Chapter Text

     Terry rifled through the papers on his desk, hoping to get them filed before lunch and finding himself struggling to focus.

     Of course, the very fact that he hadn't eaten lunch yet probably had something to do with that.

     "...Hey Cecil?  Could you do me a solid and run over to the bakery for me?"

     Cecil popped up from behind an overstuffed file cabinet, looking sweaty and perturbed.

     "Didn't you just tell me to prune your old papers until you could get the drawer closed again?"

     Terry shrugged.

     "Yeah.  And now I'm tellin' you to get me a couple doughnuts."

     As though to prove his point, Cecil shoved the drawer hard, finding that it still didn't sit flush  with the cabinet.

     "Jeez.  You have legs, y'know."

     Figuring that two could play at that game, Terry straightened his papers with a flourish.

     "I also have work to do."

     Cecil, however, was completely unmoved.

     "So do I.  Go over there yourself and get a little sun.  You're gonna turn see-through at this rate."

     The sun, of course, was what had kept Terry inside for the past week.  It was dusty late summer; white-hot and unrelenting, making him long for a typhoon or even a thin drizzle to break up the blazing monotony.

     When he really thought about it, Terry supposed making Cecil go out in that was a little unfair.

     "Okay, okay...  Do you wa-"

     The young man didn't even look up from the paper in his hand, seemingly thinking hard about whether it was dispensable.

     "...Fruit sandwich."

    Terry nodded as he stood from his desk, opting to leave his jacket behind.

     "Got it.  See ya in a minute, kiddo."

     Then he stepped outside; blinking harshly, boots crunching in the dry grass.  The heat alone was almost enough to kill his hunger, and if he only had himself to consider, he would have ducked right back inside.

     But his hard-working assistant wanted a fruit sandwich, so a fruit sandwich he would have.

     Terry pushed up his dark glasses, rolled his rumpled sleeves, and crossed the bridge to the town center; the river running sluggish and brown beneath him, the sun glancing off the worn stone.  Thankfully, the bakery was only a few more steps away.

     Unfortunately, Sweet Hearth's roaring ovens made its mercifully dim interior almost as hot as the day outside.  Fanning himself with his collar, Terry lined up behind Margaret—the friendly Elven musician who had been staying at the Blue Moon—and began perusing the case, trying to work out what he felt like eating.

     Margaret, it seemed, was far more decisive.

     "Two of your special Bea-Treats, please!"

     Terry watched as Priscilla slipped the confections into a brown paper bag.  He had enjoyed Lady Beatrice's creations in the past—practically everyone in town did—but they were a bit much for him when he wasn't in a specific mood, and biting down on all those seedy berries could be slightly jarring.  The heat and the first half of the workday had already sapped his energy, so something familiar was in order.

     "And I'll have tw-"

     Priscilla smiled shyly.

     "...Two plain glazed doughnuts?"

     Terry nodded.

     "And a fruit sandwich."

     He watched Priscilla begin assembling his order, then let his eyes drift to Margaret, who finally noticed him.

     "Hello, Terry!  I haven't seen you in a while...  How are you?"

     Though he wouldn't really call her a close friend—physically, he tended to hold her at arm's length, owing to their differing ideas about appropriate physical contact—Terry found himself conversing with Margaret frequently.  They were both regulars at the bakery, he thought she was funny and pleasant, and, though he didn't know much about music himself, it was an interesting line of work.

     "Pretty good.  Kinda hopin' for some rain, though.  What about you?"

     Margaret peered into her bag, making sure both treats were accounted for.

     "It has been dry out...  But I've been well!  Actually, I'm pretty excited today!  My sister's coming to visit me soon!"

     Terry had heard mention of this famous sister across several of their conversations; an artist, a bit of a clown, more than a bit bossy.  Try as he might, all Terry could imagine was a paint-stained, slightly rude copy of Margaret herself.

     "Oh yeah?  Well hey, that sounds great.  Family reunion, eh?"

     Margaret waved to Priscilla as she stepped out into the heat of the day, Terry hastily grabbing his pastries as he followed her out the door.

     "Yes!  It's actually been more than two years since I've seen her."

     Terry examined the contents of his bag, the harsh sunlight showing everything accounted for.

     "That's, what, 'bout a week for you guys?"

     Margaret shrugged, a little sadly.

     "We live a long time, but two years is still two years...  You know, I think the two of you would really get along!  You're both artists and all."

     Though Terry didn't have much reason to doubt this—he liked Margaret herself well enough, after all—he still felt a bit apprehensive.  He had endured several of these attempts to expand his social circle, from several well-meaning acquaintances, and they were invariably awkward.

     "Oh yeah?"

     Margaret nodded cheerfully.

     "Yeah!  You know what?  How about you join us for a meal when she gets here!  Lucas can come too, of course."

     Unsure of what else to do, Terry nodded as well.

     "I'll...  Talk to him about it."

     Margaret drew one of the sticky pastries from the bag, her mind already on to sweeter things.

     "No pressure, of course...  Lovely talking to you today, Terry!"

     Then she bit into it with such gusto that jam began spilling from the sides like sugary blood as trotted down the road, bouncing to whatever mysterious tune played in her head.

     "Yeah.  You too."

     No matter how she insisted it didn't exist, Terry felt the pressure all the same.  But it was intermingled with a lighthearted curiosity, and that old disbelief at being accepted.  After a moment or two, that buoyancy gave way to a different sort of lightness; the ravenous hunger he had felt behind his desk, returning with a vengeance despite the heat.

     He considered wolfing down one of the doughnuts right there in the sunny street, but decided that it would go down better with a glass of ice-cold milk.

     Doug sat at the small table in Margaret's room at the Blue Moon, munching on the last of the onigiri she'd made for them.

     "Cool your sis is coming for a visit...  Haven't seen her in a while."

     Margaret—too frazzled to have taken her meal so leisurely—placed a thick handful of freshly-picked wildflowers in the vase.

     "It is...  I wish she'd given me a little more notice, though.  Not sure why it's so important for her to visit right now."

     Doug popped the last bite of rice into his mouth with a shrug.

     "Ain't that just how she is?  Does what she wants, when she wants?"

     Margaret sighed fondly.

     "That's Dars, all right."

     A bright grin spread across Doug's face, reminding Margaret of his goofy younger self.

     "...I've always liked that about her!  Remember when she painted the lobsters in front of Porco's?"

     With the flowers as perfectly arranged as possible, Margaret laughed as she picked up the futon pad Murakumo had lent her for the visit.

     "I don't know how anyone could forget!"

     Doug was laughing as well, tilting towards a mischievous cackle.

     "Man, Dylas was so pissed off about that.  Never seen anything funnier in my whole life."

     Though she kept on laughing, Margaret found that all these memories were increasingly shot through with a bitter nostalgic twang; everyone still together, alive and heartbreakingly young.

     "...Then you threw on more paint to egg him on, and Daria got mad at you because you ruined her work."

     The laughter faded slightly, Doug staring soberly into the middle distance.

     "Yeah.  That was a little scary.  Totally worth it, though."

     Margaret began carefully unrolling the futon, pausing halfway through as she considered whether Daria would rather sleep next to her bed or on the far side of the room.

     "Yes, I recall that's what you said..."

     Doug lazily propped his feet up on the table with a self-satisfied grin.

     "...And I stand by it!"

     Margaret stood from the futon, lightly punching Doug in the ankle.

     "Hey, I just cleaned that!  Get your dirty socks off of there!"

     In response, he began cheerfully tapping his heel on the table.

     "...And you can clean it again!"

     Margaret sighed as she crouched by the futon again, decisively rolling it out next to her bed.  If Daria had a problem, she could move it herself.

     "Jeez...  Am I your new Dylas or something?"

     Doug huffed indignantly.

     "Don't flatter yourself, Meggy.  Dylas is way hotter than you."

     Another sluce of bittersweet emotion flooded Margaret's heart.  No matter how they tormented each other when they were young—tormented each other still, on their more playful days—she knew how her old friend truly felt about the one he jokingly called his grey old nag.

     "...Still?"

     Doug blushed, grinning toothily.

     "You know it."

     Though that silly grin had remained unchanged through the years, Margaret could already see how time had begun to touch him; the awkwardness of youth giving way to the dignity of early middle age, those broad smiles just beginning to carve handsome grooves into his face.

     I guess he's finally older than me.

     "Honestly, I don't know how you two have made this work for so long, but I'm a little impressed."

     Not for the first time, she was struck with the realization that this, too, was a golden age; a sweet time she would one day long for, after even more people and places had quietly fallen away.

     "Hey, they say it's the couples that don't fight that don't last!"

     Margaret shook off her melancholy and smiled devilishly.

     "...But what do they say about men who tie all their boyfriend's fishing rods together?"

     Doug finally took his feet off the table, sitting bolt upright and crossing his arms stubbornly.

     "I did that once!"

     Margaret picked up the dustrag, brushing away whatever invisible debris his socks had left behind.

     "But when's the last time he brought it up?"

     Doug rolled his eyes, turning away from her and staring out the window.

     "...Oh, what do you know?"

     Margaret plopped down in the opposite chair, watching as the setting sun crept behind the hills that surrounded the village; drawing the curtain on the long day, its fiery light playing on her old friend's crimson hair.

     Once more, she was acutely aware of the passage of time, and how she would one day yearn for this moment.

     Maybe she's right.  I do make myself miserable.

     Unlike Margaret, Daria was a woman of days and hours; walking the long road of her life like an adventurer, scarcely thinking to look back.  What time took away from her paled in comparison to what it could give, where it could take her, what she could make of it.  Second thoughts and rumination were for the short-lived folk, who had so few chances to get things right.

     Margaret wished her sister could understand that, though they had no shortage of moments, each one was unique and would never come again.  How she wanted to hold onto all of them at once, to gather them in her skirts so they couldn't roll away.

     Even as she contemplated this, the light outside was irreversibly shifting towards a melancholy violet.

     "...Would you like me to make us more onigiri?"

     Doug grinned again; a bright smile to turn back the clock, if only for a second.

     "You know it!"

     Margaret padded over to the narrow counter where she kept her rice cooker, willing the sun to hold its place for just a few minutes more.

      Lucas stepped into the detective agency, greeted by the comforting sound of something sizzling in the kitchen and an intriguing buttery smell.

     "...Heyo!  That you, Lucas?"

     Terry's voice rang out over the din, and Lucas cheerfully followed it into the kitchen, eager to see what he was whipping up.

     "Indeed it is.  What do we have here?"

     He wrapped his arms around Terry's waist, resting his head on his shoulder as he watched him push a fluffy pile of eggs around the pan.

     "Scrambled eggs and toast.  You know...  Real gourmet shit."

     Terry laughed as he set down his spatula and turned off the burner, leaning into Lucas' embrace.

     "I'm sure it will be delectable."

     He paused for a moment to let Lucas kiss him on the cheek, answered it with a brief kiss on the mouth, then reached into the cupboard and took down two plates.

     "Here's hopin'...  I just figured, hey, I had nothin' but doughnuts for lunch, it's hit or miss if Lucas ate anything, I'm gonna actually cook for once."

     Most nights, the two of them would simply linger in the kitchen for a few hours after work, filling one another in on the day's events and nibbling at whatever they could scrounge up; apples, cookies, bread and butter, slices of cheese.  Occasionally, Cecil would decide this was no way for grown men to live and cook a huge batch of something, which they would eat for several days.

     More and more often, however, Terry took on the job himself, throwing together simple meals that resembled their usual grazing with extra steps.  And though he certainly wasn't the best cook in the world, Lucas found his food delicious for the simple fact that he had made it for them.

     "Worry not.  I ate the sandwich you packed, and found it quite satisfactory."

     Terry plucked four slices of buttered toast from the warm oven, divided them across two plates, and began similarly dividing the eggs.

     "Oh yeah?  Anything else satisfactory today?"

     Lucas accepted his plate and sat down at the table.

     "Well, there is always something of interest...   But it was a fairly usual day, and I shant bore you with a repeat of yesterday.  How about you, mon chéri?  Any fascinating mysteries?"

     Terry took down two glasses, filled one with water and sat it next to Lucas' plate, then bent down to rummage through the refrigerator.

     "Nah.  No one's come in with anything lately, so we've just been goin' through the files, givin' some cold cases a second look, that sort of thing."

     He filled his glass halfway with milk, frowned at the empty carton, and tossed it in the wastecan before opening a fresh one.  Lucas took a bite of eggs; finding them perfectly to his liking, but unsure how else they should be.  As far as he could remember, Terry's scrambled eggs were the only ones he'd ever tasted.

     "It sounds like work that needed doing, at least."

     Terry settled in with his plate of food and glass of milk, passing the bottle of ketchup to Lucas.

     "Guess so, but it doesn't make for a very interesting story...  I did talk to Margaret at the bakery for a little, though."

     It took Lucas a moment to call up Margaret's image in his mind.  He often saw her around town, and had spoken to her on occasion, but still tended to get her confused with Scarlett; the name, the ears, the habit of picking up litter.  One of them wanted him to reign in his miracles, and the other wanted him to sing.

     "Oh?  Is she well?"

     Terry shrugged as he took a hearty bite of his toast.

     "She seems good, yeah.  Pretty excited about her sister coming for a visit."

     Lucas opened the bottle of ketchup and tapped some onto his plate, dragging a forkful of eggs through the glossy red sauce.

     "Interesting.  I don't recall hearing about any sister."

     He brought the bite to his mouth, marveling at how the tomatoey tang perfectly offset the richness of the eggs.  Terry, who didn't care for ketchup—didn't even like to smell it, insisted putting something so sweet on his dinner was "like mixin' curry and pudding"—ate his eggs plain, scooping them onto the toast and taking delicate bites.

     "...You know this is Margaret, right?  Blondie?  I dunno, maybe you're thinkin' of the right person and it just never came up around you...  But yeah, she's got a sister.  S'posta be some big artist.  Real character, too."

     Lucas smiled fondly, pointedly locking eyes with Terry.

     "Well, she sounds just fascinating.  You know I like artists."

     Terry blushed, looking away and taking a sip of his milk.

     "Jeez, Lucas..."

     Having gotten exactly the reaction he wanted, Lucas returned his attention to his dinner.

     "I speak only the truth."

     Terry mashed another bite of eggs onto his toast.

     "Well, let's hope so, because I think Margaret invited the two of us to dinner with them or somethin'.  I didn't really know how to refuse, y'know?"

     Lucas tapped more ketchup onto his plate.

     "Whatever the reason, I'm happy you didn't before talking to me.  I believe I'd like to meet this mysterious sister, even if you choose to stay home."

     This had always been one of their differences.  They were both deeply inquisitive and driven to learn about others, but so different in their methods; Lucas enjoyed talking to everyone, listening to stories and asking questions, while Terry preferred to hang back and observe.

     "Go knock yourself out."

     The only problem was that Lucas also enjoyed being with Terry; experiencing the world together, comparing impressions.  He never wanted to force him into uncomfortable situations, but it was undeniable that they both learned best when they were together.

     "...But why stay home if you already know the two of you have something in common?"

     Terry sullenly picked at his eggs.

     "Okay, now you sound like Margaret."

