Once every so often, and not in any particular pattern or date order, not even a certain day of the week, Alire will wake early. He will pad downstairs sometimes in his pajamas (he does not sleep in the nude unless it is by happenstance or circumstance), or sometimes even fully clothed.
He calls it his morning salutations...
He prays at the start of every day and at the end of every night, caught in a pattern older than most modern nations. Were he awake during the midday hours, he might even follow all of the stations of the cross throughout his day.
Sometimes these prayer sessions last an hour...
Tonight, he has gone from sunset to twilight and to the first hint of evening. A full hour tonight...
He's never minded much on the heading out for prayers. He knows there's no need for an invitation or himself to follow. Every man deserves his time alone. Cesare simply remains ensconced in bed, sometimes amusing himself with his latest magic trick. Occasionally, he'll fall to slumber.
This is not to say he is not aware. Aware of the house, aware of the energy spent. Intense prayer is nothing but magic, and that he's coming to understand in spades. Sometimes, the energy piques him, and his eyes open and he listens: not so much with his ears, but with the attunement of a mage hearing reverberations across the universe. And the sounds? Some positive, sometimes confusing.
But after three years, he leaves Alire to his Time. And why not? Cesare has his own, where he must expend the power that builds within him. Sometimes it happens here, in bed, with Alire present. Sometimes, it happens near the Massif Central, between the mountainous ridges. A burst of fire and invisible wave that leaves him expended.
And so Cesare lies back upon the bed, arms beneath his head. He closes his eyes to travel the planet as he's coming to understand it. His travels take him everywhere now, even if he physically never leaves the room. It's almost...almost...comforting.
Intense prayer is magic, belief and hope balled together in steepled hands, the keepers of whispered words. Incantations? Yes, incantations. He is a mystic, as most Templars were, and he knows what he does when he marks his own skin. My blood for their blood.
But it will never be enough...
The energy has been intense tonight. Roiling and building, it is spent in sudden bursts. Not rhythmic but strong. Again, no pattern. That lasted for nearly half an hour...
Sometimes when Alire returns from these salutations, he is energized -- of good humor and attentive. Sometimes, he is pensive, quiet, introspective. It is one of those nights...
He appears in the doorway, fresh from a basement shower. The shower was cold, restorative. There is no condensation when he comes into view, no feeling of warmth or heat emanating from his skin. He stops at the doorway and looks at you.
"Are you asleep, amice?" he whispers. Just in the off chance that you are, in fact, napping. He comes in, wearing a simple pull over, a thin cream-colored sweater, with a pair of grey slacks. His steps are soft, purposefully quiet (a skill long ago learned) as he approaches the bed.
"I am here," Cesare responds in Italian, it coming easier than French. His eyes open and he looks to the doorway while giving a small smile. "Are you alright?" he asks cursorily, the same as any other night.
He smiles as he sits upon the bed. "I am going to practice my Italian tonight," Alire speaks it fluently, he needs no practice. "Hmm... how is my Venetian dialect doing?" he wonders, tipping his head and looking at you. His Venetian dialect is doing quite well. "I wanted to talk to you about something... I want to know how you... feel about it, as it affects us both."
He keeps to Venetian, even as he rises and begins to move toward his closet. "It is about a decision... I want to make... for me. But... I do not act for one, now. I act... for two..." We are a couple, you and I.
Not that Cesare's one for accents. "I am a boy from the south, hmm? What do I care for Venetian sounds?" He exhales and sits up fully, letting the sheet land at his waist. He tilts his head, preparing to hear what you have to say. "I'm ready now," he teases.
Those light blue eyes make a double take where the sheet falls, and then he blushes. He wishes he would not blush, but he seems unable to help it. "I thought it might come in handy... when we live there..." Not that I am looking at your waist, or where the sheet leads, or what it may or may not be revealing.
Even after three years, he is this way...
"I ... am going to be speaking with my..." What would you call a Justicar other than a Justicar. "... with my commander," there, that is a familiar term. Alire comes out of the closet with a small box. "...and resign my position in Poitiers."
