Tremors

He stood there on the crater's edge above, a silhouette against the waking beams of dawn, and there I watched him, among the shadows draping the cragged walls below. His dark countenance and his brown eyes... if not for the clothes he wore, the device he brought, and the circumstances that continued to shroud him, he would appear to me a part of this land, a Shuriman, hardened by the desert sun like a brick of clay.

He was a stranger, to me and to this land, and while I had chased him, I thought he was escaping me for fear, suspicion, or malice. But then his dazed look lingered. It assured me that he had no intent to leave.

I felt that he was about to speak.

But then, his eyes turned to the sky and, seemingly, it searched the heavens for all their corners, settling only when he looked to the horizon beyond, his gaze as far and wide as the golden eve of dawn and the breeze of the desert morning that bathed him altogether.

He truly is new to this land. Like a goat leashed to a new caravan, he chases the sights it offers.

A new land engulfs the senses and opens the ears to its many tales, and I too gazed as he did, to the vast grasslands of Valoran, to the forested hills of Ionia, and the snowy woods of the Freljord, but more numerous than my memories of worldly allure, were the thoughts of home, and it was then that I noticed a piercing thread through the thin mesh of wonderment over his eyes, a thread that followed all those who did not belong. Sorrow.

I climbed up, leveling myself with the stranger, until he and I stood there at the crater's edge, on the boundary where the powdery dunes met its dark basalt.

He was as still as a long sunken statue lifted out from the shadow of its tomb. An inexplicable relief held me. Him remaining after I had helped him proved that there was truth to his strangeness to Shurima and that there was some decency through his grief and suspicion. I felt content to stand there with him.

He stayed as quiet and nameless as the winds with the sun to stare back at him. Then, he sighed, so deep that his chest rose with his body and his eyes shut. When he was done, not much changed, for his eyes could not leave the light and air of the unraveling day, and I could not say anything to him. The world was speaking to the stranger. I found it rude to interrupt this exchange.

The azirite gleam of the morning sun was peeking out of the shaded tapestry of the Great Weaver. Through the foothills of our tribe's wandering and the snowy valleys of my solitude, the eve of a new day was the herald of hope, a reminder of second chances, and the deliver of an opportune tomorrow ever-promised. Before my eyes, it was a constant beauty. To his, it was a new one. I could not imagine gazing for the first time into something that I had seen virtually all my waking days, but then I remembered when I saw and touched snow over the valleys of Ionia. There, it was a constant part of life; coldness, harshness, and the threat of ravaging avalanches, but in Shurima, there was nothing in this world more wonderful to come across; purity, gentleness, and the fragility of falling snowflakes. I understood him. I would gaze too.

He turned to me and I caught the winks of the sapphire of his amulet and the flutter of his upright hair to the wind. He appeared as if he was going to say something, but then he looked away, as if a regretful thought passed him and sailed into the rising sun. I supposed I should speak.

"I thought you were going to leave me," I began, "but I see now that all this is truthfully new to you."

"I've left enough people. I'm not about to do that again." His eyes stayed forward. "And yeah, all this is new to me. Where I'm from, there's no sand, no sky, no clean air, no space. We live by the edge of stony cliffs so massive that turning your head all the way up doesn't help in finding where they really start 'cause of all the bridges, pipes, and platforms stitching them together. There's no sun there. Just chem-powered mimics of it that open in a flash. Doesn't come close to the real thing."

He lifted an arm. Beams streaked between the callouses of his finger-sides. The sun was in his palm.

"Who would've thought. Light is much better when it comes to you slowly; on its own, without flicking a switch..."

It was easy to imagine his home, for there were plenty of cliffs in Ionia and the Freljord as well as the people who lived between them. Everyday they would bask beneath their shadows, save for when the sun was directly overhead. But I found the other details of his home almost unthinkable: no sky and no clean air, for they followed all my travels. But I was wrong. Such a place was familiar to me and it was a violent memory. I remembered drowning off the Ionian coast.

Then, again, I understood him. I would long for air too.

"The Pilties and upsiders were right. The surface is wider than everything anyone's ever known in Zaun, wide enough to make you realize how far your eyes can actually see. It's unbelievable. You can light a candle a hundred leagues away and I'm sure I could spot its flame."

The stranger knelt down and sifted his fingers through the sand. He had a tenderly spilling pile rising along his palm.

"Here, above, all along, while we can hardly breathe below." He looked at me. "Feels like I can run in one direction and never stop for a year. How far does all this sand stretch?"

"Far enough that the dunes are all one can see in a week's travel on camel back."

He looked up towards me. Master Yasuo once told me that, sometimes, my curiosity caused my face look as still of thought as a tree gecko. The stranger's own curiosity was doing the same. "How is this much even possible?"

