A/N: Time for the yearly fic update. (I'm so sorry.)

Soundtrack: 'The Ironmonger's Heart' on 8tracks.

Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man, Thor, nor the characters from them. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Other Disclaimer: It's not history, it's just vaguely historical.

The Ironmonger's Heart

Part IX

Raven Ehtar

The sudden appearance of the Jarl Oddbjörn did little to ease the nerves of the Ironmonger, nor did the presence of his warriors do anything but agitate the Jarl Tyrvi. However, the promise of vengeance for families rent asunder was enough to soothe the feelings of the village. Word spread quickly of Oddbjörn's visit, the purpose of it, and the news that he was kin to their very own smith.

Word travelled, the story shifting with each retelling, until it became known that the Ironmonger had sent for the Jarl himself, calling on the ties of kinship to aid in the village's plight. It was known, accepted, and praised as the right and honorable thing to be done.

As a result, the Ironmonger's reputation was repaired due to circumstances beyond his control much more swiftly than ever it did through his own efforts. He felt it, resented it, and yet was not so foolish as to reject it. He might feel beholden to the good graces of Jarl Oddbjörn, mistrustful of him and his covetous eyes, but the Ironmonger was a practical man. His lot had improved, through whatever means, and he would take it until such time as he could improve them more and move away from the shadow which seemed cast over him.

But though the Ironmonger's mind was filled with concerns over shadows and nets, it was also filled to bursting with a new skill he had never thought would one day be his to explore.

Magic.

If, in the course of Anthony's career, he had ever been asked if he regretted the path his life had taken, he would have been at something of a loss to answer. On one hand, that path had been in one way or another dictated by his father. Even his acts of rebellion – leaving home, working to become the very best at his craft – were really all centered around the man. Without his father's obsessive perfectionism and resultant absence from everything which had felt important when he had been a child, Anthony would likely not been nearly so driven as he was. In lashing out against him, Anthony had made much of his life all about his father, whether that was how he wanted it or not. If he had really wanted to rebel against his father, he would have forsaken the forge entirely. He would have rejected anything to do with his father – hammer, tongs and all.

In that lay the bitter irony. He hated his father, despised every memory of him and his questionable affection, and resented anything which dared bring the specter of him closer across the years. And yet for all that, he loved his craft. He loved the challenge and discovery he found at the forge, designing clever trinkets, perfecting old techniques, experimenting with metal and flame, bringing to life what started out as only dreams. It was when he was at the forge, the center spark of creation as his imaginings came into being around him, that he felt at peace, content. A catalyst, not a catastrophe.

A pity that his greatest love was inexorably linked with his greatest hate.

Every hour he spent at the forge was an hour he spent wearing his father's skin. He lived in the same village, in the same home as had the old man, as much a prisoner of what he had originally intended for his son as if he had never left. All the while telling himself he was not his father, that to truly defy him would be to surpass him, to beat him as his own game. Some days he could convince himself it was true for hours at a time.

He couldn't regret his craft, but he could mourn that it had also been his father's.

He wouldn't regret his travels or his many apprenticeships, but he would regret the distance it had created between him and his neighbors.

He didn't regret his choices, but he did regret some of their results.

Whenever he stood at the anvil, a hammer in hand, he was in his element. A master bending the bones of the earth to obey his will.

And always tainted with the aftertaste of old expectation. It was maddening, a circumstance Anthony had long ago decided could only be cured by besting the memory of his father so thoroughly that it would only be his name that was remembered.

It was a welcome surprise, then, that the ghost of the old man wasn't hanging at his shoulder now. He was either uninterested in haunting his disappointment of a son, or was held at bay by his whirling thoughts.

Anthony had been sitting at his worktable before the sun had even begun to lighten the eastern sky. Bent over his work, he didn't notice as the room lost its shadows, the candle at his elbow becoming less and less necessary as it burned down into a sullen puddle. He was too engrossed in his own thoughts, in plucking ideas from his mind and putting them down onto cloth before they could disappear back into nothing.

His head was a hive of bees, buzzing with ideas. Anthony prided himself on his inventiveness and skills, but it had been some time since he'd last felt such a rush of inspiration – months, possibly even years. He'd grown complacent, he realized, in his place and in what he did day to day. The life of a smith was one which followed a steady rhythm. The rise and fall of the hammer, the pump of the bellows, the crackle of flame, the singing of metal and hiss of steam all creating a harmony to which a smith's heart sang. A smith's work was the backbone of the community in which they resided, communities which were by their very nature steady and routine creatures. Nails and horseshoes, ploughs and lanterns, necklaces and knives, buckles and beads; the needs of a community was its own heartbeat, its own hammer rising and falling, guiding all of those who were a part of it.

Even in his own personal endeavors, Anthony had fallen into a pattern.

Invention had become almost a matter of routine, something to be scheduled. In between his regular work he would sit down to think and tinker away at his table, fiddling at old ideas in an attempt to improve them. Always refining, reshaping the bright inspirations of his past into something just a little better, just enough to be an improvement, to be impressive at the next festival, the next faire.

He'd grown dull over the last few years and hadn't even noticed, like a blade left to dull in its task with no stone to sharpen it.

When he'd woken that morning, it was as though all of the rust had been polished away. His mind was so bright and busy that there was no chance at all for more sleep.

At first, it had only been one idea. One simple idea which nonetheless plagued and prodded at him relentlessly, a bird harrying him until he gave in and paid it attention. Since the day when Loki had appeared and taken him hunting, Anthony had been given much to consider… perhaps too much. One such thing, and possibly the simplest, were the knives which Loki carried with him and Anthony had been allowed to examine. Possibly his thoughts had caught on them because, of all the things to have happened that day, a pair of knives with lethal edges were the least dangerous.

In truth, though, Anthony knew that he would have ended up fixating on the weapons. They were beautiful, so polished, smooth and sharp they had gleamed even in shadow. Tracing his eye along them, he had felt his very thoughts coming apart along their edges. Their balance had been exquisite, conveying lightness and reassuring weight at the same time, weapons which seemed almost alive in his hands, as though they were eager to be used, to fly free and strike. New as he was to even the idea of using seiðr, Anthony was certain that the magic was imbued in the metal, he could almost feel it tickling along his palms.

