A/N: Here's the final chapter, with thanks to everyone who has waited so patiently, and especially to all who have left such kind reviews for this fic.

A fortnight after the funeral...

The day he begins to let her go, there's a bitter wind rising, a harbinger of the long winter that is now beginning to bear down on the damp, chilly islands that he has spent his life defending. There's rain at the back of the wind, too. He can smell its ozone tang, and is immediately dragged back to that horrific moment, with her weakening voice telling him that her face is cold, and some tiny, detached part of his mind registering that the sun is hidden by heavy grey clouds, and rain is imminent. For the rest of his life, he will never smell an oncoming storm without thinking of her.

Scent, Harry has discovered, has a life, a memory, all of its own. Sometimes he catches a faint hint of her perfume in the flat, and stands stock still, head lifted like a bloodhound, seeking its source: her scarf, perhaps, still hanging on the hall stand, or the cushion she had liked to tuck under her head when lying on the sofa and reading one of her beloved books. Ovid, maybe, or one of the Greek plays she had been so fond of. When he finally locates the source, he goes to it, picks it up, buries his face in it, eyes shut tight, and breathes her in until it seems that she is once more in the room with him. It happens less often nowadays, and he supposes that eventually it will fade altogether; but until then, he treasures, and mourns over, every last trace of her, and the life that so nearly was theirs.

oooooo

The day she finally says goodbye, Elizabeth's disbelief vies with the grief and rage that have become her constant companions. That life could just go on exactly as before still shocks her; there should be something, some sign to show that her daughter can no longer feel the sunshine, or see the starlight. A vast volcanic eruption, say, tearing through the Earth's thin skin, sending lava flowing forth, immolating all in its path, or perhaps one of those dreadful tropical cyclones she has seen on the news… That would be a start, she thinks, I don't want anyone to actually die, there's been too much death already, but the world without Ruth is a world that has ceased to make sense, and there should be something to show that the light of my life has gone out.

oooooo

The day that he has been dreading arrives, and Malcolm rises earlier than usual; sleep had not come easily last night. Each time he had closed his eyes, she had been there, walking through his dreams. He sees her often these days, always as she was before Cotterdam, before she had chosen to sacrifice herself for him, back when she still knew how to smile and laugh. Before the light had died out of her eyes. Before George had been murdered in front of her, before she realised that Harry had allowed it to happen. No, in his dreams she is forever the brilliant young woman he had adored shyly from afar for so many years. He had known then, as he knows now, that her heart belonged to another, but he hadn't been able to help himself; he had been drawn in by her kindness, her intelligence, her gentle sense of humour. Like light, forever drawn to gravity, or to a black hole, he thinks wryly as he carefully knots his tie, for he had watched Ruth herself orbiting around the dark matter that was Harry Pearce, neither one able to break the connection and both unwilling to try. Oh, Ruth…

oooooo

They meet at the top of the headland, an hour before sunset, and file solemnly along the edge, the wind whipping at their coats and scarves, growing stronger the further they venture out onto the narrow, rocky peninsula. There are no families of day-trippers or dog-walkers now; salt spray from the roiling black waves below drifts over them, adding a further chill to an already cold day; but still they go further out, towards the heaving sea. Elizabeth leads the way, and the two men follow close behind as she picks her way along the steep, narrow path, and out to the storm-battered ruins of Tintagel. No other place had seemed right; growing up, Ruth had loved the wildness of the Cornish coast, and Tintagel especially, with its tantalising connection to the old Arthurian legends. She had devoured them by the shelf-load as a girl, her nose always in a book and her head in the clouds, until her father had died, and her world had been turned upside-down…I won't think about that now, today's sadness is already more than I can bear…

Elizabeth stumbles, tripping on the uneven ground, and is surprised when a firm hand takes hold of her elbow. "Allow me," Harry says courteously, offering his arm, and Elizabeth is even more surprised to find herself taking it. Who would have thought? A few steps behind, Malcolm smiles to himself at the sight: a month ago, she would have most likely pushed Harry off the cliff. A little further, and they are amidst the castle ruins, the crumbling walls of grey Cornish flint pockmarked with age and weathered by the ceaseless wind. Malcolm pauses a moment to rest and get his breath back after the steep climb; his chest is tight, and his breathing laboured, but for once, he doesn't think his wretched asthma has anything to do with it.

