Post by Seek on Dec 14, 2014 20:11:27 GMT 10
Title: Choices
Rating: PG
For: Ryn
Prompt: 1. Messenger Service AU – something along the lines of Green Rider or Valdemar Heralds preferred, but modern bike messaging works too
Summary: Alanna makes a choice. Unfortunately, so does the horse.
Notes: Velgarth AU for Tortall. Also, I realised too late that it may not be exactly what the OP wanted...Still, happy Wishing Tree!
-
“That is my decision. We need not discuss it,” said the man at the desk. He was already looking at a book. His two children left the room, closing the door behind them.
“I told you so,” Thom muttered, irritably. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his breeches and scowled. “He doesn’t care about what we want.”
Alanna glared at him. “We had to try,” she retorted. “You don’t want to go to Court and become a knight—and I don’t want to go to the convent and become a lady. ‘Walk slowly, Alanna!’ ‘Shoulders back, Alanna!’” Thom stifled amusement at his sister’s imitating the voice of the etiquette master at Fief Trebond. She kicked out at the flagstones of the corridor. “As if that’s all I can do with myself. I want more.”
“If only you were a Herald,” Thom said. “They don’t care if you’re a girl. One of those Companions picks you and that’s it. You’re in for life.”
Alanna rolled her eyes. “And when’s the last time one of those rode out on circuit here? We’re too far north off the usual routes. I can’t remember. Can you? No. There has to be another way. I’m not sitting around and waiting for a horse to pick me.”
They reached the hall and checked it for servants. “Thom,” Alanna said slowly, biting her lip. “I think I have an idea.”
Her twin glanced at her dubiously—he’d had prior experience with Alanna’s ideas, most of them downright crazy. “What?” Thom wanted to know.
“Father gives us the letters tomorrow,” Alanna said. “One for the sisters at the convent, and one for the training master at the palace. You can take a look at them and rewrite them. You’re good at this sort of thing. And then you go to the convent and put it in the letter that you’re to train as a sorcerer. I go to the palace and train in your place.”
“That’s crazy,” Thom argued, “You can’t go swimming, for one. And what happens when you start turning into a proper girl, with a chest and all?”
“I’ll cut my hair,” Alanna retorted. “And the rest—I’ll handle it when it comes to it.”
Thom looked highly dubious, so she added, “How much do you want this, Thom?”
He straightened up. His violet eyes were cold. “Just show me the way.”
-
Alanna got her first glimpse of the Heralds’ compound as they rode into Corus and moved from Market Way to Palace Way. The Heralds had a Collegium of their own, built a short distance away from the palace. She’d heard of it, but she had no idea how closely the pages and the Herald trainees worked. “That’s Companion’s Field,” Coram said, his voice low. He’d caught the direction of her gaze; a whole sea of white, glossy horses were grazing there.
Alanna gazed at them, transfixed. Those were Companions, she thought, and suddenly, she understood why everyone in the kingdom of Tortall revered the Companions. Their coats seemed to burn bright silver to her gaze.
“C’mon, lass,” Coram said, nudging her. “We don’t have time for this. Yon Duke’s waitin’ for ye, and ye don’t want to be late. He’ll tan yer hide for ye.”
Alanna nodded, and quickly urged Chubby on.
-
“You are here, Alan of Trebond,” said Duke Gareth of Naxen, “To learn what it is to be a knight and a noble of Tortall. As such, you will work hard. Until you are fourteen, you will be a page. You will divide your time between the fighting arts, and learning to think.” He gave a thin smile. “If we succeed. When your masters deem you ready, at fourteen, you will be made a squire. Perhaps a knight will take you as his squire; if so, you will tend to his belongings, run his errands, and protect his interests. Your lessons will only get harder, of course. At eighteen, you will take the Ordeal of Knighthood. The Ordeal is…dangerous,” he said, finally. “If you survive, you’ll be a Knight of Tortall. Not everyone survives, of course.”
He held up a hand; Alanna noticed he was missing a finger. “I lost this in the Chamber of the Ordeal.”
Had Alanna been glancing to the side, she would’ve seen Coram rolling his eyes.
