Who could know that an artist's tools doubled as a surgeon's? Ah, but past the modern age... in the other ages that came before, there was so little difference between knight and artist and artist and physician. And you are fortunate to know such an old and steady hand, yes? Knight... and artist... and physician...
     Ah now, I am become Leonardo...
     "You have the luck of Niall The Irish," comes the slow and even pull of the southern French and William leans in, bronzed by the reflection of firelight. Light from the nearby hearth and its glow and warmth lights his way along your arm. "Very clean, this will not be so much..." Leaning back, William's fingers stop their pressing and fish through a tinbox tray, like a tackle box. From it, something like tweazers, and a scalpel.
     And then he returns again. Invading your space and leaning in again. His left hand at your arm, grasping just beneath the wound. A press, and it is kept purposely opened. Healing over the bullet would be a bad thing. You would set off every airport alarm in the known world. How inconvenient.
     And it is good for him... to concentrate. To be so focused. It gives his energy an outlet. Otherwise, he would have to resort to ... anger...
     You have a view of black hair, and feel the grasp of his fingers again, and then the precision of the tool. Strange, he carries a scent of cinnamon. Somewhere on his skin. Subtle. Distracting. "Your young man will get used to the blood eventually. I will have to teach him how to do this, if he is going to live with you for long..."

     He's been rather sedate with your cleaning and inspection, preferring to stare at the second bottle of rye upon the table. Asking for the cheapest stuff is best...it will help to further deaden, if such is possible, what senses pay attention to pain. No, no, being Kindred does not seem to get rid of pain sensation, though it may claim other kinds.
     The bottle is safter on the table. In his hand...it could easily shatter. Edward stares ahead, free hand closed in a fist on his knee. "Hopefully he won't ever have to do shite like this," his English comes. The true language of the base and uneducated. Thus...appropriate for pain. Sable eyes glance over and he looks away, rather preferring not to see his own open wound. He's glad it's you, indeed. Done by a professional.
     "You'd think this'd make him not want to spend eternity with me. Us," he corrects, rolling his eyes. When one becomes undead, you get a host of ills.

     "He loves you. He seems to take the rest of the world in stride..." His voice softens suddenly. "You might want to take another hit of rye, cos..." A soft suggestion. Even though the air does not crackle with an official suggestion, it wouldn't be a bad idea. And then you feel the tightened grasp of his left hand. A distraction from what his right is doing. The slug grasped and pulled.
     "If he gets cold feet, just remember... I can change his mind for him..." A little Ventrue humor. Go ahead, kick me. This hurts like hell, doesn't it. You hear William make a wince of sympathy. "Sorry," he murmurs. "You have a stubborn slug, brother... Dieu, I'm so going to owe you..." that under his breath. "Maybe you will let me pay you back in installments, oui?"
     And he works again. You feel the left hand loosen, and then tighten. "Aha... got you," William talks to the bullet. And then he leans back, bullet held aloft. "Nice and clean. Intact. No splintering... however do you manage such grace..." And then there is the metallic clattering of the bullet landing in a metal tray.
     Indigo meets you for the first time in a while. A slight smile there. The hint of the upturning of that mouth. And then he looks down once more. "I think that's the worst of it..."

     "Christ," Edward winces, muscles up and down his arm tensing to stone. It's a wonder the bullet left. He takes the suggested drink and then another long draught for good measure.
     "You sure," he dribbles, back of his hand at his mouth. He peers where your hands are, sticking his tongue out slightly. Just enough to push his lips in displeasure. A sigh of relief and he looks at the tray. "Guess so," Edward adds giving a faint smirk.
     "Thanks, cos," he says blithely, slumping in his seat. Another drink and now he can critique. "Dieu, this stuff is foul..." and the bottle is set on the table. A few nights and his arm will be as good as new.
     He smirks at you, sitting up with an exhale and roll down of his shirt. "He won't get cold feet, by the by...he makes you look like a pussy, Will," Edward taunts with pride. He's a good guy, my Valan. "I mean, you know, for a mortal and all..." he grins.

