Chapter Fifteen: Darkness, Overruled
Ice. Darkness and ice and cold and where was he? The teenager hugged himself, staring around and upwards. A layer of pristine white snow was beneath his feet, but his surroundings were dim. Dark and coated with ice. Looking closer, he could see stone beneath the ice; staring straight up, he spied what might've been a ceiling, towering far above and coated with icicles.
Shivering, he looked around, scanning for any way out of this icy, desolate place. Deep inside, something tugged. Wary, he prodded at that foreign something, suspicious of anything that happened in this…dark, foreboding place. Especially since it was…leading further into the icy castle.
His own magic curled around him, pushing back the unnatural chill. Whispering reassurance – following that something was the right thing to do. Something he had to do, though his magic wouldn't say why. No, not wouldn't; couldn't.
Frowning, the young man drew his magic in as close as he could, murmuring a Warming Charm to ward off the worst of the cold. Then he set off, following the something through the massive stone atrium and into the castle proper. The snow crunched under his feet and every sound beyond his own footsteps brought him around, a shielding spell on his lips and fire sparking on tips of his left fingers. After the fourth strange noise, he stopped dispelling the fireball and kept a portion of his mind focused on the fastest spell chain he knew, longing for the heft of his sword at his left side.
The farther he went, the gloomier his surroundings became. Majestic in a gothic fashion, but dim, dark, coated in ice, and rather rundown. Almost as if the prior owner had abandoned it at the height of its power. The cold deepened around him, enhanced by the dark magic embedded into the castle's foundation. The teenager summoned more of his magic, focusing it on his core, arms, and legs to keep himself moving. Snow stung at his cheeks, turning them red as his breath misted in the air.
At length, he reached what looked like a throne room, so coated in ice that it seemed to glow from within. Unlike the rest of the castle, the throne room was lighter. Instead of dark, dim stone, the ice's inner glow was a light blue hue. The visitor might've liked the room were it not for the fact that it was colder by far than the rest of the castle and everything inside was made of ice. Including the empty throne that sat at the opposite end of the room, draped with a long-abandoned animal fur.
Shivering a bit harder, the young man made his way through the throne room, scanning for the something that had drawn him so far into this dark, desolate place. His gaze fell on an odd-looking wall just past the throne of ice, but it wasn't until he got closer that he realized it was another passage, leading even deeper into the castle.
With a grimace, he walked into the passageway, flexing his fingers to warm them against the fireball; like the throne room, the walls of the passage were solid ice and freezing cold, even for him. Deep inside, he prayed he was close to the something because he was starting to have a hard time feeling his toes or the fingers of his right hand.
Ahead of him, he spotted what looked like the entrance to a medieval dungeon. Around the barred door, ice had been shaped to resemble blocks – or maybe that was the castle stone, peeking through the sleek ice that encased it. Thick icicles hung down, every one of them razor sharp; some were so thickly grouped and long that they formed new walls.
The young man lifted his hand, readying a spell to unlock the thick padlock on the dungeon door, but it swung open soundlessly as he approached. Past the door, he spied several cells, all of them barred with both metal and ice. Speeding up, he finally found the something. A familiar figure was inside the cell furthest from the door, clad in leather armor and fast asleep on the icy floor.
"Uncle Greg!"
Greg woke at the sound of his name and instantly regretted it. Cold. He was so cold. Freezing from the inside out so badly that his body wasn't even shivering anymore. Already, the cold was dragging him down again, pulling his mind back under so he wouldn't be aware when he finally froze to death.
A pair of hands touched his arm, so warm that they nearly scorched his frozen flesh; he moaned in pain, the moan growing louder when he felt heat filtering into his system. He longed to just go back to sleep, but the warmth wouldn't let him.
"Easy, Uncle Greg; I'll go slow," the newcomer promised. "Guess it's a good thing 'Lanna made me read that book about Balto after you showed us the movie."
"Cold," he stuttered as the shivering began, wracking his body in fierce shudders.
"I know; it's all ice in here."
Minutes passed as his shivers grew worse, even as heat filled him, traveling from his arm to his core, then onto his legs, head, and opposite arm. Gradually, his magical core 'thawed', adding its own warmth to the stranger's. Once that happened, Greg realized several things. First, his core was only a fraction of the size he was used to, as though most of it had been ripped away. Second, the 'stranger' was his nephew – and third, this felt like his mindscape, even though he'd never seen anything like this dark, forsaken castle before.
