Orlando

But I, remote and far, under an alien star...

2003-07-31T07:14:37Z

...continued from here

Orlando stands behind glass, behind the door of the building directly across from his own, a narrow line of faded ribbon between his fingers. He watches a young woman pause before entering, disappearing up the low stairs. If he crouches, he can see all but her face. So he bends, roosts and waits. He sees her worry at her jacket, twist strands until midnight curled around her fingers. Her hand hovers above the knob and Orlando leans forward, just beyond the touch of glass. For a moment, he wonders if perhaps he made the wrong choice. That he was meant to tell her, rather than show her... his legs twitch with an invitation to speed and he forces himself to still. There is more on that one wall than idle words can realize.

The door opens under her touch and he rises, watching her enter his domain.

As she closes the door, he opens the one in front of him, and moves to take a place in front of a broken streetlight. The door to his building is in front of him, blank and half-open, as though asking him if he'd changed his mind. There is but one window in his flat, facing the thin alley running between his building and the next. In a high rectangle of golden-white, Orlando catches fleeting glimpses of silhouette as she moves through the room. She stops, and her profile is captured against the brick. Orlando wishes he'd brought something with him so that he might climb up and burn the memory of her, of this there. A hand, raised to her mouth, facing what only she and Orlando had seen. He stands there, head tilted up and body frozen in a sway, as though caught moving to the prayers that wake him with every setting sun.

A sudden movement and the spell is broken, a smudge of grey against the gold and he hears her feet beat against his floor. Quietly, he takes a step forward and waits, his eyes upon the door, forgotten ribbon cradled in his hands.

When running out of the building – always running, Liv thinks, when will she ever stop? – the street outside seems to dissolve in a haze of red as she crosses it, wanting to put as
much distance between herself and that place. She steps over the curb, avoiding the murky rivulet of water, and onto the curb again. Liv vaguely realizes that there is someone standing in her path. Eyes fixed on the floor, muttering “excusez-moi” she wants to rush past when she notices a white hand closed around a tiny piece of cloth. A silk ribbon, now a quiet faded blue, but once, when attached to a fine robe, the colour of a vivid, summer sky. And even when the dress was tattered and torn later-on the woman wearing it looked like a queen in exile.

“Oh,” is all Liv manages to say, a stunned, breathless “oh” when she recognizes her kind. Short dark hair, high cheek bones, skin gleaming all too perfectly under the street lights. And the same eerie flame shines in the man’s night-dark eyes as in her own.

“But I know your face,” Liv whispers. “I’ve seen you before. Up there, near Sacré Coeur. Again, she looks down at the hand that still holds the ribbon, pressed close to his heart. “You are … Orlando?”

Orlando looks at his kin, his mouth is dry and the air is harsh upon his tongue. He nods and bows informally, thumb rubbing the grain of the ribbon, comfortable in its familiarity. "I am." He raises his head and looks at her face, shining and white, surrounded by a mass of black. A star nestled in the velvet of night. Orlando looks up towards his flat and asks gently, "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Liv doesn’t answer immediately, just studies Orlando for a long moment. Warily. Suspiciously. His eyes seem to lack that dangerous sparkle that had lit up Bean’s and his voice is soft. But Liv won’t let herself be fooled that easily. Appearances can be deceiving, after all. And a gentle hand can still deal out a deathly blow. One that cuts right through the heart.

Liv sighs. Orlando - how had she hated that name, every time it spilt like honey from Cathérine’s lips, reminding her only too painfully of her own short-comings. “Yes, I found something,” she answers calmly, straightening herself.” Even more than I was looking for. Though what I found was not entirely to my liking, just as … others had already predicted.” Again, she eyes Orlando intently and each of her words is as precise and clear-cut as the lines on Orlando’s floor had been. “But maybe that was exactly what I was meant to find.”

