The sun had been rising before him on the day he left nearly 19 years ago, and it was setting behind the house now as he rounded the last bend in the lane. The house was larger than he remembered, and there was a new, larger barn to the north. He was tempted to camp outside until his nerves were fully prepared, but the contents of his flask were long gone, and his stomach was growling. Hunger, after all, drove even the wolf out of the wood. His feet had carried him up to the door before he noticed, and there was nothing for it but to knock.

An explosion of noise nearly knocked him off his feet as the swung open. Looking out at him was a strange woman; behind her was what sounded like some kind of bivouac.

"Maxine family, please," he gasped, feeling entirely out of his depth.

The woman stared at him uncomprehending for a moment, then: "Neil? No, you must be…the brother?"

"Who's that at the door?" Over the woman's shoulder appeared a face weathered and worn by age, but still familiar.

His father stared at him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. "Well, you look more like your brother than I ever thought you would. Why don't you come on in?" He motioned inward to the table.

He could think of nothing to say, so he followed them in without a word. There was more than enough talking going on inside, anyway.

"These are the children," said the woman. "You won't have met them, I suppose."

Maxine found his voice. "What children?" He eyed the sea of them, then whirled to face his father. "Where's Mother?"

"My grandchildren," his father said sternly. "Some of them, anyway. Your mother is at the back of the house."

Reassured, he looked back to the children, who ignored him. "You've opened a school, then?" He was only half joking; there was a truly ungodly number of them.

The woman, who was rapidly revealing herself to be one of those unpleasant no-nonsense types, frowned. "The four girls are mine; the two boys are your brother's and my sister's."

"You aren't Neil's wife?"

"Why don't you sit down," his father suggested, with a hint of a smile.

The woman sighed. "My name, she said patiently, "is Edine Mallory. Your brother Neil married my husband's sister; they have three sons, one of them in the room. I have four daughters. My sister and her husband have two children; the boy is that one there."

"Neil married that Mallory girl?" he asked in indignation, ignoring the rest of her speech. Then, louder: "Dugald Mallory is living in this house?"

"My husband and I live here, yes," the woman shot back. "The Mallory and Maxine lands were combined years ago when Neil married Estril."

"How delightful," Maxine muttered.

"Dinner's almost ready," his father interjected. "Emrys, Evanna, you help set the table. I'll get the food from the kitchen." Two of the taller children broke away from the pack and set about the table.

Emlyn Maxine lifted himself up from the table. He was smaller than Maxine remembered, stooped over from years of work. His presence, like his body, had dwindled. In the old days he would have carried on most of the conversation himself. Perhaps grandfatherhood had mellowed him.

Before he reached the door, there was a new voice in the room.

"Come on, Dad, let me get the food." It was less imposing, but otherwise it might have been the father he remembered speaking. There was no need to guess who it was.

It had been a strange experience to be mistaken for his brother, but now he could more than understand it. There, clean-shaven and short haired, was a mirror image of himself, though his brother had a few lines around his mouth, perhaps from smiling.

"Nigel," he gasped, and then a broad grin spread across his face. Crossing the room in a few quick strides, he grasped Maxine's hand warmly. "Keep quiet, everyone, let's let Grandma see for herself."

"Don't go giving her a shock," his father warned.

"Oh, Dad, she's not yet sixty. She can take a surprise."

"What's to surprise me?" another voice demanded. His mother was in the doorway now, holding an armful of greens. A boy and a girl flanked her, both carrying similar loads.

She said nothing as she caught sight of Maxine at the table, but her eyes were bright and she held the greens so closely to herself that they were nearly crushed.

"Hello, Mother," he said, as coolly as he could manage.

"Won't this be jolly!" Neil crowed. "A real family dinner!"

"We ain't all here yet," pointed out the girl who was setting the table.

"There aren't any more children, are there?" Maxine demanded.

"Just the baby," his mother said, smiling. "And a few more adults, I think."

"I'm away for a few years and you go and start a commune in the house?"

"More than a few years, dear." It was a gentle reproach, but a reproach nonetheless. Embarrassed, he turned his attention back to the children.

"How many are there? Twenty?"

"Just eight," said Neil. "Nine if you count the baby—and I do, since he's mine."

Mallory's wife waved at the children. "Sit at the table, all of you. Your uncle wants to see you." They obeyed, with some grumbling, and she pointed to each in turn.

