Twilight and the vespers called him. A prayer before the night begins, this is how he must greet his evening. A moment of solitude before Alire of Poitiers gives himself over to work and to his lover, Giancarlo. Michele.
     The basement is where he slept before he revealed his true nature. It is both crypt and museum. There are no windows here, nothing to interrupt the darkness but the lighting of a single candle beneath the breath of an orison.
     The light, though dim, reveals the lingering reminders of Templar treasures, that which he was able to preserve of his own, even trinkets of the others kept in here as a memorial to them all, to all those to whom he is indebted. Alire kneels upon a velvet cushion made for that purpose. He removes his buttoned shirt, and with eyes closed reaches for a dark object near the altar covered by a Templar flag.
     A cat of nine tails...
     It is an image forever before my eyes. The night before we left for Switzerland, my chateau, to be hidden from the eyes of men (but never of God). A moment before parting for the night, there was a kiss. Mist of cool air became steam between us..
     No one before you, no one since you, Michele, has ever mad me feel, love, want, or need. It is debatable who puts me faster on my knees -- you, or God. I loved you for all that you were -- and as I wished myself to be. You were so brave. Always, the charger.
     I had my chances. In the cell with you I had them. When they parted us, I had them. When they flayed my skin and teased me with evisceration, I had my chances. But I wept silently, when I should have cried out my love. I wept silently when they took you from your cell. I wept silently when the guards told me with their blackened grins that you had burned, screaming your defiance. I could year you, Michele, even as far away as Chinon.
     I weep silently, ami, every night. Here, on my knees for you and for God, ever pentinent, ever sinful, ever guilty of my silence. Silent, still, as the knotted and needled leather tears my skin. I, and my blood, still weep.
     Forgive me, mon ami...
     For not saying it enough...
     For not screaming in defiance for you...
     For not saving you, ami...
     I surrendered you, in my silence...