THERE WERE MASTERS AND SERVANTS,

[agogemod]

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Prepare for the historic Battle of Valmy.
WHEN? Mid September 1792, France.
ANYTHING ELSE? Violence, as always. Please warn in subject lines for anything beyond physical violence, and move to a personal journal if things go beyond PG-13.

IT'LL BE FINE;

between sainte-menehould and valmy,
1792: revolutionary france.

read the valmy setting infopage

DEPARTING JERUSALEM

The clean up of the battle is slog. A full day of piling together corpses. Noting down famous men and women. In the heat, the bodies bloat and become fetid, and the smell builds until it cannot be ignored. Insects swarm, and vultures blot out the sun, swooping down and taking back what's been left for nature. Stragglers and the poor pick through the field for scattered weapons and valuables to collect. The bodies of important men and women are taken for burial; the rest are left for scavengers, animal or human.

It's in this gruesome scene that the order comes:

PACK UP, GET READY TO MOVE OUT. THE TARGETS HAVE BEEN NEAUTRALIZED. WE MAKE OUR DEPARTURE LOCAL TIME, DAWN.

DEPLOYMENT: VALMY, FRANCE. IT'S GOING TO BE A WET ONE. WE ARE EXPECTING MORE TRANSFERS ON ARRIVAL.

The present COST soldiers that have been in strict cover begin finishing their work, if they've decided to help the army move out, tend to the wounded, or clean up after the dead. There is no sign of the Commander yet, but maybe you recognise some of your fellow operatives. They seem be taking advantage of a particular event that maybe you stopped to see, maybe you didn't.

Saladin beheads Reynald de Chattilion and his words fill the camp as much as the news of their next move.

A king does not kill a king, Saladin says to King Guy, and the orders run like wildfire through the camp: next they take Jerusalem, and it's in this march, that when the rest of the army moves on that COST slips away. A order to fall back in steady increments; when the time comes, Saladin's army is out of sight, marching toward Jerusalem.

In the midst of all of this, COST operatives begin to disappear, here one moment and gone in another. Such a strange sight, more than one native soldier muses, must be the fault of heat exhaustion.

The Time-Step

The transfer begins, and it starts like a vibrating heat on the collar bone, not painful, not to start with. Just a hum of sensation. But the vibration spreads. Veteran COST soldiers often refer to this phenomena as 'the buzz'. The sensation builds, feeling not unlike standing near a great engine, or the wind rattling the branches of a great tree. There is long a moment of motion sickness, and one cannot always be sure if it is you that is shaking from the inside out, or the world that is shaking you from the outside in. It may just be better to close your eyes against the growing nausea as the world blurs out of focus. A star shines in the distance. You may hear the faint rustling of leaves. Some swear they hear voices in this moment, indistinct words echoing off nothingness. Some swear they feel a touch of the divine. One thing is for sure: One moment you are here, and the next, you are not.

The soldier next to you might not have been so clever, when it stops and you find yourself standing in the green fields of France, September 1792. She or he throws up as the vibration fades. Everyone seems to stumble sideways for a second. The world turns, and then rights itself. The heat is gone, replaced with cold and wet.



ARRIVAL FOR TRANSFERS FROM JERUSALEM

It's raining.

You're inside of a tent, (another one), and it already seems to be bustling with movements, they call to you in French, which you understand if you did not already: hurry now, they say, you need out of that cuircass before they're spotted. The rest of the army will be following, and the Prussian army to meet it. There isn't much time to loiter around getting sick in this weather. You have a kit to pick up, and perhaps training to do.

ARRIVAL FOR NEW RECRUITS

The first thing you'll notice is the sound of rain. You awake in a tent that seems to be sheltering against the ruins of a farm house, and everything feels damp. It's a wet September morning in 1792, and when the woman across from you in the tent speaks, you understand it to be French. If you didn't understand French already, you sure do now.

If you ask, she'll explain: you are fighting for France, as the Prussian army intends to invade and sack Paris. You may be a citizen, you may be a soldier; you have risen up in defense of France all the same.

She asks you what role you wish to play in the coming battle, and provides you with clothes and supplies to suit. She won't let you leave until you can pass for a native of France, setting up camp in the rain pouring down between Sainte-Menehould and Valmy.

