Disclaimer: The author of this fanfiction does not, in any way, profit from the story. All creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator(s).
Fairy Tales: rose woven
by Pout
Chapter 6: Song of the Sands
Quatre was sure that the burning grains of sand that surrounded him were slowly melting into his skin. He had walked through the endless desert searching desperately for some sign of human life, only to collapse at the bottom of one of the many indistinguishable sand dunes he had crossed. Lying flat for the sun to pound on him from the front and the sand to scorch his back, the fourth prince found himself encased in a world of sweltering heat. He listened to the resounding caw of a desert vulture flying blithely overhead and the persistent whine of useless, hot wind as it shifted and molded the sand as it pleased. ‘I will miss my brothers,’ was his last thought as he fell into the cool comfort of unconsciousness.
* * *
She had been watching him for the better part of the afternoon. She watched him struggle and overexert himself, only to stumble, crawl, and eventually give in to the force of the desert. He had golden locks of a shade she had never seen on a human before. The human men on the island were of a darker variety with dark hair and sun-browned skin. They were generally thought of as oafish as they lumbered about around the demarcated human areas. Within her own country, where most of her people possessed varying shades of red and brown locks, blonde hair was seen as particularly auspicious. This handsome, golden creature staggering ambitiously across the dunes of wind and fire stirred her sense of mystery and adventure, and emboldened her to venture closer to him.
Judging by the direction in which he traveled, a path as straight as he could manage heading roughly northeast, she guessed he must have come from the western shore. He could not have been a man of the island or he would have known to follow the main road instead of wandering about in the wilds. Even the humans knew better than to risk travel through untamed desert. The open sands were potentially dangerous even for her people; they were twice as hazardous for the simple humans.
She watched him tumble to a halt at the base of a shifting dune. If he didn’t remove himself soon, he’d be facing a hot sand coffin. The winds seemed to sense the presence of easy prey, howling over the sand tops with predatory lust. The sand piled up dangerously.
Contact with the humans was strictly forbidden. Her curiosity was going to be her undoing. Her unnatural fascination with the species would lead her to ruin. Still, she went forward.
* * *
Quatre dreamt wonderful dreams. His dreams were memories.
He dreamt of the first time he was allowed to go swimming down at the lake. His mother had fretted but his brothers had pleaded and argued and demanded and convinced, and that afternoon, the five of them had stayed in the water so long they turned disgustingly wrinkled. Quatre had loved every minute of it.
He saw the old apple tree, the only one in an orchard of cherry trees. It was the first tree he ever climbed. He liked to sit on its lowest branches with a book in his hands just soaking in the midday sun as it filtered through the leaves. He was the only one who knew he had carved his name into its highest branch, followed by a heart and the name of one of the serving maids.
He remembered the first time they snuck into a tavern. They had befriended an old gypsy fellow who had teasingly told them that they were cursed. For a week, they lived in terror that they were going to die or something worse. When they returned to the tavern, begging for a cure, the gypsy had laughed and bought them a round. They smiled sheepishly and shared their first drink with relief.
His dreams showed him the last time they had gotten hopelessly lost in the forest and spent an entire night aimlessly wandering round and round in circles until finally they found a path out. The next day they set up a small party and went through the forest, meticulously mapping each and every detail.
He dreamt about the first time he held a bow. His older brother, Trowa, had handed it over to him very casually and Quatre had accepted it in the same manner until he realized precisely what it was he was holding. It was Trowa’s most prized possession, the bow he had received from Heero after clearing a series of twenty targets – Heero’s own personal test of competence. Trowa had carried that bow around with him for weeks, as a child would an old blanket. It was perhaps his only manifestation of childhood. “You can give it back to me when you’ve hit twenty targets,” Trowa had explained, and he had left the room, slowly, and not without a longing glance back at his treasured gift.
He dreamt of a churning sea, vengeful and dangerous. The tossing and turning and salt and slap of the water invaded his dreamscape. He struggled for breath, shivered in the cold of the storm. And then the sea turned bright. Waves hardened into dunes and swept across his vision
And then he dreamt of a pitiful wraith disappearing like sand in the wind.