     That look. Priceless. And with you, he doesn't have to be so... civilized. So civil. It is ... pure Plantagenet. "I can put the bullet back in, Meurelle... pussy or no..." And you might actually think he's dead serious. He looks serious. He sounds serious. The Angevin temper is riding high in his eyes -- a flicker there in the indigo of something like actual fire. And then he grins.
     The tools are cleaned with a cloth and set aside. "I can wrap that so we don't all have to look at it and be reminded how brave you are Edward of Blois... to take a bullet in my honor and protection of my home." The languor of his voice is flecked with lilting Langue d'Oc. Like sudden bursts of flame. William remains seated across from you. "Hmmm... and I will get you some brandy..." And with that he rises.
     He must, you see.

     He waves the need off for thanks...that's what that was, wasn't it? "Be reminded and then forget it," Edward grins, rising with you, "...our home, n'est pas?" Come any place west of Burgundy, and someone's in trouble.
     "And a brandy sounds good. A quick bath...and..." he smiles, "...a quiet rest of the night, hmm? Everyone seems to be alright?" his voice a little more serious. "I mean...your servants?"

     "They are all alive..."
     He gives a simple answer. And the depth of his displeasure can be felt... known... in the simplicity of his replies when it comes to the event itself. His very evenness does more for showing his anger than any outburst could. He has learned control over the years. To quell the beast that is mightier than the vampire he has become -- the Angevin he always shall be. For as renowned for their beauty and charm... their tempers were legendary.
     "I will have to determine how shaken, however. Things like this do not happen in Chinon... it is a quiet village..." In a quiet region. And there is a reason it is so quiet. What you are seeing is reason enough, yes? William smiles and it is warm. A look for you, and yes... that was thanks. And gratitude. "Valan was shaken by my driving however. I think he thought he was going to meet his Maker tonight..." And William laughs, bottle of brandy and two glasses in hand. He returns to the sitting area.
     The laughter is short-lived, but rests in those dark eyes. The brandy is poured... not plum, not pear... it is from Normandy this bottle. The golden apples and honey rise as he pours it. "I had plans to set sail in the spring... rather than simply heading to Venice and then to parts East... I think I may pay a visit to Spain..."
     Feel sorry for Spain, Edward.

     "Spain, huh?" Edward smirks, "Spring is brilliant in Spain." He walks around the table, stretching a little, but returns when you begin to pour. "Maria has asked me to come...maybe I'll do it," he nods, hand reaching out for the glass. He says little more on that, knowing you will deal with things as you have done for almost a millenia. Who is he to give pep talks and advice?
     "As for your driving," he rolls his eyes, "...we just put up with that shite," Edward says as fact. "It is part of existence. Will can't drive." A shrug and grin. "Staying in here?" he wonders, not in any rush to disturb his young man's enjoyment of Chinon and his time to understand what's happened. Might as well share a drink.

     With silence and precision. He does not speak of what he shall do. Nor does he boast upon what the results shall be. It will be evident once it is done. Let the matters speak for themselves. It was not a seeking of advice, nor even as askance of your assistance. It was a simple note. So that when the time came, you would know where he had been.
     "Hmmm... Maria." He leaves it there for now. "Has she met Montague?" Indigo eyes flicker as they lift to you. And does Montague need to be warned? There is a slight upturn of his mouth for what passes unspoken.
     And then there is a moment of passing silence. With grace and gentleness the large but fine hand of Plantagenet sweeps up the crystal glass. The barest of touches -- as if a full grasp will find glass crumbling in his grasp. And it is swept up to his mouth for a sip as he settles. "For the moment. I need a drink before I head to the servants tower..." And the work that yet awaits him. "So... tell me of your young man. I only know that you care for him, that you have plans for him, I know his name and that he is... " The smile spreads slowly. "... less of a pussy than I am..." Dark brows lift. Was that it? "But nothing else. If I am to ... embrace him as the lover and chosen of the one I hold as my brother, I should like to know a little more than this..."
     It is a distraction. You know it for what it is. William needs to calm. And idle talk shall let his mind begin to shift... to the tasks yet waiting him.
     And he takes up the chair that dares to hold him. Sitting with all the casual regality of a natural born king. It is as if he knows he has a battle ahead of him at dawn, and he is pausing with one of his favorites and speaking of lovers and children. It is deliberate.

