A/N: I borrowed from Peter Jackson's adaptation of The Two Towers for the confrontation at Meduseld between Éomer and Gríma Wormtongue. I may have also messed up the chronology of the Battle of the Fords of Isen, so please let me know if I've made a mistake.

Reviews make my day. They are also serious motivation. I have some awesome, amazing, constant reviewers that I love, adore, and worship, and I thank you guys for taking the time to drop me a note. I am always looking how to improve my stories, so if you have any feedback, I'd really appreciate a review.

Nostos

-8-

To the Death

T.A. 3019

February

"Let me lie here - to keep the Fords till Éomer comes!" (Unfinished Tales, The Battles of the Fords of Isen)

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"My father sends me to Lossarnarch, the home of his distant cousins, because he thinks it will do me well, but sometimes I feel as though there is a darkness that will never be lifted…"

- Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, to Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark

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"He has rebelled against my commands, and threatened death to Gríma in my hall." (The Two Towers, The King of the Golden Hall)

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"[T]omorrow will be certain to bring worse than today, for many days to come." (The Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

"Your brother wishes to ride to war," Dánaron said.

"Selfish sister that I am, I am relieved that he cannot. But in any case, he was never much of a warrior. Blood always made him sick."

"May I ask what happened to his leg?"

"It was a fall," she said. "A snake spooked the horse and he fell." She cleared her throat and added, "I will never forget it."

"You were there, my lady?" He sounded very surprised, though his face did not waver. "I believed you did not like riding."

"I did," she said. She could still see Amrothos's white face: go get help, Thiri. Go! "He was pinned. I rode back to the castle. I have not wanted to ride since."

He was silent, then: "I am sorry. I did not wish to pain you."

"No," she said, "actually, I do not mind. I feel- lighter. But I am not the horsewoman I once was." She winced a little, for she was sore. "Once I could ide for days on end. And I did, for I was a little barbarian then!"

"I cannot believe that," he said.

"No," she said, turning her face to the wind. "I am very different now."

"I think," said Dánaron, "none of us will be the same when this war ends. If we survive."

They rode in heavy silence and then she said, "We are passing through Lossarnarch," and against her will, she felt a smile break across her face, a tiny whisper of something good and beautiful loosening the knot in her chest.

"You have good memories of this place," he observed.

"Yes," she said. "Once, when I fifteen, I came to visit my family here. My father, or at least his older sister, is- was- a distant cousin of Morwen of Lossarnarch."

"The Queen of Rohan?"

"Théoden of Rohan's mother. But she died many years ago, when I was six years old. I met a very good friend here." And suddenly the burdens of the world seemed very light upon her shoulders, though they had miles to go before they reached Belfalas.

"You said you did not have friends."

"I have one. Look, the sun comes!"

The days rose and fell, and each passing hour brought them closer to the sea.

"I have always loved my home," she told him, "even before I knew of its renown."

"I have heard it said that it is a greater place of learning than even Minas Tirith."

"Because of our elf blood," she said. "I think that is fancy, but it is true in Dol Amroth's libraries lie the secrets of the elves and even the Istar."

"Mithrandir!" said Dánaron and in his face she saw a faint light of hope. "Perhaps he will come to Gondor's aid."

"Perhaps," she said.

They rode on, following the river to the sea.

Théodred had told him once that his anger burned hot enough to scald not only his enemies but himself as well, but as he strode up the steps to Meduseld he thought his cousin's icy fury had done him little good, for the heir of all Rohan lay dead at the Fords of Isen. He knew as soon as the bodies that his cousin could not have survived, though he had held the tiniest bit of hope when the messenger had first arrived.

"Find the king's son!" he ordered, steadying Firefoot. He dismounted and they began to search the bodies, turning them over to peer at distorted, bloodied faces. He recognized many of them, though they had been Théodred's men and not his. They had been Riders all the same, and he had drunk with them, ridden with them, sparred with them.

Here was Wulfric, the best swordsman in all the Mark, better even than Théodred. Not far from him was Ædelstan, newly married to a pretty girl he'd been in love with for years. All dead. Slaughtered.

"Marshal!" Éothain waved him over, his face grim.

Théodred. His cousin lay dead.

Let me lie here - to keep the Fords till Éomer comes!

