Smoke pours out and a little bit of mist -- spring nothing, it's still fucking chilly come sunset in London, and the pink's long gone from the horizon, replaced by streetlights and lighted signs of a South Bank that's rarely quiet these days. But the (somewhat) fresh air is doing him some good. It's been a busy, busy spring.
Busier by the minute, it seems. He was rather hoping to slide in under the radar, see Edward and then head to Oxford, up to the library, pull out the book on sheep farming and then give his good greetings to... those who are probably not all that keen to see him.
He seems to be able to say that more and more. But ...so it goes...
Chalk it up to a new soap opera: when the cell phone rings...
Davydd ap Owain exhales a bit of smoke from the last vestiges of a Camel Red cigarette. Not his favorite, but when you've smoked all your sticks and your in desperate straits, you'll do anything. That's his excuse. For much, actually.
In the middle of London, Davydd ap Owain sits at a table, coffee beside him (some frothy concoction that the barista talked him into) and a paper unfolded and mostly resting on the table but where his hand is lifting a corner of it for a read. There's a bit of a thoughtful look for you, bit of a meditative air. But for all that, there's also glow about the man. A damn-near vivaciousness. A shiver of the air and a happy-go-lucky sort of easiness that is a heel-click to the world.
No, really. A glow. He couldn't hide it if he tried now. You couldn't miss it by a mile. Or anyone with eyes to see, or in the case of a Wolf, a nose to smell. The end of Exile brings with it the end of a pleasant Anonymity.
He supposes that might be one reason (of perhaps many) for the phone call he got...
The walk down the South Bank has an endpoint. Near the new cafe, by the new slips. Robert's path was direct, and as he came over the bridge and made his left turn, he could see his destination. Hands in his pockets, he walked along in silence, despite the thrumming humanity swarming around him. Eyes lifted once the cafe and its tables were within good visibility, and he seemed to visibly exhale as he spotted the man he's to meet.
"Davydd," Robert says softly as he approaches the table, wending around a few others. A bob of his head is curt, and he pulls a chair out to take his seat. "Sorry I am a little late," Robert explains, though a minute past the appointed time isn't very much.
"Robear," comes the rumble of the familiar voice, warm as usual, full of light and mirth as always, even without a pint nearby. Davydd's rising, folding his paper as he goes. He takes a seat again after Robert LeGrasse takes his own. "Eh, I'm not watching the time," he continues, cigarette taken up again, his other hand gesturing to a passing waitress. "What have I got to do?" he smirks a bit.
Wasn't I sitting here when I ran into Rose? I've got to quit coming to the South Bank.
"So," he exhales smoke through nose and mouth, green eyes keen as they lift to you. Keen in curiosity. Mostly. Fiery eyebrows cock up and, yes, he does wonder... rather... what this is all about...
I mean, when was the last time someone got a call from a vampire on a telling-bone and had it be good news at the end of the night?
Davydd waits for Robert to begin the beguin, as it were, and in the meantime he takes a moment to take a sip of the coffee. It's a bit sweet. Even for him. What the fuck is that? A mocha-licious-frappa-supercalifragilisticexpealodocious?
"I am afraid," here's where he'd insert old friend, but instead there's an uncomfortable frown and pause, "...that I cannot stay. I...have to keep this short, to the business at hand. I make no pretense that I'm aware of what's going on, but as I was the one who made the delivery, I am the one to return to fetch it."
Whatever 'it' is.
"Isabella believes," Robert explains, "...that you should know what I have come to acquire."
"Despite my charming demeanor and winning exterior," Davydd rolls out, "I don't really get that many gifts," eyebrows lift and eyes widen a touch at the term. "You're looking for ...agoriad," he murmurs. "The key, oes." He lets smoke pour out with the next breath, from nose and mouth like a proper fire-breathing dragon.
"Don't look so uncomfortable, Robert," Davydd begins. "Do you think I mean to fight you for it?" He smiles a little, then shakes his head. "It was, in fact," he pauses a moment, "... one of the stops ... I needed to make while here. I worry that she reads my mind," he drolls a moment later.
