2022-06-06 - The Last Night Of The World

Breakfast at Oak Five. It's a recurring thing these days, given that Oak Five's resident pastry pusher likes having people over for breakfast -- and even Ravn Abildgaard will agree that there's something to be said for Una Irving's fresh baked rolls. Cereal somehow just doesn't compare, and neither does instant coffee. That, apparently, is what it takes to get a boat hermit to eat his breakfast on dry land: Fresh baked things and fresh made proper coffee.

It doesn't hurt breakfast's case that Ravn would like to discreetly solicit the opinions of Jules Black and Della Mayfield when it comes to the faerie ring in the garden of Oak Three and possibly severing the connection to the faerie realm that sustains the perpetual summer. The folklorist is fairly certain where Jules will stand when it comes to possibly avoiding repetitions of the Veil fruit incidents but it's still a good idea to solicit opinions and points of view before you go do something drastic.

He's dressed in his usual black jeans and blazer ensemble though Ariadne's influence is starting to show, or maybe it's a courtesy towards the summer heat that he's wearing a t-shirt rather than a turtleneck; it reads, proudly: Hold On, Let Me Overthink This. A tote bag contains a couple of smoked salmon filets that he figures Una might be able to make something interesting with -- he has a lot of buddies on the harbour, and some of those fishermen smoke their own fish. A knock on the door and --

-- he steps into somewhere else.

Ravn does what he always tells others to do in this situation: Freeze, try to get your bearings, work out what you can when it comes to where you are, when you are, and who you are. Quick glance down himself: Nothing changed. Next, a quick glance around: An alley, behind houses several storeys tall. Filth -- there are cobblestones beneath the dirt, but it's definitely not somewhere that sees a push broom every day. No dumpsters. No discarded bikes. No posters, no spray painted graffiti tags. No drainpipes. No glass in the windows behind the shutters.

Historian's gotta history. We're back in time, and the architecture looks positively Mediterranean. The air temperature -- chill, but it's evening, and with the slight tint of salt in the air, probably somewhere by the sea. Other scents he can identify right away are cypress trees, olive trees, cooking smells, and piss. A look towards the main road -- behind him, apparently -- and sure enough, his suspicions are confirmed: People walking past in long dresses or shorter tunics.

Back in ancient Rome?

The last thing Ravn wants to experience one more time in his life is Emperor Nero trying to play the violin. Please, Veil, have mercy.

Breakfast, it can be reasonably attested to, is Una's favourite meal of the day. Sure, cookies are her one true love, but cookies alone do not make a meal, and when it comes to meals, breakfast is the best possible option for all things baked. It helps that she's an early riser by nature; it helps, too, that in a place like Gray Harbor, it's not uncommon for one person or another to need a little bit of home-cooked comfort in the morning.

It's summer, and for the moment, the yard of Five Oak is still stuck in permanent perfect mode, which means breakfast is due to be served outside. Una's got a basket of fresh rolls and slices of quiche in one hand as she heads to answer the door, all the easier to kill two birds with one stone: welcome whomever is there in for food, and start setting the table.

Whatever's going on with this door is double-sided, though, because she falls straight through from her side, too, with a loud scream: straight into the alley, with its smells and its noise and its--

"Oh, thank fuck, Ravn." Beat. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Shit. Not again? Shit."

Because she's standing in the doorway of a building, and there's a penis pointing her way, and even she can recognise the script of the graffiti scratched-- not spray-painted-- into the wall opposite: yeah, that's Latin all right.

But this time she's not dressed for the part, not in her ratty jeans and tank top, with that basket of bread still in one hand.

Jules has been sitting right there at the kitchen table, patiently waiting for the food while she nurses a first cup of coffee. Her hair is still wet from her shower; it’s one of those mornings where she’s already gone for a run, and consequently, already showered and changed into her clothes for the day. This morning, that means jean shorts and a zip-up hoodie.

“Need a hand?” she asks, looking up from her phone when Una gets ready to go outside. It means that Jules doesn’t just hear the scream, she witnesses the moment when Una blinks from one reality to another.

“Aww, shit,” she swears, rising from her seat. “Not again.” By now, she’s encountered enough of the fickle Doors plaguing Gray Harbor to recognize it for what it is.

“DELLA, get your butt in here, we have to go save Una!”

Jules still doesn’t trust these Doors, even if she’s made it back in one piece to date. Before she walks through herself, she rummages in the kitchen for the heaviest stack of bakeware she can find. This goddamn Door is staying open, if she can help it. Jules peers through, while she’s at it, to try to assess the situation. She can’t see much, from this angle. Mostly, Una’s back.

“Fuck,” Jules roundly swears. Quick strides take her back to the table, where she collects her coffee. Another three, and she’s at the counter to refill it from the pot. Jules grabs a water bottle from the fridge, while she’s at it. Thus equipped, she sallies forth—

—and immediately wrinkles her nose at the unpleasant smells in this alley. “The fuck are we?” Coffee, at least, contributes a better aroma, especially when Jules lifts her mug to drink.

"Yeah, I already said I'd do the dishes -- "

Oh. That kind of 'Save Una.' Della peers out into the alley from the Door Jules just wedged, lightly clad in an embroidered sleeveless blouse and walking shorts, white and deep red respectively. She's not seen much in the way of Doors, but she's heard enough that --

"Are you coming back in? Am I going to need my purse?" Her sandals. Her water bottle, and also coffee, and how about some hand sanitizer? Maybe a reusable shopping bag.

Ravn turns around at the sound of a familiar voice behind him -- and somewhere in the back of his mind he observes that Una is speaking English, not Latin. His gaze follows hers, and he stares blankly at the stone phallus for a moment. "I guess that tells us what kind of establishment we're standing next to?"

And then there's Jules, coffee cup in hand, and right behind her, there's Della, all but carrying a picnic basket. He cannot resist a small chuckle; Gray Harbor, where one's first reaction to a mystery is to grab the supply kit and the bandaids, yes. He takes another look around and then says, "I guess we all get to take a trip of -- wherever we are. Somewhere Roman times, next to some kind of brothel. Not Rome itself because we're close to the sea -- which bodes well for not having to listen to Emperor Nero torture my violin again, at least."

He glances down at himself. "No period clothing and not speaking Latin. We may get some pretty damn odd looks, and it's been far too many years since I was forced to speak Latin in school."

Una shoots Ravn a look of absolute horror as he speaks out loud several of the things that have already occurred to her. (She glances behind her, too, getting out of the way of the doorway and its open door through which they've emerged. Hello, housemates. Sorry, housemates.)

"We were in Rome," she explains, for them. Has she mentioned it already? She must have: the kitchen was full of smoke and burnt cookies and she had to explain what happened somehow. "But that time we spoke Latin, and had appropriate clothes and probably actual names that no one did ever tell us what they were. This time..."

