The Gallery

[Salvator]

BACKDATED [JANUARY 2018]

S A L V A T O R :

WEARING

The Society of Jacob Stagg had been established in the 1970’s after the death of the man for whom the organization had been named passed away. A lifelong entrepreneur and self-made man, Stagg’s vision had been a clear one. Where most of the world was slipping closer and closer to corporate domination, his focus had been on long-lasting, sustainable, locally made products. The entirety (much to the chagrin of his remaining family) of his amassed fortune had been used to set up the Society, whose endeavours were meant to thrive on charity after those deep cash wells ran dry. For the first few years, into the mid-80’s, things had gone exactly as planned. Those who acted in the name of Jacob Stagg helped small businesses with start up capital, and bailed out long-standing mom and pop businesses which were crumbling under the burden of trying to be competitive with retail giants. And then that well went suddenly bone dry.

The 2018 Society of Jacob Stagg Fine Art Gala was one of the first black tie events of the year, and the premise itself was fairly simple. Local artists submitted their work to the largest gallery in the city, and the Society ensured that the upper crust of the city, the social elite and most wealthy, showed up with cheque books in hand. Of course, Salvator though a generous man by nature, was also a skeptic. Prior to attending, he’d taken a look at the fine print, and had been pleasantly surprised to find that the artists themselves received twenty-five percent of the earnings on their work. Five percent went to expenses (apparently one of the Society members owned the gallery, which mitigated many of the costs), and the remaining seventy percent was entirely devoted to the charitable work itself. Which was honestly about as honest as could be expected, considering many top tier ‘non-profit’ groups ended up dumping hundreds of thousands in currency into lining the pockets of the ones who ran them.

There had been a brief speech at the very beginning of the evening, and now artists and socialites alike were mingling and looking at the pieces on display. Salvator himself had been attempting to untangle an abstract piece for the better part of ten minutes, staring at the paint with all of its multitude of hues and textures. He had arrived only a short time before, and had politely declined the cheap wine being served as champagne. Just the smell of it told him that it was more sour than sweet, and he assumed it was just another corner which had been cut in order to keep down costs. He didn’t mind. If nobody else could tell the difference, he wasn’t going to point it out, but he also wasn’t about to indulge for the sake of fitting in either.

He had ultimately walked away from the abstract work because it was too distracting. He knew that, if he were to hang it in his home, he’d end up never being able to look away from it. He was a man who lived on stories. They were his bread and butter, his hobby, and the thing he most loved. But paintings like that, with no concrete form, they came with dozens of stories embedded deep inside of the canvas. Broad appeal perhaps. Everyone who looked was likely to come back with a different idea of the representation.

And that was what brought him to stand in front of a piece called ‘The River Rock Ripper’. The subject matter was an obvious nod to Harper Rock’s sanguivorous occupants. There was a man in a dark cloak with blood clinging to his lips, fleeing the scene of a crime. Another painting he was likely to pass on. He appreciated the attention to detail, but the gore itself seemed unintentionally over-the-top. It blurred the line between reality and fiction. The corpse of the young woman was in a corner, as if unimportant and discarded. Her eyes were glassy. Her throat torn cleanly out of her neck.

Finally, he came to a statue. His reason for having attended the event was something of a litmus test. He’d moved to Harper Rock only a month prior, and that entire month had been spent dealing with setting up his home, ensuring his accounts transferred, seeing to it that a life-time’s possessions safely made it from London to the supernatural capital of the world. He wanted to write a history. A history of the people who had made this place, who had paved these streets, who had ultimately hidden such a great secret for what he assumed was a long time. The good thing about charity black-tie events was that they drew founding families like flies to tack strip. If ever there was a place to begin his work, it was at the gala.

The statue was pure marble, a woman draped in cloth which did little to hide either the soft femininity nor the strength in her form. She wielded a sword against an invisible foe, ready to block an attack that was not coming. What caught Salvator’s attention was the look in her eyes - how clearly the stone had been etched, and the way her features fit so expressively into the hand of humanity. “This one’s going to go for a lot.” He mused aloud. Mostly to himself, though there were certainly a few people around him.

