The last hour or so was rather uneventful, as most of it she spent as a ruby, as red as the one she wears on her finger. Time passed and she was returned to her normal state, but she remained still and unconscious. Her small body instinctively curled into the fetal position and then stayed there.
Her dream-self shakes her head, muttering about mouse paws and red stones as her physical-self continues to slumber. Slowly, her muscles begin to twitch minutely, sporadically. Voices slowly seep into her awareness. Voices from around her, bits of conversation, and presences tug at her mind. Then, her body uncurled and rolled over, depositing her on her back.
And that's when her eyelashes flutter and lift, revealing those freaky eyes... one pupil dilated nearly fully, while the other closed to a near pinprick... storm-grey. The ice-blue is gone. They just stare upward, trying to focus on...just about anything above her.
He didn't have time to dress impeccably. But it's still winter, and grey wool slacks and green sweater look neat and provide some modicum of warmth. Ian sits at the edge of the bed, at arm's length.
It is a glorious bedroom, decor left from the Edwardian period. Much of the room is in green paint and papers, with black lacquered woods. Even the bed is in sumptuous green velvet, with black tassles at the edges of the canopy, pillows, and coverlets.
"Victoria?" Ian says softly, rather pale in his own green and against the rich black and greens of the bed. "Tori..." he says again gently, a guiding voice from the ether.
Conversations, soft and intermittent though they were, end at the detection of movement. First, a finger curling and uncurling. Then the delicate flop upon the sofa. When eyes open, Victoria, they do not open to the green hills and mountains of Wales, nor to the ice blue fjords and crystalline glaciers of Finland. There is no lilting, thought or spoken, nor the upraisal of a fiery brow.
There is something far less firebrand staring back at you, compassionate and worried violet tones, deep blues and violets consummating the indigo. Edged with the tiny lines of near exhaustion that are neverminded by the intensity of his worry, how eyes sparkly, glassily, with the sudden need for sobriety. Sobriety trying to feel its way through loss of blood and the opium haze of now... several nights.
William is also upon the bedside, somewhat closer to hand than Ian. It is not his voice that first makes its way onto the air and to her consciousness, but rather the presence of him, everywhere, and some mixture of cinnamon, opium and patchouli that he can't help at the moment but that immediately conjure his appearance and image. There is something uniquely William about that mixture.
He does not reach for her hand, not yet. Nor does he speak. One voice at a time. She may well be too disoriented to parse them out. Or perhaps... even recognize them.
Those strange eyes blink once, then twice, then finally stop staring up at the air above her. Her gaze flickers about her, never truly stopping on either of you for very long, or long enough to focus fully.
Then they roll back for a moment as the lids drop and shelter them. Drawing in a deep breath, she opens her eyes again and looks in the direction of the voice. A voice. Something tangible. Her eyes have been deceiving her as of late...will her ears do so too?
But no, she swears the voice is familiar, as is the presence... the presence will get attention shortly. The voice calls to her...calls a name. Her name. Victoria. Tori. Right.
And now her gaze focuses, though in short spurts, going distant for a few seconds, then reverting back to focus on Ian.
Ah... yes, Ian. She knows him.
Her mouth moves briefly, but nothing comes forth. On a second try, she whispers, "Ian...?" Her usually smooth forehead crinkles with the effort to cling to this reality. The presence tugs at her senses. She can't help it, being who she is, being a Toreador. The eyes no longer focus as they swivel over to see the violet gaze. There is effort spent and then she focuses now on the second person before whispering, "W-william?"
Then those eyes focus beyond either of you as she giggles a bit, holding up her hands. "You missed it... I had paws..." she murmurs and giggles some more.
Ian won't ask about the paws. He looks concerned, but for now, there's much to be done. "William had paws once," he explained, "...some thought it was an improvement," his voice ends drolly, but follows with a smile. "Join the excellent crowd. The paw-havers."
"You're in Kensington," he adds, waiting upon Tori's actions. "We're going to see about you for now."
Times have changed. Ian affecting healing with humor.
"How are you feeling?" he then asks, giving an opening for her to talk.
