Immortal travel, while slower than your even more unconventional means, is hardly the stuff of cinema. Like all things vampire, there are take-offs and landings that seem to happen in the spaces between spaces of other flights. Private planes and private pilots who ask nothing of their destination but what they need to report to air traffic control, all under the corporate auspices as silent partners. Silent partners, indeed, so silent they are unknown.
To think nothing of the trains and cars. Such a symphony it is, and one that seems to issue forth from the vampire's invisible control of the universe around him as effortless as a musical score to the opening credits of a film. It is as unreal as flying without wings. As unreal in its way as simply... being somewhere else upon a single thought.
Though perhaps you find it slightly less disconcerting...
The Cavaliere s'Mer is a jutting point of Provencal land, its lights dot the dark landscape and reflect on the nearby bay and sea. Outside of the Cavaliere s'Mer, up a winding cobble and gravel road, a private road, that really needs to be repaired, is a villa that hangs upon the very edge of the land. It was certainly a glorious Roman villa once, repaired over the years until the owner, out of frustration, boredom, or lack of time simply gave up. Portions of it are no longer inhabitable and have been converted into gardens over ruins. It is of typical late Roman design, with Romanesque add-ons after the barbarian horde first sacked it. Its walls still bake in the sun. The tiles still flame at noon and cleverly direct the rain run-off into the sprawling gardens and vineyards that surround it.
It seems more garden than villa...
At its feet, a stretch of pristine and private Mediterranean beach, accessible by a steep stair path that leads from the villa to the sands. A rope was installed along the path at some point, and it is mostly in good shape.
There are no lights to welcome either of you, none but the lights from your hired car, the driver tentative in his approach. In the back seat, Alire is smiling. Not the slight, shy smile of d'Avignon, but the relaxed and confident smile of a man who is coming home. "You will have to see it in the morning," Alire says, looking from the window to his companion. "We will watch the sunrise together, yes?"
Giancarlo stares eagerly out of his window, trying to see ahead, along the road. His gaze turns to his companion and he nods and smiles, saying, "It will be wonderful, bello," keeping his voice low for the driver. It is one thing to realize what is going on, it's another to have to hear it.
Strangeness, this so-called modern day and age.
Giancarlo's hand slips over to touch, and he grins again. "It is strange," he whispers ever so softly, knowing that the rest of his sentence would not be a surprise.
It's strange, this. Anticipation of the not-knowing and knowing simultaneously. A place familiar - I know where I go - but nothing seems the same. The details are all new. It looks nothing like I feel I should recall.
Giancarlo sighs a little, trying to hide his frustration. But it is evident in the stare that cannot leave, that's followed by the surprise and confusion of what he sees outside.
The road is continually upward and winding as it leads from the inlet highway to the private villa on the cliff. Here, so far away from large cities, there are stars, a span of swirling dust and color and brightness. An unpolluted sky. A timeless sky. The headlamps of the limousine the only detractors from the universal beauty. The driver slows, leaning in: No lights, monsieur, who thought to keep a road this way? So he mutters to himself.
There is a ruined wall, a wall that lost its battles long ago, a wall that is losing a battle even now to flowering ivy, wild berries and grapes. Or perhaps they are all that is holding the wall in place these days. The gate has long since been removed, and the car may pass through the opening unmolested. The cobble turns to gravel turns to dirt in the great circular courtyard. In the center of the courtyard stands a marble fountain, something from the Renaissance, the water a memory as much as that time.
The car stops and the hand that holds your own gives it a slight squeeze. He is not embarrassed for the condition of this villa. What parts are used are certainly inhabitable. Despite its seeming dilapidation, there is still a lingering grandeur. One night, perhaps the water will run in the fountain once more. Perhaps the stone wall shall stand without its crutch of ivy. Perhaps lights will line the road and fill the villa with an ever-present warmth...
"We are here, monsieur," the driver says, putting the car into park. He keeps his opinions on the house to himself. All this way to get to this catastrophe? Doors are opened, one by one for you. The trunk is opened and the bags are removed. Alire takes the moment to kiss you, sudden, warm and without apology, and with a smile, a wide smile, he stands upon his own ground.
And he closes his eyes and tips his head back. He hears the sea. He smells the sea. And he looks to you as he closes his door, as the ocean sounds against the rocks and sand below. "The best view of the Mediterranean, in the least likely spot of all," he murmurs. A touch of his finger to his nose and he grins. Yes, his little secret.
