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It was just as the old priest foretold it. 

Newton's Third Law. There is a reaction for every action. And though Edmond succeeded in his pursuit of vengeance against Danglars, Villefort, and Mondego, he could not stop vengeance's momentum after he'd pushed it down this slippery slope, and it struck once more, taking the last individual who, yes, had betrayed him in his absence, but was also the only one Edmond was willing to forgive, his love triumphing above his desire for revenge.

It came anyway. 

While Edmond, Jacopo, and Albert had worked quickly in transferring Mercedes to a hospice to have the bullet extracted, their haste had led to a crucial error. The hospice was close but did not have staff skilled enough to properly remove the bullet nor the medical wherewithal to anticipate the lethal consequences of the procedure. Some residual lead from the bullet had remained in Mercedes' system, unbeknownst to them at the time, slowly poisoning her from the inside out.

Apparently, due to Edmond's meddlings with Fernand's affairs, forcing banks to collect on their debts and bankrupt the man, rob him of everything he had taken from him, the late Count Mondego had been forced to make some quality cuts in the merchandise he was selling. The ammunition that Fernand was using that day was, thus, of shoddy quality, and in the end, Fernand did end up achieving what he sought out: he'd put the bullet where it would do the most damage. 

And that it did. For a prolonged period of time, Edmond and Albert watched Mercedes suffer agonizingly from his lead bullet before she passed not soon after.

Albert was reticent, as a boy his age would be, having lost both his parents within a three months timespan. He did not speak much as Edmond arranged his personal belongings to be transferred to his home. With Mercedes gone, and the secret unveiled of Albert's true heritage, Edmond felt obligated to take care of the young man, as a father who hadn't been there since his birth and out of the respect of Mercedes' memory. Albert was the only reminder Edmond had left of his wife, and he was the same for Albert, though he may not admit it. He was still in a period of grief, so Edmond allowed him some time to process it.

Edmond felt like a ghost himself, stricken by grief after Mercedes' death. He'd risen from Villefort's grave but felt incorporeal to the world. Were it not for Jacopo's accompaniment, he would not believe himself to be alive.

The distance between him and Albert only grew more pronounced the more time Edmond allowed the young man his privacy. He tried to reach out, console Albert how he thought a father would to a son, though he was sorely lacking in experience in that department, but his fatherly efforts only aggravated Albert more. 

It stung to be so coldly turned away by his son. To see the grief so stark on Albert's face and not have the ability to do anything about it. The treasure of Spada may have afforded much into Edmond's life, giving them this splendorous home in Marseilles with all the luxuries a man could need, but it could never give a son back his mother.

For that, he could not fault Albert for his aloofness, his emotional detachment as he sat at their too large dining table, eating his breakfast in silence. But it did not balm Edmond's own loneliness. 

Soon, being in the mansion became far too painful of a reminder, with its capacious foyer and the countless number of rooms that far exceeded the number of actual occupants. Edmond and Albert seemed to be always in completely opposite wings of the building at all times, and if Jacopo weren't around the day, having his own completely separate life to live, it truly was as if Edmond was utterly alone.

***

It took Edmond one month of this isolating silence before he broke down.

Jacopo and he were having a casual conversation in his office; though the former brigand called him 'Grace' in the company of others, there was an informality in their private conversations that Edmond cherished. A reminder that there was a man tethered to the identity of the Count of Monte Cristo, one that was a real, living, breathing human, and had accomplished some good in his life. 

That's all Edmond had ever wanted to do when he was younger, add more good to the world than not, living his merry, simple days with Mercedes and sailing on the Pharaon with his best friend, Fernand. 

He'd lost that youthful optimism now, had it carved out of him like the scriptures he traced time and time again in his prison walls of Chateau d'If, crumbled away like rubble until it was just another pile of dirt buried deep in the tunnels of the island.

But Jacopo knew Edmond differently. First met as Zatarra and now familiar with the various other identities he's taken on, Jacopo knew what kind of man Edmond was. The man who saved his life when they were but strangers and saved the lives of all the prisoners wrongfully incarcerated at Chateau d'If who were liberated after purchasing the island.

That good still existed deep in Edmond's core. 