[Alaric von der Marck]

WEARING

Alaric von der Marck was like the fox walking into the hen’s house, though his intention was not to rob the house of its eggs (or indeed its chickens). The intention was noble -- much like the bloodline to which he had evidently been sired, but which he had naught to do with beyond Elizabeth. The Society of Jacob Stagg fought against major corporations and yet, Alaric was easing his way into the CEO’s seat of just one such major corporation. His face wasn’t yet well known, however, and he could move through the crowd with ease, and without judgmental glares.

What was the point, one might ask? Alaric von derk Marck, though proud of the strength and spread of his legacy, had not created nor condoned von der Marck Industries so that the rich could get richer and the poor got poorer. Once upon a time, Alaric had been a self-made man, both as a human and as a vampire. He’d started from one small farm, which had spread to two farms, three, ten, fifteen, all across the country. The produce they delivered varied, until they had to build warehouses and factories. The name grew in renown and quality until it had the means (and the money) to buy out other companies, to bring smaller branches under the larger von der Marck umbrella.

Some of those branches were corrupt; certain men and women used the company to line their own pockets. They evaded tax and went on cruises, all while screwing over smaller independent businesses. This was not what Alaric had intended. This was not what the von der Marck name should symbolise. There were things that needed fixing and, with the help of the younger generation, Alaric wished to slowly right some wrongs.

Which meant he would attend as many gala events as he could, supporting charities just like this one to try to salvage the von der Marck name. Others might accuse the act of being selfish; that he was being generous only for his own gain. He could see how it would look that way, but it was only one purpose of many. At the crux of it, Alaric attended the gala because he was, deep down, a generous soul. And a community was nothing without its small business.

This event, in any case, was much calmer than the Christmas event he had attended mere weeks prior. The music was orchestral and calming, and the conversations were hushed rather than boisterous. There were certain pieces of art he liked better than others; though the one that depicted the vampire and his act of violence caused Alaric’s gut to clench. Not all vampires were the same, and yet the few would ruin the peace for the many. He sighed as he passed by the piece, shaking his head. His feet scuffed to a stop by the statue, already being admired by another.

Like every piece of art, everyone would look at it and see something different. Alaric couldn’t know what the other man was thinking, but when Alaric looked at the statue it reminded him of his sire, Isabella. The sharpness of her eyes was that peculiar clarity that belonged to vampire-kind; the sword, most often wielded by vampires (and a preference of Alaric’s) was holding off the threat of the future. Hunters, paladins, humans with pitch forks and torches intent on destroying that which they did not understand.

To Alaric’s pleasure, when he glanced down at the plaque depicting the artist’s name, there was no red dot. No one had bought this piece, yet. It would fit perfectly in the von der Marck welcoming hall – or perhaps a centre piece in the courtyard.

“Sie ist schön,“ he sighed, hands relaxed in his pockets, gaze wistful.

[Salvator]

S A L V A T O R :

“Ja.” He said, without really even thinking about it. “Sie ist auch mächtig.” His german had a pronounced English accent, though the way he slipped into the words was akin to a man pulling on a fitted suit. He did so with an ease which perhaps indicated some familiarity and fluency. Though to someone whose tongue German was native, his pronunciation probably didn’t quite hit the right note. Much like someone who was playing a song just a little off key. His education in the UK had been superlative, which was a product more of his own studious nature and desire to break away from the rigid confines of the middle class than anything else. However, learning had only planted the seeds, and it had been Salvator’s need to travel for work from his mid-twenties to mid-thirties which had given him the chance to stretch his lexiconic muscles. Speaking the language was reliving a memory which had faded.

He paused then, after a moment, as if realizing what had just transpired, and he found himself actively digging up, in his mind, what he had said. Conversational German was not his best, and he often misplaced words. In the past, this had led to any number of incidents where he needed to hastily clarify his meaning lest he leave someone feeling insulted. It was for that reason he glanced in the direction of the voice he’d heard. Information processed quickly. The other man’s voice had been soft, the sort that, he supposed, didn’t feel the need for boldness of pronunciation. Salvator had noticed this when it came to those born and raised in Europe as opposed to North America. North Americans, in his experience, tended to speak very directly and to the point. Their tones tended to reflect this; designed to relay information as opposed to add shading to the overall act of communication. Sometimes it felt very abrupt to him.

But he was also an admitted romantic, and there was something beautiful to him about having to unravel the mystery of a few words rather than be fed knowledge without context.

