We did not go back out of the room that night and I did not seek the counsel of the Magister. I brought the tea and the broth, the honey and the lemon, and as you rested, Cesare, I pondered your state and our presence in Provence.
     Perhaps it was all a mistake, coming here at all. You do not seem to have improved, but have instead seemed to worsen. A part of me was tossed in perturbation, the stone of Chinon rocking on its balance, but then I stopped myself and I spent the remainder of the evening in Thought.
     I have no memory of the morning or of the day that it gave rise to. There was no golden dream, no Socratic Dialog with you and I sometimes have in my dreams. There was nothing of spheres or hermetic principles. No mathematics. No philosophy. I simply Was Not and then I Was.
     You did not look well upon rising, tesoro. I brought you more tea, more lemon, more honey. True, it is not a proper potion, but it is one of the more reliable philters known to mankind. I whispered my love to you. I bent and placed a kiss upon your forehead. I straightened with a last brush of my hand to your face and told you I would be in the main area, the main living room. Have your shower, I smiled and said, take your time, tesoro.
     I have spent the last half hour in the living room, reading a book on healing, salves and herbology. A glass of wine is at my side, another two or three books that I quickly scanned. One on hermetic principles, the other on templar mysteries -- one of my old tomes. Somewhere, there has to be a solution.
     Alire sits in the living room of the Provencal villa, clothed in an ivory cashmere turtleneck. The trousers are a deeper cream, almost to the point of camel hair, the shoes are one notch deeper still. For all of this his hair is like spun flax, platinum. One hand moves over the text of a large tome as if he were blind and the words were in braille. His other hand is reaching for a glass of red wine.

     The sun is setting, and the Magister has been busy lighting the candles. So is it always; things turn in their seasons, and everything is perfectly ordered, here, everything, perfectly at rest. The past, the present, the future - there is only one Time, and only one Way. It has worked for Samuel for centuries, and he intends for it to work for centuries to come.
     The remainder of the night was spent in thought, deep, cantilevered thoughts that left tracks along the progress of the mind, examined coldly by candlelight, then discarded or resumed. The rabbi's pilpul - examine everything from tetrahexademical sides, split the hairs finely, finely, shaving them from the edges and down to the center, to measure the Truth. If a Truth cannot be measured and carefully weighed, it may yet be Truth - but what Truth is this?
     Now, Samuel comes in from his prayers, unwinding a blue and white cloth from his shoulders and tenderly folding the soft silk, matching tassels to tassels, edges to edges, and sets it aside on a tray. The black skullcap is still fitted against the iron-grey locks turning to hoarfrost, but never to quite attain that state.
     "You are troubled, my friend." He knows. Alire cannot help but be troubled. "Drink," he says simply. "Tonight, we will find Truth, or be singed for our quest. Possibly, quite possibly, both at once." And Samuel then reaches for the bottle, finding a glass for himself.

     Cobalt eyes lift from the aged pages of a manuscript that predates him and fingers stop their reading course. The hand that was reaching for the wine likewise halts mid-air a moment before lowering. "Worried," he says, he echoes, he confirms. "There must be a solution, magister, just as there must be reason for everything, in examination if not in logic," as you have taught him. "But," Alire exhales, hand going to his forehead for a moment, "...what the reason is eludes me. You speak of Truth," he continues, eyes settling on his sire, "...as if you were expecting something more than a cure for headaches." Platinum brows lift a little and the prince wears a curious expression. "I have examined the fresco but fear I have not found your meaning in it. That there is significance, who can doubt this? But what does the fresco have to do with the Truth you are expecting. And what does Truth have to do with Giancarlo's pain?"
     Giancarlo's pain. An interesting choice of words...
     Alire exhales again. He is worried, yes. He is also frustrated. He closes the book gently, respectfully, and sets it aside. He does not yet reach for the wine, having lost his taste for it already. If only vino veritas were true. He will not find truth in it, thus it goes untasted. Knightly arms encased in cashmere fold against the Templar's chest. "I do not want to see him in pain." I cannot bear that, magister.

