No Place Like Home

When the fighting subsided and the remaining bandits fled, those that had approached with Amastan moved through the wrecked camp. There they would work to salvage what they could until it became too cold--picking out the more personal items from the wreckage, including Shalia’s bag and her desert attire. The witch would pull out the white coat and press its soft fur to one rosy cheek when she got the chance. The flowing Ozainae garments themselves had to be untangled from a collapsed tent and were wrinkled and sandy, but she did not mind at this point. Just glad to have them.
They would continue collecting the campsite when dawn bloomed across the sky and allowed more light. They had needed just enough of a campsite left to sleep through the chilly night and keep watch for returning enemies.

As the workers left the barge and assisted with the camp, Shalia continued toward the river for a moment to herself before joining them. She knelt and spread out her hands to feel the light flourishing greenery beneath her fingertips along the river's edge. Under the blanket of stars and moonlight was one of the few places she cherished deeply for collecting herself. Usually she was surrounded by snow and that made it all the more pleasing. The cooling night air and running river water would have to suffice until then, but she gazed at the same moon now. Same stars. She would need to remind herself of that more often. This river that she drank deeply from came a long way out, but back so many days it had flowed out from the mountains. A gentle and sweet embrace that told her home wasn’t as far as it really felt.

It wasn’t enough to erase the longing. Nothing could fill that void.

The barge had been repaired and the travelers were all set for the morning. Gra’akast was only a few short days away now and the eagerness to finally end this hellish trek was mutual.
The bodies left in the aftermath of the attack were carried out far enough from the oasis that it would not be contaminated and left for the elements to consume. A cycle of completion.
As they were being buried with little more than their clothes, Shalia assisted in laying out the two Aghul she had lost. She was likewise the last one to leave them after her other guards gave low and sincere goodbyes to their fallen brothers.
Before drawing herself away, she took each of their palms and carved a crude image of Koshnem’s banner into them with the thought that maybe their spirits wouldn’t go on without an identity if they had to be stranded out here. That anyone who found them prior to the wrinkled and devoured stage would have some idea of the lives they led. Who they were.

It wasn’t the worst fate for their bodies and even reminded her of home. In Fang, when the seasons were warmer and the predators became especially carnivorous, it was common to toss carcasses out into the wilder areas where clawed and feisty creatures roamed for their next meal, if the people weren’t sick prior. Born from the mountain and returned to it again.

Only…two of these men had no place in the desert. No reason to be scorched to the bone and picked apart by the animals that prowled; their mangled, unwanted rot left to eventually be smothered by the dunes. This was not where they belonged and their bodies would never get to return home or celebrate victories.

‘At least they died in battle’, she thought. ‘No better way for them to go. But they weren’t where Noraura could reap them. They weren’t in Fang or anywhere near the peaks…their spirits…their bodies…’

Shalia waved her hands through the water with a scowled expression.

‘At least the Ozainae fellow could rest his soul in the desert he called home. Keep them company.’

Should she have made the call, instructed them to flee from this hopeless fight? Ugh, of course not. That would be an absurd thing to ask of an Odonine, especially two that were hungry for battle. And her…well, she usually gauged threats well, but with the toiling beneath the heat and everything on her mind, she was certainly not in her prime condition. Maybe she never had been. In the moment of the attack, she just wanted a taste of blood and death and magik.

Ask and you shall receive.

Koshnem would have told her that she ‘cut her losses’ by not continuing to fight and wear herself down, that her companions were ‘necessary sacrifices’ or ‘casualties for the cause’ in which she would begrudgingly accept. Wipe away the tears if there were any. Lift her head again and make it nothing more than a passing thought. They had their loyalties to protect her, and they died doing exactly that--escorting her as guards. Unbroken promises to the banner that would change the Arcadian world.

