Not many in Atlantis know Major Lorne is an artist.

He’s painted the city more times than he can count, each new angle capturing another facet, another mood. He’s seen his share of beauty, but the city riding high on the glimmering sea never fails to take his breath away.

Tonight he takes on another subject. Curled up in his quarters, he sketches an outline to paint over. So far, the canvas contains two shoulders, an elegant collarbone, and a vague, ill-defined face shape. Who is she? Even he hardly knows.

With a discouraged sigh, he pockets his pencil and rolls out of bed. His bare feet take him down the hall to a balcony overlooking the lower levels. The night air is crisp and quiet, the dim light just enough to see by. He sets his things down and leans on the railing, letting the wind waft through his hair and ease his frustration.

His steely eyes glint in the pale moonlight. Who is she? Again he cannot answer. Is she nearby? It’s possible. There must be someone back home, but who he isn’t certain.

Home. It feels strange to use that word for the faraway planet he hasn’t been to in ages. Oh, he’s visited on occasion – nearly everyone has – but has either been called back or was soon ready to return on his own.

His old apartment, his country, his world – these were no longer home.

No, he decides. His place is here. Picking up his canvas, he erases the drawing there and begins to paint Atlantis once again.

Perhaps she is the one that truly holds his heart.