Title: It's Almost Easy

Rating: M

Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair

A/N: Thanks for Reading


Chapter 7

Hawke peered over the edge of her book at Alistair and heaved a sigh. Sunlight filtered through the windows, showing promise of a bright and pleasant day as it spilled over her bare feet and legs. Wind blew sleepily through the study, occasionally ruffling a lock of the king's hair and turning a page in one of the open books to his side. With it came the sound of clashing swords and the alluring scent of earth as it beckoned to her.

Yet she was stuck inside, staring at empty words on a page she'd read a hundred times over and still could not memorize. Her coronation ceremony was to be scheduled early by Mahariel's request—a sweet parting gift before she took off for days on end to shift goods in the Underground—and Hawke had only another two days to memorize the acceptance speech written for her by tradition. Once she was queen, the real work would begin, and she had to spend the next two days preparing instead of playing.

Meanwhile Alistair was writing diligently at his desk, content with the smell of parchment and ink, or so it appeared. He was spending an awful lot of time in the library, probably because she preferred to be outside. After their kiss, he was even more distant and easily flustered, though he did seem to be acclimating to her presence when she wasn't blatantly trying to seduce him. He didn't start when they met at corners anymore, for instance. He wasn't a rigid board when she climbed into bed and wrapped her arms around him. For her own sanity, and the sake of optimism, she called it progress.

Fenris was sitting in a plush chair, relaxing for once. His sword was leaning against the side of a bookcase nearby, and his eyes ran slowly over the thick book open on his lap. Hawke caught him glancing at it in a shop in Denerim, and she bought it in an instant. Never did he ask for luxury items, even if he was the only person she knew that would call a book luxury, and she believed he deserved a gift once in a while like any other person.

"Oh," Hawke stretched, wiggling her toes.

"Quit squirming, Hawke," barked Fenris without sparing her a glance. "The quicker you learn that, the sooner you can resume running about in the yard with the rest of us."

Alistair glanced up, pausing in his writing.

"Don't lecture me," she glared. "I'm sitting here, aren't I?"

Very deliberately, he put a finger down on the left page to hold his place and met her eyes. His gaze was filled with both skepticism and mild amusement. "Just. Read."

"I bloody am!" she waved the book about, smacking it down on her thighs. "I've been reading for the last few hours. I'm bored."

"Hawke, you can leave if you want," offered Alistair gently. He seemed almost delighted by the idea; no doubt her wriggling was disturbing his work. "No one's keeping you here."

The fact that it had taken her so long to realize that no one waskeeping her there was mildly embarrassing, but it passed quickly in the face of her new freedom. She snatched up her slippers and pulled them on her feet, chucking the book onto Alistair's desk. "See you, boys, then. Have fun studying." With a gloating smile at Fenris, she ducked out the door and hurried toward her quarters.

In the time that she'd been in the castle, she'd learned the way well. Even the guards were overcome by her charm and smiled and ducked their heads in respect as she passed. Being as flirtatious as she often was, she may have let her fingers drag across the upper arm of the man standing outside her door, but she would never admit it if asked.

Hawke tossed her nightgown over her head and tugged on a green tunic and cotton pants. A trip to the Denerim market had yielded plenty of manly outfits for her to strut about the castle in. Marni had lingered in the background, recommending silver jewelry meant to adorn hair and finely-made gowns that were too pretty for anyone, even a queen. Hawke did give in and buy a few dozen nightgowns and feathery cloaks to wear around the castle in the early mornings, along with slippers and a proper band to keep the hair out of her face.

A tentative knock on the door alerted her to Marni's presence, and she let the maid in with an amiable smile. "Have fun in the kitchen?"

"Yes, my lady," Marni bowed, laying a pile of fresh linens on the bed. After Mahariel left, it became apparent that a little romance was not amiss in the castle. Her maid was fond of the human in the kitchen, Bernard, and she often spent her time helping him when her other duties were completed. Because Hawke understood the importance of nourishing young love, she dismissed Marni as much as possible. She told herself that the race difference was insignificant; they were both servants, and it could work out.

Maybe she was deluding herself.

"Where are you headed, my lady?" the elf asked suspiciously.

"No idea," Hawke answered honestly, "but somewhere away from the study."

