"Maybe that's what you're supposed to do." Tristan puts the stitch down. He lets the barb go unremarked upon. He's thinking too hard now. He's thinking again to what he could have lost, that night. "That's the pain of forgiveness. To understand how much you needed it only by getting it, and only by getting it being able to lose it again. To have to earn it only [i]after [/i]being entrusted with it. I know she would work hard to win you back. But how much harder to not fail you again?" "I live in the shadow of the failure I will make one day." Tristan can't meet Constance's eye. Or anyone else's. "And when that day comes, I suspect I will feel relief, because only when I drop my burdens will I no longer have to shoulder them. But I fear dropping them more than anything. I could never shoulder them again unless they were put upon me. But I will fear the next drop all the harder, because I will know the shame of the first, and the load will be heavier for carrying it. I will need someone else to trust me before I can believe I am deserving of trust. It might be the same with her." Or with you? He doesn't say, but wonders. He shakes his head. Clears the thoughts like cobwebs. A queasy smile. "Give her forgiveness and she will need to deserve it, I think. Temptation can be a good thing, too. It can be the reason we endure suffering at all. And if [i]you [/i]can't forgive her, how could Pellinore?" Or yourself, he thinks, but again doesn't say. That would be to overstep his place. That he understands.