“Of course,” the Duke went on, “If a Companion picks you, in the middle of your training…” his voice trailed off. “That’s happened only twice before, and we’ll cross that bridge if you come to it. One of the pages will be your sponsor—he’ll show you how things are done. Until you are familiar with the palace and your duties, you’ll be in his charge. Misbehave, and you’ll see how harsh I can be. Prove yourself worthy, and you’ll be granted some free time to go into the city. And make no mistake—you will earn every privilege three times over. You’re here to learn chivalry, not to have a good time. Any questions?”
“No, your lordship,” Alanna murmured, overwhelmed.
“A Duke is addressed as ‘your Grace’,” Duke Gareth said, “Not ‘your Lordship’.” He did offer her a faint smile. “It is a hard life, young Alan, but you’ll get used to it.”
“Yes, your Grace,” Alanna said, and hoped she wasn’t colouring at the mistake.
-
“The last time someone was Chosen?” Gary blinked. “Can’t say I remember it. The heir is always Chosen, of course—whoever who inherits the throne has to be a Herald, so there’s that. But the Heralds and the Companions apparently have a talk or something, and so the Companion in question usually Chooses the heir after the heir in question has come out of the Chamber of the Ordeal and has been knighted.”
“So Jon…” Alanna’s voice trailed off.
Gary shrugged. “He’s going to be Chosen, of course,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Just not yet. But you were asking about the last time one of us was Chosen. That I can’t remember. Why’re you asking?” he raised brown eyebrows. “Thinking of getting a Companion of your own?”
Alanna made a face. “I want to go off, have adventures and see the world outside Tortall after I’ve gotten my shield, thank you very much,” she informed him. “Heralds don’t get to do that.”
Gary laughed.
-
Things had been going well. Alanna was adjusting to palace life and generally doing well in her classes. She’d fended off Ralon of Malven, and protected her honour in the eyes of her fellow nobles.
The first blow was the death of the King’s Own Herald. Conal of King’s Reach was a loyal and dependable man, and he’d been bonded to the Companion, Taver. But Conal was found in the city with ten crossbow bolts through his heart, and the Provost’s Guard hadn’t the faintest idea who had killed him.
To add to that, Taver seemed in no hurry to Choose the next King’s Own. This did nothing for the nerves of the nobles at the palace and the King’s Council. In addition, or so Gary had heard from eavesdropping, the Companions had been more enigmatic than usual, refusing all comment on the matter, except to inform their Chosen that they had the matter well in hand, thank you very much.
And then, to make matters worse, the Sweating Sickness came.
It swept through the palace at once, brutal and unstoppable, sending most servants, pages, and squires to their beds. The palace healers, with the aid of the Heralds, did their best to control the sickness. The ill were confined and placed under quarantine, but still, the Sickness spread.
Duke Baird, the chief of the King’s Healers, was at a loss. Healers reported soon after that the Sickness drained their Gift. They fought off the Sickness in a patient, only for it to reappear in some other form. Healers had killed themselves, trying to save patients, who would only die soon after.
And then, Gary fell sick.
“Stay out of here,” he informed her firmly, as Alanna stood in the doorway of his sickroom. “You—” he coughed, and it was all Alanna could do to not rush over and steady him. “You don’t want to catch this too,” he gasped. “And the healers say I’m well on the way to recovery, so just stay out and take care of yourself. Understand?”
Alanna nodded, resigned, and kept back. “Get well soon,” she told her friend, quietly, and hoped it was not a farewell.
-
Gary recovered—he had been the first of Alanna’s close friends to fall ill, and Raoul and Alex soon recovered after him. But Francis—shy Francis, who knew everything there was to know about horses and fighting with them—didn’t. Jon rapped on her door in the middle of the night, and when a bleary-eyed Alanna opened it, he said, “Francis is dead.”
Alanna looked at him—his dishevelled appearance, his red-rimmed eyes, and fought back her own tears.
They entered the chapel, where the bodies of the dead had been set aside, in preparation for burial. Saying goodbye was hard; Francis’s body lay cold and still on the altar, and Raoul was a lone figure, hunched over his closest friend.
Alanna felt both guilt and fury rise in her. She had the Gift, she knew. Maude had trained her in healing—said she had a talent for it. Maude had, in fact, cautioned her. The gods mean their gifts to be used, she’d said, right before Alanna had left Trebond. Heal, child. Heal all you can, to make up for the lives you’re going to take.
It had never sounded so forboding, until this point.