From across the car, Giancarlo looks out to the sea. He exhales and closes his eyes, trying to recall the specific instances. The events. What happened when he was last here. What was done? They are but flashes, and so he looks down to his feet, closing the door behind him.
"It's lovely, Alire," Giancarlo offers, looking over the car again. He musters a smile, sliding hands into his pockets.
The laughter comes easily, as easily as money from his pocket for the driver, and a sizable tip. Alire parts from the driver with a nod and a smile. Both bags in hand he comes up to stand beside you. Now, all of the mechanisms for how you arrived will begin to dissolve, as unreal seeming as the flight had been. The gravel sounds beneath the tires as the car slowly pulls away. He looks to you as you look to the ocean and then to him. "For something as old as it is, it has a loveliness. It deserves better care," a glance to the house. "But ... like me... she is weathering time well enough..."
As the car pulls down the dark road, disappearing, soon all that illuminates you both is the swath of stars above. Alire looks to them, then to their reflection on the white beach below. "Our own beach, tesoro," he murmurs. "Our own villa, our own stars. I had forgotten," he chuckles just momentarily, very softly, just at the edges of his words.
Light blue eyes look to you and he sets the bags down. "How about a walk on the beach...hmm? I love this view. It is the view that reminds me what life can be. Beautiful. Precious. Without spoil." Alire reaches toward you, his hand open to receive your own.
He nods. For an older knight, there was always something cleansing about the sea. He could stand or sit at the edge of one for hours. Giancarlo exhales loudly and extends his hand in offer.
The hand is taken and the grasp that is given is one both for reassurance and for excitement. "Be mindful of the stairs," Alire notes as he leads you to the edge of the cliff. Stairs? Stairs indeed. Carved from the plateau's stone itself, the stairs wind down the slope of the cliff to the sands below. Many years ago now, he installed a rope rail. The rope is showing the signs of age, but is still a reliable guide along the wall of the cliff itself. The stone surface of the steps is not slick or too well worn, though there are grooves created by salt and wind over time.
Alire proceeds, his hand leaving yours to take the rope, and he looks to you past a shoulder. "I own the surrounding lands. The beach is very private. From here to the village is mine. I have vineyards that I lease out to other vineyards... I do not keep a staff. I have only a gardener and his two sons. His family has worked for me for generations...how I do love it here..." he breathes that lastly to himself as he makes his way down the cliffside.
In front of you, the open sea, the Mare Nostrum, deep indigo in its evening robes...
Giancarlo is quiet as he descends behind. The sea becomes louder, and soon it fills his ears as much as his eyes. His shoes tap on the smooth stone beneath, assuring his presence. But then, Giancarlo stops, his breathing labored.
"Do...I know this, Alire?" he wonders softly, his face looking slightly pained. "I...don't remember," he smiles, very nearly in tears. "But there was water..." Giancarlo says, bringing his hand to his head. But it was someone else. Not so long ago. Samuel? Was that us?
Alire, too, stops and he turns, a hand yet upon the rope. "Yes," Alire speaks gently, though not so quietly -- he has to speak over the sea. "Samuel has a villa by the sea. It is not so far away...well, it is not so close either. But...yes...we were there for a short time, a couple of years ago. This villa, my villa. It was my family's, passed to me, though there was more of it then, and a fortification that was dismantled in the Renaissance. When ... Michele and I were here last, bello, oh that was many years ago. We would ride this way when business brought us close. We were knights of the Pope and knights of Christ, but still knights. We... had lands to tend to as well... these...were and are still... mine..."
He looks around his former, and current, domain, including the stretch of sand to the sea. "There was more of it then. I have sold much of the land over time, keeping only what I felt I needed, what would be manageable over time..." He does not proceed. Not until he sees if you are ready. His eyes ask it: are you okay, tesoro?
Giancarlo's expression darkens. Lines appears at the corners of his eyes, and he turns away to look over the railing. His chest expands and deflates, followed by the closing of his eyes.
"I can see us..." he whispers, "...and there are stones. Rock, in a cave. And there was water," he breathes, tilting his head as if listening for the waves. A smile comes suddenly, a memory found. "You...kissed me...but...I wondered...if anyone knew..."
The hand massages and Giancarlo's face tightens, as if in pain.
"I was someone else," he says softly. "I loved you...so much..."
The tears do come, and Giancarlo's eyes open. The hand is stared at for a moment, then lowered slowly to his side. He looks around the open vista, trying to place himself in some stream of Time.
