It is approaching. The time when I shall say hello and goodbye to them.
     It is a memory in progress. I will remember the smell of the air, how the hills and valleys opened out before your car and France spread itself at our feet. I will remember everything. I shall fill every corner of my mind with it. With the smell of my mother's perfume, the touch of her hand, her smile.
     My father's barrelling laughter. My sisters and their mischief. The love of my brother which lives buried beneath the constant contests between us.
     Everything...
     You can see it up ahead now, where my family's holdings end where the sea begins. The villa in Bordeaux country. One of two -- this one the family estate. The winery's villa sits some distance away, as a centerpoint to the vineyards. The lights are all around the villa. You can see its ancient architecture. It has been here forever. Some say, it has been here since the days of Rome. It is not true, of course, but it has retained its romanesque flavor, even through all the years of kings and wars.
     There is no gate or entry point. There is just the sprawling lands, the equally sprawling villa with its colonnades, open airways and atrium. You can almost smell the fresh bread.
     They are waiting for us, ami. And as my eyes find you, and I smile -- there is at once a grand easiness and comfort, as well as nervousness. My family is about to meet the man I love, ami. "They will love you," I murmur, and my eyes drift to the window of the car as it slows along the drive. "They will adopt you, if you are not careful... I know your winning ways..."
     He is dressed... brilliantly. In the brown suede pants and a red hand-knit sweater. The collar allows for the garnets at his throat to sparkle. And his hair has been recently cut -- in Blois there was time to stop -- and while the Mod sensibilities are still in place, he does look like an aristocratic son returning home.
     As the car pulls into the drive, you see the door to the villa open.

     The Sauber slowed once the city was reached. No need to rush. It is almost like instant-drive with Edward...no distance is too far. He grins over at you, generally quiet during the trip. Oh, certainly, some comment was made about how adorable you really looked, but in the end, he still should rather not think about what must happen. It simply will, one night.
      "You'll give my regrets about not staying at the villa, huh ami?" he asks genuinely, easily handling the curved drive. It's easier this way. Fewer questions asked. "Business," he whispers, as if a quick reminder. They should understand. He can only imagine the disaster if the uninformed should decide to rouse him from the room they give him. Get up, Edward! Come join us, Edward! He could not bear such consequences. He could not imagine what you should think if the unthinkable occurred.
     And so, he avoids the situation altogether.
      "You think I'm worried?" he grins in response to your assessment of how it all will go. There is confidence in him, he dressed in black slacks, black silk shirt. His favorites. He looks the veritable European this night, not an English imitation. Brilliant shoes and tailored blazer to match. They will see he is of the right stock, at least, even if they do not see the rest....

     The grin winds its way, like sunlight over this very valley -- if you could yet see such a thing -- and warms in a slant upon full lips. "Non," he replies and Valan tilts his head toward you. Such lazy grace. "Nor am I," he counters, grinning. "And oui... of course...they will understand. I will handle it..." Do not worry, ami.
     "Ah, I should warn you... my sisters... are very..."
     How should it be said, but truthfully?
      "... friendly..." Valan laughs, the soft laughter that sounds so free and warm. Living. He looks back to the window, even as the villa nears and nears. The drive leads off the country road and upward to where the villa sits as if on a cliff. And the drive circles upon itself, around a yard fountain. A beautiful house, truly romanesque and patterned off of more southern villas. It is said when the family moved from Italy to France centuries ago they brought a little of Italy with them. It is evidenced in the estate.
     Coming out of the villa now and waving is a ... splendid young woman. Golden hair like Valan's, cut in that pixie fashion -- very short and mussed. Lovely. "That is Veronique..." Valan murmurs. "She is the oldest of the three flirts...beware of her. She knows she is... as they say in English..." Green-gold-brown eyes sparkle in a wink as Valan looks to you. "...legal..."

     Legal is good.
     "Ami..." Edward peers, bringing the car to a slow and halt, "I love you. Why should I not love your sisters?"
     And the car stops. He winks and immediately opens the door, quickly availing himself of the night air.

     He laughs. Very well, you wish to face them. I shall leave you to it, ami. "Do not say I did not warn you..."

     The air is still crisp at night -- even though the moisture of the nearby Atlantic warms. And immediately he is assaulted by the smells and sights of home. His sister is dressed in the latest fashions, of course -- Veronique would do no less -- and even as he steps out of the car, Valan is called. "Well, Valan Montague. You have cut your hair. Now we look like twins. This will never do..." Words in a rapid, songbird voice flurry as she approaches. But even as she reaches her brother and sweeps him up in a hug, she is peering at her brother's... guest over his own shoulders. "And this must be Eduard..." My my... my brother has good eyes.

     Valan is swept up, and the hug is as much a turning of her from the car and toward you. "Oui... Veronique Montague... this is Eduard Meurelle... sister," Valan looks to Veronique, "...this is my ..." the emphasis is not lost on you, "... beau, as they say..." He grins.

