Trine

(The Binding)

Symbelmynë. The small, bright white blossoms shone bluish in the strange moonlight. For the past several months, when the westward wind blew and the moon was full and fat, it cast a blue hue over all it illuminated. Legolas smelled the smoke. To his keen nose, the stench of Orthanc's fires permeated all the way to Edoras, several dozen leagues to the southeast.

He had ventured outside once he had resigned himself to the fact that his companions, particularly Gimli, were not likely to cease snoring in the near future. The elf found sleeping indoors with a large number of unwashed men likewise objectionable. He doubted if even the sulfurous fumes of Orodruin could smell as wretched as these men of Rohan. The fetid smoke emanating from Isengard made the outdoors an equally unsatisfactory source of fresh air. Disappointed, Legolas was about to go back inside when something caught his sharp eye. From his high vantage point, he could see a figure with long blonde hair advancing down the road between the tombs of Théoden's ancestors. He watched as the figure, a woman, turned and began weaving between the mounds.

Éowyn had trained her attention entirely on the large patch of Symbelmynë that covered the hummock directly ahead of her. Mere days before, she had watched as Théodred's men bore his shrouded body into the catacomb beneath that very barrow. She had not wept when they had borne his broken body home. Even then, she had held fast to the hope that he might mend, that the strength of his spirit could overcome his grievous injuries. But his hurts had been too great. In the night, in her arms, he had slipped away into eternal slumber. She had felt him go. Then had her tears flowed. She wept for a long time, in solitude, while the village slept below. Now, she tried to put the memory, the utter loneliness of it, from her. She needed to concentrate on her task. She covered the distance quickly, climbed the hill, and drew a small dagger from her pocket.

Legolas saw the blade glint in the moonlight and watched, fascinated, as the woman knelt and began cutting flowers from the very crest of the mound. Given the lateness of the hour and the furtive swiftness of her motions, he suspected that her actions were forbidden. He was curious now. The elf slipped back into the abundant shadows, waiting to see what she would do. From there, he watched as she made her way back toward the gates of the city. The guards did not appear to notice as she slipped through the sliver of an opening between the massive doors. Legolas was now very curious. He watched as she made her way up the lane toward Meduseld.

'Symbelmynë from Théodred's grave, a few drops of our blood, a strip of cloth or leather from his clothing…a lock of his hair would be better…' Éowyn listed as she climbed the stairs to the Golden Hall…'The symbelmynë was easy enough. The guards haven't sighted me. These few flowers won't be missed. The other bits could prove to be problematic. But then…then he will be mine and I will be his. And he will forget her.' She walked on, absorbed in her own thoughts, confident that no one would be out to see her.

"And what, may I ask, is the lady Éowyn doing out so late?" inquired the prince, stepping quietly out of the shadows. Éowyn immediately stopped and turned slowly to face him. She did not speak. Smiling, he took a few steps closer. She took a step back. "You need not fear me," he said softly.

"You are an elf," she answered. Her tone was suspicious. She neither blinked nor took her cold blue eyes off him.

"I am," he smiled a little, "have you never seen one before?" He expected her to look away. She did not.

"No," she answered simply.

"Symbelmynë? Cut at the full moon? From the crown of a barrow? What shall I think, my lady?" he spoke gently, still.

"I am not your lady," she said sharply.

"Nor have you answered my question," he purred, seemingly amused. He suspected the answer to his question was something to do with the way her brilliant eyes lingered on Aragorn whenever they were close. He had also seen how the man's gaze wandered in her direction when others were engaged in conversation. "You would make a much more suitable companion for him, Éowyn. She is no equal for his birth. She does not deserve him," Legolas, then, made a long pause before, "I will help you, if I can."

Until then, Éowyn had managed to keep her face and bearing neutral. But once he uttered those words, an expression of puzzlement and surprise fell across her features, yet suspicion still glinted in her eyes.

"How can I help you?" he asked almost too softly to be heard.

"A lock of his hair. If you elves are as fantastical as I have always heard, then bring it to me in my chamber. Leave the Great Hall through the center left door, climb two flights of stairs, and take the second corridor to the right. My apartments are at the end of that hallway," she said quickly, but deliberately. Then, she turned and walked away. Her hair, silvery in the moonlight, flowed out behind her in the gentle westerly breeze.

