Entry tags:

count of monte cristo, mercedes mondego

Who: Gina and Xavier {Completed log.}
What: First dream encounter
Where: Dreamland
When: The night of June 20th.
Warnings: Angst. And length, but it's coded up so it's nice and easy to read.

The crowd moves as one to cheer for the crimson team. Despite himself, he follows. Hands punch the air as wolf whistles chime in with excited shouts. He's at a football game, he realizes - the crimson team scored. The energy in the stadium is infectious; he's shouting with the rest of them, jumping with the others, turning sideways to ask his neighbor if he saw that brilliant play.

It's then he realizes he doesn't know who he is. Not the other man at his side, still cheering with a hot dog shoved towards the skies. He doesn't expect to know him. The problem that he's aware of is who he is supposed to be - Edward, Evan, Chris, William, Xavier. None of them fit here, even if this must be Harvard. The sea of crimson on the field and in the stadium are enough to point to that.

Edward is the person who makes the most sense. He knows that - Edward is the one who attended Harvard, the one who would feel the most at home in this cacophany of cheering. But Edward is dead; he can't be him. The others are discarded more easily and he knows that here, he wants to be Xavier. It doesn't matter that Edward would be the most at ease here - Edward is too easily hurt. He wants to be Xavier - the British heritage, calmer mentality, and guaranteed future.

His hands clench and unclench at his sides, as the screaming finally dies down. The crowd setles into their seats once more, but Xavier continues to stand. He knows he stands out now; hte only one not in crimson, the only one who's risen. He finds he doesn't care. With not so much as an 'excuse me', he pushes down the row. He wants to get to the aisle; it's obvious enough that he doesn't belong. Nevermind that he still looks like Edward - he feels like Xavier and is dressed like him. A suspicion, a barely formed thought suggests that Edward doesn't belong either. He shoves it aside, pushing his way past the spectators.

They don't protest as he pushes by - even as he shoves at them angrily, losing control of his temper. In fact, they don't even notice him. Xavier grinds his teeth, mouth curving into a gritted smile despite himself. He can't help it, especially as he walks through a particularly large woman, spilling out of her seat and into the small space where only feet belonged. The rational part of his mind says that this couldn't be real; this must be a dream, but Xavier doesn't care. If it's his dream, he'll enjoy it then and do as he wishes.

The football players suddenly change into an orchestra - the stadium becomes an opera house - the crowd into deeper hypocrites. He feels more at home, as they begin to whisper and gossip behind fans and hands. His arms cross in front of his chest, as his gritted grin transforms into a faint smirk. Everything falls into place, the predictable world of the opera (how does he know it so well?) where no one comes to listen to the performers - but instead to the latest bit of information. He knows, faintly, neither his Edward-face or Xavier-clothing quite fit - nor his mish-mash of personalities that make up who he is. It doesn't matter; he's more at home here and feels more in control than he had at the stadium.

A hand reaches for his hat, tugging it further down on his face. He turns around in the aisle, heading towards the stairs that would lead to his box. His cape rustles behind him, trailing the edges of the blood-red steps as he climbs.

---

The sun's warm rays play connect the dots with the freckles dappling her skin. As she skips barefoot through the field, a curtain of butterflies approaches from the forest's edge. She can't remember how she got here, or why she came, but she's perfectly content to spread her arms as a thousand beating wings pepper soft kisses from her head to her toes. Though she vaguely remembers there being a brick of lead inside her chest, she gives herself up to the laughter that comes from being tickled over and over by tiny little brushes.

She looks down to see a drape of orange, red, blue, yellow, black, and white settle over her white sundress. Where she once wore a simple garment of cotton, she now donned a living dress that shifted with her as she moved. She takes a step, feeling the grass slide between her toes, and watches a thousand pairs of wings open and close at random. Their jewel-like colors create a sparkling frock that shifts as she does.

Raising an arm to protect her fair eyes from the harsh sun, she squints into the distance. She always ends up here, or at least, it feels that way. This field is old and boring, and though she loves it, it's overdone. She knows what the ground will feel like beneath her feet before she takes a step, and she is all too familiar with the sensation of the sun's rays on her cheeks. It's deja vu in the strangest way, and it makes her uncomfortable.

