4 - Azal

       My lashes brush delicately against each other, creating a delicate lace through which I view my surroundings. I do not blink, nor yet open my eyes, but let them linger upon the intricate overlay of black against the blurry shapes of warm colors beyond. The room is dim, for the lamplight is low, and the walls and furnishings are hidden beneath swathes of gauzy fabric. It is impossible to tell where the boundaries of one thing begin and another end, for all is awash in clouded color and heavy perfumes, wrapped in the eerie harmonies of Indian strings. There is warmth all around me, the press of heated flesh and cushion of silken pillows. Not flames, but embers, warm coals and deep vermilion sensations.
       Two women lift heavy-lidded gazes to my face, and I do not recognize them, though their naked curves lay mounded around me. They turn mahogany cheeks to the side, and kiss, dark lips meeting lazily. Their long lashes brush, and how would the world look then? Seen not only through the interlacing of one's own eyelashes, but through one's own and those of another? So many, many years, and I have never wondered this before. I breathe in, slow and deep, watching the women in hazy concentration, but they soon move away, crawling toward a flame hotter than my now dormant one. Meres... he welcomes them with open lips, but all else is soon hidden behind curtains of cerise and gold. I let my head fall back, again pondering the lace before my eyes. Each breath is filled with spice, the incense of foreign lands I know so well. Exotic, it is always called, but it is far from that for me. I have called so many lands... no, I have called no land home, though I have lived in them all, in the warmest and coldest climes, in the flooded plains that lie below the sea's edge, upon the highest peaks that pierce the clouds.
       But it is all the same... I have been in this place a hundred times. Turning my head, I see the golden head of a serpent within reach. Long fingers – I suppose they are my own – stretch toward it, and I put the warm metal to my lips, filling my lungs, filling my veins anew. I am filled with the smoke of the room, filled with the warm clouds that haze my eyes and soften my thoughts. Time... time means nothing, and location means even less. I should long ago have retired to my own residence, for I suppose it has been days since the party of roses held in Luce's gardens. Yet his rooms are as well-appointed as my own, and these, at least, afford some small degree of novelty, for the fabrics and furnishings and women and incense were chosen by eyes and fingers other than my own. I have not seen Luce for... for some length of time, it does not matter. When the sunset of rose dresses melted away into darkness, I retired here to the unfading burnished warmth of silk and hidden faces, velvet and spice. It is always sunset here, always sunset and never dark, the hazy hours melting one into the next.
       Limbs move, and these are not mine, but those of a boy, a young man with dark curls which fall over his unfocused eyes. His shirt has gone, and his tie is wrapped around not his neck but his wrists. He stares at them a long moment, bewildered, then slowly rolls and unrolls the black silk, the fabric falling shimmering against his olive skin as it falls against his lean arms, his long fingers, his delicate wrists. A low chuckle – mine, I suppose – and I lean forward, my teeth bared to nip lightly at his wrist. In a slowness of motion that would be agonizing in any time and place but this, I pull the silk free of his hands, which he runs through my long, long hair. He tilts his head to one side, studying the fall of the strands through his fingers, gliding like water over warm sand.
       A finger trails languidly over his side, and I do not believe it is mine, for he turns his head again and falls onto his back, rolling slowly to meet the long pale frame of another. Is it... it is Veri, though I have not seen him in such a room for a long time. Though the languid pace of the place suits him, he tires so easily, and grows weary so soon, he finds little enjoyment in such surroundings. Even now, as I gaze curiously at him, he does not seem to feel the pleasure shared by all around him. His fingers trail delicate patterns on the boy's naked back, but his eyes are lost in the curtains which hide the direction in which I saw Meres disappear. His lips are pressed thin, and his body seems so weak, so spent... The boy slowly realizes this, and starts to move away, but Veri's fingers instantly vice around the boy's throat.
       “Stay.”
       The command is low, more felt than heard, but the boy obeys casually, turning his attentions back to Veri, who lies still in a dressing gown of palest green. I move silently over the cushions, a smile teasing the corner of my lips as I press them to Veri's cheek. His skin is yet so cold, even in a place warm as this.
       “My dear Veri... have you been here all this time?”
       He only sighs tiredly in response, letting his lashes fall closed, black lace on ivory skin.
       “I am quite sorry I did not find you sooner... It has been so long since I have seen you anything but weary, yet I am sure you felt some hint of vigor, when you first entered Luce's little den?”
       “I... thought that I did, I suppose. I felt so constrained in my own thoughts, that I felt I simply must move, and be surrounded in movement, and this seemed... it seemed a good choice at the time.” His eyes flicker up toward Meres' unseen form, and quickly move back to the boy, who is a safer destination for his tortured gaze. It is so clear to me that he came here only in search of Meres, and equally clear that he would strike out at anyone who acknowledged this. Poor, weak Veri. The body is such an easy thing to please! I am utterly at a loss as to how he can fail to manage his.
       “Here, boy... remove his dressing gown, please. Veri, you can be so much more at ease here, simply let yourself soak into the surroundings... It takes no effort at all on your part, you need not move nor say a word. All is here, for the... not even for the taking, but merely for the accepting, for all is offered as a pleasant gift.”
       He only sighs, turning his head to the side, seeming to ignore the ministrations of the boy – who it seems I need not direct, as his pomegranate lips and tapered fingers travel the snowy silk of Veri's body. But I see his lashes part, in the slightest motion, and were I another inch distant I would not see that his eyes were open, gazing toward Meres.
       “Why do you torment yourself so?” I murmur softly, as I reach for the lacquered bamboo and golden serpent head, lifting the lamp with which to heat the vapors, cradling it in one hand as I hold the pipe in the other, close to Veri. “You let your body be bound and held captive by emotions which have no purpose. Feel only pleasure, seek only beauty, for it can cover all pain.” I guide the pipe toward his thin lips, parting them with a fingertip. He does not move, but only breathes in, and after a moment I see his muscles relax, sinking deeper into the silken cushions. “There now... is that not an improvement? I teach you nothing new, only remind you of what your body recalls. Simply breathe, I will encourage the boy for you, you need only lie still and breathe the warm air, my dear Veri...”
       I watch the two for some minutes, and Veri soon breathes again from the pipe in my hands. I can see the gentle clouds filling his gaze, and after another warm breath for myself, I set the lamp aside. I rest back upon cushions, and a delicate girl with almond eyes slips into my arms, kissing up one arm to my shoulder, from my shoulder up my neck, up to my jaw. I draw her close to me, watching the golden light slide across her ivory skin, her ivory skin against my tanned (though still somehow pallid) skin, the colors hazed over with golden clouds...
       I hear a cry, and know the voice to be that of Meres. I glance over at Veri – but he is beyond hearing the sound, lost in the boy and the opium dreams, his lips parted in deep gasps of pleasure. Meres makes no sound of pleasure, but one of pain, of heart-wrenching agony, and I smile wryly. It is little wonder that he and Veri should be so close, in these late, darkened days, for they suffer the same afflictions. Emotion ought master none of us, only enrich the senses. Feelings, physical or emotional, are only feelings, and the pang of loss should be no more to us than the acrid tang of dry wine, the yearning of sympathy no more than the spice caught in rose petals. The world and its contents mean nothing, all passes away in the vast expanse of time. Why worry about the details of one's surroundings? It is all meaningless, and will be forgotten by all others, and the others shall die, and only we will remain. There is little sense in concerning ourselves with the pleasures of others, when the only things we can be certain of are ourselves, and the only pleasures we can know are those we ourselves experience. Meres and Veri, they torment themselves to no purpose. I shall have no part of it. I arch my back, the girl's knees clinging to my hips, and groan loudly as pleasure courses through me. This is all that matters... all else shall pass away.

3 - Veri

       I sigh heavily, passing a hand over my brow - it feels hot, though my body is chilled. "I grow tired, child. I do not wish to talk longer."
       He remains a moment unmoving - hoping I will yet say something further, the tiresome thing. I close my eyes and settle deeper into the chaise lounge, turning my head away from him.
       After a minute or so of prolonged silence, I hear him rise. I feel the feather brush of his lips on my feverish forehead, and he murmurs some nonsense about a hope that I shall "feel better soon". As if this illness should fall so easily from me! It has plagued me beyond a thousand years, no pithy wishes of a mere human child should cast it from me.
       The room is silent, and I sense that I am now quite alone. I gingerly turn over to lie on my stomach - my back is wracked with pain, but it is so undignified to lie face-down in public. It is too awkward to speak or make eye contact in such a position. (And there is something that leaves me feeling nervous, keeping my back to everyone in such a way...) Not that I had really desired to be at all sociable, but it was expected... really, I should have found a private room, instead of reclining in the library.
       But there, neither had I wanted to be alone. Meres, your cruelty is unforgivable! To have left me alone in the dark garden – why did you not return to me! The indignities I have suffered this evening have utterly exhausted me.
       Others had been drawn to the drowsy warmth of the room, and their casual chatter had given my mind comfortable paths to wander. A boy had approached me, some young singer, and while his adulation was appealing, I find that sort of thing rather tiresome. It is all well and good for Mephisto or Luce, but I have no use for endless repetition of the same dull phrases. My back aches so...
       The library is quite warm from the blaze of the fireplace, and the walls are insulated by countless volumes bound in jewel-toned leather. The chaise is low but delightfully over-stuffed, so that it is quite comfortable, even to my sensitive body. The decor is suffused by a culturally refined air, with its worldly array of furnishings and decorations, but classic dark colors, leather and deep velvety plush. It is a room suited as much to drowsy contemplation as intellectual pursuit. Which, really, is an odd find in a residence of Luce's. Not the duality of purpose - there is duality in all he does, every action full of some duplicitous intent. But I suppose even Luce is allowed some brush with the conventional... No, more likely, the room appears typical only to add some false pretense of normalcy to outside visitors. He brings them in for a drink, invites them into the library, and just when they have settled in for a leisurely evening of the sort they are much accustomed to, there! He springs on them some bizarre or outrageous or entirely blasphemous entertainment, with that crafty smile and glinting eyes.
       But it is exhausting work, analyzing Luce's endless trail of ever more subtle meanings. I should not have sent the boy away, my back aches so, I should like someone's hands upon it. There must be some means hidden in the room to call for a servant, a bell-pull or some such; my lungs do not feel equal to speaking loud enough...
       Ah! but the search is not needed, for a servant appears of his own accord – apparently to stoke the fire. "You there. I presume there is a masseuse somewhere on the premises?"
       "Of course, sir. Shall I have one brought to you?"
       "At once. And have her bring also some warm and soothing drink."
       "Certainly, sir."
       He leaves the room, and I nearly call him back. “Her?” I do not know if I want a woman near, they are always so... so soft, which at times is pleasant but... it is the condescension. If they see a man (or one like to a man) in any condition but that of domineering strength, they assume he does not possess strength at all, and take the weakness of a moment to be the whole that he can offer. But I, I! I merely wish to make use of the amenities I am deserving of. Even in my frailest state, I am far more than they!
       After a few long minutes, the girl appears, and I see in a glance that she is calm and professional, not the twittering pitying gossip I had feared. Good. She is beautiful, but in a cool and refined fashion. Her skin is a deep olive tan, her hair and eyes dark. There is a firmness to the graceful line of hew jaw, and the muted intensity of her eyes reveal a woman whose hands are strong beneath the soft veneer. I am certain that her hair is quite long, sleek and gently waved, though it is now bound flawlessly in a dancer's knot at the back of her neck. She closes the door behind her, that we shall not be interrupted She kneels beside the chaise and holds out to me a steaming mug of something made of healing herbs. I roll carefully onto my side and drink it slowly, savoring the feel of intense warmth moving down my throat, and from there, spreading throughout my chilled body, reaching into my veins and almost my bones, pushing aside the coldness which too often stiffens all my body.
       For a moment, with the warmth flowing into me, the quiet secluded room, the attentive and beautiful form kneeling before me... I am almost content. The silence seeps soothingly beneath my skin, and---
       Oh, my back! I cry out at the too-familiar blinding pain, its flames erupting thought every vein. My body spasms against it, I fall back into my stomach clutching at the cushions, writhing deeper into them, as if I could claw myself away from the fire consuming me but I can't oh I can't oh---
       The girl immediately moves into action, placing her cool but firm hands onto my back, pressing and kneading steadily, constantly, unyieldingly, until my breath returns to me. When I am able to again open my eyes, I see that what was left of my drink had been thrown by my convulsions onto her - there are stains on her dress, and a few droplets clinging to her arm and neck. But she had shown no sign of the burning heat of it, all her attention focused on myself.
       Which is precisely how it ought to be. Luce's servants are always perfectly trained, I must ask his secret, for I am forever frustrated with the faults in my own.
       She pauses only a moment, when it seems my fit has been soothed. "Shall I remove your clothing, sir?"
       Her voice perfectly suits her hands - gentle yet with unshakable strength behind it. Perfectly placid and cool, with no hint at all of emotion. I find myself almost fond of this woman.
       "If it will better your results, by all means."
       She makes a quiet sound of affirmation, and deftly removes my jacket and shirt, taking care to fold them perfectly before setting them on a nearby chair. Ah, her hands are so cool upon my burning back! Those hands are now in constant motion, rubbing and kneading and caressing. She is not always gentle - but it would be a mistake if she were, a mistake often made by those without proper experience. Pain as this needs more firm persuasion before it will release its hold. My body slowly loses its tensions, my breathing growing softer, my eyes blinking lazily between the warm colors of the room and still warmer darkness...

