/yes, it's another take on the Prince's reaction to Elika's sacrifice. Frankly, I love these scenes. They have a lot of potential.

Also, it's been forever since I wrote a despair fic.


The Dry Ocean


I sat there for a long time, slumped into a hollow in the wall to avoid the harsh morning sunlight. Sand blew faintly across the large stone platform, though none landed on the stone pedestal that held her lifeless body.

I was really just marking minutes. Eventually, I would get up, find my way out of the massive caldera, and trek across the desert back to civilization. I'd probably go back to grave robbing. There's a lot to find, out in the desert sand.


When I was with Elika, for the first time in my illustrious career, I'd forgotten about the ever-present sand. Now the sand of these past few days is making itself known, with a vengeance.

There's sand everywhere. In my hair. In my scarves. In my gloves. My boots. My pants. My vest. My belt-pouch.

I've made my life out of sand, and it permeates everything about me. Even my face, my personality, are as shifty as the dunes.

I'm sick of sand. But I'm sure the wind says that, in words no-one hears. Us of the desert don't make a habit of being easily understood.

I stood up, not bothering to brush the sand from my body. It wouldn't work anyway.

I walked slowly over to the pedestal, where she lay. My fists are clenched.

"Was it worth it?" I finally manage. My voice is cracking. "You had to do this? I hope you're happy!"

I'm almost screaming, almost crying. "You had no goddamn idea, did you. You couldn't have known."

A grain of sand finds its way down my throat, and I cough. "That's just it. You gave me more than just a life of sand. Then you took it away again." I finally break down, and a tear falls from my eye. "And now, all that either of us have is an eternity of nothing but the dead, dry ocean."

I brush away the grains which have crept across the pedestal. A futile gesture, but there is no more I can do, no matter how important she was.

I straighten and walk down the steps. Presently, I reach the edge of the caldera. The cliffs are a challenge, but hardly impossible.

I stand on the cliff and look back, once. The colossal tree is dying. The wind has picked up. In mere days, the temple will be little more than a tall dune.

After a while, the sand had visibly covered the pedestal, even from my far-off vantage point, and the other tear fell from my eye.

I stood, turned and began walking. I leave dusty footprints in the dunes.

And then, the dry ocean heaves and swells, and its grainy waves crest: and the footprints are gone. Nothing remains of the dusty traveller, the prince of the desert: for from the sand he came, and now, to the sand he has returned.


/ yep, angsty prince. Sorry. Anyway, I think I did well here - if you disagree, review!