12. Actions Speak Louder than Words
"We know only too well that what we are doing is nothing more than a drop in the ocean. But if the drop were not there, the ocean would be missing something."
- Mother Teresa
00000
Arthur woke to a hand on his shoulder that caused him to jerk his head up abruptly.
"Peace, Your Majesty," – it was the red-haired soldier from the night before – "I'm just here to collect the boy. He has chores to do."
The prince scrubbed his hands over his face and then maneuvered inelegantly to his feet, glancing at the cot where Merlin still slept before turning back to the other man. He recalled the way this man had carried his friend the night before, setting him down carefully when he could have just dumped him, and decided to take a risk.
"He's wounded – gravely. I beg of you to just let him rest," Arthur pleaded.
The soldier's eyes filled with compassion and concern, while the corners of his lips pulled down into a frown.
Heartened by his reactions, Arthur pressed further. Merlin was beginning to stir as the prince moved the blankets aside from the injured leg and lifted the rags, revealing the horribly infected gash. The soldier stepped over to look.
"Please?" Arthur added, throwing all pride to the wind.
Fully awake now, Merlin's pained blue eyes darted between Arthur and the soldier, before he started shaking his head "no" and struggling to rise. Desperation and fear rolled off him and Arthur sighed, reaching forward to help his friend sit up to the accompaniment of jingling chains. Once upright, Merlin stiffly pushed his hands away and reached for the dried strip of his tunic, hastily rebinding his festering wound and then with sluggish motions he tugged up his trousers and fixed his clothes.
The red-haired soldier had watched this all in silence, but finally he spoke. "I'll take him to Aram, our field medic. It's the best that I can do," he said softly, before bending down to release Merlin's ankle from its cuff.
Arthur helped Merlin to his feet, the younger boy wincing at every move and touch, and then watched with unhidden worry as his servant hobbled wearily out of the tent.
"Aram will help him," the soldier said kindly, apparently having no trouble reading the emotions Arthur was displaying. "Try not to worry. And someone will bring you food soon," he added, before following Merlin into the camp.
Try not to worry. Arthur huffed a short, mirthless laugh as he sat on the edge of his cot. About Merlin? The boy could make washing clothes deadly. And now, with him so hurt…Arthur knew he wouldn't do anything but worry until they were both safely away from these people and back home.
00000
Merlin stumbled away from Arthur's tent, trying not to show how incredibly much everything hurt, and headed for the water skins and buckets. He knew better than to think he would get out of doing work just because he felt like he'd been trampled by a stampede of horses. The red-haired soldier – Twyford he reminded himself – might have said he'd get him help, but Merlin didn't think it would actually happen. No one had done anything to help him yet and he'd been limping for days – why would they bother to care now?
So he was completely shocked when Twyford caught up to him and stopped him from picking up the two pails.
"Come with me, lad. Let's have Aram look at that leg."
Eyes round with surprise, Merlin followed the man to one of the smaller tents meant to house the upper-class soldiers away from the rest of the men.
"Aram?" Twyford asked, sticking his head through the opening. "I've brought you a patient."
"Bring him in, then," a voice called out.
Twyford pulled the door open and tugged Merlin inside. He blinked a few times as his eyes fought to adjust to the dimness, but he really didn't need them to know what was surrounding him – for the last two nights he'd set the tent up, hauled in the two cots and fitted them with blankets, and brought the wrapped stones to warm the soldiers' beds.
"The slave?"
His gaze settled on the speaker – a shorter man with greyish-brown hair and a beard.
"I thought Sir Einar took care of this last night?" Aram continued. He caught Merlin staring and sent him a caustic glare, causing the boy to quickly avert his eyes to the ground.
"He's more injured than we knew and in need of some of your skills," Twyford answered, pushing Merlin a few more steps forward until he was standing in the center of the tent.
"Very well," the medic replied. Aram dismissed Twyford and then, ignoring Merlin completely, turned to a washbasin that the boy had also set up himself in the middle of the tent – and hauled the water for – and proceeded to roll up his sleeves and wash his hands. The man shifted around as he dried them on a towel, and Merlin felt his eyes roaming up and down him but he didn't dare raise his head or look up from the dirt.
Hands clean, Aram removed his pack from underneath one of the cots and tossed it onto the blankets, then stepped up to Merlin and grabbed his chin.
