It was once hard to pass along this stretch of road without stopping to look out over the sea, the wonder of the Mediterranean. It was an aquamarine jewel stretching out forever. I would see it in the sunlight, I would wonder how any man could look at it and not find it beautiful. Some in my company found it frightening, others were unaffected by it. But not Michele. Though, he would wonder how far a man might get before being swallowed up by the huge five-headed seadragons.
     There were no dragons out there. The dragons were all on land...
     Now, the approach is a two-lane highway, skimming along the coastline, edging the plateau. Pitch black at night. The village is to the east yet. The villa that was my home for a time, that was my healing and my salvation is to the west of it some twenty kilometers.
     A gated road leads me there, the headlights of the car leading the way. I can see it tucked against the plateau, flush against the limestone, with vines and trees and gardens around it. But there are more gardens past the front rooms. Secret gardens where one may go and find solitude.
     Alire arrives an hour later than he said he would. Usually punctual in the extreme -- organized, his life, to fill the many empty spaces between the notches of hours upon the face of a clock -- it is most uncharacteristic. But, of late, his routine has been...disrupted. He has not called as frequently. And most recently, he has been in a flurry.
     You can possibly hear him outside, his fine shoes moving upon the gravel. His hands in his overcoat pockets, dressed in the monastic greys and whites. Very refined, very reserved. And the fingers of his right hand fiddle with a tiny globe, held secure in his pocket, as he approaches the door.
     He even knocks...as if he were a stranger....

     It is only a moment before the door is opened wide, lights inside made more luminous. The young man, dressed in black, who stands there, doesn't look surprised to see a nightwalker at his master's abode.
     "Good evening!" he says, standing aside, "Welcome, come in," his French quick. A glance up and he says, "I was beginning to wonder." Charles is a delightful student, if a mediocre house manager. But he tries.
     "Here, I will get your things. You have things?" he wonders, stepping out onto the stoop.
     "Master! He's here!" he shouts, having forgotten to let Samuel even know...

     Alire holds up a bag, held in his left hand. "This is it..." He is not staying long. He can't be away from his city long. Why did he agree to do that? Because at the time, what else was there to do? It seemed like a good idea at the time, and... William Plantagenet asked him. He has never been good at telling him No. And he smiles to Charles, moving in. His eyes on him, the surroundings, the villa. He has been here recently -- within the last year at least -- but it looks a little different to him now. As all things are starting to. "It is good to see you again... I am sorry I am late," a little smile, his blonde hair draping a little forward as he bends his head, removing his right hand from his pocket, away from the globe of Giancarlo, finally offering it to Charles. He, never one for hugs so much. "I hope I have not disordered anything," in the organized universe. Alire is... jittery? No, that's not it. He looks like he doesn't know what to do with himself, his hands, but he comes in. And his eyes immediately lift. He sets his bag down for Charles to take if he likes, or he can grab it later. And he begins to remove his gloves.

     There is a pause of stillness which the knock disrupts, as though the dry silence only moistened by the ocean waves. Somewhere inside the house, a chair is pushed back slowly, and the master of the house rises to his feet.
     He approaches, garbed in loose black trousers, and a shirt a designer would call ecru but which he simply considers 'white' - he saves his nuances of subtlety for topics other than fashion. A dark beard, flecked with salt and pepper strands, his iron-grey head of hair worn longer than some and pulled back into a ponytail, he moves carefully from one room to the next, finally coming to the front door.
     "I see, Charles, I see." Samuel's voice is calm, even gentle, perhaps, and there's a hint of a smile as he turns dark eyes to the doorway. "So, it would appear that you are, indeed, here. Will you come in, or have me look at you for a few moments before you turn and dash off again?" He laughs, then, and holds out his hands lightly. "Come in, at least for the moment, even if you cannot stay long. You may run late, but the universe continues to run on schedule."

     Charles shakes quickly, immediately thinking to take the bag. The one bag. He shrugs and rises, closing the door behind the honored guest. "Nothing disordered. We were expecting you." But then Samuel arrives and Charles, perhaps all of twenty, says, "I will prepare tea..." heading off to take Alire's bag to the guest room.

