*Warning:
Rape and non-con BDSM
**Important
Background Information: In the appendixes we are told that
about forty years before the events of ‘Fellowship', Aragorn
was in Gondor, serving the Steward there under a false name.
They also tell us that the Steward's son, Denethor, does not
like Aragorn, and is jealous of his closeness to his father.
After staying in Gondor for many years, Aragorn, known there
as Thorongil, goes to battle in Umbar, and afterward refuses
to return to Minas Tirith, saying only that he has other
things he needs to do before he can come back. **.
**
As others might with tenderness
Rule your life and your youngness,
I shall rule you with a fear.
--- Charles Baudelaire
**
The day had only begun, but Aragorn was already tired,
having spent hours with Ecthelion, the Steward of Gondor,
going over maps and planning for the coming battle. It was a
critical task he was to complete, and the weight of it
seemed heavy on his shoulders this day.
He and a small fleet would leave the next morning for Umbar,
and if all went well, they would arrive in the night. If
Sauron were to rise again the rebels there would be deadly
foes, and under Gandalf's order, Aragorn had striven for
several years to persuade Ecthelion that the time to strike
was now, before it came to desperation.
The Steward had finally been convinced, yet now the true
battle loomed before him and he had many things yet to
accomplish ere he left in the morning. At the moment,
however, breaking his fast was foremost in his mind and he
made his way quickly down the stairs to the kitchens, intent
on charming a late meal from the cook before he began.
"Thorongil! Thorongil!"
Someone called to him by the name he had taken for his time
in Gondor, and Aragorn turned to see Finduilas, Denethor's
wife, hurrying down the stairs towards him. The child on her
hip slowed her steps, crowing in delight as he bounced
along, heedless to his mother's breathless state when she
finally reached the bottom.
He bowed low in greeting, smiling at both her and the child.
"Good day, my lady. How may I assist you?"
A flush rose in her cheeks, and Finduilas seemed flustered,
patting her son absently on the back. "I am sorry, I did not
mean to..." She composed herself visibly, gracing him with a
smile. "What I mean to say is, I hope you will take care on
your journey."
"I...thank you, my lady," Aragorn, replied, tentatively,
certain that there was more to this meeting, and Finduilas,
nodded, almost nervously.
"Yes...I...Denethor spoke of joining you," she said in a
rush, tears rising in her eyes. She patted her son again,
clinging to him almost too tightly and Boromir protested
with an impatient squall, his chubby hand pulling at the
bodice of her gown.
Aragorn nodded slowly. "He did, but his father did not agree
with that decision. I believe they are discussing it now,
but I think Denethor will remain here, with you," he added,
and he saw the relief rise in her pretty eyes. He did not
add that Ecthelion had expressed his doubts to him over
Denethor's ability to lead the battle.
"Thank you," she said in a rush, "I am sure without you he
would be going into battle. He is such a brave man, but he
does not think of his safety! Gondor needs him here," she
finished firmly.
"Of course," Aragorn said, politely, and kept his opinions
to himself. The lady saw only the goodness, the warrior in
her husband, understandably so, but Aragorn had seen a
greediness in the man, rarely given form, and he thought too
Ecthelion may have seen a glimpse of it; yet the man did
love his son and perhaps would not allow himself to believe.
There was nothing Aragorn could do for it, not at this
moment, and he kept his own counsel on the matter, choosing
to implore instead to Ecthelion's good judgment.
Finduilas excused herself from him happily, and Aragorn
bowed again, continuing to the kitchens and putting thoughts
of Denethor from his mind. He did not see the man watching
from the shadows, cold eyes following him from a growing
distance.
**
The ground beneath him was cold, and Aragorn thought dimly
of his cloak, moving to grasp it. He only just realized he
could not and had hardly the time to frown over it when a
flood of foul water drenched him.
He choked and coughed, struggling for breath. Aragorn fought
to get his knees beneath him, his hands bound before him,
and Aragorn blinked through the filthy strands of his hair
at his surroundings. Stone walls were on each side of the
dimly lit room and Aragorn stared dumbly for a long moment,
head aching and eyes burning.
A rough shove pushed him back to the ground, and he spat out
dirt, coughing as he looked up at his captors. Tall and
silent, they looked down at him coldly, somehow oddly
familiar, yet before he could consider it further, a voice
came from the other side of the room.
