It has never been clear to Mordred why his sister does the things she does; least of all why she can dismiss him and all his sex as useless one day, and insist the next that he look for something for her, yes, him, no, she can't go herself, she's busy, stupid
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He's got a sword at the moment, too--he's borrowed Kay's. He wears it unselfconsciously, with as little fuss as you'd sling a backpack over one shoulder.
"Oh--" He struggles for an appropriate greeting. "Happy new year."
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"I'll just shut up."
He smiles.
"Can I follow on your heels just now, if nothing more useful on your fool's errand? Only otherwise I'm not sure I'll find my way back."
and the troll is off to bed.
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He's light-footed enough, but tense; he's not at home here.
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He watches his feet in the snow.
"I have scars, from Camlan," he says suddenly. "She doesn't know."
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