It wasn't what you expected. It wasn't the fucking Chieftains, with harps and tin-whistles or anything close to the Celtic frou-frou one has come to expect from pubs in the new millennium...
Enya this was not...
There were elements surely. A song in Welsh or two or three. There was even a harp -- electric -- but only for one song. The rest was a hybrid all its own. A combination of traditional touches, the second coming of Iggy Pop, and wry Cymric wit. Even the acoustic bits had a bite...
Particularly that lovely a capella ballad. Just two voices. Davydd's and Rosamund's. It could not have been more stinging. More heart-rending. Arguments in dulcet tones. And maybe a touch of regret. And that's how it ended.
You came to the backrooms and saw Rosamund leaving. Dignity intact, with a beautiful, beautiful man. Tall and dark and blue-eyed, with a thief's smile. Not quite William, but endeavoring to be, perhaps. It wouldn't be the first time you'd have seen that.
The Wheatsheaf.
Your suggestion and he smiled for it. It's been half an hour. Where is he?
Coming through the door. He looks ragged, but he looks happy. Oddly. Well, as much as anyone can ever tell about the enigmatic dragon. Who could imagine tht he'd be worse than The Cat? A pause at the bar and he gets a black-and-tan. He's changed. Ribbed charcoal grey sweater that fits close, a black leather coat with a decidedly longshoreman's cut, black trousers. And green eyes lift, sparking. Looking for you.
Eyes might scan the area, seeing many a sort. People meeting after other shows, some just now getting away from work. Such is the randomness, if sedateness, of the Wheatsheaf.
But hoi. A glance of dragon's eyes across the room reveals a solitary man in a booth. Familiar even, due to his mode of dress before anything of his face. A soft suit, something worn by a paper-pusher. Nothing high-price about it, simply worn and well-kept. He lifts a pint to his lips and looks at his watch, then turns to glance out about the room. Looking.
Oh, well, there you are. You did show.
Robert Legasse waves in your direction, inviting you over.
He's never been known to follow the hours of time or mark his position by the moments of hours. Punctuality -- when one has eternity, what does this mean? To the wave there is a lift of his head, an inclination of recognition. A quick, slight smile of greeting. And a hand is at the Guinness and cider concoction...
Who counts the moments. The minutes and hours. To know the fracton of time that passed between the look and the arrival...
But indeed, such as moments are, the next finds him booth-side. The next after finds him in it. "Bonsoir, Robert..." Robert given it's due French pronunciation. And the smile by such moments grows. Warm and leaping to his mouth. Not some gradual slide like a William's. Not the couched curiosity of Il Dignatario's. But lightning. Comet. Streaking brightness. A swallow of the black-and-tan and then its set aside. Comfort is found immediately. A pack of cigarettes are to the hand soon after. "Good idea, this... my ears are still ringin from the racket..."
His accent isn't hidden from you. The dancing lilt pounces upon the sudden flurry of his words. It is vintage Llewelyn.
"Allo old chap," Robert smiles, cheerfully pumping your hand. Many still find it hard to believe that this is the Telecom Wizard of Western Europe. "How goes, lad? Say, sorry for...you know...interrupting..." he looks around, as if expecting to see someone else here. Knowing you were to meet another.
"Say, sit," he motions, but you're faster than he is. Always in a decent dispositing, Robert smiles as he takes another drink, a small package sitting near his hand. "Been ages, hmm, Davydd?" name said like so many Englishmen pronounce it, in their own, Teutonic way. Dah-vit. "Too long, I think."
Bah. The hand makes a wave after you and he agree to release the shake. Vigorous, as it so often is between old mates. And the grin is immediate. He even pauses taking up a cigarette. "Ages and ages. I think I was a young and handsome man when last we had a tickle at a pub, Robert..." Always, with you... it is roe-bare. Never Robert. He can't help himself.
But though the inevitable was delayed, it could not be avoided. Soon, there's a fag in his mouth and a lighting in progress. "Things go great," comes the mumble mid-conflagration. "Beauty, mate. And you? Been up to business I warrant? I haven't seen you casual-like in..." A long time. Green eyes sparkle with it. I dare not say how long...
Leathered arms rest on the table and he leans in. Straight red hair -- straight when this short, that is -- is cut close to his nape but long on top. The beard's been trimmed to a goatee. If it weren't Davydd, one could call it... chic...
"Well, it's not casual this time either, Davydd," Robert confesses, smiling as he always does. The vest under his blazer is red and black wool, threads popping here and there. "I'm actually doing deliveries now," he laughs a little, sitting back in his seat. How we have fallen. But not so far.
He smirks and sets his pint down long enough to push the item to you. "I'm to give this to you," a violet leather pouch. Violet. Violet. Hmm. "And then I'm off, really. Gotta meeting in twenty minutes. Just to say though," Robert leans in, "...I like your new residence, mate," He waggles his brows and finishes his pint off with a long swallow.
He sighs, pushing himself together. "Morriston Building, you know." Added as an afterthought. Robert has no plans on letting you comment too much, he is already standing, leaving 10 quid on the table. No one ever said vampires were poor tippers. "You...take care, Davydd."
