The warm desert wind blew wild and free across the endless miles of flat plains alternated with razor-spined dunes of red ochre sand; the colour of her hair when he had held her in her final moments, breathing out her last breath. Death had come far too early for her, but she had welcomed it with open arms, like meeting an old friend. Fearless, dauntless, the heart of a true Scorian Tigress.
He dug his fingers underneath the shawl draped around his head. For protection. Not to keep the intense heat at bay. He had been told this was where she had hunted as a young girl, chasing after scorpions and snakes. A sharp contrast to the forest of Lane—where he had grown up.
Where his loved ones had died.
All in all, she and him were not that different. Except, the entire world knew his story.
He was Lord Sebastian, the orphan prince. But a boy when he had escaped the flames of Laneby; yet a man who had galloped through the gilded gates of Sundale, into the welcoming arms of his uncle. The King.
The stories got all the details wrong, but they were soothing to those who heard them. Beacons of hope during tough times, to work hard, to pull through. Or simply to justify the sacrifices made in his name.
Politics worked in mysterious ways.
He had kept his promise to her. Despite the whispers that the cursed body could not remain on the ship and his own aversion to open flames, he had cleaned her, wrapped her into her hammock, and set fire to her remains until she had turned to cinders and dust. He owed her that.
The small South-Scorian lady was the first to take a handful of ashes. She threw them as a gust of desert air passed them by. The wind would take her to her next adventure.
Her brother—a soldier of the Scorian army—placed the ashes on the ground, as if burying him. He then helped his mother stagger up to the Scorian man holding the box. Grief overwhelmed her. She collapsed to the ground, in tears.
"My daughter—my beautiful Sci. I never wanted her to go!"
Sebastian's throat tightened. Their despair brought back memories he wished he could forget. Still, he owed it to her to be here. The girl who had saved him twice, and then a third time when she did what he had failed to do what was expected from him.
All because she had been born on the wrong side of the Horseshoe Mountains. Then again, if she had been a northerner, she might have been on that other ship, fighting in another man's name. His brother, perhaps. The one who would bring the new dawn.
Ironically enough, the southerners said the same thing about him.
The Scorian couple—Scirocco's parents—helped each other in scattering her ashes. Then they shuffled down onto their knees and prayed.
He followed their example. When in Scoria, act like a Scorian; he was a guest.
"You might want to talk to the father, My Lord," Nagi said. His companion and bodyguard in one. "Sayid Harun is a famous explorer searching for land south of Scoria."
He hummed politely, though he didn't care. More land that could be bickered about. Sooner or later a scientific discovery brought political bloodshed and pain. Four years at the Academy had taught him that the world didn't evolve unless there was gold to be earned, and towers of it.
Scirocco's mother held onto her father's arm as they rose to their feet and walked away. Her brother picked up the box, then offered his arm to the grandmother. But she refused.
She lingered for a while longer as the others passed him by. Sebastian nodded politely at them. They said nothing. Which was fine—why would they want to speak to the reason their sister, their daughter was no longer with them?
The grandmother plodded through the sand, staggering, faltering, yet with a certain persistence. She approached him. Her dark, mysterious eyes the only part of her face he could see.
"You're not from around here," she said to him in that typical singsong accent that the Scorians talked with. Especially those from the south.
"That is correct," Sebastian said. "I'm sorry for your loss, Sayida."
"Thank you, young man," she answered to his surprise. "Can I borrow your arm? My legs aren't what they used to be."
"Sure." He hunched his back a little, to appear smaller. The years of ballroom dancing with the ladies of Sundale and their daughters was starting to pay off.
Her bony arm curled around his. "Not many would walk all these miles in the desert for a funeral."
"I owe my life to her," Sebastian said. He walked slowly, letting the woman dictate the pace.
"But you know what she was."
"Yeah, one of the bravest people I've ever met."
The Scorian woman squeezed him, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye. She sniffed. "You're a nice young man, Prince Sebastian. Can I invite you into my humble home for a cup of brew?"
"It would be my honour," Sebastian said. "But only on one condition..."
She cocked her head questioningly.
"We talk about your granddaughter. I want to hear her story."
"Lemon cakes," she replied. "She loved brew and lemon cakes. I think I still have some for you to try, Prince."
The wind sighed and rose quickly, sweeping a cloud of sand over him. If he listened carefully, he could hear it whispering. It was a name. Her name.
Scirocco
She was home.
THE END
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The Witch's Hour (A New Dawn #2.5)
Fantasy[Novella]As a child, Sci was scarred by her own mother for being a witch. While the wound has healed and her shawl now covers her face, Sci struggles to remain deaf to the call of the desert wind. She works hard to get into the Scorian army, taking...
