He has been in castles before. He has even lived in a chateau. Despite his humblest of origins, he has had a little polish. He has been made, taught, moulded to be politically appropriate.
     Even so, that falls away when the sight of Chinon is first made manifest. His hand comes up - self-consciously, he runs his hand back over his hair, sinking back in his seat and starting the engine again. The car, a rental in a dull shade of light green, lists forward and rolls towards the road again from where he'd pulled onto the shoulder; and he is, as before, alone with the hum of the engine and of his thoughts.
     Who am I, to be here? What will I say? I must trust in myself. Trust in yourself, Hansl, I say, and I look in the mirror and I wonder, Hansl, I really wonder, how well can this possibly work out? But trusting in myself so far has only led to me being dead and not buried, so I suppose I can continue to give this a try.
     At the gate, the car is stopped again, it is parked off to the side and the German youth unfolds himself from the driver's seat. He is wearing grey linen trousers with a dark blue blazer and white shirt, a tie in grey and navy with faint sapphire threads loosely knotted around his neck. If it were daytime and he somehow could survive it, sunglasses would complete the outfit; as it is, he moves to present himself to whatever security might require of him. He does not know what to expect. And it shows...

     There are two men at the gate (there are likely others you cannot see). One remains seated in the booth (he is on the phone). The other, a man of obvious command and professionalism, approaches you. Dressed in a black suit and black shirt, with a radio wire visible near one ear, he motions you to hold where you are. "Vous pouvez rester dans votre voiture, Monsieur Arnaul, vous etes prevu." He gestures to the immediate right, to a cobbled drive. "Vous pouvez garer votre voiture dans la cour vers la droite." Nodding to you, he begins to step back, "Bienvenue a Chinon."
     There are two ways to go. To the right of the gate are several cars -- a Bugatti Veyron, which can belong to no one save the master of the house along with several others. The other way, straight, is a foot path through the gate and past the Tour l'Horlage -- the clock tower. Once one moves past the gate, it is easy to leave the modern world behind. One will be in the center of the Twelfth Century, surrounded by blue-pointed towers.
     Standing in the Chateau Milieu, the grassy garden area in the center of the compound, is the master of the house himself. Peacocks call out from the orchards and can be seen floating heavily downward in a crowd of plumage. Several greyhounds mill about the area. They are not for guarding -- these are no shepherd -- but are companions, simply. William whistles and makes a motion with his hand. The hounds trot toward the open doors of the Logis Royeaux.
     William can be seen in the golden hue of the castle's garden lights and in the flicker of the cigarette's flaring end. He is dressed in shades of cocoa brown, each layer a confection of French tailoring. He turns his gaze up to the sky as he releases a cloud of scented smoke. And he waits for the arrival of the guest of honor.

     It is a different world, all right. Money changes everything. How often has he heard it said? He's even seen it - no matter where he has gone, if you associate with the powerful of clan Toreador, you will run, over and over again, into money. Art must have its patrons. Whether it is something genteel or something with all the grace and finesse of a twenty dollar whore in Vegas, it hasn't changed. Hansl gets back into the car after a brief bow of courtesy and acceptance, and again the small green car is put into gear.
     It isn't the cheapest car. It's no Lambhorgini, of course, but it's not the cheapest. Next to the cars where he's now parking, though, it looks like a Kia or a Yugo : cheap, plastic, disposably mass-produced. Again he unfolds himself from the car's confines, not gauche enough to go fetch his luggage right now at least. Once on foot, he begins approaching via the footpath.
     I have had this feeling before. It is an acute consciousness of the empty space between the back of my skull and the base of my spine as I walk. I could be aimed at, shot at and killed by the feeling alone. It is a long walk, Gott - one foot, ten feet, fifteen feet, twenty. They may as well be a million. Where are you going, Hansl? You are traveling into something you cannot understand. You were not born to such things. You have an education, but not an understanding.
     How does one gain an understanding of such things? Experiencing it has not brought it about. Maybe it is as the Ventrue say, that it is in the human lineage. Part of me believes it as part of me scorns it, and I fall silent, muted by my own confusion. Look - there he is. And here I am. What can I say? 'You have a lovely home, your wife must be very proud' - oh, ja, save the humor for when it might not get you killed, Hansl...!
     He draws up and he bows. At the waist and forward, the acknowledgment of a superior officer given with a hint of the flair of Court. "Monsieur, mein herr. I hope that my time of arrival has given rise to no inconvenience."

