A/N: Sorry for the delay; the remainder of the story is finished and will be updated weekly, with three or four parts left. I rather recommend re-reading the last chapter, since it has been so long, but I have put the last bit below. Also, you should check out the illustrious Wizardology101's trailer for this story at youtube .com/watch?v=6sQSnnkPI5o. It is really awesome, and can jog your memory before reading this part! :) Hope you enjoy!
Last time:
Day zero dawns with clouds glowing red. Arthur stands atop the battlements and soaks in the sight of his Camelot, still patched from the dragon weeks ago. People filter through the castle gates, taking shelter inside, while the undulating black of Palengard's army arcs over the horizon, set against the red. The curse sealed over the blue yesterday.
He grips the stone so hard his knuckles turn white and he squeezes his jaw, the heat welcome. You must learn to listen as well as you fight. Well, he listened plenty, but there was no one to hear.
He burned the useless piece of fabric this morning.
Abandonment is acid in his heart. It corrodes to rage, battle rage, and he embraces the blinding urge to break the world and cauterize it clean.
A drop splats on Arthur's cheek. He swipes it, then stares at the red streak staining the back of his hand.
The blood-filled sky rumbles, and Arthur draws his sword.
Arthur stands next to Leon at the battlements as the soldiers spill across the fields and flood the city in blue uniforms. Much of the army is mercenary, Arthur knows; the clash of dialects and melodies scrape his skin, and the cut of clothing is unique to troupes.
A line of blood slips down his brow, and he swipes it away. He glances at Leon, his hair staining red and face frozen, and yells over the roar, "Let us hope this fall doesn't get worse. It will obscure our vision."
Leon grimaces, hinting at the mental horror, but says instead, "Watching them swarm the city uncontested is worse."
Arthur's knuckles go white around his sword, and his breath quickens in rage. He had forgone all hope of defending the outer city as soon as he heard the size of Palengard's army, no doubt reinforced with sorcerers. He collected all his men in the castle and hoped to take advantage of the bottleneck it offered. He cannot not win in outright force, but he can put time on his side.
The roaring fills his mind; he can see the tide of soldiers, flowing through alleys and up the main road, the castle in their sight. It pulses foreign syncopations, and some of the knights shift, eyes slanting nervously. The chanting rises, lurching Arthur's heart fast, and the army breaks into a trot.
"Hold!" Arthur orders, and begins to pace along the line, voicing encouragement. If they all believe, then maybe he can make himself believe too.
The volume rises again, and then the army is running, flooding, and the sheer size could knock the stone walls over. Arthur's speech doesn't break, but his heart quickens, the truth scaring it, though Arthur refuses to admit to himself that they are doomed.
He can see individuals below, hair blond or black or brown, swords overhead. Ladders float with the waves, and trebuchets are pitched, arms tied back and ready to snap.
Then the sky roars.
Arthur blinks, thinking his memories are becoming too vivid, because that was the dragon, and surely the energy now must be reminding him…
But then Leon cries, "Sire!" and the dragon dips below the overcast, shining gold against the red sky and flying towards the castle.
Arthur's mouth hangs slack. The dragon roars, and the sea below shades pale skin as heads tilt up to stare.
"What—no!" Arthur cries. "No!"
His men are panicking, shouting questions to him, and he must snap, "Stand firm! Archers, point up!" But he doesn't hear himself say it.
"I killed you!" he yells.
The nightmares converge, and he could scream with the insanity because the dragon is back and the army at the gates and his Camelot will be burned and trampled at once!
The emptiness is alien to him, and his knees lock in stupored horror. The dragon crosses overhead, the arrows unnoticed, and the wings are spread wide and Arthur is staring at his crest made real just as the first line of trebuchets launch at the castle.
Kilgarrah soars over the wall. The hair on Merlin's arms stands on end and his magic tingles, but otherwise the magical shield has no effect. Relief lets him exhale deep.
You doubted my honor? Amusement laces the question.
Though he trusted his power over Kilgarrah, he hadn't been sure how much of the dragon's compliance was genuine loyalty. He may have just been waiting for Merlin to become distracted—or dead.
"Not anymore," he says. The air carries his voice away, but he knows the dragon hears.
