It's the third morning in a row that Norman has woken in a cold sweat, nightmare's agony fading from his face and Parker's corpse from his mind's eye.

The Royal Walk encircles the resevoir that is the heart of the city, a lush paradise for the rich and titled.  Lower beings, including strange foreign magicians, are not encouraged to linger among its carefully sculpted paths and cloisters.  The guards in blue livery watch Norman from the moment he sets foot on the terra cotta tile.

He's dressed dazzlingly today, prepared for a performance, a luring in of bigger fish than the lower aristocracy that he currently entertains.  The trim of his light, summer cloak is blinding, hundreds of small gold scales hand-sewn in to reflect the afternoon sunlight, along with the gilt wooden beads braided into his hair.  Norman only half understood the patterns Bream wove in with them, but he trusts her enough to allow them.  Patterns from her own country, of drawing and power and protection.  From what, he could not get out of her.

After the surgeries, Norman isn't about to go home to a world where mud poultices and the occasional dance step are still considered medical technology.  No, he's made other arrangements.  That said, he's at Parker's earlier than he said he'd be, still a little groggy and moving very carefully, hiding the exceedingly awkward limp under his cloak.  He left the clinics as soon as he could walk, impatient and unwilling to wait there.

I hate that goddamned game.

There’s nothing I won’t do to keep her.

It’s as true now as it’s ever been.  But it’s my turn to be the one to change, isn’t it?  One of us always must.  I changed her, so irrevocably that even now she thinks she loves me.  She remembers... everything, flinches at my touch, and still wants me.  Says she wants me.  I succeeded.  I burnt that into her mind, that we belong together.  There’s no escape.

So, my turn. 

I have already changed, in the last seven years.  The arms are the least of it.  I’m less.  No.  Less proud, certainly.  I can’t count the number of times my pride almost got me killed.  Less mad?  Perhaps.  I had to learn practicality.  Less angry.  No.  Less reckless, yes.  Less greedy.  Maybe.  I’m on a course to rule a country, now. 

I consider having my arms taken care of.  She wanted to, under the influence of the Nexus.  There are doctors who could in those clinics, I'm positive.  But they are my arms, extraneous or not.  Amputa

I left my world for her.  Is there anything I wouldn’t give up?

Once he found the caravan, it took Norman less than an hour to talk them into returning his wagon, his horses, and nearly everything he'd had in it.  Two children had been ill when he disappeared.  They were both well, now, and he chose his moment, storming up to their father and demanding to know why he'd been repaid for his intervention with the gods by this blatent and clumsy theft.  In fewer words, and considerably more gestures.  He let the entire clan gather before lighting the electrical leads in his boots, every step burning into the grass.  All about effect.  Letting them doubt the things he'd shown them he could do would lose him everything, now and in his plans for the future. 

But they capitulated, and he forgave them with a show of tired benevolence, accepting the meal the children's mother offered him.  The boy and girl came and thanked him sincerely while he ate, and he smiled for them, and plucked a penlight from behind each ear to give them.  If only Ben and Mary were so easily impressed, or Parker so gullible.

Burns treated and limbs as straight as they're going to get, Handy has removed himself from the clinics, taking slings, a cane, and copious painkillers.  A brief check back on his new adopted homeworld confirms that yes, the nomads he was travelling with have moved on and taken his wagon and horses, so he may as well stay in the Sanctuary's siderooms again.

And he tries to write a note.

Parker,
I still

Parker,
I don't

Parker,
I never wa

Parker,
Don't contact

Parker,
I don't blame

Parker,
We

Parker,
We should talk.
-Norman.

There are messages left for Parker, at the number she gave the surgeons.

"Mrs. Osborn?  It's Stanley Jackson.  I'm sorry to have to rescind like this, but I'm afraid I can't meet your needs.  Conflict of interests, you understand."  Click.



"Anders here.  You contacted my assistant yesterday.  After reviewing your case, I'm afraid I have to decline.  Good luck."  Click.

He's camping, crouched in front of a campfire with his back against a wagon wheel, his two horses picketted out farther in the clearing, when the guilt hits him like a physical blow. 

Everything he did to her.  And she's letting him walk free.  He has to apologize.  And mean it.  And assure her, really truly and without the influence of drugs, that he would never do anything like that again.

He hesistates, pacing his camp, and then PINs to her front porch.  Oh Christ, please be home.