There is a youth and a vitality to Poitiers that brims to the rim of its curbs and narrow streets, that fills its shops, that stirs through the university, and seems to extend outward from the joy one man finds in the cultivation of a single rose.
Poitiers...
With crisping autumn at hand, its daylight slowly dwindling, the city sparkles with the energy of the children that make their way through the wet streets, their songs bouncing off the ancient structures. Romanesque facades have been given new life over the past quarter century, erasing finally the scars of the Twentieth Century. Old buildings and French youth walk arm in arm like true amis.
As with Chinon, there is the touch of prosperity here. The feeling that it has been well looked after. It thrives where other cities merely stand.
The oldest part of the city occupies the slopes and the summit of the plateau, which rises more than a hundred feet above the three streams that surround it. The streets are narrow here, the buildings all joined. The Palace of Poitiers, former seat of power for the Angevin dukes, the last of whom is your Benefactor, is here, as is the oldest church in France.
Tucked into all of this history, in houses once used by mistresses and courtiers, are the studios and apartments of local artists. The buildings are clearly Romanesque, dating from the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Here, the steps on the escarpment are steep. One must watch where one walks on such narrow rues.
It is the crisp night of latest autumn, and he is dressed accordingly. That he is German goes without saying; he stands erect on the street, the wind blowing through his hair and raising the collar of the long greatcoat he wears.
He is as usual; monochromatic. Golden-blond hair is rinsed pale, bleached by moonlight and streetlights. Skin is given the same treatment, and the coat he wears is navy blue over the charcoal grey of wool jacket and trousers, the white of dress shirt. The differences in tones are done away with, so that the only color left to him is his eyes.
They rest thoughtfully on the buildings ahead of him, searching for a number, a location. Occasionally they are turned aside to the rue, to either side of him, to his surroundings. Habits of caution and paranoia are not undone quickly; sometimes, they are not undone at all.
Hansl's hands are in his pockets as he approaches the escarpment, as he begins to climb. There is no dramatic tension in him; a thoughtfulness, rather, a contemplation. There is some wariness for the new situation - but fear? Well. Not yet...
A clock from the Baroque still ticks the hours on the wall of a well-appointed room. The comforts of a home long lost can be found here and there. We all have our nostalgia, our longing for what is familiar no matter how old, or how young, we are. Christophe de la Lafayette is no different.
What once were townhouses to be envied have been divided into flats, with studios and public areas downstairs and bedrooms upstairs. Row after row of such townhouses stand, but it is the 12 de Rue de la Comtesse that awaits you...
A small lamplight crashes an amber glow onto the street and against the door, the numbers in bronze glinting: 12 d. Rue de la Comtesse. The door looks like all the others, there is nothing special about it, and yet the light coming from the windows exudes a warmth that the others lack. Many of the studios are darkened at the moment, the artists out to dinner.
The Baroque clock upon the wall rings a soft, aged chime, and turquoise eyes lift to note the time. Christophe de la Fayette strides slowly across the parquet floor, his eyes on paperwork that rests in his hands. His hair is a honeyed gold, as amber as the light that shines on the porch and from the windows. It is cut in layers haphazard to his shoulders, the waves cloaking the imperfections. He has the pale skin of the aristocrat that is belied by the figure of one who was in his time most active.
He wears gold and creams and whites, his clothing modern but with a touch of his time; he is unafraid of embellishment. Around his neck, a wrapping of gold cloth, a brocade scarf that gives sudden texture, sudden richness to otherwise simple attire.
The door to 12 d. Rue de la Comtesse opens, and the tall figure of a man turns, his fingers flipping another page of the book -- a book of sketches. You are on time. And it is a good thing. A moment later, and that would have been wasted dramatics. Christophe sets the sketches aside and turns to look at his guest as he arrives. "Bonsoir," he offers plainly, and his turquoise eyes focus suddenly on you with the same rapt attention he had given the sketches. What he does, he does fully. He does not offer his hand but greets with the customary, continental bussing. "Please... come in, Herr Arnaul."
