Young Bess Part Five free porn video

YOUNG BESS By Jane Howard The story of an 18th century British aristocrat magically transformed into an irresistibly beautiful young girl in search of his missing sister continues. Many thanks to Bruce, Felicity, C-Monster, Sophie and especially Bluto, who deserves two thank-you's for catching up. Your constructive feedback, dear friends, is like treasure to me. Please note that YOUNG BESS is fully copyrighted and cannot be reprinted or reproduced in any form without the express consent of the author. Part Five I felt as though I were flying through the air, so quick were the strides of the creature who was cradling me in its arms as it tore through the woods. I had to hold onto the puppy with all my strength, or else he would have blown away just as Sheila's hat had blown away a few moments after the great beast had first picked me up like a doll and then begun this fearsome journey. Where we were headed, I was not sure. The one thing I did know was that the beast had a very definite destination in its mind, which I could tell by the sudden stops and starts it made as it recognized landmarks and then followed them to wherever it was going. The terrain became increasingly rocky. The trees gradually disappeared. At last we came to a cliff, and hardly slowing our pace at all, we clamored down the cliff face until we reached an opening so large that a typical farmer's cottage could fill it. I was dropped onto the ground with a thump. Little Johnny leaped from my arms and ran off to sniff and explore this new space. The sun was just beginning to rise and in the dawning light I could see that the cave was filled with rude amenities. A barrel of water, straw heaped together in a corner, candles, a crude stool and a mirror propped up on a stone shelf left most of the large space empty. Obviously, it was not meant to be someone's home, but rather a place to stop at every now and then when the weather was good, for the huge opening at the front would not provide any practical shelter from wind or rain. "Nowhere near as nice and comfy as my cottage is it, dearie?" said the beast, unscrewing its head as it spoke. Living creatures do not twist their own heads off. I did my best to retain my sanity in view of the situation, by assuring myself that Uncle Isaac's advice was always correct: there is no magic, only science. An explanation would, of necessity, be forthcoming. I simply needed to be patient and to suppress the natural urge to scream. Unfortunately, in this exercise, I failed. I began, not actually to scream but to shriek, and because we were in a cave, the sound was magnified many times over. The headless creature brought me back into rationality with a hard slap to my cheek. "Shut yer gob, ya silly ninny!" warned a voice that came from inside the hole that remained above the torso after the beast had removed its head. "Do yer want the stones in the roof of this place to come down on our skulls and crush us?" With that, Goody Whitfield's own head popped up through the aperture. Seeing her face superimposed on the giant furry body beneath her chin made me want to scream again, but the hard slap had tutored me very effectively, and I kept my silence. Well, not total silence. After regaining my feet, I spoke, actually, but in a very calm and controlled voice. "What is going on, please?" I asked. "What you see is not all there is to see," she replied with the ambiguity of a sphinx. Then she removed the rest of what I now realized was nothing more than a costume. "Fooled ya' didn't I?" said the old hag, pulling her legs free from the hairy pantaloons that made up the bottom part of the disguise. "Clearly. But your great strength, your powers of motion, the horrific...snorting sounds. How are all these things possible?" "It's true I have certain powers. That's true enough... Well, I'm a witch, ain't I? That's all ya' need to know for the present, little dolly. But if yer go around tellin' people the things I tell you, then I'll show yer what these great bloody teeth a mine are fer, if ya' get my meanin'..." To make her point all the clearer, Goody Whitfield pulled the blood stained teeth out of the head of the costume and chased me round the cave with them, making chomping sounds with her withered lips to increase the power of the effect. I promise you that it worked very well, and I ran away from her as fast as I could, holding both my hands over my mouth to quiet my screams so that I would not bring the roof down on us. I am sure she was quite enjoying herself given the frequent cackling that interspersed the chomping noises she made in addition to the threats she voiced pertaining to what she would do to lasses who violated the purity of her cauldron. "Know what I'm gonna do with these gigantic choppers o mine when I catches ya', girlie? I'll be takin' a great big bite out of your pisssin'-in-me-pot-dairy-air with ?em, that's what!" And then she would cackle again in uninhibited glee! How long this would have gone on, I cannot imagine. Were it not for the fact that I eventually tripped over the torn hem of my skirt and fell squarely on the aforementioned "dairy-air," the old crone might have harried me until I threw myself off the cliff to escape her. As it was, she stopped in her tracks when I fell and made a face at me. "Gad, I'm lovin' this!" she said. I dragged myself