"I don't think," Edward murmurs, looking at the swatches strewn across the glass coffeetable, "...I like any of these." Squares of color dominate the landscape, separated from the squares of carpeting, again separate from patterned squares of wallpaper. Some of his favorite colors are there: shades of white, black, and darkest purples, hues that fill the vampiric senses. Mixed patterns and subtle shadows.
At least the decorator knows Edward well enough. He has some talent.
"There are three bedrooms and baths," he sighs, glancing at you above the stacks of swatches, "...maybe we should just let him decide?" It's wearing him out. Not being here when the project started was not a good idea. Now all the decisions must be made. At least the actual construction was mostly done before your return. It'd be a shame to sleep in a building with no internal walls.
"Do you care that much?" Edward reaches over and picks up his cigarette, settling it back upon his lips. His gaze narrows as he picks up something white. Boring. He's seen about all the shades possible. They're in Fleurlil. "Here, ami, you just decide." Even your own room is slated to be redone...
"I like the purple," he is quick to say this, though softly it is said. His fingers fishing out a cigarette for himself. Ah, one of the ones left from his Christmas present from William. How thoughtful it was of him, to give your lover implements of death for Baby Jesus' Birthday. "But not in every room, it will look like..." Fire dances and smoke is like Salome's veils as Valan makes a motion with his hand. "Bordeaux exploded..."
And then the smile. Sudden warmth and golden light. "That would be unfortunate, oui? Hmmm..." Fire is breathed, it sparkles against the blood, and then he exhales smoke. Tiny explosions. "I am fine with letting him decide... I like lighter walls, but I don't like white with this," a gesture to the purple, "...too much of a contrast. Better to have a kind of saffron... If I do it, it will look like a funeral parlor..."
And that is just too funny for words considering...
So pleased with himself. It is the Valan that you first loved. The laissez-faire smile, the cocky shine to the eyes. Valan folds back against the sofa. "Though, a large purple couch would be good... what do you think? How about we mix it all up? Not just one color for walls but one of each? And the rest the same... It would be very... as they say, Now."
And this is something that appeals to his nature as much as to yours, yes? Valan curls like a cat within the embrace of the sofa, smiling. Smoking. Satisfied.
Outside, steps land upon a wet walkway. It has been raining most of the day -- ah, spring in London. Are your ears sharp enough to catch that, Edward Meurelle?
A silver lion's head sparkles as it taps against your door...
Exploding Bordeaux does elicit a visible scowl from Edward. His eyes alight not upon you as much as these swatches. This gets his attention. "Oui, I agree that the contrast in one room is too much," his head bobbin, smoke filling the area, "...I did not mean that," he sighs, twisting his lips in annoyance. He should be able to do this.
Following your cue, Edward sits back as well, arms folding at his chest. There is frustration in all of this, but he will certainly get over it. One day.
"I do not know what colors I like. All these...oui, they have been my favorites," Edward explains, "...maybe I tire of them all." French the default when in confines with you. He inhales in preparation for a heavy exhalation, but it does not come. Instead, Edward's face turns towards the foyer and the front door, nose twisting as his eyes narrow.
"Someone is coming," he notes for the record, blinking in rapid succession. Trying to filter the list of who it might be...
"Have you thought of shades of burgundy...wine...and then your purple?" A soft voice was there, and a touch for you. His cigarette set aside. Hands began to work a shoulder. He knows the ways...
But at the knock there follows only the most open of expressions. Curiosity. Who could it be, afterall? Not many of your friends come to call here. It is as if they recognize it as a private sanctuary. Extraordinary.
"Shall I...?" Valan begins. Shall I what? Suddenly he wonders what he meant. Get the door? As if you'd let me. Get your piece? Go upstairs while you have business? Valan lets it lay there, his thoughts, unattended and unfollowed.
Someone is here...
The silver top, that lion's head 'head' of the walking stick, knocks on the door again. Are you not home? Is this not it? The well suited man in his hat and coat and spectacles stands back suddenly and withdraws a card from coat's pocket. And sienna eyes, past rounded spectacles, peers at the handwriting.
156 Dannerly Court...
Pivoting, the well-suited gentleman turns toward the street, searching for that demarcation. No, this must be it. Well attended gardens... no children... fancy automobile machines. Hmm. Maybe he is not home...
