The wine tastes sweeter now, Claudius thinks -- when he first reached for it, he didn't pause to taste it, and it's lusher and fuller of the flavors of fruit than the dryer reds Claudius tends to prefer. He savors it as Laertes frames his thoughts, and it's more satisfying than he'd imagine it would be. He could've gently steered the conversation towards what he wanted to hear, but he asked, and Laertes answered. He's still a surprising young man, but perhaps that says more about Claudius's capacity to be surprised.

The blasphemies are as sweet to his soul as he hoped they'd be. "The only God I know," he says, "is a God who gave us every pleasure, and a list of sins that come from passion and the desire to taste the world's sweetness. A God more like a pagan Zeus, tormenting Tantalus for the presumption of tasting ambrosia, and trying to steal it for mankind. I've never been able to live with God peaceably, to believe and trust His plans have a purpose that any of us could understand. I can't reason myself into thinking God wouldn't be cruel enough to create me with desires and punish me for them. Perhaps, in the fullness of God's perspective, His cruelty has a purpose, too. Perhaps He is cruel to be kind, and a world of greater kindness awaits after we've denied ourselves the pleasures of this one. But I can't deny myself and, whenever it comes to it, I can't repent of any sin I've committed. Particularly the lighter sins." He laughs wryly. "The sin of meeting a sweet, shy boy with hair like gold and silver and eyes that look through me, of seeing him blush and desiring to give him every joy of the flesh -- it isn't a sin like murder. Perhaps more akin to adultery, swaying someone to break an oath. Sins like that won't trouble my sleep, and the joys are well worth it. But I don't expect to win an argument with God, or see any absolution for my worser sins."

He turned absolution away. It was a choice he made.