Solo Hirem, the Strong

[Hirem]

1st of Spring, 514 AV

A prayer for Kihur, my most noble of brothers. Let Yahal make his journey short and the road safe. So shall I pray.

In the distance, the green light of the Watchtower was faint, but unmistakable. There was no doubting the message that the green light carried - there was no mistaking the warming desert days, shorter nights, the blooming of foliage and the exodus of caravans for the now palatable northern lands for anything but the dawning of spring. By Hirem's count, the year was now 514 AV. In the summer of this year, he would become thirty years old, and forever say goodbye to the eternity of youth. Spring was a time of rebirth... yet he felt as if it was just another winter, withering him down until he was naught but a barren husk.

In these dark days, the only season Hirem felt was winter.

A prayer for Liviya, whom I am not worthy for. Let Yahal make her journey short and the road safe... may he watch over her, as she is a true daughter lost in a confusing land. So shall I pray.

The blisters on his feet were not soothed by their immersion in water, but at the very least the stinging pain had long subsided. Dipping his bare legs into the oasis pool, Hirem slapped his thigh and peered above the water's edge to the distant horizon, his dark brow furrowed. Behind him rested his pack and walking staff. Ahead of him lurked nothing. He was confronted with the entirety of the vast Eyktol desert, of which he had explored only a small fraction... but at the same time he was faced with emptiness.

A prayer for Osahar, one of the faithful and my savior. Blessed be his steps. Let Yahal make his journey short and the road safe. So shall I pray.

Another man would consider himself lucky to have found such an oasis as Hirem now reclined in, so soon after his waterskin had completely dried. But to one of the faithful of Yahal, there was no luck; this was a blessing, one that had saved Hirem's life. Indeed, this was but one of many that had saved him from destruction - had Hirem not received these gifts from his wanderer god, he would have long ago laid down and let the sands wash over his bleached bones, convinced that it was for the best. The fact that Yahal continued to intervene proved to Hirem that he yet had a purpose, and so he continued living due to that faith.

He continued living because of his faith. He had nothing else.

A prayer for Shena'doah and Kuhani, my guardians in a time of danger. Let Yahal make their journey short and the road safe. So shall I pray.

Hirem wondered where he would venture to next. Though he had no map, the Benshiran was fairly certain that he was in the northeastern portion of the desert, close to Ahnatep. He had no desire to enter the city, but perhaps passing it and reaching the eastern coast might be enjoyable, for a spell. He had not seen the sea in quite some time. Or maybe he would venture west, and chance upon a caravan heading to northern Endrykas for the spring? Or maybe he would venture nowhere at all, it made no difference to him.

Another evening, then, would be spent at this oasis, devoted to the Penita scrolls.

A prayer for Dhanya, Ari'Yahal, and little Raziel, my fellow wanderers in the desert sea. May they find their destinations and be filled with joy. Let Yahal make their journey short and the road safe. So shall I pray.

First drying his wet hands, Hirem then reached back for his pack and retrieved a Penita scroll. It mattered not which one; he had memorized them all. Though he had never been blessed enough to read the Penita scrolls in full, his travels had nonetheless brought him into contact with a great many of them. Easing himself out of the pool and reclining against the nearby weathered tree, Hirem spread the scroll onto his lap and began to read the sacred Shiber text. "From the winter of the Thorn:" he whispered aloud, "Three man, all alike in dignity, were blessed with their Father's mark, and given his divine strength. Yet two of them turned away from the path of Yahal and took to avarice, lust, and petty ambition. So one can see that power leads to corruption... we are weak to make us humble, and humble to make us holy."

A prayer for the departed Raim and Jaliya, your most devoted servants. I was blessed to name them sire. Let Yahal make their journey short and the road safe. So shall I pray.

Time passed at that oasis, yet Hirem was indifferent. By the time he was finished with his Penita scrolls, the sun was already slipping back towards the earth, having finished its time in heaven. Light was fading in the Burning Lands, and the sands lost their shimmering quality. Restoring the scroll to his pack, Hirem supped on a haunch of preserved meat. Of all the traditions that he might have taken from his home Tent, the one that he regretted leaving behind most was cooking. His own meals were lean and always left him hungry for more.