     And she is delightful. Her smile, like Valan's. Sunny and warm. And her hand is slender as she reaches for your own, "Very nice to meet you, Eduard..." Her hand slips in yours, and it is not a handshake you are given but a more... cordial French greeting. A kiss upon the cheek and a hug. "We are an affectionate group, the Montagues, you will have to forgive us." Her green eyes cut over to her brother, "but now I understand why you didn't return my calls!"

     He was to go hide behind the lifted trunk, but Edward's a bit more social. "Veronique," he purrs, moving around the front of the Sauber. Edward greets the young woman with a kiss to each cheek, his hand extended to take her own. "You're too flattering," his whole demeanor altering, "...a pleasure to meet you." Edward smirks at the compliment about the calls, shaking his head head and motioning to the trunk. He moves around to see about your bag...

     Dynamic. Her inflection is carried in the motion of her hands. They compliment every lift and lilt of her own French, "I was sent as lookout," she says to Valan -- although, admittedly, she did pause to watch Edward in his motions back to the trunk. "I will tell the others you are here. Isabella and Genevieve are in from university special to see you... and papa and Marcus have been arguing all night, so! It will be the home you remember, cher..." A kiss to each cheek and Veronique smiles. "It is good to see you, welcome home, Valan..." No more teasing. She means that.

     I will remember the butterfly touches of your hands most of all, Veronique, and your wild bright eyes. Leaning in, Valan leaves a kiss upon each of his sister's cheeks, and then with a squeeze releases her. "Give Marc something to do... have him pour the best of the Family in a glass, mais oui? We are on our way..."
     As I turn to watch you at the car, ami, I am grinning ear to ear. It has begun. Your first journey into Montague territory.
     You can hear voices, Edward. More so than your young, mortal lover. Male voices and female voices intertwining. A family. Carefree laughter. The door to the villa is left open... they await you...
     There are another pair of hands at the trunk, outstretched in offering. "Can I help, ami? Something for me to carry... or shall I be lucky enough that my hands will be free to distract themselves in you..."

     "Is that what you think?" says the man behind the lid of the trunk. A quick look around, and he takes the moment to place a fast, but slithering, kiss upon your lips. Memories of earlier. "I needed that," he says, exhaling the now-obvious tension that lingers upon him.
     "I'll get your things," he says softly, "...I'll go by the pension later," he informs. The one that will house him. A safe spot, held by allies. Edward is quiet, fishing around his leather bag to retrieve yours. "They seem sweet, ami...especially that one," he leers, wiggling his brow as he glances to Veronique. A tease and chuckle, and one of your bags is freed from the compact trunk.

     Hands slide into his pockets and with a smirk Valan turns toward the house. The warmth of your kiss still humming upon his lips. I needed that. But the echoed warmth of your kiss claims a smirk. Funny, ami. "I was blessed with beautiful, sweet sisters, this is true. No one should be so blessed as Valan Montague," his voice leaves him in a teasing drawl. "They get it from my mother..." As if to say he is exempt from that behavior. But in Veronique you could see similarities... echoes of Valan.
     He is quiet as well as he heads up to the door, toward the warmth of home. And though there is a kind of lingering nervousness... it is a momentous occasion... his stroll is that easy, graceful stroll you remember from your first meeting. How he walks, comfortable in his clothes and skin.
     The voices from the house... you can hear the laughter of women. Young women. And something like small girls. Perhaps some of the Montague siblings have had children of their own.

     The trunk is unceremoniously closed behind you. Quickly, he catches up to you -- no one's looking -- and shuffles one bag in hand, the other upon his shoulder.
     "Any last words?" Edward wonders, having girded himself with suitcases for battle. Achilles never had to suffer such indignity. Bracing himself, he stiffens and takes a couple of deep breaths, smirking after the last.

      "Oui," Valan whispers as he pauses and stands with you a moment. Turning, his eyes flicker with gold as he looks to you. And smiles. "I love you."
     And then... you enter the enfolding arms of the Villa Montague...

     It is old elegance. Elegance that seems to have seeped into the bodies of those that live here. That easy grace that is echoed in the architecture here. The sweep of arches. The smooth twist of columns. The scents of candles and the coming dinner. With this, the swirl of voices. And all the while, you and I walk within... like a processional of lords. How strange that it should seem so. But the world is different than it once was. Even the walls have changed...
     The villa is decorated with southern French and Italian accents. Romanesque with country French living -- fresh flowers everywhere -- and under one such covered colonnade you and Valan walk. You see him... looking here and there as if reacquainting himself with his own ancestral place. You have seen vampires do the same thing, yes?
     But it is not long before you move from the colonnade to a large interior living area -- and a gathering of ... quite lovely people...

     There is Veronique, who upon seeing you smiles and rises, waving everyone to stop their talking. And there are three distinct conversations going on -- one woman, she must be another sister, is holding a small child, obviously her own, while talking to another lovely young woman about the last trip to Paris, and wouldn't Milan be lovely in the summer. Then there is a young man, he must be close to Valan's age... ah, his brother, and handsome -- that runs in the family -- not quite as tall, but just as golden, speaking with a very distinguished man in his 50s, getting the last word in on an argument about car racing, and then the voices of another two children as they run from room to room -- their laughter chased by the voice of what must surely be the matron of the family...
     It is chaotic. It is beautiful. And in everyone of them you can see the man you love.
     Valan looks to you then exhales. Ah... home...

