Here's mine. :sun

[hider=Homeward Bound]The dune loomed up ahead. Akamon stopped to look at it, and when he made to keep moving he stopped and looked again. It was two-faced, one side cast in shadow and one side blazing in the afternoon sun, ochre against burnished gold. It did not even look like it was made of sand from where he was standing, and he thought it looked rather like a meandering river instead, just one that was windswept instead of water-carved, and it occurred to him again just how much the desert was like the ocean too. And then he thought it was even more like the clouds, for it moved so slowly that he could not see it change its shape and yet it was different time he looked. An ocean impervious to time, moving to its own inestimable pace. “Akatosh is barely here,” Akamon thought out loud, and he looked behind him at the trail that his feet had left in the sand, and saw that the wind was already working to erase the unevenness of his presence from the landscape. Soon it would be like he was never there. “He must be busy elsewhere.”

Following the snake-winding-path of the dune’s crest, Akamon plodded up the sand-mountain and beads of sweat soon trickled down his brow from the exertion. It would be far less tiresome to go around the dune, for it was one of the greatest dunes that Akamon had yet seen, but the dune being so great and the climb being so tiresome was exactly why Akamon had to walk over it. He winced and grimaced and cursed under his breath when the sand gave way beneath his feet and he had to hold out his arms or risk falling off the dune himself, and he winced and grimaced and cursed under his breath when his body hurt and he pressed his hand against his side and willed the stabbing pain to go away. The bandages around his ribs chafed as they became wet and heavy with sweat. Halfway up the dune, Akamon stopped again and caught his breath and filled his mouth with water from his waterskin, running his tongue over his chapped lips and groaning as he gulped and gulped. The sun burned his eyes even when they were closed and caused him to see spots and he waved a hand at it as he might dismiss an annoying child. “Go away,” he added for good measure. “This is hard enough without you.” The sun only seemed to shine brighter. Akamon sighed and continued. 

His breath came in ragged bursts when he reached the top of the dune and he bent over with his hands on his knees and mouthed a prayer to all the gods he knew and spat the sand out of his mouth. Slowly the man straightened up and opened his eyes again, blinking against the fire-white expanse that stretched out in front of him, the desert at his feet like the sea at the feet of a captain at the helm -- there was that sea-metaphor again, and Akamon wondered if it was because he was thirsty, and he turned his waterskin upside down but it was empty, save for one drop that fell and evaporated as soon as it touched the sand. But he had made it to the top of the dune. There was pride in that accomplishment, and Akamon let it fill his chest and it made him forget his thirst. It was a clear day and he could see as far as the horizon and the great spoors left by the sand worms there. The tribe never went that way. 

Speak of the devil, Akamon thought, because he could hear the voices of his friends call out to him. He looked down the length of the dune and he saw them waiting there, waving and shouting. They sounded happy and Akamon grinned and waved back. He unslung the concave shield from his back and placed it on the edge of the dune and he took a deep breath and stepped on it, leaning forward with bent knees and arms out, and this way he surfed down towards his friends at great speed, carving a path in the sand behind him, and he whooped but could hardly hear himself for the wind in his ears. The slope of the dune levelled out and he lost speed until the shield came to an abrupt halt, caught on a rock, and tipped over and Akamon spilled out of it and onto the ground, which was soft and made way for him and the fall did not hurt. He rolled over onto his back and laughed at the sky. 

Amir was the first to come up to him, an easy smile on his weathered face and his hand on the pommel of the sword at his waist, robes orange and white, and Akamon saw him upside down, and the old man and his nephew chuckled together. 

Then Rusanah appeared next to Amir and she threw her head back and laughed a peal of laughter that sent butterflies through Akamon’s stomach. “They make fools in Cyrodiil,” she declared in the tone of a woman previously unsure but now convinced of the truth. She was young like Akamon was, but not Ashir’Trah and her robes were blue and black. 

“Scarce three weeks since his battle and the boy is sliding down dunes,” Hadima said. She was older than Rusanah and married and had five children and tutted in the way only a mother could. “If you reopened your wounds Rusanah can patch you up, I’m not doing it again.” But Akamon could hear from her tone that she did not mean it, and the two women exchanged glances and laughed among themselves. 