This time not so much. "Well, hopefully this is a busy port town, and they're used to people looking a bit weird. Right? At least there aren't going to be any violins."

Or Neros. Or fires.

"Do I need saving? Really. I'm fine. Aside from the lack of appropriate clothing and language, I'm fine."

“Suuuure,” Jules says sarcastically. Her week or so of unfiltered commentary has blessedly come to an end. This is just Jules now, ribbing her housemate. “You’ve just fallen through a Door, you’re fine.”

The phallic graffiti gets a glance, then a smirk. “Hah. The Romans like dick jokes too. Maybe you really are just fine here, Una; you’ll fit right in.”

Another sip from her coffee. Just because she’s in a Mediterranean town prior to the introduction of this elixir of life doesn’t mean that Jules isn’t going to drink up. “I don’t know, Della,” she calls back. “I propped it open, so we could stay here and look around. Have a little adventure. I want to see the sea. I’ve never been to this part of the world before. If you’re bringing your purse, stick to coins, and maybe we can pawn them off as some kind of exotic foreign currency.” The lack of language and proper clothing doesn’t seem to bother Jules. She’s intrigued, stepping beyond the door to peer down the alley.

“Further in,” she murmurs to herself. “The land of Ward Robe, the country of Spare Oom.” Someone read the Narnia books as a child.

"Or saxophones," Della completes, for musical instruments unsuitable for the underaged.

"We could stay here and look around -- like I carry coins! -- " and this is where Della Dithers. Just for a moment, as it turns out, because it's not like Ravn's running for their Door, and Una seems fine. (Not even that kind of fiiine.) She pushes out a breath, takes another one. "I'll be right back."

This involves: a cross-body bag (larger than purse, smaller than picnic basket); light jacket; closed-toe shoes (see: that smell); and a pocket that rattles when she pats it. Make that, two pockets. And more coffee in an oversized travel tumbler. And then a little more messing with the door so that it's less obviously open or, if that isn't possible because of Jules' intense concealment, so that it makes her feel better. "There." At least it didn't take long. Regarding the pockets, "One baggie from the coin jar, one from the coffee jar. Maybe it'd be good trading, maybe just for our last drink," she continues cheerfully. "Stand there, Una?" She wants a pic. Possibly with the dick.

The door remains open -- and it dawns on Ravn that not only is it open, Della is going back through it to fetch things. That option has never occurred to him before: That it may be possible to walk into a Dream and keep one's return ticket available like that. Usually, it's a matter of finding out what the story is, and seeing it through to the more or less logical end -- and then the Dream ends and you are returned to the reality that spawned you. This is an entirely different mechanic -- and while that thought worries him a little, it also creates some interesting opportunities.

He glances around quickly, and then fishes a broken amphora out of a pile of debris. A well aimed kick, and he's got the ear of it in one hand. That, in turn, is inserted into the door, and then he pulls it almost-shut, leaving an opening less than a finger's width thick. "I am thinking we want to keep this door open so we can back," he tells the others. "But we don't want it to look open from the street, or we'll have half of wherever we are's citizens nosing around Una's kitchen in turn."

The historian looks at the others' faces in turn. "That is, I'm assuming we're not just being sensible and going right back, and shutting it well and good after us. Like we ought to. But we're not going to, are we? In part because the Veil never lets you off the hook that easy, and we'll probably just end up here anyway next time we walk through doors."

Good. The door is propped open on both sides, and that's bound to help, right? Right?

"Yeah, I don't particularly want a bunch of Romans trooping through my kitchen, I suspect. Good plan. Okay. No, no I don't think we are going to be sensible like that. What is it with doors, though? Lately." Una sticks out her tongue at Jules, and strikes an appropriate pose for Della, too, basket of baked goodies on her hip. Despite her last trip into this particular part of the world, in this particular era, there's an eagerness to her: this is still exciting, or at least has the potential to be interesting.

"So, if we're not going into what we're assuming is a brothel... where are we headed? Jules, you wanted to head for the sea? Just as long as we can find our way back here, too... assuming we have to go back out the same door."

She sticks her head out of the alley, peering down the street. It's narrow-- a one way street-- with what is obviously the equivalent of a sidewalk. It's dark-- there's plenty of light amidst the buildings, of course, but anything further afield is obscured: just a strange reddish light in the sky, slightly higher than the city's low-profiled skyline. Una frowns, staring in one direction, then back in the other, and shrugs. "Which way?"

Morning in one place, evening in another. Perhaps the Veil follows time zones. Jules sips her coffee and dictated, “No shutting the Door in case it won’t open again. That’s what happened with our library. One minute, boom little ancestor girl, the next, we’re back to normal.”

She looks this way and that, attention finally fixing on the sky. “Okay, actually, I want to know why it’s glowing. I have a good guess, and it’s pretty damn ominous.”

"Sauron," Della intones with a voice closer to Vader's, but then her, "'One does not simply walk into Mordor,' and all that," is positively jaunty. She pauses to send Una the picture -- hurray, WiFi! -- before putting her phone away, adding, "I really like a lack of troops trooping back home."

But also: "Just how close do you figure we are to Pompeii?"

Not that it'll stop her from going along with the others.

"Well, there's a reassuring line of thought," Ravn murmurs and glances towards the red glow. "Given that Pompeii was on the coast, and the air is decidedly saline, I'm going to suggest that 'not far enough' is an option. I'm not an expert on volcanoes and my knowledge of this time period is superficial. Do any of you know whether there were any tremors or warnings of any kind before the thing blew? Got to say, right now, just walking right back to your kitchen does sound somewhat tempting."

"Likelihood of this not being Pompeii, or maybe Herculaneum or one of the others?" Una sighs, peering down the street at the distant glow. So much for her 'this will be a nice jaunt back in time unlike last time, with the violins and the drama' enthusiasm. "Why is it always fire and burning and death?" she grumbles, but mostly under her breath.

It's not like the street is empty, nor is it like they're not catching attention, either: they all look pretty weird, and that's not a language anyone recognises.

"But it's too cold to be August, and I know that's accepted date for the eruption. So maybe this is nothing. Maybe everything is fine."

“It’s not always fire and burning and death,” Jules says far too reasonably. “In any case, it sounds like we shouldn’t wander too far. Surely a little exploring isn’t going to hurt though, right?”

Those are the kind of words that the Veil has a way of making people regret.

"I thought they were stuck doing whatever they had been doing, which implies not much notice," but Della's emphasis makes that a conditional rather than anything like assurance. "Hold that thought. I'm going to check the WiFi." She angles back for the alley and the doors, unless she's forestalled; she won't be inclined to just stick her hand -- or the rest of her -- back into the kitchen, given all that went into the doors' not-quite-closure, but perhaps she could lean up nearby.

