The Fragile - Part 1
I will never forget how nighttime in Sida burned sensations into my addled brain, the way the desert sun's heat held in the stones long after it had vanished over the horizon. The night was humid, the streets filled with voices and choked with spiced aromas. I can still feel the dust that clung so stubbornly to my body; the only thing I could believe in then, the only thing solid in the confounding whirl of my life. The scents of the evening worked their way into my mind, making me numb.
The night changed things, for the sun had set in my life.
The Moonlight Market was a major event in the city. Merchants and artisans crowded the streets with their stalls, cantinas and shops burned their oil lamps late into the night, and shadows were pushed aside by the steady glimmer of the full moon. Sida was an exotic place as it was, but the Moonlight Market brought with it wonders that even a soul as jaded as mine could admire.
I was poor and destitute. I had not always been that way, but my youth made me foolish and I did not look beyond my own eyes. It was not until I met the desert that I learned what a harsh and cruel world this is. My old ambitions have long since been lost to my mind. My naivety saw me robbed, cheated and beaten. I was not prepared for the ugly truth that crouched behind the tapestry of Sida city. No one took pity on me, no kindness was ever shown to me by the people of this land; all was greed, misery and ruin. And thus, I grew bitter. What I did have, I squandered on distractions and vices. I took no pleasure in this. It felt meaningless, and simply held the illusion that my continued existence was worthwhile. I was hollow, and the world meant little to me.
But, as I have said, the night changed things. The night brought with it my salvation and my despair.
She stood upon a small wooden stage, largely ignored by the crowd. She wore simple silks the color of rubies. I am not sure why this gave me pause on this particular night. In my hazy wanderings through the market, I had passed many an exotic show meant to draw attention. Perhaps its because I felt the weight of her eyes on me. When you are used to eyes passing over you as if you do not exist, you can tell when someone has noticed you.
I paused, and for a moment our eyes met. Hers were the dark shade of the sea, and I felt I was sinking into their depths. Then she blinked, and was once again focused on her work. I watched, transfixed by this vision of beauty, bewildered as to why those sea-tossed eyes had picked me out of the crowd. Her movements were fluid and concentrated, with the grace of a dancer. But she did not dance; nay, she was a sculptor. An artisan. As she moved, sand from the streets rose around her in fluid arcs, clouds of it languidly churning in the air at her behest.
It was a wonder, a marvel. With delicate gestures, she molded the sands. She made simple shapes; she made animals; she made swirling entities that could only be the djinn of legends. I could not decide if I was more fascinated with her creations or with observing her as she crafted. Both were so delicate. It was as if the slightest flaw would shatter the illusion of elegance.
But this was no mirage. For the first time in my life, I felt I had seen true beauty.
I am not sure how long I watched, but I must have looked a fool standing there, mouth agape. When she looked at me again, she smiled - it had been so long since someone had smiled at me. I was forced to turn away, conscious of the tears that had begun to cloud my vision. I did not want her to see...
When I looked up again, she was guiding the sands into a tall jar. The show was over, and hardly anyone had paid attention to her. The look of disappointment on her face caught me, and I clapped my hands for her. Such magic deserved so much more, and it was all I could give.
She accepted it with a look of surprise, and then a smile that melted my heart. She gave a graceful bow, lifted the jar, and stepped off the stage.
"My lady!" I called, pushing through the crowd to her before she could leave. "Wait, please!"
She paused, turned back to me. Again I felt myself sinking into her eyes.
Flustered, I said "Please, when will you be back?"
"The next full moon," she said. There was a touch of sadness in her voice. "I'm afraid I did not earn much money this time around."
I felt ashamed. "Had I money, I would give it to you. All I can offer now it my gratitude."
She grinned, her white teeth flashing briefly in the moonlight. "I accept it gratefully."
And then she was gone, like a pleasant dream in the morning's sunlight.
---
The sand artisan haunted me for weeks afterward, dominating my thoughts. At first, I tried to force them away, but the vision would not leave me. I had experienced something I thought lost to me, and now I greedily wanted more. The days that lead to the full moon felt tedious, but I now had a resolve.
When the next Moonlight Market came, I had some small measure of coin in my purse. I had abandoned my vices and set about taking work where I could, so that when I found her again, spinning art from the desert's dust, I could make a donation. This is exactly what happened, and I was freshly awed by her enchantment. Every movement, every gesture she made made my heart sing. She performed great feats, mystical tricks with the sands, and still the callous world seemed to pass her off as nothing. When her performance ended, my coins were the only ones set in the bowl at her feet.
