"Sir!"
I attempt calm, look at the young Malakite. More pretty than handsome, I think. Look, white skin. White. White. That colour. Black hair, though, long. A dancer's figure more than a warrior's, a duellist's figure. The hair falls around his face, strong chinline. A male face, but not a male face. An angel. Dark. Whiteskinned. A stubborn set to his lips I know that look. Adoration in those eyes.
A shudder I can't repress. He has nice lips that I want wrapped around me. My son my child my righthand man my Servitor. That dancer's figure duellist's figure could turn weak, soft, effeminate so easily. I know how to, poison creeping through my veins.
I had traded blows with Corruption! He and I both drew blood! My purity in his veins his corruption in mine! It is no fault of mine as long as I do not act on it!
Laurence's head tilts slightly when I do not answer his salute, he is unaware of what his hair does how it spills what it does I must focus elsewhere.
"Laurence. We ride on the Far Marches."
I see corruption wherever I look. I see the Seraphim Council falling apart quarrelling! I see what I could do to make it worse and so must do the opposite - we need a cause - we have a cause but we need another, we need something to prove we are making a difference. Making it different.
"Sir?"
I give in and clap a hand on his shoulder hard hard feel that muscle under there I know how I could make it soft I know how I could turn stubborn lips into - into I am winning! I do not do more, do not do what I think of doing, so I must be winning. My fingers on his jacket my knuckles white on his white shirt.
"We shall purify!"
His eyes are adoring as I speak and he eats my every word and I speak to him because I know what that adoration could be he is weak he is weak he wants me he is weak.
"We shall purify."