Avarice swept through him as he'd held Loki's blades. Not for the weapons themselves, but for the skill and knowledge it had taken to create them. Covetousness mixed with a dash of frustration, that such beautiful things should exist and he had not been the one to make them had coiled in his belly. The feeling had stuck with him in the days since, never leaving as he replayed the scene of handling them over and over until he was certain he could recall it all with perfect clarity. Their shape, balance, color, weight and feel, he knew he remembered it all exactly.

Now lay the challenge in pulling it all apart, figuring out how they had been made, and then making it better.

One simple idea: design a knife as good or better than those which Loki had wielded that day. Basic shapes came first, lines coming fast as his imagination worked to recreate the subtle balance he could still feel in his hand. Then he'd come to consider the type of metal he would use in bringing his sketches to life. None of the usual would do – they were all too heavy or too brittle, unable to hold the keen edge he would demand of them. He would have to use one of the alloys he had been experimenting with, something strong but able to retain the wicked edge which would put Loki's knives to shame…

Which turned his mind to the metal he had been testing but had yet to find much use for. A light and relatively strong alloy, but so flexible it was nearly useless as a sword or axe, and was too expensive to justify making anything as prosaic as nails and horseshoes. But it might have the right balance, and in so short a blade as a knife it might work. The most promising use he had considered for the metal before had been an entirely selfish one, designing something thin and gently shaped which he could strap to his body over the talisman to keep its incessant glow hidden.

Turning with his thoughts, his hand had begun to shape the lines of such a plate.

And then, as his mind swirled freely with ideas, more focused and free than it had been in far too long, a new element insinuated its way into his planning.

Seiðr.

Anthony paused in his sketching, even his whirlwind thoughts stilling in the presence of the single word.

Magic. He had seen so very little of it, experienced more than he ever thought was possible, and knew the merest drop of how it worked or what it could accomplish. It fascinated and terrified him in near equal measures, and drew him inexorably. That Loki was skilled in magic came as no surprise, nor would it even had he not felt it in action so very vividly on the forge floor. He was a god, after all. Though from what Anthony understood, even among the gods there were those who possessed more of a talent for it than others.

The idea that he might have a talent for it was entirely different. It made the very concept feel much more real, and it made him wonder, reevaluating every claim he had ever heard made by völva which he had scoffed at before. There had been no mistaking the feeling which had rushed through him as Loki had held his hand clasped between both of his for anything other than magic. All the descriptions he had ever heard trying to explain it, the sensation which had overwhelmed him had embodied them perfectly, and his pulse still rushed with the remembrance of it. The tingling and the chills, the rush of warmth through his blood, as though he had drunk an entire cask of mead, but instead of leaving muddled senses in its wake, gave him such sharp clarity it had nearly had him weeping. The touch of seiðr left him at peace and yet aching, yearning for something more, something so indefinable he had not the words to parse it even to himself. It had felt right, that rush and swirl in his veins, the ache behind his ribs something which throbbed sweetly, a promise of some future joy he could scarce imagine.

Standing in the forest, his hand clasped with those of a god, the world had seemed to open up to him, and for the first time he felt as though he might find his place in it.

Of course, such a profound feeling was bound to wear off, and it had done so not long after he'd gotten back to his forge. Exhaustion had taken the place of exhilaration, and he had sent the boys home with the rabbits given to him by Loki not long after.

Seiðr was obviously a skill, and one which needed practice to perform, let alone master. And no one could claim that Anthony was not determined.

Loki's knives had felt tingled with hidden power, with seiðr. Possibly that had to do with where they had been forged. Anthony had no more knowledge of the myrkálfar than he had of the day-to-day lives of the Æsir – less, at this point. For all he knew, seiðr and magic were completely natural to them and would be present in all that they touched or created. Such would not be true in his case – at least he didn't think it would. But he did begin to wonder if he could deliberately infuse his creations with magic, with some sort of enchantment – and if he could, what he might be able to create then

By the time he was released from his creative throes, morning had long since paused, as had midday. He blinked in the late afternoon light streaming through the windows. The candle flame had died, drowning in its own grease, and the table was in danger of also drowning in the drifts of cloths sketched with Anthony's designs.

Anthony sat up from his curled hunch and groaned as several joints in his back cracked. He wasn't so young as he once was, he reminded himself, and stretched, making more of his body voice its protest.

A little dazed, Anthony looked around his workshop, taking stock. There was neither sight nor sound of the boys. If anything would have been able to pull him back into full cognizance, it would have been the sounds of those two getting into trouble just out of sight. Possibly they had decided to take the day as rest without telling him, or possibly they had come in, seen him at his work and recognized the intense focus, and left again quietly. They had seen him in similar states before and would know well enough not to disturb him. Presumably they were also self-aware enough to know that anything they did more of less amounted to 'a disturbance.' In any case, the not-quite-twin terrors were nowhere about, and as a result of that and his own distraction, the forge was cold, and all the tools still put away.

Anthony rubbed at his eyes. For having done nothing more than sit still since waking, he was drained. He was also hungry, thirsty, and in need of relieving himself. He hadn't moved since settling, save to hunt up more cloths and charcoal, and he was beginning to regret it. He couldn't regret it much, but the strain on his bladder made it hard not to, just a bit.

That taken care of, he glanced about the forge. It was late in the day and fires hadn't been lit. He was already tired, and the only projects he would want to work on would be those he had been feverishly sketching, any of which would be best to begin early and much more alert than he could be now. His stomach felt like a hollow pit, and after so much silence, he felt he could use some noise.

Picking up the green cloak on his way out, Anthony left the forge to head down to the mead hall in search of all those things he was craving.

However Anthony might have felt about the Jarl Oddbjörn and his abrupt intrusion into his life, there was no doubt that his claim of kinship to Anthony had its positive effect. No longer did he feel as though dark looks followed him the moment he left his door. No longer did he feel that he ought to take care where it was he stepped and to whom he spoke, lest he offend some hotheaded neighbor in need of venting their frustrations.

Folk smiled at him now, raised open palms instead of fists and called greetings instead of muttering darkly. It was nearly the same as before the outlaws had descended upon the village. Almost as though it had never happened at all.

Anthony could still feel the difference. The smiles he was given were strained in their eagerness to be seen, the greetings too loud and jovial by half. It was nearly what Anthony had enjoyed before the attack, and yet it was more. People were going out of their way to make him feel welcome and valued, more so than they had ever bothered to in the past. It was as though everyone in the village had collectively decided to try and make up to him for the way they had behaved before Oddbjörn's arrival. The one time he had visited the mead hall since that day, he'd had any number of cups pressed into his hands by men he'd shared no more than a dozen words with in the past. Grins and praise had been gifted him, hearty claps rained on him until his shoulders went numb, and in one brazen lad's case, a firm squeeze given high on his thigh when no one else could see. He'd left the hall as quickly as he was able – alone – slightly dazed from both the drink and the attention.

