#complete fic!

PARANOIDPARANOIDPARANOIDPARANOIDPARANOIDPARANOID

I’M BEING PARANOID.

But could it be called paranoia– “unjustified suspicion”– when it was indeed justified? Of course not. Of course he’s going to kill me. He said he would. But when would he do it? How would he do it? Would THEY help him? Of course they would. Those fucking bootlickers. Those fucking spineless maniacs. Those goddamned pretentious morons. They think he’s some sort of God. Cursing them under his breath, he stumbled through the air, unusually careless. Yes, he was being careless– even in his semi-drunken state, he knew he was. But goddammit! A man can’t live in fear! There comes a point when he’s so afraid that he doesn’t care anymore– JUSTMAKETHEFEARSTOP.

“Just make it stop….” he grumbled to the listening trees, feeling their eyes follow him silently. Eyes. Eyes in the trees. Steps that lingered in the shadows behind him (always, always there, at home, at the football field….) Eyes in the hallways. Eyes in his dorm. The fucker was everywhere, the fucker was everywhere. Following, watching, seeing— Bunny saw his outline in the haze that fell before dreams. He was in Bunny’s head too— fucker really was everywhere— god, the nightmares….

He’s going to kill me. He’s tiring me out, the bastard. And I am tired. I’m tired of these games. So just….

“Come at me then, motherfucker. You fucking psychopathic….” I’ll sock him. He’ll lunge at me with a knife and I’ll…I’ll sock him. I got pepper spray too. It’s right under my pillow. I’ll burn his eyes if he tries to choke me in my sleep. Or maybe he’d chop me up. Like a real psycho killer. Maybe he’d chop me up…..what would I do then? Oh, what would I do?

Under the thicket of the forest trees, the sky looked darker than it was. He didn’t remember looking up, but the fever of his delirium was marked by swimming flashes of a cold sky, watching him through the tapestry of interweaving branches and leaves above him. His murmurs were swallowed by the breath of the foliage, his touch leaving traces of his essence on the dark bark, with its ancient swirls that had heard and seen and felt so many things….so many sins….No, I can’t think of….He shook his head clear of the mistakes he’d made in freshman year, fondling in the dark with…..Not the goddamn time. He’s going to kill you, and you’re thinking about…

“Lied to you, excluded you, called you all sorts of names….made fun of the very thing….” And you’re thinking about…..

When he looked up, the trees had cleared off the path, trimmed and shaved so they would skirt the path instead of crowd it. It was his usual route, and just the night before he had been thinking of changing it, because otherwise he’d be making it far too easy for him. But he was tired. And he didn’t want to be afraid anymore. And perhaps, deep down, a part of him was sure he wouldn’t do it. Sure, he was a murderer now. He’d killed someone– brutally, and relished in the fact. But hey, Bunny was….his friend. At some point, they’d been the best buds. Genuinely best buds. These very trees could testify for him. If only they could speak the things they’d bore witness to.

He wouldn’t really kill me. I’d look at him, and I’d laugh, and I’d say, ‘Come on, old man. It’s me.’

He thought he was confident in what they’d once had. He thought he knew the man well. But all that confidence went flying out the window the moment he turned the corner and came face to face with him.

It shocked Bunny to find him here of all places— sure, Henry had been openly stalking him, but he didn’t quite expect him to get so brazen about it all of a sudden—- unless he’s here to make a bold move. Bunny froze in his steps, and something horrible, something cold clutched his heart. His stomach sank.

Henry was standing there on the path, hands in his pockets, a strange smile on his lips, the glint in his glasses hiding his eyes.

For all his confidence, Bunny felt afraid.

They were all there. All of them, solemn faced, snake-skinned.

It was like coming face to face with a truth he’d been running from for a very, very long time. And now there was nowhere to go. Nothing to do but– he looked at the path behind Richard’s head, past Camilla, past Charles, away from him. There was a brief exchange of words, repressed as though they were concealed weapons– Bunny was still in his senses, only a little drunk– so for the most part his suspicion was less paranoid and more logical— considering everything. Bunny asked what they were doing. Henry said something about ferns.

“…Why aren’t you coming over here, Bunny?” Henry inquired, putting some concern into his voice and a slight smile on his lips.

“Why should I?” Bunny asked warily.