"Emrys and Digby, Neil's two eldest. Evanna, Evedna, Evella and Evirene, my four girls." (She betrayed no t a hint of shame about these last names.) "Eileen and Ancel, my sister Linnet's children."

"And my boy Kenelm will be in directly with his mother," Neil added.

As far as Maxine could tell, the children were all exactly the same save for height, and the fact that two were fair-haired. However, he nodded as if he had committed their names to memory.

Something touched his leg under the table. Glancing down without thinking, he recoiled. The animal was recognizable instantly, even at a space of ten years.

"Leave him alone, Max," said an unidentified voice. (He really should be facing the door; it was too easy for them to sneak up on him.) Shifting his attention from the animal—now wagging its absurdly long tail—he found the owner of the voice, a rather frail-looking blond, standing in the door accompanied by two women.

"Oh," the man said, surprised. "Hello, sir."

Maxine stared.

"Remember me?" he added. "Frans Lesley."

"Oh, god!" Maxine groaned.

Lesley didn't seem sure how to respond to that. His smile faltered for a moment. "I—I came to visit Max after I left the army…"

"And my sister happened to be visiting at the same time," Mallory's wife put in smoothly.

The fair-haired woman next to Lesley smiled nervously. "I'm Linnet. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Nigel. I've heard so much about you."

She was good-looking enough, but it was clear at a glance that she had even less backbone than Lesley. 'Sensitive', some called it, but Maxine knew better. Spineless, both of them, except for the most inconvenient of times, and they had the same honest look on their faces. Maxine hated little more than an honest man. The two blond children must be theirs.

"And my wife," Neil said, gesturing to the other woman, who, Maxine now saw, was holding a small child in her arms. "You remember Estril, don't you?"

When he was ten and she was five Estril Mallory had pulled his hair until he cried.

"Yes," he said. "I do."

"'The best or worst thing to man for this life is good or ill choosing his good or ill wife,'" Neil quoted. "And I sure picked a good one!"

"Nigel," she said, smiling. "We've all missed you." Her words seemed genuine enough.

Maxine hated a good liar.

"And your youngest nephew," Neil said, taking the child carefully from its mother and displaying it proudly. "Six months old last week. We had a little party for him."

"Really," was the only thing he could think to say, but Neil beamed even at this small offering.

"Excuse me," came a voice from behind Lesley and the two women.

Dugald Mallory was visible over the tops of their heads. They made way, and he entered, regarding Maxine dubiously.

"Well," was all he said. "No need to introduce us, eh?"

"The gang's all here," Neil said, rubbing his hands together. "Shall we?"


Dinner was a pair of enormous roasted pigs and some unidentified stew. It was a far cry from the food he had grown accustomed to, but it put his recent diet to shame, and he ate hungrily.

He related his own story briefly; his latest failure still stung a bit. So he gave them a condensed version: a few years as a page at the palace, then on to the army, where he rose quickly through the ranks on his merits—Mallory snorted here, but his mother smiled proudly. He ended rather vaguely with the start of the mission in Caloria.

"Caloria?" his mother asked worriedly. "Isn't that awfully near mazoku territory?"

His brother's middle child—Diggory?—looked up from his plate, where he was building a small fort out of vegetables.

"Mazoku?" he said, eyes wide. "Does that mean you seen demons?"

"Digby," Mallory's sister said sharply. "Not at the dinner table."

"I'm just asking!" Digby insisted.

The question didn't seem too incriminating, and after all, it was a chance to play the good uncle in front of his mother.

"A few," he admitted.

The boy's eyes widened even more. "What're they like?" he asked eagerly.

Maxine caught a glimpse of his brother's face. "Nothing special." Neil relaxed.

"I heard they can do magic," Digby persisted. "And none of them got dark hair at all."

"The magic is nothing an esoteric magic user couldn't do," Maxine said defensively. For all their airs, this was true. "And lacking a hair color is nothing to be proud of."

"But what were they like?" the boy demanded.

Maxine shivered. "Very unpleasant."

"You see, Digby?" Estril's voice was sharp. Had news of the Maou's peacemaking efforts not reached them out here? Well, far be it from him to enlighten them.

"I'm going to meet them someday," the boy said, looking defiantly around the table. "I'll go up to that king of theirs and ask why he started that war—"

"That's enough of that," said Neil. There was something in his voice that silenced his son.

"But you mustn't go away, Digby," said the girl beside him, softly. She was the blonde, one of Lesley's.

"Listen to your wifey, Diggers," said Neil's eldest. The other children giggled, and the blonde went red.

