Signs Pointing to the End of the Road

[tamcranver]

Written for brooklinegirl for the yuletide fic exchange this year. It's based on the movie canon of Willow. Also, because I didn't get the e-mailed comments from Sister Coyote and MistoKitt for whatever reason and thus can't respond by e-mail, I'd just like to thank both of you for taking the time to comment with such lovely feedback.



Guard patrols in the winter are as uneventful as they are unpleasant, ninety-nine times out of a hundred. Airk isn’t bothered by the cold, and he can even stand the icy weight of his armor and the painful discomfort of his soaked boots, but the constant stream of complaints from his men and the profound boredom of the quiet countryside wear on him. Even knowing the value of constant vigilance, the ominous tidings he hears from Nockmaar, he cannot help but wonder who would possibly attack Galladoorn in the dead of winter, and whether any real guard is needed against someone so clearly foolish.

He sighs, and his breath forms a frosty mist against the clear darkness. “Come on, Bern,” he says to his horse, who stamps impatiently. “Let’s ride a bit.”

He rides in slow circles around the castle walls, painfully aware of the crunch of snow under Bern’s hooves, the snap of branches in the forest beyond, the soft sounds of his breath that seem to echo in the crisp silence of the night.

With his every other sense tuned so acutely to compensate for the darkness, it is no wonder that he hears the stranger before he sees him.

“Halt!” he cries. “Who goes there?”

A laugh echoes through the trees, and then a tall figure appears, the pale light of the moon casting it in a sharp silhouette. “My name’s Madmartigan,” the figure says, “if it’s any business of yours.”

Airk draws himself up a little more stiffly. “You’re trespassing on Galladoorn’s lands, stranger,” he says. “State your business or begone.”

“Oh, come on.” The figure steps forward, and Airk can make out long, wild hair, worn clothing, and the glint of a sword on one side. “Relax, friend. What have I ever done to you?”

“State your business,” Airk says again. The stranger is smiling at him. He can make out the glint of teeth in the moonlight. The expression is clearly meant to be charming, but it looks wily to Airk and does nothing to mollify his aroused suspicions.

“I’m the greatest swordsman who ever lived,” says Madmartigan, and Airk can’t tell whether he’s joking or in earnest. “I’m just passing through, really, looking for work. There now, you know a hell of a lot more about me than I do about you.”

“I’m the captain of the Castle Guard of Galladoorn,” Airk says, in part as a warning and in part because…well, how much damage could one lone man do? What harm did it do to be civil?

“Oh, Galladoorn,” says Matmartigan, raising his eyebrows in mild awe—feigned, perhaps. “You must be pretty handy with a sword yourself to be captain of the Guard.”

This is the kind of talk that should put Airk further on his guard, make him fear some treachery, but despite his best efforts, he can feel the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. “Be on your way,” he says as sternly as he can.

“Of course, sir,” says Madmartigan. He doesn’t move, but tilts his head to one side, his hands at his hips. “I don’t suppose you’re hiring in the Guard right now, are you?”

“We don’t hire strangers,” Airk says. And it’s true—they haven’t, not in years, not since the last great war. But Bavmorda’s reign is stronger than anyone had anticipated, and it had occurred to Airk to seek the aid of mercenaries. Not yet, of course—only if Bavmorda or her allies made a move. Even then, not an unknown quantity like Madmartigan.

“Well, I’m hardly a stranger now, am I?” Madmartigan gives him another wheedling grin. When he sees Airk’s lack of response, he sighs and rolls his eyes. “All I’m asking for is a chance, Captain. I won’t let you down. And hey, if you’re disappointed, I’ll move on like you said, no harm done.”

No harm done, indeed. Unless, as is seeming increasingly likely, Madmartigan is a spy, a decoy planning to charm the Guard into giving away its secrets. Airk should send him away with a flash of his sword, summon the other guards on duty to chase him off Galladoorn lands. No swordsman, no matter how talented, is worth the risk of a potential spy. But something stays Airk’s hand. Instead he asks, harshly, “Who do you serve?”

Madmartigan’s eyes narrow in anger, to Airk’s surprise. “I serve me,” he says through clenched teeth, and there’s nothing wheedling or charming in his voice. The amiable rogue has been replaced by someone harder, sharper, like a sword drawn from a battered sheath.

