My place is here. In Spain, to walk the halls of El-Adar, to listen to the prayers to Allah, Yaweh and Christ. To open my mind, to open my soul and my heart. My place is here. In London, to tend to the home that has become mine. To have peace secured so that when Blois returns he will find that easiness of Life Without Forethought. So much planning must happen, it seems, for life to become effortless...
     Once there was a time when I thought Laissez-Faire was a state of mind, a state of being. I now understand that it, like everything else, must be constructed, created, forged...
     My place is here. In France, to establish a wealth upon which he and I may live, live comfortably, live well. To be a custodian, a steward to a Prince. Of a fashion. That is my place. That is my contribution. This is my goal.
     But I walk through these halls, and all I can think of is him, the feel of him, his laughter, his groans, his blood. It floors me. It makes me want him, even though I have had him for hours already. Sometimes, it is too much and he and I must part and walk alone. This is such a time.
     Valan Montague walks the halls of El-Adar, the Christian quarter where he and his lover sleep. His arms are folded against his chest, his hands embracing himself. His sage green shirt, silk, lies open and untucked over his deep blue trousers. His skin is creamy in the moonlight. His stomach flat and lean, muscular. A string of garnets surrounds his throat. A string of yellow-green gems surrounds his stomach, sparkling at his navel.
     And the air hums around him. It writhes wherever he goes, like the tendrils and vines of smoky darkness through the deep red glow that surrounds him. Still vibrant, like all new vampires, not yet as pallid as the aged. Magic sparkles darkly there. Old magic.

     "You find the halls comforting?" comes Maria's melliflous voice. Spanish honey. No one should speak as she. Her words seem to reach the mind without ever trippling the clunky physical paths of sound. She steps from the darkess, hidden by the absent moon. She wears a black dress, with a black fairylace shawl wrapped around her shoulders. It is a wonder that the lace has held up so long.
     "I walk all the time," she continues in Spanish, certain that you will master her tongue. "A wraith, I am, a child of shadows." Not of Darkness.
     "And what are you, Valan?" your name whispered.

     I wonder if I should ever learn. Watch the darkness, Valan. Watch the shadows, Valan. Keep your eyes open. Keep your ears open. Keep your mind open. It is so much to keep track of. When your voice smoothens over to him, intonation as slow and honey and as easy, his yellow-green eyes lift and he pauses a half-step. "Buenas noches," he murmurs. "Bonsoir."
     Valan looks to you and he begins to walk, this time more slowly, this time with you. "I like to walk too, it gives me something to do," Valan says. "And I am restless, donna." His spanish is not completely fluent. He speaks it simply. What he does know, he knows well. And despite all of his earlier protestations and gradiose claims, he does speak Spanish. As you prefer it.
     He imagines every man you meet gives you exactly what you want...
     "Other than restless, I am Valan Montague." Himself. He is himself.
     And near him, the air shivers. Tendrils reach out, seeking, fingers of smoky darkness curling, beckoning...

     "What is Valan Montague?" Maria goes on, her steps now given sound upon the dusty ceramic walkways. "A young man of France," said rather Frenchly, "...a businessman?" She does not know. "What does Valan Montague mean? Maybe I ask something you cannot answer yet," she smiles, her small form so thin. The scarf rises to cover her black hair, but continues to drape her shoulders and back.
     Very little of her, much of the lace.
     "I see a young man who does not have a way yet," she answers for you. "That is not unusual, at this time of your Life."

     "He is French," so he says in his mother tongue, colored with the Loire. Come now, is it as bad as all that? "A man who was always in the business of living life like a party, now finding that ... it is much to put on a party. There is food, catering, location..." his voice drifts off. "I ... did not take it seriously when I was living. Now, it is all so serious." He said most of that in French, and he makes an audible switch. "I am going to become an architect, I think," Valan smirks. He doesn't sound very Brujah, does he. Whatever that is these nights.
     "To be honest, donna, I do not know. No. I do not know what I am. I am.. that I am..." to quote God. He is quiet. He watches the way as he walks. "I have to remember that Eduard has several centuries on me. It is a challenge. I want to be where he is... he knows so well, I think. He knows himself. His friends... they are all so mighty. And then there is the Modern Man," Valan smiles warmly. "It is all so different. But... he tells me it will come as it comes. He encourages..."
     You can imagine...

