The Brothers' Grim and the Dark Sun

Vynlarion sat in the small gilded office. The desk before him was littered with various letters, applications, resignations and the like. Though the old Blood Knight paid them little heed. He shifted his armoured weight, gauntleted hands folded before him. Vessago Duskwhisper, cowled as always, stood before him. “Captain Duskwhisper, do you know why I’ve summoned for you?” Vynlarion’s grand tones were somewhat quieter than normal, given the privacy of the meeting.

To the Blood Knight’s right was Malistra Ashborne’s pride and joy, a scrying orb sat unused. To his left, two other desks, one for the High Commander Erythis Ashborne, and the other for the Commander, Alorinis Bloodarrow. Though the two had left long ago, Vynlarion still had much to do.

Vessago stood silently, his robes giving him the appearance of being ephemeral. His cowl was drawn low on his face, so low all that could be seen was a small black beard growing off a pointed chin. His mouth was barely visible as well, though it was curled into a small frown. “I do not, Captain Bloodmyst.” He said coolly, his voice strong, but smooth and calm, unlike the grand tonalities Vynlarion adored.

“I have summoned you here to speak of your continued disrespect towards me, Captain. You speak out of turn and without precedent. I see the intent of your words, do not think me a fool. You do not approve of the leadership of the Dark Sun.” Vynlarion spoke cordially as the shadow priest took a seat before him.

Vessago remained eerily still as he sat now. His robes were drawn tightly around his frame. For a priest, Vessago was of impressive stature. “No, I do not. But nor do you, Vynlarion.” He spoke once more, his voice whispering in Vynlarion’s mind. The Blood Knight scowled, he did not care for shadow priests and their irritating habits of creeping into minds without notice.

“What I think and believe is irrelevant. If you wish to see change within the Legion, why not petition it with the Margravine?” Vynlarion spoke calmly, though the words bit at his mind, how he loathed himself for saying them. The shadowy man’s mouth drew into a small smirk, as if he knew how much Vynlarion detested Malistra Ashborne.

“I see. I do believe you have swayed me, Vynlarion. Good eve.” The priest’s smirk remained as he stood quietly, making his way out of the room.

Vynlarion eased himself back into the chair, sighing quietly. He was too old for this. His bones ached and his muscles were stiff. Though he would not tell a soul this. He was the Dragon of Quel’Thalas! When he was younger, his might was unmatched, and even now, few could best him in an honourable duel. Regardless, the elven man stood, his crimson and ebon armour rustling on him. The dim tabard that adorned his chest seemed to fit uncomfortable, restricting the movement of his breastplate.

He strode out of the small office, the dim evening assaulting his elven eyes, though he ignored it, and walked quickly past a group of Legion soldiers, nodding to him as he passed by. However, the aging elf had more business to attend to. He mounted his charger, and set off southward.

~

The night wore on, dusk falling into the brisk eternal spring weather that Quel’Thalas offered. Vynlarion was soothed by the repetitive clacking of his armoured charger below him. He was quite accustomed to riding long distances, having travelled far in his younger years to spar with his closest friend and cousin, Taloxus.

However, no longer was he a young man. His back ached from sitting upright, but this caused the nobleman little irritation. The insufferable whore Ashborne was far north and incapable of bothering him. So too was the ever off putting Vessago Duskwhisper, who seemed to take pleasure in annoying him.

Hours passed as he rode steadily southward, the spring-like visage of Quel’Thalas slowly dimming as he passed over the Elrendar River. The once fanciful bridge had fallen into decay, the magicked wood having been befouled by the Scourge. The Blood Knight shook his head as he passed into these glib lands.

The forest around him was dark and barren, massive spiders and plagued lynxes eyeing him warily as he passed by. He pitied the poor animals, doomed to a life of pain and misery by the Scourge’s taint. One lynx crossed onto the path before him, its emerald eyes looking to Vynlarion imploringly.

Vynlarion slowed his charger to a trot, eyeing the beast. Many gashes rendered its flank bloodied and pained. Its forepaw was limp as the think hobbled across the path. The Blood Knight stopped altogether, peering at the beast impassively. The lynx met his gaze, wheezing as it breathed. The elf dismounted completely, walking over to the injured beast. Two options carried heavily on the man’s mind. Should he kill the beast and put it out of its misery? Or heal it and allow it to continue living on in these sorry woods?

