The Five of Pentacles tarot card depicts two destitute figures (one on crutches) making their way past a church window. They are shut out, trapped in the snow, while the five shining coins in the window promise salvation if they can only find their way out of their despair. For now, all they have is each other.

The magician wields the wand of fate. The walls of the labyrinth unfold under its power, and the scent of crushed leaves fills the air. Unlocked from her prison, Mother Nature walks free once again.

Having told Ivy the truth, Neal braced himself for the inevitable aftermath.

Ivy's face was stiff, but he could see the sheen of tears in her eyes before she turned away and asked, with only a slight catch in her voice, "So. If you were really dead, and in the Underworld..."

"Yeah."

"Then..." Ivy hesitated again.

"I'm not exactly a professional medium," he said, trying to lighten the mood. "But I'll do my best. Ask what you want."

"My sister, Ella. I mean, Jacinda." Ivy swallowed. "She knew your son. Do you know if...?"

"Yeah," Neal said softly. "I met her. She's... at peace."

"But she's dead!" Ivy's voice trembled. "Can't... isn't there some way... I mean, you came back."

"Because the fates wanted to use me as their tool."

"And they have no use for my sister? Is that what you're saying?" Ivy's eyes glittered at the injustice. "She and Henry can never have their happy ending?"

"Things don't all turn out the way we hoped." Neal smiled sadly. "Believe me, I know how that feels. But fate or not, your sister found her own path."

"Her own path... in the Underworld?"

"Actually, yes." Neal hadn't been witness to all of it, but the Dark Curse had ruptured reality from top to bottom, and the ripples of the turmoil had rocked even the scales of fate where Neal hung balanced between life and death, awash in the regrets and hopes of the dead. In that moment, he had seen everything, his soul crossing Jacinda's as she passed the other way.

"What do you mean?"

"When the curse was cast, it didn't only bring the living to the Land Without Magic. It also brought the dead to the Underworld — all those who died in the other realm after it was wished into being."

"Ok, that makes sense. But what does that have to do with my sister?"

"Well, these souls, they didn't exist before. There was no place for them. The gods wouldn't accept them, wouldn't even listen. So all the wish realm dead were consigned to the cosmic trash heap."

Ivy blanched. "Ella..."

"No way she was going to accept that, any more than when your mother tried to do the same thing." Neal knew their lives hadn't exactly played out like the Disney movie, but the Ella from the wish realm had the same indomitable spirit as her animated counterpart. "Turns out, since it was her death that powered the curse, it meant that she counted, technically speaking, as a creator-god."

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah. Obviously, she didn't have the kind of power to go up against Zeus or whatever, but it meant they couldn't shut her out completely when she spoke up."

Ivy chuckled weakly. "She was never one to hold her tongue. But... diplomacy was never her strong suit, either."

"Maybe not, but she had the support of the other shades from the wish realm, and between them, they got the gods to grant them a new section of the Underworld with Jacinda as the official ruler."

"So she's like, queen of the dead now?" Ivy looked flabbergasted, her grief giving way to surprise. "She's ok with that?"

Neal nodded. "Pretty much. She still misses you guys, but when you're dead, you have to take the long view."

Ivy laughed. "That's one in Mother's eye, isn't it? After all her effort trying to get me married off to a prince, Ella is the one who ended up as royalty. I can't wait to see the look on her face when I tell her."

"That's something for you to look forward to, then." He smiled in reassurance. Joking aside, maybe there was something to this medium business. No matter how much faith or hope one had in the afterlife, it must be a relief to hear first-hand from someone who had actually been there.

"Yeah." Ivy sobered. "Once all of this is over..."

"Rogers. Rogers, wake up."

Someone was shaking him by the shoulder. He wished they would let him sleep. The bed was cozy and warm. He shifted slightly, but his range of motion was oddly constricted. Wait, why hadn't he undressed and taken the prosthesis off before going to sleep? Had he just been too tired? Then he woke up and remembered.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm awake." Rogers opened his eyes to the sight of Weaver's face hovering over his own. As Weaver stepped back again, Rogers sat up. A quick glance around showed that though he was in a bed, it wasn't his room. "What the devil?"

Weaver smirked. "Yes, Rogers, it seems you really did fall into bed with me. Though from the way you used to go on about it, I expected it to be a more pleasurable experience."