     You're in all of them. Vampiric eyes make the immediate scans. Everything is soaked in, processed in an instant. Colors, scents, numbers, details...each recorded and stored for future reference.
     And on Edward's face, a polite smile recognizing the warmth and love here. Real.
     He remains behind you and to the side, not rushing ahead. No need. You will introduce in due time, as each presents him or herself to you. And the father...ah...that gets an extra moment. An opportunity to see the challenge and the source of it all.

     "Oh, well, it took you long enough," comes your brother's voice, "...we wondered if you decided to leave instead..." a smile upon his face as he rises.

     Etienne Montague. He is the fulcrum about which the rest of this houshold revolves. There is a dynamic energy coming from him. Held in hazel eyes. In the pate now balding and greyed -- that once was blonde. It is cut so short as to be nearly bald by design. He seems... monastic. If this house were a church, he would be archbishop. His strength and power is evident. For a mortal, he commands the space around him well. You see the birthplace of Valan's charisma. But for all his commanding air, there is a quiet warmth that eases from his green-brown eyes. "Good! You are here!" comes his great voice. "Now Marcus has someone else to argue with..." Etienne rises, and he is the tallest of the bunch. Even taller by an inch than your Valan. "It is a carnival in here," he speaks again. "Forgive us our exuberance," he says in well-born and precise French. A polite way of saying: I am sorry my children are so noisy.
     "Alright! Everyone out! I want to speak to my other son and his guest in peace. You will all have a chance at your own inquisitions later!" And upon the words of Etienne, the noise and chaos hushes and apologetic smiles come upon the mouths of his daughters. "Very well, papa," they say, "... we will leave you be and let you torture him in private," such smiles, such laughter. Of course, they are kidding.

     And for his part, Valan will be relieved for a little quiet. It is overwhelming, and he applauds his father's decision and grins. "Over dinner, Isabella... it is better to have interrogation after wine, ne c'est pas?"

     And they file out... the line of Montagues. Daughters and grandchildren at least. "Now, come in Valan... Edward... I will pour you the wine of the season. I want to hear the review from my son, since his label will be going on the bottle..."

     There are so many of you. Beautiful all. His eyes watch parents, childer, and grandchilder, milling about and filing out. Humanity at its finest, yes? Beautiful. Just like my Valan.
     But someone speaks.
     Edward turns about, the black suit gorgeous upon him. He smiles and sets the bags down, grinning as his name is used. My name called by my lover's father. Amazing! Blessed Christ, what have you brought so late to my life...
     His feet step lightly, the gift of a dancer. His hand touches your back in gentle encouragement. Always the escort. "I should like to thank you," comes his most elegant Parisian French, "...for your hospitality, Monsieur Montague," Edward's head bobs, brown hair flourishing. "You indeed have a lovely home and family."
     Somewhere, Kindred turn in their beds.

     The snorted laughter. The look. The warmth that comes with equal parts sardonic humor. "Oui... fortune has indeed graced my house. I am thankful, everyday... but some nights," he smiles as he motions for you and Valan to sit -- and in the motion the rest is conveyed: some nights a man just wants peace. Sometimes there is such a thing as too much love. "My son..." A look to Valan as he pours three glasses, "... has been quite tight-lipped. Very careful, this Montague. And so, as you are the first man my son has felt brave enough to present, we should not be formal. Come, sit, share wine. I am anxious to meet your acquaintance, Edward..." The wine is poured and it is Etienne himself who offers his vineyard to you. You have what matters to him most, yes? You have his oldest son. "Welcome..." And the glass of red is offered to you.
     A whiff of the wine and it shall tell you the story of this valley. Of the berries that grow nearby. Of the fat red grapes, almost purple with power. Not unlike the spirit of Virility Itself. Of the sandy soil. Of the clear waters of the Loire, which flows nearby and to the sea. Mais oui...

     And beneath the touch of your hand, your lover is warm... relaxed. While there is... a dynamic between the father and the son which does cause a certain electricity on the air, it is a tension borne of great admiration and love. But you know how it is when such powers attempt to combine. Sometimes, such strong forces collide. This, too, is in the name of Love. Valan turns, his smile slanting as he crosses into the large sitting room with you. He takes the wine from his father's hand in turn. "My father exaggerates. He is renown for it, as all great men are..." he adds that with a look and a grin to his father. And for his part, Etienne seems greatly amused by it.

      "Drink, Valan... it is my turn..." And so Etienne nods to you and he settles again. With a sound. He is in his 50s. The body does not move as once it did. "I wish to convey to you," and the hazel eyes fix on you brightly, yes.... Valan has his eyes. His humor. "We... his mother and I... are glad to see Love finally strike our eldest son. We thought... this one..." A gesture to Valan, "... would never settle. And as we know... a fine wine of Bordeaux must... slow and settle in order to reach its... " Etienne grins. "... full maturity?" A slant of gaze to his son. Oh yes, we have had this conversation before. "So his mother and I are thrilled. He tells me... You Are The One..."