With that, the cigarette is extinguished, and Davydd is reaching, not to a pocket, but to a chain around his neck. "Can you convey a message for me, or is this sort of thing a one way deal?"
Robert looks up, glad that at least his discomfort is recognized. He nods on the idea of the key and the message. Hands pull his sweater around him, against the evening spring chill.
The key is surrendered more easily, far more, than it was ever taken up. Understanding of the symbolism, and now understanding the meaning behind it. You were always a good... being. He slides it across the table, chain and all. The chain is warm, as is the key, where he had worn it.
"I understand the trust you placed in me," he begins his message. "The trust was not misplaced, but I know now, as much as you know, that I am not the one to lead you forth. Whatever becomes of this story next," that sounds a bit ominous, "... know that I am sorry for your suffering at the hands of Mithras. Take comfort, if you may, in his inability to reincarnate." Lips tug upward in a twitch. "But... pagan to pagan... though our paths are different," what the hell is he talking about, "... I know you know the language of the trees, Lady. Do not forget that."
Davydd sits back and starts patting his jacket. "Robert, you've always been a good man," that sounds like a farewell proper. "I've always admired you for that. It's not an easy thing, being a good man... no matter...what kind of man you are. I'm not sure we'll be ...seeing much of one another," that is a goodbye. "I hope if we do you shall be a damn sight more jolly," a quick jest, but it doesn't last. "Or at least when you're having a pint, you can ... on occasion... have one for me..."
"Please do not give your sympathies to me. I do not need them and cannot use them," Robert says, his tenor holding a different timbre and pacing. "You should worry for those of the Seam that you have forsaken. Those of the simple Earth -- perhaps it is best you waste your energy where you are. Maybe, if you will not lead, you will be rendered irrelevant once more."
Robert's hand leaves his sweater and picks up the key on the table. It is gathered together and placed into his pocket.
Davydd stares at Robert for a moment, quirks a look, and then he laughs. Not loud, roaring laughter, but it is laughter. Quiet, throaty. Earthy. "Forsaken? Really," he murmurs, leaning in. "That could not be further from the truth. Though, you have guessed at least half correctly. Something shall be forsaken in the end," green eyes look to the face of the man and he feels sudden pity for him. "As for relevance, I've never cared for it. That's for others who sit in dark rooms to ascribe to one another, rather like critics at a cinema...."
Robert, have you simply become an Oracle? Is that your destiny, old friend? It saddens me. It sickens me. Wouldn't you be better off dead?
"Very well, Isabella," Davydd whispers, "I retract my courtesy and sympathy. I forget ... vampires have no need for emotion. I forgot too ... once... that one of the Living cannot lead those of the Dead. But ... you know what they say. The mind's the first thing to go. You asked for the key, I give it back to you. But... don't worry for those of the Seam, as you say..." black or otherwise, "... they've a better champion now than they could have had before. You should have been more concerned, I should think, when I was spending all of my time with the Undead."
Pack of cigarettes located in pocket of a leather coat, but remaining where they lie, Davydd rises, a glance given to those around him, each one bound up in their own conversations. Each one shining in a way that only mortals do. In a way the gentleman across from him does not. "It did take me longer than it should to realize that though I have been consigned to darkness I do not need to remain in it. In the end, the curse is only as good as the belief one puts in it. Same as faith..."
There's a pause as Robert cocks his head. "Pity. It is all you have for him now? He does not need your look. He is an honorable creature, no matter his wrapping, no matter what has happened to him. No matter what little he has left now or may even recall of When He Was Not As He Is," the voice says with some seeming sadness.
"Living, Dead. Light, Dark. One day," the voice says, not believing such categories, "...Robert will have more than what he has now. He will not be consigned and abandoned where you, and others, have already left him. He will share in everything, just as he once did and still deserves. That is what I remember the Trees taught."
