Until it's dark. So dark you can barely see your hand. It's not evening, until it's oppressive. That's the way I remember it. The way I like it. Dark should be dark, not a second kind of day like it is in the city. There were evenings in the mountains when I was young, I swore that Snowdon pierced the breast of the goddess herself, so that the milk ran all across the sky. Back when you could see it. The milk of the Milky Way.
The closest you can get to it in London is under the trees in the older neighborhoods, close your eyes after a few pints. You can see it then. They'd all laugh at me. They'd all roar with it. To think I walk the streets so late... no... so early... just to try to see the stars like when I was young.
Best you get most nights is passing headlights on autos...
Ah well, fuck it. There's a comet for it. I fling the cigarette from my fingertips. It lights my way for a moment as I turn back to the drive. Like the tail of the dragon that marked the hour of my birth.
Davydd exhales smoke as he slides his hands back in his pockets, eyes traveling from feet, to the world around him, to the sky above him. And Kensington is quiet but for his steps. All of the neighborhood sleeping now. He cuts a solitary figure under street light illumination.
There is little new in Kensington. The streets rush past the palace, its black gates with gold baubles standing as reminders of its relative modernity. Less than three centuries old, this place. Built north and west of the older Whitehall and St. James, it is more along their lines than the ultra-modern Buckingham.
Trees breeze faintly, the late spring turning into early summer. A marvelous time to be in the City, and it seems many are. Students from the continent are piling in, left alone by holiday wandering parents who ramble more fashionable and expensive parts of Europe. Their teenage children? Well, they should fare alright with plenty of cash on the streets of England. Nothing happens there.
Beyond the gates, the kitchen side of the Palace is quiet. The requisite vehicles stand at the ready at that side, some for staff, shopping, or more expensive fare for special guests and evenings. Your own Rover is kept closer, inside another set of gates, since it is a personal vehicle.
His own manor in Powys is far older. Its manicured gardens, its fountains. Seemingly so out of place in the wild, western frontier of Wales. But it, as this, fits him. How many who barely knew him, or only knew of him, were suprised by the move at all. How many, indeed, still are that he is so comfortable. With trappings they never knew he cared for.
They have not been watching...
Humming, a song is held in throat and chest. Light, even though deep. His is a voice midway between true baritone and tenor, a range that can touch to both. And the roughness with which he speaks -- the rumble of the dragon -- this too is a part put on for effect. For when he sings, there was never a voice so smooth. Like the legendary lake of Yns Witrin. The water that surrounded the isle of glass...
Keys come out and he, moving past one set of gates already, heads into the more... residential quarters. An entrance used only by those who live here. A look over a broad shoulder and the song ends there. The door closed and Davydd sighs. A large hand lifts, raking through red hair. Disheveled, as much as it may be as short as it is. He makes his way through passageway and hall. To the den. To grab a book to take to bed...
Feet are heard before the voice. It is the main housekeeper, long up this morning. She is suddenly visible down a corridor to the left of your shoulder, coughing to make herself known.
"Good morning, Sir," the polished London tongue comes, "...I am sorry for the interruption." You have seemed more meditative than the lords, to be sure. "There is someone..." she says evening, "...here to see you."
"In your apartments, Sir."
It takes him a moment. A quizzical look -- gods, who could it ...
At this hour? And it does not take the mind long to realize it must be for something other than ... a cordial visit. Davydd pivots, turning to the voice. A warm, if thought-full look. "How long has... he? she? been waiting?" he wonders. And who is it...
And at this hour?
Davydd is already veering course from the corridor that leads to the den, to that which leads to the apartments and private quarters.
The housekeeper, trained to take any event with the same expression, calmly replies, "The lady arrived some hours ago. She wished to wait. Do you wish tea, Mr. Llewelyn?" her voice trailing as she watches you hurry away.
"Aye!" he calls out -- though not too loudly, there's scarce a need for that, the rest of the house being so quiet. "Ah.. did she happen to give a name...?"
Rose?
It couldn't be. Why would she... and why would I? But who else could it be? Veronique? Nah... she wouldn't...
Would she?
