Possession: V
Aug. 29th, 2005 02:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deawritesTitle: Possession (Link to all chapters)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dea_liberty
Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot
Rating: 16+
A/N: Post-movie AU where Lancelot survives Badon Hill and returns to Sarmatia. This is it, everyone...this is the last chapter. Epilogue still to come and, hopefully, it will tie up all the loose ends.
Feedback: Everything, including constructive criticism, is very much appreciated.
Summary: Arthur wanted Lancelot to know freedom; instead, he finds himself forced to teach him what it truly means to be a slave to Rome.
It was something he'd sworn never to do, something he'd cursed and damned - and here he was, just about to do that very same thing he had despised people over.
It was against everything his father had ever taught him - no, not only that (it wasn't that simple) - it was against everything he believed in, everything he'd held fast to over the years. It was something he'd sworn never to do, something he'd cursed and damned - and here he was, just about to do that very same thing he had despised people over.
Arthur entered his study, moving quickly to the locked chest in the corner of the room and kneeling, pulling the key from its hiding place as he did so - and slowly opened turned the lock and opened it (hands shaking). He closed his eyes again as the thought of exactly what he was doing crossed his mind - but the thunk of the heavy lid reminded him what he was doing this for. His hands steadied, his eyes opened.
He counted out the golden coins carefully, putting a hefty sum - probably a successful merchant's whole year of earnings (a few years of his own) - into one bag, putting it to the side, before counting out two more bags full. He sighed, locking the chest back up again and hiding the key, before leaving the room and heading for the stables.
Jols had started to brush down Komosarya but, on seeing Arthur, he simply put everything down and saddled her again, murmuring softly to her as she protested quietly. Arthur tucked the money away in his saddle bags before joining the squire in the soothing of his irate mare.
Once she was calm enough, he mounted, patting her neck gently and easing her into a slow walk, letting Jols lead her to the gate.
"He's sleeping in my room." He knew Jols would understand. "Don't let him be disturbed. I should be back by the time he wakes up."
Without waiting for an answer, Arthur left, urging his mare along the familiar roads to the heart of Rome - and the magistrate: his first stop of the day.
He had visited an acquaintance (he wouldn't call him a friend) a few ours earlier and, to his great relief, he wasn't disappointed to find the man already there, waiting impatiently for him.
"So?"
"I need you to do something for me, Claudius," Right to the matter; he didn't have time for trivialities (neither of them did).
"What?"
"A manumission. A formal one." Freedom for a slave - and the granting of it before a magistrate - which gave the freedman not only his freedom but also Roman citizenship. It was the only thing that would give Lancelot any amount of protection after Arthur let him go - because he knew that slave traders had no mercy - and mercenaries would risk anything for money; it wouldn't be long before he was hearing of Lancelot in the arena (a slave once more) and, then, there would be nothing that he could do.
And it was incredibly hard to get.
"You've been on about it since you got that damn slave of yours, Castus - and you've heard the answer over and over again: no. Citizenship is not that easy to get." The man looked bored, turning slightly as if about to dismiss Arthur. He was right, of course, Arthur had been attempting to get this manumission ever since he'd bought Lancelot into his home - but his requests had gotten nowhere. The Romans were corrupt, that much was clear (used to getting something in return for their troubles) and most of them, Claudius included, were frequenters of the Coliseum.
And Arthur had (of course) been trying to get Lancelot's freedom and citizenship the way things were meant to run (cleanly) - but he had run out of time.
"I'll make it worth your while." That stopped the man in his tracks, as Arthur had known it would - and Arthur bit down the feelings of disgust and nausea as he pulled the money bag from his pocket.
Claudius' eyebrows rosed. "Castus?"
"I need a favour, Claudius; I'll make it worth your while." He was impressed that his hands didn't shake.
"Let's talk in my office."
Throughout the dealings, Arthur kept having to fight down his own self-loathing (like walking in the slave market all over again - but less painful, he supposed, even if it was just a little) and anger and hate - and all the other emotions that had always risen to surface when he was doing something that was clearly, very wrong (if only in principle). But his mind fixed itself on one thing - on the reason for all of this (his reason for life) - and clung to it like a stubborn child to its mother in a crowd.
Lancelot.
