Right, this is coming to the end of the arc, and hopefully compact without being squashed. It starts light, but, uh. There's an undercurrent of darkness. An increasing one, in fact, as the hijinks stop disguising the realities of what is happening and what may yet have to happen, and the toll they take on both Harry and Sunniva in their own ways. What I've been saying about Harry's poise being both genuine and a bit of an act? We see some of what it's hiding. As I said long ago: recovery is not a linear process, and some things linger. And Sunniva... Sunniva has her own problems.

Harry watched as Sue finished tucking her son into the sofa. She quite clearly did not want to let him out of her reach, much less her sight, even though her husband had now taken up a watchful guard and was reading a bedtime story. It was about science, and complex science at that, yet it was appreciated nonetheless by an enraptured little boy, and from what Harry was passively picking up, had already led to some rather startling additions to Francis' vocabulary.

Not many six year olds could, much less would, correctly use the word 'Tesseract' in conversation, much less provide a lay working definition.

This time, though, it didn't have his total attention. Those bright, curious eyes were fixed on him, still every bit as fascinated with what he saw as he had been when Harry had plucked him out of a pocket of folded space – not unlike the Mirror Dimension, actually. It had been immediately apparent that this was not an ordinary child, even before Harry had processed the fact that by all logic (or whatever passed for it around here), he should not exist. Somehow, he had seen straight through Harry.

"Are you a star?" he had asked, with the innocent curiosity and odd solemnity of a small child.

"Some people call me one," Harry had replied. "Asgard's Wandering Star."

The little boy had screwed up his face, thinking. "Asgard," he had said thoughtfully. "My mom and dad have told me about that. It's meant to be a special place."

Harry couldn't have surprised the smile that blossomed on his face at that moment for the life of him.

"It is a very special place," he had agreed.

"Is that where you're from?"

"My dad is from there, so I suppose that half of me is. My mum was from Earth, though. So, I'm from there, too."

This had got a brightening look, quite literally to someone who could see on the spectra that Harry could now.

"You're from Earth too?! Mom and dad are from there! So's Uncle Adam! Does that mean I am too?" His face had screwed up again, then, into an unhappy look. "So's most of the people here," he added, in an almost confidential air, as if unaware that his parents were right there, along with Doctor Brashear, all three ready to leap into action to protect this secret child, along with a knowing Julie and a thoroughly confused Hal Jordan. "But I'm not allowed to talk to any of them, not even one!"

"Well, I'm sure that they have good reasons," Harry had replied mildly.

At this, Francis had pouted. It was, a rather mushy part of Harry thought, quite adorable.

"That's what grown-ups always say."

Harry had arched an eyebrow. "Even at a stretch I'm only fifteen and a half, you know," he had replied, amused.

The look in response had been profoundly disbelieving. "Then why's your hair all white?" had come the truculent challenge, backed by a bat at said white forelock.

"Francis," Reed and Sue had reprimanded in unison, one frowning, the other half-laughing, half-appalled. They were relaxing now, surer that Harry was not a threat to their son. Brashear just laughed.

"There are many reasons that someone's hair might go white, Francis," the older man had explained. "Not all of them are because of age."

Both he and Sue had given Harry more thoughtful looks at this point, exchanging a glance that Harry carefully ignored, just as he carefully ignored the wobbling in his poise from earlier.

Francis had wrinkled his nose. "Fifteen's still pretty old," he'd said. "My uncle Johnny was fifteen."

"So I've heard," Harry had said. Deep down, the poise had wobbled further, and phantom sensations began to crawl. He shook himself briefly and changed the subject. "You know, you are from Earth. If your parents are, I mean."

"Then why won't they let me out and play?"

This had had the tenor of a long-held grievance and more than a little whine about it. At this point, Harry had set Francis down in front of him and sat down as well, crossing his legs so they might face each other more evenly. The fact that they were doing so in mid-air hadn't really seemed to register with Francis as anything unusual.

