The call came around five-thirty. The sun had barely set -- in fact, it lingered in its early spring reluctance, the clouds stretching gold and pink like a Victorian brocade. The voice was quiet, officious.
     Meet me at the Abbey Gallery in four hours. We must speak.
     In its brevity, it left little room... no room... for disagreement or argument. The fight had been only the beginning.
     Thus begins Act Two...
     The gallery is closed but a woman waits at the door for the anticipated arrival. Dressed impeccably and polished, she is as much a work of art as the statues and paintings that fill this gallery dedicated to the modern artform. And isn't she just such a creature, a modern artform. Behind her, the interior lights of the gallery create a warm and inviting glow.
     It makes a very fine drawing room.
     The light catches the precious metal that encircles a man's finger, creating a beacon, a flame that might catch the eye of any wandering moth, as he pours two glasses of wine. The figure there, the owner of this gallery, so seldom seen in its environs, stands out even among such art. His, a face that Raphael, Michelangelo, Leonardo would have loved, and perhaps did, with its full mouth and Olympic features. He commands the air, the space not merely around him but throughout the lower portion of the gallery. It is impossible to wander the halls and not yet be in his presence.
     He is dressed in a black suit, a thin, black sweater beneath it. It makes his eyes, the dark indigo, appear all the more vivid and the ring he wears all the more apparent. The energy he wears, while invisible, is palpable. While it has no specific vestment, it merely serves to make him seem all the more resplendent.
     William Plantagenet lifts one of the two glasses in his hand as he steps away from the pedestal that holds the bottle of wine and the other glass, preemptively filled.

     There was less surprise than the feeling that there should be surprise. There was no real thought of argument; no real thought of perturbation. What is going to happen, it will happen; she is but one of the actresses on the stage.
     She has felt that for some time...
     She has dressed carefully, but without obsequity. Her clothes are quietly tasteful, without being exceptional in either direction - there is no ostentation to it. A black dress, scooped low enough to highlight the necklace she wears (pearls given her to mark the birth of the twins), the two rings on her hands (verdant emerald and pink diamond, the two rings of her two husbands) - pearls in her ears to match her necklace, and nothing else. There is a half-cape of woven cashmere that drapes her shoulders, discreet black pumps on her feet; her hair is braided simply and tied at the end with a black bow, a crown braid which then is set free to halfway down her back. Tasteful. Discreet. Unarmed, but fragilely armored...
     She climbs from a taxi, making her way into the gallery, having eaten lightly. In her small purse there are two envelopes, contents unknown; and her eyes are the grey of steel, preparing for the unknown. Fearing the worst, and yet trying to remain impervious to that fear. And though her entire demeanor has changed so much in the handful of years that it has been, her shadow is (metaphorically) not that of the demure young woman presented; it is that of the punk gypsy girl, defiant and bristling, with the bristles now worn on the inside.
     Fear does funny things to someone, doesn't it, Fiona? Fear, and love.

     "Thank you, Juliana," William speaks to the woman at the door, holding the door open for the guest. "You may now go. Please lock up behind you. I will take care of the rest on my way out."
     The well-dressed woman, the secretary to a prince, does what is asked of her without offering any goodnights. She is as proficient as she is beautiful.
     The quiet gallery -- it is only you, Plantagenet, and the paintings now -- echoes the sound of the quietly closing doors. William looks to you as you enter -- you both in black as if you are mourning something. The thought occurs to him with the slight uplifting of an eyebrow, and a momentary quirk of humor at the corner of his full mouth. "Please, have some wine. Every civilized conversation," William murmurs, his English heavily accented, "...should be lubricated by such wine."
     "How long ago is it now?" he begins, his eyes peering at you to make the calculations, "...since we met in this gallery last? Since I painted you." He inclines his head, his short hair one of the more modern works of art in the building. He sips at the wine, holding it loosely thereafter in his hand. The glass drips from his fingertips as if it shall fall altogether. But it seems to float, just at his fingertips as he wanders, expecting you to follow him.

