It has been very still for almost as many moments as it was raucous before, and in the quiet he watched you rest beside him, breathe, live in his arms. And silence was for the first time in a while... golden. Curled and twined on your mattress, sheets disheveled pulled orderly once more, you and Alire lie, he half on his side, arm tucked beneath the pillow, gold hair catching the light of the solitary candle.
     Your walls held the imprints of your joined shadows. Now, they hold the golden hue of the candlelight. A shadow moving, interrupting that glow only now and then, as his hand slowly, and subconsciously, moves against you. A tender, and a meandering touch. Meant not to wake you or disturb you, or even to arouse you. He touches simply because he...can't not touch you.
     Cobalt eyes blink. The mouth finds a smile upon it, anything but cool, and then his mouth finds your shoulder, and lingers there. How comforting it is to hold you here. How... safe it feels, a sanctuary. Secreted away in this little loft, you and I. No one to hear us. No one to tug us in different directions. Just... us. Simply.
     And for the first time, there is no worry. There is only gentle peace. When I whisper, "I love you," it comes so softly that I doubt you hear it at first. But then you shift in my arms.
     Eventually, Giancarlo, I will learn how to doubt nothing...

     Sleep comes so easily for mortals. A drowsy lie sliding into unconsciousness. For Giancarlo, this is especially so when around you. No books to occupy time, no boredom, no objects to keep him company. There is now you for that, and it eases the passage of time.
     "Aren't you tired?" Giancarlo murmurs, returned to his half-dreaming state. He makes no rush to return fully, just enough to let you know he is aware of you and your kiss. Your words. Cesare's smile is small. He loves you too, it says. "I am," he confesses, realizing it's not much of a secret. Keeping up with you takes much.
     When he exahales again, his warm breath rolls over your shoulder. He is on his side as well, facing a near wall with you behind him. "I could stay like this," he adds, shifting to give his arm a bend.

     Alire smiles. No. No I am not tired. Although I could lie in this bed with you all night, energy moves through me. It is only when the sun...
     The sun...
     "We will stay like this," Alire says, his French is flawless, warm. Fully confident that you and he will while away the hours remaining this evening, until the sun freezes him. But, you must not be afraid, Giancarlo. Trust me...
     Trust me in this...
     "Awake enough to talk..." Alire wonders, then smiles. "No...better... awake enough to listen?" he finishes in a hush. "There is something I...wish to talk to you about..." A finger traces the line of your spine, blue eyes following its progression. "I will be tired after I speak," Alire chuckles a little, dreamy tone to it, deep and soft.

     "Ah..." Cesare grins, now turning to look over his shoulder. "Alire does tire," he teases. "I will listen," he whispers, getting comfortable again as his face returns to the wall. His eyes close.
     "I am surprised that you," of all people, tease again, "...wish to talk." You are so silent, Alire. "No, I tease you too much, hmm bello? I am sorry..." and Giancarlo quiets instead.

     There was a rise of red, a flush that moved through him, mortal. A trick. A ruse. A habit. And Alire smiles as you tease him. "Non, not too much. Just enough," he assures. "You remember, of course you remember," comes the teasing chide at himself, "...when you told me how old you were," 150 years on this earth, "...how...easily I took to this notion. Did you ever wonder why," Alire wonders. But he does not pause. His mouth is on your shoulder again. "I do not want you to go to Poitiers with me... without you knowing who I am, Giancarlo, and ...what I am..."
     I'm a vampire, Giancarlo...
     "I'm over 600 years old," he murmurs, the warmth of his hands on you, as they have been all the while. The touching does not end. The fingers curl and uncurl against your skin. He wonders what you shall do. "I was a knight, a... guardian of Pope Clement V." A Templar. And do you know what Clement V allowed? Do you know the story? "And when the sun rises, I will be in a deep sleep. So deep, Giancarlo, that I will seem not to live at all..."