His calm and thoughtful mien is unchanged as he notes the townhouses' numbers, footsteps a quiet clicking on the stones. One hand emerges from his pocket to turn up the collar of his coat as protection against the chill; he shivers, stepping up to the door. He is on time; he is more than on time, he is exactly on time. Though there is no watch on his wrist, he has a timepiece in his pocket, and it is kept meticulously correct even despite the French influences brought to bear on him.
He is still German, you see.
The door opens, even before he can knock. You have caught him off guard, most clearly and distinctly. The face you see is at first the face of the cadet-soldier, but for a moment, blue eyes widen, and he youthens before your eyes; for all of two seconds, a span of as many heartbeats, and it is banished with the suggestion of color threatening to dull his skin at the greeting, at the attention, at the contact. It is forced down manfully, his posture going to the immediate erectness that has stamped all those of his era and place in history. But his French is as letterbox perfect for you as it was for the Norman prince, awkward embarrassment confined where it cannot be seen with ordinary eyes.
"Bonsoir," Hansl answers you formally, upon your doorstep. He does not know what to do with his hands. He accepts the continental greeting, and once you make the way clear, offers you a slightly confused but almost militarily-correct bow before entering. "Merci. It is very kind of you to agree to receive me."
"Bien sur," he both casually accepts and matter-of-factly dismisses your need to thank him. "Da rien." It is not nothing but that is how one says You're welcome in French; it is nothing. "Coffee." It is a statement and not an invitation, as he closes the door. Of course there will be coffee. It is France. It is dark. It is cold. What else are we to do?
The interior of the public area does not immediately give it away as a studio. The foyer leads into a sitting room, the walls painted with a nod toward the rococo. The settee, chairs and table are all quite ornate, and the parquet floor is softened by rugs. There is a service of coffee already waiting.
The manner of the man, his demeanor, is unhurried. He appears to be approaching his mid-twenties, but no man so young would move as he moves. There is something unquestioning about him, a quiet presence. It is not imposing, but it is aware of itself and its place. His clothing is impeccable, not because every fold is in place, but because it was chosen with the utmost care and vision, perfectly suited to his demeanor and his form. How perfect, then, the casual disarray.
"When the Prince asks," his mouth makes a small, amused smile, "... it is hard to say No. Do you find it so?" He pours two cups of coffee. The cups are fine china porcelain, accented with gold. "He is persuasive, as most princes tend to be." There is a dryness to his humor, but it is warm. "I have not seen your work, but I am looking forward to it. We will not get into it immediately," his voice softens. "We have all of a rainy, dark winter to work. Please, have a seat. Make yourself at home. It is going to be your home away from Chinon, oui?"
He has no servants present to hand you your coffee. He does it himself, his hand motioning to the cubes of sugar and the cream if you so desire. He takes his coffee unpolluted, sitting on one of the gilded salon chairs. Louis XIV would have been comfortable in such surroundings.
He looks at you as he sips the drink. "I assume you have been a brief introduction to who I am..." Christophe begins. It is your chance to ask him questions if you like. And you may assume, correctly, that he has heard of you.
His coat is weighty; it feels to him now as if it is lined with lead. He follows you without question, maintaining that perfect posture, the perfect alignment of his spine and hips as his feet land, one after the other. His eyes do not leave you for long. Even as he removes the outermost coat, and drapes it over his arm, he is looking at you.
My collar is too tight... I should have worn a tie. What is wrong with me tonight? I should not have come, perhaps. It is warm in here, too warm...
You are composure itself. He is composed, but only on the surface; the more composed you get, the more Germanic he becomes. Rigid; tensed, knotted as a pine board or tangled piece of string. "He has not asked much of me," Hansl answers you honestly; there is no thought of deceit. "Mainly that I do my best, ja? I do not know that I have. But I try."
The coat - he considers where to put it, and finally he holds it to himself as he takes the coffee. It is undiluted by cream or sugar, not out of personal taste but out of necessity. He is too awkward to maneuver right now, fearful of offending his host, of his own clumsiness, and he takes a seat only once you have. Then his coat is laid across his knees, the saucer taken in one hand, the cup in the other. At no time does his spine meet the back of the chair.
