Reflection in the glass...
     Of a rounded Jaguar of now ancient lines, some forty years old, rounding into a parking space...
     Small burning fire...
     The cigarette poised between his lips, a moment from his grasp...
     And then a comet's trail. A sparking and a dying flame as it is vaulted to extinction. Glass parts, enfolding. Doors move, and his reflection is cast against them. Hard lines of an ancient form...
     Davydd passes through the lobby of the condominium high-rise. A hand through short red hair. Clean-cut Mars. He strides through to the elevator. Past opening doors that seem to part for him on his own insistence. Maybe it was just luck...
     And upward...
     When did you start to feel him? On the first floor? The fifth floor? Or was it not until he moved down your own hallway. Did you feel him smile there? How long before he knocked.
     A hand sounds with a courteous rap upon the door. And the hip-length leather coat, the one with a Welsh longshoreman's flare, bulges with some... thing concealed within.
     You have gained a familiar shadow across your threshhold, Ms. Jorgenson. Frequent, too...

     You of such age. You can tell when she glides towards the door. Pausing. Making certain that it is you with a feel as much as a peep through the small hole in the door.
     "Who is it?" Sandrine calls, chuckling. Nevermind that Arthur downstairs had called to let her know that a visitor was imminent.
     She waits not for your answer. Already, the chain and locks are pulled away.

     Feel it... almost see it... The blood has its own imagination...
     "Death and Taxes," the laughter's returned. He visiting you is now as certain... if not more certain... than those two fates...
     But he is already in motion. Pushing off the easing of the door, the slight alcove nearby it. Already prepared to roll within. A slip and an ease. And his left hand holds ... whatever it is... balanced within the leather...

     "Well, at least one of those I can handle," Sandrine laughs, opening the door to find you on the other side. She is dressed in fluttering skirt, something of silk, and a white blouse with a broad black, shiny belt around her waist. "Come in Mr. Death, tea is on..." she grins, turning about and expecting you to follow.
     "I am glad to see you!" Sandrine calls, moving towards the kitchen area. "Are you out doing errands?"

     Hand softens the closing of the door behind him, and then in his pivot, the bottle beneath the leather is revealed. Laughter quiets until it is an echo behind his steps. And as you see him, you see him different each time. Now, with short hair again, curls tamed by lack of length into a slight wave. Clean-shaven. Part Mercury. Part Mars. Black leather coat, black-threaded red sweater beneath, a spring sweater. Black jeans.
     And he follows you... he drove all this way to follow you...
     "No errand. Just thought I'd make a not so surprising visit to my city sanctuary..." You. And then his hand is at your back. You can't out-run me. "I brought us a touch of Wales with..." he lifts the bottle in gesture. It is unlabeled. The liquid within is a rich amber gold. Mead.
     The treasure known even in your Scandia, aye?
     A kiss on your cheek. There is a subtle scent there of cologne. Most subtle but to your senses. "I hope I'm distracting you," Davydd says with a sudden grin. Like lightning. Green eyes sparkling. And he lowers his voice, "We'll take the phone of the hook, aye? And have a nice evenin' in the greenhouse... how's that for an errand?"

     "Sounds wonderful," Sandrine grins, leaning a cheek in for the kiss. She has become used to these visits, so unsused to having company. "Mead," she confirms, rounding a corner in the kitchen. "Yes, I remember it," her eyes gleam, peering around opened cabinet. "You are always full of surprises," words tumble, two tall glasses set upon the countertop.
     "Don't forget to take the phone off," she notes, "...not that anyone would call, mind you."
     "Ah, guess what, Davydd," Sandrine chimes suddenly, "...NightShade got the corporate account I was telling you about. That new office building in Haymarket..."

