~ * Together, As the Moon with the Tide ~ *

Part One

Donald and Della Duck are five years old when their mother, wild and fierce as the sun itself, drags her family away from the infamous money bin, her temper hot enough to light a thousand fires, to terrorize an army of men – and it has, on occasion, but for once . . . it's not enough.

It's not enough to melt the ice holding fast around her brother's heart.

Donald and Della Duck are five years old when Scrooge McDuck makes their aunt cry, breaks their mother's heart, finally drives an insurmountable ice pick between the last remaining members of the McDuck clan.

Donald isn't old enough to understand, isn't aware enough to truly grasp the gravity of the situation, the extent of his mother's ire, the depth of his aunt's despair – but he knows what uncle is throwing away. Scrooge is throwing his family away. And Donald resent him for it with every downy feather on his young, impressionable head.

He can't understand the gravity of this moment, and he's too young to properly remember the occasion when he gains the experience to understand it, but this he understands: his uncle is abandoning them.

Donald comes by his temper honestly. Nobody hurts his family and gets away with it. The name uncle means nothing to the fiery duckling when the owner reduced Aunt Matilda to tears and forced his mother onto the street.

"Coward," Donald croons and kicks Scrooge in the backside as hard as he can. Then he's out the door and down the hall as fast as his little legs can carry him, Della reaching for her twin and pulling him after her as the sound of Scrooge's pained squawks echo down the hall.

Scrooge McDuck doesn't chase his family out of the money bin that morning. He doesn't follow in the hot pursuit of vengeance, doesn't race after them begging for forgiveness.

"Miserable ol' man," Della declares, holding her twin's hand so tight it would hurt except this is Della, this is family, this is Donald's family.

"Aw, phooey, who needs him," Donald angrily agrees and they rush to catch up with their family.

Della takes their mother by the hand and Donald takes Aunt Matilda's. Aunt Matilda is still sniffling, tears running freely down her beautiful feathers, and Hortense is redder than the morning sun, but the women hold fast to the children.

Donald and Della Duck are five years old when the last of the clan McDuck abandons his family and lets his sisters walk out of his life.

Donald and Della are seven years old when the school calls their mother, whispering poison about speak impediment, needs therapy, developmentally challenged, will need to hold him back a year—

Donald is seven years old and his voice isn't like his twin's, isn't like the other children at school. Words get caught in his throat, garbled between his tongue and teeth. It doesn't matter how careful he rolls the letters around, how gently he holds the sounds between his teeth, when they come spilling forth from his beak, they jam together in a nearly unintelligible cacophony.

He sits in the living room, his back presses against the wall as his mother squawks indignantly into the phone. He sees her shadow on the kitchen floor, her feet pounding up and down as she leaps in place, her fury boiling over as she rages until her voice spirals into a nearly unintelligible croon like her son.

"So he's a little different!" his mother screams. "We'll get him the stinkin' therapy! But where dae ye get aff tellin' mah boy he's stupid! Mah son is smarter than th' smarties, dae ye hear mae?"

Donald closes his eyes. The angrier Hortense grew, the more pronounced her accent became. Della and Donald turned it into a game of sorts sometimes, like the impertinent imps their aunt claimed them to be. Who could make mom's accent the thickest? they'd laugh.

But there was nothing funny about the thick Scottish drawl that tore through the Duck household now.

"Whit dae ye mean you're holdin' him back? He doesnae need tae be held back!"

There is a noise at the other end of the phone, but his mother's squawks drown it out.

"Ye guid fur naethin'! We'll gie him the therapy! Gie us until Christmas, he'll be top ay th' class!"

His mother curses and screams down the phone, making promises Donald knows he can't keep. Top of the class by Christmas? He can do math, he can do science, he can write his letters . . . but Ms. Fowl requires the class to read out loud. His stupid tongue will never make the correct sounds, not by Christmas, not by Easter . . . .

Donald hangs his head in shame, temper shimmering in the back of his head, words that refuse to form bouncing around his skull until the buzzing makes his very being tremble, and he leaps to his feet, needing to get away, to escape, to—

And suddenly Della is there. She stands before her twin, eyes blazing. Where Donald is explosive energy, anger bubbling perpetually just beneath the surface, Della is cool. She is calm and collected and sharper than steel. Her rage burned not with the hot fire of her mother and brother, but with the chill of a thousand winters. Her eyes blaze ice-cold and she holds a hand out to Donald. He takes it and they run.