Others… Orlando considers this for a moment, looking from Liv's taut face to the Paris sky where only the brightest of stars cut through the gloomy haze of the city. He follows the undrawn lines of Virgo with his eyes to where it dips below the horizon. He meets Liv's gaze and looks back to the black, saying quietly, "There is Virgo, and at its base, the star Spica. From there, an invisible thread leads to a grouping called Corvus, so named for the Raven that betrayed the sun god. For his punishment, Apollo turned his feathers from white to black and placed him in the sky next to the Cup and its guardian, the Hydra. Dooming him to everlasting thirst." Orlando closes his eyes and brings the tattered ribbon to his lips. The grief weighs on him like stones and after a moment, he lowers it, opening his eyes. He looks to Liv and asks what he already knows, "She hasn't contacted you either, has she?"

When the gloom of the jealous night is done...

2003-05-14T22:44:55Z

[A concurrance to this. Prose is from In the Golden Room: A Harmony by Wilde.]

Orlando had set the envelope on Liv's mat and considered knocking instead. But he thought of what he might say, how he might tell her he understood and that she was not alone... words failed him, gathered in his throat with the taste of grief and choked the light from his eyes. Finally, he settled on balancing himself upon her window ledge, night wind whipping the creases from his trousers. He watched her, until she roused herself from an uneasy sleep and pressed his back against the wall. He took little care to hide his presence, knowing she would sense the trespass. Still, he didn't dare ease back to the window and concentrated on the movements inside. He listened as she readied herself, could smell a slight caress of rouged oil that the wind wasn't able to take from him. Lipstick.

And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine
Burned like the ruby fire set
In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,
Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,
Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet
With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.

Orlando shook his head of the whimsy as the door opened and silence fell. The gentle click as it shut made him curve his fingers around the ledge beneath him, where he crouched. A tear of paper, another quiet pulse of time and then... a soft, strange sound.
Orlando twisted against the wall and hazarded a look through the glass. The smooth, straight back of his Sire's childe and there, in her hands was Catherine. Crumpled and sun-set streaked.

Tears.

Orlando felt an answering grief and let the wind howl her name.

Tell me how you die and I´ll tell you who you are.

2003-04-22T07:54:15Z

</td>

Fingering the feathery petals, Orlando lifts the flower and allows the sweet scent to invade. Memory hangs in the air and he breathes it in.

It is the end of Summer and the air is heavy with the long withheld promise of rain. It hangs in the spaces between, coating Orlando with dusk. Dark eyes surround him, glowing like embers in the wet heat.

Catherine has yet to lose her taste for travel, reveling in showing her childe the secret whispers of the world. Soon after Orlando gains proficiency in his gifts, they leave on a chartered ship, course set to the coasts of Mexico. Once there, they travel inland, sometimes by mule but mostly by foot. Catherine has a desire, something she's heard tales of, she says. Orlando suspects she's had another dream and has set off with the intent to wake that sleeping world. One morning, shortly before dawn they find themselves in an area lacking the caves and hovels they'd taken shelter from the day in. Orlando can feel the dull throb pulling against him, the coming of dawn, and might have been afraid had the covenant of blazing heat not been followed by a vow of black silence. Catherine presses a hard kiss to his lips and he wonders if she will join him in his lethargy.

"My darling... so new." She says quietly before dropping to her knees to dig in the dirt with her bare hands.

Orlando, too, falls to his knees, though not by his own design. Catherine's pace quickens and he catches her gaze, his mouth turning up in a slow, hopeless smile. He watches her and thinks perhaps his time has stopped, the blur of her arms glowing softly in the dark like the wings of a fallen moth. Within moments she digs a shallow trench and pulls him to her, carefully laying him in it, arranging his limbs and gently pressing his eyes closed with her fingertips.

The words brush against his ear as she speaks, "We must be rabbits now, my Cereus. And in the twilight, we will wake as the Dead."

She presses a kiss to a tender curve and leans up, wrapping her arms around the mound of dirt beside their temporary grave, pulling it over him. Orlando, limbs unresponsive to his commands, lays beneath the violet sky and knows he will never forget the scent of black soil.

