#though I should make a masterpost for Emergence so its easy to find everything

[toxictoxicities]

Good morning.

I would like to ask were will Emergence (on its first release) be displayed and how might us random idiots find it. Or am I just blind and the answer is right in front of me?

Thank you for your indulgence.

That is honestly an amazing question- for now it's only on my tumblr and twitter (when I remember to use it) and as much as I love the idea of trying to figure out where i'd upload the comic I've actually started considering making small animatic episodes to tell the story instead!

However idk if I'd need to find someone to make music and voice actors and that'd be tedious or if I'd have it just silent- or maybe you'd all prefer the comics

I haven't fully decided yet but the next comic update is on the back burner <3

I'm also working on an animatic as it is so we'll see which work flow I like more for storytelling

[nincompoopydoo]

PAIRING, BAGELS, REPEAT

— HYMN OF THE LOVESICK ; PART 5 / ?

( gif from this beautiful gifset by @knightwayne )

PAIRING: Bruce Wayne x reader

WORD COUNT: 2k

SUMMARY: Alfred definitely knows something about Bruce that you’re not willing to think about and Bruce has an epiphany that changes the way he sees you.

A/N: Guess who forgot which day pbr is usually posted? This idiot here. God, I’m sorry and this chapter can be boring. Next chapter will have a lot more going on, I promise. Also, this might end in the next chapter or two. Enjoy, folks.

WARNINGS: Kinda dramatic because I’m dramatic.

MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Driving through the Wayne estate gives you a sense of much-needed peace. The never-ending tunnel with walls of identical colossal pine trees as you faintly hum to Aretha Franklin over the low whirring of the running engine. It’s a quarter to noon, and the sun doesn’t seem to shine in the city of Gotham—clouds of grey constantly shield its optimum shine, only to ever allow rays to seep through the gaps in the moving Autumn wind. You don’t mind it and you never did, growing up in the city left clouds unnoticed to you unless it signified the arrival of a thunderstorm. Weather and nature are the least of your concerns but you would appreciate it now and then.

The tunnel of trees comes to an end as a clearing of extensive fields emerges into view. What is left of the Wayne Manor still stands with ostentation, despite its skeleton along with its dignity rotting away to be eventually consumed by mother nature herself. There’s a sense of eeriness to it; you find it odd how a building could seem so alive at times, like it's watching you, despite its apparent decay.

You turn your head away and focus on the road.

A glance at your hand on the wheel, you’re reminded of last night, when his hands held yours—it burns at the mere thought of his gentle touch. And the drive home, silent with the occasional glances and small smiles. You recall how the passing streetlights cascade hues of orange on his wearied expression and how his eyes were bright when they flit to your figure in the passenger seat for just a moment. Something must have changed between the two of you, but you can’t quite tell what. Maybe it’s your undying love for Bruce. Maybe he feels the same way. You snort to yourself, alone in your car, one can only dream but it doesn’t mean they all come true. Bruce may love but he doesn’t commit. You can’t commit too. Now, you’re starting to believe you’ve been lying to yourself.

The glasshouse comes into view as you steer around the bending road and into the driveway. It contradicts everything the manor was but only shared its sense of glory. You like the glasshouse, less deafening and structured with the purpose of bareness and vulnerability but its dark furnishings keep it grounded and secure. Its sense of balance tricks your mind into thinking you’re stable. His car is still around, parked by the porch but you don’t see him, ambling around the household.

Switching off the ignition, you snatch the paper bag from the passenger seat and clamber out of the car. Darker clouds begin rolling from afar, your hair flying in the strong wind. A storm is coming, you’re sure of it. One of the rare times it rains during the season. You dread the thought of having to drive back into the city and across Westward Bridge. Driving over bridges built over the water in the rain scares the heck out of you.

As you swing the car door to a close, you hear the shuffling of feet amongst leaves behind you. Alfred, with a barrel of chopped wood—stocking up for the winter. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes albeit startled by your sudden presence. He mentions your name with endearment; you greet him with a small smile. You always liked Alfred. You enjoyed his company.

“What a pleasant surprise seeing you here,” he says, pushing the barrel aside as he nears you. “I’m afraid you just missed Bruce. He left for Metropolis an hour ago—duty calls.”

You nod, ignoring the clench in your heart. He hadn’t told you anything but frankly, you weren’t expecting him to anyway.

“Well, I just came by to drop off this,” You lift the paper bag, swaying it a little within your grasp. “As a thank you gift, you know.” Alfred smiles at this, gestures towards the house in a beckoning manner. “Come on in, I’ll make you some tea.” Before you could even protest, he’s gently guiding you to the door by the shoulder. It’s hard to say no to Alfred, especially when he offers tea.

-

Your mind wonders as you watch the drizzle of rain form ripples in the lake. You sit on a chair with a contemporary structure to it; it digs into your lower back, due to your bad posture. Uncomfortable but nice-looking and great armrests. Contradicts everything a chair should be. Alfred emerges from the kitchen with a black ceramic mug in hand, steam from the brewed tea lingering above it. He holds an identical mug, for himself. With two hands, you clasp onto the mug with acceptance, a radiant appreciative smile upon your lips. “Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.” Alfred shoots you a look of disdain, “I’ve told you many times, Alfred is fine.” Taking a sip, you shake your head, a smile still lingering. “No way. I have too much respect for you to call you by your first name.” Alfred mirrors you, settling for the chair to your right, swiftly sliding the scatter of papers to the corner of the table. You find it easy to fall into a natural conversation with the older man—the two of you are mutuals after all of a certain billionaire. Yet, Alfred is more of a father figure, having practically raised Bruce and you, well, it’s complicated. It always is. You don’t know where you stand in his life, and you're not sure if you want to know.

“Anyway, where have you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks.” It’s true. The usual sight of the butler sauntering around the glasshouse or somewhere in the Wayne Estate was absent during the last two weeks. Alfred is always around, his disappearance was glaring, impossible to go unnoticed.

He shifts in his seat, placing his mug on the table, teaspoon moving with a soft clang. “I was visiting family back in England. I appreciate that you have noticed my absence,” An eyebrow raises, your laugh comes out more like a huff. “Always, Mr. Pennyworth.”

Family. Mother. Dinner—you remember the dinner with your mother on Sunday night, and you’re the host. The host hasn't decided on the menu for tomorrow’s meal. Oh God, it’s tomorrow. Procrastination is your friend but your family’s expectations for you aren't. If you pop enough wine bottles, maybe she'll be too drunk to be disappointed by the end of the night.

And the wedding. The mere thought makes you sick. You don’t want to bring a date, but you don’t want to be alone. Weddings, love, couples—it makes you tick. It’s a glaring reminder of how your love life is an absolute disaster and your inability to maintain relationships. It’s hopeless, you’ll die a spinster and everyone lives happily ever after.

“Are you alright?”

It’s funny how those three words have been the most frequent words you would hear from those around you. You appreciate the concern, really, but you can’t help but feel there’s a stronger and deeper meaning to those words. It’s a question of assurance, a reality check, and a realization that you might be broken. Everyone is broken—in their own ways.

Although you seem reserved to some people, your tendency to open up about your issues to those close to you contradicts that though you instantly regret it. Especially when people tell you to change. You hate change. It’s terrifying.

You pause, suddenly feeling...fidgety. Yet, in the words of Bruce: In Alfred, you trust.

Remember, keep it light. You don’t want to haul all this luggage of yours onto an aging man. He’s already got Bruce’s luggage.

“My cousin’s getting married in two weeks and,” you sigh, he listens intently. “And as pathetic as this sounds, I really don’t want to go to it alone.”

Your words are direct, straightforward and you sound like a whiny teenager or the main character in a Wattpad story but truth be told, there’s an underlying meaning to it and you know, Alfred knows it. You just don’t want to admit it.

He takes a beat, assessing your sentence like he’s a therapist, wanting to select his words carefully. “Well, I don’t think you’re pathetic. It’s...understandable,” he flashes you a pointed look and you find yourself straightening your back. “Why don’t you ask Bruce?”

Your brain must have short-circuited at that moment.

Oh, hell no. Not in a million years.

You’re shaking your head, laughing nervously. “No, no. No. Never. I couldn’t possibly ask him to do that. He’s already done so much for me—”

“You’ve done a lot for him too.”

A pause, words stuck in your throat. You just look at Alfred through confused eyes. You’re not sure what that means. He’s staring at you with a knowing look. You sigh, shaking your head in denial once more. “No, that’s...that’s not true.”

It’s almost infuriating how stubborn you can be sometimes that it’s even irritating yourself. You’re staring at your fingers, playing with the tag attached to the teabag by a thread. As far as you’re concerned, Bruce is...the greatest friend you’ve ever had. Through thick and thin, he’s been there for you. He’s always there. It’s partly the reason why you have fallen for him in the first place. Hard. He’s easy to love when he wears his heart on his sleeve. It’s rare but it’s beautiful. You almost feel ashamed to be allowed to see him in that light.

“Bruce will do just about anything for you,” Alfred says calmly as he watches you avoid eye contact. “And I know, you’ll do the same for him.” You throw your eyes at the older man as he cops you a look. Your heart is beating so fast, so thunderous, you hear it in your ears. He’s right and you know it. That accidental kiss to your forehead on the night you asked him to come for the play comes back to mind in a flash. It feels like a mark on your forehead, it feels like it’s burning.

“Would you like a scone with that?” He’s pointing to your tea and with that, he’s off to the kitchen once more, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

-

It’s late—a quarter to four in the morning. He spends most of his nights in the Batcave, hidden away from all the sounds and tumult of the world, shrouded in the darkness as the light of the computer screen cascades on his tired eyes. He ambles through the glasshouse, weary feet against hardwood floors, body begging to lay on grey sheets though he dreads a vacant bed.

He strains his eyes peering into the gloom when he perceives a paper bag, sitting idly on the table by the window. Nearing it, there’s a yellow post-it note stuck onto the bag and under the gentle light from the moon that reflects against the lake, he can make out words written on it.

It’s from you.

Thanks for coming to the play. I would have bought you something else, but I’m really broke. Sorry. I owe you one.

A drawn heart follows it. It’s tiny. His chest feels warm.

He should have recognized the paper bag because inside, there are four bagels. Four Asiago bagels. He laughs, it comes out more like a puff of hot air, feeling the warmth that resides in his chest spreading throughout his body.

Then, it hits him like a bullet to the heart. The impact is strong, powerful. Your impact on him is strong, powerful. There’s no mystery to his feelings for you but at this moment, he’s completely certain. For the first time in life.

