#bronze writes

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It sounded like a good idea at the time.

Marx was always talking about his big, grand schemes and coming up with plans that, most of the time, he'd never actually go through with. He liked to dream, and Magolor liked that about him, and so he encouraged it.

He always encouraged it.

When Marx had first brought up his plan to track down a Nova and try to make a wish, Magolor had laughed and shrugged it off. No one could do something like that. If it had been possible to find a Nova, he would've done it already a long time ago. He would've wished for his planet back--or at the very least, his family--and he would be safe and happy and not living in a shack in the middle of the desert with an escaped Noddy from the mines.

Not that he minded Marx living with him, but he had never exactly invited him to.

Several days after he first mentioned it, however, Marx brought it up again. This time, the two of them were sprawling in the sand, late at night, staring up at the stars, and Magolor knew he was serious. These were the times when their soft, muttered words to each other were always serious, always meaningful, and often raw and emotional too. 

“I’m gonna find a Nova whether you agree with me or not,” Marx had said softly to the night sky, and the look in his bright blue eyes solidified it.

Magolor could only sigh softly and say, “Please be careful.”

It didn’t take long for the two of them to come up with a reasonable enough plan. They would go to another star system, find another planet that still had some shred of hope and life left on it, and see if someone there could help. Marx was considerably more charismatic than Magolor, and more outgoing too; he would go first and do all the talking, and Magolor would linger in the space surrounding the planet in case he was needed.

It seemed flawless enough.

Leaving behind the death and dust on Halcandra felt simultaneously wildly freeing and achingly empty. Magolor stood on the deck of the Lor and watched the planet disappear behind them in a blink as they leapt to the next nearest star system. Marx laid on his back nearby, staring up at the stars, polite enough to give Magolor some silence but determined not to look at Halcandra a moment longer than he had to.

As they reached the unsuspecting planet below, Marx stood up and said, “You’re gonna be okay up here by yourself, yeah?”

“Sure,” said Magolor, leaning back against the wall of the ship. “I have Lor, anyway.”

“See, it’s not great, thinking of you sitting up here in space talking to your ship all day and night,” said Marx. “You sure you don’t want to just come down to the surface too?”

“I’m not sure how this planet takes to Halcandrans,” said Magolor, “and I doubt that a Nova will listen to anything I have to say. I’d sabotage our plans before they ever had a chance.”

Marx rolled his eyes. “You’re a little full of yourself,” he said with grin. “Giving yourself way too much credit here. I think you’re just afraid to meet your god.”

“That too.” Magolor frowned and added, “I’ve heard a lot of stories, you know...cautionary tales, mostly. Supposedly, if you get what you want from a Nova, you may end up paying more for it than you expect.”

“What, like, ‘be careful what you wish for?’”

“Basically.”

“I’m not worried,” said Marx. “All I’m gonna ask for is help, right?”

Magolor flattened his ears. “Is that really all you’ll ask for when the time comes?”

“What else could I want?” Marx said with a shrug. Then he yelled, “Hey Lor!” into the empty hallways of the ship. “You make sure Mags doesn’t do anything stupid while I’m gone, okay?” 

In response, the ship hummed on as she always did.

Marx tossed his hair over his shoulder and said, “Okay, well, I’m off. See you, Mags.” He reached out and gave Magolor’s hands a quick squeeze, then hurried off to depart the ship and travel to the surface of the planet far below.

And Magolor waited.

Until one day, some time later, when he was awakened from a midday nap by every alarm on the ship screaming and flashing red. He clambered out of his seat and scrambled to the monitor to see what the Lor was so worked up about, only to find a massive, planet-sized clockwork star looming nearby.

He sat down on the floor, eyes wide, arms and legs shaking. He had felt fear often in his life, but never like the fear of seeing the face of an incomprehensible deity right outside his ship.

The Nova didn’t seem to pay any mind to Magolor or the Lor, but the Lor certainly noticed; the sirens never stopped blaring as the Nova passed by, headed on what looked like a collision course for the planet just beyond the ship.

“Oh--oh, no,” Magolor said, as the realization of just what a catastrophe this was going to be dawned on him. “Oh, god, that planet--they’re all going to die--we have to go--”

Somehow, he managed to drag himself to his feet and to the ship’s control panel. “We have to go get Marx,” he said as he tried to force the Lor to move closer to the planet. But the ship wouldn’t budge, no matter what he tried.

