Lies and murders 2

[silberstreif]

Lies and murders

Written for: prowlxjazz the anniversary challenge 2012

Day: 9
Prompt: Doppelganger
Beta: Starfire201 and taralynden (Two heroes who betaed everything despite headaches, storms and lack of time!)

Verse: AU, G1

Rating: PG-13

Words: 22,240 (completed)

Warnings: none

Summary: A deactivated mech is found in an alley and a witness describes Jazz. Though Prowl gives Jazz an alibi. The trouble - he lies.

The last orn had been a bad one for Jazz and Prowl. The interview with them was played on every news channel in a loop, mechs asked them what happened, and a few accused Jazz on the open street or demanded to know from Prowl how he could support such a monster. As expected, their political enemies tried to exploit the whole situation and soon stories about failed missions, cruel decisions, abandoned mechs on the battlefield and worse were flying around. The serial murderer had been gifted with a nickname by various reporters that the citizens took up with enthusiasm. The "spark-killer" was in every bot's mouth.

And the longer the media circus continued, the worse it looked for Jazz. He was painted as a cold killer who has lost every emotion, every semblance of mercy, in the war; who had killed hundreds of bots and sent even more on suicide missions. Someone who could not be trusted, who was a liar and a manipulator, a murderer and torturer.

But the very, very worst was, that all these stories had a kernel of truth that hit far too close home for Jazz. He tried to ignore it, but as the Head of Intelligence it was his job to observe, next to the more obvious things, the rumours and the public mood. He saw how they were all turning against him, slowly, joor by joor.

That orn, Jazz recharged again by Prowl, seeking comfort in the small apartment. Both weren't woken by their carefully set alarm, but by the doorbell. It kept ringing and ringing.

Slowly, Prowl struggled to sit up and Jazz looked questioningly at him. "Ah thought there aren't many people who know were ya live, Prowl..."

"There aren't," answered the other one grimly. "You, Optimus, Ironhide, Ratchet, that was it."

"So..."

"That's none of them." He rose from the berth. "I gave you all the code for the door."

Jazz shuttered his optics. "How high is da chance that Optimus told da Enforcers were to find ya?"

"Too high," answered Prowl with a wry smile.

Without a further word, he walked to the apartment door and opened it. As expected, two Enforcers stood in front of him, one of them – to his comfort – was Backbeat.

"Good morning," he greeted them politely, even though a big part of him wanted nothing more than to close the door in their faces. "May I ask how you know where I live?"

"Good morning," said Backbeat awkwardly. "Sorry that we disturbed you this early, Prowl, but you see, the location ping said that Jazz is here..."

"He is," Prowl admitted. "Why do you want him?"

"Oh, well..." Backbeat looked at his colleague, but the other Enforcer stood back. Probably a wise decision, if one interpreted the aggressive raised doorwings of the Praxian correctly. Prowl wasn't a nice morning mech. "You see, we were concerned, because there was nearly no data about a mech called 'Drifter' in the databases, so we asked around."

"You asked Optimus," said Prowl dryly.

"Well, no. First we tried to ask you. But we couldn't find your address..."

Prowl merely raised an optic ridge. "What about comm lines?"

Backbeat seemed to get a bit smaller. "Well... when the guys had realised that they had found something strange... and couldn't find Jazz and your living address, but had an unknown mech called 'Drifter', they might have gotten a bit excited. It was after all the first lead in this..."

"And as a result, they decided that it was suspicious and maybe criminal and went directly to Prime to ignore every single security protocol or need for privacy." If the voice of the Praxian was cutting, well, he was in the right here.

Defeated, Backbeat nodded. "Yes."

"Great." Prowl vented. "And why in Primus' name are you now standing here, in front of my door? After all, I'm sure that Prime explained that 'Drifter' is the name I'm renting this apartment under."

The Enforcer looked again at his colleague, who now decided to add his part: "If you permit, I will explain this to you. My designation is Turnout." He bowed. "After our team was informed about the irregularities, we decided immediately to review all the data we had of Jazz and you, Prowl. As a result, a few interesting questions have appeared, which need to be filled. For that we request that you accompany us to the Enforcer headquarters."

Dread engulfed Prowl with powerful arms and didn't let him go. Only pure willpower and the experience to appear strong and unflappable in the face of any situation in hundreds of vorns of war made it now possible that he calmly nodded.