backwards until my shoulders were pressed against the wall and stared up with stark fear at the feral teeth she brandished in front of my eyes. "Please stop it! I apologize for ruining your pot," I pleaded. "It seemed only fair exchange, given what you'd done to me." "Not a good enough reason," said she. "And I am barely more than a child, which entitles me to be somewhat willful," I added. "By whose authority?" she asked. "Why, Nature, of course! Nature's command that I be contrary and perverse and very nearly insane governs me completely at this age of fifteen," I said. In my haste to answer her I unintentionally distorted the gist of lessons I had learned from Uncle Isaac about growing up. "Pah!" responded the old witch. "Not to mention that you appear to have eaten my sister, and for that reason alone you should feel in some way obligated not to harm me!" I said, accusingly. "Nothing of the sort!" replied the hag. "The eating part, or the obligation part?" I asked. "Your sister is alive and well. She's as safe as safe can be," she assured me. Honestly, I was not surprised. I had already concluded that it was the stains from mulberries, not blood on Sheila's hat, and I was reasonably sure that Goody Whitefield was telling the truth about her being alive. Goading the old woman into boasting about what she knew appeared to be the best way of getting information from her. "If you're being fair with me, I suppose you can prove what you say. Where is Sheila to be found, then?" I asked. "She is near. But I'll tell ya' nothing more than that, clever little bitch!" said Goody Whitfield, catching onto my game. Certain parts of the cave remained dark, even though the rising sun had filled most areas with good light. Just as Goody Whitfield finished her response to me, Little Johnny trotted up to one of the darkest spots and began barking and then backing off, only to return to the same spot and begin barking again. "Do be quiet! You and I are in enough trouble, as it is!" I said to the pup as if he could understand me. But he insisted on barking even more. "It is enough!" said an authoritative voice, speaking from within the shadows. Goody Whitfield and I both looked with surprise at the place where the voice was coming from. Who was concealed there, I wondered? To my amazement it was John Villiers who then stepped forward into the light. He appeared haggard, but even the weariness that made his face appear so strained could not completely ruin his good looks. Despite myself I smiled at seeing him. "You are here to rescue me, I hope, Mr. Villiers?" I asked. Thinking back on that moment, I concede that my question must have seemed nonsensical, given the circumstances. However, I needed to believe him to be a hero right then. Just as the patient believes in the cure of the doctor who bleeds her because she is anemic, or in the parsimonious clergyman who forgives a guiltless girl for money, or in the caring mother who beats the child daily because she loves her so much. I mean to say, why else was I in the situation that I found myself, except for John Villiers abandoning me in the woods the night before? But there was always the possibility that his unexpected appearance meant that he felt some remorse, some regret that he had deserted me so cruelly. Could it be that he was on the verge of some process of self- reformation? An even more attractive possibility presented itself. Could it be true that he cared enough for me to want to save me? But, then, logic prevailed, and my mind began to dwell on the obvious question: how would he know where to find me? After all, the place where I was had to be the last place on earth anyone would look for a girl who had been kidnapped by a werewolf! Unless... "You are in league with the witch," I said to him dejectedly. It was so depressing to have to face the truth of the matter. "Quite so," replied John. "In so far as I asked her to be kind enough to fetch you away from the danger you were in and to bring you here." The news cheered me somewhat, but still left me unsatisfied. "Why did you not do it yourself?" I asked him, hoping that I did not sound petulant. "Have a care to control that upstart mouth of yours, ungrateful girl," he cautioned me. Once again, I had forgotten my place. Softening his demeanor, John continued by saying, "Although you are in no position to judge me, I will add that I was sufficiently driven by concern for your safety to arrange a rescue. For your own sake, I thought it wise to keep Philip oblivious to my concern for your person, lest he take too great an interest in you. As for my second motivation, I can answer that what I did is no less than any gentleman would do in my place. To be quite candid, it pained me to think of you so helpless and alone. Indeed, one could say that my conscience pricked me into it." Goody Whitfield made an obscene gesture with her hand, which I refuse to describe, before saying, "I knew it! I knew a prick was involved here somewhere!" Although I was too young and na?ve to comprehend her meaning at the time, I blushed and looked away from my rescuer. Observing my reaction, John made this comment: "Modesty and innocence are rarely to be found in these times. Rarer still in a maiden of your rank, don't you think?" I turned my head to face him again and saw that he had raised his eye brows and was giving me the most