Taking the arm that his uncle offered him, Akamon pulled himself back to his feet and picked up the shield and shook the sand out of it. It was everywhere now because of his fall and he shook it loose from his pants and sleeves as well. 

“Just like Rosha,” Amir said and shook his head, and Akamon’s heart fluttered and his lips smiled on their own. 

Hadima scoffed. “Rosha did not fall.” She pointed a finger at Akamon’s chest. “You have much to learn still.”

Amir shrugged, the same easy smile still on his face, his dark eyes warm and forgiving, which was comforting even when Akamon had done nothing wrong. “He’ll get there.” 

They brought him back to the place where the Ashir’Trah had made camp. It was one of the many oases that were scattered throughout the desert. The nomads moved from oasis to oasis when they did not go to the cities to trade, following the small herds of onyx and antelope that also made the Alik’r their home and provided the tribes with food and hides and bones, but they took care not to hunt too many of them because then the herds would die out and the people would die out with them. In the long shadows of the rocks and trees there was much activity: hides were being tanned, baskets were being weaved, wares were being unpacked and food was being cooked. The air was alive with the smell of spices and the sound of laughing children and the bleating of pack-mules. 

The elder was waiting for him in their usual spot, and gestured for Akamon to sit down opposite her on the threadbare rug. He sank into the crosslegged position that the tribespeople favored and placed his hands in his lap and inclined his head in the customary gesture of respect. 

“You climbed the dune?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he answered.

The elder smirked and quirked a brow. “You surfed down the dune?”

A moment’s silence followed. “Yes.”

She nodded slowly and rolled her eyes. “Your stitches held?”

“Yes,” came the final answer in triplicate. 

“Then you are well enough to travel,” she concluded and smoothed the folds of her nassau dress and the many bangles and bands around her wrists chimed softly. “You still intend to return to Cyrodiil?”

A pained expression came over Akamon’s face and he chewed on his lip and avoided her gaze and his eyes flitted through the camp, but they fell on Rusanah instead and he saw that she was watching him, and and she smiled at him, and his heart threatened to climb into his throat so he looked at his hands in his lap. “Yes,” he said softly and in his lap he saw his mother’s hands take his hands into her own. 

“You are conflicted.” It was not a question. 

Akamon looked up and inhaled a sharp breath. “I want to go home, but I don’t want to leave,” he blurted out. “I came here to learn about my father and be more like him and this is where he wanted me to be, and you have been so kind to me, and Rusanah…” He trailed off and did not finish his thought.

He did not need to. The elder laughed silently and looked at him with knowledge and Akamon felt understood. “A woman cannot keep you from going where your heart wants you to be,” she said. “Rosha knew that too. He left your mother, did he not?” 

“To come here,” Akamon said, fidgeting with the big ring that the elder had given him two days ago but that had belonged to his father. He was still getting used to having it on his finger and he wondered if his father had worn it all the time. 

She shook her head. “You misunderstand what your father really did. This place,” the elder said and gestured at the camp and at the desert beyond, “is not what matters. What matters is that he went [i]home.”[/i]

The young man thought about that for a while. Then he spoke again but with uncertainty in his voice -- uncertainty and hope. “So… you think…” 

“Rosha always knew you would go back,” the elder smiled. “I’m sure of it. You are Cyrod-born. You cannot stay here forever, in this harsh land without green and blue and snow in the winter. It is my home, our home.” 

“But not my home,” Akamon finished. His eyes found Rusanah again but she was talking to someone else now and he watched as she laughed and tucked her hair behind her ears. 

“No,” the elder said. Her eyes were warm and forgiving and Akamon was comforted, even though he now knew that he had done nothing wrong. “She gave you that amulet, yes?” and pointed at the bone-figure that hung from a thin chain around his neck. 

The youth reached for it and nodded. 

“Let Onsi guide your way home, and you will always remember.” 

Akamon nodded again. He remained where he was for a few moments longer and enjoyed the elder’s silent company and the sounds and sights of the camp and the tribe. Soon they would bring him to the edge of the desert and he would make his way home from there. This would be his last evening in the camp. He wallowed in that knowledge for a while and let it fill him and spread through his limbs like sap until all of him knew it and felt that it was right. 

Then he uncrossed his legs and got to his feet. It was time to say goodbye.[/hider]