The sea was turning from aquamarine to magenta with the sinking of the sun when the first sign of animation began. By now, the sun itself was no longer visible, but evidence of the day still lingered, the sky seeming reluctant to let it pass. Lingering illumination turned the cloud base bronze and several tints of pink.
     It is the time for prayers. In Mecca, in Jerusalem, in Rome. It is a time for benedictions. For supplication. Whispers lift themselves up to the ears of God. It is the evening, for most the end of their work. They ask for blessings for a new day, say grace over meals, turn toward the site of Abraham's Sacrifice and thank God for His Mercy and his Strength.
     Mercy and Strength...
     There was sudden motion then, the sitting up of a Templar. One of the only men in the world not praying at this hour. And his bed was empty. Bare feet padded to the bath. No sign of Giancarlo there. But what is there to worry. Remember, Alire, you told him he did not have to stay.
     And so he bathed. It was a baptismal, cleansing him of the previous night's activities, the previous night's emotion. Ready for prayer, open for sanctification, Alire dressed -- a button-down shirt (thin-striped grey and navy) over wool slacks -- and left his chamber.
     It is the time of prayer and so the house is quiet. Quiet but for the steps of the last Templar on all this earth. Alire does not raise his voice, shouting through the prayers of others, instead he immediately begins looking for Charles...

     Of course, Charles is not so far away, frantic as he does last-minute preparations for his Master's arrival. There is tea prepared and the rooms spruced. His experiments for the day have been placed carefully back into their slots for more work tomorrow. The kitchen is clean, though in the living area, there are remnants that someone has been seated recently and enjoyed a snack.
     "Good evening, Sir," Charles noddles, bobbing his head as he scurries to greet Alire. A side door swings closed behind him. "May I get you anything? Tea?"

      Alire shakes his head. "No, no, Charles... I am fine." A pause. "Well, perhaps a little, but not much," that is more customary Alire. He can seldom refuse a courtesy. Or tea. "A cup, that is all... but... first..."
     Knowing he must stop him before he dashes off...
     "Have you seen Giancarlo?" Alire does not seem distressed but he should rather like to find him than not. "He was not in the room when I woke..."
     That appears to be rather customary if the look on his face tells Charles anything...

     "He was here," Charles begins, motioning at the living area, "...but he may be outside now, Sir. He...has been going in and out all day..."

     In and out all day? "Has... he seemed distressed or..." Maybe he is just bored, Alire. You worry too much, knight. "Did you speak with him much?" He begins to wave off the inquisition and go find out for himself but...
     The curiosity holds him in place, waiting for Charles' answer,

     "I did," Charles says, brows furrowing as it might be the wrong answer, "...speak with the guest. He..." is this his place, "....seemed...confused. He asked me...the date. And where we were. And for lunch. Then...more food. He's hungry..." Charles blips, looking away at that. Huh. Interesting.
     "Things...like that. What did I do? He mostly sat, looked at books on the shelves, or walked outside."
     "His French is not so good..." Charles observes with curiosity.

     "Thank you, Charles," Alire murmurs. "Nevermind the tea for now. I will... maybe later," he offers quietly and he moves toward the door to head outside. Outside, there is a path to the sea and a path to gardens and orchards alike.
     Ah, Michele... what are you doing, Michele...
     Alire's exhalation is perhaps louder than he intended, and in that sigh is carried the full weight of his concern. His face, normally so placid, so calm, is contracted in a look of concern these nights. Concern and perplexion...

     Charles nods, not really sure what his Master will make of all of this. "Yes, Sir," he replies regarding the tea, and moves to pick up the tray that was left behind in the living area.
     "Oh," Charles remembers suddenly, for its so easy to discard such things as normal, "...he mended my apron." Charles lifts with the tray, showing, well, a flat piece of material. "Well, you cannot see it now, but there was a tear here that I was going to darn later, but...he just...um...," Charles' voice slows, realizing he's rambling, "...well, he...repaired it. With, um..."
     And Charles does a wave of his fingers, as if to suggest it was done with magic.

     Behind four walls, many things hide - take refuge from storms that batter down walls, cut down wheat before men may bring in crops, stunt life as well as nourish and renew it. So it is with Samuel and the sirocco of emotions that of late have come to rage in the humid currents of his home; silently, perhaps, but to one who has tuned sensitivity to a fine pitch, an electric current may well seem to hold more moment in a glance without needing a scream.

