A/N: I do not own any members of the LXG. I do, however, own the village of Aisling and all its inhabitants as well as the still-elusive Celine Haddock.

Also....I AM SOOOOOOOO SORRY!!! D8

I know I left the story--seemingly--to die a horrible agonizing death (with a cliffhanger to boot!) and I'm a terrible person for doing so! But, seeing as how excuses get one nowhere, I'll simply say that I had to deal with a lot of moving and starting my first year of college. Still, that's no excuse to leave my story (intended to be short--Ha!) and my wonderful, fantastic readers whom I am underserving of, hanging like that! I intend to finish this within two or three chapters, which (so help me GOD!) will be done before Christmas. Unless...¬_¬

NO! It shall be done. So, without further ado, here's Chapter Five on the this most fabulous of Bonfire Nights. Happy Guy Fawkes day!

Aisling Docks, Merv Lugh's home, October 30th, evening—1899

"Well, Captain Nemo, I'm glad you decided to stay," the bushy-bearded Merv had said in thanks before he poured a chipped mug of weak coffee. "My humble lil' hut can't be nothin' in compare to tha' great beauty of a ship you got."

He nodded his head at the grimy kitchen window, which faced the docks. Its small frame could only just allow sight of the massive steel bow of the Nautilus. One needed to actually sit on the docks to better view it, which is precisely where Tom Sawyer had gone.

Nemo smiled. "I thank you for your kind, and entirely just, praise of My Lady," he replied quietly with a slight incline of the head. "But I find it rude to turn down so kind an offer as yours, and know that it would only add to the misdeed if I were to leave my…ever precocious friend here alone."

The aging dock keeper's eyes stared out the little window at the back of the blond man's head for a moment longer before turning to face the mysterious Captain with a smile.

"Ah, I see," he said with sage nod while picking up the poured coffee mug. "That is very good of you indeed, Captain. I'll go out an' give the young sir a little kick o' coffee to bring him around. Then maybe you an' I can carry on like the ol' codgers we are about our aquatic adventures, eh?"

"As enjoyable as that sounds, Mr. Lugh, I really should—"

"Merv, le do thoil," he pleaded with a wave of one hand and an easy smile. "Say no more, Cap'n. You get your rest, an' we can talk more on the morrow. It'll be a fantastic festival this harvest, I can feel it." He looked off into the middle-distance out the window with a faint strain in his smile.

Nemo's brow creased momentarily and he tilted his head a bit in question, but said nothing. The man shook his head a little, and then returned to his cheery disposition in full. "Right. I'll go give the lad a hot coffee, an' be about me duties. Double-checking all the knots now." He sighed, and lifted Tom's chipped mug to Nemo before backing out the door. "G'night, Cap'n."

"Goodnight Ish…Merv." The Captain's brief smile vanished, and the lines of his furrowed forehead deepened. Merv had not noticed anything out of the ordinary, and soon could be seen walking out onto the dock by Tom, both of which Nemo was grateful.

The austere Captain sat at the quaint dining table a moment more before silently standing and disappearing into the cleared-out storage room that would serve as their guest room. It was sparse and rather musty in smell, having been used to hold excess supplies for the boats and skiffs before Merv made room for two donated single mattresses.

Nemo kneeled in the square of light cast by the moon through the room's only window, and bowed. He was angry with himself for feeling so shaken by his minor slip of the tongue, and for being so taken aback by this particular villager. It was simply strange that he could be similar to his lost friend, even coming so close to using the same patterns of speech.

Merv Lugh had caught him off-guard: he reminded him of Ishmael.

Aisling Village, Ciara Cailleach's home, betwixt the 30th and Samhain—1899

Mina examined a small sketch of a crow in flight, which hung on the wall of her room whilst sipping the tea her young hostess had prepared. She had been given Ciara's room, despite her insistence that such hospitality was unnecessary. The young woman had persisted and won, explaining that most days she wound up sleeping on the settee in the sitting room nonetheless.

"By the end o' the day, I just want to curl up and let the sun greet me through that window," she had said with a somewhat dreamy smile, nodding to the window in front of them before hopping off the comfortable divan. "Now, how does tea sound? I love a cup before bed meself."

The alabaster face of the vampiress cracked with a diminutive smile. "That would be nice, thank you." She hadn't the heart to tell the friendly, attentive woman that a far different liquid would fair much better. Tea would have to do.

In the minutes spent waiting for the kettle to heat over the tiny wood-stove, the two women spoke idly.

