"..."They're watching for weaknesses in the link that they can exploit. If they don't see any here, they'll move on to find something more exploitable, or they'll turn to make a weakness, through political imbroglio, through violence, through disruption of trade, through a bit of everything..."

     "You know, you can't keep this up indefinitely." Fiona appears in the doorway of your office, bulging belly and all, with the cheeky impunity of being your grandmother, the king's mother, and pregnant. It is a triple threat nobody really wants to counter.

     Gillian's accent is still as precise as ever. She's calm, but the tension crackles for a moment, irritation flaring in the grey ice eyes. "Anyway, I'm not here to yell and scream at you. I'm here to talk about the future."

     Tilting his head, Davydd looks to Fiona. "Sounds familiar doesn't it," he grins. "I'm getting misty with the memories."

     It will disappear, just like everything else does in Time. Footprint, fingerprint, fine art, and memory. I just want to be alone...

     "...I have to find a replacement - sommat else, to fill the gap, before anybody takes too much notice. I have to do it yesterday. If you spot someone before I do - send word that nobody else can hear or see."

     "Well, whatever we're going to say, we better think fast," Pres mutters, slouching down again. "Here she comes." Maddie turns, eyes and lips rounding as she spots their sister.

     "You can always choose to quit, Loki. If you do not wish to be a priest, then you will be doing my king no good with your service. You will tax his energy, and your own. And you will both be less for it. Be honest," Aeron murmurs as he takes the 8-ball and rolls it down the length of the table, sinking it into the left corner pocket.

     "Reincarnation is not about fairness, you see. India is not fair; life is not fair. And, by extension," Valmiki's smile includes and encompasses a wince, "the universe itself... there is no true fairness save that which mankind attempts to impose upon its surroundings. An argument can be made that doing so is a mistake; even if it is not a mistake, it is a quixotism. I am, myself, a quixote."

     Aeron sobs into your mouth, the kiss a tangle of mouths and breaths and a quiet groan of despair. I have designed it, built it since I was ten years old. And a bright shining light has ruined it all.

     "The Birth of Venus," Gruffydd says suddenly, grand peacock wings making themselves known, spreading with relaxation. "You remind me of the Botticelli painting." He shimmers in his own exotic grandeur, made more so by merely being in your shimmering presence.

     Heavy, pendulous fruit, glistening with ripe nectar, release their perfumes around you. Bees, butterflies and hummingbirds sip at brandied sugar. Vines of honeysuckle and jasmine tangle overhead and spread over the sand and into the sea.

     She stares at the open box with disbelief and almost with dismay. This makes it all real, it makes it serious. She cannot pretend otherwise; she cannot deny it or disregard it. And, despite herself, she has to admit - she is intrigued...

     You're so good to know that there's always a Story.

     There is connective tissue between you, the meter of music like a heartbeat you share. He moves with you, supporting, dashing ahead to circle back to you again. The voices of the violins sing in counterpart. Yours, the steady melody. His, the wandering, circling flourish. The raven that circles your path...

     Love and hope and sex and dreams
     Are still surviving on the street
     Look at me, I'm in tatters!
     I'm shattered...
     Shadoobie...

     "Let me try this again, chronologically. I met this guy in a bar..."

     He looks between brothers and eyes them with the internal weariness of a man who's never had kids. "Time out." Gwilym does the internationally recognized signal for it of the tee of hands.

     I don't want to be wrong again...

     Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end. He doesn't try to put it into words out loud. All he does is reflect a tiny portion of that affection back in your direction, in a small assurance of a friend.

     The only trouble with world-views is that they tend to narrow one's view on everything. And so... goggles off, Preston West. The world's just gotten a great deal more interesting...

     "But... and I don't know, by the way... we haven't actually discussed it but... what if I become king and... she doesn't want to become a queen? What if it's more than she's bargained for? I don't want to force anything on her, Nainie..."

     "Soon, I'll be calling you Your Majesty. I'm not sure I'm ready for that, to be honest. To me, you will always be the little boy who crept in our bed every time it thundered."

     It is the morning prayer, you with the water in your hair. And in each droplet's bouncing, the water turns to sunlight, turns to honey, turns to pure gold to his senses.

     She brushes her fingers through her hair, then picks up her drink. "It'd be impossible for him to run off with it. He'd have to find it. I just ..." She looks forlorn. "I seem to have misplaced my confidence. I don't know where it went, Loki. I need help."

     As Serendipity would have it, I believe there is a young man who may be capable of filling a role. He desires to learn, to do something meaningful with his existence. He yearns for that meaning and to find himself a place in one world or another. Perhaps this is what his destiny had in mind for him.

     "What if I were to tell you that your wish to be a seafaring adventurer could come true. In fact, that somewhere there are tall ships that still sail and spices that are still contested. What would you say were I to tell you that I could make this dream of yours a reality?"

     Long sweeping lashes lift their curtains to you, the lavender eyes sparkling in the spreading of his smile, the sunset of the day, and all its deepening delight.

     "I have an impending sense of doom myself at the moment. Maybe it's contagious. So... what's yours? Maybe we can trade..."

     "Sex is a joy and a comfort. It's also fun." Gwilym grins and sits up now, looking over at you. "And it's also entirely possible to fuck up human relationships without it, so not having sex isn't a get out of trouble free card."

     "Dear God," Iowerth says, turning to you, "...how will we contain our son, the Burning Inferno come Midsummer? This ... is going to be interesting..." But interesting in the way that makes him suddenly tired.

     My god... it's full of stars...

     "...You are on the Hero's Journey now, Loki. And I'm sure you realize that it's not exactly the easiest road to follow. The clues are obscure at best," Aeron drawls out, "...the gods occasionally fickle and prone to obfuscation..."

     But he's not worried about Loki just now. He'll visit him later. Aeron's gaze and Aeron's thoughts are on his king. "Brother-king," he murmurs, "...you are too hard on yourself. Do not do the Universe's work for It."

     He glances to you and then to the dog. "Intelligence is a curse. But you have earned a right to know things, Loki. So - go ahead and ask."

     "The legends do say I was born at night," Aeron's voice is a somnolent murmur, dreamy and even and droll. "But not last night."

