Author's notes: This is my first Sentinel story. (published: 03/14/99) It's very short, but I worked hard on it. Warning: death story. If this isn't your thing, skip it.

I found cold comfort, once, in the consolation prize of touch. Content with simple, uncomplicated contact, I never pressed, unwilling to risk our closeness, our bond. Not with words, anyway. Oh, I was pushing things every time I touched you, and I knew it. But I craved it. To feel you ease against my hand... Blair, nothing was sweeter than your mute acceptance.

Maybe I was confusing acceptance with understanding, but I always liked to think that you knew. How I felt. Sometimes, it was comforting. After all, why wouldn't you-- so well versed in so many languages-- be able to grasp what I never said aloud? I wanted to believe that you understood why I touched you, and worse, why I couldn't speak. I wanted it so badly-- but I swear to you I thought it best to be silent.

And if you were here, you would understand why, wouldn't you? Because it was always sounds that tormented me. Discord and cacophony, the intrusions of my senses, shredding whatever fragile moments of peace I managed to wring from the world. Reaching out with those senses seemed to cause only pain; I listened, but heard nothing I cared to hear.

Now I know better: the silence is worse.

And as I kneel, and run my hand over the cool, pitted marble, slick with drizzle, I understand how horribly futile touch is. There is no comfort here. And I pray now that you didn't know. Blair, if you can hear me, if you are here, and if you can-- tell me you weren't hurt by my unspoken words. Speak, love. Please. Tell me you weren't drowned in my silence, buried by my need, haunted by my touch.

Please, Blair, please...

God, suddenly it's cold.