"The Veil is not likely to send us to somewhere outside of the blast range on a random Thursday so that we get the excitement of watching Signora Ferrano wash her sheets and hang them out to try, and maybe pet a random alley cat. There's a volcano and we're in Roman times -- it's going to blow soon." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "But 'soon' may be weeks. There's no point in sending here a minute before Vesuvius turns everybody into modern art, either. It's far more likely that we're here to witness or participate in some narrative of the end times."

After all, it's the logic of the reaper man. Harvest everyone right away, it's going to be a sparse meal consisting of a few surprised gasps before it's all ash and silence for a thousand years.

"Della, come on," says Una, glancing after the other woman. Potential for fiery burning death or no, she's eager to be here: to see.

"Ravn's right. There's no point in just killing us-- and, anyway, I want to say the actual eruption happened during the day, so." She gestures: it's night. It's fine. "And it definitely happened in August. This," it's almost downright cold, "is definitely not August."

She tucks her basket of breakfast breads under her arm and takes a few steps further out into the street, hastily dodging a man weaving his way past in a drunken way. The city is alive: there are lights in the windows, people clustered around what are clearly fast food eateries, and just... life. "We didn't get to see all of this, when we were in Rome. Which way?"

“This is one way to travel,” Jules murmurs. She, too, is pleased, stepping up to Una and ready to venture forth. There’s an alternative motive, though; her hand snakes out to steal one of those rolls to go with her coffee.

“This way,” Jules decides, gesturing with her bread before taking a bite. “Let’s see if we can find the center of town. Do you think they have a colosseum?” Her knowledge of Ancient Rome and its empire is spotty at best.

Hearing that urgency from Una -- Della turns back after just that step or two, catching up, her dark eyes speculative. She aims to snag a roll while she's at it. "Everyone's keeping track of the way back? Also, here's hoping it isn't that August was cooler before the eruption." It doesn't slow her down from eyeing the sights, but she does stay towards the back of their little pack.

Ravn glances back one last time to make sure the handle -- the ear -- of the amphora is well and solidly stuck in the door. Much as he's curious to see this piece of history played out before his eyes, he does not want to be stuck here. Particularly not if that red light up there really is Vesuvius, and it's about to blow.

"The alley behind the dick house. Check." He nods and contemplates going back for his bag too -- but that's back through the door and back to his house, and then back again, and he's got a strong feeling that that's just not how narrativity works here. If a Dream or whatever this is wanted him to have his shoulder bag of holding, well, he'd have had it.

"So what do we want to find? A market place? A main street, with street food? I think our best bet is to go where the sailors go -- Rome had ports all over, so people looking strange is not that far out. We're probably just barbarians."

Una's happy enough for people to steal her rolls: it makes the basket ever so slightly lighter, though it's still a slightly awkward bulk slung over her arm. She takes a roll of her own, picking off a piece of it to nibble as she considers. Jules' gesture, accompanied by Ravn's question, draws her attention, and she takes-- the lead? There's a surprise.

"August would've been hot, if I know anything about my geography. I'm sure of it; it's fine. Maybe there's just a few nice early quakes, now, to give us a taste of the experience, and not the whole thing. Let's aim downhill, then, and see the docks, and whatever we can find in that direction. I bet there's a colosseum. Probably a forum, too?"

What's interesting is that there definitely has been a quake or two already: even in the dim half-light of the evening, it's possible to see the scaffolding around some of the buildings, propping them up and also making room for repairs. Una shivers-- from cold, and perhaps also from the acknowledgement that, in a few months, most likely, this will all be gone.

“What about an agora?” Jules asks, dragging the word out of some half-buried school lesson. “Is that a thing? What’s the difference between agoras and forums, anyway?”

She falls in step, munching away as she takes in their surroundings. “I do so love being thought a barbarian.”

'Downhill means uphill going back. In a hurry.' Della doesn't say it. Neither does she comment about docks and ducks or, for that matter, agora and agoraphobia and angora and agoutis; it might be too ag-rimonious.

Instead, wryly, "Of course you do." That's for Jules. "This is tasty, bless you," she adds while holding up what's left of her roll in toast to the baker. For everyone as they head along, skipping over the fora (and flora), "I'm fine with going down to the docks, if the sailors don't make assumptions we can't handle. Or... is there anywhere that gets destroyed, later, that we'd want to get to see now? And do we -- sorry -- need to pick out a place to meet if we get separated?" Ravn at least is conveniently tall, and Una has that red hair. Her glance finds the scaffolding, but possibly she attributes it to something ese, like repairs in general, or painting. Cautiously, "Is August in our calendar or theirs?"

"August is their calendar and ours -- they created the system we're still using, though the dates shifted about twenty days, I think. Either way, we're not in August -- Julian or Gregorian, or Gregorian revised which is what we use in our time." Ravn nods at Della, and then at Una. "If this is Pompeii or Herculaneum we're at the south end of Sicily, so it should be considerably hotter than it is. The desert wind from the Sahara makes Malta almost inhospitable in August -- I remember a friend telling me he has to plonk ice cubes in his fish tank in August or the gold fish die from heat. Malta is just south of Italy. Well, Sicily, but, close enough."

He chuckles. "At least you two dark haired ladies can pass for Romans -- Mediterraneans. I'm going to be taken for a Scandinavian or Germanic barbarian. Una might pass for northern Italy, or Germania. Either way, the way we're dressed, we're going to stand out. I don't think the sailors are going to be worse than anywhere else though -- I mean, are we really afraid to knee a bloke if he gets handsy?"

"Agora is Greek, I think? And forum is Roman." Una does not sound entirely certain, though there's a sharp set to her expression that suggests she's building herself up to be an expert, here; she has, after all, been reading actual history books this past week, after that last Roman jaunt. She gives her ratty jeans an unhappy glance, though: if she knows one thing, it's that trousers of any type are definitely a thing only the strangest of barbarians might wear.

Still, this is an adventure, and she's not unwilling to take more steps down the street, reaching up to trace her fingers over some graffiti carved into the wall; marvelling. "'Quintus Poppaeus Firmus'," she reads. "Poppaeus. Connected to Sabina, maybe? I think I read her family came from here."

Evidently she's not especially concerned about needing to knee a man (or more), if it comes to it; she doesn't comment. Instead, she turns from the inscription and stares down at the street: long and straight and leading to a distant gate, the water visible beyond it, boats of all shapes and sizes moored along the edge. "I want to see some of the mosaics before they were ruined, but it's not as if we can just invite ourselves into anyone's home, so."

“Where’s my bear spray when I need it.” Jules’ tone is joking; she doesn’t seem too concerned about the sailors down at the waterfront. “Looks kinda creepy with the red glow,” she murmurs as they walk along and start down the street to the docks.

Her next questions are for Ravn and Una, Resident Nerd and Nerd Lite: “I’ll see anything. Were mosaics only in private homes? Is there another place we’re likely to find them?”