     "...Enjoy him when he comes to you to show you a part of the universe, to teach you. Please him, because you love him and have faith in him. Please him, because you enjoy it. When you surrender yourself to serve him, you will find yourself freed."

     He leans back just slightly, his fingers glancing across the rubies of the orchid. Balthazar lifts his gaze from it to your face. "You write me, and I sing you," he says, his voice soft and deep.

     "I could slay a dragon for y', if that's what you want," Gwilym offers easily. "Or I could show you a dragon. One I'm not related t'. Why are you standing in the dark watching trees?"

     Balthazar smirks as he sips. "I suppose it has to be good for something..."

     "How can I assume they will understand any of this?"

     "Well, it's not about people telling you what to do, Loki. You cannot be a passive observer now. You've... made the deal."

     "Psychologically, I'd say the significance of the snow is your lack of resolve. You're confused, and you don't want to make a decision because the choices available to you either suck or are too unknown in their long-term consequences. You do not want to shut the door, but you have not yet decided to open it, either."

     Gillian stops to take a sip of wine, and her fidgeting comes to a halt. She lifts her chin casually, giving you a steady scrutiny that anyone familiar with the West girls would recognize and probably want to run from. "I want you to marry me."

     If I could whisper in your ear and have you hear me, I would say but this: Believe, Gillian.

     Nature hates an echo, Bran...

     Loki follows Gwilym without further question or complaint. Maybe one glance to Aeron, before he moves. The promise of coffee ahead helps, but more of it is that he only has so much energy to give to irritation at his own confusion when the world is busy being very strange around him.

     There is little that is more enjoyable than the prick of the holly leaf. Little that is more potent than the bitter balm of the holly berry. There is little that is more stinging than the potential loss of the Holly King's favor...

     Loki watches the bird a moment, then turns away, taking his cup with him. Whiskey goes better with coffee than alone, especially at this time of day. If you say so. There's only a faint undercurrent of the weary adolescent, Whatever.

     Loki slides back, dragging his foot away. "Sure." And on tonight's episode of Seventeen Synonyms For Yes... He stands up, momentarily shaky for reasons that have nothing to do with general ability to walk.

     Home. With my family. With you, my first and most enduring love. How we have fought to be here today. "I think," Tiernan murmurs to you, giving your wrist a squeeze, "we need to set that date, my king."

     One hand comes off the door, held out to you for an American four-square handshake. Intelligent grey eyes meet yours over the rims of her glasses challengingly and thoughtfully. What do you say, Professor Davies? Do you want to play with me?

     Gwilym takes another step forward, his hand on your shoulder and his other hand threading into your hair with electric speed. One moment he's out of range, the next, he's in range, bending in close with unwinking attention. "Get over it."

     "Well, that presumes you really are driving, and that changing stations isn't better done by the person who isn't supposed to be keeping his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel," Gwilym answers promptly. "No man's an island, Loki, no man's son."

     "They both have a problem with doing. One is doing well, but thinks he does not do enough. The other does too much and thinks that everything he does is suspect. So... through doing... they will learn. You were right in throwing them together. The future Oak King must know the ways of the Holly King if he is to take his position."

     "Tss," Davydd whispers, "..you're going to burn a hole in my fancy rugs with that temper. Go get some air. Fetch Ani," Davydd pats him on the shoulder. "Tell him it's time for supper."

     "You know," Gwilym tells you, his face upside-down relative to yours at the angle he's bending, "this isn't satori you're building for yourself. It's not even a very good escape, is it? It doesn't defend y' from feeling a damned thing."

     "Well, research - I'm your girl. Glad you're fine. Sorry Pres isn't." The corners of her mouth turn down, and her shoulders visibly drop. "Tell me about it?"

     Gwilym smiles again, and he stands straight, moving to your side of the table, moving towards the corner behind you, looking over his shoulder and down at you. "So. Now what, Loki, no man's son?"

     "...I think we can ...work around one another. I will be sensitive to what you need with Loki. And... I will just... work around it. Whatever it may be or mean." Balthazar smirks, his hands returning to his pockets. "It's just rock and roll, uncle."

     And his eyes go from cinnamon to amber, like the embers of resin popping in a brazier.

     He sets the empty glass aside. "And you still have not said who this person is, this project and this catalyst. Does our... intersection have a name?"

     This news is to tidbits what the Hope Diamond is to rocks...

     Okay. So this isn't precisely what usually happens. But the principle is the same. Candy, strangers, see "Do not take" and go from there.

     "Caustic," he notes with something of appreciation to his tone. "I don't know who the Lakers are," he drags on. "But I do love a good decimation. That is why god invented rugby."

     "My father would kill me if he knew I were taking rides from strange men I met in clubs," Loki says, either oblivious to any potential innuendo in what he said or prepared to pretend he is. "Let's take your bike, save the cash for the good drinks."

     For a week or more, as time in the empire is kept, Balthazar had been in a constant state of Behind and constantly running. A band on the run, he fancied himself, slipping from realm to realm in between gigs and rehearsals, phone calls to a girl, thinking about the girl, and at some point trying to find time to eat and to sleep.

     You have kidnapped me and you have rescued me.

     "...You exist," Aeron posits philosophically, "...merely because we think you do, and thus in your reactions," he glances back to the healed wardrobe, "...do you find solidity. You are the shadow of the shadow, brother."

     "...I had not realized... how much I had really missed him. I would acknowledge it, as one does with the passing of time."

     "...We are married, in all senses of that word. Our fortunes, our fate, our joys, our regrets -- they are all wed to one another."

     Up above, a squat raven settles on the Crow's Nest (where else?). Ugh. Romance. I think I'm going to be ill.

     A moment of peace. In such ambassadorial journeys, such moments are rare indeed. And so, for a moment, to enjoy the moment, Gruffydd does not rush off headlong into other entertainments. Instead, he lifts his gaze to the boughs of the tree at hand, and reaches up to select a worthy apple.

     It has been a hell of a three-day night. Three dog night? Whatever it was. Gwilym stirs, body as close to entirely limp as it is possible.

     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.

     For a moment, his smile moves a bit in his eyes. You are growing up. But not that much. You are a boy still. "Being crown prince makes it difficult. It was so for us. Do you want my advice on what you should do, or just to listen?"

