And I Don't Want the World to See Me

[Julian Luke Monroe]

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Deus Ex Machina

Vendu son âme au Diable

[Julian Luke Monroe]

Margot
The day was hot -- hot and dry.  The woman was not feeling so young these days, though she looked it.  Catalonian, certainly, the locals believed her one of their own.  She was not short, nor was she too tall, but her hair was the pale shade of harvest wheat.  In the right light, it resembled apricots, and curled in dainty spirals most women struggled with hot irons to achieve.  Her skin was pale, despite many long days in the sunlight, but her eyes were as dark as sloes, framed with beguiling, pale lashes.  They did not fancy her a sorceress, though many men muttered she may as well be, with the way she moved her hips.  She was always properly clad, with cloth up to her neck, her wrists covered in soft fabric, her feet never visible to inquiring eyes, even as she moved elegantly up the steps of the local church. She paused for a moment outside the doors, as if unwilling to subject herself to the dark, humid, and hot confines.  But a moment later, her fingers gingerly touching the nearly-sheer veil covering her hair to ensure it was properly in place, she stepped within and genuflected.  She said her prayers on her knees, and moments later, stepped blinking and squinting out into the hot sun, fanning herself with one hand, though it barely waved the fabric of her veil.  Shaking her head in disapproval of this weather, she lit down the steps and toward the nearest shade, finding comfort amid friends sharing horchata, which she graciously and gratefully took a sip before hurrying on to the next patch of shade, like a butterfly seeking the right flower. *


Julian
His name was Justin, though he could not remember his last name for sake of his own fate. Julian did not do well with hiding under false names and masks that did not suit him, yet he was not the sort to require that his name be written across pages for his birthright had no meaning, and always would he be cast as Jean-Claude's shadow. In the early years of their relationship he had indeed been at the man's heels walking as if the solid shadowy frame was in need of another. Julian hung to every word the scientist said as if it were the only moment of faith he had. He did not believe in God, but he believed in Jean-Claude.  Justin...Justin..He should have caught the name, and now as he moved through the streets in search of the very reason for his being he was lost in thought. Spanish came and went, though his foreign title now gave him reason not to know it. Cunningham. He hated the name, but in this miserable weather he had no further reason to frown. Today, the air was invoked with the freedom to explore, and even the most miserable sort could enjoy the streets of Aragon. (d


Margot
This province was not her home, but it was close.  Or so the rumors went.  They followed her like another shadow.  Though it was broad daylight, she moved as if through twilight, her hair catching the day and sparking, as ripples did upon a lake suddenly disturbed.  She picked up a basket and began moving inside the shops she passed, ignoring the suckling pigs hanging in the windows to put off the Inquisitors, and ducking ever so slightly into the dark and past the flies to add more small packages.  Catalonia was her home.  The rugged terrain, the beaten path she climbed once a month, the sunlight so strong, it never left a shadow.  Stark relief and harsh colors characterized that land.  Here in Aragon, things were different.  They were green.  She could stay out in the sunlight for more than a few moments at a time, though the ladies still passed her under silk canopies held by their servants.  They knew her well in this market, though they could not say where she lived.  Perhaps she stayed nearby.  She was not nobility, though this must have been an oversight by their Creator, for no commoner had such exceptionally white and straight teeth, nor such an ample figure on a peasant's diet.  She spoke the Aragon tongue without a discernable accent, and her dark eyes glittered when she was onto a bargain.  When she had the occasion to laugh, it was a sound like the flitting of metal wings, light and soft and with the faintest edge of brass.  These shop keepers had heard it enough to know when to recognize she was coming, and to set out their best wares for her to peruse.  She always had enough coin, though her clothes were not always of the best design.  Funny, a lady should spend her coin on knives and seed and household supplies, that her husband should keep her so well funded, but fail in this one regard.  Someone different was on her path today, and she caught the lean man's gaze momentarily before disappearing into another shop -- this time, to finger silks she could not afford, though she liked the colors and the madam proprietor.  Another cup of horchata to make the heat more tolerable, and she stood by the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the stranger walking past. *



Julian
Foreign seas and distant sands of oceans fast beyond could not keep the change from him. There within a long face was the hardening of features yet he no longer carried his lips in the harsh manner that had once been his standard. Gone was the flat line, that accented well electric eyes that seemed to pool with blue fire. He no longer seemed of the miserable sort, not the type to perish with the invocation of the day. His attire had shifted, relaxed, and even seemed not to pull his height away from him. A shirt of ivory color with its sleeves rolled back over his wrists seemed the sort of a penniless writer--dressed like a poor poet.  His words however where never as deadly as his knives, but just as a sharp; those were tucked away neatly in hidden places that only a taylor could find. Along his spine, under his ribcage, and against the flat of his forearm was there a set that could have almost been revealed in the heat for he wished desperately to be free from his worldly confines. Jean-Claude would die to learn Julian slept without his shirt and sometimes without a cover. Really his Master was too old fashioned. The sky was swimming or so he thought with his thoughts seeming to drift from one subject to the next without reason or order--it drove him insane. The sanity came only with the shifting of eyes, meeting once he was intrigued, and perhaps all those rumors that spawned of his preference in lovers would be expelled. (d



Margot
She conferred for a moment with the madam, laughing her metal-winged laugh, and took one last long inhalation of the silk she held before setting it back upon its hanger.  "Next time, maybe," she sang her familiar refrain with a knowing smile, and stepped back out into the sunlight.  It glared down as unforgiving as before.  She pulled her veil down an inch lower.  The Inquisition had the effect of perhaps not finding so many heretics, as making more observant Catholics of the fearful populace.  She was no different, never a hair out of place, the image of pious perfection, careful to shade her face if a man looked at her askance.  But she did look him askance, studying him from the corner of her eye before she outmatched his leisurely stride, even with her basket full of cloth-wrapped packages.  She angled her face upward for a moment to catch the sunlight, reveling in the warmth upon her skin.  Perhaps it was this habit that resulted in the smattering of tiny, apricot-colored freckles nearly the same shade as her hair across her nose and cheeks, nearly invisible if one was not inches from her face.  Perhaps it was time to return to wherever she stayed the nights -- the villagers lost interest in her when she left their sight.  She would buy no more, and would re-appear in a few weeks, an unchanged source of gossip, with her enigmatic eyes and magical way of moving through the stalls and vendors.  She knew where she was going, though she took a rather indirect path to achieving it, making her way into the back alleys of this town, toward shadows no lady of good repute should venture, and looking entirely out of her depths. *


Julian
Choirs could sing phrases in tongues foreign and he would understand the meaning in only the motions of fluttering skirts. It would matter not of age, or the shifting way he moved his course in careful steps to follow. He had wanted to join her in the shop, but it seemed his life was in constant weariness of fabric--silks--lace--it would not matter, he could not stomach the thought of spending one more moment within the confines watching a woman who clearly held tightly coo over pattern.  He felt then of the hunter, as the alley gave way to the likes of a dressed down man who could have been her rival in fleshtones or wayward ways of wandering. She seemed as distant to the darkness as he seemed as willing to chase. Really. It was not in his nature, but so he did follow upon foot this little lamb. He knew. The way his flesh crawled with the knowing of numbers that there was reason upon their path tonight, and for only a moment would he stop to jot down within the pad of paper first impressions; mixed thoughts before his attention returned..she was gone.  They spoke of her then, in Spanish no longer pointing fingers and hiding comments behind the backs of hands. Conversations of another were open in Spain, and it was as if they had known that today was the day she came again, for they could relate her to the sun. "Who is she?" He asked one woman in English, catching her by surprise like they had forgotten they spoke their comments out for all to hear. Julian would only get a shift in a gaze, and a look that seemed to scream at him he was out of place.  Did they not follow to even find out? By now he had become a master at digging out names, and down the alley he would continue until even the likes of he should not have gone. Perhaps they had not been talking about her, perhaps it was of the day, but Julian found little difference. "Can I help you with that?" He meant her basket, it looked rather full, but no doubt had any who knew him heard this question they would have died in their stance. (d




