Snip-snip.

Locks of gold fell with each quiet clip of the scissors. When Aranea first set to the task, she was terrified. Surely she would get it wrong. Her hand would slip, the cut would be unflattering. Somewhere along the way she began to relax. Now, with the finishing touches, she could take a deep breath and relax knowing she had the approval of her client.

Setting the scissors aside, she brushed off his shoulders then pressed a warm, damp towel to the back of his neck to draw up the clingy little bits that made a person itch if left behind. Looking at him objectively, Aranea thought he looked like a model from the cover of GQ.

It was a drastic change for Michael, who hadn't worn his hair short since he was a child. He eyed himself in the large mirror on the wall, examining his reflection critically.

"Do you want to see the back?" the haircutter asked.

He nodded once. She offered him a hand mirror then turned his chair around so his back was to the bigger wall mounted mirror. Her salon was established in the shell of an old Regis; all the tools and furnishings had needed cleaning when she first set up, but now it was as fine as it ever had been, albeit lit with gas lamps.

Michael eyed the back of his hair and ran a hand over the shortness. Then he looked up at the woman. He smiled.

"Just like I wanted," he said. "You've done well."

After the stress she'd been under, the praise made Aranea's head swim. She took the mirror back, beaming with pride. "Thank you, my Lord. You are too kind."

He fished from his pocket a handful of gold tokens, currency minted in New 'Salem that any local merchant would accept. It was the equivalent of a week's wages for the hairdresser.

"Oh, thank you, Sir," she breathed.

Michael rose, tugging the smock off. He dropped it and the now-cool towel in the chair. "Burn what you've cut off. I will see you again when I need a touch-up."

She collected the coins, nodding. "Yes, my Lord. Thank you."

He left the salon. Aranea looked down at the long blond hair that circled the chair. She was tempted to scavenge some, for the prestige and the magic it might contain. Would he know if she kept some? The thought of being caught terrified her. She didn't want to be fed to the Leviathan.

She set to sweeping, gathering all the cut hair into her dustpan. She did a thorough job of cleaning the floor. Out back, she burned what she had swept up. Once the fire had died, she spread the ashes over the threshold of both the main door and the back door.

Satisfied, she put away her cleaning tools and went to tidy up the cutting station. She saw the neck towel Michael had discarded. Tiny bits of hair clung to the terry cloth. Aranea gathered it up reverently. Clutched it to her chest. Surely Michael wouldn't fault her keeping her towel. She had precious few of them.

And what harm could it do if she carefully folded and stowed the unwashed towel away for safekeeping? It wasn't the same as collecting his hair from the floor. It was an incidental souvenir. Surely no one could fault her in keeping it. Especially if she never told anyone she had it.

—

Michael stepped out onto the street. The sun was just beginning to set. It had been over a week since his fight with Belial and things were finally getting back to something like normal. Immediately following, he had slept for nearly two days, only waking when hunger and thirst finally penetrated his near-comatose state.

Most of his injuries from the fight had healed while he was unconscious except the one delivered by Belial's horn. He'd had to heal it deliberately once he came around, and it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch doing so. It was an incomplete healing, too: The wound left a scar on his abdomen he couldn't get rid of no matter what he did.

After all the self-repair, he was incredibly hungry. Voracious. As he binged on blood and wine he learned from Fiona that the brothel house where he'd engaged with Madam had burned down while he was unconscious. The fire had taken twenty people to put it out, but they got it under control before it could spread. The building itself was decimated. No bodies were found within. Michael suspected the fire had something to do with Samael. What, exactly, he could only guess at.

Troy and Jeremiah had both been injured in the fight as well. Of the two, Troy recovered quickest. He was back to normal while Jeremiah still had to use a cane to get about. Despite being stronger and sturdier than the average man, he did not have the healing abilities Michael and Troy had.

Michael caught a glimpse of himself in the shop window and liked what he saw. The short hair made him look older. More mature. More like the person he felt he was. He straightened his black silk jacket and smiled at that reflection. Then he took a step forward and willed himself onto the porch of the Montgomery Mansion.