     They helped him finish what he started. They helped him kill Mithras completely, each one of them, with Blois giving the hardest blow and with Plantagenet giving last rites. Without the Queens, Davydd wouldn't have survived the battle with Mithras. Without the Kings, Davydd wouldn't have survived the battle with himself.

     "When do you get started? Right after Yule? Father Christmas Strikes Back?" Davydd cackles at that and reaches for his whisky. That was so good, he has to drink to it.

     "Brawd." He rises and he takes a look at you. You, Your Majesty. He felt the crowning.

     It is the dead of winter. I am coming closer to you, and already, I miss you. And already, it is a distant ache. Am I detaching to protect myself, I wonder? Or is this ... another machination of fate...

     "Come with me," the Holly King tells you, wine running like blood down through his hair and dripping from his mouth. "I will guide you and show you the way."

     "... I have chained my every dancing atom into a divine seat in the Beloved's Tavern. What I have learned... I am so eager to share..."

     She bends her head to peer blankly at the papers, golden hair falling in a veil before her eyes. "Thank you," she says quietly. "I'll ... see you in the morning, then."

     "...I was High King there for a while, but all things must pass, yeah? Besides, the real work's back in the Other-Other-World."

     The earth is in a constant state of reincarnation. Everything but me is changing. The bud becomes the flower becomes the leaf. I am the same width, the same weight, the same density as I was eight-hundred and twenty-eight years ago. Even an English Oak would have grown, would have changed in all that time.

     ...But I will be your escape when you need it. That's what Black Jacks do best...

     While his steps are definitely in shadow of the prince's more blazing trail, Prospero does not seem to be in a hurry. His motions are purposeful, carrying him forward, propelling him after you. Two quarters of the orange are eaten, and the citrus scents hover around him in his stroll.

     He seems ... not to remember me. I do not understand it, but I recognized him when he lowered his hood. It gave me a very bad turn. And he invited me... he wants me to join the Hunt.

     I could cheat. I could cheat so well that I could rob you blind and you would never know it. I have diced with such devils and won, kept my skin and bones intact and lined my purse with money not only from rascals but from reprobates.

     "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."

...Rest assured that I have not forgotten you...

     "...I know what it is to suffer and to search for meaning. You want to know who you are... you wish to know why what happened to you happened. A reason, an understanding. Don't give up,"

     "My life has been one drama after another, like I've turned into a stage and I've got Shakespeare on my back and Plautus up my ass."

     Deep blue, serene aquamarine, stormy grey, tranquil turquoise -- the confluence of all the world's oceans, and of the oceans yet to be, come together here.

     "My phone rang all night. Fairies, vampires, wolves, shivering nuns -- you name it, they rang me."

     "My mind is... somewhat spinning," he'll admit that to you, if to no one else, "... from all she has told me. I feel like Mohammed or the Buddha, only without the foresight of taking notes."

     Clothed in white, she was peerless among the peerless, pure among the inviolate.

     "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..."

     Though my head is bowed, I look to my son. I find his eyes are already on me, those strange periwinkle eyes. I smile at him, and it takes everything in me not to scoop the new king in my arms and hold him till he chokes.

     "...One night, one day maybe you will look up and you will understand why. For now... just... believe it."

     "Well, I have a heart like a raisin. A prune. But... I will tell you something," he whispers now. "When I am with you, I can feel it growing plump again with blood, Gwilym. I can almost feel it beat again, like it did when I was young. And alive."

     I hear it in you, amice. I hear the drums of a ritual. The bacchanal, orgies beyond human comprehension. They twist in your gut. You want to lose yourself, you want to find yourself, you are afraid of who you will find there in the dark, are you not? Not me, no. But you.

     "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."

     Now you see it. Now you don't. He is a veritable illusionist in the exchange, the sleight of hand and redirection covering the slide of the envelope into the inside of his coat.

     The alley's darkness surrounds him until he dissolves in it, a glance given in the direction he believes you to be. And he slips away with a taunting chuckle. You want me? Catch me. Kill me. Thrill me. Iovis Macarelli steps into the Void.

     He moves faster than any human. So fast, that human eyes would catch only one motion in five -- and this is all without breaking into a run. He is simply walking but at the speed of shadow...

     It is a leap of faith; a gamble. But it is a calculated risk, based half on intellect and things-remembered and things-not-quite-said and not-quite-heard, and the other half on the desperation that a pair of eyes, a pair of hands outside these two plus two might make sense of something which he, Tiernan of Winter Diamond, Prince, aka Terry Winter, Esquire, has to admit to himself he no longer knows how to solve.

     "If only we poor human creatures could be guided by the Logic and Reason we crave. Your solutions are not new, they are simply not acted upon. Not so quickly. They say things are changing, more children heard playing in Venice these days. I hope it is so. At night, late," that mouth of his spreads in a smile as he lights up his cigarette, "...you can almost hear the collective breath of the city being held..."

     From the labyrinths of London's shadows to those that exist Between Places, leading lastly to Otherworldly covers of darkness, I began to walk.

     Gwilym rolls his eyes, his hands lifting to scrub at his face. "He looked ... almost Arabic, or Greek, or - something. But not quite. And I looked at him, because he was looking at me, and he didn't look away when he saw me looking at him. And his eyes reached out and hit me. And oes... oes, my ears are still ringing..."

     "She offered me a game of chance. If I won, she would grant to me access to a realm beyond my imagining; if she won, she would get me to do with as she saw fit, her slave forever. My soul, essentially. And we played at dice."

     "With so much complexity, the more one struggles the worse it gets. I struggled, quietly and not so quietly. I'm sure I shall again. That's the nature of life."

     To defeat the darkness, one strikes a light. The poisonous shadows swimming in his blood cannot bear such light; purity is the enemy of poison. Gwilym cannot see, cannot sense it; cannot hear the howls of terror, defiance and finally, defeat as that light shreds away at the dark.

     "Before you answer, you do know that happiness is not guaranteed just because you want him to be happy. I want him to be happy, and my other boys. You, of course. But while we can all sit around wanting everyone else to be happy, Life has its own rhythm. Things will come and go, including joy."

     "It is like you are ...preparing me for your not being here. If something is inevitable, I should rather face it than to convince myself it will never happen."

