Gardens are forever his sanctuary...
     Perhaps he should have been Franciscan for all the comfort he has found in them over the centuries. He prays here, meditates here, reads here... even though he has a full house of reading rooms and other comforts... and to the consternation of his council, he even has private meetings here, insisting on pruning as he talks politics.
     They are beginning to refer to him as The Gardener, rather than The Prince. It is a change of title with which Alire could not argue... or with which he would even disagree.
     He retreats here, on occasion. Yes, it is his armor and his shield. All of these green things, these living things sustain him, particularly when his mind is busy. It allows him a peaceful and civilized way of focusing. His mind has been crowded of late, much with the concerns and interests in and about his lover -- what is on his mind, what his struggles may be, that he journeys far without Alire present, what would happen if Giancarlo were not to return...
     ...And then there is Poitiers. A normally peaceful city, peaceful still, but not without its issues. Tonight, Alire's phone has been busy; so much so, that the Gardener turned off the ringer, switching it to vibrate. There has been a disagreement among his kind tonight. It has him quiet.
     Alire does not wear his gloves tonight. With his bare hands, he touches his plants, feeling as much as seeing, sensing like an angel, which need trimming and which are fine. Small scissors tonight trim and shape the herbs in his greenhouse. Some of the herbs are quite exotic, a few varieties from the Amazon jungle, as well as the usual suspects -- most medicinal in value but some also for cooking. Their various flavors perfume the air after every motion of his finger.
     At least, he can smell it...
     His sky blue, cobalt-rimmed eyes watch carefully each bend of a leaf, each curve beneath his finger. But their look is also distant, drawn inward to his thoughts. Despite what his lover feels, he knows what is right in the long run. He is not meant for Poitiers, and Poitiers was not meant for him.

     "Alire," Cesare's voice floats from the kitchen window. A head pops out and twists left and right, eyes widening when his other half is spotted. Cesare smiles, and then begins to crank the window closed. He'll just come outside instead.
     The door soon opens, and the young Italian steps out with grappa. The small glasses are held gingerly as he leaves the open door behind. "Here. I thought you might like one. From Emilio's," he confirms, a cafe near his Venetian loft.

     "How did you know I was in need of a drink?" Are you psychic as well as magical, my Giancarlo? Alire looks up from the pillar that bears a pot of tarragon, and he smiles with not just his eyes but his whole being. "Emilio's... was that the little place on the corner of the Grimani market?"
     Ah, young Italians. Lord God, you created no better appealing creatures in all your world...
     The look certainly must be evident. And easily translated. Alire blushes, looking back down to the tarragon until the color fades. Nothing else to trim here. "Did you also bring bread and cheese? How was Venezia today, tesoro...still full of drama?"

     "Ah," eyes widen, as if surprised, "I have no idea. I...just went to Emilio's," he notes for the record, deciding to sniff his delicate glass. Bad boy. He probably materialized in a corner, and disappeared in the same fashion, taking their glasses to France with him. Cesare coughs a little, then smiles sweetly before lifting his glass to salute.
     "But yes, it is that place. Did we go?" Cesare wonders, thinking. Things blur for him. Time. Events. Activities. "Hmm," he murmurs, then says, "I should have gotten bread and cheese. A good idea. I'll go to..." he thinks, "...who would have such at this time of night..." Well, who'd be open?

     "You took me there... I would stop by sometimes on my way home from prayer and communion." He takes communion? Oh, yes... yes he does. Once a week at least. "Ah, it is nothing, tesoro," Alire drops into Italian, both out of consideration and habit. "You have eaten, yes?" Always, concern for you. He does not have to eat, he remembers.
     Alire takes the glass and lifts it in toast, his other hand holding still the little scissors. "Salut. To lovers and friends and meditating botanists everywhere." Again, with the joking. Alire has a sense of humor. Trouble is, hardly anyone was ever around to hear it. Or to understand it, once heard. But you know differently, don't you.
     "We will have bread and butter and cheese tomorrow. Ah, and when you are in the Italies, could you bring some good amaretto? And some fish. I will cook tomorrow night. It will be quieter then," he assures.

