[The night is ripe with sea spray and the promise of a dream. In this darkness, the land is invisible to the eye. No one on shore can see them - none of the politics and drama that so frequented family circles could touch them - not when he's aboard Edmond's ship. It's a true sanctuary in every since, even if it's only for tonight. Come the morning, he'll have to return to the Collins... but that's still far away.
Andersen remains on deck to watch the stars. He has a lamp with him, so he can properly see the journal he's sketching the constellations into. All is calm. Peaceful.]
[nearby, Dantes lies stretched out on the deck, his hands under his head, looking up at the sky and letting the boat sway gently with the waves. they've dropped anchor a ways out, and he's glad that no one will look for them here. it means they get time to be themselves, away from the discussions of the future that their families want, from the thought that Hans will go back to school for a while, from....really everything that's not existing here.
turning his head, seeing Hans lit by the lamp, he looks radiant in Dantes' eyes. like a work of art that could never be replicated, no matter how studious the hand. so instead, he freezes it in his mind's eye to hold, and smiles to see him there. the gentle sound of the water, the scratch of pencil, the scents of burning oil and salt - it lingers.]
When are you planning to go into astronomy?
[teasing, but soft as to not break the night's spell.]
[This ship is their small world of two, where they can sail off as the sailors did in the Arabian Nights. But the real treasure isn't in some mythical, distant land. He's right beside Hans, with a voice that rings his hollowed heart like a bell.
Hans sets down his pencil. Scoots a little closer to his friend, so he may better see his face. To think someone could look at him with such fondness--]
An astronomer shuts himself in his study all night, so he may ponder the heavens in silence. [He can't help himself. Hans gently rests a hand atop Edmond's head, to feel those locks beneath his bare fingertips.] Why should I be an astronomer when I can be a poet? Then I could sing of the stars around me to my heart's content.
[he ends up grinning under his touch. this, this was simply...right in the fabric of the world. his voice, his face, his clever mind and scribbling fingers, all of it is dear to Edmond. to have them close to study for his own feels like a divine present right now.]
Mm, I do like your singing. The rest of the world should get at least the chance to hear your words - abandon the sciences at your leisure, Hans. If that fits into the future you want to have.
[That smile - surely it's the one storytellers of old wrote of. Around everyone else, Hans is all edges, greeting even his own teachers and patrons with a bite. Edmond alone is privy to this softer side of him, the bleeding heart that melts at the way he lilts his speech, the perfect angles of his face. All these fine details makes him want to kiss him, and hidden in the veil of the night, Hans is bold enough to press a kiss to Edmond's forehead.]
So I'm to act based upon my feral desires? To follow my heart's whims without consideration for the consequences, to play with whatever catches my eye... in short, to be the ultimate fool whose future is his present? Ha! That is the very essence of an artist.
[He slyly grins.]
If I were to live that way, my dearest Edmond, I'd find the path bending back towards you. Is that what you want?
I won't do you the disservice of lying and saying that I wouldn't be happy for that outcome. But, to be an equal fool...
[sitting up, he reaches for Hans' hand, to press it and gaze into his eyes, see the glow behind him like a halo.]
...When you're done with schooling, let's leave Denmark. Let's go somewhere with kinder winters - somewhere neither of us has ever seen. That's the future I'd want to see.
[Hans' hand is his to hold - it always has been - and Edmond's dream heats his face. How many times has Hans hoped for that outcome? For them to run away, like protagonists in a fairy tale, to a happily ever after?]
My family would never allow that.
[Though he pens fantasies, Hans is a cynical man through and through. Maybe that's why he's drawn to Edmond's hope.]
You no longer wish to burden their generosity, and wish to set forth to chart your own path. While their charity has been an immeasurable boon to your life, there must come a day where you stand upon your own two feet and create your own place in society.
[he says it calmly, with the conviction of a man who knows all too well how indebted Hans feels, how personal the tethering to them is. he understands, because he has his own bonds tying him to the land.]
[Edmond makes it all sound feasible. Once they were on the sea, who would stop them?
Yet... Hans looks down, at his ink-stained hands cupped in Edmond's. He can't bear to look into those eyes and say what he has to.]
They won't be satisfied with that. Especially not if we're fleeing the society we're supposed to stand tall in.
