"Well, it took y' long enough," Edward grumbles, seated in the catacombs of the Chateau. Not often does one catch him here, and perhaps more easily reminded of what he used to be in the living world.
     The arches are high, and there is little doubt that members of his own family are buried here. The underground caverns are vast, and at the moment, he is alone, with a long box, in the midst of flying arches and a dirt and broken concrete floor. Layers of the old earthen structures are evident in the cold, wet walls, and if there were holding cabinets or anything else down here, they have been long removed. Certainly there are other smaller rooms attached, but for now, they remain unseen. Hints of fiddles and wafts of wine still seem to float through the main chamber, times past where servants could gather and amuse themselves long after the lords and ladies had retired to more private chambers. "You both look well...when was the last time we were all together?" Edward wonders, his French twinged with something older. But it is the French of Paris...that is where his family's fortunes have always lain.
     To at least one, the box might be familiar. Edward sits up in his seat, placing elbows on the rustic coffin. His blue eyes are jovial and he looks at each of you in turn. "I guess, you're wondering why don't I just tell you why you're here, eh?" and then he smirks.

     It is Davydd that comes first. Though William's stride is greater, it is slower. Always Mercury, that Llewelyn. Always the comet on fire. "Don't you darling me," comes the quip. You can hear William's laughter, quiet. Smooth and warm to that. Ah, the tail end of a tussle. He is the fire to William's shadow. Like a comedy team of old. The Fool and the Straight Man. Course, knowing William as he is... that makes it doubly funny, doesn't it. He's about as straight as a corkscrew...
     A cigarette, unlit, rests in the grasp of Davydd's lips, his hands poised. But before lighting, red brows cock up and eyes widen. "Nothing's going to explode is it? That'd fucking piss me off and after spending a night with His Royal Majesty," a gesture to William. "I don't need the help with that... " You might think he's mad, but it comes with a madcap grin and a glittering wink. "No... let me guess...I'm keen on it..."

     Indigo eyes are lifted and languid stride is slowed even further. Arches, the catacombs of Blois. Not a place he has been in many, many years. No, William, centuries. This place remembers you, even as you do not, cos. Even as we have all forgotten in your leather and fast cars and guns. That you were once as they and I. It makes William smile. Like Davydd, his lips grasp a cigarette -- but his is lit. Fire drips from his lips and smoke -- scented, herbal... a clove with a dash of hashish -- curls from his mouth's parting. "Merci, cos..." William murmurs, voice echoing here and he turns to look to you, Edward. "And you..." And yes... he looks, Edward. Very nice. Ah, it's going to be one of those is it. "And it's been... " He breathes fire and smoke, "... too long. Though, with his constant bitching," a nod and smirk Davydd-ward, "Maybe not long enough..."
     "Fuck you, Plantagenet..." Davydd grins.
     "And you... Lord Darling... and you," William says. A smile and a wink to him. But then, his gaze it upon you Edward ... and your box and fucked up floor. Hands slip into the pockets of his long leather coat. "So..." he says, exhaling clove-hashish, ".. cut with the foreplay, Edward... spill it..."
     That damnable Plantagenet quip, coupled with that d'Angevin grin. Sensual. Charming. Most either want to kiss him or knock it off his face...

     "We are gathered here this night," Edward begins, raising his hands towards the vaulted arches, "...to celebrate...a Death. Death...it is a venerable institution..." And Edward stands, arms falling against his white shirt. "You two do not look prayerful," he chides, cocking his head, "...this is why you are both going to Hell," Edward condemns, twisting to move his chair to the side. Bending, he picks up a well rounded bottle. You both know the form. "Champagne?" he grins, offering the best of his region. No glasses are about, but a crowbar certainly is.
     A thud follows. The bottle is unceremoniously set upon the box and then a second appears. And a third. Edward grins as he looks at you, William, tossing the corkscrew in the midst of the mess. "Chateau Marillese," a property of his down the way, "...Oh...I can never remember what vintage," he murmurs, waving a hand at it. In truth, he's never been much of an aficionado of the finer beverages.