"You know what they say about all work and no play, LeGrasse..." he murmurs, and then comes the wink and the grin. Like lightning. Like the comet that streaked the sky at his birth. "Pop round the palace and I'll let you borrow one of Master P's nice cars. Coo... I'll never be able to go back to the SUV..."
The violet case is taken, pocketed. A chest pocket, held on the inside lining of the leather coat. "Take care now... next time, the round's on me..."
He'll finish his black-and-tan. And he'll finish his cigarette. A nod and a parting smile is what you'll get. But no other commentary offered.
There will be time for that another night...
Violet. Violet. The color means something. Colors... always do...
"Oi, Robert!" comes Edward's voice as he quickly moves around the filling pub towards you. He waves at the passing Robert, giving him a pat on hi back. But Robert shows no signs of slowing down much. He chuckles at Edward, telling him he sees him too much, and then heads out. Edward only shrugs, as he oft does, smirking as he spots you and moves over to take an already-warmed seat.
"Ah, and middle of the night to you too...sorry I'm runnin' shite." Instead of late. Edward looks at his watch, and squirms his arm, letting sleeve roll over the watchface again. "What's up?" he wonders, upholstery creaking for the weight.
Almost immediately, Edward begins fishing inside his leather jacket for something to occupy himself with.
The cigarette was taken, his other hand not straying from the front of his jacket. From the violet leather bundle. "I'm startin' t' get ... presents..." Red eyebrows dance up an down, a celtic jig of a sorts, and cigarette held by his mouth, balanced between lips and puffed, Davydd reaches into his jacket. Tilting back his head, he looks at the thing like it's going to blow up if he opens it. And then he cuts a look to you and winks. "First round's on me... get whate'er y' like, Edward... the waitress is very willin' by-the-by... oh wait, I forgot y' were as good as married..."
Green dances as laughter leaves him in a short cloud of smoke. The cigarette is set in the tray, for later. Burning on its own, it may burn out before he gets back to it. And in the shadow of the booth, cloaked in the over hang of the table, he gives the violet leather pouch a go.
"So what did you think, you haven't started in on the praise..." You caught the performance, neh?
Edward grins on being married. "It ain't like that," he corrects, not really offering much more. Edward lights up his own smoke with a cup of his hand, tosses implements to the side. "Oh," he fishes the smoke out between fingers, "...it was great. I was surprised you didn't get another bird to sing with ya, but hey...you sounded brilliant. I was almost shocked," he laughs, setting smoke down in a tray.
Looking at the bar, Edward waves his hand, signaling someone. "So, what'd you think? Weird being up there with her?" And then he stops, remembering, "Fuck a duck, I saw that boy of hers," Edward bobs his head, approving. "I was tempted to grab him and remind him that he really fucks men, but...time got away from me..." A blink. "What's that?" Edward shifts again, peering. "Gettin' shit now from Isabella?" That bring a sudden drop in humor.
The case is simple. Inside is a golden key upon violet velvet. Keen eyes can see the old scratches upon the golden curves, points at hook and teeth where green and red stones sit. Ah, nothing so brilliant as precious stones, these are more earthen and old. Bluest of blue lapis that does not shine. It is a stone in the oldest of terms. From Mesopotamia to Rome to Britain two thousand years ago. The second stone, above the key's teeth, a brilliant spinel. Thought to be ruby, these old stones fooled many for ages...even The Fifth thought it was ruby when put into his crown jewels.
Like the key's length, there are scratches on the spinel. Names. Mogred, Anthar, Gweyddan. Alyx. Diana. Each in hands and tongues old. Along one curve of the oval stone sits another name. Davydd.
And upon the key's body itself? A simple statement. Those That Lead Us Forth.
"Hey," Edward coos, twisting to see it, "...that's pretty fuckin' sprite."
The names are familiar. Historical ones. All mortal. A lineage of mortality, not the undead, unless you know of the last two...
Lips tilt down. A taming to the grin. Something of sardonic humor remaining. "She has the voice of an angel," But lest you think he's pinin' over her, the grin returns in full-force, "...and the restraint of a Portugese whore. I started to introduce her as Rosamund Bury-Me-In-A-Y-Shaped-Coffin Caermichael. But..." an exhale, "...it was good for the poetry of it. Course," he grins at you, "... the more I wanted to yell, the better I got. Did you see how seething she was at that? It was charmin'... downright charmin'..."
But he's quiet when he opens the case. Even the smile is tempered when he sees what's within.
And there it is...
Truth...
A glimpse to the mind behind the madcap. The man behind the visage he puts up for everyone else to see. Even you and William, his closest mates of all. The hands leave the case. Gingerly, as if setting down his own child. And they come, his hand steepled at his lips.
It was only a moment, and then hands lower. "Aye..."
And his voice is tight. Diana.
There comes an exhale after, and a smile. A twitch at first, before it becomes true. "So..." his hands close the case before it draws any more attention. "I never thanked you for the gift you gave me, mate." No word on this for a minute. This... this I need to...