The woman disappears, obediently seeing to the tea. Terribly interesting. Well, not really, but what is a house of this type without some intrigue?
Heading up, there is no mistaking the feel of Another. Veronique must be ruled out. This is not so old as yourself, but it is still a force to handle. Someone experienced and vibrant, despite their years.
The corridors upon your private apartments are indeed quiet. All doors closed. Only those who frequent the floor know which doors lead where.
Curioser and Curioser, said Alice. Quite...
And corridors pass. And doorways. And distance carried with the stride of Mars and the celerity of Mercury. And the eyes are fixed upon the air and the feeling. A silent voice of thought, like a hand's touch, eases against the wall, and the stone and natural forces that exist beneath the veneer of polished society. Do I know you...
And the air resonates with Him...
Do I know you...
He can be felt as sure as sunrise. As sure as shore feels tide. And all other things natural. Supernatural. When apartments are reached, his stride slows, but his discovery thickens. And curiosity lives in his expression as he steps into what now are his private apartments. The antechamber and living area the precedes the bedrooms and private study.
Open the door, Davydd. Are you worried about that you shall find? Or does the unknowing excite?
Indeed, someone is within, but not immediately seen. One of the reading lights is on the living area, softened by the swallow of the antichamber.
Peer about the corner, and you shall see. A waft of perfume. One that you do not know. A topcoat of grey wool with a cream lining rests upon a chair. It was once a living being. Bending the corner will yield a foot tapping, grey shoe visible. Then legs, long and firm. And the rest. A young woman with shocking strawberry blonde hair. Certainly not red. It glows around her face, a veritable copper halo.
"Mm," she quips, looking up from her book. You have arrived. The book, something of yours, is set aside, and as she comes to her feet, the grey suit around her remains fitted to her form.
"Morning, Davydd," she smiles, hands coming behind her back. "I hope you do not mind me waiting."
Sandrine Jorgenson herself.
Thrilling. Like moving through haunted forests circa 1180. It could be magic. It could be Death. The not knowing -- it brings the echo of sensation against the throat and tongue, even if the alkaline of mortal adrenaline is not carried with it. And now, there is just the shiver of Learning against the blood. Recognition. And he closes the door behind him. So soft.
"Of course not," he offers quietly, and with it a smile. "And ...bore da to you," good morning, that is.
He is pulling off his gloves and starting to tuck them into his jacket as he comes near you. "I'm having tea brought up," he continues in soft aside, "good lord, you must have been here for hours," a chuckle. "So... now that you've waited so long, how can I live up to the build up, Sandrine...?"
Tell me, business or pleasure? And the coat is coming off, a shrug of great shoulders out of it. And the perfume. How can he not consider it, and you? A quiet marking. Yes, the hair as I recall it. All else, even so. "Next time," Davydd adds, tossing his coat not far from yours, "I'll take my phone..."
"Never use the things," she says, most of the Scandinavian tones to her voice long gone. Hand waves, humor there. Her blue eyes are stark against the copper that illumniates her. "And don't worry on the build up..." she grins, "...I'd diffused all of that by reading..." Sandrine's brow wavers, and she twists to see the title again. "Ah. Songs from the Middle Lands," she murmurs. "Poetry."
"Thanks for the tea," Sandrine goes on, leaving her pose. She moves silently around the highbacked chair to the bookshelf. "Nice collection here -- it keeps one occupied. That's good too..." she smiles and looks back at you, "...one should never get bored. Things happen when you get bored."
Beyond her, beyond the chamber, your bedroom door stands open.
"That brings me to my next point," she lifts a finger, "...how not to be bored. Ah!" lips pursing, "Christian sends his regards..."
"I trust he's well. Carry an Ave back for me. It's been ages since I've seen him..." A grin for it -- even when Christian is present, he is rarely seen. But to know him is to love him, yes? There is an exhale as Davydd sits. He hopes you don't mind, but he's for a sit, himself. And comfort is found immediately. He and the other high-backed chair in the room are one. Soft cushions and deep wood. It suits him. Green eyes, full of emerald and jade, lift to you, to the books, spines of titles. Poetry. It causes small explosions of color in his eyes, seems a sparkle to everyone else. To you, of your senses, you see so much more than the average mortal woman...
