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Post by tarriedsea on Sept 24, 2018 13:18:28 GMT -6
Lost In Between Augustine & Salvatore
"Can’t you hear it in the silence?
Can’t you hear me calling out your name?
I’ve got something burning
Coursing through these cold veins."
early summer, 1701
evening
The Oasis
late afternoon |
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Post by tarriedsea on Sept 26, 2018 10:46:56 GMT -6
 He hadn't planned on retreating to the Oasis.
A nomad at heart and no stranger to the circadian flow of solitary life, Augustine had planned on remaining outside the central fortification once he heard the command to evacuate. It would be no different than his normal life- Sedo was vast enough to hide in, and he was accustomed to the quiet flows of Alya's winds guiding his direction.
Besides, large crowds made him nervous.
But his common sense was stronger than his body, and after realizing that he was literally an old man standing as a moving target in the middle of a war, he succumbed to the decree and began moving toward the Oasis.
He was one of the last to arrive before the barrier was produced. Some familiar faces, many more strangers. He pitched his tent near the outskirts- leaning against a cliff face, tucked away in a grove of palm trees and cacti. His camp was partially obscured by thickets of desert flowers and weeds, and he preferred it that way.
Days passed. He spent most of the days sleeping, most of the nights reading and writing. When he ventured out to collect food, he kept an ear cocked for word of the war or word of his beloved. He wanted to find Yina- he assumed she had evacuated here as well, with most of her community- but the Oasis was too large to scour every surface. He settled for praying for her.
This day he woke up late afternoon, earlier than he expected, and unable to go back to sleep began to collect kindling for a fire. He dug a brutish hole in the sand and threw the sticks in. Tea was a constant, it was his comfort and closest friend, and it would soothe his insomnia before the rest of the Oasis went to sleep.
Tapping the loose leaves into his pot of boiling water, the aroma of lavender and sage bubbled into his nostrils, and he closed his eyes. What to do? He was safe here, but to what end? How long? Those were the questions he wrote about- the heaviness of war, especially against his own people from long ago. Though Aodh was no longer a friend, he felt somewhat like a traitor, truly belonging to neither Serora or Aodh. No matter how hard he tried to assimilate to the former.
He poured the tea into his cup- a crude potter's project- and laid against the cliff face under his tent. From here he could see others milling about in the distance through the weeds, but he was hidden from view. Pulling out one of his books- a thick volume on Hireath folklore he'd read over a dozen times, though never lost interest- he sighed and let the words flow into his mind. |
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