It is perfection.
     The heretofore notion of perfection, believed to be unattainable, is realized in the lighting, in the balance of coolness and warmth in the air. The view from the bridge between the Tour de Boissy and the Logis Royeaux is a painting waiting to be captured. But this perfection will be elusive, never fully captured, never adequately expressed.
     William should know. He has been trying for nearly a thousand years...
     He stands on the limestone bridge between two of his towers, his hands on the crinellations of man and wind-carved stone. The sunset is drifting slowly away into evening. No sunlight left; only the magenta hues of retreating day, darkening in its surrender.
     The white of his shirt is crisp against the darkening sky, the French cuffs folded at his French wrists. Untucked, the corners of the shirt lift now and again at a flirting breeze. Dark trousers, linen, let the coolness and warmth interplay against his skin. Tailored for him, their fit is exact. They could be worn by no other man. His hair, cut short, is all modern.
     He looks the furthest thing away from a 12th Century duke and templar. And yet, the energy that hovers around him, that folds the darkness away from him, conveys the ancient being that he is. He is the lord of the region. He is its duke, its comte, its prince. And it would be easy to imagine armor where fine linen now resides. It would be easy to picture the lifting of the edges of a cloak where his shirt lifts now.
     William Plantagenet looks out from his chateau to the valley of the Vienne, and to the lighting of street lights and house lamps as they spark into existence in the setting of the sun.

     He has been prowling, learning the borders and boundaries of his new residence, as any cat or dog must. He does not urinate on things to mark his territory - would not if he could; to be that uncouth would not occur to him. But he wanders, pale in comparison to most in residence here.
     Pale, like a wraith, or some other leftover, haunting remnant of another time...
     And for all that, he is one of the youngest things in residence. Hansl Arnaul, late of Saarbrucken, wears his hair as short as yours. His footsteps naturally fall to a soldier's cadence, trained first in Der Fuhrer's forces and later by someone who could have given Bismarck lessons and is rumoured to have done so.
     He has no such ducal air to him. Indeed, when he sees you, he hesitates, considers withdrawing, and then remains; quiet and on the edges, as Rosencrantz or Guildenstern to your Hamlet, though hopefully without so bloody an end. He does not speak, but simply draws closer. He has nothing specific to say; why sully the air with speech?

     He heard you quite some time ago, but he does not turn to look at you. He does not disturb the painting of it, the imagery, the perfection, as it drifts off into darkness. Soon, the painting will fade altogether and live only in the memory. "When I first lived here," he begins quietly, knowing you are there, addressing you with his tone if not yet his gaze, "... I could not see past the crinellations. I would make my father's guards lift me to their shoulders so I could see the land I would inherit. I painted with my eyes and mind for centuries before I ever picked up a brush."
     Hands lift from the limestone and William turns, giving his back to one of the crinellations, his weight to the castle. He and the chateau -- they are as one creature. It lives with his pulse, his breath, and he is as alive now as he was when he lived here as a child. His heart beats, his lungs fill with air, his skin holds the golden olive that should only come with being in the sun.
     Indigo eyes, their color swiftly becoming merely, though beautifully, dark, fix on you as his mouth spreads slightly. "Pull up a stone," William offers, his body pivoting a half motion to glance toward the ever-retreating day. The last of it is slipping away now, the last gasp of purple against the horizon where the earth meets the sky.
     As he turns back to you, his expression is openly curious. "What did you see in your last painting," he wonders quietly.
     His hands come behind him to prop up against this limestone again. He anchors there, his back now to the view.

     He listens to you with that Teutonic sobriety, the expression of agile alertness that marks him a sentinel, a sentry; adjutant, squire. He is watchful, mindful, attentive to your desires, even if he does not know how to interpret them... yet.
     And he listens, without judgment, acceptance and acknowledgment in his posture even as he steps forward to take the offered seat. He bends carefully, despite his youth, as if each movement is measured, doled out. There is no spontaneity in him right now.
     "I am not sure I understand the question," Hansl answers you hesitantly, blue gaze flickering from you to the fading view. Darkness does not stop him from seeing, necessarily; but he looks out on the world without seeing it, nonetheless. "When I look at art, I see different things, ja? When I look at my own ... I see less, I think. Double vision."

     "Did you study your last painting as I asked?" You are being careful, too careful. He would never accuse you of being coy. A dark eyebrow lifts in question a half moment later. He assumes you did as he asked. "Specifically, what did you notice about your technique, your choices, even the models. Do you hate it? Revile it? Adore it? Think it is the best thing since strudel?"
     The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. "I want you to think as objectively as you can. We are deconstructing your technique, yes? If you cannot see it, then we will not get far." William does not reach for a cigarette. He does not need a prop just now to keep his hands occupied or his mind engaged. He is focused on you and on the subject of your work.
     And his gaze absorbs, not only the scenery but now you. How you fit into the scenery. How the surroundings frame you. Your body language is reserved, shielding, but perceptive. William inclines his head, waiting to hear your thoughts and measuring all the things you do not say.

