Vendu son âme au Diable

[Julian Luke Monroe]

Vendu son âme au Diable

Further Reading:Deux Ex Machina



Listen as the wind blows from across the great divide
voices trapped in yearning, memories trapped in time
the night is my companion, and solitude my guide
would I spend forever here and not be satisfied?
and I would be the one


(Place Holder, Lyrics Possession by Evans Blues (though I think Sarah McLachlan did it first) )

[Julian Luke Monroe]

Benoit Post
Written by Beth

Lerida was far enough from Aragon's capitol, yet close enough to its heart, it was little mystery why Erart Benoit chose to make his home here. His shop was several hours from the renowned university, up steep and dramatically narrow footpaths, but those who had reason to visit the Master would brave any road conditions to arrive at his cabin, overlooking the narrow, rocky valley that eventually opened to the town of Lerida. He had the privacy he craved, not only from colleagues who had survived the fire, but priests seeking witches and Jews to burn. For both, he had constructed a new identity, as Arnau Falco, who had been living further to the north in the now-disputed territory between France and Aragon, but had been forced south by fear of French soldiers. Pre-empting questions by the Church, he kept pigs in the yard, and ran a somewhat disorganized but still functional farm with a small but sufficient chapel in a small grotto down the footpath, from which he fetched his water in deep buckets each day, but never stopped to genuflect. No one stayed long enough in this inhospitable country to realize the number of pigs never dwindled, as the Master did not eat meat. No one stayed the night to attend the chapel. He was left alone, save his customers, and even they he could spot picking their way up the narrow path hours before the half-rotted gate made of salvaged wood from the valley creaked open.

His was not a double life, not anymore. His shop was disorganized without an apprentice or two to keep it dust-free and orderly, but there were no pages of secret and forbidden books to confiscate or burn. He did not make deliveries to trusted contacts in town. But every few weeks, the old man's shack was left abandoned as he went on quests into the mountains, and potential customers made the disappointing trek back down into the lush valley, having seen nothing but strings of garlic bulbs and a well-tended herb garden, a derelict building, and two nearly feral pigs best left alone.

[Julian Luke Monroe]

Through this world I've stumbled
so many times betrayed
trying to find an honest word to find
the truth enslaved
oh you speak to me in riddles
and you speak to me in rhymes
my body aches to breathe your breath
your words keep me alive
And I would be the one
-Possession

The First Meeting

Arnau Falco
Seville was a long journey, particularly for the aged. Hundreds of miles traversed and hundreds more to go, he was a peasant of little consequence, a holy fool traveling with a dried saint's finger hanging from a leather thong around his neck. On the road, he was unassuming, too poor worth harrassment, too quick-witted to allow himself in any sort of precarious situation. He had advanced the age in which there was anything worth physically proving, but was not yet in his dotage. Still tall, his hair on the debonair side of gray, his face remained nearly ageless, though it was quite apparent he was no longer young. In an age of unrest, in which ethnicity had moved from regional to the unheard of before national, his was impossible to determine. Even his name had the benefit of lying upon the border, though few wished to ask him of it. Even the innkeep at the very small town did not need a name, merely sticking the coin between his teeth before flinging it into the till, and shoving a heavy key across the table. Arnau Falco, who had been known by many other names before, settled into a chair by the fire, and tried warming his old tired bones from within and without. The drink in his hand was potent, and slid down his throat like liquid flame. *

Julian Monroe
The silent road had freed his thought, the past brush with death had grounded him, but still he wallowed the realization that life still had so little reason. The humidity refused to allow the balm to keep his hair from his eyes, falling over his brow, he felt like some rabid wolf. The battle though in their favor seemed lost, as one clue turned up another he swore to it there would be no end, and he would never get to return to Skye. Should there have been equal hatred of Scotland? It had never felt right, and constantly reminded him that past could not be changed. The young master Monroe was simply in a pit of barreling black despair, his emotions bottled tightly seemed to swirl only to the bottom of the black water. He really was rather pathetic, with the blood of the letter's still stained to the back of his shirt, and the dirt of the hellish pits clinging to the fabrics; He wanted a drink first. Through the doors, he could not appear anymore the outsider if he wished. The keep would ask of him a question, to which his reply was a groan as always the language would get in the way. Julian would be reduced to pointing and grunting like some ape that no doubt if Ada knew of she would never let him live it down. Ice colored eyes would wash over the man who he now sat beside, and nearly rolled back in his head. Must they even smell like the sage? Perhaps he could admit as well she was missed. (d

Arnau Falco
He saw the brief wrinkle of the lad's nose and gave an amused snort. The lad was in a fine place to judge if he could not even perform the most basic functions in another language. His first words in Spanish had been to order another beer, please, and never once had it failed him. Liquor stimulated the mind, drew away one's doubts, and freed the self-conscious part that refused to take a risk with new words. But of what nationality was this boy, the older man wondered, taking another sip of his drink, this time enjoying the fragrance if not the fire. He set his cup down and gently stretched out his fingers, sore but not callused from holding the reins of his solitary nag as their cart bumped and jostled away from Seville. It was a good feeling to be empty, he reflected. Books were difficult to transport with any discretion. He missed the days of passing information; notes could be eaten, destroyed in a bowl of water, or rather conveniently slid into the bodice of his favorite apprentice to the chagrin of his less favored pupil. Gods be cursed, she hadn't been able to stop giggling the first time she moved information in such a way. He smiled slowly at the memory. Their past was not all bad. The past in general was not so vicious, and he liked to believe, the time he had spent with his pupils had been the greatest days of his life. Even then he'd thought himself too old for lectures and book writing, secret societies and whatnot. He'd let the younger men wax poetic about the dawning of a new age, practically buzzing like a beehive with excitement when new passages were translated from ancient texts in Hebrew and Greek and Arabic. "Mute or dumb, boy?" he asked in patient Spanish, drawing himself forcibly back to the present. *

