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Pulling up your roots and settling somewhere completely unfamiliar, far from family and friends, is a tough choice to make. But opportunity came knocking on Connor's door a few months back, when the regional magistrate passed through Connor's village, and he managed to make enough notice of himself that the magistrate offered him a position on his staff. That meant moving to the capitol, several days away on horseback, but opportunities like these are once in a lifetime. And Connor isn't about to let it pass him by.
He's only in training, and will remain so for a while, but once he starts the real work, helping shape the nation's laws and enforce them, he'll be making good money. More than enough to help support his family back home. To give something back to his mother for having provided for them all on her own with backbreaking labor as long as he can remember, to help pay for the doctor's fees for his sickly brother, and maybe even save up for a decent house for them all.
Connor has always had big dreams, too big for his station, people said. But look at him now. He's here, in the capitol, ready to start a new life.
And... he's completely and utterly lost on his way to work.
It's alright, he still has time. He has until the second bell, and the first only just rang, signifying the earliest activities starting in the city. He's asked two different people for directions already, but the city is built in a strange spiral pattern with streets like gnarled vines, no rhyme or reason to them that Connor can find.
He's at yet another dead end, of which there seem to be hundreds, and he's about to turn back when he notices the shrine.
The city is home to many cultures and many religions, and Connor will probably never know them all, so seeing a random shrine is by no means unusual. But something about this one catches his eye.
It's a small arch, rounded over a full sized statue of a man, carved in something like marble. Connor is no artist, so he's not sure. But it looks gray and cold, and this impression is only reinforced by how the figure is hunched, arms curled around himself, hands tucked into his armpits, as if shivering. A light dusting of snow covers the statue's shoulders, and Connor pulls his shawl tighter around himself. He's not actually that cold himself, having worked up warmth enough from walking around for so long, but he feels the chill in the air, and he can't help but move closer to the statue to gently brush the snow from its shoulders.
The man is broad, slightly taller than Connor, and placed on a low plinth, so he has to stretch to reach. Most statues are delicate and slender, according to modern styles, but this one seems more sturdy, more real somehow, bearded and tired. For a lonely statue in a mostly hidden shrine, there's a wealth of detail. The hair falling into the man's eyes looks so delicate that Connor feels like he could almost count the strands. Wilting flowers are weaved into them, and even though there's no color to the pale stone, Connor thinks they must have been blue.
Though the man is hunched, as if in discomfort, there's no disguising that his is meant to be a strong man, broad and hearty, modesty only preserved by a large cloth around his middle. Its draping to his toes, barrel chest left bare, and strong arms flexing around himself. Whatever this deity is for, it must have been a powerful one. At least until the point depicted here, where he's brought down, in pain, perhaps, or simply grieving, left as a miserable, lonely relic on a street going nowhere.
Maybe the symbolism of it is getting to Connor, or maybe he's just too emotional from feeling lost and nervous on his first day, but before he knows it he's shrugging off his shawl and draping it around the statue's shoulders. It's a nice enough shawl, not very luxurious or fashionable, but warm enough, which was why he bought it when he arrived to this late snowfall.
He ties it in a soft knot in front, and smooths it down until it covers the statue's upper arms and most of his back. He has to step a single foot onto the plinth to reach, leaving him almost embracing the cold man, and his nose brushes against the chilled stone cheek as he tugs the shawl in place.
“There,” he whispers, close to the statue's ear. “Now you're at least covered.”
He steps back down, and has to shake his head at himself. People leave offerings at shrines, of course. So does he, when the occasion demands it. But there's no point in leaving offerings for a god you don't know, and wouldn't know what favor to ask of.
But Connor figures that all gods appreciate favors, so maybe some luck will come his way on his first day. He needs all the help he can get.
Taking a deep breath he forces down his nerves, and prepares to move on. He still has to find his way around this maze. He offers a respectful bow, because even benevolent gods can be fickle if they feel slighted, and he casts one last look at the statue before leaving the street.
Snow keeps drizzling, but Connor makes his way to the magistrate's office with plenty of time to spare, and he doesn't even feel cold without his shawl.
- - -
As he settles in to this new city, he starts learning his way around, and doesn't get lost nearly as much. It does still happen, because the place remains just as much of a maze as it ever was, and only people who were born and raised there have any hope of consistently navigating the place.
