Some days later, the old man was again sitting at his desk, this time
reading. Perhaps a week had gone by since Bergil's visit, perhaps more,
perhaps less. He was not really certain. The days had a way of flowing
past without him noticing. Age did that to a man.
He'd just gotten to a very interesting section of his story when he heard a pounding on his door. The oldster was tempted to ignore it, but curiosity overrode the impulse. He rose and went to the door, muttering insults at whomever dared disturb his reading. The codger yanked open the door and snarled, "What?"
Bergil greeted his rudeness with an impish grin. " 'Tis me, Grandfather, come back to visit, and I have brought guests."
"So I see," the old man said wryly, perfunctorily eyeing the crowd on his doorstep. Under normal circumstances, four people would not constitute a crowd, but when taking up space on his front stoop, they did. Even if one of them was his much-missed grandson. Still, never let it be said that his mother did not teach him basic manners, though he may not be the most gracious about them. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he grumped. "Come in."
Bergil skipped in wearing the smug expression of one who has a great surprise hidden up his sleeve. After Bergil came another lad, shorter but older-looking. His mother apparently let him eat much too much, for he was rotund. She let him run around barefoot as well, which caused Grandfather to tsk in disapproval. What were mothers coming to these days, anyway?
After the lads entered a lovely lady. She walked lightly, as a warrior does, with no wasted movement. Even the bandages swathing her arm did not hinder her grace. She had unusually light hair, yellow in color, that trailed down her back, and the most piercing blue eyes the old man had ever seen. Those eyes made him wish he was fifty years younger.
Last of all came a man, a Ranger of Ithilien by his bearing. The oldster recognized such things, having served his time in that force, long, long ago. It was not until he'd shut the door and turned to speak to his unlooked-for guests that he realized just WHICH Ranger of Ithilien graced his home.
"Lord Faramir!" the geezer cried in open astonishment. He turned on poor Bergil. "Why did you not warn me one of your guests was nobility?! I have not cleaned! I have nothing prepared! I have no fit fare to offer! Shame on you!"
Faramir interrupted on Bergil's behalf. "Nay, do not scold the lad. He kept his peace at my insistence, for we have snuck out of the Houses of Healing and if word gets back to them, we will all suffer for it. Ioreth is not a woman to cross lightly," he said.
"Ah, Ioreth!" the oldster sighed, "she is a fine woman, lively and intelligent. Sometimes TOO lively and intelligent, but a fine woman nevertheless."
"We can introduce you to her, if you like, Grandfather," Bergil offered.
"Scamp! Imp! To be setting up an old man like me! Where is your propriety? Besides, I already know her. She tended me when last I was ill," Grandfather replied sharply, but with an affectionate smile.
While grandsire and grandson were teasing each other, the guests were standing around, unsure what to do. The elderly gent noticed them at last. "Ach, where are my manners? Please, sit, sit, make yourselves at home, all of you. I fear I have little to offer beyond tea. Would you like some? 'Tis very good, though I'll have to make a new pot," he babbled.
"No, thank you, sir," Faramir said as he and the others sat on the couch. "We have only come to offer our thanks."
"Thanks?" the old man asked. He honestly had no clue what they were talking about.
"For the athelas, Grandfather," Bergil explained. He could not fathom why the adults were so uncomfortable with each other. His Grandfather was a grumpy old coot, to be sure, but his heart was pure and kind. It showed plainly in his actions, no matter how surly his words. Though Bergil himself had but only lately learned that, he expected that the adults could see it more easily. Couldn't they?
"Oh, that. 'Twas nothing, a mere trifle," Grandfather said. He did not mention that he had had two severe headaches since then, nor that he sometimes sorely regretted giving up his only source of relief. One simply did not say such things to the Steward of Gondor.
Faramir looked at the old man. "I would disagree, sir, but my mother always taught me not to argue with my elders. Still, were it not for your 'trifle', as you call it, we all would have died. And I would never have found my heart's delight," he said, taking the lady's good hand. She smiled softly.
The old man looked at the pair appraisingly. "Ah, so that's the way it is, is it? I hear you are valiant, and I can see you are fair. But are you good enough for our Steward, young lady?"
She pursed her lips, but did not snap at the oldster. She understood that old men often thought their age had earned them the right to be impertinent to whomever they pleased.