It was certainly a positive change from what had been before. It was also very clearly fabricated. Never before had he been so lauded in his own village as he was now, and he knew that it wasn't just to make up for the hostility of before. He was the kinsman of a Jarl, and only a fool would give insult to such a man.

He was still an outsider, but now he was a valuable one.

In late afternoon there were more than a couple who shared Anthony's idea to come to the mead hall, but nothing like what it would become in the evening. Nothing like what it had been the last time he had come, so he might hope of leaving more in command of his senses and dignity than before. Indeed, the reception to his arrival was so understated as to be almost nonexistent, only a couple of nods and a single wave. He began to relax, made his way to the host to gather some food and drink, and found a bench to sit and enjoy the first food he'd had all day.

It was while so engaged, eating slowly and drinking even more slowly, allowing the muted sounds of other conversations soothe him, that a shadow fell over his table.

"I was wondering when you were going to show your ugly face."

Anthony looked up, surprised by the aggressive words, trying to catalogue if it was a voice he recognized, confused by the tone, which wasn't nearly so hostile as the words—

He blinked, not certain he was seeing what his eyes told him he was.

"Or were you really going to make me climb up that damnable hill of yours?"

"Lafsi?"

The man grinned, a shocking slash of white in his dark face. "See, I knew you'd remember me. Just like I knew if I was going to find your sorry ass outside your forge, it would be here."

Anthony stared at him, the other man's smug grin never once budging, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Eventually he got his mouth to work. "Good gods. Roads, where did you come from? I thought you were off hunting trolls somewhere."

It earned him a slightly exasperated look, though mitigated somewhat by the smile. "I can't believe you're still calling me that. How many years has it been?"

"Close to fifteen, now." He shrugged. "But who keeps track of things like that?"

"It's not even a very clever nickname, Anthony."

"Do you expect poetry out of me at the best of times, Roads, let alone when we're both too drunk to sit up straight?" He finally returned Lafsi's grin with one of his own. "Besides, you loved the name at the time, and I won't betray your fun loving side by retracting the name which gave him so much joy."

Roads chuckled, shaking his head. Anthony was trying to process the fact that his friend of so many years ago was sitting before him.

Lafsi had been one of the many people he had met while away from Askival, travelling from master to master. During those travels he had met, befriended, and forgotten more people than he would ever try to count. From the smiths he had learned from and their families, to the neighbors and customers he had grown familiar with; the farmers and fishermen, the huntsmen and the crafters, weavers, healers, law speakers and warriors. A veritable parade of humanity, each set of faces with their own stories and interconnected dramas behind them, all of which he had learned and become a part of, all so important in their own ways…

Until the next time Anthony moved on. Then the life he had begun to build would be abandoned, the phantom roots he had laid down would fade away, and all of his memories of the place, save those which had anything to do with his craft, grew dull and indistinct.

There were a few exceptions. People or events which left memories so sharp that no amount of time could dull them. Sharp mistakes and particularly humiliating failures, notable smiles and especially good friends.

Lafsi had become one of those.

In the long parade of people in and out of Anthony's life, Lafsi had first caught his attention simply due to the color of his skin. While men and women sporting dark hides were not unheard of, they were by no means common, outnumbered by paler limbs by a considerable margin. It had been enough to make Anthony take a longer look than he gave to most who came to his master's forge, and he'd halfway memorized the man's face before he'd said a word.

And then, of course, once he had opened his mouth, it had more or less been a foregone conclusion that he would become one of Anthony's longest lasting friends, despite the long gaps between their meetings.

"Well," said Roads, recalling him back to the present. "Are you going to invite me and my fun loving side to sit, or should we both stand on your ceremony for the afternoon?"

Anthony snorted, and motioned to the empty bench across from him. "Please, as though you have ever stood on anyone's ceremony. I would be glad of your company, Roads, whichever of your sides you so choose to bring."

Roads took him up on his most gracious offer, and swung himself into place. He was still favoring his left leg, but not nearly so much as he had once done. Had Anthony not known what to look for, he might have missed the stiffness the fighter exhibited on that side. Once he was settled, Anthony gave his old friend a wide grin, feeling some of his tension begin to unwind. "Damn, it is good to see you, Roads. You're looking good."

The smile he was given in return was no less heartfelt, and man's dark eyes shining warm as embers in the light of the hall. "That's because I'm doing well. And I'm glad I finally got the opportunity to see you. I…" For a moment, Roads looked as though he were uncertain of his words, hesitating over them before going on. "I had heard of some of your hardships, and I… I'm glad to see that you're doing better than I had feared."

Anthony covered his confusion as well as he could with a sarcastic sort of smile. "Is that so? How much of my fortunes could you have heard about to have caused such great concern?"

"That the Son of the Great Smith had been grievously wounded, for a beginning," Roads said, his expression going somber. "There were never many details to accompany the tale, not even so much as what the injury was, only that it was 'grievous.' And that you had been healed by some sort of sorcery."

Anthony blinked at him, his mind going blank. Then he laughed, hoping it sounded incredulous, rather than forced. He also resisted the urge to put his hand over the spot in his breastbone, to be sure none of the talisman's glow was showing, that the low light of the hall wasn't revealing him to sharp eyes. "So I'm a sorcerer now, as well? Those who delight in rumor must be much in need of distractions if this is the sort of tale they come up with."

To that, Lafsi gave a derisive snort. "I doubt anyone would accuse you of wielding magic. No, the general thought was that it must be your local völva who saved you."

It was Anthony's turn to snort. "What, Grima? It really must be a rumor drummed up by coal biters who have never been to Askival. First the old… old dear," he said, softening his tongue, aware of the ears around them and the tales they might carry to the witch. "She would have to hobble her bent old frame up my 'damnable hill' to get to me, and I think the last time she managed that feat was over seven winters ago. With help. Second, she would need to be strong enough in the healing arts in order to save anyone with more than a cold. Grima is a greater völva than a healer, and age has only made that more true. And third…" He shrugged. "She would actually need to want me alive to be put through the trouble of saving me."

