To my dedicated reviewers who are still willing to read my story after my unforgivable hiatus - this chapter is for you.

This chapter, and pretty much this whole story, would be crap without my unbelievably amazing Beta, Saskia the Head V.M.D. (Seriously, she's awesome.)

If the desire to kill and the opportunity to kill came always together, who would escape hanging?

~Mark Twain

Eragon stretched out his legs as he sat upon a nearby log. The trek so far had been exhausting, but he was comforted with the knowledge that their destination was only a couple leagues away. Brom had accompanied him on horseback for most of the day, but before the sun had set, he had resumed flying on Saphira, for he complained that his backside hurt with the constant awkward movements of the horses. Eragon had laughed at him of course, for riding on a horse had become second nature to him after riding around Alegesia for such a long period of time.

Most days, he would converse with Arya to pass the time while they rode. This he enjoyed quite a bit – It was like he was falling in love with her all over again. This, however, had not been the case today. After his overly dramatic exit the night before, the two of them barely exchanged any words other than 'good morning'. So instead, to fill the silence, Eragon talked to the other elves about the current trends and times. But of course, it didn't compare with the conversations that he had with Arya. He had tried to make small talk, but her answers were short and curt, allowing no room to continue.

Even now, as they sat around the fire drinking wine, she would not meet his steady gaze. He had been looking at her for quite a bit now, not that the other elves noticed, but he knew she could feel his stare. Her refusal to acknowledge his presence only emphasized the fact that it was entirely his fault that they weren't talking.

He hated this feeling, the feeling of guilt. It had begun to grow as a seed in his stomach last night, after his awkward exit at the end of his shift with Arya. Looking back at his previous actions, he realized that he must have seemed rude, to say the least. It wasn't her fault she didn't know about their future, and it wasn't as if she knew how much of a tease she was being. It was the familiar torture from long ago, knowing she was just out of his reach. All he had to do was walk up to her, kiss her, and tell her he loved her. But then his common sense would step in, and tell him that this was just as foolish as confronting her with his feelings when he had been just a boy of fifteen. But still, every time he saw her, he couldn't help but think that maybe he should just run away with her and never bee heard from again. They could cross the seas, just as Angela had predicted, and never return. But he couldn't do this, that he knew for certain. He was bound by his duty to his country, his duty to his people, and his duty as a Rider. Though he wanted to throw all caution to the wind, he knew he couldn't.

"So this is what Arya felt like."

And now he understood. He too, was now familiar with the restrictions of duty, similar to the ones Arya had tried to explain to him before, so long ago. This was why she had turned down his feelings the first time. The gravity of the precarious situation he had put her in dawned on him, and he felt like a bigger idiot now than he had felt that day at the Blood Oath Celebration. Now he felt the invisible ropes tethering him to the ground. These were the bindings Arya must have felt since birth, due to her lineage. Subconsciously, he frowned. He thought he had Arya all figured out before. No secrets, that's what they had agreed to when they revealed their relationship to the public. She had told him everything, her fears, her hopes, her dreams, and vice versa. But she didn't mention the invisible gags that restricted her speech, or the nonexistent chains that prohibited certain actions. She didn't mention the burden of her duty. Fate, he decided, was a cruel beast. Here he was now, feeling closer to Arya than ever before, but unable to reach her.

At this thought, he turned his head slightly. A few feet away, sat Arya. Her face, bathed in the glow of the campfire, gave her attractive features a mysterious glow. He wished he could see more, but he couldn't do even that. Her face was tilted away from him, and he could only stare at the edge of her perfect face. She was talking with Odin, and from his peripheral vision, he saw her laugh. How was it that she could be so close, but still be so far out of reach? At that moment, he recalled last night's conversation. She had called him emotionless.

If only she knew.

But enough of this self-pity.

He had other things to worry about.

Eragon sighed. Standing up and stretching his long limbs, he retreated to a secluded part of the small clearing that they had camped in to set up his bedroll.

They were now very close to the city of Ellesmera. Why they didn't continue their trek into the night, Eragon knew not. King Evandar insisted that they rest, though Eragon could practically hear the buzzing of the city only leagues away. But he did not argue. He didn't want to stir things up, especially not now. He understood that the elves had been patient with him, allowing him to defy their King, and lead their expedition. And above all, they had trusted him. He didn't want to test their tolerance. Besides, he needed to gain their trust if he was going to lead them to victory. Yes, Eragon was going to free Alagasia before it was too late; that was a promise. Eragon had already failed everyone once, and he had seen the consequences of his mistakes. Not again would the people he loved take the punishment for his actions. He had lost them once. He had felt so alone. Alone.

