This could not have gone more awry...
     It is as if I have been poised with a single shot of a single arrow for a millennium, only to have my aim disrupted and knocked off course by the sudden appearance of a hummingbird. It has shot wild, through the leaves of trees and the measure of the aim is now an untouched clod of earth. A goal, perhaps, never to be reached.
     It is with that ...waking sense, that realization that I walk through these city streets, each cement or cobbled street that forested path, with my last shot behind me, arrow bouncing far from its mark with all the usefulness of a coin dropping out of pant's pocket.
     In truth, the shot and the goal are past. A past that can, perhaps, be atoned for, but a past that cannot now be erased. You cannot cash the check of promise handed to you before. This is what failure is, princeps. From this moment, there may only come the future, one that there is no point in dreading, for it will come as it comes. You, elder. You, son of Mithras. You, hollied hero of darkened ways, you. There is nothing for you to do now but to move forward on the paths that your unchoosing created for you.
     The polished shoes of a man upon some important mission, a meeting, sound quietly on the polished stones of a polished building's polished foyer. He makes a granite reflection upon marble flooring, the dark suit, layers of blacks and whites capped off with a sudden burnishment, the shorn short bronze-copper fire-top known as his head. The smoothened cheek of Celtic descent. High cliff cheeks, small nose. The pallor of those who live under sunless skies, day or night.
     There is no sound but the air parting for him, the sound of his shoes leaving stoned surface for carpet, for elevator. There is the absence of thought, the absence of expectation. He is here both to deliver a message and himself. That the doors were opened to such a meeting is all that gives him hope, a faint glimmer of hope that it may be.
     In the silence of a forest, the forest he carries in his mind and metaphor, the archer exhales to watch his last shot go wild. With a glance to the sky...
     ... with a glance to the ceiling of the elevator...
     ...he notches his bow again...
     ...And presses the number 30 on an illuminated panel of numbers...
     Light and darkness move against the face made beautiful by the stripping away of years, the marks of the past, the marks of a life lived. Like the shifting of moonlight through the trees. Like the marking lights between stories. One. Two. Fifteen. Thirty.
     All that we wasted is time...
     ...when we could bend light...
     and shoot the moon...
     So make your move...
     The doors of an elevator open and the elevator lights itself against the darkness of a dimly lit foyer, the thirtieth floor, and the highlighted, suited figure of Davydd ap Owain moves forward, giving himself to the future like the bird gives itself to the air from the safety of trees.
     A large Celtic hand opens the door to the appointed meeting place, blue tattoos peeking from his right hand. Yew. Life and Death.
     You. Life and Death.
     You, son of Mithras, you...
     Davydd makes the only sound since his approach, the single soft exhalation of an archer settling himself into his next aim...

     The offices of Cooper-Fazard remain alive despite the passing of solicitor's hours. The elevator's opening faces a large semi-circular desk where a young man prepares hismelf to depart for the evening. As he puts on his jacket, he looks up to see another visitor to the partnership's offices.
     "Good evening," he calls, as most people never know where they are going on the floor, "...you must be Mr. Llewelyn." And why not? The business day is concluded. "Welcome to Cooper-Fazard."

     It is in his stillness of thought that he quite nearly ignores the gentleman at the semi-circular desk, he already prepared to move to another set of offices. But the man out of a London mag for well-dressed urban men pauses, his head turning. It takes another half-moment for his thoughts to rise to the surface. "Good evening... and yes, I am..." His body was poised to go down the hall to the left, to a set of offices. Half-turned away from that, he now gestures toward it, "Third door on the left," it is a lifting, Welsh inflection, which some might consider a question. If you're here to confirm the location, he'll let you.
     And Davydd glances to his watch. He's a few minutes early...

     Adjusting his collar, the young man nods in the appointed direction. "Yes, sir. They are expecting you. Might I get you a coffee," his jacket now perfectly adorned, "..tea...water..." certainly anything that you might need.

