Sanguine

The Architects detected the first new realm on a morning in late autumn, two years after the Unmaking's healing began.

Saria's instruments had been calibrated to monitor the Veil's stability, to track the slow, steady pulse of the darkness cradled in the network's web. They were not designed to search for other realms. But the resonance that rippled through the monitoring crystals that morning was unmistakable—a harmonic that matched the original song's frequency, distant and faint, like an echo returning from a mountainside fifty thousand years after the shout.

"Your Highness." Saria's voice was steady, but her silver-white hair shimmered with the agitation she never allowed herself to show. She stood in the doorway of the nursery, where Sylvie was snuggling the twins. "We've found something."

Sylvie looked up. "Something good or something threatening?"

"Something impossible." Saria crossed the room, her crystalline tablet already projecting a holographic map above the nursery floor. The blue and gold lights danced across the twins' faces, and Valys reached for them with a chubby hand. "A realm. Beyond the Sundering. It's been sealed for fifty thousand years—longer than the Wastes were dead. Longer than the Enclave has been hidden. And it's—pulsing. Singing. It heard the original song, and it's answering."

Sylvie's heart seized. She thought of Solaria's prophecy, delivered two years ago in this very nursery: Caelum will find the other realms. The ones the Sundering hid. He's going to sing them home.

But Caelum wasn't conceived yet. She and Vili had been waiting—waiting for the realm to fully stabilize, waiting for the network to finish integrating the Unmaking's healing presence, waiting for the right moment. They had time, Solaria had said. A long time.

"Show me," Sylvie said.

---

The Map Room had been expanded in the two years since the original song's discovery. More facets had been uncovered as the underground city's excavation continued—crystal surfaces that displayed not just the locations of hidden flames, but the topography of the realm itself. And now, at its center, a new facet had appeared. One that none of the Architects had carved. One that seemed to have grown from the floor overnight, its surface swirling with colors that matched the original song's rainbow flame.

"A resonance facet." Veda stood before it, her winter-blue eyes bright with scholarly fascination. Her belly was round with pregnancy—seven months along, Selenae growing strong. Oryon stood at her side, his pale-lavender eyes fixed on the new facet with an expression Sylvie had learned to recognize. Not fear. Not excitement. The patient, measured focus of someone who had spent eleven thousand years waiting for answers and was finally, finally receiving them. "The Enclave's oldest records mention them, but I thought they were myth. They're supposed to grow when the network detects another realm that was once connected to ours. Before the Sundering. Before the fragmentation."

"How many were there?" Vili asked. He stood at Sylvie's side, Lorian and Solaria having been deposited with Oillill for the morning. His bond-thread pulsed with the steady, familiar warmth that still made Sylvie's heart ache after ten years of marriage. "Before the Sundering. How many realms?"

"The records are incomplete. At least seven. Possibly more." Veda touched the facet's surface, and the colors swirled faster. "Each realm had its own network. Its own flames. Its own sanctuaries. They were all connected—one vast web spanning every realm the Shapers created. The Sundering shattered that web. This realm was the largest fragment. The others were sealed away, cut off from the network, from the song, from everything. The first elves thought they were lost forever."

"But they're not lost." Saria's voice was hushed. "They're still there. Waiting. And they heard the original song."

The facet's colors resolved into an image—a landscape that was not the Silverwood, not the Wastes, not the mortal realm. Mountains the color of amethyst rose against a sky that shimmered with green and gold light. Rivers of what looked like liquid silver wound through valleys filled with trees whose leaves were blue. And at the center of the image, a structure. A tower. Twin to the White Tower, but older. Its stone was cracked, its windows dark. But at its apex, a flame still burned—a flame the color of the original song.

"The first realm," Oryon breathed. "The Shapers' first creation. It was supposed to have been destroyed in the Sundering. But it's still there. It's been waiting for fifty thousand years."

"And now it's calling." Sylvie pressed her hand to the facet. The resonance pulsed through her—not the urgent pulse of a threat, but the patient, hopeful pulse of something that had been alone for a very long time and had just heard a voice it recognized. "Solaria said Caelum would find the other realms. Sing them home. But Caelum isn't born yet. Can we answer without him?"

