Leif ambled into the barn, leaving the door open a crack to let in fresh air. The warmth inside was almost stifling, a result from good construction and enough animals to heat up the interior like a dozen furred furnaces.

He wandered past the stalls, noting their clean floors and full water troughs with approval. Doing the work himself had always taken a few hours a day, but the extra hands were taking care of it with no oversight needed. Good help was hard to find; competent help even harder. Elves, centaurs and Wesson only knows how many more, all willing to pitch in and perform hard labor for average pay bordered on miraculous, ignoring their species differences.

"Sir." A familiar voice drew a flinch from his spine. He didn't try to hide it; Sophette had proven far too adept at body language. "You are well? If you need anything …."

He sighed. Ever since that one morning the centauride had seemed to think differently of him. Not that he blamed her; if the same thing had happened in reverse, there would've been a far different reaction on his part. Anger would've been involved, and outrage. Violence would've been an almost certainty.

"I'm good, thanks." He met her clear gaze head on. "Never apologized for … earlier. Sorry. Didn't mean to … do that."

"Do what?" her left eyebrow rose mischievously. "Rub me down, or feel me up? You have very gentle hands, by the way. Firm but warm, and those callouses are so soothing. It makes my hair stand up just thinking about it, y'know? Roanette's so jealous of me right now."

Another wince worked its way across his shoulders.

"Aw, don't be scared," Sophette only needed to take a few steps to cross the distance between them. One arm slung itself around his shoulder, hugging him in a sidways fashion. "You'll just have to put up with a few happy, healthy ladies around you. I didn't mind, and I know the others won't either. Relax. Let go. Enjoy life!"

He rolled his eyes. If he 'enjoyed life' to the extent Sophette had pushed, there wouldn't be much of a ranch left to run. "Thanks, but … I'm going to try dating Ro'."

High-pitched squealing noises pounded his eardrums. He started, looking for the collapsing timber causing such a disturbance – until two powerful arms seized him around the torso, lifting upwards and spinning him around like a small toy.

"Yes! Yes! Finally!" Sophette cantered in a tight circle, still holding him. "I told her it would be soon, I told her! After you start dating, can we do a date too? I mean, after you get normal with all of that. This has to be a big change for you, but I don't want to wait too long, you know? Please? Please? Please?"

He managed to gasp out what little air remained in his lungs, tapping her arm three times in rapid succession. It seemed to get through, causing her arms to slacken. "Oh. Sorry. I did that again, didn't I? I was just so excited-"

"Yeah." Leif leaned against her flank for a moment, catching his breath. His balance returned a moment later. "Yeah. Got it."

Her upper half twisted around, dark blue eyes sparkling at him. "But I meant what I said. Don't wait too long, 'kay? We've waited months for you to make up your mind. I don't want to wait another two months!"

"Don't want a harem." Leif made eye contact, forcing himself to watch crystal-clear eyes welling up with unshed tears. "Ain't right. Not my thing."

The centauride's shoulders slumped, a look of pure dejection on her face. Timidly she looked up, an impressive feat considering she stood a head taller than he. "If … you ever change your mind … would you tell me?"

Leif sighed. Brute honesty worked in two directions after all, there was no evidence he wouldn't adopt a custom that had led to the downfall of far better men than he. That was pure logic. It had very little to do with the active thoughts floating through his mind. Such a decision would have nothing to do with Aredhel's graceful intellect and elegant features, Fanchon's adorable helpfulness or …. No. There would be no more thoughts on the matter. Ever.

But honesty was still a core tenet of his being. "No promises."

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" her crowhops suggested a full confidence in future agreement, despite his lack of commitment. "I know, I'll be good! You won't have a chance to do anything but fall for me. You'll see!"

It took a moment for Leif to get clear, but he managed to do so. Her enthusiasm was undeniable.

