LETTERS HOME

By Rodlox

ARCHIVE: Manzana Core, Sword & Quill - anyone else?

NOTES: As if they weren't complex enough... *g*

My dearest Constanza,

It is the fifth day in the month of August of Our Lord's year Eighteen Hundred And Ten, and I miss you terribly!

Though for safety sake, I will only hand you my letters in person, it is best that I write down my thoughts so my mind does not become muddled. At present, we, I and the delegation of which I am a part, are resting in a nobleman's house in the Duchy of Warsaw, on our journey towards one of the few lands which Napoleon Bonaparte has not yet conquered.

It is the mission of myself, another diplomat by the name of Palmero, and more of a yes-man I cannot imagine, so blindly loyal to Napoleon's forces, to deliver a choice to the Tsar of Russia; to surrender without bloodshed, or join the ranks of those nations whom Napoleon has conquered in war.

While this is intended as Bonaparte's ultimatum for Russia, I intend to use this opportunity to succor aid from His Royal Majesty, Tsar Nicholas, for our beleaguered nation. Perhaps Russia and those Spaniards who still fight the French oppression, with or without Britain, can fend off the army of Bonaparte.

With us on this journey is yet another attache, a young man with studious bearing. Were this Montoya any more stiff, and, dare I say, he could have been a king in the ancien regime. But truly, I find it sad that a boy, for at his age, could he be more?, is so firm-featured and rigorous. Is that not for later in life?

I've doubtlessly bored you now, so I will go. At any rate, it is time for us to leave, the roads declared safe for us now.

Your loving husband, Gaspar Philopos Ramerez

My dearest Constanza,

We are now on the twenty-sixth day of August of Our Lord's year Eighteen Hundred And Ten, and my love for you has not slaked by our long absence. Being away from you gnaws at my very being, and Loyalty to the cause seems a weak excuse.

Finally, after a week in waiting on the border of the Russian Empire, the Tsar has agreed to grant us an audience. His very message was worded as if it were he who was in the position to dictate terms. How very brave of him. He invited us in on a Saturday, knowing that the following day would be a Church day; his Orthodox Majesty has a sense of humor, I suspect.

Such a fine land did we ride through, replete with peasants harvesting their wheat and other crop. Peasants, serfs, I do not know the finer details of such relationships.

If anyone has told you of the opulence of the Russians, believe it, particularly with the nobility and the Tsar. While not as decadent as the French royals who were overthrown by Bonaparte's friends, a single gem from the Tsar's royal Court could buy food for several families, for a wide number of days.

Until I write to you again,

Your loving husband, Gaspar Philopos Ramerez

My dearest Constanza,

We are now on the thirteenth day of September of Our Lord's year Eighteen Hundred And Ten, and, would God allow it, I would run across Europe now, to touch you, to simply be in your arms.

An interesting thing occurred yesterday, as we were riding with one of the nobles, a General Malov, one of the gentlemen-nobility that frequents this land, as well as the Tsar's Court on occasion. He is a kindly man, who gives this air of benevolence and wisdom that you more expect to find in a wizened grandfather, not this handsome devil.

We, nobleman Malov and those who'd chosen to go on this ride, were waylaid by bandits, highwaymen; the existence of some things it would seem, does not change.

But someone arrived at our rescue; a sapling of a man, when at last I got a look at him from apart, who charged into the fray of highwaymen, and fought them off by himself. Chivalry and the meaning of nobility; perhaps Russia has preserved the Knight longer than any other nation, and how good for the rest of us that she did. All of him was covered with clothes that looked for all the world like a nobleman'Æs. Of his face or flesh, I could only see that was not cloth, were his eyes; a piercing blue.

Young Montoya did a remarkable thing; he spoke! He asked 'who was that?' of our host, who replied that it was a rogue among rogues, a bandit-robbing highwayman; how curious, how different from the Spanish sort. But at least our kind and generous host refrained from the Russian epithets that our driver used, soft tone or not, I understood the words, and I suspect that the entirety of the Spanish Mission here does as well.

I hope that you are well, and that life is treating you kindly.

Your loving husband, Gaspar Philopos Ramerez

My dearest Constanza,

It is now the twentieth day of September in Our Lord's year Eighteen Hundred And Ten, and I nearly touched the fire in my fireplace yesterday, a crude substitute for the warmth of your embrace.