He wakes to a penetrating cry, heavy and floating in empty space. There is a lenient pressure across his entire body and he feels a blunt tug as it pulls him down from his Morphean flight. The cry comes again, shrill and somewhat familiar. Orlando focuses as he has been taught, the sound of shifting brush scraping against his senses. Small creatures, scavengers, uneasy in their holes, hide from the source of the shriek. Brow furrowed under the shifting damp, Orlando waits for it... and there. The tiniest of sounds, a slow inhalation before the silence is again pierced by a song of grief. Catherine.

Orlando fights against the darkness that holds him, with his hands curved to claws he rips through the earth and enters the world in a low crouch, wary and ready. The cry trails off into quiet sobs and Orlando stares at his Sire, her dress filthy, one sleeve torn off. She dabs at her eyes with the tattered material and continues her lament. They are alone in the woods, no danger at the ready. Orlando relaxes and rocks back on this heels, arms wrapping around his knees.

Softly, he asks, "Why do you weep?"

Catherine sniffs and says, "Because my love dances with la Huesuda."

Orlando is unsure of her meaning, not yet inured to her moods. Cautiously, but with care, he says simply, "I'm sorry." And forces himself not to twitch as another wail splits the night.

Her cry withers and Catherine continues, "He was to return this night, to dance with me, but he has not." Innocent suffering plays across her features, "Have you seen my love?"

Orlando now understands and inches towards her, gentle in the quiet. He places his hands to her face and lifts tenderly, until her eyes look into his. "I am he."

Triumph and mirth fill her frame and Orlando stands, taking a step back and bowing formally, extending his hand in invitation, "Lady, will you do me the honour?"

Catherine accepts and lets him pull her to her feet, she dips low and walks into his hold. One hand clasped in his, the other on his shoulder, her long fingers barely brush against his neck. A strange thrill runs through him and they begin a slow waltz, moving to a music inaudible to mortal ear. Orlando does not ask after the source.

They give a final turn over the packed earth and pull apart with a parting bob. As Orlando stretches out of his bow, he meets with empty space, Catherine's body lightly presses against his back. She speaks with a feral humor, grieving lover long gone, "Now, rabbit, who shall dance with Death?"

She takes hold of Orlando's hand and together they travel through the night, closer to a village. Drumbeats reverberate all around them, the air seeming to pulse with life. When the first lights become visible, Catherine leads them to the road, covered in a sparse layer of petals.

"Let the cempasúchil lead you, my dear. For tonight, we are invited." Catherine picks up one of the yellow petals and places it against Orlando's moist lips, where it clings.

"Tonight, my Cereus, we feast." She leans in and sighs, unseating the petal. Orlando watches it flutter to the ground, spinning in its descent. Just before it touches down, he realizes he is alone.

Orlando follows the marigold strippings down the rutted road, as the first casas appear, he slows his pace. Their open doors surrounded by stelae embedded into the plaster, are a welcoming sight, the scent of burning copal and candle light emanate from within.

It is there Orlando's memories begin to stutter. Glimpses of faces, glowing eyes... all tied to the scent and taste of blood. He remembers each open door, a smile welcoming him, a hand beckoning him to enter. Images of three-tiered altars adorned with crosses, flowers, candles and food surrounded by garlands of papel picado. He recalls one host leading him to an altar and bidding him eat his fill... remembers the anima, its dark crust cracking in his hands. He had not cared to taste the remnants of a human life, but he ate the man of bread and understood what it meant.

In one home, a young woman, with dark skin and scented oil in her hair pulls aside the dark tresses and gives her ofrenda to Death. Orlando accepts and in turn, dances with her until her knees buckle. He swings her up in his arms and lays her at the base of her altar. With a bit of barro de obispo tucked behind her ear, he kisses the lids of her closed eyes and feels her warmth color his cheeks. When he straightens, cheers ring out from the crowd that had assembled to watch them. It was strange and exhilarating... this celebration. He has not taken the last drink, but the girl is quiet in her rest. The people draw around him, fingers ghosting over his shoulders, his face... hesitant at first. But when he meets their curiosity with his own, their touches grow fervent, almost frenzied. They each want to offer and trade.