Legitimate work did not bother Hawke. In fact, she rather enjoyed becoming lost in her books at the Keep and often wrote until her hands cramped and her fingers were stained with ink. Maker, she livedin her office for weeks on end. But memorizing that speech was a tedious assignment, and Hawke, no matter what was on her plate as Viscountess, did not ignore a sunny day in favor of bits of parchment. Well, unless it was an emergency.

"Without your guard?" Marni wondered as she smoothed out the linens on Hawke and Alistair's bare mattress.

"He's reading," she explained, reaching out to help tuck the corners in. "Along with fighting and hunting slavers, it's his favorite hobby. And it's so nice to see him, well, enjoyinghimself without me that I never have the heart to pull him away from it."

A blush appeared at the tops of the elf's cheeks. "One of the cooks was talking about him today. Saying the most lewd things! I think she fancieshim." She spoke in a quick whisper, as if the very thought was outrageous.

Hawke paused at the corner and stared. "Really? Is she an elf or...?"

"Oh, yes, she's an elf," Marni huffed. "Quite the elf indeed! Always staring at herself in the mirror while the rest of us work. Bernard says...well, nevermind."

"No, no," Hawke implored, "do tell. I'm not one for gossip, but I've never even seen a normal woman that wasn't frightened to death of Fenris."

The fact that she was gossiping, and speaking about another employee, seemed to dawn on her, and Marni retreated immediately. "N-no, don't mind me. I'm just, I'm telling tales. You, um, should go outside for a while, your majesty. It's an awfully nice day."

And no matter how much Hawke prodded and poked at her, Marni wouldn't say another word about it.


"Hawke wants open warfare," Alistair explained plainly to his uncle, signing the parchment in front of him with a distracted flourish of his arm, "and I'm...well, I agree. Sort of."

"Alistair, we aren't ready for that," Eamon said with some exasperation. "We're still recuperating from the Blight, ten years in the past! You have no proper general, no war-trained men, nor do you even have a queen at your side."

"Mahariel is my general," the king said with some bite. All the work piling up on his desk was making him irritable, and he didn't much like when Eamon hounded him about his decisions all the time. Mahariel was very efficient at picking apart his plans without his uncle's help. "Hawke is my queen, and the men have all been trained as guards, which is enough training for anyone. I'm not new to starting wars, Eamon. Our ragtag group during the Blight started one just fine."

Eamon swiftly took a seat on the chair in front of the desk and slammed his palm sideways on the wood to emphasize both his agitation and his point. "Starting a war is not the problem, boy. Wars are began over the simplest of things; winning is what is difficult."

"Something they also did during the Blight, Eamon," said Teagan from his position near the window where the light shone in on his handsome face. "Hawke is not easily-deterred, and Alistair would be better off taking his chance with the war." The easy tone to his voice had not faded over time, and its familiarity made Alistair smile to himself more than the joke about his wife's temperment.

Eamon still appeared quite sour and glared over the king's shoulder as he spoke. "Alistair, my boy, I realize that Hawke is very beautiful—what man wouldn't—and known for her coercion, but you can't let-"

"Hawke is not coercing anyone," came a solemn but hard tone from the door, and Alistair released the hard grip on his quill to glance curiously at Fenris. He was shadowed in the doorway, a grim expression on his stern features. The weapon across his back glittered with the whisper of enchantments and power, and the markings etched deep in his skin were almost aglow.

"Fenris," Teagan was the first to speak, amiable as always, "he did not mean it in a derogatory way."

"No matter," the elf said sternly. "Hawke did not manipulate him."

Slightly afraid of an altercation between Eamon and the guard—he wasn't quite sure of Fenris's personality, only that he seemed volatile and played the watchful and devoted protector a little too well—Alistair cleared his throat. "It's true, Uncle," Alistair said gently. "Even if she is, er, beautiful, that isn't why I agree."

"Then why do you agree?" pressed Eamon, wary of turning his back to the door where the bodyguard still lurked. "Why would you agree to such a foolhardy thing? Is it the Dalish elf that's pushing you to do this?"

An image of Wynne filled his mind, thin and frail and sickly. In her dying throes. He'd held the mage's hand, Mahariel's solemn face on the other side of the bed, clinging too tightly to both him and Wynne. Greagoir spoke over the bed, commended another mage's soul to the Maker when it was over. Alistair, for only the second time since he'd met her, thought he saw a wetness upon the Dalish elf's cheeks.