"Holy --" Edward doesn't finish the rest. "Um," he suddenly stands, eyes wide open, "...no..." already, he's tumbling past your legs and the table, moving towards the foyer. "No, no, I got it...just..." he twists to see you, hands out, "...just stay there. No," he blinks, turning to look in the mirror above the table in the foyer, "...stand. That's better," he nods, running a hand over his hair.
And sensing confusion, Edward comes upright as he faces the front door, inhaling before opening it.
Is it the queen?
Golden eyebrows lift, a sweeping arch of wondering what you're doing. But all the same, Valan rises and stamps out his cigarette. And in some preparation of his own, runs his hands over his clothing. The deep burgundy linen shirt. The brown cuffed trousers. A loose, but European look. Definitely not of this land...
It has begun to rain...
The noble cut face of the elder gentleman turns upward, eyes squinting up at it. Marveled. How long it has been since he has had even this much time in the elements. The hat comes off, then on, and arms outstretch.
If you open the door now, you will see him in a marvel. The old king. With his carmel textured skin. His white beard. His long olive-grey wool coat, the hat to match. Dressed like a continental gentleman. In greys, olives, browns.
The door swings open and Edward stands for a half-second stunned. Rain and all.
It is you.
"Sir!" he calls, his already-chastised expression well-worn, "Please...come in..." Christ. It's raining. I should have turned that off too...
All in Spanish.
Edward immediately smiles and extends his hands. "I cannot believe...you are here!" he chimes, moving to help and moving out of the way almost simultaneously. "Come in...it is too wet!"
When was the last time he was in London?
Has he ever been in London?
As the door swings open and he hears your voice, Alfonso turns, and the marveled look turns to a quiet smile. Standing in the rain. Easily, he comes out of it. The silver head of the lion softly touching your chest. And the smile, though it does not change in degree, deepens in warmth. "Eduard... my favorite son..." And so he has always called you since first Maria introduced you. The old king of Castile. Sixty-two years he has had forever. "Does it do this often?"
Rain...
And with a soft touch to your shoulder, Alfonso moves past you. There is still in him the warrior's grace. The king's grace. He pauses in the foyer, removing his hat. Removing his gloves. Balancing his walking stick. Spanish mahogany topped with a silver lion's head.
He smiles, Edward does, half-bowing at the calling of his name. Such responses are instinctual, when you are taught you are little more than servant to the natives. Easily does it all come back.
Edward rises once the king passes, closing the door immediately behind and locking it. His glance to the street and immediate vicinity was perhaps unnoticed by all. He turns about and immediately accepts the removed hat and gloves, shaking them before respectfully lying them upon the side table. Hand extends to accept the walking stick as well.
"You are too kind, Sir, to come here...is everything alright?" The first question, before the regular politenesses.
Now does Edward look up to see you within the living room proper. A flash of uncertainty and embarrassment crosses his features, but quickly does he find something else to do with his gaze.
Sienna eyes are filled with his quiet humor as he peers over his spectacles to you. The face is not prone to smiling -- at least, most never see him do such -- but you have seen Alfonso X roar with laughter. How human he appears. Unchanged by all his years. Ah, that sixty-two should wear so well for everyone. The walking stick is given, as likewise the coat after.
"Todo esta muy bien, mi amigo. Oigo que hay mucho entusiasmo que se encontrara en Londres actualmente. Tuve que verlo para me." Alfonso lifts a hand and taps a finger against his temple.
The coat is given. He lets you tend him. It is how it is, though there is no mind to such stations in the modern age. What is between you is seamless and old. Natural. Unconscious. "So," he drops into English, perfect English. It cannot help but tend toward the Regal. "I hope I am not interrupting. I should have ... " He has to pause and think about it. "Called..." and he smiles again.
He abandoned the Modern Age. As soon as the Industrial Revolution began, Alfonso retreated to his library. He could not bear to watch it. But... being a recluse is not healthy. It can age you...
Edward nods, taking the coat and shaking it. Such ritual is old hat. "There was no need for you to call, and yes," he moves into English, abandoning his Spanish, "...it is...very interesting," he agrees, as he should.
How long has it been? It runs through Edward's mind even as he guides the guest into the living area proper. He looks to you, Valan, wondering where his own strength has gone. That which the modern era has given him. Ah, if things had remained in the fifteenth century, where would he be?
"Please," he motions, hand lifting to the living area and the young man within. "We were only just discussing the renovations here," Edward explains, waiting for the guest to decide if he wishes introductions. "You indeed look well," he smiles, "...truly."
