Nabbi- small, fluffy.
Mutt- colloquial slang for dog
*- chapter 50. Where the Shadows Lie.
CHAPTER 9 The Edge of Mirkwood
Rûk-Shtôl was almost complete. It lay in splendid stillness in Hallvarðr's safe, but even deep enfolded in the iron womb of the safe, Hallvarðr could hear it humming softly, the sharp metallic buzz as the steel and mithril and fáinn cooled and the etch was graven into its structure. He could not help singing back to it and before long, he had reached into the dark stillness of the safe and brought it forth to admire and polish once again. It was still blind, it told him, fizzing in his hand, thrumming with energy and wanting to live. And he thought of the green emeralds and amber that Gilthrûn Sindri was cutting and polishing and would set in the axe and he wished to be under her hands and gaze. He cursed himself again for his stupidity that had cost him her love all those years ago, and how he had wasted those years in his stubborn pride.
0o0o
Hallvarðr heard Raggnr's approach long before he lay his heavy fist against the door. Dwalin was with him of course. As soon as Hallvarðr opened the door, a stinky hairy head thrust through the door, snuffling and growling.
Hallvarðr shoved the door shut quickly and yelled, 'You're not coming in anywhere with that Warg, Raggnr.'
He did not mean Dwalin but Raggnr's hellhound, ironically called Nabbi because, Hallvarðr assumed, it might once have been small and fluffy but was now the size of a small pony but less accommodating. Nabbi looked less like fluff and more like something from Azog's Warg stable.
There was a muffled cursing from beyond the closed door.
That was Dwalin.
Then soft, cooing endearments, 'Good boy, who's a lovely, fluffy boy? Who's a sweet thing?'
That was Raggnr, talking to the mutt, thought Hallvarðr. Although he might just as well have been talking to Dwalin according to some. But so far, none had dared ask more about the relationship between the two old berserkers.
When he opened the door, the hell hound was sitting as obediently as it ever did, and growling softly under its breath like it was cursing. Its malevolent yellow eyes stared balefully and hungrily at Hallvarðr. Dwalin was standing, leaning against the lintel with the same expression.
Hallvarðr pointed vaguely to include both hound and dwarf. 'If it bites any of my apprentices or customers. I'll have its hide on my hearth, Raggnr.'
Raggnr grinned irrepressibly. 'Nabbi's a good boy. Never bites anyone who doesn't deserve it. Can't say the same for this one though.' He jerked a thumb at Dwalin who was already impatiently shoving his way past Hallvarðr , looking like he would bite anyone deserving or not, Hallvarðr wondered if he could insist that Dwalin was also left outside.
'You really are a fucking alamgamêsh, Raggnr,' Dwalin commented mildly as he forced his way through the Hall and barged into the cellar, calling back over his shoulder as he did, 'Don't try and fob me off with any o' that nasty Esgaroth stuff, Hallvarðr. Smells of fish. Tastes of fish. Probably made from fish. I know you've got proper Rhovanion beer made with barley from the plains of Dorwinion.'
From his shoulder Raggnr unslung a long, narrow case of fine leather, tooled and carved with Raggnr's own design and sigil of his House. This he laid with great care upon Hallvarðr's wide oaken table that stood in his hallway. Knowing what it was, Hallvarðr could hardly contain himself but it would not be proper to ignore Dwalin and go straight into the Tharkût. Hospitality was required.
Dwalin returned with the small keg of beer that Hallvarðr had carefully placed where it would be found easily, and tapped and poured generous tankards and slammed them down emphatically before each of them. Although what he was trying to emphasise was lost on Hallvarðr who resigned himself to listening to the two old bastards gossiping outrageously for an hour or two before he could get down to business. Sure enough they gossiped worse than any of the fishwives of reviled Esgaroth, about everyone from Thorin Stonehelm himself to Sigrúnda's discreet assignation with Brisingr, the must lauded engineer who would have been asked to help with the new gates for Minas Tirith. Gimli must have suggested her, Raggnr said, for how else had the King's engineers known of her.
There was something in the way he said that that made Hallvarðr sit up a little. Some sly glance between Raggnr and Dwalin.
'Why do you think Gimli suggested her?' Hallvarðr asked carefully, swirling his beer and inhale the fragrance of hops and yeast. 'I know she has won renown for the new awls she has designed but that is not a gate.'