So it's been about a week when Connor makes another wrong turn, and finds himself in that same dead end, facing the same shrine again. But the statue is different.
Instead of the hunched, miserable figure he saw last time, now it stands tall and proud. Obviously someone saw Connor's offering and thought it was fitting, because the new statue has a shawl exactly like the one Connor left draped around him, immortalized in stone, and somehow even with a hint of the same teal and blue pattern the real one had.
He has no idea how that works, how you can imbue stone or marble with color like that. All other statues he's seen have just been painted, but this one seems to have the color almost under the surface. Marveling at it, he moves closer to investigate.
It's clearly the same god, but in a new position, and Connor does briefly wonder who could possibly be able to afford a whole new statue for a private and hidden shrine, and to also get it done so soon. But he's too curious to dwell on it, and touches his fingers to the shawl with fascination. Again, the detail is unbelievable, the very knit of the fabric made real under his fingers, and the delicate flowers in the hair seem perked up, just like the flowers around town are starting to come alive again after the long winter. The man's eyes seem more open, less tense against the discomfort shown last time, and Connor could swear there's also a faint hint of blue there. There's even a less strained shape to the man's lips, not quite a smile, but certainly more content than before, and Connor feels some strange measure of pride that he helped make this real. He must have pleased the owners of the shrine very much, and it feels like a good omen for his time here, in this new place.
“Well,” he says, crooking his own lips into a wry smile. “I'm glad you liked my offering.”
He's on his way to work again, and doesn't have much with him, except the small loaf of sweet bread he didn't take the time to eat at home, and has been nibbling on as he makes his way through the streets. He breaks off about half, and leaves it on the plinth, followed by another bow.
“Whoever you are, you are clearly not forgotten. Blessings to you,” he murmurs, and heads back to the path he was on. His day turns out to be very fortunate, and that just goes to show that a little offering here and there can go a long way.
- - -
It turns out the little shrine isn't too far from the magistrate's office. Connor asks a couple of his colleagues about the god, describing the figure and the shrine, but no one seems to know which god it is, or even that the shine exists. But, then again, considering the multi-cultural city and the maze-like layout, that's hardly surprising.
Not that Connor can be sure people are actually telling him the truth or just brushing him off. His blunt, country manners aren't making him many friends, and he struggles with settling in.
The work is hard, and as the newest addition to the staff Connor is usually the one sent to deal with the most unpleasant or time-consuming tasks. It's rough, and he's wandering home one night, exhausted and dejected, hearing the very last bell of the day ring through the town. Most people head to their beds at this hour, but Connor is only just heading home to his lonely little room, and he breathes a tired sigh into the night air.
He passes by a familiar corner, and stops. Down that alley is the shrine. He should be going home for food and sleep, but something in him pulls at him, and he turns towards the dead end instead.
It's been a few weeks since he was last here, and he should be more surprised than he is to find the statue changed again.
The weather is warmer, and the shawl that was around the man's shoulders is now slung over his arm, held against his gut. His fist is closed around a small hunk of bread, and his other hand is reached out, as if asking for something. Connor can't imagine what it might be, or what the owner of the shrine might be trying to tell him, and he has nothing to give. He's not even making any real money yet. He's paid just barely enough for room and board, but nothing outside of that, and he's almost regretting giving away the shawl. It was one of the last things he bought with the small amount of money his mother gave him for the journey, and he hasn't even been able to afford sending her a letter.
He misses his family, wishes he had an easier time making friends, and he sits down heavily on a small stone step across from the statue.
It's quickly getting dark, but Connor strains his eyes, and it seems like this new version of the statue has some art on it. Tattoos perhaps. Something dark and swirled across the chest. Or maybe it was always there, just hidden before.
The flowers in the hair are definitely blue, significantly brighter than last time, and the colors of the shawl are also clearer. Perhaps the sculptor is improving their skill. It's magnificent, either way.
“I'm sorry, I have nothing to offer you,” Connor mumbles, mostly to himself. It's not like he has anyone else to talk to, and no on is here to witness it anyway. “Thank you for your boons. If you had a hand in them. This whole thing is a lot harder than I thought. How am I supposed to learn magistrate work when all I do is move scrolls around or copy documents?”