He had not noticed the young man. He had not felt the young touch of something newly immortal on the air. But as you gesture and as he moves in acceptance of your courtesy and the second oldest dance begins, that between Host and Guest in ancient Hospitality, the king does see him now.
Young. Golden. Modern. The earth is new on him. And newly plucked. You can see him remembering... remembering to breathe. Blink. And the smile that comes upon the features, uncertain. And yet, certain of himself. How he holds himself. Comfortable in his space, and yet new in his life. Much to learn. But there is an apt mind behind those green-gold eyes. He wears curiosity.
Alfonso half-pivots toward Edward. Yes, I would like to know who this young man is. What have you done, amigo? The light glimmers in the eyes both old and wise...
And Valan is both stiff and relaxed. Standing, he begins to move a little ways forward. But then holds.
I smile... but do I smile too much? I am comfortable, but do I seem casual and disrespectful? I move, should I step forward or back? Do I introduce myself, or wait? This is the one you have whispered about, ami. The one of all you seem to most respect. And I find myself wanting to bow or to kneel...
Edward grins a little, put at ease by the recognition. The extended hand now motions to you, Valan, inviting you forward. It is allowed. He stands beside the king, careful to rest at his shoulder and not ahead, suddenly the diplomatic herald. Less your lover.
"Si, your Excellence, this is...Valan, oldest son of Pierre Montague of Bordeaux. An excellent family long held in regard in Poitiers." Edward bobs his head, continuing as if the introduction of the younger is but to inform the older. "His Excellent Majesty, Alfonso of Castile. I should be honored to say, my friend."
Yes, one of those Alfonsos.
Edward smiles at you, hoping that you will understand. And the eye to Alfonso's blind side...winks.
He had moved forward more than half a step only when your hand beckoned it. This meeting, different from all the rest. He met a Plantagenet over cigarettes. A Medici in a ski lodge. A Llewelyn burst in during a tryst. But this comes with purpose. With something official. Like meeting a king should be. Now he has met one of the Alfonsos. One of the kings of Spain. There is a wonder at which one he might be. There is a nervousness. But there is also a well-born grace. Maybe it was the wink that gave him the presence to assert himself as himself. Modern, and therefore at a disadvantage to this kind of meeting. And yet...
Something in the blood pulls him through...
Gold hair makes a slight drape as Valan bows his head. Green-gold eyes lift a little, though, as they would never have done were he from Alfonso's century, to peer through golden hair. Should I speak? What would I say? "An honor, your Excellence," so he says softly, deference in the English. So thick as it is with French.
Alfonso lifts his head, assessing. "Montague...of Bordeaux... that would mean by way of Italy?" A rhetorical question perhaps as he continues, stepping further within the living room. "Alfonso X," he murmurs, helping the young man out a bit. And then he turns to Edward. Hands gesturing. "When did this happen? You should tell an old man..." And so the ceremony drops. Now, he looks like your elderly uncle, in his crisp white shirt and the tailored vest. And the arms open outward. Come here, they say to Edward.
As he hears knowledge of his surname spoken as if it were... common knowledge... Valan raises his head and actually blanches. How did he know that?
Edward snorts fainly, amused by it all. But now it is done. The exhale of minutes ago is done, and he moves around to hug him warmly and vigorously. "If I had told you, would you have believed me?" Edward murmurs, returning to French. At least that is a language you all can communicate through. And what else to speak to a king in?
The pat upon Alfonso's back is deep and frequent. Only after a few seconds does he part, angling so that the youngest in the room might see him. "Indeed, Italy," Edward grins with pride, speaking to Alfonso from the corner of his mouth. But eyes are upon you, Valan. And now Edward may marvel in your beauty as much as he wants, with a fellow admirer, even.
When I chose...have I not chosen the most beautiful? Yes, beyond even Dunross.
"It is an old family, Alfonso. We..." he grins at you, such a twinkle in Edward's eyes and a glow upon his skin, "...we shall have to research one night, yes? And find out what we can exactly..."
The embrace is solid, warm and enthusiastic. As is the continental kiss of greeting. "No, I would not!" Alfonso releases you and wears a sudden skeptical look. The glittering of the eyes. You know he is in fine humor with this news. And with your choice. You see that most obviously in him. The others? The others seemed to shock to truly study. But Alfonso... the Academic... the Scholar. He studies everything.
