Previously: In the aftermath of the confrontation with Silvie — and all that was revealed — Hawke finds some peace in confiding to Anders and Merrill about what's been going on. Though Fenris still has not returned, she occupies herself with searching for Alistair's other letters, hoping to find some clues about what the missing letter's contents. Instead, she experiences a vision — hallucination? — of a nightmarish future Kirkwall.
Note: this chapter contains a semi-explicit sex scene, as well as mentions of trauma and implied depression.
Onward…
Orsino holds up a hand when Hawke pauses for breath. "Forgive the interruption, Champion, and the detour, but I can't help asking — are the stories about your friend Anders true?"
He hoped to catch her off-guard, but he's sadly disappointed. Hawke, who spent the last half-hour picking at a loose thread in her cloak and blinking hardly at all, shifts from pale and wild-eyed to the serene, smiling Hightown noble. She manages the switch so artlessly even the blood drying on her cheek seems deliberate.
"If you're asking about what went on at the Pearl in Denerim, I'm afraid I'm the wrong one to ask." She arches an eyebrow. "Though I think Isabela has firsthand knowledge, if you're curious. I have it on good authority half the stories about his time at Vigil's Keep were actually Howe's fault, and —"
"I'm tired, Hawke." He has the pleasure of watching her pull back, eyes narrowed. Not used to people not playing along with your act, are you? "They say he's an abomination. Is he?"
"They say a lot of things, about a lot of people." Hawke lifts her chin. "This is a bit off-topic, isn't it? Why the detour, if you're so tired?"
Orsino doesn't have an answer to that question. If he has one, it's too tangled up in envy and spite to be apparent. Hawke's story tightens around him like a vise, and all he can think of is a warm kitchen, fresh bread, expensive tea — and three mages enjoying it all, in peace. Twenty-five years he followed every rule, every order, without complaint or protest. And where did it leave him? First of all the Gallows' prisoners.
But a blood mage, an abomination, and the most infamous apostate in Thedas can walk free. Maker help me, I hate them all.
Hating them helps no one, least of all himself. Even asking is just masochism.
"You're right," he says, too heavy-hearted to argue. "I'm sorry. What did Serah Fenris say, when you told him everything?"
Hawke wants to push, that much is clear in her face. Perhaps she would have, earlier in the story, or if he met her gaze. But Orsino stares down at his worn, grey hands, and waits for her to speak again.
"He listened," she says. "And he asked what I wanted to do. Maker, I don't deserve him on the best of days, and now —" She swallows audibly. "I said…what I knew I wanted to do was tell everyone, right then and there, even if it meant hauling Bela and Varric up from Lowtown. But I was a bloody mess, I was so tired, I was — and I said I wanted to go to bed, and decide in the morning, once we talked more. So we did."
"You're lucky," Orsino says, unable to help his bitterness. What would all the freedom in the world do him, when there's no one he can share it with any longer? "So many you trust, even here. Even now."
Ah, now he catches her off-guard. No artifice, no playacting. Hawke doesn't hide her pity, nor does she apologize. She just nods.
How they manage to get up the stairs is a mystery, second only to how long they stood holding each other before the fire. Hawke has a vague impression of being lifted by the waist, and wrapping her legs around a solid set of hips, but the first thing she truly remembers is being set down on her bed, and reaching up to undo the clasp of Fenris' cloak.
"It's later than I wished." His voice roughens with each word, now that's she taken care of his cloak and is working at the buckles on his armor. "I apologize."
She shakes her head. Maker knows there are still several very necessary conversations in their near future, but at the moment she doesn't care. The worst has been told, and now their fight seems half a world away. He's home, warm and solid under her hands. Surely the horrors can wait till morning before she has to face them again.
"You're here." One pauldron swings loose. Fenris yanks it away as she goes to work on the second. "The rest will keep. Let me —"
"Hawke." She pauses when he catches her hands in his. Whatever he was going to say, he abandons it to frown at their linked fingers. "You're freezing."
Indeed she is, now that he mentions it. Freezing, and shivering despite the wool dress and heavy stockings, because after her nightmare journey she forgot about the open windows. The fire is nearly out, but a click of her fingers brings it it back to cheerful life by the time Fenris has finished with the latches.