     El Molay Rachamim is one of the names of God - our God, full of compassion. Perhaps - but was it compassion which guided my hand, and not that fatal flaw of curiosity? The inquiring mind...
     Behind Samuel's serene brow, there is yet room for self-doubt - no, not doubt, but self-examination. What is done is done, and may not be altered - to regret bitterly is to poison the well of the soul and mind at once, and alter forever future result. With the thin leather straps bound round his arms, he gently brushes a finger over each phylactery in turn. God is good, God is great, blessed is the Lord our God who brought his children, the people of Israel, out of bondage. The drone is Hebrew, the cadence almost monotonous, yet the sere patience beneath is the same as the patience of the Book. How many centuries, o God? And the candles are put out, one by one, with the conclusion of prayer.
     Removing the tallis and folding the silk prayer shawl with care, the rabbi remains, but the devotee must give way to the alchemist; the scholar must overrule the contemplation of self, and turn to a new study. Samuel moves through the doorway from his shrine, leaving prayers behind to glimmer in the dark with the fading spark of snuffed candle-wick.

     Alire twists to look back at Charles, catching the finger-waving. There is a pointed look, an examination perhaps, a nod. And then, miraculously, a small smile. At least he has not forgotten that. There is my Giancarlo. It is... comforting...
     Alire nods again, "Thank you, Charles..."
     With that, he opens the door and moves through the archway, immediately assailed by the colors of evening, its indigo, purple, blue and starlight.
     So many stars...
     Alire lifts his eyes to them first and then in that same motion turns them to find Giancarlo. "Gian!" he calls out, warmth in his voice. He slides his hands in his pockets and begins to walk around the house, turning toward the sound of the sea...

     He's not so far away, the dark figure that sits out on the plain, facing the sea. His back to the house, he twists to see who calls for him. The dark silhouette is slow to rise, but it does, turning to walk towards the villa.

     Charles nods, heading towards the kitchen. He quirks as he passes the swinging door to the rear spaces, realizing his Master is awake and present.

      The sea stretches out, brilliant Mediterranean, silver edges granted by the presence of the moon and stars. There is no light pollution from a large city here. The greatness and the glory of the universe, the Face of God, is unobstructed. It provides sufficient light for those who need to see by it.
     Alire smiles, hands sliding in his pockets as he approaches. "I am sorry to have slept so late," he murmurs. "I thought... surely... I would be up and the sun would still be up..." But it has been a long, involved few days. "How are you, tesoro?"

     Charles receives not so many words as a silent nod; Samuel does not always find it necessary to speak immediately. He has eaten already, sharpened the blade and tested it upon his thumb and nail, made the incision, and fed in silence and darkness, praying for his God not see his weakness but accepting nonetheless what is, what was, and ever will be. "We are running short on supplies," he says simply. "Please be sure to check our stores, and lay more in stock." Household matters - and giving young lovers time together. Where youth is all a matter of perspective...

     The man approaching the door walks with a stride comfortable. His hand comes out of his pocket, and Giancarlo gives Alire a winning smile. "I should have been there," Giancarlo says, though in a French archaic. "I...was not sure what to do. But I wanted to see outside," he twists to the sea again. "It has been," he smiles, "...such a long time..."
     Giancarlo's hand reaches up slowly, gently touching Alire's hair. Fascinated by the color. "And you? You...sleep...well? I..." Giancarlo smiles, "...remembered that you said you would sleep, but," he smiles wanly, "...but I wasn't so sure why you sleep so." A fractured memory. "Do I know this? I knew," Giancarlo frowns, looking down, "...but I cannot recall."

      "Yes, Sir," Charles bobs, immediately responding to his Master's commands.

     You look like Giancarlo, but you are not he. Where has my lover gone. Will I ever see him again? If you had not met me, my magician, how much better would things be for you. At least... tesoro... you would be Yourself.
     Alire smiles a little, turning his face up to the stars and letting an exhale go. Beautiful. In truth, he is not remarking on the sky, he is settling himself.

