CHAPTER 27: HEARTS OF DARKNESS

The same thought occurred to Legolas and Elrohir when they saw – through the thin curtain of mist – the smug looks on the faces of Fierthwain and his men as they aimed deadly arrows at their chests. The villagers had obviously followed the trail of the elves, lain in wait behind some large rocks while the elves were inside, and sprung out to ambush them as they reappeared from the Paths.

At the sight of the men, Elrohir reached immediately for his long knife, but Legolas clamped a hand on his arm, his quick eyes sweeping warily across the dour faces of the men before them. Ironically, Legolas noted, the men seemed a little afraid to be in the presence of elves, but they did not look like their arrows would miss their mark at such close range, even in the mists. Some of them began to move so that he and Elrohir were almost surrounded, preventing them from running back into the dark Paths.

“What is the meaning of this?” Elrohir demanded angrily, never having met these men, and having heard only a little of their preposterous distrust of elves. “Are you from the village? Where are our horses?”

Fierthwain stepped forth, remaining what he considered to be a safe three yards from the Eldar, and Legolas saw in his dark, steely eyes the same disdain the man had held for him on the previous visit. The elf prince stood straight and stiff as the tanned villager faced him with an arrogant sneer on his face and a sword in his hand. The weapon was pointed downward, but the firm grip on the handle suggested that the blade could be just as readily raised and aimed at the elves.

“Why are you here again?” the man asked, throwing the question at Legolas and ignoring Elrohir’s earlier queries. “Are you bringing back more of your dark magic?”

Legolas gripped Elrohir’s arm again as he sensed the elf’s rage. “We have no such magic, Fierthwain, and never did,” the prince replied evenly, with his chin held high. “Did not King Elessar make that clear to you when last we met? We have returned only because the Dead One pointed us here –”

“Ho! So you’re now taking advice from ghosts, no less – and you deny dabbling in dark magic?” Fierthwain interrupted sardonically. “Listen here, Elves: the King’s supposed to have already removed those ghosts, and our village is finally free from a curse that should not have been part of our lives in the first place! So don’t you call up any more evil; we want no more strange goings-on!”

“Nor do we,” said Legolas. “But we were compelled to return, as we explained to your Elders. The king needs to be brought back here to the Mountain.”

A spurt of sarcastic laughter erupted from Fierthwain’s lips. “The King is already near death – and you bring him… here? To this accursed place of the Dead?” he asked mockingly.

“That’s just proving Fierthwain’s point!” said the short, stout villager, and the others nodded, some shaking their heads in disbelief.

“You’ve blinded the king – he cannot see what you are up to!” Fierthwain said accusingly, and this time he did raise the sword and point it at Legolas. He narrowed his eyes slightly as he took a step forward. “You’ve also blinded Mathgor,” he growled with clear displeasure. “My cousin has a good heart, but he tends to be a fool in befriending all manner of strange beings. And you’ve made good use of that, haven’t you?”

“Yet none of the ‘strange creatures’ you speak of have brought you any harm, have we?” Legolas rejoined evenly, standing his ground despite the blade aimed at his middle.

“The little ones – what do you call them now? Hobbits? – they look innocent enough to be sure,” said Fierthwain. “But you elvish wights – gah! I’ve heard too many tales about you lot to trust you, not unless I had you at the end of a sword.” And he kept his blade aimed at Legolas to prove his point.

“Elbereth!” Elrohir muttered, fuming and incredulous. “Do these beings have warg droppings for brains?” he asked Legolas in Sindarin.

“Hoy, what’d you say?” the pock-marked villager demanded from where he stood. He drew his bowstring back nervously. “Was that some spell you chanted?”

“And what’s that in your hands, eh, Elf prince?” asked the stout man when he caught a glimpse of the Lady’s Lamp in Legolas’ hand. “Some sort of magic light?”

“Spare us your stupidity!” Elrohir said to the man, throwing up his hands. “You say things about which you have no knowledge. If you exercised your minds a little, you’d realize that if we had any evil chants to begin with, we could have fried you with lightning by now – yet you remain whole. Surely that tells you we bring no danger to you or the village! Let us pass!”

The elves saw a shade of doubt cross the faces of some of the men, and their hold on their weapons slackened a little, but Fierthwain soon removed their hesitation.