She turned, and walked out of the chapel, so she wouldn’t break down in front of her friends. Pages didn’t cry.
-
The night after, Coram woke her. “Prince Jonathan caught th’ Sickness last night. He’s callin’ for ye.”
Alanna dropped the bundle of clothes she’d been mending. “How bad?”
“Very bad,” Timon said. She’d missed Duke Gareth’s servant in her exhausted trance, Alanna realised. More and more duties had gone to the pages, as the palace servants, too, fell sick.
She bit her lip. The gods mean their gifts to be used.
“I’ll go,” Alanna said.
-
Jon was dying. And there was nothing Alanna could do. The Sweating Sickness sapped strength from her; she burned the disease from Jon’s body time and again, only for it to reappear in different forms, as dark and ugly shadows ravaging her friend.
She was so tired she could barely light a candle. Instead, she fumbled with flint and steel, her fingers gone strangely clumsy, until the dwindling fire in the fireplace was stoked and burned with renewed strength.
The room was so hot that her thoughts seemed thick, like honey. And still, she could not combat the rising fever that burned through Jon, that cracked his lips until they bled.
She was at the last packet of herbs now. She turned it over, dully, and realised that it contained vervain.
Time, then. She was too tired to wince. There was a spell. Maude had taught it to her, had firmly stressed that it was for when everything else failed. If it worked, it would summon the Greater Powers—the gods themselves. She had no business trying it, though. Greater and stronger sorcerers than her had burned themselves up trying to call upon the gods, and she was so exhausted.
Slowly, very slowly, her bones aching, Alanna went over and knelt before the fire, whispering the words of the spell. She tore open the packet of vervain and tossed the herbs onto the fire. And because of her exhaustion, it seemed an eternity before the flames turned a pale purple.
“Dark Goddess, Great Mother, show me the way. Open the gates to me. Guide me, Mother of the mountains and mares—”
The fire roared up, all of a sudden, like a thunderclap. If Alanna had not been so drained, she might have flinched back. As it was—
And then—
She heard the bell-note of Companion hooves striking the flagstones, found herself turning around, mesmerised. Two silvery figures darted into the room, graceful and majestic. She’d never seen a Companion so close before. How did they get here—Alanna wondered, and then—
Blue, a shade paler than Conté blue. She was falling into it, into an eternal expanse, feeling herself reach out, feeling someone catch her, grab her hand, arrest her fall in a sudden jolt that brought her back into the world, back into the room where Jon, her best friend, was dying.
:I am Taver,: said the calm presence in her head, :And I Choose you, Alanna of Trebond.:
:Jon is dying!: Alanna flung back, at the horse. :What are you doing, we need to save him!:
Taver was undisturbed. :Gawyn has stabilised him,: he said, calmly. :And I will lend you my strength, Chosen. He is not in immediate danger, but we must work quickly.:
Gawyn—Alanna stared, and realised that the other Companion had managed to insinuate himself next to Jon’s bed, somehow, and that his hand had crept up to make contact with the Companion’s white coat. “Do I need to—?” she asked aloud.
:You may find that contact helps our weak bond, yes,: Taver informed her.
“You could’ve told me that earlier,” Alanna muttered, annoyed. She stood up, reached out a hand and placed it firmly on Taver. At the same time, she stepped forward, trying to ease into the space that the other Companion—:Gawyn,: Taver supplied helpfully—had left for her. At least Taver was a helpful crutch, allowing her to keep her balance.
Finally, they were by Jon’s side, Gawyn shifting aside to make room for her. :Here, Chosen,: Taver murmured, quietly, and strength filled her; it was like Taver, Alanna thought, though she could not have known it before this moment—like quicksilver, flowing up from deep wellsprings and into her.
Taver.
Goddess. “…I’m going to be the King’s Own Herald, aren’t I?” Alanna realised. She was not sure she liked the idea. She wanted to be a knight, and Heralds were generally restricted to Tortall’s borders.
:Chosen,: Taver’s voice was filled with light amusement. :We have other things to do, don’t you think? We can settle the rest when it happens.:
“Yes,” Alanna muttered. “We will, horse.” She reached out, her hand burning bright with amethyst fire, and laid it on Jon’s forehead. “Jon,” she whispered, watching the azure luminescence of his Gift blaze to life from contact with Gawyn. “It’s time to come home, now.”