For the man, Arthur would endure anything - even if it was the shame and scorn - and smug looks from the corrupt politicians around him, and that eating guilt inside.
Hours later, he left the office with the papers in his hand, feeling like a boy, cheating in his test for the first time in his life - and knowing that his father would have been so ashamed.
He was so ashamed; he'd spent a large amount of his earnings and of what his father had given him - to bribe someone so that he could get what he wanted. Even if that was the freedom of his closest friend and best knight (and something so much more). He pushed it to the back of his mind, swallowing the bile that rose at the very thought, to be dealt with later.
There were still a few other things he needed to do before the shops all closed down to escape the heat of the afternoon.
The blacksmith's was the next place Arthur went to. He'd visited there a few days previous (he'd lost count of the days) completely on impulse - and had ordered something made.
Something special - so special that Arthur had not even thought twice of the cost.
The silk-wrapped package was handed to him carefully; the old man's head bowed respectfully to him as he counted out the necessary payment for it and, having checked the craftsmanship and praised the man, thanked him and left.
The horse market - and the subsequent wait as the details were polished off.
And all that he had had ordered done those days previous (when he had run into those bastards from the gladiatorial ludus) were ready for him to pick up. And done perfectly (which, considering what he was paying them, was to be expected).
He arrived back home and, with a few murmured instructions to Jols, made his way back towards his room, completely ignoring the whispered speculations of his household. There was only one thing left to do and, whilst it hurt to think about Lancelot…. He shook his head. He would be damned if he prolonged this anymore.
He bumped into Lancelot just as he rounded the corner of the corridor leading to his room (literally) - enjoying the proximity - before Lancelot stepped away, eyes turning downwards and away from him, regret clear in the way he was worrying his lower lip lightly.
"Arthur, I'm so - "
"Come with me," Arthur murmured, cutting Lancelot off before the apology could leave his lips; Lancelot had had every right to do what he did (at least, in Arthur's mind), and Arthur wasn't about to let him apologise for it.
When Lancelot didn't move, Arthur's hand found itself on the small of the younger man's back (without Arthur even knowing how it got there), urging the man forwards and towards the stables. "There's something I want you to see."
What Lancelot saw, when they'd made it to their destination, was a pure black stallion, graceful and young and still wild (wilder than any Roman would dare to ride) - and beautiful. He was already saddled and ready to ride; his kit made with the best craftsmanship that money could buy.
And his packs were full.
Arthur watched Lancelot take in the sight before the knight turned to him, confusion clear in his gaze - and Arthur simply gestured to the magnificent horse.
"He's yours."
Lancelot shook his head, clearly still not understanding what it all meant. Slowly, Arthur removed the papers that had cost him so much (not just in terms of money) and handed it to Lancelot, eyes soft, bright with emotion.
"You're a freeman, Lancelot," he murmured softly, hand closing Lancelot's fingers around the document. "Free. As you should have been from the start."
"Arthur…." The man slowly turned his hand over and unrolled the parchment, reading the words with disbelief written all over his features. "A Roman citizen?"
"It will protect you." Arthur sighed almost (but not quite) silently, making his way to where the silk-wrapped package lay, in the corner. "As will these."
Swords. A pair of them. Made in almost perfect replica to the ones Lancelot had once wielded.
Lancelot still looked awestruck, as if he couldn't quite believe that it was all real - and didn't quite know what to think or what to say - and Arthur simply lifted Lancelot's other hand, his curling the final pouch into it. "And this is to ease your journeys."
"You don't need to…. Arthur." Lancelot was protesting (weakly, but he didn't seem to have gotten over the shock of it all yet) - and Arthur wasn't having any of it. "I'm not your resp - "
His finger went to Lancelot's lips, quieting him, before the hand spread and cupped over his cheek, thumb rubbing a small, slow circle there (his breath caught as Lancelot leant into his touch) - but he knew it was time to let go. And he knew that, this time, it would be the last time he ever saw the knight.
And this time, he didn't want Lancelot going away without knowing what he really meant to him. This time, Lancelot wouldn't be obligated to stay in any way at all if he were to tell him. This time, he was really a free man (in all senses of the word).
"I didn't do this out of responsibility," Arthur whispered, echoing the words he had murmured to Lancelot as he slept. "I did this - all this - because I love you. I always have."
