I'm fucking mental...
Oh well, you say, sitting in the comfy environs of your room, reading over the fucked up details of my life, you are fucking mental Davydd -- everyone knows that. Everyone knows that but you. Only I know it. I've always known it. But then, no one's immune...
So it's the end of my second spring without you, you who made everything beautiful for me again. You who named all the flowers in my garden. You, who I loved. You, who I still love. What was the insanity that drove me from you and you from me?
The same old same old thing...
It's the full-fledged late evening, the ten o'clock hour that's noon to a vampire. What other time to stroll the Covent Garden? He walked around the block for half an hour, avoiding the windows that look out onto the other parts of the mall. But he can't avoid it forever.
Not even I can avoid it forever, I who make it a point to avoid everything.
Davydd appears, looking like he ever did. Hair's still short, the reflection shows his image back to him. Dressed in his blacks and his greys, he is a monument to British style. The end of spring still dictates he wear a jacket. It's paired with wool blend trousers, sturdy but stylish black shoes, light black sweater. His copper-fire hair, short short and controlled.
He lifts his hand, a knuckle rapping against the glass, tapping just loud enough for you to hear him, lady vampire. His heart is in his throat, swelling there, twitching there. But despite that, Davydd knocks.
She is a picture, sitting back in one of the large preparation areas, not in the front of the window. Around her, the evidence of spring - several massive arrangements for floors, blooms upon blooms in square-bottomed urns. A rather traditional affair, this, and a massively expensive one. As always, there are hands who work the shop and the business. She? She's the master arranger, the woman who comes in at night and creates glorious living sculptures that are then delivered by mortal hands.
Sandrine's legs are crossed as she sits in a high chair in front of a tall table. Strewn across it are boxes and boxes of flowers, flown in for work. At the moment, she crafts something delicate, likely a hand arrangement. Two cats sit lazily among the spread of discarded leaves, ties, and cardboard, raffia and string. Six sets of eyes look up at the window where there's a tap, but only one set remains fixed for a length of time.
The two cats, Frik and Frak, decide to get up to see who could be tapping. No one taps. No one comes. It's desolate in the Covent Mall at night, much like the surrounding business district. All of the workers are gone from the lunch high-traffic area, back to their safe suburbs for another night.
Unlike the cats, Sandrine makes no such immediate move. It is another second or three before she seems to inhale, set down a set of small flowers, and then twist herself from her seat. She looks around the floor for a moment, around her blue heels, and brushes her apron with her hands. Her blue dress is arranged before she moves around the chair to the open space along the tables that might allow her to access her own door. Hands reach back to check her pinned hair, to make sure each strand remains in place.
I shouldn't have come...
Well, since when has that ever stopped me in the past? If it makes sense, I'll be nowhere near it. So it seems. Always, me taking the tangled, brambled way. I see you in your blue dress and I can feel it start at my eyes and move right through me. That mollification. You were Moses to my Red Sea.
Davydd twists even as you do, turning to toss away the cigarette, give his last smoky breath to the air around him and wait for you to open the door...if you'll open it. There's no guarantee, of course, that you're not going to start yelling Nordic curses his way, spitting in his eye...
That thought almost makes him chortle. No, no... not likely. You are perfect. You will be polite. Even if it kills us both.
Even the sight of Frik (Frak, he does not know) makes him go all soft and marshmallowy inside. Yes, yes... Davydd ap Owain, you should not be here. You love her. You love her still.
The walk to the door is not rushed. Nothing bout Sandrine ever is. She walks as her feet will take her. The cats follow, curious still, and back up as she puts her hand on the door to open it.
It unlocks for her, yields. The knob turns and the tumblers roll in their chambers. The tongue pulls from the door, and a click follows. The pull away from you brings a swish of drawn air from the streets, smelling roughly. Within, air-conditioner and the heady scent of fresh flowers. Around her, Spring eternal.
Sandrine bobs her head in uncharacteristic fashion as the door opens to reveal her standing there, tip of left foot to the heel of right. She does not move, and nor do the cats dare to rush outdoors. They are well-trained.
For a moment, he is as silent as you are. You and the cats and he. If he had a pulse, it would be pounding. What else could winter do when in the face of spring?
Speak, damn you...
Speak...
"It's ...good to see you," Davydd finally says, his voice soft and deep and lilting. "I'm sorry if I've caught you at a bad time." Dark green eyes flit toward your forest of flowers behind you, the assaulting of beautiful scents. "Do you ....have a moment...?"
He does not seek to sweet talk you. He does not flirt. His manner is gracious, polite. You are a delight to his eyes, there is no hiding that. But he does not automatically assume that you'll be happy to see him...
"Hello, Davydd," your name still said like 'daffid' as Sandrine steps backwards out of the way. Her hand remains on the doorknob to close the door behind you. "Move on, cariad," she whispers to the cats as they fumble around, not sure of where they're going. Sandrine sighs softly and bends to pick one of them up, a white short-hair with reddish-tipped ears and blue eyes. That must be new. A soft slither of words are said to the cat, in her native tongue.
"Come in," Sandrine says afterwards to you, her head lifting again. The cats are her world, it seems, the focus of her attention. Since her hand has left the door, she cradles the younger cat to herself and proceeds to walk towards the bench and high chair where she sat previously.
Frik is left to his own devices. The cat looks up at you and follows about his mistress, though keeping eyes on you as if expecting something.
He makes a little whistle to Frikka. "I don't have any tuna," he says to the cat. But, he didn't come here for the cat. Or for the tuna. Or for the flowers. "I have wanted to stop by before," Davydd says, stepping carefully among the flowers, "... I should have. I've been in London for a bit. It's overdue, I think? Seeing you. I hope you've been well. You've a new cat..."
