Sands of Time

~ Sands of Time ~

6,490; another two days wasted. The caravan was leaving at high noon. Every member of it was incessantly reminded of this only an hour after wake-up time by a portly, yet tall man with an exquisite ebony mustache known simply as the jeweler. There was a distinct lack of specific time in the desert — besides landmark times such as noon — mainly due to the fact that no one had clocks or magic-infused watches except for the jeweler. But, being the only resident “time-keeper”, he charged people upwards of three times what they could afford. Because of this, the man didn’t make much money, a fact that clearly, yet oddly, didn’t bother him.

The stout man had plentiful amounts of food and drink, and wore very colorful clothes, which was not uncommon, but they were probably made of velvet. He tried to show off whenever he could to the people of the desert, the people whom he thought were the poorest and saddest of all. He always succeeded. Succeeded in making them more miserable, of course. Whether this was his intention didn’t seem up for debate, but the common response to his entire getup among dwellers of the many deserts the jeweler had been in was,

“The flashier the ware, the dirtier the fare”.

When this phrase is uttered, people often don’t know how true it rings. Nonetheless, it found use by most who had come into contact with the jeweler, pegging him as the type even though most had never even met a particularly rich individual before. It made them wonder why such an exquisite array of jewels and such were being sold out in such a remote desert and not the far off cities. Of all the desert territories he had been in, the jeweler found his current location to be the least hospitable, only adding fuel to the fire of unclear intentions circling around inside his strange, mustache-plastered head. He would continue to gather vast amounts of knowledge for some unknown purpose, without ceasing, whether it be for himself or for others. The latter, of course, seemed unlikely.

Attention turned from trek prepping to an obviously foreign man who now approached the caravan, his worn-down, but clearly once flashy robes making him stand out to all. A stranger from a strange land; the locals would not tolerate it without proper introduction. Especially not after they decided ages ago now to let that other moneyed and mustachioed swindler in. Mothers either scurried their children inside or grabbed a cheaply decorated ashewood crossbow. Some fathers exited their tents with a knife or crossbow as well. This would delay the caravan’s departure for a while.

Manwel finished his growth-constraining routine, and walked out of his tent to see what the commotion was. When he realized what was actually happening, and having seen the stranger with his hands up in surrender already, he hesitantly dismissed the fact that the caravan could be in danger and instead focused on the delusion that he surely had enough time to get to the oasis now. He had to or very soon, it would be out of reach forever.

When he was woken up, he settled on the idea of just pinching new gear from someone in a hurry to leave. His decision had now deviated a bit; he decided to try his luck — which he didn’t have much of — at stealing from a temporarily abandoned tent, one which didn’t have a hasty owner. This would mean the best of the cheap gear would likely still be on display. He snuck around the crowd with ease, given they normally didn’t notice him anyway. As he passed between temporary stalls and numerous styles of cheap, yet durable tents, he could hear the stranger begin to shout his name.

“-name is Rik Don-” followed by a sharp crackling, then a disgusted and painful grunt.

Manwel assumed the resident inquisitor of the caravan had taken care of the stranger, and he quickened his pace towards the last stop before venturing out to the oasis. His faux dragon-skin sandals were about to break, so he quickly snuck into a large, freshly abandoned tent and guiltily nabbed a new pair, seemingly of the same counterfeit appearance, along with a flare, binoculars, and a small flask of date tea.

…

Good thing I stole those sandals, Manwel thought as he approached the spot where he had thought he saw the oasis three days before. His appreciation now outshined the guilt from his recent streak of pilferings.

Maybe I should just continue stealing, it seems to work well.

Then, there it was: a faint outline of a few bright green trees. He decided to use his newly acquired binoculars to gaze upon the horizon.

Another benefit of thieving, he thought, ignoring his buried desire to have instead earned the trust and admiration of the caravanner he had stolen from.

There it was, clear in front of him: It seemed further away than last time, though. But that was okay, he was sure he had time now. Manwel was strangely optimistic after getting away from the caravan with someone else’s property. To him, all of the people of the desert shared everything anyway, but this sentiment also made him feel like they were all complacent. These people who called this ruthless place their home, yes, they were no better than accomplices in the apathy and stagnancy of the desert.

No, they’ve all suffered like me, he realized, Maybe not the same struggle, but they’ve certainly struggled enough. I’ll return this stuff when I get back.