He considered visiting the Zakapenko farm, upgraded as it now was with wheel-chair accessible ramps. But the last time he'd dropped in unannounced there had been an awkward discussion and fervent pleas for discretion involving parental instruction. Extensive, if strained, negotiations had to be made, but in the end they had been forced to agree.

Feeling the desire to avoid a repeat performance, he elected to stay home and crossed the cleared circle, giving an appreciative look to the old M, a venerable tractor that had served well for over fifty years. A little creative work had added a front loader, and elbow grease kept it in shape. The end result was a clear yard maintained by hardware purchased and sustained with his own two hands.

It was a heady feeling, close to arrogance if one were not careful. Leif tried to stay humble – not that it always worked.

His thoughts turned towards possible guests – half of why the yard needed to be cleared. If he remembered correctly, Wesson was in the centaur's town, or what was becoming more than just a place for centaurs. The elves had built their own dwellings now, and the dryads were settled in their own domiciles. Part of the rebuilding project had come to a halt – but arranging for mermaids to live in the restored river was a bit of a long shot in Leif's opinion. Doing it during subzero temperatures was simple insanity.

That left him free to enter his own home, with a few more people inside than before, but nonetheless home.

This meant it was a bit of a surprise to find Gramps and the elf elder that had been chasing after him for a meeting. The pair had just arrived, it seemed. The two still wore heavy winter gear, elegant furs for the female elf and standard apparel for the elder spriggan.

"Gramps." Leif noted the snowmobile parked outside, and put two and two together. "Found a guest?"

"Leif." Gramps nodded, then shook like a dog. His parka was old as could be expected, made of wool and filled with goose down. Leather panels blocked the wind, and once the hood was brought up and fastened, a man could withstand cold that froze water as it fell from a bucket. "Got a minute?"

Leif nodded, not wasting words. Without looking, he accepted the cup of coffee placed in his hands. A second nod of appreciation brought a smile to the neko's face.

"Y'know Morgana," Gramps lifted a shoulder towards the older elf.

"We've met," he kept a cool tone, not a difficult feat. "Haven't chatted yet. Sorry."

"Don't bother." Gramps cut in. "We … talked."

Leif leaned back, folding an arm across his chest. The older man was looking … different. Before, the many decades bowing the older man's shoulders were obvious, with just a hint of brownish-red at the temples betraying the once youthful man. But now his shoulders were as straight as a crossbeam, hair holding a universal darker tone, looking grizzled with deep russet tones. If Leif hadn't known better, he would've said the man looked younger.

"We were stupid." Gramps caught his look, and seemed to interpret it. "Short version. I proposed. She listened to her daddy. He wanted an elf boy for a son-in-law. She," he pointed at Morgana, "Had this plan to ditch the groom and swap for me instead. But she forgot to tell someone – me. I heard," his thumb reversed course to point at his own chest. "About the wedding a bit too early. May have … busted a few heads."

"More than a few," Morgana rolled her eyes. "Ulfric here managed to take out a full dozen of the Imperial Elite all by himself."

A surprised gasp from the other side of the room suggested there was something more to that statement than met the eye. But Gramps – Ulfric – rolled his eyes. "Buncha pansies. Ridin' on nothin' but reputation and hot air."

"Their reputation is well-earned," Morgana contradicted. Her focus shifted to Leif. "For comparison, the Elite are accepted into service only after they have been trained for twenty years, prove themselves capable of completing the same obstacle course their ancestors did, and defeat the lowest-ranked member of the current Elite. They seldom retire, and are removed from office only by request or royal decree. There are elves in the Elite that have been in service since your War of 1812. And he destroyed them."

Gramps had the grace to look awkward. "Well … I was pissed. Not like they was doin' any good against the Wehrmacht."

Leif cleared his throat. "The point being …?"

Morgana looked embarrassed. "Yes. Well. Ulfric and I had already become … intimate. And it was a different age, not that eras change much overall. Still, Ulfric vanished and I was left with a bit of a situation on my hands. I had two months to find him, and could not. So we were handfasted, for the appearance of things."

