[ Actually, she has every right to speak to him in this way. That she does is both a dagger within him and a balm; her hate is correct, aimed at the individual who deserves it most. Her wrath is taken in by him, accepted as evidence of his sins. Of course she hates him, of course. She is an effigy of war, a mother who has been torn into gullfeed and left alive to suffer her losses; she is tormented, full of ancient and unknowable depths.

Perhaps he is the only one who can absolve her of her agony. He really ought to allow her to die, if she so chooses. It's that -- she is -- ]

Are you still able to read minds, Gilia St. Loe? The way we connected aboard the ship when I saw you, feral and vast as the sea.

[ He does let go of one of her wrists, just not the one holding her little blade; that one he wrenches roughly, to bruise her a second time and force her fingers to release it to the dirt below. He'll hurt her if he must, he has no issue with it. Let him be that manner of monster. ]

Read mine.