Roads sighed, shaking his head. "Making just as many friends as always, then. You remember what I've told you before about having people at your back when you needed them?"

"Yes, I do. And I'm sure you remember what I had to say about having anyone near me where I couldn't see them."

Before Roads could make any sort of reply, one of the youngsters of the hall came out and set down a cup brimming with mead in front of him. The girl gave him a quick nod and a shy smile before she scuttled off again, trailing giggles. Anthony stared after her.

"Well, you've no trouble giving positive impressions. I'm not sure I've ever seen that kid do much more than smile once or twice."

"It's all in the sleight of hand," Lafsi confided with a wink, raising the cup to his lips.

Which must have meant that he'd been in town for at least some time. He'd suggested as much by saying that he had wondered if he would have to climb Anthony's hill, but the mead hall children being familiar with his tricks said that he had been there for a few days. Why so long to see him, then? Was his leg still bothersome enough to make the climb a hardship?

Taking a deep breath and wiping at his upper lip after his long draught, he settled a look on Anthony. "That would have been enough on its own to have me come and see what sort of trouble you'd gotten yourself into. Seems as though I can't take my eyes off of you for a second without something happening."

"I'll have you know that, until recently, I'd been doing just fine without you watching over my shoulder constantly."

"Uh huh. Or at least nothing so bad as for word of it to reach me." He gave him a knowing smirk.

"Oh, like you're one to talk." He took a sip of his own mead, gathering his thoughts. "So. My near-death and rising once again from the dead would have been enough to convince you to drag yourself up here, but obviously wasn't the only thing. What was it that really brought you?"

Roads rolled the mead cup between his hands, the liquid within sloshing gently. The look he fixed Anthony with was an odd one. "There was the little matter of Askival being attacked, Anthony. Even had rumor of your personal misfortune never reached me, that certainly would have. And it was more than enough to catch my attention."

"Ah. Well, whatever your sources of gossip might have said, I wasn't responsible for the attack."

It wasn't that the warrior gave him an exasperated expression, exactly. More it was that Roads had a particular way of looking without a single feature of his face seeming to have shifted, and yet any one on its receiving end felt as though they had been delivered an entire argument. It was a skill which Anthony had noted more than once, and lamented its use whenever it was turned on him. How was one to argue? In the interval of years he had been allowed to forget its effectiveness. He was rather rudely being reminded of it, now.

"So, you're here now," he said, utilizing the one real advantage he had in being able to simply ignore whatever Roads was saying with his look. "Whatever the final tipping point had been, you brought yourself all the way here just for me. I feel well and thoroughly loved, Roads."

The man rolled his eyes. It was a measure of their friendship that though Roads was well aware of Anthony's preferences, never once had he allowed it to change his opinion of him, or to affect their friendship in any material way. The same could not be expected of every friendship – especially not when one considered the way in which Roads had been made aware of them.

"And well you should, ass. Though I should point out that even though I would have come on my own one way or another, I was in company."

"Oh?" Anthony grinned at him. "You finally find more than one person who's willing to put up with you?"

"Something like that," he said. "I'm a part of Jarl Oddbjörn's company."

It was probably a stroke of fortune that he wasn't drinking anything at that precise moment, or he might very well have been stricken down. As it was, he felt as though he were in danger of choking on his own tongue.

"So you've become one of the Jarl's Þingmaðr?"

Roads' laugh was loud and sharp enough to draw the attention of everyone in the hall for a moment – though only for a moment. "Are you seriously asking me that question, Smith? Me, become someone's Þingmaðr? It's worse than I thought, you've completely lost your mind since last I saw you."

Anthony joined in on his laughter, though his own sounded far shakier, even to his own ears. The relief which washed through him at the assurance that his friend of years hadn't bound himself to the man who had made himself Anthony's kinsman was enough to make him lightheaded in a way the mead had thus far completely failed to do.

"And here I had begun to think that it was you gone mad for a moment," he said, still feeling unsettled. "Try and picture it; you giving up your freedom and pledging your loyalties to a single man? One of us would have to be mad."

"No, no," Roads waved off Anthony's worries, smile and eyes still bright and reassuring. "The only loyalty I have given has been to the Jarl's purse. The moment I'm no longer satisfied with my place, I have only that income to induce me to stay. And I can always find some other means of making my way." He shrugged carelessly. "I am no more bound than I ever was, and for now the association provides its advantages. Like an easy, paid way of arriving here, where I intended to come anyway."

He had missed Roads, he realized. Whenever he'd thought of his friend it had always been in the context of having also been out in the world himself. The sense of longing when recalling his time spent with the man were always muddled with the longing to be on the road again, travelling and free. Because he did miss those days, when he had slipped from one place to the next, practically unknown, learning and absorbing as he went – where if he ever got into too much trouble, he could just move on. The easy freedom of having lived on the road, of nothing whatever tying him in place, of preventing him from just walking away when he wished to… it was a seductive draw. It was a state of being which he had recalled and ached for many, many times since returning to Askival.

It was the sort of life which Roads still lived – hence his brilliant nickname. It was the sort of life which appealed to Anthony, and had done even when he had been little more than a boy – a life which offered up almost nothing but a continuous escape. It was probably a good part of why he had been drawn to Roads in the first place. He embodied the life which Anthony longed for so much, and yet could never fully commit to.

So whenever he recalled the days on the road, with Lafsi somewhere nearby, sharing tales and laughter and meals, the ache for his friend had always been obscured by their surroundings. Faced with him now, with neither memory nor the seduction of travel to cloud his eye, he could see just how much it had been Roads he had missed.

He'd missed having a friend. They sat in the mead hall for a long time, exchanging stories of what had happened during their time apart. Roads had by far the most interesting of tales – all embellished to a degree, there was little doubt of that, but still entertaining. Some tales of battles, quite a few mishaps, and reel after reel of anecdotes of the people he had met and their various follies. It seemed as though he had made himself extremely busy in the time since he had last met with Anthony, filling his time with as many adventures of various sorts as it was possible to have. His life was one meant to be made into a series of tales.

By contrast, Anthony had only a handful worth telling, and their worth, he felt, were a measure taken relative to the dull days surrounding them.

It seemed a personal insult that the greatest tale which he could tell, he couldn't.

"Anthony," Roads said after some time, "were you aware that you have an admirer?"

