Chapter Text
Reading about someone, Caius realized as he fell into Asterix’s mind, was quite different from being in their heads. Obelix’s world had been innocence and colour and sweetness and brightness: Asterix’s world, now he was not in a healing trance, looked a lot like the world outside, only everything was a little sharper, the focus a little bit clearer. It was strange to say it of someone’s mind, but there was a kind of mental wiry strength, everything smooth and cheerful but with a core of steel inside. This was a man you could push just so far and no further.
Not that Asterix’s dossier hadn’t said much the same thing.
Dossier? asked Asterix’s mind-voice, here where there was no hiding what one thought.
Caius facepalmed mentally. Oh well, in for a denarius, in for a sestertius. Let me show you…
And he did.
Caius opened his mind to the Gaul – it was the least he could do, after everything. The beginning, the meeting with Caesar. The pages of intelligence, the reports from all over Rome – he could see that the Gaulish strategist was impressed in spite of himself at Caius’ thoroughness – and the eventual plan that had been hatched. He felt Asterix’s surprise and grudging respect at the incident in the forest, when Caius had watched the pair from above and thrown the sestertius. And then, Caius confessed, I entered Obelix’s mind.
What did you tell him?
Caius shied away from showing Asterix. Next to him, he could feel Obelix’s spirit, a frightened presence cowering in a corner, tugging mentally along with him. Obelix didn’t want Asterix to witness this, to see any part of it.
Asterix pushed, impatient.
No, wait, Caius found himself commanding.
What? Asterix turned to Caius, impatient to get to the bottom of things.
He must invite us into his memory of his own volition.
I know what kind of silly things he’s thinking. Come on, we have to fix this.
In this mind-world, Obelix was smaller than Asterix, his friend’s powerful spirit taking precedence. Caius Insidius – and by Jupiter, this was the strangest thing yet – felt oddly protective of the big man’s soul, huddled in the shadows, hiding its shame. It was ridiculous, to protect Obelix from Asterix, the friend who would rather die than hurt him. But Asterix could still cause pain, not out of malice, but out of rushing in where angels fear to tread. It was Caius’ job to ‘direct traffic’: to impose order, to keep accidents from happening.
You are doing so well, my son. His mother’s voice fluttered across his consciousness. You have a gift.
Yeah, yeah. I hope I don’t get these Gauls killed with their own brand of kindness.
Come on, urged Asterix.
Caius held him back. Softly.
Why? The Gaulish warrior’s soul-flame burned bright, eager to sear away the dross, to make things right.
But Caius would not be moved on this. No.
What’s the hold-up? Come on!
Would you violate him, then? Tear him open and wrest the memory out of him by force, as some Romans have done to your Gaulish women?
Asterix recoiled. “No…!” His shockwave struck Caius like a hurricane.
Then let him invite you in on his own terms.
Caius stood back and spread his ethereal hands, allowing Asterix access.
The shadowy mind-figure of the small Gaul knelt before his friend’s frightened form. Obelix…?
No, Obelix murmured.
Caius jolted. Even in this state, even with Obelix cowering and refusing, Caius could tell that he would eventually give in, would do anything Asterix asked of him. Caius saw, in Asterix’s mind, the rock-solid confidence that his friend would be there. At Asterix’s core was the conviction that if he threw himself off a cliff, Obelix would jump alongside him, without question. This hadn’t been in the dossier. Hadn’t been in anything Caius had seen.
Only by entering their minds could he have seen it.
Still awed, Caius watched as Asterix crouched to Obelix, placing his hands on the ‘shoulders’ of his friend’s spirit, crouched into a tiny ball. Obelix’s dread poisoned the space, sickening and slimy. But it slid off Asterix like water, leaving no trace. Caius wondered at it, watching and observing. How could the Gaulish warrior not feel – not be affected by – the terror that racked his friend? “It’s all right, Obelix,” he coaxed. “It’s not real. Whatever he told you, it wasn’t true.”
Obelix’s spirit shifted—and Asterix was blindsided. Caius winced as his own voice echoed, in Obelix’s memory, reaching Asterix’s ears for the first time.
Why would he want to be burdened with a friend like you? What about the times you just plain turned on him and betrayed him?
Asterix’s head shot up. Waves of bitter agony washed over him.