"And some say my Uncle Raymond had webbed feet," William adds for good measure, his voice quiet and elongated. The English sounds odd. It has been a long time since he has used it, apart from yelling at Davydd. Apart from that fantastical statement, William lets Ian take the lead for now.
You're doing remarkably well, considering where we were a few hours ago...
William looks to Tori, eyes still on hers. How they've changed. To say she is unsettled is an understatement of gargantuan proportions. But she is speaking. Almost coherently. He's not sure where he would be if it were him. As Ian asks her the Question of all Questions, William sits quietly, his hand at last landing at her own. You do not have paws now, Victoria.
He will have to ask Davydd what he gave her. Those must have been fantastic sedatives...
Yes, she's calm, but deeply disturbed. The inner turmoil hasn't really changed much.
She grins about William's paws and his uncle's webbed feet. It causes another giggle -- how freaky does she look, grinning with those eyes?
But then Ian does ask the question, forcing her attention back toward him. Her hands lower back to the bed covers. That grin fades quickly as her expression darkens. No, she will not shout, scream or flail... but she is not happy.
"I looked for him... I followed his trail..." she whispers, almost in a conspiratory manner, "And I nearly caught up to him... but always just missed him..." She focuses intently on Ian, never blinking once, just staring, giving him all her attention. "I kept trying... I called out to him... he answered a few times, but I could never quite hear him..."
There's a long pause as her eyes close tightly. "Do you know what I hear now? Silence." Crimson suddenly spills out from the corners of her eyes, down her pale cheeks. "The Wolfe is gone... I cannot find him... I spoke to a mortal musician... and then a bloody friend... and... no... must find him..." Her thoughts seem to splinter off in a few different directions just before her voice trails off. Her mouth still moves, but nothing comes out. The tears flow from closed eyes, but she is otherwise calm. Davydd definitely did well in sedating her.
Ian exhales and looks down where his hand lands upon the crushed green cover. "We will find him," or whatever's left of him. "We will find out what has happened." Then, "I'm sorry, Victoria." So easy to say, that it is almost meaningless. "If you will rest, we will do the work."
Ian glances over his shoulder to see William. Say something smart and useful. "Maybe, after you rest, you can give us some information and then...we will pick up where you have had to leave off."
What does one say...
What could be said to me? Of if it were I lying there, what could console me? There would be nothing.
What use are words now, when the lover is dead? Tomorrow will not be Another Night, maybe you will not be able to pick up the pieces like so many shells, fragments of lost love and time. I am the last man on earth who should speak to that. Lost love and time. I have been bad with both, mais oui. But...
Compassion holds equal sway with the confidence borne by those indigo eyes. His large hand covers hers, so much the smaller, his fingers curling strongly, his thumb moving back and forth, back and forth, like rocking a baby. Like the moon rocking the sea and the earth to sleep. It is the same motion, the same rhythm. "Mais oui," William murmurs, "... leave it now to us, and you... in our care. We will be with you, even as once you were there for both of us. That is what this love is," he says, it is simple. That ...is what it is.
Do not listen for his voice, Victoria. You will never hear it. How can he say it? What is he to say to that? His hand lifts from hers, the touch of it to her cheeks, wiping away the blood. His eyes crinkle at the corners, but there is no other ripple granted. "You must rest. Know, cher, that you have done all that you could do. You must know this. You have done all that you could do. Now, we will see what we can do for you, hmm?"
Indigo flickers to mercurial silver, the lightning eyed Ian Dunross. I will find them. I will kill them. I will bring him back to her, even if it is only a lock of his hair, his blood in a vial, something. No... better... I will call upon one... faster than I, less visible than I, to do it. Yes. I will do that.
"There's a hole now... a hole where We should be... I thought about it... about flying with the birds... about sleeping a while... about leaving..." As she speaks, her eyes open again to stare upward. Tears flow more freely now. Her words come slowly, softly, even brokenly. Each statement seems disjointed, yet part of a whole idea.
