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We Were Young Once ~ III  by Conquistadora

Chapter 46 - The Affairs of Wizards VII

The rest of that day passed and the following night.  Thranduil was up to meet the morning, armored and ready for whatever the day may bring.  With the appointed time for Thorin’s payment fast approaching, and with Dain so near, he knew the whole affair must necessarily be coming to some resolution.  

Legolas and Tauriel had found him in the dim light of dawn, and they stood with him as he judged the weather.

“The wind has changed,” Legolas observed.  

“Yes,” Thranduil agreed.  The wind had shifted west, and the sky was gloomy and overcast.  It did not bring the scent of rain, but rather the smell of oiled metal and disturbed earth.  The crows had taken to the air again, anticipating a battle.  It was an ominous way to begin the day.  “You wanted to fight, Tauriel,” he said.  “We may soon have no choice.”

“Now that it comes to it,” Tauriel admitted, “I would rather not, my lord.  I would readily give my life to defend my home, my people, or my king, but gold does seem cold comfort in the face of death.”

“We can only hope Dain is of the same mind,” Thranduil began, but even as he said it the horns sounded in the east.

The scouts took up the call, crying to the camp that Dain had come.  They could just be seen, still far off, rounding the eastern spur of the Mountain.  Thranduil cursed under his breath and turned to find his horse.  “Back to your commands, both of you!” he barked at Legolas and Tauriel.  “They must have marched through the night.  Stand your men and be ready!”

The entire army heaved itself to life as the horns called the soldiers to their ranks.  Gwaelas was standing ready with Espalass, and Thranduil swung astride.  Bard came riding through the confusion to meet him.  “Master Bowman,” Thranduil greeted him in a grim voice, “are your men concealed on the eastern spur as we planned?”

“They are, my lord,” Bard confirmed.

“Under no circumstances must Dain gain entry to the Mountain, or our cause is lost.  I will set my army west of the river to bar the way.  You go to meet Dain’s heralds and try to forestall any hostilities.  Master Baggins!”  Thranduil called the hobbit as he saw him trying not to be trampled in the tumult.  “Go with Bard to meet Dain.  Perhaps they will more readily hear one of Thorin’s companions.”

Bard swept Bilbo onto his saddle and rode ahead of the marching Elves to the banks of the river.  Dain’s company could be seen hurrying up through the valley, but they were unable to close the distance before a thousand Elvish spearmen had planted themselves on the far side of the river with five hundred archers to support them.  Bard’s Lake-men guarded the southern flank and also lay hidden in the high places behind Dain’s company, ready for an ambush.

Thranduil rode out with his Guardsmen, following his army and observing their progress.  He sent three of his companions to Erebor’s gate in the forlorn hope that Thorin had already set out the required payment to redeem the Arkenstone.  He halted beside his southern flank, anxiously observing Bard’s encounter with Dain’s heralds.  They had crossed the river to meet him while the greater part of the Dwarves waited on the eastern side.  They were a daunting sight, all of them well muscled, well armed, and very well supplied, spoiling for a fight.  They could no doubt do a great deal of damage in battle despite their numerical disadvantage.  

Thranduil shared a grave look with Lord Galadhmir across the distance.  They alone of everyone on the field had done battle with Dwarves in the past, and they knew their peril.  Thranduil would still avoid it if he could.  

Bard turned his horse and rode back as the Dwarvish heralds returned to Dain.  “They will not see reason,” Bard lamented, sliding Bilbo to the ground.  “I believe they mean to force their way through if they can.”

Thranduil cursed again, feeling his hand would be forced despite all his efforts to preserve the peace.  

Just then his Guardsmen returned in haste from the gate.  “None of the treasure has been relinquished, my lord,” Neldorín confirmed.  “They only shot at us from the wall.”

Bard looked disgusted.  “Does their word mean nothing?  They would risk their very lives to spite us!”

“Such is the nature of Dwarves,” Thranduil sneered.  The thought of the imminent slaughter turned his stomach.  Dain’s people had begun their advance again, marching inexorably nearer the river.

“They are fools to linger so near the Mountain’s arm!” Bard observed.  “They do not understand war above ground, whatever they may know of battle in the mines.  Our ambush could not be more advantageously placed.  Dwarf mail may be good, but they will soon be hard put to it.  Let us spring the trap before they are rested!”

