AN: The first few chapters of this fanfic are to set the scene and to get everything into place plot-wise. The last chapter was mainly about Edmund and Lucy (and we'll get back to them a little later), but this one is about Peter and Susan. On a slightly random note, I think I had way too much fun writing for "Good Guy" Maugrim again. Oh and by the way, as I think is more than obvious by some of the references made in this chapter and the implied-scary scene in the one before it, this fic is rated T for a reason-please bear that in mind.
"Christian Coulter Pevensie!" Susan moan-exclaimed, glancing down at the empty crib where her young toddler-aged son was supposed to be napping; ever since the week before last when he'd somehow taught himself to climb the crib-bars and get onto the floor on the opposite side without falling, bursting into tears, and then giving himself away, the boy had caused her endless troubles.
Maugrim, Susan's gray-wolf dæmon, started sniffing at the ground, picking up the boy's trail. "The blighter went this way, I think." He pointed his nose in the direction leading from the nursery into the hallway.
Together the young, dark-haired woman and her dæmon walked out of the room to look for the boy.
At least, thought Susan, to look on the bright side, Christian hasn't figured out how to open locks yet; and he isn't tall enough to reach any of the locks, besides. So he couldn't have gotten too far.
Indeed, the errant little boy, sound asleep, was being carried back towards his room by a tall, blonde man-his own father, Peter Pevensie.
"I take it you were looking for this?" Peter said by way of greeting, grinning at his wife, motioning down at the snoring child in his arms. "He was on the rug by the front door when I walked in the house."
Susan sighed and kissed her husband on the cheek. Her dæmon let out a doggish yawn; they'd had a long day.
Looking down at her child, in spite of the trouble the twitchy little kid caused her on a daily basis, Susan couldn't help marveling over the wonder that was her 'baby'. She was a motherly person by nature, and though she could be stern when she had to be, she was as sweet and gentle as a proper mum ought to be the rest of the time. Christian never hesitated to come to her when he skinned his knee or to cry for her when he was feeling tired or hungry or lonely. He was unafraid of Maugrim, somehow understanding-without being told-that the great gray wolf was merely a part of his mother and would never harm him.
He was an attractive little child, having inherited his mother's dark hair and pale complexion, as well the blue eyes that were the traits of both of his parents. When he was asleep and Susan couldn't see the colour of his eyes as they were closed, although he had some traits scattered here and there about his face that called to mind Peter more than anyone else (and, like his father, he was born dæmonless), Susan found a striking resemblance also to her younger brother. He did look remarkably similar, she thought, to what Edmund had looked like at that age; also, he looked a great deal like their father, Edmund Coulter the first, as well.
That was where his middle name had come from. It had occurred to Susan one day, rather out of the blue, that there was no one left to carry on her father's name. Edmund was a Belacqua now, and while she understood why he'd chosen that and didn't grudge her brother in the least over his decision, it struck her as a little sad all the same. The first Edmund Coulter had made some mistakes, it was true, horrible mistakes at that, and he'd died a rather unpleasant-almost pathetic-death in the nursery where the two daughters of his wife's lover slept under the watchful eye of the Gyptian woman, Ma Costa; but there were good things, too, that Susan could remember about her father-things her brother had been too young to recall. Coulter would have made a rather rough-sounding first-name, both she and Peter agreed on that, so it was moved to the middle.
His first name had come from a conversation Peter and Susan had had shortly after the baby was born and they'd seen him, all cleaned off, for the first time.
"What about Edgemont?" Susan had suggested in a low-voice.
Peter's nose wrinkled. "Susan, that's awful." No son of his was going to be called 'Edgemont'!
Maugrim growled at Peter, baring his teeth slightly.
"Peace, Maugrim." Peter rested his hand gently on the top of the wolf's head with as little forethought as if he'd simply reached out and lightly touched his wife's hair. "How about William?"
Susan thought it over. "Hmm…William…lots of nicknames there; we'd be able to call him Will, or Bill, or Billy-or…" her voiced trailed off.
Another name popped in Peter's head just then, rather spontaneously, and he suggested it. "…Or Christian?"
A small, contented smile formed on Susan's lips. In an almost dreamy tone she sighed, "Christian" somehow it seemed like just the right name for her son. "I like that." Pensively, she reached for her husband's free hand and squeezed it lightly. "Christian Coulter Pevensie."