"You what?" His wits still scrambled from sleep, Rogers struggled to recall when he had ever dared to say any such thing to Weaver, and came up blank. There wasn't even the harmless innuendo he traded with the other officers for the sake of camaraderie.

"Never mind. A quip." Weaver nodded at the bed. "I only wakened a short time before you."

Rogers rolled his eyes, fuzzily thinking, Nothing wrong with having a good time, is there? Then more of his memories crashed into his head, enough to banish that line of thought. He hopped off the bed and took in his surroundings. They needed to get out of here, find Samdi, and... hell. "That was real. The... the magic. It happened?"

Weaver followed him, a few steps behind. "Oh yes. Don't bother looking for the exit. There isn't one."

"There's always an exit." But the more he explored of the house, the more wrong it seemed. There were doors to the bathroom and the two bedrooms, but no more than that. On the lower level, the living room and the kitchen were separated by the stairway between them. There was a small foyer, but the front door opened onto nothing. The light from the ceiling fixture simply, impossibly, stopped at the threshold, leaving only blank darkness beyond. He reached out warily with his right hand, wishing for his flashlight, but his hand also stopped. He couldn't feel anything pushing back, but that had to be an illusion. "It's blocked."

"It's the same everywhere around this house," said Weaver.

"What about the windows?" Rogers went to the nearest and pulled the curtains apart to see the same black void. The next window was the same, and every other one as he tried them all. "Where are we? Is this some kind of stage set?"

"It's magic."

"Magic?"

"It's a bit of a cliche, but I believe Samdi's trapped us inside a doll's house. Better than a bird cage or an aquarium, I suppose. At least we are provided with plumbing and a sufficiently stocked pantry that we shouldn't starve." Weaver opened a cabinet and took out a kettle, filling it with water and putting it on the stove to heat. "No microwave or refrigerator, but the stove works."

Rogers stared. "I have no intention of staying here long enough to worry about starvation. What the hell are you doing?"

"Making tea. It helps me focus." Weaver rummaged around in the cabinets again, this time producing a set of tea cups. "Hmm."

"Wait, if the stove works, we can start a fire. Burn down a wall. Dollhouses are made of wood, and wood burns..." Rogers stretched out his hand to test the heat above the stove.

"Stop that." Weaver slapped the hand away. "I suggest we save the self-immolation tactics for a more desperate time. Listen to me: we're sealed in magically. Operative word there being 'sealed'."

"You mean..."

"We're lucky to have as much breathable air as we do."

Well, perhaps Weaver had a point. Rogers found a box of wooden matches in the pantry, making his stove idea moot. He lit a match, then shook it out, using the smoke to try to suss out the air flow in their prison. In the end, after burning out a dozen more matches, he had to admit defeat. There would be no crawling out the ventilation shafts. Santa Claus wouldn't be coming down a chimney to rescue them. Damn. Stop thinking about bloody Santa Claus, he admonished himself.

He was going crazy. This had to be a dream. A parody of a bad reality show...

Weaver brought him a cup of tea. "Sit down. You'll wear out the fake carpet if you continue pacing like that."

...or an even worse romantic comedy, Rogers thought, accepting the tea and flopping down into an armchair. It felt solid enough, even if Weaver was right and it was merely doll's furniture. The two of them sipped their tea in silence, Weaver leaning forward from his seat on the couch, forearms resting on his knees. If only they were here by choice, rather than trapped by some crazy witch doctor, it would have made a cosy domestic scene.

Rogers said finally, "So, you really do have magic."

"I had a wand," Weaver answered readily enough. "And an amulet. Neither of which are in my possession anymore."

"Why? Why give them up?"

Weaver shot him a sidewise look. "Why do you think?"

Rogers shook his head. "You shouldn't have done it. In our line of work, we signed up for that risk. It could happen to any of us." He couldn't meet Weaver's eyes, not wanting to admit that he wasn't sure he could have sacrificed his partner, either. "We have a duty to protect, no matter the personal cost."

Weaver scoffed. "A bad trade. Your life in return for, what? I was bluffing with the wand. Mostly. That wand is unreliable, and I can't draw on the power I once wielded."

"What power? Why not?"

"That's a story for another day." Weaver set the cup down on the coffee table. "Today, the risk of losing everything was too high. Call me a coward if you like, and you've certainly done so often enough, but in this case I'd rather we both survived to fight another day."

"'Often enough'? Why do you keep saying things like that?"