He replaced his finger with his lips - a brush, like an evening breeze - before pulling away.
"Go where your heart takes you, Lancelot."
And then he turned and left, knowing that (this time) he couldn't watch Lancelot ride away again. They'd had too little time together - and it had been filled with so much anguish - and Arthur knew he'd made mistakes. He should have told Lancelot everything - but he had always been afraid of abusing his power (and he'd thought Lancelot's actions all those nights ago had only just proven what would have happened) and he hadn't wanted Lancelot to feel obligated to do anything.
And he hadn't wanted Lancelot to…look forward to leaving. Because Arthur didn't (ever) want to be without the younger man again.
But he knew it had to be done. He knew he'd done the right thing - because that was love. Like last time, he loved enough to let go.
This time, he had really, truly been what was holding Lancelot back.
He didn't let the tears fall until he'd shut his door firmly behind him - and noticed that Lancelot had tried to tidy up, attempted to put his room back into some semblance of order - except for the lion pendant (Lancelot's pendant) that still rested on his pillow - along with his old cloak.
He had no idea how long he stood there, staring at the reminder of their past (remembering how Lancelot's hand used to run over the worn wood, how he'd let Arthur - and only Arthur - take it off him). When he finally made himself move - it was in the direction of the window, away from the bed.
As if he could get one last glimpse of his childhood friend - and the love of his life - even though he knew Lancelot was probably already gone.
Someone knocked on his door and he heard the wood creak as it opened - but he did not look from the window, didn't want to face reality quite yet. Once again, he would have to face a world without Lancelot in it - and that was something he didn't want to do, not yet.
"What is it, Jols?" It was probably dinner; the squire had never stopped constantly worrying about him.
"I hope it doesn't disappoint you too much to know that it's not Jols; he's trying to settle Komosarya. She doesn't seem to know what to think of my horse."
Arthur spun around to find Lancelot standing a mere few feet away from him, watching him with careful, guarded eyes.
"You haven't left yet?"
"Would you rather I had?" The younger man took a few steps closer - and Arthur noticed his hands were shaking almost imperceptibly. Two more steps - and Arthur could almost reach out and touch him. "Did you mean what you said, Arthur? About loving me."
Once again, it felt like whatever deity watched over him seemed to desire to taunt him, parading Lancelot in front of him once more - before he would have to let go again. Because hoping - thinking about what else this confrontation could mean - would be too much for him to take.
"Yes." Because there was really no denying it now. Lancelot was a free man - there were no chains that obligated him to…anything. Obligated to love Arthur back.
"You fucking bastard."
And then his lips were on Arthur's, kissing him fiercely and desperately - like Arthur was air and Lancelot hadn't been breathing for so long. Hands were clutching at him, clinging as Lancelot seemed to try to envelope Arthur, seemed to want to drown in him - and Arthur matched his emotions, matched his passion for something he'd held inside for so long. The familiar taste of the younger man flooded his senses and he reacquainted himself with the way Lancelot reacted to him - and this was right (this time - so right); how Lancelot still arched to his touch, how that same mewl-like whimper could still be coaxed from his lips.
And god, now Arthur wasn't sure he could let Lancelot go.
"Years, damn you, Arthur. Years. I thought I was just a responsibility - I was so sure…you and Guinevere - and…. I've loved you for so long…I didn't know…."
"But you walked away."
"You let me, you self sacrificing martyr."
"I thought I had to," Arthur murmured back, lips brushing over Lancelot's skin to rest on his pulse (which was racing), reassuring himself that this was real - this wasn't a vision his grief-stricken lonely mind had come up with. "They say that if you love something, let it go. I loved you enough to give you your freedom."
Lancelot pulled away and met his eyes - and Arthur saw that they were filmed over slightly with unshed tears, and like a bright pool of so many emotions that Arthur didn't even know where to start reading (finally completely open to him). "They also say that, if that something comes back to you, then it's truly yours."
"Lancelot…." The magnitude of those words were far too much - and if, after this, it turned out that everything was just a -
"I'm making this decision as a freedman. A free man. You told me to follow my heart." Lancelot's lips touched his cheek, gently kissing away the tear tracks that remained and his hand rose, slipping beneath Arthur's shirt to settle (almost scorching the skin beneath it with the intensity of the touch) over Arthur's heart.