Julian Monroe
His attention had fallen while he waited to the scabbing wound over his wrist. A sick twisted sensation filled him of the memory of the pain, how bad it had hurt to feel he sharp edge of the dagger cut in a single line, and how deadly it would have been should it have moved only to the left. The rolled back cuffs of his sleeves stained a rich brown now, from the once vibrant red, seemed all to eager to flash battle wounds. He was rather proud of himself, happy to know that somewhere a body was without breath because of him. It was such a rush. "If you are talking to me you smelly vermin, you'll get nothing but the flat of my blade against your scuzzy old wrinkled face." He spoke in French, rather annoyed that the parasite would even look his direction.The drink was sat down, stout as it moved down his throat he would keep back a cough, and finally pay the man. Numbers he knew--well, but letters:languages, always a struggle. It had taken him nearly 3 years to master French, but Jean would only speak to him in the way he now learned Spanish. If you are thrown into it, one can simply learn to pick it up. Lord, he missed Jean-Claude. His whole body hurt, from all the walking...riding..fighting..the heat; he hated the heat. Cry a River Monroe. Thankfully Janice had not been her chipper self. "Wouldn't know how to get back to Scotland from here you smelly bastard?" In English this time, as he pressed his forehead into the bend of his arm. (d

Arnau Falco
"Dumb, then, but not mute," he observed in his usual vaguely ironic style. He was likely the only one in the region who spoke the languages the boy used so foully, and by the look of understanding upon his face as Julian spoke, it was clear the man who wore peasant's clothes was no peasant. True, though the colors were muted, the fabric itself was not nearly worn enough to hide how well it had been manufactured. Even weathered, it was possible to discern the hems had been sewn with expert precision. Benoit had little else to keep him occupied in his cabin in the hills, and had once been renowned for his abilities to stitch limbs back on a sailor without leaving a scar. It was no small leap to tailor a shirt.He took a drink before replying the boy. "Scotland? Why would anyone chose to venture there? It is full of barbarians in skirts and crazed women bearing battle axes. 'Tis no small wonder the Romans ran in the other direction. Spain's clime is far more reasonable, though you are at an age where the weather is no whether. I assure you, it is a factor to consider." *

Julian Monroe
Julian would straighten then, everything about him pulling together as if a puppet on it's strings. "So you understand me?" Of course the proper question would have been, you share my same language. Arrogance had been his forte, with little necessity, and somehow he had found himself the center of another conversation where he too would judge openly Skye. Electricity ran behind the blue of his eyes, charged by the art of a fine mathematician whose entire being revolved under the shadow of Science. "Hmmm, perhaps because it is obviously where I am from." He couldn't hide the accent no matter how hard he tried. Though, on proper days he would sound a bit more English, simply from the way Jean-Claude pronounced the longer sounds in the placement of letters. He would never pull off France. "I'm here on business, so don't bother asking." Julian gave the man his shoulder, eyes wondering over the room for anything of interest, and falling short. It was then he would pass a look over the his shoulder to the man, "Who are you?" (d

Arnau Falco
"Understand? No. Share your tongue, yes," Benoit clarified as a teacher might a recalcitrant, but smart, pupil. He'd had his share of both, and found the combination aged him. It was very strange to find such a boy on his own so deep into the heart of a country whose language he did not know. Any fool could pick up numbers; his brief negotiations with the innkeep for his dramatically overpriced drink were testament to that. He absently touched the metal fob connected to the thong, unwilling as he was to touch the dried flesh still hidden beneath his shirt unless there was real reason. Even so far from Seville, there was no chance on this earth he would betray the name his countrymen called him. So with a level gaze, and then a tilt of his head in a semblance of manners, offered, "Falco." The boy failing to find anything interesting, his attention turned back to the old man, which Benoit found vaguely irritating. A nobleman would enter with an entourage, even if traveling lightly. The boy's clothes were good, if damaged by blood -- yes, that was blood, Benoit was old but not blind -- and the planes of his face were pleasing to the eye -- but they were not Norman, nor any more aristocratic than his base nature. He was perhaps the son of a middling shopowner, but again, what business would he have in Seville? That involved blood? Intriguing. *

Julian Monroe
"Good for you then." Came a snide remark, and almost would he laugh at the man's name. It was such a mad world, and one he would have happily removed himself from a few years back--an attempt failed, and that would make the correct scars across his wrists. "Falco. I don't believe you, and call you on that bluff. You hesitate when you speak, you are lying." Turning his eyes then again to the man, he would roll his shoulders back so that he wasn't being as rude. "You are not from here." He spoke out, finding the dialect rather comforting. "Do you know where I could get a good bed, and a bath. I'm..separated from my party." By his own choice of course. "Though..from the looks of it I rather doubt it. Leave it to me to find the one person who can speak to be a homeless beggar." The last post trailed off spoken more for his own amusement, then for Falco, and even his eyes would trail off to the roof somewhere, wondering of the establishment. (d

