PART TWO: ANAMNESIS

Chapter II: A Call To War

"Fish?"

I grinned and nodded. "The hubby has a taste for fish tonight."

"Most dwarves I have encountered do not have a taste for fish." The local fish merchant, Jon Redwell wiped his hands on the apron stretched over his round stomach. He was a big-boned man with a beer belly that had developed from countless nights at the Inn of the Prancing Pony. He wore dark trousers with a navy blue scarf hideously knotted around his neck. His wife insisted scarves worn that way were stylish. I may or may not have been the person who told her that, thinking at the time that it was a harmless joke and not realizing that I would inflict such horrible fashion on poor Redwell.

"That's because dwarrows rarely get fish," I explained as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "How many fish do you know hop out of the sea and go on a road trip to the mountains?"

Redwell frowned. "There are fish in the mountain rivers."

I paused and considered this. "Oh yeah… Well, Thorin likes fish. He has surprisingly good taste in food. He'll even eat salad when I'm in the mood for some veggies."

Redwell's wife sighed dreamily from the back of the stall. "Your husband sounds lovely—to cook whatever his wife desires." She sent a scathing look at Redwell's back.

The idea of grumpy Thorin as an ideal husband made me laugh. I tried to smother my giggles as Redwell went to the wooden icebox to retrieve two trout he'd caught from the nearby river that morning.

"How is Kol the Buck doing?" he asked as he placed the fish on the counter and started wrapping them up in brown parchment for me.

"Burberry has spotted Kol with Shannon quite a lot frequently. We were wondering if Kol had finally found his one true love and was planning to settle down, but then Kol was seen with Olga. Maybe he and Shannon had a fight."

"I thought Kol was married to Helga," said Redwell, trying up the wrapped fish with a string.

"Kol will never marry," I said solemnly. "Once a player, always a player."

Redwell smiled and handed me the fish. "Enjoy your dinner. I hear pan-fried trout is excellent."

"I'll pass on your advice," I said. "Have a nice d—"

I paused.

And stared.

And stared some more.

And some more after that.

(There was a lot of staring going on.)

Why did I stop and stare, you ask? Well, my gaze had landed upon an all too familiar face. Well, not all that familiar. His face was younger (one-hundred-and-forty-eight years younger, to be exact) with less wrinkles and a thick brown beard instead of a white one. He was still short and solid-built, but the weight of years had been lifted from his shoulders, leaving him with the eagerness of a young warrior. He looked very out of place on the streets of Bree in his dark red armor with an axe strapped to his back. He kept looking left and right, his thick brows furrowed, and it took me a moment to realize that he was lost. Balin, son of Fundin and future Lord of Moria, was lost in Bree.

For a second, I considered running across the street and hugging him. I even took a step forward. But then, as the shock settled, I actually thought about the situation. Balin didn't know me in this time. And if he met me… Then one-hundred-and-forty-eight years in the future, would he realize that he'd met me? What if he told my past self that I would meet young Thorin? Would that change what past-me would do, what choices I would make? What if it stopped past-me from helping Frodo and Sam? I'm getting confused just explaining this, so you can imagine how much it made my head spin at the time. Basically, the conclusion I came to was that no one who meets me in the future could know that I was the same Ana. It could mess up everything, resulting in doom and despair for Middle Earth. Perhaps a little dramatic, but after everything I'd endured to ensure Middle Earth survived, I wasn't willing to take any risks in messing it all up again.

"Redwell," I said, turning back to the fish merchant.

"Yes?"

"Can I borrow your scarf?"

"Take it," said Redwell, untying the navy blue scarf as quickly as he could. He glanced back at his wife before lowering his voice and saying, "And, please, do not return it."

I was barely listening as I draped the scarf over my head and wrapping it around my face so that only my eyes were visible. The knitted scarf smelled of raw fish, and I wrinkled my nose as I crept across the street. Clutching the wrapped trout in one hand and holding the scarf in place with the other, I bowed my head in the hopes no one would notice me. Then I carefully stalked Balin through the streets of Bree.

Balin had asked Fernpath for directions and was now walking down the road, examining each house curiously. I followed him, dodging in and out of the crowds of people. Some folk gave me strange glances. Lucy even laughed aloud at the sight of me. I ignored them. I was on a mission. (And, yes, I was playing the Mission Impossible theme song in my head while doing this. Not that you know what that is.)

