Chapter Nineteen

In truth, riding with Sorcha in his embrace over the last few days, with her body soft and tempting against him while desire hadn't yet been met had at times been a challenge, but sharing a saddle with her now, when the taste of her was fresh, after he'd explored nearly every inch of her delectable body, and when he knew what delights could be found in her arms, proved almost dangerous. Concentration was hard to come by, and Augustus had to force himself to resist images and a return of sensations of the night spent with her. Of course, there were moments when the trail was easy and no threat was imminent when he recounted as many moments as he was able, and to great satisfaction.

She hadn't proved so much a revelation in his arms for the passion she exhibited, and that without a shred of shame, as she had simply confirmed what he'd suspected about her: she was bold and fierce in her loving as she was in life, and completely without fear, without reservation. ?Twas as satisfying to Augustus as was her response to his touch—she desired him as he did her and wasn't afraid to show it.

What remained of the MacKenzies, their numbers mournfully depleted by thirty-two after de Montfort's attack marched north from Gylmyne under a watery gray sky that threatened at any moment to open up on them. And while the MacKenzies were generally pleased to have been reunited to this number, a pervasive somberness hung over the force, for all those lost so tragically and wastefully to one man's greed and deception. Still, Augustus understood they were profoundly fortunate to not have suffered greater losses, attributing that to the mighty prowess of his army and the unwavering fervor that regularly coursed through them in the heat of battle.

Augustus knew that when the time came, he would be called to rally them from their gloom, to raise their dispirited mindsets to defiance and robust fury, to elevate them once more to their proud fighting spirits as would be required of them to lay siege to Ironwood.

Before that, however, they needed to return to the scene of the ambush and respect their fallen. He didn't relish the tableau that awaited them. Bodies left unburied even for a few days and at the mercy of the elements, tended to decay grotesquely, and quite often became food for scavengers—birds, wild animals, and even thieves.

Sorcha, huddled in front of him with the MacKenzie plaid covering her head and all her upper body against the creeping, icy fog and the damp chill, turned her face toward him. "What will you do when this is done?" she asked. "When the siege at Ironwood is finished, to satisfaction or not, what will you do then?"

Though he suspected there was a deeper question behind the straightforward one, he answered the one she'd voiced.

"Back to war I'll go. Find the king's army and join in their battles."

Though she kept her head turned and her gaze on the dreary scenery passing at her right, she did not reply to his response, prompting Augustus to query, "And what of ye? I'll nae abandon Caol nor Ironwood until de Montfort is conquered—in what fashion I dinna ken yet—but what will ye do when he is gone?"

"I...I'm not sure. I suppose I might keep on in Caol, rebuilding my hives. Mayhap peace will come for the threat of de Montfort having been removed. But I'm not sure. I hadn't given it much thought."

Speaking from the heart, about the emotion and an idea that came to life within him, Augustus said without hesitation, "I want ye with me," he said. "Or at Strontian, waiting for me, until the fight is done."

There was no immediate response; she did not move or speak for so long a moment that Augustus held his breath, dread rising with each second that she remained silent.

"Really?" she finally replied, her voice soft and filled with wonder. "You would want that?"

Augustus blew out the breath he'd been holding, relief tempering a sudden fierceness and rigidity that had overwhelmed him. "Aye. A fine apiary has Strontian, by the way. Auld Cuilén has been keeping bees for longer than I've been alive."

She straightened against him, her interest piqued. "Is it very large? Is it just one apiary or are there many? How many bees does he have?"

Augustus chuckled. "Calm yerself, lass, lest I believe ye more interested in the bees at Strontian than its laird."

Another long stretch of silence ensued before Sorcha leaned languidly against him, her face turned toward his chest. "I am, though, very interested in Strontian's laird."

His breath caught at her words and instinctively he tightened his arm possessively around her middle. At the same time, he grappled with thoughts that seldom dared to surface before. Sorcha's presence in his life had stirred something within him, something unfamiliar and yet undeniably potent. It wasn't love, but then he couldn't be sure, having not experienced feelings so profound as what he did for Sorcha. Mayhap it wasn't love in the conventional sense that poets and minstrels sang of, but rather a newfound sense of hope, a bright flickering ember to reach for amidst the darkness of war and death and destruction.

