He did not go to Chinon. There is a thing in him...that will not let him run. Perhaps those are the remnants of Plantagenet blood, held deep within. Stubbornness...like Love...is a double-edged sword. Bullheaded one moment.... bravely tenacious the next. And again, when the thud of sunlight slipping past the horizon sounded...William was awake. And as the last rays slipped down, the drapes were opened. And the doors to the veranda and the woods beyond. The evening air carries the scent of the ocean within. The Pacific. Irony, no?
     And now it is later than the Vampire's Dawn. The sun and even its lingering echoes are gone. William sits by, much as he was the previous evening. There is little changed about his demeanor. It is...quieter, perhaps. Withdrawn. And though the doors are open, there is a fire lit... and it turns him a golden hue. A false halo that catches the blade of the dagger in his hand. His eyes of indigo are distant and dark. And his hands and the blade move in an ancient rhythm. He knew the rhythm of The Cut, before he knew the rhythm of Man and Woman. Pieces of pear are cut off in small wedges...and offered to the white foal, a colt no more than two months now. Still all legs. And still as white as Baruch had ever been. Baruch is not here either. How alone the knight must be, even with a house full of people... and acres full of trees.

     And it is a painful irony, perhaps, that she who came all this way at your disposal would be as alone. Even with the boys who keep the ranch...she is used to more. The large sprawl that is her manor outside Pamplona, built on the remains of her cousins castle, is home to...families. There is always movement, there are always sounds. But that is thousands of miles away...and it is to silence that she awakes from a fitful and restless day of sleep upon the early rays of twilight. But it is not until much later that she emerges. There was evidence of movement, in the guest room. Calls where made. A clean shirt and drink were sent for. She brought no bags, and her other was...stained. Eventually, she slips out of the room, wearing just a mens cotton dress shirt much to large for her subtle frame, and her jeans. On bare feet, she softly makes her way into the living room. Blue eyes slipping about, until they find yourself. It is relief that floods into her features as she notices you there, with the colt. A familiar sight, pear and dagger in hand. And one that she watches, quietly.

     The horse that shall one day be is almost too young to partake of it, but the shards of it are small. William perhaps trained Baruch in the same manner. Trust must come before love can enter. And so, little as he is, the foal is learning important first lessons in his quest to follow in his own kindred's footsteps. What is William learning? That is perhaps ...more difficult to grasp. So subtle. But this action is keeping him focused. For now. He is still walking the fine edge of a bared blade...between Then and Now. Hope and Despair.
     He is as youthful appearing as ever, but his eyes...are old. There is sorrow in the darkness of them there. Upon his expression... placid as it is... come thoughts and feelings almost tangible. Certainly visible. Sorrow here. Guilt there. Uncertainty. Grief. If he notices you, he does not make it obvious. His gaze is in part upon his hands...in part upon the young horse.

     It is, perhaps, a struggle that all Kindred must fight. The distortions of time that come with such...age. For you, the struggle may be in which you live, the Then or the Now. For Alexandra, the day's sleep was a struggle to keep the demons of Then from returning to her Now. Her own sorrow, not just that Ian sleeps, but at the words spoken the night before, the fact you wish to Sleep as well, the feelings of hopeless loneliness and desperation that it brings...these are very much like the years from when she was a Childe. There was comfort, during that time, at watching a young Chancellor feed pears to a foal. A different type then Ian received when doing the same, but still there.
     And so that is what she draws upon, as she watches you, to keep her strengths in the tasks that lie head. "There are decisions that need to be made." No, there is no words of greeting this evening. The memory of last night is to fresh. "I spoke to Gerald. He has things under control in Europe. And Stephen will make sure he is Fed." The damning luck of the old Ghouls. Without the vitae, there is no life. "But you need to decide what to do about Ian." You need to decide. Not her. It is not her place, says the cool voice.

