The Figure
The setting sun sank low on the horizon, its dying light casting an angry red glow across the desolate expanse. Dusty orange dunes rolled as far as the eye could see, their coarse sands shifting in the cold breeze like the surface of some foreign world.
Jagged rocks jutted from the peaks of drifts, their flinty edges worn smooth by centuries of abrasion. Some had split and crumbled under the repeated blasts of heat, leaving jagged silhouettes like the bones of long-dead beasts scattered across a graveyard plain. Not a trace of vegetation could be seen - this land had long since been scoured of life by the unforgiving elements.
As nightfall approached, shadows stretched eerily across the dunes. Pale sands turned dusky lavender in the waning light, before fading swiftly to an ominous charcoal grey. The rocks blended into the twilight, becoming vague geometric shapes tilting at odd angles. An unnatural stillness fell over the desert as the last glimmers of sunset were swallowed by the encroaching dark. No birds called out their evening songs, no insects rose to dance in the moonlight - only the rare, lonely howl of the wind pierced the heavy silence. Just as the arid lands melted into a sea of shadows, a strange rumbling arose from one of the shadowy dunes. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, swarms of grains cascaded down the leeward slope in a quiet avalanche. Two withered hands emerged, grasping desperately at the crumbling surface as the figure beneath fought its way free of the entombing sands.
With a swift heave and grunt of exertion, the wanderer pulled himself clear, collapsing onto his back to gasp for breath in the thin night air. Though emaciated by his long hibernation under the dunes, a strength beyond his stature belied his frame. As he lay panting, the last remnants of daylight caught upon a vivid scar traversing half his neck - a badge of past battles well fought.
When at last he rose unsteadily, the desert winds had scoured him nearly clean. Where others saw only a ragged vagrant, I beheld a warrior of past renown, his glory obscured but never erased. Though time and turmoil had reduced his armor to tatters and his proud standard lay abandoned in fields long forgotten, the fire that once rallied nations still flickered in weathered eyes. What fate had driven such a champion into exile beneath the shifting sands, his slumber undisturbed until stirred by powers beyond even his foretelling? The desert night concealed its mysteries, as the sands do of histories buried deep within their shroud.
Stiffly, the figure dug amongst the sands until finding his hidden waterskin, still miraculously full despite the passage of who knew how many moons. After quenching his parched throat, he turned his haggard steps towards the south, driven only by survival's primal calling in his weakened state. Each footfall across the great wastes caused agony to limbs long still. Still he pressed on, shadows of past battles rising unbidden with each protesting step. The sands consumed the hours in an endless march, granting only solace in lost reverie beneath the stars' watch. Exhaustion's threat could no longer be denied when darkness grew deepest. Still, ragged senses strained fruitlessly for threats where once had strode heroes among the dunes. Though now a shell of past strength, that indomitable will to endure yet flickered within his gaze like a fading spark.
By night's end, unsteadiness had seized limbs drawn taut as weathered skin. Yet beneath weariness' veil, I glimpsed a haunted soul seeking at last the long-denied solace of surrender, if fate would but grant this battered spirit surcease from ghosts amid the dunes. No legend walked here, but a man.
As dawn's rose light wavered across the dunes, the figure sank to his knees, fingers clawing weakly in the grains. From within his tattered robes he withdrew a sliver of jagged stone, carving arcane marks that steamed in the cool morning air. A grimace twisted his parched lips as the shard bit into weathered flesh. Three drops of blood fell, and where each struck the runes, the sands abruptly gave way. Without cry or struggle the pit engulfed him, living grains pouring within to seal over his collapsing form. The shifting sands now yielded no trace. All signs appeared erased of the soul that had stirred these ancient wastes at dawn's first light. Yet in lands writ with such strangeness, more remained unseen than what meets the eye. The desert holds fast its secrets until the fitting hour alone.