As she scans the horizon, she spots a bright twinkling hovering by a far-off tree. Her face brightens until it outshines the sun above and she begins to skip towards it. The patchwork splendor of her living dress hovers by her as she goes, a thousand colors and more darting in her wake and circling back to her.

She isn't sure exactly when the field disappears, but with every stride, something changes. The grass hardens into a wooden floor that's cool beneath her bare feet. Two steps later, the sun dies as an elaborate ceiling rises overhead. She looks up, eyes widening at its beauty. It overwhelms her, distracts her as the curtain of butterflies morphs and flattens into a lovely ballroom gown that swishes with every step she takes.

Walls rise from the stones in the field, and soon, she whirls around to take in the impressive beauty of the opera house. Gasping in surprise, she clutches a hand to her chest, the velvet softness of her elbow-length glove playing against her skin. She feels a tickle at the back of her neck as a trail of curls falls from the elegant updo her hair has been swept into. Somehow, she accepts this. This is how things are supposed to work.

As the other patrons begin to sit, she realizes that she has to find her seat. Somehow, she knows where to go. Her feet lead the way up a massive staircase, her fingers trailing delicately over the ornate railing. Moments before finding her box, she glances across the opera house at the many others lining the walls. Temporarily stunned, she stares for a long moment before realizing that there's a long line of people waiting behind her.

"Oh!" she exclaims, bending to pick up the layers of skirts around her in order to squeeze into the box. "I'm sorry!" The people pass without incident, either nodding to her politely or ignoring her outright. She watches the parade pass, and for a moment, sees a face that strikes her with remarkable familiarity. It was a face that brought a stir of emotion, a heartbeat beside her own, and yet she couldn't place it.

---

People watch him here and Xavier finds it comforting. His irritation with being ignored by his peers in the stadium isn't linked to this; being noticed here is part of the goal. He continues to climb, nodding at the few who call out to him. He can't make out what they say and he doesn't want to. There's no one he wants to meet and stop with. Unlike the rest of these people, he plans on enjoying the music of the orchestra (faintly heard warming up beyond the chatter of the audience.) They're here only to gossip. He's above them, simply for that.

He's moving down the hall, towards his box, when a chill goes down his spine. His pace slows for a moment, before he keeps going - eyes now sweeping the area. That feeling of being watched isn't the same; something anyone, even those who aren't paranoid, can know. He sees nothing amiss though, until he turns around.

Despite himself, Xavier stops. The crowd continues to move around him, as if he were a mere rock in the way of the river they formed. His mouth moves wordlessly, for a moment as he realizes it's her. He swallows hard. Even if this is a dream, the effect she has on him doesn't change.

He steps forward, pushing past the crowd. This isn't the first time she's showed in his dreams, but it's usually a memory or she slips away in the arms of another. This time, his hands clench at his sides as he pushes forward - ignoring the cries of outrage and whispers. His eyes do not leave her as he pushes forward, intent.

---

The crowd splits around him, leaving him an immobile mass in the rush of bodies. For a moment, she holds still, entranced by the movements. They're fluid, almost like a dance, of arms and legs and heads that weave and waver. Resting her cheek against the doorway separating the hallway from her box, she watches as he begins to move again.

He outpaces the crowd, raising a small ruckus as he goes. Though he's often obscured by flailing limbs and rustled dresses, she can't miss the intensity in his face or the tension in his arms. For a moment, she considers running. But the gentle music wafting up from the orchestra pit and the soft chatter of polite company within her viewing box keep her calm. After all, if something dangerous were about to happen, she would be able to sense it.

As he comes closer, she finds herself transfixed by his face. It's terribly familiar, but there's a haze clouding her memory. The shape of his jaw sticks out in her mind, and for some reason, she comes up with the word "stubborn." But it isn't an insult at all. No, it sits in her mind like a warm blanket, happy and comforting. She remembers how stubborn was a good thing, how it was strong and comforting.

She straightens up, peeling herself from the doorframe as he comes closer still. Though she hated to presume, it was obvious that he was walking towards her. With a sweet smile, she steps back into the box, extending a hand towards him before sweeping inside to take a seat.

---

It's the smile that kills him, as he reaches the doorframe. His hands go to the wood where her cheek had pressed against a moment prior and for a moment, he can imagine he's touched her. The moment is gone soon enough though as he pauses, looking to her as she takes a seat. How could she smile at him? Wasn't she going to vanish in a moment - a phantom like those in the stadium or when he woke? Wouldn't she leave with another?

