Hello friends, guess who's back! And it's not even one of those chapters where people are like, "sorry, I'm abandoning this after all," it's a real-live chapter concluding the Civil War and a bunch of other real-live plot stuff.

I'd apologize for the two-year hiatus, but it was refreshing and makes coming back to this story more refreshing. So I'll apologize for the wait and thoughts of abandonment instead.

There have been so, so many kind and detailed and polite reviews in the last two years and I appreciate every single one, but that's just too many to list here. I tried to reply personally to every single one (as I always try to do), and if I didn't (or if your PMs are off, or if you were a guest), I really am sorry for missing you, please know your feedback was extraordinarily appreciated! You all were hugely inspirational and the reason I came back to writing this story.

That said, it has been two years. I've tried to keep the plot cohesive and writing style similar, but I'm not perfect. If you see any huge, glaring plot holes, please let me know and I'll patch them over and appreciate you forever.

Also, there are a lot of time skips in this chapter because I was kinda rushing to finish the Civil War, so pay attention to date stamps or you'll probably be confused (but hopefully not too confused). Enjoy!

I disclaim, and own nothing.

1864

Alfred toed his traveling trunk anxiously as he waited for the train. There was almost no difference in the amount of wear now between the battered leather of his boots and the battered exterior of his luggage. He wondered if he looked so battered as well.

The people he normally enjoyed watching trailed past, young and old, black and white, all with a place to be yet a similar air of displacement. The war had done a number on the South, and the lack of food, scores of ransacked towns, and no real hope of victory had left the South's people as beaten and downtrodden as the fields of crops Union soldiers had marched across. This particular train station was the only functional one Alfred could find to get him to Illinois, as all the others had been demolished in an effort to isolate and ruin the South.

It had worked, it had all worked, and Alfred, as much as he enjoyed having his country reunified, couldn't help but feel that something had been broken between the two sides that would never be truly repaired, no matter how effective Lincoln's Reconstruction turned out to be. After all, the scar on his stomach hadn't healed, remaining broken and divided.

In his correspondence with Lincoln, the President had attempted to convince him many times to return to Washington: he was important to the country, too important to lose (especially should get himself stuck in the South), and his internal conflict would only increase the longer he spent on the battlefield.

In the end, Alfred wanted to help his country, and he'd been certain that warning the Union about the South's movements was the best way. But he was no longer certain he wanted to be the hero, especially not if it cost so many lives.

He ran a hand through his hair, his unruly cowlick springing back up immediately. At least he'd gotten his glasses fixed, finally. If nothing else, he could at least see properly as the steam train huffed its way into the station. Gathering his belongings, he made his way aboard.

As he sat in the stiff wooden coach seat, surrounded by the sight and smell and sound of the faces of a defeated possible-country, he allowed himself to wonder about those he'd known on the other side. Had Boyd made it out alive? Had his sister Belle fought her own personal rebellion until the bitter end, alongside those like Ava Bacot? Had Eliza had anywhere to go after she was freed, any family or hope for a future?

He didn't want to think about Josiah Wetherby, whom he'd not seen or heard from since that one fateful battle. He hadn't even asked Charlie when he'd written, too glad that his friend had made it out of the Union Army to question it. Alfred supposed he'd find out soon enough. After all, Charlie was getting married.

In the meantime, Alfred had an entire train ride to remember the casualties of war.

_V~-~-~V_

1862

Alfred woke one morning, newly released from the hospital and back to Army tents with the similarly released Boyd, to the sounds of angered shouting among the rest of the men of General Lee's Army of Northern Virginia.

"Wha's goin' on?" he mumbled to his companion, who just snorted and rolled over.

"'S too early fer this," the other replied, and Alfred was just about to attempt to sleep again when the tent door was thrown open.

"That fool Lincoln's freed the slaves!"

Instantly, Alfred was wide awake. "Excuse me?"

The man in the tent doorway, a half-dressed soldier whose face he recalled vaguely, gesticulated wildly. "The slaves! He's gone and freed them!"

"All of 'em?"

"All of ours, and who gave him the right?! The Confederacy listens to no President but Jefferson Davis!"

Alfred tried his best to look appalled, though inside he was cheering for his President. He'd worried that Lincoln wouldn't actually do anything decisive, and he really couldn't while he was trying to keep the South part of the Union.

