Inside the old log cabin, a fire burned within the hearth. An old man was staring into the fire as if lost in thought. The man had many freckles and blemishes but no scars. A wide brow over shadows his sunken narrow eyes. A thick beard hangs from his chin that is singed and covered in soot. Without turning he says, "Why won't you go lay a flower on your brothers grave?"
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His other son, Jamethon, you would guess is a older teen by his youthful feature. You would be wrong. There was twinge of guilt to his sons 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 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 boys 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 wonder from them. Stay away from the burial mounds."
//
The teen from before is now an old man with tangle 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 could 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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The sands swirled around him. Suddenly the world was bright and vibrant. Two armies stood apposed, 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, clashed with soldiers dressed in leather that look more like robes with layered plates of clay. The entire fight seemed surreal. The soldiers had unnatural intangible look, like ghost.
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They didn't disturb the sand or leave footprints. Lizards scurried past them unconcerned. When the soldier fell from injuries, they vanish before they hit the ground. The gold and black army is lead by an old man dressed in ceremonial plate armor adorned with gold foxes, bears, and wolves. His skin is deeply tan from the harsh desert son. Face pitted, weathered, and sagging. A wide brow over shadows his sunken narrow eyes. The battle concludes and the ghosts vanished.
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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 skipping scenes from it's 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 turns 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 general vanished. 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 was 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 seemed real and reality had a surreal feeling. He felt like he was slowing sinking into something, weightless eternity. The mirages had seen to that. Picking a random direction, he pushes onward deeper into the desert. His father use to say history came alive. But in the twisting sands, it came alive literally.