"It's right here. It always has been."
Author:
dea_libertyPairing: Arthur/Lancelot
Rating: 16+
A/N: Post-movie AU where Lancelot survives Badon Hill and returns to Sarmatia. This is it, everyone...this is the last chapter. Epilogue still to come and, hopefully, it will tie up all the loose ends.
Feedback: Everything, including constructive criticism, is very much appreciated.
Summary: Arthur wanted Lancelot to know freedom; instead, he finds himself forced to teach him what it truly means to be a slave to Rome.
It was something he'd sworn never to do, something he'd cursed and damned - and here he was, just about to do that very same thing he had despised people over.
It was against everything his father had ever taught him - no, not only that (it wasn't that simple) - it was against everything he believed in, everything he'd held fast to over the years. It was something he'd sworn never to do, something he'd cursed and damned - and here he was, just about to do that very same thing he had despised people over.
Arthur entered his study, moving quickly to the locked chest in the corner of the room and kneeling, pulling the key from its hiding place as he did so - and slowly opened turned the lock and opened it (hands shaking). He closed his eyes again as the thought of exactly what he was doing crossed his mind - but the thunk of the heavy lid reminded him what he was doing this for. His hands steadied, his eyes opened.
He counted out the golden coins carefully, putting a hefty sum - probably a successful merchant's whole year of earnings (a few years of his own) - into one bag, putting it to the side, before counting out two more bags full. He sighed, locking the chest back up again and hiding the key, before leaving the room and heading for the stables.
Jols had started to brush down Komosarya but, on seeing Arthur, he simply put everything down and saddled her again, murmuring softly to her as she protested quietly. Arthur tucked the money away in his saddle bags before joining the squire in the soothing of his irate mare.
Once she was calm enough, he mounted, patting her neck gently and easing her into a slow walk, letting Jols lead her to the gate.
"He's sleeping in my room." He knew Jols would understand. "Don't let him be disturbed. I should be back by the time he wakes up."
Without waiting for an answer, Arthur left, urging his mare along the familiar roads to the heart of Rome - and the magistrate: his first stop of the day.
He had visited an acquaintance (he wouldn't call him a friend) a few ours earlier and, to his great relief, he wasn't disappointed to find the man already there, waiting impatiently for him.
"So?"
"I need you to do something for me, Claudius," Right to the matter; he didn't have time for trivialities (neither of them did).
"What?"
"A manumission. A formal one." Freedom for a slave - and the granting of it before a magistrate - which gave the freedman not only his freedom but also Roman citizenship. It was the only thing that would give Lancelot any amount of protection after Arthur let him go - because he knew that slave traders had no mercy - and mercenaries would risk anything for money; it wouldn't be long before he was hearing of Lancelot in the arena (a slave once more) and, then, there would be nothing that he could do.
And it was incredibly hard to get.
"You've been on about it since you got that damn slave of yours, Castus - and you've heard the answer over and over again: no. Citizenship is not that easy to get." The man looked bored, turning slightly as if about to dismiss Arthur. He was right, of course, Arthur had been attempting to get this manumission ever since he'd bought Lancelot into his home - but his requests had gotten nowhere. The Romans were corrupt, that much was clear (used to getting something in return for their troubles) and most of them, Claudius included, were frequenters of the Coliseum.
And Arthur had (of course) been trying to get Lancelot's freedom and citizenship the way things were meant to run (cleanly) - but he had run out of time.
"I'll make it worth your while." That stopped the man in his tracks, as Arthur had known it would - and Arthur bit down the feelings of disgust and nausea as he pulled the money bag from his pocket.
Claudius' eyebrows rosed. "Castus?"
"I need a favour, Claudius; I'll make it worth your while." He was impressed that his hands didn't shake.
"Let's talk in my office."
Throughout the dealings, Arthur kept having to fight down his own self-loathing (like walking in the slave market all over again - but less painful, he supposed, even if it was just a little) and anger and hate - and all the other emotions that had always risen to surface when he was doing something that was clearly, very wrong (if only in principle). But his mind fixed itself on one thing - on the reason for all of this (his reason for life) - and clung to it like a stubborn child to its mother in a crowd.
Lancelot.
For the man, Arthur would endure anything - even if it was the shame and scorn - and smug looks from the corrupt politicians around him, and that eating guilt inside.
