It has not been long since you brought her here, to Chinon. She thought Scotland was beautiful...you might have questioned whether or not you were actually going to get her to snap out of her daze this time when she entered this place. She rose early on this evening, though, immediately leaving her quarters to explore on her own. This exploration was very physical...not of the spiritual kind. Her hand lightly trailed along the walls, listening to what they had to say, until she found herself in this place. Even the flames within the sconces cannot keep her from entering the courtyard...finding the beauty within. She found a seat upon the edge of the fountain, touching the white marble with only her fingertips, her eyes closing as it began to speak to her as the stones did in Scotland. And this is how she has been for the last hour...

     The images. Colorful. Crowded. The stones not only spoke of tales, they sang of history. Of images of William no one on this earth has seen that yet lives. Of faces you would not recognize. Sisters. Brothers. Wife. This place speaks of Him. It has begun to sing of Ian... but you can tell in your ...discoveries... that this has not been so much Ian's home as it has been William's. This castle is crowded with him. It is ... not unlike touching his body. Knowing his form. The two are linked now. Just like the fables once said of kings. The king is the land and the land is the king...
     The fountain speaks with an audible and inaudible voice. It is ancient. Older than these walls. As your hand touches the white marble, images trickle like water...
     Of a young boy's hand, skimming across the surface of the water...
     Of a time when this courtyard was not held within a tower... but within a private garden's grotto.
     Of a time before his mother. And his mother's mother. Something from the latter days of Rome that first lay in the garden of a villa, that became a castle's garden...
     And eventually... within this castle's towers. The unfolding of more than a thousand years...until you see the image of the young boy again. A five year old who would one day become a crusader. And years later, a prince among vampires...

     She lets the visions flow over her....visions of the past. Not her past, but a past nonetheless. History. A tale much older than even her own...and yet her own seems so far away. How can you stand it, William? How can you look back without mourning for that life long gone? It's why she doesn't look back at her own life...her own past....her own story. It is so painful.
     But now, images of your life flash through her head. She can't help it....her curiosity got the better of her. Some might say it's prying...others might view it as just catching a quick glimpse. In truth, Tori cannot help the fact that she has longed to be 'home' for such a long time, that being here is having a harsh effect on her now. She is so close to 'home', but so far away still. London is a long ways away.

     No matter how far London is, it is still closer than the Middle Ages. Ask William: How do you not mourn? His answer would be simply: There is no need. For when he is here, he is 'home'. It lives. That time yet lives. Like the last hum of song in the air. They still live. In the castle where he was born -- in the very room you sleep in. Though the centuries have come and gone since then, and family members have died and become legends, they still 'live' here. Even Catherine. Catherine. You've seen her too. You could almost hear her laugh. Small, beautiful, willowy Welsh queen. The garden was her favorite place -- outside of her bedchambers that is. She is still here. The beautiful parts of her. Her long red hair. Her warmth. It is a far cry from the visions he saw last year...
     As the water rises and falls, chiming... singing... can you not hear the chatting of women? The images of ladies and their needlepoint are vivid here. Images of his sisters. His sisters -- all five of them -- loved this room so.
     Can you feel it? The burn on the air. The soft steps, bare feet on stone. Something of cinnamon. Something of patchouli. Like the castle is stirring. But no... it is only William...

     The images of Catherine are cherished...she was someone her 'brother' once loved. Perhaps she would have been like a sister had Tori known her. The sounds of her and the women of Chinon...are music to her ears...like a beautiful song. All of this, mixed with the sound of the water, and the images...Tori cannot fight off the memories of her own past very well. The image of her beloved mother and father flash into her mind momentarily, causing her to gasp audibly. Did it happen as you enter the room? Did you hear it? Or do you catch the scent of her vitae as a single crimson tear falls from her pale cheek, mingling with the water within the fountain...?

     The stone and marble have better memories even than he does. He remembers very little of his fifth year, but for a snowball fight. One moment with his father. And thinking that his older brother Henry was a god. The rest... turned into dreams rather than true memory. So long ago. But he does remember the young ladies of Chinon. His doting sisters. His doting wife. His mother's court. His mother. She is here too... but not so much here for some reason. More in other chambers...

     William had not realized you would be up as early as he. Ian is likely yet in bed. The king's bed, to be precise. And William appears to have risen at least an hour ago. He is dressed, in ivory trousers and a shirt of ivory silk, unfastened. Feeling the breeze of Chinon for the first time in... two years. His steps paused a moment as he took the sight of you in. A small smile -- hint of things to come -- held at his lips. But then ... the smell of blood. Though he has not the sensory perception of you and Ian... blood ... could never escape him. "Victoria..." comes the voice, heavy with French. Heavy with the accent of the land he yet owns. Bare feet are quiet against the stone. But you can hear his steps. Whispers. The castle lives in it. And the scents of cinnamon and patchouli... and something more... just William... are more noticeable. He has approached you.