Rating: PG
For: Ryn
Prompt: 1. Messenger Service AU – something along the lines of Green Rider or Valdemar Heralds preferred, but modern bike messaging works too
Summary: Alanna makes a choice. Unfortunately, so does the horse.
Notes: Velgarth AU for Tortall. Also, I realised too late that it may not be exactly what the OP wanted...Still, happy Wishing Tree!
-
“That is my decision. We need not discuss it,” said the man at the desk. He was already looking at a book. His two children left the room, closing the door behind them.
“I told you so,” Thom muttered, irritably. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his breeches and scowled. “He doesn’t care about what we want.”
Alanna glared at him. “We had to try,” she retorted. “You don’t want to go to Court and become a knight—and I don’t want to go to the convent and become a lady. ‘Walk slowly, Alanna!’ ‘Shoulders back, Alanna!’” Thom stifled amusement at his sister’s imitating the voice of the etiquette master at Fief Trebond. She kicked out at the flagstones of the corridor. “As if that’s all I can do with myself. I want more.”
“If only you were a Herald,” Thom said. “They don’t care if you’re a girl. One of those Companions picks you and that’s it. You’re in for life.”
Alanna rolled her eyes. “And when’s the last time one of those rode out on circuit here? We’re too far north off the usual routes. I can’t remember. Can you? No. There has to be another way. I’m not sitting around and waiting for a horse to pick me.”
They reached the hall and checked it for servants. “Thom,” Alanna said slowly, biting her lip. “I think I have an idea.”
Her twin glanced at her dubiously—he’d had prior experience with Alanna’s ideas, most of them downright crazy. “What?” Thom wanted to know.
“Father gives us the letters tomorrow,” Alanna said. “One for the sisters at the convent, and one for the training master at the palace. You can take a look at them and rewrite them. You’re good at this sort of thing. And then you go to the convent and put it in the letter that you’re to train as a sorcerer. I go to the palace and train in your place.”
“That’s crazy,” Thom argued, “You can’t go swimming, for one. And what happens when you start turning into a proper girl, with a chest and all?”
“I’ll cut my hair,” Alanna retorted. “And the rest—I’ll handle it when it comes to it.”
Thom looked highly dubious, so she added, “How much do you want this, Thom?”
He straightened up. His violet eyes were cold. “Just show me the way.”
-
Alanna got her first glimpse of the Heralds’ compound as they rode into Corus and moved from Market Way to Palace Way. The Heralds had a Collegium of their own, built a short distance away from the palace. She’d heard of it, but she had no idea how closely the pages and the Herald trainees worked. “That’s Companion’s Field,” Coram said, his voice low. He’d caught the direction of her gaze; a whole sea of white, glossy horses were grazing there.
Alanna gazed at them, transfixed. Those were Companions, she thought, and suddenly, she understood why everyone in the kingdom of Tortall revered the Companions. Their coats seemed to burn bright silver to her gaze.
“C’mon, lass,” Coram said, nudging her. “We don’t have time for this. Yon Duke’s waitin’ for ye, and ye don’t want to be late. He’ll tan yer hide for ye.”
Alanna nodded, and quickly urged Chubby on.
-
“You are here, Alan of Trebond,” said Duke Gareth of Naxen, “To learn what it is to be a knight and a noble of Tortall. As such, you will work hard. Until you are fourteen, you will be a page. You will divide your time between the fighting arts, and learning to think.” He gave a thin smile. “If we succeed. When your masters deem you ready, at fourteen, you will be made a squire. Perhaps a knight will take you as his squire; if so, you will tend to his belongings, run his errands, and protect his interests. Your lessons will only get harder, of course. At eighteen, you will take the Ordeal of Knighthood. The Ordeal is…dangerous,” he said, finally. “If you survive, you’ll be a Knight of Tortall. Not everyone survives, of course.”
He held up a hand; Alanna noticed he was missing a finger. “I lost this in the Chamber of the Ordeal.”
Had Alanna been glancing to the side, she would’ve seen Coram rolling his eyes.
