Chapter 10 - A Very Fond Farewell

Rethe 30

Frodo was sleeping peacefully when Berwin checked on him the next morning. Frodo had improved over the night. Only an occasional cough could be heard, and he was breathing more easily, taking deep full breaths in his sleep. His forehead was cool, all traces of fever now gone. Berwin shook his head and marveled at the hobbit’s resiliency.

Still, Frodo was not well enough to travel, not for any great length at any rate, and Berwin knew it. Frodo was weakened by his illness and injuries, and it would be another week or two before he healed enough for a journey down the East Road. While Frodo had said he did not mind traveling while he recovered, and claimed that he would be able to handle the discomfort as long as the destination was Rivendell and his cousin, Berwin would not feel comfortable taking such a risk. He would have to wait if he was to take Frodo, and this troubled the man greatly for he knew he could not wait that long.

With feelings of much trepidation, Berwin made his way through the house to stand outside in the morning sun. Had it been only yesterday that he stood in this very spot, pleading with the unseen forces above for Frodo’s life? Now he must ask guidance to show him what to do, to keep his word made unwisely in haste or to break it for the inconvenience it would cause. 

He could hardly believe it was real, that Frodo had improved so dramatically over so short a time, after being so close to death itself. The healer’s skill and medicine undoubtedly helped, but he could not help but feel there was some other force at work in all this. How else could he explain all that had happened?

He had left the Blue Mountains late, had he not? First, his horse had slipped a shoe. Then his saddlebag had split in two, the seams bursting open for some inexplicable reason. Instead of insisting that the repairs be made immediately, he had used the excuses to linger and see the unveiling of a new jewel for the chieftain’s wife. Never before had he done such a thing. When he was finally on his way, he had traveled quickly to make up time, only to be held up by the rangers and the storm.

All of the delays had led him seemingly directly to Frodo, who surely would have died had he been left by the river a moment longer. Who’s to say when the rangers may have ventured out that way? What if another wayward traveler had found him, someone with ill intentions or who may not have hastened to reach help in time? Instead it had been him, who already knew the name Frodo Baggins and would have taken all care with Bilbo’s beloved cousin no matter what the circumstances. It could not be coincidence. Berwin could only conclude that he was meant to find Frodo, and that Frodo was meant to live. But was Frodo meant to go to Rivendell?

Berwin simply did not know. What he did know was that he was pressed for time and every day he remained here would mean an extra day his friends and loved ones would have to worry about his whereabouts, especially once his companions reached Dale ahead of him. He was also running out of money, and if Frodo came with him, he would have to acquire a pony, saddlebag, sleeping roll, at least two changes of clothes, not to mention the extra food. He would also need to take some medicines with him and he had to pay the healer still on top of everything else. 

As for Frodo himself, he would need to send word to his family in the Shire that he was well and sound. The storm had been nearly a week ago and they must be desperate to know what has become of him. Frodo would want to assure them of his safety. Finding someone to deliver the letter should be easy enough; they could leave it with the innkeeper at The Prancing Pony to forward to the Shire. But what would his family think of Frodo leaving in such a manner? And even though Frodo was determined to travel no matter what the discomfort, Berwin knew they would be slowed by Frodo’s injuries.

Would it come down to that then: time and money? They were silly things on which to make such a decision, yet it was inevitable. He could not travel the road without any coin, and he could not forget his duty to his King. Berwin was not one to break his word once he gave it, and so only gave it after careful consideration. Why had he promised so hastily to take Frodo with him? Was he to break his word now, to one whom he cared so deeply and who yearned for this chance so greatly?

No, he could not do that. He had a couple of weeks at least to acquire the things he needed. He would work in exchange for as many of the supplies as he could and pay for the rest. Once they reached Rivendell, the Elves would supply him with enough food to get him to Mirkwood. If they had to travel more slowly until then, so be it. He would explain to his King the reason for his delay, that it was a favor for Bilbo. His King would understand, being fond of the elderly hobbit himself.

A shuffling of cloth behind him interrupted his thoughts. He turned and nodded good morning to Hazel as she came to stand beside him.

“You are troubled,” she observed.

Berwin nodded. “I had a decision to make, but I have made it.”

“Concerning Frodo?” Hazel asked. “If there is something the matter with my patient, I must be told.”

