Nighttime had fallen silently on the country of Hong-Nan, even as the moonlight danced over the rooftops and emptied streets. The moon itself hung lightly over the palace, shining its borrowed light over the world.
Inside the palace, some lamps still burned, but they were only for guidance in the gardens. All were asleep, and they peacefully dreamt of what had made them happy…all except one.
Emperor Hotohori tossed from side to side, his skin clammy, beaded in sweat and his hair stuck to his forehead. Finally, he could stand it no more, and he rose, his face passive. He could afford no one seeing him like this…but he needed solitude.
He made his way quickly and quietly to the royal gardens, trying to keep his step steady, so that if anyone were listening, they would not believe him to be in pain.
By the time he had reached the pond, the pain in his side had grown, making it so he could barely stand straight. He had caught a wayward dagger blade there in their last encounter with Qu-Dong, but a simple knife should not have hurt this much…
Hotohori…
A voice from his passed teased his mind. His eyes widened in anger and fear as he fell into a defensive position, waiting for an attacker to leap at him.
Hotohori…
"What do you want, Lelah?" He demanded, his voice shaking with the fever that ran through his body, "Show yourself!"
Come now, Hotohori…you are not so sick as to believe that I would make myself vulnerable to attack, now would you? The voice was sweet and sickly, and it seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. Do you remember our agreement, young Hotohori, from all those years ago?
He wished that he did not, but, yes, today was the tenth anniversary of that fateful day that death had nearly stolen his father…fever came with blood poisoning that day…from a dagger wound to the side…
"Why should I consider our deal honorable?" He snapped, "It was you who attempted assassination, and I was a small boy, under great duress—"
Oh, dear, Hotohori, any deal made with a Spirit of Death is binding…
The water of the pond rose up, swirling and twisting until it froze and slid back into its earthly container, revealing the form of a woman, covered completely in black silk, her skin ivory white.
Hotohori knew that each strand of silk was a spirit that she had devoured, taken in whole into her deathly being, and Lelah's robes were expansive.
…And no man, not even the Emperor of Hong-Nan is immune to their demands. She extended her arm and pointed to a thin space in her right sleeve. Your spirit will reside here, in the palm of my right hand, Hotohori. And once my robe is complete, I will once again have my ancient powers…
"Ancient powers?" He took an involuntary step backwards and his heel slipped, something that would have never happened had his mind been clear. But he fell, landing on his back.
Ones that will make me the ruler of Hong-Nan, as I once was… Her voice seemed to trail off into the depths of reminiscence. It was so long ago, when I was empress. I caused these people so much pain, so much agony…it was beautiful…and I shall return!
"No!" Hotohori cried out, lunging for her and snagging the sleeve of her robe. Instantly, his strength was gone, sapped from his body by the death-cold of her touch. He barely had enough left to push back, landing half in, half out of the water.
Such a fool, my young thread, such a fool. She tsked and floated above him, her beautiful mask-like face glimmering in the moonlight. I have been looking forward to this day for many, many years.
She reached down to him. His body was sent aflame with fever at her touch, and yet he froze and shivered uncontrollably. He had nothing with which to fight, save his mind, and, with this fever, that too was fading quickly, like vapor.
Come, Hotohori, it is time to die…
Lelah took his hand and pulled him to his feet, and it sent rivulets of agony through him. Even the rustling of the robes was enough to make him groan in pain. It would be so easy just to die…
Then he found that he was standing on the water.
"What kind of demon are you?" He stared down in stunned surprise as she released his hand.
A soul-devourer. She laughed maniacally and moved to stand behind him. Now watch, Emperor, as your friends attempt a fruitless rescue of your pathetic little life…
"My Emperor!" It was Tamahome, thank Suzaku that he was all right. It had only been a few nights before that he had struck his comrade down with his own sword… Tasuki was there as well, his hirisen ready in his hands, but Chichiri and Mitsukake were no where to be seen, "How dare you attack a warrior of Suzaku!"
How sweet… Lelah purred, stroking Hotohori's sweat-drenched, clammy cheek. He's worried about you, little thread. Should I kill him for his rudeness? You know that I always have to be paid back for any attacks made against me…
"Tamahome, stop," Hotohori had to tap his last few reserves of strength in order to speak those words. Lelah herself was the only thing keeping him on his feet, and there was a reason for it, which he could not see.