He glanced briefly into Alaric’s eyes, as if to discern, through the man’s features, if he needed to rectify his phrasing. Their sense of fashion, it seemed, bore some similarities. There was also something familiar in the strength of the other man’s squared jaw and the masculine jut of his chin. On a practical level, all they spoke for were good genetics. Not as delicate as he might have thought for the crowd. Wealth was the new aristocracy, and aristocracy usually seemed to breed weak chins. Was this man then used to the rigors of a hard life? His gaze dropped to hands discretely for a moment as if to look for calluses. A man in his line of work was always looking for clues; it was honestly something he had to intentionally stop himself from doing. And that was precisely what he did. Curiosity was his gift and his vice, but it was best not to go down that rabbit hole without at least an introduction.

“My German is not grand.” He said by way of greeting before he offered his hand, continuing in his own native tongue. “Salvator Hastings.” He said, almost as if his name itself was an after-thought. He often came across as if his mind was all over the place - and that’s because it was. Absent though he was not. Rather he just prioritized things differently to most people. His presence was him. The name itself was just a tag by which people identified his face and his body and the soul of his work, and mind.

He assumed the other man spoke English. What Alaric had said, had come seemingly as a response to Salvator’s own statement, though he suspected if that was not the case, he would know soon. His hand reached in greeting. “She is beautiful though. She is poised and ready for battle. The stretch marks on her abdomen are very subtle, and at first I thought they were imperfections in the marble. She is a mother and I can’t help but feel that’s part of why she is so prepared.” He commented, though that too was another turn in the story. Was she defending her young? Someone else’s? Or had she lost those she loved? Determination came in many forms, from love to revenge. “You are considering purchasing her?” He asked, his voice hushed.

[Alaric von der Marck]

Although aware of the other admirer, Alaric had not expected his company to have understood the German. In fact, Alaric had not been speaking to anyone, or anything but the air; the response came as a surprise. He arched a dubious brow, the corner of his lip quirking into a smile. The accent was strong, but the German was understood regardless. The accent was as strong as Alaric’s own would be -- he’d reply in English, as had become his fashion. In order to learn the language, to become fluent with zero error or lack of understanding, he must speak it as much as was possible.

Alaric took the other’s offered hand, his own palm cool and hard to the touch. The grip was firm, but not too firm. “Alaric von der Marck,” he offered. He’d at least decided that much; he wouldn’t be hiding behind an alias, even though he had one. When travelling overseas, he was known as Aldrik Mayer -- a name chosen for him by Elizabeth, and one which he was not averse to. But it was not his own. And where, two centuries or more ago he had become a recluse and had hidden his very existence from the majority of his family, now he was slowly easing out of the shell. To do so might put a target upon his back, but to live in hiding could not be considered living.

“I am considering purchasing her,” Alaric repeated with a nod. His gaze had shifted from the too-blue eyes of his new companion and back to the statue in front of them. He almost wanted to track down the artist to ask what her story was, but that would be asking too much. It was better, in his mind, to let the art speak for itself. Alaric had not noticed the stretch marks. In his mind, that did not mark her as inherently human, either. Vampires could be mothers, too. They could be fathers. They might also be fighting a metaphorical enemy, the enemy that is themselves. Sometimes, children must also be saved from their own parents.

“There is nothing quite like a mother’s love,” he said. He had to tear his gaze away only so that he might look for one of the gala’s attendants; someone who might take his details and place one of those coveted red dots next to the statue’s plaque.

[Salvator]

S A L V A T O R :

The grip was sure of itself, but not misguided nor arrogant. The name pricked at something at the back of his mind, like a little hook which pulled at his thoughts. Had he heard it somewhere before? Was the man before him possessing of a reputation? “My friend, you have a smile that could stop a heart.” He said with a chuckle, forgoing the instinct he had to step closer and pull the other man a loose, one-armed embrace, as had become his custom when travelling a world away. Human camaraderie was in high demand in an age when people expressed themselves with text on a screen and emojis. Perhaps that dated him though. So he restrained himself to the tactile language of their hands touching. Cool fingers. That was such a small detail that it barely registered. Could have been explained by any number of things, such as anemia or poor circulation. Were it not for the cue cards in his brain, upon which those little observations were intentionally writ, the observation might not even have warranted noting.

