’
‘Good idea,’ approves Louvier. ‘Now let me take a look at that leg again.’
Maybe their luck really is changing. The wounds remain clean, with only slight swelling around the stitches and no stench of infection. After Louvier has secured the fresh bandages Michel accepts another dose of antibiotics but postpones the morphine injection, insisting he wants to keep a clear head while he works. Louvier leaves him carefully untangling the lines of their remaining parachutes and goes to rejoin Aroui.
It takes over an hour to scavenge the materials they need from around the citadel and drag everything into the courtyard with the horses. Then Louvier retrieves the finished lengths of braided lines from Michel and after that they make good progress, pausing only for an occasional drink from their canteens or to test the strength of each new knot. It feels good to be taking some measure of control over their situation at last and Louvier allows himself to hope that their efforts will not be wasted.
The travois is nearly complete when Michel’s shout echoes through the passageway. Louvier meets Aroui’s eyes, his heart in his throat, and together they race for the supply room. They can hear the unmistakable whine and crackle of the field radio even before they reach the door.
Michel is hunched over the radio balanced on his lap and doesn’t look up as they crowd into the room. ‘I heard voices!’ he exclaims breathlessly, working the controls with trembling fingers. ‘Listen!’
For a tense minute they all strain to hear anything other than the buzz of static. Impatiently Michel adjusts the controls again. The radio hisses, pops, and then suddenly a deep voice fills the room. Louvier releases the breath he’d been holding and sags against the doorway, almost dizzy with relief. Though the voice is somewhat garbled it is clearly speaking French, not Arabic.
Michel remains bent over the radio, his shaking hands poised at the controls, and both Louvier and Aroui lean closer to catch every word. The transmission cuts in and out-they’re only receiving one side of the conversation-but before it dissolves into static Louvier hears enough to be sure that the speaker is part of a search party. Help is not far away, and tomorrow they will set out to find it.
As the static fades into silence Louvier claps a hand on Michel’s shoulder. ‘Good work, Michel,’ he grins.
‘You were right, sir!’ Michel beams up at him, flushed with triumph. ‘They’re coming to find us! Should we try to make contact?’
Louvier shakes his head. ‘Not yet. I don’t want to advertise our position until we’re on the move. We don’t know who else could be listening.’
‘Right.’ Michel’s smile falters and he reluctantly sets the radio aside.
‘Don’t worry,’ Louvier reassures him, ‘they won’t miss us. Tomorrow we’ll head straight for the rendezvous site, that’s where they’ll start the search.’
Michel looks uncertain. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘It’s standard procedure,’ Louvier tells him. ‘And whatever happens they won’t be leaving in a hurry. That case means enough to someone for them to send two separate units all the way out here. Whoever’s looking this time probably has orders to cover every grain of sand from the drop site to the border.’
Michel looks over at the mysterious case still sitting amongst their supplies. ‘If you think it’s that important maybe we should open it,’ he suggests.
‘Forget it,’ Louvier says immediately. ‘Our orders were to recover the plane and any survivors, not snoop into government intel.’
Michel stares up at him in disbelief. ‘Don’t you want to know what’s inside?’
Louvier can feel Aroui’s gaze on him as well but he doesn’t have to think about his reply. ‘If I did it wouldn’t matter. All any of us needs to know about that case is that it’s the reason we’ll have a ride home soon.’
‘But-’ starts Michel, before Louvier cuts him off.
‘I said to forget it,’ he repeats firmly. ‘We’re not going anywhere if we waste time arguing. You need to take your meds, and Aroui and I need to get back to work.’
Michel casts one last disappointed glance at the case but mumbles an agreement and obediently rolls up his sleeve for the injection. Louvier and Aroui leave him slipping quickly into sleep and hurry back to the courtyard. Aroui is quiet, even more so than usual, and Louvier wonders if he is thinking about what will happen when they encounter the search party who will no doubt consider him an enemy. Yet when Aroui does speak his question is not at all what Louvier expects.
‘Tell me truly,’ he says abruptly, turning his keen dark gaze on Louvier. ‘Do you not wish to know the secret of the case?’