"You don't remember this, but we knew each other before. In another life, in another world." Weaver's tone was completely serious. "A curse brought us here and erased our memories."

"It sounds like a fairy tale."

"That it was. Literally, in my case."

Rogers wasn't sure if he believed Weaver, but on the other hand, it did explain the sense of familiarity he had always felt around him. An almost instinctive attraction. "Wait. Did we... were we...?" He gestured vaguely. "You know, together?"

"Not as such. Mostly you were trying to kill me." Weaver sounded almost nostalgic. He looked down at the table, seeming to contemplate his empty tea cup. "We've done terrible things to each other, you and I. And not only to each other. This life is something of a second chance for us, to be honest."

"Oh." Rogers suppressed a twist of disappointment. Then again, if this was truly a second chance, they could do better this time around. "But...but you said 'true love'."

Weaver sighed. "A vain hope only." He glanced up at Rogers, his gaze softening. "If it's any comfort to you, from a certain point of view, you're my oldest friend."

"'Friend,'" Rogers repeated. "Only that?"

"Did you hope for more? I warn you, detective, I'm a difficult man to love."

Rogers was startled into a laugh. Well, that much was true enough. No need for fairy tale memories to tell him that.

There was the twitch of an answering smile at the corner of Weaver's mouth. "Whatever you think of me now, believe me, it was a hundred times worse in our previous incarnations."

Rogers could believe that. But after what he had seen today, he knew there was more to him. "I believe Tilly was right about you. You are a good man."

"And this inspires you to, what, pursue a relationship with me?"

"No, it means maybe I wasn't making a mistake when I..." Rogers hesitated, not sure he should continue. But Weaver had said what he had said. He had hoped. And so had Rogers. "When I fell for you."

"Ah." Weaver didn't meet his eyes. "But it would only be an illusion. It would be taking advantage of your innocence. And you, Rogers, are an innocent, no matter what you were in a life you no longer remember."

"When you kissed me..."

"If it had been true love, then the curse would have broken for you. You would have your memories." Weaver sighed. "I knew it was a long shot."

"I didn't... I didn't believe you, that day. I didn't trust you, you shady bastard." Rogers swallowed, remembering how betrayed he had felt.

"And you trust me now, do you?" Weaver sounded as if the question pained him.

"Aye." Rogers stood, stepped close enough to touch Weaver lightly on the shoulder. "I want to remember. We could try it again."

Weaver twisted away from the touch, straightening and backing away. "Of course, the failure was likely on my end."

A difficult man, full stop, thought Rogers. But all too easy to fall in love with. Cruel and monstrous, from most angles. Then a tilt of the head (yours, or his) transformed him; he became devastatingly beautiful, his eyes full of warmth. Rogers had caught only glimpses of the latter. In those moments, you knew he cared, however much he tried to hide it. It made Rogers long desperately for more.

Weaver took the cups to the kitchen, turning his back on Rogers as he rinsed them in the sink. Rogers, who hadn't moved from the living room, watched him in silence. Weaver didn't say anything either. He returned and sat on the arm of the couch. After another silence, he said, "You don't know who you are. You don't know who I am. You don't even know who—" He shook his head, interrupting himself. "No. If there's to be a true love's kiss to break this curse, it'll have to come from someone whose relationship is less... fraught than ours."

"You don't even want to try?" Rogers asked, letting a flirtatious note lighten his question.

"Our efforts are better focused on escaping this prison." Weaver finally met his eyes. "Whatever else we could be to each other can wait until we're free. Wouldn't want you to confuse Stockholm syndrome for love, after all."

"That's not how Stockholm syndrome works!" protested Rogers.

Weaver chuckled. "Glad to see there's something left of your brain after all."

"Fine, oh mighty thinker," grumbled Rogers, but he couldn't suppress his smile. "Do you have a plan?"

"Not yet," conceded Weaver. "But if we both put our minds to it, perhaps we'll come up with something viable."

"Any news?" Ivy asked for about the fifth time that morning.

"Not yet." Neal, who was just as on edge, roamed restlessly through Lipson's townhouse. Stacy was hidden away in the bedroom she and her sister had claimed, probably doing something on her phone, as she had been each time Neal had checked on her. Tilly seemed happy enough for the moment to browse in Lipson's curse-given home library, sitting on the living room floor with books all around her.