"Shut up," Digby snapped.

"Emrys, don't tease your brother," said Neil, but he was clearly glad of the interruption. "Digby, don't be rude."

"Ancel," said Lesley, "don't feed Max your vegetables."

"I wasn't!" the other blond child protested, bringing his plate back up to the table. There was general laughter around the table. The mazoku were clearly forgotten.

The rest of dinner passed uneventfully. A lot could happen in nineteen years, and Neil seemed determined to relate all of it. Maxine restricted his involvement to nods and a few grunts.

After dinner the children went outside to play, and the adults remained at the table. Mallory was talking now, holding forth on the subject of a bull he had recently been forced to wrestle with. Maxine could swear it was for his benefit that Mallory had steered towards the topic of physical strength.

His mother rose from the table, perhaps seeing his face.

"Nigel," she said. "Why don't you help me with the washing up."

He rose to follow her. As they walked down the hallway that now led to the kitchen, he heard the conversation shift to a familiar subject.

"What we're going to do with him, I don't know," Neil was saying. "Always on about the demons and their damned king. By the grace of God the war was ended by the time any of you joined the army; it's simply too dangerous to meddle with them."

"That boy'd start the war back up if he came calling," said Mallory, ever tactful. "Always wants to know everybody's business, and the worst parts of it at that. Around a quick-tempered demon king—"

"But I've heard," Lesley's soft voice cut in, "there's a new king, a pacifist."

Mallory snorted. "Pacifist. I'll wager he's just biding his time."

Maxine had stopped in the hallway to listen, but now his mother was beckoning him into the kitchen. He followed, now reluctant. So the news had reached them after all.

The kitchen was as he remembered it.

"I didn't let them touch it," she said, smiling. "I knew you'd want to see it like this."

When he left he'd been fifteen, just barely taller than her. Now he had at least half a foot on her. It was strange to have to look down at the figure that had so often stooped to comfort him.

He was getting sentimental. Embarrassed, he joined her at the sink. It had been a long time since he'd lowered himself to washing dishes.

"Do you remember when you needed a stool to do this?"

"Of course."

Looking out the window he could see the old barn to the south of the house. Noticing his gaze, she smiled fondly. "You finished painting the east wall just before you left." His first and last success at any work on the farm. "I didn't let them touch that either."

"I've been away too long." He knew she would recognize it for the apology he couldn't bring himself to speak.

"But you've come back now."

He shifted uncomfortably.

Turning, she embraced him, hands still dripping from the dishwater. He patted her back awkwardly; he was out of practice at this.

"Will you promise me you won't leave again?"

His silence hung between them, insubstantial but separating them as surely as any wall.

"Oh, Nigel." Her voice was disappointed, but not surprised.

"I'll write this time," he promised.

"You never were satisfied at home." She seemed weary and old for a moment, but then she brightened, to his relief. "You must swear you'll write."

"I do."

"On your mother's grave?"

"Mother!"

"I'm only teasing, dear. You're just like your brother."

"I wouldn't say that," he muttered.

"Now don't start that," she said sternly, rolling her sleeves back up and returning to the dishes. "I know he used to tease a bit, but you've both grown up now, into fine men. It's time to put that—"

The door outside slammed open and, looking down, he saw that the small blonde girl from dinner had flung herself across the room and attached herself to his mother's legs.

"Gramma, they won't leave me alone!" She looked up, tears in her eyes, and saw him. She squeaked and moved around to his mother's left side, still clutching at her legs.

"Eileen," his mother said, wiping one soapy hand and resting it on the girl's head. "What's wrong?"

The girl peered around his mother's legs, casting another terrified look at him, but she managed to speak.

"Th-they keep teasing Digby and me," she said tearfully. "About how we're going to get m-married, and I don't want to marry Digby!"

"Now, dear," his mother said, "you know they don't really mean it. They're just playing."

"But I don't like it," the girl wept. "They're always after us and I don't want to play with them anymore!"

"You don't have to play with them if you don't want to, dear. Why don't you stay in here and help your Uncle Nigel dry the dishes?"

"You need to be more proactive, Mother." He wasn't sure why he had opened his mouth, but he pressed on, addressing the girl now. "You must know something to use against them. Something to tease them about when they tease you."

She blinked, sniffling a little. "Like how Evanna wets the bed?"

"Exactly."

She began to smile slightly through her tears. "I guess I could try that."

