Chapter Text
Gimli had told him not to weep; they would find each other in the second song. Legolas had smiled at him, but it was a weak and paltry thing. When Gimli could no longer keep his eyes open, Legolas could no longer keep his tears and wept openly. So passed Gimli, son of Glóin, lulled by the waves of the shores of Aman, drifting away with the gulls’ cry and the near-silent tears of his One.
*
The knock hammered on the door, BAM BAM BAM, and Gimli jolted awake.
“Come on, slug-a-bed,” his mother called. “Time to rise.”
Gimli blinked at the ceiling. Was he in the Halls of Mahal? He didn’t expect them to look quite so much like his room in Ered Luin. He pushed himself up to look.
The room was exactly as he remembered: dark, lit by lamps shining blue-green with the glowing plants that lived in the deep, dark places, and with grime caked in corners that he could never scrub clean. There was the crack in his wall, more an eyesore than a danger. The tapestry he had hung to hide it, his first and last attempt at loom-work, had fallen again. The stone face was too brittle. His chest of drawers, also a product of his hands, stood straight and even, if modestly decorated. His mirror, tinted green with age and spotted black, had been a relic found when they had come to these mountains when he was a lad. Between his drawers and his trunk lay his things: his training axe, his ‘prentice tools, a pile of clothing that would quickly become far too small for his growing frame.
Growing frame. Gimli looked down at his hands. They were strong, broad still, but unscarred by years of battle and toil. He had grown used to seeing gnarled knuckles and thick calluses, and instead his fingers were straight and his skin smooth. These were hands of youth.
The door opened and his mother stuck in her head—still dark and fair, elaborately beaded and braided, wrapped with silver wire as was her custom—and clucked her tongue at the sight of him. “That'll teach you to go drinking with your rascal cousins when you have places to be the next morning,” she said. Her voice was rich and lovely, full of the same Thorobad accent of his father and himself, though hers was tinged with the strange vowels and clicking consonants of her parents, Blacklacks from the south. “Now get dressed! It’s quarter past already, and your father will be back soon.” She ducked back out and Gimli blinked after her.
“Mum,” he mouthed, and then said aloud, “Quarter past?” He froze. His voice hadn’t been that high in centuries, not since before... He raised his hand to his throat—
—his bare throat—
—and stumbled from bed to stand before his mirror.
“No,” he whispered, eyes wide and feeling faint.
His hair had returned to its early brilliance, true, but there was so much less of it. Unbraided, it tumbled and curled and stopped just below his shoulders, and his beard—his full, thick, long beard—was nothing more than copper fuzz hovering around his cheekbones. His chin and lip were as bald as an elf’s; he felt like crying.
Surely no Maker would be so cruel to make him live out eternity thus—there had to be another explanation.
Oh, how he wished Legolas was here. Gandalf, or The Lady, would know more, yes, but over the years, his husband had grown quite adept at talking Gimli through problems and it was his voice that Gimli missed now.
Gimli could still feel Legolas through their bond, forged on their wedding night, and knew in his bones that Legolas was alive and well—as much as he ever felt (the resonance always was stronger for Legolas), but no more information was forthcoming.
“Gimli!” his mother cried, exasperated, and Gimli reacted as he always had: he hopped to. He grabbed what he hoped were clean clothes and tried to tame his sleep-crazed hair as quickly as possible.
“Coming,” he called back as he hopped into his trousers (too loose at the waist, too long in the leg: recent hand-me-downs from Kíli), and grabbed his boots (old, nearly too small, hole growing near the left heel), ready to sit and pull them on, when something shining in the bedclothes gave him pause. It was a familiar shine, and his breath caught.
Not losing his grip on his boots, Gimli stepped forward and picked up the shining thing: it was Lady Galadriel’s gift, set in crystal. Its perfect facets caught the eerie light of the of the glowrounds and danced.
“Gimli! Don’t make me call again!” Suhni snapped. Gimli startled, nearly dropping the stone. He put it carefully into his breast pocket, patting the fabric that hid the shine from prying eyes, and trotted out to his mother, boots still in hand.
Suhni was washing dishes when Gimli stepped cautiously into the kitchen. A bowl of her porridge, sweetened with honey and a preserve of the tart red berries that grew on the sides of the mountain and thickened with cream, sat next to a steaming mug of kafé. The scene was so achingly familiar, a relic of a childhood left behind for an age, that Gimli had to blink back sudden tears.