facetious of looks, as though he was expecting me to give him the answer to a question he had already answered for himself. I would not do it, of course. My mind raced through everything Goody Whitfield and I had said to each other whilst John had remained hidden in the shadows of the cave. I concluded that he only knew that I had a sister. He did not know who that sister was. He had not been present when Mr. Beaseley had been confessing himself to Lord Wharton, and therefore did not know of the connections that existed between Sheila, Beaseley and the witch. My identity was still safe. As to whether he still believed that I was simply a servant, that assumption I adjudged was probably no longer true. Despite his protestations of honor and of chivalry, I sincerely doubted that he would have gone to as much trouble as he did on behalf of a nobody. That self-satisfied look on his face was clear confirmation that he felt he had been correct in his suspicions that I was better born than I appeared to be. Unless there was a second reason, of course! I searched his eyes for an answer. Was there not just a suggestion of interest hidden behind his reserved demeanor? As he returned my gaze, did I not detect at least a hint of admiration of my person there in his eyes? Was it my imagination, or at those times when he thought that I was being inattentive to him, did that same gaze not sometimes fix itself on other parts of me, particularly my bosom? I would have preferred that he admired me for my mind, rather than for my charms. Perhaps, in time, I could condition him to appreciate both. I felt it would be to our mutual advantage if he did, rather like the arrangement between the bee and the blossom, with each nurturing the other to fulfillment without any conscious reflection on the matter. John brought me back to reality by paraphrasing his own leading question about my pedigree. "I say, don't you think such modesty is rarely to be found in one of your rank, Bess?" "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, milord. I'm sure that I'm no better than I'm supposed to be," I replied, ingenuously. "Please yourself, just as you wish," said John. He seemed disappointed in my answer. "In any case, I am taking you to my family estate. You will be able to refresh yourself there. Once recovered from your toils, you will be free to do whatever you wish. I owe you that much at least." "May I have pen and paper there?" I asked. John promised me that he intended to be the best and most gracious of hosts and that I would have access to anything I needed. Unknown to him was that my greatest need was to write to Uncle Isaac and inform him of all that had happened. For that reason, among others, I accepted John's invitation. Departing the cave was no challenge to Goody Whitfield. As soon as John had paid her, she just climbed back up the escarpment in her loose flowing black clothes with all the agility and appearance of a spider, leaving her furry costume behind to be used another day, no doubt. In a moment, she was over the rim of the cliff and gone from our sight. As for John and I, the matter of getting out and away was not so easily resolved. I have a dread fear of heights. To overcome it, John had to basically wrap his left arm around me and climb the cliff face with his right. One again, it struck me that he was a good deal stronger than he looked. And although I felt like one of the spring lambs in the weighing strap, hanging suspended in the air with his arm underneath me, I had complete trust in him that he would keep me safe. We reached the top of the cliff and I stood looking at him expectantly. "What is it?" he asked, in between huffing and puffing until his wind returned. "Aren't you going back for my little puppy?" I implored. "Blast and damn the dog!" he exclaimed. He said other things that would be to his discredit were I to record them here, but seeing how sad I was, and how tearful I was likely to become, he resigned himself to returning to the cave and within a short time he reappeared with my adorable puppy hound. John placed the dog in my arms and I cried out, "Oh, Little Johnny, my dearest boy! You know we would never leave you behind in that lonely cave! Would we, Mr. Villiers?" "Certainly not," replied John with very little enthusiasm, adding, after another bout of huffing and puffing, a question. "You call that pup ?Little Johnny'?" "I do," I averred, putting the dog down so that he could explore the stones and grassy patches atop the cliff. "And why did you name him that?" he asked. "Oh, it was just the first name that came into my head, I suppose!" The morning was chill and windy because we were so near the coast, and John wrapped me in his jacket for warmth. It was not enough. I placed my arms around him and pressed my head against his heart, and that act of intimacy made the temperature improve very much for both of us, I believe. "I pray you do not think me too bold, sir." I said, looking up at him. "But you see how I tremble, and it is only because I am so chilled by the wind that I embrace you like this." He mumbled something about having concerns for my health after all I had been through. I took that remark as his acquiescence that I could do as I pleased, which is precisely what I did, hugging him all the tighter, and listening to the quickening of his heart beat until the coach came