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Guilt consumed Theodora, and she was helpless in how to assuage it.
It had been a few days since that kiss she shared with Emilios in the woods, a moment of overwhelming emotion after he had shown her the lean-to he built for her. The one they had dreamed of, had promised each other they would have. When such promises seemed dead and forgotten, Emilios had not forgotten it, after all, but his timing…
Gods, this was all such a mess. It seemed the queen could hold nothing together these days, not even herself.
Stepping into her husband’s study and easing the door shut behind her after checking to ensure she had not been followed, Theodora lit the brazier in the corner before taking a seat at his desk. A glass of wine was cradled in her palm, the liquid warm in her belly as she sighed and let her eyes trail the room. She could not be with Achilleas, not while he lingered miles away on a battlefield, but here she could still feel some closeness to him. Remind herself of the bond they now shared, one she had very nearly broken to satisfy the whims of a selfish heart.
If there was a space in the world that exemplified her husband’s personality, she imagined it would be this. Everything had its place, the room’s arrangement neat and immaculate. Not a book was out of place, not a speck of dust to be found, even after weeks of absence. It brought the hint of a smile to her lips, even if the rigidness of his manner could be… frustrating. So, when she noticed the drawer of the desk hanging slight ajar, it was enough to draw her eye—frowning as she wiggled it free.
The queen knew she ought not to snoop through the king’s correspondence, but as soon as she saw her own name at the top of one of the scraps of parchment, she couldn’t help herself. Her frown deepened as she pulled them free, laying them out on the desk in front of her and wondering why he had never bothered to give them to her.
As she read them, it quickly became clear why; Achilleas was a lot of things, but bless him, he was not a wordsmith. But even through the confusion of crossed out lines and unfinished thoughts, the sentiments within were clear, and Theodora felt another pang of guilt clench her stomach. Did she and Achilleas love each other? No, but there was something there, and if she doubted it now, she would be a fool. The king was a stoic man, but it wasn’t hard to ascertain how he cared for her. And yet she had snuck off into the woods with his brother, anyway.
Achilleas had done nothing to deserve this.
Carefully replacing the unsent letters into the drawer she pulled them from, she did her best to push it back to the exact position she found it. Rising from the desk to put as much distance between herself and the unfinished notes as she could, Theodora trailed over to the bookcase, her fingers tracing the various bindings as her eyes swept over titles with mild interest. Draining the rest of her wine, the empty glass lingered in her hand as she leaned in a little closer—a familiar title beckoning her gaze as she pulled it free of the others.
Setting the goblet she carried off to the side, she opened the book and thumbed through its pages with another frown. And there it was—a half ripped page that she remembered now, even all these years later. This wasn’t just any book. This book was hers, one she had thrown at the back of his head nearly a decade ago.
“He kept it?” she murmured into the empty room, idly flipping through a few more pages as she shook her head. “But why…?”
Had he really been carrying an affection for her for so long? He said as much in that meeting after his proposal was accepted, that it was something he had wanted for a long time. Even longer than she thought, apparently, replacing the book on the shelf with a trembling hand. Gods, if he’d only said something all those years ago, expressed how he felt… could any of this been avoided? Would she have been pining after him instead of his brother? Or would anything have changed?
Well, she had come here with the intention of wallowing in her guilt, of reminding herself of what she had now and what she needed to hold onto. She had certainly accomplished that goal.
Picking up her glass, she heaved a sigh, tears prickling the corners of her eyes. What had she done? How had she found herself in this position? She ought to be thanking the gods for what she had; Achilleas was a good man, and he would be a good husband to her in the years to come, she knew. So why could she not seem to keep herself away from Emilios? Why could she not set her feelings aside and look forward to the future instead of lingering in the past?
Sitting back at his desk, she propped her elbows on top of it and leaned into her hands. What a disaster this all was, and even as she knew the proper path she ought to tread, it was so hard to follow. Did one ever really get over their first love? Or was she to be enslaved to her heart forever, to never truly appreciate what she had right in her grasp?
Achilleas was a fine man, and she was lucky to have such a husband. He spoke kindly to her, showed her care, and even when he was overwhelmed with the weight of a country on his back, he still did what he could to please her in the little time they had shared between them. Though she had gone into this marriage with a sort of bitter resignation, she was past that now, and she wanted there to be more between them than cautious affection. But if she could not move past her feelings for Emilios, could that ever really happen?