“No reason, really.” Henry replied, his voice almost sweet sounding, a tone he rarely used. He gave an inviting wave, gesturing for him to come closer. The others stood in a frozen tableau, mannequins with wide eyes and held breaths. They were so still they blended into the background.

A branch cracked under Bunny’s boot. He’d been backing away slowly, towards the trail through the pines, and Henry was following him.

Bunny’s voice trembled, “What are you lot doing here, really?”

Henry’s smile was unnerving.

“I told you, I’m looking for ferns.”

And what Richard wouldn’t write in his shitty little book of lies was this: ferns. Ferns. Ferns. Between the two of them, between him and this bastard that Bunny couldn’t recognize anymore, that word held a different meaning. Something that had come to life in these very woods, whispered to the trees with their sturdy, witnessing shafts, spilling, spilling, spilling…..

Bunny gasped sharply as Henry’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. He was twisting it.

“Yes, ferns. Help me look for them, won’t you?”

“Don’t touch me, goddammit! Get your hands off-”

“Come on, Bunny, dear,” (and he murmured the last part so nobody heard it) Henry said, sweet and almost even loving. “It’s just me.” A moment later, “You know, I’ve been thinking….”

“Get your goddamn hands off me you bastard!” Bunny’s voice cut through the air but Henry’s quiet murmurs continued, undisturbed.

“I’ve been thinking, you’re privy to things— things about each of us, all of us in fact– that we’d rather you didn’t know. It’s quite unfair, isn’t it? You shroud yourself in paradoxes so nobody sees you for who you are. It’s unfair, isn’t it?” Henry leaned in, his sweet voice turning bitter, he twisted Bunny’s wrist with a snap. Bunny cried out in pain, but the silent witnesses said and did nothing– in fact, they looked on, some might say with shock, some might say with eager curiosity.

“Why don’t we open up one of your precious secrets? Right here, right now.” Henry said darkly, he kept his gaze trained on Bunny’s nervous, jittery one. Bunny’s breath was quickening— he looked back at the others. And then he glared up at Henry.

“No secret I have could be any worse than yours!” He yelled at the top of his lungs (or, well, he tried to), then he looked madly at the evildoers behind Henry, “I haven’t killed an innocent man, I don’t have loose morals, I don’t fuck my own sibling!”

“Really? Aren't I a brother to you?”

Now this. This would come as a shock to everyone– what Bunny would never know but had wondered was this: did their worlds spin and did their minds reel with the sheer force that his world had rocked with? He felt himself grow pale– no, the trees would never throw such sacred a sin out into the open, no matter how many times they’d observed it. The trees were benevolent. Henry had been benevolent. Once.

“Shut up,” His voice tried to rise up, but it failed and sank in his chest like a deflated balloon.

“You,” Henry hissed back, all the fake pleasantry gone from his voice. “Shouldn’t have ever touched my things, you bastard.” And then he grabbed Bunny’s collar and shook him violently. Bunny let out a strangled sound, his free hand flying up to Henry’s wrist, trying to free himself. His brain couldn’t keep up with the rapid onslaught of violence. He’d expected Henry to be angry, of course he’d expected that. But not this. Not his once-dear friend shaking him like a dog, like he meant to pull him apart. Henry leaned in and bared his teeth and snarled his words and YOU’REHURTINGMEYOUR’REHURTINGMEYOU’REHURTINGMEYOUR’REHURTINGMEYOU’REHURTINGMEYOUR’REHURTINGME (again).

“Didn’t you want them to know? You wanted the world to know, so let them know! Let them see, Bunny. You damn liar, you damn hypocrite, show them what you are.”

Bunny’s eyes were full of tears.

“Get away from me, bastard—!”

There was a struggle. To the witnesses outside the skirmish, it appeared— shockingly— very one-sided. Bunny’s hands were preoccupied with putting distance between himself and his attacker, Henry’s hands aimed to bruise. He forced Bunny’s head to snap towards him multiple times, his large hand locked on Bunny’s jaw with such a force that his bones sounded like the creaking branches beneath their boots.

Bunny was overwhelmed, he was drunk, he was humiliated and devastated— and he had the wind knocked out of him when Henry crushed their mouths together. It was not like anything they’d shared before, in this very clearing, it was brutal, like it had been ever since….

