For perhaps the last time, certainly it shall be the last time, a dragon stepped through a painting of a dragon at the end of an alley crowded with shops and magical bric-a-brac. For perhaps the last time, surely it will be the last time? -- the bricks folded and unfolded in a manner of quick moments between One London and the Next. The Welshman appears in an alley as if coughed up by London Itself, a hairball among lint...
He gave indication that he would be coming -- it was downright formal of him -- and that he wanted an audience. Davydd ap Owain, called Llywelyn, wanted an audience with Sebastian deRancey. Based on how the last one went, who knew he'd hold his cap out for another like an immortal Oliver 'Please Sir Can I Have Another'?
You were never the best of friends, hell you hardly socialized except when Rosamund (now there's a fair flower, as if) forced him. Always on the edge, that one, always on the periphery. With the exception of the 20th Century Wars. It was as though he was in London, fated to be in London, for merely those two events, World War I and II. And when the bombers were grounded, and tyrants too, he slipped off again never to be heard from as far as the politicos were concerned...
So why the sudden interest, and why the sudden formality? Has he recognized, at last, that there is a game to be played? A life to be led? A ... shudder... responsibility and accountability to his...heralded bloodline? A message from Mithras, perhaps. You never know. It could be anything...
There he is, Davydd bleeding Llywelyn, stepping through the doors of Claridge's renowned lounge, the stuff of kings (and kingmakers), this, dressed in a collage of light layers, earthtones, wools and wool-blends. Dastardly dashing and fixed up, hair let go a bit and tussled this way and that in copper-bronze reminiscent of a wildfire. Who has he killed?
And it occurs to him as he steps in, that old Welsh saying as one heads down the mountains to the vale of London: it can only go downhill from here...
The cant of his mouth is already making a smirk to himself, the hands are reaching for a pack of cigarettes, and his pivoting a moment to give the rest of the room a look as he saunters his way in.
At this time of night, this bar - one of a half-dozen - in Claridge's is closed. A few Brujah wandered the corridors, mingling among the passers through, the lone Toreador coming with with a crowd to a suite's afterparty. The hotel is certainly alive, but as with all places, not every space is so lit.
So it is with The Lounge, as it's affectionately called.
A gathering-place for diplomats, exiled aristocrats, royalty, and now celebrity, The Lounge has weathered the fair for over a century and a half. For the last seventy, it has been one of the evening hideaways of the long-serving Ventrue primogen of London. In the closed bar, a lone bartender cleans the space for the mid-morning opening. He's been hired on, nicely enough, in the overnight shift, that closes, stocks, and apparently serves a single customer and the occasional arrival who knows he's here. If has has a clan, this barkeep, no one's talking.
In an oversized chair, Sebastian sits, staring at the fall of a curtain. Large windows are elegantly swathed, and in his seating area, he has an angled view of the bar and a window half-opened to the city night. He'll sit unmolested for hours, save the random call or visitor allowed - told - to stop by. Dressed in a black suit, rather dark for him, he cuts a strange figure tall and broad in linen gloom, yet topped with a sharp modern cut to his blonde hair. Unusual, that too.
The bartender looks up as someone arrives. Likely, he knows the overnight schedule. Drinks. Silence. A call. And one guest.
You know, he's led a blessed life (a little too blessed, if anything). He's never been called like a dog to the chamber (sit, UBU, good dog), or a lamb to the slaughter -- even with all the supposed shite he has allegedly caused, allied in his trifecta of Meurelle-Plantagenet-Llywelyn. He's been, conversely, what he terms as Nowhere Man; a non-entity upon The Grand Stage. Not even handy enough to be called a prop, really. He was just there, at the parties, a son of a dread sire, pleasant enough but...
What has he ever done? And he, a man of over eight centuries. By now, he should have been employed at something. William's been a prince repeatedly (though, who's shocked by that?). But Llywelyn? Like Meurelle, he couldn't be bothered.
He knew the players on the stage well enough. It was more like he was an audience, watching from the seats, occasionally throwing popcorn or rotten tomatoes and bellowing through the soliloquies of more enterprising men.
"Evening," he says to the King of Pain there sitting in the oversized chair, there in his linen gloom, his accent is strange upon the English. He's spent several years abroad in Wales (or on a broad in Wales) and one can tell it. The lilting of it, lighter than English and far more lyrical even with a single word.
"It's been a while," since you talked to him prior to his leaving for Wales. You saw a lot of him that year: carrying a deranged woman, spiriting off with a Toreador archon, playing at self-aggrandizement. Davydd's hand is out and he says quietly: "Too long, and it's my fault, Sebastian..."
