"Could you?" Cathar mused.
"I had a choice," Miach said flatly. "Before she died. I was old enough to understand exactly what my future would hold and I accepted the task."
"Did you understand truly?" Cathar asked. "Fully?"
"I never saw this, if that's what you're asking," Miach said. "And nay, I did not understand how that mantle would come close to crushing me beneath it before I found the strength to bear it properly. But I have been amply rewarded for taking a chance on something I perhaps didn't fully understand. You're missing the point. At some point, you and I understood. We made a choice. Morgan will not be given a choice."
"Won't she?"
Miach shook his head curtly. "She'll touch that damned sword, it will deafen us all with its singing and blind us with the flash of mage-light, and then she will be pulled into a life she does not want and never asked for. How will she then say nay? "
"Then why did you bring her here?"
"Duty," Miach said wearily. "My duty to my king."
"Which comes before your duty to your heart. "
"Exactly."
"Or to her."
"Damn it, that too."
"Poor lad," Cathar said sympathetically.
"Nay, poor Morgan," Miach said. He looked at his brother bleakly. "I cannot stop this thing now. It is too late. And I fear to tell her who I am, in truth. She will never look at me in the same way again."
Cathar was silent for quite some time. He looked into his cup. He drained his cup, then looked into it, as if it might provide him with better answers thusly. He fingered his cup, crossed and recrossed his legs, sighed, then put both feet on the floor and looked at Miach.
"You could send her away before she sees the sword."
"I tried that."
"Try harder."
"Treason," Miach said wearily.
"Aye."
"You're a bloody romantic."
"So, little brother, are you."
Miach rolled his eyes and wished he had a better response than to simply sigh. He finally looked at Cathar. "There is more."
"There always is."
Miach cursed him, then continued on. "I think she is Gair of Ceangail's daughter."
"Impossible," Cathar said promptly. "All his children were killed in that horrible bit of business with the well."
"Morgan dreams of him."
"I dream of him," Cathar said, "but only after bad beer."
Miach threw his cup at his brother. "This is serious."
"So is bad beer."