The courtyard slips under them, then Kilgarrah locks his wings and banks. Merlin wraps his free arm around the spine as the tilt steepens, and spires slide past. Tucked under his other arm is the dragon-forged sword, hilt and runes glowing the gold of Kilgarrah's scales. They'd detoured to the lake to retrieve it; Merlin had hesitated in the quiet, nothing but the tickle of water and rush of reeds. He wanted to stay there, to slip into the silence and float, but instead he skipped a stone for Freya—thinking no clear prayer, but a wordless plea in his chest—then he'd forced the words to rake his throat and summon the blade from the water.
Kilgarrah dips into a descent and Merlin's stomach flops. His clutches the spine, and as the tiled roof rushes up to meet them, his eyes shut.
Suddenly they balk and Kilgarrah drops onto the roof, lurching Merlin forward so he swings around the spine and his feet scramble for a grip across rough scales. The flat of the blade scrapes scales, the screech aching Merlin's teeth.
A moment later, Merlin's hanging by the spine down Kilgarrah's shoulder, rising and falling as the dragon breathes.
Merlin lets out a breath, energy shivering through him. The scales are warm across his torso, but his shoulder already aches.
The patch of roof is largely hidden by turrets and barely fits the dragon. It's two stories up, but the first has the kitchen, Merlin realizes. He unclenches his seizing hand and slides down. He stumbles on the blood-slicked slope, knees buckling and sight rimming black for a moment, but he out-swings his arms and manages not to impale himself.
Kilgarrah watches this dismount with one brow raised. Merlin huffs under the scrutiny. "It is my first flight."
Kilgarrah's gold eyes narrow. You are not invincible, young warlock.
Merlin grimaces, flexing his aching palms, and scuffs at the slate tiles. "I'll get by."
Perhaps, the dragon says, but that will not be enough to vanquish Palengard.
The stone ring had healed him and wiped away the exhaustion, but that had been days ago, and his sleep was fitful during Kilgarrah's flight. He cannot remember the last time he ate; he scrounged a bit when Kilgarrah paused to rest, since his pack had been destroyed in the fire, but the foraging had hardly been meals.
One blood-spotted tile is loose, and Merlin pokes at it with his toe. It wiggles in its slot. Shouts and the din of battle echo off the walls, loud and distorted. "It will have to be enough," he says. With the sword point he knocks the tile free and watches it slide down and disappear. He doesn't hear it fall.
He turns back to Kilgarrah. "This will be over soon." One way or another, but he doesn't send the thought.
Kilgarrah swings his head forward and crouches, preparing to launch. Good luck, Merlin.
Merlin is oddly comforted by his name, and his goodbye is warm. Fly carefully, Kilgarrah.
The wings snap up and dragon launches, and this time Merlin's ready for the burst of wind.
Kilgarrah tilts and vanishes, but his battle roar ricochets off the battlements and amplifies, the note of valor ringing in Merlin's own heart. It's the dragon blood in him, he figures, but he's thankful for the strength, however lent.
He takes a deep breath, then scampers across the roof.
He'd never liked Arthur's story about the unusually accessible druid. Not only had the druid been in a bar alone—which was strange enough—but he'd also been willing to give Arthur information no druid should have known. Morgause and Morgana were sorceresses, hidden far away; how could he know of their existence but not the warlock's right in Camelot?
It was Palengard, Merlin had realized during the long hours astride Kilgarrah, or at least one of his confidents. He likely knew Morgause and had made sure she posed no threat to him.
And now he wants Emrys, the only renegade left, the only one defending the Pendragons.
Merlin scrambles past a tower and continues along the roof, heading for the rimming battlements. His foot slips on bloody ground and he has to swipe red drops from his eyelashes, but so far the fall is not heavy. Beads slip down Excalibur, catching in the runes.
He's pretty sure Palengard has launched the attack because he truly covets Camelot and isn't just trying to lure Emrys out. The latter seems a waste of manpower, though he did go to a lot of trouble on Arthur when he could have killed the prince. Another way to flush Emrys out?
Nonetheless, with the shields and the dragon, the army is doomed to exhaust itself. Killing Emrys will become Palengard's priority, and Merlin knows those shields won't stop that sorcerer from slipping in eventually.
Palengard also wants the Pendragons dead. Killing them would reduce the knights to chaos and, in Palengard's mind, give Emrys no more reason to fight.