Margot
They followed, in the beginning, when she was new to this town.  They, too, offered to help with her basket.  Sometimes, she would give it to them with a grateful smile.  Sometimes, she would smile, but insist on holding the basket, striking a stance that dared them to take her things.  To her luck, she'd never had to run; striking at this woman seemed a crime as horrific as shooting a unicorn for its meat.  She didn't mind that he followed now, and when she heard his footsteps on the cobbles once again, slowed her pace so that they walked side by side, but with enough distance between them to be two strangers, happening upon the same route.  Here, the old stone buildings closed in like a cave, and the laundry was not so brightly colored as before; they could not afford fresh dye in the slums, and the fabrics were faded, like Catalonia, with the sun.  But unlike Catalonia, here there was green -- sprouting up between the cobbles and trickling down the walls in vines, some with small pale flowers slowly opening as the afternoon heat began to fade.The villagers never had her name; they called her, rather inappropriately, Sancha.  When she came to visit, everyone prospered.  Such was the nature of her financial transactions.  If she had known, she would have laughed her brass winged laugh, but she never stayed to overhear her own gossip.  It was a vanity.  She glanced at him momentarily, her eyes disarmingly dark compared to the rest of her features.  "If you happen to be going my way, I would be obliged." * 


Julian
Suddenly he felt like a fool, and shook himself from his moment when he took the basket. It had been one of the most human gestures to be known across his sort, and now what happened? Meetings of minds and telling of tales kept him rather lonely for he felt so few could keep up with quick wit and dry humor. However, he was happy to fall silent carrying her basket down a darkened alley that did in fact have green, but lacked what he did truly cherish of home. He held a high stance, his steps that of a noble though a title was not attached to his name there was nothing to say he could not help but for once want to feel normal.  He felt faint at the sight of blood, but drew his own so easy in a lack of judgement one night that left nasty scars running along the veins of his wrist. It had been the only time he had ever felt his Master's bare hands or heard the man cry out in anger as well as tears. To this day he felt guilty, but that day had been one to change him forever--he could not take it back now. He was sick in the head, Ada knew this, but overall Julian felt different in Spain. "I'm not going this way, at all." A flat tone escaped him pulling him back down, "Its just not everyday there is another so gossiped about that even I'm intrigued." Ass. (d


Margot
She quirked the corner of her mouth.  "Then I should have kept my basket."  The weight of it was awkward, but not overly heavy.  There was no telling what was in the cloth-covered packages, not that she gave any signal of alarm at finding her arms free.  She folded her hands neatly behind her back and walked slowly beside him.  "I must be very intriguing.  Or you must be very dull.  But since you .... " She arched a brow in a familiar gesture.  Since he spoke Spanish so poorly would ruin a man's confidence, this she knew like she knew the sun would rise in the morning.  "Are not from these parts, they know not to speak when you are present.  Even a stranger can hear when he is being insulted."  She smiled then, both corners of her lips, and paused.  She leaned against the wall, taking another break.  She was a hardy soul, used to traversing the roughest terrain, but she also had her need for comfort.  It was not such a long way to the room she had rented for the night, and though few had held her basket, none had made it to her room.  She liked to keep it that way. *


Julian
"You must be greatly intriguing. I'm not like this." It was the truth, "But perhaps it is a moment of weakness, trying desperately to fit in." His sarcasm could have cut like a knife, and his unamused eyes would nearly roll to her. "Or perhaps it was that I'm looking for any reason to leave." It was clear he wasn't from these parts, but could she pinpoint his accent as easy? His was a trained voice, one spent many hours in practice with a Master that could not hide his French accent if he tried. However, he was desperate to correct his apprentice's enough to make his words understandable and that brogue release from his voice.  "Maybe a bit of both, the day off spent wandering the streets like some common urchin keeps you entertained enough to follow a complete stranger down a dirty back alley." He shook his head and held out the basket for her to take, and soon in French started to mutter to himself at how foolish he was, wasting his time on a beautiful face who had no purpose in his life at all. He had not the time for it, never had; nor the desire. (d


Margot
"Oh, I am not so special.  They are bored.  They create stories about me for a lack of anything better to do."  Despite the freckles, she had a sort of agelessness that he lacked; she thought he would always look like a boy.  But maybe that was because she had a few years on him.  More than a few, if she was fair.  She took the basket back, gripping it in both hands.  In the gesture, her sleeves were pushed up for a moment, revealing two heavy bangles of silver, carved in some strange tongue.  But in the moment, they disappeared, the modest coverings of her sleeves dropping back in place.  "You must be a long way from home.  I hope someone has had mercy on you and showed you some of Aragon's treasures?  Beautiful places, delicious food?  If not, I apologize for our lack of hospitality."  He was intriguing.  Most people were for the woman, who did not encounter many in her travels.  She wondered where his accent was from, and what his first tongue was.  It was like nothing she had ever heard before.  Even Falco, from the border, had a distinctly French aftertaste to his flawless Spanish.  She wondered what his name was, and what he was doing here.  But wasn't that what the villagers here found intriguing about their Sancha?  "I think your curiosity got the better of you.  Or maybe you were waiting to meet me, all this time."  She laughed.  "Fates demanded our paths cross, if only to inspire more gossip."  She glanced upward, through the fine fabric of her veil, toward window that, until a moment ago, had been shuttered. *


Julian
He had a certain way he carried himself in his half maddened state that would soon have him moving from her. "It is not curiosity, but desperation. I would not feel so flattered." His was a wicked tongue that seemed to lose itself often, as he could be without manners far too often. He was blunt though not outspoken, Julian mostly offered his opinion when it was not needed, nor necessary, but it was never given freely. There had been many times he let his horrible manners get the better of him, but was it so far fetched to be shown this beauty she spoke of? By her? Any fool could fancy her beautiful, but Julian hardly had an appreciation for fine art.  He really was a lost cause when it came to the other sex, a mindless awkward man who studied in his books far too often to ever fancy himself time for dinner. Even now he felt guilty for being away so long when there were new estimates to be made. "I don't believe in fate, never have." Though he had plenty of reason. "Good day." With that the alley would return him to the surface. (d

[Julian Luke Monroe]

What need I fear of thee? But yet I'll make assurance double sure, and take a bond of fate; though shalt not live; That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder.

