A/N: This is dedicated to a dear friend that has been pestering me to type something for her, tolerates my nonsense and generally deals with my crappy non-responsive self. You know who you are ;)
And yes, I know. I will update the other stories soon, got to get this first chapter out of the way first :)
R&R, feedback appreciated :)
Water.
John would kill for a sip of the crystalline liquid at that moment. He was to sell himself into slavery any moment now should his service guarantee him a bottle. The thirst was swiftly approaching a maddening level, life-threatening if the man remains scorched under the sandy, arid terrain. In the Verdana Deserts, every bit of the contender's knowledge would be tested against; beasts, blistering heat, terrifying sand storms. The list goes on, should the body not succumb from plain, bone-weary fatigue first. Rumour told of men that crossed the Verdana in a span of three, short days. Many discredited the tale of the legendary 'Eagle King', while others made of the story to be a single, rare miracle.
John desperately could do with one then.
There was no choice, Verdana Deserts were the only chance he got at reaching New Kent before the slave troupes arrive. By arriving first, the man would earn himself a chance to register for the annual Harvest auction of slaves. Not that he was badly in need of one, rather John often prided himself in being fiercely independent, or at least he liken himself to. No, John Watson was there with a mission. His only surviving kin was is a member that was going to be auctioned during the Harvest, sold to the highest bidder to serve their whims and needs. Harriet Watson was going to at the mercy of her master, promising almost certainly to be some rich, sick-in-mind bastard. No, John Watson cared too much for his sister to allow her to suffer that kind of treatment for the days to come.
That is, if he can make his way out of the damning location first.
Half-crawling, half-walking his way through the steep dunes, John did a quick time check with the sun. It was went on its way past mid-day, on the man's fifth day on braving the deserts. The supplies are running low; with barely more than half a day's bag of dried goods left and almost no water, he was as close as it gets to a dead end.
'Or dead man,' the man mused, tightening his grip on the strap as he trudged on. It would take little effort for bandits to take on the man now, bring him down with barely any resistance and finish him off.
His trouble did not come in the form of armed man, but rather a single, solitary scorpion. Towering at nearly seven feet tall, the armoured beast made quite a formidable opponent. Sharp piercing claws that promise death with a single blow, the black scorpion made good on its claim of being one of the most dangerous creatures in the Verdana.
John quickly laid his supplies to the side, mentally gaging his chances against the aggressive creature. Those that had faced the goliath before warned that true danger laid not with its hardened defences, but rather the lightning-quick attack from its stinger. Fisting his arms, the man quickly unrolled his sleeves to reveal a myriad of intricate, tattoo-like markings on both his arms. With a quick prayer to anyone listening, he concentrated on drawing out the one that had the best chance in winning. A thin, tawny line coiled and uncoiled for a moment before coming straight into life. The desert serpent was the only creature with the strength to take down the scorpion, poised in all its deadly grace and speed.
Staggering from the effort, John took a few steps to regulate his balance. The summoning had taken its toll on the exhausted man, already weak from his ordeal. He could only pray that the encounter would pass by quickly enough for the scorpion to lose its interest, or for him to die a quick, painless death.
The two creatures remained locked in a steady, staring contest, as though gaging and understanding its opponent in its penetrating gaze. There was utter silence in the air for a moment, before the two struck. The serpent relied on sole speed to be on par with its enemy, striking repeatedly against the weaker spots in the scorpion's armour while the other swung wide arcs with its pincer claws to prevent the relentless attacks. John merely stood there, mesmerised by the deadly display as the snake continued to drain his precious energy reserves.
It was a battle of endurance, one that John knew he could not win. So he opted for the snake's famed venom to do the trick. He would only have one chance to make it work, and then his serpentine familiar would not be able to maintain physical shape any longer. So the man drew on his painfully cultivated patience, searching and watching for a window of opportunity. The scorpion danced back, equally wary of its intelligent opponent before instincts won out once more. Had John not been in a hurry to cross the desert, the steely scorpion would have made a great rendition as a Seikh companion.
"Venom, I command you the harbinger. Poison the creature and leave no remainder!" The battle cry rang out loud and clear into the endless deserts as the serpent reared back for a final strike. It took a single moment for the fight to conclude before the scorpion finally fell prey and collapsed, but not before the famed stinger had managed to catch itself onto the familiar's back. The man's back exploded in blinding pain, forcing him to kneel in order to stop the swaying ground floor, clutching his rapidly reddening chest. Time seemed to stop then as John took to the sands, his breathing going shallower as the poison ravaged him from within. There was no way he was going to be able to summon any form of familiar to heal himself, much less any form of help in this forsaken land.
The man felt sticky, drained and tortured all at once. 'Is this how I am going to die finally? With no one caring?' A bitter laugh escaped his mouth, half in the form of chokes as the poison rendered him incapable of further speech other than half coherent sputters. 'All alone in the wilderness and succumbed like many man before.'
Be it disillusion or impaired hearing that made John hear that cold, distant howl, John was not sure then. He was no longer sure of everything; the man was breaking apart right before his very death. He was frustrated, regretful and every bit agonised by the fact that his sister was going to be left alone in the world due to his own weakness. A weakness that could have been rectified had John been more careful in his preparations, in his trainings.
"Shit! Damn this all!" He slammed a weakened fist against the sand, feeling its grainy texture as the howl grew closer. Maybe it is the desert wolf packs coming to clear his remain, the dying man mused silently. He could not even find the strength to release the Seikhs bound to him, his loyal companions that chose to serve him out of loyalty and not slavery. The last bit of mercy he could not deliver to them, that one day they might be able to find a stronger Seikh-master than himself to take them in. 'A caring man through and through,' John found himself thinking back to those last words his mother had bestowed him before passing on from her injuries inflicted by his alcoholic father. Even upon death, John could not find the will to forgive the man. He was the one that had brought upon the debts to the family, drove his loving mother to an early grave and forced Harriet into slavery.
"If incarnation is real, I would not become a man like him." Closing his eyes, John sought comfort in the brief gust of cool wind upon his face. Soft crushing of sand bits signalled another creature's presence, the steps firm and strong. A shrill bird cry was all his heard before darkness finally took over.
Of all abrupt ways to be woken up in afterlife, John had truly never expected to be roused with the old hard way of cold water being dumped over his head. The man bolted up immediately, thinking he was about to experience a second death experience before wincing at the sharp pain the movement to his shoulder had brought about.
There was fire, a fireplace to be exact. He was in a cave-like structure, possibly made of limestone from the light coloured tinge. A wrapped up pile of dried meat laid beside his make-shift bed, made with some of the softest dried leaves John had ever slept on. The shelter yelled of safety, yet the man that stood before him spoke of a completely different tune. With raven hair cropped short and eyes that shifted between a mixture of three colours, John was awe-struck. Dazed, mesmerised. Dressed in near complete shades of black, the man stood at an imposing height that could have the easily towering over John. An eagle joined him soon after, landing by his shoulder and gazed haughtily at John as his perch did.
'Why had the man saved me? Who is he?' John opened his mouth to vocalise his thoughts, only to find himself searching for the appropriate words to begin the conversation with his mysterious saviour. However, before John had managed to gather himself together, the man spoke. A baritone voice that demanded attention and spoke of confidence.
"You would have never made it to New Kent."
And with that the man left with his feathery companion, leaving John gaping in his wake.