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Storkules seeks Donald out in the wake of the moonvasion.
Almost the entirety of the city has turned out for a rousing bacchanalia, celebrating their victory and reunion with those they thought lost. It is well into late evening and the bay is still in the process of defrosting, but light and laughter spills out of taverns and homes alike, and the sound gladdens Storkules’ heart even as he wars with worry.
The grounds of the mansion are perhaps even more alive than the town, and remind him of the McDuck Christmas parties he used to receive yearly invitations to, until the tragedy of a decade ago. There are mechanical lanterns drifting every which way, which he attributes to Dr. Gearloose due to how they go out of their way to bump into partygoers’ heads. Tables and grills have been set up and smoke and conversation drift into the air, up to the stars that are just where they should be.
Storkules spots people he knows, and many he does not; Fenton (who he has been instructed to pretend he doesn’t know is Gizmoduck), the formidable Officer Cabrera, and Dr. Gearloose among the former.
He briefly exchanges eye contact and a smile with his sister, who is in the midst of deep conversation with Webbigail’s closest companions, Violet and Lena. Violet holds a notebook and seems to be copying down Selene’s every word with all the devotion of a scribe, while Lena braids Selene’s hair. Sitting beside them, looking curious and bemused, are an older male sabrewring and a raven, who Storkules’ surmises to be the girls’ fathers.
However, for all the music and revelry outside the McDuck estate, there is not a single member of Clan McDuck in sight. Least of all Donald. So Storkules exchanges pleasant greetings with all the allies he encounters, graciously evades the mead someone attempts to hand him, and walks up the front steps of the mansion.
His knock draws the Lady Beakley to the door, her expression guarded and warrior’s stance ready. She relaxes upon recognizing him, revealing the faint exhaustion beneath her steel.
“Storkules,” she says. “We were wondering when you might arrive.”
He bows at the waist. “I did not mean to tarry so. Keeping Father from interfering, even after I had corrected the Earth’s rotation, proved difficult. Rest assured, the mighty Zeus has been confined in a fashion befitting of his station.”
“Broom closet on Ithaquak?” Beakley guesses as she moves aside to let Storkules enter the foyer.
“Wine cellar, actually. I felt that might put Father in better humor when I return to release him.”
“If he even remembers being upset in the first place,” Beakley replies wryly, closing the door behind him.
As if in direct contrast to the celebration on the other side, the interior of the mansion is still and heavy. A fire crackles in the grand fireplace and from deeper within the home he can hear the murmur of voices.
Storkules looks longingly to the flight of stairs just a few feet away, but before he can begin to move toward them Beakley is purposely stepping forward to block his path.
“Not so fast,” she says tartly. “How did you get here? The sun’s gone down, so it couldn’t be Helios, and the last time you showed up unannounced you brought a hoard of harpies with you.”
“Er…” Storkules thinks about the pegasus his Uncle Poseidon let him borrow, last he saw snacking on the rose bushes outside.
Beakley sighs and goes to retrieve a catch pole from the umbrella stand. “Up the stairs and to the right,” she says, businesslike as she moves past him to the front door. “He should be resting, so one of the children will have to show you the rest of the way.”
She seals the portal behind her, and Storkules wastes no time in rushing up the steps. He traverses countless empty hallways, following the sound of soft voices like one does string in a minotaur’s lair, until he finds their origin.
Donald’s children are sprawled outside a closed door, speaking quietly amongst themselves. Young Llewellyn lays upside down in an armchair while Dewford and Webbigail sit at its base. Hubert stands in front of the door, wringing his hands and raising one to knock before he seems to change his mind and goes back to nervous fidgeting.
“Storkules!” Webbigail cries, the first to notice him. The boys are quick to follow, mustering smiles and greetings of their own, but their omnipresent enthusiasm seems to flag now under the weight of fatigue.
“Hail and well met, young ones,” Storkules replies, stepping further into the hallway. “But, pray tell, why are you still awake? After so many displays of heroism you must need time to replenish your strength.”
“We would be sleeping,” Dewford says, pausing to yawn terrifically. “But we’re waiting for Mom and Uncle Scrooge to finish up their dumb meeting.”
“They’re talking with the new leader of the Moonlanders to try and figure out what to do about, y’know, the whole invasion thing,” Hubert explains in a whisper. Ever honest, he continues to say, “We didn’t want to go to sleep without seeing them again.”