     Lucas gazed dreamily out the window, recalling all the times he had passed that flaxen-haired Elven musician as she practiced in the Plaza, serenading the Great Tree with her harp and her sweet full voice.

     "There's certainly worse people to sound like."

     Terry laughed.

     "You got me there."

     That laugh; art, music, the way the setting sun brought out the copper in Terry's hair.  What else did one need?

     "So you'll be joining us?"

     Lucas watched as Terry downed the last of his milk in one gulp.

     "Eh, sure.  Why the hell not?"

     Daria stood at the entrance of her cottage studio, leaning against the doorframe and watching the moon rise over the trees; that same old moon, that same old view.  Usually, it never failed to inspire her, but she had found of late that all her most reliable wells had been running dry.

     The forest lavishly decorated with all her past works, the shimmering rainbows at Oddward Valley, the sweet scents drifting from her oven, the summer storms that occasionally rolled overhead, the very sky itself...  All of it was as sublime as ever.

     And yet, she found herself unable to paint.

     Nor could she draw, or carve, or sculpt.  So long as she was following a familiar pattern, she could easily crochet, and often lost hours to it; sullenly looping her yarn over her hook, waiting for the grand ideas that once fell into her lap.

     The way she saw it, she had two choices.

     She could wait for autumn, and hope its colors would stir her imagination.

     Or she could visit her sister, and hope the change of scenery would knock something loose.

     Never having been one for waiting, Daria wasted no time in penning a letter.  She mentioned nothing of her recent difficulties, of course—her pride as an artist and an elder sister wouldn't allow it—but her words were otherwise heartfelt and sincere; telling of the length of time since they had graced one another's presence, her nostalgia for Margaret's sweet music, a longing to see all the interesting sights her sister had described.

     Just that morning, she had received her reply.

     Yes, I'd love it if you came to visit!  Don't apologize for the short notice, because it's already been far too long since we've seen one one another, and I MISS YOU !!  Plus, It seems I've crossed paths with Doug, and I know you two would get a kick out of seeing each other again.  I'm currently staying in Rigbarth, at an interesting little place called the Blue Moon.  Once you're in the village, you won't be able to miss it, so...

    ...So Daria was already packing her bags.

     One tattered shapeless sack full of essentials—changes of clothes, toothbrush, soap—and one neatly-packed, rainbow-painted suitcase for the art supplies that she dearly hoped would see heavy use during her little vacation.

     She tossed her clothes into the sack, her eyes scanning the studio as she pondered what was worth taking.

     Her hooks and plenty of yarn, of course, were a given.  She would need something to do with her hands; in transit, and while she brainstormed all the wonderful works of art she was sure to create.  But as much as she hoped she would long for her oils, they were too messy to practically transport, to say nothing of the size of the canvases.  The same, sadly, was likely true of her good watercolors...

     ...But you have that little box of cheap ones that Gaius got for you at the Flea Market!

     Daria rushed over to the chest of drawers where she shoved found objects and spare supplies; fetching the small tin, opening it so she could admire the glossy discs of color tucked neatly inside.  Then she grabbed a stack of watercolor paper, a varied assortment of brushes, and her trusty paint-mixing mug so she wouldn't have to contaminate her fussy sister's cups.

     My sketchpad!  All my pencils!  My pastels!

     She ran around the studio in a whirlwind, gathering her things in an unwieldy armful that she dropped into her suitcase, carefully arranging them as she bounced excitedly on her mattress.  The pad and paper lined the bottom, the mug and brushes were protectively wrapped in a paint-stained tie-dye scarf, and...

     ...And now I'll pack all the yarn that'll fit!

     Still buzzing with excitement, Daria grabbed the pouch where she stashed her hooks, tucking it between her teeth as she selected her best and most colorful variegated yarns; a big bushel of rainbow softness that she embraced like a close friend before dropping it in the suitcase with the rest, quickly realizing that she had a problem.

     Huh.  Guess I'm also packing all the yarn that doesn't fit.

     She removed one skein of yarn and the hooks, figuring that she'd want them in her shoulder bag anyway.  Then she got to work forcing the suitcase closed, swearing under her breath as she willed the latch to click.  Daria was just about to climb onto the suitcase and let her weight do the work when the kitchen timer went off, a shrill chime cutting through the peaceful night sounds of the forest.

     Launching herself from the bed, she opened the oven and found her double batch of jam rolls perfectly golden brown.  Daria inhaled their sweet, buttery aroma, taking a moment to bask in the fact that she could at least still create something, even if it was just snacks for the trip and gifts for her sister.  Then she placed the pan on the counter to cool; intending to continue wrestling with her suitcase, getting distracted by the moon in her kitchen window.

     It was higher above the trees now, and had brightened from soft gold to gleaming silver.  The same moon that she longed to reach when she climbed towers with her father and sister as a child, wishing she could paint its crisp white face in rainbows.  The moon by whose light she had sketched when she had too many ideas to sleep, the moon she had coaxed onto her canvas countless times.

     The moon that—even in far-off Rigbarth—glistened on the quivering strings of Margaret's harp.

     Daria picked up one of the still-warm jam rolls and bit into it, steam rising off its melty red center in the fresh night breeze that stirred the curtains.  This, too, reminded her of things; of Margaret, of childhood, of sitting before a canvas with a brush in one hand and a pastry in the other because she was too absorbed to stop.

     You'll get there again!

     You just gotta shake things up!

     Daria sighed, licking her sticky fingers.  Then she loped back to the bed, hopped onto her bulging suitcase, and bounced until she heard a satisfying click.

Chapter Text

     If no good mysteries are going to come to me, then I'll just go to them.

     I had heard the rumors about the ancient city underground, accessible from an unassuming sea cave around the bend of the coast.  But something about that didn't seem right; too obvious, too easy.  How could a place be just a short dark walk away and still remain a mystery?

     The answer, of course, was the tides.

     A would-be discoverer had only a few minutes to reach the city before the cave flooded.  No one had ever made it out alive.  And I have convinced myself, against all evidence, that I could be the exception, could run back with an armful of sketches that will reveal those lost wonders to the world.

     I'm not the best swimmer, but I work quickly.

     I dash into the mouth of the cave, and waste no time looking back.

     It all goes well at first.  I don't stumble, and it seems I'm incapable of running out of air.  I wonder why I don't run more often, if it's been this easy all along.

     The sound of splashing, water under my boots.

     I pick up the pace.

     I'm trudging now; the cave floor a river, my sketchpad drenched and useless.

     (Why did I ever think I was so special?)

     (I don't do things like this.  I can't run like this.  What was I thinking?)

     Finally, I look back, hoping it isn't too late to turn around.

     It's too dark to see much of anything, but I can hear the waves closing in to swallow me.

     They knock me off my feet, and I am rushed down the narrow dark corridor, praying to hit my head before I start to feel myself drown.

     Terry woke with a gasp, the knife of morning light that escaped the curtains slicing at his retinas.  Covering his eyes with his hand, he let reality sink in; that there had never been a cave, just the familiarity of his darkened room.  The pillow rumpled in his grasp, the tangled blankets, Lucas' sticky back against his own.

     Lucas.

     The only thing here that Terry still wasn't entirely used to; his warm skin and heavy breath, the mattress creaking under his graceful body as he rolled over to greet the day.

     "...Hmm?"

     Terry yawned, turning towards Lucas and burying his face in the pillow.

     "Ugh...  Weird dream."

     Lucas laid a bare, gentle hand on the back of Terry's sweaty neck.

     "I'm sorry to hear that...  Is there anything I can do?"

     With the dream over and done with, there was little left for Lucas to do, but Terry relaxed into his touch all the same.

     "Just...  Hold me for a little bit, okay?"

     Before he could even finish his request, Lucas had gathered Terry in his arms.

     "My pleasure."

     The room was already uncomfortably warm, and it certainly wasn't ideal weather for huddling together like this.  But Lucas' arms were strong, his breath steady, his presence calm and grounding.  Terry exhaled slowly, feeling the last of his tension dissolve.

     "...So.  You got a better ending for me today?"

     Lucas kissed the crown of Terry's head, pulling him closer.

     "For the cave?"

     Terry nodded once.

     "Yeah."

     Then he closed his eyes and relaxed, readying himself for the story to come.

     All his life, Terry had been prone to strange dreams.  It seemed to be an artifact of his overactive mind, busy and churning even as he slept.  Some of them were humorous or beautiful, but most followed the same handful of uneasy themes; claustrophobia, misdirection, chasing or being chased.

     At best, he woke from them feeling jangled and disoriented.

     At worst, they could sour his whole day.

     Or at least, that's how it was when he was alone.

     Lucas took a deep breath, his hand absent-mindedly stroking Terry's hair.

     "Well...  I went after you, of course.  And when the water entered the cave, I sang to it.  I asked it to part around us, and it was more than happy to oblige."

     The first night they slept together, Lucas had discovered a new facet of his divine powers: the ability, should their skin brush in the night, to dream what others dreamt.  He couldn't enter the dream proper and change the dreamer's experience, but rather had an interesting experience of his own.

     For Terry, hearing him recount them was the best way to start the day.

     "I didn't pass out or nothin'?"

     Lucas shook his head.

     "Bodies are more forgiving in dreams...  You were just fine, and we reached the city in no time.  Lovely place, all aglow...  If I recall, you were eager to start drawing."

     Once again, Terry was filled with questions; how much information passed between them in the night, who and what the image of him in Lucas' dreams really was.

     "Makes sense.  That was the plan."

     Lucas chuckled slightly, seeming hesitant to speak.

     "...Of course, your sketchbook was quite waterlogged.  So I stripped and allowed you to draw on my body."

     The image was so vivid that it made Terry blush.

     "I...  Might have to try that sometime."

     Lucas squeezed him affectionately.

     "And I shall allow it...  So.  How did your dream end?"

     Terry sighed, draping an arm across Lucas' waist and tracing the sculpted gully of his spine with his fingertips.

     "Doesn't matter."

     Margaret was startled by a knock at the door, followed by a rough cheerful voice.

     "Someone's here for ya!"

     After one last glance around the room to make sure everything was in place—the futon, the flowers in their vase, the Pink Melon tarts she had purchased at the bakery that morning—she threw open her door, greeted by Murakumo's familiar fuzzy bulk and a buzzing golden blur that nearly knocked her off her feet.

     "...Meggy!"

     Daria dropped her bags and threw her arms around her sister, who hugged her with equal fervor as soon as she regained her balance.

     "Hey, Dars...  I see you haven't changed a bit."

     The sisters pulled apart for a moment, laughing as they took one another in.

     "And your reflexes haven't improved a bit!"

     Margaret primly dusted off her skirt.

     "Well, it's been too long!  I'm out of practice."

     Murakumo gestured towards Daria questioningly.

     "...So this is Miss Artist, eh?"

     Margaret nodded.

     "That would be her."

     He smiled, cheerfully flashing his sharp teeth.

     "Well, it's nice to finally see you in the flesh...  I'll let you two catch up.  Then you can both have a bath on the house!"

     Daria grinned appreciatively.

     "And I'm looking forward to famous free baths!  C'mon, Meggy!"

     Margaret sighed apologetically at Murakumo, who offered only a good-humored shrug.  Then she picked up Daria's bags and hauled them into her room, setting them gently next to the futon.

     "Dars, don't encourage him...  Anyway, would you like some tea?  I got treats for us at the bakery, so..."

     It could sometimes be difficult to tell whether Daria was listening, so Margaret watched her root through her shoulder bag, wondering when it would be appropriate to repeat her question.

     "...Aha!  Great minds think alike!"

     Daria produced a large flowered tin, flinging off the lid with a flourish and revealing a clutch of glistening jam rolls.  Margaret recognized her sister's whimsical handiwork instantly.

     "Oh...  You made these!  They look delicious!  Should we have them instead?"

     Margaret filled the kettle and turned on her hot plate, pausing to clumsily catch the soft roll her sister had tossed in her direction.

     "Nah, let's have 'em both!  I'm famished!"

     Daria bit into her own jam roll with relish.  Margaret nibbled at hers absent-mindedly as she poked around in her modest cabinets for teabags and mugs.

     "Right...  Your trip must have been pretty tiring."

     Of course, to look at Daria, you would hardly know it.  She had always been something of a perpetual motion machine; her bubbly energy constantly recharging itself, the lively workings of her mind powering her body like a set of many-toothed gears.

     "Actually, it was mostly pretty boring...  Well, except for the part where the airship went past Whale Island!  I had my face pressed to the porthole the whole time!  Oh!  And I made you this!"

     Daria shrugged off her shoulder bag, digging through it again until she produced a bundle of something wooly and forget-me-not blue, which she tossed to Margaret much as she had the jam roll.

     "Oh, you didn't have to..."

     Margaret carefully unscrunched what turned out to be a simple crocheted hat; rectangular in shape, the top corners pinched into what appeared to be a pair of pointed ears.  It was a well-made and thoughtful gift, if a bit seasonally inappropriate.  Margaret put it on anyway, mugging fiercely and forming her hands into claws.

     Daria cackled at her sister's display, nearly choking on the last bite of her jam roll.

     "I knew you'd love it!"

     The kettle whistled, and Margaret quickly yanked the hat off her sweaty head, tossing it onto her bed and carefully pouring water over the teabags.

     "Arthur's going to love it, too...  I'll have to wear it for him when I swing back home next month."

     Though he was nearing eighty, Arthur was still yet to outgrow his taste for all things cute and fanciful, and would certainly be delighted by the hat's silly ears and handmade charm.

     Daria, of course, knew this well.

     "...Yes!  I'll have to make him one!  Where is he, anyway?"

     Margaret's breath caught in her throat as she set the steaming mugs on the table.

     "He...  Doesn't like to travel as much as he used to."

     Daria blew on her tea, taking a careful sip.

     "Right, since..."

     Since he's truly getting old?  Since he's slipping through my fingers?  Since we're almost at the end?

     Margaret smiled stiffly, pausing to savor her last bite of jam roll.

     "Since Ivy had her baby last year."

     Daria beamed, death and finality the farthest thing from her ever-colorful mind.

     "Aww!  Proud granddad!"

     All at once, Margaret felt homesick; for the manor that had once been Porco's and the cozy warren of additions that had grown onto the original structure as their family expanded, Leann and her grown daughter puttering around in the kitchen much as Porco and Dylas once had.

     "And that makes me grandma...  Unbelievable, right?"

     Margaret studied her smooth, unlined hands as they folded and unfolded on the tabletop.

     (There's still so much ahead.)

     Daria plucked a petal off one of the Toyherb flowers in the vase, eyeing the paper bag from the bakery hungrily.

     "Oh, you've been acting like a bossy old bag since we were kids...  Now how about those tarts!"

     Her mischievous grin chased the melancholy away, and Margaret found herself laughing as she reached into the bag, handing her sister a perfectly round tart, vivid with bright pink fruit.

     "Fine, here...  So!  Dars... I want to hear about you.  What have you been working on lately?"

     There was a strange pause as Daria bit into her tart.

     "Oh, you know...  A bunch of things, I guess.  Nothing finished."

     Then she took another bite without saying another word, which didn't quite sit right with Margaret.  Normally, once Daria got started talking about art, it was almost impossible to shut her up.

     "You must be working on some big projects, then."

     Daria shrugged, sulkily plucking more petals off the Toyherb blossom.

