“There is no idea so good that it can’t become horrible by applying it to everything.”

-Said not written, the Socks

"I won't run, not again, not even death can make me," Herschel said to a harsh world that wasn't listening.

It'd been six months since he strolled away from Zig-Zig's sewer. The time spent skulking through Zenon and the Reeptee mountains now seemed a nice sunday stroll. In particular compared to this white, flat wasteland with nothing but horizon in every direction. He'd always thought he would miss the comforts of prison life, but this went far beyond missing. Not even he, a man whose whole life was about words, had the vocabulary to describe what he felt. But he'd be happy to go back to the sewer if he could.

He took a knee, stopping himself from running to the mirage of water. Thirst, among other things, had made crossing the desert feel like a lifetime. He'd drunk the last of his rationed water days ago. Since then, the desert had started robbing him of his only valued possession. His mind.

"At least I haven't seen that black tower for a while," he croaked.

And to be fair, without help we would've never gotten this far, so the world isn't all bad, his gratitude added.

Herschel sneered at the thought of help, he'd never sneered at anything in his life. But he was spent, and it was hard to tell if it was madness or sanity doing his multi-thoughting. He'd started to believe the desert was trying to lure him to his death, or perhaps crossing the Khmur on foot wasn't possible.

"But I'm still free!"

"But does freedom matter?" The whisper startled him.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

"Yes, it matters, I think?" Tears of confusion would've streamed down his face, if his body could've spared the liquid.

"Keep moving east."

"Am I talking to myself?"

"You are now."

You'll have to stop doing that, his sanity thought as he brushed his tangled, long hair out of his eyes. This isn't just inner-dialogue, it's delirium.

"Why east," he asked ignoring his own advice.

"You should know!"

Reason and reasons were both slipping out of his grasp.

Maybe I'll lay down... just for a little while? What's the worst that could happen?

"You'll die," the whisper answered his thoughts.

Dragging his feet with every laboured step, Herschel kept moving. His usual light-footed walk was gone, together with everything else that mattered. Ever since the mountains faded into the western horizon behind him, the mirages had gotten more convincing. This one looked like a bay. The sunlight glittering off the water was completely realistic, and so tempting.

"A bay in the desert! Do you think I'm going to fall for that... again?" His scorched lips cracked as he smiled, but he felt nothing.

As he got closer, he spotted a river flowing into the bay, and beyond it, grass. Unimaginably green and beautiful. But instead of quickening, his pace slowed. Hope was something he could no longer afford. He knew, that once he reached out to touch it, everything wonderful would disappear. He could almost hear the wasteland smirking at him. A few steps from the water he came to a full stop.

"If this is another mirage, I'm done. You hear? You win!"

Herschel's energy was sapped, physically and mentally. Taking the last few steps, he waded into a river of lukewarm water. Still not daring to hope, he knelt as if any sudden move would make it vanish. Soon, he was floating face first and drinking with heavy gulps. Barely bothering to come up for air.

The desert was finally behind him. Even so, Herschel was in no way out of trouble, these could still be the last moments of his life. But none of that mattered to him, because he was beyond the desert's reach.

The effort of pulling himself onto the green bank of the astonishingly real river was too much. His vision blurred and his arms collapsed. Lower body still submerged, he was smelling the luxurious grass as two tall figures came walking towards him.