"I'm bleeding, Ludwig."

The man held out the hand that had been covering his wound, the marble blood continuing to drip through his fingers, running down his arm, becoming a fine powder once it hit the floor.

With a hiss of pain, he staunched the wound again. He swung his legs around and made to stand, but something in Ludwig's brain snapped to attention.

"Stop!" Ludwig cried.

The marble man's toes were centimeters from the ground. His eyes flicked up to meet his creator's, but Ludwig's attention was fixed on the marble powder that had been the statue's blood.

"Don't – don't get off the pedestal," Ludwig said as he cautiously approached the marble man.

The man followed Ludwig's gaze to the powder on the floor.

"Is – is that…mine?"

Ludwig felt his head give a slow nod. "Yes," he breathed.

Ludwig's eyes flicked up to the marble man – the stone statue he had carved – hunched on a pedestal, moving – breathing – before him. All sense he possessed screamed at the impossibility of the situation. But here it was. He was watching it happen….

Unless his eyes could not be trusted.

Or his mind. Exhaustion and stress can do funny things to one's mind – and god knew between his cousin's ridiculous marriage scheme and working endlessly for the past month to finish commissions, Ludwig had had enough of both….

But was he that exhausted? Enough to hallucinate?

Perhaps.

Ludwig's eye twitched as he raked a hand through his hair.

Yes. He was exhausted. This was all due to fatigue. Nothing more. Fatigue and Roderich and maybe he ought not to have had that beer on an empty stomach….

A small, hysterical laugh escaped his throat. This was all a hallucination. Like dreaming with eyes open. It would be over soon….

The marble man coughed, the sound phlegmy and gurgling in his throat and catching Ludwig's attention, bringing him back to the situation at hand.

Ludwig was watching him bleed out.

Him.

The marble man.

Ludwig's creation.

Was bleeding out.

Ludwig pushed aside all logic and reason and jumped into action. He shrugged out of his coat and approached the pedestal. The man had slumped back, one shaky arm holding his weight. Ludwig eased him back onto the pedestal, cradling the man's head as he balled his coat up and pressed it to the wound in the man's side. The man grit his teeth against the pressure.

"Is that better?" Ludwig asked, brow furrowed with a mixture of worry and the need to make some kind of sense out of this absurdity.

The marble man nodded. "I think so."

Ludwig was suddenly aware of the pressure in his hand, of the tickling of fine hair as it brushed against his fingers when the man's head moved.

"Your hair is soft."

The marble man snorted at the bald statement before wincing in pain.

Ludwig felt his cheeks flush. "I'm sorry – "

"Don't be. You're good at what you do."

"Which is what?"

The marble man gave Ludwig a sidelong glance as he cocked an eyebrow. "Sculpting."

"Oh. Right." The color on Ludwig's cheeks deepened. He pressed his lips together, thinking, and wholly unsure of what to say. He settled for another bald observation. "So this is real then? I'm not – not going mad?"

" 'Course it's real. Why wouldn't it be?"

Ludwig gave a derisive laugh and shook his head. "I think I'd rather be going mad. In all my years – never – this sort of thing has never happened. It's insane. I'm talking to a statue!"

"What's so insane about it?" the man asked, angling his head to check his wound. "You're my creator. You gave me life. Although I'm not too sure about that last part." He winced as Ludwig pulled his coat away to check the wound. A fine white powder dusted the fabric. Ludwig stared at it, a look of mesmerized detachment on his face as he brushed it away.

"Goddammit! It won't stop!" the man hissed between clenched teeth as he clapped his hand back over the hole in his side.

Ludwig's head snapped up to see the man writhing on the pedestal.

"H-hang on! Let me – just – " Ludwig's brain began working feverishly. How the hell do you stop a marble statue from bleeding?

Ludwig had no time to dwell on the ridiculousness of that question as he set about ransacking his studio, looking for something he could use to plug the hole….

