EPILOGUE

She marries him in his kingdom, by the same river that had taken his father and left him his crown. Against the brilliant ambers and crimsons of the fall leaves, before a gathering that watches with bated breath, he pledges his hand, heart, and life to her. His speech - the practiced elocution of regality - is flawless; she, uncomfortable with rhetoric, stumbles over her vows, although when she swears to forsake all others, her voice does not once waver. Then, at the end, as she says as long as we both shall live, her words are a whisper underneath her tears, and he is careful as he wipes them away, because he understands what they have cost her. When the blessing of the assembly is invited forth, there is a moment when she thinks her memories will overwhelm her, when she's paralyzed with sudden trepidation that karma will surely despatch a hurricane, or one of Puck's spurned suitors from his colorful past. Or even that she might wake and find it'd only been imaginings, because it's surreal enough to gaze upon the faces around her - faces out of storybooks and impossible daydreams - let alone the one before her, who is both legend and soulmate.

But her apprehension is unfounded, for nothing interrupts, no one intervenes and there are no masks among the crowd of witnesses spread over the grassy bank, who cheer as he takes her face in his hands and kisses her. Humans rise to their feet alongside creatures of feather and fur, scale and gossamer silk, every eye alike reflecting the elation in the air.

The forgetful dust has been left at home; there is no need for it when they are all friends here and no aisle divides them.

She's still pensive when the music begins, heralding the dancers who spin like liquid color in the river, through the leaves, across the sky. Wings and fins and feet move in intricate harmony - it is a revel like no other and all that is beautiful has come out to celebrate today. They're paying tribute to their King and his bride - to her - and she can't wrap her mind around everything, feels light-headed as her father takes her hand and guides her in dance as he's done in life. She's overcome, can hardly breathe, wondering who on earth could've imagined a reality like this.

Then she steals a glance at Puck leading his mother in time to the music as pixies flutter around them, scattering cake crumbs like confetti in a whirlwind while shapeshifting children give chase on diaphanous wings. Mother-in-law, she tests the unfamiliar words in her mind. Husband. Family.

This is who I am. This is normal.

And every bit as insane as it looks.

She grins at last, feeling a weight lift, sensing the world rush back to her like an errant tide drawn home. Her father doesn't miss the change, the sudden lightening on her feet, her hand tightening over his as everything else about her relaxes into the music that sweeps them across the lawn. And when she finally finds herself in Puck's arms, albeit for no more than the span of a stanza before he's whisked away to perform his kingly duties as host and sovereign, she breathes him in - sunshine and richness and joy, aware that all eyes are on them, like when they'd danced as children at a different wedding long ago and she'd been sure her heart was laid bare for all to see.

When the sun sinks into the watery horizon, the guests trickle away, doe-eyed twos and raucous fours and fives returning to their homes to tell stories of a union that defied the odds. A match made in hell, they'll laugh as they shake their heads in wonder, enemies who found common ground, and then some - mightn't that spell hope for the rest of us? Amidst this massive exodus, the King of Faerie stands stately - and conspicuously - alone, graciously receiving the genuflections of his subjects and returning blessings upon their heads in the lilting tongues of his court. He would've much preferred to camp out at the buffet table and unleash prank upon prank on some of the more uppity relatives on his Mother's side, of course, but even he knows that this - the smiling and simpering and (oh, mercy) the kissing of hands and cheeks and mouths - is but momentary; soon they will all have gone, and it will just be him and Sabrina, as it always has been, and if he must wait another hour or two to have her all to himself, well, what is that compared to the years of watching her walk away from him?

Finally, filtering through the last of their well-wishers, he spots her, staring out at the world on fire. Even from the back, she's breathtaking: the rosy light gilding the strands of her hair, her posture straight and tall and sure. She looks like a queen, he thinks, whatever she believes - and regardless of how she'd brazenly abandoned me to face the fawning multitude alone.

He saunters up, hands in pockets.

"So . . . nice party. Come here often?"

She suppresses a smile and, keeping her back to him and her expression nonchalant, plays along. "I've been to worse."

"Yes, I remember that," he continues, just as serious. "I don't think I've ever been called an angel before then."

"And you proceeded to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt exactly why."

"You know what they say: a man is nothing without his reputation."