     At the sound of her own name being spoken, Tori's thoughts slip away from memories quickly...her fingertips quickly pulling away from the cool marble beneath her. Blinking, she looks down into the fountain, not able to look up as she murmurs softly, "This place...is so beautiful...but it talks a bit too much, I fear..." She rubs her slender fingers slightly, as though they ache. The soft curtain of her raven-hued locks remain draped alongside of her face, blocking it from view to you.

     "We ... Plantagenets... were always a bit... gabby..." he murmurs, and his fingertips land warmly just beneath your chin. There is still an electricity that goes between the two of you. Though the energy has changed dramatically over the past four years. He stands nearly flush. You can feel the living warmth of his skin. And beneath it? A pulse. Yes, a heartbeat. Can it be real? He seems alive. Not merely a masquerade upon living, but ...alive. Some...magic...some trick learned. For he is as unreal as you, is he not? "But thank you... it is..." William pauses, smiling a little. "...home." He pauses again, his fingers applying a little pressure. To lift your chin. To look at you. "See anything interesting?" he mulls softly after. As if he shall entertain vanity to speak of it all...

     The electricity is felt by her as you touch her...causing a small gasp to escape her. She cannot help it. Emotionally, she is vulnerable at the moment...and so everything is just slightly intensified. Perhaps the gasp is moreso due to how alive you seem at this very moment...her own flesh seems cold...she has not made much effort to masquerade as living this evening... She was alone till a few moments ago, so why should she have worried about it, right? "I think...I think I saw you at the age of five, William..." Tori murmurs in an almost amused tone, her own accent slipping out a bit. She does not, however, resist the pressure at her chin, her head moving slowly as you raise it. A single streak of crimson can be seen on one pale cheek.

     A soft chuckle. Held in his throat. Held in his chest. The chest, visible between folds of light silk. His thumb strokes against your chin, then his hand lifts. Capturing what remains of the crimson on your cheek. "Was I ever that small?" he wonders, amusement there. And more than that, warmth. Affection in the languid murmur. Fondness is there. In force. "At least the stones were modest, hmm? The did not show you scenes of... ladies of the court... letting down their ...guards..." And by that he means garments, make no mistake. And in truth, if you asked the stones to speak of that, they'd hardly know where to begin. Laughter lifts again to his throat and to his gaze. Indigo flickers in it, brilliant, dark. William strokes his hand along your cheek again and then against your dark hair. "I ... shudder to think what this castle remembers..." A wink for that. And with that, William half-turns. Lowering to join you on the fountain's edge. He seems all the darker for the lightness of his garments.

     Her eyes close, but only momentarily, as your thumb strokes her chin, then removes the tearstreak from her face. She looks back up at you, smiling as she murmurs softly, "You were a cute little boy once, yes...unless the stones have decided to lie.." Which they probably cannot. She smiles at the fondness...at the closeness...and chuckles as you mention the modesty of the memories. She was not interested in your exploits, thankfully. Even as you lower yourself to join her, she murmurs softly, "All of these memories I'm catching, picking up on... William, it's forcing me to think of home..." Not of New Port...did you catch that? Her English accent thickens subtly.

     A real cub of a lion. The thought makes him chuckle again. He does not remember seeing his image much. Maybe in reflected water or one of his mother's mirrors. "Ah, I not think these stones would lie... but like poets... they may enjoy an elaboration or two..." As William bends his head, his gaze lowering to his hand now skimming the water -- like a larger version of your own vision -- his black hair drapes forward. A half-veil. Indigo flickers as he lifts his gaze to you. Lingering there. Fastening there. Home. And yes, he knows you do not mean New Port. "Now you know... why I had to return... fifty years... too long to be away. I missed it." I am a part of it. It is a part of me. William smiles a little, just at the corners of his mouth. Understanding. Sympathetic. "And what do you think... of your thoughts of home, Victoria...?" he murmurs, his accent of this valley tugging on his words. Conquering the English he speaks with you.

     All thoughts of your past melt away to her own past memories now. She is still so very young, is she not? She's only really lived through two lifetimes....whereas you've lived through many. As you ask her of her thoughts of home, another tear squeezes out from beneath an eyelid after she closes her eyes once more, almost unable to look into the water. The unmistakable scent of her vitae reaches the air yet again as another tear drops into the water, turning pink momentarily, then blending in with it. Her voice is very quiet when she says, "It hurts, William."