Ivy gave up on Neal and joined Tilly with the books. Tilly seemed to have a fondness for maps, travel books, and histories — of which Lipson had plenty, given her cursed persona's interest in archaeology. Her collection of coffee table books on ancient cities proved especially fascinating to Tilly.

Her real name was Alice, according to Weaver. Neal put it together suddenly with what Ivy had told him last night about their adventures in other realms. She had first met Alice in Wonderland. Wonderland? She was Alice from Wonderland? Neal shook his head, suppressing a groan.

"Though I thought it was the hatter who was supposed to be the mad one," he muttered to himself. Before he could say anything inadvertently insulting to his guests, his phone interrupted his train of thought with a call from Roni.

"What the hell, Neal?" The former Evil Queen dispensed with the greetings and small-talk.

"What?"

"The cops were just here, Cassidy. Asking us about Nick Branson."

"Ah." Neal hadn't been sure to what extent Weaver was going through official channels. The Enchanted Forest connections and motivations would have been impossible to explain.

"What's going on? Henry says Nick hasn't been answering his texts since yesterday."

"Damn." Neal had been hoping his father had been mistaken, that Henry's best friend wasn't the murderer they were looking for, but if he was on the run from the police, that wasn't a good sign. Even if he was being framed, this could mean Nick himself had fallen victim to the real killer.

"What do you mean, 'damn'? You've practically been Weaver's shadow all week. Is he involved in this case?"

"Yeah. And... it isn't good. He thinks Nick is the one who killed that doctor. And possibly the blind baker."

"He can't be serious! That's insane." Roni's voice rose to an incredulous shout before she took a breath and asked more quietly, "Why would Weaver think that? No, it must be some trick to lure out the real murderer."

"No. He's serious, all right. Look, Roni, I don't want to believe it, either."

"Then why do you? There must be evidence..."

Neal pinched the bridge of his nose, not sure how much he dared say. "Weaver has a witness, or close enough."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I can't tell you."

"Shit, Neal, you could have warned me."

"I only found out yesterday," hedged Neal.

"I still can't believe it. What are we going to tell Henry? Should we wait until... I mean, if Nick turns out to be innocent..."

"And if he's guilty? We should probably say something before he sees it on the news."

"Yeah. All right." There was a pause, then Roni said decisively, "Let me handle it. Henry can contact you later if he wants, but I've been his mother all his life and you've only been here a few weeks."

Neal sighed, unable to offer any rebuttal. "Ok. I'll try to get ahold of Weaver, see if he'll give me an update."

Rogers had lost track of time, and with their watches and phones taken away and no natural light in their prison, it was difficult to gauge the hour. But they had been up all night preparing to go after Nick Branson, and now exhaustion was kicking in after the adrenaline and caffeine had worn off. Rogers convinced Weaver to take the bed upstairs — he was the one still recovering from a gunshot wound, after all — while Rogers intended to keep watch downstairs, but ended up falling asleep on the couch.

He didn't know what hour it was when he was awoken by what felt like an earthquake. By the time Rogers was fully awake, the ground had settled.

A new item of furniture had materialized in the living room — a wooden chair. On the chair sat Samdi, legs crossed, holding the two voodoo dolls in his lap. He smiled wickedly as Rogers stared at him in disbelief, then tipped an imaginary hat. "Detective Rogers. Enjoying your 'stay-cation'?"

"How did you get in here?" Not waiting for an answer, Rogers lunged across the room at his captor—

—and fell straight through him. He stumbled to a stop before he hit the opposite wall, then spun around, sweeping his arm right through Samdi and the chair. "Bloody hell. Is this some kind of hologram?"

"Call it that if you wish. The salient point here is that you can't touch me," said Samdi. He squeezed one of the dolls, and suddenly Rogers couldn't breathe. "But I can touch you. Now go sit down and wait your turn."

Rogers had no intention of obeying, but his body was no longer under his control. He found himself marched back to drop gracelessly onto the couch. Robbed even of the ability to speak, he was forced to sit, back straight, face turned towards Samdi. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement on the stairs. A man descended in jerky steps, shuffled forward into Rogers' field of vision, then folded abruptly next to him onto the couch.

It was Weaver, ghastly pale with dull zombie eyes.

"Ah, there you are," said Samdi. "Detective Weaver, you are much in demand, it seems. But as you are otherwise engaged, I have undertaken to shoulder your various social and professional burdens. To that end, you will first divulge the password of your mobile phone. Speak!"