“Keep your arrows aimed where they should be, men!” he ordered. “He’s just trying to twist our minds with clever words. But we aren’t as dull as you figure us to be, Elf, and nowhere near as gullible as Mathgor. We can’t let you move about freely in the village, else who knows how many others you’ll deceive?”

Legolas’ brows furrowed in concern; they needed to return to Aragorn, and this debacle was delaying them. “What do you mean to do then?” he demanded. “Do you intend to hold us here? For how long? And what would be the purpose?”

“Shut yer mouth, Outsider!” the short man barked. “We ask the questions here.”

Reining in his fury, Legolas’ elven eyes assessed his and Elrohir’s chances of fighting their way out of the situation. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he realized in frustration that, despite elven speed and reflexes, they could be skewered instantly by at least seven arrows if they even tried. Their own weapons – save their knives – had, by ill fate or lack of forethought, been left secured to their horses; they had not anticipated a situation such as this. A quick glance at the self-reproach on his companion’s face told Legolas that the Imladris elf had come to the same disheartening conclusion.

In the end, Legolas’ anxiety over Aragorn made him cast his pride to the wind, and swallowing, he forced himself to speak as meekly as he could. “Fierthwain, the King needs us – and he needs this,” he said, holding up the Phial. “Please, let us go to him –”

“What, that glass lamp?” the man with the pock marks asked, squinting his eyes at it from where he stood a few yards away. “What would he need it for anyway? There’s plenty of light where he sleeps now.”

“He is not sleeping!” Legolas retorted through clenched teeth. “He has come under some malicious curse, and you are keeping us from aiding him!”

“There you go – he’s cursed you say; that comes from mixing with the likes of you!” a tall, lanky villager said smugly. “Come on, Fierthy boy – enough with this chitter-chatter eh? Time to do what we set out to do, eh?”

Legolas and Elrohir tensed at those words, wondering what the man meant.

“Fierthwain!” Legolas said, clenching his fists. “Whatever dislike you harbor towards us, you may act on it later. But let us first return to him.”

A short burst of laughter erupted from the man before his expression turned to vinegar. “No!” he spat. “You had the gall to come back to our land – don’t expect to have things easy this time. Bind them, fellows!”

“How dare you!” Elrohir exclaimed, whipping out his knife and assuming a fighting stance before human eyes could perceive what he was doing. Securing the Lady’s Lamp within his tunic, Legolas did likewise, and the men who had begun to approach them with rope took a step back in alarm.

“Come on!” Fierthwain called out, keeping his sword pointed at Legolas. “There’re more of us – go on, tie them up! Moley, Caleth – get to it. The rest of you keep your bows raised, and keep them in your sights. This prey isn’t getting away.”

The two men who had been summoned to bind the elves looked at each other, hesitating at the fierce light from the elven eyes. But as Fierthwain barked out another order, they plucked up courage and approached the elves again.

With a hiss of anger, Elrohir turned his sights on Fierthwain, and his movement told Legolas what he was about to do.

“No!” the elf prince cried in warning, but Elrohir was already rushing towards the man, setting in motion a sequence of reactions from the villagers too fast for Legolas to stop.

Fierthwain stepped back with a start, barely saved by the distance between him and the elf. Moley and Caleth retreated and drew swords while three of their friends – panicked by the sudden attack – released their arrows. Dodging them lithely, the Firstborn narrowly missed being pierced by the deadly shots; the arrows struck the stony ground with loud clunks and raised a spray of small stones. The elves righted themselves, but just as quickly, more arrows were fired and other bows were reloaded, the fear of the villagers lending speed to their hands.

“Get them!” Fierthwain yelled unnecessarily, for his companions were already releasing more arrows. Again, the Eldar evaded the deadly missiles with astonishing speed and suppleness, swirls of gold and dark hair glimmering in the light of torches.

But in the confined space of the ravine between the high walls, even the swift Eldar could not escape all the arrows, and one found its mark in elven flesh – slamming into the right side of Elrohir’s chest. The elf clutched at his wound and staggered back with a cry.

“Elbereth!” Legolas exclaimed in horror. Another nervous villager released his bow, and the arrow struck the elf prince in the arm as he raced to shield his companion. Judging that it had not penetrated too deeply, the elf gritted his teeth against the pain and yanked it out ruthlessly without a second thought.