He loves you.

Bruce staggers into the chair, hand carding back the strands of his hair. He can’t keep doing this to you. Whatever the hell is going on. Your friendship, the...stupid agreement. He wants none of it because it feels like he’s constantly going around in circles.

But what do you really want, Bruce?

TAGLIST

@raineeace

[imaginedhaven]

Reluctantly Rooming: Part Ten

Link to Masterpost

It took a while to get back to this, but here we are! I hope you guys enjoy.

Today’s prompts:

Character A waking Character B from a nightmare

and

Aelin falling asleep in Rowan’s room

~*~*~

As her movie ended, Aelin stood and stretched with a yawn. Rowan had long since relocated to his own room, but thanks to the odd hours she worked at the bar she knew she’d likely be up for at least another hour or so. Since their truce had begun, though, Aelin had taken to spending her last few waking hours in her own room, reading or doing something else that would generate less noise than the television would.

She quietly folded the blankets she had nestled into, knowing that leaving them where they were would only serve to drive Rowan up a wall. She’d already done quite enough of that, however unintentional the earlier kitchen fire had been. Once that was done, she tucked her shoes into the corner of the room beside his and then crept up the stairs.

She had just changed into her nightclothes when she heard a crashing sound from across the hall.

Aelin frowned. Rowan was asleep, and she had locked everything up before coming upstairs, and last she’d checked she hadn’t left anything in a precarious location.

Gods, had someone broken in?

She wouldn’t rest until she’d investigated. She had to know they would be safe. With that in mind, she grabbed the first object with decent heft that her hand landed on and carefully opened her door.

As she was passing Rowan’s room, she heard a clattering sound, as though a desk or dresser drawer had been upturned and its contents scattered. Gods, had they made it up the stairs already? Was Rowan—?

She had to know.

Knowing the element of surprise would be about the only thing she had going for her at this point in the night, Aelin flung the door open, letting it slam into the wall as she charged into the room and then paused with a frown when a seemingly-empty bedroom was all she saw. What on earth…?

Green eyes peered at her from across the bed, then narrowed. “Aelin Galathynius, what on earth are you doing in my room, brandishing… is that an umbrella?”

She looked down at what she had grabbed, flushing when she realized he was indeed correct. “I heard noises,” she said, voice sounding weak to her own ears. “I thought…”

“Never mind what you thought, just…” The top of Rowan’s head disappeared beneath the side of the bed, and a hand emerged to make a dismissive gesture.

Something gave Aelin pause, though, and she played his words back in her mind. His voice had been rough, rougher than she would’ve expected from having just woken up, and his eyes had been red and almost…

Haunted. His gaze had been haunted, and not even the surprise of seeing her had cleared the emotion entirely from his expression.

Instead of leaving, she vaulted herself over the bed to sit beside him. She had been right about one of the noises, at least; the top drawer of his nightstand lay beside her, its contents scattered except for a frame that rested in Rowan’s hand. Curious, she nestled herself against his side and peered closer.

Inside the well-worn frame was a picture of a woman. She had soft brown curls and warm honeyed eyes to match, and she was giving the photographer a soft, secretive smile as her arms wrapped around herself as if in an embrace. “Who is she?” Aelin asked quietly before she could think better of the words.

Rowan’s tone was harsh as he responded. “No one. Not anymore.”

She frowned, glancing up at him. Maybe she’d asked the wrong question. “Who was she, then?”

He sighed, setting the photograph aside before staring down at his hands. “Her name was Lyria. She was my wife.”

Aelin blinked, stunned. She’d had no idea he’d ever even been in a serious relationship, let alone married. “What happened?”

“She died,” he replied simply.

Before she could think better of it, she wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face into his shoulder. There were no words she could think of to say to such a thing, but for all that Rowan’s career involved selecting exactly the right words for any given situation, she had a feeling he would prefer her silence now.

As she’d suspected, Rowan finally sighed again and wrapped an arm around her to return her embrace. Finally, she heard him speaking, his voice soft and distant. “I was away on a business trip. She hadn’t wanted me to go, but I couldn’t turn it down, not that time. She didn’t tell me why she didn’t want me to go, either. I came back to our apartment to find the whole building had burned to the ground. A kitchen fire, they said. And she… She’d been planning to tell me she was pregnant.”

Realization dawned in Aelin’s mind. “That’s why you were so worked up this morning. When the fire alarm woke you up.”

From her position, she didn’t see him react, but she could feel him nod once. “I thought I was still asleep, at first. I wasn’t there when it happened, but in my dreams it all happens right in front of me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

“And the noises I heard…”

“I knocked over the drawer,” Rowan admitted. “You probably figured that out already.”

“No, no, before that,” she replied with a frown. “Your drawer isn’t big enough to make the crashing sound I heard.”

“I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

Aelin lifted her head from his shoulder to glance at their surroundings. Nothing else was out of place except for the sheets on his bed, tangled around his foot. “You fell out of bed. Didn’t you?”

Rowan scowled. “You’ll never find out.”

“That’s a yes, then. Come on, let’s get you back into bed. I know you’ve got an early morning.” She stood, carefully detangling him from the sheets before tucking them back onto the bed.

“I presume you have a plan for making sure I actually sleep,” Rowan drawled.

“Of course I do. I’m going to sit on the corner of your bed and talk to you until you fall asleep out of self-defense. It’s worked every time I tried it in the living room.”

“Gods help us all.” The reply was teasing, though, some of the light finally returning to those green eyes, so she decided to allow it.

“Come on, get up.” True to her word, she sat on the corner of the bed, gaze fixed on him expectantly.

With a groan, Rowan finally stood before sliding back into the bed. His eyes narrowed as she deftly tucked the sheets in around him before sitting back down. “So that part wasn’t a joke, then.”

“Did I laugh when I was saying it?”

“That would’ve ruined the joke.”

“I laugh at all my own jokes. I’m hilarious. You should laugh at more of them than you do.” At Rowan’s skeptical look, she sighed. “Light on or light off?”

He frowned, clearly considering the options. “Light off,” he finally said. “I won’t sleep with it on. I’ve tried.”

Aelin smiled and stood, turning to face him as he suddenly coughed. “Something wrong?”

“Did I interrupt you with all this? Where’s the other half of your… outfit?”

She looked down at herself, confused, only to be met with the sight of the pink satin and creamy lace of her favorite nightgown. Oh. She hadn’t thought about what she’d been wearing when she barged in. Still, it was best to own it, and so she grinned up at him. “There is no other half.”

His frown deepened. “Do I dare ask what you’re wearing underneath it?”

She pretended to consider his question, one finger tapping her chin. “Ordinarily I’d say you have to buy me dinner first, but you have been doing all the cooking for weeks, so I guess I can allow it. Your answer is nothing.”

She couldn’t quite catch exactly what he growled, but soon she found herself clutching soft plaid flannel and realized he had tossed a pair of pajama pants at her. “Either leave or put them on,” he said with a scowl.

On any other night, she would’ve protested that she could wear what she wanted. But he had revealed so much of himself to her tonight, and with one glance in his direction it was easy to see how much that had cost him. Just for tonight, it was only right that she comply.

Besides, the pants were unfairly soft, and she couldn’t deny she would love the feeling of soft flannel on her legs.

Once she settled the waistband on her hips, she had to bend over and cuff the legs a few times so that she could actually walk. She was positive she looked absolutely ridiculous, but she’d been right about the softness of the material and therefore she decided she didn’t care as much as she probably should’ve.

Before he could make fun of what she was sure was a comical sight, she flipped the light switch and plunged the room into darkness before making her way back to the bed.

This time she did actually lie down, but she kept a respectable distance from him and stayed on top of the covers. It’s only practical, she told herself. Might as well get comfortable, if this is going to take a while.

Rowan turned to face her, or at least she thought he did; it was just a little too dark to tell for certain. “What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable. If you’re so sure it’s going to take you so long to go to sleep, I might as well be in a position that won’t hurt my back.”

If she could’ve seen his face, she was positive she would’ve been met with the image of him rolling his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

She grinned, even though she was sure he couldn’t see her either. “I’m going to need you to say that more often.”

He huffed out a soft laugh. “Don’t make this weirder than it already is.”

She paused to consider his words. Perhaps he was right, and this was a weird boundary they were blurring. Still, it felt right. “I don’t hear you telling me to leave.”

“I suppose you don’t.”

Before she could come up with something to ramble about until he fell asleep, she heard the sound of his breathing even out. While she’d been sure he would eventually fall asleep after all, she was certainly surprised he’d managed to do so this quickly. Perhaps it was for the best, though.

She shifted slightly to see if the movement would wake him or if she could safely leave, only for his hand to reach out toward her and gently clasp her own.

Message received. It seemed she was staying after all.

She found it was perhaps too easy to drift into a dreamless sleep beside him, their fingers carefully entwined even though the rest of their bodies stayed on their own sides of the bed. Just one more thing that was probably weird, but felt entirely too right.

~*~*~

@ireallyshouldsleeprn @queen-of-glass @fangirlprincess09 @sassys-world @morganofthewildfire @superspiritfestival @perseusannabeth @sis-it-dont-add-up @jlinez @julemmaes @emilyoftheshadows @thegoddessofyou @mymultiversee @swankii-art-teacher @rowansfirebringer @livsdriverslicense @courtofjurdan @danibutterr @woollycat22 @rowaelinismyotp @sleeping-and-books @acciowests

[carewyncromwell]

At last, my friends, we’ve come to the end! This is the final part of my POTC AU. *cue the confetti and noisemakers*

I’ll be creating a masterpost for this AU in the next few days, so that it’s easier to start at the beginning, but before we jump right in, I want to thank those people who contributed to the POTC AU during its development by creating content for their own characters -- @hphm-brooke, @danceworshipper, @rosievixen, @smarti-at-smogwarts, @theguythatdraws, @dat-silvers-girl, @that-ravenpuff-witch, @hogwarts9, @drinkyoursoupbitch and @samshogwarts -- as well as my dear friend @cursebreakerfarrier, whose character Jules I roped into this thing at the very start before having any concept of how big this thing could get and I feel so blessed to have been able to write for. I also just want to thank you all for the overwhelming flood of support you guys have sent my way for this project -- I truly have loved every minute of it, and I hope to finish some of my other unfinished projects as well as create other fresh new material for you guys in the near future! I love you all! xoxo

One last time -- previous part is here, and full tag is here!

x~x~x~x

Even with McNully’s brilliant ploy giving her an extra smattering of glory to cement her position, Carewyn had still initially feared the crew who had been on the HMS Lion would take her to task for her insubordination of Cutler Beckett. It turned out she really needn’t have worried.

