.... When I came to stop below a hill that marked one end of the valley that had pierced my heart with terror, I looked up toward the crest and saw its shoulders already mantled in rays of that bright planet that shows the road to everyone, whatever our journey...
     From the plane of your soul I crossed the distance, past the region of your heart, with its proud mountains and open plains, its meadows of flowers and sweeping, life-granting winds, to the very center of your mind. I saw the colors flash in danger. Reds and silver. Pain and suffering and anger. And I knew that I would be surrounded.
      ... After I rested my body awhile, I started again across the wilderness, my left foot always lower on the hill, and suddenly a leopard, near the place the way grew steep: lithe, spotted, quick of foot. blocking the path, she stayed before my face and more than once she made me turn about to go back down...
     But undaunted, I moved forward, confident in my power and in my abilities. To face conscious and subconscious, Scylla and Charybdis, leopard and lion and all the beasts of the Dark Wood combined. The closer to the Mind I came, the louder it became...

     The landscape in the astral realm was grey, foggy and even more like a washed out version of the Real. Shadows, souls and spirits flit through that place, but is nothing like this place.
     Silver and red... and black and shadows... There are structures here, but they are unfocused and angled strangely. Nothing meets at ninety degrees... nothing is perfectly square or round... Staircases lead everywhere, some ending in drop-offs, others ending at doors or even walls. Hallways run off at strange trajectories, none of them parallel, none of them squared off, some of them slanting or bending in odd locations.
     While the Home of her Soul was merely a muted, grey version of the Real, this is something entirely different. This is perversion... a disturbed, insane version of the Real. It is so disjointed and incongruous that it nearly looks like something out of a Dali painting with Escher influences.
     Amidst all the confusion and odd angles, Her presence can be felt. It hums like a streetlight in the dead of night, not allowing for perfect silence. But there are several different hums... all in different pitches and tones. Its white noise could be distracting...and shouldn't be Here. But it is.

     The subconscious and the conscious is akin to the Inferno. There, the walls with mouths that open, speak, wail and contort in their misery. The pit of despair, men buried to their necks hoping for sustenance. The maws of gluttony, unable to be full, filled, fulfilled. Here, there are stairs, halls. Each one conveying passage, paths, motion -- and yet it is lost within itself, unable to move forward. Stairs drop off, even as logic has not been able to bridge the gap between pain and suffering and hope and love.
     He is completely in white, white suit, white shoes, white scarf. His honeyed-olive complexion is even tempered here. His eyes, however, are cinnamon and amber, bright and shining like flame. They hold the whole of his presence here. All of his strength, all of his power is there. Beacons, they are.
     "Victoria..." Girault calls out to you. Can your soul hear me, even from here? Yes, she can hear me. She knows I am still here. "Victoria," Girault calls out again. His eyes lift, following the broken paths you have tried to create. The Escher Reality that is really just the symbol and evidence of someone trying very hard to find her way home.
      "It is I, Girault-Antonio di Medici, your friend and confidante... I am come to see you..."

     Staircases upon staircases and halls upon halls... all attempts to find her way. But she forgot to leave a breadcrumb trail so it's not doing her much good. All it's doing is getting her more and more confused about her direction, surely.
     Her soul was very willing to listen to you... passive and calm. This is something completely different. Night and day. As you call out Victoria's name, a loud thunderclap crashes through the landscape, shaking everything in its wake. Everything dims a bit, as though a cloud passed overhead, but details start to become more visible.
     Claw marks stand out in red upon walls. Blood pools at the bottom of steps and beneath bridges. Mirrors spot the hallway walls periodically...and every single one has been smashed, as though with a fist, much like it was said the mirror in her hotel room was found. Did you hear about that?
     Then, a disembodied voice reaches your ears, as though she were standing behind you. "Victoria's not here, Mr. Medici..." It is whispered... do you feel the breath against your ear? But there is a slight echo, too.. as though two or three women spoke at once. "Just little ol' me..." says the voice.

