“The problem is,” he said with difficulty, “the problem is not knowing. Not knowing if I—if I was strong enough.”

“Strong enough for what?” But I could guess.

“The problem is—I can’t remember. Not all of it.” He was shivering now as the memories came flooding back, not in the unthinking visitations of night but by full, waking daylight. “Not all of it. I’m pretty sure I held out. I held out a long time, I know it, because they were angry, they were so angry—”

“It’s all right, Simon,” I said, moving over quickly to kneel beside him and take both his hands. “You can tell me.” He clutched my hands painfully, like a lifeline.

“But at the end, when they—when they—” he closed his eyes, his face contorted with remembered pain. “Then I—I don’t know if I—I might have—” He seemed unable to complete this thought, as if finding the words was beyond his endurance.

“You think you may have told them something you shouldn’t have, something secret?”

He nodded miserably. “I told you he failed. Betrayed his trust, gave up his brother’s men to the enemy. How could he go back, after that?” He wrenched his hands out of my grasp. “Who would befriend him, after such a deed? He’d better have died.”

“You don’t know for sure,” I said carefully. “I believe you—he—”

“His brother,” said Simon. “You remember the story? His brother waits for the troop to come back, but they do not. He waits for a little longer, and then he sends out a scout to look for them. It’s a long way, across the water. He finds the place where they were camped. But they are all dead; limbs hacked, sightless eyes open for the crows to feed on. Betrayed by one of their own. After that, his brother curses him, that he should never return home to those he has failed so utterly. But to the younger brother, this is nothing new. He was never wanted; he might have known the pattern of his life could never change. His brother is the hero of every tale; but he is doomed to failure.”

“Nonsense!” I retorted, and I was so angry with him I grabbed hold of his shoulders and gave him a good shake. “The end of the story is of your making, nobody else’s. You can do with it as you choose. There are as many paths open to your hero as branches on a great tree. They are wonderful and terrible, and plain and twisted. They touch and part and intermingle, and you can follow them whatever way you will. Look at me, Simon.”

He blinked at me once, twice; the candlelight showed his eyes a soft blue, morning sky color. And cold with self-loathing.

“I believe in you,” I said quietly. “You are a brave man, and a true one; and I know in my heart that you kept your secrets that night. I trust you better than you trust yourself. You could have hurt me many times, and Father Brien as well, but you did not. There is a future for you. Don’t throw my gift of healing back in my face, Simon. We have come this far; let us go on.”