Blessed be Our Lady, Our Lady Beneath The Chain...
     The church that stands was once used for so much more than worship. Here, the Knights of Malta once held a firm and defensive line. 11th and 12th Centuries can be retold in her structure, in her narrow windows, designed for the aim of arrows rather than the glance of eyes.
     She stands on this, the west side of the great Charles Bridge, the way lined with martyrs and saints. Still she stands, the Lady Beneath The Chains, even though the great iron gates which contributed to her name are gone. All that is left are the towers. The memories of fortifications.
     At this time of night, this old district of Prague is quiet. The bell contained in the bell tower, formerly a turret ofthe fortress, knells only on the hour. It is not due to sound again for a time. For a time yet, it will still be silent.
     But though the area is quiet, the church is, as most, always open. For God and His Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ do not know days that end or nights that end, the ticking of a clock, or minutes or hours. Anyone may sit within the chapel.
     Even a former guardian of a Pope, an apostle knight, with a leather satchel at his shoulder. Alire rests in a pue, his blonde hair cut short, modern. His blue eyes tracing over the chapel walls, and most likely past them to God himself.

     Sneakers make no sound on the ancient floor of the church, the woman simply wandering down the aisle with her chin tilted upward and lips moving in the prayers of God in another tongue than the one commonly spoken within Prague. Jayne doesn't fit here, might not even belong, with that pretty, young face and punk-purple hair, but she makes her way toward the alter anyhow in the fashion of supplicants and brides and countless others that had no reason for following that route save their own deep worship. Of others, she takes no note it seems - this is a private place despite how public it is.

     From the rear of the church, there are footsteps. A young man, in his prime, dressed neatly in slacks and a shirt. He wears a long coat over it all, something tanned and almost fashionable.
     Almost.
     He enters, after making a passing genuflect at the archway, walking down the central aisle.
     Brown-haired and blue-eyed he is, face turning left and right to see others who kneel or sit in their pews.
     Maybe I should make a novena, he thinks. But that would be too much like...believing in this magic.
     And so he goes, careful in his walk. Actually glancing at those within, as if looking for someone in particular.

     It was in this repose, this... wondering...
     What are you to do with yourself, Alire... what next shall you do...
     ...that Motion and color reached his senses, broke his spell, halted his silent prayers, and caused blue eyes to lower from their conversation with the Alimighty to the purple-haired woman... to the young man who just moves past him. There is a small motion of the lips -- I should go -- but Alire does not rise, his large frame does not move.
     I will stay, but I shall leave a miracle behind me...
     There is a moment, however, when blue eyes join the glance given to him. Looking for someone. Quo vadis. And he nearly chuckles. Quo vadis. Alire returns the look, a slight inclination of his head in a nod, and he makes some motion, some look... some indication that he is returning to his conversation with the Almighty.
     A gloved hand moves against the leather satchel at his side.

     There's no.. singing. Jayne pauses after a final step brings her well past the point she should have given her own genuflection, and hurried slides her fingers in the cross of forehead to chest, shoulder to shoulder with a murmured apology for the oversight.. the sin. Turning then, looking back upon the aisle she traversed without seeing it, she finds pause in the approach of a young man that seems to belong. Appearances, sometimes, are deceiving, but she's never stopped basing her first thoughts upon them. Please sir, she could murmur with pleading tone and beseeching expression. Could you sing for me? Grey eyes watch hopefully, willing him to understand so she doesn't have to break the still with anything so gauche as speech.

     Sing?
     Brown-haired youth glances around his immediate vicinity. A surprise this is, as he had momentarily locked eyes upon the blonde and his satchel.
     A faint swallow shadows his throat, and then the young man seems to bob his head and part his lips. From them, the beginning strains of Ave Maria.
     And why not? Beats a novena.
     He is unafraid of the request, voice rising to first bloom across the near pews, and by the time he gets to 'grazia', it carries through this part of the nave...