Fierthwain was quick to exploit the elves’ momentary incapacity. “Now’s the time – tie them up!” the man yelled, and Moley advanced on the prince.

But the flash of a long knife arced through the air, and before Moley could even perceive Legolas’ movement, the elf had locked his bleeding arm around the man’s neck and used the other to place the keen blade against the frightened villager’s throat.

“Cease this madness!” Legolas demanded fiercely. “Stop before things grow worse!”

“You check your arrogance before things get worse for you!” came a tart retort, and Legolas turned his head to see three men pointing two swords and an arrow directly at Elrohir. The elf was on his knees, his silver eyes burning with anger as he glared helplessly at his captors behind strands of dark hair that had fallen across his face. His hand, smeared with blood, clutched the shaft of the arrow protruding from his chest.

Legolas’ fury at Elrohir’s state sorely tempted him to slice open the throat of the man in his armlock, but fear for the same elf stayed his hand.

A crooked leer contorted Fierthwain’s dark face. “Who’s in a position to make demands now?” he taunted Legolas, taking wary steps towards the elf. He raised his sword and pointed it at a trembling Moley. “Release him, Elf, and drop your knife – or lose your own friend!”

Frustrated by his haplessness, Legolas shoved the villager away in disgust. Obstinately, he clamped a hand over the wound on his arm to stem the bleeding and, under the watchful eye and sword point of Fierthwain, placed his treasured long knife on the ground.

Within a minute, Legolas had been pushed to his knees and bound by rough hands, despite his desperate pleas to tend to his friend. “For pity’s sake, let me see to his injury!” he pleaded, loathing the need to beg from unworthy captors.

But the men ignored him, holding him at knife point with his own elvish weapon. As the villagers engaged in some hurried deliberation, he called worriedly to Elrohir.

“It is not severe,” Elrohir quickly assured the distressed prince in Sindarin. Legolas eyed the wound doubtfully, but was relieved to see that though the dark-haired elf’s face was a mask of pain, his breathing was even. Still, the wound would have to be properly cleaned and dressed.

Before anything else could be said, one of the villagers grabbed Legolas’ arm, arousing the elf’s instinct to struggle. “Hold shtill if you know whatsh good for you!” the man instructed clearly despite his buck teeth and lisp. When his prisoner ceased trying to shrug off the vise-like clamp on his arm, the man tore off the blood-stained sleeve around the elf’s injury and bound it with what looked like two tattered kerchiefs tied together.

But Legolas’ attention was no longer on himself. He watched in horror as two other men held Elrohir’s arms, while another brutally twisted the embedded arrowhead in the elf’s chest and extracted it without the slightest consideration for the agony the helpless elf must have been suffering. Elrohir paled, but he gritted his teeth and bore the ordeal stoically, refusing to give the heartless villagers the satisfaction of hearing any cry of pain from him.

“Keep shtill, Elf, or yer’ll bleed yershelf dry!” the buck-toothed man ordered a struggling Elrohir from where he was tying the final knot on Legolas’ crude bandage. He got up and walked quickly over to the dark-haired elf.

What irony, Legolas thought, that you should be concerned for him now.

“Servsh yer right for trying yer heroicsh,” the man muttered as he pressed a thick wad of something none too clean against Elrohir’s wound and held it in place roughly with rope. “That’ll have to do yer fer now,” he declared. “Till we deschide what to do with yer.”

Legolas felt sick. “How do you fare, Elrohir?” he asked in his own tongue.

“Hoy! Speak so we can understand!” a villager yelled, waving his sword dangerously close to Elrohir’s face.

“It will heal,” the elf answered stoically, attempting to smile.

“If it does not fester,” Legolas mumbled angrily.

“He said to speak so we can understand!” said Moley, taking two threatening steps towards Legolas. He rubbed his neck where the elf had seized it earlier, hurting more from wounded pride than pain.

“Lie down, Elrohir,” Legolas instructed the elf in the Common Tongue so that the jittery men would not, in a moment of panicky carelessness, run their swords through them. “It will help slow the bleeding.”

“Enough of this!” said the portly villager. “Let’s gag them and take them away.”

Legolas turned and shot him a look that carried bolts of blue fire. “Are you witless?” the elf prince snapped. “Can you not see the need to treat his injury?”

“Psssh! A mere flesh wound!” Fierthwain said dismissively. “It won’t kill him.”