     The kid gloves are off. Medici turns in place, unshaken by the thunder, though it causes ripples like your own psychic blast against your mind's terrain. You are hurting only yourself.
     Girault moves slowly, eyes looking to each thing, each thing you have built, each thing you have destroyed. Blood and broken mirrors -- frustration. Bridges, halls and stairs -- your attempts. "The name is Antonio," he corrects, "...and you are Victoria. Even if you are only her delusions, you are still Her." His voice is smooth, even, and again there is that ...melody. Here, even more striking, for surrounded by all of your Discord, his Concordance is all the more noticeable. "You have been doing some..." He spins in place and lifts a hand, motioning to the surroundings, "... redecorating. It seems. I am fond of decorating myself. Architecture. Bridges, some of my favorite things..."
     He places a hand upon a wall, dipping to move down another section of hall. It brings him to another series of stairs, one leading up and over, cutting to the right. The hall curves around it, mirrored, sparkling with the broken shards.

      "You have me mistaken," comes that voice at your ear. Always at the right ear. "I'm not Victoria..." the voice insists. For now, that voice seems patient, but there is a teasing tone to it... playful... devilish...
     An image flashes through the landscape, replacing it but for a split second... can you make it out? There was a person in that image. A woman. Dark hair. Victoria perhaps? But the vision is gone, replaced once more by the landscape around you.
     As you come around a bend, you are faced with a stark white hallway lined with doors. Each door is different, flanked by more of the broken mirrors. One is large and made out of solid dark wood. Another is a cast-iron gate with a black curtain behind it. Yet another is made completely of crystal with white mist behind it... another is small and probably small enough to make you crawl through on your hands and knees... another is made completely of flames and opposite it is one of ice and snow... they go on and on and on. Which one will you take?
      That voice comes back, whispering upon your ear, "Choose a path... find me. Ever played hide and seek? You're It..." Musical laughter echoes further down the hall, taunting you.

     "Have you ever read the story of Alice In Wonderland. Here I am, the White Rabbit," and he is all in white at that. "It is not I who chase you, but you who are to chase me. That is how the story goes." No, there will be no play time. He looks upon each door. "And if you do not wish to answer to Victoria that is alright. What should I call you? Alice?"
      A gloved hand pushes just a little upon the cast iron gate, hand pushing through the curtains. "You look like you are building a maze. Do you like puzzles? Do you like games?" he wonders, even as he moves forward. He is sure the gate will close behind him. "I like games, too. But the ones I prefer usually have a young boy taking off his clothing when he loses a hand of cards..."

     As you pass through the curtains, the gate does swing closed, yes. There was no locking mechanism on it when you opened it, however, so perhaps it's not so bad, hm?
     The room you enter has a black floor and blood-red walls. The floor is actually carpeted. A large fire burns in a black-framed, slanted fireplace hearth. Black tapestries float down from the ceiling in various intervals, obscuring a complete view of the room. More shattered mirrors line the walls, but miraculously, there are no shards on the floor.
     "Alice... I like that name," the melodic, echoing voice murmurs, this time from your left...and this time with a more physical presence. Fingertips reach up to toy with your hair while others trail down your left arm. There is no denying She is here now. The warmth of a body presses against your back. "Mmm.. this white rabbit is quite handsome... can I keep him?" she purrs.
     In the background, that white noise hum increases in volume briefly... there are female voices within it... some protesting, some encouraging... then they lower again, returning to that incessant hum.

     There is no shrinking from your touch. There is a smile, slow and winding. "Si? Si, Alice is a good name. Or Alix. Or Alys. The French. And this rabbit... ah... he is a wild hare," he says. "But he is glad you are here." Girault turns, whether he shall see you or not, that is up to you. "Not much of a game, hmm? But then, unlike the story, this Rabbit is not in a hurry. And he wanted to be caught."
     He hears the white noise. There are voices there. But ..there is time to speak to each one. No matter how many you want to create, yes? "You remember the story of Alice? How she ran chasing a rabbit, fell down into a hole and was lost. And there were those who tricked her, she could not find her way. But for the cat... and the rabbit. Say, I am a little of both, si? Cheshire Cat and White Rabbit. I am your friend, Alice. And I have come to lead you back on the other side of the Looking Glass. To your home. You want to go home, si?"