at last. During the trip to John's estate, he gave me a short history of what I was about to see. The ancestral home of the Villiers family had begun as a single round tower, a "keep" used to protect the family whilst they began the process of exerting ever greater and greater control over the surrounding countryside. The tower had originally been built by Giles de Villiers, the family's founder. Giles was an adventurer who had accompanied William the Conqueror during the Norman invasion of England in 1066. Giles had earned his spurs and his knighthood and the land on which to build the tower by aiding in the capture of a dangerous Saxon holdout against William's rule. The rebel was rather famous in his time and went by the name "Hereward the Wake." Giles accomplished this capture only after a long and arduous campaign during which he exhibited extraordinary valor. Ensuing generations of Villiers, wealthier and living in more cultivated times, had abandoned the tower as an antiquated eyesore, so that it stood in isolation hundreds of yards distant from the main house. But the Villiers were too tradition-minded and too practical to tear it down. Their newer home had been built in the Tudor style and remained essentially unchanged since the reign of Henry VIII. Thus proving that the Villiers family did change with the times, except that the times they changed with were two hundred years in the past. As for the tower, it had been refortified briefly during the English Civil War, abandoned again after the beheading of King Charles, and then most recently it had been turned into a windmill inside of which worked a fat miller and his assistant, daily grinding the family wheat into flour. We made our way up the graveled driveway and into the house with quick dispatch. I was ushered into a bedroom on one of the upper floors by a trio of maids who spoke not a word to me. However, the poorly concealed, puzzled expressions on their faces told me volumes about what they were thinking regarding this mysterious girl dressed in rags who had been brought home by Mr. Villiers and whom they were expected to treat with the utmost respect. Whatever they thought of me amongst themselves, I will give them credit that they obeyed my instructions without the slightest hesitation. I directed that two wash tubs filled with warm water, some soap and several cloths be brought up to me so that I could clean myself properly. Whilst this was being done, I took pen in hand and wrote a quick note to Uncle Isaac explaining where I was, all that had transpired in the past day, and my belief that Sheila was safe. It was my best judgement that he should not come for me as yet, because there was so much still to be done before Sheila could be recovered and brought home safe and sound. When it came to signing my name, I hesitated. Finally, I decided to close the letter "With all my affection, your loving niece, Elizabeth." After sealing the envelope, I began preparing myself for the bath. Now most of the people from my class in society believe that it is unhealthy to clean the body with water, because in so doing one could be exposing oneself to all types of infection and disease. Instead of soap and water, cologne and perfume constitute the main deodorizing agents of the European aristocracy. The common people have no sense of hygiene at all. Thus, if it does not actually rain on them from time to time, or if they do not accidentally fall into a puddle or a stream at least once in their lives, their sole experience with water will be restricted to drinking it. In contrast, it is my good fortune that Uncle Isaac has always instructed me to treat my body at least as well as I would treat my underwear, and as a result, at least in the warmer months of the year, I bath myself frequently. After the maids had brought the tubs in, and filled them with pails of warm water as I directed, I gave one of them my letter to post and then dismissed them from the room. I am sure the Villiers maids thought I was quite mad in asking for the two wash tubs, but I had not the slightest care what they thought. I had been through so much since the night before that all I could think of was to scrub away the grime and perspiration that coated me, not to mention the practical necessity of cleansing the cuts and scrapes I had accumulated during my adventures. However, never having bathed in the body I currently occupied, I saw that there were differences in anatomy to which I would have to adapt. Normally, I stood in the tub. But I could see straight away that standing would not do, so I made myself as small as I could and tried to sit down while I attacked all the filth that had attached itself to me, and at the same time gave my other bits a good soaking. Unfortunately, the space being so small, I could sustain that position only briefly without feeling cramped and uncomfortable. Then I would stand again. I fell into a sort of rhythm: stand, scrub, sit, stand, scrub, squat, stand, scrub, sit, stand. Not looking at myself, of course! If one insisted on bathing, despite all of the prohibitions against it, then looking at oneself while in the bath was not permitted by the standards of propriety then in force. I could touch, but not see. I touched. Then it was on to the second tub for a good rinse. I had just finished and was toweling myself dry when my task was