MISSION OBJECTIVE

The forces of COST have gotten word that Regency operatives have gone to Revolutionary France, intending to turn the tides in one of the most historically important battles in European history. The Battle of Valmy, which decided the entirety of the French Revolution and all that follows it, must be won by the French army, as it was in history.

Unlike the incident in Jerusalem-- you may remember it, you may not-- COST has managed to get here before the day of the battle. Make no mistake; it's coming soon. But this time, you and your fellow travelers have time to prepare.

The French Army has managed to get ahead as well; they've maneuvered around the Prussians, cutting off their supply lines. You and your fellow soldiers are now chasing the invaders as they head for Paris. This is time to prepare and ready your forces. The fight is coming soon.



STAY DRY, STAY SECURE

A few things are strongly remembered about the Battle of Valmy; one of them is the rain. It's really pouring out here, and you're in the thick of it. Rain is a dangerous thing for an army such as this; during this era of warfare, gunpowder was an essential commodity, and wet gunpowder is useless gunpowder. Secure the supplies, rescue supply carriages from muddy sinkholes, steer the horses, check supplies, and try to keep the essential materials for victory dry.

TRAIN UP

General Kellerman and Dumouriez are training peasants in basic military tactics. While veterans make up the core of this army, there are a substantial amount of peasants, and most here have never seen battle in their lives, or ever held a gun. Many are equipped with only rudimentary farming equipment. Help train or be trained so you're ready when the Prussian army arrives.

MEDICAL

Plenty of people need medical attention, not from battle wounds so much as malnutrition and overwork. These are mostly peasant laborers, and they're not entirely fit for battle. Help people get as rested and ready as possible.

ESPIONAGE

We have reason to believe some of the 'peasants' are actually Regency spies. Root them out by seeing keeping an ear to the ground for suspicious activity. They don't know all the words to La Marseillaise? Off with their head! Be careful not to attack time travellers on your side, though!

MORALE

Keep spirits high! Sing, dance, and generally try to keep people from succumbing to fear. Despite the rain and the mud, despite the seemingly impossible odds, the average soldier is full of excitement for battle, ready to fight to the death to defend their freedom.

SUPPLY AND SEEK

Since the French army is behind the invading force, they've cut off the enemy's supply lines. This means that, should the Prussians become encamped here for any amount of time, they won't be able to send for food and munitions from their home country. It's your job to make sure it stays that way. You may see someone riding on a swift horse in a Prussian uniform, attempting to sneak through French lines and try to get word back to mother Prussia. Chase them down, and make sure they can't get their reports back home so a second force isn't sent-- or worse.

BE A COMMUNITY ORGANIZER

This battle is one that's widely known for its popular support-- for the most part, France unites against this invading force with alarming cohesion. Someone gifted with a clever mind, or perhaps a clever tongue, may be able to use that. The French army passes farms and peasant villages along the way-- make rousing speeches, and try to recruit more to the cause, secure donations of food and weaponry, anything you can get.

read the valmy setting infopage

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC PLURK DISCORD

Comments

JON SNOW ✥ SOME OPEN AND SOME CLOSED

[northerndragon]

[Starters in comments! Open coming a little later than closed.]

SAD DRAGON STORIES (CLOSED TO DAENERYS)

[northerndragon]

[From here.]

[Ten minutes, she says, and for those ten minutes, he can't sit in the tent... not with the full knowledge of what he's going to have to tell her when she reaches him.

It propels him to his feet and through the flap, and he walks back and forth on the muddy ground and examines the blade of one of the weapons they've given him and finds it satisfactory and places it back in the tent, then paces again, another twenty rotations back and forth, then more, uncounted.

Finally, he sees her coming.]

[dorzalta]

[ It takes her ten minutes to pull herself together and venture over without being waylaid by the smallfolk here. Ten minutes for her thoughts to wander, skittering out of her control into wild things, until each step feels as if it will be her last. Nothing good comes from a demand to speak in person.

All the good can come from it, as well.

He stands outside waiting for her, and the look to him is one she recognizes. Brooding. He's brooding. Dread sets anchor in her stomach; she forces herself to smile the closer she steps, eyes flicking over him from head to toe. She'll meet his gaze as she comes to a stop before him--and it brings to mind the memory of them standing upon the shores of Dragonstone, she, forcing a smile while her eyes say things she dare not speak. ]

May I?

