The Library...
     It is a place of great mystery and legend -- a place shrouded in idealism, scholarship. Only a select few know that the Library is not one place but a series of locations, many of which are neither mysterious nor legendary. In Seville, there is a small place not far from the Canal de Alfonso XIII, not far from the Torre del Oro, an old church easily forgotten for its proximity to the Seville Cathedral. The church is no longer sanctified. Long ago, it passed into private hands.
     Those private hands are pouring coffee for two. The rich, dark liquid splashes against the purity of the china, precious and hand-painted. The Library, this part of the Library, is an old priest's office. It is a comfortable place, but not given to luxury -- apart from the china. It is crowded with books, but the books are arranged in an orderly fashion. Fastidious fashion. There are two large and comfortable chairs and -- what else? -- a coffee table.
     Alfonso sets aside the carafe of coffee, the scent of almonds and cinnamon following him as he straightens. There are no books in his hands, none on the table. A set of two arched windows are covered, the cathedral's illumination seeping in nonetheless. Other than this, there is only one other source of light, a lamp from the 1950s.
     The elder statesman, the former Alfonso X, removes the pocket watch from his vest and notes the time.

     The odd contraption. It makes noise.
     Such disruption. A call is made to the king's secretary, asking for His Majesty's availability.

     "Si, su majestad le esta contando..."
     The secretary patches the call through, from one old phone to another old phone. Alfonso looks to the machine, a solid rotary from the time of Franco. He halts the stirring of the coffee, watching as the variegated colors of cream blend with the coffee...
     "Si," he says. It is Yes, not Hello. The secretary takes all of the hello's...

     There's the momentary delay of silence, that oddly drags on for another second or two. Someone thinking, considering.
     A ragged exhale.
     "Necessito ayuda, Alfonso," the voice says. While the words are clear, the intonation that carries them is far from it. Unsure of even saying what was said. Help.
     "Bloody hell, Alfonso," comes after it, not much pretense there, but much apprehension and anxiety. Confusion and reticence, uncut by the knowledge that something has to be done.

     There is a breath. It is compassion. It needs no words, no language. "Mijo," he says to you, and he removes his spectacles, rubbing his eyes. "I know. I know. And I am going to do everything I can, si? Anything, I can." There is a pause. "I have been working. From what Valan has said. Are you ready to hear what I have... incomplete as it is..."

     "Yeah," Edward says firmer, shuffling behind him. Dressed still in his filthy clothes from the night, he's taken to making the call from the bunkhouse. The saddle has been put up, and Edward's made it as far as a chair in the tackroom. He leans over his parted thighs, holding the cellphone against his ear, aspect given to the dusty floor.
     "I need to...know what to do..."

     "I have ... done some research. I have even contacted those who have seen pieces of what he has described. While we have a partial story, we do not yet have motive, or method. If he were not yours, of your blood, and if you were not the Infanta's, of her blood, then we should say he is sabbat, for these things he feels, for the things that he can do. But," he sighs, "...we know that he did not begin this way. It has been done to him. It is how and why that is missing still. I believe, after looking into my lore, speaking with Prince Dunross, that it is a mixture of things. Things he should not have, should not be able to do. Things that are infernal, Eduard. Not of the Brujah. Not of the Camarilla. Because these things are... not natural to him... it is my hope, I pray, that we may find a way to free him of this darkness. But there is much yet to learn of it."

     He wouldn't recall it if you tell him, Alfonso, but in that explanation, there was a quiet noise from Edward. If he could be more despondent. After the explanation, there's another moment of quiet before Edward speaks.
     "So...there's...something wrong with us." Me and him. Something's happened. He wasn't even sure if there was. Perhaps it was hope that he was making up his discomfort.
     Another sudden noise.
     "Faerie shit?" he posits.

     The coffee grows cold. He too is silent for a moment. He can hear and feel your emotion all the way in Seville. "Mijo... I am so sorry to bring this information. I care for you, for him, very much." He stills himself. It takes a moment or more of silence.
     "Faerie?" There is a pause. "No. No. It is darker than that. It is ...infernal, Eduard. In speaking with The Dunross, he indicated that he saw something snake-like. It moved through and around his aura. At the time, he was not sure Valan even realized it. I believe he has only begun to realize that there is something the matter. Dunross and I discussed possible Lasombra influence, but I have not known Lasombra to be able to ...contaminate another. Not so directly. But the other lesser known groups in the sabbat -- in league with the Lasombra? That becomes a more compelling argument. Dunross' conjecture: How to usurp a powerful Camarilla line... to pollute it and turn it on itself."
     There is another pause, a longer one. "My friend... apart from the obvious emotional strain... how has this affected you? When you are together... what have you felt? Anything you may tell me may help us narrow this down. I do not mean to pry into your private affairs. I would not ask, if I did not think it vital."

     The pause now may sound like surprise. But in fact, Edward has to remember.
     He'd rather all of his discomfort stem from a same source. Easy to point to the other discomfort, than to imagine something as complex as what his friend explains. Edward exhales loudly, but doesn't say anything immediately.

     The coffee was forgotten. It is lifted in his silence. Alfonso sips at it and waits.

     "I need...to go...Alfonso," Edward begins. Odd shift. "I...I..gotta go."
     The sound of something familiar. And something bad.
     "Thanks," Edward says abruptly.

     "Eduard," the voice is firm, suddenly leonine. "Please... we cannot act in an absence of information...we cannot help him... and I cannot help you...if we do not look at it... hard..."
     Of course. The line's already disconnected.
     Alfonso sighs, closing his eyes as the phone droops in his grasp. "We need to be careful, amigo," he says to the spirit of his friend. "We do not know from whence this has come. There is much we do not know." Hanging up the phone, Alfonso rises. "There is but one thing we know: we know Alfonso must leave the Library. And he is old. Alfonso, this night, is old..."

Posted by rowan at June 08, 2006 07:21 PM