     He leans against the entryway between kitchen and the rest of your apartment, settling in there to watch you move. The smile is unconscious. Natural. Moving in ways he does not control. Sliding. Even tilted in a slight slant.
     And mead held couched by his arm, he reaches into his leather coat. A large hand finding diminutive phone. And turning it off. That'll do...
     And he's glad no one calls you... O, lord yes...
     Rumbling laughter, lifing from his throat and mouth, holding in his chest. It comes from him like the streams flowed from Snowdon. "Well," he drawls out to the notion of surprises. "I like to do it," a soft admittance. For you? What would he not do...
     Do you feel this, Toreador? Do you know it...
     Red brows arch upward and his expression is one of open and immediate warmth. "Aye?" And the grin is born on his mouth, sudden. Broad. "Fantastic, that... You know... I should have you put the Palace on the list. It could do with some indoor flora... I'll have Jeeves," what else does one call an English butler? "... and have him contact Nightshade. Set up an account..."
     As if I shall ever get my flowers anywhere else but from your own hands...
     He straightens and comes into the kitchen. Setting the mead down on the counter, and the jacket is shrugged off. The sweater beneath hugs to the chest and shoulders and arms, but falls slack at sides until it ends. Long-sleeves. You've never seen him in anything else...

     Ah. There you are. Sandrine smiles, flowing as she walks. But you're already here. Instead, she simply meets you at the nearest counter and sets the two beer glasses down upon the Corian top. "Really?" She wonders, "...you can do that? Well..." she rolls her eyes, "...of course you can," Sandrine grins, hands folding against her slight chest. "But you..." she leans in, "...would get a discount." She can tell, this is certain. And it's shared.
     Leaning against the counter, she lets you undress as you like. "It's a lovely night up here," as opposed to on the street, "...what did you do this evening?"

     "I woke up, rolled out of bed..." he chuckles, and he gives his jacket a toss. He'll get it in a moment. It thuds into the next room. And he takes up the counter with you. Not far. No. Not far from you. Close enough to share your space, but not, yet, intruding it. He takes the bottle in his hands, removes the wax wrapping, and unfastens the top. It is neither cork nor screwtop. It is an air-tight contraption of some kind. And when it is lifted?
     Honey...
     Davydd leans in, grin slanting widely, "I got presentable -- I hope," a laugh at that, "...and then did the usual -- let out the dogs so they don't mess on the floor, yell at them when they start to eat the prized irises, and then came to see you. My first," he drops his voice to a whisper, "...my favorite... and my last stop..."
     Staying the night. Through the night and into day. When he comes here, it is always for the duration.
     "And what about yours," he begins to pour, eyes sparkling as they lift and lower from the glasses to you. "Any tapestry work, loomin', weavin'?" A moment from a kiss. It will be like this for a while. It always is between you. But it will happen...

     "A little," Sandrine confesses, eyes lowering to watch your hands. "I was not inspired," she explains, "...and so I headed to the greenhouse. We had a delivery of orchids...overflow from an associate. They are not anything special, but some of the Asian offices enjoy having them. Pleases the gaijin," she laughs. "We," the anglo-types, "...expect it, so they want them in the alcoves of the office." Such politic to corporate flowers!
     "Ah, so...I received a few and went ahead to transplant them early in the evening. They will do better that way," Sandrine notes idly. "A few weeks, and they should be in better condition to send to Grosvenor or Mayfair." Discreet offices in old estates. "There is an importer," she goes on, "...Chinese. He has a thing for orchids, I hear." Her hands lower, coming to rest on the counter. "Do you want a few? I could send a bulb over to Kensington for you..."

     The smile remains, the echo of a grin. But his aspect is of a quieter nature as he listens to you. Interested. He more than listens. He absorbs. His mind, active. Soaking. And his gaze moves between your eyes and your mouth and his hands.
     The pouring finished. The bottle set aside.
     "I love orchids," large hand covers your own, a brush of fingertips and then he lifts it. "Gaijin that I am," he watches enough kung-fu theatre to know what that is, "particularly with a touch of purple. A bulb'd be brilliant," words against your hand, your knuckles. "What is your favorite? Do you have one..."
     He has your hand again. Chances are, you won't get it back till tomorrow...