     I should think I were saved...
     If I didn't know better...
     And the start of the first smile, born minutes ago, now carries its way across the whole of his mouth. And there is a deeper voice, a softer voice, hitting something of a baritone harmony. When a song is begun by one mouth in this church, who is Alire to refuse it?
     But he moves not from where he sits. And he closes not his eyes, though he thinks of it. He watches them, his unusual fellows here in this old church.
     How the stones and the nave and the altar ring with it. There is something strangely plainchant about it. Something fitting. Male voices lifted in song of worship. And the two voices echo. For this building what constructed to reflect such music, like light off a mirror, beaming the sound into the senses.

     Rapture is pure sometimes. Sometimes it comes as tears. Sometimes it comes as uneven breath drawn through trembling lips. Sometimes it comes as confusion.. and that last is Jayne with her furrowing brow and slight frown that pouts lips and only makes her look all the younger. She doesn't interrupt, however, as one might think she'd be doing from her reaction. Instead, she settles onto a pue, crouching there where she can observe the one voice she asked for and its darker companion. 'That's not the song I wanted', her lips say without voice.

     And then one of the voices suddenly stops.
     Cesare quirks, hands still shoved into his longcoat pockets. He glances at the other, who came from nowhere, and then to the young woman.
     "That's the song you're getting from me," he says evenly, not distressed or annoyed. Simply informative. His voice? A faint Italianate accent.
     Blue eyes examine the young woman, then glance around again. Checking something.
     "I've come a long way," he says oddly, quirking a brow.

     His voice is the last to stop...
     It fades out quietly, into nothing. But the whisper of it lingers a half moment more. And then the slim smile is there again. Something held in his eyes, perhaps a broader, warmer smile is there. "How far..." Alire queries, quietly. The soft question carries quite easily in this old church. And his quiet voice is most obviously colored with the hue of Avignon. French is tried first. Always.
     And he looks to the young woman, head inclining a touch, turning to the side just a bit. Wondering at the pigment of her hair as much, perhaps, as the quizzical expression on her face. "And you?" he says in French again, an attempt at Czech follows it.
     Perhaps English would be easier...

     Twisting a curl about one finger, Jayne tugs it out for observation, the slight widening of grey eyes suggestion shock at what she sees. But then.. how could she not know her own hair colour? "I speak French," she murmurs in English, her accent clearly marking that as her homeland. And, louder, as if distrusting the accoustics to carry her message, she repeats in French, "I speak French." The words cause her to frown, tug at her hair quickly, violently, before pushing it back over her shoulders where it can safely return to 'out of sight, out of mind'.

     And so we're in French now? That's convenient.
     But this can't be what I'm looking for.
     The brunette looks between the two of you, then settles on the blonde and his satchel. Maybe you're it. And you asked a question.
     "Halfway across the universe," his French comes, smoother than the Slavic query before. A cue, that statement. No?
     A glance to the satchel again, and the brown-haired youth sighs. This is not going well. No, no. More like, not going quickly.
     Another cue.
     "Torrento," Cesare replies, clearing up that whole universe thing. If you know where Torrento is, good on ya. "Looking for someone. Thought I was supposed to meet them here." His blue eyes return to the young woman, as not to exclude her. Who knows who Miroslav might have sent. "Maybe," he concludes, "I'm in the wrong place."

     Oh, that is a relief...
     And it is evident on his expression. A visible wash of Thank God, for my Slavic is attrocious. Alire's expression otherwise remains unchanged. "Torrento, Torrento..." murmured, recalling. "I have not been there, but I frequent Venezia... Roma..." The cities given their Italic due. Alire studies the young man for a moment, then glances to his satchel. Oh. Oh...
     "I have been here since sunset, since vespers... I have seen no one else but we three. It has been a quiet night in the old Lady tonight... I have seen such nights when there was not a pew left..."
     "That is far, you have come all this way to meet someone?" Eyes narrow slightly in the query. "It is not so late... perhaps he is ... merely delayed by traffic. Tourists on the bridge..."
     And then Alire turns his attention to the young woman with her vibrant hair. "I am relieved, for French is the best that I speak. I can speak Italian, Spanish. My English, my Slavic. These do not come easily for me." And there is a moment of chagrin. For after sevent centuries, you would think he would be more practiced. But fluency does not necessarily breed comfort.
     There is a moment of pause, a glance between each of his companions this night, and Alire rises, satchel near at hand. "Alire," he says softly by way of introduction.