His eyes fell on bags of plaster and jars of adhesive sitting on a shelf against the far wall. An idea struck Ludwig, and he set about mixing up a slurry of plaster and glue in an empty bucket. He had no time to run up to the house and get water to mix the plaster – besides, he wanted the bond to be as strong as possible. He then cut up strips of fabric from a canvas drop cloth and soaked them in the mixture. When the cloth strips were sufficiently coated, he began to dress the marble man's wound.

"Don't touch it," Ludwig instructed as he applied the last bandage. "Not unless you want your hand to get stuck to you."

"Thanks, doc."

"Don't thank me yet. I'm not even sure this will work," Ludwig said, wiping his hands off on an old rag.

The man propped himself up on one elbow and poked at the dressing.

"Hey! What did I just tell you?" Ludwig snapped.

"Feels better already," the man said with a shrug. He gingerly pushed himself up, wincing slightly as he did so, until he was sitting again.

Ludwig frowned. "You really should be lying down."

The man answered with another shrug. He looked inquisitively around the studio, one foot bobbing up and down.

"So what now?" he said.

"What now?" Ludwig echoed sardonically. "Now, I'm going to bed and hoping this nightmare ends."

"Nightmare, am I?" the man balked. "You made me."

Ludwig's jaw clenched. "…That – that's not what I meant. I'm sorry." He brought a stool over to sit across from his creation and lowered himself on it with a tired huff. "I'm sorry," Ludwig said again, rubbing his face. "This is just as new for me as it is for you."

"Do I have a name?" the man asked.

"What?" Ludwig sniffed, picking his head up.

"A name. You have one – "

"Yes, and how is it you know that?"

The man shrugged again. "I don't know. It's like I just woke up and I knew." The man wrinkled his brow as if deep in thought. "…I can remember…people talking. And always your voice. And always your name, though I couldn't yet see your face. I knew it had to be you. There was something in your touch…in your hands."

Ludwig blinked, his mind trying to process this. Was this man sitting before him not actually made of stone? Had he not carved him with his own hands? Or, if indeed this man's story was to be believed and he had heard Ludwig long before he saw him, was he perhaps some creature trapped in marble that Ludwig had set free?

"…I…" Ludwig began, then, shaking his head: "Never mind. Let's – let's start with something easy." Philosophical discussions could be tabled until a later time – if ever there was one. A dull ache started to pound in his temple.

The man gave Ludwig a quizzical look.

"You wanted a name, yes?"

"Sure. Might make things easier."

"Right," Ludwig snorted. "Okay, um…." Ludwig trailed off, studying his creation – the sharp jaw-line, the dip formed by the muscles in his broad chest, pale veins running down toned arms, shifting and flexing with each movement….

Damn. He really was that good. Ludwig smiled to himself, feeling the color rise to his cheeks.

"Admiring your work?" the marble man smirked.

"Yes."

The man blinked his pale eyes in mock astonishment. "You're not very conceited, are you?"

Ludwig quirked an eyebrow, grinning. "Depends on if you believe my cousin or not. He seems to think I am self-absorbed. And as of right now, I'm inclined to agree. Here I am, talking to one of my sculptures. I may as well be talking to myself."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, seeing as how I made you, I must have put something of me into you…." Ludwig let the rest of his thought fall off, the realization suddenly hitting him as he studied the man before him. Into this man he had placed everything he had ever wanted or desired. Everything he had ever hidden from Roderich was captured in this man's beautifully sculpted form.

Ludwig cleared his throat. It was bad enough falling for a human man based solely on looks alone, but placing one's physical ideals into an object of one's own creation was hundreds of times worse. Wasn't there some special level of hell for narcissists? He belonged, at the very least, in the Second Circle with the lustful, but he could be cast even further down with the heretics – or, god forbid, the fraudulent….

"Ludwig, I'm not you."

The man's gentle voice made Ludwig painfully aware of the dilemma etched across his face. This was real. He was not having some kind of narcissistic breakdown from reality. This. Was. Real.