They run and run until their lungs burn and their legs are sore and Donald isn't sure where they are and he doesn't think it matters. There are trees surrounding them, dark foliage cradling the Duck twins like old friends and Donald screams. He screams and he shouts and he rages against the world with a voice that isn't like his sister's or his friend's or any duck in Duckburg.

When he's done, he collapses under the shade of a large oak tree, feeling at once too old and too young. Della drops to the earth beside him, her head fitting perfectly in the crook of his neck, her arms winding around him. It's warm and comfortable. Donald lets his sister comfort him, nuzzling into her feathers and squeezing his eyes shut tight.

"I can't Della," he croaks in his stupid, garbled voice. "I can't."

"It's okay," she immediately assures him, holding him so tight he can't fall apart. She understands him, she's always understood him, and it doesn't matter how garbled his voice gets, how much squawk his tone takes on.

"We'll find a way."

And they do, because they are the Duck twins. Donald goes to speech therapy. It helps, but only a little. What really helps is the ASL book Della checks out from the library. They practice together, this adventure as much Della's as it is Donald's. Family sticks together, and Della and Donald are more DellaandDonald, DonaldandDella, the Duck Twins, then they are anything else.

They learn ASL and Donald signs his final English tests with a poetic accuracy that nearly brings the translator to tears.

DonaldandDella are seven years old and family is more than enough.

DonaldandDella Duck are nine years old when Gladstone Gander utters the words "bad luck duck."

Gladstone is eight years old and a sporadic figure in the Duck household. Aunt Daphne blows through town with her usual pomp and circumstance, blonde hair angelic, nearly divine in the grime that is the Duck farm. She giggles and laughs, and Hortense banishes herself to the edges of the farm for the duration of the visit.

"Don't you like Aunt Daphne?" Della asked one day long ago.

"No," their mother replied honestly, dragging a hoe through the ground with enough force to break through the frost-hardened dirt.

"But she's papa's sister."

"Aye." The hoe hits the ground with less force this time, scrapping against the frozen upturned earth as their mother's face grows distant.

"And family sticks together, right?" Donald asked, his fingers entwined with his sisters.

"Aye, son, they do." Matilda sighed, her eyes on the horizon, seeing something the twins couldn't understand. She stood for a long moment in the cold early spring breeze. "Alright, let me finish this row and I'll come in and . . . and your Aunt Daphne and I will cook a big dinner, how's that?"

So, Hortense accepted her sister-in-law . . . in small doses. Donald and Della never paid it much mind, too excited tousling with another duckling their age. Gladstone might wear stiffer clothes than the twins, and was less prone to running through the forest or jumping into the creek with the same reckless abandon as his cousins, but he was family and family stuck together.

"Come on, Glady, we found an awesome new creek to explore." Della pounces on their cousin the second the golden duck crosses the threshold of the farm, wrapping an excited arm around the gander and whirling him around the room.

"Donney and I have been waiting all week to explore it, what do you say?"

He thinks about it long enough that Della punches his arm and Donald threatens to tackle him, before relents with a childish laugh of glee as the twins sweep him along on their newest adventure.

"Watch out for the rocks, they're super slippery," Della calls as they dance around the bank of a bubbling brook. It formed with the thawing of the winter, snaking wisp-like through the forest behind the farm and the children race along its side, eager to find where it would lead them.

"Ha," Gladstone snorts, hopping nimbly from one stone to the next. "I don't need to be careful; luck is on my side."

"Gladstone, for real, be careful!" Donald squawks as their cousin lands on the river-smoothed stone, wobbling as he loses traction.

"Whoops," Gladstone laughs, twisting in the air and Donald dives forward to catch him.

He misses, slipping on his own rock, and falls face-first into the icy embrace of the brook. He gasps despite himself when something hard pressing down on his back, forcing him deeper into the muddy bottom of the brook.

"Donald!"

He doesn't hear his sister shout his name, and he's too stunned to push himself back up. There's a moment of panic, of don't breath, can't breath, what to do—and then hands are grabbing his back and hauling him upright.