Arnau Falco
"It is a wise man who considers his words before flinging them about to strangers. Particularly his name. If you wish a bath, you are not likely to find one in this town. As for a bed, the rooms here are priced well." He shrugged briefly. "When I speak, I also tend to be correct. Homeless I am not. I am from Lerida, a small town near the border with France. So, right on one account, I am not from here. I had business in Seville, not a trip a beggar would undertake, as the road is long and treacherous. These days, who can tell where your fellow traveler stands? A man covered in blood is not an unusual sight, but listening to him speak both French and English, it is a curious thing indeed. It draws attention. Perhaps you should save your coin, and bathe in a stream."Benoit was not used to speaking. He had been living in silence for so many years. Had he croaked, he wondered, when he found Ada at the docks? He hoped not. She had always held him in such high regard, he had been almost saintly in her eyes once. But what was he but one more disappointment in a constant stream of men who disappointed? He took another drink. No, he had deserved Ada's sadness; it was not his voice that had disappointed. *

Julian Monroe
"Curious no doubt, I find it rather odd myself. Trust me. I am not here by choice." He wanted to die at the idea of not having a bath, and would very much take to the stream if forced. Though the idea of not being so far from France seemed to soften him. If only for a moment there was a flash of something further, "I have heard of Lerida." Again his interest peaked, "There is a man there who lives in the mountains, I have one of his books." He read it inside and out the very first night here, having purchased it from a beggar who no doubt stole it. "Or pages from it, they were torn and rebound." For a moment Julian didn't realize he was even talking, nor that he gave away his secret so freely. Though when it came to his assignment this man would get nothing from it. He hated it here. Everything about it. "..but the further I read, the further I feel he's a fool. No man is able to speak with the otherside." Without thinking, Julian would start to draw the very same symbol the hand of the author had drawn, over the top of the bar with the wax he would dip the edge of his knife in. "He'll be burned if they ever find him, and perhaps me for even reading." (d

Arnau Falco
"Maybe not by choice, but for a reason nonetheless," he said, his voice soft, but hardly lacking the mentoring quality that persisted even through these years of exile, rumored death, and peasant's clothes. He stood slowly, and placed his hand over the drawing Julian made. Without a word, he stuck it into the fire behind them. "Not enough pigs in your yard will keep them from burning all of us if any but I saw that, boy. You are a fool, and I -- I just paid for a room I will not be sleeping in, you idiotic son of a sheep-whoring Scot." With enough force that his anger might be understood, but soft enough not to cause any serious damage, he whapped the back of Julian's arrogant head."If you do not wish him dead a second time, you will keep your ponderings until you are back among your heretical brethren in the north." He grabbed his drink, finished its contents in one hearty gulp, and stormed out of the inn. Did he wish for Julian to follow? No. Had he gotten this old without having a few tricks up his sleeve? The answer to that lay in surviving the heretics' flames years back. *

Julian Monroe
"They are a rather true bunch of heretics." Julian spoke dryly at the man annoyed, more then he was angry. Though he certainly didn't like being called anything he wasn't, almost as much as he hated being called a Scot. "So shall I announce it further?" He called after the man, rising slowly to follow, of course never one to leave a table without something he wanted being on the other end. "Is this why you didn't want to finish this?" He pulled the little manuscript form his back pocket, "You are chicken, and walk away?" English this time, to keep the Spaniards out of the conversation. "I've heard of men like you, just so happens to be the only Spanish word I know."He would move to the porch of the inn, "Funny..you don't fit the idea I put behind this." He came from a world where Masters were defined, and very suited to keep with their trade. Soon he would come to face the man, his eyes narrowing on him, "I'll carve it on your grave if you ever embarrass me again, old man." Fire there. No doubt it was his sign. (d

Arnau Falco
"I would be impressed to have a visitor, flattered to have my grave so marked. Or did you not read its meaning in the script? Boy, my life and all those I loved has been forfeit before for far less subtle a betrayal of confidence. Make that mark in public again, and you will wish to be dead." He stopped, turning around very slowly to face the young man. "I do not have the key to finishing that manuscript," he said at last. "I lost it. In the fires." There were so very, very few who knew it was not an it he'd lost, but a her. On pain of torture, he would never reveal that information. He had done many dark deeds in his life, but he would never betray her. He fought for her. He'd killed for her. Such a long list of crimes, a list he had never considered writing before she started pitching rocks at his shuttered windows at an ungodly hour of the morning. He was unsure what to say next. He kept his eyes pinned on the young man, though, contemplating the boy as if he could see through to his very soul. It was not black -- no, he had seen enough black souls to tell the difference. He had a temper. He had a passion. What else did he have? A lack of manners, yes. But a distinct lack of perseverence that was troubling in a student. He would not take a boy who could not learn a few phrases for traveling in a foreign land. Nor one who seemed upset at the prospect of a day without a bath. "There are other books. You may even find them." *

Julian Monroe
"Where?" Came a small amount of desperation, an eagerness in his voice. He was a tall child, a man of his own right, but very much still a youth. "I've searched all of Scotland for something even close to this, and even my Master carries little on the subject." He had to understand..he just had to. "What fires?" Suddenly he went quiet waiting for an answer that would turn the tides he felt, "The fires of Paris? The ones that nearly tore out the entire city?" He could not betray Jean-Claude, he could not out him, "My Master is soul survivor of them, but he now lives in secret." Came the whisper then, afraid of who might hear he walked slowly closer to the man. "Is that the fire you speak about?" Threatening him with a look, Julian would not give in so easy. "Where will I find the books?" He seethed, the very soul of a demon could have come through then, and no doubt this son had already fallen in a bit deeper then any wished. "The woman." Suddenly it all started to come together, and Julian held up his hand to mimic the height (or lack there of) of the sage. "She is this tall. With hair as dark as yours. Eyes the size of the moon, and breasts as round as these very hills?" He asked him very carefully. (d