It pained Jacopo as he witnessed his friend break down into tears, abruptly, unexpectedly, in the middle of what he had thought was a relatively jovial conversation between them. How the entirety of his body shuddered in all-encompassing sobs, sullying the velvet robe Edmond was wearing with snot and tears.

Jacopo could not stand mum to it any longer. What his friend needed, in Jacopo's opinion, was help, help chiselling out of the heavy fortifications Edmond had built around himself to shield him from his trauma. And the first step to help Edmond break out of the darkness shrouding him was find a way to move forward in his life.

Edmond had threatened his life once before in the carriage when he'd conspired with Mercedes in arranging their private conversation, believing wholeheartedly that it was the decision best for his friend. And he was prepared to accept punishment again for interfering in Edmond's affairs, if it would give the man a chance to live the life that Jacopo thought he rightfully deserved.

He slid around Edmond's desk, rubbing soothingly on the man's trembling shoulders. The cries abated to a degree.

"Even in these gilded walls, I feel the dark void of Chateau d'If haunting me still."

"Zatarra... look around you." Edmond sniffled, tracking the arc of Jacopo's arm with his eyes as he gestured around the office space. "You are not in prison anymore."

Edmond shook his head. "I have become my own gateskeeper."

"You have the keys, Zatarra. The door does not have to be locked if you don't want it to be. All you must do is open it."

"What awaits me out there?"

Edmond had become a homebody in his grief, and the stories Jacopo regaled to him earlier of ordinary life outside this lonely mansion only served to remind him of what a husk he's truly become. A one-time wonder. His biggest accomplishment as Count being the single  extravagant party he'd held for the sole purpose of seducing his enemies closer. What possible future did he have to live for now - with Mercedes gone, his father hung, and an estranged son?

"How can you expect Albert to learn to be happy again if his father cannot set an example for him?" Jacopo said matter-of-fact.

"So... what? You suggest I just prance out there and pretend that nothing's wrong? Go out to your pubs, getting drunk and having amorous relations with random barmaids like you are?" Edmond said with a look of consternation.

"Tell me, Zatarra. How does a ship travel to shore?" Edmond's brow furrowed at that, clueless to what Jacopo was getting at.

Jacopo let out a long, heaving sigh. "One league at a time, my friend." He gave a consolatory pat to Edmond's shoulder. "You don't have to fix everything all at once, Zatarra. But if you don't try? You'll be stranded here forever with no wind to your sails."

Edmond froze, eyes growing wide as he processed Jacopo's words. One league a time.. In retrospect, it seemed so simple. Yet daunting.

"And just as a Captain isn't anything without his crew, you have me by your side to help you through this." Jacopo said with a reassuring smile. "We can go as slow as you like, Zatarra, but yes, a good beer and some company might do you some good," he added with a playful wink.

Edmond was surprised by the sound of his own laughter as he reacted to his friend's joke. It had been so long that he'd felt an emotion that could overcome his grief which had taken over monopoly of his heart. A lightness in his chest emerged from the sound brought out of him. And with Jacopo's stalwartness by his side, another emotion, too, one that Edmond had forgotten long ago. Hope and the belief that things could turn out okay for once.

***

So he chased that light. 

Chased it until his feet were flat on the cool, marblestone footsteps outside of his mansion and out to the city where he mingled with the townspeople in the pubs at night until the sound of his laugh wasn't as foreign to him anymore. The lofty title of Count was put away for 'just Edmond,' and it felt like the heavy pressure weighing down on him was starting to finally subside.

Progress! He was making progress! One league at a time. 

After much cajoling, Edmond was even finding himself convinced to put himself out there romantically again. Much of what would be considered the prime of his life had been squandered in Chateau d'If, but Edmond was still a handsome man and had certainly received many propositions from men and women both in his trips to the pub reminding him of that fact.

But his mind played tricks on him, tried to convince him that the reason Edmond's bed was so cold late at night was because of a curse that anyone associated with him seemed to succumb to. So for his first time since Mercedes' death, he asked Jacopo to hire a prostitute. Someone who could help Edmond dip his feet back into that level of vulnerability but without the pressure of something serious developing between them. Jacopo was more than happy to comply, excited to be there for his friend's renewed perspective on life.