"I say that we just cook'er and sort out da pieces later," Tasuki tapped his hirisen against the palm of his hand.
And what would this do but cost the lives of one of the cute little children of your great Empire? Lelah laughed at the sick man that she supported. They do not know that I have eighteen children sick with my fever, each of their lives ready to be taken if I am harmed.
His eyes widened as Tasuki prepared to charge, "Tasuki, no! We cannot attack her!"
"Hotohori, are you mad?" Tamahome snapped, and at first, the Emperor was stunned that he spoke to him in such a strong way, but he was too tired to dwell on it, "She is a demon, a Spirit of Death! Her sickness could wipe out entire villages!"
"She has eighteen children, all ready to die if we strike her," This sapped most of his strength, and he stumbled forward. Lelah laughed as she caught his shoulder and pressed her body to his.
She spoke loudly, so all could hear her, something that she obviously did not do often. You worry about villages when one of your own dies before your eyes of the same disease. How selfless, how touching…how absolutely, humanly disgusting…makes me wish that I was a plague, so I could end more of your miserable lives.
"What are you talking about, Spirit? Have you—" Tamahome's eyes widened as he put all the pieces together. Hotohori's labored breathing, white skin, sweating, weak voice… "You're killing the Emperor!"
Lelah chuckled. And it's oh so enjoyable…Would you like to know how I'm killing him? It is such a beautifully horrific story.
"No! Let him go, and we will kill you instantly, with one blow," Tamahome stepped forward, but Tasuki shook his head.
"No chance. I've seen these Spirits at work," The thief seemed determined, "We have to kill her, but that would cost us the lives of those children. If we don't, the Emperor dies and we lose a warrior of Suzaku, and those children might die anyway."
Ah, I see that you ponder the problem set before you. Lelah snickered and, standing with her left hand on Hotohori's shoulder, unsheathed a long, silver-bladed sword from inside her robes, and it shimmered in time, as if it did not really exist.
Time is…up.
She plunged the sword home. Hotohori's eyes widened in pain and incomprehension. He could not understand what was happening to him…his body refused to follow his commands…
He collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest, and a nonexistent wound. His hands passed through the blade that still protruded from his chest, and he started at it in horror and pain.
"NO!" Miaka's shrieking scream cut through the garden as Lelah laughed. The Spirit's laughter drowned out all other sounds as something long, thin, and golden streamed from the man's back, around the hilt of the sword and into the small hole in the Spirit's sleeve.
The Robe was finished.
And it is all mine once again! Thank you, Hotohori, you have been a faithful slave to my sickness! She exulted over him. Never again will I kill such a noble man, and I will savor this moment forever…
"Rekka shinen!"
Fire blew past a stunned Hotohori and engulfed the Spirit of Death. She merely laughed at him once the flames had melted away.
I will return! She promised. For him!
She disappeared into the air. Tamahome dove into the water without a moment's hesitation, and Tasuki had to hold Miaka close in order to keep her from following.
Tamahome searched the water, straining his eyes for any sign of his wounded friend. Friend…what a strange word to describe a man that rules my home country. He had always thought of the Emperor as some stuck-up man, sitting in a throne room too far away to care.
But that is not Hotohori. Perhaps, if we had met as children, we might have been lifelong friends…
There, in the deepest part of the water, was a cloud of red, one that was growing steadily until it clouded all vision. Tamahome had to use his sense of direction and touch in order to find the source.
And find it he did. His hand closed on the Emperor's shoulder and he fought against suffocation in order to tear the seaweed away. But the clutching water plants refused to release their catch.
His hand closed on the hilt of the blade that had been the cause of all the blood. With a quick prayer for forgiveness, he removed it as gently and as quickly as possible. The cloud of red darkened and thickened, leaving Tamahome to gag on what water had forced its way into his nose and mouth.
He used the blade, which had solidified into a reality, in order to cut away the water plants. He finally freed his friend and struggled to drag them both to the surface, where the others, including Mitsukake, were waiting.
Chichiri yelped when he saw the pale form of Hotohori, "Mitsukake!"
The gentle giant moved quickly, taking him from Tamahome. He laid him on the ground and raised his hand to hover above the wound on his chest.
Miaka rushed over to embrace a soaked Tamahome and they both looked on fearfully as Mitsukake's face solidified into grim lines while healing energy streamed from his palm.