But how could she stay away from the man who held her heart so completely?
Again, Theodora pulled out the drawer that held the letters to her, fingering through the pieces of parchment until another one caught her eye, one written in a different hand that addressed her husband instead. Perhaps she should have learned her lesson about indulging her curiosity, but that didn’t stop her from taking it anyway. Pulling the note free, dark and conflicted eyes pored over the elegant script, and the more she read…
What in Tartarus was this? Who was this ‘Damo’ that wrote her husband with such tender care? ‘These words are not the words of a lover, but a friend…’ What did that mean? Did… did Achilleas have a lover somewhere else? A male lover, at that? Was their marriage just a sham to him, and did his heart yet linger with another? Why had he never mentioned this person?
Did he join him now? Did this man even now whisper such poignant words in the ears of the king, while the queen lingered behind and drowned in her own guilt? If this was what carried on when he left her, why should she feel anything if her heart wandered? Did his not wander too?
She didn’t know what to make of any of this, shoving the letter in a fold of her chiton. Theodora had seen enough. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here. Or maybe she had just found exactly what she needed to ease the guilt of her own indiscretion.
Rising from the desk, the queen swept from her husband’s study back down the hall to their bedchamber, dodging servants and slaves as she did her best not to let her tears overflow. The thought of Achilleas in the arms of a man while she remained here plagued by doubt and uncertainty made her temper boil, her earlier guilt dissolving in the wake of a more comforting emotion: anger.
Entering her room, she immediately locked the door behind her and headed straight for a chest at the foot of her bed, discarding her wineglass off to the side. Emptying it of the various bits and baubles it held, she listened for a moment to ensure no one was in the hall outside. Finding it silent, she eased the false bottom from the container and pulled out a stack of papers, laying them out in front of her and tracing her fingers over each one.
In front of her were drawings, dozens of them, all of her—or rather, parts of her. Her eyes, her hands, her smile… Emilios had drawn them all, always giving them to her when they met, and little did he know that she had kept every single one. Even after she married, she couldn’t bear to part with them, keeping them hidden and secret from everyone. It was her way of hanging onto the past, of reminding herself what life might have been, and now, she was gladder than ever that she hadn’t let them go.
Her eyes welled with tears again as she gazed at the various sketches, though this time, a few of them dared to drip down her freckled cheeks. While she felt guilty for betraying Achilleas by an intimate moment with his brother, what she should have felt guilty for was that she felt anything for her husband at all. How could she have ever let Emilios go? She had vowed to him that she would always be his, no matter what, but that vow was easier broken than she had ever imagined.
There had never been any doubt or question as to what Emilios felt for her. He wore his heart on his sleeve and declared his feelings for her at every chance he could. Where she was weak, he was strong. When she needed support, he was there, even at the cost to himself. And in spite of everything, he had watched her marry his brother, staying out of her path and leaving her to her new life. A life without him. Or, rather, a life where he played a very different role to the one he should have.
Taking a deep breath and releasing it, she gathered the sketches together again, placing them back in their secret spot, replacing the false bottom, and piling everything back on top of it. Shutting the chest, she struggled to her feet and leaned against her bedframe. Closing her eyes against the emotions that overcame her, she shook her head. What now? Had all her guilt been for nothing? Why shouldn’t she go to the one she loved, if her husband left for the arms of another?
A decision apparently made, Theo strode over to the nearby table, quickly scrawling her own note and tucking it next to the one she had stolen. Gathering her nerve, she unlocked her door, gazed down the hall to ensure it was empty, then all but ran for Emilios’s chamber. Shoving the hastily penned note under his door, she knocked quietly before retreating, hushed and hurried footsteps carrying her from the palati and down to the stables—sticking to the shadows to avoid anyone noticing her passage.
Due to the late hour, the barn was deserted, and Theo was able to saddle her mare in peace. Climbing on Calista’s back, she set off for the woods, back to the place Emilios made for her, where she would wait for his arrival.
Perhaps this was a mistake, but Theodora didn’t know what else to do. Even before he was her lover, Emilios was her best friend, and there was no one else she could talk to about this. And if talking became something else, well…
No one could outrun fate.