“Lor, please! Please, Marx is on that planet!” Magolor said, but his words were lost on the ship. Before he could try anything more, a flash of light from the nearby Nova caught his attention on the monitor.

Something was terribly wrong. The Nova had stopped, but it looked...broken? And as Magolor urged the Lor to move forward, to somehow get to the planet before disaster struck, he saw something new on the screen.

It looked like Marx.

It was Marx.

But also... it wasn’t.

He was much too far away to see clearly, but the figure had to be Marx. Magolor ran out to the deck of the ship to try to get a closer look at whatever was going on nearby. It was still difficult to see, but he knew he was looking at Marx, except not, because Marx had never been able to fly or to shoot lasers or to control electricity.

The Nova loomed over the scene as desperate, wild laughter rang through the surrounding space. Someone was fighting back--fighting Marx--and Magolor knew he needed to get there and do something. Marx must’ve been too weak when he spoke to the Nova, asked for something he shouldn’t have, and now he was suffering the consequences. The plan had backfired. But Magolor knew he could stop Marx, and he could do it without hurting him. He had to go.

But he couldn’t move. He could only stand there, trembling, and watch until the chaos came to an abrupt end.

“Captain,” said a voice that made Magolor jump and look around wildly, “we have to get out of here right now.”

“What--who? Who’s there?”

“We have to go,” said the voice. “I’m getting us out of here.”

“No, we can’t,” said Magolor, still desperately trying to figure out who was speaking to him. “Marx is--”

“Captain.” A brief pause. Then, “Marx is gone,” said the voice. “I waited as long as I could. This is a very, very dangerous situation. I need you to say the word so we can leave.”

“Lor?” said Magolor weakly. “Wait...what do you mean gone? I just saw him. We have to go help him.”

“He is dead, and we will be too, if we stay here a moment longer.” The ship lurched backward, slightly, as if trying to move on her own. “I’m sorry, Captain. We have to go.”

Magolor turned back to the Nova just in time to see it shatter in a flash of hot, white light. The shockwaves from the resulting explosion slammed into the Lor and threw her off her course, knocking Magolor across the deck and into the railing on the opposite side. He laid there in a daze until the last aftershocks subsided.

“Captain,” said the ship’s voice again in the silence that followed. “Would you like a damage report?”

“Can you still fly?” said Magolor, pulling himself to his feet.

“Yes.”

“Please let me find Marx.”

“Marx is--”

“I know,” said Magolor, gritting his teeth as hard as he could. He had no reason to believe what the Lor said was true, and yet he knew better than to think anything otherwise. Especially after an explosion like that. “I know. I can’t just leave him.”

The Lor offered no verbal response, but sputtered over toward the field of space debris and wreckage where the Nova had been moments before. Together, she and Magolor searched, moving carefully as well as a large Starcutter could through the mess, until they located Marx. It was almost more than Magolor could process, seeing him floating there, broken, with impossible metal wings drifting behind him. 

The Lor moved close enough for Magolor to reach out and pull Marx onto the deck, and that was all it took; he knew, as soon as he made physical contact, that his friend really was gone. He pulled Marx’s body close despite the weight of the wings and sank to his knees, holding him, silent.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He wasn’t supposed to be alone again, and Marx wasn’t supposed to be lifeless in his arms. He felt his breath catch in his throat and the old familiar burning sting of a failed attempt to stop himself from crying.

“Captain,” said the Lor as Magolor dissolved into gasping, shuddering tears. “I’m very sorry to interrupt your grieving, but I think we need to leave this place.”

“Halcandra,” Magolor said, spitting his words out as best he could. “Just--Halcandra.”

“Of course.”

He barely registered the trip back to the planet. The Lor knew the way, anyhow, and he could do nothing but sit there on the deck, and pet Marx’s hair, and cry. Nothing made sense now, but somewhere amidst the fogginess in his mind he sensed that something had gone very wrong on that planet. Something had happened to Marx there, and it was someone from the same planet who had taken his life, too.

Marx was dead and it was that planet’s fault. 

The world went still as I felt my body tense for the killing blow I was about to receive. I made no attempt to bring my hands up and instead closed my eyes, ready for the sweet, sweet end. I could imagine the blade tearing a hole in my skin where my heart rested beneath-

It dug into my shoulder instead, piercing deep enough to slice against my bones. I let out a mind-numbing scream of agony as I dropped to my back and curled into the fetal position, feeling my arms clench involuntarily. Hot, rage-fueled tears started streaming down my face and I could barely see her through them. Her figure stood out against the desolate landscape, sensual curves against the harsh terrain. I forced myself to swallow and looked at her, hoping she could hear my heart breaking into a million tiny pieces.