"Rather ask if HE is good enough for ME, for I am Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, shieldmaiden and sister of Eomer King, and will serve as Queen until he takes a wife," she replied with a small smile and a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Old men were not the only ones who could be impertinent.
The grumpy geezer stared at Eowyn for a few moments. Then he burst into laughter. Turning to Faramir, he said, "Hold on to this one, m'lord. She will keep you in your place, methinks, and make you thank her for doing so. A fine match, a fine match indeed."
Faramir and Eowyn both seemed torn between amusement and consternation. Bergil and the barefoot lad, however, shared no such conundrum. The pair of them were trying to suppress giggles, somewhat less than successfully.
"Something is funny?" Grandfather demanded testily.
"Not at all, Grandfather," Bergil replied, the very picture of innocence.
"And what about you, lad?" the geezer turned on the other boy, finally getting his first good look at him. "Wait, you're not a lad. You're one of those halflings, aren't you? That perian my grandson is friends with? What's the name, Pepper, or something like that?"
"You are thinking of my cousin Pippin, who has marched east with the Host. I am Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire, sometimes known as Merry, at your service sir," Merry replied with a bow.
The old man was enchanted. He had never met a creature out of story before, let alone have one bow to him. It was a novel experience. At his age, novel experiences were few and far between, and thus to be cherished.
He grinned down at the halfling. "You will have to pardon me for not returning your bow, Master Perian. Sciatica, you know. If I bend, I cannot straighten up again," the codger explained.
"No trouble at all, sire. But please, call me Merry," he replied.
Grandfather's grin turned into a pleased smile. "By all means, Master Merry. Are you certain I cannot interest you in that tea?" he asked.
Merry, for his part, was entirely interested in tea. He did not understand why Faramir had refused in the first place. So now that the option was placed before him, he gratefully accepted.
The old man happily retired to the kitchen. He was overwhelmed by his unexpected guests, and needed some time to get himself together again. He also needed something to occupy his hands and take his mind off the headache he could feel threatening. 'Twould not do to show such weakness before the Lord Faramir, nor the Lady Eowyn, nor especially his grandson.
While the oldster puttered, the others had an opportunity to talk. The subject of conversation was, of course, their host.
"Your grandfather seems a decent sort, Bergil, for all he is crotchety. He reminds me a bit of Sam's old gaffer, with a good heart under a brusque face," Merry commented.
"I wish my parents could see that," the boy said sadly.
"Why?" Merry wanted to know.
"They are estranged, and have been since before I was born. This is the first time in my life I have seen Grandfather twice in the same month," the lad explained.
"Do you know why they are estranged?" Faramir asked. He was familiar with the distance that can arise in families, and wanted to help if he could.
"My father believes Grandfather does not think him worthy of my mother, and indeed, Grandfather does not. Harsh words have been exchanged, and now they stay away," Bergil sighed. "I wish Grandfather could see how noble and brave Father is, and that Father would admit Grandfather has a kind heart. I think he is only grumpy because he is lonely, and misses my mother."
Faramir considered for a moment. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance there," he offered.
"I doubt it, m'lord. Both are stubborn, and neither will make the first move towards reconciliation," Bergil replied.
"That's sad," Merry said. "Family should keep in contact, even if they have troubles. Nay, especially if they have troubles. Distance solves nothing, but talking and love can sometimes cure all. Maybe you can get your parents to try again."
Bergil stared at Merry for a long moment before speaking. "Do you know, sometimes, I forget you are not a lad like me? Then, you say something like that, and I remember that you are full-grown, and wise."
Merry did not know what to say to that. Fortunately, he was saved by the old man's return, burdened with a full tea tray. Along with the teapot and cups, there was an assortment of breads, cookies, crackers and a few fruits. Grandfather had obviously emptied his larder to provide for his guests.
"Oh, you did not need to do this, sir," Eowyn protested, rising and taking the tray from the oldster's shaking hands. "This must be all you have left. 'Tis far too much!"
"Nonsense," the geezer replied. "Never let it be said that I do not know how to treat honored guests."
"It is you who have honored us, sir, with your gift," Faramir said. "And we thank you."
"Leave us not get into that again, m'lord," Grandfather protested. "Please, just sit and talk, and partake of my meager hospitality."