Arnau Falco
Benoit shook his head ever so slightly. "No, son. Not those fires. Many were destroyed that night. Not so many a few years ago -- there were less of us. It is the devil's arithmetic." He had been thrown into a hole used for minor criminals, those who awaited any number of the grisly punishments the Paris guards meted out. A nail through the ear for theft, or branding, disfigurements for petty crimes that he would later treat while Gauthier pinned their arms down. Adelaide had never quite figured out the proper balance of ingredients, though her base formula had shown greater promise than any he had concocted."The books are scattered. Not all are published. Some are. Some bindings I sewed myself. You will find those in Madrid. Nothing remains in one place for very long. I have many friends the Continent over willing to move them for me. Ask the right people, enter the right alley, you will find them. I do not take students anymore. I am old, I like my privacy." The last statements were said with a certain grisled ferocity utterly at odds with his rather urbane features, so often composed as if giving lectures, and now pushed back to reveal he was too thin, and he would put this boy in his place if he pushed too hard for answers Benoit would never give. He had been a master of multiple crafts. He had ruled Paris, once upon a time. And now he was a survivor. "I had an apprentice as you described, once," he said after Julian's questions. "Her power is rather between the legs, not the ears, but her tea was divine. What of her?" *

Julian Monroe
"She's still a whore if that's what you are asking." He spoke in that dry manner of his, seeming not amused at all of the conversation. It was as if he didn't care. "She sucks the life off of Jean-Claude, no doubt because she is so good at.." Such fowl words, for a young master. "I think she has him possessed. This is why I search so hard. To break him from her spell. She..was part of the reason they cast him on fire, and he's too blind to see it." It was a wonder how easy he gave the information, but he was drawn to this man like Ada drew down the moon."I wish only to see her end, Sir. Nothing more." The end coming from death none could be certain. "All I need are the books, I can read them just fine." In whatever language seemed fit, there was Janice after all..she could use a little color on her cheeks anyway. (d

Arnau Falco
"Ah, so you know her," Benoit said, just as dry as the boy, whose name he had not yet learned. Perhaps this was a good thing, he thought. He was deranged. "I was afraid she might not have survived the fires. I told her to run, but she is noble at heart, think of her what you will, she is at least that." His eyes rested on the boy again, critical once again."Jean-Claude, you say. Your master, the sole survivor?" He had not believed the man to have survived. Nearly a decade had gone by between purgings of Paris's greatest minds. The gypsy had claimed to be one of Ada's lovers, but how stupid was he not to consider Jean-Claude might be another. Adelaide was ... adventurous ... in her sexual appetites. What were Ada and the gypsy protecting? Though he disliked the idea of jeopardizing his key to the other world, this boy had more answers to give, and did not even know what a wealth of information he bore. Useless junk to this child, but a treasure to Benoit. "Go to Madrid. The knowledge is in the journey. Mayhap the words will mean something to you. If they do, I may consider ...." By the great sun, he was playing a dangerous game, wasn't he? No, no more students. Maybe just one.... Maybe this one to suit his ends. "Lerida," he said at last, the punctuation final, and he turned toward the stables to grab his nag. The wagon would take time to hitch, and he did not wish company. *

Julian Monroe
Julian would watch the man roll away, silently putting his words together, and suddenly feeling as if he had betrayed his father. (d

[Julian Luke Monroe]

Adelaide de Sauveterre
These streets were not so tidy, Ada observed, tilting her head back slightly as laundry passed overhead, sunlight glinting on wet underthings and splashing in pools from last night's dew.  It grew hot during the days, though; this water would be gone by noon, even covered in the alley's ever-moving shadows.  She knew where to find him following the old signs.  She had followed him to Paris once, given a path to wander, a few names to query, but little more of substance.  Following him was not easy, but he had trained her to look for the proper ways.  Her fingers glided over the old faces of signs carved into the corners of buildings.  This city was old, older than the Romans, and things were not so cut and dry here.  It was precisely why Benoit chose it, and not some sun-splashed hill outside the walls, to wait for his protege's return.  No, for a follower of the sun path, he preferred his shadows, and moved among them with almost as much ease but not nearly as much grace as his former student.  Ada was born of the moon; she'd chosen his path out of the sheer contrary spirit that had so endeared her to her Scientist. She turned the corner, looking for the next sign, but she needn't look far.  A shop, little more than a hole in the wall, with tapestries to block out Madrid's infernal heat decorated with stylized suns, was her ultimate destination.  Wiping her face with a scented handkerchief, and pocketing the linen, she entered the shop.  The tender, who did as all before him since time immemorial, continued to rub at the mug in his hand with a piece of cloth, but seeing the sickle blade attached to the leather thong around her neck, tilted his head toward the long hallway leading out back.  Ada thanked him with a coin, and made her way out into the shady courtyard. *