"You are very kind," she told me, returning the sands to her jar.
"You," I replied unashamedly, "are very beautiful."
I could see the happiness in her smile, and that was enough for me.
---
The moon waxed and waned, and on each full moon I would be at her stage, watching her perform. She always received as much as I could give, and each time I found I could give her more. She became the reason behind my hard work, and by the time four full moons had passed, I was no longer a poor vagabond.
Walking tall and feeling emboldened, I went to observe her that fifth market night with a plan in mind. I wanted to get to know her better, and I wanted to tell her my feelings. Perhaps I am being too fawning of myself, but as I approached her stage she looked up from her whirling sands at me and then proceeded to do the most complex feat of magic I had witnessed.
With the sands, she told a story: a caravan crossing the desert was assaulted by vicious, hyena-headed bandits. They tore the caravan to ribbons and took many prisoners, among them a young woman. The only survivor not captured, a man, followed the bandits in vain, becoming hopelessly lost in the shifting sands. Near death, he stumbled upon an oasis and drank from its waters. A djinn appeared as he did so, and to save himself from its wrath the man told it his story. The djinn took pity on him and granted him a pact. The man took his new found powers and, tracking down the bandits, slaughtered them. It was incredible to watch the hero, a tiny figure composed of grains of sands, cartwheel through the air and obliterate the hyena-men in bursts of dust.
The story did not end well, for although the man rescued the prisoners and the girl he loved, the djinn's powers consumed him and transformed him into a monster. The sand figure grew horns and everyone fled from him, leaving him alone. I looked past the story at the narrator, and her face was tight with concentration; clearly this was a test of her powers.
And even then, only a few paused in their travels to remark her work. A flicker of anger welled in me as I saw them leave without a backward glance. Could they not see the beauty I saw? Were they as foolish and blind as I always thought they were?
When at last the performance ceased, I made my usual offerings and saw that I was not the only one, for other coins lay in her bowl. This brought some small comfort in my mind, and still I knew she deserved more.
She smiled when she saw me. "You know," she said, "I see you so often here, and you always bring me some form of kindness, and yet I do not know your name."
I told her mine, and she in turn gave me hers. "I really must thank you," I told her. "You have inspired me. I used to think so little of myself, and now I have a confidence I thought I would never have again."
This seemed to puzzle her. She eyed me strangely. "How did I do that?"
"Because...Because you showed me something worthwhile. You can manipulate the sand as if it were water, and everything you do with it is as beautiful as you are. Until then..." I hesitated, unsure whether I should say what I wanted.
A hand touched my shoulder - her hand. It sent chills through me. Her touch was so gentle. Her smile was soft and caring.
"Until then?" she pressed.
I sighed. "Until then, I had nothing to aspire for. The world was a pointless place. You have brought meaning back into my life." I shook my head. "But I must apologize. My words must sound terrible to you..."
What was this? She did not recoil. Instead, I saw waves breaking her dark ocean eyes.
"Come with me," she said.
---
Her home was a modest place, a small room on the second floor of an apothecary. She was of about the same means as myself, and it both eased my worries and broke my heart to see how bare and tiny her home was.
We sat together on a low couch, so close together it made my soul reel. We ate dates and drank wine that I had purchased on the way, and we talked. She told me of her studies as a sand artisan, and how the jar of sand had been left to her by her aunt, who in turn claimed it had been given to her by a spirit. She told me how she had come to Sida as a means to improve her art, only to find that the once proud guild of sand artisans had faded away over the years.
"Sida was once the center of art and magic in Suhalla," she explained sadly. "Now it is little more than a trading post in the desert. The world seems to have little need for sand artisans anymore. Some would even see my abilities as a curse." She sighed deeply. "Sometimes I feel so useless."
"I will not hear it," I said suddenly, and I think it startled me just as much as her. "It is the people of this city that are useless. You are like a beacon: you shine in a pall of mist. It is this city that is at fault, not you."
"How is it, then," she said slowly, meeting my gaze with concern, "that only you can see it?"
A lump formed in my throat. "Can you not see it in yourself?"