Legolas continued to smile to himself as he turned to go back inside. He was quite pleased at how readily she had accepted his aid. It would be a simple matter for the elf to cut a lock of the man's hair. 'And then, Arwen will know the folly of her choice. How can she sacrifice an eternal love for a mortal one? My love for his? How shall I go to the West, how shall I meet our daughter without her?'

Almost before he realized it, Legolas found himself back in the large chamber where Aragorn and the others slept. The elf watched his companion sleep for a time. He knew that he was one of the very few who could have done this without immediately waking the man. His hand closed lightly around the ivory handle of his lethal blade and he drew it without a sound as he knelt at Aragorn's side. The strange moonlight fell, from the high clerestory window at the end of the hall, down onto the man's face. The elf turned the flat of the blade into the light so that the steel gleamed blue and showed him his own reflection. Slowly, he lowered the dagger so that it almost rested on his friend's throat. He drew it towards him. It would be such a simple, leisurely, sort of motion. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the spray of arterial blood. It would be hot on his face. The look of surprise and fear would almost be worth it. If Elrond himself, and Arwen, too, had not sworn him to protect this man, he would have done it, and consequences be damned. With a small sigh, Legolas switched his blade once and removed a long lock of Aragorn's dark hair.

The way to Éowyn's chamber was clear. He knocked. The door opened immediately, but only a little, and her icy eyes peered out at him through the crack. She said nothing.

"May I come in?" he asked politely. In place of an answer, a pale, slender, open hand jutted abruptly through the small opening. He held up the stolen hair to the sliver of light coming from within the room. "I can be more help to you than just this."

"I can manage," her voice was soft, but her tone, firm. Legolas raised a skeptical eyebrow, but handed over the precious tress and left by the way he had come…

Éowyn had gathered what she needed. A small fire burned in the pit at the center of her chamber. On the coals sat a large bowl, carved roughly from one of Rohan's hard, grey fieldstones. In it were the lock of long sable hair and the symbelmynë. From a chest on her desk, she drew a small dagger. She used the tip of the blade to cut a few strands of her own hair from the nape of her neck. These she knotted together with the lock of Aragorn's hair, then added them to the bowl. The blood was the last thing.

She had not bled in over two months. And when Théodred had come back to her all cloven and bloodied, she had mused on the irony. Her abdomen had begun to twist and cramp almost immediately following her lover's departure. When she awoke the following morning, her gown and bedclothes were stained crimson. More than a week had passed since then and Éowyn had not yet stopped bleeding. "So much the better," she thought.

From beneath her white gown, she produced a soft cloth soaked through with her still-warm blood. When she wrung it over the bowl, a small but steady stream of thick, dark fluid fell over the other items in the basin, splashing up the sides, running down in rivulets, and, finally, collecting at the bottom of the bowl. It stilled quickly. In the moonlight, it was black as a fathomless pool of night. Éowyn pulled her hair back to keep from dragging it in the fire. She leaned far forward. Her reflection gazed placidly back at her from the dark surface. Sometimes a lazy, glutinous bubble would rise from the heat of the stone mortar. It would linger for a moment before it burst, sending a little ripple across the surface. With every ripple that interrupted her reflection, Éowyn watched her face change subtly. Slowly, the blood began to boil.

Steam rose from the surface. Illuminated by the moonlight, the vapor shone silver. A face, quite different from Éowyn's own swirled out of the mist. It was an elf's high, smooth brow, serene eyes, and refined, patrician features that headed the column of steam as it wafted toward the woman. It was the face that Aragorn's heart would see when the charm was done. The shimmering countenance lingered, seeming to watch the yellow haired lady.

Sweat beaded at Éowyn's temples from the heat of the blue flames that danced low over the bed of glowing coals. She felt as if she herself were boiling inside. She reclined against the foot of her bed, not breaking eye contact with the spectral imago. Her eyes stung from the heat and smoke. Her head felt heavy. Her eyes fluttered and closed as her head slumped forward, her chin coming to rest, finally, on her chest. And then, she began to chant softly:

Blood of my blood

Borne on a fume

Sweetly perfumed with white symbelmynë

Fair symbelmynë, sprung from love's tomb and pyre

Curl to ash and cloy his sense

Give wing to my desire

Bruised petals sunder bonds of old, let love be forged anew,

In crimson mirror bides thy love

Reflect my likeness true

Blood of my blood

Course through his veins

Bind us together to make one, the twain

By twisted locks and sanguine charm, may two this night be bound

And in my heart, and in my flesh

His truest love be found

Over and over, she chanted the incantation. With each repetition, the vaporous face grew denser and drew nearer to Éowyn's down turned face. She chanted until she was no longer aware of her sorrow or her surroundings. She chanted until she was not even aware of her own voice. At last, only the shimmering face occupied her consciousness. She opened her eyes, and there it hovered, inches from her face. Deliberately, she emptied her lungs completely. Her warm exhalation momentarily disrupted the spectre. Then a yawn tickled her sinuses and twisted her face. Involuntarily, her jaw stretched wide. Air was not all she breathed in.

When Éowyn awoke, the pale light outside the window told her it was not quite dawn. The ashes were cold in the hearth, but the fire had done its work. The grim residuum which lined the vessel had boiled dry, caked, and cracked. The lucent chimera was gone. Now, she would finish the charm. Using a large stone pestle, she ground the brittle russet slag into a fine powder.

When she had finished, Éowyn emptied the spell into a small leather purse. The purse, she placed on the still-made bed. Only the dried blood in the creases of her hands and under her fingernails told of the grisly enterprise she had undertaken in the night. Her handsome face remained impassive.

She crossed to her dressing table and sat. The water in her washbasin showed Éowyn the a few ashes that had settled on her face. She smeared them across her cheek and smiled at her reflection for a moment before splashing cold water on her face. Next, she turned her attention to cleaning the brown blood from her hands. With a stiff brush, she scrubbed at her palms until they were red and chapped, but, at last, her skin came clean.

From a stout chest beside her bed, she drew a fresh gown. She unclasped the small golden frogs on the gown she wore. With only the merest rustle, the soft, white linen slipped from her shoulders. Éowyn stepped naked from the garment that encircled her feet. She picked up her robe and hung it on a hook near the window so it could air. She smelled the cold morning breeze as it blew in through the high casement. The air was dry, but redolent with the sweet, dusty scent of ripe hay. It would be time for the scythe and the bailing twine soon. Éowyn liked this time of year.

A stiff, chill wind, whipped in through the open window, blowing her hair about her. Her yellow mane caressed her rosy skin as it prickled in the cold. Her nipples stood out, pink and firm on her magnificent breasts.

She smiled down at her body. It was a good body, she thought. It was strong, and served her well. It was also beautiful; a fact she had come, thanks all to Théodred, to appreciate.

Thanks to him, she had carried a life inside of her. That life was quickly leaving her, and already she felt the loss. Sometimes grief's cold fingers dipped into her chest, gripping her heart so cruelly that she could do little else but weep. In a moment, both the father and the child, a son, she imagined, had left her. No longer lover or mother, only woman was left. Only woman. Weak. Powerless.

But this morning she was hopeful. She had been grateful for the strangers' arrival. In the days after Théoden's descent, Théodred's death, and Éomer's banishment, Gríma had haunted her. It seemed that wherever she went, Wormtongue had been there. Always, he had watched her with his greedy eyes, but he had not yet dared to touch her. She had even slept armed.

Once Gandalf had broken the foul enchantment that bound her uncle, though, he banished Saruman's sniveling servant forthwith. The wizard's ignoble pledge unfulfilled. Aragorn's arrival had spared her those unpleasantries.

When she had first laid eyes him, Éowyn had known him to be no ordinary man. Kingliness radiated from him. He had drawn her eye immediately. For a moment, she had seen not Aragorn, but Théodred. She had observed him closely since then. Their resemblance was striking only in the majestic air both possessed. Aragorn exuded nobility, masculinity, and power; if anything, more than had Rohan's heir. Irresistibly, he drew her.

Aragorn likewise felt a strong attraction to the young woman. She was so unlike Arwen. This lady of Rohan, this flower of the field that bloomed even in such adversity was buxom and strong. She was strong in the manner of a man, but also vulnerable, fragile as a girl. Her youth, too, enchanted him. He had lived much of his life amongst elves and men of his own kind. She was so young. Life flared from her like heat. She shed it, spent it continuously.

Éowyn's vitality spoke of the future, while Arwen's placid disposition spoke of ages past. The elf was vibrant in the way of her people. Their lives burned long and slow as embers in the heart of an eternal fire. Her strength, though greater than even he knew, was less conspicuous, quieter. She was his complement. She was his prize.

