"Work, work, work...practice, practice, practice. I need a break every now and then. I need some freedom. Doesn't he realize that?" a female voice exclaims in a hushed yet insistent level. The raven-haired beauty known as Tori, though some insist on calling her Victoria, paces around the sitting room, apparently talking to herself..
     "My life never used to be this way. I was Primogen of my clan. I was Keeper of the Elysium. I was a trusted ear for a Prince," she raves in her quiet manner.
     The soliloquy continues, "I ran a night club and answered to no one... I could stay out till all hours and dance if I wanted to... not this ballroom dancing, which is nice and all, but really let my body be moved by the music... I -lived- then. Now... now I am but a shade of myself..." All of this is explained passionately. Delicate hands gesture wildly, punctuating every statement. Finally, she reaches the end of her tirade and flops down onto a sofa, as though terribly drained, her head falling into cupped hands.

     Normally, he would not interrupt - normally, he would not even come to this part of the manse without being sent for. Hansl is not one to make frequent or public appearances...
     It is inconvenient, that his quarters are so far from the room in which he presently works. It is even more inconvenient that he has too many supplies to easily cart about...
     He is paused at the doorway, the pale gaze widening, dressed in a slightly rumpled white shirt, the cuffs opened and folded back askew, collar slightly loosened. His trousers are black, and have slightly lost their immaculate press due to the work he has been doing, and though there are polished black shoes on his feet, the laces have been loosened as well. His hair is still relatively orderly; but there is a streak of cadmium yellow, like oleaginous butter, colouring his left temple into the edge of his hairline.
     "I apologise," Hansl begins uncertainly, tone and expression formally polite and leaden with wariness. "I did not mean to intrude, frau. If you will forgive me?"

     At the sound of the voice, Tori's head tilts up suddenly. It is unexpected, and unlike her not to hear a person's approach before their arrival, either with her ears or her mind. So caught up in her own inner turmoil, she simply did not hear him until now.
     "Oh!" she exclaims, obviously startled. Hands drop into the lap of her delicate white dress. Once more, she is barefoot. It seems her preferred mode of dress these days. Blinking briefly and wiping at her eyes with a cloth quickly, trying not to make a scene of it, she replies, "Hansl... no, no... please. Come in. Come in. You're not intruding."
     Clearing her throat, she straightens her back and smoothes out her wild hair a bit, murmuring, "Sorry. I was... just... ah. I apologize for my appearance. It is late. I did not think anyone else was still here." Most have gone out for the evening or gone home... so late it is in the wee morning hours. Her own retainer has already gone to bed, himself, having been hit by a wave of exhaustion. She managed to sneak out past him once he was asleep.

     "I will not remain long," Hansl remarks by way of half-explanation, half-apology, stepping cautiously into the room. There is white paint under his fingernails, and a daub of scarlet edges one thumb in startling contrast to the relative sobriety of his other colours. He enters the room, folding his hands together behind his back, posture as erect as usual. "I find I do my best when there is noone else around."
     The apologies, he seems to take no notice of, glancing first at the woman, then at the doorway, stiff and uncomfortable. "I had no intention of listening to your difficulties, and indeed can offer you no advice. However, I would not wish for you to think that my listening were intentional." His words are almost abrupt, the awkwardness of them showing in the rigidity of the contours of his expression. "You must take care, frau. Not everyone is well intentioned."

     "Oh... it's ok. I should know better than to rant out loud to myself. I... I really don't know why I was doing it. Sometimes I get started and I don't think... I forget where I am sometimes," she explains softly, poking at her temple a bit to emphasize this point. "Don't apologize. I should have known better than to be ranting... especially here." A hand runs through her hair again, smoothing it back a bit more. Something you say catches her attention, however, causing her gaze to flicker back to you and focus there for a long moment.
     "What do you mean?" There is a pause, then she explains, "I mean, I know not everyone is well intentioned, but... where did that come from?" What does he know? Has he heard something? Something against her? Or was it just a general warning?
     Suddenly looking quite weary, Tori pulls her legs up onto the sofa with her, tucking them beneath her small body. Motioning to a nearby sofa or chair, she murmurs, "Won't you sit a moment? You're making me tired watching you stand..." This last is said with a tired little smile, but it is friendly. She teases, obviously, but the offer to sit is genuine.

