By the next morn, Azhar kept true to his word. This time he had Cirin carry both his usual load of the day’s rations and the laundry. About midday when Cirin was thoroughly soaked in sweat, Azhar added a pack of sleeping rolls to Cirin’s already heavy carry load.

Azhar smiled as he watched Cirin trudge behind him. The boy was exhausted, but in the brief moments he realised Azhar was watching him he would pretend as if the weight were nothing. He was stubborn, rash and hot headed at the worst of times. He reminded him of Jafna. Azhar snapped his eyes back to the front as he tried to forget that memory. He knew they were only days away from the Oasis of Gin, but after that…

Azhar blew into the air where he decided to stare into the cloudy sky.

“Home.” He hummed to himself.

To his unpleasant surprise, Toftof had been eyeing him the entire time.

Toftof was scratching his chin when he spoke, “Now dat ya say it, da town afta Gin is-”

Azhar brushed a finger over the man’s mouth. He peered at Cirin slightly to make sure he wasn’t listening and sighed to the sight of the poor kid barely managing to follow.

“I know.” Hushed Azhar, “It’s been nearly twenty years since I’ve been there.”

Toftof crossed his arms as they walked, “You were the worst of da tree when ya got to Lamanori.”

“Really? Me?” laughed Azhar, “I tought dat was Jafna.”

“Jafna was an idiot, but he was our idiot. Besides he knew which side had da most fun.”

“Da side wit da udda idiots?” mused Azhar.

“Oi, watch it. Ya know what I mean. You wa always da smartest of da tree, da toughest to. Ya got da best of us mo times dan I could count.” Toftof shook his head, “Da tree of ya wold drive ma crew mad wit ya antics. I hated ya especially. When me and ma boys first saw ya, I tought you were da leader.”

“I was.”

“Hmpf. Jafna didn’t seem ta agree. Tho maybe dats why he joined da sandrats, eh?”

Azhar looked down, “Best save da nostalgia fa when we find a proper place ta stay.” He glanced behind him, “We should make camp here. Da mouse seems about ready ta collapse.”

Azhar let the company rest for a while and sparred with Cirin later that night. He had hoped that his talk about weaknesses would have smartened the mouse up, but Cirin still faltered whenever Azhar aimed for his right side.

Azhar sheathed his blade as he spoke to his defeated apprentice, “Dat be enough fa tonight.”

“But-” Cirin stumbled in an attempt to rise to his feet.

“See? Even ya body agrees.”

“Dis is noting,” coughed Cirin.

Azhar ‘tisked’ and turned away, stretching, “Ya keep ovareactin’ ta my movements. Watch bot sides not just ya right.”

Cirin stabbed the earth with his rusted blade and managed to kneel on one knee. Azhar studied the boy’s rusted sabre. He had been using the foul thing ever since Azhar found him at Ezmir’s tower.

Azhar snapped his head back towards the direction he was heading, “If ya fight me correctly next time, I may consider getting’ ya a new weapon.”

He left before the boy could respond to that, though Cirin may have well been too exhausted to talk.

The moment he reached camp, Azhar leaned to Toftof and told him to see to Cirin.

Toftof left begrudgingly after that, though Azhar could only stare on at the man he ordered with envy. How long had he yearned to live a quiet life? And how long had he been denied it? No. Azhar knew he had not been denied anything. He took off his blades and his boots, dusted his jacket, and rolled out his sleeping mat. There, the man with a thousand regrets laid unto it as he spied the clear sky above him.

The skies of Gin were famous for being cloudless at night.

He rested his head on his hands as he drifted into blackened sleep. He supposed that sleeping position gave off the impression that he was some cool-headed swords master when it could not be further than the truth. He was a broken blade, as rusted as Cirin’s. His eyes closed. Every night his failure would repeat itself in the form of a reoccurring dream. His only dream. A nightmare.

It began in an old and worn hut.

Azhar lumbered towards sullen wood door. It was a petty thing by the base of a particularly down taught sand house, but he had seen it a thousand times before. He could hear his heart beating faintly as he took step after step towards the door that wouldn’t come closer.

Even then he could hear the feint whispers of Jafna and Hannah as they argued pettily about the drapes, about the furniture, about anything really. His heart thumped louder, the door appeared closer. How he wished he could hear those fools bicker more.

Jafna, the hot head in particular, always the loudest of the original trio, had made a name for himself as the man who fought daily at the bars despite how much Hannah scolded him for it.

Hannah. Poor poor Hannah. Had she known what happened… What really happened, maybe she would have-- His heart beat unbearable loud then, and the door appeared inches before his nose. It creaked open and helplessly, he stepped forward.

There was a figure strewn on a bed in front of him. His sight gave way to a blurry mess. But he saw one color and it was red.

He stumbled forwards. His hands were cold. There were voices. His own? It was impossible to tell. His heart became deafeningly loud until the pang of blade against rock simmered in his ears. He looked down. It was his blade. It was stained with blood. Jafna’s blood.

