This chapter is out a lot faster than the last one... I believe I deserve some thanks for that. **winkwink** In the form of reviews. **winkwink**

Thanks to all who have reviewed, favorited, and put me on story/author alert. You guys are what keeps me going!

This chapter: Cat, Stories, and All the King's Horses. A tapestry, Caitlyn, and Crowley? :)

Cat

To Will and Gilan, it was just a simple cat. Battered and old, but still with that playful glint in its wise eyes that seemed to have seen everything. Its fur was a goldish-brown that was slowly starting to turn gray with age. Cats such as these were everywhere, Will and Gilan thought.

To Halt, however, there was only ever one old tomcat.

His name was Seamus. Caitlyn had picked it—of course. He was battered and elderly, but still had that playful glint in its old, wise eyes that almost looked as though they had seen everything there is to see. His fur was a goldish-brown that had turned silvery with age several years ago.

They went to see him almost every day—Caitlyn because she was so absolutely enamored with him, and he with her, and Halt because he loved anything that would make his sister happy. And because, though he never would have admitted it to himself, he had become fond of the old cat, and enjoyed his silent, comforting presence.

Seamus had lived a good life. His younger years, Halt supposed, were rather glamorous and noble, hunting prey and sleeping in old barns on stormy nights. When he had grown older, he had found a home in Dun Kilty, where Caitlyn had snuck him inside, under their parents' noses, and hidden him outside in the stables. There he was warm and comfortable, and well fed with the scraps of meat Caitlyn always thought to bring with her when she came to visit. And the smaller fish Halt sometimes brought when he came on his own.

When Seamus had died, Caitlyn had been understandably distraught. Halt had done his best to comfort her while hiding the strange feeling of loss he himself bore daily. Caitlyn had tried to find another animal to connect with, but not one ever turned up. Seamus had been special.

And now, staring at the old cat, which was staring right back at him, Halt felt the memories come rushing back at him. Gilan was scratching it behind the ears, the way Caitlyn had always done. "There you go, old girl," he said, and Halt suddenly realized that it must have been a female. "What's your name, eh?"

"Caitlyn," Halt said abruptly. He hesitated when he realized that both of his apprentices, former and current, were staring at him as though he had taken leave of his senses. "She looks like a Caitlyn," he said lamely. Gilan shrugged.

"I suppose so."

"I thought she looked a bit more like a Maggie," Will said, looking the cat over with that calculating gaze of his. Again, Gilan shrugged.

"What Halt says will be so."

Stories

We're all stories in the end.

Everybody knows that everybody dies, and everyone and everything has a time to die. Nobody can live forever. To do so is to violate the sacred order of all living things which has been set in place since the beginning of Time itself.

No matter how hard we may try to live forever, we cannot. No matter how hard we may try to last forever, we cannot. We're all stories in the end, and all we can do is live our lives and hope that one day, our stories will be good.

Some stories will be better remembered than others. That is the way of things. Some people live extraordinary lives, and leave behind legacies and tales of great battles and wars, or maybe of tall castles and years of peace and prosperity. And some people live ordinary lives, leaving behind daily struggles and improbabilities and wasted dreams. This is how it has always been, and how it will always be.

All stories have a beginning, but no story has an end. Because even after the first characters die, others are born, and interact with each other, and write stories of their own. Stories never die, although their characters might. They go on and on forever. And, though you probably didn't know it, you are living in and creating more of a story that started hundreds, maybe thousands, of years ago. Maybe we're all living out just one big story, with millions of little plotlines and cliffhangers, and tragic endings and happy ones and billions of individuals trying to make their chapter in the story worthwhile to the reader.

Maybe this is all a great deal more complicated than we think.

Complicated or not, some stories are fixed in Time. They say that, in the beginning of the Universe, Time itself wove a tapestry of History, rich reds and oranges, sunny yellows, and deep aquas and blues and greens and purples. Some stories were interwoven in the beginning of the Universe by Time.

Their story was one of these.

It had started many thousands of years ago, in the beginning of the World. Slowly, patiently, Time had waited. Its nimble fingers continued weaving patterns in the never-ending tapestry of History, changing lines and waves as it went, all the while waiting for its next great achievement.

An achievement which came in the form of two young men, in a broken country, who were trying to renew a group of fighters for the Good and for the Light. They called themselves the Rangers. They wore deep green cloaks and carried bows and knives, and each wore the symbol of the Oakleaf. Time waited patiently, weaving, never stopping, watching as the Corps grew stronger even as a million and two other things were going on in the world around it.

And then, somewhere far away from those two young men, a war was starting. Feet were marching. Evil was marching. And still, Time waited.

The war continued, though now it was being fought. Time's tapestry was spattered with red—deep, scarlet red. Somewhere, in the midst of the fight, a sacrifice took place, and a man's life was saved.

More red, more blood.

Somewhere to the east, a dead man's wife was having his baby, while the man he had saved was riding hard to reach her in time.

More red, more blood.

There was more fighting, and a baby was born. A mother died. A Ranger lived.

This was Time's moment.

Time began working, quickly, on a new section of the tapestry, woven in every single color imaginable—white and black, red and blue, green and yellow. This was its greatest achievement.

And it went by the name Will.

Time wove the most magnificent tapestry, with its light and dark sections, and brilliant patterns and waves and lines. Through the years, never ceasing, never stopping, always weaving Time, though it was Time itself. Weaving, more colors, until Time tied the knot.

A group of people gathered at a bedside.

Snow was falling.

Black—the absence of color.

Time tied the knot.

And moved on, never ceasing, never stopping. More colors. There were children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren. The world was growing bigger and things were changing, and still the story went on. On and on and on, through the years, on and on, never stopping.

Because all stories have a beginning, but no story has an end.

And, like all stories, this one is still continuing today.

Because we're all stories in the end, but stories never really die.

All the King's Horses...

...Are coming right at them.

Now.

"Run!"

"I sort of figured that out for myself, thanks!" Will yelled over at Gilan, who rolled his eyes.

"We don't have time for snarky comebacks right now!" he yelled.

"Oh, look who's talking!" Will retorted, chancing a glance behind him. Now that he bothered looking, the stampeding horde of horses was getting rather close…

He heard Gilan muttering under his breath as they ran—"Oh, he is so dead after this. I am going to—there's more! More, for heaven's sake—where did they come from? How can there be more?"

Will sighed—well, as much as it was possible to sigh while running for your life. What had Crowley been thinking? Honestly, sometimes he wondered about that man. Now that he actually thought about it, there was only one way this could have turned out. And that was with a large number of horses intent on making sure that they didn't survive to see the sunrise. How poetic.

Halt would never let them live this down—that is, if they survived to tell him about it. And at this point, he wasn't sure they would.

All he knew was that there would be hell to pay once they got home.

"Will!" Gilan yelled. "I think there's more! What do we do?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Dang it, Will," Gilan said, breathing hard. "Really?" Will shrugged.

"I don't know—run—run!"

If they got home.

Make that a big if.

I'm not entirely sure what the last one was about. Meh. It just sort of happened in my head while I was looking at the prompt and thinking, "Now what on earth am I going to do with that?" :)

Next chapter: Pen and Paper, Comfort, and Puzzle. Reviews really do make me update faster, so if you want to read about Cassie's journal, Will's oakleaf, and Halt's musings on his apprentice, please review! If you sign in, I promise I'll reply!