     She flushes at the kiss, leaving her hand in yours. "Favorite orchid?" Sandrine shakes her head negatively. "No, I don't. It's always hard for me to pick anything like that." With drinks poured, her fingers curl around yours, tugging a little towards the open living area and the greenhouse beyond. Quickly, she picks up one of the glasses of mead, turning to lead you outside.
     "I'll have Effie send you something with purple, then. In a couple of weeks remember though...I want to perk them up a little." Ah, the chemicals she knows.
     The greenhouse door is already open. Traffic is silent, but the lights of Greater London twinkle in brilliant colors, if you look out and down. Inobtrusive otherwise. Colors to warm the senses. Only a few of the large panes are open, letting in a cool evening breeze.

     Davydd comes with you...
     The mead is an afterthought. And that's a first...
     "From up here... the streetlights look like stars," around you, comfortable, his more Anglicized accent drops into its natural, Cymric cadence. The lift and fall. The lilt and the trip of his voice. Soft, rapid. He, the mountain. His voice, the stream. And you were right about his eyes. Green as Welsh hills and valleys, flecked with the periwinkle that grows wild and rambling. The mead is sipped. Heavy and light. Sweet and clear. But he is far more interested in you, and so the mead is held more than swallowed.
     His right hand busying itself with your left. Fingers in constant, light motion. Though his hand is large and stronge, its touch is light.
     "The city really is at its best when looking on it from above..." Like many find me best when in small doses or from a distance. Davydd grins at the thought unspoken. And he half-turns, more facing you than beside you. His eyes lift only in brief glances from you. Looking to the growth around. The view. The windows. And then you.
     "Certainly, this is my favorite view in all the city," he's not looking at the city. He's looking at you.

     "Mmph," Sandrine nods, lowering the drink from her lips, "...it is," she agreeing easily. And why not? The city is stunning. She smiles and twists to see you in the shared opinion, then smirks when she realizes the subject at hand. "Here," she whispers, skirt fluttering in the slight breeze as she motions to one of the comfortable benches on the west side of the greenhouse. From here, the office lights of Westminster twinkle.
     "How are things...at Kensington?" Sandrine wonders, letting your hand go long enough to hold her skirt as she sits politely. "Are you allowed to decorate?"

     He laughs at the very notion, his eyes going a bit wide and quite a bit brighter. "Duw, I don't dare..." His voice trips over the syllables like water off of stone. Holding the glass lightly, he meanders to the bench. A stroll as much as Davydd ever strolls anywhere. No, usually he attacks a space by walking, striding.
     But it was a funny thing when Mars fell in love...
     And it's a joke that hasn't lost its humor since. It's still funny...
     "Kensington's alright," an exhale. "I don't spend much time there these nights... just to sleep..." Green eyes settle on you. When I'm not here camped out on your lawn that is. And with an exhale, the old veteran sits beside you, taking up a goodly portion of the bench, sitting as a soldier might, and half turned toward you, his head resting on his hand, his elbow on the back of the bench. Open and relaxed. "I guess I could," Davydd says quietly. "But it's a good place to sleep, hold meetings and parties. I can't imagine what else I'd do to it." And then a grin breaks like dawn. "Have any ideas? How about lots of flowers as a start..."
     And he laughs again, easily, quietly.

     "I could arrange a delivery," Sandrine smiles, her nose wriggling in the smile. "Maybe every other day, something for your private apartments. How is that?" she asks, knowing you will agree. "It is a nice old palace," she observes, "...much like the Konigsvart in Copenhagen. For a place...it has home elements." The mead is tilted up and she drinks, yet never missing a beat to watch you simultaneously.
     "I was told...that Kensington is owned by a Scot. Is that true?" she wonders. "I guess..." a thought, "...I've never met who owns the palace." A friend, this? Blue eyes are curious, but not intrusive. You may choose tell the story in your own time.
     Moving closer, Sandrine sits so that her back rests against the seat's pillows. Half in your open embrace, she crosses her legs and twists to set mead upon a small nearby table.

