Ifan took a bite out of his rather stale hunk of bread. The sharp edges stung his dry lips as he brought the bread to his mouth. This would be a hell of a last meal, he thought to himself. The desert heat glowered at his face, the sunhat he procured from the market a week ago struggling to do much of anything. The heat resonated off of the sandy dune ahead, and Ifan’s feet plowed on ahead toward the horizon.
He wiped his forehead and sucked the sweat off of his wrist. His water bottle was on its last dregs, and he knew if he didn’t see civilisation soon it would be over for him. The Hand would still be at large, and all of his efforts to reach the next Marked would be for nothing. The eastern continent would never recover, and his family would never be avenged. His head swam in the thickness of his dehydration, and his eyes fluttered weakly. He finally reached the top of the dune. Hidden among the shimmers, he finally saw it, the desert city of Kotcharl.
Today's prompt: the last meal
If you'd like to participate too, the contest can be found here: @mariannewest/day-1546-5-minute-freewrite-friday-prompt-the-last-meal
