A side door opens and Phillip himself arrives, warmed evening drink in hand. Wine has been noticeably absent the last night--he is not silly, even if he is not that old. The other servants have been noticeably absent; you have been tended by Phillip himself on the singular occasion he has appeared. Here is the other. A tray is set near the low burning fireplace, house kept alive and as energetic as possible. What looks like a cup of warmed milk does have faint traces of wafting brandy, but rest assured it is not enough. Simply a comforting tonic from the others who live there, unseen. They too are confused, but have not forgotten you. A few items are picked up, and the aspiring butler turns to head back to his kitchen.

     He has not moved much from the chair. He slept there, when sleep claimed him. The dagger thankfully fell to the floor, its sharp blade but scraped the floor. Nothing more. No more wound than that. The drapes are drawn tight, as they have been. And Phillip came and went unheard. It was the popping of the fire that woke him. Slowly, indigo eyes open. Steps. That jerks William upright, his body waking all at once. His eyes squint, narrowing. The nearby fire is blaring to him. At least at first. It will calm later. William sighs and leans forward. Elbows resting on thighs. Head in hands. Black hair is a sheen in the firelight.

     "C...can we get you..." Phillip croaks, "...something, Sir?" He stands with a tray held to himself, hating that he spoke and broke the silence...but he couldn't help it. Something had to be said as you look so awful...they all wonder what they can do...what to do.

     William rakes his hands through his hair. He needs a shower, but...he...can't go back in there without someone being here to give him a portion of earth to grab onto. Seeing Ian...that way... is unbearable. After a moment, William sighs and after another moment he sits up and turns his head toward the voice. Phillip. He hates being seen this way -- it will bother him later. For now, he is beyond such thoughts. "Are there any...pears in the kitchen?" he says softly. In English.

     "Yes, Sir," Phillip nods eagerly, happy that you have asked for something. Especially food. "We will bring you some immediately." A smiling inhale and he turns about, disappearing quickly into the kitchen area.

     While he was lowered, he caught the gleam of his dagger. Blood. And he sighs again. Another bend and William lifts it. It is cleaned against his shirt -- ruining it -- but the dagger is cleansed at least. His gaze keeps to his hands more than anywhere else.

     It is only a couple of minutes before Phillip returns. He brings out a lovely plate, two pears upon it. One is partially sliced, the other left whole. In addition, his tray bears a small floral teapot and matching cup, both of which are also set nearby. A set of mixed teas is left, with sugar and milk. Stepping back, Phillip blinks a few times, "Um..." he glances at the kitchen...certainly they are all huddled there..."...we..." he looks down, frowning, knowing it is inappropriate, "...we...want to say...all of us...we want you and the other Sir..." he swallows, "...to be okay." Embarrassed and feeling stupid--that didn't quite come out right--he frowns deeply at himself now, already becoming smaller and backing towards the kitchen.

     "Thank you, Phillip." Softly borne, those words hold the whole of his emotion and William looks up from his dagger, his eyes narrowed. His gaze shifts toward the kitchen, as if he could see them huddled there. Perhaps he can feel them. He cannot see them. William might be embarrassed were he not so...unpacked as he is. "Tell them...that..." Tell them what? He is thinking of the words, trying to find them. "...that I appreciate that...and that I am sure that Mr. Dunross will be...fine."
     His words are very even, very quiet, and very thought out. As if he were trying to convince himself of that as much as Phillip and the rest of the staff. He reaches over, taking the uncut pear. And with his dagger and an ancient motion he begins cutting a wedge for himself. His eyes on his fingers, moving, and the golden fruit.

     A weak smile tries to be grateful. He nods a few times, nervous pause, then turns and quickly leaves--to the quietly murmuring voices behind the door. A 'shhh' and they go still.

     Cutting the fruit is mesmerizing. It has been a ... kind of meditation for this old knight. On the eve of every battle he ever fought, there was a pear but, wedges eaten...and shared. William takes the first wedge and settles back in the chair...a slow collapse. And he sighs.

     Oddly enough, there is motion from the kitchen continuously. Not loud...just life. As if they want you to know they are in there, moving around. And food is cooked, smells leaving the confines of the galley to waft through the house. They do have to eat. But it is as if in shifts. Silence will not prevail. Normally church mouse-ish, the young men keep a gentle din; noise to pass the time, scents to fill the house.