Her eyes glint dangerously; oh, he was making this too easy. She glances over her shoulder, ready to throw his arrogant quip back in his face -

- his beautiful face -

- and he renders her speechless just to behold him - always has, but even more so today, when he's finally hers and she's shouted it to the world with all her being.

He smirks knowingly, taking a step forward to flank her. "You'd think, given it's our wedding and all, that you'd be the one person I'd be hanging out with most today, but I've hardly seen you. I swear I've spent more time talking Underworld trade sanctions with the ambassadors from Sylvandale."

"I was about to say the same, but I figured kings are always expected to make political love to everyone, even on their wedding day."

"Only one dance!" His nose wrinkles in disgust. "And then whisked away by this and that to meet so-and-so's third cousin. Or fourth or fifth. Or one-zillionth. As if I'd remember all those names; I'd sooner roll around in mud."

"Well, I don't see any cousins now."

"True." He dips his eyes to hers and, even though the music has ended, takes her hand and pulls her into position, his feet already moving to some phantom tune only he can hear. She blinks as his panpipe trills to summon his minions; seconds later, on the order of their King, hundreds of twinkling lights surround them, and a melody drifts in on the wind, haunting and beautiful. They dance, together at last, while the sky drips into velvet night and stars wink in and out behind ashen clouds. When the song fades, he stills, and she feels his hand on her cheek, and then she's looking up at him, and his mouth is on hers, a promise that this is only the beginning, that they will have kisses like this for years to come, because they will always be consumed by the wanting, and everything that had broken them and left them bereft before mattered only to bring them finally to this moment.

"Speaking of names," Puck's lazily revisits their earlier conversation when they can speak again, "congratulations on marrying up. What should I call you now that you're no longer a Grimm?"

His voice is once more merry, drunk on the euphoria of triumph and Sabrina, out of her own contentment, takes the shot she'd been denied earlier.

"My-Lady-Who-Has-You-Wrapped-Around-Her-Little-Finger seems appropriate. Or else She-Who-Made-You-Stop-Being-A-Juvenile-Brat. And who says I'm not a Grimm anymore? I don't hear you offering to drop your last name for mine."

"Fair enough, My-Lady-Of-The-Lame-Monickers. Be who you want to be; you've certainly earned it. Though, I suppose -" he sighs heavily, "- that makes me He-Who-Was-Left-At-The-Bottom-Of-The Teacup-When-All-Else Has-Been-Drunk-and-Spat-Out."

She'd been watching him as he'd spun his frivolous nicknames, sounding for all the world like the boy he used to be, impervious on the inside as much as out. But his throat bobs while his shoulders drop, and neither escape her because she knows so well, after this long, all the shades of him. She takes in his words, pondering what could lie behind them.

"Do I detect resentment?" She tests.

He snorts in response. "I couldn't imagine what about. I mean, it's not as if you were breaking down my door, even after destiny stuck its memo to our foreheads like Post-its from hell. I can't believe I actually got back in line after being picked over. Repeatedly! I, the once-indomitable Trickster King, has no pride, no glory and no name, it turns out. I am henceforth officially a non-person."

Once more the persecuted martyr wallowing in false humility; still bulletproof then, she concludes, and I was mistaken. So she picks up their game once more. "I never thought I'd see the day you'd confess to being anything less than astounding. I'm flattered you'd be that for me."

"The dregs? Apparently, yes, because - look."

He holds up his left hand, brandishing the simple band on his finger, and Sabrina thinks she's beginning to understand.

"Nice trophy," she smiles. "Looks like you're the winner after all."

"Yes, but how many did you dust before the scales fell from your eyes?"

The familiar question startles her and instinctively, she reaches for the lie to protect herself before she remembers that the game is over. Her thoughts are instantly far away as she blinks into the glittering night, counting her years as a thief, and the lives she'd pillaged.

Seven . . . no - six, because one of you had the courage to challenge me, even though I left at the end anyway. I was so weak then, but I'm strong now, stronger than my guilt, stronger than I thought I was. And If we meet again someday, I swear by the stars that I will be kinder to you, all of you, whether or not you remember me.

She takes Puck's hand, wraps his arm around her and feels his body brace her back, solid and warm.

"Do you know," she muses, "that in the old days, you'd get gold only after it's gone through fire?"

"What?"