Lincoln had once said, "If I could save the Union without freeing any slave I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone I would also do that." Alfred knew it was Lincoln's personal desire that all men should free, but had put the wellbeing of the nation above the lives of slaves and it still hadn't prevented war. It looked like he had finally done something decisive, even with the opposition Alfred knew he must have faced from the other politicians in Washington.

For lack of a better word, Alfred was proud.

Meanwhile, Boyd and the half-dressed soldier in the tent doorway were brimming with righteous anger, the former having decided that major political action in this war was something worth waking up for.

"I don't care what the damned President says, I ain't never accepting a slave as my equal!" Boyd declared. "Right, Jones?"

"I can't think before breakfast," Alfred said instead, tiredly shutting down the part of his mind currently ranting about personal property and important industry and scientifically superior, never equal. Food was more important than politics with soldiers, even important politics.

"You're always right about that, Jones. This is why I keep you around," Boyd said, tone turning boisterous as he cuffed Alfred's shoulder.

"See?" he continued, addressing the soldier in the door. "Jones reminds us of what's real important in life."

_V~-~-~V_

Alfred, Lincoln had written, please return to Washington. I have learned some important information from certain sources, too delicate to be conveyed in a letter but concerning you to the utmost.

President Lincoln, Alfred had replied, Lee plans an invasion of the North within the coming months. Looks like I'll be heading home after all.

Alfred had also asked about the freeing of the slaves in what he learned was called the Emancipation Proclamation. Lincoln had responded with, "I had never, in my life, felt more certain that I was doing right than I did in signing that paper," and Alfred had smiled at those penned words, that penned proof that Lincoln was leading his country right for the reasons he believed in.

The invasion was also happening as promised, and Alfred was growing worried with their successes. He and the rest of General Lee's army had made it to Pennsylvania, genuine Northern territory, by mowing down the Northern opposition.

"Why he couldn't have picked a time of year other than the heat of July I don't know," Boyd complained, for once right with Alfred as he grumbled about the stifling Confederate uniforms. He had kept his birthday an even bigger secret this year, considering that the Confederates weren't feeling too positive about things that made the Union happy, and had watched it pass unmarked as General Lee's army arrived at the rain-flooded Potomac River.

What always had never really made much sense to Alfred was how they could all reconcile their identity as Americans with their identity as Confederates, yet turn around and be so aggressively un-American that they denied the Constitution.

"Rebellin' against oppressive powers is the most American thing there is," Boyd had said gruffly when Alfred asked. "States rights's guaranteed."

"But the Constitution was a contract between states. There ain't no way they can just duck out of a contract because they don't like what other people in it're doing."

"Constitution also guarantees a man a right to his property, and I don't see no Emancipation Proclamation protectin' that now do I?" Alfred wanted to tell him about the framers, who took out the anti-slavery clause to keep the southern states but deliberately worded the rest of the document to allow for the slaves to be freed one day, how it was more recent judicial action that was responsible for the current state of affairs, but he knew Boyd wouldn't listen.

Especially not now, not when Boyd and the rest of the army, bolstered by their recent successes, were full of optimism about the upcoming confrontation.

Alfred grabbed his gun and pulled the brim of his hat down to force his cowlick to lie flat. Boyd grinned from the other side of the tent.

"Here we go again, Jones. You ready for this one?"

Alfred pulled a grin. "Sure thing. You got our orders?"

"We're to come in from the northwest, catch them blue bastards by surprise while they're tryin' to reinforce the ridge." Boyd clapped Alfred on the shoulder. "Gonna get 'em good! We ain't made it this far for nothing!"

They exited the tent to the sound of thumping boots and shouts of the other foot soldiers. Alfred followed the shouts of the commanding officers, falling carefully towards the back of the pack as everyone began to fall into formation. For all that this felt like any one of the battles he'd been involved in since the beginning of the war, a knot in his stomach told him that something about this fight, something about Gettysburg, was going to be different.

Just as he lost sight of Boyd, he realized it felt like a turning point.

_V~-~-~V_

"Get down!"

Alfred dived, dust clogging his nose and cannon fire ringing in his ears. The charge from the northwest had been successful, but the Union was making a comeback, and the Southern forces were crumbling.

The Army of the Potomac was on the other side. According to his last discussion with Peter, that's where Charlie was.