     Hands drop from you as you turn to face her. 'Alice' is indeed there when you turn around. Where Tori has grown accustomed to wearing practical, comfortable clothing, Alice is the opposite. Alice, in fact, looks more like the way Tori did in New Port...impossibly poured into tight PVC and leather.
     But, she's still different than how Tori has presented herself in the past. For one, the leather is a short-short skirt of black, showing off her pale, shapely legs. The PVC are the knee-high boots. The space between the boots and the skirt is filled in with black fishnet stockings. A silk blouse of the deepest red flows about her, dipping lowly in the neckline, almost leaving nothing to the imagination. Black locks stand out, teased and crimped with some small braids spattered throughout.
     Kohl-outlined grey eyes focus on you -- the pupils are opposite, one fully dilated and one nearly a pinprick. Lips painted the same red as her blouse smile wickedly at you, turning into a faux-pout.
     "Well, you're no fun... you're not supposed to want to get caught. Bad boy." Moving just a little closer, she purrs, "But... you are still here, so all is well. Hmm... a cat -and- a rabbit...aren't I the lucky one? I think I'll keep you." She reaches up to touch your chest with those fingertips as she murmurs, "Home... hmm... but we could have so much fun here..."

      "But such delights," he murmurs, his hand covering your own. "Such delights await you in the waking world, my dear. Palaces of glass and gold. Music of instruments the like of which have not been heard by ordinary men. And more importantly, your friends await you. William and Ian are waiting. You have a good many people there who care for you."
     Though you have lost the one you were bonded to, I am told.
     Girault takes note of your eyes. One, dilated as if dead. The other, narrowed to a pinprick as if to shut out too much light, or information. Yes, it is indicative of what is overwhelming you. "You should come with me. I will take you to the finest designers of Rome and Milan, Venice and Florence. To give you at last the life you should have had long ago..." He will be the sire Morgan never was. He will show you what Darius could not have shown you. He will open the Toreador world to you. Will you let him?

     The thought of instruments perks her interest as she purrs, "Hmm... intriguing. Interesting. Sounds like fun, but I could just summon that now, couldn't I?" And sure enough, the room fills up with various instruments, including a piano and a harpsichord. In fact, those two take predominant places in the room, obviously being favourites.
     But, these are merely images and fade a bit within a matter of moments, being corrupted by their surroundings.
     She hears about the designers and ponders all the clothing she could have.. she could dress herself up and go out on the town till her heart's content. But, then again, she could do that here, too.
     But then she picks up on something unsaid... something not vocalized, but merely thought. A quick wisp of something that catches her unaware. The sire she never had... showing her things He could not show her... access to the Toreador world that no one else could have given her...
     The image of Alice flickers and fades. "No..." she starts, looking around frantically. "NOOOOO!" she screams as she literally blips out of existence...at least temporarily. She is replaced by a shorter, smaller version of her Soul you met earlier... she is younger. More vulnerable. More impressionable. A child on the verge of womanhood. Her long black hair is braided into two pig-tail braids, tied with blue ribbons, and she wears a pretty little blue frock dress. Her shoes are made of brown suede with a big silver buckle on them.
     "Alice is gone for now... Victoria can't come out and play right now, but I can get a message to her... but you have to be quick!" the young girl whispers, looking around the room as though afraid that Alice will jump out of the woodwork.

     Fragmentation. Dissociation. Multiple personalities as a response to a traumatic event. You scream, the images flicker. Somewhere in the distance glass is breaking. Even as your heart is. Ah, did you hear me? Did you hear what I was thinking... this upsets you...
     I did not mean to upset you...
     As the child You appear at his feet, so it seems to him, Girault looks to you. A visible sigh upon his features. "Tell Victoria ...and Alice... that I care for her very much. I did not mean to upset her. I am here ...only to help her. You. Only this." To help You. "William and Ian and I, we just want you to be well... to be strong...to be happy. And we are going to be here to help you on your way."
     Perhaps it is enough. Perhaps it is time to go. To let her rest. You know enough, do you not, Antonio?
     Girault nods to her. "Go tell her..." And he hears the multitudinous voices of Victoria, the voices of sorrow, the white noise of distress. It will take more than auspex to fix this. It will take more than one conversation. He knows this. He knows the depth of the distress. But he also has a line to follow, a rope for her.
     Girault turns, closing his eyes, and he sings. Ah, that voice. That voice. And that song, the very song he was humming to her soul. Listen, Victoria. And remember.

