It comes with a whimper, not a bang. Which is appropriate, because the latter has, on some level, always felt contrived.

Tennyson said that nature was red in tooth and claw, and he thoroughly agrees, especially knowing nature as he does (the nature of the world, the nature of the island, the nature inside himself). Take the island, for example. Beautiful, almost idyllic, except that it starts out with that little edge of strangeness, and then you really get to know it and it's all you can do to pretend you matter.

He tries to be the island, cold and uncaring, burying its dead with no tears, but he never quite succeeds. The closest he comes is in convincing others he's heartless, mechanical, and he supposes that in itself can be called a victory.

He's lived his life trying to be good and bad cop both—the velvet glove and the iron fist—and it's worked. To some extent. But it's forced, it's backward, it's incomplete. Because the iron isn't the core, it's only what protects it. Funny, he's never truly felt protected, not in the deep down places where the lies can't reach (very deep, and harder and harder to find).

There are chinks in all armor, but he has been sure all of his have been sealed with blood and scorn. If they can't reach you, they can't hurt you, and there is less and less of him to reach. Every awakening, every day, every look, every conversation is a small suicide. He's forgotten how not to die, but he refuses to finish the job.

Somewhere in the sealed-off section of his mind a still, small voice tickles at him that there is another choice. Somewhere he remembers an oddly appealing tale of dragon armor torn away. But any fool knows it is dangerous to be vulnerable, and he doesn't believe in anything that would protect him. Or anyone. He's not a fool.

When he comes to kill her, he has the courtesy to ring her doorbell and wait politely on the doorstep. She opens the door, as her father, who is a fool, would have had to explain quite a lot in order to warn her. She recognizes him as an old family friend and invites him in for tea, and he accepts. He has read of tribal warriors who refuse to eat and drink in the homes of people they are planning to kill, but he's never gone in for that branch of etiquette.

They make casual conversation, and then she asks why he has come to her neighborhood, and he lifts his eyes to hers and unexpectedly sees something like his own daughter there, and unexpectedly sees beyond revenge, and unexpectedly finds his eyes clouding over, and unexpectedly finds her hand on his arm and concern on her face, and unexpectedly loses control and weeps like the child he used to be.

He doesn't know why, which is what makes it so frightening, but after the storm has passed he looks into her eyes again and sees a cascade of possibility.

He tells her he came because he needed to see her.

He doesn't tell her that it wasn't for the reason he'd thought it was.