After all, every girl has trouble letting go of her first love, even if she has class to get to.

     No sooner do I think I have myself together when something happens, and I am thrown into confusion. Now, mind you, I am easily confused so... take it as you like it.

     "...I am very sorry if I made you anxious by blowing up my own room. I'm also sorry that you are going to have to bear the burden of your guise with me. I cannot pretend to dislike you. Without truth, Preston, I am nothing."

     You have peered into the ball of fire at the center of the sun's storm to the heart of the matter. "I can't marry or be a father or a king or even be the brother of a high king..."

     "..."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..."

     "There's a dozen of them here. Try asking different ones and collecting answers. Make it your personal Pokemon," Pres deadpans. "Gotta catch 'em all."

     "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.

     Really, the most unexpected part is that it's in Wales, in a castle, and not somewhere more expected for a scion of Prep such as Preston Oliver West III.

     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...

     What's behind the curtain, Jack? Choose door A or B.

     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...

     "You do not have to feel weak. The power to feel strong is in your grasp. It is up to you. You determine your self worth. Being with a man, intimately, emotionally, sexually, does not make you a girl anymore than it makes you a banana."

     "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..."

     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.

     "I don't want to be the Man Who Knew Too Much," Balthazar smiles warmly. "Not that I would ever be mistaken for that." He chuckles briefly, lifting the cup of coffee for a sip. He twists in his chair and waves down the waitress. Another refill requested.

     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.

     "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."

     "...It is very strange. It is ...like you are a wave and you wash away all the sand from my skin, you polish me... like a shell."

     "...You could have been Adonis and Casanova rolled into one, Balthazar, and if it wasn't what she wanted, she'd still have run. I know because I've done exactly that, in the past."

     "...As for provenance and publishing," he exhales a touch at that, in consideration, "...ethics don't really enter into it. After all, if you find something that hasn't already been located, then no one's really missing it..."

     "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 had no idea that they were," he frowns deeply, "... set against us. I do not like being treated as a criminal. What have I done but give my life for their kingdom?"

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

     "Good, cheap coffee - now you're singing my song. Throw in a really good plate of crullers and I'd follow you anywhere," Damien declares with some enthusiasm. "When you start missing Tim Horton's, you know you aren't home, eh?"

     "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.

     It is painfully honest. If he were holding anything now, it would have dropped again by this point. Hansl wears his confusion like the finest of clothes - askew to imply the nakedness beneath.

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

     "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 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.

     His hand cups your face. "The best antidotes for ghosts is illumination," Agapios murmurs, his fingers stroking your cheek. "They cannot abide the clear light of examination. And so... we will vanquish her. I am confident of this."

     "It's a good deal more goddamned interesting than cricket..."

     When they shake hands, it is like the Captain of All the Ships of the World shaking the hand of the Pirate King...

     "So if you're ordinary, Io, then I am dullness incarnate. Shall we be two grey pebbles on a sparkling beach together?"

     He stands there, waiting for you to move to the sofa as instructed. Who's the servant here anyway? "Would you like anything to eat while I work?"

     "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."

     The body disappears, pulled into the darkness by loyal hands, and Iovis Macarelli strides away from his evening's correspondence.

     Amice, my heart is like a fig left to dry in the sun. It is shriveled and small. You could serve it like pesto on a cracker, it is nothing. Flavorful but then gone in an instant. And yet, in it is pumping new blood, humming with the power that is in your blood. I feel something. I do not know what it is. But I feel it like pleasure and I feel it like pain. It is a confusion, a puzzle. What is it, what is it -- it beats with that question.

     "You are in my blood," he groans, "... like Caravaggio's disease. You burn there, and I find no rest from my want, amice."

     Havoc's son rushes at you, its various mouths clamping. It lets loose gargling strangles, like someone choking on blood. Its breath is worse than even Iovis can describe. It smells of chaos, fear, and disorganized guts.

     A guitar pick rolls and flips, finger to finger, leaping, effortlessly leaping, faster. And faster. It is a blur of motion, faster and faster until it becomes a streak of red and blue hovering above his hand like an aura. The pick, a guitar. Are you playing me, shadow-lord?