My Emperor…please, my lord, you must return to us…We cannot summon Suzaku and save Hong-Nan without you…Mitsukake called out in prayer to Hotohori, trying to bring his body back to health.
There was only the barest glimmer of life left in the other man's body. It would kill him to attempt to heal such an injured man…even then, it might not work. He needed more energy.
He felt two, three, four hands lay upon his back, and their energy flowed through him into the drowned man that lay before him.
A rush of exhilaration exploded through his body as Hotohori breathed.
"He's alive!" Miaka cried out happily, rushing over to him. His chest was smooth where a bleeding wound had been only seconds before, and it rose and fell gently. She embraced him, but he did not move.
She cupped the back of his head in her hands, and yet his eyes were unseeing, as if he were staring past her, into space. She turned to Mitsukake, then Chichiri, "What's wrong? Why isn't he waking up?"
"I—I don't know," Mitsukake admitted, then fell back on his rump, tired beyond all belief.
"His soul is gone," Chichiri knelt by him and waved a hand slowly over his eyes. There was no response, "That Spirit stole his soul, and left this, his body, to die, you know?"
"What do we do?" Tamahome asked.
Chichiri shook his head, "Get that golden thread back."
Five days later, Miaka still visited Hotohori's chambers, praying for some kind of change in his situation, but each day the doctor told her the same thing. She always told her no.
Every visit, Miaka would sit by his side, holding his hand. He sat in a chair, dressed in a simple white tunic and pants, his legs covered by a blanket. His eyes were never more than half open, and his face was always facing outside, as if he could see the beautiful trees and clouds that decorated the world.
On the fourth day, she wound that she could not stand it.
She left him quietly and went out into the gardens, as far away from the palace as she could get. She found herself in a forest glen, surrounded by nothing but trees.
"All right, Lelah!" She screamed, fists clenched, face set in angry lines, "Come down here, and we'll settle this once and for all!"
There came no response but the surprised flapping of bird's wings.
"I dare you! Come out and face me!" She yelled to the sky, "I'll fight you for that golden thread!"
Again, she was all alone.
"Miaka, please…" She spun and saw Tamahome, "There's nothing we can do."
"There has to be something!" She ran to him and buried her head in his chest, "Tamahome…he was so protective, so loyal! He never turned away…he doesn't deserve this! He deserves to live! We're his friends, we have to find something!"
The former miser expected her response, "Miaka, we will. I promise you that. And this is a promise that no deidu, no matter how strong, can prevent. I swear it."
"You never broke your promise," She looked up at him, a slight smile on his face, "You were just a little late."
It took four more days until Miaka led the others out of the palace, on the search for the seventh Suzaku Warrior. They wandered, watching the ball, waiting for a spark to ignite deep in the ruby flames.
There was never any sign.
"Y'know, I think that it's broken," Tasuki sighed, leaning back onto the log that he had chosen as a backrest, "It hasn't even glimmered."
"Perhaps we're looking in the wrong place, you know?" Chichiri tipped his head to the side, resting his chin on his fist, "Maybe we should be going closer to Qu-Dong or the other borders."
"An risk another capture by the Seiryu Warriors? Not a chance," Tamahome grimaced as he remembered the torture that he had endured at the hands of Nagaka, the ruthless general.
"Did you hear something?" Nuriko said suddenly, speaking for the first time in eight days.
Everyone went on the alert, watching the forest for a sign of a black silk robed woman with a bloodless white face. Miaka stared, watching for a golden glint that might indicate a sleeve. Instead, the noise came from the trail. It was a shuffling, stumbling walk, and a courier staggered into view.
"He's from the palace!" Mitsukake caught the man.
"Gone…The Emperor…gone!" The man mumbled, then died, arrow wounds in his back draining the life from his body. The gentle healer laid him gently on the ground, then removed the simple scrap of paper that he held in his hand.
"It is blank. I don't understand," Nuriko read the note and showed it to the others, "Could this mean that Lord Hotohori is…dead?"
Silence fell over them as they tried to grasp what the courier's massage meant. Meanwhile, Tasuki examined the arrows that had killed the messenger, then shook his head, "I'd have to say Qu-Dong. No one else that I've seen uses this style of arrowhead."
