I'm wordy, so expect anything I write to be detail oriented and long. I only play the games and haven't read the novels, so please excuse any non-canon slips.
If there's any interest, I'll share other tales and shamble out from under the ole' blog blanket.
Ah yes, by the way... I know some people have trouble reading things when formatted a certain way. The way I break up my paragraphs is comfortable on my eyes, but I know that may not always be the case. If it's jumbled together and too hard to read, I'd like to know. I'd be glad to offer my work double spaced if need be, since it's all the same to me once it's written.
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Tea and Conspiracies
By E. H. Garner / TypoWolf
Audrie gave up the attempt of sleep, and rubbed Chopper behind the ears in the soft darkness which enveloped them. With a prodigious yawn she could feel more than see, he blinked sleepy brown eyes, and turned over onto his back, tangling himself in most of the blankets. Although his stub tail was out of sight the way he’d rolled himself up like a baker’s confection, she could tell it was wagging by the way his body was shaking the wooden bed frame. It was probably just as well that rest would not grace her, because he’d just pirated all the warmest blankets. “What am I going to do with you?” she demanded rhetorically, which only made him quake everything even harder and loll his tongue out happily. “Whew, Mabari breath.” She pinched her nose shut, but that was what she got for allowing him to sleep in the bed with her. Alistair strictly forbid the very idea when she was at home. He had a valid point, considering how large Chopper was, and the furry battering ram was unlikely to leave enough room for them once he stretched out. Although she doubted the canine would mind if the two humans were exiled to rugs piled on the floor, she and Alistair certainly did.
She hoped it wouldn’t be too bad of a habit to break once she went home, but it was her husband’s absence which initially inspired her to allow the hound on the mattress. Not having Alistair next to her at night left a lonely void after sharing hard ground inside of tents for months, then a bed once they had one to call their own. Without the sound of his even breathing, occasionally snoring (although he resolutely blamed the dog), or tossing restlessly with their occasional nightmares, it was difficult for her to put aside the buzzing questions of the day and relax. His solid, comforting presence was also warm, and the Keep was close enough to the coast that there was a nip in the air she wasn’t accustomed to.
Chopper was company, helped keep the damp chill out, and would give advance warning if Darkspawn came swarming through the fortress again. Ultimately, she was glad Alistair insisted she take the faithful behemoth along. His reason was mainly do to a pair of unidentified pantaloons Chopper had filched and laid at their feet the day before she’d left, wagging his tail furiously, bouncing in circles and about to burst with the joy of his find. When he got bored, Chopper got into a certain amount of mischief, and she didn’t blame Alistair for not wanting him running amuck around the palace. Putting her arm around the Mabari’s thick neck, she kissed him on the top of the head. “You’re a terrible substitute, you know,” she crooned in a voice absolutely opposite of the words, sounding like she was comforting a toddler. “Ah, well.” Giving him a hearty scratch on the chest, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed her robe by the meager light filtering in through the slitted windows of the Keep. They were tall and narrow, intended for defensive arrow fire, and didn’t afford much in the way of strangled moonlight.
After the long months of hard travel trying to get the Warden Treaties honored, constant walking, and seeing death stare at them with a thousand faces, getting dressed in the dark felt somehow happily mundane. If only it was at the top of her worries, but the Darkspawn weren’t going to ground. This time, she was on her own, having been catapulted just as reluctantly into the position of Commander of the Grey as she had been drug into the morass of trying to stop a Blight with a handful of vagabonds who had nothing in common except a distaste of seeing the land chewed to pieces and spat back out by the archdemon.
As a mage, she could hold no title, but she honestly did not want the responsibility or the political hornet’s nest which went with one. Alistair knew her opinions, and although he’d boldly embraced the royal blood which haunted his heels since birth when he’d beheaded Loghain, she was aware being king hadn’t ever been his first choice. That didn’t belie the suspicions of the nobility when he married her as a consort, although he made it both legally binding and plain to everyone she had no power nor political pull over the throne. Nothing either of them could do would change the fact she was a born to magic, however, and the more paranoid would whisper just out of the king’s ear that the “Hero of Ferelden” could be controlling the crown through anything from feminine whiles to Blood Magic. Such rumors unfortunately brewed into far worse rebellions if they were stoked by the wrong people.
