The Gallery

[Salvator]

S A L V A T O R :

The way Alaric spoke about loneliness, or being alone, it held little slivers of that very same determination Salvator had brought up only a short time before. There was something resolute inside of the German, something with roots that ran deep, but which revealed itself above the surface. Salvator likened it, in his mind, to a tree. Passion which was not a roaring fire, but was as essential to a person’s nature as truth. And for a moment, he wondered what truths were written into the fibers of his own being. A moment of introspection did not so much steal his attention as perhaps give the impression he was mulling over what the other man had just said. “You misunderstand.” He finally said, tone softer than before, though only briefly. “To be alone is not something I see as beautiful.” He hesitated then, in moving forward with that avenue of the conversation, because he had only just met Alaric.

“I recently lost someone very close to me.” The words left his mouth like a mist or a fog, filling the space around him with a burden he did not mean to share. “I was not there when it happened, and I suppose I feel guilty. What I see as beautiful, is how people walk alone, and yet still find connection. Seemingly from nothing. Even in the strangest of places.” Perhaps, it was not that Alaric had misunderstood, but that Salvator had misspoken. And the person close to the human had been his mother. When she had first been diagnosed with cancer, he had dropped everything to go and be with her. He had held her hand through the treatments. He had held her hand when she had gotten the news that she wasn’t receptive. That she had only a few weeks left. So he had stayed with her over those weeks, until Isadora had come into the picture.

Isadora Hastings was younger than her brother by more than a decade. He barely knew her, because he had already been building his life when she had been born. A miracle baby, they had called her at the time. Life had changed that. Her drug of choice was heroin, and their mother had survived an extra year, fought through the sickness which robbed her of her strength and life, so she could take care of Isadora. In that time, Salvator had stepped away from the situation, disgusted by her, by how she used people up until there was nothing left of them. He said that he would not be dragged into her downward spiral. And in a way, had he not abandoned the woman who gave him life? It was not something a man in his late thirties often had to contemplate. Now he wished he had remained. That he had forced his sister into rehab. That he had been there when their mother passed away.

He was not a man who often felt shame.

And when he talked about making those connections - it was just a wish he was making. Spoken out loud.

He had noted, despite his distraction, that Alaric spoke of humankind as if he did not belong to it; or as if he was closely acquainted with those who did not. The thought nagged at the back of Salvator’s mind like someone trying to catch the edge of a band aid. “I am a writer.” He said, thankful for the change in topic. Very thankful, actually. The darkness of the piece in front of which they had come to stop felt, to him, like the jagged and dark knives of his own mistakes and the way they sank into the very core of who he was. His gaze averted at some point. “I am a memoirist, specifically. I do a lot of ghostwriting. My job is one part detective, one part telling someone’s story in their voice.” It meant that he had to crawl into the very skulls of those who he worked with. It meant being flexible in ways that most people would have found uncomfortable. Ironically, a lot of his job involved seeing the ugly parts of a person and coming to accept them. Even love them, in some cases.

“What about you? You don’t strike me as the pampered wealthy. It’s clear you come from old blood, but you don’t have the physical markers of it. You’ve clearly seen hard work.” The words were an assessment as much as they were a question, as if Salvator was trying to work out the puzzle aloud.

[Alaric von der Marck]

The elder did not think that he had misunderstood, and at first only frowned, though he did not interrupt. He waited for Salvator to tell him the way in which he had misunderstood -- and though Alaric could argue semantics he chose not to. It was not that he did not understand; he’d taken what Salvator had said and interpreted the words as they had fit together. The lines were now defined, however, the nuances pulled from the spaces between the words. And he understood.

How could he not? An immortal bound to live through centuries to watch humanity wilt and fall around him, disintegrating into the earth only to make way for new growth, new blooms, new generations and new faces. New connections were forged with each decade that passed; though perhaps the beauty even in that had faded. The elder had pulled himself away from the public eye, he had become a ghost in his own home. He’d said he was tired, and of what he had not put into words until now. Of course he was tired. A man could only watch those he cared for die so often until he would choose to remain distant from them, to save himself the pain.

The words would not be spoken aloud; to do so would only belittle Salvator’s own pain and the revelation that had crawled from his lips. To try to empathise with another by sharing a pain and claiming it as worse was not empathy, it was cruelty. Alaric would belittle no man’s pain, for there were no measures. Pain was the same regardless of how often or how much it was felt.