Merlin skids to a stop. It's a steep slope down, then a drop to the battlement. It's in the back, so there are only a couple knights watching for a surprise rear assault. None of Arthur's closest, and they pace, watching the emptiness beyond the walls.
Merlin catches his breath, preparing for the rush. Already adrenaline pains his heart, and the magic tingles through his palms.
Arthur first, he reminds himself. Uther will be guarded deep in the castle, but the prince will be in the front lines, a glowing target for Palengard. Merlin needs to be the target now, which means getting Arthur out of the way. Hopefully, Merlin can stage things so that Arthur will accept the sword; with it, Arthur might have a chance to defend himself against the sorcerer.
Blood soaks his hair, spatters his clothing and slips along his cheek.
Three, two… one.
He drops onto his rear and slides.
The trebuchets snap free, and all the knights duck but Arthur. He watches the boulders arc towards the walls and finally admits, I cannot win this.
The dragon has vanished behind him, silent and so far not attacking, but Arthur's back crawls in the waiting.
The stones arc high, one coming straight for him; it will clear the wall entirely…
Then there is a crackling; Arthur's breath hitches at the jolt, and shimmering blue ripples circles out above. When they fade back to clear, there is no boulder.
There are hollers from below, not victorious but angry, even confused; the chanting fragments.
Arthur swings his head, and the knights are gaping, jaws open, staring at the now-empty sky. Not a single boulder had actually impacted.
"It's like… a wall," Alymere says, a couple slots to Arthur's right. "An invisible one."
Arthur picks up a shard of stone and flings it out, but it passes out unaffected and he loses sight of it.
Then there is a volley of arrows from below, some alight, and the knights duck again. This time Arthur has the sense to kneel, but he peeks his head above to watch.
The air lights blue at each tiny point and the arrows vanish to dust. Arthur can see it float down in little puffs where the arrows hit the… the wall? It ripples like water yet crumbles boulders.
"What is it?" Leon gasps.
"It must be sorcery," Tristan says, but his voice is hesitant with the obvious issue.
"It must be a trick," Leon says. "To confuse us." Because the sorcery can't be acting against Palengard.
Arthur stares, the blue shimmers fading to clear. It is a pure blue, almost pale, and he recognizes the shade. Something stirs in his heart, tightening the skin around his eyes, and he snaps, "Fire an arrow."
"What?"
"Now. Just one; fire straight out." His voice is hard with the strain of hiding the hope.
Leon picks up his crossbow and fires. The arrow sails out and vanishes into the army below.
"It didn't react," Leon says. His brow furrows, but he won't voice the treason.
Tristan, young and hair moppy brown, says, "My Lord, is it…"
Arthur is frozen in shock, but he remembers the blue, once a shining globe. Hope flows warm wine into his chest even as he tries to fill himself with warnings not to trust magic, no matter what, and this shield could fade at any moment—but the light had not.
His head jerks a small nod. He whirls and cries, "Fire at will!"
His arrows sail out just as Palengard's army launches another volley; Arthur's arrows hit below, the first cries of pain slicing up, while Palengard's burst to dust with glimmers of blue.
His knights half-lower their crossbows, wide-eyed and looking to each other for an appropriate reaction, and Arthur's lips peel back in a fierce grin.
Merlin runs, and few even turn to glance at him. Those who do have war-dimmed eyes and spare him no attention, probably unaware he'd ever been gone. He clings to shadows, sometimes ducking into the castle to take more obscure routes, and slowly winds his way towards Arthur.
He dodges up the stairs leading to the front walls, and emerges to a barrage of noise. He stumbles at the impact, but shakes his head to clear it and glances up to see the dragon dive, burning Palengard's army. He rises with men in his claws, and once high enough Merlin can cover Kilgarrah with his palm, the dragon lets them fall, their limbs spread wide like stars.
Merlin grimaces, feeling illness in his chest as if his heart is infected, but he forces himself forward in search of Arthur. His wall can keep out the nonmagical, even the weaker sorcerers, but the runes will not keep Palengard long. Blood spatters his shirt purple.
He ducks low and huddles in a divot in the wall, then focuses… there's warmth in his chest, and he mutters in the Old Language, Find Arthur.
He is a white flare in his mind, right at the front of the defenses as Merlin suspected. He lets the spell fade. Without complicated materials and time, such a spell has a limited range; even from his current position, Merlin had felt Arthur in the outer third of the spell's ring.