He fell to a kneel before the lynx, who did not move, its weak breathing and pathetic state bringing a frown to the aged man’s face. Vynlarion rested a hand on the beast’s broad head, petting it. The lynx nuzzled into the man’s hand, and he removed his gauntlet to allow it to do so.

The beast’s fur was filthy, cobwebs and debris knotted into its thick crimson and golden fur. Though the sheen of the pelt had long since faded away, stolen by the sickness that choked the land and this beast before Vynlarion. The man continued to pet the sickened beast, his mind indecisive as to what to do. Slay it and end its pain, or try to save it? He was no healer, but this was no mortal man or woman that needed healing.


The man stood once more, making his way to his horse when his gaze drifted to the Dead Scar in the distance. His mind drifted to a time in the Third War.

The hellish screams of Scourge assaulted the Knight-Lord’s ears, though he did not abate. Broadsword coated in fetid blood and the ichor of death. He charged forward, the weariness he felt unimportant as the Scourge continued in their onslaught.

Soldiers at his side looked warily on the old man, his armour was dented and damaged, but he charged in recklessly. Vynlarion swung the mighty blade as he entered the scar of death the Scourge created in their wake, animated corpses being cut into pieces. He brought down the large blade in one single attack afterward, a Nerubian being hacked in two, crumpling inward.

The Scourge continued their onslaught as Vynlarion fought further inward, the battle cries and pennants of the various elven houses being blotted out as they fell. However, Vynlarion was not alone. A silver gleaming knight charged in from across, the Scourge crumpling as his blades were swung.

The weary Knight-Lord allowed himself a quick grin as Taloxus joined him in battle. The two quickly fell into old routine, and back to back they fought off the Scourge, longsword and broadsword hacking and slashing without reprieve.

However, the Scourge did not cease, and Taloxus cried out as a ghoul clamped down on his leg, his armour shattering under the iron-like vice grip.

“Taloxus!” Vynlarion called out. Though the red haired knight shook his head, pointing to the hills. Vynlarion looked onward, a silver brow quirked.

“Go, Vynlarion! My destiny has been fulfilled. We will meet again.” Taloxus spoke wearily, clutching his leg as he spoke. Vynlarion began to argue, his broad voice coming to bear, though a ringing in his ears silenced him.

An ebon shadow creeped inward at their feet, expanding outward at the relentless, mindless Scourge. Small hands cascaded up the fetid bodies of the undead, caressing, cradling gently, like a mother to a child. Vynlarion’s eyes widened. He knew this spellwork.

The Scourge calmed, standing upright, however, a swirling of wind buffeted their cloaks and hair as a new shadow appearing on the ground. Shadowy spikes erupted from the shadows, both the small hands that covered the Scourge and the black shadow that carpeted the ground. The Scourge screamed in agony as the shadow spikes rend them into nothingness. Bone dust fell like ashen snow, and small pieces of skin float downward.

Fifty yards around there was nothing. No Scourge, no elves, nothing. In the distance, Vynlarion could see a singular figure. It was an elven women, garbed in an ebon dress. Her arms were exposed, though she wore two wicked clawed gauntlets. Spiked fingers ended them as shadowy tendrils wove their way around her form. Her hair was black as night, her eyes alight with arcane power. She met Vynlarion’s gaze evenly, her words whispering in his mind.

“Hello, my dear child.” She whispered into his mind.

Vynlarion’s eyes widened. She was over three thousand years old! Her power was immense. “Mother...” He spoke quietly.

Alenyia smiled in the distance, before appearing in front of the two knights. “I have come to repay my debt to you, dear child. Go now, you have more to do in your life. For freeing me from your father, and allowing young Adrynar to perish that day.” She spoke calmly.

Taloxus nodded weakly. “I will stay with you, Lady Alenyia Duskwhisper. Let this final act of mine... be one that is of heroism, and not as a slave to Vornelius.” Alenyia nodded once, before looking to Vynlarion.

“You expect me to run off while you to throw your lives away? What madness has taken you, I shall fight at your side.” Vynlarion said boldly as the Scourge rushed in.

Alenyia laughed a quiet laugh, “I expected you to say that, dearest son of mine. But I can’t allow that. You are destined for more than death in this war.” She nodded, and Vynlarion felt her shadow magicks begin to curl around him.

