William is standing before the fireplace. The jacket is off. Left on the couch where it fell off, tossed there. A glass of wine is in his hands. LeBello again. The bottle sits open on the table. And his facade -- such as it was, thin and translucent -- is gone from him now. There is Uncertainty and Regret upon him. "I should not have gone. I should not have been there." William sighs. With his shirt untucked and the leathers on...he truly does look ...out of this time. A vision of Long Before. Wine. William. Leather and linen.

     She was...a soft radiant glow at the party perhaps. Could you almost forget that, behind the Mask, she was Alexandra de Navarre? It would be a contrast that might make anyone know her pause. Soft brown instead of icy blue. But as soon as the guests are departed...those brown eyes become old and tired. She enters the ranch slowly, pausing at the entrance to remove her heals. They make her feet ache...and this is progress for woman? Alexandra was a so called feminist before they even thought they needed a name for themselves...and she never had to wear shoes like this.
     But her wandering thoughts are abruptly brought back to the hear and now as you speak. Attention is turned to you. It is a vision that she soaks up with her own gaze...you there in front of the fire....before she makes any movement towards you. Regarding yourself...how well you held up. "And what would have happened then? How would that have been any better? Besides, I thought it went well." Her voice takes on a light tone....trying to comfort. After all....she did push you into this.

     "Justin...is the Nosferatu primogen," he mentions. "Tori ...is the Toreador primogen. Both are ....they know us too well. Ian and I. And ..." William sighs, "I felt it was branded upon my face all night." He shakes his head again. His eyes cast to the fire. "And Kyle...saw it
too..." William tips back his head, his eyes closing. "I could not pretend. Were they all looking at me...and did they not read it upon my face, Alexandra?" He lowers his head and then turns to you. "How did I do...?" His eyes are frantically searching...and desperately hoping that it was not as obvious as it seemed to him. He finishes the wine. It is his fourth glass. Soon he will be drunk, forget the opium. William turns his gaze back to the fire and murmurs, "I hope I was...alright...I could not do better. I..." He leaves off, merely shaking his head at the end. It was too early. Perhaps in a year, he would be able to do it. The opium didn't help.

     She is not going to lie to you. Her honesty...when has she ever held it back? And at a time such as this, it would be no use anyway. She has been pretending to be someone she was not all night. She has been drinking...rather heavily herself. There is nothing in her eyes when she looks to you that masks what she is feeling. Concern...worry...the looks you have caught from her all night. But also uncertain....and perhaps even a touch of sorrow. The distance is closed, soon she is standing close by.
     "You were better then I could have hoped before...but yes. I spoke to this Orlock. I gave him the line. Ian is gone on business. You are missing him." There is a slight pause, and her eyes move from you...to the bottle. A flick of her tongue against her lips. Looking for another glass. "Take comfort, William, that you have people close to you here who care so much for you and him. It is...a rarity in Kindred politics. They will wonder, qui. How could they not? Even if you had been yourself...would it had not raised brows for Ian not to be at your side....and for some foreign woman to be serving as hostess in his absence?"

     Cleanup begins in the winery. Phillip and the others scurry about, taking a backdoor in and out.

     He lets out a sigh of relief. A breath he did not even realize he was holding. And then he is holding you. He has had a few drinks himself and not just a little bit of opium. He is...effusive. The embrace is brief, but it is warm. "Merci," he murmurs in French. And then his
arms move away. The embrace is gone as soon as it is begun. Hungered...yes. But the ...servants moving about make him withdraw somewhat. He...who was so used to being on display once...not long ago....cannot even bear a servant's scrutiny just now. Too many eyes have looked upon him.
     William looks to you, the bottle and then you again. And then he offers you his own glass. "It is LeBello," he says softly. "I was looking for the Plantagenet cabernet, but...I could not find it." He takes a breath, calming a bit. "They do care about him," he mentions, nodding his head. "He...is very important to this city, Alexandra. He ...he is the glue that holds it together..." He does not know that they feel the same for him....well, he knows how Tori feels. But the tenderness she bears him is shared between he and Ian. Ian knew her first afterall. "I am missing him," he breathes.