Louvier faces him readily. He knows the top brass wouldn’t appreciate what he is about to say, especially to a so-called hostile, but Aroui has more than earned his honesty. ‘I do feel curious,’ he admits. ‘But knowing what’s in that case won’t change what happened here, or bring back the men we lost. Maybe whatever is inside is worth the lives of good men, and maybe it isn’t. It won’t do any good to find out that my unit was slaughtered because someone got bad intelligence or gave the wrong order.’
‘You doubt your commanders,’ Aroui observes, sounding slightly surprised. ‘That is a strange confession for a soldier.’
‘Maybe,’ Louvier shrugs, selecting another length of improvised rope to secure the last part of the travois. ‘Sooner or later every soldier learns that sometimes the men giving orders make mistakes, or make the wrong decisions for the right reasons,’ he explains. ‘The way I see it, once I’m in the field or facing enemy fire the orders that put me there don’t really matter. All that matters is fighting for the men beside me. I figure my first duty is to them, whatever happens.’
‘You are an unusual man, Louvier,’ Aroui tells him quietly.
Louvier glances up from his work, unable to decide if the words are praise or censure, but Aroui is already turning back to his own task. Louvier sighs and forces himself to concentrate on the travois again. He’s not foolish enough to let himself examine why Aroui’s good opinion has begun to matter so much to him.
~~~~~~
The sun is sinking by the time they finish making their preparations. It took trial and quite a bit of error to rig a suitable harness that both the horses will tolerate, and they had to make sure the travois would bear Michel’s weight as well as the supplies that Louvier and Aroui will not be able to carry themselves. Louvier ties the final bundle of gear into place and rolls his stiff shoulders, pausing to admire the dusting of stars already glimmering on the horizon. If his plan succeeds tonight is one of his last opportunities to appreciate the Sahara’s unique beauty and he is startled to feel something almost like regret at the thought.
No one speaks much while they eat a simple dinner in Michel’s room, now mostly empty of supplies. They’ve already discussed what they need to do tomorrow, and talking about what will happen when they meet the search party feels like tempting fate somehow. Looking at Michel’s drawn face and Aroui’s shadowed eyes Louvier can guess what is also weighing on their minds. As anxious as they are to get away from this place none of them can forget the graves in the sand, the friends who will be left behind forever in the morning.
After their meal Aroui slips out to make sure the horses are securely tethered for the night while Louvier gives Michel his antibiotics and helps him get comfortable on his bedroll again.
‘I won’t be sorry to see the last of these four walls,’ sighs Michel as he stretches out. ‘This room feels like a prison cell.’
‘Better a prison than a tomb,’ Louvier points out quietly.
‘I know.’ Michel gives him a weak smile. ‘But the company leaves a lot to be desired,’ he adds with an attempt at levity, pointing to the flattened remains of a scorpion he’d smashed with the butt of his rifle.
‘Another one?’ Louvier makes a mental note to double check his own bedroll. ‘I stopped counting but I think you just passed Vacard’s record.’
‘Super,’ says Michel drily, pulling a face. ‘Have I mentioned I hate the desert?’
‘You may have let it slip once or twice-a day,’ teases Louvier.
‘Well it definitely bears repeating,’ Michel mutters somewhat sheepishly.
‘Fair enough,’ Louvier agrees. He helps Michel adjust the blanket over his wounded leg and stands to leave. ‘Will you be able to sleep now? We’ve got a long day ahead of us.’
Michel nods. ‘I’ll be fine.’ He picks up the flashlight, the beam casting stark shadows over his face, and pauses to meet Louvier’s gaze. ‘Thanks, Louvier,’ he adds before turning off the light.
Louvier catches the weight behind his words and hopes Michel will hear the smile in his voice. ‘Good night, Michel,’ he says softly into the darkness, and shuts the door behind him.
The air feels sharp on his face as he leaves the relative warmth of the room and passes through the corridors to the low tower that had once served as Saria’s favourite lookout point. Louvier stands watching the desert for a long minute, rubbing his arms against the chill. The night is cold and still, starlight silvering the barren dunes. The cloudless sky promises a clear day to follow, or so Louvier wants to believe. By his estimate they need only be spared the calamity of a sandstorm for a few more days, just long enough for them to reach their destination.
With one last sweeping look over the dunes Louvier leaves the tower and begins his nightly circuit of the citadel, moving slowly and stopping often to listen-for what he could not say. They are so close to leaving this place yet after all that has happened he can’t shake the feeling that something will prevent their escape. But the silence remains unbroken apart from his own careful footsteps and the occasional muffled clink of his weapons, and the beam of his flashlight reveals nothing more than crumbling walls and deserted passageways dusted with drifts of sand.