The change in topic, Alaric noticed, was grasped with eagerness and questions and proper sympathies could wait -- if the men chose to continue their acquaintance once the art was all packed up and the crowds had dispersed.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said, because to say nothing would have been rude.

And at first he had no idea of what Salvator meant when he said he was a memoirist, a ghostwriter. Much of Alaric’s time was spent interpreting the modern language and gleaning meanings from words according to their context. The sentence that followed made it clear; he was someone who wrote the stories of others. Though why he would choose to do so in their voice rather than his own confused Alaric. But, he would answer questions before he asked any more of his own.

The suggestion that he did not look like the pampered wealthy only brought a coy smile to Alaric’s lips. Did he not look as if he belonged amongst the elite of this city? Yes, he had once worked hard but these days, it was not a requirement. These days, Alaric was of the pampered wealthy, meandering home to an Estate that he refused to live in alone, with its numerous fireplaces and its gardens, its fully stocked fridges and its cleaning staff. Would it disappoint Salvator to know that Alaric was as pampered as they came? It was only that he retained the markers of his humanity; Alaric could not see himself in the mirror, but he was glad that he did not look like some gleaming Midas made of gold.

“Ja, I have seen hard work, but it is no longer required of me,” he said with a gleam to his eye. “I am in business. It is not interesting,” he said, waving his hand as if to brush the topic aside. “What I do not understand is… why you would write a story in another’s voice and not your own…?”

[Salvator]

S A L V A T O R :

The words were a salve by their own merit; perfect in that they did not commit too much in any direction but simply hung in the air between the men. They were not ‘I know exactly what you’re going through’ or any derivation thereof; words that were harmless, and might have earned Alaric a sympathetic look, but which would have been internally damaging. The issue itself was not entirely dropped. It was the equivalent of someone bringing over a warm casserole to be consumed by a mourning family, though on the level of an acquaintance. Salvator was enough himself to recognize that the words themselves were well placed. And that it indicated either considerable upbringing, or familiarity in dealing with loss. He couldn’t say for sure which was true. It struck him though, that it didn’t matter. And that he was ultimately just grateful for the grace of good manners by which the conversation was allowed to progress.

His hands slid from the pockets of his slacks, so that he could let his arms fold low behind his back, which only served to make his shoulders roll backwards, his posture straightening just a little bit, before it lost the stiffness which might have made it feel over-formal. He was, after all, the son of laborers, and though his pursuits were normally of the mind, some habits were ingrained bone deep. I have seen hard work. There was an impish thought which took form at the back of his mind and tugged as if it had hooks to pull at his mind. His gaze darted sidelong to the nearness that was Alaric. He wanted to reach and squeeze one of the man’s biceps. As if to test the mettle of the statement, though other observations already told him as much. So it wouldn’t have been entirely a whim more common to an adolescent mind. To see if Alaric was as fit as he seemed. The notion was ignored before it could find root though. Not because Salvator was ashamed of his appreciation for the human form (whether masculine or feminine), but because he was already stressing the strength of his social graces. Besides, it was a flash of an idea, and not one that needed nurturing. Even if Alaric was handsome.

The other man’s words told him that Alaric was indeed a self-made man. Perhaps he was wealthy independent of his family ties. That thought alone was like a winding road in front of him. In business. The matter addressed with brevity and then passed over. Perhaps the manner of Alaric’s dealings was less than savory. No. That didn’t make sense with what Salvator knew of him. He suspected there was a different reason the German didn’t want to talk about whatever he did for a living. Perhaps he was not the sort of man given to revealing things easily about himself. The type who carefully diverted attention and focus so as to not be a locus for scrutiny.

“Usually that’s the desire of my client base.” He admitted honestly as he glanced ahead to another wall of displays. He had, thus far, not found anything that jumped out to him as needing to be in his home. Which was a shame, because he had been looking for something grand to put over the mantle of the fireplace in his library. “Part of it is request, and part is ethics. I do make modifications, but I attempt only to make the intentions of my clients more plain to those who might read. For example, I have worked with several criminals in the past. To inject my own thoughts might complicate matters, or taint the purpose of the work. However, many readers would not necessarily understand the motives of someone put in prison for life. Not easily, at least.” There was a lull after that as he considered. “If I were given complete freedom though, I would love to write something with a touch of history. Perhaps not a biography. I don’t want to just recite the facts associated with a man or woman’s existence. I want to see them for who they most truly are. Who they present themselves to be, and the person beneath that. I think, most often, I write in someone else’s voice because people are afraid of that level of vulnerability.” Which was probably why he had become so good at reading people, at reading between the lines.

