Parched, Faris looked at his waterskin. Upending it, not even a drop of water fell. In a fit of rage, he raised his arm to hurl the sack as far as he could, but wisdom stayed his hand. As soon as he found water, he would need to carry as much of it as he could. Beneath the cruel sun, water was the only thing that could help him survive. At this moment, there was growing doubt concerning his survival.

  “Never should’ve left the road,” he muttered as he shuffled along, tying his waterskin over his shoulder. After his encounter with Azrael, he left the main roads long behind, choosing to forge his own path. His empty waterskin and lack of food was proof of his trek. Leaving the scene of Jacques’s murder, Faris had plenty of supplies. During his never-ending journey, he knew how to converse food and drink as little as possible. He could travel for days on a cup of water and loaf of bread.

  What he had not anticipated was the harshness of the southern wastelands. Going into Psamathe’s Sea was a mistake. It was the largest desert in this part of the empire. Sand as far as the eye could see. The ground was littered with sharp stones. His boots saved him from countless gashes to his toes and heels. The sun was unforgiving, only hiding behind a cloud once every third day for less than an hour. It baked his flesh with his sweat giving him his sole relief. Even the nights were cursed by the sun’s gaze. Most deserts turned cold when night fell. Psamathe’s Sea remained a furnace long into the night. The sand retained the sun’s heat, pulsing as glowing coals. Still, Faris did his best to rest. Curling into a ball, he wrapped himself in his cloak and sought respite from his day. Laying in the dark desert, he baked like bread, finding no peace; but a few hours before dawn, the sand cooled enough where he found sleep’s soothing embrace.

  His most loyal companions were the wheeling vultures. They stayed close at hand, watching him with their beady eyes. Their prodding pecks woke him each morning. Such warming wakeups deserved a kind gesture in return. He swatted them aside with the flat of his sword. They were fast, avoiding a deathblow, or perhaps, Faris was growing slower. On occasion one would caw at him, as if saying, “We’re hungry. Hurry up and die.” As the days wore on, Faris felt his weariness from malnourishment and lack of sleep beginning to take their toll. Regardless, he refused to acquiesce to the vultures’ request. Buzzards were not the only creatures that would delight in his death, though they would take the most pleasure in accompanying him in his final moments.

  Shuffling along, he searched the horizon. Water, prey, a village, anything that could ensure his survival. He grew tired of searching the horizon. No matter how long he looked, he found nothing except a hollow emptiness. Looking ahead made him long for things he could not have. He wished for a cool bath and a bed. This longing took his mind down a winding path to yesteryears he believed best left forgotten.

  Yet the memories met him on the path. The safe havens of childhood. A library with texts he could no longer read. The hidden door under the staircase, where he could watch the comings and goings on the stone steps. A balcony, no different from any other, but the court of kings in a child’s imagination. Old faces wore smiles that would one day turn to scornful frowns. Sweet words that became hateful jeers. Worst of all, a maiden.

  Yes, it always came back to her. Slender arms bearing fingers that once ran through his hair. Skin fair as the sun which he longed to touch. Her sweeping gowns brushed against her elegant form, stirring his young heart. One side of her face was the perfect mirror of the other. How blessed is the man who basked in her radiance? No, he remembered, halting on his memory’s path. She was not such a vision. The woman who appeared in his mind was older. He had to pass her to see what he witnessed as a child.

  Years before, she was plain, hair tied in a bun, wearing gowns that swallowed her whole. Woven mittens and tight thick sleeves protected her fragile skin. She stood amongst a pack of friends during those childish years. There were several of them. More than a few girls, but she was set apart as if a light from above illuminated her presence. She was no more than a year his senior, but no one could tell. The lass followed the lad’s every whim. Whatever idea popped from his mouth was met with an excited grin, even if the idea was a fool’s folly, following the tendency of children’s ignorance. It made no sense to him. What were you smiling about? he wondered.

  He would never see that smile again. Add it to his exhaustive list of what he would never see again. He hated these memories. They stirred something inside him. A longing that cut out the heart of solitary contentment. The pangs of the road, an illness that had one surefire medicine. Only a woman’s beauty could alleviate his stress. How easy would it be to pass the miserable nights with a delicate flower blooming in the desert? He thought back on a beautiful vixen back in Corinth. Sniffing an anemone, she sat with her golden hair draping over her bare shoulders. Even from a distance, Faris detected the faintest hint of oranges, a pleasant odor to surround a woman. A bright smile flashed his way. Kicking back her skirt, she raised her leg high enough for him to catch a glimpse of her slender, hairless legs.

  Despite her alluring, silent invitation, his face regarded her with a hard stare, knocking the grin from her mouth. He turned away without so much as a final glance. Now, out in the middle of nowhere, he wished he had taken her up on the offer; though in his heart, he knew his choice was right. He knew the price that came with a woman. It was far too common.

  Throughout his years on the road, he met many men. No two were the same. One was a thief and another a juggler. Minstrels playing every instrument beneath the sun walked the dirt paths. Merchants that lost all they had and men that never had anything at all travelled together. The roads were the great equalizer of man. No one was greater than his temporary travelling companion. Despite their differences, they all could fall for a woman’s allure.