     The embrace catches her a bit off guard. It is not what she was expecting, for sure. And before she has a chance to react...it is gone. But it brings...a tender smile to her lips. Even as she can feel you withdawal....feel the hunger. A glance is cast in the direction of the servants she hears moving about. No...she does not care for their presence. For similar reasons, but not quite. She too is tired of keeping up appearances in front of so many tonight. But also....there is a bit of unfamiliarity about them. They are not hers from her estate or villas...and she is such a creature of habit.
     But with your offer, her eyes return to yourself. The red of the glass catches her attention..."I have had to much to drink these last few nights as it is..." But she does not decline. For the same reason you smoked your opium tonight. It makes coping easier...the soothing fires of the wine. The glass is taken by her fingers. It is...toyed with briefly. Gently swirled in her hand. "I miss him too...William. There have been years where we have not seen each other. But this..." This is her surrounded by his things, with you. And his presence should be here, and it is not. There are constant reminders of this in everything she sees around the ranch. "I don't know how well I can keep this...charade...of being Joan...for a real extent of time. But when we get back...there are things we can discuss...to help deal with Ian's business among the Camarilla."

     He nods and as you take his glass, William reaches and takes the bottle. And then he takes a seat again in the chair. It is not as graceful as the swordfighter should be....but is a half collapse. And he settles with a sigh. A sprawl of leather, his long legs stretch out. And the Norman cross gleams at his neck, rubies catch the firelight like electric blood. "I know you must...miss him too. I had....already endured thirty years too long from him and now..." He shakes his head. He is weary, and it shows. Days of not sleeping well. He is hungry, it shows. he has not swallowed blood -- and kept it down -- since when Ian was awake. He is ...nearing the end of abstinence. He will not be able to hold out much longer. His throat is tight, wanting. It shows in his eyes, burning. In the form of him, taut and tightened as if he is about to go into battle. Very like a stallion held in check before a lunge.
     The butt of the bottle rests upon his thigh. "You do not have to wear it always...the staff here...they are...conditioned by Ian. They will not ask questions. You may feed from them, if you need," he murmurs. As he should. "You...are lovely," he murmurs, "the ...party was a success because of you. You could...charm the Serpent out of his tree and make him forget about Eve, I think. Ian...I...am ...fortunate indeed to count you on the short list of those I love ... and who love me in return." His gaze lowers then. The alcohol has loosened his tongue, no? He takes another swallow, then settles back again with a sigh.
     "We need to ready to go," he murmurs. "It will be cold in Scotland. The last time I was there..." William looks to the ring on his hand. "he asked me to marry him, and I said yes. We have...repeated the ceremony three times," he adds in a reverent hush. Then he shakes his head.

     The glass is raised to her lips, as you speak. The glow from the fire, at her back, playing off her own subtle golden highlights chosen for this evening. A sip of the Lebello is taken...but her eyes never waver from your form. And your words...the compliments playing from your lips...bring her own touch of flame to her cheeks. Men have mused about her cool beauty before...but cool was the way she was described. How long has it been since someone used a reference to her and charming in the same sentence. "Merci, William." It falls thickly from her lips, the French sounding slightly askew on the Spanish that still holds her voice. But no less askew then she herself fells.
     "But I know, you and Ian....would have done such for myself a hundred times over." And then, there is a slight sigh as you speak of Scotland. Of being prepared. Your current state is not lost on her, and you will....need everything you can muster for the trip ahead. "I know you are wanting to go to Scotland as soon as possible, William. But you will not..." How can she put this? Another drink of wine helps bring the words. "...be any good to any of us in your current state. And it is not your...missing your husband that worries me." It is the lack of sleep. Of blood. You can tell that from the look in her eyes. And she is very worried indeed.