"Do you know what your mum said you were, just now?" he had asked.

That had got a slightly hunted look, as of someone who hadn't really been listening.

"Cheeky?" the small boy had guessed, then added a winning smile when Harry had burst out laughing.

"No, not that, though I think that's true too," he had said. "She said you were the only child ever born on Sakaar."

That had got a profoundly unimpressed looked, saying clearer than words, 'and? So what?' This had been all the clearer to a telepath of Harry's calibre.

"As far as I understand," he had said. "Something like that isn't meant to be able to happen. That's why Hal said you were impossible. That's why I called you a miracle." This was punctuated with a very gentle prod. "It means that you, Francis Benjamin Storm-Richards, are a very special little boy. It means that, unless I'm very much mistaken… you're just like me."

Francis had looked down, then up again, eyes very wide. "That's why you glow," he had said, with the rapturous delight of realisation. "I thought you were a star but you aren't unless we're both stars but my parents have told me how stars are born and they don't have moms and dads and –"

This enthusiastic chatter had faded away as Harry shook his head with a gentle smile.

"We're not exactly the same," he had said gently. "I'd know if we were." He had raised a finger as Francis suddenly looked downcast. "I think we're kind of the same."

Cue a scowl. "What's the difference?"

"Well, your powers and mine don't come from the same place," Harry had said slowly. "Not exactly. But were alike in a lot of ways: we're really, really powerful… more than we should be, even with powerful parents." He had reached out and tipped Francis' chin up, looking him in the eye. "We're powerful enough that there are bad people out there who are scared of us, because they know we could stop them doing bad things when we're old enough. There are other bad people who would like to steal our powers, or just steal us so they can make us use their powers for them."

The small boy had spread his arms in an outcry of passion.

"I'd never do that! No one could never, ever, make me!"

Harry's heart had almost broken there and then, because of the looks on the faces of everyone present, and memories had swirled up in him like a storm.

"Francis," he had said, as softly as he could, both to calm the boy and to prevent himself from bursting into tears because he knew. "I can feel how powerful you are. You're really, really powerful. I think that goes both ways. You can feel how powerful I am, can't you?"

"Uh-huh. You're stronger than anyone I've met, ever!"

Harry had smiled briefly, tightly, but carried on, soft and steady.

"And you saw what I can do, just a little bit."

This was not a question, but it had garnered some enthusiastic nodding.

Harry reached out and gently took his hands.

"Like you, Francis, I have a very powerful dad. He's even more powerful than your dad, even more than your mum, if you can believe it. Not as smart, maybe, but my uncle makes up for that. He's just as powerful as dad, in his own way, and just as smart as your parents. My mum… my mum watches over me. And I've got a really powerful godmother, and all sorts of other people, watching over me, protecting me the same way that your mum and dad and your uncle Adam do. You understand?"

That had got an uncertain nod.

"I was taught to fight, too, to protect myself," Harry had gone on steadily. "I'd been in some pretty big battles; your mum and dad was at one, and so was Hal. That was just before they came here, and long before they had you. Even if I wasn't as powerful as I am right now, I was still way more powerful than practically anyone. Including the bad people who were after me."

He had taken a deep breath.

"They had… they had taken someone. Someone even more powerful than me. She was a cousin of mine, and they took her when she was a baby. They raised her to do bad things, and she didn't know any better, because she'd been taught that bad things were good things. But she wanted to do good things, deep down, when she understood them better."

"You helped her to do good things?" Francis had asked earnestly.

"Eventually," Harry had replied. "Though I'd say she mostly helped herself. All she needed was a nudge. She's a good person, and I love her very much. But back then, she was fighting me. Even though she was stronger and better trained than me, I had all sorts of tricks. I could stay on the run, avoid her, wait for the people who loved me to come. And they did. They were ready to protect me again. But."

"But?" had come the uncertain question.