Suhni spared him a glance over her shoulder. “Well, don’t just stand there,” she chided with gentle humor. “Your father’s only gone ‘round to Cousin Balin’s, and he’ll want you ready.”
“’Amad…” Gimli said, trailing off.
Suhni hummed, turning and wiping her hands on a towel. “What is it, dea—oh!” Gimli hugged her tightly, suddenly, and she stopped short. “Inúdoy,” she breathed, hugging him back until his ribs ached.
After a moment, she pulled back to look at him. “Not that I mind, I’ll always have a hug for my strong lad, but what brought this on?”
Gimli shrugged to encompass everything he couldn’t say, smiling tiredly had just how ineffective the gesture really was. “I had a strange dream,” he said at last, and that was as good a way as any to explain that he had a whole lifetime of memories that hadn’t happened yet.
Suhni eyed him for a moment longer. There was a thread of true-dreaming that ran through their particular branch of the Durin line. Óin had the knack, and while Glóin hadn’t shown it himself, his belief was solid and his prospecting was certainly uncanny. As such, any mention of dreams was taken very seriously. At length, Suhni nodded and shooed him to the table.
“Eat,” she said. “I’ll get your comb. Your hair’s a fright.”
Gimli almost protested—she wouldn’t know how to braid his bonding braid—before he remembered that he wouldn’t be able to wear it proudly, as he had for the past two hundred years. That, and he hadn’t forgotten his mother’s tendency to tug his hair as she worked. Suhni’s own hair was much different from Gimli’s—true Blacklock hair: stiffer, thicker, and had a tendency to halo around her head when she was younger. Now, she kept it is a multitude of tiny braids, woven tightly enough that they flowed when she moved. While Gimli had inherited her darker skin, he had instead gained his father’s Firebeard hair, and as such needed a looser touch to his braids, something his mother occasionally forgot when the rhythm of the work took over. ‘To hell with it,’ he thought, and picked up his spoon. It would be pleasant to have his mother’s braids in his hair again, perhaps moreso if it hurt.
Finally, with a hunger unmatched save by three weary hunters after a three-day chase across the plains of Rohan, he ate his breakfast.
***
Glóin had yet to arrive when Gimli finished his food, his mother laughing and tweaking his hair when she caught him lifting the bowl to lick it clean. He nursed his kafé as his mother finished up his braids, letting his thoughts drift while she couldn’t see his expression.
As his hair was pulled back away from his face, his face felt more and more bare. Exposed. Naked. It would be nearly two years before he grew what could reasonably be called a beard. He hadn’t even the hint of fuzz that Kíli’s had been—Gimli felt his breath stutter. It would be is now: Kíli was still alive. So were Fíli and Thorin, Balin, Ori, and Uncle Óin…
Why was he here? Gimli frowned. Something had sent him back here to now—something that saw fit to send him with the Lady’s Gift. He was here for a purpose, and the timing was…suggestive. His presence here had to be tied to the quest for Erebor, perhaps because of his own quest? Or simply his ties to Thorin’s Company? There was something he had to do, to change.
Smaug had to be defeated. Erebor had to be reclaimed to once again become the watchtower of the north. The quest had to be successful…and it had been, or Gimli would never have gone on his own quest. Something had changed, something that called the very success of the quest for Erebor into question. Gimli’s presence must be the key.
Gimli closed his eyes. That was it—it had to be. Gimli was the variable; he had to go on the quest, as only then could he influence events. What influence he was to have, he wasn’t sure, but he had faith that it would reveal itself when he was in the right position.
Still—how was he to travel? He remembered all too well the way his father had responded to his pleas the first time. He was too young, too inexperienced, had too much training left to complete for his father to take that risk.
But Gimli was no longer the simple youth he had been. While he had not yet grown into his full breadth, he had reached his full height. He wasn’t yet at his strongest either, though since he had inherited the prodigious Durin strength he was stronger than most; at this point, he was behind only Dori and Dwalin. He would match Dori at his strongest. He was at the top of his training class, but had yet to best Dwalin in combat (however close to it he had come, and he would before much longer). He was not, actually, ready, but hopefully a life as a warrior had gained him a little wisdom. He wouldn’t know until he had a chance to swing his axe if he had kept any of his skill.