He returns to the bed, setting the box on the nightstand and turning to look at you without props, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. His gaze is keen, fixed on you and on his own decision. "When I accepted the position... I had nothing else in my life. No other reason ...not to tend to Poitiers. But you are here... and have reminded me..." Eyes downcast. "...that I am not as far upon this path as I had thought. There is more I must do and feel. And all of my effort must be focused on us... on you... and on myself."
The squinted left eye is a centuries old holdover. Cesare's head adjusts upright as he follows with a forward, if relaxed, watching of you. "Why would you resign a commission?" the knight asks. "We...are doing alright." And at one time, alright would be considered pretty good. "I don't understand," Cesare goes on, "...what you are saying. What path? We're doing..." never to say well, for Giancarlo cannot lie, "...okay..." We are not chased, living in fear, or hounded. Or imprisoned. That must count for something.
"It will mean...difficulties for you?" Among that kind. "I do not understand, bello Alire."
Oh, how he knows that look. "We are doing... alright," he uses your word. "We are doing ...okay, tesoro. But we are not thriving. And ... we should be," he looks proud for a moment, high-born for a moment, a knight for a moment. "We should have that chance now, as we did not have it before. I long for my ...flexibility back. My ...ability to leave with you if I should so choose, to go wherever it is you feel you need to go, or want to go. But we are anchored here, in Poitiers, where neither of us have any real ties. You spend your days in two places..."
If he only knew how many places you traveled...
"If you had found me... even six months before you did, tesoro, I should never have stayed her. I took this commission... to give the city a smooth transition...and I have done that. I think that I can fashion a good and plausible argument to my commander, based in logic and not in emotion. I have always served my Kind well, and in honor. They have long memories. Sometimes it can be for the good of things. We are not all...creatures as in the books. Or as Nathaniel may have told you..."
A frown follows, more of confusion and as if to say 'where'd he come from?' But Cesare relaxes immediately and shrugs. "I am grateful that we found each other, Alire, that is all. You cannot..." and he can't imagine doing it himself, "...resign such a commission. It's an honor," he presumes, based on his own experiences. "We are happy, yes?" he asks. What else is there. "There is no need to leave your work."
"It is not an honor," Alire exhales. "It is a responsibility. It is politics. And I am ill-suited for it. Before...when I had nothing... nothing but my routines and my schedules," he rises. "... what else could I do? Hmm? But seek to rise in the ranks of my Kind, or serve them in some way. But this is not the way..."
He was hoping for.... it is difficult for him to even say what he was hoping for. "I am on the path of God," Alire murmurs. "I am... a priest..." He makes a little face. "A Templar once, a Templar still. I should never have anchored myself to any one city in this way, not as its prince. Being a pope," his own eyes narrow and his face twists in disgust, "...has never appealed to me. Nothing has changed, Gian," he speaks softly.
Taking in a deep breath, as unnecessary as it is, composes him. "My work... my work should be my soul. The souls of those who are on the path with me. And the health and well-being of my lover. I feel... that if I remain here... I shall fail you again."
Again. He said it aloud.
None of the previous faces matches this one. Now Cesare's brows furrow and a hand lifts. "You never failed me, D'Avignon. Not ever. Not once. Not in heart, word or deed," he nods, jaw setting, "This...this I know. I know. You honored me," he smiles, "...and you never failed me. Not ever."
If anything, it was I who failed you.
"Do not say or believe such, Alire," his firmness softening. "Come here, do not walk so far away..."
There is a quiet little chuckle, a little humorless chuckle. The one that used to tell you he was afraid but did not want anyone else to know. In one battle, he was said to have laughed out loud in weariness after lowering his sword and killing the last man. He earned the reputation of one who is fearless when surrounded. It is quite the contrary.
Alire looks to you, but he has not heard you. Not truly. He did hear you call for him, and so with another exhale, squeezing the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, he composes himself and he returns to the bedside. "I did nothing to save you," he whispers. "I am not to blame... hmm... but I should have done more. What did I do, tesoro, but keep my mouth shut?"