The house loomed over him, in sore need of repair. The earthquakes and unholy battle had devastated the siding and broken many windows. One of the first things Michael became aware of on waking was Nora weeping over the mess and Chad's ire at the place being in shambles. The very real damages would require a lot of work to fix.

The place was already beginning to look better, though. The old tree out front had righted itself and the porch was no longer listing to the side. Michael could hear hammering from somewhere inside. Whether it was one of the ghosts or the house itself doing the work was hard for him to pin down. He wasn't terribly interested anyway. He knew eventually the place would be back up to snuff.

With a negligent wave of his hand the front door opened and he let himself in.

—

"How long are you goin' to be gone?" Constance wanted to know. She paced back and forth, patting the baby on her shoulder rhythmically without thought.

"I'm not sure," admitted Michael. "However long it takes. We don't even know what all is out there."

"Why do you have to go?" she debated. "Why does anyone? Whatever is out there is someone else's problem. Your place is here. With your family."

Michael drew a breath. He knew she wouldn't take well to the idea of his leaving and was prepared for resistance. "Hell spat up titans that need to be returned to the bowels of the earth where they belong. As long as they're out there causing problems the world will continue to suffer instability and disaster on an epic scale. I can't allow them to destroy my planet with their chaos. I'm the only one strong enough—"

"How do you know that?" objected Constance.

Michael tipped his head. "I just do. And if I'm wrong, I'll discover that while I'm out there."

Constance sighed heavily and bent to set the baby, Zach, down. He was old enough that, when placed on his bottom, he immediately crawled to the nearest thing to pull himself up with. That happened to be Michael's leg.

Surprised, Michael looked down at the tot. Zach looked up at him and babbled nonsense like he was saying something important.

"When did he start doing that?" asked Michael.

"A month or so ago," said Constance. "He and Gabe both. They'll be walkin' soon. And you'll miss it if you're gone."

A thin line appeared between Michael's brows as he gazed down at the baby. "I'm sure there will be plenty of times I will see them walk. It's something everyone with working legs does, sooner or later."

Constance sighed again. "I don't know why I keep hopin' you'll be a daddy to them," she said in frustration. "God knows no man in this family ever has been a decent father."

Michael looked over at her. "Any urge I might have felt toward playing house died with Evangelina. Caring for my offspring is your job, Mother Constance. It's what you were prophesied to do."

He bent and plucked Zach from his leg. Stiff-armed, he held the baby out to her. She glowered at him. Then she took Zach. The toddler grabbed hold of the neckline of her dress and tried to stuff it in his mouth, blissfully oblivious to the situation.

"I'm taking Troy with me," Michael went on. "And Aunt Fiona. Father Jeremiah will be here to help you. And Pietre will be staying behind as well, to keep things running smoothly."

"Oh, for the love of..." Constance lamented. "He isn't going to move back into the house, is he?"

Michael smirked. "No. As far as I know, he's content to stay at the hotel."

"Well, that's a small mercy."

In his crib, Gabe woke from his nap and started to fuss.

"How long will you be gone?" Constance asked again. His first answer to that question didn't satisfy her.

Michael shrugged. "However long it takes. If you need me, just call. I will hear you."

She found that hard to believe, but didn't argue. Michael's powers seemed boundless. "Just... be careful," she said helplessly. "All right?"

He smiled then. "Of course. And you as well."

He stepped in close to plant a light kiss on her cheek. Then he took a step back and was gone. Constance wanted to let things sink in. Gabe was really starting to wind himself up, though, so she set his brother down and went to lift him from the crib. She started singing an old lullaby, one she used to sing to her kids. Whether it was to soothe the baby or herself, she wasn't certain.

...

Author's Note:

As we draw closer to the end, I have come to realize this isn't really the ending. It's just another beginning. The new-new world is just starting to bloom. More on that next chapter. In the meantime, thanks for reading this super-long fic. It's been great having you with me. We've lost people along the way but it's nice to know you're still out there, sticking it through to the bitter end. Seriously: Thank you.

Next time: It's the end. Or is it?