He barely manages to keep his face in control, even as a familiar, clenching feeling takes a hold of his stomach. His hand falls from the doorway and to his side, as he steps forward. One foot is carefully placed in front of the other, until he's sits next to her - exhausted from the exertion. For some reason there's no one else in the box and he's thankful. No one would be taking her from him then.

Xavier realizes the meaning of her hand too late. There's a pause after they're seated, before he reaches towards it. He knows his hands are older, more callused than they used to be; they're not a student's hands nor an investor's. He's worked and he's proud of it. He's survived what he's been through. Despite that, he expects her to not understand.

Eyes carefully on her, he raises her hand to his lips for a moment, before letting them fall. It's not a kiss; barely a brush of contact - but he has to fight to keep from shaking afterwards.

---

She would have sworn that there were people in the box. But they must have vanished - vanished like the field and all those lovely butterflies. For a moment, her gaze drops to her dress, and she tugs at it impatiently. She misses those butterflies now. They were so beautiful, so alive. In comparison, this material seems wrong. Dead. She's wearing death, and for a moment it makes her want to scream. But she holds it in, running a hand over her throat as if to coax the panic back into her chest.

Just as she prepares to look out into the hall again, the doorway darkens with a human presence. Her gaze rises as she turns slightly to watch him. A smile spreads across her face, cheerful and sweet, as he approaches her. She wants to say something, but it seems that her gesture has silenced her voice. When she opens her mouth, nothing comes out.

She shifts towards him as he sits, expression cheerful. His face is a thousand secrets and then some, and she would give anything to hear just one of them. Her gaze drops to their hands as he takes hers, slowly moving it to his lips. It's close - so close - but he releases at the last second. She slowly takes her hand back, smile growing warmer. "Hello," she says simply, reveling in her voice. "Have you seen this one before?"

---

His eyes shut for a moment as she speaks. She doesn't talk in his dreams; that's a recurring aspect that he's missed. She'd always been bright - lovely - entrancing. You watched her as she walked into a room, even if she didn't always realize it. It did seem to be when he walked it any rate. His eyes flashed opened and a hint of a smile tugged at his face, the words sinking in.

He should have expected that only he would have recognized her. His eyes leave hers for a moment, looking to the conductor. The music was more recognizable now, though where he'd heard it before is debatable. Edward never listened to opera music; for that matter, neither does Xavier.

"Once or twice," he says, turning back to her. He shifts towards her slightly, legs sideways in his seat and his right elbow on the armrest. "Have you?" There are more imporant questions, he knows, but he could be patient. He was remarkably good at that.

---

As he looks away, she studies his profile considerably. What was it about that face that brought back so many memories that she couldn't see? They were physical memories, touches and warmth that she couldn't even begin to visualize. There were no faces, no names, no conversations in her mind. Just a fuzzy feeling in her stomach and his strange, striking, so familiar face.

She smiles as he turns back, feeling herself calm when his attention is on her. It feels right, somehow. She crosses her legs at the ankles, turning herself towards him though her skirts bunch up as she did, twisting tightly around her knees.

At his question, she shakes her head, eyes wide. "No, I can't say that I have." She looks out over the balcony briefly, raising her fingers to brush casually over her lower lip and chin in a gesture of thought. "But it sounds lovely." She looks back at him, expression suddenly alive and full of mischief. "Is it like the play by Shakespeare? Or is it another completely different interpretation?"

---

When she looks out, his gaze doesn't follow hers. He's seen enough of that; Xavier only wants to take in her. The gesture is familiar, one he's pictured a thousand times - reacted to as many, if not more. There is a desire to take her hand, press it to his lips again but he restrained himself. One hand goes under his chin, balled into a fist to support it, while the other remains in his lap, gripping the edge of his pocket.

"I think you'll like it," Xavier says, casually. He doesn't know if she will or won't; it's just conversation at this point. "Every adaption has their differences, but they bring something to the table. Their own interpretation - they allow you to take something new away from it."

His mind briefly goes to something he cannot remember; uncanny resemblances that are forgotten an instant. He frowns for a moment, before saying - almost as a question, "You are alone tonight."