He listens to this, he watches the expressions on your face, from pain to sorrow to a smile and then back to discomfort. There is something about him here, in this place, that is different. Here, he is in his own country, his own land. He owes no one, commands no one, is watched by no one. There is only you and him. There is an openness and an easiness that has descended upon him, so different than when you and he were at Samuel's.
"I loved him and I love you," Alire says. There is an unflinching look, it is like a vow when he says it. "Very much. I would have given this all to him," Alire smiles at that. "Even as now... it is ours together. I give it to you, this place for us. It is ours, bello. Come," he says gently, "...let us get to the sand."
Giancarlo's attention returns to you -- you are the only constant between two lives. His comfort and need lies with you, and so Giancarlo follows, seeing the coastline with two sets of eyes.
This stretch of the sea is pristine. It is simply the meeting of the Mediterranean and the shoreline. No resorts here, nor even village lights are visible. No ships are moored in the distance. The bay of the village sees any and all of the traffic of Cavalier-s'Mer. It is pure, this view. Stars. Sea. Earth. And two men who have struggled upon the earth, walking hand and hand as the stairs give way to sand.
Alire leans in toward you, a kiss placed upon your ear, and your hand is dropped only long enough for him to remove his shoes, his socks, and the jacket belonging to his suit. He sets it in very non-Alire-like fashion upon the ground, the jacket resting atop shoes, shoes on the stairs. The tie follows after and he exhales, as if freed from the confines of his own habitual fashion.
"Now I am ready," he smiles grandly, yes... grandly, and with gentle exuberance leads you toward the encroaching sea, dressed only in his shirt and trousers. And even those may not be long for this world. "It is amazing, to have such a world to oneself. I am so glad we came here...I..." again such a smile, so free, so without hesitation, "...I am still...well, I am just so fortunate, and I am happy. You are here with me. Unbelievably, you are here. I am thankful...so very thankful, tesoro..." Alire looks to you. "For whatever we have in our past or in our future, I am thankful for today..."
Taking your lead, Giancarlo slips from his shoes as well. Still in his shirt, he walks towards the sea as if dazed by sirens. Giancarlo looks aware for a moment before turning his gaze to the sea again, almost welcoming the water's enveloping embrace.
"I have missed you, d'Avignon. We are happiest when you are here..."
Giancarlo's hand tightens and he walks ahead, fearing nothing from the water. Has he not seen -- felt -- mush worse?
"I...don't want to miss anything, Alire," Giancarlo says softly, earnestly. "Not this time."
Over his toes, the water seeps, rising higher at his hem and tailored ankles. "Not ever again," Giancarlo murmurs to himself, determining, "...I deserve...to know this. All of it." This life, that life both.
"I've missed you, too," Alire says softly, for that is still his way. The emotion of that is true on his face. Here, he does not keep everything so tightly held. "And I will be here," he smiles. "I have always been here. First, I was here waiting." Alire smiles to you and then casts his gaze over the sea. "Now, I am here living."
There is sudden laughter, not just the laughing smile that he expresses elsewhere in Europe, but full laughter as he gives his feet to the sea. It is a rare sound for a common baptism. "We live in a world free of sea dragons," light blue eyes scoot a look to you. "I remember wondering once what mysteries the water held, I still do. But now," he steps further into the warm-cool surf of the Mediterranean, "... without trepidation."
Alire looks to the water, and then...
Hurtling outward, a fluttering shirt lands upon the sand, out of the way of the surf, and he in his glory, even in his scarred glory, stands beneath the face of the firmament. Without shyness, without shame. "I am with the man I have always loved in the only place that has truly mattered. Now, this is joy..."
In the darkness, there is no difference between this century and ones past. The stones, the sea, the harsh coast have not changed in the speck of a few centuries. Giancarlo seems confused without the markings of this time and that one, and he lifts his gaze from his soaked feet to study you. You do look happy, he can confirm. Delighted. Familiar. Laughing.
Right now, he is unable to have such joy. It comes, that delight, but for now, Giancarlo takes a seat in the shallow water and looks upon you. He grins slightly, but remains content to stare at the golden you in the darkness.
He does not care about the very expensive trousers. What difference does it make to the sea, what difference, indeed, to him. He does not care. Such little details, details that once filled his nights, that was...in fact... his only life, they fall to the sea and are swept away. And with it, all routine. Alire turns to you, to the sound of your voice, he sees the look on your face, and do you see that he shares it?
Eyes water, or rather moisture moves over them, crimson blood that in this light is simply the reflection of Light Itself, and Alire wears a look that is, for a moment, as helpless as your own, seeing all Time between you, two lives and one love. "I ... am glad you are here with me," Alire murmurs, he walks back toward the shallow water. "I ... cannot say how much I missed you, I can only express it in... this great thankfulness. I will tell you everything... you won't have missed anything, bello...not a thing... not a moment..."
