9. Run!
("Traps of the Tomb" from Released by Truth)
Gwaine had his back to the doorway of the main chamber of Ashkenar's Tomb when Julius Borden shot Merlin from the threshold.
Dammit.
He saw the unspoken alarm on Merlin's face – eyes widening, mouth dropping open in silent surprise, or readying to holler a warning–
And heard the arrow fly from the bowstring. Faint, unmistakable. Twang.
Gwaine didn't have time to visually track the sound; his eyes were still on Merlin when he was hit. Sliver of light striking his chest - head snapping up, body tumbling back and down. Landing absolutely motionless on the stone floor of the chamber.
"Lancelot – after him!" Bors snapped.
The other knight was between Gwaine and the doorway where they'd entered; he only saw Lancelot's back as he barreled toward – through – and out. Bors was tense and unhappy, but didn't follow.
Neither did Gwaine, though he hesitated to decide. Then turned to Merlin, catching the movement of Bors doing the same.
Percival had been closest to Merlin, and was already bending over him, though Gwaine was moving before he'd completely turned from the doorway. He rushed to join the big man at the side of his first and best friend, expecting blood, expecting the shaft of an arrow, he saw–
The blank expanse of Merlin's shirt, unmarred, as Percival's big hands pushed his jacket aside.
But the young sorcerer was limply unconscious.
"What happened?" Gwaine blurted, only slightly relieved. "I thought he was shot?"
"I don't know." Percival shifted to show the long slender shaft of an arrow on the ground by his knee. Gwaine reached for it as Percival unlaced Merlin's shirt; Bors hurried up behind them. "No – don't touch it!"
Gwaine rocked back on his heels; above them the senior knight Arthur had sent to guard their quest inhaled sharply.
The skin of Merlin's chest was translucent-white, but a patternless web of blue lines radiated outward from the region of his heart. Visibly moving, as Merlin did not, crawling over his shoulders like spilled ink, up his neck, around his face and into his hair.
The young sorcerer's mouth dropped open in a quiet gasp – but that was all.
"Sorcery," Sir Bors uttered, and Percival glanced up with a grim look of reluctant agreement. "Can you wake him?"
Percival took Merlin's shoulder to shake him, but he only rolled with the movement. Even a light slap to the face didn't rouse so much as a blink or involuntary wince.
Gwaine felt cold. With everything Merlin had been through and survived, he realized now he'd rather thought his young friend invincible. How wrong that was; Merlin seemed very young and vulnerable, just now. Deliberately Gwaine reached for one of the gloves he had tucked in his belt, fitted it to his hand, and reached again for the missile.
"Don't." Percival grabbed his wrist, square boyish face solemn-worried.
"Gaius might need it," Gwaine said.
His friend reconsidered, and released him. Gwaine fingered the shaft gingerly, feeling nothing but smooth wood, and held it into the light for their inspection.
There was no sharpened point; the head was padded with a small piece of leather tied around a lump of unknown substance. The carrier of whatever magic – spell or curse – had been inflicted on Merlin.
"Pick him up and bring him with us," Bors decided abruptly. "Let's leave this place – Gwaine, get the dragon's egg if you please."
Percival began to raise Merlin's body, positioning his arm over his broad shoulders. Gwaine straightened, hating the sick uncertain feeling that turned over in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't realized how much he'd come to rely on Merlin in these situations, to know instinctively what should be done, and what shouldn't – go or stay, bring the arrow or keep distance from the damn thing.
Merlin should claim the egg, too. But Merlin couldn't.
Still holding the ensorcelled arrow gingerly away from himself, Gwaine stepped to the pedestal and the egg – and hesitated.
"What is it?" Bors said again, and Percival turned heavily, head bowed under Merlin's body draped awkwardly over his shoulders. Gwaine felt a pang of guilt for not hurrying, but.
"He said he was afraid to disturb it," he said, gazing at the egg, blue-white and oddly shaped. "I wonder why…"
Odd, too, that the room was so empty, else. No other treasure, not even a sarcophagus for Ashkenar's body – though the tower rose high enough for fifty such chambers, above them. Why the dragon's egg on the first floor, the first chamber?
"Gwaine," Percival said quietly. "We need to get Merlin to Gaius."
Well. That was true enough.
