“You don’t belong here, Andrew.”
“I belong here more than anywhere else, if this is where you are. I’m not so much world-weary, Novinha, as I am will-weary. I’m tired of deciding things. I’m tired of trying to solve things.”
“We try to solve things here,” she said, pulling away from him.
“But here we can be, not the mind, but the children of the mind. We can be the hands and feet, the lips and tongue. We can carry out and not decide.” He squatted, knelt, then sat in the dirt, the young plants brushing and tickling him on either side. He put his dirty hands to his face and wiped his brow with them, knowing that he was only smearing dirt into mud.
“Oh, I almost believe this, Andrew, you’re so good at it,” said Novinha. “What, you’ve decided to stop being the hero of your own saga? Or is this just a ploy? Be the servant of all, so you can be the greatest among us?”
“You know I’ve never tried for greatness, or achieved it, either.”
“Oh, Andrew, you’re such a storyteller that you believe your own fables.”
Ender looked up at her. “Please, Novinha, let me live with you here. You’re my wife. There’s no meaning to my life if I’ve lost you.”
“We live as man and wife here, but we don’t … you know that we don’t …”
“I know that the Filhos forswear sexual intercourse,” said Ender. “I’m your husband. As long as I’m not having sex with anyone, it might as well be you that I’m not having sex with.” He smiled wryly.
Her answering smile was only sad and pitying.
“Novinha,” he said. “I’m not interested in my own life anymore. Do you understand? The only life I care about in this world is yours. If I lose you, what is there to hold me here?”
He wasn’t sure what he meant by this himself. The words had come unbidden to his lips. But he knew as he said them that it was not self-pity, but rather a frank admission of the truth. Not that he was thinking of suicide or exile or any other such low drama. Rather he felt himself fading. Losing his hold. Lusitania seemed less and less real to him. Valentine was still there, his dear sister and friend, and she was like a rock, her life was so real, but it was not real to him because she didn’t need him. Plikt, his unasked-for disciple, she might need Ender, but not the reality of him, only the idea of him. And who else was there? The children of Novinha and Libo, the children that he had raised as his own, and loved as his own, he loved them no less now, but they were adults, they didn’t need him. Jane, who once had been virtually destroyed by an hour of his inattention, she no longer needed him either, for she was there in the jewel in Miro’s ear, and in another jewel in Peter’s ear …
Peter. Young Valentine. Where had they come from? They had stolen his soul and taken it with them when they left. They were doing the living acts that once he would have done himself. While he waited here in Lusitania and … faded. That’s what he meant. If he lost Novinha, what would tie him to this body that he had carried around the universe for all these thousands of years?
“It’s not my decision,” Novinha said.
“It’s your decision,” said Ender, “whether you want me with you, as one of the Filhos da Mente de Cristo. If you do, then I believe I can make my way through all the other obstacles.”
She laughed nastily. “Obstacles? Men like you don’t have obstacles. Just steppingstones.”
“Men like me?”
“Yes, men like you,” said Novinha. “Just because I’ve never met any others. Just because no matter how much I loved Libo he was never for one day as alive as you are in every minute. Just because I found myself loving as an adult for the first time when I loved you. Just because I have missed you more than I miss even my children, even my parents, even the lost loves of my life. Just because I can’t dream of anyone but you, that doesn’t mean that there isn’t somebody else just like you somewhere else. The universe is a big place. You can’t be all that special, really. Can you?”