“Why did you spare me?” I cried, pulling myself towards her ever so slightly. “Why did you not end my life like I deserved?” Her impeccable boots came into my vision as she elegantly knelt down, her face at level with the dagger sticking out of my shoulder. I could feel my blood leaking out, covering my torn gown in gold. She flicked the handle a few times and each action tore a whimper of pain from my mouth. With dizzying speed, she grabbed the handle and twisted it halfway, carving an even larger hole. I clenched my teeth and prayed to whatever deity was out there, begging for the sweet release of death. Her face met mine, and for a few brief moments, I remembered what it felt like to have her lips on my own. I would never be feeling that again, I realized. I would never know the endless love she had given me.

It was hard to say just how long Magolor had been living on the dark, cold, prison of a planet, but the longer he stayed there, the less it felt like a punishment. His body was healing considerably better than he had expected given how badly he'd been hurt, and although he was still achey and stiff, he was otherwise back to his usual self.

Physically, anyhow. Mentally, he spent most of his time failing to fight off the feeling that something terrible would happen if he didn't get his hands on the Master Crown again.

It wasn't for lack of trying. He tried everything he could think of to be rid of these feelings and that constant madness that threatened to shred him into tattered pieces of himself, but nothing he did could make a difference. When he was left alone, for a few minutes or a few days, he could do nothing but sit and stare or scream into the perpetual night sky, desperate to answer as the Crown called and called and called to him.

Sometimes he could do nothing but lie face-down in the dirt and try to fight it off--and this was how Galacta found him one day after a prolonged absence.

"Magolor," he said sternly as he crouched at arm's length away. He'd learned from the first few experiences not to touch Magolor when this happened, or he might be attacked; he could certainly fight an injured man with very little power to his name, but he didn't want to. "Magolor," he repeated, this time a bit louder.

Magolor slowly shifted until he could look up at Galacta from beneath his hood. "Please help me," he said quietly.

"I can't." Galacta sat down more comfortably in the dirt. "We've been through this. You're going to have to do it yourself."

Magolor turned away again, pressing his face into the ground. “I’m trying so hard,” he said.

“You don’t need the Crown,” said Galacta.

“Yes I do--you don’t understand--”

“I absolutely do understand, and you don’t need it.” He scowled. “If you had it here, I’d have to kill you.”

Magolor mumbled something into the ground that sounded suspiciously like “not if I killed you first,” but Galacta chose to ignore it. In a few moments, Magolor pulled himself up and into a sitting position, dusting off his clothes. “I hate this,” he said quietly. Cutting his eyes toward Galacta, he added, “Don’t tell me I brought it on myself.”

“I wouldn’t say something like that while you’re suffering,” said Galacta. “Even if it’s true.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Magolor dryly.

The two lapsed into silence for a while as Magolor took a few deep breaths, battling against the thoughts that wouldn’t leave him alone.

“There something enticing about the sky tonight,” said Galacta, interrupting the quiet that had fallen between them with a much gentler tone. “Something that makes me wish I could fly off into space and just stay there.”

“I think I’d miss you,” said Magolor, before he could stop himself.

“Would you?” Galacta raised an eyebrow at him and moved over to sit closer. “I’d miss you too. I think I’ve grown fonder of you than expected.”

“Thank you?”

“It’s a compliment.”

Magolor could feel his heart pounding as Galacta leaned heavily against him then, shutting his eyes and sighing softly. He tried his best to calm himself as he gently put his arms around Galacta, keeping a loose hold on him and resting their heads together, careful to avoid the horns.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” said Galacta in a low but stern voice.

Magolor laughed quietly. “Who am I telling? You’re the only one here.”

“Someday you’ll leave this place,” said Galacta. “You’ll finish your sentence and go back to living your ordinary life. But I suppose you won’t tell anyone then, either, because you won’t remember me.”

“Of course I will.”

“No one ever remembers me.” Galacta’s voice wavered just a bit, but he cleared his throat to hide it. “As soon as I’m far enough away, any memory of me is deleted. That’s just part of my own punishment.”

Magolor tightened his hold. “I’m not going to forget you. I mean that. How could I, after everything you’ve done for me?”

