Summer 10, 511 The familiar small of the chapel filled Lysander's senses as he pulled the heavy door open just far enough to slip inside. Hours before as Syna set, Sitkanis had left him to his own devices and the boy-turned-Ethaefal had wandered off into the night in search of answers. Therein he stumbled upon the small place of worship where he had spent his first night in the mortal realm. It was quiet here: a perfect place to reflect, to think, and wrack his poor amnesic brain for answers. Passing priests dressed in lavish flowing robes, Lysander became conscious of his own garb. A pair of pants a size too large for his hips was held on by a leather belt and his collared shirt was folded to his elbows, showing off the masculine forearms he did not possess during the day. The canvas satchel he recovered from the fisherman's boat was always on his person now, a spare change of clothes tucked away with some mizas, rag cloth, and the blunt fishing knife. A habit he'd picked up from Sitkanis: you never knew where you could be when you changed, and if your body significantly changed in size as his most certainly did, you would need clothing that fit. Eleven days. Lysander wrinkled his nose, his left hand slapping against each wooden pew as he passed them row by row. Eleven days, and only one short, disturbing window into his past life. The flashback he had in the Labyrinth on the night of his fall had been the only peek he had been allowed - although he blamed no one but himself and his own shortcomings. Finding one wooden row sufficiently bathed by Leth's cool light, Lysander lowered himself onto the pew and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together in thought. He did not pray. Instead, his unblinking golden gaze was fixated on the candles at the altar at the head of the chapel. He followed the dancing points of flame and tried to extinguish the distractions of the outside world, calm his thoughts, and focus on remembering. Remembering what precisely, he wasn't sure. In fact, there was little he was sure of. Lysander was sure of one thing. Here, in his father's light, he felt at ease. |