Chapter 2: Alexander Ialu

He watches her, his unknown woman, from the back of the room. Studying the delicate curve of her back, extending into the ivory white of her neck, a strand of raven hair falls across her tear stained face seemingly to make her look not much older than a chylde, a sudden feeling of need to hold her, to comfort her swells up in his chest. Finding himself next to her, he reaches out a calloused hand to stroke her soft neck, stopping himself only inches from the smooth white of her neck. Instead, he drapes his cloak over her shoulders, a shiver running down his spine at the initial touch of the night air.
:She is not yours to comfort, she is no one's but her own.
He tears his eyes off her neck, and looks up towards the balcony. Empty. He lets out a soft sigh and makes his way through the crowd and out onto the balcony. Leaning against the wall, he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.
:Do not think about her. She is not yours. Not yours. Not anyone's.
He continues to repeat this to himself, yet he finds himself watching her from the balcony, concealed by the crowd between them. He watches her, hours on end, studying her movements and body, until a vivid image was forever imprinted in his mind, yet she remained asleep.
:Sleep, my cursed angel, sleep my dear. I shalln't burden you tonight.
Unconsciously he touches his arm that had once brushed up against her before, feeling the shadow of the power he once felt form her.

He watches as she arises from her sleep, looking around as if she did not know where she was, drawing the cloak up around her she inhales his scent deeply, seemingly to take pleasure from it. Holding the cloak against her breasts, she looks around, perhaps for the owner of the cloak. He remains hidden by the crowd, not wanting to reveal himself, just yet; instead he moves to be hidden within the shadoes, invisible if only only glanced at the balcony.
:Worry not, my chylde.
She looks around once again, before leaving her seat and walking amongst the crowd, holding the cloak to her breasts, much like a mother would hold a chylde. He watches her, concealed in the shadows, a stir in his heart causes him to let out a soft sigh, barely audible to mortal ears. She hears him. He watches as she advances upon the balcony, scanning quickly, hoping that her pierching eyes will not reveal him to her.
"M'lord?" She turns, looking straight at him.
He steps into the light now, revealing himself. "Yes, m'lady?"
She holds the cloak to her, uncertain. He watches her, the slender curves of her body and the soft white tips of her black wings framing her body to an even more spectacular effect. He leans against his staff and looks to her, waiting for her to go on.
"Your cloak, m'lord?" She holds out the cloak, almost reluctantly.
He shakes his head.
:Do not fool yourself, Alex. She would not have any interest in ye.
"Tis not your cloak, m'lord?"
He looks up quickly and nods. "Tis mine."
She hands the cloak back to him. "Thank you, m'lord." And turns to return to her work before.
He shakes his head once again and slips the cloak over his shoulder.
:Ah Alex, you are a foolish one. That woman would not be interested in ye. Not after what you had done to her. Foolish boy.
He laugh softly to himself, agreeing. "Yes Alex. You are a foolish boy."

He leaves the balcony for the garden, slowly making his way to the maze that lies within it. Guiding himself almost by instinct he quickly makes his way to the center. An old cypress tress stands in the clearing, it's bottom half bare of any leaves. He walks towards it, resting a hand on it's trunk, breathing deeply. He moves around to the back, pushing his finger though the hole, searching. "Tis here. I feel it."
In a moment, her pulls out his finger, a ring and a sapphire stone falling into his hand. He looks at them lovingly. "Ah, cherie, I have found you."
He sits down at the base of the tree, placing the jewels at his feet. They rise and project an image of an youthful woman, clad in silver blue dress, a tiara placed upon her head.
Alexander Ialu? A soft voice flows forth from the image.
"Aye, m'lady. Tis I." He goes on one knee before her, his old bones cracking.
Rise, Alex.
He shakes his head of the dream, looking down at the stone and ring in his hands. "Ah, cherie, my love. I have not left you."
:Just yet, cherie. You are still dear to my heart. He adds, in his mind, least one be listening.
:My love, my dear, my heart and soul.
He sighs and shakes his head, cupping a hand over the one that holds the stone and ring.
:What do I see in my cursed angel? She is naught like my love - fair haired and bright like the stars that paint the skies tonight. She is dark, paled skinned, a dark angel, one to tempt the innocences from pure beings.
He shakes his head, bringing his hands to his face.
:Ill thoughts old man. You know her not. Do not judge her with information you know not.
With bones cracking, he gets up and replaces the stone and ring from whence they came. Once again slowly making his way thought the maze, his eyes lowered to the ground before him.

