[Etienne] - Polite Illusions
It is cold, unseasonably so for Sao Paulo. A human would have been shivering in my light-weave cotton suit; I merely note the temperature as an abstract concept and marvel at the changes in my own body. Three years, such a short time in truth, yet change piled atop change as I adapted to this new existence, and now, sometimes, I barely recognize myself.
I come up the long drive on foot, lightly amused. M-A wouldn't be expecting me back for days yet, but everything had fallen into place miraculously; a little old man in the night market had sold me all the beads and the herbs I was looking for, and shown me to an old woman who could offer me the charms. The books had practically fallen into my lap. It was everything she’d asked for, even the longest odds, and I can picture her delight at the contents of the attaché case in my hand. I unlock the door, hoping against hope that she'll have slept in a little and I can surprise her.
Instead, the surprise is mine. I close the door behind me and turn to find a stocky, forbidding-looking man rising from where he'd knelt on the foyer floor. Two candles illuminate broad, craggy features I’ve never laid eyes on before, and I suck in a breath. Some habits die hard. The Beast snarls its recognition of Another, and my blood leaps in sudden anticipation of a fight… but after a moment, he has not moved to threaten. Who is he, what is he doing here? "Good evening. I hadn't expected to see anyone here at this hour."
"You would be Etienne Vaillant. Childe of Madeleine-Antoinette Sabatier-St. Germain." A level, resonant voice, his French accented Provencal. Wrong features for France, though; German? Perhaps further north? Who the hell are you?
I smile, my elegant mask slipping seamlessly into place. "Then you have me at a disadvantage, sir. I've not had the pleasure." And if you know my name and use that framework to describe me, you're here for a reason. But how did you get here so early? And where is M-A? Deathly afraid for my sire, I can only try to learn what I can.
His face is a stone mask. "I am Christopher St. Julian." St. Julian? An old friend of M-A's, wasn't he? His eyes weigh me, judge me, nothing casual or soft about them. "Former diplomat, then that tragedy, still in the microfilms, you see. Your mental resilience would be the reason, wouldn't it?" He asks as if the facts were rote and the answer obvious, and that irritates the hell out of me. Unless… he was here through the day?
I shrug, one shoulder in a quick motion. Fine, if we're playing court games, we play. "Physical fortitude and luck are the reasons my bones aren't mouldering in the jungle. Mental resilience is the reason I've not been back in France almost five years since." I let my smile widen enough to show it's true, and add, "I know your name."
"Many people do." Again, that stony face, and a shrug of his own shoulders. "I know yours, I know how many people here know your name as well." Oh, bully for you, you know how to ask questions. Stand like you know how to fight, utterly confident… a stone edifice, you are. Let's see how subtlety works on you.
"Most anyone who counts. I was properly announced and introduced."
"Properly is open to debate, given the number of knives that would seek your back." He clucks his tongue, actually clucks his tongue. "Now, I see it. The outsider, proud, very proud. Did you stay here to prove yourself?" His head tilts, like an owl watching a mouse.
"Propriety often is." I shrug again, throw out another barb. "Especially where my sire is concerned. I stayed here, sir, because I try my best to cultivate a passion for what I do, after I make sure that it's worth doing." So much for old-world manners. This is my home too, you arrogant ass. "I'm young yet, and I still have some mortal whims." Like politeness. "Will you join me for coffee?"
"Yes, you are young. Thank you, though I never much liked coffee, Mr. Vaillant." He stares for a moment, then reaches out with pale fingers and pinches out the flames on the candles. "Then you must know that I know this game well, or was that bit left out?" I couldn't have done it so casually; something in me, in our kind, rebels at the proximity of fire. But for him to do it like that, so pointedly and with such a pause… I have to swallow a laugh, it's so overblown. I'm beginning to find a measure here already, if only I could figure what he wants.
"I'm certain Roberto could suit your tastes. But as you will. I trust you'll forgive me a cup while we talk." I step past him, somewhat amazed I have the courage to do it so casually, but if he were going to attack, likely he would have already. Roberto’s distinctive step moves ahead of me, and some of my fear for M-A goes away; surely Roberto wouldn't have stayed alive if it had been some kind of attack. I look over my shoulder, and catch a faint expression, the first clue to anything from this one's face. I'm forgetting… ah, right, his heavy-handed lure… "Your reputation precedes you but sparely, I'm afraid. Which game are you so accomplished at?"
"I did not venture great skill with that statement, merely knowledge. There is a difference."
