Rod nodded slowly. “Nicely said. Separating the thought from the action. Yes. I have always been a bit schizoid.”

“Then contain the power thou dost conjure up,” Simon urged. “Thus thou mayst reunite thy thoughts with thine action, by containing thine active part within the pen thy thoughts do make. Contain ‘Lord Kern,’ even as thou dost contain thine anger. Assuredly thou hast not forgot our conversation, touching on that point? ‘Twas directly after thou…”

“After I beat up on that poor, unsuspecting, defenseless rock. Yes.” Rod nodded, lips tight with chagrin. “Yeah, I remember it. But I still don’t understand how you keep the lid on your anger.”

“Nay, I do not!” Simon frowned, shaking a finger at Rod. “If the anger rises, do not attempt to bury it, nor to pretend that it’s not there. Let it be in thine awareness, and do not seek to throttle it—but contain it.”

Rod frowned. “And how do you manage that?”

“By distancing thyself from the person who doth anger thee,” Simon answered. “Tis not easily done, I know—for when the folk of the village had come to like me, and their priest had become my friend, I did come from out mine hermitage, to live among them. I built myself mine inn—with their aid. And, in good time, I found myself a wife.” His head lifted, gazing off into the past again. “She bore me bonny bairns, and together we labored to rear them.”

“That’s right—you do have a daughter.”

“Two—and a son. Who, by Heaven’s grace, went for a soldier in the last war, and remained in the South, to serve Lord Borgia. Beshrew me, but I love him! Yet whilst he grew, he tried me sorely!”

“I wouldn’t say I know all about that,” Rod growled, “but I’m sure learning. How did you deal with it?”

“By holding in my mind, and never letting go, the notion that ‘twas not me his anger aimed at, but at that which I stood for.”

“Authority,” Rod guessed. “Limits on his actions.”

“Aye—and the tree from which he needed to separate himself, the shoot, or he’d not be a being in his own right. Yet ‘twas more than that—’twas that he was not angry at me, but at what I’d done or said.”

“That doesn’t make much sense.” Rod frowned. “What you’re trying to say is, it was anger, not hatred.”

Simon gazed off into space. “Mayhap that is the sense of it. Yet whether it be anger or hatred, anger at thee or at what thou hast done, be mindful that, if worst comes to worst, thou hast but to recall that this person, this event, is but a part of thy life, not the whole of it—a part with which thou mayest have to deal but, when the dealing’s done, canst lock out from thy life.”

“What if you can’t?” Rod exploded. “What if you’re tied to them? What if you have to deal with them continually, every day? What if you love them?”

Simon sat, grave and attentive. He nodded. “Aye. ‘Tis far more easy to hold thy temper with one whom thou dost see for but an hour or two each day, for thou canst go to thine home, shut the door behind thee, and forget them.” His face eased into a gentle smile. “Be mindful that these you love are people too, and deserving of as much respect and care as those with whom thou dost deal for but an hour or two each day. If thou dost not treat thy family well, pretend they’re friends.”

The thought gave Rod an icy chill. “But they’re not! They’re inextricable parts of my life—parts of myself!”

“Nay!” Simon’s eyes blazed, and his face was the countenance of a stern patriarch. “Never must thou believe them so! For look you, no one else can be a part of thee; they are themselves withal, and are apart from thee!”

Rod just stared, astounded by the intensity of Simon’s emotion.

Simon shook his head slowly. “Never think that, simply because thou dost love a person, or she doth love thee, that she is no longer her self, a separate thing, apart.”

“But… but… but that’s the goal of marriage!” Rod sputtered. “For two to become one!”

“Tis a foul lie!” Simon retorted. “Tis but an excuse for one to enslave another, then make her cease to be! Thy wife is, withal, one person, contained within her own skin, and is, and ought to be, one whole, of which all the parts are fused together, a being, separate, independent—one who loves thee, yet who is apart.” Suddenly, he smiled, and his warmth was back. “For look you, an she were not a separate person, thou wouldst have none to love thee.”

“But… but, the word marriage! Isn’t that what it means—two people, being welded together into a single unit?”

Simon shook his head impatiently. “That may be what the word doth mean. Yet be not deceived; two cannot become one. ‘Tis not possible. I confess it hath a pretty sound—but doth its beauty suffice to make it right?”

Rod stared at Simon, astounded by the older man’s words.

“What of thee?” Simon demanded. “Would it be right for one to attempt to make thee someone other than thou art?”

“No! I’m me, damn it! If anybody tried to make me somebody else, he’d eliminate me!”

“Then ‘tis wrong for thee to attempt to make another become part of thee!” Simon stabbed at him with a forefinger.

Rod frowned, thinking it over.

“An two folk do wed,” Simon said softly, “they should take pleasure in one another’s company—not essay to become one another.” He smiled again, gently. “For how canst thou become a part of someone else, save by erasing either themselves, or thee?”

Rod lifted his head, then slowly nodded. “I see your point. And as it is with my family, so it is with Lord Kern, isn’t it? He keeps trying to become Lord Gallowglass—and if he did, Rod Gallowglass would cease to exist.”

“Ah, then!” Simon’s eyes lit. “Dost thou, then, mislike this notion of thyself and Lord Kern merging together, fusing, growing, into something larger and greater?”

“I’d kill the man who tried to wipe me out that way!” Rod leaped to his feet in anger. “That’s not making me bigger and better—that’s stealing my soul!”

Simon only smiled into Rod’s wrath, letting its force pass him by, untouched. “Yet if the thought so repels thee with this Lord Kern—who, thou hast told me, is thine other self—how can it be right if the ‘other half is thy wife?”

Rod stared, poleaxed, his anger evaporated.

“Is it thy wife, or thy bairns—or the fear of ceasing to be?”

Rod dropped down to sit crosslegged again, leaning forward intently. “Then why do I only get angry when they oppose me? Why don’t I get angry when they agree with me?”

“For that, when they oppose thee, there is danger of thy self being digested; but when they agree with thee, ‘tis they who may be merged into thee.”

Rod mulled that over. “So it’s a threat. I get angry when there’s a threat.”

“Certes,” Simon said, surprised. “What else is anger’s purpose?”

“Yes—self-preservation,” Rod said slowly. “It’s the impulse to fight—to get rid of a threat.” His mouth quirked into a sudden smile, and his shoulders shook with a silent, internal laugh. “My lord! Me threatened, by my three-year-old son?”

“Art thou not?” Simon said softly.

Rob sobered. “It’s ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly hurt me.”

“Oh, he can,” Simon breathed, “in thy heart, in thy soul—most shrewdly.”

Rod studied his face. Then he said, “But he’s so little, so vulnerable!” Then he scowled. “But, damn it, it if hard to remember that when he’s coming up with one of those insights that make me feel stupid!”

Simon nodded, commiserating. “Thou must, therefore, be ever mindful, and tell thyself again: ‘He doth not lessen me.’ For that is what we truly fear, is it not? That our selves will be diminished, and, if ‘tis diminished too much, ‘twill cease to exist. Is that not what we resist, what anger guards against?”

“But it’s so asinine,” Rod breathed, “to think that such a small one could hurt big me!”

“Aye—and therefore must thou bring it to mind anew, whenever thou dost feel the slightest ghost of anger.” Simon sat back, smiling. “And as ‘tis with thy bairns, so ‘tis with Lord Kern.”