Most of us long to "Be" but when the path gets too costly, or steep, we take solace in what we "Have." Remove the trappings of what we own, and then what is the sum of us?
They were the survivors, abandoned by the allies who swore to protect, in...
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The first of the season's opening rains barely reached the valley as they were often wont to do. The dark fast moving clouds off in the distance further south teasing, only seeing fit to bestow a few light showers to the ever thirsty red sands of this place. Still the meager rainfall was welcomed, if there had been any crops to plant besides corn and squash now would have been the time. However it was too early in the season, the frosts had not yet passed.
Sven had made a slow but steady recovery, nursed by the ever attentive Raissa, she rarely left his side. The older warrior remained sullen, depressed, and most difficult to deal with. Those closest to him were afraid he would take his life. To that end Bennett even mitigated Aran's sentence after only two days in the hole, in the hope Sven's younger sibling's presence could help his friend persevere through the impossible new situation he found himself in.
It seemed to brighten him a little, Aran well aware his elder brother needed him now, with no time to dwell on his own aches and pains, and even less to contemplate any further form of disrespect to his leader. The young warrior had said his piece and proven what he had intended, to both Bennett and himself. Both men had formed a respectful truce.
Further disobedience would serve no real purpose, it could not bring Frances back from the dead, it was time for Aran to let go. All looked on Aran differently now, slave and warrior alike, even Wezley Bennett. On the warmer afternoons the giant of a man went bare chested often, the silvered, raised scars for all to see on his tanned back. He would sport them all his days. None here saw the marks as badges of shame, they only served to have the opposite effect, reverence. Few had merited three hundred lashes in the valley's savage history, and none had survived such a sentence but Aran.
Renard's dark eyes watched him from the steel confines of the cattle trailer, his new residence. He tried to not think of the future but rather just the moment, it was better that way. That fool of a warrior had betrayed him laying all his motives bare, and now Bennett would keep him indefinitely as a hostage the very thing he had desired least. The young man was not at all sure this was a better situation than the clean execution he was promised. How many days, weeks, even or months could he take here penned up like an animal? This was a despairing thought, and it was eating at his mind.
Aran passed him by heading toward the cave, the strong afternoon light playing on his thick golden mane. It was difficult to observe much from this vantage point. The trailer being set well off to the side of the great cave, and the other shipping containers shielding most of his view of the centre of the compound. Renard could just make out the gaunt rump of his faithful horse on the far side, his gelding's roan coat no longer shone with health. If only he could ride him one more time away from here, but the idea was a far fetched dream quite inaccessible to him. Renard slumped against the unyielding metal wall, head in his hands, despair in his heart.
Many days passed, the occupants of this place settling down into the old rhythms of daily life. Things were in many ways as they were before the discovery of the steel fortress. The watch had been relaxed now numbering only two, leaving some of the men free to hunt and scout the surrounding desert plains. They caught little but some scrawny rabbits, and a few unfortunate birds, and found no occupied settlements or camps to raid. Still, the activity served to alleviate boredom, the men all needing the distraction such pastimes offered.
