A/N: This feels like my first fanfic in ages, I'm so sorry I haven't been updating recently xD Anyway, hope you enjoy, feedback always appreciated :)

Warning: Contains non-graphic allusions to a canonical rape.

Brighter Than The Sun

He is a very strange Englishman. Ali knows this as soon as he lays eyes upon him at Masturah Well. He stands alone in the midst of the white desert, having just witnessed the death of his friend, but he is not afraid. His bright blue eyes flash and burn, never once leaving Ali as he circles him, and Ali enjoys his anger. Brighton, their other Englishman, is as empty as the sands that surround them, only impassioned by matters that concern his own distant nation. But this one trembles at the emotion bottled in his breast, young and alive. He amuses Ali in his ill-fitting British uniform. From the very beginning, it seems as though he doesn't belong.

When he leaves him, he doesn't think he will see him again. Without his guide, the sands will swallow him, no matter the strength of his fire. But Lawrence - for that is this strange man's name - defies the desert and the next time Ali sees him, he is sitting in the luxury of Feisal's tent, as if he has been there all along. His arrogance riles him. He speaks against Brighton as if by his mere insolence, they will follow him. But Ali does not trust his veiled promises. The desert has been gracious to him and let him live through its trials. Lawrence loves it too much, and this is still an adventure to him.

Now, he has returned to its grasp. All has fallen dark and the night has strangled the arid landscape's heat. But Lawrence wanders, as if untouched, away from the camp and into the dunes, regardless. The children follow him, hypnotised by this odd man. He is so different from them, from anyone they have seen before. Orphans as they are, they have a reason for their fascination and attachment. Ali wonders what the reason for his own inexplicable intrigue could be. He has no reason. This Englishman will soon see that the desert is not his plaything, not his boy's dream of jeopardy and excitement, and he will leave.

For the night and the next morning, he does not return. Brighton is not concerned. Ali walks the path Lawrence has trodden in the darkness, his footprints half-covered by the rolling sands, but he could have gone anywhere. Ali does not care. Maybe he has had his fill of this desolate land, and is hiding from it.

Yet when he returns to the camp, Lawrence is sitting right in front of his tent, waiting for him. Ali's heart clenches in his chest. The Englishman has not even gone to Brighton, his superior. He has come straight to him.

And he wants him to ride with him to Aqaba. Pass through the inferno of the Nefud and come at the valuable port from behind. He is mad.

But Ali must also be mad because he follows him, just like that morning through the dunes.

The further they travel to perform Lawrence's miracle (he has tried to say it is Feisal's, but Ali knows whose name Lawrence is really riding in), the harder it becomes to turn back. At last, they come so far that Ali is forced to keep looking forward over the horizon. Lawrence has told him that Aqaba is just over there, somewhere beyond the haze. He has made it sound easy, has lured many hopeful men along with him, but he does not know this land like Ali does. No matter how much he may think so. He does not know this insufferable heat, this dry, barren void.

Riding beside him, Ali wonders if he regrets this quest. He is impossible to read, watching the sand swirl with a distant smile upon his face. Ali cannot tell if he is contemplating their trek or slipping into the lulling embrace of the desert. At first, he stirs him from his trance with frustration, disdainful that he is not alert for his own march. But he does not rise to Ali's barbed comments, only shifts that odd look upon him, and soon, Ali finds he is turning his head to watch him each hour, just to ensure he is still with them. Of course he is.

He is with them all the way across the Sun's Anvil and to the other side. And then it is he who is turning to Ali, eyes brightening from the glazed state they have been in for days. "Have we done it?" he asks, his voice light despite the cracks from his parched throat. Another answers him, amused.

"No, but we are off the anvil."

At this, Ali sees a relief spread over Lawrence's face. "Thank God for that, anyway."

"Yes, thank Him, Aurens -" Ali is not sure when they started to call him that. "- I do not think you know how much you have tempted Him."

"I know." It is said with the same blasphemy Lawrence began the journey with. And Ali notices a similar hope still burning in his gaze that blazed before they left Feisal's camp. "We've done it," he says. To hear him utter those words pushes a deep weight from Ali's shoulders, but he merely shrugs.

"God willing," he replies tersely.

"When do we get to the wells?" Lawrence continues.

"God willing, mid-day."

"Then we've done it!"

Ali refuses to join in with his enthusiasm, though he knows the worst of the Nefud is behind them. The Englishman's boyish attitude still frustrates him. He does not understand how lucky they have been.