     She enters with an awareness of you which is immediate, lighting behind her eyes. You know her to have an intelligence of sorts - right now, that intelligence is heightened by alertness. She is wary, watchful, as careful as any thoroughbred mare in unfamiliar circumstance though less prone to bolt; so far. "Thank you," Fiona answers you with careful, quiet courtesy in her voice. "It's very kind of you. Let me know what language you would prefer."
     She is as fluent in French, or almost, as she is in English; it is a small courtesy but a sincere one. She moves to you to take the wineglass, watching you, her grip not quite so light as yours, not so practiced. "It has been a few years now. Five? Maybe? I'm not sure," she admits. When one spends time in Faerie as in the earthly realm, time begins to fragment. It is difficult to measure the passing of time as anything to be taken entirely seriously; it is a joke, a pantomime. But this? This is serious.
     Deadly.
     Fiona tilts her head, looking around for a moment and then turning her attention onto you. "I think five or six years. I'd have to check. Not that many years, anyway. Life's funny like that."

     William does nothing to assuage your wariness, your concern, your fear. As Davydd needed to feel punishment, so you should feel the dread and wariness that comes with dealing with him. "English is fine, but I thank you. I need the practice, or I will forget it. I never speak it at home." At home, in his home, it is either Langue d'Oc with its honey and fire consonants and vowels, or it is Gaelic, with its lilts and growls, or it is some hybrid of those two spoken between two that have spent a near millennium in one another's company.
     "Five years. Or six," William ruminates. He looks at you, giving you the full of his attention and turning away from a painting to do so. "In that time, I will say I do not know you very well. But I do know you to be an honest woman. Too honest," he smiles a little. "But that is a fault which is easy to tolerate. It is your honesty I need tonight, Fiona. And I trust you will give it to me. I am going to extend that trust to you."
     He sips at the wine, the glass floating up and floating down without a thought, with the practice of centuries. It is a wonder the glass does not move for him to save him the effort, what little there is. He sets the wine upon yet another pedestal, there are several here and there, designed to do just that -- to hold the drinks of those passing by and passing through.
     The hands of an artist are the hands of a killer, of a general, of the heir of empires. "Davydd is very free with his information around you. I wish to know how free he has been with my information to you. Do you know who I am... where I am from... when I am from? I know you know my condition," again, there is a slight smile, amusement to think of it such, "... that it is similar to his own. He speaks... so casually," too casually, "... of time around you. It is a ... serious security breach. One he either does not recognize or chooses to ignore or both. That is fine, it is his neck mais oui. Except," and the dark indigo of his eyes deepen when he murmurs that word, "...when the information is not his own. I must know what you know, all of what you know. About me. About anyone else he has mentioned to you in our circle."
     For he should not have spoken about these things. Such is not said aloud but is clearly written across the beautiful, Olympian face of the last Plantagenet.

     "I don't see that there's much point in lying to you." She opens with that statement, tone reasonable; her eyes meet yours for a moment, then glance down to her drink. "The odds to me seem that you would know that I was lying - or even if you didn't, what would be the point? If you want to speak with me, my personal feeling is that that discussion should be encouraged; that it might, in fact, be overdue."
     There is that listening; that attentiveness of which she is so capable, focused at present on you. You have asked for her help; she is not flattered, but neither is she afraid of it. It is simply accepted, and the help prepared to be offered, unquestioningly, undelayed.
     "I don't know everything." She prefaces her speech with that, the grey and the blue in her eyes. "I know that the two of you have known each other a very long time. I do not know precisely how long. I know that the two of you battled a long time ago; in life, and that that battle bound you together in some way, emotionally more than other things. I know the two of you fought in the War, on the same side. I know that he hates Germans. He has had ... emotion for you ... and I have seen those depths. I know that the two of you have someone else, someone named Edward, whom he has despaired of having lost forever. Apart from that? I don't know names. I haven't asked names," she adds, tipping her head to the side as she regards you. "I don't feel the need to know. What questions I had were never about you or yours. And most of what I know is about his feelings where the two of you are concerned."
     She is thinking, casting her mind back actively now, trying to decide how much she knows. What, ultimately, does she know? "I know that before he was with me," Fiona recalls, "he was with Sandrine, and before her, Rose. I don't know for certain if either of them are as you are. If they are, then I guess it could be said that I know of them, but I've met both of them; he hasn't talked to me about what they are, except that they are women with whom he was involved, with all the regrets that are attached. I know that you are dangerous."
     It seems almost ludicrous to say it, and her mouth twists with the acknowledgment of that irony. "I'd decided that on my own, though, when I rearranged your furniture. I might not have known why you were dangerous - I still don't pretend to know it. Most of what he has talked about, William, has been himself. He has mentioned you and Edward, but only in little ways; that the three of you have had a history. That he misses you, as much as missing an arm or a leg. That he wanted to name my first two sons after you and Edward. Who you are? The only names I have for you are the ones you gave me. If you mean the measure of you - I don't think Davydd's capable of expressing that in words, and it isn't something he'd try to impress upon me. Why invite comparison?"
     Though there is the edge of humour slanting through her eyes, it is seriously said, seriously spoken. The wine is sipped, set down. "Where you are from - France. A different France than I know of, I can extrapolate, but in details? No. When ... I know that only from knowing him, and from, again, extrapolation. This - might sound like I'm being snide, but I'm not, really. But we just - don't talk about you that much. Only when he is falling to pieces thinking he has lost you and Edward, and even then, my emphasis has been more on getting him back up on his feet and moving forward, and trying to get him to actually work on making things right."