And now the purple dusk of twilight time
Steals across the meadows of my heart
High up in the sky the little stars climb
Always reminding me that we're apart
     Alire looks to ... Michele as his hair is touched. "I did, tesoro," he insists on that Italian endearment. That is for Giancarlo. "I sleep... remember," he whispers, "...because it is the price I must pay to ... still be here. I sleep in the day now. I ...live," for that is what it is, "...in the evening of the world now. It is... the price I had to pay. One of them," he says. For there are indeed others. "Charles says you have been wandering today," a little smile. "Did you see the entire villa?"
You wander down the lane and far away
Leaving me a song that will not die
Love is now the stardust of yesterday
The music of the years gone by
     Alire looks at Giancarlo. It is Giancarlo that he loves and the one whom he wishes to see. "You cannot remember, bello? What ... do you remember, Giancarlo..." Maybe we should start there.

     "I saw the villa," Giancarlo nods. "I have been here before, yes?" A quirk at you, to see whether he's correct. "And I remember now," he adds. "Because...you are..." and the smile follows with a wink, "...not like other men. That is why you sleep. I am a magician, and you, you are...of the Wanderers." Vampires.
     "I remember."
     "We were in Venice, where I live," Giancarlo says haltingly, "...and this is where your Master lives. Who is..." oh, right, "...helping us..."

     However skeptical Cesare may be of the fact, Samuel appears to be attempting to aid. There is room for differing viewpoints, but at the moment, the scholar is patiently going through the lists of needed items for the villa's maintenance - something which Charles may find tedious, if only due to the sheer ritual of it, but which always is done the same, nonetheless. "...and, after these matters are completed, we will require more tallow for candles, and another crate of seder wine," Samuel finishes. "Be sure not to order from last year's supplier, as I found the composition of their tallow to be suspect." Just another housewife - nothing to see here.

     There's a wince at the mention of the seder wine, but Charles nods appropriately at each request. A mental list created, one that his strangely-abled mind will not soon forget. "Yes, Sir," he says during a pause, though he fully expects the listing to continue.

     Now, he smiles. "Yes, that is all true, bello. I was wandering when you found me," and now Alire draws Giancarlo toward him, his arm around his lover's waist. Is my master helping? Can anyone help us now? I wonder.
     He is of those who isn't sure what his viewpoint is anymore...
     Alire gives the first kiss of the day. It is brief, but needed. "I miss Venice already," Alire mentions. "I wish I had not taken the position as a ... prince of wanderers. I could... wander with my Giancarlo. It would be enough for me. But... soon we will be leaving for Poitiers. Maybe a few nights. I hope you will be happy there," with me. I hope this is for the best.
     At least eventually...

     Giancarlo smiles and nods, placing an arm around Alire. He looks up, past his companion and into the living room at large. "I hear voices," he whispers.

     "That will be sufficient," Samuel answers Charles, simplicity in motion. "I do not believe that there is anything else which is required, but you may check and add as you feel necessary. I believe that our guests will be leaving soon; however, lay in extra amounts for any strays that may come across us. Perhaps the prophet will come at last," he adds, the lips behind the salt-and-pepper beard curving into a gently ironic smile at his own jest. He turns, perhaps sensing the approach of the duo, or perhaps in search.

     A hand to Giancarlo's back, Alire twists to look at the house, the lights in the living room. "I am sure it is magister. Prayers appear to be over." Turning back to Giancarlo, Alire begins to lower his arm. "Shall we go inside? Some tea, I believe, is forthcoming. Are you hungry?"

     Charles nods again and opens a door with stairs leading downwards.

     "I am," Giancarlo confesses, smirking embarrassedly. "I'm not sure why," he explains, coiling fingers around Alire's to lead him back inside. The archaic French tumbles forth, but the speaker does not appear to notice it.
     "I feel warm too," Giancarlo observes, shaking his head curiously.

     He does not respond in the archaic French but, instead, insists upon Italian: "Well, we will see what Charles has in store for us tonight." The warmth is noted, filed away for later. For now, Alire takes Giancarlo's hand and walks with him back to the villa.

     Prayers are indeed over, the daily mitzvah one-third completed. Samuel moves to a table, lifting a volume of rather badly written sentimental Russian poetry, opening it to a bookmarked page. The room is well-lit, the places set at the table, and after a moment's thought, the magister pulls out his chair and seats himself.