He looks at you, and there is warmth moving into his cheeks; a subtle tensing only he can feel of the muscles from the corners of his ears sloping down to the hinge of his jaw, and over the bridge of his nose. Quickly, he looks down to the surface of ink-black coffee instead, lifting it to his lips. The cup is set down gently as he murmurs an answer to you, voice diffident. "I do not know very much. Your name, mein herr. I know that he trusts you and he spoke of you highly."
"My name is Christophe de la Lafayette," he explains easily, his tone, if not his presence, softened to help you relax. Mon Dieu, stiff as Christ's cross. "I was for many years the leader of the artists' guilds here in Poitiers. I no longer hold this position. I wished to concentrate more on the Work than the politics surrounding the Work. I do know your teacher-prince well. I served him for many years. I look forward to seeing what he has seen in your work."
There is a quiet intelligence in his voice, in his eyes. His voice is even, smooth, and the French is the French of Paris, not of William's more Occitan lilt and drag. "The prince's focus is primarily Renaissance, both painting and architecture. My work, my focus has been on post-modern works, from the first great war to ... last week..." He smiles a touch and sips at the coffee.
"I have heard some of your story," is all he says on the topic of the tragedy and how you have come to sit here. "I understand you have many works in progress. My goal is to have you ready to show by the spring." There is no doubt but that you are studied as he thinks between moments of speaking. Christophe lifts the cup from the saucer, sipping, looking at you silently as if to absorb you, as if to know you by calculating the surface of your face like a polygon.
"You will be staying here, in the 12 de Rue. There are three bedrooms. I will show you where you are to be appointed. I will also show you the studio space. You have a dedicated room for your work. Do not let me forget to give you the keys," spoken as a verbal reminder to you both. But he does not look like the kind of man who would easily forget anything. "There are no rules of the house apart from the usual politenesses. No curfews." His lips slightly twist in amusement. "I am not running an artistic gulag. You may come and go as you please when we are not in session. I urge you, in fact, to explore Poitiers. An artist cannot hide from the world."
If only you knew the source, the cause of his tension. But you do not. Perhaps, perhaps he does not. Hansl sits up as straight as if he is being inspected. And he is; but not the inspection which would require such alert diligence. Carefully, the coffee is set aside, his hands laid at his thighs as he looks at you. His voice when he speaks is as even as your own, neutral in intonation, inflection, quiet with courtesy. "I have not brought much with me, only a couple of sketches in my coat," he pats the coat where it rests across his knees. "The rest will arrive within the next couple of days."
Mein gott. Is it possible for me to be ill? My stomach is tight as if I have not eaten for a year. The fear - is it fear? it pulls and rubs and claws there. I should have gotten drunk before coming. I will disgrace myself...
It is an inwards dialogue, kept silent, even out of the shadowed and half-hidden gaze. He is as solid and opaque like ice, translucent without being transparent. "There is no importance to my story," Hansl murmurs, looking down as he begins to work the waterproof compartment free. "Please, give no thought or trouble to that. I will do as you wish." It is said without resignation or bitterness or arrogance. Of course he will do as you wish; it is for this that he is here, has been sent to you. What else would he do?
From the coat is pulled an oilcloth folder, sealed with metal snaps. It is offered to you in one hand, as if it were a mission briefing or report. He is in full command of his outer appearance, the picture of Germanic youth at the height of the Nazi movement; Heil Hitler, der Fuhrer. Heil. His face shows no hint of smile or frown, the pale glacier-blue of his eyes hiding all emotion save a furtive glitter behind the ice.
"I will explore," Hansl agrees stolidly, neither nodding nor frowning. "Do you prefer I work from models or photographs?"
A moment of thought and the cup is set aside. His hands fold together, his elbows resting upon the arms of the chair. How perfectly he looks sitting in the golden splendor of that chair, the opulence of the Sun King suiting him naturally. "I do not think photographs," Christophe considers aloud as he tilts his head in further thought. "I think," fingers come to steeple at his lips, "...you should stay with the dynamic, the living. It is easy for Us to get trapped in the notion that all things are inanimate objects. We can discuss this more over the course of the next few nights."