"Now," he murmurs to himself, "For the fun bit." He props the sword against the wall, cups his palms, and murmurs, "Don't be daft, Arthur." Drops of blood have fallen into his palms already, so he quickly summons the light.
When the blue orb floats across Arthur's vision, all he can do is lower his crossbow and stare. He would be shocked, but considering there is a magical shield fending off Palengard and the dragon is not only alive, but defending Camelot, Arthur finds himself rather drained of surprise.
Instead, he says, "I can see fine."
The orb is only about half as large as before, but it swirls that same blue-white light. It floats to his face, so close Arthur draws his neck back and his vision is filled with light and he can feel the warmth, then it sails off, down the battlements. It pauses several meters down when Arthur doesn't follow.
"Sire?" Leon asks, staring at him worriedly. "Are you injured?"
Arthur blinks and turns to Leon, but there is no panic in the man's eyes. He hadn't seen. Or maybe he can't? The thought disturbs Arthur, and rather than risking claims of madness, he says, "No." Gesturing to Palengard's harmless army, he adds, "How can I be?"
Leon doesn't quite smile, but his voice carries humor when he returns, "You could drop your crossbow on your foot, I suppose."
"You're confusing me for Merlin," Arthur says, then blinks at the cold loneliness in his chest. "I'm going to circle around and make sure all sides are holding. Take over for me."
"My Lord." Leon nods and turns.
Arthur approaches the light, bobbing at eye-level, and says, "I'm not lost, you know."
The light spins a little loop and floats on. Arthur breathes out through his nose and glances out at the army, stretching beyond the walls, though the front is a carnage of fire and arrows. Even grappling hooks and ladders burst to splinters upon hitting the magical shield. Guilt twinges in Arthur's chest at the slaughter; it seems a violation of his honor to not give those men a proper chance to fight. That he had nothing to do with the magic and the dragon is beside the point.
But then he looks the other way, down into the courtyard, and sees a curly-haired woman in a lavender dress hauling water from the well. Gwen, he hopes, stocking up while she can… but so far the infirmary will be empty.
This realization dims the shame in Arthur. If magic has risen to his aid, then it is merely a mighty irony for Palengard, and certainly deserved. He can worry about the morality later, after his people are safe. His father would rather die than accept this magic, Arthur knows, but he is not so strict. He can easily give his life to Camelot; surely he can give his honor?
The globe bobs in his face again, and Arthur swats at it. It dodges. "I won't leave the battle," Arthur snaps.
It orbits twice around his head and floats on. The light swirls faster, impatient. He keeps his sword drawn and murmurs, "I must be insane."
Arthur follows.
The tear is like a shiver up Merlin's spine and he stumbles, breath cold. His hands shake and he gasps as the blood spots him, and slowly the rip seals itself. Still he feels chilled, like someone had crept up and stolen from him. Palengard is in.
"Well, that didn't take long," he mutters, then he runs.
He doesn't think about where he goes; the point is to be a moving target and keep the orb shining a safe distance behind. Arthur will follow in the crazy zig-zag, Merlin blindly leading, and without a pattern it ought to keep Palengard busy.
He runs up, down, loops, doubles back, exits the castle then ducks back in through the kitchen… he only avoids the main floor, where the infirmary and familiar faces will be. Otherwise he keeps his mind schooled blank, in case Palengard should have some sort of future-sight. It will be useless if Merlin has no intention to discern. He counts his stumbles and trips, just to keep his mind busy.
He runs down a disused wing, scavenged of most furniture and the rest left covered. The stitch in his side hitches sharp every breath, so Merlin ducks into a stone room, smaller than the council chambers and lacking the pillars, with only slits of stained glass for light.
He skids into the room, sword clutched in hand, and looks straight into Arthur's eyes.
"Arthur," Merlin says, back-stepping automatically, bewildered. "But how did you—"
Arthur's eyes narrow into a glare, choking off the words. Merlin's palms slicken cold, and the glass stains Arthur's skin into shifting patterns as he takes a step forward.
Merlin backs, but suddenly Arthur rushes and Merlin cries, "Wait!" and huddles, sword raised in a half-hearted defense… then Arthur skirts around him and swings the room's doors shut. Though this isn't a good thing, not really, Merlin can't help but sigh in relief at the quiet and hope Arthur is willing to talk. There'd surely be no other need for privacy during a war?
