Whoop-whoop - three weeks in a row! Thank you for the lovely feedback from the last chapter, I hope you enjoy this one, too!
As ever, please forgive my inevitable typos.
Chapter Eighty-Five: The Fall of Osgiliath
With a soft sigh, Pippin rested his chin on the balcony and gazed out at the gloomy fields outside of Minas Tirith. According to the clock and to the guards, it was nearly midday, but it was dark. Very dark. Thick, black clouds hung low in the sky, creeping their way into Gondor from the silhouette of Mordor.
Gandalf had said that when the darkness reached the city, the battle would begin. He said that it was a shield against the sun for the host of Mordor, and he said that he had some errands to run.
Then he said for Pippin to stay where he was, and stay out of trouble.
So Pippin stayed. Curiosity rose within him every now and again, drawing him towards the door, but memories of the Palantir and Moria and cheesy scones kept him on this balcony. It was nearer to the outer wall of the city than the room they had been staying in, but still high enough to offer him a view of the land that a guard had told him was called the Pelennor Fields.
The guards did not want to talk to him much. They were too busy guarding, and worrying. Not that Pippin blamed them. It was their duty to protect their city – not to make a little hobbit feel less alone.
So instead of talking, Pippin simply watched the rolling darkness.
He could not look away – he had tried.
It was like his eyes were glued to the darkness, and the great, smoke-like cloud seemed to sing of his darkest fears. The longer he stared at it, the more he saw – horrible, horrible visions in his mind of his family and his friends that would not go away no matter how hard he tried to think of something else.
His whole world revolved around his family. Around Merry and Fili, and Nelly and Bróin and Frodo and Sam and Pearl and Vinca – around his parents and cousins and uncles and aunts. There was not a single one of them he did not fear for. There was not a single one he could think of without his imagination turning against him, and conjuring an image of their broken, bloody body.
Well, he thought, sighing again, I don't do too well being alone, now, do I?
Not that that was a surprise. He did not do too well at most things.
Really, he should make himself useful, but he had no idea how to. There was nothing he really could do, save pledge his service to the steward and see if there were any menial tasks to do that way, but he did not think he wanted to do that. Pippin was sure of very little, but he knew that he did not like Denethor – not at all.
He heard a set of heavy, familiar footsteps behind him, and managed to tear his eyes away long enough to send a weak smile at the approaching wizard.
Gandalf smiled back, but he looked wearier than Pippin had ever seen him. His eyes looked very dark. "Well, my lad? How goes it?"
"It's very quiet," said Pippin. "The darkness is getting closer."
"Yes, the time is nearly upon us." Gandalf paused, pursing his lips and peering out over Gondor. His eyes widened, and a thrill of fear ran through Pippin. "Osgiliath!" the wizard breathed. "The cloud has reached Osgiliath."
With a slight frown, Pippin followed the wizard's gaze to the edge of the darkness. It hovered over a small, white city, built closer to Mordor than Minas Tirith, if Pippin's guess was true. Surely any settlements so close to Sauron would have been abandoned by now? There could not be anyone left in that small, lonely town, with the river running through it grey against the sky.
The river!
"But Faramir's still there!" Pippin cried, looking up at Gandalf. "That's, that's where Faramir went!"
"Indeed." Gandalf's voice was heavy, mournful, and Pippin swallowed. "That is where lord Denethor sent his youngest son. The army is upon them, now – I fear it is too late for Faramir. Curse him!"
"Faramir?" asked Pippin, confused, but Gandalf shook his head, turning away from the view and glaring bitterly up towards the citadel.
"No – Denethor. Curse him! He has allowed his pride and hatred rise above his care and his sense – the people will not love him for Faramir's death, and neither will Boromir. Neither will I."
Pippin felt a lump in his throat, his hands clutching the cold stone of the balcony. "Is - is it really too late?"
Gandalf bowed his head, his eyes closing. "I fear so. If they were to retreat, the company would have done so by now. Now the army is upon them. This will be their last stand."
Pippin tried to swallow, his eyes stinging. He had little memory of Faramir, given that he was but a toddler when first they met, but Boromir...
This would crush Boromir, and Pippin knew it. It would crush him beyond words or tears or hope.
He wanted to close his eyes, to look away from the dark moving ever closer, but he could not. His eyes would not move from Osgiliath, to where in all likelihood Boromir's brother was now standing. Dying.