Unfortunately, while most things in Edmond's life seemed to be on the uptick, his relationship with Albert was not one of those things. Albert, in the rare instances he was in the room with the Count, noticed the slow, gradual change in his behavior. The Count seemed to smile more freely, and that only enraged Albert more. The general aloofness he'd been granting the man turned into downright disregard, rebuffing any attempts to speak to him and simply retreating to a different part of the mansion.

Albert abhorred the Count, abhorred the fact that it was his blood flowing through his veins alongside his mother's, whose demise he'd contributed to. In the three months that Mercedes suffered from her injury, she tried her best to reconcile the differences between the two men, knowing that she did not have much time left. She advised her son that her father was a good man, and that when she were to pass, they must learn to take care of each other, if but for her sake.

But Albert did not see a good man. Albert saw a man running from his problems, sinking himself into the cups night after night to drown his sorrows away. The more he observed this man, the more disgusted he became. How could a man whom his mother sworn fealty to for all these years grieve for so little time?

And when Albert had discovered the festivities planned for tonight, his disdain for the Count became insurmountable. Just one month after his mother's death, and he was already plotting to take a bedmate. Jacopo, while a loyal ally to the Count, was not as careful with his secrets, just like their first encounter when he slipped about the Spada gold in front of him. Albert had heard Jacopo make inquiries whilst rounding a corner, advising the housemaids and butlers to take the day off as the Count was expecting company this evening. 

An unusual request, considering the Count did not seem as interested in bringing people to the mansion as much as he preferred prancing off into the night, distancing himself as much as possible from his home. It was only when he caught Jacopo bringing a bottle of oil and an assortment of other... sundries that Albert realized the extent of this visit.

"Mo-monsieur Albert," Jacopo stuttered, recovering from his surprise and catching the tray before it went off balance. His cheeks bloated, as if the secret was ready to spill out of him.

Albert narrowed his eyes, staring at the contents in Jacopo's possession. He arched an eyebrow, silent.

Jacopo floundered under the scrutiny, shifting nervously in place as he spun his lies about how these were for him and that men have needs, you know?

Albert did not look remotely amused, lips curled in a half snarl. "And does the Count have needs?" he asked, uttering the title with immense loathing.

Those unusually large eyes of Jacopo's bulged out at the question. "A-Albert, your father..."

"He's not my father. Not in any meaningful away, at least." His look hardened. "In fact, you were the one who gave the Count the blade that slew my father, the man who raised me since birth."

Jacopo winced. As a reformed pirate, he's had to kill people in his past. Sailors, other pirates who threatened the ships he was on, people who got in the way of Zatarra's revenge. He was inured to the idea of death because it was just another aspect of his livelihood at his time. But from the perspective of a noble-born like Albert, who only suffered from the consequences of such a life, they were looked upon like heartless savages. And for someone whose long left behind that lifestyle, trying to do his best to repent for that past, it brought Jacopo a great deal of guilt back.

"What has the Count planned for this evening, Jacopo?" Albert said with grounded teeth, jaw set.

Jacopo flitted his eyes around, hesitating. "H-his Grace has hired a prostitute for this evening."

Blood rushed into Albert's ears, having his suspicions confirmed. "Cancel them," he said with a firm tone. "I wish to speak to the Count myself."

"But Monsieur..."

Albert did not entertain the pithy pushback. "You owe me this much, Jacopo." He crossed his arms and penetrated the man with a look that spoke to how long coming this confrontation has been. Edmond and Albert have drawn out this impasse between them far enough, and it was time to have some real speaking words between them.

Jacopo gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed his nerves. He nodded his head sheepishly, turning around to descend the stairs.

His retreat was stopped by one extended hand. "Continue with the preparations as needed, lest the Count get suspicious. And let it not be unsaid, he is not to know about the change of plans."

