It's a thing. Points to those who know what the chapter title references. Oh! And, because I think it's fun, I'll do a prompt chapter for the 200th reviewer, if they like.
The first stars tremble as if shimmering in green water. Hours must pass before their glimmer hardens into the frozen glitter of diamonds. I shall have a long wait before I witness the soundless frolic of the shooting stars. In the profound darkness of certain nights I have seen the sky streaked with so many trailing sparks that it seemed to me a great gale must be blowing through the outer heavens. - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
The boy dropped the mug in front of him and squirmed uncomfortably, all wide eyes and tousled hair and dark, twisting hands, until Belan's curt nod dismissed him. He scurried off across the common room, avoiding several heavy-handed cuffs and the occasional drunkard. Belan watched the boy until he disappeared into the shadowy warren of corridors that led to the kitchen and then dropped his eyes to the drink.
Picking it up gingerly, the earthenware smooth in hands that were far more accustomed to tempered steel and gritty sand, he eyed it carefully and took a generous mouthful. Smooth as sand wasn't, it slipped down his throat and left a surprising burn in its wake. It settled in his stomach like a serpent, tensed and lethal, sending rays of shockingly bright heat radiating through his body.
He would have liked to gasp and choke, push the brew away and ask for something that didn't resemble swallowing live coals, but he wasn't inclined to draw the room's many eyes, so he only took another burning drink and thanked the powers that be that it wasn't full of desert.
The crowd in the common room ebbed and flowed; travelers and businessmen and those with less savory intentions floating in and out, drifting into the one of many inns in Calormen's preeminent port city. Ashet could be quite a sampling of people, both foreign and not. From where Belan sat, slowly sipping as though if by imbibing more fire he could quell the coals, he could hear all of Calormen; the clipped, tight accent of the north; the broad bastard tongue of the coast; the strangely musical monotone of the great desert region; even, faintly, the sounds and cadences of the far south that were barely recognizable as a language. He wouldn't have stood out had he been revealed, but force of long habit kept him quiet, kept him withdrawn.
Some secrets he would rather keep.
When the drink was finally gone and the common room was nearly empty, he rose, showering sand as he went. He almost laughed at the quiet sound of the grains against the table and floor; it sounded oddly loud to his ears. He was too used to the near-silent whisper of sand on sand.
A girl emerged and beckoned him forward, gesturing with her hands. In the port cities, words couldn't be relied upon. Much safer were hands, eyes, the movement of the body. He followed her quiet steps, weary and staggering and knowing he must look like Tash and all his demons and been set upon him. Down a poorly lit hall that set every guard he had on edge, up a flight of filthy stairs that had seen not only better days but better eras and finally into a room that would have better suited a Dwarf.
The girl pushed her slim figure in first, lighting a taper that smoked instantly and gesturing to the pallet. The lack of wind terrified him.
"Anything else?"
He turned at the words, turned at the musical monotone not quite veiled by the half-heartedly adopted bastard accent that innkeepers liked their girls to have. Her eyes said more, desert stars replaced by coastal coins, acceptance and indifference that didn't quite hide the twisting of the slender hands, so much like the boy's hands. He had to wonder if she was any older.
His eyes wandered up and down her form, not looking at her but through her, her physicality merely an anchor for his roaming thoughts. She squirmed, finally, and he realized with a sudden burst of guilt that he'd pinned her down, as surely as if he'd restrained her, and that this, perhaps, was worse, because then at least she would have known what to expect.
He dropped his eyes like stones to the unswept floor, finding vague patterns in the scattered sand of a dozen nameless past travelers. His cheeks flushed, or they would have if they hadn't known the desert's sun so intimately. "No- no."
Ignoring the confusion that spread across her face- too young, too young for this situation, for this place, for this whole damned country-, he fumbled with the purse's drawstrings, fingers much clumsier than they should have been. Finally he pried the bag open and reached inside, indiscriminately retrieving gold and copper and silver. She took them warily, still confused, and fled to the door as soon as he withdrew his hand.
The door fell shut with an obscenely loud bang and she disappeared, off to guide another traveler or perhaps off to stare in confusion at the coins given by one whose vain wish was to put the desert stars back in those dead eyes. But where didn't matter: she was gone and he was alone, abandoned even by wind and sand and star. He would have preferred their company to this uncomfortable civilization, but another desert night would have killed him, would have left him cold and sand-coated in the morning and the desert wind would have slicked the flesh and muscle from his bones, left him clean and white and empty beneath a desert sun and stars that had seen it all far too many times to involve themselves.
But there were things he had to do even now, things that kept him from giving in to the desert's call in his bones.
But he knew- knew like he knew the dance of the stars, like he knew the changing of the seasons and the turning of the tides- that the desert got its way sooner or later and that he wouldn't have excuses forever. But for now… for now. Push away those thought. They didn't do anyone any good.
Checking that the thin drapes over the window kept everything in the pitiful excuse for a room hidden from prying eyes, he forced all the long-built, hard-learned cautions away and raised sun and wind-chapped hands to unwind his flimsy, fragile protection. Warriors had their shields, beasts their teeth; for himself, he had stained and oft-mended cotton, the original color unrecognizable and forgotten under a short age of use. Thin from age but stiff with sand, the turban fell away, and half the desert with it.
Not bothering to fold or smooth, he let it slide through his hands, feeling the gentle, familiar scratch of ingrained sand rough against his palms as it slithered into a lifeless heap on the floor.
His hands then went about their business of touching his hair, loosening the leather thong, combing out the tangled chestnut locks that would have given him away surely as a signpost. As the strands of filthy, sweat-and-sand encrusted hair were finally released from their long-accustomed place, he let out an unintentional moan of relief and murmured the words that he'd not dared to voice in months: Aslan be praised.
With the words came a whole host of other thoughts best left untouched in this foreign place: winter snows and the whisper of the wind through the Shuddering Wood and the murmur of Glasswater; the ever-lovely dance of the Nymphs and the golden Western wine and the King's blessing. All these things he had buried under layers of an accent long-studied and a sword well-wielded and lies oft-spoken; all these things he had left behind so that, one day, he might return to them.
But many days and many miles had passed since those things had been put away, since the King's hands had come to rest on Belan's head and he had whispered, The blessings of Aslan and the thanks of all free people go with you, Son of Narnia. Many days and many miles, and Belan had to wonder if all these things had not been replaced by wind and sand and star.