Gripping the bedsheets tightly until her knuckles go white, she continues to whisper. This time, the string of thoughts flow a little more clearly, decisively. "I've wondered what the sunrise looks like now... with all the ages gone by, does it look any different? Would I see him in it? Would it fill the hole?" There is a pause, then her voice becomes more clear than it has, "Aye... thank you. So many would abandon me, leave me to flail about on my own to my destruction...even myself. I am in pieces, my friends. I don't know myself half of the time..." Once more, her voice trails off.
Perhaps it's a good thing she's sedated.
Ian sighs again, this time softer and accompanied by a hand to his forehead. There is no move to disagree. In fact, he is empathetic. If it were him, he should do the very thing described, getting to know the sun in an intimate and personal way.
"We will not leave you," Ian finally murmurs, hand coming to his lap. "William should see to you, and I will see about finding the trail. You will have answers, Victoria."
"Do you remember when you last fed? We will need you to explain to us...as best you can...what were your last steps. Then, we will have to talk about what other things you need cared for: Raf? Your businesses."
Practicalities. The importance of the mundane. It snaps William back to the present, for his mind had raced off, with all the glorious resplendence that opium, lack of feeding, the remnants of a sexual high, and his Plantagenet heredity can afford. He was far, far into the future, righting the wrong. Intimately. Bloodily. Practicalities. Practicalities ground him.
He blinks, back on planet earth and in a Kensington bedroom. His hand moves from her face, returning to her hand, a gentle grip, a gentle squeeze. But he does not lie. He does not say: it will be alright. It won't be. Not for a while, if ever. Maybe another life can be made. Were she to do it, she would be a better, stronger person than he.
"I will stay here," William confirms. "Tomorrow, we will return to Scotland. We will wait for spring and heather." It is the only balm he knows.
William looks to Ian. What should I do but this? Hold her? What else can be done? We'll have to order out if blood is on the list. Neither you nor I would do. Opium at this stage? No.
Finally, it is back to Tori. Hand on her hand. Eyes on her face. A touch here. A look there. The feeling of him surrounding her. It is all he has to offer for the now. "After you rest a bit. First... we should get you fed," he murmurs. "It will help. It is ...difficult to think of strength now, but you must feed yourself, take care of yourself. Remember, Victoria?" he whispers. "...When you held my head, you made me drink. I know what it is... to not have the energy to do so. But we are here, and we will help you."
Her gaze falls on Ian again. She is as coherent and clear as she's likely going to get at this point. "I think... I fed recently. Last night? The night before? I don't remember. Davydd knows." It was while she was with him and Sandrine. "Last steps... I was in Munich last...then London because the trail went cold..."
Then she's asked about other things, like Raf. The slight change in subject matter seems to help her mood a bit as the crimson tears slow and stop. "Raf... he was to visit sometime soon..." Otherwise, she's set him up to be pretty self-sufficient. "And Mae... she's alright." Her mute ghoul bouncer from the Inferno who could more than take care of herself. "Everything else is in order, I think... everything was left that way since I left New Port."
But this is all she has to offer right now. It is vague, but it is a start. William is right... it is difficult to think of strength or much of anything else when one is weak. Even as he speaks, her gaze slips back to him now. Her hand that is held suddenly curls a bit within his, as though she only now realized it was even being touched. Nodding with her head resting against the pillow, she murmurs, "Alright... and yes... I remember..." But nothing more. She falls silent with a quiet sigh. The combination of the sedative and the presence of both of you keeps her in check, keeps her from rocking, or keeps her from hurting herself. For now, she will lie there and rest and do as she is told. There is at least a part of her that knows she needs to listen to the two of you and cooperate as best she can. There is hope yet.
Call someone, Ian seems to suggest to William. Ah. Instead, Ian looks to the floor beneath his feet for a moment, then to the pair of you. When you want a job done, do it yourself. "Good," he finally answers, standing to let William have the closer seat. While empathetic, Ian knows his strengths -- a series of phone calls will get a large ball rolling. "I know," he says, "...it is hard to talk to us now. But, after you eat," he steps back, anticipating the doors opening, "...then we will make brass tacks." The best way to deal with anything, in Ian's universe, is to beat it with a large stick. That's where healing begins. "And you can rest again."