“Lord Beckett may have been chosen by the King to take charge of the Empire’s anti-piracy campaign,” said Carewyn’s old lieutenant when she questioned him about it, “but he selected you as the Admiral of the fleet. Therefore it’s only right that we, as your subordinates, follow your orders -- whether they contradict Lord Beckett’s or not.”

“Even though I’m the sort of person to threaten the King’s chosen representative with my pistol?” asked Carewyn, her eyebrows raised.

“Even if you did far worse than that,” said the lieutenant, his eyes blazing with resolve. “Your orders saved a lot of our men’s lives out there, when Beckett’s no doubt would’ve led to their deaths. It’s only right that we protect you -- that the Navy protects you -- just like you protected us.”

His boyish face broke out into a broad smile. “We won’t betray you, Admiral. None of us will.”

With the Navy’s defeat at the hands of the Pirate Lords, Carewyn charted a course straight for London. The fleet had just started the month-long journey when about three days in, the Flying Dutchman emerged out of a gigantic wave and pulled up right alongside the HMS Royal. The Navy’s sailors immediately prepared for a fight, as they knew that the Dutchman was no longer under their control, but Carewyn held the order to attack, instead allowing the ship to approach.

The sailors on board the Dutchman were unrecognizable to Carewyn’s eyes -- gone were the barnacle-encrusted, shark-or-fish-headed crew members she’d seen before: all she saw were a band of very human, though admittedly very dirty and ragged-looking pirates. Sticking out amongst them was a handsome, clean-shaved man with a stylishly-embroidered coat, a brown ponytail, and discerning brown eyes, who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a shorter, stockier man with very long curly dark hair tied back in a ponytail that swished around behind him like an oddly sentient tail. It was these two men that came aboard, when Carewyn invoked the right to parley with the Dutchman’s Captain in her office.

Percy shut the door to Carewyn’s cabin’s door behind the two men, taking off his tricorn hat just as the pirates, Ben, and Carewyn already had now that he was indoors. It was only once Carewyn, Percy, Ben, Jacob, and Ashe were alone that the two Navy officers and ex-Navy veteran dropped their professional masks and the two pirates dropped their intimidating glares, and Jacob and Carewyn ran forward, throwing their arms around each other and squeezing tight.

“Jacob!” Carewyn breathed against his shoulder as she clung to her brother.

Jacob cradled his younger sister close, absently trailing his hand through her hair in repetitive strokes. “Oh Wyn -- my brave Wyn...”

Carewyn pulled away just enough to look at Jacob. Her eyes trailed over his face, down to the long scar on his chest exposed by his slightly open shirt, and over his curly ponytail, which was currently squiggling like a ribbon in mid-air behind him.

Jacob smiled a bit sheepishly.

“Seems all sailors on the Flying Dutchman become a bit more ‘sea-like’ upon tying themselves to the ship. Rakepick’s hair kind of went all ‘jellyfish’ when she was captain -- probably because of her talent for shocking betrayals,” he added with a rather nasty smile. “Ashe thinks that my hair’s been evoking an eel. Fortunately I reckon I won’t start sprouting gills or turning green unless I actively shed my humanity and ignore my role as ferryman like Jones did...”

The severe look on Carewyn’s face made the smile slowly slide off of Jacob’s face.

“Jacob...when Jones was captain of the Dutchman, he wasn’t allowed to visit dry land but once every ten years,” said Carewyn, her voice betraying the anxiety she felt despite her best effort.

Jacob’s eyes grew a little more solemn. “...I know.”

Seeing the pain in his sister’s eyes, he immediately swooped in and trailed a hand through the hair near the front of her face.

“Wyn, I already planned for this. The whole reason I left you on Isle de Muerta is that I wanted to get Jones’s heart and force him, any way I had to, to release you from the contract.” He swallowed. “...I knew I’d have to be prepared to follow through, if I was going to threaten Jones’s life -- that I’d have to be prepared to become captain of the Dutchman myself, if it came to it.”

Carewyn looked if possible even more upset. “...You mean you planned this? You were really going to kill Jones, to stop him from impressing me into service?”

“I was not going to condemn you, Wyn,” Jacob said in a very forceful, pained voice. “I couldn’t let you suffer because of my mistake -- ”

“Two wrongs do not make a right, Jacob,” Carewyn shot back very harshly. “Jones may have been heartless, but he was still a person!”

“If you disregard the tentacles and claw, anyway,” Ashe said rather coolly. When Carewyn whirled on him with a very reproachful look, he spoke again before she did, “Carewyn, your brother had his fair share of conflict about the whole thing. He hated the thought of killing Jones and joining the crew of the Dutchman. He hated the thought of not being free to go where he wanted, to lose so much time with you...with me.”

Ashe’s eyes were very stony, but they still flickered over to Jacob, narrowing slightly with something oddly resigned. Carewyn’s gaze softened significantly.

“...I hated it for him too,” the merman said lowly. “I still do. But I hate the thought of Jack having died there on that deck more. I hate the thought that Rakepick would’ve actually managed to kill him this time, and there would’ve been nothing I could’ve done to stop it. Your friend the Pirate King couldn’t save your brother’s life, but she did prevent him from dying...all because she, like me, couldn’t bear the thought of you two never seeing each other again.”

His lips actually turned up in something of a weak, wry smile upon Carewyn.

“I understand your frustration -- your brother can be amazingly thick -- ”

“Oi!” said Jacob, a bit offended, but Ashe ignored him.

“ -- but I’ve been very fortunate to know the same intense, selfless love from Jack that he feels for you. I’m not going to act like it’ll be easy -- I mean, even if I’d be able to stay on-board on the Dutchman with Jack while he’s here in the land of the living...whenever he goes to the next world as ferryman, I won’t be able to follow. But I can always meet up with him at sea, in my regular form -- I can always catch up, given the proper time...just like I did while Jack was serving under Howell Davis. Until then, I’ll just find someplace to wait.”

Carewyn considered Ashe for a long moment, her blue eyes rippling with a rather indiscernible expression. Then, looking a bit more determined, she strode right up to Ashe and took hold of his shoulders.

“You won’t have to find a place,” she said. “You’ll have one with me.”

Both Jacob and Ashe looked taken aback.

“You’re family, Duncan,” said Carewyn with a smile. “And everything I’ve ever done -- everything I’m doing now -- is for my family...my blood one and my found one.”

She glanced at Percy, who beamed, before turning her gaze back to Ashe.

“You’ll always have a home with me, when you don’t have one with my brother,” she said very firmly. “Always.”

Ashe looked faintly stunned. His eyes trailed over Carewyn’s face, analyzing every inch as if he’d never seen anyone quite like her. His gaze flitted back over to Jacob, whose face had broken into a very warm, tear-choked smile.

Seeing the intense emotion in his partner’s face, Ashe couldn’t help but bow his head and clear his throat as he struggled to keep his composure.

“Ahem...well...that’s...nice.”

He glanced at Carewyn out the side of his eye almost hesitantly. The Admiral’s smile softened that bit more, becoming more sympathetic, and finally Ashe’s face slowly broke out into a very small, soft smile too. He brought up a hand and rested it on the crown of her head, lightly messing up her bangs.

“Guess I’ll just stick with you in the interim, then,” he said airily, “considering the Brethren Court’s instructions.”

Percy blinked in surprise. “The Brethren Court?”

Jacob nodded. “We took a vote and our Pirate King decided that a ‘representative’ should deliver the Court’s demands to the Admiral and the British Crown. Originally the plan was to have Ashe and me rendez-vous with you, and for Ashe to stay with you until ‘the terms were met.’”

“Jack would’ve done it himself if he could, but of course, he sort of needs to stick to the sea, unless he wants to waste his ‘one day every ten years,’” added Ashe.

“What terms did the Court decide on?” asked Ben, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. “I assume they want pardons for themselves and their crews...but just pardoning a mob of pirates isn’t going to fix things on its own.”

Jacob nodded. “Aye. The Court requested a ‘path toward reintegration’ -- one that includes pardons, as well as a job that suits our sailing and, er... ‘financially-inclined’ talents and can be used to build a future for ourselves and any families we may want to support. Amari’s First Mate said there would only be a 58% chance that the King would accept those terms, but he hoped that you ‘being put under duress’ by a pirate while submitting those terms in writing might improve the odds slightly -- ”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Carewyn very primly.

This startled both Jacob and Ashe. Carewyn exchanged a wry smile with Ben.

“We’re already heading to London right now,” said Ben, his smirk noticeably broader than Carewyn’s. “The Admiral plans on requesting an audience with the King himself.”

“With Beckett gone, I’m in the best position I’ll ever be in, to make my move,” Carewyn said, her blue eyes flashing with determined fire. “I’m done with staying silent -- I intend to convince the King to give every pirate the chance to start their lives over.”

And so Carewyn sailed for London with Ashe, Ben, and Percy as her entourage. Meeting King George I would be a formidable proposition for anyone, but Carewyn fortunately was able to prepare a little ahead of time. The Weasley family had grown up near London, so Percy was able to give Carewyn some advice of how to approach the King --

“His Majesty was born and raised in the Holy Roman Empire, so English is not his first language. There are some rumors that he really doesn’t even speak English at all, but I think that’s highly exaggerated -- anti-German sentiment more than anything, you know. One thing that’s for sure, though, is that what he says goes. He’s even ostracized his own son and heir, so I’ve heard, since he was more popular with the British people. But he also can’t stand the Tories -- they never quite accepted his claim to the throne, over the Stuarts...honestly, there are a lot of people who’ve never really warmed up to the man...”

“And financially?” asked Carewyn.

Percy considered this. “...Well, the King’s very wealthy, certainly -- everyone knows that. But I suppose profit would always be advantageous, for the sake of the Empire...”

Carewyn smiled wryly and shook her head. “The Navy has been commanded by the East India Trading Company more than the King himself, as of late. Beckett once equated money with power, and I think there was a reason. If the King’s been leaning so heavily on the Company, that tells me that it had financial resources the Crown is in desperate need of, so the Crown’s own coffers currently depend on the Company’s success.”

Ben got an delighted, devious glint in his eye.

“Bet he’ll be absolutely thrilled to hear what happened to his fleet, then,” he said sarcastically.

