Once upon a time, not too long ago, two time -travelers met, exactly as their masters had agreed on. It was the middle of the Moroccan desert,
and people gathered around a small tent, looking for a safe place to spend the night and protect themselves from the sirocco, a very hot and dry wind.
One of them, Boreas, was the caretaker of a large property that belonged to an English Count. He was wary of his wounds and stayed silent to restore his strength after a long journey.
Confident that his Lord, Count Dinar, would send back his men to rescue him, he chose to rest inside the tent, while he was trying to decode the sounds of the wind. Until he would receive any news from him, he would do as Count Dinar ordered, not knowing that the Military forces had bombarded the facilities of the town shelter.
A blind monk crossed paths with him after soldiers threw him out of a wagon, where they kept him as a prisoner. The blind man fell right in front of Boreas. He could not see, yet he felt an intense presence, a light. Like a warm yellow-ray, a firefly could dance around. Small, shiny dots led him to reach for Boreas. The Monk stood on his feet and tried to hold his composure.
A light, clean, playful scent surrounded them, out of nowhere, like the blended perfume of gardenias and seas. When their eyes reached about the same height, the Monk pulled back his hand. He felt a sharp pain in his heart as if someone cut out his chest and ripped off the bloody, pounding organ.
Boreas then remembered, he had heard about “The Thorn” before- the legend was, only a blind man could see it and feel it. The Monk did not know how to remove it, but he did not want to let it go either, because of the beautiful music that came out of it. Months, years, storms had passed, and he was still protective of “The Thorn.” Time was running out, but at the same time, it stood still. The Monk, being a prisoner, learned how to love “The Thorn,” as he felt that it was its’ music that saved him. Boreas new his Count had failed him. He was not going to risk any of his armies to come searching for him. This Thorn would be more valuable than gold, and maybe it could save him as well.
They never exchanged any actual words other than mumbling, and they just got into a fistfight.
The Monk fell down, hurting his back. The Thorn fell too. Boreas smirked, watching the Thorn earning its’ freedom.
“This belongs to me now, and I will make a damn good profit by selling
it to the other prisoners… “
The Monk did not look angry, but slightly disappointed at the human and at himself for allowing this to happen.
“So what if the Thorn could not play music for me again? I could finally learn how to sing.” he talked back at the wind.