April now. So does time move. Yesterday the world is ice cold and covered over with the remnants of autumn's decay. Today the world is blooming. And Chinon, a world within a world, typifies the best of spring. The gardens, the vineyards, the lands around the castle are full of colors, smells. The lemon, the cherry, the pear, the apple, grapes, plums putting out leaves already, blossoms newly fallen, covering the ground in a purple snow.
All doors and windows are opened in this early evening, there are wayward flowers coating the floor of the inner courtyard, blown in by wandering winds. Like they dripped from the fingers of the ghosts of maidens past. And the lights of Chinon -- these could be seen once one was past the glare of Tours. The masters are home...
But the prince is strolling solo tonight, barefoot and moving through his garden. He wears the color of plum, deep violet -- it darkens his own deep complexion. And it moves as the wind moves, as he moves. Unbuttoned, it parts from him and folds against him, parting and then seeming to melt into him. His lambskin leathers make no sound as he moves, too supple to give any resistance to his form, any resistance whatsoever.
Too close to Tours, Tours too large these later days. The once clear sky is now obscured with added light. The stars, harder to pluck out. But William looks all the same, with the same expectation. Finding a few of his favorites. Then looking out over his domain. The last of it, in truth. And it feels alright.
Though Ian is not yet with him, he's not exactly alone. The peacocks trail behind him, waiting for the fruit he holds in his hands to be carelessly dropped. And the horses are roaming free tonight, nosing along the periphery of the tangled growth. Andalusians in attendance. Such resplendence. It befits spring.
"How complicated is this?" comes a voice tearing through the corridors. Air travels faster than feet, most certainly, and where there was silence from the direction of this quadrant's kitchen corridor, there is suddenly...instantaneously...a gargantuan clamor. Servants calling in French, thrashing from the quiet of the stone walls that keep such noises within. Bursting through doors they are, rushing after the source of all the angst.
"Guillaume FitzEmpress!" the screeches go. "I know you're here. Hiding." A stop. Boots silent. "Gah, get yer hands off me. Yes, I know I can't come in like this. Yes, I know he's busy. Fuck. I created the word 'busy'." A sigh. "Hey," Edward chirps, "God, you're getting all your oils on my jacket!"
"Will!" the clamor picks up, yet quieter now. Some have given up. "I can feel your breathing out here," he snorts, turning the corner to the garden.
Then laughter. Edward's present. He snorts at you, looking the lord, eyes travelling up and down, never used to the sight. "What is that shirt color? And what the hell is going on at Poitiers? And why is Villon calling me?"
FitzEmpress. He'd forgotten about that one. The clamoring caught his attention, causing brows to knit in wonder. The shout brought an instant crooked smile. "Ah, the dulcet tone of Blois. These are the sounds that herald in the spring," how his voice carries. And gives his location.
As if you couldn't tell by the trembling air...
He's midway between the pear and the lemon, a stomp of his feet and a clicking of his tongue and peacocks scatter. Some taking flight to the fruit trees above, others merely trotting away with feathers scattering. By the time you get to him, his arms are folded against his chest, one leg crossed over the other and he's leaning against the form of an old tree. Mouth holding the birth of a grin -- held also in the eyes. Dark, glittering. This much you may see. "The shirt color is purple," he begins, languid baritone pulling quietly, his occitan punctuated with the lilt of amusement. "Poitiers is adjusting to a new night, thankfully less rainy. And as to why Villon is calling you." William lingers upon this, pushing off the tree, his arms unfolding. His eyebrows lifting and his placid and beautiful expression turning suddenly wry, "... boredom? Oh, it's good to see you by the way," and suddenly his arm is around you, pulling you into a wrestling hug. Thankfully brief. For your sake. "How was your holiday?"
Far less eventful when you were in Spain, wasn't it...
"Dieu!" he spurts, hugging you in cursory fashion and falling back. "Holiday was fine. Full of sand. Nice horses though -- not sending you any." Hand rolls and Edward turns away, his dark green shirt causing his face to seem yellowed. But the green compliments his black slacks and riding jacket he's quick now to remove. Beneath it, at the small of his back, the obligatory weapon. That remains secured. An exhale and Edward tosses his shirt on the bench, mussing things up simply with his presence.
"So, why am I getting phone calls in Italy?" he spins preternaturally around to face you. Game show host present. Large hands come up, forming a frame. "See this picture. First three month holiday in...oh...in...well, put it this way," he quirks, chin coming out, "fuckin' forever. Right? So. We're thinking of leaving the Den of Sin and Perdition," Girault's, "...and getting cleansed in the beauteous waters of the Vienne," here, "...when, voila!, the telling bone rings." Edward relaxes, puts hand to ear, mimicing the call.
