He was sore, and stiff all over, by the time they had gotten back to Alderheart. They passed through the crowds in a blur that made him feel uneasy. The happy faces and the cheers made him feel happy, too. The sad faces, some fighting tears while others gave in to them, followed by the heart rending cries brought him down to depths he had not felt in a long time in his short life. A lady raptor was crouched over a young male, lying on a cart covered in cloaks. Over the cheers and throb of the crowd around them, he head heard the steady dripping of blood from that cart onto the ground. He had traced one of its origin points to the boy whose mother was weeping over him.

That's your mum, something inside warned Mickey. That will be your mum, someday.

Mickey decided not to think about it.

Staring was rude, and Mrs Goodsnout was heading to the Temple of Gaspard to sleep. Mickey liked Mrs Goodsnout. They climbed the winding avenues on the outer bark of The Great Tree, following the way laid out by brightly burning lanterns with cut coloured glass in them, advertising the Lord Amaranthines in turn.

Gaspard's Temple was of a newer design than some of the ancient structure that towered about it, half of them hidden behind picturesque growths of ivy, many decorated with imported polished marbles of colours that matched the guiding glass in the lanterns. Compared to these old places, which made the small Jerbeen think of dust for some reason, his friend's house was inelegant, almost crude in its design. Thick clouds of incense from fires long quenched still hung sickly sweet in the air. Banks of candles provided the only illumination. Here and there amid the gloom young Mickey Tanner spotted figures genuflecting, or praying on their knees. The chapel entrance lay open, revealing pews with huddled figures here and there. A light source he could not determine illuminated a stunning arched window of stained glass at the back of the room, causing a cascade of colour to flood down over a white alter, before surging down halfway along the cobbled floor, funnelled by the ruggedly cut pews. Mickey stared at bared, bowed heads covered in shades of crimson and scarlet, and thought of the weeping mother, still probably on the ground, huddled over a motionless, silent face.

He wanted to think of other colours, of bright blues, warm greens and stark yellows. But his clothes creaked as he instinctively twisted a kink out of his back. The red returned as Mickey regarded his shirt, covered in brown from all of the blood that had left him after Brutus had stabbed him, only a few hours ago.

Mickey Tanner was suddenly more tired in that moment than at any time before in his life. He needed rest, badly. He had nearly died, tonight. His mother could have been like that poor lady he had left down at the base of the tree. He recalled Louie then, and the dozen children he had left behind so he could fight for the bandits. Were any of them out there in the dark, looking for their lost father as he was?

Mickey did not know. He didn't want to think. There were too many different things floating around in his head. None of them felt good. Some of them even hurt to dwell on. So many people were sad, tonight. Why couldn't he stop it?

Mrs Goodsnout had wished him goodnight, and so had the very nice priests that had led them to some quarters usually reserved for acolytes. Mickey changed clothes, after someone offered to clean the blood off of the ones he was wearing. He had sat on the bed for a little while, but only until he was sure that nearly everyone else was sleeping.

The candles were mostly burned out, but a few flames flickered stubbornly here and there. The only dependable source of light to guide him was surging brilliance from the open doors in the chapel. Mickey walked inside with a mendicant's silence.

Gaspard stood in brilliant colours at the centre of the stained glass behind the altar. It marked his ascension to godhood, while the smaller windows that cut into the buildings flanks marked the Stations of the small mouse journey into Divinity.

Mickey stared up at the oddly cold face, which looked down at him with an expression the boy could not envision on the real thing. Meadowfen, his home, had a small Temple dedicated to Gaspard in it, and which the boy had never set foot in. He wouldn't have come here now – it was rude to wander into someone else's house uninvited, after all – but things were bothering him. Questions he could not begin to understand were lingering in his head, punctuating the passage of breaths and heartbeats with low, feminine weeping.

Praying was as alien a concept to the boy as the notion of organised faith was. He could never quite understand why Mrs Goodsnout kept telling everybody she met about how great Gaspard was. It wasn't like he disagreed, of course. The whole process just seemed to be a little pushy for him. If Gaspard wanted to have a chat with someone, as fas as Mickey could tell, he just, well, did it.

But did that go both ways?

"Can we talk?" He whispered, eyes firmly fixed to the ground, as his hands fidgeted nervously just at the edge of his vision. "Please? I'm sorry it's so late, and…I know it's not nice to just come in here like this without an invitation, but…."

Mickey trailed off, biting his lip as the words dried up in throat. Tears were threatening him. He didn't know what to do.

"I'm sorry!" He gasped out suddenly, losing his nerve.

He wanted to run back, and to disappear into the tiny, unlit room where he could hide, and where the walls were thick enough that no one would hear him crying. But something came over him, then: a new wave of exhaustion unlike any he had ever felt before. It seemed to come crashing down from the coloured glass from the great window, washing over him and carrying him away with emptiness. It guided him to one of the nearby pews, which he slumped into. Feelings slipped away from his limbs, from his tail, and then spine.

