"... I have chained my every dancing atom into a divine seat in the Beloved's Tavern. What I have learned... I am so eager to share..."

     "No matter the temptation," Gwilym murmurs, "I do not want to hurt you, Prospero. Or us. I try to funnel my temptations into what you will not be harmed by, even if exasperation might occasionally make your eyebrows lift at me."

     "Ian and I leave tomorrow night. Would you care to join us for a drink tonight? We like to drink brandy while our servants pack for us. It makes us feel useful."

     "Seventy-five years," William repeats. "Non non non, we will have to remedy this." He does not grin as he says it, though there is nothing in his expression or energy to say he is upset. It is merely something to be rectified.

     It is painfully honest. If he were holding anything now, it would have dropped again by this point. Hansl wears his confusion like the finest of clothes - askew to imply the nakedness beneath.

     "...It is as though you are trapped in marble, and I am here with the chisel and hammer," he grins again, "... trying to find you. Yes? Just as Michelangelo said. The body is in the marble. I am only trying to free it."

     "Stretta," William commands. His voice is quiet but it carries a command that resonates through both lovers. They halt their motions, their faces twisting with the pleasure and the agony that stillness brings. But they do not move. "There is your picture, yes?"

     "My phone rang all night. Fairies, vampires, wolves, shivering nuns -- you name it, they rang me."

     It was good that they removed themselves. The energy was stifling between them, despite their good intentions. What they needed, what they always need to clear the air, was a battle.

     "On the contrary, I think you are doing your father very proud. You seem to be an intelligent young woman, crafty, capable, able to carry on any number of conversations. Why should that cast a negative light on your father? Rather, he should thank you for making his kingdom seem learned and accomplished..."

     Duw... I want and I want, and I go on wanting. Io, if ever I could hate you for falling for a man, now's the time. What would you think, to see me here, to know what thoughts are going through my mind? I don't dare put them into words, not even to myself.

     "...You? Completely different. Sleight of hand, hide the heart. You have the concerns and the questions of a master spy. The Thief King. Your brother is the drowning waters that fill the lungs. He daily seeks to avoid drowning. Himself. Others. You..." He narrows his eyes in studying you. "I believe you are in danger of making yourself a figment of everyone's imagination. Including your own."

     The metallic steel crash of strings rattles through the amplifier in the flat above Black Jack Davy's. It's an hour past noon and Iowerth and his ... companion ... are out for the day. Gwilym Gwyn Garu is taking advantage of the opportunity to break the silence in a noisy fucker sort of way.

     For all his droll humor and his reserve, even his stubbornness (and he's most stubborn about the topic of love and all you have had to say. It'll take a while to sink in. Like father, like son. Poor boy), he comes to you with a look and he bends to give you a hug and a kiss. "I'll keep my eyes on him," a nod back to Gwilym. "I am my brother's keeper..."

     Those'll stick with him for a while. Every imagined contortion, every fantastical arrangement of bodies he could have imagined were on display, made just by two. Hanging from a special silk sling, a cocoon from the ceiling on hooks. All that was missing in that... fucking circus was a trained dog, a clown and a couple of musically inclined monkeys!

     Lost. He is so very lost. In a maze not of his own creation, not even of his own recognition; this is nowhere that he has been before. Not even with Johannes Arnaul, Saint-Protector of Saarbrucken; not anywhere. Perhaps he is nowhere at all.

     You are better than any tenor than I can recall, comes the Latin in your head, said with the lulling tone of a practiced priest. Native tongue, they say, but few can confirm such Truth.

     I am thinking of you, Ian. Of course, always of you. But I am also thinking of this young artist. Of his blood in my mouth instead of this brandy. I am terrible, I know. Mais oui, so terrible.

     Ah, Paris. Is it ever lovelier than when it is an escape, as from some prison, even if of one's own creation?

     You speak. He writes. "I do not think it is so simple. Your gifts are your gifts. Your skills, your skills. You should not compare yourself to Nathaniel," the way he speaks that name. An obvious attempt at being civil, but he does not hide the partial frown.

     "There are many different beings on the earth, in all its incarnations. More universes than one. There are those who are more like I am now than as I was. And, yes, largely they should be avoided. You've... managed less well than you know, but fared better than I would have imagined."

     This was once the great hall. We had our Christmases here, our battles here, he would stand at the fire there and not eat his dinner and never see me.

     He looks at you as though he were peering over a professor's glasses, then smiles. "It appeals to the Scientist in me, however poor or mechanical, to be able to help you by sorting things out into groups, categorizing and being able to help you find a way that works for you, yes? Some better understanding..."