---

Xavier watches the changes in expression as if they are the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. Something about the fact that even she thinks it's a sad story tugs at him, but he pushes the feeling away. His face remains neutral as his head tilts on his fist. "You don't like sad stories?" His mouth twists slightly, but it's gone a moment later. "It might make you appreciate reality more." He manages to not sound bitter there, his tone forced and even but a knife twists in his stomach.

"I'm alone," he says, simply. He's not sure if he wants to reassure her or make a point. He pauses for a moment, before going on, casually. "But a woman is often here with someone else. A husband, a brother, a lover..." He trails off, head tilting slightly. On another man, the expression might be teasing - something he never truly does. Not Xavier at the least. "I'm surprised no one would want to come."

---

At his question about sad stories, she ponders. Does she dislike them? She isn't sure. Sometimes she does, but sometimes she doesn't. His comment on reality, though, brings all her hazy thoughts into focus. It's like he's a lens, fine-tuning the blurry images that float around inside her mind. She appreciates the clarity. "I don't not like them," she says evenly. "But sometimes it's nice to not have to appreciate life's pain through fiction." A bittersweet smile flutters on her face. "Sometimes I like taking a break."

His mentions of companions make her pause. Does she have any of those? The thoughts are elusive, slipping out of her mind like water through a sieve. She gnaws on her lip gently, tugging at the fingers of her soft glove. "Well, I'm full of surprises," she says genially, flashing him a bright smile. "If we're both alone, why don't we be each other's company?"

---

He shifts in his seat, leaning into the back of it. It's not meant to pull away from her; he still faces her and his expression is as attentive as ever. He's merely more comfortable and from a corner of his eye, he can see the curtain rise. He's not sure if he wants to watch anymore; she's much more entertaining. "What about pleasure? I can't imagine you know much of pain."

Though he wants to mean that mockingly, his tone is gentle and there's a smile that accompanies it. Lies. She shouldn't know anything of it, after all. She's still smiling, still lively, still oblivious to what she'd done...

The offer surprises him though, pulling him back from the path of lost tempers. Genuine surprise and pleasure crosses his face and she gets a smile. "I'd like that." He can't bring himself to say more than it.

---

Hearing him say the word "pain" stirs her stomach. In her mind, there are flashes, a thousand peppered ideas that explode into reality and vanish just as they began to live. She sees a row of men connected by chains marching forward, a clear panel of glass between her face and an old man's, and the smell of whiskey filling her nostrils. A car's horn sounds, cracking the night air in two, and a squeal of tires carries it off into the sky. There's a court room filled with faceless people and more tears than she can make in her entire body.

"You're right," she says, nodding. "But I'd rather not." Her tone is definitive despite her small voice. For a moment, she looks to the curtain as it rises before glancing back at him.

His genuine smile warms her from the inside. "So would I," she says gingerly. "Then it's settled. We're no longer here alone."

---

It's only the fact that she's invited him to stay with her, that keeps him from strangling her at that. His hands fall to his sides, shoving into his pockets as he clneches his fists. Restraint is something he's never had the proper control of; even if this is a dream. "That's good," he says softly, leaving the subject there. Another time, another place, another situation where she doesn't smile at him and he'll rage.

His eyes move past her to the curtain again, as the act starts. The music isn't soothing anymore and he feels irritable; each smile that she gives doesn't help. He wants to be happy with this situation and finds it impossible.

---

She nods, turning towards the stage as the opera begins. It's a beautiful show, and she finds herself momentarily mesmerized. Though she can't understand the words - isn't that the point of an opera? - she can feel the emotions pouring from the stage, surrounding her and cloaking her with their presence. She's an active audience member, smiling and frowning and laughing and sobering with the moods of the characters.

Though she experiences the entire opera, it seems to take place in just a few seconds. At any other time, she would find this strange. Now, she barely notices. At the intermission, she turns to her new companion, smiling brightly. "What do you think so far?" she asks curiously. "I love the costumes."

---

Xavier watches the show blur by in moments; eyes darting between her and it quickly. Is she aware of the change in time? He doesn't know and isn't sure he cares. It's a dream, his dream - it shouldn't matter.

The question causes his mouth to quirk; he files away the information. "It's a good production," he says. His eyes go to the orchestra and to her again, before leaning forward. "The conductor however, isn't. Did you watch his movements at all?"

