[Persia] Journey to the Ruins

[trnc]

      The bar, packed with more patrons than he could count, seemed to swell around him. Serhan resisted the urge to duck into himself and cover his ears, the loud thrum of nonsensical chatter putting every bit of him on edge. He hated all the noise, hated the way that every once in a while a different booming laugh would break through the cacophony of talking and make him flinch.

      His ears hurt and there was an unpleasant vibration in his chest from the press of noise around him, a vibration that at times made it hard to breathe. Thinking felt almost impossible, because every time he followed a train of thought it would scatter like sand in the wind when a loud noise broke through his concentration. He would have hummed to himself to calm his nerves, only he couldn’t hear himself and that only made things worse.

      Yet, to his credit, he did not show this. He took every bit of anxiety he felt, every ounce of discomfort and unease that went through him, and locked it all away. Though he wanted to shy away from all the noise and go into a dark, quiet corner he instead pushed it all away. The noise could not touch him. In fact, with enough concentration, it became only background noise and Serhan became a distant, floating child in this sea of strangers.

      He imagined the sound of his breathing, picture in his mind the slight intake and exhale that accompanied every breath he had. If he focused solely on himself, focused only on the things that concerned him, then this place and these people could not reach him. By pretending he was the only one in the room and no one around could see or hear or touch him, by pretending he didn’t exist, Serhan could find a sense of calmness.

      Only when he felt invisible to all eyes did Serhan move across the room. He picked his way through the crowd, mindful not to touch anyone—made a game of it, even, to see how long he could go without so much as brushing against the clothing of another. It took him what felt like an eternity to wade his way through the crowd, but he reached the actual bar of the place without incident just in time to catch a peculiar figure.

      It was the scarf that made him stand out. In this room filled with neutral colors, where faces and clothing and all else blended in together, the red and white of the man’s scarf stood out like a flag on the battlefield. There had always been significance to the pairing of red and white. Serhan wondered if this man realized that and wore those colors for that significance, or if he chose them just because he liked them.

      Not that Serhan would be asking him anytime soon. As he watched the man consider the bulletin board and reach up to pin something to it, he realized that it would be too awkward to approach him about his scarf of all things. What would he say about it even if he did go to him? It seemed impossible to explain just why he liked those colors, the importance they held to him, when he didn’t even understand them himself.

      Serhan shook his head, pushing the thought to the side as he waited for the man to leave the board. Though prone to many strange thoughts, that one had been particularly strange. Significance to red and white? Had she been alive, his mother would have teased him for letting his head get caught up in the clouds again. Really, some of the things he—oh. The man was leaving.

      With a blink, Serhan watched the man start toward the door. He waited only until he was steps away before he headed to the bulletin board.

       ‘Seeking adventure? Or death? See you at the Babylonian Ruins. Ta ta~’

      Adventure…?

      Death…?

      Contrary to what the post suggested, Serhan did not seek either one of these things. What he did seek, however, was his father, a father he had no way of finding without a little bit of help. Serhan wasn’t so naïve as to think that this strange man could help him find that missing piece of his family. The chances of the two knowing one another were slim bordering on nonexistent.

      Still…

      Maybe this was his ticket to finding his father. If he went on this adventure and came back alive, people might be impressed by his accomplishments especially since he was so young and not what they would expect to survive something dangerous. Then, if he went on another one of these adventures and another one until he built up a bit of a reputation, maybe he wouldn’t have to keep traveling in search of his father.

      Maybe, if he got his name out there far enough, his father would get curious enough about this kid who shared his last name and come to find him.

      It was worth a shot at the very least. Serhan had been traveling a year or so now and had nothing to show for all of his journeying. Whereas most people would have found clues as to where his father was hiding, he didn’t even have so much as a scrap of information. To be honest, he still didn’t even know where to begin asking and since he hadn’t heard anything in his travels, well…

      Serhan hurried out the door of the bar and scanned the crowd for a flash of red and white. Once he spotted the man, he scurried after him, mindful to keep back a meter or so in order to avoid drawing too much attention to himself.

[cyrusandthedragon]

Cyrus pulled his kaftan closed and readjusted the scarf around his face as he let the bar. He wasn't exactly sure why he decided to post the note, much less actually go on the adventure. He knew he needed to get out. The town was suffocating him. Stifling, like his scarf was wrapped too tightly around his neck and was slowly but surely pulling tighter until he couldn't breath at all.

It wasn't the exact town where everything had happened, but that didn't matter much. The same sort of things happened there,to other people and maybe, since he had been there, he could see it more clearly than most, but it was everywhere. Women hanging off the arms of men, secret deals in alleyways. It was inescapable. Cyrus ached to help them. To reach out and give a guiding hand where he had needed one so badly but none were granted. He couldn't though, couldn't reach out with out risking their lives, and his life and the freedom he had just barely acquired after so many years of fighting.

He tore his gaze away from a young boy, probably not more than fourteen years of age being dragged around by an older man who was with out a doubt selling the boy to someone. Cyrus had preparations to make after all. He was leaving, journeying into the desert and he wasn't sure when or if he'd even have the opportunity to return if he wanted to. He passed a merchant on the side of the coblestone road and then doubled back, changing his mind. He reached deep into a pocket in his kaftan and pulled out his coin purse.

“Fourteen days rations, please,” he requested, voice hoarse from a lack of use. He didn't have anyone to talk to anyway. With his huge parcel of food rations, he moved on away from the merchant. He wasn't so much of an idiot to attempt to cross the desert on foot, and so his next step was to find a man selling Arabians. It could have been a tough decision between a camel or a horse. Both worked well in the desert, camels were slow though and Cyrus was an impatient man. He didn't spend too much of his precious time deciding.

He found a stable quickly. The Persian had been in town for only a few days, but he knew where everything was. He had a knack for navigation and directions and remembered where everything was. The horse he purchased was expensive but a beauty, nearly seventeen hands high with a white gray coat and a bloody shoulder. Tack came with, and he immediately set about to load the saddle.

Cyrus paused for a moment. He could have sworn he saw a small figure dart around a bale of hay. He could hear the shuffling of feet, the intake of breath. But maybe he just imagined it. So he turned back to the horse, attaching the rations to the saddle. All he needed to do was collect his things and acquire water, a necessity for any journey, but for a desert one especially. He moved on, leading the horse toward the inn that he had been staying in to collect his things. He traveled well and traveled light, but he didn't have much of his own anyway. It was a short walk, relatively at least considering the great expanse of sand that would lay before him in a matter of moments. He secured the few personal items he possessed to the saddle and filled a few of his water skins before mounting.

He wasn't upset to leave the place that had become both a reminder and a refuge from his past. Cyrus had been traveling all his life, with his father, with out. It was comforting really, never having to lay down roots, never bothering to make friends. He had no obligations, nothing to worry about but himself and his horse. Pausing to consider, he decided to make one last stop before he left. He knew where he was headed, in general at least. There was a set of ruins that held a lot of potential, for artifacts, jewels maybe. But he didn't know the exact location, he had never been before. So one last stop, a mapmaker's shop. He grimaced at the thought.