“No, no!” Vynlarion boomed as he was teleported away. His ears rung, and his head throbbed as he regained his conscious mind. He found himself on the edge of the scar as a violent explosion rocked the landscape.

Vynlarion shook his head, looking back to the lynx, who had now fallen onto its side, verdant gaze still staring outward at the Blood Knight. He sighed, and paced back to the beast, placing a hand on its injured side, eliciting a weak whimper. He ignored the beast’s pain and the Light surged into the lynx. The beast yelped in pain as the Light began to reset bones, muscles healing and sinew rejoining. The beast’s fur began to rid itself of the insects, debris and dead things that muddied it, its gold and crimson hues returning.

The beast stood up once more, looking strong and fit. Emerald eyes peered outward as it held its head high. Vynlarion smirked, the pain of healing it did not kill it, which surprised him. “I dub thee Thora’lanos, Might of Eversong.” Vynlarion spoke to the lynx, who padded up to him.

“Thora’lanos, find yourself a mighty hunter to be bonded to, and fight for the Sin’dorei.” He spoke grandly, before remounting his charger, and continuing on his way. Thora’lanos cocked his head as Vynlarion disappeared over the next rise.

~

Vynlarion rode into the early morning, the Ghostlands being traded in for the coppery barren lands of the Eastern Plaguelands. He was weary, but his destination neared. The plagued trees and ground seemed to no longer affect the old man; this was not his land, no. This was Lordaeron, land of the Forsaken.

His charger, a beast of magic and the spirit of a steed long since passed, did not tire. Its hoofs found sturdy ground on the ruined path that it travelled on, although the same could not be said for its rider. He was tired, and his body was sore from riding. But he would ride on, his destination only a few hours away.

The Scourge that frequented the path kept their distance as Vynlarion rode on, knowing quite well the power that he possessed even when tired. The Knight-Lord continued on his journey, for only that land of the dead could hold the answers he sought.

The land around him became more barren as time wore on, the bleary sun in the sky all but blotted out in the coppery haze, perpetuating a permanent twilight setting. His charger knew the path, and because Vynlarion had to do very little, he began to fall into a light slumber, where the demons of his past assaulted him.

Vynlarion found himself standing in a blizzardy wasteland. Craggy mountains stretched into the blurry, grey sky above, challenging the might of the tallest structures ever built on Azeroth. The biting wind bit at Vynlarion’s weathered face, and he found himself standing knee deep in pure white snow. He held his hand before his face, failing to shield his flesh from the wintry chill.

The old Blood Knight knew this land. He knew it all too well. It was the Human kingdom of Alterac. And it was winter. This was a dream he had had many times before. He would witness her death. Vynlarion’s tired old heart cried out for release from the nightmare, to rid him of the agony of watching his beloved die again. But alas, there was no reprieve. His chilled muscles seemed to have a mind of their own, and he began trudging through the snow.

In reality, he was much younger when this happened, but the dream saw fit to make him as old as he was now, and to make him as slow as the snow would make a seventeen hundred year old elf. Vynlarion made his way through the snow, his legs burning from the effort, but he continued on.

Over the course of confused time in the dream, Vynlarion found himself in lighter snow. No longer did it scrape at his kneecaps, but now merely at his ankles. He continued on his way, the course of the dream forcing him to continue. Perhaps if he was quick enough, he would be able to save her. He might be able to stop him.

He continued forward, Silorian nowhere to be seen. The sun remained where it was, the dream fading in and out as he wandered the snowy tundra of the Alterac Mountains. For all the old elf knew, it could’ve been days, perhaps only minutes, maybe hours. But none of that mattered. As he wandered onward, the sensation of hope filled him.

“If I find her, I can save her...” He spoke to himself, his voice echoing.

Night fell and he ambled further in the snow. However, before him was an orange light. A cave, alight with campfire. He hurried forward. It was her! She was okay, she was merely waiting out the storm before she came home! It made perfect sense.

He bolted forward, cloak billowing behind him in the still night. Snow crunched under his greaves, and his lungs burned fiercely from the chill of the wintry weather, but he ignored it all. It had to be her, he could feel it. It was her!

