Another late morning arrives for this part of the lagoon. Beside him, his man sleeps soundly.
"The sleep of the righteous," Cesare breathes, smiling as he touches Alire's ear. "The sleep of the Dead." There's comfort in that. Even the dead sleep and sleep well.
Lifting the bedding, Cesare tries to slip quietly from the mattress in the loft, avoiding hitting his head on the beam and ceiling within his alcove. There's not much room for else up here..floor is visible at the left, right, and foot of the mattress. A lamp plugs into an old outlet near to hand. Books scatter, making makeshift nightstands. Cesare scrambles to the foot of the mattress, gives a half-stretch, then looks back at the man there. A smirk, and he pushes off to stand outside of the alcove, on the smallest of landings. There, he looks down into the open room below.
"Time?" he calls evenly, picking up a pair of pants and bending to step into them. There's a response from a single point in the room, "Half-past ten." It sounds like nothing in particular. Just a spell generated in space. Besides...the friendly clock is already stored for travel.
"Ten-thirty..." Cesare mumbles, feet smooth as he walks from the little landing to the stairs on the wall. Hand on the railing exposed to the great room, he begins a sleepy descent in barefeet. "Christus," he whispers, mulling over the hours he now keeps...the hours he'll keep indefinitely. Cesare smiles though, as he turns the last step and hits the floor of the large single room downstairs. "Guess I better get used to it."
"Coffee," he whispers, and water begins to run in the sink. A clatter sounds from a pot, lifting itself to levitate to the running faucet. Automatic was never so efficient. He looks around at the boxes and bags, then sighs as he leans against the table that takes up much of his living area. There's still a few things to sort.
From a pile, two books lift and open. They float towards Cesare, who turns to face the empty table where both books land. Might as well be constructive, while coffee gets going.
The sleep of the righteous. The sleep of the dead. Alire d'Avignon is unmoving. There is not even the lift and lower of breath, the sounds or energy of the body on autopilot. He lies beautiful, golden, half upon his side and perfectly, perfectly still...
Against the stone steps just outside your door, there is the sound of water splashing. The canal is active today already, and the water is high. There are even the voices of your nearest neighbors and the call-and-answer of two gondoliers passing by on the narrow Rio di Verona and Sant'Angelo.
There is no window, but there is sunlight. It filters in wherever it may, between the crack of door and floor, permeating through the walls. There is floating illumination, where particles of light attach to particles of dust.
The particles float quickly then begin to coalesce. Do you notice? But then it is before coffee...
The noise catches his attention. Cesare turns around from his table and to the door. The two squares are tiny, remnants of a time when this was the stage entrance of the old theatre. The light points down at him as the sun gets higher, but it's not something Cesare's ever cared much about...the light does little to lift the illumination in the stone two-level area.
At the stove, the pot sets itself to boiling. The running water shuts off.
A glance to the small cold box causes the door to open. Cold meat, butter, and cheese arrange themselves on a plate. Bread bought yesterday breaks and joins the others.
Cesare sighs and backs up from the table, falling into his sofa. His head falls back as the books float from the table to set themselves up at reading distance from Cesare's face. When he sits up again, they'll be ready.
But for now, breakfast makes itself. He's starving. He takes a few deep breaths, closing his eyes to the morning ritual.
In the coalescence of dust and light, there is the faintest of outlines, a presence asserting itself. There is a shimmer near the doorway, something like the shine of sunlight against the gold of hair.
Gold hair...
And dimpled light sparkles, chainmail illuminate, downward from the beaming of a face that starts to take shape from the light and dust. He stands in the corner, blinking transparently over cobalt blue. There is a cross in the center of his body, the reflection of the slealing light against your table, shadows and light traveling across the room to form the cross.
Alire...
He does not speak. Perhaps he cannot. He is looking, however, translucent though he is. You can see the wall behind him, nothing of the structure of your room has changed.
His hair is longer, blonder, a platinum shimmer at his shoulders. In the shadows, the outline of his legs, boots. The end of the 14th century in a building that was likely constructed around the same time...
A shimmer in the universe. Cesare's eyes flash open and he looks ahead -- only to find his books.
"Abeo," he says. Go away. The books do as instructed and move to the table.
Cesare stares at what he sees. He blinks, shaking his head at the same time. Instinctively, his hand rises to his temple, giving it a slight massage. He stands, keeping his spot at the edge of the sofa.
The plate floats past the apparition, moving to land on the sofa near where Cesare was sitting.
The apparition looks, but is helpless to go away. Where his body is, he must be. But then he sees your books obeying (abeo!), and he is comforted, as much as spirits can be, by the command not having been meant for him. Still, he does not move from his corner, given shape by the sunlight and dust.
He is a golden thing, that apparition in the corner there. His hands are folded at his front, like an effigy. Like the effigy of a saintly knight, an annointed warrior. The still face suddenly smiles. It is not a large smile. It is a secreted smile. One just at the corners. One, just for you.
But still he does not speak. His eyes look bluely to where you rub your temples and the smile retracts. Alire's ghost moves forward, just a moment, folding space, the coalescence of illuminated dust stretching somewhat.