HE’S DEVOURING ME

And what Bunny didn’t realize was this: the world was not spinning in his head. It was spinning literally. He did not realize that his comrades watched in complicit silence as he was walked backwards, whilst being devoured, whilst being romanced…..he was being walked with his back towards the ravine. And he only knew it when he felt the abyss behind him. When he missed a step. When his shoe stepped on nothing.

He clutched Henry desperately, eyes wide.

He gasped, “Henry—“

“Yes, Bunny?” He whispered, still kissing him with a strange sense of longing. Gentler now.

Bunny’s tearful eyes looked at his friends, standing silent; ghosts, observing a scene. And then it hit him. This had been planned. Oh, I’m such a fool. I’m such a fool. I should have…

His tears rushed.

“Henry, please–”

The smile on Henry’s face was nothing like a smile at all, his eyes were narrowed. “You deserve this.” and then, quietly, “I love you.”

And then he pushed.

And then he fell.

To see the feral gleam in the creature’s eye though, Killian did not believe retreat would be his action this time. As much as on her blood, Dracula was feeding on Emma’s wretched noises and her futile attempts to escape, writhing and bucking in his grasp to no avail. A malevolent glee seemed to seep from every pore under the dead, white skin, causing the vampire to glisten with it, an oozing sheen of evil that seemed almost a protective layer cloaking their foe.

It was now or never; Emma could not afford their hesitation, the element of surprise had been lost even before their arrival, and they were all in place now, as prepared as ever they could be. Raising his voice with a commanding authority he hardly felt, Killian drew from his cloak for the vampire to see, the dagger he had sought halfway across the continent, brandishing it as he would a shining shield. “Von Stiltskin,” he bellowed, staring down the nightmare who had stalked his dreams for years, “let her go!”

At first glimpse of the dagger in his adversary’s grip, the vampire fell back with a hiss, momentarily struck enough to ease his grip on Emma slightly and to remove his fangs from her neck as his displeasure was made known. The unsettling, glowing eyes were murderous, unhinged, but also showed fear in spite of the creature’s anger. Killian moved forward again that much more confident the weapon must indeed wield the powers purported. Why else would the Count hesitate to attack him now, as he drew within striking distance? Particularly with the speed he knew Dracula to possess. He had set himself as the bait for that very reason; to draw focus while the others attacked from all sides. It took almost more restraint than he possessed not to dart forward and pull Emma from the suddenly lax grip the vampire held upon her, to get between them and shield her with his own body from further harm. In truth, the way she slumped as the hold grew less nearly made his panic soar beyond his control, until she managed to catch his eye, raising her head just a moment, but the flicker in the snapping jade orbs told him she was ready the moment she had an opportunity, not quite as limp or defeated as she meant to appear.

The relief that flooded him was almost certainly premature, a distraction he could not afford, and yet it also suffused his being with new strength and will. Only a few steps more, and he would be close enough to land a damaging blow. From the corners of his vision, Killian could see that Jefferson, Graham, and Philip were all in position, each man poised and alert, ready to do just as they had planned. Wordlessly, Killian gave the signal, and even as he pushed forward, the dagger raised to drive through Dracula’s heart if he were to have the chance, the others moved in with him, matching him stride for stride.

If not for their stalwart presence, he might have lost himself, Killian realized, shaking the reddened haze of anger from his vision. But as they tightened their circle, his aim sharpened, and their monstrous foe’s attention was split between the oncoming assailants, just as they had hoped.

Even as Killian readied his arm, steeling himself to sink the dagger home, he saw the rapid movement to his left of Graham Morris driven forward by fighting instinct and chivalric nature past any further hesitation, despite their previous agreement that Killian must strike first with the fated blade. Graham’s slice went deep, and with a roar of pain the monster dropped its clawed grip on Emma completely. She fell to the floor in a heap, and that taloned grasp swiped outward, catching Morris in the gut and dragging across his torso viciously. Graham stumbled back with a gasp, clutching his middle where red already leaked through his fingers.

Killian could not falter; for just one moment, Dracula was stunned, injured - vulnerable - and so he drove the dagger into the monster’s chest, right where its heart would be, if that organ could still exist in one such as he, and followed through with all his might. 

The vampire howled and snapped its terrible jaws, resembling even the guise of humanity less and less with every second. Mere breaths after the deathblow struck home, the vampire sunk to its knees. Yet, even with strength waning, lashed out and gripped Killian about the neck, too firmly to be shaken off and inexorably squeezing, closing off the air from his lungs. It was as though the fiend knew he had finally been bested, but would not sink into the fires below without taking his conqueror with him.