     William lets the sounds wash over him. He does not seem to react to them...or even to notice them. They become a buzz in the background...life hovering about. But no more than this. Perhaps that is enough. His eyes are on the pear in his hands, the dagger glinting
there, the rhythm of the turning and cutting.

     It was a drive to Barcelona. A seat on the red eye to LA arranged by Stephan, knowing only that something was wrong, and Alexandra was needed in the States. From there, to Portland, where Josette was waiting for her. Relieved to be out of the house, away from those things the young mortal does not understand. It is a tense drive into New Port. Two women, separated by centuries, related by blood, comforting each other. Only Alexandra approaches the door when the rental car pulls up at the ranch. The crisp, clear, knocks are heard at the door.

     The kitchen door pushes open...attendant Phillip glancing around the room to see if William is about. A look is given him, then to the door...wondering if he should see to it. A snap decision and he does, exiting the kitchen to begin the walk to the front door to open it. William glances up at the sound, sharply. For a moment he hesitates...he and Phillip both...as if neither wish to answer it and yet both cannot bear for it to continue. But Phillip is already on his way, and William has not moved from his chair. The chair perfect for two. "Merci, Phillip," he mutters.

     Quietly he crosses the room, stepping up the stairs to the heavy wood door. Dressed impeccably, he stiffens as he opens the door--placing himself in front of the partial opening as to conceal the room...it's his home and family too, and right now he's not into disturbances. Of course, he doesn't know the visitor is expected. The door creaks, and there's a "Good evening, may I help you?"

     She is not... a woman to warn of her arrival in the best of circumstances. In the worst, she pulled everything that she had together to be here in one night, like she promised. And while she may seem...to be an odd visitor to the Ranch...short and lithe, dressed simply in jeans, a blouse, and a black jacket, her presence is felt. Cold, hard, and not to be denied. A chill from the fall Oregon night slips through the open door, but it could just as easily been brought by the look in her blue eyes. "Where is William?"

     There's a blink from Phillip, and as his brow drops, he turns around to see William. Apparently, she is to be here. Or something. "Um...Sir..." he whispers, opening the door a little, "...a lady is here asking after you..."

     He turns at the voice, pear and dagger yet in his hands...his head and his body both turning in the embrace of it. "Let her in...." William is still not the most talkative fellow, but at least it's in English. "Alexandra..." he says in greeting. Far more muted than she's used to. But his expression is...expectant. Relieved.

     With that, the door is opened wider, to allow the lady inside. To the side, Phillip waits, to eventually take her bags.

     There are no bags to be taken. Just....Alexandra. The few things she brought with her will remain with Jo. Out at the car. And she does not have the mind for such things anyway. Quick, graceful strides bring her into the room. Eyes searching for the voice she recognizes so well. And when she catches it....there is a slight intake of breath. It is the only break in her composure before the angle starts to descend at William's side. "William, my dear..."

     No bags. Phillip peers around the stoop and checks the lady. Seeing none, he closes the door behind and dutifully leaves the room to the side.

     William rises slowly, his body is a bit stiff for being in that chair a full night and a day. "Welcome to America," he says softly. "Thank you...I..." He pauses, glancing down to the fruit and the dagger in his hand. "I have not gone back here...again...but Ian is...in the bedroom," he murmurs, in Modern French -- that which is more comfortable for him and you both. "...if you want to go see him." Not that he can return the favor.

     Cold blue regards William carefully as he stands. Eyes moving over his body, looking to see...that state he might be in. To try to peace together what on her Gods earth is going on. A hand rises, pushing back her hair, tucking it behind an ear. "In a moment, perhaps." Yes, she will have to see him. To try to figure out what can be done. But she has been traveling so long, and beside the perfectly made mask, the calm demeanor, she can not bear to see him yet. It is good, that you speak your French in modern ways. The ancient languages are not...music to her ears. "At the moment, I am concerned about you."
     Having secured her hair, the hand slips down, to rest on your arm. Her words might be carefully measured and emotionless, but she offers you that touch.

     Concerned about him. "Merci," he whispers. There is a pause. "Would you like something to drink?" Again, the modern French. William sits down again, courtesy done with, and another wedge of pear is cut, and then tasted. It is more for the focus than for any sort of need of taste. And it cannot nourish him. William's expression is ...strangely placid. But his eyes are still unquiet. They flicker, brilliant. But speak of pain and confusion. "I am...awake....Alexandra." And Ian is not. That sentiment hangs unspoken on the air. Just as he once retorted that he was 'alive'...when Catherine was not.