Arrow in one hand, Gwaine wrapped his other arm around the egg to pick it up and carry it cradled securely in the crook of his elbow.
And the light went out. All at once, not like sunset or even storm-clouds gathering – all around him, he heard stone grinding on stone. Beneath his feet, the floor shuddered.
"Go!" he shouted at Percival, a dim misshapen figure in the gloom from the exit doorway. "Go, go, go!"
For several heartbeats – fast, frantic, desperate heartbeats, Gwaine was convinced that this tower was to be his tomb as well. Percival's shape – carrying Merlin – blocked the dim doorway of daylight, and Gwaine experienced a disorienting loss of perception. Like he was running backwards, maybe. Getting further away, instead of closer.
Hell – damn – couldn't catch his breath–
Then he was at the doorway, fast and unexpected, tripping down the stairs and bruising his elbows because he couldn't lose either of his burdens. Percival ahead of him kneeling to transfer Merlin's weight down from the chest-high threshold to Bors' shoulder – sweaty and red-faced and mouth opened to pant – and Gwaine jumped the five feet to the ground.
Stumbled to one knee. The ground was shaking, and inside the tomb he could hear the crash and clatter of collapse.
Percival had his elbow, dragging him to his feet and propelling him forward to follow Bors, bent nearly double under Merlin's gangly sprawling limbs, but running.
Gwaine couldn't look back. Expecting every moment that the great high obelisk would tip – and fall right on them. Several times the trees around them shook out their leaves in reaction to the immense stones crumbling from great heights–
He couldn't breathe. His lungs stuck together when he tried; his legs burned and he punished them, moving them faster though over rough ground there was danger of-
Bors tripped headlong, crashing with his burden through underbrush and a cloud of dust. Gwaine thrust egg and arrow unceremoniously at Percival, yanking Merlin off the oldest knight – lanky arm and leg, more solid body - and staggering on under his friend's weight on his own back.
Where was Lancelot?
C'mon, Merlin, we need you! Wake the hell up, dammit!
The clearing where they'd left the horses was in view when the final rolling rumble of the tomb's death roared over and past them with a billow of blown dust and leaves. Gwaine unbalanced and tumbled down, trying to curl around Merlin's head and body – turning to see Percival on one knee, cradling the egg as if to shield it from falling masonry with his body. Bors was coughing uncontrollably somewhere behind Percival…
And everything settled. Gradually… stilled.
"Damn me," Bors finally rasped, straightening to his feet and staring back the way they'd come. Sweat- and dust-streaked, as Gwaine guessed they all were.
"Sorry," Gwaine managed.
"It may have done that no matter who took the egg," Percival said quietly, hoarsely – gazing down at the blue-white teardrop-shaped egg cradled in his hands.
Gwaine scooted around, yanking on Merlin's body to straighten him out – and exclaimed aloud at the sight of his friend's blue eyes – open and staring upward. "Merlin!"
Only… there was no response.
No shift in expression, no movement of trying to focus on him – or on Percival or Bors, both bending over them in an instant.
"Merlin?" Gwaine tried again, uncertainly. The blue lines had faded from his friend's skin, and his chest rose and fell, but… "Hey, can you hear me? Sit up, let's check you over for… injuries."
He tugged gently on Merlin's shoulder, and the younger man obeyed. Not rolling to get an elbow under him first, or making a single noise of pain or protest, but – bending in the middle to lift his upper body straight up. And his blue eyes vacant, fixed somewhere over Gwaine's shoulder.
It reminded him of finding Merlin sobbing on the ground, his clothing bloodied and still smoking from the escaped pyre. But even damaged, Merlin had still been there.
Percival tried, crouching and weaving to get into his line of vision. "Merlin?"
Not a single flicker.
"Is he awake?" Bors said uncertainly. "Can he stand and walk?"
"Merlin? Can you stand and walk? Can you hear me?" Gwaine repeated, as if his voice would make a difference - and if it sounded pleading, he didn't care.
But, nothing.
"Here," Percival said, taking hold of one of Merlin's arms – indicating that Gwaine should do the same – and they lifted the slender sorcerer to his feet. Which he kept without so much as a dizzy waver – but then simply stood, hands at his side, eyes fixed… somewhere far away.
"What wrong with him?" Bors said, daring to lean in and wave his hand in front of Merlin's face. There was no sign that the young sorcerer even noticed.