Donald hacks out mud and murky brook water, the cold spring air slicing through his wet feathers and chilling his very soul.

"Whoa there, Double D," Gladstone laughs, grinning at his cousin from the dry brook bank. He has one arm reached out, patting Donald on the back.

Donald blinks up at him then over to his side, where his sister sits in the brook with him, arms wrapped securely around his shoulders.

"Better watch your balance, but hey, thanks for giving me something to step on. I would have fallen in the brook if you hadn't swan dived first!" Gladstone laughs again while Donald shivers in the near-freezing waters of the brook.

"Guess it's just my luck." Gladstone winks at them.

"Aw, phooey," Donald forces out from chattering bills and lets his sister help him out of the brook.

He falls three more times on the slippery bank of the brook, landing each time with all the grace and pomp of a drowned rat, a flailing whirl of silt-slicked features and angry limbs. Gladstone finds an abandoned coat halfway through the journey, inexplicitly dry despite the onset of the rainy season and untouched by the elements.

"There ya go, Double D," Gladstone chuckles as he graciously lets Della throw the coat around her drenched brother. "Hey, you know, if I'm the lucky duck, then you gotta be the bad luck duck."

Donald tackles his cousin, managing to roll his way right back into the brook and ruin his newly acquired coat while Gladstone finds a twenty-dollar bill sticking in the grass.

DonaldandDella are nine years old, and Donald looks in the mirror at feathers so caked with mud it will take weeks to clean and a cut above his left eye, wondering if he is, in fact, a bad luck duck.

DonaldandDella are eleven years old when their father buries his sister.

The funeral is short, for all the attendance is vast. Aunt Daphne was beloved by many and admired by even more. Hortense stands guard at the door, arms crossed and face fierce, to stop any from disturbing her grieving husband and family. Aunt Matilda stands in front, an arm wrapped protectively around Gladstone as though she can save him from the inexplicable tragedy of orphanhood at such a young age.

"You're not my aunt," Gladstone had said, not in malice but in the lost, confused voice of a newly orphaned child whose world had been turned upside down.

"I am now," Aunt Matilda promised. "And family protects family."

Donald and Della stand on either side of their father, clutching his hands and pressing against his side. Donald thinks they are the only thing that keeps him standing as he buries his only sister. Della looks around their father at Donald, and they stretch their arms out enough to hold both their father and each other. Donald lays his head over his father's heart and closes his fingers around his sister's. It's not enough to soothe the aching pain but it brings a level of comfort to the grieving ducks.

The funeral is over and their aunt is laid to rest but the Duck family remains. Hortense joins her husband and children, her chin rests in the crook of Quackmore's neck as she holds them from behind, an arm around each of their children. Donald isn't sure when he arrived, only that when Aunt Matilda finally reached forward to gently guide the grieving orphan away from the grave, he was there.

Scrooge McDuck stood half a dozen paces behind the grieving family. He looked exactly the same as when the twins saw him last, down to the brown spats upon his feet and the golden cane held between his fingers. Scrooge stared at the Duck family and the Ducks stared back.

"Why you, you—" Hortense breaks the spell first, jerking away from her family and throwing her arms wide as though to hide them from her brother's view. "Ye dirty rotten, guid fur naethin'—! Who dae ye think ye ur? Efter aw thes' time?"

Hortense advances on the specter, fists raised. Scrooge drops his cane. Della and Donald watch in stunned silence as it bounces in the soft dirt, rolling away from its stingy, diligent owner. They want to run to their mother, to shield her, protect her, help her, but they are frozen to the spot. Hortense raises her arms and Scrooge holds out his own.

Donald expects blows to rain, expects shouts to pierce the sacred bubble of mourning, for their world to crumble down around them.

It doesn't.

Scrooge opens his arms and Hortense falls into them, weeping.

"Ah hae ye, lass. Ah hae ye," Scrooge whispers, wrapping his arms around Hortense Duck as the pair fall to the floor.

Hortense makes no reply, clutching at her brother like a duck drowning, her fingers curling into his feathers so tightly she must pull a few out. She weeps like a child and her brother holds her fast. Scrooge cups the back of her head and looks up to where Aunt Matilda stands, frozen as though struck.

