They were old stones, the stones that buried Leporino, the boundary markers of a rustic edifice or a low wall. They might have tumbled down the ravine under the weight of last winter’s snow, or at an unlucky push.

(Written for cygnes and the prompt: the secret history au where it's a jacobean revenge tragedy.)

On the road, after the walls come down. Tris looks for answers; Peter looks for an ending.

Michael and David and Star, forever.

Back in England, Jopson and Crozier invent new formalities for themselves.

Back then, all the boys his age had hero-worshipped costumed vigilantes. Jack supposes they still do.

Caleb wakes up on the floor.

The two of them are marked by water.

Ammit consecrates her avatar to herself.

Larry makes friends in the music industry.

There in that white-gilt bedroom like a tomb, where I believe none of Gatsby's guests had ever before set foot except by mistake — none until Daisy, and I was only her adjunct and proxy, an accessory to her presence there in the house. He had forgotten about me then. He had forgotten about me now. I was his only witness.