In you, O Lord, have I taken refuge; let me never be ashamed.

In your righteousness, deliver me and set me free; incline your ear to me and save me.

-Psalm 71:1-2

The sun had begun to settle behind the ridge taking this day from me. It would soon be gone, and along with it, what remained of the natural light. I could not waste a moment of precious time if I were to personify and solidify what I had finally encountered in the desert.

Rapidly, I sketched. My drawing pad propped against my knee, my charcoals flew across the paper and the image that burned in my mind began to emerge with exactness.

A line here, a smudge there, shading to bring it to life…

Finally, I paused to reflect. It was ironic that it was he who had become my muse, inspiring me to pick up my drawing pad again. The war had consumed all of my waking moments and frankly, I had no desire to record any of the world's devastation. Wars have the tendency to drive out most artistic of ambitions, given their grim realities.

My last drawing had been of a rural French church where I had once sought answers, but instead, had received only silence. The building, a once magnificent piece of architecture, had since become a casualty of the war. I admired my work, thinking that I had perfectly captured the beautiful symmetry of its destruction; with the rubble looking like it had been arranged by the original stonemasons and the dying light shining through its lone remaining window.

Suddenly, I had realized what I had created. I had recorded the results of our aggression. After destroying the drawing, I had abruptly put away my drawing materials and I had not touched them since.

Until this day.

I gradually slackened and finally ceased my sketching, allowing the pad to fall gently to my lap. I looked out across the desert enjoying its serenity. It was a beautiful sunset, with the sky filled with colors. Cool air was replacing the arid heat of the day and a gentle breeze rose from the desert floor, rustling my hair and curling the pages of my sketch pad

It was fitting for this day to be both an ending and a beginning to my life. I was thankful to witness the magnificent sunset, to bring an end to the day I had been patiently waited to occur for over eight years. And most of all, I was grateful to be alive, not to have been cut down when the opportunity had so blatantly presented itself.

After all these years I had finally found him. Or, more accurately, we had found each other, in the desert. Somehow, that seemed fitting when everything in my life, both personal and professional, had been centered on this desert. She had been correct about finding him here, not far from the bar in Benghazi, not far from her shop of so many years ago.

As soon as our eyes locked, I had instantly known it was he. No, he had not been wearing the American cowboy hat as I had so sarcastically thrown back at her. Instead, he wore the Australian Bush hat, the hat that distinguished and set him apart from the others. I believe until the day I pass from this Earth it will always be the image I would associate with him, the hat shading his serious eyes which reflected his inner compassion.

But I knew there was more to him than just the hat. The hat didn't make the man. The man made the hat. In those two brief instances where we had engaged in combat, I knew there was something more to him than what was visible on the surface. There was a presence about the American I had not yet encountered during all these years of war, not against the British and definitely not against the French.

I had seen the American only briefly in those few moments when I had first drawn blood against his team. Was it actually only a week ago? It seemed more like a lifetime had passed. But it wasn't until today that I believed that we actually met although we never spoke a word to each other.

Had she also visited him so many years ago as she had me in Benghazi? Or, had she chosen to visit him a few days ago? Had this been a one sided anticipation on my part? Or had he also waited for me, expecting me to make my appearance here in the desert, knowing how he would recognize me when he first saw me?

She had sent me no signs today. But then again, I hadn't expected any from her. Her last sign was when Ellery had fallen several months ago, when he had so clearly spoken about the American arriving soon with his dying breath. Ellery had been correct. I gave a small smile as I gazed at the setting sun.

Perhaps she had sent me no sign because she expected me to know without being warned.