Her call was rather breezy and short. But that's the way of her voice. 'How are you? Will you visit at the shop?' Little more than pleasantries and curiosity about your well-being. Maybe that's how she shows her affection.
     The shop is closed, of course, keeping city hours as it does. Five-thirty comes promptly, and the outer awnings are pulled down and the door to the inner mall is locked. Yet workers remain inside, cleaning up and making fresh arrangements for the next day's crowds.
     By seven, Sandrine has arrived. She looks over the arrangements and adds more, if she feels the need for more elaborate offerings in the refrigerators. She fills the most exclusive contracts personally, with an eye and flair unmatched. She leaves the hotel and regular contracts to the staff, but evening gives her a chance to review their work.
     Tonight is the same, and not the same. She expects the man she has not seen in two nights. All is well at Nightshade, and so there is little for her to do. In the meantime, she makes a pot of tea and takes a seat to stare at her latest projects in the glass cooler, a rare moment to admire her staff's and her own work.

     When he answered the phone, you could tell he was in motion, in a car somewhere, but you didn't get the feeling he was driving. In fact, he sounded like he was asleep. There was a drowsy rumble, like when he first wakes up and rolls himself slowly out of bed. Mountains move slowly when they wake, and he's no exception. But that drowsiness departed as soon as he heard your voice.
     And what you couldn't see was him sitting straight up, nearly banging his head on the backseat roof...
     But you knew he was in a cab as soon as you heard: "No no no...Covent Garden...yeah...thanks..."
     And you knew that, even if he were drunk -- which he has been now for two nights -- he wasn't going to dally. Maybe he should. But he won't. Because that's not him. That's not him in love.
     You hear a tapping at your door. Quiet. Behind the cover of awnings. He can't see in, no more than you can see out. "Hey hey," there comes a voice, however, and that you can hear loud and clear. A murmur to a vampire's ear. And thoughts that clatter in his brain like keys in a glass bowl. Sober up, boyo...
     Clad in the black leather shoreman's coat, hip-length, over a grey sweater, the black wool trousers, the black suede steel-toed Docs. Very London chic. Not bad for someone who's been dead-depressed for two nights. He's shaved, sort of... well, he's never clean-shaven -- too many scars -- he's down to the usual goatee, but the stubble of the beard he 'died' with's starting to show through. Hard to keep the magic up when the mind is muddled.
     He shouldn't have had that much to drink, now he's regretting it a bit, but maybe it'll make things easier. Whichever way they go...

     "Hi," Sandrine says, the door by the closed awning opening. A green wood door, it matches the fold-down awning flaps. She smiles, indeed glad to see you, and steps out of the way. Dressed in green pedal pants and a soft green sweater, she expected to work this evening, it seems. Copper and goldenrod tresses stand piled upon her head.
     "I'm glad you would come," she says softly again, hands clasping behind her back. You'll close the door behind you when you enter fully. "Do...you want some tea?" Sandrine asks.

     You smile and the sun rises. You'll brush the ash off my shoulders, won't you? Davydd slips in, trying to be quiet -- quite evidently -- and he closes the door behind him with utmost care. "Hi," he says, an odd sound, the colloquial from his mouth. It has a weird, un-English sound, and at least one additional syllable. The 'H' is very aspirated, blame the Cymraeg not the alcohol...
     And your refined senses can detect the Guinness and the scotch. He's not wearing it as cologne, nor has he bathed in it or rolled around in it, but he has definitely imbibed. His green eyes show how much. They glitter more than ever. Davydd blinks at the light, then at you. Green. You look great in it. He lifts his hands, making a wave at you with his gloves. It roughly translates to: You look beautiful.
     He comes in, nodding, stepping away from the door. "Of course, aye... and where else would I be?" Davydd smirks then the look softening. "Tea would be great," he rumbles, 'R's trilling and rolling. He takes a quick survey around, but he doesn't eyeball the shoppe for long. "How've you been? Been alright, aye?"

