Caravan Solo Studs Earrings - Night Shadow Black

- Approximately 1.2 cm x 1.2 cm - Japanese seed beads, Swarovski crystal pearls - Both Post and Clip-on can be customized Repetitive forms, repetitive arrangements, repetitive journeys, repetitive dusty travels—the caravan wagons closely follow the silhouettes of the companions ahead. This is by no means a leisurely, tailwind journey. Two weeks had passed since Malik left the palace with the gem merchant on the eve of Ramadan, stepping into the desolate sands. The anticipated pursuit by the Caliph's army had yet to materialize, but his destination remained distant and uncertain. He rode the camel at the very rear of the procession, taking a few sips from his waterskin. His most precious love was inside the four-wheeled wagon 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 voluminous beard, his wrinkled brow furrowed. His attendants dared not utter a sound, merely allocating more water and fodder to the accompanying black horses—fine Arabian steeds destined for the fair-haired kingdoms in the far west of the continent once the main party reached Constantinople. Malik had never been there, only hearing tales of rolling green plains replacing the familiar sand dunes of his homeland. Another dusk. As Malik looked back again, the shimmering mirages that had flickered at the corners of his eyes vanished. It was the Caliph's fluttering banners and the glint of sunset on armor that posed the true crisis he needed to worry about. The gem merchant raised his silk-wrapped riding whip, lightly tapping the beast beneath him. He swiftly turned his mount to 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 other 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 wagon, rummaging. When he reappeared, he held a tightly sealed, wide-mouthed bronze urn, intricately carved with silver and adorned with lapis lazuli. Malik bent slightly, carefully taking the urn and placing it into the travel satchel hanging from the camel's left side. “Here is extra water and food, not much, make good use of it,” the old merchant called hastily, his weary voice drowned out by the approaching thunder of a great stampede. Before he could even offer thanks, he flicked his whip, and the camel and the black horse galloped away, kicking up reddish-brown dust. Malik steadied himself, guiding the animal beneath him in the intended direction, plunging into the desert night. At the port, he sold the black horse and the camel, exchanging them for a ship ticket and enough provisions. The bronze urn felt heavy in his backpack, a symbol of safety, he thought, as he followed the other passengers onto the ship. Upon reaching the land of the fair-haired people, Malik was left with no possessions, only the exquisite bronze urn in his bag. He learned the local language and stayed temporarily in a village as a blacksmith. He knew he could not openly worship the only deity he recognized. He made a small silver cross to hang on his chest, so the Frankish king's patrols wouldn't grow too suspicious of his dark hair and eyes when they passed through the village. Before the end of the tenth summer, Malik bid farewell to this small village and continued northward. Here, dense forests abounded, and only dappled sunlight pierced the canopy to reach the fallen leaves before him. Everything was different from his childhood—sight, taste, hearing. The Duchy of Normandy was cold. He traded several good knives he had forged for a thick fur coat. On the day it snowed, he was dining in an inn and rushed outside in astonishment. Snowflakes landed on the tips of his long, curved eyelashes, melting into water within seconds. Another kingdom, speaking a different language, lay across the sea. "The English," a fishwife pointed towards the gray horizon, expertly gutting a fish. Though the weather was gloomier than in the previous village, Malik decided to stay put for now, setting up his small shop for blacksmithing and metalwork. The spring breeze brought a touch of life to Normandy; the vibrant wildflowers reminded him of the mosaic murals of 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 shaded by pale lashes. “Your skill is known in the royal palace, which is why we must take you.” Malik had but one request: one day and one night to bid farewell to his beloved. He returned home, pulling open the trapdoor beneath his bed, built for protection against occasional Danish bandits. Wrapped in rough cloth was the exquisite bronze urn. He saddled his horse, took the urn, and set off for the sea at midnight. Twenty years later, the speed of riding a horse was certainly different from the impetuous vigor of youth. It took some time before he could smell the sea breeze and hear the cries of flocks of seagulls. The dawn light, filtering through the low clouds, swept across the Norman beach, wetting the sand and mud that clung to his feet. He had heard of the riches within the Frankish palace—silks, jewels, feasts—but for Malik, they were all gilded cages of gold and stone, much like the high palaces of the Khorasan oasis. He twisted open the lid of the urn, untouched for twenty years. The carvings on its body were still as exquisite and delicate as ever. Inside lay ashes. Malik continued onward until the saltwater reached his waist, holding the bronze urn tightly against his chest. The sunrise was at his back; the water was cold—cold enough, Malik thought. Such coldness would surely extinguish the searing pain of the pyre. The ashes held in his hands were quickly swallowed by the seawater. The sparse light of dawn, 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 had passed; no one had ever asked such a question, and he had not spoken the name in all those years. “Altaïr,” Malik finally answered softly, a deep sorrow in his throat, but he held back his tears, to grant his beloved eternal rest. “Altaïr Ibn-LaʼAhad. In your language, it means ‘flying bird.’” ☞ Shipping Time THRIVE Apparel Co. is an independent design studio that currently operates on a small inventory and made-to-order basis. Shipping typically takes 7 to 14 business days from the date of successful order. For urgent orders or other special requests, please contact us via customer service to discuss. Thank you for your support and understanding! ☞ Notice Natural materials such as pearls, crystals, and other semi-precious stones will have slight variations in color, shape, or size after selection, cutting, and polishing. Natural materials may also have inherent imperfections like mineral inclusions or fissures. These will be matched by the studio and shipped randomly; selection is not available. Furthermore, due to manual assembly and production, there may be a size error of up to 3 mm in the finished product. The product may exhibit color differences due to variations in shooting light or electronic display screens; all items are subject to the actual product. The aforementioned will not be considered grounds for returns or exchanges, and returns or exchanges based on "defects/not as imagined/different from product photos" will not be accepted.