A pale hand reached down to entwine its fingers with his. Ludwig jerked his hand away. He immediately regretted it upon seeing the hurt look flash across his statue's face, but…this was too much. Now that he had a moment to sit and think, this was too, too much. He could dismiss the moving statue as nothing more than a hallucination brought on by stress and perhaps his own negligence when it came to his personal care. The playful bantering was nothing more than two sides of his own psyche having a discussion. But when the thing – his creation – reached out for him, as if to offer comfort, a line had been crossed. The veil between the Seen and Unseen worlds had been lifted, and Ludwig was not ready just now to deal with whatever implications that might entail.

Ludwig stood, pushing back the stool, the metal scraping against the stone floor.

"I'm going to bed," he said hoarsely.

The man made to get off the pedestal to follow, but Ludwig stayed him with a gesture.

"Don't," Ludwig said, his voice quiet and full of fatigue. "I don't think you should leave your pedestal."

The marble man folded his arms across his chest, glowering. "And why not?" he challenged.

Ludwig looked at the pile of dust that had been the statue's blood and said: "Because I think you will turn to dust if you do."

"So I have to stay out here? Sleep out here?"

Ludwig nodded.

The marble man's scowl deepened.

"I'm sorry," Ludwig said. He hoped he sounded sincere, but he knew his voice was growing more emotionless with each exchange. Exhaustion was finally overcoming him. He just wanted to sleep. He just wanted this to be over….

The man curled up on his uninjured side, away from Ludwig, muttering something under his breath.

A twinge of guilt gnawed at Ludwig's chest as he covered his creation in blankets of old canvas and tarpaulins. He dimmed the oil lamps and headed back up to the house with the empty hope that this matter would sort itself out and soon.

.

.

.

Ludwig woke early the following morning and immediately went down to his studio after dressing.

With a hesitant hand, he pulled back the canvas and tarpaulin coverings and found his statue positioned exactly as how he had carved him: sitting with back bent in a slump, his tunic torn to shreds, his fallen sword by his side, one hand holding his weight while the other one reached for his wound. Ludwig let out a sigh of relief. The events of last night had been nothing more than a dream. He knew it. He was foolish to think anything that extraordinary could happen.

Still.

He couldn't mistake the flicker of disappointment he felt when he ran his fingers over the statue's hair and was met with cold, hard stone.

Ludwig covered the statue again and went back up to the house.

.

.

.

That afternoon, Francis came over, wanting to check on his friend after the engagement party fiasco.

"I was afraid you were becoming a hermit," Francis said with an affected pout. "Your housekeeper said you were behaving positively beastly and you didn't even see me out the morning after the party."

"When have you ever been upset just because I didn't say 'good-bye' to you?" Ludwig smirked. "You're almost as bad as Roderich, chiding me about manners."

"Don't you even compare me to him," Francis said, landing a teasing smack on Ludwig's arm. "What he did was – "

"I don't want to think about that just now," Ludwig muttered.

Francis bit his lip. "Sorry. So," he said, changing tack, "what have you been doing these past three days?"

Ludwig froze for a moment. He half considered telling a lie, saying he had wanted to be left alone to blow off some steam at his cousin, but he also felt a strange urge to further prove he had been dreaming last night. Francis could verify the statue was just a statue and not some living stone man concocted up by an exhausted artist's mind.

"I-I'll show you," Ludwig said.

He led Francis out to the studio and removed the memento mori's coverings.

"Oh my, Ludwig!" Francis exclaimed. "He's gorgeous!"

Ludwig grinned sheepishly. "Thank you."

Francis walked around the pedestal, taking in every inch of the statue. "I mean it – he is simply astonishing. I don't think I've ever seen anything this spectacular from you."

"Good – so, you don't – I mean, um…there's nothing – nothing odd about it?"

Francis' brow wrinkled. "Odd? Like what?"

Ludwig shrugged, a noncommittal look on his face. Francis continued his examination of the statue.

"Oh!" Francis cried out, making Ludwig jump. "There is something strange about it! How did I not see it?"

Ludwig swallowed. "W-what?"