Everything seemed so hopeless. And Pippin had to ask.
"Gandalf? Do you think there's any hope? For Frodo, and Sam, and Nelly and Bróin?"
The wizard opened his eyes and put a hand on Pippin's shoulder, and in his eyes was a sorrow as deep as the sea. "There never was much hope. Only a fool's hope."
Pippin tried to give a sad smile back, but his eyes were getting too watery, so he turned back to the sight of the darkness rolling over the far-away city.
And then Pippin saw something.
He rubbed his eyes and leant forwards, and then he gasped. "Gandalf! Gandalf, there are people down there!"
"What?" The wizard turned, and his eyes grew wider than Pippin had ever seen them. He whispered something that Pippin could not catch, and then he ran towards the road down to the gates of the city, fast as a man in his prime.
Pippin swallowed, and stared at the ant-like figures fleeing into the open fields, but then he heard a loud, angry call.
"Quickly, Pippin!"
Pippin jumped, and threw himself away from the balcony, running after the wizard. For a moment he was almost lost, but then he saw the trail of Gandalf's cape disappear around the corner and he hurried after him, wondering if he had just imagined the wizard calling him. After all, what good could Pippin do?
Still, as Gandalf gave a strange, high whistle, and charged down the street, Pippin hurried to keep on his heels. They were not even yet at the gate of the city when the young hobbit heard a tremendous crash, followed by cries of shock and the canter of horse hooves, and then Shadowfax appeared before him, shaking off his mane.
"Come along, Peregrin Took!" called Gandalf, and Pippin as so surprised that he shook his head.
"Me?"
Gandalf turned and grabbed the hobbit under his armpits, hoisting him up onto the horse. Pippin only caught sight of the wizard's face for a moment, but that moment was enough for him to see a familiar look of sheer exasperation.
"Yes, you," he said, leaping up behind Pippin with surprising skill for so old a man. "Given the trouble you manage to get yourself into even without having a Dark Lord and his Nazgûl on your tail, I think it would be best if you remain within my sight. Don't you?"
Feeling himself go a little red, Pippin nodded, and Gandalf raised his staff into the air. Shadowfax charged down the street, sending the people of Minas Tirith gasping and leaping out of the way. A yell of 'open the gates!' was the only thing to beat them to the outmost level of the city, and even as the horse sped towards the great gates the men pushed them open, and Shadowfax burst into the Pelennor Fields.
Muttering something in elvish that Pippin did not understand, Gandalf wrapped his arm around Pippin, and Shadowfax tossed his head back with a shrieking neigh, and then his hooves fell faster, and faster, and faster still, until the wind was stinging Pippin's eyes and whipping his hair against his face. Never, ever, had Pippin ridden as fast as this – and it would not be fast enough.
The men fleeing Osgiliath were so far away that they looked smaller than hobbits, and there was only one horse among them bearing three riders, but on their heels were hundreds upon hundreds of orcs, spilling out from the ruined city like red-ants. The fastest of orcs were already catching the slowest of the men, and Pippin winced as he saw an orc leap onto a limping man, bringing the soldier crashing to the ground and sinking its teeth into his neck. Another man fell out of nowhere, and Pippin saw a red tipped arrow in his back. Another man fell, and a third –
And then an explosion ripped the horizon apart, a sound so loud that Pippin would have jumped right off the horse if it was not for Gandalf's arm around him. Great hunks of white rock shot through the air around a plume of black smoke, and flames began to lick the roofs of Osgiliath as debris rained down upon the orcs closest to the city.
The orcs screeched and cringed, but the men did not so much as falter, instead continuing to run towards Minas Tirith, and towards Gandalf and Pippin. Some were stumbling or limping, and others were supporting the weight of their friends, but they were all moving forward. All running.
Many of the orcs were falling back towards the city, but not all of them, and even as Pippin thought that there might be hope for Faramir's troop, there came a screech that pierced the air, and a great shadow swept over the sky.
Terror coursed through Pippin's body and he looked up to see a great, winged beast in the sky, its rider shrouded in darkness.
"Is that a dragon?" he gasped, and though he thought his voice would be tossed aside by the wind, Gandalf replied, his voice grim and strained.