Put it in my pocket. You see his hands lift the box and stow it in the inside pocket again. "If I'd known that movin' inta Kensington would have warranted gifts, I'd have asked for it sooner..."
"Huh?" Edward blinks, looking at the thing...whatever it is...and then your strange behavior. Okay, whatever. "What gifts?" he asks, reaching to get his cigarette before it dies.
Why didn't I do this sooner...
Why did I let everyone else have my fate...
Why did I deny it myself...
It doesn't matter, then. You're doing it now. Who cares about time, you said it yourself...
"You know," he says, but the usual clip in it is gone. He's serious. "The book of birds. You're fucking Audobon, detailing the wildlife of London..." Davydd chuckles smoke again. Another puff, and then he stamps it out. "I haven't used it yet, mind you. It's been too fucking daunting... I need recommendations, Edward-bach," and his voice warms.
And he leans in, arms to the surface of the table. Close to you, close enough that his whispers won't be heard beyond the booth, though it doesn't keep the shadows from listening. Fuck it. "It was a key," comes soft Latin, "... it had my name scratched into its surface... it had a note 'Those That Lead Us Forth'... it's like looking at death and greatness in the mirror, you look away, you close the box, you don't dare stare at Fate too long. Or it will freeze you..."
And then he smiles. It is warm, a flash again, as you are used to. And Davydd leans back, taking his black-and-tan in hand. "Or maybe I'm being too fucking Welsh. I can find an omen in a raincloud, brawd..." A shrug of broad shoulders. It is just the way of it.
"I saw that. The Omen," Edward nods sagely, clearly understanding what you meant. He takes a puff of his smoke and continues...
"So, you want recommendations, eh?" he smiles, settling in for this. "Audobon, bah. Fuck him. Did you go through and make a short list? I hate just makin' suggestions. Everyone has different tastes."
He grins as a guy drops his pint off and turns away. Edward watches, more so from idle thinking than any real pulling, as it were.
It will take him a moment. And a moment more. For it to recede. The meaning has stuck in him. Resonated in that blood. That old blood. And the Cymri within... the Cymri he is... the descendant of Welsh 'kings' from the time of Arthur... to him, this meant everything. There will be no going back from this point.
But you revive him with your smile. Your humor. It brings him back to The Now from the What Will Be. And Davydd grins. His hand reaches into his jacket again and out comes your precious book. "I dog-eared you know... spent a few nights... gleaning the gems out of it... " And he says nothing about the rest of it. He turns a bit ... pinkish. Aye well. Settling back, Davydd opens the book. A grin. A broad grin. Finding the page he likes best, he offers it to you. "What about that one, there... Ava... I like the sound of that. D' you think she could take it...?"
And he's a lot to take. Not that you've spent any or much time considering that...
"Ava?" Edward thinks a moment, and a light comes on. "Eh, maybe not. She's the I'm from the continent, so wine and dine me sort. Problem is...she then tries to turn into a demon in the bedroom. Doesn't work. But there's laugh factor in watching her be old money then try to let loose in the sack," Edward explains. "Fun factor," he waves off, "...is to basically teach her that she's really a confection and should stay in wine and dine mode."
Does anyone get so detailed?
"I laugh for hours on that one. So, if you want to have a funny night, Ava's your girl..."
Damn. He takes the book back, unbends the dog-ear and pushes onward to the next pace. "I like the sound of this one. Veronique... what's her poison other than..." he peers at the writing. "...being spanked rotten and treated like crap? I'm looking for someone I don't have to teach. I'm not like one of you French sots. Fuck it, William would love Ava... sounds like his bag. I'm looking for an animal... one that looks like a woman, shaves, but basically howls in bed..."
He's a man of few needs, that Llewelyn.
He motions at you with the book. "Have any birds like that in 'ere...? I mean, I like big breasts and hips and thighs, and all... but I'm willing to cut on looks at this point. I just want someone to bang royal who won't break easily..."
"Mmph," Edward swallows, drinking more of his pint. "Veronique. That's it," he says simply. "You can find her in Phantasmagoria...or wherever there's a party, really. A good party. She has a nose for that," Edward drifts, thinking about her uncanny ability.
"And she won't break. Much. Well, nah, not at all. She works out, that one, real bender. But she manages to keep some hefty curves."
Davydd mumbles, "I've had more evenings ruined that way than I can count..." He pulls back the book, another look at Veronique and then seems to settle on it. "I mean, there you are, going at it like a hero from the fucking annals of the greatest heroes ever and then the bird stops movin... before you can curse her for being lazy or stuck up, you come to the rather disappointing conclusion that you've just fucked her to death..."
A bright peal of laughter rings out and the book is stowed away. As close to his breast as the key to the city, you notice. It's in good company. "So... have you have many sleepless nights since handing this over. I thought you were going to break down in tears, boyo. You had me worried..."
