Galina blinked. A vague, whispery sensation floated through her soul, a zephyr of unease that hissed so softly…
The Baronessa shook her head slowly, a gentle light in her eyes as she ducked just a little, her dark gaze looking up into his own as he bowed an apology to her. She smiled up at him tenderly, kindly. “No… No, Mister Takahiro… “
It was Galina though, whose finger gently touched Souma’s chin, lifting his gaze and his face to hers, entirely with only the subtlest pressure. “Never. Never sorry.”
Her hand dropped back to her side for a mere moment, the instant she turned to lift a champagne flute from a passing servant’s tray, and then one more which she offered to her companion silently, only that sweet, guileless expression on the Baronessa’s face. Galina noted the timing though - first the passing of the servant with the hors d’oeuvres and then, some ten minutes later, a different server with the champagne. The timing - yes, there should be just enough time during this pass.
“Yes, I know,” she said, swiftly nodding back to Shishkin’s painting without missing a beat. “Papa and me. Little girl and… Family. We… We… Ride? Is word? Ride horse.” The Baronessa made a gentle equine nickering, her crystalline laughter bright and lilting. She would not allow her companion this night, to fade into apologies or misunderstandings - most certainly when he did not allow her the same. The Baronessa oh-so-gently charmed her companion the remainder of the gallery, to the end of the mezzanine and the last of the artwork displayed, to an 18th century portrait meticulously completed, of course, in the neoclassical style. She did not recognize the lovely young lady, not much more than a child really - a Winchester ancestor perhaps? Ah, no matter...
Her dark gaze roved over the gallery, artlessly falling toward the stairwell to the third floor. Galina gauged she had, at best, another two minutes before another servant saw fit to walk through. Granted, these were people though, not clockwork - and this comforted her not at all. This only meant she might yet have more - or less - time allotted to her still.
The lie came easily enough, wrapped in all the melodic glamour of her enchanting voice, no matter the language that flowed like sparkling waters past her lips. “Mister Takahiro… You think… Art? More?” the Baronessa asked him, nodding toward the stairwell upward still. Why, it would only make sense after all, would it not? And everything about the sweet hopefulness of her visage promised him she was in absolutely no hurry at all, to be rid of his company.
That same vague whisper swept through her thoughts, the strangest unease. But no, this was not the warning instincts of the wolf she had become. Of course there was no danger. Ha! What possible peril could a crippled man possibly pose to her? No, this was something… Different. Almost melancholy… Wistful?
Bah… What in the world was she thinking? She had only taken polite sips of her golden champagne, though Galina wondered if even that had been too much on an empty stomach. Such maudlin thoughts - then again, she was a true Russian woman…
That thought returned the smile to her lips as she interlaced her arm in Mister Takahiro’s, turning toward the stairwell that beckoned to her like a clarion call. “More art? With me?”
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Most Recent Posts
It's just good to see you about again Heroes. I imagine we all get that sometimes life is so damned uncooperative, not coughing up a 25th or 26th hour in a day - just being stubborn and such. *grins*
And I knew the reference Hellis, just wasn't sure why all Liam Neesen and such - but all good, it seems you've found a fellow fan in Dot who totally gets you!
Though yes, I saw the movie (saw Taken 2 as well - I probably watch waaaaaay too many movies... Well, action-y movies. I don't like romances. "The Fault in Our Stars" isn't even on the radar in my world :P )
And I knew the reference Hellis, just wasn't sure why all Liam Neesen and such - but all good, it seems you've found a fellow fan in Dot who totally gets you!
Though yes, I saw the movie (saw Taken 2 as well - I probably watch waaaaaay too many movies... Well, action-y movies. I don't like romances. "The Fault in Our Stars" isn't even on the radar in my world :P )Wonderful post T - you never had to worry at all!
And I have to add here, I had not a CLUE wth Liam Neeson had to do with anything regarding anything yesterday? I'll admit, I'm still not entirely sure, but at least he is a good actor (though I liked him in "Rob Roy" far more than most of his later movies ;) )
And I have to add here, I had not a CLUE wth Liam Neeson had to do with anything regarding anything yesterday? I'll admit, I'm still not entirely sure, but at least he is a good actor (though I liked him in "Rob Roy" far more than most of his later movies ;) )
And yet another post! I could have gone farther, but I didn't want to rush, and/or not give you a chance to respond if you wished - just let me know! ;)
The Baronessa's dark eyes lifted from her erstwhile study of the carpet, that sweet, effortless smile lighting her face when Souma praised her halting attempts to share what little her spotty English would allow. It seemed she had found this most perfect of companions tonight. One not merely polite to a young woman whose language skills were still far less than adept; but who was genuinely kind, his demeanor and interest neither pretentious nor feigned as they ambled along the gallery.