     He hangs his head with a moment of exhaled resignation, then sits back. "Not the birds and the bees speech, I hope," he murmurs and he smiles a little. No, he knows what is coming. For weeks, he's been preparing himself.

     "No no, Gwi, you're working too hard," Iowerth drolls low and wry, "...you should slow down, brawd, before you pull something."

     It has almost been a temptation to ask you to meet me on the material plane, brawd. Back at the apartment over Black Jack Davy's. But just as our mother now is reluctant to come here, so I am reluctant to go there; the noise I have in my head, I do not know if it will come back or not. And with you...

     "... You call the shadows to you, pluck them like strings, and play a tune -- whatever is to your liking. Will you one night cloak yourself thusly and become invisible to all?" He smiles a little, quizzically. Not confused by your gifts but so curious.

     For the first time in years, Kit stands alone. He is not flanked by guards, assistants, chatty stars. For a moment, a blissful moment there is just him in this Glade. And in the sound of crickets he detects the laughter of God.

     "I need...to go...Alfonso," Edward begins. Odd shift. "I...I..gotta go."
     The sound of something familiar. And something bad.

     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."

     Gold gaze is suddenly given to you as he reaches the doorway. He doesn't shove his love at you like a child. It is there, commingled with all the rest, a Pandora's Box of his emotions.

     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..."

     "I... treaty with older women," your twin continues, "... but they're not icy fingered death maidens sittin' in a dark room with cowls," he inherited this ability to rant and rave from his father, "...you must be mental..."

     "I have known for some time that only a man would move me. You, Greydon, have moved me; to you, I respond. Your words hold me spellbound, and your touch enslaves me. As an individual, removed from my sense of self, I wish to study under you; with you, as the object of my study and as my instructor. I wish to work with you. As a man..."

     "Layers and layers deep. I fall in, he falls in..." Valan's voice trails off. "We fall in."

     "I wonder what is going to happen now," he says, dreams in his cadence. "To all of us. I am not worried about myself," Christopher says suddenly, softly. "I will answer Dominic's questions, but this time I will not be afraid."

     You may be remade for your service if your Heart is True. You must be willing to give up your very identity in this, your very being. If you cannot submit, the metamorphosis will rip your being apart and you will not survive. This is spoken with reverence. For the Hellborn, it is the first time they hear the full power of the Symphony. But for the two of you, those once Fallen, it is a return Home."

     Andrealphus chokes on his words and weeps, "I did not even speak to him. I failed when I could not save her. When she left, it was my failure. And I could not face you. And then I heard the lightbearer say: See what Love has done today..."

     It's been a long time since there was a king. Not a king of mere kingdom - someone who could merge with the land, and more than the land. Someone with the power to command souls. Too long, mayhap. I don't know that we're still what we were, when we were, then.

     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.

     It is the kingdoms of fairy and dreams dotting the Imaginary Landscape, with the dark oceans of future dreams dotted with heavenly stars and creatures. There, the plains of chaos, roiling midnight blue clouds of Unknown Possibilities -- both Good and Evil -- both unformed and waiting for God... or the dreams of Man... to shape them.

     "I fought my demons literally. My selfishness, my fear, the nine-headed beast of Chaos. I even burned in the sun once. Unpleasant, but you know... I needed it. I needed to just be... reborn. So... I was. Again... and again...and again...sacrificing myself over and over, only to rise again the next evening and assess my state." Dark eyes lift to you. "It was my bridge, I guess."

     "Across the ocean, there is an island that bathes in moonlight, continual twilight where all days and all nights come to rest. It is full of silver watered rivers and moonlit pools. It is the kingdom of Iowerth Rhudd Ddraig, the heir of High King Davydd." Edward the Red Dragon.

     And apple trees would come and go. When the first ones died, their children took over. It's a copse within the garden now. Covered with blossoms in the spring, apples in the autumn, pink leaves turned to brown in the winter. No stone to mark her spot but a plaque engraved with a Welsh poem. The title? To Penelope...

     The dreams of places, do they not also dream? Each universe is a multitude of parallels and What Ifs. What if -- two magic words to me. What if I had looked within myself just once instead of foisting all my cares on those around me?

     I coughed my way onshore like an asthmatic seal, gorging up sand and gagging on sea water. The sun baked the liquid off my shoulders. I could feel it igniting each strand of my hair. I have become the roman candle I always seemed.

     His body drifted downward as it shifted weightless in the water, buoyed by the salt-stuffed molecules of the ocean. Until he started trading air for water...

     "Shall we talk about the hippopotamus in the room, or shall we continue to ignore it and make with more small talk?"

     The sun will rise... there in the distance it is promised, the paling line against the otherwise dark. All things must come to an end, every end is another beginning. The sun rises, and it sets, but it always rises again, a daily resurrection.

     He plucks a grape with a gloved hand, the grape is purple and full of juice. In even the lightest grasp, some of its juice leaks out. "Are you here to tell me you love me again so I won't cry when you are walking down to the shore with the Oak King?"

     She sighs, going silent, tipping her head back to look up at the sky. "I once told you," Fiona says finally, "that there would be a war coming. You didn't believe me, then. But there will always be wars, Davy. Right now, your war is with yourself. I can't win that war for you..."

     We are the death and the birth of every year.

     Davydd both chuckles and sobs to hear that. Turning his head to his friend, he gives a vipered grin, his eyes creasing in the corners. "Now that's the William I know and love," comes the croak of his voice. "On my ass to the end of time."

     Her hands go to your shoulders and she pulls herself up to be at eye level with you, the blue seas of her gaze dancing as her smile widens, pulls, opens. "My two husbands have given me two little boys," Fiona whispers.

     "You will have a son, Davy... and Rhodri will also. You two don't know your own strength..."

     "Both of your children are healthy. And growing." Both. Two. "As befits a queen with two husbands, you are having two children. Two boys. An heir, my lady, for each king. Because you cannot choose between them, your heart a matter of loving two equally, now you do not have to choose."

     "If you are not here for a book, then I do not know how I, a bookstore owner, may help you. But... tell me what the problem is. Perhaps there is something," Albizzina finally looks up, her dark eyes fixing forward, her lovely olive face tilting, "... I may do for you, Miss Higgins. Would you like a cappuccino?"