"I think it is past time we spoke with one another,
Thorongil."
That voice he recognized without thought, and with it, the
men next to him. Denethor and his personal guards, he
realized and his blood chilled. He had sorely misjudged the
other man, Aragorn saw; his obedience to his father had not
carried as far as Aragorn had thought. There was glittering
madness in his eyes, unsheathed and brought to the fore, and
it showed vividly, too, in his sudden smile.
The guards came forward, forcing Aragorn to his feet, and he
struggled, his head still spinning, but it was a battle
quickly lost. They dragged him forward, binding his hands
apart to long poles set into the ground. A dagger shone
grimly in the dim light and he flinched uselessly away but
the expected blow did not fall. Instead, the guard tore away
the fastenings on his tunic, the blade glancing lightly off
his skin and leaving shallow, stinging cuts behind.
Between them, they stripped him quickly, until he was bare
to the waist and shivering, recognizing the room as one of
the great tombs hidden deep within the mountain though this
one lacked occupants other than those of the living. A room
Denethor had used before, perhaps, for some deed or another
and the thought was not a reassuring one.
Denethor stepped forward then from the shadows, and raised a
gloved hand to Aragorn's chin, forcing it upward. "I spoke
with my father today," he began, his eyes so strangely cold.
"I have had many discussions of this like with my father as
of late," he continued, his voice both distant and
thoughtful. "And I have thought on these matters a great
deal. Would you like to know what I believe?"
Aragorn said nothing, watching Denethor pace before him
warily. He had been mistrustful of Denethor for some time,
but never had he suspected this deceit lay within him. It
was his own failing then, that he had not, and he regretted
briefly that this was the fashion in which he would die,
unknown and laid in a dank tomb, with only the cloying scent
of rotting flora to accompany him.
"You are friends with Gandalf the Grey, this I know. And no
great love has ever been exchanged between he and I,"
Denethor mused aloud, "I believe he sent you here, to usurp
me. I believe he fears the time when I become Stewart of
Gondor and seeks to seat instead one that he can control."
"Gandalf and I are but friends," Aragorn said, his mouth
dry. "I came to Gondor of my own will, to serve your
father."
"No!" Denethor snapped, his voice echoing painfully loud
through the great halls of the tomb. "I have watched you,"
he hissed, again catching Aragorn's face in his hand, his
grip tightening until Aragorn flinched. "I have seen you and
if you do not serve Gandalf, then it is someone else. And I
would know who." He pressed closer, his face but a breath
from Aragorn's before he whispered in a voice too low to be
heard by the others, "You may steal the of heart my father,
you may steal the hearts of my men, but you will not have my
wife! Nor will you have Gondor."
Aragorn remained silent, meeting Denethor's gaze steadily.
It was Denethor who finally broke their stare, stepping away
and gesturing impatiently to his men before leaving
Aragorn's line of sight.
The first blow came unexpectedly, pain like a hundred wasps
stinging a path across his back and he lurched forward,
gasping, his eyes watering. The second blow was less a shock
and Aragorn braced himself against it, and though it was
significant, the pain was still not quite as he would have
expected.
Only a quirt then, not a full whip which possibly meant he
was supposed to survive this encounter. Wrapping his hands
around the ropes binding his wrists, Aragorn breathed
against the pain, expecting each strike as it fell, waiting
patiently for the end. After ten blows, counted silently in
Elvish, he happened to looked up and saw Denethor watching
from the shadows, and saw too that familiar greed, only this
time, unchecked, and the hope in his thoughts turned to ash.
Or perhaps he would not survive, after all.
**
The song of a lash was like none other, short-lived and
terrible, rising snakelike on a path through the air until
it reached its crescendo against flesh. Unbearably quick for
the listener, but for the one carrying the tune...
A tremor ran through the muscles of Thorongil's back with
every strike, moving outward until it reached his face,
tightening and releasing in rhythm, gleaming wet with
perspiration even though each breath brought with it a cloud
of steam in the cool air. Denethor watched with growing
delight as Thorongil accepted each blow in silence.
Such beautiful misery, and such a sin it would be to waste
it.
