Night has gone through her motions, descending fully upon the city. After several stops, Edward's taken a pause to have a drink before heading out on the last of his night's duties.
     See Wills - check.
     Visit Palmer's - check.
     See Davydd - check.
     Have a pint - check.
     Valan... - well, that's still on the 'to do' list.
     The cigarette's tapped out of Edward's silver case. He grins as he puts a boot on the booth's cloth seat, his back to the heavy wood wall. The open case is admired for a moment, but something's decided and he closes the case before dropping it on the table. There's a nod of his dark, cropped hair at the girl who sets his second pint before him, and Edward bends his neck as he lights his smoke.
     The Beagle's been in Poplar for the better part of two centuries. Tonight it's busy, but few seem eager to bother Edward at his table. The staff and regulars know the man, certainly, but they keep a wide berth. Service efficient, but it's not his home local, and they seem to know it.

     The waitress nods as she turns to depart, saying, "No worries, Eddie," then immediately shuffles off to a nearby table that greets her with cheers.

     Well, bless my rosy little toesies, could it be nearly ten years (or is it ten or more now?) since we broke the window of The Beagle and all but dismantled it over a few pints, a lousy footie match and in the interest of perking up Poor Prince William, our little buckaroo? Davydd's visible past the less than a decade old glass, painted over with the new (and maybe a little improved) signage, lighting a cigarette as he gives a pull on the door, and he billows out smoke like the best of them.
     Dragons swirl beneath the edges of short black sleeves, the black t-shirt worn like it's summer (for some it is), and also at the wrists, Holly and Heather, War and Restoration, Life and Death. The trousers are leather, and the hair's been left to go a little on its own, not damn near crew-cut off, cut shorn like the last two years. Wavy, a bit permanently disheveled.
     If you took a moment, Edward, to look at him like you can sometimes do, he'd be backed by so much... light, golden sunlight, he'd look like the embodiment of an eclipse...
     Davydd cracks a smile around the body of his cigarette, green eyes glimmering as he appears at your table, arms spread out with a hearty, earthy: "Bon soir, mon frere!" Very horribly, and purposely, mispronounced. Before he sits, he's turning fiery head for a waitress, tipping up his chin and raising a tattooed hand, signaling. Another over here, lass...
     "So while I'm getting my drinks," Davydd continues, words on an issuing fog as he smiles through it, brilliant that, "...you can tell me how much you've missed me..."

     "Bloody hell," Edward smiles, "...been to a leather bar lately?" Edward rolls his eyes and shakes his head, "And quit makin' a dog's lunch outta my native, eh?" He takes another look at the shirt, then exhales, reaching to slide his silver case towards himself. "I don't want you spillin' on that," Edward notes for the record.
     "Hey, Will's in the city, but you knew that," Edward generously observes. "Did you see my new toy outside?" he asks, picking up the conversation as always -- in medias res. "Apparently I did something good," Edward laughs. Irony, really.

     Davydd looks at you, up-and-down-like and then cracks a grin, "Say! I remember that iron pony," motorcycle, "...now. I thought it looked familiar. How did you rate? And ...aye... I think I'm just going to miss him, but you'll have to tell me what you did to get a fucking present, let alone a phone call," that whole thing again. But he winks, settling into the boothside across from you heavily.
     Spilling? He looks at you a moment, head cocked back and blinking, like you thumped him on his small, Brythonic nose. Eyebrows cock up and the smile spreads as he leans in, mountain of Welsh earth and sends ash into the ashtray.
     "How's The Lord's Lad?" he wonders of Valan, skipping over William for now. He's not here to visit with William In Absentia but you in The Beagle. "Tell 'im I'll catch him next time, I know how he likes it when I knock mid-coitus." The laughter is hearty, warm, his features go golden with it and he waggles his brows. "He still liking The City now that he's Official?"
      The Coming Out Ceremony...
     As it were...
     "Oh, I heard from Gwilym you're a bit of the Cat's Meow at the moment. What gives with that?" his inflection lilts and lifts incredulously. "Something about The Dago," Girault, "... sending personal letters... I didn't know you cared," ap Owain drawls, leaning in with the canting of a grin.