The man's fingers weren't gentle as he tilted Merlin's head first one way and then the other, giving his bruises an unconcerned once-over. He let go with enough force it was almost a slap, then tugged Merlin's tunic out of his belt without so much as a warning and yanked both shirt and jacket up to his neck. The man studied the bruises on his back and chest longer, spinning Merlin around with his hands and poking mercilessly at tender spots here and there. It was all the boy could do to keep from passing out when Aram spent several minutes focused on the black bruise that covered the two ribs he was sure were cracked, pressing and prodding the flesh and bones. Fury was rising up inside the young warlock at the calloused treatment and he had to forcefully stomp it down – Gaius would have verbally ripped this man apart for daring to call himself a healer – but when the man dropped his tunic back down and reached for the laces of his trousers, Merlin angrily pushed his hands away.
I can do this myself! he snapped inside his head, pouring all his frustration and rage into a glare he sent toward Aram, the part of dutifully cowed slave forgotten.
The man just laughed arrogantly. "Well then, get on with it, boy," he said, gesturing for him to continue.
Merlin lowered his trousers, revealing the ugly, festering wound, and Aram's cold, rough fingers were instantly unwinding his pathetic bandage and then probing it. He gritted his teeth against the onslaught of fresh agony, but at least the medic's face showed real concern for the first time since Merlin had entered the tent. This wound was serious enough to finally warrant the man's full attention, even on a slave.
"This is from the battle when you were taken?" Aram addressed him.
Merlin nodded.
"The infection is well set in and will kill you if it's not purged," he added nonchalantly, stepping away to retrieve rags and bandages from his pack, as well as some fresh water. "I give you probably a week – a fortnight at most, if you're lucky."
Merlin's heart seized as what he'd begun to suspect himself was verbally confirmed.
"I reckon it's only your magic that's kept it from spreading faster," the healer continued, wholly unconcerned with the fact he had just told a young man he was dying.
The servant glanced up sharply at the mention of magic, eyes narrowing. What did this man know of magic?
As if he was able to read Merlin's mind, Aram gave a mirthless laugh and said, "Don't looked so shocked. I know more than you think. Now, this will hurt."
He stepped up to the boy, spread both hands over the oozing wound, and then closed his eyes. "Þvætta āþwēan, þvætta āþwēan, þvætta āþwēan!" he chanted, voice growing stronger with each repetition.
Blazing pain suddenly shot through the gash and the surrounding skin, and Merlin felt like it was burning – boiling! His chains clanked as he grabbed onto Aram's shoulders to keep from collapsing, and then risked glancing down at his leg.
It actually was boiling – pus and sickness bubbling out with a scorching heat! It made his stomach roil and he turned away, clenching his eyes shut. After a few long minutes of agony, however, it abated and he could breathe again. He dropped his grip on the healer and opened his eyes.
Aram had magic!
The boy felt like he'd been punched in the gut – again.
Aram had magic, was kin, and yet he let them collar him! Let them take his magic and his voice, and didn't seem to care at all! In fact, he'd probably placed the collar on Merlin himself as it would need magic to activate the spells set into it!
Merlin's scowl was full of bitterness and betrayal as he stared at the man who was now busy washing his wound, wiping away the purged infection. Feeling the gaze, Aram glanced up.
"Save your hurt and accusations for someone else, boy. You serve a prince who would see all our kind burn, and yet you dare level shocked betrayal at me? You should know I feel no guilt from what I do, lose no sleep at night. Some men shall be kings and some shall be servants, some are soldiers and some are slaves. You aren't the first boy to taste slavery and you won't be the last. Are you better than all the rest, that you would hold your pride close and snivel at life's unfairness?"
The man snorted and looked away, back to his task. He wrapped Merlin's leg – efficiently, if none too gently – in a snug bandage and tied off the knot with a jerk.
"The infection has been drawn out, though the wound remains and must heal. Go back to your work," he said, indicating dismissively for Merlin to straighten his clothing. "Come see me again tomorrow night."
Merlin couldn't help the look of surprise that pushed out the anger on his face. All that talk of slaves and accepting his new lot in life, and yet he was to receive treatment again?
"A bruised slave is a motivated slave," Aram said coolly. "But a dead one is just dead."
And Merlin found that, even if he'd had his voice, he would have had nothing to say to that.
