Picket was disoriented. Too much was happening at once. Chaos erupted, arguments tearing through the thin fabric of peace that had remained. Poor Edward had dragged himself back up from the floor, leaning heavily on Whit and supporting himself with the wall. Blood was dripping down his face and into his eyes. The wound on his forehead didn't look deep, but it did look infected. He was shaky and fevered, and gazed around the room, confused. In Picket's opinion, his cousin looked ready to drop again at any moment.

"QUIET!" Wilfred's voice roared across the room, ending the commotion. Edward clutched his head and moaned. "We need to get Edward help." Wilfred said, voice suddenly level and calm in comparison to the startled looks on everyone's faces.

"Uh, yeah. Obviously." Whit agreed.

"Where did he come from?" Smalls asked.

"Medical help first. Questions later." Heather and Emma said together, glaring at him. Smalls backed up.

"Got it. Clear." He mumbled. Picket was suddenly tempted to laugh but thought better. Emma called her team, but both she and Heather remained behind. Edward, shockingly, did not resist medical care. He's really sick. Picket realized. Something bad must have happened. No, not bad. Evil. Something evil must have happened. Whit paused at the door, squinting out through his one good eye.

"Did someone call the rest of pilgrim's band in here? Or did they let themselves in?" He asked. Flint snorted.

"They let themselves in." Whit turned at the voice, gaped a moment, tried to say something, floundered, and then back off into the corner to whisper something to Asher. Picket was once more tempted to laugh.

"Can you explain why they're here?" Smalls asked, raising an eyebrow.

"They wanted to be; I suppose." Flint responded carelessly. "They go where the want and answer only to me or Stoner."

"Who's-" Half the room echoed.

"That would be me!" A surprisingly cheerful voice called. One of Flint's band had appeared at the door. He was a stocky, shorter rabbit, who carried himself with authority and a cheerful demeanor, a combination that was strange to Picket.

"And here he comes." Flint muttered, taking another puff on his pipe. Smalls looked ready to bang his head against the wall, and Picket both sympathized, and wanted to laugh again, at the same time. The lords were muttering together again, and Asher and Whit were in the middle of a harried conversation mirrored by Kylen and Naylen. Picket leaned over and whispered to Jo,

"Total opposites, aren't they?" Jo nodded, eyes flitting between the two rabbits.

"I think the prince is losing everyone."

"He lost them ages ago."

"True. But there's no hope now." Emma shot them a look through narrowed eyes, and they silenced, smothering smiles.

"My name is Stoner." Stoner said, rubbing his hands together almost gleefully as he took a glance over at Flint, who shook his head and sighed. "I'm that one's younger brother." He pointed to Flint. The room became quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

"That's it, nothing can surprise me now." Evan muttered into the silence. Evidently, he hadn't meant for that to be heard because he flushed.

"Good, because it's only going to get worse." Stoner said, voice still cheerful. Picket couldn't tell whether he was being serious or not.

"Is that whole party somehow related to you two?" Smalls asked, his voice mildly sarcastic. Jo leaned over and muttered,

"Well, he's done."

"Definitely. Bet he'll call the rest of this council off."

"How much?" Picket was saved from having to answer that question by that very thing happening. The meeting, supposedly, would carry on in the morning. It was nearly midnight. Picket noticed Heather staying behind, exchanging a few words privately with Smalls. Flint stood up, seemed to have an argument with Stoner, and the two walked out carrying on that same argument. Picket felt a hand touch his shoulder and turned to see his father smiling at him. Whittel glanced over at Heather and Smalls for a moment, worry crossing his face, and then looked away. He nodded to Wilfred, and then began to head for the door.

Picket followed. The pain killers were beginning to wear off, the previous numbness of his entire right hand slowly ebbing away. The fact that he had lost bits and pieces of most of the fingers-if not all-was not helping. But he took a deep breath, resolved to chase Heather or Emma down for more medicine later, and ignored it for the time being. His foot, strangely, had healed almost completely.