There was nothing for it but to comply. Bergil poured tea as the adults settled in. Conversation ranged over many topics, from life in the Shire to plans for after the war was over. At one point, Grandfather and Faramir got into a heated debate over the effectiveness of past Rangers of Ithilien versus those of today. Each man firmly maintained the superiority of his own group. The discussion showed signs of turning heated until Eowyn firmly announced that one shieldmaiden of Rohan could best the lot of them. Merry and Bergil laughed while the men exchanged a knowing glance, but no one contradicted her.
"You would know, m'lady. You are the one who slew the Witch-King, after all," Faramir said instead.
"I had help," she replied, smiling at Merry. The hobbit blushed and turned away.
"Ah, yes, I have heard some rumor of that. I understand the hurts you took doing such a deed were what required my athelas. If you truly do wish to thank me, I would hear the tale from those who were there," Grandfather said slyly. He was not afraid to take an opening when he saw one.
Eowyn and Merry both winced. They had no desire to relive the events. However, they did feel they owed the old man a debt of gratitude. If the tale was what he wanted, then the tale was what he would get, no matter how painful.
'Twas long in the telling, with many stops and contradictions. Both hobbit and maiden fought tears when speaking of Theoden's fall, and had to pause to collect themselves. Grandfather nearly forbade them finishing, his heart touched, but they did not give him the chance. Once the story was begun, it would be completed.
A melancholy silence greeted the end of the tale. Bergil wrapped an arm around a shaking Merry, to comfort him. At length, Faramir gently brushed back a strand of Eowyn's hair, whispering, "I had no idea. I knew you suffered, but I did not understand the depths. I am sorry, beloved."
"There is nothing for you to be sorry for, Faramir. 'Tis over and done with. We have the future to look towards, and the East," she replied, glancing in that direction.
Meanwhile, the old man grew increasingly uncomfortable. He did not mean to cause pain with his curiosity. To change the subject, he turned to Faramir and asked, "And what of you, m'lord? I was told you, too, had need of my herb, but I have yet to hear your story. 'Tisn't fair for you to escape the telling."
Faramir glanced at Bergil, still comforting Merry. He, too, knew how take an opening when he saw one. So as he told his tale, he paid special attention to the valor of Beregond, who risked his life against Denethor's wrath to save Faramir from burning. As the Steward spoke, he could see the old man thinking. He only hoped some of what he said got through to the codger, for Bergil's sake.
At length, the tales were done and the tea long gone. The hour had grown late. Guests and host alike were weary.
"We must take our leave now, sir," Faramir said, standing. "To slip back into the Houses of Healing at this hour will take some doing. I think we must expect a scolding ere we find our beds again."
"Do not let Ioreth bully you, m'lord," Grandfather replied, escorting his guests to the door. "You did no wrong, and I did not let you exert yourselves overmuch. Thank you for coming to visit me. I enjoyed the company very much."
"Thank you for your gift, and your hospitality, sire," Faramir countered. He was not about to let the old man get away without at least one proper thanks.
Grandfather sighed. He knew when he was bested. "You are very welcome, m'lord. Feel free to visit again, you and your lovely lady. That goes for you as well, scamp, and your perian friend," he said, grinning fondly down at Bergil and ruffling his hair.
"I will certainly do my best, Grandfather. I would like to get to know you better, sir," the lad replied.
"I do not know how long I will remain in Minas Tirith, sir, for home calls strongly to me. But while I await my kin's return, I will certainly visit you. You make excellent tea," Merry said.
Grandfather laughed. "Are all halflings like you?" he asked.
"Sometimes," the hobbit replied with a grin.
"Then I look forward to meeting more of your kind. 'Tisn't often I get to talk with creatures out of legend, and such charming ones at that. My home is always open to you and yours, little Master," the old man said.
Eowyn said nothing, being deep in thought, but kissed the old man lightly on his cheek in farewell. He blushed like a lad. "You take good care of our Steward, young woman. He needs much looking after," he admonished.
"I will," she answered softly. Then the guests left, leaving the old gent alone with his thoughts. He had much to think about.
A/N----again with the Battle Royale over this fic! I swear, this thing is severely costing me what little sanity I had left. Every word a fight, every line of dialog a struggle, honestly! It would have gotten nowhere without my lovely beta and good friend Drew, so here's where I offer her sincerest thanks, and tell you all to go read her stories (Drew Marigold is her penname, I believe). I sincerely hope this was worth the effort and aggravation involved. And at least two more chapters to go......sigh. Somebody kill me now? Please?