'Ah,' Raggnr tapped his nose wisely. 'Good question. There was a murmur of a flirtation, perhaps even the beginning of a courtship. I hear that her family expect Gimli to return wealthy and with the favour of Erebor upon him. They will almost certainly make an overture to Gloín for an alliance.'
'Aye,' said Dwalin and shot Hallvarðr a shrewd look. Then with surprising kindness, he added, 'You'd best look out for your lad, Hallvarðr. When Gimli comes home he will be the Hero of the War...'
The look upon Raggnr's face was as kind and concerned. 'He's a good lad your Sigrúnda.' He shrugged. 'And the maid is her own master and she has done nothing to dissuade your man. Who knows?'
Dwalin drained the last of the beer and having looked pointedly into the empty tankard, he shoved the bench back and rose to his feet. 'Right then. Time I fucked off to pester Ori and leave you two boring old twats to your Tharkût.' He gave Raggnr a swipe over the back of his head that Hallvarðr supposed was affectionate.
'Take Nabbi, my dear old bastard. I'll be surprised if Ori lets you in otherwise after last time.'
Dwalin grinned scarily and made a shockingly obscene gesture that Raggnr returned and left. Raggnr did not say what had happened last time, nor did he say how taking the inaptly named Nabbi, not at all fluffy, would help. But the dog did not budge from its post, nor did it stop glaring at Hallvarðr. He could feel its stare through the closed door.
'I love him but he really is Aulë's sweaty ballsack sometimes,' said Raggnr cheerfully. He pulled his long leather case towards him and reached within, sliding out a long solid shape wrapped in soft leather.
Hallvarðr bit his lip with excitement for it could only be the haft of Rûk-Shtôl.
Raggnr threw open the soft leather wrapping. 'See, the only wood for an axe like this is elm,' he said, as if he had not said it endlessly already. 'It gives the greatest flex, absorbs the shock in battle. But see, I have chased and cased it so it will never break. Let me show you.'
He lay the haft on the oaken table for Hallvarðr to see properly. The wood was beautifully carved, oiled and polished to darkness and weighty enough to bear the double bitted blade of Rûk-Shtôl with ease and elegance. Angular patterns, runes were carved with precision and care over its surface and inlaid with copper and lapis lazuli.
'And here is the casing,' said Raggnr, a grin blazing over his handsome, rugged face. He pulled out a long, delicately latticed casing of bronze plated steel. 'Look, it fits about the haft like armour.' Raggnr clasped it about the haft and it clicked perfectly into place. Between the lattice the copper inlaid runes could be seen perfectly and the lapis lazuli was placed just so it appeared to edge the casing.
Hallvarðr nodded approvingly. Then something caught his eye, glittering in the lattice. Like a trace of something delicate winding through the whole rich patterning. Silvery like mist, or the strands of a cobweb almost.
They stared at it in silence for a moment, Raggnr's piercing blue eyes full of mischief and glee.
Hallvarðr pulled out his half- glasses. Shoving them on over his nose, he squinted down and peered at the casing. Then he saw that the delicate threads he had thought like cobweb was a tracery of mithril. Like strands of silk woven about the bronze and copper. Delicate, almost invisible. Like ithildin.
Raggnr laughed. 'Ha! Twenty-one strands of fine mithril running from head to toe. Twenty-one,' he said emphatically. 'It is significant in the Durin sequence. If you knew how to look you would see they form the runes of Gimli's name, his house and heritage. Secret and hidden. Like the mithril. You can see the bronze alright, but the mithril only when it catches the moon.'
Hallvarðr stared at him.
'Ach don't look like that, Hallvarðr, like Dwalin's pulled your trews up your crack. You forget I do not come from Erebor but the Grey Mountains. We live cheek by jowl with Gundabad and on spitting terms with the wyrms of the North. We're not like you lot where you have to pray three times and sneeze before picking up an awl.'
Hallvarðr caught his breath at such heresy. But Raggnr gave a shout of laughter, throwing back his head with his red hair so short as to be almost indecent and his beard scandalously short too. No one would ever mistake Raggnr for anything he was not.
But Hallvarðr thinned his lips and bit down on the retort; he would not give him the satisfaction of seeing him riled for it would only make a good tale for Raggnr to tell Dwalin. Besides, the work was beautiful, indeed worthy of Rûk-Shtôl and he wanted it.
