Chapter Eight: Becoming one part 2
Frodo sat at his kitchen table. The scarce breakfast of fruit, jam, and toast still sat in front of him, barely touched. He had made quick work of washing up and dressing once he had left Níniël in Glorfindel's care. His thoughts, however, were still in the room with the Hobbit he had grown to care for more than he was willing to admit, and with the Elf to whom in a way he owed his life.
And what have I made of his gift? He sighed and buried his face in his hands. The realization suddenly hit him with unexpected force that, even in his hours of grave peril, kindness and helping hands had come his way, too - even long before he first awoke to the sight of Aragorn's tired features hovering above his, back at the field of Cormallen.
The sound of rolling thunder tore him from his short lived reverie and only then did he notice how dark it was in his kitchen. Heaving a sigh, he went to the round window and cast a glance outside. Heavy clouds were shutting out the sun's warm light. In the distance, he could see the blinding brightness of lightning bolts ripping the gray sky apart. As the storm was quickly approaching, memories of dark days long in the past, which were spent in the enemy's territory, threatened to return. For a few moments Frodo closed his eyes and with force he drove them to the back of his mind. Since there was enough sorrow in the present, he found no need to linger in the shadows of his troubled past.
Soon the soft breeze became a mighty storm. As the rain started clashing against the window's glass, Frodo realized something. While this storm would most likely bring destruction, it would also bring renewal. The rain would replenish the land and allow everything to bloom with much more beauty than before. In the forests, the old dead leaves would be blown away to free the ground, let it breathe once more and thus allow it to harbor new life. Even the grass on the plentiful meadows would be greener after it. Once the clouds were gone, a bright new day would greet everyone and everything that roamed the island. The sky would be brighter, too, and the sun would feel much warmer and more comforting than ever before. For everyone. Even for him.
I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me.*
Frodo remembered his words to Sam as clearly as though he had only spoken them yesterday. A storm had indeed nearly destroyed all of Middle Earth. Not even the Shire had been spared. But the storm had passed. It had left new life from beneath the ruin, and the land rejoiced after thunder, storm, and rain had nearly destroyed it.
"I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved. Even for me." Frodo spoke the words aloud and listened closely to his own voice. Carefully, he weighed their sound and meaning in his thoughts, trying to find even the smallest hint of a lie within them. "It's not a lie. Not anymore," he whispered. He allowed relief to engulf his body and mind. What was once true had now become a lie. A new truth had blossomed in the soil of all the turmoil he had gone through ever since his arrival on Tol Sîdh. And the one who had planted the seed for it lay in a bed closer to death than life.
Frodo sighed heavily. There was no seed for him to plant, no new life that he could help to come to full bloom. All he could do was to try and convince a life that was withering to keep fighting and find new meaning in a future that still lay ahead.
"Iorhael?" Glorfindel's voice broke into Frodo's reverie like a stone breaking the smooth surface of water. Startled, the Hobbit turned to face the Elf who stood half-bent in the doorway of Frodo's kitchen. "I did not intend to startle you. My apologies."
"There's no need for apologies, my friend," Frodo said. He watched the tall Elf expectantly. "How is she?"
"She is resting," Glorfindel said. He let out a breath he had held for a little longer than necessary. "I bathed her and her fever went down a little. Aside from that, I fear her condition is not much improved."
"What does that mean?" Frodo asked, worry etched in his voice.
"Only time will tell, Iorhael. There is little we can do for her, except to give her as much fluids as possible and hope that she will make it through. Infections of the lungs often are fatal."
"I know." Frodo nodded slowly and closed his eyes for a moment.
"I must leave," Glorfindel said quietly with a hint of regret in his voice.
"The weather is ghastly, my friend," Frodo opened his eyes again and looked at the tall Elf. "You should stay for a little while longer."
"I fear that I cannot be delayed any longer. I will unload the wagon before I leave." Glorfindel gave Frodo what he hoped would be an encouraging smile. "Please, prepare more of the tea you made earlier for Níniël. It was a highly potent mixture." The Elf paused for a moment. "Don't worry, Iorhael. As soon as I will be back at the palace, Lady Nessea shall hear of this and she will send someone to help you." He saw the lingering exhaustion in the Hobbit's pale blue eyes. Frodo only nodded and then slowly turned his back at the Elf. He began to prepare more of the herbal tea for Níniël.
