“Pass the salt, will you?”

She passed the salt so slickly, her fingers and hand shone under the light of the moon. And the crystal chandelier of course. She did it with such hesitance that he raised his eyebrow in surprise.

“What might be the matter?”

“Do you know where that salt comes from? What we’ve done?” She met his gaze with the ultimate lack of fear for his reaction.

“We’ve been over this,” his eyes surrendered and now focused on his meal, unsalted. He didn’t need anymore saltiness leading to bitterness - his guilt gave him that already. So he put the salt back on the table and started to eat.

“Well. Are you going to answer the question?” Her voice failed to jolt him from his frenzy of guilt - one so silent that she thought it was non-existent.

“I do know, you know that I do,” his voice was brisker than ever, his authority tainted in his response.

“And you’re going to let it continue?”

“Yes.”

There was silence. A silence louder than his voice. They sat and drank the tormented tears, the turmoil pot of blood from those they murdered. And they called it ‘wine’ despite its thicker consistency. “Fine-dining” for the kings.