     "I was taught to be careful with my speech," Hansl explains, regarding you with flat seriousness for a long moment; it is almost reminiscent of that painful earnestness found in those who have gained self-awareness at too young an age. "It is not that anyone has spoken to me of you, frau. Simply that - the little I do know of your position, it strikes me as...forgive me." He ends the sentence abruptly. "I should not presume."
     He then nods slowly at the invitation, moving to one of the chairs and lowering himself into it; while he has the ability to move gracefully, his every motion nonetheless occurs with military precision, military correctness. Sitting straight, he places his hands on his thighs so that the outer edges of his hands curve against the sideseams of his trousers, thumbs along the middles of the legs. "It is kind of you," he mutters. "I may not remain too long, however."

     Tilting her head a little to one side, causing part of her face to be obscured by a curtain of black, Tori murmurs, "Please... go on. Finish what you were going to say. I'm interested in hearing it." There is no anger there. There is no indignant attitudes. Just plain, ordinary interest... and perhaps an eagerness to hear how she is viewed by someone else. So many tip-toe around her these days, she finds it difficult to really gauge things, gauge how she is doing, how she is perceived.
     Waving a hand at the mention of her 'kindness', she adds softly, "It is not kindness, Hansl... I will be honest and say I invite you to sit with me out of pure selfishness. I tire of being talked at or talked to. You talk with me. It's a big difference, and I crave that difference. So forgive me... and please humour me a little if you would?" She craves attention, but not the kind she's been getting from her superiors.

     "You are in a position which will be interpreted, reinterpreted, and misinterpreted by many," Hansl answers slowly, a bit uncomfortable with speaking frankly to someone whom he perceives as a superior. Or - well, under the circumstances, anyway. His position remains unchanged. "You are close to Il Dignitaro. There are those who would use that - use you. Or they would try to harm you, to get to him, or out of jealousy, frau. That is the way of our existence. I have been... trained well to note such, and avoid it."
     He falls silent abruptly, looking down at the floor as if it were suddenly an undiscovered Botticelli or Titian, crawling with life and colour - the rapt intensity of the Toreador, for the floor is so fascinating. "It is not my place to condescend, frau," he murmurs after a long pause. "I am aware of my place. I have few ambitions - but remaining intact, craven though it may be, yet is one."

     She remains absolutely still as you speak. Not a muscle moves, not an eyelash flutters. This is taken in, absorbed, considered. Finally, she blinks and says softly, "Thank you." It is a simple phrase, but with so much emotion behind it that perhaps it might seem like she would cry on the spot.
     Shaking her head, she murmurs, "I will be careful of what I express... and where. Thank you for being so candid..." She considers this a moment, then speaks up again. "I know... I know it is difficult for you to do that. I am sorry if it discomforted you. But I want you to know that I appreciate that...and would never want you to hesitate to speak around me." Or around her retainer, either.
     Once more, a small smile falls onto her lips. "I think in my... illness, I have forgotten about remaining intact, physically at least." Mentally, it's a whole other ballgame. "There was a time where self-preservation consumed me. I ran so that I could live. I fought tooth and nail so that I could live. And now... I find it difficult. I had a reason to live then." And she doesn't now?
     Drawing in a breath and shaking herself a bit, as though waking from a long sleep, she finally says, "Oh... and please... call me Tori? Frau is so... formal. And honestly, I've had my fill of formalities these days." The smile she gives you is warm and friendly, not tired or put-on.

     And, of course, the German is anything but comfortable with such emotional displays. He gives the impression of squirming slightly, though he doesn't move a muscle. "You are, of course, welcome. However, you misunderstand me - it is not that it is difficult. It is that it is not my place."
     He is silent for a moment, then shakes his head. "I do not have a reason to live," Hansl says simply. "I continue to exist because I am a coward, frau. The pain of ceasing my existence is not something I can readily embrace, even if there is other pain. And even when that pain seems almost welcome - there is still honour and dignity and duty to be maintained. I will not dishonour the Name."
     The artist shifts uneasily, one hand coming slightly up and out in a gesture, as if to ward off informality. "If you insist, I will ... attempt to remember, but only in private, if I may. To speak so informally to you in front of others would raise questions which you and I would both have to stand answer for."