     "The Past is all of the Past - but some of the Past still lives and breathes, even if without heartbeat," Samuel answers gently, watching wine pour in a liquid ribbon from the bottle into his glass. "And heartbeats may echo, even for the dead." The bottle is set down, the glass lifted to dry-as-dust lips, the contents tasted, inspected for a flavour remembered only from an age gone by; it is not that harvest, no, but it is as close as modern crops can provide, perhaps. He turns back to the set of cobalt eyes, waiting before speaking.
     "I do not wish," the rabbi begins, "to cause or prolong pain unnecessarily. But it may be that to uncover the reason for this, a pain must be caused, to reveal the basis for these symptoms. It is up to you, of course, whether this is pursued - and, if you choose, up to him as well. But I do not believe that these pains shall cease, now, or ever, if the Truth is not found and excised from where it hides."
     Samuel turns half-away again, one hand lifting to stroke his beard. "The truth? The truth was in that fresco as much as Truth can ever be captured, I suspect. But I do not know, and though I am wary of what the Truth may prove to be, I am prepared to see matters through." His voice is calm, but oddly resigned. "God's eyes see that which I do not. Perhaps it is time."

     Your words are confusing. You see that, surely, in the squinting of his eyes. Have I been out of your company so long, Samuel, that I may no longer keep up? Have I been out of studies too long? The look of perplexion softens in the next moments, however. He holds your words. He listens to them again.
     Alire exhales, arms unfolding to lie outward along the sofa, an odd crucifixion, his head turned upwards to give his eyes a view of the ceiling. "It is not up to me. It is up to Giancarlo," he murmurs. "I leave the decision to him." He looks back to you finally, then to the books at his side. "I have been searching for symptoms, for cures and salves." Now he reaches for the wine. "But... you are right, magister. How can one find a cure if one does not know the cause."
     But the fresco...
     Alire sips at the wine, it sits at the back of his tongue for what would be a heartbeat before dissipating. "I do not understand... the fresco. What is its significance? It is a scene, like many others. A boy, armed men, the surrounding populace..." What is the point of it? How is it the truth? "And what worries you," a pointed look. "For you are seldom worried, magister. You are wary? Of the truth? Then you know... the Truth..." You know?

     The rabbi nods, once. "Then we will wait," Samuel says simply, "and when he has presented himself - we shall see." He finishes the wine, down to the dregs, and sets the cup aside. Normally, he is so abstemious in his habits - such recklessness is perhaps surprising. "I do not know the Truth, my friend. I suspect many things... but I do not know. And I will hold my tongue on suspicions, for there are other answers, perhaps, than the ones I suspect."
     The heavy-lidded eyes hood, the Semitic features creased in thought and foreboding, and he quietly tidies away wine and glass, without even full awareness of what he does. Suspicion, yes, resting heavy upon the back of one's thoughts, where that scene unfolded. Where was it? Was it in a dark hole that knowledge was born? Ultimately, all truth comes birthed from dark, damp and bloody confinement, does it not? But ... "Will he join us soon?"

     How is it that the undead are more aware of the living than those so graced with it?
     Down a hall, there is the creaking of wood and the rustle against stone. A door opens slowly, and footsteps fall on the rug that runs the hall floor. Cesare is awake, and when most have already appeared in the sitting area, he is slow to visibility. Yet his steps sound, and he works his way towards where he believes his comfort lies.

     An elbow rests upon the back of the sofa, and the fingers of the hand belonging to that arm glance against his chest, his mouth. Cobalt eyes have distanced their attention, giving it to empty space instead. "He was not feeling well, but he will come..." And so he does, even in the next few moments, Alire can hear the creaking of wood, feel the cresting of his lover's approach. Even mortals can do this. He could always pick out the sound of Michele's horse, his steps down the hallway, he knew his particular cough, his particular swagger. He could hear him coming down the road even if he were asleep, so attuned was he.
     Is he...
     "I will arrange for tea," more tea for his tesoro, "...would you care for anything, magister? In addition to the wine..." The recklessness is noted but as of yet there is no rise of concern. He is standing, and will be, when Cesare enters.