What was Balin doing in Bree?

He was walking in the direction of the smithy. Was he looking for Thorin?

Hopefully, Thorin had the common sense not to tell Balin my real name.

Hopefully, the people in Bree, most of whom definitely lacked common sense, wouldn't tell Balin my real name. That might be a bit too much to hope for.

I was invisible...like air… He couldn't see me. At least, I hoped he couldn't see me.

Longshoe paused in the middle of the street, his thick eyebrows scrunched as he stared at me. "Ana? What are you doing?"

"Shut up," I hissed, putting a finger to my lips. "I'm busy."

Balin was a good dozen feet ahead of me on the street. I tried to maintain a safe distance in case he looked over his shoulder. That way I could appear completely unconcerned with his business. Balin, a trained dwarven warrior, had no idea I was walking behind him. None at all.

Until he stepped down a side alleyway, and when I tried to follow him, he put a knife to my throat.

Yeah.

Maybe my stalking skills need a little work.

I stepped away from Balin until my back was pressed against the mossy, stone wall of one of the houses. The alleyway was dark and only a sliver of light slipped through the roofs of the towering two-story buildings. A yellow line of light fell across Balin's face like some twisted scar. His eyes were narrowed, and his large, round nose was almost touching the blue scarf as he examined me from head to tie, trying to figure out who I was.

I glanced left. I could see the people passing by in the street. They were chattering excitedly amongst themselves.

"He robbed me, I am telling you, he robbed me."

"—exhaustion is setting in."

"Did you see the woman who wears pants? She was walking around with a scarf—"

I looked back at Balin. He didn't resemble the cheerful, elderly man that I remembered. The Balin before me was hard and gritty…and very likely to try to murder me.

"Hi." I managed a weak smile underneath the scarf.

"Who are you?" asked Balin.

"Me?" I gulped. "I don't know. You tell me."

"This is no time for games." Balin pressed the knife closer to my throat. "Who are you, and why are you following me?"

"Following you?" I let out a strained laugh, probably somewhere between a gasp and whinny. "Why would I follow you? I don't even know you. Nope. Not at all. This is my first time meeting you. Definitely."

Balin scowled. "You are making me more suspicious with each word that comes from your mouth."

I clamped my mouth shut.

"Why are you wearing a scarf over your head?" asked Balin.

"It's fashionable."

Balin reached up to remove the scarf. A moment of heart wrenching terror shot through my body. What if Balin remembered me in future? Oh my God. He couldn't. It'd screw everything up. Stop. Stop. Stop. No!

"Balin, stop."

The knife at my throat disappeared, and the arm holding me against the wall moved away. I opened my right eye first and then the left. In all his majesty, Thorin stood at the entrance of the alleyway, dressed in his usual blue tunic, black trousers, and leather boots. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his lips were downturned in a disapproving scowl.

Balin still stood in front of me, the knife held loosely in his right hand. His dark eyes flickered from Thorin to me and back to Thorin. I could see him trying to put the pieces together, figure out what my relation to Thorin was exactly. If he hadn't just tried to murder me, I would have found Balin's confused expression adorable.

Instead, I gasped for breath and reached up to touch my throat—just to be sure that the knife edge was really gone. It was, but when I removed my hand from my neck, there was a thin line of red blood on my index finger.

"You cut me," I said. "You frigging cut me."

Balin wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on Thorin. Slowly, apparently deciding to put the question of my relationship to Thorin aside, Balin smiled. "I have not seen you in an age, my friend."

"The reunion's nice and all," I said. "But you frigging cut me. I'm bleeding!"

Thorin glanced at me, quickly surveying my hand, and then, deciding I would live, he turned to Balin. The two dwarrows embraced in greeting. I thought Balin might try to headbutt Thorin as a way of saying hello, as Balin often did with his brother, but it seemed he knew that headbutting wasn't exactly Thorin's style.

They started greeting each other in Khuzdul, and while I had learned some of the language over the past two years, I could only follow along when Thorin spoke slowly. Now, as Balin and Thorin exchanged rapid quips, I understood maybe one or two words.

Finally, Thorin broke off the conversation, looked at me, and said in the Common Tongue, "Do try not to kill her. I understand it can be tempting at times, but I need her alive and in one piece."

