The Academy: houses of the holy -- Sammael

Too long, the lightning in his blood crackles.
Too long, says the green path underfoot that he hesitates upon as he feels a wind spring up and brush the dark hair back from his dark face.

There are some things that he had not forgotten in his absence, such as standing here long ago (or so it seemed) with his own teacher and then finally, coming back to tell her (Aian! Some part of him can still feel her here, in the grass and the air, as though her scent hangs there in silver-gold threads that he reaches for with a hungering nose eager for the familiar) that he had completed it and feeling a surge of triumph flood his veins at the knowledge of that. It had meant that he had earned his own right to be a scholar - to be an apprentice and thus, a teacher too. Of course, he has since felt a strange freedom as if a burden was lifted off his shoulders and he had inherently known - though the course of events that had taken place upon the shores of Solira remained unknown to him - that he was free then, from the shard and was no longer a slave to its keeper. (He can still recall the deep, deep blue of her eyes that remained him of the sea and something hurt in his heart through all that distance that lay between them - him and her, him and the sea.)

But he stands there now, upon the green cusp of field and path, and waits as each horse passes him, for the one that is his student. He will recognize him - they know that much, always a face or a name or a scent, something to tell them that this student belongs to this teacher and this teacher to that student. It can sometimes forge an unshakable bond between the two and so, he waits for the one that he knows is to be his.

Lighting II; Apprentice