"Do you think Qu-Dong kidnapped Emperor Hotohori?" Mitsukake spoke up from where he knelt by the dead man.
Again, no one spoke. It was a heavy, uncomfortable silence, heavy with breaking spirits and waning hopes. Miaka walked back to the fire and sat, staring deep into the twisting flames.
She wanted so badly to just go home…but she could not just leave the Suzaku warriors here, together yet with no meaning.
As she watched the licking tongues of fire dance, she could have worn that she saw Hotohori, standing in a beautiful plain, looking up at the stars above, his eyes blank and soulless, unable to appreciate their beauty.
He was staring at the constellation that represented his name, Hydra, the Water Dragon. In a fit of wonder, Miaka herself looked up…
And saw the same constellation.
But when she looked back into the fire, the brief image was gone.
"Tamahome…" She turned to the men, "Tamahome, is there meadow or plain near here?"
"Why?" He looked puzzled.
"I just have a feeling…oh, never mind," She turned back around and stared back into the fire, trying to conjure up that image again. It did not come.
"There is one," Tasuki finally admitted, "It has a big oak tree in the center. From there, you can see my mountain."
Was there an oak tree? If there was, maybe I had a vision! Maybe Hotohori is all right and not kidnapped and in the hands of the Qu-Dong. We might be able to find him! Her mind suddenly whirled with all these thoughts.
"What are you thinking?" Tamahome crouched beside her.
"I saw something in the fire that made me think that Hotohori is in that field, not in the Qu-Dong dungeons," She saw the pain in his eyes when she mentioned that certain, accursed place.
"Let us pray that he is not in that place," he sighed, "He is a rival Emperor. They would torture him for days."
"Can we go look?" Miaka's hopeful look and voice made him laugh suddenly.
"Why not? It's something to do besides running around the countryside," He chuckled, and turned his head towards the others, "So who wants to go—?"
"I will, you know! Anything to avoid digging a grave," Chichiri volunteered.
"I don't have a problem with digging a grave," Tasuki shrugged and Mitsukake just picked up a large flat rock, handed it to the thief, and carefully picked up the body, "So I guess that it's just you and Chichiri with Miaka. Be careful."
They nodded and took off, with Chichiri happy to leave the dead courier behind.
They found the field, and it was empty. Even after Miaka convinced them to search, they discovered nothing. Tamahome tried to comfort Miaka, and they turned back to the forest, making their way back to meet the others at the campsite.
"Ai! Tamahome! Miaka!" Chichiri's yelp caused them both to turn and bolt to the far side of the large oak, "She was right, you know!"
Sitting quietly, motionlessly, on the far side of the tree, Hotohori was looking blankly at the stars, his eyes soulless…just as Miaka had seen in her vision. He did not look at any of them, as if he were oblivious to their existence.
He was dressed, not in the white tunic and pants, but the red traveling clothes that he had worn on their adventures so often before…it…happened.
"Hotohori?" Miaka sat next to him and took his hand, "How did you get here?"
"I followed."
It was the first words in eight days spoken, and it caused Miaka's heart to leap, until she realized that they were soulless, without emotion.
"Why did you follow us? You would be safer back at the palace, you know," Chichiri asked, leaning against his staff, a look of elation on his face, as if he could see them all together again.
But Hotohori did not answer. From the look on his face, he did not want to answer, but instead, he broke his gaze from the stars and instead looked at the hand that Miaka had laid on his arm.
His eyes frightened her. They were empty…so empty…
"Let's go. The others are probably wondering where we are by now."
Their search for the seventh warrior continued to be fruitless, as did all attempts as speaking to Hotohori. His words were short, with no imagination, no inflection, reflecting the emptiness of his soulless existence.
He merely followed where the others led, walking, never riding a horse, as if he did not understand how to ride one.
After a while, they stopped at a small farm, whose owners eagerly took them in. Tasuki and Chichiri played with the two boys, Miaka and Tamahome spoke with the parents, and Mitsukake petted his cat, the little girl laughing while she too stroked the soft fur.
Hotohori sat alone, his hands on his knees, watching nothing in particular.
The little girl, whom her parents called Little Mara, laughed gaily and, after an inquisitive look at the owner, gently picked up the soft kitten. The girl was so young that she barely knew how to walk, but Mitsukake knew gentleness when he sensed it.