"I have noticed," Mina began with no betraying emotion on her face. "That you and Dr. Jekyll seemed to have formed a rather quick friendship."

The blonde's head shot up with an almost imperceptible emotion before her face flushed with embarrassment. A tiny flicker of suspicion flitted through Mina, but she dismissed it when Ciara started smiling timidly and fiddling with the hem of her breezy skirt.

"I…well, I think he's very…" she stumbled about over her words, ducking her head to hide her face, and then took a deep breath. "He's a real gentleman."

Ciara then lifted her calm, composed face and her cool eyes met Mina's with a smile more sly than shy. At that precise moment, the kettle let out a banshee's wail, startling Mina into flinching.

That had been close to half an hour ago, and the young blonde had yet to return from delivering a shawl to her grandmother's house. Yet, Mina had an inkling the wriggling worm of anxiety in her gut was not for fear of Ciara's safety, but of the woman's smile. More important still was what that particular expression meant for Henry…

"Stop," she commanded herself quietly, turning away from the crow sketch, which she had been staring absently at throughout her musing, and then quickly drained the remainder of the tea. "Jekyll isn't without the ability to make his own decisions. He doesn't need me to…"

She released a tense breath through her nostrils. "This foolishness was meant to be decided weeks ago," Mina finished her self-criticism, glaring coldly at the reflection in Ciara's mirror.

It was an oddly large mirror for so modest an arrangement, but the Extraordinary Lady never cared much for decorating to think longer on it. What she did care for was the incredibly inviting bed the looking glass pointed out to her unusually weary eyes. With a sudden, powerful yawn that somehow managed to defeat her normally indefinite reserves, Mina turned away from her mirrored self, and started removing the sharp, uncomfortable pins in her hair.

The long red tresses fell in messy loops and ribbons around her marble-white face, where the statuesque façade shattered with another uncharacteristically wide yawn. She shook her head to fight off the now dizzying fatigue, fisting her hand against yet another yawn.

The world seemed to wobble beneath her feet, and Mina soon lost balance to find the bed rushing up to greet her. Its springs squeaked slightly, but she heard them not. Sleep had not only captured her, but bashed her over the head as well.

In the next room, the hanging wall-clock chimed twelve times.

Aisling, Samhain, afternoon—1899

The sun was warm as it beat down on the American Agent, and came accompanied by a cooling, autumn breeze that carried the woody scent of bonfires. There were two fires, located in the town centre not a hundred yards from where Sawyer stood perusing some of the villagers' stalls. They had been burning brilliantly since early that morning, and were carefully spaced from each other, creating a neat little pathway through the towering flames.

Tom could only guess that the pathway represented something of great importance to the people of Aisling, for none passed by without bowing or curtsying and no one walked down it. Yet, despite his natural curiosity, the young man did not bother to ask why. It seemed that most of the villagers were in a peculiar mood. Each time he greeted one of them, they would reply with a sly smile and an almost imperceptible tone of mockery in their voice. The behaviour had rankled Sawyer, since he assumed the source came from the people's impression of him—or lack thereof.

"So what if I can't do what the others do? Don't make me any less important," Tom grumbled to himself as he walked away from a table laden with apples, teacups, and candles that Ciara Cailleach oversaw. She glanced over at him with lowered lids, smirking before instructing a teenaged girl in a blindfold to pick a saucer at random. The American muttered something unpleasant under his breath before turning his back on the blonde, and walked off in a huff with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets.

"And there definitely ain't no reason for folks to be so iffy 'round me."

"Well, now, I don't know 'bout tha', Tom."

Sawyer froze; hazel eyes glued to his dusty boots, but saw nothing in the seizing moment of panic. I know that voice, he assured himself readily before common sense could deny it. In the blink of an eye—though Tom was sure he had not dared to bat so much as a lash—a pair of filthy calloused feet appeared before his, and the voice of his old friend continued playfully.

"I could think a whole bushel o' reasons why a body migh' not be so ready t' trus' ya."

Tom raised his eyes to the smiling face of a muscular, if underfed, black man in a torn pair of overalls. His grin softened a bit, and his burnt caramel-brown eyes shone with a sad light, which Sawyer could understand: The man did have bloodstained buckshot wounds splattered across his front.

