Mist clings and floats low, obscuring the ground somewhere beneath it from view. Fog makes everything else fuzzy, less defined. It is dark, grey and nearly formless in this place. Images of the Real World can be barely made out, mere whispers of what they truly represent. Distant forms move through the shadows, some small and delicate, some large and lumbering...but thankfully they stay away from Her.
     Pale and stark against the dingy grey of everything else, the childe of Morgan kneels within the low-hovering moisture of the mists. Long raven-black locks fall about her like strands of a torn funeral shroud, giving her a bit of partial modesty in a realm that doesn't know clothing. What do souls need fabric for?
     So still, so calm... unlike her mind. But her mind isn't present here. Her hands rest upon her bare thighs -- the ruby ring she never parts with isn't even there. Eyes gaze out into the greyness, searching, ever searching.
     The sharp scent of copper is here, hanging on the air around her, hugging closely but flickering out occasionally like tendrils seeking... seeking... seeking what?
     Behind her, the faint impression of a silver cord might be seen... anchoring her to the Real. Her only anchor. An anchor that has been stretched rather thin...

     There is a sound. At first, it echoes muted against the fog, reflected into mist and lost. But then, again it sounds. It is ...melodic ...as the mind may perceive melody, the sweet progression of pleasingly matched notes, where dissonance is balanced by the concord that surrounds it. Cords, or are they chords? They are softly strummed. It is how he finds you.
     There can be no modesty where there is no shame; there can be no shame where there is no sin. In Heaven, one may dress as one wishes for the flair of dressing alone, for the form needs no other adornment than that which was bestowed upon Us All by the Creator.
     And he needs no other adornment, the one who appears before you. His fine feet are bare. His fine form, roseate and radiant in its health, his long dark curls ringlets upon his shoulders, his face clearly Italianate, and his body. It is his soul's identity. He has worn this idenity for close to a thousand years. When he finally shrugs it off, he will take another. The soul will remain unchanged.
     "I thought you might like some company," his voice reverberates against the mist, echoing, melody found in it. He seems to sing, even when he does not. And when the face of Girault looks upon you, he beams. Resplendence shines from his face, his eyes of cinnamon and gold. He lays his hand upon your hair, like a benediction. Like a blessing.
     You are not alone...

      The melody awakens her awareness, but she does not move right away. Not until she feels your hand upon her hair.
      The eyes that raise to look up at you are crystal blue, almost inhumanly blue... electric, shocking... they cut through the washed out fadedness of this place in startling color. Her face follows where her eyes have gone, raising upward, like a flower raises and turns toward the sun. Ah, but she is a flower... a delicate rose. One that wilts now, threatening to cease to exist.
     Her expression is calm and muted...except for those eyes. She looks barely twenty, but her eyes speak of ages more... and of a great sorrow.
     That metallic scent is strong here. As she lifts her face, she straightens a bit, revealing the source -- a long wound reaches across her mid-section, as though she was sliced with a sword. It is not gaping open, but it is obvious; nor does it bleed as a wound might in the Real World. But the scent is there. She is but a frail, wounded songbird, waiting... waiting for her wings to heal? ...waiting for something to happen.
     "I'm not good company right now," she warns softly. No malice, bitterness or hatred drips from her words... they are spoken simply, as though she were commenting on the state of the weather. "Why do you seek me?" she asks, nearly in the manner of a curious child.

      You are like the pictures my friend Dante would draw with his words, his poetry better than most paintings of the time. He spoke of the Inferno, the pits of hell, where I am sure to eventually reside, buried up to my neck and thirsting for the cups of water just out of my tongue's reach. You show me your wound, you show me your fear. My hand draws away a little, a last touch given to your face, like the glancing touch across a flower's petal, the skim of a touch against a rose's cheek.
     "I do not come to be entertained. You do not have to put a show on for Antonio. I have come to help you. And to be here for you."
     His own aspect does not change, still he is beaming, radiant Girault. Beautiful Girault, he who came before Raphael by many centuries, but who bears a likeness to one of the figures of a Raphael painting. A Renaissance angel, he appears.

     "Antonio..." the childe of Morgan murmurs quietly, as though mulling over the name, turning it over, tasting it, and finally checking her memory in hopes of matching the name with a past meeting or something... but comes up empty.
      "I do not know you," she states with a slight shrug of her shoulders. "But, you can stay, if you want," she adds, "I'm just waiting..." But for what? Even if you asked her, she probably couldn't answer you at this time.
     Her gaze lowers, looking to her stomach, then off into the distance. "You have a beautiful voice," she comments softly, in that near child-like voice. Shocking blue flickers back to you as she asks, "I'm sure I don't know you. Why do you want to help me or be here for me?"

