Chapter 8

Captain Treville burst through the door to his office, pausing in surprise as he caught sight of the four Musketeers lounging about the room. Aramis and Athos, most probably in deference to their recent injuries, had claimed the two chairs, while Porthos and d'Artagnan each leaned against a wall, arms folded across their chests in mirror images of the other.

"Make yourselves at home," Treville grumbled. "By all means."

He tossed his gloves onto his desk as he rounded the wooden structure and dropped wearily into the chair behind it.

"I take it your conversation with Guillame did not go as well as hoped," Athos intoned.

"No," Treville snapped, frustrated. "It did not. The man just sat there smiling. No amount of threat would force him to speak." He stood and crossed the room, pulling a bottle from a cupboard and some small cups. He motioned with his head for d'Artagnan to grab a few more and follow him back across the room. When the Gascon set the cups down on the desk, Treville filled them all with a fine scented brandy. Without waiting for the others, he picked one up and downed the contents before refilling it and wordlessly inviting the others to do the same.

Athos took two and guided Aramis' hand, setting one in his grip, waiting for the marksman to acknowledge he had it before saluting the Captain with his own and downing it in one gulp. As soon as they had all partaken, they settled back into their positions, awaiting the Captain's report.

"It's apparent he was not working alone," Treville began, rubbing a hand across his face. "But he will not be easy to break. He believes whomever this mysterious patron is, he will be protected and therefore is uninclined to give up a name."

"Then we can conclude he is associated with someone who could be considered impervious to scrutiny."

"Only the King 'imself would fall into that category."

Athos nodded, agreeing with Porthos' assessment.

"But there are many who believe they are untouchable," Aramis mused. "The Cardinal comes directly to mind."

Treville grunted his opinion. "I do not believe even the Cardinal would sanction the theft of France's gold."

"At least not in such an obvious plot," d'Artagnan added.

Treville's eyes flashed for a moment, but could only concede the young man's point. "If the Cardinal wanted the King's money, he would simply take it. There is no one to stop him from claiming it for whatever purpose he desired." He shook his head. "No, as much as I disdain the man, I hold fast to the notion that he does hold France's best interest at heart."

"Then who else?" Aramis asked the question on all their minds.

"Perhaps Monsieur Guillame would bend to a different type of persuasion," Athos suggested. "One a bit less… direct."

The others shifted, the swordsman's words having captured their attention.

Treville leaned forward, his eyes curious. "Tell me exactly what you have in mind."

Mmmmmmmmmmmm

Guillame grunted as he struggled against the ropes binding his wrists to the chair. He'd been able to fool the Musketeers up until now, even going so far as to goad the Captain into striking him in frustration when his questions were not answered. He knew Colbert would receive word of his capture, convinced the man would find a way to set him free – though he couldn't help but note the Minister was taking his own sweet time with it.

He tugged at the ropes again, a low growl rumbling in his throat at the strength of the knots. If nothing else, these Musketeers knew how to confine a prisoner.

"You're just going to make it worse."

He glared at the young Musketeer – d'Artagnan – and snorted in defiance.

"I doubt I will be here long enough to find out."

D'Artagnan smiled and tilted his head in amusement. "I don't know. You look pretty comfortable to me."

Before he could retort, the door to the room opened and the Musketeer he'd fought the night before stepped inside. Guillame grinned as he watched the soldier grope his way against the wall, the bandages around his head accentuated by the addition of dark bruises about his neck.

"Aramis," d'Artagnan called, immediately moving from his position to lend aid to his comrade. "You shouldn't be here."

"I know. But I couldn't just sit by while this piece of filth was set free." The satisfaction Guillame felt at the Musketeers words was enhanced by the tightly controlled fury he detected in his voice.

"What? He's not going anywhere." D'Artagnan shot a look at the prisoner before turning his attention back to his friend. "He's secure, Aramis. What are you talking about? Who is setting him free?"

Aramis shook his head, his fists clenched at his side. "I don't know. But Treville received orders that he is to be released."

"Released!" d'Artagnan shouted, outraged. "He shot Athos! He tried to kill you!"

Aramis took a deep breath through his nose. "Apparently he has a powerful patron who has convinced the King of his importance."

"What? Who?"

