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azuremewTitle: Mistaken Identity, Prologue
Word Count: 1,854
Pairings: Carl/Michael
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Michael Dane receives missive requesting his presence at the Toreador Guild.
Author's Note: Dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lycanthrophile, my beta and the owner of Carl Dane. <3
Prologue
Michael Luther stood silently in his studio, staring at a white, ten by thirteen envelope from FedEx that was delivered earlier in the day. It was waiting for him on the desk, brought to him all the way from The Office of Ambrosia Redivary. Disconcerting, he thought immediately, and cautiously brushed his fingers across the smooth surface. Nothing useful came out of the cardboard, of course, and he allowed a sigh for being so foolish.
In irritated response, he snatched it up and the letter opener. With one, clean swipe the sticky seal was breached and its contents expelled. Another envelope fell, sliding to a halt and staying there. Michael could not move, unable to stop staring at the silver, wax stamp. At first, he thought that it was a trick. Ambrosia, Elder of the Rose, and Didaskalos of the Guild of Hephaestus, would never contact him. He was anathema.
Yet a tentative hand broke the fact to lie upon what was obviously in front of him, if only to know if whether or not this was real or someone's idea of a cruel joke.
The answer caused him to fall back into the leather chair behind him, the two, front legs lifting from the unexpected force and bringing him back forward. Michael remained seated, his hands resting on his lap, trembling at what they felt, what he sensed. His mind was reeling.
“I thought better of you,” Calvin admitted, disappointment swirling in his emotions so thick that it practically spewed out of his mouth when he spoke. “I had faith that even in your previous mistakes, your flaws, you would persevere, surpass this foolish behavior, and honor what you are.”
He would not remove himself from the window. While the sight of the city decaying before his eyes disgusted him, it had more potential than the failure that sat on the chair across from him. “You should know even before I educate you that Master Host rarely takes artists from outside his region. As Primogen, as sire, as esteemed Master of our Clan, he has little time to deal with somewhere as insignificant as Iron Rapids.”
“I know that, sir, but --”
“Yet you disrespected him, your clan, your art, and me,” Calvin clipped, unable to restrain himself to point out with a more leveled hand. There was no patience to listen to excuses. Because of their bond, Michael's mistakes reflected as his own, and he could already hear the clan gossip louder than those of the Prince's harpies. “Your execution was amateur. Unless you believed that something so unoriginal would pass as extraordinary. Which, Michael, was it?”
I love him, Michael wanted to say, but he pressed his lips before speaking, swallowing back the heat. “It was a set of rings,” he chose instead, knowing that he would be swatted for avoiding the answer with another rationalization.
Calvin removed his silver-rimmed glasses and thumbed them, wanting to press the bridge of his nose if it did not show how provoked he was. “An artist does not care of the medium given to him. He creates with just as much purpose. To say otherwise is an insult to your ability and for me to believe that you were above it.”
“Then the fault is my own,” Michael said, deciding that he was not going to get his voice heart. It was as irrelevant and now drained. “Entirely,” he added softly. “Please forgive me, sire.”
Calvin shook his head, and Michael feared the worst. The Right of Destruction had long since passed from his sire's hands, his Accounting ending decades ago, but after Darien, a request to the Prince would take a single conversation. But ending his life would only prove Calvin made a mistake in the first place, and that could not happen. “You will be forgiven when I see that you have learned from your dereliction. Until then, you will not speak with Master Host or his childer. Is that understood?”
The scene played out over and over in Michael's mind, so completely that he did not register someone else was in the shop until a hand laid upon his shoulder. He jumped, the chair thrown a few feet as he spun around and hissed. His fangs retracted, and his face softened, apologetic at Carl's hand that recoiled. “Sorry about that,” he said in a quiet, ashamed voice. “I did not think that you would be here so soon.”
“It's been an hour,” Carl said, refraining from a nod to show the shoulder bag that contained his laptop and the bag of goodies he procured from a recently closing bookstore down the street. His concern shifted from Michael to the envelop that still sat pristine and overturned. “What is that?”
“Something I had not expected to see for at least a century,” Michael replied, finding it easy to explain since Carl was less caring of the fact that he was just hissed at and more so at the reason why. He turned and picked up the wine colored envelope embroidered with silver to make an elegant composition while some would have overdone it to the point of gaudy. His name was written in an elegant script, the very same that he saw when Calvin presented it all those years ago. “I am being summoned by Didaskalos Redivary.”