Julian Monroe
There had never been such a rise in his chest, the feeling that grew beneath his ribcage that of a hungry wolf, starved for the knowledge of understanding. The young master had made his company uncomfortable, as they found little reason in him to give the offer of any sort of order to his manners; though Spain had humbled him--greatly. Julian, simply lacked the light, from neglect as a child he knew not how to act, and even under the steady hands of his Master he still struggled to keep his composure. It was his nature to speak out against those who spoke poorly of him, even though he could almost feel the cool leather of Jean's glove pressing him to turn the other cheek. Much was to be gained on the experience of the assignment, but he could hardly stomach the company that kept him, even dressed him as some penniless knight escorting a queen. Really, it had been too much. He could not even read as they traveled for wonderment of why a knight would be so careless in his watch. Thankfully, the countryside had been appealing, opening new terrain that seemed eerie almost, as even the trees grew it strange shapes against the horizon. Outfitted in the leather armor, his helmet against his spine Julian seemed rather out of place..Ada would laugh, at how foolish he felt. Janice, who went by Danielle was some sort of Lady in Waiting..really he could hardly keep up, but at least now he could make his way through the language. Jean-Claude had been right when the worry of communication would be cleared when he was thrust into the Spanish speaking land. Oh, how he couldn't wait to return to his Master, and cut his hair..it grew too fast sitting now at the length of his chin he felt positively primeval. Finally, Madrid came into view, the city of common wealth where even he could hide in colors foreign to the nation. He would be in Madrid..The strange man from the tavern. Stopping outside the city to hide his horse, the ground came rather swiftly and the curse flew from his lips in French as the armor was far heavier then he realized. (d

Adelaide de Sauveterre
They walked arm-in-arm now, as they had not in her youth.  She had always scurried behind the longer-legged Gauthier and Benoit, listening, but too out of breath to contribute.  They left her in the dust at times, walking so quickly, she had no hope of staying with them, sulkily making her way in their general direction and occasionally stopping to filch food from a cart before half-heartedly running after them again.  Gauthier....  The bastard always smirked at Ada as she came through the shop door later, in the middle of sweeping, offering with a sarcastic nod of his head the pile of dishes from last night's dinner that awaited her feminine touch.  She wasn't sure what had changed between then and now, what had sobered Benoit, or made him suddenly care so deeply for her, when he'd always held a definite air of aloofness. If she learned anything beyond the books he stacked beside her bed each day, it was because she was diligent.  She never gave up when following him, and had a sixth sense for the passages he would take toward more interesting meetings.  Gauthier had taken for granted the knowledge he was given was what he would need to run Benoit's shop.  Ada could give a fig for the shop; what she wanted was bigger than a career.  Bigger than love, bigger than power itself.  "You wrote this, didn't you?" she asked him at last, pulling the piece of paper out from her bodice and holding it out to him.

Arnau Falco/Benoit
He refused to take it, glancing at her studiously, but briefly.  She had precociously witnessed too much tragedy in her life well before she came to his shop, hollering for his attention.  That intelligence was a spark, something that would hold any other teacher's attention, but it had taken far longer for Benoit to appreciate who she was, and why the Fates had brought her to him.  He loved her, as much as he was able to love any, but would as soon see her dead if she jeopardized his life here in Spain.  He was old.  He could not pick up and start a new one so easily.  There was also the matter of sneaking her father out of the cellar, and to wherever he chose next to live this half-life of a once great scholar. "I needed to speak with you again.  I do not know about the boy; maybe he is a little soft in the head.  He reminds me of someone.  But as far as I know, he is as safe as any can be in a country in which he is utterly unversed in the language."  They turned down another alley.  This time, the light shifted colors with the brightly colored swathes of fabric hanging from the lines overhead.  He was red; Ada a dazzling gold. *

Julian Monroe
So few the times when Jean-Claude's silence had crept over him, speaking in verses of how the foot is to be held, or even the breath inside his chest. Yet, in the streets he stumbled silently in the wake of Ada and Falco, their conversation lightly spoke, but he could almost make out the words. Deep seeded dread pulled him through the next breath as he knew somewhere SHE would have something to do with this. He was a Mathematician not a spy, but even now he could rival the ends of the earth with his stealth. Amazed really, even he was surprised in this armor. The sun had done wonders to his complexion offering an almost natural tanned tone that many would never recognize him for...not Monroe, he spent his time behind the shadow of his Master, and the comforts of blank pages. The conversation of the pair went quiet as the laughter of the streets soon blocked him from the path. Soon they were lost, though the gold to surface again from the moon child's attire at the end of another street, and he square away with the lot. There was defiance written across his icy eyes, and the hilt of his sword split the earth beside his boot. "Leave it to Jean-Claude, to not trust me..but to send you? Ha." He would snort and narrow his eyes at him, "I'm insulted." He spoke in French to her, but as his eyes turned to Benoit again he would spit Spanish at him, well practiced, "And you..Is this where she gets her madness?" He was livid, beyond so really. (d

Adelaide de Sauveterre
"Be kind to Julian," Ada said softly, setting a foot outside of the saffron glow before it occurred to her that Benoit had little idea what had happened to his favored apprentice.  What he had done to her.  She personified grace at times; she exuded confidence that she knew who she was, what to do with her hands, how to stand in the face of absurdity.  As he had noticed, she had learned from a very young age these skills, and not through an easy life.  She didn't know what to do with her hands now, weather to sweep them into her curls and lift the heavy hair off her back, as if that might lighten the thoughts running through her.  Or if she should just stand there, hands wherever they fell, and pretend Gauthier's ghost was insignificant.  To gesture emphatically, or to pick up her pace again and leave this colorful street.  "He reminds me of him, but he is different."  How?  Even she was uncertain.  They certainly could not be left in the same room together with the expectation that both would emerge alive five minutes later, but there was something to his personality -- his soul? -- that Ada saw in him that she had mistakenly thought Gauthier possessed.  Julian was different in a very important way.  He needed to be warned, but it was not too late for him, as it had been for poor Gauthier.  Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of the apprentice in question.  Ada found something to do with her hands then, folding them behind her back and skittering away from this madman.  A sword, and armor?  She would have laughed, but a lifetime's experience had taught her this was highly undiplomatic.