***

His bedroom was dark at the allotted time. Edmond laid in the comfort of his enormous bed, velvet robe hanging loosely from his shoulders. Though he was not a virgin and this was not even the most adventurous place Edmond has had sex in, he was encumbered by nerves nonetheless. It would have been to painful to take the appointment in the master bedroom, where just months prior, he and Mercedes would make love and make up for lost time, so he was situated in one of the larger guest bedrooms in the mansion. That was the reason, too, why Edmond had the lights turned off with nary a candle to illuminate the area. This was meant to be a way to wade slowly into the waters, something impersonal, but per Jacopo's analogy, one league forward in his journey to comeback.

Edmond's heart rate sped up when he heard the sound of the door open and close.

The stranger moved silently through the shadows, so quiet Edmond could barely make out her footsteps. The mattress caved in as she lifted herself onto the bed. Edmond could make out the swish of an exotic, lace veil obscuring her face.

"Good evening miss," Edmond said, rather lamely. The light was proving to be quite a detriment as he could not make out much of the woman's figure, her dark clothing seemed to blend with shadows, like a spectre. He could, however, feel the woman's presence as dainty, slender fingers trailed from his hamstring to the inner of his thigh. His cock reacted positively to the touch, blood rushing towards the teasing swipes.

It seemed the visitor did not quite care for speaking herself which saved Edmond from the potential awkwardness. The encounter was to be impersonal anyway, so he let himself sink further into the bed as those hands started freeing his cock from the fly of his undergarments. 

Edmond groaned as a warm tongue dragged along the line of his length, alternating between hard and slow tugs that had him engorging in those soft hands. They continued their path, increasing the pace and peppering wet kisses from the base of his cock to the crown until he was fully erect and leaking profusely. He choked on a gasp when his cock was finally sucked in by the supple, wet heat of their mouth. Here in the darkness, everything felt more pronounced. Edmond could feel the tingling sensation on his shaft, slick with saliva, chilling in the air as his lover prepared to him deeper. The bed creaked as the bobbing intensified, hot then cold, as his cock was thrust in and out of her mouth. The swollen tip of his head made contact with the plush walls of her throat as she sucked him hard, so deep inside her he was that Edmond could feel the veil tickling along his thighs and the heated breaths of someone nose-deep in his pubic hair. The mouth contracted around his thick cock, squeezing it tight and drawing Edmond closer to his climax. He felt his balls start to draw up, imminently close to his release, and he grappled onto his lover's head as they sucked him down, discovering the woman had lovely, curly hair that was soft under his touch. His whole body was alight with pleasure as the pace quickened, obscene slurping noises filling the air as hands twisted around his cock. When that tongue twirled against the boundary of the tip and his shaft, causing Edmond to writhe into the mattress, one of Edmond's legs brushed against something hard and hot in the general direction of his lover that made him take pause. It felt like...

No, it couldn't have been. While Edmond had no qualms with sleeping with either men or women, he was positive he had heard Jacopo's words correctly earlier this morning when he stated that it would be a lady that he had arranged. He abruptly shuffled to the left, drawing his cock out from the stranger's mouth with a pop.

"I should like to see you now," Edmond said, wary. He slipped out of bed and instantly knew something was wrong when he could feel the bed bounce again. His visitor had followed his lead and slipped out as well.

"I'm going to turn on the lights now," he warned. Still he received no response.

Edmond dragged his hand across the wall, blindly searching for the lamp switch. The web of his hand caught the trigger, and he flicked it up, bracing himself.

His visitor remained wax still as the lamp illuminated the room. The veil was still placed firmly on their face, so that Edmond could not see the person behind it, but he could tell from their frame and height alone that this was definitely a man.

"Who are you?" Edmond asked.

The two remained silent for a beat, before there was an impatient huff of air, rustling the veil from underneath. His visitor parted their mask from the middle.

"Hello, Count of Monte Cristo," Albert said.

"Albert, what- why are you here?" Edmond felt the instant need to cover himself, still bare from the earlier activities. He settled for hovering his hands over his cock which was still fairly erect.

"No need to bother with decencies for my sake, Count. After all, this would not be our first time we've had an amorous encounter with pretense."

Edmond winced, guilt bringing back the memory of his first time with Albert. When he told himself that bedding this impressionable, young man was a means to an end, one step closer to his true goal. Revenge on his father, Fernand Mondego, his ex-best friend who conspired to have him imprisoned and stole everything from him in the process.