Hubert surprises Storkules then by abandoning his self-imposed watch. He spares one last anxious glance at the door before hurrying over to Storkules’ side. Grabbing Storkules’ hand, he ushers him over to the other children where he takes a seat on the rug. Hubert need only tug once on his hand before he’s sitting cross legged beside them.
Even as he frets over Donald’s whereabouts it is impossible not to be put at ease at the sight of the children, hale and whole in the wake of such a frightening ordeal. Webbigail in particular is squirming in place, clearly restraining herself from blurting whatever is on her mind, so Storkules turns to her first.
“Is it true that you pushed the Earth back into orbit?” Webbigail asks the moment she has his attention, nearly climbing over Hubert in her eagerness.
Storkules laughs. “Tis true! Though it was no mean feat, even for the Hero of Heliopolis.”
Dewey throws himself across Storkules’ lap, startling him. “Our family is awesome,” he enthuses sleepily.
Touched beyond words, Storkules lays a hand against the boy’s unruly headfeathers.
On the armchair, Llewellyn flops over onto his stomach and leans over Storkules’ shoulder. “Were you looking for Uncle Donald?” he asks.
“Indeed, Astute Llewellyn,” Storkules replies fondly. “In truth, I meant to visit when your uncle returned from his ocean voyage, but Father called me back to Ithaquack before I received the opportunity.”
The children all exchange uncertain glances. Even Dewford raises his head, donning a troubled countenance.
“You mean,” Huey begins, hesitating. “You mean you don’t know?”
Uncertainty prickles at the back of Storkules’ mind, and fear clamps its cold, heavy hand on the back of his neck. Every horror his traitorous mind conjured during his incarceration comes rushing back; his Donald captured, his Donald hurt, and had Storkules but the courage to stand up to his father he might have been able to prevent it.
“Know what?” he asks, doing nothing to mask the tremble in his voice.
The door before them swings open, making all five of them jump.
“Kids! What are you still doing — Storkules?”
He meets Della’s gaze and for a moment it is as if he has been thrust back in time, a decade and a lifetime ago. It’s barely been a year since Storkules learned of Della’s death and now here she is, as if she had never left.
“Indomitable Della,” he murmurs, rising to his knees and dislodging a grumbling Dewford in the process. “It does my heart good to see you again, my friend.”
“Well, most of me,” Della jokes, a smile breaking across her tired face.
Storkules spares her prosthesis a look of admiration. “Tis a mechanical miracle even the mighty Hephaestus would envy!” he crows, before Della steps into the circle of his arms and wraps her arms around the back of his neck. Storkules returns her embrace with care, recalling Donald’s lessons on the matter of boundaries and personal space. Donald, who after Storkules’ own mother, was the only mortal willing to teach him.
“It’s great to see you too,” Della says once they part. “We’ll have to catch up once things have gone back to their normal level of crazy.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” Storkules replies as he rises to his feet. Briefly, he looks past Della to the doorway behind her. Scrooge sits behind a desk in what must be his study, his fingers steepled atop it and expression grim. Standing across from him with arms crossed, scowl as firmly in place as if it had been chiseled out of stone and resplendent in golden armor, is the Moonlander leader Penumbra, exactly as Selene had described in her frantic text messages.
Storkules has but a scant moment to take in this tense scene before the Lady Beakley appears on the other side of the doorway quite inexplicably. Seeing his baffled expression, she winks before closing the door.
Despite all he saw, his biggest revelation is Donald’s absence in the room.
“Alright, kids, up and at ‘em,” Della announces, startling Storkules briefly.
Webbigail and Hubert are the only children to stand on their own volition. Dewford and Lllewelyn remain where they lay, and Storkules would almost believe Llewellyn to be asleep were his breathing not quite so measured. Dewford makes no attempt to hide his wakefulness, keeping his eyes closed even as he raises his arms in an obvious desire to be borne to his bed rather than have to walk.
Della sighs. “C’mon, guys, I can’t carry you both.”
Without opening his eyes, Llewellyn says, almost too quietly to be heard, “Uncle Donald could.”
Della goes very still, as does Storkules, though he surmises for different reasons. His heart beats double time in the ensuing silence, and unwilling to allow it to lengthen, he plucks Llewellyn off of his armchair himself.
“I will convey young Llewellyn to his sleeping quarters, if you are still of the need,” Storkules offers quietly, cradling a wide-eyed Llewellyn in the crook of his arm.
Della’s face is a portrait of gratitude. “I’d appreciate that, Stork—”
“What? No!” Llewellyn starts wriggling out of Storkules grasp. “He came all the way here looking for Uncle Donald, not to carry me around. He doesn’t even know what happened!”