Ashe and Carewyn exchanged a smirk too.

“I reckon you could play to that desperation,” said Ashe dryly. “A lack of or loss of wealth is a very common fear among men, I’ve found.”

Carewyn nodded in agreement. 

Within twenty days, the HMS Royal docked in London, a few days ahead of schedule thanks to the almost miraculously clear weather and friendly winds. Carewyn then traveled with Percy, Ashe, and Ben to Kensington Palace. It was only one of many castles owned by the King, but according to Percy, it was the one King George I had renovated the most, so Carewyn sussed out that it was likely his favorite of his residences and so, in her opinion, the best place to seek him out first. Her intuition turned out to be spot-on -- as it turned out, both King George I and his son the Prince were there, and although the King was occupied with his Ministers and couldn’t meet with them until that evening, Prince George Augustus was eager to meet the famous Admiral Weasley and requested an audience in one of the royal drawing rooms.

The Crown Prince of England was an amiable and warm, but not a very clever or intellectual man of about forty years. He expressed a lot of interest in Carewyn’s experience as a Navy hero, sounding rather like a child as he questioned her about facing off against the likes of Orion Amari and the crew of the dreaded ship Revenge. Carewyn did have to tailor her stories somewhat, but after a while, she was able to get Prince George comfortable enough that they ended up talking casually over a game of Cribbage, where Carewyn gleaned a few other helpful insights. For one, Carewyn learned that both the King and Prince knew several languages, the first being French, which was the preferred language at court as well as among royals abroad. She also found out that the royal family had never visited the colonies themselves, and that King George I’s leading advisor on matters of business -- the First Lord of the Treasury, Sir Robert Walpole -- had been personally putting more stock in the East India Trading Company than on investing any additional money into the colonies. From the sound of things, he believed as Cutler Beckett did in the power of money over noble ancestry, and yet the Prince conceded that his wife and father both thought well of him and that he was relatively amiable.

When Carewyn finally got her audience with King George I, she sure enough encountered Sir Robert Walpole. He was a broad middle-aged man with a powdered white wig curled into ringlets who stood beside the gray-wigged, tiny-eyed elderly King -- and the news of Cutler Beckett’s fate and the outcome of the confrontation at Shipwreck Cove visibly troubled him. As Carewyn had thought, the Crown had been counting on the East India Trading Company’s profits to flow back toward England to offset the national debt brought on by the War of Spanish Succession and Britain’s other conflicts...and so, when she made her proposal to the King, she felt rather confident.

“Votre Majesté...the scourge of piracy is indeed a threat, not just to the lives of our citizens, but to the Empire’s prosperity. But the East India Trading Company is a business -- they’re not trained in military matters, nor do they know how best to use the resources of the British Crown to combat this problem. They’re not equipped to deal with sensitive matters of state, which truthfully, I believe this to be. We don’t need to get England tied up in another military conflict...particularly when there’s a much more cost-effective alternative.”

King George I raised his graying eyebrows with some interest, but did not speak.

“And what alternative would you suggest, Admiral?” asked Walpole, looking rather curious himself.

“Investing in the colonies,” said Carewyn very firmly. “There’s still a lot of undeveloped land out there -- a lot of trading potential in beaver skins, lumber, and tobacco -- the possibility of wealth that’s been left untapped by the East India Trading Company, with their intense focus on Asia. These men who have become pirates, many of them, were privateers under us during our War against the Spanish. They know shipping and are in need of honest work. They’ve asked for it explicitly. I say that we offer pardons to those pirates who would be willing to work for a new trading company in New England -- one that can be for the colonies what the Company in India already is.”

Walpole frowned deeply in thought, considering the proposal. King George straightened up slightly in his throne so he could peer down at Carewyn with a beady eye.

“You believe, truly, that these criminals would want honest employment?” the old man asked.

His voice was very quiet and laced with a husky German accent. Apparently Percy was right to think the rumors that he couldn’t speak English weren’t true, but he seemed a bit uncomfortable with the language, all the same.

Carewyn smiled at the King. “Oui, mon roi. Beasts can survive on human flesh alone, but humans need a home and money in order to live well. Et les pirates...pardon, I hope that word is correct...sont juste les humains.”

King George’s tiny eyes softened noticeably.

“Your French is very poor, Admiral,” he said in rather smug amusement, “but your word choice is correct.”

He looked at Walpole. “What say you, Earl?”

Walpole considered his answer. “...It could be an interesting proposition -- were we able to locate someone who’d be willing to put his name, reputation, and estate on the line, to fund such a company...”

“I volunteer.”

Ben took a step forward and gave a low, but clipped bow to the King.

“Lord Earl, Your Majesty, this is Captain Gordon Cooper, of the HMS Royal,” Carewyn introduced him. “He was instrumental in helping me lead our men during the battle at Shipwreck Cove.”

“I already have a small sum of money saved up, your Majesty -- enough to purchase one or two ships of my own, to start with,” said Ben. “I truly believe that the profits I could make with those two ships just from offering safe passage to the colonies would be enough to fund the purchase of another. All I’d need would be some collateral to pay a crew for each ship in advance.”

"A standard ship would only need about ten well-bodied men to sail it and transport its cargo efficiently,” Carewyn said quickly, seeing the slight hesitation in the King’s expression. "I’m no expert in finance -- ” she inclined her head respectfully in Walpole’s direction, “ -- but in order to settle more land in the colonies, trees would have to be cut down...which means more lumber to transport back to England. If the people Captain Cooper’s ships are transporting are settlers who are incentivized to build homes there -- possibly with the promise of land ownership -- then their arrival alone would spark a boom of lumber sales. That could then pay back the investment several times over.”

Walpole’s lips spread into a smile, one wryer than the King’s. He was clearly a much more discerning man than either of the two Georges, but he seemed pleased by the proposition, nonetheless.

“...Indeed it could,” he granted. He glanced at the King. “I daresay old Townsend would be pleased to have some financial leverage for his talks with the Spanish and French...”

“Mm...”

King George I gave a short, pompous nod before turning back to face Carewyn and the others.

“Very well. I grant my favor.”

Walpole inclined his head to Ben. “Captain Cooper, the Crown grants you and your Company permission to sail. We shall provide you a loan of 10,000 pounds sterling for your first twenty sailors and any necessary ship repairs, to be paid back with interest within a year. If your sailors complete a successful -- namely, profitable -- round-trip expedition to London on board those ships, then they will receive a full pardon from the British Crown for their past crimes and be permitted to continue working as part of your Company.”

Carewyn’s companions’ eyes all lit up.

“Understood,” said Ben, his face consumed by a huge grin.

“Admiral Weasley will deliver the terms to the pirates -- quietly,” said the King with a stern eye. “I expect written reports and good results.”

Carewyn’s face burst into a brilliant smile too, which she tried to obscure when she brought an arm up to her chest and gave a low bow.

“Mais oui. Merci, votre Grace -- we’ll work hard pour England, et pour vous aussi.”

The King’s eyes sparkled with the trace of a wry smile. “Vous etes un garçon très divertissant, Amiral. J'espère que votre français se sera amélioré lors de notre prochaine rencontre.”

With the King’s blessing, Ben purchased the ships needed in London and, with Percy’s help, prepared them for their first expedition. Carewyn returned to the HMS Lion with Ashe, taking it out to sea just far enough that the Flying Dutchman could emerge from the water and pull up alongside the Navy ship. Carewyn relayed King George I’s decision to Jacob in her cabin, and the Captain of the Flying Dutchman was so overwhelmed with pride that he threw his arms around his little sister and squeezed her with all of his strength. Carewyn, however, found herself unable to celebrate.

“What’s wrong, Wyn?” said Jacob. He tilted his head to look at her, his eel-like ponytail twitching almost curiously behind him. “You did it -- you convinced the King. The Lords at Shipwreck Cove, all the people who live there, will be able to live normal lives again, and it’s all thanks to you.”

“I know,” said Carewyn lowly.

Despite herself, she just couldn’t meet her brother’s gaze. Her eyes lingered on his shoulder.

“...I just wish I could’ve given you that kind of normal life too,” she admitted.

Jacob’s blue eyes darkened. Bringing up both of his arms, he encircled Carewyn and held her tightly against his chest as he rested his head on top of hers. Carewyn bit her lip, trying to hold in her emotions as best she could.

“I wanted to bring you home,” she murmured. “The whole reason I wanted to fight for a world where pirates could be forgiven was because I wanted you to be able to come home...you and Bill and Charlie and Jules and Orion...”

Jacob squeezed Carewyn that bit tighter. Both Cromwells were crying now, even though they both stubbornly fought to keep themselves from breaking down into full sobs.

Ashe shared a grim look  with Jacob over Carewyn’s head. Then he came up beside both of them, resting a hand on the crown of Carewyn’s head and leaning his forehead against his lover’s, and hummed something low under his breath. The resonant bass tone seemed to slowly calm Carewyn’s heart and breathing and help the tears ebb.

After a moment, she took a deep breath and looked up at Ashe with muted gratitude, before she turned back to her brother.

“...Now that I’ve done my duty and made sure the Crown’s terms were delivered, I intend to send in my resignation to the Navy. I can’t support Ben’s new Company while I’m still Admiral without worrying about a conflict of interest, after all.”

She offered a weak wry smile, which then slowly morphed into a much more gentle one.

“Besides...I think I’m ready to finally stop fighting.”

Jacob’s teary eyes softened fondly. “Then live, my sweet Wyn. Live in peace and happiness...”

With a heavy breath, he picked up the Dead Man’s Chest he’d brought with him back off Carewyn’s desk and faced Ashe.

“I’ll need to head to the next world soon,” said Jacob. “Would you...?”

Ashe inclined his head in a solemn nod. “Give it to me, Jack.”

Very carefully, Jacob placed the Chest into Ashe’s open hands, trailing his own much dirtier, faintly trembling hands over his lover’s once he’d taken it. His eyes darted from Ashe to Carewyn, looking heartbroken and almost starved -- like he longed so much to never look away from them again.

“Be safe,” Jacob mumbled, “and...please, keep a weather eye on the horizon for me?”

“How dare you ask me that.”

Ashe trailed his lips along the side of Jacob’s face in lingering, messy kisses, only pausing briefly to look him in the eye, blazing brown on blue.

“I will always wait, Jack. I will always find you again.”

Carewyn’s eyes were just as soft as she reached up into the inside pocket of her jacket and slowly withdrew a familiar star-like, sapphire-and-diamond pendant for Jacob to see.

