Desert Company: Retrospective

When Saya was little, she had observed the Dineh Kazaàd from afar. Showing the mighty prowess of the esteemed champion, Ayai Toya, she had always admired her. There was no death, no cruelty, no suffering. The media had portrayed it as a fighting of skills, hiding its true face, of fighting for survival. Saya had focused her life on the Dineh Kazaàd; Learning to use a sword, brawling in the streets at every chance, it was her fever dream. But to face the truth, the one goal she had was toppled down before her.

That’s why the dagger of guilt drew blood from her back.

“Irrasshai.”

Saya, Kwazhak, and Ashojan were greeted by the Kinto Smithy owner on the final day before the Dineh Kazaàd. Saya and Mashuu were carrying their weapons, her Azu scimitar and his foreign-looking saber. It was the final day until the tournament, and Kwazhak wanted to take them somewhere.

“Ones’ blades have been tarnished during our long journey here,” Kwazhak went on, “If one knows how to preserve their sword, then it will aid them for a lifetime. Unsheathe.”

His only hand was bound by a constraint, making him unable to grip an object, let alone a sword, tightly in his hands. Given to him by the spokesman Tsuchiya, Kwazhak’s ‘Guizu Arcana’ was restrained.

The two did as they were told and unsheathed the weapons, sliding it linear in the opposite direction of their scabbards. Saya’s scimitar had taken substantial hits, multiple crests and dents on the sharp edge. It must have been from the battle with Thiệu. She ached at the condition of her sword, knowing from her father that it was the wielder’s fault the blade gets nicked. Kwazhak gave them two rags, along with two whetstones.

“First, apply soap water to the cloth, and rid the blades of any dirt and dust,” He instructed carefully, pouring water on their rags. “After that, dry it completely. Next, one most likely knows how to use a whetstone when it comes to swordsmen.”

Following his word, the prince called the metalsmith over.

“Sir, does one happen to possess choji oil in this shop?”

“Certainly,” The man replied in a hoarse voice. “The most recent batch from Azutami is here.”

Kwazhak searched the shelves briefly before finding the correct bottles on one of them. Taking a fude brush, he brought them over.

“Choji oil is created from a mixture of clove oil and mineral oil,” Kwazhak explained opening the bottles with his mouth, “Applying them to swords will prevent rusting of the blade. Using the fude, lightly dip it in the lubricant and brush the blade from top to bottom.”

Saya and Mashuu sweeped their swords thinly in the oil, covering it with a liquid shine. As she felt the surface after lubrication, the metal blade had a slippery smooth texture, like a maiden’s skin. The nicks on her sword weren’t easily repairable, but they were now diminished and less noticeable.

“Kwazhak.”

“Yes?”

“Azaassu,” Saya lowered her head, out of respect for him. Kwazhak patted her head gently.

“Lift thy head,” He gave a solemn smile, “There’s no need to be formal with me. Simple instructions like this are rudimentary.”

“Thank you…” Mashuu added as well. “You’ve treated everyone with care… I’ve never thought that a person like that existed.”

“Unbeknownst to you, I am not that person,” The prince replied quietly. “I can tell one has a great deal of trauma, from the nightmare episodes I faintly heard last night.”

“...”

Saya took notice. Although he was deflecting a compliment, Kwazhak’s eyebrow twitched at it. It seemed that he didn’t like praise towards himself. She pondered the reason why, if praise did the opposite effect of what it intended.

 

The city nightlife slowly roared like an engine, the strobe lights beaming into the sky, the neon skyscrapers dancing between them. In this part of the grand metropolis, were streets where the rave music was a mere echo in the distance. In the quiet suburbs of Kapori-ku, a nostalgic impromptu played around the block, as pedestrians came to and fro to the scent of a local bakery. A few buggies buzz past the silent streets, kicking up the dry desert wind. The Yeii no Matsuri was afoot, the streetlamps decorated with streamers of yellow and blue, and two red scimitars were placed in front of the Tasdaha Coat of Arms present on every block.

Even in the city of bloodshed, the city of flashing lights, these calm alleys gave a warmth that no neon tower could give. A feeling that someone could walk and enjoy the peace, the tranquil life in a civilization that never slept. A place where the Khoitan were not seen as outsiders, nor terrorists, but simply people who went about their lives.

Saya and Mouka had finished their final prayer on the street, sitting on the spiral carpet for a while. Leaving the mozkara, Saya could feel the instant cold strike her face. Walking on the sidewalk, they bumped into Suruj and Kwazhak.