"If it's needed in the investigation, I'll have to help. Excuse me for a moment, I'll have to inform Jazz."

Before he could turn, Backbeat grabbed his arm. "I'm sorry, but we can't allow that."

Prowl froze for a moment, ready to fight, then he forced himself to relax and smile in understanding. "The alibi, right? You want to ask about it."

Backbeat let his arm go and Turnout nodded. "Jazz has only described roughly what happened in that evening and you didn't at all. We want to confirm his story."

"I see." His spark longed to give Jazz a kiss, to hug him and to get a small bit of comfort. But with an audience, it was impossible. "Jazz?" he shouted. "Could you please come?"

He didn't doubt that Jazz had been listening in to every word said, but there was no need to increase the suspicion of the Enforcers even more. Jazz appeared in the hallway, walking casually and seemingly curious as to why there were Enforcers at the door. He was a good actor, one of the best.

Backbeat didn't hesitate an astrosecond in explaining the same things to Jazz again, while Turnout was watching every single one of their movements.

Prowl nearly smiled at that. Did Turnout really believe they would make such a rookie mistake here and now? No. They were better than that.

He went with the Enforcers and the interrogation was long and thorough. Mostly they concentrated on the orn of the first murder.

When had he seen Jazz? What did they do? How long did they do it? Though many questions were about the deca-orns before, or the time around the second double-homicide. He answered and answered and answered, mostly with the truth. But the alibi had to hold and so he changed one tiny little thing.

He described the night after the murder as the one where the murder had happened and claimed that he hadn't met Jazz (besides calling him on the commline) directly after talking to Backbeat. It was a simple lie, but effective. Both Jazz and he knew exactly what to avoid telling and the many tiny details that weren't dangerous made the stories too exact, too similar to each other to be an invented lie.

When he was finally allowed to go, he left behind more than a few frustrated Enforcers searching for the clue they had missed. Prowl hoped that his performance had been flawless.

Jazz, despite the fact that he should now be in the middle of his work shift, was waiting for him in the room with the uncomfortable chairs. With a groan, he rose when Prowl entered.

"Finally, Ah thought maybe they wanted to keep ya!"

"They certainly tried their best," answered the Praxian tiredly. Without a full recharge and being interrogated most of the orn, his blue optics had become distinctly lighter. He was in no condition to go to work today and was happy that he had already called in for an orn off. "What are you doing here? Not that I'm not ungrateful, but what about your work?"

Jazz's face fell. "Ah got suspended until the criminal is found."

Prowl was stunned. "But they need you!"

"Yeah... not any more it seems."

"No," Prowl said with conviction, the stress of the orn taking over. "Optimus knows that it wasn't you, he trusts you. Trusts us. So why..."

Jazz put his hand on the agitated Praxian's doorwing. "Calm down, Prowler. It's all right, it's only temporary."

"But-"

"No buts." With skill, he caressed the pointed lower edge of the wing. "Optimus had no choice. Worried citizens had called their governors about a serial killer on the loose, and those in turn had called Prime with demands to do something. And the angry soldiers who want to use the chance to get me into trouble haven't helped things either..."

"You mean Magnus," said Prowl coldly.

Jazz shrugged. "Among others." He pulled a pink energon cube out of subspace. "Here, for ya. Thought ya might need it."

Prowl smiled. "Thank you."

~

Backbeat was a good mech, a good friend and a good Enforcer. On most orns, this triad of his life was in perfect harmony. But since the murder of Tumbler, now a deca-orn ago, he felt unsettled. Everything seemed to hint that Jazz was the culprit. Their witness remained true, didn't change a single detail of his description and Jazz could have done it easily. But there seemed to be no reason behind those killings, no motive. And then there was Prowl's alibi, that also sounded genuine and yet...

Yet Backbeat couldn't forget that Jazz twice been found recharging within Prowl's apartment, that both times the other one had waited until the interrogation was over. Couldn't forget the certainty behind those two words 'the best' and the shy, true smile when he promised to defend Jazz's innocence.

As an Enforcer he had to investigate further, had to follow his intuition. As a friend, he wanted to help Prowl and to simply believe him. As a mech, he simply wanted the murderer in a cell and the streets safe. And so he ignored his friendship and came here.