* * *
The human had healed and regained his strength. Under the balm of the healer, he would remain in a quiet sleep until sundown. Beside him, the little sand sprite kept watch. Her russet-red locks curled around her finger as she pondered over her next step.
Three days ago, she had found him floundering about in the middle of nowhere. She had taken him up then, and brought him to a safe spot that none had yet discovered: a hidden cave by the base of the hills. She had had no alternative but to leave him for the nights when she slipped back to the palace, but she knew this night he would awaken, and he would be alone. Bringing him back to the palace would be suicide seeing as how contact with the human race was strictly regulated and certainly such contact was far beneath the station of a royal heir. Her father would skin her alive.
So taking him back was out of the question. As such, it was best that she engage in the least amount of contact as possible. Still, leaving him alone to fend for himself was terribly harsh. The best course of action would be to take him to his own people. She would leave him with the other humans. Certainly they could do something about him.
With her mind decided, she stood up and dusted off her skirt and shawl. Bringing her head sash across her lips to wrap around her neck, she began to sing.
Perhaps to any other creature it would seem that the sprite was simply humming a little melody. But with her song came magic, and that magic lifted the prone human up from the sands and floated him right out of the cave. Careful attention would show that her song was simple and smooth, giving way only to trills and pitches when maneuvering her burden over the terrain.
She walked for quite a while before finding the perfect spot. Under the meager shade of a tall desert cactus, she settled the man with a long whole note. The cactus stood conveniently beside one of the main roads that skewered the desert. The island humans traveled the path often, and if she was right, they were due to arrive sometime later that day.
She knelt down beside the unconscious man and hummed softly to ease what looked like a painful dream. His brows were knitted and his lips were set in a grimace.
With his head in her lap, she sang an old lullaby to him.
* * *
Quatre heard that song and it pulled him from the dreams that disturbed him. As his eyes struggled to open against the blaze of the day around him, he felt the heat of the sun and the desert around him. Half-conscious, he listened to the most beautiful melody he had ever heard.
It was unlike anything he had ever known before. Music was his passion and this song sparked a burning interest in him. The song skipped and danced through four quarter and three quarter time switching merrily between the two. The irregular time gave it a capriciousness that Quatre enjoyed. But more captivating than the melody was the voice that sang it. An otherworldly grace and purity gave the voice the quality of silken glass.
When the song ended, he opened his eyes fully and saw a vague silhouette a woman in a yellow shawl with a scarf covering her features. He opened his mouth to speak and question her about the beautiful song, to compliment her on her pure voice, but she put a finger to his lips and shook her head.
“This is but a dream,” she said in a soft tone. Her speech, too, was gentle and lilting. “Go to sleep now. All will be well once you are rested.” There was a touch of playfulness in her voice that made him smile sleepily. She began to hum and he felt himself drifting back into unconsciousness.
* * *
When he woke again, he found himself staring at the ceiling of a tent.
“He’s awake!”
A face popped into view, hovering over him eagerly.
“So, how do you feel, brother?”
Quatre had a nasty urge to say he was sure the other man was not his brother, but he restrained himself and responded with a raspy: “Dry.”
“Some water for the poor fellow!” another voice cried, prompting the man above him to disappear from sight.
Quatre looked around to see a few men scurrying around the tent as another disappeared out the flap. One of the men helped him sit up in the bed of cushions and blankets he was lying upon. Another man brought him a gourd filled with sweet, clean water, which he drank greedily, trying not to waste even one precious drop. A small crowd of men had gathered and they laughed at his rabid thirst as he smiled and thanked them hastily when he had finished.
One of the men, tall with a full beard, probably the leader, came and sat down by him to speak. “I am Rashid,” the man said by way of introduction. “What is your name, brother?”
“Quatre,” he answered.
“You must be from the eastern continent. What brings you out here? We found you a short ways off the main road, just sleeping with a stupid grin on your face.” The other men laughed and Quatre blushed.
