Extraordinaire. Pour manger des plats des anges. Pour passer votre temps avec les spiritueux des rois...
Of all that this castle has to offer...
...of the music salon and ballroom...
...the game room and stables...
...galleries...
...to the room whose name could only be Plantagenet...
...it is the library that has most kept me. Here, I find myself. Here, I find both solace and distraction. Food that is second only to Edward for me -- the written word. And as my fingers have found and turned the pages, an evening has begun to get away from me...
A large book cradled on my lap. Another by my side, half read and at least half remembered. A glass of wine, red and full-bodied, best for autumn. I wear layers of autumn. The half sweater of orange over another sweater of dark brown. Beneath that, a white shirt. Brown courderoy and hiking boots. And hidden beneath the several folds, droplets of crystallized blood...
The garnets at my throat...
And I do not feel the cold of Scotland promised in the wind that I can sometimes hear. I do not feel the cold of separation. For I am reading about your time. About the things that may have touched your life. A chronicle of kings...
The smile, Eduard, has not left my lips...
In the library, silence is broken. A disturbing noise that rattles through the room, around her delicate holdings. It is out of place here, the sound of an electronic beep, the pulse of a phone. A return impending to This Age.
It takes a minute...
And a ring goes by...
...to waken from the scholar's spell...
...and two beeps go by...
But then the book is lowered to a spreading lap, and Valan reaches for the phone...
And the glass holds the reflection of his sweater, orange and brown. So university, Eduard...
But before the fourth beep could go by, the small device is at last silenced. "Bon soir," the voice is warm. Expectant. Expecting it to be the one he has missed. The one whose age he has been reading.
Valan settles back, eyes shimmering, phone balanced...
...and a glass of wine held cupped in his hand...
An instant of quiet. You are there. And you are well. So much could have happened in the last two nights.
"I..." comes Edward's voice, gently, "...had something so witty planned, ami." He breathes, the sound of traffic in the background, "...but it fails me since you actually answered..."
Dieu...
And it all dissolves. The library. The book in my lap. The wine in my hand. Even the phone. You are here in Scotland with me. I smile wide and warm and do not doubt that you see me. "I did not have to beg too much to hold the phone," No indeed. He who had Plantagenet's company so early, the sun barely out of the sky.
Hold this, he said, he will call you. And I am going back to bed.
There is the sound of him turning. The room he is in is so silent you can hear the leather chair creaking, the thud of a wine glass. The closing of a book.
"Il est si bon d'entendre votre voix," he breathes, and his voice carries the energy that, until the books tonight, has had him wandering the castle. "You are alright? Yes? It went well..." Il est termine?
"All is well," Edward seems to grin at the other end, voice reassuring. "I am fine, things are alright. As well as to be expected. And I think...after a quick meeting...that it should be fine for you to come back, if you still want." The wink is almost visible.
"And you? Are you alright? I am sorry for not calling last eve, ami. I could not, though I wanted to talk to you so..."
There is laughter. Easiness comes with the reassurance. And the energy and the worry, these, too, dissolve. "I have been in good hands, this is true," comes the roll of Loire across the lines. "Cared for and attended. They even saw to it that I had a French valet, so I would not have to struggle with my English...but, that does not mean I wish to stay forever."
Besides, I do not think ... I am not vain enough to think... that I could keep up with them. This lifestyle. It is too much, even for me...
...and that is saying a lot...
"So, oui... of course I will come home." There is a pause. "I am well, ami," he murmurs, "I missed you. This place is too large to be without you in it. But," and his smile grows, warming as it goes, "... I had a little of you here to keep my company. I have been reading," and you hear a book being handled in the background, "...Les Rois Legitimes, l'Histoire des Comptes de la France. I am on chapter seven, Blois. So, you were not far, ami..."
"They have been good to me," Valan murmurs. "I was worried last night. I did not know how it would be for you, or how it would seem, me being here, to them. But it was like family..."
That is some relief...both in the text and the hospitality. "They are family, ami. All I have left now, save you." You who may not understand this, the bonds forged from such an existence. "But..." Edward sighs, "I am glad you had things to do, things to read. This book, it sounds interesting."
And another series of cars go by. A light changed. He is somewhere in the City.
"I'll explain everything when we see each other, hmm? Shall I come there to fetch you? I hate for you to drive home alone, ami..." It is so boring and unnecessary. "I can take the train and we can drive back together..."
"I would like that," he says, and he brightens to that. The prospects of driving home alone -- these were not appealing. "You will leave tonight...?" Are you on your way now, ami? What is this that makes me not stand the parting...
"It is good," Valan's eyes stray to the pages of the book. "I found a room full of things... this book was there. I will have to return it," sadly, "... it gives such detail... there was a lot of old things in that room. Even a tomb, a sarcaphagus of carved wood...I thought about sleeping in there," he laughs. That tickles him.
"But then, I got a little scared of it, maybe I would be trapped in there like in the movies, so I left it alone but took the book."
