Mordred can't sleep either. Where Vane's memories arrive unbidden, Mordred's are deliberate - he moves through them like a man who has been the sole keeper of his own history for centuries, because no one else has lived long enough to remember it with him. France, 1347: the first body that wasn't his, the vertigo of waking behind a stranger's eyes. A house in Florence - a dozen weavers sharing techniques, arguments and wine, briefly something approaching a family, before someone talked and the Inquisition came. Mordred survived only because he was wearing someone else when they came for his name. That pattern, repeated every century: community found, community lost, surviving in the wrong skin. WW2 witnessed from inside a weaving community that believed, this time, the world had finally grown past it. What snapped in 1946 wasn't rage - it was acceptance that the world would never meet him where he was. When he reaches the corridor, Vane is already there. He is ready.

The show’s own verdict is on its page.