     There is, while not a softening of his demeanor (for this is a most serious matter), a certain show of humor, something of warmth. He does not respond to your extrapolations, to your realization that you should, indeed, be afraid of him. All that is assumed. He is dealing with the here and the now.
     "I am pleased to know that he has not been as .... maverick as he seemed. On the two occasions that I have met with him over the past several years, he has seemed to have divulged quite a bit more. You are correct; I have known him for a long time."
     William exhales -- it must be odd to see a painting breathe -- and he nods. "I know he has divulged something to them. I will trust you," indigo eyes lift to you, "... to impress upon your children the need for discretion. I am sure they are smart enough to realize what the information might cost them. To be truthful, it is simply better not to know. Ignorance is bliss after all. This goes for you, as well, should he one night say more than he should. As he is wont to do."
     You are right. By the way he is looking at you, you know that if you were anything less than truthful he would see it. He accepts your honesty easily, seeing it for what it is. "Thank you," is all he says on that topic. "I repay your honest with honest gratitude. I believe we understand one another, though we do not know each other well."
     You understand that he is dangerous and that the details of his life are better unknown. He understands that you are honest and that you understand that he is dangerous and that the details of his life are better left unknown.
     "I had a speech prepared," William mulls humorously, his lips forming something of a smile. "Now, I will have to wait to use it on someone else."
     His right hand plucks the wineglass from the pedestal. "How is he?" he wonders.

     She listens quietly, watching you - awaiting your judgment, and then shifting to pick up her wine again. She regards you from across the lip of the glass, listening, observing, as patiently as any artist. Being married to Davydd has drawn on wells of patience that had hitherto been unknown.
     "It is possible, though this is conjecture, that had I asked, he would have told me. I don't know. But I haven't asked, William." Fiona watches you, observes you still, quirking up her eyebrows as she tilts her head to the side. "I figure anything to do with you, if you want me to know - you can tell me. There has been some information he's felt I've needed to know - mainly to understand how important you are to him, and ... things of that nature. But all my questions in the beginning were for myself. Things were happening which I couldn't understand, and - well, once I got the answers I needed, my curiosity dropped away. Why confuse the issue by dragging in other people's drama over mine?"
     Her lips quirk in a private sort of smile, inviting you to share the joke. It is drama, isn't it? Complex, undead, but still drama. And she has had enough of her own, of that. "I'm glad I won't need to ask you to give letters to Davydd and Rhodri, then. How is he? He is ... healing." Fiona purses her lips again. "I think, really, he is relieved in some ways not to have lost you for good. He was sliding down to the point where I was worried he would kill himself, for a little while; I picked him up from that a bit. I told him before he can let go of this world, if he's going to, he needs to make things right with you and Edward, as much as he can. He seems better than he had been for a while. Though we're talking about having another child."
     And one corner of her mouth curls upwards as she looks at you, all mischief and humour and warmth. "Would you like to enter a poll for names?"