     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.

     "No whining on the astral plane," comes the intonation of his voice. Rhodri looks at you, cocking up an eyebrow. He saves whatever other commentary he may have for later. "What are you drinking?"

     He sees you and he smiles with a rascal tilt. He doesn't say anything before he pulls you in for a hug and kisses you in fine Italian greeting. "Buona notte," he tries Italian on for size. "How was that? Is my accenting off?"

     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.

     "I told you I was moody." There; there is a faint quirk of a smile, and he sighs, turning and sliding his arms around your waist. "I am overreacting. I don't know why. Just ... it hurt."

     "...Duw... you look...I don't know that I've ever seen you this way," Iowerth remarks suddenly. "You are in your own power. You are radiating strength and confidence."

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

     If I'd known that the last time I saw you would be the last time I would hold you, the last time I would be held by you, I would have done so much differently. But if I'd known, I wonder, would I have had the nerve to leave...

     I am your Star, oes? And maybe, just maybe that is part of the problem, Io. Your boy ... you made him your chamberlain, your seneschal. But what is he to you, in that sense? It isn't enough to love, sometimes. Sometimes, it needs to be given a name.

     It's in the heart of London; the irony appealed to him, inasmuch as anything has been appealing to him of late. Where does the man who's lost his heart go but to the city whose heart is stone cold uncaring?

     "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."

     "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."

     I do not know how to define it, nor myself in reaction...

     Without you, I do not think I could have survived. Hells; I know it. I would have been on this plane, not that, when she died, and it would have taken me with her.

     Maybe that is what this is. He realizes it suddenly, even as he gives the sea back to the sea, salt tears finally falling as you kiss him. One gives oneself to the sea, and there is no turning from that. Everything else is worn away by the sea; the ocean will have its due.

     "Your mother has commanded a battle tonight," he begins, no time for endearments or blandishments now. Ramanthus outspreads his arms, his legs also as he stands. "We are raiding the corrupted kingdom of Winter Diamonds. In a matter of hours."

     "... 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.

     Duw... I want and I want, and I go on wanting. Io, if ever I could hate you for falling for a man, now's the time. What would you think, to see me here, to know what thoughts are going through my mind? I don't dare put them into words, not even to myself.

     "...You? Completely different. Sleight of hand, hide the heart. You have the concerns and the questions of a master spy. The Thief King. Your brother is the drowning waters that fill the lungs. He daily seeks to avoid drowning. Himself. Others. You..." He narrows his eyes in studying you. "I believe you are in danger of making yourself a figment of everyone's imagination. Including your own."

     I am heading into the Caliph's Land. Or to quote the Unnamed Poet of the tome at my feet, that sun-kissed land, rich in dark-eyed girls, and water that springs silver from the golden ground. I have never been to this part of Espana. Only the vineyards of Castile, the exclusive villas of Madrid, the discos of Barcelona.

     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!"

     You and he walk the chessboard gallery, two knights, no kings in sight. But as you so adroitly put it: Fuck 'em. Who needs 'em. Hands slide into his pockets as he watches the tiles moving slowly by.

     William inclines his head again, his eyes drifting over you. "You wish to see. You fear what you may see. Tell me... is the price of seeing more costly than the price of being blind?"

     "I'm over 600 years old," he murmurs, the warmth of his hands on you, as they have been all the while. The touching does not end. The fingers curl and uncurl against your skin. He wonders what you shall do. "I was a knight, a... guardian of Pope Clement V."

     "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.

     "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.

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

     "A poet voyeur," William chuckles, and he lifts the glass to his lips, another sip of Bordeaux. "Tell me, would you be sitting in the corner singing my praises as I sinned, or would you, like some poets, have to experience the ...inspiration as a participant?"

     Baskets of flowers hang from the awning of every cafe and shop along the historic street, so narrow only foot-traffic may traverse its length. The streets still sparkle with the rain that is still falling.