     Silence and stillness remain after you speak. Much like the dead, Giancarlo lies, as if held tight by some invisible force that, if he spoke, should shatter him like so much glass.
     If it is uncomfortable, the moments of silence, perhaps that is on purpose. But that also doesn't seem to be your lover's way. Respect, maybe. Time to find the right words to say, or even to absorb what he's been told.
     Tick.
     Tock.
     He breathes. Another stretch of time passes.
     Tick.
     Tock.
     "I know," he finally whispers, the air inhaled and sent out effortlessly.
     Hand at Cesare's hip folds over yours, and he goes quiet again.

     The increments of time can be measured, each individual second and nano-second, minutes divisible by thousands upon thousands, in the quiet that follows. And in the stillness, the absolute stillness of your lover's hand beneath your own, held to your hip. There isn't even the slightest tremble from the rock of Chinon.
     You .... know?
     How do you know?
     You know and you still came?
     These questions fly through him, like electrical currents. Too fast, too fleeting for his tongue to form the words that follow them. There is a stretch where he doesn't even seem to breathe. And then his fingers twitch, they twitch and they slide against your own.
     "You know," he says at last. Softly incredulous. "Have you always known..." Alire softly wonders again. Blue eyes are open, fixed on you warmly, amazedly. Blonde hair laying like spun gold on a pillow. "I... thought I would stun you with such a thing," he says at last, eyes narrowing in an intense smile, "...but it is Alire d'Avignon who lies here, shocked." He breathes, finally he breathes. "Turn around, bello," he uses your nickname for you this time. "I need to see you..." Your face. Your eyes.

     He does as reqeusted, awkwardly twisting up, then towards you in three distinct motions. With little space to rotate, it is a little work. The sheets pull and turn, and Cesare's hand comes above the linen to straighten it out.
     His face is calm, even if a ribbon of anxiousness flutters naturally between you. Cesare manages a smile, and his hand finds yours again.
     "I am a wizard," using the fantastical term for effect. "Why wouldn't I know that vampires exist?" he smirks, providing a shrug. It's as if you were discussing the weather. "And werewolves, and witches, and banshees, and wraiths..." he chuckles. "Mmm. And mummies. Met one earlier this year, in fact, bello..." his eyes wandering up in matter-of-fact thought. All so ho-hum, really. Only then does his grin become more radiant.
     Well, with a sigh.
     "Such is the world, Alire..."

     His shock dissolves first into wonderment, then into understanding, or something like it. "I suppose it is. We are all strange creatures, in our own ways. Well..." he laughs suddenly, radiant when he does, "... I thought this was going to be so hard. Oh, I thought... how am I to explain something so ..." his hand makes a motion and he rolls over to lie upon his back with an exhale. So extraordinary. But you... you make it seem as ordinary as rain. It is comforting. Refreshing. Like rain. Alire looks to you. The laughter softly recedes into something more sober.
     His eyes look to you, and he is in motion again, not disguising it now. There is apparently no need. One moment he is flat on his back. The next he is on his side, facing you, his hand reaching up to your face. A gentle touch. The look of wonderment returns. "I am a vampire, and the ..." he wonders how to explain it without having to go into too much detail on the politics, "...the leader of a city. Poitiers. I am ...not the oldest in the area, but few are older. I believe you can take care of yourself," he is more and more certain of it, "...I know you can, in fact. But know that... even though I am the law in my city... that may not shield us much from onlookers." And those who may decide, poorly, to make you an object upon which to focus. "I am ... a master of discretion," Alire nearly laughs at himself. "...but even so, even masters are caught."
     Yes, even those who are silent as I can snap a twig at a moment inopportune. Or breathe too heavily. Or make a rendeszvous that does not end well...
     His thumb moves across your skin. "And what ... do you think of all of this, Giancarlo the wizard. Is it... a life you want to lead? Will you mind the darkness to spend time in it with me." You said, I think, that it did not matter. Does it still not matter.