Yes, that was the key to his grief, the most awful word in any tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym. He would leave no room for error, no room for mistakes. There would only be room for victory. The phrase 'die trying' would not apply. Galbatorix would die. He would make sure of it. Grabbing his sword, Eragon removed his cloak and again stretched his aching arms. His mind was muddled, and walking always did help with clearing his head, and so he began to stray away from the encampment. Besides, he found it hard to think with Arya being so close – she was like a magnet, his stray thoughts finding themselves returning to her whenever his guard was down.

"Where are you going, Eragon?"

Brom's voice startled him, and he turned slightly to reply. He must've returned from his evening flight with Saphira. Brom's mahogany hair was swept back, most likely from the wind, and his clothes were a bit out of place. Eragon couldn't help but wonder if he himself looked that ridiculous after flying with his Saphira.

"I'll be back soon, honestly. I just need to be alone for a bit." Eragon replied, smiling all the while. He scratched his head with his left hand to give off an aura of nonchalance. His father had taught him the art of acting well. He felt pained for a moment, remembering his father. But now was neither the time nor the place to dwell on such thoughts.

Brom seemed to have believed his ruse easily enough, for he too just smiled (they had the same smile, he thought to himself) and told him to be careful. He turned around, waved his hand, and continued his saunter down the dirt trodden path within the forest. When he was out of Brom's line of vision, his strained lips returned back into a frown, and Eragon looked down. Even the very act of false happiness was difficult, which is understandable really. I mean, there's not much for him to smile about. Arya wasn't within his reach at the moment, and Galbatorix was in hiding, not to mention the fact that Saphira's location was a complete mystery.

He had no control over any of the situations at the moment, and that frustrated him. He was used to being in control of his life. That's what the people loved about him, the fact that there was no master to pull on his strings – he had his own free will. But even now, free will wouldn't do anyone any good. He had to take the initiative, and find a solution to some of the problems he had to face. Things between him and Arya will work itself out in time, this he was sure. He just had to be patient. And so he will wait. Galbatorix had not been seen for the last couple of days, and if he was to be honest with himself, Eragon didn't really want him found. He wasn't prepared to confront Galbatorix yet. And he had to be prepared if he was going to kill the most powerful man in Alagasia. Going after Galbatorix is out. He needed Saphira before he even thought about confronting the dark King. So I guess if he wanted to prepare himself for Galbatorix, he needed to find Saphira. Eragon mentally sighed in relief – he now had his priorities straightened out. He needed to find Saphira.

Eragon stopped running only once he realized that he was doing so. He didn't know how far or how fast he had gone, and therefore he had little to no idea as to where he was. His feet seemed to have a mind of its own, as if leading him to some unknown destination. He seemed to be in the middle of some field, where the grass was sparse and the trees were few. There was no immediate threat that he could detect, and the surrounding shrubbery looked very familiar. Again, that nostalgic feeling returned, similar to the one from earlier. He couldn't quite place his finger on it, but he would've sworn he'd been here before. But how could that be? He knelt down, and pinched a bit of the moist soil, feeling the texture between his fingers. This soil was perfect for farming, he thought to himself, smiling. Yes, he may be a Dragon Rider, but he was still a farm boy at heart. Again, he looked around. He must've been running for hours and hours, because the surrounding area looked like the Spine. The moon was in-between phases; only half of it could be seen. The moonlit field looked serene under the shade of the tall pine trees around him. He remembered when he used to climb the pine trees behind the barn –

He stopped.

He was in Garrow's farm.

And as if a veil was lifted from his eyes, he began to see. He pictured the barn to his left, and the fields of turnips they'd plant in the spring to his right. He remembered the stable where the horses were kept, right where he was standing, and the farm itself, only a few yards away. And along with these images came memories and they all rushed at him at once. His memories overflowed, his mind too frazzled to comprehend each and every flashback of his lifetime. He felt the pressure of it all began to prick from his eyes. He didn't just see the trees and bare land, he saw horses, and potatoes, and his Uncle Garrow plowing the field. The rustle of the wind suddenly became the echoing of Roran's laughter as he fed the chickens. And his skin, as if remembering the warmth of hot summer days, began to grow warm, when just moments before, he had been shivering from the chilly air.