Robert sits quietly a moment, looking at two people at a nearby table. Then, he adds, in that voice, "I am glad then, that the Seam have a better champion to lead them. For then maybe we should focus on those who have none." Robert's hands rise and adjust his sweater, settling the shoulders more fit and pulling the lapels closer, as if still trying to protect himself from the chill. And almost immediately, a breeze blows in across the River. "He will have his victory," the voice adds gently, affirming it for itself. "Everyone who wishes it, will have it." Even if you will not help them, left unvoiced.
"Thank you for its safe return," of the key.
"I know he is an honorable creature," Davydd says softly, seriously. "One of the very best that I have known, in fact. Too honorable to be used as a puppet, but..." his hands come up, a stopping gesture. "I do not want to argue. We will agree to disagree. I am not condemning Robert. But... yes... I do pity him this invasion."
For that's what it is...
"Life and Death are cousins of a fashion, husband and wife, brother and sister. You know what they say about not being able to choose one's relatives," an eyebrow cocks up, a fiery trajectory. "Destiny and Fate are much the same. And any other... common opposites..." He comes to stand at Robert's shoulder, parting words between friends it seems to all else but the three of you.
"I do not judge a man or a woman for their misfortune," he murmurs, "... or for their fortune either, as I have had my own. Each of us, Isabella, has a part to play in the Scheme of All Things. Some destroy, others create. Some kill, others heal. Some control bits and pieces of the world, while others seek rather to reconnect with it, to realize that the universe is mightier than a thousand of our swords. What your part is, lady, I do not know, nor perhaps ever did. What mine is I know. I do not expect others to understand it. Accept it. Believe it. That is up to them. At the end of the night... the day," Davydd softens his tone, "I only hope to be True, and to discover what it means."
Forest green eyes, green eyes that show an oak-groved world, a world of vivid, fertile life, and magical if one had the Sight to See it, peer at the figure of his friend and the woman using him as her telling-bone. "Of course I would return it safely. What do you take me for, Isabella? Have I ever shown you anything but respect? Even if it is respect one may offer to the weather, the ocean, rather than something more personal. I accepted it then with grace and return it as easily. You are welcome," he says. "And though we seem to disagree on the semantics of how things should be done, it does not mean that Nothing Shall Be Done. We have had enough destruction. It's ... time for something else..."
What that something may be, Davydd ap Owain does not say. A hand lands upon Robert's shoulder, a pat of farewell to a friend with whom he cannot speak, will likely little recall this night at all. "Good night, Robert. Isabella..."
The man sitting in the seat looks up suddenly, curiously. Robert blinks, then looks left and right. His hand is out of place. And, he looks down, something in his pocket. Oh, yes, the reason he came. Put there at some stage.
"Good...night..." Robert says, unsure of himself, or when this moment came about. "I will...see you later, hmm?" he smiles. "How long are you here for?"
Davydd smiles down to Robert. It's a real smile, and a warm one. "I don't know," he tells the truth. "I'm here to see Edward, mainly. I don't expect to be around long. It was good to see you, though," he pats the man's shoulder again. "You look tops, Robear."
This is as hard as he thought it would be. No more. No less. Maybe in the end of all things it won't mean total and complete abandonment of old ties, old friends. But Davydd rather expects it shall be for the near future. Why would he be anything but an aberration to them? At best, they ostracize him. At worst, they hunt him and try to kill him.
But... there's another old saying...
To make an omelette you have to break a few eggs...
"You do too, Davydd," Robert smiles brightly, tapping the table with his hand. "Say hi to Edward," he nods, "I haven't seen him, since, oh...he and William were at Court." Yes, yes, that's it. Robert grins, sure you've heard the story of the presentation. Robert rolls his eyes and smirks, indicating it was filled with drama.
"Take care," Robert offers as he always does, grinning now. He looks to the Thames and stands himself. "Hmph. Maybe a coffee would be good," he says softly, and waves as he moves around the table towards the Starbucks.
Posted by rowan at April 16, 2004 07:56 PM