     "I don't suppose you have scotch," fiery eyebrows give a slight cock up of hope, but then he smiles a touch, "... coffee will be fine...thank you." The slight smile goes wayward across his mouth. It steals its way there before he can stop it. Coffee would be fine, scotch would be better. Coffee with scotch would be heaven.
     There's a lowering of his arm, the tucking away of his timepiece, and a slight brush of his hand across the fine fabric of the suit before Davydd takes the left-leaning hall and the third door down.
     They?
     The smile departs, transforming first into a smirk and then it disappears altogether, receding into an even expression, as he opens the door to the office. Forest green eyes are darkwoods dark, glinting in low light as he enters.

     The door is scantly closed when it no longer is there. The handle vanishes upon the closing, leaving an empty fist breezed by a waft of air.
     No office walls exist. There is but white, filling a void. Beneath feet, there is substance to hold a stand, but in truth, there is nothing but white.

     The white is stark and he is stark in it, a black and white and red thing. Pinpricks along the edges of twelve tattoos signal sudden wakefulness. Hyperalterness, not defense per se. It is a seamless motion, him pivoting upon the white void.
     This is different. I like what you've done with the place... His voice is thrust outward silently. Davydd ap Owain moves within the white void. What has he to fear? If the floor falls away, he will become a bird. If it rains water, he'll become a fish. If it turns to fire. Well, if it turns to fire he's fucked, but at least it will be quick.
     Dark green eyes, within them forests and earth of plenty, the heady fullness of harvest, fruit on every tree and vine, peer into the void with the lifting of an eyebrow and the cant of his mouth in the slant of a smile.

     From the left shoulder's direction, the light parts brilliantly. In it, Isabella stands, dressed in a black suit and heels, her black hair pulled back in a knot at the top of her head. She does not respond to the comment, but instead says, "I have given my opinion, Davydd, and it was not in your favor. You have chosen your path of your own volition, in knowledge that there was more. That you were needed. You turned away."
     You are unforgiving.
          Yes, you are.
     Her point is well-taken.
          Indeed.
     Consciousness, but difficult to imagine if it is a single or multiples. The tenor comes alike. Yet, it is a discussion. A debate.
     Isabella continues to stand there, her hands clasped before her. She stares, unfazed by the sounds that seem to exist.

     "I have not come here to offer you excuses for my behavior," Davydd says simply, turning toward the sound of your voice, your presence at his left shoulder, the position of Death in the universe of the body. "We can both agree on the point that my decision was ill-advised, however well-meaning the gesture. I was wrong, and I wished to see you, to make apology for dropping the faith you handed me."
     Eyes flicker at the debate, a moment to look at either side of you. But it is you alone he sees and you alone he hears. "I cannot even ask that you return the faith that was given, that steadier hands of mine may take it. The failure was mine, and the full realization of what I have done, and the price for my unseeing is all too clear now. But do you turn away at the first sign of failure? That is what I have come to ask you not to do, Isabella."
     And others, presumably...
     In the white light, Davydd is undaunted and unbowed. Though, he is humble. He is most assuredly that.
     "For it is very true that I have faltered. I have faltered, but I have not fallen. And my body and soul are what I have to offer your enterprise. If you will still have it. For it is all I have..."

     "It was not a sign of failure, Davydd," Isabella says, "...you chose. There was no incident or accident. There was no try and stumbling. You chose others, you chose something else, when it was made clear to you that others needed you. When it meant a future and fairness to those, that, somehow were less for you did, and do, not know them. I cannot trust you to care about those who have gone before, who are, and who will be that will never be known to you, but deserve a chance. A victory," that word again, "...how should I trust you with the souls of others? With all that they Are?" Isabella shakes her head negatively.
     "His faith is questionable," Isabella says softly, "...ask the others to whom he said he'd given it. Some of the Silver Tree might not see it this way. I do not see light from him, nor see it given freely, selflessly. I do not know of others who are improved by him..."
          Your thoughts are well-known, Bristol.
     They are, and remain true. Trust and sacrifice...
          Yes, trust and sacrifice.
     There is silence an instant, then:
     We cannot alleviate the concerns. His acts are true and upon the face of it. But this means all of his acts, Isabella, this voice speaking to her directly, All of them.
     At the last statement, Isabella's eyes avert to her right a moment, then return to look across the way to the other in the space.
     "As with all things, this is not my judgement alone."
     No, it is not, our Bristol.
          But your voice is important to all.
     Indeed, it is.
     Isabella continues:
     "It is a commitment forever. As it should have been already. I waited too long, and now we are at this," she says, perhaps to herself.
     Be done with it, Eithwyn.
     "We will let you know, in due course, son of Gwynedd, once slayer," Isabella says. Be Generous and think of All..."

