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[ When Lazarus speaks of it being more than believing in something, but the knowledge of its truth, and the unending insistence on seeing that truth through, Paul feels clarity like a play of light across the surface waters of his mind that aligns to reveal the depths of past memories.

All the times that Lazarus insisted on his suspicion of the Emperor, in the face of what must have felt like the entire world casting doubt on his perception of reality. What it would feel like to be proved so wholly right, in such a terrible way. The hungry gap left in the wake of a goal achieved after so much sacrifice, then one more triumph - and then the flame, and the oblivion, and the return.

No wonder Lazarus is out here like this.

But then: Lazarus has insisted on Paul's worthwhileness as intently as he insisted on the Emperor's lack. He had from nearly the start, before he ever even came to know the Emperor as a danger, and Paul feels another hot, jumbled surge of feeling on this chill night. ]

If I say I steered the ship, will you accept you were the lighthouse?

[ Paul said he wouldn't let Lazarus drown, but it was the other way around, all this time. ]

And speaking of steering...we should get away from these rocks.

[ Get him somewhere warm, put a cup of steaming, sugary drink in his hands. The little human gestures, when there's nothing else, in the closed sanctuary of a safe house. ]

Lighthouses belong on rocks, though, don't they?

[There's a lump in his throat; he's always liked lighthouses. The dry-humored joke is an attempt to offset the fact that it means a great deal to him to be recognized as guide and warning alike.

Quietly and privately is fine. He actually prefers it to widespread recognition and accolades. This feels deeper, more honest and true.]

That being said, I'd like nothing better... who knew it could get this cold this time of year, even by the sea?

We only have to take the metaphor so far.

[ Paul half-laughs, nudging against Lazarus' side in the broken tension. It's a better joke than he expected; or maybe it's that he didn't expect one at all, in the wake of all of this.

He disentangles himself carefully from Lazarus' side, coming up on feet a hair less steady than he likes them to be, and smiles wanly down at his teacher. The hand he offers him is warm and open, unlit by flame or agony, bloodless and clean. ]

Come on, old man. Let's get out of here.

What matters is the truth, and that goes as far as it does. Invariably. Perpetually.

[He glances up blearily, vision still double, reaching out with measured care to take Paul's hand. It only takes him two and a half tries.]

Call me "old man," more. I could get used to it.

[I'll be here a long time, he might as well have said, and it's alright for you to get used to it, too.]

You had better.

[ Because I'll keep saying it, he might as well say back in turn. He doesn't keep holding Lazarus' hand after he's drawn him to his feet, nor does he loop his arm around Paul's shoulders, but he lingers close as his Omen emerges from the surf and makes a graceful, impossible leap to his front pocket.

Paul readjusts the blanket draped around Lazarus, which is suspiciously like an excuse to be close, and nods up the beach. ]

The truth is - I'm counting on you, all right? So -

[ So come with him up the beach when he starts walking. So stay around, or come back if you go. So here they are, still side by side, and that's something, even if it's not everything. ]

[L recognizes the call to rise to something. However capable he feels, he's heartened by Paul's confidence in him, his need for him to deliver, giving a slightly sloppy, slightly sleepy nod in response.

He accompanies, staying close, never straying ahead enough to lead or falling back enough to follow. Side-by-side, in fact, they will remain.]

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