She had a very dark notion that his vague references to “dealing with trouble in the Bannorn” when he’d come to the Keep might have been related to that, and her absence would only help his cause if true. It also meant he was far away from the Darkspawn and less likely to get hurt or, the thought chilled a solidified lump in her gut, even killed. The time would likely come to them both when they’d march down to the Deep Roads to die in the darkness slaughtering as many Darkspawn as they could, but they both silently agreed to make the best of the years they would have together. It gave her solace that he wouldn’t be in the center of the fighting this time, because she was selfishly hoping for at least the number of years which the taint was going to allot without seeing him prematurely fall in battle.
She hadn’t realized just how many little things she’d come to rely on Alistair for until they were separated, and getting her robes laced up in the back took nothing short of the act of a contortionist. With a perturbed scowl, she twisted in angles she was fairly sure the Maker never intended until she managed to tie the laces. Her husband usually volunteered for the task when she wasn’t in a simpler robe which pulled over the head, often using it as an excuse for playful, minor intimacy. No doubt Anders would have been happy to offer the lacing, or unlacing, whichever the case might be, but that would come about over her dead body. Of course, after Zevran, Anders lacked the power to unnerve her. Nobody could stare a robe off like that elf, in spite of the fact it never got him anywhere, either.
She took her staff from where it leaned within easy reach of the bedside, and slid it into the holster on her back. Pushing the door open, she nearly startled at the hulking slabs of metal standing beside the threshold. She might have thought it was an empty suit of armor had the head not turned toward her and she caught a glimpse of eyes sheltered beneath the angular planes of the helm. “Oh. Evening.” Considering all the Wardens had been slaughtered or captured less than forty eight hours before, the bulk of the soldiers were killed, and survivors were still dragging darkspawn corpses to be burned, she should have expected a guard.
“Commander,” a friendly, muffled male voice greeted her. “Is anything wrong?”
She shook her head, closing the door behind her to keep Chopper from wandering around and terrorizing people who weren’t used to the fact he could be affectionate as a lap dog most of the time, then turn about and rip the still beating heart out of an enemy the next. “No, not at all. I’m just going to the kitchen for something to help me sleep.” She wasn’t desperate enough to try to get her hair curled with the gut rupturing dragon drool Oghren loved to drink so much. Herbal tea with a touch of milk might help, however, if that sort of extravagance was possible in the Keep’s rations. Considering it had been almost two full days without a chance to put her head into a pillow, sheer exhaustion should have been pulling her into slumber. If only she could be so lucky.
“Of course, Commander.” The helmet bowed cordially from the neck, and she really wished people would call her by her first name. It felt pretentious and false somehow, like she was marketing herself as glittering gold and jewels when she was really well honed steel. Unfortunately, “The Commander” or “Commander of the Grey” it was going to be, and it reminded her fondly of Ser Perth, who was absolutely certain it would be dastardly improper to call her anything but her official title of “Grey Warden.”
Wandering down the cool, sweating stone floors of the Keep, she lifted her eyes toward the ceiling as the distant complaint of thunder rumbled. More rain was coming by the sound and damp smell of it, and she hoped Nathaniel, Anders, Mhairi and Oghren didn’t mind getting wet. Somehow she doubted a campaigner out of the Free Marches would be a stranger to it, and Oghren certainly wasn’t. Considering that was the closest thing the dwarf might have to a bath for a week, it would probably do him good. She wasn’t worried about Mhairi, either, but Anders had yet to be properly tested. The fact he’d managed to slip the leash seven times and escape the Circle suggested he wasn’t as pampered as she’d been when Duncan Conscripted her. Naturally, she’d thought herself ready to tackle the world headlong and do anything she could to wriggle out of that insufferable, smothering prison. Reality had a savage way of showing her just how easy her life had been in the Tower, and she hoped Anders already had a taste of it in his escapades. If not, she knew from experience the awakening was a rude one.
That was also assuming he and the rest would survive their initiation into the Wardens. Although she knew too well it could be lethal, she had high hopes rooted in everything from Oghren’s metal plated innards, Ander’s connection with healing magic, Nathaniel’s stubbornness, to Mhairi’s dedication to duty. Alistair had once told her all but one had survived his Joining, although she’s never thought to ask how many were in the initial group. If it was three, the odds of living were obviously slim, but if the number was higher, something akin six or eight, perhaps they’d be able to replace some of their Orlesian brothers and sisters lost in the assault.
