Here it is, folks: the final chapter of The Brides! Thank you to everyone who has helped me to get this far. Without your wonderful comments I would have given up long before now.

It's short, I know. I wanted to add more but I haven't made final decisions on everything coming up and didn't want to give too much away.

I've just started the first chapter of The Battle though, so something to look forward to. This story has been a long journey for me as a writer and I've learned a lot, but I think this next part is going to be the real test - to see if I can make good on all of the little promises I've made. I'm probably going to get things wrong, but I'm hoping that I can pull it together enough to make it an enjoyable end for you all.

Chapter Twelve: Epilogue

Denver, Colorado

Lying in her hospital bed, exhausted but happy, Helena Wells-Bering cradled a head in the crook of her arm and felt all the hard work of the last countless hours come to fruition. She gazed down into the confused, indignant expression staring back at her and smiled in wonder. They'd made this... this beautiful creature. Through their love, they had created life, not once or twice, but three times. The last time she'd pushed another life from her body, she'd felt like it was just the two of them against the world. Now, she was surrounded by love and family.

"Catherine," she whispered. Her voice filled the awed silence, reverence audible in her tone. Her free hand explored the wispy, curly tendrils of hair sprouting from a powder-soft scalp and continued along rosy cheeks. "She's perfect." Tearing her eyes from the cherub features, she gazed up at her wife and felt her heartbeat quicken.

Myka's green eyes were glassy with tears of relief and amazement and she stood, glued to the spot as if afraid to move and spoil the moment.

After two successful home births, they'd based their birth-plan around Myka's, with Vanessa on hold for the delivery. However, Catherine had decided, not only to arrive a week early, but also to enter the world backwards. Dr Calder had joined them just in time to call an ambulance and escort them to the hospital. Everything from that moment seemed like a long series of chaotic, noise-filled stretches of time... until now.

Feeling a hand brush gently against her arm, Myka jerked from her stupor and cautiously joined her wife on the bed. She recalled the day Fredrick was born, how she'd been scared that something might go wrong but too absorbed in the pain and the need to push that it had been a fear that gripped her with slippery fingers. Its hold on her had fluctuated – never managing to get a strong grip. This time, the experience had been entirely different. From the start, she'd felt it creeping up on her and she'd steadfastly tried to ignore it, but as Helena's distress had become more acute and she realised that the labour wasn't going as smoothly as hoped, she felt the sharp claws of terror grasp her heart and squeeze. Years of training to keep her head in the worst circumstances gave her the means to function despite her dread, but she wouldn't soon forget the long hour where she'd been sure that she would lose her soul-mate and her baby in one fell swoop.

The contrast between then and now was so dramatic that she was still reeling. As she positioned herself slightly behind her wife and Helena leant against her chest, she wondered if the inventor could hear the still frantic beating of her heart. "She is, Helena," she forced from a throat tight with emotion. "Perfect." She turned her head to lay lips against raven locks and let her eyes close. Every breath through her nose drew in a singular scent that brought much needed comfort to a wrought mind.

Helena's eyes drifted shut too; her exhaustion was a result of physical as well as emotional exertion. Several times, her eyelids jerked open while she slipped in and out of consciousness, her dark orbs falling on the baby in her arms in panic before she realised that everything was ok.

It would take a while before either she or Myka were no longer on high alert and able to appreciate the new addition to their family. Even then, since their lives kept them permanently on the edge of action, an element of over-cautiousness would remain. It was manageable though and that energy kept them all busy.

As the two mothers recovered from the emotional chaos of the day and prepared for the sleepless nights they knew were coming, they snuggled together, their daughter between them, and drifted into shared slumber.


Claudia's Island HQ

The dining hall was almost full by the time Thomas arrived for dinner. He'd spent longer than usual with Archie – trying to solve the tendency his arrows had of pulling to the left – and was still packing up when the majority of the island's residents were making their way through their evening meal.

Meals on the island were a fairly relaxed affair; the kitchen behaved more like a restaurant, taking orders when people turned up, and if you happened to miss that two hour window of opportunity, you were free to step into the kitchen and make your own dinner. Since there were so few of them in total – roughly twenty – and they couldn't exactly hire outside help, teams took turned to cook and clean. Though in the beginning the arrangement had left a few tummies rumbling as inexperienced recruits got to grips with the science of food preparation, four years later and they all appreciated how the deal freed up a lot of time for other activities. Mostly training.

The mission was, after all, why they'd been sent there. While friendships blossomed and they became more like a family every day, there were daily reminders that they were preparing to face real dangers. Instructors might be approachable and friendly during social hours but were deadly serious during lessons. Every recruit had arrived with skills of their own, but nobody was given a free pass; they were all expected to work and train hard. When it came to the cause, everybody was one hundred percent in the game.

Thomas' recruitment was a result of Claudia's concern for his wellbeing; he wasn't safe out in the world and the Warehouse was invested in protecting him for some reason. He was living on the island by default but had proved more promising that anyone could have hoped. From humble beginnings, he was now one of the top ranking archers and almost top of his class in defensive techniques too. After three years, he had blossomed from an awkward teen into a young man approaching adulthood.

While Claudia and her select group of regents were surprised by this development, they were quick to cultivate the boy's talents. Like Christina, he seemed destined to some higher purpose and they were all invested in giving the young ones the best chance at survival.

He ordered a simple steak and let his eyes wander over the tables until he spotted an empty seat. Most of the youngest recruits were sat around the table and while he knew that he should probably feel most at home with them, he prepared himself for the usual awkwardness his body experienced when they were near.