~~~~~~
The room he shares with Aroui is dark and empty when Louvier returns from his uneventful patrol. He hurries to light the lantern, craving the illusion of heat as much as a respite from the darkness. His numb fingers fumble with the lighter but after several attempts the wick catches and a warm glow fills the room.
Turning to his bedroll Louvier arranges his gear in preparation for the morning, then methodically checks and cleans all of his weapons. It’s an unnecessary precaution; the blade of his knife is already gleaming and his guns are in perfect working order. But the familiar task is soothing, a welcome distraction from the unsettled thoughts that he knows will not let him rest. As much as he might wish to sleep he will not be able to truly relax until there are many miles between them and the strange terrors of this place.
It’s not easy to ignore years of drills and Louvier’s practiced hands complete their task all too soon. There is nothing else he can think of that must be done before they leave, no other reason to avoid his bedroll any longer. He shakes out his blanket, wary of scorpions and snakes, then begins to undress. The lamp is burning lower now, casting flickering light into the dark corners of the room. Louvier's fingers itch for his gun again and he has to remind himself that the shadows are only shadows, and were they not his weapons would be of no use anyway.
A faint jingle makes him pause as he bends to unlace his boots. Louvier pulls the bundle of dog tags from his breast pocket and carefully untangles them. One by one-Max, Ballant, Saria, Malovitch, Durieux, Vacard-he turns the tags over in his hands, trying to remember the men who wore them as they were in life rather than their senseless deaths in a war not of their choosing. By now the suffocating emptiness in his chest is familiar, if not easier to bear.
He’s too lost in thought to hear Aroui returning from his own nightly rounds of the citadel. The sound of the door closing startles him from his bittersweet memories, and he looks up to find Aroui watching him.
'We did all that could be done, Louvier,’ Aroui says quietly, guessing the direction of Louvier’s thoughts. ‘You should not blame yourself.'
Louvier shakes his head, returning the tags to his pocket. 'I don't,' he says, and it's the truth. His burden is a different sort of guilt.
Aroui says nothing, but his patient silence becomes a question in itself and Louvier gropes for the words to explain what he is ashamed to admit even to himself.
'My friends were good men,’ he begins. ‘They didn't deserve to die. They deserve to be remembered, but I-sometimes I wish I could forget what happened here,' he confesses in nearly a whisper.
Aroui takes another step closer. 'You also are a good man,' he tells Louvier with quiet conviction. Deliberately he reaches out and places his palm against Louvier's chest, over his heart. The space between them feels suddenly charged, heavy like the sky before a thunderstorm, and Louvier stands frozen, too surprised to move or speak as Aroui continues. ‘A good man, with a good qalb. And I think you will honour your friends. But,' he adds in a low voice, meeting Louvier’s eyes and not removing his hand, 'I will help you forget for a time, if you wish it.'
Louvier stares at him, wondering if he is dreaming. Of all the unforeseen, impossible things that have come to pass in this place it seems hardest to believe that his hidden yearning may be understood, and even shared. Yet the dark eyes gazing back at him are steady and solemn and in their depths he glimpses a warmth he has never seen before.
Louvier’s heart leaps painfully beneath Aroui's palm, hope and longing rising in his chest. He is weary of smoke and shadows, worn almost beyond endurance by the desperate struggle against enemies he could neither see nor understand. But he thinks he understands what Aroui is offering him now, and all that is silently asked in return. In this moment together they have a chance to seize something tangible, something true. Louvier finds his voice.
'I do wish it,' he accepts softly.
Aroui lets his hand drop and steps back, and for an awful wrenching moment Louvier thinks he has misunderstood after all. He wants to explain, to apologize, to curse his own foolishness-and then with another thrill of surprise realizes that Aroui has begun to carefully unwind his tagelmust. Louvier's breath catches at this rare, unexpected gift. He watches in silent wonder as the face he has longed to see is unveiled at last beneath a tumble of dark curls. It is a strong, proud face, with sharp bones and a stubborn jaw not quite hidden by a beard. Louvier’s eyes travel slowly over every feature, lingering on the generous mouth curving into the beginning of a smile.
