He moves with an aristocratic flare, like he's done this his entire life. Bred to it, born to it -- the columned corridors, the mosaics beneath his feet, the fountains. Clothed in sienna, draped in cinnamon bark browns, in a bronzed shirt -- incandescent fabric. His honeyed hair mussed, but purposely...
     The garnets around his neck that have become Edward's jewels, though they cooled his skin a week before Edward Meurelle burst onto the scene...
     He comes without a book today. He comes only with his clean and expectant face, the aspect of Curiosity and Keen Mind. The scent of honey and milk upon his skin from the frothing bath. No other cologne needed.
     He makes very little sound as he moves, barefoot through the solemn halls, but he announces himself to those older and wiser than he. The little spark. Ah... the Hipster is a firefly! Past two doors leading inward to a large gathering hall, Valan emerges.
     One day, he will learn to make the room feel him as he enters...
     One night...
     One night the night may feel him. Know him. And he, his place within the whole of it.
     But when he comes now, he comes with the golden glow of the newly born...

     This evening, the Men will arrive secondly, it seems. They are late...perhaps there were extra prayers to be said. No matter. In the room, the Infanta sits, dressed in beige long skirt and white blouse. Something more modern this evening. As you approch, she does not move, but waves a hand to you as with the other, she sets a book aside.
     "You are awake," she says, her French always available to you. It is good practice, to be sure. Maria looks across the tea service set upon the coffeetable, gleaming silver set in a red and black room. "I will let you pour today," she states, crossing her legs as she waits for you to settle yourself.
     "You look splendid." She approves. "Tres moderne," she nods, giving you a smile.

     His English is rather atrocious. His Spanish, while correct, is slow to form upon the tongue. It is work. His French -- stunning, as it should be. His Italian? Fluent and heady. He will learn English. He will become fluent in Spanish. He may even learn Arabic. He would like to learn Arabic...
     Glistening browns and bronze, a Modern Creature in modern clothing -- ah, he is of This Age. He is of The Now. Does he seem all the more strange for it? With an inclination of his head to you, a spreading smile and sparkling eyes, Valan takes the tea service. Pouring with an expert Civility. He does this even before sitting. "Merci," Valan says, "It is how I am most comfortable. Eyes to the future..." In clothing, in wine, in all...
     Sienna liquid fills the cups, scented arabic...
     "I find I wake when there is still purple and red in the sky, a line of magenta at the horizon. It has been so since Edward opened The Great Door for me," he smiles. "I wake early and I cook breakfast. It ... makes a home...to do so."

     "You cook?" Maria quirks, her thin brows arching dramatically. "Why do you cook?" she wonders, her hands crossed at her knee.

     And the second cup is filled...
     "I enjoy the act of it... and... it has been what I have used," he sets the tea service down, "...would you like honey," he interrupts, wondering with arched, golden eyebrows. He pauses there, not serving himself until you have your tea complete and as you like it, "...cooking... it has been what I have used to... train my senses?" Tilting his head Valan looks to you. "To ... have the patience to crack an egg. The patience and the... finesse, oui? When I could crush it with so little effort. I figured this out... my first morning or so. I demolished Edward's kitchen," and his face reddens. "But now... just a few months later, I may fold a perfect crepe once again..."
     And to a Frenchman, this means something...

     She looks at you a long moment, waving off any need to wait. Maria fiddles with tea -- she does not drink it. But your comments interest her. "I would not have thought of cooking as a way to learn how to understand what you are," she confesses, "...but it is good you stick to such habits." A nod, and Maria looks away for a moment.
     Her lips part, and a dramatic inhale insues. Question there. "Tell me, Valan. You have been here now for a few weeks. You have seen much of El-Adar, and indeed, a we are a very microcosm of many things you would find out in the World," for her, vampire world, "...if you were out among such. You have seen us, mortals. You have seen a variety of us, yes? All ages, kinds. Yet we all share something...respect for learning, yes? Knowledge and moving forward to wherever you believe you will go." Death and Beyond.
     "What will El-Adar mean for you? What do you think it means for Edouard?"

