[ her lodgings are dour. laurent is used to clean spaciousness, not a place that feels more like a prisoner's lair than a sanctuary, but nothing about this strange place makes him think of it as home anyway. the palace in arles is hardly home, either. home was auguste and his golden smile, long gone. laurent stands perfectly still in the middle of the room and hears gideon's voice as if from faraway.
shock? ridiculous. he looks at his sleeve, dripping blood onto the floor. someone else will clean it up. when he'd first arrived and claimed a room for himself, pictures began appearing, most of which he hadn't wanted to see. the ones of auguste had been a gift. he looks at her walls now, at the strange people and their strangely painted faces, and wonders which one is the esteemed harrowhark. ]
I feel fine. [ cold, maybe. hot, too. there's one picture that's truly just bones. he staggers to the sink, pushing gideon rudely aside as he abruptly dry heaves into the basin, his fingers leaving bloody prints behind. he has not gotten any of the fabric out of the wound as instructed, his jacket and shirt still tightly laced. disassembling complicated veretian clothing is a slave's work.
he turns his wrist upward and sets his arm on the edge of the counter, offering her his soiled sleeve and the extensive row of laces, still mostly intact, for her to unravel. ]
Which one is your partner? [ his eyes, now like blue glass, slide to the photographs again. ]
no subject
shock? ridiculous. he looks at his sleeve, dripping blood onto the floor. someone else will clean it up. when he'd first arrived and claimed a room for himself, pictures began appearing, most of which he hadn't wanted to see. the ones of auguste had been a gift. he looks at her walls now, at the strange people and their strangely painted faces, and wonders which one is the esteemed harrowhark. ]
I feel fine. [ cold, maybe. hot, too. there's one picture that's truly just bones. he staggers to the sink, pushing gideon rudely aside as he abruptly dry heaves into the basin, his fingers leaving bloody prints behind. he has not gotten any of the fabric out of the wound as instructed, his jacket and shirt still tightly laced. disassembling complicated veretian clothing is a slave's work.
he turns his wrist upward and sets his arm on the edge of the counter, offering her his soiled sleeve and the extensive row of laces, still mostly intact, for her to unravel. ]
Which one is your partner? [ his eyes, now like blue glass, slide to the photographs again. ]