     There's a studious nod as Cesare makes a mental note. "I should be a botanist," Cesare thinks aloud. "Maybe I should have a profession, bello?" he asks, those French eyes behind, asking allowance and permission. "A reason...a thing to do?"

     "I think every man should have his passions... his work... what drives him, oui." Alire moves away from the herb pots and toward a selection of very fine roses, his own species in fact. One has very beautiful striping patterns in red and gold with an edging of blush around it. Startling flower. Alire looks from it to you, smiling.
     "You should be...whatever you wish to be. If a botanist, then... I have plenty of books for you to make your own library to draw from. But... you may be whatever it is you wish. What interests you most now?"
     Now, you have his full attention. The grappa is set aside, but so also the scissors. Alire's interested, open expression is there for you.

     The young man shrugs, folding an arm across his chest. The hand with the grappa joins it. There is quiet after the motion, a second or two, before Cesare says:
     "Power."
     His expression wrinkles a moment, hearing the word from his mouth. But even that seems fraught with tension. Yes or no?

     Alire looks at you for a long moment. "Power." Golden eyebrows lift just slightly. "Can you be more specific? Power ... magical or power...personal. Or...political?" He takes up the glass again, another swallow of grappa taken.
     You were always the ambitious one. Me? I was ever the bookworm. I never sought power, only to reconcile myself with the power I have been given, the tasks God set before me. You, of the two of us, were one fit to play such games as I play now.

     "I am not sure," Cesare explains, the frown still in his brow. "It is...what I feel, bello Alire. But it doesn't make much sense," he says softly, turning away to take a seat on the nearby bench. He crosses his legs, extending his arms to a comfortable perch at the top of them. "I don't know," he says again. So much emotion now.
     "I mean...I miss my studies, yet I do not enjoy them when I am reading. It is so..." again surprise, "...boring." Brown eyes look up and over to you. "I do not know when my work became boring. The search for the gold, reading. So..." his fists clench, "...useless. Stupid, Alire. A waste."
     "But what can I do?" Cesare stares at his hands again. "Swing a sword? That is what I feel like doing." A sly slant, "And I do not know when I learned to have the desire to swing a sword," he laughs. Well, he does know when, but still.
     "I want to do something, but the things I know how to do, I find such a waste. Low. A student for so long...what does that do for anyone? But if not that, then...what? No one swings a sword, bello."

     "No, tesoro. Now, they use guns." He is dressed immaculately, as he ever is, even when pruning plants he is in a suit. He opens it, and he shows you that the Prince is, in fact, armed. But it brings him no more pleasure now than it ever did then. "It is not as visceral, but it is much cleaner. Faster. War is a business now, a commodity. It erupts where it is useful and profitable. Or it is thwarted when it interferes with business."
     Spoken like a ruler, so suddenly...
     Or was he like this all along?
     "Perhaps it is time for you to put your books down for a time," he offers. "Until you are ready to return to them again. Life is long, our life is long," he corrects. "Sometimes reading about experiences is not... enough... you must experience things with your own hands. As to what you should do, if you cannot swing a sword? Perhaps there is something else that you can conquer, to make yourself feel better. If it is not the gold of Venice, perhaps it is...uniting those of your ilk in some way... I do not know, bello Giancarlo. If you do not enjoy your studies, may be it is simply a matter of ...changing what you are studying..."

     He was listening, mostly acknowledging in his stare to the manicured grass. But at the notion of 'his ilk,' Cesare looks up.
     "My ilk, bello? What do you mean?"

     "Magicians, tesoro... you wish power... that seems to me to be the most obvious route," Alire mentions. "You were mentioning something about Venice. A problem there. Perhaps if you were to solve it, you would begin amassing the power you seek."

     Brown eyes watch you intently, then move to the roses when your voice halts. He'll have to think about this, and that begins now. Apparently, your suggestion is new; such thoughts had not come to him. In his experience, he has never enjoined a community of mages. In this life, he's been alone.
     "I am not so sure about this," he whispers. "It is the closest word to what I think I feel, bello Alire. It sounds so...selfish. Greedy." So unlike himself. "Evil."