"Albert..." Edmond said, palms facing outward in a calming gesture. "I can explain."

"There's very little to explain, Count. I should think that proof enough." He pointed an accusatory finger at the cock that Edmond was so happy to have around his lips once more just minutes earlier.

Albert ripped the veil off, letting it drop to the floor. He paced around the other side of the room where a lone desk stood, arms crossed. There was a chessboard, with some pieces already on the sidelines. A game in limbo. Albert swiped at the board, snatching one white pawn with such haste that the queen's piece fell to the floor in tandem. He tossed his quarry at Edmond with punishing speed. "One month after mother's death, and you're already looking to replace her. Were we both pawns in this sick, twisted reality you've concocted for yourself, Count? When will you truly be sated?"

Edmond caught the wooden piece which slammed into his arm, eyes downcast. He did not know what to say to console the still grieving boy. Their relationship had been founded on multiple lies, some of them his, some of them attributed to the dead. But only he was here now to account for them all. 

He started with the first truth that he could unequivocally state as fact. "I loved your mother, love her still."

"My mother is dead because of you."

"Your mother is dead because of Fernand Mondego. Because he shot her, and the bullet lodged inside of her gave her lead poisoning."

"Don't speak of my father so poorly," Albert shouted, shaking his head to ward off the unsavory memories. The greyish green thickening his mother's veins, the jaundiced skin. He shuddered.

"Albert, I am your father," Edmond said, voice wavering. Was this the first time he'd formally said those words to the young man in the scant months they'd known one another, the first time they'd spoken about this newfound, fragile connection that tied them both?

"No! I will not stand for it." Fernand Mondego may not have been his biological father, but he was the man who raised him, the man who tended to him when he got injured in the backyard, who was at his bedside when he'd caught a head cold, who'd taught him chess in the living area while mother prepared lunch for the day. No matter what mother says, this man could never be his father, not entirely.

Now that Albert knew who that mysterious sailor Mother had spoken about from time to time, it had almost made the insult worse. She told him a story once of a fishmonger daughter waiting for the return of her Captain lover and her dismay when it was revealed that he had died at sea. After looking into his "father's" background, the details had all made sense. The wistful look in mother's eyes as she told the story, how she always looked yearningly out into the water when he, father, and mother all went together to the beach. If mother was as important to the Count as he was to her, how could he forsake her memory so quickly? Why does he get to live on with his nighttime dalliances, while his two parents are buried in the grounds of Marseilles? No rhyme nor reason could assuage the hatred stewing inside Albert. He felt utterly alone in his plight.

But now was not the time for self-pity. Albert steeled himself, prepared to proceed with his plans. If the Count was so quick to defile his mother's memory, then he would duel for her honor. Her and his father's both. He dug through his bag, pulling out one rapier by the hilt. It hit the floor with a clang as Albert tossed it to his adversary.

"Our last duel was interrupted," Albert said, pulling his weapon out. "I think it's time for a re-match, don't you?" Those brown eyes bore into Edmond, reminding him so much of Mercedes, except for the hatred burning vividly in them. A hatred that Edmond had fueled, with his deception. He cannot fight Albert, his son, the last remaining vestige of he and Mercedes' relationship. The one who shall carry the torch in their names.

But Albert was stubborn, snappish. Edmond was forced to pick up the sword to defend himself from the incoming slash his way. Their blades crashed with hard tinny ring.

"You killed her, you killed her!" Albert spat, in between a flurry of blows. He was adept with the sword like Fernand was, the shadow of his deceased ex-best friend following each blow from the young man. Another thing Albert learned from his father, to fight, and especially to fight for one's family's honor the way Fernand had against multiple adversaries.

"I did not want Mercedes to die, I loved your mother, Albert. Please believe me!" Edmond ducked as Albert swiped high at his face. The onslaught of attacks did not stop.

"You're a liar! You could've saved her. She asked you to stay, but you didn't." In the confusing interrim of Fernand Mondego's death and her subsequent reunion with the Count, Mercedes had not been able to explain much to her son, though he had countless questions. His mother skirted and evaded many lines of inquiry, but it became very clear that his mother did not agree with the path the Count had taken, from what Albert could read through the lines. Most importantly, what Albert had seared into his mind was the sound of his mother's pleading as she bled on the ground, freshly shot, asking the Count to stay. To forego his revenge just once, let Fernand Mondego flee, and be with her in her time of need.