He works the last few buckles on his chest plate as he comes back to her. It falls to the floor with a muffled thud, forgotten. Hawke fully expects to trip over it in the morning, but can't summon the will to care. Not when Fenris stands before her, smoothing bits of hair from her face, resting his thumb against the curve of her lower lip.
"Still so cold," he murmurs, while she arches into his hands. "Is all well?"
Hawke shuts her eyes for a moment. "Well enough, and getting better every moment," she says. Fenris' hand stills, cradling the base of her skull. She wonders, if the sea chose now to speak, if he would feel its voice thrumming through the bone. "But now — what are you planning to do about your poor, frozen Hawke?"
The question has nothing to do with desire. Not at first. It's just an innocent means to make him smile, to smooth the frown-lines from his brow and mouth.
Of course, innocence goes right out the window when his hand tightens in her hair, and pulls, so her throat is bared in a long line to his gaze.
"I have some idea what to do." His free hand strokes her cheek; Hawke almost purrs with pleasure at the warmth spreading from his touch. "Are you sure?"
Oh, Maker, she loves him — for so many reasons, but right now for always asking, and then trusting in her response. "I am," she whispers, eyes slipping closed as he settles his hand at the collar of her dress. "Unless you have something else to discuss."
"Nothing pressing," Fenris says, almost a groan, and kisses her.
Nearly a decade now she's known him, and loved him almost as long. Hawke would be hard-pressed to decide what she treasures most from that long intimacy, but the way she reads intent in every movement certainly tops the list. Regret, in the hand curving around her ribs; apology, in how the other steadies her head. Relief in the sigh that stirs her hair, and peace when his mouth shapes her name.
It doesn't take long for the kiss to turn fierce, and for Fenris to turn his head and trail a line of little bites down her throat. She wriggles and strains to get her legs around him, but he just huffs and pushes her down to the bed.
"Oh," she says, a little dazed as he starts to unbutton her dress. "That sort of evening, is it?"
"Indeed." He catches her hand as she reaches for his shirt, and pins it to the bed. "Unless…?"
All she manages is a jerky shake of her head. Fenris smiles at her, rich and filthy and so, so satisfied with himself, and pulls the front of her dress open with a twist of his free hand.
She expects a slow seduction, an hours-long tease, all of with Fenris being unbearably, obscenely gentle. A distraction from the day, a reconciliation. But then Fenris lifts her dress, and kneels, and Hawke's chill melts in a blazing wave of heat.
He doesn't allow her a moment to think; his mouth is already at work before she finishes saying his name. And he's relentless, nipping at her thighs and licking the bites before they have time to sting, every touch leaving her trembling. She cries out once — just his name, all other words having fled the moment he spread her thighs — and fists both hands in his hair, but his pace doesn't falter. Mouth, fingers, tongue, all moving as one to push her farther, harder, as she begs for more.
Her climax is a wracking, desperate thing that seems to take Fenris by surprise as much as it does her. He teases it out till she whines, boneless and wet-eyed, then rises unsteadily, licking his fingers clean.
Hawke moans again, too hazy in the aftermath to sit up and draw him to her. Fenris laughs — breathlessly, eyes too bright — and lifts her from the mattress. She's content to let her head loll against his shoulder while he arranges them, but when Fenris moves across the room, and braces her back against the wall, she forgets how to breathe.
"Sweet Maker," she whispers, clinging to his shoulders. "Fenris, I'm —"
"I have you." He kisses her, slowly, thoroughly, until she squirms and rolls her hips into his. One of his hands moves between them, urgent and almost clumsy. His breath comes in short pants, sweat darkens his hair at the temples. Then comes a soft rustle of fabric, and they're skin to skin at last. "Always," he says, and slips into her.
All she can do is lock her ankles together and hold on while Fenris slams into her, the only noise apart from her gasps the tiny, rasping moans he makes deep in his throat.
He does cry out at his climax, head thrown back and eyes closed. Hawke grinds against his hips, only thinking of taking more of him, as much as she can, until he drops his head to her shoulder and eases them to the floor.
And there they remain — him kneeling, her straddling his hips — until Fenris groans and rolls them onto their sides on the carpet. Hawke immediately sprawls on her back, her dress still rucked up about her thighs, hair in her mouth and sweat in her eyes, and caring about none of it.
