In the center of Tours, the Musee des Beaux-Arts is as much an artform as what it contains. The gardens of the museum in this, the Garden of France and French culture, are illuminated for the private event. Likewise, the white facade is turned golden to match the color of the flowers on display.
     It is a gathering of artists and patrons alike. Those who meander the halls, their slow footsteps and hushed voices issuing like low-volume music, survey the rooms of Arts Decoratifs and Beaux Arts alike. There are two new exhibitions here -- one of the world's finest glasswork; the other of rarely seen French works of antiquity.
     Others more inclined for political conversation remain gathered in the main hall, their glasses of Bordeaux and Touraine vintages held lightly and frequently sipped. Raymond Marillet, the city's Patron and Prince, is not afforded the luxury of meandering. Surrounded, he can only pivot his attention...
     ...There is a small and visiting collection of Raphael works on the second floor. Forgotten by tonight's crowd, they are illuminated, revelations of Inspiration bathed in the gentle and protective spotlights...
     Her hair is golden. Surely Mary's hair was not golden. And her flesh is as creamy as the Queen of Heaven's should be when conjured from the mind of a European. There is the aura of Venus in this work. More girl who would run barefoot and free than the virgin mother of Our Lord.
     Standing some ten feet away from the painting -- La Belle Jardinier, painted in 1507 and visiting, if only briefly, on its way back to The Louvre -- Guillaume d'Angevin, former Prince of this city and Patron, silently stands in some private consideration. He is dressed in a black suit, his white shirt a stark contrast. And in the low light of this chamber, he is illuminated, a revelation on par with such a work.
     He lifts his hand, bringing the glass of red wine -- the wine of his region -- to his lips. A thoughtful taste is taken.

     He has entered a little late - it's hard to get taxis sometimes, and though he managed, there was some debate between himself and the driver. German, yes. Unable to speak fluent French, no. Able to be gulled into a longer, circuitous trip for more money, also no. Hansl emerges from the back of the car dressed in basic black with a dark green shirt as the sole complementing factor. Money is handed over, along with a few quiet words of French and an unsmiling countenance.
     The driver, unsurprisingly, scowls and then drives off. Hansl will have to find another way home tonight. For now, he turns his footsteps towards the museum entrance, and then inside...
     Wherever he walks, there is a vacuum. Small, but perceptible; he is an unknown, and a conjunction of which people simply aren't certain. They don't cut him dead, but there is no warmth, no rush to greet him, a slower reaction. They say he left Paris - asked to leave? And then he left London. But he's only a child, you know. Yes, but is his art any good? Oh, who cares, he was probably one of Villon's toys who fell out of favour. Look at him!
     He is aware of it, of course. He is far from vacuous. But he ignores it as beneath his notice, carrying himself with the aloofly rigid solidity of a soldier, none of his vulnerabilities upon display. "Danke," he murmurs to someone who brings him a drink. He accepts, sniffs, sips, does not make a face. And he continues moving. It's harder to hit a moving target.

     There are more than the whispers of your own rumor mill. There are several very well-placed artists and patrons here. Guibert of Lyon, resident and council member in Poitiers, as well as a well-known collector of modern art, is speaking with several artists of your generation. He would like to pay more attention to the show, but he is cornered. It is the way of things...
     There are artists you have seen in Paris. Everyone scratches and claws in Paris. They speak of The Struggle. They sip their wine and snark on the poseurs clinging to Guibert.
     Amid the gossip, on yourself and others, you begin to hear a name repeated, whispered. Plantagenet.
     "...I have not been able to find him, though I saw him earlier with the prince..."
     "I hear he is opening a gallery in the area. What I would not give to get into his building..."
     "...What I would not give to get into his pants..."
     These artists glance at you as you pass by. The woman considers you. The man considers you more. He smiles a little -- you have seen him, a painter. Well-regarded in his own mind.
     But wherever William is, he is not surrounded by the gathered throngs, the artists and sycophants and politicos. No, it would seem he has succeeded where the Prince of Tours and the councilman of Poitiers have failed...
     Upstairs, William Plantagenet (Guillaume d'Angevin) turns from the painting of the Virgin and the infants Christ and St. John to another Raphael work on loan. This one, of his own collection.