     "Big, small...  I was kind of hoping the change of scenery here would inspire me, y'know?"

     That, too, struck Margaret as odd.

     "Well...  I hope so, too."

     With the flower divested, Daria perked up, intently studying her tart.

     "...I think it's already working!  Look at this thing!  I mean, there's pink, and then there's pink!"

     Margaret tilted her own tart in her hand, admiring the glossy pink of the slightly caramelized fruit before taking a sticky-sweet bite.

     "The melons are from the little farm across the bridge.  You won't find much fresher."

     Daria seemed to be lost in the pink again, admiring the jagged edges of the last bite as though they were cut from sapphire.

     "Hmm...  Maybe I'll have to see this farm for myself..."

     Though she wasn't sure why, Margaret felt a strange sense of foreboding.

     "...Just don't mess with anything over there, okay?"

     Daria popped the last of the tart in her mouth.

     "Oh, relax...  Anyway!  How about we go take that bath?"

     Margaret took another bite, though she was no longer particularly hungry.

     "Sure.  As soon as I'm finished here, okay?"

     She somehow knew that, however many days her sister decided to stay, this visit would be a long one indeed.

     Terry and Lucas ambled across the bridge, their long early-evening shadows trailing behind them like a wake.

     "...You know which one Margaret is now, right?"

     Lucas nodded brightly.

     "'Blondie,' you said."

     Terry grinned in the affirmative, fiery sunlight glinting off his dark glasses.

     "That'd be her...  Now, I just gotta say, she can be a little grabby.  She doesn't mean any harm, but I thought I'd warn ya."

     In his mind's eye, Lucas could now see Margaret's busy hands as clearly as her golden locks; plucking the strings of lutes and harps, gesturing animatedly, patting shoulders and untangling hair.

     The freedom of one who didn't have to worry about what she might absorb.

     "Yes, it's just her way.  But I shall keep it in mind."

     Terry adjusted his glasses thoughtfully, their lenses flashing to pure black again.

     "And honestly, I have no idea what her sis is like, so..."

     Lucas smiled warmly as he took Terry's hand, pulling him onto the shabby wood steps that led to Lackadaisy's front door.

     "...So won't it be fascinating to find out?"

     Then he slipped his hand around Terry's waist, opened the door, and stepped inside.  If any ambiguity about Margaret's identity remained in his mind, it was quickly dispelled.

     "Look, there they are!"

     She stood from her chair, waving cheerfully with one of those dexterous hands.  Seated beside her was what appeared to be a slightly imperfect copy; Margaret's golden hair and clever face crowning a slightly lankier body, a more mischievous tilt to her smile, a certain carefree rumpledness.

     "Who...  Oh, yeah, they do look pretty interesting."

     The sisters were already sharing a pot of Relax Tea, the steaming pink liquid rippling in their cups as they gesticulated at their visitors and each other.

     Lucas politely took a seat across from them, extending his hand across the table.

     "Daria, I presume?"

     The paint-splattered sister didn't hesitate to firmly shake his hand.

     "Uh-huh.  Terry or Lucas?"

     Lucas smiled as he lovingly draped an arm around Terry's shoulders.

     "Lucas.  This radiant fellow is Terry."

     Terry blushed, crossing his arms protectively around himself.

     "Hey."

     Daria leaned forward inquisitively, tilting her teacup towards Terry.

     "So you're the artist Meggy's been going on about!"

     Fuuka brushed past their table, leaving menus and sweaty glasses of ice water.  Terry took a quick sip, pausing to noisily crunch on an ice cube.

     "Actually, I'm a detective."

     Margaret reached across the table without warning, playfully ruffling Terry's hair.

     "A detective who makes beautiful drawings, right?"

     Terry shrugged, looking slightly uncomfortable.

     "Guess so."

     Lucas affectionately gripped Terry with one hand as he accepted a cup of tea from Margaret with the other.

     "He has an eye to put a God to shame."

     Margaret reached for a fourth teacup, but Terry pulled it away and shook his head, his slight blush beginning to spread down his pale neck.

     "Jeez, Lucas..."

     Daria leaned in even closer, setting down her teacup and propping her chin on her laced hands.

     "Yeah?  What do you draw?"

     Terry paused to pass his menu back to Fuuka, ordering two baked apples.

     "No one thing, really...  I draw from life, mostly.  Things around town, scenery...  People."

     He smiled warmly at Lucas as he spoke that last word.  Lucas quietly put in his own order—tempura plate—and gently squeezed Terry's shoulders again.

     "...Even Gods."

     Terry nodded, his smile coming easier.

     "Even Gods."

     Daria passed her menu to Margaret, nodding enthusiastically at Terry with a slightly perplexed expression.

     "Interesting!  I never took much of an interest in pure realism."

     Now Terry was leaning forward as well, propping his chin on his curled fist.

     "Oh yeah?"

     Daria began ranting energetically, sloshing her tea as she spoke.

     "Yeah!  I mean, why just make copies of things you can see any old time you want?  For me, art is about bringing your dreams to life!  Impossible things!  Colorful things!"

     Terry sat back in his chair again, nodding placidly.

     "Well, hey.  That's cool."

     To Lucas, his voice sounded slightly flat, his face equally unexpressive and inscrutable.

     Margaret passed the menus to Fuuka, thanked her on behalf of her less socially graceful companions, and hissed sharply at her sister.

     "Daria..."

     Daria snapped out of whatever colorful visions danced in her mind.

     "What?"

     Margaret sighed.

     "Nothing...  Anyway, maybe you two should do a collaboration while you're visiting!  I know for a fact that this one here has a beautiful voice, but he refuses to sing with me!"

     She jovially grabbed Lucas' forearm as he spoke; a gesture for old friends, though the aforementioned requests for vocal accompaniment comprised most of the words Margaret had spoken to him before that day.

     "It's as I said.  My voice is...  A bit much."

     Margaret huffed and rolled her eyes.

     "I know that's what you say..."

     Lucas placed his gloved hand atop Margaret's.

     "And I say it for a reason."

     She rolled her eyes again, then went about topping off the three teacups.  Terry watched her skeptically.

     "...Don't you people get hot?"

     Daria shrugged, blowing on her steaming cup.

     "Plenty cool in here."

     Terry shrugged in reply.

     "Fair enough."

     After a few moments of awkward silence, Fuuka arrived with their food, and Lucas watched with interest as the sisters tucked in, pulling out his notepad and taking down a few hasty observations before picking up his chopsticks.

     What a funny pair.  Fascinating.

     Their meals couldn't have been more different—Margaret's a colorful fruit plate, Daria's a silvery pile of smoked sardines—but the way they ate was much the same; picking with delicate fingers, slipping small bites into their mouths between laughs as they finished each other's sentences.

     He wondered how Terry, given a pad and pencil, might draw them.

     Hunched and cross-legged on her borrowed futon, Daria flicked her yarn over her hook; her hands a blur as she pulled up a series of tidy loops, her mind wandering in dizzy circles, in search of something colorful and new.

     She watched as Margaret laid down atop the covers of her bed, the balmy breeze from the cracked window ruffling her nightgown.

     "So, how are you liking Rigbarth?"

     Daria thought about this for a moment.  Certainly, there were no complaints; the small town was not unlike Sharance, though hillier and less overgrown.  The people were interesting, and the proximity to the pounding sea was thrilling.

     "Oh, well...  It's my first day here.  But I'm excited to explore more, so that's a good sign!"

     But, so far, nothing had overcome her with the urge to paint.

     Margaret smiled sleepily.

     "That's good...  And Lucas and Terry are nice, aren't they?"

     In spite of her nagging frustration, Daria smiled as well.

     "Yeah.  Pretty weird, too!  They remind me of home in the old days...  Is he actually a God, or is that just his thing?"

     After a deep yawn, Margaret shrugged.

     "He doesn't seem to be trying to get anything out of it, so I don't have any reason to disbelieve him."

     Daria turned her work and began another row of stitches, eyeing her sister flatly.

     "Well, people say all kinds of things for all kinds of reasons.  Did Porco's cousins 'get anything' out of speaking in opposites?"

     Margaret frowned briefly, but it was soon replaced by another dreamy smile.

     "Oh, I don't know...  I just know I like watching him with Terry.  I always come away wanting to write love songs."

     Daria could practically hear the bountiful melodies humming in her sister's head, bouncing along so cheerily that they began to make her feel jealous and bereft.

     But instead of stewing in resentment, she found herself thinking of the odd pair they had dined with; so alike yet so different, their cadence sliding so easily between playfulness and gravitas.

     "...You know, if he is a God, that's a pretty interesting relationship."

     Margaret thoughtfully picked at the hem of her nightgown.

     "Yeah."

     Realizing that the motion of her hands had momentarily stilled, Daria gestured at her sister with her hook.

     "They're kinda like you and..."

     Margaret nodded solemnly, apparently knowing—as she often did—exactly what Daria was about to say before she even had a chance to finish.

     "...They are."

     A thick silence fell over the room, which Daria could never abide for very long.

     "Singing and paperwork and everything!  They are you guys!"

     Another silence, then a heavy sigh.

     "Listen, Dars...  I'm about ready to go to sleep.  We can talk more tomorrow."

     Daria shrugged as she turned her work again.

     "Sure thing!  I've still gotta finish this, though."

     Margaret groaned, burying her head under the pillow.

     "Only if you can crochet in the dark."

     Daria watched her hands work steadily in the lamplight, loops upon loops.

     "You know I've tried.  Not possible."

     Then she watched her sister roll over to sulkily face the wall.

     "Fine.  Finish it tomorrow."

     With a huff, Daria snatched the bedside lamp before Margaret could extinguish it; hauling it, her futon, and her yarn and hook to the farthest, darkest corner of the room, flopping down pointedly.

     "...'Night, Meggy!"

     Margaret groaned again.

     "Good night."

     And with that, the silence descended again.  Daria gritted her teeth against it, crocheting frenetically as she took stock of her day and all the things she had seen.

     The innkeeper is interesting, isn't he?

     Murakumo, with his rich violet pelt and loud laugh, his fuzzy pricked ears and leaf-green eyes, face painted with crimson, sharp filed claws.  She could see the exact colors she might mix to paint him, but the image itself refused to gel.

     And Palmo.  What a blast from the past!

     Porcoline's second-or-great-something-or-other, proudly sporting the same splendidly round figure and ebulliently generous heart.  The same flair for the flamboyant somehow amplified; yet another violet-and-crimson man, the buildings he designed riots of color and detail.  She had watched him work in his shop with his half-asleep assistant for nearly an hour, but no ideas had come to her.

     The farm was a little disappointing, but farms usually are.

     As it turned out, it was less a farm than a weedy patch of dirt—the main operation, it seemed, took place on the backs of several dragons, which intrigued Daria greatly—but the melons were indeed spectacularly pink, and she spent quite a while staring at them, hoping they would stir something.  But they kept their secrets well, even when she pilfered one and split it open in secret behind the Smithy, devouring its juicy flesh with her bare hands.

     ...And the Smithy was...

     ...Hot and loud, mostly.  Inside was another colorful fox-eared person—the cheerful little waitress from the restaurant—who seemed eager to talk, but between the noise and what appeared to be an insurmountable language barrier, Daria could barely understand her.

     Even so, she did her best to listen patiently as the young girl prattled on about how shiny the metal was, her exclamations punctuated with curious little growls and purrs.  Daria agreed heartily, until the blacksmith—a dour-faced, exhausted-looking young man—demanded that both of them shut the hell up so he could work.  This only made her homesick for good old Gaius, who was so languid and unaware of his surroundings that nothing could truly disturb him.

     All in all, it had been quite the interesting day.

     Even so...

     "...Lights out, Daria!"

     Daria finished her row with a flourish, setting her yarn and hook down next to her pillow.

     "Fine!"

     Then she turned off the lamp and lay down in the dark, her mind wandering back to the lively dinner with her sister's peculiar acquaintances.  The slouchy detective who apparently simply drew whatever was in front of him, an effortless flow that turned Daria bile-green with envy.  And the divine singer, with his strong white-gloved hands and prim refusal to let his voice be heard.

     "My voice is...  A bit much."

     What had he meant by that?  How could one's voice be "a bit much?"  And, if nothing else so far had managed to stir her, might "a bit much," indeed, be something more like "just enough?"

     As she drifted off to sleep, Daria staunchly made up her mind.

     She wouldn't leave Rigbarth until she had heard Lucas sing.

Chapter Text

     Terry scowled intently at the half-eaten apple on his desk; the light playing off its glossy red skin and juicy white flesh, its ragged crescent-moon contours, the stark ink-spot pips.  Once he was sure he had gathered enough of the image to hold it in his mind, he returned his gaze to his sketchbook, sullenly penciling in a few lines.

     "...And don't you think Margaret's sister is a little suspicious?"

     Cecil had been cleaning windows and prattling on about everything on the sun for the past half hour, but Terry had mostly been able to tune him out.

     "Oh, I dunno.  I think she's just a little eccentric.  Gods know, I ain't exactly normal myself, and I'm not suspicious, am I?"

     He abruptly stopped his work, turning around to regard Terry flatly.

     "Do you want a serious answer?"

     Terry locked eyes with him and glared, then returned his attention to the apple.

     "Very funny."

     All day, Terry had been occupied with sketching the objects on his desk; his cup of pens, a full glass of milk, the same glass half-empty, a curious striped rock he had picked up from somewhere or other, and finally the apple.

     He would have drawn Cecil as well, but he wouldn't stay still long enough to allow it.

     "But anyway, I really do think she's up to something!  She just wanders around town watching people!  It's creepy!"

     The absurdity of this statement was not lost on him.

     "...Cecil, do you hear yourself right now?"

     The young man gestured wildly with the damp towel, flicking dirty water everywhere.

     "We watch people because it's our job!  Who knows why she does it!  Also, I saw her steal a melon yesterday."

     Terry sighed as he looked from his sketches to the things themselves; appraising his work and finding them to be respectable copies indeed.

     (Too bad that's all they are.)

     "You don't own every melon in the world, kiddo."

     The unspoken truth, of course, was that he almost certainly wished he did.

     "She stole it from Alice!"

     Terry thoughtfully gnawed on his battered pencil; trying in vain to tune Cecil out again, pondering how he might give his drawings a little more life.

     "...Who was probably gonna give it to you."

     Cecil crossed his arms, huffing indignantly.

     "Either way, it doesn't belong to Daria!"

     Terry slammed his sketchbook down on his desk, groaning in frustration and burying his face in his hands.

     "...Cecil, who cares!?  It's a melon!  A hundred more are gonna grow in its place."

     The enthusiasm immediately drained from Cecil's voice.

     "Are you feeling all right, Mr. Terry?  It's not like you to turn down a case."

     But unfortunately, his refusal to stop talking altogether was getting on Terry's last nerve.

     "This isn't a case!"

     Even he was a bit stunned to hear himself say that.

     Cecil lowered his voice even more, to a gentle sickroom tone that made Terry want to kick something.

     "...Seriously, are you okay?"

     Instead, he took a deep breath, exhaled with a sigh, and collected himself, picking up his pad and pencil so he might quietly scratch away at his inexplicable fury.

     "Sorry for snapping at you, but I'm trying to do something here.  Why don't you get back to work for now, okay?"