     Alire smiles, he colors, he tucks his gloves into his coat pockets and then he moves in. Beneath the coat is a fine shirt of white Italian linen, the trousers are a soft grey, one that matches the coat, the scarf and the gloves. "I am not going to dash off again tonight. I thought... for a few days...Poitiers can miss me for a few days." What could happen? They overthrow me? A blessing, in a way, though it would be a shame, still.
     There is warmth in those blue eyes as he looks to Samuel. And there is a weight that lifts from his shoulders when he enters here. He seems to ...relax. Well, as much as he is going to relax. "Ah, tea," he twists back to the departing Charles. "That would be good, thank you..." he ends up saying that to Samuel and the air, for Charles is gone.
     Alire comes out of his coat, setting it upon a chair, the one he sits in. The dark wood paneling of the floors and accents on the walls gives it a resonance. A warmth and a closeness. "You look..." Alire suddenly smiles, when he does, it beams, and he gestures with opening hands as if to say: what can I say? "I am sorry that I have been so... out of touch. I did not realize it would be... quite as hectic..."

     Charles' feet can be heard upon the wood floors. He scurries about, preparing a room, then dashing downstairs to put water on...

     He ought to have a pair of spectacles to look over - Samuel's face looks ... incomplete, without them, almost. "For a few days," he agrees, "Poitiers will survive. And Poitiers' loss is in all things, of course, my gain." He chuckles quietly, a relaxed-seeming sound that comes from the back of his throat, and he crosses to another chair, standing behind it and resting his weight through his hands along its back.
     "Things never are as we expect them to be, you should know by now," he mock-chides. "But yes, I would expect them to be hectic." The French have only rarely learned to bide time in patient endurance, at least to the eyes of the Talmudic scholar. The corners of his mouth curve up, then, at the sound of Charles' footsteps moving in such haste, and he adds, "I, too, have come to learn a bit about ... hectic activity... Relax, collect yourself. For whatever there is to be said, a few days surely will afford us time to see to it?"

     He wasn't about to blurt it out. No, no... what he will speak of will come slowly, like honey that has been set upon ice. It will come, sometimes have to be pulled or coaxed, but it will come. Perhaps on the last night. Tonight, tonight is for pleasure. Tonight is for company. Tonight is for reconnection and relaxation. For you deserve it, Alire d'Avignon.
     Alire laughs softly, "I should know this, yes. Still, I was amazed at how different acting or speaking as prince is different from actually being a prince dedicated to such a city. " Especially hectic when suddenly I have so many reasons to turn my attention elsewhere. "I hardly have time to keep up with my reading," he laments, and though he teases, he also is genuine about this. He misses his reading time.

     "Books are a coy mistress. One must set aside time, and be faithful to her, or she will prove fickle in your inattentiveness." He's lived long enough in France to speak in such terms, with smiling authority on it. "You seem well, though, despite the hectic activities you find yourself caught up in. Have you eaten?" It's asked almost discreetly. Samuel, after all, is ... different, in his appetites, and their satisfying....

     In the kitchen, the sound of ceramics clink. Charles rushes about, feet rustling upon the floor. Then, he seems to be outside. Feet clash on gravel...he must be checking the car to make sure it's locked for the night. And the outer gate closed. So much to do, so little time before the water's ready.

     He seems... he must seem... preoccupied. Even as he quiets, even as he moves through taking a seat, settling down, with all the usual quiet grace, there is something almost ...fidgety about him. And Alire d'Avignon is not one to usually... fidget. His hands rest upon the arms of the chair, the fingers of his right hand lightly moving over the wood and apholstery. He glances to the sounds in the kitchen, but not for long. "I... have not ...eaten," not eaten-eaten at any rate, that would require a church or a priest or a holy person somewhere nearby. Or blood that has been sanctified by a holy rite or sacrifice. He always says 'grace' before meals -- to hedge his bets on keeping it down. Alire smiles as the...delicate topic comes up but it shifts as easily, "... fruit and honey with tea? The delicacies of Provence... how I miss my country, Samuel," his adopted country. He is Swiss by family and birthright.
     "And how I miss this place, your company, learning. How are Charles' studies going?" he wonders seriously, if suddenly.

