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Good Neighbors  by daw the minstrel

Thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter for me.

*******

9.  Revelations

Moving as quietly as he could in the early morning dimness, Legolas crept around the back of Turgon’s cottage and made his way to the one where Rodda hid. Slipping out of his own home without his father or Ithilden seeing him had been nerve-wracking enough, and he would still have to explain himself when he went home to his mid-day meal. He did not want to have Turgon’s parents, or even worse, Amdir come out to ask what he was doing out so early carrying an awkward, cloth-wrapped bundle.

He lifted the door latch, and then, abruptly, froze. From somewhere inside the cottage, he heard what sounded like a strangled cry of alarm. Without pausing to think, he shoved the door open and ran along the hall, dropping his bundle and grabbing for his knife as he went. The noise seemed to be coming from the sleeping chamber, and he burst through the door to stand just inside the room, his knife waving, his heart pounding wildly.

It took him a second to realize that there was no one in the room but Rodda, who lay curled up on the bed, moaning and crying, “No! No!”

Legolas stared at him. His eyes were completely closed, but Legolas could see them twitching under their lowered lids. His face was flushed, and his arms jerked slightly. Legolas realized with a start that Rodda must be walking a dream path.

Cautiously, he drew near the bed. “Rodda.” The boy stilled as if listening, but did not waken. “Rodda,” Legolas said again, touching the boy’s shoulder lightly, and Rodda cried out and leapt away as if Legolas’s fingers had been fire. His eyes opened, and for a moment, he lay panting and rigid, staring at Legolas in confusion. Then he blinked, drew a deep breath, and collapsed back on the bed. “You were dreaming,” Legolas said.

Rodda flung his arm over his face but said nothing. Legolas was not entirely sure the boy could have spoken if he had wanted to, because his breath was still coming in ragged gasps. Legolas’s heart contracted as he looked at him. What had happened to send this Mannish child into hiding in the forest? He was so frightened that at times he gave off the same smell as a rabbit caught in a snare. Legolas had been taught to take the life of forest creatures gently and only when he needed the meat to survive, and he far preferred shooting a rabbit to trapping it and letting it struggle alone in terror for who knew how long. Suddenly he decided that he could not bear to leave Rodda alone with his fears any longer. Seating himself on the foot of the bed, he asked, “Rodda, what happened to you in the forest?”

They sat in silence for a long moment. From outside the window, Legolas could hear the morning song of birds, and then the back door of Turgon’s cottage slammed, and Amdir’s voice chirped, “Mae govannen, birdies!” He heard the whir of wings as the birds rose into the air.

Legolas had just decided that Rodda was not going to answer his question, when the boy whispered, “I was asleep. We were all asleep except the watch, and I don’t know what went wrong, but I woke up, and people were shouting, and there were Orcs in the camp. I’d never seen them up close before.” The words came out in a torrent, as if having held them in for so long, Rodda could do so no longer. Legolas felt a familiar tightness in his stomach. He did not like to think about what it would be like to have Orcs descend upon you, to see those who were supposed to protect you dying and doing so in vain.

“One of them dragged his scimitar through a soldier’s belly.” And despite the tremor in Rodda’s voice, the words came even faster now. “His insides came out. And then my father jumped between me and the Orcs, and I couldn’t see anything, and then he groaned, and he fell right on top of me.” Tears streamed down his face, and he stared straight ahead, as if he were seeing, not Legolas, but the things in his head. “I pushed him off,” Rodda said, “and I shook him, but I knew he was dead. He looked dead.”

Legolas could not keep himself from moaning. He felt as if he might choke, and he grasped Rodda’s ankle, as much to have something to hold on to as to sympathize.

“Everyone was dying.” Rodda was sobbing now and gasping out the words only when he could manage. “And I could have done something. I should have done something. But I was too afraid, and so I crept away and I ran. I could hear the Orcs howling, and I knew what they were doing, but I left my father there, and I ran.”

“What could you have done?” Legolas cried. “You are just a child.”

“I am a soldier,” Rodda retorted fiercely. “My father would never have left me, and I left him. And what if he wasn’t really dead? I ran. I deserted, and that is the most cowardly, disgraceful thing a soldier can do. They will hang me if they catch me, and they will be right.”