     They consider him. He does not consider them, though he is faultlessly, flawlessly polite. Civil, sociable. But not warm. Not cold, but he does not invest himself in this. He is here as an observer, a student. I could break minds and melt hearts if I were willing to give myself up on the altar of learning. I am willing to learn, but I am not willing to fan their flames. I am too stiff - too unbending...
     He smiles, but he does not tarry. Lingers, but not o'erlong; he sips his wine, hears what he hears. It is your name which piques his interest. You are here? How curious. And, as so many others, Hansl begins to keep an eye open for you, even as he moves to separate himself from your would-be admirers.
     He moves to the stairs, gaining the advantage of height from which to look over the crowd. Hansl, where is Gretl? Did you leave your sister behind? I have no sister, papa, but for my art; she is sister and mother and lover and smothers me with delight. I need some air...

     He can hear them from where he is. Over his lifetime, he has learned to tune out such things. Of the collectors gathered, he is certainly the largest. Of those who extend patronage, he is one of the more giving, certainly the most famous for his generosity -- and yet so few have had the privilege of his patronage. He gives his patronage to those in his cities, when he rules them. But he takes no pupils. What prestige would come from being the artist, the first pupil Plantagenet accepts. It is a challenge that most cannot help but attempt.
     There has been conversation, questions about what he is doing in Venice these days, what his next projects might be. There are some whispers that he is to take on the Cathedral of Tours as his next restoration project, though it is in good health compared to many others.
     But there is always talk. With him, as with you, there is always talk. Much of it without consequence.
     William wanders the upper hallway, pausing at the railing of the upper gallery's walkway. He will no doubt end his quiet contemplation by returning downstairs and into the fray. But not yet. He takes his time -- it is his to take -- and he finishes his wine, handing the glass to the waiting server with the tray. He looks at him, tastes him from this distance, the air around him salty with mortal excitement. With the slightest upturn of that full mouth, William takes another glass, this one of champagne.
     He leans against the marble, a wonder in black. Though no longer basking in the illumination of a painting's spotlight, he is yet startling -- a sudden and powerful presence against the air. It bends, refracting around him, creating something of a mirage of heated space.
     A woman pauses to speak with him. The trace of a smile is visible at the edge of the glass as he pauses a swallow to respond to her. Laughing, she places a hand on his arm and draws away.
     She is descending the stairs as you ascend them. Ioanna de Montmarte -- a member of the Tours court -- nods to you as she passed. "Arnaul," she murmurs. "Do not miss the glass exhibit. It is quite spectacular..."
     She does not linger with you. Her recommendation made, she continues down the staircase...

     He looks down at the people below, then above. It is fitting. Purgatory, my father would have said. Neither serving above nor reigning below. I an somewhere between, caught between - but not stuck, I do not think. Simply - uncertain, which direction is mine to take. I will need to decide that soon. I do not like being too idle.
     He pauses in his thoughts - someone saying his name, not behind his back but to him. This is almost novel! Hansl bows slightly to the lady. "I will be sure to see it, madame," he murmurs to her in respectful assent. And then, he continues. Why linger further? There is something to see. Let us see it. He has a purpose now, however brief, however hummingbird it may prove. And he climbs.
     He ascends.

     The look on Plantagenet's face is priceless: Trust me -- you can miss the glass. It is not disdain; it is far more amused than that. Not at anything Ioanna has said, nor even in her pomposity or his lack of enthusiasm about glass in general and this glass in specific. No, the amusement is in seeing you. "I did not realize you were in Tours," comes the slow drawl of the French of Ages Past. William finishes his champagne, setting his emptied glass on the marble railing.
     His stance is one of relaxation, of being comfortable in this element and in his skin. It is as if he is at home wherever he is. Of course, Tours once was his home. One of them. William's expression, heretofore placid in his private contemplation, now warms with greeting. The deep olive of his complexion lifts in those warming tones, and his indigo eyes catch the light in shades both violet and blue.
     "How long have you been in my former city?" William wonders, a smile hovering at his mouth, ever on the edge of expression. "Where was it that I saw you last, I wonder. The vagaries of the ancient mind," he smirks, his gaze quickly surveying the art and you as you approach.

     "I have not been here long." There is that sketched suggestion of the Von Stroheim touch, the hint of the heels clicking, the hint of the bow. He does not, in truth, give either; but neither does he entirely relax in your presence. Oddly, a part of him wishes to, and he files that away for later. "It is good to see you. It is, of course, always good to see you, ja? But I did not know that you were here, either."
     His mind flashes to memory; first one, then another, stacked onto one another and laid out like a collage. "Not in London, I do not think. There was Paris, and then there was - Venice, in winter," he recalls. It has been a while. "I have been here mm. Two months? Maybe. I would need to check my calendar."
     There was a time when the specifics would be imprinted on his mind. Now, he has learned to let some such things go. "But I think it was winter, in the palazzo square. It may have been spring in Paris instead. You are here for a while, then?" The question has a hesitant note. Should he ask, should he not.