Christian was about two years old now. Time was a funny thing, especially when you went from world to world. Peter and Susan didn't know at what pace time was going on in the world they'd left Edmund and Lucy behind in, or in the world Lyra had gone into; they would have been surprised to find that there was only a matter of months difference in the way time had gone by between the worlds since Peter returned to the one he was born into. Time had over-lapped a bit and in some worlds it had slowed down without anyone realizing it, while in others it had seemingly sped up without making it's forward movement known. So all of them, Peter and Susan, Lucy and Edmund, and Lyra, save for those few months of difference between the worlds, had actually only been apart for over two years in all cases. For Lyra, it was the closest to being three.
"How was your day?" Peter asked Susan as he put Christian back into the crib for his nap, knowing that if he waited until the boy woke up and noticed his father was home and was the one who had carried him to the nursery, he wouldn't be at all inclined to going back to sleep.
"All right," said Susan, reaching down into the crib and moving the child's bangs away from his forehead without waking him. "Christian's still climbing out of his crib whenever I turn my back."
"He's getting a bit big for the crib," Peter noted; "perhaps we should look into a real bed for him soon."
"One with a mile-high guard-rail," snorted Maugrim, tossing back his head.
"Any news?" Peter asked, changing the subject and ignoring Maugrim's exasperated comment for the time being.
Susan shook her head. She knew what he meant by 'news'; he meant if she'd heard anything from Lucy or from anyone back in her own world, the one unfortunately dominated by the Ruling Powers. Peter thought that if Lucy, or anyone sent by her, was ever to come to this world looking for him, they would be likely to leave a message at this house, since it was where Lucy had grown up. Indeed, Christian had slept in the same cradle that had been used for both Peter and Lucy by Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie before they discovered the need for a proper crib with bars as far as he was concerned.
"I'm worried about them," said Peter quietly, almost in a whisper. "About Edmund and Lucy, I mean. I've got this feeling that something's not right."
"Peter, we have to accept that we live here," Susan told him practically. "It's no use worrying about that world when we can't get there-it's no good pretending any different."
"I only hope they would be able to get word to us if an emergency came up."
"I miss them, too." Susan sighed heavily. "I had a dream about Edmund last night."
Maugrim shuddered involuntarily. "More like a nightmare," he put in, still shaken from the memory.
"It was a little unsettling," his human had to admit.
In her dream, she had seen her brother bruised-up with a split lip. The place where he was had appeared to be very dark-dank, even. There had been a flash of white, a glimmer, Susan thought when she strained herself over the memory and focused in, of chain-mail, and some sort of animal's (not a dæmon's) bared teeth.
"What I remember the clearest was that sign we caught a half-glimpse of for a passing second in what looked like dim lantern-light." The fur on Maugrim's neck stood up straight for a few moments while he spoke. "The one that said 'Sval'."
"What does 'Sval' mean?" Peter wanted to know.
"Nothing," said Susan with a shrug of her shoulders. "Just some nonsense word in a dream, I suppose."
"It sounds oddly familiar-sort of." Peter's brow crinkled for a moment, feeling reminded, queerly, of a partially-done crossword puzzle with some of the adjourning letters missing. But it was only a dream, so he gave up.
"Peter! Susan!"
Hearing their names called, leaving Christian behind to sleep, Susan and Maugrim and Peter walked out into the hallway, then over to the kitchen where Mrs. Pevensie was cooking something that smelled delightful in a large copper stewpot.
Some young ladies might grump about living with their in-laws, especially their mother-in-law, but Susan rarely ever felt the need to.
For one thing, she felt indebted to Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie for helping them out; in this strange new world she knew nothing about, she wasn't sure she and Peter would have made it on their own. After all, Peter was young. He'd wanted to get a job, but there hadn't been very many options because everybody was looking for employment now that the war was pretty much over, so his parents, anxious about his getting an education and not seeing any reason why his having a wife shouldn't allow him to go to university provided of course that he commuted and was home more or less every night, had paid all the necessary school-fees. Because Mrs. Pevensie wanted her to feel involved in the family, Susan had been allowed to see all of the bills, and she knew there was no way Peter would have been able to afford so much as a morning at the university without his parents assistance. This wasn't like back in that other world, where Lord Asriel could just storm in with his snow-leopard dæmon and dump Peter off at Jordan on a full scholarship with less than an eyebrow raise exchanged between himself and the Master of the college.