interrupted by a knock at the door. That would not have disturbed me, were it not for the fact that the knocker had the temerity to begin entering without either announcing themselves, or obtaining my consent. "Stop!" I commanded. "It is I, Bess," explained the person standing on the other side of the partially opened door. For the second time that day, I recognized John Villiers' voice immediately. "How dare you, sir!" I was outraged. "You must withdraw and shut that door instantly!" He did not comply. In his defense, I will also say that he opened the door no further, but simply remained as he was. I knew that he could not see me yet so I ran to the bed and covered my front with a dressing gown I saw lying there. "You scoundrel! With whom do you think you are dealing?" I was quite beside myself with all sorts of emotions raging within me. "Do you think me to be some harlot, or strumpet that you can invade my privacy at your leisure? How dare you, sir!" So great was my anger (and apprehension) that I looked around the room for something to throw at him. There were some bottles of toilet water on the dressing table. They would suffice. The cur on the other side of the door answered me in this way: "You misunderstand my intentions!" "Oh, no I do not, you bounder, you rake, you low dog!" With each epithet I threw a bottle at the door. Actually, I missed the door completely with the first two bottles, but I did almost hit it with the third. "I see how it is with you, sir! You offer me your hospitality and your protection, put me under obligation to you, all this when you only mean to take advantage of me! You don't even have the patience to seduce me first! Do I mean so little to you as that! I am a maiden, sir! I will hurl myself from the window if you take one step into this room!" My emotions were in such a roil that I honestly intended to do what I said ?fully clothed, of course. I would have to dress first. Still, I meant it. John withdrew. I was still shaking when in a little while the same three maids who had originally brought the tubs returned to remove them, as well as to clear away the broken bottles of scent, and, finally, to assist me in completing my rehabilitation. I noticed at once that they were much more deferential than they had been when I first arrived at the house all bedraggled and wearing the clothes of their own rank. They treated me as a lady. Which I suppose is what I had become, albeit a very young one. I guessed that this new demeanor of theirs had very possibly been assumed at John's instruction, in an attempt on his part to mollify me after the recent scene between us. More likely still, it was because they had heard it all first hand and now understood my true character a little better. It was extremely beneficial to me that the maids regarded me in this new light. Since I had not the slightest idea what to do for myself, I quickly learned that, as their social superior, I did not need to know how to do anything. They did it all. They dressed me in mysterious under garments and a gown of blue silk. It was quite lovely, really, even if the bodice was cut a bit low. Practical boots were laced upon my feet. I was amazed that all these things should fit me so perfectly. It was a little mystery that passed out of my mind as quickly as it came into it. A lace shawl was draped around my shoulders. My hair was pulled back at the sides and held in place with cunning little ivory combs, and then decorated with sprigs of white flowers, even going all down the back of it. The only contribution I made was to add a bit of perfume to my neck and wrists, as I had seen my mother and sister do when performing their own ablutions at home. As an afterthought, I added just a drop more of the perfume into the line that divided my breasts. I remember that the scent was lilac. It was then announced to me that Mr. Villiers awaited me downstairs. His card was presented as well as a note he had written under seal in which he apologized most profusely, indicating that what had passed between us was all a misunderstanding that could easily be explained. He ended by respectfully inviting me to accompany his mother and himself for a stroll through the gardens. Seeing that his manners had improved so much, and always having wanted to meet the reclusive Lady Margaret, I sent word with one of the maids that I would accept the invitation. Then I made him wait. Once I decided that the time was right to descend the stairs, I did so very slowly. I took my time for two reasons. First, I did not want him to think me over anxious to see him, particularly after our tiff. Second, I did not want to jiggle, still being very self-conscious about my pulchritude, which was constantly undermining my dignity by insisting on bouncing and flopping in every direction imaginable or at least, so it seemed to me. Someday, I hope that a garment will be invented to enable women to get this problem under control. It is much needed. Perhaps I could talk to Uncle Isaac about designing some kind of a harness or sling or suchlike. John awaited me at the bottom of the stairs, smiling as much as I had ever seen him do. Over his left arm, he had hung a basket, and in his right hand, he carried a pink rose. He could not have been more charming, or more contrite. "I do apologize for our misunderstanding," he said. "The maids reported their