[And he knows Dantes enough to understand his words won't carry much weight. That, regardless of what he says, the King of the Cavern will do as he pleases -- especially when it comes to right a wrong. Honestly. Such a trait belongs to a hero, yet he knows Dantes will deny such a title until his face turns blue.]
Someone like me has no use for vengeance. And if revenge is to be carried out, should it not be my own hand, Edmond Dantes? Shouldn't I, the victim, have the final say in such matters?
[that name makes him flinch, look away in the chair as he holds back the desire to snap at him. it's not his name today - it's not his name most days. he can only stand it sometimes, by his own choice, the weight of it tight against his throat.]
You make a point even this demon of vengeance cannot argue against. As your Bonded, I feel as though I must rise against harm done to you - but your word, in the end, is law.
[His keen eye doesn't miss that subtle reaction. He softens his tone.]
No, that isn't true. I am no king, no hero, no grand explorer of the unknown. All I am is a drunken writer who died well past his prime. My word should hold no such sway over you. I would be a piss-poor Master -- that is why I don't want the responsibilities of one. All I can do is whine and whinge, and hope that affects your decision-making in some fashion.
[He looks at him.]
It's as you said. We're partners in this Bond -- nothing more and nothing less.
It is because we're partners that you have that hold on me. Kings and heroes, their words affect me no more than the rain, for they are not the one I pledged to walk beside. It goes without saying to me that your thoughts color my own decisions, for we walk the path at the same time.
[finally, he looks back over.]
Your words fall to me not as a Master's would, but as the words of my equal.
[It shouldn't affect him so much to hear that, but Andersen has presented himself as someone little more than a tool, and a burdensome one at that, that to hear someone so powerful argue otherwise brings a light red to his cheeks. He clicks his tongue, pretends to remain unaffected.]
My word being law, however? I can't agree with you on that. Do you know how much garbage I spew out on the daily? If you took even an ounce of all I vomit out as a serious entreaty, you'd be considered a lunatic fallen from grace.
[okay, that gets him to laugh and straighten up a little.]
I speak of hell to you with regularity, I confess that I am a demon, and you worry I would be seen as fallen from grace? You're worrying about the wrong person - if anything, I'll have you dragged down to hell with me.
Oh, shut up. It's one thing to quack like a duck and another thing to be a duck. You may sound like a demon with all your bluster and theatrics, but you're too good of a man to be a true villain.
You doubt what I am at the core? You have seen me stalk the halls of Chaldea and rain fire and lightning upon our enemies with glee, you have witnessed me in the depths of that city's depravity, and you say I am not what I am?
[don't call him a good man. he's the shadow that lurks in the hearts of men and the incarnation of revenge, he's not anything approaching good.]
And did you not look after me the past month? Did you not stay your hand during the raid on the mansion? You could have acted in your own interest, could have acted on your desire for vengeance, but you decided to restrain yourself for the sake of the Mirrorbound as a whole. You saved our Master when you could have sacrificed her for your soul's freedom.
[but he says it with no bite in it, the equivalent of a cat flicking their tail in annoyance but unwilling to move or truly change anything. he has no more words, so he's trying to shut this down before Andersen can do something like try to call him a hero again. all of those things were to his benefit. it was only the appearance. and to leave Ritsuka there to die would have been playing into the King of Mages' hands - an abhorrent thought.
In my lifetime, I was a creature who posed as a man. Human ideals such as love, happiness, hope, sorrow, fear -- I understood such concepts as an artist but struggled to understand them as my fellows did. I felt too strongly and made a fool of myself many, many times because of this. I could not understand the people I lived among, though I could play the parts they bestowed upon me. From the moment I picked up the pen, I became enamored with the idea of monsters. With those who fail to be a part of society.
In short: a demon such as yourself only tantalized my incomplete author's heart. I wanted to spend time to observe and understand you because... I suppose I saw a bit of myself in you. Half-monster. Half-man. Something straddling the boundaries, without a true place to belong, like the little mermaid. I wanted to know your truth, and I can only tell you what I've seen.