     That smile softens a bit as she replies gently, "Sorry... forgive me. I make assumptions. Regardless, you may not feel it is your place, but believe me when I say... I really don't give a rat's ass about whose place is it." There's a wink given to you at that. So brash. It must be the American influences on her, despite her English background and Girault's teachings. You can take the girl out of America, but can you take America out of her?
     Sobering a bit, she considers what you have said, about your own existence, your own pain. The expression on her visage softens, turns into one of sympathy. "Forgive me, Hansl. Here I am talking of my own pain, completely ignoring you and your own experiences. If I'm not being too bold... who is 'the Name' you refer to? I don't wish to pry, and please do not answer if you don't want to. I... forgive me for being so self-centered."
     Something, however, shifts in her expression. It is fleeting, flashing, but still there. "In private... certainly. Of course. All because others have nothing better to do than gossip about each other." This last is nearly snarled... not quite, but nearly. Even spat, perhaps. Shaking her head and holding up her hand, palm outward, she averts her gaze and murmurs more calmly, "I'm sorry... I'm sorry. That is not directed at you. I simply grow weary of certain attitudes." Attitudes of the gossip-mongerers and 'elders'.

     "There is no need for your apologies." Hansl holds one hand up, though at an angle, placatory as much as dismissive. "You are permitted certain ... forgive me, but you have certain permissions which I have not yet earned. I am aware of my youth, my lack of position. I have not proven myself. Perhaps I never shall. It would be unfitting for me to presume."
     He lowers his hand back to its originally position, the blue of his eyes sharp, flinty with distance. "There is nothing to forgive," he reiterates, more quietly. "Nor is there anything in my experience which requires comforting. Pain too is a part of existence, and I have no true pain." It is a necessary lie, perhaps - but a lie nonetheless. "Do not misunderstand my ennui for an actual angst," he adds, attempting a small smile. See? Germans can smile without their faces cracking! It is fleeting at best, and gone a moment later.
     "The Name is that of Arnaul," Hansl continues, a moment later, face gone unreachable behind expressionless marble. "Some knew him as the Saint-Protector of Saarbrucken. Some knew him as simply Saarbrucken. He was my sire."

     Ah ha! She knew he had it in him. She knew there had to be a capacity for a smile. Sighing yet smiling, she murmurs, "There's all that talk about permissions and earning position and whatnot again. I don't think I'll ever be able to make you understand that when it's just the two of us, you don't have to worry about that. I'm not the type to 'pull rank'. Honest." The smile transforms into a grin briefly, then begins to fade. "Ah, no matter. I can't expect to change a person or their outlook...but... meh, I could hope."
     "You are right, though," she finally concedes, "that pain is part of existence.. unfortunately." Something she knows all too well. "Though, one can cover it as much as they want and hide it as much as they want, but does it ever truly go away? I do not believe so. That's pessimistic, perhaps, but maybe more realistic." Has yours truly gone away, Hansl? She's not daft. But she does not press it.
     Arnaul? Saarbrucken? Germany! Something suddenly snaps. Her demeanor changes instantly, eyes suddenly changing... the blue fading, becoming grey. She stares at you intensely for a moment before glancing away, murmuring almost inaudibly, "I'm sorry for your loss... it is a terrible thing to experience."

     "Perhaps you are not," Hansl remarks, "but there are others. I have grown accustomed to being watched, you know. Both because of where I am from, and..." Other reasons. He's gone silent again, the 'and' trailing off into thin air, gaze locked straight ahead. Cadets at West Point must envy his concentration.
     He turns his head silently, a slight gesture as he returns his gaze away from the wall. "There are many sorts of pain, and they may be transmuted. They fade. The pain remains, but the intensity is lessened, I am told, with the passing of years." He does not dispute it. Neither does he, perhaps, believe it.
     "I have experienced little," Hansl answers in faint protest, shaking his head. "It was terrible, ja. But there are worse things - I am sure that my past is of little interest, frau Tori." A compromise. Take small victories. "You seem deeply troubled. I am sure that my past is of little moment compared to what you mention having had and ... put aside or lost."

     Nodding a bit, still looking off a bit, the raven-haired one murmurs a reply, "I understand, Hansl... I do. The whole being watched thing, I mean. Forgive me if I push too much. It's what I do, I suppose." A quick upward motion of the shoulder before letting it drop again emphasizes this.
     Aha. She knew it was a lie. She catches the 'I am told' comment and nods a few times, ever so minutely. She hears it and understands. Thank you. Thank you for trusting me enough with that. There is a small smile as she hears 'frau Tori', but she says nothing. Yes, small victories.
     Finally, her gaze floats back over to you, the eyes dark and haunted. Struggling to maintain control, she ventures a question. "Do you mind... do you mind if I ask how it happened? If it will reopen the wound, please do not answer it. I am too bold, but... even if you could answer, do you know how it happened? Did you at least get that?"

