[ it is almost funny, in a way, how the living seem to think deaths like theirs (murders, to call them by the proper name) deserve sympathy — apologies, eyes filled with pity, attempts at comfort... when all charles has ever been able to feel about his own death, or any death similar to his, is pure, unadulterated anger. he is so, so angry about it all: the unfairness of it, the lack of justice, the fact the world could continue turning and no one, not one single person, truly gave a damn.
of course he's angry about what happened to octavian. of course. but his anger is not the simmering spite that octavian himself has; his is a rage that burns the edges of his soul, which is exactly why he keeps such a tight lid on it at all times — because anger like his so often ends up burning others, too. ]
Good, [ he says in the end, with a voice that is all sharp edges. ] Give him Hell.
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of course he's angry about what happened to octavian. of course. but his anger is not the simmering spite that octavian himself has; his is a rage that burns the edges of his soul, which is exactly why he keeps such a tight lid on it at all times — because anger like his so often ends up burning others, too. ]
Good, [ he says in the end, with a voice that is all sharp edges. ] Give him Hell.