But before he could get back, he had to go forward. The oasis looked to be about half-an-hour’s journey away from the jagged rock he was now standing on.

Why didn’t I notice there was an oasis nearby sooner? It didn’t matter now; he started towards the image dancing along the horizon.

As he walked closer, Manwel noticed his shadow beginning to get closer to him, and decided to quicken his pace a bit. He made it to a jog eventually; he longed for water more than anything. He had been particularly greedy on the way to where he was now, and had finished the flask he stole in about 45 minutes. And now, an hour later, he might be able to taste the most refreshing water ever. It was right there, a couple arms lengths away, a couple more steps!

“Yes!” Manwel shouted as he leaped into the shining pool in front of him. If one had been there, they would have been surprised to see a mid-twenties man leap into a random pile of average, scorching sand.

…

Despite his sheer exhaustion and utter disappointment, Manwel took only a moment before sullenly trodding back towards the caravan.

That’s it, he thought, I have to resort to stealing from now on. Screw the laws and taboos of caravans. It worked once, it’ll work again. It better, or else I’m going to die out here just like….

He stopped and fell on his knees in anguish. The thought of perishing without even attempting to fulfill his father’s last wish was devastating, but Manwel felt even more dismay at the fact that he just knew he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t be a leader anymore, nor do anything to help the cause his parents had devoted themselves to. This was what he felt he knew in the moment.

Manwel closed his eyes and breathed deeply, his knees beginning to ache slightly from the pressure he was putting on them and on himself. With another deep breath accomplished, he committed to screaming only to produce a weak, vapid yelp. Unsatisfied, he cleared his dry throat and screamed again, so loud that small grains of sand around him began to rise. In a small radius, the loose, whimsical matter began to swirl; the wind, assumedly the culprit.

The billows of grit just kept going, briefly supporting the idea of hot enemies he temporarily suspended nights before. There would be no way he could see what was going on without forcing his head outside of the cloud. Seconds later, Manwel opened his eyes cautiously as the sand fell promptly, finding it convenient that his vision didn’t have to suffer. He slowly got back up on his feet and carried onward, not taking note that the sun was now straight above him.

Due to Manwel keenly switching to a jogging pace in “his” newer, tougher sandals for most of the way, the sun had only moved by a finger’s length when he reached the spot where the caravan once rested. All that remained was the body of a man with charged lead in his leg and a singular tent. A single, knocked over, sorry state of a tent. If a theorist was still present, one hypothesis could be disproven fast: no vampire would dare to live in a scene so wretched and on display for the sun’s numerous and unforgiving rays. It couldn’t possibly get worse, and thus it seemed to; as he entered his former residence, Manwel — clearly not taking more than a glance at the scene — noticed nothing but sand. No wooden table was present, nor books, nor runes inscribed anywhere — just plain coral sand.

Another fit of rage came over him, but this time, he walked outside, and swore at the sun as if he were to soon turn to ash. It was no doubt the sun that created the worst part of the desert. He once again fell on his knees, and yelled again, this time stronger than the other shouts combined. As he did so, his eyes actually open this time, sand around him began to rise. In mid-air, it proceeded to pile up slowly. The ever-increasing volume of sand, dust, and agony lunged at him. It was too much; Manwel had finally succumbed to the desert, allowing himself to be dramatically whisked away to a different place entirely.

…

“Help, help, please”.

What was meant to be a cry for help was nothing more than a whisper. Pain — man-inflicted pain — had made the well-dressed stranger weak. He had faced the terrors of a hundred worlds, dealt with any kind of creature or beast imaginable, and yet, his greatest foe was the people of the desert and their machinery. Damn crossbows.

“Ruthless animals," the wounded man managed to grunt, attempting to move his left leg again while gripping the blood-soaked area harshly. No use, the feeling was already gone.

“Ah! No, please!” he attempted to shout, with again, no reply from the distressed man by the tent in the distance.

He decided to wait. After about a minute, he witnessed something he hadn’t seen in many decades. Not a man swearing at the sun… well that too, but more importantly, a sign of one of The Sacred Council. The Kapok, to be specific, came to mind as the hooded man off in the distance vanished entirely within the flurry of sand, not to be seen again. Despite his wounds, he was instantly rejuvenated by the miraculous sight, and again tried to stand up. Not to his surprise, he was actually able to do so now. He knew the intense flow of adrenaline and drive to discover the secrets of magic would only last temporarily, so he took out a faded gemstone which was hung on his belt behind his side-cape. As his last resort, he hesitantly whispered his location to it, and got a positive reply within the minute.

