Darion lay in his bed, staring at the axe hung above his head. Impatient.

The sun was just starting to creep in through the windows. The morning was as good a time as any. He glanced over at the candle he had placed under the rope that held the axe suspended. Yet he would have preferred to remain unaware when it would fall. The candle wax had burned too quickly. It only singed the outside of the rope, leaving it mostly intact.

He sighed and rolled out of bed to place it on top of a few books he had kept around until the flames engulfed the rope. He noted the top book was titled Tranquility of the Mind, smirked, and headed toward his bed. As he lifted his sheets, the axe came crashing down. When the cloud of feathers dissipated, he could see it had landed squarely in his pillow.

He used his fingers to comb his straight black hair in front of his blue eyes then lay next to the fallen axe. “Me and you are one in the same my friend, tools that don’t do what they’re supposed to.”

Yet the rope had caught on fire. Flames ran the length of it.

“Well, plan B it is.” He closed his eyes and hummed a sad song to himself. His front door slammed open.

“Why the shit is it so smoky in here?” Seeing the fire, a woman ran inside and proceeded to snuff it out with a thick sheet she had previously placed near his bed. She looked at him laying next to the axe and shook her head. “You’re getting more creative at least.” She walked over to the window and moved the wooden planks leaning against it. “You’ll have a whole eternity to be dead. Today you have work to do.” She opened his dresser drawer. “Should we go with black or…black. Real smart, wearing black in a sun-laden desert. Such a genius you are.” She threw clothes at him. “Get dressed genius. I’d talk you into a bath but we’re already late.”

“I’m not going.” Darion said, rolling over onto his side.

“That’s cute. I don’t remember asking.” She yanked him off the bed by his feet.

His head slammed off the floor, which, luckily for him, was made out of sand.

She grabbed the axe from his bed, brushed off the feathers, and put it back on the wall above his fireplace. “If you’re gonna lose this debate, it’s not gonna be because you didn’t show.”

Darion, not wanting to argue any longer, put the clothes on. He used a wooden comb to straighten his hair, and placed some charcoal around his eyes which he claimed kept the sun out. That last one in particular had struck a fashion trend with some of his supporters.

She placed a large bowl of water in front of him to wash up with. She left his bedroom and began tidying up.

“You can’t just eat bread all day either. You’re gonna get fat. I don’t see a single piece of dried meat in this place.” She lifted a sheet from the floor in a corner and found a stack of bottles reeking of liquor. “That part makes sense though. Hey, are you done yet?” She walked around the corner, lifted his head out of the bowl, then dumped the water onto the floor. “Okay. That's three today. Used them all up already. On with it then, shall we?”

“Fine…” he gargled out.

She grabbed his hand and dragged him out the door as he flipped his hair in front of him once more to block out the sun. Recently, he had found that random eye contact made his eyes water, and he didn’t want to appear weak. The desert sand remained soft and difficult to traverse on foot.

The town was still new to them, homes and shops were barren and poor. The wood was hard to come by, in some parts of town they had learned to build with sand, but it required water and mortar, which was also hard to come by. How foolish it was for them to settle here now that he had seen how little could be accomplished in a year. Now, his leadership was under attack from his rival–Decan.

“Toonda, you can’t be dragging me by my hand when we approach,” he said.

She threw his hand back to him.

“Look up when you walk dammit. It’s embarrassing to be seen with you when you stare at the ground like that.”

He gazed up through his hair. Half the people here hated him; he could feel their disdain. It was the same look he used in the mirror.

“Doban is gonna be there, so he’ll stand with us too.”

“Great. Nothing to garner support like a wench’s husband.”

“Call me a wench again, and I’ll bleach all your clothes.”

Darion shuddered at the thought of that.

As they approached the public debate, chatter grew louder. People arguing back and forth. He hated arguing, but he had a fondness for being snarky.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Decan, a tall burly man, was holding court. His hair and beard were long and blond from days out in the sun. His attire was bright oranges and reds, and consisted of tight pants and an open vest. He also noticed his large bulge.

“Eyes up here lad” Decan teased. “Oh would you look at that? His make-up’s running”

His crew laughed with him.

Darion rubbed the lower part of his cheeks and found the charcoal on his fingers.

“Good morning, chest hair.” He extended his hand to shake. Decan hesitated but then squeezed his hand.

“Good morning, city boy.”

His crew chuckled to the retort.

Darion hated his crew more than Decan. Those filthy little leeches.

“We got started without you,” Decan said. “Since you’re so late and all.”

“I overheard something about these two getting married?” Darion pointed at two men in his crew. One of the men had to hold the other back from throwing punches.

“Watch it…city boy.” the man holding the other back said.

