Dawn arrived without any warmth. The cold still clung to Erian's skin as if the night refused to release him. But what drained him most was not the cold, but the thirst.
Erian felt his tongue turn rough, his lips cracked, split into fine lines that opened and burned with the slightest movement.
He could not remember the last time he had drunk water. Even the act of swallowing had become a futile and painful effort. There was nothing left to moisten his throat.
He pressed his hand against the ground. Beneath the skin of his palm, the earth was hard as stone. There was no trace of moisture, not even a breath that might announce the nearness of a stream. The air itself smelled of dust.
Erian rose slowly, moving as sluggish as a branch swayed by the wind. The simple act of standing made him feel as though the earth shifted beneath him. He had to brace himself on one knee to keep from falling again.
When he began to move forward, he did so dragging his feet. He had to extend his hands ahead, groping through the empty space, as if the ground might vanish at any moment.
His strength failed him from time to time. When that happened, he let himself drop to his knees and continued like that, crawling just enough to regain balance.
He felt his wounds tighten with each movement. The skin stretched around the scabs, and some split open, releasing sharp stabs of pain. Every time he tried to straighten too much, the ache in his ribs made it hard to breathe, as if something pressed against his chest.
It didn't matter how much time passed. The only thing Erian could do was drag himself forward, keeping his mouth shut to preserve the last trace of moisture within and enduring the constant burn in his throat.
He didn't know if minutes or hours had gone by since he had begun walking.
When he stumbled upon a cluster of dry trees, he stopped. Erian reached out and touched the rough wood, with cracks that sank into the bark like cuts. That was enough to let himself collapse beside one. He leaned against it, feeling the uneven surface scrape his back through his clothes. He didn't care. Exhaustion weighed heavier than any discomfort. He closed his eyes and let his body surrender to rest without resistance.
He didn't know how long he remained asleep. What woke him was a cold, damp sensation at his side. For an instant, he couldn't understand what it was, until instinctively he brought his hand to the fabric of his garment. It was soaked. Clumsily, he brought it to his lips and sucked at it desperately.
It was water.
Fresh water.
An involuntary moan escaped him as the liquid spread across his tongue and softened, if only slightly, his parched throat. The relief was so intense it hurt. He drew out as much as he could from the fabric until nothing remained but a faint, lukewarm taste.
Then he froze, confused. He didn't remember hearing rain, nor had he felt drops fall on his skin. Yet there was the dampness. Perhaps it was dew that had gathered on the cloth while he slept.
The water eased his thirst only a little. It brought some clarity to his thoughts, but not enough to quench him.
He was still just as weak. His legs felt leaden, and his chest burned every time he tried to draw breath. He felt each heartbeat tearing away what little strength he still had.
He sat for a long while, breathing slowly, the cloth still between his fingers. He knew the water wouldn't be enough to keep him on his feet much longer.
He could not stay there.
The morning cold was fading, and in its place came a dry, scorching heat that would soon absorb what little moisture he had gained.
Erian gripped the trunk with one hand and pushed himself up with the other. A sharp pain pierced his ribs, and he clenched his teeth to stifle a cry.
The ground was uneven, scattered with loose stones and riddled with cracks. He probed it with his feet as he went, testing each step to keep from falling.
He sensed no trace of water, no signs of animals. The air was empty of scents that might reveal another presence. Only silence, broken by the rustle of his clothes and the ragged sound of his breathing.
As he continued, the terrain seemed to repeat endlessly. Dry earth, dead branches crunching underfoot, rocks rough and brittle to the touch.
At some point, his steps grew unsteady. He raised a hand to his forehead and felt his skin burning. Perhaps fever. Perhaps the sun, already climbing, was draining what little resistance he had left.
He forced himself to go on, though each movement was slower than the last. His rhythm never changed: crawl a little, pause to catch his breath, feel the pounding in his temples, then try again.
At times he thought he heard something, a scrape, a snap, a faint tap against the stones, but when he held still to be sure, all he found was silence.
In the end, his knees gave out. He collapsed to the ground, palms first, and a metallic taste filled his mouth. He coughed and spat, feeling a thread of blood slip into the dust.
With effort, he dragged himself to a low rock and leaned his back against it. He kept his eyes closed and let the faint coolness of partial shade wash over his face.
He knew that if he stayed still too long, his body would surrender to sleep and perhaps never wake again.
Then he sensed a change in the air. A faint tingling on his skin, a weak breeze carrying with it a different scent, fresher. Barely noticeable, but enough to make him lift his head.
He sharpened his hearing. At first, only silence, broken by the pounding of his own breath. Then, between pauses, he thought he caught a distant murmur, uneven, like a soft rubbing that came and went.
He stayed motionless, holding his breath to listen better. The sound was not like wind, nor the crack of dry branches. It was different, an intermittent flow that seemed to move over stones.
Perhaps it was a trick of his exhausted mind, a phantom born of weariness. Or perhaps, somewhere beyond the rocks and the dust, there really was water.
There's only one way to know, he thought.
And he forced himself to rise once more.