Wolves, of course, were not moved by such pleasantries. Not by the warmth of his smile nor the light of dawning understanding as – even in her halting English – Souma genuinely tried to see what that special quality was, that made the works of Monet and his Impressionist brethren of such significance.
Certainly not by the fact that he then asked the opinion of the Baronessa, concerning any pieces she favored, without the least attempt to impress her with his own knowledge or lofty opinions.
Moved? Touched? Psh… Such foolishness, best left to silly, moon-eyed girls who read far too many Jane Austen novels.
Still wearing the guise of the guileless, Galina’s gaze traveled along the length of the mezzanine, past the few other couples absorbed in their own conversations and ruminations, toward the true prize at the end of this hallway. That the entranceway leading to the third floor also stood quite near a painting she not only recognized, but created by an artist she truly revered?
Yes truly, a sign of God’s favor this night.
Smiling her understanding of the young man’s question, without a word the Baronessa nodded, and then waved that he should accompany her still further down the hall. Effortlessly interlacing her arm in his, the elegant pair traversed the mezzanine until she stopped before a painting of near photographic realism. The image was of a forest, thick and overgrown though a muddy dirt path wound through it. The silence and stillness were near palpable features of this scene, the water in the puddles without ripple or disturbance in this dense, almost primeval growth. Yes, man had been here, had even had the temerity to build himself a road through this place. And yet one could not escape the feeling that his presence meant precious little to the true denizens of these woods: to the trees themselves.
And at the horizon where the dirt road seemed to meander into a place the viewer could not follow, the sky was lit with the haunting light, that brief moment in time where the heavens are painted a pale reddish orange glow, a gentle fire just before the sun rises to its fuller splendor, or dies to the night.
“Ivan Shishkin,” the Baronessa said, her eyes taking in the fullness of the scene with a soft, wistful sigh of some unnamed emotion, one she knew reached all the way to the wolf. “He is russkiy – Russian, yes? Is English word?”
Galina knew very well the name of this painting was “Twilight,” but this was a word the Baronessa certainly would not yet have in her repertoire. And even is she did, it was not as if this piece required a single word from her, to add to the understanding of the solemn dignity of this work.
Most certainly not by the idle chatter of an art-loving ingénue.
“I know this place,” she said softly, her words no more than a whisper under her breath as Galina’s thoughts traveled homeward, to the sound of horse hooves on hard-packed dirt, to the feel of powerful equine flesh beneath her and the company of her brothers-in-arms as they rode into the coolness of the night.
Wolves, of course, were not moved by such pleasantries. Not by the warmth of his smile nor the light of dawning understanding as – even in her halting English – Souma genuinely tried to see what that special quality was, that made the works of Monet and his Impressionist brethren of such significance.
Certainly not by the fact that he then asked the opinion of the Baronessa, concerning any pieces she favored, without the least attempt to impress her with his own knowledge or lofty opinions.
Moved? Touched? Psh… Such foolishness, best left to silly, moon-eyed girls who read far too many Jane Austen novels.
Still wearing the guise of the guileless, Galina’s gaze traveled along the length of the mezzanine, past the few other couples absorbed in their own conversations and ruminations, toward the true prize at the end of this hallway. That the entranceway leading to the third floor also stood quite near a painting she not only recognized, but created by an artist she truly revered?
Yes truly, a sign of God’s favor this night.
Smiling her understanding of the young man’s question, without a word the Baronessa nodded, and then waved that he should accompany her still further down the hall. Effortlessly interlacing her arm in his, the elegant pair traversed the mezzanine until she stopped before a painting of near photographic realism. The image was of a forest, thick and overgrown though a muddy dirt path wound through it. The silence and stillness were near palpable features of this scene, the water in the puddles without ripple or disturbance in this dense, almost primeval growth. Yes, man had been here, had even had the temerity to build himself a road through this place. And yet one could not escape the feeling that his presence meant precious little to the true denizens of these woods: to the trees themselves.