A prayer for the departed Netanel, your holiest son. I was blessed to name him teacher. I was cursed to shed his blood. Let Yahal make his journey short and the road safe. So shall I pray.

As the Benshiran set up his camp for the night, he realized that it had been eight full years since he had last lived among a Tent. The false Tent that he had created five years ago, in the hopes of gathering an army to take down the Eypharians... it was no true home. For eight years, soon dawning on nine, he had instead been a child of the desert, living on his own and forever drifting. Sometimes, he wondered if he should not return to his people and become another sheep in his Shepherd's flock.

But it would never be so. Hirem stood apart from his people, and blessed were they for the distance.

A prayer for the departed Savra, your wayward child and my once enemy. May she find the peace denied in life within Dira's embrace. Let Yahal make her journey short and the road safe. So shall I pray.

And now came the worst of his sufferings: the nights. Hirem laid in his bedroll, stared up at the canvas of the tent, and shuddered, despite himself. He was not looking forward to the nightmares. Neither did he have doubt that there would be a nightmare, for always a nightmare arrived to disturb his already troubled sleep. They arrived as constantly as the sun, and cast a darker shadow than any Syna could conjure.

No matter how many steps he took to escape, no matter how many leagues he traveled to flee, he would never truly be free of the Prison. Its scars had burrowed deep into his mind, its lashes tightly woven into the skin of his back. Its influence grew like a malignant cancer within his soul. No waking second of his was spent without a memory of the Prison to accompany it, that dark hell infesting his spirit and overriding his person.

In Hai, in that forsaken tomb, he had gained a Gnosis mark of Yahal. Hirem gazed at it often when he had difficulty sleeping, gazed at its majestic beauty and found comfort there. The faint suggestion of wings, emblazoned upon his hand, gave him the strength he needed to endure the nights... but neither was he truly alive. For while Yahal had blessed him with a single mark, Hai had laid a thrice-stronger curse upon him.

Finally, when Hirem no longer had the strength to stay awake, he laid his head onto the bedroll, closed his eyes, and steeled himself for the battle head. For the terrors began as they always did... with a ghastly creature, sitting upon his chest, smothering him with its scaled hands.

A prayer for Hirem, your lost son. He has been called many names; murderer, zealot, thief, liar, fool, weak. Yet he strives only to walk upon the path ordained for him. Let Yahal make his journey long and the road fraught with peril, for he must yet find some purpose within this life. So shall I pray.

So shall I pray.

[Hirem]

11th of Spring, 514 AV

"Baaaa!"

The sound, benign in nature, nonetheless made Hirem's heart stop in his breast. For hours, he had heard nothing but the endless Eyktoli winds in the distance, blowing across the open dunes and churning the desert as if it was the temperamental sea. After years upon years of traveling alone in the desert, such a sound became as familiar to Hirem as his own heartbeat, and he had learned to listen carefully in order to attune to its shifts and changes. Such meditation brought him into a sort of trance - which the bleating of the sheep, so close and so sudden, had rudely interrupted.

Unbidden by Hirem, his hand had instinctively closed shut in his alarm... crushing the strands of Sky Twine he had managed to spot on this otherwise barren slope. "Hik!" He hissed, glancing down to assess the damage. The bright blue flowers, so distinctive in this sea of baked red and browns, lay crumpled in his heavy hand, the delicate leaves shredded beyond repair. The damage would not be so bad if the flower was just bent or twisted, but no - he had also managed to squeeze the stalk dry, purging it of the valuable oil hidden within.

Oil that might have helped solve Hirem's burgeoning toothache.

"Baaaa!" The sheep continued to bleat, unaware of the disturbance.