     Cecil grumbled as he turned back to the window.

     "Why don't you?"

     Terry sighed again.

     "Because there isn't any.  Nothin' hinky's been goin' on because it's too damn hot!"

     Cecil faced his mentor again, squinting in what might have been concern, disapproval, or both.

     "...You've been a real pill all day, you know."

     Terry twirled his pencil with an obnoxious, sarcastic flourish.

     "Wonderful."

     That quiet, pitying voice again.

     "If something's wr-"

     Finally unable to keep from boiling over, Terry threw his pencil across the room, where it thudded dully against the battered spine of a thick book.

     "I'm just trying to do this!"

     Cecil rolled his eyes, then quickly returned to polishing the windows.

     "Fine.  Jeez."

     Feeling somewhat abashed, Terry plucked another pencil from the cup and sheepishly returned to his sketches.

     ...Gods, why even bother?

     The shapes were all there, fluid and lifelike.  The angle of the light, the dizzying detail present in the smallest of things.  And yet, they were lacking somehow; rote, colorless, leaden in the most literal sense.

     (Maybe I should just save up for a camera?)

     It sounded like a solid idea, until he realized that he would have no idea what to do with his hands.  His nervous, fidgety, mechanical hands, base and artless.  Only capable of tracing the lines of what he had already seen.

     Zero imagination.

     Margaret sat on one of the old crates beside the Crystalabra, watching her sister watch the door.

     "...Dars, don't be so obvious!"

     Daria crouched between the crates, grinning up at Margaret in awe.

     "Wow, Meggy...  You're really getting into this!  I didn't know you had it in you!"

     At first, Margaret hadn't been sure either.  But somehow, she knew that a punishment might await her if she didn't accompany her sister on her mission to catch Lucas singing; not out of cruelty or retaliation, but the natural result of misdirected energy, the kind that had kept Daria up crocheting half the night.

     "Well, someone has to supervise you."

     Daria clipped Margaret on the thigh with her fist.

     "Jeez, Meggy, what do you think I'm gonna do?  Burn the place down?"

     Suddenly, Margaret was beset by flashbacks to those long-ago weeks when Daria was first teaching herself how to bake.

     "Well...  No...  But Terry's assistant was walking around earlier saying something about you stealing a melon yesterday."

     Cecil, of course, had been known to jump to conclusions.  But Margaret knew her sister well, and thus had reason to believe him this time.

     "What, you're the melon police now?  We used to steal melons together, remember!?"

     More precisely, Daria used to hurriedly pile melons into an old pillowcase while Margaret watched the gate, near-tears with nerves and guilt.

     "And now we're spying on my neighbors, together!  I don't know what you have to complain about!"

     Daria flopped back against the wall of the Crystalabra, flinging her arm across her face.

     "Ennui!"

     Margaret rolled her eyes; weary of her sister's theatrics, to say nothing of the genuine troubles she could sense behind them.  Something was obviously brewing, and she felt an uneasy need to be there to contain it when it finally escaped.

     "Well, I'm sure hearing a God sing will take care of that."

     Admittedly, curtailing her sister's mischief wasn't Margaret's only goal.  For she, too, had been longing to finally hear Lucas' voice; full-throated and up-close, not the threadbare scraps that sometimes floated into her ears on the wind.

     "...Look, there he goes!"

     Daria sat up as though she were made of springs, hissing through her teeth and pointing madly.  And, sure enough, there was Lucas; vivid in his purple coat, sun shining off his blue-black hair like a dark mirror, striding through the crunchy grass with a carefree sort of purpose that seemed unique to him.

     Margaret grabbed her sister's wrist before she could bolt.

     "Don't just chase him!"

     Unfortunately, Daria had always been squirmy, and surprisingly strong.

     "But he's leaving work early!  Looks like a song break to me!"

     Apparently, Lucas had finally noticed them, but if he'd been able to make out what they were saying, he gave no indication.  He just turned around, smiled at the sisters mildly, gave a cordial wave, and continued on his way.

     Margaret waved back nervously, taking a deep breath to slow her scurrying heart.

     "...No, he sometimes clocks out early to put on a show in the Plaza.  It's not singing, but it is pretty interesting...  We could go watch, if you want to."

     Daria ceased her squirming.

     "A show, huh?"

     Margaret nodded as she released her sister and dusted off her hands.

     "Yeah.  It's pretty much a magic show, but he insists it's actually a miracle show."

     Daria cradled her chin thoughtfully, then beamed terribly broadly for one who had just been complaining of ennui.

     "I could go for some miracles!"

     Margaret hopped off the crate, motioning for Daria to follow.

     "Then come on!"

     Glad to finally be in control of the situation again, Margaret led them down the sun-baked hill and into the blessed shade of the Plaza, where Lucas was standing straight and proud beneath the Great Tree, surrounded by a whispering half-moon of giddy neighbors and tourists.

     After a brief pause, he flashed that gentle smile again, and took a grand bow.

     "Greetings, all.  Are we enjoying this resplendent afternoon?"

     In all likelihood, everyone was sun-blind and rather cranky, but they clapped enthusiastically anyway.  Lucas let their applause wash over him like rain over a serene mountain, then nodded in satisfaction.

     "Wonderful.  And are we ready for a show?"

     After another round of applause—more sincere this time—Lucas stretched out his hand as though awaiting a gift from the sky.

     "Oho!  Then let us begin!"

     As a smooth fist-sized stone dropped into his palm from thin air, Margaret suddenly thought of how different he seemed from the easygoing, slightly silly man she had dined with the previous day.  It wasn't as though his usual self wasn't polite and slightly over-formal, or that he wasn't a jovial and whimsical showman.

     But, to watch him now, it was obvious that he was putting on a show.

     The stone moved as though it had a will of its own; through the crowd, into the branches, back into Lucas' gloved hand.  And through it all, his motions were perfectly precise, graceful and obviously memorized, his posture impeccable, his hands almost cruelly exacting.

     He looks so much more at ease with Terry.

     The lazy drape of his arm over his lover's bony shoulders, the almost innocent spontaneity of his smile, the confusing jokes he would let fly without care for how or whether they landed.  The way Terry, too, seemed to ease up around Lucas; all his prickles falling away, the guarded mask of his face softening slightly.

     A God and a Mortal, yet somehow made for one another.

     "...Meggy, look!"

     The stone appeared in Daria's hands, then blinked away again, reappearing at the feet of the mayor's young son.  Margaret nudged her sister and smiled.

     "Wow, lucky you!"

     Then she went back to watching Lucas; wondering what he and Terry were like when there was no one else around, wondering what they truly made of and felt for one another.  How they made time work for them, how they planned for a future together when that word probably meant such different things to them.

     (How does he deal with it so well?)

     The stone eventually vanished to wherever stones went, and a series of increasingly fanciful objects took its place; flashing through the air, skirting merrily through the crowd.  There were silver spoons and gemstones and pumpkins, a Gold Turnip, a toy fish that someone had sewn from scraps of flowered sheets or dresses.  It was enough to delight even the most jaded eye, but Margaret found herself struggling to focus.

     (What does he think about at night?)

     Lucas' golden eyes were tranquil and untroubled, his mind obviously lost in his magic.  But the show couldn't go on forever.  Eventually, he would return to his normal life, and all that awaited him there.

     (How will he say goodbye?)

     And then it was over.  Lucas took another bow, smiling adoringly at his audience as he straightened up and snapped his fingers one last time.

     "Thank you all dearly for indulging me on this fine day!  To express my gratitude, I have bestowed upon you a small gift this time.  Check those pockets, now!"

     All around her, a whisper of fabric as the crowd fiddled with their clothing inquisitively.  Margaret buried her own hands in her pockets, the right one closing around something cool and hard.  With perhaps more apprehension than the situation justified, she withdrew her hand and uncurled her fist.

     The gift was a fine point of clear quartz, as eerily perfect as ice that would never have to melt.

     Did you enjoy the show, old friend?

     Lucas leaned against the Great Tree's sturdy trunk, taking deep breaths as he poured himself back into his own skin.

     That's good.

     Of course, he didn't know exactly what the Tree thought.  It was a divine being of a different sort; complete with a different sort of mind, one that he couldn't decode even with his gloves off.  But as always, the energy that radiated from it was calm and magnanimous, what he could only interpret as fond tolerance for the odd creatures that skittered around its ancient snarled roots.

     Well then.  Until next time.

     With a sigh, Lucas stood up straight and dusted himself off, satisfied that his body contained him once more.  Exercising his divinity too vigorously made him feel—not unpleasantly—peculiar and expansive.  It activated some spiritual muscle memory; all too eager to remind him of what he truly was, where his horizons truly ended.

     (They do not.)

     But the life he lived—the life he loved—was a life that fit a Mortal man's shape.  He stretched his arms, flexed his hands, and coiled his spirit up like a rope.

     Time to head home.

     Out of old habit, he nearly turned toward the sea and the gloomy little bungalow he once called home.  Then he laughed as he reminded himself that he didn't live there anymore.

     And besides, he had a quick errand to run before settling in for the evening.

     He hurried down the main street, hoping to pop in Sweet Hearth before it closed.

     "Hello...  I'm not too late, am I?"

     Yuki waved merrily from behind the counter.

     "Hello, Lucas!  I'm sorry we couldn't make it to your show today!"

     Lucas nodded, leaning forward to examine the case.

     "Don't trouble yourself.  There will be many more."

     What might make him happy?

     Seeing that Lucas had a handle on things, Yuki picked up the colorful patchwork whatever-it-was that she had no doubt been busily stitching away at all afternoon.

     "Take your time, dearie."

     With another faint nod, Lucas surveyed his options.  There were apple fritters, and apples rarely went amiss.  But when Terry was tired or stressed, his eating habits sometimes became even more bland and restrictive, so the easy familiarity of a plain glazed doughnut might be just the thing to soothe his nerves.

     In the end, he decided it was best to let Terry choose; selecting one of each, plus a cheese croissant for himself.

     "One of each of these, if you don't mind."

     Yuki followed his hand with her tongs, placing his selections in a paper bag.

     "Trying to please that picky one back home, are we?"

     The kind old woman smiled knowingly, and Lucas found himself smiling as well.

     "I think he'll be happy."

     (Hope.  Hope he'll be happy.)

     Yuki cheerfully handed Lucas his bag.

     "I know I would be!  Take care, dear."

     Lucas nodded one last time as he headed for the door.

     "And you as well."

     As he crossed the bridge to home, Lucas felt the scant weight of the airy pastries in his hand.  Suddenly, they seemed insubstantial, insufficient.  A silly, childish offering that only proved his clumsiness and naivety.

     But I suppose they'll have to do.

     Lucas sighed, that morning's anxieties creeping back in.

     Ever since the previous evening, Terry had seemed oddly quiet and pensive.  Which wasn't exactly unusual—he tended to get so deeply wrapped up in his thoughts that he often seemed to forget his own existence—but there was a leaden gloom about him that suggested he might be on the verge of one of his awful headaches, or perhaps falling into one of his occasional low moods.

     But neither of those were especially unusual either, and were easy enough for Lucas to deal with; he simply made sure Terry had something substantial to eat, brought him tall glasses of water as he read in a sprawled-out sulk on the bed, and held him extra close as they drifted off to sleep.

     All through the night, uneasy, violent dreams rose to the surface of Terry's sticky skin.

     Lucas only really began to worry when he didn't want to talk about them in the morning.

     Even so, he supposed it was just another mood, and resolved himself to do whatever he could while they waited for it to pass.  Perhaps the treats he brought with him would even earn him one of Terry's bright, slightly lopsided smiles.  Lucas fixed that image in his mind, trotted up the front steps, and carefully opened the door.

     "Good evening, mon chéri."

     Terry was sitting with his feet propped up on his desk, apparently absorbed in a mystery novel that Lucas had seen him happily devour cover to cover on several occasions.

     "...Oh.  Hey, cutie."

     He still seemed tired and distracted, but his smile—though a bit wan—seemed genuine enough.  Lucas stepped behind his desk and threw a friendly arm around him, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of his head and nuzzling his cheek into his hair just for the softness of it.

     "Are you hungry?"

     Terry shrugged, leaning gratefully into Lucas' embrace.

     "I could eat, yeah."

     Lucas stepped back and held up the bag triumphantly.

     "Could you even eat...  Something from the bakery?"

     Terry smiled again, slightly more lively this time around.

     "I'll see what I can do."

     Lucas gently took Terry's graphite-streaked hand, relieved to know that he'd at least been drawing.

     "Then come.  It's cooled down a great deal, and I think it would be most delightful to dine out on the lawn tonight."

     With a slight groan as he worked his body out of the position that it had obviously been fixed in for quite some time, Terry followed Lucas out into the breezy gold of the quiet summer evening.

     "So!  How was your show today?"

     Lucas settled in the grass, crossing his legs and handing Terry the bag of pastries.

     "Just choose whatever you like...  And fantastic as usual!  It's...  Difficult for me to remember not to get carried away."

     Terry sat down heavily, peered into the bag, and went right for the apple fritter.  Yet another small relief.

     "Well, hey.  If I could do what you do, I'd probably get carried away, too."

     Though Terry was Mortal, Lucas often found himself comforted by how much he understood.  

     "It's not much different from how you feel when you draw...  I imagine that's what I'm looking at here, hmm?"

     With a warm, wry grin, Lucas took one of his dear one's beautiful, grey-smudged hands.  Terry interlaced their fingers, gave a quick squeeze, then untangled his hand so he could hold it out for inspection.

     "Guess so."

     A strange silence fell over both men.  Terry took a big bite of his fritter, and Lucas delicately broke the end off his croissant, chewing thoughtfully.

     "...How was today's work?"

     Terry swallowed with a sigh.

     "So boring that Cecil wanted us to go chasin' after a melon that somebody already ate."

     Despite the faint vapor of gloom still wafting off his love, Lucas couldn't help but laugh.

     "Well, a good thing about this world is that you cannot go very long without something happening.  I'm sure you'll have plenty of fascinating cases soon."

     Terry examined the bag again, pulling out the glazed doughnut.

     "Honestly, I'm about to try to solve the Case of the Missing Rain."

     Lucas squinted into the cloudless blue sky.

     "Perhaps that unfortunate melon simply evaporated."

     Gripping the fritter in his teeth, Terry flattened out the bag and carefully broke the doughnut in half.

     "Man, summer's one evil bastard, eh?  Makin' everyone sweat all day, and now it's framin' folks."

     Lucas laughed again.

     "Then escaping into autumn's glory without a trace."

     Terry laughed, smiling warmly and sitting one of the doughnut halves on the end of the bag closest to Lucas.

     "...Here.  For my favorite poet."

     Instead of following her sister home—to that small green room, and what was sure to be a slipshod dinner—Daria had opted to linger in the Plaza, waiting to see what Lucas would do next.

     Which, as it turned out, wasn't all that much.

     When his show concluded, he rested for a moment against the trunk of the Great Tree.  Then he wandered over to the bakery, and from there to the Detective Agency; where his curious, slightly-shady lover awaited him, no doubt busily sketching away.

     There would be, it seemed, no songs tonight.

