as you move between the worlds

such sorrow makes us real.

in which mhari and heather are ridiculous.


January 10th, 2011


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It's a grey autumn day, with a sky of flat pewter, refusing either sun or rain; and in the course of it Mordred has already quarrelled with both his brothers, been lectured sternly by Sir Kay for his pains, quarreled again with the latest girl, sworn off women for the third time in a month, and soaked himself to the knees in an unexpected puddle. Sagramore is away, visiting his British relatives; and having annoyed everyone else who might be willing to listen to him complain, Mordred sits down on the woodpile to empty the water out of his boots.

He is far too busy sulking to notice just yet that it's not actually the woodpile.
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