When the sun sank beneath the horizon of The Thames, when the golden and blue world of Kensington turned pink, magenta and indigo, a large, fiery-headed man sat directly up, fully clothed on a sofa in a sitting room. He never made it to bed.
     The scotch tells the tale of it. A bottle emptied on his own in two ounce swallows. He didn't even take off his shoes. Wide legged, he sat upon the sofa of his room a moment, head in his hands. Large hands rub and dragons dance, fingers rub at face and eyes then rake through hair both long and short, both thick and wavy ... and now disheveled.
     About as much as his life is at the moment...
     He rises with a heavy exhalation, but the clearing breath does not clear the air. There may not be a clearing of the air with either of them, and yet the palace was not closed to him. Not closed when perhaps it should have been. Certainly not as it could have been.
     His eyes are reddened for a variety of reasons, only one of which being the scotch. There's lingering evidence of high emotion, not just in the bottle, but worn on his Arthurian face. Color high, freckles showing, mouth cut in what now seems to be a permanent frown.
     For one whose smile was always so constant, it is a serious transformation...
     The house seems on the still side of early evening. William is probably still in bed. They probably all are after that evening. Davydd pauses in the public sitting room downstairs. A glance in reveals no one. Frown yet in place, he heads to the sofa and table, looking for something to write on perhaps. He checks his pants pockets for anything handy, finding only a tenner.
     Maybe that will do...

     "Going to leave a note?" Ian says, materializing from a side door. A panel, really, behind which hides one of the original 18th century inner staircases. Now granted, they were to be used by the servants, but in truth, well...
     "I am sorry that we were not here earlier," Ian goes on, turning to close the panel behind him. A fresh-faced teenager graced with the most beautiful parts of the highlands. Even the white-blonde hair marks him of a certain line. "William is up, if you wished to wait for him," he adds, not pushing any issues here. On William's friends, he's always felt himself the outsider. "I am sure he would be glad if you did."
     He's dressed in a suit this evening, Ian is. Perhaps he has court business at some stage. Or other. But he walks into the room fully, a man unburdened with much of anything these nights. It wears well in his face.

     He looks up at the suddenness to find Ian Dunross. A man he has called brother, the lover... no, husband... of his brother-in-law and brother in several centuries worth of blood and conflict. The tenner is pocketed and eyebrows kick up. Yes, he was thinking about it. "I was thinking of it," he admits, "...though to leave the sort of note I need, I'd need about a thousand more pounds," the voice gruffs, then quiets. "No... no...no apologies. I know it's early... I'm fine to wait."
     Davydd is quiet for a few moments. He looks at you, green worlds in his eyes. Can you see that? Oak groves and tangled vines, orchards of apple trees and summer sunlight. Around him, if you were to look, it is as bright as the sun, golden rays coming off of him. But the center of this ... sun... is black, like an eclipse.
     It is a sun that does not burn...
     His hands clasp, his arms on his knees, then his hands steeple together to hold up his chin. "I want to thank you for opening up your home to me again," Davydd says, sitting up with a breath. "And your scotch. Diolch," he says. Then in Scots-gaelic. Thank you again.
     He is as preoccupied as William has been, if not more. He is as sad-seeming, as weighted with emotion. He is as worried-seeming.

     Ian smiles and shrugs, letting it all wash away. Despite knowing of you for eight centuries, Ian can truly say that he doesn't know you. None of you, in truth. Only in the hazy stories told to him, the things he missed. It's only in recent years that he has had what most could call conversation with any of you.
     "I guess then," Ian offers with polite exclusion that he should know anything, "...you..." well, what is there to say, "...aren't Ventrue."

     "No, I'm not." Not anything of the kind. "I figured I owed it to them to say as much plainly before it becomes blatantly obvious. I expected lead balloons," Davydd sits back on the sofa, heavily in fact, breathing and frowning. "Well... I'm not sure what I expected," he admits. "Or what to expect from here on out. I can't expect that anything will ever be what it was again. That much I do know..."
     Davydd rubs his eyes and then he looks at you. You with the fairy ring behind your house, broken though it is. A one-way trip. But it is the quickest way to get to Edinburgh. "It shows now," he murmurs. Impossible to hide. I am what I am. "So," Davydd sighs, "...I've made a mess of it that. The truth didn't make any of us free men last night. But it is what it is. I imagine that it will be as it will be..."