Storkules’ stomach bottoms out, landing somewhere in the vicinity of Tartarus. He’s nearly unaware of how his arms slacken, allowing Llewellyn to drop carefully to the ground. His disquiet is not aided by Della’s expression of shock, nor how it falls to woe.
“Most Honorable Della,” Storkules says tremulously. “I implore you to tell me what has become of Donald.”
Della blinks. “Oh— oh, Storkules, no, it’s not like that! Donald’s fine! A little more beat up than usual, but fine.”
“Oh,” Storkules murmurs, feeling almost lightheaded. For a brief moment he understood how Atlas felt, the crushing weight of the world descending upon him in those terrible seconds before Della answered.
“I admit that I am still somewhat perturbed,” Storkules says. “What ever happened to Noble Donald to have you react in such a way?”
Almost as one, the children duck their heads, looking shamefaced. Della picks up Dewford with a brittle smile, and Llewellyn doesn’t even make an attempt at protest.
“I’ll tell you on the way to Donald’s room,” she says.
The children trail ahead of them, sleepily making their way down shadowed halls whose sconces light seemingly of their own accord, though Storkules hazards a guess that it’s their spectral butler’s work.
“Donald was stranded on the moon,” Della says quietly and without prompting, sweeping a hand through a slumbering Dewford’s headfeathers. “He nearly died trying to warn us about the invasion and get back to Earth, and then ended up stuck on a deserted island for almost a month.”
Storkules stops walking.
Feeling cold and voiceless, he grapples with the monumental horror that has been visited upon him.
“Truly?” he stutters. “My Donald suffered so?”
Della pauses by a closed door just a few feet away. She cradles the back of Dewford’s head with a gentle hand though her expression is a riot of bitterness and pain.
“We didn’t know,” she says, her voice soft despite her dark countenance. “Even when we got him back we didn’t know how bad it was. I think he wanted it that way. I mean, we wouldn’t have known he was on the moon at all if it wasn’t for Penny. You should’ve seen her face when she saw Donald for the first time. You’d think she saw a ghost.”
She gestures Storkules over, and he regains mastery of his limbs in order to join her. Della opens the door to reveal a dark bedroom, a glow emanating from within, and he peers inside at her urging.
It does not take long for Storkules’ eyes to adjust to the gloom, and what he sees steals the very breath from his lungs. The room is large but spartan, with nothing but a bed, nightstand and pair of armchairs. The fireplace in the far wall has been lit, the sound of the crackling wood so quiet it’s nearly an afterthought. But what draws Storkules’ gaze with all the force of a lodestone is Donald, thin and bruised but indubitably alive, asleep in the bed.
Storkules knees go weak, and he grips the door frame with one hand.
“He passed out after we all got back to the mansion this morning,” Della murmurs. “He’s been asleep for over ten hours. We figured we’d just let him rest; Duckworth’s kept an eye on him.”
“Thank you,” Storkules manages thickly. “Thank you for allowing me to see him with mine own two eyes and ascertain his well being for myself.”
“Of course, buddy,” Della replies, some of her familiar fire returning with the teasing glint in her eyes. “You know, you can keep him company if you want.”
Storkules’ grip on the door frame tightens nearly to the point of splintering it. “I dare not impose,” he says at once, though his heart sings at the thought. “Mighty Donald is a man of great pride, and would not wish for me to witness him in so weakened a state.”
A traitorous voice at the back of Storkules’ mind reminds him that since reuniting on Ithaquack, Donald has never welcomed his presence. Begrudgingly tolerated, perhaps, accepted with great remorse, maybe, but never gladly received. The sun is in Donald’s smile and it has shone on him so rarely he recalls each moment with perfect clarity.
But the son of Alcmene is no fool; if he has had so little luck in winning Donald Duck’s friendship, what hope has he of winning his heart?
Della pushes against the small of his back, an action that doesn’t even nudge him forward in the slightest, and says, “Nah, Donald’s too tired to be a grump, if he even wakes up. Besides, I’ve gotta get back to the strategy meeting with Uncle Scrooge and Penny, so I can’t be babysitting him.” She goes silent long enough that Storkules tears his gaze away from Donald’s still form. Her expression is downcast, guilty and small. “And it’s a little overwhelming, seeing Donald right now. He...he looks so old.”