“The ship I was on got caught in a storm. I washed up on the beach. I remember stumbling through the desert. I must have fallen by the side of your road.”
The man shook his head. “You could not have survived the desert nights out here alone.”
“A sprite got you, you fool!” one of the other men laughed.
“A sprite?” Quatre asked blearily, imagining a tiny, mosquito-sized creature with sugar-crystal wings.
“A sand sprite,” Rashid clarified, “the dominant race on this island.”
“Where is this, exactly?” Quatre asked.
“The Island of the Dunes.”
“The Island of the Dunes is supposed to be uninhabited,” Quatre protested.
“A misconception, one which we like to perpetuate,” the other man replied. “Most of us escaped here from one place or another, for various reasons. And the sprites don’t like to show themselves, even to us.”
“These sprites, they’re…not human?”
“They’re a sort of cousin to faeries and elves. A mix of human and Other Worldly blood.”
“Don’t you remember?” one of the men jeered. “One obviously got to you!”
Rashid held up a hand to shush the laughter that filled the tent, then explained, “You’ve got the scent of healer’s balm all over you.”
“Healer’s balm,” Quatre repeated. “What’s that?”
Rashid grinned. “The sprites make it. It has magical properties and a very distinct smell, which you happen to be covered in.”
Quatre nodded, noting the smell of something that was both minty and sour at the same time.
Rashid and the others laughed at his confused expression and Quatre just had to ask: “Why do you laugh? I don’t understand.”
The man chuckled even louder at his straightforward question. “Sprites… They are a tricky people. They do not take in humans easily. In fact, they don’t do it at all.”
“And yet here you are, smelling sweetly of Healer’s balm. We found you sleeping easily in the blistering heat. By all accounts you should be dead, man!” the other cried.
“So, a sprite helped me,” Quatre clarified. Rashid nodded, that smirk still on his lips. Quatre was feeling perhaps a little more moody than usual. It was probably the heat. In any case, he frowned and said, quite frankly, “I still don’t understand why it’s so funny.”
Some of the men choked back guffaws and clamped tanned hands over their mouths to silence themselves.
Rashid scratched his cheek and smiled openly. “It’s just that, sprites don’t usually help humans. If they do…it usually means…” Quatre stared blankly back at the big man. “Well…”
“It means you’re bedding a sprite!” one of the men cried out, sending all the others into peals of laughter.
Quatre felt the blood infusing his cheeks. How…crass! “I’m not! I’m not…be- bed- You’re all mistaken,” he protested. There was much winking and nodding and he felt himself growing cross.
Rashid was patting his back, “It’s all right. We don’t associate with the sprites unless we absolutely have to so you don’t have to worry about word getting back to them.”
“We can keep a secret!” the men were cheering.
Losing the will to object, Quatre just nodded and thanked them.
* * *
The strains of the harp made Catherine sigh happily. “Sister, you play so beautifully!” she praised.
An older girl with the same glamorous red locks smiled back and said to her youngest sister, “Cathy, sing a song for us. You disappeared again yesterday and since you refuse to tell us of your adventures, we demand a song as compensation.”
“And a dance as well!” two others called out, their red hair gleaming under the stroke of the sun.
“You’re all very greedy!” Cathy reprimanded her older sisters, grinning all the while.
“I suppose you’d rather we told father instead…?” another girl remarked as she sat down beside the marble fountain. She dipped a graceful finger into the cool water and trailed a line over its surface. “Are you sure you won’t tell us? You haven’t done anything…bad…have you, Catherine?”
Cathy smiled slyly and shook her head, “Of course not!” She spun on her heel and went to stand in the center of the courtyard. “So, what shall I sing?”
“The Courtship of Lady Demark!”
“No, the Victory at Balasade!”
“Lament of Gattersby!”
“That’s so boring, Winni!”
“Flora Fauna Foust!”
“Oh, if you make her sing that one more time, I’m going to go insane!”
