Fashion is all around the Hotel des Rois. Known for its exclusive clientele and its kowtowing to the requests of royalty and nobility (visiting, of course), the Hotel des Rois is truly one of the crown jewels of Paris boutique hotels.
     The penthouse suites, three chambers in all -- a receiving room, sitting room and two bedrooms -- is a blend of modern and L'Age d'Or. It is a suite fit for an emperor. Silk curtains are pulled back, and French doors may be opened onto a terrace -- should one so desire. Paris is a spectacle beyond the glass...
     Glittering, promising. Paris is good at making promises. It is horrible at keeping them.
     You have received packages each night you have been here. From Hermes and Armani. Gloves, handkerchiefs, tie pins, no lack of excess. Again, tonight, in his absence, you received several boxes from private, and very expensive boutiques. Tonight's gift? The newest collection of silks and Italian wools from Valentino -- clothing, bed clothing, a new robe, pajamas, thin sweaters, a new jacket. Already tailored. Each hand-wrapped.
     He has been gone for hours now. Not for any meetings, maybe for more shopping, ah, oh yes... and to stop by the Hotel De Ville to see if the Ventrue have anything to say to him. Anything at all.
     You hear him coming down the hall, no doubt. Before he removes the card key and activates the door to the receiving room. Before he unlocks the sitting room door to enter the vast living room area, with its grand view of the river and all of the evening splendor of the City of Lights.
     He is dressed in a grand suit. He fits the landscape of this city, does he not? Beautiful, like Paris. Grand, like Paris. Smoking constantly... like Paris. William looks for you as he comes in, an exhale (let us call it what it is, it is a sigh) carrying the smoke from him and painting the air with it. "Bonsoir..." he says as he enters, indigo seeking you out.

     "Bonsoir," Ian replies, returned from his own merry adventure. He's removed most of his suit, remaining only in his slacks and his shirt that's untucked. In his hand, a scotch. In his other hand? A telephone moving downward to its cradle. "You are back earlier than I anticipated," Ian murmurs, winking as he walks to greet you. "Welcome back," he offers before brushing his lips across their mate's.
     It's only a brush. Ian chuckles and spins to walk away, glancing at his watch. "When do we leave Paris," Ian wonders, diving into his glass again.

     The jacket comes off as his mouth is brushed with yours, his hand holding the cigarette out of your way. "Hmmm...well, there was not much to do but to sit around and watch the world be mastered. I was met at the door by Ermengarde.... well, past the hall of fame," he makes a wave, cigarette balanced between his lips. William sets his jacket aside, draped over a chair at the dining table.
     "We have tickets to the opera, her offer, I could not refuse. We will go... tomorrow night... stay until the first intermission and then we will leave." He exhales. "Then we will go home to Chinon. It's been years... you know... the place hasn't changed in the slightest. Well, new faces... I do not know which is worse, the anonymity I longed for or the silence of disapproval."
     Indigo eyes flicker, darkly shining here and there. "You get your delivery?" He smiles. "That is one thing I will give Paris. It is easy to shop, mais oui? And it is easy," William moves over to you, "...to lavish you with gifts."
     He takes a seat, settling with an exhale of smoke and then reaching over for the ashtray. "I was walking through that entry hall, you know...with all of the tapestries... I caught myself being..." William peers suddenly, eyebrows drawing together, "... upset that my family was not there. And I realized that I was the only one who cared. I do not know what to do about myself, Ian. I think ... I need your help. Why do I feel this way, still? Will I ever feel anything differently, or just this..." he rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "When I come here, all I ever feel is my own disappointment."

     Ian turns around and walks over. No, no it wasn't what he had in mind. "I got all of your packages, laird, thank you." But that's not the topic of conversation at the moment.
     "And why is your family not on the tapestries? Because your family..." Ian's brows arch, "...was under the Toreador banner? Do you remember," what I have told you. "My actions...our plans..." the clan's, "...well, you were to be the first Ventrue of that house."
     Ian stops and frowns slightly, trying to assess the situation. He stares at you a moment, then sighs as he takes a seat next to you, glass set aside. His hands fold together as they dangle between his parted legs.
     "How do you need my help, laird?" Ian offers, quieting in spirit at least. Open. Forget the rest, the explanations. "What can I do?"

