The fire burns brightly. And why should it not, when it has such rich meats to feed it as Monet It was, of course, a forgery -- and yet the symbolism remains the same. The forgery once held up a wall of the museum of Venice. The paint colors the fire and makes it pop unusually. Bright and multihued. Indigo burns there. It matches the eyes of the one who watches by.
William has at least seen the light of day of a shower, that should please you. But it was done only out of some necessity and he took no pleasure in it. So it may be seen and noted in the lack of care he took afterwards. His black hair is all the more dark, if such is possible, and wet, undried -- the sheen is otherworldly. An hour by the fire should cure the wetness at least. His clothes are what he has been seen in before. The leathers are at least fastened, but the shirt was grabbed and tossed on. The silk clings a bit to skin that wasn't dried. And he is staring at the fire, sitting in the chair that has been his bed for days now. Papers are on the small table, resting. Until by his fingers they are lifted...and sent into the fire. It erupts with joy, popping with each new favor from the lord nearby.
The door to the guest bed room is open, and with soft and slow steps Alexandra slips out of the hall way. And she pauses there, arms wrapped slightly around her stomach, tense and slightly uneasy. Partly, perhaps, it has to do with....the form she has taken. Over a
hundred centuries, and she has always...looked like Alex. Paler her complexion has become over the years, with age. And hair dyes and makeup have always...made her look more Frankish then she ever did mortal. But tonight...with the amulet, she doesn't even recognize the reflection that looks back at her, and neither would you, perhaps, if the soft voice was not the same.
But part of her hesitation also stems from the sight she sees in the living room. Yourself, in particular, her eyes linger there, taking in the disheveled appearance. So William, with the carefree abandoned, and yet she knows it stems from other things. For a moment, her eyes also rest on the blaze of the fire, but it is quick she looks away from that, whatever you are feeding into it. There have been to many remembrances, within the last few nights, of pain and Final destruction, better not dwell on the fear that arises upon the fingers of a flame. For several moments she stands there, silently, until she offers a soft, "Good evening, William."
Is it? The two words almost poured from his throat with a British ease that would have made his father proud. Henry, that is. The two words cling to his lips, but go no farther than the curve of them. He does not shake them off. It takes another few moments, and another few burning sketches, before William speaks. The Last Lion of them all, his voice is quiet when it would roar. "Evening, Alexandra." He speaks the Truth. It is evening. And he did not deem to name it good, for it is not. Fingers pause upon another sketch -- his, of some statues seen in Florence...years and years ago. It could be a Da Vinci sketch to the untrained eye.
After a moment, William turns his head to see you, his indigo away from the fire. They do not burn as they were wont to, but are dark violet, too deep to shine. The echo of the sparkle they had held is held now only in the Monet-colored flames. A brow lifts and some surprise carries over his features. You are not the same. His cheeks color with whatever blush he in his Low State may allow. To think himself staring openly. He turns away. William is a very pale olive now. In another day...the olive show of his mother's heritage will be gone. "You look...very..." Different. Nice. Lovely. Good. Beautiful. His voice pauses, searching for an appropriate word. "...nice..." Nice. It's safer.
She bites down on her lower lip as you turn your eyes to her, leaning for a moment with her shoulder against the wall. There have been rare moments in history when she has allowed a flush to come to her cheeks, as carefully guarded as she is about her emotions and their expressions. But the look you give her brings about, perhaps, a similar effect. Eyes turn down, unable to hold your indigo gaze. Fingers brush at the fabric of her dress. "Merci. I wasn't sure if it was appropriate or not. But...no one will ever guess it is myself." And nor would they have reason to. It is not Her, neither in appearance or manner. Perhaps some of the Manner will return to her at the party.
But for now... She considers this, perhaps, a moment more, and then she looks back over at you. Timid steps bring her closer to you, although she is careful to avoid sight of the flames. "William, I know you and I have never been really...close. But I need to know..." There is a gesture of her hand to the sketch that your fingers linger on, no doubt about to join their counter parts in the flames. She knows what your art has meant to you, and while she has never understood that passion, she never thought this day would come either. And it rocks the foundations of everything she Knows and is Used to. "..why are you doing this? It is killing me, William, to see you like this. So torn apart. And I don't really understand...why."
