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His other son, Jamethon, you would guess is a older teen by his youthful features. You would be wrong. There was twinge of guilt to his son's words. "The desert is vast. It wasn't my idea to build his monument in a desert."
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"It's where he died, he didn't have a choice." It was a low blow and it left a sense of unease in the air.
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"Father, the desert is haunted and wraiths stalk the burial mounds. Do you wish for me to join my brother?"
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There is a sigh from the old man before an uncomfortable silence. His face is illuminated by the fire light. There is long pause with the uncomfortable silence stretching on. Finally he spoke, "I don't want to loose you too. I've already lost one son."
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"I'm not going to leave you father," his son says. The guilt in his voice is gone. Now the boy's voice is low and sad. "I will make the journey."
"Thanks son," he says and then adds, "In the desert the ghosts of the forgotten dead howl in anguish. Stay true to the roads, do not dally or wander from them. Stay away from the burial mounds."
//
The teen from before is now an old man with a tangled mess of deep brunette hair that is covered in sand. He is starring up at a unfathomably blue sky. He couldn't tell if being with his father was a dream. Why else would he be in the desert. Yet, he remember being a teen. Looking at his weathered leathery hands that couldn't be true. There was no reason why he was in the desert that he could remember. He must have come to rest a flower on his brother's grave.
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Without warning the sand swirls around him and in engulfs him until he can no longer see. The sand vanishes in a cloud just as quickly as it came. The world was bright and vibrant. Two armies stood now opposed, banners dancing in the breeze, horns blaring. He had always wondered why the ancient armies had chosen to fight in such a lonely and forgotten place. Warriors in armor of gold and black trim, clash with soldiers dressed in leather that looks more like robes with layered plates of clay. The entire fight seems surreal. The soldiers had an unnatural intangible look, like ghosts.
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They didn't disturb the sand or leave footprints. Lizards scurry past them without any concern. Soldiers fell to the ground from wounds and their bodies vanish before hitting the ground. The gold and black army is lead by an old man with brunette hair and dressed in ceremonial plate armor adorned with gold foxes, bears, and wolves. His skin is deeply tan from the harsh desert sun. His face is pitted, weathered and sagging with a wide brow over shadowing his sunken narrow eyes. The battle concludes and the ghosts dissolve.
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But to answer his question, the leader appears again. This man's armor is burgundy with red and gold trim. A feather crested helm and the unique design of his armor signifies that he was a general in Ahkivir army. The general is inside a large tent with one of his advisor; a tall man with long thick hair. The general's words are faint as they drift across the wind, "Why did I choose to fight here? I don't believe in that supernatural nonsense. The enemy wouldn't be expecting an attack from across the desert."
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The ghost seems to be skipping scenes from its life. He still was in his tent, but now looking over a note brought by a courier. Upon reading the letter turns his calm expression into one of pure panic.
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"... What the hell are they doing?! They've marched across the desert too? Impossible. We have no time to form up, muster the men. The threat in the east must be stopped."
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The mirage of the brunette hair general melts away. Dazed and disorientated, Jamethon stares into the desert absent of bearings or landmarks. The images have been mesmerizing; causing the world to feel far away and distant. His brother's tomb seems impossibly far away and he is lost now. There were no signs of the road and he had no idea how far away he had walked. The first rule his father had told him and the most important; he had broken. He strayed from the road.
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But now it was hard to tell what was real anymore. The mirages seem real and reality had a surreal feeling. He felt like he was slowing sinking into something; a weightless eternity. The phantasm had seen to that. Picking a random direction, he pushes onward deeper into the desert. His father would always say history came alive and in these twisting sands, it came alive literally.