The frustrations of his work bubble out of him, unbidden, and he feels angry heat prickle at his scalp. “Why offer me a position when what I do could be done by anyone with a steady hand? Why tell me I have great potential and then do nothing with it? Why did I even come here?” he hisses, letting his head drop into his hands.
“I should have stayed at home. I could have helped more there. Cared for Sextius. Helped mother. Maybe talked Nonus out of going to war. Perhaps he's already gone.”
He heaves a heavy sigh, and lets himself fall back against the pillar behind him. The stars are coming out in the sky above, and Connor watches them for a while, faint clouds drifting by and obscuring them occasionally.
“What am I going to do?” he asks no one in particular, and then shakes his head at himself. He needs to sleep. Not sit here and feel sorry for himself.
As he rises and faces the statue, he's reminded once again that he has nothing to offer. He wishes he had. The hand reaching out isn't quite unfurled, however. It's almost as if it's holding something already. The expression on the man's face is gentler now, Connor realizes. Not pleading, but... kind. Perhaps the hand isn't requesting but offering something.
Tired, lonely and burdened, Connor is weak, he knows it. And perhaps also losing his sanity, because he reaches out his own hand, slotting it into the light grip of the statue. It's a perfect fit, almost as if it was sculpted around Connor's very flesh, and for a moment he just stands here, letting the stone fingers warm under his touch. And for just that little moment, he feels a lot less alone.
“Thank you,” he tells the statue. “I wish I knew who you are.”
The cold of night is really rolling in, and Connor shivers, forcing himself to let go. He needs to get home to bed. Tomorrow is another depressing day.
The statue is left there, alone, hand outstretched, and Connor hopes that whoever owns it knows that it brings someone comfort.
- - -
As spring advances it brings sun, rain and budding greens everywhere. Even in the biggest city in the region everything blossoms and thrives, plants climbing every wall and bursting up along every street, animals bouncing around with renewed vigor.
Connor feels none of it. As the weeks and later months crawl by, his dreams are crushed more and more. There's no sign of his supposed training going anywhere, there's no pay, and the one time he sees the magistrate in person, the man has no idea who he even is.
And then a letter arrives from home. Nonus left for the front weeks ago, and Sextius has been bedridden for days. Their mother isn't sure he'll ever leave it again.
Connor feels hollow inside, wanders through his work day only half aware of anything around him, the void inside him swallowing all light.
His feet carry him from the magistrate's office in the early evening directly to the shrine. It's not like he has anywhere else to go, or anyone else to turn to.
The statue is changed again, but Connor barely spares that fact a thought. It feels natural. Like it's to be expected. Maybe every statue changes on whims when the deities feel like it. Connor is not privy to the ways of the divine, after all.
The most notable change this time is that the statue is joined by a very large dog, huddled against his side, tongue lolling out as its master's hand strokes its heavy head.
It makes Connor feel a little happiness for the first time in what feels like forever, and the statue seems to join him in that, the tense lips finally relaxed into a pleasant smile. A secret sort of expression, soft and private, as if only Connor is allowed to see it. Not that he could explain where that impression comes from, but it feels almost like he's being introduced to a dear friend.
“Hello, there,” he tells the dog, and crouches down to touch its stone ears. The texture under his fingers looks so much like immortalized fur, and he marvels at how it feels almost alive as it warms under his touch.
“What a good friend you are, keeping your master company here in this lonely shrine,” he mumbles, booping the stone nose before getting to his feet again. This brings him almost face to face with the statue, only the plinth keeping them a hand's width apart, and as he looks up he's surprised to see the blue eyes directed downwards, meeting his own dead on. He could have sworn they were looking straight ahead when he arrived.
The color in them is more vibrant than ever, and even the hair and beard is more silvery now. The dog's fur is clearly some shade of patched brown, and the draped cloth it's leaning against is subtly patterned with even more flowers.
Even as Connor watches, the blue eyes seem to shimmer with wetness, the stone around the irises turning white, and delicate eyelashes forming from the stone. The eyes blink, and Connor's breath catches in his throat.
He's not a huge believer, but he's also not entirely without faith. There are so many unexplained things in this world, and he's inclined to believe that at least some of that is due to divine forces. But he's never seen anything completely and utterly unreal like this, and he's afraid to blink his own eyes to miss whatever is happening right now.