"Hmmm... you know I have always been one who had to be occupied. Fill my hands or tie them," his native land, unlike yours, trips and falls like the clear streams down Welsh mountains upon his voice, his words. There is no Davydd without Wales -- dare say, no Wales without Davydd. "I've heard more about the ending of boredom in the past few weeks. You can't imagine..."
Said: Oh yes you can, can't you. It's why you're here, isn't it? To get a look at me again and wonder: is he that daft?
Charcoal grey sweater overlies an undershirt of white cotton, both layers seen, the white just barely so. The trousers neither tight nor loose but that middle country in between. And he fills that chair. Broad as Snowdon. There is quiet laughter, "Who'd believe it," he whispers. "Llewelyn fills his nights by reading." Are you among those who know better?
"I've been reading quite a bit of Rumi... Islamic poets. It passes the night..."
"I'm afraid you've lost me there, with Islamic texts," Sandrine confesses willingly, English so natural these days. She walks again, a vision in grey. As you sit, she must pace. It has been hours. "And I will give Christian your regards," their professional relationship not so known.
But no, it not quite why she is there. Sandrine picks a point ahead of you, so you may not need to move to see her. She stands rather model-like, right foot extended in front of her left. A glint from her stockings gives a shine. "I will have to see Wales one day," Sandrine explains, head turning to the bookshelf behind her. She glances at a title and then exhales. When she does, her whole body relaxes in it. "I..." she frowns, "...have thought of going before, but..." she looks back at you, cheeks full, "...I have never been able to find the time...or a tourguide. I can only imagine," she offers, "...that the hills are as green as your eyes, and filled with flowers the color of the flecks of your irises." A compliment that. "Shades of kelly and jade, hunter and periwinkle." A nod sends her piled hair burnished. "I am sure that is what it is like. Maybe," she grins, head tilting quizzically left upon her shoulder, "I am getting tired of London?" She has been here a while.
When was the last time someone tossed a compliment at you, Llewelyn? You're blushing like a school girl. You'll look as... green as your eyes if you're not careful...
But it's really only the edges of his ears that take on any added color at all. A hint of pink there. He can't stop it, though other blood is well-commanded. And the smile and the laugh -- natural. Not put on. Not remembered. It's a true sound and a true warmth. It makes even one such as he seem ... living.
She's flirting with you, boyo, and there you are, sittin' in your chair like a heel...
"My time is all my own," Davydd says, elbows on the arms of the chair, fingers laced now at his stomach. Rose is gone, city not yet mine. "For that compliment, it's the least I can do to be your guide. I've not been back myself since Yule..." A half pause, and the smile broadens a notch. "And to show it to another who has never seen it, gives it life... If you have the time, well then..." His hands outspread in offerance.
There's nothing to stop us.
There is a noise from down the hall. Finally, the arrival of the tea...
Davydd sits forward, hands now interlace and dangling, but strongly, in the air between. "You let me know, and I'll drive you personally..."
She seems to lean forward slightly at your words and body language. Indeed. Agreeable you are. And the sound of tea.
"How about next week?" Sandrine grins, strawberry brow arching with impish intent.
Aye, agreeable. Open. Confident. You would see him glow with it if you were looking. But slivers there of ...many things. You could spend years on him, truly. But you've known this. You've seen it a few times before.
"Next week is good," Davydd says, a bright look, open eyebrows arched upward, green eyes lit. His welsh hills at dawn. That is how they look, dark and light. Bright and rich. "Brilliant...how long do you want to stay? Whatever you say," his hands unlace and lift as he sits back -- posture still welcoming to you, to the idea. "... know that it'll be too brief..."
The scent of tea. You catch it through the door. And then the sound of a hand touching the door. And then it opens and the scent of the tea wafts heady.
"Brilliant," Davydd echoes quietly, eyes to the housekeeper. That'll be all for now, dear.
Sandrine keeps her stance as the housekeeper arrives. Soon Kensington will be alive and teeming with servants, cleaning and dusting items never used. She watches the housekeeper with interest, ice-blue eyes alert and vibrant, ever vigilant. She is from the snowy climes, this Smilla.