He frowned at Roads, but the man merely indicated with his eyes to something behind him. He turned, squinting through the gloom and the press of people which had been steadily growing while he and Roads caught up with one another. It took a moment, but eventually he spotted who Roads must have meant. A young woman, barely more than a girl, was sitting at another bench some distance away, and was staring straight at Anthony. Clothed in a fine gown and beads, her hair neatly arranged and her features sharp under the last remnants of baby fat, there was no mistaking who she was.

With a low groan, Anthony turned back to Roads, who was doing a poor job of disguising his grin. "What is it, had your fill of admiring glances? Growing too old to enjoy the attention?"

"It's not the attention itself, it's where it's coming from."

"Why?" Roads craned a little, taking a longer look at who was staring at Anthony. "Who is it that makes even a lingering glance seem a burden?"

"That would be Siglaug," Anthony sighed. "Jarl Tyrvi's daughter."

Roads frowned, still staring at the girl.

"I think I see the trouble," he said after a long few moments of consideration.

"I should hope so, she's right there. I wouldn't have thought your eyesight quite so poor as that."

The other man smirked, and had the good sense to look away from the girl, not allowing his gaze to linger overlong on a Jarl's daughter. "I was going to make some joke about her simply not being suitable to your tastes. But truly, I can appreciate why it is you would want to avoid her attentions."

"You mean other than the mercenary gleam in her eye?"

Roads coughed into his mead, the laugh coming out just as he was tilting his cup to drink. "Well," he said, attempting to catch his breath, "it's not as though 'mercenary' has ever been enough on its own to dissuade you. But in this case, yes. She looks on you in much the same way I would expect to see a wolf stare down its next meal."

Anthony nodded, glad you have his own impressions echoed back to him. "It's not exactly what one would call a restful situation, is it?"

"No. And even further from one you might actually wish to encourage."

"Exactly."

"So." He jerked his chin in the girl's direction. "What exactly do you intend to do about it?"

Anthony blinked, and the shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not certain there's much I can do. Normally I would discourage her directly, tell her to set her sights elsewhere for whatever it was she was looking for – either a husband or a warm night. I might even make a few recommendations, depending on how stubborn she was. But…"

"Her family complicates the issue." Roads nodded. "Don't want to give the local Jarl reason to make your life harder than it needs to be, especially if the girl decides to spin a tale of just how rude you were."

"Tyrvi needs no excuse to make my life harder than it already is," he grumbled. "He need only his resentment, and he has plenty of that. Enough to keep him on my back for years to come. Adding any suspicions of dishonoring his daughter and it will just be the final push he needs to get rid of me entirely."

That got Roads to look sharply at him. "Entirely? Is that something he would be foolish enough to try, now you are kinsman to Oddbjörn?"

Anthony winced before he could stop himself. He was doing his best to forget that he was now bound to the Jarl in a way he had never sought after, and now that connection must be taken into account with every interaction he had with every other person. Not just Jarl Tyrvi and his daughter, but Roads as well. Not even his friend could forget that behind Anthony there was a much more powerful man – and that would be the reason someone might hesitate to cause him trouble.

He was being thought of in terms of his relationship with another, more influential man. Again.

He shook his head. "I honestly don't know what Tyrvi might do, what he might still consider a reasonable risk. On one hand, yes, pissing off a more powerful Jarl would be foolish, and Tyrvi tends to be very careful about such things. On the other… It would be an excellent reason to take some permanent step against me. And the fact that I'm a kinsman to Oddbjörn now is acting more as fuel to his fire than a suppressant."

Roads' brows shot up. "Is he really so small minded?"

"It's amazing it doesn't fall out of one of his ears."

Roads snorted, and Anthony could see him arranging the new information in his mind, altering his opinions of the man. Anthony didn't know how much he would have heard about Tyrvi, or what sort of opinion he might have already formed, but whatever it had all been, Anthony was sure that his additions would only lower the man.

"Small concerns make for small minds, I suppose," was his comment. "And now they've caught you between them in their family politics."

"So it would seem," he said, putting his cup down. "And I'd hoped to be through with familial strain."

"No such luck, my friend. Where there are people, there is family, and where there is family there is strain. Until you manage to avoid all people everywhere, I'm afraid you will always have this problem." He paused, and fixed Anthony with a look. "Mind your step, Anthony. I know your usual approach to such games is to not play at all, but in this case I think it will only leave you flatfooted. They won't let you stay out of this. You'll get dragged in, and unless you have some sort of footing to start with, you're going to have nowhere to stand at all."

Wearily, Anthony nodded. It was good advice, advice he ought to heed and head off the oncoming storm he could feel building all round him. He was even willing to heed it, unlike much of the advice on how he ought to conduct his behavior, where his usual response was to go out of his way to so the exact opposite of what was suggested. But then, it always seemed that most advice he got throughout his life was corrective, meant to 'fix' his behavior or his life. Roads at least was telling him things he knew to be true, less about altering current behavior and more planning for the future.

And it was good advice. He needed to plan ahead, prepare for the moment when Siglaug decided to make some sort of approach, for when Tyrvi finally lost all patience with him, for when Oddbjörn did… anything else. If he wanted to keep on his feet – and keep his head – he was going to need to start doing more than simply waiting.

But how did one keep his feet when the very earth beneath him seemed to be shifting and changing shape? How to know where one stood when the 'where' was constantly in flux?

He sighed, and looked up into the worried face of his friend. He smiled. "It's good you're here. I can always use more people to wrangle me into line, and I think Ranka was getting a little weary of doing the job all on her own."

The smile Roads gave lightened his expression, but didn't fully remove all the worry in his eyes. "Well, I'm only too glad to lighten the burden. Gods know that it's too much to ask that any single person be given all the responsibility of watching over someone as unruly as you."

"The truth ought not to sting so much as it does," he said with a chuckle only slightly forced. "And I suppose that we should be grateful that you were a part of Jarl Oddbjörn's company when he intended to come here on his own." He frowned, memories of the Jarl's arrival still fresh in his mind and rising again as he thought of the man. Specifically, he recalled the way his ships had clogged the harbor, and how with the presence of so many unfamiliar faces within Jarl Tyrvi's territory, Oddbjörn was the one who held the advantage.

"Roads, tell me. Is the Jarl Oddbjörn short of Þingmenn? Not to suggest that your presence in his ranks is anything but an improvement on those ranks, but… what need has he to hire men if he is as influential as he's supposed to be?"