He'd found her later at the top of the tower, staring out the window with liquid eyes, the moon pouring over her flawless skin. Zevran was in Antiva, probably involved in some massive orgy when his lover needed him the most. Alistair had never felt so sickened and took a seat beside her. "To live and die in this place," she had whispered when he finally situated himself, "child stolen after its birth, hope crushed, heart given to an invisible human in the sky...this is a fate worse than death."

Alistair's mind drifted to the sadness that played in Wynne's eyes when she spoke of the baby the Tower took from her. He thought of all the frightened and innocent faces doomed to be put to death because the Templars deemed it necessary, the cold defiance and utter hatred that Morrigan directed toward anyone who thought her better off caged, and mostly of a chilled and thin woman appearing from the shadows to hold her gorgeous sister tight in her arms, so afraid as she clung desperately but bravely to hope.

"Because of the mages," he answered finally, staring at the glistening ink before him. "Because Hawke's sister's a mage, and one of my best friends was one, and because they deserve to be free."

Eamon sputtered angrily, no doubt ready to explain that a compromise could potentially free the mages nevertheless, but Alistair felt the sudden urge to be utterly alone. He stood and looked meaningfully at Teagan who nodded in understanding and swept past his uncle into the hallway. He may have brushed his shoulder against Fenris's as he exited, but it was of no consequence.

The concealed hostility radiating from the elf was just as unchanged as it had been on his wedding night.


Bethany startled at the sound of a clinking surgical instrument resounded in the medical center of the Denerim Haven. She glanced up to see an apologetic Nathaniel as he set the tool quietly back on the table. "Sorry to bother you so late," he said softly, as aware as she was of the slumbering patients just outside the door. "Mahariel and Zevran are heading back to the castle. They're done with their mission, and they wanted me to bring you this."

He produced a small package from his pocket and tossed it at her. With clumsy, cold fingers she caught it and regarded the rectangular brown box. "What is it?"

"I don't know," he replied simply, staring into the deep bucket of bloody water sitting stagnant at the end of the examination table. The woman with wasting sickness had finally wasted away with a whispered and frantic prayer to follow her into the Fade. "Mahariel promises food next time. I hope she pulls through."

"If and when she comes back," murmured Bethany a bit unfairly. Then she sighed, "I'm sorry. That was rude."

"She does what she can," he crossed his arms, "as busy as she is. I understand being frustrated with her. With a world like this beneath the streets of Denerim, politics seem even more pointless."

"You could say that."

In truth, Bethany was just tired. Any other day she wouldn't have judged Mahariel so harshly. After all, it was due to the Dalish that she was safe from the Templars' grubby fingers. They had food, however meager an amount, and shelter. Everyone was warm and guarded. She was getting the chance to learn the healing arts more than ever before. Her sister was not only safe but a leader worthy of leading them into the freedom they so deserved.

But she was exhausted, hungry, thin, filthy, cold, and worked to the bone. Her food she gave to the others, her baths she passed up for the opportunity to help around. Most of Mahariel's group did the same. Often when she looked into the mirror in the hospital toiletry, she saw Anders staring back at her. Was this how he felt? Was he as devastated as she, as overwhelmed? If so, how had he survived in such a state? Who knew that heroes suffered so, and why wasn't it written in any of the stories?

She felt like shaking Varric and demanding an answer to her inquiry, but she hadn't seen him since Mahariel took her from Hawke's Keep nearly a year ago. The Divine had threatened to raze Kirkwall to the ground. Had threatened her life. Hawke sent her away before anyone could bring harm to her.

Bethany had been a baby-faced, kind young woman then. She didn't snap at strangers nor regard them with such distrust as she did now. Not everyone was an enemy, not even Templars. Cullen, for instance, was one of the good ones. But they rebelled, as well. She had no idea which ones were on her side, which ones fought for Mahariel, for themselves, for freedom, or because they had to.

She missed Carver, and she missed Marian. Not Hawke, but Marian.

She wanted to run from her room in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm and sneak into her mother and father's bed, only to find that Marian and Carver were already there and wonder why she had tried to be so brave.

"Bethany, you look dead on your feet," Nathaniel reached out to steady her, and she shied away.

