The sky isn't dark yet, but he begins to set up camp. There is no need to rush, he tells himself. He has resigned from his ferryman job, even though the citizens of Athenius voted to have him stay. With his apprentice gone, he no longer has any time-sensitive responsibilities on his shoulders. This freedom terrifies him and he knows it: he's slowing down. Compared to when he left his homeland five years ago, the land seems no different now—desolate and quiet. The clearly depicted river on the tattered map in his hand was gone without a trace. The priest said that snowmelt will eventually form new rivers, but all he sees now is desolation. An indistinct fear creeps into his heart once more, an emotion he has long been acquainted with. Ever since he embarked on this journey home, when he arrived in Athenius with Ithakos's blood-soaked robes and stayed after the priest invited him to, he had been caught in its clutches. It was the fear that kept him there with no way to return home, that had him unleash his rage and hatred upon the Sargonians. What can he even do if he goes home and realizes the past is gone forever? What else can he chase after? By now the sky is completely dark. He lowers his oar and retrieves the lantern hanging on it. Old and riddled with signs of wear, yet it follows him everywhere. It used to be an ordinary oil lamp, but Ithakos had modified it to run on Originium and added a windproof case designed with latches that could be easily opened for a soft light to guide him home. He still remembers that night. He was adding notes to the river map based on his observations, as Ithakos hammered away on his workbench nearby to improve the lantern. Finally, he works up a slight smile as he carefully wipes the dirt off the lantern and tries to open the case—but fails to. It is stuck. This has never happened before. He dares not use force, nor does he know how to repair it, so he can only gently turn it over. Cold sweat forms beneath his mask and on his back as fear returns. After leaving Ithakos's armor and Arts Unit to the guerillas and leaving his bloody chiton to Athenius, this is the last item he owns with any connection to him. If he loses even this, then what should he— Click. The lantern opens up. A thin fiber falls out of it. He breathes a sigh of relief as he raises the lantern to the river map. After a long silence, he remembers to look at the fiber, surprising himself when he realizes it is the top of a reed. Perhaps the wind blew it over the night before, or in the morning, and he only now noticed its presence. Just as he only now realizes how soft the black earth is beneath him—though the rivers have yet to return, the annelids in the soil were already weaving through the ground in his absence, and the reeds of the rivers and marshes are once again regaining their moisture. At daybreak he can go even further, he thinks.