They married the blade and haft there and then, driving the shaft through the eye and carefully wedging it so that it would not move. Raggnr swung it in admiration. 'This is the finest axe I have ever seen, Hallvarðr. A masterpiece. Its balance is very fine.'
All that remained, Hallvarðr thought, was the setting of the gemstones and Rûk-Shtôl would be complete.
When Raggnr finally rose to leave, he turned back briefly and caught Hallvarðr's strong arm in his meaty hand. 'And have you courted the lovely Gilthrûn Sindri? Is she yours yet, Hallvarðr?' His blue eyes pinned Hallvarðr beneath their weight for a moment and Hallvarðr's heart skipped a beat because he knew then that Raggnr had not been entirely in jest when he had said that if Hallvarðr did not, he would stake a claim for Gilthrûn himself.
He could not blame him but the jealousy in a Dwarf's heart is a dangerous beast to raise and he said in a voice of cold steel, 'If so much as one finger touches the ground where she has walked, Raggnr Wolfstooth, I will tear that finger from its socket, your hand from your wrist and feed it to the fucking beast you call a hound.'
Raggnr's eyes twinkled with delight. 'Hah! That's the Hallvarðr Oddresson I know. There's the man that wrestled the Warg from the bones of Naín, son of Grór at Azanulbizar. We were wondering where you'd hidden him. I thought he had died in the Siege of Erebor but here he is.' He winked hugely as he left. The great shaggy hound, lying like a baleful hearthrug over Hallvarðr's threshold, rose to its feet as Raggnr clucked his tongue once. Yellow eyes, gleaming with malice, glared at him as Raggnr swaggered past and away into the lamplit passages of the Third Deep.
Hallvarðr shut the door, breathing heavily.
He thought Raggnr had a point.
0o0o
He sent Sigrúnda with Rûk-Shtôl to Gilthrûn Sindri's for he could not face her himself; not just yet. He had to have time to think. To Make.
In the weeks that he waited, he cast bronze cuffs, bracelets, that would complement the armbands she herself had made and wore that night she had come to him. He spun them with copper and gold wire like the rich lights in her hair, twisted the wire into words of love and devotion, into a question. He burnished the bronze so it gleamed like her skin. Gems he brought out of his own hoard; the rarest zigilshathûr with its deep hues of sea green and blues, its flecks of gold. Like her eyes. These he set into the bronze cuffs with their inlaid copper and gold. He knew the engraving was not as fine as hers, and the gems were not cut as perfectly as she would cut, but each stroke was an act of adoration, like the devotion he would lavish upon her body if she willed it. Then he made rings, damasked and etched in gold for her clever, elegant fingers and her beautiful toes. He was lost in the Aglâb-Shteyn, singing a blessing upon its wearer, invoking all protection and beneficence for his Khabbûna. Dared he call her that? Dared he give her such a gift that declared her as much?
How could he not?
Sigrúnda did not ask him what he did for Hallvarðr had instructed Sigrúnda to start work on the sword commissioned for the new King of Gondor. His own Masterpiece that would see him graduate to his own forge and leave Hallvarðr. But Hallvarðr thought it was perhaps time for a change in all things.
When he had finished the forging, etching and engraving, he made a box of bronze and inlaid it with the same words in copper and gold, the same question hidden within the words, and engraved it with the sigil of Gilthrûn Sindri and his own. He lay the jewelled bracelets and rings on a bed of deep blue velvet and welded a clasp upon it with her initials, GS and wound his own HO about hers like he would wind about her body if she allowed.
He made a ring too, for thinner fingers. Hammered white gold, a wider ring than was customary, which he etched with a stylised tree and within the boughs he curled two letters; L and T so they were entwined. He had two emeralds, perfectly matched but a little smaller than the white gem, and these he set on either side of the gem.
At last, the message came from Gilthrûn Sindri to come to her in her workshop on the King's Way. His heart hammered on the anvil; of his chest and he felt the bellows of Erebor were blowing his breath.
He dressed with more care than usual.
Let me have the patience of stone, he prayed. Let me listen and understand. Let me speak with the Song of the Earth and let her hear my words in her heart. Ivon, spouse of Mahal, grant me the grace to speak of my love.
