you say that things change my dear
"My daughter is your sister." Sagramore says it again, in the same soft, detached, precise voice, driving it home. Best friend, heart's-friend, lover and almost brother: Mordred taught him lovemaking long ago, and the language of Arthur's Britain that was foreign to them both. Only now, a thousand years gone, he realizes that Sagramore learned cruelty of him, too.
Or else in the same place that Mordred learned it himself.
He sits up without thinking, without seeing. Sagramore is still talking to him, but he's not listening anymore; he's already heard everything he needs to.
To keep it quiet this long, and then bring it out like that, with no warning, in the moment he had Mordred at his mercy --
("Don't leave me. God, God, don't leave me again--")
-- to be revenged threefold? Damned if he hadn't learned that from her.
Sagramore catches at his arm. "For God's sake. You wouldn't come near me, and she reminded me of you--"
That hurts, too. Sagramore surely knows it.
He pulls away, his throat closing. He of all men has no right to complain of betrayal. "Go home."
"Barat--"
"Damn you, go." The door shuts between them.
* * *
After that he avoids the Nexus. In a way it's a relief: to be free of its seductions, its memories made flesh, its impossible promise of second chances. He can't have that life back again; he's known that for centuries, and he's in danger of forgetting it.
Weeks. Months.
He finds the PINpoint by accident, clearing out the small accumulation of clutter beside the bed. On impulse -- his besetting sin -- he hits the button, forgetting that it was set last to the cabin in the woods, in another world entirely.
Or else in the same place that Mordred learned it himself.
He sits up without thinking, without seeing. Sagramore is still talking to him, but he's not listening anymore; he's already heard everything he needs to.
To keep it quiet this long, and then bring it out like that, with no warning, in the moment he had Mordred at his mercy --
("Don't leave me. God, God, don't leave me again--")
-- to be revenged threefold? Damned if he hadn't learned that from her.
Sagramore catches at his arm. "For God's sake. You wouldn't come near me, and she reminded me of you--"
That hurts, too. Sagramore surely knows it.
He pulls away, his throat closing. He of all men has no right to complain of betrayal. "Go home."
"Barat--"
"Damn you, go." The door shuts between them.
* * *
After that he avoids the Nexus. In a way it's a relief: to be free of its seductions, its memories made flesh, its impossible promise of second chances. He can't have that life back again; he's known that for centuries, and he's in danger of forgetting it.
Weeks. Months.
He finds the PINpoint by accident, clearing out the small accumulation of clutter beside the bed. On impulse -- his besetting sin -- he hits the button, forgetting that it was set last to the cabin in the woods, in another world entirely.