[All the money and time they've put into their pet project - into him - can't be squandered. Hans was permitted some leeway as an eccentric country boy, since it was assumed he was practically a different breed from those of more aristocratic blood. But even his background won't protect his adoptive family if he ruins the outcome of their experiment.
It's not the answer Edmond wants. He knows. It's simply reality.]
I know all their talk of marriage makes us both anxious. So I promise... [Hans still doesn't look up.] ... I won't take a bride. Not while you're still in Copenhagen with me.
[he's quiet, letting Hans make his vow while he looks away. it pains him to see him in that state, see him shackled to a family that keeps him caged when he could fly so freely, when Edmond has dreams of a dozen ways of escaping this city, this country - all of them involving Hans at his side. he can't leave without him, he knows. no matter how his heart longs for the shore and strange winds perfumed with spice and smoke.]
And I promise you the same.
[he leans closer to kiss Hans on the head, closing his eyes.]
Not while you're away at school, and not afterwards. And should they try to make me marry, I'll drive any choice away and make my reputation that of a rogue who can't be trusted with anyone's heart. If you remain by my side, then I shall never take a wife.
[The smart thing to do would be to move on. An author lives entirely at the whim of his readers. What sort of stability can he give to Edmond, aside from chaining him to the shore? But when he kisses Hans so tenderly - when he leans close to him like this, beneath the light of the stars - he can pretend for a moment that everything will be okay.
Hans lets out his breath.]
... if you think about it, then we're technically engaged to one another.
[Ridiculous, considering how they're both men. But--]
[Edmond, with the rough hands of an experienced sailor, who's as clever as he is strong, with a head for navigating the seas and business - he's the sort of husband women would fight over. Hans can't see him playing the part of the bride.]
Ask anyone, they'll say you're the masculine one. I'm the one weeping over poems.
[it isn't intentional - Monte Cristo is not some narcissist who dabbled in magecraft to amuse himself or to add to the power he knows he can claw his way towards if he really strives for it. but he's wounded, bleeding onto ancient symbols in the floor where he's holed up, faded and nearly an illusion. and he laughs, bitterly - he can recover, of course, but it'll take time. a soul dwelling in the midst of fire cannot abide waiting, necessary as it is.]
If ever the spirits of hell clung to me, would they but rise up now, and heed my wishes to steady my path.
[the words are softly spoken, dripping with rage and ice, and he clutches his side, feeling the heat of his blood escape. damn. he might have to resort to cauterizing this if Haydee cannot do anything for him. he will not die. he cannot die. not yet - death will bow to him like everything else, it must.
it is his soul that cries out, tempest tossed that it is, a whisper yet heard under the roar of flame.
[Magecraft replicates miracles. Is it any wonder, then, that Monte Cristo's unspoken plea is heard? The Grail does not differentiate between human desires. It merely senses an intent - a wish - and reacts accordingly. Help me, his soul begs, and it responds.
The dark crimson blood evaporates into blinding light, pure and white. Golden motes fill the air, which crackles with energy. Something is coming in response to the Count's summons. The only question is:
Is it something he wants?
There's a sound akin to thunder, a clap of lightning that blazes upon the retinas and is gone in an instant. The motes are gone. Standing in the circle is a strange man, who sizes Monte Cristo up with sharp eyes behind his glasses.]
Hmph. Aren't you a sore sight for the eyes.
[He puts his hands on his hips.]
I am Caster. Hans Christian Andersen. I ask of you: are you my Master?
[the light stuns him, but he knows something of what is happening when it resonates with where the crest is buried in him, the circuits that burn in his flesh. the air has the scent of a storm, and Monte Cristo stands tall despite his injuries, gold eyes fixed on the figure before him as though he was trying to pierce him with his gaze.
a master? he was master of much, all aimed towards the proper direction. and that name to him rings some bells - clearly, this is some kind of spirit taking a human form, drawn out by his blood and the remnants of magecraft in this place. would he be its master? he's wrestled more vicious beings into shape so far.]
Am I? You would do better to ask if I would be, come forth to make me an offer.
[for if he refused, it would begone, would it not.]
But, I shall be, you who call yourself Caster. There are worse bargains to strike in this world.
