thirsted | SALTBURNT

I love you, my darling. Think only of that.
What trouble we share is a storm, summoned by both of us, weathered by both of us.

[ (Armand's message comes to mind — I'm worried about Gale — but, with a toss of his head, he lets it go.) ]

I recall Louis claimed to be a Seer. The real ones stepped forth, soon enough after that. But I've yet to hear of another Storyteller. That it's presently a role that seems to lack any real function makes it both harder to believe and harder to prove, though I share your thought that there might not be anything to prove except for a lie.

Would you trust any of her friends to tell you the truth about her transformation?

[ And, sent separately: ]

I didn't know. About Caroline.

[ few things could warm him as astarion does — the sunrise at the end of this seemingly neverending night. summoned by both of us, weathered by both of us. their world of two, persisting.

whatever tomorrow brings, he knows astarion will prove true. ]

Thank you, my love. I know I have said as much already, but I will continue to do so until this game ends and well beyond it. You are what holds my shaking pieces together, what keeps me upright, as the ground itself shifts beneath our feet.

[ as for ren, ]

She maintains a close relationship with my pupil, Dom. His gentle nature betrays him in this game, however — as mine might have, in my youth. As it still does, to an extent. [ trusting melissa, trusting ren (though both were also gambles in pursuit of information). ] I’ll trouble him only if the evidence demands it.

[ a long pause. ]

Ah.
I had wondered. You’re awfully close with him, I know.
Caroline only just confessed it to me, when we discussed the events of last year.

[ he does not say i think armand, lestat, and louis are of a crueller kind than either of us had hoped nor does he have any excuses to offer, on louis’ behalf. he despises the cowardice of it. and he cannot understand it himself. even if astarion were at risk, he would not throw caroline to the wolves. and if gale’s own name arose, he would not offer even the witches he knows little as substitutes for the pyre. ]

I’m sorry.

Lucky for you, I never tire of hearing it. And I've the hindsight of knowing exactly how wretched this all was, when weathered alone.

[ He sends that, first, as its own message. Tenderness deserves that space, he thinks — the illusion of removal, at the very least, from the deceit and cruelty this game incurs. ]

It's alright.
I suppose
well, I never asked him about it. Perhaps I ought to have.

Tonight — can you not save yourself?

I cannot.
I must name another.
And I can only think of you, when they have targeted those closest to the accusers.

[ It makes him feel sick — colder than death, facing the prospect of Gale's violent death. His head, sawed from his shoulders, his body placed in yet another ugly display. ]

Alright.

[ I can't be held responsible for what I do, if you're gone. He's too afraid to let the thought be more than just that, lest it will some terrible truth into the world. ]

Don't tarry too long.
The morning will bring what it will.

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