fiction

In the Desert

Your breaths are racked and painful, as you try to suck in the dry air of the scorching hot desert. Each suck bringing with it a taste of sand and sweat. You are on your knees, every limb aching, your muscles shaking with exhaustion. The sword hangs laxly from your grip, as if your hands themselves have given up. You look at them, your hands. Everything a haze, but you see them clearly. Scarred and covered in thick layers of black dried out blood. Did they get you? Is any of this yours? How long have you been sitting here? You vaguely realize that you do not hear the sounds. But they are there somewhere, in the background. Screaming, crying, coughing. You try to blink, but your eyes are too dry.

A voice seeps through the madness, at first unintelligible, but then as words “Get up." But what does it mean? A hand grab your shoulder, and shakes you violently, sending your head dangling from side to side. “Get up! They are coming back!“ It hurts, like a thousand needles in your brain. The words hurt. ”We need you, brother. They need you!” as you slowly look up, you see the battered face of a young man, a man you know you should recognize, but do not remember. His eyes are filled with fear. They are coming back, he says. Even though you still don't grasp the meaning, your hands do. You feel your broken fingers tighten around the sword hilt, sending a shiver of pain through your arm. Something in the depths of your mind understands that pain, the meaning of that grip against the worn out leather hilt. And it wakes you.