For as long as he could remember, Augustus had been consumed by the relentless pursuit of freedom, of victory on the battlefield, and the stewardship and welfare of his people. Love and companionship had been distant concepts, relegated to the realm of fantasy as he immersed himself in the harsh realities of war and politics. The notion of a woman waiting for him at Strontian seemed surreal, a departure from the solitary, military existence he had grown accustomed to. Never before had he allowed himself to be swayed by matters of the heart, never permitted himself to become entangled in the complexities of romantic entanglements—or, in reality, had never met anyone who gave him reason to. But Sorcha with her fiery spirit and her hypnotizing beauty, was different. The prospect of her waiting for him, of finding solace in her embrace after the turmoil of battle, stirred something primal and desirous within him, for something he hadn't known he wanted or needed, but that was now within his grasp.

Yet, as he pondered the implications of his blissful obsession with Sorcha and these nebulous plans just made, a nagging uncertainty gnawed at the newfound edges of hope. Would her presence weaken his resolve, dull the edge of his sword, as his thoughts wandered to her instead of the battlefield? Could he afford the luxury of affection when the kingdom"s fate hung in the balance? Would he be expected or forced to leave behind the persona he had meticulously honed over the years, the Rebel of Lochaber Forest. It was a moniker steeped in legend and fear, a symbol of defiance against tyranny and oppression. To relinquish it would be to forsake a part of himself. Augustus found himself torn as he weighed the cost of holding onto that identity against the promise of a future with Sorcha. Could he reconcile the two facets of his being, the hardened warrior and the potential lover, or would they forever remain at odds?

The answer eluded him. Whether he could truly give up his legend, his legacy, remained to be seen. But for Sorcha, he was willing to entertain the notion, and for now he could only dwell on the possibility of a life beyond the battlefield, as he'd never had cause to do before now.

When they were but half a mile out from Ashgill's Pass, a more palpable somberness settled over the ranks. The air was heavy with grief and solemnity, and then came the rain, light and cold, so that each step closer seemed even further weighed down by the burden of loss.

Augustus took the steed upon which they rode out of the marching line and waited for Wycliffe to come. Inclining his head at the Englishman, he bade him approach and when he did, announced, "Take the lass with ye. I dinna want her near the site. Keep her atop the crag, and safe."

Wycliffe nodded, understanding the assignment, that Augustus didn't want her anywhere near what would surely be a brutal scene. Sorcha said not a word as Wycliffe brought his horse directly beside the one Augustus rode, and she was transferred to the saddle with Wycliffe. Imagining that she appeared tiny when sharing the saddle with him, Augustus fleetingly noted with a raised brow that she all but disappeared inside the massive embrace of the Englishman as they trotted off.

Ere they dispersed, Augustus heard Wycliffe say to Sorcha, "No choice now but to speak to me."

Sorcha's quiet retort and the light tone in which it was delivered hinted strongly at a softening toward Wycliffe.

"I don't believe either of us expected I'd have been able to maintain the silence for as long as I did."

Wycliffe's responding chuckle grew softer the further away Augustus went.

Coming upon the site shortly thereafter, Augustus was pleased for his decision to distance Sorcha from himself and the cruel scene. Though a seasoned warrior himself, it was hard for him to see.

Though more than a hundred MacKenzies descended upon the scene, they had few implements, naught but a few short-handled spades carried in saddle bags, and two shovels they'd purchased in Gylmyne. And because of Augustus's insistence that the slain MacKenzies be buried properly—outside the pass and singularly, not in a mass grave—it took them the rest of the morning, the entire afternoon, and most of the evening to complete the heart-sickening task. All the while, the rain continued to soak them, the grim weather a fine companion to their sour and sore moods.

There was a time, shortly after noon, when the rain did briefly lessen to a fine and constant mist, and a song came down from the top of the crag. At first, it was but a faint echo, carried on the same spray of mist that fell over the narrow glen, but soon it grew in strength and clarity, piercing through the somber silence that enveloped the MacKenzie soldiers as they toiled to bury their fallen kin.

Somewhere above them, her face and figure unseen, Sorcha's voice rose like a mournful lament. The haunting melody floated downward, filling the air with a sense of sorrow and reverence.

One by one, as they realized the sound, the soldiers paused in their work to listen, sorrow and awe washing over them. Sorcha"s voice, though somber, carried a note of solace, and Augustus was pleased and proud of the song she sang.