       There is a burst of raucous laughter from outside the room, and a rapidfire explosion of knocks on the door. "Hullooo! Is anyone at home?"
       "Daaarlings, do let us iiiin!" This second voice is female, and slurs terribly. In fact both voices are slurred, and constantly breaking into laughter as brittle - and painful - as broken glass.
       "Do c'mon'n open th' door! We want to... to read a book! Yes a book, just what we wanted this evening!"
       "Yesz, one witshh the most teeeerrr'ble examples of lusty debau.. debauzsh... whatever is that word!"
       "Oh I don't know, does it really matter?"
       "Of course it doesh! You're aaalways trying t'tell me thiiingzsh don't matter but they dooo!"
       The masseuse leans close to me, and murmurs gently. "Shall I bid them leave, sir?"
       I groan and nod my head weakly, grabbing a pillow to press against my ears. "At once. They are giving me such an awful headache."
       She gets to her feet, and quickly crosses the room. She opens the door only the slightest crack, angling herself in such a way that she is all they might see into the room, getting no glimpse of my prone form. I do not hear what she says, for her voice is low and... again, gentle, but with an irresistible firmness to it, one that will brook no argument. Their protests are loud, but they do leave.
       I allow myself to smile at her as she returns to my side, after again locking the door. "Thank you, my dear."
       She smiles in return, but, still, there is that marked detachment about her. I wonder vaguely about it; I do not know if I find it attractive or repulsive. But it does not matter, she is not here to entertain me, and I do not want her for such. I want her to soothe my back, a task she is quite adept at.
       "Shall I massage elsewhere, sir? Or shall I continue to focus on the area in pain?"
       "Do remove the rest of my clothing, and continue your ministrations over the remainder of my body. The pain centers most in my back, but it lies all through me."
       She follows my instructions promptly and effectively, and it is only a matter of minutes before I am as completely relaxed as I was before the interruption. I simply must find some thing that Luce does not yet have, to use as a bargaining tool in convincing him to loan me this girl from time to time...

       I awake to the sound of soft music. It is some moments before I remember quite where I am, and what the situation around me was. The masseuse - oh she has certainly gone by now, I can see by the warmth of the light entering the windows that it is early afternoon. I have slept through all the ugliest hours of morning. But what is that music? It is a piano, though I do not recall having seen one in the room before.
       I sit up slowly, looking around me - and realize that I hadn't, in fact, looked all the way around the room the night before. There is a small, snug cove in a back corner that I had not noticed at all. It is there that the piano stands, its polished cover reflecting the gentle light that filters through the diaphanous curtains. The cover is lifted, and blocks my view of the player. I feel quite rested now, and so I slowly rise from the chaise. I find myself demurely clad in a dressing gown of pale green silk, and I am pleased by the girl's attentiveness. As I stand, I stretch my limbs fully - oh what a wondrous job she did, I feel so light! It has been ages since I felt so well, and movement was so pleasant. I take a slow breath and smile, just a little, before crossing the length of the room toward the piano. The floor is covered in thick, warm carpet which silences my steps, yet the music drifts off into silence as I draw near, the player obviously aware of my approach.
       "I do not mean to interrupt, I merely wondered who was playing so soothingly that it did not disturb my slumber."
       There is motion, and the player slides to the end of the bench, leaning around the piano to smile at me, his eyes glinting with amusement and a thousand secrets from behind the dark locks of his hair, which fall in graceful lengths around his face.
       "Ah, Luce! Really, I ought to have guessed."
       "I do not usually disturb the repose of my guests, but I am afraid I felt such a need to play this morning." His voice is low and gentle, caressing the ear as flirtatiously as an evening breeze. His fingers run lightly again over the keys, coaxing out a delicate melody, so soft, as the sound of a fountain in the far distance.
       "It's quite alright. As I said, it seems it did not trouble me. I have slept for some time."
       "That you have! But the girl has such a soothing way about her, despite her coolness of character, wouldn't you say?"
       "Ahh, I would! She is quite wonderful, Luce, I must tell you how envious I am. I have never felt so free from aches as I do right now."
       He raises an eyebrow, grinning crookedly. "Never, you say?"
       I sigh, settling onto a low sofa near the piano, annoyed by his nitpicking. "Oh you know what I mean..."
       "Of course, darling. But you must be hungry. Shall I have something brought for us?"
       I consider for a moment, then nod. "I do feel as though I could eat something, yes. But something light, I think."
       "Certainly. I never eat anything too indulgent this early in the day. These bodies grow quite tiresome at times, do they not? Really, they are quite fickle. What suits them at one time of the day entirely disagrees with them at another."
       "Mmm. Oh, but I should like to ask - is Meres still here? I have not seen him since early last evening, and it is unusual for him to leave me so long without explanation."
       Another secretive smile, and the light notes from the piano shift sinuously into a minor key. "Meres? ...I believe he may have left. He was... rather distraught last night, though I really couldn't see a reason why. But you know, he does fall prey to emotion rather easily at times, does he not?"
       "Yes yes, he does, but what precipitated his departure?" I insist. If I let him, Luce will go on with his vague theories of psychology for hours on end, and I really do not care to hear them.
       "Oh, I don't know," he says lightly, his gaze faraway, speaking slowly and with deliberate vagueness. "I suspect it had something to do with whatever that weak-stomached woman fainted over, out in the gardens... a murder, I think? But oh, darling, did you have any of the brandy last night? It is a simply fantastic vintage, I have put up quite a store of it. And, in your ear: it pairs rather nicely with the skin of a young man, particularly when his skin is slick with sweat, and..." He licks his lips lightly, and the piano drips notes that are rich and thick with lust. "Nila brought me quite a lovely gift last night, did you happen to see the boy with---"
       I stop listening, as there is a knock at the door. I turn to look at it, and would rise to answer, but politeness dictates that I demure to Luce, as we are in his house. Yet he continues speaking as though there had been no interruption, until he has completed his thought. At that point, he turns his gaze back to me. "Shall I have them bring in the food, then?"
       "Of course," I reply automatically. I am puzzled, for I had seen no sign at all of him having called for a servant, let alone specifying what they were wanted for. But I refuse to let Luce see my confusion - it would grant him entirely too much satisfaction, for I am certain he intended to produce it. There is amusement enough in manipulating the tiresome little half-beasts that surround us, but to so toy with our own! Really, I find it in dreadfully poor taste, and I do wish Luce would cease doing so.
       "Come in!" he calls out, and the door is opened. A serving man appears, pushing a cart elegantly wrought of some light-colored metal. A fantastically enticing smell drifts across the library, and I find that I am, in fact, hungry.
       "Where shall I leave this for you, sirs?"
       "Oh, bring it here, I should like to remain at the piano awhile."
       The man does so. He removes the covers from the plates, and a sudden warmth floods forth, nearly bringing a flush to my cold face. "Will there be anything else, sir?" the man asks of Luce, as he neatly stacks the lids to be carried back to the kitchen.
       "That is all for now."
       The man bows and exits, closing the door gently behind him.
       We begin to eat - some delicious pastry, the name of which I do not know, has been brought to me, and I find it exactly to my taste. What I do find unusual, however, is that Luce is taking this time with myself alone. I suppose he enjoys having someone to listen to his prolonged theories, without bringing questions and counter-arguments to them - I lack the energy to debate with him most of the time, for it is so difficult to ever resolve such a discussion. But really, why he has not simply picked up one of the fawning young men or women who constantly vie for his attention, and let them hang delightedly on his every word, I do not know.
       Oh but I suppose it is entirely because of them that he is here with me - what better slap in the face to them, than to have the honeyed lips they so long to be near murmur things to one who does not care a whit for what is said, or the one saying it? Still, it is all rather tiresome for me, not that such consideration has any part in his plots.

       We linger over the meal, and talk more, of the evening before and the various persons whose exploits we find entertaining, and the latest news of society. But when the light has begun slanting in through the window, its color warming to the gold of mid-afternoon, he rises, standing straight and stretching his arms. He stands between myself and the window, and so his form is silhouetted there, against the sumptuous gold: an almost black shadow, a body that is tall and well-proportioned, his limbs long and graceful, his hair falling in elegant tendrils down past his shoulders. He turns his head to the side, and the delicately formed features of his face stand in profile against the light, which is diffused into a pure aureate hue by the gauze which covers the window between the heavy wooden sills. Gravity seems suspended in the glowing air about him, air shot through with a thousand threads of gold. His arms and fingers unfurl slowly upward with a dancer's precise grace. The light dances through his fingers as a young brook over smooth stones, as flowing gold over ebony. A single dark blossom, stretching languidly toward the sun... no, not toward it but against it, a serpent rising to block out the light. This... this is man's conception of an angel, a form too perfect to be real, cast in heavenly light... only the angel does not radiate that light, but prevents its reaching the earth, oh! Oh, they know so little of what we truly are! I swallow hard, and find my body tense, and my back heating ominously.
       "I ought really to stop neglecting my duty as host, I simply must go see how the others are enjoying themselves. You will let me know if you need anything?"
       I do not answer - I grit my teeth against the pain that is quickly rising. My body is shaking from holding itself so tense, steeling itself against the wracking ache that is working its way outward from my shoulder blades... spreading wide, as my wings once did.
       He looks over at me, but I am in too much pain to care if it is concern or amusement on his face. "Shall I call for someone, darling?"
       "Yes please, have the masseuse brought to me I--- ah! Oh Luce, I am in such pain!"
       "Hush, darling, all will be well. Here, do let me help you to one of the guest rooms, where you may remain as long as you wish."
       I do not think I can walk that far, I do not know if I can even stand - but perhaps if I move quickly, I can get there before the pain reaches its height. Luce offers his hand, and helps me to rise from the chair. I cling desperately to his arm, and he remains a sturdy support, while we walk as quickly as I can force my now-stiffening limbs to move. He tells me there is an empty room only just down the hall from here, that I may rest there quite comfortably, the bed is particularly sumptuous... In fact he chatters lightly the entire way there, though I stagger and grab at him, gasping as the pain builds.
       He pulls a key from his pocket, and unlocks the door, smiling sweetly at me (an expression which seems somehow dirty, given the cruel background of his face). "I had it in mind that you might need this room, so I made certain no-one else should use it. Being on a main hallway, you may want to keep it locked, to make sure that, ah, those who are prone to over-indulging will not disturb you."
       I mumble some vaguely grateful response, and let him guide me over to the bed, which I collapse gratefully onto. I will admit, it is wonderfully soft, gentle as a cloud's breath, warm as a lover's embrace – but even this is little comfort to me now. He helps me to lay fully upon it, then moves to adjust the drapes, that the light will not shine into my eyes as the sun falls through the sky. On his way to the door, he leans over the bed and kisses my cheek lightly. "I shall send the masseuse right away, darling. Do rest, and please join us when you feel able."
       He closes the door behind him - but does not lock it, presumably to allow the masseuse to enter without the need for me to rise. Even through the darkening fog of agony which is rapidly obscuring all other sense, the corners of my lips twitch a little in mockery of a grateful smile. He truly is the most gracious of hosts.

