... But did I not love him...
     How can the heart be selfish now? Selfish in the face of this sacrifice, though one is unwittingly paying it perhaps. Perhaps. How can I look upon the face I have come to love over the past month or so, the young man I have come to treasure (mi tesoro) and not love the Past, Present and Future simultaneously. Were you with him, Michele. Were you with him all along?
     And if so, is our new love simply a manifestation of your own desire to reach me. Without you, would Giancarlo have come for me at all?
     How can the soul be selfish now, when you have crossed such a great measure of time and distance, life and unlife. Am I cruel to miss Giancarlo? Am I cruel to wish to speak on his innocent behalf? Or... is it all the same...
     In the end, is it the same, Michele. That you are he; he is you. Would one without the other exist at all?
      Alire left the sanctuary of the herb garden. How could he hide at such a time? Hands in his pockets, face showing his inner dialogue swirling, he rounds the outside corner of the villa. He has come to look for Michele-Giancarlo or Giancarlo-Michele. The wind from the ocean is a little chilly, he walks without a coat. The dervish motion of his thoughts will keep him warm, that and his distraction. He looks out over the sea and he exhales, eyes leaving the great expanse of endless waves to see you out. "Amice," he calls out. He will leave names out of it for now...

     Down the sand, far from the rocky edges is a figure. If it hears you, it shows no signs of it. The waves seem to crash into him, and his arms are extended out from his body, as if to touch the waves. A silhouette again, he is. No face, no features. Just a dark outline of a man.

     Is there enough water in the ocean, ami, to wash clean away the things that have happened to us? Alire watches you for a moment. There is no panic, there is no rush. He simply heads down the path from the edge of the cliffs that leads to the sand and the sea. The path is well-kept, the stones brushed clean, the plants tended along the side. Most of them are dormant now. Ah, but the flowers in the spring...
     Alire allows the air to pop with his presence, he eases himself upon it as he approaches the figure from behind, still a ways behind. Hands in his pockets, he is the picture of elegant European male, not so unlike the man that Giancarlo found in Poitiers that night. That night he was hoping to see his friend.
     The waves are loud, but perhaps you hear him as he continues to approach. Perhaps the wind carries something of the orange water he wears on his skin.

     His back remains to you. No such preternatural ability here. The figure, now lit by the moonlight, is waist-deep in the incoming tide, struggling to stand against it. His clothing lie scattered upwind, safe on high rocks. His hair is wet, yet hands push it back against his head. He is washing something away, indeed, hoping the water will fix whatever has gone so wrong.
     Then, the wind shifts. A scent. Giancarlo does turn around, twisting in the water that surrounds him. Hands wipe at his face, saltwater so different than the freshwater of tears, and his head lowers as he turns back to face the sea and the nothingness upon it. He should throw himself there, if he could, but he's been reminded that he does not belong to himself.

     Alire does not bother to unclothe, though he leaves his shoes behind. Barefeet move upon the sand as it is packed and hard with water. He does not speak. He simply enters the surging water to join you.
     Your struggle to stand may be improved by the enormous Swiss knight now at your back. Arms slipping around your waist, Alire rests his head against your head, his mouth near your ear.
     "I did not mean to be cruel," he murmurs there. "I have come to say I am sorry. And that I love you." I love you, Michele. I love you, Giancarlo. Alire exhales a breath and bends, the placing of his mouth against the crook of your neck brings a sudden warmth. A vampire's kiss may be cooler than a man's -- but it is warmer than the sea's.
     He says nothing then. He simply holds you.

     If he could melt, he would. He starts to sob again, his head dropping to his chest. Arms fold over familiar ones, and Giancarlo...Michele...allows himself to cry uncontrollably. Aching pain pours forth, the first release from a life gone horrifically awry. Certainly, in those months, Michele's face had run flush with tears. But those were of physical pain, betrayal, and anger. Only now does he cry for something he knew would be lost. A life and a love that went unmourned. That, was kept at a distance. At the time, there were so many other reasons for despair.
     "I...love you..." Michele manages to get out, barely able to stand on his feet. Oh, this crying has to end. If it does not, he could cry for centuries, as someone else has already done.