Julian:
Fate had been a fickle bytch, whose ideas of good humor were to keep them in the midst of a heavy storm. It had not rained once since his arrival upon the shores, but now it seemed God had its path to make up for such a dry period. It all fell at once, drops so heavy the sound seemed to echo once they hit the ground. For a moment there had been a thought of how glorious it would be to stop time and move from the path weaving through the rain drops so heavy he could gather them like stones in his hands. Fate had been a twisted lot as of late, and in this he found refuge in the idea that not all things should happen for a reason. However, that night when he went to bed his thoughts traveled back to that golden haired gossips pleasure, and he couldn't help fell the fate he had thought he didn't believe in. Sleep was disturbed, with wide eyes that could count every crack in the estate's old heritage home. Justin..my name is Justin. Her name was? He had not caught it, but somewhere in the middle of the night he had left to find it. Down the alley, where the buildings were so old that even the small patches of green seemed so natural; their struggle to survive in a city of stone. If he had been a poet he would have captured the way it made him feel easily, but poor use of letters made the man of numbers uneasy--awkward. Though standing now in the street he had left her, did not help his case at all. (d

Margot:
She should have left that night. She disliked being followed. She did not wish to be known. Yet she lingered, taking her tea late at night, the notes from an Aragonian lullaby floating up like the scent of gardenia on a hot evening breeze before the rain broke. The room she rented was little more than a hovel. The curtains were frayed -- she thought it romantic, the way they floated in an errant breeze. The stone chipped and cracked. The bed little more than cloth-covered straw ticking. She could get hot water from the fire burning downstairs, and the landlady let her be. She kept none of her possessions here save those she'd bought earlier, and had no fear of being robbed. She glanced at the door anyway, and pondered leaving at night. At least she would have a few hours of cool, dark solitude, even if it was a little wet. When she braided her hair, the full and thick waves of apricot feeling more like straw through her fingers as she did not feel like brushing the length of it, she felt the thick bangles of silver slide uncomfortably down her arms and sighed. She should hurry back. This town was not hers to enjoy. She had packages to deliver. But worry was not something she did well, and with a sigh, she decided if she wasn't going to sleep tonight, she could at least go downstairs and watch the rain falling. It was soothing to her, since it came so infrequently to these parts. Rain meant more green, and that was rarer still to her homeland. She pulled a loose gown over her head, allowing her thick braid to fall over her shoulder, and closed the door behind her on her way down the steps rubbed dangerously smooth with age. Yet before she stepped into the candlelight gleaming from the landlady's downstairs window, standing in the doorway where she was still more shadow than woman, she caught sight of that young man from earlier, and pulled back into the stone until she thought she might merge with it. What was he doing here? The answer was easy. He was looking for her. But why? *

Julian:
He stood unsheltered yet still somehow refined even as the course of the rain ran through the streets keeping well with the slow steady rhythm of his heart. When in doubt think Julian, but do not hesitate to simply act. All he could do was act as he felt himself no longer thinking, but standing there as if he could only show mercy in the motion of the moment. Perhaps he should simply kill her, it would crave his angered lust for blood as now all he could hear was the careless manner in which the guardians had laughed. For months he had been their project humbling the arrogant awkward nature of his style, and forcing him to believe himself a knight for the simple fact the coat of arms would broaden his shoulders; adding mass to where there was none. He felt him then, in the rain and the brisk motion of the wind could have been to blame but he saw her then--in the window. Forgive me, I am lost. He would knock on the door, feeling as if in that moment it were alive and simply begging to be open. Jean-Claude did not trust him, not fully, and here was the very reason. There was a sort of madness behind icy eyes that he could not explain, and a darkness there that seemed to devour his soul. Julian was a man mad, but his madness was at fault for many particular reasons. However, he would have never gone to a stranger's door in the midst of the night. Never.

Margot:
She caught his hand before he knocked, her fingers pretty, softer than one might imagine of her, but strong. The pressure of the silver bangle rested against his arm, warm with the heat of her body, though invisible beneath the long sleeve of her gown. "Come in out of the rain, but not indoors." The landlady was suspicious, and Margot would like to return to her bed. For a long moment, they stood in the alcove of the doorway while the rain streamed down over the eaves, and splashed into large pools forming in the old stone streets. "None have ever followed me here," she said softly, and very slowly, released his hand.

But Julian was not the only one who had been hunting. There was a splash down the street as a careful boot nonetheless slid from its cobble and into a puddle. Margot, who often seemed the picture of tranquility -- enough that the locals believed her a saint -- suddenly pulled her arm across Julian as if barring him from running out into the street to investigate. Likely he would have done no such thing, but she did not know him well. She peered past him into the darkness, and while she did not hear the arrow whiz past, she certainly heard the snap of a bow string, and ducked back into the alcove. A torch flared across the street, lit by a second pursuer, revealing nothing but his silhouette blurred by the falling rain. But if she could see him, there was no doubt he saw them. She took a measured breath, glanced at Julian, and wordlessly vanished into the door she had just told him not to enter. Clearly, she had changed her mind -- the door was wide open in her wake.

She pulled up her skirts in her hand, silver cuffs to match those around her wrists flashing with the landlady's firelight, and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time until she went through the door to her room. It was foolish to run through the back door into the alley. There would be more. Besides, her market supplies held a treasure she would not dare leave behind. She carefully lit a candle to see the small pile of brown-wrapped packages and flicked through them until she found a small bundle no larger than her two hands and no thicker than a deck of cards. She ripped open another package to reveal a nondescript satchel. Throwing the package into the bag, and the bag over her shoulder, she blew out the candle and rapidly crossed the room to the window. "If you stay, they will kill you. If they catch you, they will kill you. Maybe it is better if you do not run. Maybe they will be merciful. Follow if you wish, but there is no good choice." She wished she had kinder words, but she was already out the window, the rain blasting into her as she clung to the side of the building. Down below, there was a strangled scream as the men disposed of the landlady, the door banging open wide as they charged indoors.

Julian:
The water pooled over his flesh falling as if his skin had been made of stone that was the painted perfection of youth. He was a tall man, no longer a boy nor even in the title. Julian had turned a year older while in route upon the Spanish roads, but it had seemed an entire life did flash over the foreign countryside. Even he could hardly recognize the face before his reflection as his age set up well within his long jawline, and seeming carved features. The trails with the coat of arms had done just as the Guardian's had hoped, adding tone, and girth to a frame that had been without for so long. So much time had come and gone between then and now, that he felt his wish come true as suddenly the world seemed to stop. The sound of the footsteps, the shrill terrifying sound of the landlady's scream, and even the rain seemed to disappear as only left then was the sound of her voice.

"I do not run from anything." It was a truth that had lasted through the years, even living upon a dying farm he had not once thought of leaving by foot, and in this a small crack of his hardened stature seemed to deepen. His eyes slowly turned to the door as then the boots upon the stairs were counted. They were close. Did she not wish to fight?

In a single motion he turned to the door drawing back his overcoat to flank within each hand the smallest hilt that seemed to move without hesitation from finger to flesh, and all that was left of the man in the door the horrid sounds of blood gurgling in the back of his throat. Suddenly one set became two, until multiplied again it became four, and with that he could only wager there were more.

He did not believe in fate until this night.

"Who are they?" He asked when the rooftop came to meet their feet, and he moved to arm himself. For a poor foot soldier, his appearance has somewhere shifted as throwing knives, and the like started to make their surface while he armed himself. The quick release of a bow string had him reach out for her, pulling her against her will into a narrow space that the city seemed built upon. His back against the wall, the arrow came up short, but the direction of it had been far too close to be of the same men. A fire in his eyes that seemed cold, carried the same charade as the hottest flames always turned blue, "What do they want with you?"

Margot:
They went up. It was a slow and tedious process, or perhaps it only felt that way. The men inside were no amateurs. They moved with stealth and silence, and even in numbers, knew how to act without words, to pursue with hand signals, and regroup in a matter of moments. It was a very good thing, then, that even in skirts, Margot could haul herself onto the roof. Her skirt was in tatters, but as long as they did not tangle in her feet, she did not care. It all seemed so quiet now, she marveled, her breath coming out in a cloud of steam before the younger man. There was no time to waste on apologies or explanations. It was not time yet for those, but she had every intention to make them -- though he should know better than to chase mysterious ladies into the bowels of foreign cities.