     "Ah, oui, that is right," William remarks. His memory is wandering back -- it has been a few years. "I was drinking coffee outside in the snow. And you... you were making art, oui? Something out of snow." He pauses. "It has been a few years. It does not seem so. Where does all of the Time go?" The grin is slow. It eases across his mouth and his face.
     He wishes in this moment he could smoke. Conversation, sociability always inspires him to drink and to smoke, to occupy his hands. To give his mouth something to do. Though he stands, half leaning against the railing, there is a dynamism to him. He is in motion, even when he is still. But the motion, that kinetic energy is of constant thought, a mind in perpetual motion. Perpetual creation.
     "Mais oui," he nods in answer, "I am in the area for a while now. I tend to spend the springs and summers in Chinon. My castle is not even twenty minutes away. If you are going to be in the area for a while longer, you should come to Chinon. We are a small, but mighty village," he says with a grin.
     The grin turns to a more intent, a more serious expression. "And your work, Hansl. How is your work these days? You are painting, I hope. You seem to return to France," a smile hovers in his gaze, though it has not yet landed on his lips. "Do you find inspiration here, or are you still trying to figure out what France wants with you?" He chuckles a moment. "I am still trying to figure out such things...if it is any consolation to you."

     "Ja, art." He remembers it, with a downwards dip of his head in a nod, a smile threatening the equilibrium of his mouth. Statues in the snow. Sculptures - a city, an entire throng of snow people centered around one figure in the middle, climbing upwards. "I wish I had taken pictures of it. But it is gone now."
     Gone, even a little bit to memory. How disappointing, almost depressing. He looks to you, pale blue eyes lifting, with a suggestion as if his hair is going to fall into his eyes. It does not. He is too immaculately groomed for it. "I would be glad to accept your invitation, mein herr." The grooming extends into his spine, snapping him upright, and he bows to you slightly. "I have not yet decided where I will go, if I will go. I may well remain until the days are too long for it."
     You have a way of making him self-conscious, though he tries not to let it show. Hansl folds his hands behind his back elegantly, regarding you almost owlishly. "I am still working. I feel there is something missing, but I have not figured out what. So I add to my experiences, so that I have more material to draw from, and ... I keep working." Your chuckle echoes at the corners of his mouth, which turn upwards, and he lowers his eyes. "I doubt France has much use of me. But it was somewhere that is not London, ja?"

     "It is Not London," he speaks quietly and with understanding. Pushing off of the railing, William begins to move toward one of the other gallery halls. "I can feel the hot breath of gossip on my neck," he murmurs, his mouth twisting a wry smile. "Come walk with me a while."
     "I don't think it really matters where you go," the conversation is picked up as easily as if it were never set aside, "Even where you are. One carries one's luggage, emotional or otherwise, wherever one may roam, until every place looks just like any other." Dark eyebrows lift slightly, bemused at his own philosophy. "For a young artist, many times it is just the act of traveling, the act of seeing that is enough. For an old artist," he grins at himself and gives that grin to you, "...places become irrelevant. The experience is... just another piece of luggage."
     "I don't think it matters," William continues after a moment, "...if France has any use for you. Or any other nation or city. It's more a matter of finding or knowing what inspires you. Or, I dare say, makes you happy." A thoughtful look crosses over his expression, an air of contemplation. "It took me a long time to sort that particular experience out. Even as short a time as six, seven years ago, I cared about how Paris felt about me. London. But my work doesn't need Paris or London. Neither does my heart or soul."
     You and he stroll slowly through the marble halls of the museum, the works of other artists surrounding you. "All these hands," William gestures to the paintings on the walls, to the ghostly and now invisible hands that wrought them, "...their owners wondered the same thing as you and I. Your way is your way. You do not have to find it; it does not have to find you. You are already on your way, ne c'est pas?"
     William looks to you. He studies you a moment. You and the painting he has stopped to face. "What do you find yourself creating? Are you peering into portraits looking for the truth in the Face? What is... grabbing your interest these nights, Hansl..."