He leans forward, he blinks his eyes. Those old ways of knowing his mind, particularly revealed when he is quiet. Elbows on his thighs, Alire puts his head in his hands, his flaxen hair displaced. "How is that not failure, that silence?"
Instead of tension, there is but relief. Cesare smiles, taking your hand in his own. Looking away, past you, Cesare begins:
"I understand," he says softly, "...that what happened to us was of our time. It was common. It was the way of men to do things, and in our privilege," he acknowledged, "...we thought nothing of something like that happening to us. We..." he grins, "...did such to others," he nods, "...for our King," and another nod, "...and for our Pope. It was..." he looks at you, "...what we knew."
"The others," he only darkens in the telling of a story, "...were taught as well. It was their way. We...fought to survive. To have honor, to have justice. To...simply explain..."
"It was not afforded us," Cesare's gaze returning from some scene of the past to your face now. "Not then. You kept your mouth shut, in order to live. Maybe," he chuckles, "I should have followed your example. Maybe it would have been different. We...could have survived and..." who knows what? Cesare brightens at the possibility in that lifetime. "Perhaps had a base existence, you and I, until we finally aged and perished, albeit together."
"Instead," and Cesare sighs now, for he turns his vision to himself, "...I did not know what you did. But I did what I did. Even if I think of it now, in hindsight, as an error, it was as it was. I spoke. And kept speaking. And on. And it got worse for us..." he thinks, "...for me. I did not know when to stop, until it was much too late for me, Alire. Much too late."
"Maybe I was a distraction," Cesare chuckles, gaze dropping to the hands, "...a decoy. Four of us perished, while..." the rest survived to speak of it.
"What I mean to say is..." he tries again, "...the tiniest of actions may bring about infinite amounts of change. We cannot say, for either of us, that what we did then, so long ago, affected any path any direction. I am not a fatalist, Alire. I am..." he smiles, "...I believe in second chances. I am not ready," he laughs, "...to speak of destiny. But this chance, now, in these lives, in these times," where the world is so, so very different, "...we have the opportunity to be together far longer than if we had those other lives. Our options now...are actually much better. We are..." Cesare grins at you, "...healthier. Smarter. We are...long-lived. We have magics. We have a world that...looks at us, you and I," his finger touching his chest and then yours, "...differently."
"If you wish," Cesare goes on, brown hair of some length these nights, "...to leave your commission and you feel it is right for you, then do so. I am the last to stop a man from what he believes, bello Alire."
"But if you think that I need something from you, something that must be fixed immediately. Something that must be fixed from our past life, then...that is no reason to leave a commission. It is not true. Our time together, to work things out, to...live..." he snarks, "...thrive," in your word, "...we have time for that to grow and happen."
"Je suis tres desole," his words are in French now, and soft. Hushed, he speaks his apologies, that he has voiced to no one living for centuries. Alire is quiet, until his emotion passes. He sits back and exhales, clearing thoughts. "I ... feel that I have things yet to... put in place, to ... understand... about my actions then, or...my inaction. Samuel was right, Cesare." His skin flushes. "And that is why I was angry with him. Because I had not... dealt with the things from my past. Certainly not completely."
"I am sorry," he says it again, and he rises. "I did not mean for... these things have been on my mind," Alire decides to say. "I have been concerned for you... and ...perhaps you thought you were the only one who was struggling. That is a lie," crimson rims his eyes as he looks to you. "I am as well. I have always been. Beneath the quiet."
Still waters run deep, they say. And at other times they hide strong currents beneath the show of tranquility.
"I know," Cesare nods stiffly. He is not sure how he has, but he knows. "We both are," he grimaces, giving confession despite his own words. Cesare suddenly stands, and his hand lifts and he cups your cheek, leaving his thumb to wipe tears. For himself, he is out of them.
"You feel you failed me," he says in the older French, to make his point. "That you betrayed me, by your silence, your desire for self-preservation. No, not that. A simple way that you are - to not speak, my D'Avignon. The quietest knight I ever knew. The one, the only one, who would keep our secret. And so you did."
