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“Aelfric once told me that strong passionate loves always destroy themselves. They are kindled of a fire that burns so hot that no amount of fuel can sustain it. Those loves, Aelfric said, either dwindle with contact—unable to burn bright through the dreary intercourse of daily life—or suffocate with distance. Only a small and steady flame, he said, can last a lifetime. Though I haven’t loved before now, I’ve found it to be true of other passions. Those who fall headlong into obsessions do so often, and always quickly move on to new obsessions.”

“Whatever small power of guilt Elaine once held over Lancelot, she’d used up long ago. Oh, self-reproach certainly stung him, but it is one of the most ironic paradoxes of the male temperament that the more shame a man feels, the less likely he is to be persuaded to repent by the person whom he has wronged, especially when she uses guilt as a motive. Like most men, Lancelot lashed out in anger when his shame was too much to bear, thus amplifying his guilt, rather than ameliorating it. It is an all too common downward spiral with men who cherish their honor but act dishonorably.”

“I don’t know,” Scot offered. “Being a hero feels fair and fine to me.” Mordred turned to him and looked him up and down under his dark brows. “That’s because you’re young, inexperienced, and living in the sunrise glow of a moment of glory. Enjoy it, fellow, while it lasts. You’ve accomplished something that you’ve longed to achieve and felt was an impossible dream since childhood. You’ll have the best half-year of your life (if you’re lucky) and then the glory of this moment will set beyond your horizon. You’ll be left empty, questioning everything, and wishing for a challenge to equal the old. It is the central cycle of every ambitious man’s life—it is the reason he seeks and achieves glory, and the reason that one day his own glory grows too heavy and crushes him, especially as he gets too old to bear its weight.”

“I suppose he never gets blisters, then,” Scot murmured, then looked up and said, “And in truth, one of the reasons that I’d rather retain my code and my religion is that my gods are flawed and hypocritical. They get blisters—metaphorically. Thor wrangles with rage and Loki with jealousy. The only perfect god, Baldr, was killed for his perfection, which of course proves that pure perfection is an imperfection, or . . .” Scot hesitated, “something like that.” Even he felt that he could have summed that up better. “There’s pagan wisdom for you,” Gawain scoffed in derision. “Perfection is imperfect and imperfection is preferable. It’s circular logic.” Scot rolled his eyes, rubbing his ankle. “Paganism (as you condescendingly call my faith) is circular. Your Christianity tries to make everything into a straight line… in order for your world to make sense, everything must have a start and an end. In any case, your king is cut from the same cloth as your Christ—both are like Baldr, too good to last for long—either you are blind or he is a liar. Real people and gods struggle to be their best and fail.”