And at the horizon where the dirt road seemed to meander into a place the viewer could not follow, the sky was lit with the haunting light, that brief moment in time where the heavens are painted a pale reddish orange glow, a gentle fire just before the sun rises to its fuller splendor, or dies to the night.
“Ivan Shishkin,” the Baronessa said, her eyes taking in the fullness of the scene with a soft, wistful sigh of some unnamed emotion, one she knew reached all the way to the wolf. “He is russkiy – Russian, yes? Is English word?”
Galina knew very well the name of this painting was “Twilight,” but this was a word the Baronessa certainly would not yet have in her repertoire. And even is she did, it was not as if this piece required a single word from her, to add to the understanding of the solemn dignity of this work.
Most certainly not by the idle chatter of an art-loving ingénue.
“I know this place,” she said softly, her words no more than a whisper under her breath as Galina’s thoughts traveled homeward, to the sound of horse hooves on hard-packed dirt, to the feel of powerful equine flesh beneath her and the company of her brothers-in-arms as they rode into the coolness of the night.
Wonderful to see Hellis, that you had the chance to get a post in for Henry - despite your blown up computer :(
And that post Dot... Wow... Yes, I teared up, because 'such a sap.' I'm so glad you decided to have Daisy take Aislinn over in death. It was just beautiful, and between you and Heroes, you certainly did right by a fantastic character.
And that post Dot... Wow... Yes, I teared up, because 'such a sap.' I'm so glad you decided to have Daisy take Aislinn over in death. It was just beautiful, and between you and Heroes, you certainly did right by a fantastic character.
So excited to see that final product from you and Heroes, Dot!
And though I know it's early morning and most everyone's still a little *blerg* in all likelihood, from long work weeks and long school weeks? Well good morning to you all, and I hope the start of the weekend is going wonderfully for everyone!
And though I know it's early morning and most everyone's still a little *blerg* in all likelihood, from long work weeks and long school weeks? Well good morning to you all, and I hope the start of the weekend is going wonderfully for everyone!
"Udovol'stviye eto moye, Mr. Takahiro," she replied, the sweet music of her voice ringing with such sincerity, Galina would have been truly surprised were an English translation necessary to carry her meaning. There was an astonishing ease in walking alongside this Takahiro Souma, a grace she had not expected in the least from a crippled man.
Galina found herself in no hurry at all to be rid of his company, though she noted straight away that this second floor mezzanine gallery should be the perfect launching point to the third floor, given the proper moment. And when his eyes traveled over her shoulder, to the painting behind her, the young woman's brow furrowed curiously, a slightly bemused grin almost surprised to her lips, the mask of the gentle Baronessa slipping for a split-second. Ah, but she was the erstwhile student of art and architecture, was she not? Yes, of course she would know this artist very well, and the upstart movement that infuriated the traditionalists on the Continent.
"Claude Monet," she replied with a quite passable Parisian inflection, though the English that followed was as broken as ever for the poor Baronessa. Still her face brightened, animated with an undying love for the subject that a lack of vocabulary could not begin to dim.
"Is artist. Claude Monet. He is... Is... " She seemed to struggle for a moment though that wide smile never left her face, searching her thoughts so intently for the proper English word. "Is school of art. Call 'Impress... Ist' No! No, forgive. Please. Is 'Im. Press. Ion. Ist.'" The young woman pronounced the hard-fought word slowly, syllable by syllable, her melodic tones making a lilting song even of her broken English.
"Im.Pression.Ist. Not paint the... The lines. Forms. Oh no! They see... See different. Paint light." The Baronessa's fingers pointed to the painstakingly detailed brushstrokes that comprised the water lilies, and the reflective surfaces of the pond on which they floated.
"You see, Mr. Takahiro? Here." Galina's hand hovered over the canvas, outlining the edges of the low-hanging branches, the sky presumably above the water itself. "Is like... Painting of trees, in water! Light of sky. Painting made of lights!"
The young woman's triumphant grin hovered on her lips for only a moment though, before she blushed furiously once more, her dark eyes falling to the floor. "Forgive. Please," she said softly, so obviously, painfully abashed. "Papa say, talk much. You ask artist. Is Claude Monet."
As her eyes studied the graceful patterns of the Persian rug beneath her feet, fanciful vines twining through sprays of oriental lilies, Galina made a quick mental note of the single servant she had seen on this floor thus far, carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Ah, thank heaven for the facade of the demure, unpresuming Baronessa. There was never a lack of sweetly embarrassed moments to collect her thoughts, and reprise a calculation or two.
