Quoted By:
“You killed my father,” you say casually. It’s a brutal way to start a conversation, and Cato flinches as if struck in the face. Still, he closes his eyes and gives you a curt nod. “So all those times you offered me your help,” you continue, allowing a bitterness to creep into your voice, “All those times you acted as if you were my friend...”
“I had hoped, in some small way, to assuage my guilt,” Cato admits, “I don’t expect you to forgive me, Isambard. Perhaps I don’t deserve to be forgiven. But, at least, will you hear me out?”
You wonder if he allowed your father to say his piece before the end. Unlikely. Regardless, you gesture for Cato to speak.
“Growing up, I read stories about heroes and martyrs, men and women who sacrificed everything for a greater cause. Perhaps I was naive back then, but I idolised them. When Choirmaster Moreau came to me, she spoke of those same things – that some men must take a great sin upon themselves, so that everyone else can live in peace. Your father and sister were walking a path that led to a terrible future. She had done everything she could to obstruct their path, but her subtle mechanism had failed,” Cato recalls, his voice low and flat, “She needed someone willing to don a black cloak and stain their hands with blood.”
“She manipulated you.”
“Did she? Perhaps so, but I allowed myself to be manipulated. I was so sure of myself, so certain that I was doing the right thing, that I never stopped and thought about what she was asking me to do. It was only later, after the deed was done, that I…” he pauses, “What is there to celebrate in striking down a defenceless man?”
“After that, I felt the urge to meet with you. I thought that if you were like your father, if you were as much of a villain as he was, it would bolster my wavering faith. Instead, I realised that you were a good man,” Cato sighs, “In another life, I’m sure that we could have been the best of friends.”
Which goes to show that, if nothing else, he’s a terrible judge of character.
“I have no doubt that your regret is anything but genuine, yet you were still set on hunting down my sister,” you point out, “I see a contradiction there.”
“I don’t… know exactly what that woman is. You spoke of things that I do not understand. But I know that she is cloaked in ill omens. I believed… I still believe that, for the good of the nation and, perhaps, for her own good, she must die,” Cato shakes his head, a pained wince on his face, “But now, I see that the opportunity lies beyond my grasp.”
“Is it over, then?” you ask, “You’ll leave my family alone from now on?”
“I will. I don’t see any other choice,” he concludes in a low murmur, “As much as I fear to admit it, perhaps this is what the Godhead had planned all along. This is how the natural order reaches its end.”
[1/2]
