The Wheatsheaf, est. 1742, is a dockside institution in London. Not the largest of pubs, the main room retains more of the storefront feel that marked it last century. A large bar dominates the room, directly across from the door. Walk in, head straight ahead for refreshment. Made of a dark wood, it matches some of the original backwall and window frames. The front wall on either side of the door still peers out onto the street, albeit through colored panes, alternating between red, green, blue, and yellow.
With the strong walls and dank low ceiling, the Wheatsheaf is cozy and intimate, and in summer is even more so. Fans twirl above and central air was installed late, but can get rather overworked. Seats are covered in a dark green upholstery, and the walls hold paddles and other sailing memoirs. An archway leads to the Regatta Room, an addition from earlier this century, and the warm hearth and dartboard beyond.
"Well, I couldn't have fucked this up better if I had directions..."
His jacket is first to be tossed into the body of the upholstered chair, cigarette in mouth beaming fiery life with the intake of his breath in speech, darkening as it cools with his exhalation. He's soon to follow the wool, taking a seat in his light knit white sweater over black wool trousers, a stark setting for his starker mood.
Davydd exhales, leaning in to tap away the ash, as his other hand lifts for a passing waiter. The cigarette isn't long from his mouth, and it won't be the first one to live and die by it. A green glance is given to the windows, a shake of his head and he turns to order a drink. And it won't be tea.
A guy in starched jeans and shirt walks about, taking and delivering orders on a tray.
The bartender rings up the order, sets it on the counter, and calls the waitron to deliver a scotch to Davydd. The waitron quickly picks up the order and delivers it.
"What?" Robert asks, sitting back against the booth. He cradles his first cup of tea, his brows arching for the explanation. "I doubt you've..." well, he won't say the word, "...well, done anything. We're having a drink, yes?"
The silent words are probably in Welsh but the look from wooded eyes could easily be translated into: Come on now, Robert...
Davydd exhales smoke, twirls the body of the cigarette in his fingers as he removes a layer of ash. It'll burn on its own for a few moments as he tends to the scotch.
Neat. Unlike most things he does.
The glass is spun in his fingers slowly and then lifted for a swallow. The sigh that follows is thankful for the alcohol but is largely without good humor. "It's good to see you, of course. Thanks for the suggestion. Scotch makes the medicine go down."
Robert chuckles to himself, taking another drink. He looks at you a moment, then sets down his cup. "Why are we having a drink, Davydd -- not that I asked, because I did -- why are we really here?" Robert's brows are arched. "You seemed surprised to see me at Cooper-Fazard. Why?" he wonders, shaking his head in slight disbelief.
"Not really surprised," he notes, taking up the cigarette again. "You are where she is," he looks at you, "... I thought she was rather finished with me. I didn't figure to be invited to drinks by someone who works with her. You being there wasn't shocking." After another moment, another pull of fire and smoke, the old dragon crushes the cigarette and looks to you across the table.
"But I'm not one to ... well, I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth." Great shoulders roll in slight motion. At least not tonight. "We're here because I'm an ass. Or, at least that's why I'm here. You're here because you're a good man who listens to reason. Maybe we're here so I can learn a thing or two about listening." A pause and he smirks as he lifts his glass. "And reason."
Fiery eyebrows quirk up and down briefly as his green eyes remark upon the quickly fleeting liquid. They lift and linger on you thereafter. "I've had a bit of a reawakening, you could say. Like I've been asleep, walking in my sleep these last," nearly nine-hundred, "...years. It's a sad thing, Robert, to be so old and to just realize it. I had it all in my hands, I was given an opportunity, and what did this fool do with it? Hmm?" Davydd leans in close, his intensity coming with him, his face smoothened in a bland expression before his eyes tell the lie that such evenness is. "Nothing. I did nothing with it. Or I did the wrong thing. And now... here we are. That is why we are here, Robert."
The first scotch is put out of its misery (if only it would do the same for him) and Davydd turns his head, catching the attention of the passing waiter.
"Ooh," Robert groans, leaning back again as if falling away. "You're too depressing for me," he laughs, shaking his head. "Got anything positive to say?" he wonders. "Just curious, mate, because...well, you need more of it, methinks."
"And I invited you to drinks because I heard you were in town, Davydd. Not because..." he grins, suggesting the statement is a strange one, "I work with her." Emphasis on the great her.
