I fell asleep almost immediately and dreamt of South America. Fetid, thick jungles and white smiles set in brown faces. Time rolled back and I saw Henri again, but younger, dark haired and grim. Flaming destruction and blackened humor. A job to do in a way no-one else could do it. Then Angelfal was there. The Artist.
He was painting the devastation using his own blood and tears. It was beautiful, it was horrible. He stepped back from his canvas and turned to look me in the eyes. His face was serene, with none of the tortured drive that was usually present.
He spoke calmly as the air burned around him.
"The time has come Eric, as I told you it would. You must complete this thing. You can't hide from what you are anymore."