"The resonance will continue," Saria said. "Now that the network has detected this realm, it will keep trying to reconnect. But to actually bridge the gap—to open a portal between our realm and theirs—we'll need someone who can sing the original song at full strength. Someone whose voice carries the network's full resonance." She paused. "We'll need an Amplifier. And the only Amplifiers we have are children."

"Maelek," Sylvie said. "Vivek. The twins." Her hand moved to her belly—still flat, still waiting. "They're only five years old. Three years old. They're barely more than babies themselves."

"But they're growing." Vili's hand covered hers on her belly. "And we have time. Solaria said so. Caelum will come when he's ready. And when he does—"

"When he does, he'll sing the sky open." Sylvie leaned into him, her mismatched eyes fixed on the image of the lost realm. "But we don't have to wait for him to start preparing. The Architects can study the resonance. The bonded pairs can practice the song. And the children—the children can grow."

---

Two years passed.

Not the urgent, hammering years of preparation before the Unmaking's arrival. These were slower years. Building years. Teaching years. The years of a realm at peace, catching its breath after fifty thousand years of crisis and war and desperate hope.

Luminara expanded. The Crimson Hall's red-haired love-bearers celebrated their first graduating class—twelve young elves whose bond-threads blazed with the deep crimson of passion and protection. The Amber Atrium's light-weavers illuminated the city's new districts. The Solaris Spire's energy-mages powered the portal network that now connected the Silverwood to the Elder city to the Wastes to a dozen new settlements that had sprung up in the purified territories.

The White Tower's first students graduated too—the white-born children who had been the first to sing the Song of Awakening, the first to learn the original song's harmonies, the first to weave their voices into the network. Lorian and Azura, now ten and nine, stood at the head of their class, their bond-thread—white and silver and violet—visible to anyone who looked. Vivek, at six, was already tutoring the younger students in music theory, his Amplifier's resonance shaping the magic around him without conscious effort.

And the twins—Valys and Veela, five years old now—had begun their own training. Valys's healing gift manifested in the soft green light that emanated from her palms whenever someone she loved was hurt. Veela's protective instinct showed in the way shadows bent around her, the way darkness recoiled from her presence. They were inseparable—more than inseparable, their bond-thread a braid of silver-green and violet-silver that pulsed with the same harmony they'd hummed since birth.

"The Architects detected three more realms this morning." Vili stood at the window of their chambers, watching the sun rise over the Silverwood. Ten years of marriage, and he still looked at her the way he'd looked at her that first night in the Chamber of Bonding—as if she were something precious and rare and still, after everything, capable of surprising him. "That makes seven. The same number Veda predicted."

"Seven realms." Sylvie sat up in bed, the furs pooling around her waist. The morning light caught the white of her hair, the green and plum of her mismatched eyes. "Waiting for fifty thousand years. All of them calling to us. And we still can't answer."

"We can. We will." He crossed the room, settling on the bed beside her. His hand found her belly—still flat, still waiting. "The resonance is growing stronger. Saria thinks the realms themselves are reaching toward us. Straining against the seals. They want to be found. They want to come home."

"Then we need to answer them." She covered his hand with hers. "I've been thinking about what Solaria said. That Caelum will come when he's ready. That we have time. But I don't think she meant we should wait passively. I think she meant that he'll come when we're ready. When the realm is ready. When the network is ready." She met his plum-colored eyes. "And I think we're ready now."

Vili's breath caught. "Sylvie—"

"We've been waiting for two years. The realm is stable. The Unmaking is healing. The children are growing. The network is singing. The other realms are calling. And I want—" She paused, her voice softening. "I want another child. Not because prophecy demands it. Not because the network needs it. Because I want it. Because I want to meet the son Solaria saw. Because I want to watch him grow up and find the realms and sing them home. Because I want to have another baby with you."

He kissed her. Not the desperate kiss of rituals and consecrations, but the tender kiss of two people who had faced impossible odds and were still standing. Still loving. Still hoping.

"Then let's have a baby," he said against her lips. "Let's meet our son."

---

The conception ritual was performed in the Birth sanctuary on a night of the full moon.

Not because the moon had any magical significance—the Birth flame didn't care about celestial alignments. But because Sylvie wanted to remember this night. She wanted to remember the way the green fire's light danced on the obsidian walls. The way Vili's hands trembled as he undressed her. The way the flame pulsed in time with their merged fires, welcoming them back to the place where their twin daughters had been conceived seven years ago.