“All right,” Airk finds himself saying. “I’ll give you a trial run. You’ll start at the bottom, like any recruit. If you’re as good as you say you are, there’s a chance of promotion. But if I ever find out that you’ve betrayed Galladoorn,” he adds, drawing his sword and pointing it at the other man, “death will seem easy compared with what you’ll get from me.”

Madmartigan smirks, the flash of danger beneath his façade tucked away again. “Promises, promises,” he says. “Now, Galladoorn. Any chance of a good meal and a drink there? I’d kill for a tankard of good ale.” He winks at Airk and adds, “Just kidding about the killing. But seriously, I’m thirsty.”

Despite the cold of the night, Airk feels the warm flush of blood in his face. “Come on,” he says, gesturing for Madmartigan to go ahead of him down the trail towards the guardpost. No sense in letting his guard down. More than I already have.

***

The blood is running hot in Madmartigan’s veins, still excited from the battle, so maybe it’s not so surprising that he hasn’t noticed anything odd about Airk’s behavior until they reach the armory to deposit their dented breastplates with the blacksmith.

“Kael!” he exclaims, stripping off the sweaty tunic underneath his armor. “I thought that bastard was dead. I swear on my mother’s life, if the coward didn’t have that crowd of lackeys around him, I’d--” A loud, metallic clang interrupts his train of thought, and he turns his head. Airk has hurled his helmet across the room into an anvil, and it bounces to the straw-covered floor.

Madmartigan’s too surprised for a moment to speak. Airk’s such a controlled son of a bitch, even in the heat of battle, that to see him toss aside his armor like a child throwing a tantrum…well, it’s kind of unsettling. “Hey,” he says, trying for soothing, “we did good. That Nockmaar scum won’t be back for a long time.”

Airk walks over to his helmet and squats on the floor to pick it up. “You’d better hope they don’t,” he says. He’s not looking at Madmartigan, but the sneer in his voice is audible.

Madmartigan feels his temper rising. These goddamned Galladoorn Guards get uptight about the most unimportant bullshit, but they don’t seem to have the least spark of spirit when it really counts. “Are you still angry about that?”

Airk turns around, draws himself up to his full height. His face is so stiff he looks like a bearded death mask. “Maybe you didn’t understand me, Madmartigan,” he says, “so let me make this clear. I am the Captain of the Guard, and when I say hold back in the middle off a combat situation, you hold back.” There isn’t a trace of emotion in his voice.

Anger rushes through Madmartigan’s whole body, stiffening his spine and curling his hands into fists. He doesn’t even try to keep his voice down. “You were giving them time to prepare, you son of a bitch!” He wants to haul back and punch Airk, but he doesn’t trust the other man not to have him tried for treason or some such bullshit. “We had the element of surprise—we caught them off-guard—and you were wasting our advantage!”

“That wasn’t your decision to make.” Airk’s calm is straining now, cracking.

Madmartigan can feel his lips curve involuntarily into a sneer, and he lets them. “I make my own decisions, Airk,” he says.

Airk twitches, and he says, “Not in my Guard, you don’t. You disobey me in combat, you risk my men’s lives. That’s not a risk we take.”

“Yeah?” Madmartigan can’t decide whether he hates or pities Airk more, having surrendered his manhood to some imaginary dream of authority. “You can kick me out anytime,” he says, his voice lowered to nearly a whisper.

“I can have you executed for mutiny anytime,” says Airk.

Madmartigan can’t help but laugh at that, and he says, “I’d like to see you try.”

Airk glares. It’s getting dark out, and the fire of the forge imbues him with a reddish-orange light that makes him look like a living flame. If only the bastard ever acted like that, Madmartigan thinks, he might actually be worth something. A shadow moves across his face, twisting it in an expression Madmartigan can’t interpret, and then he says in a low voice, “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“I don’t think so,” Madmartigan scoffs. He’s not stupid, he knows he’s not immortal, but if someone’s going to take him down in a fight, it’s not going to be half-trained, half-witted foot soldiers from Nockmaar.

“You could have.” The expression on Airk’s face is downright perplexing, now. It’s got all the signs of being angry—drawn eyebrows, dark flush, lips curled into a snarl—but there’s something underneath it that Madmartigan can’t interpret, and he thinks he’s never been so interested by Airk before. “You could have. You could have gotten my men killed by starting the attack too early, you could have let those Nockmaar bastards get to the castle gates, you could have—you’re not as good as you think you are, Madmartigan. You--” He seems to have run out of breath, or out of words, and he pants, looking at Madmartigan with that strange fire in his eyes.