Gritting his teeth, Hirem leaned into the steep slope and cast his eyes about, searching for this hidden animal. He was currently standing in a dried riverbed, some days journey away from the last oasis. On both flanks of the riverbed, thick brambles and coarse vegetation clung, obscuring this mystery creature from view. It might be caught in one of the bushes of tangled, dead branches, or standing farther down the riverbed, or resting above his head - Hirem couldn't immediately tell. Though his instincts told him it was a sheep, as well as memory, he couldn't be entirely sure; what at first seemed like a sheep could instead be a trick of the wind, or a coyote, or a tsana.

If I am caught by a pack of tsana now, I will not survive the encounter. Has death struck upon me so suddenly? A relief... I had believed that it would crawl towards me, to better savor my regret.

"Baaaa!"

Finally, Hirem managed to spot the beast, ambling aimlessly down one slope of the riverbed. Its stunted legs felt uncertainly for the declining ground, its head looking about and bleating worriedly. This was no bowbacked goat, well used to traversing heights and rugged terrain. This was but a lamb, a small and fragile thing, ringed by white wool. In hindsight, Hirem wondered how he had not seen the lamb before; its pure color contrasted heavily with the mottled ground below.

Feeling more at ease, Hirem pushed himself to his feet and examined the lamb in greater detail, letting the useless strands of Sky Twine tumble from his hand and be buried below. Very young... and not looking nearly as dirty as any proper desert goat should be. Picking up his nearby staff, the man took a few tender steps towards the approaching lamb, careful not to frighten it. "Falim, my friend," he whispered, his voice returning to its shepherd roots. Dropping down onto one knee, Hirem slowly proffered one outstretched hand to the lamb. "It is good to meet you."

Instead of backing away, like any normal wild animal would, the lamb half-closed its eyes and gingerly approached the Benshiran. Though it was cautious to trust the man, sniffing at his hand and shivering uncertainly, the sheep eventually came closer and allowed him to pet its flanks. The willingness of the lamb in approaching Hirem and the fact that it seemed so nervous confirmed to him that this was no desert animal. Somebody is missing a member of their flock. How could it have wandered so far, I wonder, when it is so young?

As he continued to pet the lamb, his hardened fingers trailing through the unruly wool, Hirem managed to spot a peculiarity around the animal's throat. Frowning, he craned his head downwards and grabbed what looked to be a cord of rope around the lamb's neck, serving as... a collar? No. The answer became apparent when Hirem gave a gentle tug on the cord and saw the minute wooden carving hanging from it.

The answer was apparent because Hirem had helped carve a wooden figure exactly like this in his childhood.

Turning it over in his hands, he saw that the resemblance was, while not identical, very similar. It was a common enough design: a small figure of Yahal, folded wings on his back, his hands clasped together in an expression of timeless benevolence. It was a charm of good faith, intended to ward away misfortune and peril. Every Benshiran mother worth her water knew how to teach the carvings to her children, and everybody in Hirem's family Tent could have produced a working copy within minutes of first grabbing the knife. Except for me... the eyes always ended up being a little too wide, and the fingers too uneven.

"Baaaa!" The lamb bleated unhappily, reminding Hirem to let go of the cord around its neck. Once freed, the sheep cast its eyes in either direction before huddling closer to his leg, shivering in the chill wind.

And here came the problem: what was he going to do with this lamb?

Now that he had seen it, had spoken to it, and had seen its charm, there was no way he could just leave the lamb alone. To do that would be akin to opening a good book and then abruptly dropping it a few pages in. But that didn't make his dilemma any easier, for he was unsure of what - if anything - he could do that would be worth his time. Clearly this lamb belonged to a group of Benshirans, and clearly it was the favorite of one talented Benshiran child... must he return it, then? It was already mid-afternoon, and soon nightfall would be approaching. To find this Tent at night would be impossible, and would risk only danger for Hirem.

And I am hungry... and I tire of supping on Hik fruit.

Abruptly, he reached his decision. "Come, little one." He murmured, bending down and wrapping one arm around the sheep's midsection, hauling it off the ground. Easily balancing it with one hand against his chest, Hirem took his staff and began walking up the slope in the direction that the lamb had come from, ignoring the protesting bleats of his small friend. "Oh, settle down. I won't hurt you, and I won't let you come into harm, either. You'll be safe with me."

