The ceiling receives his exhale. Edward's eyes are closed as he stands beside his bed, right knee on the firm mattresses and covers, his left foot squarely on the floor by his silver and glass nightstand. Upon upon the glass is a case with mirrors, one side lined with ridges of white powder. The other side holds a lit cigarette, gently resting for the moment.
     "Come look," Edward murmurs, still covered in the grime of the night. He stands only in a pair of black briefs, flexing his significant -- and very bloodied -- right bicep right over the bed. "Christ, it's not fuckin' sunlight," Edward growls anxiously, "...and it's probably already healing. Fuck, just...come tell me what it looks like." Hard to see around his own thick arm. "I think there was something on his knife," Edward grumbles.
     It's hard to believe that they grew them like Edward in the fourteenth century. At six feet, he would have stood far taller than most, but then the Comte du Blois' oldest son grew -wider-. While the Comte was surprised, the Comtess wasn't...she'd birthed him. By the time the Comte was making arrangements to marry his son to the Duke of Orleans' second daughter, a lovely girl called Blancheflor by the young men of Paris and surrounds, the Comte was receiving touring invitations from Gascony, Provence and Languedoc, each of course suggesting that he bring his blustering Vicomte of a son along, in order to try their stables and other amenities, no doubt.
     He ate it all up then, Eduard did. His life was filled with whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. A smile from him caused great delight. A charmer was the Vicomte called; a son any man would want to run his lands after him and a man any lord would want his daughters to know very well. Luckily enough, Eduard had. Men were even glad to be bested by him, for the Vicomte always made the loser more celebrated than himself. It worked out very well, it had, and the Chevalier du Blois (8th degree, no less), could be counted on to cause a stir wherever he went.
     "Fuckin' son of a fuckin' bitch," Edward spits, closing his eyes again. There must have been something on that blade. And he hadn't smelled it.

     It's not the blood that bothers him, it's the mess. He is so... what is the word...opposed? Opposed. Valan Montague is opposed to grime. He is probably in the wrong life for such a feeling, but he is a modern man. And modernity -- at least in Western Europe and in particular Paris and London -- is a very clean thing.
     Valan Montague reaks of it. Sparkling, respledant Modern Man. He is in his Mod habberdashery. He was dressing to go amuse himself while you went off and did your usual rounds. "Hold still, Edward, I can't see it with all your moving around," he says. His voice, unlike your own, is quiet and calm. But then, he isn't the one with a cut arm and ruined shirt and jacket. Were it not for the pain, that would be enough to piss you off -- as he knows.
     What does the Modern World make of men. That the 14th Century birthed such a man as yourself -- this should not be or seem surprising. Did it not also birth the Black Prince of Wales as well? Well-reputed generals and blood-thirsty men. That you are graceful and -- at times -- eloquent would be more surprising, perhaps. But... what of the Modern Man with you?
     Born in 1984. Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher and Mikhail. And Valan Montague. It makes him liberated, but hasty. Global-minded, but quick. His attention span is sometimes gnat-like. His likes and dislikes come and go with all the quickness of may flies. But he is beautiful and flashy. There is that.
     Valan reaches for your bicep, coming to stand beside you, flush to you. "It looks like it came with a great deal of force," he studies it with a fencer's eye. "You are lucky you were wearing your good jacket. It's not to the bone, but it's not exactly superficial. I think it is closing. But I have seen you heal faster." Gold-green eyes look to you -- he is almost eye-level, six-oh to your six-two. "What do you think could have been on the blade?" he wonders. What substance would hurt a vampire?

     The gak doesn't help. Food, crutch, sedater, anger-booster. The first thing he wanted was a hit, something to make him feel better. Feel as if he's in control of himself.
     "Fuck," Edward spits, trying to look down his arm. He can't stand still, shifting his knee on the bed. It burns. "I should have fuckin' killed him." But Edward tries not to kill mortals. Well, unless they're doing a successful job of compromising his own existence. "Is it still bleeding?" Such nice blood, lost. Edward looks at the drying blood on his forearm and hand, then flexes his arm again to try and see his bicep.
     "Maybe," he tries to calm, "...just...clean it off." Oh it hurts. He winces with the bend of his arm, then exhales again, this time his brow furrowing as he looks to the ceiling.

     No, gak usually doesn't. Calming agent, it isn't...
     "We should go into the bathroom. Better lighting, ami. And I will clean it off for you. I am sorry it hurts. I do not know if we have anything for that apart from alcohol." And he doesn't like that you're in pain, and even less not knowing why.
     Valan lowers his hand from your bicep and rubs your back. "Come on," he murmurs and he turns toward the bathroom -- the ultimate in modern sumptuousness and sleek living. "Apart from getting the hit, did you feel anything weird about it when it happened? Any burning or anything like that? I can't imagine a poison that would affect you," he turns on one of the taps (two sinks, of course), getting the water warm and then making it tepid again with cold water.