     You beckon, even without hands, and he follows. He watches you; you are more interesting than most of the art, even. It is not lost on him, but you are more a work of art than most. "I am not running away from anything," he explains simply, without strength to the statement; it simply is true, without needing emphasis. "But neither am I running to anything. And I begin to grow tired of that lack."
     That no place and no person compels him. He is free to wander, but what is the point of wandering? He has no truly familiar haunts to return to - not Paris, not London. Saarbrucken remains closed to him, a minor point of contention that prickles and chafes at times. "It is not caring what they think of me," Hansl says slowly, "but wanting someone whose opinion matters enough to be motivated by it. A place, a person, something. I am still in motion, mein herr; still traveling. I have not yet come to rest, let alone begun to make a groove."
     Where is he? What is he looking for? He has few questions these nights. "I am creating things of the earth, of this earth. I seem rooted in it, even if not in any one place," Hansl murmurs to you, his gaze flickering past you to a painting. "As a farmer's son, perhaps. Or as a soldier. I feel I stand and I feel my weight connecting me fathoms down. I still paint people, but usually not portraits - portraits only if they interest me. It is part of why I left Paris, a little of why I left London. I am looking for ... things which cannot be discussed in public." He laughs at that, as if coming back to himself. "I have grown more pompous, ja?"

     His laughter is warm, and when he laughs, even quietly as he does now, it makes him seem less a painting and more a person. He becomes real, as surreal as it is. "Pompous? No," shaking his head, William chuckles. "A peacock can always recognize one of its own kin," the words are sly upon his voice in his own self-directed humor.
     It is no simple muse that you discuss, a person upon whom you can focus your creativity. You do not need to explain it to him. Pivoting toward you, William gives you his attention in full, his face turned now from the wall of Impressionist masters around him. The blue and violet of his eyes can be found in the paintings around him, threads of it also in his black suit.
     "You are looking for your reason to live, oui? To live, to create You will have to stand still," his smile smoothes as it spreads. "...long enough to let someone catch you, Hansl. But the connection, that is what we are all looking for, yes? To feel it. To have it. To be had by it," he grins, "...and then some of us," another slight gesture between you and himself, "... cannot be satisfied with simply having it. Feeling more, we have to paint it, capture it, sculpt it. Declare it. I have been moved by something; come witness it. The need to create, the need to do things which cannot be discussed in public. It is all the same impulse. It drives some more than others."
     He understands your plight, your need, your search. William looks to you. "You have come a long way in the last few years, Hansl. If I had not spoken with you from time to time during this period, I would not have known you to look at you. Gone is the young man who seemed as if he would break in half as soon as smile. I am rooting for you, you know. I would like to see you do well -- not simply professionally. Perhaps it is time that you put down some roots, farmer's son, and stopped your traveling long enough to look at what is truly around you."

     You have embarrassed him; you can see it, in the warmth that rises into his skin for a moment before he regains his command of himself. "You are not wrong," Hansl acknowledges. "I do not think that there is only one reason to live. But I do feel that there is a Reason waiting for me to discover."
     It is an almost superstitious feeling, and ordinarily he tries to eschew superstition. But it has its claws, its grip buried in him, this farmer's son, this peasant soldier. He feels it, acknowledges it glancingly, and looks away.
     "Danke, herr," Hansl murmurs. "I have - tried to put down roots, once. Perhaps I was not ready. The soil was not quite to my liking, ja? I am still trying to determine where I should root myself. I should consult an auger," he smiles suddenly. He has a sense of humour. Who would have guessed? "-and get a reading on the soil, ja? Perhaps you could recommend one, or know of a suitable vineyard."

     He can see it and he can smell it. A quiet smile lingers on his expression, held mostly in his eyes.
     Who knew?
     When he first met the young German artist, William's first thought was: Mon Dieu, it speaks. Now, to see the young man making jokes? It is quite startling; and he is not easy to startle.
     "Shall we pour over the pigeon bones together? It's been centuries since I've been to a good auger," William remarks, his easy grin lighting on those lips. "I have hundreds of acres of vineyards. You can have your choice of crows."
     A sudden glint of conspiracy shines in his eyes. "I need a cigarette and some fresh air. Care to join me on the roof? Maybe we will get lucky and a pigeon will wander by..." The whole notion seems to amuse him. An eyebrow lifts in question, but he trusts you will follow. He is already turning toward the door at the end of the corridor.
     "And please, Hansl.... you may call me William."