"Matilda," he whispers and it breaks the spell. Aunt Matilda scopes Gladstone up in her arms and closes the distances between herself and her siblings. She curls up in the spot between her sister and brother, holding Gladstone in the center of the three, and begins to weep alongside Hortense.

"Aye, now lasses, aye now."

Donald doesn't know how long they stand there, clinging to each other. When they finally break away, Scrooge keeps a fast hold on both his sisters, hands digging into their own. Gladstone is in Aunt Matilda's arms, his arms around her neck.

"Gladstone," Aunt Matilda says, her voice no more than a whisper. "This is your Uncle Scrooge."

Della and Donald look up at Quackmore. Their father is pale and he stares back at them with a fathomless expression as the McDuck clan inches closes.

"Quackmore . . . I'm sorry," Scrooge says to his sisterless brother-in-law as he clings to his own sisters with all his might.

Quackmore understands.

Donald looks at Della, at her snowy feathers Grandma Duck methodically cleaned this morning, at her eyes that were glued to her twin's face, roaming over every feather as though terrified he would disappear. Donald looks at Della and thinks he understands too.

"Children," Quackmore says in a voice that trembles only just so that his wife and children are the only ones who discern it. "Children, say hello to your Uncle Scrooge."

"Hello Uncle Scrooge," DonaldandDella say.

Uncle Scrooge's eyes are obscured by his spectacles but Donald will swear until the day he dies that a tear escaped the miser's eye that day.

"Hello lassie, laddie."

The Duck Twins have an Uncle Scrooge once more.

Hortense and Quackmore tuck their children in that, despite the pair being far too old for such frivolities, and the twins allow themselves to be fussed over. Donald lies in bed, blanket pulled up to his chin, but does not sleep. He listens to the familiar creeks of the farmhouse, the wind as it breaks against the rafters. Down the hall, Quackmore is crying. The sound is so soft it is almost missed by attentive ears, but the farmhouse is quiet that night and the children listen with an intensity that brings Quackmore Duck's misery to their ears. Hortense remains silent, but Donald can see her, kneeling on the floor at her husband's side, holding him together as the twins had at the funeral as he weeps.

Donald slides out from under his covers. He pads his way to the door, slipping through like a brook through the soil. He reaches for Della's door, and isn't surprised when it opens before he can reach it. Della Duck stares at her twin in the doorway for half a heartbeat, as unsurprised to see him as he her. She reaches a hand out. Donald takes it and lets his sister pull him into her bedroom, the door closing soundlessly behind them.

DonaldandDella curl up on her bed, arms around each other until they're not sure where Della ends and Donald begins. They haven't nestled since they were ducklings, eleven-year-olds were too old for such nonsense, but tonight is different. Tonight, they wrap themselves in the familiar embrace of childhood and safety, clinging to each other as rafts on unruly shores.

"Don't you dare," Della begins, her voice shaking. "Don't you dare leave me."

Donald feels her words as much as heard them, each syllable buzzing against his feathers. "Don't you dare make me bury you," he tells her in a voice that trembles to match.

"If you . . . " Della can't bring herself to say the word. "I'll come down to Hades myself and drag you back kicking and screaming."

"If you lock yourself away, I'll hunt you down and drag you back kicking and screaming," Donald vows.

"Why did he come back?" Della's breath is ice as she remembers the phantom who appeared earlier that day. "After all these, years, why didn't he come back sooner?"

"I don't know." How could anyone throw away their mom? Their Aunt Matilda?

"Do you really think he's changed?"

Donald thinks of the golden tipped cane that carelessly rolled out of their uncle's arms so he could hold his sisters instead. "No idea."

"I'll never leave you for treasure," Della promises. "Or fame or fortune. None of it matters more than family."

She doesn't ask him to pledge the same, her words as much his as they are hers. She speaks for him and they both agree.

"DonaldandDella," Donald whispers back.

"DellaandDonald."

DonaldandDella are eleven years old and they have an Uncle Scrooge again, but more importantly they have each other.

Donald and Della are twelve years old when all they have is each other.

Hortense and Quackmore Duck will never see their twins turn thirteen. A car accident cuts their lives short, winks out the youngest of the McDuck clan with a bang that is only partially literal.

