Last of the Summer Wine (Farkas)

[Lady Thorn]

(Apologies... awful pun... I probably deserve to be garotted with my own entrails I'm sure).

A sharp September breeze scattered the already gathering leaves from around the legs of the café tables. They blew across the street in a ragged dance, red and green and yellow in a whirl of sunshine.
Émile sipped his wine without much enthusiasm. It was nothing special. His eyes watched with interest, however, the path of the leaves as they made their wandering way across the Rue Saint Sébastien, until they were dispersed by a speeding car. The roar of the engine cut a jagged scar across the afternoon warmth, the peace of it all, and Émile frowned a delicate frown at the horrid jarring it made. He hated such disruption.
With his interest removed, he cast his gaze around the street café instead. It was full on this, the last day of summer. Tourists and Parisians milled together, a great, wide murmur of their conversation buzzing around him. His was the only table not full today. Ostensibly, he was reading a book on the interpretation of turn of the century gothic novels, but that wasn't really holding his attention at the moment. He was too much taken up with enjoying the day. He supposed, after today, that he would have to once more endure cool afternoons and frosty mornings soon. Dreadful. But right here, on the cusp of autumn, when the warmth still lingered in the city's bones and yet the crisp hints of the coming season murmured through as breezes and sighs, he could still enjoy himself outdoors, still sit on a street café and sip his cheap Bordeaux with some sense of satisfaction.
It wasn't all that bad a wine anyway.
He had turned his attention back to his book for some time, occasionally taking a sip of his drink, when he was aware of a shadow cast across him. Someone was standing nearby, and it wasn't a waiter.
With a mildly irritated frown, he glanced up.
"Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?" What do you want? His tone was mild and unruffled, polite. But he was feeling the chill sink in. He wanted his sunshine back.

[farkas]

It had started out as a pleasant morning in Paris. Seeing a few of the sights, marvelling at just how much traffic the roads surrounding L'Arc de Triumph could hold...Yes, it had been turning out into a lovely day. But then, curse his luck, one of the Sûreté Nationale had spotted his sword and he had ended up in a chase that seemed to encompass almost the entire area of the city. It was only with skill and daring that he had managed to shake them off at all. At least they hadn't decided to send the dogs after him, that certainly would have put him in a difficult position.
Desiring a sit down and a rest, Farkas scouted about for a cafe for somewhere he could take a breather and have a drink. Seeing a busy place, he wandered over, trying not to look too conspicuous, just in case the police were still looking for him. He only realised that he had been casting a shadow over somebody when the man spoke to him.
"Oh! Pardonai moi. Est-ce que vous parlez anglais?" He knew that his french was terrible, but he hadn't had much of a chance to learn very much. He had been better in the past, but now, scraping together a simple sentence was the best that he could managed. The simple reason for this lack of knowledge was that he very rarely spent much time in France, using the country as a kind of corridor to get to other places.
"Erm, may I sit here?" He tried in English, gesturing to the empty chair opposite that was one of the few free ones left by the roadside. Grinning sheepishly, he hoped the reply was going to be a yes.

[Lady Thorn]

Stifling a laugh at the foreigner's French, Émile closed his book with a quiet snick and gestured dismissively at the chair opposite himself.
"Bien-sûr," he offered in sepulchral tones, before giving in to his better nature and switching language. "Be my guest, sir." His accent was flawless, cultured and crisp. "I am aware that seating is a little sparse at this time of year." His voice was slightly higher than one might expect and a touch nasal, but not altogether unpleasant. He smiled as he spoke, too, entirely at his ease with a stranger before him.
This look was seemingly ruined by a sudden sniff that could well have been taken for unnecessary hauteur. In fact, he'd simply caught the scent of something unusual, something interesting, and had been rather less subtle than he had thought in investigating.
There was a pause, with the young Frenchman drumming his long, tapered, manicured fingers on the table-top, one hand swirling his ruby wine about the glass.
Then he spoke, his English flawless again.
"I know what you are, Monsieur." It was no accusation or recrimination, simply statement of fact. "I can smell it even from here. But worry not," he held up a hand as though expecting the Englishman to jump up or do something alarming, "I have no intention of telling anyone who might care." There would be no point. He'd only get himself into trouble after all.
He liked to know there were others out there, though. Others who understood the call of the moon. He liked to know he had peers, of some sort.
"You might say I'm in a similar situation..." he downed the last dregs from his glass, gazing disconsolately at the void in the tainted crystal. "Would you like a drink? On me." He caught a waiter's eye, who scurried over, knowing that Émile was a good tipper when he was in the mood.

[farkas]

With a grateful sigh, Farkas dropped into the indicated chair, also pleased that the man could speak English. Impeccably, as it happened. "Thank you. You have no idea how busy my day has been, and I'm glad of a rest." He smiled, the the expression froze, then faded with the next sentence that the Frenchman uttered.

