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"That makes him your incubus", says Erik. "My what?"  Ethan seems right now very alone, very vulnerable.  Childlike. Francois replies, "An incubus is a kind of demon that tries to inhabit you at night and have sex with you."  Then, very uncharacteristically, he puts his hand on Ethan's shoulder and adds, "That isn't it, either, is it." Ethan now is really struggling and his voice is cracked and tremulous as though he is trying to dam into oblivion many centuries of unwept tears. "Who are you, really, Ethan?"  interjects Carl, a tremor of impatience edging his voice.  "Or are you Adrian?  Tron.  Look, like the others here I also saw you as Tron, otherwise I would be keying 911 on my phone at this very minute." Ethan right now is staring into space, then his voice begins taking a deeper, more authoritative resonance as he says, "It was those nails, those great hideous iron spikes that were driven each one into my hands, and one through both my feet and I knew I was being bestowed an honour I had done nothing to earn.  And unlike our first bishop Peter, it was too late to implore them that they crucify me upside down, because I was not worthy to die for my Lord as He died for me."  And now the light seems to have passed from Ethan's face, and now he is seated there, just and only Ethan.  A visible shudder passes through his body.  He looks up at us, takes a slow sip of coffee, exhales deeply, then says in a low murmur, "He's gone." "Who is gone?" I ask. "Adrian", he whispers.  Francois' hand is still resting on his shoulder.  "He is gone.  He has left me..."