Della and Donald are in the backseat. Donald is sick. He has a fever of 103, his feathers stick together with sweat and he doesn't hear the accident. His body feels weightless, his mind free of thought. It's pleasant. For a moment, he thinks he hears his father calling to him, a hand on his cheek loving and warm. He will swear that Hortense smiled at him, kissed her sweet boy and pushed him back to Della.

He wakes up in the hospital. He knows even before his eyes crack open that Della is beside him. Against the wishes of the doctors, Della has climbed into the bed beside him, her arms wrapped protectively around him, her chin atop his head. It's hard to be afraid with Della curled beside him; Donald is confused when he spots the figures next to the bed. His brain works slowly, addled by the broken fever and a concussion he has yet to recognize.

Uncle Scrooge is at his bedside.

The older duck sits with his shoulders hunched, the golden tipped cane gripped tightly between his hands. He looks terrible, like he hasn't slept in weeks. Aunt Matilda is on his other side. Their mother's sister has managed to curl herself into the plastic hospital chair, one hand gripping Della's hand. She is the one who notices Donald is awake.

"Donney," she gasps and three pairs of eyes are on him.

Della doesn't lift her head up to look down at him as he expects her too. Instead, she tightens her grip on her twin, constricting around him like a snake bent on its prey as the adults hover over them.

"How . . . how do you feel?" Aunt Matilda asks.

Nobody tells him that night. He can't understand why his parents aren't there to comfort him but the words get caught in his throat worse than when he was a duckling so he turns to Della, pleading for her to answer his unasked question. But his sister won't look at him, tucked into his side like a silent shadow.

Uncle Scrooge is the one who tells him.

"Ah lad," Scrooge whispers. "Do you remember the accident?"

Accident?

"It was a dream."

"Nae laddie, it wasn't."

So their lives come crumbling down. DellaandDonald, DonaldandDella, the Duck Twins, the inseparable two . . . the orphans.

For the second time, they watch as someone buries their sister. Only this time it isn't just somebody else's sister, it's their mother. And their father. Their loyal parents, who tucked them in at night and taught them how to hoe the land, who held them in their loving arms and sang on stormy nights to keep the monsters at bay. Hortense Duck whose temper rivaled none and whose love exceeded even the bounds of her rage; Quackmore Duck with a temper and heart to match, who never shied away from hardship and gave to his family all that he had.

Hortense and Quackmore Duck are dead, and Donald and Della are left behind to pick up the pieces.

"We'll have to sell the farm, who will maintain it?" Eider Duck says with a pained sigh. "I have my own farm, I can't maintain them both."

"We could—"

"No Ma, that would be too much for you and Pa."

"We could take the children," Grandma Duck tries again.

"A farm and two children?" The voice is kind. "Won't that be too much for you in your age?

"They're my grandchildren—"

"I know, I'm not trying—"

"We'll move into the city if that's what it takes—"

"And leave the farm behind? Do you have enough to retire—"

"I can take them—"

"Matilda—"

"They're my sister's babies, I'll take them."

"With Gladstone? I know you mean well Matilda, but you already have one grieving orphan. We don't want Gladstone to feel misplaced or that his pain is less valid because the twins also lost their parents."

"Ah will take them."

Silence. Donald looks up from his hiding place, tucked into the corner of the house with Della as they listen in to the adults decide their fate. They know that voice, the accent painfully similar to the one they will never hear again.

"Scrooge—"

"Ah live in the area, mah house isnae far. They can go to the same school, be around their friends. Their grandparents won't be far, I can hire somebody to watch the farm." There were the beginnings of objections but Scrooge cut them off. "Ah have the money for them."

Della hiccups into Donald's neck. Donald decides he doesn't want to hear anymore.

"Let's go to bed," he says. Della doesn't fight him so the pair creep along the silent halls of their home (is it their home anymore?). Like the night when their aunt died, the twins do not separate but curl beside one another in Della's too small bed.

The air is suffocating, the sound of strangers echoing through the halls. A draft perfuses through the paneling of the farmhouse, sneaking into the bedroom of the children, but the twins don't feel the cold, too wrapped up in the emptiness inside them. Their parents are gone. Their parents are gone.

