He seems like a phantom in the English rain...
     Just because it's summer doesn't mean that the rain comes to an end. Nor does it necessarily mean that the evenings (or the days for that matter) are particularly warm. Still, warmer and dryer than Wales at any rate...
     Crossing the street, one from that green, drizzly nation: fiery red hair kept short and mussed -- controlling what is uncontrollable by nature, like keeping blackberries neatly manicured -- and clothed in the dark jeans, striped wool blazer and Black Jack Davy tee-shirt that has been known to sit on other shoulders than his, this raider of his father's closets...
     He passes in and out of crowds, walking along The Strand with a stride that's more of a march than anything, covering serious ground. The stride of Mars, with the speed of Mercury. This red shadow, this phantom.
     He is heading for The Wheatsheaf, his steps carrying him from The Strand to Regent. The crowds are thinner. Better said, they're more sporadic. And he moves among them as if he always has, this red-haired phantom of another man. In every way seeming like a proper doppelganger.

     The perpetual gargoyle, Edward sits upon a ledge, smoking the last of his current case of cigarettes. Soon it will be time for another, and he'll have to leave his perch to find the nearest corner store for a top up. The other option is simply to go home, and he's not really sure he's up for it at this instant.
     Thus, it's of some consolation to Edward to open his silver case, raindrops be damned, and to fish out another cigarette. He exhales unnecessarily, and leans precariously to put the case back into his jacket pocket.
     At least the leather won't smell tomorrow. It's too old for that.
     He pushes the wet hair from his ears and begins the process of lighting a cigarette in the rain. The lighter's remained his constant companion for the last half century, and true to form, it does not let him down. A click and it lights, bringing the smallest smiles to his lips.
     Looking down, he can see people milling about on the streets, going about their mundanity. It's easy to sit on a ledge and judge, and not being the sort, Edward sighs for them too.
     How are they any different than he in this?
     The lighter's top flips over, ending the short fuse. He shoves that back into his pocket as well, and watches the red-haired man move at a stride not common to everyday mortals. But such is London, yes. There are more than mortals here.

     Since the age of nine, the precocious son of a precocious man has slipped from his lessons, ventured onto the decks of ships and sailed out for adventure. His first trip to London was in year twelve as he marked it (mere months had passed in London), following some old path from the guts of his father's earthly castle to the back wall of a back alley in a forgotten part of the City, itself now magical for it.
     He has studied it, watched it, picked at it, ruminated on it and now he is living in it, to learn from it first-hand, not third or fourth or more hands away as a reader of some history. Now twenty years as he marks them have passed (in a matter of mere months here) and this young man has stepped from his fanciful world to one he finds every bit as bizarre... and every bit as magical... as the one he left.
     Twenty years have marked him well enough. Though his face is fresh as any twenty year old's, there is a certain weathering of the eyes. Something smart, something ...understanding, and yet with the flash of the occasional startlement of a tourist. He is that, if nothing else.
     The young mortal (for that is what he is, despite it all) leaves the crowds behind for a darker road. It's the sort of road that suits him. The well-worn boulevard fades into the beaten alleyways. His marching stride slows in tempo but remains untempered in nature. He is what he is, and who he is. His stride is his hallmark. And so is that smile.
     It moves across his mouth like someone else's ghost. He smiles at nothing, it seems. He tosses a glance behind him, past a shoulder that is broad on a body yet thickening, but does not stop.
     Nor does he see the gargoyle watching, as gargoyles tend to do, the world unfold from boulevard to alley, from Strand to Regent to sidestreet. From the safety of numbers to the relative dis-ease of London's nightwalkers row.
     The red-haired man pauses in the alleyway that leads to the Wheatsheaf, releasing his own zippo, giving a cigarette a light. Not a clove or anything poncy. Just a plain Camel.

     The boots will be annoying to remove. He'd be inclined to cut them off, if they weren't so damned comfortable. And isn't that all one wants in life - a comfortable pair of shoes? And a cigarette. And a drink. That's it.
     Edward turns at the ledge's angle, keeping his perch though his legs dangle ninety degrees from before. He glances at his watch - he should go home - then considers the youth again.
     Ah well. Life is full of strangenesses. Cigarette barely making it through the rain, Edward twirls it around in his mouth before leaning to retrieve his cell phone. Numbers are dialed, and he removes the cigarette from his lips to talk.
     "Yeah, it's me," he says to the ringing phone, "...pick it up if you want..." he talking to no one in particular, but meaning it for his lover.

     Periwinkle eyes peer in the alley, peer past the grey smoke that he exhales. His eyes drift upward briefly, but he doesn't linger overlong. A hand going into his blazer's pocket, the young Welshman wanders toward the Wheatsheaf...

     ... "Bonsoir," comes a voice on the phone. It sounds quiet. It sounds like it has a question mark after it. Are we talking? I guess so: you are now calling me...

     The boy goes into the bar -- sounds like the opening of a joke. If so, what's the punchline? Long enough for you to have a conversation...

     "I'll be at the house before sunrise," Edward says informationally. He's smoking, as from the exhale that follows his statement.

     "Sure," the reply is simple, accepting. "I will be here. The house will be locked. Do you need me to have anything ready for you, or are you going to drop into bed and be done?" The French comes easily, quietly. Is that the sound of chagrin?

     In the Wheatsheaf, the young redheaded man passes by the bar. He orders a snakebite through his cigarette, puffing as he speaks, even as he smiles. That's genetic, that. A nod, and Iowerth glances around, a survey of those within. He takes the pint in hand as it's delivered, turning and heading for a booth...

     "I don't know," Edward says, since he's been asked a question. "Good morning," Edward follows, not really sure what to do with his words. Once the valediction's offered, he closes his phone, ending the call.
     Before he can safely put the phone away, Edward's dropped from his ledge, landing on the ground, one knee to the asphalt. He stands from his crouch, brushes off a knee, then puts the phone into his pocket. Soaking wet, he moves across the alley to the Wheatsheaf's door, opening it only slightly to peer within.

     ...The phone call ended with the curl of the phone in his hand. Valan Montague set the phone by the bed and took up his glass of wine again...

     ...Inside The Wheatsheaf, the young man takes up a place in a booth. He faces the door. The Brythonic nose (small), the high cheekbones, his hair standing up, thick and this-way-that-way. He's handsome, if reminiscent. Beautiful, actually, in that young Welsh poet sort of way. Though, he's big for a poet.
     Iowerth looks up as the door opens slightly. Periwinkle eyes catch the motion -- that he catches -- and he looks directly at it, his head cocking slightly. In or out. To be or not to be? He quirks his mouth in a curious smile, his hand plucking the cigarette from his mouth and tapping away the ash.

     The door's already closing. If there was someone there, they're not now.

     Edward pulls the soaking cigarette from his mouth and gives it a stare. He steps out of the way for an arriving patron, then tosses the thing aside. He should have known it would not last so long.
     So it's time to face it then. Edward walks along the alley and towards Regent, shoving his hands into his pockets. It's not going to help the situation or the night one bit. His hands are wet, and now so are his pockets. He takes a quick check to see if he can see the moon above London's buildings, and is quickly reminded that he cannot. Not down here.
     His car is a few miles away. Edward walks the sidewalks northward, the rain at his back and shoulders. All he can think is that before too long he'll be in the quiet of his still car, and the last, dry cigarette will make everything better for a moment.

Posted by rowan at June 02, 2006 07:12 PM