Night save me from a literalist. "Accomplishment doesn't always denote skill either. But, fair enough. Knowledge and skill often amount to the same thing, depending on the game. Which one are we discussing?" Into the dining room, and Roberto is there with a tray of coffee. I exchange a glance with him, and his expression is strange, but I'm too relieved that he's all right to question. "You, sir, are a marvel," I laugh, and Roberto gives a nod and a tight smile before withdrawing. Concern. From Roberto. Now I know I'm in deep.
St. Julian folds his arms across his broad chest, fixes me with a stare, determined not to be sidetracked. "The one we're playing. Your sire inducted you into it. In your case it's the high wire equivalent of jousting." He acknowledges Roberto with a nod, and it makes me think better of him, as does the amusing analogy, naked threat as it might have been.
Coffee first. It's a prop, a reminder, and I flash back on a glass of wine in M-A’s hand once. Though drinking it will hurt later. I pour a cup and then pull a chair out for him, nodding with a greater measure of courtesy before moving to another chair, across the table. Politeness, even in the face of rudeness, loses me nothing, really. "Over a pit of fire, I should think. And one doesn't live to your age without acquiring a great deal of knowledge about this particular game."
He arches a brow with nothing like M-A's grace, and essays what I think must be his version of a smile. "My age is irrelevant, I could have got that being staked and left in a cave for a century or two." His large hands spread on the table. "It is never a question of experience, never of age, never of skill. Is it? You were a commodity, and you were taken from others. We are not an emotionally stable group. Are we?"
Jaded, aren't you? At least when you decide to move a conversation, you move it. I cradle the coffee mug, letting the heat soak into my fingers and breathing in the rich-scented steam while I think, really think, about what he's said. The flaws seem obvious. "Some more than others. You're right, age is less relevant than many factors, though I have to imagine being staked and thrown in a cave would be a lesson all its own. A sharp one. Still, I'm afraid I can't agree about skill and experience. If I'm to accept that we are all commodities sooner or later, then we must have intrinsic value. Simple principle of economics; what we obtain for our trouble had best be worth our trouble. And from what I understand, bringing another of us into the world is a great expenditure of resources."
St. Julian snorts, and it sounds of amused contempt though his face is still as stone. "Intrinsic value? Ha! Perceived value is far more important than actual value. Would you be the same right now, if it had been the Invictus Primus who had taken you? You'd still be in training, and your value would be different. The perception of you as a commodity was all there was. In truth there is no way of knowing whether you held any value in the possible scenarios, except to place you in them." Again, that faint almost-smile drifts over his face. "To some it is a great expenditure."
I wrap one hand around my mug, let myself feel the warmth of it, and gesture… perhaps trying to fend off bad logic. "Fair point, but the perceived value, by definition, comes from the individual's perception. What they had to gauge me and judge me by was reputation, observation, and digging... all of which reveal quality both actual and illusory. Perceived value still depends largely on skill, especially in the case of someone for whom image and reputation are a skillset in and of themselves." I sip at the coffee, savor the warmth and the smell for a moment, and smile at my next thought. "The Invictus Primus almost did take me, and was angry as hell to be beaten to the punch."
The other merely shakes his head. "Perceived value is not measurable, it is a mental construct in the eyes of the viewer." His eyes go frighteningly far away for a moment, in that way that only the elders of our kind ever do, and he raises a hand inscrutably. "I've talked with the Primus, he is... victus. What are you?" Another tilt of the head, again predatory. Victus… Conquered, or food, depending on how you translated your Latin, and he looks at me like prey, which makes me dearly want to throw it in his face. Fortunately I’m not utterly stupid, so I spend a moment watching him and collecting my thoughts before I answer.
"Pride makes me want to snap back that I am nobody's food. But that would be a foolish assertion at my age. I am difficult prey for most hunters. And at least in my own eyes, of much greater worth as a commodity than mere food." I can still be respectful, no matter how you press.
His first real smile is vicious as a stalking wolf, and the flash of his eyes matches it well. "You are hardly the alpha, my dear boy. You puff up your chest or have a chip on your shoulder, because you're talking with a lover of your sire. One who knows he is hardly the first or the last. One who has a good idea how your relationship with her at least. And, I am one who is uncertain if you could cut out your own heart, boy." His diction is sharp and precise, like an overbearing professor, and I would laugh but for the ancient weight of his scorn. "Fret not, there is potential there. Though until I see the bloodied knife, you're just a blind foundling."