He'd just gotten to a very interesting section of his story when he heard a pounding on his door. The oldster was tempted to ignore it, but curiosity overrode the impulse. He rose and went to the door, muttering insults at whomever dared disturb his reading. The codger yanked open the door and snarled, "What?"
Bergil greeted his rudeness with an impish grin. " 'Tis me, Grandfather, come back to visit, and I have brought guests."
"So I see," the old man said wryly, perfunctorily eyeing the crowd on his doorstep. Under normal circumstances, four people would not constitute a crowd, but when taking up space on his front stoop, they did. Even if one of them was his much-missed grandson. Still, never let it be said that his mother did not teach him basic manners, though he may not be the most gracious about them. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he grumped. "Come in."
Bergil skipped in wearing the smug expression of one who has a great surprise hidden up his sleeve. After Bergil came another lad, shorter but older-looking. His mother apparently let him eat much too much, for he was rotund. She let him run around barefoot as well, which caused Grandfather to tsk in disapproval. What were mothers coming to these days, anyway?
After the lads entered a lovely lady. She walked lightly, as a warrior does, with no wasted movement. Even the bandages swathing her arm did not hinder her grace. She had unusually light hair, yellow in color, that trailed down her back, and the most piercing blue eyes the old man had ever seen. Those eyes made him wish he was fifty years younger.
Last of all came a man, a Ranger of Ithilien by his bearing. The oldster recognized such things, having served his time in that force, long, long ago. It was not until he'd shut the door and turned to speak to his unlooked-for guests that he realized just WHICH Ranger of Ithilien graced his home.
"Lord Faramir!" the geezer cried in open astonishment. He turned on poor Bergil. "Why did you not warn me one of your guests was nobility?! I have not cleaned! I have nothing prepared! I have no fit fare to offer! Shame on you!"
Faramir interrupted on Bergil's behalf. "Nay, do not scold the lad. He kept his peace at my insistence, for we have snuck out of the Houses of Healing and if word gets back to them, we will all suffer for it. Ioreth is not a woman to cross lightly," he said.
"Ah, Ioreth!" the oldster sighed, "she is a fine woman, lively and intelligent. Sometimes TOO lively and intelligent, but a fine woman nevertheless."
"We can introduce you to her, if you like, Grandfather," Bergil offered.
"Scamp! Imp! To be setting up an old man like me! Where is your propriety? Besides, I already know her. She tended me when last I was ill," Grandfather replied sharply, but with an affectionate smile.
While grandsire and grandson were teasing each other, the guests were standing around, unsure what to do. The elderly gent noticed them at last. "Ach, where are my manners? Please, sit, sit, make yourselves at home, all of you. I fear I have little to offer beyond tea. Would you like some? 'Tis very good, though I'll have to make a new pot," he babbled.
"No, thank you, sir," Faramir said as he and the others sat on the couch. "We have only come to offer our thanks."
"Thanks?" the old man asked. He honestly had no clue what they were talking about.
"For the athelas, Grandfather," Bergil explained. He could not fathom why the adults were so uncomfortable with each other. His Grandfather was a grumpy old coot, to be sure, but his heart was pure and kind. It showed plainly in his actions, no matter how surly his words. Though Bergil himself had but only lately learned that, he expected that the adults could see it more easily. Couldn't they?
"Oh, that. 'Twas nothing, a mere trifle," Grandfather said. He did not mention that he had had two severe headaches since then, nor that he sometimes sorely regretted giving up his only source of relief. One simply did not say such things to the Steward of Gondor.
Faramir looked at the old man. "I would disagree, sir, but my mother always taught me not to argue with my elders. Still, were it not for your 'trifle', as you call it, we all would have died. And I would never have found my heart's delight," he said, taking the lady's good hand. She smiled softly.
The old man looked at the pair appraisingly. "Ah, so that's the way it is, is it? I hear you are valiant, and I can see you are fair. But are you good enough for our Steward, young lady?"
She pursed her lips, but did not snap at the oldster. She understood that old men often thought their age had earned them the right to be impertinent to whomever they pleased.
"Rather ask if HE is good enough for ME, for I am Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, shieldmaiden and sister of Eomer King, and will serve as Queen until he takes a wife," she replied with a small smile and a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Old men were not the only ones who could be impertinent.
