The change was subtle, perhaps. Could you discern when she had finally crossed that line between lucidity and her current state? Even when she awoke, she was quiet, reluctant to speak much. But at least she was calm and without incident.
     But that's changed. Now, she's in motion. Unsettled. Agitated. She's paced. She's sat and rocked. Then she got up and paced some more. Occasional mutterings left her more recently, but otherwise she's at least been quiet. Tears have slipped down her porcelain-like cheeks, then dried, then escaped from the corners of her eyes again. Those eyes. Those freaky eyes.
     But she doesn't make much eye contact either. She finally sits back down again, this time on the floor in a corner, looking toward a window. Tori looks wild and untamed, ready to bolt, and if it weren't for the great height of the apartment, she'd likely try the window. Knees pulled up against her chest with her arms wrapped about them, she slowly begins to rock again. This time, the pace has quickened.
     Her stress level has risen.

      It's going to be one long, fucking night. I can feel it. And it's not that I'm not sympathetic... well... I've never been bound to anyone, so I suppose I'm not the most sympathetic man in the world to it...still, my condolences, but this has to end.
     The phone is pocketed and the Cymri heads out of the greenhouse and into the living room with a sigh, stopped in his paces as he sees the young woman rocking back and forth like a mental patient.
      Good one, Llewelyn.
     Do you hear him, sense him? A presence like a rain cloud behind you, smelling of scotch. He has taken to wearing dark colors of late, not just the usual earth tones but deep blues or reds or violets, strange colors, on him fantastic and otherworldly. Tonight is no exception. His shirt is deep blue, a fine cloth, long-sleeved, buttoned at the wrists and to the hollow of his throat. His pants are also not the usual wool trousers. He's wearing brushed, chocolate brown suede. It suits him.
     "Victoria," he murmurs, his voice going gentle, his energy permeating the room. Not Presence with a capital 'P', but no less in its way. Used in the past to masquerade as that ability. Davydd comes around the sofa, eyes soft in their aspect. Gentle, but there is strength there, no doubt of it. Davydd crouches before her. "Victoria..."

     Those freaky eyes look up. Nope, the pupils are still the same, neither of them agreeing on the way they should be. The rocking doesn't stop.
     Her hair is like a dark shroud, spreading all around her, covering her, hiding her from the world. It moves as she does, swaying as she rocks, shifting as she tilts her head to one side, as though indicating that she's listening. There's that at least.
     The grey storm clouds have darkened in her gaze as they focus and unfocus on the form before her. She doesn't answer, but you have her attention -- for now.
     Her lips move. Nothing comes out at first. Those eyes unfocus again, shifting to look at some spot behind or beyond you. Then, in a very soft, nearly whispered voice, she speaks... no, she is singing. "I'll never wash these clothes... I want to keep the stain..." Her body's rocking motion seems to keep the beat of some imagined music. "Your blood to me is precious... nor would I spill it in vain...

     Fucking marvelous. How do I know she's not going to rip my face off? I don't. That's the problem. "William... Will," he says in the more familiar, "...he is coming, okay? So... you are going to be alright..." Oh for fuck's sake, now she's singing. Davydd's dark green eyes flicker upward, searching for Sandrine. Finland, we have a problem.
     "I am sorry," he says suddenly. "I am sorry for your pain." And he thinks of Blancheflor, and he stands. His expression is no less open, but there is a stoic energy to it. The air hums. His skin pricks with the waking of nine dragons. Nine powers called to his disposal, whether they are at your aid or not.
     "Victoria," Davydd murmurs again, fingers brushing the hair that curtains your eyes. "You must calm down... you cannot help him... and you cannot help yourself thus..."

     The name brings her attention back up again. William's name. It's familiar. Those eyes focus on you again. Yes...he's coming. Good. The part of her that still clings to her sanity smiles -- her body mirrors this, but with those eyes, what affect does it have? Does it not make her look more crazed?
     Then the gaze glazes over while still looking at you. Can you see? Tori's not here, Mrs. Torrence.
      The rocking pauses, but then starts up again. So long as she's rocking, she's keeping herself too busy to be of any harm, right? Then, suddenly, she speaks.
      "Who's Victoria?"

      I'm going to have to kill her, aren't I. On Sandrine's ivory sofa. With William on the way. And then I'm going to have to fight him over it. And I may lose. The animals cower in the back of the house, Sandrine keeps her distance, and I am standing in front of a lunatic with ...who knows what sort of abilities.
     What if you were a pot of violets...
     A pillow on the sofa...
     A ring around my finger...
     You are Victoria. You know William's name, you must know your own... The ...voice...for lack of a better term exists within you, between your ears, against your blood. A risky move, but maybe you will respond better if he gets past the layer of your conscious mind and deals with your blood, your instinct, your subconscious. I know you are in pain. But you must hold on to terra firma.