00000
He fumbled through the rest of his morning chores, trying to avoid both the verbal and physical jabs from Hab who was highly upset that he'd had to do more work while Merlin got time off to see the healer. Merlin wished he could offer to switch places with the kid – right down to the leg wound, the bruises, and the collar.
Despite Aram's coldness he was grateful for the help. Now his leg only hurt just as much as the rest of his body, instead of ten times more.
Unwilling to risk more pain, Merlin kept his head down and tried to work as fast and competently as possible, though he did keep a wary eye out for Gerard. While he understood and even sympathized with the powerful grief the man was feeling, he couldn't understand the need that drove the soldier to make others hurt in order to feel better. The man who had attacked him the evening before was nowhere to be seen, however. It wasn't until Merlin was serving breakfast that he was able to overhear a few of the men talking about the "slave incident." He learned that Gerard had been ordered to ride ahead and inform others of their progress, and more importantly to sober up and cool off.
As he turned away to wash the dishes, Merlin breathed a sigh of relief that was strong enough he felt a warning twinge behind his eyes from the collar. At least one small threat had been removed from his now pathetic existence.
Finally, they were ready to break camp and Merlin found himself in his usual place, attached to the back of the last wagon. As he stood there, he couldn't help wondering, as he had so many times in the last week, why no one had come to rescue Arthur. Where were Sir Leon and the magnificent knights of Camelot, riding in to save their prince? Why hadn't they picked up their glaringly obvious trail? That morning, standing there waiting, he finally understood the answer, because he now knew where to look. Glancing around he noticed Aram was the last to ride from their camp and the light of grim understanding came into his head. Magic. Their trail had been concealed by magic, something he should have realized much sooner if he hadn't been distracted by the harshness of his own situation.
Hopelessness filled him and he let his head droop as the rope tugged on his chained wrists, forcing him to lurch forward.
There would be no Sir Leon riding up in righteous fury; there would be no rescue at all unless it was of their own making.
He limped along in deep despair for about an hour before he forced himself to snap out of it. Arthur's escape was up to him now. He would not fail his master and friend.
So, instead of staring at his feet he studied the landscape. He watched for escape routes, opportunities for distractions, possible sources of help. And when he found none, he cursed the collar that left him useless, stripped him of the one strength he had – things that would have been no obstacle were insurmountable now and it hurt.
Around noon, it started to snow - a light dusting at first that soon turned into wet, heavy flakes that coated everything, leaving people and animals sodden and miserable. It also turned the road slick and treacherous. After losing his footing twice and crashing to the ground, Merlin gave up looking around and sped up so he could grip the wagon, opting to watch where he placed his feet instead. Mud and debris from his crashes clung to him and melting snow ran down his hair and face. His only comfort was that, even with their cloaks, his captors were almost as wet and wretched as he was.
They camped that night in the middle of what looked to Merlin like a soggy, white wasteland. The snow hadn't let up which made most of the evening chores so much more difficult, and by the time he was heating his bag of rocks in the pitiful fire that hissed and spit from wet wood, Merlin's teeth were chattering so strongly he was afraid they might trigger the collar's magic as his sigh had earlier.
He was allowed a hasty visit to Aram's tent again where the man took a quick look at his wound, pronounced it still free of infection, wrapped it once more, and declared Merlin fit for hard work with no need to return and see him in the future.
Merlin's glare would have withered flowers if there were any growing in the four inches of snow that now covered the ground.
There were no trees in this camp so the horses were simply hobbled and Merlin's ankle chain was fixed to one of the wagon wheels instead. He sorely missed the warmth of his mare's soft side as he huddled under the wagon and scarfed down his meager dinner – even more, he missed the luxury of Arthur's cot and blankets from the night before. He was soaked through, and though it had stopped snowing, the air was growing even colder. As with all the dismal nights he had suffered so far, he planned to simply endure until morning but after a while he suddenly noticed his trembling was lessening.
Alarm bells sounded in his head.
He was no stranger to the bitter cold - he remembered many winter nights spent in abject misery in Ealdor. As an unwed mother of a strange child, Hunith hadn't always been able to find wood to heat their drafty home, and there were precious few in the village who were willing to help them out when they couldn't provide for themselves. Merlin recalled times his mother would keep him awake all night, playing and dancing to music only they could hear. When he was older, he realized they weren't just fun games but an attempt to keep them both moving so they wouldn't freeze in their sleep.
Like he was about to right now.
