The Answer

[Alex]

May 31st, 2020

Arthur looked out over the city from the balcony of a rented penthouse, gazing at the New Orleans skyline. It was risky for him to be in the city like this, given how thoroughly the Anarchs had relieved him of his assets in the past months. He had been in the penthouse for a week now, just his latest stay while he was on the run. It was dangerous with the Anarchs about. Doubly so with Richard having met Final Death. But he had been cautious, and they had not found him yet. He was glad of that, for more than his unlife. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Alain or Corinne burst down his door to find that the weeks they believed he spent plotting against them had been dedicated instead to sulking.

Right now, though, he did not care about that. He was transfixed by the beauty of New Orleans below him. It wasn’t the New Orleans he remembered. But it was home. And no garish skyscraper or light pollution could ruin that for him.

No, only Henry had been able to do that.

Arthur didn’t look back to the room itself. Nor the crumpled piece of stationary sitting on the kitchenette counter. An invitation to the city’s first annual Grand Elysian Ball at the New Orleans Museum of Art. There would be dancing to a dazzling ode to the age of swing, performed live by Luma Romano. The finest modern art pieces in North America that could be attained on short notice. A meet and greet with Henry Mitchell, the new Prince of New Orleans. The naming of the city’s first officers. And, of course, a fond farewell to Arthur Beauregard – recalled from New Orleans to return to Houston and take office as His Grace’s new Primogen. That order was on another crumpled piece of paper, equally elaborate, signed by His Grace Prince Alderidge.

Arthur pulled back, leaning forward on his cane. His face was flat, mildly disdainful as always. In reality, the Prince’s and Henry’s thinly-veiled ultimatum was a better deal than he had deserved. Arthur had certainly been promised Praxis, but the Anarchs had demonstrated clearly that he was unable to hold it. He could certainly blame his old allies from St. Louis, but Arthur was too practical to delude himself like that. Many Kindred in his shoes would have been killed by the incoming Prince, executed on some false pretense as a pretender to the throne. To return from failure to the Primogeniture was a kindness rarely afforded to the disgraced in the Camarilla. It was the kind of deal Arthur thought he would take without a moment’s hesitation.

So why hadn’t he yet? Arthur did not know the answer to that question. He had been looking for his answer in many places since he had received the missives. They were from what friends…no, not friends, debtors…he still had at Court in Houston. He had been looking for the answer in those last night. He found many things in reports from Court. The desperate propaganda was certainly amusing, but the musical chairs in the Courts of New Orleans were more telling. He knew that Robin must have betrayed Richard Dupuis. Whatever took her from outcast to Primogen had to have been big, and there was no way Henry would have proclaimed Praxis if there was a Baron to challenge that legitimacy. That was the mistake Arthur made. Henry considered the Anarchs defeated without Richard, and this grand ball would be a monument to his victory.

Arthur chuckled. Henry certainly thought it would be. But Arthur knew better. He knew the Anarchs better than most of Houston. He knew that Richard was a figurehead, a cuddly mascot barely holding back his peoples’ anger. He was not sure if Corinne and Alain had overthrown Richard, or if he’d simply been unable to stop them from waging war on the Camarilla. But Henry was a fool to think Richard was leading this effort. His Final Death wouldn’t dispirit the Anarchs – it would enrage them. And Arthur doubted that they would be alone. He was under no delusions about the skill or convictions of “Ella the Ripper” and “Black Vivian”, but he knew that their sires had left them no option but to take up the cause. And there was always the Sabbat. The Camarilla had taken the vanishing of the Butcher of Baton Rouge as a sign of his Pack’s demise. But Arthur knew the progeny of his sire’s killer better. He had been casing out New Orleans for a century. He had little doubt that when the Anarchs struck, Bonaparte Desrosiers would be there – fighting beside them, if not with them.

Arthur saw the pattern of New York playing out before his mind’s eye. An overconfident Prince, an underestimated Anarch Movement, the complicity of the remains of the Sabbat. The Anarchs would find a way to cause a civil disruption to strike under – it was one of their talents. All that was left was a man on the inside – the dozens of nervous, angry childer of the Camarilla in New York who let slip enough words to guide the mob to the manors and manses of their sires. Arthur did not know who the inside man would be, but he knew there would be one. Henry had too many enemies for there not to be. There were too many people who wanted to see the Malkavian fail. Perhaps Robin’s conscience would get the better of her. Or maybe Klein’s obsession would drive him to folly. Devon Champlaigne was never far from intrigues for their own sake. And there was always the childe. Arthur didn’t think Luma had it in her, but he knew better than to count out the childe. Maybe it would be him, before long.

But while the missives had allowed Arthur to peel back the sticky webs of the Jyhad taking shape and the coming battle to claim the future of New Orleans, they had not contained the answer to Arthur’s question.

Why hadn’t he taken the deal yet? Gotten out while the getting was good? Gone home to Houston as a Primogen and settled in for another century of scheming to make New Orleans his?

Arthur winced at the thought of Houston as home. It had certainly been where he had resided for the last seventy years. It had certainly been the first city he had not come crawling to in disgrace. But Houston had never been home. It had always been a pitstop. A necessary discomfort on the path to what he really wanted. He wanted to be home. Somewhere that brought to mind what few happy memories Arthur could recall from his mortal life. A ride on horse back. A kiss from a sweetheart. He was reminded of all the worst parts of his life every time he went to feed. Was it so wrong to want a little bit of good to go with it?

Arthur was mortified of himself, slumping on the railing of the balcony. Almost 50 years undead, and he felt like a cranky toddler. He wanted to go home. He wanted to stay home. He didn’t want to wait another century. He was here right now and he wanted to stay. Just like the Anarchs.

That thought sent Arthur bolt upright, the strangest look crossing his dead face. He wanted to be home. Someplace he felt he belonged. And he didn’t want to run away or be bought off or sent somewhere else. He wanted to stay, even if it meant Final Death.

For a while, he did not think of anything. He stayed slumped over, staring at the hideous skyscrapers that blighted the once-beautiful city’s night sky. He finally stood back up and looked up. Even past the ugly things and the light they threw off, he could see bits of the night sky. He could almost feel the grass on his back again. A kiss on his neck. He closed his eyes.

He was home. And he was staying. No matter what it took.