Slowly, carefully, he sat up, wincing at the sting of ice against his palms. His nephew crouched next to him, a fireball balancing on the fingers of his left hand while his right hand remained on Parker's arm. Once upright, he had to stop and pant – his body was still too cold for him to go any farther. Without hesitation, he leaned into his nephew, soaking in the joy of the young man's presence; part of him had feared he'd never be able to touch any of his kids again. At least he'd gotten to touch one of them again, even if only in his dreams.
Lance wasn't sure how much time passed before he was able to get Uncle Greg up on his feet. The older man was staggering and still dangerously chilled, but the longer they stayed in this dungeon, the more he drained his own magic battling against the enchanted ice of the castle. Thankfully, between his height and innate gryphon strength, he was able to support his uncle and still keep one hand free for magic.
The pair made their way out of the cell and back down the dungeon corridor, but just as they reached a small open area right between the cells and the exit, a shadowy figure appeared. Floating off the ground, it was dark gray with sickly yellow eyes and, at first glance, very thin. A closer look revealed that the creature had no legs and a thin, pointed torso that opened up into a large chest, a skull-like head, and brawny arms tipped with clawed fingers.
It drifted forward, raising one of those clawed hands, and Lance hurled his fireball at the thing. The fireball struck dead-center of its chest; it shrieked, clawing at the injury even as it vanished.
There was a breath as uncle and nephew glanced at each other.
Then three more wraiths appeared.
Falling back was not an option – the only thing behind them was his uncle's former cell. So Lance plunged forward, hurling fireballs as fast as he could conjure them. The problem was that once they were past the initial ambush and out of the dungeon, they'd find themselves in a running battle with opponents that could attack from either side. Of secondary concern was the fact that he was now burning through his magic at a much greater rate, but if they got pinned down, it wouldn't matter; he'd run out of power regardless, dooming both of them to an icy grave.
The young man longed for his sword, but there was no time for second thoughts and only an instant to be spared for regrets. He made sure every shot counted – missing would waste both magic and time, commodities he and his uncle could ill afford to lose. Though tempted to mix in other magic, Lance stuck to the fireballs. Easy to conjure, quick, and he didn't have to waste any time calculating his next spell. Also easy to fling in both directions, an invaluable advantage as he rammed their way through the dungeon's exit and into the passage leading to the icy throne room.
Countless wraiths swarmed them, so thick that many of the brunet's fireballs caught multiple foes at once. Once, he was forced to halt, throwing up a shield on one side so he could focus on the swarm from the other side. But even then, he kept them moving, sparing just enough concentration to wedge his magical shield backwards, forcing the wraiths pounding on it to give way. An idea sparked; as soon as the last dungeon-side wraith fell, he seized the opening to whirl and slam his shield outwards in two directions, flattening a horde of throne-side wraiths against the icy walls.
It gave them a precious opening; Lance hefted his uncle up over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, ignoring the older man's protest, and ran for the throne room with a fresh pack of wraiths nipping at their heels.
As soon as they reached the throne room, the wraiths vanished. Sensing a trap, Lance skidded to a halt, panting with exertion even as he conjured up his next fireball. A low, amused laugh drew his gaze to the center of the throne room, where a woman stood. She wore no cloak or any other clothing to keep out the cold; indeed, her mail dress and iron chest plate were sleeveless, with only a ring of ragged brown fur around her neck and shoulders to offer a semblance of warmth. She wore a small gold helm that had a vaguely cat-like appearance and looked as if more of the same brown fur was attached to it, woven into her brunette locks.
"Greetings, Sons of Adam," she intoned, solemn, but there was something gleeful in her air. In the way her fingers tightened around the hilts of the swords in her hands.
"Good evening, madame," Lance replied, polite even as he kept his right hand – and its fireball – raised, a second incantation at the ready in the back of his mind. "Perchance, you might allow my uncle and I to pass without challenge?"
"Perchance," she purred, hefting her weapons. "But I much prefer watching you squirm, little prince. Just as I watched your miserable ancestors writhe before me when I overran their pathetic defenses and took Narnia for my own." She threw her head back, laughing as he reared back, eyes wide, fireball fizzling as his concentration slipped. "Poor, poor young fool – so earnest. So brave." Her eyes lit with an eerie icy blue glow. "So naïve…"
Lance cried out as her magic crashed against his mind, forcing him to his knees in an instant. His uncle, still on his shoulders, tumbled off, knees cracking against the ice of the throne room floor. For an instant, the older man struggled to rise, to protect his nephew, but fell back against the young man's side, utterly spent.