"I must remember," he notes to himself, being his own secretary at least in this moment, "...and do not let me forget," he says in an aside to you, "...to let my staff know of the arrival of packages, so they can ensure they do not stay out in the weather." His hands unfold and he looks at you a moment in silence before extending one of them toward you. "May I see the sketches? Do you keep a journal of such?" It is something he will recommend, if not.
"Do you have many things coming? Clothing, personal items? I shall put them on the look out for that. I have a small but very dedicated staff. They have been with me for many years. The adjacent houses are also studios. I lease space to mortals and immortals alike. I am sure you shall make their acquaintance over the long winter."
He listens to you, still seated upright, still offering you the folder. "Very well," Hansl agrees, as steadily as before. He is still all too aware of the feeling of warmth, of pressure along his jaw, the urge to swallow thick in his throat. He does his best to ignore it. To pretend that he is nothing but the German mould into which has been poured solid steel. No; no flesh and blood here, no beating heart to betray him, surely not!
The folder is surrendered to you silently, and he adjusts the coat across his lap, then takes up the cup and saucer again. "I do, when I find I have something to say," Hansl acknowledges. "But I do not always. Sometimes all I can think to say is the date, the medium, without much else." Blue eyes regard you blankly, almost hostilely. And yet, he is not hostile...
He is caught in a storm which surpasses his understanding. Beneath his clothing, beneath his skin, he is fighting it as if trying to chase away a fever. He looks at you with walls and defenses drawn up, with wards plied thick in front of turbulent emotion and eddying reaction. I should not feel this way. It is wrong...
The folder contains only three sketches; not so many as to be, perhaps, of immense interest. The first is of William; drawn from memory and rather quickly, but capturing form and the idea of the image. It is of the Norman with the new-born foal, done in charcoal and lead.
The second sketch has no living beings in it. Instead, there is a barren wasteland, an expanse of cement bunkers and barbed wire done in sepia tones. Here and there, at what first looks to be rubble and detritus and vague weeds proves instead to be the remains of life; the battlefield corpses, scarred and discarded, drawn from memory. The edges of the paper are a bit dog-eared and foxed, but the drawing itself is intact.
The third and final sketch is the pen and india ink drawing which had been done only a few nights prior. There is the clearing in the wood, the leaping forms of athletic farm boys, naked, chasing one another around the fire. Their bodies are painted with tiger stripes of flame and shadow, youth and vitality bleeding from the paper.
He does not speak of them, though. He hands them to you to examine, without comment or excuse, without explanation or apology. Self-consciously, he does lift one hand, brushing his hair back from his eyes. "I do not have very much," Hansl says quietly. "My art supplies are being sent here, ja? The rest," he looks down at his feet, shifting them slightly. "It is at his highness' place. I spent the night with Prince Alire. He is very kind." He clears his throat, then nods once, still stolid in his demeanor. Beneath that heavy surface, he is crawling with remorse; with tension, with conflicting and conflicted emotions, all of which he is intent upon hiding from you. "I will be happy to meet them, certainly, mein herr."
"Many have drawn this face from memory," he remarks. "Would you care for some brandy? Coffee only does so much and goes so far." There is warmth there, and still that self-same unhurried ease with which he speaks, that seems to permeate everything about him. He returns his attention to the first work. Unlike other reviewers, he does not merely flip through them. "I painted such a painting during the Revolution. It has since gone missing. Be careful that this image does not just... dissolve from the page one night..."
It is not the only painting or picture of Guillaume d'Angevin, William Plantagenet, to have experienced that same fate. Most have not survived, for one reason or another. He smirks at his own thought, eyebrows lifting to something unspoken, and then he turns the page.
This is something deeper, far more interesting. "Do not worry that it is not much. I am expecting to see more, yes?" Turquoise-colored eyes lift to you from the book of your work. "What I see does not surprise me. You did not come to me without recommendation." Christophe's mouth curls. "The juxtaposition between the dead boys on the field... and the boys leaping without care around a fire... war rapes our senses and takes our innocence, yes?"