     He'd come in, clutching his arm. Edward has presence of mind to lock the front door and set the alarms, but once that was handled, he dashed immediately to the stairs and up. His bloodied clothes pile near the bed where he ripped them off, and his boots show traces of dampness.
     Nodding, Edward follows you to the bathroom, noting, "It could be poison, shite-hole. I feel something, there."

     "It cannot kill you," right? "So I suppose it will have to run its course, or you will overpower it and it will go away sooner." Valan pauses and looks to you as he reaches for your arm again, this time with a soft and wet cotton chemise. "I am making this up as I go along. Let me see now..." The water is tepid when it touches your arm, perhaps you feel the shock of cold first but then it warms. Valan wipes away the dried blood to see if it the wound is truly healing.
     "I have heard of the Chinese using poison on their blades, maybe the Pakistani do as well. I know there are gangs of both in this city. But it seems a little outdated." Gold-green eyes lift to you as the wound becomes more visible. "It does look to be closing, but it is not closing very rapidly. I mean, it should be a memory by now. You should only have a bruise maybe by now." By the time you came home, the wound itself should have been gone.
     Valan leans in. He smells of his shower and his Parisian cologne. He peers at your wound. "I do not see any shards or anything like that, ami. I guess it was just coated in something. What should we do?"

     "I guess it can't kill me," Edward guesses, "...but fuck if it doesn't feel like someone set my arm on fire." He narrows his gaze at himself in the mirror, then looks down where you tend his arm.
     Certainly, poisoning a vampire's possible. Something strong enough, nasty enough, coursing through the veins -- torpor or draining may feel like a blessing.
     "Pakistani?" Edward suddenly says to himself. Assamites. Setites. He looks at himself again in the mirror, the exhale this time deflates his chest.

     "Will my blood help you..."
     It is an easy thing for him to sacrifice. Valan doesn't flinch at it. "Do you need me to call someone?" He doesn't flinch at that either. He looks to you directly, he glances at your reflection. He looks back to your arm for any signs that something is spreading. Redness, hives, cracking skin -- these would be human reactions, but what about an immortal?
     "Is it changing in degree at all? Worse, no change, marginally better?" He puts the coolness and the softness of the rag to your skin again. He looks to see the blood coagulating. "It looks like the wound is closed now. But it is still wet," that term. Valan leans in and places a kiss at your jaw. "I wish there was more that I could do, ami. I don't like to not be able to help you, or for you to be in pain..."

     "It feels better at the arm, but," Edward shrugs, "...I'm starting to feel it elsewhere." He sighs again and finally takes a moment to see your face and attempt a smile. "Your blood always helps," Edward teases, "...and Im not sure about calling someone. Not sure who to call. Know any old-fashioned alchemists?"

     There is a little smile, just a little. A slight crack in the brave face. A smile that shows his love, and his worry. Valan leans in, teeth tugging at your lips. "Take what you need," he murmurs there. Teeth tug and press at your lower lip, a pleasurable burn to balance the other burning you are feeling.
     Mouth at your mouth, brushing, presses as he leans in, as he peels off his shirt. Maybe you should fuck it away -- not in the way others usually say that in terms of you or your Clan but literally. "No," Valan says, he sets the cloth aside, "I don't know any magicians or alchemists. Well, not in London."
     But you do, Edward...
     Two, in fact...

     Oh, boy. The pull at his lips makes thoughts of poisoned blood go away. Not to mention the shirt falling to the floor. Edward's eyes look down to the falling silk, fascinated by what the simple act of a discarded shirt does to him.
     "Maybe I should...see if I can find the Welshman," Edward says softly, slowly. An idea, but right now, he's not that convinced. No hand rushes for a celphone, nor does he move from the sink.
     Suddenly, he laughs.
     "I really should...go find someone."
     You know, to keep him from being permanently damaged.
     But pain and ache call for blood, and you're offering.
     "We should call Davy," Edward pants, now biting his own bottom lip. "Really." No really.
     But it's unlikely now that Edward has much presence of mind or impetus to make such a ring.

     "I will do it..." Valan says, he nods. He doesn't stop to ask why it makes sense to you to do so. You know best. "Blood ... we will see to after the call. Why don't you come back to the room now. You are not bleeding anymore. We get you in the bed..." A pat against your waist.
     Valan is turning. He is quick. The coltishness of two years back is gone. He is sword swift, graceful, powerful and at the bedside in two moments flat. He reaches for his phone on his nightstand.
     "Do you want to speak to him... or should I tell him?"

