Nightmare

Fire. The scent of it filled his nostrils and choked his lungs. Panic seized him as realization dawned in the darkness. He was going to die.

Sudden strength flooded his slender form, launching him against the wooden door that lead to freedom, out of the cramped space to fresh air.  He pounded until his hands bled, splinters driven deep into the flesh. He had to get out.  There had to be a way.  Frantically he felt the walls, grasping for anything he might be able to pry open the door with, clawing at the wood.  But there was nothing, nothing but smoky air and the sinking depths of hope lost. The sound of crackling filled his ears... and, horses.  Hundreds of horses in the streets.

The Crusaders had come, and everything they touched turned to death.

She had hidden him in the closet when the horns sounded, whispering furiously to him to be silent, no matter what.  She then dropped the tapestry over the door, hiding it from view.  It seemed like forever ago, and then came the fire.

And the screams.

All was silent now save for the crackling.  Mama, he whispered softly at first, then with rising pitch, over and over.  There was no answer, only the flames and silence in the darkness of his tiny tomb.  Something wet touched his bare feet.  Water!  Hope exploded in his heart, crushed swiftly by choking despair as the coppery scent wafted forth.

His feet were covered in blood.

Nusair jerked to consciousness, the sound of a young boy's screams fading slowly into the haze of a long forgotten time.  Or so he would have preferred.  While the world might no longer recall the horrors perpetrated by the Crusaders in the name of God, he would never forget the night that blood ran ankle deep in Jerusalem; the night his destiny had been cruelly altered and his world shattered forever.  The night Allah had forsaken him.

Scarred fingers raked through the inky black mane that brushed down past his shoulders.  He swung his feet to the floor, silken sheets slithering across rigid muscle.  Briefly he rubbed at the jagged scar crossing his left thigh, bringing a momentary reprieve from the dull ache that lingered there.  Must be raining tonight, he mused.  Lithe as one of his precious horses, he rose and crossed the darkened chamber with a surefootedness assured by the gift of enhanced night vision.  Pausing, he lit a small oil lamp set upon a lone table, casting flickering shadows about the room.  He still preferred natural light to electricity given the choice.  In fact, he preferred many of the old ways.

The finest Persia had to offer littered the floor in an array of earthy color, adjoining walls swathed in silk and tapestry prevailing in hues of burgundy and black.  From the Moroccan fixtures to the Saluki hound sleeping on the marble hearth, all bespoke the pleasures to be had in the finest luxury of the Near East.  Oh, how far and long he had traveled from the dirt floors of the Holy Land to this marble and mosaic of his modern day palace in Northern New York.

Turning, he passed through the doorway into the bathing chamber; a modern amenity that he still found occasionally amazing.  Steam already snaked in creeping vines across the glass door leading into the stone tiled shower. He let a brief smile tug at the corner of his lips; once again Fahima proved that she knew him so very well.

Without another thought, he stepped into the scalding heat of the shower, groaning softly as the almost too hot water sluiced over his skin.  His was a warrior's body, tempered in the rage of battle and weathered by the sands of the desert.  Rivulets of water streamed over a multitude of scars, some minor, some gnarled and twisted by the hands of what was called medicine in an ancient time. Arabic Calligraphy walked a bold line across broad shoulders, permanently limned by tattooist’s ink. 

For long moments he simply breathed, unwilling to move in the peace of the falling water.  His quiet reverie was broken by the all too modern sound of a ringing cell phone.  A slim brown hand entered the shower, proffering the offending item.  With a growl of irritation, Nusair accepted the necessary evil and curtly ordered speech.  Listening quietly for a moment, he spoke only a few gravelly words before ending the conversation.

"I'll be there."