[he looks at Andersen, and faintly (an echo in another room) there are varied emotions rifled through like discarded clothing, a great disturbance and then the settling down of it all. pulled back, controlled - restrained into something manageable and enclosed in his fist.
authors are not creatures he can trust easily. he knows them, though, and again and again he's drawn to them. returning to the scene of a crime, circling it and pressing back down on bone deep bruises as if hoping for another conclusion. but Andersen is not that man, not the one to cut him to pieces - someone who heard his rage and let him speak instead of recording his words.
half man, half monster? how literal this is with this form, but how it speaks to his true self as well. how he is the shell of something like a man, and inside the marked one, righteous and damned at the same time. society, something he holds at arm's length but yet watches so closely. he lives in the shadows of the boundary, for there anything can happen, and there despair cries out for one thread of hope.
he's staring, Dantes realizes too late. staring as if Andersen's eyes will fill with a cruel mirth and there be some lie to it, some trick that he misses. but it doesn't come, and he feels disarmed, caught unawares. folding his hands, he lets the silence stretch on until he can bear it no longer.]
And what will you do, when you find that truth?
[when what remains of Edmond Dantes after he was rendered into pieces to make one man rich at his expense again? a character who is all too aware of his unreality, of the shouldn't that clings to his existence? can he still trust in something that is less than whole?]
[It is impossible to miss the upheaval in their Bond, the aftershocks that shiver past. Too many emotions for it to be anything but the truth, and the rapidity with which Dantes yanks it all away only underscores how moved he'd been by his words. It brings him some pleasure to know this. Authors, after all, are peddlers of words. To move others by his speech alone is what he seeks, for nothing else about him is appetizing.
(He can't understand what Dantes is looking from him, for him to gaze into his eyes for so long.)
But that question -- it surprises Andersen. It's apparent by the way his brow raises, how he looks almost puzzled by the response. He cants his head, rubs the back of his neck.]
What is there to do? I only sell myself, Dantes. My interest in you... it's solely out of twisted sentimentality.
If you don't want to do anything with it, why do you look for it?
[he's still waiting, ready for it all to leave. for this all to reveal something else that he knew far too well - for something to be taken from him, or the promise that something will be.
sentiment only went so far. it couldn't be all. he'd learned that.]
[it doesn't make sense to him. it doesn't ring true, even if it is and he can read that in Andersen's face. he can only doubt in this moment, because it's never that simple. his truth is buried and locked in a place as inescapable as the Chateau - it's one of the very few things he has left.
he cannot risk it so freely. not when even what he throws away gets used against him. even with Andersen, he cannot let himself go so quickly, without rhyme or reason. not even for a collection of words that scatter his emotions and make him need to clamp down on everything before it's so blatantly shown.
but he'll let Andersen have the last word, lest his impulses rise and he call him a liar for no good reason other than his deep seated cynicism. he exhales, and breaks eye contact, glancing to the side and sinking a little more into his chair.]
[There are truths too difficult to swallow, Andersen knows this well. Kindness is foreign to creatures such as them -- its softness is what gives it a poisonous quality, what makes their hearts ache. It's far easier to be hardened against it all. Far safer.
So Andersen doesn't fault Dantes for retreating. He allows his words to be the final push on the matter and instead watches him, the way an artist would regard their model. At length, he says:]
[reaching into his pocket, he withdraws his case and light, pulling out two cigarettes and getting up to offer one to Andersen. they can light them together, and the familiar taste of the tobacco smooths over his senses, his concerns. this he knows and can do easily.]
[That is enough to quiet his tongue. Andersen doesn't smoke often -- his vice lies in drink, after all, and self-flagellation -- and he thinks it's because he needs good company to enjoy a cigarette. Tobacco reminds him of parlor rooms, of excitement coursing between words, and when he smokes alone, it feels like a hollow gesture to comfort himself with.
Dantes may not feel up to conversation, but his presence is enough. Andersen exhales and feels content for the first time in a long while.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Someone like me has no use for vengeance. And if revenge is to be carried out, should it not be my own hand, Edmond Dantes? Shouldn't I, the victim, have the final say in such matters?
no subject
You make a point even this demon of vengeance cannot argue against. As your Bonded, I feel as though I must rise against harm done to you - but your word, in the end, is law.
no subject
No, that isn't true. I am no king, no hero, no grand explorer of the unknown. All I am is a drunken writer who died well past his prime. My word should hold no such sway over you. I would be a piss-poor Master -- that is why I don't want the responsibilities of one. All I can do is whine and whinge, and hope that affects your decision-making in some fashion.
[He looks at him.]
It's as you said. We're partners in this Bond -- nothing more and nothing less.
no subject
[finally, he looks back over.]