       I lie on my stomach, my body growing more tense every moment, with both actual pain and the anticipation of greater pain to come. It seems hours that I lie here alone. The room is far too quiet - the windows are closed, the door and walls too thick to allow through any sound but those of surpassing volume. If any footsteps pass the door, I do not hear them. If any bird sings beside the window, I do not hear it. I am in too much pain to move, and so my range of vision is limited. But the room is like any other, luxurious and opulent, richly decorated in warm tones, and there is nothing new to be seen. What small details have been added as points of interest are not enough to hold my attention against the flames which creep across my back, scalding and scorching the flesh as they pass, I can feel it peeling away, my skin crawling and trying to free itself from the nerves which so bind it to the excruciating torment.
       Where is that girl! Luce promised her immediate attention - why did he not call her with the same method he used for our breakfast? She would have been here the moment we arrived. This is certainly more important than a bite to eat, whatever was Luce thinking! Or does she dawdle? Oh I shall have it out with her if that is so! Of course she would not admit to it but I shall know, I will see it in her timid face and nervous eyes. I will teach her to toy with the likes of me! Oh that little---
       There is a polite knock at the door.
       "Come in!" I demand irritably, seething in anger, which is only amplified by the ever-growing pain.
       The door makes scarcely a sound, but the soft click of the latch as it is closed. "Lock the door," I command without looking up, my voice short and clipped, as a flame of heat shoots down my spine.
       "Yes, sir."
       My eyes fly open and I turn over, for a moment forgetting my inner troubles in light of this new one - it was a male voice that answered me.
       "Who are you!" I scream, this incomprehensible outrage tipping me fully into outright fury.
       "I... I am the masseuse, sir. Master Lux directed me to attend to anything you might need."
       "You are not--- Oh but of course Luce has more than one. Is she--- no! He did this on purpose!" I cry, my temper blazing. "You! Get me the girl, there is a female masseuse, a girl with dark hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head. She is the one I want bring her here NOW!"
       The servant quickly bows and nearly flies out the door - forgetting in his embarrassed fear that it is locked, the fool!
       "Get out GET OUT!" I shriek, the flames engulfing my body, forcing my voice desperately from me. "I want the girl! Luce! You bastard, you know I wanted her!"
       The man's shaking hands finally manage to work the lock, and he rushes from the room, barely closing the door behind him. He had best find her immediately, for if I have to wait still longer--!
       Luce you damned bastard I will--- Luce I curse you for all eternity you selfish beast! You know what pain I am in, you know the severity of my condition, that you should toy with me! As if I were one of your countless human playthings, those whose emotions you tug about as a puppet's strings--- I am not one of them! Luce you worm, how could you treat one of us like this!
       "Luce!" I scream, tearing at the curtains which hang around the bed, ripping the shimmery fabric into pieces, the straining and breaking of the fabric in my hands letting out the smallest portion of my pain, the sting in my hands pulling some scrap of attention away from my back. "You will not play such games with me--- ah!" I fall to the floor, my breath torn from me in the blinding agony which seems to smash my back into pieces. What breath I can grab comes from me in shrieks of pure torment, all thought is burned away and consumed by this raging darkness. I clutch at the floor, my fingers clawing desperately for some fresh pain to escape this ancient one---
       Dimly I feel a shift in the air, and there are hands on my back.
       "Don't touch me!" I scream, writhing on the floor.
       But the hands only tighten their hold on my shoulders, and I wheel away from the grasp to look into the face of the one so impudent as to---
       It is her.
       I am frozen. I do not know whether I should scream in rage or cry in relief. "You!" I choke out, my body shaking.
       She wastes no time in speaking, but pushes my body to the floor, her strong arms brooking no argument. She lays me on my stomach and tears my shirt from me - taking no great care this time, for she knows there are things of far more importance. I am helpless in her grasp, the pain has overtaken me, and the mere act of breathing requires all my effort. She seats herself astride my hips, and leans into me, her hands plunging deep into the fire, fighting to quell it.....

       I have returned to myself when there is a knock at the door. The girl pauses in her ceaseless ministrations, and I nod. "Do answer it, dear." I am in a more respectable position now. Resting on the bed, I am wrapped again in the robe of celadon silk. I move to sit up, leaning against the pillows. Though I am again capable of controlled motion, my muscles are slow in their responses, all energy sapped by the episode which has hardly passed.
       She opens the door, and curtsies politely. It is one of us, then--- Oh if it is Luce I shall wring his neck! I will---
       "May I enter, my dear Veri?" The voice is faint, cracking in utter exhaustion, and my heart is moved by - by pity, I suppose. It is a feeling so foreign to me that I am uncertain of how to name it.
       "Meres! Oh do let him in, girl, and close the door. Meres, darling! Wherever have you been? ---oh darling you look dreadful! Here, do come rest on the bed beside me, it is quite comfortable. Shall I have anything brought for you, something to drink..?"
       "Water. Just a glass of water..."
       I nod toward the girl. "Bring a full pitcher, for I could do with some myself."
       "Certainly, sirs," she replies, and with another quick curtsy, she exits.
       Meres sits heavily on the bed beside me, leaning back on his elbows and closing his eyes. I place a hand gently over his, looking at him with curiosity and concern. There are dark circles beneath his reddened eyes, his lovely auburn hair is tousled and unkempt. His hair is damp, as if he had recently bathed, but he shows none of the freshness of it. His clothes are rumpled, his shoulders sagged, his brow creased. He constantly turns over his hands, rubbing them together, as if they were cold. His breathing is strange and irregular, almost hiccuping, almost as if crying...
       "Meres..." I lean forward, and put my arms tentatively around him. It is not a gesture common to us, but... something in me demands I touch him. Ridiculous human convention, this physical contact, but I suppose now that we are bound in such form, its needs will inevitably sink into us. It does feel... as though it is something I should be doing, the response to some ancient desire, some plan long neglected...
       He swallows hard and raises his hands - they are shaking terribly - to grip tightly at my arms. His hands are cold, even to my always chilled flesh, they are ice! And oh how they tremble... this is not at all like him.
       "Meres, dear one... is there anything I might do for you? What has happened?"
       His body tenses with a sudden ferocity, and he whirls away from me. "Do not ask me that," he commands, and his voice is as cold as his hands. His eyes are narrow and dark, so dark! He has never looked at me with such frigid rage. There are flames there, flames which should freeze and burn, flames far sharper than those which scald my back, flames which freeze the universe until it fractures under the strain and leaks scraps of fragmented starlight into the icy ether...
       I am terrified of this side of him.
       I hold myself motionless, my mind racing to determine what best to do to soothe his rage, while remaining utterly frozen in the realization of his expression.
       We remain locked in stillness for a long moment, and then at last he softens, a shadow of a smile brushing against his face. "Veri, my beloved one, I... I do not mean to speak to you thus. Here, darling, lie down, you were in such pain - I heard your cries, that is what brought me back to myself, and thus back to your side..."
       Cautiously, I lie back against the pillows, my eyes never for a moment leaving him. A rapid succession of emotion crosses his face, his eyes deeply troubled. There is such tumult there, I feel as though I can hear the screaming of the thoughts which run ceaselessly through his mind... but they are just distant enough that I cannot make out the exact words. Oh it does not matter, it is some trouble of his own, it will be resolved in time, or forgotten before long.
       But he has returned to me, and that lends me... some feeling of comfort, which I can so rarely even catch sight of, much less cradle in these quavering hands...
       He stays seated at the edge of the bed a few minutes more, the furrows in his brow creasing deeper and deeper, until I fear they shall remain there always. I sit up again, and brush my fingers tenderly over his forehead, willing it to smooth again. "Meres, darling... you must rest. Come lie beside me. We shall not be disturbed here. I shall instruct the girl when she returns, and she will lock the door against intrusion. We both need rest..."
       Another long pause, and then he sighs, and a smile flits ghost-like over his lips. "Ah, dearest, you are right of course... are you cold? Let me turn down the blankets, that we may keep them over us. The day is waning, the sun's warmth leaving, but the comfort of night will soon be upon us. Let us rest until then, shall we?"
       I nod, and kiss his cheek gently. "Meres... I am glad to see you again."
       "As am I, my dear..."