“Not yet,” Thranduil insisted.  “The first blood on my sword was that of Dwarves in a larger dispute over jewels, and I am not keen to repeat the experience.  Dain cannot pass us, or do anything we cannot mark.  We have numbers enough to stop them if they try to force their way, but I will have words of my own with them before we come to such a pass.”

“Do not waste your breath, my lord!” Gandalf said, appearing behind them.  “Dain will not hear you, and you will only endanger yourself.”

“I am prepared to waste a great deal of breath before I despair of preventing this travesty!” Thranduil snapped, rounding on him.  “You started this, Mithrandir.  Now I intend to finish it.”

He spurred his horse forward, followed by his guard, and galloped along the front of his army to intercept the advancing Dwarves before it was too late.  “Dain!” he roared, letting his voice carry throughout the valley as he reined to a sudden halt at the fords.  “Dain!  How much blood will you waste in this pointless quarrel?  We are not thieves, and have made no demand to which Thorin was not already honor-bound.  Can we not resolve this conflict peaceably?”

The Dwarves halted, and Dain pushed his way to the front.  “You have reckoned without us!” he complained gruffly.  “We have heard that you presume to hold the Arkenstone against Thrór’s right heirs.  What of Erebor’s pride?  We will hear no demands made by force!”

“It is Erebor’s pride to be honored and respected,” Thranduil said, “to be right and just in their treatment of their neighbors and of those who would be their friends!”

“Do friends hold friends by siege?” Dain scoffed.  “What righteous claim would you make upon the wealth of our fathers, Elvenking?  You have no business here!”

“I make no claim for myself,” Thranduil insisted, “but I have shouldered the cause of the Lake-men who have no other recourse.  Would you join Thorin in denying them redress?  Or may we not instead come to terms and avoid the evil of bloodshed?”

“We do not discuss terms with hostile armies at our gates, not while our kinsmen starve at swordpoint!” Dain thundered.  “If bloodshed is so odious to you, then begone!  We will advance, and we will cut our way through if we must.”

“You shall not pass before the debt is honored,” Thranduil promised darkly.  “If you attempt it, we will defy you.”

The Dwarves were undeterred, and they began stomping and shouting where they stood, determined to have battle.  An ugly darkness was growing over the valley.  The Elves readied their spears, and the archers fitted their arrows.  Without a signal, the Dwarves sprang forward to charge the ford, and the first rank of spearmen braced themselves to hold the line.  

Resigned to meet their folly, Thranduil drew Orcrist against them, but its brilliant blue gleam caused him and everyone else on the field to falter. 

“Halt!” Gandalf cried, riding into the midst of the combatants as lightning played over the peak of the Mountain and thunder shook the rocks.  His voice echoed mightily in the valley, and his staff blazed with light.  “Halt!  Dread has come upon you all!  Alas, it has come more swiftly than I guessed!  The Goblins are upon you!  Bolg of the North is coming, O Dain, whose father you slew in Moria!  Behold!  The bats are above his army like a sea of locusts.  They ride upon wolves and Wargs are in their train!”

Confusion immediately threatened to compromise the ranks as the darkness deepened and the great cloud of bats could be seen cresting the Mountain.  A thousand thoughts clamored in Thranduil’s mind as the situation was utterly changed.  One rose above all the rest, and he scowled at the wizard.

“Come!” Gandalf called.  “There is yet time for council.  Let Dain son of Nain come swiftly to us!”

Lord Galadhmir steadied the ranks as Thranduil joined Gandalf beside the river.  Dain came with a few close companions, and Bard came riding in from his position.  

“I trust I can rely upon all of you to put your quarrels aside for the day,” Gandalf began, looking severely at all of them in turn.  He seemed more ill at ease than Thranduil had ever seen before, and that did not inspire him with an abundance of confidence.  “Our only hope at present is to lure Bolg and his army into this valley and assail them from both sides once they are trapped between the Mountain’s arms.  It may be a perilous strategy if their numbers are sufficient to overrun the Mountain itself, but we must make do with what we have.  Agreed?”

There were no objections.  There was no time for argument.

“Thranduil,” Gandalf continued, “you and your army will man the southern spur beside Ravenhill.  Bard and Dain will take the eastern one, while a swift company of soldiers should make a show of holding Dale.  The promise of easy prey will lure them in.”