The witch – the White Witch – laughed as she slowly prowled towards her prey. Glorying in their helplessness and futile defiance.
Then, halfway between the two men and their opponent, a brilliant beam of light shot up from the ground, soaring into the air. Just above the Witch's head, a cube appeared in the midst of the light, its sides rotating, realigning, and shuffling pieces even as the three observers stared. Power crackled as it built around the mysterious cube, throwing off sheets of light that were the same icy blue shade of the witch's magic.
A clicking noise came from the cube itself and it began to glow from within. The sheets of light arched outwards, compressing into a thin layer of solid light that encircled the cube for a meter in all directions. The sides of the cube continued to move, individual pieces sliding independently, twisting, and rotating, imparting a sense of constant motion and inner chaos to the small object.
Between the circle of light and the cube, something began to form. At first, it appeared to be more light, speckling the air with patches of blue, but those patches spread, connecting with each other and gaining definition. A spectral figure began to take shape around the cube, hunched over and slowly straightening, lifting its hands as it gained mass and form. As those hands reached the level of its head, rippling currents of blue ran over it, like tamed lightning, outlining what looked like armor.
Then, just as it fully materialized, it threw its head back with a roar, flinging both hands out to the sides as all the light save the circle of solid light vanished. Metal materialized out of the solid light circle as the light itself raced inwards, latching into place around the figure's neck.
The creature was slim, almost delicate, and bright red, with white and black armor plating; the plates were stylized with neon green lines on the shoulders, arms, legs, and several decorative pointed loops attached to the figure's chest, helm, and shoulder armor. There were even a few spots on the armor that were detailed with the same red hue of the figure's unarmored skin. The middle of its chest was hollow, in a triangle shape; the blue cube it had emerged from rotated inside, just as frenetic as it had been before. Its boots were pointed at the knees, rising up to a sharp point that could punch right through flesh. The circle of light remained around its neck, beams emanating from the three roughly triangular metal devices that had appeared at the last moment – a collar, though Lance had no idea what it was for.
Flexing empty hands, the newcomer eyed its opponent – Lance had an impression of glowing blue eyes narrowing behind the stylized, close-fitting helm. With deliberate movements, it brought its hands together, crossing them in front of its chest and never taking its attention off the Witch who barred the way. A beat of silence, awaiting just the right moment to snap. Then the creature snarled, slamming its arms outwards – blades materialized, replacing arms and hands.
Long and broad, the upper part of the blades, right at the creature's shoulders, had the same black and white hue as the rest of the armor, with neon green outlining an arrowhead shaped piece. Past the arrowhead armor, the rest of the blades were white, black, and broad, with symmetrical edges that swooped down into traditional sword points, albeit on a much larger scale than most swords. Curiously, the fullers (6) of the swords were not depressed into the metal; instead, they arched, creating a smooth arc of metal from edge to edge. Even more curiously, letters marched along the fullers, spelling out the word POLICE – but Lance knew there was no police department in the entire world that employed… Whatever this thing was…
The White Witch stared at her unexpected opponent, taken aback. Then her voice rose in indignation. "What are you doing here?"
The creature did not reply except to lunge, right blade slashing at the Witch's head. She snarled, blocking the oncoming blade with her sword and spinning away from the left blade. After that, their movements were a blur as each fought to gain – and retain – the upper hand. Their mystery rescuer seemed to have the ability to fly – or at least levitate – and often exploited that advantage to attack from above. Unfortunately, each time it did so, its movements were so telegraphed that the Witch was easily able to deflect or avoid them. And though the creature's initial attack had driven the Witch back towards the center of the throne room, with every passing minute, she was working her way towards Lance and his helpless uncle.
From his spot on the ground, Lance fought to push her magic away – out of his mind and core. But though he gained some ground, he'd already expended so much of his power that he knew he was on the edges of magical exhaustion. Even with their mystery creature's help, the odds of beating the White Witch, false Queen of Narnia, were fifty/fifty. And that was assuming she didn't pull out any more of her minions.
Then the creature swooped into an opening, left blade crashing into the Witch's sword with so much force that she cried out and dropped the weapon. For an instant, she pulled her hand in – an instinctive motion to cradle the injury. Her arm stilled; her lip curled. Then she flung out her hand, icy magic forming in it.
