Abbernathy and Magick's End

(2) - Dancer, Face Slasher -

Somewhere. Eve crest. 

☆

THE LEFT SIDE of his face burned, as did his back and stomach, but what else could one expect after collapsing in the desert?

He thought there'd be more animals though. Vultures casting shadows overhead, scavengers pecking and pawing at his flesh, tasting their meal a little before committing to the main course.

But none had come. Maybe he made for a poor corpse - his muscles too sinewy; his blood the wrong type; his pathetic whimpering, too off-putting. Maybe he was something that only the truly starving would sink their teeth into and, judging by all the small bones and carcasses he'd passed, the desert had its fill of prey.

At this point though, he'd resigned himself to whatever. Death by predator. Death by heatstroke, dehydration, or starvation. If he could rest a bit and catch his breath after running for so long, he'd make peace with however it ended.

So long as he could recall her face -- those blue eyes, that tangled blond hair, a breezy smile -- he'd let himself go. That was the only thing that had come from his death, that feeling of loss, and he was grateful she'd never have to suffer it again. No one was ever supposed to come back after they'd been taken away.

Something sharp poked him in the side. A grunt wheezed out from between his cracked lips.

"Dead?" a small voice asked, in a surprisingly disinterested tone.

Another poke came, this time, between the ribs. Sebbi moved his arm, swatting in the direction of whoever it was come to foil his demise, though his attempt was feeble, his arm and hand both numb. It felt like he was waving an overcooked noodle at his visitor.

"Not dead," came another voice. This one was a low rumble, similar to distant thunder, though it boomed through Sebbi's head much the same. "Close to, but still alive. See how he squirms?"

The blunt edge of another object jabbed him between his shoulder blades. He cried out, but sapped of his energy, it was no more than a strained whisper.

"Them's the sound of a man not yet fallen victim to the Scorch."

Hands gathered under his belly and pulled him off the burning ground. Coolness, immediate and welcomed, wrapped around him.

"Rescuin' him? But what if he's a scoundrel? A thief?"

A high-pitched screech broke overhead and his eyelids went temporarily dark. "Leave him to the Scorch, and he'll be char by suns up. We can't do that, Uusa. Tribesmen look after one another."

"But he's not one of us, Bantu," said Uusa, irritated. "He's a plainsclothes. A fancy city type. Northerner, knowin' nothing of the south."

"We're not murderers." The words had a pronounced finality, ushering in a moment of silence where only the wind dared blow.

Then, with a heave, Sebbi was slung over something. Sharpness, like bone, dug into his stomach, and the world began moving.

"He dies, it's his fault."

"Uusa--"

"Bantu." Uusa harrumphed. "Pa," this time, his voice was almost pleading, "they hate us. Think us beastly."

"They hate what they do not know."

Sebbi continued to be moved, carried on the shoulder of some good-natured human. He had no idea how anyone had found him. The desert, before he'd passed out, had stretched on well beyond the horizon. The landscape was a wasteland of red sand and the bleached animal bones of others who had failed to make the trek.