Arthur turns and lifts his sword. "Hello, Emrys."
Maybe not. Arthur's shoulders lift with each breath, eyes surging that same tidal rage from when he'd attacked Uther. Merlin quails under the hate, the dreams brought to life, and in his panic he thinks talk talk talk because it has worked before and surely it'll work again? "Arthur, please, I can explain everything if you'd just—"
"You've betrayed me!"
The sword weighs heavy in Merlin's hand, the tip centimeters above the flagstone. "No no no, just listen, I've always been loyal to you—" Arthur's mouth twists and Merlin swallows his words, realizing that this isn't working, that more talking is only more lying in Arthur's mind. His voice drops, slowing. "I've betrayed the law," he admits, hoping the confession will help. "But I've never betrayed you." The sword tip touches stone with a single high chime.
Arthur shifts his weight, still angry and ready to fight, but he hasn't lunged. The words crunch like broken glass. "You lied to me."
"Of course I did," Merlin says. "I'm no good to you dead."
"You're Emrys." He lifts his sword a little higher, and Merlin flinches, the name whispered high in his mind, a fate more than a name.
"I'm Merlin," he snaps.
"Liar." Arthur stalks forward, and Merlin stumbles back. A small door's tucked in the far corner, and Merlin dimly remembers a spiral staircase to an isolated balcony, an overlook overrun by centuries of the castle's expansion. "You're a sorcerer, even worse than Palengard."
He's so close, and he swings wildly; Merlin ducks and scrambles for the door with a panicked yelp. The door flies open before he reaches it, and he cringes at the show of magic before charging up the spiral stairs, Arthur's chasing steps echoing up and past.
Merlin staggers out on the rampart, little more than a balcony with higher wings and turrets encasing it on three sides like blinkers, though there's an angled view of the castle gates from the fourth side. Sound fills his ears, roaring and screaming, and he's halfway across before processing that there's no door on the far side, nowhere more to hide.
The flat of Arthur's blade swoops around, and his ankles hook over and he tumbles to the stone, holding his sword wide from the fall. It'd be just his luck to impale himself on the sword meant to save them.
A point presses between his shoulder blades, at the divot between two knobs of his spine.
Arthur circles around, the point pivoting as he comes to face Merlin. Merlin looks up, the glowing red sky from behind casting Arthur red and black, and blood slides fresh across his armor.
"Get up." And Merlin's eyes slide shut and his forehead drops to the sticky stone, because that's ice, an order from state Arthur, justice Arthur, executioner Arthur. The sword is lifted, and Merlin sits, mind full of battle cries and incoherency. Before he can stand, Arthur crouches to his level, eyes pulling oceans and blood rusted in his hair.
"What—" Merlin leans back, but then Arthur's hand grabs the nape of his neck and yanks him forward until their foreheads are only a breath apart and Merlin sees the currents of rage in the lines of Arthur's irises.
"You're evil," he says, words breathed hot, and the wind hisses.
Merlin stares into Arthur's eyes. Evil, he thinks. It is a new name, like when he first heard Emrys, and he tries it. I am Merlin. I am Emrys. I am evil.
I am evil.
He shakes his head, and Arthur's hand clamps. Merlin says, "No, you don't—"
"How many," Arthur says, voice low and thick as underwater, "have died because of you?"
Blood patters off the stone, muffled more than rain. Merlin can't breathe, and Arthur continues in that slow-drowning voice, "You've killed for your pride. Innocent people, friends and family. You have killed monsters more human than yourself."
Not human, and he winces at childhood fears of gold blood. He surfaces long enough to gasp,"But destiny—"
Arthur barks a laugh and stands, air brushing free behind Merlin's neck, and his top lip peels back in a sneer. "Is that what you tell yourself at night?"
Merlin stands, staggering back, but Arthur swings out his sword and herds Merlin sideways towards the open wall. "Does destiny justify your crimes?"
The tip of Merlin's sword scrapes stone in a hoarse scream; Merlin swings it up, half-offering and half-defense, as the parapet cuts into the small of his back. Nightmares chill his mind, the empty accusing stares that don't fade even when he yells, the horror frightening the wind and rattling—and finally shattering—his window as he's dragged to the fire by rope, tugged by a long line of his dead: Will and Morgana and Freya and his father… and should he break free of the Underworld, Arthur snags the trailing rope, holding the torch to light Camelot's pyre. You cannot escape the fire.