For an ancilla, Sandrine keeps a low profile. Certainly, she engages at the parties of Le Tattinger, seen at all events there are. Yet the label of party creature is not attached to her. Her time is known spent on neonates and younger ancilla...herself rumored to be no more than five centuries old. And what a waste -- she appears to not have climbed so high in circles. It really makes little sense.
Eventually, her eyes steal from the housekeeper long enough to see your responses. Perhaps it is like slow-motion for someone so aware. But she retracts her gaze once the mundanities have ceased, moving towards her seat once more.
Smilla has always known her sense of snow.
Her features would be paler, if not for the warm light. Aquiline features betray her heritage. "It will be brief," Sandrine finally says softly, the grey suit shielding her from the glare of the living. A cut and style from the forties. That's it. And all about her seems something silver screen and retro.
"I have a few nights? I do not know how long we would need. Maybe..." she grins at you, her miss manners settling finishing with the crossing of her legs, "...four night is a good start? Hopefully," she smiles at you across the table, beyond the lamp, the book, and the tea service, "...it will not be the last. So, I do not feel...as if we should rush."
The housekeeper pours the tea. She leaves cream and sugar to your own devices. Both are there at-hand. And then she's gone. A cup placed before you on the table. A cup left to him.
Brows remain opened up at that. Oh?
Oh...
"Four days," he agrees, and it comes with a smile. And he stands. Were you expecting that? He's not so tall, that Llewelyn. Not like the giants he calls his brothers -- William and Edward both. He's a head shorter than both of those lads. But he's broader seeming, a compact mountain for a' that. Is it amazing when he moves with grace? Instead of the high-backed chair, he settles on the sofa. It's a bit more... social? And more at your side than tet-a-tet across a table. "That's just enough time for it to set into your blood, aye." Davydd laughs a touch and looks to you as he reaches for cream. Brows lifting. Cream?
Whatever marks of what the light does for you is taken in moments, in glimpses between converstation. In the direct look as he speaks to you, seldom looking to any part of you other than your eyes. So it seems. But he can remark some time, perhaps, on what he thinks of your hair beneath the light or what it does for the side of your face, your neck. And your hands.
And he is not so unlike you, though the mountains of Wales are not so high as those of your own native country. He, pale. But like Mars he goes bronze in the light.
"Well good," Sandrine goes on, nodding at the cream. She turns towards you, knees and legs set forth for your gaze. The cup and saucer are set neatly upon her lap, and she listens with polite attention.
"Are you enjoying your time so far in Kensington?"
So Far. Expectant upon more.
"I have never been inside before," she murmurs, looking up at the ceiling and around. Fascinated by it all. "It is a marvelous home, really. And it feels like a home too." Not just a museum or mausoleum, as many kindred residences do. Blue eyes look to you, interested in your response.
And yet it gets late. She cannot remain up so long, but she does well. Sandine waited hours for you -- she will not let the sun chase her away so quickly. Even if it attempts to melt the snow under her feet.
There is something that has fallen away. He has needed this. More than he would let anyone know. Camaraderie? Companionship. Someone nice to spend a little time with other than Meurelle. It is obvious to one who studies mannerisms or body languaage that he is quite open, relaxed. Perhaps with an archon of Lausanne one should be more on the guard. Perhaps with a princedom in loom one should look upon it with a political eye. But he isn't, doesn't.
Davydd has decided to be himself a while...
Cream turns the tea a golden blonde, honeyed. In his, he takes nothing but a drop of honey. A little bit of something...meadow-like. It suits him. And he settles back. An arm against the back of the sofa, the cup on a thigh, his other hand holding it balanced. "This is the longest amount of time I've ever spent in it. It's well kept. And aye... it has a comfort to it. I wasn't sure when I moved in -- actually, I'm lying..." He chuckles. "I didn't care when I moved in. But once that wore off," Davydd's voice quiets into a sip of the tea. And he looks to you again. Green eyes linger upon some quality of your face. "... I found it grew on me quite quickly. And there's no shortage of rooms, tis certain..."
