"That's going to hurt in the morning," that rumble is unmistakable. "Are you done pummeling the concrete with your face yet? Yeah, you taught that curb a real lesson. I saw it. It was marvelous."
     Davydd's trying not to laugh but it's there, the humor, riding along the compassion in his voice as he stands with his hands in his pockets over a pair of young men who, after arguing over a meal along the docks -- a meal that they lost when she called the pair of them wankers -- lunged at one another in a dazzling display of newborn ineptitude and were defeated by the street.
     "C'mon, lads," the rumble turns to a chuckle as he nudges them with a heavy Cymri foot. "Smell that on the air?"
     "I only smell the urine..." grumbles one as he shoves the other and then starts to rise. A former university student, in his former life, as a former person. The other's a bit more tragic. A punk from Oxford Circus circa 1975 done as retread for the new millennium, complete with thankless scowl, and a hairdo now immortalized in a pink mohawk with the big rooster hang on it. Tatty clothes, tall and heroin thin. He manages to get on his hands and knees: "Your mum?"
     Davydd ap Owain lowers to a crouch, balancing on the balls of his feet. "No," he says blithely, "... defeat. Not only are you going to go hungry, but you've been called a wanker by a perfectly good, decent, hard-working prostitute, who'd have let you both on if you'd have had any sense and a pound note between you. It's tragic."
     This is the conversation heard on the docks tonight, this part of the docks. St. Davydd distributing wisdom and learning on the docks to a couple of abandoned puppies. He hauls one up by the scruff of his neck even, brushes him off and claps him hard on the back to send him on his way. The punk can get up on his own. "Just go back to the dorm," Davydd exhales. "We'll try again later...this time, pay attention. I have to pay her by the half-hour..."

     Near the dockhouse, Edward sits quietly. He was staring out across the dark, murky water that's pinpricked with various lights. But the noise forces him to look up river at the next platform and to squint at the scene.
     That's odd.
     The lecture ends and the two wander off. Edward smiles and kicks his boot against one of the dock pilings aimlessly.

     "Deirdre!" That booming voice cracks thunder across the dock, probably putting someone else off their feed. Or waking up the drunks and lag-abouts. Davydd whistles and makes a motion with his hand, either 'fuck you' or 'come here'. But he grins. The grin hasn't changed, really. It's just gotten more toothy that's all.
     Deirdre comes out of her corner and grabs the notes he holds. "I should start charging you double."
     "I can't afford you as it is. You play a very convincing hooker."
     "Well, if you can play at being a man..."
     "Nice. Good night, you two-bit whore..."
     "Good night, Llywelyn..."
     There he is in all his splendor... well, wait, he does look good actually. Hair's short so it's not all curly wild. No facial hair, no more bad John Lennon impersonations. It's not cold, but the man never walks around without a coat -- he has to hide the gun. He's all in black and white. His favorite colors. The extremes. Tres Davydd.
     He hears the sound of a boot on a dock piling and turns toward it. He'd know that looming shadow in the darkness as well as his own, if not better. He stands there for a second in shock -- it's been half a year -- and then his eyes crinkle in the corners. Soon, that Mars march with the quickness of Mercury is bringing him to you.
     "I thought you immigrated," he says quietly, but he knows you can hear it. It's like...speaking on a frequency with vampires. You know just how to notch your voice. "Sprechen ze Ingles?"
     A comet streaks across his face, the trail of it across his mouth, the light of it in his eyes as he stands before you. For a moment, he says nothing, but you know it can't, and won't, last. "Edward-bach, it's damn good to see you... and before you start talking shite about me being all marshmallowy-hearted... I'll just say it's been too long. How was France?" Picking up mid-stride as always, as if nothing whatsoever had happened.

     "My English is better than yours," Edward retorts, not leaving his sitting spot. "And fuck anything about marshmallows - what was all that?" he gets directly to the point. Just explain it and be done. That's easiest.
     Now that the scene's over, Edward reaches into his pocket, likely beginning the process of having a cigarette. "France is still there," he notes grumpily for the record. "Despite my fuck-all efforts. I didn't try too hard."