He smiled wryly to himself. An impossible task at impossible odds. Sounds about right.
Voices sounded in the hall, and Suhni tied off his last braid. “That’ll be them,” she said, and patted the top of his head as she moved off to open the door, not noticing the way Gimli’s breath caught. Cousin Balin. A marble tomb flashed before his eyes, the long-dark of Khazad-dûm. Oh, Ori. Óin. He drew a shuddering breath and blinked damp eyes.
This would be more difficult than he had imagined.
The door burst open. “Gimli, my lad!” Glóin boomed. “Inúdoy—where are you?”
“Here,” he said, standing. His father stood in the doorway, leonine and strong, beard braided proudly. There were others behind him, but Gimli couldn’t see who.
“There’s my boy,” Glóin crowed, clasping Gimli’s shoulders and knocking their heads together.
“Adad,” Gimli said, grinning, and turned to look at the dwarves still coming into the room.
Óin thumped Gimli’s shoulder as he passed to pour himself a mug of kafé. Balin stood by the door with Suhni.
“Uncle Óin, Cousin Balin. I didn’t know you were coming,” Gimli said.
“We wouldn’t miss it, laddie,” Óin said, sitting at the table with a quiet groan.
Balin nodded. “Aye,” he said. “It’s not often that Thorin addresses the court.” He walked past Óin, waving Glóin off when he offered the kafé pot, and lit his pipe.
Gimli considered what he remembered. There was only one address that Gimli remembered. “So Gandalf’s convinced the king to try for Erebor?”
The room stopped. Óin and Glóin looked at Gimli with near-identical dumbfounded expressions, while Balin narrowed his eyes.
“And how do you know about that, exactly?” Balin asked, and only then did Gimli remember the surprise that had come with Thorin’s resolution. “Those meetings were private.”
“I…” Gimli said, but was at a loss to explain. Legolas had always called him mithril-tongued, but even his was unused to lies. He was saved by his mother.
“Gimli had a dream last night,” Suhni said.
“A dream!” Óin said, dropping his mug to the table with a thunk. “What did you see, lad?”
Suddenly, Gimli knew exactly how he was going to join the Company.
“Many things,” he said, clearing his throat and dropping his voice just a little to resonate through the rooms. He felt like a fair-time act, a charlatan who played at magic for coin. It was a wonder they didn’t all notice immediately. “Not all of it clearly. I didn’t even know that I had dreamed of it until you said, and I knew what would happen. I saw a single mountain, purple against the autumn sky, a city on a lake in flames, and images that made little sense.” He raised an eyebrow. “Gandalf was a frequent sight. As was Thorin looking quite…peeved.”
They were quiet for a moment before Balin snorted. “Well, you saw him clearly, at least,” he muttered.
Óin stood, and gripped Gimli’s arms tightly. “You saw Erebor—tell me lad, did you see her reclaimed?”
“I saw a mountain under siege,” Gimli said, “beset by foes on all sides, and from a dragon within.” He met Óin’s eyes. “I saw myself, full-bearded and starting to grey, walking her corridors, a Dwarf-Lord of Erebor.”
Óin looked at Balin. “We must tell Thorin.” He looked back at Gimli. “How would you like to go on a quest, lad?”
Groin was on his feet in an instant. “Now wait just a moment!”
“Óin,” Balin said, reasonably, “I really don’t think—”
“He’s too damned young!” Glóin cried, slamming his hand on the table. Gimli sighed, but Óin just crossed his arms and stared down his younger brother.
“He’s better trained than you were when you faced a fight for the first time,” Óin said. “And he’s had a true-dream, Glóin! You asked me to read the portents, and Mahal-knows I do the best I can, but I can’t hold a candle to true-dreams! We will need his sight!’
“I will not—!”
“What makes either of you so sure there will be a call to arms?” Balin said. “We’ll need more than our forces here to fight a dragon.”
Óin looked to Gimli and Gimli wondered if it’d be better to feign ignorance. Before he could say anything, Balin packed his pipe away. “Either way, it’s time to hear what Thorin has to say. My dear,” he said with a little bow, offering his arm to Suhni. Suhni took one look at Glóin, still bristling at his brother, and took Balin’s arm. Óin ushered Gimli out with him with an arm around his shoulders. Glóin, grumbling under his breath, followed behind.