"'We shall only be parted by Death. Is that not how it is said?"
"And we were. But it is not your fault. And nothing I shall say will make you believe it. A knight must find his own Truth."
Perhaps he has learned much in three years. His own words surprise him as they come in Michele's slightly-twinged Epernay. Maybe you will not see his adjustment, his clearing of his own eyes, his head. The voice of the past helped by the wisdom of the present, younger man.
"Maybe Alire should cry now," Michele's voice says softly, to no one. "Like you should have, so long ago?" The blood beneath his fingers eases the touch between skin. Cesare's thumb glides easily.
"And look," he whispers, "...you've made me leave the bed, since you keep trying to walk away from me." The thumb is removed and pressed between his lips.
"I'm not sure I know how, ami," Alire says it, but tears come all the same. "Or if I start, when I shall ever stop. What does it matter now?" You are witness to his own argument, said aloud to himself over centuries. "They are all dead. And I... you and I ... are all that is left."
He closes his eyes as you cup his face. There is a moment of shame -- to be this way in front of you -- but he does not move again. He does not run. "I ...appreciate your words," he murmurs, his own French is of the Alps. The tears halt. "I ...just wanted you to know... that you were not alone, ami."
He glances to the bed, then to you, and his coloring goes wild as Provence roses. "Woe to the one who keeps you from your bed," he chuckles. Something remembered, something shared. "You... who did... everything with such... distinction. With such energy. You are the fire, I am the ice," Alire finishes in a hush.
His hand gently touches your side and he steps into your hold. Steps in to find comfort in your arms, to feel you near. To feel your strength. And maybe your bravery will rub off on him.
"I would not say ice," Cesare laughs, indeed offering a strong embrace. His lips at your ear, he kisses and exhales. "It will stop and it does matter - not for them, but for you. I have cried for us, what happened to us. Why not you? Maybe I'll cry with you," he offers, kissing again.
"I am glad to know that I...am not alone. I should...we are not alone. Not anymore." He will not explain his own suffering, just that it exists. "Alone, lonely, together."
"You may seem like ice, but I would not love ice. I loved one...who was no less as fire...as I appeared to the world. I know the truth," he grins. "You feel everything. We both do."
"That would be a sight, mais oui? The two of us weeping in this maison," a twist of his mouth forms a begrudging sort of smile. One that makes a joke despite his not wanting to. The embrace is welcomed, and rejoined. His hands both pat at the end of it and he parts from the hold.
"No... we are not alone anymore. God be praised for that," he whispers, and he means that. He flushes as you speak of 'knowing the truth', the intensity that burns beneath that mountain of Swiss placidity. The Swiss are neutral, not because they do not care, but because they do not want anyone to know their mind. He comes by that quite organically.
"No more sacraments today," he says of his bloody tears, his hand coming up to wipe away the evidence of them. His eyes clear again, to be that sky blue. "And I will... let the matter of my commission... remain unasked and unanswered for now. I should not make such decisions out of emotion..." He rolls his eyes at himself. Always a chastiser, this one.
"So... you want to return to bed? What is it The Bello," capitalized for Giancarlo, and particularly for Michele -- everything in the capital for Michelle, "... wishes to do tonight. I have cleared my schedule for the night..."
"A good idea," Cesare nods on the notion of not making decisions so hastily. "Though, we are always emotional, and so...nothing will ever get done." Said matter-of-factly as Cesare waves it off. It's the truth of it. Ah well.
"As for tonight," Giancarlo twists left and right, not really knowing his thoughts, "...I had no plans, save to be with you. That may mean bed," he grins and nods, "...or something else, if you wish. Hungry? Shall we dine in Paris?" he says as if it's a short drive away.
"I will cause a stir if I go to Paris," Alire says softly. "If I go to Paris, everyone will wonder why, why is D'Avignon in Paris? What is happening? Who is he with? It is worse than the paparazzi, really." It is the part of it that he does not like. "How about we have... an old-fashioned night together. I will cook dinner for you... we will stay here and enjoy one another's company..."