"I cried later, like a slapped baby," Edward says, "...but you better not tell anyone," he leaning to stamp out his present smoke and fishing for another. "Nah, I ain't too worried...it's the detailed one you got, Davy. The important parts," he taps his head, "...are up here." Never to be forgotten.
"What about you? All settled up in the High House?"
"Well, I'm flattered ye passed it down my way. I was never one for reading until I got this..." Green eyes sparkle with a wink. "An' who'm I going to tell, Edward-bach? William?" He laughs at that. Riot! "As if... fuck him. He can get his own women... and aye... all settled in, spreading roots and taking up proper residence. Ian'll have to pry the house out of me cold dead hands..." The black-and-tan is finished -- drinking slowly, with so much talking. Who would have ever thought he'd go so long on one drink. But now that his hands are free again, he promptly busies them with another cigarette. "Hmmm..." his features go golden with firelight. "... better not say it too loudly, he might enjoy it. But aye... getting properly settled, used to the staff, had someone pick up the shit from Rose's lawn and move it into storage..."
Smoke billows from the dragon's lips and green eyes lift to you. A quick glance. "So you saw her boyo, eh? Fucking pretty boys... I wanted to fucking punch the grin off his face. I didn't figure on him showing up tonight..."
And it was perhaps the ... inspiration for his brilliant performance of that a capella piece. Eyes boring into his former lover's face. In all that time, she'd never sought to replace me. You see him frown a touch with it. "Maybe I should just, you know, fuck Veronique rotten and purge m' soul of it. D'you think it'd work? She doesn't need flattery does she? Low maintenance?" He smirks at that.
"Eh, she's high maintenance," Edward chimes, sucking down lungs full of poisoned smoke, "...but, she's a good girl, y'know? Even if she's....fucked up." Edward shrugs, sighing a little. "You wanna teach her, y'know, that life ain't all parties and trying to be the glint in everyone' eye and fuckin' bed. She's better'n that. But, it's her death..." he laments, pulling out a new cigarette before finishing the last.
"And yeah, I saw him," Edward murmurs. "Maybe, I should pay him a little visit." Nothing violent, of course. Edward's not that type.
"Damn it," hands gesticulate, and at the same time order another round, "...now you've got me feeling sorry for her... I can't use her if I get all girly sentimental..." A wry smile passes across his face, his expression warmed by it, and he... damn near beautiful in his own right. It comes and goes, but in its fading leaves edgy handsomeness behind. He taps the ash off his cigarette and takes another lung full of it. Breathing fire. What would you all do if you had not had this? To occupy mouths and fingers, hands and attention. Would there be any mortals left to safeguard? "I'll give her a go... but," a finger points to you as the second round arrives, "... no more god damned sentiment. Just because you're in love..." A grin at that. Leave me out of it.
There's a smile to the waitress. An appraising look. He even leans forward as he watches her go. Once she's away, a hand curls his beer toward him. Just short of lifting it for a swallow. And he shrugs, eyes watching the ash fall into the tray as he taps his cig again. "Ah... for what, Edward. He doesn't give a shite... he's happy with her. I figure... Rose is punishment enough..."
"Eh, I guess you're right," Edward agrees, putting his chin into the upturned palm of his hand. Edward watches the girl leave as well, again more of a study than anything else. He sighs and picks up his drink again, settling into the mundanity of the evening. Occasionally, mundanity is good.
"So, you gonna really explain to me what that thing is?" Edward motions at your pocket. "And not give me some magic shite?"
I mean, what is there to say? He apparently pleases her more. She takes up with him and that's it for a long, and I do mean long, standing relationship. What is there to say except for Way To Go, Chap. You must be a better man than I.
Hell, violence would be preferred. But then, she'd win. You're a barbarian, Llewelyn, and that's all you'll ever be. Great for a tussle but damn hard to live with. So what does killing or damaging her lover prove but that she was right to leave in the first place?
And so there's naught to do but to shut up. And naught to feel but annoyed.
"What is it about him, you think?" And so the internal conversation spills to the external world of the booth and table, the beer and cigarettes. "I mean... I live with me, and I know I can be a bit of a challenge, but jesus, pop on the telly and I usually shut up... hyn?" The question came out in a word of Welsh mid-rant. "Oh... well, the non-magical explanation is simple enough. It's a show of support. A sign that I'm... on the right way. It's a symbol, aye? So it's a bit had for me to separate it from the... magic shite as you put it. Symbols are of a more subtle significance, aye? Like ..." Davydd smiles again, "... magic shite."
He's never been one to buy into traditional juju, but apparently such things do really exist. Edward smirks, explaining, "I didn't mean to slay the boy," Edward blinks, looking up at the waiter's latest drop offs, "...just...to remind him that Rose isn't really his type. Sometimes, blokes forget." He chuckles, as if Valan should ever let him touch another male at this stage.
"No, no, fuck him," he waves off, "...yer right, Davy, it ain't worth it. But..." he motions to your gift, "...that's interesting. I get what you mean. So, this means Isabella's on? She say that? There was a note?" he wonders, curious to what the Deity-Upon-High had to say. "I saw the purple," he motions, figuring she was the source.