Galacta gave a quick little chuckle of clear disbelief. “It’s nice to hear someone say that, anyhow,” he said. “And...nice to be held, too. Thank you.”

“Thank you, too. I haven’t held another person since--” A pause; then, “It’s been a long time.”

In response, Galacta wrapped his arms around Magolor as well. They sat together for a short while, looking up at the distant stars in silence. Finally, Galacta’s laughter broke the spell.

“What’s funny?”

“You--are you purring?”

“What?!”

“You’re purring.”

“I can’t help it!” Magolor pulled away from the embrace, flustered, and ducked down to hide his flushed face beneath his scarf. “It’s not like I can control it!”

Galacta bit his lip in an attempt to stop from laughing. “I’ve never met a Halcandran before you,” he said. “Had no idea you could do that. It’s sort of cute.”

“Stop!” said Magolor. “Stop teasing me!”

“I’m not teasing you!” Galacta stood up and flexed his wings. “...yet,” he added, as he flicked one of Magolor’s ears with a smirk. “Race you to the spring.”

**

The first thing Magolor noticed when he woke up was that the crown was gone. Barely conscious, he was nevertheless desperately aware of having lost such great power so quickly, and as he waited for his body to catch up with his mind, it was all he could think about.

Then, cutting through the haze of longing for something he knew he'd never get back, the pain kicked in. He groaned and tried to pull himself up--realizing only then that he was sprawling on his back on the ground somewhere--but a hot, searing sensation tore across his chest and stomach as he did so, bringing with it the memory of chaos, dark magic, and battle.

Right. How could he have forgotten?

He laid back on the ground and forced his eyes open instead.

Wherever he was, it was not Halcandra. It also wasn't the emptiness of space, although he wouldn't have been surprised by that. This place was a planet, although it seemed fairly devoid of much life. The ground was dark, the sky was dark, and although the stars were visible, they looked further away than they ever had before. In the near distance, he could hear the sound of flowing water.

It was very cold.

It was so dark.

It was not Halcandra.

Magolor sighed as deeply as he could without aggravating his injuries further. Home was a long way away, and even if it hadn’t been, he could never go back there.

Before the weight of what he had done and the burden of homesickness could fully hit him, he was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. He turned his head quickly, trying to see who could possibly be approaching him in a place like this, but the person didn't come into view and his range of motion was limited. The sound neared and then came to a stop, followed by a deep, quiet voice that was speaking a very old language.

"Bad enough I'm stuck here," the voice said, as if talking to itself. "Now I have to babysit this half-dead Halcandran too?"

"I'm not half-dead," Magolor said--or tried to say, responding in the same language. His voice was weak and it was harder to talk than he had expected. His few words had been enough, though. The speaker drew closer, near enough for Magolor to finally see him, and then crouched down beside him, just out of reach. The man was dressed as if he was heading to battle, and most of his features were hidden by a large mask. He had wings and horns, and Magolor peered at both as he tried to determine just what this person was.

"You speak the language of the Ancients," said the man, mildly, but with a hint of curiosity. 

Magolor took a moment to gather himself before responding. "They're my ancestors," he said slowly.

The man frowned. "They must hate you, if you're here."

"I've made mistakes."

"That seems like an understatement." The man stood up and walked out of Magolor's line of sight, still talking as he went. "This is a prison, in so many words. An empty planet in an empty dimension, far away from anything and anyone. I was sent here as a punishment, and I would wager you were, too."

Magolor made no response, but simply shut his eyes.

"You wouldn't be my first choice in company," said the man as he returned with a pail of water, "but at least you're something. You can call me Galacta."

"Magolor."

"What an old-fashioned name," Galacta said as he poured the water over Magolor's chest without warning.

Magolor swore loudly and tried to sit up again, still without much use. "What the hell--stop! That hurts!"

"Of course it hurts. Looks like a wound from a sword--a big one. If you don't keep it clean, you'll have a lot more trouble than you already do."

With a scowl, Magolor fell silent once again. He knew the strange man was right, and he also wasn't going to say no to some assistance, especially while he was so badly injured. He had a lot of questions, and no strength to ask any of them. 

Galacta busied himself tending to the remaining wounds and muttering to himself about swords and magic damage, and Magolor soon drifted into a restless sleep plagued by visions of crowns and stars.

**

Over the coming weeks, Magolor was surprised to see how quickly he healed, especially given everything that had happened. Galacta seemed to know what he was doing when it came to fixing up injuries caused by sharp objects and dark magic, and Magolor got the impression he'd probably had more than his share of experience with both.