Legolas could not help himself. He was too big, and Rodda was a soldier, but he did it anyway: He slid further up the bed and wrapped his arms around the boy. “Surely they would not do that,” he protested. “You would have died too. Running was the only sensible thing to do.” But even as he said it, he wondered if he was right. Elves would never treat a child so, but then Elves did not allow children to be warriors either. Rodda dropped his head on Legolas’s shoulder. He did not argue, but his face was a mask of grief and despair. For a moment or two, they sat together, while Legolas realized that he was trembling almost as much as Rodda was.

Finally, Rodda straightened up. “It doesn’t matter,” he said dully. “I’ll go away and find somewhere else to live where they don’t know about what I did.” He looked at Legolas, and a small flush crept up his neck. “Will you still help me?”

“Of course,” said Legolas, sliding off the bed. “I brought some clothes.” Glad to be able to move, he went out into the hallway to retrieve the bundle he had dropped, carried it back into the room, and dropped it on the bed. “I brought two tunics and leggings and a cloak.” With hands that still shook slightly, he held each garment up as he named it. Then he looked at the things that had clattered softly to the bed as he shook out the bundle. “And I brought you these.” He picked up a handful of the elegantly crested arrows with deep blue peacock feathers for fletching and showed them to Rodda.

The boy stared at them and then put out a tentative finger to touch one. Even in his distress, he was plainly struck by their beauty. “They are wonderful,” he breathed.

“You might need them,” Legolas said stiffly. A gift had to be given freely, he knew, and he did want to give these arrows to Rodda, but he still felt his chest constrict as he placed them carefully in the boy’s quiver, which was propped against the wall. He gazed at them and then straightened one so that its fletching would not be crushed. He turned to look at Rodda. “I have to go to my sword fighting lesson now. I could not get any food for you this morning, but I will try to bring some after my lessons this afternoon. You probably should not try to go until tonight anyway.”

Rodda heaved a huge sigh and nodded, wiping at his dirty face with his fingers. He looked so miserable that, for a moment, Legolas was tempted to stay, but his absence from class would be noticed and that would trigger uncomfortable questions at home. With one last glance back at the arrows, he left the cottage and trotted away to the training fields.

“Mae govannen, Legolas,” called Amdir brightly, but Legolas did not answer. He was busy wiping with his sleeve at his own damp face.

***

Ithilden rose from one knee and walked forward when Thranduil beckoned. He waited for his father to finish scanning the parchment he was holding and then nod to the advisor at his side. “Good. You may go.” The advisor bowed and left the Great Hall, and Thranduil turned his attention to Ithilden. “What is it?”

“You asked me to come to you when the guards reported that the Esgaroth cloth merchant was drawing near,” Ithilden said. “I have been told that he should be here shortly.”

His father’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted in an unpleasant smile. “Good.”

“A warrior is with him,” Ithilden added. “Apparently the captain of the Esgaroth guards is still worried about travelers being attacked.

Thranduil snorted. “They know best,” he said rather cryptically. Ithilden was just considering whether he should ask what his father meant when there was a stir at the door and they both looked to see entering the room, not the Mannish merchant, but Eilian.

“Lord Eilian,” the guard announced, “Elladan and Elrohir of Imladris, and Maltanaur.”

With growing relief, Ithilden glanced quickly at each of the four who entered the Great Hall, dropped to one knee, and then rose and advanced at Thranduil’s pleased invitation. Ithilden had been worrying about them since they had ridden out of Thranduil’s stronghold, for the decision to let them go had been his alone. Not that he had had much choice with Elladan and Elrohir, he admitted to himself. Now here they were, returning in the same state they had been in when they left.

His eyes settled on Eilian, and suddenly he came alert. Not quite the same shape, he thought. Eilian’s shoulders were tense, and he was turned slightly away from the sons of Elrond, who stood calmly next to him, wrapped in their customary tight reserve. Ithilden glanced at Maltanaur, who stood a little behind and to one side, his face impassive. A story lay here, Ithilden thought and wondered what chance he had of getting it out of Eilian. Asking Maltanaur would be pointless. He never talked about what he saw while guarding Eilian.

“Welcome home, iôn-nín,” Thranduil said, moving to embrace Eilian and nod to the others.

