Stormchild: Emeline and the Forest Mage

16 Daughter of the Desert

"Elementals are as fantastical as elves and fae, as improbable as a purple sky and upside down towers. A man must appreciate the real, the now. Dreams are too dangerous to entertain, and Götteril a myth as dark as the Fathers' hearts."

~ Luderick the First (Written in Bederïn Stêr's Time, in Valle, a Southern town)

Färin leapt into the tent just ahead of a large chunk of wood, tugging the flap strings closed with haste. The wood hit the tent and he flinched back. Outside a great sandstorm raged. Shards and dangerous chunks of objects torn asunder by the violent wind flew unpredictably through the air. Some smacked into the sides of the tent every now and again and he thanked whatever deities were involved that he wasn't out there.

    Most of these tents were occupied, he recalled. He turned around slow, wary, expecting a desert savage to chop at him from the shadows with one of those curved blades, but the tent was empty. Not empty of possessions, but empty of life. Thank the Fathers!

    The tent shook and trembled, the storm's tempest assaulting it. Fathers, he hoped it would hold. He inspected the contents of the interior with disdain and mild disinterest. Uncivilised lot, these Sheians were. Färin held up a rugged pot with two fingers, disgusted at its sorry state.

    A great flash of light pierced the gaps and seams of the tent momentarily. What was that? Spots danced in his eyes, the darkness decorated with peculiar specks. He waited, counting the time with his fingers and his breaths.

    'I'm not tired,' he lied, rubbing a hand over his face, 'just bored.' The sand kept his footsteps silent while he paced back and forth. A soldier must always be on guard. Father had drilled this into him, among other grand psychological tortures he'd spend his life trying to revert from. Three steps. That's how many it took for him to reach the tent's boundaries, yet he paced up and down countless times.

    'I'm tired,' he admitted then. The mat on the sand called to him with its smoothness and his weary mind was eager to surrender. Savages carried a foreign sleeping object, one of which Färin lay his head onto.

    It was soft, square, squishy, and more comfortable than he had imagined, except that it smelled strange. He could make a huge profit if he took this idea back home. The storm's rage abated somewhat from its earlier tempest, less shrapnel pummelling the tent and less murder in the wind's howl. Färin's mind wondered from the profits of stealing foreign ideas to an isolated paradise in the woods.

    In his mind's eye he saw lush green vegetation, moss covered rocks, giant trees, and a natural spring. Sunlight filtered through the forest at just the right place, gleaming off crystal clear waters. A little waterfall flowed gently into the ice blue pool. Great stones stood grandly behind the spring, a small cliff hiding the secret spot from strangers. Little creatures swam in the freshwater pool, darting this way and that.

    Färin sighed with longing. He thought of Asrya, with her hypnotizing hazel eyes and full red lips. Though their romance was forbidden, she surely awaited his return. He looked forward to their reunion with great eagerness. Eagerness his father did not share. Father forbade him from spending time with 'the common slut'

    Pah! He knew nothing of love and romance. The man bedded many women but loved none, always more interested in money, driven by his selfish ambition for power. Färin did not want to be like his father, and father seemed to disdain him just as much. And why not? He had other sons. Heirs. More important than Färin, more talented than him. Better in business, better in war, better in bedding the masses. Färin's face contorted with a bitter scowl. Thoughts of the neglect he had experienced since infancy battered him. 'Arrogant, disapproving bastard.'