     "What, that?" He pivots to glance at his last spot, vacated now. Empty of cubs and actress. "A couple of abandoned strays," Davydd fishes out a cigarette, pack in his hands and zippo lit in a flash. He exhales smoke that bears the rest of his explanation like a river carries ships.
     "One out of the suburbs. Decent enough kid despite the hair. The other got it in a club, while having sex in the loo, he says. I thought that shite only happened in Playboy," Davydd smirks. "Anyway," with a roll of his great shoulders, "I've got them set up in a place for now, trying to get them presentable, even if not Presentable," in the capital, "... and drumming up who might be responsible."
     Davydd gives the butt of his cigarette a thump, knocking off the ash. "Still hanging on by its painted fingernails. I hear we shouldn't hate it for being beautiful." He winks. "So how's d'Angevin? Did you see him in the country?"

     "No," Edward replies curtly, cigarette in full bloom. He plucks it from his lips and stares at it a long moment. "Holiday." Which means he didn't see anyone.
     His brown eyes glance to the former scene. "Be careful if you're looking up the chain," for sires. "Tattinger doesn't take too pleasantly to strays, and he doesn't take too pleasantly to having his boat rocked," in finding their wayward sires. "You don't leave him many options if there's shite happening without his permission. You force him." But don't you know that?
     "It'd be easier to get rid of 'em and put them out of their misery...if they're orphans."

     Ah, no then. Apparently he hasn't heard from him either. You can tell by the look. "Well, he'll turn up eventually, I'm sure. He... always does." It is a thing that weighs on him, clearly. Plantagenet is angry. You can tell it by his silence.
     But he clears it away a moment later, with the intake of a breath and an exhale.
     "I thought I'd give them a couple of nights, that's all. And I don't intend on beating the bushes over it. I just intend to listen very carefully, Edward. I'm the last one who can afford to displease Tattinger. I'm still trying to figure out why the Toreador are pissed at me. Did I blackout and tp the gallery? What." He rolls his eyes, exhales smoke, flicks away ash.

     There's a frown that says, 'well, d'oh.'
     "Weren't you the one who sent Sandrine packing?" Edward rolls his eyes - and head - and suddenly stands. The lighter is replaced in his pocket. Seems pretty straight-forward to him.
     "Maybe we should ping cos," Edward starts and then stops. "Eh. Why start now?" he chides himself, and then laughs.

     "She left me!" Now, he's excited. His hands start waving and the cigarette bounces in his mouth as he speaks. "I didn't ask her to leave. She said she was going to Cardiff and wasn't coming back. Why are they mad at me, for Christ's sake? I'm the one who was dumped. In bed no less. After another one of our I really enjoyed it but noticed you were barely awake interludes. I bored her... I mean...she didn't enjoy it... I let her go home. Why am I suddenly the fucking asshole?"
     Suddenly?
     Davydd waves that off and spins about to expend some energy. He is composed when he faces you again, hands going back into his pockets. "Fuck them then, if that's what they're worried about. Shite, they didn't like it when I was with her, don't like it that she left me. There's no pleasing them."
     Davydd shakes his head about William, a hand coming out of his pocket to rescue his cigarette. You laugh, and it lightens him before the brooding can even set in. Davydd snorts. "When was the last time he called you? Don't coddle him, Edward-bach. If you spare the rod, you'll spoil that boy... want t' get a drink or sommat?"

     Edward just stands there, blinking at the railing. Not that he'd believe anything on this topic, mind you. Harpies are harpies after all, and the track record between the two protagonists of the story weighs poorly on one of them. He sucks his tongue slightly and only responds at the notion of a drink. He doesn't say anything; Edward turns about and heads towards the steps up to street level.
     "I'll ping cos later," Edward decides at some point, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. Yeah. That's it.
     Edward doesn't ask what you've been doing these last months. Part of him doesn't want to know, perhaps. At the Strand, Edward looks left and right, deciding where to go.