     "I don't," Edward reaffirms, the smile dropping from his face. He shrugs whenever topics move to him. "It's no drama," he waves off with a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. "As it was...M. Montague is alright, doing his usual. Business," Edward notes. Leaving him to accomplish other tasks. "He's good. He's all the rage, it seems. His phone keeps ringing," he shrugs softly.
     "And her?" Edward smirks. "Things are better though, since you moved to the Wilds," he smirks. "Oh fine. You're all smiles then. Guess leavin' us was a good thing? Well, so everyone tells me," Edward kids.

     Her...
     You can see the look. He rolls the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, looks at the fire and then back up to you. "Her... I haven't heard from," he murmurs. "I don't expect I shall. Though... I suppose as far as partings go," an exhale as he sits back, "... it was amicable enough. For her, too strange. For me... well, you can't force things to go as you want them to go, can you? Still," Davydd notes with a nod, "...getting the fuck out of London and back where I belong... has been good..."
     Getting back where I belong is the whole point...
     Davydd looks over to the waitress, relieved as he sees a pint coming his way. "Merciful Christ in heaven, there is a god," he rumbles out as she puts it down. "Keep them coming, love, I'll settle at the end..." He's not known here for shinola, so that's fine with her apparently. She's not lingering.
     "It's a bit on the topic of what I wanted to... talk to you about... but," not quite ready for that, he takes a goodly swallow of the pint, makes a bit of a face, a half-tilt of his head then shrugs. It'll do. "Good on Montague. He's a good lad. Seems to... fit right in." He smirks at the possible double-entendre but doesn't dwell on it.
     "I wanted to talk to you, before you found out on the streets like you usually do..."

     There's a pause as Edward's brow furrows. "Wot?" he asks. He's misunderstood. "Haven't heard from?"

     "Sandrine," Davydd says. Then he pauses, eyebrows knitting together. "That is who you meant by 'her', right? I don't know many other Hers..." That tale is part of the story, how he came to be as he is, golden, living, awakened. If she had not come to him, he may have slept forever.
     Davydd exhales a breath of smoke and flicks off the ash, eyes flicking their attention to you as he leans in, great arms folding on the table top, ale pint surrounded by a mighty hand. "We parted company ... a few weeks ago now. Heading to a month, I think. Hard to keep track of time when you don't pay it any mind. It was right before spring. It's spring now...so... sure... a month." Davydd sighs again, free hand (not the one bearing the cigarette) reaching up and raking through red-bright hair. "In the end, Edward-bach, we were too different, our paths not the same. It's better this way. For both of us. But she's a dear woman and... well," he clears his throat of some amount of emotion. "I'll love her as a queen among women until the day there's no longer a day, that's for certes. I just... didn't know how to bring her along with me, to go with me with the things that I need to do. Which..." fiery eyebrows open upward, "... is the same reason I wanted to speak with you..."
     Davydd looks to the fire in his hands as he stamps out the cigarette. Smoke illustrates his words as he murmurs them. "I'm ... leaving the Camarilla, Edward... the life, the lifestyle, the edifice. And I wanted you to hear it from me before any hunting horns sound," he smirks. "Fuck, they may not even fucking notice or care," he rolls his eyes.

     Edward is still a moment before saying:
     "What in the fuck are you talking about, Davy?"
     He squints, totally confused at this point. "What do you mean, 'leaving the Camarilla'? You can't just leave. And what's wrong with Sandrine, now? You broke up?" he asks, seeming rather dismayed, after all that had transpired. Coming to the house. Lamenting her being better. Nights of discussions on self-fulfilling prophecies.
     "Davydd," Edward's voice low now, "I thought you liked her?" He doesn't get you and women, and at this point, Edward's actually upset. "After all that?" Vincent, paintings. Toreador cozying, or so they say it is of late. Princedoms. Finding someone better than Rose. "Just like that?"
     "What's wrong with her now?" Edward wants to know, eyes wide. There's always a reason. But this one seemed...perfectly alright.