The secretary gave him a sign that it was his turn. Finally. He stood and entered Optimus Prime's office, situated on the highest floor of the Autobot headquarters. A bit nervously, he looked around. It wasn't decorated with show pieces that only served to intimidate the visitor and that many of the richer trade mechs had. No, this office was elegant, maybe with a hint of luxury, but mainly it was for one thing only – working.

He relaxed and smiled at the Prime, who sat at his desk. "Thank you for seeing me."

"No need to thank me." Optimus pointed to the seat in front of the desk. "Sit down. What can I do for you?"

He took the offer. Behind Optimus stood a big red warrior frame. With his arms crossed, he appeared more to be a bodyguard than anything else, but Backbeat had heard of him – Ironhide. Bodyguard, best friend of Optimus Prime and, even more important, friend and colleague to Jazz and Prowl as well.

"As you know, we're investigating a series of murders at the moment," he began slowly, carefully choosing every word. "We have a witness report whose descriptions fit Jazz very well, but Prowl gave him an alibi. We don't want to imply anything, but we would like to know more about both of them and because you're their friends and colleagues..."

It was awkward. One didn't interrogate the Prime himself. One simply didn't. But Prowl was too reclusive, too secretive, to have many other friends. Backbeat was already as close to the tactician as most mechs ever came and the further the investigation led, the more they discovered the same traits on Jazz. The spy had many acquaintances, was well liked, admired, invited to nearly every social event, but no one really knew anything with certainty. Backbeat imagined, that it was a precaution, born out of need, if one wanted to keep and survive the job as the Head of Intelligence. Now, it worked against the Enforcers as well as against enemy spies.

"I understand," said Optimus Prime friendly and folded his hands on the desk. "What do you want to know?"

"Thank you." He let his optics linger on Ironhide to show that this question was meant for him as well. "Do you think Jazz is capable of such things?"

For a long, long moment neither of the Autobots spoke, then Prime admitted with obvious regret, "I don't know. There seems to be no motive besides the murder in itself."

Backbeat waited for him to elaborate, instead Ironhide added: "We always knew that Jazz had a dark side, it's what makes him so good." Good, maybe even the best, in a line that lived on betrayal, secrets, lies and murder. "But Jazz always did what he had to in the name of the Autobots, and never because for the fun of it."

The Enforcer nodded. It was frightening on a very primal level how even Jazz's best friends couldn't deny that he was capable of cold-sparked murder. They always added the motive, for the Autobots, for the greater good... but what if they all simply didn't see the motive right now? Time to increase the pressure. Backbeat pulled a datapad from subspace, called up the pictures on it and handed it Optimus Prime.

"Do these murders look as if they had been committed by somebot who had fun doing it?"

Optimus looked at the datapad again with the pictures who showed too much detail, too much information on how easily their lives could be extinguished. But it had happened fast, with almost clinical precision. "No," he answered slowly.

Ironhide, who saw the images over Optimus shoulder, showed no visible change in his serious expression.

Backbeat had known that both had already seen these pictures, but still he had hoped for a bigger reaction. He angrily chastised himself. These were no civilians, but soldiers who had seen the horror of countless battlefields. Pictures of a couple of clean murders wouldn't shock them and maybe friendship and comradeship would persuade them, even if only unconsciously, to hide important details.

"See, I think these were done by a highly professional killer," he tried in a gentler tone. "I don't know why. I don't know who. But Jazz his our best lead. So, I have to ask, if Jazz would have seen a reason why one of those Autobots had to die, would he deactivate them? Would he be able to hide it until now?"

Ironhide and Optimus Prime shared a long look. Backbeat tensed. He knew, from countless vorns of questioning, that this was the moment of decision. Then, Ironhide nodded, very slowly, and turned to the Enforcer.

"You have to understand that Jazz doesn't like being forced to kill, but he does it without losing a single recharge about it, if he deems it necessary," said Ironhide. He didn't sound condemning, more like stating a long known fact. It probably was. "And he's a very good actor. Good enough, that we all forget what exactly his job is, and call him friend."

"We do not just call him friend, Ironhide, he is our friend," corrected Optimus Prime gently, but behind the words was a will of steel.

It was more than just a reprimand to Ironhide. It was mainly a declaration to Backbeat that Jazz still had the full protection and backing of the Prime. He would not sacrifice his TIC for anything less than absolute proof that he was the murderer.