"I saw my cousin. I saw what had happened to her, and I wanted to help her – not just to do good things, but to be happy, because she wasn't really. I wanted to save her. So when I could have escaped, I ran away from my friends and my family, to try and save her. I was in trouble, because I was tired and injured and the bad people caught me, and –"

Another deep, steadying breath, and a convulsive swallow.

"And what happened wasn't… it wasn't very nice. My cousin managed to protect my mind, my soul." He had touched his brow and heart. "She took them and hid them somewhere safe. But she couldn't save my body. She couldn't stop them using my body and my powers to do lots and lots and lots of bad things. With her help, we eventually escaped, but... the bad people had still made me do bad things."

He had met the gaze of a very wide-eyed Francis. "Your parents aren't stopping you from playing with other people because they don't want you to be happy, or anything like that. No, it's because they want you safe, they want you happy, and they want you to be protected from bad people like that. Just like the people who love me wanted."

He had gently run a hand through the small boy's hair.

"One very hard thing for people like us to learn is that we have to be careful. We need to be careful for other people, and we need to be careful for ourselves. Especially when we're young. Because no matter how powerful or how smart we are, there are bad people out there who are sometimes more powerful, sometimes even smarter, than we are. Or sometimes… sometimes, they're lucky, and we're not. So we think, and we act carefully. And we let others help us. And that way, we give the bad people fewer chances to do bad things to us. Or with us. Do you understand?"

This had got a disconsolate nod. But it was one of a message received.

"Are the bad people going to try and get me?" Francis had asked, as Harry had lowered them both to the floor.

Harry had paused, looked up, then sighed, and dropped to one knee. "I would like to say no," he had said. "I'd like to say that they don't even know about you, because that's why your family have been keeping you a secret from everyone. But I don't know. If they do, I think they will. But if they do, then we will protect you. I will protect you."

"Promise?" a very small voice had asked.

On another occasion, Harry would have made a chilling oath, a statement ringing with danger and no doubt it would be pulled off. Instead, he had gathered the small boy into a fiercely tight and very careful hug.

"I promise."

After that, the small boy had sought his parents, who had gratefully scooped him up. Not long after, he'd begun to drop off, and the current bedding arrangement had been made. Harry had contributed by summoning the blanket, getting a couple of startled looks. He'd waggled his fingers and looked smug.

What? He was only human.

Well.

Half.

Same difference.

"This," Sue said with feeling. "Has been quite a day."

As she said this, she took a lab chair beside him, perching on it with a sigh. Harry's was now an armchair, and he looked up, raising a hand questioningly.

She eyed him, then smiled wryly. "What the hell," she said. "Go ahead."

"Your wish is my command," he drawled, and snapped his fingers, leading to a briefly startled yelp as the lab chair collapsed into a squashy armchair, which Sue immediately set about examining. Something about her changed subtly as she did, and if Harry focused, he could sense a shift of sorts. Powers, then.

"That is truly amazing," she murmured. "I've seen magic done before, of course, but seeing it up close, getting to examine the effects… everything I grew up learning dictated that this should be, if not impossible, then incredibly improbable and far beyond our current scientific reach. Granted, that reach was increasing rapidly, but even still." She shook her head. "The fact it's so almost mundane, that's the really amazing thing."

"When you're around the extraordinary all the time, that's often what happens," Harry observed, then, with slightly clumsy gallantry, added, "with things, anyway. Not people."

She chuckled. "That much is very true," she agreed. "Though I'm willing to bet that sometimes you forget just why those people are so extraordinary to everyone else. After all, your dad is Thor, God of Thunder, capable of commanding weather on a global scale, having already lived for well over a thousand years and expected to live for thousands more. To some, he's a theological revelation, to others he's a nightmare, and to many more he's an inspiration. Yet to you, he's dad."

"Living for thousands of years doesn't mean much," Harry replied, brushing aside his initial unease at the reminder of the rest and the implicit reminder of the shadow he cast. "What matters is what you do with it."

