The bullets sends dirt and gravel flying, and Athos flinches, his grip on his sword turning his knuckles white. Otherwise, he remains outwardly calm and prepared to strike this ghostly monster who wears Thomas’ face, and speaks with Thomas’ voice. Thomas is dead, he tells himself, but the specter’s accusations strike as though the blows were delivered by his own blood.
“Jealous? Hardly,” says Thomas, flicking a bit of dirt - a bit of blood? - off his velvet jacket. “Interestingly, my brother’s darling wife accused me of something similar before she stabbed me through the heart. As though I could be jealous of my foolish, foolhardy brother, a man best known for poisoning the lives of those he purports to love best-“
Athos knows he cannot take much more of this. “You always talked too much, Thomas,” he says in a voice he wills not to tremble. “Now face me, or leave me in peace.”
An evil glint twinkles in Thomas’ eyes; it is a look he would have never worn in life, for the real Thomas was a man more careless than cruel. “You mean to kill me, Olivier? Again?"
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“Jealous? Hardly,” says Thomas, flicking a bit of dirt - a bit of blood? - off his velvet jacket. “Interestingly, my brother’s darling wife accused me of something similar before she stabbed me through the heart. As though I could be jealous of my foolish, foolhardy brother, a man best known for poisoning the lives of those he purports to love best-“
Athos knows he cannot take much more of this. “You always talked too much, Thomas,” he says in a voice he wills not to tremble. “Now face me, or leave me in peace.”
An evil glint twinkles in Thomas’ eyes; it is a look he would have never worn in life, for the real Thomas was a man more careless than cruel. “You mean to kill me, Olivier? Again?"