     The child listens to all of this, then murmurs, "You did not upset Victoria... she's trying to talk to you, but Alice won't let her. Alice likes it here, even if the rest of us don't." Alice's screams start to fade as the child closes her eyes, her small brow wrinkling with some kind of mental effort she sends out. Can you feel the waves emanating from her?
     Opening her eyes, she looks back up at you, with those same freaky eyes. This is another manifestation, but perhaps easier to deal with. She reaches out and touches your hand as you close your eyes and sing. She is loathe to interrupt, but she has to tell you something...
      "Mister? Victoria said she knows you want to help her. You want to help all of us. Alice is.. something dark... something that wasn't here before.. well, she was, but she wasn't. Do you understand?" Something caused by the traumatic event... representative of the wound in the Soul, perhaps. "She tries to gain control here, but we fight her off when we can. Especially when William and Ian are with Victoria. We hear their voices and force her back as much as we can, but it's getting harder each time."
     There is a pause as she tilts her head a bit, as though listening to something.. and there's even a nod. "Victoria says Alice needs to be bound before anything else happens. She won't disappear... but she needs to be tamed." The girl swoons on her feet, but steadies herself quickly. "She's trying again.." Indeed... the angry voice's echoes can be heard again, but off in the distance.

     His fingers clasp, and then he opens his eyes. His song reverberates, echoes upon your blood, against it, in your mind. Such beauty as most mortals could not withstand and few immortals have heard. "It is her pain," he looks to the manifestation at this hand. He clasps her hand. "Alice is her pain. You tell Victoria I am not going to leave her. You tell her for me. Tell her I understand. Tell her I know Alice wants to protect her. But we must all convince Alice... that the best way to be protected is to...all come together. Even if... especially if we are frightened."
      Alice, I know you are her pain. I know you are afraid. I know you are just trying to protect her. I know this is why my protection frightens you. Do not be afraid. I am not here to hurt you. I am not here to hurt her.
     "You see... we cannot ...push Alice aside. She will only fight harder. The division between Victoria, you and Alice will only grow." Girault's look is knowing. It is full of empathy and understanding. But there is not an easy way. There is not a painless way.

     The girl nods and seems to focus again, sending out a message. Then, her gaze falls upon your face again as she whispers, "Victoria understands.. I understand... Alice will not. She fights this... you threaten her, in her eyes. It will not be easy."
     There is another pause before she smiles up at you and adds, "Victoria told me about you, Mister. It's good that she has people to help her like you and the others. I'm not strong enough on my own. I'm just little Faith." Her small fingers curl with yours, as though to reassure you that she has Faith in you.

     "I know," he smiles down to you. "And ...Faith. We all need you, si?" We all need you. "As for Alice... best to leave her to me. I will do what I can. In the meantime... take care of one another. You are... all related...yes?" He bends, he places a kiss upon the young girl's hand. "Tell Victoria that I will be with her. When she opens her eyes, she will find me looking back at her. For now... I should go. I do not want to upset Alice so much that she will not be... willing to listen, or to learn. We must do this in steps, si?"
     In steps. Not all at once.
     "Trust me, Faith... it will be better. Things... will be better. Hold Victoria's hand and tell her this. The two of you... stick together. If you will be her Faith, I will find her Hope."

     "Steps... right. I will tell Victoria your message. But yes... you should go for now. Alice is trying to come back. I have to hide for a while..." Faith murmurs, glancing around distractedly. The angry voice of Alice is starting to gain volume.
     "Thank you..." she murmurs in an echoing voice as she pulls away from you now, her small hand slipping from yours. Her image is starting to flicker and fade. Ever backward she moves. "Go now... before her wrath finds you..." And then like the Cheshire Cat, she disappears.

     All ways are the queen's ways. That is the phrase from the Carroll book. Here, Alice is the queen. For now. In truth, Girault has what he needs. Humming his song, he closes his eyes again.
     Soft...
      Soft the sound becomes. Until it is only the echoes of his voice, his presence. Muted, the sound becomes once more, a single voice bouncing off of the mist. Girault's image fades...

     ... It is nearly dawn...
     He made his apologies to Villon. Not long after this, Villon received yet another call. And other calls were made. A world mobilizing, stirring from its long rest. Girault opens his eyes. The lights of his plane flicker, blinking rhythmically. Red and white. He sighs, unlacing his fingers from where they rested at his stomach to reach for his yet untasted snifter of brandy.
     Beside him, one of his brilliant young men sleep. A radiant young mortal. The best Genoa has to offer. He reaches over and brushes his cinnamon curls. And he looks past his young man to the view of the world. From Paris to Scotland. The Channel is beneath him now, going pink with the first glow of morning.

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