"Hey," he acknowledged the table as he joined them and forced himself to make eye contact with as many of them as he could.

"Tommy!" a man to the teen's right greeted him with enthusiasm and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Where you been, kid? Cutting it fine today, aren't ya?"

"He's been on the range, Drey, practising his aim," another added and winked at the teen.

Thomas frowned in confusion. Shouldn't he want to practise? "Archie says, if I have the time, I should be on the range."

A couple of the guys grinned at each other and Drey picked up the teasing, "Archie says, huh?"

The teen abruptly understood what they were getting at and flushed an involuntary shade of crimson. He mumbled something incoherent and focussed his attention on the meal that had just appeared in front of him.

This was why he avoided them, he thought. They didn't mean to hurt him, he didn't think, but they enjoyed teasing and he knew that his reactions must provide them with ample entertainment. He could count on any one of them to help him out when he was in need; they were friendly enough and had looked out for him on numerous occasions, but he dreaded these moments. He knew what was coming next; she was always the first to jump to his defence when she thought her brothers-in-arms were taking their amusement a step too far.

Her name was Fiona, she was petite and down-to-earth, with eyes that made the boy imagine far eastern ancestry, and cropped, inky hair that was always styled to stick up at odd angles. The baggy clothes she liked to wear hid the strength in her body, but Thomas remembered vividly every occasion where she'd had to submit to something more revealing. Her muscles were a sight to behold.

Fiona stared down the table, watching as each of her friends sank a little into their seat. "That's enough. Let him alone now. I'm sure he'd like to eat his dinner in peace."

"We're only playing with the kid," Drey braved a reply. He clapped Thomas on the shoulder again. "Pay no attention to us, kid. We don't mean half the shit that falls from our faces."

The teen offered a shy smile as he shoved a fork-full of meat into his mouth. He tried not to catch Fiona's eye, it would only make his blush worse, but it was like his eyes were magnetically attracted to her and they drifted of their own will.

Despite these (unnecessary in his opinion) pitfalls, his life was so much better on the island that he remembered from before. Distantly, he recalled a bedroom, toys, clothes with his name in them, a man sat in front of a television and a woman who always seemed to be telling him to hurry up. In Limbo, he had fond memories of a girl who didn't age but spent all of her time entertaining him. She'd taught him new games to play, told him secrets and stories, and cheered him up when he felt down. She'd made that place bearable but he'd still spent far too long being lonely and feeling trapped. Then, when they were finally rescued, he'd found that nobody else wanted him; not the people he'd lived with before his imprisonment and not the new families that took pity on him before moving to treat him with suspicion and fear.

The island was the first place that really felt like home and no amount of awkward adolescent crushes or sibling-like teasing was going to prevent that.


Location Unknown

Kneeling over a flower-bed, livid and yet oddly satisfied, Lloyd Spenser-Chapman Jr cradled a head in the crook of his arm and felt all the frustration of the last few hours dissipate. He glared down at the vacant, distant expression staring into nothing and sneered in disgust. He'd done that. His hands had snuffed the life from this body, countless before this one and would again for many more to come. The last time he'd strangled the dying breath from someone, he'd been forced to it through the man's inability to perform to standards. Now, he was less one more useless person in his ranks; nothing but power would continue to surround him.

Inch by inch, he allowed his arms to relax, releasing the lifeless body from his grip. It slumped over the low wall, narrowly missing a neat row of begonias and came to rest between grass and dirt. Spenser plucked his secateurs from beneath a limp hand and calmly returned to work. "Nigel?" he beckoned softly.

A man of significant stature stepped forward on silent soles and answered the summons in an equally muted tone, "Yes, sir?"

"If you wouldn't mind? Take out the trash."

"At once, sir," Nigel obeyed immediately and, with barely a grunt, bent down to sling the dead body over his shoulder.

"A shame," Spenser whispered to his chlorophyll'd confidants. "I had higher hopes for Mr Congrave. Let's hope our other insiders do not fail me equally."


Warehouse 14: Geirangerfjord, Norway

Hundreds of years of assimilated personalities worked simultaneously to analyse the influx of information from the new caretaker. The Warehouse was pleased; elements were falling into place, finally. The champion would be ready. Her surrounding supports were strong and growing stronger by the day and now, perhaps only a decade or two stood before the Warehouse and its final goal.

The heir was busy too, with his serfs and devotees seeing to his dirty work. As time progressed ever onward, more disappearances marked the pruning of his ranks and highlighted just how little faith he held for his followers. Long ago, he'd chosen the path of artefacts before people but, though ultimate power was always his goal, it would eventually prove to be his downfall.

The Warehouse did its best to guide the hands that sought to slow the heir's progress but it was late in the game now and though every success counted, they were small – fairy steps amongst giant's. Its chosen had proved themselves worthy though blood, sweat and toil, giving of themselves for the greater good, or else reaching out to catch one another when weakness gripped them. Bonds forged with love were infinitely stronger than those forged by hate. A great battle was upon them and pain was inevitable but with love, every cut, every broken wing would heal faster and, as a family, they would carry one another to victory.

Now, as the Warehouse's defences moved into position, all that remained was to watch and wait for the siege to begin.


Comments are very welcome! Since I'm in the process of planning out the next part, any suggestions that you want to make are best made now so that I can decide whether or not they will fit with my vision.

Also, a plea: if anyone can explain to me the American education system in relation to terms and holidays (vacation times), I'd be very grateful! Just basic dates would be useful.