Before he can stop himself Louvier reaches out, and far from objecting Aroui leans into him and slips a hand around the back of his neck. They're so close now that he can hear Aroui's shallow, uneven breaths and read the question in his eyes. In answer he takes a deep breath of his own, closes his eyes, and fits their mouths together.
The kiss is soft and almost chaste, tentative until Louvier begins to draw away. Then Aroui makes a low sound of protest, mouth opening against Louvier’s and one arm settling across his shoulders to pull him nearer. Louvier forgets his uncertainty and twines his fingers into rumpled hair, wrapping his other arm around Aroui and pressing their bodies together from chest to thigh with no room for doubt between them.
An immeasurable time later they part for breath, both of them panting. For a few stuttering heartbeats they simply look at each other in the wavering golden light. Louvier can see the pulse beating in Aroui’s throat where his robes have fallen open, skin the colour of cinnamon flushing darker still under his gaze. He feels heat thrumming beneath his own skin, and the strength of his desire startles him almost as much as the unmistakable hunger he sees mirrored on Aroui's face. Then as one they are leaning swiftly into another fierce kiss.
Aroui tastes faintly of strange spices, of heat and wind and the desert itself. His body is lean and hard; Louvier can feel shifting muscle even through the coarse cloth beneath his palms. But it isn’t enough, not nearly. Now that what he has wanted in secret is within his grasp he is aching with the need to feel more. Louvier clenches his fists into the robes and blindly bunches them out of the way while Aroui tugs in vain at the front of his jacket, normally deft fingers frustrated by the many buttons.
‘Wait,’ Louvier manages, reluctantly backing away and pushing Aroui’s hands aside to unfasten the uniform himself. Aroui watches him with heavy-lidded eyes, breathing raggedly, and when he sees the shirt beneath the jacket he mutters a curse in Arabic that makes Louvier’s own fingers falter. As he struggles with the last of the buttons Aroui shrugs out of his robes, letting them pool carelessly at his feet, then leans in to join their mouths again in a hard, demanding kiss.
With a smothered moan Louvier decides his uniform is an acceptable loss and just tears the shirt until Aroui can peel the sleeves down his arms and toss it aside. No hint of the day’s heat remains and Louvier shivers when the familiar cool weight of his tags settles against his chest. Then impatient hands are pulling him closer again and he’s not remotely cold anymore because Aroui is wonderfully warm, warm and eager and real. For the first time in days Louvier feels truly alive, his blood singing in his veins and skin burning beneath the touch of callused palms.
And it's strangely easy and right, as if their bodies already know each other. Both of them are trembling violently and Louvier is vaguely aware that the room seems to be tilting around them. He feels dazed and light-headed, breath coming in halting gasps when Aroui’s mouth leaves his to sear along his jaw. Boldly he lets his hands slide down over bared skin and discovers the faintly raised lines of scars, the pucker of an old wound in the crease of Aroui’s ribs. Aroui never flinches, only arches into his touch, pants brokenly against his throat, grips his shoulders hard enough to bruise. Louvier’s legs threaten to buckle then but Aroui’s arms are tight around him, guiding him down to the blankets when they stumble into his bedroll. Breathless and shuddering they strain together, mouths melding once more, hands tracing unsteady paths from shoulder to hip.
What a strange fate, Louvier thinks fleetingly, that the djinn who wreaked so much terror and destruction have also brought them to such a moment. And who can say what new twists the road ahead may take? Tonight it is enough for Louvier to accept this temporary peace, to forget everything but this brief measure of joy and feel only the heat of the body twined with his and Aroui’s heart beating swift and strong against his own.
Above them the lamp splutters and finally goes out with a hiss, yet for this night at least they will fear no darkness.
~~~~~~
AN: I wrote quite a bit of this at work in between rushed bouts of googling and glances at wikipedia, so I've probably played fast and loose with some of the cultural practices of the Imazighen. But according to my sources at least among certain tribes the tagelmust or cheche is worn only by adult males, and only taken off in the presence of close family; showing their features to strangers would be almost unthinkable. Yes, I really am that much of a romantic sap. I think I'll blame Snow Patrol for that, too.
Oh, and here are the translations of the Arabic names/words:
Asad - lion
Aminah - faithful
Suhaib - reddish
qalb - heart
ETA: Epilogue in the comments. Stupid character limit!