How do the Russian people bear to live in such cold?? Perhaps Hell is not aflame with wicked fires at all, perhaps it has naught but the chilliest ice and winds; let theologians debate it all they like, I have lived through a sampling of it here.

The lone member of our Mission who remains untouched by the chill is Montoya. I took him aside to learn his method, his secret, and only found that he was formerly stationed in Britain's embassy, back when Spain was under no one's heel; he looks far too young to have been on his own in a distant land, so I shall henceforth assume him to be someone's ward.

Your loving husband, Gaspar Philopos Ramerez

My dearest Constanza,

It is the Twenty-eighth day of September in Our Lord's year Eighteen Hundred And Ten, and nothing will keep us apart once I am returned home to your embrace. Yes, you have indeed read that correctly.

We have been dismissed from the Tsar's Court and presence yesterday, and our servants are packing our things. I am coming home!

There is little else to tell of, apart from Montoya's purchase of several books two and three days ago. I do not know what he intends to do with them, as they are in Russian script; perhaps his intent is simply to have them for decoration.

I will be home soon, a statement I pray to God not to make me a liar in.

Your loving husband, Gaspar Philopos Ramerez

CHANGES

NOTE: Companion piece to 'Letters Home'...archive with it, please!

THE PRESENT: 1818AD.

It may've been a sweltering summer, but the Queen of Swords still had to unlock Montoya's bedroom window. Once she was in, she saw how he had been keeping cool air in this locked-up room: a block of ice, slowly melting in a bucket.

She looked around, having finally gotten up the nerve to end the menace once and for all - the threat that was Colonel Montoya. She was going to kill him, and that was that.

She finally spied Montoya over at his desk. The Queen walked over, wanting to look at his face, to see his eyes as life left him, as he went back to Hell. Indeed, next to his head, there was a pile of letters - one separate from the others and clutched lightly by his hand - and a bottle of Monterrey wine left open.

"You can't hold your wine, Colonel?" she whispered. It was when she looked at his face that she was confused; his muscles were the relaxed look of sleep, but also something she didn't recognize - particularly on him: hurt, sadness. It even looked as if a tear had been run down his cheek.

Putting the assassination of El Colonel on hold, she carefully plucked the topmost letter from Montoya's hand, and read it to herself...

Were it not for the fact that, if I died, my enemies would therefore triumph, I would gladly kill myself to join my dear Constanza in Heaven.

I bestow upon you, Luis Montoya, all the letters which I had been saving to give to Constanza.

Should anyone question your owning these papers, reply forthwith to them, 'and where were you when the Spanish came door-to-door? where were you when families were slaughtered? where were you when innocence was lost across Europe?'

Go with God, Luis, and may He bless your career.

Your friend, Gaspar Philopos Ramerez.

The Queen put down the paper, and blew out the candle. After that, she hesitated to put a light blanket on Montoya, given the temperatures of late. Instead, she simply left.

SEQUEL

TRIO CHALLENGE: Kachina doll, corset, pitchfork

QUOTE 1: "If I were to take up shroud making, men would stop dying - if I sold candles, the sun would never set". -Abraham Ibn Ezra (born 1089-1167, Cordoba)

QUOTE 2: "When she carries a sword and we haven't been formally introduced, I get shy." -Methos, Highlander

"You're a doll, Vera," Marcus Grisham told her. "I ever told you that?"

Vera looked at him from where she was tying her corset back on. "I can think of a few occasions," she smiled back at him. There was something in his eyes... "Marcu, is there a troubling you?"

"Huh - oh, no, it's nothing, really."

Vera stepped over to him, wrapping an arm around his neck. "You cannot twll me?" with a hurt expression.

Grisham folded, figuratively. "Alright, but just remember," tapping her on the nose, "you asked for it. There's this guy with a weird accent, I think he's Dutch or Polish...'zur ran nov' or something like that."

"Suranov?" Vera asked, reflexively helping him.

Marcus nodded. "Yeah, that's what he said. Anyway, he's here under some sort of royal decree, hunting down the Queen of Swords." Grisham paused. "Vera, you okay?"

Vera's frozen, and it took a mental effort to return to the present. "I am. I was just thinking..."

"Anything in particular?" Marcus grinned.

Vera smiled, backing up so she could finish getting dressed. "When is your birthday again?"