     Samuel's eyes are calm, but alert to nuance and shade nonetheless. He does not fail to notice such small signs as are given. "If you have the need," he says delicately, "let us know, and we shall ... make preparations." That dining be possible.
     "If it is what you miss, then is that not possible to resolve, even if only for a brief time?" The seer smiles slightly, one hand lifting to rub at the angular line of his jaw, hidden beneath the full beard. "Charles is ... Charles is Charles, and when he learns a measure of patience, that all things need not be done over the span of a single night, or even a single fortnight, the happier he, and I think I, shall become. His eagerness and enthusiasm are refreshing, and he is a dedicated worker. He just has yet to gain the gift of perspective."

     As if on cue, the backdoor closes, and once more, Charles is in the kitchen. Whatever he's doing, it's more than the creation of a simple pot of tea. Knowing him, he's perhaps arranging an entire tray to bring you both.

     "Patience," Alire mulls upon the term, head tipping back, "...it is a hard lesson. The hardest," he says earnestly. For most. "Most never learn it. I know men who have strode across this earth for more centuries than I and still they are as impatient as they were when they were hot across France." Hmm, about whom could he be speaking? "Me... I think I ...am starting to ...forget patience. It is harder for me these nights, Magister," he speaks.
     And speaking, it is always what opens the can of worms, as they say. When it begins to unravel, will I be able to measure it? To speak it patiently? Will I be able to listen?
     Shhh.... Alire... quiet and peace and patience. You should know better...
     He realizes that he does not have his new touchstone... the globe that eases his worry. It is in his coat pocket. You see him make a start that most would miss, it would be, in fact, imperceptible. But then he quiets, hands returning to the chair. "It is difficult to be patient, I think, for those who are most passionate. That energy can be very sweeping. I turned to patience as a passion, I think. It is... the one with which I am... most familiar." So sayeth the monk.

     Dark eyes keen, Samuel remains still in his chair, save for the slow nod of his head. "Patience is, they say, a virtue," the words are tinged with wryness, "but so is moderation, as you know. Even patience, there is a time to let it slip from your grasp ... the difficulty is in measuring the 'when'."
     He folds his hands on his knee, his attention primarily focused on the man opposite him, though a small part of his attention goes to deciphering Charles' movements. There, that's the door, and that, that's the teakettle - the Spode china? No, that was metal, not ceramic. The rattle of cutlery, the light tink of the cups being set down - familiar noises, easily banished if one chose, from conscious recognition.
     "Too much passion is like too much fire - the heat sears rather than warms pleasantly, and burns, and leaves one with nothing." For a moment, the mixed brows knit closer together, then relax again. Subtle signs of memory or distress, otherwise left untransmitted. "Passion is often a usurper, unless it can be turned to a strength. Has passion been a foe of yours, then, of late?"

     "No... not a foe." And then he laughs, suddenly, but always quietly. "I am such a novice, Samuel. Inexperienced. And... of late... I have been shown how much..." And so it happens. It unravels, and undone, I speak. "I met ... someone," he doesn't look at you, he looks at some empty bit of space between you. "I... do not know what I am doing... I..." he begins to smile, even though he shakes his head, "...am out of my... area of expertise." Blue eyes sparkle when they lift to you, and the look softens, almost dissolving.
     And thus, I have come. As I always do when I need to understand something. This time, it is love.
     I met someone. I said it. I hear it still, thudding against the air. Alire exhales and sits back, looking to you. And then he reddens. That is why he has come. For the first time since Michele, there is.....Someone.

     There is a pause, as if silence were sand, slowly filling in a hole dug upon a beach, as Samuel absorbs this piece of news. Silence, and only after it is fully absorbed does he speak : "It has greatly thrown your life into disorder, then? However, if it has brought you happiness, why, then, I am glad."
     Glad you are happy, though saddened by this final proof and reminder of my failure. It is a thought which remains unvoiced, as so many do. The scholar lifts his hands slightly, and with a smile, he asks, "You do not come to me for expertise on the arts of love, I hope?"