     "But we have met," he counters softly, and in each word there is melody in the cadence, harmony in the rise and fall of consonants and vowels, "... in a beautiful castle in France. Enormous that place is, beautiful. Rolling hills and vineyards, a wide river that cuts through a village, the castle sits upon a limestone plateau and seems to spring forth from the very earth." Chinon. "We share a friend or two. Do you know a William?" he looks at you as he sits beside you, cinnamon eyes shining. He sits with all the ease of a man taking respite upon a warm, sandy beach.
     "I met you in that castle once. We drank wine and discussed world matters. We were to meet at a party in Venice, I seem to recall. But you never came. We missed you. So, I have come to see you instead."

     She listens and as you mention all of this, a single dark brow raises -- the first real expression she's shown here. It is fleeting however.
     "Wait... I remember. Sorry... it was a while ago and much has happened since then. Forgive me for forgetting," Tori comments softly. There is a nod as William's name is brought up and her pupils resize momentarily. William is one of her anchors through all of this... him and Ian. It sparks within her briefly. "Yes... he is a good friend to me."
     She watches you intently as you move to sit next to her. "And yes... I missed that party. I had business to attend to, I think... or something. It's hard to remember right now." Things are so foggy and fuzzy around the edges. Those happened in the Real World...something she's having less and less connection with. Like how Avalon floated and moved away from the Real World, so does she...but hopefully she won't fully disappear.
      "Wine.. I'm still getting used to drinking that." Until she came back to Europe, she couldn't touch anything but the vitae that keeps all of her kind nourished and alive. "I think I just need more exposure to it. Or maybe that's what William told me..." It wasn't meant as a joke, but perhaps in another context that last comment would have been amusing. Perhaps you find it so, perhaps not. She merely shrugs and glances off into the distance... searching again... searching...
     "You have been well?" The question might seem a little out of synch with the way the conversation was going, but it still fits in a way. At least she's talking.

     A hand lifts, it pats your own. "That is quite alright. Nothing to forgive." Girault watches you, he holds your hand, he sees your eyes change. "William is very fond of wine. It is part of being from the Loire Valley as he is. He has wine in his veins instead of blood," and Girault smiles. Jokes are good. Laughter is healthy. "And Girault-Antonio is well," he nods. "He has no complaints. It is a good life, a long life, and I still find pleasure in it."
     But you...
      "How are you, my dear? William and Ian tell me you are not feeling well...as for getting more exposure to wine, we will work on that... hmmm? But... tell me... how you are. I am here to listen..."

     Where you laugh, she simply sits and watches you laugh. There is no laughter in her soul right now. No joy. There are varying degrees of sorrow and numbness. But you can see that, you know that, surely.
      But you're asking how she is, saying you will listen, saying you want to know... forcing her to look inward and describe in words how she feels. Her placid visage cracks a bit, but her head droops down, looking away from you. The shroud that is her hair falls conveniently into place, hiding her face from view. Narrow shoulders slump forward as she hugs herself.
     "Not well, not well... I am losing my way, Antonio. Losing my way and not caring whether I find it again sometimes. My Sun has set, leaving me cold and empty. No longer do I hear the call of the Wolfe. And so I am Lost. The pain..." There is a pause as she draws in a breath that is not real... releasing it, she shudders.
     "The pain is nearly unbearable. I don't know what is Real anymore. I don't know what day it is. I don't know who I am sometimes." She speaks in vague phrases because of how raw her most recent injury is, how new, how recent. Can you piece it all together? How much has William and Ian told you?

     "You have friends, friends who will be doing their best to guide you." He pauses, he looks to you intently. "Have you ever read Dante's Inferno? Well, the Divine Comedy as a whole is worthy, but ... I think it is the Inferno that has the most relevance to Now. Do you remember what the poet said..."
     The poet was my friend. A man who was prone to great laughter, great passion, great sorrow. Nothing in half measures for Aligheri...
     "It is about his descent into hell... into his own pain. A crossroads of this life. He said: Midway on our life's journey, I found myself in dark woods," Girault tilts his head, he looks to you. "...the right road lost. To tell about those woods is hard...so tangled and rough and savage that thinking of it now, I feel the old fear stirring: death is hardly more bitter..." His hand rests upon your hand. "In the poem, Dante is led, he has a guide, another poet by name of Virgil, I do not know if you know Virgil or not, but he was a Roman poet of great renown. Anyway," a little wiggle of his fingers, that is neither here nor there, "... do not fear of losing your way. I will be the Virgil to your Dante. I will lead you through this dark wood to find yourself again. For I promise you, there is another side, Victoria. On the other side of this great dark expanse there is a world waiting for you. A world in which you can live and can be happy. I promise you this. The wood is dark now, the pain is on all sides of you, like animals waiting for an opportunity. But take my hand," Girault whispers. "I will help you find your way."