     She nods at that, giving a smile at the unvocalized compliment. A thanks in the bob of her head. Sandrine says finally, "I'm fine," her words short and informal as well. "Just...working here," she chimes, a snort following her rather obvious statement. With that, she turns away from you and moves over to the tea on the sideboard, where two chairs sit empty.
     "It's Prince of Wales," she smirks, not having realized the irony of it. It's just one of her favorite teas. Sandrine sits down, knees bending gently, and picks up the hot electric kettle to pour into the teapot.

     "Oh good then, I'll feel right at home," comes the quip familiar, with that same familiar warmth. And he crosses over, tugging off his jacket as he comes. The march of Mars is a bit subdued, it's more of a stroll of Mars, without the lightning strike and thunder of his usual stride. "I'll take it straight though," Davydd continues with a smirk, and a wry pull to his voice, "...none of that English cream."
     See, this isn't so bad. It's not even that weird...
     He drapes his jacket over a countertop and takes advantage of one of the two chairs, taking a seat after you. "Any more earl's parties? Ducal engagements?" His eyes moving over you, fixing on you. As surely as his hand on your waist, you know the touch of it. Glimmer quick and full of light and color. And around you that energy just swirls. You're his muse, it seems. If you were to look, you'd see the aura clear as morning, bright and white, with magic explosions and sparks of color and light at the house of each tattoo. He doesn't bother to mask it with you.
     "I've missed you," he admits, whether you think it's manly or not. "Maybe you've heard me?" he wonders, and then he smiles, eyebrows quirking upward, "..howling at the moon with the two corgies. Ass of a man that I am..."

     She grins, feeling the look upon her. "No, no ducal engagements, though I believe that there is a tea party at St. James this week -- we were asked for more than the usual complement this fortnight. But, not much more," she admits. "A quiet week."
     "I have missed you too," she notes quickly, lest you think otherwise. The water steams as she pours it, the white wisps disappearing when she puts the small lid onto the teapot. Sandrine looks up at you and adds, "And no, I am afraid I have not heard you all howling." And just as well too. She laughs, crossing her legs.
     "It's been quiet without you," Sandrine says. "I realized that...I don't like that at all."

     "You know, you living fifteen floors up does dampen a man's ability to serenade you, Cinderella," he's drunk enough to mix his metaphors, though his voice is unslurred. It's clear as a bell, in fact, just the accent's much worse, more pronounced. "But... I understand you not wanting to move out of the loft. Next time, I'll have to turn myself into a bird and land on your balcony and do it from there. I didn't trust myself to do it in the shape I was in last night." Let alone tonight, though tonight's not as bad as the last night. He can sit up straight. He's just.... real loose, as it were. Scotch lubes Welsh metal.
     Davydd smiles when you laugh, it's a dear look and one that wears its emotion on the surface, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. He clears his throat, he takes a swallow tea. No matter the heat. It doesn't bother him. He smiles at the rim of the cup, past the steam when he lowers it. And the smile becomes a grin. "Aye? That's a relief..." And he's not kidding. "Someone's got to do it, you know," he murmurs, earthy voice most resonant when he murmurs. You've heard that in your ear a time or two. "Break the silence when the world gets a bit too serious for its own good. But... to quote Solomon," as if he's read the Bible, "...there's a time for everything in its season. A time to be loud, a time to shut up."

     "Maybe," Sandrine begins, then stops. A sigh taken. She restarts, pulling a cup towards herself, fingers lacing around the ceramic. Seeking strength and resolve. She closes her eyes, saying, "I am sorry, Davydd, for...how I have been." Nothing about you. No preaching, no lectures. No expectations. "I would like to be like a willow," as you said, "...and bend." There. Sandrine appears done, saying what she wanted to say.
     Hand reaches over for the teapot. Only then does she pour herself a cup, watching intently as the dark fluid pours into her mug.

