Notes:  Well, long delayed, here it is; the third digit.  ^_^  Much thanks for the praise (though Lord knows I don't deserve it.  Jess, you write Leggy-chan better than I ever could.  Don't let him tell you otherwise.  And Bennu, you can keep your soul; I wouldn't know what to do with one anyway (mine's in the hands of a certain priest as is,) and your talent for our poor, beautiful blue-haired boy so far outstrips my own... Nae, if I think about it more I will become horribly intimidated and never finish this story.

"I'm certain you know what my answer is, so why don't you get back to my brother and tell him so."  I won't say I'm not surprised by his force- usually, he lets their meekness take him.  Perhaps it's the lack of spoken words; when he's forced to evidence his talents, he does so admirably.  And I, of course, know his talents as well as any other.

I've studied them.

I've seen them.

I've stolen them.

His eyes travel to his own hand- the one embodied, now, by cold metal and taut leather.  It's a strange thing, to lose a hand, and to be given another.  Though I hesitate to claim it (again, I raise myself in my own sights.  I'm still an arrogant little spider, aren't I?  I don't deserve His regard,) he and I are not so dissimilar in some respects (is that why He suffers my presence?  I sin so before him; no matter how I strive, I am nothing.)

Then he glances at my face, although I can feel his desire to watch our hand.  Mine, and his.  I let the thrill of it touch my lips, and fold my arms over my chest.  Temptation incarnate, if I can be it.  Yes, yes, outlaw.  Look on what you can't have anymore.

You can't have it until I have my reward.  Selfish little spider, I am.  A second sin.  Come, outlaw, take it.  Use that pretty gun of yours.  I won't even ask you to use it right. 

Oh, but I neglect conversation in favor of my own thoughts.  Inconsiderate of me.  "Ah, so you deny the truth still?"  I let a little of my thoughts trickle out to him, try to make him see the light.  And as I expected, he recoils.

"That's hardly the truth.  I'm not subject to my brother's delusions."  He eyes me, and I get another shiver through our tendons.  I crack a knuckle absently.  His eyes (what I can see of them behind those golden lenses,) are so like the Master's when he gets angry.  It's almost disconcerting, their adamancy in opposition.  "Or the delusions of my brother's subjects."

I incline my head with the faintest of grins in recognition.  At least he shan't try to convince me of my freewill.  He seems to have accepted that I haven't any.  Still, I let the echo of his own power hang in the air between us.  I paint a picture for him that I once saw; an old painting, cracked and breaking, of God and man.  And between them only a breath of space, the digits nearly touching.  If only one would dare to move. 

If only one would have the mercy he claims so high, and let the other find his release.