     As you ask if she's read Dante's Inferno, she nods and murmurs briefly, "Long time ago." The details are likely fuzzy and long forgotten, but no doubt you will remind her of what lessons she needs to take from it... and so far, you have done so already.
     She listens to all of this, patiently, quietly. Keeping scrunched up the way she is, Tori does not push your hand away or snatch hers back from yours. It is as solid as anything can get in this realm. Something solid to hold onto, so she can be sure that she doesn't fall off if the world stops abruptly... Her hand is small and lifeless as you hold it and wiggle your fingers against it.
     But then you equate all of This to Dante's Inferno... the dark woods, the pain like waiting wild animals... and how you will help her. All she has to do is take your hand.
     She looks up now, her hair parting and falling back from her face as she tilts it sideways at you. Shocking blue meets your gaze, then looks down to the joined hands before her. No... death is not the way, is it?
     The small hand suddenly grasps the hand holding it, albeit weakly, but there is still the effort... a sign on the positive side. She wants help.

     The grasp, as subtle and slight as it is, brings forth a smile from him, and once again he is beaming. His hand holds lightly, but there is a presence there, a great and supporting strength. "You will hear my voice. My voice will always be... like a hand. You may grab onto it. We will not be separated. Remember that when you hear the howling of animals or the growling of beasts," your own thoughts, the destruction of your own mind, "... my voice will be there like a rope. My hand will be on your hand. We will walk the woods together."
     Girault covers the joined hands with his others. "Remember this. I know it will be frightening, I know the woods are full of dangerous creatures, but remember that I am there, with you, holding your hand, humming a song.... si?"

     Slowly, she begins to straighten again, like a tightly wound spring starting to uncoil. More and more of her face becomes visible to you as she does.
      Tori nods a bit, murmuring softly, "Thank you." William and Ian are doing what they can to help her. Ian, by making phone calls and filling in for William when Wills needs a break. And William by nearly constantly being by her side, making sure she feeds, and so on. But neither of them have been able to do what you have... talked with her soul. Sandrine managed to briefly do that, but you've gotten farther. Davydd only spoke to her mind. William and Ian are there for her when she truly manages to hang onto the Real.
     She trusts you. Perhaps you can see that in her gaze. Or maybe you can just feel that from her. You've seen her Soul now, and the state it's in. But would that prepare you for her Mind? Can you even tell from this how bad things are?
     "I will remember, Antonio," she whispers softly, nodding again. Even still her expression remains placid, but her eyes glimmer with something more... Hope.

     He leans in, he closes his eyes, he places a kiss upon your temple. There, he murmurs again. "Remember." Remember. That has been the word most used since all this began. Remember. A wraith told you to remember who you are, not to lose yourself. Again, it is used. Remember that we are here. Remember what I have said. Remember. Girault draws away, the smile lessening somewhat, but never does it fully stray from his lips or from his eyes. "Yes, you will remember," he says.
     "When your eyes open, you will be in Scotland. William and Ian are there, they are taking very good care of you there. And I am on my way. We will all be there. I will also be here. I know the ways," he smiles a little mischievously. Ways Ian and William do not know. Could not know. Still holding your hand, he rises. He bows, he kisses your hand still held in his. "We will look at the snow, it will be lovely. And we will sing, together.... you and I. A song you will remember." There it is again, remember. Remember. "So much to look forward to," Girault whispers, "... tiny little reasons." To remain. So many reasons. "Even when I disappear here, you will hear me, Victoria. Do not be afraid, for I am with you."
     How Medici of him, pinching God's lines from the Bible. But it is fitting...

     Tori closes her eyes briefly to accept the kiss at her temple. Dark lashes flutter upward again as you rise and whisper to her. Her dark head bobs again as she nods in agreement. Remember. She will do so.
     "I will... remember," she repeats softly, watching you kiss her hand, listening to your whispering voice.
     And behind her, the silver cord flashes briefly, and seems a little more tangible than before -- not by much, but it is still an improvement. Her way 'home' is stronger, but still not strong enough for her to fully travel along it yet. The path is still unclear. It will just take time.

     And he will be there... and here...
     Although the sight of him dissolves, the feeling of his hand in your hand does not dissipate. And the sound of his voice reflects against the droplets of the fog. He hums a song. One day he will teach you to sing it...
     The clouds sparkle with it, and the connective lines he makes with it. He surrounds you, Girault-Antonio Medici, childe of Cosimo the Magnificent, the childe of Toreador Herself, so they say.
     That sound, that sound. So soothing, so clear, a male tenor, the voice any opera company would covet, or envy. It reaches out, and it enfolds you like a mother's arms...

Posted by rowan at July 03, 2003 03:58 PM