"Wait," Denethor said softly, and his man paused, the lash
whispering sullenly against the ground, its song
interrupted. Thorongil was panting for breath, quivering
with the pain and useless energy that would have built
within him, the body's hopeless call to flee torment. The
lines of the lash on his back were as dark as old blood in
the dim light, but as Denethor came closer, the richness of
crimson began to shine through, glistening yet, tacky and
moist to the touch and he stroked each one lovingly,
watching the quivering response ripple beneath the man's
skin.
"Such a man you are, Thorongil," he said, conversationally,
pressing the tip of his finger to his tongue and tasting the
shallow metal bite of blood.
Thorongil opened his eyes, startlingly green in the darkness
and lit with what was perhaps hate. Denethor nodded mutely,
accepting it as due. It is the prerogative of the slave to
hate his master, but in the end, for all his hate, he is
still the slave.
He reached a hand around, running it up over the wet flesh
of Thorongil's belly. His skin was as buttery soft as
well-tanned leather, moving slickly beneath his fingertips
as the man would have flinched away, his back arching like a
bow. Threading his other fingers through the mass
Thorongil's sweaty hair, Denethor clenched his fist tightly
within it, wrenching his head back to rest awkwardly against
Denethor's shoulder.
"Why do you not tell me what I wish to know?" he murmured
into the shell of Thorongil's ear, letting his lips brush
against the silken flesh there. He dipped a single finger
into the man's navel, lingering briefly before sinking
lower. Shivering silence was his only response, and he bit
his tongue against angry words, instead shaping them into
gentle coaxing, "Do you but ask me for mercy, and I may
grant it."
Thorongil's breeches hung low, the waist soaked in both
blood and sweat, and Denethor slipped his hand past that
gory barrier, seeking flesh that was as yet untouched by him
and finding it eager. A choked gasp rewarded him, and he
smiled against Thorongil's shoulder.
There comes a moment in things such as these that a border
may be crossed, when agony may shift its alignment and
become the most unbearable form of arousal. When the body
keened with awful desire and would accept relief from the
most bitterly hated of enemies. Thorongil's nipples were
drawn tight in the cold air, and as Denethor watched a
single droplet of sweat hung suspended from one like a jewel
before dropping as a tear to the ground.
He moved his hand within the confines of Thorongil's
breeches, wrapping his hand around the firmness of his cock,
and even as he grasped that betraying flesh, Thorongil
remained defiantly silent, straining forward against his
bonds until a fresh trickle of redness slipped from the raw,
scraped skin of his wrists. Denethor released him and
stepped back, studying the man before him. His own clothes
were dampened now with blood and sweat, and the smell of it
rose in the air, a perfumery to tantalize his own arousal.
He walked instead to stand in front of Thorongil, regarding
his face evenly, his eyes never leaving Thorongil's as he
said, "Again."
Once, the sound sharp and brilliant, and the whip licked
over Thorongil's shoulder, leaving a line of terrible color
to shine wetly. He did not flinch, but met Denethor's eyes
evenly, only the quickness of his breath betraying him.
Denethor smiled and stepped forward, laying a hand low
against Thorongil's belly, his fingertips barely breeching
the waistband of his trousers. He left it there, palm
against cooling skin and said, louder, "Again."
The hiss of the lash was echoed in Thorongil's breath, a
sharp inhalation through his nose, and this time he could
not hide the flinch, yet another betrayal of self as his
stomach tightened against Denethor's hand, muscles going
rigid for the briefest of moments.
"You cannot hide yourself from me," he crooned, letting his
fingertips stroke gently, inching their way lower. "I know
how you feel, I can control how you feel." He lowered his
head to Thorongil's shoulder and tasted the weeping mark
there, the flavor strong with salt. Thorongil trembled
beneath his touch, hanging heavily from his bound wrists and
unable to move away. "Tell me who you are. Ask me to stop
this," Denethor commanded, tenderly, licking a path upward
and catching the lobe of Thorongil's ear between his teeth.
He bit it sharply, until his mouth flooded with fresh
bitterness. "Ask me."
Only the heavy sound of breathing greeted him and Denethor
thrilled silently, such lovely defiance, such tolerance! He
found that he was regretting this encounter would only be
once. What songs might his little captive bird sing for him
if he had but the time to teach them?
"Keep your silence, then," he said, coolly, and then,
"Again!" just as he pushed his hand back into Thorongil's
breeches, squeezing his cock painfully hard as the lash fell
and he felt the harsh jerk within Thorongil's skin as his
nerves shrieked in unholy unison, a near scream strangling
deep within his throat.