Storkules turns back to the bedroom, studies the slight rise and fall of Donald’s chest even from afar. He might have lost him without ever knowing he was in danger in the first place. Without ever having told him how he felt.
“Very well,” Storkules says. “I shall stand guard over Donald’s delicate slumber.”
It seems Della still shares with his sister the uncanny ability to know when he’s troubled, or perhaps he’s just that transparent, because before she turns away she rests a hand on his wrist over his bracer. Her smile is gentle and a little sad.
“If being back has taught me anything it’s that people grow and change, and sometimes what you expect to find isn’t what you get. I may not have known Donald these last ten years, but I know my brother. He’s not always great at letting people into his life, especially ones who care about him, but if he really didn’t want you around, demigod or not, you’d be long gone.”
Storkules nods jerkily. “I thank thee for thy counsel, Friend Della. You have given me much to ponder.”
“Hopefully not too much,” Della replies in jest. She hefts the sleeping Dewford higher in her arms. “I’ve gotta put this one to bed. Try to get some rest yourself, okay?”
When Storkules takes a seat in the armchair closest to Donald’s bedside, sleep is the last thing on his mind.
How can he think of his own respite when Donald looks so gaunt beneath his blankets, when his every fourth breathe rattles? Storkules would never describe Donald as frail, for size is never a measure of spirit, but his wrist is so thin atop the covers, and in the orange glow of the firelight the circles under his eyes are shadowed and deep. So too are the cracks in his beaks, recent and old, more pronounced.
But the fire is warm at Storkules’ back and Donald is safe now in spite of all he endured and all of Storkules’ worst fears. So when his eyelids begin to weigh heavily he doesn’t fight the pull of Hypnos’ realm. He props his cheek on a raised fist against the arm of his chair and allows himself to be lulled by the pop and crack of firewood and the sound of the mansion settling around him.
Storkules’ sleep is dreamless, unvisited by Morpheus or his brothers, though it’s short lived. He wakes with a start at the rustle of blankets and Donald’s muffled shout, his head falling hard and fast when his cheek slides off his fist.
It’s still dark outside the tall, narrow windows, the moonlight thankfully sparse, as Donald thrashes back to wakefulness. Storkules is on his feet in an instant, knocking over the armchair in his haste. Even in the dim light Donald’s expression is contorted and fearful, his eyes open but unseeing as he struggles with the prison his blankets have become.
“Dear Donald,” Storkules murmurs, kneeling by the head of the bed so he won’t be looming over Donald and exacerbating his panic. “Listen to my voice, my friend. You are home, safe among your family. Your children are safe.”
Donald’s frantic movements grow still, though his chest heaves with the effort to draw breath.
“The kids?” he warbles shakily. “They’re…”
“They are safe. On my honor I swear this to you,” Storkules says firmly but keeps his vociferous voice in check. He takes a chance by laying his hand on Donald’s shoulder, not applying pressure, but hoping that the contact will help ground him. “The children are upstairs now, sleeping soundly.”
“The—the invasion,” Donald says, blinking hard. He seems to be coming back to himself, little by little. “We…we won, right?”
“Indeed we did,” Storkules replies warmly. He begins to pull away, but Donald stops him with a hand around his wrist.
“Storkules,” Donald says, with a note in his voice not unlike wonder, or dawning realization. As though he’s just barely processed who the voice and face above him belong to. “You’re here.”
He covers Donald’s hand with his own. “But of course,” Storkules responds. “Where else would I be?”
Donald presses his free hand over his eyes, and beneath it his brow furrows. “I don’t know,” he says a little helplessly. “Anywhere else. Anywhere but here.”
The rejection stings like a blade between his ribs, but Storkules manages a smile even as he loosens his grip on Donald’s hand. Donald does not do the same to his wrist.
“You are my most dearest friend, though I know you have long since tired of hearing it,” he replies honestly. “With the very Earth imperiled, I merely wished to ensure your safety. And then to learn of the danger you were in while I ignorantly thought you to be on your cruise, well, safe to say my concern grew insurmountable.” Storkules shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “But now I see that among your family you will be well. Here I am but a hindrance and the last thing I want is to disturb you, my friend. So I will take my leave.”
Storkules begins to stand, but falters when Donald doesn’t let go of his wrist.
“Wait,” Donald blurts. “That’s—Storkules, that’s not what I meant.”
He’s moved his hand down from his face, revealing a stricken expression.