He takes a breath. Perhaps stunned at the question. Perhaps to calm. Perhaps for himself to understand...or to put wild emotions into words. That is what art is for, is it not? The taming of wild passions and emotions...from love to sorrow to fear to anger...in ways words cannot do. But you stop him from burning his things for the moment. Paper is light. William is strong. And yet with your fingers upon the paper, the paper cannot somehow be moved. And you can see William retreat...retreat? Fall back to regather, as soldiers in war often must.
His gaze lowers to his fingers. His ring shines upon it. It is a reminder of what he had. And what he has lost. His jaw sets and his face turns to placid stone. "I ... do not know how to answer this question." His words are a whisper, French hush. "I ...am undone. There is nothing of me left. This," a finger taps upon the sketches, "means nothing to me. Anymore. I ... cannot even bring myself to look at it, or to make my fingers bend to do that art. It was never who I was. It was who I Became."
His countenance sets again. "That part of me is slain." The paper shifts beneath yours and his fingers both. And the fire feeds happily. It is eating better than he. His eyes turn to the fire, and though his words are quiet, the emotion that is raging within him colors it. There is a weight to each syllable. "I painted to live, once. To Become something. For his pride, for my pride. To ward against the grief that held me fast. Now, grief is all I have."
The fire leaps again, flames licking against another sketch. "...I love him." William holds himself still for many moments. Quieting another strain of words that would have quickly become a roar. "The man who painted, who sketched, who pleasured, who kissed the models detailed here ...is dead. Only William is left behind, exactly as you first found him 800 years before. I have...lived to nothing."
The dance of the flames as they consume the piece of art capture her form in their glow, bringing out the golden hues of her hair, the soft weave of her dress. But she herself does not radiate the earthy softness that is suggested in the form she choice. She tries not to tense up, pull back from you with your words. To withdraw as you do. It is a struggle that she only partially wins. It is true, she can not understand how Ian's slumber has undone you so. She has never, perhaps, experienced the depths of the Love that you speak of. There have been men, in and out of her life. But no matter how she may have felt for them, she has never opened her heart, let them into her in such a way.
The sight of you so undone is a remembrance of why...and your words, they also bring up things better not remembered. Catherine. There is guilt there, on her voice. For her own actions in that...tragedy. "I cannot give advice to the heartbroken. I have not offered my own to anyone in fear of such. My experiences with these...emotions..." Her voice drifts off, slowly. She can not find the words to complete the sentence. And the reason is the fear she speaks of...it makes itself known in the tone of her voice. But it comes from a different source. A rising panic that starts to pull itself up from deep within her.
"But I also know that if what you say is true...that you have managed to find something of that nature finally, with Ian, after so long....then you have more then most of our Kind can ever lay claim to. You speak as if you have lost Another. That Ian is gone. That this...all of what you have done and accomplished over your Kindred existence..." There is a slight movement of her hand. Indicating all of it. The art work. Yourself. The ranch itself. "...has meant nothing. And if you would excuse, but that is self-indulgent. And it is foolish. Ian merely sleeps, William. He will Awake. And if you want to toss your work into the flames, then I cannot stop you. But nor will I remain here to watch you feed your own delusions like you feed the fire. Wallow in self-pity."
The words are not spoken harshly, it is a soft French that falls from her lips. She reaches out for your arm, to lay a hand on it, as if to emphasize that she does not mean to hurt you more but....bring you out of this haze. She knows...your last words...are often spoke by those too old to go on living any more. It is that which had brought fear to her voice before. "It is not an all or nothing game, love."
