"I do need you," Alire admits with a smile and some coloration. Though, it occurs to him that the globe is only one-way. You cannot see him. He begins to roll out of the shirt. "I feel the separation of our worlds when I go where you may not..."

     "Thank you for showing me," he whispers. But now that we have both seen ourselves in the clear light, what shall evening have to offer us. Foolish mistake, Alire. Foolish, and you know better, prince.

     "Shall we talk about the hippopotamus in the room, or shall we continue to ignore it and make with more small talk?"

     "I...wanted you to know...my real thoughts," Cesare notes, seeming done. "Not the things I may have done or said when I saw you last...first."

     "You smell of adventure," Alire continues quietly. He closes his eyes and he sighs, making a sound of delight as he does. "Coffee... limonata...sunlight...you passed by a garden... I will say in the old quarter of Cannaregio. Hmm... and a branch of lilac brushed your shirt...I can smell it from here..."

     Paolo looks over to the voice to see a familiar face that has not been seen for some time now. He nods a greeting. It is as close to smiling as he gets. "What will happen when we fail?" He looks at you a moment more, then says succinctly: "We will sink..."

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

     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?"

     Alire kneels upon a velvet cushion made for that purpose. He removes his buttoned shirt, and with eyes closed reaches for a dark object near the altar covered by a Templar flag. A cat of nine tails...

Day after day, it reappears
Night after night my heartbeat shows the fear
Ghosts appear and fade away

     "But you are the most amazing wife," Cesare explains, "...on a horse, with a sword, with food, in conversation, in politic, and in bed. This is no shame," the knight remarks. He grins and feigns innocence. A sigh follows as the diversion ends. "I do not know what to do, bello. Not yet."

     It must be why her shades are pulled down, her windows shuttered, the daylight pouring within the chamber subdued and tea filling a cup instead of espresso. Albizzina wanders from the backroom to the front room, kettle in hand and pouring yet another cup of orange tea. In it, she grinds nutmeg and drops three drops of vanilla into it.

     You speak. He writes. "I do not think it is so simple. Your gifts are your gifts. Your skills, your skills. You should not compare yourself to Nathaniel," the way he speaks that name. An obvious attempt at being civil, but he does not hide the partial frown.

     It is the first time he's discussed it. Perhaps it is the safety of this cove, the liberating waves. "Which is the lie and which is the truth?" Giancarlo shrugs. "Is this truth?"

     "Do we know what freedom is?" Giancarlo wonders softly, stepping ahead and taking a seat on a rocky outcropping in the water.

     He looks at you as though he were peering over a professor's glasses, then smiles. "It appeals to the Scientist in me, however poor or mechanical, to be able to help you by sorting things out into groups, categorizing and being able to help you find a way that works for you, yes? Some better understanding..."

     "We will figure it out, and piece these things together with logic. There has to be an order, a pattern. You and I will find it, Giancarlo."

     The kiss is accepted as tenderly as given. Giancarlo smiles weakly and nods, hearing the words from you, but perhaps not yet taking them to heart. Brown eyes still look slightly downcast. "God...does not care for us...does he, Alire?"

     "So, to friends, yes?" He lifts the glass again and turns back to the kitchen. Who would know the enmity that exists beneath the pleasant smiles and genial conversation? Who would know indeed.

     "You...don't like him..." Cesare observes, saying it directly. He smiles though.
     "No, I don't." Nate's honest answer.

     Another swallow is hurriedly downed, and Cesare looks into the glass of white. "We...haven't talked much about it of late. Those memories," he says softly. "I...don't know sometimes," he admits nervously, "...what they all mean."

     Karoly's gaze is hidden - perhaps she glares daggers, but she does not weep; no tears become visible at the veil's edge.

     I am not toying with you, my dear, I am only delaying you... Karoly, murderess of Johannes Arnaul of Saarbruken. My name is Toreador, and I have come for the blood you owe me...

     The hand belongs to the slender arm that is attached to the slender figure of Albizzina Contato. The proprietress of Libri di Magia e di Mistero is reputed to be a true witch. There are many legends about the bookstore, some more fantastical than others. Some even say that she is hunting for the Doge's lost treasure of gold.

     Faith has seldom failed him, though gods and priests and popes have come and gone...

      "Our Lady stands, and so do we. If nothing else, I should think that victory would please."

      "Of course it matters," Alire continues. "And you are correct. You are not going to hurt yourself or him. I will not allow it," and the command that comes through is not a Templar's command, certainly not one that Alire would normally assume, but it is a vampire's mantle. That of a prince.