“I would also lead a party of scouts over the eastern shoulder to see what is marching against us,” Bard said.  

“Good,” Gandalf decided.  “Take some Elves with you.  Their sight is second to none.”

Thranduil immediately chose three of his Guardsmen and directed them to Bard.

“Go now,” Gandalf bade them.  “Acquit yourselves well and we may yet see another dawn!”

“To the Mountain!” Bard called.  “To the Mountain!  Let us take our places while there is still time!”

The council dispersed, each to his own task.  The enormous flight of bats was spilling over the Mountain’s shoulder now, their multitude blocking the sun.  Horns blew and great masses of soldiers began to shift into their new positions.  Thranduil and his guard were riding to join Galadhmir when he heard Gandalf shouting behind them.

“Confound it all, Bilbo Baggins!  Where have you been lurking?  Where am I to put you where you will not be always underfoot?”

Thranduil drew up sharply, so that Espalass’ hooves carved great furrows in the soft earth.  He wheeled about and returned at a gallop, slowing just enough to snatch Bilbo by the coat and lift him into the saddle with a cross look at Gandalf.  That wizard and his reckless schemes would be the death of the hobbit yet.  There was much he wished to say if they survived to speak again.  He turned his horse again and raced back to rejoin his army.

The Elves set themselves in the rocky foothills and lower slopes of the southern spur.  Thranduil took his place behind the last rank, a vantage point which afforded a comprehensive view of the battlefield.  Lord Galadhmir was already there, surveying their soldiers and keeping them in good order.  “Keep to the rear of us, Master Baggins,” Thranduil said, allowing the hobbit to grasp his hand as he slid to the ground.  “If danger finds you there, the battle has gone very ill indeed.”  

Bilbo was obviously glad to have solid ground beneath his feet again.  “Thank you, my lord,” he said, seeming even more sincere than usual.  In the final anxious moments before a battle, everyone became more sincere.  “I’ll try to keep out of the way.  I expect I’m still not much good in a proper battle, though better than I supposed last spring.”

“No one need be useless on a battlefield,” Thranduil assured him with a wan smile.  “I would lend you a bow if I thought your stature equal to it.  Are you armed?”

“I have my sword,” Bilbo said, drawing the long knife sheathed on his belt.  It also glowed with fierce blue light.  “It’s not much, I suppose, but it has been very useful to me recently, and is probably all I can handle.”

“It is a very fine blade,” Thranduil told him.  “It was made long ago by swordmasters no longer seen in Middle-earth.”

“So Gandalf said, and Lord Elrond.  We found them in a troll hoard east of Rivendell, this, Glamdring, which Gandalf carries, and Orcrist, which I see you now have.”

Thranduil nodded with grim interest.  “I am pleased to see you bear a weapon worthy of your courage,” he said.

Bilbo blushed and shuffled from one foot to the other.  “I don’t know about that,” he mumbled.  “I only do what I can.  I’m just a hobbit, not the stuff of which heroes are made.  I just hope to see my home again, to enjoy a cup of tea by the fire when all this is a memory.”

Thranduil regarded him with a bittersweet smile.  “In my experience, Bilbo Baggins,” he said, “that is exactly how heroes are made.”

The howling cries of the wolf-riders carried on the swirling winds as waves of them charged into Dale, throwing themselves against its few defenders.  There was fierce fighting in the ruins until the surviving Lake-men retreated as designed.  The goblin vanguard followed them, rushing into the valley in search of a foe, a seething mass of hideous warriors beneath black and red banners.  

As hordes of orcs and goblins continued to pour into the valley, Thranduil’s unease grew.  “We are not prepared for a battle of this magnitude,” he said, taking care to speak in their own tongue.  He did not know how much Bilbo understood, but he would spare the hobbit his misgivings if he could.  

“No, sire,” Dorthaer agreed, sitting his horse beside the King.  “We could do well with another two thousand spearmen, and at least six more companies of archers.”  

“Had I any warning of Bolg’s march, I would not have allowed us to be caught on a desolate hillside with little better than a heavy entourage.”  Thranduil frowned as the appalling smell of their enemy polluted the air.  “I suppose there is no choice now but to charge ahead and hope for the best.”

