From the last days of Hirem's desert wanderings...17th of Spring, 514 AVYahal, blessed god, I trust in your path, your name, and your sigil. Though my road is weary and the horizon dark, I will forevermore continue my journey under your watchful care. Oh, wise father, my scope is restrained, and I cannot conceive the end of my trails... help me find safe footing in this maze of confusion. Your radiance shall be my comfort in the dark. So shall I pray."S-So shall I pray," Hirem hissed under his breath, voice muffled by his tight head covering. Though he spoke low and talked only to himself, he could barely hear the sound of his own words in the midst of the endless screaming. His ears threatened to explode, so strained were they by the constant thrust of the wind and the sand and the storm. It howled like some demon creature of myth, high and loud and so terribly, terribly fierce, hearkening back to nightmares of his youth.
"So shall I pray!" He repeated, drawing strength from the affirmation.
But he did not repeat the oath a third time, for his breath was too precious to be wasted. His whisper, hoarse and cracking with weakness, was whisked away from his throat before he could blink, caught and carried away by this nightmare storm. His feet, straining to make progress, were suddenly stalled by a fierce gust that nearly sent him tumbling backwards - gritting his teeth, Hirem bowed his head and redoubled his efforts. Sand whipped at his burning sands, blew strongly into his face, threatened to blind him if he did not keep his eyes hooded. He could only advance by tapping forward with his staff and feeling for the stable ground. It was a storm that native Eyktolians would dread to venture into, and one that had unfortunately caught Hirem unprepared.
Only seven chimes ago, the desert had seemed so very calm, peaceful, and serene. The night air was still, the dark sky above was dotted with stars, and Dhanya's gentle slumbering had put Hirem into an impossibly wonderful sense of ease. In his fanciful imaginings, Hirem had even pictured the Benshiran tent that he was hunting in the distance, its homely fires beckoning him to the road's end. But the wind had begun to abruptly blow harder and stronger, faster and quicker, and very soon an immense cloud of dust was kicked off the ground and devoured the Benshiran whole.
The safe thing to do in a sandstorm was to find cover, and quickly. Walking unexposed for too long in the tempest would result in blinded eyes, stripped bones, and a slain pilgrim. But, unfortunately for Hirem, the usual rugged terrain of the desert had flattened into a broad plain of cracked dirt and dust, over which the storm blew mercilessly. His best hope now was to keep walking and find shelter. Bundled inside his tunic, pressed firmly into his breast, was the limp Dhanya, whose shallow breath the sandstorm threatened to steal. Her faint heartbeat made every footstep that much more urgent.
Part of him was convinced that this was the end. Hirem had survived countless sandstorms in his thirty years of life, but their impact was always keenly felt by the humble Benshiran. When he was six, a storm had threatened to consume his mother and split his family forever apart. A storm had taken Netanel from this world; the Djed Storm of a few years past had nearly sent him into a catatonic shock. But this storm, this blasted storm in particular, seemed to shake Hirem especially. All he could see in front of him was a blinding hail of sand and dirt and stone, a tormented sky splitting apart above his head. His bones shook with every gale... his breath seemed to grow more empty by the chime.
And he was going to die for some stupid lamb.
No, he thought.
I am going to die for some stupid Benshiran, who has lost touch with reality and has confined himself to this petching desert. Ahnatep was not good enough for him... Hai was not deep enough to bury him. He is just entirely worth - Fighting back helpless tears, the man grit his teeth and strove forward, determined to at least carry out his last burden before he perished. But his legs could no longer carry him, buckling under his weight. Hirem collapsed onto his knees, sending sharp spikes of pain shooting through his body, and hung his head low.
"Let me die," he heard himself beg. His voice sounded strange to him - it sounded hollow, pained. Ari'Yahal had once called him a storyteller, but the only story he heard in his tone was a tale of pity and woe.
"What use can you yet have for me? Why must I continue to suffer?" Dhanya's plight was forgotten now. His shortage of food was forgotten. His toothache was forgotten. All that remained was the searing agony in his heart.
"Let this story end," he cried to the roaring heavens. Thrusting his exposed hand upwards, Hirem bared his Gnosis mark to Yahal.
"Strip this from me and give it to one more deserving! I beg of you!"He screamed his heart out to his god. But the heavens were silent in response. His eyes brimming with tears, Hirem bowed down, pressed his forehead to the dirt, and wept.
No more, came the thought.
He took a deep breath.
No more.