"Who is she?" asked Balin.

I crossed my fingers and prayed Thorin had enough sense to realize that Balin should not know my name. When I first arrived in Bree two years ago, I had told Thorin the whole story of his future and my past. Hopefully, he would realize that Balin couldn't know the truth.

"She is someone who you should not kill," said Thorin.

Balin sighed. "I will not pry into your secrets, but she must have name by which she is called."

And then a strange thing happened. You see, Thorin answered Balin with "Ana" at the same time that I shrieked "Thorin!" in an attempt to cover up my actual name. And somehow, through all this, Balin heard—

"Anren? Her name is Anren did you say?"

Thorin and I glanced at each other, silently debating if we should correct him or just leave things be.

Then, we turned back to Balin.

"Anren," I said, holding out my hand for Balin to shake. "Twenty-four-years-old. One-quarter dwarf, three-quarters human. Height four-foot-eight. Married to Thorin Oakenshield—but he's not called Oakenshield yet so just forget I said that. I'm married to Thorin. The blacksmith. The guy standing right next to me."

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Thorin resisting the urge to groan.

"Married?" Balin's jaw dropped.

"We are not," said Thorin. "We met in Bree, and after she told me her…circumstances, I took her in—as one might take in a stray dog." He ignored my glare and continued, "The Bree-folk somehow invented the story that we were married after eloping to avoid the wrath of her wealthy merchant family, and while we tried to convince them otherwise at first, we found it easier to allow them their fantasies."

"Aw," I said. "Don't say that, hubby. Our love is a true love. What is mine is yours. What is yours is mine. We share no secrets. We complete each other. Id-agânîn ra id-nâd."

Thorin shot me a glare though it didn't have its usual venom.

I laughed and pulled the scarf tighter around my head.

Fed up with my disguise, Thorin snatched the scarf off my head. I yelped and tried to cover my face with my hands. Balin couldn't see me. He wasn't allowed to know who I was. However, it seemed that Thorin didn't care about possibly causing doom and despair for Middle Earth. He said, "We are going home," and took firm hold of my forearm, dragging me out of the alleyway. He glanced over his shoulder and motioned for Balin to follow.

We stepped back out onto the busy main street of Bree. Thorin kept hold of my wrist, determined not to let me do anything else idiotic that might make Balin suspicious. As we walked home, some Bree-folk gave us questioning glances, but for the most part, they were used to Thorin and me. Over the past two years, more than one night had ended with me getting drunk at the Inn of the Prancing Pony and Thorin having to escort me home—they probably assumed that my drinking had just started earlier today.

"Don't tell Balin my real name," I whispered.

"He thinks you are Anren," said Thorin. "I do not intend to correct him."

"Anren…" I considered this new name for a second. "He believed it pretty quickly. Is that dwarvish?"

Thorin didn't respond.

"What's it dwarvish for?" I asked eagerly. "Does it mean pretty? Or gorgeous? Divine? Perfection?"

Thorin stared at me for a second, judging whether I was truly stupid or just pretending. I don't know what he decided, but he said, "It means 'annoying short girl who never quiets'."

I frowned. "Are you serious or just pulling my leg?"

Thorin smirked, but then his smile shifted into a frown. He glanced over at Balin who was following us with a curious expression. Then, Thorin lowered his voice and said, "Ana, I must tell you quickly—"

"First," I hissed, "we need to cover my face. Balin can't recognize me in the future."

Thorin hesitated. Then, he handed me back the navy blue scarf. I wrapped it around my neck, lifting it high enough to that it covered my jaw, mouth, and nose. Of course, that meant that with every breath, I was bombarded with the smell of fish, but you know, it was a sacrifice worth making for the future of Middle Earth.

"So what were you saying?" I asked, but Thorin wasn't paying attention to me.

Before I could bother him into answering me, Thorin released my forearm. We had reached our house, and Thorin was suddenly preoccupied with unlocking the door. I stealthily raised a hand to poke him in the side, but before I could get within a foot of him, Thorin blocked me with his right hand. He'd been on guard ever since I discovered he was ticklish two months ago.

Balin stood a little ways behind us, watching our exchanges with a disapproving scowl on his face. I fought back a sigh. Balin had been slow to warm to me back in the days of the Company as well.