     "Something to drink...would be good. Cold and sweet." Alexandra says softly as she watches you sit, her hand slipping away with your movements. Steps bring her to a chair across from you. It is descended upon with her usual grace, her careful air. Silence slips down with her, as she settles back, turning your words over in her mind. What can she say? She does not even know yet what happened. She can only...worry, fear, be upset....and she will not be anything of those things publicly.
     Her French drawl coming slowly, she settles with, "I know he sleeps, William. And I know...this is hard for you. But I do not...understand. The other night..." She drops that train of thought. The other night things had been fine. A date arranged. How did things change in such a heartbeat? "...what happened?"

     William shakes his head, and the placid expression ... facade that it was ... falls away. Sorrow. And guilt. "I ...don't know. It was fine..." and he looks back down to his hands. Focusing. "He was laughing, and then we started talking about this thing with you. And this...one that we know here...who...we think may be connected to our own recent problems." And he did say 'our'...meaning this latest thing with you.
     William takes a breath, holds it ...it is exhaled out quietly moments later. William sets the dagger and what remains of the pear down, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a now crumpled letter. "Ian wrote this...." He holds it out to you. "We were talking, and I ....confessed something to him." He falls quiet then and is immediately tense. Warm stone, but stone nonetheless. "It is ...my doing."

     There is...a slight tremble to the hand that holds the letter. Sorrow or rage? There is no way to tell from the blank look on her face as she reads it. Once. Twice. A third time. You can mark the progress as her eyes move across the page. Finally, it is folded. The hand steadied. She does not offer it back. "This confession involved Another?" It is both a question, and not a question. And spoken in a way that makes it clear she knows, and should have known, what brought this. The letter is folded a second time. "And he could not take it? Embraced the sleep of sleeps?" There is no blame given you, in her voice. Or in the gaze that turns back to you. But there is little warmth as well.

     William is not looking at you. He cannot bear it. It would but be a mirror unto his own soul. He is quiet for a time, seemingly entranced by the glint of the dagger blade held balanced by his own fingers. Glittering with pear juice. The sweetness is ...nearly overwhelming. "I would hate to disappoint after so long a life of knowing me," he remarks bitterly, aimed inward.
     His eyes close and he leans forward. Elbows once again to his thighs, head once more in his hands. Fingers raking through his raven hair. "It was over two-hundred years ago...once then...once some...several months ago. Both times I was drunk off my ass and alone. I know it doesn't pardon it." You don't have to scold him, he's doing a good job of that himself. "After nine bottles of wine, anything looks appealing if one's starving," he whispers.
     "And I...had not pledged the True Pledge then. I have been true to my word, Alexandra. When I did finally give it. But..." William is quiet for a few moments. "This one...he...was in France when you were accused...so it is our belief..." William looks up after a moment, "And so...I thought it...important ...for everyone's sake...to admit my own failing. Old as it was, foolish as it was, and..." He leaves it unfinished. You know the rest of it now.

     She should not be surprised. She knows of your ways. Not just the drinking, and the drugs. But the women, those that have spanned centuries. Her one little one, here in New Port. Was she not one of them? And while there was an unspoken promise not to tell a soul, of course she told her aunt. But this...it is hard for her to wrap her mind around it all at once. As quick as her mind is, was that...Him? A man? In Paris? Dear god, one of the Toreador? Someone who may have something to do with the blood oath she sealed last night?
     It is surprise she feels, for a moment, it flickers in her blue eyes. It is then that she drops her gaze from you, for you not to see it. See the other things that threaten to slip through the growing cracks in her armor. "I....see." She falls silent then, as her eyes find other things to focus on. The decor of the room. Other then that slight movement, there is no other. One still thing she has not figured out. One last question remains. But how to phrase it? She does not mean further ill, but she can not help who she is. "Why did you not stop him?"

     "I did not know...until we returned back from Spain...I did not know...until but a short-time ago. I do not know..." He sighs. "I've...lost too much time." William shakes his head. "And ... he is such a fool, I surely would not think he would do such a thing. This is all...new..news to me. I would not have ...sat upon the knowledge of it, Alexandra. Think what you will of me." William rises after that, his eyes are full of red. "Think what you will," he
whispers...seriously.
     Accepting it, whatever it is. Surrender to it, whatever those thoughts are. "It has been a....busy few months...and I have..." his words pause a moment or two, letting that hang there unsupported as he wanders to the fire. To be closer to the finality of heat and flame. "...told Ian much that went unsaid. And I just want him...awake and I want him living again. I would like your help, not for my sake. But for his. He...does not ... It is not right that he should go into the dark when he has done nothing." The dagger shines at his side, where it is tucked between leather and flesh. William leans against the hearth ..the mantle.
     William sighs, "Besides, this city will fall apart if he...does not wake." William does not mention that he will not be able to stand without him. That should fairly well be evident.