     There is for your words a simple and direct look, and a simple, single nod. Call it what it is, it is a bowing to that which he realized too late. And now we are to this. If his blood would do the earth any good at all, he'd just give it to it. He'd give it all away.
     But it perhaps purchases little, Llywelyn...
     Little more than a footnote to all that you have done. And not done. Said. And not said.
     "I appreciate your audience," he says softly and he turns upon the void to take his leave. He is sure the door will materialize, or he will appear on the street...
     He just hopes it's not in front of a city bus...

     Here, tomorrow, Eithwyn...
          Yes, tomorrow for him.
     All around, a cacophony of 'Yes'.
     Isabella purses her lips. "Here, tomorrow," she says to affirm the others. "They will tell you what you need then," Isabella explains.

     "Very well, tomorrow it will be. I will be here. Same time?" How mundane a thing in such an environment, with such topics. But he'd just as soon not be tardy, good news or bad news or ambivalent news.
     He's many things, but one thing Davydd's not is tardy. He's punctual to a fault. If only that counted for anything...
     Davydd pauses, looking behind him over his left shoulder. He tips his head slightly, his eyes landing on Isabella but only briefly. Forest green eyes look above, as if to the sky again, then make a quick course through the room before returning to his ...hostess.

     Time.
     Isabella nods only once before looking to where a latch appears. The whiteness pops slightly ajar, allowing the mundanity of natural light through.

     He's not expecting the news to be good. The nod is simple again and done. The last look given is moments long. A moment for regret is all the apology he can give. The rest is up to the Unseen Others...
     Soon enough he's back in the hallway of a law office. The irony isn't lost on him. There's no sound, no thought, nothing but motion.
     All too late...
     This is how Death comes...
     All too late...
     The doors of the elevator open and close, and he closes his eyes. And now, he must wait. But they are far kinder to him than he has been to them. For they will only keep him waiting a single night. He has held them at bay for a near-on millennium. Across time, what have you done?
     What have you given...
     ...And a finger presses One and settles against the side of the sinking box...
     What have you ever done?
     What have you ever given...
     ...The doors of the elevator open and the marble floor thrusts up the vision of the striding figure. You laid upon the stone too late. You stepped off the cliff... too late. Was the universe late in making it so? Or was it you, You son of Mithras, who delayed. Could it have been thus before?
     A gloved hand lands upon the glass, and the glass gives way to the open air of the City. Streets laid out, lamp-lit and street-lit, gleaming in the colored lights of modern pageantry. In the this-way-that-way of streaking automobiles, the lone figure of ap Owain disappears in the darkness that folds between the slivers of high-beam lights...

     "Hi, Davydd," comes a voice, a male approaching from the sidewalk. He smiles, his golden-brown hair neat and trim. Dressed in slacks, off-white shirt, and tweed pants, Robert LeGrasse looks like the other thousands of men, heading home for the evening.
     "Let's have a drink."

     There's a frown etched in place, despite his efforts to retain an even expression (it's an absolute failure). Hands are in his jacket's pockets. For a moment, Davydd says nothing. Then he nods, exhaling. "Sure. Somewhere quiet." A pause. "Not Davy's."
     Hands come out of his pockets and he lights a cigarette, shaking his head all the while.

     "Didn't even think of it," Robert smiles, putting his hands into his pockets. He exhales and turns about, expecting a follower. "The Wheatsheaf, mate. Quiet...is good."

Posted by rowan at October 17, 2004 10:56 PM