"Before that, it's kind of a mess. All mixed up with other stuff that you don't want."

"Uh-oh. It's one of those stories, isn't it? And I bet there's a moral coming up. How nauseating."

"Gold," she ignores his sarcasm, "is what's left when the dross has melted away. I've heard it's an extremely tedious process, but the results are worth it. And -" she turns her face so he can hear every word, "- once you have it - the gold, I mean - you wonder how you could've ever thought you'd be happy with anything less."

"Tough luck for the dross, then." Puck answers after a pause, but his tone is benign as he runs his thumb over hers.

"Good lord, they're flirting in metaphors now. Is nothing sacred anymore?" A prim voice interrupts them, and it's Pinocchio, grinning, holding Daphne's hand beside him.

Puck growls. "Shut up, wooden boy. When it's your turn, I'm going to hit you with so many bad puns you'll be begging to go back to the woodshop and live out the rest of your life as a splinter."

"Ouch." Pinocchio laughs and turns to go, but Daphne looks back over her shoulder and winks at them. And Sabrina feels the heaviness leave Puck, as if that one belligerent exchange had miraculously restored a little of his old spirit. She twists in his arms and catches his stare, unblinking and bright.

"Eight, by the way," she tells him. "You're my eighth." The relief is beyond tremendous: only eight.

He lifts a finger in stern reminder, and with it pokes her nose . "And your first."

She squeezes his hand. "And my last."

TEN YEARS LATER

In the throne room of Faerie is a single chair of rich mahogany. The King of Faerie sits here alone, fingering his panpipe as he relaxes after a typical day overseeing the matters of his court. Protruding from the right armrest is a cunning lever that simultaneously reclines the back and erects a screen inbuilt with thousands of movies and video games. In the left armrest is a button that shoots putrid gas from hidden openings in the ceiling of the room - a feature he uses ad libitum to bring overlong political meetings to sudden and dramatic ends.

From this armrest where they'd been carelessly dangling, his legs swing back over and he straightens, landing his feet lightly on the floor. A blast from his panpipe brings a cloud of tiny pixies, twittering excitedly as he gives them their instructions. He wants a glass of dandelion wine - a big glass, not the wimpy finger bowls they'd brought him last time - and he has a craving for those caramel pecan cupcakes from Magnolia. A dozen would not go amiss, he barks, and while they're at it, they might as well stop by the corner florist for a bunch of flowers. No roses, he warns - they're common and therefore tacky; he wants sunflowers, because they remind him of her grandmother (and his).

In the top floor of an office skyrise three blocks from Central Park is a room that overlooks the river. Its walls are covered with old photographs and legal degrees and in a corner sit a swivel chair and a heavy desk neatly stacked with folders and piles of documents. On the desk is a single photograph of a young family of four - a man and a woman and two little girls with blonde hair and mischievous smiles. The chair is a custom refashion of another, much older piece of furniture that had been in the man's family for as long as he can remember. When it had sat in his home, it had been a rich golden oak, intricately-carved and unspeakably uncomfortable, but its old lines are smooth now, and its honey tones lie buried under an ebony stain that matches the desk and modern decor of the room. The woman in the photograph is seated behind the desk, reading off her laptop screen. She hears a noise from the doorway and lifts her gaze, but beyond the name etched on the frosted glass - Sabrina Grimm, Esq. - she spies nothing amiss in the shadows moving beyond.

The door opens then, and an elderly receptionist peers round it.

"Mayor Charming called to say she'll meet you for lunch after all - they canceled the press conference at the last minute. And your 10 o'clock is in the waiting room. Shall I send him in?"

"Yes," Sabrina Grimm replies, shutting her laptop and scooting the swivel chair backward to rise from it. It slides too far back and collides violently with the filing cabinet against the far wall, and when she bends to inspect the cabinet, she finds yet another dent in the metal.

"We should've turned you into firewood," she sternly addresses the chair, as if the offending piece of furniture were a guilty child. "You were supposed to bring me luck and success but all you've done is destroy things."

Another noise diverts her attention to the door, and there is a man there, standing hunched in a suit that's clean but in need of repair. His hair is not so much unkempt as a veritable riot all over his body, with the exception of his eyes, which are bloodshot, and his mouth, which protrudes from his face at the end of a muzzle.