      "It is business, not love. You are Italian. You understand this. Do not forget what we are and are not, Paolo. Whatever you pretend for the sake of the children."

     "Notte," the Italian says, lifting his voice so that the person may hear it. "Excuse me... do you need a ride?" He tries it first in English. Has to be a tourist, right?

     "Venetian. From Venice. Your parents ... met there." One eyebrow raises quizzically. "And, of course, your parents met by some startling, astounding series of coincidences that made for a hell of a story in the retelling, didn't they."

     Rhodri chuckles. "You are so uncomfortable with intimacy. Are you certain you're pregnant? It could just be a case of bad gas, you know."

     "I...wanted you to know...my real thoughts," Cesare notes, seeming done. "Not the things I may have done or said when I saw you last...first."

     "What the fuck did you do to your hair, boyo?" Davydd rattles out, standing and heading for the stew. He shakes his head at his son. "What was wrong with the color I gave you, by virtue of my stunning genes..."

     "As for why it's you..." The smile begins to wander and the emerald eyes begin to glint. "Because you are unique... you are yourself... you weren't trying to impress anyone. Mostly, when I saw you, you wanted to be left the hell alone. You have a certain... fox-like quality... that I recognize in myself.

     You were walking, and it put me in mind of the old song - nursery rhyme - about walking to Galilee. I don't know why, exactly. But you were walking, as if very tired - walking straight, but as if you'd been walking for a very long time and you just - were so focused, so fixed on your destination that you couldn't see anything at all. And the road had been crooked, but now it was straight, ending at the edge of a field."

     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."

     As he stared into the distance past his own window, to the accompaniment of his queen's own pleasured sighs and moans, his visions stretched as a vista before him. Those god-given visions, and others more faint, just the impressions of things to come, things taking shape. Coins borne forward by cresting waves now become the ships that come in, loaded with rich and promising cargo.

     It hurts to talk. It hurts worse to think. A bloodied hand moves from his hair and braces the bowl. But there's no twisting toward it, no groan, no muttered Welsh curse or wracking of his body in nauseated discomfort. Davydd opens his eyes to the sound of water. "My head is on fire..."

     "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.

     "...Tonight...for the Holly King... it was a night of sacrifice. Giving up the present," his dark green eyes settle on you, and he is sad. "... for the promises of the future."

     Rhodri does not hear him, not from where he lies upon the bed, stretched out and equally glorious now in nothing, his changed tattoos a wonder against his skin. Opposite to his father again, he is nothing but energy. It hums around him, buzzing like bees around nectar.

     From the moment I brought him into the material realm, my hands guiding him from the safety of his mother's womb to a wild world, I have loved him. He is my best work, my best mark upon the earth, the best thing I have ever made or accomplished.

     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.

     "You have endured much, Sentinel. I have come to give you my personal thanks and appreciation for what you have done." Something genial in the midst of all this. "I want you to remember this when times grow more difficult for you again."

     "And when they have found you, you shall find that while you may have done with Venice, Venice has not yet done with you."

     That is the name of your husband this night. As the excitement of the early morning fed into the furor of the afternoon and the frenzy of gossip, gossip of orgiastic proportion -- Caligula-like gossip, fitting for the event itself -- and now spills into the torrent, the whirlpools of the evening. Like the Scylla and Charybdis, he churns in epic proportions.

     "You must decide on what this means, gondolier. Anything which I say at this point will seem to you now or later to be intended to guide you for my own dark purposes. Your conclusions must be your own. You have been played false..."

     Albizzina moves to stand before you, she reaches to take your hands. "Blessings on your children, Cosimina. All new children in this City are blessings. Visible and tangible agents of this Hope. That all is not lost. That we may salvage the future. I believe it. If We believe it, it is possible... hmm? Even love between you and Paolo is possible..."

And you, you have dipped yourself in blood and gone to my lair, and here I do nothing but suck you dry.

     "Why do you dwell on how it happened, Paolo? Are you hoping that I will suddenly sigh and rest my head upon your shoulder, gaze into your eyes and say, 'oh, my darling Paolo, how very handsome you are, and I adore you with all of my heart, and if only the sea could rise to cover me so that we could forever be together'? I am not a schoolgirl, and I do not think either of us have very much interest in each other's hearts."

     "I am doing the best that I can," he protests it quickly. Always, the arguments. "Do you think that it is easy for me? I should be twice the man that I am, just to get around." He sighs. "And I feel that with everything and the sea, I am less than half of what I should be." There is frustration there. With this, with Rosalie, with Venice.

     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.

     There is no greater rejuvenating power than that of blood. And yours, so magical, moves though him as powerfully as the act of taking it affects you.

     And it is alive. Though Yew trees and Blackthorns are there, reminders of Death, Life is everywhere. For without Death there is no understanding of Life; and no Life without Death.

     Think not of what cannot be done
     Think not of what cannot come to pass
     For none of those things exist
     On earth, in dreams, or in the highest heaven

     "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."

     "Tumult," Sabine decides, voice still careful, "you have seen great tumult. The Emperor is not a light card to have laid upon you. There were responsibilities in your life, and your goal was to ... conquer..."

     "There are many different beings on the earth, in all its incarnations. More universes than one. There are those who are more like I am now than as I was. And, yes, largely they should be avoided. You've... managed less well than you know, but fared better than I would have imagined."

     "Now... it feels right and complete." His hand strokes the side of your face. "We love you. You love us. We need not keep this," the love in triplicate, "...for special occasions. We are married. It is as simple as that."

     "What we enter into, no man may put asunder," Davydd whispers. His mouth finds yours again. Another mouth brushes against the side of your neck. "You will have us both," he speaks in a hush. "Tonight, and to the end of Time."

     "Fear searches, it is searching, it has searched and will continue until it finds the one who is trying to leave the Darkness behind. They have a ...traitor... and they are combing the lands invisible for any and all who may be hiding or helping him. It is taking our power and our concentration...our kingdoms on the fringes..."

     Fiona scowls at you. She's just aware enough, dim though the light over the porch is right now, that you're cutting her off. "If you don't appreciate my custom," she says majestically, "I can go drink somewhere else. I'm not drunk!"

