I Dream of Daishar

Still, I dream of Daishar..

Even lying here, head on my saddle in some god forsaken land. Leagues of travel behind me and my men, awaiting a fight not our own. Such is my life, though of my own making. A simple hired sword. Short hours separating men and steel from inevitable collision, I take what sleep I can find, and return to that place.

Daishar.

Where the boulders balance one atop the other in impossible arabesques, thrusting defiance towards the cloudless vault of sky. Back to the courtyard, just off the candle makers district, where I would stand in my doorway at daybreak sipping my khaf. Feeling the only coolness in the air there would be of the day, as the desert had long since given up her heated breath throughout the night.

There in that flat steely predawn light, the women of the village would slowly make their way to the fountain in the square. They had about them an almost solemn dignity as they glided with their water jars balanced atop their heads. And, as if by some unspoken agreement, the women moved in hushed whispers as they filled their jars with glinting liquid light. It always seemed to me there was something important about this tableau, some secret or key to worlds unseen. Though it will take a wiser man than I to discover such. All I have is this dream, and a memory of when my time was my own. When I was alive, and there was something more. Or maybe something less? Whatever secrets are there, they remain.