France - Paris - The Pantheon

A thin strand of wire stretched between the marble dome and the iron disk, holding the disk as it came to the bottom of its arc. Moving quickly now, it swung up, slowing as it rose. It twisted too, imperceptible to all but immortal eyes; its slight motion would multiply as the minutes passed, betraying the rotation of the earth below the pendulum.

The disk stopped, caught in rough hands. The man - battered leather jacket, name brand jeans too low around the hips - laughed slightly, pushing the heavy weight away from himself. It arced away, pulled by the thin wire, the weight of the earth. A young woman - white gown, heels, a strand of blond hair across her covered eyes - was flung to the floor as the mass completed its arc between her shoulder blades. The man laughed harder, joined by his companions.

The woman picked herself up off the floor, her white gown bloodied, removing the blindfold from her eyes. She smiled, her hard eyes the only thing that betrayed her anger. Standing, she rejoined the circle. She extended a finger, choosing the next victim, as was her right. The choice fell on a young woman, kin to the man who had disgraced her. The new toy placed the cloth over her eyes. Shouts of support or derision rang out from the thirty men and women gathered around the red marble circle set into the white floor.

Behind the childrens' game, in the shadows, others watched. Stiff backs against the cool walls, they stood singly or in pairs. Eyes flickered over the young ones at play. As the white-clad woman fell, a head bowed to match her. A wager lost, a trivial thing. But something to pass a few minutes, a few centuries.

Julia shook her head slightly, lowering her eyes to the floor. "How far we have fallen," she thought. "But I have other responsibilities" - she caught herself - "had other responsibilities." She walked slowly around the perimeter of the domed room, towards the stairs to the crypt.

Her hard-soled shoes clicked quietly against the marble, lost in the noise of this place, carrying her past the children. A few paused from their sport, some bowing, some smiling, some studiously ignoring. Her path carried her past the shadows. The eyes took her in, evaluating: the strong legs carrying her forward under her long dress, sweeping across the clean stone. She did not turn her head, did not acknowledge them, either children or watchers.

She descended the steep stair, the eyes returning to the sport just as the children did. She was lost from the young ones' thoughts. What was one more or less? What did they matter, these beings so old as to be beyond comprehension? Behind the watching eyes Julia was not forgotten. She had returned. Some had known that she would. The plans of others were quickly reviewed. The shadows shifted as figures slipped into tighter knots or hurriedly departed. What would have to change? What had happened in New York?

**********

The descent was lit by flickering torch light, thick walls quickly dulling the shouts from above. Julia stepped carefully, cautiously. It had been many years since she had last worn the gowns of her youth, spurning them for dress more fit for a warrior. Her slow descent was not due to the hampering nature of her clothing, though. Truly it was her failure that weighed her down, her failure and the reckoning close at hand.

Reaching the base of the stairs she continued onward, past the graves of the revolution, the empire and the republic. Past the tombs of writers and artists, scientists and poets. Julia was the only soldier in these dead halls.

As she advanced a low stone sarcophagus emerged from the blackness, surmounted by a single half burnt candle. Behind this grave, this last resting place of the remains of some long dead luminary, sat a thin, small man. The earth and dust of this place suffused his clothing, grime was caked under his fingernails. The hard lines of his hands matched those of his face. The brown creases of his body, the gray-speckled white of his hair, the black gaps between his teeth: these things betrayed his great age - at least mortal age. But his appearance betrayed something else as well. His small stature - barely four and a half feet tall - spoke of the many years since his birth and rebirth, many even to a Kindred.

Julia spoke:

"M'lord Archon."

She bowed deep, lowering herself before this man. There was no hesitation in her movement, pride did not lift her eyes or pause the fluid motion of her body. She bowed before Antonius Germanicus Longinus, who had been commander of the 9th Legion, warlord of the Saxon tribe, abbot of St. Denis, Baron of Toulon, patron of Voltaire. She bowed before this man who was the voice of Lucinde in this city, this country and this continent. She bowed, prostrated herself, before the Camarilla as personified in this one man. And she rose.

"M'lord. New York has fallen. I have failed."

"Yes."

"M'lord Archon, the fault is mine. Please, do not blame Faida, or young Alice, instead -"

"Julia. Do not tell me who to blame. The time for that has passed. Tell me instead what went wrong. How can we avoid such a mistake in the future?"

Julia swallowed. Would she not have the release of guilt?

"Yes M'lord."

And words passed between these two pillars of the Camarilla, long into the night.