From: br1035@ix.netcom.com Date: Thu, 2 Oct 1997 14:30:43 -0500 (CDT) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com Subject: An Uncommon Soul (01/01) This little thing appeared in my head a couple of days ago and said, "Write me!" Thanks to Cousin Jules for beta reading, encouragement and inspiration. Spoiler: 'Francesca' Disclaimer: The characters of Forever Knight were created by Parriott, et al., and are owned by Sony/TriStar. ************************************************************************** An Uncommon Soul (01/01) Copyright 1997 By Bonnie Rutledge ca. Late 770s, Court of Charlemagne, Aix-la-Chapelle She read over the sounds of enthusiastic chewing as the hall's diners attacked the roast course. A short-necked, long-nosed man at the head table devoured his meat with the greatest relish of all assembled, yet he steadfastly listened to the clear and confident phrases she delivered despite the gastronomical pull on his attention. Lacroix was intrigued, had been so for several nights. The first lure had been her beauty. Her skin was as pale and unblemished as that belonging to any creature of the night. It shone as though formed from moonlight, captured and stretched over her frame as the sheerest canvas. It was skin made for the contrast of red, whether the foil was the fire-blessed hue of her hair or a garnet sheen of blood pulsing from her throat. He was attracted to this woman, but he decided to wait, letting his anticipation fester before taking his pleasure. When he had heard Charles call her to attention, "Stay the musicians! Francesca! I would have you read ~De Civitate Dei~ instead!" Lacroix had almost been astonished. Not an atom of surprise reached his features, however. He had seen too much for that, yet a woman who could read Latin was still a rarity. A literate female unconsencrated to the church was even rarer, and one who was treated with friendship and familiarity by the King of the Franks was...worth knowing intimately. Francesca read the Augustine text until Charles rose from the table. The moment he stood her words paused, and she looked up from the volume. Straight at Lacroix. Lacroix thought, Francesca's lips spread into a smile of welcome, and he was decided. Lacroix would go to her tonight and quench his thirsty desires. He returned her smile, witnessing Francesca's mouth part slightly in returned hunger before her fascination was eclipsed by the call of Charles' mother. Francesca followed Berthrada out of his sight, but the prospect of feasting off the woman's enticing charms lingered. Smile unwavering, Lacroix left the hall as well, sinking himself into the blackness of the night, just as he imagined he would soon delve into Francesca's moonlit flesh. ************************************************************************** It was nearing dawn, and she was not in her chamber. Lacroix's impatience and hunger were drawing to a fine point as he stood in the darkness, waiting. He was preparing to seek out a rushed feeding outside the palace walls when the sound of light footsteps approached the door, and it quietly opened and closed. With a predator's eyes he could see the swirl of her linen shift brushing against the floor, as did the hem of her green silk robe, trimmed in gold stitching. Francesca was slightly flushed, and her heart pulsed with an exaggerated spirit, rushed from activity or stealth, he knew not which. Suddenly, the urgency of her rapid movements stilled, and she rotated as though from instinct toward the corner where he stood. "I wondered if you would come," she said softly, knowingly. Francesca turned her back to him, collecting an object from a table near her bed, then moved toward the door again. There was a scraping sound, then a burst of sparks, and a torch berthed next to the stone wall sprang to life, bathing her in a golden glow. "Your name is Lacroix," Francesca stated as she returned the flint to its tabletop storage. "I asked." The vampire approached his prey, breathing in the smoky, exotic scent of her, a product of her natural essence. "I am honored at your curiosity." Lacroix reached out with his ringed hand and gracefully lifted her fingers to his mouth for a caress. "Inquiries were not necessary on my part to learn you were Francesca du Montagne. You have a generous share of admirers, all willing to sing your praises without question." Her auburn brows rose as her eyes flashed with pride. "So they should," Francesca announced. He placed his hands on her shoulders, slipping an index finger beneath the collar of her robe on either side. She neither encouraged Lacroix, nor protested, so he leisurely pushed the silk down her warm, smooth arms, carefully judging her response. She simply stared at him with an aloof expression until the emerald material pooled at her feet, then Francesca leaned forward, gracing his chin with a soft kiss. Lacroix tilted his head down, and she caught his mouth instead. Her breath quivered for an instant, then she idly brushed her lips from left to right, rubbing his own with a light, teasing pressure before seeking deeper contact. Moments passed, then Francesca calmly drew away from him, just a few inches, and her features rapidly resumed their earlier candid detachment. Unconcerned, Lacroix continued to deliver