The goblins swarmed directly toward Thorin’s gate, breaking against the stones in an attempt to gain entry and rout its defenders.  When they were sufficiently massed in that crevice and unable to effectively maneuver, Thranduil signaled Galadhmir, and Legolas’ archers on the northern flank loosed their arrows.  Calenmir’s archers followed with a second barrage, and then the first rank of spearmen rushed forward with a deafening roar.  

Thranduil watched their progress from above.  The rearguard of the goblins crumpled beneath the force of the charge, but as their momentum waned the Elves signaled a slow retreat, protected by the archers as they reformed their lines.  Thranduil turned to look for Bilbo, but the hobbit had disappeared.  

Just as the goblins had reoriented themselves to challenge the Elves in the west, Dain and his Dwarves charged out of the east.  They descended on the black ranks with many savage war cries, and with them came the Lake-men.  Casualties were given and taken, but the goblins had the worst of it, and it looked as though Erebor’s defenders might prevail after all.

Determined to press their advantage, Thranduil ordered his soldiers to charge again.  The first rank rushed forward once more, and the second swung down out of the foothills to support them and close all avenues of retreat.  

All order broke down among the goblins as they realized their peril and sought some means of escape, either casting themselves into the river or scaling the sheer rock face.  It seemed victory was near.  Thranduil spurred ahead with his guard and signaled Tauriel’s archers to follow him and complete the cordon.  

“Hold, my lord!” Dorthaer called, halting them suddenly.  “Look!”

Thranduil followed his line of sight, and all hope of victory paled.  The slopes of the Mountain were teeming with fresh goblins rushing down to ambush the defenders from above.  They had only succeeded in stemming the first assault.

“Call the retreat!” Thranduil shouted to his herald.  “Back to the hills!  Get our soldiers out of there!”

The horn calls reverberated from the stones, and the Elves, Dwarves, and Men all pulled back to more defensible positions.  Thranduil swung forward with Tauriel’s archers behind his retreating spearmen, defending the withdrawal as best they could.  

All advantage was lost, and the tables were now turned.  “Reform the line!” Thranduil commanded, riding along a ridge wide enough to accommodate them.  “Reform the line!  Four ranks deep, two facing west, two facing east, back to back!”  They would be hard pressed to defend that position which had been so easily taken for granted.  The second wave of goblins were descending on them from the mountain paths even as a third wave advanced into the valley below.  “Legolas!  Set your archers on the northern flank and cover the slopes above!  Calenmir!  To the southern flank, and cover the approach from the valley!  Tauriel, to me!”

Thranduil dismounted and had his guard do the same.  He retrieved his own sword from his saddle and then slapped Espalass on the rump.  The seasoned warhorse knew what he was meant to do, and he scrabbled up the rise, leading the other horses in search of the western valleys away from the battle.  There was no point in wasting them, and they would be little use in close combat.  

Black arrows came pelting in among their ranks from above, biting into the spearman's shields.  A well-placed shot struck Thranduil across the chest, foiled by his armor, and Dorthaer dragged him down to a less conspicuous position.  Wounds were taken, but the soldiers were spared many fatalities by the silk reinforcement behind their armored tunics.  Merciless volleys from Legolas in the north and Calenmir in the south helped to thin the attack.  The dogs clashed with the Wargs.  In the heat of the moment, Thranduil still wondered where Bilbo had gone.  Perhaps he had taken shelter in the Ravenhill watchtower. 

The day wore on as they repulsed wave after wave of Bolg’s army.  Arrows were running short, as they always did in a protracted conflict, and several archers were racing back and forth among the rocks, gleaning any spent shafts still fit for use.  Eventually they were reduced to using the goblins’ own arrows against them, and finally even those were gone.  Thranduil’s heart sank as he saw Legolas’ company stow their bows, draw their knives and shrink into a defensive position, leaving the field for the spearmen.  Calenmir’s company soon did the same.

“Spears ready!” Galadhmir shouted, and the ranks bristled anew.  The goblins came rushing down at them regardless, determined to sweep them from the hills by weight of numbers.  They ran headlong into a forest of metal barbs, and their corpses began piling in frustrated heaps all around the Elves’ position.  The vile bats descended on the wounded and dead, whatever their allegiance.   

