There is no blood tonight...
     Nothing, but your basic elements. Crushed universes in jars of frozen liquid. Three canvases, like maidens in a row waiting to be laid upon. Each clipped, proper ladies pins, with a pretty portrait of what they will be, the three little darlings. All else, arrayed and ready for the Great Work to begin. But it does not move me tonight, this work for Vincent deFranco's education. I am too busy sorting out my own...
     I do not know why I did not see it, frere...
     Now that it is in front of my face, it is so obvious...
     Flanking him equidistant on three sides -- before him, to the right of him, to the left of him -- are three easel stands, upon which rest canvas proportioned and prepared for the copies his cousin-nephew-brother-friend has requested of him. The photos acquired clipped at the corners. Size, color. It is all there. It will be nothing for him to do.r Nothing, for it all comes so easy now after so many centuries. Like breathing for some. Like loving for others. For the Devil Himself, stealing souls is nothing he supposes...
     William sits in the center of the chamber and in the middle of this all, great form at ease in a comfortable chair. Occupying it resoundly. And indigo eyes move from blank canvas to blank canvas, slow examination, it might appear, of Nothing. But it is not so. He sees three paintings there...
     Three that should never have been...
     But there is no chagrin. There is no welling of sorrow. There is Recognition. Realization is as vibrant to him on those blank canvases as any painting could be.
     Even one of his own...
     There is an apology to make...
     One such that can only be made in words. There is no picture that could express it. Nor none that could satisfy what must be righted.
     Lambskin folds. Pulling and gathering, supple to the physical form making its demands even as William rises from the chair.
     Indigo draping...
     Bare feet, bare even in this cold, make no sound...
     The gilded doors reflect only a momentary shadow, that of William passing out of his gallery...
     ...shadows trail upward as stairs are mounted. Wavering, the shadows turn even the oldest Scottish stone to seeming water with ever flicker of fire. And with that there is the subtle announcement. The energy upon the air. Unfolding. The pricks to the skin it would leave on some. And the house unconsciously stirs with it. When William moves there is always that... expectation...
     But he does not stop on the third floor. Nor the fourth... nor the fifth. He goes to the summit. There, to look into the mirror for a while, oui? Until you are risen from your bed, frere...
     Past the birch door of the armory, opened... one might see him as he comes upon some... business of his own. Longer hair has been short very short and mussed. A man most modern. And the beard is still of the partial sort -- it shall never grow fully in. But it is worn for its imperfection. Especially for its imperfection. In black lambskin leather, very soft. In indigo, a long-sleeved shirt made of some modern fibre. It both clings to arms, shoulders and chest, and falls slack at his stomach and sides, ending at his hips. There is nothing on his feet...
     But some concentration from dark violet-blue eyes.

     The armory already has a guest. A friend, sitting in one of the seats near a suit of armor, something from the fifteenth century. It is Edward, in one of the guest robes left in the bath for visitors. But that is fallen open now, and he is wearing a set of black boxers, cigarette in his hand. Thinking.
     Hearing someone arrive gets his attention, and he glances over from his hiding place.
     "Bonsoir," comes Edward's voice, languid and lazy. Sleepy. A relaxed intruder upon a gallery. It happens often...walking the halls of some cathedral of art, you take a seat, and it become unlikely that you'll ever get up again. "Comment allez vous cette soire glorieuse, mon frere?" he murmurs, chin coming to rest on his propped up elbow.

     As the threshold was met, eyes lifted. As he sees you, his inward-directed thoughts peel back. His thoughts, in your appearance, have become manifest. A small smile begins at the corners of his mouth, and as he passes the replica of himself -- the armor held by an effigy -- he makes a passing wave at it. "Je suis venu pour regarder me," comes that languid baritone, that voice deep and smooth. It suits the stride that matches it as he heads toward you, "... dans mes efforts a, un certain jour, sois un homme humble. Et puis, frere, j'allais venir trouvaille vous..."
     So rarely does French Modern leave his mouth that it sounds strange. As strange, in fact, as English from him now. Though there is a seat near you, William does not sit. Instead, he takes a spot against the wall, a foot lifting from the floor and propping up against the stone of the wall. "I did not know if you would be out of your bed today. I didn't want to come out of mine," his voice drawls out upon older Occitan. "You are in one piece. This is good. No bullets to remove. I won't say I'm disappointed. You are a lousy patient, frere..."