     The smoke from his lips is fragrant; it is colored with tones of cinnamon and hashish as it is released. There is a smile there, revealed as the fog falls to the earth in a perfumed pile. "That is the beauty of being undead. I no longer have to worry about punctuality. You are not late," he offers as an aside, offering his hand to you. Were you French, you would be kissed.
     He pauses, turning to flick ash to the grass below. Behind you, a servant moves from the Logis Royeaux to the courtyard. Your bags are being fetched all seemingly without him having to ask or even wiggle his little finger. Such is the power of a prince.
     "This is not a test," William smiles a little, his own amusement knowing you must certainly feel it is. "I have asked you here only so that we may speak in peace, oui? All in the comfort of my chateau. Come, I think first a little wine would be good." A hand to your shoulder, William turns to the large structure, the Logis Royeaux -- the royal residence.
     The air breathes with him. The castle and he seem to be the same organism. When the doors are opened for you, when you step inside, it is immediately intimate. It is in some respects the same as touching him, as coming into his arms.
     Cathedral-esque, the pointed arches open outward, arch upon arch into seeming infinity. The ceiling opens overhead as if the stone itself shall unfold and open. Steepled, like folded hands in prayer, the arches convey a reverence, but also a warmth. During the day, the floor is crisscrossed by shafts of sunlight, turning the stone golden. By night, this area is lit by soft candle light, and every sound echoes.
     The entry hall of Logis Royeaux is furnished only with a runner rug to soften the steps of those who enter. The Romanesque structure is otherwise decorated only with its architecture. Every stone has been embellished.
     To the west, double doors lead to the great hall, the formal gathering area. To the southwest, a stone stairwell leads to the upper floors and residence halls of the chateau. To the east is the main entrance, leading to the Chateau du Milieu.

     Not a test. He manages to keep If you say so off of his expression, but it is there, however politely, at the roots of his hair. In the tilt of his head. And then it is banished as he follows you inside further.
     It is impressive and overwhelming, and he makes no effort to pretend that he is blase. You would just see through it, after all. He does his best to maintain some composure, and otherwise does not hide the darting glances, the ice blue eyes regarding his surroundings with artistic appreciation, aesthetic appreciation. His skin burns under the cloth where your hand rests at his shoulder; you have entirely too much presence, and combined with the presence of environs, it is a rich and heady mixture. And nothing seems to be giving him any distance.
     This is terribly unGerman...
     "Wine would be delightful," Hansl manages the formal words, stiff inside his skin. "My thanks, sir."

     It is good you do not pretend to be anything other than you are. As you look around, amazed, William stands in amazement with you. "It didn't look anything like this when it came back into my possession," he says quietly. "I was born here... back in eleven-sixty-five. But after my death in the crusades," he smirks to you. "I could not retain it. My brother John lost it finally to the King of France. I was not able to regain my old home until the French Revolution." He pauses, slanting a look to you. "It was a strange benefit to an ugly period. One royal family loses their heads, and another regains an old home."
     He pauses for just a moment, letting you soak in the interior, and then he turns to follow the high-arched gallery hallway to a set of double-doors. "Please, no calling me sir," William's voice lifts. "... We are in private, yes? There are no politics here."
     He opens the doors with a tug and he turns, gesturing you into the great hall. It is not the original great hall -- that is now his bedroom -- but who could know it to look at it. Twelve stained glass windows face the Milieu and the orchards, each one bearing the image of the eleven Guillaumes of Poitou and the one Comtesse, his mother -- Eleanor. William gestures for you to take a seat. The wine is already decanted and poured.
     "I will be sure to give you a tour later," William quietly notes. "For now, I would like to speak with you about your work, about your future." He takes a seat and takes one of the two glasses. The wine is of the local vineyards, one of his own. It is deep red, full-bodied, strong.
     "Please...take a seat..."

