The funeral for the Lady Lily-Ann Doriama Sunala was held at a cemetery within the city. Busciver owned, it was where non-aristocratic friends of the gnomish family were buried if their families did not possess the funds to bury them elsewhere. Lord Busciver was many things, but he did not betray his friends. Even when they used him up and cast him aside.

It was one of his great weaknesses.

Very few were in attendance. Lord Busciver was there, and it was he who had brought flowers to lay at his once-friend's grave. His niece, the Lady Busciver, was there as well, Isaac Busciver at her side. His face was like stone, for in looking at the grave all he could think of was that night in the Grand Commons, facing White Feathers in the halls of the palace, his sword slick with blood. But he was here for Buscie's sake, and she was here for her uncle, who aside from Rosemary was taking Sunala's death the hardest.

Rosemary herself stood apart from the proceedings, her red cloak wrapped around her as she shivered. Joseph stood by her side, the two of them huddling close, for the last dregs of winter were powdering down and the world was cold. Rosemary remembered learning about winter, when she was a child, in the academic textbooks her tutors forced her to read. She never imagined it would be so desolate. So... gray. Every year was a reminder of its isolation.

Sunala was buried in an Elven style. Rosemary remembered reading about Elven mourning rituals, how one of their practices was to bury the body deep within the earth wrapped in silk, a symbolic representation that life in this world was but one stage, and that a myriad of possibilities lay beyond in the afterlife. She could almost imagine Sunala sprouting out from her makeshift cocoon, spreading out insectoid, scaled wings, to take off for whatever heaven awaited her.

Or hell. For she was not a good person. Kind, perhaps, but not good.

Rosemary thought about those wings. Thought about her family's, her father's, blood-red and beautiful.

She shivered. Sidled closer to Joseph.

Lord Busciver tried for a few words. Opened his mouth, stumbled out the beginnings of an awkward speech. But there was nothing left to say. The Lady Sunala's actions were words enough, and they all knew it. To speak of her triumphs would be to diminish her sins. One could not think of the Lady Sunala without thinking of what she was, or had become, or the actions she had done.

Even this very ceremony, small as it was, was an acknowledgement of the fabricated woman she was not.

And so, eventually, Busciver sighed. Gave in. Laid the flowers by the tombstone. And left. Isaac and Lady Busciver went away soon after, the young Lord Rithmound giving Joseph and Rosemary a final nod.

“You want to stay?” Joseph asked Rosemary.

Rosemary was quiet.

“...Rose?”

“I did thank her, in the end,” Rosemary said.

“You did.”

“...She meant a lot to me.”

Joseph didn't want to respond to that. He bit back a cutting remark.

“But...” Rosemary looked up at him, “You mean a lot to me too.”

He smiled down at her.

“Come on,” he said, “Let's get inside. It's getting too cold.”

“Coffee?” Rosemary said.

“With all of the cream,” Joseph said, and they started walking back to the guildhall, “Enough to land me in the infirmary again.”

***

Ichabod and Contort returned to Castle Belenus later that day. Bruised. Battered. Shivering from the cold, for they had little to protect themselves from the melting winter. The snow was beginning to dissolve, the rivers were beginning to run again, but the sky was in an overcast gray and the world still held a bitter chill. They covered up as best they could, swaddled up in cloaks and coats, Contort putting on a woolen hat over his head.

And they were like practical furred mounds as they arrived at Castle Belenus. They were peeling off layers of clothing as they made their report to Wakeling. Ichabod took point, going over matter of factly over the details of their escape from Neos and Pantheon's pursuit.

He stumbled over his words for only a moment when he got to Rorshin's death. Wakeling nodded.

“I see,” she said, “So... he's gone then.”

“Yes,” Ichabod said, his voice level, “He's gone. Still on Nesona.”

Wakeling nodded. Let the news wash over her with closed eyes.

“I never did like that old druid,” she said, “He was a harsh man. With harsh politics.”

Ichabod grimaced, but gave silent agreement.

“I assume you didn't have time to administer any last rites?” Wakeling asked.

“No time,” Contort said, taking off a final jacket, “They were right on us.”

“A shame,” Wakeling said, and her eyes flashed silver, “He never did give me anything for that. I assumed he'd be like Nole. The unmarked grave.”