It was the one he himself had given her on Isle de Muerta.

Jacob’s eyes flooded with more tears as Carewyn wrapped both of her arms around her brother’s neck, hugging him tightly just as she had then.

“We’ll be there, Jacob,” she murmured. Two streaks of tears slid from her closed eyes. “I promise.”

Jacob delivered the British Crown’s terms to the Brethren Court at Shipwreck Cove within two days, after he’d returned from ferrying the proper souls to the next life. Within a month, a ship full of twenty sailors had arrived in London, ready to man the red-and-blue-painted ships Ben Copper had purchased. The two ships set sail for the colonies, the first up to New England and the second down to the Caribbean, which allowed Percy to return home to Port Royal and go about his duties as Commodore and Ben to finally be reunited with his love Wendy Gordon and propose marriage as a free and prosperous man.

Once the two ships returned to London another month later, the first wave of pardons was signed. From there, Ben’s enterprise -- the Gordon-Cooper Trading Company -- grew, taking on more ships that then proceeded to employ the once-most-wanted criminals in the world and give them a chance at a new life. And Carewyn -- retiring with full honors from the Navy and settling in New York City with Ashe under her real name for the first time since she was a child -- visited the dock every morning to see every ship that came in.

The first ship to New York brought Ellie Hopper. The once-Pirate Lord of the Mediterranean Sea ended up colliding with the soft-spoken third son of the well-respected horse breeder Johan Schaefer in upstate New York, and the two were married within a few years.

The second ship brought Merula Snyde and the stylish Frenchman Andre Egwu. The captain of the so-called “most powerful ship on the seven seas” continued as a merchant, breaking off from the Gordon-Cooper Trading Company to buy her own ship and engage in the tobacco and sugar trade between New England and the southern colonies. Andre opened up his own clothing shop in Philadelphia and soon became one of the most sought-after tailors in Pennsylvania.

The third ship brought Bill and Jules.

When Bill caught sight of Carewyn at the dock, he practically barreled his way down the ship’s gangplank and shoved a good ten people aside to reach his best friend. The two gingers and Jules then clung to each other for what felt like hours, tears of joy streaming down their faces as Bill trailed a hand through Carewyn’s now-loose-flowing hair and Jules fawned over Carewyn’s pretty new dress.

Bill and Jules also brought a letter from Charlie with them --

My twin, Carey,

I’m sorry I won’t be able to give you this news in person -- but I won’t be accepting my pardon for a while yet.

At Shipwreck Cove, I met a woman named Sarahi (I don’t believe you know her, but she knows you, and Orion spoke very well of her), who grew up in the area of the Pacific Ocean. According to what she’s said, it’s been left largely in chaos since the death of Bartholomew Sharp -- sea serpents, carnivorous sirens, giant squids, the whole lot...and as Pirate Lord of the Pacific, it’s my responsibility to manage things there. But hey, you know I’ve never been afraid of a little adventure! Particularly when I’ve got a good crew on my side. My First Mate Barnaby’s injuries have completely healed, so we, Sarahi, and Samantha O’Connell will be heading out within the next three days on the new and improved Revolution. Sam and Sarahi helped me paint some red dragon wings on the sides, just as a flourish!

I miss you so much, and I miss Bill already, just writing this -- but I know that we won’t ever be truly apart, even when I can only see you in my mind’s eye. I know you’ll probably be worried about me, Carey, but please don’t be. I’d trust my crew with my life -- I already have, honestly, and they sure haven’t let me down yet! I can’t wait for you to meet them. I reckon you’d probably “mother” the hell out of Barnaby, and Sarahi was really happy when I told her how good of a singer you are, so she’s very excited about the prospect of singing with you. And Sam...I reckon you and she will get on famously.

Remember, Carey...we’re family, now and forever! You’ll be in my mind and heart always, until I sail up into New York Harbor and see you again! If Bill hasn’t given you the biggest hug ever for my sake, then give him a good kick to the shin and remind him. Take good care of him, Jules, and Percy for me. Love you so much.

Your brother,

Charlie

Bill and Jules Weasley ended up settling down and starting a family of their own in New York City, just twelve blocks away from where Carewyn and Ashe lived. It was not uncommon over the years for both Carewyn and Ashe to pick up babysitting duties, though Ashe most frequently would just use his particular talent for singing to put any fussy children right to sleep and then drop them off in either Carewyn’s or Jules’s lap.

Over the next six months, more and more red-and-blue ships passed through New York Harbor, dropping off more pardoned ex-pirates so they could start new lives in the colonies. Then one day, toward the end of spring, Carewyn left the brick house she shared with Ashe as if to head for the dock as usual, only to stop mid-step at the sound of someone shouting her name.

“Carewyn!”

She turned around, her ginger hair flourishing behind her as if in slow motion.

A man had just leapt off the back of a carriage he’d been hanging off of without the driver’s knowledge and was now running toward her. Carewyn squinted, taking in his unfamiliar dark ponytail and sailor’s clothes -- then, within seconds, she recognized the handsomely smiling, bearded face and his shining, galaxy-like eyes.

“Orion?” she breathed.

Her heart seemed to seize up, as if it were being squeezed in someone’s hand and yet being given wings at the exact same time. Then she threw herself into a run, and it slammed against her rib cage, as she ran to him, flat-out ignoring how her knees kept getting caught in her hoops and her heeled shoes pinched her feet.

“Orion -- ORION!”

She just about tripped into his arms. Orion caught her and swooped down on her, burying his face in her hair.

“Carewyn...” he murmured against her neck.

“Orion,” said Carewyn.

Her voice was strained with the effort of trying to contain her joy. It felt like she was being stretched at the seams and probably could’ve exploded from all the intense emotions beating at the edges of her heart. She secured her arms around his neck and clung to him -- she brought her lips up to the side of his temple and kissed it, resting her forehead against his briefly before finally pulling away enough to look him in the face.

Orion was beaming from ear to ear as he brought up a hand to trail his thumb gently along her cheek.

“...Carewyn Cromwell...I don’t think you’ve ever looked more fair.”

Carewyn smiled. “Does that mean you like my new look?”

“Yes,” said Orion, his eyes grazing her black-and-white-striped dress and the diamond-and-sapphire pendant tied with a black ribbon around her neck briefly, “but that’s not why you look so fair. You’ve been my moon goddess, previously...but now you are Libertas, personified.”

Carewyn laughed, her face contorted with confusion. “What?”

“Libertas, Carewyn,” repeated Orion, his huge smile never faltering. “The goddess of freedom! Freedom is the most beautiful thing, Carewyn. I’ve longed for it all my life, but never could truly have it, whether because I lacked the means of survival or because I was a pirate who could only live on the run. And when we first met again, on the Artemis...the thing that hurt me the most, seeing you again...was knowing that you were trapped by your position -- enslaved to the duty that made you hide who you were and march lock-step with the likes of Cutler Beckett. But now you...in this moment, here...you are free. It shines in your eyes, on your face -- it radiates off of you like a star, Carewyn. Better still -- because of you, I am free. For the first time in my life...I’m completely free to chase my heart’s desire...”

Orion’s smile seemed to shrink slightly, not out of lack of happiness but out of something almost like nerves, as he reached into his lone remaining belt and slipped out a familiar black-lidded compass.

"McNully, Skye and I have been offered salaried positions with the Gordon-Cooper Trading Company,” he said a bit more seriously, “so I may have to return to sea in the future, but...”

When he opened the compass, its scarlet arrow was pointed right at Carewyn.

“...My heart’s desire has not changed. I would always return, if you...”

He trailed off, his tone oddly shy for how calm his face appeared. The once-Admiral’s red-painted lips spread into a bigger, fuller smile too as she rested her hands on top of his.

“I wouldn’t have married you in the middle of a storm if I didn’t want to build a life with you, Orion Amari,” she said gently. “Or is it Cromwell now? We may want to make a decision about that...”

She smoothed some dark hair out of his eyes.

“I already told you that I want you to have a home. If you need to fly like a bird...then I’ll be your nest.”

Carewyn placed a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. His black eyes softening, Orion brought up a hand to hold the back of her head, holding it in place. He kissed her chastely in return once, twice, and then deepened the kiss on the third go. After he released her, he lingered, his lips brushing up against hers as he smiled down at her.

“...My dear Bedlam maid...I will always follow your song home.”

Carewyn’s blue eyes sparkled affectionately. “Then I’ll never stop singing.”

“See that you don’t,” said Orion, his black eyes glittering with some wry amusement. “I do believe I said I’d envisioned a life for you where you married a man that you could sing for.”

Carewyn laughed quietly, but after a moment, she brought her forehead beside her husband’s, her arms secure around his neck as she held him close and sang for him.

“So now these two are married, and happy may they be, Like turtle doves together, in love and unity.

All pretty maids, with patience wait, that have got loves at sea – I love my love because I know...my love…loves…me.”

[padfootagain]

Will You Still Be Here In The Morning? (I)

 Part 1 : Before The Arrangement

 Okay, I've finally finished that one-shot that rebelled against me and decided to ruin my life this week by getting so damn long (over 24k)!!! As I've said, this was meant as a one-shot but it became way too long for me to post it as one, so I'm going to split it into five parts and post them in a row to make it easier for you to read. However, it is meant as a one-shot, keep that in mind about the format of this story. I wish I could say it's a brilliant idea of an AU that got out of hand, but really, it's just a collection of moments, and there aren't really any plot beyond that, sorry… just Ineffable Husbands pining for 6 thousand years…

I'm also going to post it on AO3, but this time in just one long post, so if you prefer to read it all in one piece, you'll find the link to AO3 on the masterpost for this story. Go to my masterlist, choose Good Omens, Ineffable Husbands and choose this story in the series section.

I do hope you all like this, it has been hell, but I've overcome it. I am warning you though, it's not all unicorns and rainbows, there is both some angst and the fluffier fluff in this! ;)

Please, tell me what you think about it.

Gif not mine

Word count : 4520

Crawly was shaking, and not because of the cold. Not really. It was because of the shock of it all, the last molecules of adrenaline leaving his veins and abandoning him to the realization striking.

He had tried. He had tried so hard to save as many as he could. He had built his own boat, he had gathered as many children as he could, he had planned everything. As soon as Aziraphale and he had discussed God's plans, he had tried to stop it. Or, well, not to stop it, but to prevent a part of the utter destruction it would cause. He couldn't save all of them, he couldn't save it all, but he could save some of them. For his side, he would pretend it was an attempt to go against God's plan, and it truly was, actually. He wasn't scared for the side effects it would have on him and his relation with his superiors.