"I'll get the horses," Percival said, hefting the dragon's egg under his elbow, before moving away. "Gaius will know."
Gwaine avoided Bors' glance, because really – he was not so sure, either.
9. Ritual Sacrifice
("If Blood be Spilled" from Vortigern's Tower)
Take magic's soul to all men's cost
If blood be spilled then all is lost
Lord's true key in plainest sight
Becoming prince set all aright.
…..*…..
Arthur dozed on and off after the earthquake – midnight, he thought he remembered Leon saying – Leon, where was Leon? Did he know Arthur had been captured by their enemies? Had the other scouts arrived, hidden in the forest – or would they tomorrow? Had his father guessed where he'd gone?
His position, tied to a support post in one of the huts in the encampment of the warlord Vortigern, while uncomfortable, was not actually painful. Of course he'd have preferred to stretch and walk around and lie down, but slumped against the post, chin to his chest, Arthur managed to fall asleep more than once.
Merlin, the odd druid boy who'd been put in the hut with him for the night, was a motionless huddle of black hair and enveloping cloak on the ground. When Arthur was not sleeping, he was studying his slumbering companion in captivity, trying to figure him out. It seemed to Arthur childishly naïve to believe that sprinkling blood and burying body parts could stop earthquakes or appease sacred ground, no matter what the druids told Vortigern about the unsettled hill where he wished to erect the tower that would allow him to hold the mountain pass against Uther Pendragon.
And yet young Merlin also showed a mature stoicism in accepting the fate presented to him by the ruling elders of his clan. It was thirteen young magic-users, or it was Merlin, who was supposedly as good as any combined thirteen others – and if the quakes calmed and Vortigern built and held against Uther, the druids had their allied protector.
But ignorant or clever, brave or foolish, the tears and the nightmares and the calm preparation – the boy was intriguingly complex.
He'd refused to untie Arthur to eat, suspicion of Arthur's ulterior motives clear from his expression – although Arthur himself had discarded that option almost as quickly as it occurred to him. He couldn't kill someone – especially so young and relatively defenseless as this boy – to prevent him from doing something wrong. Wrong? Yes, he decided. Even if the druids' judgment was correct and the ritual worked and Vortigern kept his promise to protect the clans, even leaving his father's goals for the peace and good of Camelot as a whole, admirable as they may be, and the willingness of the sacrifice himself, aside, it was wrong.
But then an instant later Merlin had knelt at Arthur's side to feed him his own dinner with his own fingers. It should have been excruciatingly awkward, but the boy had an easy unselfconscious manner and served him with a compassion – served? compassion? yes, those were the right words – that in turn humbled him.
And then, more contradiction. The boy who hadn't seemed a bit apprehensive facing a brutal, gory death was frightened half-incoherent by the midnight earth-tremors, even climbing up on the table in an absurd attempt to get away. He'd mumbled and shuddered – there had even been tears on his face, Arthur was sure of it – before he'd calmed enough to hear Arthur and respond, and finally resume his place on the floor… and then he hadn't moved since.
Dawn light filtered through cracks between the logs of the hut. One sliver of light lay across the back of one of Merlin's outflung hands. Another rippled over the creases in Arthur's right boot. A third stretched under the abandoned horn-cup, dropped by Merlin the night before.
He shifted his weight, trying to stretch what muscles he could, but with all his scratching and scraping, Merlin didn't even stir. Arthur thought to speak to try to wake him, decided the boy was better off spending the time in peaceful oblivion, then worried that something was wrong when more time passed and he didn't rouse by himself.
The shuffling of boots alerted him seconds before the door was unlatched and pulled open to flood the hut's interior with sunlight. Two soldiers entered, clumsily in each other's way. One bent to retrieve the fallen dishes, giving Arthur a measuring glance before dismissing him. The stub of the guttered candle was taken also.
The second soldier said to Merlin, "Boy. Wake up."
"Leave him alone, why don't you?" Arthur said boldly.
The soldier gave him a dirty look. He leaned down, hand outstretched – then changed his mind and prodded the younger boy's shoulder with the toe of his boot. Merlin's body rocked under the pressure, then he tensed and moved on his own, dropping to his back and opening his eyes. Arthur cringed, anticipating the moment when realization of what day it was struck the boy, but his expression never changed.