***
There was an air of resignation to the halls of the Ered Luin—something Gimli hadn’t realized as a young dwarrow, not knowing anything different. Now, however, Gimli had seen the majesty of Erebor reclaimed, the fallen splendor of Khazad-dûm, and the shining brilliance of Aglarond. In the light of the best his people could build, his childhood home seemed shabby in comparison. Faded. So obviously poor—
Gimli cut off that line of thought. His people leave these mountains. They get their home and their gold and their dignity. They get their glory. They just have to endure these next two years.
Óin tightened his arm around. “Alright, lad?”
“Aye,” Gimli said. “Just a flash.” A flash of second-sight—the feeling that you’d seen something before. Óin squeezed nearly to the point of pain, and Gimli squeezed his eyes shut. These half-truths already grated. To think he’d have to do this for months—possibly years!
“There he is!”
“Gimmers!”
Fíli. Kíli.
“That is not my name,” Gimli growled reflexively, opening his eyes. Fíli—calm, golden, cocky Fíli—had flanked him, while Kíli, grinning like a loon, walked backwards in front of them.
“You’re going to trip,” Óin said.
“No, I’m not,” Kíli said, affronted, and promptly tripped over his own feet, pin wheeling. Fíli laughed, delighted.
Gimli snorted. “A regular picture of grace,” he intoned. Kíli stuck out his tongue, but turned around to walk forward, anyway. The princes had just returned from patrol, and Kíli started to tell the tale of The Stag, The Hornets, and The Incredibly Handsome Archer Prince and His Obviously Tealous Older Brother, while Fíli provided some much more truthful commentary.
When they reached the chamber, Óin gave Gimli a gentle shove towards his cousins. “Go,” he said, “but wait for me, after.” Gimli nodded, and jogged off, following Fíli’s blond head through the crowd.
Kíli must have spotted Ori, as they were headed straight for him despite the dark looks Dori was sending their way. Dori seemed to feel the princes were the worst sort of influence on his younger brother, but at the same time was reluctant to keep him from royal influence, aware that Ori’s connection to the princes afforded him some privilege that Dori himself was unable to provide. (The true lineage of the Brothers Ri had remained a secret until Erebor, and would explain much about Dori’s complicated feelings). Ori, however, brightened when he noticed their approach.
Fíli and Kíli, and by extension Gimli, had met Ori some few decades past when Ori first apprenticed to Balin. There were few enough dwarrows their age in the mountains that the brothers had immediately accepted him into their small circle of friends. Dori was aghast at what he considered Ori’s presumption, something that had confused Kíli, but made Fíli look old and sad, but conceded to the friendship with some prompting from Balin.
“Come on, Ori!” Kíli said, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and steering him off.
“Come where?” Ori asked, his normally shy voice tinged with a fair amount of wariness—Ori always was rather smart.
“Nothing bad, I promise!” Kíli said, and the flat look Ori gave him looked so much like Dori that Gimli couldn’t help but laugh.
“A better view, that’s all,” Fíli assured him, settling into step with Gimli. It happened often enough that it took Gimli a few moments to notice the assessing look on Fíli’s face.
“What?” Gimli asked.
Fíli shook his head. “There’s something different about you, today,” he said. “Something heavy, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
Gimli fought to keep his face free from either surprise or apprehension, but wasn’t quite sure how successful he was; he was an open book even when he had his beard to help obscure his face.
“I had an interesting night,” Gimli said, and grinned. “Maybe I gained the Wisdom of Age that passed Kíli by.”
“You’re just jealous that my beard came in first!” Kíli called back. Ori glanced over his shoulder as well, but tripped and was forced to face wherever it was Kíli dragged him.
“If you can call that a beard,” Gimli returned. He had never seen Kíli with more than a shadow of stubble. He would change that.
Kíli lead them to the left edge of the room, where the stonework had sunk to create a passable ramp to a ledge perfect for four young dwarrows to watch over the heads of the crowd. Kíli went first, then Ori, Gimli, then Fíli was last up.
“Are you sure we should be up here?” Ori asked as they all squeezed onto the ledge. Fíli poked his head over Gimli’s shoulder.
“Not to worry, Ori. We’re princes.”
