Disclaimer: Methos and Alexa belong to Davis/Panzer, not me. Note: This is a companion piece to "He Sleeps," which is written first-person present tense from Alexa's point of view. I've been thinking about Alexa a lot lately; I just found out a good friend has cancer and isn't expected to live. This is for Mary and her husband, Jim, as they face their struggle with love and loss. Sunrise over Santorini by HonorH I awaken. She sleeps beside me, still in the pale pre-dawn light coming through the window. I can pick out the red in her hair, highlighted by the Mediterranean sun, and the golden freckles the same sun has bestowed on her. Her eyes are closed, and she seems almost childish in her peaceful sleep. A child. In many ways, she is one, compared to me. After all, I existed for eons before she was ever born. Before her parents and grandparents were born. And yet, in so many ways, she is my elder, for she has lived a greater portion of her allotted lifespan than I have. "A little young to be so cynical, aren't you?" she once asked me. Perhaps I am. It's a thought that never would have occurred to me but for her influence. Over the past few months, I've learned to see the world again . . . through her eyes. Eyes that look for beauty, then record it on paper in a way that no photograph could. Eyes that see magic in things that have long since ceased to hold wonder for me. I've lost many things over the past five millennia, but I begin to think that my sense of wonder is the most poignant casualty of all. Last evening, she called me out on the deck of our beach house to watch the sunset. I made the automatic cynical reply, and she slugged me for it. Then she got out her art supplies and recorded the sunset for me. Said that I'd have it to look at when I finally decided I'd spent too much time making smart remarks and not enough time watching sunsets. I love her for that. The first time I saw her, I knew I'd love her. She had that spark in her, the spark I've seen in all the women I've loved. All of them were different, and all so wonderfully familiar at the same time. But with Alexa, there's an urgency I've never before felt. Her illness eats at her, and it eats at me, too. I always knew with my loves that sooner or later, I'd lose them, but with Alexa, I know that time will come sooner, rather than later. And I find myself railing against that knowledge. She's so serene. She doesn't realize how strong she is, or how I marvel at that strength. How can she feel death encroaching on her day after day and yet not try to run and hide from it? Instead, she embraces life. How arrogant I was to tell her she could spend whatever time she had dying, or she could spend it living with me. I can't show her how to live. I've had to learn it from her. It's not anything she does that makes me love her so much; it's who she is. She stirs. The pre-dawn light has grown stronger, and I can see the blue-green of her eyes as they open. She always senses when I've awakened before her. I smile at her, remembering the scolding I took over the sunset the night before. An idea strikes me. I wrap her in a blanket, and she makes a questioning sound. Then I slip from the bed, lifting her. She's so light—I feel I have a sprite or a nymph in my arms. I carry her out of the house, down the steps, and out onto the black sand of "our" beach. The morning air is chill, and I am in minimal clothes, but I do not care. I turn, facing her toward the east. The first, fresh rays of sunlight shoot over the sea, turning the waves fantastical colors. This is what the Celts once called the time-between-times, a moment of magic, when worlds meet. The sun continues to rise, turning the sky red and gold. The air around us glows. And from my arms comes a soft sniffle. Alexa is crying. The tears on her face are not tears of sadness or self-pity; they are the tears of a soul overcome by beauty. The sunrise is everything to her at this moment. She allows no facet of its beauty to escape her. Something within me I had thought long lost returns with her tears. As I turn my own eyes back to the sunrise, I see in it the magic that the Celts saw, and for this moment, I believe in that magic. Her eyes never leave the east. She gathers each moment, cherishes it . . . and then lets it go. Releases it, knowing she cannot keep it. Time cannot stand still. And I wonder: When the time comes for me to release her, will I be able to? I love you, Alexa.