2 - Mephisto

       Evening has fallen over the party, though we scarcely noticed it. The boys Luce hired for the event have lit candles in a thousand lanterns, which are strung from every branch and bush, encircling all with their warm, gentle light. And so the light of the evening is wrought into a light hardly different in color from the rich sunlight the summer afternoon had brought... But there is something in the appearance of unnatural light which I find especially appealing. There is warmth in it, a personal aspect, which I quite like. I suppose it is the touch of theater, which it lends to everything it lands upon. A spotlight, a flood light, the heat rising from the foot lights into the heavy air of an actor's endless pleas for connection with those before him...
       Ah, even when I am not before it, I am seduced by the passions and pretenses of the stage! But that does remind me, isn't my little singer supposed to perform for us tonight? I ought to go and find him; it has been some time since I saw David in this crowd. I do hope he has not been stolen away by someone else. I am so looking forward to hearing him sing! But I suppose I would not hold anyone to blame, as his voice is equally lovely in any of its various exercises, whether musical (in the literal sense) or otherwise.
       I stroll casually around the rose garden, passing from one conversation to the next, though my attention is truly on what I see rather than what I hear or what I say - he must be here somewhere! But his dark hair blends in too well with the shadows and the suits, and he is never dressed in any remarkable fashion (despite my best efforts). He is too love a boy to be attired so drably! One cannot raise one's status if one goes unnoticed. If he dressed to his potential instead of to suit his origins, he should be nearly there already!
       Azal calls me over to him, to show off the florid beauty hanging on his arm this evening. And she is indeed lovely – her deeply tanned skin setting off the dramatic carmine ruffles of her dress, her manner and appearance an emboldened repetition of the hibiscus she wears in her hair. But I have seen so many such as this, and her beauty is as fleeting as that flower. All such beauty wilts and fades, its color drawn away by the touch of a thousand days, of a thousand admiring caresses...
       The only thing that lasts is the artistry of a perpetual façade: That intricate art of detailed deception, of paints and proper colors, of crèmes and exotic extracts, of fabrics and arrangements which beguile the eye. Azal has not yet let this knowledge into his awareness, for though he tosses his playthings aside as frequently as anyone, they are always as soon replaced, with whatever new beauty has just arrived on the scene, picking a fresh bud off the same plant as soon as a petal falls from the first flower. He is always surrounded by things in full bloom, but he must constantly replace them, almost daily culling out and cultivating his gardens.
       How dreadfully dull and repetitive. That is the sort of tedious work for which we have servants. I much prefer to have only a few choice roses, which I can care for with tender attentions, cutting away a discolored leaf, or painting lightly over a slight blemish. There is an artistry in maintaining constant beauty... Meres, I think, understands this, with his attention to detail – but where is dear Meres? That is one diversion of conversation I should actually enjoy, but I have not seen him for quite some time...
       If his disappearance and that of my boy are not coincidental---! I shall have some sharp words for the both of them. While we do not let the petty jealousies of man sully the air among ourselves, it is quite another matter to have a favorite toy stolen without permission.
       "Mephisto, I had hoped to find you! Here, do aid us in our dispute."
       "Oh you are perfect, dear, just who we wanted! Now, pray tell us, did you select this evening's music?"
       I smile, though inwardly I sigh at the interruption. Carey and Adir - the two are incapable of ending an argument. Each is always completely enamored of his own position, and will simply not hear of someone else being correct. "Of course," I answer. "Who else should we trust to chose for such a marked occasion? But I only suggested the musicians - their program for the evening was entirely Luce's idea."
       "Ah! That must explain it."
       "Oh but it does not at all!"
       "Of course it does. If Luce dictated the evening's score, then he of course influenced the stylistic approach to be used. Thus any method of interpretation they chose to use must have been at his suggestion."
       "Not if they, as a group, always take interpretations in that direction. If they are a modernist group, then they shall have a tendency to use experimental approaches. If they are an old and traditional group, then---"
       "But would not Luce have ensured that they---"
       "Gentlemen, gentlemen!" I interrupt dramatically, gently waving them apart with a wide polite smile on my face. "I am certain that each of your arguments is a worthy one, but why not simply ask Luce if the apparent incongruities in the music were his intent or not? I am certain he would be happy to detail for you all of the varied preparations he has made for the evening. You know there is no factor he does not plan out - why, I should not be at all surprised if he had intended for the two of you to have this very argument!"
       There is laughter, and I lift my hands to pat them both on the shoulder. "Now, I am sorry, but you must excuse me. I have someone I am looking for..."
       They answer with some polite response, and I walk away, weaving through the dense crowd of sable and crimson. Luce had requested that all the ladies in attendance dress in red, and the men in black, to further enhance the setting of the party. I must admit, the results are quite striking, particularly with the fall of evening. The dark dress coats blur into shadow, leaving pale faces to take on the dim and dreamy glow of lamplight, while the scarlet fabric swathed about the women falls languidly about them, as silken sheets in a candlelit boudoir. The voices have altered with the change in light; they are deeper now, lower and shaded with subtleties. Discrete confidences are made with all the imagined privacy of a darkened theater - one can often feel safest in the middle of a crowd, for one feels there are enough other conversations and thoughts going on around one, that one's own murmurs shall be automatically dismissed or politely ignored.
       I am reminded of a scene a few evenings before this (I do not know quite the day, but what do days matter, in our eternal years?). I was, as I often am, at the theater, waiting for the scenery to be changed between acts, and in the heavy blanket of shadow which covered all the gathered crowd. My companion for the evening had removed herself briefly, to get a bit of air, but I had chosen to remain, not desiring to miss any of the play. The two lead roles were played by particular favorites of mine, and I had been quite entranced by a new face portraying one of the side characters, a young man I had hitherto not been aware of – though I now know my David quite well indeed. He had such striking eyes, I could tell even at a distance, and his unusually long hair set off the flush of his cheeks with the exquisite care of a painter's loving brush strokes.
       There were two young men sitting behind me - I had taken note of them before the curtain rose. A handsome pair, really, both with dusky blond hair, dressed with that peculiar mix of style and poverty which eternally marks the student. They spoke in low voices, but not so low that I could not make out their words.
       "She is quite fond of plays, you know. One of us ought to have brought her tonight."
       "Oh, but he had planned for weeks to take her out tonight - did you not notice how she refused to make any engagements for the week-end at all?"
       "I had noticed she was rather melancholy, the few times I chanced to meet with her this week. Does he really not suspect how miserable he makes her?"
       "How could he! She is such the actress, she treats him with all the respect and admiration one could expect from a young woman engaged - all that is lacking is the dreamy-eyed doting, which I doubt he would care for, even if she could pretend it. He is such a dull sort."
       "Which is why we shall save her from this mess, shall we not?"
       "We? I am quite sure it will be I who rescue her, and sweep her away to the palaces of her dreams---"
       "You are one to speak of palaces! You barely made your rent last week, I heard."
       "If she wanted money, her heart would be his already. I offer her dreams! A life of romance and all the beauty of the arts, I---"
       "You! You entered this wager only because you cannot find any other girl who will even consent to walk beside you on the street."
       "And you! You are incredibly lucky that she has never come near the campus, where she might hear just how many girls you have had walk beside you, and not just walk but---"
       There was jovial, jocular laughter between them, and I smiled to hear it. It was all I could do to not turn around and join the conversation, offering them advice on how best to obtain their goals. But my companion arrived, just as the stage lights returned to full and the lead actor burst into passionate song...
       Song! There is song around me now! Oh my dear boy, you are yet here, and already you have begun! I rush toward the sound - oh but rush is the wrong word, that would be quite indecorous of me and I am not so human as all that. But I move toward the sound with renewed energy and purpose, and will not stop for any side conversations. He stands in front of the musicians, looking shockingly young and small and inconsequential... until you realize that the voice is his, this voice which permeates all the air with an indescribable sweetness, yearning toward the highest beauties, catching in its wake all the lesser beauties along the way and thus combining them distilling them condensing them into one melody of sheer rapture... His eyes are closed, his dark hair combed carefully back from his delicately-boned face, his lips of flushed rose parted in song. His stature is slight, and it does not seem that music in such volume and profusion could possibly be held in something so small... but perhaps that is the answer to it, that it has been misplaced into his small frame, and now expels itself in almost violent passions, after having been constrained for so long.
       I find a seat nearby, waving over a servant, who carries a tray of crystalline glasses filled with some exquisite wine. (Luce has always the best stores - Meres may find the most exotic elements, in food and drink as in all else, but with Luce, it is always quality, and the very, very best at that.) I take a glass, and make myself comfortable, my eyes held by the thousand subtle motions of the singer's body, drinking in the myriad cues to the emotions which run rampant within him, spilling over from the song which was meant to contain them, bursting out of tiny fissures in the dam of his body.
       I sigh contentedly, my eyes tenderly tracing the nuances of his form, my thoughts lost in the soaring notes of the song, which tangles among the stars, pulling them out from their day's rest. It seems the starshine lends the boy a glow, his slim form almost luminescent, and if it is from the light of the stars or the heat of his soul I do not know. I take slow sips of the wine, which warms my thin blood, flushing my pale cheeks. Ah, what an evening! I would have this boy sing for centuries, I do not think I could ever tire of it...
       A shrill voice pierces the air high above the murmurs of the crowd, and the voices surrounding grow louder in answer. One of the ladies has fainted, at the sight of some horrifying thing out in the garden, and the woman she had been walking with is making a ridiculous fuss.
       I smile wryly into my wine. One should know the chance one takes, walking through such gardens at night - especially in the gardens of Luce, for he is always plotting the most interesting chains of reaction.
       The music stills in the uncertain atmosphere, and my mood sours. "Do continue!" I call out, while waving over the servant for a refill of my glass. "Drama is hardly worth viewing, dears, if there is no musical accompaniment."
       A few of the musicians smile at this, others are too busy scanning the crowd to see what the fuss is about. I am disappointed in their lack of professionalism, I had thought them better than this. But they play well, so I will forgive them - if only they will play!
       Ah, there, the first violinist is cuing the rest to begin a new piece. The singer clears his throat and resumes his straightened poise, relaxing into the music as it swells behind him, seeming almost to lie back against it, as a bed of gentle down.
       The song is an aching one, in a minor key with occasional yearning breaks into a major one, which are almost immediately overtaken by sorrow again. His voice reaches high, yearning toward those stars which shine so faintly beyond the false light we have given our world. He stretches a hand toward some invisible thing of heartbreaking beauty, his eyes staring pleadingly toward it, and oh, my back aches to again have wings, that I might lift him toward that for which he so longs!
       And though the music wrenches my heart in pain, it is a comfortable pain, for it is a pain which will carry me away from my own. I close my eyes and let my thoughts slip away, letting down for a time that barricade which I keep around my heart, letting the ache of true beauty trickle in and fill the emptiness of a heart I will not let feel... I can feel the warmth and softness of the song's passionate swells against my own back as I watch him, the caresses seeping into my skin, embracing my blood and even my heart...

       I awake from my blind reveries to find the music gone, the air empty. My heart falls away beneath me and I nearly cry aloud at the sudden vacuum of that most glorious of sound. I find myself quite cold. Looking about, I see few candles lit, the lanterns glowing dimly in the false light of pre-dawn. Have I slept? I suppose I must have, for I can recall nothing of the party quieting or the sky brightening.
       My eyes catch sight of a warmer light in the distance - ah, from the house! The party must have merely moved indoors, to avoid the chill of morning dew, and the even colder morning light.
       I slowly rise to my feet, very aware of the stiffness that has grown in my limbs. I sigh, casting my eyes about me. The servants have worked well - there is scarcely any residue of the soirée, only a few tables and chairs remaining, and of course the lanterns strung in the trees and bushes. Just enough left in place that any few who might wish to return for a bit of air shall find the place comfortable. But there is no-one here now, it has grown so silent! The emptiness of the air makes my ears begin to ring in the desolation... I make my way toward the house, following the paths darkened by the passage of many footsteps, my thoughts achingly void, in the vacuum of silence. My lips curls in almost fearful distaste, and I move more quickly, anxious to be away from the wretched emptiness.

       Indoors, I find the number of the party diminished. Some have left altogether, but in large part the gathering is merely divided. Some are in the drawing room, smoking and drinking and talking in voices both boisterous and secretive. Some have gone into the harem rooms, to indulge in the pleasures of beautiful men and women, senses heightened by exotic spices and incense. Some are lingering over a meal in the dining room, some have retired to private rooms, for rest or for more exclusive tête-a-têtes.
       I find a seat in the drawing room, a softly cushioned chair not far from the fireplace. A servant offers to get me a drink, and I have some terribly indulgent cocktail brought to me. And so I linger there for a time, soaking in the various confidences and loud gossip being thrown about the room, trying to drown my own thoughts by drinking in the sound surrounding me...

       "Well, it seems that - you know how that girl Martha has been clinging to him for weeks now."
       "Oh of course, who doesn't?"
       "Terribly possessive - as if any of us could be so restrained! Her lavish attentions and petty demands are nearly sickening, or they would be if Adir showed any pretense of indulging her for long..."

       "...gone to that gathering at Azal's, which turned in the end into a veritable orgy?"
       "Oh rumor is always near the truth - but never too near, you know..."

       "But he allowed her to walk him home, and put him to bed, and fuss over him dreadfully for an hour or two before feigning sleep. When he was certain she had returned to her own chambers, he returned to us - but not to the party at large. You remember the powder room..."
       This catches my ear. I remember that night, though only vague impressions. It was some weeks ago, Meres had decorated a suite of rooms to appear as an Oriental opium den. Adir left, and then returned when none had expected him again. I don't know how Meres managed those servants, they spoke only their native tongue, but oh, the girls had no need to speak a word, the mystery in those shy, slanted eyes! But then... no, no, that was only a drug-induced dream, my thoughts were confused by the smoke and the thousand draperies of silk, there was no flame, there was no falling, only gentle oblivion and the pleasure of skilled hands and tongues...

       "...this was in the later part of the evening, when--- Oh but you know what transpired there."
       "Mmm, indeed I do. I was... occupied, elsewhere, for quite some time, but I have heard."