Reaching out, he touches the nearest wall, laying his hand against it to feel its solid reality as he struggles for equilibrium. Stone has a memory…perhaps she once rested her hand here, in this very spot… It seems to him that the rough-knapped rock beneath his fingers grows warmer, and he has the queerest feeling that if he just turns his head, Ruth will be there, her dark hair flying, her extraordinary eyes shining with the excitement of being once more in the place she had loved best in all the world, smiling at him. Look, Malcolm, isn't it fabulous? Can't you just see Ygrayne entering the Great Hall to greet her lord husband, Gorlois, not knowing that it was really Uther Pendragon, cloaked in Merlin's magic? Oh, can't you see? He can, all too well, though his vision has grown strangely blurred; he tells himself it must be the wind. Ruth, and Harry…they were born for each other, and yet so often divided by fate in life, and now once more, by death. When he does turn his head, it is to look into the same beautiful eyes, but these are older, and hold an infinity of sorrow in their opalescent depths. "It's time," Elizabeth says, her low voice so like Ruth's, and with an effort, he gathers himself to face the others.

oooooo

Harry is waiting under the westernmost arch, looking out to sea. Ruth had loved the ocean; she had once told him that the only thing that had made her exile in Cyprus bearable, was to go down to the local beach and swim in the warm turquoise waters of the Mediterranean until her mind was clear once more, and she could go back to her improvised life. This is a different ocean, a darker, more forbidding prospect altogether. Like me, he broods, and for the thousandth time wishes that Ruth was still living in Cyprus; anything, anything at all, would be preferable to the horrible reality, with all its attendant guilt and regret. Just off the cliffs, he makes out a lone sea-eagle spiralling slowly upwards in ever-widening circles, and instinctively, he looks for another; eagles, he knows, pair for life. But there is only one, now little more than a speck high in the darkening sky, and Harry feels desolate at the thought. I wonder what happened to his mate...perhaps she was caught in power-lines, or drowned by a freak wave, or it could be that some cruel human simply shot her out of the sky, and laughed as she fell...

I should never have told her so many secrets, I should have known it was too dangerous…her face, when George was shot. Of all the things I've seen in this life, this job, that's the sight that haunts me the most. That, and her lying on the cold, wet grass, her life draining away before my eyes… I caught a whiff of that same rank, musty smell, seaweed and stagnant water, on the way out here, and I was right back there again, on my knees praying to a god I've long since lost faith in, while she turned pale and cold in my arms. Ruth, my Ruth…why did you have to be so bloody good at your job? If you'd been just average, I'd have sent you back to GCHQ, and none of this would ever have happened…you'd have been safe, probably married to some egghead mathematician by now, and living happily in Cheltenham. And I…well, let's not think about that, not today...

Harry is startled out of his melancholy reverie by the sensation of a hand on his shoulder, and glances round to find Malcolm standing beside him, peering through the arch at the vast emptiness of the Celtic Sea, now beginning to take on a sullen red glow as the sun, already low in the sky at this time of the year, starts sliding towards the waves.

" 'Deep as first love, and wild with all regret,' " the other man says softly, his gaze fixed steadfastly on the sea, and Harry heaves a great sigh. "Tennyson, isn't it? He knew a thing or two about loss." Malcolm nods almost imperceptibly, "Yes, that's right. As do we, Harry. As do we." Elizabeth approaches, and both men tense at the sight of the thing in her hands, steeling themselves against what must now be endured.

oooooo

She is carrying a small silver urn as reverently as a mother holding her newborn; joining them under the arch, she begins to speak in a voice that shakes, and not just from the cold. Both men make as if to take off their coats, but the icy fierceness of her look stops them mid-movement. Just listen to me, it demands; I am talking now about my daughter, my only child. Elizabeth recalls her favourite memories of Ruth; gesturing towards the arch, she told them that when Ruth had been small, she had insisted that it was really a door into the past, or perhaps the future. Ruth had been such an unusual child, so bright and imaginative, and yet so serious… when she has said all she wants to say, she passes the urn to Malcolm, who receives it as if it is made of spun glass.

oooooo

He begins hesitantly, "I…I would like to read something. Usually I would read a poem, but I couldn't decide on one…there are so many that Ruth loved, and so many more that reminded me of her; and so I chose this," and with great care, he hands the urn to Harry, and takes a small, battered paperback out of his pocket, delicately turning the foxed and age-spotted pages. "This is one of my favourite books, and I know that Ruth loved it too. We often chatted about books, Ruth and I; and about history and art, music and ideas…she was so clever, and so kind, and I am so privileged to have known her as a friend…and...and, to tell the truth, I was always a bit in love with her, I think," and here he blushes so deeply that his face seems to be reflecting the setting sun. To hide the depth of his emotion, and to avoid Harry's gaze, he opens the book and begins to read in his rich, beautifully modulated voice.