     "You hate him," Maria smiles, glancing over at you. "For bringing you to this point? You are jealous of him?" she adds. "For he can go and do what you yet cannot?"
      "Can there be real love between two...men?" she asks, stopping and twisting to see you. "Or is it...obsession? A mirror to see the perfection you believe you are?"

     Valan stops, and the temper of the Young -- you know it so well -- it is easily tripped. But your presence snuffs it like a cup over a candle. "I do not hate him," he speaks French again. "I do not hate him for anything. And why are men's hearts any less than Woman's? Because once she could bear babies and love them unconditionally? What then of Medea?"
     Arms unfold and he stands firm, feet growing roots in the marble. "I love him. It is no .... obsession. I do not ask him to surrender everything to me, I do not ask for anything but his love and his affection, which he gives to be in full, and has for the past two years. If I want a mirror, donna, I will find a glass. I do not need Eduard to be a mirror to me... perfection doesn't enter into it. Do I wish I were not so weak? Yes, I will admit this. Do I wish to be able to help him more... to ... contribute more? Yes, donna, I do."

     She smiles, nodding her head eagerly. Alright, alright, her grin seems to say.
     "I will say, Valan Montague, that...I am concerned. Concerned for my boy's soul. For yours. You seem untouched by the words, I will say they are mottled by man, but words that appear in all Faiths. A man to lie with another is..." well, she'd rather not think about it, really. "You both are at risk."
     "I knew he would be perfect when I first saw him. And he is. And he should never be with one less than he is. I do not think you are," she turns, eyes black, "...but I worry on the path you share with each other."
     "I did not say a man could not love," Maria goes on, picking up her walk again, looking ahead, "...I did not say any's heart was less. I question if a man can give a heart to another man. Like with like. There is no...fitting together. It is not like a key and lock. It is...two keys. Two locks. Two locks or two keys are nice order on shelves, but..." eyes look to you, asking if you understand or agree.

     Valan is quiet. He is very quiet. There is a twinge of copper, a rise of something not-quite-living on the air. His blood. And it is swallowed with his words. It is swallowed, and he looks away from you. "I do not agree with you," Valan murmurs, blood showing at his mouth. "I do not agree. Two men can love one another. Men have since there were men to love. Not Yaweh, not Christ, not Allah can change it, donna."
     Eduard will be proud of me. Fuck, I am proud of me...
     Valan turns, "I must bid you good night, donna. I am sorry that you think I am damning your Beloved Eduard. But the truth of it, lady, if I may be permitted, his soul was damned six centuries ago..." He is at the limit, and his limits are very small.
     But isn't that what you wanted...
      Valan turns away from you and this conversation. He simply has to....

     It removes the pretense of this Existence, doesn't it?
     Maria is content if you wish to depart. She does not like a back turned against her, this is true, but the space swirls with her containing her own temper.
     "You are nothing like him," she says, despite your back given to her. Whether that is a compliment or insult, it is hard to tell. Perhaps neither. "Nothing."

      He does indeed turn his back, and he does take his leave. There is no looking back now, nor deference. There is no running. There is no cursing, under his breath or otherwise. But the air around him curdles. There are those who can feel him passing, maybe an argument or two arise. Valan does not pause, does not witness this.
     But you, Eduard... can you of all feel him?
     Rivulets of anger, of faith and trust betrayed -- he had made the mistake of idolizing her -- move through him, upon the blood. What is he doing here? Why do those who bathed him in milk and honey one night, patronize him the next? And what does sin matter? What does it matter now? Not that he ever thought it a sin...
     No wonder you do not live here, ami. Who could stand it. Who could stand the patronization. Who could stand the stifling oppression of those minds who consider themselves so learned and yet whose views are so narrow.
     It is amazing he has not frenzied...