Killian Jones had long since readied himself for such an eventuality. In the long, solitary years he had spent tracking Dracula von Stiltskin’s whereabouts and seeking out any possible weaknesses which might bring about his defeat, he had accepted that his quest’s end would almost surely mean his own as well. And he had been at peace with that. There had been little but bitterness and pain for him in the world at any rate. But now, he found he could not let go just yet; he had reason to stay on this Earth, to live again, beyond Dracula’s downfall, thanks to the band of brothers who surrounded him, and especially the woman who was now rising from where she had fallen.

Scrabbling frantically at the hands which closed off his windpipe, desperate to see this battle finished once and for all, and that Emma was alright, he fought to free himself of the iron hold and the darkening edges encroaching on his sight.

Though it could not have been more than moments, time seemed to have stretched and lengthened oddly, so that Killian had almost forgotten Seward and Thornswood, until both made their own strikes at the monster almost simultaneously. Thornswood came from the right, hacking the creature’s arm with such force it was nearly detached at the shoulder, finally loosening the death grip on Killian and allowing him the air to stay conscious. Seward had attacked from behind, wisely intending to sever the vampire’s neck and remove the head, the only sure way to finish him off. The creature’s fall to its knees had thrown his aim off, however, and his blade was now sunk so deep in the fiend’s back that he struggled to pull it out to try again.

Pulling in great, gasping breaths, Killian searched for the dagger to remove the head himself. No matter how badly they had wounded Dracula, he would regenerate if they did not make certain he was ash. Yet all he could find was the intricate jeweled hilt. It would seem to have disintegrated within the beast upon finding its mark.

Before he could think what to do, Killian saw Emma rise, wavering unsteadily on her feet, but with the hair-raising war cry of a Valkyrie. She had pulled the knife he had sent with her from its sheath at her thigh and she struck the monster’s neck swiftly and certainly - as well as he could have done it himself - before falling to the floor again with a wail and turning her head into his chest.

Though Killian was honored and truly touched to have Emma turn to him for strength in that moment, he pulled back slightly, lifting her chin and urging her to turn so she could also see what was happening before his very eyes. He felt he knew and understood Emma Swan almost as well as he knew himself, and he was unwaveringly sure that - just as he did - she would need to witness what was unfolding, for her own future peace of mind.

And what a sight it was at that - one he had nearly despaired of ever witnessing. With a last bellow that seemed to shake the rafters and the floor beneath their feet, the immortal monster met his end. An otherworldly wind whirled around the vampire as it was buffeted and torn, with bits of him being stripped away piece by piece. Chinks of light began to show through his form to the the far wall, and then it was as though he began to crystallize and dissolve, blown away like sand on the wind.

The howl of the dying creature as it was pulled apart, combined with the pressure and whipping of the blinding wind nearly stole their breath. It was all Killian could do to stand his ground and cling to Emma with all his might to steady her as well. When the small whirlwind finally eased, seeming to vanish back from wherever it had come, all of their company stood still as stone for several long moments. They were silent; frozen in shock and hardly daring to believe that Dracula von Stiltskin was now the mere pile of ash at their feet; the dust barely settled, but the long reign of terror at last at its end.

A wheezing gasp, low and ragged, from off to their left was what finally broke them from their frozen state. “I-Is he f-finished?” the voice asked desperately.

Where Emma had been leaning on him heavily, her reserves of strength and adrenaline nearly drained away, she suddenly jerked forward, her eyes meeting his in alarm, seeming to ask, ‘How could we have forgotten?’

They hurried toward the pained voice, now clearly accompanied by labored breathing, once the tumult had died down. Philip Thornswood had beated them there, already dropping to his knees beside their fallen comrade with a tense exclamation of “Morris!” that made his dismay all too clear. He reached beneath the other man’s shoulders, elevating his head and torso slightly and looking with worried brow to Jefferson for direction.

The doctor had also knelt beside the brave adventurer, pulling back the remnants of ruined shirt and vest to examine Graham Morris’ wound. But his grim expression only told them what they had already feared. There was so much blood - beneath him, around him, still leaking from the open wound - gaping appallingly no matter how much they wished to see otherwise.