"Last time we were here," Vili murmured, his mouth tracing the line of her throat, "we were trying to strengthen the network. We were preparing for war. We were afraid."

"I know." She pulled him down onto the furs that Maerwynn had laid out before the green pillar of flame. "This time is different. This time we're not preparing for anything. We're just—choosing. Choosing to bring a child into a world at peace. Choosing to meet the son Solaria promised us. Choosing to trust that the future will be kind." She wrapped her legs around his waist. "Now make love to me. Slowly. Thoroughly. The way we used to before we had four children and a realm to run."

He laughed against her skin, and the sound was so warm, so free, so unlike the lonely prince who'd trapped her in a magical snare ten years ago. Then he entered her, and the Birth flame blazed green, and Sylvie stopped thinking about the future and let herself feel only the present.

His body moving against hers. The bond-thread blazing between them. The merged fires kindling in their palms. The soft, welcoming pulse of the green flame, eager to receive their intention, eager to spark new life.

"Vili—" Her fingers dug into his shoulders. "I can feel it. The flame is—"

"I know. I feel it too. It's stronger than last time. The network is stronger. The realm is stronger." His rhythm increased, his voice rasping. "Sylvie—are you ready?"

"Yes. Together. Now."

The climax built with the same inexorable rhythm as the Birth flame's pulse—not the frantic peak of rituals and consecrations, but a deep, rolling wave that crested and broke and left them both gasping. She felt him pulse inside her. She felt herself clench around him. The green fire surged. The merged fires blazed. And somewhere deep in her core, a spark kindled—a tiny thread of new life, already reaching toward the network, already singing a note in the original song.

Caelum.

They lay tangled together afterward, breathing hard, the Birth flame's light steady and warm. Sylvie's hand rested on her belly, and through the bond, through the network, through the thread of new life that was already beginning to weave itself into existence, she felt him. Her son. The singer. The child who would find the hidden realms and call them home.

"Welcome," she whispered. "We've been waiting for you."

---

The months that followed were a season of conception.

Not just Sylvie's—though her pregnancy progressed smoothly, the morning sickness mild, the green fire's light steady and warm whenever Maerwynn checked the baby's development. Other bonded pairs, inspired by the realm's stability and the promise of new realms to explore, chose to conceive as well.

Veda's pregnancy had been announced seven months before Sylvie's conception. At nine months, she gave birth in the Amethyst Spire's uppermost chamber, the violet flame of revelation casting its light over the delivery. Selenae was born with her mother's winter-blue eyes and her father's pale-lavender hair—a silver-white so bright it seemed to glow. Not a white-born child in the technical sense—her hair color marked her as a wielder of revelation magic, the violet flame's gift. But she was Amplified nonetheless, her first cry resonating with the same frequency as the original song.

"She's beautiful." Sylvie cradled the newborn in her arms, Solaria peering down at her new cousin with those unnerving plum eyes. "She has Veda's calm, I think. Look at her—she's not even crying."

"She's watching." Solaria pressed her small hand to the baby's cheek. "She sees the threads. All of them. The network, the realms, the song. She's going to be a seer. A better seer than me." Her voice held no jealousy—only the quiet, ancient certainty that had marked her prophecies since before she could speak. "She's going to find the things that are hidden. Not just realms. Things inside people. Things they've forgotten or buried or tried to hide. The violet flame chose her for a reason."

Veda, exhausted but radiant, reached for her daughter. "Then the violet flame chose well. The network needs seers as much as it needs singers."

Linna conceived a month after Sylvie.

She and Eryndor had been discussing a second child for years—waiting, like Sylvie, for the right moment. The discovery of the hidden realms, the expansion of the network, the growing certainty that the future was not a threat to be feared but a promise to be embraced—all of it had shifted something in her. She wanted another child. A daughter, the Whitefire Vessel whispered when she held it during her daily meditations. A daughter who would carry the Vessel's light the way Vivek carried the song.

Erynn was born in the Healing sanctuary, attended by Maerwynn and Maren, her first cry harmonizing with the green fire's pulse. Her hair was white—not the white of oracle blood or merged fire, but the pure white of a child conceived under the Whitefire Vessel's light, her magic undifferentiated, her potential vast. Vivek, now six years old, held his new sister with a gravity that made Linna's heart ache.