Mickey Tanner sighed, letting go of everything as he did so. His head slumped back into the pew...and kept going.

A sensation of motion brought him back to the now at once, letting him land on his feet with little difficulty, for gravity's grip here had become quite lazy.

All about him the chapel loomed black, and unlit. Light came from empty windows, revealing something other than a great city outside.

Hello, Michael.

He was sitting at the foot of the altar, with sorrow on his face and wells of stars in his eyes. A hand rose from his lap, and patted the empty space on the step beside him.

He was there in a second, covering an impossible space at an impossible pace. It was only when he sat down, did Mickey notice the pews.

"Who are they?" He asked, though he did not know why. As he looked across their faces, flickers of recognition began to gather together into a flame in the back of his head. Many faces were staring back at him, and knew every single one of them.

At the front of them all sat Brutus. His eyes were firmly fixed on the ground, and he was fidgeting nervously.

People you have faced and fought, on your path. People you have triumphed over, and either killed, or spared.

"But I haven't killed anyone," Mickey replied, almost protesting. Brutus looked afraid. He did not dare meet the Jerbeen's eye. None of them did.

I know, Michael. I would prefer if you didn't. It's not for you, that kind of thing. Leave that to others.

Mickey nodded, feeling a little relieved. The truth was that he did not liking hurting people. Brutus had nearly killed him – would probably have killed him – if given the chance. There had been real anger behind the blows that had finally dropped the big beast, and yet as soon as the male lay unconscious under him, and the euphoria of victory had passed, Mickey had felt absolutely monstrous. Brutus had killed other people. The wanted poster Hunter had shown them all after they'd collected the bounty had made very clear to the small boy that Brutus had done terrible things to a great many people. There had been calls in the crowd to lynch the mapach as soon as his identity was known. Mickey had stood back from it all, feeling little better than a spectator to a terrible drama. He had been glad that the perch guard had taken control so quickly. . He was very young still, and knew he was not smart enough to figure out how to handle the pain of all the people Brutus had hurt, or found a way to make them understand that they needed to wait for Justice, and not Revenge.

"Things are getting bad," Mickey sighed, feeling as if he were making a confession. "Lots of people died tonight. I didn't want them to die. I don't want anyone to die. Everyone's so sad outside. Is it my fault, Gaspard? Should I have stopped it?"

A gentle arm extended, and wrapped itself around his shoulders. He felt his head pressing against something indefinable: something warm and kind, yielding, and yet hiding something terrible to behold.

You couldn't have, Michael. This is not your story, alone. Everyone must make their own decisions, and face their own consequences. To live is to suffer, and suffering makes the measure of us. All you can do is trust yourself, and one day, perhaps a few others.

As if compelled, Mickey opened his tear streaked eyes, and stared down at the handful of figures in the mostly empty pews. He found Louie, sitting among the small crowd.

You did not take him from his children. You did not place the sword in his hand. You did not command him to do the things that he did. Another did, and at every stage he had a choice, as you did. As I had. As we all do.

He was pulled away from the unmatter he had pressed and wept against. Wells of stars filled his vision. The sight of infinity filled the boy with a warm feeling of certainty.

I am giving you a gift, Michael. You want to make the world better. I will help you as I can, and as you become ready for more, I shall return it to you. It is but a small spark, but kindled properly, you shall create a great and glorious flame.

Mickey bit his lip.

"What if I'm not good enough?" He asked. "What if I fail? What if I'm not smart enough to learn how to be better?"

A smile, that made Mickey think of of a warm sunrise spread before him. A solitary finger pressed against his forehead. He began to lean back, going with the flow.

My goal is not to teach you, Michael. Our goal is to make you remember.

The tap felt like the lightest thing in the world, but it altered everything. The warmth of the sunrise spread out, and touched him. Fire the colour sunlight blazed over him, engulfing him in an instant. There was no pain. There was no fear. This was the warm centre of the universe giving up some of what it had. This was the Light of all Light, rising up against the eternal, dreaming dark. Gravity remembered its power, and Mickey felt the tilt of the real world…until his the back of his head touched the pew, and he was awake.

He awoke with a yawn, feeling better rested than he had in a long time. The stiffness, and the sores were gone.

Morning had come, and sunlight lanced its way into the vast chapel in a brilliant cacophony of colours.

Mickey Tanner sipped out of his pew, and met the eyes of the God that blazed down upon him, and smiled gratefully.

"Thank you!"

The jerbeen left the Temple with a skip in his step, and an ardent desire to consume pancakes covered in ludicrous amounts of honey. Last night had been tough on him, but he was still here, and a little treat wouldn't hurt.