It is before the start of the second night of silence. A mind confused and muddled, a soul and a heart torn and ravaged by Past and Present sorrows intertwining ... did not take much rest. There has been no one who could understand the Latin...or the Norman...or the southern dialects of his mother's French, to help him. And the blonde upon the bed moved not, nor would he. He is...as good as dead. And though a part of William knows it is but the Sleep that comes from draining, that part is buried. Beneath pain. Beneath guilt. Beneath confusion.
Beneath Regression. Time is lost and William is lost with it.
     So, just before twilight comes, William comes with it. From the chamber of no sound, to the living room. A dagger held in his hand. The blade touched to his cheek. Pain is Now, and so in bloody deeds he reminds himself of his Present. Indigo eyes catch sight of the computer. Left on from last night's conversation. Alexandra's number ...still present and ready to redial. And so...the number is entered again...with the push of a button. And William sinks into a chair. The blade of the dagger pulled a little against his cheek. The mark does not last. But the show of blood remains. "Alexandra," he is already speaking. Voice is uncertain, and his accent is thick.

     And so the call went through. For her, the night has it's own significance, the one she spoke of before. The Dark One has finally left. The last taste of blood was taken earlier in the night, and even so, she is now free of the scandal that has wrought her for the last year. Is she surprised to be told that there is a call coming in for her on the video monitor? Of course, but when she takes a seat in front of it, there is almost a radiant glow to herself. It is, perhaps, the most starkest of contrasts. To your own upset, pain, and confusion, she is actually pleased, relaxed, and her blue eyes are as clear as ever. She speaks before she even has a chance to settle into her chair, take a good look at you. "William! What a surprise, my dear...."
     And then she Sees. Perception is indeed one of the hallmark traits of the Navarre family. The dagger in your hand, the trail of blood. But even more so...the look in your indigo. It stops her in her tracks, unable to say anything for a moment. And when she does, it is a soft
whisper. "William. What is...happening?"

     Three words he has never uttered, but they come. Quietly and thickly, a tangle of Modern and Ancient French. Straddling the language...even as he is the centuries. And those eyes of indigo close. "I need you." The eyes open. "Ian's .... " William's voice sticks in his throat and his expression is...a searching one. Trying to grasp onto words that will make sense. As if he were lost, and having to translate. And is that not precisely it? "He is not moving ... and I am... forgetting."
     Unhindered, a streak of crimson rolls over the high cheekbone beneath his right eye. "I need you, Alexandra..." First, he needs to calm down. That is evident...but here...alone...with someone appearing dead in his own bedchamber...that is not likely. And panic is easy to see. And it is ancient. His indigo eyes swim with violet ... and crimson. Stark. Beautiful. And his pain but heightens it in him.

     It is..the only real way to see the true age of the Kindred. Through their eyes. And for a fleeting moment, her clear blue look old and tired. Ian has told you, has he not? This one that is even older then himself. And there is also fear, not just that something has happened to Ian, something she not yet understands, but to see yourself, her strong Knight of old, like this..."Sweet Mary." The words roll off her tongue, both a curse...and a prayer that no, this is not happening. Not now, not like this. Is there a hint of your own panic?
     But then it descends. A cold breeze. A chill. The shield that is raised, both for her to hide her feelings behind and to draw strength from. "William....anything. Just be...calm, my dear. And I will do what you need of me."

     Your strong Knight of old. You have surely seen him thus before. Roll back the clock of your mind and memory. See the past tick by in seconds, centuries passing that quickly. When William felt for the first time in his then...short life... the earth move out from under his feet. And it left him scrambling for earth for centuries. Eight centuries to try to get back to where he was before Fate and her children had their way with him. This is the same face. The feelings... are nearly identical. At least, at this moment. Perhaps it will pass quicker the second time....than it did the first.
     William closes his eyes. And there is silence. A steadying silence. A silence filled with his own battles, within. Past and Present war between themselves. "I need you to come to me," comes the southern French of his Aquitaine...in a native ease...rougher than Modern French...but also more lyrical. A blend of spanish and french...it sounds. Still holding onto to particles and parts of Latin influence...and the influence of Araby upon them all. "I need you to come to America..." The eyes open and they are filled with fire and with sorrow both. "Alexandra. I am ... " And his brows lift a little. "Alone. And Ian will not waken..." And he is losing his battle to Regression. The panic is as much for that perhaps, as anything else.