     With the move closer, the arm upon the back of the bench is now as much around you, really. And a lean in, and he's a breath away. Some scent there, light, not earthen but natural. Like sandalwood, but not as sweet. Something essential not synthetic, something too of honey. Or maybe that's the mead...
     "I would like that," Davydd says with a nod. "Something for the private apartments, sitting room or bedroom..." And he can't help it. "Personal deliveries? Can they start tomorrow?" He grins at the rim of the glass and takes a healthy swallow of the honeyed drink.
     Though the mead is set aside for a minute, the turning and moving doesn't take him out of close range. "So it is," Davydd begins, "a ... friend of a friend... an old friend, emphasis on old. You know William Plantagenet?" Brows cock up as he looks to you, settling back, arm now lying against the back of the bench. A kind of half-enfolding.
     I could swallow you up...
     When do I tell you this...
     When will it not be too soon...
     When would it not scare you off...
     "... The Scot is Ian Dunross... an associate of William's. I've known Willl for ages..." Soft on the ages...

     She thinks for a moment, then comes up with, "I think...I have heard of Plantagenet....well," finger sways, "...the name, of course, is an old one, so..." it may not be him she is familiar with. But legs crossed means she can hold them, and her body lengthens to clasp her knees. A stretch if there was one.
     With her head turned, she looks towards you, burnished hair dangling. "The other," she begins, "I don't think I have heard of at all. A friend of a friend," Sandrine laughs, "...you have some impressive friends then, Davydd! One that would ask another associate to let you borrow his palace in London central?"
     "As for the flowers," she grins, "...I will have them start tomorrow."

     There is a look of blessed relief...
     O dear God, I've met the one woman on earth William hasn't shagged rotten...
     And a Toreador at that...
     There's a smile and a nod, "Aye... and he's from the first of them... but..." A shrug, "... I knew him when we were both mortal men." He grins. "He sacked my country. Least he could do is let me live in his house," Davydd continues quietly. "And it's sort of a ... shared residence betwixt them..." It is a leading statement. And it's not exactly a secret. Ian Dunross and William Plantagenet...
     Fingers cannot help but touch the burnished hair. Sitting next to you, it's a wonder he can sit still at all. The hand draws away after a light touch and props up his head again as he leans in. "Good. It's just what my apartments are missing... a little touch of Sandrine..." And Davydd remembers his mead. Suddenly. And he unwinds and leans in to take it up again. "Would you have time to come by this week?" Davydd quietly asks. His color lifting. "I would like that. Have the cook arrange a fine dinner..." He turns his head, green eyes on you. They are so seldom off of you. "How's that sound?" he whispers.

     She blinks. "You knew him..." blue eyes roll up, counting, "...if he's...that means you're..."
     Over 800 years old.
     Sandrine's eyes widen and she stares at you, a long, quiet moment.
     "Wow," she finally breathes, twisting to find her mead and drink a good long drink from it. Licking her lips, even that a sweet feat, Sandrine looks back at you, trying to compose herself. "Sorry," she smiles, "...that was...not very tasteful." Her hand lifts to cover her lips as she laughs, smiling as if a joke has been shared. Her own embarrassment. "Just...I didn't realize...." you were...that much of an elder. Her skin flushes faintly and she shakes her head, putting mead down. "And yes...I would...be glad to visit you this week, if that is alright."