       But is this what we are reduced to? Seeking physical pleasures, and recounting past conquests, only to repeat the process endlessly through the years? There is more, there is so much more to us of course but there is also more to this world. The passions of the stage, the yearnings of song, it is all so much more than this, it almost, at times, gives glimpses of---
       Of nothing. Of earthly delight. Stronger, deeper pleasures than those merely of the body.
       I wave a servant over to refill my drink.

       "Oh, no, not at all! He somehow made his way back to his room before she arrived in the morning to make him breakfast. And when she commented on how pale and tired he looked---"
       "She assumed it was the illness! Such a simple trick, but so well played!"

       "...Ha! She thinks he loves her, then?"

       Story after story of tricking humans – as if that is any accomplishment. And yet, there is a depth, that I feel some of my fellows are entirely missing, there is... the unexpected, unconscious wisdom of a child in their art. Something more than mere bestial instincts flows through them, their souls have far more breadth, far more potential for emotion and... and that yearning, that longing, that passionate reaching beyond the world about them... that is something we have lost... lost, long ago...

       "Ahh, of course! It is Adir, and for all else he might be, he is an excellent lover, and an exceedingly persuasive one..."

       I have let my gaze fall unfocused into the fire, as my hearing fades in and out of attentiveness, nursing my drink absently. I failed to realize I had grown so distant, until my sightless stare is interrupted by Carey, pulling up a chair to the side of mine, smiling as he offers me a fresh glass. "You simply must try the cognac, dear, it is quite a fine vintage. Such lovely floral notes - violets, I think."
       I smile gratefully and take the glass, handing my now-empty one to a servant who appears almost instantly at my need. (Ah, Luce! You truly do hire the best.) "It does have a lovely aroma... Have I missed anything of great moment this evening? I was... in the garden, until a short time ago."
       "Nothing terribly interesting, no... but I had been looking for you, there was one bit of gossip I wanted to be sure you heard."
       "Anything, darling, I am in the mood for stories." For sound, anyway - it hardly matters if I hear the words... "This is an excellent cognac, do you know its origins?"
       "I am afraid not; Luce is keeping that a close secret this evening, and inciting a good bit of envy in doing so. He is, as I am sure will not surprise you, having samples be given to everyone in attendance, but refuses to name the vineyard from which it comes."
       "Ha! You are right, it does not surprise me."
       He sighs, and takes a long, slow sip. "Do you ever tire of his endless manipulations, Meph dear? I must admit, there are times when I do..."
       I consider for a moment, wresting my thoughts toward the question while staring off into the sparkling fire. "Oh, I suppose there are a few occasions... but really, it is a fairly harmless amusement. I only find it tiresome when it interferes with something I should like to know or do."
       "Yes, I suppose so... And one really can't blame him for being so full of self-importance, can one?" We laugh, knowing that it is a trait common to us all, as inevitable as the sun rising.
       "But there, you had something to tell me, darling?"
       "Ah! I did. Has anyone told you about the priest that attended the evening at Nila's last week?"
       I raise an eyebrow, and a pleased smile curls across my face. Here is something which might push aside the unsettling blankness of my thoughts. "They had not! What a lovely development, however did it come about?"
       "Here, another drink for us both!" he calls out gleefully, and, when our glasses have been refilled, he moves his chair a little closer to mine and leans forward, his eyes glinting with delight. "Now, darling, this is of course not to be common knowledge - not yet, anyway. But it seems he was coerced into attendance by some boy he has taken a fancy to - oh I hardly know how to tell the story, there are so many delicious elements all at once!"
       We laugh, and I clink my glass lightly against his. "Don't trouble yourself, my dear, I am certain I shall be able to piece it together properly if need be. But do go on." I settle back into my chair, letting my eyes settle back into the soothing motion of the flames. Such lovely subtleties of color...
       "This priest, he is a younger man yet, not long out of seminary. Young enough that he still has many questions about his faith and his order, and has an open mind about certain interpretations. Young enough that he still thinks he can update his religion, and make changes where he feels he knows more than the hundreds of years of predecessors."
       "Such an interesting age, is it not?" I comment idly, only half-listening. "So full of ideas and longings and desires, and thoughts of greatness, but so naive! Almost endearing, really." I smile wryly into my glass, reminded of David.
       "And easily manipulated, of course."
       "Mmm, of course..." That old game. I grow weary of it, of the trouble of it all, of hearing endless variations of it from others. It is such an old game, played without thought by most. They could at least take the trouble to make it more interesting, to make their deceptions the artforms they are capable of being... there is a sort of honesty to flagrant lies, but clothed in glittering shrouds, seen but not seen...
       "You know Claude, that boy Nila introduced us to... The painter, you know, the one who does those lovely Grecian scenes? The priest, his name is Douglas, Mark Douglas I believe, was looking to have a painting done, for the sitting room of his new parsonage. He has much entertaining to do, of course, for he is eager to make close friends of certain key social figures - it is a fairly wealthy parish. He is a great believer in admiration of natural beauty, the human form being merely one aspect of it. Having seen some of the boy's work, he thought he might produce an admirable Biblical scene."
       This catches my attention. I cannot help but look up into Carey's eyes, with rather surprised interest. Claude's paintings are gaining quite an audience among us, for not only are they beautifully done, but are also quite erotic in nature. Blatantly sexual, in point of fact. Not exactly an obvious choice for religious work! "And what subject did they decide upon?"
       "Ahh, quite an interesting one." He pauses a moment for dramatic effect, his eyes gleaming into mine. "The scene of sorrowful parting between David and Jonathan, as David must flee Saul's wrath."
       "Ha!" I burst into laughter of knowing approval, clapping my hands together, and Carey joins me. "'Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women '! Tear-stained kisses are the subject, then? Oh do go on! I like this priest more all the time."
       "Well, of course, it is to show the ideal brotherhood between all of mankind, or so the official explanation goes. But, oh you must see the painting, it is too divine. The looks exchanged between the two - very strikingly beautiful - young men are absolutely wonderful. Clutching desperately to each other, I'm sure you can imagine. The priest is delighted with the piece, and, it seems, with Claude. He looks to have taken the boy under his wing, or so it seems in polite society. Truly, though, the boy is leading him farther into a world he has too long been sheltered from... all under pretense, of course, of broadening his understanding of the human race in its present conditions. One cannot preach to those one does not understand, you know. One must know which sins exist among the people, in order to correct them, and properly guide the flock."
       "Oh, but of course. I do hope this is all being done gradually? It would be a shame to scare off such an interesting visitor."
       "Oh it is - the boy is an artist in more ways than one. He is quite wonderful, really, able to show a face of bright innocence while saying the most deliciously immoral things."
       "It sounds as though you have had a few personal encounters with him, dear Carey."
       "Mmm, well, that is another subject of discussion altogether... But to return to our own dear priest. He is quite attractive, even surprisingly so. Such striking green eyes! And really, a lovely body, though of course he covers it up terribly all the time. Modesty and all. But I am sure we shall talk him out of those dreadful clerical robes before long... The stagnation inherent in all tradition, you know the sort of thing.”
       "Oh the possibilities with this one are wonderful! I quite look forward to this... Do let me know if you hear of his planned attendance to any events in the near future, I should love to be there."
       "As would we all, though, as I have said, this is not news I should like to have spread too much. You and I, of course, know the importance of patience in these matters, as does Nila. But... not to criticize, but---"
       "Luce." He nods, and I chuckle quietly.
       "I would simply hate to lose this one before we have properly had our fun... and while Luce's plans are always brilliant, they can, on occasion, prove to be just a little excessive."
       "Yes... Oh but that reminds me, whatever was that commotion with some woman fainting in the garden earlier?"
       I had kept my tone carefully nonchalant, but he still looks quite surprised. "That was hours ago – you haven't heard about it?"
       "Ah, as I said, I was... indisposed for some time."
       "Mmm, indulging in that lovely young singer you brought us, then?"
       I merely smile secretively... and wonder again how I should have fallen into oblivion so fully and for so long, unplanned. I ought to have more control over myself than that... I do have more control than that. I wonder what it was... I cannot hope that it was unnoticed by all, as it was by Carey, and I must find some innocuous answer to give out.
       Carey continues talking, in a low, confidential tone. And I do listen, of course I listen, it is an interesting story, and it would not do to fall behind on the gossip of a party I myself am in attendance of. So I listen, and respond as I should, laughing and smiling as always, pausing only in slow sips of whatever drink has been put into my hand. But my thoughts are truly elsewhere, coated in the scarlet light of the crackling fire. Was it something in the wine? I doubt that, for it would have affected others as well as myself. I suppose it must have been something in the song... something that it touched, in the deep cellars of memory. I do recall closing my eyes, of course, to better focus on the music... but why should it have lulled me so, into complete absence of presence? I do not have any memory at all of those hours. Mere sleep would not have caused such a thorough blankness as that - even had I been asleep, my mind would still have recorded the various stimuli detected by my senses, at the very least. And if I had slept, I would undoubtedly have dreamt... What happened to me, there in the garden? I can think of nothing that would have caused something as strange as that...
       But this has happened before. This emptiness is a terrifyingly familiar landscape, bleak and---
       No! I found myself lost in it when I tried some new drug, it happened when I had indulged in a number of stimuli in a new, and apparently ill-chosen, combination. It happened that one evening with Meres, when we visited Azal's desert palace, it happened... there was always some reason. This time I can find none... Oh I should listen to Carey, but I have lost my grasp of the conversation, my gaze has been stolen by the abyss which has opened within me. What lies inside that darkness, which so grasps my heart! Oh I cannot stand it, it is so dark and hollow, it aches in loneliness though I am surrounded by companions...
       Carey. I should listen to Carey.
       “...arranged quite artfully, it seems, the blood drawn about in peculiar patterns. Which of course made some think of...”
       Oh what do I care for idle talk, it is so dull and empty! I need something fuller, something louder, passions so strong that they will flood this empty space and---
       But if all is washed away I am truly left with nothing, as it was in the garden, I---
       "Darling, are you alright? You seem to have... faded from me, a bit."
       I force my increasingly chaotic thoughts aside, and push a smile onto my tired face. "It is nothing, dear, only the drinks going to my head a little. I am oddly tired this evening, I think I shall retire." I cannot remain here, I need something stronger...
       He leans over and pats my hand, kissing my cheek lightly. "Do rest, then. If you should want him, I believe I last saw your singer in the library, listening intently to some story or another being told by, if you can believe it, Veri. Some tale of a lost love, or something equally melancholy, you know how he is."
       "Mmm, thank you."
       I get slowly to my feet, and find that I am a little unsteady. But I bring my focus to the motions, and make my way relatively gracefully to the stairway. There is an entire wing of guest rooms in this house, and it takes little effort to find an empty one. I close the door, and sit on the bed, intending to call for some company, some beautiful little thing to soothe my body and distract my thoughts, to burn away the vacuum which threatens to consume me. But I lay back, and the bed is exquisitely soft and comfortable, and so I close my eyes again.....