His father must have been worried too, Ithilden thought. He had been extraordinarily displeased by Ithilden’s decision to let Eilian go with the sons of Elrond. But how could Ithilden have done otherwise? The Men were their neighbors, and they were in need. And if he were honest, he would admit that the Elves were in need too. If Ithilden could bind them to him as allies, he would be foolish not to do it, no matter how angry at him his father became.

“Ithilden’s aide told us he was here,” Eilian said. “I wanted to report on our mission and be done with it, so we came here. I hope you do not mind, my lord.”

“How did you fare?” Thranduil asked, returning to his chair.

“We tracked the Orcs to their den, and then, with some of the Men’s help, we attacked them at nightfall yesterday,” Eilian said, with uncharacteristic lack of detail. “They will trouble us no further.”

“The battle was troublesome?” Thranduil suggested, and Ithilden realized without surprise that his father had seen the same strained relations that he had in those who stood before them.

“No, my lord,” said Eilian, after an almost imperceptible hesitation. “The Orcs were few in number, and with the Men to help us, we were able to pen them in and kill them with small difficulty.” Standing just to Eilian’s left, Elladan gave the ghost of a smile, and Ithilden felt a chill run down his spine. He glanced at his father, and Thranduil nodded his permission to speak.

“Did you have any trouble persuading the Men to join you?” Ithilden asked. He needed to know just how willing the Men of Esgaroth would be to fight alongside Elves.

Eilian relaxed slightly and grinned, looking for the first time as gleeful and exuberant as he usually did when he had been in a successful fight. “They were straining at their tethers to do it,” he crowed. “There were only three of them, but they fought valiantly once their blood was up, despite the fact that they do not seem to do well in the dark. Their officers had not allowed them to go after the Orcs before because they were too few, and they were annoyed about it, I can tell you. But then we ran into one of their captains as we were setting out home at daybreak today, and when I thanked him on your behalf for loaning us his warriors, he said that it was he who owed us thanks.”

Ithilden found himself smiling back at his brother. He still had no idea what had happened between Eilian and the sons of Elrond, but whatever it was must be a small matter next to the forming of this link in the chain of connections between the Woodland Realm and its Mannish neighbors.

He glanced at Thranduil, trying to see how he had reacted to this information about the Men, but he found his father eying the sons of Elrond from under slightly lowered lids. “We thank you for your help in this matter, good sirs.”

Elladan and Elrohir both bowed slightly. “It was our pleasure,” Elladan said. Eilian looked suddenly aside, and Ithilden could have sworn that he grimaced. Maltanaur seemed to have caught the look on Eilian’s face too, and for some reason, he abruptly looked pleased.

“All of you are welcome to go and refresh yourselves,” Thranduil told them. The four warriors bowed and left the Great Hall, with Thranduil keeping a thoughtful eye on them as they went.

“What do you suppose that was about?” Ithilden murmured.

Thranduil shrugged. “I do not know, but whatever it was, it seems to have left Eilian distinctly less charmed by the sons of Elrond. I cannot say I am sorry. He is still far too young to deal on anything even resembling equal terms with the likes of them. And Legolas will be glad to have him home again. The child seemed worried at mid-day meal.”

The guard entered the room again. “Cudry of Esgaroth,” he announced, and Ithilden turned to see a Mannish merchant entering the Great Hall, trailed by an Esgaroth soldier, who was plainly trying to keep in the background. Cudry, however, looked eager for his meeting with the king. Ithilden glanced at his father and blinked. A look of wolfish satisfaction had settled on Thranduil’s face.

***

“Is that as far as you have gotten with those math problems, Legolas?” The tutor sounded exasperated, and Legolas supposed he could not blame him. Legolas’s attention had not been on his lessons this afternoon. “I expect you to finish them on your own before I see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, Galeril.” Legolas tried to sound submissive. He did not want the tutor to take it into his head to keep Legolas working longer than usual. He needed to get food for Rodda to take with him when he left that night. Waybread would be best, if he could get it from the warriors’ stores. And he had no time to waste. At mid-day meal, he had told his father than he had awakened and eaten early that morning and then had wanted to be outside, and his father had seemed to accept that explanation, but if he were late for evening meal, Thranduil would almost certainly suspect that he was up to something.

The tutor eyed him for a minute and then sighed. “Do you want to talk about whatever it is you have on your mind?”