"That was…" Her voice is an utter mess; she makes a mental note to apologize to Merrill, and her household, and half of her neighbors for the shameless racket. "That was certainly in the top five reconciliations we've had, I think."
Fenris grunts. His chest still heaves with his exertion — and really, it's all his, Hawke was just the beneficiary — and every inch of bare skin shines with sweat. He's still unfairly handsome, and delicious in the bargain, though Hawke is fairly certain she won't be walking in the next few hours, let alone up for a second round. He seems to have the same idea, going by the way he settles his head on her bare chest.
Hawke strokes his hair and closes her eyes. She should bathe, and change, and then haul them both into her actual bed, but she does none of it. Not yet. Time enough for all that, later.
They eventually do make it to the bath — which Bodahn, Maker bless him, filled before he bustled off to bed — though Fenris nearly dozes off in the water, and Hawke has to haul him out before she follows his lead. Now, clean and warm, save for a last, lingering chill deep in her belly, she braids her wet hair back and watches Fenris dig around in the pockets of his cloak. Her mind is pleasantly empty, save for the mingled relief and pleasure of having him so close again.
"It can wait till morning, love," she says. The crier, passing just beneath her window, calls out one o'clock. Fenris raises an eyebrow at her over his shoulder. "All right, till later in the morning. Come to bed."
"A moment." He makes a muffled noise, somewhere between success and satisfaction, then turns around with the oddest expression. If Hawke had to take a guess, she would say he looks almost shy, yet pleased.
While she's puzzling over his expression, she almost misses the dark object in his hand. "What's that?"
That strange mixture of shyness and pleasure deepens. Fenris opens his mouth, gazes down at the object, then shuts it again and comes to sit beside her on the bed. Hawke immediately leans into him, happy to once more soak up his body heat. She does peek at the object, which is wrapped in a stiff layer of oxblood leather that completely hides any clue to what the contents might be.
"When I said I had business in the city last week," he says. "I was not…entirely accurate. It began here, however…" He trails off, running a thumb along the long side of the package.
"Ooh, intrigue? From you?" She winches away from the elbow aimed at her side. "I'm only saying, Fenris, that subterfuge is not normally a tool in your kit. Really, more like —"
He rolls his eyes ceilingward. "No."
"I wasn't going to —"
"You were. I could feel the awful jokes forming. Spare me this once, I beg you."
She pouts, even as she winds both arms around his and rests her head on his shoulder. "Fine. In the spirit of reconciliation, and because I really want to know what you've got, I will be merciful. Just this once."
"How benevolent of you."
She feels his smile against the top of her head as he kisses her, and can't help the foolish grin spreading across her face. Already the argument seems a century past, though its dregs will still need dealing with in the morning. For now, it's enough to simply luxuriate in his company, entirely at peace, and utterly at home. "So? Out with it. The price of my clemency is an end to your mystery."
"My business," says Fenris, clearly willing to keep the mystery going in spite of her warnings, as his smirk so neatly states, "began inside the city, though it was concluded without. About two miles without, in fact."
Hawke squeezes his arm. "And?"
"And — it's for you." He presses the oddly-heavy package into her hands, almost too quickly, then rests his fists on his thighs.
"I knew it!" Hawke crows. "I knew you were getting me a present. I'm absolutely brilliant."
Fenris' look tells her she's certainly something, but then on comes the shyness again, winning out against the pleasure. "It isn't much," he says, which is as obvious a prelude to an apology as they come. "I am not…I'm not used to giving gifts. If it doesn't suit —"
Hawke kisses his cheek, and then his temple. Fenris huffs a breath, but lets her turn his face by the chin and kiss him properly. "I'll love it," she says, while they're still face to face. "Thank you, Fenris."
"You haven't opened it," he says, though his cheeks darken a little under her gaze.
"I told you, I'm brilliant. That's how I know I'll love it." Fenris chuckles, but he quickly goes silent as Hawke works the ties open. The leather is rich and butter-soft under her fingers, smelling slightly of oil. It's so smooth she nearly lets it slip through her fingers, and the object within tumbles to her lap with a solid thud.
"Oh," she breathes, as the jeweled pommel catches the firelight. "Fenris, it's —"
She's owned a small army's worth of weapons in her day, from simple shivs strapped to her thigh to an actual dawnstone rapier once, but all her real attention goes toward her staffs. Everything else is secondary, a weapon of last resort.