The matter which did not have a diversity of explanations was the solidness behind Alaric’s intention. You are used to working with your hands. He thought to himself. Which put Salvator in good company, as far as he was concerned. He had once called his life’s passion the study of the fruits of man’s labor. This, of course, normally made him a bore. “You have me curious.” He said, as if those words themselves were a self-contained statement and lacked the need for further elaboration. He was pleased though, and it showed, when Alaric repeated what he said. Had he not just been thinking about the very topic of atmosphere and communication a moment before? Alaric got it. Perhaps he was a mind reader.

Which gave Salvator the opportunity to turn the tables. One of the attendants was drawing closer, and he flagged the woman down. She wore a blue suit with a pair of pins on her lapels, which indicated she worked for the gallery, and there was an ID tag pinned to her pocket. His hand lifted, and fingers curled, gesturing for her to come closer. “I envy the look in her eyes.” He admitted. It was clear that she was standing against something that was meant to be feared. There was courage in her expression and in her stance. The choice not to use a male model for the sculpture had been a good one, because something would have been lost in translation, he suspected. The difference between Athena and Ares. Both deities of battle, but Ares representing the brash, hard, physical aspect. Blood and death. Athena though, she was ruthless and cold strategy, for the sake of imposing social order. War, not for the sake of war, but for the greater good. He could see it as plain as day.

He wanted to think that everyone should have something in their life they loved that much.

“What foe do you think she is facing down?” He asked, and that was when the attendant he’d flagged down made her appearance, standing beside the men, peering to Salvator in question. He took a step back, nodding in Alaric’s direction with the gesture of one hand, to give the man an opportunity to claim the piece. It was solid marble, so there was no doubt the German’s pockets were deep. Von der Marck. The name was repeated. Ah yes. The earlier familiarity made some sense, as the shadows of notions were allowed to coalesce. He had been reading up on several histories about Harper Rock both prior to his move and during the month he’d been in the city. That name had come up. Which meant that it had age, weight and apparently wealth to it. But Alaric did not seem like the pampered son of some late generation agriculture tycoon. A mystery. It was his turn to smile.

[Alaric von der Marck]

A smile that could stop a heart. It was an odd thing to say to a stranger, let alone one you’d met only minutes before. Suddenly, Alaric thought of Judah. He thought of the Christmas party, and all the couples he’d seen locking lips. In public. Men and women. Women and women. Men and men. He was half way thinking that homosexuality had become more popular, when he realised it’d probably been popular all along. All those years ago, when he was alive -- it’d just been hidden from the public eye, lest one be charged with sodomy. Alaric was not against sexual freedom, not in the least. It was still a shock to him.

Such a compliment from a stranger in the middle of a public event had Alaric wondering. When his hand was released, he returned it to his pocket. He might have informed the stranger that the smile had only been social nicety; it had been genuine enough, but it wasn’t a full smile. If only a cocked smile could stop a heart, what would a full one do? A question that the elder kept to himself.

You have me curious. Another statement the elder von der Marck wasn’t too sure how to respond to. Curious about what? Why he wanted to purchase it? Or why he thought that there was nothing like a mother’s love? Did Salvator wish to know why Alaric should be so aware of a mother’s love? He remembered his Anja and how fiercely protective she’d been of her boys. Alaric had fled his home so that she would never have to try to protect them from their own father. Now, in this statue he did not see Isabella. He saw Anja. It pained him to imagine, but she’d have stood before their boys, just like this. She’d have held her sword aloft to keep the rabid vampire at bay. She’d have chopped her own husband’s head off if it was to save their offspring.

The question was asked, and Alaric remained silent -- he was saved by the attendant, whose attention had shifted from Salvator. Alaric snapped from his reverie and nodded. “Ja, I would like to purchase this piece…” he said, and thus began the short conversation with the attendant. Alaric’s details were taken, including payment method and delivery address. He was given a red dot, and he crouched down so that he himself could have the honour of marking the piece as ‘taken’. The attendant then moved away, and Alaric stood. More relaxed, now that he knew he would not miss out on this wonderful piece of art.

“Perhaps it is a devil of her own making,” Alaric finally replied. “Regardless, her conviction is enough to inspire any man,” he pondered. Alaric could not know what it felt like to be a mother; a father’s love was different. No less powerful, perhaps, but different. And though none of his children were still living, the new generation still felt like they were his own. And he, like this woman, would defend them with his own life.

