It is a limousine -- an pre-War Jaguar limousine -- that carries you across the stone bridge, skimming the high-running Vienne to the spreading and rolling plain of Touraine and crossing the invisible border in to Anjou. Small villages dot the dark landscape sudden and intermittent light in otherwise deep darkness. It is red leather that cushions you as you are driven some fifteen kilometers from Chinon.
     There is nothing out here. There is land, vineyards, a farmhouse or two. You may, in fact, wonder where you're being driven to, perhaps the middle of nowhere when the Romanesque and Gothic abbey comes into veiw, lit in ambered light similar to Chinon's own lighting. The abbey was founded in 1101, by a monk who believed that men should be subservient to women. Is it any wonder, then, that this is the resting place of one of the most formidable women in all of history?
     It stands suddenly beyond the glass, an enormous, carved edifice of the gothic Nef, the rounded and multi-spired abbey kitchen clearly visible as the car rolls noisily upon the gravel paving and pulls in to park.
     The tourists have left, but the lights are on. The sisters who still keep this place in conjunction with the government of France, and, unbeknownst to them, with the help of the last Plantagenet of the Angevin line have preserved it, intact. As grand an abbey as it was during its hey-day.
     As the car pulls to a stop, William tilts his glass, ice tinkling, whiskey finished with a swallow. He sets the glass aside and looks to you. There is a little bit of a smile there and then he looks to the building. His aunt was an abbess here. His father and mother helped design the latter 12th Century additions. Much of his family is interred here. Not all. But much. The lady's door is opened, William opens his own and steps into the brisk air of autumn in Anjou.

     And a prison.
     Some might argue the length of time it held that standing, depending of course on one's personal ambitions at the convent. But then again, could it truly be so great a part the great house of Plantagenet without a checkered past?
     Victoria is generally silent through most of the car ride, watching the dark countryside with vision that sees the hills even in darkness. Which, all things considered, is for the best. Country tours would lose much of their appeal otherwise. She seems to know where to look for the abbey without indication, either through knowledge of the road from her countless books or perhaps something more visceral. Either way, it is where her gaze stays as it emerges out of the shadow.
     "Thank you." Accepting the hand out of the car absently, her eyes climb the spires, the walls, follow the points and curves of the grace and quiet cold glory that is the legacy of so many contributors. For good and ill.
     "It truly is magnificent..."

     Where is there beauty without suffering? Where is their grandeur without some particle of torment? Abbey, hospital, college, tomb and prison -- it moved through its ages like a man or woman, with glorious beginnings, difficult adolescence, opulant maturity and aged ruination. But much like Chinon it has experienced a rejuvenation, received a facelift (or twelve) and finds itself reborn.
     Symmetry. For has that not also happened for the silent benefactor of both Chinon and Fontevraud?
     William closes his door, hands in his pockets he stands and looks at it for a moment. An engineer's eyes sees the slopes and grades, the geometry and the mathematics. The sculptor's eyes see the ages of architecture, elements, balance, symmetry and poetry. The prince's eyes see territory and an altar to a past. "The renaissance of the building, quite remarkable. All the wars of men, and she is still here."
     And so am I.
     William smiles to you, sweeps out a hand for you to come along with him and begins to walk the gravel path to the doors of Le Nef, the Nave.

     "Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum."
     More or less.
     Victoria turns and smiles after her benification as she takes the indicated steps up the gravel drive towards the heart of the abbey itself. Eyes still generally traveling over the stonework itself, she asks, "There's not quite so much about it before your family got involved, did you see it before the expansions?"
     Wouldn't do to not have done at least some of one's homework before coming to something as substantial as Fontrevraud. However, even before entering, her hands are properly at her sides without fidgeting. And the girl did take the time to get a hat before leaving the castle, the dark felt pillbox tucked on easily to go with her black and white attire for the evening.