Della hesitates, but only in words, not in keeping up with the group. "The thing is, they had different months -- fewer months? -- if I remember right, even though some of the names were about the same. So they wouldn't necessarily correspond. But what you're saying about the geography and the weather makes sense. Poor fish." And it's something she can go along with, clearly her preference compared to a quieter, unelaborated, "Sailors: not that simple."

This is supposed to be an adventure of the good kind, and after rubbing her own fingers together to get rid of crumbs, she reaches up to touch that same graffiti, as though for luck. Since Jules hss asked about other mosaics, "Who's Sabina?"

"The second wife of Emperor Nero." Ravn winces. "Una and I met her -- both of them -- in a Dream last week. It was a bit rough, catching up on our reading afterwards -- a year after we left them, Nero kicked her and their unborn child to death. I honestly wish we'd just grabbed her and taken her with us, though I'm not sure how she'd have liked Gray Harbor. She might have liked not dying in Gray Harbor, though."

Then he glances to Jules. Far lighter question, that. "No, mosaics were anywhere that could afford the craftsmanship really. Some of the inns and taverns and whorehouses of this culture are really something. They were quite up front about some things -- which reminds me that I want to find a market and somehow trade for something here. An amulet of luck and fortune -- Roman style." He grins, lopsidedly. "Rosencrantz absolutely deserves his own winged boner to keep in his violin case or something."

"The Roman Republic had ten months, but we're well into the Flavians, now, so: Julian calendar, like Ravn said. August: Sextilis. And this is definitely not August." Una's firm: therefore, there is nothing to worry about. "But I won't lie: the glow is creepy. Sabina--" She sucks in a deep breath, focusing her attention on the street in front of her, and not in meeting the gaze of her companions: the hunch of her shoulders, maybe, is enough to demonstrate how she feels. "She could have been a force. If I could do it again... It fucking sucked."

It still fucking sucks, but what can she do? Aside from take a photo of that graffiti, for posterity, and then continue onwards, one foot in front of the other.

At least leading the group (such an unexpected position to be in) means it will be harder for them to see the faint flush upon her cheeks when Ravn mentions his shopping errand. "Market, then. I bet we can find one of those," she says, keeping her tone light. "So you think we'd actually be able to bring things back? Dreams don't usually seem to work that way." Except when they do, of course.

The calendar talk goes right over Jules’ head. She’s only half-listening to it, more interested in art-talk. “Can we go to a tavern?” she asks. “Maybe trade some of Una’s bread for whatever it is they drink here. Wine, right? I want to see those mosaics. And the winged boners. Maybe I can find something to take back too. Dreams sometimes work that way.” A glance towards Della, she of the wooden eye and other knick-knacks.

There’s a jaunt in her step as they walk along. “Nero sounds like a shithead.” Can she say that, here in a Roman city?

Della's expression picks up for a couple steps -- only to be, well, not kicked to the curb, but she does hiss through her teeth. "Guess Henry the Eighth didn't quite meet the mark; after all, he didn't do the beheadings himself," though there's a lift of question there. One that continues: "I'd gotten the impression we weren't supposed to try and bring Veil constructs back; is that not so? And how do you know we're in the Flavians? Not to argue, either way, just to know." It's not 5 Oak's porch with coffee, but at least she has the coffee.

And while she's at it, with no more than a snort of a laugh for winged boners, but also with wording made that much more careful, "Do you have anything tasty in the basket that you're carrying, Una, aside from the bread? That we can spare? I'm hungry." That last part is plaintive. Perhaps as trade, "I could try to bring something. Can't remember if I showed you that dress; that was when I was down with the glitter headache." Capitalized and uncapitalized; her gaze drifts to Ravn. Maybe she texted that update too; maybe she didn't.

"I've always heard that you can't bring anything back." Ravn trails after Una, still throwing the occasional dubious glance towards that red volcano light. "And it stands to reason; if we could, then why hasn't anyone Dreamt their way into the national gold reserves -- or to the kingdom of Mansa Musa? Why has no one nicked the Koh-i-Noor? Brought back some priceless lost antique to sell to a collector? Gray Harbor has been a town since the mid-19th century -- somebody would have said 'fuck the national economy, I'm building a money bin and bathing in gold like Scrooge McDuck.'"

He hitches a shoulder. "And we're not going to talk about those gorgeous crystal whiskey tumblers Mikaere and I brought back from 1890 by accident. Something is off lately. I'm going to see if I can find a dick amulet but I do advise against trying to bring back something unique or valuable. It feels a bit like bait -- like the Veil is daring us to go a step too far and reap the consequences."

Della's question is easier to answer at least. "If that volcano is Vesuvius about to blow we're in 79. Rome burned in 64, and that was on the Julian calendar. It's named the Julian calendar after the first Emperor, Julius Caesar. It was instituted about 40 B.C." He quirks an eyebrow about glitter headaches and dresses, though. The Dane missed something there -- but then, he's not exactly famed for not being oblivious. Or, as his ex-fiancee would have said: If it's not dead yet, he's not interested in it.

"Nero is-- was, sorry-- absolutely a shithead," confirms Una, reasonably unfazed to be doing so here. How many emperors since him? It's only been ten years but the answer is four (five, actually, though that depends on today's date)... and four of them were in the same year, well done them. "I have quiche, Della. Want some quiche? Didn't you say you had coinage, though? Eat the food, spend the stray coins."

They turn a corner, and suddenly, the street opens out. This is, unquestionably, the forum: broad and open, with columned buildings on either side and in the middle, and in the far corner, the macellum, where scaffolding and repairwork have clearly not interrupted commerce and trade, even at this time of the evening.

As open as this area is, it's increasingly difficult to miss Vesuvius, looming behind.

“Ariadne and I brought back tasty things from Paris,” Jules reminds, still far too pleased about that particular excursion and its most delicious outcome. She’s excited to be here, too; the world’s suddenly got a lot bigger. Jules doesn’t quite pause when the forum presents itself, but there’s a hitch in her breath to match the hitch in her step.

“Whoa. So is this where we go shopping? Where do we even start?” And hello, Vesuvius. The glowing mountain can’t escape Jules’ attention. “It certainly looks like it’s gonna blow,” she says, suddenly a bit more cautious.

"Mm. I keep bringing things back, have since the beginning -- but possibly it's more correct to say they came back with me," Della speculates. "The dress... Ravn, do you remember that Dream in our backyard, the one with all the glitter where we pulled someone through to faerie-land? That one, only not so much alive. I hope the glitter didn't hit you like it did me. Anyway, I'd like to see the tumbler."