"It's not how I would solve it," his mother said. "I suppose it can't do any harm, though."

"Consider it a hard-learned lesson," he said.

The door opened again, this time revealing the inquisitive boy from dinner.

"Eileen?"

"Over here," she said, wiping her eyes on his mother's dress.

"I hit Ancel," the boy announced triumphantly, and Maxine could hear a bit of Neil in his voice. "I couldn't get at the others, but they've shut up now, so you can come back out."

"I'm staying inside for a while." She hesitated for a second, then added, "I'm going to help Uncle Nigel with the dishes."

The boy looked over at Maxine as if he were only now noticing him. Then he brightened. "You have seen demons up close, haven't you?"

"Digby," his mother said. "You know your parents don't like you going on about those things."

"But they're not here," the boy said, with that irrefutable logic found only in the young.

Once again Maxine was forced to skirt a painful subject. "As I said before," he said, choosing his words carefully, "I have seen only a few, and only in passing."

"But you've seen them, at least!"

He was surprised by the boy's passion. Perhaps they shared a distaste for provincial life. But the boy was Neil's, he quickly reminded himself; he and his brother were so different that it was unlikely he had much in common with the boy.

"I hear they're rather ill-tempered," he said, trying again to discourage him.

"That doesn't matter," Digby said resolutely. "I'll travel there and meet them myself." In a way he could understand the boy's determination. He himself had vowed to do whatever it took to restore his name at court. The fascination with mazoku, however, was baffling.

"Digby," his mother interrupted, "why don't you help me with the dishes." It was an order, not a question. Clearly she was determined to uphold her other son's edict. "And Nigel," she continued, turning to him, "you can do some stringwork with Eileen. That is, if you still…"

"I remember it all," he assured her.

She smiled fondly. "Eileen is interested in it as well. I've been teaching her, but I'm afraid my eyesight is beginning to go."

Why had he admitted that? Now he would have to entertain the girl, and she was clearly one of those sensitive types who would cry if she dropped a thread. "Well…"

But the tableau was already set. His mother had begun picking up dishes, and Digby was obediently fetching the stool he himself had used on many years ago.

Reluctantly, he sat down at the table, where the girl was waiting. She must have kept her length of string in a pocket, for she was already stringing it around her fingers. She was clearly devoted to the craft, at least. Perhaps this wouldn't be quite as painful as he'd thought.

"We were working on 'Sawing Wood,'" she said. The tremor, he noticed, was gone from her voice.

"That's for two people," he said. She was obviously shy around him; perhaps he could discourage her without his mother noticing.

"Oh, I know," she said. How in God's name could such a young child be so intensely interested in such a repetitive craft? He had been at least nine by the time he really warmed up to what had been at first a mere accession to his mother.

"Well," he said, unable to avoid it any longer, "your fingers are a bit too close together for the starting position." She spread them further apart immediately and looked up for his approval.

She was exactly right now; and as he discovered over the next few hours, she had a natural talent for the craft. Her small hands moved quickly and nimbly, and once he showed her the full figure it took only a few repetitions before she could repeat the motions flawlessly.

He found himself almost jealous, though his years of practice still made him the better of the two. Of course it would be Lesley who handed down to his daughter such talent at what he, Maxine, had worked for years to master.

Still, it was…refreshing, to have a partner for the two-person tricks he barely remembered. Practicing those had been out of the question since he left home. The only words spoken were his instructions, which she followed intently.

When it came time for the children to go to bed, Digby, who had remained after the dishes were done, insisted on introducing him to two other dogs, who, it seemed, were pets rather than working animals. One, a fox terrier with an ugly-looking scar across his skull, sniffed Maxine's hand in a friendly way, but the other, a big black creature of indeterminate heritage, hung back and eyed him warily.

"Rowf doesn't like strangers much," Digby said in a consoling way. "But he likes us two, 'cause we like him"

"Rowf's a good boy," said Eileen, scratching his ears. "Snit's a good boy, too," she added. "Snitter's my dog."

"All right, you two," said his mother, "off to bed with you."

They disappeared obediently; Digby stuck his head back in a few moments later and mimed to Maxine to keep quiet, then beckoned to the dogs, who followed with as little noise as possible. His mother's back was turned to the door, but from where he was seated Maxine thought he saw a smile on her face.