"Thank you," Frodo whispered as he poured boiling water into a teapot.
"Namarie, Iorhael. May the blessings of the Valar be with you both," said Glorfindel. With that, he left Frodo alone.
After the thunderstorm had passed, the pouring rain remained and Frodo watched the drops running down the smooth surface of the window's glass. Small wet trails wove patterns that enchanted his mind and reminded him of long rainy afternoons at home. Oftentimes Bilbo told a story that would banish the boredom of the long hours they were both trapped within the homely walls of Bag End.
"You would like Bag End. The real Bag End." Frodo turned his head and looked at the sleeping form of Níniël on the bed. She had not woken since Glorfindel's departure. The coughing fits had lessened, but still seemed to be equally painful whenever they shook her. "As beautiful as it is here, the tunnels do not hold the history of the Hobbits that lived there before me or even Bilbo." He smiled sadly and stifled a yawn as he paused. "There is so much … life in Bag End, so much that makes it a special place. I am glad that Sam and Rosie will finally make this home what it always was supposed to be. Their children are going to fill it with laughter and tears, with joy and sorrow." His voice died down and tears began to fill his eyes. And as if he was worried that she would suddenly open her eyes and see them, he looked down. With a quick movement of his hand, he wiped the moisture from his eyes. Gently, he took her hand in his and stroked her limp fingers. Her hand was different from the hands of the lasses of the higher class back in the Shire. It was calloused from working long hours in her garden and she kept the nails quite short.
"It is so different here on this isle. Everything is different. Even you." His voice hardly rose above a whisper as he spoke to her, his eyes fixed on her hand in his. "Hobbits in the Shire are nice enough. But they can't understand what happened to me – to all of us. Sometimes I wonder how Sam and Pippin and Merry can cope with all this." He shook his head in frustration and sighed heavily. "I don't think they've forgotten but they found new meaning in their lives, a meaning that is more powerful than painful memories. They have a purpose in their lives. Sam has a family and one day Pippin will be Thain of the Shire." He chuckled softly. "Imagine that! And Merry, my dear Merry. One day he'll be the Master of Brandy Hall. I should have liked to see all of this come to pass. And very much so." For a while he sat at her bedside in silence without ever letting go of her hand.
"I think you would like the Shire and Hobbiton at that. There is much to see in Middle Earth, so many wondrous and beautiful places such as Rivendell or Lothlórien. But nothing is quite like the Shire." His thumb stroked the back of her hand and he gently traced the soft blue lines of her veins underneath the pale skin. "The grass is so much greener; the flowers are more colorful than anything you've ever seen." Frodo smiled at the memory of his old homeland. "I wish I could show you all of this and share its beauty with someone who will cherish it." A lonely tear rolled down his cheek and he bit his lip. Her hand still rested in his right one, the one with the missing finger. She wouldn't mind. That much he knew.
What was happening to him? How could he be so sure that she wouldn't mind? Frodo heaved a sigh and let go of her hand. He stood up and began to pace the room. His eyes were wandering restlessly as he studied the familiar paintings and other wall decorations that he had seen a hundred times before. In the end they always came to rest on Níniël's still form on the bed. The skin of his palm was still tingling from the sensation of her hand in his. This hand had greeted Elves- a king even- but never had he felt anything like that before.
Frodo sat down in a chair on the far end of the small room. He needed distance, he needed to think. Normally back at home he would have gone for a long walk; he would have breathed in the clean and refreshing air of an autumn afternoon in the Shire. Under the circumstances this was next to impossible. Just the idea of leaving her alone made his heart beat rapidly with agitation. It was absurd, really.
Without realizing it at first, he had begun studying her body and eventually that only added to his confusion. She was different from him and it only began with her appearance, which he found rather attractive. Whereas his appearance was quite untypical for a Hobbit, she was as normal a Hobbit as they came. Brown eyes, curly brown hair, well-rounded hips… In a way it was strange that she'd fit into the Hobbits' society better than he ever had – considering that she had never lived amongst her kind.