There was a flash of motion caught from the corner of his vision and his gaze slowly shifted to a new image that was being wheeled out on what seemed to be a partition of some kind. What immediately caught his attention was that it appeared to be someone falling. The painting itself captured the motion beautifully, effortlessly and yet it was evident in every stroke of the brush. He began in that direction without really thinking.

“I must confess, I recognize your family name.” It struck him then, that Alaric spoke with a German accent. Someone who had been born and raised in Canada obviously would not have spoken in said accent. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. Or another branch of the family which had not come to the region many years before, but had instead stayed in the old world. Or perhaps...no. That conclusion required too much assumption. “You have lived here a long time?”

[Alaric von der Marck]

The temptations were numerous and plenty. The conversation was bait and there was so much that Alaric could say; there were hints that he could drop, teasings of truth that weren’t fully explained. He could lead the younger man on, keep him on a rope. Not in a flirtatious way, but in the way that one who thirsts for knowledge is addicted to the chase for truth and understanding.

On the one hand, Alaric could ask how Salvator intended to write a historical biography when history was so riddled with lies and incomprehension; memories were not to be trusted and biased accounts were even worse. How could a person get to the very truth of a historical figure without being able to talk to them directly? And, surely, he could say, there is no one alive old enough to give an account of their historical lives.

And yet, there was that last question -- so innocent in nature but with an answer that was both truth and untruth. Could Alaric claim to have lived in Canada even though he’d been dead? Could he say that he’d moved in the early 1600s and thus had lived here for over four centuries? Or could it only be counted from his rebirth, and thus only a year or two? Who would have thought that such an innocent question could have such a complicated answer?

“The truth of a person is a personal thing, and I wager that it is not easy to discover. I wager… that it requires a large amount of trust…” he said. This was the point in the conversation where he could go one way or the other. He could give a little trust, just a little. Or he could guard himself, as he always had, and keep the truth locked away. Though the two men were wandering through the crowd toward a new piece of art, out of the corner of his eye Alaric could see that horror--the vampire and his victim, the lurid propaganda a blemish on an otherwise respectable event. How was the world to learn that vampires were not all bad if the vampires themselves were not willing to step into the limelight and show themselves as, primarily, good?

“You will recognise the name because it was founded in Harper Rock in sixteen-twenty-one. It is known as a brand for farmers, and for jewellers. Von der Marck Industries is a corporation that was once only a small farm outside of a small cabin,” he said. It was all truth, and it did not in any way implicate Alaric himself in the making of that cabin and of that farm. “I could tell you when it was that I first stepped onto the shores of New France, but I will warn you that it is not an invitation. Trust, as I have mentioned, is not an easy thing to give. A man will not so willingly reveal his privacy to a stranger,” he said. A hint, but an earnest one. It would not be a game, Alaric had decided, for his past was not something to be played with.

[Salvator]

S A L V A T O R :

The words Alaric spoke held the weight of truth in them. It was rare for people to open up totally with Salvator. He had worked with criminals who wanted to paint themselves as entirely sympathetic, and therefore focused on the hardships they had faced, and excluded the darkness which their hands had fashioned. It was the same with politicians. This was, in part, the fault of Mr. Hastings himself. He had what some might have called a knack for both sympathetic portrayal and mass marketing. His work appealed to large enough a number of people that it had actually held sway (or at least had been credited for holding sway) in the court of public opinion. This meant that he was well sought after in certain circles. It also meant that people, even people who held a lot of power, wanted desperately to impress upon him their likability. Salvator was able to consider all of this with some measure of pride in his integrity as a writer. Though he left arrogance at the door, because he found it to be an unattractive quality.

