It is more difficult to leave the Library and the Chosen you have befriended than you had initially expected. Your hands are trembling as you clutch several copies of 'The Book of Golden Water' to your chest — one for William, one for Pascale, and one for anyone lucky enough to pass by.

The time you have spent with William and Pascale has been especially precious to you. William’s ingenuity with the Orbs impressed you time and time again. You have him to thank for your own little rascals, which bob faithfully behind you as you tread the paths of this Library Incarnation one last time.

Pascale as well… you didn't think you would ever get along with the French lady alchemist, what with the knowing pout to her lips and that glint in her eyes.

Fine… keep your secrets, you had eventually decided. And your collaborations with Pascale had never done you nor the other Chosen any harm. You could afford a measure of grudging respect for her. And… well, you glance down at the books in your hands.

You wouldn't be giving her a precious copy of your life's work if you didn't like her a tiny bit!

You find William first, bidding him goodbye and shaking the hand he extends towards you. He smiles and wishes you the best of luck in your own time. You wish him the same good fortune and he affirms that he will settle for nothing less, that he will right his past wrongs, making good on the lessons learned throughout these burning Libraries.

When you hand him a copy of 'The Book of Golden Water', his eyes widen in surprise. The surprise only deepens, then turns to warm affection.

He wraps you in a strong, sure embrace and thanks you for the inscription you put in the inner cover:

To William,

My steadfast and capable friend. I will never forget the times spent together as Chosen. May your Orbs and future endeavors bring you everlasting happiness.

If ever you doubt your new path, look to this book and remember me.

Yours truly,

Yusuf ibn Sa'id Al-Dimashqi

Pascale accepts your book with less surprise and more resignation. She opens the cover to flip through the first few pages, muttering that she is quite intrigued by what you spent most of these Library Incarnations talking about.

You figure that she has seen your autograph (added to several pages in this copy, just in case) when a wry smile touches her lips.

You smile back and say your last farewell: “Enjoy eternity, Pascale. And do remember me.”

There. You are done dispensing your goodbyes along with your wisdom. So you gather your posse of Orbs and face the Portal with a new confident set to your shoulders.

Many a weight has lifted. And it is time for you to return to your House of Wisdom.

HONK!

HONK!

HONK!

HONK!

HONKKKKKK!

Five red-breasted geese with gold-tinged tail feathers waddle and strut around your study in the House of Wisdom in 12th century Baghdad.

These creatures are what your tamed Orb-Orbs have become.

An unexpected, but not altogether unpleasant, side-effect of bringing magical creatures through the Portal into your own timeline.

HONK!

You wince and wriggle a finger in one ear, trying to stop the ringing. The geese follow you dutifully as you walk down a corridor of the great House of learning you have returned to.

You glance back at them, a stack of books shoved under one arm. With your one free hand, you raise your finger to the corner of your lips in a shushing motion.

“Now, be on your best behaviour. I don't want the moallim to think me frivolous or for them to decide you are bad or unwelcome…”

“BAD. BEHAVIOUR.”

“MOALLIM. UNWELCOME.”

You release the loudest of sighs and clutch the side of your head. Oh, but they had to retain their mimicry ability…

Ten years after Yusuf ibn Sa'id Al-Dimashqi returns to Baghdad, an excited hum fills a tiny corner of the sprawling urban hub… Words pass quickly from mouth to mouth even as a long, meandering queue tracks between the golden-domed House of Wisdom and a new, much smaller structure with well-endowed, tiled arches.

“A new madrasa! By one of the academics of the House of Wisdom!”

“Which one? My nephew studies there sometimes.”

“An… Al-Dimashqi?”

“Never heard of him. But… others seem to have.”

Following the throngs of people as they near the newly anointed building, it is clear that many of them are young, ranging from the ages of five to perhaps twenty. Even the youngest carry books and scrolls which they struggle to navigate the crowd with.

The children and adolescents throng by the largest arch, the entrance, where a stately, middle-aged man, beard now touched with more silver than black, is finally making an appearance.

Those at the back cannot hear what he says over the voices of others, or the tolling of bells calling those to the minarets of the nearby mosque. Young criers being thrown coin run back and forth, weave to and fro, repeating what the important-looking man says to all who will listen.

The announcement reads as such:

Moallim Al-Dimashqi is proud to open his madrasa to all who wish to learn with open minds and hearts. From the transmutations of alchemy, to the dissection of nature, to the comparison of ancient philosophies… no subject nor body of thought is to go untouched in the Madrasa al-Mutansir.

And now… I welcome all new and future students!

Please join me in a lifetime of learning!

The crowd erupts in applause and the brilliance of the aging Al-Dimashqi's grin can be seen across the many hundreds of heads.

Al-Dimashqi wanders the hallways of Madrasa al-Mutansir, leaning heavily on a wooden cane topped with a carving of a rather angry-looking goose.

Alcoves set into walls contain precious artefacts or the spines of invaluable books. Al-Dimashqi smiles. They are precious because they were brought by his pupils returning from their worldly travels. They are invaluable because the knowledge of those books was compiled and contributed by students he had watched grow from scrawny street kids to determined young adults.

Al-Dimashi passes by the spine of a familiar book. Intimately familiar, as it is the revised edition of his book: The Book of Golden Water.

Al-Dimashqi's smile faltering, he withdraws the book from its dusty location and opens it. Thick curves of Arabic in his own hand read:

I have been unable to create gold from nothing. Not even the most ingenious machinations can do so. And that skill of Creation from the Library… it has long since departed. It is time for me to move on. Time for me to bring a new, useful and accessible knowledge to my beloved city. To my people.

The writing has been added over what even the elderly Al-Dimashqi remembers as a scathing review of his revised life's work.

His old life's work. He has had a different set of goals for some time now.

“Moallim Al-Dimashqi!” A fourteen-year old girl clothed in simple, white and brown robes comes running down the hall, her slippered feet making scarcely a sound even in her hurry.

She stops in front of her elder and holds out a book wrapped in fine, Chinese-crafted silk.

“Abdullah has published a new study on the mating behaviours of golden jackals on the borders! Even the House of Wisdom has reviewed it well!”

The girl smiles and Al-Dimashqi takes the book in slightly trembling hands.

Indeed, the first page has a short inscription confirming the positive review and the recommendation by the House of Wisdom for Abdullah to take his studies to Cairo and beyond.

Something that his moallim, Al-Dimashqi himself, had never achieved.

But Al-Dimashqi closes the book with a contented sigh and a tear runs down one leathery cheek.

It was all he could have asked for. For his legacy to live on.

Not in himself, but in the next generation.