     For reasons unclear, Daria remained in the Plaza even then, sulky and numb on the hard bench.  She imagined Terry's keen eyes and industrious pen capturing everything he saw as she studied her own miserably idle hands; restlessly turning the quartz point Lucas had snapped into her pocket over and over in her fingers, casting tiny rainbows that skittered brightly across the cobbles.

     That's something, right?

     At very least, it wasn't nothing.  But instead of making her want to run back to the Blue Moon and dig out her watercolors, it only made her homesick for her cottage; her windows full of dangling crystal suncatchers, the verdant freshness of eternal spring so unlike the oppressive glare of summer that threatened to wither this strange little town.

     As the rainbows danced before her, Daria wondered why she even came here in the first place.

     Then the sun began to sink, turning the light golden and the shadows long and stretchy.  It was as though the world were melting over some great fire, and, after some time of this, it finally seemed to dissolve altogether.  The light was blue now, and the rainbows were gone.  Daria slipped the quartz back into her pocket, deciding that she couldn't put it off any longer.  She would leave the shelter of the Great Tree, return to the Inn, and crochet until her sister screamed at her to turn off the lamp.

     Just as she was about to stand to leave, she caught something out of the corner of her eye.

     A subtle ripple in the blue of the twilight world.  A gliding violet shadow, headed towards the sea.  She almost dismissed it as a figment of her imagination, but as her eyes followed the shape, it began to define itself; the distinctive outline of a tall man, a banner of windblown obsidian, a flash of white gloves.

     It was none other than Lucas, quietly heading out as everyone else was heading in.

     ...And I think I know why!

     Hoping her hunch was correct, Daria watched him slip deeper into the blue shadows.  Once she was certain there was enough distance between them, she stood from the bench and began to silently follow, clutching the crystal in her pocket for reassurance or something like luck.  She watched Lucas step out of his shiny dress shoes and continue walking right to the water's edge, where the surf licked at his bare feet.

     (You idiot.  He's just cooling off.)

     She hid in the shadows of the palms, waiting for something to happen.  Lucas stood motionless on the shore for a few tense moments, then tilted his head toward the inky sky and threw his arms wide.

     Daria held her breath, eagerly awaiting his song.

     To call what happened next "singing" would do it poor justice indeed.  It was certainly a voice, and there was certainly a melody.  But where most voices traveled through air, this one seemed to travel through everything.  And it traveled with everything as well; rushing with the waves, flowing with the wind, twinkling with the stars that had begun to wink on in the blue velvet of the sky.

     Daria had never heard anything like it.

     It was everything she imagined and more.

     It poured into her ears and filled her skull like water, until her head was too heavy to hold.

     No!  I'm so light!

     And then everything went dark.

     (Hey, you did always say it would be worth it to die for art.)

     "...Hello there...  Um, pardon me, but I can't seem to recall your name...  Margaret's sister?"

     Daria blinked her eyes blearily.  The sky was black, the stars were in their full splendor, Lucas was hovering over her, and she almost certainly wasn't dead.  In fact, she felt violently alive, Lucas' haunting sea-song still playing in her mind.  She sat up so fast her head spun, laughing wildly as she grabbed Lucas by the shoulders.

     "...Wowzers!  That was incredible!"

     After the initial shock, Lucas took Daria's sudden invasion of his personal space in good humor, gently taking her hands and settling her back down on the sand.

     "I appreciate the sentiment.  But I should think I'd appreciate it even more if you'd explain this little incident to your sister."

     Her cheek rested on something soft yet solid; which she soon realized, from its rich violet hue in the moonlight, was Lucas' folded jacket.

     "Ah!  So that's why you won't sing with her."

     Even on this steamy night, he looked somewhat incomplete without it; the white of his shirt almost ghostly, his forearms tanned and sinewy in the gap between his rolled cuffs and jeweled gloves.  Lucas smiled apologetically, gazing out over the sea.

     "As I said.  My voice is a lot to endure."

     Though she still felt a bit giddy and drained, Daria was at least glad to finally know what he'd meant.

     "It's so gorgeous, though!  Seriously, it must be just the worst to have a voice like that and not be able to show it off!"

     Lucas shrugged, a little sadly.

     "As long as I can sing to myself now and then, I don't mind terribly much."

     Daria laughed as she watched the wind stir in his gleaming black hair.

     "And hey...  Even if it knocks you out, there's obviously still people who want to listen!"

     In fact, if she could know for sure that it didn't cause some kind of permanent damage, Daria wouldn't entirely mind collapsing again if it meant hearing more of that otherworldly music.

     But Lucas, it seemed, was done for the night; his voice seeming oddly delicate and soft after those resonant tones.

     "I suppose so...  Dahlia, was it?"

     In her mind's eye, she saw layers of petals and explosions of color; everything she had always wanted to be.

     "...Daria, actually.  And you're Lucas."

     This time, it was Daria's turn to extend her hand.  After a brief pause to scribble something in that little pad of his, Lucas took it gratefully and shook, seeming strangely comforted by the sound of his own name.

     "That I am...  Now tell me, was this a mission for your sister, or your own curiosity getting the better of you?"

     Daria pointedly held up a finger.

     "I'm on the artist's eternal search for inspiration!"

     Lucas nodded mildly.

     "Ah, that's right.  You're a painter."

     Daria sat up straight, speaking as though to remind herself of who she really was.

     "Painter, sculptor, occasional architect, rainbow visionary, and..."

     But the more she went on, the more ridiculous she felt, until her brag fizzled pitifully into the night air.

     "...And?"

     Lucas tilted his head inquisitively.  Daria sighed, feeling herself deflate.

     "...And I think I'm finally out of ideas."

     Concern flashed across Lucas' features, his golden eyes flickering in the starlight.

     "Oh?"

     Daria drew her knees up to her chest, watching the waves roll on and trying to imagine what they'd look like painted in rainbows.

     "I hoped coming here would shake something up, y'know?"

     Lucas shrugged agreeably.

     "A change of scenery often does.  When Terry isn't sure what to draw, I like to take him out for a nice stroll."

     Of course it was that easy for Terry, who didn't depend on the fickleness of dreams to find worthy subjects.

     "I've been strolling for the past two days."

     Lucas picked up a handful of sand, watching intently as it drifted through his gloved fingers.

     "And nothing?"

     The colorless void yawned open in Daria's head, the music already trickling from it like so much sand.

     "No.  Not yet."

     After a quick pause to dust off his gloves, Lucas gave Daria's shoulder a comforting pat.

     "Well.  I will be thinking of you."

     (If nothing else, I guess I have a God on my side!)

     "Actually..."

     Lucas looked slightly confused.  He really was awfully spacey and scattered for a God, but Daria had never known a God before.  Perhaps this was what they were like.

     "...Yes?"

     Daria grinned mischievously.  If he really was a God, perhaps he could grant her a boon.

     "Could you sing for me again?"

     Lucas firmly crossed his arms.
     "Absolutely not."

Chapter Text

      I can't seem to get a grip on anything.

     It started when I tried to drink a glass of water, only for the cup to slip through my fingers and shatter on the floor.

     I tried to clean it up, but I couldn't hold the dustpan.  I scooped up the broken glass in my bare hands, and it sliced through my numb fingers; numb, rubbery, slippery with blood.  The bones liquify and bend backwards.  My hands are so flexible that I can't even wash them.

     (I couldn't even pick up a pencil.)

     Then the curse—the sickness, whatever it is—begins to spread.

     I hold up my arm, seeing it bent in the middle at a nauseating angle.

     In a panic, I start slamming it on the kitchen counter.

     (Break it off before it overtakes me!)

     Terry woke with a gasp, bolting upright in bed and clutching at his arms.  The bones were straight and rigid.  He could probably—though part of him still feared to test it—hold on to anything he wanted.

     (For all the good that does.)

     With a sigh, he flopped back on the pillows, holding up his hand and watching it clench and unclench in the gloom.  He hadn't glanced at the clock yet, but he could tell it was early.  Too early; the light under the curtains still weak and blue, the heat not yet quite so oppressive, the birds only just beginning to sing.

     He buried his head beneath the pillow, hoping to quiet his nerves and catch a few more hours of sleep.

     Just a shitty dream.  You're okay.

     As he exhaled the worst of his anxiety, he felt a gentle stirring behind him.

     "...Hmm?"

     Terry sighed, willing his mind to go blank.

     "Nothin'.  Go back to sleep, Lucas."

     For a moment, the room was silent, and Terry thought Lucas had heeded his request.  But then he felt the light brush of a gentle hand, running up and down his curled spine.

     "...Are you all right, love?"

     Terry crossed his arms tightly, freeing his head from the dank heat that had gathered under the pillow and curling in on himself even more.

     "Fine."

     Lucas gently smoothed his sweaty hair, brushing it back and tucking it behind his ears.

     "Pardon me for eavesdropping...  But you just had an awful dream."

     The operative word, of course, being "had."  The dream had ended, and where was it now?  Nowhere Terry could see.  It was behind him.  It had never existed in the first place.

     "...You know they aren't real, right?"

     Lucas—who stood at all times with one foot in the ethereal—seemed less than convinced of this.

     "I know you have bad ones more often when you're feeling troubled."

     And when I eat cheese before bed, when I read weird books, when I hit the pillow wrong, when the stars line up funny or some shit for all I know.

     "I have 'em for all kinds of reasons.  Usually none."

     He should know this by now.

     "Well, yes...  But you can't deny that something has been wrong."

     The light had begun to lift from blue to white, and Terry was thoroughly tired of this conversation.

     "Yes I can.  Go to sleep."

     Lucas' hand wound deeper into Terry's hair, cradling his skull in a way that somehow felt comforting and threatening at the same time.

     "I only wish to help."

     Unable to stand it anymore, Terry sat up, shaking off his lover's embrace.

     "Lucas...  Hands off for now, okay?"

     Gentleman that he was, Lucas immediately complied; withdrawing his hands, clasping them together tidily, backing away from Terry on the bed.

     "I wasn't trying-"

     Terry put another shred of distance between them, inching to the very edge of the bed and drawing his knees up to his chest.

     "I didn't say you were.  But it'll happen anyway, and I just want a little privacy right now."

     He glanced back at Lucas, who nodded sadly and turned to face the wall.

     "Very well."

     Terry flopped onto his back, letting the weight of it all bear down on his ribcage.  The room was quiet again, but he found that the drowsiness had all but left him.  He stared up at the ceiling, watching traces of gold beginning to seep into the silvery morning light.

     Whether he was ready or not, the day had begun.

     Better start it right, eh?

     "...Sorry."

     Lucas faced the ceiling as well, hands still neatly clasped.

     "You've done nothing wrong."

     Terry shrugged.

     "I know.  Coulda been a little nicer about it, though."

     Though he quickly realized what he was doing and stopped himself, Lucas had begun to reach out for Terry, so clearly wanting to hold him.

     "You're not feeling your best, and I forgive you."

     And Terry—in spite of it all—so badly wanted to be held.

     "Still."

     He leaned his head against Lucas' well-formed shoulder.  Lucas nearly reached for him again, letting his arm hover shyly.

     "...Is it okay?"

     Terry nodded once.

     "Yeah.  Go ahead."

     Lucas gently gathered Terry in his arms, resting his chin on the crown of his head.

     "I understand if you don't want to talk, but you need to know I am here if you do.  I'm always interested in what you've been thinking."

     Terry sighed as he relaxed into the embrace.  Lucas already knew he was in a foul mood.  There was nothing to be lost.

     "I know.  It's just stupid.  I'll get over it."

     With a small amused laugh, Lucas pressed a reassuring kiss to Terry's forehead.

     "Well, then perhaps you'll get over it faster if I can agree with you about how stupid it is?"

     Terry laughed as well, joining the birds outside in their merry dawn chorus.

     "Hmm...  When you put it that way..."

     Lucas held him tighter, a strong hand comfortingly cradling the back of his neck.

     "As I said.  I am here."

     Out with it, I guess.

     Feeling more foolish than ever, Terry mumbled into Lucas' chest.

     "I don't think I like my drawings much."

     Lucas drew back slightly, cupping Terry's face in both hands as he regarded him with disbelief.

     "No insult to your intelligence intended, but that is stupid!  Who wouldn't love your drawings!?"

     Terry felt himself blush.

     "Me, I guess.  They're boring."

     Lucas kissed both his cheeks, seemingly drawn to the pink like a hummingbird.

     "My darling, they're fascinating!  I could look at them forever!  I could watch you work at them forever!"

     It was nice to hear, but Terry recalled him saying something similar about the dead petals drifting down the gutter during a rainstorm back in spring.

     "Oh, you could look at anything forever...  That's why I love ya, cutie.  It's just...  I sometimes wish I was a real artist, y'know?"

     Lucas looked genuinely perplexed.

     "Whatever else would you call it?"

     Some jerk with too much free time.  A detective who can't even find a decent case.

     "A crappy slow camera?  I dunno...  Daria's probably right.  If you're not creating something impossible, there isn't much point to it."

     The merry sparkle that had lit Lucas' eyes as he gushed about Terry's drawings softened to something almost sad as his arms wrapped around Terry's body once more, lovingly pulling him close.

     "Is that what's...  Oh, dearheart.  She needs to take more care with how she phrases things, but I think she was only trying to say that you're artists for different reasons.  And that you have different talents...  You all do.  It's part of why you're all so interesting."

     Somehow, hearing all this from someone who seemed to love everyone and everything was more comforting, not less.  Lucas was highly attuned to the beauty and value in things, and he didn't even seem to know how to lie.

     Even aside from the peculiar power of his hands, there was no real point in keeping things from him.

     "It's...  Maybe half a talent at best.  All the good stuff is missing."

     Lucas regarded him again, as though he could locate the doubt behind his eyes and deftly pluck it out like a thorn.

     "Do you really think all you do is copy things?"

     The piercing gold of that gaze had become a bit much to bear, so Terry blinked and averted his eyes.

     "Uh...  Yeah?"

     Lucas grasped Terry passionately, kissing his cheeks again and raking his hands through the disheveled waves of his hair.

     "That's balderdash!  Terry...  You express the true essence of everything you see!  Why, I sometimes feel like I never really got a look at the world before I saw it in your drawings...  Even this very body...  What you do is so precious.  It's a feat beyond even me, and I am-"

     Terry laughed, trying to match Lucas kiss-for-kiss but quickly falling behind.

     "...I know, I know.  You're a God."

     Finally, Lucas kissed him lingeringly on the mouth, then pulled back with a wry smirk.

     "So heed my words, Mortal."

     Terry blushed again, the heat now spreading through his entire body.

     "I'll try."

     All too abruptly, Lucas sat up, stretching the complicated muscles of his shoulders and back.

     "Now...  How about some breakfast?"

     Terry, of course, wanted many things.  But some food did seem like an acceptable start.

     "Sounds good."

     Lucas rolled easily out of bed, hovering over Terry and kissing his forehead one more time as he went.

     "Pancakes?"

     Terry pushed himself up from the mattress, grabbing his glasses from the nightstand and eyeing Lucas skeptically.

     "...Do you even know how to make pancakes?"

     Once Lucas saw that Terry's sensitive eyes were well-protected, he threw open the curtains with a smile, letting the morning light pour into the room.

     "I have been meaning to learn."

     The day's adventures, it seemed, had already begun.

     Time had been on Margaret's mind lately.