He is prepared to take his leave...he knows the two of you have a relationship that is different from his own. And now, well, the martial way is only part of the answer. It gives focus, certainly, and something to hold onto, but sometimes, a softer, friendly hand is needed.
Who would think that the softer touch would be William? There are many who would be surprised by such a notion. There are a handful of individuals. No, in truth there are only two in the world who would think otherwise, and those two are here. How many others, even among his dearest friends, have ever seen him caretake, ever seen him compassionate.
The bed shifts and William sits back, back given to the headboard and propped up by the pillows, his hand smoothens over Tori's hair. A constant touch, a constant reminder, perhaps occasional comfort might be found...
The doors do open, and through them one of the young valets, sharply dressed, sharply mannered, nothing but professionalism in Kensington. There is a bow, an expectation of an order...
Still, William says little. He ... he is merely Here. For her to rail upon, hold, hide in or against, whisper to if she feels like it. Here, to give comfort where possible, strength where able. He has a surplus of strength, and it is all given. Stored up, perhaps, for just such an occasion. "Raf is a good boy," William confirms, casual conversation moving onward. "If you wish, I will have a plane available for him, and for Mae if you like..." Indigo eyes lift to Ian, even as he speaks.
William is loathe to let him out of his sight...
"Thank you..." Tori murmurs in Ian's direction as she sees him beginning to move away, seeing the door open and a stranger enter. Her anxiety levels that might have been elevated by all this strangeness has been kept low because of the two of you being here. Even if Ian leaves, Tori knows he's here. The same with William. It doesn't eliminate all her stresses, anxieties and mental splintering, but it reduces things a bit and prevents them from getting worse. Somehow, she doesn't know how, she has managed to almost become 'adopted' by the two of you where others were left by the wayside...and for that, she considers herself very lucky.
Tori curls up a bit under the covers, getting more comfortable. The constant contact helps in her lucidity, keeping her more frequently in the here and now. Davydd might not believe it was the same girl lying there if he saw her now. But the eyes are a reminder that all is not well just yet. It will be a long time before that can be said, if ever.
Nodding again, she murmurs about Raf, "He should come, yes... he was waiting for my call." But it never came. "Mae... Raf will know about Mae." Raf will decide if she needs to be called. Too many people might just add to her confusion. But more familiar faces might help ground her psyche. It's a fine line.
"We are at your service, Victoria," Ian says, looking across the bed to the doors. Dinner has arrived. "I will reach Raf," Ian explains, so everyone knows, "...and he will instruct us there. I will also call...Germany and France." Ringing the bells, as it were.
"I will not be far...in a sitting room." To William, he says, "I will also have them prepare for us at home."
Ian moves around the foot of the bed, steps muffled by the large rug that takes much of the floorspace. "Call me if you need anything," he says lowly to William, nodding at the young man who's arrived.
The young man responds not to a vocal command but to a primal urge to move forward. Something tripping on his blood, silent orders given. His own hunger, simply at the thought of blood, is sparked, but... it is not his turn. Soon, it will need to be soon. Particularly if he is to continue at this mental pace for the remainder of the night.
The young man approaches, handsome enough for a young Englishman, ruddy, healthy complexion, a soccer enthusiast when not working for the manor. When indigo asks it, he sits on the bed. Soon, he is lowering himself, a lean over William. Yes, William will hold him. As a hand rests on the boy's brown hair, indigo eyes go to Tori and between them the air becomes very dense. The suggestion that she drink is not a request.
He does not look up, he does not break the concentration, the command, Dominance having its hour -- how good with it he has become, rather startling in his way. The boy will feel nothing. He will remember nothing. Still, William feels Ian's departure like the world feels the departure of the sun after twilight. It is noticeable, on core levels. For now, deep welling fear and darker emotions are abated, comforted, soothed by the simple understanding that Ian will not be far.
Posted by Criseyde at July 01, 2003 02:28 PM
