The ride back to the old ruins was quiet and uncomfortable. Not only because of his wounds, or the blood which continued to seep through his torn clothing, drenching his once white robes in the dirty red of pain and sweat.

Lawrence never raised his head all the way back to the camp. He was a fallen hero, punished for his over-confidence. No, he could not walk on water. He was not invisible. And it would not take a golden bullet to kill him. He wasn't dead yet, but he felt as if he had died several times last night in Deraa.

Ali rode in front of him, turning frequently to make sure Lawrence was still there and hadn't fallen off his camel, died, or simply forgotten to keep following him back. The Arab had tried to stay behind his friend, to follow him instead to better be able to keep an eye on him, but whenever he slowed down, so did Lawrence, as if he didn't want to be in front of him, to be looked at. Ali sighed.

When they finally arrived back, the men came out from behind the stone walls, looking concerned and fearful. Their spirits had sunk further and further as the night had progressed and their two leaders hadn't returned from Deraa. Most of them by now felt guilty and ashamed for having let Lawrence and Ali go on their own. They felt even more ashamed once they saw what state the Englishman was in.

Even the heavy cape Ali had slung around his shoulders did little to protect him from the cold; he was shivering and trembling pitifully. His face was pale and his eyes sad. His icy fingers were clenched around his camel stick and the halter as if he was holding on for dear life. Worst of all though was his posture - not upright and confident as usually, but slumped and weary; it spoke volumes of his ordeal.

When they helped him off his camel, he simply sank to the ground. Ali caught him in his arms and took him inside, refusing to let anyone else help him.

The men quickly stoked the fires inside the draughty ruins and spread out blankets beside the one that burnt the brightest, the fire in the part of the enclosure which was inhabited by Ali and Lawrence.

Ali laid his friend on the blankets face-down, careful not to let his back touch the ground. He sent the men away, telling them only that Lawrence had been captured and beaten by the Turks, and that he would look after him.

Once they were alone, Ali took the cape off the Englishman's back and found to his horror that the shreds of clothing that still covered his back were deep red and soaking wet. What had those scorpions done to him that would leave him bleeding for hours like this?

A deep groan from the beaten man as Ali tore away what was left of his shirt was the only evidence that he was conscious at all.

"By Allah, 'awrence!" Ali exclaimed in horror when he saw how deep the whip lashes went on the pale skin. His friend's entire back was covered in them. There had to be dozens.

When Ali finally dared to cast his eyes further down Lawrence's body, his worst fears were confirmed. The bleeding and the wounds were not confined to his back. The soiled, wet cloth that hung limply around his friend's legs and hips was also stained with blood. Anger surged hotly through the Arab as realization of the extent of Lawrence's torture struck him. He had to turn away, gasping for breath, as he was overcome by hatred beyond what he had ever thought himself capable of.

"I brought this on, Ali." Lawrence's voice was little more than a rough whisper.

Ali whirled around to face him, furious. "What? Are you mad? The turks did this to you! And I. I did this." Tears stung at his eyes - guilt, anger, grief and regret, each tasting more bitter than the others.

Lawrence shook his head sadly.

"I went to Deraa with you," Ali insisted. "And I let them take you away. Like a coward, I stood outside while... while they..." He sobbed.

A trembling hand reached for his burnoose, gripped it weakly. "There was nothing you could have done. They would have beat you as well, had you tried to interfere, Ali."

"They did worse than beat you, 'awrence!" Ali spat. "How can you be so..."

"What has happened, has happened. I do not blame you for any of it, Ali. You need not blame yourself." Lawrence's eyes were sad and empty, but somewhere in their deepest depths, a trace of his own self still lingered. "I ask only one thing."

"Anything, 'awrence. I will do anything you demand." Ali was a broken man. The weight of his sin was as heavy as that of Lawrence's wounds on his conscience.

"I demand nothing from you, my friend."

At the word 'friend', Ali looked up at the beloved face with tears in his eyes. If he was to be no more than 'friend' from now on, it was infinitely more than he deserved. "What is it you wish then, 'awrence?" he asked with his eyes downcast.

Lawrence pressed his injured hand against the Arab's chest. "Only that you continue to love me as you have done, Ali. Despite what I am now."

"What you are? But..." Ali fell silent at the pain and, oddly, guilt in Lawrence's eyes. His heart broke that this proud man should blame himself for what had been done to him. He did not understand this need of his to suffer, but it was there nonetheless, and this was not the first time he had seen it in his lover. He knew he might never understand it, but there was one thing that he did know. One thing he could do for his Englishman, and do gladly.

"I do love you, 'awrence. I always will." He knelt at his side, rested his forehead against the tanned, sweat-streaked brow. "Even if you do not love yourself."

Lawrence opened his mouth as if to protest Ali's last words, but found he could not. Instead, he silently allowed his lover to tenderly clean and bandage his wounds.

As long as Ali loved him, he would continue to be Lawrence.