"How do you know he will ever wake." His words penetrate to the core of his own fear. The core of his own heartbreak. Perhaps the core of yours as well. "You said yourself...there is no guarantee. He sleeps. He may sleep for a hundred years. If I am able to get blood to wake him in the first place." So even...but like the thrust of the Infidel's pike that would have ... should have .. been his death. "Are we all not just....sleeping? Dead or alive..." His words fade again.
"He was my Other One. It was... I do not think either of you understand how difficult it was for me...to hear you talk of Catherine...as if she were some dog in the way... when she was... all that was ever important to me. She gave my life meaning. Before her, what was I? I was a man with two swords he employed as often as he could. One of flesh...the other of steel. But where was my heart ...before she gave me reason to use it?"
William sighs and sits heavily in his chair. "I did not even know I had one, until Catherine's love touched it with those.... small fingers of hers." His eyes close, and his hands withdraw from the pages of art. Every one of them...an earlier attempt to create something... from a life that was only about taking things from others. Some...remaining humanity. Something that tried to remind him...that he indeed still had a heart.
"And so...I felt my heart when she touched me. I knew I had one when she and it lay on the floor. Dead. It was rent then... I spent..." He shakes his head. "I do not remember how many months in grief, then anger... until I roared at Richard's side upon the sand. I made ...men and women both pay for my loss. I took every woman to my bed. I took every man to his grave." He takes a breath, long and steady. More necessary than perhaps can be known.
"And when I learned ...so many years later... it was just... six months ago, that Ian... had killed her, out of his love for me. Alexandra, I could...understand it. Had I not done the same? Had I not killed a thousand times over and over, all in some way inspired out of love...out of need...out of anger or revenge for her sake? How could I damn him for having killed only one for mine? And I still loved him. If such is possible, then I loved him more. I have laid myself open to him. I gave him...everything. I gave him faith and constancy, in heart and soul. And now that it has been seconded in body and blood, how can I hunt now as I have done? How can I be that ....man that I became? How may I live? Whether Ian wakes or not... " William sighs that breath out and shakes his head. "...whether he wakes or not, I am ...I cannot be that man again. Who could rape the world and laugh at it. It....isn't funny."
His jaw sets again. At your touch, at the mention of self-pity. "I cannot help it, these feelings," he breathes. "He may be gone for hundreds of years. He may be gone forever. Even after the blood of his sire passes his lips. How am I to live without him..." His words trail off.
No, he is a childe again. An 841 year old childe. He knows not who he is....what he is... why he is... and how he is to remain this way...now that he finds himself there.
She spoke of it to you the night she first came. A generation gap that existed between yourself and Ian. Your words remind her of that, bring the words she spoke that night back to herself. And it brings a heavy sigh to her lips. These questions you ask her....are ones she herself answered centuries ago when she took the mantle of leadership for the first time. But she can not give you the answers she found....you will have to find them herself. A childe again? That is not what she sees as she watches the words fall from your lips. Instead, it is a childe forced rather violently...into the darkness that Elders such as herself...and perhaps even Ian...dwell in.
"William, when I was living in my cousins court at Pamplona. I went to the mosques and the temples and the cathedrals. Somewhere in the mixture of cultures and religions of Navarre I found my own God. A sense of what was right, what was wrong. Even before I knew he was Kindred, before he claimed me, I knew there was something about my husband that was wrong. So terribly." She tries to look at you as she says this....but the mention of her sire brings her eyes drifting off of you. Wandering restlessly. Did Ian know when he slit his wrists the turmoil that he would cause? Was that his purpose? Yours is not the only foundation that has seen cracks in it's foundation of belief. But her own she would keep private, not let you see the mixture of emotions that swim across her brown eyes. Pain and confusion, dark insecurities.
"I still place my faith in that God, despite I know that what I am, what I do, goes against the very nature of what is right. The way Ian and I speak of and viewed Catherine, maybe you are right. But is it so different, William..." Her voice drifts off. There is a slight clearing of her throat. Eyes find focus somewhere on some distant wall. "...then the way the young Lady from Navarre married and embraced by House Ventrue to simply give them a hold in Spain? Yes, you have killed a thousand times over. Would you like me to try to remember how many I sent to their deaths over the centuries? Or would it make you feel any better to know...what other inhuman acts I have partaken in as I have struggled?"
