The sphere is in my pocket, near my heart. Protected from the cresting chill of autumn settling in, held there where I can feel it. And him. I know that if I call him, he will hear me. And feeling the gift there, in that inside pocket, it is like having him with me. And I am content. And I am comforted.
I wish there were something to make this easier. I wish I had a magic way to show you where I have been, Giancarlo, and for how long. To show you, so that you would understand. I think my words shall be too feeble. They were too feeble when I tried it last.
But perhaps he will know. My friend, perhaps you will know the best way to do this. How to love. You are wiser than I. Older than I. Surely, you have seen this play out a thousand times. I need that now, that strength, that assurance. That understanding. And as all know, if one is seeking knowledge and understanding, one should meet with Ian Dunross...
You, who have become my friend...
Alire's car approaches Chinon, pulling into the courtyard from the Rue de Tours, up through the Chinon forest, past the ruins of St. George and over the St. George bridge. At this time of night, there are only the private visitors of the owners themselves. Long gone are the tourist tours, the season almost ended. But his is a name and a face that is recognized. A call is made upon the house phone, to alert Montagu Gerrard and Marie-Lys Alamagnie. An important guest has arrived. The house stirs. It is easy to hear it in the Great Hall.
The windows bearing the likenesses of Poitou's eleven counts are shut, now that winds have turned cool and crisp, and they sparkle with the light and warmth that permeates the great hall, filling it even though it is immense, from the grand hearth. And the likeness of the eleventh comte du Poitou is echoed by his physical presence in his hall, sitting in one of the antique chairs, a glass of brandy newly refilled. And indigo eyes lift from a book -- strange night indeed, that found him reading -- and to the sound of a stirring house...
You no doubt heard the car coming up the drive....
The book? Tawdry thing it is. A biography of Caravaggio. Light reading. And the comte himself is clothed in a chocolate brown sweater, which lies untucked over black wool trousers -- and as all his clothing is, specially tailored to his form's particular needs and wants. A raven eyebrow lifts and a hand comes out to pluck up the brandy glass. "I wonder who's here. Expecting anyone?"
"Non," comes Ian's voice. He sits not far from you, currently leaning over a large tome on lineages. He continues to study the parchment you gave him, occasionally fingering the symbol that rests at his chest.
The question causes him to sit upright, quirking to hear details of the approach. "Hmm," he shrugs eventually, black turtleneck shiny at his shoulders. "I wonder," he murmurs, turning from his seat to face you. "Maybe it's bad news," Ian smiles, "...something to break the winter doldrums," he grins. "Ah," he sighs, "I think it's time for me to go home," he laughs, standing up, "...I'm looking for something to do," he chuckles.
"I know you are worried about the painting," Ian offers, moving to touch your shoulder, "...but will you be ready to go home in the next week or so? How is it going?"
"Slowly," he murmurs, and he closes the book. He keeps his hair shorter these days, very modern. Coupled with the goatee that appears to be growing in -- but is forever halted right where it is -- it is very much the look of the artist these days. It is only the bulk and size of him that belies that facade. "But it can wait again until the spring. I made good progress. Varnish is safely removed, the fruit is more or less repaired. I have to repair the upper corner. But... even with taking time," indigo settles on you and he leans back in his chair, settling like a lord, and like a lord suddenly seeming, "...I will still finish on time, perhaps even a little ahead of schedule. We can go next week, certes," William murmurs, Occitan spoken as the norm when it is just he and you. "It is good. We should, before the winter settles in." The full mouth shows the trace of a smile. "You have been bored a while, ne c'est pas?" Eyes twinkle, knowing the answer before he asks. "One more week of France, then... we go to our other home," agreed. A hand lifts, covering yours, lifting yours to his mouth. "And it is only autumn, amours," pulls that languid, deep tone, and eyes lift to you aslant. They sparkle darkly in a wink.
"I should perhaps see who has arrived..." And William makes to rise, even as the doors to the great hall open...
"Merci," comes the Voice Familiar. Soft. Even the cadence of his steps is familiar. Quiet and reverent. Alire appears in the doorway, dressed ... impeccably as ever, in autumn greys and whites, his nearly white blonde hair all the more resplendant in contrast. A flaxen shock of color.
The servant at hand steps in, "Alire d'Avignon, monsieur..."
