She moves through the apartment in relative silence. Black light with twinkles of light gleams pass the open shades of the greenhouse. But it makes no palpable difference to her demeanor.
The table is set with fresh tulips, brought over from Holland. White bone china is encircled with a ribbon of silver, capturing the glinty light of the three-tined fork and heavy knives and spoon littered around it. Wine glasses are set in a trio, enough to cover the gamut this evening. Upon it all, a folded napkin of peach-pink, bound by heavy silver fashioning, kept perfectly in place.
Candles reach far above the world, tapered to yellow-orange blazes of lights.
The apartment is dark, but the hallway's aroma tells that Miss Jorgenson is in. Food prepared for hours now wafts heavily on the 15th floor of Meniwell Tower -- cardomom with anise, cream with rogan josh. She's prepared an Indian meal for the man that visits her these nights, he who quietly alights upon her doorstep.
They disappear then, nothing but silence from her home.
The neighbors have noticed to be sure. They smile politely when they see you both. She...always so pleasant and thoughtful, if politely aloof. He seeming brashness, but when he arrives on her hall, he is nothing of the sort. They remark to the doorman downstairs, the security at the desk, the attendant in the elevator.
"Have you seen Miss Jorgensen? She does look lovely these evenings. Her work keeps her so busy during the day. It is nice that she has company."
"And yes! The marvelous smells. She cooks regularly. She must be a gourmet."
Eyes watch you when you visit, Davydd Llewelyn, thin smiles and knowing bobs of elderly heads. Yet when you pass, they get a lingering look. It is not disapproval, but fascinated curiosity. A woman they barely know, who lives not the high London lifestyle, has taken up with a man as elusive and silent as she is. Is this the youth of today?
You're expected. A meal has been kept to your liking. The wine aerated and ready for your like. And as usual, a world behind the doors of Apartment A awaits you, Davydd, and you alone. There is no other. There is little else.
Quietly, so quietly...
He has come through those doors now how many times? He, whose appearance may say one thing, but his demeanor quite another. He, whose Jaguar parked right outside bespeaks The Lifestyle of Fashionable London. And yet, it is here they linger. Here, removed from all of that. And he has come in, each time, with that same quiet smile, usually something in his hands for her.
But tonight, he's running shite as Edward would say...
There was no pause for a polite smile. Barely a hand lifted in a wave as he passed by...
A red head leaning back against the mirrored interior of the elevator. Just a quick turn, to check himself there...
...and then he issues from the opening doors, like Mars from the gaping earth...
And then, the world is still.
Green eyes close...
A breath taken...
And then, the smile.
Your doorbell rings...
It's Cymru calling...
The door opens, a usual habit, and she stands there, hair piled high upon her head. She is dressed in pink -- a fitted bodice with stitched pearls and a skirt of layers of chiffon.
"Come in," Sandrine smiles, stepping out of the way. Her cheeks are reddened, but her eyes...she is not much of an actress. "I managed to hold your dinner," she whispers, leaning to kiss you on the cheek. All is well. "But I'm glad that you're here now." She missed you.
The door is closed behind you. "You want to pour the wine?" Sandrine asks, quick to turn away to head back towards the kitchen.
The words of apology were already on his lips, his tongue lilting to shake them off and then he has to stare. For that moment. It's a long moment when you stand there, just before you move. And he doesn't miss a second of it. "You look ..." And his hands move, the eyes widen. It's that night all over again. He steps in, as the door is shut behind him. But all he can see is a chiffon scarf caught by the wind. It softens him and the rush of energy, in his haste to get here, that carried him forth falls away. "... rhyfeddol," it's a soft roll of consonants. You are something he ... can't translate to English. When he speaks Welsh -- it is because there are no words it in the Saesneg... in the English language. To say you look wonderful -- it just doesn't seem... enough.
For the kiss there was a lean in. A hand's touch to your waist before you can get away. And he's all on the surface, lousy actor. He missed you -- and he's sorry for the late arrival. "Sorry... cariad," there the Welsh again. Dear. Those things that sound too short. Too brusque in the Saxons' tongue. "Of course," and he's at the table -- bottle in his grasp.
