Chapter Text
I still can recall the first time I laid eyes on him; He was a vision in gold brocade, with dark and tousled hair, and eyes that should they but choose, could invite and burn all in the same instant. How strangely irritated I was, embarrassed by the awkwardness of stepping forth to meet the merchants of the village, and to accept gifts from them for doing the seemingly impossible on my own. My vanity had evidently not kicked in yet at that point, and so though I knew the act of vanquishing the wolves was spectacular, I felt it quite more for myself alone than for anyone else. Of course that then marks my selfishness, which often has precluded my vanity.
So there he was, handing me the obscenely decadent coat that was to become in large part, my cloak of destiny. The supple folds of rich, deep velvet and it's lining borne of the very beasts I had slain, being offered to me as a trophy, and as a symbol of tangible gratitude. I often wonder if there was some magic wound into the very fabric of the garment that rendered me helpless as to what would come. Did immortal eyes, closed and dreaming far, far away see me as I stood there among the crowd, draping myself in such resplendence? Was it then, in his dream that he first uttered the word that would be whispered into my ear with intimate, profane reverence not too long from then? I'll never know, but the question now is overshadowed once again by the memory of Nicolas de Lenfent as he stood there that day and leaned toward me, reminding me of the youth I was, and the mischief that was inherent to the age. He produced upon my face a slow and genuine smile that for a moment felt strange to the usual seriousness sadness I wore. There was within me, a slow and rising wave of intrigue that wanted more of his expression, more of the rich and roguish spirit I sensed around him. I do believe from that day forward, I was set upon a different path, and that like his beloved violin, Nicolas may have been but an instrument, finely played into my life.
A full week passed after his lustrous presentation before I decided to seek his company. Whether I was afraid of his intimacies or the strange desire that was sparked inside of myself, I wasn't sure. Perhaps it was that I had to decide just why I wanted to pay him a visit. A teenage boy might well sit and subconsciously rehearse what he will say and how he will act when he pays a visit to the first girl that has knocked him for a loop; Allegorically, perhaps, so to then was the situation for me when thinking of him. It was grossly correct to say that I was in desperate need of some social interaction with a young man my own age, for that alone as well as to escape the confines of my supposed aristocracy that for all intents and purposes didn't exist - at least not in my mind at that age. Yet I had grown accustomed to being alone, and lonely too. I had a certain comfort in discomfort, even if truthfully, I hated to be alone. I had, if you will, an appreciation for the solicitudes of silence. After all, hadn't I wanted to devote my life to God in the confines of the monastery? That desire had been ripped out of my hands, but still, no matter where I was, there was always inside of me a demanding loneliness that preferred to be alone, riding in the green hills of Auvergne, or sitting quiet in the gray stone rooms of our castle home. I well could have spent my entire life in the monastery I think. Not only did the silence suit me, everything about it seemed to welcome my senses! The smell of the books and the constant incense or wood fires that would burn low and as sparsely as anything else there, the robes of the monks, drab in their sufficiency as they sat, schooling me like a rare gem left to polish. I was well entranced there, but as I say, it was not to be my vocation, thanks to my Father. He brought me home, kicking and screaming, and I took all the anger and resentment inside of me and went one day into the woods, and dared the damned wolves to eat me with all that bitterness inside. I think they'd have died from vomiting had they attempted to digest me as I was, but they didn't have that chance. I fought them, each and every one, down to the last until the snow was bloody stenciled with their lives.
With quiet apprehension playing on my lips, I donned the cloak, smoothed my garments slowly with a caress, and went out in search of Monsieur de Lenfent. Within a short time, I had another offering - a full bottle from the innkeeper without his even knowing that I had only money enough for a glass. I thanked him with a soft smile and a nod that didn't betray the strangeness it made me feel to be so beholden by the townspeople. While I sat there, drinking the rich, bittersweet burgundy, down the stairs and into the room bound the object of this, my more subtle hunting, dressed in luxury yet again to render me speechless for a moment. He sat near me, and almost simultaneously we began to question one another as if each were some new and exciting land the other had just discovered. I wanted to know all about Paris, and whether it was everything I'd ever dreamt. He of course, wanted to know about the wolves.
For a brief, frictional minute, the questioning ceased as we studied one another. This was broken only when he announced that the usual tide of commoners would soon be muddling into the inn for their meager repasts and once they had, we would no longer be able to converse as we wished. The thought of it seemed foreign to me; that anyone else should come to the place while the sons of great men sat in eager discussion. I think I laughed at the image, dismissing it as impossible for a moment. He then heartily expressed his wish to honor me with supper in the small bit of privacy above our heads where we could indeed continue. Before I could think to decline with any degree of modesty, I was following him, my hand in his, upward to the unpretentious space that was his room, where a gentle fire burned in the hearth, and where my life would begin to be changed, forever.