     "Quite alright," the smile is warm, winding, wide. And it turns to quiet laughter right after. "I thought you knew," he murmurs. "I was embraced in the year of our lord 1192, at the spry age of 36," he murmurs. The mead is sipped and then set aside. He reaches for your hand, and then with his other he rolls up the sweater sleeve.
     There is a tattoo there. Blue, but remarkably vibrant. Celtic patterns. The interconnectedness of the universe. Dragons circle his wrist in interlocking knots. Holly. Heather. "I was Prince of Gwynedd and working on becoming Prince of Gwynedd and Powys. I got this after winning the first battle against my brother Hywel."
     You can well imagine there are more...
     There is remarkable detail and workmanship to them. Considering their age and the tools of the era, perhaps even more startling. Green eyes lift and the smile deepens. "You don't have to worry about being tasteful around this old barbarian, my dear..." Davydd chuckles, leaning in against you and lifting your fingers to his mouth. There, grinning again. "You looked beautifully shocked..."
     "And as for Kensington..."
     Davydd pauses a half moment...
     "I'm tempted to just ask you to stay with me," it's whispered. And it's true. "I wake up and I want you there...I..." Go on. "... I'm just very ..." He is searching for the right word, and maybe Davydd will never find it, but then he looks to you and the smile softens and red brows lift. "... taken..."

     She was to speak, but instead, Sandrine is quiet. In the space you share, her breathing comes shallowly as she looks down to your wrist. Fingers alight softly upon the dragon, two of them tracing around where the painted creatures disappear on the underside.
     "You...think I know a lot," she whispers, ice slipping upwards. Her head is almost to yours now, and her scent...that of peach. "I..." she admits shyly, "I don't hear much, really." Not about old stories. Maybe present things, but in truth, her connections are limited.
     But you've asked her to stay with you. Said that you are taken. She heard you. It is upon her face. Not the shock of before, but the sobriety of something real present and alive. Honest comment requires honest answer. "I am...taken...with you too, Davydd." But I don't know much about you. "I guess, you know that already," she breathes, eyes slipping down to your arm again.
     But a prince, you are. A prince of the past. There are so many of you, with titles, names, lands, rights. Baggage. It still hangs upon you all. I see it all the time. From Christian onward...
     "I don't know..." she swallows, "... about ... Kensington." It is big. "And people...will talk. I..." Sandrine looks up, wrinkles at her brow, "...I like the greenhouse, Davydd. It's...my home." It is all I have in the world...

     "I am the last man on earth who would want to separate you from it, you know that. It's why I'm here." A pause, a warm lifting smile. "Damn near constantly..." Not quite. But frequently. Maybe more frequently in the coming weeks...
     "It's not about Kensington," he adds in a hush. "It's about me thinking about y'... and wanting to spend time with you. I ... like it here. Sanctuary," he nods, "I think that's what we called it in Wales, aye? And that's what it's become. But you know... it's more that the sanctuary is you..."
     I should shut up right about... now...
     But you know I won't. Once I get on a roll with truth.
     Davydd turns his head, looking to you. It's a knowing look. It's an understanding look. "You don't mind me taking up room..." in your house, in your greenhouse, "...and raiding your cabinets and refrigerators... I am content to do so." The smile slants a bit. But the slant doesn't last. Soon his forehead is to yours and his eyes are on your mouth and some point of souls in between.
     "You've decided to keep company with one of the biggest mouths in all London," you poor thing, "...you'll hear plenty..." And he smiles again. He can't help but poke fun at himself. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know... and I'll listen... to whatever you want to tell me. The rest of it... just comes with Time..."

     Time? That gets a look. Wide eyes, seeing if they understood you correctly. "Time?" Sandrine murmurs. What do you mean by that? "You're welcome here, Davydd...I don't mind at all. I like it. It's...been the best thing. More than..." she blushes and laughs, "...I ever expected." When I just showed up at your home. I had no idea what to do anymore.
     "I guess...I..." she frowns and looks down, "I don't...know what I'm doing, Davydd, I'll just say that, alright," she sober, as if making a confession. "I...just showed up at...Kensington. I'd heard you were there. I...wanted...to meet you..." she tries to smile apologetically, "...just see you...not at some party." Sandrine waves off. "But...after that..." she shrugs, "I just didn't think you'd...be interested."
     A sigh. Sandrine's lip twists and she looks away, as if expecting disappointment.