I’m absurdly, foolishly angry. This is a being that my Beast, at least, recognizes the danger of, who could surely rip me to pieces and leave me broken and helpless. But I want to defy him, want to throw my worth, my sire’s choice, at him like a brace of knives. I manage to avoid dangerous rudeness, but only just. "And you, Monsieur St. Julian, must be very used to rooting out defiance and arrogance both. You seem to look for them very carefully." I set my mug down; my enjoyment is soured, and the gesture emphasizes my next words. "Let me assure you of two things. Though I have my illusions about my own stature and place in this society, they are very few, and I keep them because they're useful in their way." Unconsciously, I lean forward. "And two, if I ever cut out my own heart, it will be for a much greater purpose than proving anything to anyone, no matter how puissant or distinguished." And no matter my control, I’m sure my lip curls at least a little at the last. "Lover or not."
He is unfazed, still smiling as though staring at a meal. "Pride is a virtue, my dear boy. You know that, don't you? When they had you in the jungle what else did you have, but yourself? Your pride. Your resolve. You changed there. Someone else walked out of that jungle, and now when you attend the gathers, and the little public outings, it's starting to creep in. The contempt. You see how hollow they are, how they've let nothing matter. And you've steadily be coming closer and closer to the line as you work out this existence for yourself, and you are fully aware it is coming, and you are fully aware of what is on the other side. The only real question is are you able to do what it takes to cross that line?"
At first, I think he’s chosen the wrong topic, that here is ground I’m utterly unafraid to meet him on, but he drives home his startling words with overbearing presence, rising from his chair and leaning across the table and into me as he speaks. My Beast demands action, screams for me to run, or to fight if I must stay, and it’s only by the utmost will - by a sudden determination to show this creature nothing that he wants - that I keep my seat and do not flinch from him. When he leans back and looks away from me, I take a breath, a small one, and the simple unnecessary ritual of taking in air and expelling it calms me, brings me back from the brink I was so near to. I draw my shredded calm back together purely by dint of long training. And his words, as I turn them over, were powerful, so I give him plain truth.
"I've seen, I admit, very little of my new world. But what I've known and what I've heard has made me very sure of one thing. Most of our kind value their illusions and masks, their finery and pretention, very much. Being able to meet them on that ground is a valuable skill. But I was a politician, I will be one again, and I know what's really under those masks." I gesture to the north-facing windows, and in my mind I’m really pointing out at the rainforest, at my time of imprisonment and torture and fear. "The jungle doesn't stop at the line of concrete and steel. And the rules for surviving, in the end, are exactly the same." Saying it like that, like I’ve never done quite so bluntly, wakes something cold and furious in me. And of course, it’s then that M-A’s soft tread sounds in the doorway and makes up both look.
She’s wearing my shirt, I note a little numbly; the one I left in her room because I’d soaked the cuff through with blood… I remember your smile when you took it off me. She’s wearing nothing else, and her hair is trying to escape the loose braid. She looks between the two of us once, twice, her face carefully blank. "You've met, I see."
My first surge of emotion is absurd joy that she’s alive and well; whatever that my logic said she must be, having it proven lifts my heart. Joy, quickly obliterated by surprising rage, that she did bring home the man across from me, that he stepped so apparently easily into the place that’s been mine for over three years. Surprising, howling, jealous rage. I know I’m being irrational, but I find I don’t care. Luckily, I’ve already leashed my Beast tight, and the past few years have been good training for me. I can smile at her with all the warmth in the world, and butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. "Morning, sunshine. Monsieur St. Julian was... offering me some education on our society."
He’s stood to receive her, and that sends a fresh hot note thrumming down my spine. He’s taciturn, reserved, but her presence changes him. "Yes."
M-A walks into the room with that delicate arch of eyebrow that I so enjoy… directed toward him. But I know her face, and she’s being very careful herself. "Good. It will save me the effort of introductions. Roberto's been making himself useful?"
I look to St. Julian, wondering whether he will lie as well; he merely shrugs, a gesture meant to convey nothing at all. I answer her question. "As astonishingly so as ever." Convenient he didn’t take the offer; there’s a mug free, and she loves the smell of coffee. "There's more, if you like."
"Mmm." M-A drifts to me first, puts a hand on my shoulder and brushes her lips through my hair. She pours herself coffee and rounds the table, just to walk past St. Julian and caress the breadth of his shoulders on the way. A special effort to touch us both, and then she draws out the chair at the head of the table, between us, and perches. "So. The topic?"
I blink once, thinking whether I want to do it, and then say something slightly venomous. "Polite illusions. And their absence."
She laughs, that wonderful laugh that throws her head back, and for once it doesn’t inspire me to join her. "Of course, and what a fine topic it is. So useful. Speaking of which, you're home rather earlier than expected, aren't you?" Oh, touche, ma soleil. St Julian smiles, ducks his head almost deferentially, and is back to his stony mien before I can actually be sure he looked vulnerable.
