Author's Note: The idea for this fic came to me last night when I came stumbling downstairs in the dark. Not a very good explanation, I know, but hopefully once you finish this chapter it shall make more sense.

For anyone who was curious, Per Aspera Ad Astra means through the thorns to the stars. I've been on a Latin kick lately.

Labor omnia vincit – Work conquers all things. (Virgil)

Night was falling.

She stood on her balcony, leaning against the iron railing, watching as the sun bled its last crimson fire before it succumbed to the encroaching dark. Sunsets had always been something she had liked to watch; there was something poignant about the cycle of night and day, about how one must give deference to the other in order for the world to continue upon its repetitive path. Tonight, however, the process had held extra gravity for her, and as finally all evidence the sun had ever ruled the sky faded, she reached up with an unsteady hand to wipe from her face the tears that had spilled over. She turned then, to step back through the open patio door, and before closing it behind her she cast one quick, hopeless glance at the ebony canvas looming above. She sighed, a defeated sound, for what she had feared happening could no longer be denied

She couldn't see the stars.

More tears appeared then, tracing their way in glittering paths down her cheeks, and she couldn't stifle the sob that broke from her. She made it only several paces to the blue easy chair before her legs gave way, and as her tall frame crumpled into it she gave way, finally, to the misery that had battered continually against its constraints. Curled in on herself, she wept with such force that she ached, but this was a tide that could not be stemmed. She couldn't have ceased even had she wanted to; couldn't have forgotten, even if she had wanted to, that her life had been unalterably, irrevocably changed this day.

Time passed, measured only by every agonizing gasp, every bitter tear. And when finally she calmed, when finally she could breathe again, she remained where she was, mind numb and refusing to dwell on all that had transpired. Her torpid state was shattered when a shrill ringing reverberated eerily throughout her condo, and on wobbly legs she stood and walked to grab her cell phone from where it lay on the kitchen table. The number that flashed on the display screen sent another wave of anguish through her, but she took a deep breath, flipped the phone open, and spoke.

"Sidle, here."

Gil Grissom was in a genuinely good mood. He'd returned only this morning from another state roach race, and he hadn't returned vanquished this time. He – and his roaches- were the new state champions. He couldn't smother his grin as he relived the expression the former champion's face when his own roaches had finished second. And so it was with great exuberance that he sat down at his desk and began to shuffle through the mound of paperwork that had accumulated during his absence. Several minutes passed as he hummed a mindless tune, still replaying the roach race in his head, until something caught his eye that made his grin slowly fade. He read it once, read it twice, and after the third time he sank back into his chair, high spirits effectively having dissipated. His brows came together in a grim line as he stared unseeing at the document in his hand. Movement beyond his office door caught his attention, and he called out abruptly, "Sara!"

She was heading for Trace, but at the sound of his voice saying her name she halted, her back to the door, and he could see the way her shoulders stiffened. Very slowly she turned, keeping her eyes downcast, and approached his office. He resisted the urge to sigh; this was how it was between them, now. Where once they were friends, their relationship had dissolved into something less, something bordering on the realm of strangers. "Sit down, please," he said, and even to him his voice sounded too stern. As she obeyed, still avoiding his gaze, he noticed something on her that seemed absurdly out of place.

"You're wearing glasses," he remarked, surprised. Morosely, she nodded, bringing her eyes to his, and their chocolate depths seemed magnified by the thin lenses in front of them. "I didn't know you needed them."

She didn't answer, but he saw her jaw tighten. Sensing her self control was kept in check by a very thin line tonight, he felt his own irritation rise, and brought the topic back to the matter at hand.

"Would you care to explain what this is?" He asked her then, holding up the paper that had stolen his good mood from him.

Her eyes flicked to it, and then back to him. "My letter of resignation."

"I can see that." He snapped. "What I want to know is, why was it on my desk?"

He could almost see her hackles rise at his tone. When she spoke, her own voice was low, tense. "It's on your desk because you're my supervisor, Grissom."

A pause. He was unsure whether to take this seriously or not; was this her way of telling him that things needed to change between them again? He asked again, softer this time, "Why was it on my desk?"

She exhaled, dropped her gaze to something of interest on the floor. "Because I'm resigning."

Her reaction was bothering him. In the span of a second she'd gone from irritation to something more, something subdued. A shiver of anxiety went through him at the thought of her leaving his team, but he forced it away. He couldn't afford to feel those things; he never could. "No, you aren't," he said quietly. "Whatever it is, Sara, it's something we can work through –"

She interrupted him with a laugh; a harsh, forced sound. She shook her head. "It's not about that, Grissom."

He was now genuinely bemused. "Then why ...?"

"Because I have to," she said so softly he had to strain to hear it.

"What? Sara, please explain, because I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I have to resign, Grissom, because I have no other choice!" He winced as her voice echoed throughout the small confines of his office, and through the open door he could see heads popping up from beyond, wondering at the commotion. Sara was standing now, pacing the room with short, agitated strides. She stopped at the door and swung it shut, and when that was done she braced herself against it. She drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and continued. "I have ... a condition, Grissom. And in a number of months I will be forced to quit, so I – I decided to do it now, before ..."

Sitting where he was, feeling all his anxiety return full force at her partial explanation, Grissom persisted, "Before?"

"Before it gets worse." He waited for her to elaborate, and finally she left the door to return to the chair in front of his desk. She dropped into it heavily, and her eyes, when they met his again, were wide and shining from something other than the light off her lenses. "I have nyctalopia, Griss."

For a moment he remained silent, his mind wheeling through stored volumes of medical information. When he found what he wanted, he said in sudden, saddened understanding, "Congenital night blindness."

She nodded. "Yes. That's why I'm wearing the glasses. I have moderate myopia as well; it's part of the condition. With good lighting conditions I have no visual deficit. But in the dark ..."

"How bad is it?"

Her eyes had moved from him again, and were staring steadily at the desktop before her. "It takes more than ten minutes for me to be able to see outlines of things in the dark. And that's outside. Indoors, it takes longer."

"How long have you known?"

"A while," she admitted slowly, "I was afraid to know what was happening. But I finally went to a specialist." She stopped talking, and it was a long while before she continued again; when she did her voice was choked, "In a few months I'll be legally blind in the dark. I won't be able to drive, and I won't – I won't be able to work."

"Sara, we can-"

"I already read over the contracts and the health regulations, Grissom. A CSI must have certain visual requirements, and I'm going to lose them soon."

The anxiety that was roiling within him had settled into a thick, despairing lump somewhere in his midsection. "I'm sorry, Sara."

"So am I," She whispered, averting her face. He knew instinctively she was fighting not to cry in front of him.

"How long ... how long will you be staying on?" His voice was polite, caring; he was trying, a little too late, to be the concerned supervisor he was required to be.

"Consider this," she said, standing and walking to the door, "my two weeks notice."

"Sara-"he said, rising from his seat. But she didn't turn, merely shook her head, before opening the door leaving. He watched as she walked quickly down the hall, too quickly, attracting attention to herself that would come back to haunt her later. Sighing, he removed his own glasses and set them on the desk. It was with a heavy heart that he returned, long minutes later, to his paperwork.

TBC ...