     "I thought for certain I'd fuck it up as usual, go on like a bit of a prat and then pull my amazing swallowing foot technique. But it wasn't half bad now, was it?"

     "This is sounding suspiciously like a goodbye," he murmurs, humor lacing the serious tone of his voice.

     "How could Davydd trust me - even if he wants me still? How could I trust myself?"

     "...It is time for Avalon to return to those who need it most. This body is theirs, I give it to them. With it my soul. With it, my being. For this land and I are indivisible. I am Avalon..."

     "Eat of the fruit of the tree and I will learn something..."

     She is aware of you, with the nervous skittishness of a wild thing, but despite it, she accepts your hand with one of hers - it's as regal as if she were deigning to dance with you at a formal gala, right down to the uplifted chin.

     There's a smirk for your callousness and a roll of his eyes. "Don't hold your breath counting on it, dearie. I'm as like to steal what I want as to wait for it..." And he likely means that. And has likely done just that in his day.

     "Hindsight is clear-sighted," Davydd exhales, cigarette crushed and the fire is out. "And all the things I have done, there's not a single one I'd repeat but one, and that was lodging the king's sword in Mithras' chest."

     Davydd ap Owain moves within the white void. What has he to fear? If the floor falls away, he will become a bird. If it rains water, he'll become a fish. If it turns to fire. Well, if it turns to fire he's fucked, but at least it will be quick.

     You give him license to ask and he goes quiet. He seems to mull over his question as he looks at his biscuit. He takes a bite of it and washes it down with cooler (though still very warm) cocoa. "Are you happy, Fiona?"

     There is a demon seeking Redemption...
     I am helping him...
     ...cross The Marches...

     "...Without Life, Death has no meaning. Without Death, Life has no lure..."

     Davydd stands upon the third terrace down, the Aviary Terrace, the flowers blossoming behind him, the birds flying in and out, calling to the evening, calling to their mates, and he is the stillness amid the blossoming, orgasmic world, standing beneath the flowering vines, his hands upon the red stone of the terrace's railing.

     Hazel fruit fall from the pregnant trees to the swollen, running river. A land that sings of Death and Harvest, but everywhere there is Life. Life not in its beginning but in the fullness of its power, in the wealth of it, a land in bounty, limitless.

     Davydd follows the path made by stags long before him, by the passing of the breeze knowing the depth of the wood and the location of the brooks that cut within it. You have only to listen.

     "The Never...has no place here," Edward begins, not really sure of where he goes with this.

     Beauteous the crowned head that tilts to the voice of the salmon. The water sloshes as he walks within it, becoming in mere moments, a salmon himself. Trying to prove? What makes you say so, Gwydion the Blessed?

     ...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.

     "I have a job for you. I need you to drop whatever it is you are doing for this. It is something that must happen immediately... if it is to succeed..."

      "We embrace him," William murmurs. "We solve a multitude of wrongs, of problems, we halt a multitude of suffering. For everyone..."

     Davydd pauses in the public sitting room downstairs. A glance in reveals no one. Frown yet in place, he heads to the sofa and table, looking for something to write on perhaps. He checks his pants pockets for anything handy, finding only a tenner.

     "Tell him," Edward chimes, mostly together, "...I hope it works out like he wants." Have a nice life.

     "I don't talk about it all that often. People," Audi explains, "are afraid of death - they don't like talking about it. I don't think they need to be afraid of me. But you're not afraid of me. So why not talk about it?"

     William looks from the sky to his friend again, this time his gaze remains there. "If you cannot remain in Our World, and we ... cannot go to yours... shall there be a middle country? Will Earth do, Davydd?"

     "I'm not a vampire, Edward... Mithras cursed me, for certes, but he never killed me..."

     "It did take me longer than it should to realize that though I have been consigned to darkness I do not need to remain in it. In the end, the curse is only as good as the belief one puts in it. Same as faith..."

     Be my Queen...
     Bear my children...
     Grow apple trees in my instruments and make music on my pots and pans...

     So many seasons ago, almost to the day -- it will be to the day, when the feast occurs -- that Tybalt lost himself to the Queen of Summer's charms. Lost himself in a way that no one would ever wish for themselves.

     There is a flicker of the willow wand, and Sabine steps back, onto the path after another quick glance around. "I release you," she says in a formal voice. "You may fly, Marshall, to wherever it is you best find yourself."

     Paolo looks to the passengers in glances timed with the stroke of the oar, in rhythm of the motions that make the gondola sail forward. "Ah... so you, too, are bound by a destiny, a fata," Paolo says.

     He remembers the look on her face when her little summoning of a demon actually worked, so many centuries ago. And again when she was first sent to kill her first man. Good times -- good times.

     Mentioning Valdemort is rather like screaming Macbeth! in a theater. Some names are curses of their own.

     Two gentlemen sit inside a cafe, the windows giving view to a northwestern American city still glistening from the last rainfall. For this moment in time it could be any city on earth, or no place that has ever existed.

     Karoly's gaze is hidden - perhaps she glares daggers, but she does not weep; no tears become visible at the veil's edge.

     "Very well, then I consider our pact sealed." But he sighs slightly, "You know, you really take all the fun out of having a soul bond sometimes. You know that?"

     "I see that you are without entourage today," Sabine resumes in English, voice cool, expression as remote and detached as if she were offering up a comment upon whether or not it might rain. "How ... tragic. Your arms must be quite cold."

     "The past must be examined," Sabine remarks, and a gradual progression to lead to the present and future. Under the circumstances - only the Celtic Cross will do."

     Oh, god, god, god - if there even is a god. Why are human hearts so fragile? Why do they hurt - why must they break? Why do I long continually for that which I cannot have - or that which will not have me? Lift this cup from my lips, for I'm damned by the taste of it, and so tired...

     The world is topsy-turvy tonight. Lust out of whack, Love out of season, arrows off the mark, and faerie men rebuffed.
     What's the world coming to?

     It's like a fireplace throwing off sparks, in some ways, isn't it? The magic in the song is as real as the song itself, rolling through the room, even if most of the room can't sense it.

     And even in his Holly Winter, when the Oak King himself is most prone to Banality, to the disillusionment that can come so easily from so modern a world, he is radiant.

