Some Airthai fiction for today's NaShoStoMo challenge. Aran is a character I've had in mind for some time - and I think this may be one of quite a few stories about him. Also, having a pounding headache today might have had an influence...
A Drink of Water – Day 5 – April 5 – NaShoStoMo Challenge
Aran struggled along the dusty path and realised he was utterly lost. The sun sat wrong in the sky, the Red Mountains looked wrong, the road showed no sign of soldiers passing. He stopped and looked around him. Somewhere he had taken a wrong turn. He felt at his breast for the letter stowed there – a message he was to take to the Awíkla. He was to send news that a passage to the Lost Ones had been discovered and more soldiers were needed. A sudden gust of wind whipped the red dust around him and Aran shielded his face with the light coloured cloth which he wore around his neck. The valley which he had reached by taking the wrong turn was as desolate parched as the rest of the western part of the Sundered Lands.
He tried swallowing, but his mouth and throat was too parched. He felt at his pocket for the letter. He had to get more soldiers to the pass. He had to keep on running. But where to? The glare from the sun made his surrounds wavy and indistinct and he could not distinguish whether the small outcropping he saw was boulders or nomadic tents. He could see no-one and only the droning of cicadas sounded in his ears. Or maybe it was just his thickening blood that sounded a warning to him to get to water. He shook the dust from his clothes and looked around again. Would he have better luck continuing along this road, or to turn back?
In the end he plodded on, hoping some shade and water lay before him – and that he would reach it before succumbing to the heat. By the time he reached the next crossroad his head was pounding and the pain reverberated through his whole body. He wanted to cry, but even tears would not come. He squinted against the sun and saw a statue that gladdened his heart. It was a black stone dragon. The carved stone stood stark against the red and yellow stone of the surroundings.
The messenger stumbled to the dark pillar of stone. Surely in this wilderness the pillar would also show where a well is? He wiped at his face and neck as he looked around at the ground around the pillar until he spotted the low stone covering of the well. With his last strength he moved the stone lid and peered down. The low well was empty.
With a cry of despair Aran fell to his knees and started sobbing. Why did he have to die like this? Why would his god let this happen? He was, after all, on his way to the Awíkla! He was serving as best he could. The pain in his head and body intensified and he could not summon strength to stumbled more than a few steps at a time. Was there no one that could help him? He fell again and caught himself on bloody palms. Then he saw another figure approaching.
He forced himself upright and waited, not sure if the figure was even real. The figure was not wearing the light armour of the soldiers or the robes of the Awíkla. And surely a S’wíkla wouldn’t travel all alone in this wilderness? Then he saw the light blue band around the man’s waist. The man was of the Aíhla! Aran drew his knife from his belt and waited for the man to attack. He was a S’wíkla, after all, and would not die without a fight.
The Aíhlaê drew closer and, when he was nearly ten metres away, spoke. “I am Leshem,” he called and revealed his face from beneath its light colouring. “You are lost?” he asked before Aran could answer. “I have not seen any other Awíkla here,” he called and stepped closer. “You look near death, friend, let us help you.”
Friend? Us? Aran glanced around – and saw two other figures approaching in the distance. The rush of blood blocked out all sound as the man who called himself Leshem walked still closer. When the Aíhlaê reached for his belt, Aran attacked with all the strength he had left, and struck straight for the Aíhlaê’s heart. His blade struck true and he fell on top of the dying man before forcing himself to his feet to face the other Aíhla who were approaching. Aran pressed his left hand to the ground as he got up and felt mud between his fingers. He glanced down, saw the Aíhlaê’s water skin spill its contents into the red dust, and realised that the man had not reached for weapon. But it was too late.
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