     There are...things she has made a habit of not remembering. The circumstances that brought you to her eye, her hand in that particular claiming of Fate...that is one of them. The last time Ian lay before her and would not move...that is another. But these are things she has spoken of, things dealt with. A battle lost and a life almost claimed by the Church. But the sound of your Aquitaine, your Norman tongue, it stirs within her things that have never been spoken. Or dealt with. Her hand, it reaches for the side of her desk. Grasps it. Her weight leaned slightly forward. Can she make out your words? Her husband..her sire...had taught them to her. But you have never asked de Navarre for anything, and now that you have..."I will fly out of Barcelona as soon as I can, William." Her own French is modern. She will not speak the ancient tongues. "I can be there tomorrow eve..." And it's not soon enough. It takes just a look into your eyes to tell her that. "I will send someone to you tonight, William. To stay with you."

     He nods. "I only have twelve days, Alexandra. To undo it all." Aquitainian French. That southern dialect rolls off and out, quiet and quick. Yes, the fact that William is regressing, is in pain and is frightened not only because of the events of the past two and three nights but because of the Regression Itself... and has access to very sharp things, the dagger but one of them, is....disconcerting at best. William takes in a breath and sighs. The battle won for the moment. But it is only an unsteady truce. Until you get here...the war will rage on. "Tomorrow evening... and then you will take me to Europe...? How will he ever wake?" That, in Modern French.

     She does not understand twelve days. The words pass her by. Her mind has already started in on the details. This will...have to be done a certain way. So that no one can find out she has left Pamplona, so that no one knows there is a problem. The details are easier for her to think of, then...other things. "And then we will figure this out together, William." When you are more yourself, when she can assess the situation. There is a slight..flicker of her eyes from yours, to the dagger. It is a War, and part of her fears for the woman she would send into it tonight, but even more...there is a fear of what might happen should you loose. "He will awake. Trust me on that, my dear."

     William wants to believe that. You can see the struggle in his eyes. To both grasp it...and yet, afraid that if grasped, it shall pull him under. That hope. In such a state, sleep is not sleep. It is death. "I trust you," William murmurs. And then he loses his battle again. The screen is stared at...strangely. Confusion. Sorrow. Until someone is with him... truly with him. Who can hold his hand and say 'this is the 21st Century' ...he will come and go. It was Ian's touch who could always rescue him from the darkness of it. That hand lies still and
cannot lift to do it.
     The dagger flickers in the screen as the light of the living room reflects off of it. It is lowered from his cheek and rests in his hand...his hand resting on the arm of the chair. He may be there still, whenever your...person comes to him. In that chair, with that .....comfort in his hand. He had a sword in his hand the night of Catherine's death. He had a sword in his hand the night of his own death. It is ...all he has left. His grasp upon the earth...moving out from under his feet.

     There is a deep intake of breath, let out slowly. In the Game of the Kindred, time has always been her ally. It means nothing to those who spend centuries at work. But tonight...now...it is her enemy. But even if she could reach out to you now, take your hand, raise it to her lips and try to bring you some comfort and reassurance, would you even believe it was her? The cold, commanding woman who's image is before you? Alexandra draws herself up, nodding her head slightly. Again it is stated, for you to find what little you can in it: "It will be alright. My Jo will be with you in a matter of minutes, and myself, tomorrow eve." And then with a press of a button, the image is replaced by...darkness.

Posted by rowan at June 03, 1998 04:04 PM