     And finally he settles, and for that moment and more he is thinking. He does not speak without some amount of forethought. A young man he may be, and French -- but he is of mature bearing. "El-Adar... is an oasis, a place where the soul can come and be refreshed, refilled with what is important. Nourished. For me, I think it shall be Alpha and Omega. The beginning and the end. It will be...a focal point of existence. It will be...home..."
     All of that to say something so simple...
     Valan adds a teaspoon of honey to his tea, and he stirs it, eyes to the liquid. To speak of Edward, this causes a slow creeping smile. Warm. "I think there is ... so much of Eduard here," his voice comes and goes, lifts and lowers softly, warmly, and sitting back with his tea the smile begins to wander in Thought. "It is home to him. He has a love for this place and those who inhabit it. I have seen the glimpses of the Vicomte, the nurturing prince. I have not seen him ... in his true element...until El-Adar. It has been," and now the grin, "wonderful. Enlightening. But then... perhaps I am easy to impress... "

     "You are," Maria observes, looking at your hand stirring the spoon. She grins and turns her dark gaze to a painting...a madonna with child. "I think, sometimes, you tell me what you think I wish to hear." No, she is not so sentimental. The gaze comes back to you. "It is a responsibility to him. Something he knows he will bear. But his home? That is Fleurlil," the wretched place, "...and London." Where you share a home. "This is legacy of great proportions to him. It will always be burdened with that."
     "I have said before, Valan Montague, I think you are good for Eduard. But home is with you," she chides. "Not here." It is an affirmation, not an accusation. She believes it is true. "And if so, there is nothing wrong with that," she finally concludes, looking to the painting again.

     "We talked about it... but... I do not think it will be, no, a home like London or Fleurlil. Those, more functional, emotional. But in the stretch of a long lifetime of lifetimes, I think feet will lead to El-Adar often. And there will be others, Eduard has told me. To me... ten years is a long time," Valan's voice softens on that. "So... in a hundred years, if I am still wandering this earth -- if I am still in London, please... knock some sense into me." The stirring is finished and he sips the sienna colored liquid, the same color as his trousers. "I hope to be in France. I hope he will follow me there, be able to follow me there. I want to build a place in Bordeaux. For us. To have something to build that see us through the generations, though," Montague looks to you, "Eduard lacks for nothing, and I... even less so. But I want something to give my time to. I think it is important when one has a surplus of Time."
     Oh, lord... can you tell that his first introductions were to the Ventrue of Edward's association?
     Valan smiles, the sun rises with it, shining in green-gold eyes for your praise. And that is what it is: praise. "Merci, Donna Maria, from you, this means much to me," he says it in Spanish. Deference to you. "I hope that I am. I care for him very much," his voice softens again.

     She seems a little confused at the sentiment, 'knocking sense.' But Maria explains it, not content to continue on. "Why would you make a home in Bordeaux, if you have a home in Fleurlil or London?" That surprises her. "Eduard...he is not for Bordeaux. You will try to move him there?"
     Yes, you do sound like Ventrue.
     "You will bore and so you must go to Bordeaux?" Do you not have enough?
     "I will say, that I do not understand those of this time, on occasion," eyes to the painting again. "You have said you have a home. What more do you need?" It seems she has never left El-Adar. A shrug. "But if that is your way and Eduard agrees, then it will be so."

     "Bordeaux is to Valan what Fleurlil is to Eduard," he explains. "It may never come to pass," another sip of tea, "It is just a thought of mine, a wish maybe. And a concern that comes with the possibilities of lifetimes, rather than four or ten or twenty years..."
     The mortal struggles to grasp a Time that extends beyond fifty years. And for this man, when he was mortal two years was a stretch...
     "I feel as though there must be some planning, some care of business. That is what I may find in Bordeaux, in my family's land, and in the wine we have made for generations. But... you are right," there is soft concession there, "I do not need so many homes. I guess I do not think of Bordeaux as anything but. It is... familial." And suddenly Valan laughs, softly, but richly. "You are right about Eduard, perhaps. I do not know how well he would do in the country. I think his palms would itch for action." He is quiet for a time, staring at his tea. "London is a place where we stay, to me. Because his business keeps him there, he likes it there. I joined him there. Maybe in time... England will feel more like home to me..."
     I feel out of place there... maybe... I just need to get him to show me more of it. To go out more... maybe this will make it more home-like...

     She nods, understanding now what you meant. "Bordeaux is your home," Maria agrees, "...you should have some place there, among your people." To that she can relate.
     Another quiet. Maria watches you. "What do you want from this life now, Valan? You have...it has been a year now, yes? You have been between the continent and that Island." Britain. A place even she has never seen. "You have found that the world is not as you have known. Nothing is. You have met the oldest scholars and legendary kings. And now, even you..." voice soft, "...are not as you were. Not as you will be. And you are with a man," there, said it, "...who is like no other." Pride in that.
     "What will you do with yourself, Valan? What is it you want from your Existence? You are blessed. What will you do with that blessing?" In that, nothing of Edward is spoken. "You must make your own way, Valan. You must know this by now, yes?"