Sue smiled at him. "You've done a lot of growing," she said.

"Yeah, I was about a foot shorter when you last – oh."

Sue's smile turned into fond laughter as Harry flushed pink. "You've become wise," she elaborated. "You're right, of course. Time, or at least, experience, doesn't matter by itself. What you do with it, what you learn, that matters." She tilted her head. "Of course, your father has learned a lot, over those centuries. He's seen all kinds of alien civilisations up close, the Viking Age, travelled across the universe… and he's learned what it means to be human. Twice, now, unless I miss my guess."

Harry nodded. "That's true," he admitted. "I know enough about my dad to know that I don't know everything about him. That's not because he's hiding anything, you understand, but because there's so much to know. He often says that coming to Earth taught him wisdom, but it wasn't the only thing. And it didn't give him knowledge." He glanced at Sue. "The same applies to my aunt. She's a bit older than my dad – in mean, even in her time, she's older than dad is in mine. About three centuries older, which admittedly isn't much, but she is."

"But?" Sue prompted him.

Harry exhaled. "She seems so much younger than he does," he said. "Not really, really young, but…" He shrugged. "I think life on Asgard is a bit quieter in her time than it was when dad was growing up. She's very knowledgeable, very wise, especially about the universe. Secrets of the cosmos? She probably knows most of them – more than that, she understands them. She definitely knows what makes the universe tick. She's spent decades wielding the power I do now, a power which I'm only even beginning to understand."

He paused.

"But she's not so wise about people. People who aren't Asgardians or probably one of the other higher realms, anyway. She's not naïve or anything, but the way she wields our power means that she can get from crisis to crisis, figure out what it is, and deal with it all by herself. And it's amazing, it really is! It just… well. She's a bit awkward around people. I'm not sure she understands them so well and that makes her uncomfortable."

"Some people just aren't comfortable around other people," Sue pointed out.

"That's true," Harry agreed. "That might even be part of it. But when it comes to dealing with people, even dealing with me, she doesn't… feel as old as dad. Does that make any sense? Because I'm not sure it does."

"No, it does," Sue said thoughtfully. "It makes complete sense, actually. Mentally, we all develop in different ways, at different speeds, at different times. Some of it is biologically programmed: genetics, puberty, and neurological development. At the same time, some of it is environmental: our circumstances, how we're raised, what eat, drink, and do, all are influences. And so are what responsibilities we have to take on." She rested a hand on his shoulder. "You, for instance, have been in some truly ridiculously dangerous situations from a young age, and you've often been responsible for younger, less powerful, or otherwise more vulnerable people. Or at least, you've felt that you were. That's… well, honestly, that's left a mark on you."

"Adrenalin addiction, casual disregard for own safety, confidence and focus under fire, passive threat analysis of everyone nearby, comfortable with extreme violence, nonchalant attitude towards personal danger, ability to empathise with and rapidly build a rapport with others, leadership skills, and precise viciousness towards potential and actual threats to those whom I am protecting designed to destroy or dissuade said thread," Harry said calmly, ticking off each in turn on his fingers. "I won't moan about how I've changed. I'm aware that it's happened, I accept it, and for the most part, I actually quite like who I am."

He smiled wryly.

"Of course, I like some parts of me a lot more than others," he admitted. "Some, I'm not so fond of. Other parts, I know people find disturbing, and I can't blame them for that. I'm not normal by anyone's standards, human or Asgardian. I'm comfortable with things that someone my age simply shouldn't be, because for better or for worse, I have been through things that the vast majority of people my age simply haven't. That doesn't make me more or less than they are, but it does make me different. Different and perhaps a bit otherworldly at times. Certainly a bit disturbing." He shrugged. "There's parts of me that could be better, and I'm working on those. But the whole? Who I am, right now?"

He smiled slightly, a pleased, even peaceful smile.

"For the first time in quite a long time, I can say without even the slightest hesitation, 'yes, I am happy with who I am'."