For a moment Roads looked surprised, and then he shook his head with a small laugh. It was a laugh which served as a reminder that as well as enjoying more freedom, Roads' life had also afforded him a longer, harsher look at the workings of their fellow men.

"Since when do men like him ever have 'enough'?"

Had he taken the time to stop and consider such things, there were certain aspects of Anthony's life which he wouldn't have expected to have altered very much after the introduction of a god into it. In many ways, nothing at all had really changed. The sun still rose in the morning, the apprentices were still more nuisance than help most days, food still had to be cooked, the forge still had to be lit, and overall the familiar rhythms of life kept up with reassuring regularity. It wasn't even as though the introduction of a real, breathing god into his life were something he was actively, consistently reminded of. It wasn't as though Loki himself was a constant presence hovering over his shoulder, no matter how often Anthony might glance over it to be certain.

Yet, though very little of the practicalities of his life had altered, he was now aware of much more than he ever had been. He had knowledge of the world – and worlds beyond – which he'd had no reason to believe before.

He'd never been much of a man of faith, but then what need of faith, when there was proof of the gods embedded in his chest?

The talisman, wrought of silver, etched in runes and trapping the strange green and blue light, was the most obvious and constant reminder that his life had changed. Not only because he was always aware of it and its weight tugging at his ribs. He was aware, had to be aware, of how easy it would be for others to see it if he weren't vigilant.

At the forge he was in the least danger. As well as there being few other than Appi and Bergi around while he was at his work he wore a thick leather apron, which effectively blocked any light which might otherwise seep through and be seen. It was harder, and getting harder still as the days continued to grow warmer, to carry off the deception anywhere outside the forge, where there was no reassuring layer of leather between the light and prying eyes.

It almost felt, even to himself, as though he were protective of it, jealous of anyone but himself ever laying eyes on his gift from Loki.

Save that his caution stemmed more from fear than from jealousy. He wasn't certain, exactly, what would happen should the talisman be discovered, nor was he in any hurry to find out. Nothing comfortable would come of it, he was sure, so it was best to just leave it undiscovered for the time being.

So paranoid had he become over the possibility of anyone seeing the talisman that the act of removing his clothes, even in his own home, had become an anxious time. He hated removing his kyrtill, of letting out the light of the talisman for anyone to see, even when there was no one to see, hidden away in his private rooms, long after the sun had dipping below the sea. Still his pulse would race as the light spilled free, and he would cup it as best he could in his hands, holding it close and secret.

Like a rare treasure, the light wasn't allowed to leave him, to escape out into the night.

Taking a bath in his own home couldn't have been any riskier than sleeping. In all his time as an adult in Askival, no one had ever walked in on him in the bath – no one who hadn't been explicitly invited to do so, anyway. There was no reason to think that it was any more like to happen now than any other time, save that now there was a very, very good reason he would not want it to happen.

It was stressful. It was stressful to go into town where he felt eyes on him wherever he went – whatever sort of intent those gazes might have. It was stressful to remain in his own home, where he felt the need even there to keep his ears perked for the approach of any step, to keep the light in his breast secret and protected. It seemed there was no place and no time which felt truly safe.

Which was why he had decided to pack up a small kit and wander far into the woods to find some privacy.

There were certain directions which the hunters liked to go. Directions where the game was plentiful and the going not so hard as to make it impossible to drag back any successful kills. There were also places which were good gathering places for the wild growing plants that were prized foods and medicines. Anthony avoided all of those places he knew of and went the direction he was least likely to discover anyone, familiar face or not: He went up into the mountains. Not so far as Loki had taken him that one day, but then he would hardly expect to go so far on his own in a single day without the magical assistance.

He didn't need to go as far as that. As reassuring as it would have been to be that far away from the village and any potential fellow wanderers, it wasn't necessary. He was certain of that, and made sure to keep reminding himself.

He walked far up into the mountains above the village, deliberately avoiding the game trails which would attract the hunters and stuck to the paths which were rocky and inhospitable to any sweet or tempting growths. He walked until even the hints of paths left by humans had dwindled away to nothing, and kept going until he found the stream. Only then did he stop, dropping his small kit to the ground and heaving a sigh.

Now he felt safe enough to relax.

It ought not to have been necessary to hike for several hours into the wilderness, deliberately avoiding every sign of humans or anything which might attract them just feel comfortable enough to relax. It ought not to have taken a complete absence of his own species to feel as though he could breathe.

And yet.

Disrobing, even so far from any possible prying eyes, still felt a little uncomfortable. He tramped down the feeling, removed all of his clothing – including his kyrtill – and slowly slid into the water. It wasn't as cold as a mountain stream could have been. In fact it was pleasant insofar as such things went, but it was still chilly enough to warrant his moving gradually.

Once he was accustomed to the temperature, and settled in the idea of his own nakedness, he relaxed the rest of the way. The water, the gentle current, and the quiet of the forest all around him was soothing to his jangled nerves. Wading down to a deeper spot along the bank, Anthony found a place where the current wasn't so strong and there were broad stones along the bottom. He sat, the water coming up to just below his shoulders, the talisman completely submerged and casting its glow through the ripples, sparkling along the surface. Taking a deep breath, Anthony leaned back and relaxed ever more into the stream, not thinking yet of bathing as he'd come to do, but allowing his thoughts to be swept away, as though they were being carried by the current.

The days were certainly warmer than they had once been. He'd hardly needed the green cloak he had picked up on his way out the door. Not long after beginning his hike, he had simply rolled it up and stowed it away in his kit.

The days were warmer, they were longer, and all around were the signs of the world not only waking, but in places of having fully awoken. The air was alive with the sounds of birdsong, of insects buzzing and of leaves and grasses rustling in the light breeze which tugged at Anthony's hair. The sharp scent of damp stone competed with mugginess and algae, the sweet green of fresh leaves, the cloying perfume of a clump of nearby flowers where bees were making busy work, the tang of pine…

Anthony drank it all in, pleased to have something to concentrate on other than the buzz of people, the weight of their gazes, or the bitterness of their empty platitudes. Here, at last, he could let down his guard.

As he let himself sink into the water, enjoying the slanting, dappled light falling through the trees and the mindless babbling of the water, his mind was drawn back to the last time he had come so far into the woods. The day he had walked into the mountains with a god, and had his senses opened.

It was the memory of that newfound awareness which made him shiver, just a little, below the water's surface.

