[ Bastien presses his cheek back into By’s hand. The reassurance seeps in slowly, but it’s tangible: tiny unspoolings, his body going from a controlled facsimile of relaxation to genuinely slack and soft. ]
You didn’t say anything, [ he starts to say, because he’s not thinking of Vincent. He’s thinking about Richars. Byerly believing he’d killed him. That’s—
It’s not good. Of course it’s not good. But it makes more sense, the look on his face. When Bastien encountered a bard who knew something about Vincent’s death, after he was gone, he broke her hand with a fire poker. If something happened to Byerly? If someone duped him into being the thing that happened to Byerly?
He doesn’t know what he would do. It would probably be frightening to onlookers, though. ]
no subject
You didn’t say anything, [ he starts to say, because he’s not thinking of Vincent. He’s thinking about Richars. Byerly believing he’d killed him. That’s—
It’s not good. Of course it’s not good. But it makes more sense, the look on his face. When Bastien encountered a bard who knew something about Vincent’s death, after he was gone, he broke her hand with a fire poker. If something happened to Byerly? If someone duped him into being the thing that happened to Byerly?
He doesn’t know what he would do. It would probably be frightening to onlookers, though. ]
What do you think you—oh, about Vincent?