Legolas immediately dropped his gaze to the table. Was he really so transparent? “No,” he said cautiously. He looked up. “I have nothing on my mind.”

The tutor smiled wryly. “You do not have your lessons on your mind at any rate.” He reached to tidy the books scattered across the library table. “You may go. Just remember to finish the math.”

“I will. Thank you.” Deeply relieved, Legolas jumped up from his chair and started for the door.

“Wait!” called the tutor, and when Legolas turned around, he held out the math paper which Legolas had left on the table. “By tomorrow,” the tutor repeated firmly.

“By tomorrow,” Legolas pledged, took the paper, and fled. He paused only long enough to leave the math paper in his room and take his cloak. Then he hurried out of the palace and ducked into the gardens through which lay the shortest path to the warrior training grounds. He trotted along the graveled path, his mind on what he might say to the Elf who managed the warriors’ supplies. Could he just say he needed waybread for a journey, implying that he would be the one making the trip without actually saying so? And if he did say that, would the Elf believe him? A small part of his mind kept whispering that all of this was pointless because the danger that lurked in the forest would end Rodda’s journey long before hunger did.

“Good afternoon, young Legolas.” A gruff voice startled him out of his preoccupation, and he looked to see Mithrandir seated on one of the garden benches, puffing on his pipe. He skidded to a halt, knowing he was bound by politeness to speak to their guest, but agonizing over the lost time.

“Good afternoon, Mithrandir.”

The wizard raised a bushy eyebrow. “Are things as bad as that then?” he asked.

Legolas blinked. “As bad as what?”

“As bad as your face suggested when you came along that path. Come. Take a moment to sit with an old man. Some time on a garden bench may be just what you need.”

Legolas doubted that very much, but he did not see how he could politely refuse. He seated himself on the edge of the bench. Mithrandir smiled at him. “I am not sure that perching counts as sitting on a garden bench. Sit back and talk to me for a few minutes while I smoke. I promise you I will not keep you long. Just talk about whatever you like to help me pass the time.”

An idea occurred to Legolas. Mithrandir did not seem overly concerned about what Legolas was doing. Perhaps, if Legolas was cautious, he could learn something. “Mithrandir, you have gone about among Men, have you not?”

“Yes, I have.” Mithrandir took a long draw on his pipe, apparently willing to wait for Legolas to lead their conversation.

“Ithilden says they have soldiers who are no bigger than I am.”

“They have squires,” Mithrandir corrected. Legolas considered asking him to clarify the difference but decided he did not have time.

“What would happen to a squire who deserted?” He held his breath to wait for the answer.

Mithrandir frowned slightly, took his pipe in his hand, and looked at it thoughtfully. “I suppose that would depend on who the men were and what you mean by deserted. One who fled from his duties might be beaten or confined for a time, I suppose.”

Legolas considered this. “What do you mean, ‘his duties’?”

“I mean the service he provides for his master.”

“What if he ran away from a battle?”

“A younger squire, one your size, would not usually be expected to go into battle,” Mithrandir said. “Only those who are nearer the age at which they would become warriors themselves do that.”

“You mean a younger squire would not be hanged?” Legolas scarcely dared to move as he waited for Mithrandir’s answer.

Mithrandir looked at him sharply. “Hanged? No. It is true that Men often hang soldiers who desert, but a boy your size would not be punished in that way.”

Legolas’s heart leapt, and he struggled to keep his elation from showing in his face. Rodda would not be hanged! He might be beaten though, Legolas suddenly thought. He bit his lip. Was that what Mithrandir had said? Legolas did not think he could bear the thought of someone hurting Rodda any further. And would he be able to persuade Rodda to go back to Esgaroth, even if he would not be hanged? He found he was uncertain. Rodda had no reason to trust Mithrandir and no family to draw him back to Esgaroth. Who would he live with?

“Is there some reason in particular you want to know about squires?” Mithrandir asked.

“No. I was just wondering,” Legolas said hastily. Mithrandir continued to look at him steadily. “Ithilden told me about them, and I was just wondering.”