"While shadows claim their mortal frame," she sang in part, "their deeds of valor light a flame. Blessed life they were denied, but in your hearts they will abide."

As ever, her voice was an epiphany, conveying peace and serenity that, for several moments, seemed to soothe the weary souls of all who heard it.

Misty-eyed, Geddy commented when the final notes of the song had drifted away on the wind, "That'll stay with me, the bonniest send-off I've ever heard."

Later, they made camp atop the crag, upwind, not far from where Sorcha had sung the mournful ballad, the day having drained them too much so that moving onto Caol was put off until the morrow.

Sitting under a gracious fir, whose boughs offered minimal protection against the rain and cold, Augustus passed the night sleeping with Sorcha in his arms, inside his plaid, opened and tented over them as cover. Scarcely had they spoken, words nearly meaningless and attempts at conversation seeming an irreverence after their sorrowful labors of the day. Sorcha had kissed him tenderly when he'd come up from the glen, not as a lover but rather as a gesture to soothe his weary soul.

And though he did grieve, come the morn Augustus was ready and willing to put Ashgill's Pass behind him.

They reached the demesne of Lord Aldric de Montfort and went first to that area where Wycliffe had said the tunnels should exit. The exit point of the tunnels, Wycliffe had overheard, lay concealed amidst a copse of ancient oak trees on a hill on the southeast side of Ironwood.

While Sorcha waited, well-hidden with the majority of the army, Augustus, Wycliffe, and half a dozen more searched the location in question. Thick undergrowth and tangled brambles shrouded the area, helping to conceal the searchers as they approached the only thicket of towering oaks perceived as far as the eye could see.

Indeed, the oaks were ancient, their gnarled branches reaching for the sky like skeletal fingers. Keeping one eye on the curtain wall, somewhat visible to them, they spread out and began to examine the ground all around the trees.

Aye, access to Ironwood via tunnels would be a welcome advantage, but Augustus held out little hope that they actually existed or that those guards hadn't been purposefully, maliciously deceiving Wycliffe.

A full ten minutes passed while they searched and hope faded, until Kael called out in a whispered hiss, "Here!"

The small party gathered round the lad.

Just beyond the furthest roots of those trees, moss-covered rocks flanked the entrance, masking its presence from casual observers. Kael was lifting away a two-inch layer of earth and sweeping dirt and mud away from an unusually level section of ground.

"There's a marker," he said, pointing with his elbow as he labored, toward a subtle arrangement of stones with nails hammered through them, arranged to form a star on the ground, cunningly buried under some vines and grass until Kael discovered it.

When portions of a flat plank of timber were unveiled, Augustus, Wycliffe and the others dropped to their knees and began tearing away at the turf laid on top of it. In no time, a three foot by two foot hatch was revealed, covered with a wooden door. A metal latch was embedded into one end of the door.

They stood, one by one, and considered the door.

Augustus wiped his muddy right hand as best he could on his breeches and tunic and then drew his sword.

"Before we bring out the rest of them, let us first discover where it goes," he cautioned.

Geddy scowled and challenged this. "And why else would a hatch be laid in the earth?"

"Found the tunnels, did ye?" Said a craggy voice outside their circle.

They whirled at once, expecting to confront a threat, but found only an auld shepherd, his head and hair wrapped in a linen coif, his faced wizened with many decades.

"Might well use the front door," he said mildly. "Keep is deserted."

"De Montfort did nae return?" Augustus frowned.

"Returned, aye," said the shepherd, who was bent drastically, sporting a large hump on his back. "Came and went. Packed up his wayns—wife, bairns, silver, bedding, his silks and furs—and away they went."

"Where?"

The shepherd shrugged, the action more visible in his face than his narrow, drooped shoulders. "Canna say. South, fer sure, but nae east whence ye come, but west."

"He kent we'd come for him," Geddy presumed. "Son of a bitch, but I wanted that bastard to eat my blade."

"The keep is vacant?" Augustus wanted clarification.

Another shrug, of sorts, preceded his answer. "Nae soul in that one, Blackwood, so aye it's essentially vacant."

"Blackwood remains?" Geddy queried.

Augustus suspected that like himself, Geddy didn't much care for or have patience with the shepherd's want to speak in riddles.