He often did research on his own time, doing interviews with the people who surrounded the key subjects of his books, pouring over histories, digging deep. Often, he unearthed things they did not want him to reveal to the public. Most often, he acquiesced. It was not his business if some local government official, for example, got his kicks from being dominated by a woman with a whip. The ethics there was complex and as tangled as the wadded up web of a spider. Usually, in those cases, he asked his client directly what had happened. Most of it was information that anyone could get their hands on if they really wanted, he would say. It was better to admit to the history of corruption, for example, and find a way to explain it, or explain how one had changed - than to try and keep it a secret. Only for it to come out later, and with the damning burden of deception added as well. There were times when someone absolutely refused to take responsibility for their actions. When what they had done was so grave that he could not leave it out of his text in good faith. Yet he always avoided sensationalizing his work.

The whole thing was a lot more delicate a balancing act than it first seemed, though Salvator had learned to step across the tightrope with confidence. “Trust and vulnerability are synonyms here. You’re right. Most people don’t want to share everything with me. It helps, I think, that I have no personal interest. I gain no popularity nor fame from my work, and I don’t need money. I’m a private man, and I think that all people are connected. I don’t mean to preach, but I see myself in every person I come into contact with, and I think all of us come from the same place on a spiritual level. When I meet someone new, I don’t want to uncover their secrets or reveal their private shames. I want to embrace them and tell them I see them for who they are, that I accept them in the way I want to be accepted.” He had not intended to say so much, but he also did not try to brush past the comment. He was not ashamed of his point of view.

None the less, the conversation did progress naturally. New France. History buff that he was, Salvator immediately placed the meaning. The region had not been called New France in centuries. And at that point, he frankly didn’t care about the painting of the falling man. He was careful to keep his features schooled, though Alaric, should the man have looked into his eyes, likely would have seen the restraint he held over his excitement there. His gaze danced with meaning, like the waters of a deep ocean stirring. Did this mean…? Was this…? He had questions which needed to be answered. It was entirely possible that he was misunderstanding. Or that Alaric was misleading him. Of course, all of the tiny facts he’d gathered up until that point gave a very clear picture. Alaric was a vampire. Or something. Vampires were surely not the only things in the world which he did not understand. He returned back to his initial assessment of the German. That he was a good man. Those two statements did not seem to be in conflict, at least not to Salvator.

And Alaric had just been talking to him about trust! What was he to do about this? He wanted to grab the man’s shoulder and shake him with the vigorous energy of a man younger than he was. But he had been entrusted with the clue, evidence that he should hold his peace. His heart was racing, and he breathed carefully. Slowing himself down. Slowing everything down. Until he knew, in a matter of seconds, that he could respond normally. “A man’s truth is a personal thing.” He said, paraphrasing what the German had said only a moment before. He got the impression that Alaric was not inviting him to pry. If anything, the memoirist had been warned that it would not be an easy task to learn more. “I would offer to buy us coffee down the street, but I’m not sure that’s appropriate. Consider me though, an open book. If it’s one you’re interested in reading.” The words were perhaps Salvator’s way of saying that they did not have to be strangers.

“Barring that, I would love to learn more about your family.”

[Alaric von der Marck]

The small smile that graced Alaric’s lips was not something to be misconstrued. He admired Salvator’s positivity but he could not help but think it naive. To embrace strangers was to invite danger; to accept them for who they are, to believe that he could see the truth of who they are upon first sight was to possibly wrap his arms around a wild tiger’s neck. In this city, Salvator would want to watch his step. And not only among strangers.

But that was Alaric’s burden to bear. Because he had been betrayed by someone he’d thought to be loyal, that did not mean that everyone had suffered a similar kind of betrayal -- nor did it mean that everyone was capable of that kind of betrayal. Trust was not an easy thing to give despite the ways Alaric repeated this to himself. Not everyone was capable of betrayal, and it was not fair to assume the worst of strangers. He and Salvator were opposite in that way. Alaric’s gaze narrowed subtly as he tried to wrap his head around the philosophy -- that everyone should be connected on a spiritual level, strangers or not. If such were the case, then surely there would be less violence and more understanding. But despite all this, Alaric found himself to be intrigued and curious about this young man, that he should so openly give of himself in the hope that others might give in return. It was endearing.