He does not like it when you are in pain... that is the motion you make, when you are in pain. The spirit looks suddenly up. As if he could wake himself by staring through the floor to the pallet where he lies. But Alire does not wake. His ghost looks to you, staying in place now half between his corner and your sofa.
You see me...
A hand goes up...the one not at his temple. Cesare continues to stare at the figure, examining from head to toe.
"Alire..." Cesare asks softly. "Che cosa questo? Magia?" What is this? Magic? Eyes look upstairs for an instant, then back to the figure.
The apparition shakes his head at first and then, then he nods. It is a kind of magic. For a moment there is this intense ... static energy. It is the feeling, the exercising of a Will. The will to speak. The desire to communicate. If you were an ordinary mortal, he would have to knock over something, spell words with books or leave all the cabinets open. But you are not... ordinary.
Alire opens his mouth and there is the whisper of French. It is old French. You may not know it. "I sleep and I do not sleep. I am, and I am not." It is like an old motto. The whispers that follow are in Latin.
"Corpus dormit," when the body sleeps, "...animus remanet..." the spirit remains. "Vesperim expecto," I wait for evening. He smiles. "Te tangere expecto," I wait to touch you. "Non magica est." Ghostly hands motion golden to himself and then his shoulders roll. "Me..."
This is me.
"Cesare..." he says your name, it makes him shimmer.
"Alire..." Cesare replies, a whisper as well. The smile comes now, and he steps forward, looking around. Looking for telltale signs of darkness or falsity. A magical trick. Naturally, he glances to the loft, then to the apparition before him.
And his next action comes instinctively. A hand reaching out to touch the space where the apparition stands. A wave of his fingers across the boundary.
You touch and dust particles cling to your skin. Molecularly, you do embrace. You touch him atomically. Transparently, he blinks again and he smiles. When his soul smiles, it is the sun. Where was the sunlight coming from? It was coming from him. What other window, what other source?
There is no trick. There is no camera creating this projection, but only his will and your ability to see, to understand. He loves you, his love brings him here, makes him visible where he would have invisibly watched.
"Te defendero," I guard over you, "... per noctem, te vigilo et amo... per diem, te vigilo et amo," the laughter is a whisper, the words are pure Alire. At night he watches over you and he loves you, during the day... he watches over you and he loves you. "Magiam tuam gaudeo," he nods to the plate, the coffee, the kitchen that moves itself. He enjoys watching your magic tricks. "Que alius facere?" What else can you do?
The hand drops. He cannot touch you this way. For that, he shall have to wait until later. A blink, and Cesare touches his head again. No matter. The pain may be there, but for now, he is too fascinated to care.
"Breakfast," Cesare says in his native tongue. Easier that way. "A little bite before..." well, it's not as if he'd go out and leave you here. "Well, a little bite." Eyes look at the cross at your chest. The chainmail. It's not as if he's not seen such before. Cesare's curious about something.
"I watch you during the day," Cesare notes, non-sequitur. "So...nothing happens." There are hunters out there. He knows a few. "You are..." a glance up, "...alright...like this? You...do this?" Appear like this. "Where...are you?" Ah. The most complex question. What is beyond here?
"Oh, wait..." Cesare smirks. "Well...what can I do..." he looks around. "Lots of things." A blush. He forgot to answer your question.
"Hic sum." I am here. Here is everywhere. Here is all there is. When he is Here, he is here. When he is not here, then Here is somewhere else. He does not know how to answer that question precisely. Perhaps there is not one true answer.
There is a moment of silence, the apparition ripples, then shimmers again. "Je suis ici," he says in French moderne. His blue eyes lift to the ceiling. He knows where his body lies. "I am bound to the place where the body is bound. I think there are others who... go other places. It is not magic," he shakes his head. "It is ... just my condition. Sometimes... if I go to the Templar places, I will see my friends. When I go to Chinon to see my friends... if I sleep there, then I see my comrades in the orchards. They are all still there. The prison is gone."
"..merci de me proteger..." he whispers. For protecting him. He needs someone. It has been a long time.
A long time...
He smiles suddenly. "I remember the... church... no... yes the church. But ... also... there were candles and blankets..." That altar you made for them in his house. But... you did not see his spirit then. Curious? "Vous etes tres doue," Alire's spirit beams. Your talent, he is very proud of it.
Cesare's eyes widen and he nods. "Candles and blankets," he bobs, "...at your house in Poitiers. You remember," he smiles. Another step closer, and he stands face to face with the apparition. "You...this is...your armor?"
The lines at the corners of Cesare's eyes flicker. A tick of an eye.
"A...glorious knight," Cesare smiles wonderously. "You must be...the best knight..."
The apparition is as tall as the man, if not somewhat more expansive, without boundaries. Unconfined. As you step closer, as you speak of the armor, he looks down at himself. An illuminated hand lifts, moving over links and the mantle of a Templar knight, white field, red cross. He strokes there a moment, as if petting a cat.