He burst into the cave, though what he saw tore at his heart as it always did. Lathinal, his beloved wife, laid on the stone floor, bloodied and pale. At the far end of the cave was that insipid man who captured her. “Bastard!” He shouted, and charged forward, jumping over his wife and beheading the human with one lightning quick swing. He watched the head fall, though crimson hair followed it.

He looked down abruptly, the severed head of his wife staring up at him in horror. “W-why... Vynlarion...” She spoke quietly. The Blood Knight Knight-Lord dropped his massive blade, slumping to the ground.

“N-no, I... Lathinal!” He fell forward as her words echoed in his head.

“Why did you kill me?” She whispered all around him.

Vynlarion awoke with a start, his dry voice scratchy as he dryly shouted “Lathinal...!” Vynlarion looked around. The walls were stone blocks, and candles lined the room.

He laid in a bed, the covers scratchy, the mattress lumpy and hard. To his left was a night stand, at the far end of the room was a wardrobe, and next to it a desk. Everything was made of simple, crude wood.

It was a Human establishment. That much he knew for sure. He rose, finding himself still garbed in his armour, the crimson plates rustling. Pushing himself to a stand, he found himself still weary, but he ignored the feeling. Where was he? Vynlarion knew it was stupid of him to fall asleep while riding.

The door to the small room opened, interrupting his thoughts, a slumped humanoid figure entering. The figure wore white robes of the Argent Crusade, and a cloak covered his face. I am at Tyr’s Hand, then. Good. Vynlarion thought to himself as the garbed man before him regarded him.

“It is not very often that an elf happens upon Tyr’s Hand, let alone asleep on his horse.” The figure spoke, his voice dry and low.

Vynlarion avoided the man’s gaze, holding himself tall and proud, a full foot taller than the priest. “Not, ‘tis not a common thing. But nor is why I have come, Bishop Lightwarden.” He spoke, the regality of his voice ringing through clearly in his broad tones.

“And why have you travelled so far from Quel’Thalas, Lord Bloodmyst?” The Bishop inquired, taking a seat on the foot of the bed. Vynlarion turned, still standing. Much of him loathed the Bishop, a vile monstrosity that dared to call itself holy. The fool also considered him wiser than Vynlarion, and more powerful too.

“I have come to seek information on one of your colour elven friends, Bishop.” Vynlarion spoke simply. The Bishop frowned under his white cowl, before rising and going to the door.

“Let us walk and talk, Elven Lord.” The Bishop said, opening the door.   

~

The two walked slowly through the former Scarlet stronghold of Tyr’s Hand, Blood Knight, clunking heavily in gilded crimson armour, and priest in light white robes. Auraelius was the first to speak. “I know the truth of what you wish to know, Knight-Lord, but it’s not my truth to tell.”

“And whose truth is it to speak, then?” Vynlarion inquired, impatience building. He had travelled long and without rest, and did not feel like playing games with some rotting corpse of a Human.

“It is his, the truth of the matter is Vessago’s to tell, not mine. I could not honestly tell you it, either, given that I do not know it. All I do know is that he has the answers you seek.” Auraelius said simply. “I am afraid that you have wasted your efforts coming here.”

Vynlarion stiffened for a moment, but forced himself to relax. “Very well, then. I’ll take my leave, then.” With that, Vynlarion left without another word, though he knew he was not alone. He made his way down to the central courtyard of Tyr’s Hand, and a shadow caught his attention in the corner of his eye. This shadow snuck into the barracks, completely unnoticed by the guards. After a moment, Vynlarion moved into building, having a good idea as to who was stalking this place.

Vynlarion casually walked into the building, the guards nodding politely. He paid them no heed as he paced through the barracks. Soldiers slept in small, crowded rooms, meanwhile others remained passed out on dirty tables. The whole sight caused the old knight to curl his nose in disgust, but he continued on. He ascended the steps of the barracks to the second level, in which a catwalk looked over the central room of the barracks. He walked to its end, and up a ramp to the command room.

The room was empty, which was unsurprising, given how short-staffed Tyr’s Hand was. Pretending as if he was merely wandering, Vynlarion walked to the command table, where various chairs were assembled before a table covered in maps, books, scrolls, and letters. The skid of a boot caught his attention, though, and he drew his broadsword off his back and spun around. His cloak and hair billowed with the action, and the sound of blades clashing resonated.