[Monte Cristo will feel a burning sensation on the back of his hand as the command seals carve themselves in, interfacing with his crest's circuits. It's intense, but fades quickly. Caster steps out from the circle, a leather-bound book shimmering into existence beneath his outstretched hand.]
First things first, Master. What's with the state you're in? You didn't summon me in the middle of a fight, did you? I'm absolutely useless if you were looking for a trump card. You may as well shoot yourself now if you intend to use me to turn the tides.
[the pain bites, but he endures it with a twitch of his brow. it's only more atop what he already feels, and he scoffs at the question.]
No, the current battle is over. I don't need any trump cards beyond the ones I already hold - I simply miscalculated somewhat. This is far from enough to kill me, if you're concerned about that.
[The man's standing tall in spite of his wounds. Caster's sharp eyes dig up each minuscule detail, stitches them together into a conclusion. He rests his hand on the pages of his book.]
If you die, I'll die with you. [He says it in a matter-of-factly tone.] It's only natural for me to be concerned for the health of my new Master, moron. Though I don't place great value on my life, I'd be disappointed if this story were cut short. Quit that act and sit down.
[He emphasizes the command with a flick of his finger.]
I'm a useless fighter, but I can patch you up, at the very least. I can't stand a sloppy magus.
[the insult, combined with the command, removes any desire to comply, and his mouth presses into a thin line. no. no one commands him, not anymore - and nor do they insult him so freely. he will stand, or receive nothing.]
If I am your Master, then do display your concern in a more fitting manner than letting your mouth run away with ill advised comments on my state.
[Ah, there's that pride. Unfortunately, Caster's ego is large. A bitter smile curls his lips.]
Would you rather I spit my words while I kneel before you, Master? Or perhaps you'll wash my mouth out with soap to punish my attitude? I am no knight, bound by the constraints of chivalry, and I don't care enough to lie. I am a miserable parasite - an author! - and I will speak freely, for my honesty and loyalty are my two redeeming traits. Everything else about me is unadulterated garbage.
[it gives him pause for a moment, before he laughs - one sharp, cold thing, without humor at all. a gesture of concession, not real amusement.]
Fine. Speak as you would, Caster, I will not force any but a villain to kneel. Only keep in mind two things when you see fit to open your lips - that I abhor dishonesty greatly, which you have confessed you do not care to stoop to, and that only God commands me.
[the blood that leaves him does not diminish how he holds his head high, nor the intensity in his gaze, and he practically dares this man - Caster - to make some smart remark about it.]
[Caster begins to pace back and forth, taking a closer look at the room around him. If his idiot Master refused to put down his pride, he'll wait until he has the chance to properly administer aid. He'll sate his curiosity first.]
So you are one of those magi, are you? A devout believer in the All Mighty? Hilarious. What works have you created in His name? What have you done to fulfill His gospel? Come, come, tell me. I want to know the full depths of your devotion-- [he draws out the next word into a sarcastic drawl] --Master.
You assume much, Caster. But as for my works, they shall become clear soon enough.
[this is a long abandoned room, by the looks of it. dusty and cold, left alone save for the forced in door and the blood that marks Monte Cristo's path. but the Servant's arrival has left it all with the scent of a storm, things disturbed and a long faded arcane circle inscribed into the floor, a section poorly covered by a decrepit rug's corner.]
For mine is the hand that reveals truth in the shadows, that is not blinded by appearances but metes out justice upon the wicked that they have long deserved. I see the flaws in man, and do not turn away but take action upon them, worthy as they are of consequences. What in that requires I be a mage?
[--a deluded fool, then, who fancied himself a vigilante sent by God. He's the sort of character Shakespeare would pen and, much to his irritation, the sort Caster would want to keep an eye on. He doesn't interrupt the dramatic speech, simply lets it roll over him as a wave. When his Master's finished, he scoffs.]
You're more empty-headed than I first thought. Justice doesn't exist in the hands of man, and it certainly doesn't rest in your hands. Do you think you alone can cleanse the sins of the world, when humanity was enough to make even Atlas kneel? Don't make me laugh. You're bound for destruction if you attempt such a feat.
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inkwreaths2019-08-07 11:11 pm
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Andersen remains on deck to watch the stars. He has a lamp with him, so he can properly see the journal he's sketching the constellations into. All is calm. Peaceful.]