“You’re not angry I disobeyed you,” Madmartigan says as he realizes it. “You….” And here he stops. He can barely form the thought, it comes so unbidden and unexpected, and he doesn’t know what to do with it once he’s grasped it.

“You know I don’t give a damn about that during drills, or patrols,” says Airk, drawing closer. “But when we’re in battles…you’re an important member of the Guard. You can’t—you can’t risk yourself like that.” His expression isn’t even vaguely angry anymore, just grave and intent. He always takes things so damned seriously.

He’s never going to make the first move, so Madmartigan leans in and presses his lips to Airk’s.

To his surprise, Airk doesn’t draw back. He leans into the kiss, tasting like sweat and blood, and he doesn’t resist when Madmartigan pulls him down onto the straw floor. It’s all over in a matter of minutes, and it feels more like the end of a fight or a strange kind of duel than the fun Madmartigan’s used top getting out of this sort of thing. Still, he thinks, it’s something, something of his own. Something that could get good, if Airk isn’t too much of a priss about it, maybe something he can use against Airk if he ever needs to. Well, whatever it is, it’s proof that underneath all the pap about duty, even these Galladoorn spoilsports understand the things a man does for himself and no one else.

***

Airk’s a pragmatic man. He’s not the sort to cling to something when he can see there’s no hope of saving it, and, if it comes down to it, he’d rather live to fight another day than go down fighting for a lost cause. But Galladoorn isn’t lost, not yet, and until it is, he’s going to defend it with every breath in his body.

“Where the fuck is Madmartigan?” he shouts at one of the sergeants, ignoring the man’s shock at his language. “I need him to command the archers while I cover the walls.” He knows Madmartigan likes to hurl himself into battle like a madman, but he doesn’t give a damn—it’s not the time for swordfighting yet, and somebody has to keep the archers from wasting the few opportunities they’re going to get to thin Nockmaar’s ranks.

“Um,” says the sergeant, looking at Airk like he would some fierce and unpredictable animal, “I saw him down in the stables earlier.”

“What the hell was he doing there?” Airk doesn’t wait for an answer before storming down the steps towards the stables—doesn’t matter anyway. Whatever he’s doing, it can wait. It’s not like he’ll need a horse on the wall with the archers.

Fucking Bavmorda, he thinks. How the hell had she gotten so strong so soon, anyway? Just yesterday, it seemed, Galladoorn could send the Nockmaar army running in a matter of hours, without even any risk to the city. Now, Airk’s been forced to send all the way to Tir Asleen for aid. No word yet.

He throws open the door to the stables, fully expecting Madmartigan to be doing some inane thing like putting armor on his horse or building a mace out of horse shoes or some such nonsense. Instead, he’s just…well, he looks like he’s preparing for a journey or something, attaching full saddlebags to his horse’s saddle.

“What are you doing?” asks Airk. This is no time for one of Madmartigan’s games, and he ought to know that.

Madmartigan whirls around. His expression is unfamiliar. Airk finally places it as guilt, but he isn’t sure, because he’s never seen Madmartigan look guilty before. “Airk!” he exclaims. “What….” He swallows and tries to give Airk one of those wheedling smiles. “What brings you here?”

Airk’s more irritated with Madmartigan than he’s been since that first time Madmartigan challenged his authority in the field. They don’t have time for this. “You, you damn idiot! Did you forget about the army attacking the castle?”

Madmartigan’s pathetic façade crumbles. He looks like a man caught in with his hand in someone else’s pocket. “No. I didn’t.”

“Then what the hell are we doing?” Airk’s impatience threatens to choke him, and he steps closer, not sure whether he actually intends to drag Madmartigan physically out of the stables or not.

Madmartigan’s expression flattens somehow, and he tightens the straps of his horse’s saddle. “Getting the hell out.”

For a moment, Airk can’t understand what he’s heard. Getting the hell out of what? It doesn’t even occur to him that Madmartigan would run from a battle until he takes another step closer and sees the bundle in the corner. It’s pretty small, but it wouldn’t fit in a saddlebag—Airk knows that Madmartigan keeps very few possessions, thinks that that bundle looks big enough to hold just about all of them.

“You’re deserting us,” he says, and he means Galladoorn and the King and the rest of the men, but he also means him, and he just can’t understand how a man could be so goddamned cowardly.