She shook her head. "I am but a paltry mage. The magic I use may be beautiful, but it makes little difference. There are people...Powerful shapers of sand. I have seen with my own eyes the wonders these shapers have made. I have seen grand halls and great sculptures formed in mere seconds on the whim of the artisan. The little tricks I have cannot compare, and this is why it does not matter."
We sat in silence for a long time. Finally, I said "We could leave this place. We could go to Fountain City. Surely if there is a place of culture left in this wasteland, it is there. You can be recognized for the artist you are."
"We?"
"Yes. Both of us. I want the world to see how beautiful you are."
"But Fountain City is so far away!"
"It is not so far that we could not make it together. And surely you can find a master of the sands to teach you."
She bit her lip, doubt on her face. "Why would you do this for me?"
"Because I love you." The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
In the moments that followed, I thought my heart would stop, it was so tense. Then, slowly, the smile that I loved appeared.
"We are a lot alike," she whispered. "You said I restored your confidence. When you came and showed me your admiration and your gratitude, you did the same for me. I wanted...I wanted so badly for someone to see."
"You deserve admiration and gratitude," I answered. "From everyone."
"Right now," she said, drawing close, "you are the only one I need it from."
There were no more words spoken that night.
---
I gathered my meager belongings and the money I had saved, and she did the same. By noon the next day our wagon passed through the gates of Sida and into the emptiness of the Wastes, part of a larger caravan.
The journey was as long and difficult as we had expected, and sometimes moreso. By day the sun beat down on us relentlessly, and the winds whipped stinging grit into our eyes and into the seams of our garments. At night, it became bitingly cold, and the winds howled like a lost soul as we huddled together in our makeshift camps. Sometimes our guides warned us of sails on the horizon - a sign of the sand skiffs favored by desert brigands - and there would be tense moments of worry as the men armed themselves. I was by no means a fighter, but I kept a dagger on my person just in case.
It was on the nights of the full moon that my beloved would shape the sands. As I had done before in the market, I watched her move in her graceful way, making the sand arch and flux before her. Our fellow travelers in the caravan would often gather to watch, for unlike the folk of the city, there was nothing else to be do; this seemed to improve her spirits. We grew close to the caravan folk, for they seemed more like real people.
Each time, though, she seemed frustrated. There was something that eluded her, and I could not discern what it was. One night, after she had performed for our traveling companions and received their humble applause, I found her curled up on the sleeping mat we shared in the back of our wagon. Her expression was stony as she casually twirled a fine string of sand through the air above her finger.
"Something has been troubling you," I said, sitting down beside her. Her eyes flicked in my direction briefly, but she focused on the sands.
When she did not reply right away, I pressed her gently. "Are you not happier than you were in Sida? Here there are people that take joy from your art."
She sighed. The sand balanced just above her fingertip in the shape of a hedron. "Yes. I am happier now then I ever was in Sida. And I am happier being with you than I ever was being alone."
"Then what is it that bothers you?"
"My own shortcomings."
"My love," I said, confused, "why do you doubt yourself?"
The sand changed its shape now, into a small cube. "All I can do is delicate things." Now the sand was a ring, spinning slowly as if the cosmos rode upon them.
"You are very good at it," I offered, trying to encourage her. "Surely there is nothing wrong with delicate."
Her ocean eyes looked upon me with anger for the first time. I was taken aback. But then her gaze softened, and there was a melancholy in its place. She clenched her fist around the sand sculpture.
"I do not want to be delicate," she said. "The desert has shown me how fragile my work is. I can hear it in the wind and see it in the dunes. These things are torn down and blown away. If the art reflects the artist, then it shows that I too am as fragile as my ability."
She looked at me pleadingly, for some sort of answer I could not give. I had no connection with the desert like she did, knew nothing of the depths of emotion she had. Hers was a world I could only glimpse from the outside.
I said, "You are already stronger than you think you are; surely you should give yourself some credit. We can worry about improving your craft when we arrive in Fountain City. There is little else to be done about it now."
She nodded, and leaned in toward me, resting her head on my lap. I carefully ran my fingers through her dark hair, marveling how free it was of sand. My own hair was likely filled with it.
"I do not want to be delicate," she repeated. "The desert has no love for beauty."
I smiled. "Are you acknowledging your own loveliness?"
She laughed. "I trust your judgment." Her hands reached up and held the sides of my face. "Perhaps I will not be broken by the wastes."
I leaned in close, whispering in her ear before our lips met:
"I won't let you fall apart."