I gesture idly, saying with my fingers - a lie - that it’s of no concern. "It turned out that I found what I was looking for quite a lot sooner than I might have thought.” I smile, do my best to infuse it with charming bravado, and riposte. “If I'd known you were expecting company, I'd have made my timing a bit more definite."
M-A takes a long breath over her steaming mug. "I wasn't; Christopher's arrival was quite a surprise." A warm glance at the other. "A welcome one, though."
He meets that gaze, then looks at me, and bluntly breaks the illusion, his voice soft but resonant. "It wasn't a discussion, I was measuring him." His hand drifts, possessive, to her shoulder, and it makes something wrench and snarl deep inside me.
I take my own deep breath over coffee to cover the anger, and manage a tight smile. "I've yet to hear how the scales rest. We were rather swept up in said measuring, I fear I forgot my pleasantries."
She smiles in turn, ignores my sally and looks to St. Julian. "And how have you found my Etienne?" I can’t help but look at her as she asks the question, and then I turn my gaze to the other, curious as to how he’ll answer that.
"Unfinished." He speaks it like something of vast significance, like the one word should speak volumes for itself. As once before, it’s overblown enough that it breaks through my anger and I have to swallow a laugh.
Meanwhile, M-A’s pursuing her question, not letting one word be enough. "Do you speak of your measuring or his place?"
"Both." Two words, then. Eloquence. His hand moves from her shoulder, as if he was expecting her to simply accept his response.
She laughs again, looks to me. "And what think you of my old friend?"
I trace the rim of my mug with a fingertip, glancing at each of them in turn. Angry as I may be, I can’t possibly be serious now; that man has all the seriousness in the room sewn up neatly. "Unfinished. Though less so."
I’m rewarded by M-A’s snort of laughter into her coffee cup. She draws her legs up under her on the chair, and leans forward. "And what do the pair of you think of me?"
I almost answer, but I’m more curious to see what the other will say. He’s doing a marvelous job of making me look scintillating thus far.
He draws himself up as if to make a speech, and more or less does so. "Etienne is still formative, and he still clings to what he once was. The circumstances are different, if he remains the same, there is no promise that he will be anything more than a callow shade. The question is whether he will remain afraid, and whether or not he can sacrifice of himself." He pauses briefly, refocuses on her. "You? I think highly of you. You know this. I do however wish you would stop trying to protect my pride, because it makes me think that you pity me, or have no faith in me. Those are not thoughts I should like to have of you. Beyond that, I care for you, and see you as mine. I see pieces I thought I had I buried in the deserts of Oman a long time ago."
This is more than I thought to learn about him, and I’m stone-still through the litany. I’m intrigued by most of it, infuriated by his possessiveness. Yours? Spare me.
She smiles like the sun, her eyes all on him, and it wounds me irrationally yet again. "If I stopped trying to protect the parts of you I can reach, I'd stop being me. It is not pity, and don't ever mistake what I feel for you as such." Her eyes turn to me, and they’re gentle. Either she can feel my turmoil, even as hard as I’m locking it away, or she feels the walls and has guessed. "Come, love. Tell me what's on your mind."
I flick my eyes from one to the other and have suddenly had enough of the game. A rumbling at the back of my mind tells me she has as well, and I opt for honesty. "On my mind? This has been very different from the evening I was anticipating, and already I have much to think about. As for you, Madeline-Antoinette, I think you are the same wonderful, infuriating, intelligent creature I always have. And for the sake of candor, I think you belong to nobody."
Her smile is warm, but there’s finality in it. I was right. "And with that, gentlemen, I think we all have things we need to think on." She rises, puts her coffee cup down, untouched, and St. Julian stands as well, courtly and mannered for her as he didn’t bother to be when we were alone.
Though already risen, she puts her hand in his, thanks him. "So we do," I say in answer, and I abruptly change my mind; I’d thought to go to her, kiss her good evening and be on my way, but I decide to keep my distance. I’m not at all in my right mind, and I fear I’d make some kind of fool - possibly a greater fool - of myself. I nod toward the attache case I left by the foot of the table. "Some of what you wanted from Rio is in there, M-A." She’ll realize the understatement later, I imagine. I blow her a kiss as gracefully as I can manage. "Glad to be home.” Then the other… “Monsieur St. Julian, it was an unexpected... privilege to make your acquaintance. I hope we can speak more soon." Once I look past my irritation, I find to my own amazement that I mean it, and I’m not at all sure why.
He makes an oddly gracious reply, she doesn’t. I watch them for a moment, her hand in his, and then turn and walk for the door. I put a spring in my step, an easy confidence. Might as well keep up appearances. I’m either going to go home and think, or go out and eat somewhat violently.