“Redivary?” It took Carl a moment to recognize the name, but when he did he nodded, his tone turning more solemn. “Are you certain?”
Michael turned from the envelop to give a glare that wanted to validate his faith that this was not some trick. “Didaskalos Redivary sends her missives on parchment that she invested with her time, her hands, and her ability so that those of the guild would know,” he explained just as Calvin did. “She imbues a sense of belonging.”
Carl slid his bag to the nearby table while Michael spoke so that he could close in on the other without any awkward restraint barring their connection. His arms wrapped around Michael's waist, and he did not try to move or pull away. Rather, Michael leaned inward, melting. The shaking stopped, and with the letter opener he had forgotten was still tight in his grip, the envelope was opened.
Silently, they read the contents together: “Journeyman Michael Luther, childe of Grandmaster Calvin Bainbridge, I would like to speak with you in regards of your place in our guild. Please make appearance at the Crowne Plaza in Columbus, Ohio on Friday, September 24, 2010 with your Master's Piece to be presented to Guild Master Abernathy.”
“Are you going?” Carl asked, the first to speak after minutes of silence.
“Of course not,” Michael replied. “I am not about to go through that humiliation again.”
Carl hissed, loosing his grip only to turn Michael. “That was not your fault, Michael.”
“My actions were careless then,” Micheal said, his temper remaining still. It was not defeat but knowing that carried him, understanding of what Calvin meant. “You might have thought it was beautiful, but it lacked the technique I had possessed in previous commissions.”
“It was beautiful,” Carl urged. “Clinton was an idiot for not seeing that.”
Michael allowed a human sigh to take him, because Carl made him such, “You don't need to belittle your sire's intellect for me, love. I know that his response was not personal. It was my fault. I put my heart on the floor and forgot that the final product was not mine to possess.”
“But isn't that what we do, Michael? You poured everything into those rings.”
“Everything,” Michael repeated and shook his head. “Except for editing. It was minimal, simplistic, what I would have wanted you to wear in my proposal because it was my aesthetic, and it was mediocre.”
“And I adored it,” Carl retorted. “Does that mean nothing to you?”
Michael frowned, wanting to apologize if he had offended, but he said instead, “It does but not to the critic. Your sire might have not thought well of Christopher's decisions, but he did not take into accounting that his childer were involved with my piece. As much as I argued, it was the truth. I let my emotions get the better of me.”
“But if I had not --” Carl started, but Michael pressed his fingers upon those thin lips, seizing the breath and words.
Michael smiled, kissing him once he knew there wouldn't be further objection. “I love you for trying to defend me, Carl Dane,” he said softly afterward. “But it's the truth. Just as it is a fact that you are not at fault for my flawed design. Calvin knew. He could sense it in our conversation and wanted to see if I would be able to work through it or fail to turn away. I did then, and I am proud. I would rather turn away my title than deny this.”
Carl blinked, fluttering his hazel-green eyes from the reaction that rimmed them. It was one thing to say 'I forgive you' because the other wants to hear it, but Michael had reason behind his words. He coughed to try and keep the moment from becoming depressing, even if this revelation was cathartic in nature. “What will you do now, love?”
“Now?” Michael asked. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Carl shook his head. “No, Michael, you can't avoid this.”
“I don't have anything to show,” Michael replied, pulling away as his excuses built a wall between them. “Besides, we're not even Toreador.”
But Carl would not let his mate's insecurity get the better of him. He stepped forward as quick as Michael stepped back, taking his hand. “No one knows that, and you have plenty to show now.” Then an idea grabbed him, causing a grin to creep upon his lips that had Michael worried. Slowly, he pulled his hands behind his neck and unclasped the silver strand around his neck. The pendant dangled until it was secure in Michael's hands that were shaking again at the prospect. “You were so sure when you presented this. Do it again.”
Michael looked down at the glass cylinder filled with diamond chips. It was surrounded by silver, architecturally brilliant to where even Calvin would approve. “I suppose that I could,” he said quietly, noticing Carl's thumb was stroking his in assurance of his technical brilliance as much as the rest. “But what about you? This is not some party. I can bring Richard as my assistant, but you . . .” he started to shake his head. “I can't leave you.”
“You can, and I promise to not call every hour,” Carl assured, curling Michael's fingers around the piece before turning it to kiss the hand. “I'll be fine knowing you're getting the recognition you deserve.”
“But . . .” Michael started, but the lips again made him shiver, washing away the last hints of doubt and excuses to not try. A smile met that wild grin after a while, and he asked, “But what would I wear?”