     "Better than you," Edward grins, his smile slanting. No challenge in that, just familiar humor. You would have expected no less. But he does not anticipate you giving another remark, since he did not go after that one full-heartedly. Edward chuckles and takes a drag off his cigarette.
     "I remember...the last time I was in armor," the knight explains. "War against the English," he begins, "...thirteen...nineties? Edward would die then," he murmurs, speaking of the English one. "The Black Prince," he adds, some modicum of respect for the young man. "That's what we called him," Edward's fingers tugging at his bottom lip. It is followed by a soft hmph as he shakes off the memories. A smile comes again and he looks over at you, remembering you standing there.
     A sigh is followed by the rustle of silks against the chair. Edward comes upright a bit, pursing his lips. "I had not planned to leave my bed," he declares, "...but Montague was sleeping, and I needed a cigarette. A walk," he nods, looking to the armor again, fixating for a moment. "Stretching. And then I found this," his hand coming out, palm up towards the artifact. "I wonder if I could find mine?"

     There was only a smirk for that. A look that says as much that he does not doubt it. It is Acceptance on his face. Beautifully etched there, even with the imperfect beard, the one that shall never be complete. It is a night for such. And the Acceptance and Realization that had settled on him when first you arrived, lingered in his gallery these two nights after, deepens with the smile, the slow pull of that essential mouth.
     Indigo eyes stray upon the armor, of a later time than his own, which stands in replica nearby. They end their errant journey upon you, knight. One knight to another. "You should inquire of La Infanta. She never throws anything away." A hand unfurls, arm lowering from where it was folded at his chest. A reach for the cigarette. Curled fingers of askance. No, I did not bring my own. Did you bring enough to share with the rest of the class?
     "I was wearing mine...well..." he laughs, and the grin is wide, "... pieces of it when last I saw the original. I think the Turks kept part of it," brows knit together, feigning a search of ancient memory. And indigo flickers with the wink. "Your Montague," so he is becoming known, familiarly, "... would probably like you to have it around. He seems very interested in learning your Age."
     There is a pause. You know something is behind it. You see the smile fade into a look of Thought. Both of you, thoughtful tonight. But still the smile remains. Winding, both inwardly and outwardly directed.

     At mention of Montague, Edward glances over again, giving a smile. "Oui, he has been telling me," he admits. It's what brought him this direction. "All of books and battles, Chevalier this, and Vicomte of that." Yadda. Edward's hand waves, but it is not a strong dismissal. It all had meaning once.
     "And no need to get the infanta into this," he states. "I do have my things of then, what was taken from the house at the time and sent with me to Spain." You know this tale and what it meant. He does not need to recall it. "She saved them. I have them. They are...somewhere beneath Fleurlil." Almost reminiscient. He looks away, as if attempting to remember where such is kept. "Maybe, when we go back, I will let ami loose with a key."

     You have mentioned Fleurlil, and so it is the open door. One I must enter, frere. But there is a quiet chuckle, deep sound held in chest and throat. Issuing softly. The thought of Montague roaming Fleurlil on a quest of his own. Hmm... but that is how it should be. "You should," William echoes, "...you can leave wine in strategic locations..."
     The voice trails off and William pushes off the wall. A half pace, not even a stride, and he begins to settle in the chair adjacent to your own. "When you get to Fleurlil, I need you to do something for me," William murmurs. Quiet Occitan, with its drag and its lilt. Sensuality. Its salt and its sugar. "I need you to have those paintings..." Those. Those three. "... removed from the wall, Edward." William inclines his head, gaze settled on you. "Those three that should never have been, frere. And I am sorry I did them. It was... arrogant," he decides. "...like eavesdropping," he realizes. "Who was I, in my mind, to think that it was mine to show this..."

     Now that is a segue. Edward is still, face placid. It came from nowhere, and he has no reaction. It is another second or two before he animates again, brow furrowing. "I think I understand," he murmurs, dragging on the cigarette again before offering it to you. I mean," he shrugs, looking at you a bit wide-eyed, "I don't mind them, you know?" Ah, how he has to yield. "I mean, they are in a nice room in the more modern wing, in some private apartments." They are no trouble now, I have learned and tried to adapt...

