I have to admit, I'm kinda fond of this idea, this story; certainly, it the closest I've ever come to writing something that could be considered truly fairy-tale-like.

That being said, I haven't decided if I'll continue it yet – it joins the ranks of three stories I already have not finished, and indeed, continue to lag behind in updating.

It is seldom that I ask directly for reviews – although they are always nice - but if I get enough enthusiasm for this story I'll make it my priority, certainly, in terms of it's charm it's by far my favourite.

As always, any mistakes in this fic are my own as I only roughly went over it myself (I have no beta to call my own grin)

Even if you don't review, thank you for reading.

I know God will not give me anything I can't handle.
I just wish that He didn't trust me so much.
Mother Teresa

The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.
Oscar Wilde

Wisdom is not finally tested in the schools, Wisdom cannot be pass'd
from one having it to another not having it, Wisdom is of the soul, is
not susceptible of proof, is its own proof.
Walt Whitman

They met in conclave for He had left and not returned. Never before had their God, their creator, he who had breathed life and personality into each and every one of them left and not, at some point in the future, come back to them. They did not know how long he had been gone, as the passing of time was difficult to measure in the land of eternal dark, but they knew, as they measured their existence, that he had been away from them too long.

It was Simeon, youngest and most recently gifted to their community by The Maker, who had first expressed his concerns; concerns that soon became worry and then rapidly escalated into fear, at The Maker's absence. Initially, his brethren had passed off his words as little more than youthful insecurity, as the youngest child was often the one who most craved their parent's reassuring presence but eventually, as time passed and The Maker did not return, others began to talk and the whispered susurration of abandonment began to spread; and thus it came to be, that Elijah, the leader of the brethren, seeing the way the wind was blowing, who called the group to conclave.

"Sir, did you move Wash's dinosaurs?"

Malcolm Reynolds regarded his first mate with a quietly bemused expression, albeit one tinged with sadness, as ever since her husband's passing into the black, Zoë had become – at least by the standards normally associated with her – highly emotional and highly protective of not only her husband's memory but also of those things associated with his memory. It sometimes worried the captain that Zoë often referred to Wash (and his former possessions) in the present tense, as if the man was suddenly going to return from the dead. Actually, if such a thing was even slightly possible, Mal would have been all for it as he missed Wash's presence, not so much in terms of his piloting skills, as River – once he'd got over his completely, to his mind, rational fear that she'd pilot them into the middle of a sun – had the job under control, but rather for his ability to act as an emotional buffer for the rest of the crew; with Wash around even the worst disaster was placed in an appropriately surreal perspective.

"No, why do you ask?"

"I could have sworn that they were lined up along the instrument panel, now they're all gathered together."

"Maybe River moved them, you know what she's like."

"No", Zoë disagreed, "River wouldn't do that."

The captain shrugged not completely convinced. While he was fond of the girl, in his mind, she would always be the poster child for ADHD and, despite the, of late, increased grasp she apparently maintained on her somewhat tenuous sanity, she would be the most obvious person to play with something she shouldn't. Well, her and Jayne, he amended, remembering the big mercenary's almost childlike joy in touching things he shouldn't (although he usually restricted said touching to the female population of any given planet).

To be fair to the man, although it galled Mal terribly to do so, even Jayne wasn't so far gone as to disrespect the quasi-shrine to the departed pilot that his former piloting console had become as each crew member added a personal token to the area in tribute; in fact, Jayne had contributed one of his better knives – the one with the dragon carved into the bone handle – as his own idiosyncratic form of recognition; that he had embedded the knife in the seat, however, clearly indicated that there was some way to go before the man could be considered wholly civilised.

Strangely enough it had been Inara who had defended the action murmuring some platitude about it being the thought that counted when Zoë made move to hunt the mercenary down and feed him into the mule's engine intake.