     As you touch her mind, her pupils change in size until they've swapped roles. It's a sight that would likely send chills up someone's spine.
     Perhaps that wasn't a good idea.... it seems there's more than one voice in there already and they don't like the idea of unwanted visitors.
     Her eyes flash wide as something inside her head snaps and she lets out a blood-curtling scream. It isn't like the one that blasted out from the hotel not so long ago, but it's loud, shrill and emotion-filled. This is the voice with all the power of a diva. Of a Toreador...and something else. Gods, if William heard that...
     As she screams, she suddenly falls backward to the floor, clasping the sides of her head and writhing. The scream does come down a notch or two...but not until a nearby glass shatters.

     "Davydd!" comes Sandrine's voice from the other room, where she was attempting to deal with the mundanities of life. Fixing Tori's bed, handling laundry. Something had to be routine around here.
Well, until the screaming started.
     Her feet are solid upon the floor as Sandrine comes flying down the hallway and into the living area. Dogs and cat behind her. "Davydd!" she blurts again until she can see the living area. There, she stops at the wide archway the leads from bedrooms and sitting areas, hand out at the frame of the arch.
     "What is happening?" Sandrine squints, trying to see. She sighs and crosses quickly to where you both are. "What happened?"

     Davydd doesn't have a chance to answer. That would take too much time and in the meantime, what? Let her scream until the fucking police come. That's all I need. He goes to the floor after her. A hand covers her mouth and an inch from her face he looks to her. Looks to her eyes, as freaked out as they are. He whispers to her. Welsh. Words she will not understand, but understanding is not the point. The energy is the point.
     A healing salve. To return you to where you were, once. If you were ever sane. His grip does not lessen, his weight may be felt, but his voice is smooth and low.
      And if this doesn't work, it's either a desklamp, a vase or the stake.
     Still he does not reply outloud to Sandrine. He is too busy whispering and repeating the cantrip of healing. I can't risk this. She's out of her mind. Absolutely fucking out of her mind. She doesn't know her name. She's rocking. She's fucking singing. Edward's seen her claw the face off a man. I don't fucking want to be next. She will calm down, heal, or I will have to do what I have to do.
     He looks to Victoria, his eyes strong, his grip softening as he continues to whisper to her. Welsh. Cymraeg. Ancient. Fae. "Victoria," he says at last, "... I am sorry... I did not mean to frighten you... "

     "I'm going to call Thierry and have someone come get her," Sandrine says. She should have said it sooner. Take her to the court itself, put her into a room, and have one of the mindflayers help her out. Sandrine looks around for the phone.

     Even as she screams against his hand and is held down, she doesn't lash out. Her demons are after her, not anyone else. It doesn't take long, but as Davydd whispers, Tori's screaming does stop.
     Abruptly so.
     There is silence from her as her body stills its writhings. Davydd's words, though completely alien to her, seemed to work at least for now. Her eyes haven't changed, but at least she's gone slack, isn't struggling and isn't making that god-awful noise.

     Davydd bows his head and sighs. Thank the fucking lord. He slowly releases her, his hand slides away, testing. A pause. No more screaming. Davydd comes up on his knees before standing. It takes him a minute. It is not the magic leaving him that is taxing him. It is the situation itself.
     "I can do no more for her," he murmurs as he steps away. "The wounds are invisible... and too deep for me. I can turn her into a tree, a locket to be worn around the throat, or like Mithras, I can stake her and turn her into stone..." he drifts, stepping toward the sofa. "William and Ian are on their way. They should be here... anytime now...I think...an hour..." Davydd looks to Sandrine, the stoic look still in place. "But I think it best we turn her over to the Prince. William will not be happy, but I think he will understand... if he lets me explain it to him..." It could get ugly.
     Davydd takes out his phone, he hands it to Sandrine as he passes by. And he folds his arms across his chest. He hates being useless.

     Sandrine nods and takes the phone from Davydd, sighing as she closes her eyes and tries to remember the number again. Two nights ago, she told Tattinger that they could handle it. Now, well.
          Elegant fingers press buttons in slow sequence. At the other end, someone will answer soon enough. Sandrine sighs, putting one hand at her waist while the other holds the cellphone at her ear.

     Davydd sticks out a hand. "Here...give it to me. I'll deal with it..."

     She turns, pausing to consider what Davydd's asking. A nod eventually follows, and she returns his phone to him.

     As Davydd stands, Tori curls up into a ball, but doesn't say anything. The screaming does not start up again, either. The rocking has stopped, at least for now. But, she is quiet, at least, staring off at a shadow, a piece of lint, who knows.
&     Her eyes are glazed over, half-closed, in fact. For now, there is lucidity again. But this doesn't mean she's sane.

      Davydd takes the phone from her, and upon the second ring he disengages it. Yes, he hung up on the Prince's phone. Wrong number. "I have a better idea," he says suddenly. He pockets his phone. He goes to the stricken Toreador.
     A whisper of Welsh, "Rest a while," Davydd murmurs, the suggestion finding its way to her. Hopefully. And as she is still, and more importantly, silent, he closes his eyes, he whispers in Welsh, and she becomes a ruby stone.
      "We're going to Kensington..."

Posted by Criseyde at June 30, 2003 02:12 PM