"Right there," Francis said, pointing to the plaster bandage.

Ludwig felt his stomach sink. How had he missed that?

"Did you patch it?" Francis asked.

Ludwig swallowed again, trying to unstick his throat. "Ye-yes."

"I'm surprised at you," Francis smirked, giving Ludwig a playful shove. "All this time, I thought you were so flawless. And now here it is – the truth! You do make mistakes after all!"

Ludwig forced a smile, running a hand through his hair. He continued to eye the plaster bandage. There was no blood around it – even the rivulets he had carved running down from the wound had either dried or been cleaned away. Well, Ludwig thought, at least the patch worked. And now he knew for certain what had transpired last night was no dream.

.

.

.

As the week drew on, Ludwig learned his marble man only came to life at night. By day, the statue was just a statue. After Francis left, Ludwig sat in his studio, staring at the carved marble, nervously chewing his fingernails and waiting…waiting for something to happen. Waiting for something to prove that he wasn't crazy. Or maybe he was. He didn't care.

But nothing happened until sunset.

The marble man sat up straight, stretching his arms and neck and yawning widely. And the first thing he said when he saw Ludwig was: "Have you found a name for me?"

Ludwig shook his head, uttering a lifeless "No."

The marble man frowned, crossing his legs and propping his chin up in his hand.

They stared at each other the rest of the night. Ludwig, for his part, offered no further indication he was inclined to engage in conversation as they had their first night. He still hadn't ruled out the possibility this whole scenario wasn't some kind of narcissistic manifestation, and he didn't want to tempt that side of his personality until he could be absolutely certain he wasn't having a mental breakdown. The marble man remained just as silent as his creator. Perhaps he chose not to speak until he had been named. Every artist named their work. But he was more than just a work of art – he was also a man. And he desired a name – a proper name – to represent that. For a name was more than just a grouping of letters – it was identity, purpose, power….

And so it went, night after night until the week's end, when Ludwig realized his problem wasn't going to go away, that this really was happening, and that the only way he would be able to solve it was to deal with it, to treat it as a normal circumstance. And he would sooner die than go to a psychiatrist and get prodded with electrodes to "cure" his mental deficiencies.

As the week passed and Ludwig stopped doubting his insanity, a new thought took hold as he sat, staring and pondering what to do with this living sculpture. The man was his creation – his responsibility – and for that reason, Ludwig felt duty-bound to him.

.

.

.

On Sunday Ludwig went down to his studio after sunset and removed the coverings. The marble man was already sitting cross-legged, waiting expectantly. The air around him seemed to vibrate in anticipation.

"Have you found a name for me?"

"…I – I think so."

The man brightened. "What is it?"

Ludwig gave a small laugh. "You won't like it. 'Cos I don't like it."

"Maybe I will," the man countered, tilting his chin back haughtily and drawing himself up as much as the healing wound in his side would allow.

"All right," Ludwig grinned. "Your name is Gilbert."

The man wrinkled his pale nose. "You're right. I don't like it."

Ludwig laughed. "I told you."

"Gilbert?" the man muttered. "The hell kind of name is that?"

A distant look replaced the easy grin on Ludwig's face. "It's the modern form of Gislebertus. He was a sculptor in medieval France. I remember it must have hardly been a year since I went to live with my cousin and we were already leaving on some trip to the south of France. We stopped in Paris because Cousin Roderich insisted I see the Louvre, but I was really rather bored by it – I think that pissed Roderich off, actually – and then we continued to this little town called Autun and it had all kinds of ancient Roman stonework and ruins and I was absolutely fascinated by it. And of course, there was the cathedral adorned with Gislebertus' carvings. I think seeing those carvings is what first got me interested in sculpture."

Gilbert's face fell. "So…I'm named after some dead French sculptor?"

Ludwig looked up, fighting the urge not to laugh at the look of disappointment on Gilbert's face.

"What?" Gilbert said, seeing Ludwig trying not to smile. "Were you messin' with me? You were, weren't you!" he cried, pointing an accusatory finger.