Her touch falls from your arm. Her hand withdrawn, wrapped around her waist. "Or even Ian? Should we talk about what he has done over these years? I am sure I could spin tales you never heard of. You can dwell on that, if you wish. Or could could look at this...' Her eyes slip back over to the stack of drawing, floating over the lines and curves that make them. "...ability of yours. To bring spark into those more alive then we ever will be again with your brush across a canvas. With the touch of your hand. The dance of your indigo eyes. So you have finally been hit over the head with the Truth about our existence? I am sorry it took you so long to see this. But this darkness you now feel and fear is the same that drove Ian to try to change for you. It is the same...that makes me do what I do. And this..." There comes resolve to her voice. Strength. "...I did this...I did that....The Virgin Mother forgive, but not everything is about you, William."
He sighs and settles farther into the embrace of the chair. His only lover now, this chair. There is nothing else. Nothing. "God help me...not a lesson on theology I beg you," he whispers. How ...Plantagenet of him. They were never...theological men. Spiritual? A few of them. One of that number is before you.
"It is not the killing, Alexandra," his voice pours on, quietly on while his eyes are closed to it. Closed. Darkness? The greater darkness is within...the closing of his eyes but makes a curtain...crimson and scarlet, the illumination of the fire playing upon his eyelids. He takes in a breath. How he looks in the firelight. The falling of a angel held suspended for you to see. "It is not the lives I have taken. I do not care about that. I do not feel guilt for it. No remorse. I parted my lips, they made the choice to kiss me. My fingers may have pulled the ties of their clothing, but it was their shoulders that shrugged it off. There is no guilt. It was...for whom I killed that I was trying to ..." His jaw sets and frustration washes over his expression. "I am not a god damned poet." He frowns, feeling suddenly...ill equipped. And William sighs. If he can settle more in that chair's embrace, he would.
"You speak of god. You speak of putting faith into something. My god has left me. My faith goes with Him. He is sleeping as you say. So long as he sleeps, my hope is held in dark cloister behind the pain of separation. I know....I know how Lucifer felt. How painful it is to be put out .... to be separated from the face of God. And so I fall as far as he. My pain is the same as his. My god as far from me as his. I remembered Joy. And it was struck from me. I remembered love, and then love took his flight from me. He flies, and I am on the earth. And like Lucifer, I do not know why this has happened. I answered the question He posed to me, and woke...to find myself here. Without him."
William's eyes open. Dark violet. The light is absorbed more than it is reflected. As if he must feed upon it to keep the spark you speak of burning. "I miss him," he whispers, and he closes his eyes. With such, they cannot stay open. "He is ...just out of my reach. And there is nothing I can do. If I find his sire... if I can win the blood from him with...persuasion I know not how I shall do it... if it rains upon his lips and down his throat... I am no closer to ...the salvation of Ian's love. I can only look at the shell of it and remember." He shakes his head, dark strands of hair covering closed eyes.
"I cannot paint, or draw... it requires passion to take form. So long as Ian sleeps, my passion sleeps with him." There is another pause, another breath and it releases liquid from his eyes. The storms are heavy that rage within, despite the soft even quality of the baritone of his voice. "I am sorry for not being able to comfort you. I cannot understand your pain, just as you cannot understand mine. That you feel it greatly, I can understand. I am sorry, Alexandra." A steadying breath is taken. "I ... If it lasts a long time... this separation... I do not see how I can..." Last a long time in it. It is too much for him. The pain is obvious. It is deep. It has peeled away the rake he used to cover it with. There is only William, as he was Then. As he is Now.
There is a slight fall to her shoulders as you speak your words. It brings the strap of her dress slipping slightly out of place, but she does nothing to right it. All of the power and position, all of the experiences of all her years, can do nothing to right this. "You are the only thing he has worshipped for all these years. And you him. But for the grace of his God Ian tried to change. And for yours, you now are willing to lay down your unlife. But we are not Gods, William. We only think we are because we can change the destiny of mortals with a touch of a finger."