Maybe Samuel was right afterall. In my indignance, I must have missed it, also in my righteousness. To think I had finished with things. While my time in the dungeons may well be resolved, what of my centuries of solitude? What of all that time missing you? And missing myself...
"I know," Giancarlo says slowly, his gaze lifting. "I know you will, bello." I know you will try.
Now soaking wet, Giancarlo runs his hands over his hair - a sure sign that the Frenchman is tired, but trying to find some inner resolve. Giancarlo does and he stands, trousers sticking to him. He winks as he stands, and decides to undress.
"Chevalier d'Avignon," the rank used, "...how about a swim? Maybe...to the cove...it was here, yes?" Giancarlo wonders. Not a misplaced memory from another time and place.
Chevalier d'Avignon. He smiles at that, he looks at the state of his pants and then he too begins to remove them. The smile is easy to come, even as tears are -- he is quick with both, he must admit -- and the look warms. "To the cove, yes..." Yes, there is one. He nods and tosses his pants to the sand.
The scars he wears on his skin, sometimes he can feel them. Alire knows that they run deeper than the surface. Those marks, with Samuel's aid, they healed. But the marks of centuries living without you, those were far deeper than he realized.
It took you returning for him to see...
Giancarlo's smile returns as he peels out of his clothing; this time it's more cheerful, and honestly so. The shirt is tossed aside into a heavy pile. He bends to squirm out of the pants, leaving shoes aside. "We...slept on the beach one time," Giancarlo says off-handedly as he walks deeper into the water. He looks left and right, trying to find his bearings, and then twists to see you. "Bivouac, hmm? Maybe we cannot help ourselves."
Giancarlo looks up to the moonlight, then smiles again. He closes his eyes, face given to the sky, and whispers to the wind. His fingers lift and flutter slightly.
Where he stands, the silver of the moon intensifies. Reflected light becomes naturally incandescent, and the waves gleam brilliantly. The light seems to follow wherever Giancarlo moves.
"You will..." his despair improving, "...have to navigate." Like days of old.
Once, you may recall him being shy, of being self-conscious of his form in its natural, naked state. Even after the first time (at least this time) you were together, man to man, he would blush. But he does not do so now, not here. Though his form is highlighted by the light that you create, this...drawing down of the moon you have done, though the scars are by this light illuminated, Alire simply stands, beautifully stands, and then he smiles, nodding.
His golden hair is a halo in this light, moonlight spun, and he turns to the water, striding slowly outward like the return of Neptune. Alire turns to you, smiling over a should. "It is around the bend of the cliff," the outward jutting neighboring cliff. "Follow me, tesoro. I will show you the way..."
The water moves against this calves, then his thighs, then swallows his lower torso. Soon, he is swimming, a slow push against the waves.
Giancarlo wades in behind, hopping to catch up. But soon enough he dives in, submerging into the illuminated underdark. Instinctively, he cuts the water below, passing your thighs, and he heads towards the bend in the cliff.
Gentle, but insistent. Alire and the Mediterranean Sea can both be considered so. You move around them both. Great, beautiful, gentle creatures they. He is laughing, you will have missed that, and he submerges after you, great breast-strokes taken, submerging and emerging, as he moves with you, both leading and following.
The cliffside of Provence juts out, creating one of the many small bays along this part of the coastline. It shelters several small caves, and the cove, a hidden grotto on a private stretch of shore...
It is just ahead, not a far swim. The entrance to the cove is the cool-water bay between two slivers of cliffside. There, the cove itself. Sea water at this tide level no longer rushes within but smoothens itself across the surface of even smoother stone and sand...
Beneath the surface, everything is forgotten. Water flows over the body, a simple bullet breaking the waves. A lift brings Giancarlo to the surface, and he swims an open freestyle into the cove. He twists in the water to look back, to find his other half, then smiles when the other form becomes visible.
"It is like I remember," Giancarlo calls, hands on top of his head as he stands in the watery cove. "Well, like I will remember from now on," the Italian grins. "I think I like your Provence," he teases.
Hands smooth back his wet hair as he surfaces and stands. To your grin -- who could not smile at that? -- Alire does smile. "I like this Provence too. I do not wonder why I have not been here," Alire notes, emerging from the water into the cove itself. "You were waiting for me in Prague. Provence was waiting, too."