     "Good evening," Samuel turns courteously to the door, to Cesare, with a slight bow to the (much) younger man. He turns back to Alire, and shakes his head with a faint smile. His pupil. His friend, even if an infrequent visitor - so often, that duty must impede upon desire! And the rabbi turns back to the Italian, observing shrewdly, expression calm.
     Rest may not have done all that was desired. "Please, come in, and make yourself at peace. Alire will see to your needs, but if you have any desires, do, say so, I pray; I would not be considered a bad host. Provisions will be made, and we will ... discuss." Matters which may change lives should never be discussed out of social grace.

     The young man enters slowly, with work. While dressed beautifully in slacks and shirt -- he'd want to make a good impression -- Cesare's face shows the weariness that remains upon him. He's in a fight, it seems, and losing.
     "Good evening, Sir," Cesare says softly, nodding his head. "Thank you again. You have been nothing but kind. I am sorry for my...sickness. I," Cesare gives a weak smile, "...don't quite understand it. Maybe I am getting a flu from all my travels of late..."
     But there is Alire. Cesare smiles to him, walking over to touch Alire's hand. "Bello," Cesare whispers, giving Alire's fingers a squeeze.

     His fingers take to Cesare's immediately, the gentle squeeze returned. And worry cracks like so much glass to the floor when Alire returns the smile. "I was just going to get more tea, if you like. Or would you want wine instead, tesoro." Treasure, he calls him. The hands are yet joined. There is no attempt made to part so soon.
     "I will defer the discussion to the two of you," Alire adds. "Magister believes he may have an answer for this. Some answers even, perhaps." He glances to Samuel, then back again to Cesare. "I will get the tea, for it could not do any harm to have it ready, si?" He squeezes Cesare's hand again, he murmurs an endearment, and parts the grasp of hands only after a slight embrace is given. He gestures for Cesare to sit upon the sofa.
     "I will be right back..."

     "I do not know if I would call it an answer," Samuel demurs, though with a faint quirk of a smile to the full lips. He remains standing, nodding to Alire as the other man rises to depart in search of boiled water over crushed leaves, then turns his full attention back onto Cesare. "You do not know me well enough to trust me as you do Alire, or as Alire does me," he comments. "What I will ask of you, thus, may be a difficult thing."
     He pauses, bringing his palms together in front of his chest, then spreads his hands apart once more. "I believe that the only way to uncover the truth of the matter will be a way which will cause you more pain, for now - but will allow us to discover the cause of your pains. I do not know, however, whether it will be like unto lancing a boil, or..." Samuel hesitates for a moment, then continues, "or if it will be as immediate a solution as such. It may be that it will be like the ague, and fevers and symptoms will persist, until rooted out of you entirely as it runs its course. I am, however, a philosopher, not a doctor; but I believe that this is a problem not of the flesh, but of the mind, of the spirit. Think on it, while we await your tea; I would not have you answer in haste."

     Cesare, who had taken a seat, simply stares at Samuel as he speaks. Only when the teacher is done does he relax, closing his eyes for a moment.
     "It should be physical," Cesare finally says. "I have...done everything." Magical, psychic, as best he knows. Cesare looks to where Alire has gone, wondering if he has heard his confession. He doesn't know what is going on.
     "I will...be interested in your...ministrations, Sir, thank you. I hope, with your experiences, you may see things than I cannot."
     Even that tires him. Cesare sits upright, trying to get comfortable.

     Alire had not left the room. He lingers in the doorway leading to the hall that then leads to the kitchens. He looks to Samuel. "What... exactly... are you proposing to do?" Thought of tea is placed on hold for now. In fact, Alire begins to return to his place on the sofa. Wine will have to do for now, tesoro.
     Soon, very soon in fact, Alire is settling on the sofa once more. "What would be involved?" He is as stiff as stone, even as he sits upon the soft sofa. "If you need to lie, tesoro," he pauses his interrogation to murmur to his lover. "... do... my lap should suffice, si?" And there is a small smile. The way that Alire smiles, slight but fathoms deep. It is concern that lights upon his expression as he turns his attention back to Samuel.
     "I trust you," he nods. "I understand, philosophically, that to understand and halt the pain one must go through it, but... what are we talking about here, how will it be done?"