"Baaaaa!"

Just as Hirem had expected, there were no easy answers waiting for him at the top of the slope. He couldn't see any wandering Benshirans in the distance, nor hear their calls echoing on the winds. Instead, he was greeted with a canvas of rugged terrain, ascending hills and descending river beds, all crusted over with dirt and mud and dust and sand. Hirem was no tracker. Though he had lived in this desert for eight years, he knew that finding the Benshiran Tent would be no easy task.

But isn't it? All I needs do is to place my faith in Yahal, and he will guide my steps until I reach it.

"Blessed Yahal," Hirem began as he ventured across the faint tracks the lamb had made in the sand, his eyes straining to follow their path. "Though I am but one traveler in this endless sea of stories, I pray that you will chart my course to a blessed end. I pray that you guide me to this far-off Tent, and I pray that you will not abandon this poor lamb, but the humblest and most innocent of your children. So shall I pray."

"Baaaaa!"

"Quiet, little one." Hirem grinned as he pat the lamb gently on the head, tucking it closer to his body. His staff, poking through the dried ground mercilessly, creaked with every step, but thankfully did not break. The sun was overwhelmingly warm in the sky above, but the wind was chill and tempered Syna's fury. Overall, he felt that it was a pleasant day for a walk. Joyous, even.

A far better distraction than any offered by the Penita scrolls.

He walked for the better part of two bells, following in the small and increasingly vague tracks the lamb had left him, trusting in fate and Yahal that he was traveling in the correct direction. His eyes were always scanning the terrain for predators, and his ears tuned in to the Eyktoli winds, trying to determine if a sandstorm would be building soon. Blessedly, the walk was uninterrupted.

So, to fill that time, Hirem talked to the lamb. At first he only cooed to it, gentle reassurances a master might offer to a pet, small statements that meant nothing. But eventually he began to earnestly speak to it, finding that words were tumbling out of his throat that he hadn't given voice to for seasons. "You remind me of a friend I once had... she was small, like you, and got herself into trouble before I saved her, like you. Her name was Dhayna, and she was one of the prettiest women I had ever seen. Not beautiful, but pretty... cute is the better word for her."

"At the time, though, I was very scared of her. She could transform into a goat, you see... not like you. I remember looking at her and thinking, "Rakva, witch! She is playing with dark magic!" Ah, but I was a fool. I had no idea what dark magic truly was... not then, at least. Compared to what I found later, Dhayna's ability was harmless." Hirem sighed, and shook his head. "I met her right after I had left Ahnatep for the last time. In a way, traveling with her helped to restore my spirits."

"But I was foolish. I cared little for her friendship and cared little for anything, and very soon we fell out of contact. We last spoke sometime outside of Yahebah, just when the caravan was about to arrive... after that, nothing. I was not good at holding friendships in those days. I was not good at holding anything, really. My life was like... a grain of sand, slowly trickling down the hourglass."

In that instant, a memory suddenly flashed into his mind, a memory of Dhayna, the trail, and the promise of a larger world.

Hirem stared at the small, silver pool of water and tried to imagine Cyphrus based on her descriptions, and failed. Grass was something that he saw in tended gardens and rare, rare patches of desert, but from what he had heard previously, Cyphrus was a land filled with grass. He wondered how on earth the two could be connected by land, Eyktol and Cyphrus, lands of fire and earth respectively. Eyktol was a place where death was always pushing down on you, sapping your strength with every heartbeat and causing your spirits to fall with every passing day. On a comparison, Cyphrus almost sounded... nice.

For a brief moment, a thought flashed inside Hirem's head, a thought that echoed inside his mind as he tried to come up with a response to it. Why am I still in Eyktol? True, Dhanya had said that Cyphrus was dangerous, but it couldn't be worse than this wasteland. Besides, it had easily accesible water, water that was clean and fresh and soothin. That was a boast the desert could not fulfill. Why not leave?

Why not leave?

The memory sent shivers down his spine.