     "Shh..." Cesare smiles, settling down from his turn. "You worry too much, bello," finger at your lips. "We can talk of others and what to do...later." When you rain, you pour. "Master of discretion," he repeats, amused at the title. Giancarlo grins, replacing his finger with his mouth for a moment. The kiss blooms quickly, and hand that lingered in the air between now alights at your shoulder, fingertips pulling at the skin beneath.
     "I promised," his eyes closing, "...that I would stay, si?" And so I shall.
     "My word, Alire, is all that I have..."

     ...and all that I shall ever be...
     ...and I promised you, brother...
     ...that we should never be parted...

     Your kiss halted words that were poised at his mouth, ready at the tip of his tongue. They dissolve there, like sugar. Alire settles in you, settles on your mattress, and he gives himself over. To you. To this. To weariness. To relief. His eyes close, his mouth drifts -- oh, it cannot help it -- to your neck. It takes so little, wizard, to get him going. After a century of nothing ... yes... when Alire rains, he pours...
     But flesh is not pierced or penetrated...
     Alire draws you to him, sheet pulling, and he settles in for the night, mouth to the crook of your neck. He doesn't worry now. You are a wizard. You have dispelled it. He doesn't speak on it now, he just breathes at your skin. In a few hours, his breath will stop. He will make no sound. He will sleep as still as stone, the Stone of Chinon...

     Bloodied blonde hair, damp with sweat, blood, condensation of a dank donjon, the rain that found its way in. It rested against the stone of a tiny cell, he crammed into it. Only after the others were sleeping did he give into it, eyes narrowing forward -- in anger, in pain and in worry -- and water was forced from the edges. But still he made no sound.
     Every night, late at night... or early, very early in the morning, he would whisper to Michele, Michele in the neighboring tiny cell with several other men. Sometimes, fingers fought their way out, between the grating and the bars, too far to touch his skin. But they would slide against the stone that parted them.
     They torn them apart. But they could never part them.

     "I'll tell you the story of the mummy, bello, if you want?" Cesare smirks, relaxing as you settle next to him -- mouth at his throat. Is that how vampires find comfort? His hand brushes along your shoulder. "I guess," he now filling the air so you do not have to, "...there's plenty of stories I could tell you. I...should have mentioned some of them before." Not that he lingers. He is not one to chide himself.
     "Or, I could tell you the story of the witch doctor in Obizungo, who turned out to be a Windigo...mmm, American term there, but much the same. A abrizinge," he clarifies, using his voice and life to distraction. All is well. "That was fun," his voice sarcastically drolls. Not. "Or...the djinn a friend and I accidentally released. A while back. We thought it might eat us, but...we managed to convince it that we wouldn't taste so good, amice." Cesare nods, allowing himself to pull up all sorts of memories, useful for the purpose. For him, the past holds little of meaning. Just stories.
     "Or, this might interest you, I met a spectre once, in Paris." See! I even have French tales...
     I just needed a reason to tell them. I live in the present, sweet. The future. There is no past. There's nothing there. We all live, we all float forward...
     Well, save Nate. But he's strange.
     "Or, I could sing you a song?" You carry so much upon you. A glance is given downcast at your cheek, to see how you are. But Cesare never asks...he can feel your changing moods and anxious burdens. "Maybe we could sing a hymn together?" If you are not tired yet.