Trample them back down! part of his brain shouted while the other half screamed for him to make a comeback, but Alfred had learned to shut both halves down and just focus on not dying. Not necessarily killing anyone in blue, but also definitely not dying.

Alfred hoped for Charlie's sake that he'd transferred units.

He stood carefully, blinking his vision back through cracked glasses and squinting through the haze. He leapt to the side as a snarling blue soldier came running forward, gun pointed straight for him, and stuck his foot out to trip the man before knocking into the Confederate beside him, causing his gunfire to go wild. Before either could recover he made a break for the side, avoiding the crumpled bodies but unable to avoid the rust-red dirt beneath his boots.

Alfred scanned the crowd, looking for situations to sabotage and the blond hair of his . Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of something he'd nearly forgotten he was looking for: a head of brown hair in Confederate grays, racing for the stand of trees on the edge of the ridge.

"Josiah!" he yelled, but his voice was drowned out by musket fire and the shouts of other men. Running through the melee, no longer caring who he interrupted, he chased after the one person he'd promised he would save.

His quarry stopped at the stand of the trees, only then noticing he was being followed. "Who the hell…?" he demanded, gun raised, but froze. "Alfred Jones?"

"You," Alfred panted, and promptly ran out of words.

"Why are you here?" Josiah demanded.

"Because you shouldn't be!" Alfred retorted.

"Oh, this is all about me running away, is it?"

"Charlie's here!" Alfred spat, and Josiah paled, lowering his gun. "Charlie's with the Army of the Potomac! He left soon after you did!"

"He shouldn't have done that. You shouldn't even be here, our family's concerns are not yours! And what's with that uniform?"

Alfred gave a slim mockery of a smile. "I'll have you know I'm a soldier in General Lee's army, and have been for some time now."

Josiah gaped. "But you… you—America… what?"

"I'd like to know the same thing."

Alfred turned and found himself face-t0-face with his original goal. "Charlie!" he exclaimed, but the other only had eyes for his younger brother.

"Hello, Josiah."

"Charles."

Charlie's eyes hardened. "I'll never forgive you for what you did to our mother."

"I expect you did much the same, running off to volunteer right after!" Josiah retorted, but he shrunk back as Charlie brandished his musket, bayonet sharp and glinting in the sunlight between the trees.

"Don't you dare compare the two as if they were similar!"

"Don't you have a wife? Isn't Marcy worried her husband's off to get himself killed?"

"We didn't get a chance to have the wedding because, oh yes, there's a war on!" Charlie shouted, his words punctuated by another resounding cannon boom.

"Of course, the favorite son wouldn't want to leave a widow behind when his side loses, now would he?" Josiah shouted back, his courage slowly returning. "Poor Marcy, all alone, so hopeful for a marriage to help the family but her husband goes off and dies. I'm sure she'll find someone else quickly, a marriage of convenience just like yours—"

Charlie let out a wordless yell and lunged forward, punching his bayonet straight into Josiah's leg. The younger man crumpled to the ground with a pained cry, blood spurting from his thigh, not a mortal wound but certainly incapacitating.

"Don't you dare talk about Marcy like that. I love her," Charlie spat. "Something clearly beyond your understanding if you're going to forsake your family."

He turned away from his brother, fixing Alfred with a flat glare instead. "So, are you planning on telling me why you're wearing the same uniform as he is?"

"Spying," Alfred said succinctly, "for Lincoln."

"You? A spy?" Charlie asked, incredulous. "How'd you get picked for that?"

"I volunteered, actually. Seeing as I haven't died yet I'd say it's been pretty effective," Alfred quipped, but his words felt heavy all the same, with the century and a half of previous non-death going unspoken.

"Well, I suppose they wouldn't take your idiocy otherwise," Charlie replied. "Now stop acting so friendly, you'll blow your cover."

"How's this?" Alfred held his gun up towards Charlie.

"Better, but watch where you point that." Charlie took a step back. "When this is all over… you're still going to be my best man, right?"

Alfred smiled. "Wouldn't miss it for anything."

Charlie returned the grin. "See you when the war's ended, then." With one final glare at Josiah's prone form, he turned and walked out of the stand of trees, back toward battle.

"Try not to get killed," Alfred muttered at his retreating back. "Emeline would have my head."