     I have met philosophers and kings...
     Scholars and poets...
     Princes out of fairy tales...
     The sultan and his groom...
     And in this universe... this diverse gathering of beings and stars... there is one Valan Montague. And he must find his place in it all. That... is the lesson of El-Adar.
     Valan nods and the tea, now tepid, is set aside. Once it loses its warmth, it loses its appeal. "At first," he begins, half-shaking his head with some residue of Amazement, "I did not know what to think, or what it meant, only that I would share into another world with an amazing man. And he is that," he murmurs to your praise of Edward, in it wholeheartedly and earnestly agreeing, "Incroyable." And then, like you, he does not mention Edward. Due given, he focuses his attention inward. "In meeting those I have met, here and in Britain and France and Switzerland," Girault meant there, "...I have seen and come to know that it is not just about not dying. Not dying..." he makes a wave of his hand, "..this is easy. Living is the test. And, oui, I have to make my own way. This is... what I was thinking I could do with the vineyards of Bordeaux. Begin to make my way."
     Sitting back in the chair, he looks to you, newborn golden thing that he is. "I want to Learn...and that is...what I will do with myself. At least for this first part of it, this new Existence. Learn. And that will open the Way, as they say..."

     Her eyes once more shift to the madonna. Inspiration there, perhaps. "Not all learning comes from books or talks, Valan," Maria says softly. "Knowledge is a building, constructed of the bricks of texts and the mortar of experiences. For me, bricks are anywhere. Even here at El-Adar. Experiences...those are harder to come by." And you have so few of those, dear one.
     Maria seems to sigh, managing a small smile.
     "Maybe I am too old, Valan. I...may no longer have the stomach to continue with another, what I did with Eduard. And my Eduard," she laughs, "...is no teacher."

     There is a grin for that. The grin that says it all...
     No, perhaps he is not... not like one would think...
     But he has taught me much... in that ... unconventional way he has. He ... was one ...is one... of those 'experiences' you speak of...
     Valan laughs, full of summer that sound, and warmth. Eyes sparkling. "Ah, but he does... as you say... as one of these... 'experiences'," he cannot help but say it. "So... not a professor," lips pucker at the notion before they spread in a grand smile, "but still... the Student learns. And from those he calls his friends. Those few that he trusts. Between them all, and in all things, oui? That is how I am approaching it. I will ...still have to figure out how to break the eggs myself, mais oui?"
     Edward's trusted friends. Those few. Those barbarians...
     "I have tried to... absorb as much as possible those things I have heard and seen, the ones I have met in El-Adar, the experience of it. My first. It will not be my last..."

     Maria smiles again, eyes to you. "You are too...new...for me, Valan. Too...shiny." She laughs at that, not knowing how else to explain it. "I need the brilliance dulled a little. It hurts my old eyes."

     "I reak of Youth, yes? Full of myself and of all these ...things..." Thoughts. He gently thumps his temple with his finger. He smiles upon a sigh and he sits forward, this Montague, setting down his cup. "On what errand is Edward today, donna? Will I find him in the stables or the fields, or is he off to get the horses?"
     And that is one place where I am most assuredly not shiny and brilliant. On horseback. The beasts hate me! They smell fear, the grooms say. Oh well, if that is the case then such a perfume Montague must make...

     Even that gets her. "You...are many things, Valan." But that will change. The roguish arrogance, the obliviousness, the belief that you know what state you're in in learning. Maria grins though and lets you lead the talk as you like. "I heard he was to see of some beef...it is a birthday of a gentleman we know in Valencia. We are to send him a gift. A prized steer. I think he is choosing that tonight." And you may go, if you so desire.
     Maria inhales, hand reaching for her book again. "Shall we retire this for now?"

     And so he rises, the little sun of Al-Andalus, El-Adar. Full of himself -- it is impossible for Youth not to be so. But still...more respectful than most, he bows his head with a smile. "Si, donna... buenas noches," he murmurs. Though you may see Eduard's firefly at some later juncture tonight.
     In burnished bronze and in cinnamon and sienna draped, he turns barefoot to be on his way. So full of himself. So full of Life...
     So amusing, yes? As he has known so little of Life yet...
     He will be many things...
     Who knows. Maybe a scholar...
     Maybe a poet...
     Maybe a philosopher...
     Maybe the groom to a sultan...
     Maybe a prince...

Posted by rowan at June 21, 2003 09:43 PM