"They were taking me to the hospital," Donald breaks the silence long after the adults have fallen silent. The words weigh heavily on his tongue, falling through his beak in tangled up knots but Della understands him. She nearly tugs out his feathers as she shakes her head.

"You were sick, Donnie," she refutes, pushing against the guilt that has steadily risen in her brother since Uncle Scrooge uttered those terrible words. "You were sick, Donnie."

"I should've—"

"The other car hit us, Donnie, they hit us—"

Donald lets his sister's words wash over him, but for once they are not a soothing balm on his soul but meaningless dribble that slide past him. He lets his sister hold him close as their world falls apart around them, his cousin's old words coming back to haunt him: bad luck duck.

DonaldandDella are twelve years old, and their parents are dead.

Donald and Della are thirteen years old when they forgive their uncle.

The McDuck manor overlooks Duckburg. Uncle Scrooge sits across from the Duck twins in the back of his limousine as a driver pulls into the gated yard of their new home. Della presses against Donald's side despite the spacious arrangement of the vehicle, her fingers entwined with her twins'. Della looks out the window as they drive up to the doors of the mansion, but Donald keeps staring ahead. He doesn't care about the mansion, the splendor of the hedges or the golden statues. They pale in comparison to the rolling fields of the farm, the splendor of winding brooks and green grass. Of his mother's warm smile and his father's deep laugh.

His heart aches. He wants to go home, but the only home he has left sits beside him. His heart aches for things he can never have back (bad luck duck). Scrooge climbs out of the vehicle. Donald only follows suit at the gentle tugging from his sister. His body moves but Donald feels detached, like somebody else is in control, somebody else is putting one foot in front of the other as servants flutter around the car, picking up the twin's suitcases. Della grips his hand with both of hers and they follow Uncle Scrooge up the steps to the McDuck Manor.

A tall half-balding dog greets them. ("Children this is Duckworth. If you need anything, you just let him know.")

"This is mah room," Uncle Scrooge tells them as they walk down a long, dark hall filled with massive tapestries larger than the three ducks combined and cold artifacts sealed behind heavy-glass enclosures. There is nothing earthy or warm about the carpet under their feet.

"And these will be your rooms, when you're here of course, you'll still have your rooms back at the farm," Uncle Scrooge talks quickly, the words running into each other as he stops at twin doors adjacent to his own.

Donald supposes it makes sense to give them each their own room—after all they each claimed separate spaces in the farmhouse. The sight of the separate doors, however, sends a chill of terror up his spine that seals his throat shut tight and makes his knees weak. Della can't leave him, she can't, he can't bear the thought of being in the cold, wide room all by himself, he wants to go home, where is home, Della, Della don't leave—

"What's th' matter? Did Ah say somethin'?" Uncle Scrooge sounds panicked as he stares at his sister's children with wide eyes and it's only then that Donald realizes his sister is crying.

"I'm here," Donald promises. "Della, I'm here."

Uncle Scrooge's brow furrows at the mangled noises that escape his nephew's beak, and Donald feels like an alienated seven-year-old again, with a teacher who doesn't care enough to work with the different kid, and his mother is shouting down the phone—

Donald's hands tremble and Della is defensive at once.

"Ah, could ya repeat that lad—" Uncle Scrooge asks.

"No," Della snaps and pulls Donald into the room on the right.

The room is large, larger than even their parent's room back at the farm (and oh does that make his heart ache, thinking of home and parents and a time when the world was right.) The bed is tucked into the far corner of the room, it's plumage large enough to fit three ducklings; across the way is a dresser twice the twin's height. The rest of the room is barren.

"It's ah, a little bare," their uncle coughs, hovering in the doorway as the twins take in the scene. "Ye can fill it with yer things, and we can go shopping if—"

"It's fine," Della interrupts, her words short and cold, and their uncle grips his cane until his knuckles turn white.

"Oh… good. I'll just ah, let you settle in then."

"Thanks." Della's answer holds the same frost as her first reply, her fingers digging into Donald's.

Uncle Scrooge hesitates in the doorway a moment longer, but neither twin turns around or makes any notice of him. Eventually, he leaves the pair and his footsteps echo loudly in the empty hall. Della is shaking, her chest heaving as she stares sightlessly at the bed.

"I want to go home," Della says.

"Is it home without . . ." Donald can't bring himself to finish the sentence.

