Not Like You (The Simian Forest Saga: Vol. I)

The Desert [XV]

Water. The landscape was dusty and dry. Water. Sand hissed as the hot wind stirred its grainy particles. Water. Slate needed water. He could still feel the blood -- his own blood -- sticky where it had poured down his front. It crusted generously along his nostrils and had long since grown tacky upon his upper lip. He was so thirsty, his throat so parched. Crimson matted up his powerful arms, his bones aching for relief as he travelled along the endless plain of the desert. He was wandering in a delirious fervor, his mind in a heavy fog of hazy heat and blistering sun. There was not a cool wisp of air within his body, his face feeling as if it were on fire, the dark fur on his body suffocating him with each gulp of air. All he could taste was the old familiar bittersweet tang of copper. What time was it? What was his goal? Where was he heading? So many questions were left unanswered, bouncing off the walls of his mind in a constant echo, as if he were speaking into a dark cave. 

Home... where is... home? Slate thought. Home. It was an odd word, something he held close; it was something all apes held close. It was something indescribable, something untouchable, yet something real and authentic. It was similar to his milk mother's rich scent, similar to his sister's deep ashen eyes and the faint memory of his father's husky voice. It all felt so far away.

Slate's amber gaze swept to his right: a greyish blue horizon touched the burnt landscape like a cool ocean of water he wished to reach. He'd dunk his head and take massive mouthfuls, feeling the crisp liquid slide down his parched throat, relishing in the relief. How strange: he wished to drink the sky. His point of view swept to his left, and he found his gaze falling upon a withered tree. It was leafless and dead in appearance, like a clawed hand reaching to the heavens for mercy. No more! It plead. 

Slate's eyes rolled within their sockets, suddenly feeling his head begin to swim, as well as a peculiar tugging sensation, as if he were leaving this world. Was this what it felt like to die? The dizzying feeling of falling forward; his cranium feeling as if it were floating above the clouds; his ears buzzing with his steady rhythmic pulse. He staggered and stumbled, preparing himself for the impact of his heavy limbs hitting the cracked and dry earth. It wasn't until he suddenly caught himself, somehow, that he regained his mind.

What had kept him at his feet? Koba's spear. It had appeared out of thin air, clenched within his fists and supporting all his weight just before he had fallen unconscious. There was that pulling feeling again, sand stinging his eyes, hot wind buffeting against his ears and face. His lashes fluttered, eyes narrowing against the sudden wave of burning golden-brown granules. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to peer ahead, making out something rather odd as he faded in and out of consciousness. 

Pushing forward, he slowly approached the shadow of a figure, forcing his eyes to remain partially shut against the dust storm. Part of him wished to cry out, but his primal instinct kept his throat locked up. Why was he out here? The torrent began to slowly die down, the figure slowly becoming more and more apparent. He remembered, the heat of battle, the taste of flesh and blood; the white-hot burning pain of his own chest splitting open as shrapnel and bullets rained down upon him and his cavalry.

The blade of the ruggedly handsome spear was coated in glistening blood, the colour staining the wood of its mighty shaft.

Pine.

The outcross's head shot up and he felt his entire body straighten. He fought the overwhelming urge to call out, shocked to find another primate out among the endless flats. Slate's digits curled into the sand and he let out a croak, a pant-chuff that sounded as if he had rocks rattling along his vocal chords. He craved another's touch, for once in his life, and felt his heart sing as the sauntering frame stilled. The final remnants of the torrid gust suddenly cut short and stilled, the air as clear as ever as he stared at a broken and bloodied face. Slate's breath stilled within his desiccated throat as at first he wondered if he were looking into a mirror. His brow was heavy, his eyes stormy and troubled, the milky-blind optic on his left as dead as a fish out of water. Patches of fur were missing from his broad shoulders and the top of his head.

The bonobo's teeth peered out from between his lips as he remained where he was, head tilted over his shoulder at his son. It had felt like an era since he had laid eyes upon his father.

At first Slate was met with that cold, cruel exterior his father usually held, but then... his features softened. Koba's head rose slowly, echoing his son's expression of bewilderment.

His reflection.