But it hadn't worked. It hadn't worked at all. Maybe God herself had found out about his plan, or maybe humans were just that bad sometimes, but a group of angry men had come to destroy his ship. They had been angry at Noah and his ark too, but they hadn't destroyed the it. Maybe Aziraphale had something to do with that. Crawly wasn't sure. What he was certain of was that as he stared at his boat go up in flames, he couldn't find a way to hold back his tears.

They were salty, and bitter, and they tasted like the first rain on Eden. They tasted a little bit like his Fall too. They tasted a lot like the first time he had asked an unwanted question, and was reprimanded for it. They tasted like doubt.

He had fallen for questioning God, for his longing for knowledge, for his want to hear a reason behind his orders and actions of others. But the question why? was the most dangerous of all. He had learnt that a long time ago.

He had watched the wood of his large boat turn into ashes, black smoke emerging out of colourful flames and floating upwards towards a sky that grew darker and darker, greyish puffs of smoke drifting towards blacker clouds and illuminated by the red and orange fire it appeared from. It was just before the rain would start, right before the seas would rise. It was right before God would kill them all…

Why kill even the children?

The same question was in his head again then, staring at the dancing blazes. The most dangerous of all, but God couldn't make him fall twice anyway, so there was no need to keep the question in.

He shouted it out to the sky, his yellow eyes drowned in tears and fixed onto the firmament, his jaw clenched and anger and betrayal painted all over his features.

Why the children too?

He couldn't fathom a single valid reason for it. Why save one man and his family over all these innocent souls? How could God think that a grown-up man was purer than a new-born baby? How could she punish even the ones who hadn't done anything wrong to the world yet? It felt so wrong…

Aziraphale had found him, drunk to no end, a week after the water had gone back its rightful place again. The flood was over, the seas and oceans had found back their rhythms, lakes and rivers were back to their normal quiet. But there was no one left, almost, to enjoy the peace.

The angel had been looking for his hereditary enemy for days and days, but when he found him, it was in a dark little corner of a house lost in Northern Europe, surrounded by nothing but alcohol.

There was something then that moved in Aziraphale's chest, that he knew he shouldn't have felt. Not for a demon, and anyway, not a movement like this at all. It didn't matter. He pushed the thought away. He had been worried when he hadn't found any trace of him after the flood – his reasonable inner voice argued it was because he ought to keep an eye on the adversary, his feelings told him otherwise, but he couldn't resolve himself into listening to them for now.

He thought again of the day of the first rain, he thought of how natural it had felt to stretch a wing for Crawly to hide under, how easy it was to talk with him. He would have lied if he had pretended like he hadn't been happy to see him again after their parting on the walls of Eden. Even their encounter before the ark, although the circumstances were terrible, had brought a warm feeling to spread through his entire being.

It was pain that conquered his frame now, as he looked at Crawly sitting on the ground, his arms wrapped around his knees, like a child thrown into the night who was afraid of the dark.

He knelt by the demon's side, would try to shame him out of his drunken trance, to bring his mind back into focus on the world around him. It took him a single word to do so.

"Crawly?"

His head snapped up, and his golden eyes almost like amber then, in the dim light of the fire from the hearth nearby. Now that Aziraphale thought of it, the house smelled of burnt wood, ashes and spilled wine, and something absolutely indescribable that smelled just like Crawly.

"Aziraphale?" he asked in a blur, his eyes unfocused although he was doing his best to rest his gaze upon the angel before him.

Knots formed in Aziraphale's stomach at how hoarse Crawly's voice sounded as it passed his tightened throat.

"I wondered where you had run off," he explained with a nervous little laugh. "Couldn't find you anywhere down there, in the south, so I thought… well, I wanted to know what you were up to. Demonic force unleashed upon the world and all that, of course…"

Crawly shrugged.

"Drinking, 's all."

"I can see that."

"You?"

"Looking for you. That's all. I… I heard about your boat. Why did you build it?"

A few tears escaped Crawly's eyes again.

"The children," he merely answered, but he knew he didn't need to explain more of it for Aziraphale to understand what he meant. "But they destroyed it, and I… I couldn't save…"

He loudly sniffed, drying his cheeks on his sleeve, but as soon as he put his arm around his knees again, some new tears rolled down to wet his skin once more.

"They were crying. When the water was so high, and there was no place left to hide. They were crying… they were crying and there was nothing I could do…"

"I know. I heard them too," Aziraphale whispered, hurrying to dry his eyes before Crawly could see how affected he was too.

But the demon noticed it anyway.

"Why would She let the children die?" he asked in a whisper, as if afraid to be heard by someone else than the angel before him.

But Aziraphale shook his head.

"I don't know. I really don't know. But, as I understand it, it's not our job to know this kind of things. We must accept it. God knows what purpose Her actions serve, and it is what matters."

"But why can't I know too? Why is it so bad that I want to know why She did it?"

Aziraphale had no answer, and he didn't pretend like he did have one.

"I don't know."

They stared at each other for a while, both of them trying to withhold their tears, and both of them miserably failing.

"You should sober up," Aziraphale eventually broke the silence that had settled in the room, only disturbed by the cold wind howling outside and the fire cracking next to them.

The night was violent, like many had been since the flood. The wind seemed unable to rest, the temperature had dropped unusually low for this time of the year, the animals roamed longer in the shadows under the moonlight. There was an unrest shaking the world, as if the flood had scared the Earth itself, and it was afraid God would do it again.

She had promised she would not, though. Instead, She would invent rainbows.

As they stared at each other, both Crawly and Aziraphale were shaken with the same urge, that they both refrained. They wanted to hold each other, even if for just a minute, feel the physical reassurance brought by someone who knew how they felt, knew what had happened since the beginning and knew how unfair it was, although none of them dared to speak the words they thought about. Instead, they just stared at each other for a while. There wasn't any word really invented yet to describe how they felt for each other. It was okay. They guessed it might be, one day, like all things had been invented before and would be invented later, the same way God was about to invent rainbows.

Aziraphale moved to sit next to Crawly, against the wall of both mud and clay. He rested his back against the hard surface before taking Crawly's jar, and drinking some wine. It didn't taste very good, but it didn't matter. The alcohol was all he was looking for.

Crawly meant to say it. That he was happy Aziraphale had come. That he felt better now that the angel was by his side. That he didn't want him to leave. That he hadn't stopped thinking about his kind smile, and his long white wing stretching in the first raindrops, and his ridiculously blond hair, and his clever blue eyes. That he had hoped their paths would cross more often than he could dare to admit. But he couldn't speak the words out loud, they were too dangerous, and he couldn't imagine a way for the angel to feel the same as he did. So instead, he mustered his last strengths to ask one more question, his voice low, weak, shaking in a breath.

"Will you still be here in the morning?"

Aziraphale found himself wanting to cry again, but he didn't. Crawly's question sounded a lot like please, don't go. Please, stay.

"We'll see," the angel answered in a hesitant voice.

Although his words sounded a lot like I will.

 -------------------------------------------------------

 It was the middle of the night. There had been no signs of evil lurking around the town, no words from Hell to notify Crawly about moving pieces around. He wasn't even sure if it was a mere accident or if Hell was involved. All he knew was what he could witness now: the consequences of an event he couldn’t stop anymore.

The great library of Alexandria was burning, and within its walls, the greatest treasures of mankind turned into ashes: knowledge and beauty.

History, philosophy, poetry, tales… all were turning from scrolls to blazes right under his eyes, and there wasn’t much he could do. If he were to be honest, he didn’t much care about the texts. He cared about the angel he was certain to find there.

Without fail, Aziraphale was here. He seemed desperate, yet focused his efforts in an attempt to contain the fire and stop it from spreading across town. Crawly could see a few people lying on the ground, safely, a few meters away from the burning building. Somehow, he knew the angel had used his powers to get them out of the fire and save their lives.

Crawly would be in trouble if he was caught helping Aziraphale with the burning inferno, and he reckoned he could hardly take such a tremendous risk. There were hundreds of people around, too many eyes that could have been watching for his reaction, for his actions. He couldn’t take the risk to have Hell learn about the way he felt for Aziraphale. He didn’t dare to imagine what either of their sides would do to them if they learnt…

He couldn’t work in plain sight, but he could do some discreet work. He could move to adjacent streets and bless them against the coming fire, he could disguise himself to evacuate the people in neighbouring streets. He could heal the wounded who had been taken away from the flames. Finally, he could miracle himself inside the library, just for a few seconds, just long enough to grab an armful of scrolls, and miracle himself out again.

And it's exactly what he did that night.

At dawn, he found Aziraphale in his house, not far from the burning library. The flames had spread to more buidings, but the angel lived far enough in the city to be safe. The blazes were weakening, slowly yet surely. There was little more to do except wait for it all to be over.

Crawly brought with him a large bag, containing the scrolls he had saved and a large jar filled with wine.

He knocked four times in a particular pattern, the code he and Aziraphale had designed to let the other know who was visiting. It was safer this way. If another Angel was with Aziraphale now, he would make some noise, either by breaking some pottery, raising his voice or coughing… no matter what, something loud and clear that would tell Crawly to run as fast as possible.

Instead, he recognized the faint sound of slow, reluctant steps coming closer to the door, and Aziraphale soon appeared before him.

The angel seemed exhausted, desperation extinguishing the usual glint that shone in his blue eyes. He had scratches on his cheeks and arms, even a rather deep burn on his left upper-arm. He didn’t seem to care much about them though.

Crawly clenched both his fists and jaw. He wished he’d known for certain who was truly responsible for this. He would make sure to send them straight to Hell. But for now, the culprit was a mere rumour, and it wasn't enough…

"What do you want? Has something happened?" he asked the demon, still blocking the way, preventing Crawly from stepping inside.

"Has something happened? Are you serious? You think I haven’t noticed the library burning?"

"Did you have something to do with that?"

Crawly’s gaze softened, and he spoke in a soothing tone this time.

"No, Aziraphale. It wasn’t me. I just wanted to see how you were doing. I know you loved the place."

It was Aziraphale’s time to soften, and he moved aside, letting the demon in. He locked the door behind them.

"Do you think it comes from your side?" Aziraphale asked in a hesitant voice.

"I don’t know. They didn’t tell me anything."

"You really didn’t know?"