     William. He is honored indeed. It startles him (he is much easier to startle than are you) and he bows automatically, instinctively, then straightens. "Centuries, perhaps," Hansl regains some ground, "but you have experience with it, as I do not. Ja, by all means, let us go to the roof. I have an urge to see the stars."
     Stars, in their multitudes...
     He has had that urge, has he not? The Javert nature, the fugitive nature, compelled and bound into one. But he is remarkably relaxed, right now... for a German. For himself. He turns to follow you willingly, as trapped by your presence as by anything else. "I will try to remember. I am very bad at remembering to be informal."

     "It is not such a bad habit," he remarks as he leads you up the stairs. "Formality. But like everything, it has its time and its place." And this conversation, this place, is apparently not one of those times.
     The modern -- by his standards -- staircase is nothing compared to the medieval deathtraps he once scaled. He climbs them easily, quickly, coming at last to the roof, some five flights up. Opening the heavy door and holding it open for you, William gestures you to the roof.
     There are, indeed, stars out this night. Only so many can be seen due to the city's lights. But there are more than are seen in London, New York, or Berlin. Propping the door open with the wedge of wood made just for that purpose, William follows you onto the roof, his hands already removing a cigarette.
     Flame hisses on the air, and smoke sighs after it. William exhales smoke into the cool air, moving to lean against one of the white-pointed facade features. His presence, his demeanor, opens up, extending in the broader space. It is no wonder that such buildings feel confining to him. His energy fills the space around him. The air closest to him seems to shiver, the curdling of a mirage.
     The cigarette smells herbal with a trace of clove, of cinnamon. It is as if he were the smoldering of myrrh on the charcoal in an auger's tent. William looks to the burning end of the cigarette a moment before sending the ash scattering in the wind. His steps carry him toward you to speak quietly. "It is a pity, mais oui, that we have blinded ourselves to the stars. There used to be so many you could see from Tours. But Tours is growing up." He looks at you. "It is a young court. You might find it to your liking, Hansl. It does not have London's or Paris' gravity. You could live here with far fewer worries, and you could then turn your mind to your pursuits, your work."
     William scans the view of Tours at night, his gaze turning to the south. "There is Chinon," he gestures with the cigarette. "You can see the lights of the castle from here. I am going to open a gallery there. I have grown the arts in my city like one would a garden. We speak of the soil in humor, but really... tending to one's life, to one's city, is like tending dirt. You cannot grow anything in stale earth."

     He moves to the edge of the roof, leaning forward and looking out across the land. The city, with its lights. "Even from when I was alive, things have changed so much. An explosion of speed; a burst of sound, of science, propelling the entire world forward like a champagne cork from the bottle. It makes me wonder where we are headed, and what we have left behind."
     His words are calm, quiet; musing a little, but without dramatics. Hansl straightens, tilting his head back to look up at the stars. "I do miss the stars, though. I am sampling Tours, right now; I have not yet made up my mind. Everyone needs some tether to tie them to a specific place, and right now, I have not found a specific one. So I am considering it, and at the same time, wondering about the exact shade of grass a few kilometers down the road."
     He admits it to you, and to himself. Is there no deceit in him? Blue eyes look to you, and he turns to rest back against the ledge, hands in his pockets now. "I would like to see the gallery when it is open, if I may. Your eyes are extraordinary, ah, William." Hansl catches himself in time, though the use of the name lends heat to otherwise sincere words, and his gaze lowers a bit. "I cannot really think of any comment to make," he offers diffidently. "A farmer's son, the only thought in my mind is that stale soil usually relies on fertilizer."

     "It is no wonder, then, that I do so well -- full of shit as I am," William waxes humorously. Vampiric eyes can still determine color in darkness; you see the scattering of indigo in a quick wink. His own back against the body of the building, he faces infinity.
     "It is now twenty-twenty," comes the languid baritone of his voice, "I cannot tell you how dizzying the last two-hundred years have been. I get used to the phone, and then we are on the moon. I get used to thinking of men up there, and suddenly computers are in my pocket. You at least were modern before you began contemplating eternity. I have watched civilization peel away, layer after layer. And it is still going. Incroyable," he whispers, scented smoke carrying his words forward.
     William looks at you, and you are his only focus. "There is no telling where we shall land, what things we will find in our pockets next. It is an amazing time to be here. I am glad I am not missing it, asleep in my grave somewhere." His mouth twists in a smirk.
     He smokes a moment in quiet, looking from you to the view of his own territory. "Eight-hundred years ago, I owned all of this land. Now, look at it and look at me. We are very different." He is amused by it, struck in amazement by it. Chuckling briefly, William tips his head back and scans heaven. "Merci. I have had these eyes for a long time. They are practiced."
     His gaze returns to you. "Bien sur... this is why I told you," he grins. "You need to visit. And I may ask you to show there. You have not shown enough of your works. It is time to begin that process. Put yourself out there. Strip yourself of your formality, even technique and put your work on display. It's time, Hansl."