And Alire it is. Stepping in, he begins, "I apologize for coming unannounced," the prince of Poitiers smiles. "I am glad I have caught up with both of you before you took your leave of France this year..." Your habits are well known. You are always in Scotland for the winter.
As a servant offers to take his outer coat, gloves and scarf, Alire pivots, murmuring, "Thank you very much," and piece by piece, outer garments are surrendered. And there is a look for you both. A warm look for you, Ian. There is much affection.
William is already standing, already smiling, though he wears a look of open surprise. This is ...unexpected. Black eyebrows lift. "A princely guest, no less. And here I thought it should be another quiet evening at Old Chinon...ah," he waves off notions of 'unannounced', "... please. Would you care for some brandy. Please join us." There is a look between you and Alire, just a glance.
Alire. In Chinon. Alire never comes to Chinon...
And then there is an appraisal, however quick, of Alire. How well appointed. He gets better looking with every passing year. It's tragic. Hmmm... but for whom. William moves away from his chair, to pour a brandy, good host that he is.
And once again, you have the gold and the dark, the best vintages of France. One, sparkling champagne to the other's deep Bordeaux.
The name was on his lips, but he did not speak it so quickly. Ian looks up, a bit surprised at the arriving guest. But then again, if there were a guest, Alire would be on the short list. "No, no," Ian replies, coming to stand at William's side. "You are always welcome," he states. "Come in..." brow furrowing, "...first...there is no trouble, yes?" Have we missed something in our cloister?
"Something for Monsieur d'Avignon," Ian motions at the departing servant. The brandy, William will handle.
"No," he says, a gentle smile on his features. "No trouble at all. Poitiers is well. I am well. I come to give my greetings." But there is more to it than that. And he knows you know it. As you motion to the departing servant and as William is mid-pour of brandy, Alire turns to you, Ian. A look shared. I came to speak with you.
"Actually," he admits, "...there is a matter of... well, it's a personal matter. I was hoping to speak with you," he says to Ian. A look to William. It is good you do not know where my heart was, Plantagenet. It is a brave thing that I ask such in front of you, perhaps. "But there is no trouble," Alire reassures, smile fading a little, but it still hovers around his features. "Allay all concern, oh and brandy would be lovely. I thank you." He moves to take a seat, accepting the hospitality offered.
William looks up as he finishes the pour. The brandy is of the pear. A special blend of pear and cinnamon. A woody and sweet fire. It fills the crystal glass midway, and shines like liquified gold. William offers it to Alire and looks between you, lastly to Alire. "I'm glad to hear there's no trouble," he begins. "And I hear only good things coming out of Poitiers these days. A lovely summer, I have heard." If only Tours would have been so mild. Or those who were fighting for her. Again, there is a look between you. But William does not excuse himself.
I can see the picture of how you would be. How golden the two of you would be. How well suited you are. He, all the things you professed you desired. A gentleness. A strength. Intelligence -- god knows there is a surplus of that. Impeccable fashion. Polite to a fault. Dignified. Beautiful. I have no doubt he would make you happy. He would not have put you through what I put you through. There is nothing... savage about him. Nothing self-centered about him. He is not, as they say, high maintenance...
William turns again, pouring an additional glass. This one for his husband.
"Well..." Ian looks between the two men, "...certainly. I am glad to hear that Poitiers is doing well. Will is right...we hear nothing but wonderful things from your city." Come to talk to me? How will I do this?
"Will," Ian twists, "...none for me, please. Maybe later, hmm?" Amours upon his lips, but saved for polite company. All too strange, really. Alire has come to Chinon. A personal matter. Something wrong, but perhaps personally. "And, yes...we can talk of...whatever you need," he offers, glancing at Will for an instant. Taking a few steps towards the guest, Ian turns about. "We will...be right back." He begins. Maybe the guest is embarrassed. Ian motions to Alire and the door behind him, leading to the corridor once more. He shrugs a little and puts hands into his pockets to follow Alire out.
"Sure. It will be here waiting for you," he notes, having already poured it. And he, still with his own glass to fill. A look to you both and he nods. And perhaps William's attention is brief out of consideration for Alire, surely... that is how it must look. "Of course," he continues, his tone matter-of-fact. The smile is tempered. Maybe he's curious. He doesn't have the empathy you have. Or the hearing. Or even the sympathy. He sets the bottle down, he caps it. He watches you turn to follow the Templar.