     The rhythm by that is disrupted. Perhaps he did not know you were there afterall. Fingers and hands and dagger, all working as One Instrument, halt, but do not falter upon the stopping. William takes a breath, the first of many moments... no matter how mortal he yet
appears ... and his gaze keeps to the blade. "I...cannot let him remain as he is. I will have to do...what I may...to ...help him waken."
     His voice is quiet and a little less smooth than normal. The Modern French is languid from his lips...but not with the seductive ease that his voice naturally tends...this is something more halting...thoughtful. "I ... have placed a call to Edward... to find Donal Wallach. I should hear from him soon." He is quiet for a time after. "I do not know what to do... other than this." Other than to call The Twelve companions. One by one if necessary. Though...the call of William to one usually spreads like fire to the others. There is another pause...a long pause. A time for you to put in your advice. The rhythm of blade and hand, fingers and pear begins again. Despite the fact that the foal has now moved away to explore the living room.

     She is...tired. Names that should come to her tongue with ease do not. The Scottish and English Kindred she knows well, holding court in England was a welcome refuge from Paris and Spain when the Baron of Toulouse was making living in either difficult. With a soft sigh she leans against a wall, wrapping her arms around herself, the large shirt billowing about. Eyes drift off you, and rise to the ceiling. Wallach. Ah, yes. "So you seek Ian's sire?" It might be hard to detect, in the soft and cool French of her voice, but it is there nonetheless. Approval.
     "The Earl is an..." She tries to find the right words, and can not. It has been so long..."You may have to go there yourself, to make your case, William. It is the best thing to do, and other then that..." A slight pause. And how she hates to admit it. "...there is nothing we can do, other then wait."

     "First...he must be found. I would expect Donal to have some information. We will be closer than where we are now. As for going to Scotland to find my sire's sire? I know not what else to do." William sighs and sheathes the dagger, and he gives a brief whistle to the wandering foal, a pat of his hand upon his leg and the white phantom of a foal trots over. Still lacking grace, but making up for it in sheer adorability. William's hand rubs at one of the foal's ears then along his neck. "I do not ...I was never told much about the Earl. When Donal calls... perhaps you can... help me... "

     She is not...sure about what she can offer. She knew the man, indeed. But by sight, by Clan. There were always things not spoken of, between herself and Ian. Those that sired them was one of those things. And for reasons that were not all that...different. But yet...if there is anything she can do to keep you here, and now, and awake, she will do it. "The Earl of Clyde." His name is muttered softly under her breath. "His blood will be the safest for Ian, and...I'm sure he can be found. And when he is..." She tilts her head to the side. Blue eyes drink in the sight of you there, so tender and gentle with the foal. "...I will do whatever you ask, of course."

     "Worse case scenario, I play Henry to Scotland. Light it on fire and watch them scurry in." And that's a direct quote, spoken with Henry's inflection. Mimicking it. It is a joke that does not extend past the sound of his voice. Empty humor. It doesn't light his gaze. It doesn't move his lips to smile at it. Nor does it warm him. William motions to a bottle of wine and a glass that Phillip earlier left him. It is still unopened. Help yourself. He rises and moves to the veranda doors, the foal following him dutifully. Like father, like son. After the foal trots out to the grass and lawn beyond to join the white, Swedish Warmblood mare named 'Alejandra'...after You...
     William closes the door to the night. "The Earl of Clyde," he murmurs...setting the name to his memory. He nods a moment, drinking that in, and your words. "Merci, Alexandra." His voice is quiet again. "I hate waiting..." And does he ever. He's never been that good at it. When he has been held back he has pitched and moved like a stallion in stocks.

     The joke would not have, perhaps, struck her as amusing in the best of circumstances. In the worse, her reaction is similar to yours. Her eyes flicker over to the bottle, and the glass. She has already started to drink tonight. She does not have your taste for liquors or your constitution for it....but it Dulls. So slowly she starts to drift. Away from the wall. The large white shit flows about her body as she does, and with her skin so pale tonight -- missing any of the warmth or color of her Moorish mother. The angle on earth, both so powerful, and so frail.
     The bottle is taken up in her hands, and then she turns again. In time to see you lead out the foal. "There are...other things I need to ask you about." It is both offered because it is needed, and because she knows about you and closed spaces. Waiting....has never been such a problem for her. There are things she will do, small things, to keep busy.