"J-jim? That you?" the gob-smacked Special Agent managed after another moment of awkward, albeit terrified, silence passed. The other man nodded and rubbed the back of his neck, chagrined. Sawyer shook his head a little, blinked, and cleared his desert-dry throat. "But…you're dead, Jim. Ya can't be here unless…"

Jim broke into a hearty laugh, leaning over with his broad hands on both knees to support himself. He stopped when he saw that Tom was not appreciating the apparent gaiety of his statement, and stood straight with a more sombre expression again. "Nah, Tom, y' hain't dead, an' ya not too crazy. Though, a body does get ta wonderin' sometimes…" he replied, grinning slyly at his young friend.

"Hey now! What's that s'posed to mean exactly?"

"Well, as I reck-a-lect it, y' was fixin' ta saw my po' leg clean off," Jim pointed out with a cheeky grin before waggling his finger playfully at Tom. "An' ya up 'n' fo'got t' tell po' Huck an' me tha' I'd been free dat whole time—"

"Oh, c'mon! I couldn't been more 'n ten back then!" Sawyer argued back with something akin to a pout, crossing his arms resolutely when all Jim did was raise an eyebrow and chuckle. He felt a laugh beginning to brew within him as well, and stifled it with the remembrance that the very solid-looking man teasing him was still dead. Sobering slightly, Sawyer shrugged and added, "Kay…so maybe it was more like fourteen. We both know I wasn't the head of the class or nothin'."

"No, ya weren't much fo' tha', was ya? Not Huck or ya."

The cheery spectre fell silent after that, and the small grin Tom had been growing began to whither. All the talk of their mutual friend and saviour, Huckleberry Finn, cast an imperceptible shroud over them. Jim shifted his weight nervously, a habit he once had while living when he wished to avoid telling Tom bad news, and it failed to escape the Agent's notice.

Sighing heavily, an accomplishment a tad mind-boggling still to Sawyer, the lead-riddled man began speaking grimly. "Huck hain't gonna show up, Tom."

"…What?" Sawyer asked breathlessly, fear gripping his heart tightly as Jim apparently ripped the unspoken question from his mind.

The older man held up one large hand, beseeching Tom for silence, which was granted. "I hain't got much time left ta say what's I got ta." He paused, looking off into the distance vaguely before shaking himself, and continuing. "I hain't seen Huck 'round where 'm at, say fo' righ' after he passed here. An' no, I ain't s'posed t' tell y' what it's like 'round…uh, where 'm at." Jim smiled apologetically.

"But, wait," Tom interrupted, unable to help himself given the circumstances and content of what Jim had just told him. "What d'ya mean Huck ain't with ya? Are ya sayin'…Huck is—?"

"I can't say, Tom, an' I don't righ'ly know. Now jus' lis'en, please," Jim pleaded, deep eyes crinkling sadly at the corners. "Ya gonna be facin' a whole mess-a trouble, Tom, an' I hain't gonna be much help t' ya. There's a whole cobweb o' bad hoodoo y'all got here. Tha's what gone an' brung me here t' ya now lookin' a righ' mess."

He gestured with one sweeping hand over the buckshot embedded in his chest. "When we spirits get called, we come a-lookin' like just 'bout anythin'; it's all up ta whoever done hollered fo' us what tha' anythin' is."

"So, someone made ya look like ya did when you…" Tom asked, trailing off with a pointed look at Jim's gaping and gory front, to which the ex-slave gave a grave nod. "But, why? Don't make much sense to me."

"Mos' folk don't make much sense t' me," Jim responded in that sage, simple way Tom had so admired him for. "'Spect a body 'round here mus' wanna be scarin' folk somethin' fierce…"

He paused to return the friendly wave of a small girl skipping on by, looking just as confused as Sawyer for a moment before adopting his serious face once more. "Or not. But tha' hain't 'portant now. Y' gotta be watchin' all 'round, Tom Sawyer."

He stopped again, looking fearful, and forcing Sawyer to wonder just what could frighten the dead. "Gotta leave soon."

"What d'ya mean, Jim? Watch for what? For who?" Tom stepped forward, face fixated on the apparition unblinkingly. Yet, Jim only shook his head and looked off into the distance, his mouth moving but no sound escaping it. "Jim!"

The older man's eyes then riveted to Tom's, and his broad, solid-looking hand leapt up without preamble to pass through the League member's forehead. An explosion of images bombarded the young Agent, flying so fast and vividly that it made him physically cry out. The sorrowful, burnt caramel-brown eyes of his long-dead friend stayed on his, and Jim's voice rang through Tom's mind with such finality and force that he feared something would burst.