     "...I've learned a lot about my own choices recently. They haven't been the best. The trick is not to repeat them. There's only the potential of forever. Forever... really only exists if you're God. And I'm many things, but I'm not God."

     And soon the Toreador are on what talents one may or may not have. Guild, artistes, or poseurs. The world's so drawn along such lines.

     He smiles softly, "Well, that's magic for you. ten impossible things before breakfast, and a hundred more once midnights come and gone."

     "Quit stonin' me," Davydd mock-protests, "...it's not as if I danced around saying 'Jehovah', 'Jehovah'," he can barely get through that without laughing.

     "I am not interested in chandeliers, I am not interested in business. I am interested in you. That is what I asked about and that is what I am interested in."

     Be my Queen...
     Bear my children...
     Grow apple trees in my instruments and make music on my pots and pans...

     Lightning strikes a tree just outside the window at the exact same time a freak gust of wind comes in off the river. The sound and the pressure combining to blow the window inwards in a deadly rain of glass and water.

     "As for the curse - at its heart, what it means is you can't go out during the day. That's fine, I never was much of a one for a tan myself - how is it, really, any different from finding out you're a vegan, or allergic to penicillin? It's magic, not science - but it's you."

     The look on the German's face is one of discomfort, insufficiently masked by politeness. It is the expression of why are you telling me this combined with exactly how much trouble am I going to be in for now knowing this.

     Her thoughts have flavour to them - soft, like yoghurt with just a hint of vanilla essence and a fash of frangipani, then rich and sweet with just a hint of bite - chocolate truffle with a dash of pepper to it. But now they turn tart and crisp - cranberry flavoured thoughts, perhaps...

     "Why," William begins, "... are you here then. At all?" He leans his head on his hand, fingers propped up against his temple. Maybe he has a headache? It is a thoughtful pose, perhaps. And indigo eyes do focus on you. Peer at you. You are a strange creature.

     Girault looks between the two of you for a moment and then he exhales, "I will apologize for my tone. I do not wish it to seem that I am some Svengali, keeping Ms. Whitethorne in a gilded cage, not allowing her the freedom to move, or to visit friends..."

     A crystallization of Valan Montague. Part truth, part fiction, part pure myth. But it happens to everyone, doesn't it. Everyone for whom the clock no longer ticks. Outside of that most human of states, time-bound civilization and reality, We become Something Else.

Guillaume: [Nods.] There is no fairytale in this, Montague. The only happy ending is the one walking here with you. I got to live, you see. Though, incidental to my own story, at times, my fate and destiny not my own, I am the only one with the happy ending...

     I hope this letter finds you well and will find you in Trallwm for my visitation. I am very much looking forward to having the opportunity again to speak with you. The Sisterhood wishes me to convey their greetings, their esteem and their hope that you will join us.

     He's walked in Plantagenet's shadow tonight. He's smoked his cigarettes, he sipped his whiskey. Though he and William covered good ground in London, he feels he has been marching on Crusade, his feet in the desert sands, sand in his eyes. His skin feels gritty, even his hair.

... [The two gentlemen are seated swiftly at a table outside, on the roof, overlooking the brilliance of the South Bank. Menus and waiters appear, glasses are filled, all without a word. They depart as silently.]

     Enter VALAN MONTAGUE, the Hip, Young Man About Town. Waiting on the Tower Bridge is the Duke of Normandy, GUILLAUME d'ANGEVIN, clothed in a dark suit with an equally dark overcoat.

     Abbey, hospital, college, tomb and prison -- it moved through its ages like a man or woman, with glorious beginnings, difficult adolescence, opulant maturity and aged ruination.

     "You can move to Europe, if you like. Stay here. Stay in Strathfayr. Stay in Switzerland. I don't care. Just...do something. Choose. If you like it here, stay. Who cares about the rest." Whatever that is.

     "I have to ask you something, William," Raymond chirps, leaning on the table with an elbow now. "What is it that you have on Victoria Gifford or her Sire?" he smirks. "A boon enormous? You...saved their lives? You helped her gain status, hmm? You can tell me, I will not repeat it."

     Bringing up the rear again is Sebastian. He's fine to be in the back, really. Unnoticed. Invisible. He follows along, still smirking. This is the weirdest interview for a mistress he's ever witnessed...

     Edward grins at the young man beside him, nodding his head. He gives a shrug and looks back to the Prince hovering over the dais. "He is no stranger, this one," Edward affirms. "He is Valan Montague. A Brujah," Edward says with some pride, "...of a rare line, and We all are honored by his very presence among you now."