“Darkspawn who talk, have no archdemon leading them, and five Grey Wardens or less expected to stop it. Just like old times,” she muttered with a long, sardonic sigh to the flickering torches in the empty hallway as their smoke rose in lazy curls, staining the ceiling.
She’d expected the kitchen to be empty when she came to it, but Seneschal Varel was sitting in a relaxed repose, legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He was leaned back in an uncomfortable looking, high backed chair at a servant’s table, contemplating something inwardly as his vacant gaze rested on the outside of a white metal goblet. The coals of the great kitchen fire shadowed the plain long undershirt, boots, and padded leggings he was dressed in, having left the glimmering silver armor behind in his quarters. As he heard her approach, he snapped instantly out of woolgathering, and his fingers closed automatically on the hilt of the sword laying across the top of the table. Recognizing her, he immediately relaxed, sitting straighter at attention, and looked mildly embarrassed at being caught in a state of dress he considered unfit to be seen in by his Commander. He immediately made to dutifully rise, hand straying away from the pommel of his weapon. Until they found a way to be sure the Darkspawn wouldn’t come rupturing out of the ground like plague boils again, no one would be truly settled.
Hastily waving the courteous action off, Audrie shook her head with a genuine, if tired, smile. She noticed his twitch of discomfort, and was familiar with the attire which was almost universally worn beneath any armor past a certain grade. It wasn’t as if he was lounging around in his small clothes, and she hardly expected he slept encased in silverite. Although it could be done and she’d seen it, that was uncomfortable and even impossible if the armor was too heavy. When protection became too ponderous, a man had to literally be strapped into the metal carapace while standing, and pray if he was knocked over in battle he could scramble up before a killing blow was punched through the slit in a visor or in a weak point. Fortunately, proper ore and magic woven into a suit could remove the worst burdens of weight, but nothing made it well received bedclothes except in more desperate times than even Vigil’s Keep was seeing.
“No need to get up. Relax, it’s just me.” Of course that was somewhat ludicrous to the outside world, because there was no “just her.” She was either the Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey, or one or two less flattering tags which had been attached to her. All of it was ridiculous, because without Alistair, Shale, Sten, Chopper and even Riordan, she would have failed at Fort Drakon. Had Leliana, Zevran, Oghren and Wynne been less firm at the gates, there would not have been a chance for the team on the roof to finish the work Riordan had begun. In spite of public opinion, no true singular Hero of Ferelden existed any more than there was a Dark Wolf.
“Everything all right, Commander?” Varel watched her with a curiously interested expression tilting one corner of his mouth up as his light grey, tired eyes followed her to one of the cupboards. “Can I... get you something?”
“Hm? Well, maybe, and call me Audrie won’t you?” Making herself at home, she poked through the cabinet until she found a pot for hot water, filled it, and put it over the coals. “At least in the kitchen while the rest of the Keep is sanely asleep.” The man had almost had his throat slit, survived by an inch, seen his station swarmed by Darkspawn, practically watched the Keep blown up by a slightly addled genius of a dwarf who enjoyed making things explode, and still managed to peel over enthusiastic Mistress Woolsey and Captain Garevel from her tired, mana drained body when she finally got in the door. It took her approximately two seconds to adore Varel, and hardly surprised her he couldn’t sleep, either. “What about you, are you all right?”
“Thanks to you, yes. Are you looking for something specific Com–- Audrie?” Getting up in spite of her earlier protest, he strolled over to her shoulder, peering into the recess of the cabinet she was rifling carefully through as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “I could wake one of the staff.”
“No, don’t do that,” she insisted quickly, and took out a tin of tea leaves she identified by the earthy, tangy smell. “Those left had it even worse than we did during the attack. Let them rest if they can.” She’d been familiar with herbs, poultices, edibles and poisons since she was old enough to caste a proper spell, and it wasn’t as if the cooks would be keeping deathroot extract next to the cinnamon. “I’m just making some tea.” Turning around, she nearly bumped into him, and she rolled her eyes. “You almost lost your head when I met you, good Ser, will you sit down please?” An infectious smile had flitted across her lips and danced in her oddly colored blue green eyes. “I once put a paralyzation spell on a stubborn Qunari who wouldn’t let me treat his wounds. Don’t make me do something drastic to you.”