"He left Mom," Della whispers, tears gathering in her eyes as she trembles, with rage or with grief Donald can't tell. "Money is more important to him than family."

She casts a scornful look about the barren room. Donald watches their shadows on the wall and gives little thought to the stranger who walks away from his family once more.

"I'm tired." Donald feels the words more than he says them.

There's a whole mansion around them, filled with treasures and secrets from every corner of the globe. Their mother always promised to bring them here, to explore to their adventurous heart's content after their uncle waltzed back into their lives. Now . . . now the idea of exploring feels hollow, like a betrayal.

The Duck twins climb into Della's too large bed, despite being too old for such bedsharing, and comforted each other with the familiarity of their beating hearts.

Their luggage is brought but neither twin moves. Dinner is called but neither twin is hungry. Their uncle peers in, but Della holds fast to her brother and Donald doesn't lift his head. Scrooge leaves two bowls of soup at their bedside.

"I want to go home," Della repeats and Donald just holds her tighter.

It's a quarter after one in the morning when they finally move. The soup is cold but they're not hungry anyway.

"Do . . . do you hear that?" Della's head turns towards the entrance, where Scrooge had left the door open.

". . . yes," Donald says after a moment of careful listening. The noise is soft, near inaudible, but clearly coming from the room across the hall.

The twins look at one another before creeping forward. Uncle Scrooge's door is cracked just enough that the ducklings outside can see the shadow of the older duck on the polished floor. He's holding something in his hands, leaning over the object.

"Ah'm sorry Hortense," their uncle whispers and his voice sounds all wrong, croaked and tight and almost like the older duck is . . . is crying.

"I shoulda come back sooner, I missed so much time with ya and now—" Scrooge makes another choked noise and the twins can't deny it anymore. He's crying.

"Ah . . . Ah I don't know what ta do with the children, Hortense, I don't know what Ah'm doin' but Ah couldn't let them take the kids away from me to. They're all Ah have lefta ya, and Ah didnae want to let that go."

Della's face crumbles. She glances at Donald and Donald is thrown back to a night all those months ago when their father lost his sister. The loss of their parents hangs between them like a tangible thing but the thought of losing Della. Donald can't bear the thought. He can't imagine leaving her behind, can't fathom not speaking to her for years, but the thought of there being no more Della – it's unbearable.

Donald doesn't realize he's crying until Della reaches out and touches his cheek, his tears falling on her hand.

They must make some noise, some sniffling or audible crying, because a moment later Scrooge McDuck is standing in the doorway. His eyes are red and a photograph is held against his side. He takes in the sight of the crying ducklings, his face exhausted and Donald is suddenly reminded that Scrooge was several years older than their mother.

"Ah laddie, lassie," he sighs and comes to his knees before the children.

Della is the one who closes the distance. Her hand falls away from Donald's face as she launches her herself into Scrooge's arms. Scrooge drops the photograph in surprise and Donald spots the fiery red hair of his mother. The sight makes him sob out loud and Della yanks him into the hug. Donald's head collides with his uncle's shoulder so hard his teeth chatter. Scrooge adjust, lifting his arm and pulling both of his sister's children closer.

Donald is tired, he's physically and mentally exhausted and decides that it's easier to accept the comfort than continue to fight against it. What good will it do him? His mom is dead. His dad is dead. His sister is here and he can't imagine her being anywhere but at his side.

Donald ducks his head into his uncle's shoulder and grabs his sister's hand tight. It's not the same, the embrace doesn't heal the gaping hole in their hearts, but for now, it's enough to stop the three ducks from falling apart.

DonaldandDella are thirteen years old, and their uncle builds a door between their rooms.

A/n Not the story you wanted or expected but here we are. The first non PJO story I've put out in god only knows how long. Please excuse any mistakes with the Scottish accent, it's cobbled together from Don Rosa's dialogue and whatever Google suggested. I have no idea what timeline this is, mostly the reboot Ducktales with my favorite parts from Don Rosa, the original Ducktales, and some Duck Avenger timeline for the next part. There will only be two parts.

I will update Art of Observation eventually. The next chapter is written and in the process of being edited. Life has not been kind. I hope it has been kinder to you. Please let me know what you think and, as always, I hope you enjoyed ~*