"There was a note... it's on the key. The rest, Robert bore in his smile... He congratulated me on my new... living arrangements... gave me the name of a building and trotted off on his merry, grinning way. She would not give it... if she did not mean it. Isabella does not play." He smiles a little. Almost fondly. Though, what could Isabella and the son of Mithras have in common? "She does not have to play. So, when she gives, which she rarely gives... the meaning cannot be missed."
"Hmm," he says through a swallow of fresh black-and-tan. "I will meet with her soon. It is the time for such... coordination and quiet conversations... Those That Lead Us Forth... how could it be mistaken? That Diana's name and mine should share a spot on the same red gem..."
There is a sadness for old things he cannot help. Old deaths he had no part in. But that the blood is shared.. that he is a sprig from the tree of Mithras... he cannot help but feel the twinge of guilt. The sins of the fathers... as they say...
"But it's enough to tell me she backs it, aye..." A quiet voice. And then he lifts his eyes back to you. Such green. Like the earth of his country. Green as Cymru. "As for what's-his-name..." A shrug. So be it. "I mean, it's not like I'll be without bedwarmers, is it? And so what if he is taller and darker and with blue-eyes like the devil himself. It's not as if he's the second coming of Plantagenet anyway, no matter how hard he tries. He's a pantomime and she's a tart."
"Ach, but that's what I don't get, Davy," Edward veering for a moment, "...she ne'er seemed like a tart?" He can't even bear to say the word. "Or y' never said she was a tart before?" He's terribly confused on this, but it doesn't seem to worry him so much.
"But as for Isabella," he shrugs, stamping out a butt and reaching for what's left of his pack, "...I unnerstand what you're saying. Just...sometimes, some friends are...worse than enemies."
There's a knowing chuckle for that. "Aye... why do you think I was touching it like it was going to burn me, brother?" Davydd settles back. Introspection? Not usually his bag when the two of you are together. But you can see it on him. The mark of Much Thought. "I'll have to ... judge it... once I have a better idea of what she's going to want in return. But... for now... I'll take it as it is. Pocket it," Davydd exhales smoke and reaches forward, stamping out his own cig, "... and continue. Sometimes... one has to sleep with Normans to fight the Irish. Sometimes... one has to convert to Catholicism to make it to the next Yule. There are always... sacrifices. I will have to judge soon enough on whether her offer is worth the sacrifice it would take to secure it."
A strong hand takes his pack and lighter and stows them in his jacket. "Ah, she wasn't, Edward. I mean, sure... I knew she was sleeping around... god knows I did. But it's not like I ever thought I'd be replaced. I mean, at the end of the night, we'd each know what we had. I thought. But I guess there was one night... when she decided she... wanted something else. I just... didn't expect to come home and see it so blatantly...not just him fucking her on my chair, but... with all my shit out on the lawn. I guess she heard about the French birds from my last trip," remember his escapades around Blancheflor? "And I finally broke the last tether." He shrugs, downs the black-and-tan in a swallow and exhales afterward. Punctuating a thought. "I should leave it be. I will, you know. It's just cause I saw her with him tonight. It's no big deal, aye... I'll have a bit of your book and then it'll be alright. She can have what's-his-name..."
Edward nods at all of it. You always seem to have the Big Picture. He...well..he's content with his part of it. "Aye, okay, Davy," he smiles, sitting back in his seat. You're leaving and he shall follow.
"So, when's the next gig? And...I'm thinkin' of a trip to Norfolk," north and east into Anglia, "...in a couple of weeks." More than likely, you can guess, to shore up the wilder affiliations in all of this.
Now, when I'm leaving, I most need a drink. But he smiles all the same. "Oh, Norfolk..." brows raise and eyes go wild with light. "God's country that. Take pictures, send me a postcard. It's been years since I visited such holy land..." Keep in touch, you see it in the eyes. Behind the facade of merriment is the calculating thought, the wheels and gears of the Cymric mind. "Next gig's in about two weeks... I don't want to oversaturate myself, aye? Best to keep them wantin' a bit. Keep them hungry..."
And that goes for the better part of our business as well. You move into brush. And you sit a bit before you move again. You move. And then you pause. Until you're in and out of the enemy's camp and they none the wiser for it. This is how forests moved on Macbeth you know.
"In the meantime, I'm going to relax in my new palacial digs, drink William's brandy and sing sad songs..." and he rises, a smile to you, a hand clapping to your shoulder. "How's your mate coming along by-the-by... all this time it's been all about me.. me me me..." Great shoulders roll beneath the leather as he shrugs it back into place.
And a hand reaches up, patting the pocket that holds the key...
"Ah, he's alright," Edward says, not distressed for the lack of asking. "We're fine. He's such a good lad," Edward offers, deciding to leave it there. "I been out a while," arm up, cuff back, eyes down, "I better see what he's up to. He's been out and about these nights." Edward rises to accompany you, hands shoving high into jacket pockets. "It's quiet. I like it," he says softly, still audible through the Wheatsheaf's din.