     Another sip of wine taken. Another breath. Another sigh. "I tried today...but it was..." His eyes search for Phillip briefly. He is blonde...it helped. But. He shakes his head. "I was awkward and his blood was...it didn't set well." He doesn't give the details. The flowers in the garden will be growing nicely. His own cheeks flame briefly. It seems all the more stark. And after tonight's event...stark is what William is. All of the olive complexion is gone now. He feels clumsy as a virgin. It has been many many centuries since he has felt so....green.
     Another sip of wine. Another sigh. William looks to you again only as his cheeks cool, losing their brief color. "I will try again before dawn...and then ...I promise to sleep, Alexandra." In this chair? He looks at it as if posing that question silently. Oh, the blood will make him ache for Ian. He will ache and leather will become unbearable. And he will remain this way until Ian wakens. Uneasy and uncomfortable. Unaccustomed to celibacy. He would have made a lousy priest. It is good that he was great with a sword, no? William looks to you again. He sees the worry and leans forward. A hand to rest upon your own. "I promise."

     As your hand rests on hers, it shifts so that fingers can wrap around yours. A gentle squeeze is offered. She knows that you will try...and she can not rest the feeling that you will not be able. She knows you...and the dread is that she will awake tomorrow eve on it's earliest signs and find you awake in this chair. But what can she do other then that which she has? To sleep...to eat...reminds you of Him.
     "I know it just reminds you of him, William. But he would not want...for you to waste away like this. The trip we want to take....will not necessarily be an easy one. And I don't want anything to happen to you, because you were tired...slow." And because, like Ian, she does not want to see you waste away in front of her eyes. It was the reason she slipped the command into your mind. It was one thing to hear that Ian slept...it would be enough thing entirely to stand by idly while another dear one feel to ruin before your eyes. Her fingers release your hand, but do not pull away. And with her other...the wine glass is raised to her lips. The rest of the LeBello finished. For a moment, as her brown eyes shift to the empty glass...it occurs to her...a slit of her own wrist. To fill the glass for you. Perhaps, if you go yet another night without the blood so desperately needed...she will.

     William gives your fingers a squeeze, gently. And he nods. You understand him. How could he have ever doubted otherwise? "I slept with him one night. Well...on the sofa." In that room. He should really not torment himself, and yet he cannot help it. His love lies in there. William takes another drink from the bottle of Le Bello.
     "It is hard to sleep in another room, and yet...that was difficult. Because, he doesn't move." He is quiet for a time, the wine's potion working upon him. Intoxication. "Earlier ... when I put my hand to my chest...I thought I could feel him around me. It was really warm. And as relieved as it made me...it...filled me with a longing that ...will never go away." There is another pause. "Maybe it was the opium," he sounds disappointed. "I do not feel it anymore."
     And then he shrugs. William's eyes are giving quick glimpses and scans to the room. Looking for the blonde Phillip again. He is hungry. His throat is burning. Hunger. Need. It is beginning to press at the air. Domination ...will not let it go past this night. Your hand is still nearby to his, and his gaze moves back to you. Holding there. Even as you glance away. "It...does remind me of him...the blood. I miss the ...burn of him," he whispers. "Do you want more wine?" he says softly, suddenly.

     The young men have made quick work of the first pass at cleaning the winery. Taps are sealed, glasses removed--the clinking in the kitchen was followed fast by the sound of the dishwasher. A working line the three of them have formed. Winery floor is given a quick dusting by the broom....and lights turned out. Doors there locked. The noise is now confined to the kitchen area, and it will not be long before it is acceptable there for the night as well. Sleep, and the real cleaning shall happen in the morning.

