Note:

Here is a lighter-brighter sequel to my story "Run in the Dark", and as is often (but not always) the case with sequels, it's not (nearly) as good as the first part. I haven't managed to maintain the laconic style, but I'm trying to make that up with confusion and contradictions. So if you truly enjoyed the first part, you might not like this. But if the ending of "Run in the Dark" has left you unhappy or dissatisfied, you might enjoy this sequel. :)

o.o.o

Run in the Sun

Daphne was running in the sand. She ran two kilometres. Or maybe it was five. Or maybe it was fifty. Or maybe she hadn't moved at all. It was difficult to tell distance in the desert.

It was difficult to tell time in the desert. She had no idea how long she had stayed here – weeks, months, years. She remembered vaguely – as if someone had told her about it a long time ago – how she first got here. She had filled her fridge with all her best wines, some meat and cheeses that went well with the wine, and then fooled everyone into thinking that she was getting better. She had hidden the refrigerator, organized a get-together, and then left a note on the laid table.

She had lost the fridge. She had made a couple of calendars, and lost each one of them. She had lost all sense of direction and time, and possibly most of her touch with reality. There was not much need for reality in a desert. In exchange for everything she had lost, she had discovered mushrooms. They grew in strange parts of the desert and when she ate them, the parts grew stranger yet.

It had been difficult running in the sand at first. It had been difficult making water when the sun scorched her from above, and the sand burnt her from below, and stubborn memories scalded her from inside out. It had been difficult to concentrate while being just an inch away from becoming one with the nature in the way destined for every mortal.

She wasn't sure she was alive, on some days. Maybe she was a ghost now, roaming the desert, unseen by most, forever and forever and forever. She was not going back until she'd learned to wake the dead. And not before she had figured out where exactly she was and how exactly to get out of here.

But now she loved running in the sand and didn't want to go anywhere. There was a scent of storm in the air – but she'd learned to deal with storms. There was a ripple of colour in the air, and she recognized it instantaneously.

She knew he'd be there, waiting, when she stopped running. She didn't stop, not until she heard him call her name.

Daphne. Daphne. Daphne. Ghost of the Desert.

She stopped and turned to face him. And there he stood, in front of her, as beautiful, as real, as alive as she remembered. She sighed and fell to her knees, sinking her fingers into the sand.

"Daphne," the figure whispered as a breeze, "What are you doing?"

"Running," she stated, fisting her hands in the sand, gripping the ground to steady herself. "You know how much I love running."

"Do you dislike the l-word as well?" he asked, and the sand was not enough to keep her from falling apart. She hated it when he spoke with words from her memories, because those memories were real, while this was nothing but a shadow, an illusion. But it was her illusion, the creation of the cruel desert and her cruel mind, and it spoke with words from her memories.

"No," she said, giving the reply she had given before, precious water running down her face, "that is a word I like."

"Daphne. Daphne. Daphne. Ghost of the Desert. What are you doing?"

"I do not know," she sobbed.

"You should go back," the illusion announced, and she looked up in surprise, because she hadn't expected that from a reflection of herself.

"I cannot," she said, "not before I've learned to bring you back."

"Perhaps you should first learn to bring yourself back."

Daphne shook her head, "I've gone too far."

"It will not be easy, I know. But I think we should try."

"What do you know," Daphne muttered, angrily, "You are nothing but a mirage."

He did not argue, because she was right. He was a mirage, an illusion, or perhaps a hallucination; a trick played by the light and the heat, possibly with the additional help of mushrooms.

He was the reason she did not leave the desert, did not even try. Because the place was one big refrigerator, white and fast, and here she could live in the after, forever and forever and forever.

"You have to go back, Daphne," the mirage spoke.

"No, I don't," she argued with it. "I won't."

"You will."

"Can't think of a reason why I should," she mumbled.

"There's a storm coming," the mirage pointed out.

"I know."

"You can live in the desert, Daphne, but you cannot die here."

"Am I still alive?" she wondered.

"Yes. Yes, you're alive."

"I have a cruel mind," she said, laughing bitterly, "That keeps tormenting me."

"It wants you to go back before it's too late."

"This is too late," Daphne argued, "We wasted the before, we wasted the after, we had the now, I couldn't stand the later, and this is too late."

"No; this is something else."

"I'm not coming back," she said.

"No. You are going on."

"I'm not going anywhere," Daphne stated resolutely.

"Not even for me?" the mirage prompted.

"No."

"Not even for the real one?"

"I cannot help him," she admitted. "I haven't learned anything."

"You may have learned more than you think. But you will never know if it's enough unless you leave the desert."

Daphne glared at the gathering storm. "I thought I lost all my logical thinking a long time ago."

"You tried very hard to destroy yourself, Daphne, Ghost of the Desert," the illusion of him told her. "But the desert loves you, as do I."