"Mr. Wolf," Sabrina smiles at him. "Have a seat. I understand you believe there's been some discrimination at your workplace."

"I was fired, Ms. Grimm," the man replies, wringing his hands, "for looking like this. I've worked hard, I haven't taken even a day off and I'm never late. I need this job, ma'am; I have a family to feed."

Sabrina nods. "Of course. I'm sorry this happened to you, but don't worry - it's a straightforward case; we'll get this dealt with without too much trouble. So, this job aside, how's life treating you? And how are the kids doing?"

When night falls, Sabrina emerges from her cab and unlocks the door to her two-story brownstone. She drops her briefcase on the floor of the entryway and flicks on all the lights. As if it were a signal, a second later she hears the thunder of little feet pounding on the wooden staircase.

"Mom!" High voices greet her as their owners run into her arms. Both blond and bright-eyed, the smaller of the two girls plants herself in front of her mother and points at the other. "Alison was mean to me today! She was minding my business and I wanted her to go away but she hit me! Jacintha gave her a time-out but she's still a poopypants!"

"I didn't!" Alison looks on the verge of tears. "And I'm not a poopypants! Mom, make her stop!"

"No rude names, Emma; we talked about this, remember? Where's Jacintha?"

Far more elegantly, their nanny descends the staircase after them, a willowy woman with upturned blue eyes and silver wings that trail gracefully behind her. She pats the heads of the girls as she dips her own respectfully at Sabrina. "That was a smaller matter than it sounds, my lady. They had a good day, whatever else they're saying. Emma, why don't you tell your mother what you found in the backyard?"

And Emma launches animatedly into her story, all animosity with her sister forgotten. Sabrina lowers herself into a squat before her daughter, listening intently while trying not to grimace at the description of rotting birds and worms that wriggled even with their heads cut off. This one, she swears, is her father's daughter through and through.

The key in the lock turns once more, and the door opens to admit said father, tousle-haired and handsome - and incorrigibly smug. All eyes are immediately on him and Jacintha drops into a deep curtsey.

"Who did you fight with today, Daddy?" Emma shouts, and Alison takes the opportunity to slip her hand in her mother's.

"I didn't, Mom." Her urgent whisper is barely audible. "Emma was bugging me. And Jacintha gave us both a time out."

"Sounds like I wasn't the one fighting today," Puck easily overhears his older daughter and throws Sabrina a conspiratorial look. "Should I take them both out and hang them upside down over the pond until they beg for mercy and swear never to misbehave again?"

Both girls instantly cheer and clap. "Yeah! Hang us upside down, Daddy! Fly over the pond and drop us!"

Sabrina shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. "This is precisely why they behave the way they do. You can't call it discipline if they actually look forward to it, you know."

"Your Majesties," Jacintha interjects, "perhaps I should run their baths before dinner?"

"No! The pond! We want to bathe in the pond!" Alison pleads.

"I'll fly you to the bathroom," Jacintha promises, scooping both girls up under her arms with surprising strength and taking off. "How's that for a deal?"

Puck's arms encircle Sabrina as she stares after them. "So - a good day, then?" He murmurs.

Sabrina nods, leaning into him. "Only one meltdown. A new record. Next, Jacintha will be saying they actually did their homework for once."

"No . . .!" Puck mock-gags. "I thought we had a rule: no homework in the house because Dad has allergies?"

"It's not funny!" Sabrina pushes him away with a hiss. "Do you know how many calls I've had from their teachers this week? Apparently someone taught them to say that to get out of handing in their morning work. I had to say you were allergic to the pulp in that particular brand of filler paper, just so they don't think our kids are idiots. You've turned me into a liar, mister. From now on, you're attending all their teacher conferences by yourself. Let's see how you like dealing with it!"

"Nuh-uh. I'm also allergic to entire schools."

"No, you are not! I can't believe -"

"Kidding," Puck chuckles. "You're way too serious, woman. Time to loosen up. Look -" he snaps his fingers and pixies swarm into the house, carrying gifts, "- betcha thought I forgot."

Sabrina's frown remains etched across her brow as the pixies deposit an enormous bouquet of sunflowers in her arms and the box of cupcakes in his.

"Happy anniversary, Stinker," Puck says dramatically. "Ten. I've been counting."