“Of course, my friend, soon”.

Upon hearing these words, the man stumbled over to where he saw the other disappear, gemstone still held high in hand so as to ensure he didn’t miss more comms. When he reached the magic-infused area, he poured some sand into a small vial with his open hand. This would be a long journey, but it couldn’t have happened at a better time.

He proceeded to rip a piece off the remnant of the tent fabric. There was a small piece of wood near him that he reached to pick up, slightly hidden under the sand but made more visible with the removal of the fabric scrap, of which he picked up as well in an attempt to create some sort of makeshift bandage or tourniquet. The paint was chipping off the wood block, but one could tell from its distinct dual green and white coloration where it was from.

“Ah, we have ourselves a Latchgovenite, have we?” he found himself saying out loud almost sarcastically, “Interesting, very interesting that one would live in a desert after escaping the richest, most vibrant forest land. How could someone give up such a paradise?”

His last words wavered as he solemnly turned to stare at the sun for a brief moment. He knew full well what he was doing by facetiously calling Latchgoven a “paradise”, especially with those on the other side of the gemstone still listening. As he was contemplating the situation, a soft humming began from behind him. The slight purple glow of a portal caught his eye as the intense sunspots began to fade away.

“Ah," the man said with faux guilt over his shoulder, “so you heard that?"

A raspy, deep, masked voice replied, “I hear all concerning Latchgoven, especially when you forget to deactivate your gem. Now come on Rik, we have work to do. Father expects results soon…” The portalgoer, fully clad in bluish-gray armor, noticed the blood trickling down the wounded’s leg, staining the iron-rich sands a deeper red. “Unless, you need medical attention?"

With an unsure smirk the wounded replied, “Of course I don’t. Come on, let’s just go”.

With a clanking and mobility struggle, an arm came around the wounded’s shoulder while the other laughed, “Have you let these beasts defeat you that easily, brother? Cause’ you look like your spirit was just taken right outta you with a dot of metal! Don’t let mere dots define your potential, alright?"

With a slight smile on both faces, one still hidden and distorted, the two strangers left the desert, and went into the royal purple void — leading to a spacecarriage floating off in orbit — together. Together, blue and red, halves of a whole, unknowing creators of purple.

…

This was not paradise, nor was it the desert. A partial consolation would do for now; at least he was no longer stuck in that desert without any food. Now, Manwel was stuck surrounded by pointy crimson rocks without any food. A crown of thorns was the last burden Manwel would bear right now. Bringing his hood down, he stood up and looked around for anything else in this strange world, preferably food and water, of course.

There was something off in the distance: a massive building as pointed as the rocks that stretched for a great distance between him and it. With what little strength he had left, he began to walk towards the castle upon the horizon. He had already been through so much today, or was it tonight? He couldn’t remember.

When he estimated he was around only a minute out from the beginning of his journey, not far at all, he rested. Only for a moment he would rest; safety was fairly close, anyway. The reason why he hadn’t gone further in that moment must have been due to the fact that the trip here had made him unnaturally exhausted, but this of course, he didn’t remember happening. As far as he knew, he had always been here.

The red sky had turned slightly darker, and he could see a daunting sphere just above the horizon to the left of him. This far off celestial body was startlingly bright, contrasting sharply to the ever-darkening sky around it.

How does that get lighter as… the exhausted Skylon boy questioned, forgetting the rest of what he was going to say as if his thoughts were being drained from his mind.

In fact, he couldn’t remember what the bright spot was called in his world. He stood up, brushing off his failure to remember, and continued southward. He came across a path through the rocks that led straight to the castle, which was much bigger than he anticipated. The path looked recently dug; the once rich, dark brown dirt was gone in this area, and underneath the surface, one could now see its true, deep vermilion color. The soft, red dirt underneath reminded Manwel of that spice that merchants used to sell throughout the desert, but oh, what was it called? He couldn’t remember; perhaps the landscape was too distracting. He found himself quickening his pace; the castle was so magnificent, and starvation would soon end.