“That’s right,” Kíli agreed. “It’s got to come with some perks.”
Gimli caught Ori’s eye, crossing his own. Sometimes, Kíli could be incredibly obtuse. Ori bit back a giggle and settled further against the stone. He pulled his journal and a fountain pen from a hidden pocket and started to idly sketch as they waited.
Kíli fidgeted. “Where is he?”
“Maybe he’s lost,” Fíli muttered.
The murmuring of the crowd swelled and crested as Thorin entered the room. He was hard to see at this distance, and Gimli could make out mostly a mass of fur and dark hair. He wore little in the way of trinkets, no great pieces of precious stones, and all he wore that would shine was his mail-armor. Even his sword was unadorned, and hung soldier’s fashion from his hip. Dwalin followed close behind, standing guard while Thorin ascended the dais to speak.
“Dwarves of Ered Luin,” he began, “I speak to you now after long deliberation. We have been here, in the Blue Mountains, for many long years. We have fought and scraped and earned our life seven times over. No longer do we fight like dogs for scraps. We are the Children of Mahal! And we are mighty!” Thorin raised his fist, and the Dwarves stomped their approval.
Thorin held up his hand, and they quieted. “But lately, I look around and I see the faces of our young ones, who have never known the splendor of what our lives could be. Two generations now have been born since the Worm took our home. Two generations who have only stories of our noble history, only fading memories of gold enough for all.
“Tharkûn has been to speak with me. He brings news of the Dragon Smaug—who has not been seen outside the mountain these past sixty years. It is my intention to make for the Erebor with a company, so as to enter the mountain and take back our home!
“Tomorrow, I make for a meeting with our kin. Dáin Ironfoot’s army is without peer, and that witless worm is no match for an army of Dwarves fighting for their birthright!”
The crowd cheered, and Thorin let them. In the light of the hall he appeared as a king of old, and Gimli felt his breath catch. Here was the King Under the Mountain. Here was the dwarf that the Company would follow to their deaths and beyond.
“Khazad-dûm is lost—the battle at the gates has proved that. Erebor, too, was lost to us—but no longer. The time has come to take back the Lonely Mountain! The time has come to take back our home!”
The crowd roared, and Thorin roared louder. “Dwarves of Erebor! We are going home!”
***
After the speech, Óin appeared from the crowd just as Gimli jumped down from his perch. He heard Ori squeak behind him—to be fair, it was a farther height than most Dwarves who had never spent months on horseback, or in the company of elves, would attempt. Óin paused just for a moment, and then took Gimli by the arm and pulled him along to where Thorin was speaking in low tones to Dwalin. As jarring as it was to see the faces of his dead cousins, it was just as jarring to see Dwalin: he had much more hair, and darker, than Gimli was used to, and he moved with the ease of a seasoned warrior in his prime.
Dwalin saw them first, clearing his throat. Thorin paused, turned, and stood a little straighter when he saw who it was. Óin’s status as healer was not inconsiderable, and his status as a visionary was even greater.
Even up close, Thorin really was as larger than life as Gimli remembered—regal, handsome, and with a presence like a thundercloud just over the horizon.
And yet, he looked weary in a way that a truly young Gimli would not have recognized, but Gimli, as he was, recognized very well. It was the look of a leader facing tough times and tougher decisions—of a dwarf who had seen too much strife far too young and for far too long. It was a look he had grown used to on the face of Dáin, had even seen often on Aragorn’s face before his passing, and one he had seen on himself before he sailed with Legolas.
“Cousin Óin,” Thorin said, clapping a hand to Óin’s arm. “And Glóin’s son. You heard, then?”
“Aye,” Óin said. “And you know what a trick that can be.” He held up his horn, and Gimli heard Dwalin snort. Thorin sighed something that could have possibly been a smile.
“I know enough to leave the tricks to you,” Thorin said. “Which trick are you about now?”
“No trick!” Óin said. “We’ve come to sign up to join your quest.”
Thorin looked at them, then past them to where Gimli was sure Glóin and Balin were standing. “Come with me,” he said, and turned, leading them out of the main hall and into his office.
Thorin’s office was rather unlike Dáin’s in Erebor. While they both kept to the austerity of Kings who were warriors first and foremost in a time of hardship, Dáin’s office was still replete with the ornamentation of his station. Thorin’s, by comparison, was plain and while the furnishings were quality, they were also visibly worn and used. King or no, the bulk of Thorin’s share went to his sister and his nephews, and it showed.