“If the wound is properly treated,” Legolas retorted. “Surely you cannot mean to let him bleed to death!” The elf knew that Fierthwain was correct: Elrohir was in no mortal danger from the arrow itself, and the bleeding would eventually stop with the recuperative powers of elves. Still, the wound was no small one, and healing herbs would be needed.

The elf prince hoped the villagers would exercise some modicum of sympathy, but his hopes were dashed the next moment when a lanky man chuckled and mumbled to the villager next to him: “One less elf to worry about then.”

Legolas was appalled. If the men knew no mercy, he thought, perhaps they would know fear.

“You speak so lightly of discarding a life, but do you realize who it is you have wounded?” he asked in a grave tone to the man who had last spoken. “Do any of you?” he added, looking around. “Whether you plead ignorance or forgetfulness, know you now that this is no ordinary elf. He is the brother of your Queen, as is the one alike him who came before. He is part of the elven family by whom your King was raised, and as close to him as blood kin. If he should meet his demise because of your callousness over a hurt caused by your own impulsive act, his death will be an indelible stain on your hands. Now, you might wish to consider the consequences of that impending possibility before you take the next foolish step!”

Legolas finished his tirade by shooting them all a scathing look before he turned back to Elrohir and let his words of warning percolate in the villagers’ minds.

Faced with the information they had just received, the men were stunned into silence for a while. They looked at the elf lying quietly on the ground, noting the slight pallor on his face and the determination it took him to keep from showing his pain. As elven blood continued to stain the crude wad and the elf’s clothes, many of the men coughed and shuffled their feet uneasily.

With a rapidly blanching face, Caleth stepped up to Fierthwain and spoke in a low tone, unaware that the elves had no difficulty hearing them.

“Fierthwain, what do we do?” the man whispered. “Our plan was to show them we mean business so they never come near this mountain – or us – again. But… we didn’t count on anyone getting all bloody. ’Tis a right mess now, to be sure.”

“Aye, it’s one thing to take them captive and give ‘em a scare, but… to let them die… that’s like… murder… ain’t it?” Moley asked, his earlier boldness quickly dissolving in a tide of fear that was slowly flooding the company of humans. “Maybe… maybe we should take care of their wounds first at least.”

“Or maybe we should… you know… let them get back to their business,” whispered another villager who seemed less certain now about their impulsive act. “That one being the King’s brother – ”

“Gah, have you lost your senses?” Fierthwain challenged, caring little that he had raised his voice. “Take them back like this, and we’ll be clapped in irons by the King’s guards!”

Fierthwain’s note of warning silenced his companions, who looked at each other uncertainly. Despite his bold front, Legolas noticed, Fierthwain seemed to be making some desperate assessment of their options. Still, he seemed the only one who had not lost his nerve, or else he hid his discomfiture well.

“Well, things have changed somewhat, as you noticed,” the man eventually stated. “So there’ll be some changes. We’ll hold them first – keep them far from prying eyes till we can decide what to do with them.”

The pock-marked man cleared his throat nervously. “For how long, Fierthy?” he asked in a timid voice, receiving a sullen glare from his leader in response.

“As you can see, it’s a bit of a tricky situation, so I can’t rightly tell yet!” Fierthwain snarled. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Legolas’ heart fell. Where would these villagers hold them? he wondered. And Elrohir would need care; how long were these cold men planning to keep it from him?

As if in answer to Legolas’ questions, Fierthwain outlined his intentions. “We’ll take them to your tool shed at the farm, Caleth; it’s far enough away,” he said decisively. “Moley, pick up some supplies on the way, and you can help Bucktooth play nursemaid.”

Moley sent the elves a cynical smile. “Fine,” he said sarcastically. “I’ll be gentle as a lamb.”

Do you not think that our failure to return to the village will raise suspicion? Legolas was tempted to ask, but one of the villagers posed the question for him.

“Won’t the others look for these two?” the man queried. “And what about their horses?”