“There is nothing the matter,” Berwin assured, “except that he misses his cousin terribly and wishes to seek for him. I agreed to take him to Rivendell. It will not be easy, but I believe I can make it work.”

“Frodo has a cousin in Rivendell?” Hazel asked.

“Yes… well, I’m not sure really. Bilbo was planning to stay with the Elves, to settle there after he tired of adventuring. I have not heard if he is actually there yet or not.”

Hazel narrowed her eyes and nodded slowly. She said nothing for several minutes, then asked, “When were you planning to leave?”

“Two weeks at the most,” Berwin said. “Frodo should be able to travel by then. He’s healing so quickly.”

“He is,” Hazel agreed, “which is why I will not allow Frodo to go.”

Berwin looked the healer in the eye. Her expression was stern, and her arms were crossed before her in a gesture of absolute finality.

“With all due respect, Mistress,” Berwin said with an authority of his own, “this is Frodo’s decision and mine. You have no place in it.” 

Hazel nodded and continued, unflustered by Berwin’s disagreement. “Oh I agree. This decision is yours and his alone, but it will have to be made under my conditions. Frodo is barely recovered from a grave illness that nearly claimed his life. It will be many days before his energy and health are restored fully. He needs two days rest at least before he may go, and that is only to return to his homeland, where his own healer can attend to him and he can get the rest he needs. If it is now your intention to take him to Rivendell, then I will not allow him to leave here until he is fully recovered from all of his ailments and injuries. That will be two months at the least, no exceptions. Can you wait that long?”

“No, I cannot,” Berwin said with a shake of his head. “Nor will I. There is no reason he cannot travel as soon as two weeks. I’ve seen this sort of injury before, even had a few of my own ribs cracked, and you yourself said that hobbits are not so fragile as men. He wants to go and I agreed to take him. I will not break my word.”

“Then you will have to wait two months,” Hazel said unabashed and continued before Berwin could protest further. “His health is still fragile, for all that he’s recovered. He could become ill again. Would you so carelessly risk the life of the one you were so desperate to save? You cannot guarantee that his cousin will be in Rivendell when you arrive, nor can you guarantee that he will arrive any time soon or at all. Would you leave Frodo there alone, to travel home alone when he gives up waiting? Is that the only reason you agreed to take him, so you would not have to travel that road alone, but you would condemn him to it?”

Berwin did not answer but stared down the lane, lost in thought. He could not wait two months, and he had given no thought to what would become of Frodo if they arrived in Rivendell and his cousin was not there. Berwin would then feel obligated to escort Frodo safely back to the Shire and that would be even more time lost. He had been foolish to ever consider helping Frodo beyond the gates of Bree. He should have left as soon as he heard Frodo would recover, yet he had not and it was but a moment’s weakness that made him stray from his original intent. Now he was bound by the promise he had given.

“I gave him my word,” Berwin said. “It is no longer mine to break or take back. It is his decision.”

“Then help him make the right one,” Hazel said. “Decisions made in haste and selfishness are rarely good ones.” With that, she turned back into the house, leaving Berwin with his thoughts once more.

~*~

Frodo was awake and attentively observing his room when Hazel brought his food to him five minutes later. He smiled at her warmly and brightly.

“Good morning, Mistress Hazel,” he greeted politely. He had met the healer briefly the night before and had liked her immediately. She reminded him very much of his Aunt Esmeralda, firm but kind.

Hazel set her tray on the table and pulled open the curtains. She sat down and smiled at him warmly. “Good morning Frodo. How are you feeling this morning?”

“I’m feeling quite well, thank you,” Frodo replied. Then he yawned and gave a slight cough. 

“Some horrible-tasting medicine before you eat?” Hazel said with a knowing smile. She handed Frodo a glass of warm garlic water. “Gargle a mouthful of this for ten seconds, then drink it all down.”

Frodo took the glass reluctantly and complied, failing not to grimace at the strong taste. He handed the glass back and noticed Hazel was now holding a spoonful of a dark, syrup-thick liquid. “A spoon of this to keep the fever from coming back. You need take it only once more.”

Frodo opened his mouth for the spoon and grimaced worse than before as he swallowed the foul-tasting medicine. At least she had been honest about the taste. “Now I remember why I never admit when I’m ill,” he said bemusedly.

