Desierto

by Adriana

Disclaimer: An 'Elseworlds' story. (Can you guess which ‘Cable’ issue inspired it? I’m sure you can). Characthers based on Marvel's. No money, but sue me if you want to. Just remember: you’ll need a lawyer who speaks a very good Spanish. Hugs to Jeff., ‘The One Who Knows’ (English, I mean ;)

The sun was blazing golden, as bright as it had ever been, its rays merciless and indifferent, purifying with fire the thousands sand hills and the odd groups of rocks they touched.
As usual, nothing stirred the quiet of the desert's dawn. Every creature knew the morning was close and deadly, and that move under the sun was a mistake. So nothing.
Not even the breeze.
Until them.

A large, uneven group of men, women and children.
They found no animals, aside from the occasional snake and the ever-presents scorpions.
Not even a glimpse of *real* water, but for a salty feeling in the air that reminded that the ocean wasn't very far away...
The old soldier gave the abandoned camp behind them a last, wistful look, and headed east.

There was a sandstorm coming from the south, and its fury was only hours away. Scouts have been already sent, their orders to look for shelters and water supplies.
Among the hundred voices, the soldier could hear the one of the tribe's Warlord. He could see him, standing over the front line, his unusual height giving him a clear view of the people in his charge.

He was no more than a boy, actually...hardly more than twenty summers by his count. Though his hair already showed the white strips that having the responsibility of over a hundred people caused; his scars and his callused hands showed that he had been able to face their enemies and survive; and his blazing eyes showed that on sheer will-power he'll try and bend destiny. So much weight on those broad shoulders --

The old soldier was proud of the boy. Personally proud, like if he were his own.
The whole tribe was, even the ones that never understood why his father had left him in charge, instead of his twin, his harsher brother, when the old lord had left to follow the dark path of death two winters ago...

Truth was, the tribe loved him. They had raised him. The elders had taught him their arts of wisdom and magic. The soldiers had taught him the arts of war, and with the healers, the arts of survival.
The old soldier knew, of course, of his endless trips on this very desert that was all their world, and of how he had always managed to guide the tribe safely on this disorienting sea of sand, to find the scarce and far-away places where water greened the earth. He had this-- instinctive knowledge, that the soldier couldn't quite place among the former leaders. He was strange and grim at times, and tended to disappear to be by himself often-- but the people loved him.
And they followed him. No hesitation. Little fear.

The Son of the Morning Fire.
He represented the sum of their hopes for the future.
And he was all that was left of their glorious past. Of *before* the wars.
The old soldier loved him.
Of course, it was out of the question to tell him so... It just wasn’t -‘his way’.

***

The moon showed a little early that night, its eerie shine reflecting in the water near the caves the tribe had chosen as shelter for the night.
The soldier was nearly startled at the sight of _another_ group of people coming from the west... a smaller tribe than their own, but equally organized and eclectic at the same time. It was not an easy task, to take the old soldier by surprise. Those people must have been trained for generations in the stealthy art of the hunters...
The others saw them, and as hospitality required, prepared shelters for the newcomers, too. No words were said, and the only noises among the whirling of the wind were the cries of the children and the building of the tents.

And right in the middle of the group, there was a woman. Their leader, the soldier knew, almost instinctively taking note of the pride evident on her posture and the dancer's quality of her step.
That was a bit odd...a former warlord's widow, perhaps? No, she wasn't that old--...an elder daughter, probably. The soldier could count thirty-- ~Maybe more...~ winters upon her. Strangely enough, no children or husband at her side. Now *that* was odd...

She was a beautiful woman, pale even when blushed with the effort of the night walk among the sand. Covered in a dark cloak, but still almost shining under the moonlight's caress.
...And biting her lip in disappointment at the fact that she had to hand over the *big* sword she carried to the Watcher of the shelters. An impressive blade, with carefully carved images that he couldn't recognize, but that were astonishing in the delicacy of the handicraft. But no weapons were allowed inside the camps, except for the Warlord's dagger, the symbol of his office.

The old soldier inwardly agreed, amused, that it wasn't fair.

***

A day had passed, and the storm hadn’t come; only an occasional whirl of dark sand seemed to remind the tribe of the near danger. The old soldier was almost furious about it: he had never being a person who liked to wait, and it was getting on his nerves.

So, in a way, it was a relief that before the sandstorm arrived, the sand-people did... the ones called 'Raiders'.

The Raiders were predictable: trusting on the paralyzing fear the sandstorms invoked to cover them, as they attacked and pillaged other tribes’ resting spots, looking for slaves to sell at the few cities up north. The Raiders themselves were slaves. Some people said that they were only doing what necessary to gain their freedom-- but the old soldier knew better. He could recall in vivid detail the night they first attacked his tribe, so many years ago, and how the old warlord's wife had died trying to protect her newborn son. Rage filled his blood and clouded his vision when he remembered the way her beautiful red hair had fallen over her face, covering wide and afraid green eyes, the minute a particularly dark-looking Rider stabbed her in the back. She was so beautiful...

