Ravens and years both fly, and flocks like months have ticked across the sky of time. You are king of ever growing territories, hillocks and mounds, meadows of former chaotic and corrupted earth, now transformed to the renewal that the Holly King brings, always with the sacrifice of blood and toil.

     As big as it is, Powis Castle is becoming intimate once more. All that's left are a couple of cousins, and your husbands two and children three.

     A moment's pause is all there is. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. I understand your part of the argument. I can understand his regret. I ...appreciate it more... what he was going through, or I imagine he was going through, when we were young.

     Stolen moments. You and he shall have to become master thieves, plucking moments in spontaneous silence.

     "Now, I am an engineer. I have built many buildings, castles, cathedrals. But I do not know how to reconstruct this friendship. This family. It's broken. So... he has made a new one." Frowning, he shakes his head. "Maybe that is all we can do. Make new families, and leave the rubble where it lies."

     Here stand two kindred spirits, bound by family, blood, bad habits and emotion. But though they speak the same language, and though they stand not ten feet apart, there's a chasm between them, these men, neither of them a bridge-builder.

     "Consider this your invitation," he says after a moment. "When you're ready to join me out here," his gaze trails across to the wide horizon of Infinity, "...you will. When you are meant to. It will be good... not to walk the shadows alone."

     "I was kneeling in front of Io, realizing that this man, this king, was not but a handful of years ago by London's clock sitting in a wagon with my pilot cap on being pulled around by corgies. Now the corgies are dead, he and his brother are grown men..."

     "Would I be happier in knowledge or ignorance? Let's ask Adam, shall we? I believe that is the quintessential question of the universe, my brother. For now, give me the illusion of ignorance. If you are still seeing him in a year, then... come confess, my door will be open for you as always."

     "I was angry. I swam out to sea. I became ...the dragon I am and opened my mouth for a great roar. I swallowed the pirates whole and coughed up treasure for about four hours. My throat is still sore. But.... it is what it is."

     The metallic steel crash of strings rattles through the amplifier in the flat above Black Jack Davy's. It's an hour past noon and Iowerth and his ... companion ... are out for the day. Gwilym Gwyn Garu is taking advantage of the opportunity to break the silence in a noisy fucker sort of way.

     He crosses to one of the other tables, sitting on the edge of it, letting his legs swing. "I'm scouting for an apartment over one of the little clubs. Music in the evening, cheap vodka, easy women - all the things mother'd warn me against. I don't plan on avoiding you, Io, I just ... I don't know. I have - things to figure out."

     That's the look on his face as you come at him with a sword. He can disarm you -- he's not worried about that -- but he doesn't want you to hurt yourself. "Now, sweetheart... put the sword away and let's talk about this rationally..."

     "When the time has come for me to empty myself of all of my tales, I swear to you, good gentlemen, that your stories shall not remain untold."

     "Thank you for showing me," he whispers. But now that we have both seen ourselves in the clear light, what shall evening have to offer us. Foolish mistake, Alire. Foolish, and you know better, prince.

     And below, an ocean of water transforms to an ocean of sky as starpocked below as it is above. It parts, shimmering as the ship cuts through it. This is where the ocean has yet to dream itself into being. Here, on the frontier of Forever. It is where the End and the Beginning meet.

     Permission was given not only for him to cross the Marches again, but to manifest within the Tower walls itself. Into the Dream itself. An honor in that, and he was keenly aware. But his mission, this time, is simple. To have a moment with the Sentinel he loves. To give the Sentinel some comfort that the others of the Tower cannot provide.

     She shifts, making a quiet sound as your mouth finds her earlobe. The colour pink travels along her skin in a trail along the side of her throat, behind her ear, rendering her almost incapable of speech - soluble in that touch as if to dissolve in water, becoming disparate nothingness within the greater body and volume. "...There is something I must give to you as well."

     "I think of my friends. And of the wrong I have done them when I bolted from my position...and how they will feel when I have to leave them. That's my one regret," Davydd nods to himself, and he looks to you and to the departing sun. Even that much of it burns his eyes. Even in dreams.

     His hands rest upon his thighs, his head bowing a moment, and then he looks up to the sky. "Yes, I am ready, Cosimina. I ... must hear it. There is no point running from fortune, fate or time. They will always catch you." Dark eyes turn to you, his face shown to you and his expression.

     The archangel does not ask how you are doing. That is evident. Nor what happened. He knows. Or what you might need. It is evident. Instead, he simply exists in the space, taking Time. Giving Time away to you. It is yours of his to do as you wish.