"I'm glad," Sue said genuinely. "You've clearly learned a great deal, and your experiences… you've grown up, a lot, in some quite specific ways." She raised an eyebrow. "But perhaps less so in others, hmm?"

"I have a lot to learn," Harry agreed. "The more I do learn, the more I understand that."

"I've found that with science," Sue replied. "The more you know, the more fields of study and knowledge open up to you, because you have the skills to enter them. For instance, learning both maths; addition and subtraction, that opens up multiplication and division. Then it opens up algebra. It's like climbing a tree. For a while, it's just going up the trunk, then you come across maybe a couple of branches, which you can explore, then there's more and more, and more."

Harry looked thoughtful. "I never thought of it like that," he remarked. "But yes, that's more or less exactly what it's been like." His lips curved into a smile. "'The learning never seems to end.'"

Sue smiled. "No," she said. "No, it does not, and I'm very grateful for that." She sighed. "Of course, as academically fascinating as it is, it's always seemed like there's more to learn about Sakaar, always more to understand if we were ever going to get out. Adam, Doctor Brashear, has been studying this place for over eighty years, by our count."

"How do you count?" Harry asked. "I was wondering about that, I have to admit, because, well. There's no time."

"Adam designed a clock based on the average human heart-rate. It's one of the few things that stays more or less constant, and it can be mapped onto comprehensible time easily enough."

Harry blinked, thought this through, then looked very impressed.

"That's… well. Honestly, that's brilliant."

"He is brilliant," Sue said. "Somehow, he's never Faded, and never given up hope, despite everyone and everything falling apart around him. Of course," she added, slanting her eyes over to him. "Now, that faith seems to be rewarded. But for a long time…"

She sighed.

"Like I said: there are many ways to measure ageing, and maturity. Your father, by all accounts, has done a lot of growing up since he came to Earth, and frankly, I think that becoming a father had a lot to do with it. I grew up much faster than most of my peers, in some respects, because I had to look after Johnny – and now, despite not having physically aged a day, I've aged more, because of… everything. My son in particular."

"But?" Harry prompted, recognising a silent 'but'.

"But while mentally, I'm nearer forty than anything else, physically, I am still twenty three. My brain hasn't finished developing. It's even more striking with Johnny: he's fifteen. Chronologically, as far as you can measure it, he's nearly thirty. But the way things work here…"

"… he's been fifteen for a very long time," Harry finished quietly, his Red Room memories swirling up from their unquiet rest once more. They seemed to be doing that a lot now, after he had theorised what might have been happening there – after he had found out what was happening there. He staved off a reflexive shudder and hoped that she didn't notice.

"Yes," Sue sighed. "And yet, my son is ageing at what we'd call a 'normal' rate." She looked at Harry. "You have the power to get us off Sakaar, a miracle I'd stopped daring to hope for even though I was still working on it. Between our plans, your power, your aunt from what you've said, and Madame Maupin's mysterious scheming, I think it's very possible that, well." She smiled again, a little wry. "Francis wouldn't be the only miracle around."

Harry went a little pink, as her smile saddened.

"And he'd get to see the world he comes from for the first time," she went on. "But even now, even with this chance right in front of me… I'm still afraid. Afraid that it won't work. Afraid that we'll be trapped. Afraid that one day, my son will be older than my brother, older than me, then –"

She stopped abruptly. She didn't need to finish the sentence.

"I hope for more," she said. "Now, I do. I hope, and I even believe."

"But when you've worried about something for that long, it's hard to make it go away," Harry said quietly.

Sue nodded. "Especially here," she said quietly. "Sakaar, the land where nothing changes."

"Nothing," Harry replied steadily, and took her hand, squeezing it gently. "Nothing until now."

Sue smiled at him, then looked very sombre.

"What happened to you?" she asked softly.

Harry blinked, a little surprised.