Part 1
Word Count: 1,854
Pairings: Carl/Michael
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Michael Dane receives missive requesting his presence at the Toreador Guild.
Author's Note: Dedicated to
lycanthrophile, my beta and the owner of Carl Dane. <3Prologue
Michael Luther stood silently in his studio, staring at a white, ten by thirteen envelope from FedEx that was delivered earlier in the day. It was waiting for him on the desk, brought to him all the way from The Office of Ambrosia Redivary. Disconcerting, he thought immediately, and cautiously brushed his fingers across the smooth surface. Nothing useful came out of the cardboard, of course, and he allowed a sigh for being so foolish.
In irritated response, he snatched it up and the letter opener. With one, clean swipe the sticky seal was breached and its contents expelled. Another envelope fell, sliding to a halt and staying there. Michael could not move, unable to stop staring at the silver, wax stamp. At first, he thought that it was a trick. Ambrosia, Elder of the Rose, and Didaskalos of the Guild of Hephaestus, would never contact him. He was anathema.
Yet a tentative hand broke the fact to lie upon what was obviously in front of him, if only to know if whether or not this was real or someone's idea of a cruel joke.
The answer caused him to fall back into the leather chair behind him, the two, front legs lifting from the unexpected force and bringing him back forward. Michael remained seated, his hands resting on his lap, trembling at what they felt, what he sensed. His mind was reeling.
“I thought better of you,” Calvin admitted, disappointment swirling in his emotions so thick that it practically spewed out of his mouth when he spoke. “I had faith that even in your previous mistakes, your flaws, you would persevere, surpass this foolish behavior, and honor what you are.”
He would not remove himself from the window. While the sight of the city decaying before his eyes disgusted him, it had more potential than the failure that sat on the chair across from him. “You should know even before I educate you that Master Host rarely takes artists from outside his region. As Primogen, as sire, as esteemed Master of our Clan, he has little time to deal with somewhere as insignificant as Iron Rapids.”
“I know that, sir, but --”
“Yet you disrespected him, your clan, your art, and me,” Calvin clipped, unable to restrain himself to point out with a more leveled hand. There was no patience to listen to excuses. Because of their bond, Michael's mistakes reflected as his own, and he could already hear the clan gossip louder than those of the Prince's harpies. “Your execution was amateur. Unless you believed that something so unoriginal would pass as extraordinary. Which, Michael, was it?”
I love him, Michael wanted to say, but he pressed his lips before speaking, swallowing back the heat. “It was a set of rings,” he chose instead, knowing that he would be swatted for avoiding the answer with another rationalization.
Calvin removed his silver-rimmed glasses and thumbed them, wanting to press the bridge of his nose if it did not show how provoked he was. “An artist does not care of the medium given to him. He creates with just as much purpose. To say otherwise is an insult to your ability and for me to believe that you were above it.”
“Then the fault is my own,” Michael said, deciding that he was not going to get his voice heart. It was as irrelevant and now drained. “Entirely,” he added softly. “Please forgive me, sire.”
Calvin shook his head, and Michael feared the worst. The Right of Destruction had long since passed from his sire's hands, his Accounting ending decades ago, but after Darien, a request to the Prince would take a single conversation. But ending his life would only prove Calvin made a mistake in the first place, and that could not happen. “You will be forgiven when I see that you have learned from your dereliction. Until then, you will not speak with Master Host or his childer. Is that understood?”
The scene played out over and over in Michael's mind, so completely that he did not register someone else was in the shop until a hand laid upon his shoulder. He jumped, the chair thrown a few feet as he spun around and hissed. His fangs retracted, and his face softened, apologetic at Carl's hand that recoiled. “Sorry about that,” he said in a quiet, ashamed voice. “I did not think that you would be here so soon.”
“It's been an hour,” Carl said, refraining from a nod to show the shoulder bag that contained his laptop and the bag of goodies he procured from a recently closing bookstore down the street. His concern shifted from Michael to the envelop that still sat pristine and overturned. “What is that?”
“Something I had not expected to see for at least a century,” Michael replied, finding it easy to explain since Carl was less caring of the fact that he was just hissed at and more so at the reason why. He turned and picked up the wine colored envelope embroidered with silver to make an elegant composition while some would have overdone it to the point of gaudy. His name was written in an elegant script, the very same that he saw when Calvin presented it all those years ago. “I am being summoned by Didaskalos Redivary.”
“Redivary?” It took Carl a moment to recognize the name, but when he did he nodded, his tone turning more solemn. “Are you certain?”