The Fords would not hold, Elfhelm had told him, not if the Uruks returned.

Fury broke over him in waves, seeing the cold, still face of the man he considered a brother; he could barely think, could barely see straight. Then abruptly his head cleared and he was left coldly furious.

"We go," he said, "to find my cousin's killers."

Éothain was the only one who dared to argue with him. Éomer felt his friend grip his arm, hard. "My lord Marshal. Éomer. Listen to me. The king forbade you to go after them-,"

"I don't care what he said. I will hunt them down," he said. "Ride now!"

"Éomer, he will not tolerate disobedience," Éothain warned him.

"I will not listen to that Worm!" he shouted and wheeled Firefoot.

Théodred. His cousin was dead, and that was the only thought that wheeled through his mind for those days, riding across the plains of Rohan, tracking the Uruks who had murdered his cousin. He saw Théodred's body in his mind as he dismounted and fought Uglúk sword to sword, his world narrowing to the gleam of metal in the Uruk's hand. Parry, slash, and then, catching his opening, he thrust Gúthwinë past the Uruk's guard and through his chest.

"This," he cried, "is for Théodred!"

Still he thought of his cousin as they rode back to Edoras and he stood at last in front of his uncle at Meduseld.

"Slain," he said in a clear voice, "by Orcs. Sent from Isengard, by Saruman. He seeks to take our land from us."

"That," said Wormtongue, "is a lie. Saruman the White has ever been our friend and ally."

His hand strayed to his sword and he would have struck the man there were it not for his sister's white-faced presence. His uncle could barely muster the strength to raise his eyes- poison. For years now he had watched Théoden fade from life and watched silently.

Now his cousin- his brother- was dead.

He would check his anger no longer.

"Orcs roam freely across our land," he said, "unchecked, unchallenged, killing and burning at will. Orcs bearing the White Hand at Saruman." He flung the helm at his uncle's feet.

For a moment Gríma stood in stunned silence.

Then his uncle spoke. Feebly. Quietly. "You were ordered not to pursue the Orcs."

"Uncle," he said, "they killed your son. They murdered Théodred. You would have me let them live?" Fury pounded at his temples and he stepped forward, willing Théoden to understand, as though by sheer force of will he could raise his uncle out of the abyss into which he had fallen.

"You have disobeyed the king," said Gríma, "and for that you must be punished. We are wearied of your whisperings against our friends, our allies."

"Whisperings?" he demanded and took a step closer. "How long since Saruman bought you, Wormtongue? You will pay for murdering Théodred, this I swear to you."

Wormtongue met his eyes with a slight smile creeping up his face, but still Éomer managed to stay himself, though barely. The man reached into a pocket and drew out something silver.

A silver swan on a chain, glittering with diamond eyes.

He lunged forward, slamming the man into the pillar, clenching his fist about his throat, the other tearing the pendant from the Worm's grasp. For Lothíriel. For Éowyn. For Théodred. For the uncle who sat decaying on his throne. He tightened his hold.

And then hands took his shoulders, and though he shook them off they clasped all the harder, prying him from Gríma's throat just as the man collapsed, gasping against the support of the pillar.

The guards.

He would give Gríma no victory: there would be no fear in his eyes, only pure, red-hot anger.

The king was standing, speaking to him. "To the dungeons!" Théoden could barely stand on his own and grasped at Éowyn's arm. She stood in silent horror and he willed her to be strong. I will not leave you.

"Uncle!" he said.

Then Gríma spoke, though his voice rasped, drawing closer. "You see much, Éomer, son of Éomund. Too much. But you are weak."

"I will see you fall!" he vowed. "I will not sleep until my sister is free of you!"

Until Rohan is free of you. The pendant in his hand dug into his palm.

At first he barely recognized her, for she had grown from a child of nine to a young woman of fifteen, but she had changed in more than body. In her face he read gravity, a new awareness of sorrow, so different from the uninhibited little girl he had met so many years ago. He had seen this new solemnity in her letters but it was not until she turned her head slightly to examine the intruder on her solitude that he realized how deeply the scars of her mother's death ran.

Her face was set in politeness, her eyes icily composed, but then they flickered and she asked, "Éomer?"

"Lothíriel," he said.

She flung herself at him and he grasped her to swing her about as though she were just a child, and to his surprise she flung back her head and laughed, for a moment erasing the pain in her face.