“If he wanted a grave at all,” Ichabod said, “Maybe he would have wanted to be left out in nature. Not a place like the Deadlands, but...”

“Aye,” Wakeling said, and she sighed, “A shame.”

The three of them were silent for a long while. Outside, the wind picked up, battered at the windows. A few crows were flying in the lonely sky, black dots on a sea of grey.

“Best you get warmed up,” Wakeling said, “Ichabod, Vicenorn's up and running, if you want to see him.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Ichabod sneered.

The guildmaster fixed him a look. The cybernetic man looked taken aback.

“I'll... visit him, I suppose,” Ichabod said, and then, at Contort and Wakeling's smirks, coughed out, “Never you mind!”

***

They had needed to use healing magic to repair the worst of the damage that Joseph had taken during the coup. It was a surgery unlike any he had seen. He was used to hearing about his father's grisly work, the way his father described, in detached, observational detail, how he would cut into skin, into muscle, into ligaments, carved away parts of the body, then replace them with prosthetic hips or knees. Always the act of cutting first, the act of harming the patient before he could get to work on healing them.

Not so with the magic provided to him. Elenry laid him down on a wooden table inscribed with runes. Urash stood at the foot of the table, spellrod in hand, and he was muttering incantations as he waved it over Joseph's head. Wakeling watched in the corner, making sure that everything went according to plan.

And Joseph's bones knit themselves back together. The cuts and scrapes and slashes filled in. The worst injuries he had sustained during that night disappeared, without even a scar.

And now, a month later, he only had the occasional ache, though he suspected that wasn't from the night of the coup. Rather, they were the echoes of injuries from before. From Mordenaro. From Death Valley. From the crusader.

He was a being of scars, all of them earned.

Though he found that he did not mind them as much as he had before. He walked up to Wakeling's office with the occasional creak in the joint. She had called him, her voice echoing in his mind, earlier that morning. And so he climbed, passed by his guildmates on the way up. Chadwick danced between his legs for a moment. Broon gave him a nod as the two passed on one of the landings. Joseph had to sidle past Whiskey as the marionette trundled down, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the metahuman was there.

When, at last, Joseph arrived, he found the door already slightly ajar. He opened it up, Wakeling's office once more in that half-dusk that she preferred, the light from the room coming from the neon runes on the spines of the books on her shelves. Joseph didn't recognize the stars above. Not at first.

Then, he realized that they were not stars at all, but the multicolored glow of the other side of Londoa.

“Ah, Mr. Zheng,” Wakeling said, “So good of you to come. Please, have a seat. Cookies? Wine?”

“I'm good,” Joseph said. He sat down at her desk.

“I expect you're wondering why I called you here,” Wakeling said.

“I was,” Joseph said, “I'm not in trouble again, am I?”

“Nothing of that nature, Joseph,” Wakeling said, “Not yet, anyways.”

She gave him a sly look. Winked at him. Joseph rolled his eyes.

“I wanted to talk to you about your grandmother,” Wakeling said, “To you, she was Zheng Chun, wasn't she? Do you remember her... metahuman name?”

“Fēngbào,” Joseph said.

“Indeed,” Wakeling said, “She had quite a few friends out here, when she used that name. It's the name that most people knew her by.”

Joseph settled in. The way Wakeling was speaking...

“You knew her as more than a passing acquaintance, didn't you,” he said.

“I did, Mr. Zheng,” Wakeling said.

She let the confession hang in the air. The two of them went silent for a long while. The fires above glittered. The wind outside screamed.

“...Why didn't you tell me?” Joseph said, and his voice was small. Almost child-like, “Why didn't you just say that at the very beginning?”

Wakeling's mouth was pulled into a tight frown. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Sighed.

“I...” she said, “Fēngbào, she was a marvelous woman. I looked up to her. She knew Titania Amber. Traveled with her, for a time. Traveled with me. But she did not join the guild. She didn't join anyone. She was a free spirit, Joseph. Her metahuman abilities made traveling the multiverse almost easy for her.”

“That doesn't answer my question,” Joseph said.

“She was a Far Traveler, Joseph,” Wakeling said, “Nothing could tie her down. She was always out. Always exploring.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Joseph remembered, in a flash of lightning, how his father talked about Nai Nai. Always polite. Always with a measure of respect.

