The Fine Art of Falling Apart

[Byron Legard]

Once upon a time, the Château de Bagatelle had contained many of France's most treasured paintings, sculptures and other works of art. Fortunately, the nineteenth century had seen the departure of these precious things – for if they had remained, it seemed likely that they would now be smashed and torn to pieces. As it was, the only loss of any real worth had been a huge, gilded mirror whose face was now shattered at the centre, earning the Prince of Paris seven years of bad luck.

With a snarl, Byron scooped up the wooden chair that he had hurled into the mirror and cast it across the room, shattering it to splinters against one beige-paper wall. A knock came at the door, one more insistent than that which had sounded moments earlier. A small voice said:

“...mon seigneur Legard?”

Something else was hurled at the door, and the attendant behind it shrunk away – both shaken and offended by the gesture. Byron, finding his anger neither soothed nor dulled by the destruction, gave one last roar then collapsed into a chair, which seemed miraculously untouched by his fury. He held his head in one hand and for a long time he did not move. At last, he glanced up to the frantic mess of papers spread across the desk before him. He snatched at one of them and with a pen scrawled four words in dark ink.

what have you done?

[Arabella Balfour]

The fact that he had known exactly where to find her did not trouble her half as much as the single line of script that was basically carved through the page.

Arabella held the sheet before her and actually slumped back onto the couch in shock. It was a damn good thing she was alone. Anyone else who saw her at this moment would have recognized her expresssion as one of terror. Byron was not the type that one wanted to infuriate and she'd known leaving Paris that she was going to accomplish that much. Without so much as a by-your-leave, she'd fled the city like a criminal, packed for Chicago and certain death, telling herself that it was just easier this way. Less painful on them both and without the constant torment of having to choose. She had not exactly planned on the circustances that she now found herself in, and neither did she regret her decision.
She did, however, regret hurting Byron..

There was fury in the words, but she knew him well enough to sense confusion and pain, even in a written missive. She could well imagine the state he had been in when he'd written it.. She worried a knuckle between her small white teeth, feeling the formation of a sudden rain cloud of sadness, thundering to life above her head. She ran her fingertips over the deep grooves in the page, as if she were capable of soothing away their rage. It was hours later before she moved to reply..

Would you prefer I had not?

The alternative was, he'd have had no where to send his letters...

[Byron Legard]

Her reply stung. Perhaps it was simply his interpretation of the words, but in his anger Byron could read them as nothing short of vengeful, callous even. Though days had passed, time had not soothed his anger. Château de Bagatelle had become like a cage, and he an animal, prowling its halls in search of some indefinable satisfaction that nothing could give him.

An evening prior, he had drained a serving girl to the point of death and frenzy had taken hold. The Beast had reveled in freedom for a time, its hunger claiming meals of three others, though sparing them their final death. The staff had not dared to speak with him after that, so frightened by what they had glimpsed. Most knew Byron to be a man of passion, but never barbarism. The display reminded them all too painfully of the truth of his existence: though he looked human, he was far from it...

To Arabella, his answer remained brief. Though Parisian born, words and well-crafted verse were not his forte, least of all in such a state as he was.

why didn't you come to me?

[Arabella Balfour]

Becoming a recluse in her own apartment, Arabella read the lastest note by moonlight, the night air kissing and caressing her pale skin. Why hadn't she come to him? What kind of nonsense was her Prince spewing? She had come to him.. and once again, as had happened before her fears had consumed her and she had begged for him to stop. Her flaw was her fear. Maybe his was that he had cared too much? Her irrational babbling could have been silenced. The choice taken from her, but... would she have felt the same about him if he had? They would never know the answer to that.

She had been too afraid, so she had run off to Fiona to lick her emotional wounds, submerge herself into the happy chaos that was 'Fi's life, and try to distract herself from thinking on her life in Paris. Each day, she'd died a little more. She had been feeling it since the blasted plane had landed in Chicago.

She would have died, without Paddy's intervention. Briefly, she wondered what Byron would think of him and smiled sadly. Probably not much.

In the end, seeing Martin again after so long.. someone she trusted, someone she also loved, she'd been more afraid of fading away completely than she had been of The Change. There had been no pain in her embrace. Her little mortal body had been far too weak to fight death. It had claimed her like a cozy nap on a cold damp day, only to be replaced with strong healthy vigor moments later. She could not deny that it had been the right thing to do, but neither could she put it into words for a furious and hurt Byron to understand in one line or less... This was becoming silly!

Rather than answer his question, she answered what he had not asked:


I left to spare us both the pain of my withering end. I did not plan on this.

