[ a physical attack would be more welcome than this. his body has already been through the worse sorts of abuse, and he's sharpened his tolerance for pain into crystalline points, able to silently compartmentalize his agony. but this sensation is different, a battering ram heaved against the edges of his mind. all of a sudden he's bereft of his most reliable weapon — he can't think. his thoughts are effectively scattered by the rush of images and searing emotion, his grip on aspen loosening with immediate effect.
it's deserved. he would have crushed the fine bones of aspen's throat, driven his knee in hard enough to crack his ribs, left his wing broken and mangled by the hard edges of the table. for what? because aspen sees him, and that itself is unbearable. he doesn't know the truth, and yet he feels too close to uncovering the shame he's carried since his youth. ]
Does it please you to sit there and pass judgment? [ laurent rights himself, on his knees in the grass. at some point during their struggle, the nuts have been upended from the table, now scattered on the ground. his eyes narrow. the food. his stomach turns; he feels violently ill at the though that any warmth or comfort he felt in the closeness to aspen mere moments ago were brought on by a substance of the netherworld. ] I don't seek revenge or a crown for glory. My brother was killed. My kingdom stands to be stolen and destroyed by war. You may have the luxury to be past that point, but my life is dictated by duty.
[ he stands, his rage leashed now, but barely. brimming over the heat of his anger is an old hurt that he does not wish to feel, the sting of wishing for something he can't quite place, can't name, because he's never had it to know it. ]
The touch was not of my own volition. [ he doesn't mean to say the next part, a throb of childlike hurt coming out. ] You took advantage of me.
[ and before he can imagine finding the nearest blunt object to hit aspen's angelic face with, he turns away, his demeanor once again like stone. ] We're finished.
no subject
it's deserved. he would have crushed the fine bones of aspen's throat, driven his knee in hard enough to crack his ribs, left his wing broken and mangled by the hard edges of the table. for what? because aspen sees him, and that itself is unbearable. he doesn't know the truth, and yet he feels too close to uncovering the shame he's carried since his youth. ]
Does it please you to sit there and pass judgment? [ laurent rights himself, on his knees in the grass. at some point during their struggle, the nuts have been upended from the table, now scattered on the ground. his eyes narrow. the food. his stomach turns; he feels violently ill at the though that any warmth or comfort he felt in the closeness to aspen mere moments ago were brought on by a substance of the netherworld. ] I don't seek revenge or a crown for glory. My brother was killed. My kingdom stands to be stolen and destroyed by war. You may have the luxury to be past that point, but my life is dictated by duty.
[ he stands, his rage leashed now, but barely. brimming over the heat of his anger is an old hurt that he does not wish to feel, the sting of wishing for something he can't quite place, can't name, because he's never had it to know it. ]
The touch was not of my own volition. [ he doesn't mean to say the next part, a throb of childlike hurt coming out. ] You took advantage of me.
[ and before he can imagine finding the nearest blunt object to hit aspen's angelic face with, he turns away, his demeanor once again like stone. ] We're finished.