Varel found a mild, wry chuckle tumbling from his lips as he held both hands up defensively in spite of the tragedies and horrors of the previous day. “Very well, I wouldn’t want to force you into anything rash.” The wooden chair creaked beneath his weight, and he leaned his sword against one of the table legs where it would be out of the way.
Once she’d asked Varel where to find cups and sprinkled some tea leaves into the bottom of one, she sat across from him at the table to wait for the water to boil. Studying him with a practiced eye, she judged that he truly was well enough, considering the grinder of days he’d been mulched through. Varel wasn’t any stranger to violence and battle, and she’d seen him keep his courage in the face of certain death. It wasn’t lost on him that she was making the study, either, although he merely had a pleasant expression as he didn’t mention it.
Deciding it was as good a time as any, she broached a subject she couldn’t while in the presence of a gaggle of lords and ladies all trying to do whatever the rich and powerful did in their spare time. Mostly harass her, it seemed, when she had entirely too much sitting on her shoulders already. She had new sympathy for her husband, Eamon, and Teagan. It wasn’t that some of the claims of the nobles weren’t necessary, even appropriate, but sifting through them was as tedious as trying to find one silver hair in a white Mabari’s coat.
The assassination rumors were troubling as well, although people had been trying to kill her since Conscription in one form or another. The novelty had finally worn off, particularly after Zevran had come closer to doing what he intended than she wanted to admit. “I couldn’t say anything in front of other people, but whoever is claiming to be the Dark Wolf is lying. The Dark Wolf isn’t one person, but several, including people you wouldn’t exactly suspect.”
“It was you, then?” Varel mused aloud, as he relaxed against the back of his chair, taking a sip of the dusky wine he’d come down to pour himself and sand off the sharper corners of the last two days. A mischievous grin curled over her mouth, and for all her apparent youth, the Seneschal could see the battered soul which had been tempered by fires of pain, blood, battle, loss, misfortune, and death. Although she was close to an age he might have called her a daughter, life had hardened her nearly to his physical years. For just a moment, what the Blight had done to her was banished and he could see the young woman she might have been had the Wardens not indoctrinated her to their ranks, although thank the Maker they had. Who could have said what might have befallen Ferelden had things not happened as it did?
“It was also Alistair.” She folded her arms smugly over her chest, “we stole Loghain’s crown from his Seneschal.”
Varel nearly choked, although if it was from half delirious, sleep deprived laughter or shock, she couldn’t tell. Leaning forward quickly and putting a hand up to his mouth, he set his goblet on the edge of the table with a click of metal meeting wood. “You and the King of Ferelden stole Teryn Loghain’s crown?” He coughed to open his airway and shook his head, blinking a few times to clear the involuntary film of water over his eyes.
“Along with two others, yes. That was part of our supposed ‘reign of terror.’ Alistair wasn’t king yet, of course. It was Zevran and Leliana who handled the traps and the real crime wave, so if anyone deserves to be called the Dark Wolf, it’s them. We needed the sovereigns we got from selling it to help fund Arl Eamon’s knights for arms and armor at the time.” Her voice held not the smallest scrap of contrition.
“I appreciate the irony,” Varel informed her, still shaking his grey mane of hair in disbelief. “They tell stories about you, but I never believed most of them. Things like that, they grow in the telling, but now I’m starting to wonder.”
The water had come to a boil, and Audrie stood up, taking a metal hook where it hung on a peg beside the hearth and removing the kettle from the fire. Setting it on the opposite corner of the table from the Seneschal, she traded hook for a heavy square of cloth and used it to pick up the hot handle. Enjoying the fragrance, she tipped some of the steaming liquid over the tea leaves. “I don’t suppose you have any milk?” They didn’t, unless she wanted to try and find a cow at the ridiculous hour of the morning, so it seemed tea with a few of her own herbs taken from her hip pouch would have to suffice.
“If the Dark Wolf was you and your friends, are you sure you want to go after the impostor in Amaranthine?”