And when Daud points out how Gasim has disappeared from their train, he endeavours to push that fortune even more. Ali shouts at him to stay, to leave Gasim to his fate, but Lawrence is conceited and, most definitely, mad. So he turns back, abandoning them on his own foolish trek, and Ali is forced to watch him vanish back into the night.

He wonders why the sight affects him quite as much as it does.

For the second time in mere weeks, Ali does not think he will see the strange Englishman again. They have crawled out from the clutches of the Nefud but Lawrence has still returned to it, surviving on nothing but air and his own madness. They should continue to Aqaba without him, as Ali had demanded Lawrence do with Gasim, but now, he watches the distant horizon for the shape of a camel and her rider. This task is an impossible one, a helpless one, but Lawrence cares only for the implausible. It intoxicates him and he hungers for it. He is arrogant and treacherous. He creates these trials for himself, for what reason Ali cannot fathom.

The stars fade and the red sun arches into the sky, undisturbed by any breeze. Ali does not sleep for more than an hour. He waits and stares at the wavering sands far away, just as Farraj does on the dunes beside them. Maybe the boy is more optimistic than he is. But he knows Gasim must be dead. And Lawrence with him.

So when through the midday sun, a tiny, black form appears, riding closer and closer to them, Ali thinks it must be a mirage. But it never fades, a minuscule speck which slowly gathers shape. Soon, he can hear Farraj shouting from the hills.

"Aurens! Daud!" The cry echoes through the camp and over the vast area surrounding them. Ali stands at the sudden sound, confirmation that the figures are not just his imagination. Around him, the Harith start to come forward. It is Lawrence. It must be Lawrence. But it is not possible.

It is not long before everyone is running towards the two approaching camels. They are all carrying water, crying for Aurens, Aurens, Aurens. Caught up with them, Ali grasps his own water and walks as calmly as he can towards the riders. He does not shout like the others, but his heart drums the rhythm of their words. Aurens. Aurens. Aurens.

Lawrence gazes past them all, as if he does not see them. His uniform is battered and dusty, turned almost white in the ferocity of the sun. Only his eyes blaze brightly, grim and determined. The men have already reached him, but he is ignoring their offerings of water. He is staring right at Ali.

Ali speeds up his steps, reaching Lawrence's side amongst the many jostling figures. Their eyes lock for a few moments before Ali is swept back into the cheering crowd. He watches, unable to stop from smiling any longer, as this strange Englishman is helped to sit his camel upon the hard ground. Gasim clings to him from behind like a child, wrenched from the womb of the desert. Ali is vaguely aware of Daud springing from the other mount and jumping into Farraj's waiting arms. Some strange part of Ali desires to give the same reception to Lawrence.

Instead, he approaches him slowly, the men parting to let him through. Lawrence searches for him, and when their eyes meet, Ali smiles again, chest full of overflowing admiration. He offers him his water and finally, Lawrence accepts, taking the satchel from him. Everyone watches, reduced to awed silence, as he murmurs three cracked words.

"Nothing is written."

Ali can almost believe him. And that night, they rewrite Lawrence's history, cleaning the stains from his past and moulding him anew. As the Englishman sleeps, Ali burns his ill-fitting, constricting uniform in the campfire and finds clothes more suitable for his fresh persona. So that, the following day, a phoenix rises from the flames as Aurens. No longer Lawrence. Ali dresses him in the flowing white robes of a Beni Wejh sherif and he glows as if illuminated from within. With a smile, he tells him it is his own wedding attire, sent as a wishful hint from his aunt.

"You would wear white, sherif Ali?" Lawrence teases.

"It suits you better," he replies playfully, though he means more than just the clothes. Lawrence is gone and El Aurens stands in his place.

And El Aurens is best.

The battle for Aqaba is won. The miracle is accomplished. In the haze at the end of the battle, Aurens no longer seems to be a mere conceited blasphemer. Instead, he is their hero. One who has pulled them through the depth of the Nefud's inferno and out to the shores of the sea. After so many miles of stark white sand and arid hills, it is strange to lay eyes upon it at last. Aurens' gift to them.

Ali knows that Aurens could not have accomplished this feat alone but, riding through the port that night, illuminated by the fires Auda's men are making, he is all that is on Ali's mind. He rode by him, blazing white in the path of the sun, and together, they entered the gates of this town, long beyond their reach. They grasped at it side by side, and now, they revel in its bounteous glory.