Maria Theresa Alvarado crossed herself, softly saying a prayer for the soul of Serena Lopez, whose husband'd been saved from drowning by the Queen Of Swords. It was a good thing pitchforks were multi-purpose! As she prayed, she couldn't help but hear some of the peasants petitioning Padre Lopez; it seemed they wanted to borrow the icon of the Virgin Mary, take her through their fields and farms. Tessa seemed to recall a similar request last week, though that'd been to take the Infant Jesus on a walk, begging for rain. And oh, how there'd been a downpour!

What do they want with the Virgin Mother? Tessa wondered, and bemusedly heard the Padre asking the same thing. "You took the Child out last week, did you not get your rain?"

"Yes, Padre," Pablo Yesinte replied; "And we want her to see the mess Her Son made."

Tessa made the sign of the Cross over her breast as she stood up to leave, hoping she wouldn't start laughing in Church, even at that. As Tessa was leaving, she passed by "Oh hello, Vera," she said, greeting the young lady who was just coming in the Church doors.

"Hello, Tessa," Vera replied. "Tenga un día agradable." {translation: "Have a nice day."}.

"You too," Tessa wished her well.

Vera Hidalgo walked silently up to the frontmost pew, after bowing on one knee every few pews in a show of deference and respect to the Lord's House. Once in the front, Vera did not sit; she went right to kneeling. "Most Heavenly Father," she said quietly, ignoring the peasants and Padre's discussion, just as they could not hear her, "There is a fork in the path of my life, and I beg Your most Divine wisdom for help.

"A man has come, someone from my past." Another one, thought Vera sullenly. "I think he may mean to kill me if he gets the chance...but if I do nothing, he may kill the Queen of Swords," which, admittedly, meant only a little to her, as the Queen'd shown up to help her from her kidnapper.

"One translation," Vera whispered, with only the icon of the man on the Cross to hear her, "of what I was, is a kachina." The spirit of the people. "I pray, merciful Father, that you guide me to do that which right." Do I resume being that which I was? she wondered.

Vera remained kneeling.

And here I am again, Helm thought to himself, acting as bait. But, if he were truthful with himself, he didn't mind this time. For one thing, it seemed as though a health wave had swept the pueblo and surrounding haciendas, making him unneeded...and if he had to play one more game of Solitaire...

Because of that, when General Suranov, an agent of the Tsar, had stopped by and offered two hundred reales for Helm's service, it was hard to say no...though Robert wondered how much of it was based on the fact of British and Russian goodwill after jointly defeating Napoleon; cooperation among allies and all that.

The not-quite-real part of the deal had been in the pueblo center, and a little loudly, to maximize hearing ears. Doctor Helm'd seen two Alvarados, one Hidalgo, three from the Magalhes family, seemingly the entire Ferreira brood, and a number of peasants.

Robert Helm was waiting at the tip of a triangular cliff's base, the wedge-shaped cliff heading off in both directions for at least a mile; not-quite-low hills surrounded the rest of this depression -- making the soldier in Helm nervous: this was perfect ambushing territory, which was the point, was it not? Suranov was waiting around a bend, waiting for his quarry to make itself known...waiting with soldiers borrowed with Montoya's permission.

And here come the 'thieves'... seeing the hired robbers approach. Helm put his hands up. "Don't kill me, please," he pleaded, his tone authentic for the situation.

"We'll put it under consideration," the head thief replied. "Get him!"

And while the others were obeying that, Robert was thinking, no need to go all out on my account, folks.

And then, predicable as clockwork, there were the sound of hooves and a whip. The Queen of Swords had arrived. "You never learn, do you?" she asked one of the thieves.

"And neither do you," the General said, riding his loaned horse around the bend, looking at the Queen. "So, you've taken up talking," he said, looking at her outfit. "And perhaps other things." A woman??

"I always talk," the Queen replied. "Who are you?"

"You know very well who I am," Suranov replied in Russian. "Now, shall we kill you, or simply throw you upon the mercy of the Court?"

A piercing whistle split the air around them, a sound that had only one source. And the Queen's lips were closed. Suranov looked around, as did a few of the soldiers with him, trying to figure out what was going on. And there, on a hill crest, was a fully-suited man, as slender as ever. Spanish clothes covered him, but Suranov still felt a flicker of recognition.

