💾 Archived View for fedran.com › raging-alone › chapter-015 captured on 2023-09-08 at 17:38:49. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
⬅️ Previous capture (2023-05-24)
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Even without his eyes open, Desòchu could feel the ache and burns along his entire body. It felt like he had fallen down a cliff or gone a few rounds of sparring with Somiryòki. Even the joints protested movement as he tried to pull his thoughts out of the clenching darkness of unconsciousness. The last time he felt so much pain was when he had brawled with his friends over in Ryayusuki Valley. He smiled to himself but the smile froze on his face when he couldn't remember visiting the valley recently. Or a brawl. Or drinking himself into unconsciousness. All of those had been put aside to care for his brother.
He remembered KiramĂro punching him and then nothing.
No doubt, once he got up, Yutsupazéso would have an endless list of punishments to inflict on him. He could look forward to hauling garbage and cleaning dishes until his black hair turned white.
Still struggling to wake up, he imagined they had thrown his limp body back into his room.
With a groan, he rolled over and planted his face into his pillow. Instead of a soft cushion, his nose and face dug into sand. Heat spread across his face in a wave of agony. It was quickly followed by the additional pain of having his bare chest lying across the sun-blasted ground.
With a yelp, Desòchu scrambled to his feet and pawed at his face. The bright light blinded him. Spinning around, he turned and wiped at his face until the heat burned the back of his head and shoulders. It was only a small measure, but the slightly less bright light made it easier to concentrate. He focused on blinking and wiping. When he finally could see, he looked around to see nothing but rock and sand.
There was nothing around him, just dunes of sand and hills of sharp rocks. He didn't recognize the reddish color of the stones nor the mountain ranges in the distance. He turned and looked around for any familiar landmark, or even something besides the rippling dunes.
To the west, where the sun still had a palm-span to reach the horizon, he spotted three spires of rocks rising above the sand. Still in the sunlight, the spires looked like fingers reaching into the sky. They were one of the Wind's Teeth, unusual rock formations of pillars that stood high above the ground. They were useless for most things but they made good landmarks while traveling. From his estimate, the three he was looking at were about a league away.
Desòchu frowned and turned around again slowly as he tried to find another landmark to use. Walking miles across the desert without shelter would be dangerous, no matter how often he had done it when visiting the local valleys. The shifting dunes made it easy to travel in circles.
While he searched for something, he absently rubbed his aching elbow. When his fingers scraped along ragged flesh, he hissed in pain. Surprised, he looked down.
His entire arm looked like it had been dragged across the sands. The fabric of his shirt had been stripped away. Underneath the shredded material, he could see that his raw skin that had thousands of scratches and tears. Dried blood and sand flies covered his wounds.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Desòchu brushed off the bugs and looked down to see more abrasions along his hips and thighs. Even his bare toes weren't spared from abuse. One of his toes was much darker than the others, almost black.
“Stupid cow,” he muttered while he continued to inspect his injuries.
His aches and pains made more sense. It looked and felt like he had been dragged miles across the sand. His neck hurt from where the collar of his shirt would have dug into the flesh.
“What in the sands?” he rasped. His throat ached and his lips were cracked. He groaned and looked around. “What did that rancid goat do? Drag me across the desert?”
Turning around again, he scanned the horizon while gingerly holding a scratch along his shoulder. He moved to rubbing his throat and glanced around for KiramĂro who he knew had to be laughing at him. When he didn't see the older man standing there mocking him, he slowly searched for the sight of anyone.
After a few minutes of turning around in the blazing sun, he had to acknowledge his situation. “Nowhere to get out of the damned sun.”
He had been taught the basics of desert survival. At least he had heard the stories over the campfire. The safest would be to hide from the sun and travel at dusk. It would be cooler, at least until everything got bitterly cold from a lack of sunlight. However, the clan always traveled during the day and in the overwhelming heat of sunlight.
Desòchu wiped the sweat from his brow. Why would anyone travel in his heat? He had done the hour-long trip to the surrounding valleys before. The end was always a trudge for the last few hundred chains but, in that situation, he had a goal. There was no obvious destination now.
The clan ran for hours in the sun but they never explained why they didn't pass out from exhaustion or need to drink gallons of water. He snorted, it was probably related to their speed magic. However, he didn't have those abilities.
He groaned and shook his head. He had two choices, burrow like an insect or start walking. Neither sounded enjoyable. Shielding his eyes, he measured the sun's height with his palm; there was probably only an hour or so of sunlight before everything got dark. After that, it would be almost impossible to find the rocks.
“No reason to wait here,” he decided.
He began to walk toward the rocks. Less than a few steps later, he was cursing KiramĂro's name and the rest of the clan that left him alone in the desert.
Desòchu's anger got him over three dunes. By then, the sweat had dripped over his cuts and scratches. The throbbing agony in his abused joints made it impossible to keep muttering while walking.
He stopped. While he wiped the gathered flies from his raw wounds, he thought about how he had gotten there. It wasn't his fault that Rutejìmo had almost fallen. He had done his duty, more than anyone else in the valley. Every night, every day. No one else helped him take care of the babe.
He spun around. “He wasn't hurt!”
His voice didn't echo across the sands.
“So I made a mistake! No one died!”
A faint breeze brought searing heat to buffet against his chest.
“Don't leave me out here! I won't make the same mistake, I promise!”
He half slid, half stomped along the far edge of the dune. His bare feet scraped against a gravel scree. He winced and limped over it. He had to move quickly to avoid the searing rock from cooking the bottom of his abused soles. "This is too much, you wrinkled goat! Goats! All of you!:
He took a deep breath to keep yelling. “Why didn't anyone take him!? Why didn't you help!? I asked and I asked! None of you had time! None of you were willing to help! Why can't you see that!?”
Desòchu cocked his head hoping to hear someone running toward him. When he didn't, he crawled up the other side of the dune to peer around again. He desperately looked for the plume that the Shimusògo left when they ran at high speed. If he was lucky, they would have heard his apology and were coming back.
Nothing.
“Shit,” he muttered, wiping sudden tears from his eyes. Even abandoned, he ended up saying the wrong thing. Turning back toward the three spires, he resumed his path to the only shelter he had seen.
“Moon-damned old cows. May all of them rot in the sun and let the vultures pluck out their eyes. They can't even believe I made a mistake. After everything I have done for that bastard…”
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