"It's time," the soldier added, speaking down into Merlin's face. "The elder has called for you to begin preparations." Merlin stared up blankly for a moment, then rolled to push himself to his feet without comment.
"Just a minute," Arthur protested. "I'm supposed to go, too. Vortigern said I was to witness the ritual." He would then be released to report to his father, the enemy tower would be erected strong.
The soldier with the dishes shrugged unconcernedly. "Weren't told anything 'bout you," he said.
Merlin picked up his cloak, shook it out, then turned it over his shoulders, tucking his chin to tie the lacing.
"Merlin," Arthur said. He felt more anxious than Merlin looked. "You don't have to do this. Please."
Aside from the considerations of his father and Camelot, the war and the tower, something in Arthur rebelled at the thought that the life of this boy – so brave, so vulnerable, so intelligent, trusting, canny, guiltless – by all the gods, special – would be over in a few short hours. The long-fingered hands stilled, the bright blue eyes dull and vacant – that was wrong.
"Come along," the soldier said with a touch of impatience.
"Merlin." Arthur tried again.
This time the younger boy looked at him, paused in the act of raising the sheltering hood. From that instant of contact, Arthur thought, He's not sure, anymore, there's hope! – and then a mask of resignation settled over the young druid, and the hood and cloak shadowed the whole figure.
"No, wait!" Arthur said desperately, suddenly afraid that the butchery was imminent and the ritual he was expected to view would be the blood-sprinkling and body-burying. "Please!"
The second soldier kicked at him twice, more in warning than in malice, and the door swung shut behind them. Arthur bent his head to peer through a chink in the log wall so rapidly he bumped his nose and tears filled his eyes. He blinked them away, and the slight, hooded figure of the druid boy stepped out of sight.
His heart was thudding like it did when he stepped into the sparring circle to face an opponent. His instructors watching to point out mistakes, the other squires keen to see a failure from the son of the warlord Uther Pendragon. He had to be the fastest, the strongest, the smartest, every time. Or suffer the humiliation of his father's disappointment.
His father… would likely have managed to free himself, and strangled the druid vital to the ritual. Arthur kicked his boot-heel hard on the dirt floor, cursing. Failed. You failed.
Determination rushed through him, washing away the discomfort and fatigue of the night. He leaned forward, drawing the rope taut, beginning to rub it against the rough bark of the post. He would be free. He would be there, wherever the ritual, the sacrifice, would be carried out. He would – he would stop it somehow. Or… or die trying!
He rubbed most of the bark from the post and smoothed the wood beneath without accomplishing the slightest give to the rope when he strained on it. He was sure that several splinters had stuck into his flesh, but the raw chafing of the binding muted any sharper pains. Then the door creaked open again, and a straw-haired warrior gave him a gap-toothed smile.
"Thought we forgot you?" the man said. "Come, scout – we got an eyeful planned for you." He showed Arthur the knife in his belt, a short, wide blade, then knelt at Arthur's side. "Just remember, if you want to live to report back to the Pendragon, be very careful not to give me an excuse to use that, hm?"
"I was taught manners," Arthur returned. "I plan on using them." At least until we get to the ritual, he amended silently.
The soldier leaned around Arthur to untie the rope. "See that you do."
"Is the boy alive yet?" Arthur thought he'd done a good job of keeping his voice steady.
"Far as I know." The soldier was indifferent; the rope loosened.
But it didn't remain that way long. Arthur was allowed to scramble to his feet, before the straw-haired man knotted the bonds again, this time in front of Arthur's body.
He blinked as he was pushed from the hut, squinted up. Mid-morning. The actions and attitudes of those visible in camp – busy or unoccupied, nonchalantly efficient - the business of life continued as usual. He could perceive nothing out of place, nothing new, nothing interesting. Had the other scouts arrived? Were they watching?
"So where are they doing this ritual?" Arthur said.
The soldier ignored the question, but it was not long before Vortigern and a handful of others arrived, on horseback. The general smoothed his moustaches, assessing his contingent quickly but thoroughly – even Arthur's presence was confirmed with a keen glance. Then he turned his mount and one of the foot soldiers – a captain or commander, probably – called an indistinct order which was nonetheless obeyed by the men, demonstrating a loose marching formation. Arthur was prodded into the middle and absorbed, the soldiers around him close enough to guard and deter any attempt he might make to disobey, but not close enough for him to snatch a weapon from and pose any significant threat.