When did he lose the coat? On his way in, it's there on the sofa now. And what it leaves behind is Lord Autumn himself. Greys and blacks, a touch of something crimson -- the shirt beneath the sweater. "India," Davydd says, with the quiet lilt of Cymric-crossed English, "You know the way straight through me. You in pink... and cardamon in the air..."
Liquid pools in the glass he balances in his hand, against the light grasp of strong fingers. "Such a lovely space," look at what you've done, Sandrine, his green eyes speak it as he looks to you and then to the surroundings, "I can't believe I was late to this...what was I thinking..."
"Thank you," Sandrine murmurs softly. "And I do not care if you're late," she explains, "...as long as you come." Another grin, "I'm sure you had important things to attend to," Sandrine smiles, busying herself in the kitchen. Something requiring her attendance, though the meal should be done.
I hope you like Indian...I wasn't sure if you did," she says softly from across the bar. "There are lamb rolls to begin, and then there...well, there's several things for main. But dessert," her lips pull gently, weakly, "...that is perhaps the best." A stop and spin, "Should I tell you about it now -- the dessert -- or do you want to wait, Davydd?"
Always Dah-vit. Like a breeze across the Sterengaard Bay. Crisp and cool, but comfort in familiarity.
"I'll wait," he murmurs, and the smile is sudden to his lips. It comes, when it comes, with sudden light. A comet streak befitting this Mars in grey. "I deserve to wait, I should wait. Don't tell me. Make me endure it," he pours an expert bottle of wine. And there we are, two glasses. Davydd pivots, "Need help with anything? And Indian is... a particular favorite of mine. Maybe because I've never been, but have always wanted to go. Spices and exotic sights. I would be Columbus Reborn, discovering a new world. Only, I'd have the smarts not to do it for the Spanish," he adds in a mutter.
And he is crossing into the kitchen, the wine left behind him -- your glass, his glass -- they rest idle, waiting. But he has kept you waiting long enough, has he not. "Maybe... a little hint about dessert," he says standing near you. The smile cocks to the side and fiery brows lift. Green eyes flash as they narrow in their grin. Crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. Well, the start of them anyway. "Just... a small one," so he measures a small space between finger and thumb.
Her smile is softer now. That's it. Something worrying. Whatever it was, you've lifted it. "A bit of kofti," Sandrine begins, "with cream on top. And on the side, small balls of gulab jamun." Cake baked in rounded balls, soaked in honey, with pistachio ice cream with a dobble of cream on top. "All sugar," she smiles. "It should send us racing," she laughs, leaving the important work -- folding a handtowel -- aside.
"You always make me laugh, Davydd," Sandrine murmurs, her eyes sparkling. Faint dew.
"You are a brave spirit," the rumble of his voice, words softly spoken, the sound holds in his chest. "But... there's no one I'd rather chase around a lovely apartment than you." You've never seen him on a sugar high -- granted, it would take a lot of sugar to take him to it -- but there's a first for everything. And between you... there are a lot of firsts left.
But it's the dew in the eyes that catches him, and it's his hand on the towel that catches you. It is a slow journey, you can see him coming, from your fingertips to your waist. But first there was a touch. Then, an embrace.
Lightly...
He has learned to touch you lightly...
He has learned to place his hands first on the snow-covered earth and so slowly ease beneath the dove that rests there. Now, he is your shadow. Now, your mountain. A skim of fingers to the side of your neck.
Whatever it is, do not be afraid to speak it...
I will not be afraid either, for that matter...
Or, at least I'll make the attempt...
A kiss first. She turns quickly at your touches, leaning in for something more substantial than the door. The towel and the meal are both left behind for now. Both of Sandrine's hands cup your cheeks, and she closes her eyes once hands slacken to rest at your shoulders.
"Sorry," Sandrine murmurs, lips remaining close. Now that was inappropriate. She creates polite distance, verging on the edge of your most personal space. Hovering. "It has been a long week," she tries to smile gamely. "Lots of things happening, you know..."
