[It only occurred to Paul that he had been alone when he began not to be. Not lonely, that temporary isolation of the spirit, but alone, completely and fully. The first weeks here had been a period of desperation he only could see clearly once it had passed. He had always been a part of a whole, held and defined in a network of binding relationships, and to be without them had left him as a raw, unskinned need more than a human being.

In much the same way, he only realizes how much he had missed this when it's returned to him. This, the firm instruction, the expectation of success, the pattern laid out ahead of him to follow. He's always been a good student. He's never been without teachers. So he watches what Lazarus does intently, and he listens with a well-trained ear to both the instructions and the spell. His blood resonates in answer already, the words like the moon's tug on the sea.]

I have it. [He nods, and it's true. He only needs to hear almost anything once, and he thinks it would be harder to forget those words than most.] Sophia?

[He lowers his right hand to the floor and his mouse omen emerges from his sleeve, sits back on her haunches in his palm. He runs his thumb gently between her ears, which fold back under his petting.]

You shouldn't be left without an omen, in case you need one. [Sophia - her name finally spoken - hops from his palm and goes to Lazarus' side.] Since I'm borrowing yours. She'll listen to you.

[Paul picks up the stone in his bare left hand, runs a thumb over it no less gently than his omen's tiny head.]

I'm ready. [He looks up from their mingled, calcified blood, and he could hardly be farther from the arrogant, commanding young tyrant he had been in the dream, this soft-eyed, attentive acolyte.] On your mark.