Open the window
It is close, that voice. Closer than before. More powerful than before. Issuing from your blood, springing up in your mind like a sudden flower. A lily of an inclination. An iris request. It even comes with its own colors. Blue and green.
Green eyes lift from a tiny figure in strong arms, half sheltered beneath a leather jacket half-worn, half-draped. It's late. No, early. The streets are bare. A large car pulling away, its lights activated only once it has some distance. Then it's gone. Then there is nothing but the sight of the high-rise flats. His eyes upon a light, fifteen flights up. Davydd glances to the tiny woman in his arms. He hums, a low sound, earthy, sweet. Honeyed voice.
Open the window
The thought comes with the thought of the sound of his voice. Reverberating. Like a whisper in the darkness at your ear, Sandrine.
With a glance all around him. With the closing of his eyes. With a question whispered to the earth, and to the stones at his back: no one is watching...
...The woman becomes a tiny mouse...
The man becomes a hawk...
At the greenhouse, Sandrine was pacing. Dressed in a simple blue dress, she had been at her loom when the psychic blast rippled forth, like a stone into a lake. For most, there was but the unending noise of London. For her, a shockwave rose above the nightly din to send her reeling in her chair.
She comes to the greenhouse to calm, certainly, ever-expecting of arrivals. Hands in her apron pockets, Sandrine had decided to make beef pasties in the previous ten minutes. Now, same hands lift to open one of the greenhouse windows. A need to open something. It can't be for the potential of so-called fresh air, or to hear the roaring vehicles below. It is a pinpricking voice that suggests its a good idea.
Talons grip the tiny rodent and fifteen stories are mounted quickly. What are your dreams, tiny field mouse? You, like no other of your supposed kin before you, are riding to safety in such raptor claws as these. You are held firmly, but there is no puncture. No danger.
Do you feel the swirling air? The clasp around you? The lifting... lifting...
The beat of strong wings can be heard, Sandrinaar of Lappland. And you see it in the darkness, over the walls, soaring on a current of air above the penthouse. Dipping...
...Gliding...
Through the greenhouse window like it's on a line. A smooth falcon form, peregrine lines. Diolch! The voice that gives thanks even as it had made its request before. Wings fold into clothing and jacket, talon soften to a prince's strong grasp. Red feathers turn to red hair, longer than yesterday (though still short), dishevelled, windblown.
Davydd stands with the broken Toreador in his arms, the wind settling around the pair of them, dark green eyes lifting to find you, Sandrinaar. And he is golden. The air hums with him. He goes from rugged to handsome in two clicks. His aura erupts with sparkles and colors -- the swirls of nine dragons, slipping in bright light.
... and as soon as he lands, the plants around him begin to wilt. And dark green eyes narrow in pain -- although it is not his. Apart from the colossal roar between his ears, that is. "Shite..." and he nods quickly to the door that leads to the dining area, heading that way...
Quickly...
Sandrine has little time to twist to follow Davydd's arrival and walk into the penthouse proper. She reaches up and closes that portion of the greenhouse glass wall and hurries to follow, while frowning at the wilting plants. Ah, lovely that.
"How is she?" Sandrine wonders, closing greenhouse door behind her. She's a quickly-moving blur of blue as she sweeps around the table that stands between greenhouse and a sunken living room.
"We found her in a heap. I know she's lost blood. She used it to write a letter on her wall... I've healed the wounds...the rest is probably depletion and exhaustion..." His voice is soft, sing-song. The lilting consonants and the gliding vowels. It sounds like a stream. Even when he's speaking English -- which to his ears has always sounded like someone bashing two bricks together.
"Maybe dementia... I don't know..." Davydd tacks on. Gently, as if laying down a broken bird, he places the woman upon the sofa. "I've been humming to keep her calm. I'm hoping a familiar face will help. Duw are those beef pasties I smell?" Talk about a non sequitur. "I'm famished..."
Davydd sighs as he rises, standing, straightening. He shakes his head. "I know from Edward-bach that she's a bit high strung but..." Dark green eyes find you, his hand on his face, his arms otherwise crossed. This isn't a matter of being high strung.
Davydd looks back to Victoria. "She's an old friend of William's," he explains. "From America..."
Just in case she was wondering why he gave a shite...
Broken Toreador describes Tori well. Will all the King's horses and all the King's men be able to put her back together again? She lies in Davydd's arms, limp and lifeless, and if she were not a vampire, she would likely be mistaken for dead. But no, she's still in there somewhere, not truly unconscious.
The sudden voices have pulled her out of her lull. Suddenly, her own voice murmurs brokenly, "How long... have I been... a rodent?" Her slender, frail-looking hands suddenly come to life, lifting up before her face, just a foot away... "Funny... these don't look... like paws..." Utterly confused.
Sandrine looks over at the drowsing woman. "You are fine," Sandrine says, moving to sit at the edge of the sofa, next to Tori. "And you are not a rodent, that is a dream, Victoria." Ah, she knows her name. "Victoria Whitethorne, hear me..." Sandrine's hand touches Tori's arm, a call to the tactile. "Victoria...it is Sandrine again."