     He has a bond to tell him that you are upset. Angry. Betrayed.
     He had gone as you, to walk, to cast off the remainders of the energy you and he create. He is not so at hand for you to reach, but something gets his attention and he tells Armando and the others that he must go.
     They stared as he got off his horse, but nodded genially. They will see him another night, God willing.
     Edward's walk is brisk. Something wrong. Something done. But what? Damn. He is not one with extra gifts. Edward works with what he has.
     Soon, his walk is a gentle run, towards the gates of El Adar.

     You are not here. You, like me, went to walk in the night. I am a fan of this habit. Or was. But you are not here. I wish you were. I want to go. I do not want to sleep here. I do not want to stay here with her and with them while you are gone. How will I do this...
     Valan is shaking, so upset his body actually trembles. Do something, Valan. Do something. Pack! Yes, pack. To keep your hands busy. To keep in control. Take a breath. You remember how. Take a breath and hold it, Montague...
     He rushes toward frenzy, from his blood to yours, along a path invisible, you feel it sparking like fire to gunpowder, flashing raw and wild, and then -- just short of TNT -- the burning pauses. Contained.
     For now.
     Valan pulls out his bag, he tosses it on the bed, and then he stops there. He pulls out his cigarettes. He pulls out a lighter. Will he be able to control himself around the fire? He doesn't think about that. One thing at a fucking time...

     You can hear his feet down the hall, Valan. Edward's slowed down, but he's still direct. I'm coming.
     The bedroom door suddenly swings open, and he stands there, dressed in green and black. He's certainly not breathless, but the rather quick half-mile jog has his energy up.
      "Ami," he asks, stepping inside. A bag. Packing. And a cigarette. "Are you alright?" Another step and the door closes behind him. "What's wrong? Why are you packing?"

     "I cannot stay with this woman," comes the purring of French. The more upset (or turned on) he is, the smoother his language becomes. Valan pauses, lighting up. How fetching he looks with his sage-green silk shirt undone, his dark blue pants. But how rigid he is. How upset. He is fuming, mais oui.
     "I understand," that took a while to say, and it comes with a plume of smoke, "... you have work you must do, and it means you must be here. But I cannot stay here. I cannot stay here while you are gone. I am sorry."
      Your being here helps him to calm down, but you can see the tremble when his hand brings the cigarette to and from his mouth. "I am not alright, I am very pissed off. I am sorry."

      "Christ," Edward whispers, moving towards you. He comes to your shoulder, his body pressing flush along your side. Strength and desire. Both shown equally. "She said something, finally," he presumes, hand at the small of your back. His fingertips. Edward smells like night, like horses. His shirt is faintly damp as is his hair. "I'm sorry, ami," he whispers, closing his eyes. The hand splays, circling...

     "She said that men could not love one another," at least that is what he heard, "...and that she is concerned for your immortal soul. I said to her," now his French becomes rapid and gutteral, "..she should have thought of that six centuries ago. I started to say very ...stupid things." Yellow-green eyes are nearly completely ambered with such energy. "But... I bit my tongue. I swallowed it. And fuck her for making me."
     It is like touching stone, no...like the tension of the earth right before an earthquake. "She had me believing her little mirage of learning and civilization. She and this place, it is a lie. It is learning with blindfolds on, the kind of learning that you memorize prayers and call it Enlightenment. She said that I hated you, that I envied you. But I love you. I do not hate you, Eduard. And I am not envious of you. Do not believe her. She is lying when she says these things..."

      "Oh, Valan," Edward grins, arms snaking around you now. "Let me tell you a secret," he murmurs, feeling rather strong tonight. "Are you up for a secret or two?"

      "What, ami," he breathes smoke, his eyes glittering forward. Valan does not yet look directly at you. He does not like to look at you in anger. It is not for you. It is not meant for you. It is not given to you.
     He flicks the ashes on her floor. Fuck her. "I do not know how you put up with it so long, but I know why you are not here now. I am sorry for not believing you last year..."