Steps are taken back. Away from you, away from the fire that burns. Deeper into the shadows that it casts. "The darkness that is each of us, we all find some way to deal with. But it keeps growing, as we age. And so we change, find new ways to come to grasp with what we are. It is not a lesson in theology I wish to give you, William. If you had known the Kindred that I was before you were embraced, you would not have recognized it for the Kindred that I am now." She turns away from you, a hand rises, brushes back loose stands of hair from her face.
"You will either cope, or you will perish. And you are right. You and I, we are too far apart to ever come together now for comfort. But I look at you now, William, and I see that passion. Passionate emotions can cut both ways, drive to either the purest pleasures or the deepest sorrow. Before, when you held the blade the other way, you gave joy to those who saw your work or felt your touch. Now, if you so choose, you can drive them to their knees with pain." She straitens a little, glances over back to you. "After Scotland, unless there is something needed of me here for his business, I return to Pamplona."
"I do love you. Please know that I do..."
He wanted to say 'did'....because love hurts too much. He does not wish to hurt anyone else. This beats against the air of this room...like the dying breath of a wounded knight once did. Persisting humanity. Being swallowed...against its own will. "I...am lost, Alexandra," he whispers and he opens his eyes. Who put the blade in my hand in the first place? Catherine? Ian? Henry? You? No, William does not desire others to be punished for his own pain. He internalizes it all. As he has tried to ever do.
And no more art is burned. It falls to the floor unharmed with a brush of his hand as he moves. Moving at last in the chair that holds him. "And I beg you...not to leave me." Who would lead this city? Not he. Not now. He could have conquered it before. To bring joy to the city with the death or deposing of their...futile emperor. But now? Not now. Who can do it but you? Can you see that thought in his eyes. "I....am sorry, Alexandra," he murmurs. And he blushes with whatever blood can be called to the task of it. Ashamed. Alone. Afraid. "For....ever doubting..." That she loved. That she cared. That she is right. Pinnacle of Woman that she is to him.
Beside his chair, there is the dagger and the pear again. A hand reaches out and takes it, as his gaze lowers. Lonely. Left behind. Languishing in it. And blaming himself for not being stronger. For not being able to fight the shadows he is feeling descend upon him. For not being able to right his hand, shift the direction of the blade and feel joy. Without being tormented by it. His hands are smooth upon the blade he holds...the physical blade. And the pear is cut. A wedge of it. And he holds it in his hand. Offering it to her. Compassion.
Your words bring her pause, in her turn to leave the room. She may be a strong woman. Pinnacle. But even she has her limits to that strength. It has been shaken during this trip....she turns back to you, tilting her head to the side slightly. Her eyes, they could either reflect rage, or upset, or compassion. A swirl of emotions she is now, and all of them kept as internal as you have kept yours. She is like Ian...there are things that are usually not stated. Let shown. But now...the words fall from her lips.
"William, I have always loved you as well. But this...." She sighs softly. Her steps bring her closer, draw her form to your side. The fabric of her skirt a whirl around her legs as she moves. As churning as her emotions. "...I do not know what I can do. Other then go to Scotland, for you." No, it is not for Ian she goes on this trip. His letter she remembers to well. You, William, the man her eyes fall on. His only world? Him your God? She has always been comfortable with her place out the outskirts of your world, but never before has she felt so far away. Her hand takes the piece of pair that you cut. Her fingers brushing against your hand as she does. "And if it is what you truly desire, for me to remain until he awakes, then I will. But that will not make things right...on itself." Only you and Ian can work out this...situation. There is nothing else she can do.