Again, he turned around, and looked. But what really caught his eye was the tree a few yards away from where he was standing – he knew that tree anywhere, with its gnarled up roots, and the hole that he knew was a hollow within the base of the tree. It was the tree he put Saphira in when she was little, when she was nothing more but a hatchling. It was the sight of that tree that finally broke him. Because the tree signified the before – before, when his biggest worry was finding food for Saphira. Before, when his world consisted of the twelve acres of land that was Carvahall. Before, when Brom was just a storyteller and the Riders of Alagasia were nothing more than mere fairy tales. Before, when stories of wars, heroes, and villains, were just that – stories.

Before.

At the sight of the tree, he smiled.

For the first time, in a very long while, Eragon Shadeslayer, last free Dragon Rider of Alagasia, knelt down, and wept.

His tears had long ago dried when he heard the first crunch of fallen leaves under the metal foot of a soldier. At first, he thought that it was his imagination, for there were no soldiers out here in the middle of the forest, right? Still, he had to make sure, so with the grace only an elf could possess, he ran towards the edge of the mountains, because that's where the sound had come from. He jumped up on a branch, and began to run upon the maple trees, using the branches as footholds. From a third person point of view, all they would see is a blur, and a chill of the wind, but nothing more. Not even the leaves shook from his weight, for he was an elf, and his grace surpassed that of any songbird. The crunching grew louder and more repetitive – there were more than one pair of boots making that sound. He only quickened his pace. Yes, he was sure now – that sound was unmistakable.

Soldiers.

He had to stop them.

He couldn't let them get to the camp. Not only would the elves be unprepared, but the people of Ellesmera were preparing for their arrival, so surely the city is unguarded with its usual magical defenses. Oh gods, it would be a massacre. The elves would no longer trust him. As a matter of fact, no one would trust him. Of course they'd blame it all on him.

And there was Arya.

Eragon ran faster.

He was no longer a blur, but rather a disturbance of the wind, due to his fast moving pace. He couldn't care less as to why they were in the middle of the Spine, but he would make sure that they stayed there. Eragon couldn't call for any help. Time was of the essence. The noise was almost deafening now, but it was not only the sound of crunching leaves that he heard, but also the crackle of a fire, and the laughter of deep throated men. He could assume that they stopped for the night, and had set up camp. He looked up, and saw the thin cloud of smoke penetrating the trees. He saw that the wind was moving the smoke towards the left (away from Ellesmera), flattening them out as it did so. No wonder the elves took no notice. By the time the smoke had flown over the trees, the gray puffs looked more like clouds rather than a column, and it was being blown at the opposite direction. Were they being followed? Had they been on Faolin's and Glenwing's trail the whole time? For the safety of the others, for the safety of his love, he had to kill. And though the thought of taking more innocent lives made his stomach churn, he knew it was necessary.

He stopped abruptly, and climbed the tree that he was currently standing on. Eragon stopped, and perched himself on the longest branch, giving him a perfect view of the encampment. The soldiers, about a hundred of them, wore tunics of red, with an emblem of a black dragon – a crude copy of Galbatorix's future representation. The men were grotesque in nature, more similar to Kull than men. They were at least six feet in height, with arms as beefy as their legs. With facial expressions to match their scars, Eragon could tell that these were no warriors, but seasoned veterans, whom gained their combat skills in experience rather than tutorial.

But it was not the soldiers themselves, but rather the strange formation they were in. There were no tents or anything of that sort. They all arranged themselves in a circle, facing outwards, kind of like a dart board. They were all keeping watch at the same time, with eyes of paranoia that roamed the surrounding forest for any dangers. Yes, this was very odd indeed. A couple of men carried torches, but other than that, there was no equipment laid out what so ever. A thick arm carrying a torch moved to the left, and the light refracted onto some sort of metal that was placed within the dead center of their little circle. Their clothing was tattered and… what was that?

Turning his head, Eragon did a double take, and took another look at the metal glint that caught his eye earlier.

Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was a treasure chest of sorts, with metal buckles supporting its wooden frame. Ah, so they were all protecting the chest. But what could be so valuable, that Galbatorix sent one hundred men to keep it guarded? Not gold, nor treasure. Surely it was something that was worth more than the lives of all of these men. And then it clicked.

A dragon egg.

If he had doubt the existence of fate before, he will not do so again, for surly, the chest contained an Egg. Eragon had this feeling in his gut, the same feeling he felt when he aimed his arrow at that injured deer those many months ago.

The devious mind of Eragon Shadeslayer began to form a plan.

The moon was still very high in the sky by the time Eragon had finished his gathering of the stones. He gathered exactly one hundred rocks the size of his fist from the surrounding area – one per soldier. He figured that seeing as they were already piled up ever so neatly, that he could just wipe them out, and retrieve Saphira. No harm done. But still, the idea of taking the lives of innocent men didn't sit right with him. They weren't aware of what they were doing. But it has to be done, right? After finding everything in order, he had but one more thing to do, and that was to sweep their minds. He had to make sure none of them were magicians, or that any traps were hidden in the area. He closed his eyes. Penetrating the minds of a hundred men at once took some real concentration. The sounds of the forest were met with deaf ears as his mind began to split into tiny tendrils, slowly worming their way into the mind of the soldiers.

Eragon really wished he hadn't.

There was a reason why these men were chosen for the safe keeping of a dragon egg – they were as heartless and cruel as Galbatorix himself. Each man had pasts riddled with sins as black and unmoral as darkness itself. Rapings, beatings, murders – one man even had the audacity to rape his own daughter. Eragon felt guilty just thinking about their past actions, but that guilt slowly formed to anger. Ah, and it began again, the color of red slowly tainting his vision. But he didn't fear it, no, but rather, he relished it. And he heard the roaring of his veins rush in his ears, and the beauty of the scenery was forgotten to him as he began to imagine the green fields tainted with the blood of men. No longer did Eragon feel any qualms about the deed he was about to partake in. Anger took up so much room, that there was nothing left but rationality and anger itself. There was no space left within his head for guilt or pity. Just anger, just red.

Those men will die tonight.

He blended within the shadows, hidden underneath the leaves of the surrounding forest. The stones were red due to the intense heat he had placed upon them using magic. His eyes, usually the color of hazel, shone blue under the moonlight, this he knew. His eyes always flashed blue whenever he exerted a large amount of magic, Saphira had told him so. The crickets stopped chirping. The wind had stopped blowing. The forest was silent. The usual soft sounds of the woods were silent, and the unobservant soldiers were none the wiser. Eragon wondered if the soldiers would notice the stillness of the leaves, or the silence of the air. Did the wind feel his anger, emitting from the rocks? Had the animals sensed the screams that would begin to ensue? Did the forest taste the blood that would soon soak its floors?

Slowly, the rocks were lifted. He raised his arms, controlling the movement of the rocks, which began to move around the trees, slowly surrounding the men. The floating missiles were nothing more than orbs of darkness, just a fleeting shadow to these sons of men. Even if any of the men could see the stones, the most that they could have made out would be a black blur, nothing more. And then the spheres stopped moving.

For a moment, all was still.

"Leta."

The men didn't even get a chance to scream.

The clearing, once a vibrant green even under the dim light of the moon, was now a luscious red, vibrant and bright within the night. No longer did the scent of flowers waft in the air, but rather a rusty scent of copper and salt, which now permeated throughout the surrounding forest. The wind resumed its usual chime as the leaves once again danced. Insects sang and owls hooted – as if the forest floors weren't strewn with the bodies of a hundred men.

As if everything was perfectly normal.

But it wasn't normal. One hundred living beings no longer exhaled their rank breath into the cold evening air. Eragon could feel the blankness in his mind, the sudden absence of life. Similar to that of Saphira's absence, except on a much more minimal scale. His muscles were sore, and he was tired, but not to the point of utter exhaustion. He could make it back to camp just fine, this he knew. He should have started working on the cleanup, burying the bodies and such, but he didn't feel like it at the very moment. No, Eragon was too busy walking towards the wooden chest that had been in the center of the hoard of men. The box was not elegant or fancy, but if anything, cheap and badly carved. A perfect cover up. What ordinary person would think that they would find anything valuable in here? But Eragon was no ordinary person. Using his strength, he lifted up the locked chest, tearing apart the metal as he did so.