A large but fine hand rests gently to Edward's head, near his temple. Not only a sign of his acceptance of this event, but his warm opinion of it. "We should be able to find the first of them, that is what the youth of today need. Understanding and purpose..."
Yes, Eduard. You chose very well. Even, dare anyone say it, beyond Dunross...
Only...
...amigo...
let us keep that between you and me. It will do him no good to hear such things...
"Clearly, you have been listening to me all of these centuries. I am glowing. I have my first grandson!"
And so the arms come open for Valan.
And at first, Valan can only blink and smile uncertain. But then, then there is laughter. Quiet, but sounding. Warm and rich. And he moves forward. Grandson? "Eduard tells me," he begins in his native French -- and thankful for it. "...that you have the most enviable library in all Europe. I have told him we have to visit. I should like to ... get lost in such a place as that..."
And Alfonso is beaming. Someone who loves books?
Finaly! Jesus has answered my prayers!
Edward laughs, as if he heard the thoughts spoken. He chuckles and shrugs at Alfonso. "Who knew?" he offers in way of explanation. Such good fortune. Occasionally, she smiles.
"Maybe we should come to Spain, hmm?" Edward murmurs, trying to encourage the guest to a seat. He speaks not of obligations of Maria. "Ah...it is been such a long time, senor, truly. And...Valan can see what there is to see." Odd statement, but at least one knows of what Edward speaks. A long and varied heritage you all share.
He will study this young man. Maybe... if he shows such promise... he can be groomed for the task of committing all of you to the history. An old man's hands ache. There is a less familiar, but warmly familial, embrace of your Valan. The continental greeting, and then decorum takes a partial holiday. "I am not used to the cold, it sets in my joints like gypsies on the Seine..." Alfonso settles in one of the chairs with an exhale.
It is his way of asking for cafe. You have heard the line before, even in parts of Spain. And this task he leaves to you as he focuses on your young man.
"You will definitely have to come to Spain. I will be delighted to give Master Montague a tour of the library..." He pauses here, tilting his head. Assessing, again. "What are your interests, Montague?" Please say you have them. Be a salve to the heart of an old man. "Did you study in university?" Dear Lord Father, let him be a scholar. Sienna eyes peer over the spectacles. Measuring.
He is still... finding his place in all of this. You can see the half-jaunty motion to keep up with the king. The wavering between being himself and remembering to be deferent. "Yes, your Excellence, I did. Philosophy and Literature were the main courses of my studies. Science, particularly astronomy, which is more a hobby for me..."
Astronomy! Philosophy! I may weep like a young woman where I sit. Alfonso removes his glasses and takes the soft hankerchief from vest's pocket. He considers as he cleans. "Hobbies of the mind are worthwhile studies. I believe too many of Eduard's associates prefer to concentrate on women and war, though..." eyes lift, "...women and war have their place in a scholar's curriculum. Is this what you would consider yourself, Master M? A scholar?"
A lift of his gaze. Alfonso looks to you, Eduard. Do you see the sparkle of humor in his eyes. You, he does not put in that class. The would-be prince of London? That's a different story.
He smiles and heads towards the archway that opens to the kitchen. Edward has to work to keep from babbling about how wonderful Valan is. He should not interrupt the questioning. It is as well he needs to make coffee.
The smile continues as Edward seeks coffee implements, listening to the questioning next door. Studies and interests. Valan has them, he knows, in spades. He grins, hands opening the jar of coffee left by the housekeepers on the counter. But his grin faints gently, the scoop tumbling with ground beans.
Was I like this with the Others? He slows in his ministrations, setting jar down to fetch water. It was more ... nervewracking. Waiting for some approval. Fear of showing them...that I had someone. Cared for someone.
Absently, Edward turns the water on, putting carafe beneath the filter. Eyes lift to the wall above the sink.
If that is so, then why? When Alfonso comes, it is like...I can say what I want, do as I want. He will not...chide me. He is proud of me. Are not the others?
Carafe filled, Edward sighs and arches his brows, turning back to the machine. A barista would cheer to see such in a household.
Certainly they were happy for me. I know they were. But why is this different?
Attention opens to hear the next room again, and Edward's smile returns. He finishes the pouring, and flicks the coffee on, moving again to find something to serve upon.
The conversation continues, wavering from the Philosophy of Avicenna to European literature. Glancing among centuries lightly. The old and the young. An attempt to find common ground and interests. And you feel it, the easing of your young charge into comfort. Until the shock wears off to show his confidence...
