Marco's Heart

[peccatore]

You find yourself in a bright white, circular room. It's nearly empty; too bare, almost clinically so. But the bareness of it means that what is visible here stands out:

A podium in the center, where a familiar figure sits, head buried in his hands. Three paths running from the podium to three different spots near the edges of the room - not corners; circles don't have corners - where three doors leading seemingly nowhere stand with no regard for their complete lack of structural support.

It doesn't take you long to figure out where you are, does it? You only have to decide where to start.

Comments

[queenamongrooks]

[Mal allows herself to fall into the background of the memory for now, keen to observe.]

If he was keeping the same habits he has now back then, he was likely starving.

[peccatore]

This Agnes nods. The Agnes at the counter seems to be reaching the same conclusion, scrutinizing Marco's dishevelled manner and clumsy use of the language silently until she finally says:

"Come with me."

She walks through a door at the back of the establishment, and Marco follows her. Likewise, the Agnes guiding Mal signals at her to come along as well.

[queenamongrooks]

[Mal follows alongpolitely with Agnes.]

If this is going where I think it is, how grisly will it be? I don't doubt you are capable of presenting a manner of feeding that is preferable to biting in a back alley, but...

[peccatore]

"I ran a respectable establishment, even back then."

Indeed, the Agnes from the past pours blood from a bottle into a cup, then hands it to Marco, who drinks it like a man dying of thirst. He may very well have been, as Mal guessed. She sighs, but there's no sign of exasperation in the sound.

"How long?" She asks him.

"Ah..." He is visibly trying to do the math in a language he doesn't have the most solid grasp on yet. The words take longer to come to him than the numbers. "Maybe, a... cccentury... Not exactly..."

She blinks. Surely, he must have the wrong word.

[queenamongrooks]

A CENTURY?

Is that... that shouldn't be possible, right? Even vampires have to have a limit.

[Mal takes a few steps closer to examine Marco more closely.]

[peccatore]

"Since I'd turned," Marco whispers to Mal.

[queenamongrooks]

[Mal sighs in relief and puts a hand on his shoulder.]

Darling, you gave me quite the fright there.

[peccatore]

Marco smiles, despite himself. He makes no move to evade Mal's touch before the memory continues.

"A century-old vampire wandering the streets in this state..." Despite the clarification, Agnes looks no less shocked. "Do you not know how to hunt? Where is your sire?"

For his part, Marco seems less eager to answer these questions, and not because of the language barrier; he doesn't even start trying.

[queenamongrooks]

Did... did you even know your sire? I thought you had just been turned randomly and left to your own devices?

[peccatore]

The answer actually comes from the Agnes guiding Mal.

"Indeed. So I..."

The background blurs. When it coalesces into a solid shape again, Marco and Agnes are sitting at a table; he's gripping a book, staring it down intently.

"... But perhaps you don't need to see this," Agnes says, with relatively good humour. "He has told you already, I believe."

[queenamongrooks]

[She smiles sweetly at the scene, none the less.]

Mm. He has, it's nice to see in person though. What did you use to teach him?

[peccatore]

"Books."

She doesn't seem to understand the question. Meanwhile, Marco is squinting at the words on the page, apparently struggling to find a good viewing distance.

"... I must admit, perhaps I wasn't the most qualified for the position."

[queenamongrooks]

[Mal snorts at the short answer.]

I meant which books, Agnes. I was taught on Bible stories, but that hardly seems appropriate here.

Oh heavens, his glasses...

[peccatore]

"... Ah. I don't believe I had much learner-appropriate literature at the time. For the most part, I had miscellaneous contemporary works..."

Indeed, Marco and Agnes are currently finding out he needs glasses. The pair she has on hand for him doesn't suit him terribly well, but it helps; he still reads somewhat haltingly, but he's no longer squinting.

[queenamongrooks]

Hard to think he goes on to run such a large business looking at him like this.

[peccatore]

"I've told him I am proud of him. I suppose... he must remember it, if I am telling you this."

Already, this memory is fading. It seems there wasn't that much to see. Their surroundings take a little longer to solidify this time, but once they do, Marco is sitting alone at a desk in a sparsely-decorated room. It looks like he's writing a letter.

"... Ah," Agnes says. "This is... after he set out on his own again."

[queenamongrooks]

Where was that before, and where is he now?

[peccatore]

"That was Colchester, in England. This is... New York, I believe."

Indeed, the decor is probably not dissimilar to what Mal might be used to.

[queenamongrooks]

Strange to think our worlds are so close, I wonder if his world has a version of me in it. That we could have met for a short time, if only a bit different.

[peccatore]

"I wonder. But I am not the one to discuss this... 'theory of multiple worlds' with, to be perfectly sincere."

It looks like all Marco is doing is writing this letter... Will Mal take a look?

[queenamongrooks]

[Of course she id going to be a snoop and look over his shoulder.]

[peccatore]

It seems he's written a decent bit! Marco keeps writing, but even though he doesn't move his lips, his voice reads it all out...

Dear Agnes,

I believe I am finally settling, despite my wretched timing (as I mentioned previously). Even in this short time, I have hopes that the economy is starting to recover. Maybe unfounded? I have tried to read some theory, but I have to admit it's somewhat tedious.

Regardless, I have carved myself a little niche in this city. I work most nights as a pianist. The pay is enough, and I am getting by, so please don't worry. (You are worrying! I know that you worry.)

I do miss your company and, yes, your supplies. As of my writing, I have worked out a method. Much like the piano playing, it is working, and I am getting by...

[queenamongrooks]

Oh, I do wish we had a piano for you, Marco.

I'm glad I'm not the only woman who worries after him, though.

[peccatore]

"He has a secretary, I believe. One who knows, that is."

Agnes looks... thoughtful.

"Is he leaving a trail of concerned women in his wake...?"

[queenamongrooks]

What I wouldn't give to shake her hand.

Frankly, I'm almost certain that most men do leave a trail of concerned women after them.