[ he'd found his clothing in a bin by the mausoleum, his jacket draped over his shoulders while carrying the rest. no time to attend to his complicated attire at present, and the brand on his arm proves increasingly painful, too tender for even the brush of fabric. aspen has been busy tending to the other more mortally wounded restless, and laurent has no inclination to ask for assistance — he will find his own way and tend to his own wounds, so he strikes out on his own, leaving behind the chaos and hoping to shake off the uncomfortable memory of being bound in the dank prison.

no such luck. he has hardly had time to make his escape before aspen notices and, apparently, disagrees with such actions. but something happens at the snap of his name, some visceral movement that strikes him like a shock of lightning, unearthing something raw and bloody from beneath years of darkness, loosening his tongue against his will.

he turns, still in his tattered rags, an unbearable pressure in his throat. he tries to swallow, and can't. even as he desperately tries to pull them back, words come spilling out. ]

I went to my uncle for help. He said — he would comfort me. He — [ panic seizes him, his heart rabbiting wildly in his chest. ] He took me to bed. For nights. For years. Again and again. I was thirteen, and my brother had just died. I had no else to turn to. And no one else again, after that.

[ the pressure ceases, but the damage is done. laurent stands silent, struck with a wave of brittle horror, cracked open. aspen is the sort to offer sympathies, and they will only feel like fingers digging into his open wounds. ]