[ It's distant, not at all what she wishes to say, but it's all she can say when they stand amongst others. ]

[northerndragon]

[There she is, lovely even in the garish clothes that have been given to her, and the true unpleasantness of what he's about to have to do is rising. She smiles at him and he can't smile back, but he watches her nonetheless, trying to capture the smile in his memory... it may be the last one she wears for a time.

This would be easier for him to do if it were someone else, although never really easy at all, not when it involves the death of a rare and terrifying miracle.

He meets her and her question with a long solemn look, then manages a brief, uncertain nod. He tries to brighten his expression as he pulls the tent flap aside for her, but he fails.]

[dorzalta]

[ That, she thinks, is a sign of no good. So he'll be the harbinger of something terrible? She hesitates for a moment, watching him, before steeling herself and ducking into his tent.

It looks the same as hers, damp inside, empty, filled with meager belongings. If she closes her eyes, she could just as easily imagine it's hers. Refraining from doing so, her steps are light, careful to avoid kicking up water or mud as she circles a pallet. ]

I found it strange. When I was in Jerusalem, my last memory of you was when I'd demanded your counsel before attacking the Lannisters. [ Her fingers link together as she turns to face him. ] And then, suddenly, upon these lands I know nothing about, it was like a flash. One moment, I was here, and the next, I was back home. Life continued on, we continued on, and never of us had memory of this place.

Yet I recall everything in Jerusalem, and everything up until I stood in Dragonstone, watching the King in the North and my knight sail away.

[northerndragon]

[He listens. That's strange, that she has lived through more of their time together since Jerusalem, when he's only gone from there to here. The memories match... but how did it happen at all? There is very little magic in the world anymore, if there ever was. What, then, is COST? And why would they afford her more of her time, more of the things she's seen, than they had before?]

Sit, Your Grace. If you want to.

[It's an offer, not a command, but there's nowhere for them both to sit unless they sit together on the pallet. And things had changed between them after Eastwatch, not before, so speaking to her more formally seems right, even if it also makes this a touch more difficult.]

Nothing like that has happened to me, but I remember more than you do. We went to King's Landing after Eastwatch, and back to Dragonstone again, and sailed together for the North from there.

[dorzalta]

[ Nearly allowing obstinacy to keep her on her feet, Dany tilts her head upon hearing his offer, inhaling to deliver her denial... until he speaks of his own experiences--things she cannot recall--and the same sensation as before arises. Trepidation. Lack of control. Curiosity.

Without fanfare, she'll settle upon the pallet, leaving enough space for him as well if he so chooses. Whatever is on his mind stays his words, and this she cannot abide by. If she can ease that, somehow... ]

We've met Cersei? [ That is one detail which sharpens her gaze. But oh, there are so many questions. Questions which have her twisting to face him, palms flat on the ground so that she can lean closer to him (if he sits beside her), or to ground herself as she stares up at him. ] And she accepted our terms?

[northerndragon]

[He sits, but it's slow and reluctant. Even so, once he's next to her, he doesn't try to maintain any specific distance. He stretches his legs out in front of him, off to the side of the pallet, and turns his head to the side to look at her.]

She accepted our terms, after a time, and after she tried to break our alliance. She saw the wight and still nearly refused. [He pauses.] I don't trust her. I saw her once at Winterfell, long ago.... her smiles are false, and my sister Sansa, who knows her better, thinks the same. But we need Cersei's aid.

[dorzalta]

She's the wife of the Usurper, the very same man who sent assassins to murder me in Essos. [ That should be enough explanation for Dany's feelings about Cersei. But break their alliance, as well? There's the flash of anger in her eyes, a coolness to them. ] She felled my allies, one after another. Dorne, Greyjoy, Tyrell.

[ Shaking her head sharply, she huffs a sigh. No, fully placing her trust in Cersei would be foolhardy. He's right, though: they do need her aid.

Something softens about her as she watches him now, and her tone is equally as soft, as if she toe a subject which might cause him pain. ]

What happened beyond the Wall? You said I flew north. That the Night King was there.

[northerndragon]

We took the wight well enough, but we were soon surrounded, trapped on a half-frozen lake. I'd sent someone back to Eastwatch to send a raven for your aid. We lost a few men... no one you know.

[He's choosing his words carefully now, and seems weary and grim.]