There is a little pink to the sky now. You should stay tonight. There's no shortage of rooms...
"Still," another sip, "it doesn't feel as... empty as I thought it might..." And he pauses a moment. "You waited so long, Sandrine," he continues quietly. "You should stay the rest of the morning. I can give you the tour of the place tomorrow..." Unless someone's expecting you. Then... if they were... you wouldn't have been here, he expects.
Her gaze lifted between lashes at the notion of 'waiting so long.' But you meant this night. Sandrine grins politely and nods, following it up with a sigh for the morning. "It is late for me," she admits, eyes wandering to where a window might be to tell her the truth of it.
But in this area, there are none. Naturally so.
She sips her tea, china against her grey. "At least you are settled in and comfortable," she picks up the last thought on the palace. "That is nice," she nods. "It is always wonderful to...." and Sandrine looks around, "...find some place to...call your own. Take off your shoes," she grins at you, "...and just...feel a bit of rest and peace. Quiet."
Then a pause, cup lifting again, her hand no less beauteous than the china it holds.
"Maybe, if you don't mind...I will stay this morning with you?"
There is the grin. The slant of humor, the sparkle of it in the eyes. This upon the comment of taking off his shoes. Should I tell you I danced in the ballroom with my own shadow, wearing nothing but a robe? No, I think not. It would ruin the dashing image I've had tonight.
Davydd settles back against the sofa, tea lifted. Tasted. Swallowed. You, the focus over the cup. And the tea is gone. Sipped, but swallowed and finished with the first chill upon it was tasted. Cold tea. Only the Americans can drink it like that. Savages.
"It has been... aye... and unexpected. I half thought it would be seem...thunderously aristocratic. And...while it's a palace... it has the air of residence upon it. It hasn't become a relic..." Nor I. Not yet. "I do kick off my shoes and leave my clothes lyin about. It gives the maids a fit, but..." Great shoulders roll in a slight shrug, the grin nearly boyish. "It keeps us all young, the building, the maids and I..."
The cup is left upon the table and as Davydd sits forward to do so, his eyes lift to you. Green, brilliant, as he looks through copper forlock. "I would like that," he says quietly again. And though mirth is still present in the eyes, you can see desire of your company is there along with it.
He always did find you rather fantastically arrayed. He, who attends a few of Tattinger's parties himself -- ah well, though maybe fewer the coming days, more by Tattinger's doing than his own. But distant. A jewel looked at from across the way, talked to, but this one... never picked up and handled, held to the light and admired more closely. He takes the moment now. "Do you ever stay up to watch the day come in?"
Your closeness is not unappreciated. "When I am at home," Sandrine nods, looking past you to the open door of the bedroom. It is but a focal point. "When the sun is low upon the horizon, it is twilight forever..." she whispers. "The snow covers everything then, in winter, and I wait for the sky to wave in peach and indigo, pink, and mauve," she finishes.
Sandrine sits upright and finishes her own drink. "Maybe," she exhales, "...you will visit Scandia, hmm?" the word said with more consonants than vowels. "A winter's long night in Lappland," she grins, reaching to set the cup upon the table again.
"I have never been there," he lilts again, the quiet rise and fall of the cadence of his voice. "Twilight forever..." And Davydd thinks seriously about this, even though the grins. And the eyes open widely, brows arching upward. "A night without a day. It is a wonder we haven't all packed up and moved there..."
Lappland. Its beautiful and strong women. Its powerful drink. Odin's country, that. "I think I shall... we will talk of it again after Wales. One good turn, and all... as they say..." Deserves another. "We should wait for winter. You can see the northern lights? And how are the stars..." He asks it matter-of-factly, but there is no lack of interest. And Davydd grins.
"I love the snow and the cold..." The Northman in him can't bear living without it. Even if it means he has to get on a plane to go get some of it. He's not like William and his love for warmth and heat. Give him the good earth, the cool wind, a cold sea...
"Then a winter there," Sandrine laughs. She can see the sparkle from deep within. Maybe you would like her home. "The stars are like nowhere else there. Of this, I assure you," she grins, withdrawing again to sit upright.