"No, it is not. It is a fell beast, a steed of the Nazgûl. Hold tight now, Pippin, my lad."
As the wizard spoke, the winged beast shot towards the ground like a hawk that had sighted a rabbit, and it snatched up two men in its claws before it surged back up into the sky. Pippin could not tear his eyes away from the sight as the men were raised higher and higher, their limbs flailing desperately, and then the claws released, and the men fell, and Pippin flinched, squeezing his eyes shut before they hit the ground.
He was close enough to hear them, though. To hear their screams, the crunch, their silence.
Shadowfax lurched to the side and Pippin gasped, his eyes flying open to see the Nazgûl swoop down again, this time plucking one of the riders from the back of the men's horse. The man screamed, and Pippin closed his eyes again, clutching at Gandalf's arm.
Don't let them take me, he prayed silently. Don't let them take me, don't let them take me, don't let them take me.
Gandalf's arm tightened purposefully around him, and then a bright light filtered through his eyelids, and Pippin opened his eyes. The most pure and brilliant light he had ever seen was shining around him, so bright that it felt like pure magic, and as he watched Gandalf thrust his staff towards the Nazgûl. With the precision of Fíli throwing a knife, the light shot into the sky above them, its beam shining on the beast of the Nazgûl. It let out another hair-raising screech, wings flapping almost clumsily in the air as it turned, flying back towards Mordor.
Pippin gave a wild laugh and looked down to see the orcs faltering, cringing away from the light and the wizard, and then a horn blew from somewhere in the city, and the orcs fell back, retreating into their newly-claimed ruins. As they did, the men's horse cantered past Shadowfax, foaming at the sides with white, bulging eyes, but still bearing two bloodied soldiers. Pippin met the smaller soldier's eyes as they passed each other, and his heart skipped a beat. The boy looked even younger than he was, and could not be much taller.
Barely slowing at all, Gandalf rode to the very back of the group of men, keeping his staff held high and letting the light fan out behind them like a great cloak. Then, like a sheepdog herding from the back of the flock, Gandalf kept the men of Minas Tirith moving.
"Run!" he ordered, even as his light kept the orcs at bay. "Your lives are ahead of you, there's not far to go now! You must keep running!"
A thrill of hope through Pippin, tingling like lightning from his head down to his toes.
They might make it. They might actually make it.
"Mithrandir! Mithrandir!"
It took Pippin a moment to remember that Mithrandir was the elvish name for Gandalf, and he would have wondered why a man of Gondor was using it, if he had not seen the soldier who called and been startled out of his thoughts.
The man's face was so badly beaten that Pippin doubted even a mother could recognise him – one eye was swollen shut, and his entire face was covered in mottled shades of black and purple and green – but still the man was moving, and moving quickly. What was more, there was another man draped over his shoulders. A man with two, long arrows embedded in his back.
"Mithrandir, my lord is injured!" the man called again, and Gandalf stiffened, turning Shadowfax towards the soldier. For the first time, Shadowfax slowed to a speed that did not make Pippin's eyeballs sting, and his stride faltered beside the staggering soldier.
"Pippin, you're going to have to hold on for yourself, lad," said Gandalf, and then he slid down off the horse's back. With a start, Pippin realised that he was now the sole rider of the 'fast-as-one-of-Kíli's-arrows' horse, and he all but fell forwards, wrapping his arms around the beast's neck as tightly as he dared. After a moment's consideration, he locked his legs around Shadowfax's chest too, for good measure. Shadowfax snorted.
"He, he was a fool!" gasped the soldier, still staggering beneath the weight of the man over their shoulders. "The arrows were meant for me, Mithrandir, and I was too slow, but he – he was not!"
"Help me get him onto the horse, there's a good lad," said Gandalf, and Pippin glanced over his shoulder as the wizard and the man draped the prone body over Shadowfax's back, just behind him.
"Take, take him to the city," gasped the soldier as Gandalf mounted Shadowfax once more. "Mithrandir, please, get him to the healers!"
"There is more than one man here to get safely into the city," said Gandalf, even as he took the wounded man's pulse. "Come, Master Rion – now is not the time to stop running."
