Day 10:

Challenge - Gondolin: Start a story or poem with Charles Dickens' famous opening line from A Tale of Two Cities: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." (If you're creating a piece of artwork for this challenge, use this line as your theme or title.)

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The Wrath of the Desert

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the fury of the desert, it was the chance to escape his pursuers. It was a cloud of dust unsettled by the hooves of swift horses on the horizon behind. It was a much bigger cloud of dust ahead, whirling like intertwined snakes and howling like a pack of wargs. It was… a sandstorm.

Thorongil felt his heartbeat quicken as he watched the approaching wall of sand. It was impressive, if he could watch it from afar. That it would be here soon was… ominous. He hoped his pursuers would give up in the face of such threat. But he had no other option than to prepare for it the best he could.

He wrapped the head cloth he wore against the burning sun in the manner of the local people around his nose and mouth, and looked around for anything that could provide him at least a bit of shelter. There were rocks nearby, heated by the sun and half-buried in sand. The wall of the storm neared with disturbing speed. He walked to the rocks. He ran. The distance seemed to stretch. Sand entangled his feet, making every step difficult. He could feel the bite of the sharp grains of sand on his skin, even through the layer of clothes.

He reached the meagre shelter of the rock, and had barely time to cover his eyes. Then it began.

The air full of sand. The roaring of the wind. The world turned to chaos. Sand and wind became one – whirling, whipping, lashing. Difficult to breath. Difficult to think. And sand everywhere, sharp and rough. The worst of times – for there was no other time he could think of. He did not care for the pursuers anymore – it even took too much effort to breathe.

With closed eyes, his face buried in his arms for protection, he could only hear the howling of the wind. Deafening, wailing sound. He could feel the anger of the storm on his very skin, the hot breath of the desert , the sand in his hair, in his nostrils, between his teeth . He could feel the wound on his leg bleeding again, and the sand sticking to the fresh blood. His world was darkness and sand and roar of wind. Nothing else existed in this moment, unbearable long. He had no idea how much time has passed. It could be moments or hours. The sandstorm made the world different, made the flow of time different, made him feel powerless against the wrath of the desert.

The storm raged. His throat was desperately dry, but he could not drink without exposing his mouth and inhaling a mouthful of sand. He could feel his perception fading and sharpening, the sounds becoming strangely muted and then unbearably loud again. There were moments that he was not aware of… It was the best time to gather all his will to survive.