     What a lovely thing this. Has everything always been so fascinating. The smile remains fixed upon Edward's well-shorn face, hand gentle as he accepts the glass with a quiet merci. He grins at the banter, glad to see a pair so comfortable. Was I ever such with my own father? Maybe, in our way. I had nothing against Blois, and only as I aged did I really get to know him.
     And as soon as we learned of each other...I was gone.
     He lingers there for a moment, until he hears your voice, Valan. A broader smile at your compliment, and Edward returns to his glass, closing his eyes to inhale deeply of the wine, of the land you and he share. To listen to your father.
     And a brown eye perks open. Love. One.
     No, my father never talked about things like this.
      "Well," Edward clears his throat, not sure what to say. He looks at you, Valan, and your father in turn, smirking at the fine mess. "Lovely bouquet," he finally decides to reply, chuckling. "No, I..." one must answer such things seriously, oui, "...I am...well..." starting again, "...I'm not sure what I should say to that, M. Montague," his sable eyes looking to you beside him, sparkling. Is that the truth? Is that what I am? "Suffice to say...I am..." and this is for you, toward you, "...honored...thrilled...if he has made such a choice."
     And there you are. Even Maria would say that her Edward has never looked so charming, so handsome.
     So in love.

     He smirks and tips his glass to his lips, drinking deeply while thinking of the one of whom the wine reminds him.
     A glass was raised, and a grin. And then the wine was swallowed. Memorized. Like so many things tonight. Even you, papa. No, especially you, papa. I will miss the old lion, this is true. Though he has growled at me the whole of my life, it is in his protective paws that I have flourished. And learned. This learning... I will carry with me for lifetimes, papa. And you, and mama, and all the others... so long as I live, you live. This is how peace is made with the human soul...
     "It is true," Valan announces with a growing smile, warm and broad. It lights his eyes as he looks to you, Edward. "And I have told him this. He is now going to do the fatherly thing and ask you questions of how you intend on putting up with me..."

     "Let the man finish his wine before you threaten him, Valan... where are your manners..." Etienne is quiet a moment. Reverence for the taste of his own vineyards. And in that quiet he looks to you, Edward. An inclination of his head, and he studies you, Edward. Measuring the man with whom his son spends so much time. But the smile remains, though his eyes are sharp. "Maybe you are shocked that... a father can be so at peace with his eldest son, who will not provide heirs to the Montague Family. It is important for me to tell you this...Non, hush Valan," You had felt your love about to speak, but Etienne is not finished. "We love our son. It is his happiness that is paramount, and the honor to this family. Isabella has already pledged to have twice the children... I want... the air clear in that regard. It can be...such a touchy subject. But we have known of Valan's life and how he lives it. He has been very honest with us. And so... he has honored the family. I cannot but be proud of that. What else does a parent hope for but that his child will grow to be honorable, love and be loved. The rest... is not important. So," the smile returns, "... that is out of the way, and now that I have rendered my son speechless...not an easy thing to do, I am sure you are aware, let us move onto you. He has told us that you, too, are of the Loire region. I hear Society upon your voice..." A compliment. You are well-born. Anyone less so would have been shown the door. You recognize that in him.

     Sable gaze lifts to the man at his side and then to the one across. Feel free to look, Edward's downward turning expression says. I am, what I am. If you do not see Me, as I am, then more's the better. If you do...it is the same. For you must also see my quiet confidence, the love I bear your Valan. My Valan. I have been under a more scrutinizing gaze, monsieur, and have lived to tell.
     But the time to enjoy this wine is not now. For Valan speaks. You speak, and surprise me with your words and honesty. No, we shall not bear children. Yes, he is happy, and I intend to keep him so for eternity.
     But I find it hard to think of that now. The glass swirls as I look down into it, hearing you speak, monsieur. I think of what will not be. How true your words are. How you have nailed it to the wall. If the sin your son and I share is that of never producing, then the greater sin will be the real truth of the matter. For we both will not be alive. What you understand, between two men, is unlikely, I know in Death...is non-existent. That is what the Church knows.
     Are we so doubly damned? Maybe.
     And before my eyes, the bold wine swirls, the dark, lush Bordeaux. It lives, in its way. And so will we.
     "I will say," coming from my reverie, "...that indeed, monsieur, I am...amazed at it all," the aristocratic self bearing face. It is in the eyes that now look at you, Etienne, the face placid. The jawline fixed. It is like speaking business suddenly, and I cannot help but be somber.
     A glance at you, Valan. But you cannot speak. He has said so. You are right. He looks to me for information.
     "I..." I say softly, "I...try to make him happy...Valan. I guess...we all have that in common." The wine holds me now as I stare at it. "I am of the Loire...my family...were of Blois." But maybe you know this. "It is...the only land we have known, we believe." Since people began to write of such stuff. Was that in the halls of Charlemagne? Or before? "I...still live there...when I am not in London...where I am often on business."
     Now I look at you, Valan. Have I lied? No. But you know I shall not, as best I can. Unlike the Others, it comes not easily to me.
     How I wish we could leave already. No, not so much flee, as I wish to have you in my arms. In quiet. Dealing with nothing. With each other.

