The chaos had subsided and he crouched, suddenly old, behind a heap of rubble. The newly calm waters which lapped gently at the shore whispered into wary, jaded ears—I told you so, I told you so—taunting, mocking. And he answered, I am sorry, I am sorry, as he rocked back and forth to the rhythm of placid waves. When with a mustering of will and strength he forced his gaze skyward, he found a twisted alien skeleton, its hundred pairs of gleaming eyes glaring down upon him. Tears mingled now with the water as he forced his head back into the shelter of gnarled hands. The steel beams above him should have wept like leaves in a summer downpour; those monstrous eyes should have crushed in like eggshells; debris should have scrabbled at the ground like so many tortured rats. But the waves continued their litany—I told you so, I told you so—and aloud he cried, "Please, forgive me!" to no one.

"Please, forgive me—" And nobody was there beside him to comfort him. Nobody woke him from his dream; nobody's fingers entwined with his, or wiped away his tears. Nobody gently scolded him, and then smiled tenderly, gazing into ice-blue eyes. "Charles, please," he pleaded.

And nobody replied, softly, It's okay, Erik.