There is the first, quiet beginnings of laughter. Such terms: Aquinas, Aristotle. Words that flow in and out of the order of time, from interest to interest as Alfonso guides the young man toward what he wishes to find out. What his beliefs are, who he is, this young man you have taken into your home and charge. Alfonso, the great interviewer. But it is not for any purpose but to learn. To understand. It is how he relates, the king.
Perhaps it is your lover's voice that reaches out and calls you back to the conversation...
"No study in university," Valan says, his expression open, beautiful. His smile spreading warmly, "...could have prepared me for how... vital... how full of life history truly is. I have met with its famous children. I am thrilled to have the opportunity." I want to say I love you. Can he see it? Would he mind it, Eduard? Valan glances to the kitchen. Hoping for a glimpse of you. "I had no idea... how substantial Time could be..." And then back to Alfonso, as it is rude to look away when speaking to someone, "...how amazing. My mind is open," he sits forward, "... and there is so much to know. I am glad for the time to hope to grasp it..."
And Alfonso for once is speechless. He is in quiet, rapt study of your Chosen One. I could not be more proud of you, Meurelle. Look what you have done...
In the kitchen, Edward leans against the countertop, coffee churning at his back. His eyes are closed and arms fold across his chest. It is not a frustrated look, it is somber and melancholic both. He smiles at the words and feelings from the other room, especially the younger, seeking him.
Maybe I did not become the student I could have. Maybe not the leader I should have. Those are left for others. I am...just myself. But Valan, you are special. Even Alfonso knows this. He knows this best of all, already. Maybe that is enough for me.
The tray is already equipped in the waiting. Cups, sugar, some milk. Spoons and matching saucers. Edward returns to the here upon the sputters of the last of the drips. Ah, there.
"Here," he calls, appearing under the archway. "Cafe," his French continues, "...for it is wet and cold." He crosses the room to where you both sit, tray set upon the edge of the glass table. "I am not so good with this," he smiles, "...but hopefully it will be passable." You both perhaps drink more of this stuff than he does. Yet he stands and pours two cups, saving himself for last.
There are many of your friends who say the same thing. But... without you as yourself, being yourself, Edward Meurelle... where would the rest of us be?
The conversation is paused, and Alfonso gives a grateful exhale. "I have the curse of so few of our kind to be old and Old all at once... you are a good son, a worthy prince, and a good man. Gracias for the cafe..." High praise for such a small cup. "I am sure it will be more than passable. If not, I will drink it like a man and you will never know the difference, Meurelle. Come, sit with us. I want to flatter you..."
Perhaps it is because of your relationship with Alfonso -- one that is singular among the friends you keep -- that the others were more closed with their comments and praise. Perhaps they did not have enough time. Perhaps they show it differently. Or if they did not show anything at all, well... this is something to take up with them.
"I came to London," Alfonso reaches for his cup -- he drinks his cafe plain, not like Plantagenet who pollutes it with so much cream and sugar until it is not cafe at all. I do not understand him! "...on other business, and again... the Vicomte du Blois has surprised me. He has presented such a worthy addition to Our Family. It proves his eyes, his knowledge, his strength, his caliber and is a testament that he, unlike some others, has not lost himself to... fruitless vanity..."
Now... to whom could Alfonso possibly be referring...
"I raise my cup to you, Eduard."
With a broadening smile, warmth streaked across his face like dawn, Valan does the same. "I hope to be the best reflection of that for him that I can be," he seconds. And his look to you. Alfonso may wear glasses, but he could not have missed the message behind that look and smile. "I should leave you two... to visit... to catch up, yes?"
He is not so good with compliments. He shakes his head as you all speak of him, finishing by pouring his own. On the compliment, he knows not what to say. He simply blushes a smile. "You do not need to leave, Valan, unless you wish, hmm? I am happy for you to stay," Edward says softly, leaving it really to Alfonso. "I do not know if the business," gaze to the older man, "...is a private matter?"
"I assume," words cool the cafe as they are murmured over his cup, "...that you have mentioned the way our world works and of the impending changes to this city. If so, I am content. I have little business with Monsieur Meurelle," Alfonso explains to Valan, "...that would require a departure of his treasured apprentice."