     The mention, and the notion, of suicide in his friend returns a certain edge to his eyes. Dark, the seem to choke out all light and then, in the stirring of emotion, there are flames of blue and violet, like the birth of a star. "He is full of such..." his mouth twists in his honest displeasure, "... martyred shite. I can't believe him," he exhales it not with fury but with resignation.
     Crossing over to the pedestal, William sets the glass of wine, still half full, deliberately in place. So deliberately, that it is obvious immediately to anyone with eyes that if he did not put it down thus he was going to throw it.
     "All he had to do was live his life," the French that comes out is flecked with the fire of his native Langue d'Oc, though the words used and their construction is indisputably Modern. "No one cared about him, or what he did. He kept himself on the fringes. He was free to... be as," his hands move about, "... strange and sparkly as he wished, with his pixie dust and never-never-land. God damn him, he put an end to that freedom. He has no one but himself to blame for his losses. And he would have the nerve to kill himself and ...what? Make the rest of us suffer." He answers his own question.
     William takes a moment. He places his finger and thumb at the bridge of his nose and he squeezes it. Lowering his hand, he blinks as he wanders. Such a cat that paces -- never interrupt a Lion of Henry when he is on a roll.
     "Why do any of us bother with him? What does he give us back in return for all that we give him?" The quiet depth of his voice, the French words that carry it, fills the gallery, reflecting his rhetorical question from wall to wall and straight (he can only hope) to the ears of God. "I felt better when I was hitting him," comes the drawl of his Loire voice. "He is like talking to a board," his hands gesticulate as he turns on his heels to look at you, his olive flesh darker in his upset, in his frustration, and his voice lifts, "... only a board has the sense enough to break!"
     For a moment more, he only holds a hand up to you. Give me a moment. And for a good minute, perhaps two, he stands in silence, staring down a modern painting like it was his worst enemy. It is a wonder the paint does not shrivel in cowardice and leap to the floor in a wreck of color from such a look.
     "I am sorry for my outburst. I ... am having difficulties adequately expressing the level of my frustration. Things have not been right, Fiona Arundel, since you visited my vineyards speaking that... fairy nonsense. I should be angry with you," he smiles at you a little, just a slight quirk of his mouth upward, though the rest of his face is frowning. "But I hold him accountable for his own actions, his own choices. He has not done well. He has disappointed me. He has disappointed all of us."
     With a sigh, the tight spring of his energy seems to uncoil, and hands on his hips, William Plantagenet strolls toward another row of paintings and sculpture. "Everything I built, you must understand, was built upon the pillars of personal trust and love," he murmurs. "He almost ruined ... everything I had built, everything my friends had built. He could have cost us all our lives, simply because he was feeling trapped." You can hear the quotations in his voice -- Davydd's words replayed and paraphrased.
     "I averted both personal catastrophe for me and my family and for our friends. But he made me break one of my oldest, and most important vows." Indigo fixes on you. "Perhaps you think I am a man who does not make vows. Or keep them. But I do. There are ones I would have carried to the grave. I do not know, Fiona, what he can do to make it right. He cannot rebuild what he has torn down. The building," his hand waves, "... it is gone. All that is left are foundations. Now, I am an engineer. I have built many buildings, castles, cathedrals. But I do not know how to reconstruct this friendship. This family. It's broken. So... he has made a new one." Frowning, he shakes his head. "Maybe that is all we can do. Make new families, and leave the rubble where it lies."