     The kitchen goes quiet, as if something important's been said. But in truth, it is coincidence. Charles soon wanders in, rather oblivious in his expression. Indeed, upon a tray, is a teapot and service, complete with options of sugar, milk, and lemon. The pot is potent: some black tea, rich and herbacous, stewing to prime taste.
     Charles sets the tray on the table between you, displaying the small plates of cut apples and pears, even a date or three. Another plate has the important part, soft and hard cheeses, portioned out for two to share. He's even thought of a small basket of sliced breads with butter nearby. Enough to keep you both occupied into the hours of mid-morning. By then, he'll be ready to serve a second setting.
     A bob of his head and Charles thinks he's done. Eyes glance to the guest and Samuel, to see if there is anything else for now.

     Another notch red and he looks upward a moment, then back to you. "No, Magister... not on the art of love. I could not get through that conversation." And he laughs, brightly. He is still red-faced when Charles enters. And it is a good time to be quiet. And so... there is nothing more said.
     No speaking of disorder. What is love if not disorder? Alire softens, his monastic demeanor now resolutely in place. And he looks to the selection. That is precisely what he wished. Apples and dates, cheeses, bread and butter. He has never lost his appetite for actual food. He is glad he learned to assimilate it. Or transubstantiate it, as the case may be.
     The tea should rest for a little while more. While he waits upon it, he reaches for a piece of bread, a piece of cheese, a date. This will keep him for a while.
     "It has... not so much disrupted my life as it has made me realize just how.... ordered I have been. I suppose it is not a bad thing to ... have such rituals as I have to get through my nights. I do not come to you for that, but... there are ... a couple of matters for which I would appreciate your advice." You are the only one he speaks to about himself. You are the only one who knows it all, Samuel.
     Alire looks to Charles, smiling gently. "Merci, Charles," he murmurs. "It is a wonderful presentation. How did you know this is... exactly what I was needing?"

     He didn't. But what else do you serve travellers and visitors in the middle of the night? It is easily available, until a full meal is requested. But he smiles winsomely, glad that he could provide something.
     "Thank you, Sir," he says to Alire, always polite to elders. "I...didn't. I hope you enjoy." A turn to Samuel follows, but he expects to be sent on his merry way.

     "Thank you, Charles," the Magister says, with a smile. "It looks delicious, and I am sure we will be properly appreciative of your skill with cuisine." He is abstemious in his appetites, and increasingly so, though always a spare sort of figure. "That will, I think, be all until later."
     He turns back to Alire, then, sweetening the tea with milk, though no sugar, or not yet, and ignoring the plates of food. "Sometimes chaos comes as a reminder that God's will supercedes ours, yes, and it pulls us to pieces. Then we begin again, and discover more of who we are in His eyes." He smiles with amusement at the reaction his jest has provoked, and asks, "What advice of mine, then? But no haste. Enjoy the food, savour its taste, and we will talk of many things."

     Charles nods again, content to leave older gentlemen alone for their ruminations. Too slow for him. The idea one could spend hours and hours on a single topic and leave it unresolved remains confusing in his mind. Why do it? So, with his usual abruptness, Charles nods and spins on a heel, heading behind the staircase to one of the 'laboratories' at the rear of the house.

     "I thought vainly," a golden eyebrow lifts, "..that I had surely learned all the lessons I could learn from God," Alire notes softly. "Which is the approach of a very poor student, indeed. To think one has ...graduated." His mouth tugs slightly and he pauses, eating. Noticing the cheese. Regarding the texture of the bread, the flavor of the cheese. He studies it. And then he swallows. Alire leans in, pouring tea for himself from the kettle, adding cream, then adding sugar.
     "As always, when such lessons come, they come with complications." Alire lifts the cup. He closes his eyes. He breathes the steam. Finally, he sips. "His name is Giancarlo ... he lives in Venice."
     So much more starts to rush from the tongue, but it dissolves in another swallow of tea...

     "We are always learning, for as long as we are placed here upon this earth." Samuel does not need to point out more than that. His darker head nods slowly, and he cradles his cup in one hand, leaning back. An Italian. He has no real opinion of Italians, of Italy - only the same half-blind memories as others of his kind, and the half-wariness that always comes where one religion clashes against another. The scholar studies his friend and student over the table, over the tea, listening to inflections of voice, watching the tremor of muscles, the subtle movements of skin and air.
     "Venice is lovely, I am told," he says politely. He has no wish to go there. All his books are here, after all. "How did you two meet?" His gaze sharpens for a moment, at some thought, quickly internalized, but he never fails to be relaxed - prepared to listen.

