Though he had regained some sense of self after wandering in the wilderness for several weeks, he could not bring himself to return to the village.

He feared what he would see; he feared not being recognized, and he feared even more that he would be recognized.

They all knew he was a fake, now, and that it had been his fault that Helna died.

When he slept he had nightmares of burning alive, nightmares of returning to find the village burnt, nightmares of his people lighting the fire that consumed him.

When he woke, he starved himself, unable to eat. If he couldn't die anyway, what was the point of killing other things to sustain himself? The birds, mice and fish all deserved to live more than he did. They had not betrayed or lied to anyone; they lived honestly and stupidly, following instinct.

If only he had stayed a cat; if only he had died when his strange thing did. If only he had left Helna tethered. If only his mother had not given birth to him.

The world would be better off with no Sif at all.

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