…and in the night he found that there were teeth among the stars.
The wind. The sand. The heat. He thought that at that rate, he'd swallow the desert. He felt it in the back of his throat—the scratch of grain festering whenever he inhaled. He fisted the cloth around his face and coughed, wincing at the dryness of it.
"Mizu," he tugged on the reins. "We've got to move faster."
The camel groaned in protest, shaking its head in the halter, ears flapping against dry hide. Stupid animal, he thought. He would have gutted it weeks ago for its bladder, to drink from the fresh water stored in there; but alas, he needed a pack mule, and camels were only slightly smarter. He tugged again. She worked her jaw and spat at the sand. His lips curled up in disgust. Slightly.
By this rate, if they didn't reach the oasis, it would outlive him. He emptied a cloth pouch at his waist. Warm millet spilled into his palm and he brought it to the animal's soft lips. It was a tedious task and the feel of the cool sliminess of its tongue made him shudder. Digusting animal, he grumbled. Camel saliva was sticky and when it dried, it made your skin stiff.
He took a swig from his bota, but not another sip. The water was cool, with an almost meaty tang to it, and his throat rasped for more. It was high noon, and if he drank again, he'd surely have to slaughter the camel. He tugged his keffiyeh up to his nose, licking blistered lips. He imagined inhaling air that was cool and moist, like a sigh, but all he got was a breath of ash.
He'd heard many things about Frer. For one, it was supposedly a city of riches—silk banners canopying the streets from the sun and quartz aqueducts lining its network. Fresh fruit grew everywhere, and the poor never starved and the old never took ill. They said that the water was sweet and cool and was known to cure any ailment; any shattered bone or bloodied cheek. All far-fetched tales, but upon thinking about it, desire filled his mouth like salt. The countless number of nights spent on what moisture his tongue could glean from the metal of his sword only further stoked the coals of want in his stomach.
He thirsted, and he yearned.
Water, coursing through his fingers and sliding across the planes of the sleek muscles of his back. Hands carving through the blue, slicing it into a gateway that only his body would follow through indefinitely. He coughed, the pain seizing him from his fantasy. It was a dry heave. His fingers raked across the red and raw cracked skin of his bare abdomen and his body curled around his fist. He squeezed his eyes shut, but when they opened, they didn't dare blink again.
It was a mirage, a twisted illusion his mind has produced to appeal to his longing. But his tongue was so heavy, so hot from the weeks of travel, and most of all, his skin itched. There was no use denying it any longer. This was not the first time and it would not be the last. He grabbed the cloth at his chest, ripped off his headscarf, and sprinted towards the oasis. He could almost feel it.
The especially hard nights had had him staring into the night. Not for navigation, no. He knew where he was going. A long time ago someone told him about the silver fish that swam in the sky and ate the stars, and all he could think after that was: I'd like to swim in that sea.
His skin was cracked and sore, pulled taut over his bones, and yet his lips desired salvation. And even though it went against every right to be sensible, his legs wouldn't stop.
It didn't matter if he was wrong. It didn't matter if he was chasing an illusion. It was a beautiful one, even though there was a chance he'd end up with a mouthful of sand.
Like he'd done so many times.
The pants were the hardest part—the cloth bunched around his ankles, but then his shoes were off—one, then the other—and they posed a problem no more. He was almost there. It was just a few feet away. He jumped, closing the distance, and dove—
Grit.
An illusion, he thinks, but his hands curl around the sand, fisting it, and he feels the moisture. It crumbles between his fingers, and it's the most glorious thing he's ever felt in weeks of sun and grain. He cracks an eye open and sees that he was short by mere inches. The shore laps at his nose, and he crawls, naked, with only his bota strapped loosely around his waist, into the water.
He does not drink until the sand has settled. The water tastes of spoiled dates. His sword lies on the bank and it seems careless to leave himself so vulnerable, but it would have only been a hindrance. Mizu comes and laps at the water with her purple tongue. She'd been trained well. He closes his eyes and drifts. The pond was not that deep—only about four feet and—he hadn't noticed it at first—was around less than half a mile from the city.
When was the last time…he had begun to ask himself. Too long. Far too long.
He held up his hands to his face, now wrinkled and swollen from being soaked for so long. He squinted at the dew that dripped from his fingertips. He supposed he was greedy, but it wasn't for a wealth that could be put in a pouch. Perhaps it was a feeling, an emotion. A memory. He just couldn't quite put his finger on it. He was a drifter, and maybe, after everything, that was all he was.
The world splintered from beneath them. Rock crushing wood into thousands of teeth. He had not seen the cliff, but he saw them one by one, falling.
A/N: The cultural elements that influenced the writing of this fic were primarily Indian and Persian. I did most of my research over the internet, so if you come across any inaccuracies, please forgive me and let me know so I can change them. Songs that inspired me were 'Shattered' by Koda and 'Cosmic Love (Seven Lions Remix)' by Florence and the Machine. I suggest you give them a listen! Ana, this one's for you. I couldn't have written this without your help. Reviews are greatly appreciated. ;o;