     "Add it to the list..." comes the roll of Occitan. With the arch of a dark brow. Something is going on. Still with the foreplay, Edward. Held deep in the expansive, Norman chest is the purr of Thoughtfulness. Not the courtesy kind, but true thought-full-ness. Hands come out of his pockets and one plucks the burning clove from his spreading smile. Smoke exhaled. "It'll take the Almighty at least a week to thumb through it all in its entirety, meanwhile..." brows lift, noblesse oblige in arch, "I shall enjoy the nymphs of Limbo...so... you have called us here to drink your best champagne -- and it had better be your best -- in the Catacombs..." William pauses suddenly as he moves toward you. "Is this a family reunion... or one of those candid camera things..." I mean, Edward, there must be something. But before you can say too much, you have a Plantagenet shadow. "Good to see you, Blois," he murmurs, even as he locks a heavy arm about your shoulders and pulls you into a hug. You'll have to forgive him, he's the touchy-feely kind of Duke. "What...? Oh..." softer that. The sound of appreciation. You are released from the hug and he is distracted by the fine, fine offering...

     Davydd is meanwhile, making himself comfortable in your space, pulling up a bit of casket... or what-have-you... and propping his boots up on something tomb-like or whatever's close at heel. The grin is wide. "My fault, that. I have him liquored up on scotch. He was singing all the verses of Waltzing Matilda and other Great War ditties as we passed through the Chunnel...So, Edward, am I to believe you've suddenly 'Got Religion'? What's with the talk about hell? How many times have I told you... I'm not going to Paris in the winter..." He laughs and blows smoke to the arches and buttresses.

     He grins and tips his head up and down, accepting of the jokes at his expense. There was a lean in when William hugged him, but now he has to preside. There seems something light and somber about the entire odd display. "I have never been much of the religious sort," Edward grins at Davydd, "...save when the nuns were interested in private time with the incorrigible young Marquis." He rarely refers to himself as Duke...it was not something he held for so long. "God," he exhales, looking up, "I'd not thought about that for a while. But yes!" Edward raises a finger, "This...is a family reunion," he chuckles. Something from the Three Musketeers really. Bending again, Edward comes up with two items from behind the casket. In one hand, a stake. In the other hand, a rather nice katana. His style. "You know what they say about weddings and funerals." Both weapons are rested on the box and Edward's hands are free. The silver pants glint in the dim light of the room as he reaches over and picks up the corkscrew. "Bottle for each, of course, old beans.." last words said in English.
     "And Paris in Winter is better than...the fucking woods of Scotland," Edward notes, grinning as he manages to fish out the first cork.

     There is none who laughs so richly as that than William. A chuckle warm and full of ... knowing fire. He does not have to say he disagrees or why -- in fact, the both of you'd get faintly ill at the notion... particularly Davy-bach... but thoughts of furs and fires, a stone castle and a young, golden man suddenly capture him...

     "Ah...we've lost him, boyo..." Davydd rumbles. But it is said with fondness, even as a different mood descends. "Two bottles of scotch and you can't pass wind around him without him going all girlie for the thought of pounding flesh in the bedding... that's it, he's cut off for the night." You are serious. And so, for the time being, he will be as well.

     William half-turns... a pivot to look to Davydd and to Edward. Lastly, to the stake and the katana. As distraction lifts and he wakens from it, humor likewise departs. Placid, the beautiful countenance. Ducal, the demeanor. "Hmmm... who's getting married and who's getting the katana?" comes the languid, baritone of his voice. A curious murmur. A half-smile yet lingers, perched upon that mouth of his, and he remains nearby you, Edward. "I will drink to family reunions..." William continues, taking up the bottle meant for him. "I have my family here, afterall..." You and Davydd. But for Ian, his family is complete and with him now. Not even Girault rates that.

     Davydd rises from his seat and moves toward you both. Expectant. And not for the bottle of champagne, though the bottle designated His is taken at last.

     "No one is getting married," Edward chuckles, French still there. He must be so much more fun in English. "Did you tell him," Edward looks at you, Davydd, "...about what happened a few weeks ago?" In London. The second bottle is opened and set aside as he picks up the third. White shirt flutters as he works the cork out, a dull smile upon his face.

     Indigo goes to green as William looks from Edward to Davydd. What...?

     But the green is focused on Edward for the time being. "No," Davydd answers simply, and arms fold against his chest. He pivots then to William and inclines his head. "Edward and I ...we've been meaning to tell you for sometime, Will..." Green flickers to Edward. Uh-oh. You've seen that look. The full of shit look. He can't help himself. Really. Davydd turns to William and sighs, "Edward and I have been lovers for years. Ever since we took that stroll..." eyes close like he means it, "... along the Seine..." And then the humor done, Davydd shakes his head and takes a half pace away. "Not a peep, Edward. You care to do the honors...?" It's your tale, boyo.