Graham’s large, expressive brown eyes had gone a bit glassy, but they still flicked from one to another of his friends earnestly. “Tell me, please… whatever it is. Is the monster gone?”

There was nothing to be done for him, not that could be accomplished in a dank, drafty castle with no surgical equipment and so much blood loss. Clearly even the cowboy already knew it, and so none forced Seward to put the bleak reality into words. Instead, he reached out and took Morris’ hand in his, clasping tightly as Thornswood did the same at his shoulder. “Dracula’s reign of terror is over. We did it, my Friend. Rest easy on that.”

A rattling breath escaped the Irishman’s lungs at those words, as his eyes fluttered closed for a moment in deeply felt relief. They almost wondered if he was already fading when they flickered open once more and he asked, “A-and Emma? Miss Swan? Is she…?”

With a pained cry, Emma stumbled to his other side and dropped next to him on the cold cement floor, anxious to ease his mind and offer him her thanks if that were all that she could do. Reaching out a trembling hand, she smoothed a sweaty curl from his clammy forehead, squeezing his fingers - heedless of how they were tacky with dried blood - tightly in her own and then pressing their joined hands to her chest with emotion.

“I’m here,” she murmured, “We all are.” She didn’t know what else to do, but she didn’t want this brave man who had fought against evil and helped to save her life to feel alone for even one second in this horrible passing.

Morris managed a faint press of Emma’s fingers in return, almost smiling tremulously as he added with a ragged gasp, “M-Miss Swan? It is g-good to see you, milady.  Are you truly alright?”

Tears still rimmed Emma’s green eyes, glittering in the strange half-light like jewels on her lashes as she nodded fervently. “Yes, I am. Please do not fret on that anymore. I will be fine. Thanks in no small part to you, Mr. Morris.” Her voice trembled with emotion at feeling the strength in his hand that she clasped in her own lessening with each moment that passed. The roving hero’s journey was inescapably nearing its end, and though he had fought well and seen their battle won, he would not have the chance to savor the victory they had wrought, nor to enjoy the newfound peace he had helped to secure.

“Thank the Lord and all His saints for that,” he exhaled, the words barely more than a whisper of breath. When his eyes fell closed that time, his lashes did not flutter open again; the struggling rise and fall of his chest went still, and Graham Morris breathed his last.

Strong, formidable men all, his allies were, and still in that frigid, ruined throne room Emma’s tears were not the only ones shed over the body of the impetuous wanderer who had given his last to the cause. Somehow the hours had hurried on; the sun was rising once more over the eastern peaks, and they had to leave the forbidding outpost of their vanquished foe. Though it was hard to believe they would leave that castle to tread on the same earth after the waking nightmare they had just survived, there was little else to be done but to press onward as best they could.

Emma Swan raised her eyes, her gaze seeking the only imaginable solace to be found - the answering blue stare of Killian Joens, mourning too, but still resolute and offering the hope of comfort to which she could cling. She focused on him and drew from his strength as the new day’s sun bathed the tragic scene in yet more red and gold with its returning glow. For the moment she must beyond the loss to the future - one they would have with certainty, now that the vampire was no more.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Two Years Later…

A cool, gentle breeze drifts in through the open window as Killian Jones, once the driven and coolly implacable vampire hunter Van Helsing, stands looking out over the fields and grounds of the country estate he now shares with the two lights of his life: Emma, his beautiful bride of more than a year, the savior of his heart and soul, and their new son, who gurgles happily in his arms. Looking down at the baby’s playful noisemaking, Killian grins, utterly enchanted by the gummy smile the little lad gives him, kicking his chubby feet energetically and latching onto his papa’s finger with an impressively tight grip of his small fist. For a babe just days old, Killian feels he must be especially brilliant to already show such personality and expression, though he knows he is more than biased and does not care one bit.

Emma is still recovering from the delivery in their suite just down the hall, so he happily took the wee one for a bit of a walk about the place after his last feeding, and now finds himself standing in the nursery enjoying both the peaceful meadows outside the window view and the tiny miracle in his arms, still rather stunned that he ever managed to find such contentment after so much struggle and pain.

Just then he hears lightly shuffling footsteps behind him, mere moments before his wife’s slender arms wrap around him from behind. He smiles warmly, feeling the same satisfaction she seems to as she burrows her face between his shoulderblades and hums delightedly while breathing him in.