     Do old piers dream? Do they stand in murky water pondering the past days, of clippers and caravels and boxes, ropes and men? With feet at the edge of the pier, Davydd ap Owain reaches into the darkness with his left hand, sinister fingers plucking at the air, and it pulls elastic in his grasp like the skin of a balloon.

     "I would ...respect her enmity and her power, but I would not as of yet worry about it. We will arm as any kingdom should, and prepare as any kingdom should."

     The luito speaks. I listen. Through its strings, it reminds me of songs that I have sung. Things I have done, all the good things. All the righteous things.

     "Well," he exhales, pausing to remove the jacket after a moment later, losing nothing by the shedding of a layer. "I think it is a meaningless challenge."

     The crowd parts slightly as a figure, rather stocky with blonde hair, is tossed backwards into the throng. A couple catch the victim, affectionally yelled at as Hock, and push him, unceremoniously, back into the central fray. They move around to complete the circle once more.

     "...I've learned a lot about my own choices recently. They haven't been the best. The trick is not to repeat them. There's only the potential of forever. Forever... really only exists if you're God. And I'm many things, but I'm not God."

     A single starling lifts from his rest, a single starling takes to the wing, a single starling flies to an open window. The herald, the totem of the Holly King...

     ...Where once there were oak trees, holly trees sprout suddenly upon the earth both wide and tall. Branches spring with taloned, evergreen leaves, and the forms of living dragons surround the roots and trunks, etched even into the skin of the trees. Same as he.

     The Oak King doesn't so much as blush. The look is more blasé. Hey, once you find out Edward Meurelle, Vicomte of Blois and all around man's man is taking it up the back nine, nothing is shocking.

     He is fairly certain that the fountain was never meant to be used in that fashion.

     "So, to friends, yes?" He lifts the glass again and turns back to the kitchen. Who would know the enmity that exists beneath the pleasant smiles and genial conversation? Who would know indeed.

     "You...don't like him..." Cesare observes, saying it directly. He smiles though.
     "No, I don't." Nate's honest answer.

     Another swallow is hurriedly downed, and Cesare looks into the glass of white. "We...haven't talked much about it of late. Those memories," he says softly. "I...don't know sometimes," he admits nervously, "...what they all mean."

     "Perfectly alright, " The voice is Spanish accented, "It is not possible to win everything that one might want. It was a worthwhile night, none the less."

     I am not toying with you, my dear, I am only delaying you... Karoly, murderess of Johannes Arnaul of Saarbruken. My name is Toreador, and I have come for the blood you owe me...

     Enter VALAN MONTAGUE, the Hip, Young Man About Town. Waiting on the Tower Bridge is the Duke of Normandy, GUILLAUME d'ANGEVIN, clothed in a dark suit with an equally dark overcoat.

     Your spouse wanders on the parapets tonight, blue and scented smoke trailing his slow stride. It is a way of connecting, disconnecting and imprinting. It is a lord's walk, a prince's walk on the walls, walking among the tower. Below the lights of the ville twinkle and the lights on the Vienne and the bridge that crosses over it.

     Abbey, hospital, college, tomb and prison -- it moved through its ages like a man or woman, with glorious beginnings, difficult adolescence, opulant maturity and aged ruination.

     An old-fashioned Bacchanal. With attendance by Athens, no less. Under the watchful eyes of Athens, Gaul gives its own tribute to the vine and wine god. Yes, with all the furor of a truly Gallic happening...

     In each vineyard, there are feet crushing grapes, juice that is tasted, wine that will be made from the old-fashioned labor of feet. This wine will be used next year, in hopes for a better harvest than some have seen due to the strange late summer weather.

     "In less than a year and a day, you will find him. You will find Answers, though they won't be the ones you are expecting." His words filling the space of those crawling moments, before the coin falls the scant foot to the table.

     In other words, Kit Marlowe aka Galadriel Cherub of Dreams and Sentinel of Aspirations is on vacation. A stay at home sort of holiday, with an iced latte, overlooking Gabriel's Wharfside, his boat, and all of London's teaming tourist traffic.

     There is one more in the club, now, than there was a moment before. The vertigo and emptiness shifts to a momentary feeling of claustrophobia, then flees entirely.

     There is a glance back past the foyer's reach and into the living room, but then he turns with you and heads out the front door. Behind, two sets of bags sitting with the ghosts of bags past all around them. But this time, their destination is the same...