"I am afraid you are going to have to run. It is no longer a matter of principle, but of saving your hide. Trust me. I know the way." Their niche was small, and quarters were tight. She pushed her way past him, but did not encounter much in the way of flesh. Whoever this young man was, he was not underfed, but he was also no mere stranger walking the marketplace. Full of surprises this young man with his austere, aristocratic features! She was considerably more fleshy, but had the height and good grace God and breeding had blessed her with to seem well proportioned. She peered past the edge of the wall, staring hard into the darkness. She pulled her head back at the creak of a bowstring drawing, and settled back against the alcove wall with a hand briefly to her chest. She took a deep breath, and immediately after the twang of the bow's release sounded, she bounded out of the alcove, hunched over and moving fast. She dropped over the edge of the roof.

It was not a long fall, but it jarred her knees. On wobbly legs, she nevertheless continued moving, racing across the rooftop and hoping the noise she heard behind her was the young man following. God grant him more cat-like skill than she, she thought with a wry smile as she bounded onto the next rooftop, and used her forward momentum to make it over the tiled apex, and down the other side. She nearly lost her footing a few times, but always seemed to right herself, out of fear or good reflexes or training, it was impossible to tell. She slowed her descent, sliding onto her bottom until she was nearly at a stop, then flipped herself over and grabbed the edge of the roof with her legs dangling in midair. It wasn't such a long drop onto the awning below, but her hands were slippery with water, her clothes sopping wet, and the thick braid of her hair weighed so heavily down her back, while flyaways were now plastered along her cheeks and forehead in a most unbecoming fashion.

She swung herself toward the building, her feet catching on the window below. Another swing, and she was able to draw her body down into the opening, avoiding the fall entirely by sneaking through the building and out into the alleyway. She crept along the hallways and down the stairs, lingering in the doorway to be certain the men had not swarmed the building in advance of the inevitable outcome of a rooftop chase: That what went up invariably must come down. "Are you here?" she whispered into the darkness behind her. "I am going to run."

Julian:
“It is always a matter of principle.” He nearly hissed while pulling away his coat, and taking this small break in their run to roll back his sleeves. In the years past knights always had their preparations for battle, but scholars? Julian would have been happy to be rid of his coat, the heavy leather a perfect protection from the rain, but he felt the wind fill it as he ran figuring it to slow the motion of his steps. “What if I am not the one who needs saved? What if they are after me? You would want to know.” There was an arrogance there that good breeding could have put in place, but he was a poor farmer’s son whose father suffered much of the same fate. Yet strangely he trusted her, but Julian had always been fond of the dance of devils. He welcomed death if she so wished to kill him he would gladly open his arms.

The chase continued over the rooftops, but with every little small motion of his hand there had been another sudden impending doom waiting for the strike of another’s heart, or the deep embedding within a neck. Julian was precise, limited only by the way the other moved. He could calculate the exact distance, multiply it by the mass and then divide it with the air space needed. It was a sickness really to see the world by ways of lines measured by numbers, and turned over the backs of his hands like a ruler—felt just the same. However, when the darkness closed in around them, and she whispered he wondered if she would be surprised to know he had not once fallen behind.“You will run where? Do you plan to keep this up all night? We can go to the King, my partners wait there for me. You will be safe.” He would only follow her so far, but he knew he was asking a lot of her. If she were cynical like he, there would be no question she would have left him on the street long ago, but there was also a feeling that somewhere down below she was tired of running. This woman was older then he, this much he could tell, but in the moment the stress lines outweighed her youth. He wanted to carry her, but was content to follow.

Margot:
She glanced at him, a small smile curling her lips. "I would want to know, indeed. But they are not after you." Her quiet confidence would be appalling to any other. But she did not think it would be in this man, who seemed to have a high tolerance for the absurd. No adventure-seeker was he, he seemed to have the aura of someone seeking his fate, demanding its intercession in his life. What, then, was his life like before he arrived in Aragon? Sympathy tinged her vision for a moment, but it vanished as her heart rate slowed, and her breathing normalized. He did not have a choice to run, but he could choose where to run. If he believed the court safe, so be it. It was the last place on this earth she would be found.

"I cannot. But if it is safe for you, go. I have a place." She had many, scattered across the region, and she would pick her way in the most circuitous route so as not to be followed. Margot was very, very good. There was a reason for her near anonymity in this town, and many like it. She could not even recall how many years had passed living in such a way, but whatever reason she had, it must be dire. She adjusted the strap of her bag. She seemed to think for a long moment, as long as they could dare in the silence, with the rain beating down. "I hope our paths cross again in more peaceful times."

Julian:
The miserable rain was never going to let up! He felt his heart leapt to his chest to only allow it to fall back when her words seemed set. "You can." He spoke out taking hold of her wrist before she could run. "At least tell me your name, and don't lie to me." He was asking a lot this much he knew, but if she would not come with him to the castle then where would she go? "You can't lie to me." Something eerie in his voice made it almost deadening dry, but so filled with the truth. He could twist words to his workings, but never could he convey emotions. He simply was not the sort. Julian would old them back to give her a heads start, and so easily would walk into death simply to see her return.

"I don't believe in fate." The confession came from his lips like a sudden escape into the night, and for what reason? He was awkward and strange; man enough to know when he was out of place. "I don't believe in God." It was as if there was the magic word to make the rain stop, God had been it. Running a hand through his hair then he felt himself grow weary, and took a deep breath. They were not far, but he was ready for the fight.

Margot:
With a cool twist of her arm, she removed her wrist from his grip. She had an aversion to being caught; there was no malice in the gesture. She wished to be free; it seemed as imperative to her nature as numbers were to his. "If you seek me by my real name, you will die. Your friends will not to be able to protect you. You will exhaust yourself fighting them, for they are endless in numbers." She did not add that they were also pure in intention, and quite possibly, right in pursuing her. But there was no telltale momentary pause as she found a name suitable to give him. She gave it to him as if entrusting him with even this much information could jeopardize her life, but she owed him as much. He had risked his own countless times simply chasing after this stranger on the rooftops of this town. "Margarida Arnoz Salvatierra."

She sighed momentarily, wishing to flee, but finding it difficult to loose him in this town with her name, and uncertain if they would meet again. She touched his cheek. "Then you should not try to find me, for you will almost certainly find yourself twisted in my fate. There is an entire world you deny yourself, scientist, by failing to believe in what you cannot justify in formulae." She pushed her hair out of her eyes and stepped back from him. They were coming, and she had already spent too much time lingering when she should be running. She could not stay. She could not afford a philosophical conversation with a stranger in a dangerous doorway, and so she turned suddenly and dashed out into the street, hugging the nearby wall until she had vanished into the darkness. Her safe house was beyond the town wall, and she would leave ample payment for the horse she would urge out of the stable while the owner slept on unaware.