     It has been restored to its Medieval grandeur. Unchanged, it seems, by all the Time that has past and uncluttered by the dust of the revolutions that once destroyed it. Once again, the hush of majesty may be found here, as if it had never been disturbed.
     The Angevin arches, one seemingly unfolding from another, meet at points high above. Though careful notice would tell you that the ceiling itself is not vaulted. Space only seems infinite. The great hall still serves as formal greeting and gathering area, as well as formal dining. All furnishings are antique, wooden, and all restored with velvet and damask. Nearest the great hearth, which sits against the southern wall, there are comfortable chairs gathered, where one may retire after dining at the long table that sits to the east.
     To the north, facing the gardens, are twelve windows, each one of a stained glass figure. And beneath these, other pockets of seating areas are arranged. By day, the reflection of the sun upon the glass scatters colors at your feet. By night, the hall is golden lit, suffuse in firelight. Double Doors lead outward to the entry hall and other portions of this immense structure.

     Private. To speak. No politics. Is that even possible?
     You strip away the defense of formalities, of titles and courtesies and military correctness (at least in part even if not in full) and he is lost to bewilderment. He follows, of course; how could he do otherwise? And he takes the seat you offer, sinking into it carefully.
     My future...? Well, yes, I suppose I HAVE one, but ...
     No, he didn't see it coming. He still isn't sure if that's a speedboat passing by land or a semi-trailer truck headed directly towards him. "Certainly," Hansl says aloud, taking the wine with a low murmur of thanks. "I will strive to answer you as best I can. And I will be looking forward to the tour. Ah. What would you like to know?"

     He looks at the color of the wine, and where the color begins to disappear in the tilting of the glass. But that look, that studying, curious gaze lifts to land on you. He takes a sip of the wine, leaving it on his table as he sits back.
     His energy is palpable. It is focused on you, but it is contained so as not to overwhelm. It is a conscious effort on his part.
     "I would like to better understand you and your work, where you wish to take it, where you wish it to take you." He pauses a moment. "How did you first come to painting, to sketching. You speak of being a farmer's son," there is warmth there for that. He does not judge you for your humble beginning. "Were you creating even then, or is that something that The Saint, your father, inspired in you or wished for you." Or conscripted you to serve. That is another option.
     "I came to painting late in life, relatively. I am curious to how this began for you. Everyone has their own story." And William Plantagenet sits back, the stained glass representation of him (Guillaume XI) at his back.

     My work. How do I speak of it? I don't know.
     He doesn't know. There is a moment of blankness, bordering on panic before he quiets himself, stills himself again, and the pale lashes close over blue eyes. He withdraws inwards, to the center sphere of his soul. Is it possible to be a vampire and still hold claim to one's own soul?
     "My world was about colour before it was about sound."
     The statement escapes him, and he opens his eyes, looking startled. Hansl stammers slightly, then falls silent, lowering his gaze. "I remember green things best. Green, and warmth, and sunlight - the crisp smell of freshly cut hay, and baking bread drifting up from the kitchens. My father was a very successful farmer, but not a very big one. We were modestly wealthy. But he had no other sons."
     His hands shift, sliding one against the other, and his posture slowly changes; his shoulders lose their military rigidity, the square slumping a little as he bows his head forward over his lap in thought and in memory. "He had that gift, of being one with the land. He knew what it wanted, and they ... worked together; I do not know, forgive me, I do not know how to put it other than in these superstitious words. But he could dig his fingers, thick and gnarled from constant use, into wet mud and pull them out and the earth would be loam, it would be like cake. They say emperors' touches could cure ills; my father's touch healed the land and made it bring forth sustenance."
     His eyes remain closed, though he sits up straight, now, remembering things. "I have no quarrel with my father," Hansl says quietly, "with his memory, except that maybe he was too soft with me. I do not mean that I was not made to work; on a farm, everyone works. But he could tell that I lacked his magic, his touch. Where he could stand on the land and you would see as if he had roots from his spine and his legs digging down to tie him in place, I just - walked across a field; I was never a part of it, really. I was always happiest with a bit of charcoal and scraps of paper. When did I start? I don't remember a time when I wasn't feeling for some kind of canvas. And my father..." He shrugs. "He never /spoke/ his disappointment. It was in his eyes, but he never spoke of it."

