I love this. The language is languid and lush, like the world you describe. The customs and rituals you give the Hynerians, the description of the seasons - warm wet, bitter dry, complacent cold - lovingly written. I very much like the pledge brides in season, the divorce-fees. What an interesting economy, perhaps a way to boost young females, give them an edge? I particularly like the doctoral candidates, who can always use funding for further resources.

Seeing to his empire, paying attention to the details of planetary taxes, these are not things I think Rygel had done before his long incarceration and later outlaw years. He'd been spoiled before, and still remains self-indulgent, but there's a maturity to him now, a tempering of his steel.

I love the juxtaposition of the calm passing of days, ritual and routine, with those final days of crisis and destruction. I love that Rygel prepared food for Chiana, and that he gave the eulogy for Aeryn and John's child.

This story makes me love Hyneria, and wish its soothing fogs and mists for John Crichton, who may never know peace again. Chiana and he alone on Moya, both growing older, slower, sadder. Perhaps eventually they'll find comfort in one another, but I doubt it.