One by one, he celebrates with the villagers. As he visits each home he thinks perhaps he is leaving more than he is taking. Though he has drank more than his fill, the Beast still hungers and Orlando feels the edges of frenzy surround him. It is a slow build, this rhythm, and he is wary, unsure of its end.

Orlando weaves through the crowd, towards the very center of the village. A low fountain, fed by an underground stream is surrounded by the faithful. Acknowledgement and acceptance shine in their faces, unsettling Orlando, urging him onward, urging the Beast within. Amidst the sea of red and black, his eyes catch on a tangle of gold. Catherine stands in a circle of dancers, a skull held high, balanced on her palm. At first, Orlando thinks it to have belonged to a child, the delicate arc and shadow lacking size. It glitters dully in the flickering light, the off-color of unbleached bone. Catherine, devilment in her eyes, lowers it slowly, the music calling Orlando to its sway. Drums beat louder, the tempo quickens and he watches, enrapt as Catherine runs her tongue over the curve of bone. He draws closer as she licks her lips into a gleam of red. He catches the scent of cane and sweet spices, holds it in his mouth like syrup. Catherine meets his gaze and again raises the skull to her mouth. The drums beat furiously and her lips turn up in a cruel smile, delight burning in her eyes. Biting down, the fragile crystals crack into pieces, slivering the shades of grey around her. The people chant and cheer, and Orlando moves towards her. The crowd pulls apart, opening the path to his Sire. He doesn't know if he can do it, if he can keep hold of the Beast. But he knows he must try.

With careful, measured steps, he approaches her. His face a mask of gold hovering over a fire of fury. His eyes on hers, he bows and holds out his hand. He hopes she doesn't accept, so that he might grab her, dig his fingers into the soft skin of her arms and steal her from this place. From these people who would seek to take her... them, and bake them into little loaves with secret ingredients.

Catherine's eyes are steel, serious and solemn. Orlando thinks she looks possessed. She moves forward and raps her heel swiftly against the stone floor of the plaza. His body responds and he takes her outstretched hand, pulling her to him, his hips nestled tightly against the juncture of her thighs. The drummers' pace changes, melody makes itself known and this time Orlando is aware of the source of the music, but the dance comes of its own accord. Taking steps his feet do not know, Orlando guides Catherine around the fountain, through the people. Their movements leave an invisible web, binding all who witness the lovers' return. Orlando swiftly, viciously spins Catherine away from him and she answers by twirling back, her leg wrapping around his thigh. Borrowed heat opens against him. He tightens his grip on her hips and slowly grinds against her. She smiles and lays her hand against his face. He returns the gesture and she turns her head to kiss his palm. Then bites hard enough to draw blood. The people's shouts are almost growls now, their energy wild with passion. Catherine licks the shallow wound closed and reaches up, behind her, tugging a white flower from its place in the chaos of her hair. Gently, she places the stem against Orlando's lips, and he obeys the silent request, taking it into his mouth, holding it between the points of his teeth. They move again around the village square, inhumanly swift in their steps. The beat rises to an impossible speed and Catherine kisses Orlando, taking the flower from him and holding the slender green stalk between her own vermillion lips. With a final spin, the drumming ends and Orlando dips Catherine back, baring the long line of her throat, he sinks his fangs into the flesh before him. The crowd is silent until he pulls back, his eyes glowing crimson with the Sire's blood. A low whisper runs through the watchers and Orlando pulls Catherine upright, where she again hooks her leg over his thigh. Slowly, she takes the flower from her lips and brushes it against his face, his eyes, over the strong line of his nose and finally his mouth before speaking.

"This, my Cereus, my nightbloom, is you. Once a year, under the light of the full moon the deadscape of the desert comes to life. For one night it blooms, then drops its petals to feed its fruit. Living things must die to create anew. But Kindred... perhaps now you see why I waited until you were open, petals stretched to the dark sky? Our night is eternal... and you, my dark soul, are an eternal bloom." Catherine tucks the flower behind Orlando's ear and kisses him, nipping lightly at his lips.