At length, Mithrandir looked down and then turned his pipe upside down and knocked it against the edge of the bench so that some burned stuff that Legolas could not identify fell out. Taking this as a sign that he had done as Mithrandir asked and sat with him while he smoked, Legolas got to his feet. “I must go now, Mithrandir. I need to talk to someone.” And before the wizard could answer, he had sped off along the path. What should he do? he wondered. It seemed to him that there was only one thing he could do.

***

A pleasant heat flamed in Thranduil’s guts as he watched Cudry make his way into the Great Hall, smiling with what he no doubt thought was ingratiating charm. The merchant bent one knee to the floor and started to bob up before he realized that Thranduil had not yet given him permission to rise. He hesitated, met Thranduil’s gaze, and then dropped down again with a heavy and, with any luck, painful thud of knee against stone floor. Thranduil waited until Cudry’s smile had faded completely before he gestured for the Man to rise and approach.

“Our steward tells us that you are able to replace the cloth we lost in the attack on one of our rafts,” Thranduil began. He kept his voice soft, but he was aware of the sharp glance that Ithilden sent his way from where he stood at Thranduil’s right hand. Ithilden’s eyes shifted quickly from Cudry to Thranduil and back again, but he said nothing and Cudry appeared to notice nothing.

“I’m happy to say that I can replace it, my lord,” Cudry bubbled, his smile returning. “Fortunately, I just happened to have what you wanted on hand, and while I have other customers who wanted that cloth, I know how much you need it, and I’ve decided to sell it all to you.”

“How generous of you.” Thranduil heard the edge in his own voice and paused to get himself under control again before saying, “Your prices are rather high.”

Cudry lifted his hands in a pantomime of regret. “I’m sorry about that. I really am, but as I say, I have other customers who want the cloth. I have to have some compensation for angering them. After all, it’s possible they won’t buy from me again.”

“True enough,” Thranduil agreed, allowing the corners of his mouth to turn up. Cudry stared at him and then smiled back a bit uncertainly.

“We do wish to ask you some questions before we agree to have you replace our cloth,” Thranduil said, leaning forward a little. Next to him, Ithilden tensed slightly. They had sat through enough rounds of diplomacy together for him to know when Thranduil had finished with preliminary niceties. “We noticed that you seemed to know almost at once that our raft had been attacked and our goods lost,” Thranduil said, and suddenly Ithilden let out a small breath.

“Everyone in Esgaroth knew,” Cudry said, shaking his head sorrowfully. “I tell you it’s a scandal that honest folks can’t even travel the river in safety any more.”

“Honest people have indeed been treated scandalously.” Thranduil let his voice harden. “We also thought it a very great coincidence that you happened to have on hand exactly what we wished to buy.”

Cudry blinked at him, opened and closed his mouth, and then drew himself erect in offended dignity. “Just what are you implying, my lord?”

Thranduil rose, descended the step from his chair, and began to circle around Cudry, who kept turning to face him, eyes suddenly widening like those of an animal at bay.

“Tell us, Cudry. Have the Men of Esgaroth taken to wearing formal robes of green and brown silk now. Is that why you have so much on hand?”

From the corner of his eye, Thranduil could see the guard who had accompanied Cudry stirring uneasily, although whether his discomfort was due to Cudry’s possible peril or to suspicions aroused by Thranduil’s question, Thranduil could not have said. The guard would not do anything here in the Great Hall in any case.

“The mayor wears silk sometimes,” Cudry said. Beads of sweat had appeared on his upper lip.

“Is he the other customer of whom you spoke?” Thranduil asked, continuing to prowl around the Man. “If so, we will have to send him our apology. Shall we write to him?”

“No!” Cudry licked his lips. “The mayor is not the customer.”

“Who then?” Thranduil stopped circling and instead drew nearer the Man, forcing him to crane his neck to meet Thranduil’s narrowed eyes. Cudry took an involuntary step backwards only to find himself up against the substantial chest of Ithilden. He gave a little start and turned to find Ithilden smiling nastily down at him.

“I can’t tell you the other customer’s name,” Cudry croaked.

“Of that we have no doubt,” Thranduil snarled. “You cannot tell us the customer’s name because there is no other customer. You had the cloth on hand because you fully expected us to need it, and you knew about the attack on the raft because you were the one who carried it out!”