"I choose to be a part of things. I did...not so long after I became what I am. It is a focal point of my life. Despite what you...or others...may think...my choices have always been my own. And I choose...each night. I choose to be the best that I am and to exist to help...where I can."
"You can choose that too, Davydd. If you wish. But it is not just a choice. It is...part of what one is already. That makes it easier. When it is a choice that one struggles with, struggling against some other nature, then it is hard."
"I'm Welsh," Davydd quips back. "If you want sunny dispositions, I fear you'll have to go to Ireland." There's a bit of a shrug to positivity. "I'll admit that I don't at the moment, no. I'm not happy with myself. I'm not happy with my choices. Any of them." He pauses a moment. "Apart from tonight. I'm okay with what I did tonight."
He takes a swallow of the scotch and stares into it for a moment. He nods at what you say, saying nothing to interrupt it. Even a few moments after you've finished he's quiet. He's letting that sink in. "I did the opposite, Robert. After Mithras, I ran and kept right on running until a few nights ago. I've led a selfish life," he exhales. "I've lived a bit of a wasted life. All I can do is try to change that now," Davydd rolls his shoulders again, "...what other choice do I have, really. But it's a bit late, it may be too late. And I'm going to have to accept that. If it is too late. I'm choosing it now, I want to choose it now, but..." he chuckles suddenly, shaking his head and even looking heavenward for a moment, "...no one wants to hear it. No one believes it."
"Thanks for the invitation. I think you're the only person volunteering to speak with me at the moment. It's appreciated, mate."
"Ah," the Englishman waves off, "...I'm sure there'd be plenty to have a drink with you, Davydd," Robert smiles. He pours himself another cup from his pot. "I'm always glad to have a drink with you," he says to make his point.
For a moment, Robert is quiet while he prepares his next cup.
"The indigenous spirits of this island," Robert volunteers a story, "...lost much of their power when the Wars came to the island. At least their temporal power. Instead of continuing a war here, some decided that the truth of it -- and forgive my lack of details -- was opportunity. Opportunity for change for those children of the spirits who'd been corrupted or lost when the Wars arrived. Instead of destruction and chaos among factions and subfactions, a group have chosen another path. For those lost into darkness, they may have their way back. Despite what may be believed or damnation written."
He won't second-guess your issue of who'd have drinks with him or no. He knows the list is short, far shorter than it used to be. He nods to it, but before he can retort, you're telling a story.
Davydd lights another cigarette while you're talking, breathes fiery fog as he listens, his eyes not on you, but somewhere in the space between you. This is a story he has heard, it is a story he has lived, on both sides of it. And maybe a case can be made that there's none more lost than the Holly King himself.
Arms on the table, scotch emptied and cigarette being steadily smoked into nothingness, Davydd looks to you as you continue. He's not going to interrupt your story or pepper it with commentary or questions.
Glass tinkles, filling the room with chimes.
"Isabella herself is one of those who was lost. Once Diana was gone, what fight was there for her? She found herself embroiled in the Wars, intent upon her revenge. Destruction," Robert sighs, looking at his cup. "But you saw to that, yes? Slayer that you are," he teases and winks.
"And then, especially, once Mithras was removed, what was there for her? What was there for her to care about?"
"Eventually, her heart, her mind," Robert says, venturing into guesses now, "...changed. A struggle for what? A struggle that everyone would benefit from, I think. A path was not forthcoming: the Wars only worsened. Puppets against puppets, mortals sacrificed, and yet with more dying -- and I do not mean dying in the sense that most think of, Your Majesty," Robert smirks with the knowledge. "I mean...the removal of their force from existence. From the cosmos. From the cycle. From the Well...whatever imagery your spirit lineage and gods believed in. Oblivion."
"I think you went...another direction? I cannot say," Robert stops. "I am not a Truthsayer. I am...Communications. That is what I Am. That is not my place in this, I do not believe, to interpret individual roads and paths. I am but a Conduit. A child damned when the War raged through Salisbury once. But someone offered me hope, and told me that those things that had been told to me, of my soul, of my loss to the universe, was not true."
"That is where I live now, Davydd," Robert finishes his second cup, looking at the empty bottom. "That is how I choose to live."