“Well, if they’re smart, they’ll run away, though a pity it is to lose ’em; fine animals they are,” Fierthwain replied. “But even if they make their way back to the village – what of it? These Paths are well known to be the haunts of ghosts and evil beings. For years beyond count, odd things have happened here that nobody can explain – leastways, that’s how the tales go, and our folks hold to those tales. Now, if these elves foolishly chose to come here in the dead of night, there’s no telling what could’ve happened to them; who’s to say they weren’t swallowed by mists or locked up in some prison like old Mathuil storied, or lost their way in some hidden tunnels in that accursed mountain. Who’s to question it, I ask you? They’re welcome to come to these Paths of Dead Things and look, as they might, seein’ as that’s where the elves said they’d be going. But Caleth’s farm shed isn’t the Paths, and nobody but Caleth is going to peek in there.”

Any hopes of immediate release that Legolas had clung to were wrung from him at the sound of Fierthwain’s scheme. Yet, the villagers could not hold them for ever, he thought; what would these men eventually do? Again, his fears were voiced by a villager.

“We’ll have to take care of them somehow, though, Fierthy,” the man said worriedly. “The King’s men – they’ll get to Caleth’s shed in time, when they run out of places to look.”

Flickering shadows played eerily over Fierthwain’s stony features as he trained cold eyes, hard and black as seeds, on the elves, and mulled over his answer. “If it looks like anyone’s going to poke their noses into Caleths’ shed, we’ll take care of them,” he said in a quietly ominous tone, nodding in the direction of the elves. “Properly. Without a trace.” He was unperturbed by the graying faces of some of the men. “Plenty of ground to stash unwanted… items,” he added confidently. “It’s our land, and we know where to go – where to hide things – where no one will look.”

Horror surged through Legolas at Fierthwain’s ill-boding words. He had not expected that these men would go so far as to dispose of him and Elrohir entirely, but now the likelihood had just been voiced. Fearful thoughts raced through his mind, though none of them were centered on his own fate. He was troubled about Elrohir; he grew frantic at the thought of being separated from Aragorn at such a critical time; but above all, he was distraught over the Phial. If it did indeed play a vital role in saving Aragorn from his cursed fate, it had to be brought back to the man.

“Fierthwain, please listen to me!” said the elf prince, discarding both his feigned ignorance of the villagers’ plans and the remnants of his own pride. “Whatever you wish to do with us – the Phial must be delivered to the King! I beg you to please bring it back to his men!”

Caleth gave a contemptuous laugh. “Such devotion to the King!” he mocked. “Very clever – have us bring it back and be accused of having stolen it from you!”

Legolas shook his head. “Say you found it, spin whatever tale you wish; only bring it to him!” he entreated.

“Pah! Do not expect any of us to touch that magic light of yours!” said the pock-faced man. “For all we know, it will turn to ash the hands that touch it. Hoy, we aren’t suckling babes you can trick with coos and sugary words!”

“This is no trick!” Legolas denied angrily. “The King does need the Phial! By refusing to send it to him, you are very likely robbing him of salvation.”

“And what exactly is supposed to be done with this… lamp?” Caleth asked in a challenging tone, waving his hands in the air. “Shine it on him till he wakes?”

Legolas was thrown into silence for a few moments, wishing he had a certain course of action to describe in response. “I do not yet know,” he conceded. “But we await the arrival of Lord Celeborn; he will know what to do.”

“Ai, more excuses and fanciful tales!” Moley remarked in disdain. “Save your stories for old women, Elf!”

“I spin no tale of fancy, you fool!” the elf prince protested. “Bring the Phial to him. If you do not, and he passes, the blood of the King of Gondor will be on your hands! I implore you to listen to me!”

But Legolas’ desperate pleas fell on deaf, uncaring ears, and he soon found himself and Elrohir being bound and gagged securely. The swords pointed straight at the elves dissuaded them from offering much resistance, and before long, the two captives were thrown over a single, de-saddled horse, and in that uncomfortable position, they were transported away from the Paths and back on the downward trail along the ravine. Then, under the cover of night, with only the light of a near-full moon to illuminate the way across the Morthond Vale, the group of villagers rode quietly back towards Grimwythë with their prisoners.

But they did not enter the village. Instead, the men dismounted and led the horses quietly along the edge of it, keeping on a path that did not face the fronts of cottages. It was a path that would avoid the homesteads and lead to Moley’s farm, the furthest from the homes. The other residents of Grimwythë, who were either sleeping soundly or working on some late-night chores, remained unsuspecting of the furtive clandestine movements on the outskirts of their village.

