Farid stood bare-footed in the summer heat, beads of sweat forming on his brow.
He was quite used to the heat, especially once living where he did. But even as he stood alone, bare feet scraping mercilessly on the browning grass, he longed for a breeze.
He couldn't say that he missed the burning sands of his Arabic world. He didn't miss the sun, nor the thievery he had had to commit for a decent meal. He didn't miss the market men on his tail as he ran, ran through the barrels and baskets and boxes of goods. He didn't miss the fear of death.
He could still remember, if he closed his eyes, that precise moment when he had entered this world. He was still running from the market men at that point, until he realized that the floor on which he stood wasn't made of sand. He could see Meggie staring at him in wonder, and then the men in black running after him… he had felt that rush and began to sprint back and forth.
He remembered his first car ride, mesmerized at how fast everything seemed to be going by.
He remembered his confusion as they had explained everything to him in calm, soothing tones.
But mostly, he remembered Dustfinger.
He remembered the utter fascination with the Tamer of the Flames, the curiosity as to where, exactly, Dustfinger had gotten those scars.
It took a long time to realize that he loved him.
But it didn't really mattered now, did it? Not with Dustfinger dead.
It didn't matter.
Nothing did.