     She watches as you rise, taking in your sight. Nothing go unnoticed by her as her gaze moves to you. Not the sheathing of the knife, or the red in your eyes. But she herself is slow to take stand. You would think that she is, perhaps, sitting there...baring judgement upon you? A cold Queen on her throne. And that is what she will let you think, perhaps. For she can not say anything else. She does not even trust her legs not to betray what she feels. There is a slight touch of her tongue to her lips, which have suddenly gone very dry.
     A slowly taken deep breath. And then she sweeps up, sliding off her jacket with the same movement. It is left on the chair. The letter left by Ian is folded yet again and tucked into a jean pocket. She finds resolution and strength, and uses it to push up the sleeves of her blouse, and to offer you a slight nod of her head. "Let me see him." What she can do, what she will do, there is nothing said on that yet.

     William doesn't want to walk back down that hallway. He hasn't been in there since...the first night of it all. And if anyone is in judgement, sitting on a throne, it is William...damning himself. The gavel strikes at his heart and his body is tense with it. Taking in a deep breath, holding it, William tips back his head. And then he turns around. He goes only so far as the hallway. "It is the first door to the left...it isn't locked..." he murmurs, French again. He stays in the living room...near the hallway entrance. But he seems rather ...stuck in the earth at that point. Becoming a statue....suddenly.

     She follows slowly, a quiet, elegant pace. And when you come to a stop, so does she. There is a click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She glances over in the direction that you indicated, and then returns her frozen gaze back to you. "If you would be so kind. Ask for that drink." Alexandra will not ask you to come along. Perhaps that is best. Not just that you do not see the body again, so soon. But she has words for the man who will not hear them. And she needs...some time. Like a breeze, she blows past you, to the door. It is opened, and then she slips inside, closing it behind herself.

     William is away from the hallway as quickly as he can be. Appearing at the hearthside again. "Phillip...." his voice is not booming, but it does carry... While he waits for him, William picks up what's left for the pear and returns to his chair. Sitting again with a sigh. Feeling
no better. No better at all.

     The room is quite still...as if empty. There is no fireplace going, despite the cool autumn nights. The sofa in the front of it sits cool, everything in the room in its place: chairs, cushions, rugs, tables. The Great Northwest decor sits like a model of interior design on display. The bathroom door stands open; the warm tile gleaming softly, perfectly clean. But in the middle of the heavy wood bed, laden with linen and bedspreads is its charge. He is perfectly place, a statue handled with infinite care. Ian lies surreal still, coverlets pulled high upon him as his hands fold along the edges. His blonde hair is unnaturally so, made more bright by the stark marble of his skin, veined lightly in blue. No Tremere magic here, no practiced falsities. He has been placed comfortably, off center of the bed, and there he sleeps peacefully.

     From the kitchen door, Phillip hurries out, wide-eyed. Oh, God, nothing else could have happened, hmm? He swallows and looks around, but...the lady is gone. "Yes, Sir?" he asks William softly.

     He doesn't look up. "Could you please bring me a bottle of the house Flagrante...and only one glass." He pauses, then adds softly, "It is for my....guest." William settles back within the embrace of the chair. And he closes his eyes. Dagger sheathed. Pear held in his hand. And he sighs.

     "Yes, Sir," is the response, and feet directed out.

     There is no noise to indicate to the servant where Alexandra has gone. There is silence from the room. If tears are shed, they are done so without a sound, and without evidence. And it will remain that way, for many long minutes, as Alexandra tries to come to grips with what she should do. This isn't like the last time, when she sat by Ian's side for eight months, waiting for him to awake. This is different. This is between the two of you. A fitted puzzle where she has always been the odd piece. For nearly nine centuries she has watched this drama play out. She stood still and watched when Ian killed your wife, William. She knew what it would do if you ever found out. It was a bitter, upset, and angry thing for her to do. Standing aside and watching. But she is not sure...what...if anything...she can do differently this time. Minutes pass. And then more. Before the door opens once again.