"As for breakfast," if Una's putting it that way, "I can wait," Della decides, and helps herself out with more coffee, afterwards stashing the container in the bag. "We can see what the coins will buy us, if they'll take them at all." She searches their surroundings: first for scorch marks, whatever she might pick up in the relative gloom, and then for a gap in the people so she can turn and look, really look, without losing track of her friends. So much to see. And maybe one or two or three quick pictures, though how they'll come out is another question entirely. She's still careful with her phone, with her bag... but she also seems disinclined to be the Eeyore of the party anymore. Besides, if Jules is being a little cautious, how bad can it be?

Ravn is side-eyeing the volcano as well. He's no volcano expert. He's not even close to being a volcano expert. The red light is ominous and it triggers fears in him -- he knows what's going to happen to this town and to its people, and he knows how fast it's going to happen. There's a voice at the back of his head suggesting that sure, it may not happen until August, but, you know, let's play it safe here.

He continues to ignore it in favour of looking around. "I remember the faerie Dream -- and I still haven't worked out whether those feathers were part of me, or not." A small shudder. "That said -- at least it seems Una and I did not break time when we were in Rome. Or if we did, it un-broke because everyone hates Nero enough to not take up his new weird instrument. Maybe they heard him play it and decided that it needed to be quickly forgotten."

Here, in this most central part of Pompeii, it's hard for the quartet not to be noticeable. There are plenty of people here, and they all seem inclined to keep to a wide distance around them; the clothes, the hair, the everything. This may be a town used to foreigners, and to people who speak a different language, but this... they are different, and notable for the difference. With Vesuvius smoking faintly in the background? Is it any wonder that there is hesitation in the populace. Bad omens are, after all, bad omens.

"It can't possibly be August," says Una, and this is, it seems, going to be her consistent refrain. If it's not August? It's not Eruption time. And therefore... "Having heard him play the violin, I cannot imagine anyone not wanting to quickly forget it. I don't think anyone could count that as music, whether they know what a violin should sound like or not."

She gestures, now, towards that far corner, and the market set up there. "Well," she concludes. "Let's see?"

There are no scorch marks. There's clearly been damage to the walls, but it's not super recent: everything is busy being repaired. There's no fine ash gathering on anything; no lava flowing down the mountain.

Still. "Quid vis? Reptant!" mutters a man walking past them, gesticulating madly. Foreigners. Ugh.

“And to your mother also,” Jules fires after the man attempting to ward them off. She has no idea what the Latin means, but she doesn’t need to; the tone is enough for her to make an educated guess.

Glancing around, now focusing on the people, she raises her eyebrows. “Well. Doesn’t look like we’re terribly welcome. We better shop fast, if we’re gonna, just in case. I’d rather not end up in the middle of an angry mob.”

Della, by contrast, is not so much with the confrontation -- much as how, though she'd had a wry laugh about just why the other pair might not have broken time, she'd refrained (as it were) from offering condolences for the guitar's loss. Which isn't to say that she ducks away from the populace's stares; she's just there. Walking. Like she's supposed to be there. "Fast is good. Take your time, just not too much time. Let's stay together." Surely she'd like to look for herself, but even if all they get to look at is winged dicks, Della plans to survive.

Ravn is generally a large fan of surviving. He is all in favour of surviving. Living to 33, great plan, let's do it. He's also not one bit surprised that Jules might snap back. He's also aware that he's the male in this ensemble, and the tallest -- any trouble is going to land at his feet first.

Oh well. He can yell at people like a true barbarian. He can even do it in the language of the Norse traders, those with whom the Roman Empire thinks trading for fur and amber is great but invade them? Hell no, let them keep their miserable, cold, and wet country up there where the world ends.

"The winged dicks are religious in nature," he observes. "I'm going to venture a guess and say that any vendors selling snacks and winged dicks -- together or apart -- are going to be by the temples. Go in to make your sacrifice, pick up a burger and a rabbit's foot on your way out, only, Roman style."

Whatever the man in question expected, being yelled at in return by a woman in trousers ('trousers' alone would be enough-- such a barbarian thing to do!-- but a woman? Where is the modesty? Where is the dignity?) was apparently not it: he makes an obscene gesture then hurries along, and, indeed, the crowds seem very willing to part around this particular little group.

It doesn't hurt, either, that Ravn is particularly tall.

"Temples, then," agrees Una, just a little discomforted by this reaction. There are temples everywhere-- but sure enough, Ravn's not wrong: there's a Temple of the Capitoline Triad, towards the northern end of the forum: dedicated to Jupiter, Juno and Minerva, and outside of it, a number of stalls prepared to sell anyone who approaches the appropriate trinkets and foodstuffs.

The mountain? It continues to smoke, idly. It's in no rush.

Last time, Jules came back with food; now, she wants mementos. After she flips the man the bird (a gesture which may or may not translate, but is leaning more towards ‘may’, given the context of the exchange), she sets forth towards the north end where the temple stands. It’s very obviously a temple, even for someone with little knowledge of Greco-Roman architecture.

“Okay, nerds. Tell us who these gods are and what they do,” she requests, setting a brisk pace. “Do we need to go in and worship them, too? Assuming they’d even allow us in. Also, how are winged dicks religious? Fertility symbols? I tend to think of fertility stuff being more associated with women than men.”

"Convenient," Della murmurs dryly. Also, "I can see 'Roman style' becoming a catchphrase when we get home." If they get home.

None of this bird-flipping is anything she needs to take a picture of, apparently, but then there's more where that came from; she just hops to it, metaphorically, following Jules (who's evidently asked all she herself wants to ask) and keeping an eye on the other two like a particularly feline -- vulpine? mustelid? -- sheepdog. If nothing else, maybe she can get a gander at the stalls on the way in.

Although... "Are we going to be the tourists who just buy the souvenirs and don't even go in, if they would let us in?" Then again, maybe those are the tourists who don't get swallowed by lava.

"You might know them in Greek -- as Zeus, Hera, and Athena." Ravn nods slightly. "The king of the Gods, his wife the goddess of love and marriage, and his daughter, the goddess of wisdom and tactics, primarily. Also, women's crafts." He glances towards the temple and then adds, "I'm not convinced we should not be those tourists. Because none of us have the faintest idea how to conduct ourselves in a temple. I have no bloody idea whether men are allowed near Minerva or Juno's altars, and I have no idea what ges on in there."

The winged dicks at least is an easier question. "It's luck and fertility. The Romans viewed the dick -- the priapus -- as a symbol to ward off evil spirits. They literally did my dick is bigger than yours so sod off, demons."

"I have a feeling we're distinctly under-dressed anyway," puts in Una, gesturing towards herself vaguely. "I feel like there should probably be an appropriate covering thing going on. So-- let's just spend our money and not be accidentally sacrilegious."

Beat. "Is that like 'gangnam-style', Della?" Roman Style!

She traipses idly towards the stalls. It's late in the day for them all to still be open-- but they are. And yes: they have winged dicks for sale, amongst any number of other random trinkets, including some pretty-- and clearly not at all religious-- bracelets and belt knives.