     He watches the energy move through you. He knows how the temper can be. How emotional upset can swing. He glances to the others gathered in the bar. Davydd looks to you. "There's nothing wrong with Sandrine," calm despite your upset, purposely so. With a sigh, Davydd sits back a little, scooting the pint out of his way, and he looks you squarely in the eyes. Green forests there, oak leaves and mossy brambled paths...
     "I know you don't understand, Edward. I want to explain it, brawd, but I don't want to have a fist fight to do it. Want to walk? I ... have a lot I need to say..." And you're already losing it. Davydd takes a swallow of the ale, half-frowning at the bitter aftertaste of it all.

     "No, I don't want to go for a walk," Edward says, rathering to enjoy his pint. But yes, he's frustrated now and disappointed. But he speaks not of self-fulfilling prophecies. For now, he keeps it to himself. "And no, I don't feel like fighting with you either," he states. "Just drop it, Davy," Edward says. "Forget it. I don't want to know what happened," he says with an exhale. "Find another topic," he murmurs, stamping his cigarette out harshly in the ashtray and immediately opening his silver case for another one.

     "I love her," Davydd counters in sudden Catalan, the Spanish of Andalusia, full of emotion in his own right. "I always will love her. But there's not much of a life to be had between a Toreador archon and a fairy king, Edward-bach." He sighs, shaking his head. "I don't know how to tell you Everything, you don't want to hear Everything, you never did. But..." hands on the table, dragons swirling in the motion, "...to continue living on this planet requires that I be true to myself and if I can't be true to the ones I love, then it'll be a short trip. I have to be true, Edward, to what and who I am. The first of which is not a member of the Dead Poet's Society," vampires.
     "This is... why I am telling you, and I'll tell you the whole thing if you want to hear it ... how I found an oasis in the middle of a Spanish desert," El-Adar, "... after being rejected by my own kind... wandering alone for over a hundred years of cursed solitude, the lowest fucking point of my life, how I decided then that if I were cursed to live my life only at night that I would just.. join them. Just be one of them. One of you," he says. "I found a fellowship, as fucked up as it was, and it held me for centuries, off and on. Held me but my Self, my nature lay dormant and stagnant and... locked up and waiting."
     "I know you don't understand, Edward... and I want to explain it, brother, because you fucking deserve an explanation and you deserve the truth and more importantly you deserve the right to determine whether or not you want to brave the situation and continue. I love you like a brother, sometimes like a son, there's not a man on earth that I would die for more gladly, even at this very moment by your own hands, than you..."
     "I'm not a vampire, Edward... Mithras cursed me, for certes, but he never killed me..."

     "I'm delighted for you," Edward says, putting the cigarette between his lips and ensconcing the case into his jacket pocket. "Thanks for sharing, Davy, I hope you feel better."
     Edward pushes out of the booth in the blink of an eye. "You know," he half-smirks. "I don't really care what you are. I don't half-care that you dragged me through shite hearing you moan after a nice woman that, apparently, you can't be with. You're talkin' 'braving' some situation, but blue, Davy, you have this habit of dumping things into the air and telling us 'You have to be honest,'" Edward laughs. "And now, as if I'm going to kill you," Edward snorts, shaking his head, seeming rather disgusted with it all.
     "I hope you've enjoyed the last few minutes of theater. When you're ready to have a real yack with me, mate, and not a one-sided stage play, I'll be at home."
     "Oh!" Edward beams, "I'm also glad to know that we're fucked up. Fuck you too, Davy. Have a nice night."