     The door creaks with further opening and eventual closing. Despite the rugs, feet tap upon the heavy wood floors, sturdy planks in every sense of the word.

     The presence of One can surely be felt now; and where the One is, the other is sure to be. The young -- well, not so young -- lovers step into the villa once more. Hands are linked, fingers acting as the conduit of conversation between these two, apparently very old, souls.
     They are not in a hurry. Their steps are as quiet as they can be in this house. Their hands are still joined as they enter. "They say if you set a table, then God will come to dinner," Alire murmurs. You open the door, and who knows what may walk in. Maybe he caught that last bit of conversation about the 'strays'. Or maybe it's just a moment of humor. "Good evening, magister..."

     "Good evening, Sir," Giancarlo says softly, behind Alire's greeting. He nods his head, then smiles. Fingers are reticent to leave Alire's, but Giancarlo's free hand reaches out to pull out the seat nearest the teacher, in order for Alire to sit.

     "Through here," Samuel calls calmly, in case the guidance is needed. The long fingers take up the bookmark again, inserting it near the spine, and the volume is closed, set aside for later study. In a long life, one studies many things. "Charles is preparing matters." He does not eat, of course, He smiles as Alire and Cesare enter, observing, "You seem more at ease than when last we spoke. And yes - the original 'wandering Jew'," his lips quirk, "is our prophet, Elijah, for whom we reserve a seat at the seder table. You are well, I hope?"

     As if on cue, Charles swings through the kitchen door, a tray in his hand. It is the tea service, replete with all the required accoutrement. He smiles at the two still standing, then proceeds to set out cups and saucers, teapots and sugars.

     Well...
     That is not the word that immediately leaps to mind but Alire is a diplomat if nothing else. He smiles pleasantly and takes Giancarlo into his glance. "Better," he murmurs. But not well. He smiles a bit more fully to the pulling out of the chair, blonde eyebrows lifting slightly. "Grazie, tesoro," and he sits. He waits for Giancarlo to do the same.

      The question was not meant for him, yes? Giancarlo is quiet as he takes a seat next to Alire, smiling at the now-familiar Charles when a cup and saucer is placed in front of him. He exhales as he crosses his legs, and the smile falls away as he stares at his lap. Brown hair drapes slightly in front of Giancarlo's eyes, shielding him slightly from view.

     Diplomacy : the art of weaving polite fictions. Samuel says nothing of consequence, not immediately, perhaps viewing it a sin while the tea is still being poured : not conducive to proper digestion, for mortals, certainly. "Better shall suffice." He tilts his head slightly to Charles, to do the honours of pouring and serving, and waits until that has been attended to. Then : "Have you decided, then, upon a course of action? I ... have made what preparations, for what eventuality may come to pass."

     This round done, Charles turns to head back to his kitchen. Tray empty, he tucks it under his arm and pushes at the hinged door.

     Blonde eyebrows lift again, a slight and gentle sweep. Alire looks from Samuel to Giancarlo and back again. "We have actually not discussed it." And then one corner of his mouth upturns a little. No, that is not chagrin. It most certainly isn't embarrassment. It looks rather canary-killing.
     And it is brief...
     Alire settles back in his seat with a soft exhalation. "You should tell him how you feel, Giancarlo... what you have or have not been remembering. As for course of action, I am not certain what... can be done. I do not think that the course of action is mine to suggest or commit to. I do not have an answer to your question, Magister..."

     "I have..." Giancarlo begins, his now-native tongue strange from such Italianate features, "...dreams that are not dreams. And I see things, but I do not..." he swallows, "...remember them. Doing them. Sometimes, I see Alire." The frown on his face deepens. Confusion that is beginning to dismay him.
     "And I forget things. It's hard to...remember...correctly."

     "I see." The ancient Jew is silent for a moment, following those two quietly spoken words; clay thoughts are shaped, then wiped away behind the dark eyes. The long fingers turn the teacup around in an absent clockwise motion. "You have begun to remember. Then, that leads us by progression to questions that you must ask yourselves..."
     "What do you wish to do? To forget - to remember in full - to attempt to harmonize, a union of past and present?" Samuel watches first one, then the other, eyes shrewd but not lacking in sympathy and compassion, for all the stoic set of the bearded lips, of the high brow. "I am ready to assist - but there are potential dangers and virtues to any course you might choose."