The dagger she draws slowly from each sheath is a masterpiece: Amell-red leather wrapped about the grip, a star-bright point, and a garnet winking slyly at her from the pommel. By the weight, she knows it's aurum, and by the way it fits her hand, she knows it was made by an artist.
"It's perfect," she whispers. "I can't — it's beautiful." Her eyes sting.
Beside her, Fenris lets out a soft breath. "Guaranteed to last your entire life, and never dull," he says, testing his thumb against the point. A tiny sphere of blood rises to greet the blade. "Or so Lothar promised."
Hawke almost drops the dagger. "You went to Lothar? How did you manage that miracle?" She's not speaking lightly. Lothar was, the last time she checked, refusing to take new commissions for the next five years — to the fury of half of the Free Marches, but most importantly, to Meredith's.
"We came to an agreement," says Fenris, licking his thumb clean. He smirks, and won't meet her eyes.
Hawke laughs out loud, hardly able to tear her gaze from the dagger. "So you cleaned him out, and he agreed to give you a commission rather than half his savings?"
"Something like that." Fenris kisses her cheek, and rests his brow against her temple. "Do you like it?"
Like isn't nearly a worthy enough word. Love barely begins to describe how she feels about this treasure, glittering and deadly, perfectly suited for no one but her. "Yes," she says, voice wavering. "Thank you, love."
"Good." Fenris reaches into the unwrapped leather and draws out the sheath and one more object, then shifts off the bed to kneel between her legs. "May I?"
She hands over the dagger, already reluctant to let it go. Fenris rests it on a bent knee, then unfurls the first of the objects: a collection of dark leather strips, which he wraps around her calf. A few twists of his fingers tighten the straps. The sheath slides into hidden loops, and then the dagger itself is brought home, a cool weight against her skin.
Fenris takes his time smoothing her nightdress over her legs. When he's finished, the dagger is invisible beneath the muslin. But Hawke feels its waiting presence, and something in her chest loosens.
"Hawke." She meets his gaze, her eyes stinging once more. Fenris cups her thighs with warm hands. "You are not weak. You never have been." He runs his hand over the dagger. "Never forget it."
Nothing left to do but throw her arms around him and kiss the breath out of him. Fenris sighs, relieved and content, against her mouth, and kisses her back. Somewhere in the midst of the kissing and near-crying she thanks him, and his hands tighten on her shoulders — and she comes to a decision, long-delayed and necessary.
"Tomorrow," she says, when they part for breath. "I want to go the Hanged Man. I want to tell — I want to tell everyone. There's work to do."
Fenris doesn't smile, but his eyes glow, fierce and tender, as he nods.
Fern put her money to good use, it seems. Not only does the little storage closest and workroom look fully stocked, there are fresh beeswax candles on every shelf and table, and next to every cot. There's even milk in the cats' dish, along with the ends of a roast chicken.
Hawke crouches down to greet the tiny calico who rules over the clinic's felines, absurdly pleased when the cat rolls over to offer her belly for scratches. There's nothing quite like being approved by a cat, though Hawke wonders if she'd be barred permanently from Ferelden for even thinking such things.
"Oh, messere!" Fern pops up from a cot on the far side of the clinic, rumpled and blushing straight to the roots of their hair. "I didn't hear you come in — I was, I was busy mixing poultices in the back, or planning to, and well —"
Hawke gives the calico one last rub between the ears and stands, dusting the fur off on her cloak. Darktown, the clinic, and a cat: Nettle's going to have a field day when she gets home. "I didn't exactly announce myself," she says, waving away their apologies. "I thought a quiet entrance might be for the best, so I didn't wake any patients." She casts a rueful glance about the empty clinic. "I shouldn't have worried, I see. Business is bad?"
"Oh, awful so far." Fern beams at her, nearly tripping over an enormous orange tabby as they cross the clinic. "Had a little one from the alienage come down late last night — sprained her finger, poor thing, but Anders had her set to rights in no time at all."
"Speaking of, where is Anders? I'm afraid I need to borrow him again for a little while, if you can hold the fort."
They snort. "Dare say I can, messier, seeing as how business is terrible at the moment." They scoop up the calico as she darts past, scratching her under the chin and cradling her like a baby. The calico submits to her treatment with a certain wounded dignity that puts Hawke in mind of Fenris. She tries, and fails, to hide her smile.