Tauriel’s archers exhausted their arrows, and they reformed around the King and his Guardsmen.  The goblins, seeming to realize the defenders’ new limitations, halted their attack from above in order to gather their strength for a concentrated charge.  Galadhmir reoriented the spearmen to counter it, and he put the handicapped archers to work throwing aside the dead.  Their own dead were rushed from the field and gathered in a sheltered place on the southern flank.  There was nowhere to shelter the wounded, and many refused to quit the field, tying off their injuries and continuing to fight as best they could, knowing death would only find them sooner if they lay down their weapons.

Finally the mass of goblins rushed down the slopes screaming and howling, and collided with the spearmen.  Many were impaled at once, but their fellows continued pressing forward until the sheer weight of them began pushing the Elves back, mightily though the soldiers strove to maintain their footing in the loose stones.

Thranduil signaled his herald, and the call went out for the flanks to attack and break the charge.  He swung forward with Tauriel’s company while Legolas attacked from the north.  It was nothing but butchery, sword and knife work as they cut their way through the crush of bodies both living and dead.  

A large orc on the ridge above was shouting commands at the goblins in their vile tongue, trying to regroup them as they were scattered.  His tone suddenly changed.  “Shakh!  Shakh!  Albi shakh!” he roared, and the others took up the call.  “Albi shakh!  Albi shakh!”  As one, they turned and plowed toward Thranduil.

Recognizing the shift in the attack and the orc’s intention to eliminate the King, Thranduil’s Guardsmen pulled him back, and Tauriel’s archers flooded into the breach.  Legolas and his company rushed forward from the north to join them, encircling many of the enemy in the process who were then dispatched by the spearmen.  The defense became more desperate as the Elves were divided, Galadhmir and Calenmir with the spearmen, Thranduil with Legolas and Tauriel and what remained of their companies, unable to reunite their forces amid the crush of the battle.  

They were steadily pushed back toward Ravenhill, the ceded ground strewn with blood and corpses.  Jostled together, the Elves continued to mount a furious defense, but the numbers were against them, and all the while Thranduil was thinking how intolerable it would be to die on the cold slopes of Erebor, leaving his beleaguered corner of Greenwood unprotected.  Clearly his soldiers were of the same mind, and they rallied around him with a ferocity which betrayed their desperation, defending the slow retreat.  As hope wore thin, both Legolas and Tauriel surrendered to their strongest sentiments and pushed their way to his side to make their last stand among the King’s Guard.  

The gloom only deepened as the sun began to set behind the storm clouds, drawing a pitiless veil over the ruin of a day which had begun with so much hope.  A force of larger orcs descended upon the Elves to accomplish what the goblins could not, swinging broad iron blades and heavy maces, intent upon smashing their way through, but still the Galennath threw themselves in front of the King.  It wrung Thranduil’s heart to see them sacrifice themselves, his grief and fury mounting until it became intolerable.  

The battle dragged on, hour after bloody hour, and the only foreseeable end was too terrible to contemplate.  Dorthaer was barking orders at the Guardsmen, trying to reform their lines amid the confusion, and Thranduil found himself shoulder to shoulder with Tauriel as several orcs attacked them at once.  She leapt forward to defend him with only her knives, and succeeded in killing several before she fell beneath the crushing blow of a mace.  

Enraged, Thranduil stepped over her, and the blow from his fist alone was enough to put the orc down.  He struck the others to pieces with his sword, determined that they would not touch her again.  As he raised his blade in the next breathless moment, he realized with sudden clarity that he had been using his own sword ever since he had sent away the horses.  He tossed it to Legolas and drew Orcrist once more, its cold blue light almost blinding in the dark.

The enemy recognized the Goblin Cleaver for what it was, and they quailed in fear despite the angry shouting from their captains.  Without waiting for them to regroup, Thranduil led a charge against them, changing the direction of the battle.  His Elves followed him with a roar, driving the enemy back along the ridge.  Lord Galadhmir and the spearmen came charging forward as well, everyone rallying to the brilliant blue beacon in the King’s hand.  The two sides of their army were reunited, and a new line of spears and shields was formed to secure the reclaimed ground and defend the wounded behind them.

It was ultimately a futile victory, considering how woefully outnumbered they still were, but surrender was impossible.  In the one moment of calm before the battle rejoined, Galadhmir found Thranduil and they briefly clasped one another by the wrist, still alive despite it all.  They both understood that the only victory they were likely to claw out of that mess would be the count of bodies they left in their wake.  If die they must, they would die as they had lived, as brothers, back to back, swords in hand.  