Always distant.

And never with warmth.

“...She discovered things, Joseph,” Wakeling said, “She did what all good Far Travelers do, and went too far, delved too deep.”

Joseph took a deep breath. Controlled his temper.

“So,” he said, nearly spat, “Because of this, you decided it would be fine to lie to me when I got here. Send me on a wild goose chase.”

“I did,” Wakeling said, “I... you were lost, Joseph. Confused.”

“I still am, to some extent.”

“But you're strong now, too,” Wakeling said, “Strong enough for me to... well, come clean, I suppose.”

“And what does that mean?”

His words were barbed with warning. Wakeling faltered, flustered for a moment. It was an unfamiliar feeling to her. It really only came up when she was dealing with Joseph.

When she had dealt with Fēngbào, years before.

“...Let me start over, Joseph,” Wakeling said, “Let me tell you about the last time that I saw your grandmother.”

Joseph's eyes narrowed. He didn't say a word. Wakeling took that as a sign to continue. The old witch took a ragged breath before speaking again.

“It was only a few years ago,” she said, “We had a tradition, you see. Fēngbào would come in, around this time of year. We would brew hot tea. We would talk about our lives. Our goings on. Reminisce about the past. Remember our fallen friends. Remember Titania, bless her. Fēngbào would stay for a day or two, and then she would depart.”

“Did anyone else know?” Joseph asked.

“They knew a metahuman was visiting,” Wakeling said, “Becenti knew of her, I think. They spoke, at times. But they didn't know she was your grandmother. She kept her family a secret.”

“Of course she did,” Joseph mused, “A little family, tucked away in the ass end of the multiverse.”

He looked out the window. At the gales and the storms.

“Wonder how many of those she had,” he said.

“...Well,” Wakeling said, “As far as I'm aware, only you. She spoke of you often.”

Joseph looked back at her.

“...Me?”

“Yes, Mr. Zheng,” Wakeling said, “You. About your fascination with the constellations. The... Big Dipper, yes? And others. Tell me, do you see them in the sky now?”

“Yeah, I do,” Joseph lied, and he was leaning forward in his seat now, “Did she... talk about anyone else?”

“Only your father,” Wakeling said, “And never much about him.”

Joseph nodded, swallowing.

There were...

Tears.

In his eyes.

He wiped them with a hand.

“You were saying,” he said.

“A few years ago, Fēngbào came to me on one of her annual visits. We greeted each other. Drank tea. Swapped stories. But she was... withdrawn. More than usual, you know how she was. Introverted. Shy, even.”

“I wouldn't call my Nai Nai 'shy,'” Joseph said, and despite himself, he laughed, “Bitter, yeah.”

“She would...” Wakeling started laughing, too, “You know how she would get, when she got upset at someone? Start ranting? Going on and on about how they were a failure to their family, to their friends?”

“Oh God,” Joseph said, and he was laughing harder now, “She was like that with you all, too? God, I'm sorry. Did she spit on you if you cursed in front of her, too?”

“Yes!” Wakeling said, and she started to chortle.

To the point that they could do nothing but cackle and wheeze. A mourning of their own, long after Zheng Chun, or Fēngbào, or Nai Nai's death. Wakeling had tears in her eyes when they calmed down, not all of them from mirth. A handkerchief appeared out of thin air, and she dabbed her cheeks as she calmed down. She took a deep breath. Sipped at her wine, and the smile slowly faded back into a somber frown.

“...She was quiet, Mr. Zheng, and not in her usual way. Like she was... hiding something.”

Joseph's smile disappeared, too. He nodded.

“Hiding what?”

“She didn't say, not in so many words,” Wakeling said, “She wasn't... herself. She didn't talk much about her recent going ons. Her newest adventures. But I could see that look in her eye, Mr. Zheng. She had found something. She had gone too deep, flown too far.”

“What did she find?”

“I...” and Wakeling faltered again, “I don't know, Mr. Zheng. She just gave me this.”

And her eyes flashed silver. A book appeared out of thin air, leatherbound. Worn. The pages were yellowed, opened like a dead moth's wings as Joseph flipped through the pages. Whoever wrote this wrote with a quick script, wrote...

Oh god.

It was Nai Nai's handwriting.