     Oh, you remember that, do you?
      He'll save that for another night.
      "Secret one: I am not in love with my Sire. Secret two: she loves...and hates me." That gets a laugh. "Because of number one," he says softly, lips at your cheek. Oh, how sweet you are...
      "El Adar is not mine, ami," he said last year as well. "I cannot be the prince of this place, for I do not believe in it. That it is the home of those studying, certainly, but there is nothing special for that. Any security could be provided to them. A prince is one who believes in the philosophy, regardless of what is going on."
     "How many times shall I tell you...I am no philosopher, ami?" Edward teases, mouth at your ear.
     "You can take the boy out of France, but...I am still who I was, ami. I am Brujah...and in a tradition. But...I am not them. Their world is their own."
     "I know you love me," Edward whispers. "And Maria...knows me as well." And she will not speak such to him, for barbarians, true ones, will show their colors. He will not say that she fears him, but her reluctance to speak to him so is an admission of knowing what Edward truly is...and is not.
     "And, last secret," he grins, "...you, my ami, are my family." Not a Sire, nor this place.

     He has a quick mind and an agile one. He remembers a lot of things. And he will remember this.
     There will be no frenzy tonight. You hold him, your whispering to him, it mollifies him. Valan exhales a mighty plume of smoke and he finally turns to look at you. I do love you. I do not care if it is a sin. He closes his eyes and holds the cigarette out to you. "These philosphers are full of shit. I would rather be with my... barbarian Frenchman, enjoying life."
     As he opens his eyes again you know the storm has passed. For now. But you also know that he is likely not to forget this night, or anything said to him. "You would be proud of me for biting my tongue. I was thinking of you. It was the only reason I am standing, I am sure." And finally... a smile.

     "She would not have harmed you, ami," Edward smiles thinly. He's sure of that. No one has a temper greater than a damned barbarian. There is nothing to lose. "She wanted a rise out of you. She got one," he grins, kissing your ear after taking a drag from the cigarette. Brows arch. Very nice.
     He swallows, sighing through his nose. It sends tendrils of smoke around you both. "She wants to see what you're made of. She wants to rankle you. She wants to be angry at me. At you. She is jealous. She is afraid for my...our souls....yes. All of that is true. And she is not perfect, ami." I know that better than anyone.
     A chuckle. "Well, you have met the Maria I know," he can now tease. "And yes, I live in London and Fleurlil." I went home, when I was able.
      "And...I am always proud of you, ami," Edward finshes. "Always."

      "I want to go with you," Valan murmurs. "I know that I am not as strong, I will learn, Eduard." He looks at you. "I will hold your gun ...or something. Anything." But I am a realist, Eduard. "Or if not this," Valan murmurs, "I want to stay at Fleurlil..."
     You kiss my ear and that is suddenly all I care about. "I have a short temper these nights. I am ... trying to get a hold of it so it does not get a hold of me. It so far is winning, but I will learn." He is confident.
     "So," Valan exhales and the last knot unravels. He softens against you, folding to your form. A clearing breath and thought and then he looks to you again. He smiles again. And that word of pride, right now it means everything. "Merci, ami. And thank you... for the secrets. I will remember them."

     "Good," Edward smiles. "Now. We can't leave, I'm sorry," he grins, "...not until Nasr and I figure out a plan. Then, we shall be on our way. And," Edward relents with a half-nod, sighing, "...you can go with, ami." What am I saying? "It is your right...and honor...to choose your manner of living or dying." And that is what he fears.
     "And I am impressed with you," Edward looks at your recently-bloodied lips. "Biting your tongue. At least..." he smirks, rocking you a little, "...you could share..."

     "I cannot promise that I will bite it again tomorrow," Valan smirks. But that is all the more he says of Her. "Again?" he whispers, and his smile parts at yours, his tongue flicks and with it the twinge of his blood. The flick becomes a kiss, sudden, wide and warm. He will let you drink as much as you want. It will cool him. It will bring him peace.
     And he will worry about dying tomorrow. Or he will live and then not worry. Either way, he will be with you. Unless, you both come to your senses and find another compromise...

Posted by rowan at July 05, 2003 02:00 AM