"In that case Zoë, I don't know what to tell you. Does it matter that much though? Maybe someone was simply up here with their memories; anyway, it doesn't appear that any of them are damaged."

While Zoë didn't look happy, she acceded – albeit dubiously - to the captain's attempt at an explanation. She knew, herself, that the wounds caused by Wash's passing were still raw and that she had a tendency to overreact where his memory was concerned.

"You may be right sir, as long as nothing's damaged I imagine I'll cope."

"Good. Now let's get a bite to eat, it's almost time for dinner and I'm in the mood for spoiling my appetite before Kaylee prepares dinner."

"You've the truth of it there, sir, she's a fine mechanic but an even more talented poisoner when it comes to mealtime."

"Have they gone?" murmured Elijah, his quietly worded question directed towards Jericho who was perched on the edge of the console in the manner of a lookout.

"They've just gone down the steps into the galley, therefore I think it's safe for the moment. Now, Elijah," Jericho continued as he made his way towards the gathered brethren, "why have you called us to conclave?"

In all the years Elijah had known Jericho it never ceased to amuse him that his friend sounded increasingly like a butler from one of those period-style shows that The Maker had used to watch over the network, although he considered it unlikely that Jericho would ever be able to acquire a pteranodon-shaped morning suit in order to more accurately fit the part; neither would there, he smiled indulgently at his own small forelimbs, be a chance of him delivering a freshly ironed newspaper on a gilt tray. Sometimes, he wondered, most especially when he was younger and less certain of his place in the 'verse, why The Maker had cast him so; of course The Maker had blessed him in other ways, but didn't stop him from wondering. It was with the advent of the others, also by the Maker's hand, that had shown him the way, nevertheless it was in his nature to question; it was, after all, why he led.

Elijah smiled at his friend, "Simeon's concerns have begun to spread more widely amongst us, there is further talk that The Maker will not return, it must needs be addressed now before dissension is sown and the brotherhood sundered."

Jericho rolled his eyes at his friend's dramatic tone, sometimes it seemed that everything Elijah had to say came complete with carved stone tablets; must be something to do with being the brain-addling responsibility of leadership. To give him his due, however, Elijah was a good leader. Fair, reasonable and yet prepared to back his decisions and judgements with steely resolve if necessary. That being said, his was a comforting presence the younger members of the brethren who oft-times regarded him with devotion near enough to that which they held for The Maker.

"It's mainly Zeke. Sometimes I think his damn brain is so far away from the rest of his body that it don't get near enough oxygen to follow a rational thought from beginning to end."

"He is definitely of the worryin' type; probably just as well he tends to ignore the youngsters otherwise we would've had an almighty uproar before now." Elijah looked pensive, "what about the others? I know Sim's upset, but he's still very young and doesn't fully understand the world and thus anything coming out of Zeke's mouth is only going to play on his fears."

"Aleph and Callisto are fine; mind you, they pretty much ignore everyone else."

"Young love, huh?"

"By the design of The Maker, they say" Jericho snorted in amusement, "when you can get them to say anything, that is."

"You were young once too, my friend."

"I don't think I was ever THAT young."

Elijah smiled tolerantly "I remember a time when a young pteranodon kept trying to follow The Maker because he didn't think The Maker could look after himself."

"Yes…well…I…" stuttered the winged reptile, a crimson tinge shadowing his mottled skin.

"Never mind, my friend, I only…shhhh, someone's coming."

The presence turned out to be River, fresh-faced and inquisitive. She took a moment to stare somewhat longingly into the black before taking her seat at the co-pilot's console; no one, even when there was more than one person in the cockpit took Wash's chair.

Initially, the girl hummed distractedly to herself, an innocuous melody without form or rhythm, as she checked the heading of Serenity, ensuring, more than anything, that the ship hadn't developed a mind of its own during the dinner period and had decided to divert itself into a nearby star. Confident that everything was as it should be, River settled back into chair, wriggling to get comfortable against its unforgiving frame. She stared pensively into the black, her brow creased in concentration, almost as if she was looking for something specific: or someone.