     "I was at the abbey on several occasions during my own century," William says as he comes alongside you. His pace is easy. His tone is quiet. His expression is quite placid, reflective in nature. "I saw it before much of this was here. I last I saw it as a mortal was when I came with Henry's body to see him laid to rest. I had been with him in Chinon while he was sick. A very hot summer. This is not where he was intended to rest, originally, but oddly enough it is the perfect place for them, I think." Prison and all.
     "Before Ian and I returned home," Europe in general, sometimes France in specific, "...it had been since flying over it in World War Two." Flying? "Before that, centuries. I've seen the good and and bad," he flashes a smile to you and opens one of the large and heavy doors. Of course, it moves easily for him.
     "When I was young, the kitchens were my favorite. I would ride from Chinon to here. The best honey in all of the Loire." He grins at the recollection. "It was worth the ride. But I did not linger here much. I was invested young," given land, responsibilities. "I think it had been years since I had seen it when I rode with Henry here."
     The door is opened, and you can see the sweep of breathtaking stone, airy, lifting straight to the bosom of God. Chairs are still set up in rows. In the center of the nave sit four effigies, surrounded by metal railing.

     "Ironic certainly." Victoria lets her gaze wander to the high arches and the stained glass windows set stories above the stone floors. The bare qualities of the carved butresses leave the eye to appreciate the true simplicity that creates the beauty of the Nave. And, of course, the center of the affair is held by the effigies of those who set Fontrevraud on her way to greatness.
     Her steps are slow as she makes her way up the aisle, not fixated on the tombs but obviously understanding that they are the intended destination. For they are the reason for the trip in general, after all.

     He comes in behind you, quietly, but the high arches, the limestone and the tuffeau echo out his steps and the closing of the door. It would be impossible for him not to seem suddenly of this time, of this place, belonging to those whose painted likenesses sit silently in the center of it all. No matter the most-modern haircut, the modern clothes, the vast stretch of time between That and Here and Now.
     In this place, he is Guillaume XI, comte du Poitou, William Plantagenet, Duke of Normandy.
     He pauses somewhat behind you, eyes lifting to follow the engineered sweep, stone given grace, and then to the Plantagenet stained glass, the frescoes behind the effigies. He strides between the rows of chairs toward the iron railings. He lets you reflect upon this place in silence, to drink it in.
     He takes a moment to look at the effigies, the flaking of paint, the ravages of time and the remnants of his Age and Family. They are long gone, but look who is still here.
     What he whispers is not French but is. Is not Occitan, but is. Is both ancient and vibrant, living. Just as he is. He doesn't appear to be somber. Solemn, perhaps. A hand rests upon the railing as he bends his head, tilting it in inspection of his father's features. Then he wanders to Aelinor. Then to Richard. There are no effigies here for Matilda, Joanna or Eleanor, though they are interred here. Geoffrey is in Notre Dame. John elseplace -- he doesn't even recall. Henry the Young King elseplace, too. He will have to look them up some time.
     "I do not know why I speak to them," he smiles, looking to you. William turns, eyes taking in other scenery. "They are not here..."

     There's an unseen point, somewhere near the front of the path towards the choir, before the tombs, before the end of the benches and seats, where Victoria makes the obviously second nature dip and crosses herself. She could, in fact, still be looking around at the walls as she does it. Perhaps the spot's mathematical in origin, or instinctual, or trained. Or, the nuns would surely say, divine.
     Whatever the reason, her attention soon goes to the only living son of the dynasty left by Henry and Eleanor. She smiles, oddly in keeping with the surroundings despite the fact that she's a modern girl. Though many would say she's temporally removed from much of the world at large.
     "Because you are." She says easily, coming to the ropes without touching them herself, hands going behind herself to clasp themselves there. One could almost imagine gloves materializing themselves over her fingers out of propriety. "And it doesn't mean that they're not listening."
     And now her attention goes to the figures in their repose fully. She tilts her head to the side slightly, burgundy tinted locks slipping over the shoulder of her jacket with the motion. That hair which seems to at once try not to burnish and yet does anyway nearly the only color of her person along with her emerald eyes. "They must've been somewhat disconserting when they were made."