Naked, he steps within the cove, water peeling from his skin. "This was a hidden wonder for us. It was then, it is now. I ... you know, there is a certain symmetry." His blonde eyebrows quirk upward at the thought. Alire turns to look at you, reaching outward with his hand for you. "There are no eyes to see here. This... was a place of freedom once. It still feels..." Alire's smile softens to you. "...like a sanctuary. As if you could hear our sighed ..." the smile turns to a grin, "...well, I won't call them prayers..."
The light, once a spotlight, has now dimmed enough only to provide the barest illumination. Less for for the eyes. Giancarlo's lips twist as if blushing, and he takes the hand offered to him and walks ahead.
"Do we know what freedom is?" Giancarlo wonders softly, stepping ahead and taking a seat on a rocky outcropping in the water. "I feel I do, then sometimes, I am not so sure. I think I know," he finally answers softly, looking down to his feet beneath the waves. "I forget, then I remember...my mother's laugh and her pasta. Those memories are more real than...the woman, my mother, from so long ago. I remember being outside, and sandstone buildings all in blinding sunlight, on an island. Then...I try to remember green fields and horses of France. For one, there is another," memory, "...that has to be reconciled."
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?" he wonders, lifting his hand to indicate his magic. "Is it new or is it old, bello?" he asks, turning to see you.
"I do not know if anyone is really free but... in that time, it was... more free than we knew elsewhere. It is...all by degrees, bello, such things." Alire settles upon the rocks, stretching out upon the smooth sand and stone and also in the water, his arms behind his head, folding to create a pillow. He exhales in thought, lifting his head and looking to you. "I do not think either is a lie," his voice is Sympathy. "Tesoro, you have... two sets of memories. One from a lifetime long ago, and this life. Why would you think that one is a lie?"
Alire's expression knits in concern and he sits up. He leans back, weight borne by his hands. "Bello, I cannot pretend to know what it is like to have such things suddenly just... materialize. But I do know what it is like to have a memory that stretches over ages. I would say to ...give them both their due, but to realize the life you have is the life that you yourself create. That is freedom, tesoro..."
Giancarlo looks over and familiar brow arches. "You haven't changed, d'Avignon. Still the deterministic optimist." Giancarlo smiles and lies back as well, exhaling loudly. He brings his knee up, foot to the ground. "I am ready for my life with you, bello, this I swear. I wish...that I had neither memory. Then, I would go forth with you. But they come back," the memories, "...and what has happened aches..."
"Yes, it does ache," Alire says. "And I have not changed," he chuckles a little at this. Vampires don't change. Or if they do it is seldom for the better. "But if you had neither memory, if you were not Giancarlo, would you and I have met at all? I would say not to wish either your memory as Michele or your memory as Giancarlo away. It would break my heart," he smiles a little.
"I... did not want to remember either," he murmurs after another moment. "At Samuel's... I didn't want to remember, I wanted to believe that I had ... grieved enough. But how could it ever be enough, bello. I loved you, and I love you. And I realized that... my memories... had still to be given their due. They...came back. But, then... so did you." Alire smiles at that. "You have to take the bad sometimes with the good."
Though reclining, Giancarlo manages to make sure his flabbergasted look is seen. He grins after it though, resting against the cove's stone once more. "I am not so sure what to say about that, bello. I will...take your word for it," he compromises.
Sitting up suddenly, Giancarlo says, "I am ready to leave." The cove is not as comforting as he expected - but then again, so little is. Reminders of this or that, or worse, reminders that everything reminds him of what he's forgotten or, unfortunately, remembers.
"I'll race you back, hmm? Winner...gets whatever he likes..." Giancarlo says in perfect Italian.
A golden eyebrow lifts, the punctuation mark to a thought. To a decision: whatever it takes, he will lose. He would rather you get whatever it is you would like. He truly wants for nothing.
Suddenly, Alire smiles, even one may say it is a bold smile even as it is a slim smile, and he rises only to walk forward into the water until the waves hit him at his waist. "Do you want a head start?" he teases in Italian, giving his arms a stretch, a slight roll of his head as if to loosen the muscles of his neck (they are fine). Such a look from lowered lashes. Who knew he had it in him...
None save you...
"You remember I am a better swimmer, yes?"
"I remember," Giancarlo winks, sliding into the water fully himself. He pushes his hand over his damp locks, now curled with the wet, and gives a knowing nod of his head.
"But I grew up on an island," Giancarlo notes as he wades past you while adding, "...this is now, darling..."
Maybe a few things are better the second time around.
Posted by rowan at September 12, 2004 03:18 PM