     "Ja, I did." There is no audible click of his heels, but there is a click upon the air, as it were. The spirit clicks, even if the flesh remains docile. But you are asking him questions, and they are difficult questions for him to answer; he squirms inside his skin, eyes blinked once and then closed as if to aid in recall.
     Of course he did as you asked. Is it possible for him to disobey a command? Perhaps it is, but it does not show in his outward demeanor. There is nothing of rebelliousness, of defiance to him, where anyone can see. His emotions are kept behind glass...
     "It is an uncomfortable piece for me," Hansl says after a moment. The words are dry, his expression Kraut-like wooden. "When I look at it, I see my flaws more than I see anything else. I am not certain that it is very good. But I think that it is better than most of the pieces I have done. Still, it is a very chaotic piece - very disorderly. I do not think that I should have superimposed images over one another."

     "It was a choice. No more correct or incorrect than any other," William notes with a shrug, giving his weight to the limestone at his back. "It was the first time that I, personally, have seen you almost let yourself go. The biggest challenge for you will be not to hold yourself back. You self-edit too much. That is the habit I wish to break. And it is a habit," he notes. "We are not born with these things, these bags we carry around with us."
     William's study of you does not wane. "You are very self-critical," he murmurs. "And you do not need to be." That full mouth, that essential mouth of his, spreads in a slow and knowing smile. "But I know my saying this means nothing. You will have to say it. One day, you will have to believe it. If there were an impediment to your becoming a truly great artist, it would be this. It will not be solved in a year, let alone a week."
     He can well imagine you heading into the studio and painting without sleeping for a month, just to prove yourself. But rigor is not what is needed here. "I would agree. It is better than most of what you have done. Not because of the framing or perspective or even because of the image itself. You freed a little bit of yourself. It is what I was hoping to see. To affect you so you could then affect your work, ne c'est pas?"
     There was, and always is, a method to what he says and what he does. There are no accidents in the Plantagenet Universe.
     "I will continue to challenge you. This is not to," he pauses, his eyes narrowing in thought, "... get you to fail or to punish you, but to begin to chip away at these things that get in the way of your art. It is as though you are trapped in marble, and I am here with the chisel and hammer," he grins again, "... trying to find you. Yes? Just as Michelangelo said. The body is in the marble. I am only trying to free it."
     Folding his arms against his chest, William relaxes against the stone. "Have you ever worked with stone or marble?" He is thinking it would be a good exercise for you. Perhaps you need to chip away at your own rock for a while.

     He listens to you with bowed head, eyes closed as if to absorb your words the better. He does not argue with you, or open his mouth to defend himself. Perhaps it is not in his nature. Perhaps he simply knows you to be correct. He can accept correction gracefully; it does not appear to make him immediately sink into the sloughing depths of despair and despondency. Instead, he listens...
     Where are you, Hansl? Wandering, father, as always. I am lost, am I not? Where am I... who am I... in the woods, no Gretl to be thought of. But the woods are peaceful, once one gets to know them well enough...
     "I have worked in marble before," he admits, looking up suddenly, the blue of his eyes no longer hidden as he answers you. "It was the first discipline my father had me learn. It was his preferred form. I have been verboten - forbidden - from working in it for some time now, however."

     There is no rebuke. What information he passes along to you is stated as simply as honest fact may be. There are no judgments. No, if there is judgment made it comes from you. "We are going to change that, you and I. I will make arrangements for a shipment from Florence, and we will get dirty. In the meantime," he straightens, his arms unfolding, "...we will paint. That will continue. But ... I wish you to rest for a few nights. I would prefer you read, study your work, make your own notes. Then we will begin again."
     Though this subject is complete, William does not seem to be preparing his departure. He glances out over the darkened vineyards and hills in the background. "I come from an engineering background. My brother and I, my father before me, we designed and built several castles. We added onto this one, and I have of course rebuilt it. So sculpture came more easily to me. When I started painting, my teacher had me do nothing but mix paints according to his recipes and prep the frescoes. I did that grunt work for several years, spending my nights doing this instead of playing the political game."
     Pausing, he removes a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket and the platinum lighter. "But I was always studying. I learned his brush strokes, and those of another of his student's. That student would become Leonardo da Vinci. It was years before I drew or painted anything of my own. I finished the work of others, as was done then." His face is illuminated with the lighting of the cigarette, going as incandescent as a saint's. I don't want you to think of these things I have you do as things you have to overcome." He exhales a short breath of scented smoke. "What I show you, what I tell you, even when challenging, these things are here, are said, for you to learn, Hansl. So you can take them, and make them your own some night, yes?"