What has changed about him, besides his fashion and his hair, is hard to put a finger on. That something has changed may be clear if you've seen him over time, or cared. There's a quietude and a gravity that goes with the smoothened face of a well-fed vampire. He must have something on his mind. He called first, didn't he.
"Davydd," Sebastian says, the short double old-fashioned now visible in his left hand. Good that he extends his right. He's in a mood though, somewhat somber. Maybe something's happened tonight. "Nice to hear from you," Sebastian begins, shaking hands and then quirking. "What am I saying? No it's not," he drawls at himself, chiding. Why put on niceties, for whatever reason Sebastian momentarily thought that he should. The truth of it, he doesn't care that much -- he had to remind himself.
"You called. Color me shocked," Sebastian grins, a little more to his usual self. "I'd avoid the Toreador if I were you," he states for the record. "Drink?"
He takes a seat and out come the cigarettes. A thief's sleight-of-hand, with a vampire's graces, has one of the cigarettes out of the pack, tucked between two fingers and lighted. "Since when did you start caring what the Toreador think? Or anyone for that matter," he lilts out with smoke. "I didn't come here to talk about them, and why should they care if a ghost comes in and out of view?" referring to himself as he sits back, the pack stowed in the folds of his woolen coat. "You wouldn't think they'd notice through all the hair spray and fog..."
And notice what, little old me? For what reason. Lips go this way and that in a smile that is at best a smirk and at worst a noncommittal frown. "I called. I thought I'd start doing things in a more...hmmm..." his forest eyes peer through the smoke as fiery eyebrows arch, "...respectful fashion. Have I worn out my welcome completely?" At that, he smiles. "And just when I was getting the hankering for..." he motions with his cigarette, a thief's hand doing a quick magic trick (the David Copperfield way, that is) with it before tucking it back between his lips, "... becoming useful. I've come, you see, because I would like, and wouldn't dream of not letting you know, to return to London full-time. The country's not where I need to be, growing my vegetables and scaring the village's children." Davydd releases the smoke through his nose like a proper dragon.
"And, no... I'm not intending on doing anything foolish or stupid or brazen. I did my share of that, and I did my share of bleeding for this City," even his detractors (and there are a few to be sure) have to admit his one man mission against the Blitzkrieg was amazing, stunning in its way. "... and I've decided I've rested long enough. It's been sixty years... more..." since the war to end all wars. "So... what are the chances of that being permissible?"
He's asking for permission to return. He's... asking. Going through proper channels even. Frightening a bit, that.
Sebastian looks away to his window, sitting silently for a few seconds before replying, "You know, I don't get you, Davydd. I don't want to really, save that," Sebastian's attention returns, "...things you have done recently become annoyances to me. Now, that's not special -- I am the primogen and it's my job to clean up clan shit," he says frankly, lifting his glass and saluting himself. "But frankly, I'm done with this one."
"Talk to The Toreador, Davydd. If his clan allows it, I don't particularly care - but I won't have noise and I especially don't want to hear it from the already-complaining Toreador or from any other quarter."
With that, the drink is downed.
Done, recently? A fiery eyebrow takes a comet's trajectory. "What have I done, all the way from Wales, to trouble anyone?" The lyrical words play long and slow upon the English he's still dusting off. "We all know that my hands are not that long. Are they worried I'm in the mountains dressing Mithras up for a formal tea in London? I mean, really..." And now Davydd chuckles, "... from Wales, Sebastian?" Now both eyebrows are up and Davydd's peering at you as if you were the most extraordinary creature.
It couldn't be Sandrine. Why would she? She's the one who left... you'd think she'd be a saint and he'd be pitied. There is nothing else. Nothing. His whole life has been a great parade to the patron saint of Nothing.
"I don't know, you tell me," Sebastian says, lifting his empty glass to the air. A signal. "But this clan has pressure, and I don't really like murmuring and laughter that I haven't started." That gets a grin and well, a drink change. The bartender disappears as quickly as he arrived.
"Besides, why London?" Sebastian shrugs. "Isn't Wales lovely this time of year?"
"I don't know," Davydd insists, then looks suddenly both interested and curious. I started something? Go figure. "If I did," he continues, rattling as he bellows smoke, "I'd tell y'...shite, I'd probably have begun with it if I had sommat to say. But..." great shoulders roll, "...I've never had much business with Toreador. I've slept with my share, even recently. William's the one in their shite and china. And Wales is nice, a bit moldy, a bit too quiet and if I'm going to be alive, Sebastian, I might as well be doing something, being of some use somewhere to someone. I need to knock off the moss before the Old Boss wakes," Mithras, presumably. It's Gehenna-humor, surely.