“The Red Red River!”
“That’s a good one, do that one, Cathy!”
The youngest sister smiled and began to sing the song of the Red Red River. It was a melancholy, lilting love story of a warrior boy named Goereth, who falls in love with the peasant maiden, Penawa, who is promised to another. He woos her and persuades her to run away with him. But in the very last verse, as they run across the bridge, escaping under the cover of heavy rains, their joined hands are pulled apart and the warrior falls to his death in the swirling waters below, leaving his love behind to face the pursuing mob.
Cathy’s melodic voice trilled in song as her body swayed with the steps of the dance. Her arms unfurled like wings and light steps spun the tragic tale of two lovers denied. The sashes of her dress flew up around her and the trees and grasses swung and waved as her magic brought weightlessness and enchantment to her surroundings.
At last, her voice trilled out Penawa’s last tears, and she knelt to the ground, her scarves settling around her in artistic mourning. There was a pause of stillness before her sisters began to applaud and cheer gratefully.
Next, they made Winni play a ditty on her lyre as Gilly and Bandri sang accompaniment. And all the while as they sang and played, the littlest sister could not help but wonder how that golden man was doing out there in the dunes.
* * *
The men that had found him were an odd band of transporters that manned the hazardous trade routes between the human settlements throughout the dunes, moving goods from one town to the next. They called themselves the Maganacs and Rashid was their leader.
“What do you plan to do now?” the tall transporter asked.
“I must find my brother,” Quatre responded.
Rashid regarded him with questioning eyes. “How do you intend to do that?”
Quatre paused but shook his head. “He’s alive out there. I just need to find him.”
Rashid took a moment and said slowly, “You survived because of your pretty sprite. Unless your brother has such a companion as well, it is unlikely that he has survived the desert alone.”
The blond prince frowned. “I don’t have a sprite ‘companion.’ And nor does my brother. Perhaps he was picked up by another band of transporters. Are there not others like you?”
Rashid nodded in concession. “Yes. You are right. It is possible.” Quatre scowled. The heat was making him irritable. “In any case, we’re heading out,” the head of the Maganacs announced. “We’ll be heading towards one of the bigger settlements. You’re welcome to come along. You might be able to find something out when we get there.”
Quatre nodded and thanked him though he was annoyed with the other man’s pessimistic attitude. If something had happened to Trowa, Quatre would have known, would have felt it in his bones. Quatre shook off any doubt and resolved himself to finding his brother as soon as possible.
Rashid had left him a change of clothing which consisted of a light cloth robe, head wrap turban, and wraparound scarf to cover his face. He stepped out of the tent and surveyed his surroundings. He gulped down a choke of apprehension when he saw nothing but sand as far as the eye could see. A man could easily lose his way; it was a wonder that any sort of civilization could exist in such an environment. He was lucky to have been found, he realized, and thanked what stars he was born under for their guidance and blessings.
Just as he finished bundling up the tent he had been allowed to sleep in, a line of camels to his right began stamping and pulling on their ropes in synchronized distress. Suddenly, a loud grumble came thundering over the sand hills. There was a tense moment as everyone froze in their steps. Heads turned to look just in time as a dark, hulking form burst through the cap of a nearby sand dune, shooting sand into the sky with its eruption.
One of the men shouted, “It’s a prowler!” and immediately, everyone began to scatter.
Another growl pierced the air as a spot of darkness came slithering down the slope. It crawled closer and closer and Quatre was able to see that the creature was a tar-black mass formed into the shape of a short, bulky serpent. There were long hairs along its back that promised to be sharp and deadly, as well as short bristles down on its belly which allowed the beast to swim across the surface of the sand. Its head was a blunt end of a stout, snake-like body, nothing more. It had no discernable eye or mouth and yet somehow it growled ferociously as it prowled closer.
A vanguard of men ventured forth to slow the predator down. A bevy of arrows shot from hastily armed crossbows bounced harmlessly off the armor of spiky hairs. The creature came ever closer, sending sand flying in violent waves as it headed towards their camp. A barricade of fire barrels was easily upturned and defeated when the prowler simply dove back into the sand and passed under it.