But you came for us. You came, with all three dragons.

[dorzalta]

[ And? The question hovers between them, her eyes roving over his face. Resisting the urge to scowl at him for his evasiveness is a true battle, and one she nearly loses. ]

Yes, I imagine I would bring all of them if you'd requested my aid. Jon-- [ A note of exasperation in her tone. ] --tell me.

[northerndragon]

[He takes a heavy breath, then exhales it, steeling himself for her pain and her anger. This was something that had been hard enough to see and hear, intrinsically wrong, the pained shriek and the fire and the gouts of blood pouring off the dragon as it had died. But to have to tell her about it... that's a new and keen punishment.

He looks her in the eye, his face twisting in sympathy as he says the words with a small shake of his head.]

Viserion fell. The Night King took him down.

[dorzalta]

[ For all that she expects to hear, Viserion fell is far from it.

He takes her by surprise, a sharp, sudden thing that has her rearing back, spine stiffening. Her head cocks like a bird's, brows furrowing, an unguardedness to her gaze as uncertainty flashes briefly in blue eyes. ]

No. [ It's a sharp and jagged word, honed enough to draw blood. To draw something harsh in the face of his sympathies. His pity. ] My dragons cannot fall. That's impossible.

[northerndragon]

It should be impossible. I wish it had been impossible -- I wish we'd never gone.

[The words come out dully, and he glances away from her face to look at the ground.

He tries to remember the things he'd said to her after he awoke on the boat, after all of this, his apologies in the face of her tears, but that time is half a haze of exhaustion and ache. She'd told him that the dragons were the only children she'd ever have, and he'd clung to her hand, and... what? Bent the knee and tried to call her Dany, he thinks, one thing she'd liked and another she hadn't. If there was much else, he can't remember it.

He looks her in the eyes again, insofar as she's willing to meet his gaze.]

I'm so sorry.

[It's a heartfelt apology. What more can he say?]

A GAME OF CLASH OF STORMS FOR DRAGONS (CLOSED TO GOT CAST)

[northerndragon]

[Something important, she's told him, and directed him to a certain barn.

Not many others have found it yet: it's on a country track. There are stands of trees near it... old oaks, giving the area a sense of familiarity to Jon that it might not otherwise have had, with acorns on the ground in the mud and the leaves just beginning to turn to gold and orange.

As he approaches the structure, he scans it for people, danger, anything that might make it a bad place to stop. It seems silent and still, for the time being.]

[dorzalta]

[ Silent and still until footsteps break the silence. Hers, to be exact. She ventures from inside the barn, a wary eye cast about her before her gaze settles on Jon. There's something to her look--not quite nervous, but certainly not entirely at ease, as is customary for her to project.

And for good reason. Introducing a dead husband to a man who recalls more from her future than she can, holding memories she can only blindly reach toward, begs for trouble. What kind, however, remains to be seen. Jon may be the sort to cooperate, but Drogo? Well, if Jon could inspire loyalty amongst the Free Folk, then perhaps he would do the same with a mighty khal.

He would have to, following her proposition.

But it would not just be Drogo's acceptance; the Dothraki would also need to earn Jon's. This is one a one-sided agreement upon which she seeks. This would be an alliance much akin to the sort she and Jon battled for in Westeros. ]

Thank you for coming, [ she says, when he steps within earshot. There's relief in the tilt of her lips, the flash of warmth in her gaze as she looks at him. ] There's one more on his way here.

[acchakat]

[ Drogo is not far behind, and while he does not have his red, he has a horse all the same. How he got it is quite simple--he liked what he saw, he took, and no one objected. Most likely from the look he gave, but nonetheless: he has a horse, and he has a direction.

The khal at least has the decency, once arriving, to step off his horse and lead him in. The barn is an unfamiliar structure and one he dislikes--why must people live in wooden and stone boxes?--but Dany is here.

It had been her idea, to summon him. Why, he does not know or particularly care: his wife has asked something of him, and he will do it. ]

Moon of my life. [ he steps forwards her, rough hands gentle as he touches her face and kisses her forehead. ]

Who is this?