     It was 1942 and it had been two months since I had seen him. Him. That would be Ian Dunross.

The man, lost in thought, rests against the trunk of the tree. His cheek against bark, his fingers travelling along it, as if it were the body of a lover. It is the body of a lover.

This prison place tastes damp, the smell of stone ? cold and unforgiving ? and the faint scent of anger and frustration. This world is so empty for the nose and lips. Through countless short eternities these two lovers grow bored. They complain, to the others, that the fingers and eyes have worlds to explore while they have nothing. The ears, though, envy them their empty world, and thus the two are silent.

The beetles move in unison, even if their eyes do not. They scan the room, with those too-human eyes. The eyes of children stolen at a very young age, they watch the world with an innocence that borders on frightening. More so, considering the being that these eyes reside upon.

     The large tome of Alhambra rests upon a table, there beside it a glass that has been used intermittently and throughout the day. And another book beside it, the Story of Pi and another Zero.

     A glass insect lands upon Damien's shoulder, and looks up at him with a dozen human eyes. Each blink according to some indepedent rhythm, unfettered by the motions of the other eyes. "My Love? I looked for you in your apartment, and couldn't find you. I sought you in the streets of Paris, and you were gone. I found you, though it took me many of your years. Where is this place?"

      "Our Lady stands, and so do we. If nothing else, I should think that victory would please."

      "Of course it matters," Alire continues. "And you are correct. You are not going to hurt yourself or him. I will not allow it," and the command that comes through is not a Templar's command, certainly not one that Alire would normally assume, but it is a vampire's mantle. That of a prince.

     Alire looks to you for a long moment. No... you are my Giancarlo and not my Giancarlo. You are my Michele and not my Michele. You, like me now, are some ...creature in between. "Dreams?"

     "I knew," his French comes, "...you would not forget me, Alire. You would not leave me. I asked God to help me, to help us, and my wish came true." Michele smiles weakly, the tears sliding down his face. "Say that we will be together always. Promise me, my Alire..."

     "I have dealt with the Past," he says it defiantly, though how can that be true if he is still so affected by it. "I have had my anger. I have had my sorrow. I do not want it anymore... again... I am ... not haunted. Have I not ... put those things to rest?"

     A thrumming in the back of the head, fluttering, follows the clocks. A ripple in the floorboards, imperceptible to most. The sound of something rushing forward at incredible speed.

     "Babi is the quite busy semi-deity," comes a perturbed voice... from the heretofore still statue, "...who can't be seen without an appointment. Do... you have an appointment?" And the airy voice of an Eternal Bureaucrat settles its emphasis on the two intruders. Eyes open and a stony eyebrow lifts angular. And skeptical.

     The wind moves through my Most Beloved. Through the cavernous holes I have created, whispering. Through the great leaves, through the canopy that hides the sky. That hides the stars from my eyes. Issuing, ten-thousand scratches upon the soft bark of my mangrove tree, I mark my way even as I make my way. Slow, upward for another evening. Unseen in the branches, though a living city. The hotel windows nearby, clear views of the garden. But the tree, O my Most Beloved, is a protective tangle.

     Then a knock on the door. Perfect to the ticking of the clock. The man is out there, waiting. A small slip of paper in his hand on which is written this address. And a name.

     And inevitably, War and Time create fissures of space, fissures that can become schisms or chasms. Soon it's a century and you wondered what happened. Then two, and you wonder if you ever knew the truth, or loved, or any of it.

     "Moving to London to be...with this Man," said not as the word seems. More encompassing. "It is a grand, great, frightening, dangerous, marvelous, and loving life you stand ready to embark on, Valan Montague," Ian says softly. "I wish you nothing but joy, peace, success, and luck."

     The craftsmanship alone make the figurine worthwile. An old boat, the curved hull made of Lebanese cypress. The fine pieces curve and are joined by the tinest of fittings, mimicing the ships of old. A ship you once travelled in, so very long ago.

     Such stories begin this way. No fable should be without its chateau and a winter landscape. And so it begins...

          She looks up, her golden-white hair cascading around her body. Aphrodite's daughter...she is nothing of Eve. "Will? You...alright?" You are indeed...confused. She peers at you, and then smirks, "Wow, forgotten already?"

     The look says it all: Lie, me? But the grin confirms it. "It is warmer than the Pacific...oui? Get in, she will not bite..." The river that is. He makes no such promises regarding himself.