With that, he knelt down to check on Josiah. Traitor or not, he was family. The young man was groaning, and his pulse was still steady, so Alfred tore a strip off his uniform to wrap around his leg as a bandage. He was about to rise when a voice behind him ordered, "Don't. Move."

Alfred felt the tip of a gun brush the side of his head and his heart started pounding in his ears. Raising his hands slowly, he turned to look at his aggressor, and found himself staring up at Boyd's angry expression.

"Boyd? What—?"

"Don't try whatever innocent routine you've got goin' on me, Jones!"

"Easy, Boyd, we can talk this out—"

"The hell we can! I saw you lookin' pretty friendly with that Union bastard, don't lie!"

"I'm not lyin', Boyd, really—"

"You're a spy, ain't you?"

Alfred inhaled a shaky breath (because what was it with people he knew thinking the worst of him for the last ten minutes), he couldn't get out of this one, and there was a gun pointed at his head and he didn't know if even he could survive his brains being blown out— "I'm a double agent."

The gun wavered slightly, but stayed put. "A what?"

"A double agent. I know, I should've told you sooner, but it's kinda supposed to be a secret. Basically, that soldier's the contact who thinks I'm on his side, when really I ain't."

"You tellin' the truth this time?"

"I swear on it. I'm a Virginia boy, remember? I wouldn't betray my state for nothin'." That struck Alfred as a bit of a low blow, as far as lies went, because the devotion these soldiers had for their states was real, and he felt almost like he was mocking it.

But the gun finally went back to Boyd's side, and the other man mopped his sweaty forehead with a shaking hand. "Damn it, Jones... so the guy on the ground…?"

"Proving my loyalty," Alfred replied ruefully, but shuddered mentally at the memory of the betrayal in Josiah's eyes, the blood soaking through his gray uniform as his own brother ran him through. "See? I was fixin' him up when you showed."

"That's a relief. You don't know how much a relief that is." Boyd shook his dead. "Damn it, Jones, I thought I was gonna have to shoot you, and I like you! That would've been hard!"

Alfred stood, pasting a grin on his face. "Lucky it was you who found me and not some other bastard who'd've misread the whole situation then, ain't it?"

_V~-~-~V_

November 19, 1863

Lincoln sat in his train car as it sped into Gettysburg, and ran his hand down his beard. Speaking at the battlefield cemetery was an event that could have profound implications for the Republican Party, and the rest of the war.

Victory was on the horizon and he knew it. It had, according to Alfred's optimistic letters, always been on the horizon, and inevitable step forward in the life of the nation. He had yet to speak to Alfred about what the Canadian and the Englishman had told him for fear of his letter being intercepted.

Alfred had been at Gettysburg, he knew this. He'd written as if it were a Union success, but Lincoln (and several of his top fellow politicians) were more inclined to see it as a draw. The South had been beaten back and on the retreat ever since, but they'd lost equal numbers of men, and Meade had failed to properly chase down Lee's Army of Northern Virginia and cripple it, resulting instead in a retreat of still-intact forces. He had summarily replaced Meade's role with that of Ulysses S. Grant, thanks to Grant's successes at Vicksburg and the Chattanooga Campaign.

So far, the decision had proved a good one, but he still felt he could capitalize further on the solid stance he had, despite the debacle of the New York draft riots five months before. That particular fiasco had begun with the city's ethnic Irish protesting the ability of wealthy businessmen to buy a draft substitute, and ended in race violence, with the same Irish attacking New York's black citizens and burning buildings.

But the focus of the war had shifted for good, from a war for states rights to a war to end slavery and redefine American democracy for good. Future democracy in a country based on equality could not survive if slavery as an institution continued.

It was really too bad, Lincoln thought, that the world would most likely forget his words soon enough, but he hoped the actions of his administration would prevent policy from backsliding.

"The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here," he murmured, as he scratched his pen across another draft of his Gettysburg address.

The end of the war was on the horizon. He could feel it.

_V~-~-~V_

April 1865

"They finally resolved their problems in the colonies."

Matthew raised an eyebrow behind his round glasses. "You really ought to stop calling them that, especially considering that names were so important to their war."

"I'll call them whatever I bloody well want," Arthur replied. "And I didn't cross that ocean again just to be reprimanded on my naming choices, I came to find your southern counterpart!"

"What do you want to do about it? He's no longer an employee of Lincoln, so we lost our only lead."