"You know..." he pauses, fishing out a cigarette for the drive home. "... even after all this time... I think what brings the most comfort is hearth and home. Corny as it may sound, and I... unsentimental and unromantic bastard that I am," he is so lying, "... still... it's a truism because it's true. Godspeed, Meurelle..."
More quid than is necessary is left on the table. Perhaps being more appreciative of humanity makes excellent tippers out of vampires. Who knows, but regardless, tis a healthy bit left for the attentive young woman.
And then a hand to your shoulder, another clap, another grin. And a wink is the parting wave. Complain as he does about love, sentiment, romanticism, you know that beneath it all is an old veteran who's never so much pleased in all the world as when he can take off his boots in front of his own fire and sit with an old friend. And tart in his eyes or no -- tart called, more for the wounding -- he misses having an old friend with him. To pick up his boots, toss a blanket over him, to take the scotch from his hand and set it on a table.
It's only becoming more and more apparent the longer you know him. Growl or no. Bark or no. Fire-breathing defiance or no.
It is not the sleek Jaguar that skulks about the streets and slithers through roundabouts this night. It is an SUV, too big for some British roads -- in the older areas of cities and villages -- black and filled with musical equipment and one Welsh corgie...
...That'd be Rhyddid, or 'freedom' for those who know the word...
There's a cigarette lit, dangling at his lips through the curve of a roundabout -- lighting the way, the tiny beacon that it is, as he turns his head and his direction toward The Creme de la Londonium. And the palace he now calls a home...
"Rhyddi," Davydd mumbles, "... it's all liver patee from here, boyo... hoi...I've sommat for you here, lad..." As one hand balances steering wheel and cigarette, and half an eye is on the traffic around him, the welsh prince pulls out the left-over bangers and dinner from the Snake and Weasel.
And who's Rhyddid to protest a bit of a snack?
As the corgie tears into the doggy-bag, Davydd exhales a plume of smoke. Ruddy hell, I should call Veronique tonight, the naughty little princess. But he won't. It'll take a few nights yet. A few nights more of thinkin about it and about all of it before he'll let his fingers do the walkin', as they say.
It is another ten minutes before he turns into Kensington...
Oh, they've been talking for certes. Sudden life in the old palace again. And lookee who's behind it...
The muted lights that flood the palace give it a surreal glow. Iron wrought gates surrounded the acreage on the west side of the city. One of the last palaces to be built, Kensington has always been a fashionable old girl, even if she has been the home of consorts, ex-wives, and relatives.
The cobblestone service drive that most use swings under the carport that covers the Henchman's Door. Well, at least that is what it's called. Slightly exposed to the world is a green Jaguar of very recent make, convertible. Plates are diplomatic, oddly enough.
As the outer gates were opened, a call went inside. Two young men are waiting at the stoop of Henchman's, expecting your arrival. A glow comes from the kitchen halls behind them...
Coo... who's Jag is that? I don't do green...
Huh... interesting... well... nice model and make. Oh! I should drive the roadster about tomorrow night. Tis time for a good, old-fashioned prowl. No woman in London will be safe!
Well... one woman in London won't have anything to fear...
"Evenin', lads... come'n, Rhyddid... stay out of the master's lillies, else I'll never hear the end of it..." A growl of Welsh follows, as the squat dog trots in a flurry of legs within. Davydd after. A hand comes up to rake through red hair -- less to rake, so his hand falls short a tick. "Someone waiting for me?" His manner is easy. Warm. Casual and conversational. Short on decorum but ... they'll get used to it eventually...
Davydd pivots about, giving a look to the young men. Nope, don't get it. Why would someone turn in breasts for...
And the clipped nails of the new lord's dog scritches and clicks upon the flooring. Soon joined by another -- that'd be Bwca, the bugbear...
The men smile, immediately looking to the SUV. No bags? Well, alright. They make sure everything is locked and follow behind you within.
"Yes, I believe someone is in the formal living area," one called Charles says. With that, they bow and turn off the corridor, heading to the kitchen proper.
Apparently not. What the car contains will remain... in the car. At least for now...
There's one on this earth yet who would grin to see the current stride. Quick as Mercury, strong as Mars, filling the space of the hallways and byways with his presence like Charlemagne or Alexander. And as he passes the den and nears the formal living area, his hand reaches up. Fingers skim against the leather...
And the leather case within the leather...
Davydd rounds the corner and into the room, greek gods and metaphors strewn behind him in his wake. And the green eyes seek ahead of him...
Who'd be paying me a visit here in the middle of the evenin'... nay, past the middle and heading straight for daylight?
There are two in the room, one sitting and one standing. A young man of about twenty, sandy brown-blonde hair is dressed austerely in black. Not leather, mind you, but something a bit more classic. Black shirt, black pants, grey shoes, grey jacket. He turns about as you enter, hand upon the highback chair where the woman sits.
The woman, is not so fresh and Anglo faced. She is Byzantine in features, something of the Near East, with the color of the Balkans. Black hair, skin of hue, and eyes of hazel-green. She rises as you enter, definitely shorter than the blonde, but no less striking. She is in an olive skirt and matching blazer, appearing to be the associate of the young man who steps forth.
