You walk along the sand with a fist in the air, from which a stream of sand falls like a curtain. The fist is small, frail, but the sand doesn't stop, and the curtain falls behind you like a rainstorm, an iron curtain.

You are wearing the spike coat, and the long red-tipped, black and white striped spines flow down your back like the raised hackles of a wolf.

You will never surrender, because you are home now, and the sea knows it. The sea, and only the sea, understands.

You breathe the weight of wet salt, which hardens and strengthens your bones, and the voices of your shadow echo and echo and echo in the relentless surf. The sky is white, a silent blank wet canvas, and the sand under your feet is smooth as the back of a seal, firm as stone.

Around you are friends. The Four whirl like dervishes in their bright round robes, so colorful that they are almost incandescent: Sun-and-Starlight whirls in his broad sun/moon mask, his flowing twilight robe with the embroidered silver stars, his outstretched hands painted gold.

Leaves-of-Trees wears her copper and gold crown, a wreath of oak and maple, and her deep forest green robe skims the sand as she turns, its hem of copper and gold-veined leaves, her hands and eyelids painted copper.

Flames-of-Fire burns. Her long flame-colored veil shimmers as if the sun were on it, and the sand under her thin white feet glows red as coals.

Ice-and-Thunder spins like a tornado, his light silver and grey robes flashing electric diamond glints, his hands and face and hood painted dark charcoal grey, almost black, although his eyes are so pale and light that they are electric, catching and violently reflecting any hint of light.

You throw the sand into the air, throw your head back, and scream.

You move beyond the Four. Way out to sea you can sea the silhouettes of the Sunbearers. It is day, but they are sleeping, their great delicate forms folded into the soft grey horizon. They have let the sun loose today, and he has gone, pillowing his keepers in the seamless silent clouds.

The sea roars. You turn and run at it and roar back, shaking a long iron spear over your head, carving the mist like butter, although unlike butter, the mist drifts back and heals, leaving no trace of the spear. You will fight tonight, and the sea will be red, and knows it, and is apprehensive.

You are exhausted. The spike coat weighs on your back like the inhabitants of a great city. You walk in your spines, on the hard fine sand, and you lower your spear. You walk, and you lower your head. You walk, and lower your hands, and the spines drag fine lines in the smooth back of the sea seal. The sun is dead. You walk, and fall to your knees, onto your elbows, and as the spear rusts away into the wet sand, you weep. The gulls hear, and cry out to the sea, which understands. Great drops fall from your face, great salty drops of sea. The sand, already wet, doesn't notice. The sea sees, and the sea, and only the sea, understands.