Embarrassment. There is that. There are levels to the feelings between you. You can feel them, you have that gift. Alire is nervous. Uncertain. Oddly elated. But sort of lost, in his way. And you, always you have this steadying effect upon him. "I appreciate it." A look to William. "Both of you," I had better include him. He has gone quiet. Could he know? And will I have to have my guard up when I return...? "My thanks, Ian," Alire murmurs, his own gait slowed for speaking's sake. I don't mean to cause a problem...
There is a gulf forming where before there was flat open land. As the two of you leave and as the door closes, he turns upon his heels, arms folded at his chest, and he paces his hall. The windows are stained glass, the night is dark, full, pregnant with hope and with anticipation of blood and Life. But still, if you walk the garden together, his eyes might see...
"I hope that was not too uncomfortable," Alire begins, door closed. His quiet voice echoes in the entry hall of Chinon. His eyes lift briefly to the reflecting sound of it, then return to you warmly. "I ... find myself in a strange dilemma. A ... position I have never been in before." His gaze softens. I care about you. I trust you. "Thank you for... recognizing my embarrassment. I am not yet... prepared to tell... anyone else, other than you." He looks to his heands. Nervous. "I knew I could come to you," cobalt-edged eyes, otherwise light blue settle on you. And the smile, though slight, is full of warmth. "I hold your opinion... higher than any other's, Ian..." I care for you. I trust you.
I will be back. Soon.
"Hmm?" Ian smiles, closing the door behind himself. "Ah, Alire," he waves, "...you are too kind. I am glad you thought you could come here. And it is no trouble." William knows me. He knows my heart, my thoughts. "Come on," he whispers, "...we will walk a little bit." A hand motions down the hall, and Ian's feet keep pace with your own.
"What is this dilemma?" he begins. "Something in your duties? There are oft many..." he grins, "...cross places...when one is a new Prince," he grins proudly, turning to see you. "And I hope that whatever it is, has not caused you too much worry." As you would do, Alire. I can imagine.
"No, strangely enough, it is not the city. The transition has gone smoothly." He walks along with you, it is a slow stroll, slower even. A meandering. His hands lace behind his back and he looks to you. "You were right about the council of Poitiers, and I am ... I think... growing into the role. It was an easy transition because it was not new. You were right," Alire murmurs. I was already prince.
But when you were speaking that night, though I listened to your words, I kept thinking about you. About how it would be to be in William's position. To be mated with you. To be a partner with someone as intelligent and handsome. My mind was not so much on the business of Poitiers...
"But... as I said it is... not Poitiers..." And his smile begins to wander. When he looks to you, it is with a rising... flush. "I... have ..." Oh god, how do I say this? He clears his throat, and his hands unlace and find his pockets. He looks at the floor. "I have... met someone... recently. Very recent. I do not know what I am doing, Ian. He is... mortal... and a magician... and he is moving to Poitiers..." And I have no idea how to handle it...
He was with you about Poitiers. Of course he was right. He's always right. And you are Poitiers. So glad you know that now, Alire...
"Met someone?" Ian cocks his head, as if listening to the sound of distant birds. A smile grows across his face as the seriousness of it settles upon him. In that pausing, his gaze settles sweetly on yours.
"Oh, Alire," he waves off the rest of the tumble of words. "How wonderful! Marvelous," he grins, reaching out to nudge your elbow. Old schoolmates, this. "Absolutely wonderful," he repeats again, as if trying to get you to hold on to that idea. Just that one idea. You have met someone...and it's wonderful.
"You have met someone," he grins still. Pause now firm. "What is his name?" Let's start there...
"Giancarlo," he murmurs, and he smiles along with you, looking at you. How you are, it allows him to show what was under the surface. The nervousness. Not for William's sake, but for his own. "Thank you," he says in a hush, and now he is grinning. "He is from Venice. I met him in Prague... last year... in a church. He recently found me again." He smirks. Yes, I know... how dreadfully Alire. "He is wonderful. He is smart. Handsome. And he... is ... very patient, very quiet. Kind."
And I am going on... and on...
Alire clears his throat a little and looks to you, to his feet as he strolls. And back and forth as the two of you continue along. "In some ways, it is funny... if I were not prince, I think I would be talking of moving to Venice. I worry..." Of course you do, you would not be Alire otherwise, "...that he is giving up too much by moving from his home for me. I feel, Ian... I feel I owe him the truth." Yes, all of it. "...before he sacrifices so much for me. Leaving everything and everyone he knows. It is not... fair..."