I haven’t quite decided by the time I hit fresh air, and I take a deep and racking gasp, grateful now for the cold.
I come up the long drive on foot, lightly amused. M-A wouldn't be expecting me back for days yet, but everything had fallen into place miraculously; a little old man in the night market had sold me all the beads and the herbs I was looking for, and shown me to an old woman who could offer me the charms. The books had practically fallen into my lap. It was everything she’d asked for, even the longest odds, and I can picture her delight at the contents of the attaché case in my hand. I unlock the door, hoping against hope that she'll have slept in a little and I can surprise her.
Instead, the surprise is mine. I close the door behind me and turn to find a stocky, forbidding-looking man rising from where he'd knelt on the foyer floor. Two candles illuminate broad, craggy features I’ve never laid eyes on before, and I suck in a breath. Some habits die hard. The Beast snarls its recognition of Another, and my blood leaps in sudden anticipation of a fight… but after a moment, he has not moved to threaten. Who is he, what is he doing here? "Good evening. I hadn't expected to see anyone here at this hour."
"You would be Etienne Vaillant. Childe of Madeleine-Antoinette Sabatier-St. Germain." A level, resonant voice, his French accented Provencal. Wrong features for France, though; German? Perhaps further north? Who the hell are you?
I smile, my elegant mask slipping seamlessly into place. "Then you have me at a disadvantage, sir. I've not had the pleasure." And if you know my name and use that framework to describe me, you're here for a reason. But how did you get here so early? And where is M-A? Deathly afraid for my sire, I can only try to learn what I can.
His face is a stone mask. "I am Christopher St. Julian." St. Julian? An old friend of M-A's, wasn't he? His eyes weigh me, judge me, nothing casual or soft about them. "Former diplomat, then that tragedy, still in the microfilms, you see. Your mental resilience would be the reason, wouldn't it?" He asks as if the facts were rote and the answer obvious, and that irritates the hell out of me. Unless… he was here through the day?
I shrug, one shoulder in a quick motion. Fine, if we're playing court games, we play. "Physical fortitude and luck are the reasons my bones aren't mouldering in the jungle. Mental resilience is the reason I've not been back in France almost five years since." I let my smile widen enough to show it's true, and add, "I know your name."
"Many people do." Again, that stony face, and a shrug of his own shoulders. "I know yours, I know how many people here know your name as well." Oh, bully for you, you know how to ask questions. Stand like you know how to fight, utterly confident… a stone edifice, you are. Let's see how subtlety works on you.
"Most anyone who counts. I was properly announced and introduced."
"Properly is open to debate, given the number of knives that would seek your back." He clucks his tongue, actually clucks his tongue. "Now, I see it. The outsider, proud, very proud. Did you stay here to prove yourself?" His head tilts, like an owl watching a mouse.
"Propriety often is." I shrug again, throw out another barb. "Especially where my sire is concerned. I stayed here, sir, because I try my best to cultivate a passion for what I do, after I make sure that it's worth doing." So much for old-world manners. This is my home too, you arrogant ass. "I'm young yet, and I still have some mortal whims." Like politeness. "Will you join me for coffee?"
"Yes, you are young. Thank you, though I never much liked coffee, Mr. Vaillant." He stares for a moment, then reaches out with pale fingers and pinches out the flames on the candles. "Then you must know that I know this game well, or was that bit left out?" I couldn't have done it so casually; something in me, in our kind, rebels at the proximity of fire. But for him to do it like that, so pointedly and with such a pause… I have to swallow a laugh, it's so overblown. I'm beginning to find a measure here already, if only I could figure what he wants.
"I'm certain Roberto could suit your tastes. But as you will. I trust you'll forgive me a cup while we talk." I step past him, somewhat amazed I have the courage to do it so casually, but if he were going to attack, likely he would have already. Roberto’s distinctive step moves ahead of me, and some of my fear for M-A goes away; surely Roberto wouldn't have stayed alive if it had been some kind of attack. I look over my shoulder, and catch a faint expression, the first clue to anything from this one's face. I'm forgetting… ah, right, his heavy-handed lure… "Your reputation precedes you but sparely, I'm afraid. Which game are you so accomplished at?"
"I did not venture great skill with that statement, merely knowledge. There is a difference."
Night save me from a literalist. "Accomplishment doesn't always denote skill either. But, fair enough. Knowledge and skill often amount to the same thing, depending on the game. Which one are we discussing?" Into the dining room, and Roberto is there with a tray of coffee. I exchange a glance with him, and his expression is strange, but I'm too relieved that he's all right to question. "You, sir, are a marvel," I laugh, and Roberto gives a nod and a tight smile before withdrawing. Concern. From Roberto. Now I know I'm in deep.