“Kwazhak? Suruj? Why are you out here?” She asked, before looking at the bag the prince was holding. The two came from the direction of the bakery down the street, and the bag was filled with the scent of pandesal. L’s favorite. Kwazhak lifted the bag with his one arm and offered it to them.

“Pandesal, the freshest pastry ever to be cooked in Alą̧̄utl.”

“Eek, I’ll pass… Buhang bread…” Mouka laughed and turned her head.

“Oy, they’re the sweetest food in the world,” Suruj argued, “Cheap too.”

“Nope, nope, nope,” She shook her head, her braided hair moving from side to side.

“Maybe you just hate anything Buhang…” Saya shrugged her shoulders, “Let’s take a walk.”

The black night sky above the street was devoid of holograms and projections, revealing the few stars that survived throughout the light pollution. They strolled leisurely through the silent roads.

Suruj munched on the Buhang pastry, eating three of them in mere minutes. Seeing him enjoy it, Mouka snatched one from his hand, running on ahead of them.

“Ano ba ‘yan-”

“You know what, I’ll just try some,” The Khoitan girl said before biting into the steaming bread Suruj was eating seconds ago. Her eyes became wide. “Not that bad…”

“Saya, I have something to ask of you,” Kwazhak insisted suddenly.

“W- what is it?”

“Please hand me a roll of bread from the receptacle.”

“...” She took a pandesal from the bag, but instead of handing it to him, Saya stuffed it in his mouth. He nearly dropped it before catching it with his one hand. Saya broke out in laughter, and he gave an innocent look.

“One should eat some,” Kwazhak assured, “If one has been in his office, L kept quite a stash.”

As Saya held a heated bun, the plump bread seemed to give off a golden shine. Hesitating, she sank her teeth into it once more. The fluffy texture melted, a radiating sweetness entering her mouth.

“Oh? You’re the kid who’s been reported three times in the past month.”

“I’m Kiyomiya Lojuno. Senior officer of Iriguchi-ku. Relax, I’m not gonna put you in jail.”

“Ms. Izdaha, I can’t believe that you got into another brawl again.”

A tear streaked down her face, as Saya quickly wiped it off.

“You good?...” Suruj asked, noticing that she had suddenly stopped walking.

“N- No… I’m fine,” She finished her bread before returning a question, “How’s our progress on the rebellion?”

“...” He looked away, as if he was afraid of what was to come. “Kwazhak and I already have our plans set, and we’ve come to a conclusion that… Some of us are going to die before we escape this place. It’s not possible to deal with everything in these two days.”

“He’s correct, there’s going to be a possibility that all of us will end up under the sand,” Kwazhak also emphasized. “If thee has’t any last wills, it would be imperative that it be done now.”

Saya ran on ahead of them before stopping to listen to the local music ringing throughout, a singer’s ballads audible in the background.

“Kibuttohan, mon kara yyuvubia no sahar,

genshi no hokori de yo wo souzou…”

If they were going to die, then… She extended a hand outwards to Kwazhak.

“You can hear the music from the next café over. Shall we dance?”

The rest of them stopped as they heard those words come from her mouth. It was as if she had said something obscene. Was it the wrong time? When Saya began to overthink, Kwazhak stood in front of her.

“As you wish, Miss Saya,” He gave a curtsy bow, “However my missing arm may be unpleasant.”

“Oi Suruj, you know the Magkasuyo?”

“I’m being reminded of my time in secondary school…”

Saya struggled to place her arms in the right position, as Kwazhak’s stature was much taller than hers. She lifted her heels lightly to match his height, and they began to sway. Although her face flustered, the prince’s face lay unfazed. As if he was bound to people’s needs, people’s wants. Her silver hair reflected in the moonlight as they twirled gently across the street. Kwazhak gently grasped her left hand, both of them sharing rough blisters from their weapon.

“Azazeru, kita kara yyuvubia no suna,

Mosir wo yoku fuita…”

Saya was embarrassed how, deep down, her heart and brain trembled. She had thought that dancing would ease the looming dread stirring inside her like a haboob, but it only intensified the emotions circulating her mind. Saya was scared that someone tomorrow would not return alive, that the very people they were so delicately waltzing with were going to die. Maybe if she did what Suruj and Kwazhak told her to do, the group would be saved.

“Baraam, minami kara yyuvubia no kaze,

sanso ari yo wo shussei seyo…”