Little Mara held the kitten so gently that she looked as if she were carrying a snowflake, trying not to break the fractals. Then she looked up at Hotohori, sitting by himself in the corner.
"Mittie," She had coined a name for her new friend Mitsukake and used it often. Now, she pointed to Hotohori, "Mittie, give kitty? Happy?"
Mitsukake nodded and watched carefully as the girl took soft steps toward the motionless man, her footsteps unsteady, as she was still new to the art of walking. She began to stumble.
Mara, her mother, had been watching, and drew in a gasp when she saw her daughter begin to fall. But before Mitsukake or any others could reach her, strong hands caught her and she was enveloped in a gentle grip.
Little Mara opened her eyes and looked up at the man that now held her carefully in his lap. She laughed gaily and held the kitty up to him. His face did not change, but he took the kitty in one hand, set it on his lap beside the little girl, and began scratching him behind the ears absentmindedly.
Little Mara laughed in glee, clapping her hands. She hugged Hotohori around the neck and slipped off his lap, leaving Mitsukake's kitted in his care. She tottered back over to the healer.
"See, kitty make sad man happy!" She laughed and climbed up onto his lap, with his help of course. Mitsukake, however, watched Hotohori continue to scratch the cat behind the ears.
Eventually, the scratching softened into a gently petting, and the kitten began to purr louder and louder, sounding like a waterfall after spring thaw, almost thunderous. But Hotohori's expression never changed.
That night, the tow older boys convinced their parents to set out a bonfire for their visitors, though the seven travelers had insisted on merely staying the night in the barn and leaving early the next morning.
"I shall have none of that," the elder Mara had smiled, the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes giving her a beautiful appearance, "We shall celebrate the priestess of Suzaku and her warriors."
It hurt Miaka to see Hotohori sitting silently on the far side of the fire, doing nothing more than staring into the flames with soulless eyes and holding Mitsukake's cat, petting it softly.
Eventually, the cat stretched, yawned and licked Hotohori on the cheek. With a happy meow, it scampered off, quickly locating its owner and falling asleep in Mitsukake's collar band.
"Mara!" The oldest brother cried out. The little girl was tottering dangerously close to the fire, reaching her arms out for Hotohori. She began to fall.
Again, Hotohori snapped into action, scooping her up and carrying her away from the fire. She was wailing loudly and reaching for his neck, wanting comfort from her fear. It looked like he did not know what to do.
"Thank you! Thank you so much!" Mara took her child from Hotohori and carried her swiftly into the house. For a second, Hotohori reached out after them, as if he was lost. Miaka felt the pain that suddenly showed in his face, and continued to feel it, even after he had returned to being a quiet presence in the corner.
Hotohori…
The sickly sweet voice came in the night; while the quiet being formerly known as Hotohori stared up at the stars from the forest clearing. He did not know where the voice came from, frankly, he didn't care either.
I know that they healed you, Hotohori. And for that I owe them death.
A tear escaped his eye, tracing down his cheek.
Do not cry, for you will feel nothing as you see them die. Your soul is mine, Emperor, and I have woven it into the cloth of my being. I will kill you, but swiftly, after you have seen the deaths of your precious Suzaku Seven…
Something broke.
And a small light glimmered in the man's eyes when his hand fell on the sword bound to his waist, but his eyes were still soulless.
Do not dwell on this, my dear thread. I will come soon.
No matter how hard he tried, the man couldn't find the motivation to awaken one of the others and warn them. So he sat, on hand on his sword, weeping silently, his eyes on the stars.
"Hotohori? What's wrong?" Miaka was the first to awaken, and it was still before dawn. The others were fast asleep, and Tasuki was snoring happily.
He did not speak, but she knew that would happen.
"Are you hurt?" She snuck to his side.
"No," But she saw the tears that had slid down his cheeks.
"You've been crying…" She leaned against him, "Please, tell me what's wrong."
His face was blank, but he looked at her, tears still sliding from empty eyes. But they were not so empty anymore. She saw pain and suffering in his eyes, then…nothing. Something had been there, and then it had been erased.
"She's coming, isn't she? You know that she is coming, but you cannot warn us," Miaka's eyes brightened when she saw that same flicker in his eyes now that she had seen when he had been holding the crying Little Mara.
It was hope.