[northerndragon]

[Jon has noticed this man just once, briefly, in passing. He was struck then by the fact that the man looked like he could be Dothraki, but not a Dothraki who Jon himself recognizes, not one of Daenerys's typical guards. He'd written it off as an impression, a coincidence. Some of the smallfolk here remind him of those where he came from, but have never heard of Winterfell or King's Landing; there are a few people here and there who have the dark skin of the Summer Isles but seem to have come from an entirely different place. Some people wear their hair long and some crop it. Someone looking like a Dothraki may not mean anything except that some people here resemble Dothraki.

That was a fair assumption, but as it turns out, it was a wrong one.

His first thought is to wonder where the man got a horse, and whether or not its owners would be missing it. His second is to wonder about the man's apparent familiarity with Daenerys, one which appears to be presumptuous. Then a suspicion begins to tug at him. He can't keep the series of expressions from his face: thoughtful narrowed eyes replaced by raised eyebrows replaced by open curiosity: what's going on here?

His question is much less revealing... calm, low, interested.]

He's Dothraki, from Essos?

[From our world, he means.]

[dorzalta]

[ Were this not such an important meeting, she might've laughed. Only Drogo would find the means to obtain a horse. He steps closer, into her space, dwarfing her in the only way he can as his lips brush her forehead. It is a familiar greeting, one which she's come to expect with him.

Still, for the first time, the show of affection causes a thread of discomfort in tandem with the familiar warmth of affection--precisely because Jon stands near them, likely observing such a display. Her feelings toward the wolf are muddied, confusing for a varying range of reasons. Much like he is the holder of her future, she is the holder of Drogo's, and that, too, causes unease. Unlike Jon, however, she's not told her husband of his fate.

How do you tell someone they've died?

Also for the first time, she struggles with the sensation of disconnect: from who she is, what she is, why she is. These worlds, COST, the events which have not yet unraveled, the acute sense of loss she cannot even begin to truly fathom--all of it proves that she lacks the power and control she desperately needs. A dragon queen is no queen without her dragons. Grief and rage battle for dominancy, and she embraces both in the face of this new... strangeness. An awkwardness in her own skin. ]

He is Jon Snow, King in the North. A ruler, my sun and stars, and our ally in this place. He hails from the lands of my ancestors. The same lands ser Jorah Mormont does. [ Oh, Jorah... Her hands clutch Drogo's and gently pull them from her cheeks, just as she looks toward Jon. ] He is Dothraki and the only... [ An awkward pause, for it's both truth and lie. ] surviving khal you may ever meet. Khal Drogo. [ My dead husband, she does not say. Not when they've spoken of the Night King. Her brows crinkle as she glances back up at Drogo.

Then, with a sharp shake of her head, she straightens, stepping away from them both and toward the barn, saying in both Dothraki and the Common Tongue: ] Come inside, we've much to discuss.

[ And she would rather do it away from the rain. ]

[acchakat]

[ He can understand the common tongue, mostly. He is not fluent, and he is not efficient at it, but it is something he has vague knowledge of. He knows enough, for example, that his wife is introducing him even if she didn't say his name. There is something that is bothering him, a strange feeling in his gut. Dany is acting differently.

His gaze swings to the other; the pale dark haired one. His hair is short, but he looks stronger than others he's seen here. He says nothing for a moment, and it's the fact that he sees no crown upon his brow that he finally grunts in both appreciation and acknowledgement.

Crowns are useless. Maybe this one sees that, too. And if Dany says he is an ally, then Drogo will stand down, at least for the moment. His gaze flicks to Dany once more, and he nods, heading inside. ]

[northerndragon]

[Jon, too, hears his own name in the stream of words he doesn't understand, though he can indeed tell they're Dothraki: he's heard her speak to her guards often enough. And what she does with the man's hands before she addresses Jon himself is also interesting. In some ways it reminds him of the day he first saw her with Mormont, but there's more to it than that, no matter how she hedges with careful words.

She was introduced to him all those months ago as the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea... as if the Dothraki no longer have other leaders. He's seen the way the Dothraki defer to her and he's fairly certain that all of them, or nearly all, are in Westeros now. She'd said that they crossed the sea for her. All of this implies that there are no more khals other than her.

There's only one khal Jon is aware of who would behave this way towards her... but he should be dead, shouldn't he? Isn't he? A glance shows that his eyes look like any other Dothraki's eyes, not blue, no glow. On one hand, there seems to be affection between them, enough that it gives Jon a small, hot flare of jealousy, but on the other, he remembers the things she told him. The marriage had been arranged, and she had been an unwilling bride -- he doesn't like that, either -- and the khal had been murdered by a witch.