beguiling touches elsewhere, trailing a path along the fine skin of her cheek, then dusting his lips over her earlobe. "I noticed that you carried no light to guide your return despite the perils of the dark passageways." "I have no trouble finding my way in the dark." Her answer escaped in a slight rush, betraying her excitement, so Lacroix probed further as he scraped his mouth, then teeth, across her brow. "Indeed. And what would bring such familiarity with the night in one so fair?" "Sometimes the king needs a scribe for his correspondence when his secretary is indisposed..." Francesca let her words fall into a whisper, then pulled back a second time. When she spoke again, her voice was confiding and slightly arrogant. "I tried not to linger, but for the king, sometimes one must perform." Lacroix smothered the flare of surprise he experienced as Francesca continued to appear in control of her senses. He continued to search her countenance, his stare demanding that she submit to his will. Still unsuccessful, Lacroix spun her around in his arms with a rankled snarl as his eyes ignited to match the torchlight. One hand massaged along her stomach as the other cupped Francesca's chin so that her head angled conveniently, then he nuzzled at her neck. "Why do you hold back?" Lacroix whispered. "Do what you want to do." She raised one arm, curling her fingers around the back of his head, lightly pressing his lips toward their work, but made no sound. He answered the gesture by raking his fangs along the tender skin below her ear. "Release yourself to me, Francesca." Lacroix waited for her heartbeat to fall into the lilting, smooth rhythm that seduced his senses to feed. Perform? Her heart would dance for him, pounding in an erotic spectacle, like Salome for her king. his thoughts roared. He watched, certain the moment must come soon when she would sink against him, her body pressing into his, and her head thrown back in possessed desire. Captivated, her flesh exposed, she would offer herself to him, her body, her life... "Kill me, and my soul will haunt you." Lacroix did not step back, though her cold words had caught him by surprise. He did not restrain her as she spun within the circle of his arms. Face to face, her eyes examined him unflinchingly, clear and steadfast as she observed the effects of his vampiric transformation. Francesca reached up with a wondering finger, running the tip down one of Lacroix's fangs. In that instant, his desire for her grew tenfold. He let his fingers roam down the fine linen covering her back, tracing a circular pattern until her mouth curled slightly, allowing just a hint of sensuality to blur her frank expression. Lacroix smiled as the signs of the vampire faded from his features, confident of the night's outcome. This woman was hardly virtuous, and she could be tempted. Francesca would prove to be an interesting, stubborn victim, but a victim, nonetheless. "Ah, I see you doubt my promise," Francesca spoke again. She returned his smile, relishing in her own confidence and hinting at something more, something powerful and enchanting that teased him. For a second, Lacroix felt the renewed urge to rip into her, to violently take, to explore what that smile offered, but he stilled the beast. He had time, plenty of time to lure her under his spell, so Lacroix let the moment pass. Instead, he allowed Francesca to slip completely from his embrace, watching her with undisguised amusement as she casually continued her speech. Francesca strolled across the stone floor, returning to the table, and poured herself a generous draught of wine into a gold chalice. "It would be a pity if you chose to not listen to my warning. You must understand that I am an uncommon soul." She noted Lacroix's humored expression, took a sip of wine, and continued with a delightful insouciance, "Perhaps my declaration strikes you as impossible - so many women of this court are docile and brainless, content only with the concerns of their embroidery and babes. Even the king encourages his daughters to learn little but the distaff and spindle. I am not so shallow, fragile or meek - I want to master, *possess*, everything that I can." "Is that why you follow the court of Charlemagne?" Lacroix asked. "To learn from a conqueror?" Francesca's features suddenly became deadly serious, as did her tone. "He is not the only conqueror that I could learn from, is he, Lacroix?" Her expression broke into a charming landscape once more. "No, I followed Charlemagne because it was convenient. I married one of his favorites, you see, once he defeated the Lombards. That is where my homelands lie - Lombardy. Marriage was the only way to keep ties to my property after Desiderius' banishment from Italy, and so my land became part of my dowry rather than a trophy to the papacy." "Making you the trophy instead," Lacroix said, a slight taunt edging his voice. "I did not remain a wife for long," Francesca countered, then flashed a grin that carried a faint underscore of malice. "Accidents do happen, and a soldier's life can be so uncertain, even if that soldier is among the nobility. I did not even have to wait for du Montagne to fall in one of those taxing campaigns against the Saxons. Husband conveniently dead, I chose to come here in order