"Flowing Water," "Borrowed Time"- urVa
He stops for the evening when his joints begin to ache- he has wandered all his life, but not on a journey with such purpose in hundreds of trine. This, perhaps, is the purpose of his long existence, if such prophecies and predictions are to be believed. The other mystics put great stock in them- Aughra less so, if only because she can see the way that they weave and split into infinite possibilities. UrVa has never been one to look so far ahead- he tells himself that it is better to focus on appreciating the now, on existing harmoniously with the nature he has come to respect and love.
Perhaps he also fears what he might see.
He dips his wrinkled hands in the frigid stream, cupping the water and letting it flow down the carven spirals of his face to wash away the dust of the road. The rush of it is gentle but unyielding, skipping over soil and stones, branching across the land as the paths of destiny do before merging into the greater rivers and eventually reaching the vastness of the sea.
It feels, in a way, like he himself, walking inexorably toward the end of his mortal life- and, he hopes, toward the merging of his soul with the rich sea of life and memory around him.
It is impossible to know if that may come. He does not fear the alternative, as his other half does, but perhaps it is not blasphemous to hope.
Either way, he will find out tomorrow. He dips his hand in the water again, concentrating on the flow of the current, the sounds of a thousand little creatures going about their lives, the soft whistle of the wind. He can never touch the same droplet of water twice- they slip through his fingers like the stream of moments that have made up his time in this world. They seem more precious now that it is reaching its end- perhaps he still has not appreciated them enough. He will not let these final hours go to waste.