[Dantes' reproach is as swift, a hand being placed on his shoulder and a slightly apologetic look shot towards the witch, who shakes her head and gestures for them to move on to where the ceremony will take place. out of the corner of his mouth, he shoots:]
She could refuse us service because of you. Behave.
[But Andersen shuts his mouth. Even as he rolls his eyes and scowls, he remains silent as he follows the Witch, careful not to break stride with Dantes. The uneasiness in his chest is growing, a large pressure that squeezes tight in on himself. He's thankful they don't have the Bond established -- not yet.]
[he can tell something's amiss from Andersen's attitude, and he stops once they're in the room, lowering his voice and deliberately pushing against the spell that makes all words understood. another language, for a common middle ground - servants understood it, but perhaps not the people of this city.]
[To hear him speak against the spell comes as a surprise to Andersen. Was he so obvious? He forces himself to relax, to drop his shoulders, but the damage has already been done.]
... I can be your Bonded in this world, Dantes, but I must ask you. Is that the only thing you see me as?
[the words leave him silent, and the Witch, noticing the change in the air, goes and feigns as though she's forgotten something, leaving them in the room with the circle for the ritual. Dantes notices her go, and when the door shuts, he speaks again. still against the spell, for privacy, but his eyes look at Andersen - searching for some sort of answer there.]
If this is something about feeling responsible, or that you want to be treated as some sort of tool...
[he cares for his wellbeing, beyond the business arrangement. he'll say it again if he has to.]
[He looks away. Andersen has always been easy to read. His sincerity bleeds through, even when he does his best to scare people from getting too close. If Dantes looks too long at him, he thinks he may crack, more than he already is.]
It has nothing to do with those things. I only want to know how you value me -- what manner of friend I am to you.
[he pauses, bracing himself for what he's going to say.]
It will tell you the truth, without any of your interpretations. Put up as many barriers as you want, so there are no distractions. I...will take down some of my own, so you can see clearly my own sentiments first.
[it is a very precious thing he is offering. these walls haven't come down in years, not to anyone. but he'll carve an opening, and let something flow, if it's what's needed.]
[That gets him to look up in surprise. Something vulnerable flashes across his face and Andersen knows it's useless to try and hide it. He's accustomed to people giving up, to people letting him be. Not this compromise (not this hand outstretched) which puts Dantes at a distinct disadvantage. He doesn't say anything for a second. He balls his hands against his coat.]
No. [He can't be a coward. Not with what Dantes is offering.] I'll be all right. When you swear yourself to me, and I to you -- you'll know all of me. I won't hide anything from you. Not if you're my Bonded.
[he won't revoke his offer, though. he won't hold back on what he needs to. whatever this unshaped existence is that he holds back, restrains with many chains and his own will, he'll let it slowly trickle through his hands, hoping that even in the unknown there will be a measure of clarity.]
[This is the point of no return. This is what he'll choose to leave Dantes with, should he be called back to Chaldea before him. There remains a small part of Andersen, whispering in urgent, hushed tones, it'd be far kinder to run away, to lie, to refuse, to break his trust. And were he like the monsters he so adored to write about, he would have the strength to do so right now.
Oh, but it's as Dantes said. His heart is his weakness. It bleeds through, and the more astute will see through Andersen's lies to ascertain the blood's origin. So he doesn't do the right thing. He makes the selfish choice, turns to the witch, and says:]
We've kept you waiting long enough. Come over here. We're ready.
[He offers his hand to Dantes, palm up. Looks to him expectantly.]
[placing his hand in Andersen's - it's the opposite of the last time, he notes. the Witch has a knowing smile on her face, and he tries to not give it too much thought. instead, he lets the magic flow around them - out of that space in his chest where he'd felt that pull - and lets the warmth fill the space.
last time, it had been thoughtless. easy to speak of hellfire and dark nights, of fighting together. now...now, it won't last - even if Andersen stays, it may break again one day. it's not eternity he can ask for, only the truth.]
I, Edmond Dantes, swear myself to you as your partner. Through night and day, through strife and peace, storms and fair weather, as long as this world will allow, I resolve to be at your side. This I vow upon the unending flame of my soul, to remain steadfast, my strength as yours against the mysteries of this world.
[A partner who will remain at his side, no matter the strength of the winds. A companion who will tolerate all his poison and weaknesses, who will simply stay. It's not a vow for battle he seeks. Andersen knows this. He's come to terms with it, so long as he was allowed to lock the tremendous desire in him in a small, dark cage no one could see.
His fingers -- too small, too frail -- curl around Dantes'.]
And I, Hans Christian Andersen, swear to be your partner. I will accompany you wherever your story takes you. I will watch over all your changes of heart, all your pain and joys in life, all your faults and virtues. I cannot take them from you -- but I will strive to understand them as a proper author ought to. My pen is yours, as is my tale.