"Buncha idiots." Gramps growled.

Feeling a headache coming on, Leif massaged the bridge of his nose. "So. Nutshell. You proposed, she delayed, nobody talked, and Red here grew up in some Royal court place."

Gramps tilted his head to one side, lips moving as he worked through the statement. Meanwhile Leif checked on his coffee mug; it was still hot, but not scalding. Perfect on a frigid day like today. When he checked, the snow outside still held hints of cyan, coloration that had nothing to do with the clear sky. The temperature would be holding steady at subzero levels, no matter what thermometer was being used.

"Yep. That's about right." The smile on Gramps face was nothing less than brilliant. "So. Now that ya know, thanks. It'll be a while afore we see each other again."

"Of course," Leif's hand found his face once more. The comforting hand of Roanette found the nape of his neck, stroking it with gentle fingers. "Normal ain't a thing with you. Can't just stop by to say: 'Hello, we're together again. Drop by for snacks sometime."

"Well … kinda. In a way …." Gramps cut a sideways look at Leif.

He felt his muscles tense, despite the soothing touch. "What."

"Well," Gramps exchanged glances with Morgana, who gave a helpful nudge with one shoulder. "Thing is, them traffickers you stopped? Them what took pot shots at yeh? Little bit of a misunderstanding there."

Leif set his mug down. It felt as if his face were made of granite. 'Here we go again. Some stupid story about the land I own, or the folks on here. Now what. NOW WHAT?'

"Easy, easy," Gramps held his hands down as if reading his mind. "Look. In the old days I was a bit … hasty. Did a bit o' damage to a few cartels down south – I regret nothin'. They ain't forgot it, though. I heard tell of a few folks sneaking around, and took a bit of a looksee. Your boy Wesson read me in on a few files. Still got clearance, remember when I talked about that time in Calcutta? Then. So I found a few folks. Asked a few questions."

"And?" Leif growled. He reined in his temper when he caught the distressed expression on Roanette's face.

"What my husband is trying to say is that your ranch was mistaken as belonging to Ulfric, by some of his old acquaintances." Morgana interjected smoothly. "It makes sense from a certain viewpoint, a reclusive rancher chosen to host liminals, compared to an individual known for his abilities to integrate liminal and human factions like Ulfric. In the end, they attempted to kill what they thought was Ulfric, but found you instead."

Taking a large swallow was the only way Leif could stifle a retort. The entire situation was so ludicrous it felt like a long, unintelligent, prank was being pulled.

Then things became stranger.

The sound of an engine revving penetrated the house's thick walls. Curious, Leif wandered to the window, taking advantage of the moment to consider the most recent bombshell dropped in his lap. 'Gramps had enemies. Huh. Makes sense. If you get that old and don't make enemies, guess you weren't doing your job. How did they get … get ….' He stared out the window. 'Is that Sophie?'

Outside, making a new trail through the fresh snow, was another snowmobile. This one looked brand new, somewhat larger than normal, with the usual two-seater layout converted into a single low bench. The centauride leaned over the controls, whooping evident despite the distance as the machine slalomed through drifts. A trailer on skis slid behind her, loaded with what appeared to be the largesse provided by elvish hunters; deer it looked like. It was too far to tell for certain. But the centauride's sharp eyes had somehow spotted him, given her exuberant wave.

He waved back, feeling somewhat at a loss. Then something connected with the forefront of his brain. "Husband?"

The elder elf gave him a defiant look. "I waited over fifty years for a wedding. I was not going to wait any longer."

He blinked. "Weren't you married?"

Gramps cleared his throat. "Um. No. Handfastin' aint' technically … uh … just chalk it up to my bad. We're not getting' into all that now. Time enough for flapping our yaps when the works' done. Right? Right. So I'm leavin' my place to you, Leif. Good luck. Thanks for everything."

Leif felt as if the world altered its axis again, like the county fair's tilt-a-whirl. He reached out to grab the back of his solid oak chair. "Leaving?"