He blinks at the Your Majesty. Likely for that there would have been some comment. But you continue speaking and in such a tale, he can say nothing. For your story, there is respected silence. Again, moments after your speech has ended, he says nothing. And then his attention draws inward. "What I was trying to do..." he exhales in explanation, his other hand reaching up to rake through his very short hair. "...was trying to help, albeit in my usual fucked up fashion that no one other than myself understood. I thought it's what I had to do, to reawaken... part of myself that lay dormant. She thinks I turned away from them. That was not my intention. What I was trying to do ...I was trying to choose to move toward them, in the way that I thought was needed. In the way that I thought I was destined. I did not think I could... continue as I was. I was wrong." Snorting a laugh without mirth, Davydd shakes his head, "...on more levels than you can ever imagine..."
The quintessential Celtic face is smooth but stormy with internal clouds gathering, his face becoming shadowy. "I do not blame anyone for misunderstanding my intentions, for I misunderstood them myself, Robert. I thought I had to choose a certain life to be of any use, to help the dying world and those suffering in it. But all it brought was ruination."
Davydd ap Owain settles back in his side of the booth. He nods his head to your own personal story. "I am glad that someone was there for you. To tell you those things. The world, I think, would be a different place, and not a better one, if you were not here." In this moment, he cannot say the same thing for himself. And certainly he has not had the same mentorship.
Davydd stamps out his cigarette. "If she wants Mithras, tell her that's easy..." Davydd lifts his gaze to you, the green worlds wild within them, dark, deep woods that they are. "I'd do it myself but I'm happy enough with the way he is." Ash falls from the burning end of the cigarette as he rolls it into the glass of the ashtray.
"I was worried for a time there, just a few months ago, that I was going to lose him," he murmurs. "Lose myself, lose everything. I panicked when I felt control and order slipping away like so much loose sand. I... was trying to do too much, be too much to too many different people, sides of things, and not feeling myself a part of anything. But there's nothing to worry about where he is concerned. He is as he has been since he and I ...first met."
He is quiet for a time again, letting the sounds in the pub roll and wash over him. Chiming and tinkling glass. Other conversations. The passing of waitstaff like the shifting of birds on branches in a migratory break. "I hear what you are saying, and I will mark it in my memory, Robert."
Robert listens quietly, single hand around his cup. "Mayhaps you were right," he offers. "You chose a path then, forged alliances on what you knew," he shrugs. "Those kinds of choices -- who knows what they do or do not mean. But it is the first choice, to decide what kind of existence one can create from tragedy, that is where it begins, I should think."
"Hindsight is clear-sighted," Davydd exhales, cigarette crushed and the fire is out. "And all the things I have done, there's not a single one I'd repeat but one, and that was lodging the king's sword in Mithras' chest." Everything else are just floats in a giant parade of regrets and mistakes. "That was a good moment," he finishes in a breath.
"So... now... we'll see what they say, we'll see what she says, and I'll go from there. I suppose it won't be the end of the world if I'm told to sod off. I'll just have to..." he rolls his shoulders in a shrug. Well, he's not sure. "I'll have to find something else to do, another way to approach it all, I guess." He wants to be dramatic, it is his nature, but he's remarkably holding back. "I appreciate you telling me what you have. Do you want another round of tea? It's on me..."
He's going to have another round of scotch, for certes. He is turning in the booth, a twist and a raise of his hand...
"Oh, you're so generous," Robert smiles, always ready for another cup. He grins and twirls the white teacup in his hands. "I am sure that...the sect could use your attention. Local and small, that is my motto," Robert suggests. "I...negotiated a feud," he recalls. "I was...a scant childe, then. My sire learned that I could talk with the best of them - I know, I know, it's hard to believe. A local Lord would not come to an agreement with Howells who was on His Majesty's privy then. There was talk of confiscating the land by Howells for the crown, though, of course, the crown did not care. Lord Brannerwell, who was a good man, found himself too far out with Howells and his cronies. My sire, who had an interest in this, sent me to talk to Howells and to Lord Brannerwell. We found a solution, a mortal, political one, that diffused the situation."
Robert grins and looks away, thinking of something. "That fulfilled my sire's needs for then. But I learned something else. About myself. And I grew in the..." he can't say Camarilla, "...among my Kind as they needed. But always mindful to try and be...a contributor. Even when my...Kind...were not."
"I never knew my sire," to put it bluntly. "I don't reckon we would have gotten on. I hear he was a bit of a prick." Davydd smiles suddenly, and it's like the resurrection of Humor. But it doesn't last long. He takes a swallow of scotch.
No, you had a different existence from the get-go, Robert. You actually had someone there to tell you what you were, even if it was full of a bunch of shite.
