[where Andersen burns hot, Dantes feels cold - down to the marrow in his bones, ice, ice. his hand drops, the contact broken, and slowly he sits up properly, feeling his own heart slow, but every beat echoing like a stab. an ache that's glass, cutting him open. he will lose everything because he is a miserable wretch, the exact sort of man he wanted to decry in his life, and here he is. hating himself so deeply it makes him feel numb, wishing, wishing he had words to say what he feels.

there is nothing, though. there is only wishing he simply did not care and that he could sail his boat out, to let it sink with him aboard, until the water takes him and he finally stops thinking.

his face in his hands, head bowed, and he wonders, he wonders, is he freezing from the chest outwards?]

Kill me then, and be done with me. I'll hand you the knife to do it.

[do something. leave him, kill him, hurt him - do something, or these chains will weigh him down like they should have so many years ago.]

There's not enough confession in the world for the creature I am.