1 - Meres

       The afternoon air is warm, heavy, saturated with color scattered by sunlight and tangled in the crowd, who are dressed in brazen shades of crimson and scarlet, in crisp shadows of ebony. There is the steady murmur of voices, as the sound of slow waves, and the bright tinkling of glasses between bursts of gay laughter. Music wafts leisurely through the small spaces left between, the always-elegant strings played particularly well. Mephisto, of course, arranged for the music, his tastes in such are unparalleled - but it is Luce's party, whose else could it be? The space is filled with roses, grandiose bushes of them all around, lending their sultry perfumes. The blossoms are scattered over every surface, and so each step one takes is upon the silken petals. (This makes walking a slightly precarious process, but there is much more standing than walking, and certainly no-one need move in any hurry, so ample care will be taken.) The green of the garden's leaves and grass is scarcely to be seen, for all is crimson and ivory and sable, the colors of roses and the shadows between their petals all-consuming. The men are dressed in dark tones, with tasteful touches of red and white; the women are nearly all in red, bold and daring, the tropical color inflaming them all with the undaunted flair of the flamenco, the tarantella. The shadows, of jackets carefully cut and hair just as painstakingly coiffed, are filled with the sultry promises of a summer's night; the highlights, of scarlet skirts and incarnadine lips, are suffused with all the daring of a moment's surrender. All is bold shadow, saturated tones, intents made--- oh not with a brash air, but confident, assured. No-one speaks in halting manner, no-one moves in hesitating gesture. We are a company of greatness, greatness kept apart from the ridiculous fluster of the world at large, a thing so beautiful and so powerful, that it should not bear even the glance of the uncouth masses. And those who are not of our company, but are allowed to visit among it, must of course be worthy creatures. Worthy of our interest, that is, for certainly they should never be anything worthy of comparison with such as us! Nothing formed from dirt and agèd exhalation should ever really amount to much of anything, the very idea is laughable. But ah, there is amusement yet to be found in such strange creatures, made of earth yet reaching toward the heavens, a boundless thing caught up in mortal flesh...
       Just as we now find ourselves, still reaching after so very, very long...
       "Meres!"
       Oh thank all that is beautiful for Veri. There are times his complaints grate terribly on one's patience, but oh, his interruptions can come at such blessed times.
       "Darling! Are you enjoying the wine? I especially recommended it to Luce - it is imported from some location so exotic and exclusive that I could scarcely get the trader to reveal its source to me, for fear I might tell some rival of his of the place."
       "Oh it is lovely of course," he answers distractedly, brushing his long, pale hair back from his face. "But I am bothered by one of the cheeses, it is not at all agreeing with me."
       "You poor dear! You simply must lay down awhile. I know of an absolutely exquisite spot beneath the jasmine, there is a little nook with a cushioned divan and---"
       "No no no, jasmine makes me feel terribly nauseated, don't you remember?" he snaps peevishly.
       I did remember - only last week it was the scent of lilies (Speciosum rubrum, and no other) which turned his stomach.
       Strange, that after all this time spent in the mortal realm, we continue to be unsettled by its ever-changing trivialities. Our bodies have still not settled into constant form... but will they ever? To be in Time is to be always changing, perhaps our appetites and preferences will forever alter in such rapid succession. I feel tired at the very thought. It is, of course, engaging, to have such novel experience from one day to the next, but--- "Of course, darling. I had merely thought of the divan. But no matter, we can always have it moved. Shall I find a serving man for you?"
       He folds his long limbs into a nearby chair, sinking with a long-suffering sigh. "Do, please. I feel quite exhausted, perhaps it is the heat. My skin feels so dry..."
       I touch his cheek gently as I pass, in a gesture of ancient habit, then wander back through the varied clusters of conversation. It is not long before I find one of Luce's attendants - they are discrete but omni-present, as servants ought always be. The delicate young boys, who so often flit about fairy-like in the gardens, are not to be found today, for this afternoon is one of luxurious decorum. There are, instead, a number of young men, quite fine in their features yet sturdy in their limbs, the very embodiment of male strength and dominance, in the blushing flower of its first appearance in the limber forms. Ah, Luce! Your artistry and forethought are a constant delight to me.
       I approach one, and he instantly bows, with a grace of movement quite pleasing to the eye. "May I be of service, sir?" His voice perfectly suits the deep mahogany of his eyes, the ebony curls which slip mischievously onto his strong brow. I rather fancy this one. Perhaps I shall find him again, at a later time...
       "There is a divan, near the trellises of jasmine, off in that direction. I should like it moved, to a shaded place... I think perhaps that little dell, with the birch trees, near the stream. That would suit nicely."
       He bows again, his eyes turned graciously to the ground, then strides off, his paces long and even, but retaining the easy grace of boyhood. My gaze lingers on him a moment, taking in the measure of his well-proportioned form. Yes, I do think I shall seek him out... but later.
       "Veri, dear, I have had the divan moved to that charming spot beneath the birches that you like so much. Shall we go there now, or would you like a few minutes to recover yourself?"
       He leans back in the chair, passing a hand over his pale brow. "Oh... I suppose I shall make my way there, in a little while. But do send one of the girls to me, will you? I could do with some company. ---One of the quieter ones, if you please; I haven't the energy for a boisterous thing pawing at me like a hungry dog."
       "Certainly, my dear. I do hope you feel better, it is such a lovely afternoon."
       He only sighs again in response, and I hide a smile as I turn away. This mood of his shall pass in moments - I am sure by the time I return with some pretty little thing he will have already changed his mind on what sort of company he desires. But no matter. I am in quite good spirits this afternoon, and do not mind the... well I suppose it is hardly a distraction if I hadn't anything in progress to begin with. Oh but the serving boy! I ought to find him, once I have found someone for Veri.
       Though really, should I even trouble myself? He will certainly have changed his mind, perhaps has already done so. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye open. So many of these women today are loud! The color of their dresses seems to have gone right to their heads, they are all flaunting and all flirting, fluttering long lashes and caressing with light, teasing touches. They know the afternoon is all for them, the roses, the most lush and beautiful of all flowers, ones never to be overlooked. And so they revel in the attention lavished upon them, drinking in the praises and admiring gazes of all beneath the golden sun, the flush of their cheeks reflecting the dresses, growing bolder with the continued attention, as well as from the warmth of the wine flowing through them.
       I find myself nearing the edge of the gathering, where the rounded area hedged by the tallest rose bushes opens for a brief space, allowing passage into a fairly open area of grass and small ornamental trees. There are only a handful of persons standing there, in a small cluster by a plum tree, which is blossoming out of its usual season. (This is little surprise to me - I regularly have my gardeners produce such effects on my own grounds. The delicate flowers of fruit trees are far too lovely to have appear only once in a year.) The colors here seem almost washed-out, after the flurry and over-saturation of the bold tones present in the rose garden. There are a few men standing about, talking intensely in low, private tones. And---
       And there is a girl. She can hardly be more than fourteen, she looks so young and innocent! It is little wonder she has come into this side garden, she would be sorely out of place among the rose coquettes. And she is the only one I have seen wearing white among all the party...
       Yet it suits her far better than the red ever could. Her form is slim and delicate, her hair a soft gold, as the sunlight of early morning. Ah, yes, it is morning that she embodies, instead of the glowing sunset the rest personify. She is pale and just awakening, fragile, delicate, as fresh dew scattered upon a rosebud - oh but a white rosebud, certainly not a red one. The dress has a much simpler silhouette than the others I have seen today, with hardly any real shaping to it. Lace upon lace, a warm, soft white, with bands of subtle ruffles to wrap gently around her small form, revealing the womanly shape which is only just beginning to show.
       I catch a glimpse of her eyes, hiding shyly behind the long flaxen locks of her hair. The lashes are long, but cannot hide the stunning pale violet of the pupils. Periwinkle, they bring to mind. Yet something in them makes me tentative about drawing nearer---
       Oh what ridiculous fancy is this! She was invited by Luce, she is one of our sort, or will be soon. Whyever would I have qualms about speaking to her, or being seen by her? Should I send her to--- no, she is far too delicate for Veri, he needs one who will nurse him, I think, not one to be shy, as this one looks to be. Dear Veri is delicate enough in himself, he needs a companion who may balance that, by supplying the opposite. Ah, my darling, I truly believe I do know you better than you know yourself, whatever you may say... and I suppose someone ought to look after you, if you have not the strength to do so yourself. I refuse to yield to the mockery of the others, it may very well be a completely frivolous and unhealthy unconscious clinging to a life I chose to leave, but I will not be swayed by the opinions of others! I shall do as I like, and if I should choose to dote on you as a pet, then I shall do so, with no heed of what the others may say.
       It is not as if I am as weak as Mephisto. The way he lets his emotions be so overtaken by the slightest whims of whatever over-dramatic singer or actor he has chosen as consort for the week or for the hour is quite ludicrous.