to protect my interests with the king. I like to possess things - my land, my homes. I plan to keep them for a *long* time." Lacroix did not contradict her final statement, though it really held little counsel with him. He did consider her earlier words thoughtfully, however. He looked at her with new fascination, the reflection of one killer mirrored in the eyes of another. "You have been fortunate to retain control of your husband's power even after death," he said. "Few widows have such success." Francesca set her wine aside, announcing with pride, "Few widows can read and write. I can do both, and Charlemagne admires and rewards both skills immensely. More than anything, he wants to draft his own records and letters. His hands have failed to acquire the talent, but it is still to my advantage to offer him lessons now and then." She gave a puzzled shrug, saying, "I am fascinated how a man so competent in the physical feats of battle and the like, so accomplished in speech and reading, can fumble with forming his letters when given ample opportunity to study. I would adore being so plentiful in my chances to fail accomplishing something new." "But you certainly cannot accuse Charlemagne of a miserly approach to his favorite subjects. Charles is open in his conversations with his court. I've seen your company as I've spoken with him of astronomy, and you, yourself, were commissioned to recite rhetoric to all his guests this evening during their meal," Lacroix reasoned, brushing aside her feelings of envy. "What opportunities do you really lack?" "How you belittle my frustration, Lacroix," she replied. "Somehow I know you can be more generous," she added, letting her voice acquire a husky note. "I may surpass the accomplishments and capability of all the individuals in this household, but I am still a woman, so I am treated differently." Lacroix nodded in acknowledgment. "Women are not the same, nor should they be. The duality of the sexes is so much more imaginative." Francesca smiled broadly at him at that remark. She laughed in delight as she occupied herself at the table once more, picking up a long-bladed knife. There was a bowl of fruit as well from which Francesca tossed an apple jauntily in the air, catching it before speaking in energetic tones. "You admire imagination, don't you? I brim with it - I crave it." Her words crackled with an intense hiss as she carved a chip from the fruit and brought it to her mouth. Lacroix watched the fluid movements of her hands and lips closely. It was so hypnotic, the divergence between her luminous skin and scarlet slash of the apple peel as it disappeared into her mouth, that he almost felt bewildered, but almost does not equal actuality. "I have found that cravings can be stifled and toyed with, but in the end they must be satisfied. Often the best recourse is to lose oneself to the hunger." Francesca deliberately took another bite of the apple, chewing it lingeringly, before swallowing and setting the fruit aside. She held on to the knife, tapping the fine tip against a finger as she advanced toward Lacroix. "I hunger for life. I yearn to capture that moment when imagination creates something novel - when the mind plunders upon something fresh and new. What would it be like to imprison the sensation of discovery for more than an instant, to carry it and savor it inside you for longer than a passing thought? That is what I hunger for." Her form finally pressed against Lacroix's side, and she gazed up at him in rapt vision as she began to trace the dirk in a sinuous maze across his chest. "I burn for poetry, music, discourse about the forces that weave the elements and humors into the forms they do, and I want more than simply the words, the art and the philosophy. What are the actual notes of a pipe or strings in comparison to the emotion behind the melody? What do the sounds make you do, make you feel? That is life. That is what I desire - no - I demand to experience in every manner possible." "What makes you think those desires make you so 'uncommon'?" Lacroix challenged smoothly, sincerely attracted to hearing her reply. "What power could you possibly have to haunt one such as myself?" Francesca's lips curled in disdain around her next words. "Most poor fools pray to merely survive from one sunrise to sunset without being struck by famine or disease. That passive majority dreams of nothing more than safely sleeping the night away, then escaping death as it chases them across a battlefield or through the throes of childbirth, only to repeat the experience over and over again. They wouldn't dream of being murdered in their beds," she whispered hotly into Lacroix's ear, her eyes shining with knowing promise. "They wouldn't dream of killing for the pure thrill of the moment." She gave him a wise smile, then walked around his back to his other side, one hand molding his shoulders as she moved. "No, they kill to survive. Even Charlemagne kills only to protect his empire. So many are born, reproduce, and die, without a thought to being more. They never consider actually living - they are just an endless repeated pattern of generations, beginning, laboring, and ending. I am different!" Francesca declared. "I devour life! I listen, I look, I feel, I touch, I taste, and whether