Ali finds him, alone, amongst the soft foam of the breaking waves. He does not see him approach, not until the red flowers Ali has brought him sail past his camel. For a moment, he is still, staring at the crimson shapes floating upon the sea. Then he turns, and his eyes meet Ali's. Ali can only smile at him.

"Garlands for the conquerer," he explains. Aurens hardly responds. But it is not long before he jumps down into the water and desperately grasps for the gift. He finds them and holds them high. The sun glimmers around him and he is radiant, even in the fading evening light. Ali laughs, the joy and relief of their accomplishments washing over him like the waves about them.

"Tribute for the prince," he says. "Flowers for the man."

There is a rare smile of genuine affection upon Aurens' face as he gazes at the garlands. Ali watches him with pleasure, the constant weight of untold pressures seeming to have vanished from his companion's shoulders for a moment. His heart soars as he is overwhelmed by the urge to leap from his camel and embrace him close, to drape the flowers about his neck and kiss the corners of his upturned mouth. Much has changed since the journey across the Nefud. Ali can no longer deny his fondness for this strange man. He is fascinated by him, but realises with a sudden sharpness that it is not just this intrigue which tethers him to his side. He cares for him. And as Aurens turns his blue eyes upon him, he can almost pretend the feeling is reciprocated.

"I'm none of those things, Ali," he says, voice flippant as if denial of himself comes easily. Ali half-frowns.

"What then?" he asks.

"Don't know." But then Aurens smiles again, openly and honestly. The issue with Gasim from the night before seems to be far behind them. Aurens is bright once more, their golden miracle worker. He again looks fondly at the flowers in his hand and back at Ali, and Ali becomes acutely aware that he is still adorned in his wedding robes, cradling his offered bouquet. He has not only married Lawrence to Arabia, but he has also irrevocably united him to himself. They are bound together, and Ali is content with that.

Aurens admires the scenery around them, painted gold in the evening sun, and there is an air of honest fulfilment about him. He breathes in deeply, as if to imprint the moment within his lungs, and in a reverent voice says, "my God, I love this country." It is the lightest, most open thing Ali has heard him say and it brings him great pleasure. He is about to jump from the camel and join him in the cool water, when there is a sudden disturbance from the town. The joy vanishes from Aurens' eyes. Caught up in the moment, Ali has almost forgotten about the rest of their men on the other side of this beach.

But now they hurry back to them and the moment is gone. It is one of the final times Ali can remember seeing Aurens happy.

When Aurens returns from Cairo, he is brighter than the sun. Ali is frightened to go near him lest he be burned but he still cannot stay away. By now, they are all satellites trapped in his orbit. There is no going back for Ali.

He says nothing about Daud, though he is notably absent from Aurens' side. Aurens doesn't mention a word about what occurred in that odyssey across Sinai; only talks of the future, and the chaos they will cause across the country that he says he loves. Ali goes after him, though he knows something has changed. It is not the same man he stood with on the shores of Aqaba who now parades along the top of train wrecks. He captures the sun's rays in his fluttering robes, twirling until the glow seems to emanate from him, and they all cheer and cheer. Aurens, Aurens, Aurens. But Ali knows what they really shout for. The same brilliance Aurens bathes in reflects off the gold and loot in their hands, and that is where their hearts lie.

Aurens does not understand that. He is like no other man Ali has ever met. Some days, he believes he will awake and find that their Aurens is not there any more, as if he is just a dream they have dressed in their own hopes and desires. But he is always there, a whirlwind that has changed too much to ever truly be gone.

And Ali is trapped, a grain of sand caught in his storm. Together, they wreak havoc across the desert until the miracles become mundane. The clouds gather blackly in the sky and the gold turns dull in the grey light. The men leave once they have got what they came for and their arms are full of treasures. Their Englishman, Brighton, calls them deserters and can't comprehend their departure. He says he is not free to leave, as if it is something to take pride in, as if he is the only one bound to something bigger than himself. But Ali cannot leave either; he is tied to Aurens and cannot break away. He has come too far now.

In their paths of destruction, they lose Farraj as well. Aurens keeps going. He has also come too far to stop.

And so his demands become more and more unfeasible. He asks too much of the few he has left. Ali tells him he will soon find himself alone, but Aurens does not listen to him anymore. He listens only to himself.

"Do you think I'm just anybody, Ali?" he asks when they are trembling in old ruins, with only twenty men remaining. "Do you?"

But Ali does not care if Aurens is 'anybody' or not. He does not follow him for the person Aurens believes he is, this rich, inconceivable immortality he basks in. He follows him because it is the only thing he can do. He, not the loot or the promises or the wondrous feats he pulls, is where his heart lies.