“I don’t—I’m not telling you to leave,” Donald says, and with some effort and a lot of pained groaning he forces himself to sit up in bed. Even with Storkules kneeling they’re nearly of a height this way and there’s something desperate in Donald’s gaze that he does not understand. “I’m just...I’m surprised that you stayed,” Donald says, beseeching. Storkules’ arm is still suspended between them, Donald’s grip unfaltering around his wrist.
“You are my friend,” Storkules says again, brow knitting in confusion. “Where else would I be, if not by your side?”
“I don’t deserve that,” Donald says. “You know that, don’t you?”
Storkules rears back, affronted. “That is untrue, Donald. You are a true friend. You have helped me countless times, even when you had no obligation to, even when I was intruding upon your life.”
Donald shakes his head, dragging his free hand down his face. “That’s—no. I’m not a good friend. I’m pretty awful actually.”
“Donald—”
“All I’ve done is push you away,” Donald plows through Storkules’ attempt to dispute. “That’s all I’ve done to everyone in my life since Della...well, since Della. You, Scrooge, José, Panchito, even Fethry and Gladstone. Because they were from a part of my life I wanted to forget I tried to cut them out of my new one under the excuse of wanting to protect the boys. But I was selfish and scared and wanted to feel in control of my life even if it meant nobody was in it.”
Donald’s hand drifts from Storkules’ wrist to the edge of his palm, and Storkules chokes on his words, unable to even recall what he might’ve said in response.
“Everyone else in my life let me push them away, except for you. You just...waited for me. We hadn’t seen each other in ten years and you still called me your best friend. Even when I was gone for so long. Even when I wouldn’t even say it back.”
Storkules garners his courage, turning his hand just so, and Donald’s hand slips into his palm like it was always meant to be there.
“A friendship like ours defies the constraints of time,” he entreats, his heart beating double time for a reason he cannot fathom. “I trust you now as I trusted you then; that will never change. We are as the legendary Damon and—”
“And Pythias,” Donald finishes for him, smiling for the first time. “I remember.” His expression in one that transports Storkules ten years past, to their idyllic days spent in Ithaquak and on adventures the world over, when Donald looked at him with fondness in his gaze rather than beleaguered acceptance.
“I...I never faulted you for staying away,” Storkules admits quietly, looking down. Donald’s hand is warm against his palm, urging him onward. “I missed you deeply, every day, but once you returned...once I beheld your sons, I understood. To have you back in my life in any capacity was a greater gift than I deserved.”
“All you’ve done is try to accommodate me,” Donald says with a humorless chuckle. “And I haven’t made it easy. What do you want, Storkules? Be honest.”
Storkules lifts his head and finds Donald’s gaze locked with his, something imploring and perhaps anxious splayed across features.
“I…” he swallows thickly. “I wish to remain by your side, however you’ll have me.”
Donald shakes his head. He lifts their joined hands, perhaps unconsciously, maybe on purpose, and the tips of Storkules’ fingers brush his jaw. “Storkules,” he says again. “What do you want?”
“You,” Storkules says, and his heart aches as the weight of his admission is lifted from it. “Only you.”
Donald presses Storkules’ hand against his cheek, drawing him forward until his elbows are nearly pressed against the mattress on either side of him. Storkules immediately opens his palm in order to cradle his jaw, though his hand trembles.
“I’m sorry it took the end of the world for me to ask,” Donald murmurs into the increasingly narrowing space between them.
Storkules stares up at Donald in breathless awe. “I would have waited decades more, my Pythias. Centuries, if you had wished it so. Yet I must know,” He says, sobering then and uncertainty makes his voice waver and a flush stain his neck and face. Embarrassment and fear dog at him but this is a question that cannot go unasked. “Do you...want me too?”
Donald’s expression is a lesson in vulnerability. He exhales shakily, his breath fanning across Storkules’ cheek, and his smile is small and precious as a rare jewel. He sweeps a hand through Storkules’ hair, making him gasp.
“Yes,” Donald says, and something contrite twists the edge of his smile. “I should’ve told you sooner, but I was scared. It felt like too much at once.”
“Are you frightened now?” Storkules breathes.
“That’s not the word I’d use.”
Their kiss is slow, cautious at first. A decade of hoping against hope holds Storkules back, because some part of him still believes this too good to be true. Meanwhile, a decade’s worth of guilt hinders Donald, as he wonders whether he even deserves forgiveness, much less love. But then Donald weaves his hands into Storkules’ hair once more and Storkules melts against him, deepening their kiss. Amidst shadow and fear, their embrace turns golden in the flickering firelight.