Chapter Seven

The raft was not as seaworthy as I had hoped. The waves repeatedly threatened to swamp it. I wasn't afraid to die.

He pauses, sadly; keeps going. This is the shape of the cabin as it builds itself. These are the secrets they share. This is what they like.

I was afraid of the emptiness that I felt inside. I couldn't feel anything, and that's what scared me. It came into my thoughts. It filled them.

It felt good.

Saul begs for more: more absolution, more skinned knees, more pain, more clarity. But this isn't clarity, this is just abuse. Caprica weeps for him, and denies it. Through a mouth broken by her ministrations he begs again, and she says no. "No, I made a mistake." This isn't what he needs. He's not in need of learning, of introspection; he's not inflated, high on grace, looking for deflation. There's no learning to be had here, just more pain without cause or purpose or result.

He was created to love, and be loved. But all he's had is hate. There's no learning there. He knows where he is blind, and where he is small. Saul Tigh isn't a man who needs more pain, to learn: He needs more love. Saul Tigh needs, and deserves desperately, to be loved. More, and more, and more love.

So Caprica bends down, enjambed upon his body, immortal, possessed of so many lives, older than he, and kisses him. He tastes of blood, and fear, and the quick spark of mortality.