Before him stood a smaller figure, a human woman, garbed in leathers. Her lithe figure was pained looking as he bore down with sword, her knives clattering against the Knight-Lord’s impressive strength. She shoved back once, and threw herself backward, avoiding another slice of the elven man’s sword, which whistled through the wind.

“Kairasa Anner, come to play, have we?” He said coldly at the rogue. Who grinned at him, and launched herself at him again. “Foolish move, little princess.” Vynlarion tutted, bring his broadsword in an upward slash, catching her shoulder in a quick swipe, sending the woman backward, holding her shoulder.

Vynlarion paced forward quickly, catching her by the throat and slamming her into the wall behind her as she lunged forward. Kairasa let forth a strangled gasp as she was lifted off her feet and left at eye level with Vynlarion. “You… don’t scare me…” She spoke through his grasp. He tightened his grasp, his eyes narrowing with hatred.

“Oh but you should… Your kind stole what was most precious to me, your kind let my people die when the Scourge ravaged our lands.” He spoke angrily and through his teeth. She writhed in his gasp, her face beginning to discolour above his grip. She narrowed her gaze, and spit at him, the saliva landing on his tabard. He frowned, dropping her.

Kairasa caught her breath, and said quickly, “Scum like you are why this war rages on…” Though Vynlarion tsked at her words, drawing a knife from his belt and driving it into her shoulder, the end sticking into the wooden beam behind the wall. She cried out in agony, clutching at the knife with her other hand, trying to pry it from her shoulder.

“An incorrect answer.” His voice was cold, and calm. He slowly twisted the blade in her shoulder, the woman crying out further, turning with the blade as to try to minimize the pain, but it was to no avail. Vynlarion leaned forward, and whispered to her, “Remember this, little Ishuran Princess. Your life could end right now. Consider why it doesn’t.” He wrenched the blade from her shoulder, and sheathed it, blood dripping from its sheath.

Kairasa slumped to the floor. “And when did you die, Vynlarion?” She said quietly, pushing herself to her feet, and pulling out a communicator.

~

A week later

Vynlarion stood , blade drawn in his right hand. Before him at a distance was Vessago, calm and collected as always. The Blood Knight raised his blade, “on this day we settle this childish feud, Vessago. This day, we end it. Do we have an agreement?”

Vessago slipped on a peculiar gauntlet. It was gold and donned pointed fingers, though was largely nonexistent as armour, some sort of decoration. “Yes, I agree.” Vessago spoke calmly, the gauntlet now fixed to his arm. “Shall we, then?” Vesago looked up, his figured clouded in black robes, adorned with silver chains. Vynlarion nodded, and Vessago extended his arms outward, robes fluttering. Shadows on the ground stretched to him, before rising over his figure and making him little more than a walking shadowy figure.

Vynlarion scowled, “Your wicked magicks cannot best the Dragon of Quel’Thalas!” He swung his sword before him, a great wave of Lightborne magics sweeping before him and toward the shadow priest. Vessago’s shadowform self drifted side to side, before the golden gauntlet came into focus out of the shadowform, and was alight with dark magicks, before finally tearing a hole through the Lightborne attack Vynlarion had created.

The shadow priest’s words whispered in Vynlarion’s mind, “And none can best the Nightmare of Quel’Thalas…” The figure before the old knight disappeared, and a fear of dread filled Vynlarion’s mind as a figure formed behind him. The man spun around, blade raised as Vessago’s claw-like gilded gauntlet crashed into his blade with a deafening screech of metals, the Light and shadow battling fiercely.

Vynlarion, being the mightier man in terms of physical prowess, quickly proved too strong for such mundane tactics, and so he simply vanished before him, causing the knight to stumble forward. Vessago appeared once more at a distance, extending his shadowy arms, two jagged spikes of shadow magic rushing toward Vynlarion.

The first was easily dodged through side stepping, though the second curved in midflight, striking Vynlarion in the shoulder, his pauldron shattering on impact with the weapon. His clavicle crunched painfully from the pressure of the attack. Though he pressed on, blade raised high as he faked a charge forward, then swung outward as Vessago appeared to his side, his blade sliding through the inky blackness, before he summoned the Light and fired it at Vessago. The shadowy man’s form was obliterated with the screech of bats, before Vessago himself reappeared before Vynlarion once more.

Vessago swung his hand out, a shadow-formed blade forming from his golden gauntlet. Vynlarion smirked, accepting the challenge. The old knight discarded his broadsword and drew from his belt a longsword, charging forward.

