Frigid water sinks its teeth into Shaltet's fingers and lets light, white-hot against his face, through the static.  Water.  They must have made it.  Survived, at least.  But the alien sea is pouring in and the screens are black except for the error codes: engine failure.  Stabilizer failure.  Total instrument failure. Heatshield failure.  Everything.  Eirin is slumped against the cracked window in the next seat.  Shaltet touches his copilot's chest, waiting to feel it rise.  When it does, he tips his head skyward to thank the powers that be.  Wherever they are. 

"Eirin.  We have to go."  Shaltet takes his copilot by the shoulder, saltwater dripping into the rawness on his palms and down his sleeve.  He recoils.  Grits his teeth.  Shakes off what he can.  "Wake up.  We have to go."

Nothing.  Water laps at the fuselage and Eirin's head lolls against his shoulder, exposing a gash that starts at his temple.  Shaltet can't see where it ends.  Hearts in his stomach, he unbuckles their restraints, puts on their life jackets, and then he's alone on a raft at the mercy of an alien sea, his companion's life bleeding into his hands.  Shaltet tries for hours to stop the flow.  Starts chest compressions when Eirin's hearts no longer beat on their own.  But it's over.  The gods must be far away.  Chest aching, Shaltet nurses his hands in the cool ocean, eyes closed to the unbearable sunlight. 

Everything is white when they open, like Shaltet knew it would be.  Nothing worth seeing anyway, only water in every direction.  But when the white has faded and the sky and horizon are separate again, something is stuck between them.  A few minutes pass and whatever it is sprouts a sail.  Shaltet doesn't pick up the oars to meet the ship—everyone else in the parsec wants him dead.
The sun has sunk behind the cumulus clouds on the horizon and the wind pulls at Shaltet's hair when they come.  In the softness of twilight, people with skin like quartz and eyes of obsidian appear on the sailboat's deck, staring and murmuring amongst each other.  Too tired to fight, he shows them his empty palms. 

"Our god!" one cries in Shaltet's tongue, and they sink to their knees.  "Our god has returned!"

God?  Shaltet turns his blistered palms over.  He burns like any man and their sun blinds him.  How can they think him a god?  "Why do you speak my language?"  No one answers.  Shaltet frowns.  "Don't bow to me.  I'm no god." 

"'One with eyes and skin the color of the sky shall fall from her arms, a glorious and benevolent sovereign,'" says the first one to stand, a woman dressed in blood indigo and red.  "Our ancestors foresaw your return one hundred cycles ago.  We studied your word every moment since."

"I'm—" Shaltet shakes his head.  "I'm neither of those things.  I'm just lost." 

"You've been away for a long time, Sovereign.  Come home."