"Lucy looked hard at the garden, and saw that it was not really a garden at all, but a whole world, with its own rivers and woods and sea and mountains. But they were not strange: she knew them all. 'I see,' she said. 'This is still Narnia, and more real and more beautiful than the Narnia down below, just as it was more real and more beautiful than the Narnia outside the stable door! I see…world within world, Narnia within Narnia…' 'Yes,' said Mr Tumnus, 'like an onion: except that as you go in and in and in, each circle is larger than the last.'" Malcolm glances up, and adds softly, "I'm going to try and think of Ruth, not as gone forever, but simply as having gone further up and further in, to a world far more real and more beautiful than the one we live in now." Swallowing hard past the lump in his throat, he returns the book to his pocket, and eyes Harry uncertainly. Please, please, please, don't let him take what I said the wrong way… he must surely know that he was the love of her life, the only one she ever thought of...

oooooo

Harry holds the urn between his square, broad hands – strong, capable hands, that have both given love, and taken life – and stares at it. How can this be all that's left of her…all that life, and brilliance, and love, reduced to ash and a few fragments of bone…it weighs hardly anything, and yet I feel as tired as if I've been on the Grid for days and days…Oh, Ruth, why did you have to do it? Step in front of that grief-maddened boy and his sliver of jagged glass? Deep in the innermost recesses of his heart, Harry thinks he knows why: for greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. It is the ultimate sacrifice, and one that he has witnessed far too many times… a tear drips onto the polished surface, then another, and a tremor runs right through his body as he struggles to maintain some semblance of control. Striving to speak normally, he says, "It's alright, Malcolm. She is…was…extraordinary in every way, and I know the two of you were close. The Brains Trust of the Grid, and all that. But to me, Ruth was so much more than the woman I loved for years, or the gifted analyst I relied on…she was a second chance for a man who thought he had used up every last scrap of luck in this life. Her love was like a miracle, and the time we had together was…was…too..." He pauses, shoulders heaving. "Ruth was my past, my present, my future, and my hope…" His voice cracks, and hugging the urn to his chest, he finally lets the tears fall, sobbing as if they were being wrung from his very soul.

oooooo

Elizabeth watches, and in spite of herself, her heart goes out to him; this proud, strong man is drowning before her eyes in an ocean of pain and guilt, and it would take a far harder and crueller heart than hers not to be moved. She still hates what has happened, but she cannot find it in herself to maintain hatred towards a man who is suffering as much as Harry. Impulsively, she steps forward and embraces him, and at her touch, he begins to weep in good earnest. Besides, she thinks, Ruth would want it. My daughter, who loved this man so much, for so long…she would want this. And then it is impossible to say who is comforting whom, for in each other they recognise the one person in the world who can truly understand the immensity of their loss.

Malcolm moves away discreetly, not wishing to intrude on such an intimate moment, and sees that the sun has almost sunk beneath the horizon; on the headland below, a bonfire is being lit, and there are people gathering around it, still fascinated by fire's power to transmute dead wood into living warmth and light, as humans have been since time immemorial. With a start, he realises that the bonfire must be for Samhain, the old Celtic fire-feast marking the beginning of the earth's long winter sleep; they still heed the ancient ways, in places such as this. The Celts believed that on this night, the world of the living drew near to the world of the dead, and that not all of the shadows dancing around the fire were from the flickering of the flames...

He shivers, and not just from the bone-aching cold and the knife-like wind, now blowing out to sea.

From further along the coast, he catches the familiar low whap-whap-whap of rotor blades. We haven't much time left, he realises, and turns back to the others. Harry has heard it too, and breaking apart, he and Elizabeth join Malcolm on the other side of the arch to stand at the cliff's edge, high above the dark ocean crashing onto the wicked-looking rocks below; it is a dizzying sight.

The rising wind pushes at them, but no-one speaks, for they are remembering Ruth. There is a final flare of light from the dying sun, setting the sea on fire, and illuminating the cliffs with crimson. Malcolm and Elizabeth nod, and Harry draws his arm back, before sending the urn with all his strength towards the horizon. The urn arcs gracefully through the air, falling for what seems a long time before sinking beneath the water. Malcolm feels that at any second an otherworldly arm might rise out of the ocean in acknowledgement, and then chastens himself for being fanciful. By the last rays of light, they turn and make their way along the narrow bridge and back up the steps, as the whap-whap-whap grows nearer and night falls. Malcolm is last through the arch. "Vale, Ruth," he whispers, not looking back; his Cambridge education and his conventional faith aside, Malcolm is yet enough of a Celt to sense when he is in one of the old places of power, and Tintagel hums with it. A door between past and present, indeed…he hastens to catch up with the others before the rain, which has been threatening all day, begins to fall.