Fern gives the calico one last adoring coo, then sets her back on the ground. "Anders said he was going for a walk — needed some fresh air, he said, so he'd just duck around to the market."
Hawke restrains herself from pointing out Anders will have to go much, much farther than the Darktown market if he's in search of fresh air. No need to state the obvious; the clinic may smell like harsh piney soap and musty spindleweed, but Darktown's reek is never far away. "Did he say when he'd be back?"
Before Fern can answer, the clinic's door opens. Fern tenses, almost imperceptibly, but Hawke sees their hand dart to the knife on their belt as she turns to face the visitor.
"Hawke?" Anders drops a canvas bag next to the door. "You're up early. Is everything —"
"No need to panic, everything's fine."
"You sure?" Anders pulls another, smaller canvas bag out of his cloak and drops it next to the first. Something within makes a grating noise when it hits the floor. "It's before ten, and nothing's on fire. Are you sure there's no reason for me to worry?"
Hawke gives him a baleful look. "If there was something to worry about, I'd have been screaming through Darktown for you." She wrinkles her nose as a particularly awful scent hits her. "Maker, Anders, what's in those bags?"
"Salvage," he says, shortly, and kicks them under a cot.
"Looking to change industries?" Ass and balls, it really does stink. "I'd suggest sticking with healing. Easier on the nose."
"Well, then, what did you need, if there's no emergency?" Anders rubs his hands together. "Fern, how are those tinctures coming along? The seneschal will be back soon enough, and he's not a patient man."
"Seneschal came yesterday, serah." Fern frowns at Anders. "You left a message for him, saying he's not to use them more than three days in a row, and if he gets something growing on his —"
"Right then," Anders says, glaring at Hawke when she opens her mouth. "That's a job well done. Thank you, Fern. Hawke?"
She sets aside the question of dear Bran's affliction for the moment — she and Isabela have so many guesses, and thirty sovereigns riding on the result, but Anders keeps giving her odd, brittle looks, and perhaps today's not a good day to push him.
"I came to see if you wanted to pop over to the Hanged Man tonight." There, said and done, like it was any other day. She holds Anders' gaze, smiling slightly, though he gives her one of his more piercing looks. Fern keeps glancing between the two of them like they're watching a racquet match.
"Any special reason?" he asks, toeing at one of his stinking bags.
Hawke bats her eyelashes at him. "It's just been ages since I ate something I couldn't identify. I miss it. And being cleaned out in two rounds of Wicked Grace. You know, all the finer things."
"Right." He studies her face long enough for her back to start itching. "You're sure?"
Oh, of course he'd be the only one to ask. She stomps on a wave of irritation and tosses her head. Not point in pissing him off when she's asking for his help, however obliquely. "I just have so much to tell everyone, you know. And don't I look sure, Anders?"
"You look —" He laughs to himself, turning his face away so she only sees one stubbled cheek. "Fair enough," he says, as he gathers up his bags. "I'll be there. Usual time?"
"Usual time." Hawke covers her nose and mouth with her hand as he passes. "You know those smell like our old outhouse at Gamlen's, don't you?"
"I do now," Anders shoots back, as he disappears behind a screen. "I'll see you tonight, Hawke."
She picked a poor night for her return to the Hanged Man. The main room is half-full, with a mere three cards games to occupy those gathered, and only one illicit deal being muttered over in a dark corner. Corff, ever the professional, gives her a single glance and a nod, then goes back to shaving strips of dried goat from the leg hanging over the counter. Someone belches, the only noise other than dice rattling in a cup.
Hawke hauls a smile onto her face, conscious of the eyes boring into her scarred cheek. There's a new table in the spot where she first hit the ground, and a dark stain on the floor — but this is the Hanged Man, and surely the stain isn't her fault. Surely her blood is long gone by now, scrubbed clean or worn away by many, many feet.
Forget him, she thinks, when her memory tries to parade the laughing man past her mind's eye. He's dead. You're not.
And so, with her smile unflinching, she crosses the old wooden floor, and though the fire glints in her eyes, she sees no gauntlet, and hears no laughter.
"Oh shit," comes a blurry whisper from off to her left. "Lookit —" They're hushed, though there's a bit of grumbling from that direction as Hawke finishes crossing the room, beaming at anyone who meets her eye.