     "I know, I know, I've a lousy reputation with women," he fills the space you leave open with a sigh. "Well, hell... if that's all. I thought I had accidentally stumbled into the Tate in a fit of Guinness blackout and painted mustaches on all the nude female figures with the way Sebastian put it."
     You don't ask, and he doesn't tell. Don't you like it better this way, Edward-bach? "How about Davy's. It's close, and the drinks are free," not that it ever mattered. You both aren't pence-pinchers. His hand comes up, landing with a clap on your shoulder. "We'll give Gwilym a ping after a pint..." he offers.

     "You put on as if I know what's in the mind of Toreador, Davy," Edward says, walking now in the crowd. "I don't know what the fuck, and I certainly don't know what's going on with Sebastian," a name said as if something tasted bad in his mouth. Edward smacks slightly to clear the taste.
      "Wheatsheaf, if you don't mind?" he wonders, twisting to see you next to him.

     "I'm just tired of talking about it, truth be told. Sorry." He exhales and twists as you do. "Wheatsheaf? Fine. Works by me. You buying?" Davydd grins, Sandrine and Sebastian off his mind for the now. "My treat," he rumbles quietly after.
     "I don't want to talk about Sebastian either," he grouses for a moment. "He's pissed for his own reasons, as always. So," a clearing breath, "... ou est monsieur Montague?" His French is always flawless, unaccented by that British trill.

     "M. Montague," respectfully said, as if a Victoria pen-pal correspondent, "...is well, I believe. You cannot really know the mind of someone else, eh? But I think he's alright, as M. Montagues go." Finally, a slight smile, meant for himself. Edward heads eastward, to pick up Savoy. "He is tall and dresses well still, so..."
     It causes a look, his last observation. Edward thinks, but keeps going.

     The Wheatsheaf, est. 1742, is a dockside institution in London. Not the largest of pubs, the main room retains more of the storefront feel that marked it last century. A large bar dominates the room, directly across from the door. Walk in, head straight ahead for refreshment. Made of a dark wood, it matches some of the original backwall and window frames. The front wall on either side of the door still peers out onto the street, albeit through colored panes, alternating between red, green, blue, and yellow.
     With the strong walls and dank low ceiling, the Wheatsheaf is cozy and intimate, and in summer is even more so. Fans twirl above and central air was installed late, but can get rather overworked. Seats are covered in a dark green upholstery, and the walls hold paddles and other sailing memoirs. An archway leads to the Regatta Room, an addition from earlier this century, and the warm hearth and dartboard beyond.

     "Sounds like the M. Montague I knew. The modern dandy," he holds the door to the pub open for you. "A good man, that. But... you know more than I do. Why am I still talking?" He smirks at that. It is because that's what I do. Well, it's what I pretend myself doing. I don't really need to fill the silence...
     Do I?
     He says nothing of the smile, doesn't press for more info. Davydd takes his place at a table, immediately filling one of the green upholstered chairs. Now, in the light, does he look any different? A bit less ruddy-skinned, but not so much. His hair seems to have deepened in tone somewhat, the copper of it burning bright. The golden halo is gone, replaced by the trace blur of muted moonlight.
     He'd tossed his last cigarette on the way, but is now in the process of lighting another. "What's your pleasure.... whiskey? Feels like a whiskey night to me..."

     "Stout," Edward replies, "...and that," the whisky, "...as a chaser." Edward takes a seat, manhandling his chair with a gruff spin before dropping into it.
     "You're talkin',' Edward notes, his voice lacking humor, "...cos I'm not. And I'm not cos..." and Edward looks sadly to you, "...cos I've got nothing to say to you, Davy. I've known you through a million lifetimes and we've done a million things. And I got nothing to say," Edward laments, shaking his head. He smiles slightly, but it is filled with wistfulness and regret.
     "I never thought I'd have a night like this," Edward says softly, sitting back in his seat and upright. He looks around the room, to the people, their faces.
     "How did that happen, Davy?"