He takes a seat on one of the chairs, same as he used to do while waiting for you to finish for the night. "I wanted to talk to you... to really and truly apologize for how crazy things became." He pauses, snorting a bit. "How crazy I became. It ... happens after one reaches a certain age. I'm... just so sorry you had to be there during it. I really am, Sandrine. Whatever becomes of the rest of Time," he says, settling back, "I shall always love you. And I wanted to you to hear it. From me."
She's barely made it back to her seat. Sandrine turns about and looks at you, still holding the other cat. "Ah well," Sandrine smiles, "This is Frakte, a new cat. I am well, thank you. And your laundry list," Sandrine bends to let Frak down, "...well, there is that. You have said," Sandrine watches you, "...what you came to say. And quickly..." she chirps. "I guess you shall be going now that you have made your peace or said what you needed to say about the Rest of Time?"
Not once did her voice sound sarcastic or bitter. The words said evenly. But that cannot be genuine. Sandrine continues to look at you, retaking her seat upon the chair.
"Well, you know how I am about verbal efficiency. Why spend an hour mulling over what you can blurt out in five seconds?" He smirks a bit, a sigh coming at the end of it. "I suppose it's an old habit of an old battle commander. Better get it out, before the arrows hit y'."
"Frakte, eh? What does Frakte mean, in your language. Or it is a god? Or goddess?" He wants to smoke, his hands even make for his jacket pocket, but then he remembers: oh right, it's her shop. He leaves the cigarettes where they are.
"So... how've you been... I'd much rather talk about that... and your cats... than my shite behavior..."
Sandrine seems to sigh, more of an affectation in the air. Blue eyes look down to her table and her flowers there. She picks them up again. She must finish her work before sunrise. "It is a made up name," she goes on, stringing raffia around the tiny arrangement. The rest of your comments, and her own, are ignored.
"I am alright, thank you," Sandrine says quietly. "There is nothing new," she explains. Just this.
"Frik and Frak," his eyes smile more than his mouth. He looks at you. "Reminds me of the dogs. They miss you too, you know," he murmurs. "I've left them back at Powis. They're too old for London anymore. I'm letting them retire in the country. With your roses."
Yours. Inspired by you. Grown for you. Lingering in Powis. Even as you should.
"I've bought a place ...not far really. Well, not all that far. South Waterfront. I... purchased the Thief River Motel. I'm..." he lifts his hand to scritch at his head, a nervous mannerism, that. "... hoping to turn it into a kind of hostel for wayward immortal youth. I... was hoping you'd... be interested in joining forces a bit. Etiquette lessons... flowers for the lobby..."
"The dogs are sweet," Sandrine looks up. The vaguest hints of a smile. She misses them, but will not say it. Instead, the memories of them fade as does her smile. She looks down at her long fingers wrapping the raffia. "I don't have...forces," Sandrine says simply, "I will send flowers in the morning."
"I do not teach so much," Sandrine murmurs. "I doubt anything that I know would be useful to anyone," she whispers.
"They are... in their dotage..." He starts to smile as you do, but it also fades soon. "I think you have a lot to give... and I think there are ...young people who could benefit from what you have to offer. I've always felt that way, Sandrine."
Davydd looks at you. "Forces. You and me. I don't have an army or anything, I'm not asking to draft you," he murmurs with a trace of a smile. "Well, maybe I am," he thinks about it a second. "I just think that ... when I'm not fucking insane, we ...have a lot in common, we have a lot to offer and I think you and I both have been on the sidelines too long. For different reasons, but ultimately just as pointless, darlin'."
Davydd spins a flower bud, discarded in your earlier work, around on the counter with his finger. "I'd like you to have the exclusive contract for the refurbished Thief River Motel. I'd like you to ... help me renovate it. Redecorate it. I think the youth who come in and out of it could learn a lot about making their way in this world properly when they ... know how to present themselves properly. Skills... such as you know how to teach."
That's his pitch it seems...
"What do you think..."
Sandrine pauses her raffia for a moment, twirls of it curling around her hands. Blue eyes stare at you a moment, undefined as usual. She looks down again to her hands that pick up their movements. "I will send the flowers, no charge. They will come every four days. I will have to think about the rest, Davydd."
The cats move around the store, finding other items with which to occupy themselves. There are a finite set of hours in the night, and this is how the three of them fill it. Sandrine glances up at you, then to her flowers again. She picks up her scissors and cuts the raffia, finishing off the arrangement.
He nods once. "I'd not dare ask for more, cariad," he murmurs it. He means it. And he will not regret saying it, that old endearment. With a breath, he rises from his chair. "I should... let you get back to your business. I...didn't even call in advance to let you know I was coming..."
He doesn't wish to impose any more than he has already...
Davydd pats his jacket out of habit -- everything is where he expects it to be. "The number's the same. Take your time," he murmurs.
Sandrine nods as she pats her lap. Young Frak takes the bait as Sandrine watches you depart. She nods and purses her lips before beginning a new arrangement to match the one she only completed a moment ago.
I should never have let you leave for Cardiff....
In my desperation, I sacrificed everything, including you. Scorch and burn. Just like my gut right now. Your sweetness. Your goodness. Your frailty. You are the tenderest petal of all. He lets that last thought go, to hover in the ether as he steps out.
Davydd makes sure the door closes behind him. He looks at you through the glass. We may never be what we almost were. Maybe we can be something greater.
Posted by rowan at June 06, 2005 04:20 PM