And though Éowyn captivated him, he did not intend to pursue her. Arwen was his love. It was the thought of her that had brought him through so many hardships. She was the reward that awaited him at the end of his long journey. He had sacrificed much for her, and, for him, she had given more than he knew.

Éowyn thought of the man as she dressed. She wanted him. The jewel at his throat, a gift from his woman, told her that he would not come to her easily. Éowyn knew little of her. The dark one who had procured her most crucial ingredient was an elf. His words suggested that Aragorn's lady was also of that kind. Rohan's fairest daughter thought it an unnatural union.

She had just finished dressing when there was a soft knock at her door. Quickly, she picked up her small blade and the leather pouch from her bed and tucked them into one of her deep pockets. Théoden opened the door a little. She smiled brightly.

"Good morning, uncle," she beamed. She was immensely glad that he had returned from his dark fugue. He smiled back, but a bit dolefully. He had awoken from his ominous dreams and evil visions to find his worst nightmare a reality. And his weakness, his frailty had led him into despair and left Éowyn alone to live out that nightmare.

"Good morning," he smiled back, paternally. She watched him expectantly. His thoughts had been with her in the surreal days following his awakening, but he had not known how to go to her, how to ask her forgiveness. Not even as Háma and the rest of the King's guard bore Théodred's lifeless body into the cool, dry earth of the barrow could Théoden bear to look on his niece. She was too painful a reminder of the death, not only of his son, but also of his line.

This morning he had resolved to speak to her, but now that he stood before her, words failed him. He knew what duty he needed of her, but he hadn't the heart to ask it.

"Éowyn…I…," he could find no way to continue. He tried again, "I…How are you, child?"

"I am well enough," she kept her voice as light as she could. "And you, uncle, are you well?"

"Also well enough, I suppose," he nodded, his smile feeling as forced and artificial as Éowyn's tone. At last, he mustered the determination to say what he had come to say. "Éowyn, my daughter-niece…I am sorry…for everything. I abandoned you when hope left me. I failed you," tears began to well in Théoden's eyes as he spoke.

"Please, uncle. Please. You need not make any such apology. And I would not see you troubled so," she went to him and took his large leathern hand in her two smaller ones. She was both surprised and saddened to find that it trembled.

"You may not need to hear it, child, but I need to make it. I failed you. And I failed your brother. And…," his grief choked him. His breath would only come in ragged gasps, and it took him a moment to master himself again. Tears rolled down his aged cheeks as he continued, not meeting her eyes, "And Théodred, too. And I am sorry for it. For you." At that, Éowyn also bowed her head, trying desperately to keep from weeping. She wished she think of some comfort for him, but none came to her. Only her lost son, unknown to Théoden, unknown to all but herself and Théodred, only he came to mind. That knowledge, she knew, would only bring him pain.

"I love you, uncle," she said at last, quietly. She let him enfold her in his strong embrace.

"And I, you, child," he held her for a long time, remembering the warmth of her little body against his chest and the smell of her honey hair as she had clung to him teetering on the edge of sleep. She had been barely more than a babe, disquieted by the keening of wolves in the distant mountains. But that little girl was gone, replaced with the beautiful, strong, sorrowful woman he held to him. After several minutes, the king spoke again, "I am yet sorrier that I must ask something more of you."

"Name it."

"Rohan stands alone. My awakening from despair's dark slumber has shown me that there is yet hope, but I fear for our land, and for our people. Our alliance with Gondor has grown uncertain…," he paused. His niece's carefully neutral expression told him not whether she had caught his drift. He continued. "This man, Aragorn. He is to be their king…," he trailed off again. A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth, but did not quite take hold.

"I understand," she said, regarding her uncle again soberly.

It was a long journey from Helms Deep home to Edoras. Both man and beast trudged across uneven terrain, heads hung and legs heavy with fatigue. The men's jubilation in the wake of victory was depressed somewhat by the women's grief for their fallen fathers, brothers, sons, and husbands. But sometimes, a hearty laugh rose above the shuffling footfalls of the column.

From well behind, the elf missed nothing. No glance, no touch that passed between Aragorn and Éowyn escaped him as the pair walked and talked quietly together. Legolas had carefully distanced himself from Gandalf and Gimli also. As much as he liked the dwarf, he was in no mood for conversation.