     This, of course, wasn't exactly unusual.  She was of a people who had been blessed with an embarrassment of time, and thus many years to ponder, and equally many years to spend pondering.  What's more, Margaret was of a particularly sentimental disposition, given to reflection and an almost mawkish nostalgia.

     But even she had to admit it was becoming a little excessive.

     There was the expected marked uptick around Arthur's birthday; teary expressions of love and gratitude as they lay in the bed they had shared for half a century, the telling and retelling of funny old stories, the midnight self-reassurances that most of his aunts and uncles had lived well into their nineties in relative good health.

     But even after she set off for her summer tour, the clock never quieted.

     In fact, its ticking had become more relentless than ever.

     And, since dining with Lucas and Terry, then taking in Lucas' show in the plaza, it was almost deafening.

     He was the only person she had ever met who would almost certainly live a longer life than even her own, and the thought was almost nauseating to contemplate; all those years stacking up in a tottering spire, that ever-ticking clock.  Outliving not only everyone he'd ever loved but every hill he'd ever climbed, every street he'd ever walked, every stone he'd ever skipped.

     Perhaps even the stars.  Perhaps even the Earth itself.

     Maybe one day, it'll only be him.

     But when that day came, perhaps Lucas would be grateful for the peace and quiet.

     "I hear there's some huge skeleton around here.  Think you could take me, Meggy?"

     Even at the end, it'll always be us.

     "Go take yourself."

     Normally, that thought comforted her.  When everyone else had fallen away, there would still be Daria, colorful and laughing even in the fullness of time.

     "I don't have my hammer!"

     But ever since she'd arrived in Rigbarth, Daria had been testing Margaret's patience, with her noise and questions and constant moping, her jam roll crumbs and late-night crochet marathons.  And now that Margaret had woken up in a deep sulk of her own, her strange new attitude was all the more unbearable.

     "And whose fault is that?"

     Daria glared at Margaret over her yarn and hook.

     "I came here looking for things to paint, not things to smash!"

     Margaret listlessly tightened the strings of her harp.

     "Didn't you used to paint with your hammer?"

     Daria turned her work, pausing for a crumbly bite of her now-slightly-stale jam roll.

     "In my own studio space, yeah.  You need somewhere you can really make a mess if you're gonna paint with a hammer!"

     As she plucked a few notes on the newly-taut strings, Margaret couldn't help mumbling under her breath.

     "...Then why didn't you just stay there?"

     Daria groaned theatrically, flopping face-down into her growing project.

     "Because I need inspiration, Meggy!"

     Margaret almost immediately regretted what she had said, but soon found that she didn't care.  She had slept poorly, Cecil had woken them up at the crack of dawn to interrogate Daria about the now-infamous missing melon, and the ticking clock in her head had made her mean.

     "...If it's so inspiring here, why haven't you made anything besides those stupid hats!?"

     Daria pointed accusingly with her hook.

     "I don't know!  Why do you keep playing those same five notes!?  It's driving me insane!"

     Margaret played them again, deadpan and pointedly off-key.

     "Why don't you go steal another melon or something!?"

     Daria jabbed violently at her project, then turned her work again with an angry flourish.

     "Because that weird kid came knocking on your door at six in the morning, remember!?"

     Margaret played those five loathsome notes again, now beginning to hate them herself.

     "He's a detective, and you're a criminal!"

     That, at least, was enough to shut Daria up until she could stammer out a reply.

     "What, now you don't want me to go steal a melon!?"

     In truth, Margaret didn't know what she wanted.  All she knew was that she couldn't stand it when their fights got to this point; both ranting incoherently, neither sure which side they were on anymore.  It took her right back to childhood, made her wish their father would barge into her room and patiently settle them down the way he always did.

     "...I want you to go do whatever you need to do, so I can hear myself think!  I don't know what's been going on with you lately, but you'd better sort it out!"

     But the sisters were grown, and indeed had been so for decades upon decades.  No one was coming to save them, so the fight would smolder on like wet wood; sputtering, crackling, spewing smoke.

     "Jeez, Meggy, why the hell do you think I'm here?"

     Daria's belligerence was now shot through with genuine hurt, but Margaret was too wound-up to care.

     "Because you must think you can just push every one of my buttons until inspiration falls out!"

     Margaret plucked at her harp again, hands so shaky and wild that she played a different set of notes all together.

     Daria merely blinked in confusion.

     "...Who else's buttons am I supposed to push?"

     At this point, Margaret was only keeping hold of her harp so she wouldn't start ripping her hair out at the roots.

     "Your own!  Gods...  You're the most inspired person I've ever met.  I don't know what this rut you're in is, but you're going to get out of it.  This isn't you, Dars."

     Daria stood from her futon, ball of yarn trailing behind her.

     "What, I'm supposed to be all rainbows and maple trees all the time!?  Supposed to pull you out of your funk when you're crying in your room because you just realized someone got old!?"

     Those words stung Margaret to the core, but hell if she was going to show it and let Daria win.

     "...You're supposed to go find something to do besides bothering me all the time!"

     Daria let out what could only be called a growl, hastily gathering her yarn and hook.

     "Fine!  Nothing's happening here anyway!"

     Then she slammed out of the room, leaving Margaret alone to absorb, for the millionth time, the fact that there were no winners in these things.

     (At the end, you may well be alone.)

     Margaret took a deep breath, picked up her harp again, and played those five sick notes, wincing as a string snapped under her finger.

      Lucas hastily scrawled a terse note—"returning shortly"—and taped it to the Crystalabra's door.  Heinz enjoyed wandering the village and socializing in the afternoon, which often left Lucas to take his midday break behind the counter so someone would at least be watching the store.  Typically, this served him just fine; he would eat the cheese sandwich Terry had made for him as he caught up on his note-taking, did a little reading, or simply let his mind wander.

     Today, however, he was determined to have a word with Daria.

     At first, he wasn't quite sure where to find her.  Checking the Blue Moon, where she was staying with her sister, would be obvious, but she didn't seem to spend a lot of time indoors.  Rather like Heinz—and himself, for that matter—she preferred to wander the village all day, watching all the mundane goings-on and peering in on people just to see what they were doing.

     The Blue Moon, the beach, the Plaza, Lackadaisy, the farm...

     ...The woodpile next to Studio Palmo, where she sat perched atop the logs like a yellow canary, bright as a drooping daffodil.  He squinted for a moment, missing his glasses and making sure it wasn't actually Margaret he was looking at.  Once he was sure he had the right sister, Lucas trudged up the grassy hill, waving awkwardly to get her attention.

     "Good afternoon, Daria!"

     Up close, she seemed even more disheveled than usual; hair fluffy and scattered beneath her feathered cap, cursing under her breath as her ball of rich violet yarn snagged on the splintery logs.

     She grumbled her greeting half-heartedly, eyes never leaving her hook.

     "Afternoon."

     Lucas couldn't be sure, but she looked almost as though she'd been crying, and had likely been having some troubles of her own.

     Perhaps you can set those right as well?

     "How goes the search for inspiration?"

     Daria sniffed, plucking her yarn from the splinters again.

     "How do you think?"

     Hoping he wasn't imposing, Lucas took his own seat on the logs, picking up the ball of yarn and cradling it carefully in his cupped palms.

     "Nothing yet?"

     With the yarn flowing more smoothly now, Daria began crocheting faster, falling into an incredible rhythm.

     "Nope."

     Her work was almost hypnotic, and Lucas had to fight not to lose himself in the motion.  It would have recalled dim memories of some factories he had seen in the old Empire, but for something fascinating he had read.

     "They say there will never be a machine that does what you're doing, you know."

     Daria perked up slightly.

     "Oh yeah?"

     Lucas nodded, watching as the vivid yarn twisted on itself.

     "From what I've read, yes."

     At long last, Daria's bold smile had returned in all its glory.

     "Hey, that's pretty interesting!"

     Pray that what I must soon say does not dim its light.

     For now, however, Lucas figured it wouldn't hurt to simply talk as friends just a little bit longer.

     "I've found that there's much in this world that only an artist's hands can do."

     Daria sighed, her hands barely slowing as she turned her work and began another row.

     "Well, I'm not much of an artist lately."

     Lucas shook his head, watching the ball of yarn roll in his hands as it slowly unwound.

     "Nonsense!  Once an artist, always an artist."

     He looked up to see Daria smiling again; a playful sharp-toothed smirk.

     "Heh.  I guess you'd know."

     If there was a joke, Lucas didn't quite get it, but he was nothing if not eager to understand.

     "Pardon?"

     Daria gently nudged him with a pointy elbow.

     "You've got a thing for artists, huh?  With that drawing detective of yours or whatever."

     Lucas felt his blood run hot, his tongue growing dry and clumsy.  There was, of course, only one artist who had captured his heart, but the intensity of those emotions was a bit much for even a God to apprehend.

     "Oh, I...  I simply admire them...  Well, you, I suppose...  You are mortal, yet you create wonders I can only dream of.  I enjoy witnessing the process."

     Clearly amused by Lucas' lovestruck stammering, Daria waited for him to exhaust herself before raising her finger in a jovial mock-scold.

     "If you think flattery will get you anywhere...  You're damn right!  If I'm still here when I get out of this slump, you can watch me all you want."

     Lucas nodded with a laugh, feeling good-humored and warm despite the rapid turn the conversation was about to take.

     "I shall look forward to it.  And speaking of Terry..."

     Sensing the change in the air, Daria's expression turned slightly somber, the hook finally still in her hand.

     "...Yeah?"

     Best to get it over with.

     "Daria...  I do not believe you are an unkind person."

     Daria rolled her eyes.

     "Go talk to Meggy, then.  She'll change your mind on that pretty fast."

     Suddenly, Daria's slightly teary countenance made a lot more sense.  But whatever had transpired between the sisters, it was theirs to sort out.  Lucas was the wrong kind of miracle worker, and was unsure of his ability to handle even the problem he had come to solve.

     "I have spoken to your sister on occasion.  And I believe you two are much the same.  Neither of you have given me a reason to think you act in bad faith.  It's just..."

     Daria groaned, angrily jabbing her hook at her project again.

     "...By the blessed stars, just say it already!"

     Lucas took a deep breath to collect himself, carefully gathering his words.

     "You both seem to have trouble with thinking before you act.  Margaret is a bit too free with her hands, and you are perhaps a bit too free with your tongue.  I'm unsure whether you can help it, so forgive me if I've overstepped."

     She took his comments entirely in stride, with a halfhearted shrug.

     "I won't argue with you there."

     For a Mortal, Daria seemed quite straightforward and self-aware.  Perhaps this would be easier than Lucas had assumed.

     "You see...  I don't know if you remember, but one of the things you said over dinner the other night seems to have...  Gotten to Terry a bit."

     Daria propped her chin in her hand, her eyes taking on a far-away look as she recalled that evening's many conversations and gnawed thoughtfully on the end of her hook.

     "The thing where I didn't know which of you was which?"

     Lucas locked eyes with her, hoping she understood how serious this matter really was.

     "The thing where you said realism doesn't have much point."

     After a few moments of heavy silence, Daria burst out laughing.

     "...That!?  I just meant that I make art so I can look at all kinds of things I'm never gonna see anywhere else!  I don't know why Terry makes art, but I'm sure whatever he does has a huge point for him!  Else he wouldn't do it, right?"

     Seriousness, it seemed, would be a bit much to ask.  But Lucas decided that sincerity would do just as well.

     "Right...  Perhaps you could take everything you just said to me and say it to him?  I think it would make him feel a lot better."

     Daria nodded agreeably, pausing to break her yarn with her teeth.

     "Of course!  Next time I see him, I'll be sure to!"

     Lucas handed her the yarn ball, noting with fascination that it had shrunk considerably.

     "Might the three of us get together this evening, if you aren't too busy with your search?"

     Daria slipped the ball and the broad strip she'd just completed into her battered, rainbow-patched shoulder bag.

     "Oh, hell with the search!  It's not even going anywhere."

     By now, Lucas had to acknowledge that, in spite of her troublesome nature, he had taken quite a liking to Daria.  He found himself feeling expansive and generous, a slightly mischievous smile quirking his mouth.

     "You know...  If you set things right with Terry, I might be able to help you."

     Daria raised one inquisitive golden brow.

     "Might?"

     Lucas nodded once, still smiling.

     "I will."

     She elbowed him again, hopping down from the woodpile and straightening her bag.

     "No take-backs!"

     Lucas graciously placed his hand over his heart, relishing the thrill that still shivered through him when he felt its steady beat.

     "A God never goes back on his word."

     Daria waved cheerfully as she loped down the hill.

     "I'm gonna hold you to that!"

     Lucas called out to her, cupping his gloved hands around his mouth.

     "I'd expect nothing less!"

     Then he leaned back against the wall of the studio and watched Daria walk away, flaxen hair gleaming in the afternoon sun.

     ...Afternoon!?

     Lucas leapt down from the woodpile, running back to the Crystalabra as fast as his shiny shoes would carry him.

     Daria paused on the bridge, taking a moment to watch the sluggish silty river wind its way to the sea.

     Nope.  Nothing.

     With a sigh, she gripped the strap of her shoulder bag and continued on her way to the Detective Agency; unsure if she was feeling genuinely contrite or merely silly, torn between amusement and resentment at the situation in which she had found herself.

     Next thing you know, Meg's gonna force me to make amends for the damn melon.

     In spite of it all, the memory still made her smile.  The thrill of the theft, the satisfying crack of the fruit being opened, that blush-pink sweetness.

     Maybe I could paint something?

     But that, of course, would have to wait.  Daria trotted up the steps to the agency and knocked on the door; oddly excited to meet Terry again, curious as always about what would happen next.

     "Hey!"

     It was Lucas who answered the door; an unfamiliar pair of glasses perched on his nose, incomplete in his shirtsleeves again, lacking even his gloves.

     "Good evening, Daria.  We've been expecting you."

     He smiled warmly, extending his bare hand out of habit.  Remembering what Margaret had told her about those gloves and why Lucas wore them, Daria snatched it and shook before he could realize his error.

     "...But so unprepared!"

     Lucas let go of Daria's hand and stepped back shyly.

     "Oh dear...  My apologies."

     Daria smirked.

     "No worries!  We're on the same page about everything as far as I know, so a few loose thoughts shouldn't be a problem."

     Even so, he hurriedly slipped on his gloves after that, sticking his hands in his pockets for good measure.

     "They're...  Quite colorful."

     It hearted her to know that, slump or not, she was still herself.

     "Thank you!"

     Lucas led her to the kitchen, popping his head around the doorframe.

     "Oh mon chéri!  Our guest is here!"

     Terry was already sitting at the kitchen table, reading a well-thumbed novel.

     "Yeah?  Bring 'er in!"

     Daria plopped into the first empty seat she saw.

     "Hi!  How's your day been?"

     Terry looked Daria up and down, tilting his head thoughtfully.

     "Huh.  That's Cecil's chair."

     Nothing in his tone indicated that she shouldn't sit there.  It was a simple observation, and even Terry didn't seem to know exactly what it meant.  Daria decided that she liked this game, and that this was as good a time as any to present the braided loaf she had picked up at the bakery on the way over.

     "I got you a little peace offering."

     Terry examined the bread's glossy surface and springy texture, clearly pleased.