     Samuel turns with a slight bow of assent towards Alire, then back, addressing both men. "There are doorways in the mind which one typically keeps locked," he begins, voice calm, meditative. "These doors remain locked for good and sufficient reason, yes, but sometimes, behind these doors, blackness dwells, a blackness which leaks out to contaminate the soul. Not always is it an evil - but a sickness can be formulated, which can be discovered in fullness only by opening that door, and seeing what lies behind it."
     "Only then can the condition be alleviated - or at least, prescribed for. Modern medicine addresses this through the field of psychology..." The rabbi trails off, then quirks a faint smile, tugging straight one of his sleeves. "But those of us who study deeper arts know that there are places where psychology does not acknowledge, and thus, cannot go. I propose to examine these doors, my friends, and see if behind one of them, such darkness dwells."

     "What?" Cesare is confused. "Psychology? You think...something is mentally wrong with me?" Now he's upset. "I have never had such...I do not feel that sort of sick," he insists. "It is a headache and there is a logical, physical reason, si. I have not...had such mind sickness. Not in all my...days." Decades. "So, I am sick now?"

     The look of perplexion is doubled upon Alire's face. "I do not understand where you are going with this. Are you talking metaphysical or psychological? I do not think it is psychological, how could it be when it is only since meeting me that he has had this problem?" And so we are back to Alire's greatest concern. That it really is himself that is the issue.
     "There is something... about me..." Me is stressed here. "My house, my city, even here... especially here," he counters himself, "... the more he is with me, the more sick he becomes. Here, it has been the worst. Here in Provence." The place most Me in all the world. Even moreso than my hereditary Switzerland.
     Alire holds a breath for a moment. "Maybe it is not his mind at all... his spirit at all... maybe it is not even his pain... but mine. Maybe it is my mind that needs probing. That is what you are talking about." The dreaded mind probe so well known among those of his 'Family'.

     "No, no, it is not you, bello Alire," Cesare says, now under some distress. "I think, your Teacher, is right. It is me." With that, Cesare stares at Samuel, his brow furrowing. "You are saying...something to me," he murmurs. An accusation, if it is, Cesare rebuffs with the setting of his jaw.

     If he were the sort, he'd probably mutter something in Yiddish right about now, but Samuel just shakes his head. "I have just said," he answers in a gentle tone of voice, "that it is not psychological. Alire, calm yourself; you do yourself and Cesare no good, like this. Nor do I speak of probing one's thoughts. If I am correct - the problem's roots lie deeper than the mountain which you speak of."
     He waits a moment, again, for this to sink in. "The mind and the spirit are linked, through humours if you like, or through an equivalent of a nervous system, as I prefer to think of it. The spirit is much older than the mind acknowledges - but some roots must be examined in fullness, to see where they have grown, how they have shaped. I do not accuse - I merely suggest. If the idea is so detestable to the both of you, then if you like, I shall say no more." And Samuel is silent, regarding both men with slightly arched brows over dark, liquid eyes.

     He's never felt so agitated, so...annoyed. Cesare shakes his head, trying to clear the burst of emotion. "I am sorry," he whispers, hand coming to his forehead. "I am sorry, Sir, for my..." Cesare simply massages his brow and allows his head to thud against the back of his chair.
     "I will accept your suggestion," Cesare says. "If you can see something, please." Fingers uncoil, looking for Alire's hand again.

     Alire d'Avignon is renown for being even-tempered and calm. The more distressing the situation, it has been noted, the calmer he becomes. But with this, with Giancarlo, it is all different. The Great Iceberg is, in truth, a very passionate man.
     And he blushes to think it was just on blatant display.
     Alire nods and he goes silent. No peacemaker, mediator here. No, let them decide, Alire. And let them see where it is going. It is your duty to wait. And ... it is a duty that used to come so easily to you.
     "My apologies," is all he says, the color still high on his features. He sits forward, knightly thighs parting, arms resting on his knees and his hands dangling between them. Alire stares forward for a moment, then rises to busy himself with pouring another round of wine. He should perhaps abstain...