Michael turned from the envelop to give a glare that wanted to validate his faith that this was not some trick. “Didaskalos Redivary sends her missives on parchment that she invested with her time, her hands, and her ability so that those of the guild would know,” he explained just as Calvin did. “She imbues a sense of belonging.”
Carl slid his bag to the nearby table while Michael spoke so that he could close in on the other without any awkward restraint barring their connection. His arms wrapped around Michael's waist, and he did not try to move or pull away. Rather, Michael leaned inward, melting. The shaking stopped, and with the letter opener he had forgotten was still tight in his grip, the envelope was opened.
Silently, they read the contents together: “Journeyman Michael Luther, childe of Grandmaster Calvin Bainbridge, I would like to speak with you in regards of your place in our guild. Please make appearance at the Crowne Plaza in Columbus, Ohio on Friday, September 24, 2010 with your Master's Piece to be presented to Guild Master Abernathy.”
“Are you going?” Carl asked, the first to speak after minutes of silence.
“Of course not,” Michael replied. “I am not about to go through that humiliation again.”
Carl hissed, loosing his grip only to turn Michael. “That was not your fault, Michael.”
“My actions were careless then,” Micheal said, his temper remaining still. It was not defeat but knowing that carried him, understanding of what Calvin meant. “You might have thought it was beautiful, but it lacked the technique I had possessed in previous commissions.”
“It was beautiful,” Carl urged. “Clinton was an idiot for not seeing that.”
Michael allowed a human sigh to take him, because Carl made him such, “You don't need to belittle your sire's intellect for me, love. I know that his response was not personal. It was my fault. I put my heart on the floor and forgot that the final product was not mine to possess.”
“But isn't that what we do, Michael? You poured everything into those rings.”
“Everything,” Michael repeated and shook his head. “Except for editing. It was minimal, simplistic, what I would have wanted you to wear in my proposal because it was my aesthetic, and it was mediocre.”
“And I adored it,” Carl retorted. “Does that mean nothing to you?”
Michael frowned, wanting to apologize if he had offended, but he said instead, “It does but not to the critic. Your sire might have not thought well of Christopher's decisions, but he did not take into accounting that his childer were involved with my piece. As much as I argued, it was the truth. I let my emotions get the better of me.”
“But if I had not --” Carl started, but Michael pressed his fingers upon those thin lips, seizing the breath and words.
Michael smiled, kissing him once he knew there wouldn't be further objection. “I love you for trying to defend me, Carl Dane,” he said softly afterward. “But it's the truth. Just as it is a fact that you are not at fault for my flawed design. Calvin knew. He could sense it in our conversation and wanted to see if I would be able to work through it or fail to turn away. I did then, and I am proud. I would rather turn away my title than deny this.”
Carl blinked, fluttering his hazel-green eyes from the reaction that rimmed them. It was one thing to say 'I forgive you' because the other wants to hear it, but Michael had reason behind his words. He coughed to try and keep the moment from becoming depressing, even if this revelation was cathartic in nature. “What will you do now, love?”
“Now?” Michael asked. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Carl shook his head. “No, Michael, you can't avoid this.”
“I don't have anything to show,” Michael replied, pulling away as his excuses built a wall between them. “Besides, we're not even Toreador.”
But Carl would not let his mate's insecurity get the better of him. He stepped forward as quick as Michael stepped back, taking his hand. “No one knows that, and you have plenty to show now.” Then an idea grabbed him, causing a grin to creep upon his lips that had Michael worried. Slowly, he pulled his hands behind his neck and unclasped the silver strand around his neck. The pendant dangled until it was secure in Michael's hands that were shaking again at the prospect. “You were so sure when you presented this. Do it again.”
Michael looked down at the glass cylinder filled with diamond chips. It was surrounded by silver, architecturally brilliant to where even Calvin would approve. “I suppose that I could,” he said quietly, noticing Carl's thumb was stroking his in assurance of his technical brilliance as much as the rest. “But what about you? This is not some party. I can bring Richard as my assistant, but you . . .” he started to shake his head. “I can't leave you.”
“You can, and I promise to not call every hour,” Carl assured, curling Michael's fingers around the piece before turning it to kiss the hand. “I'll be fine knowing you're getting the recognition you deserve.”
“But . . .” Michael started, but the lips again made him shiver, washing away the last hints of doubt and excuses to not try. A smile met that wild grin after a while, and he asked, “But what would I wear?”
Part 1