Hours later, he left the office with the papers in his hand, feeling like a boy, cheating in his test for the first time in his life - and knowing that his father would have been so ashamed.
He was so ashamed; he'd spent a large amount of his earnings and of what his father had given him - to bribe someone so that he could get what he wanted. Even if that was the freedom of his closest friend and best knight (and something so much more). He pushed it to the back of his mind, swallowing the bile that rose at the very thought, to be dealt with later.
There were still a few other things he needed to do before the shops all closed down to escape the heat of the afternoon.
The blacksmith's was the next place Arthur went to. He'd visited there a few days previous (he'd lost count of the days) completely on impulse - and had ordered something made.
Something special - so special that Arthur had not even thought twice of the cost.
The silk-wrapped package was handed to him carefully; the old man's head bowed respectfully to him as he counted out the necessary payment for it and, having checked the craftsmanship and praised the man, thanked him and left.
The horse market - and the subsequent wait as the details were polished off.
And all that he had had ordered done those days previous (when he had run into those bastards from the gladiatorial ludus) were ready for him to pick up. And done perfectly (which, considering what he was paying them, was to be expected).
He arrived back home and, with a few murmured instructions to Jols, made his way back towards his room, completely ignoring the whispered speculations of his household. There was only one thing left to do and, whilst it hurt to think about Lancelot…. He shook his head. He would be damned if he prolonged this anymore.
He bumped into Lancelot just as he rounded the corner of the corridor leading to his room (literally) - enjoying the proximity - before Lancelot stepped away, eyes turning downwards and away from him, regret clear in the way he was worrying his lower lip lightly.
"Arthur, I'm so - "
"Come with me," Arthur murmured, cutting Lancelot off before the apology could leave his lips; Lancelot had had every right to do what he did (at least, in Arthur's mind), and Arthur wasn't about to let him apologise for it.
When Lancelot didn't move, Arthur's hand found itself on the small of the younger man's back (without Arthur even knowing how it got there), urging the man forwards and towards the stables. "There's something I want you to see."
What Lancelot saw, when they'd made it to their destination, was a pure black stallion, graceful and young and still wild (wilder than any Roman would dare to ride) - and beautiful. He was already saddled and ready to ride; his kit made with the best craftsmanship that money could buy.
And his packs were full.
Arthur watched Lancelot take in the sight before the knight turned to him, confusion clear in his gaze - and Arthur simply gestured to the magnificent horse.
"He's yours."
Lancelot shook his head, clearly still not understanding what it all meant. Slowly, Arthur removed the papers that had cost him so much (not just in terms of money) and handed it to Lancelot, eyes soft, bright with emotion.
"You're a freeman, Lancelot," he murmured softly, hand closing Lancelot's fingers around the document. "Free. As you should have been from the start."
"Arthur…." The man slowly turned his hand over and unrolled the parchment, reading the words with disbelief written all over his features. "A Roman citizen?"
"It will protect you." Arthur sighed almost (but not quite) silently, making his way to where the silk-wrapped package lay, in the corner. "As will these."
Swords. A pair of them. Made in almost perfect replica to the ones Lancelot had once wielded.
Lancelot still looked awestruck, as if he couldn't quite believe that it was all real - and didn't quite know what to think or what to say - and Arthur simply lifted Lancelot's other hand, his curling the final pouch into it. "And this is to ease your journeys."
"You don't need to…. Arthur." Lancelot was protesting (weakly, but he didn't seem to have gotten over the shock of it all yet) - and Arthur wasn't having any of it. "I'm not your resp - "
His finger went to Lancelot's lips, quieting him, before the hand spread and cupped over his cheek, thumb rubbing a small, slow circle there (his breath caught as Lancelot leant into his touch) - but he knew it was time to let go. And he knew that, this time, it would be the last time he ever saw the knight.
And this time, he didn't want Lancelot going away without knowing what he really meant to him. This time, Lancelot wouldn't be obligated to stay in any way at all if he were to tell him. This time, he was really a free man (in all senses of the word).
"I didn't do this out of responsibility," Arthur whispered, echoing the words he had murmured to Lancelot as he slept. "I did this - all this - because I love you. I always have."
He replaced his finger with his lips - a brush, like an evening breeze - before pulling away.