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Guilt consumed Theodora, and she was helpless in how to assuage it.
It had been a few days since that kiss she shared with Emilios in the woods, a moment of overwhelming emotion after he had shown her the lean-to he built for her. The one they had dreamed of, had promised each other they would have. When such promises seemed dead and forgotten, Emilios had not forgotten it, after all, but his timing…
Gods, this was all such a mess. It seemed the queen could hold nothing together these days, not even herself.
Stepping into her husband’s study and easing the door shut behind her after checking to ensure she had not been followed, Theodora lit the brazier in the corner before taking a seat at his desk. A glass of wine was cradled in her palm, the liquid warm in her belly as she sighed and let her eyes trail the room. She could not be with Achilleas, not while he lingered miles away on a battlefield, but here she could still feel some closeness to him. Remind herself of the bond they now shared, one she had very nearly broken to satisfy the whims of a selfish heart.
If there was a space in the world that exemplified her husband’s personality, she imagined it would be this. Everything had its place, the room’s arrangement neat and immaculate. Not a book was out of place, not a speck of dust to be found, even after weeks of absence. It brought the hint of a smile to her lips, even if the rigidness of his manner could be… frustrating. So, when she noticed the drawer of the desk hanging slight ajar, it was enough to draw her eye—frowning as she wiggled it free.
The queen knew she ought not to snoop through the king’s correspondence, but as soon as she saw her own name at the top of one of the scraps of parchment, she couldn’t help herself. Her frown deepened as she pulled them free, laying them out on the desk in front of her and wondering why he had never bothered to give them to her.
As she read them, it quickly became clear why; Achilleas was a lot of things, but bless him, he was not a wordsmith. But even through the confusion of crossed out lines and unfinished thoughts, the sentiments within were clear, and Theodora felt another pang of guilt clench her stomach. Did she and Achilleas love each other? No, but there was something there, and if she doubted it now, she would be a fool. The king was a stoic man, but it wasn’t hard to ascertain how he cared for her. And yet she had snuck off into the woods with his brother, anyway.
Achilleas had done nothing to deserve this.
Carefully replacing the unsent letters into the drawer she pulled them from, she did her best to push it back to the exact position she found it. Rising from the desk to put as much distance between herself and the unfinished notes as she could, Theodora trailed over to the bookcase, her fingers tracing the various bindings as her eyes swept over titles with mild interest. Draining the rest of her wine, the empty glass lingered in her hand as she leaned in a little closer—a familiar title beckoning her gaze as she pulled it free of the others.
Setting the goblet she carried off to the side, she opened the book and thumbed through its pages with another frown. And there it was—a half ripped page that she remembered now, even all these years later. This wasn’t just any book. This book was hers, one she had thrown at the back of his head nearly a decade ago.
“He kept it?” she murmured into the empty room, idly flipping through a few more pages as she shook her head. “But why…?”
Had he really been carrying an affection for her for so long? He said as much in that meeting after his proposal was accepted, that it was something he had wanted for a long time. Even longer than she thought, apparently, replacing the book on the shelf with a trembling hand. Gods, if he’d only said something all those years ago, expressed how he felt… could any of this been avoided? Would she have been pining after him instead of his brother? Or would anything have changed?
Well, she had come here with the intention of wallowing in her guilt, of reminding herself of what she had now and what she needed to hold onto. She had certainly accomplished that goal.
Picking up her glass, she heaved a sigh, tears prickling the corners of her eyes. What had she done? How had she found herself in this position? She ought to be thanking the gods for what she had; Achilleas was a good man, and he would be a good husband to her in the years to come, she knew. So why could she not seem to keep herself away from Emilios? Why could she not set her feelings aside and look forward to the future instead of lingering in the past?
Sitting back at his desk, she propped her elbows on top of it and leaned into her hands. What a disaster this all was, and even as she knew the proper path she ought to tread, it was so hard to follow. Did one ever really get over their first love? Or was she to be enslaved to her heart forever, to never truly appreciate what she had right in her grasp?
Achilleas was a fine man, and she was lucky to have such a husband. He spoke kindly to her, showed her care, and even when he was overwhelmed with the weight of a country on his back, he still did what he could to please her in the little time they had shared between them. Though she had gone into this marriage with a sort of bitter resignation, she was past that now, and she wanted there to be more between them than cautious affection. But if she could not move past her feelings for Emilios, could that ever really happen?