"The Great Weaver weaves many of Her greatest patterns in threads of indigo and amber; the sea and the sands; the sun and the sky; time and space. The dunes are but one of her grandest designs, the thin veil that serves to dress all stone beneath, but Shurima is not all sand."

I looked at him, and remembered wrinkly fingers ruffling my hair and wise, nigh-eternal eyes squinting from a half-toothless smile.

A good answer makes the eyes go wider, little one, that is why Babajan always sees yours so open!

I saw those same eyes in the stranger. I heard Babajan's words through my own. She always told me of the day I'd recount the knowledge of our tribe to my own children, but it seems strangers have always been a good practice for that.

"Great Weaver?"

"She Who Wefts the Threads of Fate and Warps the Strings of Creation. In my tribe's tongue, She is known as Wehaya, and She has existed for as long as the songs, dances, and tales of our ancestors. She is our guardian, the mover of all nature, and everyday we walk in Her Tapestry of stone and earth and pray for Her blessings and signs." I looked to the horizon. "All that you see now is the craft of Her earthen fingers, and all that happens, happens because She wove their threads to be so, thus the fate of all people are threaded together, no matter how distant or strange they may be, for a purpose only She can know."

"Is that why you helped me?"

I looked at him, nodded, and smiled a little, for he understood quickly. For we were all woven, all help was help to the entire tapestry, and in effect, it returns to oneself.

"Mostly." I looked to the sun. It was more than half-way through now. Gold began to seep from its amber halo. "Perhaps I have left enough people as well."

I could feel him looking to me, and for a moment, I glanced to him. His brown eyes glistened like bronze with the shine of the dawn, such that I saw the reflection of mine. He was young perhaps as young as I was, or slightly older, for our height were not obviously apart, and I noticed faded outlines of a white painting on his face: two triangles that spanned from his chin to his forehead, meeting at their tips by the bridge of his nose. A mark.

"Well... Thanks. I mean it this time, whoever you are."

I turned myself to him and put a hand to my chest. "Taliyah of the Nasaaj, daughter of Tal and Yannah."

"Is that really how people introduce themselves? You say your parents' names with your own?"

"This is a courteous way. We honor our mothers and fathers by invoking their names alongside ours. It helps one to remember that people shall hold your parents accountable for the things you do, be they right or wrong."

"Wow, that's a lot of... pressure. Alright, and did you say of the Nasaaj or Ofdanasaaj? Is that supposed to be your family name?"

"Of the Nasaaj." I could not stop a smirk. This was not the first time. "We do not have family names like the peoples of Valoran, for the tribe is the family of families, and so the tribe comes first. Nasaaj is my tribe. In our tongue, it means Those Who Weave, for we raise goats and camels in the desert, forage for dye ingredients in the oases, and make a living from the fabrics we make."

The curious look of his returned. "I'm guessing there are other 'tribes' in this huge place."

"Yes. Some nomads and wanderers, like ours, others farmers of the oases and fishermen of the coasts, and others... hunters and raiders. The tribes know each other mainly because of trade and most of us have shared histories. People will often think of you with your tribe in mind, and even a person who achieves nothing can be great by virtue of his tribe's honor."

"Sounds a lot like a gang."

"A gang?"

"What counts for a tribe in Zaun. Think of it like a family, except not everyone is related, and anyone can join so long as they prove themselves to the gang. They protect you provided that you'd be there for everyone else when they need you."

A family where not everyone is related... It reminded me of ship crews and guilds. The markings on his face then began to mean much. A mark of where he belonged.

"Are you part of one?"

"Yeah." He turned to the horizon. "The Lost Children." Sunlight gleamed to his face. He did not say anything more.

"It must be an honor to be part of a gang as it is to a tribe."

"Um, well..." He paused for a moment then smiled. "See, being in a gang isn't something everyone thinks highly about, even if you help around and don't start trouble. There are gangs who do shady stuff, and that's what most people think about, but we're not one of those. We're just kids, stray sumpsnipes with the coddled ones, who help each other out, the way you did to me. We got our own way of sharing our names, and it's nothing too special but, since I'm here,"

He turned to me and pat a hand to his own chest. "Ekko of the L.C., son of Wyeth Coppersmith and Inna Taylor." I cocked my head, and, almost as if prepared, he said: "E-K-K-O. Not echo, like, echo-echo-echo-echo."

I looked at him. I said nothing. An awkward sting grew from our looks, then, not knowing why, I grinned then hicced. He tilted his head, more perplexed.. My grin widened. Then, my chest thumped, my cheeks lifted, and I felt giggles in my throat. I began laughing.

Ekko looked at me, unsure as to what to say, surprised.

"Why are you..."

I looked at him, face contorted in great and hopping grin, preparing to answer, but then, I saw a pebble by his foot roll. My weaving was acting on its own. My eyes peeled open like a goat kicked from behind, then I straightened myself up but, as I tried to stop myself from laughing, I made a guttural heaving sound, like the sound one makes as they thrust their head out of the water. As this was happening, I tried to speak:

"It's just that," heave, "I've never," heave.