Also, no one else in this world-apart from Professor Kirke-had a visible dæmon; Susan didn't even want to think about what would happen if anybody figured out that Maugrim wasn't just some over-sized pet that liked to trot along at her side.
For another, Susan was very fond of both of her husband's parents. And, as for Mrs. Pevensie, if the fact that Susan was her son's wife had not given Helen incentive enough to love her, then the knowledge that she had helped Peter pull Mr. Pevensie out of a trench where he'd been left injured, presumed dead, did. The two woman had quickly made friends. And having a grandchild to spoil suited Helen remarkably well, too.
"What are you cooking, Mum?" Peter asked.
"Beef stew."
Maugrim and Susan's stomachs growled in unison.
"Apparently it sounds good," Peter chuckled, winking over at his wife and her dæmon who scowled back at him with faux-scorn for teasing them.
"Oh, and we're having some guests over," Helen added quickly, under her breath.
Peter let out a light moan. He wasn't in the mood for guests; he was tired out from a long day at the university and wanted nothing more than a nice quiet meal with his parents and his wife.
"Who's coming?" Susan asked.
"Oh, my mother, Peter's grandmother, you haven't met her yet." Helen lifted the stewpot's lid and stirred its contents with a big wooden spoon. "She's been living abroad in America since Peter was five. I'm sure you'll get along fine."
"Only Grandma?" Peter asked, hardly daring to believe his luck.
"Oh, and maybe the Smiths."
And that was why he hadn't believed it…
The Smiths were old acquaintances of the family, not exactly friends per-say, but the Pevensies had invited them over upon occasion a few years back. Lucy had not liked them, and truth be told, neither did Peter. One of the children who had grabbed at Reepicheep when Lucy was a small child of no more than six years old, had been from that family. And then there was the eldest daughter, Cynthia, to be reckoned with; as far as Peter was concerned, the very best thing about Cynthia was that she was now in a boarding school in France instead of England.
"I thought the whole family moved to France," Peter said, trying not to sound like a whining five year old. He was, he reminded himself, a grown man with a wife and a child and real life problems after all.
"They're back," Mrs. Pevensie sighed with surprising grimness.
"Not Cynthia, too?"
Mrs. Pevensie nodded.
Peter frowned. "I can't stand her, she has a face like a halibut."
"Peter, that's terrible," said his mother, trying to sound reproachful even though she was holding back a laugh-because Cynthia actually did look sort of like a halibut now that she thought about it. "Wasn't Cynthia a friend of yours when you were very little?"
Peter's brows furrowed. "Mum, Cynthia had frequent arguments with herself…and lost."
"Cynthia's younger siblings were rather little beasts to Lucy, too," Mrs. Pevensie had to admit.
"And don't think I'm likely to forget it, either," Peter put in.
"Scary thing is, I think at one point Mrs. Smith had a possible marriage between you and Cynthia in her head." Helen told him this mostly for her own amusement, knowing his face would recoil in horror. "But luckily, I don't have, as Peter so courteously put it, a halibut for a daughter-in-law." She smiled lovingly at Susan and Maugrim. "I have this lovely daughter instead."
"Thanks, Mum." Susan had taken to calling Mrs. Pevensie 'Mum' almost at once. Her own mother was dead after all, and there was a warmth about Helen that Marisa had never come close to having.
Less than an hour later, the doorbell rang and Peter's grandmother arrived.
She was a very worn-looking lady with a dilapidated colourless shawl hanging over her shoulders; her appearance sort of called to mind the general untidiness of the White Queen from Lewis Carol's Through The Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There. But her face was kindly and her bright green eyes were friendly enough.
She was delighted to meet Susan, and skipped right passed the hand shaking and whatever remained of formal introductions as soon as she realized the girl with the sort of animal thing at her side-she thought it was a dog, but her eyesight was a bit poor and household pets were the least of her concerns at the moment-was her grandson's wife, and threw her arms around her in a full embrace.
Then, pulling away, Peter's grandmother examined her, stating, "I see he's married well." Right after this, she wanted to see her great-grandchild.
Christian was, by some miracle, still asleep, but they took her into the nursery and she watched him and sighed happily.