"I know why you are here," Denethor said, his voice low and
furious, and he squeezed again, watching Thorongil's bite
his own lips to stifle his cries. "You have come to poison
my father against me, to poison my people against me,
so that you might steal your place on the throne."
Thorongil was shaking his head, whether against the words or
his touch, Denethor could not say, and his anger flared
anew, red as blood behind his eyes. "I am not so easily
fooled as that," he hissed, and then shouted, "Again!" He
jerked up hard, stripping Thorongil's cock furiously as the
blows rained down, quickly now, the tip of the whip stinging
against Denethor's own cheek in a hot flare of pain when he
leaned too close.
He ignored it, his eyes on Thorongil's face, the freakish
beauty of pleasure and pain mingled too closely in the
clench of his jaw, the thin line of blood on his chin from
his bitten lip. Blood seemed everywhere, the rich, raw
scent, the taste thick on his tongue, and Denethor was
caught in the thrall of this gruesome sight, the sudden cry
that escaped Thorongil a perfect counterpoint to the singing
of the lash, silence shattered with the sweetness of
despair.
Wet heat flooded over Denethor's hand, hotter than the blood
and Thorongil cried out again, shuddering as he sagged
against him, held upright only by his bindings. Denethor
raised his other hand, halting his man silently before
clasping Thorongil against him, petting the wet strands of
his hair soothingly.
"You see?" he said gently, "I will get what I want from you,
whether or not you allow it."
Thorongil seemed to find strength at those words and jerked
away, swaying heavily on his feet but staying upright. The
hate in his eyes had kindled and blazed openly, only to dim
briefly into shame as Denethor roughly pulled his hand free
from his breeches.
He cupped Thorongil's cheek with his wet hand, stroking his
face and into his hair, painting him with his own seed
before letting one finger rest lightly against his bitten
lip. "You are often on bended knee for my father," he mused.
"I think I would like to see you as such for me."
Denethor stepped away, gesturing curtly to his men and they
came forward, untying Thorongil from the posts. He struggled
wildly as they made to bind his hands behind him, managing
to kick one full in the face with a booted foot. The guard
stumbled backwards, briefly blinded by the pain, and
Denethor watched the three of them struggled with
indifference. Thorongil was too weak to make a true fight of
it and he was quickly subdued. They tied his hands behind
him and his ankles were bound this time to the base of the
wooden poles.
The guards stepped back, resuming their posts and Denethor
leaned against one of the poles, looking down on him.
Thorongil tried to raise his head from the ground and
Denethor gently placed a foot at the back of his neck,
holding him down. "I'll give you one last opportunity to end
this," he said, thoughtfully. "Who are you? Who sent you
here?" He pressed down slightly, pushing Thorongil's face
into the dirt. "What do you hope to accomplish by being here
in my city?"
Thorongil lay with his eyes closed, breath hitching slightly
and yet he still said nothing. Stepping off him, Denethor
stooped low enough to snatch a handful of Thorongil's hair,
pulling him up roughly. His own anger was coming to the
fore, frustration mingled with delight of this man who would
not, it seemed, be broken. "Look at me," he whispered, and
when he received no response, he shook him by his hair,
shouting, "Look at me!"
Only then did Thorongil open his eyes, that same stunning
green cutting through the dimness, and still within them was
the hate, that Denethor could see clearly, but also was
something else. An inner serenity that had not yet been
touched and Denethor smiled unpleasantly to see it. "Yes,"
he said, and slid his hands down to cup Thorongil's face
between his palms, pressing a gentle kiss against both of
the man's eyelids. "I had rather hoped for this."
He drew his knife from his belt, Thorongil's eyes upon him,
and tapped the blade carelessly against his lips,
considering. The light in his eyes had shifted, serenity
into acceptance and Denethor laughed lightly to see it.
"Have little fear, my unknown enemy. You are not to die that
easily."
Stepping around the poles, Denethor knelt by Thorongil's
side, sliding the tip of his blade into the waistband of the
man's breeches. They were made of good cloth and did not cut
easily, but Denethor's knife was sharp and he worked at them
unhurriedly, pausing to lap gently at any accidental nick of
the blade, worrying away the blood with the tender stroke of
his tongue. Patiently, he worked, until Thorongil's breeches
lay in shreds about the tops of his boots.