"Go get something," Sandrine says to Davydd, reaching out with her other arm to brush his leg. "And can you bring a bit of water, Davy," which sounds more like 'Dafi.' "She has had some psychological trauma," Sandrine whispers in his direction, "...something happened."
Aye, I will... No whispered word to distract or to confuse, but murmured, burbling within his lover's blood, a deeper sensation than a whisper in the ear. There's a glance down to the woman. A knitted look of concern. But then the great dragon's up, bending to place a kiss at his woman's temple, and moving away from the sofa.
There's water alright. It's brought rather quickly. A pitcher, two glasses. Set on the nearest hard surface. But he doesn't linger...
No, first things first...
Davydd ap Owain enters the greenhouse. With a flowing Cymraeg whisper and the closing of his eyes, he returns it to the condition it was in right before his feet touched the ground. Whispers of Welsh. Sing-song. Earthy. A tune that fills the head. And all is as good as new.
Fixing broken people, particularly undead people, is a bit more complicated...
As she feels someone touching her arm, Tori lowers her hands a bit. Storm-grey eyes peer out from behind them at Sandrine, unfocused for a moment. Then something clicks and there is a moment of clarity. "I... I know you..." she says weakly, but clearly. Only now does Tori glance around, and notice who brought her in: Davydd. "And you... I know you..."
Another glance is tossed at her hands as Tori frowns a bit. "Paws. I had paws. I felt so small. Vulnerable. Weak..." A single drop of crimson wells up in the corner of one of her eyes and breaks, slipping down her alabaster cheek. "Weak...alone." There is a gasp, then she nearly cries, "I'm alone!"
Small hands clench into fists and press against her mouth as raw emotion threatens to overwhelm her again.
"No, Victoria," Sandrine says, fingers flat on the woman's arm. "You are not alone. We are here with you. Yes, we do know each other. I am Sandrine and that is Davydd," she motions to the man returning with the drinks. "And we can call William soon, if you would wish it."
"Try to relax, Victoria, if you can. I know, it must be hard, but try and relax. Sometimes, breathing helps..."
He steps out of the greenhouse, closing the door once more behind him. Softly. And softly stepping to the living area once more. Jacket nearly dissolving from his shoulders, it is off so quickly, so smoothly. A vampire's motion, suddenly so un-human.
With his hair allowed to grow back a bit (though it's still short, and the curls still tamed), his hair is gone to its proper auburn, true red. Fiery Mars with cool green eyes. "I always know how to reach him," Davydd assures. "No matter where he may go... " He looks between you, then -- for the moment -- leaves woman to handle it. She's doing a damn fine job...
...which means he can get to those beef pasties...
In the kitchen, his hands come together and rub, "Fan-fucking-tastic..." Words are muffled as a bit of pasty reaches its destiny -- his mouth.
Tori begins to rock a bit, her eyes wide -- the pupils so small... "The wolf... he's gone... he won't howl again..." She shakes her head suddenly, then says, "No...nonono... that's not right... he loves me... he will come back... he has to, right? But... I feel so empty..." Crimson trickles from both eyes now, but she's still managing to remain relatively calm.
The name William brings her attention back to focus on Sandrine, forgetting all about the fact that Davydd's standing there. "W-William? Yes.. Yes! He'll find him for me! He'll bring him back!"
Well, it's not quite what she meant, but Sandrine decides it's better to affirm. "I'm sure William will help," she says softly. "Do you want a bit of water?" It's not blood, for sure, but that's always a last ditch effort...and the subject doesn't look as starved as she does wearied and stricken. "Davydd, can you bring kleenex?" Sandrine asks, reticent to leave Victoria. "Can you," she broaches, "...tell us what happened, Victoria? Did something happen to you?" At least rule things out, if a real answer is currently unavailable. "What happened?"
"Aye," comes the male rumble from the other room, less true word and more the sound of manly affirmation. His mouth is full, you see. (Some would think this a good thing).
It's a few moments before that affirmation is actually put in motion, and when he comes out, he has a beef pasty in his mouth, a plate of such in the hand, and a box of tissues.
Teeth hold the beef pasty in place. Good luck getting that out of his mouth...
Davydd leans in, grunting something soft to Sandrine as he offers for the box of kleenex. The sound can be roughly translated as such:
Here you go, love...
Great beef pasties...
Love ya...
When can we go to bed...
Any and all of the above. Taking another bite and swallow, Davydd and his plate take up the chair opposite to the sofa and he spreads out comfortably.
Looking at Sandrine again, she shakes her head and murmurs, "No water... won't keep it down..."
She's managed to learn to stomach wine and a few alcoholic beverages for short stints, but she's still not really used to consuming anything but blood yet.
Her pupils dilate so suddenly and fully, that her eyes seem to change from grey to black. "What happened?" she asks, repeating the question. Another head-shake is given. "No.. no.. the is gone... he is gone... they... they got him... they..." Her voice trails off as she keeps repeating the word 'they', as though unable to finish her thought. Suddenly, she stops, and says resolutely, "No. He is not dead. We will find him." There is so much clarity in this, but it quickly fades away until she bursts into sobbing, threatening to grow in pitch and fever...