     Giancarlo looks up, eyes narrowing at Samuel. A stare.
     "I know you," Giancarlo whispers. His head cocks a little to the side as the older tongue continues. "You were at our home on many occasions. My father," Giancarlo accuses, "...would tell me not to speak of it. But you were there. And I knew you. You came to me..."
     Eyes close.
     "You came. It was dark. I can...barely see you. You...came. It was hard to breathe..."
     "But I had to see you...to tell you..."
     There is a paleness to Giancarlo's skin. Hand comes to his cheek as his breath quickens. "To tell you...you have to help me....promise me..."

     The kitchen door swings open again. Charles arrives once more, this time with a tray of sliced fruits and bread. Another plate holds cheeses and butter. A third contains small sandwiches and a savory item that is hot. The scent of figs, wrapped in proscuitto. Ignoring anything transpiring, he lets the door swing shut behind and begins to set dishes upon the table.

     Alire puts an elbow to the arm of his chair, his hand in his hair and he rubs a moment, a breath loosed upon uncaring air. It is an outward manifestation of his frustration. There are no good answers!
     But then...
     When Michele, and it is Michele, begins to speak again -- rarely has he stopped since being given a voice, in true Michelic fashion -- Alire sits up slowly, hand lowering, attention turning fully to Giancarlo. Or where Giancarlo would be if his soul were still in command.
     "Gian," he whispers when he sees Giancarlo go pale. He looks between the two of you. To Samuel: What is going on? To Giancarlo: Where are you? He looks from Giancarlo to Samuel again.
     "What is this memory?" he wonders in a breath.

     The frown becomes agitated as Giancarlo stares at Samuel.
     "Is this it? Is this it? You promised me..."
     "Samuel..."
     Giancarlo's mouth parts, he desperate to breathe. His eyes widen as his hand comes to rest on the table, stretched out in the Magister's direction.
     "I mean what I say, I do, I will not take it back, I will not..."
     There's a gasp and Giancarlo sits up, turning to see Alire.
     "And he's here. Right here. See, God did what I said, Samuel, didn't He?"

      Charles looks up from his serving, glancing left and right. Maybe it's time to leave.

     "I have kept my word," Samuel says quietly. "Alire, my friend - acknowledge yourself, your presence." The brief glance he spares to Alire says several things : I will explain, and, but a moment longer for this, please. His attention swings back to the pallid figure across from him.

     A minute pause, and Samuel speaks again. "You remember when I spoke to you last, my friend," he addresses Michele, gently, as gently as possible, "that when you bound others with hatred, so did you also bind yourself. I agreed to be bound by my word - I am here, as I was then. Alire is here - see, judge for yourself, if I have not kept my word... as you are here to see."

      It is a progression, from one note to another, one detail at a time. He stops, waiting patiently, a rabbinical silence, before he can turn to make any sort of explanation to Alire.

     "That's all that matters," Giancarlo says earnestly, smiling at Alire. He turns to Samuel, saying, "The rest does not matter. And you and my Alire are here. God will forgive me. I know he will, Samuel. See, it is so already..." Giancarlo grins, returning to Alire with an open expression. "It is a miracle."
     "Years have passed," Giancarlo whispers, hand once more to Alire's cheek. Information courtesy of Charles. "But, we are here. We are here." And the Others, they are not.

     This has to end...
     "Yes," Alire says, turning and nodding to what-was-once-Giancarlo, "Alire d'Avignon is here..." Apparently as you wished me to be. He reaches forward to Giancarlo's hand, a gentle touch placed. "Where else would I be? Hmm? I have said this before," there is a little smile. Remember that.
     Alire turns to Samuel. What word was this. You made a deal between you? What has happened...
     And now how will it end...
     As his face is touched, Alire turns again. His features placid. Not lacking emotion -- but... unable to choose from all of his options. "Years have passed, and here we are," he murmurs. Wherever we are. Wherever Giancarlo is... or is not. Alire closes his eyes briefly. Blue sparkles as he opens them again. "God forgives so easily," Alire murmurs. It is His servants who do not...