The castle, less than an hour’s walk away from Manwel, was a shiny black color, with its multiple pointy towers being unusually close to the center of the whole structure. What it lacked in width, it certainly made up for in height. If one were to stand in the highest tower and look down, they would almost certainly need binoculars — like the ones a certain caravanner had stolen — to see someone approaching. Even then, the one approaching would look just like an antibug from so far away.

Manwel wasn’t impressed by the size; it hadn’t fully reached his mind yet that he would soon be approaching the largest building one could ever imagine in an unnaturally and overwhelmingly scarlet world. All he was thinking about were food and water, like a sheep or hircervus; with no destination in mind, except where there was sustenance.

As he neared the final section of the pathway before the wide open archway — shadowy in nature and fitted with a worn out and heavily rusty portcullis — in front of the castle, Manwel noticed the shadow of the whole institution looming over the wider area. Strange, the glowing thing didn't light up the air, but it cast those things, whatever they’re called.

He looked back at the castle, only about a few minutes away now, and saw a fleeting glimpse of importance. For a split second, there was a billowing, red-looking flame sticking out from a dull window almost a dozen floors above him. But, as soon as Manwel made a reaction to it with his tired face, the fire went out, its vessel vanishing into the window as the dual shutters came together. Curious indeed, but even then, Manwel couldn’t forge a reason why that was so.

Why couldn’t there just be a floating candle? It seemed he genuinely believed in that instance that such a sight was entirely possible elsewhere. Perhaps it was, in fact, due to that magic stuff or something. That which lacked proper explanation often meant magic anyway.

This trail of thought led to him realizing that a possible magic sighting would mean a mage behind it, and a mage would mean that he might be able to obtain food and… whatever liquid he used to search for. Hunger and thirst seemed to him to be his only issues, at least, that he could think of.

When he refocused on entering the castle, Manwel started to walk towards the open archway slowly. Slowly now, mainly because he was in awe of the size of the fortress in front of him, the intricately layered ramparts growing closer with each passing step.

When Manwel finally reached the main archway, which could only seem as though it was created out of the essence of shadows alone, he walked through cautiously. He made sure to look left and right past the entrance to see if there was anything out of the ordinary. But what was the ordinary? He decided to just look straight; why should he have to be afraid of anything here? He was currently in a courtyard, it couldn’t get any safer.

A person in their right mind would likely be creeped out; black dahlias fringed every edge of every single uniquely trapezoidal planter in the area. Every single pot within was placed the exact same distance apart, to the millimeter, and each had carvings of mythical beasts and monsters on them. Many featured various dragons, but Manwel recalled seeing at least one goblin and one… horse-thing? Whatever that was called, it didn't seem to matter.

In each pot, more dahlias, the petals shining a deeper black than what they let on. There were certain sections of intricate brickwork on the ground marking paths towards vast shadows of trees. Numerous leaves fell stealthily past clumps of their grown counterpart — dark purple fruits — forming piles of the deepest, darkest red imaginable within the perfectly bordered area around each tree. Although appearing to come from no direction in particular, chilling blasts came rolling up through the entire courtyard, the piles of leaves being reduced to barely sheets and the ones left clinging to their creaking host now beginning to dance almost ritualistically in the presence of a new and unexpected force.

Whispers and laughs circled around the courtyard, creating an almost physical depiction of liveliness, as if there were actual souls socializing in that moment. Although, another moment in time was most certainly where these striking emanata originated from. To Manwel, this was another indicator that this castle was someone’s residence. To anyone else, this would be another indicator that they were trapped in a nightmare, a series of moments frozen in time, sealed forever as an interpretation of what could have been. Or, what could never continue to be, had one asked the right person.

When he finally reached the front door, briefly in awe of its size, Manwel pushed it open, entering without permission or hesitation. He was so focused, not taking note of anything in the room around him. He didn’t see the bright red carpeting snaking through the endless halls past the main one. He didn’t see the many chandeliers, glowing a bright red, of course. And he didn’t see the faint heads of many shy apparitions floating just behind the corners at the end of the main, grand hallway.

All he saw was the man in front of him, whose eyes instantly met Manwel’s. They were shiny black like everything else, with small, red pupils and they were most likely bloodshot. Bloodshot from something else, though, some form of magic or energy, perhaps. Manwel stayed absolutely motionless; forgetting everything he was here for, he waited for the other man to speak. And after a few moments, he did. With an eerie, echoey voice, the figure muttered,

“Welcome to the Sanctum, enjoy your stay… however long it may be”.