     It is impossible to tell if he truly resembles his mother or his father more, or even if at all. Or his brother, Richard. Medieval artists were not concerned with physical representation, photorealism or realism in general. "They were glorious, I'm sure. I remember Matilda's... hers is downstairs, I believe. And Henry's. I never saw Richard's or Aelinor's in their prime. I was unable to help with the restorations of the effigies -- I was too busy trying to become Emperor of America," he slides a look and a grin over to you. "But my artists, my team, did. From Uffizi. That is where my main business is centered. Florence."
     William pivots toward you, then walks the perimeter of this gathering of ghosts to look at his mother's stone. "Hers was the pinnacle, I think. She would have liked the book. How it came out. It doesn't look anything like them really. The faces... Medieval faces lack character in representational art. It wasn't considered important. It is all very flat. It was the next world, not this one, that mattered."
     The last of the dynasty looks to you again, slight smile hovering over his expression. "She had dark eyes, darker than mine, they were violet though some said they were black. They were black when she was angry," mouth spreads into that smile at last and indigo lifts to you. "Richard's hair was reddish gold like Henry's. He was bearded, he preferred that. Opposite to papa in every way he could think to be, but more like him than he ever wanted to admit. I like the shroud. The star of David. Pity about the sword. The Revolution was bad for Fontevraud...and Chinon..."

     Nodding, Victoria's eyes lift to follow your movement around the rectangle formed by the sarcophagi, "Iconistic."
     She steps around after you to stop in front of your mother's representation. "I'm glad. It's always seemed to me like the simple fact that she's reading instead of quietly laying there like she's supposed to is a kind of immortal 'bugger the lot of you, then'." Particularly with the absence of a cross on the book, in the middle of a holy site no less.
     Victoria smiles a little with amusement at that thought,

"Lady Maria, your worth and excellence, joy, understanding, and exquisite beauty, the warmth of your welcome, your excellence and honor, your elegant conversation and charming company, your gentle face and amiable gaiety, your gentle gaze and amorous mein - all these things are yours, without deviousness."

     Victoria smiles again, glancing up once more, "Or something like that."

     If you ever wanted to have William stare at you, if that is something you have aspired to see, then you at last have your wish for that recitation. "She... never did what others thought she should," William says at last, looking from you to her. "What she was supposed to be was the queen of France. If she could not do it in her own fashion, she would not do it at all. God bless her for her determination. Born of stubbornness though it was," he tacks on. "And, oui, the book is significant for its secularity, even as she was for her sensuality -- rumored and true."
     And those who do not know whose he was wonder where he gets it...

"Lo tems vai e ven e vire
per jorns, per mes e per ans,
et eu, las! no'n sai que dire,
e'ades es us mos talans.
Ades es us e no is muda,
c'una'n volh e'n ai volguda,
don anc non aic jauzimen..."

     He pauses a moment after the Langue d'Oc completes its echo and he looks to you, corners of his mouth upturning slightly as he translates: "Time goes and comes and turns, through days, through months, through years, and I, alas! know not what to say, for my longing is always the same. It is always the same and does not change, I love and have loved only one lady from whom I have never had any joy." He looks to Aelinor. "Muse and tormentor. She inspired more lust, more poetry and more legend than any woman since Helen and Cleopatra." A pause. "Or... something like that..." And indigo scatters in a wink.
     Hands slip into pockets of cocoa wool. He wanders from Aelinor to Aelinor's favorite son.

     She sends you a look with blinking innocence in response to the stare. Nobody ever said there was a monopoly on thirteenth century poetry, after all. Were the nuns to come in at the defamation of her language this very moment, all they'd see is the perfectly behaved Victoria standing with her hands primly in place behind her.
     She does smile at the translation and nod, following around to Richard, "Well, they had the Holy Land in common, I suppose." Crusading, like medieval noble prospecting. A passtime which very few Angevins escaped the lure of, including those who attempted to turn America into an Empire some would say.
     "So you don't think he would've liked the sword?"