     "Very well," is the only thing Samuel says at first, the only acknowledgment. He turns to a cabinet, opening it, and takes from it a bottle of green glass, and a thick, squat candle of yellowish tallow. "This," he indicates the bottle, turning, "contains an elixir which I brew myself, from sundry ingredients, which relaxes the mind's defenses from the past. It does not," he adds with a glance towards Alire, "make one suggestible, or more easily read; the individual retains choice of what he speaks, but he will open doors within himself, and proceed from there." The bottle is placed down on the table with a solid thump.
     "This candle," the Magister continues, "has certain essences in it which will help one to focus. As staring into a candle flame may lead to hypnosis, so this can be used, with its scent adding to remove those locks, those wards. I have reason to believe that this may help us uncover the Truth. I warn you both - Truth can be very powerful; even painful or deadly to those who learn it. If you wish this to proceed, we will proceed, but Cesare, you must decide. It is your mind, your thoughts, and no compulsion of mine shall influence your decision."

     Cesare does not say anything against, and any signal to go forward is given only by a nod. He cannot imagine investigating his past: he recalls the last 150 years in unusual detail. Something from his childhood? An event forgotten.
     A glance is given to Alire.
     "My decision is mine. I..." another look to Alire from Cesare, "...will try anything." There, Cesare's gaze lingers before returning to the teacher.

     Truth is the sharpest implement of all. It cuts the deepest and the surest. But without it, what are we? Who are we...
     He looks from Samuel to Cesare. There is resolution in his eyes. A silent nod. A silent assent. I will try anything. I would do anything. Even if that meant saying nothing. Even if it meant being strapped to a crucificial stone and torn to pieces...
     He pours a glass of wine for himself, his cobalt eyes lifting to meet Cesare's looks. They trade glances like teasing lovers. Their eyes meet more than they miss.

     A single nod, and the candle is set down with reverent care, onto a shallow dish on the table; made for the candle, it seems, or the candle, for it. It fits perfectly. A long taper is lifted, and Samuel moves to the Sabbath candles, letting the taper's end flame into life from the already lit, smaller flame. He turns, and murmuring in quiet Hebrew, shares fire with the unlit candle.
     Moving now, extinguishing the taper, he turns to fetch a clean glass, a squat brandy snifter, into which he pours a concentration of greenish-brown liquid, smelling strongly of aromatic herbs. "Drink," the rabbi says calmly, "and be at peace, as much as you may. Cast your mind back... and we will see what Truth is."

     Cesare leans forward and takes the snifter. Sitting back again, he looks at the two men near him: the teacher ahead and the lover at his side. After an exhale, Cesare peers into the snifter before turning it up quickly to his mouth.
     One. Two. Easy swallows. Cesare breathes out, reaching to set the glass upon the table. Once done, both hands come to rest upon the arms of his chair.

     The sofa bears the weight of the returning Templar, glass of wine in his hand. He looks more to Cesare than he does to Samuel, but his attention is now and then divided, cobalt drifting to each man in turn. And inward, to his own thoughts.
     His own fears...
     But Alire does not close his eyes to it. He does not shrink. He is, after all, the stone of Chinon...

     The Magister takes a small step backwards, apparently content to observe. But he is wary, yes, and ... oddly guarded in his motions. Samuel murmurs, "Awaken, the past, and let us see if answers will unfold."

     For his part, Cesare sits quietly in his chair, eyes closed and turned towards the ceiling. He licks his bottom lip, fingers nervously fluttering at the arms of his seat. He exhales gently, seeming to relax further with each deep breath.
     I am fine...

I am fine...

     He is fine...
     Alire takes a swallow of the wine. He watches his lover. You are fine, amice. It will be well. We will return to Poitiers and all will be well...
     If one repeats this to oneself, one might even come to believe it...
     Alire takes another swallow of wine and then he sets it aside. His hands fold in his lap and he looks to Cesare. I am here, tesoro.
     I am here...

     Almost, it seems that nothing is happening. Almost, Samuel relaxes - but not quite. After a long moment, he speaks : "What voice in the wilderness, what eye in the darkness? Speak, if you will... reveal to us the answer to mystery. I do not compel; I only ask. By this power and by Solomon's ring, so do I ask."
     Never knowing when to leave well enough alone has been the hallmark, after all, of more than one scholar.