“Thank you,” a voice says, from somewhere close, but also somehow from far away, and Connor swallows hard. The voice is low as a landslide, with force behind it like it could level a mountain if it was used without restraint, and Connor fully believes it could.
“Constans of Stern. You have set me free. I am in your debt,” the voice continues, and Connor's breath returns to him in a shocked gasp as the marble dog suddenly lets out a loud bark next to him. He falls on his ass, pain shooting up his tailbone, and he watches in equal parts amazement and horror as the stone ripples away, becoming fur, skin, fabric and flesh. His breath stutters as he watches sandal-clad feet step off the plinth, and a worn hand being lowered into his view.
Shaking, he looks up to find the statue fully transformed, an older man standing over him, offering him a hand up.
When Connor doesn't move, the man raises a bushy eyebrow. “I know,” he says. “Bit of a shock.”
“What's happening,” Connor whispers, but reaches for the offered hand anyway, almost on automatic.
“Long story,” the man says, pulling Connor effortlessly to his feet. They're almost at a height now, and Connor stares at the man's face. The man's very human and very real face. There's still flowers in his hair, and Connor lets his eyes travel down the man's body to take in all the changes. The tattoo on his chest is a stark black against his pale skin, and Connor finds others the longer he looks. Some colored, some not, some snaking around scars, others peeking out of the split in his garment. The draped cloth around him is a mess of lurid orange and yellow patterns, and his feet look startlingly mundane in their humanity, complete with toenails and sandals.
A low woof alerts Connor to the fact that the canine companion is also made real, and can't help his smile when the beast lumbers over for a pat on the head.
“Hello, friend,” Connor says, and the man smiles.
“He wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you. Your kindness and your faith in me gave me back the strength to summon him. And then to make us whole again.”
Connor looks up, astonished. “But... I didn't do anything?”
“Of course you did. You made offerings. You thanked me for my favor. And you accepted my offer of support in return. You believed that I was real enough that I could make it so.”
“How... how are you real?” Connor asks, half afraid of the answer, but the man huffs out a soft laugh.
“Let's just call it divine forces for now.”
Connor nods weakly. “Alright. Well. Who are you? No one seems to know.”
The man huffs a laugh. “It's because I'm no one. Never had a following. I guess you're my first disciple.”
Not sure what to say to that, Connor says nothing. It's not a notion he's entirely comfortable with, and perhaps the man can tell, because he doesn't press the matter.
“You can call me Hank.”
It doesn't sound like the name of a god. “Is that really your name?” Connor asks as diplomatically as he can, and Hank huffs.
“No, but it's the one I go by. Is Connor really your name? Constans of Stern?”
“Fair point.”
The last bell of the night rings out, and yanks Connor back to reality. To the fact that he's achingly tired. That his pocket is still heavy with a letter full of bad news. That he's broke and hungry and sad. He needs sleep. There's still a tomorrow he has to make it through somehow.
As ridiculous as it sounds, he simply doesn't have time to deal with a god newly made flesh. And if Hank truly is a god, then surely he's capable of taking care of himself.
“I... I have to sleep. I need to be awake for work tomorrow. I have to go to the magistrate. I need to make him see sense. I have... my family is...” Connor trails off, exhausted. “Never mind. I'm sure matters like these are nothing to a god.”
“On the contrary,” Hank rumbles, squeezing Connor's hand. That he's somehow still holding. “Matters that are important to you are important to me. Like I said, I owe you. I owe you my very life. State your wish, and I'll grant it.”
Connor blinks, surprised. It sounds like a trick. Nothing like that comes without a steep price. “What's the catch?” he asks, and Hank shakes his head with an amused breath.
“Of course you shouldn't trust someone you've only just met. Especially one making promises you have no reason to believe I could fulfill.”
“You did just come alive after being stone. That would suggest some measure of divine power,” Connor points out.
“Fair point,” Hank says, mirroring Connor from earlier. “But I couldn't have done any of that without you. So I mean it. I owe you. Name your wish.”
Curious, but wary, Connor carefully pulls his hand away, watching Hank's face for signs of displeasure, and finding none.
“Can I... tell you tomorrow? I need to think it over.”
“Of course,” Hank says with a kind smile. “That'll give me time to get some pants. This getup wasn't my idea.”
This piques Connor's interest. “Really? Then whose was it?”
“Nuh uh. Can't give up all the secrets of the divine on the first date. Maybe after I settle my debt to we can share our backstories.”