"Does it matter?" Guillame sneered. He shifted in his seat, tugging against the ropes again. "If you don't mind? I do have appointments to keep."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "No, I won't release him without an explanation." He turned to Aramis. "Where is Treville now?"

"In his office."

With a final glare to Guillame, the young man hurried out of the room, pushing the door shut behind him.

Aramis leaned back against the wall as d'Artagnan's footsteps faded into the distance, his countenance suddenly calm, his anger gone. Guillame watched him for a moment, his eyes narrowed, apprehensive at the composed appearance of the man before him.

"I don't suppose I could prevail upon you to cut me lose before your young friend returns?"

Aramis grinned and pulled a dagger from the sheath behind his back. He held it up, running the sharp edge along his finger. "It would be my honor."

Guillame swallowed as the blind Musketeer pushed himself off the wall, moving with a grace that defied his condition. The light from the barred window flickered off the steel of the blade, accentuating the weapon's strength. The Musketeer bled confidence, but Guillame squared his shoulders, knowing the wounded man would not be able to best him twice.

He tensed as Aramis cut the rope, the Musketeer's strong hand on his shoulder, forcing him to remain in the chair. "I lied," he whispered. "There is no one coming for you. They wish to make a deal for your cooperation, but I will not allow that to happen. I simply did not want any blame for your death to fall on d'Artagnan."

Guillame felt the blade behind his ear and tensed, his breath in his throat.

"You took away my sight," Aramis continued, low and threatening, running the blade lightly along Guillame's neck. "You took my life. There is nothing left for me here. But before I'm cast out, I will make sure you pay for your crimes."

The knife pressed into his skin and Guillame reacted, pushing back, throwing the Musketeer off balance and sending the dagger skittering across the floor. Pressing his advantage, he turned and grabbed the Musketeer, slamming him into the wall, grinning as the man's head made contact with the rough wall and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Looking around fervently, his eyes landed on the dagger lying against the far wall and he laughed. Stepping across the dirt floor, he plucked the knife from the ground, turning it in his hand as his gaze returned to the man lying inert only a few paces away.

As he moved to retrace his steps, a noise from outside reminded him he was still a prisoner and the Musketeers words reverberated in his head.

"I lied. There is no one coming for you."

Aramis stirred, regaining his wits and Guillame knew his opportunity had evaporated. He needed to act swiftly and could not afford a fight if he wanted to escape without calling attention to himself.

"It's your lucky day, Musketeer," he hissed as he moved to the door, opening it slowly and peeking out into the courtyard beyond. He could see no one within range and quietly slipped across the threshold, disappearing into the shadows.

mmmmmmmmmmmm

D'Artagnan hurried back into the room, his eyes scanning the area, quickly determining what had happened. He moved to Aramis and knelt down next to him as the marksman moaned and raised a hand to the back of his head.

"Aramis?"

The downed man waved a hand and with another low groan, pushed himself up, leaning tiredly against the wall. "Guillame?"

"Gone," d'Artagnan responded. "Do you think he bought it?"

Aramis nodded and took a deep breath, smiling. The Gascon grabbed his arm as he swayed. "I believe it was a worthy performance. Porthos and Athos?"

"On his trail," d'Artagnan confirmed. "If Athos is right, Guillame will head to whomever he's been working for, they will follow him." He stepped back, taking a moment to assess his friend. "You sure you're all right? It looks like you took quite a hit."

"I'm fine, my friend," Aramis patted the younger man's arm. "And I will feel much better once our thief and his patron are locked away."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

"He better be all right," Porthos growled, his eyes focused on the distant figure of Guillame, hurrying through the Parisian streets. They'd made the bandit the moment he stepped outside the archway, staying out of sight until the man had determined his escape successful and headed off toward the Pont Neuf.

"Aramis can take care of himself," Athos said evenly.

"He's blind."

"Yes, but he managed to take down Guillame, unarmed and alone."

Porthos let out a long stream of air through his nose. "I know."

They stepped back behind some shrubbery as Guillame looked around before crossing the bridge and setting out toward the Louvre.

"I'm sure d'Artagnan would have found a way to alert us if something untoward had happened." Athos squinted in the late morning light, a sign his headache had yet to abate. "It seems our friend is heading towards the palace."

"Maybe the Cardinal is involved after all?"