     "That's how it normally goes," Ian offers in the way of solace. "But you have been friends for a long time," he says, "...that has meaning. For William," the place from whence he speaks, "...you are his closest blood relative, yes?" A marriage of mortals.
     "His only," Ian thinks on it, "...in truth. And then brothers in..." not blood, "...other ways on top."

     The only living link to what he was and what he's been along the way. Davydd looks at you as you speak. He listens to you. He takes in your words, and the wisdom that exists behind them. "Aye, that's so," the words lilt on an earthy tone, like water moving over the Welsh countryside. How he embodies that land.
     "He's family... in more ways than the one. I love him. There's only one other that I've ever loved as completely in all my life..." And that's the other man who's stayed the night.
     "He's a good man, Plantagenet." Davydd pauses, glancing to you and there is almost a smile. "I don't need to tell you. But... there it is, let the universe have it. I ... have to trust that he will do what is right for himself. If he follows his heart, wherever it goes... then... I have to be content with that. Same goes for Edward..."

     "Sometimes, doing what is right is not the same as doing what is in your heart," Ian observes, still standing not so far away. He hasn't bothered to fix himself his breakfast of whiskey.
     "What will you do with yourself? What...does one...do?" Whatever you may be. He has not asked details. "I am familiar with many things," about fae, including the politics, "...but...what will your job be?" If you have such a thing.

     "That is very true," Davydd says. "And you're wise to remind me. Doing what is ...right is seldom doing what is comfortable." He pauses, eyes widening, "... it's never doing what feels good." He snorts a short laugh, it's without humor in any other way than watching The Divine Comedy itself play out.
     "I have a kingdom that has wakened with me," he looks to you, "...that's the way it goes... another kingdom to absorb in a good match with a recently named heir to such, a bordering kingdom. I have to re-establish the Court of Summer at Avalon, dormant since the Saxons, to be honest. I was to be its... renaissance, to borrow a term. But then... Mithras...so... that was postponed. A long time. First thing, to follow up all of the evidence of my wakening with the actual declaration of such. Make intentions known and intents clear..."
     "That is the... first portion of my ...job," Davydd says. "If I survive to do that much, well... we will see after that. That should keep me busy for a while, I think. First stop is London. Then likely Edinburgh. That will depend, I would imagine, on what, if any, reaction the Camarilla may have. I've honored its laws and traditions but..." I know much. In some cases too much, perhaps.

     "You do," Ian affirms. But he is not the Justicar. "Kings are few among Them," Ian says, "...not a Duke or knight." These terms have meaning. "And a match to another kingdom." He nods, deciding now to fix his drink. Hands move to the crystal, and he reaches for a glass. "What will take you to Edinburgh?" Since you've brought up the issue.

     "Likely the same business. I'd like to speak with Nilsson personally. I've known him for a good long while, and I want to reaffirm with him my understanding of the Understanding," the understanding of the Open Court, and perhaps more business with the Court of Summer.
     "London's not the center of the universe," there's a small smile, "...I don't have to tell you that. The center of the universe is actually a bit north of It. But," Davydd exhales, "...it is a first stop sort of place. The Oldest Court in continuous, formal existence..."
     "Kings are few indeed. It is why I must do what I am doing, though it hurts those I have loved above all other things, though it may in the end separate me from the very brothers for whom I would have gladly died, and nearly did on several occasions. William's a good pilot," Davydd gruffs, "...but sweet Jesus, the landings..."

     Ian smiles sweetly. "Loved. Would have," Ian says academically. "And now? Now that you are a King who will rule a kingdom? Certainly there is something you love more than either of them?" Come now, Davydd. Ian grins and looks at his glass. "What is more important to a King than his kingdom?"
     "Absolutely nothing."
     Ian walks from the drinks to another cabinet. You already use the words: a match with another kingdom," Ian looks back, "I presume this means some marriage," a bob of his head, "...business with Nilsson - though I am the one who set up the court if you wish a clear understanding of The Understanding as it were -- and now a quick reminder that well," Ian grins, "..London is not the center of all things."
     And no, no one has turned the temperature down in the palace.
     Ian shrugs. "Do not misinterpret me, Davydd. I say things things, because...you speak so easily of them, and it makes me curious at how you say them. That is all."