"Theraphim? Ipsum felix!" says the storeholder at the nearest stall.

“Hah!” That’s for the ‘my dick is bigger than your dick’ made literal imagery. “Minerva sounds cool,” Jules decides as they begin to browse. “Tactics. I like that.”

What she also likes: “Ooh, look at the knives!” Without an appropriate response for the shopkeeper, Jules settles for lifting her hand in greeting and smiling winningly.

"Reasonable," Della decides about the whole avoid-the-temple avoid-the-sacrilege thing-- only to have to laugh Una's way, happily surprised. "That needs a dance."

But later. After they're home.

For now, she peers past the others, taking extra care with her purse and gear. Athena-looking items seem to have their own appeal, and she does ask, "Do you think those knives would hold an edge?" but then there's the array of what Ravn might be looking for...

"Well," says Della blandly. "At least they have flared bases."

"Minerva slash Athena is by far one of the cooler classical deities," Ravn agrees. "The only thing I don't like about her and Artemis both is that they had to stay virgins. Once a woman has sex, her higher brain functions apparently drain out with the breast milk or something. Neither society was kind to women except, for some reason, the really high end courtesans."

Della's comment makes him blink and then bite back laughter. "I think the wings might actually work just as well for things not disappearing to places they can be difficult to retrieve from," he agrees and tries very hard to keep a bland expression on his face. Look, he's seen those 'bizarre x-rays from the ER' lists on the web too.

And then somebody steps a little too close to the touch-phobic Dane, and a phrase from his student years bubbles up and into his mouth: "Fututus et mori in igni." Take that, you elbowy bastard.

That little choking sound Una makes? That's for the winged penises, and the places they really, really should not go. Maybe she's not seen that listicle; maybe she has, and it just still makes her twitch that much-- no surprise, really. She steps away from the penises to peer at a few of the other things on offer: medallions and religious ornaments, mostly. "The whole ancient preoccupation with virginity... well, no. I guess we're not that much better now, in a way, are we?" 'Now' is arguable, of course.

The man getting too close responds with a torrent of fast-paced Latin (most of which-- should a word here and there be caught-- seems anatomically impossible, and really unfair to women in general), and then hurries quickly away. The storekeeper narrows his eyes, all but demanding something, all four of them included in his gaze: you going to buy something, or are you getting in the way of my paying customers, mm?

And the faintest little bit of grey-ish ash begins to collect upon the roof tiles, barely notable. Barely noticeable.

Jules snorts in amusement, leaving off her perusal of the knives to spare a glance for the amulets that have everyone else’s attention. “What is with the obsession with policing women’s bodies,” she grumps, the kind of question that doesn’t really require an answer. “You could say the same about men, you know. Soon as they have sex, their brains fall into their penises.”

She’s not paying attention to the mountain’s activity at this moment, too preoccupied with both the commentary and the display of goods for sale before them. “Look, this knife kinda looks like it combined the two and has a penis-hilt.”

"Indeed," Della murmurs. "Flared wings..." but she glances up at the sudden interplay, and then at the storekeeper; a pleased shoulder-bump for Jules and policing, a second look and then laugh for the knife in question, and she's getting into the coins-pocket to hand them discreetly around.

Murmured, "Who's good at bargaining? If he'll take these, get what you want and then some change, all right? I'd love some old coins. Or... if there's enough..." her gaze has diverted to one of a series of snaky bracelets, "That one, where the little snake's peeking up at the other one? Or less expensive, probably, some dice," faience and ivory, "or that lovely clasp." Really, so many fibulae are lovely. Fibulae for clothes.

"Or just the change." She's far enough under the stall's overhang that it's not as though ash is getting in her hair, but she's not at ease.

Ravn doesn't really notice the ash; he's vaguely aware of it but it doesn't truly register. And yet he cannot quite shed that strange sensation of something is urgent here. It's something about the glow of that evil red light. Haunting images of Pompeii's dead -- from the boy curled around his dog, to the Masturbating Man who makes the rounds on social media every so often. He wasn't masturbating; his position is a reflexive contraction, due to the shock and pretty instantaneous death of the pyroclastic flow.

When it dawns on him, it's not those ancient emptinesses encased in lava, and brought back by filling them with plaster. It's the memory of a movie -- something, something, Pierce Brosnan. He pauses and lets images bubble to the surface of his mind while quipping: "That's a dickhead knife, that."

And there it is. Dante's Peak -- a fictionalised account of the 1980 eruption of Mount St Helen. More important, the plot point about light showers of ashes being the only and far too late warning about the eruption around to happen. A few days in advance at best? Something like that. And then, boom.

"I think we should perhaps make our purchases and get back to the door," the folklorist murmurs and catches one of those little ash-flakes on a gloved fingertip. "I'm definitely not a volcano expert, but I'm starting to suspect that Vesuvius hasn't checked the date."

"... or the date is wrong."

Una's frowning. She's frowning deeply, now, and glancing back over her shoulder at Vesuvius, that ever-present icon amidst the landscape of this bustling town... a town that, twenty-four hours from now (though of course she doesn't know that now) won't exist at all. She shivers uncomfortably, and it's not just because she's blatantly underdressed for this distinctly October weather.

"Right," she agrees, extending her hand just slightly to accept coins from Della, and step forward to pick up her own item of choice: a circular bracelet, spindly and delicate, and also flawed: slightly bent out of shape at the end, see? And somehow, shy Una? She's so quick to point this out in mime to the storekeeper, who is... well, distinctly less than impressed.

On the other hand, he's not disinterested in the coins she offers, palm flat. They're not the gold, silver, copper and brass he's accustomed to, but they're remarkably shiny.

It’s the ash caught on the tip of Ravn’s finger that gets Jules’ attention. From there, her gaze lifts to take in the light grey flakes falling on their shoulders, speckling the dark of Della’s hair.

“Oh shit. We need to go. Now.”

Jules doesn’t care about the dick amulets or knives anymore. She just wants to get the hell out of there. “The price doesn’t matter, Una,” she says sharply, reaching over and simply taking the bracelet, whether or not the coins exchange hands.

“We’re going. And we’re going to run.” A sharp look at Ravn; she remembers their last run together. “Deep breaths.” They might have more time than this, but Jules doesn’t want to take any chances.

"We're also not going to be thieves." Della's not thinking about her wording; she's leaning, money in hand, backing up Una: if the redhead wants to grab the bracelet back from Jules, if she wants to give more coins instead, Della's going to be there for her. And that snaky bracelet? It's already written off, though... it wouldn't be the end of the world if Della could get herself some Roman change.

Not_ more_ of the end of the world, anyway.

"You two go if you have to. Just don't split up. Please?"