"Davydd," Edmund speaks, "...how goes?" His accent is of the West Country, to be sure, but no further west of the Severn. Mortimer country. Cousins of Welsher cousins, but still of Angle stock. His hand comes out automatically, extended in greeting.
Him, you know. The other? Maybe the sharp memory recalls Margritte Panatiou, some other of Brujah stock.
"Good evening, Mr Llewelyn," she says, accented voice giving Margritte away.
Red brows shot up at the sight. Recognized -- at least Mortimer is -- but, suffice to say, he was not expecting to see anyone -- let alone these two. And she... well... the memory is stirred, but not ...quite to realization. And so the pause was brief, a half-second and then he's coming in as... well...
...as if he lived here...
The grin is a flash against his features and his hand is coming out, "Edmund... good to see you..." His paw meets Edmund's own, a strong grasp and a shake. The grin is amiable. Old cousins are always greeted as family, no matter the company they keep, wot? But mid-shake, Davydd is already turning. Ah now... who can mistake the voice... I've heard that voice a time or two. Over the years, the many years...
"And you," his hand is already leaving Edmund's and lifted in offerance to the lovely, if not young, Margritte Panatiou. "How long has it been, Ms. Panatiou..." He'd have called her Margritte, or Margo, or Marjerie -- but for her use of the 'mister' ahead of him. "Did I forget to write something down," he wonders, with warmth lilting on the ascending cadence of his voice. The welsh ask questions so naturally. "Ah well," a glance to Edmund, "...they say the mind's the first thing to go..."
"A few years, Mr. Llewelyn," Margritte offers, her hand settling into yours...and shaking. "And no, we are here unannounced and we are apologetic to you for doing so. If you need, we are happy to leave now..." she looks at her companion, "...and make an appointment..."
Edmund smiles and nods after the shake, not commenting on the humor. But as Margritte speaks he chimes, "Actually, yes, if it's a poor time, we can certainly come back."
"Bah, of course not...no apologies... have a seat?" His hand gave her fingers a lighter touch -- some habits will die harder for this one than others. "Please, please..." a gesture with a smile, "...either of you care for a drink? Have you been waiting long?"
And so now, you're as good as family in treatment. Warm, affable in bearing and in looks, he makes a motion to any number of the locales about. "I've got nothing but time," and then he beams. "I'm good till 9," he means AM -- and aye, after sunrise. Who needs sleep when there's work to be done...
A conspiratorial glance, a flicker of green, lands upon you both and Davydd leans in a bit, "I'm not yelling am I? Loud music... ears are still ringing a bit... so!" hands come together with a clap, "...what brings you both to Kensington this eve...?"
They both move back to the highbacked chair, Margritte taking the seat again. Edmund looks fine with standing. She looks up, expecting him to begin. And he does.
"In truth, Dayvdd, this is as much a business trip as anything else. First...we wanted to give you good tidings from our Clan, of course." He being the most recently known Primogen. "Let's be honest," the young man smiles, "...moving into Kensington was a high-profile move and well," he smirks, "...many have taken notice. I'm sure you know this and it was intended."
Ah, Brujah.
"We wanted to say...it's nice to see you here." Any extras to that sentence, you may freely add, Edmund's tilt of head and smile seem to say.
Of course it is...
And expected... or rather, that it is stirring the waters of the city -- this is not news to him. That he banked on certain... support? This is also true. But so swiftly... this...
This he did not expect...
This all expressed with the casual lilt of the smile that yet sits perched on his lips. But it comes coupled with something like genuine warm gratitude for the words. And if one were to call it gratitude, one would not be lying. He pivots, just enough to have both of you in the radius of attention. "Thank you..." Both of you. And to each of you in turn, Davydd quite nearly grins. It's in the eyes.
Yes, he knows what it meant. What it means. And what this means. Lastly, attention more falls to Edmund. "Lovely house, no? I think I've gotten used to it already..." And what it means. And the more madcap grin returns. "So, you will take my greetings back, from My Family to yours, Mortimer..." the old family name comes easily. His arms fold at the barrel chest, leather pulling brightly. "Such visits..." he twists to see Margritte and include her in this again as well, "... had I known what the first week would bring I would have thrown a party. But... I promised not to break any of the furniture..."
Promised... you-know-who...
Both laugh politely, Edmund nodding at the conveyance of greetings. He then asks, even before the tones have died down, "Does this mean...then...that you are Kensington's permanent owner?"
Margritte nods, "Indeed, you have a lovely residence," she looks up at Edmund, "...a true gem in the city."
There is only a smile for that and a chuckle. A lift of shoulders in something of a statement. What can I say? But what to say on it. The truth? "A true gem, indeed," Davydd echoes in a lilt, and an understanding look. There is ... a sudden calm about him. Mars and Mercury be damned...