     Melt, it is okay. These arms shall hold you, amice...
      Alire holds you tightly, as if to bear you up. He holds you against the force of the waves. He is not really moved by them as much. The sea folds around him as if meeting a cliff, a stronger force. It is not so, of course, for there is little that is greater than the sea...
     "I know..." he says, the words are soft. "And I am here. And I still love you..." Give it to the sea, I wish we could. We could create two oceans in all that we have cried, or should have cried. Alire places a kiss upon your temple, the pressing of his mouth. He closes his eyes. Waves move over coupled legs. Waves also move against the soul.
      His hold does not relent. Alire opens his eyes and he looks out over the expanse of the sea. "We have suffered enough," he suddenly says, and softly. "Love, we have suffered. I am ... asking the sea tonight... to grant me one wish, just one. That we may know love and joy, that our hearts may be at peace." Alire's eyes look over the waves as he holds you warmly, firmly through your tears. "Do not leave me, my friend. Now that you have found me..."
     I cannot banish you, o spirit. I cannot ask the universe for your dismissal. I love you.
     I love the spirit that you were...
     I love the man whose body you inhabit or made manifest...
     I cannot turn you from my heart, when you have been the only one to fill it until Giancarlo. I miss my magician, but it is only in reconciling that healing may take place...
      That we may finally have the peace that we deserve...

     "What did we do?" Michele asks, leaning heavily against you, "I'm sorry for whatever it was...we were good, weren't we? I tried to be..."
     Hand reaches out for the nearest jutting rock. It lies just beneath the surface of the tidal waters, and Michele seeks to drop down into the ocean to rest against it.
     "I remember...that we were going to meet, you and I," he half-laughs, "...a few days. A chance before returning to France. I..." Michele closes his eyes as he still faces the open sea, "...I couldn't wait. I rushed through my meetings. To get there as soon as I could..." his brows knit. "I could see the towers. Your home. And you there, waiting for me..."
     "And...I was thinking of you...and suddenly, I was surrounded. By those I knew," Michele whispers, voice barely over the waves. "Their faces. Said everything."
     "My horse, it backed up, but there was nowhere to go. And then I thought of you. Whether you were inside. If you were alright."
      "Then," Michele twists to see you, "...that's when I became afraid. What's happened to you..."

      "We did nothing. We were sold, amice. Phillip bid the highest and we were sold to that. We lost our lands, pensions, loves and lives. What did we do? We served God and loved one another. I have learned not to blame God for the short-sightedness and cruelty of men. But..." a little smile, "...I am 600 years old. I have had time to come to this. It was not immediate."
     Alire lets you sink to the rock. Clothes drenched, he moves to sit with you. Still, to be the support at your back. His arms fold around you again. "Yes, we were going to meet. In the chateau, to actually sleep in the same bed," he says it with the same longing for that as he had at the time. So rare an occasion that was. "We were going to meet there and then were were going to go to Prague, to the fortress. Our Lady Beneath the Chain," where I first met Giancarlo.
     Alire nods, looking to Giancarlo's face but Michele's soul. "You had rushed through your meetings, and you had made it there before me. They tied your horse out front, the gates were opened. You beat me," he smiles a little. "I thought, ah... there it is... I owe Michele another florin. He is going to make me a poor man." Golden brows knit. "That was my last free thought. My last thought free of suffering, of hearing your torture, of bracing against my own."

     In the dimlight, eyes sparkle with remembering. "Our Lady," Michele whispers, nodding. The most lovely of churches. She rivaled anything in France. "Do you remember..." he smiles, a first, "...how the cantors sounded? And the voices of the brothers there? They sang," Michele closes his eyes, "...perfectly. Together. Nothing in France sounded as they did..."
     "We...liked them," Michele remembers, his last statement a shift. Italian.
     But then the smile falls. It always does. His breathing becomes shallower, more rapid. It comes when he falls into other portions of his memory. He, still there.
     "I tried to fix it, bello. I did...so hard. Messages to family. To the Officers. To the Pope. To Phillip," he whispers. They all failed. Everything failed. And the more they failed, the louder he became. The more rousing he did. Sealing his own fate in court rants. Fighting at every turn.
     Despair, it was. For himself. For another. It was his fault, indeed, being unable to save neither. And in so, hysteria on his last night became something else. A permanent fix. A wish for damnation for others. A plea to someone else to save the only thing that was decent in his entire existence. The only bright spot in his pending death. That too, that light, could not be snuffed out. It simply could not happen. Michele made sure of it.
     "I am sorry, bello, for what they did to you." Of that, Michele is aware. "For..." his hand touches linen shoulder, a faint touch of the back. Giancarlo knows the marks there. "For that. I...am ashamed." If he caused it.