"Ed-doo-ward," wait, that sounds like you, "....I hope your holiday was enjoyable. Send regards to Your Mother --fucker--, oh...and what is d'Anjou doing with Poitiers? He fancies that he runs shit," voice falling into his own with the Anglo-Saxon choice, his hands falling to his hips.
So that's how he heard.
"So, d'Anjou plan on making you his puppet at Poitiers, or is he leaving the Melancholy Dane to continue to speak his voice?"
"At this point," Edward's finger comes up, "...I'm tempted to tell him go fuck himself and don't fuckin' call me anymore. But no, since I had no fuckin' idea what was going on, I had to listen to that bullfuckin' shit to figure out..." head left, "what," head right, "...in the fuck," head left, "...what happening in my own fuckin' backyard."
"Nice to see you too, cos."
"That sounds nothing like me, that is Davydd's bad impression," such a coiled voice, if you didn't know he was kidding you might think he was offended. Laughter is quick to follow it, however. From the gut, held in the chest. Large, Plantagenet paws come together in applause. Slow and affected. "But," laughter calms into a slight smile, the smile itself beginning to calm afterwards, "... your pronunciation is almost right for Villon. Muddle it, seem lost, then... it will be ... perfect, my cousin."
There is an exhale as he sits upon the bench, his long legs stretching out, hands upon the marble surface. "I have made some amends with Poitiers, this is true. A grant of land, a cathedral, a new prince. Making right the lingering hold of..." he smirks, "...old and old fashioned hands. And it is true, I have given my weight to the Knight of Provence. I expect great things from my southern neighbor and wish my friend success. So," the smile coils upon his mouth, "... Villon is displeased. Surprised, more I think. This is good news. Well," William adds, "...for me. It seems Plantagenet still has a trick or two. How exciting."
But, it is tempered somewhat by your own energy. His expression goes placid. "I should have called. But... as you said... it was your first true holiday in ...fucking forever. If it is any consolation, I think Alire shall make for a good and pleasant neighbor. Good for the region. And overdue, cos. I am flattered that he thinks I could puppet you." William chuckles again and rises. Preternaturally at your side the next blink of your eyes. "We should some day remind Paris what Blois and Poitou are capable of. I have ... longed to hear knees banging together in Paris. You have no idea..."
Edward blinks, then looks repulsed. "They're all so skinny there," he reminds, "...bone against bone does nothing for me," he explains, innocence returning. "Oh. You meant in fear," he murbles, looking away in contemplative thought.
"Oui, Ed-doo-ward," he says, and speaks it thus especially for you, elongating his already thick occitan drawl. "... in fear, my cousin." William grins, a smile and a look worthy of FitzEmpress, and his hand is to your hair, giving it a muss. "But... my decision on how to respond to Tours is more complex. It being closer. They have formed a council over the past twenty years. The population has grown, as Paris has grown, pressing downward. So," he looks from you, his hand withdrawing, his eyes moving over his garden and lastly to the sky, "... it is time to let go of old ways, and of old ... assumptions. I have made a gift of land... I think it will be more of a treaty. But prince... they do not as of yet have and they are looking for guidance. Perhaps it would be something that would interest you. But... then you would have to settle down," he wrinkles his nose in a mimic of your disgust.
I'm sure you'll say it looks nothing like you...
"Your nose is too big," he reminds. A southern feature. He? Of good Jutland stock and points east. Not points south. But Edward grins anyway, taking a seat next to you and causing the bench to suffer. He tosses his jacket further aside, extening dark legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles. Brown eyes tend that direction, spying his new Italian boots.
"Prince," he snorts, the idea having crossed his mind. Nose crinkles again and Edward shakes his head, looking at a nearby tree. "I like my freedom. I like being in control of my existence...not slaving to some fuckin' petty council to supposedly help provide for a bunch of snot-nosed, watered down whelps." No thanks. His words come sharply, but there's thought there. And perhaps that's why he's come by.
"I'm going home to London. Me and Valan." And that's where we choose for now.
"There is time, they are in no hurry. Tours and I have a ... mutually beneficial relationship. It will remain so for now. For now, all semblance of things being...well... as they have been. Besides, I would not want to give Villon a heart attack." Yes, I am so concerned with his health. "And they would not want to give the appearance of being vulnerable. Think about it. I'm making a list of those I wouldn't mind sharing coffee with. Understandably, it's a short list, mon ami. Any regards on who you'd like running the show not so far from Blois? I'd hate to recommend someone you couldn't fucking stand." He chuckles, "though for an afternoon, it could be amusing. Just to watch you seethe in the twilight. Try to light cigarettes off your head. Give it some thought," he says more seriously, but not gravely. Simply... not kidding.
"Are you not going to congratulate me, to comment on my... generosity and lack of ego? On scoring a victory against my own heredity? I cannot believe that you have nothing to say to me about this. William, giving up property, position..." There falls a dramatic sigh, and half-grinning, William tips his head back to look at the sky. Physique given to the sky to look at as he lifts his chin. "Prince Edward does have a nice ring to it, though. I'll grant you, not half as poetic as Prince William..."