There is no hesitance on his part -- he's been waiting to do this all night. The reflection of his eyes in the mirror when he shaved. He looked past reflection to the world on the other side -- the future, and what he'd be doing in it. Namely, this... tonight... you.
"Me too," his murmur, his smile, these brush your mouth -- your invasion is returned. The kiss rejoined, enjoyed and pulling. An apology before the broachment...
What a gentleman...
Hands lightly grasp the pink. You, the flower. Better than the one men killed one another to claim. The tulip can have its legend, for all he cares. This is what I want...
There is an exhale in the parting, but it carries no apology. No regret. And in the green you see Understanding. And you see Knowing. "Yes," Davydd whispers, and the smile tries itself on for size, "it has..." There's a momentary catch to his voice. A pause mid-breath. "We should talk about it, I think," green eyes settle on you, a gazeful of forests. "How about we..." his voice trails as he leans in, a kiss brushed lightly again, "... sit with some wine. Dinner will keep better where it is than on our plates while we're too occupied to give it its due. It will be amazing no matter when I taste it. Tonight, or for breakfast tomorrow."
The dinner is just... food afterall...
Fingers press against the pink, lightly but there's strength there as you know. "Come share a glass with me, we'll take up your sofa, camp out under the candlelight..."
And we'll say it all...
"Okay," Sandrine whispers, trying to find a smile. It's hard-pressed to come. She sighs, glad that the need for pretense is gone. "I thought cooking would help me think of other things," she explains, fingers in your hand as she moves out of the kitchen to the carpeted living area. "What about you, though? You had a busy week?"
"Don't worry," Davydd reassures with a sudden grin, "I'll eat it all. I've the appetite of Zeus," and green scatters light, a sparkle as he winks. "Hmmm... aye... busy week, busy night..." he breathes. And he's fine with your leading him. Fingers twine, fingers move lightly, warmly against your own. Trading strength for soothing softness.
There was a pause beside the table, where fingers finally loosened to grasp the waiting wine. A glass for you. For him...
And the bottle...
His hands are too busy, he can't touch the small of your back, enfold your waist or any of that, but his energy... the air around you both does it for him. He is near, and that's enough -- at least until he gets to the sofa. "I should say Ladies First," Davydd murmurs, setting the wine upon the small table near the couch, and he turns to you. The pretense is gone, what little there was with him, and the smile is gone as well. In its place just... warmth. Placidity. Seriousness. "But... I feel it is on me..." How your week has gone, perhaps this is on him too. He stops there, eyes on you. Straying and memorizing how you look tonight. Jesus, Davydd -- look at what you've got, so much as you have it. He blinks a moment and then takes the glass of wine from your hands again -- balancing both as he settles. A wide sprawl, leaving space plenty for you to sit and lean against. So, since it's on me... it might as well be on me...
"I don't know even where to begin," he sighs. Forest, olive and periwinkle -- you saw the trees and hills and flowers in his eyes and named them -- lift to you. "Maybe you should tell me how your week has been," he counters himself in a breath. "I'm more concerned with that..."
"Ah," Sandrine laments, waving a hand so that it lands in a pile of chiffon. She leans against you, not really so interested in the wine at this point. "Just...voices, you know?" Blue eyes look over her shoulder to see you. "You know how people talk. And some are worse than others," she grins, bucking up with your closeness.
"But," she looks down, "...some came by the shop," she murmurs. "The other evening. I should have just ignored it all. I mean, I basically did. I sent a message to Tattinger...that maybe was my mistake..."
"I shouldn't have done that," Sandrine whispers. "I should have really just put it out of my mind."
Well, he could use a drink. Thank God for side tables. A sip from one glass and then both are set aside. His arms surround you, and you feel his laughter as much as hear it at your ear. Soft though it is. And sympathetic. Davydd closes his eyes, a kiss placed upon your temple. He takes a moment to live in your perfume, the smell of your hair.
