Golden liquid sits in a short, wide glass, ice creating miniature sculptures around which the liquid gathers, hues changed by the refraction of the dim light. His face is highlighted with indigo light, his color, as his phone begins to make a connection to London...
     The limousine rolls in comfort out of The City's limit. But Stansted is still some distance away. William lifts his glass, taking a swallow of the scotch. His expression is keen, but his gaze is distant. Like he is gazing on the future with the present passing by...
     In London, probably somewhere parts south, a cell phone begins to ring for one Christophe Phillipe Eduard Meurelle...

     The phone rings once, twice, before the sound of traffic can be heard.
     "Hey," Edward says firmly, the rumble of a motorbike very near.

     At your lap, Ian continues to rest, his blonde hair scattered across your dark trousers. He seems asleep, his hand covering your knee.

     "C'est moi," William's voice is also firm. There is not the warmth, there is not the joviality, the humor at his or your expense. There is only that one moment of modern French. The rest is the Langue d'oeil that would become French later. The French of Paris, then Blois.
     "I have a job for you. I need you to drop whatever it is you are doing for this. It is something that must happen immediately... if it is to succeed..."
     There is a pause...
     "And it is something, my brother, that must succeed..."

     The traffic of the city serves as backdrop. Edward lifts his voice to be heard, saying, "I can't now, Will, I'm still...doing other things? What's the problem?" At least he's curious.

     "You need to get Our Friend and bring him to me. I am not sitting in one place, I am unable to summon him just yet. But I do not want to lose time. I do not feel we can afford to lose it. I think we have a window of opportunity, Edward, to save him... and with minimal impact to the universe..."
     He speaks of Davydd...
     "It is a narrow window, cousin. It must be taken now. I need your help. My Family," Ventrue, "... needs your help."

     "Eh, boyo, you're talking spy-like. Don't you keep secured lines?" Edward says, the bike's rumbling slowing, as if he's stopping.
     "And why? I wouldn't know where to find him if I wanted to, and well..." you know how the night's gone. "What's going on?" he asks directly.

     "I think you know where to look. What is your first, gut instinct. You know him. Where would he be..." A pub. Where else?
     A secured line would be handy right about now. William glances to Ian, taking a swallow of scotch. Oh well. Ancient French dialects and obtuse references will have to do.
     "He is going to become a member of the Family...that he was meant to be... I will finish what the Other," Mithras, "...started."
     There is a pause, you can hear the ice in an empty glass. "It is the only way..."

     There's silence, then:
     "You have lost your fuckin' mind."
     "No, wait. I have. For listening to you."

     "Otherwise, I am going to be forced to call Frankfurt, Edward. Please... listen to me...do you have any idea what could happen to the twelve of us, in particular, should this go as it is going? To mitigate the damage I will be forced to betray him to those who will, quite frankly, want to see him destroyed, and me the hand that will be called to do it..."
     "I know Them, ami..."
     "This is the only chance he has at survival... and us with him. I have known him nearly all of my life. Do not think that this is easy for me to say. I am his brother... blood and soul. And this is what I must do to save his life. I need your help. I have not asked for it for some time. And I need you to do this, Edward. For everyone involved. For Davydd most of all..."

     The streets sound loudly again. Traffic thundering by and horns blaring at an overstuffed intersection.
     "I hear ya," Edward replies, sighing loudly over the noise. "I hear ya."
     "So where you want him, eh? Christ, he can pop, William, what the hell am I going to do about that?"

     "We are on our way to Stansted. We will be at private terminal AA, position BD...Midlothian...private access..." A company plane to head to Edinburgh. "You will not have any trouble getting to us. Our departure time is in ... two hours. At the outside, we may have three..."
     You need to find him with a quickness...
     "Check BJD's. It's his home away from home. Popping or not, you should be able to handle him. I trust you to do this. I have absolute faith in you, ami..."
     There is the first sign of emotion in his voice at that. "We will see you."

     "I'll be there," Edward replies, the call disconnected.

     Ian's head turns towards you, face at your stomach. He exhales there, aware of the call. "Would you be better...to do this, laird?" Ian wonders, hopes. His eyes narrow, though he already knows your reply.
     "You are...his friend," Ian whispers.

     He looks to you, Olympian face, male beauty, his thumb disconnecting the call on his end. The phone is tucked away for now, allowing his hand to reach down and brush against golden hair. "I have no protection against magics," he murmurs. "I think I might botch such a thing, like Mithras I may not be... able to do such. I think I may be of more use to keep him calm, to ... secure things that it may be done well. Speaking from the purely practical."
     And from other angles?
     "I am his brother before I am his friend, which is why I ... must do things for his benefit and safety that a friend might otherwise balk at." William tilts his head. He studies you for a time. "It is a lot for me to ask of you. I intend to help as much as I can, even perhaps with the draining... I ... do not know how these things go." He has never sired. Like you, he said he never would. "I think it would be best...in the long run, to have hope of repairing this act... if we remained brothers... but... that is just a feeling. I tend to side with the practicalities on this point. They are at least more tangible..."

     Ian nods, reaching up so that his arm rests above his head. Your lap makes a fine pillow. Tears have stopped, and the ring on his finger taps at his forehead. Grey eyes look up to you as Ian tries to take comfort in your words. The practical.

Posted by rowan at May 02, 2004 11:04 PM