     He's up a moment after, hand on the table, leaning in and looking at you square, though he's at least two inches shorter than you are. "I didn't say you were fucked up. The situation was fucked, royal I might add. You know, fucking forget it. If anyone asks for me, which they might not do, you fucking don't know."
     And when or if they fucking gun for me... you don't know that either. Do you think this is easy? I don't expect it to be easy to hear, and it sure as shite isn't easy to say. I'm trying to be square, mate... sure for me, fuck it... but what about you. What about when it gets out that I've been in the Halls of the Fucking Mighty, brother, fucking justicars popping out of the woodwork, the sabbat, the whole ruddy thing, like a massive Masquerade break. I don't want it coming back on you. I don't want you getting caught by surprise.
     His jaw sets, like he's biting his tongue. Maybe he is. "So I figured I'd tell you ... you don't want to hear it? Fine, don't hear it. You might not be hearing from me again. I fucking thought you'd at least want to know why...but," inflection lifting as English lilts with Cymric flare and emotion. "... so be it. I'll be the Davydd that dumps and runs...speaking shite... and," the features redden as he leans in again, body in motion to head out. "... just so you know," he murmurs, "...I didn't moan to you about a woman thinking I wouldn't be able to make it work in the end. I'm not fucking god, I'm not remotely psychic. Don't hang that sword over my head. I came to you as a friend, you spoke as one. I heard you. You going to throw that in my face now? I'll have to mark that down; seeking a friend's help is dragging them through shite. Ah... right... got it..."
     Bills are tossed on the table behind him, enough for him and you and tip or whatever. It's just money. They float on the table like fallen leaves and the mountain of Wales is through the door and out...
     Odds at the bar are there's going to be a rumble...

     "Tell me what?" Edward yells, sending the whole bar into total silence.
     "Tell me what? Tell me fuckin' something I didn't already know, Davydd, huh? Didn't you fuckin' think I already chose? God, you are such a self-absorbed arsehole sometimes. Oh, what...it has to be written in blood on a wall for someone to know? Do you think I'm a total fuckin' idiot, Davydd? Please, just say it. Because apparently, you just had to come here and tell me something. So tell me something I don't already fucking know!"
     His hand's in the air before him, clenched as he's shaken it for the last several words for emphasis. Edward exhales then and walks forward to meet the object of his rage at the door. "You're the one who doesn't get it, Davy. It isn't me. It's you. And you keep searchin for something, desperate to fuckin' tell me when you know it. Well, I guess you know it," Edward says at normal speaking voice.
     But in this place, that's pretty damned loud.
     "Good for you. What do you want from me, Davy, that for all this fuckin' time," Edward says softer, "...that I haven't already fucking chosen? Why do you keep asking me to fuckin' choose? I chose already for fuck's sake, Davy. Jeezis Christ..." Edward exhales, moving outside.

     The air pops and the cement of the sidewalk cracks beneath his feet and in his own ... emotion... in his stride. Davydd comes to a quick halt, sighs, and the cement is whole again. "I know I'm self-absorbed, so are you," he leans against the brick wall, taking a moment to calm the fuck down and light a cigarette. "I wanted to tell you I was leaving the Camarilla," he continues in Catalan, smaller chance of being understood even if he's overheard. "I didn't want something bad to happen to you because you happened to know me. I didn't want you finding out about it from any other source but myself. I wanted to tell you that I'm King of the Little People," he smirks suddenly, face illuminated by the fire, he exhales smoke, head resting against the brick.
     "You know and if someone told me that they had all but lied to me for the past... fucking forever, I'd at least want to kick his ass. If not kill him. But...that's me... that's not you." Davydd is frowning now. "I'm glad I told you. I'm going to the Court. Make it official. When I come out to them... it'll come out everywhere, you realize... but there isn't another way. In order to ... live... to do what I was put here to do... " He doesn't really have a choice. It's change everything or give up everything. All or nothing. Extreme. Black or white. Night or Day. Life and Death.
     Davydd's quiet for a time, smoking in quiet for a few minutes, the energy in the air loosening appreciably. "What do I want from you?" Green eyes look to you for a while. "Nothing. Give what you want, Edward-bach. I'm not asking you to choose. I just wanted to give you... information in case you had to, brother. You might have to... and I have to live with that, with whatever you decide is right for you and your ..." he started to say childe but stopped himself, "... Montague..."

     "Don't be stupid," Edward says, moving towards his bike. He's done for the night. "Christ, always having to make stances. I don't know why you need to tell anyone: oh gee, let me walk to the werewolves and tell them I'm a vampire so then I can fight my way out."
     Leg swings up and over the bike's seat, where Edward settles himself. "It's right stupid, Davydd, and you'd rather have drama, than simply walk away safely and do whatever. I already know. And I still say...so what. Go live your life. No one on this end ever stopped you. No one on this end, at least not me and Wills, ever asked you to do anything. We never told the court anything...why for God's sake would you ever walk in there now?" Nothing about these decisions make much sense. Edward looks at you a long moment, then turns the key on the bike. "Don't make more trouble than you need. Who, in this court, would care..." Edward says frankly.

