There is no mistaking the sound. That, my dear Sandrine, is a piano. Fresh from its weekly tuning, its sweet, clear voice revived. Resonating, the sound of the piano reflects off of the marble, bounces off the stone, echoing along the cavernous walls of a ballroom seldom used. Well, it's seen more action since the two of returned than it had seen in the previous century.
     The first night you and he were here, in the palace that is now your home, he took off your shoes (and he took off his, too) and led you in more dances than you knew that he knew. And he's right smart at it. It has since become a weekly (sometimes nightly) date. Sometimes you wake to find an invitation on the pillow next to you. Sometimes, you are weaving, he's reading the paper and all of the sudden he's up and holding out his hand to you. Sometimes, however, pianos must be tuned.
     He spends hours upon hours with the instruments. He fills his time with them, some nights rising only when he smells food and makes his way through the gallery to the great den. In Wales, here in Powis, he has seemed... what? Something more like you would have expected...
     He's quite a quiet and thoughtful man when he's not in London. When he's not consorting with vampires and crazy witches. He's thoughtful. He surprises you.
     Isn't that why you're still here?
     The music comes slowly, with sweet, soprano notes lifting, echoing hope, and light, even as the lower register reminds us that sweetness is sometimes fleeting.
     If you follow the sound, you'll pass through the gallery and into the great, formal ballroom. There is only one stand of candles going, the wall rich crimson with the light. And the piano is a mahogany, carved with Celtic symbols. He is dressed in a russet black-brown sweater, rough sort of wool though not very thick, hand woven by you -- a gift from the previous Yule. It is his favorite. The mock turtleneck collar is loose but lifted. The sweater follows the mountain build on the man you've come to know (a little better anyway). He wears this over chocolate brown trousers, also wool, these from London. His hair is dark copper red, close to the head but waving as it is growing out. If it were long, they'd be ringlets you'd imagine. Correctly.
     His voice sounds, too. Deep tenor-baritone. Smooth and even and lovely. Not the gravelly, earthy tones that he sometimes uses when he performs in pubs. His voice is, and can be, quite angelic.

     Beside you, on the piano bench, Sandrine takes a seat. Did you hear her arriving? She is much like moonlight, present and gleaming, but somehow distant. A constant companion out in the distance. When you stand in the silence, she is there, casting no judgement or aspersion. She only knows how to be there, with you, in the moment, bright and cool...
     Her eyes look over the sweater. It was a nice job. She's working on a new cloak for you for Yule...no secret there...and woolen underwear for the winter. It'll all be done in time, before things get terribly cool. Sandrine's shoulder is to your piano, her legs folded neatly so that her knees touch the bench and the small of your back. She cannot play the piano, or any other instrument really. Her hands cook, clean, tend, and sew. They create. A subtle gift that many have tossed over in favor of modernity. For Sandrine, her very vampiric nature, her Toreador ubiquity, is a thing of the past for the rest of the universe. She should be in mothballs, other Toreador have said. Perhaps she has heard them speak of her, and thus her talents are hidden to the world.
     She will not stop your playing. She enjoys it. Perhaps you'll dance with her this evening; she can only hope.

     You perhaps have noticed this now, how his hands were made for music. Strong they are, perhaps for a man his size one might expect huge ham-like things. But they are refined. Agile, as you have discovered. Formed by his relationship with strings. Bow. Harp. Lute. Guitar. Piano. Each one a natural extension of the other. Archer. Musician. You see it clearly now, the light stroke upon the keys, the reach and spread of fingers. A musican's hands.
     Davydd heard you enter, but he did not stop. He did not look up. He only smiled, a quirk at the corner of his mouth, the tilt of his head, his dark green eyes going to the keys. But he feels your knees, and he grins. And the slow, melodic tune turns into Gershwin.
     You've danced to that, the Rhapsody in Blue. Davydd leans back, his fingers not missing a note, and his head meeting your body as he tilts it back up to look at you. There's a boyish quality about him, no matter that he's pushing 40 like Mithras is pushing up the daisies. Perhaps it's due to the bright aura around him, bright and white, gleaming and pure, with blue swirls hovering where each tattoo lies, myriad sparkles twinkling in between. "How are you?" he says in full-on Cymraeg. You know at least that much by now.
     And Gershwin rolls on...