"Go where your heart takes you, Lancelot."
And then he turned and left, knowing that (this time) he couldn't watch Lancelot ride away again. They'd had too little time together - and it had been filled with so much anguish - and Arthur knew he'd made mistakes. He should have told Lancelot everything - but he had always been afraid of abusing his power (and he'd thought Lancelot's actions all those nights ago had only just proven what would have happened) and he hadn't wanted Lancelot to feel obligated to do anything.
And he hadn't wanted Lancelot to…look forward to leaving. Because Arthur didn't (ever) want to be without the younger man again.
But he knew it had to be done. He knew he'd done the right thing - because that was love. Like last time, he loved enough to let go.
This time, he had really, truly been what was holding Lancelot back.
He didn't let the tears fall until he'd shut his door firmly behind him - and noticed that Lancelot had tried to tidy up, attempted to put his room back into some semblance of order - except for the lion pendant (Lancelot's pendant) that still rested on his pillow - along with his old cloak.
He had no idea how long he stood there, staring at the reminder of their past (remembering how Lancelot's hand used to run over the worn wood, how he'd let Arthur - and only Arthur - take it off him). When he finally made himself move - it was in the direction of the window, away from the bed.
As if he could get one last glimpse of his childhood friend - and the love of his life - even though he knew Lancelot was probably already gone.
Someone knocked on his door and he heard the wood creak as it opened - but he did not look from the window, didn't want to face reality quite yet. Once again, he would have to face a world without Lancelot in it - and that was something he didn't want to do, not yet.
"What is it, Jols?" It was probably dinner; the squire had never stopped constantly worrying about him.
"I hope it doesn't disappoint you too much to know that it's not Jols; he's trying to settle Komosarya. She doesn't seem to know what to think of my horse."
Arthur spun around to find Lancelot standing a mere few feet away from him, watching him with careful, guarded eyes.
"You haven't left yet?"
"Would you rather I had?" The younger man took a few steps closer - and Arthur noticed his hands were shaking almost imperceptibly. Two more steps - and Arthur could almost reach out and touch him. "Did you mean what you said, Arthur? About loving me."
Once again, it felt like whatever deity watched over him seemed to desire to taunt him, parading Lancelot in front of him once more - before he would have to let go again. Because hoping - thinking about what else this confrontation could mean - would be too much for him to take.
"Yes." Because there was really no denying it now. Lancelot was a free man - there were no chains that obligated him to…anything. Obligated to love Arthur back.
"You fucking bastard."
And then his lips were on Arthur's, kissing him fiercely and desperately - like Arthur was air and Lancelot hadn't been breathing for so long. Hands were clutching at him, clinging as Lancelot seemed to try to envelope Arthur, seemed to want to drown in him - and Arthur matched his emotions, matched his passion for something he'd held inside for so long. The familiar taste of the younger man flooded his senses and he reacquainted himself with the way Lancelot reacted to him - and this was right (this time - so right); how Lancelot still arched to his touch, how that same mewl-like whimper could still be coaxed from his lips.
And god, now Arthur wasn't sure he could let Lancelot go.
"Years, damn you, Arthur. Years. I thought I was just a responsibility - I was so sure…you and Guinevere - and…. I've loved you for so long…I didn't know…."
"But you walked away."
"You let me, you self sacrificing martyr."
"I thought I had to," Arthur murmured back, lips brushing over Lancelot's skin to rest on his pulse (which was racing), reassuring himself that this was real - this wasn't a vision his grief-stricken lonely mind had come up with. "They say that if you love something, let it go. I loved you enough to give you your freedom."
Lancelot pulled away and met his eyes - and Arthur saw that they were filmed over slightly with unshed tears, and like a bright pool of so many emotions that Arthur didn't even know where to start reading (finally completely open to him). "They also say that, if that something comes back to you, then it's truly yours."
"Lancelot…." The magnitude of those words were far too much - and if, after this, it turned out that everything was just a -
"I'm making this decision as a freedman. A free man. You told me to follow my heart." Lancelot's lips touched his cheek, gently kissing away the tear tracks that remained and his hand rose, slipping beneath Arthur's shirt to settle (almost scorching the skin beneath it with the intensity of the touch) over Arthur's heart.
"It's right here. It always has been."