[What was a stream of magic widens into a river. Warmth floods from Andersen's end, a spring thaw after a long winter, and there is the sensation of calm April afternoons perfumed with flowers; of cigarette smoke entwined with whiskey; of fire burning the tips of one's fingers, the mind's hand snatched away from the burning emotion smoldering within the chest; of balancing precariously on his toes, praying, praying he does not fall because he knows the pain will always be the same--
--of the gentle warmth of a familiar presence he may lay his head upon, without worry or shame, all guilt erased by the hazy fog of a drug--]
[what comes from him is wordless, felt more than described. the relief of a warm room when one has been out in the snow, of seeing a new flower blossom, the feeling of the body being weightless enough to fly, hearing a certain passage in an opera that lingers long into the night when one does not sleep. the ache of spirits and cigars running through wounds, well worn leather and holding one's breath, spine straight and tell.
a strange tingling in one's head after they have wept until they can weep no more and have gone still, the salt of tears is the salt spray of the ocean, the burn in his muscles to hold onto rough woven rope and let the ship move as it needs and he is alive amidst the storm, his destiny's master-
a fire that does not rage and destroy and evaporate all. a fire that illuminates, and warms, where something small and trusting might sleep in safety. the sky with a thousand, thousand stars, and the full moon reflected below.
an anchoring right behind his ribcage, a thread to follow.]
[It is more than Andersen expected, and it is far more than he deserved. The intimacy of the Bond hurts, as if he's holding onto the thorns of a rose, but he tightens his grip and doesn't let go. His feet move on his own and--
--he can't let anyone else see. He can't have strangers gawk at this private, awkward facet of himself and so he buries his face into Dantes' chest (comfort, safety, a living hearth he may rest beside) to hide away from the Witch.]
[distantly, he's agreeing, bidding the witch farewell and thanking her, and guiding them outside. somehow, he gathers Andersen into his arms, carrying him as he once did before, and they are on the roofs instead of the ground, so they may travel more privately and faster. his head's practically spinning, and so on instinct, he's not carrying Andersen back towards their dwelling, but in the direction of the more abandoned parts of the city outskirts. where he goes to think, when the theater is too much.
[Their Bond overwhelms his senses, doesn't truly notice where they're going until the air brushes against his face, until Dantes' arms are around him. Only when they're high above the streets does Andersen realize they're not headed towards the theater -- they're headed away.]
Hold on-- wait, hold on! Edmond?! Where are we going?!
I thought we could enjoy the fresh air. But alone, away from any crowds who'd see us.
[the fact of his name slips through his grasp like common sense at the moment. but eventually he slows down, bringing them to a halt - the roof they're on has a good vantage point of the overgrown, disused paths, and for the moment there is no Cwyld. only silence, and them. gently, he puts Andersen down on his own two feet.]
[He doesn't move away. Andersen remains close to him, tilts his head up to get a better look at his face. The distance between their heights is familiar. But over their Bond, there's the slightest flicker of pain.]
Then why run out all the way here?
[He turns around, gestures at the rundown neighborhood they're in.]
Surely you could've picked somewhere less... wild.
Are you going to make a big stink about it like you always do? Go on. Rant and rave about how that name is no longer yours! Let's hear it, I know you're itching to thump me for calling you 'Edmond!'
[and through the Bond, he can sense the truth of that. that the name doesn't twist some chord in him better left forgotten - it just was, and perhaps it lingered in that sea beneath the stars.]
[The roof beneath his feet is firm, but his heart beats so fast it makes his body feel on the verge of a massive twitch. Andersen shifts his weight from one foot to the other; does it again, looking down at the abandoned streets, the verdant weeds overtaking the brick.]
You've always hated that name, no matter where it was said or who said it.
[it is a quiet sort of permission he's giving. to the man who bonded to his soul not once but twice now. a permission that is his to choose, his to take if he wishes.
that no one else in this world knows this fact about him helps. this world sees him as Avenger, as Jaques, as Louis, as Vergil - not as Edmond.]
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[Dantes' reproach is as swift, a hand being placed on his shoulder and a slightly apologetic look shot towards the witch, who shakes her head and gestures for them to move on to where the ceremony will take place. out of the corner of his mouth, he shoots:]
She could refuse us service because of you. Behave.
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[But Andersen shuts his mouth. Even as he rolls his eyes and scowls, he remains silent as he follows the Witch, careful not to break stride with Dantes. The uneasiness in his chest is growing, a large pressure that squeezes tight in on himself. He's thankful they don't have the Bond established -- not yet.]
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Is something wrong? You seem tense.
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... I can be your Bonded in this world, Dantes, but I must ask you. Is that the only thing you see me as?
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If this is something about feeling responsible, or that you want to be treated as some sort of tool...
[he cares for his wellbeing, beyond the business arrangement. he'll say it again if he has to.]
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It has nothing to do with those things. I only want to know how you value me -- what manner of friend I am to you.
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[look at him. he moves, trying to catch Andersen's gaze again.]
Can you not know, even if we don't share a Bond?
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I'm only a man. My interpretations aren't truth.