I was right to come, he thought.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Are you disappointed?"

"No!" Then she realized he was teasing her and hit his arm lightly. "I am just surprised, that is all."

"When I received your letter saying you were coming here to Lossarnarch, I told my uncle that I wanted to visit my cousins. Morwen Steelsheen was my grandmother."

"Yes, so you have said. Did they believe you?"

"Of course! I am an excellent liar."

She laughed, but the pain returned just as swiftly as the laughter had come.

"You are not well," he said and took her hand in his.

Lothíriel traced a pattern in the fabric of her gown and did not meet his eyes. "No," she said, "I miss her very much."

"Of course you do. She was your mother."

"I know I should be over it, but everything I see reminds me of her. And they cannot believe that I am anything but a little girl." She cleared her throat and wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. "What did you do?"

"I thought of the good times," he said. "And I had an uncle who became a father, and a cousin who was like a brother. And I had Éowyn to care for- she was so young, younger than you, even."

She rested her head against his shoulder. "Will it ever stop hurting?"

"In time," he said, "it will take time. But you will always feel it."

"If I could, I would never love again. It hurts too much."

"Would you prefer that your mother had never lived, then?" he asked her gently.

"No! But I-,"

"Loving is worth the pain," he told her, "believe me! Though a shadow casts itself over Rohan now, we will one day emerge and the sun will be all the brighter for the darkness we have endured." He felt her take a deep, shuddering breath, and again he took her in his arms, resting his head on hers. "Don't give up yet. Though there is sadness now, you will be happy again."

She nodded against his chest.

"Promise me?"

She did not hesitate. "I promise."

They sat together in silence.

"I knew you would come," she said finally. "Not here. But I knew you wouldn't leave me alone."

"Come," he said, "I think dinner will be served soon. We will pretend to be complete strangers so Forlong and propriety are not offended."

The Anduin twisted for nearly two thousand miles through Gondor, and as the river flowed past Lossarnarch the land grew forested and flat and very quiet but for the occasional village. As night fell the wind rustled the trees and it grew very cold, so Lothíriel was relieved to see the faint glow of a town ahead of them and she suspected that Dánaron was, too, though her guard's face was unreadable.

"We must stop for the night," he said.

"No! she protested, though in truth she would have liked nothing better than to spend the night at an inn where there would be soft, warm beds and hot food. "We have to keep riding to warn them!"

"The horses cannot go any farther," he said, "and if we travel any longer, you will fall asleep and then fall off."

Finally she conceded and they turned the horses to the town and the lights ahead of them.

It was barely a town, so small was it: a little cluster of thatched houses, an inn, and a smithy. Once it might have seen better days, but now it lay quiet and almost empty, perhaps in the days when ships along the Anduin had been plentiful and unworried by the threat of Mordor. The innkeeper looked at them askance and, looking down at herself, she realized what he saw: a young woman and a man old enough to be her father, though they bore no resemblance to each other, mud-splattered, grimy, saddle sore, and wearied.

"My niece and I would like a room for the night," said Dánaron.

"Oh!" said the innkeeper, his face relaxing, and she wondered indignantly if he had suspected some sort of connection between the two of them. She scowled at his back as he led them to their room. It was small but the beds would no doubt be softer than the ground outside.

She let her saddlebags drop onto the quilt and said, "I'm starved. Let's go find something to eat."

The common room was warm and she felt herself beginning to thaw, though barely, and she sipped cautiously at her ale. The room was half-empty (or half-full) and she felt the weight of its stares and began to shrink into herself until Dánaron said with a hint of a smile about his eyes, "They mean no harm. But these are mostly village folk and they don't get too many strangers, I would wager."

"How do you know?" she demanded.

"Why, Princess, have you never learned to read faces?"

"You cannot read a face. A person is no book! Or are you a seer and can see the writing across their forehead?" She took another sip and said more quietly, "I am sorry. I do not meant to be out of sorts."

"They know each other well," he said, "they are comfortable with each other. Call each other by name. Stay here a moment."

He went and sat down, and though at first the villagers seemed wary of the stranger, they began to lean in closer to him, their gestures more animated and uninhibited. She watched the firelight as it flickered across their faces, revealing half-smiles, laughter, hesitation. Reading faces, indeed, but soon she began to understand what he meant.

