medrautgalant:
You say that as though you know exactly what sort of person I am.
He smiles at that, and it’s not an unkind sight to behold, but perhaps neither is it a kind one. The irony is not lost on him: he knows exactly what sort of person she is. He may not know Sainte Cadieux, but he knows everything about her worth knowing. He knows she was beloved to Gaspard, which makes her at least half-decent, at least half-good. He knows, too, that she was a pupil of Gaspard’s, which makes her at least half-dangerous, half-vicious. He knows that she was taught everything she knows by an Underworlder, and that she has all the makings of an Underworld virtuoso, gifted in all the ways that Medraut never was as a boy. He begrudges her that, he supposes, but he also feels a strange sort of kinship with her, like the threads of their lives have somehow woven together, inextricable, knotted.
“You know nothing of me, then,” he muses, head canted, expression schooled to reflect naught but a blank state of neutrality. That answers a question he didn’t know how to ask: Gaspard never spoke of Medraut to Sainte. He knows everything about her, and she knows nothing about him. The age-old wound of his family’s rejection opens and seeps, but he pays no it no heed; he’s grown too accustomed to his kin’s indifference to be moved to action by it anymore. He’s sure his uncle had his reasons for not telling Sainte a thing about him—even if he can’t presently make sense of such a thing.
“Lost?” he echoes, incredulous, voice caught halfway between a scoff and laugh. “I reckon I could find my way around this haunt blindfolded, with both hands tied behind my back. On one foot, for good measure.” He waves a hand at the Mane’s arena, eyes boring into hers with the kind of intensity that most find disconcerting. “Half the blood that stains these floors was spilt by me, and the other half was spilt from me. Lost, girl, I am not.” He watches her, considers her; weighs the rewards of revealing his hand against the risks of it. “My name is Medraut,” he says slowly, enunciating each letter. A pause. A beat. Another. “Galant.” He lets the weight of his surname settle beneath her skin, lets her connect the dots.
Medraut Galant, son of Jeanne Galant.
Jeanne Galant, née Lenoir, sister of Gaspard Lenoir.
...
The way he says it, it’s as though she should know what his name means. That she should recognize it. She doesn’t. To Sainte, Gaspard was like her, an orphan - he never talked about any family he had, at least.
She racks her brain, however, for any mentions of the name. How should she know him? Has she killed someone close to him, someone in his family? It makes her uncomfortable to think, it always makes her uncomfortable to think about things like this. That she has taken away a person who is loved. But isn’t everyone loved? There’s no way to prevent the hurt of death.
She doesn’t let it show, or tries not to at least.
“I’m terribly sorry,” She says, doing her best to appear and sound sympathetic. “I’m not sure I recall that name. If I’ve -” She’s not sure how to phrase it. “I’m sorry, if I’ve done something - If there’s something I should be sorry for, I am. Deeply.”