     When you re-enter, you will see him in the chair, just as he was when you came in. Withdrawn and unpacked. The litter of his heart about his feet. Pear and dagger set aside. Head in his hands. His mind is such a war. What is to be done? Where is he to find the key to unlock this all...

     Phillip returns with a bottle of Flagrante--1988. A rather nice year for the Ranch. He sets it down at a side table and retrieves his waiter's friend, deftly placing bottle underarm, inserting screw, turning and pulling. Almost immediately, he pours into a nearby glass, and setting friend and cork back into his pocket, he picks up the glass and bottle, quickly setting them at the end of the table where William is sit. A spin, and he is off to the kitchen once more.

     She does not retake her seat. She watches, from the hallway, as Phillip uncorks the bottle, pours the wine, and then retreats. Her soft steps do not carry her much further, instead, she leans against the wall of the hallway, and holds the vision of you, so obviously in so much pain. She will struggle to keep you from knowing her own feelings are not much different. For different reasons, yes. But it is pain still that she holds deep inside. When she does speak, it is both softly, her words carrying upon a breath to you. "When Ian wakes. Will it be any different?" The question hangs for a moment. Consideration?

     William lifts his head, his gaze looking ahead of him. Within him. "I ...am not sure..I understand your question," comes his soft reply.

     And she is not sure how else to phrase it. There is perhaps, a slightly tired stance in her lean against the wall. She has grown tired of all of this. There is a soft sigh, then, and instead of asking the question in another light, she says with more resolve, "Do you remember when Joan was married?" She who would give birth to three French Kings. The Queen from Navarre. "That wedding night, it was a coming out party, for many of us. It started with the battle where you were claimed, William. And it ended there. Those of us who were young, eager to make a name for ourselves in the House. To prove we were more capable then those before us. It was a bond, of sorts. A group of others from our Clan I have remained in touch with in the centuries that have followed."
     It is....a story that she is telling. The reason? It will make itself clear, perhaps. Alexandra does things...her own way. But as she does speak, her eyes, they remain fixated on you. "And lately, when we have meet, I have noticed two things we always end up talking about. The first, is which Elder has recently gone into torpor or died. The second, is concern for a younger generation that does not understand the old ways. Both, come from a fear that is hard to admit. The fear of growing older, to the point where you can not live this life anymore. The other, the fear of the young ones who would take control." There is a pause. A deep breath taken. "A generation gap. Those embraced before, and those after, the revolution."

     William has a fragile mind at the moment. It does not grasp onto things, perhaps, as he is usually wont to do. "You think Ian is ...tired of living..." A statement...an assumption...a question. William's eyes narrow. It is all much for him to stomach tonight. William stares at the glass of wine waiting for you on the table. The red of it. Deep as blood. "I understand such groups as those. Everyone ...has a ...gathering of sorts. But what do you mean by this
story?"

     "Ian is of that same generation, William. That I come from. That Stephen does." It is then that Alexandra pushes off from the hallway wall. Her legs take her just a few steps closer to yourself. It is something that is hard for her to speak. Because by speaking of any effect old age has had on him, she speaks for herself as well. But her voice, remains that of the cool, in control, Lady of Navarre.
     "We are...old Ventrue. We have ways. We have rules. We have the Game, the Jihad, call it whatever you will. And do not protest this William, do not mention to me your own age..." There is a slight hand that rises. The last time she made a comment like this, she knows it upset you well. "...but you are of that younger generation. You fought with us in the Revolution, yes. But you were not raised as we were. You were given the freedoms that the young ones have today. That we did not. Ian allowed you to be who ever you wanted to be, regardless. That gap has always been there between the two of you. But now...Ian is getting older, William. He will not let anyone inside, he will not let anyone help him remain strong, except you." No, not even her. The letter said as much, read between the lines. You are Ian's world. "So what I want to know is, will that change if he awakens now?"

     "Ian was very free with me. I have never been so free with myself. It is not as if the world was given to me and I merely caught it by the grace of my youth...." But he cuts off his own protest, even as your hands come up. Raising his own hand in apology. That same hand rakes through his black hair. "You are asking me to become like a god and give him his Fate as he once gave me. And I cannot promise you, Alexandra, that Ian will change...will reach out. I do not control him. I love him. Those two things," his accent clings to his French words...Modern french, ancient accent. It is oddly inflected. "cannot exist with one another."
     William closes his eyes. "I can kill the sabbat...I can wage my silent war as I have always done. I can run a city. I can do everything but promise you this." Indigo lands upon you. It is nearly tangible, his attention. "I can promise only that I will.....try. I will...do whatever I can. If that means...." His voice stills in his throat. "If that means that he should...spend some time away from me...then I will stay away. If it will make him well..." His words end in a breath of sound. "I do not know what more I may do....I do not know what you are asking me to do."