     "You are not evil," Alire murmurs. It is a soft assurance, that sound, and his look echoes it. "What seems ... wrong to you. Greedy to you. Hmm, tesoro? The fact that you wish power now?"
     Alire peers at you, he studies you. "You want more... more out of your life? I am trying to understand what it is you want. You are restless, that is natural. Especially after such things that have happened."
     Alire takes a seat on one of the benches, his hands folding, resting on his stomach. "You know... that power comes with pros and cons. I have power. I wrestle with it. I cannot say I am happy to have it, but bello... that is me. I have never enjoyed it. You... perhaps having ... responsibility... accountability... purpose... these are important things to a fulfilling life."

     "I didn't want more before," Cesare understands of himself. But that was then. This is now. And now is different. He sighs, not really belaboring the point. He knows there is no need. "Power corrupts though, bello. And I am feeling...already corrupted. I have thoughts now that are new."

     "Power does corrupt," Alire notes softly. "That is why I am uncomfortable wielding it. It requires caution. I am ... exceedingly good at caution." But it is a sacrifice. He will have to speak with his bishop about his inner conflict. "Power is a sacrifice. Always, you have to give up something to achieve it."
     Alire looks to his hands for a time, looks to them without really seeing them. After a few moments of silent thought, his blue gaze returns to you. "Corrupted?" Those eyes narrow in intense thought. "What do you mean, you feel ... corrupted."

     There's a shrug. Just how I think sometimes," Cesare murmurs, finishing off his grappa. It's swallowed and the empty glass set into the grass at his feet. "Some things I think. Of violence," he explains. "Thinking of power. If you think of it, you should not be trusted with it. This much I know." He cannot say the same of his former self.
     "So I think of it, then I think...no, no, I have not thought of it before, and so that I am, that means that I truly should not have it."
     "I want to be content in being with you, bello," Cesare smiles to you, extending this hand. "That is all I want and all I should need. I don't want to be involved in other things, for they could take me from what is most important. From the real reason I am here."

     "But you must also be content, Giancarlo," Alire notes. "You are not here simply to be with me. You willed to find me. You found me. But you must have your own desires, your own contentment." Alire pauses, sitting forward on the bench. His hands steeple together, those fingers so strong but so gentle. The hands of a priest.
     "I know you have not been happy in Poitiers. That it does not fit you." He lifts a hand as if to stop a potential disagreement. "I know... it has not been...what we would have chosen. It has been difficult for you to feel at ease here. And... I feel ..."
     Normally, he says: I think. Cogito ergo sum -- your definition is Alire d'Avignon. But he says...
     "I feel," again, and softly and full of emotion, "...that I am distracted too with things that keep me from what is most important now, in my life. Which is you. Not these calls..." A moment later, his phone begins to vibrate on the cement work counter. He lets it vibrate. "Not this business I have taken upon myself, the health and welfare of the vampires of Poitiers."
     He exhales. "So I understand your predicament, mon ami, for I share it."

     "It does not matter where we are to me, Alire," Cesare reiterates. "If you see...I am having trouble in Poitiers, it is not because it is the city of Poitiers. It is...the restrictions on ourselves, this is true. We...hide behind these walls. It is not hiding from fear, it is to secure ourselves and safety. To not cause troubles, it is true. But I am fine with this, for my focus is you. And then again, if you were not here," his shoulders lift, "...what else would we do? I do not care so much for Venice," at least someone doesn't, "...I do not miss it."
     "What would we do if we have no focus? At least, here, we understand what is required in this mission, bello..." And we are the types to see it through.

     "But we have to hide... here... we have to be careful, always. We are of two worlds, now. And mine is ... even more insular than the Templars." Alire half-smirks, half-frowns. "If you can imagine it. I wish we had more freedom. To travel, to ... see things together. To experience things together without the tug of duty."
     Alire then laughs softly at himself. "It is a soldier's dream. I do not know what such a life would be like. I would probably ... get restless and bored and sick of hotels." Alire sighs. "So... what can we do... to inject a little freedom among my duty. What can I do, Giancarlo, to make things better for you?"

