Sometimes, the bitterest flavor is the most exquisite. [ His thumb moves, and as if Eridanus were just such a loyal dog, it teases against the swath of skin exposed along the underside of his chin. Even through the tip of enamel claws, he can feel the difference between flesh that gives and the intermittent stone that dots it; Lucius traces the seams where one becomes the other, gaze as keen as the silvered blade clasped within his hand as it greets the sight of the other's heated visage below. ] I wonder: have you ever had the chance to taste it for yourself? The excruciation of seeing something dear to you, rendered into ruination by your own hand — it's a delicacy unlike any other, and one of the rarest.

[ After all, there are only a few irreplaceable things Lucius might consider dear—so few he can count them on a single hand with fingers to spare. The mere thought of it is enough to pull a breathless edge to his voice, and the memory of Eridanus' corpse cooling in the cradle of his arms pierces him with a cut as sharp as those old thoughts of Fulgrim restrained and sullied by the tortures of he and his brothers. It draws his shoulders tight with the pleasure of it, and a breath hisses between his teeth as his tongue once more dances through the air beyond his lips. ]

And yet, here you are once more, as whole as ever! [ Lucius laughs, the noise a merry one, and as he does, the hand with the sabre lifts. He recalls the place where he had pressed its edge into his own skin; within his grasp, he tilts Eridanus' face, angling his right brow forward. Not the swath of skin where Lucius had scarred himself, but its perfect mirror—would that symbolism not be fitting for this moment? ] That is yet another occasion worth memorializing — wouldn't you say, dear beast?