Once upon a time, in the land of Ardusk, James Gibbs was sitting nervously on the terrace of his ancestral villa. He had pulled a cigarette from his pocket for a puff, but the lighter in his hand shook too much and too closely to his beard. He promptly put both stick and flame away. A frightful itch possessed his fingers as he pinned them to the arms of his chair. His feet beat- like a rabbit's -restlessly and rapidly against his ancestral floor as though he were a big-footed, long-eared Hobbit rather than the decidedly ape-ish and reputable Arduskan Who he was. His knees waved up and down and side to side as if keeping time with the maddening rhythm of unnumbered metronomes- all of them broken, none of them in agreement with any other. The air in his lungs grew heavier and heavier, pulling his centre deeper into his seat. He began to feel afraid; terrified of drowning in the deafening drumming of his own tell-tale heart.

Wretched creatures. They'll be the death of me. I say, when he arrives, I ought to shoot him out of the sky.

Of course, he did not really mean all these dreadful things. Lord Gibbs was, for all his faults, a fairly sensible Who. He knew very well that delivery dates were the domain of physicians who only gave guesses based on study and observation. The Storks, whom they observed, never once had a say in the matter. James understood that well enough. He knew how absurd it was to blame creatures for missing appointments they never agreed to. Yet, he was not quite himself then. Rather, he was in that very sorry state which oft possessed mortals as they waited for white wings to flutter and cut through the firmament above them. He was a soon-to-be-parent and that meant panic.

He had been possessed in such a way once before; two long years before. Back then, a Stork- perhaps the very same Stork he was about to see -had come for the birth of his first son: Darius Gibbs, who shared his fate with one of the great Lord Gibbses of old. And the child was, indeed, very lordly and very sweet (for an infant). All the late nights and disgusting sights aside, James and Cornelia Gibbs were nothing but delighted at the prospect of a second child. Then the day actually came.

Cornelia had- for obvious, maternal reasons -already lost that earlier delight and turned extremely irritable. Yet, for James, it hadn't fully disappeared until the day itself had arrived and the sacrament of birth had begun in earnest. But even though the couple had been robbed of delight, they kept their courage. They had both learned the lesson from their firstborn. They knew well that, just as it had with Darius, the delight would return in even greater measure as soon as the child let out its first wail and, in that moment, all of their agonising would become a mere grain of sand taken by the tides and lost in the endless ocean. Still, the fear was a stubborn thing. It refused to leave any earlier than it had to. And so, James was left fearing that which he believed to be nothing; desperate for release.

You called for me sir?

Throwing his voice out to the terrace from within the house, John Smith stood happily at the service of Lord Gibbs. Of all the servants in the Gibbs' employ, it was he who had the finest dress. His wigs and masks and coats and even the odd pieces of jewellery had all been sponsored by the house so that they were never ill-coloured or plain or cheap. Not for any sentiment, mind you. James did not hate Smith nearly enough for sentiment to move him to chain him up with lordly accessories. No, the Who's decoration was for the simple reason that, whenever guests came and went, their eyes were meant to be fixed on him and their ears on his lyrical songs. It was pure economics. At any given table, one could spend a fortune on every fork and knife and plate and napkin and even more on the table cloth, or one could spend only a single fortune on the flowery centrepiece. Then, with all other considerations being given satisfactory attention, being notable for neither virtue nor vice, one could rest easy and rely on the mortal mind to disguise any lingering scent of mediocrity with the perfume of singular beauty.

Lord Lyrical...

Master Smith is fine sir.

Nonsense. You are a Lord. Your quality declares it so.

You flatter me.

Come! Play it for me!

What shall I play?

Please don't waste my time.

Yes sir.

And so the illustrious Lord Lyrical got to his instrument and began to play the only song which Lord Gibbs had ever thought well of. For all his other songs, James merely had an educated appreciation or polite tolerance; but for this, there was genuine affection. It was the song his mother and father always danced to on the anniversary of their marriage. It was their wedding song. And no matter how much their own affections for each other had faded, even when they had been at each other's throats for all the days and hours leading up to the appointed time, all would be put aside for those five minutes. For those five minutes they would simply hold each other and sway and, even if they weren't smiling at the beginning, they would be smiling at the end. And, in the end, the song became James' wedding song as well.

What shall I tell them, when they ask of you?

That you are homely and all too generous?

That you are sweet and pious to what's true?

Why must I lie afraid to make a fuss?

Afraid to share the ways you ring my head?

Of all the times you made my house a mess?

Can I speak of fellows you've left for dead?

Of all these joys I never could express!

Oh how you break my heart! I come alive!

Behold my darling! Praise the broken dream!

Say, who can find the fear that makes him climb?

Her worth is more than jewels or-

And then the interruption came. On the whole, musicians- all artists actually -had an utter dislike of being interfered with while engaging in their sacraments but Smith did not really mind it then. A chief reason was that he simply did not like the song very much and never really understood why Lord Gibbs did. However, the chiefest reason had to do with the sound that interrupted him: the fluttering of powerful wings beating against the tides of the wind and cutting through the chords of his lyrical. The Stork had arrived and Smith was arguably more excited about it than Lord Gibbs (who was himself so terrified that he nearly set his beard on fire).

Quickly sir! Before it touches the ground!

And quickly, Gibbs did move. Immediately, he got up and grabbed hold of his net, grateful that he had been wise enough to resist the urge to go inside and listen to the song more clearly. Flying overhead, Pat (that was the Stork's fate) loosened the jaws of his beak and let fall the blanket, which he had been carrying, before flying away and disappearing into the firmament. Though the blanket had earlier seemed to be carrying something terribly heavy as it bulged at the bottom, stretching and wrinkling the fabric up to the Stork's beaken grip, it opened plainly upon release as if whatever was inside it had disappeared so that it was now gently swaying left and right and a little up and even further down. Of course, Smith and Gibbs knew better than to trust their eyes when it came to the higher things. They knew- in good faith -that the cargo was still certainly present and certainly precious.