       I have drawn closer to her, though I had not done so consciously. In fact, her companions are looking at me, and I ought to make some remark by way of introduction... Ah! but I know one of them after all, splendid.
       "Nila, darling! I wondered where you had gone to. We hadn't seen you in quite some time."
       "Not far, never far, especially from a party so well-arranged as this."
       "Our host is quite the artist," one of the young men interjects.
       "Ah, but you should see the parties Meres holds," Nila replies, with a smile toward myself. "The arrangements in which he lives each day are quite breathtaking, in their beauty and exoticness. And that is nothing to the tableaus he creates for company!"
       I smile broadly, sweeping one arm wide, less in gesture than to reveal the details of my jacket. It is embroidered most cunningly with some thread which seems black, until it is moved, and the light catches at a thousand jeweled tones which suddenly appear in patterns of breathtakingly intricate detail. There is, as I had intended, a slight gasp of surprise, followed by astonished and admiring laughter. Yet the girl smiles only softly, her eyes seeming far away.
       "But Nila, you simply must introduce me to this charming young woman. We have not met, I think."
       He smiles, an expression filled with pleased cunning. "You have not. This is her first visit to one of our soirées. I invited her myself."
       "I should have guessed! You always do find the most interesting persons to have us meet."
       He bows slightly, grinning. "It is my contribution. While you bring the artistry of exquisite setting, I bring the artistry of personality."
       There is another shower of pleased laughter (as there always is) from our companions, yet the girl remains silent.
       "Nila! Does she not speak?"
       "I speak," she answers, her voice so gentle and sweet that it fills all the space of the ranges below our loud, boisterous speech. Her eyes slowly fade back in to view the world before her, losing their focus on the farther place she seemed to have been watching.
       All are quieted, so as not to overwhelm the beauty of her dulcet tones. I smile broadly, and bow low, taking her hand in mine to gently kiss. Her hands are so small and delicate! Though they are gloved, I know by the smoothness of her arm that they would be delightfully soft, as gentle as her voice. I lift my eyes to hers, and she gazes back... and I feel as though her strange eyes of twilit skies see far beyond the mere surface of my self. She shifts her gaze to a point just beyond my shoulders, following a slow path out from there---
       I could swear she is looking at my wings! My long-absent wings, oh, but how---
       "Oh see the funny bird!" she laughs aloud, clapping her slim hands together in delight, and we are startled by the difference in her childlike laugh. There is a brightness to it, a quality of some indefinable, luminescent thing, which we have not heard in so long...
       But we turn to look, and see some bird with exquisitely long and bright plumage, perched on a weeping cherry tree at some little distance. It is hopping from one branch to another, fluttering up in startled confusion as the branches, too slim to hold its weight, droop away beneath it. We chuckle in amusement, but my heart is still shaken by my assumptions, though it seems they were misplaced.
       "Dear child," I begin again. "Have you enjoyed your day here?"
       "I am no child," she rebukes sharply, and I smile to see her sudden confidence. "I shall be sixteen in a week, though I am slight for my age." Her eyes are no longer distant, but sparkling and focused... though they still hold something farther off in their depths. I am certain that is what led Nila to bring her here, the contrast in those shining violets. It is quite an intriguing mystery...
       I almost wish not to define it, for then she would become no more than one of the many roses which decorate the stage.
       "But you asked my thoughts on the party," she resumes, her delicate fingers brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face. Her lips are not painted scarlet, as those of the other women, but are a soft, slightly shimmering pink, as cherry blossoms kissed by morning dew. "It is... oh I don't know. It is interesting, of course, I am hardly bored. But I seem to be out of place. All of the women are so sensual and voluptuous, while I am a mere sapling, with no shape to me at all, and hardly the experiences of a coquette at flirting so gracefully."
       "Oh, but Niles delights in odd juxtapositions, my dear," I answer smoothly, offering her my arm. "May I borrow her, Nila? I find her quite soothing to the eyes."
       He laughs lightly, shooing us away with a wave of his hand. "Oh away with you! You are forever a thief, Meres."
       "All art is theft, did you not know? But I shall return her before the day is out, you have my word."
       We stroll away, and some jest is made, for the loud laughter billows out behind us, seeming almost to propel us away into the meandering paths of the gardens.
       "You know, you have yet to ask my name," she remonstrates. I should almost think her rude, her tone is so inappropriate for speaking with a superior! But she is young, which causes all faults to be forgiven. And so I smile, and ask her name.
       "Cerise Walker. And yours?"
       "Have you not heard it already?"
       "Of course, but is it not impolite to use it without invitation? Perhaps you would prefer me to call you by your surname, or whatever honorific is most appropriate."
       I laugh aloud. "Cerise my dear, you are quite the odd mixture of mannered and uncouth. You have switched from one to the other with every sentence I have heard you speak!"
       She smiles ruefully and seems about to apologize, but I wave a hand to prevent her. "Darling, you are young, it is forgiven. And I find your company interesting, which is more than I can say for many others. But yes, you may call me Meres. Titles have grown to be such stuffy, presumptuous things. They have no further use to us, we have tired of them.”
       She nods in acknowledgment, then looks at me, with a steady, thoughtful gaze, her eyes again gaining that strange depth. "That is not your real name."
       I stop still and stare at her, surprised and unsettled. She did not ask, but stated it, as a fact she was entirely certain of, as casually as one might mention that the moon is full one evening.
       It is a long moment before I find words, and can attempt a nonchalant manner. "And what, pray, might lead you to think that?"
       She shakes her head, the mystery in her eyes clouding over and receding. "I do not know... I simply feel it is not your true name. It is the same for Niles. The names simply don't match the person I see, there is some disconnect that I cannot explain."
       I begin walking again, though more slowly, deep in thought. My voice is slow and... oh not hesitant, but distant. "There is no use in me attempting to deny something you already know... especially something that you know with the same certainty as... as one knows a thing to be beautiful, or ugly... Tell me, dear, are you a seer?"
       She looks puzzled by this. "I am not certain what you mean. I see, I have vision, I am not blind..."
       I smile gently at her. "Then I see your talents may be untrained. Do you often have such strong intuitions?"
       She shrugs, and plucks a bit of honeysuckle from a trellis we pass beneath, twirling it idly between her fingertips. "At times. I don't often speak of them; they always upset Father so."
       "And yet you speak of them to strangers."
       She laughs, with a bitterness far deeper than one would expect from a face so fresh. "You, unlike he, will not go into a rampage, screaming at me for the sins of my ancestors. As if it should be my cross to bear, that my father's mother found other things more important than spoiling his every childhood whim."
       "And this relates to your... peculiar insights?"
       "She had them, too. Father hated it. He says she became more and more entranced by what they revealed, and she became a witch, or something like to that, and left her family behind. Though by then he was more than old enough to care for himself, and his father was quite well off, I don't see why he--- Oh but I ramble so! I must be boring you, I do apologize."
       I laugh and pat her hand, which is still holding to my arm. "Not at all, my dear, I am quite fascinated. I see it was not solely for contrast that Nila brought you to us. I must tell you that he makes it a habit to know, usually in advance, the entire family history of every person he holds a single conversation with - a bit of an obsession with him, really. But I must say that your father sounds to be a terribly unsympathetic man. Is he always so harsh with you?"
       "He was, but is no longer," she answers lightly. "I have left his house, and stay with the family whose inn I work at. Waiting tables and fixing dinners, mostly, though a bit of cleaning, and entertaining the customers, being the pretty face about the place really."
       "I see - a wise choice on your part, to leave, though I am certain he did not think it to be. Your grandmother... you have never met her, then?"
       "Never, though I often wish I had. Not only is her blood seemingly strong in me, but anyone who my father does not get along with, I assuredly will."
       "And you do not begrudge her gift to you?"
       "Not at all - I only wish I had more explanation for it. You say that I am a seer?"
       "Perhaps... it remains to be seen, really, what the extent of your abilities might be, but I am certain you do possess something unusual. If you would like, I know of a few persons in that area of study, who might be able to guide you."
       She pauses a moment, then smiles warmly, her eyes meeting mine with surprising confidence. "I should like that very much."
       I wonder if it is merely in rebellion against her father, or if she truly wishes to hone an ability which should mark her as an outcast of polite society all her life (and perhaps even beyond that).

       We have by this time strolled fairly far into the gardens, with the sounds of the party dying away behind us, replaced by the brief showers of bright birdsong, scattered over the soft breath of a light summer wind upon the leaves of plants and trees, the distant sound of moving water. It occurs to me that I do not quite know my way through Luce's gardens - he has a tendency toward a labyrinthine model of structure, and delights in having visitors (himself included) truly lost in the surroundings. It is mildly amusing, of course, though I feel it is not always desirable. To each his own, I suppose.
       The sound of water grows louder, and a delicate stream appears, winding its way between flags and falling over stones that sparkle in the strong sunlight, which filters in intricate filigree through the leaves overhead. The breeze rustles lightly among the leaves of willow trees, and, I realize, also the leaves of birch trees.
       "It seems we have found our way nearly to the grove I was thinking of earlier," I muse. "Do watch for a slim figure stretched out tiredly on a divan in some shaded corner - that will be my dear Veri, whom I ought to introduce you to."
       "Is he as generous a listener as you are?"
       I chuckle. "Not really. He... oh but we are all selfish. He is merely a bit more subject to moods, and to physical discomforts. His... he has a few old wounds, which trouble him rather often."
       "I see. But it is no matter, really, I feel I have said quite enough for one day, you really are too kind."
       I restrain a laugh. Kind! Oh how little the dear thing sees, for all her possible ability.
       "Meres? Is that you?"
       I smile and lead Cerise down a faint path that leads away from the stream and, passing between large bushes of gardenias, into a dense grove of white birch trees. The light is soft here, filtered by the many leaves; the breeze is gentle and the shaded air soothing. The palette of colors in this space is limited, and thus quieting to the eyes as well as the ears, with only white, medium greens, and a few slight shades of carmine and rose. The divan has been placed just beside the large, many-colored leaves of a caladium, accented by plumes of pink astilbe. Veri's long, delicate frame is draped limply along the cushioned divan. One arm is laying over his eyes, but I know that he has heard our approach.
       "Veri, darling, how are you feeling?"
       "Tired. But this is a passable place to rest awhile."
       Cerise has let her hand fall from my arm, and she stands shyly to the side, uncertain of what to do. I move toward Veri, and lean down to brush a bit of hair gently back from his face. "You do look a little better, I am quite glad. Would you like some company?"
       His brow furrows, and I frown to see him so troubled. "I should like to be alone, it was good of you to come all the way out here but..." He glances over at Cerise and purses his lips tighter together. "I am far too tired."
       I sigh and shake my head, gently patting his hand before straightening up and turning back toward the girl. "Do come see me before leaving Luce's, darling, will you?"
       He makes a non-committal sound, closing his eyes and slumping back into the divan. I shrug and take Cerise's hand, leading her silently away. She looks troubled, and I know she thinks she has caused him some offense without intending any, but of course she hasn't, he is only feeling sullen again. Oh but he makes me feel so tired myself! I should explain this to her, but I suddenly haven't the energy.
       "Do you think you can find your way out of the gardens on your own, child? I am weary, I do not think I will return to the party."
       She draws breath sharply, taken aback. "I... I suppose so. Yes, I can. But... do tell me, have I done something to offend you? Or your friend?"
       "No, no," I reply vaguely. "Nothing at all. I am simply... I find that I am rather tired. As was he - the heat of the sun seems to have wearied us both today. Do go on and enjoy the party, dear, you haven't done a thing wrong."
       She hesitates a moment more, then turns back toward the rose garden. Her walk is slow at first, but soon picks up speed - whether she hurries away to hide her upset emotions, or has shrugged off our tepid responses and is eager to return to more pleasant company, I do not know. Nor, really, do I care, I have lost interest for the moment. Perhaps I shall find her later.

       I do wonder that my spirit has dulled so dramatically... I suppose it must be from seeing Veri still so melancholy. Yet why should that trouble me so?
       ...oh, I know the reason, I have tried so to forget but the reason is that I have tried to forget. I was in no pleasant mood today. Are any of us ever? There is no true joy left to us, only the dull shadows of physical pleasure... And shadows can never be entirely grasped, they slip through these fingers of flesh just as light will do. We were once creatures of the light, pure souls to which the dust of the world could not hold, but oh! How it covers us now, a coat as heavy as the gold which colors it; how it weighs us down, our motions slowly losing their grace...
       We, who were of air and light, can no longer hold even shadows... we are immortal, yet cut off forever from the eternal. And when one has held eternal things, the brevity of mortal things can never truly satisfy. All things pass so soon, all except our lives, which hold no hope of an ending, and no hope of true fulfillment.
       My stride slows, my body tired but my legs not stopping, my steps carrying me unendingly on into the gray fog of millenia before me... oh but I am so tired! Veri, I shall never be cross with you, you are the only one to be truly honest about the melancholy of exhaustion which clings to us all, which settles on our shoulders as the dust of this world... The others keep their distance from you so they need not be reminded of that weariness they struggle to hide. And I... I cannot bring myself to neglect you. I suppose I hope to in some way soothe my own aches by tempering yours. If I can find a way to bring you some... if not happiness, then at least freedom of pain, then perhaps... perhaps there is yet hope for my own despair.