     Samuel nods once, accepting this. Years have passed. It is a true thing. "I gave my word, that night in Paris. The last night - the night before the Ille de Cite, that I would help you, and that I would care for Alire as best I could." May God forgive me for my sins and blessings alike. "But in the process, my friend," there is a heaviness in his voice, now, "you have splintered yourself over centuries. You are two who are one, both having found their way back to one place, one person."

     Giancarlo blinks languidly. Slowly. What has been said, has meaning. He smiles at Alire again, the happy expression growing as he reaches for Alire's hand. Yet, as he does, Giancarlo makes an admission.
     "That is the price I have to pay..." Giancarlo whispers, "...for staying with him forever. A price to pay..." he says wistfully, "...that is what you said, yes, Alire?" A pause.
     "I will pay it..."

     Charles is stuck in his spot. Rooted. To move, would cause noise. And he'd be noticed. Maybe to stand still is better. Maybe work an invisiblity spell. Oi. What to do?

     A price to pay. There is always a price to pay...
     "I paid a dear price," Alire says to both of you. "I have been rewarded for it in many ways, but it has been a dear price." Dear. Expensive. Very. "And what of Giancarlo," he murmurs. "What of the price he has to pay. His price... seems even dearer than my own. He loses his Identity. His Self. Born into this Time, into this Life... and yet, it is now not his own? There is such a thing as... too high a price. You are willing to pay it, Michele," Alire says and he looks to Giancarlo, "... but has anyone asked the Italian's opinion on the matter? Hmm?" Blue eyes are watery, shiny like glass. "I have come to love Giancarlo. What of the price I have to pay again, by losing him?"

     "It is so," Samuel's voice is pitched to be quiet, though audible. "The prices are not meted out equally - and this life, my friend, the time is very far removed from your own. I live separate, here," he spreads his hands out slowly from his sides, indicating the villa, the area, the room itself, "from the world as a whole. Not all can do so. Listen to Alire - but realize that the gift you have is tainted by the hatred which you expressed that night." He bows his head.

     His smile quickly fades, replaced by paniced dismay. No one is pleased, it seems. No one. Just him, and him alone. Giancarlo's eyes begin to water and his jaw - normally strong - slackens. Shoulders drop and he retreats from Alire, letting go his hand.
     "You hate me?" the man sitting by Alire asks. Disbelieving. Tears fall down his cheeks, though there is no sound, save an astonished half-chuckle, soon stifled by the wave of sorrow. "Hate is what I have?" Michele asks, features trembling.
     Then, his jaw sets. Teeth clench. Michele inhales a sniffle, trying to dry his wet face through his own formidable will. A few rapid blinks, and he works to put himself back together, to dismiss the crumbling of a dream.
     "I see you are in agreement." Both of you. Michele sits back in the seat, swallowing the liquid and mucus caught in his throat.

     Now it's time.
     Charles backs up from the table, even leaving his tray extended. A statue in motion. Having experienced the kitchen door many times, he needs not see it, and slowly backs into the hinged exit in relative silence.

     Alire closes his eyes. "I don't hate you. I just want you to understand, Michele. There are consequences... there are lives involved. And six-hundred years have passed. His eyes open and his face is as marked by water as Giancarlo-Michele's. "I want you to understand what it means. Sacrifice without knowledge... what good can ever come of that, amice?" Alire exhales.
     "Imagine... I want you to imagine this, to listen to what I say. Six-hundred years, I have lived, feeding off the blood of priests for my sustenance. For a while, for my revenge. I am embarrassed to say," he admits. "I lived without lovers, very rarely even taking a moment to involve myself physically in and with another person. I lived without romantic love, though I had and have the love of good friends, my surrogate lovers -- my books and my plants, and you can laugh if you want," he wears an expression to say that he does so himself, "... that is the life I made for myself. And just... just this past year I met a man, Giancarlo. The man whose voice you are using. For the first time in six-hundred years, Michele, I opened my heart and I said: I am tired of being alone. And he found me."
     Alire looks to Giancarlo's face-Michele's soul. "You say I hate you. You know better. But I want you to know the price I have paid and am paying. I understand your anger, your hatred, for I have felt it. I don't hate you. I love you. As I always have. You are Michele. But I am not going to sit here and deny feelings for the man whose body sustains you now. I am not going to lie to you, Michele, and tell you that I don't miss him. Nor am I going to sit here and not speak for him, being unable to speak for himself, and to say that there is not a cost now in your returning. You wish to pay it. But you should consider the cost to those others who are involved. That is all, amice. That is all."