“We have to go, anyway, to try and find Kristoff.” She pushed her dark blond hair away from her face and slumped into her chair. Leaning back, she stared at the ceiling as she left her hands on either side of her head. “Plus I have to look into whatever is waylaying the merchant caravans, try to watch for decent ore for Master Wade, cope with crumbling walls of the Keep...” Blowing a long, tired sigh from her lungs, she dropped her hands to her sides. “I’ll be careful.”
Varel wasn’t without sympathy. He recognized she was coping with being pulled in many different directions at once with a hard maturity of people twice her age. “See that you are,” he told her in a steady, soft, kind voice. It was the mellowing effect of the wine, lack of sleep and close brush with his own mortality, but he fancied that had he chosen to marry and had a daughter, he’d have been proud had she been like the new Commander of the Grey.
“I’m pretty good at that,” she told him lightly, without malice. “Oghren is an old friend, and he’ll have my back.”
“He is not the one who I wonder about, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Varel considered himself very competent in what he did for the Wardens, well trusted, but he likewise did not want to overstep his bounds. She seemed to invite his opinions, but it was not something he wished to abuse.
“Always speak your mind,” she parried with the serious, old eyes regarding him through the haze of rising steam from her tea. She wrapped both hands around the cup, propping it just beneath her chin so her breath was stirring the vapors. “I know my limitations, Varel, and I know when someone is better equipped to deal with situations that I could ever be. You know these lands, her people, and most importantly, you know her politics. I don’t just want your opinions, I’m going to need them.”
“Very well,” he conceded with a gracious inclination of his chin. “It’s your choice of Conscription on the Howe. He did profess an interest in trying to kill you, did he not?” It was as close as he could hedge into outright questioning her judgment.
“Sort of, yes,” she admitted frankly, grimacing as she nearly burned her tongue. She really wanted milk, and realized how spoiled she’d gotten to living in the luxury Alistair’s position allowed them. That wouldn’t do, and she banished the thought, making herself grateful she had humble tea leaves. “He also went on that he changed his mind and only wanted his possessions back. You do know that Zevran is an Ativian Crow who tried to kill Alistair and I, yes? Yet, he spilled blood with the rest and best at the gates of Denerim when Archie landed.”
Varel blinked, his brows drawing together slightly by a crease between them, not sure he’d heard right. “I beg your pardon... Archie?”
“Archie -- you know, the Archdemon...” She shrugged carelessly, “although I think it was female, so maybe Archie isn’t the best name. I seem to remember reading only female dragons have forelimbs, but that may not be accurate. I’m not sure.”
“I ... cannot believe you just called the archdemon ‘Archie.’” Staring hard at her in disbelief, she met his gaze with a quirked brow and his mouth began to twitch in spite of himself, as did hers. Finally, the pair broke into a ridiculous, shared laugh of two people who had been pushed to the precipice of exhaustion, stress, and needed a simple balm for the soul. Varel lowered his chin and rested the bridge of his nose against the back of one of his hands. “Great Maker, Commander -- ah -- Audrie, you are not what I would have expected.”
“I get that occasionally,” she returned with prim dryness, “but at any rate, you asked about Nathaniel. If he decides to try to murder me in my sleep he may find his head laying next to his feet the same way his predecessor did. I don’t think he will, honestly, and there’s more to him than on the surface. I trust my gut, and it says he deserves the chance. Of course Anders....” She actually snorted in amusement Varel couldn’t share because she saw herself and Duncan the minute she’d met the other mage. Duncan, Maker keep his soul, had swooped in to pluck her out of some very, very irate templar’s clutches hardly any differently than she’d done for Anders. “His jokes could use work, but he’s going to be fine. Him, at least, I can completely understand. Life inside the Circle Tower is something I can’t even begin to describe to someone who hasn’t lived it.”
“I have heard stories,” Varel’s smooth, deep tone had become somber again. “They say you’re taken away at a young age to be trained.”
She spun her cup around in front of her with her fingertips, rifling through layers of memories which seemed a century past. “Yes,” she admitted quietly, “they do. You aren’t allowed to leave, either, not truly. I’m one of the few lucky ones, but I was a criminal too.”
“You?” The Seneschal leaned forward in spite of himself, resting his elbow on his knee, disbelieving. “I take it this was before the Dark Wolf incidents?”