“No!” the man wailed, looking toward the guard for help and finding none. The guard stared at him, appalled. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“The attacker was not a thief,” Thranduil went on relentlessly. “He did not try to take the goods that were on the raft. He only tried to stop it from returning to us. You were the only one who benefited from that attack, you with your supply of silk in the colors worn by Wood-elves. Did you think we were such fools that we would not notice?”

For a second, Thranduil thought that the Man would go on denying his guilt. And then Cudry burst out, “That contract should have been mine! It was stolen from me, and I had a right to take it back.”

Thranduil drew back in disgust. “You lost that contract because you provided us with shoddy goods.” He turned his back on the Man and went to seat himself in his chair. When he looked again, he saw that Cudry’s face was ashy, as he stood with Ithilden’s hand lightly on his shoulder. “But we are going to do something that should delight you, Cudry. We are going to allow you to replace the cloth that was lost when the raft was destroyed.”

Cudry looked uncertain. “You are going to buy my cloth?”

“Ah, no. We did not say that.” Thranduil leaned back, feeling a vicious satisfaction. “What we said was that you are going to replace what we lost. Indeed, you are going to give us two extra bolts of the wool in order to atone in some part for the crime you committed. And we warn you that the quality of the cloth had better be good, or we will see to it that you are exceedingly sorry.”

Cudry closed his eyes for a moment, as if to deny the reality of what was happening. Thranduil waited until he opened them again and then, from the small table at his left elbow, picked up the letter that his advisor had prepared for him earlier. “This is a message to the head of trade council at Esgaroth. It tells him what you have done and also what we require of you in atonement. It makes clear that if you do not do as we say, all of our trade with Esgaroth will be withdrawn. We will get what we need elsewhere. Indeed I will shear the sheep and weave the cloth myself if I have to before I will deal with the likes of you again!” Ithilden raised an eyebrow, but Thranduil ignored him. If Esgaroth’s trade council did not hold Cudry accountable, Thranduil was so furious that he was willing to send Elves as far as he had to in order to find other marketplaces. He slapped the letter down on the table again.

“There is also one thing more. You shot one of our people.” For Thranduil, injuring the raft elf was clearly the most terrible crime that Cudry had committed, and only the knowledge that a blow to the merchant’s pocketbook would probably be more painful than a blow to his body had kept Thranduil from wreaking a retaliatory wound. “Lord Ithilden will find escorts for you now, and they will take you to the wounded elf’s cottage, where you will confess your crime and offer him whatever he asks in the way of compensation.”

Cudry’s mouth dropped open. “My lord, please!” he moaned, but Ithilden was already moving toward the door to summon the guards.

“Get out of our sight,” Thranduil hissed. “We expect delivery of the cloth within three days. If we do not have it, we will come after it, and you will find that very unpleasant indeed.”

Cudry hesitated for a second and then turned to stumble toward the door, where two of Ithilden’s warriors stood, waiting to escort the Man. The guard who had come with Cudry turned to follow him, and then turned back. “I am sorry, my lord,” he said in a strained voice. “I will see to it that the authorities in Esgaroth know about this.” Thranduil nodded, and the guard hurried out the doors, through which Cudry had now disappeared.

Thranduil leaned back in his chair, breathing heavily, the fury still flooding his body. Suddenly, he noticed a slender figure standing to one side just within the doors. “Legolas! What are you doing here?”

Legolas looked uncertainly from Thranduil to the antechamber outside the doorway. Thranduil could hear Cudry protesting against the guards’ grip on him and realized that Legolas must have witnessed some of the scene with the merchant. He frowned. Legolas was forbidden to come into the Hall unless invited when Thranduil was conducting the business of the realm. “You know better than to bother me in the Great Hall,” Thranduil snapped.

Legolas swallowed and began to edge toward the doorway. “I am sorry. I should go.”

And abruptly, Thranduil realized that the child was upset, probably over something in addition to the incident with Cudry. I should have realized, he thought in dismay. He felt a spurt of guilt. Legolas had never before interrupted him without good reason, and he probably was not doing so now. In sudden concern, Thranduil rose and started toward his youngest son. “What is it, child? Is something the matter?” Their eyes met, and Legolas stared at him for a long moment. “Do you need something, my heart?” Thranduil prodded softly.

Then Legolas’s face shifted slightly, and he drew a deep breath. “Adar, I have something to tell you.”

 





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