     Throughout it all, the Straight Man lived up to his role, if not his reputation, by merely looking between you both. Lastly to you, Edward. William's expression is quietly expectant. A glance to the box. To the stake. To the sword. "I take it... it's... an old friend," he murmurs. One who was once in our circle...out of it since the Great Schism. Though Davydd does his best to lighten the moods around him, you, Edward, can see that Plantagenet is tempered, reserved. Waiting. Bottle in hand. Like the Duke of Normandie and the Comte du Poitou tonight... he is...

     "Right-o, Prince William," Edward chimes, picking up one of the bottles and lifting it in a greeting to you both before tossing back a long taste. He swallows and wipes his lips. "Okay, so it is not bad," he grins. "But yes, for me, it is." A glance to Davydd, and then he returns to you to explain, "Blancheflor," Edward shrugs, "...this is her last party." And there you are. "The good Prince of Cymru and I had...a run in..." he smiles at Davydd, "...and well...suffice to say, I am running behind on finishing the details." I should have done this that night. You were right, Davydd. A shrug to the red-haired man, "I can't fix the past. Nothing will change." Save whatever I thought I felt. "And I am not one for leaving errors," he whispers to the Island Prince.

     Blancheflor. White Flower of Blois. In her day, it was said there was not a more beautiful woman in all of France. She was the Medieval ideal. The high-forehead, the small nose, the cherry lips, the apple breasts. Her grey eyes. After the Schism, she took the name of a Saint.
     "Germaine," William murmurs, and taking a corkscrew, he sighs. And sits. Waste of a beautiful woman. But the next moment, after the passing of Memory goes by, finds his expression placid, his demeanor that... casual regality he wears so well. He should have been a king, this one. There is nothing I can say, Edward -- and so I do not speak. I only understand. "Which honor should you wish me to bestow, then, or shall I, as the only one of the Cross in the room," a dab of humor, "... give the ...last rites?" William is serious, Edward. Who would have ever thought him priest? But, forget you not... he was once more or less ordained. In younger, greener days...

     Davydd looks to Edward for a time, serious once more. How it shows on that rugged exterior, the touch of something softer...more subtle. "Ah, and I wouldn't have let you," he says quietly. "But... I am a sentimental bastard when it comes to Blois." A glance to William. "Repeat that and meet my sword, Plantagenet." I love you too. It is to William that Davydd then turns, head lifting. "Never thought I that I'd live to see the day you became a priest."
     Corks pop to that, one after the other, as both of them finally open their bottles. "I am sorry though, Edward..." Davydd mutters, patting his wool coat.

     He shrugs, not having much more to add. Save that he too is sorry. Edward tastes his bottle once more, and then picks up the accouterment with free hand, putting the items behind him on his chair. "You make the better priest," Edward grins ruefully, "...Prince Red, the competent jury. I..." his brows arch, "I made the mess, therefore I am the Executioner." Another swig and then he asks, half-humorously, "Shall we take places now, or do you both care to finish your drinks? Everyone should have their drinks."

     Champagne is tasted. The finest in the land. The treasure of your part of the Loire. With that, William sets his bottle aside, to rest upon the floor. But out of the way. Freed, his right hand touches to his throat, and a golden chain, with a golden Norman, Crusader's cross is revealed, with its rubies red as Christ's blood. Rubies of such quality few in the Modern Age get to see. The microfibre shirt rests against his form, nearly sheer... it makes his body seem like muscled shade. He is an oddly well-built priest. But his first benediction, it is not for the woman in the box, the legendary Blancheflor. It is for you, Marquis. A hand, large but fine, reaches up, a touch upon your head is laid and as he bends, words of Your French -- two hundred years more modern than his own -- are whispered by his voice forever Langue d'Oc. Know that God Forgives you, God Keeps you, and God loves you, but none as I do -- an old benediction, but with a Plantagenet twist. A cross is drawn upon your forehead, Blois -- sacrilegious in the extreme in the eyes of most, but it is done for Compassion. His for you. Unfettered, unbridled and untempered. A hug is given again and then William straightens and takes his spot.