“Alright,” Connor says, reaching down to give the friendly dog another scratch behind the ears. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Yes. Until tomorrow,” Hank agrees, and Connor feels his eyes on him until he's out of sight.
The sleep he needed so badly ends up eluding him completely, because what is he supposed to make of the fact that he now knows a god? And a god offering him a divine favor, at that. And what are you supposed to ask of a god? What wish could Connor ask for that would do the most good? If he knows anything about gods, it is that you need to be specific. You need to know what boon you ask for, and you need to be precise. Both because some gods are fickle and will deliberately misinterpret your intent, but also because humans and gods are so very different. Connor might as well be an ant asking an elephant for blessings to the ant colony.
It all feels ridiculous, but, as he thinks it over more and more, he realizes that all of his desperate circumstances has a very mundane solution. By the time the sun rises, he knows what to ask for.
If Hank – or whoever this god really is – will actually be there.
Connor's attempts to speak to the magistrate are thoroughly rebuffed, making it clear that he can't rely on his grand plan any longer. He's going to be downtrodden and exploited for the rest of his life if he stays here, and he's not going to let that happen.
When his work is finally over, once again having extended long into the evening, he leaves a notice at the front desk that he's quitting. If Hank can deliver on his promise, then he won't need a job. If not, then Connor isn't about to come back anyway.
When he makes it to the alleyway, he's not sure what he's expecting, but what he finds isn't it.
Hank is sitting on the same low step that Connor has occupied several times now, petting his dog and looking almost shockingly human. He's still every bit as broad and powerful, but now he's wearing pants and a sleeveless vest, his hair and beard is shorter, and the flowers in his hair are gone. But his eyes are still a liquid blue, and he smiles a broad, gap-toothed smile when he sees Connor.
“Hey,” he says. As if he's simply a man pleased to see his friend, and Connor wishes it was so.
“Hello. I... hope you haven't been waiting long?” Connor says, and Hank huffs.
“I'm a god. Time doesn't really matter to me.”
“Right.” Connor fidgets, because how does one make small talk with a god? Should he even do that? It seems wasteful, so he barrels on instead. “I've considered your offer. And I've decided what I want.”
Hank gets up from the step, moving on front of Connor, gaze burning on him. His form might be human, but there's still real power behind those eyes, and Connor suddenly believes without question that Hank truly can grant any wish he wants.
“Name it,” Hank says, voice heavy with promise.
“Money,” Connor says, and Hank blinks.
“Money. Really?” his eyes dart around Connor's face. “You don't strike me as greedy.”
Connor bristles. “It's not greed. I want money, because it will solve all my problems more than any other single wish can. I want enough money to keep my family and I comfortable for the rest of our lives. Enough to cover my little brother's medical expenses, and enough to ensure that no one in my family will feel the need to risk their lives for pay ever again.”
Hank's eyes twinkle, and his mouth twitches.
“You find these matters trivial, I'm sure,” Connor huffs. “But I'm serious. This is my wish.”
“No, no, I'm sorry. I'm not mocking you,” Hank says, reaching for Connor's hand. He allows the gentle hold, and feels the fight leave him as Hank's thumb rubs across his knuckles.
“I'm just amused that you would choose money when I can give you anything you want. I should have been clearer. I'm not granting you a single wish and then nothing after that. You may ask me for whatever you want. I can cure your brother of his sickness. I can ensure that your family will always find wealth wherever they go. I can get you any position you want. You could be magistrate yourself by tomorrow, with all the knowledge and experience that position requires. I could share with you the mysteries of the universe itself. All the knowledge of the gods could be yours.”
Connor's mouth gapes open, and he struggles to find words. “But... but at what cost? Nothing is free.”
“Of course not. But the cost is only what you've already paid. Your faith,” Hank says, voice warm like a smoldering fire, and Connor swallows.
“And if I lose my faith in you?”
Hank grasps Connor's hand with both of his own, bending his head down to press a kiss to it. “Then I will blame only myself. Only a fool would throw away a gift like the one you've granted me.”
Connor thinks it over, considering the events of his life that brought him here. The rash decision to leave home for an empty promise. The months of exploitation and mistreatment and struggle with no end in sight. His big dreams that amounted to nothing.
If he's to believe this is real, he'll need proof.