Rion seemed to sag on the spot, hopelessness clear on his weary, battered face, but he nodded, and began to run again. Swallowing, Pippin glanced over his shoulder at the body behind him. The arrows were lodged deep, by the looks of it, and dark blood soaked the armour around them. But he might live, this lord that Rion clearly loved so much. Boromir had survived the arrows of the uruk-hai, and –
Pippin's blood ran cold, and he looked from wounded man up to Gandalf. "Is – is this Faramir?"
Gandalf nodded grimly, turning Shadowfax to once again ride across the back of the group, making sure that no one was lagging behind, and that the orcs and wraiths did not dare come any closer.
Pippin swallowed, staring down at Boromir's little brother. Was he breathing? It was hard to say. He was very still. Very pale.
"Is he going to be alright?" he asked, but Gandalf did not look at him.
Biting his lip, Pippin looked back at Faramir. He looked much younger than Pippin expected. Much more vulnerable. Pippin understood Rion's frustration now. They had to run, to fly, to get back to the city and get Faramir into the Healing Halls, they had to get the arrows out of his back, they had to do it now! But if they could not…
Taking a deep breath, Pippin let one of his hands leave Shadowfax's neck so that he could reach back. His fingers were trembling, but he managed to reach Faramir's elbow, and he pulled it gently.
"Peregrin, what do you think you're-" Gandalf broke off as Pippin squeezed Faramir's hand, looking up at the wizard.
"If… Boromir wouldn't want him to feel alone," he mumbled, and Gandalf's eyes sparkled with tears.
"Very good, Master Pippin," he said softly. "Very good. But don't you fall, now."
Pippin nodded, and then Gandalf's focus moved behind him. The wizard's eyes narrowed a fraction, but then his shoulders relaxed a little, and he let his staff lower slightly.
"At last…"
There were riders charging towards them, dozens and dozens of them, and Pippin's heart leapt. If Rohan had come, if Merry and Gimli were –
But no, he realised, his heart sinking as quickly as it had risen. These men were clad in deep blue armour, each with a swan emblazoned on their tunic. He could see that even from afar. They were not the Rohirrim, and Merry was still a world away.
Boromir was still a world away.
Pippin squeezed Faramir's hand. It was very cold.
The fastest of the riders was quick to reach the group of fleeing soldiers, and he leant down with the dexterity of an elf to pull one of the men onto the back of his horse, before turning back towards the city. One by one, Faramir's men were brought up onto horseback, until there was not a single man left running on his own two feet.
"Now," murmured Gandalf, "Go!"
Shadowfax lowered his head, and Pippin tightened the grip of his arms and legs, leaning forward against the horse's neck in an attempt not to fall off. His arm stretched uncomfortably behind him, but he still had hold of Faramir's hand, and he was not about to let go. Once again, Shadowfax ran with impossible speed, weaving deftly between the other riders and flying into the city ahead of them all.
"Out of my way!" bellowed Gandalf, waving his staff at those citizens foolish enough to still be standing in the road as they clattered their way through the city. "Get off the road, get out of my way!"
When he glanced over his shoulder, Pippin could see that many of the riders were following them on the route to the Healing Halls, including a tall man with long, dark hair and a grave face, who had the soldier Rion on the back of his horse – the only horse who came close to keeping up with Shadowfax.
They skidded to a halt so fast that Pippin got a mouthful of horse hair, and his fingers slipped at last from Faramir's. As Gandalf dismounted, the grave-faced rider caught them up.
"Mithrandir," he called, managing to leap from his horse and bow at the same time. "Faramir – does he live?"
"That is yet to be seen," said Gandalf, his eyes sadder than Pippin had ever seen them. He moved to bring Faramir down, but the man strode over and put a hand on the wizard's shoulder.
"Please," he said, in a voice that was strangely soft for a man so tall and broad. "May I?"
Gandalf bowed his head and stepped back, and the man gently pulled Faramir down, carrying him over one shoulder as though he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes and disappearing into an archway that Pippin assumed must lead to the Healing Halls.
"Prince Imrahil is Faramir's uncle," said Gandalf sadly as he lifted Pippin down, and led him through the archway. "Come."
Quick as he could, Pippin followed Gandalf through the Healing Halls of Minas Tirith. Again, there were others following, but when Gandalf turned into a side room only Rion entered with them, the others carrying on further down the hall. No doubt to find healing of their own.