He stood in his water-sluice for an age, letting the cold mountain water pour over his head, shoulders, back, chest, his groin and legs. He washed the coal dust and smoke from his hair and beard and then oiled and plaited it formally into the patterns of his House and Guild, noting a few grey and silver hairs in the black luxuriance. He had dressed in his best leather tunic to show his off the Gunud Aglâb on his biceps, the dark curving lines and firestorm patterning of the Master Smith, the sigil of his House. His boots were shining and clean as they had not been in many days… weeks, he amended. Lastly, he hung the heavy gold of his Mastery chain about his neck. His thumb rings were heavy gold and expensive, declared his wealth. Lastly, he pushed onto his little finger a small ring that was worn thin, very old.
A mere copper band and more precious to him than gold.
Sigrúnda eyed him curiously. Then he smiled and wished him luck.
Vili's eyes went wide and round when he opened the workshop door and found Hallvarðr standing there, as polished as a river pebble and as anxious as a cat in a forge. But he bowed low, welcoming Hallvarðr into the halls.
Gilthrûn Sindri was waiting for him, as if she knew. She extended her hand to him as he entered and took the axe as he entered, almost as if she knew he was coming. A smile was on her lips, her pillowy, luscious lips, and he felt his heart patter.
He followed her into her workshop. Her apprentices and journeymen were already here, heads bowed over delicate work, smelting gold, laying gold leaf over silver or steel, some were sorting gemstones. But every one of them glanced up when he entered the room. Benign smiles, sly glances. Gilthrûn waved a hand expansively and snapped her fingers. Instantly eyes returned to the smelting or plating or engraving and it was as though the two of them stood alone.
Here it was at last. Rûk-Shtôl. Complete. The great war axe was aflame in the light of the firebowls hung in the workshop, rivers of dark nickel, silver polished steel, and the rich dark blue of Fáinn running through the blades and etched with mithril gleaming like the moonlight reflecting in the dark waters of Kheled-zâram, he thought. The emeralds like green eyes had awoken fully and watched fiercely.
He heard their sharp whispers: We are the fierce watch. The fierce gaze. We are the Braigtîr-Hend.
He heard the voice of Rûk-Shtôl, a sharp, metallic resonance like the strike of steel on stone: Through muscle and bone I cut. Through steel and plate and iron. I guard fore and aft. I am the silent slide of steel. Rûk-Shtôl is my name.
He saw in the blade the waters of Kheled-zâram, but he saw too that the light shifted and now he thought it was the scrolling tree so beloved of the Elves and with the stars of Durin etched upon the curved bevel, it did indeed remind him of the Doors of Moria, that great symbol of friendship between Elves and Dwarves.
Hallvarðr felt the thrill burn his fingers as he touched Rûk-Shtôl. It seemed to emanate excitement. He saw that Gilthrûn too felt it for she gave a secret smile and he knew she had felt this before and was jealous for a second before losing himself in admiration for this beautiful, marvellous woman whom he loved with all his soul and all his heart and all his being. He could fall on his knees and worship her, kiss the toes of her, the brilliant fingers if only he were worthy.
He became aware of the warmth of her hand next to his and closed his eyes, breathing in; her scent was of fire, metal, not the steel he worked with but gold and mithril and silver. And amber and sandalwood, for she presented all her work in sandalwood from Far Harad, and something else that he could not define. Something that was all her own.
He closed his hand over hers and she did not pull away. 'I have something for you,' he said. 'It is not the fine work that you do for I have not have the beauty or skill. But it is made with all my heart and all my soul and all my spirit. I hope you will accept it as it is intended.' He turned to look at her, in the eyes, drowning in their lustrous beauty. A sigh seemed to come from the well of his soul.
She smiled and took his hand, turned it over. 'I see that you wear my gift too, that was so unworthy.' She stroked a finger over the little old ring. 'And you now come to me to accept it as it was intended?' she asked, looking up at him. Was there a slight hesitation in her eyes?
He bowed his head in shame. 'I come to you in all humility and beg your forgiveness for my stupidity, Gilthrûn Sindri. I curse myself for all the years I have wasted in my pride and cold arrogance that would not admit I was wrong. From henceforth I will be ruled by you in all things Khabbûna, if you will have me.'
There was a silence and he dared not look up. In his chest his heart pounded and he hoped… oh, how he hoped. Blessed Ivon, help me now!