The blast of power threw the creature back; before it could recover, she hissed an incantation, snapping the fingers of her left hand as she cast the spell. A translucent blue chain appeared, latching onto the creature's collar; it wailed dismay as she yanked on the chain, hurling it to the ground. A second jerk sent it tumbling towards the two onlookers; it landed right in front of them, blades vanishing as it reached up and tugged in vain at the collar.
"Did you honestly believe you could defy me?" the Witch demanded of the creature. "Did you honestly believe your valiant defense of these two little fools would avail you?" She laughed, a cruel, triumphant sound. "He has forsaken you – you and your kin! Nothing you do will change that – He is incapable of changing."
"Leave him alone!" Lance yelled, flinging the hottest, deadliest Forbærne he could conjure at her.
The Witch sneered as she caught the fireball in her bare left hand. "How very…gallant of you, little prince. Defending that which is your sworn enemy."
Lance sneered right back. "Haven't you heard? The enemy of my enemy is my friend."
"Your…friend…" she drawled, staring down at the chained, beaten figure before her. "Shall we tell him, little one? Shall we tell him of you?" She knelt down, caressing the creature's helm at the chin in a mockery of affection. "Shall we tell him of your kin? Of the great crime you committed against all of Narnia?!"
The creature flinched at her words, letting out a low, mournful sound, but not speaking a single word in its defense.
Glee shone in the Witch's eyes as she turned towards her human captives. "Or shall I simply claim your uncle's soul for the Goddess, little prince?"
"You can't have him!" Lance hissed. "Either of them!"
"And who, little prince, will stop me?" she inquired, arch and secure in her victory.
"I AM!"
The words rang in the air, almost tangible in their authority. The strength behind them echoed in Greg's bones, so decisive that he knew the witch was done. And at the sound of the Voice, he felt an incredible warmth, driving the castle's icy chill out of his mind, body, and soul. Beside him, his nephew relaxed into him, tension draining all at once. In front of them, the translucent chain vanished from the creature's collar, though the collar itself remained. Glowing blue eyes never blinked, but Greg sensed it was startled nonetheless.
Between the trio and their foe, He appeared – so completely present that the air wasn't even displaced by His sudden arrival. The Lion's head was already lowered, ears back as He regarded the woman who'd attacked so relentlessly and ruthlessly.
For an instant, she quailed beneath His fury, then straightened, regaining her haughty air. "So," she drawled. "You have come." A cruel smile tipped her jaw. "A bit late, aren't we?"
Parker felt his heart drop at her smug, confident tone.
"Judgment, dear Aslan," the witch purred. "Not even you may overturn the Judgment of the Emperor-beyond-the-Sea."
For a long, dreadful moment, all was silence. Stillness as the creature and the two humans it had sought to protect awaited the Lion's response.
"That is so," He rumbled. "I do not deny it."
The witch's smile widened and she pointed a finger at Greg – a long, bone-white finger with a blood-red fingernail so long that it appeared to be a talon. "He," she declared triumphantly, "is under Judgment. His blood is my property!"
The Lion growled, shifting to stand more between the Witch and the humans. "You speak truly; the Emperor's Judgment cannot be sundered. But the judgment of your sister, the Morrigan, has no such seal upon it. Neither you nor she may pass judgment upon those under My dominion." The growl grew louder and the Witch's façade…twitched. "Neither you nor she may snatch My Own from the Palm of My Father's Hand."
"Why, then, did you permit Judgment to fall upon his head, O Great Lion?" Mockery and bravado, though Parker could see the cracks beginning to form. "Could you not protect your own, Great One?"
"Do not mistake My Father's forbearance for assent, Jadis, False Queen of Narnia," Aslan boomed. "It is you who have trespassed this night, presuming to plunder a soul who rests in My Paws."
Jadis cringed from the Lion, but refused to surrender. Her cold eyes fell to her prey once more. "Perhaps…" she mused aloud. "He was never truly important to you. A mere trifle… Easily cast aside and left to our tender mercies."
Next to him, Greg felt Lance's form tense, but refused to respond to the taunts. Though his soul was at stake, he knew this was a battle he couldn't win. Wasn't a battle his nephew or their mysterious helper could win, either. If Aslan stood down now, nothing could save him – but he had a sneaking suspicion that the witch was hurling empty threats. Trying to get him to panic and abandon his best defense.
"Or maybe," he replied, lifting his chin, "this was all about giving you enough rope to hang yourself."
The Witch stared at him, amusement falling away into absolute, utter, towering fury. One hand came up, glowing with an icy power that eclipsed all the enchantments of her freezing cold, dark dungeon.
