[Requiem-Theo] Thursday - SWRE
The main ballroom was full, knots of kindred standing or sitting everywhere. It was remarkable; Theodoric had never seen such a gathering of laughing, smiling predators hiding behind the masks of civility and etiquette. Until a decade ago he had wondered what burned in the damned to make them gather at all. The Taint would seem to off put any lingering want to encounter other vampires any more often than one had to.
It was seductive, in a detached way, this gathering of the dead. That part which was still Man rejoiced at the color, the chatter, the chance to pretend to be something they were no longer. The part that was no longer man, cut off from the divine rejoiced in shared misery, in the challenge of equal and greater predators, and the chance to feed false pride with hollow accolades and tale telling.
And uncomfortable few minutes of circling left him feeling drained and out of place. Ten years was not enough to undo habits, nor did he desire what they desired and so the scrambling for power, the cutthroat desire to be Master of All did not appeal. He could be nothing but what he was born to be and it was a lot that contented him.
It is most likely a breech of etiquette to take out a crossword at a gathering such as this. I must find something else in the future to keep idle hands busy while allowing my mind to reflect on the activities around me. What is suitable for an informal local gathering does not seem to be appropriate for something grander.
Centuries of training to be unobtrusive let him slip out quietly, unnoticed by anyone. The anonymity of it was soothing, a known quantity. A certain set to the back, eyes cast to the ground, hands palm out and to the side and a person became just so much mobile furniture as unnoticed as a uniformed waiter at a ball.
The Clove smoke burned his throat, the sulfur of the match lingered in the air. The damp, chill air cooled dead flesh rapidly, sending singing, itching spikes of hurt across his back and the bloody welts under the shirt and jacket. Sweet pain, caressing reminder, the world slipped into focus with it.
Harpsichord. Adagio. Casually picking out notes to a simple, teaching tune.
The smoke poured from his mouth as his eyes slid up from the ground and across the grass and asphalt. And without pause, unerringly, laid upon Her.
The world dissolved and habit took over. Stance relaxed to prevent muscle tension, head up but neutrally positioned, hand behind the back. The correct stance of a servant who would patiently wait against the wall until it fell around them on the chance they may be needed. Dozens of vampires came, smoked or had quiet conversation, and then went again. None paid attention to the furniture, the androgynous man around whom the world felt so still, so chill, so silent standing patiently watching Her.
Pink. So much Pink. But the tug was still there, the music in the mind thrumming through the veins now run dry. She was fond, no, not quite fond but in favor at least of the compelling vampire she spoke with. Stance, gesture, the pull, he was a lesser but one who did not displease. Tied to an ally perhaps if not yet one himself.
Others came and went, and he waited, patient, silent, still. Trilling. Collected surprise and vague annoyance. Each note distinct in beginning and end.
And She waved at him finally, annoyed at the distance.
"What are you doing here?" The words nearly drove him to his knees, the tone conveying so much, so little all at once. It was Her and a hole was filled.
"I am traveling on my way north in service." Piano. Sleepy sonata that comforted and trusted.
"What do you want?"
"Nothing." Etiquette alone kept him from breaking into a smile. In the greater scheme he wanted not because She had removed the want and broken him into a better servant, a better creature.
"Then why do you stare at me?"
Confusion, curiosity. She changed chords, slipped from one piece of music to the next. First about him and now a lesson perhaps, a reminder. But this was as nothing, for he did not stare. It was not possible that it was a stare, only attentive regard for the small and subtle signal that Theodoric would be needed to attend to some matter.
"I can still feel you..." The words slipped out curious and wondering, past lips that should have been sealed. So long away and already slipping, allowing the crescendo to overwhelm and drowned out the direction and marking.
"That's not my problem." But it wasn't a problem. It was a tie, a binding, something to be cherished and respected. Even death could not cease instinct and purpose. The shiver set the welts to humming again, scraping cloth over raw flesh and the world snapped into focus once more. He and Her and she had not sent him away. All around the dead, circling and smiling behind polite masks. Now this was a Danse he knew, the endless and beautiful waiting for the tiny things that gave it all meaning.
Thank you, Lord. For you have not totally turned your face away from your servant. Thank you for the mercy of a reminder, my Lord God. Dead as I am, I am still as complete as ever and all things shall be done in your time.
"I need to get more cigarettes. This way." She turned and walked away and three hundred years of training had him pivoting neatly, turning and walking with silent step behind Her again. Purpose made and purpose trained, he could be nothing he was not born to be. And Theodoric was ever the faithful servant.