When I saw the axe strapped to his back, I lowered my hand and smiled sheepishly at Balin. "Do try not to kill me."

His eyes narrowed. "How long have you and Thorin been living together?"

"Two years," I said. "He originally took me in out of pity and planned to kick me out as soon as possible."

Thorin grunted in agreement. Come to think of it, I wasn't sure what had changed his mind; somewhere along the way, he had decided not to kick me out. Maybe it was my charming looks and stunning personality.

Thorin threw open the front door and stepped back to allow Balin and I inside. I blew Thorin a kissed and thanked my "hubby", while Balin glowered at me from behind. (I was so good at making friends.)

I led Balin into the sitting room, pulled out a chair, and bowed dramatically as Balin took his seat. More murderous glares. I really should have stopped. I should have known when enough was enough, but of course, I was nervous, terrified that I had just screwed up the future of Middle Earth, and I couldn't think of any way to vent my nervousness except to tease Balin.

"Thorin just has to close up shop," I said, settling in a chair opposite Balin. "He'll be back in a minute. So any questions or threats that you have for me, you might as well get out of the way now while my hubby can't hear you."

Balin stared at me for a moment. "I cannot decide if you are thick-skinned or stupid."

"Definitely stupid," I said.

Balin hesitated. He glanced around the kitchen, taking in the wooden counters, the black stove top, the oaken table, and the four carved chairs. He took in the iron plates, pots, and pans that Thorin had made as well as the decorative weapons that hung from the walls.

"Thorin likes fancy weapons," I said, nodding towards one of the ornate axes that had been fashioned in the style common to Moria smiths. "Personally, I just walk from room to room hoping that I don't trip and spear myself on one of the swords hanging on the walls."

Finally, after taking in the house, Balin turned to stare at me. At first, he said nothing, just looked at me. I felt as though I'd been placed under a microscope, and I was being judged for every little thing—my clothes, my height, my posture. Shifting my seat, I made sure that the scarf still covered my nose. If I had been nervous before, I was even more nervous now. And so, the senseless babbling began.

"Have you been to Bree before? It's quite nice here. Thorin and I both enjoy it, though sometimes we get restless. We're both used to traveling and seeing the world, so being in one place for two years seems like a long time to us—"

"I cannot tell if you are as oblivious as you appear or if you put on a mask," said Balin. His eyes did not leave mine as he spoke. "Do you know who Thorin is? Do you know where he comes from, who his fathers are? Do you know why he has been living in Bree for the past two years?"

I watched Balin as he spoke with a twisted smile on my face. I waited patiently (or as patiently as I could) until he finished talking. Then, I laughed.

The laugh was originally out of anger, but then I watched as Balin's face shifted from this enraged-superior expression to an expression of just plain confusion, and my laughter turned real.

"I do not see what is so amusing," said Balin stiffly.

"You are adorable." I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye. "You think I don't know Thorin? I know that he will be King Under the Mountain one day. I know that he is crucial to the fate of Middle Earth and that he will accomplish great things. I know that he secretly finds my humor amusing, though he'll never admit to it because he thinks it doesn't suit his image. I know that his favorite color is blue. I know he likes to cook, and he hates it when other people intrude on his kitchen. I know that he misses the Lonely Mountain and all the gold that it possesses, but at the same time, some small part of him is glad that he has been relieved of his responsibilities as king, which is why he's here in Bree and not in Dunland with the rest of the dwarrows."

Balin stared at me. I don't know what was going through his head, but I don't think my response was what he expected. With a triumphant smirk, I folded my arms across my chest and leaned back in my seat. As if Balin could beat the two years that Thorin and I lived together.

"I do not find your humor amusing." Thorin stood in the kitchen doorway, a half-smile, half-scowl toying at his lips.

I grinned over my shoulder at him. "Don't lie—you think I'm hilarious."

Thorin refused to acknowledge that I was right, and instead he turned to Balin. "You have some business with me?"

After a moment, Balin tore his gaze away from me and said, "Such business is best discussed in private."

I snorted. "Thorin and I don't have secrets from each other."

It may have been my imagination, but Thorin stiffened slightly. However, when I looked over at him, he seemed at ease. He calmly strolled across the room and took a seat in the chair opposite Balin, saying, "You share your stories with any vagrant who wanders into Bree, Anren. I am hardly special."

