I'm far enough into my 30s now that I can't ignore it anymore. I can't help but realize that, whether you measure it by years or milestones or some other metric, I've reached a new stage in my life.

Oh, sure, I have a lot of the same hobbies as I used to. But the person I want to be, the legacy I want to leave behind—if I may be permitted to be as dramatic as the protagonist of this story—is in sharper focus than it's ever been.

I hope that dusting off this work after so long is a lesson, to me as well as to anyone else who might need to learn it:

The path you're meant to follow won't abandon you. It will always be there, ready for you to find it. Even if you feel lost, even if you feel like you've abandoned it forever.

Your destiny, whatever it is, will be waiting for you.

I'm not trying to say that this story is my destiny. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I hope, in one way or another, that coming back to it will lead me there.

1.

Pegasus feels like every 1950s cliché as he watches his mother read a story to Seto and Mokuba. He stands, with his father, off on one side of the room. He supposes the image would be complete if he had a cigar to gnaw on right about now. He contents himself with hot cider.

Perseus has opted for an Old Fashioned—made with dry gin, which he insists is the only proper spirit to use if you know your history—and looks quite self-satisfied about it. He says: "Not quite the way you pictured this year ending, is it?"

Pegasus still isn't sure what to make of how personable his father has been this evening. He wonders whether or not Perseus is being sincere, reminds himself that he is perhaps the only person on the face of the planet with the ability to check, and just barely stops himself from using his hidden eye.

"Better to not," he murmurs to himself, half in reprimand; the irony is not lost.

"Hm?"

"Most assuredly not," Pegasus says, more sharply than he would have liked. "If I'm to be honest, I hadn't really put much thought to where this year would take me." The words taste like lies, so much so that he nearly chokes on them. "Until this," he gestures, "I must admit that I was rather listless. I suppose that sounds odd. Here I am, barely old enough to vote, at the helm of a fledgling media empire. Listless, indeed."

"That would be my doing, I suspect." Pegasus blinks, then stares at his father. Perseus's face is untouched by anything even close to guilt—but neither is there pride. "I taught you, whether I intended or not, that financial success is a given. Affluence is no legacy. It is expected."

"Maime put you up to this."

Perseus barks out a sudden laugh. "She may have had . . . words for me, yes." He smiles for a moment, that same thin-lipped smile he's always had, but it doesn't last. He sips at his glass and sighs. "You are young, Pegasus. Your mother believes that I have convinced myself you are too young to make the decisions you've made. Too young for them to have been decisions at all."

"And do you agree with her?"

Another sip. Another sigh. "I think I do. Yes."

Pegasus contemplates his own glass. "I'm impulsive. I don't think I have to convince you of that." A devilish little grin slips onto his face. "I'm a gambler, you might say."

Perseus laughs again, and this time it feels sincere. "Seems the proverbial apple doesn't fall far, after all."

Toiréasa is still hunkered over a storybook, Mokuba fidgeting in her lap and Seto sitting as close to her as he dares, but her eyes find her son and husband, and they're sparkling. She smiles as she prompts Mokuba to flip the page, then gasps and points at something. Mokuba squeaks with delight and bounces around.

Seto starts blinking in rapid succession.

"It's a good thing you're doing, Pegasus. For these boys."

Pegasus shrugs. "I do what I can."

"Is the adoption a sure thing?"

"Technically, no. I may end up fostering them for up to a year, while the state determines if we're a good match as a family. Do I worry? I think I do. But perhaps that's for the best. Nothing could be more poisonous in a situation like this than arrogance."

It's Perseus's turn to stare. He frowns thoughtfully, then nods. "Wise words," he says, after a silence. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were my son."

2.

"You have to move?"

Pegasus recognizes the tone in his mother's voice; he knows that if he says the right words, she will rain a thousand storms upon whomever would dare to put such an obstacle in front of her baby. It's a comforting thought, but one that Pegasus knows he can't entertain for too long, or he might just succumb to it.

Succumbing to things he shouldn't is something Pegasus Crawford has some experience with.

"Until the adoption is finalized," Pegasus says, choosing his words and his tone very carefully, "I am not permitted to take them out of the county. I had to convince some rather lovely people to . . . turn a blind eye, if you follow me, just to permit this evening. I can't even take either of them for a haircut without permission." Pegasus draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "And anyway, Domino City is all they've ever known. It's the last bastion of normalcy in their lives, apart from each other." He isn't sure if the sad look on his face is manufactured or not.

Whatever the cause, it seems to be working on Toiréasa. "You don't want to force them to uproot," she says softly.