     "We met at Our Lady Beneath the Chain," an old Templar church, once part of a Templar stronghold, "...in Prague," a place of great significance to the story of the Templars, "I was there, finishing a delivery," once a Templar, always a Templar, one supposes. "He came in... we spoke. A mad young woman came in after and we all...sang. She wept and left and he and I remained for a time. He...said...he was there to meet a friend. I did not realize that he meant me. We met again in Poitiers... a few weeks ago. He... stayed with me for a few days, a week," Alire shakes his head, he truly doesn't remember.
     "He... is packing. He will be moving to Poitiers..." And finally he looks to you again, past the rising steam of his tea. He sips. He wonders if you will call him a fool. "He is a ... student...of the arts," magical arts, to be exact. "And... I am in love."
     So many revelations. So few words. But, is this not Alire's way? So much said with so little....

     "That is very ... different." Samuel has his own gift of summary. He runs a fingertip along his jaw again, setting his cup down. "He ... knew you? And he is moving, so soon?" If the scholar is shocked, he hides it well. He does not hide that he is surprised - but it is not a disapproving or approving sort of surprise, it merely is.
     I knew eventually that your heart would be given again. I had hoped .... He shakes his head slightly. "I look forward, perhaps, to someday meeting him, and seeing who it is that has so successfully captured your attention." There is nothing forced about his gentle smile.

     "I think he meant it metaphorically," so sayeth the scholar. "He...did not know me, no. Not before meeting me," as far as he knows anyway. He does not mention how Giancarlo found him in Poitiers. Things happen, yes? His expression thaws, not that it was icy to begin with, and yet when you speak of meeting him, there is a shine in his eyes, a smile spreading widely. Uninhibited. Unrestrained. "I... would love for you to meet him. Perhaps on our way back? For I am going to meet him in Venice, to bring him to Poitiers..."
     And how will he make this work? The young man, is he a vampire? What? How can this be?
     "I would love for you to meet," he, you. You, him. Alire finishes his tea and eats one of the dates. He closes his eyes for this. Sugar melts on the tongue. "Am I foolish, Magister?" he wonders suddenly, softly. "I do not know what I am doing. I just know that to be without him is ...just not something I can do..."

     "All men are fools, even those who are considered wise." He smiles again, an amused, tolerant light to his eyes. "If you wish for us to meet, I will make myself available. But tell me," Samuel urges, shifting forward in his seat, "tell me more of him. What you know of him. What he is like..."

     Alire has to stop. Not that he has to think about what Giancarlo is like or what he knows of him, but he has to order it all. "He is very smart, he and I we are both students of science. He, of medicine, and I, of course as you know, botany," Alire settles back, another cup of tea in his hands as he goes. "Gian is... very kind, very open hearted, he loves good food, good music, has a good taste for wine, a wonderful conversationalist, which is important for me. I have to have that. Such an apt mind he has, so brilliant, I do not even think I have seen how brilliant he is, Samuel," he finally calls you by name, as he does when he is most intent on something.
     And intense he is, and passionate. It rises to the surface. It fills everything. "He is... special," he murmurs. "He... is open to me, he does not question...he... allows me to speak it on my own terms and he is safe. He makes me want to tell him everything."
     And that has been a real struggle. To keep silent. The one thing Alire does better than any man on earth...

     He listens to the silences as well as to the words, still absently stroking his beard as he does so. "I am glad to hear he is so much of what you would seek," Samuel says finally, pausing for a moment. How do I ask him what he has not said? Most things, I would sit silent upon, until he chooses, but this ... it could be the edge of the precipice, considering current events. Resolutely, he opens his mouth to speak the question, dark eyes certain.
     "And of what lineage is he, then, Alire?"

     He knew it was coming. You see him look to his tea. He is so steady in moments like this, the rock of Chinon...
     "He is not of ...vampiric lineage, Magister," he says, directly, but softly. It thuds against the air. "He... he is a magician." A mage. From Venice, the epicenter for magic (among other things). Alire takes a sip of the tea and then sets it aside. "Nor does he know about me. He will... not be living with me but in his own apartment in Poitiers." That should help.
     Still... it will be complicated....