Galina found herself in no hurry at all to be rid of his company, though she noted straight away that this second floor mezzanine gallery should be the perfect launching point to the third floor, given the proper moment. And when his eyes traveled over her shoulder, to the painting behind her, the young woman's brow furrowed curiously, a slightly bemused grin almost surprised to her lips, the mask of the gentle Baronessa slipping for a split-second. Ah, but she was the erstwhile student of art and architecture, was she not? Yes, of course she would know this artist very well, and the upstart movement that infuriated the traditionalists on the Continent.
"Claude Monet," she replied with a quite passable Parisian inflection, though the English that followed was as broken as ever for the poor Baronessa. Still her face brightened, animated with an undying love for the subject that a lack of vocabulary could not begin to dim.
"Is artist. Claude Monet. He is... Is... " She seemed to struggle for a moment though that wide smile never left her face, searching her thoughts so intently for the proper English word. "Is school of art. Call 'Impress... Ist' No! No, forgive. Please. Is 'Im. Press. Ion. Ist.'" The young woman pronounced the hard-fought word slowly, syllable by syllable, her melodic tones making a lilting song even of her broken English.
"Im.Pression.Ist. Not paint the... The lines. Forms. Oh no! They see... See different. Paint light." The Baronessa's fingers pointed to the painstakingly detailed brushstrokes that comprised the water lilies, and the reflective surfaces of the pond on which they floated.
"You see, Mr. Takahiro? Here." Galina's hand hovered over the canvas, outlining the edges of the low-hanging branches, the sky presumably above the water itself. "Is like... Painting of trees, in water! Light of sky. Painting made of lights!"
The young woman's triumphant grin hovered on her lips for only a moment though, before she blushed furiously once more, her dark eyes falling to the floor. "Forgive. Please," she said softly, so obviously, painfully abashed. "Papa say, talk much. You ask artist. Is Claude Monet."
As her eyes studied the graceful patterns of the Persian rug beneath her feet, fanciful vines twining through sprays of oriental lilies, Galina made a quick mental note of the single servant she had seen on this floor thus far, carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Ah, thank heaven for the facade of the demure, unpresuming Baronessa. There was never a lack of sweetly embarrassed moments to collect her thoughts, and reprise a calculation or two.
In a blur Siya had been through the shade gates after the white wolf; and the look in Thad's eyes, the cant of his frown said he had nothing to tell her regarding the whereabouts of the Reaper. But Veti needed no explanation at all for Reginald Hoyle as the elder werewolf's desolate howl chilled her, an icy spear of despair racing up her spine, setting her hair on end and her teeth on edge, his agony echoing in her skull.
The ceaseless explosions overhead continued to reverberate through the ancient stones, the keep shuddering all about them. She slipped from her lover's arms, a wordless understanding passing between them as Bain shouted for the group to head through the shade gate; to retrieve a tooth - stolen from the slain Aislinn, it must have been - and end the threat of Ragnarök.
Swiftly Veti reached to cradle Thad's face with her hand, fingertips and thumbs gently tracing the golden lines of cheek and and jaw and lips, just as she had when she once searched Max's visage. "I love you," she whispered, and with a soft kiss promised she would follow right after through the shade gate, after her lover and Atticus and all their team. She simply needed this moment here.
In the seconds she turned from Thad as he moved through the Shade Gate, the crimson wolf came over the woman once more as she dropped to her knees, falling beside the old werewolf where he lay. With only a single beseeching glance to the ancient vampire beside him, begging for just a moment's more patience, Veti gently, so lovingly, collected Reginald in her arms from the floor. The searing pain that lanced through her chest mattered for nothing, not a single damn thing. It would never match the torment the venerable werewolf suffered now, she knew.
All too well.
She said not a word, her embrace not asking a single thing of a grieving brother riven by the murder of the only family he had left in this world. One arm wrapped about Reginald's thick chest, the other about his shoulder, his whole body still shuddering with sobs. Veti's ebony-clawed hand cradled the back of his great head as she squeezed her eyes shut, whimpering softly as she laid her maw against his.
But tear-rimmed amber eyes snapped open when Reginald's strong arms wrapped around her, returning her embrace and pulling her close, so tightly. Her ear flicked forward as she felt his maw rise against the shorthairs of her head, the elder wolf's hot breath warming her tender flesh as he spoke.