     A year ago, he would have begun to argue with you, taking your humour seriously, too seriously, eyes wide with earnestness. Now, he smiles, recognizes the humour for what it is, even if it weighs his gaze down to your shoes for a moment. "I am amazed, and I have not quite touched my first century, though I am nearly there. And I look back, and it seems to me as if this past hundred years has been nothing more than a page which has been turned, but it is a page with such small print. I do not feel old. I feel young, and I am humbled by it. I know so little. There is still so much to learn."
     He looks at you, lifts his gaze thoughtfully, mouth solemn and immobile as he listens. Then he nods. "If you say it, then it must be so. I have spent some of my time jealously guarding my works from eyes who wished to see but whose eyes I did not wish gazing at me. Paris' eyes. London's eyes. I know what I left behind. I ... suppose it is part of why I have not decided where to settle. I have learned lessons in Paris and London which I do not wish to relive."
     He regards the back of one hand, the elegantly manicured nails. The little touches are so important, aren't they? "I have some fifteen or twenty works which I am waiting to arrive from London," Hansl says slowly. "Once they arrive, it would be ... not difficult, if I secure the necessary permissions, to have a showing. You remember the dockworkers and the dancing boys? I have - I think - expanded from them."

     William grins to hear you speak of time. There is nothing quite like hearing Youth speak about Age. It is at once endearing and amusing. "There is," he notes. "I am learning all the time. But...at my age...I am having to relearn some things I forgot I learned," he chuckles at that. It is true, Plantagenet.
     With a quick motion of his hands, he flicks the cigarette from the top of the building. Its flame sputters and dies from too much oxygen. He lights another without saying a word. The movements are so well-practiced that they occur without any effort, without any thought.
     William nods as you explain your logistics. "It does not have to be immediate. Pull together thirty pieces. When you have them, send them to me."
     You have just received what all those artists downstairs have been waiting all night, all their lives to achieve. You have Plantagenet for a patron, a mentor.
     He is quiet. He lets you absorb that. His mouth pulls fire from the cigarette and breathes out incense. "I want to see you, stripped bare on that canvas. Hold back nothing. It is time for you to properly introduce yourself, Hansl. You cannot guard your work, or you will choke it with too much love. Or too much fear."
     Turning to you, William lowers his voice: "I have learned lessons from London and Paris, ones I do not wish to remember or repeat. But this... this is not about London or Paris or anyone else. It is about you and your work. And to do it justice, you must trust it. And to trust it, you must show it."

     You have struck him speechless. He stares at you - well, but you are used to that, aren't you? But this is not a grateful stare (nor an offended one); it does not seek to strip you naked and have its way with you (or be had). He is astonished, and for a millisecond, certain that he has misheard you.
     The pause would be imperceptible to humans. Noticeable, perhaps, but barely, to vampires. "You shame me with your generosity," Hansl murmurs finally. "I will pull together what I have, what I can produce. And I will try not to be too afraid." He breathes out, unnecessary though it is. "Nudity is awkward for me... but what must be, must be, ja?"
     It is said without intention of double entendre. It is not that he is sexless; it is that he is thinking of Art, and though it affects him at times in much the same way, there is not time yet for other thoughts to pursue his avatar-figure. He nods to you once, abruptly. "What I have, you will be given. It will be yours to see." It has the flavour of a vow.

     The first Plantagenet law: all I require is everything...
     He accepts your startlement, your embarrassment. He nods as you make your promise. He knows you will not disappoint him. His hand comes out and pats you on the shoulder briefly.
     Nothing else needs to be said, at least not now. William finishes his cigarette. Words are not offered, but energy is. It surrounds you as much as it does him. In this moment, for this time, you are in his grace. You have the faith of a prince. In your world, it is the faith of a king.
     "I will see you inside," William murmurs after a moment, sending his cigarette once again plummeting to the driveway below.
     There is no goodbye, no goodnight. For this is the beginning...

Posted by rowan at May 11, 2007 08:06 PM