     He knows all too well a father's disappointment, whether unspoken or bluntly delivered. There is an immediate comprehension in his eyes. "I know that look well," his mouth begins to pull in a full slant. "Both in my first life and in my last. I have seen the look on a king's face, and on the face of an ancient vampire, oui?" He chuckles. Yes, he does know what that looks like.
     "My father also had a gift with land. Wherever he stepped, it seemed to ...jump into his pockets." There is humor there among all the memories. Humor that can only come from a great distance, well after all the other parties are dead. "He had the same effect on women, as I recall." William takes a swallow of the wine. "My father was a king. I was a working prince, a duke. I did not start painting until the 1400s. I was several hundred years old by then. But," his smile spreads, smoothly, slowly, "...I understand the solace that only charcoal can provide. After all I have done, it is still my favorite medium."
     "And what of the war that intervened on your youth? You were made to serve, of course, as all young men of your country. How did the Saint manage to find you in so much noise and blood, I wonder. Did you serve in command centers or were you on the front lines?"

     "My father sent me to the gymnasium, to study art. He did believe I could be good - I think he hoped it would wear off, though. But," Hansl shrugs, taking a swallow of wine, "the war came. I do not need to tell you what it was like. I imagine anyone who lived through it or has read anything about it knows."
     He is quiet for a moment, and the farmboy is replaced by something hollower, more fragile; it is in its way the echo of how he was after Arnaul's death. A shattered young man, beautiful, but without direction. "I had no desire to be a soldier, no more than a farmer. Less, perhaps. It was ... difficult."
     There are the remains of distress, deeply buried, of shock and horror and pain like self-inflicted wounds, running deep within him. Buried; covered. But not erased. "I was eventually sent to Saarbrucken," he murmurs, "as a courier. My duties did not take me anywhere far through the ranks, you understand; my job was to go where I was sent. And for a long time, I was stationed in Saarbrucken. Well." A small laugh, quiet, atonal. "Long time. At the time it seemed a long time; several months. The night before I was to leave to be sent to Berlin, that is when mein vater - the Saint, as you say - took me."

     "I was there," he indicates quietly. He does not delve on matters of war. Your face, your body speak volumes as to your discomfort. "It was a very long six years. I imagine it felt interminable to you, a young man. I was flying for Great Britain. I had flown in the first world war, the one that was supposed to be the last." He chuckles a little at that, and with a slight shake of his head he takes another swallow of wine. He glances to the state of your own glass, to see whether it needs refilled. "I taught myself how to fly. It is a wonder I lived with the way I drive," the elongated tones of French lay heavily on the English -- English chosen out of deference to the German that was its beginning. His German is beyond atrocious.
     "So you have had some formal training. I had wondered on this. How much formal training have you experienced? I assume Herr Saarbrucken provided some education. This is, however, an assumption," William notes. He inclines his head and awaits your answer. He has his own ideas on this, despite any assumptions. "The relationships between sires and children are...complicated. To say the least."

     Hansl is silent for a moment, his glass half-emptied. He sits quietly, but he isn't there; he's gone away, somewhere else, far away and long ago. It is the stillness which death makes possible; and then, suddenly, he returns. "I have never learned how to fly. I was a courier when I was taken from the struggle."
     With that, he turns to your new question, the pale blue eyes landing on your face. "I had a little training at school," he admits. "I thought it was more than it was, of course. It was as removed from the farm as the moon from the earth." He pauses, then adds, "I ... think in some ways, I miss the moon being remote and inaccessible to man. A terrible sentiment. But I miss it."
     His hands lace around the stem of the glass, unfold, lace again. "My education was interrupted by the war. I still drew, though there came a time when - I was, it became verboten." Forbidden. "I ... do not know what would have happened, if mein vater - if he had not taken me. But he did, and ja - I was educated again. I think that he - thought I had potential," Hansl answers you quietly, "but ... to get to that potential, everything that had existed before him had to be - as much as he could - pulled away. I had a series of very expensive tutors. Some mortal, some not - but I saw in all of them the same thing, in their eyes. The assumptions they made. But it was an expensive education. I know to the last deutschmark how much it cost. I can identify works of art, mein herr, from the brush strokes. I can work in paint and clay and wrought iron. I can take photographs and develop them myself, and later on, I learned to use computers to expand my art into new dimensions. There was nothing expected of me but art, and duty."