The two met in a clash of Light and shadow, the magicks flying off and ruining the ornate ruins around them. Vynlarion brought forth a free hand, alight with holy fire, though Vessago countered with a hand of black shadows, and the two crashed the powers against one another. Swords clashed and magicks were pressed into one another, before they simply slipped by one another, for they were so polarly opposite, and slammed into the opposing figures.

Vynlarion and Vessago flew backward, swords scraping against one another as their opposing magicks devastated them. Vessago stumbled to his feet, his hood having fallen from his head. Vynlarion picked himself up shakily, using his sword to support himself, when he finally looked upon Vessago’s face.

Before Vynlarion stood… himself. An identical face to his own, down to the cheekbone position and jawline. Vessago was identical to Vynlarion. The Blood Knight’s eyes grew wide and he dropped his sword. “What sort of magic is this, Vessago? What are you playing at? Answer me!” Vynlarion demanded, clutching his broken shoulder.

Vessago shook his head, “No, Vynlarion. There is no magic at play here! Look upon me. You see yourself, do you not? That is because I am the child of Alenyia Duskwhisper, and the cowardly and foul Vornelius Bloodmyst the third. A man so pitiful he would be terrified of a mere babe, for he took to his mother’s magicks!” Vessago spoke grandly, his eyes burning with hatred as he spoke of Vornelius.

“I know my father well, Vessago, and I know he was no saint. Nay, a wicked fiend was my father and I slew him myself! But what you speak is madness! My mother may have never cared greatly for my person, but she would most assuredly tell me of such a thing! That I am one of two, twins of the same age and face.” Vynlarion retorted.

Vessago vanished abruptly, before appearing suddenly before the beleaguered knight. His gilded gauntlet pressed into Vynlarion’s face, its razor edge fingers digging into his flesh.

Visions assaulted Vynlarion’s mind, his vision becoming completely obscured with them. He looked on to a younger version of his parents. Alenyia lofted two babies in her arms, Vornelius peering down at them critically. The man took the blond haired baby, evidently Vynlarion, into his arms, nodding abruptly and passing the child to a servant.

He then took Vessago into his arms and scowled. “Evil filth! He’s cursed like your family, Alenyia. Though we shall see if he can be fixed.”

The vision blurred, and changed to a different scene. Alenyia and Vornelius stood behind a window, Vessago and Vynlarion, merely toddlers, sparring with toy swords. “He has no skill with a blade, and he gravitates to your evil ilk. He’ll be done away with. For the purity of the family.” Vornelius looked back, “Servant! Fetch my blade.”

Alenyia shook her ebon haired head, “Nay, I’ll do it. ‘Tis my duty as one of his foul ilk, as you so eloquently put it, husband.” Vornelius nodded.

“So be it. Make it quick, woman.” He spoke sternly as he exited the room. Alenyia smirked,

“Oh it will be quick…” She spoke quietly to herself, exiting the room and walking towards her sons.

The vision changed once more. Now Alenyia, covered in dark robes, held young Vessago in her arms. The boy was asleep, with messy ebon hair covering his face. Alenyia’s eyes were with tears as she handed the boy over to a similarily dressed woman. “Do me this honour, sister. Take my dearest son from my evil husband, so that he may live. I will protect the other.” She said, her voice miserable as her heart cracked for the son she could never claim.

A large figure next to Alenyia rested a hand on her narrow shoulder. It was a man, a black cloak covering his armoured figure. “You will still see him, Alenyia. Hope remains.” Varinal spoke quietly. Alenyia nodded, and the woman before nodded as well.

“Dearest sister.” The other woman spoke, “I will take up the cup you have offered me, and raise your son as our family would wish. Now go, do not let your foul husband see you near here, lest he suspect anything…”

The vision abruptly ended, and Vynlarion found a single tear rolling down his face. Though Vessago was long gone. He stood alone in the ruins of western Silvermoon. “Mother…” He spoke quietly to himself.

The old knight shook his head, wiping the tear from his face, and turned. He would honour his mother’s actions. He would fight with his newly found brother, Vessago. Vynlarion turned on his crimson greave, the words of his mother Alenyia and friend Taloxus whispering to him.

“No, my destiny has not been fulfilled. Not yet.”