He wondered how long he had been out. Heather had said it earlier, he had thought, but now he couldn't remember. Whatever the answers to his questions were, it was nice to be able to walk without having to use a crutch.

"Heather wasn't clear about her relationship with the prince." Whittel's voice jolted Picket back into the present, and he fumbled for a moment, trying to figure out what had just been said. When he finally caught up, his first thought was; oh, great.

"She never has been." He finally settled on as a reply. His father glanced at him, and Picket resolved himself to the fact that this subject was not going to drop.

"They aren't courting, are they?" Picket shrugged. Hey, he'd been asleep for a week and hadn't seen either of them interact for nearly three months. He had no clue.

"I don't know." He replied. "Smalls gets really red if you ask him about it, just ask Uncle Wilfred, and Heather suddenly becomes a brick wall whenever it comes up." He thought a moment, and then corrected, "A red brick wall." He paused, "Couldn't you just ask Heather?"

"Have you ever known Heather to be straight to the point?" Picket hesitated.

"Yes. She can be, but probably not on this." He paused; forehead furrowed as he considered what he was about to say. "She's…not the same, father, as she was in Nick Hollow. I know that you were with her for a few days but-"

"She's grown up. Like you. I think you've changed the most, son." Picket shook his head.

"It's been a long time." Whittel nodded, his face saddening for a moment.

"I'm proud of you, Picket. So much prouder than you can ever hope to know." Picket was having a challenging time speaking.

"Uncle Wilfred was there to guide me. And Master Helmer." With a pang he remembered that Helmer was gone, and he looked away, sudden tears forming in his eyes.

"Which means I am only more eternally indebted to your uncle." Whittel said, chuckling. The thought of Helmer reminded him of Weezie. She had already been on his mind earlier that afternoon, and he missed her. Missed how she could always make him laugh. "But, Picket, I do still feel the need to ask, is there something serious going on between Heather and the prince?" Picket shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn't like speaking for Heather, who was his sister, but he also didn't like speaking for Smalls, who was his friend. Finally, he answered,

"Yes. As far as I can tell, yes." Whittel nodded and didn't say anymore. "Are you worried about it?" Picket asked.

"Every father is worried about these kinds of things." Whittel responded lightly.

"That's not what I meant." A long pause, and then,

"Yes. I am. Not in the sense that I don't believe that he would ever do anything to harm her, but in the sense that I am afraid neither of them is quite ready." Picket couldn't agree. He shook his head.

"Father, this has been going on for months, years. They've been dancing around the topic and making excuses to me and everyone else about it ever since Smalls was revealed as the heir and maybe even before. And…..." Again, he hesitated, looking down. "And you weren't there. That's not your fault but it is the truth. Heather and I grew up while you were away, she isn't a sheltered little doe anymore, and I'm not a bratty little youngling. Things can't go back to being the way they were, and I don't even want them to anymore." He paused. "I learned the hard way that interfering does a lot more damage than help. Heather can handle this on her own, a lot of the secrecy is even her choice." There was a long silence on Whittel's end for a time, and Picket feared he'd said too much and overstepped a boundary. Then came the reply.

"I'm afraid, Picket, that your mother and I hid too much of the world from you and your sister. That we controlled too much. My instincts tell me that you are both still too young, too new, too vulnerable to be involved in this. I know now that I am wrong." He paused, letting out a long sigh. "I know in my head that Heather is old enough to manage her own relationships and that she should, but my heart remembers the grief and the pain she was in during her time in Akolan and longs to protect her from that ever happening again, even though I know I can't shelter her anymore."

"I'd listen to your head." Picket remarked. "Heather still scares me when she's in a temper." Whittel laughed.

"You can blame that on your mother." Footsteps echoed behind them, and they turned to see Smalls walking towards them quickly, a slightly relieved look on his face.

"I'm glad you haven't left." He said, reaching them. He turned to Picket, his face growing serious. "Picket, I need to talk with you for a moment."

.

.

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Poor Whit, he missed a lot. Yeah, so...In my timeline thingy it's been about two and half years since Nick Hollow.