Rashid was ordering his men into formation, trying to organize an attack, his men armed with long spears and more crossbows. The spears and arrows hit their marks on occasion, but even so, they caused little pain for the massive creature.
Feeling the adrenaline pumping in his veins, Quatre hurried towards the front lines, shouting for a bow. Rashid was shouting for another wave of arrows when a suitable weapon was thrust upon the young prince, but Quatre held his fire. “I have an idea,” Quatre volunteered.
Following the blonde newcomer’s instructions, they lit another barrel aflame and this time it was launched through the air, landing just in front of the creature, giving it less time to evade. Instead of digging into the sand, the prowler reared up and rolled over, revealing a softer underbelly as well as its eyes and mouth. In that instant, Quatre shot his crossbow. The arrow flew straight and true drawing to the beast like iron to a magnet, stabbing solidly into its eye. A second arrow lodged just under the mouth, piercing what may have been its throat.
The creature writhed in pain, rasping loudly and rolling about as it tried unsuccessfully to dislodge the arrows. In thrashing, it landed atop the ignited barrel, the flames quickly scorching its belly forcing it to rear up away from the fire. The Maganacs were quick to take advantage of the prowler’s now vulnerable state and launched their spears and bows, finally bringing the creature to a stop as it flopped unceremoniously to the ground. They watched as it lay there twitching its death throes in the sand before breaking out in unanimous celebration at their victory.
Rashid came over and clapped Quatre on the back. “You saved my camp. I thank you,” the big man said honestly.
The prince sagged to his knees in the sand, smiling up at the man. He had not yet fully recovered from his time out at sea and now after the excitement and with the sun beating down on him, the fatigue was taking over. “I’m glad I was able to help.”
“That was quick thinking!” one of the men shouted. “And good shooting,” said another as some of the men moved to make sure the beast was dead and to salvage what they could of the spears and arrows.
“Pack up!” Rashid ordered, then turned to the group huddled around the carcass, “Hey! Cut it out! Trust me, we can’t eat it! Let’s get out of here as soon as possible; that thing’s already starting to stink.”
But as the last of the tents were coming down and the carts were being tied up, one of the men on watch started shouting and screaming from atop the dune crests. “Sandstorm!” he cried as he slid down the side of the slope to rejoin the group. “Sandstorm coming up from the east!” he shouted, and with those words he sent the camp back into a state of panic.
“Latch everything together!” Rashid bellowed. “Make sure the cargo is secure!”
“What’s going on?” Quatre asked.
“Sandstorm,” Rashid answered as if the prince had not gathered as much already. “Here,” he said tossing him a pair of goggles. “Put those on. Make sure your scarf is secure tight over your mouth, nose and ears. Like this,” he said, demonstrating.
Quatre did as he was told and wrapped himself up as best he could, noticing that the wind had picked up and that sand was beginning to fly every which way. He felt something creeping towards them over his shoulder but could not force himself to turn around and acknowledge it. Instead, he followed Rashid as he hustled everyone into a group, camels lining the outer edge of the circle. The wind was blowing furiously over the dunes, whistling angrily in warning. The geography around them was shifting dangerously as dunes dwindled to join with the storm at their backs. With the cargo efficiently lashed together, the men knelt down to take their positions by the camels, pressing their covered faces into the camel flanks for added protection. Rashid shoved him down and told him: “Do not let go! Whatever you do, do not let go!”
Kneeling down in the sand with his arms twisted around the rope keeping him firmly attached to the rest of the group, Quatre felt his muscles aching and his heart pounding from the rush of adrenaline and a touch of fear. His curiosity finally got the better of him and as the storm finally approached, he dared to raise his face to the oncoming threat.
Before him, he could see a giant wave of sand that came rolling towards them, eating everything between them and it, turning the sky into a flying desert. Sand obscured the sun and made the form of the dunes around them shift and blur until he couldn’t distinguish land from sky. Soon, sand was everywhere, successfully infiltrating every crack and crevice there was to fill.