     She stands without staggering, and more importantly perhaps, without interrupting. She has seen anger before, but not your anger; and she has no desire to be the brunt of it. No desire at all, but that she takes a step back, squaring her shoulders, letting your words roll on and on. The blood leaves her face, but that small step back is the only movement she makes.
     When you finish, when you apologize, she makes a small motion of one hand - think nothing of it, primly sketched out in British English. But her eyes have gone steel grey and stoic, and her expression is pulled back to behind social masks while she hunts to find words which can be understood.
     "I do not believe that he blames you for anything. And I don't feel that I can really comment, or pass judgment, on you or he, on your friendship. He loves you and you love him. Love is never an easy path. It takes one through every manner of bramble and briar, and sometimes through mortar fire as well." Her expression suggests, she knows this all too well. "It takes strange forms, William, and strange loves take stranger ones. I don't think anyone who loves Davydd should be prepared for anything less than endless battle. He is mellowing; he has found some small peace. But it is battle, still."
     She waits a moment, spine rigid as she watches you. "I'm not going to try and defend myself here; this isn't really about me. I will only say that who visited you at that point, spouting fairy bullshit, call a spade a spade, wasn't me. That problem's been resolved and won't be happening again. And my ears don't end in points." She picks up her wine, still watching you as she carefully takes a sip, then sets the delicate glass down again. "If you ever want an explanation, I will try and give it to you - but your time is valuable, and why waste it? Davydd loves you and you love him. Yes, he's made a new family, with me. Marriage always does that, William. But that is not why what has happened has happened - that is not why things broke. I'm not standing here making excuses for him, but I think I have a different perspective, if only because I haven't known him for however impossibly long you have, and because, well, I do know what's happened in the last five years from a day to day perspective; I've lived it. You haven't had to."

     An eyebrow lifts. "And who bears the responsibility for that," he says it, he does not ask it. His five-year absence from his friend's life was -- and he will repeat it as often as he must -- not his doing.
     "He has no reason to blame me for anything. I have spent my life with him, never giving him a reason to. That is the difference, it seems, between he and I. For this long age of our association," no specific number is given, "...I have given him unshakable, resolute trust, love, affection, and loyalty. I took his sister's hand in marriage, and I took his hand as a brother. He has been my blood since that day. And the world has changed entirely around us since that time. Utterly changed. And yet, through it all, there was one thing that remained constant. I could believe him. And he could always believe me."
     William does not step toward you. He knows you feel his frustration, his upset, and like anyone you are stiff. His hands slip into his suit's pockets and he looks at you levelly. "... Not famine, not pestilence, not wars fought on horseback with bows and arrows, or in the air in the world's first flying machines, not any weapon devised from sword to machine gun could damage it. He did that when he betrayed our trust. Out of... a selfishness I don't quite understand. And... I am the most selfish, egotistical person I know."
     Amusement lifts in his gaze, and it lingers there in blue and violet. It does not quite make it to the rest of his expression. "He has protected you," William murmurs after another moment. He is on the move once more, but languid now, slowly now, walking without any effort expended. It is the walk of a thousand-year old man. He takes the last of his wine, holding the glass as a touchstone to his newfound calmness.
     "He has protected you, and he has protected his new family. We only wonder, Fiona, why he did not think to protect us. Why he offered us to the slaughter. Was it to save you from us?" He seems to consider that. It seems likely. "But why... when we have only ever protected one another's family. I would not have hurt you, or his ...children," he's still wrapping his brain around that issue. "Gwilym and Iowerth. William and Edward. Why did he not tell us, again? Why was he, again, not truthful with us? When all we have ever done is love him?"
     He knows you do not have the answer. The look on his face says he is not expecting an answer. "I appreciate your point-of-view, Fiona Arundel," William eases out, his slow stride carrying him to yet another focal point, another painting. "I will likely call on you again. You do understand the nature of discretion. I trust you," he looks at you, "...not to share this conversation with anyone."

     "I'm not blaming you." Fiona says it simply, patiently; she has some experience, now, with patience. "And no, I can't really justify his behavior to you; it's not my place to. But I can try and explain it to you, as best I can, with the knowledge that my explanations might not be good enough. However, I have to try; it's who I am."
     She watches you contemplatively, as if deliberating what to say - how much to say - how to say it. "I think that he had some valid concern about me, yes. He at the beginning considered killing me; he was afraid of his secrets getting out because of me. And in a very roundabout way, I guess he was right - now. At the time, I didn't know what was going on; weird shite, as I would've said then, kept happening, and I wanted to know why and what so I could fix things. When I found out my own answers, I was able to get to a stable point, and I was done; it was good enough. But the event of me, I suppose you could say, did leave shockwaves - from his own reactions. His own efforts to escape me, not so much the danger I presented to him, but the danger I presented to his heart. In many ways, William, what I represent - for him, and I suppose to a lesser extent, to you, is change. And change is very hard to deal with even for those of us who haven't been on this earth for as long as you have. From watching him, I'd say it's harder for those like you."
     She speaks carefully, meticulously, then picks up her wine again, a small, slightly ironic smile on her face. "There is no certainty but that things will change. But," her smile gentles, softens, "I'm grateful for your trust, William. I will do my best to live up to it. If you need me, you know how to find me. Try to be gentle if you can; I know it isn't easy. None of this is easy. What has happened with Davydd... what ultimately has happened... is that after eight hundred years of being stuck, he has finally begun to grow. And growing up hurts."