[Hirem]

15th of Spring, 514 AV

The heat of the market was insufferable. The sun, burning heavily in the sky above, was uncomfortable enough, but the thick smell of a thousand different bodies, all crammed together in this small bazaar, made this experience a torture. Sweat trickled down his burning cheeks and raced down his sore back. Every breath was sucked in with difficulty. His eyes, hooded from the sun's glare, strained to make sense of this maze of entangled limbs.

For, in all directions, there was nothing to be seen but flesh. Brown skin, tanned muscle, pale calves, purple-bruised cheeks, bright eyes, dark eyes, blinded eyes... life was on display in this thronging mass of barely-clothed men and women, for life was the sole commodity in this meat market. In the distance, high, crumbling spires broke the horizon, towering above the dusty city streets. This was a place of towering decadence and monstrous cruelty.

The dreamer stood both within and apart this crowd. Rude shoulders shoved him aside and dirt was sprayed onto his face, but the wandering eyes of both slave and white-robed master refused to settle on his form. Lost and searching for purpose, the dreamer pushed his way through the flesh market. He noticed that the slaves bore no respect for the other, pushing and fighting for the right of way, but they all bowed to the kingly Eypharians. The masters navigated deftly through the streets, their many hands carrying iron leashes and collars that dragged in the dirt behind them.

Just as the dreamer was finally giving up on his pursuit of a method to the madness, an outburst of violence suddenly overtook the market square. Shouting drew his attention to a nearby clash, where an Eypharian slaver stood tall and imperious before a prone Benshiran. The Benshiran was young, a man growing into the prime of his life, assailed on all sides by a team of vicious Jackals. They kicked him, they beat him, they throttled the life out of his bones. Other slaves took mute steps backwards, staring in horror at the scene.

Immediately upon catching sight of the pale blue eyes of the Benshiran, the dreamer felt himself change... he was no longer standing apart of the scuffle. Instead, he was the beaten slave, knocked onto the ground and forced to endure an excruciating beating. Blood was knocked from his lips and pooled down his brow, and bones crunched under the iron gauntlets of his oppressors. And, through the haze of agony and pain, the dreamer saw the Eypharian, standing high above, staring down at him with a smile of twisted content.

The dreamer had been through this dream before. But what came next was wholly new; the dreamer shifted form yet again, and became the Eypharian.

Now, what had once given him suffering only brought him pleasure. He stared down at the Benshiran - no longer just a Benshiran, but an Eypharian, a Chaktawe, a Kelvic, a twisting mass of limbs and faces that resembled everyone he had every known in his life - and could only grin. Ushering the Jackals away, the dreamer leaped into the fray himself now, kicking and spitting and biting and clawing with reckless abandon, driven mad with bloodlust...

Hirem awoke with a start.

Though the sky above was darkened and filled only with stars, and lacked the oppressive sun of his dreams, the Benshiran still felt a thick sheen of sweat settled on his arms and chest. Breathing heavily, haphazardly, the man reached a hand to his brow and brushed his fingers through the black hairs. The terror, racing through his veins, failed to subside for several chimes after he had awoken, his heart continuing to pound in his breast. Yahal, my guide and my father... see me through darkness and into the light.

Finally, when he felt that he had regained control, the man slowly pushed himself out of his bedroll. The overhang he had spent the night under, ringed on all sides by a grove of cacti, had sheltered him considerably from the evening's sandstorm. Judging from the way the wind was whistling into the overhang, Hirem figured that the sandstorm must have long died out.

Though he felt weary and exhausted from his sudden awakening, and his tooth was aching uncomfortably, Hirem still felt that the time was right for him to get back onto the trail. In faith, I may find the Tent before the noon's coming. On the first day of their travel, the lamb's tracks had run dry, but had managed to lead directly to the former campsite of the Tent. From there, Hirem had followed their new trail relentlessly, constantly aware that the Benshirans were only a few bells away at best. It was a fool's errand that he embarked on, but still Hirem underwent the journey, determined to return the lamb to its home...

The lamb...

Where was the lamb?