     I would be better without the nightmares. Cesare begins to say it, then smiles. "There is nothing for you to do. Despite what we have talked about," he looks down, "...I am glad we have a mission, bello. We shall win it, if you wish to stay in it. I am," he smiles, "...an exceptional operative for my mission captain," he smiles. You give him purpose.
     "I think I would rather our mission, than...for both of us to feel unfocused, bello." Bad things happen. "I do know that much."
     "But I...am of another mind," not surprising, "...for I want you to be happy in all things. And if that is not in Poitiers, then I am prepared to accept your will too. No, I do not know what a life without a mission would be like," Cesare smiles. "Maybe we could find out."
     A sigh follows. "Prague calls us," his brown eyes sidle to see you nervously, "I think."

     Yes, he has felt that too. You see it in his eyes. "Yes," he echoes. "I ...believe it does, bello." The phone has stopped vibrating. Alire rises and moves to it. So small the modern contraption is in his hands. He sees the number. It is no emergency. But he will have to return it.
     Alire places the phone in his coat pocket. "I follow a greater path, bello, than the path of princes. It is ... something I took upon myself. I am on the Path of Heaven," he continues softly. "A path back to God. That has been my purpose, my true purpose all of these years. It is ... why I was in Our Lady Beneath the Chain, our old church and stronghold. I was ...giving and receiving confession."
     Vampires pray?
     "I ... feel that what I have done is to place myself at odds with my true path and purpose... I went there to seek advice. What I found... was you." Alire smiles a little. "One asks for a sign from God. One doesn't expect them to ...come so clearly. So clearly, that I missed it. Until you found me here. Again. Then, immediately, I regretted my new station. I find it keeps me from my chief delights. The love of my life and my immortal soul."

     Cesare's expression is so pensive these nights. Every conversation causes him to go quiet, to think. Vampires may pray, and he does not care. But he knows his Alire prays, that his Alire is a servant of God, a priestly man. He was better suited to the Hospitallers than the Templars, then as now.
     But his relationship with God - that remains a thorny issue. Cesare no longer rails against the deity. When you speak of Him, there is nothing but silence.
     "I cannot say what happened at Our Lady Beneath The Chain," Cesare says neutrally. "If your purpose is to do the things you say, then I shall support you in that," he says softly.

     "It is not something that can be solved in a night," Alire says with a sudden smile. "You have given wise counsel and I have heard you. And I appreciate what you have said. I am glad we talked about this. I have been worried." He smiles again, his humor directed inward. "Imagine that... worry? From d'Avignon?"
     Alire comes to you, he reaches for your hands. "Man of my heart," he speaks it as a Truth and as a vow, "... my own purpose... is to serve God and to love you. Everything else... everything else," he echoes in a whisper, "... is secondary. So... we go to Prague... when you wish," he notes. "As you wish. I will pay my respects there. It is almost time for my yearly visit..."
     "Come," he murmurs in that way he has. It is not the seduction of others but the warmth of comfort, of unconditional love that is in his voice, that is so strong. His right hand goes behind your head lightly, drawing you in for a kiss. His hands cradle you. The kiss is far more impassioned than from the mouth of a priest...

     A kiss always brings a smile. Arms eagerly embrace once fingers part, sliding around a crusading waist. Cesare's breath is warm and living, and his hands lay open to hold the back he knows so well. He sighs when the kiss is done, sleepily putting his head upon the nearest shoulder. Cesare will take the comfort, letting the conversation dissipate into the night air.

     A hand touches to your head, in love more than benediction as you rest your head upon his shoulder. Alire closes his eyes, his other arm around you. There is nothing more to be said. Nothing more important than this.
     You and I, Giancarlo...
     This is what matters most...
     Alire turns his head, bending it slightly, to kiss your head.

Posted by rowan at May 07, 2005 01:15 PM