Arnau Falco/Benoit
"Gauthier -- " what was that look in her eyes when he voiced that name?  They had been like siblings, once.  They'd often slept in the same bed.  He'd had to pull them apart more than once when Gauthier pinched Ada and she retaliated by grabbing the nearest blunt object and swinging it with surprising force for such a small frame at his rather taller body.  She was nimble; he learned to be quick.  They challenged one another to be better people.  Somewhere along the road, he'd lost Gauthier.  He'd become too focused in his studies, too sure of his right path, too judgmental and possessive.  Benoit thought about the boy he'd met in the pub and shrugged.  The boy was precocious.  He'd seen misery.  He struggled to overcome it.  Why did Ada's mind leap to Gauthier, and not her own past? And then the boy appeared, and Benoit smiled.  Well, speak of the devil.  "I was not aware she was mad.  Adelaide, are you mad?"

Adelaide de Sauveterre
Ada blinked.  Conversations tended toward the very strange with her master, and she'd forgotten how quickly the shift happened.  "Ah... no, not that I am aware of, non." *

Julian Monroe
A lightning fast reflex had been picked up over the years as his eyes seemed to glaze and the world became nothing but numbers--calculations. He could divide the area Benoit would strike, return the force enough to see the object deflected by the tip of the rapier, and a long look at the pair to cross his eyes. "She is mad. What are you doing here?" He hissed, the reply a small chain of command that started in the back of his throat and escaped his lips like a slow growl. "Why are you not home with Jean?" He turned the tip of the blade to soon stand a foot from Benoit's face, a darkness there and nothing more. "And you." He moved forward a bit, "I have questions, that need answered, and I'll not take any quarrel. Not when my life depends on it." Julian would use the gathering crowd at his advantage, "I can ask you here, or we can take this somewhere private." He was beyond tired of this man's games, of his secrecy. The young master wanted to be home, but most of all he wanted to survive this trip. Julian's misery had come with a family who knew not how to nurture, or a mother who could provide without a father. He had nearly starved to death, but most of all never knew what a comforting hand felt like. No one sang to him as a child, no one told him stories, as life on a farm at the earliest of age was work. Ada knew this, did Benoit? When had his hand become so trained at the art of war? Julian walked a thin line in this moment, the thirst for power filling the void where affection had been scarce, and the desire to learn. This was why over all Jean-Claude did not trust him enough to see the inside of the Ebony Hall, and had even wanted to hold him back from this assignment. It had been Claramae to point out all the reasons Janice needed the son of Skye on her venture..wonder how she felt now. (d

Adelaide de Sauveterre
"Because I received this," Ada said, retrieving the note again.  She needed to invest in a purse.  Pulling coins and notes and whatnot from her bodice was something she did without thought, a convenient place to keep things and keep her hands free.  She unfolded the paper one-handed, and held it out toward his free hand.  "He was worried about you.  And I was, too.  He took ill, and I came to find you.  I could be at his bedside now," Ada said at last, an edge creeping into her voice when, until now, it had been perfectly calm.  She could be at home, with her daughter.  She did not say that last aloud, unsure of Benoit's mental health, but more certain she wished to keep her new life separate from his.  He could be a monster.  He probably was. 

Arnau Falco/Benoit
"Good lord, son, put that away before you hurt yourself," Benoit said, but his eyes were pinned on Ada.  What was wrong with her?  She took the world with a certain element of flippancy that tended to diffuse any situation.  She still had both hands, after all, no matter how many times she'd been caught stealing.  And eventually, she'd gotten better, but that charm was well-developed in the process.  She was older now.  Sixteen-year-olds were invincible.  It must be different at thirty.  "There is a tea shop, where my bags are.  Come, it is good, and the courtyard has a rare breeze.  The sun will be unbearably hot in a few minutes, and I am too old for such discomfort."

Adelaide de Sauveterre
Ada was already moving away from them, the note delivered, her feet sidling off, though not too far.  She didn't wish to abandon Benoit.  A part of her was still loyal to her last breath, even if suspicious.  And she had promised Jean-Claude to fetch Julian; he would be furious if she perverted that promise and brought him back in pieces.  She had no doubt Benoit would defend himself if Julian put him on the spot.  Benoit was far craftier than them all.  More, than he ever had need to be.  He'd survived, hadn't he?  She turned the corner, leaving the sun-drenched street, and led the way toward the little dark doorway with the sun tapestries. *

Julian Monroe
The note was taken, and in hast read through eyes that hardly had to glance to the text. Julian could absorb information like a sponge having little need to process it. "I didn't write this." He came to the conclusion well on his own. "Jean-Claude would have had to have known.." He started the conversation but saw Adelaide already walking away, and then turning furious eyes on Benoit. "Why would you do that?" He narrowed in on the old man, who had thought Ada's husband Peregrine, though had he ever got the name? "You are insane aren't you?" He hissed again, not ready to leave the street just yet, as suddenly his respect for the man was exchanged for a sickening feeling of regret. The sword was going no where, not yet at least, not until a good solid answer was given--but it was lowered. Yet, the feeling of betrayal was enough to overfill him with the desire to cut the man through. He had no clue how much of Julian's reputation was on the line, and being the selfish bastard that he was saw through that Ada had come to assist him? Bring him home? It only added fuel to the fire to keep him going. However, when he knew Ada was out of reach he would take a step closer to the man, "Did you now she would come?" There was much he didn't know of Ada, mostly because he had never cared to learn. "If my Master would have come you would not be standing here." Jean-Claude was a gentleman first, a politician next, but most of all he was a overly protective of the few he kept under his wing. What were his intentions now? (d