"That's not true." I spoke softly, but Thorin understood me.

"No," agreed Thorin after a pause. "It is not. But you do share far too much with the Bree-folk."

With a snicker, I turned to Balin and explained, "Thorin has had some of the Bree-folk ask him for his recipes."

"The people in Bree do not need to know about my cooking," said Thorin.

"But you're so good at it," I said. "I just thought the rest of the world should know your majestic talents."

Balin's eyes were like a spectator at a tennis match, bouncing from Thorin to me to Thorin to me. He didn't speak, only watched. I kept glancing over at Balin, wondering curiously how he took the conversation, wondering if he would notice the similarities between Anren and Ana when he met me in his future. On the other hand, Thorin seemed not to care at all what Balin thought of our exchanges.

Thorin leaned back in his chair and surveyed me with his cool blue eyes. "Tell me, Balin, what brings you to Bree."

"Ill news," said Balin with a wary glance in my direction.

Keeping his gaze fixed on Balin, Thorin said, "I heard my father terrorizes the northern orcs. Word has reached the dwarrows of Bree that the Sacking of Mount Gundabad was an overwhelming victory."

I frowned. A hint of doubt began to worm its way into my chest. Thorin had never mentioned anything about Gundabad or its sacking to me.

"Two years wears your father's army thin," said Balin. "He calls to the Stonefists and the Blacklocks in the Red Mountains but they do not answer, and there are still Longbeards in Dunland who do not join him. But how can we expect them too, when King Thráin's own heir will not fight with him."

I sat rigid in my chair, my hands curling into fists around the edge of the wooden table. Balin's words made no sense to me. What call? What army? Was there a war going on? Thorin had told me nothing. But that was impossible. He would've told me. He wouldn't have kept something like this secret.

"Your grandfather," said Balin, his voice low. "You would leave King Thrór unavenged? You would let the orcs of Azanulbizar continue their reign, suffering no consequences for the torment they put your grandfather through?"

My gaze landed on Thorin, but of course, he wasn't looking at me. His head was turned towards the fireplace, his hands resting on the sides of the chair and his posture stiff.

It was Balin who broke the silence. "Ah, Anren, I see that you do not know all there is to know about Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór."

"Thorin." I ignored Balin despite how much his words stung. In my head, I was doing the math. Balin had said that the war had been going on for two years. I had been with Thorin for two years. Then that must mean that the call to go to war would have come around when I showed up in Thorin's life. My throat was thick. I felt like I was going to throw up. And here I was five minutes ago, bragging about how Thorin and I kept no secrets.

"Well." I folded my arms across my chest. "It's funny the things you learn after two years." Thorin finally looked at me, but it was too late. I was on my rant and nothing was going to stop me. "I mean, I told you my entire life story—and there were some pretty rough parts to it—and there you were sitting silently and not telling me there was frigging war going on. And that your father was leading it because your grandfather was killed. Like, you'd think that'd be an important think to tell your friend-fake wife-housemate but apparently not. Maybe I just have the wrong idea of what friendship is supposed to be. Oh God, is this what a wife feels like after she finds out her husband has been lying to her for years about quitting smoking."

Thorin grimaced. "Ana—"

"—ren," I added quickly.

Thorin's mouth might have twitched into a half smile, and the idea that he might be laughing at me only made me even angrier. I turned away from Thorin and said, "Balin, since Thorin here is apparently too good to tell his fake wife the truth of what's going on in the world, why don't you explain it."

Balin opened and closed his mouth. Then he glanced at Thorin.

"Don't ask him for permission," I snapped. I don't think it had the same force through the scarf. "We're supposed to be giving him the silent treatment."

I was pretty certain Thorin was rolling his eyes at me, but I was determined to ignore him. So I sat still, staring at Balin and trying to act like the story he was going to tell me was the most interesting thing going on in the room right then and I wasn't at all red with anger. I think I played my part well.