The orcs had beaten the goblins into some semblance of order once again, and their black ranks gathered for another charge.  “Spears ready!” Galadhmir shouted again, and the spearmen braced themselves among the rocks.  

A great shout and the clear call of trumpets echoed across the valley below.  The stone barricade fell away from the gate of Erebor with a resounding crash into the headwaters of the river, and Thorin Oakenshield charged forth with his company, all of them armed like warrior kings out of the dragon’s hoard.  

“To me!  To me!  Elves and Men!  To me!  O my kinsfolk!” Thorin thundered, calling everyone to join him, spearheading a charge directly down the center of the battlefield toward Bolg and his formidable bodyguard.  

Dain and all his Dwarves rushed out of the eastern foothills, and many of the Lake-men came with them.  Recognizing Thorin’s initiative as their last best hope, Thranduil thumped Galadhmir on the shoulder.  “Take the second rank!” he said.  “Go!”  Galadhmir obeyed, leading half their spearmen down out of the west.  The rest of them stayed to hold the heights lest they forfeit them completely.  

At first it seemed the defenders would have their way.  The force of the charge was not broken by the resistance of the goblins, and great numbers of the enemy were slain as Thorin pressed forward.  The fearsome reputation of the Dwarvish veterans was well deserved.  Thranduil considered joining them, but he could see still more goblins massing above them and abandoned the idea.

“Stand your ground, Thranduil,” Gandalf said, appearing beside him and echoing his thoughts.  “You will soon have trouble enough, and without you and Bard our friends below would be completely surrounded.”

Thranduil turned to ask the wizard a few sharp questions, but Gandalf was already headed for a higher ridge.  His complaints would have to wait.  The King’s Guardsmen stood around him, bruised and stained by all manner of blood, as he was.  A cursory glance through their battle-worn soldiers told him Legolas was missing.  “Dorthaer,” he asked stiffly, “where is my son?”

“My lord, the prince has fallen back to oversee the defense of the wounded,” Dorthaer answered.

Thranduil grunted.  Tauriel would be with him, then.  It may be an empty consolation considering their larger circumstances, but he would take whatever he could get.

Perhaps it was inevitable, but Thranduil felt his heart sink as Thorin’s attack slowed in the valley.  They were beset on all sides, their numbers sadly diminished, unable to breach Bolg’s bodyguard.  They were surrounded despite them, beyond the reach of all help.  Their unguarded flanks collapsed, and Bolg charged in to finish them.

Thranduil had no time to lament it, because the goblins descended again from the heights with renewed strength and crashed into the shield wall with enough force to breach it in three places.  The archers rushed forward to firm the line and the chaotic hand-to-hand fighting began once more.  There seemed to be no end to them, and the battle finally seemed truly lost.  They would be overcome one by one, driven to exhaustion or overwhelmed by sheer numbers.  It was not where Thranduil would have chosen to die, but he could not ask for better companions in defeat.  His guard refused to despair, heedless of their own losses, striking down the swarming goblins as though there were still some hope of escape.  When it was all over and the remnant of Bolg’s army had been dispersed, Thranduil hoped Linhir and Anárion would see fit to erect some monument to their memory.  

The longer he considered their fate, the more Thranduil resented it.  His initial resignation erupted into anger, and he threw himself against the goblins with new violence.  He would not consent to die, not yet, and he had no wish to sacrifice his heirs and his friends.  “What will you do, Mithrandir?” he shouted, catching a glimpse of the wizard sitting on the ridge behind them as if deep in thought.  “Do you intend to leave us here?”

The last red rays of sunset streamed out of the clouds torn by the wind, but it only made the battlefield more hideous, a grisly field of death and destruction teeming with goblins like ants on a carcass.  Disgusted by the sight, Thranduil was dourly determined that as many as he could manage would also lie dead before he joined them.

A thin and frantic voice pierced the noise of the battle.  Thranduil could not make out the words over the screeching cacophony all around him, but there was no fear in it.  Those nearer the sound also took up the call, and those who could spare a moment turned their eyes skyward.

“The Eagles!  The Eagles!  The Eagles are coming!”

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