---
(Click here for Part 2)
I will never forget how nighttime in Sida burned sensations into my addled brain, the way the desert sun's heat held in the stones long after it had vanished over the horizon. The night was humid, the streets filled with voices and choked with spiced aromas. I can still feel the dust that clung so stubbornly to my body; the only thing I could believe in then, the only thing solid in the confounding whirl of my life. The scents of the evening worked their way into my mind, making me numb.
The night changed things, for the sun had set in my life.
The Moonlight Market was a major event in the city. Merchants and artisans crowded the streets with their stalls, cantinas and shops burned their oil lamps late into the night, and shadows were pushed aside by the steady glimmer of the full moon. Sida was an exotic place as it was, but the Moonlight Market brought with it wonders that even a soul as jaded as mine could admire.
I was poor and destitute. I had not always been that way, but my youth made me foolish and I did not look beyond my own eyes. It was not until I met the desert that I learned what a harsh and cruel world this is. My old ambitions have long since been lost to my mind. My naivety saw me robbed, cheated and beaten. I was not prepared for the ugly truth that crouched behind the tapestry of Sida city. No one took pity on me, no kindness was ever shown to me by the people of this land; all was greed, misery and ruin. And thus, I grew bitter. What I did have, I squandered on distractions and vices. I took no pleasure in this. It felt meaningless, and simply held the illusion that my continued existence was worthwhile. I was hollow, and the world meant little to me.
But, as I have said, the night changed things. The night brought with it my salvation and my despair.
She stood upon a small wooden stage, largely ignored by the crowd. She wore simple silks the color of rubies. I am not sure why this gave me pause on this particular night. In my hazy wanderings through the market, I had passed many an exotic show meant to draw attention. Perhaps its because I felt the weight of her eyes on me. When you are used to eyes passing over you as if you do not exist, you can tell when someone has noticed you.
I paused, and for a moment our eyes met. Hers were the dark shade of the sea, and I felt I was sinking into their depths. Then she blinked, and was once again focused on her work. I watched, transfixed by this vision of beauty, bewildered as to why those sea-tossed eyes had picked me out of the crowd. Her movements were fluid and concentrated, with the grace of a dancer. But she did not dance; nay, she was a sculptor. An artisan. As she moved, sand from the streets rose around her in fluid arcs, clouds of it languidly churning in the air at her behest.
It was a wonder, a marvel. With delicate gestures, she molded the sands. She made simple shapes; she made animals; she made swirling entities that could only be the djinn of legends. I could not decide if I was more fascinated with her creations or with observing her as she crafted. Both were so delicate. It was as if the slightest flaw would shatter the illusion of elegance.
But this was no mirage. For the first time in my life, I felt I had seen true beauty.
I am not sure how long I watched, but I must have looked a fool standing there, mouth agape. When she looked at me again, she smiled - it had been so long since someone had smiled at me. I was forced to turn away, conscious of the tears that had begun to cloud my vision. I did not want her to see...
When I looked up again, she was guiding the sands into a tall jar. The show was over, and hardly anyone had paid attention to her. The look of disappointment on her face caught me, and I clapped my hands for her. Such magic deserved so much more, and it was all I could give.
She accepted it with a look of surprise, and then a smile that melted my heart. She gave a graceful bow, lifted the jar, and stepped off the stage.
"My lady!" I called, pushing through the crowd to her before she could leave. "Wait, please!"
She paused, turned back to me. Again I felt myself sinking into her eyes.
Flustered, I said "Please, when will you be back?"
"The next full moon," she said. There was a touch of sadness in her voice. "I'm afraid I did not earn much money this time around."
I felt ashamed. "Had I money, I would give it to you. All I can offer now it my gratitude."
She grinned, her white teeth flashing briefly in the moonlight. "I accept it gratefully."
And then she was gone, like a pleasant dream in the morning's sunlight.
---
The sand artisan haunted me for weeks afterward, dominating my thoughts. At first, I tried to force them away, but the vision would not leave me. I had experienced something I thought lost to me, and now I greedily wanted more. The days that lead to the full moon felt tedious, but I now had a resolve.
When the next Moonlight Market came, I had some small measure of coin in my purse. I had abandoned my vices and set about taking work where I could, so that when I found her again, spinning art from the desert's dust, I could make a donation. This is exactly what happened, and I was freshly awed by her enchantment. Every movement, every gesture she made made my heart sing. She performed great feats, mystical tricks with the sands, and still the callous world seemed to pass her off as nothing. When her performance ended, my coins were the only ones set in the bowl at her feet.