Thorin sat at his desk—massive and made of solid oak, well oiled but deeply scratched. Balin took his place by Thorin’s side, holding his magic eye to his face as he shuffled some papers.
Thorin steepled his fingers. “Cousin—we would be glad to have you. Your skills are a healer would prove invaluable. But I’m afraid Glóin’s son cannot come.” It wasn’t unexpected, but still Gimli felt a jolt of disappointment.
“Oh, now—“ Óin began.
“Finally!” Glóin said. “Someone is speaking some sense!”
“I’ll show you sense!” Óin said, raising his trumpet as if to strike him.
“You and what army?” Glóin huffed, puffing his chest and stomping forward.
“Dáin’s hopefully,” Thorin injected, wry. “But he has yet to respond to my ravens.” It pulled the fight out of Óin and Glóin, and Óin stepped forward with renewed purpose. “Cousin,” he began. “I ask that you reconsider young Gimli, here.”
But Thorin shook his head. “Absolutely not,” Thorin said. “He’s far too young—he doesn’t even have his first whiskers yet!”
Óin was not so easily deterred. “He’s a deft hand with his axe—a born natural,” Óin said. “He can hold his own.”
“The lad is gifted,” Dwalin rumbled. “But he needs practice. He’s yet to beat me in single combat.”
Óin scoffed. “I’ve never beaten you in single combat. If we’re waiting on that, he’d never leave the mountain.”
“He can hear you,” Gimli muttered hotly. He wasn’t going to interrupt—to be seen as young and impulsive would work against him in the long run—but he would defeat Dwalin. Gimli would come to be known across the lands for his axe work. He had his pride!
“Eh?” Óin asked, raising his trumpet to his ear rather then as a cudgel at last. “Oh. Sorry, lad,” Óin said.
“It’s too dangerous,” Glóin said, coming forward and placing his hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “I can’t risk you like that.” He looked up. “Leave it, brother.”
“I cannot,” Óin said, softer now. “I’m sorry, but everything that I am is telling me that Gimli must come with us.” He turned to Thorin. “Gimli has been true-dreaming about this quest. He is an asset that you will need.”
But Thorin shook his head. “That is a matter of opinion,” he said. “And not one that I share.”
“Thorin—“ Óin began.
“Enough!” Thorin said, slamming a hand to the desk with a resounding thwap. “I don’t care if the lad can wield Mahal’s own bloody hammer! He is too young and that’s final.”
“I understand,” Gimli said, making all eyes turn to him. He raised his chin—he was a Dwarf Lord of Erebor, Lord of Aglarond, Elf-friend and one of the Three Hunters, Champion of the Lady Galadriel and Lock Bearer, not a quailing dwarfling. He would comport himself as such. His mother, at least, saw something, and she gasped quietly.
Thorin met his eyes and Gimli stared back. “But you do not agree,” Thorin said.
“That matters not,” Gimli said. “You’re my king.”
Thorin raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t seem to stop certain members of your family,” Thorin said with dry humor.
Gimli said quietly, “Our family.” Balin looked up at him, then, eyes narrowed. It was a good move, appealing to Thorin’s respect for family ties, and one a younger Gimli might not have thought to make. Balin seemed torn between approval of the tactic, a strong skill required in any diplomat, and his own belief that Gimli was not ready to join them.
After a moment, Thorin nodded. “Aye. Our family. And all the more reason for you to stay here.”
“Or all the more reason to go,” Gimli said, then nodded his head. “I know I am young. Untested. I would hesitate to take me on. I still think you should.” He had to play this carefully—it would go just as poorly to understep as it would to overstep, here.
Thorin regarded him steadily. “Know that this is not a slight to your bravery—or your honor.”
“Only my age, and with it my skill. Aye, I know.” Gimli lowered his eyes for a moment. Preheated a different tact. “When you get to Hobbiton,” he said slowly, “bear left at the second fork, or you’ll miss supper. And do not dismiss the hobbit too readily, for the quest will prove a whetstone, not a sledgehammer.” He looked up and bowed, taking his leave to the bewildered faces of his kin.
Well. So much for the easy way.