     It is comforting, being at your neck. Reassuring. It is like touching the apron of a long dead mother, in some ways. Yes, everything is alright, Alire. Yes, yes, go on now. Such a silly thing. To be upset about it now. So long over. Dealt with. Put in its place. Why now does it bubble to the surface?
     And then you distract me. God bless you for your filling the space, for your promise of stories, for your offer to sing to me. But...
     "No hymns," Alire murmurs at your throat. "I am sick to death of hymns," nothing of the Church, no, no more, "...though... no fault to God, but his servants are strange and cruel." His mouth parts, draws against your skin, then slides away as he leans back, head on the pillow, eyes on you. Let's trade stories. Golden eyebrows lift. "One of my friends is the brother of Richard the Lionhearted." He laughs. Name dropping! How delightful. Alire's eyes light up and he laughs. "I don't know too many famous people. That is it. A few poets. Do you know that some say Machiavelli is still alive and living in the sewers of Florence?" Is that not horrifying?
     His laughter quiets and he looks to you. Thank you, amice. "You are so good to me," he whispers. "How do you know so much... how do you know how to quiet me, to make me stop..." Alire shakes his head. Stop whatever I am doing. "I wish I knew songs other than hymns," he laments in a murmur. "When we met in that church," that former Templar stronghold, "...that is what we first did together. What else, amice, may we sing... if not songs of Church..."

     Richard the Lionhearted? Get out! Cesare grins down at you, nodding. You win this round. "I will think of some famous people I have met, hmm? Does Maria Callas fit?" he asks. Well of course. But nothing like knowing something of Richard the Lionhearted. And the idea of Machiavelli does elict a shudder.
     "Si, bello, we can sing something else," he finally says. "I did not know the church was of the Templars. But, we could sing an Edith Piaf song?" French people like her yes? "Or, we could sing..." something more generic. How is your opera, hmm?"

     "You met Maria Callas?" Now, I worship you. "Hers is a voice... so beautiful it is hard to listen to sometimes. It shatters me. How did you meet her? Ah, I would have loved that. Oh, you and I, we must go to the opera in Paris. I will get us tickets for a whole season, in a box. Would you like this, amice?" The voice warms and goes fond, as does the look. The intensity softened. Tempered. No less deep. "My opera is good... Italian, French or German?" Alire grins. When he is confident, he gleams gold. And with opera, he is confident.
     "Hmmm," he says, voice soft between you, his eyes drifting over your face and then downward, "...think of it. We two... in an opera box...a kiss in the darkness..." Yes, I will buy tickets immediately. We will have season passes for eternity.

     "Paris...and...La Scala?" now that they have restored it. Cesare loves opera and he gleams too at the thought. "I have never been to opera in Paris," he smiles. "And...Italian, hmm?" Of course. "You pick, bello," he grins and looks to the ceiling, confident he will know whatever you choose.

     "Paris and La Scala," Alire smiles, and this is what we shall do together, you and I. The thing that we do that binds us. That brings us together in the same space. Music, love, passion, good food. The life, bello, that I see for us will be as bright as if we could walk the boulevards by day...
     "How about Nessun Dorma," Alire offers. Ambitious, true. But in the quiet, it will be quietly sung. He waits upon your agreement, golden eyebrows opening outward, wondering. And he smiles still. And he is lightened. The burden removed, set aside like so much luggage.

     A fine choice. Giancarlo grins, as if he expected that suggestion. "Si," he whispers, blinking at his ceiling. "And then, we will make love again and then sleep?" Just as a thought.

     "Si..."

     And the song goes like this:
     Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma. Tu pure, o Principessa, nella tua fredda stanza, guardi le stelle che tremano d'amore e di speranza. Ma il mio mistero e chiuso in me, il nome mio nessun sapra! No, no, sulla tua bocca lo diro, quando la luce splendera! Ed il mio bacio scioglera il silencio che ti fa mia! Dilegua, o notte! Tramontate, stelle! All'alba vincero!
     Vincero!
     ...Vincero!

     And this means: None shall sleep! None shall sleep...
     Even you, o Princess, in your cold room,
     you watch the stars that twinkle with love and with hope.
     But my secret is hidden within me, no-one shall know my name!
     No, no, my lips on yours will tell you when day breaks!
     And my kiss will break the silence that makes you mine!
     Vanish, oh night! Set, stars! At dawn I will win!
     I will win...
     ...I will win...

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