The old wolf's voice was thick with heartache and tears, guttural and rough but somehow still steady. "I cannot follow, Victoria. Not now. Not like this." He pulled back from her, just enough to meet the crimson wolf's gaze with his own. The weight of all his long years, his monstrous grief, seemed etched into the depths of his amber eyes.
"You will find him, the one who did this to... To her. To Aislinn." Veti thought for one brief instant his voice might crack, speaking that beloved name here by her lifeless body. But the last of the Teachglach Mac Tíre, the most powerful werewolf left in this world, would not be broken. He reached for Veti's head with both his clawed hands, a ferocity blazing across his face the likes of which she had never seen - could have never imagined - of Reginald Hoyle before this moment.
"And when you do, you will exact every ounce of vengeance her name deserves."
This was no request.
"It will be done," she growled. There was nothing more she needed to say, no more promise or oath to be made that those four words did not swear, before the only werewolf in this world she would follow through the very gates of Hell. Veti 's eyes closed as she leaned to rest her head against his for just a moment longer, and then stood to her feet, turning to sprint through the shade gate.
**********
Ardgroom.
Veti almost reeled backward in shock. There was no gathering of werewolves here now, no bonfire. Only her friends, her loved ones and teammates - and it seemed this ancient stone circle was fated to be the beginning and end of this day.
The ceaseless explosions overhead continued to reverberate through the ancient stones, the keep shuddering all about them. She slipped from her lover's arms, a wordless understanding passing between them as Bain shouted for the group to head through the shade gate; to retrieve a tooth - stolen from the slain Aislinn, it must have been - and end the threat of Ragnarök.
Swiftly Veti reached to cradle Thad's face with her hand, fingertips and thumbs gently tracing the golden lines of cheek and and jaw and lips, just as she had when she once searched Max's visage. "I love you," she whispered, and with a soft kiss promised she would follow right after through the shade gate, after her lover and Atticus and all their team. She simply needed this moment here.
In the seconds she turned from Thad as he moved through the Shade Gate, the crimson wolf came over the woman once more as she dropped to her knees, falling beside the old werewolf where he lay. With only a single beseeching glance to the ancient vampire beside him, begging for just a moment's more patience, Veti gently, so lovingly, collected Reginald in her arms from the floor. The searing pain that lanced through her chest mattered for nothing, not a single damn thing. It would never match the torment the venerable werewolf suffered now, she knew.
All too well.
She said not a word, her embrace not asking a single thing of a grieving brother riven by the murder of the only family he had left in this world. One arm wrapped about Reginald's thick chest, the other about his shoulder, his whole body still shuddering with sobs. Veti's ebony-clawed hand cradled the back of his great head as she squeezed her eyes shut, whimpering softly as she laid her maw against his.
But tear-rimmed amber eyes snapped open when Reginald's strong arms wrapped around her, returning her embrace and pulling her close, so tightly. Her ear flicked forward as she felt his maw rise against the shorthairs of her head, the elder wolf's hot breath warming her tender flesh as he spoke.
The old wolf's voice was thick with heartache and tears, guttural and rough but somehow still steady. "I cannot follow, Victoria. Not now. Not like this." He pulled back from her, just enough to meet the crimson wolf's gaze with his own. The weight of all his long years, his monstrous grief, seemed etched into the depths of his amber eyes.
"You will find him, the one who did this to... To her. To Aislinn." Veti thought for one brief instant his voice might crack, speaking that beloved name here by her lifeless body. But the last of the Teachglach Mac Tíre, the most powerful werewolf left in this world, would not be broken. He reached for Veti's head with both his clawed hands, a ferocity blazing across his face the likes of which she had never seen - could have never imagined - of Reginald Hoyle before this moment.
"And when you do, you will exact every ounce of vengeance her name deserves."
This was no request.
"It will be done," she growled. There was nothing more she needed to say, no more promise or oath to be made that those four words did not swear, before the only werewolf in this world she would follow through the very gates of Hell. Veti 's eyes closed as she leaned to rest her head against his for just a moment longer, and then stood to her feet, turning to sprint through the shade gate.
Ardgroom.
Veti almost reeled backward in shock. There was no gathering of werewolves here now, no bonfire. Only her friends, her loved ones and teammates - and it seemed this ancient stone circle was fated to be the beginning and end of this day.
As a matter of fact, that would be a yes - but first I'm going to send it to you in a PM, if you'll be up for a moment longer? ;)
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