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turning his head, seeing Hans lit by the lamp, he looks radiant in Dantes' eyes. like a work of art that could never be replicated, no matter how studious the hand. so instead, he freezes it in his mind's eye to hold, and smiles to see him there. the gentle sound of the water, the scratch of pencil, the scents of burning oil and salt - it lingers.]
When are you planning to go into astronomy?
[teasing, but soft as to not break the night's spell.]
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Hans sets down his pencil. Scoots a little closer to his friend, so he may better see his face. To think someone could look at him with such fondness--]
An astronomer shuts himself in his study all night, so he may ponder the heavens in silence. [He can't help himself. Hans gently rests a hand atop Edmond's head, to feel those locks beneath his bare fingertips.] Why should I be an astronomer when I can be a poet? Then I could sing of the stars around me to my heart's content.
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Mm, I do like your singing. The rest of the world should get at least the chance to hear your words - abandon the sciences at your leisure, Hans. If that fits into the future you want to have.
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So I'm to act based upon my feral desires? To follow my heart's whims without consideration for the consequences, to play with whatever catches my eye... in short, to be the ultimate fool whose future is his present? Ha! That is the very essence of an artist.
[He slyly grins.]
If I were to live that way, my dearest Edmond, I'd find the path bending back towards you. Is that what you want?
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[sitting up, he reaches for Hans' hand, to press it and gaze into his eyes, see the glow behind him like a halo.]
...When you're done with schooling, let's leave Denmark. Let's go somewhere with kinder winters - somewhere neither of us has ever seen. That's the future I'd want to see.
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My family would never allow that.
[Though he pens fantasies, Hans is a cynical man through and through. Maybe that's why he's drawn to Edmond's hope.]
What could I possibly say to persuade them?
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[he says it calmly, with the conviction of a man who knows all too well how indebted Hans feels, how personal the tethering to them is. he understands, because he has his own bonds tying him to the land.]
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Yet... Hans looks down, at his ink-stained hands cupped in Edmond's. He can't bear to look into those eyes and say what he has to.]
They won't be satisfied with that. Especially not if we're fleeing the society we're supposed to stand tall in.
[All the money and time they've put into their pet project - into him - can't be squandered. Hans was permitted some leeway as an eccentric country boy, since it was assumed he was practically a different breed from those of more aristocratic blood. But even his background won't protect his adoptive family if he ruins the outcome of their experiment.
It's not the answer Edmond wants. He knows. It's simply reality.]
I know all their talk of marriage makes us both anxious. So I promise... [Hans still doesn't look up.] ... I won't take a bride. Not while you're still in Copenhagen with me.
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And I promise you the same.
[he leans closer to kiss Hans on the head, closing his eyes.]
Not while you're away at school, and not afterwards. And should they try to make me marry, I'll drive any choice away and make my reputation that of a rogue who can't be trusted with anyone's heart. If you remain by my side, then I shall never take a wife.
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[The smart thing to do would be to move on. An author lives entirely at the whim of his readers. What sort of stability can he give to Edmond, aside from chaining him to the shore? But when he kisses Hans so tenderly - when he leans close to him like this, beneath the light of the stars - he can pretend for a moment that everything will be okay.
Hans lets out his breath.]
... if you think about it, then we're technically engaged to one another.
[Ridiculous, considering how they're both men. But--]
Aren't we?
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[the smile can be heard in his voice, the sweet little spark of joy he feels, and he'll take this metaphor and run with it for a little while.]
That would make me like your bride, waiting for you to return to me so we might join hands and start our life together. If you'd consent to have me.
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[Edmond, with the rough hands of an experienced sailor, who's as clever as he is strong, with a head for navigating the seas and business - he's the sort of husband women would fight over. Hans can't see him playing the part of the bride.]
Ask anyone, they'll say you're the masculine one. I'm the one weeping over poems.
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the only icon that works for dantes's massive bi feelings
he's having a lot of feelings rn
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If ever the spirits of hell clung to me, would they but rise up now, and heed my wishes to steady my path.
[the words are softly spoken, dripping with rage and ice, and he clutches his side, feeling the heat of his blood escape. damn. he might have to resort to cauterizing this if Haydee cannot do anything for him. he will not die. he cannot die. not yet - death will bow to him like everything else, it must.
it is his soul that cries out, tempest tossed that it is, a whisper yet heard under the roar of flame.
help me.]
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The dark crimson blood evaporates into blinding light, pure and white. Golden motes fill the air, which crackles with energy. Something is coming in response to the Count's summons. The only question is:
Is it something he wants?
There's a sound akin to thunder, a clap of lightning that blazes upon the retinas and is gone in an instant. The motes are gone. Standing in the circle is a strange man, who sizes Monte Cristo up with sharp eyes behind his glasses.]
Hmph. Aren't you a sore sight for the eyes.
[He puts his hands on his hips.]
I am Caster. Hans Christian Andersen. I ask of you: are you my Master?
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a master? he was master of much, all aimed towards the proper direction. and that name to him rings some bells - clearly, this is some kind of spirit taking a human form, drawn out by his blood and the remnants of magecraft in this place. would he be its master? he's wrestled more vicious beings into shape so far.]
Am I? You would do better to ask if I would be, come forth to make me an offer.
[for if he refused, it would begone, would it not.]
But, I shall be, you who call yourself Caster. There are worse bargains to strike in this world.
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[Monte Cristo will feel a burning sensation on the back of his hand as the command seals carve themselves in, interfacing with his crest's circuits. It's intense, but fades quickly. Caster steps out from the circle, a leather-bound book shimmering into existence beneath his outstretched hand.]
First things first, Master. What's with the state you're in? You didn't summon me in the middle of a fight, did you? I'm absolutely useless if you were looking for a trump card. You may as well shoot yourself now if you intend to use me to turn the tides.
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No, the current battle is over. I don't need any trump cards beyond the ones I already hold - I simply miscalculated somewhat. This is far from enough to kill me, if you're concerned about that.
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If you die, I'll die with you. [He says it in a matter-of-factly tone.] It's only natural for me to be concerned for the health of my new Master, moron. Though I don't place great value on my life, I'd be disappointed if this story were cut short. Quit that act and sit down.
[He emphasizes the command with a flick of his finger.]
I'm a useless fighter, but I can patch you up, at the very least. I can't stand a sloppy magus.
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If I am your Master, then do display your concern in a more fitting manner than letting your mouth run away with ill advised comments on my state.
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Would you rather I spit my words while I kneel before you, Master? Or perhaps you'll wash my mouth out with soap to punish my attitude? I am no knight, bound by the constraints of chivalry, and I don't care enough to lie. I am a miserable parasite - an author! - and I will speak freely, for my honesty and loyalty are my two redeeming traits. Everything else about me is unadulterated garbage.
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Fine. Speak as you would, Caster, I will not force any but a villain to kneel. Only keep in mind two things when you see fit to open your lips - that I abhor dishonesty greatly, which you have confessed you do not care to stoop to, and that only God commands me.
[the blood that leaves him does not diminish how he holds his head high, nor the intensity in his gaze, and he practically dares this man - Caster - to make some smart remark about it.]
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[Caster begins to pace back and forth, taking a closer look at the room around him. If his idiot Master refused to put down his pride, he'll wait until he has the chance to properly administer aid. He'll sate his curiosity first.]
So you are one of those magi, are you? A devout believer in the All Mighty? Hilarious. What works have you created in His name? What have you done to fulfill His gospel? Come, come, tell me. I want to know the full depths of your devotion-- [he draws out the next word into a sarcastic drawl] --Master.
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[this is a long abandoned room, by the looks of it. dusty and cold, left alone save for the forced in door and the blood that marks Monte Cristo's path. but the Servant's arrival has left it all with the scent of a storm, things disturbed and a long faded arcane circle inscribed into the floor, a section poorly covered by a decrepit rug's corner.]
For mine is the hand that reveals truth in the shadows, that is not blinded by appearances but metes out justice upon the wicked that they have long deserved. I see the flaws in man, and do not turn away but take action upon them, worthy as they are of consequences. What in that requires I be a mage?
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You're more empty-headed than I first thought. Justice doesn't exist in the hands of man, and it certainly doesn't rest in your hands. Do you think you alone can cleanse the sins of the world, when humanity was enough to make even Atlas kneel? Don't make me laugh. You're bound for destruction if you attempt such a feat.
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