"He and a handful of his minions, playing Lord soon as de Montfort quit the keep."

Griffyn, among the men listening to the shepherd's news, chuckled at this, which did not bode well for the bailiff-cum-lord of Ironwood.

Augustus and Geddy faced each other, their minds churning with plans of how to proceed.

"Save ourselves the trouble, I reckon," Geddy proposed, "and nae crawl through a quarter mile of muck or through whatever foulness this here would take us."

"March right in through the gate?" Augustus only needed a second to consider this. "Aye, that sounds guid."

True, it was rather anti-climactic, and Augustus felt cheated to have been denied—for now—his aim to deprive de Montfort of life, but practically speaking, ?twas far better than he might have hoped, and he was pleased that not one more life would be lost to de Montfort's treason.

Retreating from the shadows of the ancient oaks, they went next to spy upon Ironwood, to discern the veracity of the shepherd's news. Not more than a few minutes were needed to see that no guard stood atop the battlements and that, indeed, the gate was wide open. A home guardsman leaned negligently against the open gate, making time with a lass of flaming red hair, one Augustus recognized as a barmaid at the Bonnie Barrel Inn, a telling circumstance. Had there been any sign of heightened security, they might have assumed the shepherd had it wrong.

As it was, Augustus planted two men in his company to remain and await the full MacKenzie army, watching the wall and yard for any sign that it was not as it seemed.

Next, he sought out the army waiting for them some distance away, close to where Sorcha had kept her woodland apiary.

After a quick explanation of what they'd found, and what they'd learned from the shepherd and had since confirmed, that de Montfort had vacated the keep and likely Caol itself, Augustus ordered the men to mount and ride with him, through the gates of Ironwood. While men dashed about to collect their steeds, Sorcha lifted her hand to Augustus when he maneuvered the gray charger next to her.

When she was ensconced in the saddle with him again and while he waited just a moment until the lads were ready, Sorcha asked, "De Montfort has fled?"

"Aye, he, his wife, and kin."

"But where did he go?"

"Far away," he said tersely, reminded that he was sorry that he'd not be allowed to kill him, "far from any chance of his neck being stretched or sliced."

"He has property in England," she said, "about which he was always pleased to crow, his vast wealth."

"Little guid it will do him when his treason against Scotland catches up to him," Augustus predicted grimly, "and it will."

A quarter hour later, what remained of the MacKenzie army rode unopposed through the gates of Ironwood. Aye, their numbers were not as they'd been, but an admirable threat they presented to the few men who were left behind, apparently under the direction of the former bailiff, Blackwood.

With hardly a need to delay, Augustus strode purposefully into the hall, Sorcha's hand in his, and a quarter of his army on his heels. The rest of the MacKenzies, under Angus and Griffyn's command, were busy securing the gate and manning the wall, lest the unprotected, inviting keep was merely set as a trap. Additional men had been directed to investigate and secure the tunnels against either any possible threat or anyone's desire to escape.

Augustus sensed straightaway, from the scene that greeted him, that this was not a trap. The bailiff had made himself laird and lord, had assumed the finely carved chair at the high table and surrounded himself with platters of food and drink. He was surrounded by his loyal and equally depraved henchmen and several woman of dubious standards, garbed scantily and all wearing dim-witted expressions—all save for one figure, a woman who seemed to have no interest in their coming. She sat meekly at Blackwood's side, her head bowed toward the floor.

"Taking up right where de Montfort left off, I see," Augustus called out before he'd reached the table.

Blackwood's jaw, which had dropped with incredulity at their entrance, slackened further.

Upon hearing his commanding tone, the woman whose head was bowed raised her face. Augustus's jaw clenched at the sight she presented, her eye and lip swollen, her peasant's gown torn, and wearing a collar of heavy metal around her neck. Augustus judged she couldn't have seen more than a score of springs in her young life.

Sorcha gasped, realizing the woman's existence and condition as well. "Effie," she whispered in horror.

?Twas difficult then to maintain control of his rage. But he did manage to subdue Sorcha, whose instinct it was to rush forward to the pitiable, abused lass. He caught her wrist, forcing her to wait.

"Is that how ye coerced her to make those claims against Grimm?" Augustus asked the bailiff in a dangerous growl.

Despite the very obvious apprehension that arrested his features, Blackwood sneered. "?Tis about all she's guid fer."