Athos shook his head as he frowned, hurrying across the footpath, his eyes locked on Guillame's rushing form in the distance. "Treville doubts the Cardinal's involvement and I agree. Open theft just isn't his style." They rounded a corner and paused, watching as Guillame slipped through a break in the tall shrubbery surrounding the palace grounds.

"Looks as if Guillame has 'is own private entrance," Porthos observed. "S'pose we'll have to make sure that's closed for good."

Athos nodded. "I'm sure the Red Guard would be interested to know of the breach in their perimeter." He motioned for Porthos to follow, and they quietly slipped through the hedges, never losing sight of their target.

The two Musketeers exchanged a glance as Guillame made his way to the wing of the Louvre that housed the administrative offices and stepped onto the portico, acting as if he belonged.

"He's certainly a cheeky one," Porthos whispered as they crouched behind a flowerbed near the edge of the garden. "Struttin' around like he owns the place."

"Better to hide in plain sight," Athos returned. "Come on."

They quickly made their way to the arch Guillame had disappeared through, pressing against the side and peeking into the long corridor beyond.

"See 'im?"

Athos nodded. "Minister Colbert's office." He pulled back and smiled at his friend. "I believe we have discovered who Guillame was working for."

"The Finance Minister?" Porthos shook his head. "But why the game? Why not just take the gold without a fuss?"

Athos shrugged. "If the gold was publicly stolen, no one would be the wiser. There would be no reason to cast aspersions upon the Minister."

"He'd get away clean," Porthos agreed.

"Unfortunately for him," Athos continued, drawing his sword and giving his friend a grin, "things did not go quite according to plan."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Guillame stopped short as he slipped through the doors of Colbert's office. The place was deserted. No papers strewn across the elaborate mahogany desk, no clerks perched on stools checking accounts or making notations in ledgers. He stepped further into the room, slowly pivoting in a circle, attempting to make sense of what he was seeing.

The place was like a tomb.

There were no torches lit, and even in the bright light of midday, it was dark and oppressive inside the office. He'd often wondered how Colbert's clerks could stand to work in such dreary confines, knowing being trapped inside these walls for the better part of each day would certainly drive him mad. He made his way behind the desk and pulled open the drawer, dismayed to find the keys to the Minister's lockbox gone. A quick glance into the far corner of the room proved the box itself was open, empty of all contents.

Guillame uttered a low moan, dropping onto the chair and burying his face in his hands.

The Musketeer hadn't lied about Colbert deserting him.

It was obvious from the state of the room that the Minister was gone, absconding with the gold, leaving him behind to take the blame.

"It looks as if your patron truly has left you to hang for his crimes."

Guillame jumped, turning quickly toward the door, dismayed to find two Musketeers leaning against the frame. One held his sword pointing low to the ground, the other, much larger one, merely held a hand on the butt of his pistol, not bothering to draw it, confident their quarry could not escape again.

"This was a trick," Guillame suddenly knew. "Your friend, the blind one, he hoped I would come here, implicate who I was working for."

The swordsman nodded. "And you obliged. We owe you our thanks."

Guillame glared, his eyes narrowing, searching for escape but finding none. He looked back to the soldiers, defiant, his head high. He lifted a side of his lips in an arrogant grin. "Tell your friend I will see him again – even if he won't see me."

The larger Musketeer growled and took a step into the room, "If I were you, I'd forget about our friend and start worrying about yourself. The King does not take kindly to people who try to steal what is his."

"I was merely a player," Guillame stated. "The King will want the man who orchestrated the plot. I will be of little consequence."

"Then you should decide right here and now to confess everything and throw yourself at the King's mercy." The Musketeer moved forward until he stood directly on the other side of the desk. He slowly placed both fists against the smooth wood and leaned forward, his eyes dark, his head low as he glowered at Guillame menacingly. "'Cause you see, I'm goin' to need a very good reason not to break you into pieces for what you've done."

Guillame stared back defiantly for a moment, but the Musketeer showed no concession, knowing he had already won. Guillame let out a long breath through his nose, his bravado evaporating under the Musketeer's relentless gaze. He nodded, defeated. "I… I will tell the King of Colbert's plan. He left me to shoulder the blame. I owe him nothing."