"He's such a little angel," Peter's grandmother cooed.
"Only when he's sleeping," Maugrim muttered, forgetting that in front of company he had to avoid speaking altogether. Helen's mother hadn't even known about Lucy and Reepicheep; if she had learned what Maugrim truly was, she wouldn't have understood.
"Who was that?" The startled old lady turned round, looking for the source of the unexpected voice.
"No one, Nanny," Peter said quickly, taking his grandmother by the arm. "Let's go into the dinning room, Mum's made a wonderful stew…"
Things had been going well until the doorbell rang again and Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and the halibut-faced Cynthia, strolled in as if they owned the place.
Hanging her wrap on the coat-hook in the entry-way without even waiting to be politely asked in, Mrs. Smith started off about something to do with some lady in her book-club who's actions were supposedly not up to par.
Helen rubbed her forehead, wishing the Smiths had chosen to stay in France, or, at least, that she'd chosen not to invite them for 'old time's sake'.
Mr. Smith shook Peter's hand with a grip like a vice and started rambling on and on about politics and how he hoped Peter was a sensible man who was planning on joining this or that political party when he was old enough. "You'd make a fine Republican, young man," he told him with a gargoyle grin, even though it wasn't true.
Cynthia butted in, practically beaming at Peter, batting her eyelashes. "Hello, Peter."
"Cynthia." There seemed nothing else nice to be said.
"Oh, it's so nice to see you again." Cynthia batted her eyelashes even more rapidly now.
"Is there something in your eye?" Peter asked flat-out, hoping that would make her stop.
"No, of course not, you silly!" And she reached out and punched him on the arm in a manner that was supposed to be friendly and endearing, possibly flirtatious as well, but really felt more akin to being hit full-force by an angry rugger player.
Ow, thought Peter, trying not to lose his balance from the force of the punch, that is going to leave a mark.
Susan was standing a little ways off, watching the whole exchange with an expression that suggested she was trying not to laugh at his discomfort. Maugrim looked especially strained in this matter.
"Cynthia," said Peter, taking a few steps back and putting his arm around Susan's shoulders, "This is my wife, Susan. Our son is sleeping."
Wife? Son? He was married? Cynthia's shoulders slumped; her parents had told her she might have a shot here-they must have been misinformed. Darn. Perhaps she shouldn't have broken up with her boyfriend when she left France, thinking she would have a better option in England-namely, the Pevensies' son.
"Ah!" screamed Mrs. Smith upon noticing Maugrim. "What the devil is that thing?"
"Good lord," exclaimed Mr. Smith, "what an extraordinary beast!"
"Is it a…a wolf…?" Cynthia's eyes widened.
"No," said Peter hurriedly, exchanging a nervous glance with Susan. "It's…it's an Alsatian."
"Huh?"
"A dog…" Peter explained slowly.
"Bloody big Alsatian," murmured Mr. Smith under his breath, with a shudder.
"Bark. Bark. Bark." It sounded more like Maugrim said the word 'bark' three times as opposed to making the proper sound, and his voice was monotone and bitterly sarcastic. But no one aside from Susan, who, being his human, was able to sense his disgust and aggravation fully, noticed.
Supper was stuffy and awkward. Mr. Pevensie still limped a little because of the injuries he'd gotten fighting in the war although he was mostly healed; and when Mr. Smith's first remark upon seeing his unsteady gait was, "Blimey, you can't walk, mate!" Peter had to repress the urge to reach over and smack their guest by clutching the side of the table for a few minutes until he calmed down. What was it about the Smiths that just got so deep under his skin?
Everything Mrs. Smith said fell under the category of 'ode to Cynthia'. She bragged about her daughter incessantly. Apparently Cynthia was not only top of her class, but she also was very brave and saved babies and puppies from burning buildings.
"You know," said Mrs. Smith, prattling on, "Cynthia is a very sophisticated young lady, wonderfully proper."
"Fascinating," said Mr. Pevensie as though it were anything but, and re-filled his wineglass.
"It's such a pity the sort of girls good, perfectly lovely men have to settle for these days." Mrs. Smith clicked her tongue. "I mean, take your son for example."
"Excuse me?" Susan blurted, realizing the forthcoming insult was directed at her.