'Ruled by me?' she was laughing softly and now he dared look up. There were tears in her eyes and her mouth was soft, smiling. 'I would not have you so humble for all the mithril in Khazad-dûm, Hallvarðr Oddresson. I would have you proud and stubborn and arrogant and generous and kind and wilful and…' But she had to stop because he was kissing her, wrapping his arms around her strong, muscular body, holding her in the circle of his embrace and leaning over her as if he could sweep her up into his arms and bear her away to hold and have all to himself and adore her as he should.
There was cheering, he realised and she pushed him off and blushing furiously, she glanced up at him through her long eyelashes and pushed her hair back into place. Her apprentices and journeyman had gathered around and were cheering and applauding and saying, 'at last!' and 'Thought I'd never see the day…'
Villi stood nearest and his hands were clasped together as if he too had been praying and there were tears in his eyes and a wide beaming smile.
Hallvarðr took Gilthrûn's hand in his and formally bowed so low that his beard brushed the floor. 'Gilthrûn Sindri, will you be my wife?' he asked and she said yes.
0o0oo
'Three more marches and we will be at the Long Lake,' Gimli observed as they set up camp for the night. He would have preferred to carry on marching but Arod needed time to forage and Gimli was hungry too.
But it had rained heavily that afternoon and there was little dry wood lying about. Gimli handed Legolas his tinderbox for it was the most reliable of all the Fellowship's many tinderboxes and flints and added dry leaves to the small pile of wood to help it catch. At last the flame caught just when Gimli thought he was going to have to take over, and the kindling smoked and then flames crackled cheerfully.
Legolas glanced down at the tinderbox and turned it over in his hands thoughtfully, rubbing a thumb over the delicate engraving before he returned it to Gimli. Gimli left the tinderbox near at hand in case the fire went out again while Legolas placed the spitted duck over the fire, fussing a little over where it was placed.
Later, Gimli picked his teeth companionably, for the duck had been fat and the meat rich. He studied his companion out of the corner of his eye for he had noticed that Legolas had grown quieter the closer they drew to the Long Lake.
Ah. There it was. Legolas was picking at his sleeve. A telltale sign for it was his habit, when he was anxious or nervous, to find a loose thread to pull on. Gimli himself had instructed the seamstresses in Minas Tirith to sew them up so tightly that Legolas at least had sleeves to return home in.
'Will you return soon to Aglarond?' Legolas asked, almost abruptly.
Gimli frowned, stirring the fire gently to catch. Was that what was bothering Legolas? He had been upset when Gimli had announced his intention and he had cursed his own clumsiness for not talking to Legolas first. But that had been weeks ago… surely he was not still upset? But if he had learned nothing else, he had learned that with Legolas things ran more deeply than one expected, and that a comment made airily and in passing might come up again days or weeks later as if it were an itch under the Elf's skin.
'Not immediately,' he said thoughtfully. 'I have to see who is willing to come with me first.' And who had survived, he thought but did not say. 'I do not yet know what damage there has been to Erebor. Everyone may yet be needed to repair that first.' He glanced down at the tinderbox. Then he shook himself and added more cheerfully, 'But I will gather a vanguard to go with me and prepare a camp that we might make the caverns a dwelling before more people arrive. I think there will be those for whom it is as exciting a prospect as it is for me.' He grinned at Legolas.
'Is B one of those you hope will come?' Legolas asked, nodding to the little tinder box.
Gimli looked up, frowning. 'What?' he asked in shock. He was certain he had never mentioned Brisingr to Legolas.
Legolas reached over and tapped the top of the tinderbox where the delicate engraving of rune for G wound about the rune for B. 'B…And G. Entwined as if lovers.' Legolas was regarding Gimli with bright eyes, head tilted to one side like a curious jackdaw.
'It is my initials.'
'Then what is the B for?' said Legolas with even brighter curiosity and a slight smile was on his lips.
Gimli harrumphed through his nose and shifted to get more comfortable. 'Those are Khazad runes, Legolas. Not your simplistic Cirth letters,' he said grumpily, hoping to distract Legolas into an argument. 'Besides, I have seen your letters. They are poorly formed and almost illegible. You could not possibly make sense of the sophisticated Khazad runic script. You are mistaken.' He pulled out his pipe and pouch of pipeweed, knowing that he had said too much and unable to stop. He had been rationing his pipeweed until they reached Erebor and now he was being forced to use it up. He glared at Legolas and then had to use his tinderbox again to light his pipe. He puffed on it angrily and Legolas laughed.