     Davydd closes his eyes and tips back the bottle, drinking champagne as if it were nothing more than water for a thirst-mad soul. It bubbles at his mouth as he straightens, eyes opening. A last drink for your sake, Blancheflor of Blois. Ah. There's a double-meaning in that. He gives a nod to Edward. "Ready when you are, mate," he says. Simply but softly. He seems non-plussed but he is ever bit as deep in it as William. He is ...just more reserved...

     "When was the last time we presided over an execution," Edward quips, putting his bottle down and picking up the crowbar. There's a smile for you, William, about as gracious as he can get. A sigh and Edward begins to rattle the top of the box to reveal the woman inside.
     She has been redressed at some stage. Dressed in a white gown, her painted face is washed, and any remnant of the woman from the club is gone. Edward puts the crowbar down and removes the top, certain that the young woman inside will not rise anytime soon. He gazes at her a second before lifting the lid and placing it on the floor.

     "1672," comes the joint reply. William and Davydd share a look. Stop that...
     Throats clear and the two are somber once more. As the box is opened, and the Flower revealed within, William steps forward again. A look to her. He hasn't seen her ... in so many years. Her hair is blonde, but her legendary eyes are closed. Her legendary breasts will be parted and impaled by equally legendary hands. "You go... in a good way," William murmurs in her Medieval French. "And you go in a just way." At hands of friends, as it should be. Hands make the cross and pave the way for her Judgment. "We will see you in Hell, dove... keep the fires stoked..." And he means it. He'll never see Heaven. Why lie? I forgot she was so small. William takes a breath and exhales. "In the name of the Father," he continues in French, "... and of the Son...and of the Holy Spirit...Amen..." The End.

     Davydd looks to William with something of amazement. Aren't I supposed to be the lyrical Welshman and the silver-tongued devil? He looks into the box and makes the mark of the cross against his own chest. "Try to get a room with a window..." Good night, Gracie.
     Now green and indigo flicker to you. Both dark and light. The universal sky and the green and glowing earth. The eyes of your two friends, and those most close to you. But for one.

     "Tsk, and you thought you only are to say that?" Edward tries to quip, handing Davydd the stake. "You didn't think I was going to do this alone did you?" his brows arching and a smile forming. For him, there is the katana. Edward pulls at latches holding the box together and the sides fall open. "And I don't think she'd call us friends, if she could speak, Will," Edward murmurs, the humor fading as quickly as it came. He's not sure what she would think, truthfully. "I'm sure," he sighs, "...she hates me." Not Us. The sign of the cross is made and Edward leans to pick up the ivory handle of the curved katana.

     "St. Germaine surely wouldn't... " And William draws a distinction. In his way, were any of you to do the same to him... William Plantagenet the vampire would be furious -- but William's soul? The mortal held in perpetual Death? Do not think it would be the same for him. But then William half-smiles. Something for you. Don't be so hard on yourself, Edward. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll curse you after it's over...all part of the service, Blois..." Once again, the champagne bottle is lifted and the spirit swallowed. Fucking Plantagenet.

     Davydd takes the stake with widened eyes, as if he is actually shocked and has never held one in his life! But the look fades and he twirls it about in his hand as he nears the box. He looks to William and then to Edward. A breath taken. And green eyes are bright as emeralds...
     The motion was so swift, even to vampiric eyes. The thud, resounding. Force and Motion consummated in the piercing of her breast. The first snows were never so white and pure as this...

     He was not expecting it so soon. The swiftness brings about a reflex within him, to act before thinking. Motion. A flash. And before Edward can speak to William's observation, his own hands were lifting and moving. A silver sliver upwards and then downwards. Before thought. Before changing his mind. Outside of the bounds of recognition.
     Half-bent, Edward remains at the low point of the strike. It's there that he realizes what he's just done. What was silver a moment ago, is now somewhat crimson. Body at full extension, Edward lingers, a breath slow to come. The white shirt fits him snugly as such, and parted legs show the force that was drawn from the broken ground and transferred through the blade. He blinks, and comes to rise, clearly surprised. "You could have at least warned me," only partially humored and somewhat serious.

     "You need to make up your mind, Blois," Davydd says, hands removing from the stake, only after the blade falls. You never know. Discretion being the better part of valour. If you can call this discreet. He exhales and straightens, and grins. "Nice form, Blois." He damn near applauds -- but that'd be crass even for Davydd. "Sorry," he says, apologetic in part, "... it's been so long... I jumped..." He'd remark on the cut and your precision and how it's probably jazzing William to no end to see you with a sword in your hand, but all that just falls away unmentioned. Davydd reaches into his jacket for a cigarette.

