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Lawrence’s return was heralded long before he entered the camp of the Arab Revolt. Ali received the message with little spectacle, to the suspicion of Prince Faisal. Ali didn’t understand why his lord questioned him so fervently after the news. Of course Lawrence would return. The sea would always return to shore, even when it convinced itself it was above such earthly designs.
Ali shifted from side to side, the morning air cold under his sirwal. He heard the camp begin to awake behind him for dawn prayers. His fingers itched for some company. He turned to his satchel, pulling out a cigarette and matchbox. The matchbox clicked open as he dragged a match across the coarse surface. It lit his cigarette, and then was quietly extinguished with a flick of his wrist. He sucked in slowly, and exhaled the same. The smoke spiraled out lazily in the still air.
How close was Lawrence now? He winced. Awake since the dim night faded into dawn, and he still did not know what he would say. He scoffed. What could be said? To summarize the expanse of his feelings would take pages upon pages.
He had been angry. True. The anger hadn’t really gone away. It simply simmered below the surface instead of resting at the top. Ali smiled wryly, imagining the expression on Lawrence’s face as Ali finally voiced his grievances. Once again he had been saddled with an army of men he knew he could lead, but Lord above, a little warning would be appreciated. He also respected the strategy of the British officer. As risky as it could be, the man had succeeded thus far. As much as one could succeed where human lives were concerned.
His smile dropped as he rolled the cigarette between his fingers.
He had missed Lawrence. Certainly true. His return would lift the low morale of the army. “El Aurens” had elevated him to a status that even his abandonment after Deraa couldn’t dim.
Ali took another drag of his cigarette.
And, truly, he was worried about him. Although Lawrence had recovered enough physically to walk and care for himself, Ali knew there were wounds beyond the visible. Maybe returning to his “people” was the treatment necessary for those hidden vulnerabilities. Lawrence had not spoken much about his time in Cairo. Ali knew of small, dank rooms within which Lawrence had been caged, biding his time with translations and cartography until his request to be re-assigned would be granted. But that was the most detailed Lawrence had gotten. Ali knew more about his thoughts on Aristotle than his daily going-ons in the great city.
Ali did not mind. He assumed Lawrence read, wrote for his personal enjoyment–activities he had caught him enjoying during their own off-duty periods. But maybe Lawrence operated differently outside of the field. Maybe he would go out to dinner in the officer club. Maybe he would have someone to enjoy a dinner with. Maybe they would discuss Aristotle. Aristotle, and England, and how lovely and clean the green fields of the English countryside were, and how desolate and dirty the orange sands of the Arabian desert in comparison. Maybe Lawrence was thinking of this person, of returning to their side, as he made his journey to Jerusalem. Maybe they reunited in Jerusalem. Maybe Lawrence was thinking of them as he returned to Ali. Maybe Lawrence would never return to him.
Ali’s fingers slightly shook as he took another drag. He relaxed as the cloud filled his chest, but choked as he exhaled.
He could tell Lawrence these things. And how the days had passed aimlessly. How his robes had felt weighted and filled with stones, making the simplest of tasks seem like miracles. How, no matter how many times he washed, that he still felt unclean, that he could not spend a single session of prayer without his thoughts drifting to Lawrence once again. And how he swore and cursed at him. And how he feared for him. And how he.
Ali grimaced, rubbing at his temples with his unoccupied fingers. Idleness had made him foolish. He still had his dignity, and he would not lose it to ill-timed, if truthful, confessions.
A ray of sun peeked over the horizon. He rose from his sentry position, feet heavy as he walked back to camp. A dark figure came into view. His replacement. The man lifted a hand in greeting.
“Salaam, Sherif!”
Ali raised a hand to his forehead in return. “Salaam.” He was slightly unnerved by the broad smile plastered on the man’s face. “Any news? How is the prince?”
The man’s smile deepened. “Prince Faisal is currently welcoming El Aurens back to camp, Sherif.”
Ali’s stomach dropped. He swallowed. “Excellent.”
“We are lucky to have him back so soon,” the man laughed. Ali nodded halfheartedly.
“Yes,” he mumbled. The man stopped, as though waiting for more. Oh. “Nothing to report out here. Let us hope it remains so,” he added quickly.
“Well, my lord.” The man bowed his head before continuing toward the rocky outcropping Ali had been leaning against. The valley looked murky and indefinite in the early sun, the sounds of chatter from camp echoing across it. Ali set his jaw. And marched forward.