Dark green eyes narrow. In the sobbing and the crunching of food, Davydd sits forward, elbows on his thighs just short of his knees and his fingers steepled, resting beneath his chin.
She was looking for her lover, once... I remember... remember... we talked of it once. It could be that he is ... no longer missing. No longer alive?
He doesn't speak aloud to the woman. Not yet. Sandrine is handling things just fine. No need to butt in there. He glances between the two women.
If only his corgies were in the room. They'd all have the same expression. The same wandering eyes. To bark or not to bark..
But they've already been 'told' to stay in the back with Frikka. No need crowding the woman with Dr. Doolittle Llewelyn's menagerie....
"Maybe a sleep would be a good idea," Sandrine half-suggests, looking over to Davydd for confirmation. He could help with that arena better than she can. "Thanks, Davy," Sandrine whispers, setting box near Tori while handing her a first set of tissues. "We will find him," she says resolutely, things a little clearer suddenly. Another look to Davydd and Sandrine nods.
"Maybe rest, we shall call for William, and then figure out what to do, Victoria. A plan. Is that alright?" Sandrine sets glass of water down, hands coming to rest on her lap.
Amid the sobs, there is a head-bob, and it's perhaps only that understanding that William will be called that keeps her from right out wailing like a banshee. But the sobbing doesn't seem to subside. She will need some help here. She looks like she just wants to curl up into a ball and let the world pass her by.
Ex nihilo, his voice comes, moving through the quiet and the sobbing in sudden existence. Soft, but clear. The sound is lulling, sweet and bittersweet at once. The rise and fall of cadence like a lullabye...
"Mae hiraeth yn y mor ar mynydd maith," Davydd sings, words plucked from the air, or from memory, or both, his position unchanging, "...Mae hiraeth mewn distawrwydd ac mewn can....Mewn murmur dyfroedd ar dragwydd daith, yn oriaur machlud ac yn fflamaur tan...Ond mwynaf yn y gwynt y dwed ei gwyn...a thristaf yn yr hesg y cwynar gwynt gan ddeffro adlais adlais yn y brwyn, ac yn y galon, atgof atgof gynt..."
Beneath her skin, easing. Upon her blood, moving. Within her mind, whispering. Sleep now, close your eyes and rest. The curtains will be drawn. The doors locked. You are safe...
Dark green eyes lift to Sandrine as the song is hummed. I'll grab some pillows and a blanket...do you think one of us should stay out here, with her? And well you know it, if one of us stays, then both of us will. Davydd looks back to the broken Toreador, ending the song in an exhale.
He is still for a moment after the last sound of his voice falls away, and then he rises. He won't wake up William now. He'll wait until a decent hour after sunset. As it is now, the world will start to rise soon, and we will have to sleep.
The sobbing slowly lessens and becomes quiet, until it stops completely. Dark-lashed eyelids flutter a bit, fighting against the sanctuary of sleep -- but eventually lose, dropping under the weight of sleep.
She wavers a bit where she sits as her head finally droops, her chin dropping to her chest. Shoulders roll and curl inward, curving her spine until she finally starts to sag back against the cushions of her seat.
Then all is still and quiet about her. Her mind may be in turmoil, but for now, Victoria Whitethorne sleeps.
There's an exhale from Davydd, and he rakes his hand through his hair, only increasing the dishevelled nature of it. Hawk feathers. Indeed. But that doesn't stop him from grabbing another beef pasty. He's eaten half the plate himself.
He's going to make himself sick on them.
Well, better him than the corgies, one supposes...
I'll get a blanket and make her comfortable at least. And I'll stand watch here, I think. If she wakes up in a panic, I'll be here to get it sorted. You go on to bed. Frikka can have my spot tonight. And he comes up beside you, bending, placing a kiss upon your temple again, Sandrine. Lingering there for half a moment, before drawing away.
Sandrine watches Tori drift off, then glances over to see Davydd. A smile curls at her lips and she winks at him. "My man of many talents," she admits quietly, pushing off her lap to stand. "You will call Plantagenet," Sandrine asks, looking rather tired actually. Astral projection can do that to a person.
Well, that and making two dozen pasties in less than twenty minutes.
"I'll secure the greenhouse," she says, needing to close and lock the solid doors that cover the greenhouse wall during the day. Her hand slips into Davydd's as she passes him, and Sandrine stops.
"Maybe, one day," she says, golden lashes rising, "...you will forgive me for ever wondering whether you were less than you should be."
There's a flash of a grin. "Bah, woman," he rumbles lowly. "Nothing to forgive..." The hand is lifted to his mouth, given a kiss, a squeeze, and then its freedom. Davydd heads for the hall, one of the rooms, and likely what is sure to be an endless supply of extra blankets and pillows, in such preparedness that could only be Scandinavian....
Posted by Criseyde at June 24, 2003 03:43 AM