     Surprisingly, there is no judgment. With matters such as the sin... well, perhaps this is surprising. But there is just a father's concern. A ... father's hawk-eyed stare at his son's choice. But it is your demeanor that convinces. For Etienne, your carriage does more than your words could ever hope to do. The wine is finished, the glass is set aside and fingers come together. But there is a smile there. "I really do not wish this to seem a test, but," hands come out and gesture, "I suppose that is what it is. We are an old family. I am certain your family will ... if they have not already... question my own son. I have raised him to handle himself with honesty, dignity. He gets his grace from his mother... I cannot lie..."
     Hazel eyes shift toward his son. A brief look. An understanding? "I like you, M. Meurelle... you do not wither. This is a good sign. You will need this fortitude to face the pack of Montague wolves at the dinner table... you think I am tough. His sister Isabella... do not let that sweet face fool you. She is the reincarnation of Eleanor of Aquitaine...I would swear it on my grave. Or perhaps... Catherine di Medici... " A grin slants across the elder Montague's mouth. "This I would believe..."

     Valan exhales and grins. A look he gives to you. The old lion likes you. A father's approval. What more could one wish, my love, than this? And so I grin. Unabashed. And I lean in, unconcerned that my father is here. "I will give you some words of advice, ami. Flatter them. Get them talking about hair and clothes... it is the only way..."

     Is that it? Edward looks up from his barely touched wine, somber expression giving way to a smile. It comes when Valan speaks. He bobs his head and nods at Etienne, "I will endeavor to do my best in all things," he murmurs, only now lifting his wide-mouthed glass. "But," he halts, "I will tell you...my parents...they are dead, monsieur." Just so you know. There will be no conversation for your son...and no comments on Eleanor.
     Now he looks upon you fondly. Yes, your mother is there. And the man not so far away. The grin grows to a broad smirk...he cannot even help it. "We should put...your bags somewhere," Edward gently suggests, not wishing to intrude if there is a plan for things already in place.

     It is not over. You know that it is but the beginning. But in the end,what can Montague do but nod... and wish his son well. For his son is happy. You have made him so. And you will be questioned and queried. There will be laughter and wine and maybe even an argument, but you are accepted. Brought into the fold.
     Etienne bows his head. "I am sorry to hear that, my apologies." A glance to his son. You neglected to tell me this, my boy? But then there is a smile, again, "I believe you when you say it will be so, Edward Meurelle. You have my blessings... and so... yes... please take your time and settle in. Dinner will not be ready for another hour or so. The room..." Etienne pauses in his explanation and then waves to his son. "You know where the master guest room is..."

      "I do, papa... you made me paint it last summer... I recall it very well... fond memories..." Valan turns to Edward, something murmured, and then a half-turn back to his father. "I will be comfortable there if I am able to relive the trauma of that day..." And so, the father jabs and the son nudges back. It is constant between the two of them. "Unfortunately, Edward has business that has to be tended to and so... he will not be staying overnight, but he will be here..." A look to you, Edward. "...for a while yet, oui?"

     "A while," Edward responds sweetly, so careful not to interject his more boisterous self. He gives a polite smile at your father, appreciative and understanding of the acceptance. No, it is not done, but he is not out on his ear. "Thank you, M. Montague," he offers, moving around you to pick up your bags as you might have other concluding words for your father now.

     "A while," Valan echoes, turning back to Etienne Montague. "Oui, merci... papa..." For not making this too difficult. It should not be a trial by fire, yes? Even if I am your eldest son. Soon, your second son will have the full-force of your love. As he has always wished. But Marcus will likely find it... is more than he expected it would be. Both for good and for bad.
     In his turning back to you, a murmured word of his meets your ear -- he leaning in and closing whatever formal distance had been between you. "You survived," he whispers in English. "It will...ah... all be down the hill from here..." Well, that was almost right...
      As you take up the bags, Valan takes up you. An arm about your shoulder and he draws you in close for the journey. "We should look at the ocean and go down to the beach before you have to go..."

     "Please... no rush... it will do them good to finally learn patience," so says Etienne in a humorous farewell. An interesting young man. Polished and strong. Polished and quiet. Determined. I like him...

     ...The walk was pleasant. Discussion of the villa and its contents was interspersed with quiet. But his lover knew what that meant. Edward was in his own world, working through questions.
     Yet once the room was entered and the door closed, he opened up again, stretching his arms as the rest of himself. A deep breath and a little animation. He gathered Valan to himself and held him, only then asking his opinion of the situation, listening intently within his embrace. Valan's words are oft illuminating, and no less now. After the soft tones soothed him, the conversation was concluded with a kiss...or four...and soon ways were parted to see to the mundanities of family dynamic.
     And it left Edward to himself.
     Keys in hand, he wanders from the master guest room, stopping occasionally at objects d'arte to peruse their place in the family's life. A painting here, a sculpture there. Beautiful pieces, but nothing so ostentatious. Much like the Montagues themselves.