Alire pauses a moment. "It is not fair that he should do this... without knowing what he is entering into..."
Wow. Ian's eyes flash for an instant, nodding as he listens to you. "You have much to think about," Ian agrees. "But..." he smiles, "...you think of those things too soon," he chuckles. "Already, you think you must tell him something? Ah, Alire," Ian winks, "....enjoy this time. Keep your secrets. I am sure, even as a mortal, he has his. Just enjoy...being in love. Having a lover," he teases again in saying the word. It is what you are now.
"How do you know if he is the One you should tell, hmm? More time is needed. Just...enjoy what is happening for you both right now." Regardless of everything else.
The blush is now seeming permanent. It deepens, it recedes, but it never fades. "I have been so good at keeping secrets. It should be easy. But I want to ..." his hands come out and make a motion, did you know that Alire was as passionate as this, "... tell him everything. Like... I have been bottled up so long... a bottle of champagne, let's say, and shaken by time, until now... I feel someone's hand on the cork and I just want to ... " Explode. Sexual imagery included.
"I think he may be the One...I love him." But you say to keep the secrets. Alire looks straight ahead. "It is too soon for the story. I would... send him packing, I think. But he will ask, I think. I think he will ask, Ian. When he does, I do not know how I will not tell him." The smile is a helpless one. "I have not had a lover in so long, I do not know what to do. How much to say. Or not say. Or if it is too fast, or what is fast? He is getting an apartment nearby," he murmurs.
Illicit secrets stride the hall with you, like scampering young dogs. "How will I tell him that I work all day and yet I stay up all night? I do not know... I've never had to do this. I've never had to be... a vampire. It is so easy... to obey the laws," the prince laments it, "...when you live alone and all you could do is break the laws by talking to your plants..."
That gets Ian to laugh. His brows arch and he seems sympathetic to your point. "It is an easy story to tell, Alire...thousands better than us have told the same story for generations," he reminds. "But love makes you honest," Ian quips, "...well, you and anyone who has felt love. Show your love, Alire," Ian offers. "Be honest in that. Be consistent in that. And when it is time to tell the story...next week or next year...he will know that your love never wavered."
"But," a finger comes up, "...it is not the young man that is the most concern. Giancarlo, you said," he grins, showing he was listening. "It is you. You are right...it has been a while, hmm? And there are so many feelings," Ian inhales sharply, recalling his own. "Explode," borrowing a phrase, "...in the way you can. In him, with him, upon him," he laughs. "Words...are but words, Alire. I know," he smiles, "...you are silent. Show him, and be silent a little longer. What is a few weeks? Months...in exchange...for knowing, Alire, knowing that when you tell the story, it will...mean by then..." his fingers open, "...nothing..." You will have him, you will have won, and the details...are but formality.
He went bright crimson, well as bright as human flesh of high mountains can go -- much as you do on occasion -- when you said those words: in him, with him, upon him. Dieu, you are such a practiced lover. Will I ever be this confident? He nods, he listens, he looks to you, he looks to the space before you both. I have so much to learn...
"You are so ... so wise," so confident and strong. "I hope I can be so wise when I am around him. When I am around him, I just ... want so much. To talk." He takes a breath, he needs a breath, he closes his eyes. "You are right," you are right, "... I must ... I must slow down. But... what do I do," bright blue eyes settle on you, "...if he asks questions I cannot answer. I cannot lie to him... I am a lousy liar. And probably, for that, a lousy prince," he smirks wryly, suddenly. His blush begins to wane again. You are the moon, my blood is the ocean. You speak, and I blush tidal.
"I suppose... it is no different, yes? Than when mortals love, and one moves to be closer to the other one? Nothing is ordained and guaranteed by God." Yes, I know this. Alire exhales. "I will ... try not to lie. He will see right through that. He is... gifted. I am no match for him..." And that makes him frown a little, not for that but for what it might mean to others. "And he is in love... with a Ventrue prince. And he does not know it," he whispers. "How would you...handle... loving a mortal and being a vampire prince...I am a fish out of water with this..."
"Me?" Ian's chin tips, causing lines at his tender throat. "I would...well..." he blinks. "Not say anything. Not until it was required. But then again, I am not a good judge, Alire. My heart already belonged to someone, and thus, being with mortals, there was no plan to keep them long enough to speak about such topics."