The knowledge and the touch of seiðr was the second most significant way in which Loki had changed his life. He suspected it was only second for now because he'd had so little practice, could tap into it so inconsistently, where the weight and tug of the talisman was a constant reminder.

He had tried many times to tap into that same awareness which Loki had awoken him to. But whenever he made the attempt, the impressions of life forces and of the raw seiðr existing the world were always pale in comparison to what he had sensed that first time. Thin, silvery shadows clinging to the edges of things, the edges of people. It was more than anything he would have dreamed possible before Loki had shown him, but it seemed so… lacking. He wondered if Loki's absence were responsible for the change, or perhaps it was just a case of his own inadequacy.

If it were a lack of skill, though, then it should prove to be much the same as any other skill. When one took the time and care to practice their art, then their abilities would sharpen accordingly. When one did not, then it was no surprise when their skills would begin to dull.

Feeling himself as easy and receptive as he had been since that day of hunting, Anthony took a deep breath. The he turned his focus inwards, and then outwards, seeking that same awareness he had tapped once before so well.

The sensation of seiðr was strange, similar to a limb falling asleep and coming back to life again, only spread across his entire body, creeping under the skin and infiltrating organs before it settled into a kind of warmth coiled around his spine. When Loki had offered up an example of the sensation, transferring it to him via their clasped hands, it had nearly been overwhelming. At the time he had thought that if the touch of seiðr would feel so intense every time, then it might be preferable to never try it again. Talent or not, if to experience the seiðr around him was tantamount to feeling as though he were being set on fire, then he would do better to leave it off all together.

But it had only felt so intense when Loki had been there. When Anthony finally managed to feel the seiðr for himself, it was much gentler, easier to endure. What had once felt like needles and fire felt like a tickling prickle and wash of warmth. It was strange, but pleasant in its own way. Though, despite how he'd thought then, and still did, that the example Loki had given him had been too much to handle for any long length of time… it bothered him to think he might never feel it again.

Quieting himself as much as he could, he could feel the seiðr, gentle and muted against the living flame of what could be which lived in his memory. The forest around him, already alive with the sounds, scents and motion of spring growing into summer, gained an all new layer, adding a new dimension to the world.

Feeling the seiðr in his body was not the same as sensing it as it was out in the world. Not quite the same as seeing it, perhaps closer to feeling it like the current of the stream against his skin.

Such was it now, the clearest he had felt the magic round him since the day he had spent with Loki. It was something of a relief. He'd worried before that he'd been losing the ability entirely – that without Loki nearby to instruct him, he wouldn't be able to do it at all. But it seemed all he needed was quiet and peace in order to concentrate. He was more relieved than he wanted to admit.

He wondered if the day would ever come when he would be able to sense seiðr as easily as he could hear sounds, or see with his eyes. Would he be able to sense seiðr without even thinking about it? Would he be able to know when someone was near or coming upon him, because he could feel the magic which naturally clung to them? He tried to imagine it – striding through the world with this new sense, this new knowing which no one else, or at least very few, shared with him. Even should he never learn to harness the seiðr for himself, just the knowing would forever change him and set him apart from everyone around him.

"Your head is like a hive of bees, Stillbreast."

Anthony shot to his feet so quickly that he nearly went straight back down into the stream, the slick stones offering little in the way of secure footing.

Pulse racing, Anthony looked round frantically for the source of the voice, sweeping his gaze all round before he looked, without quite understanding why, up.

Loki met his gaze. Seated quite comfortably on a thick branch, one leg curled beneath him, the other dangling free, the trickster god was watching him with easy shamelessness. His smile widened into a grin, revealing teeth and lighting up his green eyes even at a distance. "I could hear your busy thoughts all the way in the next valley."

Anthony stared, mouth hanging open, for a full five seconds before a very slight shift in the mischief maker's gaze recalled him, and he ducked down into the water, covering himself and the talisman as best as he was able with his hands.

His display earned a laugh from the tree, and while he could hardly blame the god, it did nothing to salve his pride or stop the blush he could feel creeping over what felt like his entire skin.

"And what exactly do you think you're playing at?" Embarrassment and surprise made the words come out sharper than he'd intended, but he wasn't about to retract them.

Not that they seemed to faze Loki in the slightest, his grin remaining firmly in place, his eyes shining across the distance just as easily as before. "Whatever I wish to, of course. What fun would there be to do the expected, or even worse, what is expected of me?"

"Well, innocents might have a chance to bathe in peace."

"Innocents might," the treed god agreed, sending him a wink. "And what is all this protestation? Was it so very long ago when a certain mortal was seeking reassurance that I would return? That he would see me again? Mortals are such very changeable creatures."

"It must be why you find us so fascinating." He tossed the comment out flippantly, and it was only at the flicker of surprise chasing over Loki's face that he realized what exactly it was he said.

"Perhaps," Loki conceded after a moment. "Certainly it keeps you all interesting, a constant source of unpredictability. For instance: I would not have thought you a shy man when it came to his own body."

Anthony shifted in the water, aware of how ridiculous he must look, and equally aware of how far away his clothes were. It wasn't the nakedness which really bothered him – though there was something disconcerting about being completely bare and damp under Loki's gaze. There was no denying after his previous visit that there was… something between them. Something more than simple interest – or bargains, or seiðr or lessons. There was a very pointed interest. Anthony found that whenever his thoughts turned to the god, he wondered what it would be like to trace his hands over Loki's skin, to feel the warmth and weight of him, to feel Loki's touch on him in turn when it was only pleasure which was intended.

Having the man himself before him did little to quell those fantasies.

And from the way Loki looked at him, he wasn't alone in his wonderings. How serious an interest Loki took in him, what form it took, or if an Æsir could even feel in the same ways as a human did, Anthony had no idea… but there was interest.

And it still wasn't Anthony's nudity which had him covering up.

It was the talisman.

It was ridiculous. There was sense in concealing the talisman from everyone else. There were risks involved in others discovering its existence, even if it were nothing more than their opinion of him changing. With Loki there was no risk at all. He knew, he was the one who put the thing there. Arguably, Anthony was hiding Loki's own magic from his sight. There was absolutely no good reason for it.

And yet the idea of letting his hand fall away, to reveal the talisman and let the light spill free made every muscle in his body tighten.

In his tree, Loki tilted his head at him. "I have seen far more intimate parts of you than could possibly be shown by the simple removal of cloth."