     "Did you ever read the stories of King Arthur?"
     Interesting segue...
     Davydd sips at the tea. "I was raised on them. Might be part of my problem," he murmurs in aside, then smiling, his eyes drift from you, upward to Memory's Keeping. "The legends vary, and the oldest tales of them all, those of Wales, were steeped in magic but more importantly in transformation. It is said that Merlin taught Arthur the lessons he would need as king by... turning him into various animals. To a hawk, so he could understand that there were no boundaries between our small nations, that our island should be one island under one king, and so on," he makes a wave of his right hand. "At the risk of sounding weird," he chuckles, green eyes flashing, "... sometimes ... it is easiest to learn when you're not yourself. I could turn you to a willow for a night if you would like." And then he winks. "When I was running away from Mithras' many enemies and my would-be killers, and I do mean many," Davydd sips at his tea, "...I learned that I could change my shape. Happened by accident. If only I were an oak, I said in Welsh. And there I was, stuck for three nights until it wore off. Lost them though."
     He takes in a breath and sits back in the chair, holding the cup like a mountain cupping a tiny bird in its palm. "I don't know why I said all that. Maybe just so that you know that I know... that ... it is hard to let someone share one's life, I know it is hardest for those of us who have lived a long time. I don't expect you to be perfect, bloody hell I'm the furthest thing from perfect there is." He smiles a little. "Don't apologize. You've done nothing wrong..."

     Sandrine remains quiet a long while, letting the tea in the ceramic cup warm her hands. There is no great lightbulb of understanding, nor do questions pour forth. She looks to you, then to the table in turn for a while, then picks up the cup and cradles it. A smile came for turning her into a willow, but she doesn't seem too interested.
     "You have had an interesting existence," is all she manages to come out with. Sandrine grimaces for saying it, sighing immediately. "I do not speak much, and when I do, it is...not what I mean."

     "That's one way to put it," he quips and he laughs. "You are so graceful, so diplomatic. You have a way of saying 'You are full of shite' without being crude. It's one of the things about you I love." And the tea is finished. With a great exhalation he reaches forward and sets the cup aside. "I'm teasing," he murmurs. "And it was more... interesting then. Now," he shrugs, "... everyone believes I am the Ventrue I am supposed to be. My greatest illusion yet." And it is, at that. He rarely thinks of it as such, but that is precisely what it is. An illusion of a near thousand years. "So... you want to bend..." he says, "...and I ... want to be able to be... truthful with you. The illusion is for...everyone else. I've never... had someone that I have ... told this to. Well, I think I blurted some out to Edward the other night, when I was upset." His mouth twists. "I made a glass explode and then... put it back together again...when I ran out of words to say."
     Davydd snorts at the whole situation, at himself, his arms folding at his broad chest. "So... I know sometimes it will be hard for you to hear, maybe too fantastical, maybe you will not want to hear it. But after eight-hundred years of lies, Sandrinaar, I need to speak the truth to someone..."

     She looks up at the idea that she meant you were full of crap. In a way, she did. Sandrine smiles. Maybe her language isn't so obtuse. But at talk of illusions, she nods, expression flat. "I don't think I am used to the truth," she says softly, self-reflexive there. Sandrine looks at her hands, and fingers touch her cheek. A center of a world of beauty. But, the core is questionable. She chuckles lightly, still nursing her tea.
     "Truth," she says softly, "...is not a pre-requisite for me. I don't need to know it, I guess. I never have. If you speak it," Sandrine looks to you, "...just know that..." it isn't required. Or demanded. Nor needed. The beauty of Beauty is...it is it's own self-reward. That, Christian's taught. Sandrine's hand waves, to let you know that she doesn't need it. "I will try and listen though," she smiles. "I will listen better."