These were things obvious to anybody who looked at Níniël. But Frodo saw her in a different light. She was kind and yet not afraid to speak her mind – whether he was keen on hearing it or not. She had listened to him and never judged him, but instead had offered a point of view that was new and very much unlike anything he'd ever heard before. Without knowing it and without intending to do so, she had found a key that had reopened a door he once thought would remain locked forever. Through the deep forest of pain that had swallowed him alive, her different perspective on his deeds had become the light that had guided him back home to himself. And for that he was thankful.
Frodo shook his head as if to clear it and got up from his chair. Slowly he walked towards the bed, sat down next to her and took her hand in his. For everything she had done for him, he was full of gratitude. But another seed had begun blooming in his heart. Was it – he hardly dared even thinking it – love? And if it was indeed that, why had his heart chosen her? Was it because he thought she understood him? Or was it rather because of something he saw in her eyes that reminded him of coming home after a long and tiresome journey? Was it because with her he felt safe? The protective walls he had built around himself seemed to crumble and fall whenever she was around. Somewhere deep inside he knew that she felt the same way.
The thought that she could die threatened to break his heart in two. Gently he stroked the back of her hand with his free one as if that little gesture could give her the strength she needed.
"Níniël," he whispered. "You have to come back to me. You know that, don't you?" He smiled sadly down at her, not really expecting an answer.
Five days passed without Níniël regaining consciousness. Frodo hardly ever left her side and, when it couldn't be helped, he only did so reluctantly. Every day that passed without her opening her eyes left Frodo more concerned for her and wondering what he would do in case she didn't make it. Her fever still lingered, but never rose to a point where her body couldn't take it anymore. The coughing came less frequently and she seemed a bit more at ease.
Frodo spent most of the time either sleeping next to her on the bed, so that he wouldn't miss it in case she needed him, or telling her stories of the Shire. In these quiet hours, peace seemed to settle upon them both and Frodo was more content than he remembered to have been in a very long time. Whenever possible, he coaxed more of the herbal tea down her throat and sometimes even managed to make her swallow a few sips of a light broth he always kept warm over a small fire in the kitchen hearth.
Hunger was a need that had returned to him during these days and so had his will to live. He felt that his life still had a purpose, that there was something still out there waiting for him to discover it. Hopelessness had been replaced by the certainty that he still had a future. However, what this future held for him was still a mystery and for that he was thankful. His curiosity was sparked and fueled by the future's secrets in a manner he had thought was lost and long forgotten.
It was during the late hours of the night of the fifth day that Frodo woke to the sensation of movement right next to him. A single lamp shed only very little light as he sat up in bed. Sleep's fogginess still held him and so at first he thought that he was imagining things when he looked down on Níniël's face. Her eyes were moving rapidly behind closed lids as if she were caught in the claws a terrible nightmare. But only moments later her eyes began to flutter open and almost immediately a coughing fit shook her already weakened body. Suddenly wide awake, Frodo almost jumped out of bed. Quickly he walked around it and then poured fresh water into a mug. He gently supported her head with his free hand as he brought it to her pale lips.
"Easy there," he said in a soothing voice. He smiled down at her. "Drink this." The coughing subsided and Níniël managed to swallow a few sips. When she turned her head aside, Frodo put the mug back on the nightstand and took her hand in his once more. "How are you feeling?" he asked a little sheepishly. At first a sigh was all he received for an answer.
"Tired," she admitted and closed her eyes once more. Frodo couldn't help it; he had to smile. He had always taken her for one who didn't allow herself to show weakness – not even in a situation such as this. Softly he placed his palm on her forehead, checking her temperature. She did no longer feel as hot to the touch as the day before.
"You may sleep as long as you wish. But first I need you to drink some more of this tea," he said, pouring some of the tea into a cup. Níniël forced her eyes open and Frodo could see how much that simple act drained her strength. She eyed him curiously.
"Did you make that?" Her voice was barely audible.
"Don't worry. Glorfindel approved of the herbal mixture." Frodo smiled and brought the cup to her lips before she could voice any more words of protest. Obediently, she slowly drank down all of the warm liquid. Its taste was not at all unpleasant. Frodo had added lots of honey to the otherwise bitter brew. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Sleep…" she said hoarsely, her eyes already drifting shut again. "I just want to sleep."
The next few days passed in an equal fashion. Níniël would wake every now and then, giving Frodo the chance to administer small amounts of the herbal tea. The tea, along with long hours of sleep, seemed to work. The coughing fits were losing their severity and her temperature had gone down to an almost normal level as well.