He was dreaming as you spoke, but Edward returns to the present at the comment of 'Prince Edward.' Something he hasn't heard said in centuries. Yet then, it was a vain mortal hope, the wishes of a decaying aristocracy. He shrugs and exhales, forcing stale air from his chest. "It shoulda happened a while back, Will," he says evenly. Not an accusation. "They have to defend themselves and maintain their own lives in the best way they can. And that's not with a heriditary prince who lives elsewhere." Spoken like a true Anarchist.
"You can't help them in their nightly lives. You provide no guidance to those who need it most. You give security, this is true," he looks over at you, "...but there are lots of ways to get that. The Camarilla's strength is not in knights," he smiles, "...it's in freedom and choosing to live well as a vampire and with other vampires...and other beings," for that matter. Not in the destruction offered by others. So sayeth the Very Modern Man.
"Wow," Edward snorts, looking up, "...I sound like de Rancey." A grimace. "Preaching on the virtues of the Camarilla." He chuckles. "Well, in some circles, I think what I said was also heresy," he laughs, "...but that's the way of free thought." Oh, he has been in Spain lately.
"Alire of Provence will be fine, as long as they think he isn't substituting for you," brown eyes roll over to slither along his shoulder to see you. "I expect Anarchs will test him...and he'll see to them, and that will be the end of that. No more questions. They'll live quietly or move."
"As for points closer," Edward exhales, looking at his feet again. "Reginald's not bad," he notes, "...a good lad and I hear even Gangrel will speak to him," Edward shrugs. "He is younger than Alire, but he'll be watched."
"So I have been reminded," he warmly quips. He does not say by whom. Even if, in this case, it was by his own reflection and not by your words just now. Although, you do have a way, Blois, of ...driving it home. "And I am staying out of Poitiers," he adds again, "...this is Alire's fight. He's no longer the wandering apostle. I no longer run my routes through him. It's his to win, his to keep, his to lose," he confirms.
He doesn't say you're right... there's no need to. It's so obvious. He saw it before but... well, his stubbornness is as legendary an aspect as some of the others more talked about...
There's a mighty exhale, and hands come off the marble, arms folding at his chest again, legs spreading in a sprawl that covers territory. "And you are sounding a bit Sebastian," William drawls. "I suggest you start finding other friends. I'd hate to have to kick your ass for being a presumptuous tea-sipper." He grins then, but you can see him soaking in what you have said. No, it is not easy to do. Not easy for him to do. But you also see that he knows it is the right thing to do. "Reginald. I had thought of that... and maybe younger... is not a bad idea for Tours. Tours... is full of youth, immortal and otherwise. It might be a good mix. I had thought of you. I had thought of about three others from the region. Ventrue, of course. But then, I would," he chuckles. William nods to something. "For now, there's a good treaty in place. I keep my hunting rounds, the lands immediately around Chinon, all other personal holdings along the Vienne, but have bequeathed several buildings in Tours itself and have dissolved other holdings to their care. Once I have a final list, I'll float it your way. You can give me another 'Up with the People' speech." He chuckles.
"Ah, the Lord has his revenge at last. He has made the final Plantagenet... rather pointless. I'll need a new hobby, you know." William quirks a grin. "If conquest be not it..."
"Knitting," Edward suggests, nodding at that, head cocked still to see his shoes. "It'll give you something to do with your hands," his fingers wiggling at the bench. "But, why give up buildings?" he wonders, looking over to you. "Business is business. No need to be...extreme. And why wouldn't you keep Chinon? It is private land..."
"A sitting prince can request anything he likes. And one not of my own choosing, perhaps not fond of me, might request something... outrageous. Such as not having such a powerful being in his backyard and not under his control. It isn't out of the realm of possibility. The treaty is there only as a formality, to insert structure in a time of flux. It is something tangible. As for the properties in Tours, these were a gift from me to them. It was the kingly thing to do. I get to be magnanimous. They get liberty. It works out in the end..."
You get a look as you mention knitting. A cocked up eyebrow. A smirk pulling upon that essential mouth. Even the slightest expression there comes with palpability. "I will leave it up to Ian to keep my hands busy. I'd only end up using the knitting needles as tiny lances." And he winks, chuckling at that. It's all too true. "Who knows what I shall do next. Perhaps I will continue to do nothing but enjoy my life, my mate and my orchards. Maybe that is enough."
He chuckles at the idea of tiny lances. "Too true," Edward agrees, going quiet a moment. Then, "Maybe that is enough. I..." Edward smiles, "...am trying to do the same."
"Between bouts of beating down someone." That gets an amused quirk.
Posted by rowan at June 21, 2003 10:00 PM