“Of course,” the Duke went on, “If a Companion picks you, in the middle of your training…” his voice trailed off. “That’s happened only twice before, and we’ll cross that bridge if you come to it. One of the pages will be your sponsor—he’ll show you how things are done. Until you are familiar with the palace and your duties, you’ll be in his charge. Misbehave, and you’ll see how harsh I can be. Prove yourself worthy, and you’ll be granted some free time to go into the city. And make no mistake—you will earn every privilege three times over. You’re here to learn chivalry, not to have a good time. Any questions?”
“No, your lordship,” Alanna murmured, overwhelmed.
“A Duke is addressed as ‘your Grace’,” Duke Gareth said, “Not ‘your Lordship’.” He did offer her a faint smile. “It is a hard life, young Alan, but you’ll get used to it.”
“Yes, your Grace,” Alanna said, and hoped she wasn’t colouring at the mistake.
-
“The last time someone was Chosen?” Gary blinked. “Can’t say I remember it. The heir is always Chosen, of course—whoever who inherits the throne has to be a Herald, so there’s that. But the Heralds and the Companions apparently have a talk or something, and so the Companion in question usually Chooses the heir after the heir in question has come out of the Chamber of the Ordeal and has been knighted.”
“So Jon…” Alanna’s voice trailed off.
Gary shrugged. “He’s going to be Chosen, of course,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Just not yet. But you were asking about the last time one of us was Chosen. That I can’t remember. Why’re you asking?” he raised brown eyebrows. “Thinking of getting a Companion of your own?”
Alanna made a face. “I want to go off, have adventures and see the world outside Tortall after I’ve gotten my shield, thank you very much,” she informed him. “Heralds don’t get to do that.”
Gary laughed.
-
Things had been going well. Alanna was adjusting to palace life and generally doing well in her classes. She’d fended off Ralon of Malven, and protected her honour in the eyes of her fellow nobles.
The first blow was the death of the King’s Own Herald. Conal of King’s Reach was a loyal and dependable man, and he’d been bonded to the Companion, Taver. But Conal was found in the city with ten crossbow bolts through his heart, and the Provost’s Guard hadn’t the faintest idea who had killed him.
To add to that, Taver seemed in no hurry to Choose the next King’s Own. This did nothing for the nerves of the nobles at the palace and the King’s Council. In addition, or so Gary had heard from eavesdropping, the Companions had been more enigmatic than usual, refusing all comment on the matter, except to inform their Chosen that they had the matter well in hand, thank you very much.
And then, to make matters worse, the Sweating Sickness came.
It swept through the palace at once, brutal and unstoppable, sending most servants, pages, and squires to their beds. The palace healers, with the aid of the Heralds, did their best to control the sickness. The ill were confined and placed under quarantine, but still, the Sickness spread.
Duke Baird, the chief of the King’s Healers, was at a loss. Healers reported soon after that the Sickness drained their Gift. They fought off the Sickness in a patient, only for it to reappear in some other form. Healers had killed themselves, trying to save patients, who would only die soon after.
And then, Gary fell sick.
“Stay out of here,” he informed her firmly, as Alanna stood in the doorway of his sickroom. “You—” he coughed, and it was all Alanna could do to not rush over and steady him. “You don’t want to catch this too,” he gasped. “And the healers say I’m well on the way to recovery, so just stay out and take care of yourself. Understand?”
Alanna nodded, resigned, and kept back. “Get well soon,” she told her friend, quietly, and hoped it was not a farewell.
-
Gary recovered—he had been the first of Alanna’s close friends to fall ill, and Raoul and Alex soon recovered after him. But Francis—shy Francis, who knew everything there was to know about horses and fighting with them—didn’t. Jon rapped on her door in the middle of the night, and when a bleary-eyed Alanna opened it, he said, “Francis is dead.”
Alanna looked at him—his dishevelled appearance, his red-rimmed eyes, and fought back her own tears.
They entered the chapel, where the bodies of the dead had been set aside, in preparation for burial. Saying goodbye was hard; Francis’s body lay cold and still on the altar, and Raoul was a lone figure, hunched over his closest friend.
Alanna felt both guilt and fury rise in her. She had the Gift, she knew. Maude had trained her in healing—said she had a talent for it. Maude had, in fact, cautioned her. The gods mean their gifts to be used, she’d said, right before Alanna had left Trebond. Heal, child. Heal all you can, to make up for the lives you’re going to take.
It had never sounded so forboding, until this point.