[Byron Legard]

The broken mirror had yet to be removed. Fortunately, vanity was not a vice Byron often indulged in. He sat in the chair positioned before the fractured glass, not sparing a glance for his appearance, with the latest of Arabella's notes in one hand and a glass of something dark in the other. She had gone away, without so much as a goodbye, to die once and for all – and in Chicago of all places. If it had been Arabella's desire to ease her Prince's pain through her actions, she had greatly misunderstood him.

You must return to France, to me.

[Arabella Balfour]

What could she do? As a shiny-new Kindred, should she go to her sire with her concerns? Oh, the idea was so dramatically impossible that she almost had a chuckle over it. Go to Martin, and ask to be released, to return to Byron? She could sooner ask the stars to fall from the sky to be her jewels. There was too much history there, between the three of them.. Painful history.

On the other hand, it was not exactly like she was some novice to their world. She was no childe who needed their hand held to learn the ropes of kindred society. She been a part of it for two-hundred years now, in the service of her Prince... Byron. She didn't need to be presented to a Prince. She already had one and that wasn't going to change...

Embraced or no.

As you command, mon amour..

It seemed that the same old events were going to continue to play out for a while. It was both her blessing and her curse. She would go to Paris, as her Prince had summoned her...

[Byron Legard]

In lieu of Arabella's latest reply, Château de Bagatelle was a brighter place, though only slightly so. The master of the house walked more freely amongst its halls and chambers, even going so far as to take dinner in the dining hall.

Two of the Parisian Primogen had come to visit and joined Byron at the dinner table, providing reports on the city at large before offering some less business-like observations on the state of Kindred society. The Toreador seemed much occupied with the matter of London and what had become of their Prince, whilst the Ventrue talked at length on transatlantic affairs, in particular those involving Chicago. Byron listened, though took no pleasure in what he heard, that particular city being something of a thorn in his side.

When they had all retired for the evening, to the merciful privacy of their chambers, Byron took up his pen again.

When will you arrive? Say soon.

[Arabella Balfour]

The previous night she'd sent a return note to Byron, letting him know exactly when she would arrive.

Recently fed, and admiring the fresh blush to her cheeks in the mirror mounted above the, now unused, living room fireplace, Arabella opened and read through the last message from her Prince. If she was not too off her mark, he seemed...eager. Although, from the relatively obscure correspondence, he might just be eager to sever her pretty head. Her blush faded a bit at the thought, but she shoved the doubts away.

She felt bad leaving Michele at this time, but had left her hasty if somewhat vague explanations and how she could be easily reached assuring her friend that she would disappear on her.

She felt even worse leaving Martin. There was no denying his hold on her now. The pull of her blood was strong, almost demanding she stay. Arabella knew without a doubt that if she even considered speaking to her sire before going, she may not make the trip at all..

Her newly embraced status made her control weak at best, and travelling right now was probably not the best idea either. But it could not be avoided, her mind reasoned. She'd been summoned and she would go.

With one last inspection of her appearance, she straightened the short skirt of her soft gray dress, stepped into a pair of black heels and retrieved her bag, locking her Chicago apartment doors behind her. Paddy had a key now. If he came home to roost, he would find her absent, but she'd left him a note too. Along with a bottle of wine and one of her diamond hair pins as a parting gift, thinking he wouldn't mind a bit of sparkle to marvel over.

Stepping out of the building and into the waiting car, she left for the airport.

[Duilio Vittore]

At the break of darkness, he'd set out from the place. One of many abodes sprinkled across the globe under one alias or another provided sufficient anonymity for not one reason, but two - one of which was inherently more dangerous than the other. The other was merely a matter of business, in that the matter of remaining anonymous saved him from the matter of professional suicide - with power came enemies, jealous enemies, and when they did not know the head or how to find it, they could not cut it off. Two days had been spent in Chicago, assessing the health of his investments, and the italian had come away being quite self-assured that everything was in good order. It would not have bode well for subordinates to report or show anything disconcerting. Not pleasing one's master in some cases meant consequences, subscribed in proportion to the heinousness of the error. The sinking of a club did not necessarily mean life's end, but a fate worse - depending on the fancies, whims and moods of the executioner of the master's will... or the master himself.

Not your typical Toreador, antitribu or otherwise. The italian was never an artist to begin with - merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place, depending on how one looked at it - the art was in the affluence of his noble blood, the learnedness noted in the family membership. The art was in the beauty of his mind. His and the twin, the second purpose for the visit to the Windy City and its outlying communities. The immortal and he had not conversed face to face in some time, as there was no need, but there was now - his brother was another somewhat willing set of eyes and ears on the movements of the underworld that the italian had chosen not to actively involve himself in for over two hundred years. This made him a little younger than the typical Kindred that chose to withdraw by approximately half, but not for the same typical reasons. His information network was small, incredibly obscure, unknown. But it worked. Well. And efficiently.