His heart all but stopped. Yes. He recognized it now. How could he have not before? He had seen her write letters before, back at her three-storied house on Earth. Her quick, jittering script, the way she dotted her eyes with a slight curve, just like how she had written the name of constellations and their positions in the starry sky on paper, for him to memorize.

It was written in English.

It was written in Mandarin.

It was written in a half dozen languages that Joseph could scarce understand. Languages from across the myriad realities. Some pages were full of them, entire essays in flowing runes and jagged lines and hieroglyphics. It was like the basement of her house in the pages of a worn book.

“It's her journal,” Joseph said. His voice was tight, “And you...”

He looked up at her.

“You had this? This whole time?”

“...Yes, Mr. Zheng,” Wakeling said, “It took me a while to find it again. I'm sorry.”

She let the words hang in the air. But Joseph didn't explode on her. Didn't start yelling at her. The shock of seeing this part of his grandmother was still running through his system.

“She told me never to tell anyone about it,” Wakeling said, “To hide it away.”

“Even from me?”

“Especially from you,” Wakeling said, “Or, her family. She never wanted you out here, Joseph. Not you. Not your father. Not anyone.”

Joseph sighed.

“...Because we're metahumans,” Joseph said, “All of us.”

“Latent, yes,” Wakeling said, “But it doesn't take much to awaken. It doesn't take much to go meta.”

“And we'd be hunted,” Joseph said.

“Your grandmother discovered something,” Wakeling said, “Something that the cynic in me fears is related to the High Federation.”

“And whatever they're looking for, probably isn't good,” Joseph said.

“You've learned quick, Mr. Zheng,” Wakeling said with a hollow smirk, “She told me only that there were three other journals like this. Her memoirs. Her collections of writings. She gave me this one to safekeep.”

She took a breath.

“And now, I'm giving it to you.”

Joseph looked up from the journal.

“It's in a dozen languages, one or two of which even I don't know,” Wakeling continued, “But it's yours, Mr. Zheng. It should always have been yours, if I weren't such a coward.”

And, for a moment, a hot flash of anger crawled up Joseph's spine. His eyes went hard, and he opened his mouth to say something harsh to the guildmaster. But now...

There was a look on her face. An acknowledgement of her error.

She had apologized to Joseph once before, and meant it.

And, Joseph thought, perhaps she meant it here, too.

“...'S fine,” Joseph said, “You... she always was like that, right? Always hiding everything away from us. Even her real home.”

“...Indeed, Mr. Zheng,” Wakeling said, “Indeed.”

They lapsed into silence again. Joseph flipped through the pages of Nai Nai's journal. The pages were old and dry. Nai Nai mostly wrote, but there were a few diagrams, here and there. A couple pages had greeting cards glued inside.

And, at the very end, was a series of numbers. In English. Joseph looked at them.

“Interesting,” he said.

“Now, Mr. Zheng,” Wakeling said, “I can help you with translations. Or Barbara can. Some of them you'll need to do outside research for, I think Myron can help with that, as that's more his wheelhouse.”

Joseph was peering down, reading through one of her entries. A journey on Moonrift, the World of Petaled Ruins. He could hardly imagine his old, crone-like Nai Nai, being somewhere out there. Could not believe it when she wrote that she argued with one of her fellow travelers, a three-eyed werewolf, over food rations. How she used her metapower and cowed her companion into silence.

“All that I'm asking you, Joseph, is to be careful,” Wakeling said, “For me. Please.”

“What was her power?” Joseph asked, “What could she do?”

Wakeling blinked. And then her smile returned. Watered a bit.

“Oh, it was wonderful, Joseph,” she said, “She could transform herself into a storm. She would coalesce into clouds, then disperse, and she'd sometimes travel with us as a gray-hued sky.”

“A storm?” Joseph said, “Explains her name.”

“Ha!” Wakeling said, “It does. She was powerful. She was wonderful. She was everything you expected a thunderstorm to be. Caustic. Dramatic. Beautiful.”

She dabbed at her eyes again.

“I loved her, Mr. Zheng. In my way. I don't always show it, but I love all of you. You're my family. I only wish that, someday, you'll see me as family, too.”

Joseph smiled at her.

Closed up the journal.

“How did you meet?” Joseph asked, “You and Nai Nai.”

