mail call
Niko. It's become a litany, a charm to soothe himself to sleep of nights. Niko, come home to me, come home.
By now he no longer believes in it. There was no word of farewell, no word in the months since then. Niko is gone; has left him, as if after all it meant nothing. He should never have let himself be convinced otherwise.
He could be angry -- and has been, increasingly. It was Niko who first said love; insisted on it with such fervor that he listened, and like a fool, said: Stay with me. Knowing well enough that the boy did not, could not understand what he meant by it.
Stay with me, here in my brother's house: be mine, be one of us, belong to us, now and forever. A bond as deep as blood.
He made it as plain as he could. But love to Niko means something else, something subject to change. Something you can leave behind.
And maybe it's as well; because what he offered Niko -- was Cywyllog's, all along.
God help her.
In the morning he finds the paper on the mantel, worn and dusty as though it's been there half the year. It hasn't; he cleared off the clutter not a week past. It bears his name, no more than that, in a hand he can't place -- not the hen-scratch that Clar occasionally leaves him; not his mother's, nor, God forbid, his father's; and Gawain never writes notes.
He borrows the kitchen knife to deal with the seal, unfolds it--
"Good morning," from Gawain, cheerfully, across the table where the women sit in their separate silences.
--And stands there in the doorway as the words hit him like a gust of rain, all at once, leaving him cold and breathless.
"What is it?" Cywyllog's quiet voice. He can't look at her. You're married to a girl--
I miss you. I'm sorry...
And Gawain, in sharp concern: "Mordred?"
Clarissant says nothing. Not a word.
"It's Niko," he says, through a tight throat. "Says he'll be back. When he can."
There is a pause, an utter blank. He crushes the letter into his pocket, and walks out, to save what pride he has left.
By now he no longer believes in it. There was no word of farewell, no word in the months since then. Niko is gone; has left him, as if after all it meant nothing. He should never have let himself be convinced otherwise.
He could be angry -- and has been, increasingly. It was Niko who first said love; insisted on it with such fervor that he listened, and like a fool, said: Stay with me. Knowing well enough that the boy did not, could not understand what he meant by it.
Stay with me, here in my brother's house: be mine, be one of us, belong to us, now and forever. A bond as deep as blood.
He made it as plain as he could. But love to Niko means something else, something subject to change. Something you can leave behind.
And maybe it's as well; because what he offered Niko -- was Cywyllog's, all along.
God help her.
In the morning he finds the paper on the mantel, worn and dusty as though it's been there half the year. It hasn't; he cleared off the clutter not a week past. It bears his name, no more than that, in a hand he can't place -- not the hen-scratch that Clar occasionally leaves him; not his mother's, nor, God forbid, his father's; and Gawain never writes notes.
He borrows the kitchen knife to deal with the seal, unfolds it--
"Good morning," from Gawain, cheerfully, across the table where the women sit in their separate silences.
--And stands there in the doorway as the words hit him like a gust of rain, all at once, leaving him cold and breathless.
"What is it?" Cywyllog's quiet voice. He can't look at her. You're married to a girl--
I miss you. I'm sorry...
And Gawain, in sharp concern: "Mordred?"
Clarissant says nothing. Not a word.
"It's Niko," he says, through a tight throat. "Says he'll be back. When he can."
There is a pause, an utter blank. He crushes the letter into his pocket, and walks out, to save what pride he has left.