With a silent groan, he pulled himself painfully from under the wagon and crawled to his feet. Then, with stumbling steps, he started pacing the short distance his chain would allow, slapping his bound hands against his sides every turn or so to keep the blood flowing.
I will not die in this stupid camp as a stupid slave, he repeated over and over in his head to fight off the exhaustion and suffering.
I will not die in this stupid camp as a stupid slave.
Turn.
I will not die in this stupid camp as a stupid slave.
Turn.
He lost track of turns and steps and words, just knew he had to keep moving – keep breathing – not give in to the steady cold and the desire to just sleep.
"Boy, stop."
Merlin started, blinking blearily at the man before him without really seeing him for a few seconds before he pulled himself out of his frozen trance and was able to focus.
It was Twyford – the one kind soldier.
"Do you promise not to run if I bring you to the fire by me?"
Fire? Merlin thought sluggishly, not really comprehending.
The soldier placed a light hand on his shivering shoulder and spoke again, more slowly. "Lad, you're freezing. If I bring you over by the fire to dry off and warm up, do you swear on your prince's life that you won't fight me or run?"
He was gazing right into Merlin's exhausted eyes and finally the boy understood. For just a moment he thought of refusing – he shouldn't promise anything that would keep him from attempting an escape, especially swearing upon Arthur's life – but he also knew his own life wouldn't last long if he didn't warm up soon.
Merlin nodded.
Twyford released him from his ankle chain and brought him over to the fire, pushing him gently down onto one of the logs that circled it. Merlin noted absently that it was finally burning strongly, throwing heat out as the wood dried. The warmth was almost painful on his frostbitten skin.
"Don't move," the man ordered and then stepped away.
He needn't have bothered – between Merlin's bruises, his near-frozen state, and his bone-weariness, once he was sitting he found he couldn't muster the strength to move even if he wanted to. Instead, he just slumped there, staring into the hypnotizing flames, dreaming of times when he used to be warm and cared for, before everything hurt.
It felt like it had been hours, though some part of his brain knew it could have only been a few minutes, when he became aware of a whispered conversation going on behind him.
"What's the slave brat doing loose?"
It was Stupidly-Basil. Merlin tensed instinctively, body jolting to full awareness as he waited for the blows that were sure to come – only they didn't. Someone else spoke instead and Merlin focused intently on the hushed exchange.
"He was almost frozen." That voice was Twyford, and he sounded angry. "I brought him to the fire to warm him and hopefully keep him alive through the night, since you seem to be doing such a fine job of taking care of him."
"You don't take care of slaves – you use them until they're no use anymore and then you get a new one."
"And now I understand why, with you tasked as the main slave guard, so many of our slaves die on the journey. You didn't even give the boy a blanket when the weather turned!"
"We don't give slaves blankets!"
"We do when they are dripping wet and in danger of freezing to death! What good is gathering slaves if they never live to make it to Tharennor?"
"Just because it's your turn to guard the prisoners tonight doesn't mean you can butt your stupid morals into everything, Twyford! The kid's a spoiled brat – he deserves to be a little cold. Besides, he won't be getting a precious blanket in the mines, will he?"
Merlin felt his shivering increase, which could have been because he was warming up slightly, or could have been because of the reminder of where he was headed.
"Well, he isn't in the mines yet and you've obviously been neglecting your duties as a guard. Sir Einar will hear about this! And maybe I'll also mention all the time you spent arguing with me instead of patrolling the perimeter like you're supposed to be doing!"
A warmth spread through Merlin at those words that had nothing to do with the crackling fire, fighting against the overwhelming fear. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have someone stand up for him.
"Fine. Pamper the little whelp if you want. Won't matter anyway. In two days, he'll be shipped off to work and that dark hole in the ground will make this trip seem like a picnic. Maybe he'll finally learn his place, right before he dies."
Merlin heard his guard stomp off in the opposite direction and then, after a short moment, Twyford was back at his side. The soldier set something on another log before stepping up to him and reaching for his wrists.
"You heard all that, didn't you?" the man asked quietly while he gently rotated the metal cuff so the keyhole faced upwards.
Merlin nodded as Twyford produced a thin key, inserted it into the lock, and then opened the manacle with a click. The servant couldn't hide his surprise as the metal band fell away from his raw wrist in two rusty halves.