"You are very kind," she told me, returning the sands to her jar.
"You," I replied unashamedly, "are very beautiful."
I could see the happiness in her smile, and that was enough for me.
---
The moon waxed and waned, and on each full moon I would be at her stage, watching her perform. She always received as much as I could give, and each time I found I could give her more. She became the reason behind my hard work, and by the time four full moons had passed, I was no longer a poor vagabond.
Walking tall and feeling emboldened, I went to observe her that fifth market night with a plan in mind. I wanted to get to know her better, and I wanted to tell her my feelings. Perhaps I am being too fawning of myself, but as I approached her stage she looked up from her whirling sands at me and then proceeded to do the most complex feat of magic I had witnessed.
With the sands, she told a story: a caravan crossing the desert was assaulted by vicious, hyena-headed bandits. They tore the caravan to ribbons and took many prisoners, among them a young woman. The only survivor not captured, a man, followed the bandits in vain, becoming hopelessly lost in the shifting sands. Near death, he stumbled upon an oasis and drank from its waters. A djinn appeared as he did so, and to save himself from its wrath the man told it his story. The djinn took pity on him and granted him a pact. The man took his new found powers and, tracking down the bandits, slaughtered them. It was incredible to watch the hero, a tiny figure composed of grains of sands, cartwheel through the air and obliterate the hyena-men in bursts of dust.
The story did not end well, for although the man rescued the prisoners and the girl he loved, the djinn's powers consumed him and transformed him into a monster. The sand figure grew horns and everyone fled from him, leaving him alone. I looked past the story at the narrator, and her face was tight with concentration; clearly this was a test of her powers.
And even then, only a few paused in their travels to remark her work. A flicker of anger welled in me as I saw them leave without a backward glance. Could they not see the beauty I saw? Were they as foolish and blind as I always thought they were?
When at last the performance ceased, I made my usual offerings and saw that I was not the only one, for other coins lay in her bowl. This brought some small comfort in my mind, and still I knew she deserved more.
She smiled when she saw me. "You know," she said, "I see you so often here, and you always bring me some form of kindness, and yet I do not know your name."
I told her mine, and she in turn gave me hers. "I really must thank you," I told her. "You have inspired me. I used to think so little of myself, and now I have a confidence I thought I would never have again."
This seemed to puzzle her. She eyed me strangely. "How did I do that?"
"Because...Because you showed me something worthwhile. You can manipulate the sand as if it were water, and everything you do with it is as beautiful as you are. Until then..." I hesitated, unsure whether I should say what I wanted.
A hand touched my shoulder - her hand. It sent chills through me. Her touch was so gentle. Her smile was soft and caring.
"Until then?" she pressed.
I sighed. "Until then, I had nothing to aspire for. The world was a pointless place. You have brought meaning back into my life." I shook my head. "But I must apologize. My words must sound terrible to you..."
What was this? She did not recoil. Instead, I saw waves breaking her dark ocean eyes.
"Come with me," she said.
---
Her home was a modest place, a small room on the second floor of an apothecary. She was of about the same means as myself, and it both eased my worries and broke my heart to see how bare and tiny her home was.
We sat together on a low couch, so close together it made my soul reel. We ate dates and drank wine that I had purchased on the way, and we talked. She told me of her studies as a sand artisan, and how the jar of sand had been left to her by her aunt, who in turn claimed it had been given to her by a spirit. She told me how she had come to Sida as a means to improve her art, only to find that the once proud guild of sand artisans had faded away over the years.
"Sida was once the center of art and magic in Suhalla," she explained sadly. "Now it is little more than a trading post in the desert. The world seems to have little need for sand artisans anymore. Some would even see my abilities as a curse." She sighed deeply. "Sometimes I feel so useless."
"I will not hear it," I said suddenly, and I think it startled me just as much as her. "It is the people of this city that are useless. You are like a beacon: you shine in a pall of mist. It is this city that is at fault, not you."
"How is it, then," she said slowly, meeting my gaze with concern, "that only you can see it?"
A lump formed in my throat. "Can you not see it in yourself?"