The warrior sent his friend an unreadable look, then agreed quietly: "That he is. And as his friend I've already accepted long ago, that he's capable and willing to do many things, if he has motivation enough."

The Prime leaned back in his chair, obviously thinking the situation over. "But that is the problem here, right? There seems to be no motivation."

"That's true. We're still searching for it," Backbeat confessed.

"Keep searching," said Optimus and it was more an order than anything else. "Do you have further questions?"

"Yes. We have noticed that Prowl and Jazz have known each other for a very long time and seem to be quite... intimate with each other. Do you know if they're just friends or maybe more?"

Optimus smiled. "Oh, they're friends, best friends even. But more... if they are, they've never outright said it."

"But they wouldn't reveal it, either," said Ironhide with a grin. "They like their privacy."

That had Backbeat already noticed. He just hadn't thought they would hide such an important detail from those they considered their closest friends. “ Have you observed anything to suggest that they are or aren’t? Do they have other interface partners?”

"Some." Ironhide hesitated. "But there are many who simply claimed they had interfaced with them, too. Jazz especially has many such admirers. And they never confirmed or denied those rumours."

Figures. Another dead end. No bot would admit to lying about interfacing with someone. And if Prowl and Jazz wanted to keep a relationship secret, these rumours were a gift from Primus.

"Thank you." He tried to smile professionally. "Do you believe that Prowl would lie to Enforcers about an alibi?"

Most Enforcers had simply filed that option under 'very unlikely'. It was Prowl, the walking rulebook, the Autobot who could recite every law backwards and never even drove faster than allowed. Prowl, who even the Decepticons knew as a stickler for rules, because he had once quoted the Decepticons' laws regarding prisoner treatment while being confined in Tarn. But... Backbeat knew Prowl. Maybe not well, but well enough to know that he felt deeply.

For a pump cycle they were silent, then Optimus Prime sighed. "I don't want to bore you with some old war stories, but Prowl is... a lot sneakier that most give him credit for." He smiled. "If Prowl is helping Jazz, then I'll say without hesitation that there is a very, very good reason why they're doing this."

"They kind of keep each other in check," added Ironhide. "Balance each other out. Together they're a completely different matter."

This was new information. While most of the interview had pushed the odds even more against Jazz and now Prowl, this... this could turn the tables again. The fact that one bot might cave in under the trauma of the war was believable. But two? And then to claim that two bots as different as Prowl and Jazz would come to the same conclusion and start a murder spree? No, this was a ridiculous thought.

So what? What possibility remained?

He stood and thanked the Prime and Ironhide for their patience and time. A few breems later, he was driving back to the headquarters absent-mindedly, most of his processor reviewing the new data. Something... he was overlooking something. He could already feel it. Backbeat opened up a data uplink to the Enforcer headquarters to transfer the interview while mulling over the whole situation.

"Help!" screamed a voice in terror as he drove past the crystal park. "Oh, please, don't no!"

Backbeat was fully braking before he had even registered what was happening. A bot behind the crystals, screaming for help. The spark-killer? Was he attacking a new victim? Without hesitation, he transformed, released his weapon and started running into the nearest path between the crystals. Where...?

"Help! No, get away from me!"

There. He turned right, then left, the path got smaller. He slowed down, tried to be quiet. Tried to surprise whoever this assailant was. His spark clenched with every new scream. If it was the killer, he would shoot him down, Jazz or not.

"No! Don't..."

He was nearly there. He tried to calm his racing engine, then he jumped around the corner – into a tiny empty clearing with no other exit. No victim, no killer... no mech anywhere. He cycled and turned. He must have taken the wrong junction. Maybe, if he was fast enough -

Something hit him with brutal efficiency in the side. He stumbled and before he could even see the attacker, a kick let his gun fly far away. He fell to the ground unarmed, and tried to scramble away, to get up again. In horror, he looked at the smirking, familiar mech in front of him, who walked closer and closer.

"Too easy, Backbeat. You Enforcer bots are always too easy. Just a bit of screaming and you're all running towards me." He raised the energy dagger in his hand. "And now... please don't move. I would hate to make a mess on those beautiful crystals."

"You... you don't have to do this," Backbeat said, while fear slowly, inexorably, crept into his spark. "See reason, this is not a good decision."