Arnau Falco/Benoit
"Thank you," he said curtly to the lowering of the sword, pulling a linen kerchief from his pocket and dabbing at his face.  Already, it was growing uncomfortably hot.  His little shack in the mountains was much cooler, and when he was bored with writing, he always had his guest in the cellar to torment.  He had learned so incredibly much from his guest, a wealth of knowledge freed with the right tools.  When words did not flow, occasionally, blood was decent compensation.  He brought his thoughts back to the present with slight effort. "You seem obsessed with my mental faculties.  Or perhaps, the lack thereof," he said at last.  "I assure you, I can be a functioning member of society.  I even make modestly enlightening conversation and have been known to make a joke.  As for Adelaide, of course she would come.  She always does, when I summon her.  Were her hearing more acute, I would have worked a charm with a bell upon her, would rather save me the cost of sending a messenger after her, while holding a certain element of ... cuteness."  Benoit looked astutely at Julian. "No doubt, if your master was here, he would have cut me down long ago, even at the expense of Adelaide's heart."  He did not much care whose bed his former student shared.  The pirate's, the scientist's, it made no difference.  Her heart encompassed far more than it ought to.  It made it easy to injure, and far too simple to betray.  "But even he might pause, or have moment to grieve, what is lost with my death."

Adelaide de Sauveterre
Her hand was on the tapestry when she heard them come around the corner.  Their voices were muted in the ancient alleys, words indistinguishable.  She wasn't certain she wished to hear, so did not linger very long before pushing her way inside, and having a brief conversation with the tender to send refreshments into the courtyard. *

Julian Monroe
"Don't flatter yourself, old man. Nor in your little tricks. You could have not known she would come..that was not a calling, with or without the bell." Though really the thought did amuse him, at least he could hear her sneaking around the shop..though he hated cats. "You know too much, about me. I have not given you any information of where I am from..though beyond the obvious..you have over stepped your ground. Ada." He called to her, "We need to go." What? Julian? Really? "I have little need for smelly old men, I had just thought I could cut corners, do not think me such a fool. Everything in my body is telling me to cut out your heart." With the armor, he had carried a great deal of bulk, no matter how thin he was naturally. "There is no such thing as spells or summons, you don't have that kind of power. It doesn't exist." The passing patrons could have easily picked up on the conversation, but all Julian thought about was how worried Jean-Claude would be. He must have been out of it, for he would have never sent Ada. "He wouldn't grieve, he would laugh at you." Not so true, but close enough to the rightful truth of the matter. Julian had stumbled upon the books Ada had given Jean so many years ago, only while going through old files that were slowly being pulled from the underground lab that had nearly been destroyed. He was the only pupil Jean-Claude had taken in true form, teaching him the ways of modern science that was once forbidden in the universities. "You over stepped your bounds, and have lost my good faith. I'll happily turn you in for the heretic you really are..even at the expense of Adelaide's heart." He sneered at the man mocking his words. (d

Arnau Falco/Benoit
"You are right, then.  I lie."  He spoke in a maddeningly neutral tone, pushing his way into the darkness and nearly stumbling over Ada.  She was quick to get out of his way, opening the door to the courtyard and taking a perch on a bench, while he turned to wait for Julian.  "I know a great deal about most I meet.  Few things are left to chance, boy, particularly in my world.  You do not get to this age without very good ears." The boy was becoming more interesting to him by the minute.  And more like Ada.  Perhaps Ada might even see why Julian reminded him of her, and not Gauthier, with the sort of fire flashing in Julian's eyes now.  Dangerous fire, but one that could be directed.  The pleasure was in determining how.  "Would you turn me in at the expense of Adelaide?  She is as guilty as I am.  More, in many respects.  I would rather like the company, I think.  No, in all seriousness, there is a matter -- "

Adelaide de Sauveterre
"Do not press him, Julian," Ada interrupted, her mouth looking remarkably grave.  There was nothing nymph-like about her now, her thoughts abstracted, but she could think of one very good reason to spare Benoit.  It had nothing to do with books or knowledge.  "In a heartbeat, he would take a nation down without much consideration, it is his way.  If you wish to leave, let us, in peace.  I have said all I wish to say."

Arnau Falco/Benoit
Benoit chuckled quietly at Ada's short speech, and laced his hands behind his back.  "But you came, my dear, you should stay more than a few minutes, or I will be grossly offended." *

Julian Monroe
"I'm not." He lied, though for now he would let the conversation fall, "We're leaving." Dangerous fire indeed, that nearly burnt him alive without keeping the last work. How could this man mock him? "She may be guilty, but she's well protected..and not just by me." Though really in truth, he would have liked to have kicked her into the fire. "Very good ears indeed. You are crazy." Well, he tried not to press him. "I know she's just as guilty as you are, trust me she has my Master caught in her spell." He hissed. "You would be wise to keep your matters to yourself, Falco..if that is even your real name, you have lost my trust old man or I would maybe care if it were." Julian moved to take Ada's hand, though his long fingers kept ready the hilt in his hand, if this Falco made one wrong motion a flick of his wrist would have his blood splattered. Every alarm in his body was going off, to think of what could happen. How had this man known? Many questions that needed answers, but none he was willing to wait for. "Not if the nation got him first." War there behind ice eyes, that spoke of more then fires. It was almost a promise to return, the curiosity moved only further, but now Falco had crossed a line. (d