Already, Imrahil had laid Faramir belly down on a bed so high that Pippin could comfortably place his chin on it, and there was a woman busy removing his blood-soaked armour and clothing. The young lord's face had been turned to the side, and Pippin could see a wispy lock of hair floating back and forth before his lips.
He breathed.
Gandalf strode over, and began talking intently to the healing woman, and to Imrahil, and almost at once, Pippin felt very out of place. He did not even know Faramir, but here he was by his sickbed, watching an uncle mourn the wounding of his nephew. It felt very private, and yet here was Pippin. Too much of a nuisance to be out of Gandalf's sight.
Except maybe, now, he had a chance to be a little bit more useful. He was not a healer – not by any stretch of the imagination – but his Grandma Daisy was, and after the horrible incident in Mirkwood she had made sure to teach Pippin all she could make him remember about the basics every time that he returned to the Shire. So, he took a deep breath, and walked over to the one person in the room who looked almost as out of place as he did.
Rion was standing by the door in a pose that Pippin knew well. Shoulders back, hands down at his sides, back stiff. It was the position of a guard, but judging by the soldier's face, he ought to be leaving the guarding to someone else.
Clearing his throat, Pippin steeled himself. "Excuse me, sir, but you should probably let someone look at your face. Now, I know I don't look much like a healer and I'm not really one at all in truth, but I know the very basics and-"
"You are a halfling," whispered Rion, stumbling forward and grabbing Pippin's shoulder tightly with eyes so wide the man looked half-mad.
"I-uh-yes," said Pippin, his eyes flickering towards Gandalf. "I am."
"What is your name?" the soldier demanded, and somewhere in the back of his mind Pippin noted that his mother would be furious at such a show of bad-manners.
Pippin, however, was much more like his dwarves in this respect, however, so he said, "Pippin. Peregrin-"
"Took," breathed the soldier, a grin spreading across his swollen cheeks and revealing a missing tooth. "You're alive!"
Pippin blinked. "I – well, yes, last time I checked. How do you know my-" Pippin froze, his eyes moving for the first time to the soldier's uniform. Except it was not a soldier's uniform. It was the garb of a ranger, and he knew that because he had seen it before. "You've seen my sister? And Bróin, and Frodo, and Sam?"
He nodded, and looked up at Gandalf. "Mithrandir, will want to hear what I have to say. When I know that Faramir is safe I will tell you everything, I swear it."
Pippin shook his head quickly. His heart was beating fast enough to outrun Shadowfax. "Is she alright? Are they hurt?"
"Not when last I saw them. They were unharmed, and well-fed, too," promised Rion, but his eyes were fixed in Faramir.
A healer approached them, but Rion brushed her hands away. When the woman tried again, Rion shook his head.
"When I know how my lord fares, and I have given my report, I will consent to be tended to. Until then, madam, my duty binds me."
The healer raised her eyebrow, and then turned away without a word, muttering something that sounded an awful lot like, "sisters."
After what felt like a lifetime, Gandalf turned away from Faramir and approached Rion and Pippin, his face grim and his hands bloody. The arrows were no longer in the young man's back, and the healer was binding him with bandages, but then Imrahil stepped beside Gandalf and blocked Pippin's view of Faramir. When he looked at Pippin, Imrahil did a double-take, though unlike Rion he said nothing.
"The fight is now down to Faramir," said Gandalf wearily. "I have done all I can, and the healers will continue to assist, but the arrow tips were poisoned. He is stable, but if he does not have the will to endure, I fear he will succumb."
"Faramir is stronger than any man here," protested Imrahil. "Why would you think he has not the will?"
"My Lord Faramir has not been himself since we received word of his brother's death," said Rion, his worried eyes on Faramir.
"Boromir is dead?" cried Imrahil, and Pippin and Gandalf shook their heads.
"No!" they said together, and Rion recoiled.
"No?"
"We left him alive in Edoras, less than a week ago!" explained Pippin.
"He lives?" breathed Rion, and then his knees gave way. With a start, Pippin attempted to catch him, but the man was near twice his height and all muscle, so they both ended up on the ground. Imrahil helped Rion into a chair as Gandalf hoisted Pippin back to his feet.
"Indeed," said Gandalf. "The lies of Gríma Wormtongue spread far."
Rion's head dropped into his hands. "Then the lies of Gríma Wormtongue will kill Faramir. When he met us in Osgiliath he fully expected to die there. I fear a part of him almost wanted to."