... [The two gentlemen are seated swiftly at a table outside, on the roof, overlooking the brilliance of the South Bank. Menus and waiters appear, glasses are filled, all without a word. They depart as silently.]

     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.

     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.

     Oh, God, forever is too long.
     Help us...

     A celestial gift.
     "I do not do this so often," Sentinel, "...but I was glad for this task. It is..." she smiles, sitting down, "...the stuff of Dreams." Himself, literally.

     Aloud, again, she recites a cellphone number, and she sits seiza, closing her eyes. Emotion rushes forth to fill a void, and then, Fiona Arundel, known to some as Drancy of no other name, watches candles burn out to blackness.

     "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.

     "I call this...making up for lost time," Ian explains. His fingers slide into yours and he stands, pulling to bring you with him.

     "Here is her name," Soldekai flashes, pages opening, a book from the Library. An image of eyes scrolling. Arundel. Fiona. London.

     Soldekai's eyes drop to the stone upon which he sits. He had not thought of things as you say. That there are others who wish a new home. Who would want to be with him and his Word.

     At the water's edge, she stands, looking out into the distance. A breeze has stirred up, casting long strands of hair about her, licking at her form like flames. She, who was there so long ago at his making, is one of two left of three.

     "Ragazzi bei, entrambi voi...li avro bisogno ancora, presto. E quello che cosa desiderate?" Ian stirs at the lingering touches across his skin, smiling in comfort.

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.

     I did not even know how much I cared until I was slain. Now I am staring at you, Anaia, watching you from below our castle window, reflected in the umber light of the fire. I am so cold. So tired, my countess.

     And he rises, arm slipping around her waist. "Maybe you can change my religion." And he grins at himself.

      "Tell him I am here and ease his worried heart," Christopher all but sings out. "And tell him that... for Heaven's sake," a ribald twist of his mouth at the pun, "... he should join me here and pull up a carpet..."

     "I don't mind being asked, but unless there is going to be some sort of action, I really must insist that you make up your mind. I was in the middle of a dinner party. Do you know how long it takes to have a white dragon actually answer an RSVP? No, I should think not.

     In more sobriety, then : you had the opportunity to take from her much of herself - of her mind, of her body, of her heart, of her soul. For whatever reasons of your own, you refrained, and for that, I thank you.

     Arms go wide, green eyes -- Cymru green -- go wide as well. And so too the smile. A triad reaction, how fitting. "Mad Peter!" he exclaims, the whiskey, brandy, scotch and mead -- yes, mead -- getting the best of him for a moment. "Boyos, look there... my old soothsayer, messenger of The Lady...go greet a friend..."

     He's a small man, topping five feet only by perhaps four inches, and his storm-grey eyes crinkle as he regards the Norman. "It has been a few years, hasn't it, lord."

     Hands lowered, Valmiki stumbles, tripping over his own feet, and winces. Oh, this will hurt, when he hits the ground... except the ground isn't where it ought to be, and instead, his forehead catches against a door, producing a hollow clonk, paired by a muttered oath. "Vishnu's balls!"

     She's been considering it for days, now. Weeks. Something like that - some sort of human time scale which is meaningless, and logically, she knows to be meaningless, to him

     Ships passing in the night, I think they call it. Maybe you will signal with flare. Maybe ships will come together with cannons, broadside encounters, or maybe the captains will merely lift their hands and wave. We never know, we can only make the waves lift, the wind shift and hold the clouds for a moment at bay...

     The paper's folded a few times, shoved into a pocket, and she climbs onto the ledge, poised there for a moment with a quick glance around. And then ...

      "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.

     And a glass that was sitting on the coffee table explodes. Green eyes lift to you. And with a whisper of something Welsh, something old, the glass is whole again. As if nothing had happened.

     "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?"

     Truth is the sharpest implement of all. It cuts the deepest and the surest. But without it, what are we? Who are we...

     "And ... I'm in a lot of trouble, Dot. I'm just, I can't keep up this pace. It isn't working anymore, but I don't ... have anywhere else to go with it."

     "A very long time ago," Samuel comments, voice quiet, gaze intent. "Hundreds of years - a passage out of history, one might say." He moves forward, footsteps suddenly quick, and holds a hand out over the figure of the boy, hovering between him and the knights. "Shall I change it?" An odd thing to ask...

     And for all of that time, Alire did not move. He did not move at all. He did not breathe. He did not twitch. He did not shift in his sleep. There was Nothingness given shape. He became a statue. Sleeping Adonis on the riverside. Until the slipping of the sun...

     It is an evening full of lights and life, of old touches and a new spectacle. There is activity here...

     Isabel strokes her fingers through the long hair, so familiar and yet not. "My being here is a riddle for someone else's education, you might say," she replies, clearly amused and pleased with herself. "You will learn of it later, if you remember... but remembering is a hard thing, at times, and I doubt you will. I am not she, and she is not me, but we are kin, and you..."

     "Thank you, O Shiva," the naga whispers, his dark. Only when he thinks he is out of sight, only when he may barely see you between the wide leaves of the mangrove, does he whisper adoration. My love, whom I have so wronged.

     "Meanwhile," Soldekai smiles, "...practically...I ask the Council to remove the lions and any proscriptions. That...will take a bit, I think now." After talking with Yves. He will say what the others cannot...what Blandine cannot. Ignore them. The proof is in our actions. Politic is Nothing.

     "He should not be trailed and watched like an offender, while in the other hand, he is made Sentinel?" Come now. It is insane. "If he should be Sentinel, then the others should know and it is there that conflict be reslolved. Why hide his honor? Would it bring divisiveness? If he is honored then he is not some...criminal."

     But then, there is you. In his flurry, Soldekai pauses to see you and give a smile. "My love is true, Christopher," no matter of yours or how this began. "I believe yours is as well," the soldier talking. And whatever he had planned between you two this day is left in tatters. He has to go to Heaven. Soon, they will all know that he knows, that you know, and that all is clear. They, on the other hand, should know - the Archangel of Brilliance is his own being.

     "Anyone can change, Christopher. If they can Dream it, they can Wish it, they can Aspire to it." Do you understand what you have shown the Symphony? What last lesson We all had to learn?
     "...even Malakim." Even Lucifer.