Frodo told many a tale to her – and himself. At length he spoke of the Shire, the Hobbits that lived there and the many friends he had left behind. He was never sure whether she could actually hear him, but sometimes he thought he saw the hint of a smile on her lips when a particularly funny or pleasant memory was retold.
It was almost two weeks after her first falling ill when Níniël woke one morning to find Frodo soundly asleep right next to her on the bed. Frowning, she turned toward the sleeping Hobbit and studied his peaceful features. She wasn't sure whether she had ever seen him as untroubled as he seemed to be in these wee hours of the morning. No frown wrinkled his forehead, his eyes were no longer moving restlessly as his soul was haunted by the nightmares of his memories of a war and a battle that he never should have been forced to fight.
Although she had no idea for how long her illness had claimed her consciousness, she could see that Frodo had taken care of himself during that time. He had gained a little weight, even though he was by no means back to what he used to look like when she had first met him. However, it was obvious that he was no longer ailing and for that Níniël was thankful.
When the raspy, almost suffocating feeling in her throat returned that would force her to find at least some relief in another coughing fit, she tried to hold it back at first. Just for a few more moments she wanted to cherish the sight of his peaceful sleep. But in the end the urge in her chest forced her to wake him. Níniël coughed violently. Almost immediately, Frodo's eyes fluttered open and surveyed the room unfocused at first. The sound of coughing next to him quickly forced him back to reality. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he turned towards Níniël. A violent spasm had taken hold of her and a few tears from the exertion ran down her pale cheeks.
Frodo reacted quickly and, leaning over her, he poured fresh water into a mug. He brought it to her lips. She wanted to drink greedily, but Frodo only allowed her small sips. While she drank, he whispered soothing words. Eventually the mug was drained and Frodo put it back on the nightstand. Níniël had sunk back into the pillows breathing heavily. Tiny raspy sounds accompanied each of her breaths. Frodo felt her temperature and was quite surprised to find that she felt normal to his touch.
"Thank you," Níniël whispered hoarsely. She gave him the smallest smile.
"How are you feeling?" he asked in response.
"Better, I suppose." She took a deep breath in and closed her eyes for a moment.
"I was hoping you would say that," Frodo smiled and took her hand in his. Throughout the previous two weeks he had gotten used to this small gesture. "Your fever is gone and it would seem that the worst of the coughing is over. Does it still hurt?" To his relief, Níniël shook her head.
"It doesn't," she confirmed, opening her eyes again. "I am so sorry, Frodo. I shouldn't have let this happen." Her voice was growing gradually stronger as she spoke. "I suppose my foolish sense of a healer's pride made me deaf for my own body's cries for help."
"Don't worry about that," Frodo said. He gently removed a stray wisp of her hair from her face. "It is often so that the choices we make are unwise."
"Still, I should have known better."
"I won't deny that but it can't be helped, now can it?" Frodo wanted to say something else but a low rumbling in his stomach reminded him that it was time for breakfast. Níniël chuckled at that.
"It seems the Hobbit in you has awoken once more," she said with a grin. "You should go ahead and make yourself some breakfast," Níniël advised. She tried to sit up, but the world started spinning when she had eventually managed to bring herself into an upright position. She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to force the dizziness away by the power of her will. Frodo was already halfway out of her bedroom when the rustling of the bed sheets made him turn around once more. His eyebrows shot upwards when he saw that Níniël was attempting to get out of bed.
"What are you doing?" he cried. He hurried back to her bedside. He was about to gently push her back into the pillows when he noticed her shaking her head desperately.
"I have to…" she looked up at him and Frodo saw the blush on her cheeks. For a moment he feared that the fever had returned. "I have to go…" she said quietly, then blushed furiously. Comprehension dawned on Frodo and he felt the heat rising in his own cheeks.
"Oh," was all he managed to utter. Of course he had assisted her in the matter before. But then she had been feverish and hardly conscious at all. He had even given her several sponge baths. However, with her awake and alert, it was a different matter altogether. "Well," Frodo announced and steeled himself inwardly. He reached under the bed and brought forth a chamber pot. "I'll help you," he said. Without waiting for her approval, he put her arm around his shoulder and helped her to lower herself on the chamber pot. With his free hand he maneuvered the fabric of her nightshirt out of the way, so that it wouldn't end up getting soaked. Once he was sure that she was as comfortable as possible, he retreated. "I'll wait outside," Frodo said and left the room.