"There we are," Denethor said, softly, and he sat back on
his heels, admiring the man before him. Dark lines of dried
blood divided his back into a gruesome parody of stained
glass, the skin between the lines as smooth and white as
that of an Elf. "Lovely creature," he murmured, reaching out
and tracing the smooth, unblemished line of his hip
downward. Thorongil jerked beneath is touch, his shock like
a tangible thing. "Do not let your courage fade now,"
Denethor mocked, moving so that he knelt behind him.
Unfastening his own breeches, Denethor inhaled in relief as
the unrelenting pressure against his own erection eased. The
smooth curve of Thorongil's backside begged to be touched,
and he did so, sliding his fingers between the taut cheeks
to test the entrance there and then came a small sound from
Thorongil, hardly touching the air before it was bitten off.
It was something like a victory to hear, and yet, "It hardly
matters now," Denethor murmured aloud. "You had your chance
to speak." He took himself in hand, positioned to breech the
citadel of his enemy and with a last deep breath he caught
Thorongil's hips in his hands as he pushed forward.
The cruel friction of resisting flesh was its own form of
bliss, as was the trembling of Thorongil beneath him,
penetration bringing pain to them both. Denethor closed his
eyes, catching his tongue between his teeth as he pressed
deeper, pushing past resistance, forcing submission of both
body and flesh.
Thorongil was tense and unwilling beneath him, yet unable to
defend himself in this battle, and Denethor seated himself
deeply within the other's body, sighing as he was surrounded
by almost unimagined heat. The urge to simply rut was upon
him, to take this pliant form beneath him, thrusting until
he spilled himself within, and it would be a victory,
regardless.
He leaned forward, feeling the uncomfortable press of
Thorongil's hands against his belly, the nails digging into
his flesh in a fruitless attempt at causing some small
damage, but Denethor ignored the tiny pain, burying his face
into the damp mass of Thorongil's hair. "Keep your silence,"
he said softly, repeating his earlier words, "I think I've
found parts of you that I want more than your words."
A gentle roll of his hips drew a ragged moan from the man
beneath him, and he repeated the movement, worrying the lobe
of Thorongil's ear between his teeth and again tasting
blood, everywhere was the taste of blood and salt, and he
slowed his movements, whispering obscenities hotly into
Thorongil's ear and feeling the low rumble of his moans from
within.
Denethor shifted, slipping a hand beneath them and forcing
Thorongil into a half-kneeling position. A different, deeper
angle came with it, and both men stifled cries, Denethor
thrusting deeply once, and holding, feeling Thorongil's
pulse fluttering around him before he again withdrew,
keeping his movements slow. If he could only feel this once,
then he would enjoy it as long as he could. He slid a hand
down between Thorongil's thighs and he found him not
completely unaffected.
He felt Thorongil stiffen, tightening delightfully within as
his body's treachery was discovered, and Denethor forced
himself to stillness, breathing deeply of the thickly
scented air between them. Bringing his other hand to his
mouth, Denethor licked it, wetting it lavishly before
reaching for Thorongil's growing erection, and Thorongil
jarred into movement, pushing back against him in a
startling, desperate fashion, so that Denethor was forced to
cling to him, struggling against his quickly approaching
climax.
"I will not be defeated so easily," Denethor grunted,
wrapping both arms around Thorongil's waist and fumbling
both hands between his legs, the wet skin sliding easily in
his fist, and Thorongil gave a cry wrought with true
despair, unable to stop himself once he had begun, and they
shuddered in completion together, Denethor's shout was one
of glorious victory, the battle his.
Thorongil lay gasping and spent beneath him, each breath
akin to a sob, trembling as Denethor stroked him tenderly.
Another soft cry escaped him as Denethor finally withdrew,
and spilled yet more of his blood over his own thighs,
crimson splashes mingled with Denethor's seed fouling the
purity of his skin.
Fastening his breeches, Denethor stood, and he sighed,
deeply satisfied, before gesturing lazily to his guards.
They came forward again, unbinding Thorongil's ankles and
the moment the last tie fell loose, Thorongil scrabbled to
his knees, shuffling useless backwards until his back struck
the wall, halting him. His hair fell over his face in greasy
hanks, his eyes hardly visible though they gazed at Denethor
coldly.