       I move farther into the gardens, searching for some spot that will please my unfocused eyes, that will cool my heated forehead, that will soothe with gentle breezes the aching scars on my back. I enter into a heavily shaded place, where the branches interlace close over my head, and the heavy scent of wisteria sublimates the summer air. It is dark and solemn, the air a subdued embrace. I close my eyes and breath deeply, the rich scent coating my tired lungs, my being suffused with gentle violet. But scarcely have my muscles begun to lose their tension when I hear someone whistling. Whistling! How common, how tiresome, who should be so blasé as all that in a place as this? I feel sullied by the very lowness of it, though it comes not from myself, and my mood flares sharply, turned from reflective melancholy to deep-set anger by the insolence in that whistling. Annoyance transforms so easily into rage, when one's mood is already darkened – really, it is a much better release of such emotions, to allow it to flare into full strength all at once.
       I follow the sound, and find a young man leaning against a tree, idly looking up into the branches. He is dressed as the servants Luce had present at the party.
       "Why have you left your station?" My voice is a low growl, threatening. Instantly he turns his gaze to me, startled.
       "I... I was no longer needed, really, there was more than enough help and so I thought---"
       "You thought to shirk your duties. I am sure Luce would not take kindly to hearing of this."
       "With all due respect sir, would he---"
       "Of course he would believe me!" I snap sharply. "Whyever would he take the word of a mere commoner over that of... of one of us? And do not think for a moment that he would let you off with a mere warning, or a verbal reprimand..."
       "He would discharge me, of course, I understa---"
       "You understand nothing. You would be lucky to leave with your body as lovely as it was when you arrived, if you left at all."
       I will give this one some credit, for he scarcely flinches, though I can see every muscle in him tense. "And what concern of yours is this?"
       I smile slowly, cruelly, my nature settling warmly into a manner it knows so well. "Why, darling, I should hardly be a true and loyal friend to dear Luce if I gave you a chance to slip away unnoticed. I ought to bring you to him myself. Only... only it wouldn't do to interrupt the party, he looked to be having such a lovely time. It wouldn't do to spoil the fun for him. But what then to do with you? I suppose I could shut you up in the house for him to deal with at his leisure, but really, what is the fun in that?" As I speak, I move closer to him, and before he can pull away I grip his arm tightly in one hand - a hand all the stronger and harsher now, for the gentleness of its touch upon the girl's skin not long before. He may be no seer as she, but he can see clearly the tensely coiled menace in my every motion, my every word. I coax the fear in his eyes into full blossom, with all the care a gardener gives his favorite rose. "Oh, what to do with such a one? I suppose I shall have to keep an eye on you myself, I can hardly trust the duty to some mere underling, and I shouldn't like to ruin the party for anyone else. But I can hardly be blamed for entertaining myself in the process, can I?" I lean close and flick my tongue lightly around the edge of his ear. "Whatever shall I do with one such as you? I find myself quite unable to decide, there are so many possibilities..."
       His lip curls and he cannot help but squirm, trying to writhe away from my touch, from the nearness of my skin. Oh, I shall take my time with this one! The party will not wane until long after dark, and it is only mid-afternoon now. I shall vent the fullness of my foul mood, dispersing it entirely, that I may wholeheartedly enjoy the remainder of the party.
       I walk in a slow circle around him, making certain that I maintain a solid grip on him at all times. He watches me warily, and I can feel the tautness in his muscles, signaling that he will fight when he feels an opportune moment. He will, of course, lose, but I keep my senses at their most alert, even as I look around for some useful prop. Being in such an out-of-the-way corner of the garden, there is unfortunately little, but I suppose I can make do.
       I peel his dress coat off of him, and back him against a sturdy tree. I pause, considering, then turn him about to face the tree, wrapping his arms around it, moving him roughly enough that the coarse bark scrapes against his skin. As I begin to secure him in place, using the jacket as a rope, he makes his move.
       He jerks away and twists and yanks himself free, turning and sprinting away toward the gathering - apparently hoping to find some safety in the crowd. Foolish boy, does he not know his punishment would be the worse, the more who chose to partake in the episode? He would find no safety there. It takes scarcely more than a minute for me to catch him - in my chasing after him, I guide him toward an area I know to be nearly impassable with dense vines and closely-grown bushes. He tries in vain to push his way through them, but, what is this? Oh! He did not realize the bushes were briers, an outlying hedge of wild roses. He cries out in surprise and pain, his white shirt growing quickly stained by the feeble sobs of his fragile flesh. I laugh in delight as I grab at him. His shirt tears away as he struggles against me, and his skin is torn on the unyielding thorns. What was once a blank palette of pure white has been coated with tiny brush strokes of scarlet, quickly flowering into the thousand half-tones which fall between red and white. How much more interesting this is!
       "You are nearly a work of art, my dear boy," I croon into his ear, smiling all the more as he struggles against me. "But really, darling, you shall smear the paint all the more if you continue so. You shan't get away from me, you must realize."
       Too enraged to speak, he turns his head and spits in my face.
       This, I do not take in jest.
       I growl low and slap his face, then throw him hard to the ground. I kick him sharply in the stomach and he curls up tightly, moaning, incapacitated. "Just where I want you," I mutter, turning him over with one foot to lay on his stomach, his naked back exposed.
       He is breathing heavily, still struggling, but less so, probably trying to collect his energy for a more focused burst. His head is turned to the side, but I can see that he still inhales the dust of the ground with each breath. Such air should suit him, he is made of no more than dust, bringing more of it into his pitiful little body should not trouble him. I reach over and break off a length of the briars, carefully peeling away the leaves and flowers, tossing them lightly over his back and on the ground around him. "There now... the picture is much lovelier. Rose petals are classic, you know. Cliché, at times, but that is only because even fools recognize their perfection, and use them so carelessly."
       He does not reply. His back rises and falls beneath my foot, which presses him to the ground, so I know he continues to breathe. (I made certain he should lie in a place where the ground was free from stones - I should not want him to have access to such unpredictable projectiles.) I wrap my hand tightly around the thorny branch, feeling the warmth of my own blood seeping through my clenched fist, heating my chilled skin. My lips press into a thin, curled line, as I raise the branch in the air, then fling my arm downward with all the force in me, whipping the spines into the vulnerable flesh of his back.
       He cries out, his body arching in agony, gasping for breath and thrashing against the ground, fighting with all the fierceness his half-animal body contains. But I will not let him go. I press my foot harder into his back, and I know he could not have guessed at the strength my slim frame contains. He had thought my build slight and powerless, my pale skin the sign of sickliness, my slimness an indication of weak musculature, but oh, how little he knows of us! Luce must have only hired him for the day - had he any experience at all with us, he should have known better than to fight me so.
       I lash at his back again and again, and each time his cries grow fainter. At first he tries to steel himself against the pain, to maintain his dignity and refuse me the satisfaction of seeing his suffering. Gradually, though, his body loses the will to fight, and slumps into the ground, simply accepting what it cannot escape. I do not let down my guard, however, for I have seen this trick before, a ruse to let me think I need not pay such close attention. I do not think he is unconscious, for his fingers still clench and unclench, grasping only dry dust and fallen leaves.
       I pause a moment, to study the intricate paths of red which have been carved into his back. The lines do not all run quite parallel, but stagger, overlapping and curving slightly, with droplets and small rivulets running between them, tracing over every contour of the man's back, light as a lover's fingertips. I lean closer, peering intently, admiring the artistry of the crimson tendrils which wrap almost tenderly around his back, tenderly but with a deathly grip, as vines around a stone wall. They are delicate and lovely, but in time, will cause the utter ruin of that which they cling to.
       I trail one fingertip leisurely through the red paint, drawing it in graceful swirls over the paler skin of my canvas, a thousand shades of red, all of a single hue but with infinite variation. The palest kiss of a child's lips, the darkest burgundy of rich wine. "Such a lovely thing..."
       He coughs, sputters - I look at his face to see that the blood has trickled into his mouth. I can taste the acrid iron of it, feel the heat of it as it leaves and returns to the body from which it came.
       "Dear, dear boy... you have become far lovelier than you think. But you cannot see the beauty of this scarlet upon ivory silk... and even if you could, I know you would not properly appreciate it." As I speak, I continue my delicate painting, moving the paint across the canvas, never entirely disturbing the original lines but enhancing them by the addition of ornate details. He moves, and I frown, as my fingers slip unintentionally. "Now, now, there will be none of that! Darling, shall I have to make you still?"
       He growls threateningly and braces himself with his arms against the ground, making his strongest effort yet to move, to lift himself from the dirt. But my foot remains firm, though I allow him to rise an inch or two - merely in the interest of giving him false hope, you understand, it is so much the more entertaining if the spirit has not entirely gone from them. "Dear child, you simply must remain still." I shove my foot hard onto his back, crushing him to the ground, winding him sufficiently that I am free to step away for just a moment, to grab a fresh branch of thorns. I break this one off low to the ground, so that it branches out in long, graceful arcs, dividing in delicate asymmetry. I test the branch on his back, adding a fresh spray of spattered scarlet across the ornate patterns. He squirms, his breath coming now in ragged moans, and I smile, turning from the filigree of red and ivory to look upward, into one of golden emerald and pure aqua, the leaves dancing in spastic raptures in the warm sunlight. The color of the light has changed since I saw it last, it has warmed into a heavy gold; thickened and saturated, it falls densely to the ground around me, adding depth to the hues of crimson, enriching them with the condensed beauty of a summer's day. The party I have left is brought to mind, as my thoughts paint the red of the thousand dresses with that same light, and I wonder how their color should compare to this. I do not think it should be so rich, that it should receive so well the distillation of a day's beauty, the concentrated nectar of summer's golden life. Life clings to life, and so the human body will lean into the sunlight, even when it is bound within dust, for the soul yearns for its place of creation as strongly as the body clings to its.
       I crouch down over him, resting my knees to either side of him, trapping him beneath me. I set aside for a moment the thorns, and use my left hand to brace myself against the ground, that I may lean close to his skin. I am still for a long moment, tracing the patterns, studying the movement and interplay of the lines, the delicacy of the thin curls, the pieces of stars which are scattered over the surface. "Ahh... there is beauty to be found in even the most unexpected places, my dear."
       He makes no motion nor sound in response. I sense that he still desires to get away from me, but that he is again waiting, reserving his strength to make another desperate attempt. Silly child, has he not yet realized the impossibility of such a thing? Whether this stubborn tendency of humans to refuse to accept a reality they dislike is endearing or obnoxious, I do not know; I have found it both, depending on the occasion and on the person. Just now, I am finding it an inconvenient annoyance. I have something else I should prefer to focus on.
       I take the branch again in hand and lean close to the man's back, and, using the lowest, strongest portion of the branch, press the sharp points into his skin, pressing harder and moving slowly, patient and relentless, pushing the ragged edges forcefully against the pillowed flesh, until the red flows fresh as the cries from his throat, he screams and I grin as the paint is poured onto my palette for me. I pause, and inspect the line I have just incised. The edges are rough, raw; he flinches away as I poke gently at them, simpering in pain. Ragged, but it adds a lovely texture, I think. (Besides, this shall certainly leave a wider, stronger mark, and I should like something of this image to last...) Slowly, deliberately, I make another stroke, drawing a long line, a line which begins as ragged and white, then flushes as a maiden first kissed, and then blossoms into vampish womanhood, growing full and scarlet, and the line swells with the fullness of color, until the color spills over and onto the space around, the line nearly lost in the overflow of saturation, the deepest and purest of reds, which catches within it the heated coruscations of the summer sun.....

       The light has dimmed by the time I am finished, having turned to the faded vermilion of dying sunset, but I have captured the life and vitality of it in the thousand shades of red which swirl and circle and wash over the surface before me. It is finished, and it is beautiful, a glimmering representation of life and its endless yearning, its constant reaching beyond the surface in which it is trapped, always reaching toward even the faintest light... The patterns are as a thousand scraps of lace, cast into the very distillation of earth's embodiment of life.
       I begin to rise - and then remember that I had remained low to the ground for a reason. Movement. I was preventing movement from disrupting the creation of the beautiful thing. If the canvas moves, the paint will slide from where I have placed it, and all will be ruined. I study it carefully - there seems to be hardly any motion now. But the paint is far from dry, and I tire of kneeling here in the dust. I should like to return... at least, to retire, yes, retire in some comfortable room. There is always one near, I shall find one with sumptuous pillows and sleep for a time, and let my mind slowly drift out of the place of pure art it has been resting in, back into the more prosaic patterns of the world.
       But first I must secure my artwork, and make certain it will not be disturbed before the paint has set. I kneel beside it, and, taking great care that I should not touch any important element, I lift the head (the hair now matted and clumped together - it does not matter if that is moved, it is not a major part of the image) and twist it swift and sharp to one side. I sit back and consider – it is a less important portion of the image, but it yet needs something. I take my tiny brushes in hand, and pull away a long, lithe portion. The thorns have become a dark scarlet now – but what need have I to waste time in cleaning them? There are always more to be had. I slip the daggered vine around the neck, and pull it tight, then draw it rapidly back and forth, continuing the pattern of sharp lines covering the back up higher, lending the whole thing a much more cohesive appearance. It takes only a few moments before the bucket of paint is tipped over, and spills onto the ground, flooding out in a slow pool, and all motion is stopped. I smile warmly, moving away to take in as a whole the lovely thing I have brought into existence as a whole. The pool of red at the top works in rather nicely, I think. It gives the image a downward motion, as an inverted triangle, which calls to mind things trickling down and falling, a reiteration of the idea that while the inward portion struggles ever-upward, the inevitable destination is downward. For all the yearning a life can hold, for all its struggles, it shall always, in the end, fall downward...