The Primordials

One

The Old ones would have you believe that the Death Lands have no end to them. You could walk forever and all you could see was sand and rock. Not that anyone has ever tried before. They are called the Death Lands for a reason.
In a small pocket in the red rock there is a small settlement. It is the only one for hundreds of miles. If you are lucky enough to find it, there is a very good chance you will never leave. The people there are outcasts, forgotten and discarded by the Citadel. Essentially human garbage.
There is one communal well that provides water for twenty inhabitants. Once a day the people will emerge from the small caves that shield them from the sun's unforgiving rays to take their share of water. One cup per person; two is you are sick or a woman with a child. The heat is constant. Everyone's skin feels and looks like wrinkled old leather. The faces of people -young or old- all look the same; hollow cheeks, thin lips and eyes opened wide.
Caul's face still retained some of his old features. Once upon a time he was very handsome. He had a square jaw, nice nose and deep blue eyes. He was deeply tanned, despite attempting to cover every inch of his body. His blonde hair was the color of bleached bone and spilled down his shoulders and back. He wore a robe made of a rough brown fabric that covered everything but his head and hands.
From the moment he arrived he had refused any social contact and only left his cave to get water.
A few hours before the sun rose there was already a small gathering around the well -a deep hole in the ground with a rope tied to a beat up metal bucket. This morning however there was some bad news. The elder in charge of the well had passed on. His daughter had found him the night before. Now there was the question of who would be the one dividing up the water. And here is where the fragile peace of the community went up in smoke.
"I say it should be me," Kaya, the daughter of the dead elder, argued. "It makes sense."
"Sense to you!" an old woman hissed. "You will take more water than you are owed."
"That is not true!"
"You always asked your father for extra water! I've seen it!"
"You old bat, with your eyes you wouldn't recognize your own daughter!"
Caul watched the bickering from the mouth of his cave. He felt a sense of excitement at what he was seeing. Gods, he thought. Do I really find this exciting? He lost track of how long he had been in this desert but it was long enough for his mind to blur and dense. There was not much around to stimulate the senses. No music, no written accounts of great battles, colorful art, beautiful women . . . His train of thought froze there, his heart starting to hurt. No. No. No, no, no, no . . .
He turned and hit his head against the wall until there was ringing in his ears. If he could he would do it until he broke his own skull. When he stopped he realized that the others had stopped their bickering and were now staring at him. One of the women pointed to him and said something to the man next to her. Whatever she said, he agreed with her and so did several others, apart from Kaya. Caul watched them talk amongst themselves. A few more heated words were exchanged between Kaya and the elders before one of them approached Caul. Her spine was badly curved and her eyes were almost white. So, she was blind. She stopped just outside the mouth of the cave. "We wish for you to distribute the water." She couldn't see it but Caul was rather surprised.
"Me?" His voice sounded foreign to him. When was the last time he had spoken? "Why?"
"We feel you are the best choice."
"I could be a mistake."
"Will you do it or not?" She was not in the mood for debates. Caul groaned.
"Very well."

Only after serving the last child did Caul take a drink. The water had warmed up now and had a metallic taste from the bucket, but with every swallow it sent a pleasant sensation though his body. Everyone had retreated to their caves to wait for the sun to go down again.
Caul did not. He walked further into the gorge until he was sure he was far enough that he wouldn't disturb the others. Much. He pulled the robe over his head and tossed it aside. He was naked underneath. Along his spine there was a tattoo of a sword and runes circled his arms like black snakes. They were old but none had faded. The runes were there for two reasons: to draw power and to show his primordial blood. There was one final tattoo. A red and gold eye in the centre of his chest. The skin around it was pink and puckered, like a fresh burn. The eye was a reminder of his exile. Four hundred years I have been in this desert. Four hundred years. This was the only time he allowed himself to feel miserable. He called fourth all the misery and heartache he otherwise suppressed and screamed. He threw himself against the ground, and punched the rock until his knuckled cracked. He smashed his head against the side of the cliff, hoping that if he did it enough, he would split his head in half. He welcomed the pain like an old friend. In the last four centuries pain had been the thing he ran to when he could not take the heartache anymore. It was comforting.
Eventually his vision blurred so much he fell backwards. He felt the sand scorch his back and he was sure his skull was cracked. He lay there and less than a minute later he felt -or rather heard- his knuckles snap into place. He reached up and felt the caved in part of his forehead. It was already starting to heal. Damn it. You would think that in four hundred years he would have found an effective way to end his life.
"That was pathetic."
Caul's eyes snapped open and he scrambled to his feet frantically looking around for the source of the voice.
"I am up here you dimwit."
She stood on a path etched into the face of the rock. She had been watching him the entire time. Caul found himself incapable of speaking for a moment. What is she doing here?