The recent failure of the Camarilla in London, coupled with the disappearance of its prince, was an eyesore for Camarilla courts worldwide... and a sick pleasure for the Sabbat. More than an annoyance for Duilio Vittore, it was a little infuriating. And what were the major european courts of the Camarilla doing? NOTHING. Nothing but indirectly quarreling over a girl (His face momentarily furled into a snarl at the thought...). A pretty one, at that. Byron was not looking at the bigger picture. His eyesight was narrowed. The girl was Vittore's purpose in dallying about Chicago's O'Hare airport very late on a Saturday night, hugging his back to a wall, lifting his wrist to glance on the exquisite timepiece strapped there with leather, then dropping his head back against the wall and sighing impatiently - or perhaps acting so? Women were exquisite in their own right, but they always left him waiting. Just as he was doing now.

Waiting.

Alone.

Just for her.

Eyes glinted behind light conforming lenses. A half a grin poked up on the face.

She will come. Bella, such an appropriate name.

[Arabella Balfour]

The beauty part was that she had packed very little when leaving Paris, which meant that all her favorite clothes were waiting for her, upon her return home. Neither was there a need to wait through the tedium of having her prescriptions checked through security this time, because Arabella was no longer sick. In fact... She felt wonderful.

Flight having already been booked, and pass in hand, she had at least an hours wait before they would begin boarding, so Arabella elected to go and find a lounge. Not that she intended to get soused before take-off, hardly. It just seemed like a most excellent choice to people watch..

Following the signage, her dark eyes took in the sights and bustle of the busy airport. Everything in her perception was altered now, somehow. More refined, she could find something to captivate her anywhere she looked. People especially moved her.. Even though she blended in, she felt the change now that separated her from them. While she walked, she kept her senses on alert too for any sign of danger to her. Upon arriving to this very airport she, and Fiona as well, had been attacked by some extremely unfriendly ghouls. Sick as she was, she had still managed to trounce them.

She was not without her wiles, or skills for that matter.

[Duilio Vittore]

There you are, my dear...

Out from under the lenses, Duilio peered, barely moving and barely breathing, gemlike blues traced her across this area of the airport, weaved in and out of the mortal bodies, in search of a relaxation, an amusement to bide her time. She looked well, so much better than reports had said of the state she greeted the city in on her arrival. This new lease on life - or unlife, as it were - had a strong scent that made her presence incredibly difficult to ignore. She was here, that was her, making a crooked b-line for the airport lounge. The pointed demi-amusement on his lips faded off, the mind turning to this very particular business of tracking and reeling in prey. A prey of a certain sort, advantaged prey. But the purpose in shadowing her trail was so far off the norm of meals and sensuality. There was almost a professional twinge to the matter, that there was reason for targeting her, to reel in bigger fish. A little waltzing in the interim couldn't bring much harm, now that he thought of it. What's the worth of a long existence if one cannot take pleasure in it?

Off the wall, he cast himself and turned a bend to follow along, an innocuous bystander just having decided he wanted some sauce, since the peoplewatching under the brighter lights was, as a rule, dull pickings. Come and go, come and go, no time to chat. Within the lounge, as it is with most lounges, the atmosphere and ambience are of a laid back design. Perfect. The ever watchful eyes would follow her in, and the body attached would come along soon after. Not immediately, but in a natural way, so that nothing would appear amiss.

There would be no little women's games wooshing over his head. The beauty in his mind, part of it was that sharpness, the attentiveness to the little nuances. The elder would be ready for the pawning about of this kindred youth, whatever she was packing.

[Arabella Balfour]

Of all the possible beverages she could have ordered, the thing she wanted most was a cup of tea. It was true, Arabella was an old fashioned girl of the very literal sense and nothing had ever calmed her nerves and soothed her spirits in life, so much as a nicely steeped cup of good tea. Of course, she was going to have to do with a cardboard wrapped, paper cup with a Lipton label hanging out one side, not exactly what she had in mind, but it served her purposes.

Arabella took the cup to a little café table and sat. Removing the 'Caution: contents hot' lable for the more obliviously minded people of the world, she wrapped her hands around the cup, savoring the feel of the heat warming her from her palms upward, through her arms. Her dark eyes continued their leisurely perusal of the people around her. Her gaze settled on a mother walking past with a little girl, no more than a toddler, with one chubby hand wrapped around her mother's finger, taking careful steps through the crowded lobby.

'Bella smiled almost sadly. Once, she'd wanted such a thing. A home. A husband. Children. Same thing most young foolish girls wanted for themselves...

Old fashioned, indeed...