Balin shifted uncomfortably in his seat before, after a long sigh, he said, "King Thrór has long desired to return to the halls of Khazad-dûm, the land of our ancestors. Five years ago, he took a handful of dwarrows with him and departed from our home in Dunland. They crossed the Redhorn Pass and made it down into Azanulbizar, the Dimrill Dale. They found the East Gate of Moria open, and King Thrór was determined to enter. His companion, Nár, warned him against such a dangerous road, but the king was not to be deterred. He entered through the East Gate, bringing with him two companions. Nár waited outside the gate for several days with the remainder of the dwarrows. On the seventh day, the other dwarrows took the king for dead and departed. Nár, the faithful, continued to wait for two more days."

Balin paused, glancing at Thorin, perhaps hoping to see some sort of reaction, but Thorin gave none. I said nothing. With each word of the story, my anger with Thorin was draining out of me, and I was only filled with a growing sense of dread. I had heard this story before. Even if I didn't want to, I knew how this story was going to end.

"On the ninth day," said Balin, "Thrór's body was thrown upon the steps of the East Gate along with his severed head. Upon his head, Khuzdul runes had been branded, declaring Thrór a beggar king. Nár ran to his king's body, but he stopped when a pale orc emerged from the East Gate. The orc threw a change purse upon Thrór's corpse and called him a beggar. Then, a host of orcs emerged from the East Gate and swarmed around the king's body, feeding him to their beasts. Nar had no choice but to flee down the Silverlode."

Thorin had always had better self-control than me. As he listened to Balin's story, his face remained blank. Not a betrayal of emotion. The untrained eye would never know the knot of pain that had tightened inside of Thorin. Even if he hadn't bothered to tell me about the death of his grandfather and his father's war, I still knew Thorin better than most. I could see the shadows beneath his eyes, and I noticed when he flexed his fingers and curled them slightly. Slight hints, but all I needed to see to know that hearing this story upset Thorin deeply.

Since my hubby wouldn't speak, I took it upon myself to. "Orcs are bastards. Actually, that's an insult. I know a lot of bastards that I like. Nick is technically a bastard, his parents had him before they were married. Orcs are kakhf."

The corner of Thorin's mouth twitched upwards. One of the first things I learned when he started teaching me Khuzdul was how to curse. He intended for the curses to be used to refer to elves, but they worked just as well on orcs.

Balin stared at me for a second before deciding that the best course of action was to not respond. "Nár returned to Dunland and told his experiences to King Thráin. For seven days, Thráin sat without eating or sleeping—"

"That's a little extreme," I said.

Balin shot me a murderous glare. "Without eating or sleeping. On the seventh day, Thráin leapt to his feet and cried, 'This cannot be borne!' He called the dwarrows to war. Not just the Longbeards, but Gudrun's Firebeards, Baldor's Broadbeams, Nord's Blacklocks, Hafdáin's Stonefoots, Olvar's Ironfists, and Dagnur's Stiffbeards. On year after the death of his father, King Thráin waited in the Ettenmoor with a host of Longbeards. First came Prince Hedrun with his father's Firebeards, then came King Baldor with his Broadbeams, and finally Prince Fenvar led a host of Ironfists. King Thráin waited, but no others came. His own son, his own heir, did not answer the call."

Thorin's face remained impassive.

"Still, King Thráin led his host of Longbeards, Firebeards, Broadbeams, and Ironfists to Gundabad, and our victory over the orcs was overwhelming." Balin smiled slightly at the memory. "We celebrated that night, and two moons later, King Dagnur appeared with the warriors of the Stiffbeards. But King Thráin did not consider the defeat of the Gundabad orcs to be revenge enough for the fate of his father. The dwarven army marches south, battling the northern orcs and burning their towns. Their foul race will plague the halls of our ancestors no longer."

"But King Thráin's army grows weak," I said, remembering Balin's earlier words.

Balin scowled at me. "Yes, after three long years of battle, our army grows weary. King Gudrun sent but a modest host from the Firebeards, and not all Longbeard warriors joined King Thráin's cause. We still wait for King Hafdáin and King Nord to answer the call."

Finally, Balin's gaze landed on Thorin. There was a fire in his eyes, a defiance that the Balin I had known would never had looked at Thorin with. But this was a younger Balin, and sitting before him was an errant heir, not a king. "You are the son of Thráin and the grandson of Thrór, your absence can be overlooked no longer. Do you not hear the war songs of your brothers? Like drums in the deep, they call. They call across the mountains and through the dark halls. You cannot remain in Bree, deaf to them. It is your duty to your people, to your father, and to your late grandfather to be a part of this war."