The big man snorted an indignant laugh through his nose. "Good choice."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As Porthos approached the armory, a softly hummed melody drifted through the open door bringing a smile to his face. It had been a week since Guillame had been brought before the King, confessing his part in the robbery and being sentenced to five years in the Bastille in return for his cooperation against Minister Colbert. The King had not been happy having to deal with the man, but his anger toward his former Minister was formidable and, thanks to the Cardinal's and Treville's wise council, had elected to incarcerate the bandit instead of execute him for his crimes – at least until Colbert could be found and brought to justice before the court.

The wily former minister was proving to be a bit more difficult to apprehend than expected. He had escaped Paris – probably the moment he heard of Guillame's capture by the Musketeers – and hadn't been seen since. Treville had been ordered to send scouts out to the surrounding villages to ascertain whether anyone of Colbert's description had passed, but so far, the reports had been less than encouraging. At least Treville had managed to keep them out of the search for the time being, giving Aramis time to heal and keeping Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan close enough to make sure he didn't push himself unduly.

Aramis had insisted on staying at his own lodgings for most of the week and they, in turn, had insisted upon staying with him, making sure at least one of them was present when the disorienting darkness made him restless during the night or lethargic from lack of sleep during the day. It had been a trying time, but eventually the garden had calmed his soul and balanced him enough to return to the garrison before the Captain could think them taking advantage of his generosity.

As he stepped through the door, Porthos leaned back against the side of the frame and crossed his arms, smiling at the sight before him. Aramis had at least a dozen muskets lined up on the table in front of him, all but one clean, whole and gleaming. The final weapon was still in pieces, the marksman running a soiled cloth through the barrel. He seemed unaware of being watched, relaxed and content as his nimble fingers played along the length of the weapon as surely as if he could see it.

"Looks like you really can do that with your eyes closed," Porthos remarked after a moment.

Aramis smiled and tilted his head toward the door as if he'd known Porthos was standing there all along. "Don't act as if you are so surprised, my friend. I would never lay claim to such a talent if it were not in fact true."

Porthos chuckled and moved into the room, picking up one of the cleaned muskets and setting it back against the wall where it belonged. "I doubt these have ever been so clean. The new recruits are goin' to look good, even if they can't hit the side of a barn."

"Sometimes the mere illusion of aptitude is enough to sway a situation in your favor," Aramis offered.

"And sometimes it pays to hit what you aim at."

The marksman dipped his head in acknowledgement, his smile wavering. "To help with that, I will have to wait for this bandage to be removed."

Porthos sighed, knowing how hard these weeks had been on his friend. "Soon, 'Mis."

Aramis nodded solemnly. "I know. I keep telling myself it will all be over and that I must remain patient, but…"

"It's been rough, I know."

"Truly. This has been one of the most trying situations I can recall." He sighed, laying the musket on the table. "At least I now know that even if my sight is never the same, I can still be useful. I may not be the man I was, but I will still have a place here. I will still be of value to the regiment."

"You'll always be of value to us, 'Mis. Don't ever doubt that."

He lifted his chin and turned his head in Porthos' direction. "Thank you my friend. I can only imagine how much more difficult this would've been without knowing you were there to catch me should I stumble and fall."

Porthos eyed the pristine muskets lying along the table. "I'd say you managed fine on your own."

Aramis' hands returned to work on the musket barrel as he abruptly changed the subject. "I doubt you came here to aid me in my task, and I don't smell Serge's cooking, so it can't be time for supper. Perhaps you simply longed for my company?"

"Always," Porthos grinned. "But I actually came to tell you the Captain wants to see us."

"Oh?" Aramis quickly finished with the musket, showing off by snapping it back together with a precision that impressed even Porthos. He placed it alongside the others and stood, wiping his hands on another cloth before reaching for his hat that lay beside him on the bench. He placed it on his head and started for the door, turning back toward Porthos as he crossed the threshold. "I suppose we shouldn't keep him waiting then. You coming?"

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos and d'Artagnan met them on the landing outside Treville's office. Without a word, Athos took hold of Aramis' arm and led him inside, guiding him to the chair in front of the desk. Aramis' first instinct was to protest the help, but he knew his friend's actions were fueled by concern and managed to quell his objections to the unaccustomed assistance. It was only for a short amount of time, and if it brought comfort to his friends to lend a hand, so be it. After all they had done for him, he would not begrudge them so simple an act of kindness.