     So many words, all of them strung together in a fashion that should make sense. Should. And yet... "My father's name was Tristram," Jayne supplies, as if that were the correct response to an introduction. Perhaps it is. "But he's gone now.. and I'm not at all certain if he left me the name." A glance toward Cesare gives her pause, and retrieves her frown. Something about him? He did sing a song she didn't wish for. But then again so did Alire and he gains no sign of disfavour from the woman. Instead of adding more words, strung together and still failing to create reason and rhyme, she falls silent to brood in her slouched shoulders and narrowing gaze.

     "A pleasure, Madamoiselle Tristram. Cesare," the brunette murmurs, enough for both of your benefit. With it comes a quarter-bend. No, it may have been your father's name, but now it is yours. Funny how his blue eyes seem to glow faintly upon looking at the young woman, but all things are fair in church light.
     "Alire," he repeats, half-angling to the man with the satchel. Well, neither of you are fessing up quickly, so maybe another plan is required. "Maybe he is on the bridge." He? Hmm. "I cannot say. Either way," a half-smile for you both, "...he is not here. And that leaves me in my situation. Such is life."
     "Well, no need to continue to bother you both," Cesare offers, "I am sorry I did not know the song you wished, Madamoiselle. Maybe you shall catch me on another day?" A turn to Alire, and the offer seems extended that direction as well. Yet Cesare seems in no rush. Maybe the friend will show. Perhaps it is but a politeness to you.

     "Tristram... I have always liked that name. A story that is both sad and passionate." A half-pause. "And hopeful. A pleasure to meet you," a look to the woman, a lift of his lips in a slight smile. A pivot to Cesare. The smile remains. Slender, but nonetheless genuine. What it lacks in size, it makes up in truth. A glance to the satchel, and understanding moves over his expression, the angular features of his face. "Sadly, I have to say I am not here for the purpose of meeting anyone -- though," and there is a sudden grin, "I have met two people, so perhaps I do not know so much about my purpose. And ... you are no bother. Visiting Prague? It is a marvelous city. Such architecture. So many hidden gardens. It is God's city," no matter what Jerusalem or Rome say. "I come here to find Him on occasion." There is some coloration there, and inward-looking humor. Alire looks to the young woman, the young man. "I am certain your father would have wished you to have it. His name. My father did not leave me his, so I took mine from the land around me. You can make a name out of almost anything..."

     "Yes.." The distance between herself and everyone else grows, spans rooms, countries, seas, centuries. Even the simplist conversation becomes too much of a burden to bear and Jayne finds herself standing, hands smoothing the material of her sweater as if in preperation to leave, to soothe herself. "I did not.." what? Confusion becomes panic for the briefest moment before she recalls. "I did not come here." Was that explanation enough? In comprehension is a reaction she's well-used to and she looks for it now in the faces before her, in the blonde and the brunette. "Please pardon me," she adds after a brief moment, gaze straying toward the exit far away in shadow.

     Cesare is quiet as the young woman seems to need a moment. Too many words. Boredom. Either of those, he could appreciate. There is no stopping her, just silence and a nod of his head.
     Who knows what works in the mind and sight of others? Who knows what their universe is like?
     "I hope you find your song," Cesare says softly to her, for some reason. He purses his lips, jaw setting and aquiline nose lifting up.
     Blue eyes watch Alire for a moment, then angle to see the woman's imminently-seeming departure, his own not so far behind.

     A hand reaches down, gloves move against the leather. Alire nods, watching the young woman as she makes her way out of the church. Blessed Lady Beneath The Chain, watch your daughter as she leaves tonight...
     There is a glance toward Cesare, a momentary pausing look, and then Alire returns to his seat. Perhaps prayers will be resumed. Perhaps he's just stalling...

Posted by Criseyde at May 29, 2003 07:01 PM