[ The pieces come together like clouds merging, distinct thoughts and ideas slowly forming into a more complete picture, a path forward.
When Alina's post appears on the network, he spends nearly an hour attempting to peel it apart, reading and rereading her description of the ritual she'd performed to put Paul right. There's only one course of action available to him if he intends to study the rite, to replicate it: the duration of one cycle of the moon, a little blood given over every day by someone who's already touched the veil hanging over this place, study of both the plant and the veins of one afflicted. But whose blood? He's already halfway to an answer by the time he reads Alicent's message. Not Nick, not Ash, not Armand, not someone he's already responsible for bleeding. (Not Parisa, his most beloved β he's brought her close enough to trouble, has he not? Though there's no doubt in his mind that she would give him her blood more than willingly, if he would but ask.)
The hours after that, he spends thinking through what comes next. Poison, perhaps. The blade of a knife through his neck, across his wrists. A rope. An early visit to the bottom of the lake. All the while, he wonders what to tell Parisa. If he means to tell her at all. If it would spare her more grief to be aware, rather than finding his lifeless body.
(It doesn't occur to him that he has yet to feel any fear at the prospect of attempting to cross over.)
He settles on confession. He's pledged to share eternity with her, hasn't he? What kind of lover would he be if he kept this from her?
In the minutes between her last text and her arrival, he prepares a silver tray, laying a bottle of poison, a straight razor, and a length of rope side-by-side. For the sake of not greeting her with such a sight, he places it on the bathroom counter, out of view as he comes back into his bedroom to greet her. She'll sense it regardless, he thinks, when the ease with which she passes in and out of his suite matches the ease with which she can read his mind, butβ ]
Never, my darling. [ At least, never with him. ] If anything, I expect I'll be the one begging your apology by the end of the night.
[ He takes her hands as soon as he's close enough, leading her to the nearest armchair. ]
cw suicidal ideation
When Alina's post appears on the network, he spends nearly an hour attempting to peel it apart, reading and rereading her description of the ritual she'd performed to put Paul right. There's only one course of action available to him if he intends to study the rite, to replicate it: the duration of one cycle of the moon, a little blood given over every day by someone who's already touched the veil hanging over this place, study of both the plant and the veins of one afflicted. But whose blood? He's already halfway to an answer by the time he reads Alicent's message. Not Nick, not Ash, not Armand, not someone he's already responsible for bleeding. (Not Parisa, his most beloved β he's brought her close enough to trouble, has he not? Though there's no doubt in his mind that she would give him her blood more than willingly, if he would but ask.)
The hours after that, he spends thinking through what comes next. Poison, perhaps. The blade of a knife through his neck, across his wrists. A rope. An early visit to the bottom of the lake. All the while, he wonders what to tell Parisa. If he means to tell her at all. If it would spare her more grief to be aware, rather than finding his lifeless body.
(It doesn't occur to him that he has yet to feel any fear at the prospect of attempting to cross over.)
He settles on confession. He's pledged to share eternity with her, hasn't he? What kind of lover would he be if he kept this from her?
In the minutes between her last text and her arrival, he prepares a silver tray, laying a bottle of poison, a straight razor, and a length of rope side-by-side. For the sake of not greeting her with such a sight, he places it on the bathroom counter, out of view as he comes back into his bedroom to greet her. She'll sense it regardless, he thinks, when the ease with which she passes in and out of his suite matches the ease with which she can read his mind, butβ ]
Never, my darling. [ At least, never with him. ] If anything, I expect I'll be the one begging your apology by the end of the night.
[ He takes her hands as soon as he's close enough, leading her to the nearest armchair. ]
There was ... something I wanted to tell you.