Augustus smirked ruthlessly at the reckless toad, who was not worthy of the designation of man.

Releasing Sorcha's wrist, he stepped closer to the table, and knew a wicked delight for the way Blackwood shrank down and back in the overlarge chair.

"Y-ye have nae jurisdiction here," Blackwood stammered. "Ye canna kill me. I am an agent of an earl."

Augustus's smile increased. "I can kill ye and I will. Ye are a verra strong man, are ye nae? How easily ye take yer hand to a lass—many lasses, I ken. Take yer hand to a man instead," he sneered. "Aye, I'm feeling generous and will allow ye to fight. I'll even put a sword in yer hand. If ye win, ye may go free, and skulk back into whatever hole ye crawled out of at the beginning of yer existence."

Rising hope lifted Blackwood's bushy brows. He glanced beyond Augustus, to where stood dozens of his army. Swallowing, he asked, "Who will I fight?" No longer the bully, he sounded uncertain, whiny, his voice high-pitched with fright.

"?Twill be me, and ?twill be my honor," Augustus was pleased to answer, and then more delighted when all the blood drained from the bailiff's face.

"Get him outside," Augustus ordered the men around him. "Free the lass and put her in Sorcha's care. They're nae to be unattended. Bring me—"

"Augustus," Sorcha whispered with heavy concern. "Surely, you don't mean to—"

"I do."

"But you don't need to," she argued, wearing a strange expression as she stared at him. "Put Blackwood in chains or convene a court—"

Augustus closed the distance between them and lowered his head as his instructed her firmly, "Dinna ever question either my decisions or my commands."

Sorcha recoiled slightly, her eyes widening in disbelief at the sharp tone he'd employed, or the message delivered. Her lips parted, as if she wanted to challenge him yet, but the words seemed to catch in her throat.

"Attend the weaver," he instructed and brushed past her.

Blackwood's whimpering and the image of Sorcha's stunned gaze followed him as he walked outside into the bailey, expecting that the bailiff would be made to follow.

No sooner had he stepped outside, squinting against the mid-afternoon sun than a shout sounded from the battlements.

"Riders, ho! Riders coming!"

Expecting de Montfort's army, Augustus hurried up the stone steps to the battlements, his heart pounding with anticipation. The distant rumble of approaching hooves grew louder, drowning out the speculative murmurs of the MacKenzie men, those high on the wall and those in the yard. When he reached the top, Augustus scanned the horizon, a wee bit hampered by that bright sun. He raised his hand to his brow.

Just as he recognized first the massive size of the army thundering toward Ironwood, he noticed the particular formation of the vanguard, and the vast sea of banners that fluttered as they rode. His breath caught in his throat at the sight, a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"Look!" one of his men exclaimed, pointing toward the advancing force. "The king's banner!"

Turning toward the inside of the wall, Augustus's voice rang out across the bailey, "Open the gate! Prepare yourselves! The king has come to Caol!"

Cheers erupted from the assembled soldiers. Augustus bounded back down the stairs and helped draw out the bolt to unlock the tall wooden gate, putting his weight and strength behind the men moving the beam.

They did not wait for the king's army to approach but rather the MacKenzies spilled outside the yard and gate, throwing up their fists and raising their swords, calling out good will to the king.

Charging at them was a force five hundred strong and riding abreast of his bannerman was the imposing figure of Robert Bruce, King of Scots. Though his current circumstance must surely be daunting— named a fugitive king and on the run for more than a year—there was an undeniable aura of regality about him as he rode forth at the head of his piecemeal army.

Clad in simple but well-worn armor, sans a helm, Bruce"s face was weathered, aged ten years in the last twelve months by Augustus's estimation, hardship and struggle aging him prematurely. But for his eyes, dark and piercing still, and presently surveying the scene before him with steely resolve.

Coming in hard, he drew up sharply, and all before him went to their knees and bowed their heads.

"Rise! Rise," he called, with seeming impatience.

He dismounted confidently and with ease in spite of the weight of the armor plates and plucked at the fingers of his riding gloves, removing one and then the other as he strode toward Augustus.

His broad face creased with a smile, and he opened his arms, into which Augustus stepped. Their relationship had not been long known, but it had been forged on a solid foundation.

"?Tis good to see you, my friend," said the king quietly, sincerely.