"Sorry, just...remembering. You know, before," she turned away, embarrassed, and began hunting for a tool to cut open the package in her hands.

"It's not so different for me," he said with some pity, his tone as light as it could be for him. "The Warden-Commander would just have me hiking through blood and bile in the Deep Roads if I wasn't here."

"Would you prefer it?"

Finally she gave up and snatched the scalpel Nathaniel had been examining. The parcel was lightweight and compact. When she removed the paper, it revealed a wooden box. Meanwhile, he frowned as he thought about her question.

"A lot less people would be hurting right now."

The second she had unwrapped the present, she knew what it was and opened the box to reveal it. A scroll, pristine and harmless sat inside. On top was a note that read in a steady hand:

Put this with the others.

-M

With a soft sigh, she bade him goodnight, swept up the paper and box, and tiptoed out of the hospital. Just off the recreation room was the forge which kept the entire haven warm so far beneath the ground. Bethany tossed the box and the paper inside the glowing coals but stopped and unrolled the scroll.

To her, it wasn't an evil thing that caused lost mages to murder children. Once upon a time, it was a symbol of hope. How many times had she entered Anders's clinic with her sister to see him scribbling so furiously another one of his manifesto pages? For whom, she often wondered. Why? Who would see it when the mages were locked up in the Gallows like criminals? All the right people, she decided. After all, the events that followed were proof enough that he did change things.

She ran the tips of her fingers down the fibrous parchment, feeling the splatters of ink, the indents of a quill pushed to its limit. Mahariel had shattered the frame in such a rage after finding it in the warehouse, Bethany had thought the manifesto lost forever. But no. The Dalish wanted it burned, burned absolutely and once and for all. She and Zevran were always on the run, and they didn't have time to light fires. Mahariel didn't want to risk losing it by traveling too far with it on her person to burn in the castle. The servants had sticky fingers at times.

They must have visited while she was helping clean up the body of the dead woman.

Bethany sat on the edge of the forge and stared at the bloodied corner of the manifesto. Child blood. Poor babies. The coals burned vigorously, their heat welcome as she stared unblinkingly into the fire. Without ceremony, she tossed the scroll in before she could think too hard about it and didn't look back.


Hours had passed, and Fenris had neither seen nor heard Hawke in the castle. He was beginning to worry and crept stealthily from his room to begin a search. The servants polished the silver vases in the winding halls, blooming with fresh lilacs and wild roses. Most of them were elves, he often noticed, small and thin and delicate. Few were very old or even ugly. Much like slaves, they were chosen for their aesthetic appeal and many talents. He had to remind himself that the men and women changing his linens and serving his food were not doing so against their wills.

After concluding that Hawke was not in her room, the kitchen, the study, or bothering Teagan or Eamon, he decided that she was still outside somewhere. Gwen was still in her stall and not being attended to by Hawke. The training yards were deserted with all the men at their posts or eating lunch. He decided she might have gone outside to admire the gardens, though she could hardly keep a single azalea alive without rigorous help from Lady Luck.

The gardens outside were lush with vegetation and hundreds of species of flowers. They spilled onto stone walkways and around the bubbling fountain in the courtyard. Winding vines crawled up the sides of the castles, curled through trellises near windows, and sprawled over the ground like reaching tentacles. Crisp grass gave under his callused feet as he followed the outskirts, wary of the gardeners that spoke in soft whispers to each other.

At last he found her, snoozing idly on the mouth of a great fountain built into the castle wall. She was lying across it with her leg crooked, one arm thrown across her small waist and the other above her head. Rich curls of blonde fell about her cheeks, not the least bit lackluster in her prime. Natural light brought out rather than reduced the smoothness of her skin, the gorgeous crinkle of her closed eyes framed with thick, black lashes. Her curvaceous body was hidden beneath the bulky shape of her tunic and pants, her boots plain and heavy. He found himself almost smiling as he looked upon her. Dressed in something a bit more provocative, she might have made the perfect picture of a goddess fallen from heaven.

He scooted close and pushed her crooked leg. She overbalanced and caught herself just before she could slip into the water. Awareness came in stages for most people, but for Hawke, it was instantaneous. Eyes darting about, she noticed the water, her position, and Fenris all in one quick gasp. Recognition passed over her face, and she frowned. But amusement danced in her pretty eyes. "What if I had fallen into the water?"