"Now that Death has had her dance, shall the Devil have his?" Catherine spins away, her sultry chuckle ringing in Orlando's ears. He glances at the moon and touches the soft petals that lay against his face. He looks to the fountain, and knows Catherine is already gone, waiting for him to find his place. He turns back and retraces his steps, past doors that are now closed. The people have ended their vigil and survived this night of parted veils. The return seems longer, and so very lonely. Orlando carefully tries not to think of why a flower might only bloom once, under the cover of night. He does not wish to remember his own hidden awakening. These are things that cannot be changed and eternity is far too long for regret. But he can't help to wonder, what of the fruit? An endless night with which to feed and ripen an infinite number... the idea of embracing another is too new for him to find it anything but grotesque. Orlando is sure there is something else he is meant for, something else waiting to be found.

With the walls of their makeshift grave crumbling around them, Orlando slides into Catherine in one long, smooth stroke and it's then that he thinks he might know what to do.

The next evening, Catherine hurries Orlando from his place of rest. Though they were welcomed the night before, today is a day of souls and Death has no place at dinner. None were lost during their feasting and Orlando sees the danger in the irony. They slip through the hills, to the woods where a gorge is spanned by a pulley bridge. The platform is pulled across by deceptively simple rigging, a small house, a shack really, stands on the village's side. In it, a man stands guard, though no threat has entered the valley since the last of the tribes vanished. Now he serves to maintain the ropes and assist those who would brave the crossing. Tonight the low window of the shack glows softly with candlelight. Within, the man is seen weaving together the fibers of a rope. He is the last of his kind, a keeper of the old ways and is more at home amongst the rough rock of the gorge than the smooth stone of the village. Catherine stands within view of the shack and wavers slightly on her feet. Orlando waits beside her, wondering if whatever unspoken rule forbidding them from killing has passed with the previous night.

"Tick tock, rabbit. It's time for tea." She says in a low voice, hunger glosses her pupils, making her eyes seem black. Orlando knows Catherine has sensed something here, something beyond the physical yen for food. She steps forwards and begins her approach, Orlando waits and watches, knowing there is a lesson here to be learned.

When Catherine finishes wooing her prey, she beckons Orlando forward, offering him the final drink. Afterwards, she cradles the old man in her arms, smoothes back the hair from his wizened, leather face.

A delicate look of sadness passes over her and she peers up at Orlando, "His journey is not yet complete."

Orlando nods in agreement, though not certain of how to assist.

Catherine hugs the lifeless body to her bosom, then straightens with a bright smile. "Help me, Orlando." She points the newly woven ropes out to him and instructs him to tie them to those connected to the pulley.

Orlando obeys and climbs out over the steep drop, he completes his task and returns, carrying the rope-ends with him, slipping them over two craggy trees with rusted wheels and over the low roof of the shack. Catherine awaits and arranges things to her liking. As she finishes the final touches, she asks Orlando to tug on one of the ropes. The platform begins to move slowly across and the ropes thread around the trees smoothly. Catherine is pleased and beaming, Orlando basks in her glee.

It isn't until the next day, the sun high in the clouds that the bridge is put into use. A young couple, returning with traded goods from the port, settle half their burden on the platform. The husband helps his wife gain her seat and checks that she is secure in her hold. Together they pull the ropes that send the wooden form over the gorge. Once on the other side, she unloads her parcels and her husband begins to pull the platform back to him, urging her to go find the bridge keeper, who is unusually absent from his post. The young woman piles the packages, making sure the bolt of calico is on top, away from the dust and dirt. While her husband loads his goods, she takes another look at the tiny yellow flowers on the cobalt cotton and smiles, happy with such a simple thing. She waves at her mate and walks over to the low shack, expecting the keeper to be taking a late siesta, or perhaps unfortunately ill. Her brow wrinkles slightly with the worry and she rounds the side wall.

The husband is almost finished loading the platform when his wife's scream empties the birds from the trees. He drops the package and leaps onto the wood, pulling himself across as swiftly as possible. As the platform begins to move, his wife's screaming grows louder, hysterical sobs echoing throughout the canyon. He yells for her and pulls harder on the ropes, upsetting the balance of the platform and sending a small barrel of salt plunging into the gorge. It falls unnoticed as he gets close enough to leap the small gap to the edge. The motion carries him into a run and he speeds to the shack, the safety of his wife the only thing on his mind.