"It is... a hard time. I'm sorry, Sandrine. I think..." He pauses. "...I put you there." He does not think, he knows. Unintentional? Of course.
"We've gotten a lot of attention," he whispers. "I'm sorry..." He inhales you again and leans against you, as much as you him. "So... you tell me who came by your shop, and I'll trade you for who I've had in my house..." Davydd tilts his head and a smile. Injecting humor where he might.
Maybe even where he shouldn't...
"Your house?" Sandrine quips? Oh, boy. She sighs and settles again, hands curling into her chiffon. "Vincent...I can't remember his name. He is in the clan. Some art dealer, I believe, in Marylebone. And with him, some young girl. Meredith Frazione. Toreador from Italy. They came in, asking about pansies. I told them," she clears her throat, "...that it was not in season, but if they really wanted them, I could do a special order."
"I guess...well...it was just a ruse, really," she goes on, looking at her lap. "They laughed, said some things," Sandrine's eyes wander to the greenhouse, "...threw...something at me and left."
"I cleaned up and tried...to just close the shop," she begins to cry now, voice trembling, "...but...I..I...tried..."
Vincent...
An art dealer...
How many of them can there be in a city. Well, there will be one less to worry about...
You feel the sofa move, and Davydd shifts to look at you. His expression is even. But his reaction is not kept there. It's in his eyes. It's in his touch. Apology. Concern. Responsibility. Love. Foremost that. A hand lightly rests upon piled tresses, and you are enfolded in. What did he do...
"What happened... what did they do," it is so quiet, it is as if he did not speak it.
And all along this anger, this rise of fire, this flaring of the dragon's nostrils. Even as he does it, he knows it's what they wanted. Fuck them.
"You were not hurt, were you?" Eyes narrow, "...your shop, it was not damaged..." It had better not be...
"No," she stutters, trying to keep some sense of decorum about herself. But as you look at her, the lines are visible...she's been crying most of the evening.
"I don't want to repeat it," she murmurs, "...I don't want to think about it, alright? Just...I sent a message and well," Sandrine half-laughs, "...it was ignored. Of course. Why was I bothering him and his court for such childish behaviors...and I should learn to deal with things." Humiliation on all fronts. "So, I did. We cleaned the shop of the paints they threw."
"You are easier for Tattinger to pick on than I am," he whispers. And you can feel the burst of energy against the air. If it were to thunder outside, it would not be surprising. "Or so he thinks. He, lashing out like that because of his own fear. He is the one who should be worried..." A strong hand cups your face. "He is the one who is worried, Sandrine," how his accent lilts upon his words when he is emotional. The inflection lifts, everything sounding like a query, even though the volume, the tone of his voice does not change.
Davydd exhales and with is a frown. "Tattinger is not happy with this arrangement -- but he is less pleased with my living arrangements. Of what it means, or what he thinks it means." His hand lowers from your face, his hand surrounding, swallowing one of your own. "When I saw you in my apartments that night, I didn't think about it then," soft admittance. "I thought there would be ... time... for the rest of the matters to sort themselves out."
Fiery brows knit together and he looks like the old veteran now. Hardy. Welsh mountain with eyes. "When I knew I loved you," his expression softens as he looks to you, and this is how he's telling you, "... I couldn't get it out of my mind. The fear... " green eyes focus on your fingers. "...I put you in the middle. I didn't mean to. I didn't know when I moved into Kensington Palace, when my bid for princedom became ...suddenly realized by some, obvious to others, not very discrete a move as it was... that I would be..." Davydd looks up from your fingers to you, "...sitting on your sofa, sleeping in your greenhouse. And absolutely bloody smitten."
He exhales, "The Brujah and your Toreador are... understandably upset. And though you and I have been careful... quiet... slow... and discreet," his jaw sets, "... we cannot help but be noticed. I... was sort of hoping they'd be too distracted with watching their own asses to notice..."
