It had been almost eleven days since the man now known as Satevis had washed up on the shores of Zeltiva. The newborn Ethaefal stood at the edge of the Cerulean Pier, looking out over the ocean. It was a warm summer day and the sea looked almost inviting in the sunlight, cool blue water lapping against the edge of the pier. Satevis knew better. He still remembered struggling for breath, trying hard to break the surface and nearly drowning in it. He frowned and shook his head, putting those thoughts out of his mind for now. He had gotten better at dealing with his situation over the past few days, although the bitterness he felt over what had happened was still present. It would be entirely too easy to blame the gods, but he found that a large chunk of his mindset was still Benshira. To blame the gods would be weakness. He blamed circumstances, and in some twisted way, he blamed himself. He turned away from the pier, tugging absently at the front of the new shirt he was wearing. It was a simple set of clothes--a cotton shirt, pants, and boots, but it was not the same style of clothes that this form remembered wearing. The Benshira tended towards loose fabrics, better for the heat of the desert. Still, he supposed that no matter how much he might look like one, he was no longer a Benshira. He watched idly as the people moved around the pier, most of them not giving him a second glance. It was amazing how different he looked between day and night. He didn't even remember what had brought him out here. He had been prone to wandering over the past few days, moving all over the city. He found that walking helped him think, and he had been doing a lot of that lately. He couldn't stay in Zeltiva, he knew. He had to leave. He had already resolved to go to Yahebah and pay his respects, and then perhaps come back to study magic. But he was reluctant to pack up and start moving. Making plans, buying supplies, and leaving Zeltiva would make his fall a lot more real. It would force him to accept the fact that he had fallen, that the Ukalas was nothing more than a distant dream, and that he was now living a mortal existence on Mizahar once again. He could deal with the transformations at sunrise and sunset, the new, yet familiar sensations of hunger (in his mortal form), thirst, and pain, and the days and nights spent wandering the port city, but on some level, leaving would mean moving on, and moving on would mean letting go. He watched as another boat came into the docks, idly watching the sailors go about their business. He needed to let go, he knew. He needed to leave. He couldn't continue to exist in a comfortable delusion. He was being weak, by staying. Weak, and a coward. But for now, he stood on the pier and he watched, standing apart from the crowd, as if by doing so he could stand apart from the rest of the world. |