The perils of Moria and Helms Deep were nothing to peril in that woman's eyes—thought the elf darkly. Countless times since the Fellowship had departed the last homely house, it would have been so easy to let the man fall. The elf sometimes caught himself fondly imagining the meaty thunk of a cruel Uruk-hai blade cleaving the man's flesh and bone. It would have been a simple enough matter for Legolas to have placed himself conveniently far away from Aragorn at some crucial moment. He sometimes fantasized about watching the cause of all the misery in his life go tumbling down a black and bottomless chasm, disappearing into nothingness. But Legolas was bound by his word.

When he arrived at Imladris, a letter waited on his pillow. He thought its placement ironic when he found that it was from Arwen. She made a simple enough request. Watch over him, the letter read. Let him come to no harm. I know I have no right to ask it of you—on that much, at least, they agreed—but please, please keep him safe.

He could never deny her. Even the fury, the hurt resultant from his discovery of the truth underlying her disappearance to Lorien so many centuries ago, even that had subsided. And though he loved her still with every part of himself, he knew she had never fully given herself to him. Arwen's embrace was more passionate than any he had experienced before or since. But ever had she held him at arm's length from her most secret heart. He knew it, and he felt it always.

The times they had met since he had left her in Celebrant's chill waters that warm day had brought them to an amiable, if slightly awkward silence. When they met, the walked together, usually without speaking. Each still longed for the company of the other, but neither knew what was left to say. The letter marked the first real communication that had passed between them in a dozen decades. He could not deny her.

But what of this freckle faced, straw haired fool who looks on Aragorn with such utter adoration, such wide-eyed wonder?—thought the elf. Legolas was pleased, if not surprised, to see that the man also had the look of young, foolish, mortal love about when his eyes found Éowyn in stolen moments when he thought no one watched him. But the elf missed nothing.

In the depths of Khazad-dǔm, on the Deeping wall, the perils were clear. But now? Legolas saw clearly that Aragorn, his best friend and his worst enemy, was now in much greater and more subtle danger. And again, it would be so easy to let him fall. I don't suppose a roll in the hay with this little mare could possibly constitute harm—thought the elf. Besides. If he is human enough to forsake all he has in Arwen…if he is too mortal to appreciate the awesome gift he has been granted, it would serve him right to lose it. In the end, Legolas decided that stupidity did not fall within the scope of his promise to Arwen. He watched, smiling coldly to himself, as Aragorn gazed longingly at the strong young woman who would come so close to Legolas's hope in the coming months.

The fire burned low in the pit at the center of Meduseld's great hall. It was late. All the men had found their beds at last; all except Aragon who slept on a pallet of furs by the guttering fire.

All tolled, they had drained fourteen kegs of ale and made a valiant effort to finish three more besides. For tonight, they drank not only for themselves. Tonight, the Rohirrim also drank for thief fallen fellows. Éowyn suspected that, come morning, Aragorn, Éomer, certainly Gimli, and the rest would wish they'd drunk only enough for themselves and found some other way to honor the victorious dead.

They will all be nursing their aching heads tomorrow—thought the woman with a sort of weary amusement as she sat watching Aragorn sleep by the light of the low, tenuous flames in the grate. She too had drunk herself a bit foolish. Unlike the rest, however, she meant not to go to bed until she had sobered a bit. Nor could she sleep before she finished weaving the web in which she meant to catch a king.

Éowyn drew the small leather pouch from her pocket. She had carried it with her for several weeks now, waiting merely for the opportunity that had, this night, at last, presented itself. A few dry sticks and leaves on the hearth served to rekindle the bed of smoldering embers. With her light shawl, she fanned the smoky fire back to life. Her hands moved feverishly as she opened the bag. Only for a moment did she hesitate before emptying the contents into the fire. Immediately, the flames flared and crackled, spitting the occasional spark clear of the pit.

"Blood of my blood…," she began to chant. As she spoke her oddly cadenced verse, Éowyn watched the wisps of smoke that rose lazily from the little fire begin to take form. "…Curl to ash and cloy his sense…" Again, a face headed the column. "…In crimson mirror bides thy love…" This time, though it was not Arwen's elven beauty, but Éowyn's strong features that wafted nose to nose with Aragorn. "…Bind us together to make one, the twain…" The man yawned. "…And in my heart, and in my flesh…" Air was not all he breathed in. "…His truest love be found." Aragorn snored once and then rolled onto his side, his back to the fire. He did not wake.

