You are sheltered by the overarching summit of Ca'Pesaro. Above you, only the face of God. And you are held within the grasp of a portico that travels from archway to archway, past windows, past columns, around the whole of Ca'Pesaro's exterior.
     Below, smaller canals twist and intersect, with narrow bridges leading between the many buildings in Ca'Pesaro's shadows. Palazzo after palazzo. Tiled roof after tiled roof. It is unending...
     There are shelters within shelters here. To either side of you, there are

     It is the perfect time of night...
     So much activity still. It is the dawn of Youth, and the sunset of the Old. Where one may feel the blood racing with the evening's first adrenaline, first dance, twelfth drink.
     There is no better place to stand. To stand on Ca'Pesaro's portico is to place your fingers lightly on the neck of the city and to lightly press it. That beneath your fingers, that is the pulse.
     For Girault, it is the first stop of the evening. A long evening yet ahead. He stands upon the portico, his hands resting on the granite railing that separates him from his Venetian heaven. His hair is left to its own designs tonight, curled burgundy-black. And for this fall night he is in layers of blacks and cinnamon, threads of gold.
     It is the beginning...
     Tonight, the ending shall be in layers of blood and flesh. Come, Venetian children -- let me hear you laugh!
     A small smile pulls at the beautific mouth and cinnamon eyes open to the view.

     "You're staring," Christian says, leaning against the boundary between inside and out. He is dressed in a crimson shirt, left open and uncuffed. His pants are black, causing him to look as if half of him is missing. "What are your plans? Don't you tire of Venice?" He does. But then he tires of everywhere so easily.
     He pushes himself from the support, letting the breeze blow him your direction. "I should convince you to go to Copenhagen with me one night. Or how about Capetown..."

     "Copenhagen..."
     Instant and immediate interest. It is expressed in the turn, the trailing of fingers upon stone and leaving stone and the city behind. Is Venice so easily discarded, Girault? Tsk, and after it took them so long to build it in your honor!
     The smile grows and he leans against the old stone railing. His back is to Venice now. "The sea, the chill in the air, the furs..." The pause...
     "The sailors...why do I not listen to you more often, Christian...and... in truth... yes, perhaps Venice has worn on me," the thoughtful mull of that voice. When in song, the richest tenor. He inclines his head. "You have the way to restoration..." He knows it is true. He does not end such a phrase with the lift of inquisition.
     And then that mouth forms a seraphic grin. "When do we go! It will take me a week alone to pack!"

     "Oh, well. That was easier than I thought," Christian laughs, now facing you. He leans against the railing, wending his tall frame into something much closer. "A nice late fall in Copenhagen it is then," he agrees. We can leave...whenever you want."
     How careful you both are. It does little good to have a prominent member of the Justicar involved with one of the Circle. Not that any relationship is maintained...unless looked at over spans of time. Christian chuckles, running a hand through his golden-brown hair. When in shirts like these, there seems a hint of auburn to it, something coppery beneath. "Remember though, if we go...we could get stuck there, if a storm comes in. That would be problematic," he murmurs, looking up at you from his half-lie along the columned railing.

     Such talk can only engender laughter. Girault in a relationship. Only the blind or the short-lived could not see the Truth beneath the many centuries. But, of its exact nature. Those who could not know, do not suspect. Those who might suspect, do not ask. Those who know what they know -- well, they are standing right here.
     You are close, and so the hands are landing. A finger upon the crimson cloth. A touch straying upon the skin beneath it. And there is a laugh, ethereal. If you did not see his mouth part for it, you would have thought the wind was giddy. "Problematic for whom? I have no appointments...though... until Carnivale," February, "I am... left to my own designs, my Christian."
     Or to yours...
     And he laughs again, the thought is audible to yours...
     "So...I will begin packing tomorrow... we will go at the end of this week. And then... tell me, Christian... we will forget Time for a little while..."

     "I didn't know you had such a need," Christian voices, grinning as he does, indeed, get wind of your thoughts. "What need you to avoid Time?"
     Already his hands are fidgeting for a cigarette, finding none.
     He looks up at you, pointed collar fluttering in the breeze. If you want to stay until February, that's fine with me, he thinks, rather leaving such detail to harder means of pickup. Though I will still have a few things to attend do. Sandrine. Ah, there is her name.
     He doesn't hide it from you, but there is no need to talk of it either. So much garbage can pass through the filters. She was on his mind at some point.
     But yes, February if you like. I'm never one to plan a schedule for existing.
     "Besides, who'd come looking in Copenhagen," he drawls, as if naming the Pit of Penultimate Darkness. It is not fashionable to be caught in Denmark these days.

     But there have been faces... names... souls on his mind as well. You speak Sandrine, and it taps into one. Tapping into this one -- Davydd -- brings Edward to mind. Edward, with his new charge, his new life. This brings him to Alfonso, his old friend, recently restored to his library. Libraries make him think of Ian. And then, ultimately, William. How they all fit together.
     I need to ... stop staring at an old city and get out and live, si? You know how easy it is to feel like a relic when you are standing on a relic...
     A slow and winding smile moves upon his lips. And you have counseled The Dragon about The Flower... Our dearest Tulip. She is a treasure. But that is where that ends.
     I will remain in Copenhagen until the promise of spring. I will make my triumphant return to Italy, and then, Girault makes a wave.
     Whatever. Wherever.
     His fingers leave your crimson shirt, his eyes straying a moment more and then he moves from the railing. "I have had enough of looking. I am interested now in having..."

     Indeed. Christian's eyes flare and return to their softness, mock humor in your statement. "What's brought all of this on, signore?" he teases with such common title. "I would think you'd never tire of Venice. I'm not going to complain," Christian's hand waves, "...about going elseplace, but...I'd like to know your mind, of course." How could any friend not?

     "I do not know, mio caro... I think I am ... in a doldrum..." There is sudden Philosophy on his face and he tilts his head toward the sky. To the moon over Venice. The stars in the sky. "It has been two days since I have visited the boys in my palazzo. It is like when the trees go to sleep for the winter. I need to be woken... this blood, this blood... I need to feel inspired..."
     "That's it! Inspired..." Girault turns to you. "I need to sing. I need to sin... it is simple!" his hands gesticulate and then one ends at his mouth, thumb and index finger squeezing his lower lip. "I need a master in my bed. I need an audience when I wake. I need to get out of this old city for a little bit..."

     He sits up, Christian does, a bit surprised at your response. "Do you not do these things at your whim? You can have whatever you like, Girault," his brows arch, "...you have it. What...inspiration can I provide? Copenhagen? Inspirational?" That brings a chuckle to his soft lips, a look down to the canals below.

     When one lives in palaces of glass and beautiful young men, maybe Copenhagen is what he needs...
     I do ... I do... you are right. And then Girault laughs, narrowing his eyes with it and he reaches out to touch you. "Never grow old, Christian. It is not pretty..." And he laughs loud at this, a clasp of his hand to your upper arm. "Come... the view of Cannaregio is making me weepy. I must go!"
     And he shimmers...
     Into a shadow...
     But you hear his voice. O, that voice. That tenor that should make stars and angels weep. Italian is bettered for his tongue.
     But then again, as you know, Christian... what wouldn't be?

     Christian stumbles behind you, laughing as he says, "Wait. I am old," he reminds. Just how aged...is the question...

Posted by rowan at March 25, 2001 11:15 AM