What I believe (Laevinus)

Quaint could be a good word to describe the little shop tucked away in the town's square. The small space was made even smaller by the dozens upon dozens of little treasures stocked upon shelves and tables. You never quite knew what exactly was in the shop, one minute you'd be looking at a rather priceless Mozart concerto written out on old parchment, the next your eyes would land on a more common, but old, pocket watch from the fifties. Display cases were lined against walls, showing so many priceless artifacts next to things that would cost less than a fraction of what the object next to them did. The moment you step through the door it's not hard to guess that Phuri Tezauriza was a shop dedicated to the old, and sometimes, useless. Indeed there are very many things that would be of little use to anyone these days.

But don't let the petite woman who owned the shop know that. For they hold an entirely different purpose for her, they weren't just a way to survive, they weren't just a pile of money to her. Oh no, when you could see all the objects ever been through, well that would be something that was worth more than the price of an object. And that was exactly how Charlotte Mirga saw it. Each piece that lined her walls were not objects to bring her money, they were not priceless artifacts that she could bring millions in with. They were lives, they were stories, they were tragedies and happy endings, romances and stories of struggle, of hardship, of success. They were history, true and unaltered. Written words could always be changed, the things she saw happened, they were truth, and she stuck by them because they were the past of not only mankind, but of the world, of everything and everyone.

She was given a chance to see the truth of the world's history. Perhaps she could have done more, tried to voice the truths, tried to show the world the mistakes that had been made over and over again. But she wasn't the person to do that. She was not courageous or ambitious or even out-spoken. She was Charlotte and she was comfortable with owning the shop, selling the antiques and giving the new owners a bit of a history lesson upon the object, if they so wished. She wasn't one to impress a history upon someone, wasn't one to try and change someone or something, oh no, she was merely a witness. A witness to the past and both the mistakes and the glories that it had brought. However, this was one of the rare times that she'd actually met past and present with an object.

She was in the back, fiddling with the Spanish coin that was always in her pocket, looking down at an old sword that was in rough condition, or it had been when she'd gotten it. She'd come across this particular sword, a gladius sword. Literally Latin for sword, used by the Romans for many purposes, including that of pitting warrior against warrior in gladiator rings. The sword was sharp on both sides, thick until the end which angled to a point. She'd done her research on this particular sword, as far back as she could. Not that she really needed too. The first time she'd held it in her hands, allowed the visions of the past to over come her, she'd seen exactly what it'd been used for. And who had wielded it. The man had been tall, dark, and fierce. Even though she'd known it was a vision she'd cringed away from the look on his face.

Many times Charlotte had encroached on the memories of those long dead, something she'd been terribly guilty about in her early years, until Mimosa, the beloved witch doctor who'd helped her in her early vampire years in New Orleans, told her it wasn't the person's life she was watching. It was the objects history, the objects life, and the objects story. The people were only supporting actors, people who are a brief moment in time to what history the objects hold. That had eased the guilt Charlotte had felt, though she was sure Mimosa was merely saying it so she'd feel better. However, that guilt sprang up immediately when she saw the man holding the sword in the arena, squaring up with another gladiator. Because the man wasn't dead. That particular man was very much alive. The man who held the sword, who had died in that vision, and inevitably came back, was the Monarch.

Laevinus Forsyth.

She fiddled with the coin in her hand as she looked down at the now polished sword. She'd contacted the Monarch, well not him directly, some assistant or something of that purpose, saying she had something for him, something that belonged to him. She was rather surprised that the Monarch had agreed to come down to her shop to get it, which he was suppose to be doing that day. She wanted the sword clean and looking as close to as it did when he'd wielded it. She slipped the coin back into her pocket. It was her escape of sorts, she was nervous, she wasn't sure how exactly the man would take her seeing him die. She hadn't ever met him before, but she'd heard things about him, both from those who follow him faithfully, and those that hated him passionately. Regardless, she was one to making her own opinions.

That didn't mean she wasn't nervous. She touched the swords blade, running her fingers down the smooth metal she'd polished the other day. She closed her eyes briefly before a vision overtook her. Her brown eyes opened once more, taking in the change of scenery. This time she'd made sure to skip over the death of the Monarch, instead it was simply of the sword leaning against a wall, not a person in site. This was what she wanted. She leaned down, her actions in the vision resembling the ones in real life, though her fingers remained on the blade. She studied the hilt, how it looked before it'd been through so much, how she'd be able to repair it. Once she was sure she'd gotten what she wanted she lifted her fingers off the blade, blinking and once more in her shop.

Rhett, her red fox was sitting in front of her, wagging his tail at her as he waited patiently for her to come back to the present. "Hello Rhett, finally up and about I see" She teased the little fox before running her fingers over his head, tugging playfully at one of his long ears. She stood up so she could start her work on the sword's hilt, which was quite worn. Someone had tried to restore it a few years ago by the looks of it, they just didn't do it right. She settled down to get to work on it, her eyebrows drawing together in concentration as her slim fingers worked over the hilt. She was delicate, unwilling to ruin it at all, and hoping she'd have it fixed, or at least in good repair, by the time the Monarch came. Rhett lazily made his way into the front of the shop, to stand watch in case someone came in.

It was a while later when his ear twitched, his head lifting as the door opened. He waited patiently for the person to step in before he'd trot off into the back to bother Charlotte.