Sand and Ash

Chapter 3: Nightmares

... including allowing the so-called warriors to vent their lusts on the unmarried youth in the name of "preparing" them for marriage.

—Rolan Madranir, Barbarians of the Desert

Rutejìmo sat in the dark. Beneath him, the sand scraped at his buttocks and hands. A cold wind of night peppered his face with flecks of sharpness. He could see the sun, but the brilliant orb gave no heat or light to the world around him. He was alone and helpless.

Most of his dreams started that way. Just as all of them ended in nightmares.

He hated and feared the night. He still remembered the day when he sent Chimípu out to save Pidòhu, and he was left alone to fend for himself. It had been ten years and memories were hazy, but the dying flame had been burned into his memories. Only a single light source lit up his world, pushing back the horrors that waited for darkness.

Ten years ago, he would have the same nightmare every night. The years had passed and the nightmares faded with time. Now, clutching his muscular legs to his chest, he remembered the sick fear of helplessness clawing at his guts.

He glanced over his shoulder, expecting something to come out for him. He wouldn't hear it coming, he never did. It was the warriors who saved him, first Chimípu and then... her. Pabinkue Mikáryo. The warrior of night who haunted not only his nightmares but also his fantasies.

Struggling to remember the confidence of a runner, he looked around. He searched for some light or a hint of what was coming for him: a mizonekima chyòre, the same type of giant snake that had almost killed him years ago; the bandits that preyed on the routes he ran between cities; or even some other unspeakable horror. Mifúno, in all of her glory as the desert herself, had secrets even on the beaten trails, and Rutejìmo knew he hadn't seen them all.

He whispered a prayer to Tachìra, begging the sun spirit to bring light, but there was nothing other than cold wind and sand.

Something brushed against his arm, and he jumped. Turning around, he clamped down on the muscles between his legs in fear of urinating on himself. There was nothing but darkness.

Letting his breath out, he turned back.

Mikáryo was right there, her face less than an inch from his nose.

Rutejìmo screamed and dove back. His heart slammed into his chest with a ceaseless drumming. He could see her bright as day, but he couldn't stop the fear that drove him to crawl away.

"You're pathetic," she said. She leaned forward to land on her hands, crawling after him on her knees. He could barely remember her anymore, just a memory glossed over by years of nightmares and dreams. He strained to recall the details that had faded with time.

Her black hair flowed down her chest, along the dark brown skin and over the black tattoos that covered almost every inch of her body. There were swirls of horses which trailed along her curves and beneath her clothing. She was almost naked, just like the day he saw her preparing to leave, with only a black cloth over her breasts and a matching loincloth.

Rutejìmo's heart pounded in his chest and he slumped to the ground. He couldn't breathe.

She crawled up to him, dragging her body along his legs. He could feel her arms, breasts, and hips with her movement. Her heat was a stark contrast to the icy wind streaming around them.

"Adorably pathetic, actually." And then there was that smile, a mixture of pity and affection.

Rutejìmo whimpered and reached out for her, afraid to touch her but desperate to feel her.