St. Julian folds his arms across his broad chest, fixes me with a stare, determined not to be sidetracked. "The one we're playing. Your sire inducted you into it. In your case it's the high wire equivalent of jousting." He acknowledges Roberto with a nod, and it makes me think better of him, as does the amusing analogy, naked threat as it might have been.
Coffee first. It's a prop, a reminder, and I flash back on a glass of wine in M-A’s hand once. Though drinking it will hurt later. I pour a cup and then pull a chair out for him, nodding with a greater measure of courtesy before moving to another chair, across the table. Politeness, even in the face of rudeness, loses me nothing, really. "Over a pit of fire, I should think. And one doesn't live to your age without acquiring a great deal of knowledge about this particular game."
He arches a brow with nothing like M-A's grace, and essays what I think must be his version of a smile. "My age is irrelevant, I could have got that being staked and left in a cave for a century or two." His large hands spread on the table. "It is never a question of experience, never of age, never of skill. Is it? You were a commodity, and you were taken from others. We are not an emotionally stable group. Are we?"
Jaded, aren't you? At least when you decide to move a conversation, you move it. I cradle the coffee mug, letting the heat soak into my fingers and breathing in the rich-scented steam while I think, really think, about what he's said. The flaws seem obvious. "Some more than others. You're right, age is less relevant than many factors, though I have to imagine being staked and thrown in a cave would be a lesson all its own. A sharp one. Still, I'm afraid I can't agree about skill and experience. If I'm to accept that we are all commodities sooner or later, then we must have intrinsic value. Simple principle of economics; what we obtain for our trouble had best be worth our trouble. And from what I understand, bringing another of us into the world is a great expenditure of resources."
St. Julian snorts, and it sounds of amused contempt though his face is still as stone. "Intrinsic value? Ha! Perceived value is far more important than actual value. Would you be the same right now, if it had been the Invictus Primus who had taken you? You'd still be in training, and your value would be different. The perception of you as a commodity was all there was. In truth there is no way of knowing whether you held any value in the possible scenarios, except to place you in them." Again, that faint almost-smile drifts over his face. "To some it is a great expenditure."
I wrap one hand around my mug, let myself feel the warmth of it, and gesture… perhaps trying to fend off bad logic. "Fair point, but the perceived value, by definition, comes from the individual's perception. What they had to gauge me and judge me by was reputation, observation, and digging... all of which reveal quality both actual and illusory. Perceived value still depends largely on skill, especially in the case of someone for whom image and reputation are a skillset in and of themselves." I sip at the coffee, savor the warmth and the smell for a moment, and smile at my next thought. "The Invictus Primus almost did take me, and was angry as hell to be beaten to the punch."
The other merely shakes his head. "Perceived value is not measurable, it is a mental construct in the eyes of the viewer." His eyes go frighteningly far away for a moment, in that way that only the elders of our kind ever do, and he raises a hand inscrutably. "I've talked with the Primus, he is... victus. What are you?" Another tilt of the head, again predatory. Victus… Conquered, or food, depending on how you translated your Latin, and he looks at me like prey, which makes me dearly want to throw it in his face. Fortunately I’m not utterly stupid, so I spend a moment watching him and collecting my thoughts before I answer.
"Pride makes me want to snap back that I am nobody's food. But that would be a foolish assertion at my age. I am difficult prey for most hunters. And at least in my own eyes, of much greater worth as a commodity than mere food." I can still be respectful, no matter how you press.
His first real smile is vicious as a stalking wolf, and the flash of his eyes matches it well. "You are hardly the alpha, my dear boy. You puff up your chest or have a chip on your shoulder, because you're talking with a lover of your sire. One who knows he is hardly the first or the last. One who has a good idea how your relationship with her at least. And, I am one who is uncertain if you could cut out your own heart, boy." His diction is sharp and precise, like an overbearing professor, and I would laugh but for the ancient weight of his scorn. "Fret not, there is potential there. Though until I see the bloodied knife, you're just a blind foundling."
I’m absurdly, foolishly angry. This is a being that my Beast, at least, recognizes the danger of, who could surely rip me to pieces and leave me broken and helpless. But I want to defy him, want to throw my worth, my sire’s choice, at him like a brace of knives. I manage to avoid dangerous rudeness, but only just. "And you, Monsieur St. Julian, must be very used to rooting out defiance and arrogance both. You seem to look for them very carefully." I set my mug down; my enjoyment is soured, and the gesture emphasizes my next words. "Let me assure you of two things. Though I have my illusions about my own stature and place in this society, they are very few, and I keep them because they're useful in their way." Unconsciously, I lean forward. "And two, if I ever cut out my own heart, it will be for a much greater purpose than proving anything to anyone, no matter how puissant or distinguished." And no matter my control, I’m sure my lip curls at least a little at the last. "Lover or not."