So, together, they walk into Deraa.

They have extinguished his light. And Ali has stood, helpless, while they do.

By the time they reach the old fortress, battered by the bitter winds, Aurens is nothing but the shell of what he once was. There is no radiance to him anymore, no hope or pride. Just, nothing. Even the crystal blueness of his eyes seems dim.

Ali permits no one to see him. He bundles him in blankets, as if the cold will suddenly shatter the once white heat of his spirit, and lays him down by the stuttering warmth of the campfire. He wants to help him, wants to clean the raw wounds upon his back, but Aurens balks at even the merest of touches. They spend that first night back surrounded by the metallic scent of drying blood.

Neither of them sleep. Ali knows he is a hypocrite telling Aurens to do so, as he will not find any rest either, not with Aurens' jagged breaths filling the space around them. Instead, he simply watches over him, trying not to remember the scars he has glimpsed on Aurens' back, trying not to picture those empty, dirty streets of Deraa, trying not to think of what they have done to his Aurens.

Aurens does not move, does not speak nor show any signs of wakefulness, though his eyes are open. It is as if his whole being has closed in on itself, the many fragments he has forced together falling apart. The next day, he does not even flinch when Ali comes to clean the red, obscene gashes over his pale flesh. Ali's hands tremble as he draws the cloth over the sensitive skin, but he does it over and over, bandages Aurens up, attempts to pick up the broken pieces.

The response is nothing but silence.

"Come back to me, Aurens," he finds himself murmuring when the void is too much to bear, uttering it in both of their shared languages. But Aurens hears neither. So Ali weeps quietly into the furs, if only to break the emptiness.

Yet at last, a flicker appears in Aurens. Ali clings to it, and by his commands to eat and sleep, Aurens slowly returns. It is not much, but it is enough, and in the soft dawn, the sun gives form to the shadow Ali has been sleeping alongside.

But no matter what he says, Aurens still leaves. He understands now; he is not extraordinary, is not the veil he has been hiding behind. He is a man, and he has been broken beyond repair. Ali watches him go once again, worried that a simple breeze will scatter his fractured, mortal soul to the winds.

They are a long way from Aqaba.

When Ali finds Aurens after the massacre, he can barely stand. He is leaning against a wrecked cart, gasping in the acrid, smoky air around them and staring at himself in the red glaze of his janbiya. Ali wants to scold him, wants to ask him if he likes what he sees in it. But he has no words. Not for this. Not for this barbaric cruelty. Aurens has left none alive.

He walks to him slowly, barely able to drag his feet through this carnage. Aurens is almost unrecognisable, his once pure robes tattered and ragged, his face aghast. Ali reaches out, but cannot bring himself to touch him. This is what has happened to their golden miracle worker. A long time ago, he threw garlands at him. Now, splattered bloodstains echo the red flowers he once wanted to drape about his neck.

As Aurens turns to him, his bright eyes filled with a detached horror, Ali feels bile rise in his throat. He cannot hold his gaze. They have to get away from here.

But still, Ali cannot leave him. Maybe some part of him yet clings to the hope that once they reach Damascus, everything will be erased, and they can start anew. Just like the night he burned Lawrence's clothes and the next morning, he was Aurens, another man. But now, he does not know who Lawrence, or Aurens, is. And he doesn't think the shivering, gore-soaked mirage riding by their side does either.

Aurens enters into Damascus with the same dead look in his scorched eyes. He has been fading for a long time now, and finally, the others are seeing it too. He shouts and orates and tries to keep them all from falling to pieces, but it is a lost cause. There are seas of petitions that fall unnoticed at Aurens' feet; a million voices yelling into his ears; whole districts that blaze late into the night. Even Ali finds himself transporting water with the crowds Aurens promised he would liberate. Now he walks through the ashes of the city they once dreamed of.

When he returns to the town hall in the black hours of the morning, the fires still light his way. Aurens is alone in the cavernous building, only Auda and one sleeping Howeitat left with him, for all his troubles and trials. Everyone else has left, and the whole world is silent.

Ali watches Aurens, wreathed in ghost-like robes, slumped over his writing. Auda talks at him, but Ali does not hear what he says. It is as though a gulf now separates him and Aurens, soundless, sightless, too distant to ever be bridged again. The damage has already been done. Nothing else can be said.

When Auda walks out, it is just he and Aurens. He always knew he would be the last one standing beside him. But not this way.