     Whatever Samuel might have said, could have said, it is secondary, he knows, to what Alire says, must say, and Michele will need to hear that more than his own contribution. The long fingers reach up to slowly pull spectacles from the bridge of his nose, and he polishes the lenses with care, using a cloth taken from inside his robes. "I am sorry," he says quietly, "my friends. I have attempted to do my duty by you both. I fear I have failed."

     Despite his attempts, his face continues to trail tears. Giancarlo's lips purse thickly, and he nods. That done, the chair squeaks upon the wood floor as he pushes back and stands.
     Looking down, there is nothing else said. Eyes glance upon the teacher at the head of the table, and the to the man nearest him. There, Giancarlo's gaze lasts longest.
     The wood floor sounds again as Giancarlo's shoes sound his walk away, towards the front door.

     "Where are you going?" Alire says it, and there is command in it. Another chair sounds against the floor in motion.

     Additional query would be superfluous, but Samuel can add another statement to follow in Cesare's wake, hands pausing in their task. "Michele," he says quietly, "we are still your friends. We have not banished your presence or your memory, nor have we sought to. You do as you must, always - but remember this, before you turn away."

     From the one departing, there is no immediate halting. If Alire ever commanded Michele's temper, there's no sign of it at the moment.
     "Does it matter?" he asks, taking the last few steps to the front door.
     "Don't worry, d'Avignon. I won't...hurt him." Me. This.

      "Of course it matters," Alire continues. "And you are correct. You are not going to hurt yourself or him. I will not allow it," and the command that comes through is not a Templar's command, certainly not one that Alire would normally assume, but it is a vampire's mantle. That of a prince.
     He is not prepared to take No for an answer...
     "Do not walk away from me, Michele," his voice softens in tone, "... not now. Not after all of this. You must stand in it, the same as me. The same as Giancarlo..."

     Samuel rises now, quietly as ever, affixing the spectacles back in place. "Gentlemen," and there is a formality in the voice, along with a weariness, "I stand ready to assist you both, as ever, if I am able. If you wish my aid, of course. If not, then I ask only that you be, if not at peace, then contemplative within the walls of my home..."
     Asking Templars who have suffered, as they both have, to be at peace - especially under the present circumstances - would seem almost cupidic, not to say idiotic. "And if there is no further need of me, then I shall withdraw. I suspect that what you have to say - it is to each other, and not for my ears. If you wish to speak with me, I will remain in my study until an hour before sunrise."

     He stands at the door, back given to the living area and dining area beyond it. Hand comes to rest on the doorknob.
     "What do you want?" Michele says. "I...I will figure out what to do and it will be done. Just leave me alone."
     Said to Alire d'Avignon, of all beings.
     But his shoulders fall and Giancarlo's head thuds on the front door. "I will...do it myself..." he whispers, talking to himself.
     For Samuel's words, Giancarlo keeps quiet.

     I am sorry, Michele...
     I don't know what to say...
     My first instinct is always to Say Nothing. To become like the rock. The Stone of Chinon. But I cannot be silent anymore.
     I am not the Stone of Chinon anymore...
     "Te amo... per tempo amabat..." Alire looks to the floor, to the drop of liquid that is freed from them. Blood upon the wood floor. He cries blood. "Noli obliviscor..."
     Do not forget...
     With that, Alire exhales and turns in the opposite direction. Heading, most likely, for the gardens...

     And once again, Samuel remains standing, in between two Templars. He remains there, counting what would be heartbeats, if he still had a pulse to drive blood through dead veins, waiting, head slightly bowed for a moment. But there is nothing to be said which could bear the breath to be spoken, save that which he must say. "Baruch adonai a'tai meloch ha'olam," he murmurs, softly, under his breath, really. And then, silently, he steps back, withdrawing regretfully from the room, to his study.

     The door finally opens, allowing the wind and the sea inside. Giancarlo takes a deep inhale and steps out into the night air, pulling the door closed behind him.

Posted by rowan at June 04, 2003 04:08 PM