Madmartigan shrugs and hoists the bundle onto his back, a strap of twisted cloth binding it to his shoulder. “You know how it is. Got a visit from a friend a few weeks back, and he says they’re looking for men up near the Nelwyn lands. Lot of wolves or something, and they’re paying a lot better than the Royal Treasury here does. You ought to come and check it out with me.”

“You fucking coward,” says Airk. He feels frozen and hard inside. He never knew this man at all. “You’re afraid. You’re going to leave Galladoorn to the mercy of Bavmorda because you’re too chickenshit for actual war.”

At this, Madmartigan’s face flushes with anger, and he takes a step closer to Airk, his eyes narrowed in a burning glare. “Fuck you,” he says, raising his voice. “I’m not afraid of those amateurs! I’m just not a fool like you. They’ve got you outnumbered twenty to one, and I’m sure as hell not going to die here because you idiots are too proud to hire mercenaries.”

“You agreed to serve Galladoorn when you joined the Guard,” says Airk. “You owe this country--”

“I don’t owe this country a goddamned thing,” says Matmartigan fiercely. “I serve nobody but me, remember?”

Airk remembers. It was an odd and frustrating and, in a strange way, admirable trait when it meant that Madmartigan improvised battle plans or treated him with casual camaraderie instead of hesitant respect. It was almost a source of pride in bed, that someone so fiercely independent would go out of his way to make Airk feel good. But now…now it’s nothing but base cowardice, and Airk feels a cold, hard knot of disgust forming in his chest. It has to be disgust, because Airk can’t let himself feel anything else right now.

“If you’re leaving, leave,” he says. “We don’t need traitors anyway. But you go on foot. We can’t spare a horse for anyone who won’t defend Galladoorn.”

Madmartigan twists his lips into a sneer. “Whatever,” he says, slinging himself onto the horse’s back. “Good luck trying to stop me.”

“Goddamn it, Madmartigan….” But Airk’s wasted enough time as it is, and he has a feeling that no matter how long he took about it, he’d never find the words that could fix this. “Don’t you ever show your face in Galladoorn again, or I’ll kill you myself.”

Madmartigan snorts. “Yeah,” he says, “Good luck with that, too.” He clicks his tongue at the horse and, with a neigh and the clatter of hooves, they’re gone, taking a suit of the Guard’s armor and a pack full of fresh provisions with them.

Airk can’t spare a moment to ponder what else he may have lost, because if the Guard is left to hold off the Nockmaar army without a leader for any longer, he stands to lose everything. He draws his sword and sets his shoulders for battle.

***

Madmartigan’s tired. It’s been a long day, what with the escaping from Nockmaar’s army—twice—and the fighting and the turning into a pig. Still, he’s not about to go to sleep now, not with the baby in Bavmorda’s clutches.

Willow’s staring into the fire, looking like he’s seen something horrible, and Madmartigan settles down beside him. Sure, the peck’s an annoying little bastard who thinks more of himself than he ought to. But then again, the same could probably be said of Madmartigan and, for whatever reason, he’s kind of getting to like Willow. (He still can’t imagine what possessed him to tell Airk he served the Nelwyn. Airk’s probably laughing his ass off.)

“Hey,” he says. Up close, he can see that Willow’s eyes are red, and not just from reflected firelight. He can’t bring himself to get too soft about it, so instead he says, “Good job with that wand. Guess you’re a better wizard than I thought.”

“’M not a wizard at all,” Willow mumbles. “I’m a farmer. I don’t know what I was thinking. Should have found somebody else to take Elora Danan to Tir Asleen, somebody who wouldn’t….” Wouldn’t lose her, Madmartigan mentally supplies.

Madmartigan thinks of the gang of Nelwyns who left Willow and his friend Meegosh and the baby with him at the crossroads, and he says, “Seems to me like there wasn’t anybody else.” Willow doesn’t answer, so he adds, “We’ll get her back.” For whatever reason, he actually means it. He needs revenge on Bavmorda for turning him into a pig, anyway, and Sticks is a cute baby. She doesn’t deserve some sort of terrible witchy ritual being done to her.

“What’s your friend say?” For a long moment Madmartigan can’t imagine who “your friend” is—Sorsha? Is Willow making a joke? But then he remembers.

“Airk?”

Willow nods.