[Julian Luke Monroe]

Margot:
The Ebro Depression marked a distinct change in geography in the land of Aragon. It was where the river Ebro cut through down from the Aneto, Perdido, the Perdiguero, and Cotiella -- the highest peaks of the Pyrenees. Rainfall was sparse in the Ebro, summers brutally hot, and winters astoundingly cold. Frost held the ground for most of the year. The Pyrenees, like a wall around the world, vast and daunting, seemed a welcome haven to the traveler making her wandering but sure path along the great waters of Spain's most dangerous rivers toward Catalonia.Yet her feet were confident, her trek calm. She knew where she was going, and seemed as much a part of this abject wilderness as the trees or rocks around her. Somewhere along the way, she had stolen a new gown. It was dirty, and was meant for a larger woman, but she'd also found rope and managed to make loops with the excess fabric, pulling the sides up to her knees, though her stolen boots still afforded her some modesty. In this rocky terrain, the 'liberated' horse followed on a lead line, content to be led while she picked her way along the pathway she had committed to memory many years ago. Though she never lost her awareness for her surroundings, she had plenty of time to think about those she had met on this excursion, entertaining a smile or two at the young man from the market's expense. She hoped they would meet again. It was a shame to loose such a cynic on this world.Nearly a fortnight after her dramatic escape, she realized she was being followed. Not without a few tears, she loosely hobbled her horse and set off on her own, taking nothing but the satchel and a few small items that could fit within without sacrificing speed. She moved fast. But they were faster still. She pressed on into the night, but by false dawn, knew they had caught up with her. Death seemed to ring a false note in such austere, beautiful territory, but at least it would be at her own hands as she crawled out over a promintory with the rapids roaring down below. She waited for them to find her, and with a weary smile, casually threw the satchel and all its contents into the river. And to her surprise, they did not kill her. Confused by their mercy, but not willing to make herself an easy prisoner, she had yet to recover by the time they dragged her into the Aragonese court, roped in behind a black-clad guard and her head lolling to the side as they rode directly past the guards and through the gates. *

Julian:
The entire walk back he had felt a weight in his chest to pull him under the current. He knew well that there was much more, and was no fool to think she possessed that name. Julian would not spend the next day searching, no..he would not spend even spend an hour looking over the faces of the crowds. No, Julian was far to proud to show any sort of flaw in his persona, but it was forced. She was all he could think about, and in turn all he could write about. He spent his day far from the rest while plot and intrigue stirred inside the court, he let Janice handle what she came here for. This was her destiny, was it not? Somewhere he had lost sight of his own. Take me with you..He had wanted to call out after the woman, and in that night he would have. The court was alive with the flutter of the beautiful Danielle, as she was the sun in all conversations while her brother the moon seemed to only raise only the most perfect brows. He spends too much time in the text, too quiet..to thin. Many had their opinion about him, but even he could hardly counter an argument. All day a Spanish squire kept himself entertained with the idle conversation of the scholar in mask. He would laugh with his outward opinion looking over the shoulder of the mathematician as if he could attempt to understand the words scribbled in search of a direction over the blank pages of his journal. The squire smelled of pig fat, and wet dog--Julian was simply green by the day's high heat. They were in the open courtyard, that kept away the outside world, and little to suffer came to pass, but oh how his heart ached. The fat man wouldn't be such a pest really if he would simply close his mouth when chewing or choke. Julian could imagine a greater day suddenly when the man came to gasp, and his icy eyes shot up in fear he had willed the man to do just that..It was not until through the hall they carried her did he notice from the outside break in the stone that golden hair. The fat man would laugh, pointing his chubby fingers at how they carried her making some rude comment of the binds that kept her, and shortly start to choke. Julian slowly closed his book putting the pen away, and started after them. (d

Margot:
Commoners did not walk these halls, but servants did. If the nobility had little memory for those who came and went in their own circles once their glamor had faded, servants rarely forgot their masters. Or former masters. Sunlight was making red splotches behind her eyes. The back of her head near her neck hurt, and when she moved, skin and hair pulled with matted blood and dirt. Though she was half-conscious, she felt utterly disgusting. She knew where she was by the smells, and wished very much to keep her eyes shut as they carried her through the court on display. The fools were going to get her killed. Perhaps this was their intention. Perhaps, perhaps. If only she'd had the entirety of their journey to ponder their motives, her mind would not feel like a mill grinding a stone into fine dust, turning in the same direction, yet producing nothing of substance. The court was perfume masking chyt; fine facades obscuring decrepit walls. Though the Moors had brought much in the way of technology and architecture to this land, it was forgotten among the Europeans who now controlled it once again. Moorish castles did not smell so ungodly ... potent. Her eyes flew open to see the rapidly approaching figure of a servant woman dressed head to toe in brown, her wimple brown, her gloves brown. She was holding a rock, but not for long. The stone went sailing, and pelted Margot in the shoulder. The guards in the fore immediately seized the woman, hauling her up nearly to Margot's nose, and then forcing the servant to the ground. Margot shook herself free of her escort, insisting on standing on her own two feet, as shaky as they were, to hear the woman sneer:

Widow:
"I am Francesca, wife of Domingo Caruallo. You do not remember him, I see this. It is written on your face. But I now work as a slave because I have nowhere else to go. You murderous bytch. Where am I to go, with my husband dead? I am not the only woman from Villena. And this is not the only stone in Spain."

Margot held her hands out for the guards, but the men held still. Was she or was she not a prisoner? She took a slow look around the corridor where it seemed the entire court had come to stop, some leaning in to whisper, some with expressions clearly reading a spark of the memory, the recollection of a crime beyond horror, and the whispers of catching madness in the disputed Leonese town. Margot swallowed quietly. Perhaps she was to stand trial, and this was why she was here. Why they had not killed her. Without a word to the servant, Margot stepped past her, and the guards fell in order around her, leaving the woman prostrate on the floor, now issuing a long, keening, and utterly disarming wail that seemed to haunt every stone of this accursed place. *

Julian:
Gossip had been a key subject to a spy's eyes, the very sound of it music to the ears of those so trained to pick out single words like keys to fancy locks. He could hear them in the subject of the castle, how she had killed husbands? Stones were thrown through invisible glass that could shatter the soul, but seemed to not once move her. The blood..he should have followed. He could have. His eyes darted to the Guardians who had come to stand on the other side of the small crowd watching as Julian moved around the outward ring, knowing full and well that look. He would put the entire assignment at risk for this? He had been warned once, forced to wear the heavy coat of arms the entire trip, but once more..Jean-Claude would get a body back void of any life. He listened then, alive in the words that spilled out around him about this mystery woman. He had wanted only her name once, and now? It seemed with the mouths of gossips he could figure their sanity for her own; the entire story of her life was there if he could pick out the right words no? His role here was to aid Janice, but even she would not have put up with this. She would not stand to watch as the public stones took flight. The Guardian then curled his fingers around the hilt of the sword as he watched Monroe break through the crowd, where the well trained eyes could see very much that even the shadows had their key moments. Julian, held the sort of frame that was impossible to miss, though did not demand the respect that Jean-Claude's did. He dressed in average attire, that was by every means simple yet detailed stitching put it a class above the rest. Had they brought her here just to humiliate her? She was bleeding, and he was not faint. Perhaps, this fate business was a bit more real. (d

Margot:
A servant rushed in to gather Francesca, hauling her to her feet and attempting to pull her back into the crowd. There was anonymity there, and safety among the numbers who had not protested the stone throwing. But other stories began to emerge: Of the five -- no eight! -- no, a hundred! -- men who were killed in Villena, including the Marqués de Villena. They spoke of headless bodies, of limbs strewn down the road leading to the fortress, of vultures circling in the blue sky. The Marqués de Villena's sons were imprisoned, the town emptied, the fear of madness run so rampant, none would venture to the last Moorish stronghold in Leon.Some stories were whispered in awe, with a sick admiration for the devil who had walked smeared in her husband's blood into the mountains. Some were told in horror. Some in the stark tones of grief, mentioning names of loved ones slaughtered or disappeared in Villena. Some mentioned the Marqués de Villena's sons in conspiratorial tones, as if they plotted some witchcraft from the heights of the loneliest tower, villains in a romantic tale half-forgotten in all the years that had passed since Villena's tragic end. Margot's name was mentioned. Margarida -- none used the pet name her husband had called her. Her people had once, too. Marja. She missed the way he'd said it. With her eyes half-closed as she walked, unwilling to stop and listen to the horror of the past, she felt rather than saw the passage of a shadow before her path, combing the outside of the gathering crowd. Nobility and commoner alike, united in hating the Marquesa de Villena, who had once been a courtesan worthy of poetry and song, who had captured the heart of the Marqués, and had eaten it for dinner. They meant to shame her, these guards. It was working. "Lead me from here. Unless you wish my death. It is a lot of effort wasted," she added as they failed to move, her eyes slowly but ever so surely returning to Julian. Then they turned forward, and remained there for the duration of their trip to a secure location far from the gathering crowds, and far from any potential routes of escape. *