The urgency in Jules' tone does not escape the folklorist. Ravn looks at her and remembers what state Mount St Helen is in. Then he nods and, catching that other look from Jules, winces. Not a runner, this one. He nods at Della. "How about you finish up and pay -- and I get started on getting back to that door. I'm the one who can't run fast for long."

He has to believe it, after all. The Veil did not bring them here to not give them a sporting chance -- because the agony of dying in the pyroclast lasts only for seconds, and there's not much meat on that bone. It likely brought them here to watch them run in fear -- a sporting chance, enough to leave people with nightmares for weeks. That's meat.

And it means he needs to start walking back towards the alley. So he does. Because bloody hell, Ravn Abildgaard's lack of ability to breathe and run at the same time is not going to get them all killed if he has anything to say about it.

"Daytime," Una insists. "The eruption happened during the daytime."

But really, who is going to trust her now? She also said the eruption happened in August and this couldn't possibly be August, and... girl who cried wolf, unfortunately-- or rather, the opposite.

She squares her shoulders, glancing back around at Ravn and at Jules, and giving an uncomfortable little nod. Jules has the bracelet, and Una doesn't try and take it back again, but she does aim to thrust more and more coins at the man (and at the same time, grabs one of the winged dicks, too: after all, isn't that why they came shopping in the first place?).

Sadly, the stall keeper is only half paying attention, because... that weirdly dressed woman just grabbed his merchandise? "Clepta! Clepta!" he yells, and look, now there are a lot of people glancing this way.

It may really be time to run.

“Jesus, Della, it doesn’t matter if we’re all dead.” Jules’ patience has reached its limit. She watches Ravn start walking, eyes narrowed with concern. At least he takes her seriously.

Then the merchant starts yelling. Jules doesn’t need a translator. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” she snaps, tossing the bracelet back on the table. Una or Della had better snatch it back, fast, if they want to take it with them, because Jules now has two hands free to try to grab each by their arms and start bodily hauling them away.

As for the bracelet, so far as Della's concerned, that's up to Una of the Stone-Cold Dick. Will she also be Una of the Really Beautiful Snatch? This time period is made for epithets, and not just the single syllable Della mutters under her breath.

She resists Jules' pull: one, two photos, trying to get a look at the array and not just elbows, and then she's stashing her phone and, as long as Una's coming too, heading willingly for the hills. The proverbial hills. The proverbial hills that are away from the extra-big and scary and very real hill.

But as she goes, her own last coins? She holds them ready to toss over the crowd as a distraction, if people get too crowded, too close. Yep, Della's going to nickel-and-dime them.

Ravn looks back over his shoulder -- because the folklorist may not be fluent in Latin but he can make out what clepta means. It doesn't help that for a substantial time of his life he has been a thief. Once a thief -- the instinct remains, to get the hell out of sight, hang on to the goods and run, don't stop and try to talk yourself out of it. It's just that he has in fact not nicked anything -- or has he? Did either woman yank something and run? And if they did, and they are travelling with him, does that mean that he's their legal guardian as far as Roman law is concerned?

Oh fuck.

Either way, it's not like he's going to leave his friends and neighbours in hot water. He stops walking and turns to see what's going on. They are moving -- but not nearly fast enough for his liking. A merchant is yelling and far too many people are stopping to stare.

It's Pompeii. Or Herculaneum. Either way, in 48 hours or less, it's rubble. Time to make a quick decision.

There's a statue of some Roman emperor or general or whatever occupying the centre of the square. One of the defining characteristics about statues is that they are statue still. Ravn has no idea what the damn thing weighs and he's not going to try floating it. A solid push, however? Enough to send it flying off its base to crash into the cobblestones? Or at the very least wobble ominously while the metal screams loudly?

All the hell yes. Because the more people look that way, the fewer people are chasing thieves. And if anyone deducts that this is an ill omen and it's time to ship the hell out of this doomed city, all the better for them.

Alas, poor Vespasian. Sure, just this year he got to comment on his impending godhood ('Dear me, I believe I am becoming a god!'), but mostly because, well, dying. And now? Now his statue is gone, too, first teetering and then falling with a crash that certainly presages the inevitable doom of all the statues in this square, not to mention everything-- and everyone-- else.

Silence follows, as if all assembled are too shocked to even react.

Ash continues to float down, piece by little piece.

And Una? She abandons that bracelet she'd been eyeing up so covetously and, with her basket still slung over one arm, and that stupid carved penis still clutched in her hand, and allows Jules to haul her away. It'll only be a few steps before she can be let go and can move for herself: one foot in front of the other, running madly for what is, hopefully, the right street, the right direction.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jules swears as Della insists on those last few pictures. She’s unable to counter Della’s resistance, though she pulls hard—those pictures may not turn out at all, even if the Veil were to let them exist unmodified. “Della, what the hell are you doing?”

And then finally, they’re moving, though still too slowly as far as Jules is concerned. She yanks again, not at all gentle, and only releases Della once she’s absolutely sure the other woman will follow suit and run. Una knows what’s up. Be like Una, Della.

"Come on!" To Jules, maybe even to herself -- with such urgency, words don't always come out the same way. Yanked, she yanks back, but she is hurrying and then --

That crash. Della jerks reflexively away, dropping a coin or two in the process, and if she can't recognize the cause from this distance -- well, the ill omen idea works for her too. (Plus ash.)

Poor Vespasian: his nose is never going to be the same.

Running, running, but trying to read the courtyard and not run into anyone, not run anywhere she might be trapped -- staying with the other two, muttering something about breadcrumbs and where are they when you want them, and where's Ravn?

Oh thank God (or Vespasian, if that's your preference) -- the three others are moving now. Ravn breaks into a small jog and tries to take even, measured steps. He can do this. He's not going to let them all get roasted because he could not run for a few paces. Walk fast, run slow. Don't lose your breath. You can do it, Abildgaard.

Just, for heaven's sake, don't try a sprint. You know what happens when you do.

Evidently the falling statue is big enough of an omen that no one actually chases the departing thieves (if they are that, at this point)-- and that means that once safely out of the forum and back in the streets it's possible to slow down. Unfortunately... well, these streets kind of all look the same. Is that the scaffolding they passed on their way in?

Una, for one, can't tell, and slows her step-- in part, too, because she's aware of Ravn and the need to not let him get left behind-- to try and figure it out, staring blankly at the graffiti on one wall. Here? No. Maybe-- no, no idea.

"I'm lost," she admits, turning around to try and make sure she's in roughly the same vicinity as the others, fingers still wrapped snugly around her prize. "Maybe we try a random door and get lucky?"

Jules is going to murder Della, if they get out of here alive. The jerking away and the stopping make her reach for the other woman again, to get her running. Between keeping an eye on her erstwhile housemate and trying to keep track of where Ravn is to make sure he’s not keeling over with the onset of an asthma attack, it’s a wonder that she can keep track of where they are in the maze of an unknown city.