Closing the book with care, he offers it back to you. "Prince Avignon," as he calls Alire, "... is a very gracious man, yes. Suffering greatly is, as he would say, the road to graciousness. I have known the Prince for many years now. He has lived in Poitiers since the end of the last war. Were you ever as far from Germany in France when you were in the Wehrmacht?"
Your book surrendered to your care once more, Christophe rises from his seat and moves to a side table, a bar cabinet. He pours a liberal sampling of brandy into each snifter. "This will help," he murmurs as he stands next to you. He can see your tension; it is palpable. And while some of it is pleasurable, the nervousness is also there. It has a smell all its own.
Brandy. Despite himself, there is a slight - perking, a lifting of his attention, and he looks from his lap to your face. He blinks at you cautiously, lifting the cup to his lips. He sips the coffee, sets it down again. "Bitte. Please; brandy would be an undeserved kindness."
In his world, all kindnesses are undeserved. Do you see that in him? He straightens a little, he sets the coffee aside. He takes a deep breath, settling the pages in their book, the book back in its folder as he nods to you and begins wrestling the case back into his coat. "I ... do not know. I think that I lost whatever I was, whatever was innocent, before I ever saw a battle."
It is true, inasmuch as it stands. He blinks at you, watches you owlishly. He is losing his fight against himself. Still nervous - but the walls, once so impervious, they have been lowered before. And having been lowered, they have lost something of their flexibility, something of their ability to last. Hansl blinks again, one hand lifting to pinch the bridge of his nose as you rise and move to pour brandy. His hand accepts it automatically, autonomous of the rest of him. His nostrils flare for the scent of it - but also because...
You are too close. Too near, too powerful; it affects him more than he wants it to. The brandy is lifted to his lips, half of it gone at a go, and Hansl nods a little. "Danke," he murmurs, colour appearing in his face. He does not look at you. "I ... went all over. I was a courier, for a while. Useless, ja? But what is done is done. I do not think any more of that time of my existence." Much.
"The best sorts of kindnesses and pleasures are the ones that are undeserved," Christophe remarks. He does not argue with you that you may, in fact, not deserve them -- he will leave that existential argument to you, you and why you are here and what you deserve. He smiles slightly as you accept the glass. You are not too humble to do that.
"A great many couriers died. Information is never useless. His Highness," and by that he means Alire and not the other one he refers to as 'prince', "...was himself a courier. I was a spy," he reveals as he returns to his seat and sips of the brandy. "Among other things. Blew up a few trains in the grande sabotage of the Resistance."
He is quiet for a time again, studying you over the glass of brandy. His blueish eyes are quite bright, lit with his intelligence, and a quiet intensity that conversation seems to engender. His hand tilts his glass, causing the brandy to roll in controlled sloshing against the crystal. "We should start the tour before we get too deep into our war stories," he notes quietly, taking another swallow of brandy. "You and I will be the only inhabitants of the particular townhouse. You are welcome to the brandy, and other potables of course. Do you eat? If so, please let me know if you have preferences. My staff will ensure you have whatever you need to be comfortable here, Hansl." He drops into the familiar as he rises once more.
"Come," the quiet voice and the steady hand beckons. "I will introduce you to the workspace and will show you to your room. We will not begin in earnest for two nights. You should have a chance to catch your breath, no? Such a saying," Christophe smiles. "Strange." Since neither of you need to breathe...
There is for a moment a naked flash of longing revealed on his face. It is turned downwards onto the brandy; he buys himself time as he rises to his feet. He does not want you to see his unsteady emotions. "I do eat, ja. But of no consequence." Hansl sketches jerkily against the air as he shifts his coat back across his arm.
It is not important. No importance, no more importance than breathing. You beckon, and he moves to follow you, gaze again tracking you as he finishes the brandy. "Please. I would like to see."
"If you think of something, you will let me know." He is confident of that. Brandy in hand, Christophe turns and leads you toward the studio. "Because some of the artists work by the light of day, each studio was placed in the front of the house, to at least give some natural lighting and something of a view," he explains as he moves. His strides are slow, so that he may walk mostly beside you. It is not a long walk, merely the crossing of a single corridor before you enter another room.