As he rounds the corner, he notices two things. First, his wife appears healthy and whole, and is no longer screaming. And secondly, she is taking great, gulping sobs of air with both fists pressed against her mouth, staring at the front of the bridge keeper's shack. The young husband moves to his wife and turns to put himself between her and whatever danger is lurking there. He is not quite prepared for what it is he sees. He jumps a little when his wife wraps her hand in his shirt and pulls. She is near hysterical and when he turns to wrap his arm around her, she clings to him, burying her face in his chest. The husband is far too shocked to do much other than rub her back and murmur words of comfort. He takes a half-step forward and his wife tightens her hold on him. Making sure her eyes are closed, he reaches out and tugs one of the ropes. It flows through a pulley attached to a tree, and he hears the platform shift. He pulls harder and the rope slides fully around, tugging at the leads looped over it, those tied to the wrists and ankles of the old man. His body bobs slowly in the air, moving as if to a music only the dead can hear. The husband lets go of the rope and the keeper's body slumps forward. He hears a muted crash and realizes the platform has run aground. The thought freezes him and he looks down at the shaking form of his wife and back up, into the sightless gaze of the old man.

When the twilight fades and Orlando awakes, Catherine asks him, "Do you know what that was?"

Orlando thinks for a moment and answers quietly, "Due sacrifice?"

Catherine clicks her tongue. "Foolish boy! It was the Danse Macabre." She parrots the man's movements and laughs. She ceases the parody, though keeps one arm fluttering in midair. "Come now, my love... I've something for you. A surprise that I am sure you'll adore. But if we're to catch our liner, we must make haste."

Orlando lengthens his steps to keep up, after some time he asks, "What is our next destination?"

Catherine looks at him skeptically, "Why.. India, of course. Sometimes you ask the silliest questions." She softens the rebuke with a smile and grabs his hand, pulling him into his swiftest pace.

Orlando blinks his eyes a few times to clear the scarlet haze. Lifting one delicate petal with a long finger, he tilts his head and presses his lips to the silk of it. He thinks of Siegrid and does not believe she would understand. 'Far too long...' He will not dwell on it. Then another comes to mind, one who has visited his thoughts often of late.

Perhaps...

Death is about separating the sacred from the profane.
The sacred is a serious matter,
but Muertos is also a festival.
So this is a festival in a sacred space,
and this means everything is allowed without censure.
~José del Val

</html></h3>

Quand Jupiter ouvrit les cieux...

2003-02-08T05:08:40Z

It was a long way down.

Orlando slips off his shoes and stockings. Fingers linen paper and ebony ink, folded neatly in a pocket. He hangs his coat from the weathered wing of a guardian at rest and begins the climb. Slipping fingers and toes into unseen crevices, he scales the wall and works his way to Siegrid.

The gargoyle sat, as she always did, looking to the West. Orlando did not know the artist's name and had long enjoyed the idle fancy of her. He liked to think she did not have a creator, but rather came to rest here on her own. Folded against the wind, Siegrid was safely roosted in the most unreachable spot atop Notre Dame de Paris.

Taking him to travel after his embrace, Catherine had introduced them. It was early in his time, soon after he had gained his strength, though he'd had yet to lose the feral confusion that clouded his sight. Encouraged by her sing-song words of praise, he'd rushed her... pushed her into plaster and wood. Words were not yet quite known to his tongue and Orlando wanted to bruise the pretty sounds of her voice. Later, he had brushed the bruises with pale, violet petals from a rose that had been crushed in their fall. The bloom almost glowed against the aubergine lining of his fingerprints encircling her neck.

Orlando stroked the flower across her swollen skin and she had giggled, "Darling boy, am I your Moon?"