A dusty track had been worn to the base of the hill and up, angling toward the east of the summit, and they followed it, coming out of the trees of the flat-land which sheltered the main camp.
By the time they reached the level brow of the hill Arthur's legs ached from the constant upward slant of the track, and his upper body was sore from compensating for the lack of free swing in his arms for the climb. His mouth was sticky-dry, his lungs heaving, and his nose filled with the dust that clung to his skin and clothes. Black specks floated in front of his eyes, but he scanned the bare hilltop, the handful of men already present – no cloak-covered druids.
"You can rest," the straw-haired soldier said from Arthur's right. "But don't get too comfortable – it's nearly noon."
Arthur stumbled a few paces to the side to collapse onto a low stone wall – part of the outer wall, he guessed, as it extended in both directions, rising and falling with the terrain of the hilltop. He was not well-versed in such things, but he thought he could see the stages of construction in the wall – sections cracked and fallen and rebuilt, different shades of mortar. He could see, as Leon had said, how the ground had been leveled, cleared of vegetation for an area roughly circular, maybe seventy-five yards across at its widest point. The ground had indeed been prepared – some paving was intact, a few walls of different structures stood, but everywhere there were piles of debris, some of rock clearly large enough to be salvageable, others of bits so small it would be incorporated into the mortaring – though no one worked today, it seemed.
The soldiers of the contingent mostly rested in small groups in what shade they could find. Four different men in different places met his eyes as they wandered – he was under constant guard. No mad scramble over the edge for him, not unless he wanted to reach the bottom feathered with arrows.
He licked his lips and tasted dust. Leon reported there was a well, didn't he? A spring. He squinted around the hilltop, and his attention was caught by the largest number of soldiers grouped together, still standing in the noon sun rather than seeking a few inches of opportune shade like their comrades. The well?
Arthur pushed himself to his feet and began to make his way toward that group, stumbling over and around some loose rubble, damage sustained during the previous night's quake but not yet cleared away, he guessed.
The straw-haired soldier positioned himself in Arthur's way, stopping him. "Going somewhere?" said the gap-toothed grin.
"Water." Arthur motioned to where he expected the well to be, and froze.
The group of soldiers had shifted, revealing the presence of two who weren't soldiers. He'd missed them in his first searching glance because they were no longer wearing their cloaks. But now – he shoved the soldier roughly out of the way with both bound hands and made it another half-dozen hurried paces closer before the soldier stopped him again.
"You're here to watch," the soldier warned him. "Not interfere." Arthur took one step more, and the soldier's hand dropped to the knife in his belt. "That's far enough, scout."
Over the man's shoulder, Arthur watched, as his stomach clenched and his throat constricted. The older druid and the boy were the center of a loose circle that included Vortigern and maybe eight other soldiers, watching. A knife glinted in the elder's hand – Arthur tensed to leap forward, his mouth opening to shout a warning, a challenge, as irrational as it might be – the tip of the blade made a cut.
In the material of Merlin's clothing only, slitting the thin white shirt the boy wore, neck to navel. The druid boy stood motionless as the older man replaced the knife in his belt, then moved behind Merlin to peel the ruined shirt back over his shoulders, down his arms. Arthur noticed the glint of something at the base of the boy's neck – a charm of some sort, he supposed.
Half-naked, surrounded by muscular warriors armed to the teeth, Merlin looked skinny and bony and pale and young.
Arthur gritted his teeth, glancing around. Somehow he had to find a way to stop this – where were those damn scouts whose actual job that was? His rational mind recognized the impossibility of only a few men being able to reach the top of the hill unseen, uncaught, able to fight off thirty of Vortigern's warriors. The rest of him found scant comfort in cursing the absent rescuers.
The straw-haired soldier had turned to watch also, and Arthur managed a few more steps over the uneven ground before he was pulled to a stop again. Twenty yards – still too far away.
Merlin hadn't seen him, he didn't think. The younger boy appeared to be completely lost in his own thoughts, unaware of his surroundings. The older druid, by contrast, seemed to Arthur to be enjoying the regard of the group of fighters. He gestured with authority, and one stepped forward with a bucket. The druid reached into it, pulled out a dripping handful of cloth – and began to bathe the boy.