"You!" Suranov whispered. Far louder, "Don't bother with her, get him!" pointing his pistol at the hilltop figure. The soldiers were confused, but they did as they were told, some running straight up the hill, others going for their horses first.

The Queen was surprised, and not a little confused. Nonetheless, she decided to take advantage of the situation by getting the heck out of dodge - whatever a dodge was. Likewise, the Highwayman also left the area.

"Imbeciles!" Suranov roared. Seeing that his true quarry had eluded him again, he took aim with his rifle, and fired...

"Here he is, sir," one of the borrowed soldiers told Suranov, as the soldier pushed Dr Helm forth.

"You witnessed the Highwayman, doctor," Suranov commented; "And you fled from the scene?"

"When she carries a sword," Doctor Helm remarked, "and we haven't been formally introduced, I get shy."

"Did you see a sword on him?" Suranov asked, correcting his grammar.

Helm raised an eyebrow. "Who said I was talking about your highwayman?"

"A pity then," the General remarked. "Does that mean you'll have no interest in treating the wound of this 'Queen of Swords'?"

PART FOUR...

"I'm a doctor," Helm replied. "It's my duty to treat the wounded," with as calm a face as he could. The Queened been shot? Well, that explains who he was shooting at when I was running - I thought he was aiming at me.

Suranov nodded, pleased with the answer. "Good, she's over there." Then he took time for the nearest of the soldiers, who seemed to be lacking in formation right now. "You're standing around," Suranov noted. "Why?" he asked, striking the soldier in question with his staff, a length of wood with a sharp metal tip - almost a pike in it's own right.

"I'll take some men and scout the hills," the Lt replied, scuttling off as fast as he could. Those men who didn't make off with him, they quickly found something to do that looked important, lest they be next.

As Doctor Helm sat down in a comfortable position - one that he wouldn't mind being in for a long time - he looked down on his black-dressed patient...who still wore her mask. Looking up at the General, "You're not the least bit curious?"

General Suranov shook his head. "Not the one I'M after, so it's no matter to me," and walked over to the table he'd brought with him, now covered with a map of the area, and other little things.

It was the Queen's leg that had the bullet in it. "This may hurt," Helm told her. "But only a little." Assuming I can get anesthetics out here. Otherwise...

"Then get it over with," the Queen ground out between her teeth.

Doctor Robert Helm looked at her appraisingly, then shrugged, granting her what she wanted. Pulling a pair of forceps out of his medical case, he inched the tips into her wound, focused on his work.

The Queen blinked at the razor pain at the insertion of this new metal, doing her damnedest not to flinch. As the pain grew, she bit her lip to keep from crying out. A noble upbringing didn't help here.

And then she could take no more. Almost overlapping with the doctor's "Got it," she cried out, her pain made into sound.

"Es usted," one of the soldiers called over to Helm, "que quita un punto negro o un bebé," which was received by general laughter among the troops - those who weren't too close to General Suranov and his pike.

Doctor Helm gritted his own teeth, and eased the bullet out of her lower thigh. "I told you this would hurt," he told her quietly. She made a face at him, but only nodded. To the joking soldier, he replied, "Perhaps I should take a baby out of you, see how enjoyable it is," which got laughs aimed at the former joker.

When the Queen felt like her voice had returned, she leaned forwards a little, asking "Do you," hearing how sore she sounded, "have an idea who the General's after, doctor?"

"No idea," Helm replied, telling a partial truth, cleaning up the wound, and wiping away the spilt blood, "and don't care."

"But -" the Queen said, interrupted by the thunder of a small herd of horses racing down one hill, through the valley - disrupting the soldiers - and up the next hill.

"There he is!" one of the soldiers called out, pointing to a mounted figure on one of the horses.

Rather than have to ask anyone for it, General Suranov got his own horse, mounted, and ordered them, "After him, all of you!"

The Queen watched them all leave; all, save for the good doctor, who was putting the finishing touches on the gauze casting around her lower thigh. Once they were gone, she saw -

The suited gentleman that Suranov had been after. Hearing the Queen's startled gasp, Helm turned his head and also saw him. "How did you do that?" the Queen heard herself asking. Are there two of them, like myself and Carlotta?

The Highwayman gave a bow, and, looking at the doctor, seemed to wait patiently. "I'LL be around the bend," Helm said, walking to where he said. The Highwayman nodded, then, as Doc Helm approached him, made the sign of the Cross over his breast.