Coffee, he said. Family… open books. Alaric’s didn’t only have one book. He had numerous, and they were thick, the pages old with age, prone to crumbling if handled too roughly. His truth was not something that he’d held too long and which he needed to release in order to lift a weight from his shoulders. He had a family; they knew his secret. Some were more careful with it than others, but they knew, and he had a number of ears willing to listen should he feel the need to talk. But, they were family, and it was a never-ending struggle; he was supposed to be the one they should come to for advice, and if they got an inkling that he was floundering, why would they trust him, or respect him?

Though he was not floundering, not at that moment. And though he did not think that he required ears to listen to his story, he knew that he had a story to give. More than that -- especially more than that -- he was intrigued by Salvator and, if he agreed to spend more time in the young man’s presence it wasn’t due to any need that the elder had to unload. It was instead an urge to try to understand Salvator’s philosophy. It was new to Alaric, and the elder was always keen to learn new things.

“My family… is very large,” he said. “And their truths are not mine to give. Coffee, we will go, if it is something that you crave,” he said with that same small smile. Alaric had no need to reveal, right then, that coffee was not something that he could consume -- that was something Salvator could learn later. “I am interested in how you have come to your philosophy. To have such faith in others… I cannot believe that you have been deceived in your short life.”

[Salvator]

S A L V A T O R :

The change of pace did not make Salvator stumble. He was used to listening, in fact, it was something he was very good at. Not just raw information, but inflection. There was a lot of dense meaning packed into the way people spoke. Throw away lines were, in his experience, some of the best at revealing the most about his clients. But then, Alaric was far from a client wasn’t he? The German certainly had not taken the invitation to coffee as a chance to spill more details about his own life. The issue of trust was perhaps part of this, though there were some who might have said it was easier to talk about personal matters with strangers. And trust itself was not a prohibitor of all discourse. Mr. Von der Marck was legitimately intrigued by what Salvator had to say, and that was a lot of power in the hands of someone who wanted little more in that moment to reach inside of the other man’s mind to absorb everything there.

A throw away line, like ‘In your short life’. He smiled. It did not need to be said out loud. The words ‘I am a vampire’. He didn’t need to hear them to know what was going on. Perhaps with someone else, he might have been more careful. Leaving a public location with an assumed blood drinker had its dangers. But had he not already decided that Alaric was a good person, and surely that superseded his hunger? No. That merely revealed Salvator’s own sincere ignorance of the world. “A coffee would be great.” He needed his ability to focus, and there was little better for that than the harsh taste of black tar on the tongue. Though he did feel the need to amend a previous statement. “I mean, I suppose, that I would love to learn more about you.” The set of double glass doors drew closer with every breath, and soon they were going to exit onto the street.

They were in one of the more industrial parts of town. All around were factories, skyscrapers. Really, the only things to note were a decently popular bar where a lot of blue collar workers went after a hard day on the job. There was a casino, which drew in a few tourists, though not nearly as many as it had prior to the rise of the vampires. Especially with the crime rate in Harper Rock being what it was. However, there were a few amenities which were hallmarks of every city. “There are different types of deception.” He answered finally after thinking about the subject for a moment. “The principle itself, I don’t think, relates to experience. I’ve met men who killed their own mothers. I find that idea reprehensible myself, but there was something wrong with those men. War itself, for example, is not simply two forces facing off against each other. There are reasons behind the reasons for every man willingly involved. In some cases, there are centuries old misunderstandings and grudges. I have to believe that when people are fighting, they fight themselves. Otherwise the history of man is one of nihilism and division. I have to think, maybe for my own selfishness and sanity, that there is a greater truth mankind cannot see.”

For example, people who hated those who were too much like them. Who saw the reflection of their own weakness and mistakes in the eyes of their brothers. “I have been betrayed in my life though, yes.” He added. Because the last thing he wanted to do was preach or pontificate. His ideology was not the variety which did well when spoken or written, but which required action. It was much the same as charity. A person could talk about donating their time and energy or they could actually do it. Salvator was a do-er. “By my own flesh and blood, if you’ll believe that. But there’s a grim story that doesn’t get much brighter no matter how deep into it you get. I’ve had friends who turned on me, and exposed themselves not to be friends at all. I’ve had lovers and non-lovers who spurned me. In all of those cases, the choices they made were deeper than what I saw on the surface. I can mourn for the loss of their love, but part of me will always want it, just the same. The part of me that desires that human kindness is part of me that I foster and nourish.” Of course, he also nourished the part of himself that knew when to cut people off, to walk away from a situation that never got better. That was what made it so rewarding, in his mind, to find the rare person who really did just ‘get it’. Who wanted to experience moments in life with him.