"I'm pretty sure I covered that already," he said, mixing wry amusement with puzzlement, and a sudden wariness underneath.

"Not in general," Sue said, shaking her head. "I know that." She touched his cheek gently. "That isn't what I meant, Harry."

Harry froze, every hair standing on end. The confident demeanour he'd had about him began to crack around the edges.

"When you talked about what's happened to Johnny, about what might be happening to Johnny," she said carefully. "I didn't realise it at first, but the way you talked about it… you knew. It wasn't theory to you, you know."

Harry was silent for a long, long time.

"Yes," he said, soft and thick around the edges. "As it happens, I do. From personal experience." He looked away. "I don't like to talk about it."

"Of course," Sue said quietly. "Forgive me, I…" She took Harry's hand. "I won't ask. If you want to talk, I'm here, and I always will be. Other than that…" She looked sadly at him. "I am so, so sorry, Harry. I am so sorry that happened to you."

Harry closed his eyes and swallowed convulsively, before nodding sharply, composure carefully maintained on the point between rage and misery. The sense of poise was profoundly shaken now. To look at him, one would see less the young man, a wielder of mysterious and unknowable powers, and much more of the boy, one who knew very well that even the finest recovery left scars.

A still moment passed.

Then, Sue found herself wrapped in a tight hug, his breath coming sharp, irregular, and staccato as he attempted to hold. She held him tight and hushed him gently as the 'til now constant undertone of tension snapped, a relaxation and a release, and soft weeping followed, as to scars that ached in a storm and hidden in the crook of her neck, tears that gleamed like starlight.

OoOoO

Sunniva had much on her mind when she followed the beacon her nephew had left, slipping between spaces in this reality. There were plenty of them if you knew where to look: little pockets of air, or vacuum, amongst the greater beast that made up this twisted realm. She had discovered the secret of Sakaar and to say that it left her disturbed would be an understatement.

However, it did not exactly leave her surprised. She had encountered realms like this before, that bent and shifted at their master's whim, that essentially were their masters. This was just more comprehensive than most. Also more alien and unnatural and downright disturbing, but that she took as a given when dealing with things from Outside, that came from Between.

Finding her nephew was not overly difficult. While the great Beast of Annihilation that now called itself the Grandmaster might be searching clumsily, blindly, and through intermediaries, she knew exactly what she was looking for and her nephew had yet to learn how to adequately hide.

Also, she was pretty sure he'd just blown a hole in Sakaar, because of course he had.

Granted, she wasn't exactly opposed to that idea herself. However, there was a time and a place, and more importantly, a plan.

She was beginning to knit one together herself, but she had to admit that it was not her greatest strength. She'd had more than adequate tactical and strategic training as a matter of course, but as she was acutely aware, she'd never really been in a position where she was not only the less powerful party, but with only one truly powerful supporter, and in the enemy's place of power to boot.

She did not discount the likely and willing contributions from the gladiators once she freed them (which they had asked her not to do, until the opportune moment, so they would pass unnoticed), and it was possible that the Herald – who she had found with their aid – could be roused to make that two powerful supporters.

However, such a battle was on a scale – and more importantly, of a kind – where even the mightiest mortals, even the greatest gods, would have trouble making a defining contribution. How could you strike what you could not even touch?

As for Norrin Radd, who had dropped to one knee on her arrival, instantly recognising her for what she was and greeting her with deepest respect, but mercifully without an ounce of the fawning servility or wounded pride that she had feared… well. He put on a good front and he was still as mighty as a titled member of any pantheon worth the name. However, he was less than he had been, cut off from further support by his Master, and he had been subdued once, fresh and in his own reality. While he was more than willing, he was also grimly if respectfully pessimistic about their odds of anything other than a quick smash and grab raid.