'You look like a small hairy dragon,' he said oblivious to Gimli's fury. 'Do not think to distract me, Belasen,' he continued doggedly. 'See,' he said, tapping the top of it. 'That is the Khazad rune for B.' He smiled triumphantly. Gimli carefully put his thumb over the engraving and as soon as the taper was lit, stuffed it back in his pocket.
'B for Bugger off,' he growled and this time Legolas laughed merrily and leaned back on one elbow, stretching out his long legs. He looked up at the stars that were pricking out in the sky one by one. 'When you go to Aglarond, send word to me,' he said definitely. 'I will travel with you and make sure there are no Balrogs lurking in those caverns of yours.' He grinned mischievously.
'And you would be thrice welcome,' said Gimli, relieved that Legolas had decided to cease his questions but also, in truth, he would welcome Legolas' company. Perhaps their two new realms would be as close as Moria and Eregion had once been. 'It is always good to have a Woodelf around,' he said, echoing something that Legolas had said to him after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields and had rankled with Gimli ever since. 'Someone has to finish off the very slow and stupid orcs.'
Legolas inclined his head, acknowledging the hit and laughed. 'I will go onto Ithilien after,' he said then. 'Some of our people may come with me and I hope that Elrohir will settle in Gondor.' He turned his head and looked at Gimli.
The glitter of firelight in the Elf's long green eyes no longer seemed alien or strange to Gimli but as familiar as his own; perhaps more so indeed for he had not spent much time at all in front of a mirror in the last year.
Perhaps some of your folk are already travelling to Gondor,' Legolas continued, throwing a stick carelessly into the fire. 'Did you not say there were those who might help with the construction of the aqueduct that Arwen is building? An engineer you spoke of. The best of her generation?'
Gimli pressed his lips together. He had indeed. And then he remembered exactly what he had said about a certain engineer*. He felt himself blushing furiously but Legolas had looked away and was leaning back, hands behind his head and a smile on his lips as if he had a job well done.
'What are you looking at so smugly?' he demanded crossly.
'You.' Legolas was grinning now, his smile blazed over his face in delight, a little self-satisfied smirk, thought Gimli furiously. It meant that Legolas thought he knew something and he most decidedly did not.
'Then you see nothing.' Gimli scowled at him but Legolas merely smiled at him all the more widely and all the more beatifically. Like he was exceptionally pleased with himself.
'What sort of nothing is it though?' Legolas lifted an eyebrow and flicked a crumb of lembas from his tunic. 'Is it nothing as in there is nothing at all to be read into the runes of G and B entwined and clasping each other? Or is it that it is nothing that you wish to discuss with me, your very best friend and in whom you should confide all your fears and hopes and dreams as I, much older and more worldly than you, my dear Gimli, can advise you upon?
Gimli sputtered indignantly. 'As if I would ever ask you for romantic advice!' he exclaimed. And then he shut his mouth tightly before he said anything else; If Legolas thought he was going to get anything at all out of Gimli, he was very, very wrong. 'I don't have to tell you every little thing about myself you know. I am allowed to have a life that exists beyond you, before you, even after you.'
'Of course you are.' Legolas was amused, not offended or hurt.
'After all, I am not going to be your luggage for the rest of my life, or your guard to make sure those little pointy ears are still on your head!' Gimli
0o0o
Gimli had insisted on taking the first watch for Legolas had taken all the watches since they had met the Half Men-Orcs and all through the forest. The fire crackled quietly and Gimli stared into the flames, watching the wood shift and crumble into ash. The tinderbox that had betrayed him was cradled in his palm. A small thing that he had made himself in his youth, like a hobbit might carve a heart on a tree. No more.
But now Gimli was returning to Erebor a hero. Older, wiser. Maybe not richer, not yet. But he had been blessed with Galadriel herself, and a great gift bestowed upon him by Eomer of Rohan for his service to Théoden and the people of that land. Aglarond. It glittered in his memory like a rare jewel.
But even more precious was Brisingr. And he imagined himself now approaching her father's house with more to offer now than he had had before.
0o0o
TBC
Probably one more chapter.