"Oh for goodness sakes," Helm muttered, "I'm not the bloody devil," to which the Highwayman cocked his head...and when Doctor Helm was close enough, delivered a swift blow, knocking the doc down.

"Thank Capitan Grisham," the Highwayman replied, in a distinctly non-masculine voice.

The Queen's eyes widened, finally from something other than pain. "Is that you?" A shrug in response; the Highwayman had returned to silence. "Are we leaving?" A nod.

PART FIVE:

At first they had galloped, and then they slowed their horses down to a walk once they were far enough from General Suranov and the loaned men.

There were only two of them here, now. Back there, when the Queen had tried to pick up Doctor Helm to put him on her horse, the Highwayman - ? - had placed a firm hand on her arm and shook his masked head.

So there were but two of them - four counting the horses, and multitudes if the plants and wildlife were counted as well. The Queen looked over at the Highwayman, "What did you mean 'Thank Captain Grisham'?"

The Highwayman drew his mount to a halt, meeting her gaze. It was odd to the Queen, how only his eyes were visible, yet they conveyed the impression that she should already know the answer. "Well?" the Queen inquired.

Highwayman sighed, a touch of resignation in it. "I said what I meant, and I meant what I said."

Tessa's eyes widened. "Vera?" If she were any more startled by this, Tessa would have fallen off her horse. A nod from Vera, the Highwayman. "Why - why are you - ?" unable to finish the sentence.

"Because the alternative - to allow the death of a 'hero-to-some'," using the Russian for that term, "is unthinkable," Vera told the Queen simply and flatly.

"I - I didn't recognize you," Tessa said, and then mentally smacked herself - that was the point of a disguise, was it not?? The Highwayman - woman - smiled at that part. "What did you mean by that?, the -" and tried to repeat the Slavic words.

Vera closed her eyes, as though asking God for patience and strength. "One wonders why you do what you do, things being far better here than elsewhere in the world."

The Queen herself gaped at that, at the questioning of her quest. "Colonel Montoya rules this pueblo with an iron fist, he taxes everyone, enforces a strict social order, and -" Vera was chuckling. "What?"

Vera held up a hand. "My sorry, but how is that different from anywhere else in the world?" When the Queen did not answer, "I would have given anything for that sort of environment when I was growing up - anarchy reigned in the absence of a noble...

"The same happened in France: they rid themselves of their king, and set up a council of equals...it fell apart, and they ended up with Napoleon. Colonel Montoya is better than any alternative, certainly."

"I take it," the Queen replied, not yet retorting, "that that's why you haven't tried to stop any of Montoya's abuses of power?"

Vera just raised an eyebrow. "What abuses? Using the pueblo soldiers to sweep through the desert for robbers and bandits? Preventing anyone from senselessly slaughtering loyal servants of the Crown?" which made Tessa look down, having heard Marta's account of being locked up by that strutting peacock of an Ambassador.

"Have," the Highwayman asked after a pause, silence, "you anything to say?"

PART SIX:

"Only that the only thing needed for evil to thrive is for good men to do nothing," the Queen replied. The two of them had remained on the level, which was slowly elevating itself from the surroundings, and would end in a cliff of it's own not too far from here. The Queen spurred her horse back into motion; the Highwayman seconded that.

Vera sighed wearily. "Very well. You fight for families, yes?" Queen nodded. "Any family, no matter how destitute?" Another nod, with curiosity in it. "No you do not."

"Come on, give a girl some credit," Tessa replied. "Whenever I can, I take gold -"

"Away from the soldiers," the Highwayman replied firmly. "Did you think that soldiers have no families, no loved ones, no children? You think to fight an army of men with no ties to anything?" with a touch of amusement to her voice.

"Well," the Queen said, trying to excuse her own actions, "if that's so, then why don't the soldiers refuse to obey Montoya? It's other families that he's hurting - and them by extension."

The Highwayman muttered a short prayer. "This is a desert; everything affects families! Have you read Machavelli, or Nietche? Perhaps something by Darwin? People help their own families first. And a soldier could no more kill Montoya than Capitan Grisham could become President of any country - a possibility that remains remote."

"And what about you then? Why did you become 'the Highwayman'?"

