The longing was a thing of fire. To cast off the world that had already given him all of the hate and fear that he could stand, that had made him worse than a coward. To go with her.
But she no longer needed him. She was complete—as they were, only necessary to themselves.
He could not go.
During the long night he kept the vigil by the bedside; long after any need to keep it.
The twins were gone and she with them.
He could not cry for all tears seemed useless. He said a small prayer, something he had not done in years, over the cold thing left behind.
The rain had ceased outside. Somewhere out there in his world there were men trying to undo the harm that had been done, harm that he had helped to do, then retreated from. He had no right to retreat further.
Something spoke a requiem sentence in his consciousness, light as late sunset, only vaguely there. "We are here—we will wait for you ... come to us ... come ..."
He wrote a short note for the doctor and the others who would come and hunt and go through the motions that men must live by. Perhaps the doctor might even understand.
"I have gone plumbing," the note said.