I saw more pebbles moving by his feet and I felt the encirclement of pebbles near mine.

Control.

"Heard an outsider introduce himself in," heave.

I began to bite my tongue to stifle the laughter but it continued.

Control. Control.

"The Shuriman way." Heave.

Control.

Then he did something he should not have. He began laughing along. I have never laughed along with a stranger for a great time, and now, it was difficult to stop myself. I held to my stomach, and reached my hand out, for I felt more tremors, a vibration that invaded my soles and trembled my fingers. My grin remained as I showed him my palm to indicate him to stop, but my laughter could not convince him to.

"Stop!" I said, still giggling. "Stop it!"

Control. Control. Control.

"Why?! You're the one who started it!"

"You must!"

But it remained comical to him and to a part of me. Threads began to wound on their own. I could feel them, loose from the control of my fingers, weaving patterns beneath. Pebbles as large as goat heads began to move about, but their sound was lost to our laughter. I tucked my hands deep beneath my shoulders, as if I could stop the sensation of weaving from my own fingers, but I could do nothing else now but bow my head down. I bit my tongue down, but my laughter pushed through, I looked to him, still smiling and laughing, I pleaded.

"Stop!"

Control, control,control,control.

"But-"

"STOP!"

I screamed. I swiped my arms across. The threads let loose.

Columns of earth jutted out behind me like jagged fists. Sand rose and billowed with the upward strike of woven basalt. A shattering sound cracked into my ears. Threads whipped and lashed in all directions, lost from my control. I could feel the stones crush behind me.

I had lost balance. I fell on my knees. The laughter was gone. All that was left was my breathing and the fading surge of sand.

I embraced myself, tucking my fingers beneath my shoulders, for I did not want to feel them. In the screen of sand raised by the earth, I could not see the stranger, Ekko. I did not hear his voice. I could not bear to look up.

I pulled my hands out. The sand began to fall back. The clearness of day returned. Dry red streaks on my dusted palms watched back. Reminders.

Then, as the sands cleared, I heard Ekko's breaths. He stood farther away from me, sand dusting his clothes. His chest rose and fell quickly.

Our eyes met. No words left either of us. He stared, eyes widened no longer in curiosity, but in pure shock. In fear. I tucked my hands back inside my shoulders and looked away from him but saw only the earth I had rose. It stretched from behind me and extended into the crater wall, like a crown of spikes and columns with I at its center. Their shadows speared away from the sun. The tips of stones dripped with the water from below. Tears.

"You're... a hex-caster."

I did not say anything. I had learned long ago that apologies did little to fear. My threads fell all around me, threads he could not see or feel, and I remained on the ground. I remembered the Nivim and those before them in my journeys, until I recalled the first one. Mother.

I waited for him to run away.

But, I felt something, a prick beneath my toes. Another tremor.

No. It is over. There cannot be any more movement from the threads.

I felt it, a distantly tugged thread. Then, I realized, it was not my own.

I looked to the direction. It was to the west, opposite the sun, and far away from the crater. I could see its origin past the arc of the monolith. A raging cloud of sand was billowing in the distance, and in the seconds as I looked at it, I felt the tremors grow slightly stronger, like the pluck of a string subtly speeding up.

I stood. My eyes could not leave it, and I sensed the stranger look to that direction as well.

The sand cloud was a trail. Something was approaching us, and judging from the amount of sand being shot up, it was large, perhaps as large as a galley, coming full speed and rending earth as it came towards us.

I only knew of one thing that could do this, and I have heard its rumors so often that I could instantly recall.

Rek'Sai, the Queen of all Xer'Sai, Undertaker of Caravans, and Terror of the Sands.

But we were far, far from the Sai'Khaleek to the south-west where she was known to dwell. This was something unknown to the rumors and legends of the tribes. Something I have never seen in all my travels.

It was coming closer.

AN: Can't keep going without a little conflict, I suppose. Most parts of this chapter wrote itself, that is, I didn't plan out some details but they turned out well when I wrote them. I loved writing this chapter and I hope I've done their developing interactions well enough, for I have more and more planned out for them. I do not want to tarry too long on details of the setting and their background and I'd rather variate the pace.

Inputted Meanings:

"Wehaya" is an anagram of the articulated form of the tetragrammaton (YHWH). Whether the concept of the Great Weaver is a personal monotheistic god as in the Abrahamic religions or a cosmic force of nature, is something the story will explore moving forward.

Again, thank you to all those who reviewed, faved, and followed. This story has been gaining quite a bit of traction lately and I have been enjoying writing its chapters, such that I have a stupid smile on my face after writing them. Maybe it's a smile I'd like to share.

Thank you again, and see you guys in the next one.