     "Good, then I'm not alone." The quiet voice comes out with a rapid lilt and coupled with a warm-wry smile. "I don't know what I'm doing either, Sandrine... but... you know... I am ... interested." He reaches for your hand again, a palm-up askance. "And I don't know what it's about, and I don't know what it means. I just know," and he pauses for a breath, "... that when I'm with you, I have amazing evenings and I don't want them to end. When I am awake, I want to hear your voice, smell your perfume and hold your hand."
     And sometimes Truth is just that simple.
     "So," he continues in a whisper, turning his head to catch your gaze as you look away, "...we don't know what we're doing, Sandrine. All I know is that I want to keep doing it. And we've got Time..." The smile winds warmly again. "Even though I'm a few years ahead of y'..."

      A few. A few centuries. Sandrine grins then, comforted by your words. Her hand folds over, lightly resting in the palm of your hand. Intimacy, certainly. "That's good," she smiles, blinking almost innocently.
     "So..." she smiles, "...want to...lie here tonight? We can rest on the lemon lawn," her favorite bit of grass, "...and turn the shade on...I can get a blanket...I just finished the embroidery, and you can tell me this about your brothers?"

     "Lying about on soft grass with a beautiful woman, wrapped in a blanket with mead at hand, and telling stories...? a Welshman's idea of heaven, this..." There is warmth upon your forehead, where Davydd leaves a kiss. "Aye... the story of Hywell, Rhodri and Davydd it is then..."
     A gentle squeeze of your hand in his. large hand and strong, much like the rest of him. And then he rises, standing, his hand still holding yours, as it shall until after you stand. "I'll fetch the blanket, a couple of pillows, we'll just... stay the night and morn in here..."
     A finishing whisper. As if he would leave you to sleep alone now...

     "Sounds good," Sandrine smiles, watching you rise. You know where the blankets are, where the pillows are kept. She rises too, picking up her mead and moving towards the soft grass.
     It is enough for now.

     Sandrine's crystal-blue eyes close at the kiss, a smile gently rests upon her lips. It does sound wonderful, and to see you eager always makes her grin.
     "Would you look in the sewing room for me, Davy," it always sounds breathless, like dah-vie, "...and bring that large pillow on my chair?"

     Well, if his eagerness be the cause, you must be running about town constantly amused and giving your friends and foes cause for concern. No one should go about grinning that much...
     Or that often...
     Llewelyn's eagerness can't be denied...
     He could spin about, invisible, rush to the room and have the garden stocked in pillows and comforts by the time you started to miss him. And maybe one day you'll see the gifts he keeps in secret. For now, he goes the usual way, in as much a stroll as this Mars ever takes.
     Into the sewing room with a trailing whistle. A bird call learned when he was five...
     "Anything else?" you hear his voice fill the apartment. A querying call -- will your neighbors complain?

     "Anything else?" comes a voice.
     "Anything else?"
     It's in the sewing room, Davydd. With you.
     Invisible it is, a voice from a corner. But the energy is real. Palpable.
     "Well," the corner shimmering, rippling the transparent fabric of time, "...let's see." A pause. "No, no, nothing I can think of," the male voice responds...

     As is the energy that comes as an automatic reply...
     Risen, from where it lay couched beneath his skin. Palpable. He will be on his own... with his bare hands... should this go awry, from surprise to action. For his jacket, and his gun, are in the other room...
     Not that it would many anything to You. Shooting at shadows is rarely effective.
     The expression is one of sudden Quietude, but certainly not placid. No, the flashing eyes don't give an impression of inner stillness -- no matter how even he may look. You know that you have surprised him. You also know he hates surprises. You see him, pendulous between Reaction and Action, teetering upon the edge of motion or emotion. But he neither falls to one side, nor another...
     Instead, he stands astride them both.
     "I'm not especially good at chatting with insubstantial air," the English is quiet, but there's a bit of a rattle to it. "Care to join us for a drink and a sit, or did you have something else in mind..."

     "She's resting," the voice says, indeed working on becoming more substantial. This was not to assail you, but a bit of information on whom you're dealing with.
     "You'll forgive the dramatics," the voice says, now melding into a tall, lithe man. Dressed in black leather with a coat, he seems to have expected to spend his evening out.
     Once you could see through the ripple and to the wall. Now, Christian Lausanne stands there instead. "Good evening, Cymri," his voice full and rich. No hiding, "I'm Christian Lausanne."