Eragon looked down.

He smiled.

The moon had long ago finished its trek across the sky by the time he returned to the elves. Though the morning sun had yet to have risen, most of the elves were out and about – Eragon had heard them scurrying around earlier. Their caravan had rested in a little clearing, devoid of any trees or objects of the sort, which made it a perfect place for such travelers such as themselves to rest their aching feet. Surrounding the little clearing was a thick band of maple trees with thick limbs providing plenty of shade. This is where Eragon stood, behind the maple branches, meaning that though he could see the elves, the elves couldn't see him. Now why would he be hiding from his fellow travelers? Well, at the moment, he was debating with himself. Eragon was leaning against the nearest tree, pretending that it was a normal day, and that he was only up here this early so that he could go running and not because he'd just been on a killing spree.

In his arms, slept a newborn dragon, the color of sapphire.

She had hatched for him the moment he had touched the egg with his left hand, the one with the scar of the Rider's already imprinted. His hand lit up, just like the first time, but unlike before, he felt no pain, but rather an inner feeling of extreme warmth. And the vast, gaping hole within his subconscious, was soon filled with another presence, that of his partner of mind and heart, Saphira. Of course he was overjoyed at first; even now, he was still smiling, and his cheeks hurt like hellfire, but he just couldn't help it. He finally had Saphira back! They were both ecstatic after finding one another. And it seemed as though his dragon remembered him, for like an overenthusiastic toddler, the blue hatchling immediately began to fall into a repetition of noises, as if trying to communicate with Eragon. And though he couldn't understand her, he too told her of his travels, and nodded his head in agreement whenever he felt necessary. He knew she couldn't understand him either, but after the end of every sentence, she'd flap her wings, feigning understanding.

And what a strange sight they must have been, a giddy elf and a rambunctious dragon hatchling, both dancing with one another in the center of a field strewn with dead bodies. Sure, it wasn't the most convenient place to reunite with one another, but beggars can't be choosers. Seeing as they were having a communication problem, he was immediately relieved when he received a steady stream of thoughts and memories from the little dragon. Simply put it, there was no happier man in Alagasia that night. Though she was still young, within the small little body of the hatchling resided the mind of his old Saphira, who, from what he could tell, was very frustrated at her inability to speak. Her body had not quite caught up to her, but they both knew that it would only take a matter of hours for that little problem to be resolved.

But back to the present moment. Right then, Eragon stood, watching the elves go about their morning rituals. Again, it was still dim, and with the shadows of the trees cloaking him, none of the elves noticed Eragon. His stomach felt a bit queasy, and his grip around the sleeping Saphira tightened. What would the elves do, if he revealed to them Saphira's existence? Surely, they wouldn't take her away. And they couldn't, even if they wanted to – he'd fight all of them if they even laid a finger on his Saphira. But Eragon doubted that he'd have to resort to violence. Besides, Riders were practically worshipped by the elves, right? And surely, having another Rider on their side would be good news. If they asked for an explanation, he would tell them the truth – it's not like he had anything to hide. And if still, they didn't believe him, then they could go to the bloody field. He still had to clean up those bodies. In his excitement with Saphira, he had completely forgotten about the mess he had made. He took a mental note to take care of that later. He looked down at Saphira. Again, he smiled; she looked so peaceful. Staring at her sleep reminded Eragon of his own sleepless night, and his fatigue returned. But he set aside his exhaustion. It's not like he could stand there forever. He wished he could though; just stand here in the sidelines, watching everyone else resume their daily lives. The sun began to rise.

He sighed.

He stepped out into the light.

He was very much reminded as to how the elves reacted the first time they saw both he and Saphira before. When they noticed the sleeping hatchling, lying in his arms, they of course, were both stunned and shocked to say the least. They had all dropped their current tasks – Odin himself was literally frozen, his left foot tilted in the air, mid step. Kvothe had dropped the pot that he was holding, causing a loud crash to echo within the trees, which only emphasized the sudden silence. The elves winced at the sound, and from what he could tell, feared that they woke Saphira up. They were unaware as to how deep of a sleeper she actually was. Or maybe she was just really exhausted. Eragon couldn't tell. Their minds were blended together, and he couldn't tell whose exhaustion was whose. The elves began to surround him as Eragon walked to the center of the encampment. His eyes met theirs, and he did not see judgment or anger staring back at him, but rather joy, merriment. He started laughing. How could he think that they wouldn't accept both he and Saphira with open arms? At the sound of his laughter, the other elves took this as a sign that yes, they were allowed to speak. And the shower of praise and appreciation began. He knew that all of the comments were directed towards his dragon rather than Eragon himself, but he didn't mind. He was tired of the spotlight, having his every move and decision analyzed and judged by others.

