Caravan Solo Studs Earrings - Desert Gold

- Approximately 1.2 cm x 1.2 cm - Japanese seed beads, Swarovski crystal pearls - Available as Post or Clip-on Repetitive forms, repetitive arrangements, repetitive journeys, and the dust of constant travel. Caravans closely follow the backs of those ahead; this is by no means a leisurely, smooth journey. Two weeks had passed since Malik left the palace with the gem merchant the night before Ramadan, stepping into the barren sands. The anticipated pursuit by the Caliph's army had not materialized, yet his destination remained distant and uncertain. He rode the last camel in the line, taking a few sips from his water skin. His most precious beloved was safe within the four-wheeled caravan nearest to him, shielded from the scorching midday sun. On the fortieth moonrise, three camels fell ill, significantly slowing the entire caravan. The gem merchant smoothed his bushy beard, his wrinkled brow furrowed. His attendants dared not utter a sound, merely allocating more water and fodder to the black horses accompanying them—fine Arabian steeds destined for the blond kingdoms in the far west once the main party reached Constantinople. Malik had never been there, only hearing tales of green, rolling plains replacing the familiar dunes of his homeland. Another dusk. As Malik looked back again, the shimmering mirages that had flickered at the corners of his eyes vanished. The Caliph's soaring banners and the glint of sunset on armor were the true dangers he needed to worry about. The gem merchant raised his silk-wrapped riding whip, gently tapping the camel beneath him. He quickly turned his mount towards the weary tail of the procession. "You, go north, quickly," the old merchant shouted, pulling on the reins with one hand while gesturing with the open one to an attendant. A black horse was brought to Malik's side, tethered to the rear right of the camel. Another attendant disappeared into the caravan, rummaging inside. When he reappeared, he held a tightly sealed, wide-mouthed bronze urn, intricately carved with silver and inlaid with lapis lazuli. Malik leaned down slightly, carefully taking the urn and placing it into the travel bag hanging from the camel's left side. "Here is extra water and food, not much, use it wisely," the old merchant called hurriedly, his weary voice drowned out by the growing thunder of hooves. Before Malik could even express his thanks, the merchant flicked his whip, and the camel and black horse broke into a gallop, kicking up reddish-brown dust. Malik steadied himself, guiding his mounts in the intended direction, plunging into the desert night. At the port, he sold the black horse and camel for a ship ticket and enough provisions. The bronze urn in his pack felt heavy, a symbol of safety—he thought—as he boarded the ship with the other passengers. Upon reaching the land of the blond people, Malik was penniless, with only the exquisite bronze urn in his possession. He learned the local language and stayed temporarily in a village as a blacksmith. He knew he could not openly worship the one God he recognized. He fashioned a small silver cross, wearing it on his chest to avoid drawing too much suspicion from the Frankish king's patrols when they passed through the village, given his dark hair and eyes. Before the end of the tenth summer, Malik bid farewell to the small village and continued north. This region was filled with lush forests. Moving stealthily, only slivers of sunlight filtered down through the canopy to the fallen leaves before him. Everything was different from his childhood—sight, taste, sound. Normandy was cold. He exchanged a few good knives he had forged for a thick fur coat. On the day it snowed, he was dining in an inn when he ran outside, exclaiming in wonder. Snowflakes landed on the tips of his long, curled eyelashes, melting into water within seconds. Another kingdom, speaking a different language, lay across the sea. "The English," the fishwife explained, pointing to the grey horizon, skillfully gutting a fish. Although the weather here was gloomier than in the previous village, Malik decided to stay for now, setting up his small shop for blacksmithing and crafting. The spring breeze brought a touch of life to Normandy; the vibrant wildflowers reminded him of the mosaic murals in his homeland. The tenth winter had ended. As he adjusted a silver ring to fit the finger of Maria, a village bride-to-be, and securely set a ruby he had carried from the desert years ago, he looked up to see a Frankish officer on patrol. "You are not from here," the officer stated calmly and courteously, his sharp blue eyes veiled by pale lashes. "Your skill is known in the royal court, and therefore, we must take you." Malik had but one request: one day and one night to bid farewell to his beloved. He returned home, pulled open the trapdoor beneath his bed, built for protection against passing Danish bandits. Wrapped in coarse cloth was the exquisite bronze urn. He saddled his horse, took the urn, and set out for the sea at midnight. Twenty years later, the speed of his horseback riding was certainly different from the impetuous prowess of his youth. It took some time before he finally smelled the sea breeze and heard the cries of flocks of seagulls. The dawn, filtering through the low clouds, swept across the Norman beach, the damp, sticky sand clinging to his feet. He had heard tales of what lay within the Frankish royal palace—silk, jewels, feasts—but to Malik, they were all cages built of gold and stone, much like the grand palaces of the Khorasan oasis. He twisted open the lid of the urn, which he hadn't touched in twenty years. The carvings on its body were still as exquisite and detailed as ever. Inside lay ashes. Malik continued forward until the saltwater reached his waist, holding the bronze urn tightly to his chest. The sun rose at his back; the water was cold—cold enough, Malik thought, cold enough to extinguish the searing pain of the pyre. The ashes cupped in his hands were quickly swallowed by the sea. Sparse beams of dawn light, pushed by the gentle waves, lingered between Malik's palms and fingers. / "Your beloved, what was his name?" the captain nodded. Malik pondered. Twenty years. No one had ever asked such a question, and in those twenty years, he had never uttered the name again. "Altaïr," Malik finally replied softly, a profound sadness in his throat, but he held back tears, allowing his beloved eternal rest. "Altaïr Ibn-LaʼAhad, which means 'flying bird' in your language." ☞ Shipping Time THRIVE Apparel Co. is an independent design studio. We currently operate with a small stock of ready-made items and also accept custom orders. Shipping typically takes 7 to 14 business days from the date of successful order placement. For urgent orders or other special requests, please feel free to contact us via customer service to discuss. Thank you for your support and understanding! ☞ Important Notes Natural materials such as pearls, crystals, and other semi-precious stones may vary slightly in color, shape, or size after selection, cutting, and polishing. Natural materials may also have imperfections like mineral inclusions or small gaps. These will be carefully matched and shipped randomly by the studio; selection is not permitted. Due to manual assembly and production, there may be a size deviation of up to 3 mm for the finished product. Colors may vary due to differences in lighting during photography or electronic display screens. All items are subject to the actual product. The aforementioned conditions do not constitute grounds for return or exchange, and requests for returns or exchanges based on "defects / not as imagined / different from the product photo" will not be accepted.