She turned, and walked out of the chapel, so she wouldn’t break down in front of her friends. Pages didn’t cry.
-
The night after, Coram woke her. “Prince Jonathan caught th’ Sickness last night. He’s callin’ for ye.”
Alanna dropped the bundle of clothes she’d been mending. “How bad?”
“Very bad,” Timon said. She’d missed Duke Gareth’s servant in her exhausted trance, Alanna realised. More and more duties had gone to the pages, as the palace servants, too, fell sick.
She bit her lip. The gods mean their gifts to be used.
“I’ll go,” Alanna said.
-
Jon was dying. And there was nothing Alanna could do. The Sweating Sickness sapped strength from her; she burned the disease from Jon’s body time and again, only for it to reappear in different forms, as dark and ugly shadows ravaging her friend.
She was so tired she could barely light a candle. Instead, she fumbled with flint and steel, her fingers gone strangely clumsy, until the dwindling fire in the fireplace was stoked and burned with renewed strength.
The room was so hot that her thoughts seemed thick, like honey. And still, she could not combat the rising fever that burned through Jon, that cracked his lips until they bled.
She was at the last packet of herbs now. She turned it over, dully, and realised that it contained vervain.
Time, then. She was too tired to wince. There was a spell. Maude had taught it to her, had firmly stressed that it was for when everything else failed. If it worked, it would summon the Greater Powers—the gods themselves. She had no business trying it, though. Greater and stronger sorcerers than her had burned themselves up trying to call upon the gods, and she was so exhausted.
Slowly, very slowly, her bones aching, Alanna went over and knelt before the fire, whispering the words of the spell. She tore open the packet of vervain and tossed the herbs onto the fire. And because of her exhaustion, it seemed an eternity before the flames turned a pale purple.
“Dark Goddess, Great Mother, show me the way. Open the gates to me. Guide me, Mother of the mountains and mares—”
The fire roared up, all of a sudden, like a thunderclap. If Alanna had not been so drained, she might have flinched back. As it was—
And then—
She heard the bell-note of Companion hooves striking the flagstones, found herself turning around, mesmerised. Two silvery figures darted into the room, graceful and majestic. She’d never seen a Companion so close before. How did they get here—Alanna wondered, and then—
Blue, a shade paler than Conté blue. She was falling into it, into an eternal expanse, feeling herself reach out, feeling someone catch her, grab her hand, arrest her fall in a sudden jolt that brought her back into the world, back into the room where Jon, her best friend, was dying.
:I am Taver,: said the calm presence in her head, :And I Choose you, Alanna of Trebond.:
:Jon is dying!: Alanna flung back, at the horse. :What are you doing, we need to save him!:
Taver was undisturbed. :Gawyn has stabilised him,: he said, calmly. :And I will lend you my strength, Chosen. He is not in immediate danger, but we must work quickly.:
Gawyn—Alanna stared, and realised that the other Companion had managed to insinuate himself next to Jon’s bed, somehow, and that his hand had crept up to make contact with the Companion’s white coat. “Do I need to—?” she asked aloud.
:You may find that contact helps our weak bond, yes,: Taver informed her.
“You could’ve told me that earlier,” Alanna muttered, annoyed. She stood up, reached out a hand and placed it firmly on Taver. At the same time, she stepped forward, trying to ease into the space that the other Companion—:Gawyn,: Taver supplied helpfully—had left for her. At least Taver was a helpful crutch, allowing her to keep her balance.
Finally, they were by Jon’s side, Gawyn shifting aside to make room for her. :Here, Chosen,: Taver murmured, quietly, and strength filled her; it was like Taver, Alanna thought, though she could not have known it before this moment—like quicksilver, flowing up from deep wellsprings and into her.
Taver.
Goddess. “…I’m going to be the King’s Own Herald, aren’t I?” Alanna realised. She was not sure she liked the idea. She wanted to be a knight, and Heralds were generally restricted to Tortall’s borders.
:Chosen,: Taver’s voice was filled with light amusement. :We have other things to do, don’t you think? We can settle the rest when it happens.:
“Yes,” Alanna muttered. “We will, horse.” She reached out, her hand burning bright with amethyst fire, and laid it on Jon’s forehead. “Jon,” she whispered, watching the azure luminescence of his Gift blaze to life from contact with Gawyn. “It’s time to come home, now.”