But how could she stay away from the man who held her heart so completely?
Again, Theodora pulled out the drawer that held the letters to her, fingering through the pieces of parchment until another one caught her eye, one written in a different hand that addressed her husband instead. Perhaps she should have learned her lesson about indulging her curiosity, but that didn’t stop her from taking it anyway. Pulling the note free, dark and conflicted eyes pored over the elegant script, and the more she read…
What in Tartarus was this? Who was this ‘Damo’ that wrote her husband with such tender care? ‘These words are not the words of a lover, but a friend…’ What did that mean? Did… did Achilleas have a lover somewhere else? A male lover, at that? Was their marriage just a sham to him, and did his heart yet linger with another? Why had he never mentioned this person?
Did he join him now? Did this man even now whisper such poignant words in the ears of the king, while the queen lingered behind and drowned in her own guilt? If this was what carried on when he left her, why should she feel anything if her heart wandered? Did his not wander too?
She didn’t know what to make of any of this, shoving the letter in a fold of her chiton. Theodora had seen enough. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here. Or maybe she had just found exactly what she needed to ease the guilt of her own indiscretion.
Rising from the desk, the queen swept from her husband’s study back down the hall to their bedchamber, dodging servants and slaves as she did her best not to let her tears overflow. The thought of Achilleas in the arms of a man while she remained here plagued by doubt and uncertainty made her temper boil, her earlier guilt dissolving in the wake of a more comforting emotion: anger.
Entering her room, she immediately locked the door behind her and headed straight for a chest at the foot of her bed, discarding her wineglass off to the side. Emptying it of the various bits and baubles it held, she listened for a moment to ensure no one was in the hall outside. Finding it silent, she eased the false bottom from the container and pulled out a stack of papers, laying them out in front of her and tracing her fingers over each one.
In front of her were drawings, dozens of them, all of her—or rather, parts of her. Her eyes, her hands, her smile… Emilios had drawn them all, always giving them to her when they met, and little did he know that she had kept every single one. Even after she married, she couldn’t bear to part with them, keeping them hidden and secret from everyone. It was her way of hanging onto the past, of reminding herself what life might have been, and now, she was gladder than ever that she hadn’t let them go.
Her eyes welled with tears again as she gazed at the various sketches, though this time, a few of them dared to drip down her freckled cheeks. While she felt guilty for betraying Achilleas by an intimate moment with his brother, what she should have felt guilty for was that she felt anything for her husband at all. How could she have ever let Emilios go? She had vowed to him that she would always be his, no matter what, but that vow was easier broken than she had ever imagined.
There had never been any doubt or question as to what Emilios felt for her. He wore his heart on his sleeve and declared his feelings for her at every chance he could. Where she was weak, he was strong. When she needed support, he was there, even at the cost to himself. And in spite of everything, he had watched her marry his brother, staying out of her path and leaving her to her new life. A life without him. Or, rather, a life where he played a very different role to the one he should have.
Taking a deep breath and releasing it, she gathered the sketches together again, placing them back in their secret spot, replacing the false bottom, and piling everything back on top of it. Shutting the chest, she struggled to her feet and leaned against her bedframe. Closing her eyes against the emotions that overcame her, she shook her head. What now? Had all her guilt been for nothing? Why shouldn’t she go to the one she loved, if her husband left for the arms of another?
A decision apparently made, Theo strode over to the nearby table, quickly scrawling her own note and tucking it next to the one she had stolen. Gathering her nerve, she unlocked her door, gazed down the hall to ensure it was empty, then all but ran for Emilios’s chamber. Shoving the hastily penned note under his door, she knocked quietly before retreating, hushed and hurried footsteps carrying her from the palati and down to the stables—sticking to the shadows to avoid anyone noticing her passage.
Due to the late hour, the barn was deserted, and Theo was able to saddle her mare in peace. Climbing on Calista’s back, she set off for the woods, back to the place Emilios made for her, where she would wait for his arrival.
Perhaps this was a mistake, but Theodora didn’t know what else to do. Even before he was her lover, Emilios was her best friend, and there was no one else she could talk to about this. And if talking became something else, well…
No one could outrun fate.