It was some time before he returned to sit with her, at which point she had carefully managed to sip only half her ale. It was an art, she had learned, learning to appear to drink without actually doing so, else she suspected she would be roaring drunk. Her brothers, save Elphir, all had a terrible time holding their drink and she had been privy to more than one very animated homecoming.

"What do they say?" she asked.

"We are in Lebennin, very near the junction of the Anduin and the River Sirith. The road is just across the river, but I still do not think we dare take it, not in times like these."

"Lebennin!" she said. "So far!"

"We are setting a faster pace then when you came, Lady," he said. "It is not much farther yet. I think by tomorrow we will be to Linhir. Perhaps another day after that to Dol Amroth."

"Do they have news?"

"The lord Denethor has called for reinforcement to the White City," he said. "The princes will muster their armies."

"Then there will be none left to guard the castle!" she said, her voice rising in agitation. A few heads turned towards them.

"Peace," said Dánaron. "I know not what you hope to accomplish, but I think what is meant to be will come to pass."

"I do not know if that is comforting or not," she said into her ale.

To her surprise, he laughed aloud.

As the days of their journey had gone by her sleep grew more and more restless and that night she woke with a start, the beginnings of a scream in her mouth. Instantly she heard Dánaron stir from the other side of the room and he asked her, "Princess? Are you well?"

"Yes," she said, "just a dream. I can't even remember what it was."

"These dreams," he said, "are they of the House of Dol Amroth?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your brother told me once that the prince Elphir dreamt of that which would come to pass."

She went very still. "Elphir had dreams? He told me dreams were not to be trusted."

"Perhaps I am mistaken, then."

"No," she said, for she knew him well enough by now to know he did not say anything unless he was certain of what he said.

She heard him strike a flint and then a candle flared to life. "Can you sleep?" he asked.

"I don't think so. You would think that I could, because for all that these beds are the worst I have ever slept in, they are better than the ground. But I can't." They sat in silence for a long while and then she realized belatedly that he must be tired. "Oh! I am sorry- please, I hope I have not disturbed you."

"You have," he said, not unkindly, "but in truth my sleep was troubled, too. Few of us now can delude ourselves and believe all is well in the world. In any case, it is nearly morning." He went to draw the curtains and she saw that though it was dark, the sun was beginning to touch the horizon. "Look on the light," he said, "for I fear it will be long before we see it again."

"I hope it is just the gloom that makes you say so," she answered.

"As do I, but I think not."

"Yes," she said. "If I have learned anything of you, it is that you speak only the truth, and even that does not come lightly to you."

Morning came slowly and they gathered what little they had brought. Lothíriel had bathed the night before, but all she had were her grimy, travel-stained clothes and had there been a mirror she no doubt would hardly have recognized herself. She wondered what Éomer or her brothers would have thought of her if they could see her. The innkeeper bid them a surprisingly cheery goodbye and then they saddled the horses.

"I am glad we are close," said Dánaron, "for I do not think they could travel much further."

"I couldn't either!"

That night they spread their blankets on the hard, cold ground and she tossed and turned, wandering through strange dreamlands that made little sense to her hazed mind. She was exhausted, yet she knew sleep would bring no relief. The hours stretched by and she had just managed to close her eyes when it felt as though a hand touched her forehead and a voice that was very dear to her said, "Sleep now, Cousin," and she did until the first light of dawn when Dánaron very gently shook her awake.

That day they rode hard until midafternoon, when the city began to take shape in the distance.

When he was just a boy, his mother had taught him to kill. His father's face grew long and dark and pinched, for there was little food to be found in the vast desert that was Umbar. From his mother he learnt the coldness of the world, of the fate that had befallen their country, their people, but from his father he learnt of the might of Númenór whose blood still ran, though faintly, in his veins.

His mother was of the proud line of the Corsairs; his last memory of his grandfather was of a weathered, stern face, a strong man who held his hand in one last farewell as he left the port, descended from the line of Castamir who once sat on the throne of Gondor. But those days had passed and his people were exiled to the lands far to the south, and so he died far from the land he would call a home.

On his pallet, feigning sleep, he heard his mother's voice, loud and insistent, then his father's quieter tones.

"He will be a farmer."