     Cesare's features twist slightly -- his brow, his mouth -- each muscle twitches nervously, anxiously. His breath increases, as if panic threatens to overtake him.
     A whisper of something unintelligible. Cesare's eyes opening to see the flame. Glazed and watery as his eyes, though he tries to hold onto the flickering light.

     Leaning forward slightly, the Magister's features twist in faint concern as he tries to make out what Cesare has said. "There are no enemies present," Samuel murmurs, trying to soothe ancient fears. "Speak - if you wish. We are here to witness, before God and before man."

     Sometimes I think, magister, that we should leave God out of it...
     Alire looks to Cesare. It takes a great deal for him not to reach out, not to disrupt. He glances to Samuel. May I speak.
     I have to speak...
     I cannot be silent...
     Shhh... Alire...
     "Sono qui, amore, la sono necessita di preoccuparsi," he whispers in Cesare's Italian.

     Suddenly, from the space of the chair, comes laughter.
     "Before God," the voice says, a throwback. Cesare's lips move, but the voice, the words -- they are not Italian. French stumbling, a French of colored vowels and archaic tones. A sing-song not heard in centuries.
     "You...speak to me of --"
     Cesare's eyes lift from the flame and switch quickly to his side. Brows arch widely, the glazing of his eyes going crystal.
     "Alire?"
     Cesare's voice hoarsely croaks, his eyes dilated, unfocused. Whatever attention was to be given to Samuel shifts instantly. "Alire..." as if realizing it's true. Hand on the seat reaches up, waving unsteadily in the air.

     Sometimes, one despairs of being right more than of being wrong. Samuel maintains his ground, though leans back as he'd been leaning forward. "This is a place of peace," he says gently, though commandingly. And he nods to Alire.

     That is my French. Not modern, but earthy in its early humanism.
     His hand comes out. Where he had been reluctant to touch before, reluctant to disturb, now Alire does not hesitate. His hand comes out, it steadies upon Cesare's own as it wavers in the air. "Yes, here," he says quietly. His gaze softens a little. "Where else would I be?" He speaks it to Cesare, to his Giancarlo, even with the archaic French spilling from his lips. "My place is here..."
     ...My place is here...
     Where else would I be, my place is here. It was a little joke during a time when great jokes were needed. The first hours of incarceration, when we still had the power and strength to reach between the gaps of stone in the donjon. My place is here with you...
     Cobalt eyes are locked onto the man beside him. There is no blinking, and his eyes are shining with moisture. He never uses the old French, not even when Guillaume, as a matter of course, drops into Langue d'Oc.

     "What is this?" Cesare insists, his chest heaving rapidly. "What is it!" he yells, an almost scream. Cesare's expression has turned wide-eyed, and Alire near him, speaking, seems to heighten the trauma.
     "Where are we, d'Avignon? What has happened? It is you, isn't it? What will happen to us?"
     Then, he turns to Samuel, staring. A look at the man's hands, body, and face, finishing with the silk on the top of his head. Oh, this is confusing. Cesare sits forward, knees parting as his feet come firmly on the floor. A stance to flee.
     "Alire, Alire..." Cesare says rapidly, "...we have to go." A blink of confusion, then a look again to the rabbi, as if trying to place him. A touchstone. Something about him. "I know you..." But not like this. It was different. Eyes look up and around to the space, then to the table, the chairs, the clothing.

     "Baruch a'tai adonai, elohaynu meloch shalom..." The prayer rolls quietly off Samuel's lips almost unbidden, not aimed at the two men in his living room, but aimed upwards, for the state and sake of his own soul. The traditional prayer - praise unto god, for he brings us peace. Well, a man can pray, can't he?
     He holds his hands out from his sides, indicating their emptiness. "This is a place of safety," Samuel says quietly. "It is my home. I ask, be still, for no harm will come to you while I can prevent it."