"Yep," Gramps rose to his feet. He seemed to be in a hurry, although whether to avoid questions or in pursuit of some new goal, Leif couldn't tell. "If'n them cartels found me, they'll send a few more goons. You're safe now, they learned their lesson tryin' a moonshine run here. Nobody wants attention like what you folks gave 'em. So I'm headed south, see if I can chat up a few old buds. See some sights. Maybe drop in on a couple old friends."

"Wait. Hold it." He wondered from where the chilling voice of an angered demigod came, before realizing it emanated from his own chest. The rest of the room looked as if occupied by statues, down to Fanchon frozen in mid-step. "Gramps. You're bolting?"

The old man sighed. "Leif. I … it ain't the same. You was right. Gramps the old farmer left, he's gone. Everyone an' their brother's dog'll know. Uncle Sam knew a bit, but do yeh know what rules liminals have for land ownership? Tax problems? Huh?"

Gramps waited as Leif slowly shook his head. "Yeah. Nobody does, an' if they say they do, they're lyin'. Don't wanna leave a chuckaboo like you, but damfino what the Feds got planned. Total fifteen puzzle."

The intent was clear even if the terminology would require an evening with a dictionary. Leif made a mental note to dig out the older volume, when he had time. "So you're what, lending the land? Want me to find tenants?"

"It's yours." Gramps flapped a hand. "Deeded it over to yeh when we got the marriage license. Do what you want with it. Me, I'm gonna raise Cain. Been sittin on my ass too long. Need to get the drive back. Have a honeymoon."

The sudden declaration was met with an enthusiastic laugh from Aredhel's mother. Already poised to leave, she reached back, sliding what appeared to be a modern shotgun into a back holster outside Gramps's coat. Her own furs appeared to move with the weight of more bulk than necessary. More weapons, perhaps?

"Isn't he sweet?" Morgana leaned a freed arm around the spriggan's shoulders. "Diamonds are forever, but so are crippling injuries. Nothing says love like maiming an enemy."

Leif didn't know what to think when Aredhel's nodding spread to Fanchon and an embarrassed look of approval from Roanette. 'You think you know somebody. Ain't human. Gotta remember that.'

"So, you get your head on straight yet? Gonna try hitchin' up to a filly or three?" Gramps paused by the doorway, looking back. "Gotta take responsibility you know. I'm lookin' out for kin an all that. She's my daughter. Technically."

Leif glanced back at Roanette, spared the barest glance at Aredhel, then at Gramps. "We … talked," he echoed the spriggan's earlier phrase. "Ro' and I'll try dating. See if it works out. Take it slow. She's got her own place and I'm here, so that's fine. Just-"

Roanette kissed his cheek. "I think they understand, Leif. You can leave it at that."

He gave her a sour look.

"Waelp, thanks for the joe," Gramps stuffed his hat back on, pulling open the door. "Gotta get rollin', plane to make. Tans to take. Idiots to perforate. Thanks Leif. See ya around."

He raised a responding hand in farewell, unmoving. The door shut with a resounding thud, soon followed by a snowmobile's engine starting up again. As the sound faded, he shook his head. "When it rains …."

The sound of yet another engine caught his ears. "Had to open my fat mouth."

This time it was an oversized vehicle pulling into the drive, massive tires and powerful engine rumbling in the self-satisfied fashion only superior engineering and a confident driver could manage. The base vehicle once had been a grain truck, triple axles and narrow cab still present from its initial construction. But the rest had been replaced by what appeared to be a professional-grade series of upgrades.

He frowned. The vehicle was as recognizable as any could be, but there were no health problems. He was doing well – better than well in fact. Why had Doctor Nilsson come out so far? Oh.