Crawly turned to face Aziraphale, eyes of sulphur and amber meeting irises as blue as the sea. And when the demon answered, the angel had to doubt that he was telling him the truth. Crawly had always been a terrible liar… at least with Aziraphale.

"I would have tried to stop it if I knew."

"Really?"

Crawly shrugged, trying to look casual, but his voice sounded a little too fragile.

"Hey, you know… knowledge can lead to questioning, and I’m the living proof that your side doesn’t like questions. So obviously, it would have been a very demonic thing to do."

But his tone and the softness of his voice, and the look in his eyes that seemed almost tender were rather saying he would have done it for Aziraphale.

"Heard it was because of good old Julius again," Crawly went on. "Burnt ships near the harbour, the fire spread through the parts of town closer to the sea. I can't be sure it's the real reason behind it all, though, maybe it is another demon. Anyway, I'm sorry."

Aziraphale let himself fall on a chair around his wooden table, heaving an exhausted sigh. When he spoke again, Crawly could hear the tears in his voice.

"I couldn’t save anything. Just the people inside, but not a single scroll, nothing more. I should have prevented it altogether. What kind of angel am I? Not even able to protect a library…"

Crawly sat down as well, pulling the chair across the floor to sit right in front of the angel. He took out of his bag the jar and the scrolls. Aziraphale’s eyes grew round at the sight of the parchments.

"I arrived too late, I’m sorry," Crawly mumbled, looking uncomfortably away from the angel as he handed him the texts, while Aziraphale was now staring at him again, his mouth a little agape with a mixture of shock and hope. "I couldn’t save much. Had time for only one trip inside."

"You went inside? After the fire started?"

"Well… you were busy helping around the library, so… yeah. Anyway, you know, demon, fire… suits me better than it suits you."

He handed the scrolls still, but Azirapahale wasn’t making any movement to take them.

"You went inside to save those?" Aziraphale went on, his voice shaking.

"No need to make a big deal of it," Crawly replied.

"You could have been hurt!"

"I wasn’t."

He shook the parchments a little, a silent plea for the angel to finally reach out and take them. It felt like Crawly was handing over more than a few scrolls though, something of him that he didn’t dare to name but that had been Aziraphale’s for a while.

The angel eventually took the scrolls in his hands, shaking a little as the dry parchment fell under his fingers, as he grasped the only things of the library that remained. He had spent so many hours there, had found so many stories and essays to add to the collection. It was all gone now. All, except for the seven scrolls he was now holding in his trembling hands.

And it was thanks to Crawly.

"Thank you," he whispered, his cheeks wet with tears, but Crawly shushed him in a hurry.

"Don’t say something like that! Imagine if someone was listening! Besides… there’s no need for a thank you, really. It’s alright."

Aziraphale hesitated when he spoke again. He could have told a lie, or speak his mind. It was a battle he often fought around Crawly. He found himself longing to speak out words that an angel should never say, and even less so to a demon.

He was too tired, too distraught, too desperate to think about Heaven’s rules at this moment though.

"Crawly, if I… if I can ask for one more favour I… I think I would… like some companionship right now?"

But his voice sounded like he truly meant please, stay. Crawly, for the love of God, stay.

The demon struggled to hide the smile that tried to form on his lips.

"Yes, angel. I can do that. In fact, I came prepared."

He took the jar he had brought, and poured a drink for both of them. And Aziraphale, despite his tears, smiled.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

 "So… you made this one?"

Crowley nodded his head, blushing a little and mumbling an incomprehensible answer.

"I didn't know you used to make stars," Aziraphale breathed, clearly impressed. "It's lovely. I've always liked stars."

"Wasn't any big deal, really."

"No big deal?! Crowley! Of course, it is! They are beautiful!"

Crowley shyly smiled.

"Thanks."

"I think this one is my favourite," Aziraphale smiled, wiggling a little, the scroll he had brought to share with Crowley completely forgotten by his side now. "Yes, most definitely. It's gorgeous."

"Actually, there are two stars," Crowley explained. "But they're very close, the closest there are in the sky. And they are so close, you can't make the difference between them, and only see one. I thought… I thought it was… meaningful, at the time. To have two things so close they seem to be just one."

"Soulmates," Aziraphale smiled and nodded.

"Yes, like soulmates."

"What's their name? You haven't told me."

"Alpha and Beta Centauri."

"Oh, so lovely…"

They had eaten dinner together, it was the beginning of the oyster season. They had walked a little through Rome as twilight painted the sky with gold. They had settled down in the forum, sitting on the edge of a wall, at the top of a flight of stairs. Despite the scroll that Aziraphale had brought for Crowley, the conversation had settled on the firmament as the angel enjoyed the view of the burning stars through the branches of cypresses. And that's when Crowley had revealed that a long time ago, before his fall, he had helped creating them. And the angel couldn't refrain the wave of affection aimed at Crowley that washed over him at the thought of the demon creating some of the most beautiful things in all of Creation.

"You've never told me," Aziraphale said softly, carefully, as if he spoke to a child he feared to scare away, "how it happened."

"Making stars? Nothing that complicated, you just need gas and a little bit of heat and then… then the trick is to make them hold together in equilibrium. Also, the balance of colours is tricky, and that takes a while. Other than that, it's not that hard."

Aziraphale chuckled.

"I didn't mean the stars, but I'm glad to know that now."

Crowley nodded knowingly.

"I know you didn't mean the stars."

He remained silent, and the angel decided to back away.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Hurt me?"

"Well, it… must be quite a painful memory. I shouldn't have asked that."

"Yeah, yeah… it was quite painful, indeed."

Crowley's voice was weak now, a little too deep as well. It sounded far off, remoted, as if he spoke from another world. He seemed lost in memories he wished he could forget.

"You… we should talk about something else, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Crowley shook himself and turned to Aziraphale again, a casual smile on his face.

"'S alright, angel. Nothing to worry about. I'm fine. I just… haven't really talked about it since it happened."

"Really? But it was a long time ago."

"Demons aren't really the 'open up and share your trauma' types."

"Neither are angels," Aziraphale muttered with a wince.

"I know. I remember that."

"Look I… if you want to talk about it, because it would help you… now or whenever you'd feel like it, then I will be here to listen to you, Crowley. And on the contrary, if it makes you feel uncomfortable to mention it, then it's okay too."

The demon slowly nodded, feeling his throat tightening and tears blurring the world around him.

How could Aziraphale be so kind? Even with him? A demon? No one had ever been so kind to him…

Silence settled around them for a while. It was already late at night, and yet a few people kept on walking through the city, either to fetch more wine to drink or on their way home. The torches set around the forum attracted insects and a few fireflies were buzzing around the place, tiny dots of light moving through the stony lane and buildings.

When he spoke again, Crowley's voice was soft, distant again, a mere whisper almost destroyed by the blowing breeze, and yet Aziraphale did hear him. And maybe it was a little bit of a miracle.

"I didn't mean to fall, you know? I mean I… I didn't stop believing in Her. I didn't choose to follow Satan. I simply… I wanted to know. I wanted to know why things were the way they were. And I asked too many questions. And as no one would tell me, I asked around, and I kept on asking, and I hung around the wrong people in the end and… And when they fell, they pulled me down with them, but I didn't… I didn't choose a side. I was molested into one. Because I asked why and She didn't like that. I… sauntered vaguely downwards. That's all I did. I never understood why, here again. Why is it a bad thing to want to know why…"

His voice broke, he sniffed, and Aziraphale had to dry his own cheeks too.

"I'm sorry, Crowley," he whispered, his tone matching the demon's.

"It hurt so much… it burnt… it burnt so much and my wings…"

His voice broke again, and this time, he couldn't muster the strength to speak again. Aziraphale rested a reassuring hand on his back, stroking gently, soothingly. Crowley didn't dare to move, too scared the angel would stop. He struggled to control his breathing, but miserably failed.

"It's over now," Aziraphale whispered in a warm voice. "Besides, your wings are still beautiful."

Crowley dried his cheeks as he let out a little laugh.

"Yeah, well… they used to be so white."

"I think they suit you better in black."

They looked at each other and exchanged a smile. Aziraphale had moved his hand to rest where one of Crowley's wing should appear, and he traced circular patterns there. It was intimate, trusting… and Crowley couldn't breathe at all by now.

"Angel?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Are you scared of me?"

Aziraphale frowned.

"Why would I be?"

"I just… I don't want you to be scared of me. I know I'm a demon but I… I would never do anything to hurt you. You know that, right? We're… I wouldn't do that."

He almost said that they were friends, but he couldn't. He didn't want to go too far, and that was not the point. If Crowley knew the way he felt for the angel, if he had put words onto the feelings making his heart swell right now, he couldn't imagine for a second that Aziraphale could feel the same.

He was a demon, and Aziraphale… oh Aziraphale was the brightest, the kindest angel there was. He was a burning, but just like a star, Crowley was doomed to admire him from afar. Just like a star, he was unreachable…

For these past few years though, as they both lived in Rome, they had become closer than ever before. They spent time eating together, and talking, and taking walks, and laughing… If there was always a shadow following them that they tried to run away from, they still took the risk to see each other. If they were still careful and looked over their shoulders, they met anyway. Crowley reckoned it was enough, it was already more than he had thought possible not so long before.

The angel nodded.

"I know, Crowley. I know. And I won't ever do anything to harm you either."

"Oh… I know, angel. You're too soft for that."

Aziraphale laughed, but could hardly deny Crowley's words.

"Angel?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Will you still be here in the morning?"

The angel had heard the question several times before, and he knew that the hidden meaning behind the soft words was please, stay.

Aziraphale gave him a bright, tender smile.

"We'll see."

But it sounded a lot like I will.

*********************************************************************

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[madgodintherain]

5. Yrgenzol

Series: Five Ways the Cardhouse Never Touched Avinlor - Masterpost Characters:

Cobweb - Maitos (one of mine - Avinlor’s apprentice)

Mustard Seed - Tsefida (also one of mine, although not a part of Avinlor’s story)

Moth - Alice (as herself - the/a central character of Cardhouse and the Cage)

Peaseblossom Flower - Anemone (the bitchiest star)

Yrgenzol - Avinlor (a denizen)

Logus, Jezebel, the Cardmaster (referenced); Oskyod (referenced); two unnamed stars

Notes: see this post for a lot more than you probably want to know about gender and the perception thereof in this fic

-- --

Maitos, known as the Cobweb to the rest of his coterie, turned left as the corridor took yet another corner, and promptly spun up the wall and settled into the fork of one of the lower branches of a leafless tree. He was not altogether certain where the roof had gone, but he was willing to hypothesize that it was at least partly responsible for the floor's decision to forego being a useful structure and relocate to the bottom of a pit—assuming the pits here had bottoms. The rattling of a few last pebbles gave way to a series of small splashes, so the Cobweb supposed there was some kind of liquid not too far down the pit. Yrgenzol had said the labyrinth was old, but when asked to elaborate, he had not said 'ruinously-crumbling old', but merely 'old as balls'. The Cobweb supposed he should have made the logical assumption.