It should have been painfully embarrassing to watch, much less participate in. But the older man went about the task with methodical precision, dipping and wiping with an impersonal touch. And Merlin himself betrayed no emotion whatsoever, no feelings, no reaction. Ceremonial cleansing complete, the druid handed off the cloth, took the bucket in his hands.
He spoke, and Arthur could see the visible flash of magic in his eyes, even at the distance. Then he turned and poured the water slowly out over Merlin's head, the rivulets making the boy's pale skin glisten in the high sun, dampening his trousers. He was barefoot – somehow that made the situation even worse.
Merlin's only response was a single violent shiver, in spite of the heat of the sun.
The elder took the wad of the torn white shirt and rubbed it dispassionately over Merlin's black hair, tousling out the water droplets. It should have been the sort of gesture that showed the tender touch of a sympathetic caretaker, but the druid might well have been administering the attention to a horse or a dog or a statue.
He spoke to Vortigern, who gestured toward the center of the site, and the circle of men dissipated as each drifted in that direction, careful to keep their distance from the two druids.
"Here we go," the straw-haired soldier said, wrapping his hand around Arthur's upper arm to urge him along.
Now what? What was he to do? A bound captive surrounded, still, by armed enemies. They'd kill him in a heartbeat without breaking a sweat and never think twice about it. His best efforts wouldn't delay the sacrifice by so much as five seconds, merely add his death to the boy's. If Merlin himself would not run…
Arthur followed helplessly, aware that the rest of the contingent was drawing closer also.
There was an uneven block of stone, clearly selected and situated for the purpose, the ground clean-swept in a six-foot radius all around, tied bundles of some kind of dried greenery placed at intervals just inside that circle. The block itself was about five feet in length and two to three in a varying width. One end was higher than the other, creating a roughly sloping surface, with the low end being still two feet off the ground.
The soldiers stopped outside the swept circle, but the two druids didn't hesitate. Merlin, slender and childlike, was led to the block by his elder.
Arthur's heart was in his throat – do something! But what? He was vaguely aware that his breathing and pulse had quickened.
The druid spoke to the boy, asking some indistinct question. Merlin responded emotionlessly, his hand rising to touch the small shiny charm at his neck. There was a pause – Arthur struggled to find some understanding of the short exchange – then the druid nodded agreement, gesturing.
Merlin seated himself on the block, swinging his legs to the high end just as someone would do getting into their own comfortable bed at the end of a long weary day, laying himself down carefully so his head hung off the low end of the block.
The elder bent to place the now-empty bucket beneath Merlin's head – ready to collect the blood as it drained from the sacrifice's throat. Ready for sprinkling.
"No." Arthur spoke without meaning to. He found that the red-haired soldier had joined the other in holding his arms, and they were pushing against him – or he was pushing against them.
The druid put out his hands and spoke – flashes sparked from the ground around the block and thin tendrils of smoke began to rise from the bundles of greenery strategically placed.
Vortigern's soldiers all took a comprehensive yet spontaneous step back.
The druid spoke again, and Merlin's body jerked, the spell yanking his feet to the high corners of the slope of the rock, his arms out and down to the sides, binding his body in place more easily and swiftly by magical means than physical. Spread-eagle. The green-black tattoos of his clan stood out on the white skin of the underside of Merlin's forearms, swirling and blurring in Arthur's vision as the smoke rose and eddied on the breeze, the scent sweet and terrible.
"No," Arthur said again. His voice was weak, useless. He was on his knees, now, bearing the weight of his two guards as he strained forward.
The druid began rolling his sleeves… to keep them clean of blood. His own tattoos, matching those of the boy's, came into view.
"Merlin!" He tried to surge forward, bellowing. "No! Merlin!"
Merlin turned his head, the first motion he'd initiated deliberately thus far, and his eyes connected with Arthur's. Arthur was wrestled down again, some leathery object forced between his teeth to silence his cries to grunts. Merlin's eyes were still on him, clear and unafraid.
Arthur shook his head violently, pleading. No. Don't. Please. Don't do this. Please don't go through with it.
The boy turned his head back, tipping his chin to the sky… exposing his neck… closing his eyes. The druid elder knelt, and Arthur dimly heard him chanting the incomprehensible words of the ritual.
The blade glinted, and touched the skin of Merlin's throat.