     His eyes are alert, giving away what the rest of him does not. For you, it is all revealed with your mouth; your smile. For him, it is the eyes which are the windows to the soul, attentive, aware, and always so guarded, to keep them from giving himself away. There is something about the way he looks at the world which suggests that he yet has a soul.
     Whether it is a soul in torment...
     "I never wanted anything more than to be an artist," Hansl says quietly. His face is half in shadow as he looks from you to the darkened countryside. "I know others dreamed of greatness and glory on battlefields and in cities. I ... it will sound foolish, but I never thought of such things. What ever I focused upon, it was that and that alone, until proven impossible or out of my reach... or other things of like nature and darkness."
     He falls silent again, as if wary of revealing himself through his words. One hand comes up to absently shove his fingers back through his hair. "I will try to be an apt pupil, mein herr. It is my desire to do so, that I do not disappoint you or myself."

     William is quiet for several moments. He looks at the cigarette in his hand. He feels the paper and leaf as he rolls it back and forth between forefinger and thumb before returning it to his mouth. The burning end beams with the pull of a breath, followed by a small cloud of scented smoke that rides his exhale. "I have been on many battlefields," he murmurs. "From Templar castles to German bunkers. I have never witnessed glory in war or politics. That is only what soldiers and bureaucrats tell themselves in the dark, to combat their nerves and fear. To soothe their guilt. But I have seen glory in a painted cheek of Aphrodite. I have seen greatness carved in marble and put before the eyes of god and of the world."
     Ash flutters to the limestone as the cigarette is tapped. "I have been prince, knight, duke, and general. But it is the title artist that fulfills me. To have the opportunity to create something, anything, surrounded by destruction as we are, is remarkable."
     Another breath of smoke is taken and then William rolls the burning cigarette against the limestone, extinguishing the embers and the last remnants of fire. "You will not disappoint me," William states, "... and you will learn not to think of yourself as a disappointment." His mouth forms a slight smile, but what it expresses... it does so resoundingly. "If it takes my last breath, mais oui." William chuckles and pushes off the limestone.

     "I do not know if there is yet any glory left in all the world. What I have seen ..." He does not finish the sentence. He shakes his head. And you are rising, and so, too, does he, eyes hooded, shadowed, seeing nothing but his own ghosts, the ghosts of the past both personal and impersonal alike.
     He is skeptical. You can sense it, smell it. That he will not disappoint you, that he will ever be anything but a disappointment, to himself or to any other. The belief is in him that the material, the core is flawed, and so, therefore, must be all the rest. What good can come of evil?
     "I am no one special," Hansl murmurs. "And it is that which makes the past so terrible. But I will try and live up to your lofty beliefs, mein herr. While I remain on this existential plane, what ever I have is pledged to you, to this effort. I gave you my word." And honour is all. Without it, he is nothing, not even insignificant, but dust.

     There is amusement that lights the features of his face, that warms the slanting of a smile, that laps against his eyes in alternating shades of blue and violet. The large arm of the large knight encircles your shoulder as he comes to stand beside you. On the air hovers both his energy and the subtle scent that is always with him -- sunlight, the burning resin of amber, myrrh.
     Only one has ever realized it is the scent of the Holy Land that he carries with him, forever.
     "One night, I am going to see your eyes open in wonder," William murmurs to you. His hand touches the back of your golden head like a benediction, and then his touch, and all the warmth held in the air, recede.
     "I believe in you, Hansl," William says as he crosses the bridge from the Tour de Boissy, your home and studio, toward the grand Logis Royeaux. "Learn from my example." For if you do not believe in yourself, there really is no point in drawing breath. Life should not be a pantomime.
     The King of Jerusalem That Never Was opens the door to his tower. For a moment, he becomes a shining figure, the light of the interior spilling around his face, flowing over his shoulders and pooling at his heels. He looks back to you, and he nods once. To you. To himself. To this.

     He is startled by the touch, though by now perhaps he should have come to expect such things. And yet, he has not. He does not flinch, but bears up under it manfully, neither allowing withdrawal nor pleasure to be overtly taken in it. And yet, your arm could burn through the clothes on his back if you wished it to.
     He is aware of your presence, acutely, agonizingly so, at least as much as that of the models of the other night.
     "I will do my best to learn the lessons which are set before me, mein herr." There is no heel click, but he bows stiffly from the waist before straightening, blue eyes searching out your face as you nod to him. In such moments are messages hidden. Hansl waits, remaining as you depart. Though he has held no title, he is acutely conscious not only of you but the fact that he has unwittingly told you a lie.
     He has not been only a no one. He has been courtier. Prince. Squire. Soldier. Each mask has been held up to his face, and he has peered through it at the world. And he has not yet found the mask which fits smoothly over his skin to become a part of him. And he envies you your ease. You are, after all ...
     Simply yourself...

Posted by rowan at June 11, 2007 11:03 PM