     "Maybe it was too fast....being different." She is quoting from the note that Ian left now. She must have memorized it, because it is not in her hand. She looks away from you. Walks to the table, her eyes now fixated on the glass of wine. It is taken in her hand. A few seconds later, the glass is held empty. She is...as Ian. Old Ventrue. And she has said it before to you, in her own way of apologizing, for she knows how you think of her. Ian has reproached her on this old subject before. Too old to change. In the silence that follows her last sentence, she inspects the glass. The few drops that still cling to the crystal, before finally giving way and slipping down the edge to the bottom. They are falling, but they can not do anything about it.
     "There were words spoken when we went to my mountains. Promises made. About honesty. Opening your heart. I balked, pulled back. Refused. Not just because....that is my way. But because I am not apart of you both. But Ian, he embraced the idea like a child who has been given a favorite toy for Christmas." She is running out of words. She does not
know how else to explain this to you, so that you will understand. "Ian has tried something that so many take for granted, expect for Us. What I want from you is a promise to try to understand that, and be patient with it. I do not expect you to fully understand. But I do expect you to try. If you can not do that..."
     There is a slight shrug from her shoulders. "I will do what I must do for Ian either way. But if you will not try and close that gap, then you should not be here when he awakes."

     He is confused. When has he never understood it? When has he ever said anything or done anything but what was asked of him? What has he ever done but honor his own word, when his word was given. And now he is being told he better 'understand' or get out of the way?'
     William shakes his head a little. He really doesn't understand. It is not a denial. It is...uncertainty. Perhaps. That feeling, again, of being lost. "I never asked him to be different," he whispers, in French again, thickly again. "I never asked for anything. Not for eternal life. Not for love. Not for this. Why is it you think I would not understand? Or that I would not try, when all I have done for the whole of my life is try to please the pair of you? To do .... all I may not only to ... please, protect or show honor and love...but to instill some sort of pride...to make it seem that this choice was not in error -- why would I have done all I have done, and then not try to help him now? If it meant my own peril, I would try for him."
     The more he speaks, the ....older his words become. More heavily inflected, until the dialect changes. Until the Norman rattles from his lips. He shakes his head. Dismayed. "I cannot give more than the whole of myself," he whispers. "I already said I would give this, and try my best. When ...have I ....ever done less?" Indigo eyes glint as they are narrowed, not in anger or even frustration...but in...perplexion. "I never asked him to change, Alexandra. I have only been trying to change myself." And with that, William rises again. "What needs to be done to wake him. You need...what? Blood? How much older than his own?"

     She is not going to argue this point with you. It is an old argument that she is too tired for. And what good would it do, besides? The Rake lives his life to please himself as much as anyone else. It is not for her that you have acted as such. Ian, he made his peace with that centuries ago. And because Ian did, she did as well. And not just for Ian, but because she has always tried to understand yourself. When she asked the Paris Clan for you, there was this image of a man, and she can not always reconcile that image she loved with who you became After. These are the things she holds in her mind. Tries to remind herself of.
     But when your dialogue breaks into the old Norman....so close to that spoken by her sire, the armor shows it's first cracks. And it is in the form of the glass in her hand breaking. Her fingers have clutched it to hard, and now there is splinters. There is ancient blood. The realization of what she has done causes her to turn from you. So that you can not really see.
     "You know, William. Whenever we get together, we speak. It is of you. But what do you really know about me? About Ian? About what we want?" Her voice falters, with that outburst that is so not Alexandra. And it is a deep, measured breath that brings it back to it's usual unflappable self. Details. How to wake Ian. What will be needed to be done while he sleeps. "He is older then when he last slept like this. I could be years before he awakes....but...any blood. Older, closer to Caine, will make that time shorter."