Adelaide de Sauveterre
"Wait.  Just a moment," Ada said, pulling her fingers free from Julian's, and crossing the short distance to Benoit.  She hugged him, holding it a moment longer than she thought she would, while Benoit's hands didn't seem to know where to go until they were placed gingerly upon her back.  She may have said something to him, but most likely not.  It was such a brief moment, in which her face was not visible to Julian through the cloud of distinctive, shining black curls.  Then she backed away toward Julian, her fingers catching his.  She didn't particularly like being this close to the boy, but he gave her an excuse to leave.  She did not forget what Benoit carried on a thong around his neck.  Or that the man once in possession of the dried finger was still alive.  Somewhere. Benoit was oddly quiet as Ada made her departure with Julian, saying nothing, but not sitting down until they were through the tapestry.  "Did you ever trust him?" Ada asked, trying to figure out Julian, and how he knew Benoit.  Why he kept calling him Falco, for another.  Benoit did not specialize in betrayal, but she could sense Julian's anger rolling off him like waves. *

Julian Monroe
"I did." He spoke in an eerie calm, as it showed across his face the betrayal. "I searched all over for him, found him in a tavern..or he found me. They spoke about him from the moment we got off the boat." Never had his accent sounded so true, but it was when he could not control his emotions did the son of Scotland sound just that. "The way they carried on about him, reminded me of the manuscripts I read in Jean's lab..he said they had been gifts from you, when you first came back into his world. The way he pulled back..and the way he worried over me. I knew it was something deep. He feared greatly of them, but he told me that man was dead. I was going to ask Falco if he knew and.." Julian stopped, sealing his lips as he let go of Ada's hand realizing he was opening up to her, letting her in where he SWORE she would never cross. His betrayal became anger quickly, knowing that somewhere Jean-Claude was worried, and that man had put doubt in his mind. The horse was not far from the city, grazing in the grass near it's tie. "What am I tell Jean-Claude..he'll be furious. He doesn't trust me as it is." He snorted then, "Sent you after me, he had to know it was fake." (d

Adelaide de Sauveterre
"I knew he was imperfect when I set out after him," Ada mused.  "I hadn't read his books.  Just heard stories, and that was enough for me.  The reality was ... difficult to swallow.  There was a boy in the shop already, a few years older than I was.  And Benoit seemed more interested in seeing that we could sweep floors and stem herbs than teaching what I'd come to learn."  She glanced occasionally at Julian, hoping he was listening, even if she wasn't certain what she would say.  She'd rehearsed a million times on the journey here, and promptly decided nothing she'd practiced was really worth repeating. "But I wanted to learn," Ada said after a while, with a quiet sort of intensity that belied how desperately she'd struggled to make life work in Paris until Benoit let her into his world.  It was like walking through a field and encountering an unexpectedly powerful wind on an otherwise calm, breezy day.  "You remind me of people I've known.  In good ways, Julian.  In good ways."  It was all she could muster up at the moment, her mind still stuck on Benoit.  On the man locked up somewhere, missing a finger.  On how she felt very little horror at that fact, far less than she ought to.  "Jean knew, but he wanted to be certain.  The handwriting is not Benoit's, either, I would have recognized it.  It costs pennies to have a scribe write it for him, though.  Little mystery there." *

Julian Monroe
He did listen, very intently on her words searching for a way out of his own explanation as to why he had in fact gone searching, though she knew. She had to know, but would she tell? Always had he thought of her the bully, the bratty older sister who would run and tattle so he could take the heat. "He doesn't trust me." All the animosity boiled down to that, as he turned to look at her, "Or he wouldn't have sent you..and I'm still not certain why he did." He eyed her, searching her face for any false information, "You said he was sick, how sick?" Honest question as he mounted the horse and reached to help her up. "Wait.." Before he would kick the horse he would pull his hand away from helping her, "He said his name was Falco, was that Benoit? The Benoit?" It had struck him then, nearly enough to have his feet touch the ground again just to feel something solid underneath it. "Your old Master? Jean-Claude said he was dead. You knew he was alive?" Already accusing her of lies as well, but now all that he had thought..gone. (d

Adelaide de Sauveterre
Ada glanced down at her shoes.  Julian didn't trust her.  What did it matter, if she spoke the truth or lied to his face?  He believed the worst in her, and while she had once made an effort to gain his trust, she had stopped trying since the night she knocked him out cold.  Ada reserved the right to like people she ought to hate.  Julian could include himself among them, for more reason -- Ada swore it -- than the fact that Jean-Claude loved the boy.  "He trusts you.  He does not trust Benoit."  She said the words matter-of-factly, looking up at him, though she had to shade her eyes to avoid the noon light. Yes, Jean-Claude knew Benoit was still alive.  Ada had known, too.  "We all thought he was dead.  He found me in Paris.  He has messages to deliver, and I do not know what to make of it.  I am done with that life.  It is done with me.  It is best I left France, it is best these books are hidden, it is best the world thinks him still dead.  He is neither good nor bad, he cannot be defined in those terms, but he is dangerous, Julian.  And frighteningly intelligent."  He also had the benefit of another art to aid what his brain was incapable of connecting, but Ada would not say that, not when there was any chance of being overheard. *

Julian Monroe
Once again he settled his hand for her to take it, keeping his foot clear of the holster so that she could climb up. The horse would hardly move at the weight, really the petite frame of the healer had never been much, though always desired. "Hold on." The likewise would have been returned, for he wanted to simply keep her there, turn away and ride off back to his assignment. Yet, he still had answers that needed to be found. "Messages? What sort of message?" His curiosity turned as the horse started forward, and he tensed in the saddle as he always did at first motion--hating to ride."Jean-Claude, doesn't need this, not now." He became silent, eyes on the road ahead brooding just enough to add that bit of question to what side he played for this week, "You just need to go home." (d