"Oh, it isn't a good decision," agreed the mech easily. "It's a terrific one!"

He attacked fast and with vorns-long practice. Backbeat, trained in the mandatory Enforcer fighting lessons, was able to dodge the first strike, but the second hit his shoulder. In pain, he cried out and realised with cold horror, that he couldn't move the left arm any more.

"Whatever your reason is," Backbeat tried it again, teeth clenched in pain and desperation, only too aware that he was pleading for his very spark. "I'm sure we can talk about it."

A mocking laugh answered him. "Talking never helps."

Another attack sliced deeply into his chest. Energon was now dripping on the ground, staining the white crystals. Backbeat's energon. He was getting slower, weaker. This would be over soon.

"Please..." he heard himself say.

The silver mech with the white visor only grinned. "In the end, they all beg."

He raised the dagger again and Backbeat knew that this time he wouldn't be able to avoid it, to protect his spark and with it his very life. With a sob, he stared at the weapon and wished desperately for a miracle.

None came.

~

In the enforcer headquarters everything continued normally, everyone still unaware that one of their own had left them forever. The only hint was one small database which sent request after request through the open uplink to either close the uplink or to send more of the interview than the name of the file. But all it received back was endless, dead static.

And so, on its screen flashed one error message after another, and above all, the file name - "Murderer: Jazz".

~

Prowl was at work, and for the first time in hundreds of vorns Jazz had nothing to do. It was a strange feeling. A bit like floating, but without direction or drive, a state of simply being. Some might call it peaceful, but for him it was an alien state. He was made to move, to change, to create things and to do something. Many had admired that endless state of energy and optimism in him, even though the latter was often more of a façade projected to keep everything going.

Jazz hadn't understood why they looked up to it, until he had met Prowl, a mech that was the very definition of a workaholic. But instead of working himself into the ground, Prowl mastered his many tasks with ease and even found time to talk to a musician at the edge of the annual party in Tarn. Despite the fact that he hadn't recharged in two orns and only finished the last report a joor after he had entered the party. The Praxian had confessed, much later, that he had started to talk to Jazz because he had kept tapping his pede to the rhythm. There had been no other reason, only this small expression of Jazz's boundless drive.

They started with talking, but soon they had been dancing and laughing and had kept on moving. Together. Side by side, through their careers, the entire war, until this very orn.

When others called Prowl a workaholic, he remembered that party in Tarn were everything began and smiled, because it was true and he loved him for it. Prowl, who had the same energy, the same drive as him and kept up, where everyone else had already slowed down and was left behind.

Prowl, who would understand why Jazz was now racing around Iacon's racing track on a strut breaking speed until complete exhaustion would claim him. Why he was enjoying the wind on his chassis and to drive round for round, until all other racers were watching from the sidelines. Why he was here, and nowhere else on his free orn.

"Driver Jazz," yelled a loudspeaker announcement suddenly. "Driver Jazz, please take the next exit and come to Garage Five. I repeat, Driver Jazz, please..."

In irritation, Jazz accelerated once more. He didn't want to stop, not now. The next exit of the race track was coming up fast and for a split astrosecond he contemplated on simply racing on, then he turned sharply with the help of his brakes and entered the exit at double the speed it was built for. He missed the wall by centimetres and entered the garage street with a speed that made every single mech's head turn. Jazz smirked.

Garage Five came into sight far too fast and in front of it were gathered around twenty mechs, who now all looked at the speeding silver racing car. A few grabbed into their subspaces and –weapons? Jazz's engine sputtered in surprise. It caused him to slow down and instead of braking, he transformed and slid the last bit on his pedes, which emitted sparks and grew uncomfortably warm.

Now he could recognize the assembled mechs – Enforcers. Heavily armoured and shielded Enforcers with weapons in their hands and grim expressions. He came to a stop in front of them. Training and experience advised him to take flight or prepare to fight, but instead he said:

"Gentlemechs, Ah guess ya're not here 'cause ya want an autograph from ma, right?"

A smaller Enforcer fought his way through the special unit. Jazz recognized him without difficulty as Turnout, who straightened himself and tried to look important.

"Are you Jazz, Third in Command of the Autobot army, Head of the Intelligence Service?"

That sounded official. And considering all those Enforcers, who now formed a circle around him, Jazz knew with absolute certainty what would come. "Yes, that's ma."