He exhaled in the out of doors, and his breath came out like steam. He grinned again, reminded as always, of the very first time he’d noticed the ‘cold smoke’. “I take it you see things differently though?”

[Alaric von der Marck]

The smile on the elder’s face was not one of agreement. When Salvator suggested that Alaric saw things differently, he was not wrong. He was so very right. There was a lot in what Salvator revealed about himself that proved to Alaric that the young man was every bit his age; so very human. It was strange to set oneself apart, and to realise just how bitter and cynical he had become. It didn’t matter how long one lived, one could still never untangle the puzzle that was humanity, that was singularity. No one could ever truly know another person, could never truly know what they were capable of.

“I think that men go to war not for any other reason but because violence is inherently human. There will always be war,” he said. There would never be peace. Humanity was too restless for peace. They wanted adventure, they wanted more, they wanted what they perceived as honour. It was a farce. There was no honour in killing other people for a bit of land, a bit of oil. Even for a God. There was no honour in causing children to live without fathers and women without husbands, mothers without sons. There was no honour in inadvertently causing the death of innocence.

“Nihilism is ingrained in the human psyche, whether it is recognised or not. I do admire your optimism and, do not get me wrong, I know that there is great good in this world, too. The strong are those that rise against the confrontations and move beyond them, those that seek only peace and prosperity are those that have won their own battles, as you say,” he said with a gesture and a nod. Yes, there was wisdom in Salvator’s words, there was some truth, even if it was mixed with naivete.

“The problem, Salvator, is that there are more weak men and women in this world than there are strong ones, and one must always prepare for betrayal. That you were betrayed by your own flesh and blood does not surprise me. It a more common occurrence than you might believe,” he said. It had happened before, and it would happen again. Of that, Alaric could be certain -- he could either open himself up to it so that he might properly welcome those who meant him no harm, or he could shut down and close himself off, and thus never know what it was to be truly bonded to someone. Thus far, he thought he was doing a good job of the former, though he’d spent many years performing the latter. When one had centuries, there was the luxury of changing one’s mind and one’s thinking.

They’d reached the street and the cold might have caused any human to pull their jackets closer, their shoulders to hunch. Natural instinct was to hide from such chill, to bolster oneself against it. Alaric was home within it, however; there was no reaction, no tugging of the jacket. The only indication that he felt a thing was the narrowing of his eyes against the sting of the sharp air; eyes that still required moisture, that still dried up.

No steam emanated from his lips.

“Hope, also, is ingrained in the human psyche,” he added as an afterthought, even as he allowed Salvator to take the lead. He knew where the coffee shop was. “We hope that in the end, everything will be better. We hope for a love and a loyalty that will last for eternity, but like living flesh such things will always die, whether at the end of its natural term or whether terminated before its due.”

[Salvator]

S A L V A T O R :

There was perhaps some irony in the fact that Salvator could see no fault in Alaric’s perspective, despite how it differed from his. Though this too, may have related to the way in which Mr. Hastings chose to see the world. Someone having a viewpoint diametrically opposite his own didn’t make that person wrong. Perhaps that was self-preservation as well. If nobody could ever really be wrong, then he too was protected under that very same umbrella. And in that way, he never had to really expand upon his belief system because it was never challenged. In fact, it was one such thought which made him really listen to what Alaric was saying. Not that he wouldn’t have to begin with, but he found himself carefully measuring each word the German said. The idea that men were inherently violent creatures was not new to him. In fact, humanity’s bloody past was a testament to exactly how much they loved violence, and how much they loved to justify said violence. He couldn’t even disagree that it was in their nature. Pain and death were as much part of the natural world as life and struggle were. In the wild, there was no honor. The easiest prey were not the strongest, or the smartest - but the young, the pregnant, the wounded, sick and elderly.

A wolf did not go after the strongest in the herd. And if he did, then he would starve. That was the duality of the natural world. It was cruel, and it was inhumane, and that was exactly how it had always been. Human intelligence only added another layer to that. But in many ways, most people were still very in tune to the animals they had come from. Salvator, a lifelong scholar of the human experience, liked to think that he was above all of that. But did he not also fall prey to the same pitfalls of so many others? Primary attraction. Irrational anger. Arrogance.