Wakeling's face lit up. Quite literally, to the point that Joseph had to avert his eyes for a second.

“Well!” she said, “It started when I was a younger witch, fresh out of my first apprenticeship, I was on a job for old Professor Awolowo, when...”

And she continued talking. She told him about Fēngbào's adventures. Their journeys with Titania Amber. Of the multiverse and its worlds. The sights they saw. The places they discovered or re-discovered. A time of ancient ruins and camaraderie. A time of war, or loss, of renewal. Of Nai Nai's home.

She spoke long into the day, and deep into the night.

***

It was a few days later that Phineas returned back to Castle Belenus. He had needed a long healing session back on his home plane of Amzuth, and he had found, to his great sorrow, that the ticket that Becenti had given him for a ship across the Silver Eye had been lost in his reconstitution. So he had been making his way across the multiverse ever since, waddling his way through cities and forests and deserts and worlds unnamed.

The last grips of winter were beginning to fade. It was the first day with an unclouded sky. The other side of Londoa watched from high above, green hills and mountains, deserts and seas, on the other side of the world that were half-faded due to the distance.

Two people were waiting for Phineas on the steps of Castle Belenus. Joseph was wearing his blue jacket, a scarf wrapped around his neck, and he was leaning against the stair's stone rail, his arms crossed, as Phineas approached. Rosemary was there, too, sitting on the first step, wrapped up in her burgundy cloak, her sceptre resting at her side. A cup of coffee was placed on the step above her, and was so filled with cream it was the color of caramel.

“Sup,” Joseph said, smiling.

“Hello, Joseph,” Phineas said, “Hello, Rosemary.”

“You're healed up?” Joseph said. He was trying to keep his voice light.

“I am,” Phineas said.

Joseph nodded. Took a deep breath.

“I'm sorry, Phin,” he said.

“It is alright, Joseph.”

“No,” Joseph said, “It's not. I... I really hurt you, man. I'm sorry. I didn't treat you as my friend. I treated you like... like shit.”

“I am aware,” Phineas said.

And Joseph winced.

“But that is alright,” Phineas said, “It has been many months. You are apologetic. You have grown, Joseph. You are not the same person I met when you first arrived.”

He smiled his watery smile.

“I forgive you, Joseph,” he said.

Joseph smiled back at him.

“Th-Thanks,” Joseph said, “I'm glad you're here.”

“Hey Phin,” Rosemary said, “Glad you're up and running.”

“I am,” Phineas said, “Hello Rosemary. Did I miss much?”

She grinned at him, too, though this was a bit forced, as memories of the last few months came up. Joseph took point.

“We'll fill you in,” Joseph said, “Come on, let's get inside. It's getting cold.”

“I am not cold,” Phineas said.

“Well, Rosemary is,” Joseph said, “I've got a table set up for us inside. With cards.”

“Myth Battle cards?”

“The ones and only,” Joseph said, “I talked to Meleko, he got you a few boosters from that new set. Unrivaled, or whatever it's called.”

“Unrivaled Legends,” Phineas said, and his globular eyes widened, “I thought I missed it, Joseph.”

He made for the stairs. Nearly knocked Rosemary's coffee over. She got up at once.

“Come, come,” Phineas said, “There are worlds to conquer.”

He opened the door, all but ran inside. Joseph chuckled.

“It's... just a card game, man,” he said. He turned to Rosemary, “You coming?”

“Sure,” Rosemary said, picking up her coffee, “...I'm not playing, though.”

“Ha,” Joseph said, “Once Meleko gets back, he can pick up the slack.”

He turned to watch Phineas stop at the Glass Slipper, that great blade in the center of the Great Hall. Mekke, Broon, and Ezel were greeting him. The half-orc was moving to speak with him, his guffaws echoing out of the hall.

“I owe him that, at least,” Joseph said, “I owe him a lot more than that.”

Rosemary walked over, rested a hand on his shoulder.

“And we owe you,” Rosemary said, “We owe each other. We protect each other. That's what you do, in a guild.”

“...Yeah,” Joseph said, and he started walking inside, “We do.”

And they played their game. Laughed, as friends do. Swapped stories, made jokes. There was anger. Swearing. More laughter. And by and large the day wore on, and drew to a close. The Inner World festooned with light. Londoa spun ever on.

Life was content.