Azhar snapped his eyes to the bed, and the sight became perfectly clear, his heart had gone eerily silent. The next moment, he was by that bed, clasping the hand of the figure that lay there. She stared at him, but he could only gaze upon the cursed handle of a dagger jutting out her chest. Red. It was all red.

“Who did dis to you?” He would ask again and again.

Her answer, so weak, so contorted in sorrow, was always the same, “I did.”

Azhar twisted and turned, and what was the bed soon turned into a damp hollow.

He was in a cave. He was young. Jafna and Etro were scrunched beside him. Jafna had been arguing as he always did and Etro laughing it off to provoke Jafna even more. From the corner of his eye, he could tell Hannah was watching them shyly just by the entrance to the cave.

Azhar turned his head to the singular light in the cave then. It came from a well that glowed blue directly a head of them. His own small hands lay clutching the rim of that well.

Their formidable trio had learned of a magical well where a spirit of sorts lived. This spirit, unlike the one in Gin was old and cranky. In the form of an old man, he was said to divulge the destinies of any who seek his company. And so, Azhar brought the members of his would be gang to the well to confirm what he already knew.

“Be quiet,” he ordered the other two as the spirit began to emerge.

The water of the well moved on its own and formed what seemed to be the glass like sculpture of the bust of a muscular man. The water contorted, and little by little it became pale rather than see through, and its eyes swirled into little black specs.

The spectre crossed its arms over its braided white beard and narrowed its hairless brows at the children before it.

“What is our destiny?” asked Azhar without delay.

“To die,” said the spirit.

“Before we die?”

Azhar could never forget what the spirit said after that, though he wished his companions had.

“Two of you will have children, but the first to be born will bring doom to what you love most.”

“Dis be dumb,” puffed the upstart Jafna.

“I thought we’d gain wisdom from this,” shrugged Etro.

Azhar was the last to speak, “Anything else? Tell us how we can be strong?”

The spirit considered the question in his otherworldly fashion.

“You are a fire.” He puffed, “You are strong while you burn, but weak once you pass your flames to another. Be selfish and you will be unstoppable, be selfless and you shall be stopped.”

Jafna sprang up and patted his chest, “So be selfish and dun have children?” He roared, flashing the world his devilish grin, “I can do dat!”

Etro laughed to that, “Me to!”

Azhar remembered himself being the most hesitant, though his answer came at the behest of his fellows, “Easy enough,” he hushed in agreement.

He wish he hadn’t.

Azhar jolted awake, sweating and gasping for breath. He reared his head in every direction and finally ran one hand sloppily over his face as he realised where he was, still in the grasslands of Gin.

In the distance the melodic chirping of crickets eased his mind. He sat up, knowing anymore sleep would be impossible that night. He tossed his eyes back to the horizon. It was still dark, yet the very edges of dawn were fast approaching.

As he stumbled out of his sleeping roll, he noticed one more up and sitting by the remnants of the fire. It was Cirin.

He made for an open spot besides the boy and patted his apprentice on the shoulder once he got there.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he pestered Cirin.

Cirin shook his head. From there Azhar could make out a glimpse of Cirin’s eyes. Red as ever.

“Me to,” grunted Azhar. He stared at the cloudless sky. He remembered the start of it all. It had to have been the accursed well, why Etro had ever convinced him to go to such a thing was beyond him.

Gin had one to, a well spirit.

Azhar glanced at Cirin again, “Oi Mouse, when we get ta Gin, avoid da ting called da blue pool. No good will come of it.”

Cirin looked at him curiously, shrugged, then yawned, “Alright.” He said simply.

The two sat there for a while without talk. They breathed out cold air and listened to the chirping of crickets.

Azhar could only guess at what the boy was thinking, but those moments were what he enjoyed the most. In many ways Azhar was the opposite of Jafna. Hannah told him as much. Even the aloof Etro was quick to catch that.

“I had a dream.”

Azhar blinked, caught off guard by the boy’s sudden statement.

“Oh?” Azhar picked up a stick and poked the ashes of last night’s fire, “What kind of dream, mouse?” he asked.

“I was in a walled village filled wit monsters wit red eyes.”

Azhar snickered, “You be no monster, mouse.”

“But da creatures in my dream were,” protested the boy, “Dey weren’t human. Dey were bird-lions who walked upright and-”

“Oi oi, have ya been listening to Manama again?”

Cirin looked away, “She neva told me any stories about it. Besides it was just a dream.”

Azhar gazed of into the distance then, “Just a dream, huh? I had a dream to, mouse.”

Azhar caught Cirin’s dumbfounded gaze and shook his smiling head, “Ya dun tink dis old mon can dream?”

“It’s not dat. Just, ya dun seem ta be ta be da type ta talk about it,” said Cirin.

“I suppose dat be true,” conceded the man. “dough, I wouldn’t call it a dream.” He stared at his own hands and winced, “Cause it had monsters to.”

They arrived in Gin three days later.