Aslan roared, the sound growing louder and louder with each passing moment.
Before Him, the Witch stared up at Him, terror-stricken – Parker, his nephew, and the creature were forgotten. Then she hiked up her mail skirts and fled.
The roar continued to echo, impacting the walls of the castle. They trembled, quaked, and gave way, collapsing outwards for an instant before they – along with all the ice and snow – vanished. To Parker's surprise, once the castle was gone, they were right on the shores of a lake. In the middle of the lake, there was something that looked like a castle on an island, but long fallen into ruin. There were even sections that were missing – not destroyed, but as if something other than stone and brick had filled them.
"Jadis's seat of power," Aslan murmured. "Where once she held all of Narnia in thrall, binding the land itself to be always winter and never Christmas." Amber eyes were sorrowful. "Though I broke her power long ago, Sons of Adam, an imprint of her castle remains etched in Narnia's memory."
Greg shivered. "And that Judgment spell latched onto it," he concluded.
"Yes," the Lion agreed, turning His great head. "Your magic summoned your young nephew to your side, for though the Witch Morgause laid her trap well, she did not fortify the innermost part of her spell as well as she fortified the outer regions."
The pieces slid together and Parker sat all the way up, eyes widening. "Lance could break it from the inside."
"Precisely," Aslan said. "The Morrigan sent forth an echo of Jadis, knowing that only I may stand against the White Witch's power." He shook out His mane and gave a Lion smile. "But it is well done, Sons of Adam. You and your magics alike." Lifting His muzzle, He declared, "Come forth, magic of My Son."
A black figure with glowing yellow eyes materialized – the Shade of Greg's magic. Though caught off guard by Aslan's presence, it brightened upon seeing Greg himself. "Free now?"
"Yes," Aslan rumbled. "You may join with him once more whilst I deal with the other." As He spoke, amber eyes shifted to the mysterious red creature; it cringed beneath His regard, shrinking in on itself.
Greg opened his mouth to defend the creature, only to get cut off before he could even speak as his magic snuck in behind him and merged with him. He gasped at the feel of power filling him, the torn, jagged edges of his psyche sliding back together – everything he was, it had been ripped in twain and now he was getting it back.
He came to in a curled up heap on the ground, panting under the force of his own capacity for ruthlessness, the unexpected strength of his own resolve – his skills in lethal combat. He was used to being surprised by his magic, but the rest… It was so much a part of him that he'd never fully grasped the extent of it until it was gone; he shivered, adrift in his own skin. What was he, that he could be that ruthless, that lethal – almost a living weapon.
"You're a protector, Uncle Greg."
His head lifted, confused hazel blinking at his nephew.
Lance burrowed himself under one of Greg's arms, completely unconcerned that he was so close to someone so…dangerous. "Gryphons are protectors, Uncle Greg. That's who you are – who you always have been, even before you knew anything about magic." Brilliant sapphire gazed up at him. "Even if you lost your magic and Animagus form tomorrow, you'd still be a protector."
He clung to his nephew, a muted sob breaking free. That was right – he'd learned how to be lethal so he could keep people alive. An oxymoron, maybe, but the truth. And as a negotiator, he had to be ruthless. Because he was the one who called Scorpio. The one who judged if a subject had gone too far to be saved. If he called that wrong, people died. Maybe even his own people.
A sound brought both men up; Parker hastily wiped at the wetness around his eyes. The red creature fidgeted, glancing up and over at Aslan as if unsure if it was allowed… The Lion inclined His head, amber softening a hair from His stern expression.
"When you find the Astral Cycle," it began, startling them both – for the creature's voice was female. It stopped, eyeing them warily.
"You're a girl?" Lance blurted, flushing bright red. "Sorry for before!"
Though the helm never twitched, the creature brightened and light laughter broke free. "You could not know," she replied. "Thank you for defending me to her."
Greg landed the creature with a stern gaze of his own. "I hope you're not planning on involving my nephew in this…Astral Cycle."
She shrugged. "I do not know which of you will find the Astral Cycle," she confessed. "Only that at least one of you will."
Oh. "This is a warning?" Parker ventured, earning a nod. He considered, then returned the nod. "Copy that; we're listening."
She brightened another hair beneath her blank, expressionless visor helm. "The Astral Cycle is not what it seems," she warned them. "Trust only those who fight beside you, for there will be those who pretend friendship, but inwardly, are naught but ravening wolves." She glanced up at Aslan, then back to them and plunged on, "And beware the Astral Plain, for there lies the first and greatest trap. If any should be lost there, the Cycle will continue."