Seto is sprawled out on the couch, snoring lightly beneath a heavy quilt. Mokuba is curled up next to him, snoring even more lightly. The book Mistress Crawford used to facilitate their trip to dreamland is lying like a hallowed artifact on an end table near Seto's head. The three Crawfords watch the children sleep and feel a kinship they haven't felt in years.

"Exactly." Pegasus knuckles his eye, unsure if he's crying or sweating. Perhaps both. "If they wish to leave their city behind, that's all well and good. But for the moment, even if I could keep them here, I don't think I would." He smiles. "Mokuba is young enough that he can adapt to anything. But Seto has enough to worry about. I'll not add a new city, a new school, new people, new problems, to that list. Not when he's just starting to come out of his shell."

Toiréasa hums low in her throat. She's silent for a moment, contemplative, and her eyes don't leave the children when she finally says: "You've been on edge all evening. It radiates from you like heat waves." She frowns. Her eyes finally find her son again. "You were worried about how we would react to this. That this would be some sort of test."

Pegasus flinches, then offers up a sigh. "'Twould seem I have been caught."

"You're an adult, darling. Your decisions are your own. You know that, right?"

Does he, ever. "I'd hardly consider myself an adult just yet, Maime."

"You've struck out on your own," Perseus says. "What you've built, you've built with your own initiative, your own connections. You've gathered the resources to make a mark on the world. It wouldn't be proper of me to assume anyone but myself is at fault for your discomfort. But hear me, Pegasus." The Crawford patriarch's face is as stern as any memory Pegasus has ever tried to ignore. "If there was a test being run here tonight, all three of you have surely passed."

Toiréasa puts a hand on Pegasus's shoulder. She squeezes. "If anything, I think your father and I have some work ahead of us, to ensure that our visits are more comfortable than this from now on."

Perseus nods. "Indeed."

Pegasus licks at his lips. Wonders why his chest is so heavy all of a sudden. Why he feels like his breath is too thin. Then, as he wipes away tears he didn't know he could shed, he finds a smile. "T-Thank you for coming. Maime. Athair. I hope you . . . had a good time."

Toiréasa pulls Pegasus into a hug, kisses his forehead and then his cheek. "A lovely time. You're a fine man, Pegasus Jareth Crawford. I've never been prouder of you."

When she steps away, Pegasus still finds some measure of surprise when his father offers up an embrace next. It's perfunctory, a bit stiff, but Pegasus surrenders to it quite gratefully anyway.

"Whatever sins you carry, real or imagined, the family you've built for these children is a shining virtue, and no one can take that from you."

The Crawfords turn to face Croquet, who's slipped into the room. He bows his head. Pegasus knows what he sees in his steward's eyes—not accusation, but knowledge—and forces himself to face it head-on.

"Well said," Perseus says. "Whatever we do, the future we build for the next generation is ever paramount."

Croquet's smile widens. He looks over at the boys.

"Exactly."

3.

"When this first . . . came to me," Pegasus waves a hand in the general vicinity of his left eye, "I swore to use it to gift to my dearest love the life that had been stolen from her."

"The life that was stolen from you, you mean. You'd convinced yourself that the unconscionable hardships you'd faced—living in a mansion where every possible need and want was delivered to you on a platter, but with parents who didn't pay enough attention to you—meant you'd earned the right to a doting, dutiful wife."

He glances at the specter of Yuki Yagami with some chagrin. He still can't decide if she is an entity all her own, a spirit who he has been granted the vision to see, or if she is simply some fractured manifestation of his own insecurities, given some mockery of sentience. "I'm surely not qualified to make that distinction." Pegasus smiles. "I'm a touch biased."

There is a long beat of silence.

"They've never had grandparents before." Yuki suddenly looks melancholy. The hard edge that has defined her so starkly, every time he's seen her, is gone. She turns in the direction of Seto and Mokuba, and Pegasus is sure that she can see through the walls separating them; his understanding of what she is gains no added insight from this. "We were a very insulated little family."

"But a happy one, surely?"

Yuki smiles. It isn't a particularly pleasant smile. "I certainly like to think so." She pauses. "I'm a touch biased."

"They're good boys." Pegasus's own smile, a defense mechanism at best, softens a bit. "Mokuba is happy and healthy. Seto wouldn't have been able to do that if he hadn't had a strong, stable example to learn from."

Yuki snorts. "Oh, certainly. I deserve a medal. At least I taught him how to bury his pain." She turns back to look at Pegasus again. "We betrayed them. We left them to the wolves. Don't you make a repeat performance of that. You hear me? Don't do it."