She shook her head. "I am but a paltry mage. The magic I use may be beautiful, but it makes little difference. There are people...Powerful shapers of sand. I have seen with my own eyes the wonders these shapers have made. I have seen grand halls and great sculptures formed in mere seconds on the whim of the artisan. The little tricks I have cannot compare, and this is why it does not matter."
We sat in silence for a long time. Finally, I said "We could leave this place. We could go to Fountain City. Surely if there is a place of culture left in this wasteland, it is there. You can be recognized for the artist you are."
"We?"
"Yes. Both of us. I want the world to see how beautiful you are."
"But Fountain City is so far away!"
"It is not so far that we could not make it together. And surely you can find a master of the sands to teach you."
She bit her lip, doubt on her face. "Why would you do this for me?"
"Because I love you." The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
In the moments that followed, I thought my heart would stop, it was so tense. Then, slowly, the smile that I loved appeared.
"We are a lot alike," she whispered. "You said I restored your confidence. When you came and showed me your admiration and your gratitude, you did the same for me. I wanted...I wanted so badly for someone to see."
"You deserve admiration and gratitude," I answered. "From everyone."
"Right now," she said, drawing close, "you are the only one I need it from."
There were no more words spoken that night.
---
I gathered my meager belongings and the money I had saved, and she did the same. By noon the next day our wagon passed through the gates of Sida and into the emptiness of the Wastes, part of a larger caravan.
The journey was as long and difficult as we had expected, and sometimes moreso. By day the sun beat down on us relentlessly, and the winds whipped stinging grit into our eyes and into the seams of our garments. At night, it became bitingly cold, and the winds howled like a lost soul as we huddled together in our makeshift camps. Sometimes our guides warned us of sails on the horizon - a sign of the sand skiffs favored by desert brigands - and there would be tense moments of worry as the men armed themselves. I was by no means a fighter, but I kept a dagger on my person just in case.
It was on the nights of the full moon that my beloved would shape the sands. As I had done before in the market, I watched her move in her graceful way, making the sand arch and flux before her. Our fellow travelers in the caravan would often gather to watch, for unlike the folk of the city, there was nothing else to be do; this seemed to improve her spirits. We grew close to the caravan folk, for they seemed more like real people.
Each time, though, she seemed frustrated. There was something that eluded her, and I could not discern what it was. One night, after she had performed for our traveling companions and received their humble applause, I found her curled up on the sleeping mat we shared in the back of our wagon. Her expression was stony as she casually twirled a fine string of sand through the air above her finger.
"Something has been troubling you," I said, sitting down beside her. Her eyes flicked in my direction briefly, but she focused on the sands.
When she did not reply right away, I pressed her gently. "Are you not happier than you were in Sida? Here there are people that take joy from your art."
She sighed. The sand balanced just above her fingertip in the shape of a hedron. "Yes. I am happier now then I ever was in Sida. And I am happier being with you than I ever was being alone."
"Then what is it that bothers you?"
"My own shortcomings."
"My love," I said, confused, "why do you doubt yourself?"
The sand changed its shape now, into a small cube. "All I can do is delicate things." Now the sand was a ring, spinning slowly as if the cosmos rode upon them.
"You are very good at it," I offered, trying to encourage her. "Surely there is nothing wrong with delicate."
Her ocean eyes looked upon me with anger for the first time. I was taken aback. But then her gaze softened, and there was a melancholy in its place. She clenched her fist around the sand sculpture.
"I do not want to be delicate," she said. "The desert has shown me how fragile my work is. I can hear it in the wind and see it in the dunes. These things are torn down and blown away. If the art reflects the artist, then it shows that I too am as fragile as my ability."
She looked at me pleadingly, for some sort of answer I could not give. I had no connection with the desert like she did, knew nothing of the depths of emotion she had. Hers was a world I could only glimpse from the outside.
I said, "You are already stronger than you think you are; surely you should give yourself some credit. We can worry about improving your craft when we arrive in Fountain City. There is little else to be done about it now."
She nodded, and leaned in toward me, resting her head on my lap. I carefully ran my fingers through her dark hair, marveling how free it was of sand. My own hair was likely filled with it.
"I do not want to be delicate," she repeated. "The desert has no love for beauty."
I smiled. "Are you acknowledging your own loveliness?"
She laughed. "I trust your judgment." Her hands reached up and held the sides of my face. "Perhaps I will not be broken by the wastes."
I leaned in close, whispering in her ear before our lips met:
"I won't let you fall apart."
---
(Click here for Part 2)