Weaver shuddered, the muscles in his jaw going tight. Then it was as if some force wrenched his mouth open. In a hoarse near-whisper, he spat out each letter and digit of his password. It was a gut-wrenching sight for Rogers, watching this magical violation of his partner, made worse by the knowledge that he would soon be similarly possessed.

The image froze, pausing. Rogers guessed that somewhere on the other side of the hologram, the real Samdi was unlocking Weaver's phone. And indeed, more questions came. Who various names belonged to, what replies to make to their messages, and more.

"Who is Neal Cassidy to you?" was one of the questions, and Rogers felt sick that this was how he would finally learn one of the secrets Weaver held so closely.

"He is my son," whispered Weaver, his eyes lost, defeated.

His son?

Samdi looked less shocked than Rogers felt. Had he known? How had he known? The next question sent Rogers reeling. "How is it that he lives again? Is that your doing?"

"No."

"Then whose?"

"Reul Ghorm and the fates." Weaver's voice was flat, all the lies and evasions stripped out by Samdi's magical compulsion. "Perhaps the gods."

"Is Reul Ghorm in this world?"

"No."

More questions followed, but Rogers was too distracted to listen. Why the secrecy? What did Samdi mean by 'live again'? It had to be a metaphor. (He knew it wasn't a metaphor.) Who was Reul Ghorm? Samdi didn't need to ask.

Finally the questions stopped, but neither of them could rest yet. Each was held upright and stiff, paused for the benefit of Samdi. And then it was Rogers' turn. It felt like a needle stabbing his brain, digging out whatever Samdi wanted to know. The words crawled out of his throat like snakes. Rogers had no choice; even the thought of rebellion died at the touch of Samdi's compulsion.

At the end of it, Rogers felt as if he had been hollowed out. He had no energy, his limbs trembling with a debilitating weakness.

"I believe that will suffice. Thank you, gentlemen." Samdi and his chair blinked out of existence.

The spell lifted. Rogers and Weaver gasped, collapsing against each other on the couch like two marionettes with their strings cut. Rogers didn't have the strength to disentangle himself. He could feel Weaver straining to sit up, but the weakness had claimed him as well, and both of them were still shaking uncontrollably.

For a long time, they could do nothing but lie there in a crumpled heap. Even after he had recovered somewhat, Rogers didn't move, taking comfort in Weaver's proximity. The human contact seemed to draw them back from the cold threshold of death that Samdi had pushed them to.

Still alive. We're still alive.

After what felt like an eternity, Rogers found his voice again, though not the brainpower to say anything useful. "So, magic, huh?"

Weaver grunted, not deigning to waste words on the obvious, but he straightened himself, closing himself off behind the mask of the hardened detective — the mask that had shattered under the force of Samdi's spell.

And Rogers had seen it, and seen how much he hated that Rogers had seen, so he only asked, "Could you do that, in the other world? When you had magic?"

"I didn't cheat."

"What do you mean, cheat?"

"I didn't cast spells on the unwilling and force them to pay the price of the magic," Weaver said slowly. "If someone bargained a spell from me, the buyer paid. And if I used magic on my own behalf, I paid — a sliver of my heart given to the darkness each time. That was the nature of my power."

Rogers thought about that for a moment. He closed his eyes, remembering the ragged heartbeat filling his ear when Samdi had first released them, when Rogers had lain collapsed against Weaver's chest. "How many slivers in a human heart? Was it worth it?"

Weaver was silent for even longer. Then he sighed, a hint of his earlier vulnerability seeping through the cracks. "My son lived. And..."

"And what?"

"Others. You don't remember, so what use would the names be to you?"

"I suppose no use at all," Rogers conceded, but he thought privately he would have liked to know. Not because they would be useful, but only so that he could close some of the distance between them, that sometimes seemed too vast to bridge with anything as elusive as love. "But you saved them. That's not so terrible..."

"You're not going to ask about the ones I killed?"

"It was in another life." Rogers remembered what Weaver had said of him, that in this life, Rogers was an innocent. "Did I kill anyone, in that world?"

"You did."

Rogers sighed, wondering if he truly wanted to remember those names. But if he had taken their lives, he owed them that much. For now, Weaver would have to remember for both of them. "I can't speak for the others, but between you and I, can't we forgive each other at least?"

"Easy to say now," Weaver murmured. "I look forward to your next assassination attempt, once you remember."