Even if they tried to flee earlier, who was to say the bandits would not follow and ride them down on camels, think them cowards, destroy or steal the barge, make prisoners of them? That was worse than death for many of the mountain folk. A humiliation.
But why now? They hadn’t had troubling native encounters thus far on their journey through the desert, nor was she ever warned of bandit threats. The Ozainae didn’t seem to expect them. It all felt strange, and she knew strange. Or was she just too delirious to realize that these things happen? If she made it through to morning, maybe it would make more sense. It had to, right?

And she was still so weak. That had bothered her for some time, but the true extent was made very evident now. Why did it feel as if she was stagnating? What was she missing? Had she displeased the goddess and was being punished? She would attempt to ask Noraura about this in the coming days with no clear response, unsure if the night terror she would have--which had a recurring theme--was an answer or an amalgamation of all her conflicted feelings. All of her greatest fears manifested into a damn nightmare about the Sorcerer-King of legend.
If Ostiarium were to fall, Shalia needed her strength and potential. Disadvantaged in the desert, the climate of the region between the Stone City and Fang was temperate enough to level the field for her. Though, this level of power would never be enough to satisfy her. Shalia’s horizons were always expanded far beyond this.

She felt more like a beaten-down stranger with each passing day. Remembering who she was was easily said and greatly valuable advice from the Chieftain, but to believe it after everything was a different story. All of the names and reputation she had garnered over time only to continue feeling this way.
It was not like her to bat an emotional eye at her smaller losses, and if she did, the witch would dwell on them for no longer than a couple of days. Her detachment had gotten her this far and it all went wrong when she deviated from it.

But the sting was deep this time. With the desert gradually drawing everything out of her, it took every last bit of willpower to keep it together. Cutting holes in her frozen lake and fishing pieces of herself out to scale and fillet for devouring. The past four years were survivable, but Shalia wasn’t so sure about outliving this incredibly frustrating and unpredictable landscape. Not a single thing had gone according to plan since they left the Aghul village.

Perhaps she had already gone mad long ago, one of the many prices paid to be sitting here at this river. That everything she was upset about now was simply a stepping stone on her path to greatness…unless the journey ended soon or had gaps much larger than she could jump. The way things were beyond Fang had her questioning whether or not she or anyone in her current company would live to see the light of day. That this could be her last chance to reflect, every moment a tipped hourglass running out of sand and there wouldn’t be any more chances left in its wake.

Did the men killed this night think about it like that? Did they ever realize that the games they played around the tent before could be their last? What do dead men think about?

She lifted her hands from the river and began to touch one of her braids in calming strokes.

~~~~

The next days passed slowly for her, keeping mostly to her barge cabin but much more distant than before. Only the two priests interacted with her when she left it, and she barely responded with more than nods and gestures. Even when Agizul had her unwrap her hands so he could lift a tendril of water from the moving river to wash away the grime, she simply nodded to him and returned to her solitary ways. On the nights she couldn’t sleep, her voice could be heard softly singing something in Helian, that regardless of whether or not anyone could understand much, was soothing to hear after the stressful and mourning-filled few days.

A noticeable cloud of gloom and cold had intensified around the witch.

Up until they were one day out from the city, and Shalia had seated herself beside Amastan unexpectedly, asking her to divulge more information on the Holy City, the Ozainae, the Twins, what to expect there. She had given them their space to grieve, and though she could still sense hints of their sadness, she pressed for anything they were offering to say. The Prophetess would always come back, she had learned early on, so there didn’t seem to be much at stake for them when the incarnations died off. It was never a permanent loss. She narrowly stopped herself from also asking about how the bald woman had personally grown her magik, but not only was it an intimate question for a weaver, but Shalia did not wish to verbally express doubt in herself.

Asking about the desert folk was not only out of genuine interest in their culture and history, but would offer some insight into what Islana might have been told.

No, she could not keep the girl out of her head even if she wanted to. If the fire-haired maiden was dead to the desert, then she should be dead to Shalia, too. Suspend her grief over it. Shed no tears. Move on to the next conflict. It sounded so easy to block out their meeting like it never occurred.

So why did it feel like she was cursed to care?