     He'd successfully waved away this night for three years, and despite all his bravado and influence, he couldn't make the night disappear for his love's benefit. And it upsets him.

     So when the phone rings, his cell phone, on his nightstand, it is not greeted with a quick lift and you, by extension, given a quick and awake greeting but instead continues to ring as a large Plantagenet hand emerges from a pile of bedding and fumbles for it in the darkness.

     Your nights are spoken for. You are risen gently just past sunset. You are led into a great hall and made to sing scale after rising scale, stretching your vocal chords, working your vocal chords. Sometimes with Girault there correcting you.

     "You should pay very close attention to your ensemble. The more attention you pay to it, cher, the more attention... he will pay to it." I feel like I'm Educating Rita.

     It's been a while now since he stepped onto the scene here. When he first came in, his English was atrocious, his blood was new, but he was good, very good. Good with epee. Better with saber. Edward Meurelle's childe...

     For the past few years, I've looked at restoration from a purely selfish angle. The paintings, my hands, my work, my life...

     As if you stay in the Oasis always, living only there, in that place. Seeming as stuck as William, each of you in your own realities. But that is not so, is it. That is not really so.

     "Always nice to see help in town," Salem says, her blondish hair piled on her head. She pushes up a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. "Have you gotten settled? I will admit...I'm a little surprised, but no less grateful."

     "What? What? You know what!" Edward says. "Didn't you think anyone was going to notice that the FUCKING CANVAS WAS MELTING!? Oh, no, no one's going to notice that. No, no. Don't mention that part to Edward, who stood out there and covered your pale, well-fucked ass!"

     Of course, underneath the tweeds and silks, she's a lot less comfortable.... Was this a good idea? I feel like a circus sideshow freak. Maybe I should've worn the leather instead.

     "Goddammit," Edward says, sitting up from the bench near the Sforza fountain by his room. "Does this place ever shut up?" He glances at his watch, then shoots a look over where the end of prayer is being sung, far across buildings and walls.

     Her dark hair pulled back, slicked back in a bun, she wears a white shirt silken and loose over black leather trousers, high black boots cover her calves and up to her knees. And a prized black bull, one of your beauties no less, is bowed before her. Standing, she faces him, he faces her. Her silk cape is lowered, her right hand extended. There are no swords, no whips. They are not needed.

     "She had me believing her little mirage of learning and civilization. She and this place, it is a lie. It is learning with blindfolds on, the kind of learning that you memorize prayers and call it Enlightenment.

      "What did Maria say," Edward keeps rambling, "...when you said you'd be staying here with her for a few nights?" His earlier explanation of a friendly family visit apparently wasn't taken as truth, somehow.

     He looks at you in the mirror for a moment, then says, "You alright?" He's going out in a while. A planned recon meeting to check out heroin dealers who may have supernatural backers. Edward smiles a little, continuing to tuck in his shirt.

     Arms go wide, green eyes -- Cymru green -- go wide as well. And so too the smile. A triad reaction, how fitting. "Mad Peter!" he exclaims, the whiskey, brandy, scotch and mead -- yes, mead -- getting the best of him for a moment. "Boyos, look there... my old soothsayer, messenger of The Lady...go greet a friend..."

     "Oh, there always is. For every good, there is an ill. The universe depends upon balance. But what's the downside you see? My only being able to be with you for nine days after you call me? I have a week left, by the way."

     I want to be with you, Huw the Hunter... even if it's frightened me, even if your strength is more than mine, or perhaps because of it. I want to be greedy, and know you with all my senses. I don't know if this is because of Chinon and its master, or something Dei started but didn't finish - demon or no - or an offshoot of having met Davydd. Or perhaps, what you said to me, yourself... 'To not love because of him, just lets him win...'

You may find that what drives you, what impassions you, what interests you, and, truly, what you are fit to do is different from the expectations The Others may have of what you should do. Do not be discouraged.

But what I most associate with Spain is Edward. It will always be recalled
as the place where I met the only man I have ever envied. You must tell him
this -- and take a picture of the look you get. I have enclosed enough
envelopes and instructions for any replies you might wish to send...

I am looking over the city lights from the sea shore, smelling the breath and skin of Espana, like you do when you have been parted from a lover for too long and all you can do is quiver and breathe. I do not know what so sets into me about this country.

     "I'm no different than you," Davydd murmurs, chin lifting in the tipping of his head. An inclination of strength, and in those green eyes there is little mirth.