     "Richard preferred the crossbow," William says, turning to you, warmth easing over his expression. "His weapon of choice. The sword is easier to mount in stone, however," he chuckles. "Crossbows were a bit unwieldy. And it's not exactly kingly, I suppose. Someone made off with it when the looting happened. Cut off his hands, scattered his remains over Anjou. His and Henry's as part of that whole 'down with monarchy' thing. Pity. But he hated Fontevraud and Chinon. These were Henry's. Richard's places were Mirabeau and Galliard."
     "And... yes... we had a thing for the Holy Land. Mother's uncle, my uncle, Raymond was King of Jerusalem. I was going to be the next. Can you imagine?" He laughs. "Me... Guillaume I, King of the Jews. I probably would have renamed myself Jesus, like the popes name themselves after saints and ideals. Jesus II, King of Jerusalem." He steps closer to the work. "I do like the details of the beard, the folds of clothing. In all of them. I have seen few effigies better. Even mine was decently done."

     "And rather hard to carve eloquently, I'd imagine." Victoria says with an answering smile. "But yes, I heard generally that kings are supposed to use swords. Something about being knightly and noble."
     She frowns a little at the mention of the looting. Which she doesn't reply on directly instead moving along to the thoughts of King Jesus II. Shaking her head slightly she chuckles, "You probably would've hated it, I'd think." Not enough projects. Or maybe it would've suited the old mortal Guillaume.
     Looking at the figure she nods, "He's very striking. Regal in repose."

     "It would have been a lousy job," William murmurs. "Turks on one end, the rest of the world on the other. It didn't work for Augustus and it likely wouldn't have worked for me either. I'm happy with things as they are. Being king is a bit thankless really... toil, sacrifice, slander, treachery, death, and the fall of empires." He glances to Henry. "Sorry, papa..."
     He steps away from the effigies, not giving poor Isabella of Angouleme any time at all. "Richard was very striking. Very handsome. Very tall. Very everything. A great general. A so-so king. Loved better in recollection than in actuality. Poets loved him. He would live forever as a valiant ruler of men. Henry looks a bit too bookish... but that is the part of him they were trying to capture, as they were trying to capture Richard's regality..."

     "Well, and the heat and sand and lack of many imports at the time." Victoria says before continuing around. Isabella gets a glance, though she's never quite figured out herself how the second wife of a rather spectacularly unpopular king, no offense, rated a tomb in the spotlight with giants among monarchs. Though, she did join the ranks of royals trying to usurp thrones for her sons.
     "Henry's always been said to have been rather a good looking man himself, not surprisingly." Sons considered. "But while I've always thought of him as intelligent, certainly, he's never struck me as... bookish."
     She tilts her head again, looking at the infamous king. Not at all unlike Eleanor in his refusal to do what people wanted of him, perhaps.

     "He had a fantastic mind. He didn't always use it," a smirk for that. "But then, who does? A great student of philosophy and law. In fact, John was the one who followed in his footsteps in philosophical and law studies. I, like Richard, was more engineer and general material. Henry was contantly reading. Mind you, the man never sat down. I'm not sure when he had time, but he read, standing up. He ate standing up for that matter. When he ate. I have his energy and Aelinor's looks. I was doomed," William grins.
     "He was a good man. He was a hard man to love, hmmm... harder to like. But he was a good man, with a good heart ultimately. Mind you, sometimes you had to dig to find it. But it was there." William pauses, glancing over to Victoria. "You wouldn't think of me as being bookish either, I imagine... we don't look like it on the surface, we Angevins... bad-tempered, oui certes, hot-bodied, but readers?" He grins then, turning about and continuing slowly through the nave. He wanders to the frescoes. The names painted there of Henri, Aelinor and Richard...

     "I have actually seen you read..." Victoria notes, though her tone says that it was a marked occasion in some senses. Grinning a bit at that she adds, "You must absorb it all through osmosis somehow."
     It goes unmentioned of course the frequency with which she's found reading something or other. She grins as she walks along apace with you, looking up to the painted walls, "But if it'd make you feel better I could comission something from someone and specify that they should perch some glasses on your nose and hunch you over a tome."
     "I don't really see how anybody could expect him to be other than he was, really." This, of course, is said of Henry, "Reclaiming thrones after marrying former queens and then reinvigorating economies."