[Duilio Vittore]

Observed, she seated herself, lonesome at a little table within the café. He didn't need to stare after her. In one spot she was, and in one spot she would remain, unless given valid reason or danger to move on. In moments in public spaces such as this, pleasures had to be found where one of his kind could. A comfortable seat, a warm cup, a harmless conversation. Harmless - a funny word to be using at all, given the circumstances and the species. Words were rarely idle and without meaning or intent in his realm, and as he knew well enough, the same would be said for her.

An order at the counter had the secretive businessman a similar paper cup between his own two hands, though only steaming hot water within. Away from the tills a foot or two, he fished a packet of his own from an inner pocket on his finely tailored jacket - black of night it was in colour, shade - and proceeded to unwrap the teabag. It was a glorious scent that rose to his face, spiced of vanilla and hazelnut, that he found himself fond of and as he always did in habit, lifted the steeping cup to his nose for the enjoyment of the blooming flavour unraveling with each second in the hot bath, before lowering and snugly fitting a lid on top, and turning to leave the counter.

There she is, still. It is of no surprise that she is not aware, as it should be.

Eyes traveled again to her, and feet followed. He paid little attention to his destination, instead allowing little quirks and nuances to take over for the few feet between them. Checking of the wristwatch, straightening of the tie, loosening of a suit jacket button - typical of a man realizing he had a portion of time to relax prior to whatever he awaited. When looking up from the act, Duilio was exactly where he intended to be. And that was indeed the point.

Seeing no need to effect change in his voice, the Italian accent lingered undeniably in his voice as he spoke, despite the vast sections of time spent away from his homeland. Two moments having passed, her attention had shifted to the producer of the shadow hanging over the table she occupied. A handsome smile, nothing too big or enticing, showed on his face.

"I was wondering, perhaps, if you would be appreciative of a little company." Duilio caught onto her eyes, showing her nothing of intent, gesturing to the empty chair across from her. "The seat is not taken, yes?"

[Arabella Balfour]

Her nose gave a little twitch, scenting something pleasant, presumably the tea steeping behind her which was far more sublime than what she'd just been served. When he spoke, though.. his voice.. Arabella turned and lay eyes on the speaker just in time to have her toes curl and her senses go on high alert.

She had been around the Kindred for long enough to know them on sight. She could sense their presence in a room, pick them out in crowds, and that had been before she'd been embraced herself. The aura of attraction and culture that surrounded this one spoke to her blood, but she was not quite sold enough to let her guard down. She was not that green..

Gesturing with a pale hand toward the seat across from her, she smiled warmly. "No, no it is not. Please, be seated."

Her first thought ran to the goons who had attacked her on her arrival to this very airport, but they had been sloppy hired thugs. Second rate, under trained, neonates and ghouls. This was none such. The way he moved, timeless and effortlessly controlled. He was old.. maybe even older than Byron. She needed to take extreme caution.

"That is a delectable brew you have there..", she complimented his taste, eying him with interest, wondering what he wanted of her.

[Duilio Vittore]

"Thank you." He said, sliding into the empty chair, as if grace accompanied all his movements and placed the paper cup containing said brew on the tabletop. He crossed on leg over the other and leaned with relaxation back into the seat he now occupied. Settled in, he reached for the tea again and lifted it to his face, sniffing in mild enjoyment before sipping long and delicately. The first taste accomplished, he held the cup in both hands and smiled to her as one would a scant acquaintance, a mere étranger. He nodded short in acknowledgment of her compliment.

"The scent evokes certain memories. The vanilla and hazelnut separately rein in enough, but together... together it is quite poignant. Very specific and free of the unnecessary stimulus that other similar beverages might provide. I do recommend it." Again, he sipped at the tea as if to make a small point. "Although, a proper espresso is not without its merits."

The elder of the two merely looked on his moment's companion as if this was nothing more than polite conversation to pass the time, the courtesy of eye contact he would observe, no clue giving as to any other observations. She was on to him, albeit in some small fashion - that much was so easily gathered. He was well aware of her true age, what she had once been and now was. It was a very specific scent.

"I have been here visiting my brother. Family... it is good. There was so much to speak of and so little time to truly enjoy his company." Duilio sighed, somewhat regrettably before looking quite well and good again. "I am sure you can appreciate the sentiment."

[Arabella Balfour]

The conversation was innocent enough, blending into the others being carried on in the airport lounge around them. Mundane conversation from mundane souls, unaware of the dangers so close to them. Arabella softened her courtesan's gaze before she spoke, treading carefully on the unfamiliar ground that was her company.

"I find I have more time now to enjoy the little things. It was visiting family that brought me here as well.", she confirmed. That was what they were, Fiona, Michele, Martin...

Her pale fingers drummed softly against the paper cup. "You must leave now on business?", she queried.