I seem to remember him in a Roman camp, all alone, without potion, launching himself from a ballista to escape. Where were you? All alone, he ran through the camp, relying on his own wits to save him, since his closest friend was too busy sulking. He could have been captured and tortured or killed.
Asterix shook his head. “No, wait… What…”
Caius’ harsh words were etched into Obelix’s head, and echoed now, as Asterix probed for them. He must have lain unconscious in the forest for hours. Did you find him? Did you carry him to his hut in your arms, did you nurse him back to health, did you sit vigil by his bedside, as he has done for you? Or did you leave him to lie on the forest floor alone, betrayed and friendless? He could have died back then, and you didn't care enough to ask. What kind of friend are you?
Asterix looked from Caius to Obelix. “That was my own fault for getting careless. Obelix has never knowingly left me alone when I was hurt.” He glared at Caius. “You’ve studied us well. But you only know what the Romans tell you.”
Suddenly, Caius was swept into a moonlit night—a Gaulish village divided by a trench, with not one but two warring chieftains. They’d had an agent there, by the name of Codfix, if memory served. The memory shifted: Asterix lay unconscious, Obelix holding his hand, kneeling by his side. When Asterix rose, his friend stayed close, lending a supporting arm, never letting him out of his sight.
Obelix’s spirit still hid from the memories. But a tiny tendril snaked outward, questing, not touching, but there.
“Your Roman sources have never seen this.” Asterix showed Caius another memory. A long winter night, Asterix in bed, sick with fever. The burning that consumed his body crackled round the edges of the memory, making Caius chill and gasp with the onslaught. The image juddered, pictures dislodging pictures, sensations crowding and crumpling like ill-drawn parchment: Obelix, at Asterix’s bedside, never leaving as the druid came in and out, as the candles were lit and extinguished time and time again. Asterix’s memory had no sense of time: Caius shuddered as he felt the shock of coldness on his own suddenly burning limbs, realizing he was experiencing this recollection in the only way Asterix had been sensing the events at the time. The Gaul had been unconscious, eyes shut, blanketed in darkness, but he’d been able to feel. And what he’d felt had been coolness soothing the burning fever. Strong, caring hands changing him out of sweat-soaked clothing, bringing him food and drink, making up the covers, drying his damp, matted hair. A rumbling voice always with him, always telling him to hold on. The confidence, the trust so absolute it ran through Asterix’s core like an unbreakable cord, that all he needed to do was reach out, and his friend would be there.
Asterix stood tall and confident in the mind-space. With the knowledge that only comes from being inside a person’s mind, Caius could see what Asterix expected: He expected Obelix to throw aside Caius’ words, dismiss what he had heard from his ‘conscience’, and stride off into the sunny daylight. “Well?” the small Gaul said, proving Caius’ point. “Come on, Obelix, you can’t seriously believe the things he said.”
The crouching, huddled soul made no answer. As the two friends’ spirits stared each other down, Caius bent, touching the misery around Obelix. His initial impression was reinforced: it felt viscous, slimy. Experimentally, Caius knelt and looked up.
The contrast was shocking. Obelix was crouched in filth, in slime, in darkness. Asterix couldn’t see it – couldn’t even imagine it – from where he stood tall, supported by his logical head and clear thinking. He would never see what his friend was seeing so long as he had his head in the sunshine and clear air. He would not understand while he stood upright.
Caius sighed. This would get him thumped later for sure. Still, he had to fix what he’d broken. He reached out a hand to Asterix. “Come down here.”
Asterix glanced down at the Roman, surprised. “I thought the point was to get Obelix up? To snap him out of it?”
At the words ‘snap him out of it’, the slime changed consistency. It grew thicker, clung harder. “You not understanding is making it worse!” Caius snapped. “Get down here!”
“And why should I take orders from you?” the Gaul retorted.
“Oh, maybe so you can stop that irritating cheerfulness and see what it’s like to be in his shoes?”
“That’s rich, after you dragged him down!”
“The seeds were there,” Caius said with some gravitas—and some shame. “It wouldn’t have worked on you. It worked on him because the seeds were there.”
Slowly, Asterix subsided. “Seeds of what?”
Sighing, Caius touched the puddle of misery with one hand, and reached out for Asterix the Gaul’s hand with the other. Ignoring the shudder of disgust crawling up his arm from the thick slime, he kept his hand extended. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone,” he muttered. “But Jupiter knows I have to fix the mess I made somehow.”