concern that things were amiss with you, and, in my haste to ascertain your well-being, I quite forgot my etiquette. Do you forgive me, Bess?" I assured him that I did and asked him what he had in the basket. "Oh! As for that, I hoped we would have time for a kind of picnic on the grounds. The weather is quite lovely, as it turns out, and I thought you might be famished, all things considered." Having said that, he offered me the rose as another gesture of his regret that he had been the cause of a disagreement between us. I accepted it and we left the house for our walk. By this time it was afternoon of the second day since my transformation, and a lovely afternoon it was, just as John had said. It was pleasantly warm, with gentle sunshine turning every bloom in the Villiers' garden radiant with light. Within a few minutes of the tour having begun, John suggested that we stop at a bench in a recess a few steps away from the pebbled pathway that guided the visitor in lazy turns all around the place. John seemed not to know very much about the flora in his garden and I suspected that he spent very little time there. We sat with the basket between us. From it, John removed a half carafe of rose colored wine, and a small white cloth on which he laid some cheese, some deeply purple grapes and some bread. From these things, he intended that we would make a little meal. "Should we not wait for your mother to join us?" I asked. "No," said John with a sad shake of his head. "She was not able to come with us after all. One of the best mares in our stable has just foaled and all is not well with the colt and mother knows more about horse medicine that anyone in the shire. She sends her apologies and promises to make the time to meet you this evening at table. In that sense I am glad since it gives me a perfect excuse to detain you until supper. You will accept, won't you Bess? I hope you will. I hope you won't mind staying here at least until then. And please don't feel slighted in the least by mother's sense of priority. You see, this foal with be worth quite a few hundred pounds to us, perhaps even more, if he grows up to become all that his breeding says that he should. I hope that mother's excuse doesn't sound crass to you. I mean, speaking for myself, I would never put the worth of something over the feelings of someone I valued. Friendship rules my life above all else, quite frankly." In the short time I had known him, John had never put so many words together as he did just then. He had always been so much more taciturn. He had always been almost imperious in addressing me. Now he no longer commanded, he entreated. I saw immediately from this extensive monologue of his that he now viewed me, for whatever reason, as belonging to his own class or he would never have expressed himself to me in such a way. I also wondered if he realized how similar the uncertainty of his own future lay when compared with that of the colt. He too, might someday grow up ?to become all that his breeding says that he should.' Or, he might hang for friendship's sake. I did not answer him directly. Instead, I asked after my little poochie, my darling little pup. "Oh! As for him, he is one very contented fellow!" John answered. "I sent him to the kennels straightaway. No sooner was he there, than he became extremely friendly with all the females. I daresay he has a substantial harem now, and is tending to it with as much gusto as I've ever seen! Quite a randy little boy he is, and very happy with his lot in life! You need have no fear for his well-being!" John followed up his report with a short laugh and an offer of grapes, which I accepted with gratitude. We spent a splendid hour, enjoying the summer afternoon together. I drank the wine and John drank tonic water. He said that it was his rule never to drink anything containing alcohol until the evening meal. John was showing me another side of himself altogether. He was charming, and clever, and very entertaining indeed. He conducted himself with perfect gentility. The afternoon turned out to be the happiest of times for me. Upon retiring back to the house, feeling somewhat fatigued, I went upstairs to take a short nap before preparing myself to dine with John's family, and so to meet his mother at last. I had barely time to recline on the bed when there was a knock at the door. Nearly simultaneously, the door was opened. Once I saw who was standing there framed in the doorway I knew that my world was crushed, and would never recover. Surely, I was lost forever. I also knew then that my letter had never been sent to Uncle Isaac, that I would never meet John's mother, and that everything in the way of happiness I had experienced with him that afternoon was all a lie and a sham. What a silly fool I had been! I would pay dearly for it. In all likelihood this day of tumult, which had begun so dreadfully, then turned so pleasant, would end with me lying in my grave. "You are so pale, Bess," said Philip Wharton, with a sneer, for it was none other than he who stood regarding me. "We shall have to find a way to bring the color back into your cheeks." Immediately behind Philip stood the Hollinshead twins. Behind them, stood John. "It's my way of thinking that having one sister in our power is as good as having the other," John observed. "Quite so," agreed Philip. "Quite so." END OF PART FIVE