It has been a hell of a three-day night. Three dog night? Whatever it was. Gwilym stirs, body as close to entirely limp as it is possible.

     He stands there, waiting for you to move to the sofa as instructed. Who's the servant here anyway? "Would you like anything to eat while I work?"

     Maybe that is what this is. He realizes it suddenly, even as he gives the sea back to the sea, salt tears finally falling as you kiss him. One gives oneself to the sea, and there is no turning from that. Everything else is worn away by the sea; the ocean will have its due.

     "It was an ... interesting image. He burned as a dark sun. I ... would not trust him with my soul, I do not think, if I had one. But it made me wish to paint. Not him, perhaps. But to paint."

     Relax...
     Relax, hell, you don't know...

      "Plucked flowers die, unless transplanted," he murmurs, quoting something he once was told, when still in Saarbrucken.

     "He said that it was important to remember for whom the work is created. Render the glory unto God which is God's; let no hubris of the artist interfere with the art. He believed himself damned ... but chose to serve that Creator nonetheless, damned or not. He was ... a product of an age I have never understood."

     The silence is reassuring. Out here, there is nothing but me and It. We can both forget our crammed souls, the ocean and I. It can forget the fish swimming under its skin. I can put aside these thoughts that have been swimming in my mind.

     The sun will rise... there in the distance it is promised, the paling line against the otherwise dark. All things must come to an end, every end is another beginning. The sun rises, and it sets, but it always rises again, a daily resurrection.

     "There is no plan, because you do not need one. This is not your situation to handle, Gui. It is someone else's, if he chooses to do anything about it. And," Ian nods, "...you must be prepared that he cannot fix it either..."

     You feel her lips spell your name, for there's no sound behind it. It is like the sign language of the deaf and blind, spelling it out from one touch to another. And the small hands clutch, fingers tightening, and she sighs. I surrender...

     She sighs, going silent, tipping her head back to look up at the sky. "I once told you," Fiona says finally, "that there would be a war coming. You didn't believe me, then. But there will always be wars, Davy. Right now, your war is with yourself. I can't win that war for you..."

      "You are...the best thing to happen to me. The only thing good that has happened..." he looks slightly sadder, "...to me. I am...at your debt, Samantha. Eternally."