Julian:
He could do nothing, as the heavy hand of the Guardian came down upon his shoulder though the weight of it felt like nothing as it all sank in. This land..this land was burning with blood, stained and soaked; nearly barbaric in the its own way. First Falco, and now this? His heart raced in his chest, but the sort where he could almost feel the cold hands of the devil squeeze around the vessel, if he believed in any such thing of course. He would make no motion to get to her, and would be pulled back by the men sworn to keep him safe; or sworn to the success of their mission. A week had passed before he realized it, but the party he was with soon became weary of how deeply he sank into a depression. They stopped with their jokes, their little jests and teasing of the record keeper until suddenly worry drew lines together as they watched him. He was torn between what was right and wrong, and was forced to believe in this court. However, Julian never believed in anything in his life why would he start now? 'What has gotten into you?' They asked, finally when he refused to eat, like some child watching the tower from his window, and the one man would nudge another. 'He's got a crush.' "I do not." He pressed from the stone to give the men a dry nearly dead look, and moved from their rooms. 'Leave it to Monroe to crush on some woman who I heard gave head to a mob..or beheaded a slob. You never can tell with gossip.' Idiots. (d

Margot:
It was decidedly less grim in the tower than it was on the ground, she rapidly discovered. Though her keepers were not terribly forthcoming, she was told they believed her innocent of the crimes rumor held her accused. She sank on the bed hearing that, holding her hands on the edge and keeping her head raised, unwilling to admit she had been terrified, but equally unwilling to have hope this would end well for her. There must be another reason she had been marched through the court without given the chance to dress herself properly, without a proper announcement, and without an appearance by any with authority to clear her name. For now, hearing that someone thought her innocent was enough, but just barely. The Church interviewed her nearly every day, sending in an absurdly young priest to take her confession. She was under no doubts what his true intention was, and if he thought her pleasant demeanor a facade for the monster lurking beneath the surface, it was his choice. She did not care what he said to his superior. She did not think she was guilty. A deep breath, and she would carefully clutch the cross hanging around her neck for strength -- revealing the silver cuffs on her wrist in a gown with sleeves far too short.Finally, she was allowed the comforts of her station. A couturier was allowed entry, and Margot gladly stood for new measurements. The gowns arrived shortly after, along with a host of gloves, veils, and new shoes. And very late at night, she was allowed to walk the gardens the Moors left in their wake, and the Spaniards had not the heart to cut down. If any knew of this little freedom, the gossip was slow to trickle through the court. She enjoyed more than a few evenings walking in solitude, covered by her veil, but grateful for the moonlight and the stars overhead. *

Julian:
Everything of this land seemed to be one dream after another and Monroe found himself wishing to wake at any moment. It was in the gardens did he think of home the most, pondering if Ada ever got those vines going up her fence, or if the Lady Harper trimmed the roses back from the fast growth in the thick summer months. However, it had been in the halls he wandered the most, wishing to ease away the homesick feeling. He clung to French like a child to their mother, but brooded even in the English they spoke to him. He wanted to learn Spanish, no matter how much he fought it. He was the miserable sort that for a moment had lost themselves in the chase, but now even as he finally made way to the gardens fate would have him under the pale moon light drawing a map with red ink to represent blood across pages that were filled with symbols he had no place for. However, the numbers he saw even when his eyes did close turned up now with horns upside down stars and beasts that had no place in any imagination. The night had found him still in a matter simple attire where the white collar of his shirt stood, and the cuffs rolled back. Armed still, the thin leather straps held well the small throwing daggers as they went over his shoulders. He came up behind her then, that sort of manner that made him appear arrogant and without shame he closed his book rather loudly. (d

Margot:
She didn't have much by way of weapons in her tower, but that was not to say something could not be modified to suit her ends if the mob overran her sanctuary. She held a broken perfume bottle by its bulbous end, the broken neck at a dangerous and jagged point. Her free hand was clenched in a fist beside her jaw, while her feet naturally fell into a far more athletic stance than most ladies ever required to learn. But almost as soon as she sank into the comfortable form, she recognized him and threw the bottle aside. "I hoped we would meet again," she whispered, pulling him into an embrace, though she forgot to uncurl the fingers of the hand near her jaw, and she met him awkwardly. It was an ungentle reminder that ladies did not embrace in public, even in the middle of the night. She picked up the perfume bottle and slid it back into her pocket, putting slight distance between them as she looked him up and down, and finally settled on his book. "Is that not hard to read at night?" she queried, as if she did not stand accused of killing the men of Villena and eating her husband's heart. It was an effort to sound casual. She wanted to talk about anything but Villena. She desperately wanted to be back in that town in Aragon again. She could start over, choose a different road, follow another river into Catalan and safety. She wouldn't have thrown the book into the river. She could be sleeping in her own bed. *

Julian:
"I had not expected to ever see you again, and now?" He scoffed keeping the book out of her reach, "Now. You are all they talk about." No matter how much he wanted them to stop, not feeling right in the world when he felt protective. He was appalled that she held him? Perhaps a bit more shocked, but he stood solid in her embrace. He didn't think her unworthy, but none truly understood how awkward this son of Skye truly was. "Its not very becoming of you to be subject to such gossip." He spoke as if reciting a verse from the scripture that was in fact his Master's rules. Though as he started his steps further on the path he looked over his shoulder at her, "Means you've gotten sloppy." He turned to face her then, before running a hand through his hair keeping it back from his face while he took a deep breath. It brought him to the bench as he needed to sit, feeling as though his body was made of stone then, he could have been at the mercy of her hands then if she touched him one more time. "How do I get you out of here?" He asked her seeming to have thought every way over upon her escape, but coming up short. He had friends in high places, but this woman? She had enemies in even darker it appeared. (d

Margot:
"I used to have quite a flair for avoiding gossip." If any should profit from rumor and hearsay, it was a courtesan. Except Margot had been quite content to arrive at court, involve herself in a whirlwind romance, and just as suddenly, leave court for Villena. The controversial town sat on the crux of relations between kingdoms, and before the slaughter, had enjoyed autonomy bestowed upon it by the king. Her husband's family had profited greatly from its position as a major crossroads for the region. She looked away from the young man for a moment, contemplating his question, though it was difficult to not think of escape when she was so surrounded by temptations to do just that. "I should find out why I am here first. Even if I go free, everyone knows I am alive. I may not stay that way." A public stoning by enraged widows of Villena was a definite possibility. It made her shudder. "The Church, I think, believes me innocent. As does the king. But I worry there has been no announcement. I worry why I am here, if it is not to answer for my supposed crimes." She folded her arms, wrapping her hands around her upper arms as if for warmth, but seemingly speaking into the lovely green of the garden, rather than to Julian. "I know how to escape. But it may make Villena look like child's play. Can you stay here? I feel better. Knowing I have a friend." *