     It even shocked and surprised William. Eyes widened and brows arched high. "Shite, Davy... " is muttered after the thud of the stake and the strike of the sword. Sensuous mouth pulls in a slant and he looks to Edward. A mixture of humor and seriousness. Compassion and admiration. "Well done, Edward. It was the right thing to do. And done quickly." William looks between you both. "And... you haven't been troubled by her pack...?" Let's get to the meat of the nut.

     He is still looking at her body, her severed head. "Huh?" Edward looks up, faintly dazed, "Uh...oh...no..." he murmurs, relaxing. "Shite," he breathes, tossing his katana aside and reaching for the bottle. Closing his eyes, he takes a series of gulps, leaving his eyes closed as he brings the bottle down slowly and to his chest. Inhale. Exhale. "So," he whispers, "...we can't put her head back on and see if she's all fixed, can we?" He chuckles then and sighs, brows arching. Let it go. Opening them, Edward puts the bottle down again on his chair, and proceeds to work on flipping the sides of the box up once more to lock them into place. "Eh, if they come, they come." Whatever. It will give him something to do for a while. "But no, they have not made too much motion here. Anything in London?" he asks, looking to Davydd.

     William is on the move. Silent striding and slow, toward Edward. Dangling from his right hand, the bottle of champagne... controlled, even as it appears to be upon the edge of falling. Amazing what one can get used to. Heads lying about on the floors. Nothing. Not even a spark of sorrow or disgust. What has become of us. Well, me. He takes a position near you, Edward, perching himself. The long leather coat giving him the appearance of a gargoyle made beautiful -- almost painfully so. Or of some otherworldly angel of death. Perhaps that's more fitting. He still has his Executioner's face on... even though it was your hand that did the deed. The bottle is tipped back, another swallow of it taken. "No, but I do recommend finding a few women with their heads still attached ... they're infinitely more fun that way." A pause. "From what I recall..." A small smile at that. Let it go, Edward. Even as she would have done were positions reversed. William nods, black hair half concealing his gaze as you speak of no troubles. Contented. Pleased at that. Indigo flickers, lifting darkly to Davydd.

     Answered with green, and then those eyes shift to you. "No... they're taking cover... whatever the true nature of her mission there... the players are... notably mute." He pauses, smirking, "... apart from the usual Hand of Evil bullshite...You see me quiverin' don't you?" Davydd holds out his hand, steady as a rock, and then he lights his cigarette. "Did I just hear," he rumbles, voice carried by smoke, "... Plantagenet mention women ...? You know... this... celibacy bit... I'm not buying it, William... I know you..."

     Indeed, what has become of Us. Edward smiles a little to hear the familiar and familial banter. Case secure, he sighs and picks up the head of the young woman, tossing it in with the rest of her. "They're so much more fun when my head is attached," Edward laments. Then laughs, proud of himself. That was good. A little congratulatory shiver and he tosses the three corks on the top of the gowned body. "Celibacy," he notes, "...is highly, highly," his voice exaggerating the vowel, "...overrated. But he wouldn't know celibacy if it was..." shoved up his ass? Edward grimaces and wiggles his nose, eyes widening. Sorry, he mouths, chuckling and tossing the corkscrew in with the rest of the trash.

     Oh riot! Two hands pointed at you and two men hailed you with loud laughter. One Norman, the other Welsh. Raucous and rich. But when it begins to quiet, and tears are wiped out of male eyes, indigo fastens on you. Please... let's not talk about what is in or not in my ass, si vous plais. William stands from his perch, grin slowly spreading. "Alright... alright... where's the nearest town again? We obviously need to go out...have a few drinks... and bring a few back home..." A hand gestures, a slight wave. "You realize, we're staying the night, right?"

     Davydd is grinning ear to ear. Oh, well he knows it. But... you know...the rumor mills have gotten quiet. No lamenting women, no furious men. "I'm for that... I'm in the mood for something... dark and ... heady..." Good God.

     William pulls you into a hug again, as much tussle as hug, as he moves to pass you by. You in one hand and arm, his champagne in the other. "Fuck ya, Muerelle," he murmurs. Your favorite greeting. And in it, London remembered.

Posted by rowan at February 02, 2001 10:51 AM