With the children gone they talked a while longer. Alone with her, he was free to speak more honestly. He was in a bad way right now, he admitted, but it was only temporary. Once he returned to the capital he could make plans to recoup his losses, even improve on his former position. When he was finished they talked of the changes since he had left; it was much more tolerable in her telling than in Neil's. There was a bit too much Mallory in the story, he felt, but he held his tongue and listened.

It was late when she led him to the guest bedroom, and she bid him goodnight with an odd look on her face, which he put down to the strangeness of the day. It wasn't every day that one's favorite son returned home after nearly twenty years' absence.


The moon was casting dim shapes on the floor when he crept out of the room. The hallway was dark, and so was the big room at the front of the house. It was so dark, in fact, that he didn't see the form seated at the table until it spoke.

"Leaving so soon?"

It was Mallory. Of course it was Mallory. Just what he didn't need at this time of night.

"My comings and goings are none of your business."

"You realize you'll be breaking your mother's heart," Mallory went on. "And your father and brother's too, though why they should want you around is beyond me."

He could never keep his cool around this man. He made for the door, hoping to escape before matters got out of hand. Mallory rose, nearly knocking his chair over in his fury.

"You rotten bastard, haven't you got an ounce of feeling for anyone else?"

"That's enough, Dugald." The voice came from behind Maxine.

He paused, hand nearly at the door. His mother had entered so silently that neither of them had noticed.

"Mrs. Maxine," Mallory said. The wind was taken out of his sails somewhat, Maxine was pleased to note. "Didn't mean to wake you—I was hoping to have this out alone."

"Why don't you go on back to bed, Dugald." She was smiling, but it was a smile that brooked no disagreement. Scowling, Mallory obeyed, casting a dark look at Maxine as he sulked out of the room.

"Mother," Maxine said weakly. He was even less prepared to deal with her. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he really had no explanation for sneaking away like this in the middle of the night.

But the remonstrance he was expecting did not come. Instead all she said was, "You did promise to keep writing this time." She was across the room as soon as she had spoken, and her arms were around him just as suddenly.

He felt something pressed into his hand, and looking down he saw that it was a flask. It was warm to the touch, and all at once he noticed that she was still in her clothes from the day before. She had been up through the night cooking for him, knowing without a word spoken between them what he was planning.

He hugged her back fiercely this time. When they parted she wiped at her eyes with the corner of her apron.

"Two years." The words were out of his mouth before he'd fully thought them through. "I'll be back in two years."

"To visit." Her smile said everything: that she forgave him even if he broke this promise too; that she understood why he could never stay; and most of all, that whatever he did in the outside world was irrelevant here. Disgraced, rejected, he would never be turned away from home, and that was what made it all too painful to stay. As a failure he was nothing, a kicked dog returning home because it knows only one haven. To stay was to embrace ignominy, and that was the one thing he could never tolerate.

It was still dark as he set out. There might have been a tear or two in his eye, but he did not look back.

Obviously, everybody in this story except Maxine is an OC. I tried to keep their development focused around Maxine, but I did have to give them a bit of personality so they wouldn't be boring. Hopefully they didn't annoy you.

If you'll allow me to geek out about names for a few moments: we don't know much about the naming patterns of Small Cimarron, save for a few characters who aren't really "ordinary" citizens. After some deliberation I gave most of the OCs older English names. Mallory and Lesley's surnames are me having a bit of a laugh, both being girls' given names these days, just like Maxine.

Maxine's brother Neil's name is from the same root as "Nigel"; "Nigel" resulted from a false association of "Neil" with the Latin name Nigellus. I felt Neil was an appropriate name for the less pretentious brother.

Lords Anton Rennoll and Matthias Carew, as well as their unseen comrade Benan Walklate, were named for Marvel comics characters (Tony Stark, Matthew Murdock, and Benjamins Parker, Grimm, and Reilly). Maxine, of course, is Spider-Man, as seen in episode 51.

Dugald and Estril's daughters are named for the four eldest princesses of Ev in L. Frank Baum's Oz series. Digby Maxine, Eileen Lesley and Ancel Lesley are named after characters in Richard Adams' wonderful book The Plague Dogs: Digby Driver, Alan Wood, and Ann Moss, respectively, though Eileen and Ancel have undergone gender swaps. The dogs Rowf and Snitter take their names and appearances from the title characters of the same book.

Everyone else was simply given a name I felt sounded good. The nobles have more upper-class, "Norman" names, while other characters have more Saxon-ish names. And, since I didn't manage to fit it in: Maxine's mother is named Audrey.

Thank you for your time in reading this.