     "You never speak of yourself, Old Ventrue. You have already said that you would not. It is easier to talk about me, hmm," comes his Norman. "The rake...the childe...the one who has caused This Sleep. But what do you really know of me? I know Ian...as far as he has let me in. I know him...I would say...better than anyone on this earth. Including you." He pauses. "Will Sixth Generation do? All it will take is a phone call." At least the argument keeps him in This Century. Sometimes...you have to take the bad with the good.
     William turns his gaze from you. "We never truly know one another...all we can hope to do...is try to understand," he whispers afterwards. Calm again. Anger bursts, but the fires are quenched by the sadness that flows through him like a river. It springs from his eyes, crimson. "You would probably faint if I told you I had been fighting a crusade against the Sabbat for the majority of my life. If you for a moment thought that it was true." It, of course, is true. "The rake would certainly never put others before himself and his own pleasure. He certainly would not lead a group of vampires, some older than he in blood...under the ever-watchful eyes of the Justicars. There is not a simple rake alive who would...put forth the energy to leave his bed to do such a thing." He glances to her briefly. "We never speak of me. We speak of the rake. The rake is not me. Just as you are not so easily defined as a cold and unfathomable Lady of Navarre. None of us are as simple as others would have us believe...we are more than the labels we assign to ourselves. Ventrue, Toreador, Nosferatu. What are these but ...rake...or cold queen?" Norman yet. Quiet, spoken on a breath.
     William shakes his head and sighs. "I accept that you will not tell me anything nearer to your heart than you choose to allow me to enter. I take what I can. I work in silence to do these things...to protect those I love. That is a very small number Alexandra. It always has been. And you are in it. Regardless of our differences of opinions." And with that William sighs, settling into the chair. A slow collapse. "I am tired. And I do not have much time," he murmurs. "Eleven days. Will Sixth Generation be enough....?"

     There was the chair she had sat in before. Now, she sinks into it. The black jacket is half-heartedly wrapped around the bleeding hand. And like the drops of wine that she had watched earlier, the Norman pulls her down. Weighs on her in ways she could never explain. "I am the Kindred I was raised to be." It is a soft whisper from her lips, the explanation for herself. What is it Ian found that he would try to change, be something other then what he was raised to be? The man who speaks that old tongue to her now. There is a deep intake of breath, a wipe of her free hand at her eyes. She has always known you were more then just simply one thing, the rake. But can you understand how it is hard to accept that, when there is...Kyles and Josettes?
     "I have always known what you do, William. But lately....the way you have been acting....it seemed as if you forgot that there was more. I thought that had changed, with the Pyrenees. And maybe it did. Maybe this...is just a slight waver, in the vows you both made to each other there." She can't think on this anymore. She can only Hope. There will be time, and then Ian will awake. She will speak to him when he does. For his foolishness in drawing the blade. Her eyes are settled down on her wrapped hand. When she speaks again, she draws on strength she did not realize she had to keep her voice strong and confident.
     "It will help, yes. Shorten the time. But still, it could be a while. We will have to make arrangements in the meantime. So that this...does not get out." She should be able to see to those now, on this eve. But she is too tired. Too upset. And she is in the Americas, alone save one child from her son's line. "I will look into those arrangements tomorrow eve. I need...to rest. It was a long trip out here."

     "I haven't broken my vows to him," he whispers. And William shakes his head. "In eleven days, I will close my eyes because of them." He rises. He will not rest. He cannot. "My life changed before the Pyrenees," he murmurs in English. "You knew of it then. In eleven days, you will have all the proof you need of how seriously I take them." You called him a liar. "Lately...the way I have been...acting..." He raises his hands. "I will let you care for him as you do best. He is in your hands. I will be in Chinon." He takes up his pear again. "I will be staying in Chinon. You may sleep in the bedroom ...with him." Ravaged. Just ravaged. The words are English. And very very controlled. Purposeful....and heart-wrenching. Open and exposed. There is nothing but William in there. His face is lined with blood that will not stop. And his slow steps take him to the living room's center. He seems farther away than this...

     "He did this because he thought you were his only world." Alexandra says, not moving from where she has taken rest. "It should be you with him, not me. That is not what he wants." She does not know this vow. But she starts, for the first time, to get an idea of what you mean by the eleven days. And that does bring tears to her eyes. Blood red. Because even if she rose the oldest she knows from their slumber, sold her soul to him for his blood, she could not bring Ian back in that amount of time. He has done what he has done without thinking of what it might do to others. His position. His ghouls. His business. You. Her. And now you will do the same. Both are lost. There is a push up from the chair. There will be a guest bedroom here. That is where she will stay. And it is he who will see to it that she next calls. "Phillip!"