Hazel laughed and next handed him a cup of tea. “That was the last of the nasty stuff. Here’s your tea. Sip on that while I examine you.”

Frodo took the tea gratefully and gargled a mouthful to wash away the taste of the other medicaments. While he sipped on the rest, Hazel unwrapped the compress and lightly pressed the bump on his head. The swelling was hardly discernible now, and the gash completely scabbed over. She placed a fresh cloth soaked in comfrey leaves to the wound, and wrapped his head in fresh bandages. One more day should do it.

She moved on to Frodo’s ribs, pressing lightly. Frodo winced but did not protest the pain, and the healer pressed with slightly more pressure. The bones were mending perfectly. His minor cuts were no longer a concern and the bruises had faded to a pale blue tinged with yellow. She checked the glands in his neck. They were still slightly swollen but would soon return to their normal size. 

“You are very fortunate Frodo,” Hazel said as she continued studying her patient, mostly his body language and the depths of his eyes. He was open and relaxed, at ease despite his discomfort. 

“You are also incredibly strong.” Now Frodo gave a slight shrug, and his mouth quirked in a bashful, half-smile. 

“It was your will to live more than anything else that brought you through your illness. You must have many loved ones back home that you were so determined to see them again.” Frodo now looked at her intently and paused for the space of a heartbeat. Then he nodded, but his expression had turned inward to some conflict that lay deep within.

“I do,” he said at last, a look of guilt crossing his features. He thought of Merry and Pippin, Folco and Fatty. In his dream the previous day, Merry had been crying, but he had been laughing also. One to make the other hurt less. Frodo shifted uncomfortably, knowing Hazel was watching him closely. He had the unsettling feeling that she knew exactly what he was thinking. 

“Well, you shall be seeing them soon enough and that should ease your mind,” Hazel finally said and picked up a bowl of chicken broth. “Now open up.”

Frodo accepted the spoon of broth held out to him and swallowed the rich, delicious liquid as he studied the design on the coverlet. 

‘Back home.’ Back home were Merry and Pippin, no doubt fit to be tied by now, and Frodo remembered with a sinking feeling of regret that he had torn apart his room while looking for Bilbo’s ring. What must his cousins think had become of him? 

Back home was the ring. It seemed obvious to him now that the ring was at Bag End still, most likely stuck at the bottom of the trunk in the second parlor, or else in his room. His panic had fogged his mind temporarily, making him jump to every horrible conclusion, not allowing him to think rationally. Now that he could, the answer was so ridiculously clear that he felt silly for not realizing it earlier. Had he simply remained calm, all of this could have been avoided.

Frodo needed to go back and get the ring, and he needed to see Merry and Pippin to let them know that all was well. Yet it was a three-day ride from here to Hobbiton, and three days back, plus two days at least to sidetrack to Buckland. Berwin would already have waited longer than he should by then and Frodo did not want to lose his chance to go with him. He desperately wanted to see Bilbo again.

He would write Merry and Pippin a letter explaining everything, or almost everything. The ring would be safe enough locked up inside Bag End, just so long as he came back before a year has passed so that no one could declare him dead. He did not need the fiasco Bilbo had returned home to after his adventure with the dwarves. 

When he was finished eating, he asked Haxel if he could use some parchment and ink. Hazel nodded obligingly and carried out the breakfast tray. A few minutes later, she returned with an inkwell, quill, sandbag and parchment. She set a small writing table in front of him and left him alone to his thoughts.

Frodo stared at the paper for a long while before positioning the table so that he could write comfortably. Then he dipped the quill in ink and pressed the quill to paper. Dearest Merry and Pippin…

~*~

He was sitting by the Brandywine, playing in the dirt with his child-sized hands. He could hear his parents laughing somewhere behind him. Saradoc and Esmeralda, newly-married, were with them also.

“…not happen often,” Primula was saying, “that a lass has to wait for a lad to come of age to marry.”

“Or perhaps it was I who did not want to wait,” Saradoc said. “Did you think of that?”

“I think it’s that you just love a good scandal, Sara, taking a wife as is older than you,” Drogo said with feigned sternness. 

“Oh, hush you,” Esmeralda said with a laugh, which highlighted her Tookish lilt. “It was my doing actually. I find younger fellows much more accommodating and easier to manage.”