"You would be wet," he answered innocently, simply, while enjoying the play of light that the rippling water caused across her skin. The charade broke; she laughed at his answer and brushed her fine curls over her shoulder.

"Brat," she murmured fondly. "What are you doing out here?"

Fenris thought, then decided to be truthful. "Looking for you."

The gardener trimming the hedges quietly eased away. Hawke's face changed from happy to curious. Worry creased her brow. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"No," he replied softly, watching a blue bird take off into the sky. Hawke sat properly on the lip of the fountain, her hand dangling in the cool water. Fenris joined her, removing his sword and laying it down.

"This garden's so pretty," she remarked. "Not at all like the ragged collection of weeds I was growing in Kirkwall."

"Kirkwall is not the best for growing plants," he tried to comfort her half-halfheartedly. She never had been truly upset when the carnivorous flowers Merrill purchased for her didn't grow to their full size. In fact, she'd seemed almost joyous when reporting on their dead and withered state. Merill had been terribly sympathetic.

"Still, I should be a better gardener," she sighed, leaning closer to him. Respect for the pain his markings caused—the mental if not the physical—kept her just an inch further than she would have been if he were anyone else. If she had laid her head on his shoulder as she appeared to want, he would not have shaken her off.

"You have more important worries."

"Maybe. So why were you looking for me?" her thin eyebrows arched as she turned to stare into his face, craning her neck and leaning forward with a youthful grace. The locket torn from Leandra's neck when she was taken by Quentin gleamed at her throat, a morbid yet familiar reminder of that day.

"Because my job is to guard you," he glanced down, away from the powerful refracting light, "and my quarry was lost."

"Aw," she cooed suddenly. "You were worried."

He didn't speak, instead choosing to ignore the bait. If he denied it, she would only insist that meant it was all the more true. And it was true. So why bother?

Hawke's wiry lashes fluttered as she tilted her head back, baring her tender throat. Her hair was too long; he was so accustomed to seeing it short and cropped. Until she stopped cutting it for the wedding, he didn't know it curled naturally around her shoulders. The black band she'd bought in Denerim pushed the tendrils from her face. Never had he found a human more beautiful than Hawke, more majestic and full of life. Her charm was a net, capturing all in its wake.

"Beautiful day outside," she sighed in bliss. "I've missed Ferelden, and it's good to be back." Hawke was quick when it came to understanding when he was going to reply. She didn't allow an awkward silence to drag out.

"I imagined more mud," he remarked honestly, "and dogs."

She laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. "Because that's all people will say about it. No one talks about how beautiful it is, just the bad."

He imagined for a moment that that was true of anywhere in the world. Tevinter, for instance, was overrun with filthy mages and their unstoppable lust for power. With such chaos and fear plaguing the streets, who in their right mind would stop to admire the great slanting architecture or the mystic, winding towers that seemed to stab at the very sky? Who cared that all the brick there was grey and the streets seemed lined with silver? No one, because the streets were paved with blood, and it was hard to scrape that black, flaky substance away to see the beauty beneath.

"Have you eaten today?" she surprised him out of his thoughts. Fenris didn't have much of an appetite anymore. Of course, he'd never had much of one. Hadriana had punished him for eating enough times that it became unpleasant. And those years on the run were full of stealing and hunger because he had no money. But his stomach did feel empty, no matter how tasteless the food would be.

Her hand took his; they were almost the same size. Her fingers were just a little bit longer. She smiled at him, sad understanding in her eyes. Hawke didn't eat much anymore, either.

"Let's go," she inclined her head. "I'll eat with you."


The snap of flesh as Zevran took a bite of his ruby red apple was too loud in the stony silence sitting atop the castle roof. For once his noise-making wasn't even bothering Mahariel. She was crouched precariously close to the edge, peering over the side with the tip of her thumb in her mouth at Hawke holding Fenris's hand and heading toward the main door. As they drew closer, she slid back and sat down with a glassy look in her shining eyes.

Wind whistled and ruffled her hair, and Zevran was immediately reminded of the terrible trim she had given him the night before on their way home with a sharp knife and little patience. He rubbed at the short strands—no longer down to his shoulders nor pulled back with a braid—sticking up at all ends. He appeared an unruly youth, disheveled and filthy. When he had complained, Mahariel didn't even have an apology for him.