Compounding the sense of change was an odd thumping, sliding sound. It was not too dissimilar from how Great Aunt Marge's sofa had made, when pushed a little too close to the edge of a long flight of stairs. But his own sofa was planted by the front window, and couldn't be lifted by anything less than a centauride in full flight. Or possibly a minotaur, he'd seen a few wandering around Havre, and they looked –

'Leather?'

There were multiple individuals in his basement, which was adjoining to the back entry through a flight of stairs. Would they …?

The sliding noise rammed into the back wall, as Leif's deductive reasoning made the equivalent of a klaxon warning in his conscious mind.

He twisted, grabbing Aredhel, whom was closest, and lunged away from the front door. Under the force of his movement they wound up lying in a tangle of limbs on the floor, which he shoved in desperate haste away from the route between the cellar to the entrance.

The front door swung open, letting in a blast of cold air and the largest man in the county. "Ho, Larsen! Brought my truck, are they ready?"

From the opposite direction, fast as a striking viper, came three long forms of sinuous scale and enthusiasm. One brushed against his and Aredhel's prone form, sending them spinning into the couch's front, a cushioned landing by great fortune.

The elf climbed off him, checking to make sure he was fine before turning a livid gaze on the lamia trio. "You could've killed us! What are you doing?"

Nilsson staggered into the living room, carrying the three individuals with him. "Leif? Leif! I can't … can you … help?"

Leif accepted Aredhel's hand up, taking a moment to steady himself, and take in the situation. The giant of a man was surrounded by humanoid coils, remaining upright through sheer force of will – or possibly just through sheer force of being a practical force of nature on two legs. "Looks like you got a handle on it."

The larger man freed a tail from around his eyes. "Whaddya mean …? Hey. Ladies. Ladies. Let me breathe, eh?"

It was hard, keeping a straight face. But Leif managed it. Watching someone else receive the more violent treatment was entertaining. He could see why others had laughed when it happened to him. The curiosity of whether a centaur weighed more than a lamia crossed his mind, but then checked itself into the same corner of his mind where all bad ideas went. Weight and women were two subjects one never allowed to survive outside of one's head. Especially when such individuals could crush you without using a single one of their many weapons.

"Come on in," he nodded thanks at Fanchon, whom had shut the front door. "Think the ladies are right eager to see you. Sit down. Take a load off."

He maintained a poker face as Nilsson staggered towards one of the open chairs, and lowered himself. It was an older chair, but not valuable, something rescued from a garbage pit sometime or other. Its solid construction and suitable positioning meant an interesting test could be made, in leif's mind.

The chair lasted a heartbeat under the big doctor's weight, compounded by three alpha predators easily his own mass.

"So." Leif resumed his own seat, noting Aredhel's position in the chair beside his own. He returned his gaze to the groaning pile of oversized individuals across the room. "Good trip? Have a nice Fall?"

Nilsson, flat on the floor, let out a pained grunt. Whether it was from the joke or from the floor-filled circumstances was unclear, but it appeared to get through to the lamia. At least, they began to struggle away from each other – liminals lacking lower limbs appeared to need a great deal of contact where their upper bodies were concerned.

"Bit of a tangled business, this Homestay program," Leif went on, straight-faced. The elf was giggling behind one politely raised hand, while Fanchon looked torn between helping the fallen giant and rushing into the kitchen to cover her expression. Roanette had already beaten a hasty retreat, her usual loud laughter muffled behind what sounded like a kettle. "But it should be downright edifying. Awfully big of you to do it."

Nilsson managed to free his arm, which proceeded to liberate the rest of him. He sat up, dragging a protesting lamia with it, before forcing the looped coil away from his torso and onto the floor. "Puns are the lowest form of humor, Leif."

He raised his coffee mug in salutation. Mount Rushmore's famed faces held more expression than his own. "Punintentional."

The other man missed the subtle pronunciation, or chose to ignore it. Given the quantity of babbling going on multiple levels around his frame, it could've been either. But Aredhel's shoulders were of unnatural straightness, the spark of mirth illuminating her eyes like distant stars.