“What? I am not,” Saradoc said in an offended tone, then dissolved into laughter with the others.

The adults continued with their joyful banter, and Frodo blissfully ignored them with the simple confidence of a child who knew they would be there when he needed them. 

He was packing a small pail with dirt, attempting to make a grand castle like he imagined from one of Bilbo’s tales. He packed the dirt firmly, turned the pail over and tapped it lightly. He lifted the pail up and beamed to himself as he saw a perfectly formed base for his castle. Then the dirt crumpled. Frodo frowned and looked down his long row of crumpled piles. He sighed, moved over a couple of inches, and started packing the pail again. This continued all afternoon, until Frodo had a line several hundred yards long of crumpled piles. He was beginning to get frustrated. What was he doing wrong? 

He looked up and noticed a lad just a few feet away, playing the same game as him but much more successfully. The lad had a bucket of water, which he used to moisten the dirt as he packed his pail. When he tipped the pail over, the dirt kept its shape perfectly. But the lad was not shaping the piles into anything else, no castles or even houses or smials. Frodo was about to ask him why when the lad turned to him and smiled, and Frodo gave a start.

“Sam?” he asked, perplexed. “What are you doing here? You aren’t even born yet.”

Sam shrugged and began packing another pail of dirt. “Well, sir, this is a dream isn’t it, and logic doesn’t have much place in them. I mean to say, I’ve never been to Buckland neither, and I don’t much like this river. It’s much bigger and wider than a river ought to be, to my way of thinking. So that’s three reasons why I shouldn’t be here.”

“All right then, so why are you here?” Frodo asked again.

Sam shrugged simply. “I missed you. You left you know, and everything’s been wrong ever since. I thought if I found you, it’d make it better, especially with him coming back and all. He’ll make everything all the worse for wear, and I don’t want to be there when that happens.”

“That’s all it is then?” Frodo asked as Sam dumped out another perfectly formed pile of dirt.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t want to be there, but I have to be. I have to go soon, but I made your piles for you, so you can make whatever you please. Is there anything else you’ll be needing, sir?”

Frodo nodded. “Where are Merry and Pippin? Seems they should be here too.”

“Oh, they wanted to come, but they couldn’t. Not just yet anyhow,” Sam explained. 

“Why not?” Frodo asked, more confused now than before.

Sam only shrugged and stood up. He brushed the dirt off his breeches and hands, then began to walk into the river. Frodo rushed to his side and held him back. “Sam, what are you doing? You’ll drown!”

“I don’t see the difference, begging your pardon. ‘Tears are worse than raindrops’ as my Gaffer always says. At least raindrops are good for something, but too much of either will drown you.” He cocked his head and looked at Frodo accusingly. “You should know that well enough.” Then Sam abruptly turned and vanished into the water.

Frodo looked about him frantically for help, but to his dismay, he discovered that he had come farther down the river than he thought. His parents and cousins were nowhere to be seen or heard. He began to run back up the riverbank following his line of crumpled piles, and as he passed them, he saw that the piles did have shapes after all. The shapes were that of ruined homes and destroyed smials and in the river he could see the reflection of a great fire. He stopped in terror and turned around, but found only the forest, silent and serene. Walking toward him were Merry and Pippin, not child-sized as he was but full-grown and weary.

Merry and Pippin stopped before him and stared down at him with vacant eyes. “You said you’d never leave so far I couldn’t visit,” Merry accused. “You lied to me and this is all your fault.” Then he turned without waiting for a response and disappeared back into the trees, which Frodo saw were now charred black and dead. A great veil of smoke was rising out of the woods into the sky, blocking out the sun.

Frodo turned to Pippin, seeking an explanation, but Pippin only patted Frodo on the head. “I’ve been trying to take care of him for you, but I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of it. I’m not the brother to him that you are,” he said and turned to follow Merry.

Frodo watched him leave, completely at a loss as to what to think. Where had his parents gone? Why was everything in ruins where just moments before it had been blissful and beautiful? He watched, clueless, as Pippin disappeared into the veil of smoke. Then a sinister, inhuman voice rose up behind him, sneering with mock gratitude. “I just want to thank you Frodo,” it said. “You really should leave more often.”

A strong hand grabbed him with bone-crunching force and whirled him around, where he was confronted with a masked figure standing over him, breathing a fool stench and laughing triumphantly. Frodo opened his mouth and screamed.