And there are plenty who do, or try to. Despite the roaring fire and the many stubby candles, she's the brightest thing in the room, gold dust on her lids and red ribbons in her braids. A few people gasp when she takes off her cloak and reveals the black dress beneath — a little loose, yes, but that doesn't mean the crimson and gold embroidery at her neck and wrists shines any less.
"Show-off," calls Isabela, from the top of the stairs. "Not that I'm complaining. Come up here and let me get a better look, sweet thing."
"Don't get greedy, Rivaini." Varric calls from behind her. "She isn't all dressed up for you."
Hawke spins in a circle halfway through climbing the stairs, hands palm-up, pouting at Varric when he appears next to Isabela. "At least Bela tells me I'm pretty. Besides, who's to say I'm not?"
"The elf rolling his eyes at me from over your shoulder, for one." Isabela winks at Fenris. "Don't worry, you look absolutely gorgeous, too. It's grating, really. You should buy me dinner to make up for it."
"Should I, now." Fenris is already digging for his waist purse. "And what will satisfy your appetite?"
"Oh, Fenris, you know better than to ask such dangerous questions." Merrill sidles past Hawke toward Isabela, who wraps an arm about her shoulders. "Your answers are always so interesting, though, Bela."
"Mm, I'm glad you think so, kitten." Isabela rests her head on Merrill's, waving Fenris toward the bar. "Now, I want a roast chicken. Potatoes too, with garlic and butter. Get me some of that candied lemon peel! And I want —"
"Mystery stew and stale bread it is." Ignoring Isabela's outraged squawk, Fenris heads back down the stairs, brushing a kiss against Hawke's cheek as she follows Varric into his room.
Anders sits across from her, frowning down at one of the new etchings on the table. "Been busy?" he asks Isabela, while he taps a lovingly, explicitly rendered carving. "I think you left a matching one on Hawke's library desk."
Isabela laughs. "Yes, I did. Good memory there, Blondie. You know, I modeled them after —"
"No." Varric holds up both hands. "I don't want to know whose, and what, you carved into my table. Let me live in blissful ignorance."
"I never get to have any fun," Isabela complains, as she drops onto a low, threadbare couch, and draws Merrill down with her. "Besides —" She jabs a finger at Anders, mock-frowning.
Anders' sigh echoes through the room, while Merrill snickers into Isabela's shoulder. Varric watches them all with a long-suffering smile on his face, like an affectionate but slightly bewildered uncle. When he catches Hawke watching him, he leans close to whisper in her ear.
"One of your better entrances — but my favorite's still Lady Joubert's birthday two years ago."
Hawke grins. "A pity I couldn't find all those feathers, though I think Lowtown's a bit harder to shock than Lady Joubert's set."
"Well," he pats her hand, "if anyone can manage it, it'll be you. Oh, and make sure you're nice to Jameson and Cottrell. They lost about fifteen sovereigns when you walked in the door — poor bastards thought they had another week before you showed up."
Hawke laughs. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer pair of fellows," she says, then exclaims when she spies a familiar bag under a pile of scrap paper. "Are those lemon sugars?"
The candy — and Anders arguing with Isabela over the accuracy of her etchings — keeps her occupied till Fenris comes up the stairs, balancing a tray full of covered dishes on one hand and carrying two bottles of wine in the other. Isabela rises to fetch the wine, cooing her pleasure, while Anders relieves Fenris of the bulkier dishes. And then there's just the sounds of eating — no coos of pleasure there, because the stew is bland, and the bread crumbles damply if one so much as looks at it, but Hawke would have paid the meal's weight in gold five times over.
Na via lerno victoria, Fenris whispered to her last night, long after the fire and the candles were out.
She's so bloody tired of telling this story — but just being here to tell it means she's yet unbeaten.
"So," she says, once all the stew and bread have been eaten, and Isabela is battling the second wine bottle's cork. "Let me preface this by saying I know how mad it sounds — and I should have told you all sooner." She inhales, smelling salt, tasting blood. "But it seems we, and all of Kirkwall, really, have a problem."
"When don't we?" Isabela fills her glass first. "Well, let's hear it, sweet thing. Is it one of the usual problems, or something new?"
Hawke sips her wine, lets the taste of blackberries and oak fill her mouth before she replies. "A little of both."