"Her thread is blue," he said, his violet eyes distant in the way that meant he was seeing something beyond the visible world. "Like the Memory flame. She's going to remember things. Things that have been forgotten. Things the first elves hid."

"Then she'll be a scholar like your father." Linna kissed his white hair. "But she'll also be kind like you. The Memory flame chose her because she'll know what to do with what she remembers."

Helenia conceived twins three months after Sylvie.

This was not entirely a surprise—the Bloodstone had been pulsing with a strange, doubled rhythm for weeks before Maerwynn confirmed the pregnancy. Twins ran in the family line, Kaelith's mother had been a twin, and the Bloodstone's influence had always been more... enthusiastic than other flames. The surprise was not the twins. The surprise was that they were both male. Two boys, Maerwynn said, her diagnostic spells flickering blue. Two boys with black hair and silver eyes, their bond-thread already visible in the womb, already braided together like Valys and Veela's.

"They're fighters," Azura announced when she heard the news. She was ten years old now, the Bloodstone still hanging at her throat, her silver eyes sharp with the prophetic gift she'd inherited from both her parents and the stone itself. "Kaed and Kaen. One will be a warrior, one will be a healer. But both will be protectors. Both will guard the network with their lives."

"The Bloodstone told you that?" Helenia's hand rested on her swollen belly—six months along now, the twins kicking vigorously.

"The Bloodstone shows me things. But I'd know it anyway." Azura looked up at her mother, and for a moment, her silver eyes were not ancient but simply young. Simply a daughter looking at the woman who had taught her what it meant to be brave. "They're going to be wonderful, Mama. Like Maelek. Like all of us."

Kaed and Kaen were born in the Crimson Hall, attended by Seraphine and her red-haired students. Their first cries were not songs but shouts—fierce, determined, the cries of warriors announcing their arrival. Their hair was black as their father's, their eyes silver as their mother's, and their bond-thread was so bright it lit the delivery room like a second sun.

"Kaed," Kaelith said, holding the firstborn—the one who'd emerged with his tiny fists already clenched. "He's going to be a warrior. I can feel it. The combat magic is already stirring in him."

"And Kaen." Helenia cradled the second twin—the one who'd come out silent, his silver eyes already open, already watching. "He's going to be a healer. Like Maren. Like Maerwynn. He's going to save lives instead of taking them."

"They'll balance each other," Azura said from her perch on the bedside. "That's why they're twins. That's why they're bonded. They're two halves of a whole."

Caelum was born on the first day of spring, exactly nine months after his conception.

The Birth sanctuary blazed green as Sylvie labored, the flame's light pulsing in time with her contractions. Maerwynn attended her personally, as she'd attended all of Sylvie's births. Vili knelt at her side, his bond-thread blazing, his hand steady in hers. The other bonded pairs waited in the sanctuary above—Linna and Eryndor with Vivek and Erynn, Helenia and Kaelith with Maelek and the twin boys, Oryon and Veda with Selenae, Maren and Maerwynn's bond-thread pulsing with the shared focus of the delivery.

And somewhere in the network, the original song paused in its eternal melody. Waiting.

Caelum's first cry was not a cry at all. It was a note. A single, perfect note that resonated through the Birth sanctuary, through the network, through every thread and bond and flame that spanned the realm. The green fire blazed. The white fire answered. And in the Map Room, miles beneath the palace, the resonance facet that had detected the first hidden realm flared bright enough to light the entire underground city.

"He's here." Saria's voice echoed through the network, carried by the merged fires that connected every bonded pair in the realm. "The hidden realms are responding. They felt his cry. They're singing back."

Sylvie, trembling and sweat-soaked and utterly depleted, reached for her son. Maerwynn placed him in her arms, and for a moment—just a moment—the realm went silent. Every flame. Every thread. Every song. All of it, holding its breath.

Caelum Elegast opened his eyes.

They were not plum, like his father's. Not green, like his mother's. They were ember—a deep, glowing amber, the color of the last ember in a hearth-fire, the color of the original song's rainbow flame. His hair, plastered to his small head, was white shot through with silver. And his hand, when it wrapped around Sylvie's finger, pulsed with a power that made the Birth flame surge and the network hum and every hidden realm across fifty thousand years of silence ring with the echo of his arrival.

"Hello," Sylvie whispered. "Hello, Caelum. We've been waiting a long time to meet you."