Vera looked Tessa right in the eyes, piercing the soul - figuratively. "To rob the thieves and highwaymen who looted the land I was raised on.

"You know," changing the subject, "I've done so much over my life. I've seen Madrid, Mexico City, Washington, London...

"So little time to see anything, do anything," Vera said as she looked off the plateau's edge. "God grants us only so much, and then our time is over. Finito," with a passable Italian accent.

"Ahh, and here they come, Capitan, homeward bound," Colonel Montoya said, seeing the soldiers re-entering the pueblo, trying to hide behind the General. When they were near enough, Montoya bade them all dismount from their horses. "Well? I see no bandits with you."

"The Queen," one of the soldiers replied, "of Swords, she -" hesitating a bit before the mighty Montoya, "she got away, sir."

Montoya's lip quirked up a bit. "What a surprise. And what of you, General; did your expedition into our hinterlands give you anything other than a tan?"

General Suranov remained silent.

"I would suggest," Montoya said as he approached the Russian, "that you pay the dues you owe, plus damages; and make a hasty retreat from our town." A pause, a nasty gleam in his eyes. "Otherwise, I will not be accountable for the actions of a band of angry soldiers."

Suranov gave a slight nod, indicating he'd gotten the message.

Tired and sore, Doctor Robert Helm made his way in the direction of the pueblo hotel. First he volunteered to help with a capture - never volunteer, Hobb, he reminded himself - then he got clubbed by yet another masked figure, and when he returned to town, he discovers that a grateful farmer had dropped off his payment -

Three live chickens, which had pooped all over the place during his absence.

"Doctor."

Oh no! He knew that whisper, dammit. "What?" he hissed, gingerly making his way over towards where it was dark between buildings; had to be careful not to aggravate his headache.

"And where were you?" he hissed when he got there.

"I had to find a way off the plateau," the Queen said.

"And how did you get on a plateau?"

"Well, if you'll recall, I was saving someone -"

"Have you not been able to come up with a better line than that?" Helm asked. "I suppose next you'll be fighting for truth, justice, and the American way."

The Queen looked at him oddly. "Why would I do that?" and then retreated into the shadows again.

Helm breathed a frustrated sigh, exhaled, and nearly jumped when a hand slapped him on the shoulders. Turning to see who is was, "Captain, nice night for a walk, isn't it?"

"Absolutely. Say, sorry to hear about your office."

"Yes, it would seem to be rather accident-prone, wouldn't it?" First it blows up, now it's being scrubbed from top to bottom. "If you'll excuse me, I need to make arrangements at the hotel."

"Hey doc," as Helm was walking away. "Why not stay at my place?"

A raised eyebrow. "You don't mind?"

A shake of the head. "We Americanos aren't dirt-caked savages." Well, I'm not. "No problem at all. Mi casa e su casa."

Helm shrugged. "You insist...but I get the cot."

PART 7:

"Don't just stand there," doctor Helm said once he saw the Queen hesitate on the other side of his window. "Do you want to use the door this time, or should I help you through that space?"

"Which will you be less angry at me for?"

Helm tried not to snort. "This time, it's a medical visit, not a holier-than-thou retort." I hope.

The Queen came through the door, and took a seat on one of the chairs. "Put your foot on this chair," Robert said, bringing over a second chair. She did so. "Your other foot, I meant."

"Oh," the Queen whispered, and switched raised legs.

Robert Helm put his hands on her thigh of that leg, probing with his fingers. "Does that hurt?" looking at her face. She nodded. "And that?" Shake no. "That?"

She paused, not entirely sure. "I think - but barely," to which he nodded.

She'd considered coming here as Tessa, letting him know that she was she...but the thought of lifting her skirt even for a doctor triggered something in her mind, something that was repulsed by the concept.

And so she was dressed once more as the Queen.

"A little something from the Highwayman," the Queen said, then repeated the words, "'If I were to take up shroud making, men would stop dying - if I sold candles, the sun would never set - the life of one on a quest is like that, never truly satisfied'."

The Queen noticed that her leg was tingling, and wiggled her toes to make sure she was okay. It was then that she realized that the good doctor's hands were still on her.

"Doctor," the Queen said softly.

"Yes?" Robert said, looking up.

"About being satisfied..."

"Yes?" he asked.

"The Highwayman was wrong."

~~~

THE END.