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[he pauses, bracing himself for what he's going to say.]
It will tell you the truth, without any of your interpretations. Put up as many barriers as you want, so there are no distractions. I...will take down some of my own, so you can see clearly my own sentiments first.
[it is a very precious thing he is offering. these walls haven't come down in years, not to anyone. but he'll carve an opening, and let something flow, if it's what's needed.]
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No. [He can't be a coward. Not with what Dantes is offering.] I'll be all right. When you swear yourself to me, and I to you -- you'll know all of me. I won't hide anything from you. Not if you're my Bonded.
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[he won't revoke his offer, though. he won't hold back on what he needs to. whatever this unshaped existence is that he holds back, restrains with many chains and his own will, he'll let it slowly trickle through his hands, hoping that even in the unknown there will be a measure of clarity.]
You should tell her we're ready.
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Oh, but it's as Dantes said. His heart is his weakness. It bleeds through, and the more astute will see through Andersen's lies to ascertain the blood's origin. So he doesn't do the right thing. He makes the selfish choice, turns to the witch, and says:]
We've kept you waiting long enough. Come over here. We're ready.
[He offers his hand to Dantes, palm up. Looks to him expectantly.]
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last time, it had been thoughtless. easy to speak of hellfire and dark nights, of fighting together. now...now, it won't last - even if Andersen stays, it may break again one day. it's not eternity he can ask for, only the truth.]
I, Edmond Dantes, swear myself to you as your partner. Through night and day, through strife and peace, storms and fair weather, as long as this world will allow, I resolve to be at your side. This I vow upon the unending flame of my soul, to remain steadfast, my strength as yours against the mysteries of this world.
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His fingers -- too small, too frail -- curl around Dantes'.]
And I, Hans Christian Andersen, swear to be your partner. I will accompany you wherever your story takes you. I will watch over all your changes of heart, all your pain and joys in life, all your faults and virtues. I cannot take them from you -- but I will strive to understand them as a proper author ought to. My pen is yours, as is my tale.
[What was a stream of magic widens into a river. Warmth floods from Andersen's end, a spring thaw after a long winter, and there is the sensation of calm April afternoons perfumed with flowers; of cigarette smoke entwined with whiskey; of fire burning the tips of one's fingers, the mind's hand snatched away from the burning emotion smoldering within the chest; of balancing precariously on his toes, praying, praying he does not fall because he knows the pain will always be the same--
--of the gentle warmth of a familiar presence he may lay his head upon, without worry or shame, all guilt erased by the hazy fog of a drug--]
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a strange tingling in one's head after they have wept until they can weep no more and have gone still, the salt of tears is the salt spray of the ocean, the burn in his muscles to hold onto rough woven rope and let the ship move as it needs and he is alive amidst the storm, his destiny's master-
a fire that does not rage and destroy and evaporate all. a fire that illuminates, and warms, where something small and trusting might sleep in safety. the sky with a thousand, thousand stars, and the full moon reflected below.
an anchoring right behind his ribcage, a thread to follow.]
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--he can't let anyone else see. He can't have strangers gawk at this private, awkward facet of himself and so he buries his face into Dantes' chest (comfort, safety, a living hearth he may rest beside) to hide away from the Witch.]
Let's go.
[Muffled, weak in its insistence.]
We got what we came here for.
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he probably should have warned Andersen first.]
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Hold on-- wait, hold on! Edmond?! Where are we going?!
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I thought we could enjoy the fresh air. But alone, away from any crowds who'd see us.
[the fact of his name slips through his grasp like common sense at the moment. but eventually he slows down, bringing them to a halt - the roof they're on has a good vantage point of the overgrown, disused paths, and for the moment there is no Cwyld. only silence, and them. gently, he puts Andersen down on his own two feet.]
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Then why run out all the way here?
[He turns around, gestures at the rundown neighborhood they're in.]
Surely you could've picked somewhere less... wild.
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[the answer is too simple to be a lie. but he blinks, and looks at Andersen closely.]
....you called me Edmond.
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Are you going to make a big stink about it like you always do? Go on. Rant and rave about how that name is no longer yours! Let's hear it, I know you're itching to thump me for calling you 'Edmond!'
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[and through the Bond, he can sense the truth of that. that the name doesn't twist some chord in him better left forgotten - it just was, and perhaps it lingered in that sea beneath the stars.]
Perhaps it's because we're alone.
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[The roof beneath his feet is firm, but his heart beats so fast it makes his body feel on the verge of a massive twitch. Andersen shifts his weight from one foot to the other; does it again, looking down at the abandoned streets, the verdant weeds overtaking the brick.]
You've always hated that name, no matter where it was said or who said it.
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[it is a quiet sort of permission he's giving. to the man who bonded to his soul not once but twice now. a permission that is his to choose, his to take if he wishes.
that no one else in this world knows this fact about him helps. this world sees him as Avenger, as Jaques, as Louis, as Vergil - not as Edmond.]
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