     "Wasn't aware we were at war."

     Daria sighed heavily.

     "Well, not war...  But I know I said something dumb."

     Terry gestured towards the refrigerator, then furrowed his brow at Daria in concern.

     "Lucas, go get the butter and jam...  Oh yeah?"

     Daria tried not to laugh at the sight of a supposed divine being rummaging around in this untidy bachelors' kitchen.

     "Yeah.  I didn't know how I was coming across, I guess."

     Lucas retrieved the butter and jam, then sat down at the table and began sawing away at the bread with a serrated knife.

     "I know your sis likes jammy things, so you probably do too, right?  Anyway, I wouldn't worry about it...  Gods know, I've said some outta pocket shit in my time."

     Daria snatched the heel as soon as it was sliced, slathering it thickly with butter and jam.

     "...Ooh, I do indeed!  But still.  Lucas says you've been down on yourself since what I said at dinner the other night."

     Terry picked up a slice of his own, carefully spreading jam all the way to the edge.

     "Sorry we only have apple..."

     Having sliced about half the loaf, Lucas put an arm around Terry, pulling him in affectionately and kissing him on the cheek.

     "...He doesn't care for all the seeds in strawberry..."

     Terry briskly returned the kiss, preparing another slice of bread and handing it to Lucas.

     "...And grape tastes like medicine.  Anyway, if you're beatin' yourself up about that realistic art thing, you can stop.  I know you didn't mean anything bad.  I just get in my head about little shit, and that's on me."

     Daria took another fluffy bite of bread.

     "What about marmalade?"

     Terry wrinkled his nose in disgust.

     "Orange peels ain't food."

     Once again, Daria was suddenly homesick as she imagined fragrant pots of sugar and oranges boiling down on her sticky stove.

     "I'll eat yours for you...  So you're really okay?"

     Terry wound a gangly arm around his lover's waist.

     "Lucas here gave me a pretty great pep talk this morning.  All's well."

     His smile was beautifully genuine, and Daria felt herself unclench.

     "...Good!  I would have been sad if you thought I hated you or something...  The truth is...  Well, I don't know you well, but I think you're really cool!  You both are!"

     Terry smirked slightly.

     "You don't say?"

     Daria nodded as she popped the last bite of bread into her mouth and began rooting around in her bag.

     "Yeah!  Actually...  Here!  I made you something, and I never make things for people I don't like."

     In the hours since the conversation at the woodpile, the iris-purple rectangle of wool she had created had been stitched into—of course—a hat, its corners pinched into a pair of foxlike ears.  She handed it to Lucas, who examined it with undisguised fascination.

     "How amusing!"

     Daria reached into her bag again, pulling out the hat she'd made after breakfast; identical in form to Lucas', but made of a bold variegated rainbow yarn.

     "...And I don't have any yarn in your colors, so I just used my favorite for yours!"

     Terry took it eagerly, immediately jamming it over his unruly hair and turning to Lucas with a grin.

     "Get a load of me, eh?"

     Lucas put on his own hat, taking great care to make sure the ears were straight.

     "And me as well."

     His seriousness made Terry laugh as he unconsciously fiddled with his own woolen ears.

     "Ain't we a pair?"

     Daria beamed at the sweet sight of them.

     "I'll say!"

    For an exhilarating split-second, she felt as though she finally might be able to paint again.

Chapter Text

     "Good morning, dear one."

     Unsure if he was awake or dreaming, Terry buried his face in the pillow.

     "Mmm..."

     Just as he was about to sink back into sleep, he felt Lucas jostling his shoulder with a warm, bare hand.

     "Come now...  Rise and shine!"

     Terry cracked one eye open, regarding Lucas through a sleep-scum haze.

     "Jeez...  Whaddiya want?"

     Lucas sat down on the bed, gently setting a plate on top of the blankets.

     "I thought you might like to accompany me to Seaside Hill and watch the sunrise."

     Terry caught a subtle whiff of something good, and decided he was too curious to go back to sleep.  Upon fully opening his eyes, he was met with two thick slices of yesterday's bread, toasted golden brown and glistening with melted butter.  He yawned, stretched, and delicately brought one of the slices to his mouth, chewing carefully as he slowly remembered how his body worked.

     "...What did I ever do to make you think I'd wanna leave the house before ten?"

     Lucas shrugged, picking up his own slice of toast.

     "Nothing."

     Though Lucas was far and away the healthiest person he had ever met—owing, of course, to the fact that he wasn't really a person as such—Terry couldn't help but wonder if he was feeling all right.

     "...And?"

     But, from the zeal with which he bit into his toast, and the energy sparkling in his golden eyes, it was obvious that he was hale and hearty as ever.

     "Well, that's the idea, isn't it?  A little break in routine can be refreshing."

     Terry yawned again, slumping down on the pillows as he lazily munched his toast.

     "Sleepin' in is pretty refreshing too, you know."

     Lucas finished his toast in just a few more bites, then picked up the glasses from the nightstand and gently slipped them onto Terry's face as he opened the curtains, letting in the dim red sun.

     "Then we shall sleep in tomorrow.  Come now!  Before the colors fade!"

     Terry carefully readjusted his glasses, ate the last of his own toast, and swung up to sit on the edge of the bed.

     "Okay, okay...  Man.  The hell's gotten into you today?"

     Lucas took Terry's hand and helped him to his feet.

     "Nothing's gotten in.  If anything, I am letting it out."

     Terry laughed as he wrapped his arms around Lucas, resting his head on his shoulder.

     "...You're a real trip, you know."

     Then he filled his mind with everything he loved about him, every sweet endearment he had ever forgotten to say, every happy memory they had made so far.  He swirled these thoughts in his mind, let them breathe, and carefully pinned them in place.

     (You know I ain't so good with words, cutie.)

     Just as his skull felt fit to burst, Terry pulled back and kissed Lucas on the mouth; gentle at first, then desperately passionate.  He deftly parted his lips with his tongue and began thoroughly exploring his mouth, straining a bit to hold all those thoughts and feelings in his mind as he cradled Lucas' jaw in both hands, ensuring maximum contact.

     When they finally separated, Lucas took a step back and brushed his lips with his fingertips, as though feeling for something that had just slithered inside of him.  Then he smiled wryly, his cheeks beginning to color.

     "...Do you mean that, mon chéri?"

     Terry laughed as he caught his breath.

     "Oh yeah."

     Still smiling, Lucas placed a firm hand on Terry's shoulder.

     "I am honored.  Now get dressed."

     Though what he really wanted to do was lean in and do it all again, Terry nodded with a grin.

     "Right.  The colors."

     Lucas called after him as he scurried around picking up the clothing he'd dropped to the floor the previous night.

     "They won't last forever!"

     Terry shrugged on his rumpled white button-down, fastening three of the buttons and calling it good.

     "You would know, wouldn't you?"

     Lucas watched him step into his threadbare pants, looking suddenly wistful.

     "I suppose so."

     Finally, Terry slipped on his boots.  His hair still hung loose around his shoulders, but he figured he could fix that on the way.

     "Then let's get goin'."

     Terry let Lucas take his hand and lead him out of the detective agency and into the brilliant fiery dawn.  The sun had just barely begun to crest over the ocean, and the light was pink-orange and soft; like a peach, or one of Daria's vivid yarns, unlike the hard white glare that would swallow the village by noon.  The sky was a calm pale violet, and the last stars still winked at the top of its inky dome.

     None of this would last.

     Hand-in-hand, the pair made their way to the little hill by the water, where they had spent so many starry nights and lazy afternoons.  Lucas carefully helped Terry up the slope, then settled down in the dewy grass.

     "...Better than your dreams?"

     Terry took his place next to Lucas, contentedly leaning against him.

     "Most of 'em, yeah."

     Lucas pointed towards the burning horizon.

     "And look at those clouds over there...  That's something we haven't seen in a while."

     They were sinuous and wispy, circling the sun like friendly pink sylphs.  In an hour, maybe two, they would be burned away and gone, giving way once more to unbroken relentless blue.

     "Tell me about it."

     Lucas leaned forward as though he could breathe them in, propping his elbows on his crossed legs.

     "Now really look at them...  Look at those fascinating shapes, and the reflections on the waves."

     Terry took in the view, until it became difficult to tell where the sky ended and the water began.

     "You can lose yourself in it, huh?"

     Lucas glanced back at Terry, his smile giddy yet secretive.

     "It makes you want to draw, no?"

     Terry sighed, his eyes tracing the graceful shapes formed by the water and air, his hands longing to follow them.

     "Yeah.  Too bad I didn't have time to grab my stuff."

     Suddenly, Lucas whipped a pen out of his pocket and handed it to Terry.

     "Here."

     Reminded anew that Lucas' mind was still something of a mystery to him, Terry took the pen and turned it in his hands, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do with it.

     "Oh...  But I don't have anyth-"

     Lucas smiled seductively as he slipped his arms from his coat.

     "I recall us solving this very problem before."

     Terry watched as he folded it and set it aside, then began unbuttoning his shirt.  As the memories of cave dreams and rushing water began flowing in, he couldn't help but laugh.

     How long has he been planning this?

     "Lucas...  You do know dreams aren't real, right?"

     Finally, Lucas spread out languidly before him; lazing comfortably on his back with his hands folded behind his head, the muscle that rippled under his skin already recalling the elegant shapes of clouds and waves.

     "Not as real as some things, no.  But they are a great source of insight and inspiration, are they not?"

     Terry tied back his hair and uncapped the pen, unable to resist running a hand over his lover's mesmerizing body.  His pristine, smooth new canvas.

     "Heh.  Guess so."

     He gently pressed the pen to the soft skin just above the waistband of Lucas' fine black slacks, and began to draw.

     Margaret puttered around the room, cleaning up after her and Daria's late breakfast.  After a long and surly night spent on opposite sides of the room, the sisters had patched things up that morning over a pot of tea and the last of the jam rolls, much as they had many times in the past.

     We always work it out, don't we?

     What's more, to Margaret's relief, Daria even seemed to be in good spirits again, and was eager to tell her all about the evening she'd spent with Terry and Lucas; snacking on bread from the bakery, amusing themselves well into the night with a game where each would secretly draw part of a creature on a scrap of paper, then put them all together so they could marvel and exclaim over what they had created.

     So why can't I cheer up?

     Though things finally seemed to be going well again, Margaret still found herself tortured by the ticking clock in her head.

     As she leaned against the counter and gazed out the window at the dry grass, all she could think was that soon it would be autumn.  The white-hot sun dimming, the turf and dust buried under a blanket of fallen leaves.  Then winter would come, and then spring, and then summer again; summer after summer, old friend after old friend falling away, she and her sister suspended in a profane stretched-out youth.

     Maybe you should try talking to someone who understands?

     Her first thought was Daria.  But, as usual, she hadn't the first idea of her sister's whereabouts.

     And besides, Margaret wasn't entirely sure that she did understand.

     But there's someone else who might, isn't there?

     Feeling slightly foolish for what she was about to do, Margaret tucked the mugs into the small cabinet, stepped into her slippers, left her room and the inn itself, then walked out into the ephemeral summer sun.

     Through the thin soles of her shoes, she could feel the grass crumble as she approached the Crystalabra.

     Hands trembling more than she'd anticipated, she cautiously opened the door and stepped inside.

     "Lucas...?"

     As expected, there he was; a God eating the crust of a sandwich, flipping through the pages of a thick book with his free hand.

     "...Yes?  How may I help you today?"

     Though she'd been hoping that he'd be on his break and have time to talk, Margaret felt suddenly guilty for interrupting his rest.

     "If this isn't a good time, I-"

     Lucas smiled at her, then ate his last bite of bread crust and marked his place in the book with a bit of scratch paper.

     "No, it's a fine time...  Is there anything I can help you with, or are you just admiring our treasures again?"

     Margaret sighed, lifting her eyes from the floor to meet Lucas' bewitching golden gaze.

     "Actually...  I kind of wanted to talk to you."

     He leaned forward curiously on the counter, blinking once and breaking the spell.

     "Oh?"

     Averting her eyes again, Margaret crossed her arms protectively around her ribs, as though supporting her heavy heart.

     "It...  Might be a little personal..."

     Lucas's piercing gaze softened as he nodded understandingly, slowly rising from his seat behind the counter and motioning for Margaret to follow him to the stairs.

     "Then come.  Let us speak in private."

     Margaret went as far as the top step before hesitating.

     "Is it all right...?"

     Lucas turned to smile at Margaret as he descended.

     "I do believe Heinz wishes I would treat his quarters as a social club more often."

     The stairs creaked subtly under her delicate slippers as she slowly followed him down.

     "If you say so..."

     The cozy stone cellar was furnished simply, with a bed and some shelves and a small table.  Lucas politely pulled out a chair and plunked down in the opposite one, propping his elbows on the table and smiling again to put Margaret at ease.

     "Now...  What seems to be the trouble?"

     Margaret slumped down at the table, burying her face in her crossed arms.

     "...I don't even know where to start..."

     Lucas didn't seem to, either, and sat confused and motionless for longer than either of them might have liked.  Eventually, he simply slumped down to her level.

     "Take your time."

     With a deep, quivering breath, Margaret began.

     "...My husband turns eighty next year."

     Lucas smiled warmly.

     "He's Human, I recall?  That is quite the milestone for him."

     Margaret nodded solemnly.

     "Yeah.  Eighty...  Was a while back for me."

     Lucas tilted his head inquisitively, dark hair slipping down his shoulder like pitch.

     "Oh?  How old are you, then?"

     Margaret huffed irritably.  That wasn't his business, wasn't the point, and she had long ago passed a threshold where giving a number to the years only made her dizzy.

     "Don't ask a lady her age, Lucas!"

     Lucas held up his gloved hands in surrender, seemingly stifling a laugh.

     "...My mistake.  I apologize."

     Margaret sighed, propping her chin in her hands.

     "No, it's okay...  All you need to know is that I'm not old yet.  I won't be for a while."

     Lucas nodded again; a slight, sad smile on his own oddly timeless face.

     "I see."

     Once again, Margaret met his gaze.

     "...You don't age, do you?"

     He paused for a moment, as though he wasn't quite sure himself.

     "...I don't think so, but there's much I don't remember.  Who's to say I haven't tried it now and then?"

     In all honesty, it was as cryptic an answer as she'd been expecting.  Margaret slumped over the table again, resting her head on her arms.

     "Forgive me if I'm being blunt, but how do you stand it?  If I was your age, I think I'd miss so many people that I'd just curl up and die of that."

     The sadness in Lucas' smile grew heavier, weighing his mouth into a pensive straight line.  The dim light seemed to be hitting him differently now, and Margaret swore she saw world-weary lines tracing the smooth bronze skin around his eyes.

     "Well...  You have to keep in mind that I lost a lot of my old memories.  I wish I could grieve for all the people I've known.  Or even just remember them.  I'm sure they were so dear to me, and so fascinating.  It pains me to think that I don't even know what I've lost."

     Margaret's brow furrowed as she strained to understand.

     "I can't tell if you're saying you moved on, or saying...  I don't know.  The complete opposite of that."

     Lucas shrugged.

     "I'm saying I let a bolt of lightning hit me in hope of remembering."

     He said this in the same tone anyone else would use to say they'd had to look something up in the dictionary.