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  Some wandered the roads having lost their love, no matter how short and frivolous it was. They were as shipwrecked sailors fearful of setting foot near the sea again. Promising by the gods of love, they vowed to never yearn for a woman’s gentle arms again. It was not long before they found another fleeting love in some distant village. A place where their pained lives were far behind. These men forgot their vows and leapt into the sea of love with renewed vigor, leaving their haunting pasts on the shore. They had no stomach for the road anymore.

  Other men spent time with women of ill-repute. They hoped these strange ladies would bury their desire for a lifelong companion, keeping the man’s spirit free to roam. It didn’t matter how they found their temporary companions. There were plenty of brothels and dark alleys where the mortal succubi dwelt. These men remained loyal to their lives on the road longer than their heartsick companions, but it was never for forever. It was only a matter of time before he met a woman that made the sun a little brighter in his eyes. She was a lady he couldn’t bear to abandon. In the end, he would remain near his heart’s desire, hoping that he could turn her from the life that held her by the throat, an invisible chain that few men could break. Perhaps in their attempt to not lose their hearts, these men became the saddest of them all.

  Faris would not become as them. He knew that the moment he opened himself to a woman, it would be the end of his journey. His sword belt would be a burden too heavy to carry another step. The deep hatred within, his drive to keep going, would be squelched by the cool waters of love. Senses dulled. Urgency lost. He would wall himself into a delusion of safety. If that happened, it was only a matter of time until they found him. Death would arrive at his doorstep. Continually, he made his heart like steel and pushed onward, refusing to deviate from his never-ending path.

  Reviving his senses, he focused on the task at hand. He needed all his heart’s strength to survive this desert. The sun kept baking his flesh in his clothes. Sweat soaked every corner of his body, leaving him in a layer of warm, icky cloth skin. He wanted to rip his garments off, casting them aside. His body longed to breathe free of its prison garments, but he dared not forsake his only protection of the sun’s burning gaze. Back in the place he once called home, he remembered a story passed around about a knight who found himself lost in the desert. His horse died halfway. He walked the rest of the way, shedding his armor and clothes as he went. When he reached the other side, his flesh appeared charred from a fire. He would spend the rest of his days layered in bandages and ointments. Faris could not become like him.

  He marched on, flashing a cheeky grin at the buzzards. “Keep following me,” he challenged, throat cracking. “Let’s see who dies of thirst first.” The buzzards kept after him, hoping to be the victors. Time passed. If it were not for the setting sun and the cold night that followed, no one could know the time. As the days stretched on, the longer Faris walked, the wearier the vultures grew. Struggling to push on, the swordsman drew his silver blade, using the weapon as a crutch to continue. He was delighted when he saw the first bird give up. Tired of circling, the buzzards took off one by one. Leaving Faris in triumph, they flew right of the sun’s daily crawl.

  Faris’s eyebrows rose in interest. “Only one reason a buzzard gives up on easy prey,” he muttered, dry spittle flying from his mouth. Changing course, he staggered after the buzzards, turning the tables on their game. The sun continued its walk, and the buzzards kept flying with no clear destination in sight. The weary wanderer mustered up as much of his crumbling will as he could. His desert’s journey was nearing its end. Giving up now was not a choice.

  At last, when his legs were close to collapsing, his silver scabbard being his only support, he saw it. A small town. There could not be more than ten buildings, each made of palm branches and leaves. Still, that was not what caught his eye. What rested at the center of town was a welcome sight for his aching eyes. He had heard about them, read about them in books, but this was the first time he needed one. A desert oasis, the salvation from a man’s dying thirst, or perhaps a cruel mirage. After days of little sleep and less water, it wouldn’t surprise Faris if he imagined this wonderful sight.

  Above the pool, the buzzards circled, diving down to drink all they could. A man rushed out, sword waving every which way. His furious attack scared them away. Faris grinned. “Not a mirage,” he grunted, quickening his pace. Destination in sight, new strength pushed him toward his only hope of living another day.

  He paid no attention to the town nor the man with the sword. The fool attempted to stop him, assaulting him with a host of questions for which Faris’s temper had no time. Shooting him a look of daggers, the man stepped aside, removing the only obstacle between Faris and the life-giving water. He shuffled to the edge, dropping to the ground. His knees kissed the water. Cool relief shot through his legs. With trembling lips, he dropped his head straight under the surface. He inhaled large gulps. The sweet nectar rushed down his throat, washing away the heated throb. Pulling his head out, he splashed water over his body, soaking his skin and garments. The sensation was so sweet he wondered if he was dreaming. No, my dreams are never this wonderful, he realized.

  “Wow,” a kind voice called after he drank his last gulp. “I haven’t seen anyone so thirsty.” Rubbing the water from his blurry eyes, Faris found a vision: a young red-haired woman standing nearby with a coconut. “Here,” she said, approaching him. A warm grin flashed to reveal crooked but beautiful teeth. “It’s good.” Her skin was tough from a harsh life; still, there was a gentleness that few could offer. Only those who endured hardship knew how to offer comfort.

  The simple offer was the kindest gesture Faris could recall. “Thank you,” he coughed, accepting the gesture. Before he tore into the fuzzy fruit, he paused, once again taking in the beauty that greeted his weary eyes. This is a rare beauty, he realized. A flower of the sands. Deep inside his heart, he noticed a sudden stirring, a feeling he believed long dead. It was enough to make him laugh. Even with a desert between him and his pursuers, trouble preceded him.