     Her eyes linger on the glass. The few remaining drops of red wine. It made things easier to handle...durning the party. To act as she did...truly was a stretch for her. And it never did feel quite right. But now...the effects of it...just make things both seem so simple and yet so impossible to grasp. "His presence has not left us. There were times...when he was fallen by the witches of the Church....I thought sometimes he could hear my voice speak to him...that he was as there in the room as he ever was. Maybe...it was wishful thinking. On my part. But I don't like to think so..."
     Little comfort that might bring you, at this point. So close is Ian...and yet so far away. Eyes return to you. The question posed? It brings a flush to her cheeks. "I think I've had enough....wine for one eve. That is not what I was thinking of." It would be so easy for her to do...and the blood of the elders...is powerful. So simple. And yet, would it really be best? Is it the right thing to do? Should you just...learn this for yourself? Complicated. Brown eyes are a mirror of her own inner confusion.

     It is very complicated. So...unplanned was this all. So sudden. He was hungry when it started...he is starving now. A week ago, he was in love. Holding Ian, laughing, in his arms, in this chair. And now? Still in love...and his heart is wrung with it...until the blood in him is gone. His complexion marble today. Alabaster tomorrow.
     "I feel badly, Alexandra," he whispers, "for not sleeping with him. Beside him," he corrects. "But...when I am in there, I cannot rest. And yet...every bed is too large." He looks to the bottle resting upon a leathered thigh. "I hope it was him...and not the opium," he says, lifting his gaze with an almost boyish smile. Genuine. His gaze narrowed in pain but the corners of his lips lifting. "No more wine," he seems to concur, and yet...he drinks again. The bottle will be gone in three more swallows. "What were you thinking of then?" he poses in a murmur. His head inclining, resting back against the back of the chair. His bottle propped up on his lap, balanced by his hand.

     She can not help but offer you a slight smile. It is...the boyish grin on your own lips. The comment about the wine...and yet more taken. Signs there of the William she has always known...at least that is something...considering the nights as they have been. And while she can not make Ian awake, nor help you find a way to rest...At least you are speaking of them. It is, perhaps, the first step towards finding your peace for what might very well be a long haul.
     "Maybe, if you did feel him near, he felt you as well? Maybe the important thing is not that you are with him when you are asleep...and dead to the world. But if you go to him when you are awake? Speak to him? I don't know if those who Sleep can hear....if they are at all conscious. But it can't hurt." And then...her eyes drift back to the glass. It is a slow motion...and what she has had to drink nearly makes them swim in and out of focus. What to do? A soft sigh is carried on a breath. "I could fill this glass for you, William. Of blood of my own. If you wanted." There....the offer is at least made.

     William nods to your words on Ian. Perhaps he can hear. Perhaps not. If so, then maybe he will be comforted by William's constant words of his longing and the love lost that fuel his sorrow...to entice him to return to the living. If not, then maybe the release William would have in speaking to him would help him prepare himself. He is not yet prepared. He is merely drunk.
     He lifts the bottle of Le Bello again, another good swallow of it. And then William looks to you. His hand reaching to touch you again. To thank you again. But it stills, stopping midway. Pausing as you talk of blood. And his eyes erupt with violet flames, brilliant ... gleaming. "I...do want it," he murmurs. If he were in any other condition than he is right now, perhaps that would be scandalous. That phrase. But with him now, he is openly genuine. Truthful. Honest. And his gaze slips down along your nearby hand. Then lifts to your throat.

     Alexandra de Navarre has always taken practical to a whole new level...even more then Ian. Surely more then yourself. And if the situation was any different, would you not offer the same? Phillip and the other servants...she made no answer to your offer for her to fed from them. She can not, but yourself...have blood born of noble family...something that is getting harder and harder to find as she gets older and older.
     Fingers idly play with the glass in her hand. Her eyes quickly turn from you to it. Practical, yes. But also...intoxicated as you are. "I do not know...how much this glass will hold. But if you need more...." Her words drift off. Her wrist is raised to her lips. Light from the fire catches a touch of ivory...the decent of a fang. A quick...sudden slicing movement....and the skin parts easily. Blood...belings to slip down her fingers...a few drops fall to the floor. But soon enough the glass is there. To catch it. And how quickly it fills. It is not moments later when it is a touch of her tongue to her wrist that seals the wound. Surely, you can smell it...feel it from where you are. The enticement of elder blood. And then...eyes rising to return to yourself...the glass is offered.