The parquet floor has been lifted, and modern concrete poured. The windows that lit the street for your arrival are found here. You have a view of the street and of the Palace of Poitiers above. The walls are white, and the space is equipped with a table for planning, another drawing table for sketching, and several easels. There are supplies for building canvases, for mixing paints and solvents. It is a generous room. It was likely once a servants' quarters.
"It is simple, but spacious," Christophe notes easily, turning to you. "Once your own works and materials arrive, you are welcome to rearrange it however it suits your work. Get comfortable. You will be here through the spring."
He looks at you again -- he does that. He takes note, he soaks you into his skin and to, one may assume, his Understanding. There is a lingering of his look, his attention. Desire has a smell, as much as nervousness. "You will find no shortage of ...markets for other meals. The university is an ...inspiring place. And the clubs that have sprouted around it."
There is brandy between you. He takes another swallow of it, but his look as the brandy passes... it is not the taste foremost on his mind. "You will need your strength. As you delve more into your past, your emotions, your need to paint, you will expend your energy. Do not restrict yourself too much, Hansl. I should say... not at all," his mouth curves slightly. "But I do not think you would obey me, even if I commanded such of you. Care for another brandy?"
He follows you, the coat set aside at the last minute on the seat behind him. He looks around, taking in everything and absorbing only so very little. It is impossible to absorb; he is too aware of you. Even without touch; he both dreads and desires contact, while shunning the very hint of it. I do not dare...
"I try to be abstemious in my appetites," Hansl tells you, voice low. "I will do my best not to disgrace you." Or himself. What you would consider a disgrace is undoubtedly nothing even remotely as inflexible as his goals for himself. It is good to have ideals. But his clap him in irons. One almost cannot imagine the flexibility, the release of Chinon, the image of him in the hot springs below - or in the stables with Marco.
He is trying very hard not to think about that. He is trying, very hard, not to juxtaposition you in those memories. He is trying - and he is very hard, despite the effort.
Hansl tugs self-consciously on the hem of his jacket. The look you give him, it bewilders him. He cannot interpret it; he does not know. "I ... will try to be obedient in all things," there is a questioning note to his voice, the confusion visible on the surface of his face. "And please; more brandy, ja." Brandy frees him more than he admits to himself. The glass is held out, and he glances away. "I ... do not know what you mean."
"I do not doubt you will do as I ask. In all things, but for giving yourself the license to relax." His eyebrows open upward in a slight, unisoned arch. Chrisophe closes the distance, what little there was, and pours the remaining brandy from his glass to your own. You need it more than he does.
"I am not easily disgraced. Do not worry about disgracing or disappointing me, or your teacher-prince. Worry only that in being too demanding on yourself that you do not allow yourself the greatness you may be capable of. If I have a concern, it is that you will guard too well, and protect yourself right out of a transformation. It would not be the first time that the Wehrmacht held a rigid battle line." But this is not that war.
"Perhaps we will begin tomorrow," Christophe thinks aloud, studying your features, his turquoise gaze sweeping over your body. "I think you need to be painted. You need to be the model for a few hours..." He falls into a reverie of planning from which he wakens after a half-moment with the start of a smile. "But that will be tomorrow's task. Come... we will get more brandy and I will show you the upstairs appointments."
There are a thousand minute signs of attraction, the signals and warnings of desire. You close the distance, and you see any number of them, in the widened eyes, the slight flare of his nostrils with indrawn breath. Subtler still, the slight increase in rapidity of the beating of his heart (for his still does, despite its lie), the flush of colour that touches his cheeks. There is the twitch and the lift of it, even as he strains to swallow it all in, hold it all back.
"Danke schon," Hansl murmurs, gaze lowered to the brandy you add to his glass. Who could have known it would be this difficult? He had no idea. "I ... will do my best," he reiterates, desperately, gallantly.
Tomorrow? So soon? Blue eyes lift to your turquoise gaze, then fall again. "As you wish, mein herr. Please, lead on." He is thinking. He is finding thinking very difficult. "I should have brought materials," he murmurs, meant for himself and not for your ears. One hand twitches slightly with the urge to paint, to draw.