Which of course he promptly ignored, instead skewering the man who raised him in the heart.

"Tell me, Count of Monte Cristo. Why do you stay now?" Albert flicked his wrist, making a shallow slash diagonally across Edmond's torso. He wanted to know, for someone so motivated by selfishness, for revenge, what was keeping him here? He had already abandoned his mother once when her life was in peril. What with all his wealth, he could sail in any direction and rebuild his life. It did not need to be in Marseilles.

Edmond flinched, reflexively covering his bleeding body with one arm. "I stay because you are here, Albert. Because you are my son, and..." He paused, suddenly realizing how poorly he'd been at demonstrating this next point. "Because I love you."

Albert snorted, a sharp laugh leaving his lips. "Your arrival was my storm, Count. Those words you said to me at my birthday party... they filled me with such courage. Until I realized that you have been the one wreaking havoc on my life." He dove in, closing the distance between him and Edmond with a pointed jump. "And now, I scream at this void that the storm has left, and I forsake it and the fates for what has happened to me."

Edmond parried the jab but felt the wall collide against his back. His options for retreat were slowly dwindling, and Albert seemed more incensed than not. But more than that, he had lost his will to fight altogether, heart overcome with sadness. Albert's methods, while questionable, had revealed to him the extent of his failure. In his own selfish pursuit of vengeance, Edmond had dragged Mercedes and Albert back into the storm of his own problems, leaving a lasting impact on the two of them.

When he thought of that toast for Albert's birthday, he was speaking from the heart. From the experience of a man who had been battered by the rocks but had ultimately escaped the storm, swimming till his limbs could not withstand any longer, and he had awoken to the warm light of the sun beating down on his sand wrecked body.

For thirteen years, he let that storm consume him, driven blind by the winds of vengeance. He thought of the old priest, who had been at Chateau d'If for far longer than he, and how content he had been to see the sky again for the first time in eleven years. And how Edmond had not only seen the sky again but basked in the glory of the sunlight once more, something the older man had afforded him with his life in the end. Edmond may have freed himself from the shackles of the prison, but he had not wrested himself from the burning hatred chaining him down. And because of that, Mercedes and Albert had suffered in his place.

He dropped the sword in his hand, letting it roll towards Albert. Edmond had truly done his worse in the end, achieving his vengeance but at what price? The old priest had warned him, Jacopo had warned him, Mercedes had warned him, and now Albert has reminded him now. The reaction to his actions. 

If he was to die by Albert's hands, it would be justifiable.

Albert ceased his swiping, but the tip of his rapier pressed threateningly at the base of Edmond's throat.

Tears streaming down his eyes, Edmond said, "Albert, I see now how my vengeance has affected you, and I am sorry for it. And that is why continuing down this cycle of vengeance will not bring you closure." It was hypocritical to say so, but it was the truth nonetheless. "You must learn where I did not. That the storm, in the end, is not a physical being. It was not Danglars. It was not Villefort, nor was it Fernand. Learn from my mistakes and persevere through the storm until the light shines once more."

Albert shifted his eyes away from Edmond. "There is no light in Marseilles. She is long gone and buried."

Calloused hands covered Albert's where he was still brandishing his blade at Edmond's throat. "We shall rediscover it. Together."

His grip on the rapier faltered as his hands were blanketed in a comfortable, soothing warmth. His will to fight ebbing away as the reality of the situation hit him, how his anger possessed him so deep that he almost killed a defenseless man, his only relative left. His... father.

Albert's voice trembled, letting his vulnerability seep through the cracks. "How will the fates know me now?"

Albert took the offered piece dropped into his hand, staring quizzically at it. "You and I both have so much life yet to live, Albert. So moving forward, let us celebrate the Pawn's Day. And let us both help each other reach our full potentials."

Albert smiled, cherishing the heat of the pawn handed over to him. It was still warm from his father's hands, warm like sunlight.