     "Me either." It's quiet that sound. He doesn't have a glass to fiddle with yet, so he makes his cigarette his bitch, rolling it in his fingers, tapping it unceremoniously against the ashtray. His eyes watch it, the minutia in excruciating detail. He can't look at you. He's too emotional.
     The silence says it in volumes.
     Davydd clears his throat. "I don't know..." Those dark-green eyes lift beneath fiery eyebrows, those eyes you've seen in a thousand expressions and every gradient of emotion. "Betrayal..." He shrugs his shoulders a little. "Loss of faith... I don't know, Edward. The ... path we knew, the ...way we knew...I guess that's gone now. I burned that bridge." Davydd watches the ash fall into a spiral, gently whispering as it slumps into the ashtray. "I did that. And I will be forever sorry for it."
     He has his own laments, his own regrets, his own responsibility. "I wish I knew ...what to do, but I don't know. We've ... five between us," centuries, he looks at you again, his eyes fixing on you. "That's a lot of time..."

     "Burned like paper," Edward envisions. He does not disagree with the assessment. "Faith." Edward leans in intently. "What can I tell you, Davy? Will you tell the court? What is more important to you?"
     "Am I to trust you with my M. Montague? My Montague, Davy," Edward exhorts softly. The most important thing to him.
     "Politic. My plans....not that I have any. Not that I care about those specifically. But," Edward says, "...it's in the telling."
     Maybe William was right. Edward would never say it, but he thinks it. Perhaps he was too easy, too eager before leaving Strathfayr. Edward smirks out of the blue in thinking on his cousin's wisdom.
     "You..." Edward murmurs, "...have friends that are enemies to me. Not rivals, not of another clan. The Court would be happy to see my kind...fucking gone, Davy."
     "But," Edward waves his hand, "...it's not that. It's...just faith." Between you.

     "Our kind," Davydd quietly counters as he stamps out the cigarette. But to the rest he merely listens. He accepts your words, he hears them. He absorbs them through his skin. "You won't be able to until you can, Edward. Trust and faith, they work that way. I am not going to sit here and tell you that you should trust me, have faith in me." He laughs at that, a hollow but musical sound. "I'm not delusional."
     The laughter ends there. There is no smile that follows it. "I damaged ... the core of who we are, who we have always been. Not... this or that creature... what we are doesn't really matter. But... who we are, who we have been. Friends. Trusted throughout the ages. That's... what I was trying to say on the tower that night. It's me... who needs to apologize. But... that's not enough. I ... will have to earn it back, if I am to receive it again. And even then, will it ever be the same?"
     Davydd answers his own question with the look that follows, with the sadness that follows. I doubt it. "I don't know," he murmurs. "As for the court... I ... am not welcome there." A pause. "In either one, really." Not Tattinger's either. "I have nothing to say to them. I have never uttered, nor ever shall, the personal details of your life to anyone. Hell, I barely admit knowing you," he cracks, his mouth wanting to joke and smile so badly, but it ends at his eyes. Regret is what they show.

     "Probably best that way," Edward smirks too, shaking his head. "Christ, can't someone get a drink?" he pipes up to no one in particular.
     "I am sorry things are the way they are for you, Davy," Edward says, changing gears. "I wish they were different."