Christophe stands there a moment more, enjoying the reactions as each one blossoms against you, spreading outward in ripples from his looks, from his words, and against your cheeks. "Your materials will arrive soon enough," he comforts easily. "And what you do not have, I will gladly provide."
His hand lands on your arm, and he guides you out of the studio's open space. He does not lead you back to the drawing room and to the brandy there, but deeper into the house. The corridor is narrow enough that he must walk slightly ahead of you. His fingers dangle from you until they slowly slide away. But you are only a moment away from being held. The thinnest slice of air is all that separates you.
Ahead, the corridor ends into a parquet door, a sliding door. It is moved aside and he moves aside also to usher you in.
Sumptuous. It is like a Versailles in miniature. And rows of lead crystal decanters sparkle, reflecting in the amber light and against the mirror that backs them. There is the smell of oranges here, light but present. Christophe turns to you and his holds out his hand, palm up and reaching for your glass. There is the start of a smile, somewhere behind his eyes, and the shine of them is so focused. On you.
"The other studios do not have such a room as this," he divulges to you with a slight smirk -- it finally appears. "It will be our secret, mais oui?" He refreshes your glass, and he returns it to your grasp. "I keep the good brandy in here. As you are by now familiar with Plantagenet's brandy, I think you will recognize it..."
The brandy is infused with apricot, its scents joining that of orange and the warmth of the amber light. Christophe shimmers, his scarf catching the light as he stands close by, the glass so recently surrendered to your hands.
He says nothing. There is no warning. There is simply the slow lift his hand and the movement of his fingers through the blonde of your hair.
I should say something. I should not remain like this, dumb, immobile. I am a man, am I not? Not some squeaking mouse to cringe in the fact of my own emotion.
He almost manages not to react as your hand is on his arm, as you draw him forward again. Almost he does not tremble, even as beneath his clothing and beneath his skin he is arguing with himself. It is a wild and violent argument, in fact, did you but know it. The glacial blue of his eyes has darkened to the color of the oncoming storm over an Aegean sea.
To speak is to risk poisoning the future, in this case. You will be here for months - half of a year. He is an important person; old, older than you. Respected. Who are you, Hansl? No one at all. You know this. Remain peaceful, placid and dumb, beast of burden that you are. Pull your load in silence and perhaps you will be rewarded.
He is impatient with himself, and he shrugs, almost as if to dislodge your hand. But he does not do so. He looks to you in question as you slide the door aside, then is looking around, almost losing sight of you. It is beautiful. It is almost too much. He draws in breath sharply, catching himself and calming himself, forcing himself to calm, even as he gives you his glass slowly, his attention returning to you.
I am going to say something. Is it not time, to risk? Will I live my entire existence in fear, as long as I have lived, as long as I may live? When have you felt like this last, Hansl? When will you feel this way again? To feel ... anything ... it is a mixed blessing. But this ... I feel it, I fear it. I do not want to burn with longing as I did before. It did me no good, did it? But I do not want it to fade. I asked my heart to open. I plunged my bloodied hand into the earth. Is this the answer? Must I go back into the darkness?
His thoughts are muddied chaos as you talk to him, and almost he tunes you out for the noise of them. His attention swings back onto you abruptly, fixing on your words, his eyes on your face; on your eyes, brilliantly coloured and unexpected. On your hair. On your mouth. Hansl murmurs assent, familiar, yes, taking the glass and with slow reluctance looking to its contents. One glass more, and I will say something. He drinks thirstily, the first sip allowing the warmth to travel through him followed by the pouring of liquid fire down his throat. He lowers the glass, gaze still lowered, beginning to lift to you, lips parting for reckless words -
- and he stops. He is stopped in his tracks, like a bull by a matador's sword, the breath caught in his throat. It is a small miracle that he does not commit the blasphemy of dropping the brandy. He looks at you with a faint tremor to his mouth, a tremor that runs through him for your hand in his hair. Language has died a little, this night. For a moment, his soul is on display to you in his eyes, the warring divide and naked yearning. It needs no taint of the supernatural to be seen.
Posted by rowan at July 31, 2007 07:34 PM