Dark and rich. The cafe is the blood of the bean. The bean, a treasure from new worlds found upon discoveries funded by old kings. Alfonso settles back. "Do you think Davydd Llewelyn knows what he is doing... moving into the palace...it has raised eyebrows. I do not like phones, I do not have a phone. Everyday, I receive another letter. It is bold, even for the dragon. And where does Plantagenet sit with this?"
Valan is about to receive a lesson. When the names begin to fall and the event described, there is no more talk of leaving. He settles back quietly. Absorbing. That is what he does best. Sit, sip coffee, and study. You are the politician. You are the strategician. You are the battle commander. And you know the field. Alfonso... what the king knows and how the king feels and why. These will be the lessons of a lifetime.
With that, Edward nods affirmatively, giving you a nod and exhaling to begin.
"I think Llewelyn is clear," Edward says evenly, giving his clan elder the report. "He has talked with me, and I see no reason, at this stage, why not. I am certain that..." Edward tilts his head in absent recollection, "...Mortimer and Margritte are up in arms." Is that where your letters originate? "They would rather that Toreador to continue, Tattletale," as Edward calls Tattinger, "...or Mortimer to sit the seat. Not Ventrue." He drinks a sip of his coffee, quirking to find it not so awful. It's good he read the instructions on the jar.
The love lost between himself, the Primogen, and the poorly-hidden Archon, is of public record. Story is that upon Tattinger's whim and Mortimer's amusement, one Meurelle was accosted in the darkest of London alleys. No one knows what transpired, but Meurelle was seen doing his normal ramblings the following night and the rest of said week. Maybe there was simply a chat.
Edward seems annoyed now, still holding his cup. "Screw them if they did," he murmurs, tailoring his words. "I've given Daffyd my hand in this, Alfonso," he sighs and moves to the edge of his seat, peering at the older man, "...that is done. I will not change it now." Even if you ask. "They will be up in arms, this is true. The Brujah and Toreador enjoy each other's company here. That is how it goes. The Ventrue, on the other hand, are as they are." Old. Subdued. Truly money and business focus. "They, are the blood of this City, not the others. Maybe...they would like to think that," his head shakes, "...but they are smoke and mirrors. Others run this City, Alfonso, it is the truth. They will simply now just see it happen, as it already should have."
He explains not his pronouns. Edward is flushed now, anger in him. He blinks and look at you, Valan, then to Alfonso. "If that's not what you all want," those of the clan who reside elsewhere, including the Justicar, "...then..." he shrugs. Fine. Be angry at me. "This is all not some grand secret. Mithras will not come flying from the grave," Edward challenges. No fear. "But Tattinger or Mortimer have nothing to offer London," he murmurs. "Llewelyn does."
A sigh. "If he screws it up, he just screws it up. It's on him then," Edward finishes, setting cup down and putting hands on his face. He draws them down the length, lifting his brows and exhaling. "Whatever," he finishes, tsking and looking at the front door.
He is quiet for a moment. Sipping his coffee, his eyes lifting upward slightly. As if to watch the words form in the ether before you speak them. But then, to you they land again. "I have received, but have not answered, such correspondence. I do not trust Mortimer. I do not like Margritte." He sees your anger, but there is no move to pacify you or mollify it. Passion should be studied like anything else. And he considers what you say. He holds it on his tongue and throat like the cafe. "I do not come here to chide you, Edward, for your alliance. I ... simply prefer to hear it from you. I trust you... to tell me the truth. You believe Llewelyn will be good for London, I will believe you..."
Though, it is true, he does not see the correlation. But then, his work with Llewelyn has been brief over all these years, in comparison with the time spent with more southern princes, counts, barons and knights of the Twelve. The cup sounds on its saucer as he sets it down. "What I want is ... not important. How this affects my allies, this is what concerns me... how I can help, if I should help, this is my reason for being here." There is a small smile for your theatrics. "Not to convince you to turn away from your beliefs. You know, of course, this will not be a popular alliance for some of your bretheren. There are parts of Spain who concern themselves too much with English rule, now as ever. With the return of the Angevin to France, there are some who are more hesitant to pick on the next door neighbor, and so in boredom..."
There is a pause and he measures you, your complexion, your passion, your anger. "What may I do to help ensure your success... and do you yourself wish a position in the city as reward from Llewelyn. Have you asked for this?"
Valan has never seen you this upset. He marvels at it. He looks between you. He knows not what to say or do. He puts his coffee down. There is a touch of his hand, a glancing touch. I am here. He says nothing. He listens. He endeavors to understand.