     "Don't cry for me, Argentina," he rolls out in that earthy tone of his. "Where are the fucking drinks anyway? Do I have to do the pouring and the soul-searching catharsis? That hardly seems fair." He exhales, pushing up from his chair and going to the bar. Notes are handed over. A moment later, a bottle of Irish whiskey, a pint of beer, and a short glass for you. He'll be taking the bottle.
     He balances all of this quite well, but then he's used to juggling universes, right? How hard could this be? He deposits the bottle on the table, then the glass, then your beer. "Look," he exhales as he takes a seat, takes the cap off the whiskey and pours the short glass for you. "...it will be all right in the end, Edward. I've ... been given a last chance to set some things right. The ... job was done well, if rushed, but I've no ill feelings about it. I mean, if anything, it's a relief just to ...be one thing. To know what my universe is, even if it is all shite now. At least I know it's shite. And I know how I got there. Some say ignorance is bliss," Davydd shakes his head and takes a swig of whiskey. He makes a face, "Irish," he glowers, but then smirks a bit. "It's not bliss. It's just ignorance."
     Davydd clears his throat again. "Now... I will say that there's not enough words in any language that I know to convey how sorry I feel for dashing your faith and trust in me. For putting you and yours... and William out there like that. I ... didn't see that coming." Another swig. "But you know... I understand it now, better. What might have happened. I'd rather you be mad at me and hate me forever than any act of mine actually hurting you. I'd..." He has to stop. "I'd not be able to live with myself for that. Everything else... well... it's uphill from there, isn't it..."

     "I guess," Edward says, making a face too at the whisky. Oh well. He picks up his beer instead. "Shoulda started with the pint," he murmurs to himself, turning it up to make short work of most of it. He exhales after the swallow and looks at you. "Next topic," Edward waves off, glancing left and right again.
     "I think we need cigars," he notes for the record.

     "Next topic. Like... what, Meurelle? Ending hunger. Stamping out communism... oh wait, we did that one..." Davydd smiles that madcap smile and he barks a laugh. Cigars? What? "Call Gwilym. See if he'll send you a box of Cubans. You know he has them, he's bound to. Maybe I should start calling him El Presidente until he returns my calls." A joke, but he wishes that were enough. Davydd takes another pull from the bottle then pauses to light another cigarette.
     He's not worried about exploding. He couldn't get that lucky.
     "I'd ask you what you were going to be up to but you never plan anything. You don't want to talk about Montague. I have nothing to say about my own personal life, I don't have one. Kelly's getting married," he offers. "He's also quit bartending. He's ... going to be living in Powis. I've moved back to London...I live near Gabriel's Wharf... that general area. New loft. Too many windows. But I like having the coffee nearby."

     That's a lot. Edward nods on Kelly. "Who's the lucky duck, eh? Kaitlin?" One of the girls from the bar. Edward shakes his head, "Quitting the bar. I can't believe it." Ah well. "Tell him congratulations," Edward tips from his glass. "Powis is a long way from London," he observes.
     "How's the wharf?"

     Davydd nods, "I'll tell him. The girl's a girl who used to sing there. Fiona Arundel. They're going to marry in Powis, which is nice. It'll be good. I'll... probably have new grandchildren before too long, which... will be nice actually." He tries a smile again, it only works a little.
     You know how he gets, especially when it's heaped on by alcohol.
     Davydd looks in the ashtray, shrugging at news of the wharf. "I have a few things I'm doing. You know... trying to help people who need help, that sort of thing. No big deal. I talked to... well... the family here," Ventrue, "...and there's no place for me. Naturally... but, then I wasn't really expecting one. I just had to go through the motions of asking. But I had to buy a place of my own." Green eyes lift to you. It's not like I can sleep on yours or William's sofas now, is it. "Mostly, lately," he snorts a laugh, "I've been apologizing. That's going to take another century at the rate I'm going. Plenty to keep me occupied, Edward-bach."
     He takes another breath of fire, another swallow of whiskey (there's a song in that, he's sure). "How's things by Dannerly Court...?" He won't ask of M. Montague directly, or of your plans... you wouldn't tell him anyway. "I hope you had a good sojourn in your motherland. Not bothered by Villon too much..."

     There's nods on marrying. But he doesn't know either of them well to care that much. "I don't get about the Ventrue - what do you mean there's no place for you? What the hell does that mean? You're an eld--" Edward blinks. Well, no, that's true. "You're an elder," he finishes. "I am sure there's some fucked scheme afoot they could use you for," Edward opines.
     "So," Edward comes to it, "...you're on your own?" It doesn't make much sense, but it's not like he understands Ventrue or their politics. "And Dannerly's still standing," Edward says, finishing his pint behind it.