     Silence for a moment, as the information swirls through the air, and Samuel laces his hands on the table, in front of him. "I see," he says simply, not speaking for a long moment. Is he disappointed? Is he upset? He doesn't show either of those emotions, simply sitting in pragmatic silence.
     "This explains much of your chaos, my friend. You are certain that you can keep him safe?" A Prince has so much to worry about, even with a vampiric lover. And a magician, no less. "I will, I suspect, find it interesting to speak with him, on the topic of magic," he says thoughtfully, "though if he does not know, then that will make my side of the discussion quieter."

     "He... knows that I am more than I seem, than I have said," Alire whispers. "When we ..." he clears his throat, "... I cried tears of blood... he saw them. He asked for no explanation. He... thinks I'm an angel." And he laughs, nervous laughter. "I tried to tell him, but... how does one say one is ... as I am? It is enough, he saw the scars. And still... he did not ask, Magister."
     He is quiet. For a long while. "I worry," he notes, a nod of his head. "I worry about it. I ...do not know how best to handle it. Even if he were a vampire...it would be difficult. They... cannot know." Again. Secrets. Again, a closeted affair. And you remember how the first one ended. "Or I must tell him everything. I have been wrestling with that. I feel... guilty for him giving up his life and he does not know what he is walking into, and I feel he must know. He must come with eyes open. And then... how does one do this and not break the law? And I am Prince. I am the law." Now, he is upset. Alire does not rise but he turns to ...stone. The jaw is set. His eyes show redness. Blood, held in check. For now. But not for long.
     "He cannot... stay in my house....that will help, I think. It will help to distance him from that part of my life. But... Poitiers is a small city, even though it is a large city." I am putting him in danger. I knew that. But to hear it, is something else. "What should I do?"

     "You are the law, Alire, that is true," Samuel agrees, brows knit in consternation for the other's obvious distress. "With that responsibility, however, comes privelege. The law says this - the law says that. Rather than approaching it from what you have, why not approach it with seeing how you can make him fit the law, or the law apply to him, rather than cutting him away by dint of that blade?" His eyes are dark and intent as he makes the suggestion in a neutral voice - all are tested, at some point, by the teacher. He gives no indication what the 'right' answer might be.

     But he will maintain composure. He is the stone of Chinon. He bore the whips. The cutting. The torture. He bore it all and he was absolutely silent. Alire draws in a breath, he looks from Samuel to the ceiling and back to Samuel. He listens. He soaks that in. And in the end, Alire simply nods.
     "I will handle it... the best way I can," he finally and simply murmurs. And he will worry. "I... do not know how I am going to make it work without telling him... but he... opened the door. He's 150 years old. Or so. He told me this. Maybe that will make it easier in the end." And he shakes his head. Maybe.
     A touch to his forehead and then he lowers his hand, an exhalation follows. "What worries me more is that... he ... feels pain when he is in my house. Maybe... that's for the best, for him. But ... it is troubling. I do not know what could cause it. I had the house checked out. The house is fine..."
     Ah, the old change of topic strategy. He'll come back to the other when he can deal with it.

     He acknowledges the change in topic without commenting on it, just a slight shift in his gaze for a moment - almost amused, but accepting of it. "That old?", Samuel says in faint amusement. Old for a human, yes. "Perhaps. And ... tell me of these pains." The scholar's voice changes subtlely. "There are no wards upon your house, are there, against his kind?"

     "No. And it is worse in some rooms... like my bedroom." More than a little disconcerting. "On the first floor... still it bothered him. Headaches... very bad if he went upstairs at all." Where my oldest things are. Little touches of my former life. Lives. "I felt very bad for him, we set up a bedroom in my first floor study," a touch of redness touches him, spreads upward from his check. "There it was not so bad. But I had the house checked out for the... mundane. He looked at it otherwise. It... is strange. I hope it is not me," Alire flushes a touch.
     He smooths his hand over his shirt, his trousers, then reaches for another cup of tea. Pouring it, then cream, then sugar is added. Methodically. Alire sighs, "I do not know what could be the matter..."