His grip on his nephew tightened a hair at the thought of losing any of his family or friends. Lance squirmed, but didn't fight his hold. Instead, the young man met the creature's eerie glowing blue eyes and nodded. "We'll remember," he promised. "Won't we, Uncle Greg?"
"Absolutely, kiddo." Greg studied the creature for another few seconds. "Thank you. For trying to help us, even if it didn't work out."
Though they couldn't see her face, the way she ducked her helm and fidgeted filled in the blanks. "I must go now, but, please…" Her helm came up, gazing right into their souls. "Do not forget." Before either could reply, her form phased, vanishing back into the frenetic blue cube from her chestpiece, which flew up in the air a moment before it winked out in a flash of bright blue light.
Aslan approached and Greg pushed himself up, tugging Lance with him. The Lion rumbled a chuckle at the lieutenant's stubborn refusal to remain on the ground now that he'd recovered. Lifting His head, the Lion surveyed both humans. "Son of Adam, do you know why I permitted the Witch Morgause to entrap you?"
"To give them enough rope?" Greg asked, recalling the response that had so infuriated Jadis.
Amusement shone in deep amber eyes. "That is so," He agreed. "But not all." He stopped, surveying them for a moment before continuing. "There is much magic, Son of Adam, which My Father placed into the world at its creation. Deep Magic, which those of darkness see, but cannot truly understand." Sorrow gleamed. "The Judgment of My Father is absolute – though the judgment of the Morrigan and her High Priestesses is but a shadow of My Father's Judgment, when it is cast, it must, by its very nature, work."
"But You can overturn it," Parker whispered, earning a regal nod.
"Understand, Son of Adam, that I could have overturned it at any time, but chose to wait until now." The great Lion head dipped, amber gazing directly into Greg's eyes. "I did this so that your own might see My deliverance with their own eyes."
The inhale was sharp, one hand rising to his chest without thought. "You wanted them to see that there was no way they could break the spell. That it would take a miracle to free me from Morgause's spell without my team ending up losing their freedom."
"Yes." Aslan turned away, gazing out over the lake. "There are those under your authority that have known naught but the Old Religion. They do not know of Me because the Old Religion has taken their ability to hear My Voice."
Parker stilled, knowing who Aslan was referring to. Team Four – the former Knights of Camelot. And, really, even his team could fall into that category. All of them, including Wordy, had been willing to sacrifice themselves just to get him back. Grim as it sounded, better to lose one man than a whole team – and Wordy, at least, should've darn well known better. Although…if he'd been in Wordy's place, he wasn't sure he'd have done any different.
He swallowed hard and dropped his gaze. "Copy that."
Aslan rumbled and, a moment later, a paw pushed his chin back up. "Peace, Son of Adam. You and your magic did well – you have not usurped My authority." A Lion smile. "I know you will fall, as all Men do, whether they call upon My name or not." He leaned forward. "The difference is that when My Own fall, I am there to catch them."
[6] The fuller runs down the center of a sword blade and is usually slightly shallower than the edges of the sword.
Author Note: I hope this resolution to Greg's split-personality issue is satisfying to everyone.
In other news, thank you all for your prayers for my Mom. She thinks she is getting stronger and steadier on her feet, although she definitely has a lot of healing to go. I am very grateful for the Lord's provision and His Hand of Healing on both of my parents.
I also have a praise report for my cellphone. It is a faithful little phone and I can't even remember when I originally got it. About two weeks ago, over the weekend after my usual Friday post, my smartphone's battery made it clear that it was in a death spiral. It took me most of Sunday and I ended up having to drive over an hour away from where I live, but I was able to get a new OEM battery for my phone despite the fact that they discontinued the battery in June of last year!
I am joyfully reminded of why I originally picked out this phone - it has a battery built like a tank! Just keeps going and going and going - much like the Energizer Bunny!
In a curious turn of events, that weekend was very much the weekend of the batteries - first my wristwatch battery died, then my cell phone battery began to die, and finally, my digital audio player's battery began to die, too. The DAP had to take a vacation to its original manufacturer in Korea, but I am quite confident that it will come back with a shiny new battery, ready for many more years of musical enjoyment.
As ever, thank you all for reading and praying. If anyone has something they'd like me to pray for, I would be delighted. Just let me know in a review or a PM.
Hope you all enjoyed and Happy Reading!