"And sow grain amidst the rocks and sand?" she demanded. "There is nothing for him here!" Then she began to sob. "I will not have him starve and wither like we have!"

His father taught him to tell between a weed and a stalk of wheat, though precious little could survive in Umbar, but also from his father he began to understand something of a place beyond the deserts and rocks he had grown to know, a haven so far gone that it remained only as a memory of a legend. It was from his father that he learnt the thirst from the lands beyond Umbar, but from his mother came the means to seek them.

"These are dangerous times," she said and taught him where a man's blood flowed and how to stop it: a slice across the throat, a thrust to the gut. "You must take from this world all you can, for it would deny you even the right even to breathe. Do you hear me? Take it while you can!"

And so he became a Corsair, sailing, plundering the land that by right of birth should have been his, for was he not of the same Númenórean blood as the grey-eyed people of Dol Amroth? He took what he could, the precious gold and silver, the spices, the diamonds, though little was left to him, lowly Corsair though he was. Perhaps it was his will, his dream of a long gone place that lent him strength, or else it was his mother's quickness, her desire for constant movement.

In another man that quality could have been called ruthlessness, and sometimes they said as much. When he closed his eyes to sleep, the blood began to wash over the seashores, the rolling green pastures, the golden stalks of wheat.

And then he no longer dreamed, for he was a Corsair of Umbar and a great captain of men, but still in his heart lingered the dream of Númenór.

The great fortress of Dor-en-Ernil was not in the city of Dol Amroth but on the rocky island of Tolfolas that guarded the mouth of the Anduin. Tolfolas was small and its terrain was rough and harsh, but none could enter the Ethir Anduin, the Mouths of the Anduin, without first bypassing the fortress that was perched seemingly precariously amidst the rocks and jagged cliffs of the island. The Anduin was the gateway to Gondor, and in times of peace it was a merchant's haven, stretching to all the great cities of the realm, but in war it was weak.

Farther to the north was Dol Amroth, perched on the cliffs overlooking the sandy beaches of the Bay of the Belfalas. It was one of the richer cities of the realm, but it lay far to the north of the Ethir Anduin.

The Corsairs would not come to Dol Amroth, not if they wished to sail for Minas Tirith.

As they drew closer she could smell the salt air and heard the cry of the seagulls from the beaches, wheeling about from the ocean to the more sheltered waters of the Ethir Anduin.

"To the guardhouse," she said, and they turned towards the small stone watchtower where the men-at-arms stood. The clouds across the sky were heavy and it began to sprinkle as they pulled the horses up along the hill.

She did not know the soldiers on duty, but Dánaron apparently did, for one came to greet them, and they clasped each other's forearms briefly.

"Halthaith," he said. "The princess Lothíriel wishes to cross to Tolfalas."

"Princess?" said Halthaith. He was a large man who had likely seen battle, for a scar ran from temple to chin. He looked at her with little liking. "The sea is rough today. Surely you do not wish to cross."

"My uncle the Steward sends a message."

The soldier flicked a glance at Dánaron as if commiserating on the folly of women. True to his nature, her guard's face did not waver, but still Halthaith persisted. "Princess-,"

"The Steward sent me," she said, drawing herself up to her height, which, especially mounted on her horse, was formidable, and she loomed over him. "He sends me with the news that the Corsairs are coming."

Halthaith did not blanch, but his face grew very stern. "Very well, then. Tie the horses here and we will care for them. Quickly- the sea is not pleasant today, and I think the waters will grow rougher if we delay."

She dismounted, but her fingers were too numb to tie her horse to the post. Dánaron took the reins from her and knotted them quickly, his hands deft and swift.

"Let's go," said Halthaith and she scrambled into the tiny boat that lay beached on the shore.

It was large enough for three of them, but unsteady, for it was light and flimsy, meant to be destroyed at a moment's notice in case of an attack. The waves were calmer in the protected waters here than the beaches of Dol Amroth, but Halthaith had spoken truthfully: the sea's temper was mercurial, and today it seemed especially displeased, for the waves rocked the boat dangerously. She had been born to the sound of the waves and the sea and as such did not fear the water, but still she clung to the side very tightly. Stormclouds rolled to cover the sky.