     He knows you...
     Well, he knows of you...
     Hell, only a handful of people can confirm they've actually seen you. But... he does keep the occasional company with Girault. How could he not know of the more colorful stories of Christian Lausanne...
     Not to mention all of the metaphors used by Edward, god knows. But he can't truly recall if he's ever met you before, Lausanne. You see the addition and subtraction, quick though it is for that calculating mind, in the knitting of fiery eyebrows. But then the Quietude returns, only this time the flash and fire of surprise has faded. Behind it, there is left Old Mars. "Good Evening, Lausanne," were he more familiar, he'd just call you Christ. "I would say it is a surprise to see you, but I'm certain you've gathered that..." It is said with a sudden... diplomatic fluency, it barely sounds like English. Or Davydd for that matter.
     Hands fold before him, and he waits to hear why you've come all this way and popped out of the darkness. Unless you live here...
     Then he's just fucked...

     "No, I don't live here," Christian says blithely, grinning much like something out of a Botticelli painting. He waves his hand, moving around Sandrine's loom. Finger touches it. A reminder of her.
     "I tend to like surprises," Christian goes on, "...keeps them fearful," he chimes, wiggling his brows. As if. He has more cache than to need a surprise. Few do not worry about a visiting Justicar.
     But fearful is not his intent. That feeling eminates about him. He instead touches a pillow in Sandrine's sewing chair.
     "I understand that you are treating her well," he comments, coming to a halt behind her favorite seat. "That's good to know. I have...been with Sandrine a long time," he comments, his almost-violet eyes directed at you. And why not? You are the audience. Christian smiles. "I met her first at a party at the Konigshalle...oh...when was that?" he pauses to think. "Sixteen-something. Forty? Something like that." Dismissed. The date is not so important. "She was...is...no less beautiful. She was not," he quirks, "...the showpiece that night. She was with a tribe of outlanders who had come to pay their respects," he tells you, hands on her seat now, "...a daughter of no one."
     But that was not an accusation. It is pride from Christian.
     "But she was sparkling. They...would not have see that, Prince Davydd, for she was not one of them. They ignored her."

     "With utmost care," the Cymri replies softly. As he does with things that are most true. As much as 'The Dragon' is said to roar and rumble, it is only about the insubstantial, unimportant matters. Never with Truth.
     Truth should be whispered, held close and held dear.
     And there's no point in hiding it, and so he does not. He meets your gaze. There's deep green for the near-violet. Had she told him any of this? No. No, you know she had not. He is quiet, leaning against the wall near the sewing chair, where he was bound before you stopped him. "A tribe of outlanders," he repeats, more to himself than any repetition for the story's sake. And his mouth tilts up at that.
     This is something I know about...
     And curious expression, quiet and thoughtful, is turned toward you, and fiery brows upraise. And he waits, Prince Davydd, to hear what more you will say. You are intent upon telling him something. And he listens, absorbs. It is what Davydd does best. He stands here tonight with you because of it.

     He smiles again. "Come now," Christian encourages, "...are you saying that," as if he is reading your mind, "...you did not expect to see me eventually?"
     The smile is suddenly revived. It streaks like a comet, and twists in a slanted trajectory. "No, I expected to see you, Lausanne. Just not tonight." And he nearly laughs, you see the pause. The laughter expresses itself in shining eyes, the smile calms into his voice, "I bet that's what they all say..."
     There is a thoughtful, a clearing exhale and Davydd puts a shoulder to the wall, arms folding comfortably against his chest. "I trust you have not traveled all this way to tell me stories about her, though," a hand peeks outward as it's lifted in a brief gesture, "I don't want to discourage that..." No, indeed.
     And there is a pause, you see and feel him ponder it. And the old dragon says in quiet tones, "She is still sparkling. And she is still ignored," at least by those of His Clan. "But... Outlanders know this is not a disadvantage," and there's the smile again. An understanding smile. "I do not have to tell you what she is -- you know her better than I. I do not have to tell you what I think of her -- if you did not already know it, you would have visited me earlier."