"I wouldn't!" Rogers jerked half-upright with all the energy left in him, grabbing at Weaver's arm in protest. He scowled as he caught the hint of laughter on Weaver's face. "It's not nice to make fun of a disabled person."

"I'm not nice," retorted Weaver. He glanced down where Rogers' fingers dug into his forearm. "Or else you'd still have two hands."

At first Rogers thought he was joking again, but then he realized, "You're serious. Is that... is that why I wanted to kill you?"

"No. I did worse than lop off your hand."

"Jesus." Rogers released his grip and stared. "What kind of world did we come from?"

"I told you already. It was a land of fairy tales. And not the sanitized Disney versions, either."

Rogers shuddered. He had never really thought about how violent and gruesome traditional fairy tales were. "And we tell them to children."

"Well, that's humanity for you. We've never been paragons of virtue, and we enjoy horrifying ourselves with graphic tales of our own depravity."

"Some of us are trying to make the world a better place," Rogers objected. "Isn't that why we joined law enforcement?"

Weaver snorted. "Some people are just bullies. Or enjoy the power trip."

"Is that true of you? Is that what you think of me?" At first Rogers thought Weaver was just putting on his usual cynical mask, but he caught a trace of real pain behind the pretense. He wondered then, if they truly came from fairy tales, what roles they had played in those tales.

"Maybe," Weaver said at last. "Maybe not."

"I'm sorry." Rogers didn't have the heart to argue anymore, if it only dredged up painful memories for Weaver. He reached out, touching Weaver's shoulder in a conciliatory gesture.

"Mmm." Weaver leaned against the back of the couch, rubbing his palms over his face. "That's as may be. None of that helps us get out of this place. I had hoped, when Samdi appeared, that he might leave behind some magical thread that I could pull, but he was too careful for that."

"Ah," said Rogers as intelligently as he could. "But why the interrogation? Why couldn't he just —" He wiggled his fingers. "— magic all the information he wanted out of the phones himself?"

"Because he can't." Weaver lowered his hands and frowned at Rogers. "A phone is a machine. Gothel has power over the living, while Samdi has power over the dead and the dying — and we're all dying from the moment we're born — but a machine is neither. It's an artifact, a made-thing, not a born-thing. It can be broken, but it can't die."

"Oh. Makes sense, I suppose, as much as magic makes sense at all. And given what's happened, I can hardly deny its existence. Unless I really have lost my mind."

Weaver snorted. "No. If you're feeling light-headed, that's due to the blood loss."

"Blood?" Rogers glanced down at himself, then touched his face, checking for injuries. He didn't remember any blood, only that sharp pain behind his eyes when Samdi dumped out his brain, so to speak.

"The price of magic. His spell consumes its victim's blood to fuel itself."

"Lovely." Rogers made an effort to stand up, but the sudden elevation made his head spin, and he collapsed against the couch, nearly blacking out. He felt hands catching him, easing his fall.

"Stubborn idiot." Weaver said to the back of his neck. "Are you truly so contrary as to doubt every word out of my mouth?"

"Considering your history..." grumbled Rogers. He fought back a wave of dizziness and nausea, belatedly realizing that Weaver was the only thing keeping him off the floor. He was wounded, Rogers thought. This can't be helping. And I doubt Samdi provided us with any pain meds.

"Yeah, well." Weaver's labored breathing betrayed his discomfort. He pulled Rogers upwards until he was no longer in danger of sliding off the couch, then rearranged him so that less of his weight was crushing Weaver. "I no longer... have reason... to lie."

"Oh." Rogers thought about that, and everything else that had happened tonight — yesterday? — he didn't know how long it had been. Perhaps that was the silver lining to this cloud: he could use some downtime to digest all the shocking revelations that had been shoved in his face. Besides, it was nice — though Weaver would mock him for the word — to enjoy this moment of closeness, however platonic it was under the circumstances. "Right."

The magician weaves a net of words. Soon enough the flies will blunder in. An axe age, a sword age, says the prophecy, says the witch; then gashed shields, wind and wolf and ruin. After ice and storm, the earth grows green again. The great tree raises its leaves to welcome the sun.

Time to begin, says the witch, but when the time comes, she finds that two are missing.

Time for a change of plans.

Author's note: Can we really make this distinction between things that are "made" and things that are "born"? Well, there's a reason it's called "magic" and not "science", LOL.