Ceregywn Beau tilted his head slightly, listening as Llewellyn explained it to him. It was a terribly romantic word with more nuance than the closest Clovennian equivalent of True Love. He couldn’t help but like it. “How lucky,” He said softly with no trace of irony. LaRouche must have loved deeply to have left behind the kind of glory and adoration he had in Clovenne. That kind of devotion would have had to run deep.
“What was his husband like?” He asked, the white-hot anger slowly starting to recede into a low simmer as he listened to Llewellyn's voice in the sweet warmth of the room.