     He has turned to stone. But his eyes are glittering, hunger catching fire and erupting. From the smolder that had lingered there for days. Would it turn to feeding, to pleasure, to violence? Who would know until the first scent of it hit the air in his presence. And the air around him would seem to thicken for all of his intensity. His eyes feast. It is for a moment the only sign that he is real...and not some later work of Michelangelo's hands. Violet presses out the blue in them, and then...watching the blood move down your fingers...the knight leans forward. Lips parting for a sigh that does not sound. Otherworldly...as if it were the grail you held in your hands, Joan, and he the king that would wake from it. And at his legs, Hunger and Need sit by like hounds.
     William reaches forward slowly, fingers and eyes focused on the blood. And he takes it, holding it in both hands. Cradled like salvation. Is it not? The glass is lifted, his gaze never once leaving you. The glass is cool to his mouth, the blood is warmer to him. It has in it the heat of whatever spark it is that keeps you and he and those like you walking the world. Passion? William has always thought it so. His eyes close only as he takes the drink...as the blood passes his lips.

     Perhaps it is passion that keeps those of the Kindred clinging to a life that by all rights should have been denied them centuries ago. And with the blood of Alexandra de Navarre...it was indeed centuries upon centuries. Age has made it thick and powerful. And this evening it is tainted with...the taste of wine that she had been consuming. She knows...as she watches you take the glass...that it is, indeed, just a taste. Perhaps enough to get you through another night or two. But as she watches you take the glass to your lips...drink it as readily as one had been drinking wine earlier....there is a light of Hope in her eyes. She can not offer you complete Salvation from what has happened, but she can offer you this...to help bring you back from the darkness where you have been dwelling. It is something she desperately holds on to....as she watches you. There is no...fear. Of her blood awaking the beast inside you after having been starved for so long. Instead, she drops down to one knee besides your chair. Mind swimming from the sensations she is unused to...the drink...and the odd tingle that comes with loosing even a small amount of blood. From within that, she waits. To see...your reaction. If it will hold better then...the blood you had taken earlier.

     It is a study of reverence and sensuality. Of the sacred and the secular. Of light and of dark. Of one who is lost receiving a portion of salvation. It is downed in one swallow. He does not pause to think how little he likes blood once it is chilling in a glass. Of how much he misses skin. His eyes are closed and he will permit one dream in. At least for the moment of swallowing.
     It is steady and unstopping. Neither a rush, nor is it slow. Wake the Beast? No...it is not likely. Not that one, at least. Though it will resurrect the Plantagenet in him. Perhaps that is beast enough to contend with. It will wake a body much in need and Need and Hunger recoils and transforms to Lust. The red of the glass fades...there are only the crimson drops of it that the glass will not free on its own...and so it is...a motley crystal. Stained and clear all at once.
     William settles back, sinking into the chair's embrace even as the power of it...the age of it...the wine upon it...the passion in it works through him. The glass slips from his hands. And eyes that were only glittery with opium...sparkling with hunger, but reflecting but as a shallow surface...deepen, and sharpen. His tongue eases out and captures what was left upon his lips. And the pallor of his skin begins to change. It is a transformation. But how far will it reach?

     Her gaze never wavers from you as you drink. Golden gaze under eye lids that have grown heavier with drink and intoxication, with the sight of you there, in the chair...with emotional exhaustion of what the week has already held in store, and is likely to do again. And as the glass slips from your fingers...her own slender hand is there to retrieve it. She can see the changes it brings...the tint to your skin...the look in your eyes. And it is your indigo that she tries to read. They have always held so much...such a window into your soul. She bites down, slightly, on her lower lip. They are still there, making themselves seen and felt. The pure white of her fangs against the bronze hue of her lips. The scent of blood is still to fresh in the air for anything else...even if it is her own. Unsure of what to think...how to react..what to feel. Her mind swims with the sight of you there. Finally, a single word slips softly from her. Barely a whisper. "William?"