     And that is why he has been cutting pears. That is why he long ago trained himself to paint. Oh, and if he would paint now? Rembrandt and Da Vinci should shudder in their graves and think themselves small men in comparison. But...passion is painful. It too much reminds him of Love. Love? And who else is there but Ian to dwell on? The very thought makes him sigh. So...there is no...calm focus of The Brush. There is only the dagger slicing through the body of fruit that seems to give him activity.
     William glances over to Alexandra at last. It is the first time he has really looked at you. It does not linger, that look. It too is painful. His motion is languid grace, potent and coiled energy lying below...but great sorrow lies just under the skin of him. "Go ahead..." And the chair sighs as he takes a seat. A sprawl, more weary than comfortable.

     The bottle is held, the cork popped. A glass is poured. Alexandra keeps herself preoccupied on these things. As you bring yourself back into the living room, she too would rather not look at you. The bottle and glass are scrutinized as if she had never seen such things before. And not because to do so would remind her of the man who sleeps. She made
her peace with that when she spoke soft words to him -- words he would, perhaps, not hear. She doesn't know, she has never felt this Sleep. It is...other things that tear at her heart. Pull at her normally so cool and collective mind, make her slow.
     "I know of Ian's dealings in Europe, and those will be well under control." The bottle is set back down, and she finds her own place to sit. Put it is more of a perch, tense. As if to be ready to move away at a moments notice. But her eyes remain cool. Her voice level. Flat. "But I do not know of things here. What ghouls he might have. What duties he took with his position. And Phillip was nervous about...people coming over? Invited?' And with Ian's body so defenseless, exposed. This entire situation...she keeps having a problem putting the parts of it in their place.

     William's gaze is on you, as if it had always been. But while it is fixed upon you...it is distant, withdrawn. As if it were too painful to show you his heart in his gaze. Elbows resting on the arm of the chair, his fingers are steepled, pressed to his lips. And then the indigo lowers...lashes half-mast. The thoughtful pose of a Lord, sitting in judgement. That is the picture his presence paints. "He has one ghoul that I am aware of. A former lover of some ...few years... though I do not believe the man is aware of much of Ian," he murmurs.
     "From what Ian has himself told me. His name is Keith Tanner. The city's most influential businessman." Were he not so despondent, that may have been a bit of a wry commentary. William hides a portion of his face behind a hand...resting at his forehead, his other lowers to merely rest. Yes, a very influential businessman. Handsome. Wealthy. Dresses very snappy. Prefers men. "I know he has been under Ian's ...guidance for over 15 years. I do not know much more than this. I have only met him twice."
     That hand rakes through his own raven hair. "His duties. Well, the prince is not ... very available. So...Ian, as Ventrue Primogen, handles all introductions of The Camarilla into the Prince's Domain. And is the leader and voice of the Ventrue. I have been his second while he has been away...on business. I am...known in this city already. So....I can more than handle such affairs....if we are not able to wake him..."
     William is assuming he will be awake himself, of course. He has not spoken again of his own ...predicament. Nor will he. But you know...he will not be awake to do such...if Ian is not wakened in 10 days...

     Something reaches out...lunging for you from within. Bright it is, a seeming swirl of warmth and feeling, gripping at your chest, at your mind. A presence it is, existent. Nothing more. Existent and aware. No thought, no word, no emotion, just a push at the fringes of your consciousness, there. It is only a few moments, this Being, but soon its brightness fades softly, receding into quiet nothingness.

     William stiffens suddenly and withdraws yet again. At something felt within. He shivers at the rush of warmth. As if being touched by a hand unseen. His expression goes placid, waiting on emotion to cross it. It was not a bad feeling...just...unexpected. And William's gaze flickers violet.

     Nearby is the soft pulse of a phone.

     She listens to your words while starting down at a glass of Ian's finest. The name of Tanner, she is familiar with it. But not...in this way. In the comments of her Little One, expressing anger and frustration with her job and her boss. Under other circumstances, that
would draw a grin from her lips. For reasons that only women know and share between each other. But no...not tonight. Tonight there is...a deep drink from her glass of wine. "Tanner will have to be taken care of then as well." It is a soft and idle musings.
     The glass is gently swirled, red liquid slipping along the inside. A slight vortex that has her gaze captured within it. It is not that she pays no attention to your words. Every word from your lips is heard, and remembered vividly. And the catch, of course, is that so will the words spoken last night. And besides, she knows of the duties of holding court. Back when she did it, there were not titles like Primogen. And when you speak of taking over the duties? It is that which brings her eyes back to you. A slight flicker or hope. Would you then stay? With her, and Awake? She can not ask. The phone rings. Another drink is taken.

