Editing Dalt at the Gates of Dawn

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My brother was doing this. He was doing this for me. Who was it I was mad at? Him? This man, ready to die to make me his brother, because surely a lucky punch might kill him. Was it the king? The man who ruled Amber with an iron fist in a satin glove? Who had beaten me on the field of battle two years before I stepped on it? Was it Bleys, who had killed my mother? Truth to tell I was not overly fond of her myself but a son simply can not let his mother be slain and not seek vengeance. Then again I had sought it, and lost, repeatedly. Besides Bleys was right; it was a deed of open conflict in a time of war.
 
My brother was doing this. He was doing this for me. Who was it I was mad at? Him? This man, ready to die to make me his brother, because surely a lucky punch might kill him. Was it the king? The man who ruled Amber with an iron fist in a satin glove? Who had beaten me on the field of battle two years before I stepped on it? Was it Bleys, who had killed my mother? Truth to tell I was not overly fond of her myself but a son simply can not let his mother be slain and not seek vengeance. Then again I had sought it, and lost, repeatedly. Besides Bleys was right; it was a deed of open conflict in a time of war.
  
βˆ’
Was it Oberon? I considered my mother, coldly, maybe clearly for the first time. Oberon, who if nothing else, was a fine figure of a man, probably didn't have to do much to convince mom to lay down for him. Hate can be a powerful aphrodisiac. Hate Sex can be a fierce experience. Suddenly I could plainly see my mother rolling on her back, daring him, hating him, wanting him, cursing him. I could see him taking her, hating her, hurting her, using her. I could even see them lounging together afterwards, cloaked in sweat, sanctifying their hatred of each other with intimacy. I saw it unmistakably. I knew I would seek out oracles to confirm it but I was certain. A boy knows his mother.
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Was it Oberon? The rapist? I considered my mother, coldly, maybe clearly for the first time. Oberon, who if nothing else, was a fine figure of a man, probably didn't have to do much to convince mom to lay down for him. Hate can be a powerful aphrodisiac. Hate Sex can be a fierce experience. Suddenly I could plainly see my mother rolling on her back, daring him, hating him, wanting him, cursing him. I could see him taking her, hating her, hurting her, using her. I could even see them lounging together afterwards, cloaked in sweat, sanctifying their hatred of each other with intimacy. I saw it unmistakably. I knew I would seek out oracles to confirm it but I was certain. A boy knows his mother.
  
 
It was over. I had lost and I had won.
 
It was over. I had lost and I had won.

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