     My universe. My carefully crafted universe, the architecture of nearly a thousand years is crumbling at my feet. All I can seem to do is stare. Evenly. Blankly. I do not know what to do now. Maybe none of it matters at all. None of the secrets. The mysteries. I am unravelled.

     Isabel strokes her fingers through the long hair, so familiar and yet not. "My being here is a riddle for someone else's education, you might say," she replies, clearly amused and pleased with herself. "You will learn of it later, if you remember... but remembering is a hard thing, at times, and I doubt you will. I am not she, and she is not me, but we are kin, and you..."

     He eats bread and honey, beautiful creature that he is, and drinks honeymead. His eyes are sharp, exacting and there is a kind of hawkish quality to his demeanor. "My guess is that someone was watching you already. While we knew that Isabel had progeny still in England, had no idea it was you until that night. You have shadows all around you, you know." He plucks at the honeyed bread. "You need to learn how to defend yourself..."

     "Anyone can change, Galadriel. If they can Dream it, they can Wish it, they can Aspire to it." Do you understand what you have shown the Symphony? What last lesson We all had to learn?
     "...even Malakim." Even Lucifer.

     "How do you know if pinkus hybiscus means Sri?" Soldekai now frowns. This is...not good. Suddenly, Gabriel's ache becomes his own. How can one whisper inspiration...if the words are...well, they're words. Not cosmic thought. That is how the Symphony works. Suddenly, Soldekai doesn't like words, and his frown becomes more of an anxious tremor.

     It is settling into Almost dawn. Who the fuck could be calling me at this hour? Someone'd better be dead or dyin...
     There's an exhale, a clearing of his throat, a rough but soft, a warm and not-entirely-awake voice that greets you. "Mmm... no one I know would call at this hour," the earthy voice is edged by a thick and drawling accent, flicked with a lilting tongue.

     "I...I don't understand what has happened to you, alright?" her brows arching. "You are...different. Everything about you is different. And it has only been a few months..." since we got together.

     "However dark your paths, Davydd... think you not that our own paths contain no darkness. Wherever she goes, she is a flame, and shadows will approach. We cannot take her from this waking world o'erlong - for a span of time, and no more, any the more can we you. Her spark will continue to burn, Davy-bach. And where a fire burns, there will be those that seek to warm themselves."

     I know that is why Ian and William are here. So removed from all of that noise. The press and the push of it. And I think they are wise men. And I think that this is a lesson of them that most men miss.

     What a great old place is this. A hand of Montague strays over his coat as he draws away from the chair and takes a seat near a bookcase. His eyes stray over the titles there. His thoughts stray some six hours southbound. I wonder, mon ami, where you are in your task now. A hand reaches up and fingers toy with the garnets strung at his throat.

     "The painter of the flower shop, a man of an Artistic Bent, owns a gallery here in the City. Since he did not get enough of paint with the flower shop, I thought you might help with his...artistic development. Some of his works need...touchups. Would you care to hear more?"

     Effortless. So effortless. Grace and magic and some subatomic communication. Knowing. In an instant, where each will be. And fingers of the justicar moved, and fingers of the Dignatary were poised and waiting. In seconds between seconds. Even to you, such motions are apparitions.

     "The Council did not use you, signora. What do we have to gain by suffering?" Girault settles upon the chair. Yes... the We was intentional.

     "Moving to London to be...with this Man," said not as the word seems. More encompassing. "It is a grand, great, frightening, dangerous, marvelous, and loving life you stand ready to embark on, Valan Montague," Ian says softly. "I wish you nothing but joy, peace, success, and luck."

     "It would do good for her... for her to wait, Edward," Girault murmurs. "Patience... is a virtue. It is the only one I practice..."
     "You... should spend time with your Montague..." he adds in a murmur. Girault smiles to you. Before she interferes. Before you present him to her. This, Girault does not say. "It ... would be... time better spent?"

     The king deserves love as much as the peasant... we are lucky, perhaps. But we have worked hard for this luck. No one else knows how much, how hard.

     A surreal image it is, the young man eternally out of time's pocket. He walks forward, letting wet mush soak between his toes. There's something quiet about him, without William around, as if part of himself is missing.

     "Oh, great!" screams Edward, "That wasn't really even fuckin' necessary." Fucking Plantagenets.

     "Have you thought how you will encourage the mantle of power transfer and solidify your constituency around you?"

     "Why should I have ever thought I could hold Starlight," he whispers, this time to himself.