     Although the villa speaks of grandeur, it also speaks of those simply living. It is part of the grace the Montagues own, and Valan himself embodies. Beautiful on the outside, but this occurs naturally without artifice. Even without attempt. The villa, as all houses do, incorporates the spirits of those who live in it and hold it up as mirrors in its walls and floors. While there is art, the art was purchased because the pieces were enjoyed. Simply. Hung where certain members of the family -- namely Sofia Montague, Matriarch -- wished them to hang.
     It is evident in the stone of this building that while Etienne may claim dominion here, it is the light-hand of Sofia that truly rules. Like all French women of her age, and perhaps of any Age, she has learned that to rule means one must let others believe that they are ruling. Namely, the husbands. But she is everywhere evident. A hand of gentless against the stone of Etienne.
     And in your wanderings, you return once more past the colonnades and into the main living area. It hums with the family life that often converges here -- when not converging in the kitchens -- and the glass doors to the verandah have been opened to let the warm-cool breeze carry in the scents of the ocean. And the sound. And she is there, taking a moment to herself to stare out at the moon over the sea. And all things are right in the world tonight.
     Who knows how long that will last when all the Montagues are gathered!
     Her hair is likely long, but it is swept upward to lie above the nape of her neck. Tendrils turning from soft brown to grey are left free to frame her face and here and there throughout the rest. She holds herself in a comfortable carriage. She has a resonance of nobility in her. Perhaps it is merely the comfort that comes in self-awareness and self-worth, combined with confidence that life is good. Or perhaps it is the remainder of nobility lingering both in her and in her husband, and passed down from them into their well-born children. She is dressed in linen, a white linen top, and light-blue linen skirt that is long. Very Bordeaux. Very country.

     Stumbled upon a scene from Toulouse-Latrec. Edward's steps halt as he spies the woman, guessing upon who she might be. He lingers, giving her a longer look than most have merited, but once he sees his Valan upon her, Edward smiles and simply turns to head back along his path, careful not to disturb her relaxation.

     As she reaches upward with her hand, you see... your lover has his mother's hands. There is much of her in him. Far more so than Etienne. And finger tips smoothen a wayward strand of hair, caught by the very breeze she allowed to move within and she turns.
      "I hope you can forgive me for not meeting you with Etienne," she says, warmth and smoothness in her voice. "But I insist on doing my own cooking, and having my daughters there to learn. It is... one of the last great traditions..." And she keeps those, though they could more than afford to have their own cooking staff. And likely do for certain occasions. But not for family occasions. Her smile is the image of your lover's smile. His lips, a gift from her. And she is quite beautiful. French, by way of Italy. "I know he is much with which to begin one's day..." But I do love the old gruff lion.

     Begin a day? Edward smiles at that, stopping in his tracks. Double-breasted blazer is open, the buttons flashing as he moves. She's spotted him. "I have had a charming time, Madame Montague. Thank you so very much for allowing me to visit your lovely home." Not to be impolite, Edward walks towards the lady, offering his attention at her leisure.
     "It is a pleasure," he smiles, extending his hand to you for a kiss. One hand behind his back, he waits attentively.

     Or night. Either one. No, of course she has not guessed, nor could she, yes? Nor would her mind leap to such a gradiose conclusion. And your grace impresses, and your manners. Oh Valan, how proud I am of you. I should have known that when you would choose, you would choose well. Her hand extends to you and her smile is welcoming. She, approaching 50 with grace and beauty both. "I am so glad to hear this, Monsieur Meurelle, and you are welcome..." Not for the word of thanks, but truly welcome. Among them.
     "A pleasure," Sofia echoes. "My son is not usually one of so many words about himself, M. Meurelle, but when he speaks of you, I can tell that he is happy." And she smiles, brilliantly. Ah, that is Valan's smile. Her green-gold eyes sparkling even as his do. "And do not worry, he has only told me what a mother should know. He is no gossip, as you... I am sure... know. Ah, and we very much appreciated the bottle of your red. It was very lovely, and the surest way to a Montague heart..."

     Your Valan is crafty, Meurelle. You recall the bottles of wine you exchanged? When love was known and you were named a gift was sent to the parents. Without knowing it, you made the first gesture. And with such a gift you found the doors open wide for you. Your crafty Valan knew the way, and ensured it would be so.

     Brows arch after the kiss, and Edward lets it be known his surprise. Maybe you can share in the humor. "I am glad you enjoyed it," he grins, hands returning to his sides, "...it is a small token, seeing how glorious your own vineyards are here, madame."
     He is distant though. The formality hangs upon him, comes easy. But it cannot be all. He is unwilling to show the rest. Edward smiles politely, "And I am certain you are a marvelous cook," he half-angles to the room, looking about. No, it is not something I recall my mother doing at all, he thinks, smile forming at the thought. Who knew of such then? "Your healthy family is a testament to your hand, madame," Edward grins.