Julian:
It was hard to find the right words, feeling as though there had been such an ache to make her stay. He had wanted to see her again too, hell he would have followed her that night. "I'm not going anywhere, not until we're finished here." Though it was starting to come to an end, "And then I will return to England, where I am from." It pained him to lie to her, but lie he must. Perhaps she would understand, "I have ties in France, England, and Scotland..do you think me unable?" To protect her? To help her? To let her seal her fate. "I don't believe in this." He closed his eyes, running his fingers through his scalp while letting his head remain in his hands, "You fog things up. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't even focus on my assignment without worry of you." He sat back once again, "It is not a welcome feeling. I do not know how to explain it, other then you are some figment of my imagination." Would not be the first. "How am I to help you if I don't know what I am going against? It is not every day the courts chase someone as far as they did you, or fire arrows not meant to kill." He kept his dry tone though somewhere inside it seemed to break enough to have some sort of feeling. "I do not see this as a punishable crime, a widows word against your own." The Church. When did the Church believe anything, "We give the Church too much power even if this once they could be all that saves you." He put his arms back on the back of the stone bench to regard her lightly. She was so beautiful. (d

Margot:
She turned to him then and smiled briefly, humorlessly. "A widow? One? Twenty-five men were killed that night. My husband among them. Their deaths were terrible deaths, but their only mercy was it was quick. Except for my husband's. I do not think the widow's word damning. Neither does anyone else with common sense. One woman against twenty-five trained soldiers and guards?" There was an unevenness to her tone, as if she wasn't certain if she doubted herself, but she might. "I did not kill my husband. I would remember that. I did not kill him." She reached into her pocket and slowly rotated the perfume bottle, something to keep her fingers occupied. The glass hit the metal cuff, and she retreated her hand as if she'd cut herself at the unexpected noise. But then she folded her hands behind her back, lacing her fingers together and regarding him in turn. Maybe she was mad. What did madness look like, anyway? Did it come in the form of an angel with apricot hair and incongruously dark eyes? Who fluidly switched accents and languages, who fought better than most men, but was most assuredly incapable of taking on a small army on her own. She knew she had her discrepencies, but so did he. What was he doing here? What, even, was his name? Yet she genuinely believed him a friend, and apparently had little qualms with trusting him. Who knew what advantage another might take of this situation? She cleared her throat quietly. "Those arrows meant to kill. You do not shoot in the dark at a moving target intending to injure. It is too difficult to judge. I wonder how many ... " she pressed her lips together for a moment, caught up in thought. "Maybe the right people found me. Maybe I am being kept safe here." *


Julian:
He was a cynical man, one whose outlook on life had been jaded by a dry sense of humor, but when she made the comment of how many were dead all he could think of was that there were so few that stayed married anymore. He doubted there were 25 widows last night, but in tern could only think of one now he cared about; strange enough he cared about that one. She was old enough to be a widow, but he could not fathom her old enough to be a mother. The question never got asked, but he did wonder through if perhaps there were others on the outside. What if that was the package she was after? What was she doing in the markets when people wanted her so badly? Where did she get the money? "I'm sorry to hear of the loss, many lives were destroyed that day, but with what reason?" He knew that she perhaps wished to speak of something else, but in the moment it was all he could think about; other then the primal urge to be close once more. However, Julian was far too occupied with what was to come, and frankly wouldn't even know where to begin. "Maybe the wrong people found you, but put you in the right place." Already his eyes started to scan the walls, having given them a once over, but checking now for watchmen. He remained quiet for the moment moving his eyes to go over the woman once more, "Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?" He stood realizing he had lost his manners, "They have clothed you, but have they fed you?"

Margot:
"They treat me as if I am a queen," Margot said truthfully, sitting down beside him on the bench but folding her hands in her lap. She might sit properly at any other time, but tonight, her shoulders were rounded and she seemed to stare at her hands, though it was difficult to tell between the tricks the moonlight played and the fabric of her veil. "I have eaten better than I have in years. I have a full suite of rooms in the tower. One servant, but it seems she is all they can permit. I was injured a bit when they came upon me. I thought they meant to kill me and I fought." She smiled then, and eased back, straightening her shoulders. "But the wound received care when I was in my rooms at last. I cannot complain."

The title of Villena was often the queen mother's, as the powerful seat had and would continue to give princes and princesses to the royal family. She had wealth. Even if they meant her harm, she could afford decent terms of imprisonment. They would not keep her as a pauper, no matter her crimes. It was extraordinary, though, how accommodating they seemed for her every whim but freedom. "I do not know the reason for the slaughter. I keep coming back to it, wondering who had a part in it. I remember nothing. I was ill that month, some terrible sickness that kept me in bed. But my fever broke that night, and I was desperate for water. I wondered why the servants were not coming when I rang, and so I walked along the corridors. They were strewn about in the hall, blood running across the floor. My husband was not found until several days later. By that time, I was already in the mountains. The guards with me said it was for my safety. They did not know if Villena was under siege, if they might come back for me. They took the boys to another location, and did not tell me where, only that we would meet again at the right time. I did not trust them, and ran when I had the opportunity. You can imagine how all this began to look to a court with nothing better to gossip about."

A pair of shadows entered the garden and bowed properly. "My lady," they said in matching low voices, and turned toward one another to indicate she should precede them through the gate and back toward the tower. Margot briefly rested her hand on Julian's thigh. It was all right. One more night in a comfortable bed would be just as risky as climbing that wall. She rose to her feet, and elegantly swept out of the garden, the two men folding in behind her.

Julian:
He wanted so badly to ask her of her hands, the sound of the silver against the glass had seemed as if a calling. The way the noise moved over the open air like waves upon the sand it had almost been intoxicating. He wanted to ask, but was reminded of Jean-Claude's laughter when he was a small boy, how he had asked far too many questions and wore the old scientist thin. "Boys?..Sons?" It was a tale of tragedy that he kept close to his heart, writing the story of her life in the book beneath his hands; Julian would use her vague answers, and dark eyes to fill the spaces between her story. On this night he would write home, and in it tell the story of a Queen locked away in her tower. It gave his days meaning here, as the conflicts with the Lady of Letters left him far too alone, but he knew Jean-Claude would be interested. Julian longed to be home.

With a heavy sigh he watched her retreat again this time against her will into the shadow, and opened the journal once more to paint her story with words this time; he had little need for sketches.

I have never felt as though Heaven could exist, the need for religion in one's life could have many benefits, but I have never found it in my own. Yet, she speaks to me as if through another body, one that connects the sea and stars, and with every answer I feel as though I am further from the truth. Tonight she wore a veil, and with this I wondered through every option as to why, but learn of possible children? Soon I will wake up and realize this mystery is simply a distraction from my will to work, but I can not get past this ache I feel every time I watch her walk away. I know now that my time is short, and that Spain will soon be a distant memory. But I now look forward to recalling my time here, but fear I have spent too much time as it is.

[Julian Luke Monroe]

And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad.
These dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take.
When people run in circles, its a very very..

Mad World, Mad World.

Julian
Julian would have sworn it to be a different sun, living in the light as though it were night with the days rolling into weeks. Time had come to stand still though he watched each day suffer the next with the unbreakable feeling of fate—or was it faith? He had never been so fashioned in religions that had little answers, but simply to believe. There was little explanation around the body of Christ, or how the world came to be. What force did move mountains in a single day? He knew of none. Yet how was it the world around him invisible to the naked eye could be calculated in physics unknown, where time and space that could not be held could be measured? In distance and space there was an equations that came with crazed thoughts as lines covered his eyes, and flashed in the visible corners of every room. Jean-Claude had been the only one to every understand, and sometimes the youth thought for a moment when the old crow had that distant look in his eyes that he could see them too.

