fifty-third of summer, 514 av. It began with the sensation of falling, short-lived and eternal. There was a murmur upon the breeze, a whisper of a plea in a voice that sounded like the chiming of musical bells. The spell was comforting. The cold of the water was not. The woman of sun and music thrashed as soon as she registered the sharp sting on warm flesh, a contrast that threatened to send her careening into shock. She screamed. Her voice was not like it was before, when the murmur was as if music, golden and clear and to forever love. The water invaded her mouth. Instinct prevailed. The Ethaefal breached water with horns first, spiralling and jewel-toned; the ornaments were not pointed nor pronged and did they ever glisten in the sunlight. She coughed when she'd surfaced, water spraying from her mouth. With most of it gone, she began taking in big gulps. Her only desire was to breathe, but she could feel the cold creeping in. For a moment, the Ethaefal floundered in the calm sea. In the distance, she could see a city that appeared as if it sparkled. Her lids fluttered. The sparkle diminished. There were ships nearby and from one, an unseen person called out, "man overboard!" as if she knew what it meant, or what it would lead to. She fought to keep herself afloat, though. Trembling, lost, she recognised she was no longer in the Goldenlands. Syna was above, bringing light to her world in this imaginary darkness. Her chest pounded, echoing the rattle that sounded incessant in her head. She knew how to keep afloat. That might have been what saved her, but she was lost on what to do with the knowledge. Swim for help? Swim to Syna? She didn't know where she was, or what she was, and that divine voice was gone. |