The sea looked too peaceful, like a body in a coffin. Dark. Just . . .there. Not threatening, but lapping gently at the base of the great city he called home. A city he was certain he'd never see again.

It had been amazing to be able to walk the halls of Atlantis again, to have so much space around him. To have light to see by, to stand on the airy balcony and see the sky yawning above him as the sun dipped lazily to the ocean. The water moved in steady beats, the pulse of the planet he now called home.

And now the sea was dark. As dark as his thoughts had been in that jumper, as dark as the silent desperation he had felt.

He could see through the surface. He could stand there on the balcony and stare down deeply, his eyes penetrating the water, his body shaking with remembered cold, his muscles clenching tightly in suppressed terror. If he imagined things just right, if he allowed his mind to take him back, he could sense the weight of the water. He could close his eyes and listen to the distant lapping, and know the motions of the current, because while he was trapped down there, he was all too aware of it. It was a part of him now. He knew that ocean better than anyone.

It was a warning in the most subtle way. Even here, nature had a way of taking hold and slapping the inhabitants in the face. He was saved, not by his friends, but by a creature of the deep, who listened to the currents blocked by a distress call. Technology had put him in danger. A whale had saved him. And he was allowed to escape the frigid grip of a large, dark hand that held so many of their dead.

He now was a victim of the essence of the planet, and for the rest of his stay on Atlantis, he would feel the water pull him into black depths, he would despise jumpers, and he would stand out on the balcony, and know the water was waiting for him.

And he would stare back.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

- Dylan Thomas