     "If it has not occurred outside of your home, I see no reason to suspect it would be you," Samuel points out mildly. "If you wish, though, I will ... examine him, if you feel the risk is worth the reward." He is willing to do that, for you. "But to do so means committing to a path, Alire," he adds in caution. "Be very sure, before you choose."

     "It has not to my knowledge. I will know, I guess, when I see him in Venice. And what... mean you by ... committing to a path. I do not understand your meaning, Magister. I wish to... make sure I do." Alire sips at the tea.
     He looks at you directly. There is no blush now. There is listening to be done. Learning. Understanding on the table. And, apparently, a choice.

     Lean hands folded still on the table, the ancient Jew purses his lips for a moment before speaking. "Just this," he says slowly. "I have my studies, and my - talents, as you well know. I have studied for more years than most - more years, even, than you yourself have been alive," Samuel smiles slightly, then continues. "It is not outside the realm of the possible that by conducting a thorough examination, I ... may be able to discern something of the cause of the discomfort. However, to do so I would need to first of all examine him quite thoroughly, and arcanely - and I might need to perform additional study within your home, rather than just from here. So doing would, however, almost certainly cause him to realize that I am doing something." And thus opens another can of worms.

     Then I shall do the right thing. I shall do the honorable thing. "I shall... ask him. For I ... believe he would love to get to the bottom of it as well. And we shall return to you here on our way to Poitiers. And you will have his answer."
     I should do the right thing. I should tell him.
     "Samuel, I trust you. I ... trust you as I have trusted only one other...ever. You... know everything there is to know about me. I.... would give my heart to your care, and if he consents... then..." It will be done. "And you are welcome in my home always, Magister," Alire smiles, finally, richly. "In my home, always." And he bows his head in respect. And in great esteem.
     "And I think... I should tell my magician... my story... so he will understand. I could not forgive myself otherwise..." Particularly if...
     Well, I cannot even think of that...

     "If he desires the assistance..." Samuel spreads his hands apart. "Tell him what you think best, Alire. You are Prince. You are not above the law, but ... sometimes, the law may be found to contain loopholes, mm?" The smile he gives is one only someone who has spent hundreds of years examining the Talmud with pilpul reasoning can give. "There's a bit of the lawyer in us all, my friend. I will help, if I can." No matter the cost.

     He nods again. He listens again. Again, he absorbs it. And still... he knows not how to do that. "How would I speak of it, Samuel?" he murmurs. "I started once, and my tongue froze. I... " Alire stops himself there, and shaking his head his makes a 'nevermind' gesture with his hand. "I will speak to him of it. He is very brave, my magician. I ...could have it no other way."
     The third cup is finished. Funny, he doesn't even recall the taste of it so much. He has inhaled the tea, in small but progressive sips.
     "I appreciate... all you have done for me, Samuel. And tonight, your words and your offer." Alire nods again. "I ... did not foresee such a thing. Ever," he says, brows opening up and outward. "It caught me by surprise... "

     "There is more to life than you know of, still, Alire." He smiles benignly, though the words ring dark in the room, as though large as it is, there is not enough space for them. "If you cannot speak of it ... you will inform me, and we will see. If you can ... I am sure that you will." Samuel taps the rim of his cup with one fingernail. "Reality is soft, and can be molded, my friend. Do not forget that. You are .. dealing with a magician, someone who will see the world not solely as it is, but what it could become if ... suitably adjusted." That warning given, he shakes his head. "You will let me know," he repeats. "I have faith in you, Alire. Very many do."

     I am just a knight, sir. I'm not a magician. I'm not a priest. I'm just a soldier. I do my service. I bleed. I protect. That is who I am. Tireless soldier. I fought for God, and by his ministers was imprisoned. But I delivered the messages. I did my duty. And I loved.
     "There is much I need to remember it seems." And that is the one thing... I do not like to do. Alire exhales and looks into his cup.

     "There is always much." Samuel's voice is quiet, sympathetic. He has his own ghosts, never fully laid to rest. "Come, though. Let me show you to your quarters... and you may find some peace." Even if it is a temporary sort of peace.

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