The Sentinels The pain passes, but the beauty remains.

He remained oblivious to the presence of the new mother, if only because his thoughts were so overwhelmingly focused upon Deirdre. She was all he thought of these days - her face imagined in his mind, her silhouette, her smell, her voice. When he was not wallowing in his sadness, of course. Renoir was often sad these days. He was waiting so patiently for her, but in his heart he doubted even Deirdre now.

Renoir lingered for a moment over a patch of fresh flowers; they were so new that many of the buds had yet to open, and they spread out beneath him as tiny dots of white upon the thick blanket of green. He dipped his head and looked at them, studied them, and tried to investigate their smell, but could only detect the aroma of dirt. Even the flowers had lost their beauty to him! Oh, it was a worrisome moment indeed, and briefly the boy frowned down at the flowers, as if they were at fault for his depression.