"Well he may not be of a high-class himself, but he could have had someone with ambition and grace. Instead, he ends up with some wench no one's ever heard of who owns a very large dog."
Maugrim let out a low growl.
"You will refrain from talking about my wife in that unseemly manner or I will show you the door," Peter hissed at them. He reached under the table and squeezed Susan's hand.
"I was just making conversation," huffed Mrs. Smith.
Susan was suddenly compelled to say something absolutely shocking to Mrs. Smith just to rattle her up a bit; this sort of impulsiveness was not usually in her nature, but she was tired and upset at the moment and she could feel Maugrim's rage bubbling up inside of the pit of her own stomach.
"To be honest, Mrs. Smith, I've been called worse than 'wench'." Mr. Pevensie poured Susan a glass of wine and she thanked him before going on. Taking a demure sip, sending a cutting glance over in the general direction of the Smiths and their daughter, she added, "My own mother once called me a whore. If you mean to cause me permanent, scaring offence, you will simply have to try a little harder. Your proceeding remark got everybody all worked up for the punch line, and I fear you've disappointed them dreadfully. It's frightfully hard to top 'whore'."
Mrs. Smith looked mortified. Cynthia wasn't smiling anymore. Mr. Smith was pretending to be fixated on his bowl of beef-stew. Taking them in, Susan felt an odd mix of utter embarrassment for having said something like that at the table-even it was out of anger, exasperation, and being overly tired-and an odd sense of satisfaction for showing them she wasn't going to sit around crying because they didn't approve of her. They weren't the first people to disapprove of her, and she was certain they weren't going to be the last; she didn't want them to think themselves anymore important than they already apparently did.
"Who's Bop the boar?" asked Peter's grandmother a bit too loudly, having heard it wrong.
"No, mother," Mrs. Pevensie whispered; "she said whore, not boar."
"Pray do not use such nasty words, Helen," gasped her mother, speaking too loudly again, having only heard about a quarter of what Mrs. Pevensie had attempted to tell her discreetly. "You know I never raised you to say that. But do tell me, dear, I missed it-what was that Mrs. Smith was saying about a bench?"
Peter couldn't help it, his grandmother's confusion completely broke the tension for him, he burst out laughing right then and there and had to excuse himself to go outside for a moment to let it out of his system.
That night, after the Smiths and his grandmother had left, Peter got ready for bed. After brushing his teeth and changing into his night-clothes, he walked into the bedroom where Susan was sitting on the bed, her legs tucked under her. Maugrim was on the rug beside the chair next to the window, and he lifted his head off of his paws, his ears pricking up, when Peter entered.
"And now you see why we don't have people over that often," Peter joked lightly. Then, in a more somber voice, "I'm sorry they were so horrible to you, Su. Gosh, that was a terrible evening, wasn't it?"
Susan got up off the bed and walked over to him. "Well, on a positive note, the wine was fantastic."
"Excellent year," Peter agreed.
"The beef-stew was better," Maugrim said, licking at his teeth. "Helen out-did herself."
"Your grandmother was nice," Susan stated, feeling it was one of the few nice things to be said for the people they'd dined with.
"Yeah. So Christian slept through all that, huh?"
Susan nodded. "I know, I'm still in denial."
Peter started mimicking the look on Cynthia's face when she found out he was married; and Susan swallowed back a giggle. "Peter!"
"Sorry."
A rich, throaty wolf-laugh came from Maugrim, letting him know his wife wasn't serious in her scolding.
"Oh, well," sighed Susan, "That's life-that's what it's like."
"So now life's a bad dinner party with the majority of the guests being people you don't like? I thought you said life was like a stream," Peter whisper-teased, slipping his arms around her.
"Are you ever going to let that go?"
"Never." He kissed her twice on the lips.
"I suppose I can live with that, if I must." She kissed him back.
He pulled away and kissed her neck.
"It's late," Susan murmured, "perhaps we should go to bed."
"Believe it or not, that's just what I was thinking." Honestly, it was, but he wasn't thinking about actually sleeping.
She caught his drift. "All right, give me a minute. I have to go to the bathroom, I'll be back."
"Great," Maugrim sulked, trailing after his mistress. "Another night of staring at the wall."
"Oh, do hush, Maugrim." Susan rolled her eyes, walking into the bathroom and shutting the door behind her.