     "Fine," she replies, looking across her shoulder and arm to see your hands on the keys. "I didn't mean to disturb you," Sandrine explains. "I can go...I have something to work on..."

     "You're not disturbing me," and the hands come off the keys. The music hovers on the air for a few moments after, echoing. Softer. Softer. You can hear it all. "I was just tuning the piano..." Davydd half turns, cocking a fiery copper eyebrow upward. "What are you working on? Shepherd's Pie?" he asks, ever hopeful.
     And then comes the grin. Wide, warm, a sudden storm, it comes with a flash and a wink elemental both. Nah, I'm kidding. "I was going to nip at your heels all night," he notes, "... maybe try to talk you into ... hmmm..." Davydd tilts his head back, his eyes making much by scanning the ceiling. "... I was feeling a bit peckish for something from the 1940s. A little bit of dancing. Good scotch. Cigarettes and jazz..."
     So, what do you think, my dear? You game?

     "Why are you peckish for then?" Sandrine asks, not sure what's brought this on. "Melancholy?" she asks, "Remembering?" Not that there was much nice to remember, save dances, this is true, or making care packages for young men she never knew. But Sandrine smiles, "Not tonight, perhaps. I don't feel too much like dancing."
     Her eyes drop to her lap that's partially behind you. Sandrine is quiet as she looks at her hands, palms up. "Do you want me to make presents for your friends this year?" she asks softly.

     "No reason in particular, cariad," Davydd says quietly with a roll of his shoulders. He looks from you to the keys, fingers idly plucking out some other tune. Softly. Slowly. The way some people smoke in the middle of conversation. "Other than the music. I like its sensibilities. Its energy. Its almost reckless enthusiasm." Davydd exhales upon a smile, lifting both eyebrows. "You're kind. And... I think anything from you would make a wonderful gift. Aye, if you're up to it. I haven't even started thinking about it yet," he lies. He already has your present in a box. Though it's months away yet.
     You don't feel like dancing? Is there something wrong, cariad?

     "Nothing," Sandrine smiles. In truth, she doesn't really know. "I just...well, it's so quiet out here, so peaceful." A shrug. "I like it better here, than the City. And, I guess I am still thinking of Scotland." She laughs, "It is funny...we have been there twice this year now..."

     Davydd scoots over, allowing more space for you. "It is very quiet. I had forgotten how much I missed it. For some reason, I always find myself in the chaos of The City, longing for the peace of my own country, and this estate." He looks to his hands. "I guess I have much of the old soldier in me yet. He longs for peace but has a hard time knowing what to do with it." Green eyes are forest speckled with periwinkle. You were the first to point it out. Bah, I don't want too get heavy.
     At mention of Scotland, Davydd chuckles. "Aye, two times more than I've been there in a few years. Last time I was there, I was visiting Donal and Marta and then Ian and William. I owed Ian an apology. I drove all the way up there to give it." It meant that much. "So... still sitting with you is it," he murmurs, Welsh accent lilting upon the syllables. "What struck you sae hard that it sits with you still..."

     "I don't know," Sandrine smiles, her blue eyes glinting dampness. It's not sadness; her demeanor says otherwise. Perhaps its the cool evenings and crisp air. "I think...everyone looked happy. Are we happy, Davydd?"

     That's a bit complicated for a Wednesday afternoon...
     Davydd looks from you to the keys, his fingers upon them. "They did look happy. Even Edward," as if Edward would never be happy. He knows it's not true, but he found in Edward a kind of kinship. Someone else who was friends with the world and at the same time alone. "I think we are. I think we can be," he says. "We're very different, you and I. I think sometimes ... getting the happiness across has been challenging."
     My, that was a big burst of Truth, Davy-bach...
     "But I like having you here," he says, looking to you. "I like spending the time with you. That makes me happy." There's a half a pause, the space of a half-note. "And you?" he asks, and the words sound like the trailing notes of a slow played measure.

     "I guess I am," Sandrine says, knowing she's left the door open. "I...think this is happy." She smiles. "Do not take that the wrong way, Davy," always da-fi, "...it is...that I have nothing to...compare it to." Her smile is slight then.
     "I guess we are happy...if...both used to being alone. Well," she thinks of your life a little better, "...you know better than I do. But...it still seems like, even if we have others around, we people always alone, you and I."