"The man told us himself he'd sent the boy off on some spying mission, of all things."

Matthew sighed. "He did, but afterwards Alfred Jones was released from his employ. Lincoln wanted to give him a break, and apparently he needed one. Not that I blame him."

"Oh, certainly not," Arthur grimaced, having experienced the sensation of war more than once himself, though so far none quite as bloody as the Americans'. "But that doesn't change the fact that we need to find him."

"When we spoke to the President he said he preferred to inform Alfred of the Nations himself," Matthew reminded him.

"Be that as it may, he may require proof, and you've met him before yet remained inexplicably the same, so he can conclude that you aren't a human. And he needs guidance, and experience, and advice, the kind that we can provide."

"And maybe therapy," Matthew muttered, but Arthur didn't seem to hear.

"We need to get to Washington, DC," Arthur stated with finality. "We've done this all once before, how hard can it be to get in touch with the President in the second go around?"

_V~-~-~V_

Please, for your own sake, return to Washington. The important information I spoke to you of previously, too delicate to be sent in a letter, is still vital for you to hear.

That was what the President (now newly inaugurated for his second term) had written, and Alfred had, accordingly, ignored. Instead, he'd traveled the South once he'd finished his term with the Confederate Army, someplace he'd never really been before, writing back to the President about the state of the once-grand plantations, the railroads, the opinions of the people, and the feelings of the freedmen. Every time the President had responded with thanks, notes on his plans for Reconstruction once the war drew to a close, and yet another plea for Alfred to return to Washington. Finally, he'd given up on pleas and, in his most recent letter, started on bribery and guilt.

Now that the scourge of war is over, won't you let yourself have some time for peace? My wife and I plan to attend a performance of "Our American Cousin" this April, and I know we would both be delighted if you would join us.

Alfred had written back with an apology, because he'd already committed to being the best man at Charlie's wedding before the war had even started, and with the long-awaited date finally approaching, he couldn't back out now.

Why don't you take General Grant instead? He's a much more recognizable public figure, people would love it if their President and war hero both made an appearance, Alfred had replied. Lincoln had acquiesced. Alfred suspected it had something to do with him knowing the Wetherbys. However, he demanded that Alfred return to Washington as soon as the festivities were over in Springfield, and Alfred had agreed.

Peter had been waiting for him at the train station. "Welcome home," was all he said, and all Alfred could do was grimace because really he should be welcoming his youngest son home, and Alfred had failed to make that happen.

Helen had greeted him with more enthusiasm than the first time despite the missing Josiah. "You've become so skinny! Have you not eaten at all these last few years?" she demanded, and Alfred didn't tell her that she'd also lost weight and gained new wrinkles and gray hairs since he'd last seen her.

"Good to be back," he'd said instead, and at least that had been true.

As it was, Alfred was currently buttoning himself into a rather stifling suit. It was an unusually warm day for April in the Midwest. At least the suit's a bit loose now, he thought to himself, and wrinkled his face at the mirror. He'd had it tailored back when the wedding planning had happened before the war.

There was a knock on the door. Charlie, already dressed, let himself in, and Alfred forced a grin. After all, this was the first Wetherby wedding he'd be attending, and he was supposed to be the cheerful.

"How's the groom doing on this fine morning? You're looking a frazzled!"

"God save me," Charlie gasped. "Save me from my mother. She's decided, all very last-minute, mind you, that the flowers out by the arbor are all the wrong color. She's insisting they'll clash with Marcy's dress." He paused, as if waiting for Alfred to contribute, before concluding, "Nothing clashes with white!"

"You're right about that," Alfred agreed, "but she's probably just very excited for you."

"I know, I know," Charlie grumbled. "If Josiah were here, then she could worry about him instead." He swallowed. His younger brother, still not home, was a touchy topic.

"She'd probably still worry about you, idiot. You're the one getting married."

Charlie looked at him, betrayed. "You're the best man, you're supposed to help me, damn it! Sympathize!"

"That's what you get for asking your uncle," Alfred grinned, and Charlie threw up his hands in defeat. "More to the point, why did you have to pick such a heavy suit fabric?"

"Also my mother's decision. We were originally planning on October, and I think she was planning for it to be unseasonably cold."

"I suppose we can be grateful it's not unseasonably cold now," Alfred said, glancing outside at the clear blue sky. He turned back and absentmindedly fixed Charlie's collar. "Now get out there and make a married man of yourself."