     He starts to ask you whether you liked them, you see it, a momentary desire to tangent. But it does not last. The expression is thoughtful still, but peering inwardly. "I know," he frowns slightly. "I don't know, Ian. I think it is... my fault, hmm? My responsibility," William decides to say, "...that I feel, that I have always felt, so separate. I ...just do not know how to ... stop feeling ...separate."
     He reaches over, stamping out the cigarette into the lead crystal ashtray. "I was in there tonight," William continues quietly. "And I noticed... that the only one who was upset about my being there was me. The only one who ... was creating this ...separation was me. The only one passing judgement against myself... was me..." Dark eyes settle on you. "So... how do I accept it, mon ami, that I am this Plantagenet in a Capet universe?" He smirks.
     "How do I accept it... amours... that it is... what it is. I am who I am. I ... am the Toreador Ventrue. How do I move past this... sickness in me that does not want to see the good that I do but only that I am not doing enough, that I am not in Paris, that I am not... one that my clan has ever sought out. That considers for anything. Hell, half the time I expect they're going to stop me at the door and question me like some impostor. But I seem to be the only one asking the questions."

     "Oh, I am certain there were some who were upset that you were there," Ian nudges, smiling in a tease. "But they are not upset with the Toreador or the Plantagenet. They, if anything, are upset with the William the Ventrue that they know. That's all they know."
     "But it is a Capet house," Ian nods, understanding. "Are you still fighting them, laird? Nine centuries later? The Capets gave way to the Valois, the Bourbons and then...to nothing. An age ago and their name appears on a tapestry just as your mother and grandfathers appear at the Louvre. But they are all dead and those memories of them in yarn are not you."
     "Our house stands, laird," Ian smiles, looking over. "The house of the Lion and the Griffin. That is the House that came to be. That is the symbol that will one day adorn a tapestry of the Hotel. That is what we look to make now. And in a few centuries, when we have done it, so shall it be."

     He does grin at that. Oddly enough, it makes him feel better. "Do you think?" William chuckles. "Hmmm... I am sure there was more than one." He sighs then. "I don't know what else to do but fight my own family." The smile smoothens. "It's all I've ever known. I can't trust my brothers, can I? Hmm? Would I?"
     Non. Never.
     He is still. He listens to what you have to say. It is there, mapped upon his features. His understanding. His own wonder. William looks to you, a long moment. "Our house still stands," he quietly confirms. But there is something still that is troubling him. Something ... with which he still struggles.
     "I fear... that I have done nothing to improve our odds, Ian," William admits quietly. "I painted, when I should have warred. I sculpted, when I should have ruled. It has put us... in a ... challenging position perhaps. You... know it is true, how my work is seen by Them. Tonight, the primogen of Paris was talking to me about balance sheets," he almost groans it as he rises, as he moves to the bar and pours himself a brandy. "Giving me advice," a roll of his eyes, "... as if I were trading pork bellies. They have no fucking idea. And they've never known what to do with me, what to make of me, what to think of me. Perhaps it is ... because I have always wrestled with it myself..."
     He pauses. "Do you want something? A scotch? A brandy?"

     "They are unsure, yes," Ian murmurs, "...of what to talk about with you. The older ones know," Ian nods. "The younger ones, well, I guess they do not care and do not know. Maybe the advice was to connect with you in the only way that she knew how..." he thinks, putting his hands behind him to perch. Ian crosses his legs and looks ahead.
     "And when I am there, we speak of forecasts and making the line. Of balance sheets. Of business," Ian's lips purse. He looks at you. "That is all there is to discuss and it's all I would discuss with them. It is...normal. That is what interests us. Of buildings and acquisitions, of our hooks into the world."
     "It is how we reach each other," Ian thinks, " I guess."
     "If you want to continue fighting them, William," he looks to the ceiling, "...you can. But you are a different man and I hope, like me, you will want something different now. I should rather focus..." as I always have, "...on Our House."

     You are right, you are right, I know you are right...
     His hand makes the motion, he pours a drink for himself. You will drink from it if you choose, this he knows. "I don't care about them," he says after a time. "I am... tired of fighting myself. You know," he chuckles a little at himself, "... the Angevins could never get along with one another. Well, I am the only one left, and what do I do? I fight my own shadow..."
     Now he is rolling his eyes at himself. "It is about me," he knows. Not Them. They are only Them because he has made Them so. To coin a phrase. William sips at his brandy as he wanders back toward you, taking his seat beside you again. His free hand lands upon your thigh, a grasp of his fingers. "Our House... is the only one that ...really matters, I know that. And... it is true."
     His hand rubs and then draws away. "What more can I do," he murmurs. "What more, Ian... I am assuring that my ...share... is bolstered. Like the foundations of that building, hmm? My companies are all in the black. We are doing well. We compete, we gain contracts, and now... Venice. I am... doing all of this for us. In the end, I am where I began. Short of being king," he smiles at you, mouth twisting, "...I build the fortifications of a healthy duchy..." William shrugs a little.
     I don't know what else to do...