Théoden's niece wrapped her shawl about her once more against the cool March night. She sat and watched Aragorn sleep for a while longer, wondering what he dreamed. Does he dream of me? If not? The cold teeth of doubt bit into her thoughts for the first time. If not, what then? I could not bear to be saddled with a farmer. No more than a brood mare would I be to such a man…

"Good evening," greeted a soft voice from the darkness beyond the feeble, flickering circle of light cast by the again-waning fire. Éowyn gasped with surprise, her head jerking around in effort to find the speaker. She saw no one. Standing, her balance still not quite sure, she turned to face the darkness fully, putting the fire behind her. "Walk with me?" asked the voice gently.

Legolas had had few dealings with men and even fewer with their women, but always he had found that they responded favorably to elvish voices. Always he had been able to gain the trust of men and the favor of women with is fair voice, but this one was cautious.

"Show yourself," she commanded. The dark elf stepped closer. Peering into the darkness, Éowyn was just able to make him out.

"Come. Walk with me," he said again. She did not move. "I have no wish to harm you, Éowyn," said the elf earnestly. Uneasy as he made her, she followed.

Outside, the night sky was clear, a perfect vault of blackest silk, pricked by a thousand points of perfect white light. There was no moon. Legolas watched the stars. She wondered what he divined from them.

"Thank you for your help," said the fair lady, sure he had watched her work her magic.

"You are most graciously welcome," he replied, inclining his head to her, but not taking his eyes off the sky overhead. After a moment, she spoke again.

"Why did you help me?" she asked, her brows knitting slightly as she observed his distinctive profile. As she awaited his answer, his height struck her. He was nearly a head taller than anyone else she'd ever met. She wondered if all elves were so tall.

"Yours are a noble people, Éowyn," said the elf at last, his velvet intonation almost a whisper, almost a purr.

"Thank you, master elf."

"My name is Legolas. You are welcome to use it." The elf prince looked to her, at last. A question had burned inside her since first she met Aragorn, since she learned of his quest, and of his betrothal to the elf. She met his ashen eyes. They were startlingly bright, even in the faint starlight. Before she knew what she was doing or had any hope of stopping it, the words began to tumble out of her.

"Why would Aragorn choose one of your kind before one of his own?" She expected the elf to be shocked, even offended by the bluntness of her question. She was mortified at having revealed so much to a near perfect stranger. He was sure to know what she really asked. And as if he had read her mind, he answered.

"Is that truly what you wish to know? Or is it that you wonder why he did not choose you? Surely, you must realize what an apparent match you are," he finished softly. Éowyn stood staring silently at him. Seemingly without effort, Legolas had struck upon the very thing that had gnawed at her since she had discovered that Aragorn meant to claim the long vacant throne of Gondor. After all, until these dark, mistrustful days, Gondor and Rohan had ever served one another as friends and allies. A marriage between the king of Gondor and a daughter of Théoden's house could rebuild their broken union. Rohan had been strong and would be strong again. What allies would the elves make? For decades, even centuries, the elves had been steadily departing the shores of Middle Earth in their white ships. There were but a handful now, and those there were stayed in their forests and kept out of the affairs of men.

"If that were what I wished to know, could you answer me?"

"Because he is a fool, Éowyn. He weds himself to the past when he should court the future. He has been accorded a rare political opportunity. You and I, we must help him to see it," said Legolas, pulling his face into a look of exaggerated sincerity. Dearly, he hoped that she would accept his half-truths. The woman eyed him, suspicious once more.

"What cares an elf for the politics of men, Legolas?" she asked incredulously. It appeared that it was his turn to be skewered with a sharp perception. She watched intently as he shifted his weight uncomfortably and looked skyward once more. "Perhaps there is something between you and Aragorn's woman, hm?" He did not answer her for a time.

"Aye, perhaps there is," he said as though such a thing might never have occurred to him had she not mentioned it. "And I see no reason why we cannot, both of us, have what we want…"

AN: It's been so long…yet again. And I suspect it will be a long while until the next one. But I'll get it done. How's that for a variable interval schedule? Thanks so much all of you for sticking with me. DR