“Irrefutably clever this one. Quick question: how does Decan like his asshole cleaned? Do you tongue it up and down or side to side?” Darion motioned with his hands.

The man seemed confused.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s more of a clockwise thing.”

“Look Darion,” Decan said. “We’ve already come to a decision. There is going to be an election.” He got up close and whispered into Darion’s ear. “Then we can finally end all the foolishness you’ve had us endure.”

“An election…” Darion walked around with hands behind his back as he turned his words toward the growing crowd. “Well, that’s interesting indeed. Our people, the Boudein, have their first election ever. Shattering four hundred years of tradition, because–and let me make sure I have this right–Because you believe I have abandoned tradition?”

“We thought it would be better than killing you. Unless you rather settle this in combat?”

Decan’s crew laughed once more.

Darion considered the proposal but thought it unlikely to have a good outcome.

“So, we’ll have an election then?”

“Remind me again what you plan to run on?”

“Gladly.”

Decan’s men placed a wooden crate in front of him, which he stepped on and addressed the crowd from.

“We are nomads! We were not meant to build wooden homes, farm cactus fruits or lose ourselves and our connection to these lands. When he said we’re going to build a grand city, I’ll admit, I saw some sense in it. Look around, what do you see? After a year we have nothing. We don’t have the resources to live like this, that is why it has never been our way. Ducian, Darion’s own father, tried this once already. When he failed, he had us move to the green lands. I think we all remember what happened then, don’t we?”

The crowd all bowed their heads, including Darion.

“We must lose this place before we lose ourselves.” He stood down from his box and everyone applauded. He motioned for Darion to stand up on it. Yet when Darion stepped up onto it, it broke, and he fell onto the ground. The crowd erupted into laughter.

“Even the furniture doesn't support you!”

Doban, the hulk of a man that was Toonda’s husband, walked over and pulled Darion up to his feet and dusted him off. Darion motioned for Doban to let him onto his shoulders. Doban nodded and got down on one knee for him to climb onto them. Darion addressed the crowd.

“Look, let me be clear. My daddy ran this tribe, and when daddies die, their sons take their place! Especially when they’re murdered!”

“Is falling asleep in your bed considered murder, boy?” Decan teased.

“That’s not what happened…”

“We’re being led by a child! Ghosts attacked his father in his sleep everybody!”

The crowd laughed.

Darion tightened his fist and stared at the ground.

“It wasn’t a ghost…”

“Oh what’s wrong, boy? Mayhaps you wanna run and cry some more?”

“That was one time…”

“Ah! He admits it!”

Even Toonda was smirking with them this time.

He wondered why he couldn’t have just placed the candle properly earlier.

“All right folks,” Decan said. “We’ll be casting ballots in a month’s time during the festival. I’ll be out here everyday answering any questions you might have and, more importantly, taking your suggestions as well.” He walked over and placed his arm around Darion. “If you need this one, go knock on his fancy door. Though ladies, I wouldn’t ask him for any make-up advice.”

The crowd slowly dispersed. Decan shook their hands as they left.

Darion sat in the sand and stared at his feet. He didn’t know how much time had passed when Toonda tapped on his shoulder. When he looked up, they were alone–with her husband, of course.

“Why didn’t you tell them everything?” she asked.

“Why bother? Nobody wants to listen to me anymore, maybe Decan should win the first ever election in Boudein history.”

As he stood, she slapped him and continued to slap him until he grabbed her wrist.

“Pull the fucking hair out of your eyes,” she snapped. “Then maybe you’ll see this isn’t just about you.”

“What do you want me to do exactly?”

“I want you to stop our scouts from never returning, killed by other tribes and beasts. I want you to form proper trade routes for resources. I want you to find wealth we can use for trading. I want you to live up to the dreams your father promised mine. I want you to stand up for your people! I want you to stand up for yourself dammit!” She ripped her wrist from his grasp and walked away toward her husband.

Doban gave him a slight shrug before leaving with her. Darion simply stood there and thought about what she had said for a moment before walking home.

When he arrived home, the fragrance of smoke filled his nose. The stench made him turn toward his father’s sword, which was placed above his father’s shrine. It held the only possessions he had left: a necklace made of a black metal chain with an orb hanging off it, a painting of him, and the sword.

Darion removed the sword from its stand and ran his fingers along the blade. He gently slid the blade across his wrist, it bit into his skin, soft enough to not bleed. The last time his father had held it, his father had been panting heavily after a battle, two hands on the pommel. His father relaxed his stance. In the dust of battle there appeared those glowing wings outstretched from white armor.

Darion dropped the sword. He squatted down and ran his hands along his face and past his hair. He carefully placed the sword back above the shrine.

There was only one thing to do when he was feeling this down. Get obliterated and practice martial arts.