Anthony shuddered at the reminder. Yes, he had at that, hadn't he? More than any nakedness could reveal, Loki had seen and held his very heart. Against that, what was it to stand, bare of everything, under his gaze?

Rather than allow his discomfort to show, he did his best to scoff. "Isn't there something else you could be doing? Some godly task which requires your attention?"

"Oh, yes," Loki agreed easily, leaning into the trunk of the tree, his free foot swinging back and forth. "Could and should. There are any number of tasks my very self ought to be involved in at this very moment. Several all at once and, as I am given to believe by my vaunted sire," he tone took a sardonic edge, "all quite grim."

"Why don't you, then, and leave us mere mortals to make do without 'your very self'?"

"I'm hurt that you think I could be so needlessly cruel as to deprive you in such a way. Besides, dear heart," the grin returned, and he gave Anthony the sort of long look which made his entire body heat up, despite the cold water. "I find you so very much more interesting."

There really wasn't a good reply to something like that. Not while naked and wet and attempting to retain – or regain – some measure of dignity. So rather than attempt any sort of answer, he decided to show just how little he cared or was bothered by Loki's presence by ignoring him completely.

Doing so by turning his back on Loki was possibly not the wisest of things he had ever done.

Turning his back on the god made it so that he felt he could drop his hands, no longer having to obscure himself or the talisman – but he was still very much aware of the fact that that gaze was still on him. He could feel Loki's eyes tracing over him, almost like a touch on his skin, as eyes took in his bare shoulders, the broadness of his back, the curve of his backside.

He did his best to do exactly what he'd intended to and ignore Loki's presence entirely, pretend that he didn't care that he was there, and was unbothered by his gaze. He got the impression that being ignored was one of the few things which would actually bother Loki. He also suspected that he wasn't at all fooled by Anthony's attempt at nonchalance. Still, he went through the motions of finishing up his bath, splashing the water carelessly, and stopping just short of humming a tune to himself.

Once through washing, he climbed out of the stream. Somehow it seemed even colder once he was out of the water, and he hurried to dry himself off and start putting on his clean set of clothes. And he managed to do all of it while keeping his back to the tree which was playing perch to a troublemaking deity.

Once a fresh kyrtill was pulled over his head and the talisman covered, Anthony felt as though he could breathe again. He put a hand over his chest to be sure that none of the light was making it through the cloth. Once reassured of that, he finally turned back to face Loki.

And nearly fell on his ass, jumping back with a startled yelp on finding that god less than six feet away.

Loki smirked, apparently quite pleased with the reaction he got. "A little jumpy, aren't we? Did you think I had left already?"

"Not in the least," Anthony admitted, still convincing his pulse to return to normal. "I didn't think it would be like you to come all this way for so short a visit."

"So well you seem to know me already, Stillbreast," he murmured, smirk widening.

It was hard not to return the smile, so Anthony didn't try. "I doubt that. You don't seem to be very 'knowable' sort." He paused long enough to straighten his clothes, settling into them and reassuring himself that, yes, he was covered now. He also made a show of making certain his kit was all together and in order, seeing how long he could push the farce of ignoring Loki before he grew sick of the game.

Surprisingly, Loki didn't seem to mind being ignored in the least, apparently content to simply stand and watch him as he went through the motions of his tasks, just as he had been content to watch Anthony washing. What was it that gods did day-to-day that watching someone wash in the stream – or pack a bag – seemed like a good use of their time? Well, by Loki's own admission, duties which were quite important and requiring a lot of his attention – but which apparently failed to capture any of said attention. It was probably a very good thing that there were more gods than just Loki, or the world might well have fallen into complete ruin generations ago.

Then again, Loki had been the only one to answer his call when he had been desperate enough to pray…

He shook off the thought. It didn't really matter what the other gods were like in comparison to Loki. With luck, he would never have any call to meet them. One god's attention was more than enough to cope with.

In the end, it was Anthony who finally gave in and broke the silence.

"Why wasn't I able to feel you?"

When he looked up at Loki, he was simply staring, brows raised in silent inquiry, one corner of his mouth lifting in a mockingly suggestive way.

"I mean your seiðr," he clarified. "I was practicing when you showed up. I was starting to pick up a little of the things around me, but not you. And the last time you were anywhere near when I was attempting this, you drowned out everything else. Have you found a way to hide it?"

The look Loki was giving him didn't change much, only becoming somehow more mocking as his features sharpened. "Are you certain you were concentrating so very hard?" he asked. "As I said, your head was buzzing with thoughts, so loud I could practically hear them. I had not been long arrived before I spoke." He leaned forward, eyes dancing. "Had you let your thoughts wander away from you, Stillbreast? Where to had they gone, I wonder?"

Thankfully they hadn't wandered anywhere where the mere suggestion of them would be enough to make Anthony blush. A rare moment when he could say that his mind had been innocent of such thoughts when he was being accused of them. Despite that, he still felt his skin warm and his pulse quicken slightly at the stare, at the tone Loki used. It was a good thing there had been nothing in his thoughts for the suggestion to latch on to, or he would have been beet red in a moment.

"I suppose that my focus had lapsed for a bit," he admitted. He gave a coy smile. "Seems that I need more practice at this whole magic thing."

"How fortunate, then, that I should happen by," Loki said, straightening again, reminding Anthony of just how tall he was.

"Yes. You seem to have a habit of that."

"Mmm." Giving the area around them and then Anthony a last, lingering look, he swept out an arm. "Shall we begin your next lesson, then?"

Anthony grinned, matching Loki's expression and enthusiasm. "Whenever you're ready, Troublemaker."

A/N2: Hey, we got a naked Tony this chapter! :D

Writing on Cloth: This is a bit of invention on my part. So far as I've been able to find, there wasn't anything like paper at this time and place, or even vellum to write on. What you would have would be carvings or rune sticks, at least for what we've found that's survived. So we're using cloth as a handy cheat for what Tony would use for his sketches.

Nicknames: Nicknames in ye olde Scandinavian culture is really interesting, the names someone is bestowed with can be complimentary, an insult, a backhanded compliment, a warning to others who meet them, a humiliation, etc. Roads was right about the nickname Tony gave him, though. It's not very clever. XD

Coal biter: Someone who was a 'coal biter' was someone who was considered lazy and didn't contribute much, if anything to the family and home. Someone who spent their days lolling around in front of the hearth with the coals.

Thanks for reading, everyone!