Spain had seen its fair share of darker weather, where the rains seemed to cry out from the mountains in sorrow for the catching of a beloved daughter, but even in this Julian could not help feeling some sort of dread for the very truth something even darker was coming. It had been one morning when the sun did rise over the rooftops of the great cathedral did he see fire in the glowing orb. For a brief moment the sun had seemed to explode and with it the ground shook until it split; fires rising up like deadly fingers reaching for life. The court had been silent until now, enjoying their morning prayer until Sir Cunningham stumbled back from his vision and turned upon the marble floor a silver platter that sounded out as if the room had been endless; the echo seeming to escape on forever. The sound reminded him of her brass laughter, but in it as well the steely hot demon that seemed to constantly haunt his dreams.

The court admired him, just as they admired the Lady Danielle, but with so many widows now Julian captivated them all with his quiet demeanor. He seemed of wealth, of good breeding, and proper manners though behind broken glass they would be shocked at the devil beneath. It was the hand of the Lady Garcia who put her hand over his that clung then to the table’s edge half out of madness, and the other for pure embarrassment as all their eyes had turned upon him in judging manner. The cool calm collection pulled over him, with the small break in the realization of what just happened, and he forced a thankful pull of his lips. Her Spanish words were missed as she touched his back, before moving to aid him in picking up the tray as he spoke a very low apology. The apple was hot, from the fruit that had fallen—forbidden—as it had always been upon the Garden of Eden, but now he could simply not mistake the meaning. This is a trick, and nothing more. He pulled himself from his thoughts; shaking free of the Spanish widow long enough to ask her only to give word to the Lady Danielle he had gone outside—Janice shouldn’t be surprised, by now they were all accustomed to his disappearances. Julian spent most of his nights combing the streets, on an assignment of his own.

“Since therefore the children share in flesh and blood, he himself likewise partook of the same things, that through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil…” The priest spoke out a verse that seemed more intimidating in Spanish, but it was then his heart did pull a flutter that had started the very first time he saw her. In this he had felt his heart betrayed him, but more so he simply did not understand. The Young Master Monroe took his seat within the nearly vacant seats of the morning mass, never before in his life needing of the shelter of fate, but he felt it consume him. However, he walked on the edge of death having tried once to find it for the pure rush of feeling alive.


Arno Falco
Arno Falco.  It was not a name without meaning, not to the man who now bore it.  His mother would shudder at the thought of him taking such a name, but his father -- well, his father had always been more practical, thus giving his first son the name Erart, rather than the more traditional and betimes damning Benjamin.  That life, too, was a long time behind him, though he had more than one occasion to ponder the life that might have been his, and denied him, before he was even capable of taking his first steps.  He tended to have more time to reflect on his parents' decisions while in the house of another religion, rising with the scattered others of morning Mass and kneeling when bid.  These Masses tended to be bursting at the seams, given the Church's program to inspire outlandish displays of loyalty out of fear of torture and hideous death, so it was at once peaceful and disquieting that there were so few this morning.

He believed in life, in the choices people made, that some were genuinely good while others inherently self-interested.  He had seen miracles in his former apprentice, but he had also seen the failings of the God his parents prayed to.  He believed in what his hands were capable of hewing, in the knowledge he had gained and practiced from his little shop in Paris, in both the good and poor choices he had made.  Adelaide, whatever had become of her in the life she now led, was happier in ignorance.  It was disappointing.  He had trained her better than that.  He looked out over the church as they were seated once again.  The boy was here.  He was distracted.  Benoit knew that look, since it so often found his own countenance during services.  Boredom, a desire to be anywhere but here, while the mind churned onward demanding to know which path to explore next.  Julian was no Margot, and for damned certain, he was no Ada, but Benoit was convinced the lad might find a great deal to learn if he simply followed where the scattered pages led to his aerie in Lerida.

He waited for Julian to leave with the others, filing out of the doors and into the strengthening light of the sun.  He fell into step behind the boy, his own short-cropped silvery hair lighting up like a second sun once they hit daylight.  "The reading was most interesting this morning.  What did you take from it, young man?" he asked genially.


Julian Monroe
In all the world there had not been a heaven that seemed as wild in that moment past eyes the color of ice; pale in their reflection winter could have breathed her cold breath there in the parting of his lips that lit his eyes with his laughter. Surely he did not mock this man, but perhaps it was fate that perched this old crow over his shoulder.

“Funny how it was about the devil, the rise and fall of sin, to partake in celebration and to know when to watch out for ole’ Satan himself.” Julian kept walking in idle conversation, having lost any ounce of respect for this old beggar. Of what game did he play at this time? What name would this crazed loon forge over papers that were never his to write? Yet no such question dare cross his eyes, instead he looked even duller then before, with eyes unchanging as they moved on further down the path.

Truth was a well-developed lie that could simply not be wrong, and this much he knew with each passing face could have said so. He was only lying to himself until it was real. Julian didn’t know any other way, but even his curiosity no matter how well he tried to hide it was plucked like that damn apple from the Garden of Eden.

“And you?”

He turned a look over the man, giving away his apprehensive state enough that he could not mask how much he wished to know this man. However, like a cloud passing over the sun he closed right back up pulling down that frozen exterior like an axe against the back of his neck,

“Come to lie about me once more? Worry my poor sick Master into desperation that he sends..her.” Julian would replay the last comment finding it hard to recall, and even now he could not help wonder what in the hell Jean-Claude had been thinking, sending Ada! Bah! His face flushed with the thought, of anger and embarrassment until he threw up a hand to wave the man off.


Arno Falco
"Hm," the old Master said, the note of amusement difficult to miss.  Today he was dressed as finely as any middling courtier, indistinguishable from the rest of his supposed peers.  The craftsmanship of his surcoat was impeccable, and the sword draped from his belt was purely ornamental.  One wondered if he stole the costume or made it himself.  He certainly had the time to craft such things in his lonely aerie.  The deep blue might have been a vanity; how easily it complimented his skin, how it set his silver-white hair ablaze.  If Benoit was a man given to vanities, the theory might hold, but he was not.  Not really.  "The child does not believe particularly in the miracles of the Mighty, but I suspect he sees the devil's work in common motives.  Atypical for a scientist, to subscribe supernatural explanations to the purely natural, and a tragedy."

"I have not lied to your master.  You're in some danger associating yourself with me.  Not here, of course, dear boy," he added at a murmur, sounding distracted.  His eyes were on the tower, if momentarily betraying where his own thoughts went.  "There is a war on.  You'll not find many swords drawn or cannon shot, but many have died before, and many more will die 'ere the war is finished.  You wade into it blindly.  Your master sending Adelaide was not -- " his eyes rested then on Julian, flickering with interest, "a poor decision.  I would never harm her."

He wondered if the boy had been entertaining irreligious thoughts during the service.  Likely.  Benoit was rather surprised at how the suspicion upset him, but as Julian waved him off, he pressed a firm cylinder of paper into the lad's palm.  "They will take her to France, I suspect.  I doubt you will see her alive again if they succeed.  Yet if she fights them, they are likely to burn her for a witch -- even well deserved, it is unseemly to strike a man of the cloth.  Even," his face held only darkness now, not a shred of his usual bemused expression remaining, "pretenders in the cloth.  She will fight, though, if they attempt to unbind her."  And she would burn.  Benoit himself had been too close to the fires to ever make light of Margot's situation.  "It would take a talented smith to undo those cuffs.  And they would be reliant upon all devoted Christians sequestered at Mass to move her."

Benoit was already melting into the crowd.  Even before Julian's very eyes, Benoit had become little more than shadow, a faceless member of the elite moving toward villas and cooler rooms in the palace.  The note, for as thickly as it was rolled, held very simple instructions: Take her to Lerida.  She will know the way from there.