"Yes. A knight of Avignon. I guarded the pope of Avignon. Clement." There is a shadow at the name but he does not retreat. "I was... good. A good knight." Not the best. And not aware of the pun. "I tried. I was loyal. My horse was grey..." he whispers slowly, as if himself remembering. Michele.
Michele.
Michele's horse was a blood bay. Michele's eyes would squint when he laughed, when he smiled, when he peered at men who spoke but did not make sense. Your eyes twitch and I remember.
"It is in my home... in Poitiers. I have it... in a closet... I have everything, Cesare. I have everything and now I have you. My closets and my life are full..."
Cesare cannot help but smile. You look happy. "A knight who guarded the Pope." But the stories of what happened to the templars are not unfamiliar to him. But it is not his story to dwell on.
"You had a grey horse, yes? What was it called?" Cesare asks, head tilting a little. "It is amazing that you have so many of your things..." but maybe not the horse. He grins for that.
"I still think...you were the best knight." Eyes cannot help but stare at the armor. "And you helped many people."
In the kitchen, the coffee's made itself and floated to sit next to the plate. The stove turns itself off, leaving the pot to cool.
"There were more," Alire whispers. There were sixty more, sixty that I could not help. Not even the one I loved the most. He thinks of it, it makes him momentarily regretful, but then it passes, a momentary shadow across the luminence of his face. "I... think...oui... her name was Foi Benie - Fille du Soleil." He grins. A long name for one horse. Blessed Faith, Daughter of the Sun. "But in Spanish. It was Hija..."
"Je suis heureux vous m'aime, celui que vous me pensez le plus grand chevalier," Alire's spirit grins. He knows it is love that makes you say he was glorious. He does not know if glory has much to do with it. He straightens, rising to full height, you can almost hear the clink of the chain and plate. "I kept everything. Samuel helped me... I kept it all safe, and the rings of my friends, and their things. I kept it from the king. He did not deserve them..."
"He didn't..."
Cesare exhales with you, then narrows his gaze, wondering again. Searching his own emotion. Strange response. "I like the name of your horse," he grins. "Maybe I'll have a horse one day."
"Are you...in any pain?" Just wondering.
"I did not name her. She came to me with this name. She was bred by the Sephardic Jews of Spain and North Africa. William... my friend... he has horses to this day that were with him then, from Sephardic sands. Baruch," Blessing, "... Safir...I did not keep my mare with me. Hija is now part of the sand and soil of Provence. It is better this way. But... a new horse, maybe. Maybe we will have to do this... I hear there are horses we can ride... there is a beautiful chateau straddling a river... we should go... we should ride... I did not know you liked to do these things..."
Old men things. Riding. Looking at armor...
He didn't. No. Philip the Fair was not fair, and he did not deserve the spoils of that outrage. Alire is still for many moments, he glimmers where he stands, his hands folded before him once more. "No pain..." he whispers. "There is no pain here. No pain there, though there are marks," the scars. "There was pain a long time ago. But not now, no." Translucent blue eyes look to you. "And you... are you still in pain, Cesare?"
"Hmm?" Cesare starts, still staring at your armor. "Oh..." he shakes his head, "...don't worry about it." A smile. "I wish..." he twists, "...you could...sit with me. Can you...sit down? Do you want to sit?" Cesare twists, causing the plate, books, and coffee to move aside, giving you a clear path to the sofa.
Alire smiles. It is sudden, it is warm as the sunlight he appears to be. "I think so, yes..." Platinum hair, white-blonde, moves against his shoulders as he turns and takes a seat. The sofa can be seen beneath and behind him, around him, through him. The armor does not sound, the fabric of the sofa does not sigh or groan with added weight. There is a hum of energy, but it is faint. Like static, it causes the hairs on your arms to stand, perhaps even the back of your neck.
"I do not like to see you in pain," Alire says seriously, softly, softer than soft. It is a breath, less than a whisper. His hand reaches toward you, but he knows that he cannot touch. His mailed fingers curl expectant anyway. "I cannot bear it. We must find the reason. Samuel will know. He is a very learned man. He healed me... when I was tortured and scarred, I was taken to him. He healed me... he will be able to help you, too..."
Cesare takes a seat next to you, but his expression shows that he's not so convinced. "Samuel...he sounds like a man I should know...from all the things you have told me." How he helped you. "Is he...ah...like you?" Undead. He would guess so. Eyes roll and Cesare smirks. Of course he is. "Nevermind this question," Cesare grins, brown hair long of late. It falls at his eyes, and hand reaches up to push the waves aside. "But do not worry for me, mon chevalier," he winks. "I am fine."
"I cannot believe," back to horses, "...that...you have other friends from that age. And...they have old horses." He laughs. "A world you live in, Alire. I will admit that now. Granted, I know old beings, but...they have never been," Cesare's chin dips, "...so close to me. Friends of my love. I can see now...that things will be different...and that is good." Somehow, he'd isolated all of this to the two of you. But no. You come with others, just as he does.
There is a soft, a gentle smile. "Everyone I know ...but one... is 'dead'. The other?" You. "He is pure magic." The smile spreads. It's actually wide, wide and warm.
Posted by rowan at June 01, 2003 09:57 PM