Charlie gave him a crooked grin, those familiar eyes regaining a hint of their former glint for an instant. "I'll see you out there, uncle, but I won't be watching your ugly face with my gorgeous fiancée so close."

So he said, but in a matter of hours, Charlie had his eyes locked on Alfred's. "Oh god oh god is she coming yet? How does she look? How do I look? What if I forget what I'm supposed to say? Alfred, what if I forget what I'm supposed to say?"

Alfred smiled at Charlie's hissed whispers. "It'll be fine. And she's beautiful."

Marcy was beautiful, and smiling like she deserved to for waiting years for this date to become a reality. Alfred barely noticed the heat from the shadow of the flowery arbor, but he sympathized a bit with the priest beside him, dressed in his thick, all-black, high-collared outfit.

Helen Wetherby was dabbing her eyes already, and even Peter looked a bit teary in the front row of the assembled crowd. It was a small crowd of neighbors and cousins, all of whom Alfred had been introduced to as "a friend of Charlie's from out West" and none of whom he remembered the names of.

All he really had to do was stand and smile as Charlie's panic escalated beside him. "Look at Marcy instead of me, remember?"

Charlie tore his gaze away to meet his fiancée's eyes, and when he smiled at her it was if the war years had ever happened and Alfred was reminded of what could have been, of the weddings and family he could've seen, but he'd found his way back and it didn't matter and the future seemed much brighter in comparison.

_V~-~-~V_

Two days later, Alfred would be informed that President Lincoln was dead, and his world would tip on its axis yet again.

V/~-~-~\V

That's all for now, and probably the last of the familiar Alfred-follows-history plot, because here comes Arthur and Matthew. Hope it was a good comeback!

History (bet none of y'all missed these mini-lessons):
The post-war South was a mess, with infrastructure destroyed by the Union, farms (their main source of money) gone, no more of the free, expendable labor they had in slaves, and political and social conflict as they tried to adjust to the new status quo. Reconstruction helped somewhat, but also went unfinished in the end and the South's politicians were largely old Confederates who were voted back into power (not good for any new, progressive policymaking). Basically, rather than rebuilding and moving on, they looked for any way to go back to the pre-war years.
The Emancipation Proclamation was issued on September 22, 1862 and enacted on January 1, 1863. It freed only the slaves in territories that had seceded, leaving the few slave states that had stayed in the Union alone. Eventually it was expanded, and after the war, an anti-slavery amendment was written into the Constitution.
Lincoln held a personal belief that all men should be free, but he was willing to compromise that to keep the Union together. Having failed that despite much policymaking and compromise and gone to civil war anyway, he went for the "free" part next, and during the Gettysburg Address officially made the Civil War a "war against slavery," not just for states' rights.
The battle of Gettysburg was fought in July of 1863 between Lee's Army of Northern Virginia (the owners of the stars-and-bars flag we think of as the Confederate flag today) and Meade's Army of the Potomac. Despite Lee's initial successful charge, the Union held its ground and beat the Confederates out of Gettysburg. Both sides lost around 20,000 men, and though that was a larger percentage of Lee's forces, it wasn't crippling. If Meade had given chase and pressed his advantage, the war might have ended much sooner with such a blow to the South. Unfortunately for the North, he didn't, and was replaced as Union commander with Ulysses S. Grant (who also later became President), who had been leading a successful campaign in the southwest.
The Gettysburg Address was very short, only about three minutes total, and became the most quoted speech in American history despite Lincoln saying, "The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here".
More details on Lincoln's assassination and aftermath next chapter!

A thing to note: in all of my research and classes, it's clear that even the people America today hails as heroes had their fair share of flaws. Abraham Lincoln was just as much a racist as anyone in his time period, but not believing in slavery made him a progressive, and his stance on black citizenship shifted through the war to become more progressive, as everyone's stances on hot-button issues tend to do. So, a disclaimer: just because Alfred may think a person has no flaws in this story, please note that they do, no matter how heroic we think they are today.

And now that's really all. Hopefully it's cohesive plot-wise and stylistically with the rest of the story up until now, and sorry again for the two-year hiatus. I don't know how frequent updates will be, but they will happen!

As always, if you have any thoughts or questions and time to tell me about them, please don't hesitate to drop a review!