The Fates be with you, Lord of Whos!

James' net was the sort of net you would see being used to pull leaves and sticks out of swimming pools; it was a long spear with a large rake-net at its end instead of a pointed tip and Gibbs had been waiting all day to put it to use. Before long, the good sir was standing in such a way that his whole arm was stretched out over the edge of his terrace and his rib was pressed painfully against the railing. The blanket was still out of reach. There was no time to run down the stairs. A dozen servants had been mustered on the ground but Gibbs was still a new father and he hadn't re-learned the notion of trusting other people. So, in a fit of insanity, James took a great leap outwards and triumphantly swung his net like a warrior swinging a sword. Then he began to fall.

Fortunately, his fall didn't last very long. It was not even really a fall for more than half an instant. After that it became more like a downward swing of the man as well as his weapon, with Smith grabbing onto Gibbs' ankle as he flew and the course of nature smacking the noble fool against the side of his own house. As he hung upside down, with his lyricist desperately gripping his ankle, and an aching pain on his left shoulder, James Gibbs looked and cheered with uttermost glee as he saw the blanket caught in his net; and the fate "Ellie" sown with starlight thread onto the boon's bottom-right corner.

Hoorah! Hoorah! Come and see, Smith! By the pinky, I have caught it! Thank you! You beautiful creature!

V-very... gud s'r. People shouldn't be this fat and this bold all at once. It's unnatural!

The other servants, who witnessed the episode, were only a little offended that James did not even trust them to pick a slowly falling blanket out of the sky, and even that offence they quickly put aside to rush up to the terrace and help Smith pull the Lord's noble person back to safety. When that had been done, James bowed his head and kissed John on his forehead before sprinting away with the blanket in his hand and tears in his eyes.

Bless you all!

Congratulations good sir!

On the average day, James Gibbs was rather proud to have such a large and convoluted house as his mother had passed down to him. On the average day, James Gibbs had no quarrels with his general dislike of sports and preference for quiet reading. It was not so the first time he had business with a Stork- the day Darius was born -and it was certainly not so that night. That night, as he felt himself growing tired and heavy up absurdly long hallways and ridiculously numerous stairs, the wails of his wife became ropes for him as they leapt from wall to wall. With them, he pulled himself further up and further in by his ape-ish, arms and legs until he came upon that holy place.

Out in the hall, just outside the doors, his brothers and sisters and very dear fellows and cousins were waiting. They readily encouraged him onwards- patting his sweaty shoulders and showering him with cheer as he rushed into the room and handed the blanket to Master Jack, the house physician. He was the very Who who had delivered Darius and a good portion of the grown-ups in the hall as well as James himself. All this to say, he was a Who who knew what he was doing.

Though the blanket was surely in reliable hands, James knew his time for relief had not yet come. Though his legs were screaming and he felt like vomiting, he knew his wife to be in more pain than he could ever understand. Knowing that if he collapsed, as he then longed to, he would not have the strength to get up again, he remained upright and walked over to Cornelia's side, dropping his wig, his mask and his coat as he went. Her clawing and crushing of his hand in hers was a good deal worse than the aching of his legs but he did not scream. Rather he kept a smile and he kept his eyes fixed on her for the sake of the brief moments when she would look over at him and smile in return. Then it happened. Cornelia gave birth and Jack promptly wrapped the child in the Stork's holy gift.

Congratulations my Lady and Lord! It is a girl!

Everyone outside- including many of the servants who had made their way -erupted in triumphant "hoorahs". Tears and hugs were shared all around and James himself shared a very sweaty and smelly kiss with his wife; much the same as the one they shared when Darius was born. Not even their marital kiss was as delightful. Then James stopped smiling and he was not the first.

For all the others, the sound of praise was so overwhelming that none of them noticed that sound that was missing. None save for Master Jack who noticed it at once and fell into terrible worry before unknowingly dragging James and, soon after, Cornelia down with him.

What is it? What's wrong with my baby?

And with that, the cheering came to a halt. And everybody heard it: the sound of utter silence. The mystery of what was happening inside that room, and the fear of a stillborn child, rolled over the whole company, blotting out the diamond of what was meant to be a joyous day. Yet, the child was not stillborn and was healthily animated.

But she is not crying! How dare you lie to me! If she is dead, only tell me!

Gently, and being very woozy, Lord James stumbled towards Master Jack and saw the child's hands waving wildly above the blanket. He got closer and asked for the girl but Master Jack became, suddenly, very reluctant and very protective of her. And it was so because he was a Who who had delivered many children- of many kinds -for many lords and ladies,

Dear fellow, do not keep a father from his daughter.

I wouldn't dream of it... my good sir.

Let me hold her, good sir.

And so James Gibbs took hold of his daughter and saw her condition for himself. As it happened, Master Jack stepped out, closing the doors behind him. He answered none of the others' questions but, on his face, there was nothing short of pure despair and his mask did next to nothing to hide it. Inside the room, James studied the girl. She was beautiful. Her hair was bound to grow into a magnificent crown of heavenly gold. Her eyes were the eyes of a proper Gibbs; red on the left and green on the right- the eyes of Darius and James and every flesh-and-blood Gibbs before them. Her mouth was wide open and all was silent since Cornelia had fainted from agony.

Curse this boon. Curse that bird.