Edward stiffens at the touch, not expecting it. But soon the source is realized, and fingers twine around Valan's. "I didn't ask for anything, I don't want anything," he states. "Maybe, you should not be involved at all, Alfonse," Edward murmurs, looking between his legs at the floor. "It would...not be problematic, if you...either had no comment on the situation here," to Whomever is Interested, "...or you spoke as you saw fit to The Others." I can take care of myself. Of us. And the fingers squeeze tighter.
Edward remains flush. The Angevin. The Scot. They are all here. And the Dragon moves with it. He had not seen this larger picture. And now, he sighs, seeing that even more than he imagined...would be upset. At least Villon knows Edward has no designs in Paris or anywhere else in France. That would be too much.
He is quieter now, not liking his own outburst. He has said his peace. "I am sorry...if this causes trouble for you." He cares not for your allies, and makes the point in his comment.
There is the first smile in so many moments. A melting of the eyes. A soft, snorting laugh. "The Librarian of the Camarilla troubled? Who cares about the senile old man anyway," he half-growls in what surely must be a direct quote from... someone. "If you do not wish me to work on Spain and do what I may, if you think it would make things more problematic, I will... stay out of it, Eduard. I came to... offer myself... but... only if it is to the greater good. Otherwise, I am content to eat my soup, read my books and drink my wine."
He pauses suddenly and looks to Valan. "Would you please bring me my coat. I forgot something in the pocket... the mind it is the first thing to go..."
Valan squeezes your fingers, looks to you and then rises with a look to the king. "Of course, sire..." he says softly and he moves from the living room to the foyer.
"Just bring the whole coat," Alfonso calls, "I do not know what pocket it is in, there are too many to choose from." And now, his attention returns to you. "Let us compromise... for now... I will ... do nothing. But I do not withdraw my offer. Llewelyn is your ally, he is my ally. He is Guillaume's ally. I owe him this much." Simple as that.
He pauses as Valan returns with his coat and there is a gentle smile there, though slight. "Gracias." And as Valan returns to the sofa, sitting beside you, holding your hand -- which he has noticed -- Alfonso removes a narrow but thick packet from an inside pocket of his coat. The coat is set aside and the packet is set upon the glass coffee table. "Those are copies of the letters I received over the past two weeks... from Madrid, Paris and London. I will ... keep you informed. I will do that."
He responds with a quiet word of thanks. "They will remain with me." Not even for Llewelyn to know of. "And if...he needs you, Llewelyn should see you himself." And ask for your assistance. Edward looks up as Valan returns beside him, and he sets the package of letters aside.
"How about a freshen, si? There is a warm room for you, with a fire, and we can bring you fresh towels and a jacket, hmm? Ami, will you?" Edward asks. Are the rooms in decent order.
"Very well... we will leave it to Llewelyn." And it ends there. What his feelings are on the matter... well, these were never truly expressed. But Alfonso is cautious. Careful. The voice of reason. The one who says nothing and then everything with few words. He nods to the rest. His coffee finished. There is no request for a second. Not yet. "If you are sure I will not be imposing...to sweep in from Spain, arrive unannounced..."
Business concluded, Alfonso returns to his quiet warmth. "Amigo, you know how unused I am to travel..." Of course he will stay. He will take your offer.
"I know," Edward smiles, "...and you are always welcome, amice." He begins to stand. "Are there bags?" Maybe a poor driver has been outside this entire time. "Ami," Edward turns to you, "...will you take Alfonse? I will see about his things."
Valan stands...
And Alfonso stands too...
And suddenly on Alfonso's face there is Remembrance and Realization. And he laughs and he sighs, "I forgot all about Armando...si, Eduard... there are a couple of bags and my dear valet... you are so lucky, you see, that you did not grow old..." That said to both of you. And then he turns, a grin and a gesture to Valan. After you...
Armando. He brought his... personal valet. It is said by some that Armando is the only one who truly has Alfonso's ear. Of course, by some, it is whispered that Armando has more than that...
Valan and Alfonso drop back into a quiet conversation as they move from the living room to the hallway. And you hear Alfonso saying, "Armando would be very interested to hear your thoughts on Aristotle..."
Hmm. Edward nods at that, wondering about the vehicle. He steps around the seating, heading towards the door. Grabbing a jacket, he quickly opens the front door and heads out into the evening, in search of the darkened car.
Posted by rowan at February 12, 2001 08:22 PM