He seemed to recall also an image of his own hands, covered in blood and armed with the traditional triple-bladed knives, tearing the same Raider to pieces, viciously. But he wasn't completely sure of it. His mind played weird tricks on him when he lost control.
The old soldier snorted, amused. 'Lose control'.
That used to happen a lot in the old days.

A lot-- especially when trying to teach the boy that would become the tribe's Warlord. ~He's a man now, you know...~ the soldier had to tell himself sternly.
But he used to be...in fact, the kid WAS such an obstinate, stubborn--

Sudden cries broke the old soldier's reverie.
A group of scouts had fallen prey to the Raiders, who were now moving east, in the general direction of the supply deposits.
A second later, the Warlord was wordlessly forming a unit to follow the trail.

Just mere minutes after, tensing at a blur of movement to his right, the soldier was surprised ~...Again. This is becoming a bad habit...~ by the sight of a second group of people, lead by the Woman. But before he could signal their presence, they reached the Raiders.
Not much later, he had reasons to be grateful that she and her people hadn’t given _all_ her weapons to the Watchers. They were good warriors. She was a surprise, her fighting technique resembling a dance more than the cold, efficient killing art that it was. That way, the losses were reduced to a few broken arms and legs, one dead on each side and an ugly scar over the Warlord’s right eye. It would heal.

The old soldier couldn’t help but notice the glimmer in his eyes when she bandaged his arm. And the care with which he cleaned her wounds. The soldier noticed, and didn’t like it.

***

The second night the camp was a sea of flickering lights, with thousands of small fires signaling groups of people celebrating being together. The old soldier himself had lit the one in front of the Warlord’s tent, and was sitting beside him, watching over as always, while listening with half an ear at one of his ‘philosophical discussions’ with one of the elders. And with Her.

The foreign woman didn’t talk much about herself or her people (which was odd all in itself, he thought) but had proven a rare spirit, with quick wit and profound intelligence. The soldier could tell his Warlord was fascinated. The way he looked at her...
And now she was looking at him..._that_ way.
And her smile spoke of admiration --and desire, when washing over the new-made scar.
And he -grim and silent boy (~ --man... ~) that he was- actually...*blushed*?
--Well, those piercing violet eyes of hers sure hadn't been on any of the elder's lessons...

So the soldier could hardly blame the boy when he gently caught the woman's hand and offered her a sip of water from his own ceremonial bowl. The custom was ancient, but this casual way of performing it was in direct contradiction with the ceremony required on such an occasion...(not that there was any unwritten law left for the current Warlord to break...) So what?, thought the soldier. After all, the gesture was meant to forge a peaceful alliance, and with that in mind, it was working... Or so it seemed until she slapped him. -Now, what had he told her...? And *why* was he smiling?- Peace, right. Peaceful gestures.

But their eyes -both leader's eyes- spoke differently to the soldier...
Not of calmed waters, but of a previously unknown fire. And the soldier fought with the temptation to become nervous. Again.
For the mysterious woman could cause trouble... Could bring pain... And the sandstorm was only a few miles away...
But who cared.
He actually liked her by then. Someone had to be able to slap the Warlord once in a while.

***

The third night, a few hours before dawn, the sandstorm came.
And just the sound of its terrifying fury was enough to turn a man’s blood into ice.

But actually, the entire tribe had been prepared, so the moves the soldier watched were more-or-less ordinary, a unified search for shelter. The last thing he was conscious of before grabbing some child he’d found wandering around was the tall, broad-shouldered silouette of the Warlord shouting some orders... He wasn’t surprised, though, to see a much smaller, delicate figure at his side. After all, _she_ also had people to take care of.
It seemed right.
It worked.
Twenty-four tents were washed away. A couple of caves were covered in sand, and took hours to free the entrances. A few animals died. Three carts were broken.
But the food and water supplies weren’t affected, and nobody was reported missing.
The tribe had survived, like they had always done.

***

He caught again sight of _them_ at the end of his vigilance turn. She was again wearing the dark cloak she had arrived with, and he had still the bandage around the arm. Sitting on a hill very close to the ocean, eyes locked and utterly lost in each other, the two of them looked like if they were the only living beings in the desert waiting for the morning's touch, uncaring of the whirling breeze that formed oddly shaped figures in the sand where colors twisted and changed.

At dawn, the light sparkled on the water, washing over them like a wave of crystal blue.
And when they kissed, the world ended and was forged anew between two breaths.




~fin.

~Dreadful but Unavoidables Author's Notes:

Ever been in Lima (Perú)? Well, a few miles south the city, lies a desert. Actually, most of the peruvian shore over the Pacific is a desert, with mountains to frame. But this particular spot is special: at sunset you can stand in the middle of miles and miles of deserted sand hills and mountains, -just you alone in the world- and stare at the thousand, whirling, fantastic shades of blue that the sea -a few feet away- and the fading light cast all over. It takes my breath away every time.
So, even if descriptions came out boring for me, and are death traps for my beginner's English (--but I never had let something like THAT stop me, right? ;) --in this piece, I was actually trying to give you people the feel of that desert... Let's just hope it worked. :)

Back to Archive