The few minutes he had to wait outside seemed never ending. When Níniël finally called his name, he had to force himself to open the door without displaying the urgency he felt inside. Frodo stepped into the room and found Níniël sitting on the bed, holding her head in her hands.
"This is quite the lesson in humility," she mumbled through her fingers when she heard him approaching.
"You should lie down," Frodo said, ignoring her remark. He knew exactly how she felt for he had found himself in the same unpleasant situations on more occasions than he cared to remember. Quickly he grabbed the chamber pot and went to empty it. When he returned, he placed it back under the bed and sat down next to her. Níniël only nodded but remained seated.
"How long was I delirious?"
"For almost two weeks," Frodo informed her matter of factly. She looked at him, horrified.
"Wasn't there anybody to help you or to come and bring me home? You were not well yourself."
"Glorfindel came on the second day of your illness. He promised to send someone to help. But no one came, not even for the usual weekly deliveries." Frodo shrugged and turned to look at her. "I was wondering about that but at least it gave me the chance to repay you for what you did for me," he added with a smile.
"I am sorry." The look in her still somewhat glassy eyes told Frodo that she truly meant it.
"Don't be. I've learned a valuable lesson. But that's for another day to tell." For a moment or two he studied her pale face and decided to change the subject before she could ask any further questions. "Rest, Níniël. I will go and make breakfast and bring some to you. How does that sound?"
"Terrible," she stated seriously but then grinned. "I know that I really shouldn't be up and about and I will admit that I still feel tremendously weak. However, I doubt that lying down would be very restful, because my back is hurting somewhat badly." She gave him a pleading look. "Would you kindly allow me to stay out of bed for a while? At least until breakfast's over? I promise to go back to bed immediately afterwards."
"All right," Frodo agreed hesitantly. He stood up from the bed and offered her his arm. "But only if you let me help you."
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Níniël had indeed returned to bed after breakfast. Almost immediately she had fallen asleep, as the little trip to the kitchen and back had proven to be rather exhausting.
For the first time in many days Frodo spent a few hours in the garden of his smial. Níniël's health had improved considerably and they had both agreed that she was indeed on the mend, even though she would still need plenty of rest.
Sitting on a bench with his eyes closed, Frodo enjoyed the warm rays of the late summer sun. The scent of the flowers and the sweet smell of the grass reminded him painfully of his home. More than once he caught himself thinking that he would very much like to take Níniël to the Shire and show her his home – and hers too. All though the promise that he would find healing in the west had been fulfilled, the longing for his homeland had never died. And after a year on this island he found himself wanting more than that and, for the first time, he knew exactly what his heart desired the most. A place to call home. A family of his own. A sense of belonging – a sense of needing someone and being needed by that special someone. In Níniël he had found all that and even though all of this would remain probably nothing but a dream, she would still be real.
Níniël's room was lit only by a single candle on her nightstand when Frodo came back to her room later that night. Most of the day she had spent sleeping. Only lunch and supper had interrupted her day's rest for short periods of time and Frodo was certain that she was still asleep. Without making a sound, he snuck into the room and walked up to the bed. Carefully he sat down on it next to her and gently placed his palm on her forehead as had become his habit. She was a bit warmer than she had been in the afternoon, but her temperature was not alarming.
"Good night," he whispered and, before he knew it, he had bent down and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. At that she moved slightly but to Frodo's great relief she did not wake. Quietly he stood up and walked towards the door.
"Tell me more about the Shire," he suddenly heard her muffled voice. Níniël turned on the bed and looked at him. "I want to know what my home is like – what your home is like." Frodo just stared at her for the longest time until his feet started moving on their own accord.
"It is the most beautiful place in all of Middle Earth," Frodo whispered as he lay down next to her on the bed. "And the most wondrous creatures you can imagine inhabit it: Hobbits…"
The next morning Frodo woke to the sound of knocking against the front door. Still caught in a peaceful slumber's tight embrace, he blinked his eyes open and felt a light weight on his chest. He looked down and saw Níniël's head resting there. Almost immediately Frodo was wide awake as he remembered the previous night. He had told her about the Shire, about Hobbits and she had asked him many questions until there were no more words left unspoken. In that very moment their eyes had met and, as blue bore into brown, they came closer to one another. Their kiss had been soft and yet filled with longing and, when their lips had finally parted, all the words in the world had lost their meaning. Holding on closely to each other they had fallen asleep and now Frodo was forced to escape their warm and comforting embrace.