Turnout nodded, having expected nothing else, of course. "You're hereby arrested for multiple homicides, among them a bonded couple and an Enforcer."

Flight. He shouldn't have stayed and talked with them like a civilised mech. He should have listened to his intuition and used his speed to flee, to move far away. Now, it was too late. A mech stepped forward, shackles in his hand. Jazz eyed them with contempt.

"Please," said the Enforcer politely. He was young and nearly embarrassed that he was the one to put Jazz in chains.

Taking pity on him, Jazz took the inhibitor handcuffs and put them around his own wrists. Instantly he felt weaker and slower. Then, he looked at Turnout, and searched the crowd, missing a familiar face.

"Enforcer, mmh?" he said slowly, with dawning understanding. "What happened to Backbeat?"

The ripple of anger and grief through the Enforcers was palpable and answer enough. Turnout's mouth twisted into an ugly grimace as he answered coldly: "You should know, murderer! Special Unit Gamma, take him away and be vigilant! He might try to escape."

They took him away. If Jazz had thought the walk through the headquarters with three Enforcers had been bad, than this was much, much worse. The whole track was watching and whispering and talking. Mechs pointed at him, and someone threw an empty cube while screaming 'spark-killer!'. Soon, others joined in, until it was one loud chorus of insults and abuse. The Enforcers said nothing, only dragged him on.

It was with relief when they reached the waiting prisoner transport and Jazz could step into it, away from the world that had turned against him. The heavy, reinforced door fell shut and he was alone. Sitting on a low bench, the only noise in the small cage was his own stuttering engine and harsh venting. In despair, he put his helmet into trembling hands and shuttered his optics.

They started moving. But for once, Jazz was utterly still.

~

The room they put Jazz in had one chair to which his wrists were bound, one table to which a chain at his pede was fastened and three guards. In other circumstances these security measures would have amused Jazz, instead it was a confirmation of the fear they felt in his vicinity.

They were probably justified in this fear as well, if they knew of his skills. Up to now, he had counted no less than six opportunities to escape and had contemplated on every single one of them to take it. But he had still hope that they hadn't found undeniable proof that pointed in his direction. And where would he go anyway? If found outside Autobot borders, his fate with the Decepticons would be public execution if he was lucky, and within the Autobot territory he would be forever hunted as a monster.

He could do nothing, but wait and hope... at least for now.

Finally, the door opened and Turnout entered, behind him a haggard-looking dark-green mech with black lowlights and little horns, who froze as he saw Jazz. Something very similar to terror flashed across his face.

"Blip?" asked Turnout. "It's all right, he's restrained. He can't hurt anyone."

The mech looked at the floor, visibly venting in an attempt to calm himself. "I know." He made two steps forward, entering the room, but keeping Turnout between himself and Jazz at all times.

"It's great that you're willing to do this," said Turnout softly. "Because you're the only one who has witnessed the murderer and lived, we need your confirmation that we have the genuine culprit. Please believe me, when I say that if there had been another way I would have spared you this."

He waved a hand towards Jazz, making clear what he considered as 'this'.

Blip, though, managed a shaky smile. "I'm sure you would have, Turnout. But we all have to do our part, right?"

"Right." Turnout hesitated for a moment, obviously considering offering even more comfort, but instead he said: "So, Blip, is this the mech who you have seen murdering Tumbler?"

Blip vented deeply, then he finally forced himself to look at the bound and silent mech in front of him. No one in the room dared to make the smallest noise as the witness and the accused locked their gaze.

There was so much pain and sorrow within Blip. Jazz's spark twinged, but he kept still. Nothing he could say would make the loss in Blip's life smaller. When the green mech's armour started to tremble, he knew the outcome of this confrontation with certainty. It felt inevitable, like a scripted tragedy that was now playing out.

With a strangled sob, Blip suddenly turned, his fists clenched in helpless anger. "This is him. This is the fragger who killed Tumbler... Primus..."

"It's all right, Blip." Turnout gave Jazz a last look, full of contempt, then he opened the door and ushered the witness outside. "You've done well. He will not murder anyone's sparkmate again, I swear..."

The door closed. Jazz sighed, feeling as if he had just taken another step towards his own melting. Sparkmate, Turnout had said. Jazz hadn't known about this little detail. His thoughts wandered to his own beloved and he hoped.

Part 3