The grumpy geezer stared at Eowyn for a few moments. Then he burst into laughter. Turning to Faramir, he said, "Hold on to this one, m'lord. She will keep you in your place, methinks, and make you thank her for doing so. A fine match, a fine match indeed."
Faramir and Eowyn both seemed torn between amusement and consternation. Bergil and the barefoot lad, however, shared no such conundrum. The pair of them were trying to suppress giggles, somewhat less than successfully.
"Something is funny?" Grandfather demanded testily.
"Not at all, Grandfather," Bergil replied, the very picture of innocence.
"And what about you, lad?" the geezer turned on the other boy, finally getting his first good look at him. "Wait, you're not a lad. You're one of those halflings, aren't you? That perian my grandson is friends with? What's the name, Pepper, or something like that?"
"You are thinking of my cousin Pippin, who has marched east with the Host. I am Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire, sometimes known as Merry, at your service sir," Merry replied with a bow.
The old man was enchanted. He had never met a creature out of story before, let alone have one bow to him. It was a novel experience. At his age, novel experiences were few and far between, and thus to be cherished.
He grinned down at the halfling. "You will have to pardon me for not returning your bow, Master Perian. Sciatica, you know. If I bend, I cannot straighten up again," the codger explained.
"No trouble at all, sire. But please, call me Merry," he replied.
Grandfather's grin turned into a pleased smile. "By all means, Master Merry. Are you certain I cannot interest you in that tea?" he asked.
Merry, for his part, was entirely interested in tea. He did not understand why Faramir had refused in the first place. So now that the option was placed before him, he gratefully accepted.
The old man happily retired to the kitchen. He was overwhelmed by his unexpected guests, and needed some time to get himself together again. He also needed something to occupy his hands and take his mind off the headache he could feel threatening. 'Twould not do to show such weakness before the Lord Faramir, nor the Lady Eowyn, nor especially his grandson.
While the oldster puttered, the others had an opportunity to talk. The subject of conversation was, of course, their host.
"Your grandfather seems a decent sort, Bergil, for all he is crotchety. He reminds me a bit of Sam's old gaffer, with a good heart under a brusque face," Merry commented.
"I wish my parents could see that," the boy said sadly.
"Why?" Merry wanted to know.
"They are estranged, and have been since before I was born. This is the first time in my life I have seen Grandfather twice in the same month," the lad explained.
"Do you know why they are estranged?" Faramir asked. He was familiar with the distance that can arise in families, and wanted to help if he could.
"My father believes Grandfather does not think him worthy of my mother, and indeed, Grandfather does not. Harsh words have been exchanged, and now they stay away," Bergil sighed. "I wish Grandfather could see how noble and brave Father is, and that Father would admit Grandfather has a kind heart. I think he is only grumpy because he is lonely, and misses my mother."
Faramir considered for a moment. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance there," he offered.
"I doubt it, m'lord. Both are stubborn, and neither will make the first move towards reconciliation," Bergil replied.
"That's sad," Merry said. "Family should keep in contact, even if they have troubles. Nay, especially if they have troubles. Distance solves nothing, but talking and love can sometimes cure all. Maybe you can get your parents to try again."
Bergil stared at Merry for a long moment before speaking. "Do you know, sometimes, I forget you are not a lad like me? Then, you say something like that, and I remember that you are full-grown, and wise."
Merry did not know what to say to that. Fortunately, he was saved by the old man's return, burdened with a full tea tray. Along with the teapot and cups, there was an assortment of breads, cookies, crackers and a few fruits. Grandfather had obviously emptied his larder to provide for his guests.
"Oh, you did not need to do this, sir," Eowyn protested, rising and taking the tray from the oldster's shaking hands. "This must be all you have left. 'Tis far too much!"
"Nonsense," the geezer replied. "Never let it be said that I do not know how to treat honored guests."
"It is you who have honored us, sir, with your gift," Faramir said. "And we thank you."
"Leave us not get into that again, m'lord," Grandfather protested. "Please, just sit and talk, and partake of my meager hospitality."