Sandrine looks surprised at your words. Some she understands, some she does not. But manicured nails reach up to her cheeks, brushing away droplets. "Tattinger?" That she does not get. She'd chalked it up to the relationship and the need to humiliate someone. "Ach," she slips Norweigian, "I don't care about him." I just didn't need to be humiliated and made to kneel and clean my own shop or called...painted...names.
She sighs, suckling her bottom lip. "You...love me?" she finally asks, getting back to your other points. Burnished brows furrow, trying to pull threads from your stream of words. "Davydd?"
There's a grin again. Subtle madcap, sneaking out. There, in a sliver of a slanting smile. There's no going back now, and... that's alright by him. It's all out there. All the cards on the table. Davydd looks at you, the half grin a moment from breaking loose. "I do, you know. Well, you know now," a chuckle at himself. At this. "It's a right mess, lass," he whispers. "I, the man who'd unseat your clan from a jewel of a city. And you, an official of the clan what might be unseated. It's goddamned Shakespearean..."
He tilts his head toward you and he nods. The half comet streak of a grin tempered again. "Yes, I do," he says quietly. "I love you, and I think I have for a bit, you know. I think the car ride sold me. So," he settles back against the sofa, "... knowing that I do, and ... knowing how it's getting around us...I couldn't not tell you, Sandrine. About loving, and about the business hovering about. I am sorry about your shop," he sighs. "I'd pay a visit to Vincent, normally -- being as I owe him one, a very large one -- but that's just what they want me to do."
He's quiet for a moment. He's going to be for a little bit longer. He waits for it to sink in before continuing. "Sure you don't want a glass of wine..."
Alright, now he's going to be quiet. A great arm rests against the back of the couch, his forehead leaning now against his hand. There's so much to think about. So much to do. So much of it dependent upon you...
And what you think...
And what you do...
I love you.
She can't recall the last time a man said that and meant it. Ah, many have professed their undying devotion, but how you speak it...such a difference. Sandrine twists to see you better, shaking her head negatively on the glass of wine.
"You've been very patient, Davydd," Sandrine smiles. "I will guess...more patient than you are normally." With women. Such things. She looks down at her lap, hand still in yours.
"I'm not sure what to say," she finally murmurs. "Are you," she looks at you, "...asking me to say something? Or..." her eyes blink. "There's so many parts here. What part...are we talking about now?"
The smile creeps and the way it slides -- yes, he's normally not this patient. He's normally not patient at all. But then, there's a difference genuine affection and caring and all that, and taking what he wants on a foyer table before the woman's feet have barely touched his floor...
But it doesn't creep and slide forever. Just shy of a grin it just becomes... true. "Aye... well," an exhales, "patience hasn't even entered into it. I don't think of it that way," he says, quiet -- eyes on you and then he settles back against the sofa, where you and he are tucked. His arms shift slightly, and his hand lightly moves. "And no, I'm not asking you for anything. But you're right, one thing at a time. My mind's so crammed..." A hand lifts from you and fingers place a light thump against his temple.
"Are you alright with it, then," soft, the voice that sings and speaks a throaty tenor, lowers. Something between breath and whisper. His head tilted, so green can watch a corner of your eyes, your face. "I mean, even if you aren't," his mouth cuts a smile, "...it won't change it. I've never ... well, let's say I've known life's about many things -- love was never one of them. So now that I've got the feeling, it's not liable to pass me by...it's stuck in."
Love first, politics after...
Let's sort out the bit we have a bit more control of...
"I am," Sandrine whispers, face calm. Serene. Her fingers toy with yours. "I...enjoy being with you, Davydd, but," she explains, "...I don't know if it's love yet. I guess, I'm not so familiar with it myself. I know though, that I don't want you to go anywhere. What time I am not working or sleeping, I want to spend it with you."
She sighs a little, settling back and closing her eyes. "And, I am not...seeing...anyone else. Just..." Sandrine lifts and looks at you suddenly, "...so you know. And that you heard me say it. There's no one else, Davydd."
I don't know what else it can be. I'm not crazy -- well, no more than anyone else I know. I can't get sick. I'm not addicted to smack. There really was only one explanation...