He also made clear something that she had reluctantly come to agree with: the Grandmaster, and all of Sakaar, would have to be scoured clean. The more that fell through into this realm, the stronger the Grandmaster grew, the further its reach grew, across all of time and space, until eventually everything that ever was, ever had been, and ever could be, would crumble and fall through the trapdoor into the waiting maw on the other side. At best, if they did not complete the job, then the Grandmaster would only regrow, and Sakaar would too, all the more voracious for it.

At worst… this realm was a cancer and a perversion, capable of clothing itself in a seeming of a reality like their own even when it was fundamentally not. And as she was very aware, cancers had a nasty tendency to metastasise. If it was allowed to do so, even in a single fragment, some place and time in their realm, perhaps well clear of either her era or that of her nephew, where none would know of the true threat. That was intolerable.

So, a scouring was necessary. Such a fight might be quick, if they found a vulnerability and brought all to bear, but it would be nothing short of brutal. And it would most certainly not be clean. In fact, it would likely spare none. Which would present problems.

The other supporter was her nephew. He was an apt pupil, wielding the Phoenix in his own inimitable style that could, it occurred to her, be potentially very useful for securing a recharge on such hostile terrain, and there was no doubt of his courage or his intelligence.

However, for all that he hid it, for all that he was terrifyingly capable, and for all that he understandably disliked her making anything of it, he was also painfully young. He had learned many hard lessons, some that she knew and many more that she did not, and he held a maturity far beyond his years – most of the time. But none of those lessons, and none of that maturity, could overcome the bald fact of his lack of experience. Especially not in a situation like this, where the slightest nuance could be the difference between successful and a fate worse than death.

It was true that she could send him away, or that he could make his own path back. He'd already done so, she could sense it. However, she was dismally aware that that was extremely unlikely. In the finest traditions of the House of Frey, her younger nephew had an unshakeable sense of duty and an unyieldingly noble streak a parsec wide.

Oh, and from what she had gleaned, he could be as stubborn as a goat, especially when innocent lives were on the line. She could sympathise with that, and she did, very deeply. She had that trait herself. Unfortunately, it would make matters difficult if they had to burn it all down, as Radd suggested, because that might well be the only way they could do anything for those innocents, anything at all.

As she considered scenario after scenario, she became even more dismally certain that even with total and improbable success, their victory would come at a horrific cost. The Grandmaster had proven in the recent (to her) past that it would not go down without a fight, at great cost in innocent life. On its own ground, that fight would be all the more devastating.

Certainly, it was a scenario to which Radd was resigned, rather than apathetic, as she had expected a Herald to be. If there was one thing that time away from his Master had done for the better, it was clearing his thoughts and removed the obsessive focus on his purpose as a Searcher and a Herald of the Devourer. The Surfer had receded, and now Norrin Radd once again thought clearly for the first time in ages untold.

"I have caused the death of countless worlds," he had said to her. "Some even more populous than this realm." He had looked out the window of his accommodations, gleaming face twisted in unhappiness. "For the sake of my world, I took service. For the sake of the universe, I continued it, living for far longer than I wished or deserved. For the sake of the universe, I will do so again."

He had paused then, considering his words, before nodding decisively.

"Heed me now, Lady Phoenix; I can offer you one gift, one piece of knowledge, that may help your plans and may allow you to perhaps salvage something, anything, anyone, from all of this."

He had looked at her then, and the bleakness that she saw in those silver-white eyes made her anger at Galactus' callousness burn all the brighter.

"I have no desire to survive this."

She had closed her eyes. For that, she could not blame him. Each being had the right to choose the way and manner of their own passing. Norrin Radd had earned that right more than most.

"There will be another way," she had replied instantly, intense. "For you, and for others. There should be. There must be."

This time, that gleaming face had turned to a smile, one sad, but kind. He could hear how unconvinced she was by that, for all the intensity of her words. She had always managed to find one before, yes, that was true. But 'always' had to end sometime. All things did.

"I hope so, young one," he had said, in such a way that with his great age, she did not instinctively bristle at it, much as her nephew did. "I truly do." He had looked back out the window. "But sometimes, there are no good choices."