Ludwig shrugged, smirking. "Maybe. The story was true, anyway. But I chose the name 'Gilbert' because of its meaning."

"Which is what?"

"Oath," Ludwig said simply. "It means 'oath.' And that's what you are to me. You are my creation and therefore my oath, my pledge, to keep any harm from befalling you."

Gilbert cocked an eyebrow. "Um, I don't mean to piss on your pretty speech there, boss, but how do you explain this?" He pointed to the plaster bandage on his side. "Why did you do this to me?"

Ludwig's brow furrowed a moment, unsure of how to answer something so obvious. "Gilbert," he said slowly, as if explaining something difficult to a child, "you're a statue. You're stone. You're not – not supposed to – "

"Not supposed to what?" Gilbert interjected. "Feel shit? Well, I do!"

Ludwig ducked his head, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry," he muttered. "I don't know why this is happening. I don't know why you're you – why you're different. Marble doesn't just come to life," Ludwig said, shaking his head.

"Guess I'm just special," Gilbert smirked. "But that still doesn't explain why you gave me a fucking stab wound."

"It was nothing personal, I assure you," Ludwig grinned.

Gilbert laughed.

"I'm sorry," Ludwig said again, suddenly serious. "As I've said, I didn't think…well, you're a statue – you were a piece of art commissioned for – " Ludwig broke off, a new thought suddenly occurring. "Shit," he breathed, starting to pace and muttering to himself. "I suppose I'll have to start over. Order another piece of marble large enough. I can't give him you…."

Gilbert snorted. "You're adorable when you're flustered."

Ludwig stopped his pacing, quirking an eyebrow wryly at his creation. "And now you're complimenting me. That's – really – that's just great. If I didn't have a problem with my ego before, I most definitely will now with you around."

"I was just making an observation," Gilbert said innocently.

"Don't. Please. This is – it's awkward enough without something I made giving me compliments."

A sour look crossed Gilbert's face, his bottom lip protruding in a pout. "You remember that conversation we just had, about me feelin' stuff? Well, this qualifies as part of that."

"So tell me what I'm supposed to do," Ludwig grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Treat me like a person!" Gilbert cried.

"But you're not – "

"Shut up! I know that! But neither am I you!"

"All right. Fine. I'll just take you up to the house and fix up a room for you and when people ask, I'll just tell them you're my statue that sometimes comes to life and whom I sometimes talk to and I'm sure they'll understand perfectly and I won't be carted off to a mental institution."

The sour look on Gilbert's face turned into one of pure repugnance. "Fuck this," he said, swinging his feet down as if about to stand.

"Don't!" Ludwig rushed forward, ready to wrestle his creation back into its place if it tried to get down.

"Why not? I'm sick of being on that goddamned pedestal! Every single night I've sat and watched you watching me, and do you know what? Your expression never changed. You look at me like I'm still just an object!"

"Because you are! You're a fucking statue! You're stone and nothing more!"

An anguished cry tore itself from Gilbert's throat. He aimed an angry swipe at the stone sword, his hand catching the hilt, and sent it spinning off the pedestal. It hit the ground, erupting in a cloud of marble dust.

Ludwig could only watch in open-mouthed dismay as part of his work was destroyed.

"Will you listen to me now?" Ludwig seethed. "You cannot leave this pedestal. It's for your own good. You are exceptional, Gilbert, but you are also just stone."

Gilbert stared at the pile of dust that had been the sword, at what it represented.

"Then I can't ever belong to your world, can I?"

Ludwig frowned. Gilbert's words were brutal in their simplicity, filled with a gut-wrenching honesty that spoke of his deepest desire. And Ludwig had been such an idiot….

"I don't think so," he said quietly, shaking his head.

Gilbert's brow furrowed. "But…I can think and feel and move. If I am just a – a thing – then how is it I can do all those things? I don't understand…."

"Nor do I," Ludwig said, sitting on the pedestal beside Gilbert.

Gilbert reached for his hand, and this time, Ludwig let him take it.