Farukh kicked another sand dune over as he began to draw closer and closer to hydration. He was in the unforgiving Sahara desert, and it seemed like his destination was nowhere in sight. Sweat dripped down his brow as his breathing grew laborious. His tongue was dry. 

The events of the last several days had scarred him. His arm hurt, his legs were fatigued from shuffling through the sand dunes. His eyes ached from the intensity of the sun and his body begged for water. His will to live wasn’t lost, but his body threatened to give in.

He had walked for kilometers on end, for more than ten hours and had reeked of blood. The stains on his clothes reminded him of the companion that aided him in his escape. The thought of slaughtering her somewhat saddened him, but he saw it as a necessary evil. He wondered if he would still be alive had he not done it. 

He stood and surveyed the harsh landscape he was in. The endless scores of sand dunes repainted images of his father and him on the beach. Beautiful sights with sore memories… The air had a scent thick with sand, but it carried a tinge of malice. The sun mocked and scorned.

He was now approaching his limit as he began to unzip his pants and resort to base instinct to quench his thirst. Strangely, he found himself looking around to see if anyone would witness this moment, but then he was reminded that for vast stretches of land he was alone. He wished for happier thoughts and sweet Japanese sake. 

His black leather boots scorched with heat. His prospects seemed bleak and he grew desperate. The sun remained villainous, beating on him senselessly and his head started pounding from the thirst. The back of his throat had started getting coarse.

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Farukh spared a moment to look up and squinted, seeing the image of water and a tree dancing in the distance. He stumbled forward, pacing  lazily towards the water and tree in the distance. Suddenly his headache and joint aches dissipated. 

The pacing turned to running once he was sure that the oasis was real and not a deceptive work of the mind. Having lived close to the desert all his life, he understood the odd effects of a human mind deprived of water. Farukh smiled, pleased by the sight of fresh drinking water in the middle of the arid desert. 

Once at the foot of the pool he removed his khimaar, put down his backpack and leaned forward. ''Slow drinks'' he thought as he cupped his hands and drank. The pool was almost directly under the shade of a nearby tree. The scowl that was upon his face rose to a look of hopefulness as the cool water trickled down his throat, cooling and refreshing his skin and esophagus. His hands enjoyed the cool, moist touch of the water and it dripped down to his elbows. 

He splashed his face and the back of his neck. At this he felt his veins pulsate and his eyes grew big at the sensation. He walked over to the tree’s shade to rest and reflect.  

Farukh felt lucky to be alive. With his life threatened he was faced with two choices: Kill or be killed. No man, in his right mind, would choose the latter, but Farukh could turn the tables on his foe. He had a plan and did not intend to be on the run forever, but the plan needed careful strategy and planning, which would need to happen outside of the surveillance of his enemy. 

He had not lost everything yet, but he knew that if he did not fight he would.