     The shouting wakes him, snaps him abruptly from his staring, from his silence, from inaction. "Nothing will happen to us," the French remains archaic, familiar. "Here, we are safe, brother. I promise you," he whispers it. And liquid pours free-form from his eyes. There is no move to halt it. Perhaps it is impossible.
     Brother...
     Not familial...
     Templar...
     "We are in Provence," Alire explains softly. Provence. Not in Chinon. Provence, but not in our Avignon. "We are near the sea, with all its dragons..." Not in Avignon.
     Yes, let's leave God and his popes out of this. For so great a God, how could He endure such weak children?

     "Near the sea, with dragons?" Cesare smiles at the idea, his lips parted in the panting. Eyes return to Samuel, to look at his hands and his face. A face...
     "I remember you," he whispers, eyes turning to Alire's hands at his own. "I remember..."
     Then Cesare's face contorts, this time in agony. He inhales sharply, thudding back against the chair, stiffening and straining. "No...no...don't...Blessed Lady, help me, don't let them..."
     In the chair, Cesare becomes wordless. Crystal tears stream down his face as he stares ahead and upwards at something, as if pulling against invisible bonds. A hand clenches as a vice around Alire's fingers. The muscles of his extended throat fixes as stone, and his mouth remains open in a silent scream.

     "Enough." Samuel closes his eyes for a moment, then stretches a hand forward, towards Cesare's forehead. "The past is past - realize the present in what is here. Alire, give him comfort - remind him of who he is, what he is, not what was." He is wary still, but compassion guides his motions, now, not suspicion.

     Please, dear God in Heaven...
     Please let them stop...
     Our Blessed Father...
     How many screams will it take to appease them? Or is it You we are appeasing here in blood, O Lord...
     Please, by Christ in Heaven, for these sins his sacrifice was made. Please...
     Please stop...
     "Your name is Giancarlo Perilli," Alire murmurs, his presence is everywhere, he sits close. And still his tears move down his face, blood now... not water, "...you are my magician from Venice," that seems like ages ago, as old as the oldest part of us. "We are sitting in my teacher's villa at the sea in Provence. We are... on our way home..." He does not mention Poitiers. So little happened that was good in Poitiers. Why do I even live there?
     "And I am here with you again, as I have always been, and as I said I would be. And no one is hurting us now. No... one is holding us now. We... are of our own power. Not in chains, ami..."
     One hand is held securely in the vise of Cesare's grip. His other reaches gently, touching gently at the back of his head. Alire's benediction. And he leaves behind the blessing of a kiss upon his lover's forehead.
     "Years have come and gone, ami. We... are still here." He even breaks a smile, tortured as it seems. Tortured -- an apt word. "Giancarlo," he repeats the name.
     He says it softly...

     At the touch to his forehead, Cesare collapses into unconsciousness. His body fully slackens and crumples against the seat. His hand, once clenched, relaxes helpless in Alire's.
     If he heard the comforting words, he'll have to be asked later. Cesare breathes shallowly, his face and throat covered in droplets of his own sweat.

     "I am going to be sick," Alire very calmly and very softly announces to the room and to the world at large. Sick vampires are not a pretty sight. He sets his lover's hand gently aside and begins to rise. Wan. Trembling. Stricken. It isn't the first time he's looked like that.
     You remember him when they brought him to you...
     "I will... be back in a moment..." The prince that he is, the Alire d'Avignon that he has always been, gathers himself up with his famous composure, shaken though he is, and then moves to the nearest exit.

     A slight pause. "Well," Samuel murmurs, "that ended differently than I had anticipated." He claps his hands together briskly, summoning forth his servant. Alire gets a single, compassionate glance, and then the Magister turns back to Cesare. "We will put him to bed. When his companion returns, inform him. I will stay with him until they are once more together - you will bring me volume twelve of my journal from the year twenty-six hundred and five." By the Jewish calendar, of course. He has much thinking - and much reading - to be done.

     Charles bobs his head and looks around. He moves towards the slumping figure and bends to pick him up.