He is unfazed, still smiling as though staring at a meal. "Pride is a virtue, my dear boy. You know that, don't you? When they had you in the jungle what else did you have, but yourself? Your pride. Your resolve. You changed there. Someone else walked out of that jungle, and now when you attend the gathers, and the little public outings, it's starting to creep in. The contempt. You see how hollow they are, how they've let nothing matter. And you've steadily be coming closer and closer to the line as you work out this existence for yourself, and you are fully aware it is coming, and you are fully aware of what is on the other side. The only real question is are you able to do what it takes to cross that line?"
At first, I think he’s chosen the wrong topic, that here is ground I’m utterly unafraid to meet him on, but he drives home his startling words with overbearing presence, rising from his chair and leaning across the table and into me as he speaks. My Beast demands action, screams for me to run, or to fight if I must stay, and it’s only by the utmost will - by a sudden determination to show this creature nothing that he wants - that I keep my seat and do not flinch from him. When he leans back and looks away from me, I take a breath, a small one, and the simple unnecessary ritual of taking in air and expelling it calms me, brings me back from the brink I was so near to. I draw my shredded calm back together purely by dint of long training. And his words, as I turn them over, were powerful, so I give him plain truth.
"I've seen, I admit, very little of my new world. But what I've known and what I've heard has made me very sure of one thing. Most of our kind value their illusions and masks, their finery and pretention, very much. Being able to meet them on that ground is a valuable skill. But I was a politician, I will be one again, and I know what's really under those masks." I gesture to the north-facing windows, and in my mind I’m really pointing out at the rainforest, at my time of imprisonment and torture and fear. "The jungle doesn't stop at the line of concrete and steel. And the rules for surviving, in the end, are exactly the same." Saying it like that, like I’ve never done quite so bluntly, wakes something cold and furious in me. And of course, it’s then that M-A’s soft tread sounds in the doorway and makes up both look.
She’s wearing my shirt, I note a little numbly; the one I left in her room because I’d soaked the cuff through with blood… I remember your smile when you took it off me. She’s wearing nothing else, and her hair is trying to escape the loose braid. She looks between the two of us once, twice, her face carefully blank. "You've met, I see."
My first surge of emotion is absurd joy that she’s alive and well; whatever that my logic said she must be, having it proven lifts my heart. Joy, quickly obliterated by surprising rage, that she did bring home the man across from me, that he stepped so apparently easily into the place that’s been mine for over three years. Surprising, howling, jealous rage. I know I’m being irrational, but I find I don’t care. Luckily, I’ve already leashed my Beast tight, and the past few years have been good training for me. I can smile at her with all the warmth in the world, and butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. "Morning, sunshine. Monsieur St. Julian was... offering me some education on our society."
He’s stood to receive her, and that sends a fresh hot note thrumming down my spine. He’s taciturn, reserved, but her presence changes him. "Yes."
M-A walks into the room with that delicate arch of eyebrow that I so enjoy… directed toward him. But I know her face, and she’s being very careful herself. "Good. It will save me the effort of introductions. Roberto's been making himself useful?"
I look to St. Julian, wondering whether he will lie as well; he merely shrugs, a gesture meant to convey nothing at all. I answer her question. "As astonishingly so as ever." Convenient he didn’t take the offer; there’s a mug free, and she loves the smell of coffee. "There's more, if you like."
"Mmm." M-A drifts to me first, puts a hand on my shoulder and brushes her lips through my hair. She pours herself coffee and rounds the table, just to walk past St. Julian and caress the breadth of his shoulders on the way. A special effort to touch us both, and then she draws out the chair at the head of the table, between us, and perches. "So. The topic?"
I blink once, thinking whether I want to do it, and then say something slightly venomous. "Polite illusions. And their absence."
She laughs, that wonderful laugh that throws her head back, and for once it doesn’t inspire me to join her. "Of course, and what a fine topic it is. So useful. Speaking of which, you're home rather earlier than expected, aren't you?" Oh, touche, ma soleil. St Julian smiles, ducks his head almost deferentially, and is back to his stony mien before I can actually be sure he looked vulnerable.
I gesture idly, saying with my fingers - a lie - that it’s of no concern. "It turned out that I found what I was looking for quite a lot sooner than I might have thought.” I smile, do my best to infuse it with charming bravado, and riposte. “If I'd known you were expecting company, I'd have made my timing a bit more definite."
