Oasis

An oasis. That’s what Fikri needed. The lightly-laden pony beneath him was flagging, having dropped from it’s all out gallop to the slower canter hours ago, and to a trot minutes ago. 

Without water, Fikri knew that the horse could simply collapse beneath him, and then he would be stranded in the middle of the largest desert in Ashal. The sun beat down on the two lone figures, both of them knowing that it was the hottest part of the day, the sun high above, its heat hitting the sand and seeming to make the air sizzle around them.

It was almost never worth it to travel during this time of day across the desert. The heat was too powerful, becoming a physical force at this time of day, wrapping around everything, singing into skin and making the already unstable sand dunes waver in Fikri’s eyes. 

Fikri didn’t have time to hide beneath the rocks and watch the hours pass, waiting for the sun to begin its downward descent towards the wide, never-ending horizon. 

They were coming for him. Crossing this desert was his last hurdle to freedom, and if he made it, there would be no chance that they would find him. 

The meager water skin that hung at the pony’s side was long empty, depleted in the first couple hours of their voyage. Fikri blinked at the map he held in his hands, the lines seeming to blur together as he squinted at it, his eyes bleary from the heat.

He kept his breaths shallow now beneath his keffiyeh, his mouth dry and aching. They were in trouble, and he knew it. Again he blinked, trying to locate the oases that were marked on the map. It would be just his luck if he failed now, when he was so close to his goal.

Freedom.

Haala. 

Both awaited him at the other side of this desert.

The pony stumbled in the sand beneath Fikri, and he grabbed for the reins, missing as he fell onto the burning sand below the horse, the heat shot through his white cotton garments and sunk into his already tingling skin.

Circles of light danced before his eyes, but he forced himself up onto his feet, the heat pushing him downwards as though with a physical force. Grabbing the reins of the now stagnant horse, Fikri stood, swaying. 

He had overtaxed the horse, he knew that. It was surprising that the small, stolen pony had lasted this long already, but now it stood with its head hanging, it’s hooves buried in the sand. There was no way he would get it to move, and he dropped the reins. If the horse didn’t die of thirst or hunger, the desert lions that prowled through the nights of the desert would kill it.

Fikri could barely worry about this, stumbling forward through the sand, forgetting everything but his destination. He climbed up the next sand dune, the unstable surface slipping beneath him as he attempted to make it over the ridge.

The heat turned into a black force surrounding Fikri, approaching as he huddled in the sand, the sun burning above him as the darkness converged on him.

Fikri’s eyes blinked open to shaded darkness. 

“Drink,” someone ordered, pushing a rough wooden spoon into his hands. Spots danced in front of his eyes, but he obediently lifted the large spoon to his lips, feeling the cool liquid against his lips.

He forced himself to drink slowly, taking the biggest sips that he dared to, knowing that it would take him more than one day to recover the moisture that he had lost. 

As his vision cleared, he raised his gaze to see his savior, a horrible tug pulling in his gut as he recognized the man in front of him.

“You thought you could run away,” Samir said disapprovingly. Fikri swallowed, knowing that he should think of this man as his Shaik, his master, but ever since Fikri had known him, he had always been Samir.

Perhaps that was what set him apart, what made him think he could escape, make it across the desert. The lingering feeling of equality that no one else saw.

Fikri scowled at the man. His throat was ripped to shreds by the heat, the sand, but he spoke.

“You could stop chasing me,” was his hoarse, rather pitiful response. Samir shook his head at the slave, his arms folded over his chest.

“If one gets away, the rest will soon follow. Your place is on the east of the desert.”

Fikri looked down at the shaded sand that he sat upon, his bare feet tucked beneath him, rebellion dancing against his dehydrated skin.

No matter how many times he tried, Samir was behind him, to catch him, save his life against the heartless might of the sun that shaped their life. 

There was a begrudging respect between the two men, a respect that was unusual between a slave and his master, but one that was there all the same.

“We’re leaving in the morning,” Samir said unsympathetically. “Don’t try to run again. You’ll be lost among the sand if you do.”

With that, the sandy-haired man left, the flap of the tent falling back behind him.

Fikri’s fist clenched in his lap, and he shuffled forward, lifting the edge of the tent to see beyond.

Pale fabric fluttered in the shaded air of the oasis, horses and camels standing placidly around the camp that had been erected quickly and efficiently around the small pool of water. 

Glancing around, Fikri rose to his feet and moved beyond the sides of the tent, towards the water. Dipping his hand into the clear water, he flung the cool liquid upon his face, peering sideways at the horses tied near the water, where they were free to drink. 

It would be simple to break through the ropes that tethered them to the sand, and flee.

But Samir was right. If he attempted it, the heat would overpower him, and the chances that he would die before they found him again were high.

He couldn’t die.

Not until he saw Haala again.

As he turned around, he saw another reason that flight would have been impossible. Soldiers lined the edge of the oasis, all their dark eyes focused on him. Their light-colored garments hid the light armor that Fikri knew they were wearing, short sabers hung at each waist. 

Fikri knew that it was because of Samir’s generosity that he wasn’t lying in the tent still, his hands and feet bound until they returned to his manor. 

He glanced over the soldier’s heads. At the rolling sand that swirled in the desert beyond.

And somewhere, Haala, her small eyes looking up at him as he placed her in the arms of the traveler, the promises for her safety lost in the sound of his own breaths and held back tears as he looked at his daughter for what seemed like the last time.

There was not a day that passed where thoughts of her didn’t pass through his mind, wondering how big she was now, if she was happy, safe.

Across the desert, away from the life that he lived, where she was free to live without the chains that bound him.

Fikri missed her.

And one day, he would try to conquer that desert, the golden hills of sand and heat, the forces of the wild, once more.