     William turns after the third ring and stands. It is the fourth ring before he answers it. His voice is deep, and quiet. Laced with his native French, it plays upon his name. "William here..." The number isn't...exactly listed, and so...it seems a proper enough greeting.

     "Gwilym..." the broguish voice says, "...wot mean ye havin' that brat callin' me at this hour?" Certainly it is gentle humor, Edward always that young brat. There's a shift..and the sound of a woman's murmuring nearby...then it goes silent. And the humor disappears for palpably heavy, "I hear y'need a bit o' the rag, eh?" Information.

     It gives Alexandra time to her own private thoughts. The phone call. She does not watch it, pulls into herself. Perhaps a slight illusion of privacy to the call. Finally, she leans back against the chair. Something has her agitated tonight. Off kilter. The glass of wine is finished. The crystal twirled in her fingers. A decision must be made at some point. Someone will have to give. And she knows, it will not be...you.

     For the first time in days there is a small glimmer of a smile. It does not reach his lips, but it shines for a moment in his eyes. "I figured a Norman voice would raise a Scot out of a brothel faster than a cask of single malt..." Old humor...but the banter falls a bit flat. His voice holds too much of the seriousness of the situation in it to be as light as it would need to be for that. The glimmer fades in the next moment and William sighs. "Aye, I do, Donal... I need to know where I can find the Earl Clyde. I need to find him. Quickly."

     There's a spit, a cough, and more shifting. Sheets. And a female's complaint. Said in gruff Gaelic is a, "Oh, be quiet ye," and English again as you are attended to. "Clyde? What in God's Privates d' ye want him for?" Auto-Response. Utterly flabbergasted and appalled. "That one...is a waste, Will. Don't be spendin' y' time followin' his trail of stink." He sighs, adjusting himself to listen...then adds, "An' I ain't in no brothel, y'Norman cow." He snickers.

     So it is the old Gangrel. Alexandra nods her head slightly to that, to herself. The man might be one of those Outlanders she so rarely understands, but he is also one of the old Knights. During the Inquisition, during the Revolt, she saw them in action, and has trusted them ever since. It is to bad, perhaps, that so few of them remain. It is...little things like this she keeps preoccupied with in her mind. Until you mention....quickly? She glances back up at you at that. And then bites back the sigh that rises to her lips. For the old ones, the Sleep is something of years. You are still thinking on days.

     There is a moment of quiet after that. Donal knows William well enough to know something is rather horribly awry. "I was hoping to get through the rest of whatever years I have left without having to meet him. But... Fate is like a frigid wife, she takes a thrill out of disappointing." His words are quiet and measured. His indigo eyes are focused on his feet. Not upon the woman with him. Yes...days. He speaks of a future he may not even see. "I have to... wake someone up, and he may be the only one who can do it, Donal..."

     There were chiding words once. Alexandra, if you need us...call. Your pride, Alexandra. And she listened. She called. There are few in the Kindred world she loves like the old married couple she has known for so long. It is that reason, and that reason alone, that rage starts to build upside her. It was a lesson learned twelve hundred years ago. Only those close to you can hurt you. It is kept inside, pinned down. Forced back. There is no sign of it from her. Save that she sets the wine glass down, save it join the one she broke last night.

     There's matching silence for a moment. "Aye..." he says gruffly, voice low in his chest. A sigh. Thinking. "Um...th' last time we was gettin' reports o' him major...he'd pissed on Edinburgh." The Prince, more than likely. And the city too. "He'd gone...back t'ward Skye...holed up there at MacDonald's, I heard. More like tearin' up MacDonalds. All o 'em. But...who knows? That was..." he exhales, "...some three years 'go?" He clears his throat, as if coughing up into the phone, rather sickly sounding. "Y' canna tell with dat one. I ignore 'am and tell 'im to stay away from Lomond t' Killarney."
     "But...I know...he hideynooks at Killiekrankie sometime, sometime near Pitlochry," Donal offers. "I can," he sighs, "...send some folks out there...get specific?" More thought. "Maybe...Culloden..."