     "I was not aware that it was seeming ... easy to say. I've ... wrestled with all of this for centuries, perhaps that is why," he says. His gaze retreats inward for a moment. "It isn't easy, Ian. It is the hardest thing, apart from ...evading Mithras," now that's a phrase, "... that I've ever done..." A pause. "Including the marriage. There's a good and sweet lady out there... well, anyway," not to start on Sandrine.
     No, this has been pretty fucking far from easy...
     "I recall when the Open Court was established. I was busy rampaging the countryside at the time," ah, highwaymen, "A clear understanding...from the horse's own mouth even. I'm not about to turn that down. That is, if you have time, laird," he says, then cocks up an eyebrow at the terminology, smirking. You know what I mean.
Davydd ap Owain does not say anything to your points about Loved, Would Have, about the kingdom. What can he say to that...
     Absolutely nothing...

     "It won't take very long," Ian says, tasting his drink. "Simply, both wolves, fae, and the indigenous locals were welcome in my court, as long as they abided by my rules. They would not be molested, and in fact, may reside as long as they followed my rules and did not cause any difficulty. As a result," the glass waves, "...there were more than a few who did visit, some who would reside in Edinburgh under those conditions. The Prince will tell you if he has made any changes to that proscription, as the Prince was the arbiter of what was considered a breech of the agreement."

     Davydd nods. "It seems to have remained thus as far as I can tell. But, respecting the Concept as much as the Court," a nod to you, "... I want to make certain that Nilsson knows, from my own mouth, that I know it, understand it and will abide by it, naturally. I do want to be very clear about such things, however. I prefer to be..." he adds quietly. "I'll be sure to check in with him. It's been since the art show...well, I was in Scotland after that... but not to Edinburgh."
     Forest eyes focus on Ian a while. Beautiful... like a son of Freja himself. "It is amazing you were able to get such a thing approved. Cardiff has been unable to win the Camarilla's blessing for such. They ... handle everything beneath the table, naturally. They tend not to defer to London but rather to do the very opposite of their eastern rival. Still... it is a credit to you. And that it yet exists..."

     There's silence from Ian. He just smiles and shrugs about Cardiff. "A drink?" he wonders, moving back towards the bar. "I will send someone to find William for you," he says, getting back to the original point.

     "That won't be necessary..."
     It's William's voice that sounds, quietly borne upon the air from where he stands. "But... a drink would be good." By the bottle, by the looks of him. "Edward's awake, he's ...heading out," he says to Davydd.

     Davydd twists in his seat, surprised by the voice and he stands when William comes in. No, there's not going to be an Edward. He can see it in that look. He nods. "I should be going," he murmurs. "Thank you, Ian..." A long look is followed by a nod and then he's turning to William. The Cymri's face goes a bit red, pure emotion that, and he nods again. Well...
     "Gwilym..."

     Ian looks at William, then looks to the decanter, shaking his head. He looks up as he's address and nods, "You're welcome. Slainte," he says, cheers, greeting, and departure all wrapped up. Ian goes back to the business of the whiskey, reaching for another glass for William.

     William smiles a little, but there's little joy in the look. "You'll be hearing from me," he assures his brother, crossing into the room. "You ... I assume your number is not changing? Though," William mulls, "... maybe it should." An exhale and he pulls his brother to him, a Plantagenet swallowing hug, a loud pat on the back. "Call me when it's done," he says to his friend. "Or... when you're able."
     Or if you need me...
     That isn't voiced but it is clearly conveyed in the look that passes between them. Fairy or not, brother is brother.
     Besides, you're not supposed to understand your relatives. You're just supposed to love them...

     Davydd groans in the hug, cursing in Welsh for it as he was wont to do for a near-on thousand years, why should tonight be any different? As different as everything is.
     "I will," he says. "...stop breaking my ribs...Jesus..." Jaysoos, it sounds. Davydd takes in a deep breath, let loose of William and he looks between you for a moment. He nods to you both again, no farewells, he couldn't bear it.
     One a night is bad enough...

Posted by rowan at May 02, 2004 07:22 PM