[Salvator]

S A L V A T O R :

Salvator kept his distance at the exchange of information. Curiosity, though a strong motivator, was no excuse for rudeness, and the deliberate retrieval of another person’s financial information and address was a faux pas even to those with weak social graces. In that time, he did not so much drift away as hover on the outskirts so that he could appreciate the sculpture one last time. He could hear a few conversations simultaneously, though picking through them was like trying to untangle the Gordian knot. There was idle chatter about the current state of affairs. How there had been an attack some months before. How humans and vampires were beginning to get along again after numerous efforts made on both sides. It was shocking to Salvator the ease at which people talked about such things. Surreal in a way. Like walking into a piece of fiction, and finding one’s self as a support character to an ensemble cast of supernatural beings. He normally avoided books like that - not because he was a snob - but because they just didn’t interest him as much as historical realities.

And then there was some discussion about two handsome ‘new men’. Though no, both weren’t really new. One of the people talking had seen the tall, quiet German at a party only the month prior. It was at that point Salvator stopped listening to them, because listening to someone talk about him felt vaguely voyeuristic in its self-indulgence. Besides, there was an artist talking about his work just a short distance away. He glanced up to see it, and the painting took up nearly an entire wall - and looked as if someone had slung themselves violently against the canvas. This all took place in the space of only a few moments, and soon he heard Alaric’s voice once more, turning back to the statue to see the other man pulling out of a crouch.

A devil of her own making. That brought to mind the often overused phrase popularized by FDR some years before. The idea that people brought to life the manifestations of their greatest enemies in their own minds before they ever faced them in real life was not new. The notion that fear of a thing was more dangerous than a thing itself was not either. The answer seemed sincere enough, and certainly lacked glibness. But it was the sort of answer that allowed one to say something without ever giving specifics. Maybe vagueness was the point though. “Conviction is the theme of the decade.” He said, which probably required some explanation. One of his hands slipped into the pocket of his slacks, or at least a few of his fingers did. Normally there would have been a wine glass to occupy his palm. The motion forced the end of his jacket to lift and accommodate, wrinkling around the intrusion as the fabric flowed like disturbed water to either side.

“Maybe I’m getting old, but I want to see that kind of conviction in the world. I don’t mean the rash determination of youth, which burns hot and then disappears. I mean the smoldering embers of willpower tempered by forbearance, which are what truly see a man through a cold winter night. You understand what I mean?” The world was changing, had changed a lot in just his lifetime. Things were made more cheaply and designed not to last, but to be replaced only a year or two later. Craftsmanship was not something expected, but treated alternatively like either a waste of time or a luxury. Art itself had become an impatient game of animal expression. He had hired any number of assistants over the years. They stayed around the same age, but became less and less likely to stick with him, though he knew himself to be a fair employer. Youth wanted recognition. Age desired outcome.

He was not so much moving as glancing in the direction of the next piece of art, his head tipping that way as a silent invitation for them to continue their conversation whilst enjoying the colors of the night. What it boiled down to perhaps was that Salvator was in a transitional period in his life. He had achieved many of his dreams, but had he given back to the communities which had gifted him his prestige? Perhaps that related to why he was in the city of monsters. “What gives your life meaning, Alaric?” he asked. “Put another way: What in life do you seek to give meaning by your having touched it?” He questioned, glancing with the turn of his head over to the other man. He almost wanted to apologize because he was returning vagueness with a more intense line of questioning.

This was not one of his interviews. He had no recorder on in front of him, no pad of notes.

He had to remember that.

“We have a group of admirers at five o-clock.”

[Alaric von der Marck]

“I understand,” Alaric said. It was as simple as that -- though he did not think that kind of conviction had disappeared. The world was not perfect and injustice was not allowed to slide. No, that wasn’t quite right. Injustice was as popular as it always has been; there was always someone in the world willing to let their greed eat up any moral conscience they might have been born with. Injustice often won player of the match, but the scores weren’t always accepted. The crowds cried foul. They saw that the game was rigged and demanded a re-match. There was the conviction Salvator thought the world needed. It existed in third world countries, in the voices that were the smallest but shouted the loudest.

That kind of conviction could only ever exist in climates of injustice, of war and unfairness, of greed and envy, sloth, avarice. Alaric shook his head.