"Oi, Sawyer!"

Tom spun around at the sound of the Invisible thief's greeting, stumbling in surprise at his sudden mobility. He gasped quietly, whipping his head back from the floating pince-nez, trilby, and duster to where Jim was. The dead man was gone—possibly for good—and he had been left with more questions than ever before.

"Damn it," he cursed unabashedly, kicking an overturned rock out into the soughing grass beyond the stalls. Ironically, he received a scolding from the gentlemanly crook, who was currently surrounded by din of children. "Sorry, Skinner."

"S'alrigh'," Skinner shrugged, shooing the kids away with the seemingly empty sleeves of his leather duster. "Run off now, bobbins. Uncle Roddy'll go apple dunkin' later."

This was met with a round of disappointed groans, but the children scampered off as ordered. Once their laughter had breeched the air at the far end of the village square, Sawyer spoke. "Uncle Roddy?"

"Yeah, what of it?" Skinner retorted with the hint of smile in his voice, and his ­pince-nez turned toward his friend. "So…what's the matter wiv you? Where'd tha' bloke go?"

"You saw him?" Tom asked excitedly, gripping the Invisible Man's shoulders with fervency.

"Christ Almigh'y, Tom!" Skinner partially growled, shaking off the younger man's hold. "What is wiv you lot today? Firs' Jekyll's actin' crackers, then Mina goes an' plays the recluse by lockin' herself in all day, an' now you?" The slow back and forth swaying of his shaded glasses suggested a sad shake of the head as he added in mock-hurt, "An' 'ere I was, thinkin' I could talk to one o' me best chums like a sane person."

"Gotta be sane first, Skinner," Sawyer responded with a small nudge in an attempt to seem more light-hearted as an apology to his friend. Yet, he could not keep from frowning at this news of the others. The only other member of the League he had seen since waking late that morning—other than Skinner—was Nemo, and the captain had been engaged in a lively conversation with their host at the time.

"What'd he say?"

"Huh?" The American shook himself out of his slight reverie, raising his eyebrows over at the floating hat. "Nemo?"

"…No," the thief replied slowly. "The big bloke jus' a moment ago. Looked like 'e was pokin' ya in the conk. But then you were spinnin' on me like some mad top, an' he was gone before I could see anythin'."

"That was Jim…he was a friend of mine," Tom said quietly, trailing off as the flood of images began to resurface and flicker in his mind again. He started rather violently when he felt the presence of an unseen hand on his forehead, but quickly apologized when the thief's coat sleeve retreated.

"Lord, Tom, I was jus' checkin' to see you don't 'ave some sort o' brain fever." Skinner reprimanded, tone somewhat sour with worry. "Sure are actin' nutty enough."

Tom smiled inwardly. In many ways, the Gentleman Thief reminded him of Jim; both were always easy-going and watching out for him, as well as getting into trouble with him. More of the images that Jim had shown him drifted forward with confusing clarity, and he struggled to hold onto them. "…He was—"

"Please," the Invisible Man interrupted, holding his sleeve up to stop him. "Don't tell me he was dead." He groaned loudly at Tom's surprised face, reaching up to remove his glasses and rub his face. "Brilliant. Tha's jus' what Jekyll was on about wiv this…woman who popped by the Daray's this morning. Kept sayin' tha'…uh, Hyde killed 'er or somethin'."

Sawyer straightened at that, eyes narrowed in determination. "Where is Jekyll now?"

"Thought I saw 'im goin' tha' way. Why—Hey!" Skinner skirted out of the way as the Special Agent started forward with a determined gait toward the sloping hill where a lone figure had just taken a seat at its weathered bench. "No bloody respect," he grumbled and straightened his lapels in aggravation. Then, a thought struck him and he called out, "What did 'e say? Tha' friend o' yours?"

The young man stopped, and turned around to face his friend's hat. "…He asked me if I'd seen Allan—recently." Then, he continued on steadfastly toward Henry, leaving Skinner behind to wonder.

"…I'm always the last bloody one to find things out," he groused, looking down when he felt a tiny tug on the flap of his duster. "Hmm?"

"Somethin' the matter, Uncle Roddy?" a little girl, who had been waving to a dead man minutes ago, asked. She received a friendly pat on the head from the ghost-man's hand, and giggled.

"Oh, nothin', sweet'eart," Rodney replied with a smile, and, for some reason, not feeling silly about doing so. "It's jus' been…a sorta funny ol' day."