     William listens to you, his gaze intent. Your words are absorbed as much as they are heard. "You do have potential," he says after a moment, his indigo eyes not wavering in their study. "You are still quite young, as far as Time goes. The world is truly at the edge of your toes, waiting for you."
     His fingers laced against his stomach, William is quiet again. Finally, he inclines his head, stepping out of his reverie. "I have called you here to present you with an opportunity, Hansl." His studying countenance fades for something warmer. "I did not ask you to Chinon to wine you and dine you," his full mouth begins to curve with a smile. "But to offer you the opportunity to learn from me. As Leonardo learned from Andreas. I learned from Leonardo. Every great artist was at one time the student of another."
     "I know you have spent some time in the salons of Paris and the workshops of Venice. But I also know that no one has stepped forward in the absence of Arnaul Himself to assist you, to guide you and your work to what I think it can be. You have potential. I can show you how to make the most of that. I'm offering you an apprenticeship. Are you interested?"
     It is not simply one show...
     It is the potential of having years of his time...
     His knowledge...
     His artistic devotion...
     William lifts a dark eyebrow as he sits back and waits for the offer to sink in and the acceptance to stammer out after. He expects you know the importance of this moment. He does not explain it to you.

     He looks to you, listens to you, stopping everything. Not the pretense of humanity; that does not stop, with him, ever. The mimicry of life is less a conscientious art and more a habit which was never broken. Though it does not need to beat to sustain life, his heart still produces the faint lub-dub; lub-dub; lub-dub of youth and vitality, as it has since he was a young man serving in Hitler's great Wehrmacht.
     But he is dead. And were he alive, had he lived, he would never have been here, seated opposite you to hear such words, to know such truths. It is acknowledged, behind the pale eyes and their pale eyelashes, within the seemingly stoic and achingly unmoved brow. He blinks, an uneven flush rising into his cheeks. He is caught off guard, and you can see that, almost taste it. He wears confusion as a heady scent.
     But, damn it, he doesn't stammer.
     "I can think of nothing which would give me greater pleasure, sir. I ... am honored, more than I can put into words, that you might consider me worthy of such attention." Hansl chases the words out with a swallow of wine that is quick and readily sets his glass aside, leaning forward to watch you intently, with the earnest scrutiny of someone trying to find an answer to a question of his own. "Interested? You put me in the position of embarrassing myself. Gott..."
     He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I - I do not know that I could express the million and one thoughts that occur to me," he murmurs, looking down at his hands. So close to getting through it without a stutter, but folly is not merely mortal, alas. "Ja, of course. I could not say no, even if you told me that at the end of it I would be set on fire. I - I will try not to disappoint you, bitte, forgive me..."

     The smile that follows is opulent. There is no smile like his. No turn of lips that could ever express both grace and sin so well, simultaneously. It is rich with the warmth of a quite living hue, that hue that makes him seem more like a painting himself than a human being. For what human would have that presence, cultivated over centuries, and yet his heart beats, he breathes. He even sweats, though you do not have proof of that now.
     "Embarrassment is rarely fatal," comes the slow ease of that baritone voice. He takes up the decanter again, rising to pour another glass for you and to refill his own. As William regains his seat, he removes a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his suit's jacket. He offers the pack to you with a slight upraising of eyebrows. Care for one?
     "I have never taken on an apprentice, a student," William notes, pausing to light his cigarette. An herbal and spicy scent fills the room as he breathes out the perfumed smoke. "It is past time, I think. I have been following your career. The ups and downs. I am looking forward to working with you. I won't make you clean brushes for a year," his mouth curves around the body of the cigarette in a smile. But there will be both transcendent and menial labor, to be sure. But nothing of greatness was ever born of ease.
     "I would like you to relocate to Chinon from Tours. You are welcome to reside in the chateau -- there are over five towers in addition to the Logis Royeaux. But if you would not feel comfortable sleeping under the roof of elders, which I understand -- I cannot sleep soundly in that case either -- there is a well-appointed townhouse just outside the gates. I will leave that to your choice and preference."
     The smoke curls upward from a smile. "For the next few years, it is best that you remain within walking distance. We will be working nightly. I want to study your brush strokes in more detail. We will start there. I will push you. Your work will not evolve if you do not push yourself. And I will be there to assist you. I want you to be successful. I think you have what it takes to be. Your story compelled me," he murmurs. "I waited for a few years to see what your clan would or would not do. But I do not think it wise to let potential talent such as yours go unnurtured."