     Her laughter is the sound of delight. The grasp of her fingers to your own, just shy of the parting is light. Like living air. "Ah... well... you are kind, but I do not know if it is a testament to my hand, their stubbornness, or God's will...or even my cooking..." She is not the only mother of a French family to say these words. But there she pauses, "May I call you Edward, M. Meurelle? I do not want to offend, but we are familiar here. It is our way. Brash, perhaps, even in this day as things change slowly. But the Montagues do not know how to be... anything other than Themselves. I am sure you have seen this in Valan..."
     Her eyes hold mirth in equal parts to strength. Yes, her firstborn... is her best and most loyal image.

     He smiles in kind, Edward does, hands slipping into his pockets. "Please," he responds to the informality, not expecting the same in return. Position is everything. "Few call me...Monsieur," he admits freely, letting you sort out the self-deprecation.

     "Sofia," she offers in return. "But I shall leave it to your comfort on how you sort it out, oui? Not everyone is so... Montague about it." And she grins. "It is obvious to me that you come from a good family, you have impeccable manners, Edward. Do you know how rare a thing that is these days? I hope you and my Valan will be very happy. He seems very happy. Sometimes, I worried that he would be so careful of his heart that he would never know the joy of giving it away, even if it hurts in the end. For the pain is as much a part of love as the first blush of it. So," her look softens, "...while I hope it never comes to that with you, I want to thank you, as his mother, for not letting him get away so soon. No one else, it seems, had the polish... nor the fortitude... to hold him. I wish you," a grin here now, and broadly, warmly so, "...the best of luck, Edward. Some days... you might find you need it. Just do not let him get away... "

     Everyone seems intent upon telling me so much about Valan. That they...never expected him to be caught. To be happy. I am not so sure why, though. Was he so distant?
     Edward quirks, returning his attention to you with a sparkle of his brown eyes.
     "My late mother will be pleased to know she did not birth a total boor," Edward charms in the only way he knows. He does not quite know what to say about the issue of happiness, but smiles and offers a quiet thank you. "I hope luck is not necessary..." he begins, hearing the let him get away.
     "Might I...ask a question, Sofia?"

      "Of course, Edward..." And Sofia turns interested eyes to you, the green-gilt gaze.

     Even Valan said it himself: I would run. No one would catch me. I did not think that I would ever love. I was never there long enough. I was not so different from you, ami. There was just the pleasure of it all. The drinking. The ecstacy and dancing. The fucking. That was all. And when someone wanted more of me, this I could not do. And so... only two before you have ever lasted more than a month. Or maybe two.
     Elusive Valan.
     At least, this is the game he played...

     "You must forgive me," the young vicomte speaks, "...my own family is long passed so..." Edward smiles, indicating is not such a sad thing, "...I am...amazed at how things are here...in the Montague home." His head tilts, "Everyone...seems...says...that they did not expect Valan to be...with anyone," his brow furrows, "...even if it were true...why would anyone say it?" It seems a...discouraging thing.

     I did not know about your family. You see that cross her features. And then... something like perplexion. Perhaps they never heard their own words echoed back to them. Perhaps it is like the old riddles... did the distance come before the words, or did the words create the distance?
     Green-gilt, her eyes hold you for a moment, but they do not lose their warmth even after you speak. She is not easy to offend. "It is not that we do not think our son wonderful, charming, beautiful and worthy of such, Edward. And Valan knows this. But he himself would admit, I am sure, that he has... always been somewhat a flighty creature. He goes his own way. That way has been filled with a lot of faces, but no constancy..."
      A moment passes, "There are some for whom constancy is just... not what they wish, perhaps not even reasonable. But it is a mother's wish to see her children love and marry... or at least settle down. Until you, there has been no sign of such in our Valan."

     He watches you for a moment after you speak, suddenly nodding in acceptance. Maybe it is an affectation of this age, Edward decides, choosing not to follow up. The black suit flutters in the breeze as he looks outside.
     "Maybe..." his voice chilling from nowhere, "...constancy..." and he smiles at you, "...is overrated." That's it. It's the philosophy. He does not understand this repetition...for it has never occurred to him. Is that a mortal thing?

     There is a soft exhale. "Perhaps so. But whatever he wishes... we have always told him that we loved him. Whatever he decides to do, he is this family's firstborn son. We accept this. Perhaps it is right, of all of them, that he is the one to ...make his own way. Constant... or not."
      She pauses a moment. There is something about you that steals the breath. She does not even know what it is. But her soul reacts, her blood reacts, and her subconscious affects the conscious Mind. Sofia but nods. "I should see about our dinner, Edward... please, I will show you to the dining area. We like to dine here... with a view to our mother sea..."