The strait of Tolfalas was especially treacherous, for it was dangerously rocky. It took a skilled captain to navigate these waters, and the only way to pass safely to the Ethir Anduin was to hug the coast of Tolfalas and then turn abruptly to the east, else the ships would be wrecked on the sharp rocks. In such a small boat they did not need to concern themselves with the rocks, but the wind and the current worked against them, fighting to blow them off course, and it took both Dánaron and Halthaith's strength to ferry them to the island. She did not offer to help, and in any case, she would have done little to help. Storm clouds were rolling in across the sky and in the distance she saw the coming rain.

With one last great pull, Halthaith brought them up onto the rocky shore, digging his oar into the ground to hold them steady. She nearly stumbled when she got out but then steadied herself. The rain was coming closer. To the south, she saw only rocky shoreline and stormclouds.

The fortress was just as she remembered, a guard standing atop the broad curtain wall, another guarding the gate who let them in with much creaking. The rain had reached the island, first a faint sprinkle and then harder until it was pouring, soaking her hair and face and clothes, muffling their footsteps and words. She was suddenly cold and shivering in the storm.

"We need to see the commander of the fortress," she told the guard who opened the gate for them. It was heavy gate and it took two men to open it, even with the help of a crank. "I have a message from the Steward."

He led them past in the inner wall, where, glancing up, she saw the arrow loops for the archers, and then finally into the keep itself. This was no palace or castle; Tolfalas was built as a fortress with none of Dol Amroth's ornamentation. They went up narrow, spiraling staircases, meant to give defenders the advantage of surprise in case the walls were breached, through the maze of passages and turns and rooms that had made it such an ideal place for hide-and-seek when they were young children. Back in the bloody years of the Kin-strife, Tolfalas had changed hands from side to side until, the stories ran, blood ran down the stairs and soaked the beaches of the islands, leaving ghosts behind to stalk the hallways of the fortress. As a child, she had only half-believed the stories, but now, the rain drumming on the roof, she fancied she could see the wraiths vanishing about the corners, ghosts of a time long ago. The corridors were strangely empty, for whenever she had come here, there had always been plenty of guards, all ready to run to man the catapults or string their bows in case of an attack. Perhaps it was the exaggeration of a childhood memory.

The heart of the keep.

For years her father had come here to confer the commanders he stationed at the fortress, for Tolfalas lay in the waters of Dor-en-Ernil, the realm of the Princes; it was one of the most strategic outposts in all of Gondor. It guarded all trade up the river; it marked the border between Gondor proper and southern Gondor. In order to raid the richest cities in the country, the Corsairs first had to pass by Tolfalas.

"Captain, a messenger from the Steward," said the guard and let them pass.

She recognized the commander as one of her father's men-at-arms, Captain Tercil. He recognized her, too, for he greeted her by name.

"Princess Lothíriel," he said, but he was one of those strange creatures upon whom rank had no bearing, so focused was he on his duties. "A message?"

"The Steward sent me to warn you that the Corsairs are coming," she said. The words fell into the empty, still air and only once they had hardened and solidified in the open did she realize how pathetically inadequate they were. How simple of a message. Was it truly worth the ride all the way here?

Tercil's face hardened. "Is he certain?"

"Yes," she said, "he is."

He began to pace and slowly awareness began to settle upon her. The muster. Her father had called all his knights and soldiers to Minas Tirith, leaving only a bare handful to guard Dol Amroth and Tolfalas. That was why, then, she had seen so few guards here. Tercil's face was hardened in thought. It was not a pleasant face, for his features were strangely intense, as though carved from granite. He was a master swordsman, she had heard, and though not especially charismatic or inspiring, he was hard-working, fair, and determined. He was one of her father's best commanders, she had heard, though just a commoner, and growing old for active duty.

Surely there would be no problem here, she thought. The Corsairs, when they wished to sail up the Anduin (rarely though it was) always slipped by Tolfalas under cover of night, attempting to avoid the flaming arrows and catapults. They would not actually invade the fortress; it had been centuries since an enemy dared to set foot on these shores.

"That is all, Captain," she said and dropped a clumsy curtsy. "By your leave. It will be a difficult crossing in this storm, but-,"

"I'm afraid you may not leave, Princess," Tercil interrupted, meeting her eyes very coolly.

Her heart dropped somewhere into the region of her stomach.

Thirty seconds for you=HAPPY Claire.