     "Matilda sent him after the British crown at the ripe old age of eight. He was as he was born to be. Emperor. A sprig off the old branch that was Charlemagne's. It was the Empress who set him on the path to kingship. She pushed until she got her way. And Henry was king and soon married to the most beautiful, most infamous, and most wealthy landowner in all of France. All by the age of nineteen. Amazing."
     William laughs at your jabbing. He doesn't disagree with you. "I put books under my pillow at night and just soak it all in," he mulls. "Or I make Ian read to me." That was actually true. He does do that.
     Soon, you and he are approaching the rear of the nave. "My sisters are in the crypts below. Those are not open to the public. Geoffrey is in the Cathedral of Notre Dame. I don't remember where Henry the Young King and John are. Somewhere in France. I should move them here -- perhaps I will eventually. There's no real reason for them to be scattered to the four winds. One night it will be important enough..."
     Layers of chocolate brown are accented by the dim interior lighting. Enough for vampires to see by. "Would you like to see painted galleries? 16th Century religious art. The frescoes are quite lovely, actually, and in excellent health...."

     "All five of them? Or just the younger three?" Victoria asks, curiously. The sisters seeming to hold some interest for her, "John's in Worcester Cathedral, so he might be harder. Young Henry's in Rouen. Or at least, he's supposed to be. Le Mans tried to make off with him when he was en route, I've only heard that he was supposed to be moved, there's some question as to if he was."
     History nerd indeed.
     "That would be wonderful, I've heard about them. They worked the abesses in with various historical religious figures, didn't they?" The artists of the frescoes of course. Not that that wouldn't be expected since they were footing the bill and related to the king at the time.

     "Ah, that's right. Well, I shall not rob my Rouen." He makes no mention of John. How could he forget where his other brothers rest? One he barely knew. The other he barely spoke to. "Only Matilda, Eleanor and Joanna. Daughters of Henry and Aelinor. Marie of Champagne and Alix are Valois," Louis', "...and elsewhere. Their effigies are not restored, so they are not out for view. I may take it upon myself to do the honors, now that I'm back in the midst of matters. But," an exhale, "... I have projects outlined for the next several years. It will be another year's work before I finish my project for Genevieve. Then... I may be off to Venice to look at the Della Salute..."
     "And, yes, the abesses are present with Our Lord, Jesus Christ, and a handful of saints. They are truly remarkable, these frescoes. Nice restoration job performed on the 16th century works." William turns, heading up the ramp at the end of the nave, heading out into the collonades that ring around the interior gardens...

     Victoria follows along, giving a look back to bid goodbye to those laid to rest behind her. "That does sound like a busy schedule."
     "Was that restoration done at the same time as the others here? Or was there another stage to the project?" She still holds her hands behind herself, looking at the walls and the arches as you both pass through them. Taking in the surroundings with interest.

     "The restoration has progressed through stages for the past, I do not know," William murmurs, "... end of the 20th century, I think it started. It continues. I am sure they were preserved during the chamber's restoration and then restored themselves. Cleaned, restored. But I do not know when, in truth. I have helped to fund it. My business manager could answer this question," William smiles.
     He spares a glance back before you both pass out of the nave altogether and then there you are, upon the blue and white marble tiled floor of the gallery. The gardens to one side and open-air archways to your other. La salle Capitulaire is not a far walk from the nave. He leads you in, the low light ringing the gardens spilling in to illuminate the frescoes on the walls.
     "The paintings are the stations of the life of Christ, ending in his crucifiction, obviously, there. With the sisters anachronistically present. They were painted by an Angevin artist, Thomas Pot, in 1563. But me, while I find the paintings to be remarkable in condition and vibrancy, it is their coupling with the arches that make them outstanding. But then," William glances to you, smiling a little. "I have a weakness for Angevin arches and buttressing."

     "Oh, it's not really important, I was just curious." She always seems to be curious. "It certainly seems like a long process. There's so much here to preserve."
     Her eyes follow the bends and curves of the gently and angularly carved stone. Looking through to the gardens blanketed in shadow briefly, the natural green cut into ordered patterns for the nuns who were once here. But then she turns again to the walls as you note their organization, eyes travelling again, this time to follow the progression briefly, noting the most general aspects of each before she steps in to the beginning of the artistic timeline for a closer view.
     "They're lovely. Very detailed. Like they were noting even the embroidery on all the various alters."