     I have taken the back ways, the maze of small walkways and smaller bridges. Past the smell of bread baking -- truly, the very best definition of 'warmth' -- and the sound of a television set as I move past a cafe. I have come to speak with the ghosts of Monteverdi and Vivaldi. And to listen to the dreams of children. This way... the only way... to find my own...

     ...The lights of candles sparkle in multi-colored glass votives. Surrounding a window overlooking a small canal. The sounds of the Grand Canal are not far off, no. Wafting like the wind through the narrow passages of this old city. This old 14th Century gothic house, now separated out into various flats and spaces for rent, boasts some of the loveliest arched windows in all of the city. They are opened now, to let the breeze flow in.

     Steps that were lost when he was arrested in India were retaken and followed until reaching this village of the fountain and the many caves. It is this... womb of the world. The Mesopotamian basin. He has returned to where it once all began.

     Blandine sits back, the dust shifting around his form. "You will not feel so grateful," he says softly, the flickers of brows rising and falling, as if some great joke is soon to be revealed, "...when you Understand."

     "I.... don't ...remember..." comes the melodious voice. There is a soft laugh to that. "It is... too much to remember, perhaps? God... Prince Brilliance... is ....Merciful..." An Archangelic joke. I don't remember, Soldekai. There is... no story to tell. Only... Peace... and so... It Is True. Where else could he have been so long? And to remember nothing?

     His Being swells, his wings outstretched as he is now within your Light. A Master of Night and the Archangel of Brilliance and Lumination? "I am.. very proud," he says, angelic tongue as Song. "Of you... and of the Healing of Our Father's Heart that he should set you thus. I am proud of This Heaven..." Molten eyes of stellar matter look to you and the Herald nods. "This Heaven pleases me...."

     Slender fingers light upon the napkin and draw it toward him, fingers that, curling, lift it. He reads it. He tucks it away. Safely, in a pocket. Andrealphus looks at you through his mortal shell. A mask that he does not move away, but do you know just how transparent it feels? O, what would it be like...
     What would it be like to Love again...

     I cannot escape it. I want to close my eyes. I want to not ... be this....

     "Tybed, Davydd, ai ti gwneud a gorfoledd cystal fel tristwch er myn hon enaid." The voice is ancient, ageless, trickling out of her from years ago, and oh so familiar, and not just because it's a recognizable voice, of I've heard this before. The words are familiar, personal and informal. I wonder, Davydd, if you have to do with joy as well as sorrow for the sake of this soul.

     With every muscle's motion, no matter how slight, they seem to shift. Celtic, the patterns of interlocking, eternal lines that become the interlocking forms of Celtic dragons. Cobalt. Blue royal. Deep and brilliant. Bright. Brighter than they should be...

     The Mad Danes have long since left the makeshift stage. The college crowd has come and gone. The true drunken poets and philosophers yet remain. The last few patrons lingering, loitering, waiting on that Last Call.

     "Soldekai...I am not blunting your purpose...I hope. You know...it is my choir's ...nature to attune to individuals. And...I..." am attuned to you. "...I do not wish my fastening devotion to get in the way. It will be a concern." Of and for Others.

     "You are Blandine's," Soldekai teases, even as the space between you is covered. He smiles as you near him and opens the necklace out so that your throat would walk into it. "From me," he says, "...personally."

     God, though I am a grievous sinner, spare me from that fate...

     "Either of you seen the boys?" Soldekai asks, the hint of his nature never departed. Red-blonde hair is cut close, but it is much too alive. Where Gabriel is the Primal Force, her Sol is the center of this universe, the Sun itself. "They seem to have...gotten away from me." The Firemen. Lost. As usual.

     "It was a key," comes soft Latin, "... it had my name scratched into its surface... it had a note 'Those That Lead Us Forth'... it's like looking at death and greatness in the mirror, you look away, you close the box, you don't dare stare at Fate too long. Or it will freeze you..."

     This is sanctuary. A pocket of peace in a world that still struggles to comprehend it. Not that it has ever been his particular business to comprehend peace. Sometimes he buys and sells it. Sometimes he dashes it to pieces. Sometimes he craves it like a man craves water on his fortieth day in the desert.

     "Your rights to Poitou actually come through my mother... and my grandmother's name was also Aenor. Eleanor's mother..." And suddenly the universe makes sense. It is right to tell this story. It is right that this becomes Truth. Known. Tasted. Swallowed.

     Yes, it is a woman singing. But the sound is not that of just any woman singing...
     ...it is the voice of an angel. A dark angel.

     "'K, um..." Edward's French comes, eyes narrowing at the woman, "...this is the part where I ask you who the hell you are and what are you doing here..." the barrel of the Browning shaking violently as Edward tosses his hand lazily in cadence with his voice, "...and whether or not I need to kill you or whatever..."

     You miss the look, and it's a pity because it's truly priceless. No one shocks Plantagenet. With nonchalance he smiles and seems to know. Unaffected, even by the most orgiastic visions. But, you've mentioned Dunross... not only by name... rather than the more common epithets of him or even the more common... simply leaving him out altogether... some four or five times.

     Hazel eyes lift, not to a sound but to an expectation. He is waiting for you...

     He had other plans for Palmer's tonight, until he got your call. A fighter by the name of Yang Ping was to meet for a bit of martial arts. But plans change. Ping had been there regardless, but after finding another opponent and then watching others, he gave a wave and departed. Another time. Instead, Edward mustered himself together to face his cousin instead. While he was glad to see you, there was something else behind his expression.

     Her skin is so pale. She moves past you but her eyes are caught by something else. A feeling? Copper hair glistens and the bob flips with the turn of her head. Just as a yellow light passes by in a stream. She sees the back of a head familiar. A strong arm circles around her small waist, and she turns. Can you hear them, Edward?

     "I have brought you things asked for and things not... warm clothes and clean... hello, beauties," he takes time for the horses as he moves toward the bank, quieting his voice.

     "Dieu, William Plantagenet," Ian rolls his eyes, still unbelieving after all of these centuries. And as you rise to seek him again, Ian's hand does come out, halting the approach.

     Oh, all of you above who hate me, let this be real. I have not asked for so much, just...him. Stars shine upon the kin silver of Ian's eyes, perhaps twinkling their assent and giving intercession to those higher who hold sway.