"Do you still have nothing to say to me," Denethor asked,
his voice sweet. "Though we have shared much between us, and
could yet share more?" he finished, allowing the faintest
hint of a threat into his words. "My guards, I think, could
yet find some sport with you."
"And this is how you would question one against whom you
have no proof?" Thorongil spat, his voice hoarse, and
Denethor startled to hear him speak. He frowned, but
Thorongil continued, "You claim this to be your city, yours
alone, and you would bestow torture on any you barely
suspect may disagree! Would you murder your own father then,
to make this city your own?"
Color bleached from Denethor's face, and he jerked his
dagger from its sheath numbly, stepping forward, yet
Thorongil continued relentlessly, his voice a lash that bit
deeply, and drew blood as easily as Denethor's man had drawn
it on him. "You are no better than those dark kings who
listened to Sauron, and if this is how you would rule you
would be as a servant of Sauron himself, like the Nazgul,
though you would have no defense as to be tricked by a ring.
You," he whispered, his eyes burning with some rare fire,
"Are no fitting steward of Gondor."
It was Thorongil who lay on the floor, weak and bleeding,
but it was Denethor who trembled, his knife a thin,
shivering fragment of silver in the darkness. Thorongil
watched him calmly as he approached, ignoring the blade, his
eyes only on Denethor.
He crouched in front of Thorongil, slowly folding his body
down and Thorongil did not flinch, the serenity again in his
eyes, and Denethor suddenly doubted it had ever been
extinguished. He pushed Thorongil roughly to his side,
breaking their gazes and thrust out almost blindly with the
knife, severing the ties binding his wrists.
A startled cry of pain came from Thorongil and he thrust his
wrists beneath his arms, squeezing tightly as blood started
to slow freely again into his hands. Denethor backed slowly
away from him, watching him writhe silently in the dirt.
"You are going to Umbar tomorrow, by order of my father,"
Denethor said, his voice low. "Go, then. Show yourself to be
a better man than I. But I do not suggest that you return."
He turned and walked out, gesturing curtly to his guards,
and they followed, none of them casting a single glance
backwards at the man on the ground.
The temptation was there to leave him in the blackness, to
let him find his way out on his hands and knees, but
Denethor resisted it, leaving the torch that burned in the
hall. They made their way up the long stairway, their
footsteps echoing deeply.
"Find some clothing and leave it near the doorway," he told
the man on his left tersely as they walked. He would not
have his father nor his wife see Thorongil in such a state,
and doubted that the man himself would say a word of it.
What he might do if he did, Denethor did not consider. It
would not matter, regardless, what his father might hear or
do. It would not.
He would be ruler of Gondor.
**
Aragorn was counting his heartbeats, slow, dull thuds
beneath his skin, whispering to himself in Elvish. On twenty
he began to believe he was still alive, thirty he managed to
sit up and almost collapsed again as the abused skin of his
back brushed against rough stone.
No.
Twenty, again, and he was on his feet, staggering towards
the doorway. Each step was an exercise in control, count to
five and step, slowly, and never had there been a battle so
grueling as his one with the stairs. He had no idea how long
it took him to climb them, and would never think of it
again.
A pile of clothing was stacked neatly in front of the door,
his own, he noted dispassionately, and there was an
unwelcome comfort in that, in the embrace of familiarity. He
covered his wounds with it, hiding them from the view of
others, but it was a constant reminder to him, the harsh
pull of cloth across raw skin.
He accepted that pain, letting it come to him throughout the
day, and he did not speak to anyone as he made ready for the
next day's travels.
Once, he saw Denethor from across the Great Hall, watching
him through the shambling crowd of people making ready for
the evening meal, and Aragorn met his eyes evenly, seeing
cold victory there but there was little he could do. He had
no army here, no ally he could claim and he thought even
Ecthelion would not take his word against that of his only
son.
So it would be then. For now. He would go to Umbar tomorrow
and afterward he would travel to Lórien and speak to Gandalf
about the new, strange fate that would befall Gondor. Let
Gondor deal with its own fate; it was no longer his concern.
Yet his eyes strayed again to Denethor, standing far from
him but ever watchful. Yes, it would be best to leave. He
could do nothing...now.
But one day...
-finis--
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