“I do not think that conviction is a good thing. Yes, against injustice it is a requirement, but the world would be a better place if conviction was not needed. Such a world would be free of evil,” he said. That could have been the answer to Salvator’s question, though it was not an answer that Alaric could put into words. He lived in the hope that one day he would witness a world where conviction was not a requirement; in business, and family, he wished to share that hope for a utopian future. It was an answer he failed to give because he knew how naive it was, how wrong. How long had he lived? He’d escaped his home country because it was ravaged by war -- a war that lasted thirty years. In the centuries that he was dead, his home country had sullied its name, forever burned into the history books as mother to Hitler, and a whole school of thought that favoured a ‘supreme’ race that did not exist. And now, alive again, the world was still at war. There were nuclear weapons and idiots in power. How long until they killed everyone?

Was was inevitable. War was written into human nature. Utopia was a dream, and conviction, he hoped, would never grow too tired. He hoped that conviction would never give up, never give in. Never accept injustice. Again, he shook his head. Salvator had asked a question, and it was a personal question. They had only just met and, though in Salvator’s eyes Alaric could see a kind of innocence, an avid curiosity, he still did not know the man well enough to spill his soul. Alaric glanced to the mentioned ‘admirers’ and, warily, ignored them. He did not understand what it was that they admired and, if it had anything to do with the pursuit of love in this haphazard world, he wanted none of it. The idea of ‘flirting’ like it was some kind of game -- it did not appeal to the elder. He still so often felt that he wore his years like a mask, skin wrinkled and paper-thin.

It was not physical appearance that attracted him. Instead, he gravitated toward old souls.

“What of you, Salvator? What is it that you think she is fighting?” he asked, head cocked toward the statue they had left behind.. It was a theme, it appeared -- the statue, the gory depiction of vampiric violence, and a few other pieces alluded to the state of the city and its supernatural occupants. On whose side did Salvator stand, and why, exactly, should the elder trust him with his soul?

[Salvator]

S A L V A T O R :

A world free of evil. The concept was ideological, unable to sustain itself in a world marked by its many shades of gray. Normally, Salvator would have called the notion trite - not because he didn’t want the very same thing - but because usually people who said the very same thing had not been burdened by the often emotionally crippling weight of the world’s problems. He didn’t get that sense from Alaric though. Perhaps there was some naivety there. But there was a difference between being unaware of the problems the world and its many diverse communities faced, and seeing them, but hoping for something better. Salvator couldn’t stop the quirk of a smile which tugged at the corner of his mouth, giving his features an almost lopsided appearance. Alaric was a good man. At his very core. He hadn’t said as much, but people most often revealed the truest things about themselves when they didn’t intend to. The idea of a world that didn’t require conviction was a good one, a noble one even. He almost wanted to ask Mr. Von der Marck what he was doing towards that end, but he suspected given how little they knew of each other; that would come across as confrontation. Even if that wasn’t the intention.

“You’re right.” Something told him that Alaric was used to hearing that though. “You want to leave the world a better place than when you came into it. As far as motivations go, I can find no fault with that.” The words were not so much an admittance as thoughts given voice as they moved across his brain. If this was an indication of the German’s ability to hold conversation; it was a good one. There was depth in what he said, even the things which seemed to be passed off as idle chit chat - which indicated that Alaric was, by nature, a complex individual. This immediately put Salvator at ease, as if it was he who was sinking into the warmth of a hot spring as opposed to his intellect and soul reaching out across the distance between them to try and find connection. “Did you, by chance, see the painting earlier, with the vampire and victim? I thought, when I saw it ‘I know propaganda when it’s in front of me’. There are many kinds of evil in the world, but one of the most common is just a synonym for ‘difference’. Being different is not evil to me, but groupthink is a powerful motivator for violence.”

He glanced sidelong towards Alaric, perhaps hoping to peer into the man’s eyes, if they were there when he looked. “You’ll have to forgive the gracelessness of my response, but think there’s something beautiful about the solitary nature of the human experience. My passion is not to fight, but to understand.” It could have been argued that one of the many meanings to life came from a person finding the place which felt most like home, amongst the people who felt most like family. Every person’s journey was as individual as the genetics which made them up. The topic, after all, was conviction. However, conviction did not just come from people squaring off against each other. The opposite was also true. Salvator didn’t just tell pretty stories. He gave a voice to those who didn’t have one.