Guilt consumed Theodora, and she was helpless in how to assuage it.
It had been a few days since that kiss she shared with Emilios in the woods, a moment of overwhelming emotion after he had shown her the lean-to he built for her. The one they had dreamed of, had promised each other they would have. When such promises seemed dead and forgotten, Emilios had not forgotten it, after all, but his timing…
Gods, this was all such a mess. It seemed the queen could hold nothing together these days, not even herself.
Stepping into her husband’s study and easing the door shut behind her after checking to ensure she had not been followed, Theodora lit the brazier in the corner before taking a seat at his desk. A glass of wine was cradled in her palm, the liquid warm in her belly as she sighed and let her eyes trail the room. She could not be with Achilleas, not while he lingered miles away on a battlefield, but here she could still feel some closeness to him. Remind herself of the bond they now shared, one she had very nearly broken to satisfy the whims of a selfish heart.
If there was a space in the world that exemplified her husband’s personality, she imagined it would be this. Everything had its place, the room’s arrangement neat and immaculate. Not a book was out of place, not a speck of dust to be found, even after weeks of absence. It brought the hint of a smile to her lips, even if the rigidness of his manner could be… frustrating. So, when she noticed the drawer of the desk hanging slight ajar, it was enough to draw her eye—frowning as she wiggled it free.
The queen knew she ought not to snoop through the king’s correspondence, but as soon as she saw her own name at the top of one of the scraps of parchment, she couldn’t help herself. Her frown deepened as she pulled them free, laying them out on the desk in front of her and wondering why he had never bothered to give them to her.
As she read them, it quickly became clear why; Achilleas was a lot of things, but bless him, he was not a wordsmith. But even through the confusion of crossed out lines and unfinished thoughts, the sentiments within were clear, and Theodora felt another pang of guilt clench her stomach. Did she and Achilleas love each other? No, but there was something there, and if she doubted it now, she would be a fool. The king was a stoic man, but it wasn’t hard to ascertain how he cared for her. And yet she had snuck off into the woods with his brother, anyway.
Achilleas had done nothing to deserve this.
Carefully replacing the unsent letters into the drawer she pulled them from, she did her best to push it back to the exact position she found it. Rising from the desk to put as much distance between herself and the unfinished notes as she could, Theodora trailed over to the bookcase, her fingers tracing the various bindings as her eyes swept over titles with mild interest. Draining the rest of her wine, the empty glass lingered in her hand as she leaned in a little closer—a familiar title beckoning her gaze as she pulled it free of the others.
Setting the goblet she carried off to the side, she opened the book and thumbed through its pages with another frown. And there it was—a half ripped page that she remembered now, even all these years later. This wasn’t just any book. This book was hers, one she had thrown at the back of his head nearly a decade ago.
“He kept it?” she murmured into the empty room, idly flipping through a few more pages as she shook her head. “But why…?”
Had he really been carrying an affection for her for so long? He said as much in that meeting after his proposal was accepted, that it was something he had wanted for a long time. Even longer than she thought, apparently, replacing the book on the shelf with a trembling hand. Gods, if he’d only said something all those years ago, expressed how he felt… could any of this been avoided? Would she have been pining after him instead of his brother? Or would anything have changed?
Well, she had come here with the intention of wallowing in her guilt, of reminding herself of what she had now and what she needed to hold onto. She had certainly accomplished that goal.
Picking up her glass, she heaved a sigh, tears prickling the corners of her eyes. What had she done? How had she found herself in this position? She ought to be thanking the gods for what she had; Achilleas was a good man, and he would be a good husband to her in the years to come, she knew. So why could she not seem to keep herself away from Emilios? Why could she not set her feelings aside and look forward to the future instead of lingering in the past?
Sitting back at his desk, she propped her elbows on top of it and leaned into her hands. What a disaster this all was, and even as she knew the proper path she ought to tread, it was so hard to follow. Did one ever really get over their first love? Or was she to be enslaved to her heart forever, to never truly appreciate what she had right in her grasp?
Achilleas was a fine man, and she was lucky to have such a husband. He spoke kindly to her, showed her care, and even when he was overwhelmed with the weight of a country on his back, he still did what he could to please her in the little time they had shared between them. Though she had gone into this marriage with a sort of bitter resignation, she was past that now, and she wanted there to be more between them than cautious affection. But if she could not move past her feelings for Emilios, could that ever really happen?