~*~

Frodo woke with a start and found Berwin sitting next to him, dozing restfully in the chair. 

Frodo sighed with relief to be out of his dream, but the images of it lingered still and he wondered what they could mean. This dream was even worse than the previous one. Yet there was something slightly familiar about this one, something Bilbo had said in his other dream. What was it? Oh yes…

‘But your ring, Bilbo. I’ve lost it and I can’t find it.’

‘It’s not lost, you silly scamp. It’s right where you left it. Just get there before he can…’

Now what did that mean? ‘It means nothing, is what,’ Frodo tried to convince himself and shook his head, frustrated that his sleep was disrupted yet again. These nightmares were most likely nothing more than a lingering effect of his illness, or somehow brought on by the medicaments the healer was giving him. Maybe he should mention them to Hazel when next he saw her.

Frodo carefully lifted himself into a sitting position, then carefully reached over with shaking hands to the bedside table for the cup of tea that sat there. The tea was cold now, but it tasted as sweet as ever. Frodo sipped on it as he waited for his heart to stop racing. He focused on the writing table in front of him to distract himself, his eyes falling upon the letter. He had not got far in his writing before drifting off. ‘Dearest Merry and Pippin’ was all it read. 

Frodo took the quill and dipped the tip gingerly in the ink. He set the quill to the paper, his letter already composed in his mind, but his hand stalled, unable or unwilling to form the words. ‘You said you’d never leave,’ came Merry’s accusing voice, and Frodo knew that was exactly how Merry would react. Frodo could try to reason his actions away any number of ways, but it would make little difference. A letter would do no good. 

Frodo rested the quill in the inkwell and fell back into his pillows with a troubled sigh. His head was pounding again, and he felt sick to his stomach but not from his illness and not entirely from his dream. “What am I doing?” he mused dismally to himself.

At the sound of his voice, Berwin woke and sat up. He gave a slight yawn and smiled tiredly. “How are you feeling?” he asked automatically.

Frodo turned to the man tersely and frowned. “Well enough to get annoyed if I hear that question one more time,” he snapped, then shook his head regrettably. “I am sorry. After all you have done for me, I should hardly be biting your head off for being concerned, especially over something that is none of your doing.”

Berwin regarded Frodo closely. He had been shocked to be so abruptly scolded by his friend, and he took a moment to recover. Up until now, he would have found it difficult to imagine Frodo in a temper, and he hoped it was just a momentary thing, for he would soon have to broach the topic of going to Rivendell. He had feared the disappointment and confusion he would see in those expressive blue eyes when he told Frodo of his concerns, but he had not counted on anger. He did not want to be on the receiving end of such a glare again. 

“I really am sorry,” Frodo said again when Berwin took too long to answer. 

Berwin laughed ruefully and smiled. “It’s quite understandable, Frodo. I would get tired of hearing the same question repeatedly myself,” he assured lightly. “If there is something bothering you, I’ll offer whatever advice or help that I am able to.”

“You cannot help me more than you already have,” Frodo said. He sighed heavily, shut his eyes and let go his hopes to what may very well be the only opportunity he would have of seeing Bilbo again. “I’m afraid I’ve been terribly selfish. I must return home and see to my cousins, and that will take far longer than you are able to wait. I cannot go with you, and I fear I’ve delayed you longer already than I should have. Can you forgive me?” he asked and opened his eyes to look pleadingly upon the man who had grown so dear to him over so short a time.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Berwin said with disappointed relief, and he clasped Frodo’s hand in his own. “I regret nothing, not even the lonely road ahead if I can think of you happy and safe with your family as you should be. In all honesty, it was selfish of me to offer to let you come, and I’ve been regretting that decision ever since. I raised your hopes needlessly. Can you forgive me?”

“You have done me no harm and if anyone raised my hopes, it was me alone,” Frodo replied. “Just promise me one thing: that if you should come upon Bilbo, or someone who knows where he is, send the message that I am well and that I wish him all the happiness he deserves.”

Berwin nodded. “I shall do that,” he promised. “You must promise me something as well.” He waited until Frodo nodded cautiously. “You must promise to forget everything I told you about Bilbo. The old hobbit would have my hide if he knew I told you anything of his whereabouts, past or future. He wants nothing more than for you to be happy in the Shire, to have a family of your own, to have the life he never did. He would not want you attempting to find him, and I should have remembered that last night.”