“Oh yes.” The flitting capriciousness had dropped from her voice like the last leaves of fall, replaced with a very worn tone. “My best friend came to me in the Circle, begging me for help. I couldn’t turn him aside. We’d grown up together and he might as well have been my brother had we shared blood. I was in the process of trying to help him and a companion escape when it all went sour. If that wasn’t crime enough, he really was the Blood Mage the rumors pegged him to be. I had no idea, and he panicked, hurting several templars in his escape, including the Knight Commander. Although my crimes weren’t the same as a Malificar, I’d aided the escape of one. I’m not sure what they would have done to me, but Duncan Conscripted me before they had the chance.”
Thank the Maker, Varel added silently. “It is true the Wardens do not judge,” he said aloud with a neutral kindness.
“No, I suppose not. This is all assuming we can perform the Joining at all.” Shaking off the melancholy memories of Jowan, she focused on things far more important than what was gone and beyond her power to change. “Did the other Wardens have any mages with them? I wish could be more optimistic, but unless you know how the Joining is prepared, all I can tell you is that it takes lyrium, mages, darkspawn blood and a drop of blood from an archdemon.” She assumed that, at least, would be somewhere within reach, cached, as it had been in Denerim. Darkspawn blood likewise wasn’t a problem, and she’d harvested some before the nobility pounced on her inside the Keep. How they’d gotten there so quickly with the conditions of the roads still mystified her unless they were traveling in the wake of Alistair and his knights.
Shaking his head grimly, he gave her the news he already could see she expected. “I was not privy to the actual preparations, but there were two mages here, yes. They were killed in the attack, but I believe one had a journal and knew how to prepare the ritual. I can take you to her quarters now, if you like.”
All she recalled from Duncan was he'd used the plural "mages." If it was beyond her reach, she’d be forced to use Anders to help, and hope he didn’t attempt to run before his Joining. If he did, she had a grim, sickening feeling she was going to be standing in her mentor’s shoes again, killing someone to protect the secrets of the Order. What if she needed Ambassador Cerra as well? How far did the secrets of the Order have to be kept? She'd hoped the Orlesian Wardens were going to shore some of the gaping holes in her education which were left behind by Duncan's premature death, but it was not to be.
Although she never had the privilege of knowing her mentor well, she got the impression Jory wasn’t the first to meet such a fate, nor that Duncan enjoyed what he’d been forced to do. Such was what it took to be a Grey Warden, as he’d told them on several occasions, but how far did she have to go? How far could she go before her very soul was sacrificed at the alter of duty? Loghain had believed himself piously adhering to the needs of his country, and the comparison made her stomach do a roiling flip. How did Duncan do it and stay sane, even decent? Maker help me walk his path and not Loghain's. Keep me strong.
When she’d first been taken from the Tower on the long trail to Ostagar, she never would have thought herself capable of killing someone in cold blood for what would have seemed so minor a transgression. Although she cringed at the thought of putting it to the test, she feared that had changed. There were times the cold, inner alterations frightened her. “Not tonight,” she decided with weariness dragging at her words. “We both need sleep, Varel, or we’re not going to be fit for anything. The Joining can wait until then.” Nathaniel wasn’t going anywhere, as he was still firmly under lock and key. Anders had safety from the templars, so he wasn’t going to run just yet, if he would at all. Oghren and Mhairi were serious about their commitments and she didn’t need to spare so much as a portion of thought for them.
Lifting her cup to meet his halfway across the table, she proposed an impromptu toast. “Here’s to a time when people like you and I are made obsolete.” Although as their eyes collided, they both believed such a time would never come into the lands, but it was a wistful, worthwhile hope for a horrible early hour in the kitchen of Vigil’s Keep.
“To a world where we’re obsolete,” Varel agreed, gently clicking the rim of his goblet to her cup.
Drinking together, she finished her tea and stood. “You should try and rest, Seneschal,” she told him softly with a partial smile. “This hour is not fit for men nor beasts.”
“As should you, Commander,” he returned as he rose, collecting his sword. “Good night.”
“Night Varel,” she bid him, and wound her way back to her room, feeling slightly less lonely than she had when she’d come out of her quarters.
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Disclaimer: All characters except Audrie and general setting belong to Bioware and the original creators of the video game Dragon Age Origins and Awakenings. This is fan written fiction for fans, not for profit, and no infringement is intended.
Modifié par TypoWolf, 23 juin 2010 - 10:51 .
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