     Such a subtle thief...
     ...the cigarette deftly plucked...
     ...images upon a canvas...
     A pull of smoke and fire is taken, held as he offers the cigarette back to you. Smoke eases from him, a brief veil between you and then he shakes his head. "Non..." William says softly, "... I want them taken down. Return them to me. I am going to dismantle them." So it is decided.
     "When I saw you arrive," the other night when you and Montague disappeared... not to be seen again until tonight. "... I realized what it is that I had done, frere. Without intent, and yet... intent or no, it was... a moment," a pause, "...moments too dear for me to dare take them. It would be as if I had had a camera, hmm?" William looks to you to make certain you are following him, to make certain you see the earnestness there.
     He hopes you can see the earnestness there...
     "...and captured you and Montague in some embrace at the car. I did not stay to say hello the other night," no, he was gone by then, did you wonder where he was, "...and I should not have painted those three portraits. I had no right to do it, Edward. And for this, I am very sorry."

     There is a flush of furrowed brows that quickly evaporates.
     You do understand.
     "I'll have them sent back after..." once we're safely ensconced at home. Edward nods his head, as if marking some resolution. There. "Thanks," he adds, looking back at the armor ahead of him.
     "How is Dunross?" he wonders. "Interesting place this is. I had forgotten. But is well-staffed," Edward observes, finishing off the cigarette. "Tell him thanks for us, will you?"

     "Good," the answer comes easily upon an exhale. A clearing breath. And the word encompasses all things. Good, that you have heard him. Good, that he has apologized. Good, that it is over. Good, that you will take them down. Good. My love is good. "He's outside with the hawks. I'm hoping for rabbit," he lilts. And the grin is broad. Rabbit pie. Always a reason to smile. "I'll let him know," William murmurs after, indigo eyes straying over armor and armaments, originals and replicas alike. Ending at his own. "...oui. He will be glad to hear it." Praise and contentment both in Strathfayr. "I'm a fan of the old girl myself," William continues, voice softening as his eyes give a spanning gaze to the ceiling. "So much work," he says, "... but she is standing the test of Time well."
     And that makes him smile. So are we...
     "You are leaving soon? You and Montague are welcome to stay as long as you like, mais oui, if you want to let the sand settle in London..."

     That gets a deep and expansive inhale. Not worry, just boredom with the whole thing. "Oui, merci, Guillaume," Edward murmurs ponderously, "...but...we may leave tomorrow, if that is alright? If we do not see you when we go, again, you have our thanks, cos, truly." He looks up at you, confirming that he will steal away into the night, when you are not looking. Partings are not his forte.
     "We will be at Claridge's for a few nights...we are there under other names. I think ami deserves a little holiday, but we do not want to stray far from home. And it will give things more time to settle. Maybe the better part of a week there, I think."

     A look tells you he knows -- as well he should after all this time. A nod for the thanks. Hospitality is easily given. What is there to thank, afterall, for that which should be readily and freely given? "Claridge's," William mulls. "Ah... right," the memory stirred and he half-grins. "He held up well," he continues quietly, the smile spreading slowly. "For a first time, up here in the wilderness..."
     There is a pause and the smile becomes a smirking grin. Self-directed. "Your Montague," the languid baritone, the elongated Aquitaine accent, holds Valan's name in lingering, mulling fashion. "...will do well in this life, Edward. Already, he has Plantagenet's doors open, cars en route and wallet to the hand." A wink to you. Even though he winks, he is in earnest too. "Our doors are always open to you both. And if he ever needs anything, he will find me willing to help him."
     Hands land upon the lambskin leather and with an exhale, William stands. "By the end of that week, your paintings for deFranco will be finished. I will be working on them tonight. After a few drinks..." Whether bottled or living, he does not specify.

     "Everything is better after..." anything. He rises too, letting the robe fall around him. No sentiment for the armor. Edward moves around his former chair to join you on the walk out.

     The smile comes easily, warmly. And even though the beard is imperfect, the face beneath it cannot be made so by it. The smile dooms him to beauty. It always had, age notwithstanding. "Hmmm... plum brandy...ah, would you and Montague like to take a bottle or two of it with you? You should take something," William murmurs, answering it for you, "a bottle or two of something for your holiday at Claridge's...and tell your M. Montague that we enjoyed his visit. He is welcome anytime..."

Posted by rowan at May 07, 2003 12:18 AM