As soon as he was seated, Treville cleared his throat and began. "As you know, we have been sending out scouts to nearby towns and villages, trying to ascertain the location of former Minister Colbert."

"Has there been word?"

"Unfortunately, no," the Captain answered in response to Athos' inquiry. "But the King is adamant he be found."

"I'd like to have a word or two with 'im myself."

Aramis grinned at Porthos' low murmur. "Patience, my friend. A man as arrogant as Colbert cannot remain hidden for long."

"Aramis is right," d'Artagnan offered. "And with all that gold, he's going to make a mistake. When he shows his head, somebody will notice."

"And we will, hopefully, have the good luck to be informed," Treville agreed. "When we do have information as to his whereabouts, His Majesty has offered the four of you the chance to apprehend him personally, if you're interested?"

Porthos snorted a laugh. "Oh we're interested all right. Just point me in the right direction."

"Very well. I will inform the King of your intent. As soon as we have any information, it will be forwarded to you."

Aramis nodded, knowing the others had also silently shown their agreement.

"In the meantime," the Captain continued, "I am afraid you will still be responsible for your regular duties."

The collective sigh from the three standing men was not lost on Aramis. He dropped his head to hide the fond smile that lifted his lips. He had suspected Treville had been purposely keeping the other's duties light in order for them to keep an eye on him, but having the notion confirmed out loud made his chest tighten momentarily.

"It shouldn't be long before these bandages are removed," Aramis said after a marked silence. "I appreciate all you have done for me these past weeks, but the Captain is right. Whether my sight is impaired or not, if I am to continue to be a part of this regiment, I must learn to deal with things on my own."

Before anyone could respond, a knock sounded on the door and Treville called for the new arrival to enter.

"Ah, Doctor, please come in."

"I hope I am not intruding. I was told I could find… ah, here he is."

"You are most welcome, Doctor. Please come in." The Captain's chair scraped against the floorboards as he stood, the sound startling Aramis, making him realize he had been holding his breath since the physician's identity was announced.

He felt a hand descend to his shoulder as the physician's shuffling steps approached and took a deep breath. He'd gone over this moment so many times in his mind, but now that it was truly here, he had no idea how to quell the fear that gripped him.

The physician's steps came to a stop just beside his chair.

"Thank you for coming, Doctor," Athos voice came from just above and behind him, and he quickly realized it was the swordsman's hand that was anchoring him. He breathed in and let the air out slowly in an attempt to calm his suddenly racing heart.

"Doctor," he greeted, hoping his voice sounded much more confident than he felt. "I hope your arrival means this ordeal is at an end?"

Athos' hand squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. Apparently his casual demeanor was more transparent than he'd hoped.

"I believe it is time to see if the damage has repaired itself." Another scraping of wood against the floor told Aramis a chair had been placed beside him for the doctor. He took another deep breath and nodded, straightening his shoulders as the man began to unwind the cloth around his eyes. "Once I remove the bandage, refrain from opening your eyes until I give you word. Young man, could you please close the door and draw the shutters?"

D'Artagnan's quick steps heralded his compliance even as Porthos' heavier gate moved to stand at his other side. Aramis let the familiar presence calm him, knowing no matter what happened next, his brothers would always stand beside him, keeping him from falling.

"All right," the doctor dabbed a wet cloth against his closed lids. "The light has been dimmed as much as possible, but I want you to open your eyes slowly. Let them adjust to the brightness before making any judgements."

Aramis nodded, swallowing hard. This was it. His entire future hinged on this one moment. Once he opened his eyes, the truth – whatever it may be – would no longer be in doubt. He squeezed his eyes tightly, working up the courage to face that truth. He felt Porthos kneel at his side, the man's hand coming to rest on his arm. Athos' palm remained on his shoulder, his grip bruisingly tight, fear for his friend bleeding through his silence.

"Aramis."

He turned his head toward Porthos' soft voice and leaned toward his friend, ashamed of his fear, seeking courage in the man's solid presence.