     "Well, Sebastian has no use for me. There's no... official use for me, let's say. Not that I can blame them. I haven't done anything constructive since the War. I think..." He pauses. No, I don't think... I know. "The War took a lot out of me. I don't think I rested enough after. I've been aimless ever since. So, I'll blame Hitler for my mood. I always did like blaming Hitler. Oh, it's cloudy. Fuck Hitler. Oh, it's raining. That's Hitler's fault, that. Ah, I went nuts and almost outed my friends... it's that goddamned Hitler."
     "You know," he goes on to quietly muse, sitting back in his chair. "If I had been the one to off that sadistic, loony, anti-semitic kraut bastard I would have had an evil overlord exacta: Mithras and Hitler. I could have won a ton of cash." He tsks at that, an opportunity missed, and takes another hit off the bottle. He then offers it toward you. Care for another hit?
     "Isabella's taken me in," he gives it to you. Why shouldn't he? Why shouldn't you have an advantage of knowledge over him now? He owes you that much. "If you can call it that. She's allowed me... to show my worth to the family, beyond ridding it of the Beast, as they call him." Mithras. "You know, in some parts of this island I'm still referred to as the Slayer. I haven't done a goddamned thing since..."

     Edward had been staring at his glass, a slight smile on his lips for the Hitler-blaming. It's a good idea. But at the mention of Isabella, he looks up. Eyes narrow. "Isabella? That's the danger for you," he comments. She's almost mythic. "Are you sure you want to do that, Davy?"

     "Yeah," he murmurs. "I'm sure. I'm such an idiot, I ... didn't understand her first message to me... you know back when I was going mad and thinking of being prince, I mean... fuck, honestly." Davydd can laugh about it now. "Why didn't anyone stop me? That was insanity. Just..." He shakes his head.
     "So... anyway... we talked then...and we have again. She... wants the world to be better than it is. And I believe her. So I am doing my part." By picking up strays in the dark? Perhaps that is a part of it. "It gives me...something to do. A purpose. I'm not like you, Edward... and I'm not like William. I have to have a purpose. I don't know what to do with free time. I just..." now the emotion begins to bubble up. "...fuck things up...when I don't have purpose..."

     Edward just listens quietly, now nursing his chaser. He does not interrupt, not even for the welling emotion.

     Davydd doesn't say anything for a time. He puts the cap on the whiskey, signaling that he's had enough. "So... anyway," he murmurs, his voice rough but the lilt returns to it. "That's about it. You haven't missed so much in five months." He puts his cigarette pack back in his coat, making the visible signs of preparing to leave.
     "I should go," he says. "Tell Montague that I asked about him, please. And that I wish him well in whatever he should choose to do." And with that, he rises. His hand lands upon the back of his chair a moment, knuckles knocking once. "You, too..."

     "Hey," Edward chirps, "...um...about this thing with Isabella, let me know if...I can help." Not that he has any attachment to Isabella. He doesn't know her, only of her and she's in another clan. The help is for the one he knows. That's the only way it'd be extended. "Sounds like a lot," he counters. A lot, indeed.
     "I'll tell M. Montague that you asked," he nods gently, not stopping you from going. There's sadness in the awkward nature of the evening's convo. Yet you met, and there's normality in that. "Let me know if I can help ya, Davy," Edward says again.

     Davydd stops a pace or two away from the table, pivoting to look at you. "Diolch, Edward," he says it quietly. "I will let you know. But really....you've always looked out for the world in your way. You... I always admired you for that."
     Davydd nods to you, tries on a smile. It's no lie, it curves where it can, says what it should. He nods once more and turns and goes.
     Outside the pub and through the colored windows you can see him. He doesn't turn into a flock of birds and fly away, nor a leaf, nor anything fantastical, despite the fact that he is. He crosses the street and walks along The Strand to follow the river home.

Posted by rowan at May 08, 2005 08:30 PM