"I don't mean to swallow you whole along with me," he whispers. His fingers brush against your own as well. The pear is exchanged. Alexandra, you should know what this means. It is a show of tenderness. Subtle. But profound. "And....I know it will not make it right. I do not know what shall ever make it right." His fingers take the blade and pear up again and cut again. It is...notable that he never cuts a wedge of pear for himself. If it has always been a ...symbolic gesture...what then does that mean? He has not eaten. No blood. No pear. He will wait until the need is great and the domination can no longer be denied. Ian's blood has been delivered to his ghouls.
"You...have always been...you always have given good advice...even when to hear it was...not so good." William sighs. "I do not remember...I do not know how I should go about....sustaining myself. I...have not taken anyone yet." Their blood, he means. And you are so nearby. You can feel his hunger. Would it be you? And what sort of entanglements would that cause, if it were your blood who filled his mouth. Covered his lips. Sustained him. Indigo eyes...more deep violet than anything else... lift to you. And do not waver.
Fingers curl around the slice of pear. She understands what this means, the gesture you make. Subtle displays, these are things she is used to. This is how she has always expressed herself. How Ian does. And her eyes, the soft touch of brown, do not move from your own.
Even as you ask the question, as she can feel the pull of your hunger just as she could feel the weight of your grief. "It is not that you would drown me in your sorrow, William." She whispers, struggling for once to put to words exactly what it is that she means. That has transpired. "It is hard enough for myself to deal with the darkness that would consume. But I just...do not know how to try to help you find your own way to cope with it. You need to figure out how to exist as you are." And that would include the feeding, as well as coming to grips with what has been done.
"It was never the passionate of the rake that bothered me, William. That would cause me to say some of the things I have. It was...how careless it was sometimes expressed. The same can be said, perhaps, for...finding substance." Perhaps she should be thinking of entanglements, but her concern is for the immediate. Sooner or later, you will feed. Either because of the commands she left in your mind, or the beast of frenzy that starvation brings out. But as to how...what would cause the least pain for you? "Starving yourself is not helping...you think any better. Be any stronger. It does not need to come from the warmth of an embrace. Or on the lips of a kiss. It is simply part of...whom we are. What we must do."
That last advice. It is true. And yet...it has never been that for William. It has always had some other quality. Passion. Love. Lust. None of which he is feeling at the moment...or perhaps, is feeling too much and has no outlet for it. Will have no outlet for it for...perhaps...a very very long time. Those who were born in the fire and passion of war and with the intent and needs of Love and Lust...as he was made...how can they conceive of it..any other way? How else may it be done.
William's jaw sets. It is hard to swallow pain and blood at the same time. And his expression is calmly placid...but with cracks of emotion showing through. He want one, he will want the other. He cannot bear the wanting of either. Torn. And William sighs. The chair holds him up again as he settles back and his hands are the only things to move. Cutting a wedge of pear for you again. His fingers hold it out to you, even as his gaze is on his fingers holding the blade. "Is everything prepared for .....the party..." A fucking festival in the middle of this mess? William's eyes smolder with dark color. He will need a ....lot of opium.
She can not eat the slices of pear that you offer her. As skilled as she might be at masking the nature of the Kindred and appearing otherwise, that has never been something she has been able to do. But she accepts the second slice as she did the first, knowing what this is, what it means to you. And it finds itself with the first, cradled gently in the cup of her hand. It is the least that she can do, since she can not help ease much else.
"Qui. I have left it up to Phillip and the others to get things in line." And she will do what she can to present the best face she can in front of the others. Perhaps it is odd, to have the party in the midst of all of it, but part of her seems eager for the occasion. Something, anything, to do....to drink, perhaps even laugh. There has been to much sorrow at the Ranch for too long. "William, if you need help...." With? She doesn't complete the thought. There is but a subtle tilt of her head to you. She does not completely understand what pushes a man forged as you were. She can get a glimpse of it, perhaps, within your indigo, but that is all.
The door opens quietly, and Phillip enters the room. He immediately moves to the empty bottles of earlier moments, at some point finally finished. He places an empty Flagrante bottle and glass upon his tray, blonde hair falling into his face. Studious, even. He then moves around to retrieve and adjust several items about the spacious living area.