     Hmm. Conversation ended. Edward nods politely. I have overstepped my bounds. And here, I was trying so hard.
     Maybe I should not have tried so. Maybe...it does...will...not matter what they see of me. Perhaps my very nature is indeed offputting and something I cannot hide, regardless.
     "Of course," he replies politely, moving in the guided direction. He is quiet as he walks, thinking to himself again.
     I should not have come with him...

     If you are searching for offense, still... you do not find it. Perhaps there is merely... nothing else to say on the topic...
     Or perhaps you are too much for them... though you feel that you are accepted. Even admired.
     Perhaps it is a combination of all things. You and your own power. You and your own confidence. Meeting head to head with theirs. And.. meeting a son's male lover. Even for the most progressive families... it would be difficult.
     But if you are searching for hurt feelings, you will not find them here.
     Sofia walks but not quickly. "He is the only one of all my children to recognize how special this land is. What fruit it yields. The wine that sits upon our table, and a thousand and more tables at this very moment. He is the only one who understands... the timelessness that wine invokes." Green-gilt eyes turn to you. "I am happy, Edward, that he has found you. You seem to be of like mind. The giving of such a wine tells me this. And, indeed, you are a testament to your own mother and your own father, may God grace their souls," yes, she is religious, "... They raised you the furthest thing from a boor. That too... is hard to find these days. I should have known..."
     I should have had faith in my son...
      "...that Valan would accept nothing less into his life..."
     I should have realized what he was searching for, I am his mother...
      "...I am glad you came. I am grateful that he brought you here to show us..."
     To remind us...
     "... to remind us... it is easy for parents to forget, Edward..."
     To demean without realizing, Edward...
     "...that their children do not need such a heavy hand, such long arms..."

     Demeaning. Gently so. Edward simply thins his lips in a pursed smile, not guaranteeing much by it. He hears what you have said.
     And constancy is not everything.
     His face is downcast as he walks, the vampire among the mortals.
     Context illuminates the vacuum, and in the quiet of these mortals...not the flashing, glaring, brilliant mortality of a club...he is out of place.
     Did I...just teach something? Could I ever have taught anyone anything?
     I have always presumed not.
     "It is not for me to say," he quietly responds, the words too pensive for his own good. "I just know...he is..." Edward stopping his walk to look at you, "...more than he seems." Even to you, dear lady. Even to me.
     That's all I know anymore.
      The vampire's lips thin again, he offering a slight shrug. Six hundred years speak to you lady, and he presume to know little more than you.
     "I believe you love him. That means, you have as much a right to speak as any of us... oui?"

     And perhaps you, Edward, are more than you seem. Even to yourself.
     Sofia Montague smiles to you and reaches out with her hand. Peace. An offering. Maybe a moment of understanding as you stop. And she stops with you. "Merci, Edward." And though she smiles, you can see the mind ticking. Flipping through past dinners, past meetings, past misunderstandings. Wondering... what did I miss? What did I not wish to see?
     If it is a lesson, it is about the nature of Presumption and Assumption. Perhaps it was right afterall that you came to all of them. That they saw you. And that Valan could show them all a little something they did not know.
     Perhaps even something you did not know.
     And these will be moments. Moments you may recall when you walked through a hallway with your lover's mother. And her hands, her fingers were so delicately formidable. Not even she realized their strength. But you showed her something. Even as she showed you.

     "I am looking forward to dinner," Edward smiles, still standing comfortably beside you. His fingers lift yours, and he kisses your hand as sweetly as he did before, returning it to your apron.
     There is more than what you see. I should not be ashamed of it. I am not perfect. I have never claimed to be. I am boorish. I am living.
     I am as far from alive as any.
      I should not work so hard to smooth out these contridictions, but instead, leave them to you Montagues. I should not work so hard to impress. I should not work so hard so you will be impressed with Valan. That is his lot in life.
     You will be left with complex memories of me. I see that now. I thought I might control the picture, but I was wrong. But I do understand now that I do not matter in this whatsoever.
     "I...should go see about mon ami." He whom I love. He is not a bridge between us. He cannot be. You have your own relationships with the Vampire, based on instinct, fear, confusion, vision. Mortals must react to what the Blood knows first, before anything else.
     And that was my mistake. To forget. To think, falsely, that I could paint you all a portrait...

     "Of course," and the blush creeps up along her neck. Unconscious reaction.
     They will remember what they never knew...
     But they will not dislike it. Rather... they will begin to fade...
     And maybe this is something a mother's instinct feels: you are the one who will replace her. But it is as it should be. That is the way it goes. With love. With constancy. The sacrifice to the future is always the things of the past...
     And the ones left behind when journeys change...
     It does not matter at all that you are immortal. Or that you are the vicomte of Blois. Were you a computer programmer from London with a sardonic wit and horrible table manners... and yet, if Valan loved that you... the end would be the same...
     The past is always sacrificed for the future...

     He walks away, his black suit perhaps the most striking physical element of Edward. Not that he knows where Valan keeps himself for now. He is not heading in any particular direction. Just...not where he was before.

Posted by rowan at February 10, 2001 01:00 PM