     "Mais oui... it has taken me, what is it now? A century to complete renovations and reconstruction of Chinon?" William chuckles. "It is a long process," he nods, eyes lifting to the arches and the paintings that surround them, "... to restore and to revive. I am glad to see it, though. And it has not taken them so long, which is good. I would not have wanted the abbey to fall to ruin. It would not have done so. Say what you will about France, and there is plenty to condemn and chastise, but they do not let their history go peacably. They do not let it fall to ruin if they can help it. For that, I am proud of my nation."
     He watches you move around the chamber, looking at each fresco. "So, you are heading back soon? Or, are you going to Tours first and then back to America?" William wanders, looking at the paintings. His steps slow, hands in his pockets.

     "It is good. They take great care in keeping their art alive. And their history along with it. Though, generally, it's hard to separate the two easily." The psychiatrist says as she continues to study the work in front of her. "It's certainly something to be proud of."
     She makes her way to the next, still walking with her hands properly at her sides. No attempts to touch the figures or the frescoes themselves. She certainly knows better if nothing else. First her gaze follows the edges of the painting, examining the details there berore she moves in towards the central figure.
     At the question, however, she turns to look over her shoulder. Chestunt eyebrow raised slightly, "In the next couple of days, yes. I'm going through Tours, but I don't expect it'll be a long stay. Probably only a night or so before I go on and fly out. Less if Raymond has a busy schedule, I'll just go through the cathedral and fly out." She hasn't had any trouble at all getting used to having the jet available when she needs to make intercontinental flights, certainly. Which makes scheduling things all the more convenient.

     "I think you will enjoy the cathedral. It is a treasure. Sometime, you must go to Chartres. I think I may even take services at Sacre Coeur or Notre Dame this next year. Perhaps for Candlemas or Easter." He flashes a grin, "A practicing catholic, married to a pagan. It makes for interesting holidays. But, maybe Ian will go with me to Paris. It has been a few years. And even then we were only passing through..."
     He finishes his inspection and goes to stand against one of the archway columns, giving his shoulder to it. He says nothing of Raymond, he merely nods. "We will look forward to seeing you again. I am sure you will be back for a visit sooner rather than later, oui?" William smiles a little. He seems quite introspective. He has since passing the effigy of his father and mother. His father in particular.

     "Well, if you're wanting company, let me know. I think I'm probably going to be back in Switzerland permanently by New Years. Or, at least, that's the plan." Which is, perhaps, her way of saying she did make a decision about where she's going to be if nothing else. Which is at least something.
     "I should probably stop by the challet on the way back to have a look at things." And maybe it'd be an idea to have seen the place you're planning on moving, yes. "The groundskeepers there are wonderful, they send me pictures all the time."
     Raymond is left out of the discussion it seems since he's not mentioned again. "I'm loking forward to Chartres though. I'm not going to rush it, I don't think, I can make a couple trips down to take in different parts."

     William smiles. He makes no commentary on your choice -- it is yours to make -- but he does recognize in what you say that you have decided to do something. "Switzerland is very lovely. I have a few contacts there, if you would wish to call on them after you get settled." He lets it rest there. "But yes... when you decide to take in Chartres, call me. I may be able to join you."
     No promises. His schedule, despite being "retired", seems always to be full.
     "I will have to think of a housewarming gift for you," William murrs, voice held in his chest as he thinks. "Maybe towels." And the smile returns, momentarily brilliant. Pushing off the column he begins to turn to the gardens, "...Let me know when you are ready to move on..."
     He? He needs a little air. The abbey is amazing, of course, an architectural wonder. But to him it is wandering graves, a family's tomb. His ... family's tomb. He is not so detached, not so removed.