     "I assume that didn't work?"

    Margaret swore she saw residual electricity flashing in Lucas' eyes.

     "It worked as expected.  But I've accepted that, for all intents and purposes, my life has begun anew."

     Before she could stop herself, Margaret blurted out what she'd been thinking ever since their dinner together.

     "That's nice and all...  But what about Terry?"

     With the unfailing loyalty and unconscious precision of a well-trained beast, Lucas' eyes flicked in the direction of the Detective Agency.

     "What about him?"

     He'll drop his petals in a season.

     "Well...  Before you know it, he'll be as old as Arthur is now."

     Lucas smiled dreamily, as though he were a supplicant in worship and not the God himself.

     "I know.  I am curious to see who he'll become."

     Margaret wasn't sure how else to get her point across to him.

     "Don't you ever think about how-"

     But it seemed that Lucas, though newly-remade and a natural optimist, wasn't quite as naive as some were quick to assume.

     "...I think about how I may one day be the only one left who remembers him, so perhaps I should take better care of myself than I might have in the past."

     Tears welled in Margaret's ageless eyes.

     "Are you not scared of being left alone?"

     Lucas was still smiling, though he now seemed on the verge of tearing up himself.

     "It's a long way off, and I am sure I will still have companions.  I hope I'll be able to count you among them."

     Margaret felt two tears running down the pristine skin of her cheeks.

     "But what about wh-"

     Lucas gently took her hands.

     "...Then I shall remember you as well.  Until the last sprout unfurls from the last seed."

     Margaret sniffed, standing from the table without letting go of Lucas' hands.

     "Promise?"

     Lucas rose from his own chair, taking a step toward Margaret and pulling her close.

     "A God never lies."

     Before she realized what she was doing, Margaret leaned her full weight into him, burying her face in his soft violet coat.

     "Oh, Lucas!"

     He caught her with a magnanimous casualness, and they stood there like that for a while; Lucas' arms around Margaret, Margaret sobbing into his chest.  The minutes ticked by, and Lucas' break was probably long over, but he patiently held her until she'd cried herself out.

     Though she couldn't get her head around her own pitiful, childish behavior, she supposed that Lucas' actions made perfect sense.

     He has all the time in the world.

     Lucas sat down wearily at Heinz's table; knowing it was well past time he got back to work, but knowing equally well that he needed to give himself a little grace.  Since Margaret pulled her soggy face from his shirt and bid him goodbye, the room had gone so quiet that his head felt cottony, and her emotions—so intense that they seeped through their clothing—were proving difficult to shake.

     Awfully familiar weren't they?

     (They are yours as well.)

     As much as Lucas tried to simply enjoy his new life as it came to him, none of Margaret's thoughts had been alien or new.  In fact, they were identical to the ideas that floated to the surface of his mind as he lay awake at night; the stars turning the shadows deep-ocean blue, Terry's warm, fragile body breathing and dreaming next to him in the dark.

     "Before you know it, he'll be as old as Arthur is now."

          Lucas had, of course, imagined this plenty of times; Terry silver-haired and resplendent, his awkwardness and jagged edges worn comfortably smooth by the years.  And how he, too, would be changed as well, simply by knowing him.  Their two lives braided into one by time, their love deepening by the year.

     By day, he saw it as something wonderful to look forward to.

     By night, I see that it'll only get harder to say goodbye.

     He remembered enough to have the vague sense that he had said goodbye before, but not enough to know how it had affected him.  It seemed to him that—as with all the strange blessings and curses his divinity granted him—he must have dealt with it simply because he knew no other way to be; by alternately isolating himself completely, retreating into the past, and living entirely in the moment.

     Until he one day woke to find that the moment was all he had, and there was precious little left to deal with at all.

     As he let his mind wander, Lucas noticed that Margaret had left a damp, grey splotch on the once-pristine white of his shirt.  He examined it thoughtfully, and realized that he was smiling.  With varying levels of success, he had strained for years—centuries, millennia, eons—to keep himself above the fray of mortal affairs, only to find himself here; working in their shops, sleeping in their beds, streaked with their ink and tears.

     The past offered no map for the road he now walked, so he supposed he would have to make a new one.

     With a contented sigh, he slowly unbuttoned his damp shirt so he could admire Terry's handiwork again.  Aside from the section that had been blurred by Margaret's tears, it was perfect as ever.

     And I can think of no better way to spend my mornings.

     The two of them had lingered at Seaside hill until the sun grew high and pale, and until they were both half an hour late for work; Lucas spread out in the grass enjoying his lover's careful touch and entertaining every whimsical thought that crossed his mind, Terry inscribing his skin with a deluge of slippery water-cloud shapes in stark black ink.

     They both lost themselves in the process, and before long, Lucas' entire belly and chest was busy with breezy linework.  Terry had him roll over so he could draw on his shoulders and back, and Lucas lay with his cheek resting in the warm scratchy grass, watching the bees bumble around the scraggly wildflowers and listening to the soothing sounds of the sea.

     It was, without a doubt, a beautiful day on Earth.

     And it is still.

     Lucas let his eyes wander down the fluid lines.  They perfectly followed and complimented the contours of his body, the way rain and rivers yielded to the terrain without ceding an ounce of their own power.  He wondered how Terry had managed it, but supposed it wasn't much of a mystery.

     He has a way of seeing things.

     (And every day he's here to see me is a gift.)

     Still transfixed, Lucas carefully traced the lines with his fingertips, until his reverie was broken by the sound of the door swinging open upstairs.

     Fearing that Heinz had returned from his afternoon wanderings to find him slacking off, Lucas hurriedly buttoned his shirt and rushed up the stairs.

     "My apologies, I was ju-"

     Instead, he found Daria standing in the open doorway, the sun lighting the flyaways of her hair like spun gold.

     "...Hey!  It's early, but I know Heinz sometimes lets you knock off for your shows, and this is basically a private show, right?"

     This was not untrue.  But Lucas' showtimes were agreed upon in advance, and Heinz had given him many a talking-to about wandering off unannounced during the early days of his employment.

     "Well, I suppose, bu-"

     Daria cut him off, rolling her eyes.

     "...Lucas.  I talked to him on the way over here. It's fine."

     Then she smiled brightly, and Lucas couldn't help but mirror her expression.  No matter how long he lived, he would never tire of how fickle and surprising Mortal life could be.

     "Oh.  All right, then.  Shall we go?"

     Daria nodded, the feathers in her cap bobbing amusingly.

     "Yeah!  If I wait any longer, I'm gonna explode!"

     Lucas smirked as he followed her outside.

     "...Into rainbows, I'm guessing?"

     Daria cackled, playfully punching at Lucas' arm.

     "Look at you!  You know me so well already!"

     It helped, of course, that her manner left little to the imagination.

     And I hope to know you better yet.

     Lucas turned the key in the lock, closing the shop behind them.  Then he turned his eyes to the sea; glittering all the way to the horizon, as fathomless as the future.

     "I also know I don't do things like this for just anyone.  So let us proceed before I lose my nerve."

     Daria merrily skipped ahead, and as Lucas followed after her, he realized—with good-humored embarrassment—that not only was his shirt still half-unbuttoned, but much of what he had managed to fasten in his haste was crooked and skewed.

     This, too, brought a smile to his face.

     It made him think of Terry again; always disheveled and somehow half-dressed, constantly unfastening and adjusting things so he could move more easily or air out his skin, the layers of rumpled fabric seeming to float around his slender body and skim it like moth wings rather than properly clothing him.

     ...Honestly, it's such a terrible distraction.

     He was already looking forward to another distracted evening in the cozy home—the cozy life—that he had found for himself.

     But for now, he still owed Daria a favor.

     They reached the shady pavilion by the beach, where Lucas folded up his coat and stepped out of his shoes.

     "Remember what I told you when I walked you home last night?"

     Daria plunked down at the table where Lucas had left his coat, picking it up and examining the color hungrily.

     "That I need to stay back here until you say it's okay, or else I'll miss all the action, and you're not gonna do it again."

     Lucas nodded gravely, though the smile never left his face.

     "That's right."

     Then he stepped out onto the sand; the soles of his bare feet reminding him that each grain had once belonged to a boulder, or a mountain, or the shell of a soft living thing.  He let the images flow into him, filling him with inspiration and awe until his whole body felt busy and taut.  The sea lapped at his ankles, bringing him news of all that had ever lived within its depths.

     This is the world.

     I am in it and of it.

     The wonder swelling in his chest overflowed its confines, and Lucas began to sing.

     Though Lucas' voice carried beautifully on the wind, Daria knew it was so much more up close, and she fought the urge to run out onto the sand to experience it in its full glory, fainting be damned.

     But as eager as she was to hear his song, she was equally curious about what was going to happen next.  So she stayed sheltered in the pavilion, drew her feet up onto the bench, hugged her knees, and watched.

     At first, it was difficult to tell what—if anything—was happening.

     Lucas appeared to be singing his heart out; back straight, arms flung wide, the sea breeze whipping through his gleaming hair.  And though Daria noticed that this in itself was a stirring sight, it was still a relatively ordinary one.  Divine or not, it was just a man singing, and the endless mirrored blue of the sea and sky.

     Still, she watched on, pricking her ears toward the music and growing slightly dizzy from the power of his voice.

     Eventually, something began to change.

     A mist—easily dismissable as sea spray at first—was rising from the surface of the water.  It skimmed the tops of the waves, gathering like the foam on a pint of ale.  As it thickened, the wind began to lift it from the water and into the air, slowly sculpting its wisps and eddies into pillowy contours.

     Daria realized she was looking at a cloud.

     Lucas held a note low and long enough to shake the sea itself, and it lifted even higher into the sky, gathering vapor as it went, growing heavy and dark.  Before long, others had risen to join it; a formidable blue-violet bank, its shadow turning the water inky and stimulatingly ominous.

     Daria jumped as a bolt of silvery lightning passed between two clouds, followed by a bone-rattling thunderclap and a soothing hush she would know anywhere.

     Out over the waves, it was beginning to rain.

     The song went on, mingling with the rolling thunder; Lucas calling the clouds closer, spreading them out to cover the sky and let in a wash of golden light that turned every fat droplet into a falling diamond.  The rain pattered in the sand, forming millions of tiny craters.

     Lucas—still singing—scarcely seemed to notice the weather he had summoned.  His dark hair, heavy and drenched, clung to his shoulders like seaweed, reflecting the eerie yellow sun and the lightning that crackled around him.  His white shirt began to turn a watery grey, dark rivulets rising to its surface and following the planes of his sinewy back.

     And then, all too soon, he let the last note linger and slowly turned around.

     A broad, proud smile spread across his serene face, and he waved at Daria cheerfully.

     Daria didn't hesitate for a second as she ran out into the shimmering storm, everything silver and gold and blue.  Her clothes and hair became sodden in an instant as it welcomed her into its embrace; the wind howling, the sun shining through the downpour, the sea choppy and dark.  It was the kind of weather she only saw in her best dreams, the kind that had her out of bed and at her easel before the first light of dawn.

     It was the most fantastic thing she had ever seen.

     And then a luminous double rainbow took shape, spanning clear across the sea.

     "...Oh, wowzers!  How did you...  You know what, I don't even care!  Wow!  Wow!"

     Her feet splatted noisily in the wet sand as she barrelled towards Lucas, not so much leaping into his arms as tackling him and remaining stuck there like a burr.

     Miraculously, Lucas remained upright, taking her enthusiasm in stride as he carefully set her down.

     "I simply asked for a favor.  A large one, mind you...  If it weren't for the drought, I may not have been indulged."

     Daria watched with wonder as the lightning danced through the many-colored sky.

     "Well, tell them I said thanks."

     Lucas placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

     "They already know."

     The pair gazed out over the sea in wonder for uncountable minutes; until a shrill voice fought its way through the thunder, breaking their trance.

     "...What in the blessed stars, Daria!?  I don't know how, but I know you did this!  It has your grubby little paint hands all over it!"

     Daria laughed maniacally as she ran to embrace her sister.  There was, of course, no paint on her to speak of, but the watery grey stain from Lucas' shirt had smudged her as she clung to him, and could easily be transferred.

     "Grubby paint hands attack!"

     Margaret huffed as she wriggled free.

     "This isn't funny!  You're...  You're probably destabilizing the local climate or something!"

     Lucas bowed to her politely.

     "Actually, I am re-stabilizing the local climate."

     He smiled benignly, but Margaret refused to be reassured.

     "...Did you make him abuse his power!?"

     Daria rolled her eyes.

     "I didn't make him do anything."

     Margaret anxiously raked back her soggy hair.

     "He's a God, Daria!  This is so wrong!  Who knows what's going to-"

     Daria cut off her sister's rant.

     "Yeah!  He's a God!  That means he outranks you!"

     She had hoped Lucas would back her up, but he said nothing, remaining cheerfully impassive as ever.

     Margaret snapped, a flash of lightning reflected in her hectic crystal-blue eyes.

     "What's that supposed to mean!?"

     Lucas stepped between the squabbling sisters, holding out his gloved hands diplomatically.

     "I believe she means to say that I can choose when it's wise to exercise my strengths.  We're not part of any hierarchy I am aware of, though, so I'm not sure why she chose to put it like that."

     Margaret craned her neck to look into his eyes, her voice soft and worried.

     "Was this wise, Lucas?"

     Lucas shrugged with a breezy smile.

     "It's...  Well, I don't believe I did any harm."

     Daria gestured wildly at Lucas, thrilled to have anyone on her side, let alone a God.

     "See!?"

     Just as Margaret opened her mouth to reply, another voice rose above the thunder, good-humored and raspy.

     "...Havin' yourself a little fun, Lucas?"

     It was Terry; black undershirt stark under his thin drenched button-down, hair pasted to his face in chaotic wet spirals.  Lucas smiled at him dreamily as he unbuttoned his own soaked shirt.

     "As a matter of fact, I am...  I'm afraid your artwork is done for, however."

     He wiped at the remaining streaks of watery ink on his skin with the fine wet cloth, letting the ruined garment drop to the sand.  Terry embraced him and placed a businesslike kiss on his cheek.

     "Eh, no worries.  I can always make more."

     As soon as the two lovers pulled apart, Daria had Terry by the arm, yanking perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.

     "...How good is your memory!?"

     Terry smiled, tapping his left temple smartly with his free hand.

     "Steel trap!"

     Daria flung her arm out over the spectacular view before them; the rainbows, the sea, the roiling lightning-streaked clouds, the glittering golden rain.

     "You need to paint this for me so I can take it home and look at it whenever I want!  My artistic career depends on it!"

     Terry gazed out at the horizon thoughtfully.

     "'Kay."

     Daria nodded.

     "...Good!  Now shut up and let me look at it!  Lucas called in a pretty big favor, you know!"

     Terry smirked, eyeing Lucas slyly.

     "Oh, did you now?"

     By way of reply, Lucas merely shrugged.

     There was, it seemed, nothing left to say.

     And so the strange quartet—the dreamers and the divine—stood in reverent silence between the storm and the sea.  They watched the rainbow slowly fade; absorbed perhaps not into nothingness, but into memory.

     Daria smiled as the colors soaked into her thirsty mind.

     ...Yeah.  I'm glad I came.