oooooo

The path ahead of them suddenly lights up, bright as day, the grass ripples concentrically in the powerful downdraught, a loud thudding fills the air, and the RAF Sea King descends slowly, majestically, towards them. Malcolm turns to Harry apologetically. "That's my lift, I'm afraid," he shouts, over the noise of the rotors, and the older man shakes his head in wonder. "Even I don't have the RAF on tap; how do you do it?" Malcolm smiles back, "Well, I could tell you…" and Harry finishes the old Service joke, "But then you'd have to kill me; yes, all right." Serious now, he adds, "Malcolm…thank you. For everything. I owe y…"

"Nothing, there are no debts between friends," Malcolm interjects swiftly, for the helicopter is on the ground; and before either man can think, he reaches out to hug Harry hard. "I have to go," he says, and Harry, awkwardly returning the embrace, nods. "I don't suppose you'd like to divulge your final destination? No-one at Five seems to know where you actually live, other than somewhere in the wilds of Wales…" Malcolm steps back, pulling his coat close. "And that's how I'd like to keep it, if you don't mind; I want no more of that life. Please, take care, Harry." His voice is gentle, but there's a note of finality in it, and Harry feels oddly disappointed, rebuffed, even. Malcolm turns to say goodbye to Elizabeth, embracing her warmly, before hurrying towards the main door, now sliding open in welcome. He hopes Harry will like his farewell present...he has been working on it for weeks.

oooooo

Harry stands stock-still, staring incredulously as not one, but two very familiar figures emerge from the belly of the Sea King; one, a fair-haired woman, in ethnic-looking garb; and the other, a tall, painfully thin young man with a shock of dark, curly hair and an apprehensive expression on his face as he draws nearer to the father he hasn't seen in years. "Graham?" Harry says wonderingly, and then he is running, bad knee be damned, towards his family.

oooooo

Elizabeth slips away, unable to witness the reunion of father and children, for her own loss is still too raw to bear the sight; but her heart no longer sits like cold lead in her chest, and she thinks that one day, perhaps, she will be able to forgive him completely. Not for his sake, but for her own; she hopes her daughter will understand. One day at a time, my darling…that's all I can promise: one day at a time.

oooooo

The tall, fair young pilot looks down at the three people huddled together against the buffeting of the rotor blades as the big yellow helicopter lifts off, and thinks, He's going to survive, even if he doesn't know it yet…and we need men like him now, more than ever, to stand between us and those who would destroy everything that we hold most dear. Into his headset he asks, "Everything all right back there?" There is a long pause, and then his passenger replies quietly, "No, but it will be," before adding in Welsh, "I am longing to be at home once more." The pilot chuckles, "So am I. It was good to see Dad, though," and turns his attention fully to the business of flying as the rain finally arrives, lashing against the fuselage and sluicing off the windscreen.

oooooo

Harry hears his phone beep when he is walking back to the car-park with Catherine and Graham, but pays it no mind until much later, back in his room, when he recalls it with a start, and retrieves it from his coat pocket. There are several voice-mails - Erin, Dimitri, and Callum, amongst them - and a text from an unknown number.

England expects that every man will do his duty, he reads, and smiles grimly at the coded message from Tom Quinn in Russia: Victory. Harry thinks, Or perhaps vengeance is a better word… A small card had fallen out of the coat-pocket when he removed his phone, and he picks it up; on the front is engraved a mobile phone number with its owner's name, and on the back, written in Malcolm's strong, precise hand, are the words, "Quod est, eo decet uti: et quicquid agas, agree pro viribus."

His smile widens until it reaches his eyes: trust Malcolm to slip something into my pocket under the guise of a hug. He's still a spook, whether he wants to admit it or not, and the most impeccably decent man I've ever known. I'd better make sure that his faith in me isn't misplaced...besides, she would have expected it. 'We're the watchers on the wall,' she used to say; well, now I'll be like that eagle, alone, but still on the wing, still vigilant.

That night, Harry goes to bed sober for the first time since losing Ruth, and early the next morning, while Catherine and Graham are still asleep in the Victorian monstrosity of a hotel, he goes for a walk along the edge of the cliffs, breathing in the fresh-washed scent of the earth after last night's storm, and makes a phone call to the Director-General.

"Yes, it's Harry Pearce. I'm ready to come back."

A/N: Malcom is quoting from Tennyson's poem 'Tears, Idle Tears'. Harry thinks of John 15:13 when he realises why Ruth chose to protect him from Sasha's attack. Malcolm's reading is from CS Lewis' 'The Last Battle'. The message Malcolm leaves for Harry on his visiting card is a quote of Cicero's: 'What one has, one ought to use; and whatever he does he should do with all his might.'