     "That would be...very helpful. Hopefully it will...save a bit of time in looking for him. Fan out...send me word as soon as you can. I can be in Edinburgh in a day or two. I have ..." William glances to Alexandra. "...a few things to sort out here." He pauses, then mulls out. "You getting so old you're choking on your scotch there, boyo?" There's more concern there than humor...though again...tis old between them.

     There's rich hearty laughter for that one...enough to get a whisper again from the woman. "Better'n that swig y'call Burgunshit." He chuckles a bit more, but it leaves quickly. "I'll be gettin' on it, Will." Yes, something is wrong. "I'll get with ya as soon as I can. Jes' lemme know where I can be findin' ye."

     And do you notice the change? In her demeanor. She was hesitant, unsure, when she entered. She did not even know if she would find you here. Self-doubt and deep pain, they are not things the Lady of Navarre feels. But now, it is icy calm that meets you gaze. Hard. A chill blows within sky clear blue eyes. Her expression is not relief at the idea of finding the Earl. It is hard. And not because you are concerned about Donal.

     "Keep this number handy. I'll be taking it with me," William murmurs. "Take care, Wallach. You'll be seeing me likely before you want to." There is an unspoken thanks...given not in the words themselves, but in the tone. Quiet gratitude.

     "Ach, Will...always good t' be seein' ya." With that, the phone goes dead.

     The call is about to end. Alexandra rises from her seat. Taking the glass, refilling it. Standing there by the end table. Waiting.

     William disengages the phone and sets it aside. "I hope Ian shall forgive me," he whispers. Now that business is concluded, William sighs and returns to the chair. Settling there. Sinking there. "Where...were we, Alexandra...forgive the interruption..."

     The fact that you even ask that puts the final nail in the coffin this evening. She is steady. Her old self. Calm and cool. An idle wave is offered to you, brushing off your apology. Another drink is taken from the glass, and then it is rested near the bottle. She turns on
her heal to face you. Her gaze so chilled and sharp it could cut wood. "Oh, it is no problem. Donal will find the Earl." She does not doubt that. Trust in the old Knights. To do the right thing. And her voice, it is so smooth. It is French, but not with the normal, crisp, modern accent she normally speaks. There is more...Catalan. More native to her. "Details. That need handling." And there is one in particular on her mind. "Do you remember the Pyrenees as well as I? An...admission I made to you?"

     Indigo shifts. To you, away from you. And then back. His expression is placidly cast, angelic... more saint-like than ever before. For saints have under their beauty a sorrow and a guilt. That is never far from him. No matter the ..glimmers that come and go like quasars. "Ah...yes..." he murmurs, then his eyes narrow focusing. "Gerald handles his overseas affairs...Tanner his affairs in New Port. Both must be attended to. If there is any...blood remaining of Ian's...in storage. It must be given to them both," his words are French, modern,
but with his southern accenting of Aquitaine. It makes French sound Italian. Or spanish. William goes still as you mention the Pyrenees. Much was said that trip. Much has happened since. "I ...remember some of them. It was a ....mobile confessional....of a sort."

     Yes, Gerald will handle Europe. She trusts the man, Ian trained him well. And Tanner? She will make sure he gets fed. In her mind, it is settled. Even more to the point, it is settled that you will fill Ian's shoes in New Port while he sleeps. For how ever long it takes the Scotsman to wake. It is not just because she does not want to be known to be here. If she were to step up, there would be so many questions. The Lady of Navarre? In New Port? Handling Venture affairs. And not just because you are his husband. It is your duty to him to care for him while he sleeps. It is because you are one of the Old Knights. And it is the right thing to do. What he would have wanted. That resolution shines so bright in her blue eyes. So clear.
     Her stance before you, hands resting on her hips. You can feel it coming. Alexandra is not happy. She is...cold. And you need to know why before she does what she needs to do. "There was a time, William, when I was so in love with Ian that it was comical. I was young, and foolish, and did not care he was not interested in women. And there was a time, my dear, when the same could have been said for my feelings for a young Chancellor making a name for himself and his family." And that might be. But there is no soothing emotion in her voice. "I never spoke of it to either of you. Until that night...on the horses. In the cave. You Knew. Ian did not. But that was a long, long time ago that I held those feelings. I am not foolish, and emotions change." There is a slight pause.
     "So I want you to know this. I love you dearly, and would never want to hurt you. I know I did, with some of what I said last night. And I am sorry...." There is a draw of breath. The end is coming. She can get though this without cracking. Because she must. "...but my old feelings for Ian is the only thing of myself I have ever shared with you. And your comment to me last night about me sleeping with him....hurt more then any words that have ever been spoken to me since the Baron went to ground. Hurt so much, I would almost let you join him in slumber."