He had growled at her then, unsure of what she wanted... of what he wanted to give her. She laughed again, though her eyes were dark. When he traced her lips with petal-fingers, she'd snaked her tongue out, catching it on a thorn. The blood gleamed ruby and lurid in his sight... her tongue slid across her lower lip and he stilled her motion with a roll of his hips. With her sharp-eyed marble beneath him, he plucked the petals from the rose and touched their backs to the wound. His mouth formed a manic grin as he pasted scented silk to abused flesh using his Sire's blood.

When finished, Orlando had stood, taking her with him. He'd stepped back and looked at her, the ruin of the wall behind her, feathered lilac climbing the column of her throat. Her dress was torn, but he could not remember if it had been by his hand or hers. It mattered not and clarity was slowing making itself known. Catherine stained her lips and breathed deep through her nose... closed her eyes, tilted her head back into the moonlight... Orlando knew then he would follow wherever she would lead him... no matter the wanderlust, no matter the dawn.
He had found his return.

Catherine had laughed then, as though hearing his thoughts and grabbed his hand. She pulled him through the open window and together they had raced across the Paris roof-tops. Flying by night with the leather-winged bats, she led him in the direction of the cathedral. Once there, Catherine showed him the way, the secret places for cold, bare toes and fingers to wriggle and grasp. As they neared the top, she grew solemn and quiet. She had disappeared over the edge first. When Orlando pulled himself up he saw her, nestled into rounded wings. She was murmuring, whispering to the stone surrounding her. Secret things, he had thought and moved to descend.

"Come here, my creation. I wish you to meet a very old and dear friend of mine." She had said without looking his way.

Orlando complied and balanced on the hewn rock, wind whipping around him, threatening to tumble him to the flat world so far below. Catherine glanced at him, emotion shining in her eyes.

"This is Siegrid." She looked back to the guardian and stroked the time-softened curves. "Siegrid, this is my Cereus... my night bloom."

Much of that night had been spent listening to Catherine whisper to the gargoyle. Orlando succumbed to Siegrid's lines and reached out his hand to her wing. The stone was cold and hollow, ages filling the space between. He'd pressed his face against the outside, his Sire's cheek pressed to his, separated only by the aged form. She shared sanctuary with him that night.

Now he approaches her with an informal greeting, "I don't suppose she said goodbye?"

Orlando slips around her, careless of the wind and rests his forehead against hers. "She will return, Siegrid. In one manner or the next."

He spends a moment offering and accepting comfort, then twines himself around the gargoyle until he is seated near her tail. Taking a chisel from his trouser pocket, he traces a finger along the edge of iron and sucks it into his mouth. He has not tasted this since last he gave his touch to something other than flesh. Delirium and despair duel within him, blurring his sight. Orlando brings the chisel to the flat rock and his center snaps sharply. He pulls its hammer-mate from its place and with slow, determined motions, he carves the words he dares not utter aloud.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrows of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love, a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

With the last stroke and the pull of coming dawn, Orlando bids his Sire's guardian farewell.

A mimic echo...

2003-02-06T07:09:00Z

Orlando pulls on a wool pea-coat, the material catching at the silk of his shirt sleeves. A silent rasp against the temporary warmth beneath his skin. He looks over to the mattress in the corner, shoved hastily in its place, the lines of it running unevenly next to the shelter of the walls. Hidden underneath it, positioned so a bent corner is caught beneath the baseboard, is a postcard.

On the back in neat letters, "Souhait vous étiez ici."

A shadow moves below the thick duvet and the scent of down reaches out to Orlando, calling him back. His mouth quirks up at the corner, lips parting as a fang slides over slick flesh. He pulls the door open slowly, until a thin beam of light spills through the rift. Orlando's eyes follow to where a slice of color comes to life, though canvas and easel remain obscured. He leans against the jamb and looks back to the figure huddled in the bed, allowing the touch of memory to slip across him.

This work of madness is almost complete and Thierry has slowed his strokes. He holds to the moment as though the next will never come. Orlando has watched the young painter, brush stilled mid-air, fear growing behind his eyes. It makes Orlando hard, the smell of it, it makes him hungry.