“It’s this way,” she says decisively, pointing the way and taking the lead. “We passed this. Next left, I think.”

One likely way to get murderation happening sooner: argue with Jules about which way to go. But that's not why Della doesn't; it's because, "That seems right." Quick breath. "Left seems right." This time her mutter's quieter, something about sinister.

Briefly, as soon as she's pocketed the remaining coins, "Here. I can carry whatever if you want." The basket. The tote bag, even, if it's made it this far. But then: onward.

At least it's not Ravn firing up Jules' ire this time. He is not terribly worried -- very worried but not standing on Death's doorstep levels of panic. They absolutely need to get out, of this he's certain. But the time span?

Some day his gambling the Veil's psychology is going to get him killed, he's sure of it. Until then, he's going to continue to try. The dolorphages gain nothing from frying all four of them in the pyroclast of the eruption, and turning them into part of future archeological digs. The Them wants the four visitors terrified and running, and they have them exactly where they want them. Presumably with enough time to make it -- at the last minute. So be afraid and keep moving, but don't run in blind terror.

Dante's Peak is probably reliable as a source of volcano expertise so far, anyhow. And yet the folklorist breathes out a sigh of relief when Jules seems to know where she's going. He could have sworn they came out of the alley over there, but they do all look alike, and when push comes to shove, he trusts the nature guide's sense of directions over his own.

"I'm fine," Una promises, though the basket bounces against her hip as she moves.

Jules is correct: next left and then suddenly they're back in the alley with the dick on the ground and the door (thankfully) still propped open and waiting for them. Una's not panicking, not entirely; she keeps casting wistful glances back over her shoulder, as if she can drink in every last thing before this Door close forever, and this place... gone, forever.

She stops, once back in the alley, waiting until they're all assembled. "Here," she says to Ravn, offering out the winged dick, quite as if the wingless one on the ground has reminded her. "Itzhak will love it. We all good? Safe?"

Jules, focused on shepherding this small group to safety, doesn’t reply. At least not until they’re gathered before the Door that awaits them.

“Good,” she sighs. Not about the amulet, but about their escape route. And then. They’re all good.

Della, jittery, shades her gaze as she looks upward, over the rooftops, craning to see what she can see of the setting sun-that-isn't. One last photo of that, then she's attempting one of the handover -- she can apply filters back home, make them arty, scenic, unreal -- before following Ravn's now-long-ago precedent and hurriedly digging in the rubbish pile... there. One more amphora, with a wicked crack through the rim but otherwise whole. Also smelly, because they sure didn't wash it before tossing it. "Safer when we get back," she says wryly. "Goodbye, Pompeii or wherever we are."

Then, suddenly. "Ravn. You talked about wanting to have saved Sabina. Do you want to try with anyone else, here and now? Here it shouldn't change history -- " unless they disturb one of the particularly memorable molds for plaster. They'll all die anyway.

It's an easier question to ask with the door right here, with their own salvation almost assured.

Well, there's a moral quandary to render a historian disturbed. The chance to change history, for at least one person? To save somebody from the destruction of Pompeii or Herculaneum, whichever one it is? It's very tempting for sure -- to save at least one life, make a life's worth of a difference to at least one person.

And that brings with it the quandary: When your gut feeling says 'no' -- is that concern or convenience? Concern that somebody might find it hard enough to acclimatise to a modern environment, identity-less and technologically impaired, that they might well end up wishing they had died along with their friends, their family, and their culture? Or convenience, reminding how problematic it would be, trying to uproot and re-plant a Roman to modern day USA?

It can't be done, Ravn tells himself. The survivors' guilt alone would be crippling. They'd have to find a child, too young to remember --

And then reality inserts a harsh reminder: Gray Harbor is not full of people secretly transplanted from other eras, other realities. It won't work because if it had -- it would have. There are no concentration camp escapees, no cherokees having avoided the Trail of Tears, no lucky to get out of Europe before the Plague survivors, no one telling the story of how they were on the Titanic but then they met these people and somehow got off the boat before the iceberg.

History will have its price. He shakes his head. "I don't think we can. I think we risk breaking too much by trying. And I want to get drunk and forget I ever had to think this through."

Una is so very silent, so very still, as Ravn deliberates, as if that question is the only thing she can think about-- just for as long as it takes for him to answer. That's when she breathes out again; a little escape of breath, a sigh.

It's sad, but it's true.

"Ok," she says. "Come on, let's go home."

Don't think she's not still quietly reluctant, still glancing back over her shoulder as she heads back through the door, back into the hallway of her house. But home is, in the end, home.

Jules watches Della dig in the rubble, asking wryly when the amphora emerges, “Something else for your collection?”

But then a more important question gets asked. She too watches Ravn, expression somber. No comments from her are forthcoming when he finally reaches his conclusion. No gainsaying, no confirmation. Just a little nod. Jules starts to reach out to him, likely to squeeze his arm, then stops herself and turns to follow Una. She doesn’t pause to look back on Pompeii and its looming destruction.

Cradling the broken amphora, Della watches Ravn through the dimming light, as ash falls and falls like the petals of flowers.

When he speaks, she listens. And nods. And then nods again, more deeply. "As you say."

She'll hold the door for him, too: go, go. And then, barring other surprises, she'll look around, take a breath that isn't deep, and follow. There are no pictures to take.

(Except one, just in her head: looking out from Gray Harbor to this place. Just before she shuts the doors.)

It's heart breaking. Ravn pauses on the door step long enough to observe that the ash is falling faster now; like a light shower of snow. Down there in the forum, people are no doubt looking to one another and asking themselves, what kind of omen is this? Should we worry? Might it be wise to make a sacrifice to Vulcan, the god of smithies and volcanos?

And in maybe very short time indeed, it won't matter. Because if the ash is falling this fast now -- then the explosion is imminent. Ravn tears his gaze away. If there is such a thing as a curse of time travel, this is it. And yet he knows that trying to warn anyone would not have worked. History protects itself. The Veil protects itself. And all of this may never have been real, just another fantasy conjured up for the four of them to add another stone to their emotional burden.

He shakes his head one last time and steps through the door too. Rest for two thousand years, Pompeii. You will not be forgotten.

The door doesn't close, when they're all safely on the other side; it's as if the catch is caught, somehow, and all it can do is swing back open a little, and just... hover.

The ash falls. The earth shakes, too. It'll take a few more hours, all told, and all of them will play out here: the gathering ash, the cloud of noxious gases (which thankfully, do not pass over the threshold), the falling rock.

(Una, for one, keeps coming back: she stays on this side of the door, but she looks. Someone has to.)

It'll be evening before it's all over, and the door closes, finally, properly, with a click.

That's how the world ends, it seems: For Pompeii, it's a whimper of a click, and then darkness.