With those words, accidentally chosen, he silenced her. He could not have struck her harder if he had had the might of his Master thrice over, because it was true, as true as it had been when she had told her nephew exactly that.

Tens of billions of souls existed in this realm, with more falling through with each moment that passed. As duration took place, the best way to describe Sakaar's relationship with time, they were slowly fed upon and hollowed out. The results… were unpleasant. They were also unpleasantly familiar.

It was more or less exactly what the Annihilus creature had done before its creation of this realm and evolution into its current form, but much more subtle. After all, the spider now had prey falling into its lair, it could afford to feed at leisure. The fact that it now used the remnants, the metaphorical gristle and bone of matter and energy and life, as building materials to adorn its nest and puppets to fill it or hunt for it was simply a grotesque by-product.

She had seen worse, in some ways, but that spoke more to the kinds of things that she had seen than this. Rarely in such cases was there a slow imbuing of a bleak despair, a realisation that nothing held meaning, one that devoured the people of this place with a gnawing hunger nearly equal to that of the Grandmaster. They did not know when their doom would come, and very few could see it or sense it. Few of those remained, and she could sense them. There was something unique about the madness such horrific revelations inspired. She could see it too: when she looked at those people, all of them, now that she knew what to look for, she could see it.

Some clung to the brink, holding onto their identity with desperate inward whispers and repetitions. Others endured beyond reason, somehow resisting the drain. Some were practically untouched, protected by a coating only she could see, a kind of signal of the Grandmaster's, perceptible only to the likes of them, marking them as favoured and not to be fed upon. Others still faced quite the opposite fate. They were apparently found to be the Grandmaster's liking, devoured whole before her horrified eyes, so quickly that there was nothing even she could do.

The first time, she was forced to watch as an empty shell rapidly filled with the Grandmaster's essence, lips twitching up in a grotesquely cheerful grin beneath hollow eyes as the Grandmaster tested out the new form, then wandered away from the shell's erstwhile companions, blithely ignoring the way they fled and seeking out the markets – apparently to sample food with a newer, more sensitive tongue.

Eventually, boredom overcame novelty and the shell was transformed it into a copy of his preferred form, causing abject grovelling among everyone nearby, a terrified worship, carrying an implicit plea that they should be not struck down on a whim, that they should be left in peace. It seemed to lap it up, to see this as genuine honour and adulation, what they were and how they should be. She somehow doubted that it knew the difference. Or that it cared.

But she did, and in that moment, as she watched from afar, she truly hated the Grandmaster.

"Damn you for doing this to them," she whispered. "And damn you for making me do this."

Taking that burning fire, she turned away, setting that burning focus on her nephew and abruptly noticing his distress. Not rage, not fear, as such, she realised after a poised instant. More of a persistent misery. She closed her eyes. Perhaps he too had realised what she had. What a fate they had come to when that was the best she could hope for; that he had realised such a thing, and reconciled himself to the awful and rapidly growing possibility of what they would have to do.

She laughed bitterly.

Sometimes there really were no good choices.

She raised a hand and burnt a path through the pockets of sub-reality. She had grave plans to make, plans that none of them would enjoy building. Plans, and one other thing, one that would be needed even if all went well. It was necessary, and both the least, and, she feared, the most she could do for those she could not save.

A pyre.

I was going to do a great deal more this chapter, but I thought that this would be a good place to end it. Make no mistake, this is going to be a matter of hard choices, and I wanted to emphasise that miracles really will be needed – and even miracles themselves may not be enough. But there's hope, peaking here and there, things not necessarily accounted for, some obvious and some not. Sunniva doesn't hold the full picture here, but her assessment isn't totally incomplete, either. She absolutely does not want to obliterate everyone on Sakaar, to turn it into their pyre, but she's desperately worried that a Mercy Kill is all she can give most of them. And Death by Phoenix is infinitely more merciful than what is coming for them. It's quick, for one thing.