     The disappointment registers on his features. A whimper and Edward follows you, albeit slowly.
     "You can tell him. Tell him...it feels like...fire. Napalm on a fuckin' blade. Fuckin' twat," he murmurs, well arm on the door frame to support him. "I don't know if he knows anything..."

     "It's worth a try, I think... I will call him..."
     And he does...

     In Wales, Powys to be exact, it's a lovely summer evening. By that, I mean it is raining but softly. Just a mist upon the lingering roses, glitter on the vines, the trellises covered. It doesn't make a sound. The birds in the aviary, where Davydd ap Owain lingers this night, are quietly sleeping -- occasionally chirping, the way birds are wont to snore. He is there, meditating. Doing nothing more than sitting with his eyes closed, resting on a bench and listening to the world.
      But naturally he carries his cell phone with him in his coat pocket. It's become a habit of the age. When it rings, he always curses it. But the thought of being without it... well, it simply isn't natural.
     And then it rings...
     "Yes, hello," he says, a blithe greeting on a cool Welsh night.

      ... You can hear his voice, Edward...
     "Davydd, it's Valan..."
     ... "Oh, hey, Montague. How are you?"
     Ugh, the rhyming!

     Moving slowly still, Edward moves around the foot of the bed to his side nearest the main doors of the room. He throws himself upon the bedding, head landing on his pillow. One foot comes to rest on the comforters, the other remaining dangled at bedside.

     "I am fine, Davydd, but Edward has been wounded..."
     You hear nothing on the other end. That silence would be Davydd sitting up straight.
     "We need you to come, if you can. We think he may be poisoned...The wound would not close quickly and it is burning. He said like... what was it ...napalm? On a fucking blade..."
     ... "I will be there in a few minutes. Are you at home?"
     "Yes..."
     ... "I will see you there..." And the line is disconnected. Davydd is not wasting time. Good on him.
     Valan looks to you as you lie down. He puts the phone back on his nightstand and he lowers himself to the bed. His mouth to your mouth again. "How are you feeling, ami? Is it changing at all? Better? Worse?"

      ... A small door in the Aviary is opened to a hidden chamber with an unfinished dirt floor. A circle of stones, each marked with Celtic spiral symbols. Davydd stands in the center, utters a stream of Brythonic and...
     ... In Diagon Alley, a man jogs through the wet streets, slips through a door, and into the streets of London proper...

     "Better now," Edward grins at a slant, his hands lifting to pull a young man closer. "He's coming?" Edward asks, "How long?" He presumes he's in town.

     "He's coming. He said a few minutes." He is skeptical that you are better, but he is happy to be close to you. If it is a help, then all the better. Love can be a medicine. "He must be in town, I didn't know he was in town. Usually he calls or something..." Shows up out of the blue, listens for the sound of wild fucking, then knocks or rings the bell. "Here..." Valan murmurs, and he leans against you, one arm sinking in the bedding beneath you, one reached across you. "You should drink something, ami..."

     ...A bird lifts off, covering space from the Strand to Knightsbridge better than a car in this fucking traffic....

     "If I drink, I don't think I'll stop," Edward winks, his energy low. "Though, it'd keep Davydd's record right," he laughs softly, shaking his head.

      "I'm sure it would please him to know he's still got it," Valan says. Lifting to half-hover over you, he sees you are not... You. You are sick. Your energy, usually so over-the-top and fiery is very muted. Now, he is worried.
     But the brave face remains...
      Valan Montague smiles when you laugh. "Hmmm... I don't think I would stop either. I am not good at stopping. Neither of us," he grins softly. A glance to your arm. The wound is closed, the moisture drying. There is still a scab and scar, however. By now, it should have disappeared. It is so slow. Just like your energy is low.
     "Do you remember how the fight started?"

      ... Occasionally there are hawks in the city. At night, he passes swiftly, large wings rowing through the air and propelling him. And no one's the wiser. No one will pay any mind to a hawk in the city at night. Not with all the blur and glare of traffic.
      Beats a taxi cab...

      "I was..." Edward swallows, "...near Morningsgate. Agreed to help Shaky Sinders watch an arrival...a few crates." Of what, he doesn't say. "One of the crates had a shooter -- then his man, Freddie, turned on him. Stabbed him. Swung at me. I didn't...expect it. I think Shaky took one from the fucker in the third crate..."
     Edward closes and opens his eyes. A smile grows on his face. He's staring at you. "You're...beautiful. Just...so..." Edward's brows arch, almost in defeat, "...I need you, ami..." To stay with him. "I...feel as if I've needed you forever..."