"Despite what you think," he said after swallowing, "it is not as it appears. Your relationship with Alistair was similar once upon a time."

"I know that," she snapped. "I don't care if they are in love, out of love, the best of friends! What matters is what others who don't have your intuitive mind think."

"Yes," he concurred, slinking closer to her partly out of distaste for the freezing wind that blew again toward them. "That is true, but rumors are insignificant. Hawke is on the throne, mi amore. The game is set."

"I would rather see it played out," she murmured, a little more calmly as he draped his arm around her shoulder. "I've given so much to lay the trail, now I want to watch it burn."


Hawke bumped her shoulder against Fenris's as they walked, stomach full of gooey pastries. She was developing a dangerous addiction to sweets, but she reasoned that with all the exercising she did, it would work out. Fenris had surprised her by eating a few of them and chatting pleasantly with her. He was strangely conversational, and she was enjoying herself.

Truthfully, though, she wanted to speak with Alistair. They hadn't been talking much, save for the occasional teasing word or a quick 'goodnight' before falling asleep. Fenris's mind she knew and understood—to some extent. Alistair was still a mystery, and she wanted to unravel him before things became too muddled in war and politics. Not that they weren't already.

They stopped at Fenris's room, and she kissed him on the cheek in farewell. He had reading to do, he said. Wanted to finish the next chapter before falling asleep. Whether he was lying or not, she wasn't sure, but she was glad he was taking some time for himself.

Hawke wandered for an hour or two. She stopped in the kitchen and met Bernard for the first time: trimmed mustache, good teeth, tall and thin. Marni blushed clear up to the tips of her pointed ears when he tried to draw her into the conversation. He seemed nice. Hawke liked him and winked at her maid when she left.

Eventually the servants started to toddle off to their beds, and the sun sunk low in the sky. Sparkling gold and rich red and wild orange spilled through the windows and over the hall carpets, lighting the castle on fire with Technicolor warmth. Hawke changed quickly into her tapering nightgown—black with lace trim, silk down to the middle of her knees, a shawl draped around her shoulders—and stood on the balcony with her arms crossed to watch the entire transformation of the world from light to shadow. Distantly she heard the door to her room open, and Alistair called out for her.

With a smile at the night sky, stars twinkling overhead, she went inside.

Alistair was starting a fire in the hearth, striking flint across steel to ignite a dancing flame onto the tinder. She sank onto the foot of their bed, massaging one of her feet as she watched. Few knick-knacks had been added to spruce up the personality of the room. She had few possessions that meant anything to her, and Alistair had apparently slept in a different room before their marriage. Whatever trinkets he carried with him or had collected over the years were not in their room.

"Carry some of your things over tomorrow," she told him while she was thinking about it. "You don't sleep in your room anymore, so bring it over here."

"Okay," he agreed instantly, "if you put some of your stuff in the closet instead of under the bed."

"Ooh, are we compromising?" she smiled, leaning over the side of the bed to extract the cases she'd brought from the Keep. There were other things in a storage room on the first floor: a box of hats, a silver dress, shoes, and a small pouch of jewels to select from in case she needed to. None of it was needed just yet.

Hawke began hanging up her old clothing along with the new that Marni had already put in the armoire. Alistair shuffled about in the background, probably dressing down for the evening. "Did you have a, um, a nice day?"

"It was fun," she shrugged. "I would have rather spent the day with you, though."

For a moment, she thought he'd been scared away. But she looked back, he was removing his shirt thoughtfully. "We could go to Denerim together, I suppose."

Pleasure lit up her face as she shut the armoire and leaned against it. How fine he was standing there with his shirt lying on the bed. How slim his hips and strong his thighs. Hawke tugged at her hairband and tossed it onto the vanity a few feet away as Alistair threw some of the many pillows off their bed and onto the floor. She watched the imprint her weight made as she stepped on one.

"I'd like that," she told him softly.

After a moment of hesitation, he smiled. "Me, too."


I took a break for Christmas, but I'm back in full force now. I am laying the groundwork at the moment, and that's why there isn't much romance between Hawke and Alistair. Things will progress but at a slow pace. An arranged marriage does not turn into a loving commitment over the course of a few days. Thanks for reading. Review if you want more.