     "Thanks, I think mostly I'm going to be a hermit for a while." Not that that'll be a chore for her. Some people might say that it could be a little dangerous in fact for her to get too used to it with her academic nature. "And probably do a couple of renovations. There's a chandelier I've got my eye on I'm going to have installed."
     "Towels are always nice, it's good to encourage bathing," Victoria says with some obvious teasing, "Plus, it has a sauna. And the hot tub out on the deck. Lots of rooms to get towels for." Not that there probably aren't piles of them there already.
     She goes to the next few frescoes, finishing off the room more quickly than she otherwise might have at the onset. Though she doesn't seem upset about it at all, she'll have more chances to come back and see them in more detail if she wants to later. "Okay. Where did you want to go next?"

     William looks over his shoulder and smirks. "Home. But I have seen the abbey before," he notes, giving a ... shock! ... very Ian look -- a look that would be perfect with a pair of spectacles low upon the princely nose. And maybe he catches himself doing it, because he grins sideways and shakes his head as he walks into the gardens.
     Hands in his pockets, the Angevin strolls upon the quiet grounds. "The place makes me feel like a relic," he murmurs, seemingly to himself.

     "If you aren't careful, I'll get you glasses for Christmas." Victoria says with a bright grin, not seeming put off at all by the remark. And in fact, maybe even becoming less little-girl-in-antique-shop at the same time. "Yes, I think that's just the ticket. I'll have to watch and see if I can match them."
     She moves to walk along beside, just a hint back from parallel. "Well, I'd imagine it's very..." Her head tilts slightly as she pauses to think of the proper word. Her heals sinking into the ground slightly but not seeming to give her any trouble at all, "Retrospective." Since very few people have their family's history detailed by the very architecture of a place it'd be hard not to be.

     Retrospective. William looks at you for a moment, then offers his arm for you to take, a balance for the stroll across the green and towards the kitchens. Is it the environs that make him seem so massive? As solid as the limestone, timeless as the arches? It is a wonder his face, unreal in its aspect as it can oftimes be, is not in crackled gold leaf at the moment. Take the duke's arm. Few have the chance.
     The smile hovers at his mouth as he leads you back to marble. "I don't know whether to get on my knees an thank god I'm not in the ground and turned to dust or find some armor, toss it on and vault myself into history where being here makes me feel like I belong. It is as if I were one of those effigies, walking around, when I am here. That is why... I am never here. It is a place for the dead, a place for memories and history. I do not belong with the dead, I am not remembered in history. And my memories? I do not need to be here to find them."
     Looking to you again, William inclines his head. Glimmers of the duke, glimmers of the Angevin prince, the last child of the trunk of the dynasty's tree, roots in the earth of Charlemagne and William the Conqueror, head in the twenty-first century. "Maybe you will feel the same way one night, hundreds of years from now, should you return to New Port -- should New Port itself still exist. It will be the watery grave of pirates past," he grins, "... that Victoria long gone."

     The arm is taken easily, pace matched with even strides even as she does so. She takes a luxuriously unnecessary breath of the fresh air herself, shaking her head, "There's a part of you that's tied here. France, Provence, Anjou, Chinon. It's part of who you are, you can't understand William without understanding that." And in some ways, she does have the distinction of being one of the few who could even attempt to make that kind of a claim.
     "I... don't have those kinds of roots anywhere. New York isn't mine, it's Maximilian's. I don't even remember my parents' house even, I haven't been there since I was five. And New Port was only as much a part of being who I am as the people there. And that's not the same now, or ever going to be." She shrugs slightly, taking the balance offered as naturally as if she always did it, "Which is both good and bad in some ways."

     "You will," William offers. "Maybe you have just been waiting for the right soil." And perhaps Europe, or Switzerland, will be that, will allow you to put down roots, to establish yourself, your life, your afterlife as the case may be. William smiles a little.
     He does not speak of your observation. His silence is his agreement, perhaps, or tacit acceptance. And in thoughtful quiet, he leads you from garden to colonnade to kitchens...
     The remainder of the tour passes in academic solemnity. If you had the gift of speaking to stone, you might see echoes of him here and there. Ripples of energy that remember when he was here the first time. The air greets him and it is alive with the surprise of feeling him again. Alive. Without end.

Posted by rowan at November 10, 2003 01:22 PM