     He made it out of the villa thanks in no small part to knowing it inside and out. He came to the soil of Provence and bled upon the stones and fertile earth. His soul wretched, and his body trembled for it...
      ... I could hear you scream, Michele. Through the thick stone walls, sound and anguish traveled. The stone gave up its secrets through the cracks and the mortar. I could hear you. I could hear them drag you back. When you returned, I knew it would be my time next. I do not know how they knew that they should interchange our torture, as if they were trying to break you through me, and break me through you. Maybe there was more than one betrayal.
     They tied me to the stone, my body strained against the straps...
     His hands grasp at the soil in remembrance, his body stiff as stone...
     They cut me. They beat me. They whipped me. I nearly swallowed my tongue, literally. In my mind, I kept repeating prayers. I kept replaying our last night in my mind. My only salvation was your laughter, Michele. And when they snuffed that light, when they doused the fire of your soul in the fire of the pyre they made for you at Notre Dame, they killed the sun for me and my love and my salvation were lost...
     Until a man I did not know came looking for me...
     Until he found me in one of our places...
     He was looking for a friend, a friend he found again in Poitiers. Me.
     And it was you...
     Alire rises to his knees, hand coming across his mouth and after a few minutes more he rises to his feet. It is several minutes, nearly fifteen in fact before he is seen in the living room again, even more wan with the sudden absence of blood. Blood, that now appears at his hand.

     Young Charles stands in the living area, bobbing his head as Alire enters. "Sir, I am to tell you that the Magister and Monsieur are in the Monsieur's bed. We have placed him there and Magister sits with him. That...that's what I was supposed to say."

     The Magister sits, and leafs through vellum pages with a pair of spectacles affixed to the bridge of his nose, reading through crabbed handwriting, careful characters, Hebrew encoded. And he reads, and he waits, keeping half an eye on the figure of Cesare. He wastes no time on wishes, simply researching as best he can. "This ... is unknown to me," he murmurs, absently lapsing into Hebrew for speech. "If we may amend, then so be it. By God's will..."

     The famous composure is famous for a reason. Even though he was just on his hands and knees retching in the front yard, Alire straightens, a hand brushing over his sweater before remembering the blood. The cashmere is ruined, but Alire nods, giving Young Charles a brief upturn of his mouth, poor Charles, and he turns quietly out of the living room and to his quarters...
     ...The door opens softly and Alire emerges...
     Here, he allows his composure to dissipate. Cobalt eyes fix upon the figure in the bed, and he weeps without sound. His entrance is punctuated by the soft closing of the door. Alire looks to his hand, to the sweater. He sighs and pulls off the cashmere without another thought or a moment's hesitation. His scars are still visible, the crisscrossing tell-tale signs of torture are still visible. Large and small, crooked and straight, faint and prevalent. It is as it is. It is amazing that he even lived long enough for Samuel to kill him and resurrect him.

     "Alire." Samuel closes his book, though makes a note of the page, and looks up. "My friend..." He sighs, for the sorrow of it, the pity of it; so much pain, and so little of it averted. "I am sorry," he says simply. "Perhaps I should have left these doors closed, after all. I will leave you two together." Two? Three? The past and the present seem together too large for the room, don't they; the Magister rises from his seat, glancing down at Cesare. "You do not need my presence, I think, at your grief."

     There is a simple nod, an acknowledgment of the words, of the compassion. But he is silent. Alire says nothing. The past and the present become mirrors of one another.
     Shhh...
     Alire bends, doubling over where he sits, a hand upon the unconscious Giancarlo. Gold haired head in his other hand. He weeps without sound.
     That is the Damnable Paradox, the thing that is always our undoing. For the more one tries to be silent, the more one is likely to sound out. The quieter you wish to be, the louder the bed will suddenly creak. Or you will step on a twig. Or bridles will rattle in a stall unexpected. Or hands that covered mouths will slip with the heat of sweat and someone will cry free. I want to cry free...
     Shh... says my soul... be quiet, Alire. Shhh, it says to my body, hush, do not pound so. Do not make so much noise. That is why, that is how it happens.
     But horses will neigh. Bridles will rattle. Beds will creak. And men will forget...
     And suddenly there is the sound of Alire's grief. A groan. A sigh. A shift that makes the bed creak. He lies down beside Giancarlo, his hand lying upon him, and his fingers tighten, cloth scooped up in his grasp.

Posted by rowan at June 03, 2003 01:29 PM