Caelum looked at her with his ember eyes. And smiled.

Then he began to sing.

---

The song was not the original song. It was not the Song of Awakening. It was something new. Something that had never been sung before, by any child, in any realm, since the Shapers themselves had sung the first note of creation. It was a song of opening. Of bridging. Of finding. A song that reached across the gaps between realms and touched the flames that had been waiting in darkness for fifty thousand years.

And across seven lost realms, seven towers whose windows had been dark for fifty millennia blazed with light.

"The portals are forming," Saria breathed through the network. "I can see them on the resonance facet. Seven portals, corresponding to the seven realms. They're not open yet, but they're—forming. Stabilizing. Caelum's song is building the bridges."

"Can he sustain it?" Vili's voice was tight with the fear of a father watching his newborn son channel power that should have been beyond any child. "He's minutes old."

"He doesn't need to sustain it." Sylvie looked down at her son, still singing his impossible song, his ember eyes fixed on something only he could see. "He just needed to start it. The network will do the rest. The bonds. The flames. The song. All of it—it's been waiting for him. Waiting for his voice to open the doors. And now—"

"Now the realms will open themselves." Veda, still in the sanctuary from the delivery, her own daughter Selenae cradled in Oryon's arms, stepped forward. "The first elves built the portals between realms. They were sealed during the Sundering. But the seals were never meant to be permanent. They were meant to open when the network was strong enough. When the children were born. When the singer arrived."

"And the singer has arrived." Oryon looked at Caelum, still singing, his ember eyes bright. "The Enclave's oldest records speak of this moment. 'When the song of opening is sung, the doors between realms will part, and the lost children will come home.' I thought it was metaphor. I thought it was prophecy that would never be fulfilled. But it's real. He's real. And the realms—"

"The realms are waiting." Sylvie pressed a kiss to Caelum's forehead, and his song softened to a hum. "But they can wait a little longer. He's a newborn. He needs to nurse. He needs to sleep. He needs to be held by his father and his siblings and his family." She looked up at Vili, tears streaming down her face. "The realms have waited fifty thousand years. They can wait one more day."

---

The celebration that followed was the largest the Silverwood had ever seen.

Not just Luminara—the entire realm. Every city, every town, every newly built village in the Wastes. The portals to the seven lost realms were not yet open, but everyone could feel them forming. Could feel the resonance of Caelum's song still humming in the network. Could feel the presence of the hidden flames, waiting on the other side of doors that had been sealed for millennia.

The bonded pairs gathered in Luminara's great plaza, their merged fires kindled, their children singing the original song in a chorus that made the stars seem brighter. Caelum was passed from arm to arm—Sylvie to Vili, Vili to Oillill, Oillill to Joralf, Joralf to each of the bonded pairs who had helped build the network that had made his birth possible.

"He's heavier than he looks," Lorian said, holding his new brother with the careful gravity of a ten-year-old who had been practicing on younger siblings for years. "And he's still singing. Even in his sleep. It's like a hum. Like the song is part of him."

"It is part of him." Solaria peered down at Caelum's sleeping face. Her plum eyes were distant in the way that meant she was seeing a future none of them could imagine. "He'll never stop singing. Even when he's grown. Even when he's old. The song is what he is. The song is what he'll always be."

"Is that a good thing?" Lorian asked.

"It's a necessary thing." Solaria touched her brother's cheek. "The realms need him. Not just the seven we've found. All of them. Every realm that was ever created by the Shapers. Every flame that was ever hidden. He's going to find them all. And when he does—" She paused. "When he does, the network will be complete. The way it was before the Sundering. The way it was always meant to be."

Caelum opened his ember eyes. Looked at his sister. And smiled again.

---

The first portal stabilized three months later.

Saria's instruments had been tracking the seven bridges since Caelum's birth, measuring the slow, steady pulse of the realms reaching toward each other. The amethyst-mountain realm—the first one detected, the Shapers' first creation—was the quickest to respond. Its flame had been burning for fifty thousand years, waiting for the network's song to reach it. And on a morning in early summer, the resonance facet in the Map Room flared bright, and Saria's voice echoed through the network.

"The portal is stable. We can cross."