While he was waiting for Susan to come back, Peter decided to go and check on Christian. He was filled with a sense of fatherly pride as he watched the boy roll over in his sleep and clutch at a stuffed rabbit. He shuddered when he thought that if Lord Asriel had succeeded in cutting Maugrim and Susan apart, he might be a widower now and his son, his beautiful little boy, would have never been born. Asriel, now there was a man who thought ends justified the means; but, Peter thought, people like that had to realize that it didn't-not always. It was important to think about what would be missed, as well as what would be gained.
"Goodnight, Son." His voice was low, almost inaudible.
When he returned to the bedroom, Susan was sitting on the bed again; Maugrim was already facing the wall with something of a begrudging look on his wolfish face.
"There you are."
"I was just checking on the boy."
As he sat beside her, Susan noticed that Peter seemed to be looking down the front of her nightdress.
"Oh, I spilled something on it by accident a couple of days ago-it didn't come out all the way."
"What?"
"The stain," she explained, motioning down at a small brown spot roughly around the area he was staring at. "On the nightdress."
"I wasn't looking at the stain."
"Peter!" she scoffed fake-indignantly, putting her hand to her heart.
Maugrim let out a half-snort, still staring dutifully at the wall.
Susan kissed her husband and then laid back on the bed, pulling him down on top of her.
Early the next morning, even before the sun had started to rise, Maugrim, who had been asleep at the foot of the bed, having climbed there after Peter and Susan were done, suddenly awoke and sniffed-seemingly at nothing-nervously.
"Susan." Maugrim tapped his human with his paw. She was already awake, having woken up with him, but her eyes were half-closed still. "Do you smell that?"
"Smell what?" she moaned sleepily.
"There's something the matter with the air-it's coming from the window."
She couldn't smell anything, but there was indeed a strange sound at the window now; it was somewhat akin to the sound of raindrops pelting the glass, but it was slightly different as well-more musical…almost bell-like.
"Peter!" Susan shook his arm.
"Sure, Su, I'd love some more tea. Oh, and pass the preserves, will you?" Peter said in his sleep, shaking off the last remains of a dream he'd been having.
"Peter, wake up."
"What time is it?" Through his eyelashes, he could see that it was still very dark.
"Don't know, get up."
He sat up at last and stretched his arms over his head. "All right, what's the matter?"
They went over to the window and when they stood before it, a strong wind seemed to break the latch and it blew open.
Fine golden-coloured particles streamed in like dozens of miniature fireflies filling the part of the room they stood in. It swirled around them like glittering fairy-dust.
At first they stood, blinking at the particles uncomprehendingly, as if they thought this might just be a dream hanging over them still. Then some of the particles came close to their fingers and, as if they were magnets, pulled their wedding-rings together. For a second they were fused solid, then it released and the rings were separated again and they could move their fingers freely.
They turned to each other, both silently asking, "Do you remember?" For of course they were both thinking about what had happened to them on their wedding night, when in the morning they found they couldn't separate their fingers because their rings were fused together. It had been a lucky thing, too, it had protected them from a horrible danger that threatened them both at the time.
"Dust!" said Susan at last, trembling by this point. "It has to be Dust."
"What's it doing here?" Peter wondered aloud.
Maugrim started barking at the window as the dust collected itself, swirled round once more, and then disappeared into the darkness just as the first rays of the sun arrived.
"If it's good, instead of bad and wicked like my mother used to tell Ed and me," Susan mulled logically, "then maybe it's trying to warn us about something…or…I don't know…do you think we could have been hallucinating?"
Peter's eyes widened and his face went dead-white. "Add an 'bard'!"
"What?" She frowned at him in confusing. What was he going off about?
"Remember what you told me about that dream you had? When Edmund was in danger and you saw something that said 'Sval'?"
"Yes." She waved that off dismissively. "But it was only a nightmare, nothing more."
"Add a 'bard'," Peter repeated, going over to a desk in the far corner of the room where they kept pens and paper, scribbling something down. "You get 'Svalbard'." He slammed the pen down.
"Kingdom of the ice bears," Susan realized.
"They keep prisoners there sometimes," Maugrim added, a small doggish whimper escaping from the back of his throat.
"Something is wrong in that other world," Peter said firmly, thoroughly convinced. "I can feel it. We've got to find a way to go back."
AN: Please review!