Hemlia

Rafhaar of Nahavir

It had been seven days since Rafhaar's lips had tasted food.

Born and raised in the sands of the Nahavir desert, he was skilled in hunting and foraging. Yet, despite the unforgiving nature of those arid dunes, he had found more success hunting on horseback there than amidst the relentless snowstorms of Ifunmir.

Desperate to stave off starvation, Rafhaar had resorted to digging through the snow in search of worms. But the frozen ground, buried beneath a thick layer of ice, defied his efforts. Even his scimitar proved futile against the unyielding frost.

Surviving on handfuls of snow, he trudged forward, chewing the icy sustenance until it melted on his tongue. Agonizing pain shot through his teeth, and numbness crept over his mouth as he gnawed on the freezing crystals. He fought back tears, finding solace only in the thought of wrapping his mouth with the thick fox scarf snug around his neck.

Though he had stocked up on warm clothes in Skinyörd, the bone-chilling cold seemed to seep through every layer. The furs he wore might have saved his body from frostbite, but they offered no respite from the grip of sorrow and regret.

Winter in the northeast was said to be harsh, but nothing had prepared him for this horror. If he had imagined the extent of this ordeal, he would have never left the warmth of his comfortable home.

Oh, how he yearned for the embrace of his home--its lavish rugs and loose silk garments. The taste of fruits with tough exteriors, revealing soft, juicy insides lingered on his palate. He could almost savor his mother's cooking as vividly as he felt the frozen snot in his nostrils.

Roasted lamb, accompanied by warm bread and a minty sauce--what he wouldn't give for a single bite now. One last glimpse of his mother's loving smile, one last taste of her nourishment.

And yet, he would perish in this mountain, far from all those wonderful memories.

He had longed to behold Omokraph, the god frozen upon the mountainside, and to offer prayers for strength and courage. Strength to traverse the world and etch his name in history, like the heroes of old. The courage to wield his scimitar with justice and embrace the responsibilities of a sworn knight, akin to those portrayed in the books he had purchased from the Cortagan merchant all those years ago.

Thirteen silver coins he had paid for those books. Those stories had turned into lifelong dreams, but now seemed to have sealed his fate.

Rafhaar of Nahavir sank to his knees, his weary body finding respite for a fleeting moment. As he gazed into the fog, contemplating whether steel would be a kinder end, his thoughts grew hazy. The numbing mist momentarily lifted, allowing the sun's rays to pierce through. And there, in that warm glow, a figure appeared--shrouded in its own shadow, more memory than flesh, more dream than real.

"Mother." he struggled to call out, his voice dissipating before reaching his own ears.

The figure turned, its gaze meeting Rafhaar's. In that final, fleeting moment, his vision blurred once more, and Rafhaar closed his eyes, surrendering to the eternal embrace of the snow.