     His expressions change about ten times. From a bit of shock, to understanding. Realization. Knowing. Surprise -- that for the apology. Rare they are, and so he accepts it with a genuine look. Overwhelmed. And finally....Confused. William's eyes narrow again and he looks at you as if you were painted purple with pink stripes.
     "I ...did not mean any offense by it. It was not a snipe to your emotions. I was...trying to be fair. I know you were with him...when it happened last. I ..." And his confusion melts. From his face, his demeanor, and then his eyes. "I could not go back in there, and I...didn't really want him left alone. I am...very sorry that it seemed so to you." And he looks away, clearing his throat. He is not himself, or at least not the flippant, casual, at-ease, over and ever confident William that he has invented over time. This...this is the William that Ian found. The very one you saw...in those darker, mortal days. 800 years of pretense have been swept away. "I did not say those things out of spite, even though I was ...upset. Not just with what you said. Just....upset." He is a man. That is the only word he has for this....tempest of emotions.

     Something reaches out once more...lunging for you from within. Bright it is, a seeming swirl of warmth and feeling, gripping at your chest, at your mind. A presence it is, existent. Existent and aware. Hovering gently, the rush in your chest subsides to a simple touching. Joining. It is only a few moments, and once more it goes, slipping, seemingly. This time it is different, as if it will be silent for a little while. Not permanently, just gone for now. After Knowing you.

     "Last time he was fallen by the enemy. And so I sat at his side to keep the same away." Alexandra says. Is there forgiveness in that voice? There is nothing. But steps are taken closer to you. To strike at a man when he is in the condition you are, there is no honor or glory to this. It pulls at her heart, all of this, seeing you in this state. She has wanted that pretense gone for the last few centuries. And now that it is....she can not even....it is all just too hard. Her
steps are slow. Hesitant once again. Unsure. What she was originally going to do...she can't....
     "But this...is different. It was a decision made on emotions, without thought or care for those around him. I understand why...but that does not excuse." She stands before you now. Just a bit away. Looking down. Her words are a soft breeze from her lips. "Which is why I can not let you act the same. It is not...right." She licks at her lips, and then says a bit stronger. "William....you need to stay and take care. It is your duty. To him. You can not leave me here to care for you both." She knows, and so must you. Even once the Earl is found....who knows when Ian might rise but Ian.

     Overwhelming. At something, William closes his eyes. Something so bright and so warm...to he who has been so dark and so distant. It is penetrating. One of William's hands moves slowly to his chest. And then the feeling is gone. "He has done so much for me. And he has gotten...so little in return for it," he whispers. "I cannot blame him for it...though it has run me through much more profoundly than any Infidel's pike."
     William's eyes open to see that you are quite near. And then he hears your words. "I made a vow of fidelity to him. Of heart and soul, which he has had since 1190. Of body. And of blood, Alexandra." He pauses. "I don't want to ... break a promise to him. I made the vow in earnest. I am guilty enough. I want one thing I do upon this earth to have ...some transcendent purity to it." There is anguish there, quiet though it is. And then he sighs. For what you say makes sense. And is unbearable. It would be easier for him to sleep. But since when has William ever done what was...easiest? It is simply not...genetically possible. "I...made a vow to him, Alexandra. How could I break it?"

     "Because he loves you, and he would not want you to be brought down by this. If Ian wakes and you are not here..." It could go on for ever. There will be no ending to the pain. But how can she make you understand this? There is a soft sigh from her lips. A prayer is said in her mind with it. Virgin, forgive me, for I will sin...."There is a difference, William, between the words of a Vow, and the spirit. The Spirit of this, if I understand correctly, is that you would never lay with another. The words, that you would only feed from him. Because until now, that has been your way."
     There is regret in her voice. Under the smooth exterior. It is in her eyes when you look up at her. In the next moment, she is down on one knee before you. The shirt, it billows around her, falls like a white shroud around her body. Her next words come but on a breath. You hear them because she is so close to you. Looking up from her knelled position. "William....love...look at me."

