The chalet sleeps soundly, cradled in darkness against its alpine bunker. It is Edward's favorite time of the morning, however, when he walks alone. When after engaging his heart and body, he refamiliarizes himself with himself. And he paces.
     Turning about, he can see the form of his newfound lover, resting haphazardly among the rustled mix of sheets and blankets. You deserve it, Edward thinks, smiling to note that Valan looks no less worn than the bedding. Someone in my bed, he realizes, smile falling to something more serious. It has been terribly long. So long.
     But the walk calls. Edward picks up the robe that's fallen upon the floor, leaving the matching shorts there. No one is around. After another glance at the beauty among the linen, and he sighs, padding out of the room. A cigarette might be in order as well, and Edward picks up lighter and pack from his pile of clothing in a chair by the door. Handy things.
     The dim lights downstairs will be enough to guide vampiric sight. Edward leaves the door open, expecting to return in a bit and also wishing to hear if his love stirs. Maybe he will be missed, he thinks. The smile creeps across his lips again and Edward lets his body feel the return force of the stairs on his feet, noticing how it reverberates through his body, sending waves through the robe. It is good, all of it. All of it. So unbelievable.
     The large rug in the open parlor feels good upon his feet. Softening. He will have to get a chalet. For himself. For Valan. If all goes well, they will want to relive, after a fashion, these nights again. Their own place where things first began. Perhaps down the road...
     Actually, that's not a bad idea. It's not as if I've spent a fortune in my existence. Money is stashed, saved for the ever-coming rainy day. When he had a reason to spend it. Sure, many think I eschew such things, but...a reason. I just needed a reason.
     The breeze on the front porch is damned cold. Edward stands in the open doorway, hoping that it will not cool the house too much. More than likely not. The wall-ensconced ovens in each room will see to that. Smart, those Swiss. A shiver, and he fishes for a cigarette and the light, bending his head and cupping the flame away from the cold, windy world.
     Click.
     The first draw is heady, and Edward closes his eyes, senses jump-started from the blasts that reel around him in the doorway...
     Smoke dangling from his lips, Edward exhales loudly, as if to push the oncoming winds away. His hands reach out, one on either side, and clasp the doorframe, his weight suspended. His head falls into a relaxing bend, and the black robe tightens about him. Think. Rest. Calves steel in the resting stretch, and chilling air cleanses and brings peace...

     Listen, this time of night you can hear the mountain speak. It is quite refreshing. To know that there is someone greater than you who holds you in his grasp. Mortals have us. We have mountains. Ah well... for some it is the sea. Still...it is nonetheless true.
     Your senses are sharp. You must hear the intake of a breath. Hear the sparkling of a fire drawn in. The smell of a pipe. The thump of a samoyed's tail. "It is a good night for a smoke," comes the even, deep voice of Georg the Swiss. It rumbles in his chest as he inhales at his pipe again. "What better way to spend the unending night," as it was once called, "... than smoking on a mountain ... Come... pull up a dog, Meurelle..."
     How could you have missed him? The mountain named Georg? His 6'7" inch frame is wrapped in furs, beneath that sweaters and hardy trousers, hardy boots with heavy tread. He wears a fur hat on his head, and his platinum, white-blonde hair and beard are both as they were in 1315. And he holds a pipe made of a horn of some kill, wrapped in the furs of other kills. He is one of the finest huntsman in all Europe. If not the finest. And he sits upon the covered porch in a chair, with Loki as his footrest. There is another chair, before which smiling Freya lays.
     "Merry Christmas, Edward."

     Hmph. He was just about to lean forward, but no, he was not listening. Even odder. Edward's head snaps up and he looks down the porch, grinning faintly when the form is seen. "Merry Christmas, Brother," he murmurs, unhinging himself from the doorway to stand upon his own two feet. Weather or no, Edward tilts his head left, then right, before walking onto the porch proper in nothing but a silk robe.
     "We missed you earlier," he confesses, one hand slipping into a pocket, the other reaching up to withdraw the cigarette and deftly wriggle it between fingers. A resting position. "But I guess you had a good Yule dinner anyway," Edward smiles, hand coming out of pocket to extend for a shake as he arrives.

     Hmph. Too much food. He settles back, musing upon his pipe. He looks to you in glances, but... he stares out upon his snowy plain and forest. The rise and fall of his mountain. "I did..." Another nod. Yes. A great hand reaches out, clasps yours and he smiles. Broadly. The ice blue eyes sparkle. As they do. He of so few words -- of so placid a demeanor. You know what the broad smile means. He starts to stand. "Here..." And a fur is pulled off of him -- leaving two others. And it is offered to you without ceremony or fuss. Simply. Because you need it.
     Settling back in his chair, Georg taps his pipe against a post, and his hands prepare another packing. "Ylsa was telling me... she was... praising your appetite, brother. I think she is enamored of you... you who eat all of her food without leaving a morsel behind..."