     The people you know. The names they all have. It's like a movie...
     Valan smiles as you continue, as you talk of him. Of needing him. "You need me, and you have me." A kiss is left, just a brush and a press, no tugging with his teeth this time. "And I will be with you, do not worry. You have me." A pause. "And maybe even in a little bit, you will really have me. Maybe on the sink with the mirrors. I like to watch ..." He winks. He is a first-rate voyeur. Only... this voyeur likes to do as much as he watches.

      ... Wings fold into a leather jacket and a bird drops onto your stoop and becomes a man as he moves from shadows to front porch light. The knock follows. There was no sound to announce Davydd's arrival. No car.

      There's a grin for the image. "Promises," Edward whispers, the grin turning into a tired smile.
     "If...you have to...tell Davydd...maybe Assamite or Setites. He'll know...what it means..."
     And he is tired. He'd never noticed how tired. Edward blinks at the canopy, trying to maintain a focus. But it's slipping.
     "I love..." Edward whispers to no one, the smile returning as he stares absently at the canopy. "In love with...you..."

     Valan twists on the bed, twists to look in the direction of the knock. Davydd. He looks to you. He wishes for once the door had been unlocked. He doesn't want to leave you. "Maybe you should sit up a little...keep your eyes open, hmmm?" He doesn't know if your sleeping would be a problem, maybe it would be a help. But... something tells him that you remaining awake would be a good thing.
      "I'll be right back..."
     Valan stands, the bed shifting beneath him, and he looks back once, smiling and winking to you. "I love you, too. Am in love with you," he says and then he heads out. You hear -- or would normally hear -- his steps in the hall, then down the stairs, then down to the foyer. The door opens.
     You hear Davydd's voice, the closing of the door, the pounding of Cymri feet carrying a huge Cymri upstairs.
     Does he know who did it...
     ... Not sure... maybe Assamite... Setite...
     Shite...
      He was at the docks with... Sticky Fingers... someone...crates were loaded with shooters, one stabber.
     Something on the knife, then. Fuckers...
     And then a Cymri shadow falls across your bedroom's threshold followed by a more slender shadow of the Loire...

     Edward's tried to sit up, a hint of anger flushing through him. But he's not gotten far, and his back rests oddly against his pillow.
     "Davydd Llewelyn..."
     And Edward falls into a French not heard on the Loire in five-hundred years, spitting out what he thinks has happened in broken sentences and scattered words.

     Valan cannot understand it. Words here and there, even more scattered. He sits close to Edward on the bed, but leaves Davydd plenty of room.

     The bed sinks with the Cymri's sudden weight. He listens to Edward. He nods, but he says nothing. He's wet, like he ran through the rain -- flew through it. His leather coat is spotted, he shrugs it off, tossing it aside. Blue tattooes, brilliant cobalt and royal swirls, are visible at his wrists, peeking beneath the short sleeves of his shirt, more dragons etched upon a huge bicep.
     Fingers slide against the skin at the wound, over the wound itself, feeling it. Davydd (mostly) closes his eyes. The Welsh he speaks is a Welsh that is seldom heard these nights. A Welsh far older than his own 12th Century dialect. A Welsh that is nearest to its Brythonic roots. The cadence is sing-song.
     A pattern that repeats...
     And as he does it, the skin tingles, his aura sparkles, and he becomes beautiful. He goes... golden, really, giving off a light from his skin -- or maybe it is how the light in the bedroom is bouncing off his Welsh complexion? Maybe.

     On the bed, Edward had finished his tale and closed his eyes, expectant upon a sleep. He's said what he needed, and Valan, that was only to you. The rest is something of sleep, magical, and heat coursing through his veins. That, was for Davydd's records, if he needs to make such a thing.

     Valan looks to Edward as he closes his eyes, then looks between him and Davydd. Worry is etched on his beautiful young face. But he says nothing to interrupt or disturb.
     When Edward's eyes close, Davydd's fingers press. Where do you think you're going, Sleeping Beauty? His lips still move in the coiling words, softly singing and then he falls quiet. The wound at his hand, beneath his fingers, disappears in gradients like time-elapsed photography.
     The outward sign of the poison... and the magic's... effects were easier to deal with. What is in the blood, moving through his comrade's body, will take a moment more. His face shows his concentration.
     He dives in...
      The magic is like leaping from a springboard into the pool of your blood, Edward, much like telepathy is like leaping into the waters of the mind. He finds it, the properties. He heals it by restoring you to how you were before. Even pre-Gak.
     A few moments more, the wound gone, Davydd opens his eyes. He looks to Edward first and then Valan. "Can you believe him," he rumbles to no one in particular, "...taking a nap at a time like this..." Davydd pats Edward's formerly wounded arm. "How are you now, boyo?"