Pegasus draws in a steadying breath. "As I said." He gestures to his eye again. "When I first received this . . . gift, I resolved to use it for my beloved. I can't tell you whether it was honestly for her benefit, or because I simply felt robbed of a happily married life. I can't tell you whether I was being selfish when I promised myself that I would do everything in my power—everything in this eye's power—to bring her back to me." He stands up, and Yuki follows his ascent with her eyes. "What I can tell you is that I was scrambling for a purpose. But this?" He gestures about himself, knowing that she must understand him. "This purpose suits me just fine."

"Be careful, Pegasus Crawford. Don't let your grief convince you that they'll fill the void in your heart." Pegasus flinches, but he turns and looks back at Yuki even though he doesn't want to. Her entire essence is somehow fiercer. She doesn't move, so much as she's sitting one moment and standing next to him in the next.

"Hm," he offers. He chews on his lip.

"Don't place that burden on them. Don't you do that. They've been through enough. You are responsible for your own happiness. It's your job to lift them up. Don't forget that."

Pegasus lowers his head, as if praying, and offers a soft little nod.

"You're right. Of course you're right."

"Do you believe that? Or are you just saying that because you think that's what I want to hear?"

Pegasus laughs louder than he intended.

"I wish I knew."

4.

Did he sleep?

Pegasus isn't sure. He certainly doesn't feel quite exhausted enough to make him think that he's pulled an all-nighter again and simply doesn't remember. So he supposes he must have slept. All the same, he can't remember for certain when the sun came up, or what he's been doing for the past number of hours. He goes through the motions of making himself presentable: a quick shower, shave, and thorough brushing of his hair. Once he's dressed in something he hopes counts as casual—he's relatively sure that it doesn't—he makes his way out into the front room.

Seto is seated, all prim and proper, on the couch where he'd slept. The book Toiréasa read to him the night before is open in his lap, and he's studying it like it contains ancient wisdom. Mokuba, meanwhile, is still sleeping.

It takes a long moment of contemplative silence for Pegasus to realize that Seto's shoulders are shaking. A quiet little sob escapes the boy's lips, and Pegasus is by his side before he remembers telling his body to move. He doesn't speak. He simply sits, and tentatively puts an arm around the boy who would be his. He grips Seto's arm.

It isn't the story that has Seto so arrested; the book, Pegasus is sure, barely exists. A note, written on a quaint little card of stationary, is sitting there. Pegasus recognizes his mother's handwriting immediately.

"She left me . . ." Seto manages to say, so softly that Pegasus hardly hears him, ". . . a card."

Pegasus finds a smile. "Did she, now? And what wisdom has Maime imparted to you, dear boy?"

Seto sniffles, tries to speak, then simply tilts his book to the side so that Pegasus can read Toiréasa's missive for himself. It reads:

It would not surprise me if my son has told you one of my favorite prayers. It goes like this: if every person were like me, what kind of world would this be?

I don't think I would normally ask that question of a person as young as you are. You have more important things to be doing than puzzling over the musings of an old lady. But you know? After meeting you and your brother, I realize that I don't have to ask what kind of world we would live in, if every person were like you.

It would be a lovely world indeed.

I hope that this is only the first of many meals we share together, and that one day I will be able to share stories with my friends and colleagues about my darling grandsons.

Another prayer, if you don't mind indulging me: may your dreams be soft, and your mornings warm.

Toiréasa Aine Byrne-Crawford

Pegasus pulls Seto closer, and plants a soft kiss atop the boy's head. "'Tis my dear mother for you." Seto is still struggling to regain his composure; something about Mokuba's quiet snoring just nearby makes Pegasus's heart ache with something like nostalgia. Seto leans against Pegasus's side. "I would never have you forget where you come from." As always, Pegasus chooses his words carefully; but this sentiment, he thinks, is particularly delicate. "Even the people and places you would rather forget." Seto flinches, and Pegasus is reassured that he was right. "It does not do for us to forget our roots. But, if I and mine have done our jobs, then hopefully you won't find it too difficult to . . . add a new settlement to the map of your family."

Seto is silent for a moment, then he says: "You talk like a Jane Austen character."

Pegasus feigns offense. "Well! I should hope so. I did not spend my childhood engrossed in classic literature for nothing, I'll have you know. Honestly. Children these days."

"You're barely older than I am. There's as much time between us as there is between Mokie and me."

Pegasus scoffs. "How disrespectful you are to your elders. Look! You're turning my hair grey!"

Seto glances up, eyes twinkling, and giggles.

Pegasus grins.

Mokuba rolls over, reaches out, and clutches the hem of his brother's shirt.