Paris would have laughed madly to know the legends called it immortality: buried alive, cursed to half-sleep in the darkness.
"Bennet, Lord," he said hoarsely, trying to adjust the English he was familiar with to the way the man appeared to be saying it. "My friends called me Paris."
He didn't get up. His hands were still offered. Green-gold energy flickered across the surface of those blue eyes.
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