M-A takes a long breath over her steaming mug. "I wasn't; Christopher's arrival was quite a surprise." A warm glance at the other. "A welcome one, though."
He meets that gaze, then looks at me, and bluntly breaks the illusion, his voice soft but resonant. "It wasn't a discussion, I was measuring him." His hand drifts, possessive, to her shoulder, and it makes something wrench and snarl deep inside me.
I take my own deep breath over coffee to cover the anger, and manage a tight smile. "I've yet to hear how the scales rest. We were rather swept up in said measuring, I fear I forgot my pleasantries."
She smiles in turn, ignores my sally and looks to St. Julian. "And how have you found my Etienne?" I can’t help but look at her as she asks the question, and then I turn my gaze to the other, curious as to how he’ll answer that.
"Unfinished." He speaks it like something of vast significance, like the one word should speak volumes for itself. As once before, it’s overblown enough that it breaks through my anger and I have to swallow a laugh.
Meanwhile, M-A’s pursuing her question, not letting one word be enough. "Do you speak of your measuring or his place?"
"Both." Two words, then. Eloquence. His hand moves from her shoulder, as if he was expecting her to simply accept his response.
She laughs again, looks to me. "And what think you of my old friend?"
I trace the rim of my mug with a fingertip, glancing at each of them in turn. Angry as I may be, I can’t possibly be serious now; that man has all the seriousness in the room sewn up neatly. "Unfinished. Though less so."
I’m rewarded by M-A’s snort of laughter into her coffee cup. She draws her legs up under her on the chair, and leans forward. "And what do the pair of you think of me?"
I almost answer, but I’m more curious to see what the other will say. He’s doing a marvelous job of making me look scintillating thus far.
He draws himself up as if to make a speech, and more or less does so. "Etienne is still formative, and he still clings to what he once was. The circumstances are different, if he remains the same, there is no promise that he will be anything more than a callow shade. The question is whether he will remain afraid, and whether or not he can sacrifice of himself." He pauses briefly, refocuses on her. "You? I think highly of you. You know this. I do however wish you would stop trying to protect my pride, because it makes me think that you pity me, or have no faith in me. Those are not thoughts I should like to have of you. Beyond that, I care for you, and see you as mine. I see pieces I thought I had I buried in the deserts of Oman a long time ago."
This is more than I thought to learn about him, and I’m stone-still through the litany. I’m intrigued by most of it, infuriated by his possessiveness. Yours? Spare me.
She smiles like the sun, her eyes all on him, and it wounds me irrationally yet again. "If I stopped trying to protect the parts of you I can reach, I'd stop being me. It is not pity, and don't ever mistake what I feel for you as such." Her eyes turn to me, and they’re gentle. Either she can feel my turmoil, even as hard as I’m locking it away, or she feels the walls and has guessed. "Come, love. Tell me what's on your mind."
I flick my eyes from one to the other and have suddenly had enough of the game. A rumbling at the back of my mind tells me she has as well, and I opt for honesty. "On my mind? This has been very different from the evening I was anticipating, and already I have much to think about. As for you, Madeline-Antoinette, I think you are the same wonderful, infuriating, intelligent creature I always have. And for the sake of candor, I think you belong to nobody."
Her smile is warm, but there’s finality in it. I was right. "And with that, gentlemen, I think we all have things we need to think on." She rises, puts her coffee cup down, untouched, and St. Julian stands as well, courtly and mannered for her as he didn’t bother to be when we were alone.
Though already risen, she puts her hand in his, thanks him. "So we do," I say in answer, and I abruptly change my mind; I’d thought to go to her, kiss her good evening and be on my way, but I decide to keep my distance. I’m not at all in my right mind, and I fear I’d make some kind of fool - possibly a greater fool - of myself. I nod toward the attache case I left by the foot of the table. "Some of what you wanted from Rio is in there, M-A." She’ll realize the understatement later, I imagine. I blow her a kiss as gracefully as I can manage. "Glad to be home.” Then the other… “Monsieur St. Julian, it was an unexpected... privilege to make your acquaintance. I hope we can speak more soon." Once I look past my irritation, I find to my own amazement that I mean it, and I’m not at all sure why.
He makes an oddly gracious reply, she doesn’t. I watch them for a moment, her hand in his, and then turn and walk for the door. I put a spring in my step, an easy confidence. Might as well keep up appearances. I’m either going to go home and think, or go out and eat somewhat violently.
I haven’t quite decided by the time I hit fresh air, and I take a deep and racking gasp, grateful now for the cold.