     The eyes are the windows to the soul, they say. His eyes are dark and swim with the color of stirred blood. A wakened lion. A grieving husband. The blood makes the body strong. Perhaps with a solid physical foundation, the soul can eventually repair itself. After a castle has burned down, the easiest thing to replace are the stones. Go to any quarry, they may be found. Ah, but the tapestries that decorated those walls once, the voices of the children who were born, lived then died there. When castles are burned how are those other things ever replaced? Recaptured? Repaired?
     William's gaze shifts to you as you speak. His own presence, his own potency in there...sword of Ian that he has been. In his gaze...both the pleasure of the blood coursing through him...see the rapture burning there in violet. But there is the press of even more hunger. Not for the cool of a glass but for the warm press of another's form to join the warm press of the soul that is already blending with his own. Strength is there. Underlying the features of his face. His entire figure and form. Slowly...marble turns to fair olive. Olive begins to darken...but not fully. He is still pale. And so he will be until he drinks again. But the sleeping strength has been roused. Now...when will his heart comply and join it? When will he have the coeur de leon again? "Merci," comes his voice, deep..rhythmic in its lilt of French. Not smooth so much as rich. Warmed by the blood.

     It is all that she can offer. Her own stones...words of advice from a woman who has managed to find a way to cope with darkness. The opinions of someone who does not look at things...usually at any rate...from an overly emotional point of view. You knew this...when you called her to come..did you not? Summoned her not only because of old friendships and loves, but because she could be steady when everything else was not. It is the roll she tries to uphold for you, even if she is less then sure of that herself, deep down. The offered blood...just another stone she can offer. The rest of it...you will have to figure out how to bring about on your own. "It will be enough, for now." Stated, but it is also a question that hangs on her lips, rests in her gaze. And her words still hold the concern for you they have had all evening. But they come slow and fluid, the weight of it all pulling on each word.

     Both enough and too much. William nods his head once. "Yes, enough," he murmurs, his voice plying over words of French. The energy of it is working through him. He is restless. Restless and helpless all at once. Delighted and despairing. Wanting...and yet...unable to grasp that which pleases him most. "You should go rest, Alexandra. It has been a very tiring night," his words are quiet and measured. What he does not say: I want to be alone. It is too much. His body is taut and tense, it is very visible to the eye. Alive and screaming it...his body begins to shift for comfort now and again, finding none. If he but had a sword! He could sweat it out. Something. William turns his gaze from you and stares at the fire...lowering, lowering...running out of fuel. Just as he had been before. His hair drapes in such a way to half conceal his face, his right eye. "We leave as soon as we may upon waking." For Scotland. To find Liam. To watch Donal and his harem of whores. To the coldest place on earth at this time of year. The wedding ring gleams on his hand...the Norman cross gleams gold just at the start of his chest...the shirt...the leathers....what century is this? He is...as resplendent as the king he nearly was. King William III he would have been...and he looks it now. Staring in at a fire....

     The King that would have been. She remains kneeling there, at his side, for a moment longer. Watching. Your restless energy is as contagious as your passion can be. It is both stirring and frightening. Your swords...she has taken care to lock them. There is no way for such energy to be spent. Any thoughts or questions she had earlier about your ability to sleep through the day...disappear. She believes you will not. There are only so many stones she can stack. And with your words...comes a slight dip of her head. You want to be alone, and perhaps...that is best. "I am already packed." And with that, the Lady at your side rises. It is a slow and languid gesture. Dream like, reflecting the haze of her own mind. "Good evening, my dear." And with that...she begins to drift away from the fire and into the shadows it casts on the rest of the room.

Posted by rowan at June 06, 1998 08:17 PM