     Alire looks to you for a long moment. No... you are my Giancarlo and not my Giancarlo. You are my Michele and not my Michele. You, like me now, are some ...creature in between. "Dreams?"

     "I knew," his French comes, "...you would not forget me, Alire. You would not leave me. I asked God to help me, to help us, and my wish came true." Michele smiles weakly, the tears sliding down his face. "Say that we will be together always. Promise me, my Alire..."

     "I have dealt with the Past," he says it defiantly, though how can that be true if he is still so affected by it. "I have had my anger. I have had my sorrow. I do not want it anymore... again... I am ... not haunted. Have I not ... put those things to rest?"

     Truth is the sharpest implement of all. It cuts the deepest and the surest. But without it, what are we? Who are we...

     "We light candles to remember." Samuel's expression remains unchanged, that almost kindly smile still focused on his guests, but there is, for a moment, a light that has died behind the shrewd gaze.

     "A very long time ago," Samuel comments, voice quiet, gaze intent. "Hundreds of years - a passage out of history, one might say." He moves forward, footsteps suddenly quick, and holds a hand out over the figure of the boy, hovering between him and the knights. "Shall I change it?" An odd thing to ask...

     He closes his eyes and he listens as you speak, his mouth brushing your forehead, kissing your eyelids. An amorous benediction.
     I am your protection and your shelter...

     In the coalescence of dust and light, there is the faintest of outlines, a presence asserting itself. There is a shimmer near the doorway, something like the shine of sunlight against the gold of hair.

     And for all of that time, Alire did not move. He did not move at all. He did not breathe. He did not twitch. He did not shift in his sleep. There was Nothingness given shape. He became a statue. Sleeping Adonis on the riverside. Until the slipping of the sun...

     "I'm over 600 years old," he murmurs, the warmth of his hands on you, as they have been all the while. The touching does not end. The fingers curl and uncurl against your skin. He wonders what you shall do. "I was a knight, a... guardian of Pope Clement V."

     ...it is not then, Alire...we are different now, you and I...and we have all the Time in the world...

     And that's just what the young man beneath the blanket does. A sign is near him, saying, "Reading in bed is boring," and a book has been tossed aside. He's attempting to sleep, but something stirs him.

     But he has to ask. "Did...did they check everything, Alire? Top to bottom?" This makes no sense.

     Have you thought of how this sounds? How crazy this sounds. And you have only known him for... what is it now? A week? And you are telling him this, and you are acting like this. No wonder you have been alone, Alire d'Avignon...

     "God infinitely understands," Alire murmurs, "It is men who are short-sighted." I don't want to think about this. The short-sightedness of men. Closing his eyes, he leans in. Mouth parted, he takes the grape.

     "In the end," a voice lower than you have heard him speak replies, "...it will not matter, D'Avignon. Not at all."

     There are butterflies in his stomach today. A nervous excitement. A buzzing anxiety. For Alire d'Avignon has a guest...

     It is an evening full of lights and life, of old touches and a new spectacle. There is activity here...

     Perhaps prayers will be resumed. Perhaps he's just stalling...

     A thrumming in the back of the head, fluttering, follows the clocks. A ripple in the floorboards, imperceptible to most. The sound of something rushing forward at incredible speed.

     "Babi is the quite busy semi-deity," comes a perturbed voice... from the heretofore still statue, "...who can't be seen without an appointment. Do... you have an appointment?" And the airy voice of an Eternal Bureaucrat settles its emphasis on the two intruders. Eyes open and a stony eyebrow lifts angular. And skeptical.

     Then a knock on the door. Perfect to the ticking of the clock. The man is out there, waiting. A small slip of paper in his hand on which is written this address. And a name.

     "Finding the Doge's Gold," the one across from you says in all seriousness. "Maybe..." he smirks, turning around to see you, "...I can become wealthy and you can haunt me in better surroundings," a smile growing.

     Slender fingers light upon the napkin and draw it toward him, fingers that, curling, lift it. He reads it. He tucks it away. Safely, in a pocket. Andrealphus looks at you through his mortal shell. A mask that he does not move away, but do you know just how transparent it feels? O, what would it be like...
     What would it be like to Love again...

     I cannot escape it. I want to close my eyes. I want to not ... be this....

     I am a wicked man ... I am a wretched man...
When Jesus was upon the cross I never was this alone ...

     As people head into the ring, Edward turns to see you and gives you a smile. "Hey there, cos!" he yells, "Whatcha doin?" as if nothing's happened and you're walking towards him down the street.