Making sure their son is cradled securely against his body and within the crook of his arm, Killian brings his other hand down to cover Emma’s own and squeeze gently, gladly returning the affectionate touch, even as he chides lightly, “You, my darling, are meant to be resting, not up and roaming about the manor.”

Her soft laughter seems to brighten the very air with its light notes of joy, carefree and open as both of them are only now learning to allow their emotions to be - on the surface and able to be shared. Laying her cool, soft hand to rest over his heart, even as she returns the loving press of his fingers around her own, she cannot help the playfully tart response that escapes her lips. “You know better than to coddle me like some china doll, Mr. Jones.”

He can practically see the challenging quirk to her brow, the way she tilts her head in expectation when when she baits him, just waiting for his reply, and the knowing curve upwards at one corner of her mouth, even though he cannot actually look her in the face with her cuddled against his back.

Taking the hand he holds and using it to pull her in a wide circle, Killian brings his wife around to face him and gather her close again. His arms are wrapped around his whole world in their small family, and their little one is cradled between them as he gazes down into Emma’s eyes. “Forgive me, Mrs. Jones, but I believe it is my duty and right to care for the well-being of my lady wife.”

Shaking her head at his overly formal repartee, she huffs out an affectionate breath of exasperated acquiescence. 

Their back and forth is interrupted when their son begins to fuss, nosing doggedly at the front of Emma’s gown and letting her know without question that he is again ready for his meal. “He’s your child, that much is certain,” Emma adds tartly, a sardonic tone to her voice as she eyes her husband. “Insatiable.”

But even as she takes the child more fully into her own arms, moves aside her robe, and brings him closer to her breast, she lets one hand trail along Killian’s flank and playfully squeeze his rear in a moment’s tease, before moving away to carry their little boy to the rocking chair by the bassinet and settling in to feed him properly.

Killian’s body cannot help but jerk slightly in surprised response to her amorous caress, several parts of his anatomy coming to life. It is true that he always wants her, but he is not about to risk Emma’s health or comfort before her body is fully healed and restored from the birth of their son. “It would seem your roving hands prove I’m not the only insatiable one,” he murmurs lowly, a feral grin lighting his features as he follows her across the room and bends to take her lips with his own. The kiss is deep and leaves them both breathless. If all he can have at the moment, he will certainly make his kisses count.

She hums in agreement; relaxed, at ease, and happy as the little one settles again and she brushes tender fingers over the soft tufts of dark hair atop the boy’s hair. Quincey Morris Jones blinks eyes as blue as his father’s up at them sleepily once he has begun to get his fill. They had decided almost immediately to pass the surname of the lost member of their band of brothers on to their first child; it seemed the only tribute fitting enough to truly honor his sacrifice, and a worthy namesake to give their boy who would surely grow up to be as honorable and true as the man of whom they would tell him proudly.

As Killian takes the newborn, who is once more dozing, from his mother’s arms and lowers him carefully into his crib, he looks back at his wife. Her eyes practically glow with love for him, and a small, secret smile plays upon her perfect mouth. Beckoning Killian to her, Emma accepts his hand to rise, and lets him guide her back to their bedroom, where he curls around her protectively, staying dutifully at her side to insure her rest. Watching over her as she drifts back to sleep, and he hovers on the brink of it himself, Killian thinks of the day when he will tell young Quincey tales that prove just how marvelous a woman his mother is. So beautiful, daring, and brilliant that men would dare to risk all for her sake.

THE END~

Author's Note: I truly cannot believe that I've completed this story - and my work for the last @cssns but I won't be too sad as I still have ones from past years to finish, and I can always come back to read the many other amazing entries to the event's collection. @cssns was such a wonderful thing to be part of, and I will always be grateful to have been a small part of it!

As to this story's last chapter, I hope you will fondly remember a similar final line to the novel by Bram Stoker. When it struck me that I could use a similar closely line for this story, I was so excited!!! (Still, I thought I should give credit where credit was due, even if I have put it in my own words and context.)

And secondly, please PLEASE forgive me for Graham Morris! You truly can't be hurting much more than I hurt myself in trying to write it. (That's part of what has taken so long to complete this final chapter.) I knew when I made him the likeness of the American cowboy Quincey Morris (my adored fave character in the original novel) that this part of the story would come, I still wasn't prepared for how hard it was to actually follow through and do it.

I hope you've enjoyed this one - I've really loved working in this universe!!

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