"I want to see you," there, the longing. There, in folds of warmth and humor, "I am just ..." relieved, happy, grateful, "... I feel better to know you are alright. I am looking forward to being home with you. Will we be returning to Fleurlil or remaining in London for a while?"
"I thought a few nights at Claridge's might be appropriate..." Edward offers. Not home, not yet, but a subsitute lap of luxury. "Kensington Park. A jacuzzi tub...and see if you can bring your book. I could leave now...ah...better I find a flight..." he rethinks, the crackling sound of leather as his arm bends to see his watch.
"It would be a long ride on the train, oui. Take a flight, will you be able to find one? And I will ask William or Ian... they surely will have a car they can send for you. To bring you to Strathfayr," it sounds so elegant with a touch of French.
Jacuzzi. The grin is palpable. Audible. "I have a weakness for warm water, it is true. Oui, I like this. Oui, fly to me tonight, I will have a car from Strathfayr waiting for you." You can imagine your Valan, can you not. Having it all arranged. Going to William. Telling him in that way of his that a car should be sent to get you. And you can imagine William's expression. The amusement, the acquiescence. The indulgence. And Valan will have what he asks for. Car and book and all.
Valan settles back, the book closed for now. He is soon to rise, to find and then to knock on William's door. "I cannot wait to see you... you will tell me all of it..."
What you did and to whom...
"I will, I will," Edward laughs faintly, "I promise. So, I better go then...if I am going to find some flight up there...right now!" He chuckles, sound drowned by the rush of an angry mob of cars.
It quiets a little suddenly, as if he's turned his back on the world. "Don't call on my phone though, ami, yes? It is not good yet. I will call you back in an hour with my flight information..."
"Good," the sound of satisfaction. A purring. A sound held. And the comfort and the knowing that you will soon be here. The world is well. You have survived -- of course, it is as Plantagenet said, yes? -- and he has survived his first night or two on the fringes of The Politic.
It is enough to know it is not something I wish to live...
It is enough, yes, that you must...
And Valan rises, you hear it, and it comes with such command of knowledge, such confidence. He, sudden springing up a general. Well, not exactly. A philosopher general, perhaps. "I will keep William's phone with me," no trace to Valan, this too... was by design. "I ..." a clearing of his throat, "...do not think he will miss it. I will wait for your call, ami..."
And so... it is all arranged...
"Alright, ami," Edward confirms, the leather rustling again. "I am going to go now...gotta see who I can rustle up. What I can rustle up. I will call back in a few."
Then, the sound of the next fleet of passing cars.
"Dieu, the noise in this damned city!" At least Edward has humor. "Okay, I love you, ami. I will call back soon! See you in a while..."
"I love you,"
These shall always be the first and the last words I say to you, Eduard. And I laugh, I can hear the noise. The cars. The busy lives. The quick pace. And I know...
I know that is why Ian and William are here...
So removed from all of that noise...
The press and the push of it...
And I think they are wise men. And I think that this is a lesson of them that most men miss.
But I will not hang up until I know you are gone...
It is the way you say it.
I love you.
It is real, those words. Each has its full resonance. Sometimes, it is still unbelievable to me.
"I love you, ami."
I hope they sound the same to you.
The phone clicks, call disconnected even as another wash of London traffic goes by.
The fourth glass of wine went by...
Downed and swallowed like a fleeting memory, the taste barely tasted. It was more a deep red water than any essence of his country. The finish was not noticed. That last glimmer of limestone came and went without fanfare. Without consideration. Without even a second glance to the glass...
The hours, however...
Time was felt most intimately. Each motion of each second felt like a drop of water to the skin. Echoed in his wandering steps through the labyrinthine castle corridors. In the sigh of chairs beneath his weight, that felt his weight too briefly.
It was like that week. A week in a matter of hours. He felt himself back in that last autumn. You were in London then, and he in Tours.
It is nearing now the second of your phonecall last, and he draped over a chaise lounge, an arm over his forehead. He listens to the music coming from the harpsichord...
It is not a tune he knows...
No, far far older than he and far removed. From a salon in Versailles. Something likely heard in a villa of Marseilles...
The notes rise and fall, drip and splatter. Just like the seconds echoed in the measures and tempo of the song. It is all an expression of Time, is it not. A heartbeat. A song in 4:4 time. Sunrise and sunset.
This is how it is measured, Eduard. For time is measured even for us. It merely is a ... slower waltz...
Valan's fingers curl and uncurl to it unconsciously. He, full of energy. Boiling. Impatient. And yet... lulled. Soothed. Comforted. A strange dichotomy. He finds himself a universe of opposites.
He'll not tell you how much of a miserable night it is. That he has no clothing for a few nights in Scotland, that he cannot even return to the house to pick up anything. That's how it's been for the last evenings, moving from place to place, moment to moment. A stop only enough to look around, check surroundings, and continue onward, ever onward, around the city.
At some point in the last hour, it started to rain. His leather felt it first, and now the rest of him does as well.
