[ he looks at aspen, still, silent. an apology is not what he expected upon coming here, though he isn't sure what exactly it was he was expecting. his anger is not directed at aspen, per se, but the feeling of helplessness, the lack of autonomy, the way he can't be sure it was his own want that made his hands reach out to touch the soft feathers of aspen's wings or if it was the poison served at the festival.

it must have been the poison. but even now, he looks at aspen's wings and can't rid himself of the memory. he doesn't know if he's simply falling into the trap of loneliness after having the fleeting experience of a companion of sorts — if his slave counted as such. but damen was by his side, riding on horseback, sleeping in his tent, sitting at his table going over maps and strategy — all things laurent has never had before, and likely will never have again, and now here stands aspen showing him a kindness that doesn't feel deserved. ]

We won't speak of it. [ the warmth that forgiveness requires doesn't come easily to him, mostly out of his own spiteful nature, but in part because no one has ever tried to atone for hurting him. it's not the veretian way. ] But if you choose to be a drunken lout in public, someone will take advantage of you.

[ slowly, he draws his hand back, his arm now bandaged. something flickers in his gaze. ] You should know just as I do that no one will come to our rescue. You have to mind others and their shadows.

[ he wants to turn away now, to end this conversation by leaving altogether, set on hunting the monster, but he stops, a heavy silence hanging between them. ]

You should be wounded. After what I did to you.