     "Forgive yourself, Michele," Alire murmurs. "It was not your fault. Phillip wanted the money, he wanted -- more importantly -- the land. And Clement was weak, he was a weak and petty man, weaker than I had imagined. There was nothing you could have done differently, tesoro," the bello makes him smile a little. "Forgive yourself that. You ... were not the conscience of the king, or the soul of a corrupt pope. I am sorry for what they did to you. That I could not get through the stone to help you. That I was not there... I was not there in that room with you. That I was not with you when they took you to Paris. You do not know how many years I wished to have been at Notre Dame with you," the other Our Lady, "... I learned to forgive myself after a while. I even learned to forgive Clement and Phillip. Phillip was the hardest. I had to release all of that anger, all of that hatred. I would have become a monster with all of that on me for so long."
     As it is, I have fangs and drink blood. Alire smirks a little at that.
     "I am sorry that you were in such pain. I am sorry we both were." He exhales, he looks to you, falling breath given to the sea. "It does not matter now, Michele. All of them are dead and gone. The years have brought both distance and freedom. I am the only one left." He smiles a little. "Well, until you found me. I am certain you did your best, that you were only doing your best and following your heart and your conscience, tesoro. I have no doubt of this at all. Nor is there anything to forgive you for. You did nothing wrong. And... you would be amazed to know how well Our Lady is still standing, after so long a time. Prague has become a modern city around her, and yet she still stands."

     "You were always," Michele smiles, "...the better man." He grins and looks down at the water splashing across his lap. "I cannot forgive them," Michele says softly, looking down. "I will never forgive them..."
     "But I am glad," he grins again, "...that Our Lady stands. I...think I knew this," he admits, biting his thumb now.

     "I would not say that," Alire counters. "I have merely had six centuries to become ...forgiving. Of course," a snorted laugh, "... a side effect to this has been my clerical celibacy. I think I am more a virgin now than I was when I was ten." He doesn't tell Michele that he should forgive, or that he will, or that things will be different. Michele is not Alire, and Alire is not Michele. He will not project.
      "Our Lady stands, and so do we. If nothing else, I should think that victory would please." A slight smile. He remembers Michele's hatred for losing all too well. "They do not sing now, I do not think so. Many of the old cathedrals stand, and many of the castles. Some have been fully restored by modern hands. It is an amazing world we live in. And that we are here yet ... to see it. I am thankful for that gift."

     But victory does taste sweet. Michele twists his lips, trying to stave off a smug grin. "I want to see this," Michele says, twisting about. "I want...to go to the Lady Beneath the Chain," he eagerly whispers, "...again." He remembers being there recently, it seems. "But, this time, we will be together, bello." It will look different.
     "And to see the old castles. Cathedrals. Maybe we can say Mass together, si? Or see other things together? Do things?"
     That brings a look to his hands.
     "And understand, what's happened to me..."
     "I am...he is...he knows magic. Real magic..."

     "Yes," Alire says with a soft look to match his quiet tone. "He does know real magic." Alire takes in a breath and he nods, "We will see these things. I have a lot yet to explain to you. I have obligations in Poitiers... " He pauses. "There are many who are like me... who ...live in this world beyond mortal years. I am not even the oldest that I know," a fraction of a smile. "I am... a prince of such beings. I am the word of immortal law in Poitiers these nights. It is..." an exhale, "...hard to explain. I do not wish to confuse you. We have time, tesoro, to get to that. And... before we stopped here... we were on our way back to Poitiers. You were going to live near me."
     Alire leans in, forehead to Michele-Giancarlo's own, short blonde hair in disarray. "We will do things, see things. There is much to understand," he finishes. "Much I still have to understand. And much to learn."

     There's a smile. "D'Avignon still commands men," Michele says, slightly teasing. "Of course, he would."
     "And he makes the best orange mullet de Provence."

     You remember that...
     It brings the first true smile of the evening... of the last several evenings. Such a forever that night seems now. Was it just a month ago? In the kitchen, the fish, the spices, the music and conversation. The first night in... it had to be over a hundred years... that he had had someone with him, overnight, in his arms. "The oldest living kings are always their own chefs," he jokes.
     Yes, Alire jokes...
     Leaning back, he exhales again, a clearing breath. "We should go inside, for coffee, dry clothes. You must be cold, tesoro, if I am..."

     Now, without the strain of rejection and confusion, with the comfort of security can both appear manifest. "No, I'm not cold, bello Alire," Michele smiles, standing from his watery rock. "I feel. And that means...I am here. With you."
     "You always are cold though," Michele-Giancarlo notes for the record. "We always have blankets," he shakes his head. "It is still the same, that..."

     "Some things never change," Alire notes, cool water moving over his legs again. "There are still stars, the sea is still here, and Alire d'Avignon gets cold easily. Living in the warmth of the southern lands has spoiled me." Provence is much warmer than the heights of his Swiss birthplace.
     Alire extends an arm, offering Giancarlo-Michele the chance to enter an embracing walk. Ahead now, the lights of the villa are warm. A door remains open, waiting... offering Giancarlo-Michele and Alire entrance, hospitality and safety.

Posted by rowan at June 04, 2003 04:19 PM