Stormchild: Emeline and the Forest Mage

18 Ocean of Sand

"The hottest fire makes the hardest steel."

~ Unknown Wise Man

Erdil

    There in the distance, Färin was sure he could see the edge of the Gruwoud. Was it? Oh, for a drop of the clear waters of the Dyker river! He was sure he could hear it. Feeling near to death, he dragged each foot sullenly through the horrid sand.

    He hated the Sheia. She conspired against him, he was sure. Too hot and dry! The sand, the wind, the sun. He hated it all, and he swore when he reached the Mage, he would ask him to destroy this place forever.

    Färin snorted to himself, his limbs flailing in his exhaustion. Like it could get any worse! He imagined a water child, one like Sheyå, sending the ocean to cover this place. It made him grin smugly. Dust covered him, and he felt so thirsty! He licked his bloody cracked lips, but even his tongue was dry. Damn it!

    When he ran his fingers through his hair, it hurt, as though his scalp was covered with blisters. Who knows? It probably was. Färin's neck felt just as raw and tender and he couldn't help but feel that life was unfair in that moment. He had to suffer this horrid pain while his father travelled in luxurious shade, tended by that dimwit commander of his, and sipping on the finest wines. But he had the girl.

    'Sheyå?' Färin looked over his shoulder, and stopped in his tracks, turning slowly. His mouth fell open in a wide gape.

    Before his own eyes he saw what looked like a wave in the ocean, but it was of sand, and on it rode little Sheyå. The wave of sand was at least twice his height, and nearing rapidly. He realized this, and stumbled in the other direction in a futile attempt to escape it. After a few seconds of scrambling, he turned back in panic and saw Sheyå standing a few feet away, the sand absolutely flat below her.

    Färin stood frozen, hands in mid-air for a few seconds, then he relaxed. 'Holy Fathers, child! Warn me next time.' Sheyå giggled and shrugged innocently.

    The panic slowly subsided, and an idea came to mind. 'Sheyå? Can you do that again?' She smiled sweetly, nodding.

    'Will I be able to go with you?' He hoped fervently that this would work.

    'Yes, Färin, but you must hold my hand.'

    'Of course.' He wasn't sure whether he felt more anxious or relieved. The likelihood that he would be face down in the sand before too long made him hesitate, along with his disease with the child's sorcery.

    After thinking it over for a minute, he nodded. 'Ok, Sheyå. Show me what you can do.'

    Färin reached out to take her hand, and she smiled an excited smile. Her wrappings had disappeared progressively during the day, slipping down around her neck or falling into the sand behind them. Somehow her skin was just as pale and soft, while his was bright red and raw on any spot where it hadn't been covered.

    'Remember that I'm not so fond of sand all over me,' he warned, and she nodded.

    They took each other's hands in an epic stance, the desert wind whipping their hair towards the setting sun.

    'We're going that way.'

    He pointed north north-west, and jerked awkwardly as the sand rose beneath their feet. He nearly let go of her hand, losing his balance a bit.

    T'was a strange feeling standing on sand that one should sink into, and add to that the fact that it was moving. He bent his knees, wriggling about so as not to fall, and barely holding on to little Sheyå's hand. She, in contrast, stood straight up and confident, guiding the sand with her dark, stormy eyes and her left hand.