     The door is hit, swinging wide. Phillip runs out, blinking, "Yes...ma'am?"

     "I will need a room." A slight pause as she rises. This is not the woman Phillip saw enter. She shields her face from him to try to keep him from seeing that. "And there is a woman outside. Waiting in the car. Please, tell her to go home and get some rest. I will speak to her on the evening next."

     "Yes, ma'am," Phillip says, glancing at William, as if asking permission for a moment.

     William is still and quiet. After a few minutes, he cuts a wedge of a pear and eats it. Another moment, and he glances to Phillip, nodding. "Make certain she has every comfort of del Cielo available to her. I want her to have whatever she wishes..." Quietly borne. English again. But slowly spoken...as if translating. William moves to the veranda then, parting the drapes to look outside. Dark night...

     Phillip clears his throat and heads back into the kitchen, voices clearly heard, orders being given. Soon, two young men rush out and make a beeline down the hallway to prepare a room. Phillip himself comes out and heads to and out the front door, to see about the lady outside in the car.

     The woman in the car will be all to relieved to leave. It is the part of...who she is...she does not understand. First was the interrogation at the hands of Xevior and Messereich, and now it is the torpor of a man she doesn't know. Once the okay is given by Phillip, there is the sound of wheels spinning as the car tears out of the drive.

     And as for Alexandra...there is little she can do but wait. Wipe at her face, hold her hand to herself, and wait for the room. She can not even bring herself to follow William's movement with her eyes. Eleven nights. Somehow, there will be the strength from inside to pull everything through. It is...the one thing her sire's treatment instilled. Survive.

     He is still the same Norman Knight. His word was given. And he would die for it. After so long a life...and so busy a life...perhaps a little...sleep would not be such a bad thing. William remains at the window. Hopefully Phillip will have the good sense to make him lie down in a couple of hours....

     Phillip returns, locking the door behind him. He sets about a few duties, arranging for the dimming of the house for the approaching morning. The two young men come out, a few dusting and freshening items in hand. They pass Phillip, nodding, and one stops to clean up the glass and drink on the floor. The other goes into the kitchen. "Might we get either of you anything, Sir..." then, "Ma'am?" Clinking happens, one picking up shards.

     William shakes his head, then he leans against the covered glass...resting his head on its coolness. "Non."

     "Of course, Sir?" Phillip says, nodding. He glances at the one finishing with the floor, who rises and quickly leaves. Then sheepishly, "...um...the studio lounge has been made ready, also the third bedroom..." he looks down, "...if needed."

     There is a deep breath taken. Alexandra fights desperately for control. Of this situation. "I want everything he has been working on. Mr. Dunross, that is. His businesses. His...papers relating to his position. If he has an office, I want it readied for me on the twilight. If someone calls, Mr. Dunross is in Spain. On business. If he person needs something, you will give them my name." And then Alexandra does look to William. It might be noble, dear knight, your
upholding your promise, if it did not bring so much pain to those who love and care for you. She can not express this...without hurting you more, however. So her last command is a simple...
     "Make sure William is in bed by the time the rays come up. I do not care what you must do. Anything happens to him during the day, I will hold you responsible."

     Phillip blinks at the sorted commands, glancing at William pleadingly. Ian's business? Office? These he knows nothing of. "Um..." he whispers, stumbling for a way to explain his limitations.

     And there are at least Twelve other old vampires who would agree with you, Alexandra. William closes his eyes, "He works on that computer mostly. I...we keep our businesses private...except for the vineyards of Chinon..." He shakes his head. "I will help you look for them later..." It will give him something to do.

     Phillip looks relieved a bit, then does his best to shuffle back to the kitchen, somewhat quietly.

     There is a heavy sigh from Alexandra. "We will find them if I must rouse his aid in Europe." She can not even think of it now, the man's name. That is how tired and exhausted she is. Spent. Emotionally. "Josette can handle the business end. I will do what I can to maintain Ian's Camarilla position in this city." And you? The question is there in her eyes. Will you really do this? Leave for Chinon? Fall into the same sleep that all of this originally caused? You will do what you will, she can't change your mind. Maybe the Twelve will have betterluck. There is a turn, as she starts to head for the hallway. Her voice moves with her. "Good day, my dear." She will find out tomorrow if you will still be around.

     William will...of course...be here...

Posted by rowan at June 03, 1998 04:07 PM