Yrgenzol had also indicated that their task required some degree of haste (though all the more care for that), but had the Cobweb's team all entered the labyrinth at the same point? No, they had not. Now he had to waste precious time finding the rest of his cohort and, apparently, dodging disagreeable pieces of maze. The tree seemed sturdy enough—more dormant than dead—so the Cobweb climbed higher for a better view.

From his new vantage, the Cobweb could see that the stone corridors were mostly subterranean, only appearing here and there, where either the dirt of ages had not yet buried them, or where the ground had partially eroded from them. In one direction lay something like a hedge maze—if the hedges were predominately briars and weeds—and some curious earthworks that overlapped partially with the stone tunnels. Off in another direction stood a grove of trees, gnarled and twisted, but decidedly unspooky. The Cobweb distrusted his instinctive trust of it. Climbing down, the Cobweb set off toward the bramble maze: something in that direction caused his fingertips to tingle in a familiar way that always made him want to sneeze.

He was just skirting the earthworks when the ground gave way beneath him again. He dangled, swinging, from the jutting edge, and then scurried across the ceiling to nest comfortably in a corner of roof and wall. Beneath him, a dense fog drifted about on the floor of the tunnel. Maitos had heard of bad air that sank to the bottom of hollows, but such things were supposed to be invisible. This fog was a sickening orange-black and would probably do something much nastier than merely suffocate him if he got caught in it. As he watched, it stopped billowing to and fro, and began streaming into the shadows down one arm of the corridor. At the same time, something poked the Cobweb in the side, and he looked back to the hole in the tunnel's roof to see the Mustard Seed peering over the rim of the hole, holding a stick in one hand and waving at him with the other.

'You look like you could use a hand up,' the Mustard Seed said, and poked at him again. The Cobweb took the hint and clung onto the stick. With a tug and flick, he was standing once more on solid ground and beside one of his fellow Stars.

'Thanks,' he said, and, 'do you know where the rest of our team are?'

The Mustard Seed shrugged. 'Knowing's not my concern: they'll come to me. You did, after all.'

'I wish them better luck than me. That's the second collapse I've triggered.' He nodded toward the hole, where the vile haze had entirely vanished. 'I wouldn't have thought I was that heavy-footed.'

The Mustard Seed frowned down into the open tunnel. 'I suppose I could have left you after all. Where'd it all go?' A girl stepped into view below them: a girl with feathered antennae, powdery wings, and a grin full of sharp teeth—several of which still had shreds of orange-black mist caught in them. 'Oh, of course.'

'Jezebel's,' the Cobweb muttered.

'Easy enough to see why Yrgenzol took you, Cobweb,' the Moth said. 'They say she was Fall once.'

'Fly up here, Moth, and take that back!'

'I am rubber, you are glue: whatever bounces off of me sticks to you!' the Moth sang back at him. 'You're not catching me today, Cobweb!'

'Stop dawdling, Moth,' came a new voice, and a Flower emerged from the corridor. She looked up at the Cobweb and the Mustard Seed and said, 'Boys,' with such venomous disdain that everyone present could hear the ugh, even though the Flower did not demean herself by uttering it.

Maitos was pretty sure the remark strictly applied only to him, since his teammate seemed to be a girl today as far as he could tell. The Mustard Seed simply flicked a finger at the two stars beneath them and the Moth and the Flower were engulfed in another cloud—dull yellow this time. In a moment, though, that too had disappeared, and the Moth was licking her lips. 'Delicious,' she smirked.

'Vermin,' the Mustard Seed grumbled.

The Flower sniffed. 'Yrgenzol clearly takes any riffraff she happens upon. I wonder what the Cardmaster will say when he hears her team is stealing our assignment?'

'Who's going to tell him, Flower? You?' The Mustard Seed laughed. 'You know better than that. You'll tell Jezebel, we'll tell Yrgenzol, and whoever's team doesn't complete the task will slink around the corners of the Cardhouse, scrounging for scraps of glory until they actually do something right. Come on, Cobweb. Jezebel's flutterbunch can keep their nasty tunnels. Give them a sense of purpose, maybe.' The Mustard Seed led the way toward the meeting of the bramble maze and the earthworks.

'Yrgenzol wouldn't actually steal an assignment though, would he?' the Cobweb asked his companion. 'Not generally, at least, and not from Jezebel since they're . . . well, since they have a loose rapport, I suppose.'

'Not generally, no, but I think she might—yes, alright, he might—if it were important to him. Personally, that is; not necessarily within the Cardhouse. Unless you're suggesting Jezebel stole from Yrgenzol?'

'Actually, I was thinking we'd been double-assigned. Possibly even more so, if a lot of teams really have failed at this before.'

'Hmmmm. I don't like the sound of that. Well, we knew we couldn't go directly (or we should have known), but we'd better pay extra attention to being devious now. We'll come up with something.'

Something turned out to be a sort of tunnel-bridge between the earthworks and the hedge maze that took them over an eerily clear, blue pond and into the grove of gnarled trees. At this point, the team had a very important debate over whether to call the territory the Non-, Un-, or Post- Haunted Forest. The Cobweb's suggestion—Familiarless Familiar Forest—had been eliminated early on. The trees had neither leaves nor needles on them, nor any at their feet, and the ground was bare packed dirt with not a sign of leaf mould or indeed that anything ever had decayed there. For all its unnaturalness, however, it kept reminding the Cobweb of something, though he was sure he had never seen a stand of trees anything like it. Once only did the Cobweb find any kind of foliage as he explored beneath the bare branches: a single leaf of a shape he had never seen—lobed and toothed—rich green in hue, with veins just faintly shading towards teal or turquoise. He watched it for a long moment, and when it seemed to be no more than just a leaf, he picked it up, and placed it gently in a safe pocket. Intellectually, he still did not trust the forest, or anything in it, but he was done with fighting the intuition that assured him there was nothing to fear.

Once the Post-Haunted Forest was appropriately named, the Cobweb and his fellow stars set about coercing its past into existence. This turned out to be a shrine, which made the Mustard Seed pout. 'Shrines in strange forests are just so cliché,' she complained. On further inspection, however, the shrine turned out to be a tomb, and the Mustard Seed brightened up again.

'What? Tombs aren't cliché?' the Cobweb asked.

'They are a logical extension, of course,' she retorted. 'Even so, elaborately crafted burial sites do not actually figure into literature and folklore to remotely the same degree.'

'"Fetch a rock,"' one of their companions grumbled. 'The entire thing is made of rock. There's a dozen fancy rocks inside of it. How do we even begin to test which one's right, if even the Cardmaster hasn't decided how he's going to use it?'

'If you recall, Yrgenzol said we were to fetch a stone,' the Mustard Seed corrected.

'Stone, rock, what difference does it make what he said?'

'Honestly, am I the only person who knows the difference between a stone and a rock? Stone designates a function or a purpose; rock is simply a state of being!'

'Yes, yes,' interrupted the Cobweb, who had learned the distinction from Yrgenzol some time ago, though he suspected that the Mustard Seed had been given the type of education that just taught people those obscure sorts of things. 'But even if we did somehow name-test everything, we still need to know what we're testing for. Even the structural stuff will answer 'stone' if we ask it about building.'

'No good arguing about it until we have a look,' the fourth Star said, which turned out to be the best plan possible. After a thorough investigation, the entire team unanimously agreed that the green disk, with rings like a tree slice and a jagged hole in its center, was the stone they had been sent to find.

'It's odd, though,' the Cobweb remarked. 'I would have thought we'd have run into Jezebel's team again.'

'Flutterbunch,' the Mustard Seed said, and shrugged.

In due course, they presented their stone to Yrgenzol, who congratulated them on having all survived the labyrinth and went to deliver it to the Cardmaster, leaving them to argue over how serious their patron was about their survival. Meanwhile, word filtered through the Cardhouse that Jezebel's team had also returned with a stone, as had Logus' and Oskyod's and—

'Enough already!' the Mustard Seed snapped. 'You were right, Cobweb. We were clearly all sent out, one against another.' The Mustard Seed managed to accept the eventual verdict that their stone was not the right one with minimal bitterness—probably, the Cobweb thought, because Jezebel's had already been declared false as well. Logus began to look more and more smug as time went on and one stone after another was rejected, until, quite suddenly, he was not to be seen around at all.

The Cobweb went in search of the Mustard Seed, and found him lying, belly-down, in the dirt of an unweeded garden. 'I don't think we'll see much of Logus or those stars around for a while,' the Cobweb said. 'Word is, their stone—discovered by the most systematic and precise techniques—blew up at the Cardmaster.'

The Mustard Seed laughed. 'Put a bunch of twigs in the dish of noodles, and what do you expect?' he said. The Cobweb laughed as well, and sat down beside his friend.

It was sometime after that (or, perhaps, not yet so late as Logus' disgrace) that Yrgenzol came to see the Cobweb where the latter hovered amongst the rafters. 'I believe that there is one other thing you found in the labyrinth,' Yrgenzol said.

Maitos started, but nodded, and carefully took out the leaf he had picked up in the Post-Haunted Forest—lobed and toothed, rich green in hue, with veins just faintly shading towards teal or turquoise. Yrgenzol stared at it, tilted his head, and stared at it some more. 'May I?' he asked, and Maitos nodded again.

Yrgenzol picked up the leaf and, holding it in the palm of one hand, traced the veins with the fingers of the other, and smiled at it.

Though wary of interrupting the denizen, Maitos presently gathered the courage to ask, 'This . . . this isn't what the Cardmaster was looking for, is it?'

'Does it look like a stone?'

Maitos knew a stone from a rock. 'It has a function.'

'If everything that had a function were a stone, then everything would be a stone.'

Maitos tried to piece that one out, but gave up and set it aside as a logic puzzle for later.

'Don't worry. This isn't at all what our Lord was looking for in that labyrinth.' Yrgenzol cupped her hands around the leaf and placed it into a safe pocket. 'Thank you, little Cobweb,' he said.