His hand comes to your face now and he smiles. "Or many things will get done," he corrects your logic, "... but in chaos." Alire widens his eyes at that thought. Disorder? The horror! The horror! "How does that sound, hmm? I think... dinner in bed...and don't worry, I will be eating what you are eating," he smiles a little, "...and not you."
A joke!
Ah ha! Cesare, about to remark on Paris, laughs and shuffles his shoulders in mock-nervousness. "I would be concerned," he admits, "...except...I know I can take you, D'Avignon. Always have," he says, turning his back to crawl back to the bed.
"Oui.... and you know it is how I prefer it to be," D'Avignon retorts. He smiles, he peels off his shoes on the way to the bed. "But I seem to remember," he gives his weight to the bed as he sits down, "...you...occassionally let me win." Let me win is whispered for special emphasis. "Except in chess. Every man for himself there, hmm?"
When he smiles grandly, an expression worn so seldomly until you came to him (returned to him), he is a grand and beautiful creature. Real, human, full of hope and ...yes... funny.
It was not all sorrow and fires... was it...
In between the prayers ...and the wars... we had our moments...
"I have always... wanted you," Alire confesses as he removes his pullover sweater. I have always wanted to be more like you. "And I do not mind... losing... to such a worthy opponent..."
"I never let you win," Cesare grins, winking. "You won...because you bested me." He shrugs, tipping his chin up, "I can take my defeats when I earn them." With that, he pulls the sheet back up to his chest and slides his hands beneath his head. Reset.
"As for chess, well," Cesare will confess, "There...I am just better than you are. Unfortunate, but true," he nods woefully. "And you had far longer to practice..." he grins once more.
"I was happy simply to have won your attention. At the time, it was a great achievement. Everyone wanted a piece of deMontrachet. I am a simple man," he sings out, "... I have contented myself with that victory." The pants are folded and set upon his nightstand.
You can take a man out of the Middle Ages.... you can't put him back in...
Alire heads beneath the covers with you. "I have had far longer to practice at many things," he admits quietly. "But you will have to serve as the judge for how I have done...how I do..." He kisses you -- and he has always been good at that.
The kiss is appreciated, but as Cesare is now, he has to continue speaking! "Mmph," he pushes your shoulders, "...everyone wanted to kill deMontrachet. That's different," he laughs.
"But you won...not..." he narrows his gaze, thinking, "...that you had much competition?" Unless there's something he doesn't know. "But, I am glad that you appreciate your victory. Maybe they were envious of you. Quiet Alire...who bested all of them."
He apparently knows a little something, but he will not tell such tales. Such gossip. It is beneath him. Alire grins (yes, grins) as you push at his shoulders, shoving him back. "It is always the quiet ones you have to watch, they say. I do not know whether that is true or not, but I was ...and always have been better at subterfuge than you."
He likes to see you when you are...stirred up. It used to take so little, and then he would still you with a kiss, long enough for you to turn that...energy into something more enjoyable than anger...
"I won," Alire says again, this time softly, this time with truth and genuine meaning. "... quite the prize. He is swift, he is strong, he is smart, he is ...full of fire. Brave. All of the things I would have wanted for myself..."
Now it is his turn to blush. Cesare's nose wrinkles faintly. "You have always had them. I am but a mirror," he offers humbly - as humbly as deMontrachet pride allows. A hand returns to caress your cheek, this time with no tears. Cesare lifts his head to kiss those ever-so-quiet lips another time.
He shall never believe that of himself. Always, you were the sun-touched, warm-bodied, brave-hearted warrior. The example of what he wished he could be. Everything about Michele, he loved. Everything. Even that which drove others to despise him was cause for love.
He was ever the introverted, scholarly, quiet, sometimes painfully humble d'Avignon, a man to have in one's confidence, a defender of secrets, a good man. But ... not the dynamic, or dare say, sexy type.
So what you say largely falls on deaf ears, but he hears your desire well enough. And though his voice is quiet, the kiss speaks volumes. Every emotion that struggles to find voice finds itself in that embrace.
Posted by rowan at April 30, 2005 08:05 PM