But it matters not really. Time to head to another phone booth, time to place another call. Dozens of them tonight, yes, but this is the most important.
And I keep pockets of shrapnel.
Edward is impatient as he waits for the one called to pick up. Change dropped in, a pause, and then rings pass.
One.
Two.
There is a softening of the music...
Like the musician there knows to quiet a breath before the phone rings. And it does and the motion is sudden. Where it had waited all those moments, it explodes now. A sudden sitting up. A hand scooping up the small phone. The sigh and whisper of the chaise lounge...
"C'est Valan... Eduard?" You hear it in his voice. The warm rush. Your name coming, expected it would be you and not someone for Plantagenet, whose phone he is using. His left in the house, numbers erased...
"Ou etes-vous?"
The music does not stop. No, it is like the rain in London. Like Time, constant. Though, out of some courtesy, the harpsichord's voice has softened to a musical whisper.
"Oui," Edward says, seeming a bit breathless. But behind him, there is only the sound of something crashing. Falling. Tumbling. A steady patter.
Raindrops.
"I'm fine, ami," he goes on, raising his voice over the din, "...I'm at Exton," a private airfield. "Getting a lift from Robert..."
And you, Edward...
You can hear music falling on the downbeat of the rain at Exton. Water music, perhaps?
Eduard, can you feel me leaping from my skin? That sigh of relief -- that you are alright, that you are on your way -- it issues from the gut. He is standing. Soon he will be pacing. What is this...
What is this fire that has gotten under my skin...
It is not doused by the falling water that mark the seconds of these hours...
"Bon, vous etes sur votre chemin alors. Je dirai William..."
William has already heard him...
"...Y a-t-il quelque chose que je puis faire?" For one so laissez-faire, for one so cavalier...
For one so easy-going...
For one so lacking care...
Your Valan is seeking purpose. Hear it in the timbre of his voice. "Vous n'etes pas suivis, n'est-ce pas?"
"Non, je ne suis pas. Il tout semble tres bien. Nous partons ici en quelques minutes, Valan, ainsi je ne puis pas rester..." Edward confirms. He does seem in a rush, but a good one. "They say we'll be in Edinburgh in..." the sound of twisting leather again, "...an hour, with the weather. Tell cos that I need a car in the city. At the airport, hangar 7 in the private area, okay? Telstra Communications' bay. And make sure that it's not got a bomb in it, alright?" That brings a laugh.
"How are you, ami?" Edward wonders, taking a moment. "I didn't get to ask about you much when I called last...forgive, will you?"
It comes with a laugh...
A rush of warmth...
Living. No...
Almost living...
"Je rampe hors de ma peau," and then the exhalation of four glasses of wine. The Loire is tasted only in hindsight. "But the music has helped," he murmurs. You hear him sit again. The sound of a chair adjusting to his sudden weight. You cannot see the gilded chaise lounge, its warm wood, its gold fabric, its tassled mink throw. "I am well. And there is nothing to forgive," he dismisses that. And then. Quiet.
"I have just been concerned. I should not be, I know that all will be well," you know the hand is in motion. "But here I am, like a fishwife, clutching her hand to her breast and crying: L'ennui est moi! L'ennui est moi!"
But he can laugh at it. Valan can laugh at himself. "I will let you go. I will talk to you soon and will get to see you soon. I am being entertained in the meantime. Do not worry for M. Montague. He is in the lap of luxury and four glasses deep into Chinon wine."
He laughs too, but it is quick. Bright at first, then quickly falling to words again. "I should have expected I'd get a fishwife," Edward thinks, "...but..." his voice lowering, "...I can wish for no better fishwife. So, drink more for me, hmm?" Literally. "I cannot wait to share it."
"Ah," he brightens, "...they are waving. I must go, ami. But I will see you soon! Within a couple of hours..."
"I think William will oblige. Il est tres librement avec du son alcool..."
If there is a God's Truth, it has just been spoken. You are in London, playing Beowulf to the Grendel's of the city. Plantagenet is playing gold-giver -- and all the gold is fine wine.
Something Valan can appreciate. Your man of Bordeaux...
"Hmm... oui... Je vous aime. Je vous verrai bientot..." Soon. It will be soon.
Gold-green eyes look to the harpsichord, the reclining form of the fencer twisting in recline. "Il sera au cintre sept, dans la zone privee. Telstra Communications compartiment..."
Burgundy is worn in layers now...
And crimson fills the crystal bowl of a delicate glass...
A chime of his fingers to the vessel rings out his fifth glass...
And golden lashes lower and grateful the slightly downcast gaze. A modern showing of appreciation. "Merci..."
Gratitude given to both of you...
"I must go, ami," Edward says again, hating that he must end this abruptly. "I will ring when I land..."
A sigh. Will I ever slow down?
"I love you, ami. Gotta go..."
And the call does end abruptly. Manifests are manifests. A window of departure is just that. He was already in motion, and for the next few hours, will continue in the same way.
Posted by rowan at May 06, 2003 09:34 PM