"Aramis, open your eyes."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The silence in the room was heavy with anticipation as four sets of eyes focused intently on the fifth's. Aramis' eyes cracked open a sliver, closing immediately as the light invaded his prolonged darkness. Tears leaked from beneath his lashes and he gasped, lowering his head and pressing a hand against his lids.

Porthos reached up and gently pulled the hand away, dipping his head so that he could see his friend's face.

"It's all right, 'Mis. Just take your time. We're in no hurry here."

Aramis took a deep breath and raised his head, nodding once as he wiped harshly at his wet cheek.

"My apologies," he began, but got no further.

"You have nothing to apologize for." D'Artagnan stepped closer, stopping just behind the marksman's right shoulder next to Athos. He placed his hand on Aramis' upper arm and Aramis smiled, feeling the grips of all three of his friends tighten in support.

"The whelp's right," Porthos continued. "Take as much time as you need. We've got no place else to be right now."

Aramis nodded again and slowly cracked open his eyes. The tears fell against his cheeks as he blinked quickly, trying to clear them. Again he raised a hand to wipe at his eyes, but it was staid by the physician's, holding his arm down against his leg as Porthos' was doing on the other side.

"Let the tears do their job," the old man cautioned. "It's a natural reaction to the light."

Aramis took a shaking breath and forced his eyes to remain open. He squinted against the light, swallowing down the obvious discomfort. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he shifted his gaze, his brown eyes slowly focusing on Porthos'.

He blinked a few times and smiled tremulously. "Don't take this the wrong way my friend, but you look terrible. When is the last time you slept properly?"

Porthos huffed a laugh, relief evident in the sound. "You're an idiot."

"So you've said."

Porthos stared into the familiar eyes. They were still painfully red in places, and thick tears spilled over the lashes like rain, but they were looking back at him with a relief that equaled his own. It was enough to let the fear he'd been harboring for weeks drain from his body like a sieve.

"What can you see?" the physician asked as he drew Aramis' face toward him with a hand cupped beneath his chin. "Is what you see clear? Hazy?" He gently pulled at Aramis' lids as he assessed the condition of the eyes, grunting in satisfaction as the marksman responded.

"Things are a bit… blurred." He blinked away more moisture as the doctor released him. "But getting clearer by the moment."

The doctor nodded. "Good. I suspect your vision will return to normal within a few days." If he noticed the collective sigh of relief from the others in the room, he showed no sign. "Do you own a hat?"

Aramis' brows went up at the question and d'Artagnan huffed a laugh.

"Does he own a hat?" the Gascon snorted, holding up the article from where it was perched on Treville's desk. "I believe he counts it among his most prized possessions."

"Then I suggest you wear it whenever outside for the next few days," the doctor instructed. "Stay away from direct sunlight for now. Indoors as much as possible. By this time next week, if you are still having difficulties, send someone for me."

With a final nod to the gathered Musketeers, he stood, grabbed his bag and took his leave.

D'Artagnan moved to close the door, keeping the bright sunlight at bay for the time being, and Treville rounded his desk. As he dropped back into his chair, he couldn't quite hide his smile.

"It's good to see you well, Aramis."

"Never doubted it for a minute," Porthos stood, slapping a hand against his friend's back.

"Nor did I," Athos intoned.

Arching his neck, Aramis turned until he was able to see the swordsman's face. "Because I'm like a cat?" he grinned through the still flowing tears.

Athos nodded and returned the smile. "No matter how far you fall…."

"I'll always land on my feet." Aramis finished for him. "I am beginning to like the sound of that."

Porthos chuckled and shook his head, grabbing Aramis' hat from d'Artagnan and dropping it onto its owners head. "Then what do you say we take our cat out to celebrate, eh?" He turned to Treville. "You joinin' us, Captain?"

Treville looked at the open, happy faces of his four best men. "I believe I just might."

Aramis wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand and bowed, smiling toward his commanding officer. "It would be our honor, sir."

"I wonder if the Wren serves cream," d'Artagnan wondered aloud.

Porthos' hearty laugh filled the courtyard as the five Musketeers made their way down the stairs.

Fin

So what about Colbert, you ask? That is another story… literally. The sequel is already underway and the Musketeers are eager to bring the former Finance Minister to justice. Stay tuned to find out what happens! I know, cruel, but since I have a short attention span, I can't seem to write a story with a gazillion chapters. So sequel! Yay!