"Everything I had, I made myself. Everything I learned was trial and error on the run. Burning my skin, or the feeling you get when you're starving. Who to serve, where to go. I guess it's not surprising that in the end I chose to serve myself. I lived on my own, sometimes having to... what's that line? Depend upon the kindness of strangers?" Kelly's not here to confirm the quote, so he just shrugs. "So... I've done what I've done. The best way ... sometimes the only way... I knew how. I've never... really belonged in The Group," he capitalizes the Camarilla there. "When I could trust I wasn't going to be killed, then I fell in with Plantagenet and Meurelle off liberating parts of Spain from the splitters," anarchs and sabbat. "I haven't had much use to Them otherwise. I just never ...found my niche. And now, at my age," he chuckles, smile going wry, "...it's a bit late."
His mood's not improving. He's a lot less volatile, so maybe that's a start, but he's no less moody. "Local and small is where it counts, in all things," he does agree there. But he owns nothing, belongs to nothing, there's not a city that'll really have him. Too much baggage. Too old to start at the bottom and work his way back up. What do you do with an elder who's looking to contribute? Apart from running them out of town or staking them before they "get ideas"?
Elders do; that's what makes them elders. They don't ask (William never asks), and they don't beg upon the mercy of the court or the prince. They show up and do things. But what am I qualified to do, other than ... well, what am I qualified to do? Maybe that's the question that has to be answered before I can ask anyone else for patience, forgiveness, understanding or...better yet... employment.
It's making his head swim. Or is that the scotch?
"It's never too late," Robert says, taking a drink from his refilled cup. "But..." Robert quirks, "...why would you think that you would have been killed before you met William and Edward?" That, he does not understand. "No doubt...what I know of Spain...it was a marvelous thing that you were there. If I am prying too much, please do let me know, Davydd."
Glass tinkles, filling the room with chimes.
"I was made and Mithras disappeared, never to be seen again, rather frighteningly close together. Of course, when it happened, I didn't know what the fuck it was," his eyes widen a bit in emphasis. "I just wanted to get the hell out of Glastonbury and back to Wales. I felt like a fugitive for the first two centuries. Never staying in one place too long. Spain, France, Ireland. Mithras had enemies I felt I had inherited. There was no one there to tell me differently and I wasn't going to wait around and see. Not to mention others who were involved in Welsh matters at the time," the fae he most likely means. "I was a pariah of both houses far as I could see." He shakes off your notion of prying. "Nah, it's alright, Robert. It's all water under many bridges by now."
He finishes his scotch and doesn't immediately order another. "I met up with Meurelle shortly after Meurelle's own entrance into the world. I knew his sire. I stayed at her oasis for a while when I was young. All manners of folks coming and going. It was a strange confederation that oddly enough suited me for a while. And I spoke Spanish, courtesy of my former wife, which was a blessing. I stayed there a while after making sure she got back to her homeland, with my children. I returned to Wales, I guess it was in the early 1500s. I turned to thievery to have some money. I was damned good at it," a little smirk.
"I had nothing when I was taken and given nothing when I was made. I had to take it from others. Inspire a few ballads, and then I started throwing myself into combat. Napoleon, world wars. And now here I sit, this modern mess. I'm like those poor bastards that are born and die on the street at night every night from careless and thoughtless sires, only I survived to become an elder. How, well... God in His mercy, Robert, God in his mercy..."
Robert laughs slightly, still pouring over his latest cup of tea. Soon the pot will be gone, and from the considering gaze, he will soon follow the way of the leaves. "It is not an unusual story, Davydd -- well, save the part about your sire -- many, far too many, have suffered the same. Left. Abandoned. Or simply, lost. Perhaps you can give them a unique insight? And, since you have made it to Elder," Robert grins, "...there is Hope for them too."
"They need to understand that," Robert murmurs softly.
The glass gives up a reflection of his own eyes, mirrored worlds just sitting there, closed off. Just as much as he has been. It, being only an expression of himself. Those eyes lift up to you and seem to peer. It is more to the point that he is peering inward as much as at yourself. He listens, he says nothing, and in the end he nods.
You think so...
Maybe it is so...
With an exhale, like the breath of resolve, Davydd settles back. "We'll see. From the way that Sebastian tells it, I might find London a bit less hospitable than it was before. But ... no one says it has to be here, whatever it is I decide to do." The look is decidedly curious, "You wouldn't know anything about certain...displeasures at the moment, would you? Apart from the usual hatred or boredom, that is. Something about the clan of the Rose being a little less fond of me, not that they ever were all that fond to begin with," he rolls his eyes and gives the room his attention again.