"And ye, sire," Augustus returned.

Separating, Robert Bruce glanced around at those closest to Augustus, which mostly were his officers, inclining his head at several known MacKenzie men as he said, "Your message found us naught but half a day away and on the backside of the battle with Pembroke, made a day early at my convenience," the king said with a rare show of dark humor. "Even had you not been waylaid and reduced, ?tis unlikely you would have arrived in time, so pray do not disparage your inability to come to Loudon Hill."

His reference to surprising Pembroke a day earlier than intended struck Augustus as amusing. No doubt the king did this to visit retribution upon Pembroke for a brutal deception he'd played upon the king's army last year. ?Twas near Methven when Robert Bruce found Pembroke embedded in Perth and, in chivalrous fashion, had challenged him to come out from behind the town's walls and fight. Lord Pembroke, Aylmer Valence, had responded that the day was too far gone then, and they should meet on the battlefield the next morning. And so the king's army, with whom Augustus had been joined at the time, had made camp for the night, preparing meals and making their beds. Lo and behold, Pembroke's army, which vastly outnumbered all of Robert Bruce's combined forces at the time, had come charging into their camp overnight. The Scots' army was swiftly overcome, and it required all the valor of Bruce and his defenders to merely secure a retreat.

"Pembroke has retreated to Ayr," Robert Bruce said now, "and with no enemy either on the horizon or nipping at my heels, I found myself anxious to take up the enemy you battled, as your enemies, my loyal friend, are mine as well."

"Ye do me a great honor, my king," Augustus said reverently.

"?Tis you, my lord, who regularly honors me, with your fighting spirit and unwavering faithfulness." He glanced around. "So, where is he? The scoundrel, de Montfort?" savagely, he said. "Frankly, MacKenzie, I grow daily more sickened by the infidelity of Scotland's own nobles. I mean to make an example of de Montfort."

Augustus chuckled. "You'll have to find another unfaithful noble, sire, for this one took the path of Pembroke. Gone on the wind."

Robert Bruce slapped the gloves in his hand against his thigh with some frustration. He then stared beyond Augustus, beyond the gates, his features gentling.

"Praise God for the beautiful creatures he crafts," said the king, his voice chock full of wonder, "but who is that startling woman?"

Augustus did not have to turn around to know that the king referred to Sorcha, but he did turn, finding her biting her lip as she stared with her own sense of awe at her king.

Augustus held out his hand for Sorcha to join him in the company of the king. Eyes wide now, mayhap with some womanly concern that she was unfit to meet the king in her present bedraggled state, Sorcha came forward haltingly.

"Sire, may I present Sorcha Reid, daughter of Gospatric Reid of Balquhidder and currently the beekeeper of Caol."

Sorcha gracefully lowered into a deep and reverent curtsy. "Sire, it is an honor." When she rose she stared at the king, her face tipped upwards as Robert Bruce was nearly as tall as Augustus, her expression imbued with as much wonder as the king's return study of her.

"Madam, your loveliness is a balm to this weary heart and many tired souls, I'm sure," said the king elegantly, suddenly the courtier and not the warrior. "I trow the chaos of war in my memory is turned to dust in your presence."

Barely had Sorcha's pink blush arrived at the king's evaluation than a voice, loud and insistent, called out from the depths of the king's army.

"Sorcha!"

Confusion registered on Sorcha's face. She, along with the king and Augustus and many other faces turned toward the massive crowd of soldiers of the king's retinue.

"Sorcha!" Came the call again, the voice young and eager.

Augustus surveyed the throng of mounted men and foot soldiers, most recently still but now shifting subtly as if a divide were created. A foot soldier came forward, his pale crowned head bouncing along between the mounted cavalry as he made his way to the front.

"Sorcha!" he called again, and it sounded now as a plaintive cry.

Augustus's lips parted, a sinking black dread overwhelming him. He turned to look at Sorcha.

Disbelief washed over her, her eyes widening in astonishment as she gazed upon the approaching figure. Her hand flew to her heart and her breath seemed to catch in her throat.

Slow was the progression in her from befuddlement to comprehension. Icy fingers gripped Augustus's heart as he watched her. As the lad burst from the front line of horses and into full view, tears shimmered in Sorcha's clear blue eyes and wobbly smile blossomed slowly into radiant joy.

"Finn?"