Imrahil swore, looking over his shoulder at his nephew in a way that reminded Pippin a lot of Thorin, and the worried looks he would give any of the children in their family if they got so much as a cold.
Gandalf sighed. "I do not doubt it, with words such as his father's. Nevertheless, it is out of our hands, now. All we can do is pray."
Rion nodded, and then raised his head, looking at the wizard. "We met Frodo Baggins and his kin in Ithilien, Mithrandir, not three days ago."
Gandalf's eyes widened, and he leant more heavily on his staff. "What? Rion, tell me everything!"
And Rion did tell them everything.
Pippin's heart twisted painfully at the knowledge that Nelly and Bróin had been imprisoned, had been tortured, and that he had been so close to getting them back. So, so close to knowing that they were alive, to getting them somewhere safe and giving them some clean clothes…
That said, he was also very pleased to learn that the rangers had welcomed them, and very happy to know that they had all be properly fed and clothed before they moved on. He was also slightly jealous of their taming of a warg. He would quite like a warg of his own.
Most important of all, though, was the knowledge that they were alive. His big sister was still with him.
But then Rion said something else, something about the path that they had taken, and Gandalf's eyes grew darker than the cloud of Mordor.
"Cirith Ungol? You are sure?"
Rion nodded.
"What does that mean?" demanded Pippin. "Gandalf?"
Gandalf stared down at him for a long moment, and then gave a heavy sigh.
"That, my dear young hobbit, means trouble."
A loud, angry voice began to shout down the hall, and the hair on the back of Pippin's neck stood up. Imrahil's lip curled slightly, and Gandalf's nostrils flared.
"Denethor," the wizard muttered. "He will not like that this report came to me, though I doubt not Faramir told it to him first hand."
"I will deal with Denethor," said Imrahil gravely. "Faramir needs peace, and my brother-in-law needs a talking to."
"I will help you with that," said Gandalf. "Master Rion, I suggest you submit to a healer yourself. Do not fear for Faramir. Pippin will look after him."
Pippin smiled a little, and though Rion did not look convinced, he nodded, and allowed himself to be led away by the same healer from before, who had quite clearly been lurking and waiting for such an opportunity.
"You take care of my nephew now, boy," said Imrahil, nodding at Pippin and them striding out the door before Pippin could utter as much as a 'yes sir!'
Gandalf leant down and looked Pippin in the eyes. "Normally, Imrahil's manners are not nearly so brusque, but he cares very deeply for Faramir. I do not know if Faramir can hear us, Pippin, but if he can it is vital that he knows Boromir lives. Do you understand?"
Pippin nodded, and Gandalf smiled at him, squeezing his shoulders before sweeping off after Imrahil and leaving the hobbit alone with the unconscious Faramir, and a healing lady whose name he did not know. Again, a feeling of extreme awkwardness crept up him, and a part of Pippin wanted to just sneak away.
However, Faramir was Boromir's baby brother, and Pippin would be damned if he let anything happen to him.
He grabbed a nearby chair and pushed it up to the side of the bed, clambering up so that he could actually see the young lord, and then, once again, he took Faramir's hand. It was still cold, and clammy, but Pippin held it tight, and cleared his throat.
"Hello, Master Faramir," he said. "You don't know me – well, I doubt you remember me, since we were barely more than babes when we met last, but my name is Pippin, and I'm good friends with your brother. Now, I know you've been told that Boromir's dead, but he isn't. He isn't at all, I promise. He's on his way to see you, so you have to hold on now. You have to. Because if he gets here and you're gone, it will break him for certain. I'm sure you're wondering how such a big misunderstanding could happen – now, I don't completely understand myself, but I'm pretty sure it starts with a nasty little man called Gríma Wormtongue…"
It was over an hour and a half before the men returned, and when they did it was to find young Peregrin Took still talking. He chattered softly about happier days of their journey, and wandered off on tangents that led nowhere, and repeated again and again that Boromir was alive, and well, and coming to see his brother soon. It was several minutes before Pippin even noticed they were there, but none of them, not Gandalf, nor Imrahil, nor Rion, had the heart to stop him.
Not when they could see the slightest twitch of a smile of Faramir's slumbering face.
I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! Please do let me know what you thought, if you can, I really appreciate it.
Until next time, take care!