     "You are," Ian agrees, pushing to sit upright again. He frowns, always finding difficulty in talking about these things. They come to your past and his complicity in what's come. "You're right...I speak too much of them. It is because...maybe I do not understand the Angevin need and spirit. I am...only learning it now. I am learning what it thinks, how it sees the world and itself. You are doing well. I cannot say," Ian's head tilts to his shoulder, "...what you need, laird, because...I do not...understand it myself?"

     "The Angevin need is to conquer and to rule," William answers quietly, sipping the brandy, settling back in his chair. He stretches his long legs, his eyes trailing down his own form. "We cannot rest. What we were yesterday is never good enough. We cannot be good. We must be brilliant. We examine and re-examine. We build and we rebuild. We chew up territory and the skin of our lovers with our insatiable appetite for more." He looks to you.
     "That is who we are," he murmurs. "And that is what I have been given, for good or for ill. It is what is in me. Doing well... is not enough. I am not king. I am not emperor. I have not reached the summit of this experience. The truth of the matter is ... is that there is no top and there is no end. And so... this is my cycle, hmm? For eternity. When I couldn't be king, I became a great lover. I became a great artist. A great forger. I stole, captured, claimed. My territory now is the stolen landscape of acquired works and hidden forgeries." Hidden for now anyway. "When technology made forging obsolete, I turned elsewhere. Again... more... again... what is next..."
     And he moved through men and women the same way...
     "That is... who I am. So... I am hard on myself. I look in the mirror and all I see are the kingdoms I have not claimed, the empires I do not rule. It is... archaic." William smiles suddenly, the weight lifting off of his demeanor suddenly. It is like the rising of the sun. "I am harder on myself than all the Ventrue in all the Parises of the world, mais oui? I measure myself against... my own family... and it isn't fair perhaps, but that is... what I do. And we have talked about the difference between art and business. It bothers me... it bothers me because while I rule one I do not rule both. I am not seen... or viewed in a way that I feel honors me. And so... what... I get upset."
     If one's heredity could be considered a derangement, then... he certainly has a major issue of Angevinitis...
     William smirks at himself. He shakes his head. "And Paris... is just a symbol of something I have not done. I am not sought for here. I have not "conquered" it," he notes. "It's... just a symbol." He is quiet for a time. "I think I will... have my office refuse the tickets. I think... I want to go home tomorrow. I think I need to go home tomorrow..."

     It is not that he does not know this of the Angevin. He knows the litany - but he cannot provide a solution to something that is endless. Any boundaries cannot come from him. Ian's eyes widen slightly, and he nods his head at the summation.
     "Then, we go home, laird," Ian says in an exhale. It is that simple.

     "How would you feel about a ... summer sojourn in Scotland?" he wonders suddenly, turning his head, looking to you. No, right now I do not want to be in Chinon. I need to be home.
     "I think I could use a break from the Loire," the smile slants. "Would you not say? Hmm?" William chuckles suddenly, his hand moving through his short, thick hair. "So, that was a bit of a confessional wasn't it? Sorry, amours..."
     He stands with that, setting the glass on the table, and he removes his phone from his jacket that lies draped over the chair. A call to be placed to his office.

     Ian's face brightens and he stands up, sighing loudly. "Home...sounds wonderful, laird. And do not apologize," Ian says softly, stretching slightly himself. "Where was I?" he wonders for a moment. "Ah."
     Spying his glass, Ian picks it up to refill it. He walks away to the scotch and looks down as he focuses on pouring himself another.

     "Bonsoir, Eros..." Eros Foury. Once the supervisor of valets, now William's personal attache. "You will be receiving a call tonight, probably from Juliana." As he speaks on his phone, he bends, fishing out cigarettes and lighter from his jacket pocket. "Yes. Decline them politely. Business takes us elsewhere sooner than expected. I will call you tomorrow night. I will not be at Chinon. Hmm, mais oui... good night..."
     There. He exhales. Much better. "Home does sound wonderful," he stows the phone and lights another cigarette. "So," smoke eases past his smile as he heads for the sofa. "... Scotland in summer. We should go to our lighthouse." Yes, we should.

Posted by rowan at February 15, 2005 09:57 PM