I exist as a corporeal being or some shadowy specter, I will live forever. I would accept nothing less. My soul is that strong, you see, and it fights and insists on its presence. My will is that powerful, and I will not simply be your evening meal, casually forgotten in a sea of faceless, spiritless peasants." Lacroix watched, enthralled at her gall, mesmerized by how she spoke such an absolute certainty that she could accomplish eternal life on her own. Her cradled her face in his hands, staring deeply into her eyes one last time, feeling the familiar carnal lure of her throat concurrent with a sliver of wary admiration. "Francesca, you are more than I ever expected a desirable dinner companion to be. You've surprised me. That, in a creature as old as myself, and I am older than even *you* can imagine, Francesca, is an incredible admission." She shook her head minutely, barely speaking above the rise and fall of her own breath. "But that is not enough. Kill me, and I promise I will plague you until you cease to exist. I will make you remember what you destroyed, carelessly crushed in a moment of hunger for pleasure. I deserve more - you know that I do. Take me, and make me what you are. Just picture it, Lacroix - if I transformed but a fraction of my passion for life into loyalty to you - my Master for eternity - how good would that make you feel?" Lacroix found that he couldn't resist. He kissed her ferociously, possessively, and, finally, instead of resisting, she drew him closer. As Francesca wrapped her body around his, Lacroix listened to her heart as it began to dance, but rather than performing for his gratification, it seemed to spellbind him with its steady beat. His fangs sank into her flesh, sucking in the flavor of her wildest fantasies and experiences. Her emotions slammed into him with such intensity that it didn't matter if he was taking too much, that she was tearing his clothes away and piercing the skin of his shoulder with her blunt teeth, tasting his blood in return. He absorbed how the fluid lay flat and metallic on Francesca's tongue, and how the primal triumph of the moment to her was overwhelming. Her heart danced on within him, sinking from scherzo to andante. Abruptly, the beat silenced. Her blood flow stilled, her throat providing a few final syrupy morsels of such pure sensation that it dazzled him. He tore his jaws away from her, aghast at the heightened perception of her every thought that rushed through him at the last swallow, looking down with shock and appreciation at what Francesca had done. As she felt herself sinking away, Francesca had hilted her knife between her ribs, arresting her heart and concentrating his pleasure. Lacroix had actually lost control at the thrill of it. She hung limp and inanimate now, for all visible purposes dead, but her fire raged inside his body, almost feeding itself in an un-extinguishable combustion of desire. Lacroix sank to his knees so that she reclined on the floor, then he feathered a kiss across her cooling brow. He unsheathed the dirk from Francesca's torso then tossed it aside, causing a clattering sound of steel against stone. Lacroix pushed his fingers into the wound, dousing them in her blood, and he smeared it across his lips to taste of her once more. It continued to carry the ecstasy, but there was something changed, something added to the quality. He grunted in satisfaction as he recognized his own darkness growing within her, then reddened his mouth with yet another sample from her rendered heart. Lacroix chuckled, then let his head fall back as he evolved into a full-blown laugh as he waited for Francesca to awaken, hungrier for the taste of life than ever before. ************************************************************************ 1755, Cote du Rhone, Avingnon Lacroix looked dispassionately at the wooden spikes of the portcullis that staked repeatedly through Francesca's chest, then stolidly turned his gaze on his wayward son. None of his rage, none of his fury, none of his earnest desire to take revenge for the loss of his vampire offspring, his *loyal and respectful* offspring, escaped as he observed Nicholas stand warily, slightly cringing at the thought of his sire's retribution. Lacroix had learned, however, that sometimes the easiest path to victory was to quietly beguile your victim, controlling your true wants, keeping them from sight, until your prey was so enthralled, they did not care how you struck. he thought, continuing to send Nicholas an indifferent stare, Lacroix let his eyes fall to still body lanced to the stone floor, her moonlit skin contrasting with the traces of her blood around the punctures, and remembered. Lacroix spoke calmly to his son, just a few, brief sentences before returning to his chambers upstairs, never to speak of Francesca again until asked. "She will haunt you, Nicholas. Hers was an uncommon soul." **************************************************************************** Fin The main historic source I used was 'Einhard: The Life of Charlemagne,' translation by Samuel Epes Turner (Harper & Brother, 1880), along with various little references to the Carolignians and Lombards. Everything else was guesswork. Send comments, questions and virtual Granny Smith's to: br1035@ix.netcom.com