Salvator noticed the way the German chose to ignore the admirers. That too said things about the man. That he didn’t need praise - or if he did, not from anonymous faces. That he was not a creature who thrived in the limelight. The more he learned, the more the Englishman saw himself in Alaric. They were between displays. He could hear people asking the artist questions. “I think she’s fighting the entire world. I think she’s alone or greatly outnumbered. I think she may have her back against a wall. When I said I envied the look in her eyes, what I meant was that I envy her courage. I think she is an outsider and she knows it. I think she knows this may be her last battle, but what she fights for is more important than who she is fighting.” I desire deeply to have people in my life I could feel that way about. A tumbleweed lacked roots because it was always in motion; that had been Salvator’s life for quite some time. “I am no art critic though, so the lens through which I appraise these works is perhaps irrevocably tinted by my line of work, and need to bring even small details into cohesive life, as narrative.” He leaned almost imperceptibly closer to Alaric as they drew closer to the group of people who were beginning to disperse once the artist had finished answering questions, as if to conserve the quietness of their discourse.

[Alaric von der Marck]

Alaric’s eyes were sometimes green, sometimes blue; it depended on the lighting, though his beloved Anja had liked to joke that his mood was always written in his eyes--blue for the calm of a summer sky, green for the storm threatening to unleash bricks of ice. That was one of the reasons he had loved her so. His anger never touched her. If his anger was ice, she was the warmth of a hearth ready to melt all the ice away. She laughed at his anger, when his anger was not worthwhile. She calmed him. And when his anger had merit, she joined him in it. That anger could never be directed at her.

Regardless of their colour, Alaric’s eyes were, as cliche as it may sound, windows to his soul. It was an old soul steeped in regret in sorrow, tired and yet determined. Brightness limned the edges of surging dark so that it was not as threatening as it could be, but equally deserving of respect. These windows were open to Salvator for only a second before they turned away again, toward the display they seemed to float toward. The artist stood nearby, and Alaric wished that she would leave. He hoped that, if they stood there quietly to admire her work, she would not interject. He hoped that she would not answer questions that they had not asked; that she would stay silent, unless asked a question.

The point of art, in the elder’s perspective, was that it be determined by the viewer. Once a piece is finished and leaves the hand of the artist, it is no longer theirs to dictate. Whatever meaning they prescribed to the piece is not their meaning to give. It is for the viewer to glean, on their own. If told the meaning, there is no purpose to the piece. There is no enjoyment of it.

And yet, this piece desired no explanation. It took Alaric mere seconds to understand its complexity; it was something that he recognised. If the armed woman, to Alaric, was the embodiment of someone fighting their own demons then the piece they were now confronted with were the very demons that he himself struggled against. The frown immediately creased his brow, jaw tight. For all the miniscule changes to his features his demeanour remained calm, hands still casually thrust into his pant pockets.

The piece was writhing darkness, a city that was not a city of brick and mortar but one of shadows, with no end and no beginning. It was abstract, jagged, buildings at odd angles and disjointed, roads abruptly cut off by ink-dark rivers, a sky with no clouds and no stars. This was his nightmare, the one he had every single night. Though it was not a nightmare, only a memory that he could not shake. No, that piece that depicted the vampire and his victim was vamprism from a human’s perspective, tinged with fear. This one was vampirism from a vampire’s perspective. And yet the fear was no less inherent. Alaric spared a glance for the artist, who stood, unassuming. Her gaze lifted to meet his and he nodded -- a silent moment of understanding between them. She was a vampire. She had seen what he had seen. She smiled, only briefly, and nodded back.

“Solitary nature,” he finally voiced, “does not belong only to humankind. And it is not something to romanticise,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument; it was the tone of a man who’d spent centuries alone, and the thought of ever having to spend another night alone terrified him. It was why he had gravitated toward Elizabeth. He thought that she would understand more than most; she was immortal, she would not fade like the others could, like they would, eventually. But she was not alone. She was not lonely. She did not share Alaric’s need; perhaps she did not understand it, after all.

“All men have courage when they need it most,” he muttered, before taking a breath. He had to, in order to keep up appearances. “And what is it that you do for work?” he asked, turning the attention back to the young man at his side. If he was not careful, Alaric would give too much of himself away.