The Sentinels after delacroix

He would stay like this forever if the world would let him. Perhaps to die in her arms - his Monet, his beautiful Monet - but gradually he came back to himself, and he knew this was not her. She tended to him carefully, sweetly, just as his sister might have; and he was pleased by her attention. It did not stop the ebb and flow of the pain in his head, but she collected the stars from his eyes, put them back where they belonged. Her voice was soothing, and gradually Renoir felt as if he was much better. He tried to stand despite her hovering over him; the hustle of his movement brought him very close to her again, and he felt his snout drift through her colorless fur as if to kiss the nearest part. His eyes landed upon the rocks then, and he squinted, confused, until understanding finally returned to him.

The food - he murmured, voice thick, -where, oh, I 'ave failed 'ou, for he saw that the creature was gone. His easy kill was meaningless next to the whims of the sea. Had he realized sooner that the creatures own struggles kept it rooted in place, and that his intervention would cause it to lose grip and be flung out among the depths, he would never have been so aloof about his attempt. He swayed on his feet while stepping closer, sniffing the air, investigating, and sank to his haunch against one of the barnacled boulders.