He slowly walks through the garden, admiring the midnight irises, noticing a patch of dead weeds where others flourish, seemingly drained of energy. He brushes the thought aside as he enters the building, adjusting to the dark light almost immediately, automatically scanning the room for his cursed angel.
:Lips of blood, skin of ivory and hair of ebony, tis m'angel of death.

He thinks of her now.
Ebony, ivory and blood. Silver eyes, so cold, so emotionless. Lifeless
But only angels have silver eyes.

He turns at the sound of footsteps next to him.
"Greetings, m'lady Sira." He bows slightly, his bones being unable to do so fully.
"M'lord Alex. Greetings." She moves next to him, touching his shoulder gently.
He slips an arm around her waist, drawing her against him, kissing her forehead with tenderness. He looks down to her. "How does this lovely evening find you, my dear friend?"
She ignores the question completely, instead asking, "Love me Alex?" A demand more than a question.
He sighs softly, they had had this conversation already before. "M'lady, you know I cannot." He looks around the room again, searching. "You must find another. We have been over this once before." He looks around again, finally finding her in the rafters of the room, quitely reading to herself.
Sira's eyes follow to where he looks and she turns to him, a tear in her eyes, yet no bitterness in her heart. "You love her."
He nods slowly. "I believe I do."
She turns then and melts back into the crowd before he is able to speak another word.
"M'lady..." He looks after her and sighs softly, making no attempt to follow, turning his attention back to the angel of death that remains in the rafters.
:Oh Sira, my dear! Can you not understand you are to love another. You cannot love one such as I, a servant, a commoner to your family. They would not have it. They will not have it. Forget about me and your plans for us and find one who is truly worthy to love you. We are worlds apart, a bridge will never be built for us. My dear, do not make this harder on yourself.
He recalls what he said to Sira, only nights before, explaining their situation, the soft tears upon her tender face, following the harsh words from his lips.
My dear, I love you, but I am not in love with you. There is a difference. I will give you my life, if need be, if you ask for it, but I cannot give you my heart and soul.
He returns his gaze to the angel.
:They belong to another.

He walks slowly, through the town to its center, where the old cathedral stood. His home. He moves around giant blocks of stones, falled from the once grand bell-tower, picking some up with strength and grace that belied his true age and agility. He sets them down, out of the way, returning to the old man he once was, shuffling slowly to his room.
He sets his cloak on the peg next to the door, next to a full suit of armor. Royal Star Knight armor. He places a hand over the helm, shutting his eyes against the sight of his gnarled old hand, against the almost new helmet.
:I was once grand, sung in ballads and legends, once young. Once.
He turns away from the armor, away from what he once was, to now, what he is.

:The power. Whence did it come from?
He touches his arm again, no longer feeling what he felt nights before.
:Perhaps there were spirits that night, playing tricks as usual.
He chuckles at that thought.
:Perhaps
He looks around his home, a small room above the cathedral. Spartan: a bed, a table and a few chairs. The bathhouse located behind the central courthouse. He returns to the work on the table, sorting out old scrolls of spells and legends. He shuffles through the most recent of legends, reading through them all carefully. He picks up the first scroll and reads it through many times before settling it down to the side of him.
:Ah Rowan, my dear...You are a vicious one...it would be quite unfortunate for one to get in your way...let us hope we never meet.
He puts the scroll aside and picks up another. He puts it down again after a moment, finding himself unable to concentrate for more than a few words at a time. He places the scrolls on a corner of this desk. Rowan's legend at the top. He places his hands on the desk, flat down, breathing deeply.
:Leave it alone. Leave it alone. Leave her alone.
He realizes that he did not even get her name. He chuckles to himself.
:Perhaps she is Rowan. No, it cannot be. Rowan is ruthles and blood thirsty, energy thirsty. My cursed angel was not like that, angry and cold, but...She cannot be Rowan!
He chuckles again at the insistence to believe that the woman was not the one called Rowan.
:But she is not Rowan.