     He was going to pass, but why the hell not? Edward shakes firmly, in a sing-song fashion. Too telling, Edward. He chuckles at your grin and puts the cigarette back to his lips to free up his hands. "Thanks," he mumbles between clenched lips, taking the fur and wrapping it around his silken self. He might as well have left the robe upstairs.
     A sigh and he holds the fur closed from within, at his throat, and shuffles around samoyeds to take up the other seat. "I'm happy to get a homemade meal, brother, and she's just brilliant at it," he finally smiles. "Especially Christmas, you know?" Of course. Settling back, Edward sighs loudly, as if the world was just lifted. A cigarette and a fur can do that. Maybe.
     "The chalet's great, thanks," Edward says softly, coolly. He could have used the rest. "Think it'd be alright...if I...tacked on another week?" Yes, he told you two, which turned into four, which is now heading into perhaps five. "Unless you had plans or something?"

     Glittering blue eyes. Topaz blue, in truth -- and with something of that sheen -- land upon you and then, stare outward. Fire leaps from his fingertips, and soon... the sparking sound of burning tobacco. The sweet smell of the pipe. There is a kind of resin to it all, reminiscent of myrrh. Fitting for one who so looks like Father Christmas. "Hmm... she has a fig pie hidden in the cupboard," he murmurs. His voice is smooth and even. It is odd -- for one should think that it would rumble more like Davydd's. There is old Nordic spoken, and Freya moves to cover your feet. It is like having two furs.
     "You are welcome to stay as long as you wish." Eyes upon you suddenly. "My door is always open to you, Meurelle. I will be returning to Geneva..." A pause. "After eating the fig pie..." You hear the teeth scratch on the pipe. "I am glad you and your friend are making use of it. You are welcome to it. It would be going to waste without you." There is a long exhale of smoke. "No rush to return to France..." It was a question. Of a sort. "You must carry my greetings to Plantagenet when you return..." He likes the old lion. As much as he does not sometimes understand him...

     Plantagenet. Edward's expression sours a bit, as if a penny drops. "Yeah, I'll do that," he smiles quickly after, "I'm sure he'll be glad to hear from you," his face returning as well to the pristine glacier ahead. "It's a great place, brother," rarely using the name, it seems so strange, "...maybe I should get one for myself before next year," he smiles. "But no, nothing's keeping me in France...so..." he shrugs, "...no big deal. My time's mine," he murmurs, looking down at his lap as the fur falls open. Within...he's crushing the cigarette between his fingers with a sigh.
     That done, Edward sits back, pulling the heavy animal up and around him once more. He could sleep out here, really, and were it not for the man warming his bed, he should do just that. Awkward silence has never bothered Edward, so he sits placidly in it, enjoying the quiet.

     A nod, only. For Plantagenet. There is simply knowing quiet. A nod. A recognition, and then years that pass in between. There is nothing else said of him, your friend, or the surprise visitor. "Hmmm..." a rumble like a bear's, the sound in his chest -- this after minutes of quiet -- only the sound of wind in the trees, and the soft fall of snow. Smoke rises from his pipe. Curling. The golden beard catches stray moonlight. The moon sits heavy, low and at its waning station. Heading into yet another year.
     The dogs are snoring...
     That is the sound, golden eyebrows seem to say as they lift and as Georg glances away from his mountain, to the dogs and then to you. A roll of great shoulders. What can you do. With a nod he gestures to a nearby mountain, pointing after with the mouthpiece of the carved pipe. "You should look into it... few neighbors... too cold for... most to bother you. Quiet. Stars. Good hunting." A sudden pleased look, and warmth across his Nordic features. "Such hunting, brother... you could have wall to wall furs..." A pause. "I will give you a dog." He seems decided. Of all, he should not mind you as a neighbor. From him, that's saying a lot.

     "Oh, yeah?" Edward pipes up. He too had almost fallen asleep. Perhaps it is a sign. "That's good on ya, brother, thank you." A dog would be nice. Two companions. "And I will," he murmurs, "...see about getting us...something."
     The sigh comes again. He is getting tired. "I better go," Edward says softly, bending to pat Freya at his feet. He should not want to be missing for too long. The seat creaks as Edward pushes forward, then up. "Will you be around tomorrow evening?" he asks.

     "I will," he answers simply. "I will be heading to Geneva... before midnight..." To give you privacy. He leaves his own home for this. It is your Christmas gift. Georg turns his attention to you again. A pass of a glance. He measures without measuring. He nods. "But before this... yes."
     For a moment there is nothing. Just a look. And then the corners of his mouth upturn. "Good night, brother. Merry Christmas... Freya..." She had risen with you to follow you, but at Georg's voice, plops down again. Another nod. "I will see you in the morrow..."

     "Alright," Edward smiles, shuffling the fur around himself. It's wriggled off and offered back. He's got something as warm upstairs. "I'll see you in the morrow then," voice teasing.
     "Merry Christmas, brother Georg," Edward smiles, hands stuffing into the pockets of the robe as he shuffles off, continuing his walk.

Posted by rowan at February 07, 2001 10:55 PM