     It is a mercy that he does not faint. That would be an inauspicious beginning. He sits up straight, ramrod straight, looking as if he lacks only a cup of tea to be British instead of German. He is electrified.
     And he is all too well aware of the honor which is being conferred upon him...
     And now my life begins to get truly difficult.
     It is almost a Gallic humor in the thought; gallows humor, some might say. The cigarette is accepted, but not lit. He lacks the concentration to pay attention to it right now. "I will turn my hands to whatever task you present, maitre. I would not expect otherwise."
     So serious, still, and so young. He utters the words with a lack of conceit, a lack of pretense. There is no arrogance, no pride in so being honored, so being selected; he is flattered beyond recognition, but his attention is immediately upon the mountain named Expectations. He must climb that mountain, now.
     You say what you would like, and he nods. Once. Again. A third time, on the points you make. "It will be no hardship to relocate. In truth, I have held off on unpacking; I had not settled," Hansl admits, "in Tours... or upon it. I am still en hotel."
     He exhales, struggling to keep it from becoming a sigh, and again he nods to you. "It will be as you wish, of course. I ... will give the details due consideration, if I may. Whatever your preference would be, of course, must take precedence. And - I am very honored, sir. I think that sometimes 'thank you' is the most graceless and insufficient word in any language, ill-equipped to live up to the sentiment which it is meant to express. But ... I say it anyway. Thank you."

     It is the chance of a lifetime. And like all such chances, there are risks and rewards equal to the task. "You are welcome," William remarks. "Without challenges, what are we? And now you have something for which to strive, to work. But I do not want you to worry about success or failure. Failure and success -- these are things that will only be proven over time, Hansl, in mistakes and triumphs alike."
     His expression warms again, the blue-violet eyes flecked with brightness like small flames. "Success and failure are really not the point. It is what you learn and how you apply it. What you make of it from there? That will be up to you. I am here for you to ask questions of. If there is something you wish to know, simply ask me."
     Smoke billows from his mouth as he exhales, his hand reaching out and tapping ash in the waiting glass tray. He nods as you express your current living conditions. "Good. I suggest you move at your earliest convenience. I am sure news will travel," his mouth makes the most of the smile that follows. "But here, you will be insulated from all of that. Regarding hunting in Chinon?" A brow lifts. "I only ask that you be extremely discreet. I have created a village with an unblemished reputation for low crime. Enjoy the few clubs that there are, feed where and how you wish so long as your prey survives. I will assign a servant to your room or townhouse," whichever you prefer. "They are conditioned to such matters. You are welcome to enjoy the ...bounty of Chinon."
     William stamps out the cigarette, grinning. "Would you like the tour now?"

     The chance of a lifetime - at least one lifetime, and possibly more. "At the moment," Hansl answers dazedly, "I do not know that I can think of any single question. There seems a wide and expanding blankness, if you will forgive my saying so. I did not expect such generosity when I arrived, and as such, my thoughts resist my attempts to place them in order. Very ungentlemanly of them, ja, but thus it is."
     He inhales deeply, inclining his chin in assent as you give your words. "I will certainly attend to the move immediately, sir. If you wish, at once. And I do not - kill when I hunt." He pales slightly, a flicker of his eyelashes again. "Only in self-defense, as long as such is permitted to me. I prefer to make no waste, or no more than I must."
     Again he nods, inclining his chin to your generosity, though it is likely that he does not yet know - or dream - of how generous the bounty of Chinon might be. He rises to his feet, smoothing down the lines of his clothes with self-conscious hands. "Certainly. I will endeavor to give a just eye to my surroundings."

Posted by rowan at May 17, 2007 12:38 PM