[Why reach for anything? He wants to answer, but for a moment, he is well and fully distracted by the fingers brushing over his jaw. He's never been made for softer things. His eye shifts a little in his sockets, before regaining composure. As fiery and determined as ever.]
Too bad. I'm one and the same with that armor.
[A little pause - and then it comes, a little hiccup of a laugh. A pure little sound, even as this man, this sinner, whoever he is, holds him so close.]
...You know. I just felt like I should.
[It's like the answer of a child, perhaps. Someone who moves to his whim, deep down.]
Lobelia's grip eases the smallest bit, silent while he considers him, considers his next words. There's something searching in the way he looks at Hansa now.]
You wanted to. Just that.
[Laughter? It's infectious, but his is incredulous. Congratulations, Hansa. Not many manage to truly frustrate him.]
You're a strange man. You see a monster struggling in the dark and your impulse is to walk toward him rather than away.
[His hands loosen, but they hang around as if to test the man. Will he take the opportunity to strike him? Will he do nothing at all?]
Tell me what you meant by reaching for me. I won't assume.
[Yes, frustrating. Deeply so. Hansa is a confounding man on top of it all, but why wouldn't he be? There are things he understands innately that Lobelia knows only in theory. The impulse to reach for someone else. The promise of comfort. The simple flicker of emotion that makes such gestures meaningful. That makes people happy, doesn't it?
If nothing else, he can envy that. Perhaps envy is the closest he comes to wanting.
The threat in him ebbs when his hands fall away. He doesn't step back, but the tension shifts— no longer a predator's coil, but something quieter, though no less sharp.]
It would make little difference to me. You should save your compassion for those who feel gratitude for being rescued.
[That, too, is happiness. Simple, warm, and forever beyond his grasp.]
Besides, consider this, Hansa: if a man has only ever known the mountains, how is he to believe — blindly, foolishly — that anywhere else would treat him better?
[Now it is his turn - he crosses the boundaries, eliminates the personal space, like the flow to Lobelia's ebb. His hands reach up to lightly grasp over the other's face.]
Faith is believing a sunny day will come tomorrow after one hundred rainy ones. Being human isn't logical. We are blind and foolish all the time.
[Humans aren't made to be rational. Hansa smiles, eywme glimmering with muted delight.]
[Oh. When did he drop his guard? Pride forbids him from acknowledging it, yet the truth haunts him— he stopped fearing what Hansa might do the moment the man stepped close. Instinctively, his shoulders tense beneath the touch, but he doesn't move away. He wouldn't want Hansa to, either.]
Faith. You say that as though it's the simplest thing in the world. Belief in the intangible— something that cannot be touched, cannot be proven.
[Something that doesn't yield beneath his fingers. Something that doesn't break. He watches the candlelight catch in Hansa's eye, unable to look away. Angels shouldn't look like this, but life is nothing if not a string of small surprises— brief flashes of something like happiness, the only kind he's ever known.]
You speak of faith as though it were breathing. As though anyone could simply decide to feel what they've never known.
[His hand lifts— hesitation, then a slow, deliberate touch to Hansa's wrist, not gripping this time, only tracing the shape of something unbreakable.]
Then tell me, Hansa... how does a man who feels nothing begin to believe in something he cannot see?
[It's a lovely paradox. It's like how sinners can also be forgiven, how a bush can burn, how water can turn into wine. Faith itself is magical.]
[His thumbs slide a little over the man's cheekbones - hands that have smashed bones to smithereens in seconds, used to hold him so gently now.]
Well, everyone is different. But you can start small. Believe in little hopes here and there. Looking forward to fair weather next day, or the expectation of seeing a flower tomorrow. Or believe in a person to follow their lead and take the first step.
[Forehead is against forehead, now. The push and pull has shifted, his hands warm. Lobelia is a warm being, not some wooden puppet.]
Every day will get a little easier. I believe in that. If I can, so can you.
[How can he stand to be held like this with such gentle hands? It should be easy, simple, instinctive, but it isn't. His own hands rise to layer over Hansa's as though to anchor them there. He fights the feral instinct urging him to tear free before he's ensnared completely.
His eyes slip shut. It feels like inviting ruin, like offering his throat, but the darkness sharpens everything else— every word Hansa breathes, the conviction beneath them. It's sentiment he barely knows how to hold. Promises he wants to believe in more than he'd ever dare to admit.]
You're quite the cruel man. And at the same time, far kinder than most will ever know.
[The slightest tremor threads through his breath, gone as quickly as it comes.]
How does a child feared as a creature of the mountains come to believe in anything at all, let alone something as fragile as faith?
Lobelia. What a funny man you are. Faith isn't fragile.
[It never is. That's what life is based on. Always believing in something that doesn't immediately give rewarda or dividends.]
[His grip is firm - even if Lobelia pulls away, or trembles, or grasps him back, he will be as stalwart as the mountains he came from. He doesn't detach himself from Lobelia either, his breath steady and warm.]
I told you. I lost everything. My mother died trying to save me. I lost myself, and an old man found me. He regained my trust in the world, little by little.
[And then he was brought into town, and the rest was history.]
Step by step, Lobelia. You won't wake up tomorrow with belief laid in front of you like a feast. But at least...you can choose something every day for that.
[Strange. Faith is a frightening variable, an unknown Lobelia can neither measure nor rely upon. Still, Lobelia wants to believe in it. Believe in Hansa. A leap of faith can only end in one of two ways. Should there be no one to catch him when he falls, that's just as well. That would be a familiar pain, one he can reliably count on to ache right down to his very soul.
So he'll abandon skepticism just this once. His eyes open, he gazes into Hansa's eye, but Lobelia isn't looking for the truth in them. He seeks something deeper.]
I am nothing if not patient. You've convinced me. Still...
[Still, there's an unease in his chest that won't abate. It isn't fear, no. He would know if it were mortal terror. It's more like... an omen. An ill portent. With some hesitation, he speaks—]
Surely you don't expect me to remain on the right path without guidance. I will be relying on you, if you'll allow it. And should I ever stray...
I trust you'll correct me accordingly. No matter what.
[He says, with some amusement, but the look in his eye matches the other's. Something more piercing, like a hook. He doesn't know why Lobelia has had this affect on him - perhaps it was the familiarity. The push that begs for a pull. The need to drag a man out of a dark cave into the sunlight. Why? Because of faith? Something deeper?]
[He shakes his head a little.]
You make me sound like I'll should be putting a leash on on your soul. But I understand what you mean. I believe it won't come to that point.
[If he really feels that way...]
[He pats the other's cheek gently, meaning to be playful, reassuring.]
[It's all pins and needles under the skin— the feeling of being seen is a discomfort Lobelia has spent years avoiding. He's built his life around independence. Upon needing no one. Having no one. What is he thinking, letting Hansa this close, if he's thinking at all?
No, no. He clearly isn't. That's why he shifts, lips nearly a ghost against Hansa's skin. The temptation to bite is there. So is the temptation to do far worse.]
Bien sûr. Naturally, you want to believe everything will work out... and I won't fault you for that. Still... it never hurts to have a contingency plan, n'est-ce pas?
Really, you should be cursing me for putting you in such a position. You should be mad. Livid.
[That depends, he thinks. Perhaps Lobelia sees it as a twisted, binding thing. Like a vice that one is meant to hate. Perhaps a priest should loathe to be tied to a sinner.]
[He doesn't even know what sins the man has committed. Perhaps he has more blood on his hands than he does. He should ask these things.]
[But he has already stepped forward. Lobelia wants to change, wants to look to the light and isn't it his duty as a priest to guide? Or is he really only meant for execution? His lips hover with the hint of teeth - the wolf in him wants to bite back, wants to have its due. A fox is nothing to him.]
[Hansa exhales slowly.]
I'm not. Honest. I made this decision. I can see it through.
[Mad. Livid. It would mean something to inspire so much emotion in him, wouldn't it? To leave a lasting impression— leave a dent on his soul. Maybe that's ego, or maybe loneliness. Maybe it's a cry for help, or maybe it's plain greed.
Lobelia can't tell. None of it is rational, but what feelings are? He leans in by the smallest increments, movements carefully controlled, but only barely.]
Do you not want me to clarify what it is I'm asking of you before you give me your promise? I'm afraid I'm not so benevolent as to let you walk back on one once it's made. Pray that decision doesn't come back to haunt you, Hansa.
[As far as Lobelia is concerned, that remains to be seen. Is faith an unbreakable shield? He'd like Hansa to prove that it is, but Lobelia suspects the answer may arrive too late. The shape of something wrong gnaws quietly beneath his ribs, a tension he cannot name, only feel.
The answer sticks to Lobelia's tongue. It's just a feeling, nothing concrete, and yet he can ignore it no longer.
[Something darkens in his gaze, now. The bright violet becomes closer to midnight sky. He is an Executor. He has killed many. This isn't some tall task, but...]
[And he can prove it, palm cupping the curve of Hansa's jaw, pressing the pad of his thumb against a canine until blood wells to the tip. Hansa won't bite down. He isn't a man ruled by the urge to gnash and tear, is he?]
[That's more like it. There's a beast in Hansa that he dutifully wraps up in chains, but even the strongest metal will yield with enough force. Lobelia presses harder, deeper, until the blood's flowing down his thumb and soaking into his glove.
His heart's a hammer beating against his ribs. When Lobelia withdraws his hand, he doesn't stop to think before licking it clean.]
[Now he's rubbing at his mouth - there's a brief spark of something in his eye, not quite anger, but-]
[He's shaking his head, before reaching for that very hand. He doesn't have any cloth, or napkins, but he'll use his sleeve to press to the wound. Lobelia, Lobelia, Lobelia.]
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[Why reach for anything? He wants to answer, but for a moment, he is well and fully distracted by the fingers brushing over his jaw. He's never been made for softer things. His eye shifts a little in his sockets, before regaining composure. As fiery and determined as ever.]
Too bad. I'm one and the same with that armor.
[A little pause - and then it comes, a little hiccup of a laugh. A pure little sound, even as this man, this sinner, whoever he is, holds him so close.]
...You know. I just felt like I should.
[It's like the answer of a child, perhaps. Someone who moves to his whim, deep down.]
I just wanted to.
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Lobelia's grip eases the smallest bit, silent while he considers him, considers his next words. There's something searching in the way he looks at Hansa now.]
You wanted to. Just that.
[Laughter? It's infectious, but his is incredulous. Congratulations, Hansa. Not many manage to truly frustrate him.]
You're a strange man. You see a monster struggling in the dark and your impulse is to walk toward him rather than away.
[His hands loosen, but they hang around as if to test the man. Will he take the opportunity to strike him? Will he do nothing at all?]
Tell me what you meant by reaching for me. I won't assume.
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[His eye creases at being called a strange man. It's a familiar thing to hear. He almost feels fond at it, his own hand loosening a little.]
...I was a monster. A long time ago. They called me that, a child living in the treacherous mountains. They told tales about how I ate climbers.
[But he didn't. He wasn't a monster, or evil spirits, or a demon, but...]
An old man reached for me back then. Without him, I'd probably be a monster for real. Isn't it human? To reach for another?
[Hansa's voice is quiet.]
Should I leave you to the treacherous mountains, too?
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If nothing else, he can envy that. Perhaps envy is the closest he comes to wanting.
The threat in him ebbs when his hands fall away. He doesn't step back, but the tension shifts— no longer a predator's coil, but something quieter, though no less sharp.]
It would make little difference to me. You should save your compassion for those who feel gratitude for being rescued.
[That, too, is happiness. Simple, warm, and forever beyond his grasp.]
Besides, consider this, Hansa: if a man has only ever known the mountains, how is he to believe — blindly, foolishly — that anywhere else would treat him better?
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[Now it is his turn - he crosses the boundaries, eliminates the personal space, like the flow to Lobelia's ebb. His hands reach up to lightly grasp over the other's face.]
Faith is believing a sunny day will come tomorrow after one hundred rainy ones. Being human isn't logical. We are blind and foolish all the time.
[Humans aren't made to be rational. Hansa smiles, eywme glimmering with muted delight.]
You simply need to not be afraid to feel so.
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Faith. You say that as though it's the simplest thing in the world. Belief in the intangible— something that cannot be touched, cannot be proven.
[Something that doesn't yield beneath his fingers. Something that doesn't break. He watches the candlelight catch in Hansa's eye, unable to look away. Angels shouldn't look like this, but life is nothing if not a string of small surprises— brief flashes of something like happiness, the only kind he's ever known.]
You speak of faith as though it were breathing. As though anyone could simply decide to feel what they've never known.
[His hand lifts— hesitation, then a slow, deliberate touch to Hansa's wrist, not gripping this time, only tracing the shape of something unbreakable.]
Then tell me, Hansa... how does a man who feels nothing begin to believe in something he cannot see?
don't spell when half asleep kids
[It's a lovely paradox. It's like how sinners can also be forgiven, how a bush can burn, how water can turn into wine. Faith itself is magical.]
[His thumbs slide a little over the man's cheekbones - hands that have smashed bones to smithereens in seconds, used to hold him so gently now.]
Well, everyone is different. But you can start small. Believe in little hopes here and there. Looking forward to fair weather next day, or the expectation of seeing a flower tomorrow. Or believe in a person to follow their lead and take the first step.
[Forehead is against forehead, now. The push and pull has shifted, his hands warm. Lobelia is a warm being, not some wooden puppet.]
Every day will get a little easier. I believe in that. If I can, so can you.
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His eyes slip shut. It feels like inviting ruin, like offering his throat, but the darkness sharpens everything else— every word Hansa breathes, the conviction beneath them. It's sentiment he barely knows how to hold. Promises he wants to believe in more than he'd ever dare to admit.]
You're quite the cruel man. And at the same time, far kinder than most will ever know.
[The slightest tremor threads through his breath, gone as quickly as it comes.]
How does a child feared as a creature of the mountains come to believe in anything at all, let alone something as fragile as faith?
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[It never is. That's what life is based on. Always believing in something that doesn't immediately give rewarda or dividends.]
[His grip is firm - even if Lobelia pulls away, or trembles, or grasps him back, he will be as stalwart as the mountains he came from. He doesn't detach himself from Lobelia either, his breath steady and warm.]
I told you. I lost everything. My mother died trying to save me. I lost myself, and an old man found me. He regained my trust in the world, little by little.
[And then he was brought into town, and the rest was history.]
Step by step, Lobelia. You won't wake up tomorrow with belief laid in front of you like a feast. But at least...you can choose something every day for that.
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So he'll abandon skepticism just this once. His eyes open, he gazes into Hansa's eye, but Lobelia isn't looking for the truth in them. He seeks something deeper.]
I am nothing if not patient. You've convinced me. Still...
[Still, there's an unease in his chest that won't abate. It isn't fear, no. He would know if it were mortal terror. It's more like... an omen. An ill portent. With some hesitation, he speaks—]
Surely you don't expect me to remain on the right path without guidance. I will be relying on you, if you'll allow it. And should I ever stray...
I trust you'll correct me accordingly. No matter what.
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[He says, with some amusement, but the look in his eye matches the other's. Something more piercing, like a hook. He doesn't know why Lobelia has had this affect on him - perhaps it was the familiarity. The push that begs for a pull. The need to drag a man out of a dark cave into the sunlight. Why? Because of faith? Something deeper?]
[He shakes his head a little.]
You make me sound like I'll should be putting a leash on on your soul. But I understand what you mean. I believe it won't come to that point.
[If he really feels that way...]
[He pats the other's cheek gently, meaning to be playful, reassuring.]
But I will do what I have to do. I promise.
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No, no. He clearly isn't. That's why he shifts, lips nearly a ghost against Hansa's skin. The temptation to bite is there. So is the temptation to do far worse.]
Bien sûr. Naturally, you want to believe everything will work out... and I won't fault you for that. Still... it never hurts to have a contingency plan, n'est-ce pas?
Really, you should be cursing me for putting you in such a position. You should be mad. Livid.
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[That depends, he thinks. Perhaps Lobelia sees it as a twisted, binding thing. Like a vice that one is meant to hate. Perhaps a priest should loathe to be tied to a sinner.]
[He doesn't even know what sins the man has committed. Perhaps he has more blood on his hands than he does. He should ask these things.]
[But he has already stepped forward. Lobelia wants to change, wants to look to the light and isn't it his duty as a priest to guide? Or is he really only meant for execution? His lips hover with the hint of teeth - the wolf in him wants to bite back, wants to have its due. A fox is nothing to him.]
[Hansa exhales slowly.]
I'm not. Honest. I made this decision. I can see it through.
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[Mad. Livid. It would mean something to inspire so much emotion in him, wouldn't it? To leave a lasting impression— leave a dent on his soul. Maybe that's ego, or maybe loneliness. Maybe it's a cry for help, or maybe it's plain greed.
Lobelia can't tell. None of it is rational, but what feelings are? He leans in by the smallest increments, movements carefully controlled, but only barely.]
Do you not want me to clarify what it is I'm asking of you before you give me your promise? I'm afraid I'm not so benevolent as to let you walk back on one once it's made. Pray that decision doesn't come back to haunt you, Hansa.
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[Why not explain? It does feel like new waters. He has danced with vampires before. It has been clear where those dances would end.]
[He is sure he won't be pulled down. His faith stands like a shield. His soul remains in the light.]
[Lobelia is...]
[In the twilight.]
Tell me. If you are so concerned.
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The answer sticks to Lobelia's tongue. It's just a feeling, nothing concrete, and yet he can ignore it no longer.
Lobelia smiles, easy as anything.]
I want you to kill me.
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[Something darkens in his gaze, now. The bright violet becomes closer to midnight sky. He is an Executor. He has killed many. This isn't some tall task, but...]
Why? Because of what you have done?
[Atonement through death?]
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[The sins of his past are left to the past. Lobelia speaks of the future.]
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[An important word.]
Are you so sure that you would sin? Didn't you say now I could be the one to guide you?
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[If there is a chance.]
[He doesn't mean to. But standing so close with such sharp teeth saying such things might be a little more firm than he intends it.]
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[And he can prove it, palm cupping the curve of Hansa's jaw, pressing the pad of his thumb against a canine until blood wells to the tip. Hansa won't bite down. He isn't a man ruled by the urge to gnash and tear, is he?]
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[Oh, that's a move, alright. He stiffens, the scent of blood making his eye dilate. That's...that's...]
[Lobelia says he doesn't have the nerve.]
[He knows he does.]
[He doesn't pull away, but the way his eyebrows furrow seem to say - Don't test me.]
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His heart's a hammer beating against his ribs. When Lobelia withdraws his hand, he doesn't stop to think before licking it clean.]
Ah, pardonnez-moi. You were saying something?
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[Now he's rubbing at his mouth - there's a brief spark of something in his eye, not quite anger, but-]
[He's shaking his head, before reaching for that very hand. He doesn't have any cloth, or napkins, but he'll use his sleeve to press to the wound. Lobelia, Lobelia, Lobelia.]
Why are you such a fool?
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1/2
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me closing my damn EYES
this is normal good and wholesome it's fine
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french is such a fucked up language and i hate it
]sahkjsdhk YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF
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