He supposed a football coach wouldn't make a good conductor; it had seemed a wise decision at the time.

---

As he leans forward, she mirrors him. A smile quirks her lips as he mentions the conductor. "No, I didn't!" Eyes wide, she glances quickly to the orchestra before looking back at him. "I'll have to pay more attention during the second half." She chuckles, shaking her head. "I get so wrapped up in the spectacle of it that I don't really notice all the details sometimes."

She shifts to make herself more comfortable, fiddling with the weight of her dress as she leans more heavily into her chair. Her gaze never leaves his face, though - she's almost afraid to look away.

---

The smirk on his face is less forced, as points out to the orchestra pit. "He's commanding them, as if they were an army. Not as if he's a guide." His hands falls again and he looks to her, conspirationally. "Not that he isn't in chage; of course he is. But there's a certain co-existence, he's unaware of."

It crosses his mind, that he doesn't know how he knows this. It doesn't make sense for any of the people he's been.

---

Her eyes widen as he discusses the conductor. She follows his gesture, peering over the balcony to look down onto the man he's referring to. "Wow." She doesn't know much about orchestras, but this all makes a great deal of sense. "I guess it's like any team. If the leader is a dictator instead of a delegator, then it all falls apart." She shrugs. "They still sound great, though. Maybe the musicians are too good for their conductor."

---

At that, he must chuckle. It's not a bold laugh; it's simply necessary for the comment, even if he is slightly amused. It takes quite a bit to make him laugh anymore; truly laugh and mean it. More often then not, it's at the expense of someone else's misfortune.

"If they were any good, they'd do a better job of following him. Accomadating for his weaknesses."

---

This comment makes her pause. Her brows furrow slightly, and she glances down at her hands for a moment. Something about this concept bites at her, but she isn't sure why. After a moment of composition, she looks up at him, expression earnest. "But should the people that are really good sabotage themselves to accommodate the people that aren't so good?"

Her lips tug back in a diagonal line that betrays her indecision on the matter. "Not that it's good to leave anybody behind but..." She wrinkles her nose slightly, not sure where she's going anymore. "It just can't be fair, expecting talented people to hinder themselves."

---

He shrugs; for once he doesn't have an answer. Not even one he can't tell her. "It depends. People in a higher position have to be followed-" His mouth twists slightly, bitter. "But there's a point where talent shouldn't be wasted." An idea comes, a more based answer and he lenas forward again.

"Ovid still wrote poetry while in exile. They're not the Metamorphoses-" Another shrug. "But they're still important. Think what would have been lost if they hadn't been written - or others, with talent are locked away."

---

The notion that people in power must be followed causes her to purse her lips slightly. In the muddled mess that is her mind, she finds that idea very distasteful indeed. After all, everybody should have an equal chance to do what they wanted. She's lost for a moment, sitting in neutral until he breaks the slight silence.

Glancing to him, she leans forward as he does. His small story makes her smile just slightly. "That's good to hear. History has a habit, I think. Of taking the best people and locking them up." She frowns, expression suddenly very sad. "We're lucky they persevere. The world's a better place because of it."

---

He's not sure what he expects her to respond with - more of the same light chatter, with only a meaning to him. But she then says that and for a moment, with the expression on her face he thinks she knows about him. She realizes who it is she's talking to and who it is she's killing with each of her smiles.

Xavier's hands have left his pockets, though he was unsure of when. The left hand reaches out, grasping at the air in a circular motion, before pulling towards himself. The air suddenly goes quiet - there's no more chatter from the audience and the orchestra which had begun warming up again falls into a dead silence. It's only their breathing - his too fast, as he loses control.

It's his dream - he shouldn't have to restrain himself. "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" He sneers and he reaches for his hat. "I'm sure your husband took care of that." The hat is tossed aside, thrown like a frisbee though his eyes never leave her. He's worn his face the entire time; his real one, Edward's.

"Isn't it good that the dead don't stay dead?" There's a bitter, near hysterical laugh as he reaches for her shoulders. Eyes never leaving hers, he shakes her. "Isn't it? Isn't it better?"

---

Everything stops. The only thing she knows at this moment is that nothing is happening. She feels the oppression of thick silence surround her, choking her slowly. Though nothing exactly has happened yet, the fact that she suddenly feels as if she and her companion are the only two people in the entire world puts her at unease. Her gaze darts out over the balcony, and though she knows there's an entire opera house down there, she can't see anything. She imagines that this must be what patients with damaged occipital lobes must feel - their eyes work, but their brains won't interpret anything.