     He laughs a little and quietly, an earthy roll of sound in that broad chest held, and nods a bit as the laughter fades. "We do at least have that in common. Two people never so together, never so alone. Bah, doesn't that sound weepy," Davydd rolls out with a grin. He exhales, he looks to you, he turns on the bench again, leaning against the piano. "It is true," he breathes. "I guess, after such a long and mostly solitary life, it sort of comes naturally. Old habits, as they say. Course, I've had my unique condition in this world as a great motivation. I don't mean to be distant..."
     But you do share that in common. It's not necessarily a negative. Davydd's hand covers one of your own. "I don't really know anymore about it than you do," he admits.

     "You do," Sandrine disagrees. "You have...been with others. Had lives with them, yes?" She at least knows of one. "And you are not distant," she counters again. "I think I am," Sandrine admits. "Not...as I was before, when we first met. But still..." she shrugs and smiles.

     "Rose?" Davydd almost snorts, and the smile twists wry. "I've slept with others this is true, I slept with Rose. But I wasn't with them. The lives were... incidental. Accidental. Never joint. How could it be, when one of the people in the relationship is pretending to be something he isn't, lying and masking because the truth must be held much more closely than love. When you walked into Kensington, I don't guess you knew how very alone and how very tired I was."
     No, I don't guess you knew that. You believed the lies I spun, same as the rest of Them. Why would you question it.
     Davydd smiles a little, "You are still mysterious to me, never fear. But... you are not distant, no. You are Nordic. You speak when it is relevant. You council when you have something to say or when it is needed. You are there in all your subtlety, everywhere constant, like a heartbeat to my day. We are fire and ice, you and I. And I think we are beginning to meet.... more in the middle," Davydd smiles a little, "... like lukewarm water." And he laughs again, leaning in, a kiss left at your mouth.

     The kiss brings a smile. "I am glad you think so," Sandrine says. "Sometimes," her hands in the folds of her green dress, "...I do not feel so close, Davydd. I think there is something wrong with me," she whispers. "I am glad you feel it, though."

     "I don't think there's anything wrong with you. You feel as you feel. That is the truth of it. I've never asked you to give more than the truth," Davydd notes. "I am more demonstrative. It's my nature. But to be honest, I am probably more closed than you think you are. I just make more noise." A wink sparkles and he chuckles at that. It is true. Confessed.
     I am more than I have said, and less.
     "I like the dancing. I like the singing. I like the chiffon you wear to bed, for the split second I allow you to wear it at least," he finishes in a whisper, the slant of a smile. "It is as it is, Sandinaar," Davydd continues, seriously. "We create the bond we choose to create. It is within our power to determine the We of it." We could live together, create a We between us. Or, maybe we will discover we are better suited to solitude. Either way, if each is true to his or her soul, what can be mourned...

     "I want to be more de...monstrative," Sandrine laments, looking at you. "And...be like other people..."

     A smile starts in the center of his eyes, the sparkles of magic in his aura fluctuate with it, and it is echoed on his mouth. Davydd leans in, he tilts his head, and his smile's own light glances across you mouth. He kisses you, with his eyes open to watch you.
     "We can work on that," he says. "I'll help," and he grins. "Trust me," he whispers at your mouth.

     She is a little surprised at the response, her lips but a peck. Sandrine frowns, a little confused at your cheer and agreeability -- as if you could do something. But her lips soon part into a broader kiss, and she closes her eyes, hands coming to rest on your shoulders.

     Well, who better to help you demonstrate than the one who wants to be demonstrated on?
     Now his eyes close. He can't melt and keep his bird's eye view at the same time. You are together the blending of universal opposites. He brings strength for your softness. You are reserved woman of the North. He, a firebrand, emotional drake. Fire and Ice, he said. Between you, in this kiss, there is the balance of the universe. The moment where yin meets yang and both are made complete.
     He takes a breath, even as mortals must, his mouth pulling back with a suckling, tugging touch. And again. His eyes open to watch your mouth blush. His hand leaves your hand to lay upon your waist.
     There is no rise of vampiric hunger. Nothing. No burst of anything but love and earthy lust. Davydd kisses the corner of your mouth, your chin. He can feel the connection. And though there is still a gulf between you, such an embrace lays another stone down for a bridge.

Posted by rowan at August 05, 2003 08:57 PM