Well. He hadn’t said much, the last time Madmartigan talked to him. The man seemed confused, like he didn’t know what to expect from Madmartigan. Couldn’t really blame him, all things considered. “He said we should rest up for a while,” he says aloud, “And then we’ll meet in one of the tents and come up with a plan.”

Willow nods again, chewing nervously on his lower lip. Then he seems to settle his face in a determined expression—that’s one thing Madmartigan admires about Willow, that no matter how unprepared he is to face an obstacle, he’ll grit his teeth and accept it—and exhales heavily. Then he turns his head to look at Madmartigan. “What did you do?” he asks. “To your friend, I mean. He called you a thief back at that village.”

Madmartigan’s sure Airk saw it that way, his taking off with the horse, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t chafe at being called a thief. “I left him, once, and that’s all I’m going to say about it.” There isn’t the time to go into details, and he’s not sure how much Willow knows or would want to know about some of the specifics.

Willow raises his eyebrows. “I’m sure it was terrible, whatever it was,” he says, but his voice is light; he’s trying to tease, not to hurt.

“Was not!” says Madmartigan in exaggerated indignance. But he can’t make himself really lighthearted about it. Airk was a good friend, a good fighter, and it was a hell of a thing for him to come back and attack Bavmorda’s castle with the remnants of his army. Madmartigan feels—well, it’s not a rekindling of old passions so much as a reminder of what they were. It hurts, and it jars unpleasantly with his new…whatever it is he feels for Sorsha. “Willow,” he finds himself blurting out, “you’re married, right?”

Willow frowns, looking confused, but says, “Yeah.”

“You love your wife?” A lot of men don’t, so it stands to reason that a lot of Nelwyns don’t, either.

Willow, though, says fiercely, “Of course I do,” and Madmartigan thinks he should have known.

“Of course you do,” he says. He isn’t sure where he was going with this. It’s been such an odd couple of days, he isn’t sure where he’s going at all. “How…how’d you know you loved her? How’d you figure it out?”

“I don’t know,” says Willow with a shrug. “I guess…the summer before we married was the first time I tried to become the High Aldwyn’s apprentice.” Before Madmartigan could even ask, Willow added, “The High Aldwyn’s a wizard. He’s sort of in charge of our village. He doesn’t pick a new apprentice very often, about once a generation, but I figured I had as good a chance as anybody, you know?”

“Better,” says Madmartigan loyally. Say what you would about Willow’s magical mishaps, he seemed to be getting a lot better with that wand of Fin Raziel’s.

Willow gave him a quick smile and then continued, “Well, anyway, Kiaya—that’s my wife—she was out in the crowd, watching me, and suddenly I thought, ‘If I make a fool out of myself, she’s going to be embarrassed to be seen with me, much less marry me!’ I was so nervous, I had to run off the stage and throw up.”

Madmartigan can’t help a laugh at that, and Willow grins ruefully. “Yeah, yeah, very funny. So I’m standing behind the stage, wiping my mouth, and Kiaya walks up. And I’m sure she’s going to call off the wedding and tell me she’s found some handsome, successful fellow to marry, somebody who can actually get his crops to grow, and I just want to die at the thought. But that’s not what she did. She asked me how I was feeling, and then she brought me a cup of water, and then after that the two of us went and walked by the river and talked.”

It takes a moment for Madmartigan to realize that the story’s over. “So, you realized you loved her when you figured out that she loved you?” If that’s what Willow’s story meant, Madmartigan’s fucked. He’s pretty sure Airk hates him, and who knows with Sorsha?

Willow shakes his head. “No. I knew I loved her when I thought I was going to lose her. I don’t think I’ve ever hurt that badly, ever.”

Even worse. Because if that’s true, then loving is being vulnerable, putting yourself entirely in someone else’s hands, and Madmartigan has fought against that kind of dependence his whole life.

“Madmartigan,” says Willow, and Madmartigan realizes they’ve been sitting in silence for too long. “There’s your—there’s Airk.” Sure enough, there he is, as big and blond as ever, striding over towards the fire.

“Madmartigan,” Airk says evenly, and he nods politely at Willow. “Master Ufgood.”

“Hello,” says Willow. “You can call me Willow.” Evidently he’s gotten over Airk calling him a peck earlier—he seems to be getting a lot more easygoing in general.