     Edward's head tilts to the side, wondering where the requisite need for information's come from. "I didn't know you cared so much," he says easily. There's a small shrug...only part of the world seems moved upon Edward's broad shoulders. "What's there to tell?" he avoids, not unlike when Valan questioned him as well. Being put on the spot...is not Edward's best adroitness.
     "He comes from decent stock...but God, Will, none of that shit matters. All that matters is what you see today," he reminds. "Nothing else." For Valan won't be tomorrow what he is today. "It's just a weird question," he admits, not sitting, but picking up the glass during a pause at his chair. Knee bends upon it, and Edward gives his weight in that fashion.
     "He's nice. He's...what you see," he explains, glancing your direction once or twice to see whether the subject can be dropped. "Later...he will be more than that," he hopes with a twist of his lips before glass shadows the expression.

     Laughter. Was it the unexpected reaction? And living light in the eyes, brighter than living eyes can be. Quiet and held in that broad chest, the laughter ends only when he takes the next swallow of brandy. "God damn, Meurelle... it's not the Spanish Inquisition..." A wink to you and there it ends. A shrug...
     It is not important... it was just a question. Something to talk about.
     And then the brandy is swallowed in toto. In full. And the heavy crystal glass is set upon a small table. "And of course I care..." follows the languid murmur, the smooth intonation upon the baritone voice. "Why is it with you that you assume I do not. You know better, oui? Shocking," such emphasis on that word. "... as it may be... there is peace and love between Anjou and Blois..." A grin and a poke at history and then William rises with a sigh.
     It is a sigh.
     "I suppose I should not put off the inevitable. I do so hate this part... I shall have a headache by dawn and it shall be no improvement to my already crappy disposition...is your arm alright? Hmm...? Do you want me to wrap it before I go? Anything else you need?"
     Even with his self-ascribed crappy disposition, he tends you with care, does he not?

     Oh, he knows you care, but it is habit. Why would anyone care, is the general bent. Especially when the spotlight is on him. Edward finishes, watching you laugh over the rim of his glass. Maybe that is something.
     "And yeah, there's peace and love and all that blotto between Anjou and Blois," he waves off, swallowing as he sets his glass down. "Eternally so." Edward finally gives a little smile, now prepared to go bathe and present the cleaner self to Valan. He looks at his arm and nods, "Yeah, it's alright. Just need a night or two, don't worry on it, mate, no worries. You should see about yourself, huh?" Based on what you've just said. "Lemme know if you need anything. Otherwise...I guess I'll be up here." Staying out of the way of you organizing your home again.

     "I see no reason to keep the estate locked up after the ... cleansing has been completed. Until then, you and yours have the run of the place. I should think I will open the rest tomorrow. You and Valan are welcome to stay..." Until you wish to leave. Always, his house is open for you.
     On the far end of the castle, to the east -- as you are on the west -- this is where he and his shall be.
     But it will take more than a night for him to lose that... invaded feeling. This is something I do to other people. It does not happen to me. It does not happen to Plantagenet...
     But for you there is a soft look, one of sudden and warm humor. Eternally so indeed. "In the old days, I could always attack my brother's neighboring villages to soothe the spirit..." An exhale. Some nights... I do miss that. "... but I suppose Spain in spring will have to do. You... have a good night. You will be fending for yourself tonight... There is more to drink and eat downstairs..."
     The servants will not be on duty tonight...
     And William moves to the door, the languid stride picking up somewhat. Intensity exists underneath the surface. It is the stride of purpose. Not relaxed yet. Non. "I will have a servant for you by next evening... "

     "I'm fine, cos," Edward smiles. "We're fine," he waves off. "We'll find a snack, do another perimeter run..." and his shoulders rise and fall again. "And then in Spring...maybe we'll cross paths when I go to pay respects to Dona Maria..."

     And he nods. With the last remaining particles of glorious civility. And you can see this in the bend of his head, in the slight smile that remains with you after he has turned and gone...
     One has to go back centuries to find and mark the year when Chinon was last invaded...
     And it has reminded him of Geoffrey's invasion of Normandy and the sacking of Poitou. It has reminded him of the age when he, perhaps more than his father, could not turn his back on his own kind and think himself safe because he is strong. It is a vision... as close as any may ever have... of the Guillaume XI that was. All that is missing is a sword and a horse, in truth...
     And those can be acquired easily enough...
      It is a reminder, as you said. Wise words, Edward of Blois. Wise words... and true.
     And that is how he leaves you. A last wave, a last look. And then, only the sound of the door shutting and the steps that you can hear, by virtue of your Immortality, conquering the stairs of honeyed stone...

Posted by rowan at February 10, 2001 11:34 AM