"I'm sorry," Twyford said, though he didn't specify what he was apologizing for – the conversation…the abuse…or the fact that Merlin was being held as a slave in the first place. He quickly removed the second cuff, and then finally seemed to notice Merlin's look of incredulous shock.
"Your clothes need to dry by the fire if you're ever going to get warm, and they can't do that if you're still wearing them," he explained, setting the chain aside on the ground. "I wish I could say I was taking them off for good, but…"
But even kind soldiers have to follow orders, Merlin finished for him silently. He nodded that he understood, and then, grateful for every small gift, wasted no time in attempting to remove his wet tunic and jacket. However, the beating from the night before coupled with the near frozen state of his clothes made the task impossible on his own, and Twyford had to help him, pulling his jacket off and then drawing his tunic up over his head.
"They should dry quickly," the red-haired man said, spreading the garments out over another pair of logs near the blazing fire. Then he came back, retrieving the object he'd set down before.
It was a blanket. Eyes wide with wonder, Merlin's jaw dropped as Twyford reached out and draped it around his trembling body, pausing at the end to draw one of Merlin's wrists forward. Slowly, the man turned his limb back and forth, and the warlock swore Twyford's gaze was full of sorrow as he took in the bloody, bruised and raw skin that a week of wearing ill-fitting chains had left behind.
The soldier sighed loudly, repeated the process with the other arm, and then tucked them both snuggly inside of the blanket and wrapped it tightly about him. "Sit as close to the fire as you can manage," Twyford urged, before stepping away slightly to sit on his own log, a log that the boy noted gave the guard the advantage of viewing both Arthur's tent and Merlin at the same time.
They sat for a long while in silence – still, it wasn't awkward, like it could have been, just a sad necessity and Merlin's new norm. He huddled into the scratchy blanket and closed his eyes, letting the warmth from the fire soak deep inside him, knowing this wasn't a privilege that could last.
"You look much better without blue lips or icicles in your hair."
Merlin's eyes popped back open to find Twyford was smiling at him, even if it was still tinged with sadness. It felt normal – good even – and he shook his head, sending drops of water flying from the filthy strands before grinning back.
"Can you write, lad?"
Puzzled, Merlin nodded.
"Then tell me your name." He gestured with his chin to the fire. "Use the end of that burnt stick on that rock there."
Something strong and a bit overwhelming washed over Merlin at the request – no one besides Arthur had called him by name, or even cared to know it, since the day the collar had been placed around his neck. His hand shook as he snaked it out of the warm, blanket cocoon and grasped the stick. He glanced up at Twyford for just a moment, before pressing the charcoal end into the rock and spelling it out with forceful strokes.
"Merlin," Twyford read aloud.
He dropped the stick, pulling his hand back into the protection of the wool and nodded with a smile, feeling a thrill shoot through him at the sound of his own name being spoken.
"Do you have family who are missing you, Merlin?" Twyford asked next, regret filling his voice.
The happiness of the moment disappeared as images of Gaius and his mother flashed through his mind and Merlin's smile fled while his shoulders slumped. Full of aching sorrow, he nodded again, and then looked up, directly into the kind man's eyes. The question was…strangely unnecessary, and the warlock couldn't help the entreating query that spread across his face.
Twyford sighed, obviously knowing exactly what he was asking – begging for. "Even if I could, would you leave your prince behind?"
Merlin turned his head to gaze at Arthur's tent, knowing the answer to that question without thought. With grim determination, he looked back at the soldier and shook his head firmly.
The red-haired man gave a sort of laugh. "I said it before, and I'll say it again, you've got guts, lad. And courage, and stubbornness, and a loyalty I'm not entirely sure your prince fully appreciates." He sobered. "You'll need all of that, and more, to survive. Don't give up."
Merlin decided he liked and trusted this red-haired soldier, so – just as Arthur had done hours earlier – he took a risk. Extracting a hand once more from the folds of the blanket, he made sure Twyford was looking at him and then pointed first at Arthur's tent, then himself, and then hesitantly mimed his fingers running away before piercing the man with a desperately pleading stare.
Shame flickered across Twyford's countenance before he dropped his eyes, toying with the sword in his hands half-heartedly. "I also have a family, Merlin," he finally answered quietly. "A wife and two innocent little girls."
The servant read the implications of that statement all too well, and his small moment of hope seeped quickly away.