Your words fall to me not as a Master's would, but as the words of my equal.
no subject
My word being law, however? I can't agree with you on that. Do you know how much garbage I spew out on the daily? If you took even an ounce of all I vomit out as a serious entreaty, you'd be considered a lunatic fallen from grace.
no subject
I speak of hell to you with regularity, I confess that I am a demon, and you worry I would be seen as fallen from grace? You're worrying about the wrong person - if anything, I'll have you dragged down to hell with me.
no subject
no subject
[don't call him a good man. he's the shadow that lurks in the hearts of men and the incarnation of revenge, he's not anything approaching good.]
no subject
And did you not look after me the past month? Did you not stay your hand during the raid on the mansion? You could have acted in your own interest, could have acted on your desire for vengeance, but you decided to restrain yourself for the sake of the Mirrorbound as a whole. You saved our Master when you could have sacrificed her for your soul's freedom.
You are far kinder than you care to admit.
no subject
[but he says it with no bite in it, the equivalent of a cat flicking their tail in annoyance but unwilling to move or truly change anything. he has no more words, so he's trying to shut this down before Andersen can do something like try to call him a hero again. all of those things were to his benefit. it was only the appearance. and to leave Ritsuka there to die would have been playing into the King of Mages' hands - an abhorrent thought.
Avengers are not kind.]
no subject
Do you know why I sought you to begin with?
no subject
[even if he rejected it, Andersen would still speak.]
no subject
In short: a demon such as yourself only tantalized my incomplete author's heart. I wanted to spend time to observe and understand you because... I suppose I saw a bit of myself in you. Half-monster. Half-man. Something straddling the boundaries, without a true place to belong, like the little mermaid. I wanted to know your truth, and I can only tell you what I've seen.
I trust you more than anyone else in this world.
no subject
authors are not creatures he can trust easily. he knows them, though, and again and again he's drawn to them. returning to the scene of a crime, circling it and pressing back down on bone deep bruises as if hoping for another conclusion. but Andersen is not that man, not the one to cut him to pieces - someone who heard his rage and let him speak instead of recording his words.
half man, half monster? how literal this is with this form, but how it speaks to his true self as well. how he is the shell of something like a man, and inside the marked one, righteous and damned at the same time. society, something he holds at arm's length but yet watches so closely. he lives in the shadows of the boundary, for there anything can happen, and there despair cries out for one thread of hope.
he's staring, Dantes realizes too late. staring as if Andersen's eyes will fill with a cruel mirth and there be some lie to it, some trick that he misses. but it doesn't come, and he feels disarmed, caught unawares. folding his hands, he lets the silence stretch on until he can bear it no longer.]
And what will you do, when you find that truth?
[when what remains of Edmond Dantes after he was rendered into pieces to make one man rich at his expense again? a character who is all too aware of his unreality, of the shouldn't that clings to his existence? can he still trust in something that is less than whole?]
no subject
(He can't understand what Dantes is looking from him, for him to gaze into his eyes for so long.)
But that question -- it surprises Andersen. It's apparent by the way his brow raises, how he looks almost puzzled by the response. He cants his head, rubs the back of his neck.]
What is there to do? I only sell myself, Dantes. My interest in you... it's solely out of twisted sentimentality.
no subject
[he's still waiting, ready for it all to leave. for this all to reveal something else that he knew far too well - for something to be taken from him, or the promise that something will be.
sentiment only went so far. it couldn't be all. he'd learned that.]
no subject
Isn't it clear? I simply want it for myself.
no subject
he cannot risk it so freely. not when even what he throws away gets used against him. even with Andersen, he cannot let himself go so quickly, without rhyme or reason. not even for a collection of words that scatter his emotions and make him need to clamp down on everything before it's so blatantly shown.
but he'll let Andersen have the last word, lest his impulses rise and he call him a liar for no good reason other than his deep seated cynicism. he exhales, and breaks eye contact, glancing to the side and sinking a little more into his chair.]
no subject
So Andersen doesn't fault Dantes for retreating. He allows his words to be the final push on the matter and instead watches him, the way an artist would regard their model. At length, he says:]
Do you have a cigarette?
no subject
[reaching into his pocket, he withdraws his case and light, pulling out two cigarettes and getting up to offer one to Andersen. they can light them together, and the familiar taste of the tobacco smooths over his senses, his concerns. this he knows and can do easily.]
no subject
Dantes may not feel up to conversation, but his presence is enough. Andersen exhales and feels content for the first time in a long while.]