He let the other man speak in peace as they began towards the coffee shop, which was only a few blocks away. When the cold hit him, he pulled his jacket tighter against his arms and shoulders, as if he could close it more over his chest and preserve the heat there. When his lips parted, soft white clouds poured out. He noticed that there were none in the case of Alaric, and smiled. Though it wasn’t clear if he smiled because lack of body heat, or the difference in opinion. Either way, he celebrated the things which made them different. “Alas, you’re right. There will always be war.” He repeated that phrase. “I wish it were different, and I think I may always hope there were another way, but I also think I’d rather be prepared for the dark and the lean times than be oblivious to them.” Which was exactly why he liked people like Alaric. Well no. He doubted there was anyone in the world like Alaric. Not really. Not if he was right. But Salvator valued those who could see the intentions of other people more clearly than he could.

Wasn’t that just a joke of fate? Salvator, a man gifted at deciphering and delivering the inner truths of a person, often needed a dose of reality to put those actions into perspective. Maybe his quest to understand brought him too close. Perhaps one day he would have a moment like Icarus, when flirting with danger got the best of him.

“You have the right of it again, my friend. The world has a sad shortage of people who are content with everything they have, and those who are like that are not the ones with the most power. And when those people do gain power, they have a tendency to ignore the needs of those beneath them. Revolutions and rebellions ensue.” The lack of wind was a god send. He didn’t mind the chill. In London, it frequently hit freezing temperatures (or worse) during the winter. And he’d been all over Europe and North America for work. He could handle the cold, but he absolutely hated when there was a stiff wind behind it, to make the skin feel like it was going to peel away in pins and needles.

“We’ll just have to meet in the middle, yeah?” he asked finally. Though he was directing the way, he stuck close to Alaric’s side. “There are many many more weak people in the world, but there are still some who are strong, some who are good. Don’t think as well, that I didn’t catch what you said about betrayal by flesh being a more common occurrence. One doesn’t say something like that without experience or a story.” He glanced over to the other man, his eyes more blue than the sky would have been if the sun were at its eight, and strangely more vivid in the chill. Could he expect Alaric to speak in specifics when he had been so quick to gloss over with vagueness? “I am referring to my sister, by the way. Her name is Isadora, and everyone I’ve ever spoken to about her has instructed me to write her off, save for our mother. Have you ever felt responsible for someone you know doesn’t have the ability to care about you, love you, or treat you with respect?”

[Alaric von der Marck]

It felt good to be out in the weather, to be walking. Crowds and enclosed spaces hadn’t been Alaric’s favourite for a long while, and it was late enough that the streets were quiet save for a few revelers traveling to and fro. Alaric kept his eyes ahead, watching said revelers, his eyes sharp as they moved from one set to another, watching them until they reached their destination or rounded a corner or disappeared into the distance before jumping again. And if there was no one to look at, he continued to stare ahead.

He knew what kind of person Salvator was. He was someone who read physical cues. Alaric’s avoidance of eye contact would even tell a story. Salvator was looking for information from Alaric, wanting Alaric to answer personal questions and he sought to lure such information from the elder by offering private, personal information of his own. A barter, of sorts.

“I feel responsible for many people. They have given me no reason to think that they do not care about me or love me, and they treat me with as much respect as the young in this day and age are capable of,” he said with the minutist frown. As Patriarch of the von der Marck clan he expected a certain amount of respect. Most of the time, however, he felt as if he could blend into the background again, become a mysterious presence that no one was sure was real. He was not needed, nor was his advice nor his fears heeded. Instead, he was made to feel as if his presence was the cause of disruption and displacement.

Which was why he was trying a different route. If he eased himself back into the business world -- that terrifying, cut-throat, high-rise, glass building world of modern business -- to try to make his mark, build his name. Become something worth respecting, as age and experience didn’t appear to be enough. Though, that wasn’t his only reason, of course. He wanted to do it because he cared, because he wanted to make sure his family were well taken care of.

“But to have been betrayed by someone whom you have had the utmost respect for, it creates difficulty, ja? In believing the best of anyone else,” he said, finally glancing at Salvator and his piercing, wide blue eyes. “What is it that Isadora has done? Family is hard to give up. It is understandable, that your mother should not wish you to write her off…”