In the midst of all this laughter, all this joy, he almost didn't notice the absence of the King, Brom, the Princess, and their Royal guards – Glenwing and Faolin.

But he did.

He couldn't ask them for their whereabouts though, for the elves gave him no room to speak, and even if he did voice his inquiries out loud, he doubted that they would be able to hear them, with or without elfin hearing. So Eragon, seeing the best course of action was to wait, sat down upon a log, and put on a brave face, placing a tired smile upon his lips, laughing all the while, trying to answer the comments and questions as fast as he could.

Mentally, he was screaming.

It took a bit longer than expected, but at some point, the elves stopped their bombardment of questions. Their excitement was not in any way reduced though, as they resume their tasks, talking to one another about the 'oh so wonderful' Riders and such. They looked back at both him and Saphira every ten seconds, yes, but at least Eragon now had room to breathe. Seeing this as a good time as any, Eragon began to ask about the missing individuals.

"Where have the King and his guards gone?" Eragon asked, keeping his voice light and uncaring, as if he really didn't mind, but asked more out of courtesy rather than curiosity – but that was a lie, an act.

Really, he was very concerned. Galbatorix's soldiers were within the vicinity; it wasn't very safe in the Spine at the moment. Arya and Brom were gone as well, the two people, besides Saphira, he cared the most about – how could he protect them if he didn't know where they were? It was an elf, with hair the color of sunflowers that answered.

"Brom and Glenwing heard something last night, and they went to investigate. I think Faolin and the King went with them."

Eragon was shocked. Were the elves not even concerned over their King's wellbeing? What if Brom and Glenwing found an enemy? What then? Not to mention the 'something' that the two heard last night. He had been sure that the deaths of the soldiers were quick and painless, let alone having them scream. His head again vibrated slightly from all of the questions that his mind was articulating, but his thoughts were slow and ruddy, effected by his lack of sleep. And even after all that, he still didn't know where Arya was. Just when he was about to ask, Odin answered his unspoken question for him.

"I think Princess Arya followed. You know how she hates being left out in such matters. I swear, one day, her curiosity will get that girl in trouble, mark my words."

At his words, his lidded eyes shot open, and his current exhaustion was once again forgotten. Adrenaline began to race within his system. His straightened up, and stiffened slightly. Everything became painstakingly clear, and his mind resumed its proper function. Arya followed them. Goodness, doesn't she know how dangerous that was? But looking back at the situation, Eragon decided that he probably took care of most of the danger last night, by killing the hundred soldiers. Assuming that what Faolin and Glenwing heard last night involved him and his chore from earlier, he decided that they were all probably at the field now, trying to figure out as to what happened.

Not that there was much to figure out. All of the soldiers had bloody stones within the spot where their heart once was. No, there wasn't a lot of blood, but that didn't mean the sight was any less horrific. But Eragon has seen worst, oh yes. After fighting a bloody war for several years, a man has learned to witness the many horrors of battle without flinching.

And very few things have moved his heart since Eragon had witnessed Arya's death. But she was here, alive and well now. And he would make sure that it stays that way. Rising from his seat and with Saphira still in his arms, he told the elves his intentions, and disappeared into the abysmal forest.

Do forgive me for the lack of updates; some personal issues came up, and this prevented me from putting up this chapter. The next five chapters will be at least 5,000 words long, honest. I'm putting up another poll to decide what kind of chapter I should write, but I'm leaning more towards romance at the moment, seeing as the action between Eragon and Arya is long overdue.

(To my reviewers: OH my goodness, you don't even understand how much I love you all. I can't believe the amount of feedback I'm getting from this story.)

(To the C2's who've added my story: Thanks, it's an honor to join your Community. FIVE of you guys added 'Fainting Robin'. I really do appreciate it.)

Thanks for reading.

-D