There was nothing for it but to comply. Bergil poured tea as the adults settled in. Conversation ranged over many topics, from life in the Shire to plans for after the war was over. At one point, Grandfather and Faramir got into a heated debate over the effectiveness of past Rangers of Ithilien versus those of today. Each man firmly maintained the superiority of his own group. The discussion showed signs of turning heated until Eowyn firmly announced that one shieldmaiden of Rohan could best the lot of them. Merry and Bergil laughed while the men exchanged a knowing glance, but no one contradicted her.
"You would know, m'lady. You are the one who slew the Witch-King, after all," Faramir said instead.
"I had help," she replied, smiling at Merry. The hobbit blushed and turned away.
"Ah, yes, I have heard some rumor of that. I understand the hurts you took doing such a deed were what required my athelas. If you truly do wish to thank me, I would hear the tale from those who were there," Grandfather said slyly. He was not afraid to take an opening when he saw one.
Eowyn and Merry both winced. They had no desire to relive the events. However, they did feel they owed the old man a debt of gratitude. If the tale was what he wanted, then the tale was what he would get, no matter how painful.
'Twas long in the telling, with many stops and contradictions. Both hobbit and maiden fought tears when speaking of Theoden's fall, and had to pause to collect themselves. Grandfather nearly forbade them finishing, his heart touched, but they did not give him the chance. Once the story was begun, it would be completed.
A melancholy silence greeted the end of the tale. Bergil wrapped an arm around a shaking Merry, to comfort him. At length, Faramir gently brushed back a strand of Eowyn's hair, whispering, "I had no idea. I knew you suffered, but I did not understand the depths. I am sorry, beloved."
"There is nothing for you to be sorry for, Faramir. 'Tis over and done with. We have the future to look towards, and the East," she replied, glancing in that direction.
Meanwhile, the old man grew increasingly uncomfortable. He did not mean to cause pain with his curiosity. To change the subject, he turned to Faramir and asked, "And what of you, m'lord? I was told you, too, had need of my herb, but I have yet to hear your story. 'Tisn't fair for you to escape the telling."
Faramir glanced at Bergil, still comforting Merry. He, too, knew how take an opening when he saw one. So as he told his tale, he paid special attention to the valor of Beregond, who risked his life against Denethor's wrath to save Faramir from burning. As the Steward spoke, he could see the old man thinking. He only hoped some of what he said got through to the codger, for Bergil's sake.
At length, the tales were done and the tea long gone. The hour had grown late. Guests and host alike were weary.
"We must take our leave now, sir," Faramir said, standing. "To slip back into the Houses of Healing at this hour will take some doing. I think we must expect a scolding ere we find our beds again."
"Do not let Ioreth bully you, m'lord," Grandfather replied, escorting his guests to the door. "You did no wrong, and I did not let you exert yourselves overmuch. Thank you for coming to visit me. I enjoyed the company very much."
"Thank you for your gift, and your hospitality, sire," Faramir countered. He was not about to let the old man get away without at least one proper thanks.
Grandfather sighed. He knew when he was bested. "You are very welcome, m'lord. Feel free to visit again, you and your lovely lady. That goes for you as well, scamp, and your perian friend," he said, grinning fondly down at Bergil and ruffling his hair.
"I will certainly do my best, Grandfather. I would like to get to know you better, sir," the lad replied.
"I do not know how long I will remain in Minas Tirith, sir, for home calls strongly to me. But while I await my kin's return, I will certainly visit you. You make excellent tea," Merry said.
Grandfather laughed. "Are all halflings like you?" he asked.
"Sometimes," the hobbit replied with a grin.
"Then I look forward to meeting more of your kind. 'Tisn't often I get to talk with creatures out of legend, and such charming ones at that. My home is always open to you and yours, little Master," the old man said.
Eowyn said nothing, being deep in thought, but kissed the old man lightly on his cheek in farewell. He blushed like a lad. "You take good care of our Steward, young woman. He needs much looking after," he admonished.
"I will," she answered softly. Then the guests left, leaving the old gent alone with his thoughts. He had much to think about.
A/N----again with the Battle Royale over this fic! I swear, this thing is severely costing me what little sanity I had left. Every word a fight, every line of dialog a struggle, honestly! It would have gotten nowhere without my lovely beta and good friend Drew, so here's where I offer her sincerest thanks, and tell you all to go read her stories (Drew Marigold is her penname, I believe). I sincerely hope this was worth the effort and aggravation involved. And at least two more chapters to go......sigh. Somebody kill me now? Please?