Elbows are cupped by opposite hands, and his stance is relaxed, open. "A touch gaudy," he rumbles, a smile beginning to spread again. "But... hmm... it is growing on me. And... to answer your question..." back to Edmund. "I plan on being here for a while, the rest is being sorted out... though I think the English would weep to know Kensington's been lost to the Welsh..."
And green eyes sparkle in the scant, and the knowing, wink...
They both smile suddenly, liking that answer. Better than a Scot. But no matter. Margritte grins, "Well, we should...not take up too much more of your time. We..." we who? "...wish you much success. It is nice to see someone of your respect and stature here now, Mr. Llewelyn. I'm sure many in the city are really pleased."
Edmund glances down at Margritte, brow knotting and unraveling in the instant. "Ah, yes, it is growing on you. I'm sure you will grow the old place as it should be..." Edmund adds.
He gives her a look half full of gratitude and half of knowing wit. Really pleased? We'll see. But he leaves off the smart retort and bows his head to her. "I thank you, Ms. Panatiou. A fortunate man, I am, to have made it home... just in time to catch you." The flirt. "As for the rest, we will see. That's the fun of it, neh? I wouldn't want to be clairvoyant for all the money in the world..."
And his hand goes out, an offer of grace as she speaks of leaving. "People might start talking, the three of us in here. Say, let's order a bit of dinner and a few drinks..." Court gossip -- why not? But it's a jest, easy words of easy comfort in casual diplomacy.
He knows you will not take him up on it, but wouldn't it be a gas? "Ah, I know," Davydd rumbles to Edmund, in glances from Margritte. His hand still out for the taking. "I'll be spoiled come midsummer, using servants for footstools and calling for sherry. It'll be disgusting... but... no one will ever say Davydd Llewelyn was not a brave, mad man for having endured it..."
Each of them stares at you a moment, but Margritte breaks the ice by beginning to rise, shaking your hand politely. "The offer is nice, but, we have to be on our way. Really, since we were so impolite as to come by without an appointment..."
Edmund wakes and nods, startled out of his odd reverie. Considering you. "Mm," he nods, "...indeed. Next time, we will contact your associates for an appointment," he assures, extending his hand so he might shake after Margritte. "But truly, Davydd, as Primogen, I give you my best wishes," though no one has talked of a real hand, "...and Margritte," he smirks, "...as one of our great unwashed," ...clan members, "...does as well. We all do."
Does that include the missing Edward Meurelle?
"Very well," he says in mock disappointment, as if he expected the offer to be taken up, "but next time... we have dinner..." A gentle shake for Margritte -- old habits, he damn near kissed her -- and then a hardy shake for Edmund. He grins, as if to say... cousin... it's just a house...
But that'd be a lie. We all know what it means. As if I could move in and coyly shake my head. Bah!
"Your wishes, cousin... most gladly received. Diolch..." A touch of Welsh. "We'll talk again..."
"...and Ms. Panatiou..." Davydd pivots and beams to her, "... you could camp on my front porch and I would call it pure class," a serious look, ah, impolite. Tush, please.
"I appreciate the visit...and the well wishes," he murmurs. Yes, he will be in touch. He's sure that there will be a time to speak again. And another. And moments in between. You know how these things go. A hand gestures outward in offerance. He will see you to the door himself and waits on your pleasure of it, in truth. He could go on for hours.
Both bob politely, and Edmund smirks to you behind Margritte's quick turning. She is well on her way. "Call me," Edmund says, his shoes clacking against the marbled floors once off the carpet. Margritte clutches her purse and walks genteely towards and down the corridor, collecting her coat as one of the young men comes from a side door to help her with it.
"You will hear my voice," is Davydd's reply. Warm, lifting. Good-natured. Half-humored. And dead-on...
And the eyes are bright, and the fingers lifted to the lips. Pressing there in thought a moment. Well, I'll be spanked and called a Christian...
I can't wait to tell Meurelle about this one...
"Have a good evening," he calls out, moving from the living area. Much slower than both of you...
A king's stroll. I'll be damned. So this is how Plantagenet learned to saunter...
Margritte smiles and offers a serviced nod as she moves out the door and down the steps to the Jaguar. Edmund grins, giving a 'thanks, lad' the chap offering his coat, but declines to put it on. After a wave, he tripples out of the side door as well, sweeping around to the driver's side of the car while the servant closes the kitchen door.
"Well..."
And that is all there is. Not bad for the first week or so in the palace. And his hand goes back to the leather coat. Skimming against the reminder of the key at his chest. And Davydd turns.
Heading for private quarters and confines. Only there will the coat be removed. Only there will the key be unpacked. And he would lay in bed that night for hours. Looking at it. Reading the names. Staring at the ceiling...
Wondering on his future...
And it felt like a memory. He has been here before, he thought. Yes, I have been here before. Only... it was the straw-filled pallet of a drafty keep near Snowdon.
The spring found me freeing the Marches and claiming Powys as well as Gwynedd. The night before I left on my campaign I held a small harp in my hand instead...
And as his hand closed over the key, Davydd Llewelyn smiled...
Posted by rowan at April 18, 2003 06:39 PM