"Hik!" He growled, clawing his way to his feet. Hirem cast his eyes around the tight overhang, hoping that he had simply overlooked the small creature, or that it was perhaps caught near one of the cacti plants. But no; the lamb was not resting under the overhang, and nor did he spot it in the cacti cluster. It must have wandered away in the night, as this lamb was apparently wont to do.

Again, doubt gripped Hirem's mind. So the useless burden has been lost? Good! It was an idiotic quest, one more braindead than your last attempt! Now you might actually set your mind to something more useful than returning a meaningless lamb to its owner. He was tempted to sit onto his haunches and let the night's darkness whisk away the lamb.

Tempted, only.

Squeezing himself through the narrow gaps that divided the cacti cluster, Hirem's large size meant that he pricked himself onto several needles regardless of his effort. Biting back the stinging pain, the Benshiran broke through to the other side and scanned the nearby surroundings. Unfortunately, the moon was shrouded by heavy clouds, casting the desert terrain into darkness. He had absolutely no idea where the lamb was.

"Dhayna!" Hirem hissed, careful not to grow too loud, lest he attract some kind of predator or bandit. "Dhayna!" He called again, and yet again, nothing. There was no sign of the pitifully small sheep.

Absolutely no sign.

If I had a hawk's eyes and a bloodhound's nose... Cursing, Hirem closed his eyes and considered the situation. He was no tracker or hunter. He had only a scant view of his surroundings. And there were more than lost lambs that scoured these dunes at night. There was only one thing he could do. Yahal, teacher, guide, father. Let my steps be swift and my path narrow. Let me stumble across what I seek, or else some other holy sign of your approval. Let me act as your servant, let me act as your student. Blessed be my path. So shall I pray.

The Benshiran opened his eyes, dropped his staff, picked a direction, and started running.

He ran for what seemed like bells. His feet, clothed in hardened sandals, tripped and battered themselves against the stray rocks, sudden twists, and steep drops that the path took. His legs, long used to lazy strolls, strained after only ten chimes of the run, and his breath was growing more pained by the second. He ran stupidly, he ran recklessly, and he ran without any real idea of where he was going. It was a miracle that he didn't stumble blind into a horde of tsanas.

It was a miracle that he found anything at all.

He wanted to give up. Hirem wanted to give up the blind charge very badly, convinced that he was just going to get himself killed. His limbs, protesting with every push of strength, agreed, and faltered constantly. But in his mind and soul, this was only path that made sense to him. Yahal has given me a path and told me to run. And so, I will run.

Whether it was Yahal's intervention or blind luck, Hirem eventually found himself rewarded for his efforts with the telltale cry of, "Baaaa!"

Letting out a relieved breath of air, Hirem corrected his course and ran roughshod over the broken ground until he finally caught sight of the little lamb. It was lost and confused at the bottom of a wadi, looking delicately tempting to any flesh-eater on this hallowed night. Thankfully, before any jackal could chance their luck, Hirem rushed in and scooped the small creature into his arms, grinning like an idiot. "There you are, Dhayna... shh... it's alright. You are safe now."

The lamb fell limp in his strong grasp, allowing him to carry it easily towards their campsite. The way back was easier to discern than the way forward, as he had carved himself a large trail with his stumbling in the dark. As Hirem soothed his racing heart and walked slowly back to the camp, with the tiny lamb slumbering peacefully in his arms, he felt nothing in his heart but joy. There was no doubt, no fear, none of the confusion that had so completely characterized his life as of late. Instead, he took strength from Yahal's reward of faith, and felt his spirits become rejuvenated.

The renewal of his happiness lasted for one precious chime, and ended immediately upon him arriving back at the overhang. For, while he had managed to ensure the lamb's safe return, the same could not be said for his supplies; while he had left to chase after Dhayna, nighttime scavengers had mustered the courage to break through the cacti bushes and raid his belongings. Hik fruits lay spoiled on the ground, his meat was missing, and, most importantly, his waterskin had been split open. Nearly all of his food had been ransacked...

leaving him alone with Dhayna.