The bonded pairs gathered before the new portal—an arch of white stone that had grown from the ground overnight, twin to the archways that connected the Silverwood to the Wastes. Its surface shimmered with the colors of the original song, and through it, Sylvie could see the amethyst mountains, the silver rivers, the blue-leaved trees. The lost realm. The first realm. Waiting.

"We should go through together." Sylvie held Caelum in her arms—he was awake, his ember eyes fixed on the portal with an expression of ancient recognition. "All of us. The bonded pairs. The white-born children. The Flame-Bearers. Everyone who helped build the network. This is our victory as much as his."

"Our future," Vili corrected. "Not just a victory. A new chapter. The first of seven." He looked at the portal, at the lost realm waiting on the other side, at the tower that blazed with the original song's rainbow flame. "The first elves dreamed of this moment. They built the sanctuaries and hid the flames and wove the network because they believed that someday—fifty thousand years later—their descendants would finish what they started."

"And now we have." Sylvie stepped forward, Caelum in her arms, and the portal's shimmering surface rippled at her approach. "The curse is broken. The Unmaking is healing. The lost realms are waiting. And our son—our son is going to sing them all home."

She crossed the threshold.

The first realm's air was cool and thin and smelled of something sweet—the blue-leaved trees, she realized, their fragrance carried on a breeze that had not stirred for fifty thousand years. The amethyst mountains rose on the horizon, their peaks catching the light of a green-and-gold sky. The silver river wound through the valley at her feet, its water clear as glass. And ahead, at the center of a vast plain, the tower blazed with the original song's light.

It was not abandoned. Not empty. Figures were emerging from the tower's base—elves, their hair every color of the spectrum, their bond-threads visible in the rainbow light. They had been waiting. They had heard the song. They had known, somehow, that this day would come.

A woman stepped forward. She was tall and dark-skinned, her hair silver-white, her eyes the color of the amethyst mountains. Her bond-thread—a braid of every color in the spectrum—pulsed with the same resonance as the original song.

"Welcome," she said. Her voice was hoarse, as if she had not spoken in a very long time. "Welcome to Elysara. We have been waiting for you for fifty thousand years."

Sylvie shifted Caelum in her arms. "We've been waiting for you too. We just didn't know it until recently."

The woman's eyes moved to Caelum. To his ember eyes. To the song that still hummed softly in his throat, even in waking. "The Singer. The prophecies spoke of him. 'When the song of opening is sung, the doors between realms will part, and the lost children will come home.' We thought the prophecies were stories. Comfort. Something to tell our children while we waited for a salvation that would never come." Her voice cracked. "But he's real. You're all real. The network—it's singing. We can feel it. We've been feeling it for months, growing stronger, growing closer. And now—"

"Now you're home." Sylvie reached out and took the woman's hand. "What's your name?"

"Aelys. Guardian of the First Flame. Keeper of the Prophecies. I've been waiting for you since before the Sundering. Since before the first elves sealed the realms. Since before—" She stopped. Her composure, held for fifty thousand years, finally shattered. Tears streamed down her face. "I've been so alone. All of us have been so alone. We didn't know if anyone was still out there. We didn't know if the network had survived. We didn't know—"

"You're not alone anymore." Behind Sylvie, the other bonded pairs were crossing through the portal—Linna and Eryndor with Vivek and Erynn, Helenia and Kaelith with Maelek and Kaed and Kaen, Oryon and Veda with Selenae, Maren and Maerwynn. The white-born children gathered around Caelum, their voices rising in the Song of Awakening. The Flame-Bearers kindled their merged fires. The Guardians spread out to secure the perimeter. The colored academy students began to sing. "None of us are alone anymore. The network is complete. The song is singing. And we're going to bring every lost realm home."

Caelum opened his mouth and sang a new note—a note that resonated with Elysara's tower, with its flame, with the bond-threads of every elf who had been waiting in the dark for fifty thousand years. The tower's windows blazed with rainbow light. The flame at its apex surged. And across seven realms, seven towers answered, their flames blazing brighter than they had since before the Sundering.

The work was not over. There were six more realms to reach. Six more portals to stabilize. Six more towers to relight. The dark-eyed one still schemed behind the Veil. The Unmaking still healed slowly, cradled in the network's web.

But today—today, the first realm had been found. The first portal had opened. The first lost children had come home.

And Caelum Elegast, three months old, ember-eyed and silver-haired, sang the song that would bring the others home too.