     William knows himself. That is what he told Ian. Because blood is Passion to him. Passion is love. If his lips glance another's form...if his fangs pierce and penetrate another's skin, he may not be able to stop himself from the passion it inspired. And because he loved Ian so much...and because it was important to Ian..and to William...no other's blood has passed his lips since before Cadiz. Weeks before Cadiz. The thought is almost sickening. William swallows, his eyes moving to you as you ask him to. A brow lifts up. And William sinks farther into the chair. As if he could take refuge in it. "Yes...Alexandra...?" What? There is a momentary flicker of panic in his eyes. Helpless. He hates feeling so. But there is nothing he can do but wait... same as you.

     She is before you now, William. On one knee, much like the days of old...bowing down before the Lord of the land. But there is nothing else that is subservient about her. Her blue eyes....they capture yours as you look at her. Hold on to your indigo. Become entwined. Because it is not just with her usual cool that she is looking up at you, Chancellor. It is with a force of...Will. It is to the depth of her soul that she finds the strength to do it. Not just because the act requires is, but because...it is William. The man she once dreamed of embracing. The Ventrue she has watched and been close to over the years. So few have her respect and friendship in this world, and now one of those...his mind she violates. And do you know it is coming when her lips open? To speak the command that will be embedded into your soul?
     "You will not starve yourself into Torpor." You do not just hear her speak it. It is felt in your mind. Felt in a way that will not be denied or refused. "When you get hungry, you will feed. But you will not violate the Spirit of your vow. You will draw blood from what stocks Ian has here. Or you will ask someone to procure it for you. But you will drink."

     It is safe to say that he has not felt this....touch for...many hundreds of years. And he is taken aback more than he is offended by it. It was too quick, too deep, too commanding...to resist, or to protest. As his mind is violated, the rest of William turns to warm stone. As if to prepare for more. Defense. It is automatic. But you are undeniable. If he weren't already sitting, the force of it would have knocked him back and into the chair's embrace. William merely ...sinks farther in. William cannot turn away, though his gaze is brilliant-bright, wishing release. Your words throb at him from within. Blood in two streaks tears from his eyes, rolling slowly over his cheeks. But ...yes ... he will obey. It will tear at him. But he will obey. His lips part and he whispers. "So be it."

     She could take, perhaps, the easy way out. Place one more command. Forgive me, William. But that...that is too low for even Alexandra to sink. She may be an Elder of the House Ventrue, but you are no pawn for her to command with her wishes. You are...William. The sight to the blood tears, the desire for release. Your face is to familiar to her. She once wore it herself, and often. The Then has caught up with her, a circle that you don't even understand completed. The look is broken as her head dips down. The force of her Will in your mind is gone. As quickly as it entered and took control away from you, it is pulled back.
     Strands of golden hair fall around her face like a veil. She knows...how she might react should she be sitting where you are. She can only imagine how you will. But she does not back away. She does not move from her kneeling position. Partly because she can not. It is gone now, her strength. That was the last of it. But also because....you have every right to be upset. And she has no right to flee that.

     There is...nothing. No rush of anger. No flow of Norman barking curses. There is only his quiet voice. "He will forgive me, yes?" William whispers. Please say, Yes. It is all he asks. William's eyes turn away from you, as the last of You recedes from Him. And he closes them after, sinking into the chair again. "I don't want to ...be the one who hurts him anymore. Tell me he will understand." He will eat regardless...that is done now... but he is seeking forgiveness all the same. A hand reaches down and fingertips barely brush against the golden hair before drawing away. There is...nothing of what you expected. Only a desire to do Right.

     This is actually...best. That there was no anger. For the moment, perhaps, it would make her feel slightly better about what she has done. It is hard to feel guilty about your sins if you have been punished for them. But that is not...the William of Old. The one that she has been looking for desperately for a long, long time now. That William is the one that brushes a hand against her hair. There is a slight sob pulled back, a deep intake of breath. Before she can speak. "He will forgive you."
     And both because she honestly believes this is what Ian would prefer, and because she has taken the decision away from you. She did this. Her head tilts up slightly, slightly blood shot eyes look reluctantly up at you. "Ian will be...glad to see you when he awakes." And she is glad to be able to keep you with her. "I'm...sorry." It is twice in one night. There are tears threatening. And she can not...bring herself to move. But it, at least, is done.