Across the emptiness, Aurens raises his head for a moment and looks at him. Ali bravely bears his gaze. He realises, with a sharp ache, that he has never discovered if Aurens feels the same way for him. It seems an impossibility. And now, it doesn't even matter.

Aurens looks back to his writing, countenance perfectly devoid of outward emotion. "And what about you, Ali?" he asks numbly. Ali tries to reply in a similar way, but the pressure in his chest is almost unbearable.

"I shall stay here, and learn politics," he says. Aurens hesitates, but does not again meet his eyes.

"That is a very low occupation."

"I had not thought of it when I met you." Ali finds himself rising to his feet, looming over Aurens. He thinks of walking to him, still cannot entirely shake off the desire to throw himself back into his flames. But he must leave. He cannot keep doing this, lest he tear his own life, and Aurens', to pieces. Aurens has left a trail of destruction so wide, he can barely see the end. It has consumed everything and ripped their hopeful visions from their eyes and hands. No miracle can restore them.

But for a moment, he lingers. He knows now he has stood, he must finish this farewell. Yet he can only imagine falling to his knees beside Aurens, pressing his mouth to his, and telling him how much he loved him. How much he still loves him. And how much he always will.

He hurries to the door before the images consume him. His heart beats thickly in his dry throat, when he says, "you tried very hard to give us Damascus."

Aurens' response comes to him as if through water, faraway and drowning. "It's what I came for," he says. "And then...it would be something."

Ali pauses, half-leaving, half-staying. Aurens has turned to him, but he cannot see through the haze in his eyes. His blurry outline reminds him of the times he walked along the top of overturned train carriages, haloed against the sun. They had loved him so much. "Yes," Ali finally replies, forcing the word out. "Much."

And then with a final salaam, he rushes from the room. His last image of Aurens is of him sat alone in a deserted hall, weakly waving to him. Its mundane helplessness will forever remain in his thoughts.

When Auda stops him in the shadowed corridors, he says he fears Aurens. He says he loves him.

But truthfully, he fears how much he loves him. Even after all they've been through.

In the far distance, dust swirls against the sky. Ali can remember watching the horizon like this more than once, searching for any signs of the strange Englishman who had come into their home. He had always returned, always defied all around him, golden and radiant. But this time, Ali knows he is not coming back. The sands have slowly swallowed him, have been since the very beginning, and now, he is completely destroyed. He is leaving for his own land of rain and small spaces, shaking the bars of the extraordinary life he has caged himself in. Ali does not know what will become of him.

Watching the shape of the tiny army car, Ali can just about make out Lawrence's hunched form in the front seat. That man twice survived the blaze of the Nefud, he thinks. That man led us through Aqaba to the sea. That man brought a storm to the very gates of Damascus. That is the man I will forever love.

A part of him wishes he had never come. It is a selfish thing to desire, for all the burdens Lawrence carried in their name. He does not know what they may have done without him. But at least if he'd never looked into those sharp blue eyes, never had the chance to ride alongside him, never met him at Masturah well so long ago, he would not have to deal with the agony of this: their sterile, heartless farewell.

He knows he should be angry with him. He knows he should hate him for leaving them after all the promises he made. He knows some are relieved to have this whirlwind out of their way.

But he cannot share their emotions. They did not sleep alongside Lawrence each night, or see the honest hope in his gaze at Aqaba, or even drag him out of the mud at Deraa. He was not merely an object for them to twist and pull into whatever shape they wanted. He was more than simply Lawrence of Arabia.

Yet now he is lost, and Ali is sure that Lawrence does not know what, or who, he is anymore. They have stripped him of his identities and there are not enough pieces remaining to make a whole. He has been burnt to ashes in his own fire.

Ali cannot fathom what life without Lawrence will be like, just as how he wagers Lawrence cannot fathom what life without the desert will be like. Already, it seems unnatural for him not to be sitting at his side. He was everywhere at once, trying to gather everyone in his hands.

But none of them loved him as much as Ali did.

On the horizon, the minuscule army car is consumed by the hills. It is the last Ali will see of Lawrence, except from the memories that will always haunt him.

Silently, he turns and walks away. The vast landscape stretches around him as it ever has, untouched and endless. Yet it suddenly seems colder and emptier, now that they have lost their sun.

-END-

So I finally got around to writing another Lawrence of Arabia fanfic, after falling head over heels in love with this pairing once again... Gosh they just break my heart ~

Hope you enjoyed it! Feedback always appreciated :)

Disclaimer: As always, don't own the characters/real life figures/real life-fictional figure mixtures and all of that c: