Author's Note – Alright, this is my first Gankutsuou fic. It's a simple one-shot that I've had in my head for a little while now. I – like many others – hated the ending of episode 23, so I decided to write this. I hope you enjoy it. Disclaimer – I do not own Gankutsuou in any shape or form, nor any of its affiliations. This is written purely for entertainment purposes and is not, nor will it ever be intended, to make any sort of profit.
Paris. The very name sounded enticing, just like the rest of the city. It had a ring to it that simply could not be defined with meager words. It had a history that echoed its sense of mixture between extravagance and pauper simplicity. It had been known as the City of Lights – both literally and figuratively – for so long, it seemed that none could question the name.
That is, unless, one was like him, whom had been wandering its crowded, dirty streets for the past five years. Five longs years in silence, five years of searching, five years of trying to remember and trying to forget. And he had had such little rest, such little of anything that could perhaps distract him, or grab his pointed focus. Five years. Had five years ever been so long? He who had waited for decades, with a patience that would have driven a weaker willed man to madness?
Under the firm sole of his boots, the cobblestones gave out the sound of his steps. Quiet but firm, unimposing but resolute. He had been searching for leads for the past half decade, making sure to not arouse any suspicion in this city, which was still fairly unstable and eager to vent it's frustration for what had happened not too long ago. Of course Paris needed to vent – it had been bombed by one it's own! So he had searched for clues, scoured resources of all kinds for any sign that could lead him. The underground and the public alike had been equally helpful. Politics, or any sort of government affiliation…not so much, until now. He had finally found a true solid lead.
He peered up from under the shadow of his hat brim, his eyes – weary but determined – looked for his next direction. At the corner he had reached, he turned right, crossing the street. He passed under the yellow amber glow of a dim a streetlamp on the opposite corner, the dark cloak flaring a little about his ankles. Undetected, unsuspected, he disappeared down the street. The cobblestones echoing his footsteps were the only sign that he existed.
He proceeded on his way, turning right two blocks over, where the roads became smoother, the buildings less ramshackled. The streetlamps became more frequent. He still went onward, unbothered if not unnoticed. His posture spoke volumes of humble confidence, but his mind was beginning to turn rapidly. He had pulled himself out of the ashes, both literally and figuratively, and gathered what little of his possessions that had mattered to him. The cloak he wore, the staff in his hand, and enough francs to last him at least ten years, the little essential things. And of course, the most important thing, the little ticking flattened sphere in his pocket, resting close to his chest. That had been the key and prized possession.
He peered out from under his hat and escaping wisps of hair again, reading the numbers on the front of the buildings on either side of him. He came to a halt in front of a red, yellow and brown bricked building, standing three stories tall, with a sufficient distance of sixty feet between it and the two other buildings flanking it. All the windows on the first and second floor were dark, their beige curtains sealed to the outside world. But on the top floor on the farthest left, two long windows glowed, their curtains parted only slightly in the middle.
Still peering up at the windows across the street, he reached into one of his pockets and withdrew a small piece of paper, which seemed to have been ripped from the bottom page of a notepad or something. He flattened it out, careful not to tear it, and inspected the black scrawl across its surface.
63 Bordeaux Street, West Royale Neighborhood - # 281
His eyes roamed over the bright windows again, and he felt a faint tingle on the back of his neck. With a slow sigh, he put the piece of paper back into his pocket. Five years. Five years of searching, of trying to remember and trying to forget. Had he finally found him, at last?
Deciding there was no time to waste – though he didn't know why, there was no hurry, no rush – he bid his feet to move, and he crossed the black pavement, stepped onto the concrete, and mounted up the steps. He knocked three times with the iron ring on the door, and waited, his head bowed in contemplation and patience. It had been such a long and drawn out search. His object of focus had almost simply disappeared, dropped everything and left Paris. He couldn't blame him – his name had become almost taboo, and the city had been far from safe, even from its own people. But he had vanished in so little time that tracking him had been a hassle. No one wanted to talk about the name Morcef unless it was to vent anger and stream profanities together, along with other once-proud names such as Villefort and Danglars.
Yes, it had been difficult. The first two years were almost fruitless. The public new almost nothing but rumors, annoying hushed little half-truths, things he had almost lost his temper over. And the newspapers were no better. Oh, how the tales and half-spun spittle's of lies and contempt had made him angry! How many times in the first two years had he wanted to backhand a high and mighty socialist, a worthless prattling sloth, a drunken dock worker, or dim witted sailor? How many times had he had to refrain from putting the fear of God into one of the gutter rats with violence, just to make sure no bit of information would be distorted? He dared not try to count.
The following three years, however, began to trickle some hope into his search. Stories of a new and upcoming ambassador began to leak all over Paris, and soon flooded all of its corners as the press started to suggest that it was more than a rumor. Everyone's mouth was filled with suspicion and expectancy. Listening and reading wherever he went, he had begun to wonder. Was the boy to return? The idea had sharpened him, and his campaign had become more vigorous than ever.
It had been tempting to throw away the airs he put on. The idea of becoming a high status figure of Paris again, of throwing away the mask of a vagabond merchant or traveling ex-priest, and screaming to the city "I'm alive! I have not been defeated!" had crossed his mind one too many times. But he had kept mostly quiet. The only change he made was to inquire more frequently about the return of the traitor's son. He began vacating the pubs for longer hours – he never had more than half a pint, half a glass, it almost hurt too much to have the liquor flood him with memories – waiting, listening for any sign that the boy had come home.
Then finally, the higher ups had finally worked with the press to make a conformation. The new ambassador was indeed the prodigy of the selfish General who had betrayed them all. It was no longer whispered in the back of the rooms, or hissed into one's ear behind a hand. The City of Lights had become the City of Babel. And he had used it to his full advantage. He dissected every word the newspapers could crank out, and interrogated right out in broad daylight on the curb. At first, no one knew the exact date that the ambassador would return or where he would reside. In two weeks, however, he had – like many other Parisians – watched the ship come in from afar, standing on one of the docks, his gaze fixed on the craft. He wondered if the boy had felt like this when the roles had been reversed, actually standing in the port rather than watching the sky from the other side of the city, as his own ship had drew down from space. Oh, what a day that had been, five years ago, the turn of the tide.
His reverie was put on a pause when the door finally opened. A dark haired maid, donning a cap, a gown and a robe blinked at him in surprise. "May I help you?'
"I am here to see the ambassador. Forgive me for the lateness of the hour, but it was of …slight urgency that I came."
The maid blinked. "Oh! Yes, do come in then. I'll lead you to the parlor." She stepped back and opened the door wide enough that he may enter and quietly shut it behind him. She plucked up a candle from the nearby table and escorted him down a hallway, past a set of stairs and into a spacious room. There was a fine mahogany coffee table with a semicircle of high-backed chairs and a decent couch. The maid ushered in and quickly took her candle to light the three on the table and two lamps. "I'm sorry for the lack of light," she stuttered. "We haven't had a chance to get decent power here. So terribly busy with the upcoming coronation and all."
"No need. I understand."
She set her candle on the fireplace mantel between the two lamps then turned to him as he sat down in one of the chairs. "Please wait here. He's been working and I'm not sure if he can spare time. But I will announce your arrival. Forgive my lack of manners. What is your name, sir?"
He almost smiled at the joke but suppressed it and said, "Tell him I'm an old friend of the family."
The maid gave him a queer look but assented nonetheless. She scurried out of the parlor, where he heard her begin to ascend the stairs. He returned to his reverie. Yes, the idea that he had returned home at last had sparked him. An idea had came to him then, watching the ship dip out of sight; If he could find the boy, perhaps…he could find the others? But if he did, even if he did finally see the boy again, what would they say? What would have changed? What had changed? Would they believe that it was truly him, despite his familiar countenance? Oh, the possibilities. How it had began to put the bitter edge in him little by little, known as simply desperation. Not that of a madman, but just…mild eagerness.
He shifted in his seat. His mind had begun to turn a little faster, just like it did when he first plotted out his revenge decades ago, like it did when things had begun to unfold that summer and the little details began to have some significance. Yes, he knew how that felt. He sighed, laying his gaze on the candles on the table before him. There were fewer, and the candlestick was made of tarnished gold, not intricate silver. But it still reminded him of the first night, the prelude as he had called it, when things had turned his way on Luna. Ironic that it was a night not much different than this. The tiny flames seemed to flicker for a brief moment, as if to say, "We know, we know. Have always known."
He watched them so intently that he was almost startled when the maid came into his line of vision. "He will see you now." He nodded and stood, following her out and up the stairs. It seemed almost odd that, although she was two times smaller than he, his footsteps were quieter, as if he were stalking to the room with the lit windows. When they reached the top floor, his back involuntarily stiffened just the slightest. The maid looked back at him only once, almost suspiciously, then stopped at the door at the other end of the hall. She opened it just enough to let her head in. "Your guest, sir." There was a quiet, muffled response and she nodded. "You may go in," she said then walked back towards the stairs.
He paused, his hand on the door handle. Was this really it? The end of a tiring but tireless search, the search that had spanned these last few years that felt like a short eternity? A sensation sprung to the back of his neck again. Calmly, he stepped into the room.
The room itself went hardly noticed by him; the gold fleur-d-lis wallpaper, the white marble-patterned tile, the blue ceiling with its humble silver chandelier, the cream curtains, none of it really mattered. His gaze became fixated straight in front of him, at the cherry wood desk, the two matching chairs in front of it. He took little note of the contents on its surface, the pen, the ink bottle, the two stacks of paper, one on each end, or the photograph which he could not see and did not care for. All that mattered was the one who sat behind it, reading a document with thin silver framed glasses, politely excusing himself for a moment without glancing up, unwary of the one approaching.
Ah, look at him now! So little had changed and yet, everything had changed. The short brown hair was still a slight, organized mess. The blue eyes – of course, those would never change – had remained hopeful, though had lost some of their natural wideness. And the face was as youthful as ever, not so much as the slightest wrinkle. But the differences were there; the shoulders were wider to match a fuller chest, the jaw had become firmer, more distinct but unoppressive. And the hands that had once been a bit small had filled out, the fingers still a bit long. No, he was no boy now. A young man. And wearing a proper business suit no less. He felt his mind begin to whirl.
The document was put down, the pen picked up. "I'm sorry. I've been busy lately." His voice had not changed that much. Interesting. "I've been swamped with paperwork as you can see," he half joked flourishing his signature across a thin line. He looked up as he was about to remove the glasses and stopped. His face became blank with surprise, his eyes growing wide as he slowly removed the lenses. That look hadn't changed either, and he almost felt himself smile. He watched him lean away from the desk, the lips mouthing what could only by a hoarse "My god!", the expression still surprised and becoming more so as he took in the visitor.
As the young man slowly stood up, one hand trailing on the desk as he walked around its edge, he wondered what he looked like to him. A ghost, a phantasma? Some ill begotten presence in the semblance of one who had been a friend and a threat, all in the same breath? A soul that had been sorely missed? Or was it a soul that had brought nightmares, both in waking hours and sleep? Did he really want to know? The smile that he had felt finally crept to the corners of his lips. And the boy, this young man, had grown too. The longs legs now suited him rather than somewhat hinder him. He was probably as tall as himself.
The ambassador stopped in front of him, staring him in the face, as if expecting any moment that he would see through him. He watched the eyes of the young man flicker for the smallest moment. And then a shadow of something dark crossed his face, and the eyes seemed to slightly harden, just a flash. Before he could so much as try to understand the sudden change, there was a fierce impact on the left side of his face, and he went sprawling to the floor in surprise. His hat toppled onto the floor as he landed, and he blinked at the ceiling once or twice before propping himself up on his elbows with a grunt. He looked up at the ambassador, his chest puffed up, straightening his clothes with that familiar indignant look, blue eyes blazing and fists clenched. "Now I feel better," he snapped with a scowl.
For a moment he just stared. And then a grin sprung on his face…and he began to laugh. His head fell back, and his mismatched eyes screwed shut, and he began to roar with laughter. As he did so, his eyes opened again to see the scowl on the ambassador's face slowly twitch into a smile, which then pursed as he tried not to snicker, then finally burst up laughing himself. Their laughter echoed throughout the room as the one on the floor held his sides and the other doubled over with his hands on his knees. They laughed until the younger had to lean against the desk, gasping "I can't breathe, I can't breathe!", and the one still on the floor could only barely reply "Neither can I!"
The maid suddenly swung open the door in a rush, panting. "What's going on in-?!" She stopped, arching an eyebrow at the sight of the two roaring with laughter, particularly at the one with the odd skin pigment. "Mr. Morcef…?"
"It's – it's alright, Marie," the ambassador replied, trying to catch his breath. "It's alright. Please, if you would be so kind, fetch the champagne."
"Champagne?"
"Yes, the champagne," Albert replied, standing up to offer his guest some assistance.
"Two glasses," the former Count added once standing and brushing himself off.
"Two?"
Albert beamed and nodded. "Yes, yes two glasses please, Marie." She shrugged and scurried off with a huff. Albert turned back to the Count – he knew it might be better to call him Edmond but he could only remember him as Count or Excellency – shaking his head. "Uh… Please, have a seat," he murmured, realizing how serious the situation really was, the effects of laughter quickly fading. The Count removed his cloak, picking up his hat to lay it on one extra seat, and sat down in the other. Albert resumed his seat behind the desk, placing the document in one of the piles.
He shook his head, staring at the Count. "How…?" He paused to clear his throat and licked his lips, leaning towards him. "How did you…? I mean…you stopped breathing. And the estate was crumbling right over our heads…!" He stopped and the Count sighed.
"I don't know. I have theories, few and a bit farfetched, but theories nonetheless. Some I doubt more than others."
"Theories? You mean…you didn't…?"
"No, I had not somehow cheated death. Not by my own accord anyway. And I am just as in the dark as you are about it."
Albert seemed on the verge of saying something in response when the door opened again. Marie still in her bedtime attire shuffled in with a small tray bearing two crystals glasses, finely cut, and an unopened emerald green bottle. She sat the tray on the desk, and left the room without another word but plenty of odd glances at the Count. Albert wasn't sure if he saw her make the sign of the cross in the door or not.
"Well, then…tell me your best theory," he said, uncorking the bottle and pouring the Count's glass three-fourths full. "I can only assume by your appearance that-." He stopped short and looked at the bottle almost in an apologetic manner.
"Gankutsuou is indeed part of my theory," the older gentleman replied as he took the glass in hand. "You see, I realized I was alive when I… 'woke up', for the lack of a better word. I remembered almost everything-."
"Woke up?" the ambassador asked, startled. "You mean…You were buried? Under the Champ Ulysses?"
"No. In fact, I was on top of the rubble. It startled me as well. I will tell you my idea as to how and why, but I must explain what I've been doing so as not to confuse you." Albert nodded, looking a bit sorry for interrupting. It was amazing how much his inquisitiveness had remained…
"When I came to, I found myself stretched out under a raining Paris sky. I hadn't been all too confused; I remembered everything that had happened. The final confrontation between your father and I, Haydee, Batistin, Bertruccio, everything. Everything before…" He paused and shook his head. "I couldn't understand, and if anything, I was almost panicked. I had no option other than to get out of the crevice, and before that I had to find necessary items. Considering my condition at the time, it was best that I think about what had conspired between 'wakefulness' and my lack of consciousness at another time – specifically out of the rain." Here a hint of a grim smile flickered over his face and one for Albert as well.
"I scoured what was left of my estate and managed to salvage everything on my person now. My clothes, cloak, my staff, and a few others. I had to buy a new hat of course. It was rather easy finding enough money to last me for quiet some time, whether it be in coins or notes or precious stones. I had enough to survive Paris again. It was the task of getting out of the crevice that was so difficult."
"Did you have to scale the wall?"
The Count nodded. "Yes. I scaled the wall."
"But how? With what tools?"
The Count smiled slightly, holding up one his hands with the back of its palm facing the young man. "Did you forget that I have these?" he asked, the sharp, long dark nails faintly glinting in the light. Albert shook his head, his brow slightly furrowing at seeing the wire-like design on the back of the palm and fingers again after so long.
"No," he murmured. "No, I didn't forget. I just can't imagine trying to climb out of a hole that deep with only bare hands. It must have been at least five hundred feet. And most of it was vertical…!"
The Count sipped the champagne and stared into the glass. "Yes. It was difficult climbing in the rain." He trailed off, remembering that night. Two hundred feet up the side of the giant crater, his cloak and the pouch of money at his hip feeling heavier than usual on the vertical slope. It had been so harsh. The staff had tasted bitter holding it in his teeth – it had been useless as a tool for climbing – and his boots had found hardly any purchase in the damp soil, his arms and hands and fingers had held almost all of his weight. He remembered the rain pelting down, the flares of lightening being the only way to make out the sky from the top of the crater, the dirt slick on his palms and between his fingers…The moment where the slickened wall suddenly crumbled, and he had slid down at least eighty feet before his fingernails had jammed onto an area more solid, the abrupt stop harsh enough to pop his wrists…
Yes. Difficult.
"When I had reached the top, I rested for only a moment. I had no idea if someone was nearby, and I knew that my sudden appearance, after no doubt being reported dead, would be…unwelcomed if not feared to some extent. The city was bound to know about the final encounter between your father and I, and if seen, they would no doubt question me for one reason or another."
"So where did you go?"
"To the nearest, inconspicuous pub I could find," the Count answered. "I used my cloak as a disguise and had the owner of the pub rent me a room upstairs for a few nights. I paid a cheap but reasonable price, he asked no questions, and I had a place to stay until I knew my next step."
"And?" Albert pressed.
"The first thing I did was find out about you and our comrades. I gained information by supposedly drinking in the late hours and just observed and listened." His face furrowed slightly. "I found out that Fernand was dead, buried like I was to have been. You and your mother, and Haydee with Bertruccio and Batistin, had all escaped from Paris…three months before I had returned to consciousness."
Albert blinked in surprise, his glass midway to his lips. The Count continued. "It was a rather morbid bit of news to me. It meant that finding you and the others, knowing that no one would have any idea where you all had dispersed to, was practically impossible. Had I the privilege to toss a purse or two to greedy men to help me track you, I would have done so. But, as you might know, my name became…dangerous." He paused. "Several former party members, who had some loyalty left in them for your father, had obviously linked Haydee's appearance to me. They had, in some sort of desperation and anger, blamed me for Fernand's plan to bomb all of Paris." A short smirk touched the Count's lips. "I found it quiet ironic that the blame of his actions had been laid on me again. Nonetheless, I was not so popular in the city anymore, let alone in the country. And so…I went into a sort of hiding, until I knew I could take full action."
"When was that?"
"About two weeks later. I couldn't track you all down by ship or any sort of actual transportation. However, I did begin searching for you another way. I started inquiring for any sort of clue I could possibly find. Not outright of course, not at first. But with some time, I was able to find out what had happened between my return and the disappearance of the rest of you. There were plenty of complications of course. But…it was something."
"So…that's what you've been doing for the last five years?"
"Yes."
"Then…what is your theory? I mean, how in God's name did you survive?"
"I asked myself that several times during the two weeks before I started asking around. At first, I theorized that perhaps my heart had not been harmed, that the wound from your father's sword had simply delayed in bleeding, that he had somehow missed major organs, something along those lines. But I had to throw that idea out the window. He was an experienced swordsman, he wouldn't have missed. I thought that maybe it was just part of Gankutsuou's process of fading, or trying to gain control again. That was, I knew, unsatisfactory. So finally I settled on something…fairly practical."
The Count sighed and sat his glass on the desk. "I believe…that Gankutsuou had not completely vanished. If anything, he realized that if I died, our deal would be nothing to him. And so his doubts redoubled, even in his weakened state. I believe that he somehow managed to help my body withstand the collapse of the building and, in my oblivious state, began healing the area in my heart that would have surely killed me. I now think that sometime after all wounds were taken care of, he literally dug my body out of the rubble with whatever power he had left – by controlling my body to save itself."
He closed his eyes for a moment before beginning again. "This is the only way that I can explain it. The fact that I'm alive, my delayed return, waking on the rubble instead of below it, and of course, why my appearance has not changed from what it was half a decade ago that summer. I can see by your expression that you have questions." The Count smiled as Albert nodded a little embarrassedly. "Go on," he encouraged the young man.
"If it was indeed Gankutsuou who revived and sustained you for those three months, and your appearance hasn't changed…?" Albert trailed off.
"You're suspicious that I am still under his control," the Count stated calmly after a moment. The ambassador nodded with some reluctance. "I can assure you, I am no longer under his will. He has not left me, I know that much. However, after bidding myself to do as I pleased and needed these last few years, I'm almost certain that he cannot retain control nor the power he once had. He refuses to perish and dares not try to claim another desperate soul with a healthy form – or he simply cannot manage the task. He is simply stuck."
He looked up at Albert with a small smile, reaching for his glass again. "Satisfied?"
"Well, yes. But there is one more thing."
"Yes?"
Albert took a long sip of the champagne. After setting down the glass he locked eyes with the Count. His eyes had a slight edge to them as he looked at his gentleman friend. "I want you to answer me in all honesty. Do you still seek revenge, Count?"
The Count's smile grew but not sinisterly. "Ah, of course. I should have expected this." He sat his own glass back down next to Albert's, pulling at the front lapel of his over-shirt. His hand plunged into what could only be assumed as an inner pocket. Albert watched intently with suspicion, half expecting a weapon of some sort to be produced. When his hand withdrew from the folds however, the item was completely concealed by his palm. The Count sat it on the desk solely in front of Albert, locking eyes with him for a brief moment, before drawing back into his seat.
Albert looked down and started slightly. Then his shoulders slumped and a sad smile graced his features. "You…you actually have it. After all this time." Almost unwillingly, his hand stretched out, the tips of his fingers brushing the gold surface with nostalgia. The slight tarnish and the tiny dent on the underside didn't escape him. Nonetheless, he shook his head at how many memories is stirred in him.
"That was the first thing I looked for when I came to," the Count explained softly. "I took it to a fine jeweler about a month after I started my search for you all. It's amazing how…it can be almost impossible for a man to part with some of the damndest things." Albert opened the watch with a soft click. Another surprise – the glass was intact, and the hands still ticking. "Once the jeweler fixed the gears and undent what he could, I took it to another craftsman." The Count watched the young man examine it. "You notice the slight warps in it don't you? The whole glass piece in there now…is from the exact shards of when it was shattered."
Albert looked up. "Haydee sent Batistin back to collect the pieces some time before our duel. She insisted that I take them," the older man explained. "I didn't care too much about it then…"
He stood up as Albert closed it shut again. The Count went around the desk and the ambassador stood up as well. "I don't want revenge anymore, my friend," he said shaking his head, his voice low. "I've had enough. I'll have no more of the schemes from that summer." He held the young man's hand, the watch held between their palms. "This is no longer a prop. Years ago it was to hold a moment in time. I mean that now. Instead of suspending the carnival of Luna in time, it will commemorate and hold this night as the hour in which I swore – and you swore, if you will – to never harbor the desire for vengeance again, and to put the unwanted past firmly behind us." The Count's face was both grim and earnest now. "Is this…permissible, my friend?"
Albert glanced down at where their hands held the watch. His eyes flickered for a minute or two. Then, clearing his voice quietly, he looked up the Count, clasping his other hand over both of theirs. "It's more than permissible. I swear it."
The Count appeared to sigh heavily with relief. "Oh, thank God!" he murmured quietly. For a moment they stood together like that, until they let go, smiling, and the watch still in the young man's hand. Albert looked down at it, and his eyes lit up.
"Say Count…have you heard of what's to happen two days from now?"
"If you mean the negotiations of peace with Janina, then yes, certainly. You're one of the members to conference with their leader if I'm not mistaken."
"That's right," Albert assented and nodded. He sat the watch back on the desk between the two glasses.
"What of it?"
Albert shrugged. "Well, you know, just something I was thinking about. I heard a little rumor during my travels that a certain spacecraft of yours with three passengers escaped to Janina a little before I left Paris." Albert smiled as the implication sank in.
"You feel up to a trip with me?"
Author's Note – I know, it's really long. But I just couldn't make it any shorter. I tried to avoid OOCness, and also tried to maintain a certain style that fit the series. Overall, I hope you liked it. Let me know if I should put in a second chapter with what happens on Janina, and please review. I'm dying for reviews.