"I'm sorry that we've done this to you," the man continued, raising his head again and speaking fervently, even if the pitch was little more than a whisper. "I hate it – these side orders to our patrols, the lives we ruin. But a man has no choice in the country he's born into, or the king he's born under, nor even really the customs that country accepts. I became a soldier to protect a land I love and the people I care about, and no soldier – even a guard of the citadel – can escape the occasional outland patrol. I know it means very little given your circumstances now, but I am truly sorry."
It didn't change anything, but Merlin accepted the apology with a nod – he knew better than anyone what it was like to have little control over your own situation.
Silence fell after that, only the crackling of the wood in the fire breaking the almost eerie stillness of the frigid, snowy night. Merlin shifted now and then, trying to allow the blessed heat access to all sides of him, and Twyford rose once to turn the boy's clothes over.
Finally, the man stood and came toward him.
"My watch is almost over, and it would be best if you were back in your place when the next guard comes," he said with a sad smile.
As much as Merlin hated the thought of leaving the fire and returning to the cold, he had to heartily agree with not wanting to be found unchained by any of the other men in this camp. With deep regret, he shucked off the blanket as Twyford gathered up his now dry tunic and jacket and then handed them over. Merlin wriggled into them as quickly as his bruised body could manage, grateful for the small amount of warmth that lingered in the cloth, and then held out his wrists without prompting.
Instead of clamping the irons back on immediately, however, the soldier paused and then grasped the hem of his own tunic and tore several long strips before taking Merlin's right wrist and pushing up his sleeve.
"I know it's rather like giving someone a hankie to treat a mortal wound," Twyford said as he wound one of the strips over Merlin's wrist from forearm to the base of his thumb, completely covering all the cuts and abrasions left by the manacles, "but if it helps even a little…"
For the second time that night, Merlin's eyes opened wide with shock at the unexpected kindness.
Twyford tied the cloth off, then repeated the action for the other wrist, before slipping the chains back on and locking them in place.
"Come on, then," the soldier urged. He helped him rise with a hand under an elbow before thrusting the blanket back into his arms and tugging him gently away from the fire.
Merlin looked at the item he was now holding then glanced up questioningly, eyebrows raised.
Twyford nodded, urging him to keep walking.
They reached the wagons and Merlin sank stiffly to the ground by the wheel while Twyford collected the free end of his chain. "Is the leg any better?" the soldier whispered conversationally as he attached the cuff to the boy's ankle.
He nodded gratefully.
"I'm glad of that," the kind man said genuinely. The red-haired man reached out and squeezed his shoulder with one hand, eyes full once more of what Merlin knew was remorse, and then gestured under the wagon with his chin. "Try to sleep," he urged then released him and stepped away, back to his post.
Ignoring his many aches and pains, Merlin did as he was told and crawled under the wagon where he huddled against the inside of the wheel, wrapped the beautifully-scratchy, wool blanket around himself, and tried to snag a few hours of rest.
00000
The next morning, Merlin was awakened by a man whose name he'd never caught, an indifferent fellow who poked him to alertness, handed him a totally unexpected stick of jerky, and then sent him on his way to do his chores. Basil-the-Plant-Head was glowering across the camp, throwing murderous glares toward Twyford, who sat whistling happily as he cleaned his sword.
Merlin grinned, his first real one in ages.
He was almost dead sure Basil had just been sacked and his care had been reassigned to Personality-less No-Name. Bland and boring was so much better than violent and creepy.
After his endless, unwritten list of work had been completed, Merlin dragged his sack of rocks over to the wagon Twyford was once again packing, pausing to reach under it and retrieve the blanket he'd carefully folded earlier. He heaved the bag up to the man, and then held up the wool.
Thank you! he thought desperately, hoping the soldier would somehow know what he wished he could say.
Twyford shook his head no. "It's mine to give, and therefore yours to keep. Tuck it in here and then take it again for yourself tonight. No one will question you on it, I promise."
And just like that, Merlin found himself the proud owner of a single possession – a woolen blanket. His grin threatened to split his face in half this time.
Author's Note: I'm sure everyone has noticed that updates have slowed down. I'm horribly sorry, but I'm a teacher and alas, summer has come to an end. I will keep writing and posting this, but the pace will most likely be a little slower. I hope you can forgive me and will stick with this story despite that.
Thanks again! Your support, comments, and enjoyment of this story mean the world to me!
