The desert was angry: sending forth an unyielding torrent of unseen, razor-edged minions to blind him and tear at his flesh. His cheeks bled openly, and his eyelids were forced down, blinding him. He was lost in a nightmare and dying of thirst.
Anzar! Why do you condemn me to death? I have always been a faithful servant to you, and now, I will perish beneath this chaos if you do not still the demon’s power…
He would spit if he had but a drop of saliva, or take out his flyssa and carve at the storm. Instead, he kicked the small dunes at his feet, spilling the seeds of the desert into the gusting air, adding fuel to the storm’s wrath.
He had walked for a day and a night without water—or hope. Only his rage accompanied him. Spite propelled his feet forward; each small step forced upon the shifting ground was taken with such pride that it would shame a king.
I will not succumb to… to… SAND! I am a son of the Northern Mountains, of Amghar blood!
He did not dare speak the words aloud, lest his voice enrage the storm, but he felt his rib cage shake when he yelled into his soul. Each moment became a lifetime of persecution; with each breath arose an indescribable suffering within his chest.
The sky behind the tempest darkened as the great Tafuyt began his descent. The world moved from beige to amber and finally sepia.
Soon the world will be black—soon I will be dead.
He imagined the sun’s descent into the great sea, far, far west of where he stood. Tafuyt would venture to the underworld for the night, and he would never see her arise anew.
Vermilion rage bubbled up within him, and he was no longer able to control himself. Gripping his Tagelmust firmly around him, he started at a mad sprint through the desert as if the spirits drove him. His jailer did not take kindly to this insult and, out of vengeance, increased the power of the storm to an impossible fury, leaving the man completely blind and deaf to nothing but the power of nature.
I will not lie down!
Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead—the precursors of his death. He should not waste his energy so needlessly, and yet.
I will not go silently to my doom!
Hubris had taken him; beneath his cotton cloth his teeth showed, clenched and gritting—his defiant smile—sinister to the last. His next step did not touch the ground, nor the one after.
Ahhhhh!
The realization stung deep in his belly, just above the groin: he had run straight off the edge of a cliff, soaring to his fate. He hit the ground a few seconds later and rebounded off in a violent spin; his clothes twirled freely as the sandstorm tore at his unprotected flesh.
His body fought with the windward slope—in vain—his limbs were tossed through the aether like a lion throws its prey. He hit the foot of the hill with a hard thud and slid a short distance before the world went black.
When he awoke, the world was still dark; unmoving and soundless, like the abyss.
Am I dead?
He tried to move but felt a great weight upon his shoulders. His head ached and his mouth felt as dry as a sun-scorched rock; his legs were stiff as parched roots; his whole body was a throbbing tangle of pain.
I cannot be dead—it wouldn’t hurt so if I were dead…
The sand poured over him as he shuffled out of his earthen tomb. Ayyur shone brightly upon the silent world of men; a silver slice of magic sewn into the obsidian tapestry of the gods. There was barely enough light for him to see his own hands.
The storm has passed, and soon so will I. Cursed world—
He caught himself in time.
I should not meet my forefathers with ill words on my tongue.
It took him a long time to stand; an entire age of the world would pass, and finally he lifted his body… and his heart.
“It is not cowardice to welcome the inevitable,” whispered the Kel Essuf into the night. “Lie down, and rest. No need to struggle any longer.”
He grabbed for his weapon, but found an empty scabbard. His rage boiled in his heavy heart, and he raised his fists to strike at the darkness—despite the Kel Essuf being ephemeral desert beings—he needed to purge his anguish.
But in that moment, a cold wind blew over his face; it was humid and refreshing, the first pleasant feeling he had in days. He lowered his fists and heard another voice whisper from within: Be at peace.
With great courage, he straightened his back and lifted his eyes.
“I surrender!” he shouted to the moon. I surrender; he whispered to his soul.
A tear rolled down his cheek, and he strode to take one step forward. He found a slight buoyancy in his feet as he started. His legs were surprisingly light, and his joints, despite the cramps, moved with a certain ease.
He strode along the plains of darkness, and everywhere he went, he saw the eyes of evil staring intently. Anger, with its red frothing mouth, awaited his screams and outbursts. Pride glared at him through indigo eyes, anticipating that his hubristic nature would spit at the world in an attempt to elevate himself above it. And fear—the void—wrapped all the others within its unlit cloak.
Nothing left now but to enjoy a leisurely stroll.
He closed his eyes, for there was nothing left to see, and opened his heart to the cruel world.
He knew not how far he had walked or what distance he had travelled. Time melted around him and lost all meaning. His senses abandoned him, save for the faint hiss of the sand beneath his boots—like silk rubbing on the wind.
When finally, light began to push through his shut eyelids, morning was coming, and as the darkness crept away, so too did his burdens. For when his gaze returned, it fell upon the most welcoming of sights: a small oasis a few paces before him, lined with tiny shrubs and a few date palms—their leaves black in the twilight. The sky behind was struck with pink and blue hues, like whips of joy, pushing the darkness back, over and up, towards the other side of the world.
He froze: fear took him, and disbelief. Was this a trick? A mirage? What should he say, or do? How should he feel?
As he approached the calm waters, he could smell the freshness of it even a few feet away. He fell to his knees and crawled, as he sobbed like a small child. Dipping his hands into the water, he heard that same voice again, the one that speaks from within.
The heart finds peace in surrender.