     William shakes his head. Only once. No apologies. Perhaps with blood he will be able to beat back the darkness. Regression is...taxing. And it shows in his eyes. In his old eyes. Eyes that were aged by grief at a loss -- a loss that this now matches -- long before he was immortal. "Alexandra," he murmurs, "I know this is not easy for you either. I do not mean to be so.... " He struggles for a word for a few moments. "Particular about it." He narrows his eyes. That's not exactly the word he was looking for. He is quiet another moment, and his hand lays gently upon your head for a moment. "Selfish," he counters softly.
     His hand moves away again. "You need your rest. Perhaps we will be going to Scotland soon." Yes he said 'We.' He cannot imagine ...not even remotely ... being left alone. With a sigh, he lays back, settling within the chair. "My heart has never been so heavy." Not even Then. And after saying so, William falls quiet again.

     The phone rings once more, soft pulsing.

     William sighs. Technology. Thankfully, he set the phone down near the chair. There is only a brief sigh for the moving. "William..." he says quietly. His eyes tend down to Alexandra briefly, before looking at something less wrenching...

     "So does mine." It falls so softly from her lips. The touch of your hand, it lets a few tears escape from the corners of her eyes. But just a few. She is tired. For one, she looks frail. The power that usually carries her small frame is gone. You are right, she needs rest....and the phone spares her from having to say anything else. Or even try to. She just remains where she is, listening.

     There's the loud sound of an engine. Motor running. Wind. "Aye, Will?" the voice calls, gruffly, the line crackles. "Will, y'there?"

     "Yeah," William says, his voice picking up in volume. "So far..." A gruff of his own.

     The engine revs louder...Donal always did like his mounts fast. A shared trait. "Try Caithness...old one of our holdin's..." good old Gangrel Vikings, "...though, well, as if y' could tell anymore. Kinlo..." he stutters, "...Kinlochbervie...I think that's it, aye...on th' west. Backwater place...he may be there. They think he done left Culloden." Then laughter, "Guess he drank 'Livet, 'Fiddich, and 'Fracas out..."

     Finally, she stirs. The chair that you sit on? She uses the arm of it for support as she pulls herself up. Wipes at her eyes. Brushes hair from her face. Part listening to you on the phone, part trying to get a handle on what all has happened....has it been just two, three
nights?

     There is a sigh. Scots. Got to love them. Balls to the walls or drunk on scotch. There is greatness to it. William's voice sounds, a bit louder to carry over a bad connection. Or a fast car. "Aye? Well...we'll head there then. Give it a look. Thank you, Donal. Kinlochbervie...Caithness..." Repeating. Memorizing. "I will see you about, aye?"

     "Aye, I'll be northward. And bring yer coat..." he adds, "Caithnessshire's already feelin' the chill." Donal sighs, car just about drowning it out. "It must be the tam's pom, Will.." he says firmly. Sure as hell is to be going to the Arctic Circle almost in September. "We'll be seein' ye there, laddie."

     Kinlochbervie? Caithness? She knows those words. Not well, but there is a faint stirring within her. There will be travel. "Give Donal my respect and thanks." It is muttered softly. Dazed is her voice. And then she starts to move. Slowly. As if through water. Her destination is towards the hall. It might very well be early. And you might very well want to start planing now. But she wants nothing more then to let darkness pull her into sleep.

     "Aye," William says. "I'll bring my coat. You have the scotch on hand." A pause and he looks to you as you move. Eyes narrowing. Understanding. Softening. "Alexandra of Navarre sends her thanks as well. This...will be in our memories so long as we have them, Donal." The highest degree of thanks he can possibly give. He ends the call with that. The phone is set upon the table beside the chair. "Rest well," he says to you. He will stay in here until you are out of sight. He may sleep in this chair again tonight. He is ....afraid of going to his room. Of opening the gates to flowing sorrow yet again. For now his eyes are dry. For the first time in three nights.

Posted by rowan at June 03, 1998 05:02 PM