Then doubt whispers to Thierry and Orlando stretches himself along the crushed velvet settee pushed against the back wall. He breaks the pose and allows the veil to slip across him. Thierry is silent, angry at the movement. He stalks over to the supine Orlando and jerks the shroud from him. Orlando arches his back and sits up. When Thierry opens his mouth, acrimony waiting on his tongue... Orlando leans forward, until the brush touches his chest. The oils seem warm in comparison to his chill. Thierry's breath hitches as the color stains the blank, dusky white. His brows draw together and his focus turns inward. Breaking the contact, Thierry rushes back to where his palette lays. He snatches it up and squeezes fresh color across the board. A sharp glance at Orlando and Thierry is above him, upon him... straddling Orlando's hips and stroking vivid hues in a spear-wound between his ribs. Orlando lays back and stretches his arms again, this time without complaint. Thierry, his hands a blur of motion and color, mutters to himself... half-words and epithets. Orlando watches the creation, its journey from soul to hands, and smiles.

A murmur from the bed brings Orlando out of his reverie and he takes a knit scarf from the peg by the door. With windows and worlds smeared by streaks of fingerprints beneath his clothes, Orlando wraps the scarf around his neck and exits. The door clicks quietly shut and he makes his way out of the building. Into the cold, familiar patterns of Winter's night Orlando goes, to seek out the company of strangers.

Flowers that prosper in the shade...

2002-12-01T04:48:33Z

Late evening at Arboretum Villedebelle d'Aviary, which houses spectacular gardens as well as an aviary of exotic birds...

Glass sparkles against the star-lit night, the skeletal frame suspending each sheet. The dome glows gently and Orlando feels the call of wet heat within.

He approaches the entrance, feet moving silently along the decorative length of red stone leading to the steps. Pausing outside, he waits and listens. The cacophony is enchanting.

Birds call and argue among the razor sharp leaves of palms.

Orlando's eyes close and he loses himself to the whisper of butterfly wings. His body wavers slightly, as though moving to an unheard music... he concentrates and can smell the faint trace of violet sage.

His focus shifts and the roar of water is loud in his ears. Orlando pulls his awareness back and can make out the trickle of water, from the pond in the center of the sunken garden. Laughter shakes the glass and he can resist no longer. With a slight smile, he pulls open the heavy door and enters the domed building.

The humid air envelopes him, warm and velvet against his icy flesh. He breathes it in, letting it sit heavily and unneeded within his chest.

The usual crowd is present this evening, though sparser. Lovers walk, arm in arm, whispering words - both sacred and profane - to each other. Orlando lowers his gaze to the green in front of him, bruised leaves emitting an angry, pungent odor. He sits on the low wall and basks in the ambience.

Behold the dead flame of the fallen day

2002-11-22T17:25:13Z

In stark silence, Orlando awakes and wonders at the fanciful musings of mortals.

So preoccupied with the inevitable, their kind, rushing ever-toward their end. Don't they know? The greater the fear, the more they shine. Beacons, begging for mercy from a God who does not listen.

He smiles slowly, feeling his mouth stretch skin still taught from dead sleep. His lips are dry and he licks them, raw need lancing through him at the damp touch of his tongue.

I hunger.

For a moment, he closes his eyes and allows the ache to take him. Sharp and horrible, he sees the faces of those he has released from mortal bonds. The initial fear in their eyes, the ending ecstasy. He remembers a time when he gave the Beast the lead and bathed in their blood. Orlando shifts, the need burning his body, and feels the absence of a sigh.

I miss Prague.

He rises and readies himself for an evening of adventure. A new club, with rather exclusive clientele, featuring the most specialized of proclivities. Orlando's favorites among the patrons are the artists, able to form the most unnatural beauty from the most ordinary of materials. The subjects beg for more, when allowed.

How I adore the sculptors of flesh. More so when one is pressed against me, my hand leading theirs; my tongue lathing a shallow wound, coaxing another taste into my mouth.

Walking into the Paris night, he takes a familiar direction, allowing the hunger to quicken his pace until he is unseen by the human eye.

Now, I hunt.