Quatre quickly found himself surrounded by the projectile grains, unable to hear anything but nature’s howling, and just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, he felt the sand sliding away underneath him. Already drained from the prowler escapade moments earlier, it became more and more taxing to hang on to the lifeline that was the camel beside him. Despite the protection Rashid had provided him, sand was seeping into his clothes and scraping against his face.
Carefully, he moved to adjust his goggles and pull his cloth mask tighter around his face. In that instant, the ground beneath him fell away so unexpectedly that he tumbled with it as the rope was ripped from his hands. Sliding with the sand, he eventually came to a rest. He had lost his sense of direction as well as his connection to the rest of the group. He attempted to shout out but regretted doing so as, despite his protective covering, his mouth was instantly filled with sand and his cries were easily swallowed by the wind.
On his side, choking and gasping for breath, sinking and on his way to being buried alive by the storm, Quatre closed his eyes as tight as possible and lay still, hands over his mouth trying to filter the sand so he could breathe better. For long moments, he lay there trying to slow his heart and concentrate his breathing, but fear, fear of dying alone in a strange land so far from his family, was causing him to panic. From shipwreck to sandstorm; he couldn’t help but bemoan his fate. Then, once again, he heard a strange song fill his ears.
The song was thin and soft, but the notes were pure and steady. Quatre remembered this gentle voice that had saved him before. The melody threaded through the sand, as if weaving between strands of wind to calm and tame the fury of the storm. And suddenly, the blanket of sand, wind, and voice finally came down abruptly like a giant quilt had been thrown over them. Dust and sand settled quietly as it dropped harmlessly back down to the ground and the storm dissipated as quickly as it had come.
Slowly, the sky and the desert separated. Quatre looked up and blinked grains of sands out of his eyes. Coming to his senses, he quickly sat up and craned his head left and right in search of his savior, the owner of that mysterious voice. He was surprised to find that he was only a short distance away from the rest of the Maganacs, but his eyes could see no other strangers.
The landscape around them had completely changed. Dunes had shifted in minutes, forced to dwindle and grow by the strength of the storm. Pulling himself out of the sand, he pushed to his feet tiredly, brushing dust from his clothes and hair. He looked over at the transporters only to find them staring back at him in happy disbelief.
“We heard it,” Rashid said as he approached the blond foreigner. “The song of the sands!” Quatre’s puzzled face prompted the Maganac leader to pat him heartily on the back and laugh, “Your sprite has saved the day again!”
The fourth prince shook his head trying to protest, but Rashid would have none of it. The other members had gathered around the blond man, teasing him, congratulating him, thanking him, and slapping him on the back.
“Only a sand sprite can put down a sand storm,” one of the group members informed him. “Tell me, is she a pretty one? Does she sing for you?”
Rashid laughed and pulled Quatre out of the huddle to walk with him. “Whatever it is, you’re a lucky soul to have been blessed with a sprite’s protection. Come, you’ll sit by me at the front of the line!”
Too tired to object, Quatre followed the big man, but not without looking over his shoulder one last time.
* * *
With her hands pressed to her heart, Catherine ducked back into the silhouette of the sand dune she was hiding behind. A wide smile adorned her face and she could feel her pulse swelling in joy. She had found her golden stranger just in time!
Happy with her accomplishment, she sank to her knees, chin to her chest breathing deeply. Taming a desert storm was a work of strong magic. Her song had left her depleted of magic and quite exhausted. Her bones felt dry and hollow. She lay back into the sand and closed her eyes. She could spare a few more moments to rest and regain her strength before she had to head back to the palace.
Her eyes, closed to sight, saw the figure of a handsomely exotic man bathed in the glow of the sun, and she could not help but sigh and smile. He had been so dashing and brave facing the prowler! That morning, she had set out telling herself she was only going to check on him one last time. But seeing him again: awake and so heroic… She knew that tomorrow she would be following after him.
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