"I'll take that," he laughs, it's a warm rumble more than anything else. But the humor trails off, or rather the audible sounds of it, and he looks to you. Eyebrows lifting as you turn about. "Me either," Davydd notes. Just in case, well... you had to know something of his reputation before you showed up that night. Though maybe not the more...colorful bits of it. But for him to say it...
Well, it has to be love, right? If Davydd's settled down...
It was a luxury never afforded to Rosumund Caermichael...
"And there's not going to be. What's the point... aye? I know what I want..." Or make it Who...
There's a clearing exhale. "I need to know from you... how you feel about the politics of it all. Of what's happening now. I need to know if you're interested..." Davydd clears his throat and looks from you to his hand, green lifting and settling on your face when he punctuates a particularly serious thought, "...in... pursuing this," A motion between the two of you, "... when it's likely to make life difficult. At least for a little while. I need to know -- I'm not going to drag you unwilling or unknowing into anything. Whether I officially cast my name in the ring to be prince or not."
Ah, that. Well, you have clarified it. "I didn't know, when we met," Sandrine smiles, "...that you had political plans. I always liked you, because that seemed not so interesting to you. But, I understand that, now, this is important to you."
"It...I mean, honestly, I don't care for politic much. I am...an archon, mostly because I teach or help new kindred. Christian asked...and so I do that. It was different then," she looks at you, "...they wanted help, someone from the Justicar to help educate on the Traditions. But," she shrugs, looking at the low row of beads on her dress, "...that's not how things are done now. No one wants to learn, you know?" Not about Law, or weaving, or how to set a table. Such things are long passe.
"If you...have to do this, I understand. I...was thinking that maybe I should not be an archon anymore, if Christian will let me." If I don't matter anymore, then let the title pass. Sandrine purses her lips and her brows thicken. "If I'm not an archon anymore, maybe no one will care." If we are together.
"But that's silly," Sandrine murmurs. "There will be those who will say things. If you became Prince..." she looks at you, nervously. "I don't know what it would mean. The Toreador would hate me. I doubt," she laughs, "...any Ventrue would ever really...want me around." And so she shrugs.
"It doesn't matter, maybe," she whispers, turning back around. "You should do what you feel is best," Sandrine finishes, fingers in her chiffon.
"When I was fifteen, I wanted to be prince of Wales. Eventually that happened," Davydd murmurs. "When I was twenty-seven, I wanted to be king of England." He chuckles. "I have aspirations, but... I am not ... as compelled." And for a moment he is quiet. There is no breath, no rustle of fabric, no shifting about on the sofa.
"I do not have to do it," though his voice is quiet, it is sudden. "There are others who are in line in front of and behind me, perfectly willing to do it. I do not know... I was a good deal more into it when I was putting up with Rose nagging me about everything and feeling old and bored and rather useless." He laughs now, rich and warm. "Jesus..."
Am I a dunce...
Davydd bends, eyes on you, hand in your grasp. Do you feel the echoes of time and battles there? "I think there is a contingent out there who's always going to be pissed off about something, swete," the old form used here, when English was German and he was a Princeps, a prince -- a king. "There will always be those who say, what is that line? An infinite deal of nothing. You know... but... hang them. If I start paying attention to harpies and posers now, I'll go mad." Davydd smiles a touch, corners of his lips tilting upward, and a hand lifts to your face, to pull your chin to him. And in that green there's a warmth and a strength. "You matter, aye? Your clan could use your quiet strength about now. Your calm." The back of his hand lightly skims your cheek, "Your assurance. They'll learn eventually. But you know... there has to be a balance. For every hundred idiots, there needs to be one person of sense and value..." The smile streaks sudden, comet warm and comet bright. "God knows, that can't be me..."
Sandrine smiles, much like a breeze across warming lands. "You know..what I would really like, Davydd?"
To see you smile, it makes that streaking grin linger. Even if it's tempered a bit. "What," Davydd says, the rumble of his voice holding in his chest. Broad it is too, and though there's nothing but muscle under that sweater, it's not half-bad as a pillow. "You know I love you now -- so you know if you ask, I'm going to say yes to whatever it is..."