     He has lived through nearly nine-hundred years. Many lifetimes. Many masks worn. But he can remember what it was like to be your age. The struggle. The... memories. How sharp they were. Strength surrounds you, a knightly arm goes about your shoulders and draws you to him. "I know... " he murmurs. "It... is not so removed... as this for me... I can be here now. But it took me... many centuries, Victoria." A pause. "In part due to my ass brother John losing it to the King of France...I wasn't able to even get my lands back until the late 1700s..." William bends, a kiss placed upon your head. "By then... many things had dulled. For you... this is your first trip back to Europe... it is... natural and understandable for you to ... feel the longing." Leaning back, nearly getting doused by the rising and falling water, William looks to you. "And the memories..."

     "It is a hard pill to swallow, William. Ian speaks of going home... But I have nothing to go home to...except bitter memories. But, I still miss...them," Tori says softly. Her family, no doubt. She does not pull away from you as you pull her closer to you. Instinctively, she rests her head against you and murmurs, "I don't mean to be so melancholy, 'brother'...honest... I really didn't know what effect this trip would have on me."

     His sisters were all older than he but for Joanna. Joanna was the youngest of them all and nearest to his age. There were occasions when he held her even as he holds you now. Why? He cannot recall so much as that. But his broad shoulders bore up many a maiden with many a tear shed. Even his own Catherine. When their first child was lost in the second month...
     William lifts his hand, his fingers losing their way through your hair. Curling, uncurling. "I know... it is hard to know ...what the heart will feel. When one has been away so long...I have walked that road, hmm? Do not worry on the melancholy, cher...it will pass. Like all things do..." He leans in toward you, another kiss left behind. "But it is not all sadness I hope... your memories... do you have fond things you recall? Days of sunshine?"

     Feeling your fingers within her hair, Tori closes her eyes once more, feeling comfortable and safe. Although there is nothing between you physically now, your touch still calms her soul. "The sadness," Tori murmurs softly, "comes not from the memories themselves, necessarily... it comes from remembering them. Remembering what I've lost. The love of my mother and father is what I miss most, really. They were such wonderful people... I'm sure you would have gotten along with Father, William. He was a good man."
     "I was an only child, you see... when I left, it must have just killed them," she murmurs softly, sighing. She's felt partially at fault for that all these years...even if she didn't ask to be embraced. It's just another thing she needs to work through. At least she's not outright sobbing...just the odd tear as she remembers something else that's hard to face.

     He knows what it is like to look at your family ... as if through windows. Only past glass, looking from other rooms. From outside. Did you ever watch them as they slept? Did you ever go back? He could not. A prince, recognizable. He could not leave Strathfayr for years without a great production. Or great effort on both his and Ian's part. "I know they must have missed you," he murmurs. "I know what it is like to ... have family... and not be able to go to them. To tell them you are... all right. But, Victoria... " William looks to you, eyes fastening attention to your own. How dark his are, but full of vivid color. "... you did not commit the wrong... no more than I could have stopped Catherine's death from occurring. Life ... or Unlife... there are things that move beyond even our fingertips." It is... as it is. William lowers his hand from your hair and wipes the next tear away from your face. "I am sure... they have long forgiven you for any worry," comes the languid baritone. "You ...should forgive yourself..." Even as he has learned -- and is still learning -- to do.

     If this had even been a year ago, would she not be a different picture? Would she have not just said she couldn't deal with all of this and demanded to be sent home? Or had some kind of 'episode' with a derangement, perhaps? Either way, she's done a lot of growing up since then. As her eyes re-open again to look up and see you looking into her gaze, Tori says softly, "I know... I know. I just never really gave myself the time to even think on it, let alone do so. I...once again, I apologize for my mood. It is not fair to you or Ian that I am so melancholic, non? You have opened your homes to me, and here I sit, blubbering like a child." She tries to at least offer you a warm smile...a smile between a sister and a brother.

     "It would not be the royal courtyard of Chinon if a woman weren't crying on my shoulder..." The mull of his voice holds both the warmth of the Truth -- and amusement. Indigo flickers with the wink and William chuckles. Warmth and depth both. Something almost lyrical to it. "Do not apologize," he counters softly. "You need not apologize to us. We... are your friends, hmm? Besides, you have... helped see us through our nights of melancholy. It is only fair it is returned in kind." He shifts slightly on the lip of the old fountain. A readjustment for comfort's sake -- and to better face you. "And... you... take all the time you need. That is what your Existence is for, is it not? To come to terms with the Self. Past, Present and... Future." The smile pulls in a slant. "I've become philosophic in my old age. How my father would laugh..." A large hand cups at the water. And just a few drops... sister... do land on you.

     Perhaps she would comment on all this, but as the drops of water land upon her, she laughs out loud...it is almost a bit more of a surprised cry, mixed with laughter. She does not move from her spot near you, instead waggling a finger at you as she says, "Now, William...I do not think I need to be Christened..."

Posted by rowan at March 23, 2000 11:58 AM