It is a surprise to ear the entrance of the man she had just spoken of. It catches her off guard, to be caught as she is, perhaps. Standing so close to where William sits, dressed and guised as she is. Two slices of pear given to her by the man next to her are cupped in one hand. Her eyes move to the working servant even as Alexandra takes a couple unconscious steps back from William. Drapes are pulled back at the glass doors to the rear outside lawn. Moonlight streams in, and the veranda is half-drowned in starlit shadow.
Phillip exhales, obediently and professionally ignoring what might have been occurring. His hands make fast work of the ties, and he turns about, heading back for his tray.
His indigo eyes lift to her. It is...perhaps...for the best that you remain the One Woman He Hasn't Kissed. As you called yourself before. What ruin it would bring. There is understanding in his eyes. There is love there too. Pain comes coupled with it...where before there was...aught but pleasure.
"You are...already doing so much," he says quietly. Keep taking the adoration he can give you...even if neither you nor he can swallow it. Pears and blood. Who ever would have thought what symbols they would be. He nods and withdraws a little. The party is bringing him no relief. He will ...have to act. Some part less tragic. But can Lear become Mercutio overnight? Is such possible? Can Othello turn to Dromio? Can Hamlet turn to Benedick
William's attention is...distracted by the blonde young man. He saw a flash of gold out of the corner of his eyes...and forgot that Phillip was likewise colored. His heart leaps...but then when it falls, it sinks with a sigh. William sets the pear aside, but keeps the bloody dagger. Swords and blades are a comfort. Women and wine...they are more of a challenge for him now. Present company excepted.
"I will do my best," is all he says about the party. "Phillip," he says quietly, evenly. "I need you to ...go into the...studio. There is a velvet covered box...so big," and he gestures with his hands, daggerblade glinting...indicating a small to medium size box. "Bring it to me please...and a lighter..." William's gaze focus in on him a moment...but hunger is swallowed. When will he swallow blood? He looks then to the dagger held suspended in his grasp.
Phillip looks up, blinking that he is addressed. A quick nod and the tray is set down once more...and he rounds the room to head out towards the hallway and to the studio.
She waits until the man has left before she turns her attention back to William. It is a slight nod she offers him, as if understanding. "I know you will." The distance is closed once again, and her hand falls to gently brush at the side of your face. And it is also best, perhaps, that you find your own place in this new world of yours. Ian, perhaps, could have lead you there, helped you along. But he Sleeps, and so she offers you what comfort she can. Her lips can not express how she feels, that is no more her way then it would be for you to drink without the kiss. But she does offer you that slight touch, to say what she herself can not. And it has always been there...just never...shown. "I should go, make final preparations."
So should he. Getting dressed would probably be helpful. William nods then closes his eyes to the touch. A breath held and then sighed out. "Merci, Alexandra," he whispers. His eyes open, his gaze resting midway between the fire, the blade and Eternity. He is held suspended somewhere between the three. And what of the swords, the blades, the daggers and all that lay bare. ...waiting for another round of pain to come. As it will come. William's fingers shift and the dagger is offered to you...hilt first. "You had ....better take this," he murmurs in thickening tones. Quiet French, midway between old and new.
The hallway resounds with footsteps---Phillip is returning. He enters and stops shy of William, as he is otherwise engaged. Box rests in his hands, upon palms.
The dagger is taken carefully. Yes, it is a good idea. Because she does not know what this evening might ultimatly bring. The rest of the sharp edges will be well hidden before the first guest arrives. Even if the festivities are not going to be in here, she will take no changes. "Qui, I'll take care of it, William." The dagger. The party. She steps back once more, from William, looking over at the young man who has returned. Gliding steps bring her around him...towards the hall way, before she pauses and glances back once more.
When you glance back, William is looking at the young man. The dagger is gone and the pear is set aside. And William leans forward...speaking quietly. Reaching for the box. Or perhaps even Phillip....
Posted by rowan at June 04, 1998 12:21 AM