     It was going to be such a nice sleep. But then his brain demanded attention. Snap to it, you weak sod, or you're going to die.
     Eyes open again and Edward frowns at his state. Immediate and instantaneous wellness. Sable eyes look around the space, then to himself -- still in briefs.
     "Um, fine," Edward says curiously, sitting up suddenly. Another glance left and right. "I'm alright, Davy? Valan..."

     Davydd smiles beautifully. And I do mean beautifully. "Oh good then. I won't have to bury my best friend and wreak vengeance on the world." Well, almost instantaneous wellness, but once you were well, well... you were ... well. Just like that. Davydd sits back on the bed with a big exhale, stretching out on Valan's side of the bed, hand on his t-shirted stomach. He turns his head on the pillows and looks at you. "I don't think it would have killed you. Hell of a hangover when it passed though..."
     It was a tough cookie to crumble... but...well... being able to restore a person, thing or place back to its regular condition or state is nothing to sneeze at.

     Valan gawked at the closing of the wound and, though he's incredibly thankful, is still gawking. How? But how did? "So... you are okay, ami?" he asks Edward, glancing briefly to Davydd. "You look alright..." He smiles a little.
     But you have to admit, it is a little strange...

     "Yeah," Edward murmurs, "...too fine." If such a thing is possible. Edward glances at Davydd, then reaches out to pat him on the arm a couple of times. "You're a mate, Davy. No one like ya. I owe you..."
      Rather spry, Edward spins about on the bed, feet on the floor. He stands and turns around, putting his hands on his hips. "Fuck. That fuckin' was rather horse." Horse. Bucked. Fucked. Edward shakes it off, then exhales, "I owe someone else too. They'll wish I was dead..."

     He'll not hear of any debts. Davydd sits up and waves it off, returning the pat in good measure. "In a long friendship, Meurelle, we're always even," Davydd notes. "I'm just glad you thought to call me. I'm not sure how long you would have been out of it. If you find out who did it... you might want to keep him or her alive long enough to find out how they did it."
     Davydd isn't as quick to stand but he does eventually realize he's lounging in Valan's spot. He grins and rises. "Hmmm... yeah... horse is right. I wouldn't have wanted to catch the bad end of that. Whatever it was." He is thankful that one of his nine spells is a protection against such. Goddess bless the Rowan.
     "If you're okay, I suppose I ought to give Sandrine a call. She's probably wandering around the castle wondering where the hell I am..."
     Castle?
     He wasn't in London...

     Valan rises after all of you. "Thanks, Davydd. If Edward has a better friend, I don't know who it'd be..." Apart from Montague himself, that is. Valan looks to Edward. "Do you think this would be something the prince would want to know about? Something strong enough to lay you low would have put most men out, ami..."

     The prince.
      Edward raises a brow, then looks over at his companion. "Actually, we're scheduled to see him in three nights..."
      "And you'd better go...back." From wherever it was you came. "I'm sure she's worried, if you just ran off. I'll call you in a few, eh?"

     You do?
     Davydd nods to Edward, comes around to him and gives the man a goodly hug. He won't say that it was a phone call he'd been long in dreading. Davydd: come help, Edward is down. He's just glad everyone's standing in the end. He smiles, gives your arm a pat and says, "I'll talk to you later. Let me know if you need me to come back. For any reason," he waggles his finger at Edward.
     Turning, Davydd throws an arm about Valan. "Montague, you're the most level-headed man I know," he rumbles affectionately, "... so I'm trusting you in this, aye? You call me if you need to, whenever you need to..." He gets a pat as well. Davydd picks up his tossed leather coat and shrugs it back on.
     "Night gents. Come lock up after me..."

     We do?
     The visit with the prince is a bit of a shock. But then, aren't all such visits surprising? Valan looks to Davydd as he's swallowed up in a hold. "Oui, Davydd... I will. Thank you, ami." Heartfelt, that.
     Looking back to you, Valan is still smiling. But you can see the worry there behind it. And the relief. "I will go lock up, ami..."

     There's a nod for Edward and a gentle swing at Davydd's arm. "Thanks, Davy," Edward vocalizes, then moves around the bed to head towards the bath once more.

Posted by rowan at October 12, 2003 12:51 PM