Paul slides an arm around his shoulders, and this jars John free of something: there is half a moment's startle from him, a hesitating bewilderment. There is a hideous vulnerability in the crease of his brow. It unwinds from him in a slow, barely-there exhale, a man sinking to resignation by degrees. The silence hangs for a long moment, gentled only by the falling of the ash.

"I'm sorry about Lazarus."

John's never been good at apologies. He's always ducking out behind levity or collapsing them under the weight. Even this is a dodge, a sentiment crudely misplaced: it isn't what Paul is carving open for them, isn't the tender heart of the question. Still, he looks out to the heaving and ruined sea, the sand gone dingy grey.

"He got the same view."

Lazarus could've stopped it happening. John could've made it quick. Neither of them would have: it felt like breaking a vigil.

He's put this vigil over everyone, in the end. He's been keeping it for ten thousand years. Being alone has been the worst of it.

"I remember."