"Wake up!" She turned away from Hotohori and yelled loud enough to wake the dead. All five sleeping warriors, including Nuriko, leapt to their feet in an instant, weapons in hands, "We have to move! Now!"
"What? What happened?" Tamahome demanded.
"Hotohori told me," Miaka looked back where Hotohori had been sitting.
He was gone.
Now, now, little thread, you know that you can't run from me.
He kept running. It was what he was meant to do, wasn't it? To lead danger away from the priestess of Suzaku? He was meant to protect her…wasn't he?
Tsk, tsk, dear slave, you are aimless. I should point you back onto the right direction…
Suddenly, the ground fell out from under him. Beneath him, a bear trap yawned, with deadly spikes protruding from the bottom. He snatched for a handhold, and pulled himself up, out of the deathtrap.
You will die, Emperor, of that you can be assured.
He stood before her.
Lelah hovered in the clearing, her mask permanently in place, smiling wickedly at him. They will follow you here, did you realize that? You are leading them into their deaths. You will be the one to kill them.
A tear…
How can this be? You cry…? She seemed surprised, reaching out a tentacle finger to roughly wipe it from his cheek. No matter.
His soulless eyes moved…and she knew what he was searching for.
It is right here, little one. She held up the sleeve. Her entire robe was made of the purest black, with one golden thread intertwined in the palm of her right hand. It is such a beautiful little thing, isn't it? The only thing of purity I own.
She reached over, her tentacle a hand now, and pulled the golden thread from the sleeve. Hotohori fell to his knees as she tore it from the fabric.
Oh, did that hurt?
His face and eyes were still emotionless.
She reached out an arm and snatched him around the neck. She cruelly slammed him against a tree, shattering the wood with the force. With the other hand, she took the thread, which stiffened to the straightness of a needle, and pressed the tip against his chest.
A glimmer of something human appeared in his eyes, and then faded.
She held the thread for a moment longer then tore it from him again, soliciting a cry of pain as his eyes fell completely blank again. But this time, tears came unbidden, dripping onto her hand, which held him so steadily.
Then his head snapped up.
Autonomy took over.
He was no longer human, but a machine, working on the energy and focus given him. The sword slid easily from his sheath, and felt natural in his hands. All the lessons in sword fighting returned, but there was no individuality.
He attacked mercilessly, his sword being guided by lessons and movements. There was no consciousness behind them, just raw machinery.
Lelah herself seemed proficient with her spirit sword, shrinking her size down to a normal humans'. She faced off against him, one with a million souls at her command, the knowledge of all at her bidding, the other a complete machine, fighting because something told him to.
Individualism won out in the end, for Lelah decided to fight dirty. She broke rules that the man called Hotohori could not, and she began to win.
Until he made a move she did not think possible.
He kissed her…
..And stole the thread from her hand.
You little thief! I will kill you for that! Give it to me!
Without another word, Hotohori plunged the thread into his chest.
NO!
Lelah screeched, rushing for him, trying to tear him apart, but it was too late. The light still not returned to his eyes, Hotohori grabbed her robe and tore it from her body, leaving her to quiver with anger, her black dress making her seem small and insignificant.
The robe fell apart in his hand, each thread returning to the paradise that it was meant to inhabit. All except one.
"Yours," He said simply and took it in his hand like a dagger. He strode up to her and grabbed her shoulder, plunging the last remaining thread into her own body.
She screamed and clawed for his face in anger as she began to turn to the dust that her body should have been thousands of years before. Her nails turned to tentacles, then back to nails as she struggled to fight against the thread.
"I hate you!" She screamed, her voice human, "I hate you! How could such a noble child have descended from the womb of my sister? Your goodness disgusts me! I hate you! I hate you!"
It was then that his eyes truly returned to normal, that his soul really understood what was happening. His eyes widened and he released her shoulders as she collapsed into dust, nothing left but an ancient ring that bore the seal of the Hong-Nan Empire.
He collapsed as well, but to his knees, shedding tears of relief that he never thought that he would ever see again. He looked at his hands, actually looked at them, and never felt so overjoyed in his life.
"Miaka…" He remembered the others and jumped to his feet, "Miaka! Tamahome! Chichiri, Nuriko, Mitsukake! Where are you, my friends? Tasuki! Where are you hiding?"
He had never felt so happy in his life…and he was never going to waste another minute of existence again.