"Here to pick up the trio?" Leif changed the subject.

Nilsson heaved his legs underneath himself, and rose like an ancient kraken beneath the waves. Two of the lamia had yet to untangle their lower portions from his shoulders, giving the impression of tentacles. "Yah, sure. You betcha. Put some heaters in the truck, figure it's about half an hour drive. Got a buncha blankets in there too. Should be fine."

"Take some o' mine," Leif offered. He walked over to a closet where heavy blankets were settled. "Here."

"Obliged." The other man wandered over, apparently unencumbered by the twenty foot length still wrapped around his leg, trailing behind. "Oh. Sorry, miss. Y'all doing fine?"

It was at times like these when Leif understood how far his neighbors had travelled. Few in Montana – and the next few states south for that matter – used the term y'all. It was a southern predilection, a form of dialect making regional communication difficult from time to time.

The chorus of agreements was broken when Jen'il, the lamia with umber-dark hair and viridian scales let out a pained yelp. "My leg – think I sprained it. Carry me?"

For a moment the room went silent as everyone turned towards the lamia. Her face went red, brighter than a stop sign, and her coils bunched back in a large ball in which she hid herself. Only the top of her head could be seen, and an elbow, sticking out through the loops. It too seemed to flush

Nilsson's face turned an interesting shade of pink, then back to normal. He laughed, before assuming a more serious tone, voice diving into the floor-rumbling depths. "Ma'am, I am a doctor. Let me take care of you."

The chorus of sudden injuries needing personal attention would've made a hospital's intake nurse gulp. How the lamia had managed to hide such crippling injuries while living under Leif's roof was beyond him, or so he pretended. Liminal courting behavior was beyond him. 'Better get familiar though, fast.'

It was while the third lamia pouted her way into the back of the modified grain truck that the conversation became somewhat normalized. Cold air blew through thin clothing like a weasel making its way through a hen house; even the most amorous lamia gave up in the face of subzero temperatures.

"How's the family?" Leif helped the big doctor shut the back door. "Got a brother in Minnesota, ya?"

"Ach, ja," Nilsson tilted his head back, inhaling the frigid air as if it were some exquisite bouquet. "Bemidji. Doing well. Nephew is in the Sandbox, contracted there. Think his company wants to send him to Japan. They got a big program going."

With the door safely closed, and small talk establishing suitable social capital, Leif stepped closer, away from the truck. "You alright?"

Nilsson glanced down at him, then stepped further away from the truck. He waited until Leif followed an equal number distance, and lowered his voice. "Truthfully? I don't know nothing' about liminals. Seems a cockeyed thing, getting' women and men alone like this. But … they promise to not do anythin' illegal, or whatever passes for that these days. An' if you can't give a little trust, can't expect it neither."

Leif regarded him with a steady gaze. "So … buncha satyrs shacking up with your niece?"

A grimace crossed Nilsson's face. "Can't say I'm exactly eager to see that. But I got a couple neko men stayin' with me, too. Keep an eye on things. Had a panic button installed, too. 'Sides. If anyone does something to my niece, the whole family's coming down like a ton of cast-iron bricks. Won't be enough left to bury, if the cops don't get there fast."

A deep sigh worked its way through Leif's chest. "Ya. But … think I got it figgered out."

"Oh?" Nilsson led them still farther, towards the throbbing engine side of the vehicle. Its twelve-cylinder diesel engine carried enough stopping power to haul multiple tons of grain. It was practical, and likely would work to keep the more sensitive-eared liminals out of hearing.

"Think." Leif folded his arms. "Born in America, you're a citizen. Not that way everywhere. But families need get took care of."

A deep frowned creased the skin between Nilsson's eyebrows. "Citizenship? That what all this is about? They aren't pushing so hard on that, are they?"