Still mystified, but accepting, Asterix reached out to take Caius’ hand. As the white fingers curled around his, Caius shuddered, and reached into his own pit of darkness.
“Monster! Freak!”
“Black skin, black soul!”
“Obelix is a girl!”
“Fat piggy, piggy!”
“You’re not one of us!”
“You’re a monster!”
“Monster, monster!”
“Stay away from him! He’s a monster!”
When Caius opened his eyes, Asterix was kneeling. “But…” The blond Gaul shook his head. His friend’s spirit was curled up even smaller, whimpering. “But that’s just… Kids do that. They called me short and all sorts of things. I didn’t let it get to me.”
“No, well.” Caius met Asterix’s eyes, willing him to understand. “No two Gauls are the same—or Romans, for that matter. The same treatment can affect different people differently.” Asterix’s blank look was infuriating. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Um… I’m trying, I just don’t see…”
“Here,” Caius was through playing nice. He pulled Asterix’s hand in and plunged their joined hands into the slimy muck around Obelix.
Prickling poison spread through both their hands. Caius heard Asterix gasp, felt the Gaulish warrior shake his head in stunned disbelief. “What the…?”
“Courage, Gaul,” Caius muttered, not unkindly. “Hold on. This is what it’s like when the voices become part of you.”
“V—voices?” Asterix’s voice hitched. The world around them was starting to turn sickly green.
“Yes,” Caius said. “The ones that tell you you’d be better off dead. And I used them—Oh by Jupiter, you’ve my permission to thump me when we get out of this, gods know I’ve earned it.” And without further ado, now that Asterix knew was it was like, now that the bright-spirited and optimistic Gaul had a clue—now that he could understand—he showed him.
The night was dark. Caius Insidius, the Dream Whisperer, was breathing into Obelix’s ear. Reminding him of his many errors. Of all his flaws. Then he moved in for the kill. Name one reason – other than strength – that he would want to be friends with you. Name one useful thing you do.
Asterix turned to the side. “Oh, that’s just ridiculous. Obelix is the best—”
But he was cut off. Asterix gaped as Obelix choked out, “I make menhirs.”
“Is this some kind of a joke?” Asterix stared. “He’s the best hunter in the village: we wouldn’t make it through the winters without him. The children stay fed because of him. Not just boars but mushrooms too, truffles even… you name it. As for being a warrior, there’s no-one you’d want more at your back in a fight. He’s a brilliant stonemason when he’s not making menhirs; he’s fixed half the village. And…” Asterix suddenly swallowed. Caius felt his mouth dry up. “No-one makes me laugh the way he does. Life’s… different when he’s there. Better.”
Caius was assaulted by two different visions: Obelix’s spirit-tendrils unfurling, like a plant in the sun, and Asterix’s mind-world showing soft comfort laughter love.
But Caius looked away as the memory went on. Your father outgrew these stupid pursuits, he had said. He left his idiot boy to mind his stupid quarry, because breaking stones is about the only thing his half-wit son was good for.
“How dare you!” Asterix gasped. He reached through the slime, grasped Obelix’s curled-up spirit. “Obelix, you didn’t believe him, did you?”
“The thing about dream-whispering,” Caius said softly, “is to play on what is already there. To only suggest something where there is fertile soil for it to grow.”
Stupid. Idiot. Half-wit. Useless. Fat oaf. Worthless. Good-for-nothing.
“Obelix, no! No! There’s nothing wrong with taking time to understand things. And you’re worth everything to me.”
The withered tendrils of Obelix’s soul trembled, reaching. Asterix opened his mind-world, showing his friend what he always felt with him. Laughter. Friendship. Companionship. Loyalty. Love.
Caius steeled himself. He showed Asterix more of the cruel words he had spoken, words that would not have burrowed in nor taken root if the seeds of them had not been there. It's true. See yourself as you are, Gaul! Obelix, you are a monster. Only you have no family, because no woman would ever marry a Gaul like you: you produce nothing but the sweat that pours off you while the sun is roasting you in your own fat! Asterix would be much lighter on his missions relieved of your burden.
“Now that’s going too far!” Angrily, violently, Asterix flung open the doors of his mind.