A jolt runs through her body as his rapid breathing and raging voice crack through the thin shell of horrific tranquility that had settled over her. She turns to face him as he sneers, mentioning a husband. This confuses and terrifies her. "My...husband?" she asks, eyes wide. What husband? She can't remember being married. Her gaze falls to her left hand, and sure enough, her ring finger is empty. Why would she be married if she has no ring to show for it?

When he throws his hat to the floor, she feels everything inside her clench. Though she tries to recoil, he leans forward, hands clamping onto her shoulders. His nails prickle her skin, sending thunder bolts of fear along her spine. What he's saying makes no sense. Her gaze is on his hands, her hands, his shirt, anything to avoid looking into his face. But finally, she can't look away any longer.

She pathetically holds her hands between them, palms facing him both defensively and submissively. Expression contorted by fear, she looks up into his face, his eyes, seeing him plainly and perfectly for the first time. At first, she is terrified. Tears prickle at her lids and a deep red flush of emotion fills her cheeks. But then, something clicks inside. It's subtle, but recognition sets in. Her breath hitches, no longer from fear but from shock, and she gently reaches out with one hand. The pad of her finger barely touches the corner of his jaw, and though her entire body is terrified, she can't convince her mind to agree. The word is whispered, almost too sacred to speak.

"Edward?"


Gina gasped, her body lurching forward from her place on the left side of the bed. She slid a hand through her hair, eyes opening sleepily as she realized that her strange jump had put her face-to-hair with the back of Lucas' head. The sheets on her side were wound around her legs, holding her fast. Upon realizing that it was the sheets and not some spooky goblin, she heaved a sigh of relief and pulled back.

Flopping onto her back with her head firmly on her own pillow, she stared at the ceiling and tried to slow the pace of her racing heart. It had been some time since she had dreamed of him. Usually they were brief dreams, meaningless pieces of fluff. They were in college again, or it was an alternate future, or it had turned out that his arrest was just a prank. But they were always happy dreams, and he had never hurt her.

She could still feel his hands on her shoulders, digging in like daggers. Resting a hand over her left shoulder, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Despite herself, she felt a tear slide from the corner of her eye and collect in the shell of her ear. She was too upset to brush it away.

---

Somewhere in the back of his mind, her confusion is noted and filed away. But Xavier cannot spend time on it, playing any more at confusion and beating around the bush. No. He's waited long enough and it's his dream; he wants this taken care of, because it's gone of for far too long. Her fear only makes him angrier; it's about time she knows what he felt like and realizes what she did to him, if she hasn't.

It hurts more than he'd like to admit, that she won't look at him - and when she does, the shaking stops. He's barely controlled fury, looking at her as it dawns on her, waiting for what she'll do next. If she smiles at him now, he'll throw her from the box's edge; the fall would be a fitting punishment for her.

But she reaches for him and though it's hesitant, he can't hurt her for this. Even if his fingers are still curved into her shoulders, feeling through the layers of fabric to her skin and bone, he's not going to toss her. Not when she her mouth is opening and it's his name that echoes in his ears.

The word is magic and she vanishes a moment later; he's clutching empty air, as he usually does. A disgusted, frustrated sound escapes him - he knows it sounds animal-like and he doesn't care. He shifts in his chair to punch the cushion, the sound escaping him again as he actually feels pain from the encounter.


Xavier woke up with his hand aching from slamming into his headboard. He remained lying down, focusing on the pain in his hand for a moment and being thankful he'd bought a padded one. The hand went to his mouth, the red skin already tingling as he pressed his lips against it, thinking. That feeling of anger still coursed through him, left over with the bright images of the dream - the stadium, the opera, Gina - but he could keep it in check in reality. He had to.

He rolled over onto his back, letting his eyes open as he looked up to the ceiling. It wasn't that he didn't often dream of Gina - she just never stayed or felt so real. Ruefully, he thought that his mind was getting away from him; it was her arrival in the building along with Lucas'. It had sent his mind astray and made him impatient.

He couldn't have that; he'd waited twelve years for revenge. He could wait a few days more to begin setting his plans into motion.