"There's a group of stars, that could be seen from the Earth-that-Was called Lyra." She took a moment to gesture abstractedly towards the rear of Serenity, "it's somewhere back there, I think; outside the ship though, it's not sitting in one of the smuggler's holds as I don't think it would fit in the hold as it's quite large…it's not really practical to smuggle a constellation, although the captain isn't what you'd call practical…I wonder how you'd pack it, a constellation I mean, I'm not sure you can get pieces of bubble-wrap that big…although they do come in good-sized pieces… Lyres are much easier to wrap though because they're smaller, even when they have constellations named after them…I think they're taxed less too…although when the gods go and stick your musical instrument in the sky I think it might cost more…I don't know…anyway…"

"River? You up there?"

There was no hiding the mutinous grimace that flashed across the girl's face, "Joy. My keeper is looking for me. I thought Kaylee would have kept him distracted for a bit longer."

"I'm here, Simon. What do you want?"

"Me? Nothing." The doctor actually sounded quite put out. "The captain sent me to find you. He mentioned something about it being a bad thing to leave his tame mercenary trussed up like a fly in a spider's web and taped to the ceiling."

"Why does he want to talk to me about I?"

River heard her brother manfully attempting to suppress an amused snort. "You mean there's someone else on board who would do that to Jayne? Mal and Zoë would simply shoot him, Inara ignores him and Kaylee treats him like a big brother – a retarded, big brother, but a brother nonetheless. No, only you would suspend him from the ceiling."

"Well, he was mean to me."

"River," and this time there was no hiding the disappointed resignation in her brother's voice, "he did catch you in his bunk, with his guns and reading his porn, of course he was mean to you; and frankly, and I can't believe I'm saying this, he had good reason to be angry with you."

"So what, Kaylee asked to borrow his porn."

"She did not!" Simon sounded suitably outraged.

"This was before you stopped being a self-righteous prig with more concern for social propriety than for what was right in front of you; I swear, Simon, if you hadn't pulled your head out of your arse the poor girl would have eventually imploded out of frustration."

"Yes…err…well…" which was about as close as Simon would get to admitting that his sister had a point. "Now. Are you coming?"

Sighing audibly, but giving in to the inevitable, River rose from her seat and proceeded out the hatch, a moment later her footsteps could be heard descending the stairs that led to the galley; then silence.

"Is she gone?"

"You're the one with wings, Jer', take a look."

Casting an aggrieved glance in his friend's direction, the pteranodon quickly launched himself off the console and, drifting on the currents created by the interaction between the air conditioning and the heat of the un-insulated circuitry, moved towards the hatch silently disappearing from the room, a moment later he returned and alighted on the smooth, metallic surface with a grace that never failed to arouse a degree of jealousy in the older beast.

"So…?"

"Yep, she's gone, " the pteranodon confirmed, settling his wings with a practised flip.

"Right, gather the others."

A few minutes later the brethren had gathered. Aleph and Callisto, with eyes only for each other, sat near the navigation controls, with Jericho perched, somewhat precariously above them. Next to them, and towering over the young Simeon, who squatted, somewhat abjectly, at his feet, was Zeke, the Brachiosaur, whose usually contented ruminant expression was marked by the sauropod equivalent of a furrowed brow and troubled thoughts. Moving leftward, in a somewhat ragged semi-circle, stood the two raptors: Samael and Bethany and beside them the wise old Myosaura, Micah, who watched Elijah with calm eyes. While older, and somewhat wiser, than the Tyrannosaur, he had been happy to cede leadership of the group to Elijah, claiming that he had better things to do with his old bones than chase around young 'saurs who seemingly had nothing more important on their minds than playing tag and exploring. This was not to suggest that the old lizard was in any way a curmudgeon. On cold nights in the black he often regaled the group with the creation stories of The Maker and of how the world came into being; watching carefully as the eyes of the younger 'Saurs lit up as he spoke of how The Maker breathed life into the first of their kind. He had quietly admitted to Elijah, at a time when the younger 'saur was taking his counsel, that the time was coming when he would soon be moving on to the Plain of The Maker and that he needed to find a successor, someone to take his place as the keeper of lore.