Alone on missions. He has been, sometimes. The fear, having no-one at your back. The thrill, relying on your wits. The responsibility, knowing it rests on your shoulders. The loneliness. The terror, capture, torture. The knowledge that this day could be your last. He took hold of Obelix’s mind-presence, somehow, and forces him to see missions as Asterix sees them. Joie de vivre. The thrill of relying on your wits, made more like a game because of the safety and security of knowing there’s a friend who would give anything for you, right there at your back. The simple feeling of having your smile returned, your embrace shared. The small pleasures of food and conversation. The joy of silly word-play and games and bets. Seeing new places through two different pairs of eyes. Even fighting and arguing, with the security of knowing you’ll never lose your friend, always have him on your side. The comfort of being injured and having a steadfast presence to lean on, someone who will move heaven and earth for you, who will always be by your side. Someone who trusts you to complete missions on your own, but would rather be there with you. Because there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. And nowhere else you’d rather have him.
The huddled, small figure of Obelix’s mind-presence sat up a little straighter, shone a little brighter. “Obelix,” Asterix murmured, caressing his tiny light. “I wouldn’t last a day without you. You have to believe me.” He knelt to the small figure, the slimy self-loathing rippling away beneath his knees, leaving a clean spot where they could be together. “You’re my best friend. I know you care for me. Don’t let anyone lie to you and tell you different.”
He reached out for his own miraculously healed knee. “Time to heal, Obelix.”
But Obelix didn’t reach out. Hesitantly, he cringed into himself.
Asterix’s head snapped up and he glared at Caius. “What now?”
Caius would really rather not have shown Asterix the coup de grace he delivered to Obelix—but it was only his penance, and Obelix the Gaul would not heal without it. He pulled the words from his memory and let Asterix look into that night.
Think of it! You, a brainless beast, boorish and brutish, breaking stones for a living. Would it not be kinder of you to draw away from him, to leave him an opportunity to find a friend who would appreciate him more? You're nothing but a fair-weather friend. Obelix of Gaul, you are nothing. Worse, you are a burden. If you had any decency, you would quit the village here and now, and leave him the space to find a friend who will understand his conversation, think of something besides eating, not embarrass him in front of noble company, and not throw him away for a pretty face!
“O Gods, Obelix.” Asterix put his arms around the small, broken mind-presence, shrinking once again from the relentless words, and glared up at Caius. “What did you do to him?!”
“He told me the truth.” For the first time, Obelix’s whisper broke the silence.
“No. Obelix, no. Listen.”
“Don’t tell him,” Caius said. “Show him.”
Asterix’s ‘eyes’ flitted from Obelix to Caius. Then he opened the doors to his heart.
Falling backwards, from a height, off a cliff. Softness beneath him, softness that would only ever catch him, only ever save him, never cause him pain. His friend was softness, laughter, warmth life. Hands, rough and callused, but their touch careful, always careful. Carrying his burdens, helping him along the way, nursing him through his rare illnesses with tender care. Asterix could never mistake that touch. It was the support at his back on missions, the comforting bulk at his side, the warm little hand that had slipped tentatively into his own, pledging unwavering support and friendship, all those years ago. Asterix opened his heart further, showing Obelix how he saw him: not only the soft refuge and loving companion, but his childhood friend, always there, always faithful, every inch the tender and sensitive little boy he had once been—and still was, in Asterix’s heart.
“You’re my home,” Asterix whispered, drawing near to the hopeful, tiny figure and enveloping him in a hug. “I knew you were sensitive, but I never knew you had to fight that voice inside you. But I’m here now. I’m here and I’ll never let you face it alone, old friend, I promise. Not a word of what it says is true.”
“But…”
“Not a word.” Asterix took Obelix’s ethereal hand and laid it on his knee. “Look. I’m healed. I’m healed because you took on my injury for me. Do you feel it?”
Obelix pulled his hand back. “I got you hurt in the first place.”
“You’d never hurt me. You were tricked,” Asterix soothed, drawing Obelix’s hand back to the place he had healed. “You healed me, Obelix. Go on. Check to see if my knee’s all right now.”
Hesitantly, tentatively, Obelix’s hand settled on the miraculously healed knee of Asterix’s ethereal form. "It's... it's all right," Obelix wavered. "I really... I really did that?"
"Yes," Asterix smiled, warm and loving.
Caius could tell that, in the real world, Obelix’s shattered, mangled knee glowed golden, and knit back together.