     "All true," Christian grins, fingers curling about her seat. "And please, call me Christian." He shudders. "Lausanne sounds like something from a bad Bogart film." Ah well.
     "She has safety," he goes on, "...in being an auslander," Christian choosing the German. "Her Sire...well, that is her story to tell...he chose. I have seen to her since. I shall keep it that way," Christian tilts his head, brown hair fluttering, "...despite what transpires between you. While I am certain that your intentions," he laughs a little, knowing the irony of it all, "...are honorable," a snort, "...her political position, is one that I must still monitor. Some know the title she has," distinct from any notion of power, "...and unfortunately, I am a liability to her. I am also a shield. Even if," his lips purse, "...you are at her side." Almost expected.
     And indeed, you well know, other forces are at work in the World.
     "So, I have come to clarify all this nonsense to you, Cymri. I go nowhere, as Sandrinaar is concerned." Not a threat, just the way of the world.
     "My hope is, you understand that and know that it means nothing more than how things are." It is not a threat to you, or any dispersion upon your relationship. He cannot leave her to her own devices. "She is...well..." he grins, "...not like many."

     "Very well, Christian," and when he says it there is a strange little quirk. Even though he was raised a Catholic in the most Catholic of all nations after the Vatican by his century, still... it rings with a certain Pagan flair.
     As for honor, well...
     He of the high blood does color a bit at that notion. On one side, there is the truth of it. On the other, the humor of it all. He's taken a few men to task over a sister's concern in a former lifetime. He knows The Speech when he hears it.
     Davydd nods. Once, then twice again. Three times, the mark of perfect understanding. "I knew her title, and I know what comes with it." You. The Politico behind You. There is no feeling of threat felt. Known, as green eyes settle on you again.
     For how could the last son of Mithras not understand this?
     "I understand you perfectly, Christian. And..." the smile lifts again, "... no... she is not like many." But Politics are part of it, for them both. "But I know... it is a delicate thing..." A Childe of Mithras hooking up with a Toreador Archon. And if only it were just this, or just that simple.

     Hmm. Christian nods, finally moving from his position, a painting come alive. "I will not bore you with details or project or speculate on things to come. You have the basic understanding."
     "Is there anything else?"

     Isn't this how we started?
     You and Girault and William. You look like half of Renaissance Italy hanging on the walls. He, Edward -- they're the darker, more earthy elements...
     "No, I think the waters are clear between us, Christian," Davydd murmurs. And he straightens, arms unfolding. Straight, he is shorter than you, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in bearing. But it's not put on for your benefit. It just is.
     "Thank you for the explanation of the Way of Things," he nods, "It is ... better to know than to guess with such things..."

     "Always so," Christian says quietly, apparently done. The rest is between you and Sandrine.
     Picking up the pillow from the chair, Christian moves around the seat, boots clacking against the polished wood floor. It is offered to you, the globe of energy around the man.
     "Good night, Cymri. Give my best to Sandrinaar when she awakens. She'll know that I have been here." Never should he lie to her. A purse of his lips, and Christian continues out of the sewing room.

     "Good night, Christian."
     A hand reaches out to take the pillow she sent him here after. Seems like another night in some ways, though the conversation was not so long as all of that. Ah well, a five minute call with Messereich can seem like an eternity. Maybe it is not so strange...
     Davydd turns, leaving the sewing room. Pillow in his hand. He moves in the energy that Lausanne leaves behind. It meets his own. It is a wonder there are not lightning storms that come from that meeting of energy, aye?

     He turned the corner, did he not?
     The entryway is empty.

     Well, he was expecting that...
     You're not exactly the sort of bloke who knocks or rings the bell...

Posted by rowan at May 04, 2003 11:03 PM