He laughs at that...
Because he knows it's true...
She inhales, grinning now. Clouds gone. Nothing but blue fjords and bright mountains. "You won't laugh, yes?" Of course not. Sandrine chuckles and scoots around to face you.
"I imagined..." her hands coming up, delicate things. Creative things. "I imagined...that we would live in Wales, you and I. And sometimes, we'd come to London. I know," she blushes, blood under her skin, "...it is silly, yes? But, when we first went, Davydd," hands lowering to yours, "I knew...I wanted to be there...with you."
No, he won't laugh at that. He wouldn't laugh at that...
Do you have the key to my brain, Sandrine? Is the old heart so open to you, it's motions so obvious. That you could pluck out the very thing I was just thinking and show it to me. So much for the iron curtain of Llewelyn, ap Owain...
And so he sits there for a minute, his eyes dropping to your hand. And no, he's not laughing. But the smile is sliding along again. "I ... have been thinking about it. Especially tonight. I was thinking... why do I need London, when I have a whole country..."
And so he does. No need for princes, when only two cities are large enough for a full council to attend to them, and certainly no need for separate principalities. Wales may be forever under the yoke of England in the mortal world, but in the immortal it flies under one banner. It's own.
"You'd go," he whispers, and the green eyes that hold the soul of that country in them, settle on you. With brightness. With depth.
"In a minute, Davydd," Sandrine whispers earnestly. "We can stay here, when we visit," she explains, "...I can ship new flowers to the shop when I need to come. Otherwise..." she shrugs, her blue eyes excited now. "But, I understand, if you feel you want to stay here, in the City. I mean...it is an exciting place to people..."
That settles it, Lord. I've heard you. I asked you the question, and you've answered it. Don't be a greedy shite, Llewelyn...
"I have to ... settle the world I set to spin," Davydd whispers, as earnest. "But after that, I can load up the dogs in the SUV and we can hit the mountains." Now the grin's permanent. Slight, aye... but deep and warm. "I just need to... withdraw my name from the queue... make sure I ... give due to those who queued up behind me, aye... but then... I'll be free and with as clear as a conscience," Davydd laughs suddenly, "... as I can have. Two weeks... aye... I can settle up with Dunross and deRancey and have the servants load up the Land Rover..."
London will relax...
Wales will be overjoyed...
"If it weren't for all this business, I'd be whisking you out the door right now." And green eyes sparkle with a wink.
Her smiles hasn't left. In fact, it deepens. Is it so hard to think that Sandrine is kindred, just as you?
"Are you sure, though, Davydd?" she asks. "I do not want to stop you from...what you need to do. I would always regret, if you wanted this and...you thought you had to leave, to keep me with you?"
"You know..." he exhales and he nods slowly. "There was only one thing holding me in London, Sandrine." Eyes journey to his hands. "Habit." One short word. One short word for sixty long years...
And then he laughs. Rich and warm. Not loud, but not quiet. He's just seen it, you see. He missed it before, what with Rose and then the world moving by so quickly. He missed it when he woke from his nap after the war had settled into the Mod Period. He moved out of habit.
The laughter ends against your mouth, a kiss that is immediately warm, instantly pulling. "You do what you need to do," Davydd murmurs there, mouth yet at yours. "Get ready, for we will be leaving..."
We are leaving. Leaving this mess of a city, these people. To try and live simply, as we both have known. To find a path together. Sandrine's half-twist allows her to embrace your shoulders while grinning at the sweetness of you at her lips.
"Leaving," she breathes unbelievably. Sandrine's eyes sparkle at the notion. "I've wanted to leave for a while," she confesses. "I just...had no place to go." Home? Home is London. To Christian? Never. "Where will we go? Powys?" she wonders, the place sounding like Poh-vis. "What of my car?"
And he didn't really have a reason. I mean, since the War it's been quiet enough. He gets to Wales once a quarter -- it's been enough for Wales since '45. And without a reason?