Davydd stamps out his cigarette with a last exhale of smoke. "I was dating a Toreador for a while. That'd be enough to piss a few off. Other than that, I've had dip to do with any kind of rose," particularly a certain Rose, "... for... well... ever, actually. But," he gestures and nods, "... I will meet with Tattinger and go from there, how's that. And when I find out what put a ferret in everyone's shorts, I'll let you know. I'm stumped, mate..."
Sebastian doesn't respond too much. If he knows anything, he's not telling.
"Are you asking me for a job, Davydd?" Sebastian asks, settling back into his seat. "You want something to do?"
It's more entertaining -- if it's even true, and he has his doubts -- if he discovers it himself. You drama queen, you. He looks at you, he knows it, he's sure that you know that he knows it, and he glances to the bar, as if a drink will materialize. If he were Plantagenet, it would.
"Yes," how's that for direct. "I believe I am, Sebastian." Davydd settles back, his eyes on the man across from him (Lord Doom in that suit, I swear it), and his eyebrows lift in an opening, inquisitive gesture. His hands rest on his wool-layered stomach and his mouth twitches faintly upward. "As long as it's not dung patrol. I can do that in Wales plenty, sheep country that it is."
"Give me something to do, Sebastian. The last thing this world needs is another Medieval relic..."
"I don't have any jobs," Sebastian drawls, nodding at the bartender. Something will arrive. "You know that well enough that I have nothing to give you." He shrugs. "We've managed roles here so far for the last, oh...seventy years, Davydd. There aren't any openings that others chose or took, and have filled. No one gives anything. Never have." Sebastian stares at you curiously. "Maybe you've forgotten."
The bartender does come with a glass much like Sebastian's.
"No, I haven't forgotten," Davydd notes. "I'm not looking for position, a 'job' in that sense. I haven't done anything to deserve it. What have I done in the last seventy years but rest, drink, fuck and sing. I'm the first to say it." He leans in, as he always does when he's involved in a topic. "Give me the chance to earn it back better. That's what I'm asking of you. I'm offering myself up on a plate and handing you a fork. You can stick it in me and say I'm done, or you can employ me."
Davydd sits back, the smirk off his face and all levity absent. "If I can't be of use to my Clan, then I may as well be buried. Maybe I went crazy without the sound of bombs, maybe I was just tired. Whatever. But that's done now. You're saying that there's no place for me in your City, Primogen? If that is your preference, I will respect it. That I owe the Clan and you, its voice in the City of Cities. That is why I am here..."
Forest green eyes don't glance to the bar, don't look for a drink. His hands do not reach for his cigarettes. They fold on the table in front of him, fingers interlocking. "Most men my age either wither to dust, we wish they'd wither to dust, or they've been able to position themselves. The choices I made were at times foolish, suspect, damaging or pointless. That's on me, Sebastian. That is what I created for myself after the Blitz and I have to deal with it. You say the word, and I'm out of this Lounge and out of your hair. I come to speak because I simply have not worked to deserve to act."
To simply do without speaking. To simply create without permission. He has not earned that right. He has not earned that prestige and position. He, an elder, has all the clout of a childe. And he knows it.
"I don't want you on a plate, Davydd, nor do I want a fork," Sebastian says. "There's nothing I can do for you, Davydd. I don't know what use you can be to this Clan."
"Why don't you show us?"
Memories run long, and short. That which was done but yesterday is forgotten, unless it is to one's discredit. Then may a memory last a thousand years. It is a plate of crow, son, that's what's on the plate, the fork's in your hands, and you're the one eating it, Llywelyn.
But you knew that...
It's all a part of what you must do, boyo...
When Oedipus fell, he went from a king to an eyeless beggar. You've killed your father, you plucked out your eyes, and here you are, hero, the grand heroic mocking. Davydd nods but once. "I will speak to the Toreador for His allowance. And in the meantime, no noise, Primogen." Just as you asked. "Thank you for your time, sir..." With that he's up, sod the drink, he'll find his own (he has a whole pub full). There's no handshake this time, why bother with the niceties. There's no bargain to spit on palms and shake over, no reminiscence.
Sebastian nods, no blonde hair shaking in the motion. It'll be back tomorrow, more than likely, but tonight, he looks almost the proper businessman.
"I'll see you later, Davydd," Sebastian offers, stating it as a fact.
There's no response to that. You probably will, if you say you will. There's a glance back as he starts to make his way out, a cock up of an eyebrow and he nods, simply. A far cry from the usual theatrics. There's a time and a place, perhaps, and maybe he does know the difference.
And now, he needs a drink. If only he could have one. First things first. He needs to get his key...
Talk about your humble pie...
Posted by rowan at September 23, 2004 11:47 PM