A deft change of subject and another scotch...
"Hm," Robert nods slowly. Not that he dabbles in gossip, but Communications is communications. "In truth, several members of the Rose are not delighted upon the story they believe to be true of one of their archons." Precision in this. "As usual, stories are told. You know how these things are. And coupled with other stories regarding Ventrue activity in the city and its sources, a few are...going to talk about the Ventrue and other Ventrue in particular." Robert shrugs slightly. "I do not pay heed to that, Davydd, and you should not either."
"Jesus, you'd think they'd find something else to do with their time than to wonder which woman is leaving me when. Aren't there museums in this town? I mean, and me, it's not as if I'm William all of the sudden. One woman, Robert, and bless her soul she lived with me a long three years. That's more than most in a single outing."
He's not happy about it. He's not happy that the whole thing didn't go well. And he's less happy about it that others are talking about it. And, of course, there's only one person to blame. "Rosamund's having a field day, is she?" Davydd snorts a short laugh, but his eyes are twinkling with something other than joy and mischief. He shrugs it away and reaches for a cigarette in his jacket.
"I won't pay her any visits, she has enough problems with Mortimer," he promises. "And I'll just let Sebastian's ... advice and admonition," fiery eyebrows cock up, "... lie then. Sounded like from what he said I might find it too rocky to sit down long. But then, it's Sebastian. He and I have never really thought much of one another. I know there's no love lost for him on my account."
"Sebastian..." Robert opines, "...is the primogen. He hears every whisper of complaint that becomes an avalanche. And he must put himself in the way of the avalanche at every moment of every night. He's sacrificed to it, that altar of snow."
"But I wax too poetic," Robert grins.
"You know how this game is played, Davydd, yes? Come now. Court is court. Slights, perceived or real, are equal. They are what they are," Robert offers, smiling. "They do not know yet, Davydd, that there is more. They...just don't know."
"So the answer to your question is..." Robert finishes, "...no. They do not have anything else to do with their time, Davydd."
"And no," Robert chuckles, "...this isn't to say that The Knight is without faults, either."
It's not news to him; it was a rhetorical question. There's just a shrug to follow that, the quirking up of eyebrows. I'm one to talk, the expression seems to say. "Well, Ro-bear," he phases, using that familiar slaughtering of the name's French origins as he sighs it out, "...I want to thank you for ... the drinks and the conversation. I've... a lot of thinking to do, and we all know," the voice of the dragon rumbles out, "...that I'm not partial to it. I think I'm going to head off for the now. Big night tomorrow. Fate and all that, hanging in the balance," he finishes with dramatic humor, far more like himself than he has been all night.
"It's... always good seeing a friendly face now and again, you know," Davydd says quietly as he leans in, his hand reaching and taking his jacket in the same motion. "Best night in London I've had for a while. We'll... do it again sometime, I'm sure..." Well, he's not sure about anything, but he's willing to hazard a guess.
The pensive face, the even look, the moody mouth of the old prince gives way to a sudden grin. "If he had any more faults, he'd be California," he quips, rising. A hand comes on your shoulder after his jacket's back in place. You're a good man, says the hand as it pats you there. "I'll find a way to get in his good graces somehow. Maybe I'll suggest someone erect a statue in the main square. Poor Admiral Nelson could use a break." Speaking of the pigeon excrement in Trafalgar, no doubt.
Robert laughs. "He'd like a statue," he nods on it.
"Take care, Davydd," Robert says softer. He crosses his legs. A tad more to go in this pot. "I"ll see you later, mate, hmm?"
A guy in starched jeans and shirt walks about, taking and delivering orders on a tray.
"God in his Mercy," Davydd murmurs back, his look serious and heavy with thoughts in his yet swimming brain. His hands are going for cigarettes as soon as he says it, the weight of his grasp leaving your shoulder and he gives you a nod of farewell.
God in his Mercy lend her grace, the lady of Shallot... funny how that poem fits. Curses, Avalon, the whole ruddy life-through-a-mirror thing. It's better in a rhyme than it ever lived...
A fire leaps in the alley briefly, a billow of smoke on a breath moments after, and the figure in darks and whites looks up to the overcast sky. What are the chances of rain, he may wonder. Probably better than the chances of Bristol and her Others saying 'Yes'...
Posted by rowan at October 17, 2004 11:19 PM