Tears came to Frodo’s eyes, but he calmed himself with deep breaths and dried his tears with a corner of the bed sheet. He nodded at last and said with forced cheerfulness, “Well, I would not want any harm to fall upon you on my account. I will do my best to forget what you told me, and I shall keep myself home where I belong.”

“Good, because you do belong there,” Berwin said, “whether you see it now or not.”

The two friends smiled fondly at each other, then said no more. 

Berwin left momentarily and returned with a tray of medicine and food the healer wanted Frodo to take upon awaking. Frodo screwed himself up for the abhorrent taste of the medicine and quickly followed it with the much more appealing food. Hazel had added some solids to his meal besides the standard bread. There was a bowl of mixed fruits: apple, pear, peach, cranberry and honeydew. The chicken broth was replaced with chicken soup, thick with vegetables: peas, carrots, string beans, squash and onion. His herbal tea was on hand, but Hazel had also supplied him with a cup of milk. 

Berwin had a plate for himself as well, and they ate their meal in companionable silence. There was no need to talk, or learn any further about each other. They knew all they needed to know already, of honor and unwavering purpose, stubbornness and extraordinary resilience, and a friendship that, though brief, would be fondly remembered the rest of their lives.

When their lunch was finished, Berwin carried the trays out to the kitchen, and Frodo took the few moments of solitude to gather his wits enough to keep himself from crying. Berwin returned and the friends smiled sadly and joyfully at each other. Berwin came to Frodo’s side, sat upon the bed, and enfolded Frodo in a mighty, yet gentle, hug.

“It was my honor to serve you Frodo Baggins,” Berwin said formally as he rose from the bed. He bowed deeply, then straightened himself to his full height. “My service is now over, and I must go as my duty calls. Fare you well.”

“Fare you well, Berwin, Man of Dale,” Frodo returned just as formally. “It was my honor and great fortune to have found so worthy a traveling companion. You shall never be far from my thoughts.” Unable to rise and bow himself, he gave a small nod of his head.

Then Berwin turned and walked resolutely out the door, closing it softly behind him. He paid Hazel for her services, refusing to hear that the stipend was too high, and bowed and thanked her and Rowan for all their hospitality. He left the house, mounted his waiting mare and rode off. Not until he reached the end of the lane and turned left at the hay mounds did he allow himself to briefly weep. Then just as quickly as the tears had come, he bit them back and lifted himself high in his seat and rode proudly into town. He did not look back.

~*~

Frodo stared blankly at the parchment sitting before him. He was fighting his own tears and was for the most part succeeding. He sniffled softly and came to a decision. He took the quill in hand again, gently removed the excess ink and stared at the letter he had started to his cousins. He knew he would never deliver the letter. His cousins would never know it existed and would never know anything that was written in it aside from the few necessary details he would have to relate when he arrived at home. Yet if he were to tell them…

Dearest Merry and Pippin,

You will not believe the adventure I have to tell you. The most amazing thing happened and when I least expected it. I was strolling along the River, enjoying the storm – you know how I love a lightning show! – and what should happen? A mighty wave came and whisked me away before I had even a chance to guess what was happening. 

Next thing I know, I’m stranded down the River and in a very pathetic state indeed. My clothes were in shambles, I was wetter than the floor after one of Pippin’s baths, and I was miserably unsure of how far I would have to walk before finding the Shire again. I think there’s no need to mention how hungry I was. Let me just say, the thunder you heard was not coming from the storm!

Just as I was assessing this rather difficult pickle in which I had found myself, I looked up and saw none other than a Man, one of the Big Folk. He was riding a valiant steed and was wearing shining mail and a helmet of polished brass. He was looking for gold, he said, stolen from his family by a pair of highway robbers, and he asked if I could assist him. He had heard that hobbits made good burglars, and who better after all to catch a thief?

Frodo sat back and stared with pleased surprise at what he had written so far. That was not at all what he had intended to write, but he quickly came to the conclusion that it was far better than the truth. Bilbo had understood that. He had known that some things were better left unsaid or fudged a bit for others to enjoy the telling of it. He smiled at his tale; he had Bilbo’s flare for storytelling after all.

To be continued…