Although Galacta offered his help and even made sure Magolor had a place to sleep that wasn't just out in the open, he never stayed long when he came around, and he never offered much information. But as Magolor's strength returned, his need to know more grew, too. When finally he was back on his feet again, he made up his mind to get the information he wanted, whatever it took. So, as Galacta was preparing to leave after one of his check-ins--off to do whatever it was he did otherwise--Magolor followed him away from the makeshift campsite where he'd been recovering.

"Don't follow me," said Galacta over his shoulder without bothering to turn around.

"I've been here for a while," said Magolor, "and I'm obviously not leaving anytime soon. I think I deserve some kind of an explanation."

"I don't know what to tell you." Galacta spread his wings with a flourish. "You know what this place is, and that's really the only information I have. I'm still not even sure why you're here, though I can put together some ideas from those injuries of yours."

Magolor frowned. "Fly off if you want to," he said. "But I'm not telling you anything if you don't tell me anything. Seems only fair."

Galacta paused as if he was considering that. After a moment, he turned to face Magolor. "Can you fly?" he asked.

"Not...really," said Magolor with a shrug.

Galacta huffed in response. "Fine--walk with me then. If you fall behind, I'm not waiting around for you."

He hurried off, clearly trying to walk too quickly for Magolor to keep up. Magolor, however, had no trouble matching his stride, and they set about strolling some invisible perimeter Galacta seemed to be patrolling for one reason or another.

"What are you looking for?" asked Magolor.

"Intruders," said Galacta. "I don't get a lot of them, but sometimes a Nova comes by to make sure I'm still being a good boy." He spat the last few words. "Never fun being surprised by one of them."

"I truly hope I don't run into any Novas while I'm here." Magolor's voice was more a growl than intended, and Galacta glanced sideways at him.

"You have something against them? They're your tech, more or less."

Magolor flattened his ears. "Bad memories," he said. "Not that it was the Nova's fault."

Galacta gave a soft, short laugh. "You can't say something like that and not expect me to want details," he said.

For a few short moments, Magolor remained quiet, considering just what he ought to tell this stranger. Although he felt like he could trust Galacta, he didn't really know anything at all about him. He spoke the language of the Ancients, and he shared a lot of their knowledge, too. But he wasn't Halcandran, he wasn't like anything Magolor had ever seen before, and he could very well have been dangerous.

Of course, it didn't make much sense for a dangerous person to spend so much time gently tending the wounds of a stranger and listening to him long for home. And if Galacta was really all that dangerous, why was he going out of his way to be comforting and helpful? He'd even gone so far as to patch up Magolor's hood and bring him a change of clothes. An enemy wouldn't be so friendly.

The somewhat bitter irony of this thought was not lost on Magolor. Still, he decided that he might as well trust Galacta, given that it was easier than not trusting him.

"I lost someone very important to me, some years ago," he said slowly. "A Nova was there--I think my friend may have killed her."  He stared hard at the ground in front of his feet as he spoke. "I wasn't there, so I'm not completely clear on what happened. But I do know that my friend lost his mind and ended up dead, too."

Galacta was quiet as he listened, waiting for Magolor to finish speaking. Finally, he said, "I see...bad memories, indeed."

"I never got over losing him," said Magolor. Now that he was telling his story--his real story, and not the made-up version he'd peddled on Popstar--he could hardly stop talking. "I'm still not over it. He was my best friend, and my only friend. I'm the last one of my people and I am so alone. I have so many regrets, and I have so much anger, and I turned all of it against Popstar. Against the people who had known my friend before his death, and against the child who was responsible for it."

He drew in a shaky breath and gave up trying to hide the tears in his eyes and the waver in his voice. In crying, he failed to notice Galacta's piqued interest at the mention of Popstar. "I came up with this wild plan to get revenge, and for some reason it nearly worked, and that's how I ended up with the Master Crown and all... this." He shrugged, looking down at his sore and healing body. "I'm a mess," he finished weakly.

"You were in possession of the Master Crown?" Galacta stopped walking altogether, turning to face Magolor. There was something unreadable behind his eyes as he spoke. "Is that what did this?" He reached out to touch one of the claw-like burns running down Magolor's forehead, then the larger burn across his cheek and neck.

His gloves were cold and rough, and Magolor flinched a little. "Yes," he said. "Most of it, anyway."