Airk smiles. “Well, Willow,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder, “Fin Raziel wants to talk to you. Something about replenishing magical energies?” He shrugs. “Wizard talk. And if you could take the brownies in with you, I think my men would appreciate it.”

“Oh!” Willow grumbles and gets to his feet. “Have they gotten themselves drunk again? I can’t believe Cherlindrea sent those idiots along with us.” He waves farewell to Madmartigan and Airk before stalking off, a squat little silhouette that melts into the darkness between the tents.

They stay like that for several long moments, Airk standing over Madmartigan, who tries to sprawl casually in front of the fire. “Well,” says Airk, breaking a silence that feels as thick as stone, “I can’t say I expected this. You and a Nelwyn taking on the armies of Nockmaar for the sake of a baby.” There’s nothing but disinterested joviality in his voice, and his face is as stony as on the night Madmartigan had first met him.

“She’s a pretty cute baby,” says Madmartigan, like it’s the punchline of a joke.

“Must be.” Airk sighs and asks, “Can I sit?”

“Suit yourself.” Madmartigan scoots over, as if there weren’t plenty of room around the fire for Airk to sit. He sits down in the place Willow vacated, though, so close Madmartigan can feel his warmth. Or maybe it’s just the fire.

“You and Sorsha, huh?” says Airk. The fire moves over his face and reminds Madmartigan of another night, years ago.

“I guess,” says Madmartigan, though Sorsha is still an area of confusion in his mind. She’s always been a fine-looking woman, but only in the way her mother was, a way that made her frightening and foreign. Until today, she’s never been…vulnerable. Human. He thinks of Airk’s face when he left Galladoorn, the shock, what he realizes now was pain. He thinks about Willow’s story and wonders whether he’s ever really understood what love is. “I’m sorry, Airk,” he says, knowing full well it’s too little, and too late. “About Galladoorn,” he adds, letting Airk choose whether the apology is for his desertion or the city’s destruction.

Airk shrugs, a shadow moving over his face. “I knew it was coming,” he says. “Bavmorda was too powerful. Maybe you had the right idea, leaving before it got that bad.” He lowers his head, and his eyes are thrown into shadow.

Madmartigan feels a strange twinge—shame? Pain?—at the idea that Airk could ever get so dejected. “I didn’t,” he says. “I didn’t know it then, but it turns out that some things are worth fighting for. Even if you lose.” He doesn’t know when he started to believe that, but when he thinks of Willow and the baby and Fin Raziel and Sorsha and even the goddamned brownies, he knows it’s true. Or at least, for him it is.

Airk looks up, and Madmartigan doesn’t recognize the expression in his eyes, but it’s not the hatred or disdain he’s gotten before. It’s something warmer. “Well,” he says with a tired laugh, “maybe you’re right, Madmartigan.”

“Not that it matters,” says Madmartigan with a casualness he doesn’t feel, “because we aren’t going to lose this time, are we?”

Airk’s face hardens. “Depends, I suppose. How long you think we’ve got to come up with a plan before Bavmorda destroys that baby and solidifies her power?”

Thunder cracks in the distance. There’s a storm brewing, and it seems to be centered over Bavmorda’s castle. Madmartigan feels a cold shiver of dread, like nothing he’s ever felt in his life. “Not long,” he says, and he stands up. “What do you say we come up with a plan and beat the old hag for once?”

Airk stares at Madmartigan like he’s never seen him before, and then his face breaks out in a challenging grin, the kind that used to mean a very bad day for bandits who were stupid enough to attack Galladoorn. He stands up. “Let’s do it,” he says. “The men have rested long enough.”

Madmartigan starts striding out to a tent in the middle of the camp; the intermittent flashes of light seem like pretty good indications that Raziel and Willow are screwing around with the wand in there. He’s stopped, though, by a hand on his shoulder.

“Madmartigan,” says Airk, “I’m looking forward to fighting with you again.”

“Yeah?” Madmartigan says automatically. “And here I thought we’d just made up.”

Airk smirks. “You know what I meant. After this is all over….” He stops. “Well. Let’s wipe out Bavmorda, and then we can talk about what happens after.”

Madmartigan puts his hand on Airk’s shoulder and squeezes. If they succeed, if they save Elora and beat Bavmorda, well, then anything could happen after. In a new world, Madmartigan can see the endless chances for happiness stretch out before him, and he hopes he’ll know how to take them. He feels strangely new himself. Anything’s possible.