Whatever she's said about Jon, a simple introduction or more, seems to have gained some approval. He returns the other man's nod of acknowledgement, then shoots another curious look at Daenerys and follows the bigger man inside to hear what she has to say, although he has a good idea of what it might be.]

[dorzalta]

[ With her back to them, she allows for a brief moment to steel herself: eyes falling shut, nostrils flaring as she inhales deeply. The barn smells musky, likely due to the weather which seeps into even this space. Still, the hay beneath her feet crunches, untouched by the mud outside and still retaining enough dryness. Their heavier footfalls are an encouragement. At least there's no sign of either leaving, yet. ]

We've a common goal, [ she says, voice steady and firm as she turns to address them both. It's awkward to speak in both the Common Tongue and Dothraki, which merely proves that either one or both of them will need to learn the other's language. Posture straight, fingers laced together in front of her, she creates distance between herself and them both. Distance offers clarity, at least for the moment. ] Leaving COST and returning home.

As such, it would benefit us to overlook the past and our claims of lands we no longer stand upon. [ She regards Jon for a moment. In her memory, they still dance with one another, but in his... they do not. They've seen and battled against wretched beings. She has suffered loss, and he--

Before her thoughts trail off to their last discussion, she meets her husband's gaze. ] He is not the of the simpering Westerosi lords. He is fierce, like a Dothraki.

[ Fierce or stupid to stand up to her. ]

The three of us are merely the start. There are others we will need to find allies amongst, if we wish to defeat COST and return home.

[acchakat]

[ Drogo has on land, for land is untamable--but he understands her, even as she speaks the common tongue. Any word he has doubt on is translated a moment later anyway, but he's left with the fist: she wants an alliance. A common goal.

Drogos gaze flicks to the other man--Jon--and then up to the sky, despite the fact that they're in an enclosed. Like he's looking for omens.

In a way, he is. It's only a brief moments before he looks over the two critically. ]

If you put your trust in him, I will. [ his words are simple. Even. ] But I will rip his tongue from his throat and let the dirt rot him if he betrays you.

[ And, in Common: ] She says you are fierce.

[northerndragon]

[He raises his eyebrows at that, interested, then glances at Daenerys. If she only remembers as much as she's told him she does, she hasn't seen him fight north of the Wall yet; she's seen only what she may have glimpsed in Jerusalem. Angry and dismayed at being pulled from his task at home, and from her, he had cut down at least a dozen enemies.

Fierce is what he must seem now, what he has no other option than to be, but he doesn't think of himself as such. He answers Drogo first.]

Fierce when it's called for, aye. [That's emphasized with a brief nod: an acknowledgment.]

You speak my language. Sorry to say I don't speak yours, though I've met some of your people.

[His tone is level and thoughtful, and he turns his gaze to Daenerys again.]

You want to make plans to fight COST from within, while they fight the Regency. Neither one of them is any good for us, but we know so little of them. If we want to learn anything of them, we'll have to play their game for a while.

[dorzalta]

[ Drogo. Jon. She watches them both with a carefully neutral expression, unmoving in the face of their silence. Like stone, she becomes. They're left with their quiet to consider, and just as it reaches the point where the pitter-patter of rain above threatens to swallow them whole, Drogo speaks.

Yes. He will trust Jon as he trusted Jorah when trust was a rare thing which should be earned. And his terms are soon laid bare between them. Terms which warm her gaze, tug a fond smile to her lips as she nods at her husband. The violence is frowned upon to a certain extent, but it's so familiar coming from his lips that it leaves an ache in her chest. Gods, how she missed him. ]

Should he choose betrayal, you would face no opposition in your vengeance.

[ Not quite as reassuring for Jon--yet it also speaks to her confidence in him to keep to his word. His reaction to being called fierce is not lost on her, either; it fuels the amusement in her gaze, now turned onto the wolf. The Dothraki understand power, and Drogo is no different in this. More than that, however, she's witnessed his ferocity in verbal spars, as well.

Her chin lifts in the face of his comment. ]

I do. It may be our only way of returning home, and if it is, then I will do what needs to be done. [ Whether that's playing along with their game or not. ] I will see my children again. All of them.