Gripping the arms of the chair, Farkas almost made a run for it, to get out of this city for now, but something in the young man's voice made him pause, and listen further. "A similar situation?" Farkas muttered to himself, about to try and detect his companion's scent. But he stopped when the waiter approached. "Oh. That's very kind of you. Erm...a sweet white wine please."

Waiting until the waiter was out of earshot, Farkas spoke again, his voice low. "A similar situation, you say." A slight frown creased his forehead and his eyes narrowed in a slightly suspicious way. "What kind of being are you? You don't carry the scent of my species. The closest that I can describe is like water weed and birds." The idea was so ludicrous to his mind that Farkas didn't say what conclusion he had come to. This man couldn't be a were-bird, it wasn't possible. In fact, the thought was so laughable that Farkas had to stop himself from chuckling.

[Lady Thorn]

Émile was amused by the stranger's suspicion and secrecy. It was so much in contrast with his own blasé nature. His amusement continued at the incredulity on the werewolf's part. Such a narrow mind... ah well.
"Chuckle all you like, Monsieur, but your nose tells you true," he said, not bothering to lower his voice as the lycan had. The café was busy and no one was paying them any mind. Everyone was talking, smiling, laughing among themselves. Who cared about a couple of strange men alone?
The waiter returned, however, and Émile was aware of the keen ears of serving staff, so he kept his next comments to himself for the moment. The man poured him another glass of the house red, rather fuller than normal in fact, given his propensity for generosity. White wine likewise filled his new companion's.
He sipped elegantly from his glass before continuing, leaning back in his seat and evidently savouring the taste as though it were the finest vintage in the land. Then he smiled, setting the glass down with a click.
"I suppose you wouldn't believe me if I were to tell you that I am a wereswan, then, hmm?" His hands were steepled in front of his face, tapping his lips. His eyes were alight with enjoyment at the conversation. He'd been bored.
"But I am, Monsieur, though obviously this cannot be proved in front of so many innocent humans, non?" His shoulders rose and fell in a casual shrug. "That would be counter-productive. So you will have to be taking my word for it."
There was a moment's silence, when the buzz and hum of the other conversations around them rolled in to fill the void.
"Oh!" He sat up again, laughing, holding his hand out. "Where are my manners, and with an Englishman, too? You must think me some dreadful philistine. My name, Monsieur, is Émile Theroux... and what name may I put to your good self?"
A shudder of wind blew down the street, scattering more of the ruby-coloured leaves across the street café, and across the tables. One was captured in the Frenchman's thin fingers and held there, halted in its whirling dance as he examined it minutely. Then he let it go, watching it shiver away with the rest.

[farkas]

With a nod of thanks to the waiter, Farkas had just taken a sip of his wine when the strangely scented man spoke again. Snorting inelegantly, he just prevented himself from spraying the contents of his mouth across the table by covering his lips with a hand. Quickly putting down his glass, he stared at the man in blatent amazement. "Swan?" He croaked, having managed to swallow before hand. "How...?" To say he was stunned would be a gross understandment. Knocked sideways would more encompass his feeling and expression.

Still rather dazed, Farkas unconsciously shook the offered hand and muttered his own name. "Farkas." Then, staring slightly into the distance behind Émile, he grasped his wine glass and drained it in one gulp, before beckoning to the waiter and asking for a double measure of scotch, or at least something of equivalent strength.

Whilst waiting for the drink, Farkas returned to gaping at Émile, and was now attracting a little bit of attention. At least his mouth wasn't open and catching flies, but apart from that, his reaction was somewhat undignified.

[Lady Thorn]

Émile bit his lip, a small smile creeping across his face at the werewolf's reaction. Such... silliness. But aside from that.
"Farkas? So you are not an English man at all. My mistake. You do so much sound as one, how foolish of me to judge by the seeming." He sipped elegantly from his glass again, leaning his chair back on two legs, all the time keeping his dark eyes fixed on Farkas.
He had not revealed his true nature to so many people in his time, and it was gratifying to see such an amusing reaction again. No one expected it. Of course, that was simply a product of not knowing of the species' existence. Had they, they would have been quite willing to accept that Émile was one of them. It was hardly a surprise, in fact given his background. Almost poetic, it was, to fit so well. Irritatingly so.
The waiter came and went again as the two men sat in silence. On Émile's part, it was contemplative. He was trying to take the measure of the stranger before him, and wondering how seriously he himself would be treated for his species. He was used to ridicule, but it would be nice to have some civil treatment. He'd got far too accustomed to that as he masqueraded as a human.
"Come on then," he murmured at last, a sardonic expression sitting on his features as he awaited the inevitable mockery that he hoped was not forthcoming. "Say what you wish to say. Feel free to make you jibes. I've heard them before. I'd quite appreciate something original, if you have it... perhaps so original as acceptance?" There was a little ubiquitous smile slipping across the edges of his lips. Even in awaiting ridicule, he enjoyed the freedom of open speech, speech with someone he considered an equal. A strange idea, since he barely knew the man, but they were of equal status in the eyes of humans, so it was a kinship of un-belonging, he supposed. Whatever it was, it was a pleasant way to spend one's autumnal afternoon.