Elijah, knowing better than to make pointless arguments against the inevitable had simply asked whom, amongst the youngsters, the older 'Saur thought most worthy of the task. At the time, Micah had not responded although it seemed clear to Elijah that he was grooming young Simeon for the role seeing as how he spent much of his spare time talking to, and encouraging, the shy youngster.

Elijah prepared to address the group, then noticed that the two, young pteranodon, Harley and Marx, given unto Jericho, by The Maker, to raise, were missing. He sighed, mentally noting that he should have known better than to expect those two reprobates to be where they were supposed to.

"Jer', where are your prodigies?"

Jericho approximated the pteranodon equivalent of a shrug. "Probably got lost in the air conditioning system."

"Again? I though you told them to stay out of there."

"You think they listen to me?"

"True." Elijah grinned briefly, "even you don't listen you."

"Thanks very much…"

"How about we just tell them what they need to know later," noted Micah, "it's not as if they'd sit still anyway and we'll save ourselves a lot of time and energy if we don't spend half the meeting telling them to shut up."

For all that he sounded suitably censorious, Micah was distinctly amused at the young ones' antics; of course, and Elijah would have been horrified if he'd known, Micah was the driving force behind it. In Micah's opinion, and in his talks with The Maker, he knew how important a sense of youthful exuberance was; sometimes, he thought sadly, it appeared that Elijah had become too weighted down by the burdens of leadership to remember that he too was once young. The Maker had never been without a smile or a laugh, Micah remembered, and sometimes, he thought that Harley and Marx were given to them by the Maker as a reminder of what was important in life, yet he couldn't judge Elijah too harshly, he remembered that he too had gone through a phase when he took everything that he did incredibly seriously and he also remembered the lesson The Maker had taught him.

Elijah gave his mentor a measuring look before nodding in accession to the suggestion. "Fine; I guess it can't hurt. Now," he continued, "let's get started."

"Started?" moaned Zeke, "The Maker has left us, we're not about to get started, we're about to be finished; the end is nigh."

Simeon moaned piteously in response.

Fabulous, groaned Elijah, an apocalyptic dinosaur, just what we need. "Ezekiel!" he snapped, "you're not helping things. Neither do you have any proof that The Maker has left. In the past he has been gone and returned," he cast a surreptitious sidelong glance at Micah to reassure himself that this was the case and, receiving an affirming nod, continued, "and there's absolutely no reason to think that this is any different. You're being alarmist and, what's more, you're scaring the others."

"Maybe so," accepted the leviathan, "but can't you feel the difference."

Deciding to humour the large beast, Elijah sought a measure of clarification, "How'd' you mean?"

"The atmosphere has changed, it's like a funeral. Do you remember how The Maker was when Zathras passed beyond? Look now at his mate, can you not see the sadness of loss? Can you not see the emptiness? Even The Brown Coat has closed himself off and the only constant in all of this is that The Maker has gone.

The tyrannosaur had to concede the point, for alarmist as 'Zeke tended to be, he was far from stupid; in fact, none of the Brethren were, a fact which Elijah gave thanks to The Maker for on a regular basis. That being said, they were all far from perfect, The Maker, in his wisdom, having seen fit to gift each of his children with their own strengths and weaknesses; 'Zeke, for example, while exhibiting a tendency towards alarmism, paranoia and a outlook slightly more pessimistic than an English cricket supporter facing the Australians, was an expert, and indeed clinical, observer and if he said something had changed, then something had indeed changed.

"Then what do you suggest?"

"That we find The Maker."