Hymnal in D. A rise of voices, wordlessly singing notes. Soaring to the skies as it never had before. Harpsichord in counterpoint, piano in the harmony and a viola rising like an aching phantom.
It was seductive, in a detached way, this gathering of the dead. That part which was still Man rejoiced at the color, the chatter, the chance to pretend to be something they were no longer. The part that was no longer man, cut off from the divine rejoiced in shared misery, in the challenge of equal and greater predators, and the chance to feed false pride with hollow accolades and tale telling.
And uncomfortable few minutes of circling left him feeling drained and out of place. Ten years was not enough to undo habits, nor did he desire what they desired and so the scrambling for power, the cutthroat desire to be Master of All did not appeal. He could be nothing but what he was born to be and it was a lot that contented him.
It is most likely a breech of etiquette to take out a crossword at a gathering such as this. I must find something else in the future to keep idle hands busy while allowing my mind to reflect on the activities around me. What is suitable for an informal local gathering does not seem to be appropriate for something grander.
Centuries of training to be unobtrusive let him slip out quietly, unnoticed by anyone. The anonymity of it was soothing, a known quantity. A certain set to the back, eyes cast to the ground, hands palm out and to the side and a person became just so much mobile furniture as unnoticed as a uniformed waiter at a ball.
The Clove smoke burned his throat, the sulfur of the match lingered in the air. The damp, chill air cooled dead flesh rapidly, sending singing, itching spikes of hurt across his back and the bloody welts under the shirt and jacket. Sweet pain, caressing reminder, the world slipped into focus with it.
Harpsichord. Adagio. Casually picking out notes to a simple, teaching tune.
The smoke poured from his mouth as his eyes slid up from the ground and across the grass and asphalt. And without pause, unerringly, laid upon Her.
The world dissolved and habit took over. Stance relaxed to prevent muscle tension, head up but neutrally positioned, hand behind the back. The correct stance of a servant who would patiently wait against the wall until it fell around them on the chance they may be needed. Dozens of vampires came, smoked or had quiet conversation, and then went again. None paid attention to the furniture, the androgynous man around whom the world felt so still, so chill, so silent standing patiently watching Her.
Pink. So much Pink. But the tug was still there, the music in the mind thrumming through the veins now run dry. She was fond, no, not quite fond but in favor at least of the compelling vampire she spoke with. Stance, gesture, the pull, he was a lesser but one who did not displease. Tied to an ally perhaps if not yet one himself.
Others came and went, and he waited, patient, silent, still. Trilling. Collected surprise and vague annoyance. Each note distinct in beginning and end.
And She waved at him finally, annoyed at the distance.
"What are you doing here?" The words nearly drove him to his knees, the tone conveying so much, so little all at once. It was Her and a hole was filled.
"I am traveling on my way north in service." Piano. Sleepy sonata that comforted and trusted.
"What do you want?"
"Nothing." Etiquette alone kept him from breaking into a smile. In the greater scheme he wanted not because She had removed the want and broken him into a better servant, a better creature.
"Then why do you stare at me?"
Confusion, curiosity. She changed chords, slipped from one piece of music to the next. First about him and now a lesson perhaps, a reminder. But this was as nothing, for he did not stare. It was not possible that it was a stare, only attentive regard for the small and subtle signal that Theodoric would be needed to attend to some matter.
"I can still feel you..." The words slipped out curious and wondering, past lips that should have been sealed. So long away and already slipping, allowing the crescendo to overwhelm and drowned out the direction and marking.
"That's not my problem." But it wasn't a problem. It was a tie, a binding, something to be cherished and respected. Even death could not cease instinct and purpose. The shiver set the welts to humming again, scraping cloth over raw flesh and the world snapped into focus once more. He and Her and she had not sent him away. All around the dead, circling and smiling behind polite masks. Now this was a Danse he knew, the endless and beautiful waiting for the tiny things that gave it all meaning.
Thank you, Lord. For you have not totally turned your face away from your servant. Thank you for the mercy of a reminder, my Lord God. Dead as I am, I am still as complete as ever and all things shall be done in your time.
"I need to get more cigarettes. This way." She turned and walked away and three hundred years of training had him pivoting neatly, turning and walking with silent step behind Her again. Purpose made and purpose trained, he could be nothing he was not born to be. And Theodoric was ever the faithful servant.
Hymnal in D. A rise of voices, wordlessly singing notes. Soaring to the skies as it never had before. Harpsichord in counterpoint, piano in the harmony and a viola rising like an aching phantom.