He lingered...
Thinking about finding a purpose, but really... the fire was never really there. No, it never was.
"Well," eyebrows lift but he otherwise doesn't move, "...we have our choice. Powys," and your Poh-vis was close, he smiled for it, "... the manor or Harlech, the old castle. I have a place on the coast as well, in Dyfed. A lovely view of Ireland...and we can have your car delivered. Anything you need moved, I'll have moved for you." Naturally.
"All three... we can spend our time as we wish there. I can introduce you about. Good folk there. A realness you can't find in this city." At your lips each word is spoken, between each third and fourth, words become a kiss.
"I loved the gardens," Sandrine murmurs, eyes to the ceiling as you kiss her. "Maybe there? I don't know which," she grins, having such offerings lain before her.
It happens that way when you know what you need to do. "I know you did," Davydd smiles out, voice a hush. "They're be a garden wherever you go..."
Maybe there...
Maybe to the small village surrounded by high northern mountains, where there is a river that runs clear over rounded stones. This, in the center of a northern forest...
Maybe Powys Manor, with its terraced garden... he can watch you work in it. You can see the roses that will grow there next year...
Maybe on the coast, where mist and surf move against dark slate stone... and the house alongside it. It's just a fishing village you know. It's not London.
But maybe that's the biggest reason to go...
And the night that started out all shite and stressed -- the whirlwind lifts to a true tempest -- immediately settles. It happens that way when you know what you need to do.
"I know you did," Davydd smiles out, voice a hush. "They're be a garden wherever you go..."
Sandrine's nose wiggles at you, disbelieving you said such. "And you made that up by yourself," she whispers. She seems so much more at ease suddenly, far beyond what you have seen so far.
"Come, hmm? We can go to the garden, turn off all of the lights, and we can talk about Powys Manor. Remind me of all that is there. And then Harlech. We can figure out where to go first..."
And no one will miss her. Certainly no one in this city.
Christian...ah...he will understand when she tells him she is going away, hopefully never to return to the hallowed halls of power.
Those in the shop...they will smile and miss her each evening, but will understand owners sometimes leave their enterprises.
"I would like a cat," Sandrine says softly. A white cat..."
A cat...
A cat?
Did you tell her you'd give her anything she wanted? Jesu, Davydd...can't you ever quit?
The green eyes go wide, and a hand motions as he speaks, "Aye... but it's true, then -- with all the rain, and prepare yourself for that because it's daily -- I've a garden at every house," but you caught him in it, flirting a bit with language, at which he's admittedly clumsy. You can see it in the sudden, high complexion.
"We'll see about the cat," he murmurs, "... it'd have to be hardy to get past the dogs, but," hands come up, "...we will see." Sometime. Later. Maybe.
Maybe if it lives outside...
A hand lands against your thigh, beneath all that chiffon. "Sounds good..."
With a kiss is how he leaves it. And then he's in motion. The start of a rise, a hand held out to you. "Want me to bring anything out..."
It's all he can do to keep fiery eyebrows from waggling at that...
"A blanket and pillows," Sandrine comments, rising with you. She only grinned when you touched her knee, skin finding skin. "And you. I'll see to the lights," she whispered, kissing your ear before turning to see about the meal left in the kitchen.
You know, the last time I did this I got an eyeful of Christian...
Hmmm...
And as he stands at the door to the room, Davydd leans in -- false lightning flashing as vampiric fingers flicking the light switch up and down, on and off.
If you're in here tonight, Lausanne, you deserve to be annoyed...
Blanket... pillows ... wine...
The lights in the apartment are dimmed again, the candles still lighting the way. And Davydd steps into the greenhouse garden, blanket dragging behind him like the cloak of a king...
And there is a story of a celtic goddess, whose dress trailed the ground and woke the world to spring. Flowers grew wherever her feet touched down. Her name was Blodewedd. She brought renewal. She brought rebirth. Purpose born in her smile. Lust born in her look...
Posted by rowan at May 05, 2003 11:45 PM