Arthur slashes, and Merlin's swing knocks; he winces shut but hears the ring. "Arthur!"
"You wanted the glory, Emrys, and became righteous. I will not be your reason for sinning."
Merlin clutches the sword in both hands, the magic prickling across his palms. He presses into the wall, fighting the instinct to defend himself, and Arthur stops, close enough to stab. "Please!" Merlin cries. "Please, even if you h—don't trust me, take the sword. It's the only way you can stop Palengard."
Arthur stares at the blade, the same gored gold of his hair. Merlin holds his breath, and stretches his arms, offering the hilt. "Please," he says, because Arthur's judgment is sounder than his own, and he suspects stark relief would make him no more innocent than those he's murdered. But surely, he thinks, Arthur knows he's too stupid to conspire? And the thought makes him want to laugh, but if he starts he won't stop until the spasms turn to choking tears and insanity, until he falls forward onto the sword meant to save them all.
The blood spatters the stone. A line slips between Arthur's eyes and trails the side of his nose, and a drop hits the top of Merlin's lip, but he daren't move to swipe it away. Missiles thud bass as they collide with the shield, a low beat syncopated to Merlin's heart and Arthur's breaths. It is a current to the waving tides of yells.
He expected to see the betrayal vividly, an acid pooling in the curve of Arthur's scowl and the sheen of his eyes, but instead he is stone. What curses he's thinking, what defamations he will shout in future days, Merlin can only imagine.
His hands are shaking, so he tightens his grip on the sword and forces himself to meet Arthur's ice-eyes, tells himself that what matters is the sword and the dragon and the kingdom's salvation. Tells himself that he has succeeded at what matters most.
Looking at Arthur's frozen, shattered face, Merlin knows he has never been more wrong.
Arthur stumbles up the stairs just in time to see Merlin backed into the parapet, holding out a sword to Arthur.
"You wanted the glory, Emrys, and became righteous. I will not be your reason for sinning."
Arthur freezes, blinks. No, that is himself, a copy, face twisted in disgust as he considers the offering.
Minutes ago, the swirls in the orb unwound and scattered, fading to nothing. Arthur was left in an empty hall in a wing fallen largely to disuse, and he'd waved his sword in frustration and demanded, "There's nothing here!" Then he'd heard a cry, muffled by the double doors ahead, and he'd followed the sounds.
Now, in the shadow of the stairwell, Arthur goes unnoticed by the two on the battlement. He stares in utter bewilderment at Merlin. Merlin's thin, his shirt splattered in mud and blood, his pants torn at the knees. His shirt hangs loose, the string missing, blood thick in the bow of a collarbone. Arthur thinks, Idiot's forgotten meals again, then realizes this isn't Merlin at all, but probably an illusion, a conjuration or disguise like the Arthur double.
Merlin's braced against the wall, eyes locked in a desperate plea on the not-Arthur. "Please!" he says, red skies reflected purple in his eyes. "Please, even if you h—don't trust me, take the sword. It's the only way you can stop Palengard."
His arms, straight out, quiver for holding the sword, a shining, gold-hilted promise. It takes Arthur only a glance to know it is the finest sword he has ever seen, far beyond Camelot's smiths; the runes only confirm its foreignness. He imagines it humming, the song it would make when drawn from a scabbard.
"Please," Merlin says, and it's the tone of the just-convicted begging for mercy.
Arthur takes a step forward, then backs into the shadow, uncertain. He wants to charge out hollering, demanding—he wants to run his sword through that glaring not-Arthur, wants to see the eyes shine in magic and vanish, and for Merlin to be real and to explain. Then he thinks of Emrys and thinks that if this not-Merlin's not a figment of his mind, then he's a sorcerer, and Arthur swings his head, unsure whether to interfere on behalf of Merlin or himself.
The blade bleeds between them.
Then not-Arthur says, "Burn in Hell" and shifts his weight, a slight shoulder twist in preparation, and Arthur knows—"No!" he yells, but the not-Arthur lunges forward and his sword sinks into Merlin.
Merlin's hands fan open, clutching for the sword in his gut, and the blade of gold cries off the stone.