"Two digits - bravo," Sabrina glares at him, still upset, before looking down at what she's holding. "Sunflowers," she fingers the golden petals fondly, and her expression softens. "I miss her."

"Yeah. She'd have liked the kids. She'd have said they're just like you and Daphne."

"She never knew us when we were this age. And besides, they're nothing like us. They fight so much."

"And you both didn't? Ha! Who stole her little sister's kazoo and leveled an entire town? Who was such a bossypants that said sister hated her guts? Who went to -"

"Okay, fine! We had our differences! But we'd do anything for each other, you know that. Allie and Em, on the other hand . . . all this talking-back and absolutely awful name-calling! It's your half of the gene pool. It's completely corrupted them."

"Yessssss," Puck punches the air in triumph, and just manages to avoid Sabrina's shove. He catches her hands and pulls her to him instead.

"FYI, that gene pool is what got you to marry me, Sabrina. You couldn't resist, and you know it, so don't act like it's a bad thing. Look, they'll figure it out. Kids fight. I should know, since I spent thousands of years being one. And fighting keeps 'em on their toes. They wouldn't be our kids if they weren't ready to cut someone's head off at the slightest threat. Hey . . . speaking of which, it is high time they learned to use a sword. I think this weekend I'll -"

Sabrina's cold stare shuts him up instantly.

"Or maybe we'll wait for them to learn that at school," he hastily amends. "There's plenty of time before they reach puberty and have to defend themselves from boys, right? Besides, I'm here. If they so much as talk to one on the phone before they're twenty-five, I'm hunting him down and running him through with a blunt, rusty pole."

In spite of herself, Sabrina smiles at her husband. Puck'll get his retribution in due time, she thinks, remembering the hard time he'd given Henry as a boy making a mockery of the courting process. It'd be almost funny to see him handle potential suitors; maybe I should invite Dad to come watch, too.

She cocks her head at the box in Puck's hands, all but forgotten during their conversation. "So, were you planning to eat them all or are you gonna share?"

"Well, given that it's our anniversary, I s'pose you can have a bite out of one of 'em," he grudgingly concedes.

"Or you could split them equally and not have to sleep on the couch on our anniversary."

"You wouldn't make me!" His eyes are huge. "You want me! I can see it all over your face."

"Er, if you're asking me to pick between you and a caramel pecan cupcake, you're either -"

"Have them all !" Puck shoves the box at her. "Ugh, I hate being married to a lawyer! It's like being King doesn't even count!"

Sabrina throws her head back in a guffaw. "I win! Sabrina: one, Puck: negative one million!"

She's laughing so hard that she doesn't see him barrel into her until it's too late and she's out through the patio doors and hundreds of feet up in the sky, hanging upside down by her foot. She would've screamed but all her breath is sucked out of her as Puck streaks higher and higher, until the stars are all around and the ground is tiny pinpricks of light on a postage stamp. She's still trying to curl upward so she can grab his hand when he drops her, and she plummets as the world closes in and wind rushes past her ears in a deafening roar.

Then she slams with sudden force into something soft and warm, and even though she knows he's got her, she's still utterly disoriented, and she clings to him, feeling her heart hammer against her ribs. Adrenaline ignites every fiber, but the taste of it is thrill, not fear.

"Just a reminder, y'know," his voice is molten in her ear, "that I still rule the skies. And you still like it."

He's right: she had forgotten - what freedom meant for them, each the author of their shared story even as destiny itself penned the final line. What it felt like to be young and in love before jobs and children and the tedium of school routines and chores and neighborhood block parties. And what it'd done to her - both the wanting and then the having, the risk of the quest and the triumph that she'd been right, over and over again, to've returned to him at the end of it.

Ten years - a mere blink within the span of immortality - how far they'd come, and how easy it'd been to lose herself along the way.

She arches into him and kisses him, suddenly missing who they were when they'd said yes to each other all those years ago, but so, so glad that he's come to find her yet again.

"Always you," she says, her heart so full it hurts.

His own voice is hoarse as he agrees, "First and last."

A/N: Finished finally! I have nothing to say except thank you for your reviews and PMs and that I am working on another story, which is an AU, but it's very long and I'm not even at the middle so it could be a while before it makes an appearance here.

OakeX: Spot the line? You're welcome.