     "His death?" Hansl's expression is blank. "I was not present, frau. I do not know how he died - only that he is dead, and it is believed that the Unholiest Ones were responsible." The Sabbat. A stinkweed by any other name... "There was very much blood. He had dined recently - I know this much. And his head was removed from his shoulders." The words are offered emotionlessly, as if reading from a newspaper. "But I have not been told very much. I do not know how much more is known."

     There is a long moment where she does not react, merely remaining still. Then, as she hears more of the details and the lack of emotion in your voice, she closes her eyes. Her head droops a bit and a small hand flutters up to her forehead.
     Summoning all the control she can muster, she manages to murmur softly, "That is probably all you'll ever know... and it is probably more than I'll ever know about my Beloved's fate." Setting her jaw, she looks back up at you before speaking again. "But I bet it doesn't hurt any less. Forgive me for prying too much, for delving into things I really have no right to. You are much too kind to this strange, ill woman before you. But please know that whatever you have said to me will go no further. It is between us only," she whispers before looking down at the floor.

     For a moment, a muscle tightens in Hansl's jaw, and there is the sense of retreat within himself, away from - what? The emotional display, perhaps. Perhaps something else. However, his answer when he speaks is crisp, contained, clear and oddly detached.
     "There are times, frau, when to not know a thing is a blessing and not a curse. Some things do not want to be known; their existence in the world is filled with strangeness and sharp edges. Do not seek to know all things; I do not recommend it." Hansl's gaze remains clear and steady, fixated on something which nonetheless only he can see. It is the look of Aryan Youth of half a hundred and a bit years ago; it is the look of absorption from someone faced with a Truth he did not wish to acknowledge.
     It follows with a headshake. "I doubt that only we two will know what we have said," Hansl says quietly. "Where we are - there will be ears. But you thank me for nothing. I have given nothing; I have done nothing. If anything has been done, then you have done it for yourself."

     There is a long moment of silence from the sofa which houses the former Goth-Diva... so long ago those days seem now. So long ago, yet so much more simple than now, in some ways. Sighing, she replies softly, a very short chuckle accenting her statements, "Well, I'm quite the killjoy aren't I? A few more meetings like this and you'll write me off as 'too morbid for her own good'. I don't want to chase you off or make you choose not to chat with me... really." Her eyes turn to you again and some of the grey has started to lighten to blue.. not fully, but a bit.
     Snorting at the thought of ears on the walls, Tori murmurs, "Let them have their ears. We have our hearts and our minds, and only we know what is truly within those." Such a rebel. Unfolding her legs from beneath her, as though they have cramped up on her, she adds more softly and with less humour, "You speak in riddles, dear Hansl, but that is good enough for now, I suppose. I only hope I have, again, not chased you away from the idea of chatting with me again sometime. But I know you only intended to be here a short time and it is getting late... the sun will be up before we know it," she adds with a gentle smile.

     "No riddle," Hansl answers, straightening. "And ja, I must go and cleanse my work area, even if not myself, before the sun has risen. It is difficult for me to remain alert, awake, when the sun makes its presence known over the rim over the world." There's a curt nod, and he begins rolling down his cuffs, buttoning them into place, restoring some semblance of exactitude to his appearance.
     "You give me much credit," he adds after a moment. "To think there is that much in heart and mind, of me. I fear you are mistaken, frau Tori. But I thank you for the honour nonetheless. Guten nacht."

     "I think I will stay here... and let Raf panic and come find me in the morning. I have to keep that man on his toes... or something," Tori says with a slanted grin. Devilish, as she used to be. "Besides, this sofa's comfy," she adds with a wink.
     She starts to fall silent, then breathes in to speak, "Hansl, you give yourself not enough credit... and -that- is a shame. Good night, and take care of yourself."

     There is the faintest suggestion of protest behind the veil of his eyelashes, but he says nothing, simply nods, offering a sketch of Teutonic bow. The heels silently click, and Hansl turns to complete his paused circuit through the chamber to his quarters.

Posted by rowan at March 12, 2004 12:30 PM