Blindfolded and gagged, Legolas and Elrohir were unable to speak, though the presence of the other brought comfort to each of the Firstborn. Side by side they lay draped over the horse, their faces pressed against one side of the beast and their lean legs, bound securely at the ankles, suspended over the other flank. Their long hair, hanging freely like gold and dark curtains of soft silk in the moonlight, brushed the tops of tall blades of grass as they passed. They could only listen to the night noises around them, the light clops of the obedient farm horses beneath them, the occasional hushed whispers of their watchful captors, and the faint sounds of activity from the cottages that grew first nearer, then ever more remote.

Naught could Legolas see as they passed, at a distance, the cottage where Aragorn lay in oblivion of the troubling events, but his heart knew it, and his distress was as keen as his fear for the life of the man who awaited his aid.

Aragorn, forgive me! Were I not thus tethered, I would be at your side now, he lamented in pained silence to the friend who occupied his every thought at this time. But hold fast, mellon nin, for we may yet find a way to you. Hold fast. Only death can keep us away.

And while the blood of Elrohir continued to soak his pitiful bandage, Legolas’ own heart bled at the thought that aid may ultimately come too late for Aragorn.

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The heart of the elf prince would have bled even more had he known that the friend he was desperately trying to reach was already becoming increasingly lost.

Vague snatches of things that Aragorn had once lived through, of people that he had once loved, would visit him: someone beautiful with dark, flowing hair; someone like him of his flesh and blood, someone close to him by his side, shining like the sun; some vast plain, or small green field; some great tree, or white cloud. There were fleeting images of fire, the stench of blood, the sharp ring of metal; children’s laughter, sweetness of honey; and pain and warmth, and soft hands and hard grips… all these that were once real, all these that were once memory… all these were leaving him, bit by precious bit.

Then they were gone.

Desperately, he grasped at any fleeting image, as a child would at some shadow that is ever out of reach and disappears with the loss of light. But those parts of him had fled from him… to return no more to the soul in agony.

Defeated, Aragorn fell at last to the darkness and the spell; he forgot everything that had ever been in his life, and everyone he had ever known.

His cries of anguish became useless sounds in an empty, merciless void.

For, finally… finally, the Hope and King of Men could no longer even remember who he was.

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Throughout their journey to their place of detention in a wooden shed, Legolas and Elrohir were plagued by deep uneasiness and agony that had nothing to do with being draped over the back of a horse. Their own pain and discomfort meant little, for their thoughts were only on Aragorn. They could not cease thinking that if Celeborn arrived soon, the elf lord might – in some yet unknown way – need the Light of his Lady to help the man. Each elf nursed in his heart the hope that the King’s guards and the Hobbits in a distant cottage would grow apprehensive enough over their prolonged absence, and prompt a search for them – and more importantly – for the Phial, before it was too late for Aragorn.

Yet even as they fanned a small flame of hope, each elf had to concede the truth of Fierthwain’s boast: a visit to the dreaded Paths would never be considered a simple affair, and the villagers would expect the elves’ search for elusive answers in the mountain tomb to be time-consuming. Despite Legolas’ claim to return by midnight, even the Hobbits and Aragorn’s guards might not be overly concerned about any delay till morning.

Neither would the absence of Fierthwain and his companions raise particular interest, for the men would, on occasion, stay up for a mug of ale and idle chatter in some corner of the village till the wee hours of the morning. The residents of Grimwythë were already wearied enough by the excitement and bustle of the day to spare anyone but the King much thought.

Thus it was that the sleeping or preoccupied villagers missed completely the movements of the furtive band of men taking two elven prisoners to an isolated farm – save for a single witness.

In his distress, even the elf prince Legolas did not sense the silent observation of the one pair of eyes that, for a brief time, followed the progress of the company in the silence of the night.

Nor, as the night wore on, did the prince know of the joyous meeting between Amel and Elrohir’s horse – which had been chased off the Paths by Fierthwain and his men – and two other elvish steeds that, along with a troop of other horses, had borne their riders tirelessly across the leagues to the Stone of Erech and would reach the village by early morn.

Note:

It's time for this story to end. Whatever the outcome for Aragorn and Legolas, this tale will reach its pre-determined conclusion in the next few chapters. I will do all I can do to keep writing and posting each of the final installments within a few weeks of each other.  

Thank you all who have sent in reviews for the previous chapter.