But how could she stay away from the man who held her heart so completely?
Again, Theodora pulled out the drawer that held the letters to her, fingering through the pieces of parchment until another one caught her eye, one written in a different hand that addressed her husband instead. Perhaps she should have learned her lesson about indulging her curiosity, but that didn’t stop her from taking it anyway. Pulling the note free, dark and conflicted eyes pored over the elegant script, and the more she read…
What in Tartarus was this? Who was this ‘Damo’ that wrote her husband with such tender care? ‘These words are not the words of a lover, but a friend…’ What did that mean? Did… did Achilleas have a lover somewhere else? A male lover, at that? Was their marriage just a sham to him, and did his heart yet linger with another? Why had he never mentioned this person?
Did he join him now? Did this man even now whisper such poignant words in the ears of the king, while the queen lingered behind and drowned in her own guilt? If this was what carried on when he left her, why should she feel anything if her heart wandered? Did his not wander too?
She didn’t know what to make of any of this, shoving the letter in a fold of her chiton. Theodora had seen enough. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here. Or maybe she had just found exactly what she needed to ease the guilt of her own indiscretion.
Rising from the desk, the queen swept from her husband’s study back down the hall to their bedchamber, dodging servants and slaves as she did her best not to let her tears overflow. The thought of Achilleas in the arms of a man while she remained here plagued by doubt and uncertainty made her temper boil, her earlier guilt dissolving in the wake of a more comforting emotion: anger.
Entering her room, she immediately locked the door behind her and headed straight for a chest at the foot of her bed, discarding her wineglass off to the side. Emptying it of the various bits and baubles it held, she listened for a moment to ensure no one was in the hall outside. Finding it silent, she eased the false bottom from the container and pulled out a stack of papers, laying them out in front of her and tracing her fingers over each one.
In front of her were drawings, dozens of them, all of her—or rather, parts of her. Her eyes, her hands, her smile… Emilios had drawn them all, always giving them to her when they met, and little did he know that she had kept every single one. Even after she married, she couldn’t bear to part with them, keeping them hidden and secret from everyone. It was her way of hanging onto the past, of reminding herself what life might have been, and now, she was gladder than ever that she hadn’t let them go.
Her eyes welled with tears again as she gazed at the various sketches, though this time, a few of them dared to drip down her freckled cheeks. While she felt guilty for betraying Achilleas by an intimate moment with his brother, what she should have felt guilty for was that she felt anything for her husband at all. How could she have ever let Emilios go? She had vowed to him that she would always be his, no matter what, but that vow was easier broken than she had ever imagined.
There had never been any doubt or question as to what Emilios felt for her. He wore his heart on his sleeve and declared his feelings for her at every chance he could. Where she was weak, he was strong. When she needed support, he was there, even at the cost to himself. And in spite of everything, he had watched her marry his brother, staying out of her path and leaving her to her new life. A life without him. Or, rather, a life where he played a very different role to the one he should have.
Taking a deep breath and releasing it, she gathered the sketches together again, placing them back in their secret spot, replacing the false bottom, and piling everything back on top of it. Shutting the chest, she struggled to her feet and leaned against her bedframe. Closing her eyes against the emotions that overcame her, she shook her head. What now? Had all her guilt been for nothing? Why shouldn’t she go to the one she loved, if her husband left for the arms of another?
A decision apparently made, Theo strode over to the nearby table, quickly scrawling her own note and tucking it next to the one she had stolen. Gathering her nerve, she unlocked her door, gazed down the hall to ensure it was empty, then all but ran for Emilios’s chamber. Shoving the hastily penned note under his door, she knocked quietly before retreating, hushed and hurried footsteps carrying her from the palati and down to the stables—sticking to the shadows to avoid anyone noticing her passage.
Due to the late hour, the barn was deserted, and Theo was able to saddle her mare in peace. Climbing on Calista’s back, she set off for the woods, back to the place Emilios made for her, where she would wait for his arrival.
Perhaps this was a mistake, but Theodora didn’t know what else to do. Even before he was her lover, Emilios was her best friend, and there was no one else she could talk to about this. And if talking became something else, well…