“Alright. If you truly mean what you say, then cure my brother, right now. And show me it's done.”
Hank smiles widely, and squeezes Connor's hand. “As you wish.”
The world shudders around them, and Connor is suddenly dizzy. By the time he shakes it off he's back home in the small, dark room he grew up in, Sextius coughing in bed, as he has so many times before. His face is gaunt and the covers can't conceal how there's barely any meat on his bones anymore. Connor's heart hurts.
“Sextius,” he whispers, but Hank puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Watch,” he says, and Sextius stops mid-cough, eyes widening and hands jumping to his chest where the pain has sat since he could barely walk.
“What,” Sextius croaks, and looks down at himself. At where his ribs were protruding before, but are now hidden under a healthy layer of muscle and fat. At his skinny legs that could barely carry him, and he swings them out of bed with a giggle of disbelief as he jumps to his feet.
“Mother! Mother!” he cries, and Connor watches his mother stir in bed, sit up a start, and then clutch her face in shock as her dying son runs to her bedside. “Mother, it's a miracle!” he says, laughing and shaking, and then holds his mother as she cries and thanks many deities, none of whom are involved in this.
“Mother,” Connor calls. “It's not them you should be thanking.”
No one reacts to him, and he turns to Hank. “Can they not see us?”
“Not unless you want them to.”
Connor narrows his eyes. “This isn't some sort of dream or illusion, is it?”
Hank barks out a laugh. “No, no, it's very real. Just trust me, people don't usually react well to someone appearing out of thin air in the middle of the night. Better arrive tomorrow on horseback.”
That's logical enough, and Connor heaves a sigh of relief, taking in the very welcome sight of his brother, hale and hearty like he's never been before.
“I want to see them tomorrow, then.”
“I can make it tomorrow now, if you want?” Hank offers, and Connor blinks. He hadn't even considered that as an option.
“Yes, please,” he says, and once again suffers through the dizziness. This time when he comes to he's on horseback, his things bundled up behind the saddle, the shawl he tied around Hank loosely draped around his own shoulders, and a nearby rooster proclaiming the rising of the sun.
Sextius comes outside, marveling in the steps he can take so securely now, and clearly enjoys the lungfuls of air he can take. Then he spots Connor, and only a moment later he's sprinting to meet him.
“Connor! Connor, look! I can run!”
“I see it!” Connor says, grinning just as widely, and hops off the horse to hug his brother tight, marveling at how his breath doesn't wheeze or rattle, even a little bit.
His mother is elated to see him, and doesn't even ask why he's suddenly home with no word. Unraveling his pack Connor finds a heavy purse of coin, and immediately tips it all into his mother's hands.
It's a wonderful day, and by the time Sextius is worn out from constantly running and jumping, falling into bed to snore rather than cough, Connor goes outside into the night air, and looks up at the stars.
“Did I prove myself?” Hank's voice sounds from behind him, and Connor turns to greet him with a smile.
“You did. Thank you.”
“No. Don't thank me. I owe you so much more. You gave me my very life. Everything I can grant you is yours to ask.”
Connor ponders this. “Does that mean there are things you can't do?”
“Oh, many things. I'm not a major deity or anything.”
“And yet, you promised me all the knowledge of the gods.”
Hank rolls his eyes. “So maybe I embellished a little. But I can introduce you to them all, if you want me to.”
“I... really? I can meet... Zeus?”
“If that's what you want. But, fair warning, we're not nearly as divine as you'd think. Zeus is a prick.”
Connor casts a nervous glance upwards. “Should you be saying that?”
“I can say whatever I want, as long as you have faith in me. All any god needs is a believer. Do you still... believe in me?” Hank asks, and he seems so humble, so human, that Connor can't help but reach out to take his hand this time.
“I do.”
Hank sighs in relief, and Connor feels so warm and happy, so thankful for this miracle he's been granted, and he's maybe even a little carried away by it all.
But, then again, only a fool would throw away a gift like this.
“Show me. Show me the universe,” Connor whispers and Hank smiles like he's the one being granted another gift.
Connor closes his eyes, and by the time he opens them he's among the stars. Hank is by his side, once again decked out in flowers, hair and beard flowing in an invisible wind, his eyes glowing, and his faithful dog running delighted, stardust-flowing circles around them.
“Anything you wish.”
End.