     "Yes," he says after a moment of quiet. "Yes it does." The timbre of his voice announces his own self-awareness. He is quite aware of the pain of growing, of growing up, and the ripple effects caused after centuries of action or inaction. Only, with his own, there was only one life potentially ruined.
     "Though he gives lip service to understanding, I will impress upon him yet again the importance," half-turning, William comes to face you, "... of not enumerating our experiences. He needs to stop talking about it. He needs to stop being so casual with Time. It only makes our position more tentative and it puts you in danger. I suggest strongly that you discourage him from such, around you or around your ... offspring," there is still uncertainty on the term for that. Vampires are not known to procreate, at least not in the traditional sense. "Unless you wish to be burdened with the knowledge and the responsibility that comes with it, the danger that comes with it. I will be sure to share with him how I feel on the topic."
     The mouth that usually spreads itself too warm, too broad, to sensually for anyone's good turns downward in his thoughts. "After any number of years, any abrupt change in course would be jarring," he acknowledges your words, but does not say anything more to them. "I will carry my frustration to him. You do not need to speak on my behalf," William says finally, quietly. "I appreciate your willingness to hear me. Speaking plainly saves a lot of time, time and effort that would have been wasted on coercion."
     Indigo eyes are dark but brightly colored as he looks to you again, turning to wander back your way. "Whatever he tells you can be lifted from your mind like fingerprints from glass. In the wrong hands it could become cataclysmic. Keep that in mind, Fiona."

     "I prefer the burden of knowledge to being like glass." Fiona makes her statement quietly, grey eyes lifting to watch your face. "Glass is transparent and easily cleaned. But it also breaks easily, William. If someone is determined to attack him, to know about him - then I will be caught in that crossfire regardless. When it is time, I will go down into the depths of that endless sleep from which there is no waking. My future beyond that gate is secured, and I know it. I do not want to die; don't mistake me. I don't intend to throw my life away."
     The wine is again set aside, this time untasted. "My offspring ... the only one you are likely to meet, to see, is the one who carries my father's name. He is my family's future, here. He knows nothing of the shadows and what goes on in them, and I hope he never will know. Peter is as allergic to such things as Davydd is to sunlight. I do not intend to twitch aside those curtains, William. My other sons, I doubt that you will ever see again."
     She acknowledges the truth of that. They are not here; they are gone. It is their choice, and she accepts it - but there is some small regret for it, as well. If things had been different - but they are not. "What Davydd and I have is a marriage; and that is the change, the difference. I am not a woman he dallies with, gives his heart to and pulls it back again, playing and fooling himself into loving for a little while. You might not believe it; I don't know. You've seen him with women longer than I can fathom. But he believes, and I believe that this is different - and if there is any one singular evidence of it, allow me to present it. He shares me with Rhodri. When has Davydd ap Owain ever been able to share, William?"
     She says it, she fixes her attention on him, and she smiles slightly, shaking her head. "Which doesn't change the fact that, to you, I represent an unacceptable security risk. I know. But there are choices which can be made on this beyond killing me or changing me or being angry. I will do whatever I can to work towards a solution... if you trust me enough to do so, beyond discretion alone. For now, though, I'd better be getting back if there's nothing more; refrigerated breast milk isn't as good for Peter as fresh."

     "My concern rests primarily on the fact that you are Queen of Too Much Information," his voice is quiet. There is truth in what he says, there is a modicum of humor, and there is doubt. But as he said in the beginning...
     He is going to extend you the opportunity that trust presents...
     "Have a safe journey to your family," William says as he unlocks the gallery to allow you to go. He will remain behind for a time. Time to think in the quiet of a closed gallery and in the presence of so much art.
     It is a stillness he requires just now...

Posted by rowan at April 20, 2007 06:11 PM