After a second, Sandrine pats her lap with folded hands. "I should...lie down," she explains. Much longer, and she should fall asleep where she sits.
"Why do you not take the master bedroom," he murmurs, a glance given to the doorway. And he rises, a soft exhale as he does. Even his own tiredness is showing. He is beginning to move like sap in winter. Not without a struggle. "We'll talk of Lappland stars tomorrow," and why not...
Yes, Llewelyn. Why not...
Oh sure, he'll probably hear a few reasons why not. But they won't be good reasons. And so what of the clan difference, we're all past that now. So what of her position. So what of mine. She's lovely and interested. And interesting. And she's strong and she's mild. Why not take a trip...
Get away...
See things unseen...
Including Sandrine...
Davydd Llewelyn, you're a rhymin' cad. But that was a good one...
His smile is of the quiet sort and a hand comes out, a gentleman's offer to give the lady a lift. "...and take a first rate tour of Kensington Palace..."
"That sounds great," Sandrine purrs, glad for the evening. She stands and looks left and right, not quite sure what room you mean. "There?" she points and asks. She may have been inside, but which is master or not is always questionable in a place like this.
"I..." she twists, "...should get my coat and bag," Sandrine smiling as she bobs apologetically. Moving around the seat and table, she steps away from you, to retrieve her coat from the outermost room. Disappearance turns into a quick reappearance, her square-heeled grey poix-de-sois shoes shimmering. "I am sorry, which way?" she asks again politely, cream-collared grey coat over her arm.
Well, which is truly master or not is likely dependent on who's speaking. William and Ian may have had an altogether different chamber for that purpose. But what purpose exactly, he'd rather not care to dwell on...
Gads... talk about a cold shower...
He watches her go. The bob, the reach for the coat. He finds himself smiling. It's been a rare night. This sort of night I've needed. And as you come around again, Davydd is moving away from the sofa and the table, the chairs and the remnants of cooling tea. "This way..." a tilt of his head, a grin.
He's going to show you there himself...
A nod of her hair cause the shimmering glint. Sandrine moves around to follow your lead, eyes moving left and right along the way, a quick scan of the surroundings.
The surroundings are richly paneled walls. A door leads not directly to a room but into a hallway passage, and from there, chambers of a deeper level of privacy. A study. And then a bedroom...
It is large, and your eyes can surely tell that men have lived here for the past while. Particularly lately. He has been inhabiting this space. You can feel him everywhere in it. Such a gentleman. To give up his own bed...
There are paintings on the wall, books, lavish furnishings, but still there is that lived-in feel. A servant has changed the sheets and such, picked up the lord's laundry.
It is quite a secure room, sequestered, cloistered here. There is a door off of this chamber. "I will be in the next room," he mentions, a nod toward the other room. "It's just down a short hall. The servants shuffle in during the day occasionally, but they are used to... the hours."
It is a vampire's household. It has been for a long while now, off and on.
Davydd lingers in the doorway, but half-turning to look to you. "Need anything before I push up the daisies?"
Your company, is what she is inclined to say. But Sandrine just smiles sweetly, eyes still upon yours. It is as if she can see Wales itself there.
"No, no, thanks, Davydd. Your hospitality is appreciated very much. I will stay out of the way in here."
With that, she leans over and places a kiss upon your cheek. It is cool and warm simultaneously, grey and green. Strawberry hued and glistening white. "Good morning," she offers, taking a step back.
And now, the blush is true...
It happens so quickly, rising to cheeks. From where your lips landed. It flushes him, and then it fades. But there's no bombastic waving about to laugh it off. It happened freely and he leaves it at that. What sort of Mars would he be, were his blood not to rise to that warmth?
Davydd smiles, and with a lean he returns the kiss in kind. "Good morning..."
I will see you in a while...
And he leaves you with a smile and a bit of a wave. And he leaves you to the large room, the comforts. But do you feel him, Sandrine? Lingering a moment on the other side of the door. Wondering... how strangely pleasant was this night...
You didn't come to talk about business...
You didn't come to offer me false flattery...
You didn't come with a warning from the Council...
You just...came...
Posted by rowan at April 18, 2003 10:17 PM