"Not just that," Leif shook his head. He deliberated, before electing for full disclosure. "Myths. Legends. Aliens. All monsters. How do you stop an invasion? Make 'em natives. Ain't an invasion if they're part of the family, yah? Bring 'em in, make 'em look harmless. Can't blame whoever for doin' things that way. If things don't go under control, we got the Witch Hunts, Holocaust, and Inquisition combined … genocide'd be just the start. Don't think they'd go quiet, either."

Nilsson leaned back, thinking. "Huh." He leaned harder, making the truck lean. "Huh. Interesting."

"If'n things don't go right," Leif glanced back at the ranch house, frowning. "Extinction. Way tech's gotten … maybe all of us."

"Can't exactly put the genie back in the bottle after this," Nilsson agreed. He slapped a hand against the truck's fender. "Well, no sense worryin' about it. What happens, happens, and we won't change it by messing around here."

He took the hint and stepped back. "Right. Good luck."

"Likewise." The door swung open, and closed with a final-sounding crash.

As the engine rumbled to an active state, the big man inside waved, a gesture Leif returned. Watching the truck depart felt different – as if something had changed. It took a moment before he realized what.

'First one off the farm. Didn't talk with 'em much, but what they're doin' is the whole point. This is a rest stop. Safety. Send 'em out after they get a chance to catch their breath, take 'em in if something goes wrong.'

That was … helpful. Astonishingly helpful. All his life he'd been a rancher. A farmer. A man that took of cattle, land, neighbors and siblings at one point. Taking care of land and animals came as natural as breathing. This wasn't the end of the Ranch, just a transition.

Cheered he reentered the house, smiling a greeting.

"Welcome home, milord." Roanette smirked at him. She seemed to be in a cheerful mood.

Leif sighed, rolling his eyes. "Hello yourself, Ro'."

"Yes, dear." Her smirk widened into a companionable smile. Moving with surprising grace, she backed into the living room, giving him more space to enter. His gaze was drawn to a neat stack of papers standing on the end table, next to the bookshelf. Roanette's large form lowered onto the long bench set in place, beside which sat Aredhel, pen in hand, watching. "There are some plans we would like to run past you, Leif. With the Exchange now in full operation, there will be recommendations, new people asking for donations, and so on."

He found a chair and sat. Fanchon meandered closer, settling on a smaller chair seeming designed for her physique. At least, he hadn't been aware of stools of such minor stature and fluffy coverings.

"Your acquisition of more land with so little effort will be seen as an aphrodisiac, amongst several liminal species," Aredhel commented. A tiny smirk lifted one corner of her mouth. "Given our position, I believe it is in our best interest to help you deter any would-be suitors. It will take some work, however. Perseverance is a virtue amongst many."

"Agreed," Fanchon's soft voice echoed. "I have ideas, yes. This world does not work like they may think, no?"

Roanette slapped the table with a gentle hand. "Exactly. But we cannot ignore the responsibilities for events, and we will need to make the new species arriving feel welcome while rejecting their advances. Ideas?"

As the group began throwing ideas around the table, it took a moment for the scene to sink in, but it did. Here he sat, going over paperwork and brainstorming with people that respected and cared for him in their own way. It was winter, complete with the slow, rising wind that meant another blizzard would arrive by nightfall. The kitchen gave off the warmth that only an active oven could achieve, and there was a soft humming sound from the laundry closet. It was the sound of home, with people that made it sound that way.

"Sure. What's first?" he asked. There was no reason to protest. Things were different than before, yet still the same. He was the same.

He was home.

Fin.

A/N: That's all he wrote, and the epilogue was as long as a standard chapter no less. I'll blame all of you readers for that; thank you for your kind and enthusiastic attention!

Future plans orbit around my finishing a Mass Effect tale on my other account, a Harry Potter sequel to Time Traveler's Life, and a bit of a tangent in the Monster Musume 'verse, this time focusing on a certain contractor headed for Japan. This series was done on a bet, but if you've enjoyed reading half as much as I've enjoyed writing, you have had a very entertaining time indeed.

Until next time!

Chuck