He somehow managed to slip out of her arms and her bed without waking her. On tired legs he trudged toward Bag End's front door and cringed when the soft knocking could be heard again.
"Coming," he mumbled and eventually reached the door. His eyes widened when he discovered who was waiting outside. A tale female Elf stood there. Her dark hair fell in soft waves down to her hips and framed the delicate features of her face. Wisdom accumulated by the passing of millennia shone in the dark blue depths of her eyes as she looked down on him.
"Mae govannen, Iorhael," she greeted him. To his surprise, she bowed slightly. "I am Nessea, queen of this small island and I wish to see my foster child."
"My lady," Frodo gasped in wonder. He bowed and then stepped aside, granting her entrance. He expected her to be followed by a small entourage but she was indeed alone. "Allow me to lead the way," he said. When she nodded he headed for Níniël's room. Frodo knocked softly and entered the small guest room. The early morning's first sunlight fell through the round windows. He had forgotten to draw the curtains the previous night as was normally his habit.
Nessea walked past him towards the Hobbit-sized bed and sat down next to Níniël. Her every move was graceful and Frodo watched a little bit awe-struck the scene unfolding before his eyes. Níniël's eyes opened slowly and, as her foster mother's image penetrated the hazy state of mind between sleeping and waking, a small smile formed on her lips.
"My child," Nessea's soft voice broke the silence in the room and Frodo could only guess that she smiled down at the lass on the bed. "I was worried about you." She turned toward Frodo and looked at him earnestly. "But it seems you were in good hands. My trust in you, Frodo Baggins, was not misplaced."
"You knew what was going on here?" he asked her, puzzled. He stepped closer to the bed. Inside he was debating with himself whether he should feel furious or relieved. Furious because that Elf obviously had known about the perilous danger Níniël had been in. Relieved because that meant that she had never been in as much danger as he had thought. Nessea nodded.
"I did and I took a risk when I did not step in and send someone to aid you. Things were meant to unfold this way." She shot Frodo a meaningful glance and then turned to face Níniël once more who had not yet uttered a single word. "Your time on this island is coming to an end, my dearest child. Soon you will return to where you belong and live amongst those of your own kind."
"Mother," Níniël croaked and was instantly hushed by the Elf's finger on her lips.
"I did not foresee that this would happen, but I am glad that you both were finally able to banish the loneliness from your hearts." Nessea paused and placed a small pouch made of green silk next to Níniël on the bed. "It is a gift that I want you to take with you should the two of you decide to return to Middle Earth. It is uncommon that a mortal should be allowed to leave this realm…" Nessea turned to Frodo. "… but it was decided that this shall be your reward, Iorhael. A life amongst those who are not of your own kind is not what your heart desires. It is the gift of the Valar to you. You may stay, go back to the Shire or move on to Tol Eressea. But bear in mind that there will be no going back should you decide to return to your home." Turning to Níniël she continued. "Níniël, you were always allowed to return to Middle Earth should you wish to do so. For you I have another gift – the gift of your name." She smiled down at the Hobbit lass who had tears in her eyes. "Your parents never had the chance to name you, but know this: your real name is Peony Flourish. You're the daughter of Murinel Flourish and Rosmertha Goodbody. This is all I can give you. These are your roots planted in the Shire. It is up to you whether this sapling will grow and blossom."
Before either of the Hobbits had a chance to react, Nessea got up and went for the door. "It is time for me to leave. May the blessings of the Valar be with you and guide you on your path – wherever it may lead you." She bowed slightly and before she left a hushed "Namarie" was to be heard by two pairs of pointy Hobbit ears.
* J.R.R. Tolkien: The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
AN: Many thanks for those who reviewed. I know it took me a while to post this, but I hope it was worth the wait. :-)
This chapter was beta read by the wonderful FairyTaleLover6. Her suggestions and support are more than I ever hoped for and I am truly grateful for all the hard work she put into my story. Thank you so much!