"You're lucky to have survived that," said Galacta. His voice was much softer than Magolor had heard it before, and there was something new in it--tenderness? Compassion? Whatever it was, he'd been hiding it up until this point, and it was surprising to hear it now.

Magolor breathed in a bit more sharply than he had intended and said, "Well--I guess--but I feel like I can’t survive without it, even so. Like my head is coming apart in little pieces, more and more each day I don't have that crown."

"I'm not sure if that feeling will ever go away," Galacta said. "But I hope very much that it does." He gave Magolor an awkward pat on the shoulder. "I'm not surprised you have ties to Popstar," he said. "I didn't think you were here by coincidence."

"What does that mean?"

"I never agreed to tell you anything." Galacta smirked at him, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Just because you spilled all that doesn't mean I'm going to do the same."

"Excuse me?" Magolor said.

.

"What are you doing down here, old man?"

The voice was barely above a whisper, but there was something harsh to it anyway, and Magolor turned in the direction from which it was coming to try to get a closer look. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the mining cave some time before, but even so, the speaker was difficult to make out.

"Who are you?" he called softly to the darkness.

"Answer mine first," said the voice. The distant shadow it belonged to shifted a little.

Magolor took a deep breath and looked around for a quick survey of the area. It was hard to tell whether or not the person talking to him was friend or foe--or something in between--but he needed an escape route in case things went badly. There was a small tunnel a couple of yards away that he could sprint for if he had to. That would be better than nothing.

With that established, he spoke up again. "I'm Magolor," he said, his voice carrying across the cave's chamber more than he'd really meant for it to. "I'm looking for something."

"That's an old-fashioned name," said the voice again. Its owner took a few hesitant steps forward before adding, "Are you one of the Ancients?"

"Sort of," said Magolor. His heart sank at the words; it had been many decades since the wars had ended, but all the old memories still flooded back every time someone brought up the past anyway.

The speaker paused just a brief moment before marching toward him then, and Magolor was startled enough by the sudden change in demeanor that he didn't think to follow his previous escape plan at all. Instead, he stood there watching, bewildered, as the person came into view, looking quite a lot shorter than his voice had let on.

"You're a Noddy," said Magolor, blinking and trying to hide his amusement at himself for being so intimidated by someone so small.

"I have a name, and it's Marx. And as long as we're throwing out observations, you look like you're way more than just "sort of" an Ancient. But I thought they were all dead?"

Magolor frowned. "They are," he said. "All but me."

Marx threw on a nervous little smile that made it clear he had no idea how to respond to that, then said, "So what are you looking for, anyway?"

"No, it's my turn," said Magolor. "What are you doing down here?"

"I work here," said Marx, putting his hands on his hips. "In the mines. We're digging up stuff, but heck if I know what."

"Right," said Magolor, trying to hide the uneasiness that was creeping up in the back of his mind. Whatever anyone was digging for down here, it wasn't good--for them or for him--and it was bound to get in his way sooner or later. He needed to finish what he was trying to do, and fast. "You're sort of shrimpy to be a miner, aren't you?"

"You're sort of fuzzy to be a wizard," said Marx with a scowl.

"I'm not a wizard."

"All the Ancients were wizards."

"That's--that's a common misconception."

Marx rolled his eyes. "So what are you, then?"

With a huff, Magolor said, "I was a scientist some time ago. And now I'm--" He paused just short of admitting he was not much more than a social outcast these days, and instead said, "I'm a healer, when I can be."

"So you're a good wizard."

"I don't have time for this," Magolor sighed, flattening his ears back and rubbing his temples. "Just let me get back to my search, I'll let you get back to your digging, and we can both pretend this never happened. Right?"

"Or," said Marx, "you could take me with you."

"Why in the world would I ever want to do that?"

"Because I know my way around this mine way better than you do--"

"I can find my way without help."

"--and because I need a way out of here myself--"

"That isn't my problem."

"--and because I know where that big, fancy, Ancient ship is buried," Marx finished with a smirk.

Magolor's eyes widened in the darkness. He'd never once mentioned what he was looking for, so how could Marx have known his goal? But he did know, and that must mean...his ancestors' ship really was down here. And he felt sure, before he even let himself consciously decide it, that he would much rather have someone lead him to the ship quickly than spend months or even years more searching for it throughout this web of caves.

He winced a little as he said, finally, "Okay. Take me to the ship, and I'll get you out of the mines."