     "I'm a walking spell, what I am is Metaphor," Davydd twists, crushing the cigarette out, smoke leaving in a fog, becoming fog, lingering a moment before dissipating. "For a metaphor, symbolism is everything, Edward-bach. You don't know what it is to be In Between. To know just how much energy it takes to sustain it, even poorly as I have done over the past few years. That," another clearing breath, and Davydd's looking up at the starless sky, the patches of it that can be seen in between buildings, "... is something I guess I'm alone in..."
     He's pushing off the wall a moment later. "Maybe you're right, maybe no one will care, and I'm worrying for nothing. I just go on my way, live in my kingdom, revive magic and life in the world and shrug it off. That's the best I can hope for. That it means nothing to anyone but me..."
     There's an arch of fire, sparking like dive-bombing fireflies, that sparks then sputters into nothing, leaving the scent of burning air and smoke behind. He's gone after that. Damn mirage Welshmen...

     On the bike, Edward sits a moment, reaching into his pocket again and pulling out a cellphone. A few numbers are pressed to a phone in Scotland, but the end result is really only a few miles away.

     The call is answered fairly quickly...
     He must not be in bed...
     "Bonsoir, Eduard," there is a smile in William's voice, a grin actually. "I was just beating Ian in billiards, he has been saved by the bell..." That was a shared comment for you and for Ian both.
     "So... bored? You are calling me tonight after I just saw you...I do not know what to do with all of this attention, ami..."

     "Hey," Edward says, voice rather flat. "Um, you should find your brother-in-law and...keep him from doing something totally fuckin' stupid, alright? Just...don't tell him I called you. And I don't know how to find him..." Edward goes on, "...cause he's popping around town like some...fuck, I don't know what."

     There is silence for a moment. You can almost see the look. The thoughtful, incisive look. "What is he doing?" Popping around town. William exhales. A mighty exhale at that. That was a princely sigh. And one that is concerned. "He has some things going on, this I know... well, I suspect it. I do not know it," he qualifies that. "Where did you last see him...."

     "Ten seconds ago," Edward says, pulling a smoke from his mouth, from the sound of it. "He vanished. After some bullshit -- look Wills, I gotta go, okay? Just...make sure he doesn't do anything stupid is all. Maybe he'll answer his phone if you call him."

     "Where? What part of town... I would summon him if I could, but..." Well, he can't that he knows of. As far as William knows, Davydd's a sixth generation Ventrue and nothing but. "Very well, ami... I will call him... look for him... let me know if you need anything, hmm?" You sound upset. "So... alright... I let you go..."
     His English has gotten really bad. He sounds like a tourist again. Sort of like Valan circa four years ago.

     "I'm leaving Poplar now," Edward says. "Talk to you later," he notes before the phone disconnects.

     In Kensington Palace, William folds his phone and tucks it in a suit pocket, setting a pool cue down. "Sounds like London's living up to its reputation," he murmurs in a breath to the blond Eros on the other end of the table. "There's drama afoot..."

     Ian looks up, half-stretched across the billiards table. He frowns, then comes upright. "I never did like coming here," Ian exhales as a sigh, moving around the table to reconsider his shot. He is losing, and looking for a way to save his current situation.
     "You have to go?" Ian suddenly realizes, looking over to you again.

      "Oui, it sounds so..." he says against your ear, materializing around you, arms surrounding you in a brief embrace. "Davydd needs some help. Not sure what kind yet. Apparently... he's on the verge of doing something drastic...I'm going to call him..."
     Since receiving a phone call a month or so ago... longer... from a young girl in London, he's been worried about ap Owain. Ruminating on his situation, thinking on it. Concerned. Now it seems as though Plantagenet's concern were prophetic...
     And you know how he hates being right...

Posted by rowan at April 28, 2004 09:15 PM