     Truth to me is everything. It's the only thing that holds it all together. Truth. Honor. Faith. All that shite. I mean, why keep living if there's nothing to live for? Nothing real. You know, there is something about war that makes life easier to live. Simply because you don't have time to think of anything other than surviving. In peace, one thinks of thriving. That's when we all get in trouble...
     "We're going to have to disagree on this point," Davydd murmurs. "If we debate it, we're sure to argue. I value Truth above nearly everything. It... is not comfortable to have to lie about everything, to pretend to be something one isn't... with those one loves. Take William for example. You met him. You know our past, well... a bit of it." He told you of their story when you say him naked for the first time. Maybe that's an odd segue into the story of one's brother, but hey... he's all about strange thematic connections. "Because of who he is, and who We Are, I haven't been able to tell him a single iota of any of this. For eight hundred some-odd years. We've bled together. We've warred together. We've liberated sections of the world together. Even fought in both world wars together, pilots even..." Dead sexy isn't it, remind me to show you the pictures sometime. "... but he believes in a Davydd that ... quite frankly doesn't exist. And I don't like lying to one of the two men I'd gladly die for."
     He is quiet a moment or two, mouth twisting a smile. "Not telling Rose was easy. That was a matter of self-preservation. She'd have sold me for a handpurse. If I hadn't been so tired of... stagging it, I'd never have even had her over for dinner. I may be weird," he says grandly, arms unfolding, "...but I'm not nuts..."

     Another small smile curls the corners of Sandrine's lips. "I didn't say lie," Sandrine adds, but then waves that off with a shrug of her shoulders. "I have never lied to you, Davydd." Sandrine lifts the cup and finally takes a drink of her tea. "And I know you're not...nuts..." not a word of hers, but she'll use it. "I think."
     Another sigh and she looks around the shop. "I'm ready to go home," she confesses, "...if you are." Legs uncross as both feet land silently upon the floor. She reaches over and turns the kettle off with a flick of a button. Sandrine glances up at you, not sure of where things stand or whether or not the conversation has been suitable. Talking isn't her forte, she realizes, making a small face as if trying to assess things.

     Davydd leans in, a smile brightening his features, claiming his mouth like a comet and for a moment he's even beautiful. "I didn't say you did, darlin'... that's not what I meant. Just... sometimes when I need to vent, I need an ear... and... you know, gone are the nights where I treat you like a fragile figurine, or a little snow dove." He winks. "That's all. Just... try to be patient. And... I'll try to be... eh, I'll just try to be... how about we leave it at that..."
     He rises after a moment, and in that same motion bends and places a kiss on your hair. "Alright... but let's stop at the palace. I have to get the dogs. As it is, I'm afraid of what I'm going to find." Davydd straightens. "So...we're straight, I think. As straight as two hopelessly crooked things can be," he rumbles, then laughs. "Ah me... I am funny... alright... let's go home. I need a drink... my buzz is wearing off..."

     She nods, not commenting on scotch, Guiness, pissing dogs, broken vases, or comingling of Fae and Kindred. She's not interested in commenting, nor thinking about it. A world blissfully free of confusion and mess. That's how she likes it. Sandrine smiles, assured now of the things around you. It makes it easier, really, when you know where the puddles that you should avoid. Clear spots to ignore.
     Sandrine rises, pushing her hands off of her knees. She'll leave the teapot and kettle for now, for someone else to pick up. "I don't think I am crooked though," Sandrine observes, wondering whether that's even a word. She reaches up and turns off a nearby light switch, sending part of the shop into darkness.

     He laughs at that, warmly but richly. "Crooked as an old stream," he rumbles. "You and me both. I haven't figured out where all the bends are... but..." fiery brows are waggled and green eyes glimmer. "Given enough time," Davydd tilts his head, purses his lips and makes much about giving you the once-and-twice over, "... I bet I could figure them out..." Naughty. And then he winks.
     He reaches over, grabs his jacket and shrugs it on. You don't want to think about things you don't want to think about. You want to have a life free of confusion and mess. You want to steer clear of puddles. Boy, are you in for a rude awakening. You are with a man who embodies everything you want to avoid.
     And maybe there's no avoiding it...
     "So," he extends his hand toward the door, opening the way for you to attach yourself to him, "... anything you need to grab other than me before we leave?"

     A purse and a short jacket. Green in fact. Sandrine swings it around her shoulders and scrabbles to pick up her pocketbook. That's it. She smiles as she lifts a shoulder and her hand with the purse and quickly catches up. At the door, she presses a few alarm buttons, then prances out into the cool evening.

Posted by rowan at June 09, 2003 01:34 PM