"Is he asking questions, Alire?" Ian has to ask. "Or...are you just worried?"
"The first night I made love to him," he whispers, and the greedy stone of Chinon captures his voice as you and he continue to walk the long hall, "...it was the first time in a century, I think. A long time, at least that long. I was so..." Embarrassment swells again. "I was so moved," he continues despite it, "...that I cried. He saw the manner of my tears," blood, "...and though he has not asked, I have not taken the memory from him. I ... cannot do that to one I love, Ian. He... he thinks I'm holy." And Alire chuckles a little. "Me. A saint. I have not had the heart to tell him that I am not a saint. Although... I tried. I tried, but mangled my words. He... has not asked directly. I will have to come up with answers for him... and yet... not lie. If he asks. If his curiosity leads him. Of the council," he begins, voice pulling slowly as he thinks, "I guess... I will tell them it is... none of their business. I don't want them to know. I don't want anyone to know," that is why I came to you. I trust you. "I want him to be safe. I know... it is not a safe thing to love a prince. It makes targets out of lovers..."
Again, I should be used to this... perhaps if it were to happen that he would be a target, I would know what to do...
"Silence," he echoes. He exhales. He nods. "It is the best way. As long as it is the truthful way. You are right. I need to... stop worrying," he looks to you, a helpless smile pulling broadly. "Do you have any advice for that?"
"For worry?" Ian shakes his head negatively. "No, Alire, I do not. I say trust in your love." Then a laugh. "I can't believe I just said that..."
He rights himself and grins at you. "Your council needs know nothing of your business. No one needs know of your young man, Alire. As for being holy," Ian smiles, "I would say use that to your advantage. But that is not you. I say then...if he does not ask...if he sees blood tears from your eyes and think you holy...that is sweet, Alire. It is perfection. For to a lover, the other is Holy..." Not an untrue thing. "When he is ready and when the time comes, you will talk of things. Until then...just love and enjoy it..."
"I fear," Ian chuckles, "I am not much help to you...save to sound like a postcard..."
There is a rasied golden eyebrow, and his mouth quirks. "To you, Plantagenet is holy?" he whispers. As if you would tell him. But if so, you are the only man on the planet who has, or has ever had, that opinion. His gaze softens. "Speaking of," his voice drops a little, "...he seemed a little...hmmm... quiet? I...should return you to him, before his mind has a chance to wander..." he softly teases.
Though, until recently, it would not have wandered incorrectly...and that might not have been in jest...
"I ... thank you, Ian," Alire says, exhaling, relaxing. "You are... an amazing being. I am honored to call you my friend." Independent of William. And in ways William and I are simply not friends. "You have been a tremendous help," he counters. "That is why I ... knew to come here." He smiles warmly, broadly. In fact, beautifully. "You... I could tell this," he confides.
And how well you know the labyrinthine ways the Plantagenet mind can wander. Particularly with you alone... off with a golden knight. A would-be rival. Not a remote thought, that. Not in his mind, though the thought lay dormant for months, until tonight.
The pure, raw material that is the ore of your Rigel, the hot-blooded Angevin, a lineage of legend when it comes to that (and libido), smolders to think of what might be said. (It plays so much differently in his own fantasies. Tender Templar and his gentle touch. How could this not be preferred, particularly as it would be so new? So much for winter doldrums...)
Knows your heart. He knows it above all. Doubt it? Never. But that does not mean that you might not enjoy something different, something sweeter, for a while. William pushes off of the wall of windows, turning from the view of the gardens. He never saw you and Alire pass by. Maybe you are pressed against the stone of the castle, in an alcove somewhere.
I really should not drink so much of this pear and cinnamon brandy...
Alire smiles, "And I do not want to wear out my welcome, but would like the... liberty, to stay the night if possible? I know it is short notice. I should have called first..."
"We are always happy to receive you," Ian smiles. "Plantagenet is the same, but you know how his kind is." It is time to part for a while. "We will see to a room for you for now and I will...deal with William." The smile speaks volumes. He has felt the man upon their connection.
"You are a good man, Alire d'Avignon," Ian offers in kind, turning a corner that will lead back to the sitting room. "Never forget that." No matter what happens.
Posted by Criseyde at May 29, 2003 07:01 PM
