A/N: The premise is that the pilots are leading double lives in the canon universe as well as a fantasy universe of my own design, so it's only about 3/4 AU.

Two Worlds, One Love

Two worlds. Two lives. None of us remember when the dreams started, or whether they were dreams or...something else, something real. In one world, it felt like the other was only a dream, and vice versa. Which had come first? We didn't know. We didn't even know they were connected, or that we were connected by them. Not until we found each other there, in the desert, and things began to change.

#

The caravan wound slowly through the desert, a long train of carts and camels, dust and dirt and heat; a snake of vibrant color in the sands. Quatre sat within the cool confines of a wagon, thankful for the comfort his status as a healer accorded him on the long journey. Had it been his choice, he would not have chosen to cross the desert, but where the temple told him to go, he went. It was not his place to question the will of the gods.

Tugging at the neckline of his white robes, he wondered how they could stand it, the merchants and the mercenaries. Even in the shaded interior of the wagon, the heat was terrible, and there was nothing his magic could do for him.

Suddenly, a shout was raised from front of the caravan, traveling back along its length, and he sighed in a mix of relief and frustration. They had come upon the next oasis, but the journey was not yet over. Quatre felt the wagon speed up, and for want of something to do he raised the flap between himself and the driver.

"How long until we arrive?"

"Ah, sirrah, I don't know yet, but it seems we will be sharing the water with another caravan. We will be stopped here for several days, likely as not."

"Grand," he muttered, and let the flap drop back into place.

Having the wagon all to himself and no one to talk with, he fell into meditation.

#

By the time the wagons had been parked and the drivers were beginning to tend to their mounts, dusk was beginning to spread over the desert. The din was terrible, Quatre thought, and he sought a place farther away from the water where the sands muffled the sounds of the animals and the shouting. People stepped out of his way, bowing their heads in respect for his white robes as they let him pass. He made his way to where the lights were already beginning to burn, where a multitude of wagons from both caravans had set up shop and were trading and hawking their wares in earnest. He was not interested in buying, only in looking; there was nothing he needed for himself, and no one he need buy trinkets for. It was merely a diversion, although he did have money if something struck his fancy or he discovered something which would be valuable for the temple.

He passed by the wagons selling textiles, jewelry, pottery, and spices; he stopped once, to examine some scrolls, and then again to purchase a tart to curb his hunger until the campfires of his wagon train had been set and dinner was prepared. He found himself approaching the end of the run, where there were for sale things less-than-tasteful, the whores and slaves. Normally, he would have turned around; dark was falling quickly, and he had no stomach for such sights. But something made him keep walking, and he was not one to dismiss such feelings lightly.

The slave wagons were mere cages, covered over in carpets during the day to keep out the heat and uncovered to show off their wares. Quatre glanced over them in disdain and pity, but did not spare them to meet his gaze. Healers did not keep slaves, nor have a need of them; the only reason they would call out to him would be to ply for his magic, not for his purchase.

A tent was set out near the wagons, a place for auctions of the best slaves and for buyers to examine their prospective purchases, and it was to this tent which Quatre was drawn. The night was but young, and the auctions had just begun; a small crowd was gathered, mostly other slave-traders, but here and there a wealthy merchant seeking an extra hand as they prepared for their retirements. Quatre hovered at the edge of the crowd; several gave him strange looks, but it was not their place to question him if he wished to participate. It was rare, but not unheard of, for a healer to take mercy on a slave and purchase their freedom. The current auction ended, and the next slave was brought forth.

Quatre's sharp intake of breath caught the attention of several of the crowd, and the auctioneer in turn glanced over towards him; but the slave remained where he was, staring at the ground as was his place.

There was no doubt in Quatre's mind, however, that he knew the slave. He didn't knew how he knew; only that he recognized the face from his dreams, and the name sprung to his mind along with it, something only half-remembered in the early waking hours: Trowa.

"Does the healer wish to buy this slave's freedom?" the auctioneer asked him; and without a second thought Quatre gave him a curt nod.

"I do. Name your price."

The dealer quoted his price, and Quatre did not bother to haggle.

"Done."

The owner led the slave away to have his ankle and wrist chains struck off, and Quatre followed the auctioneer's assistant inside the tent to conclude the sale. It puzzled Quatre somewhat that he had not reacted; of course he would not connect Quatre's voice with a dream, but he surely had heard that his freedom was being bought, something that should make even the most sullen slave ecstatic. The thought did not worry him for more than a moment; the paper was signed, money exchanged hands, and Quatre found himself in possession of a slave. He left the tent and was presented with his new purchase, to do with as he willed.

Standing outside the glow of the lanterns in the half-light, Quatre found himself uncertain. Was this slave who he believed him to be? He seemed taller than in his dreams, darker of skin and more well-muscled, and Quatre had not gotten more than a glance at his bowed face.

"What is your name?"

"I have no name, master." His voice was quiet and calm, and the same as Quatre remembered from his dreams; and he thought he had heard the same words in the same voice once, long ago. Quatre frowned.

"I am not your master. I grant you your freedom."

"I refuse it."

Nothing had prepared Quatre for those words; they were not the words he expected to hear. Gratification, thanks, anything but a refusal.

"Why?" If there was a hint of anger to his voice, he did not care to hide it.

"I am content to serve my master," the slave replied simply, his eyes still downcast.

Quatre took his chin in one hand and brought his face up. The same features, the same eyes...no, he had not made a mistake. Trowa's green eyes gazed calmly back at him, sapping Quatre's sudden anger. If he recognized his would-be savoir, his expression gave no indication of it.

"I am a healer! I cannot keep a slave," Quatre chastened him, and let his hand fall away from Trowa's face as he turned his back on him. Trowa said nothing.

Quatre felt tired. It was the heat of the desert, the weariness of travel, that was getting to him; he did not feel like arguing, not then. He began walking back towards where his caravan had set down, back to his wagon. There would be time enough in the morning. Two paces behind him, Trowa followed silently.

#

Quatre woke as the sun began filtering in through his curtains. Still half-asleep he thought that the night's dream had escaped him, the tedious caravan; but then it hit him full-force and for several moments he remembered, very clearly--Trowa, a slave, dark-skinned and well-muscled wearing nothing but a loincloth and both of them standing in shadow. He blushed furiously and rolled over, knees digging against the mattress as he buried his face in his pillow hiding a shy grin of triumph.

After a breather he glanced over at the clock and saw that he was up early; but the dream still stuck with him, that moment in the lantern-light, and he got up and headed for the shower.

As he washed his hair, Quatre considered what this meant. He couldn't remember when, precisely, the dreams had started; only that it was sometime after the five of them had met each other. Sometimes unremembered, sometimes only half-remembered, but he could still follow the plot. He knew who he was there, even if he hadn't been able to measure it precisely with words or thoughts. Not until now. It became very clear to him then, and he remembered thinking this place a dream. He almost laughed out loud, but kept it to a giggle.

Was it real? He would have to talk with Trowa to find out. And was it only the two of them? He would have to ask the other three pilots as well.

Quatre took a long shower alone with his thoughts, and wondered.