ikissdhimbck | OOM sorta -- Outside, a late-night chance encounter

Entry tags:

OOM sorta -- Outside, a late-night chance encounter

It's dark by the time Kate finishes with her evening chores in the stables. The 'time of year' -- or however time works here -- plus a cloud cover that threatens snow above, nudges the darkness deeper despite the fairly early hour.

She coos her goodbyes to Beaut, and then leaves the stables, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her long coat and hunkering against the cold. She makes her way up along the path, boots crunching in uncovered gravel and days-old snow.

The atmosphere tonight strikes her as strange, and frankly she's just ready to get back inside where it's light and warm and crowded.

.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It is one thing to meet a woman on a busy street in London, and find a way to insinuate yourself into her company. It is quite another to insinuate yourself into the company of a woman on a quiet path in the winter woods. It takes genuine skill to make such a meeting seem a chance of fate.

The shadows shift and curl around her and when she lifts a hand from her pocket to brush a strand of hair from her eyes, he acquires just what he needs.

"Mademoiselle? Excuse me, I'm sorry. Did you -- drop these?"

The man in the grey suit and tophat has knelt in the muddy path and is holding her gloves.

It seems much darker than it should be, all of a sudden. Usually she can count on some sort of light, be it from the stables or the forge, or the bar ahead, but tonight as she walks there's nothing but shadow.

She lifts her hand to her face, listening to the rush of wind through leaves and branch and brush, and when he speaks it startles her so much that she jumps.

She turns to him, heart racing. When did he get so close without her noticing?

"...Oh," she blinks, focusing on her gloves. "Yes, thank you, I must have... they must've slipped from my pockets somehow."

She steps up to him with a gentle smile on her face, reaching to reclaim her gloves.

He holds them up to her, looking up into her face. She is even more radiant in person. He cannot help but gaze upon her, and remember what it felt like to feel the sun on his skin.

Her voice seems to startle him out of his reverie.

"Gloves are errant creatures, by their very nature."

He offers them up to her between two hands, as if she is a queen worthy of such deference.

"I confess, I am pleased they saw fit to misbehave where I might benefit from the -- small misfortune."

Her hand pauses, outstretched between their bodies, and it could just be a trick of the eye, or her cheeks, already reddened from the cold, grow faintly pinker.

Her smile shifts to her eyes, and she laughs like a meadow lark.

"You have grace in your tongue," she remarks, carefully taking the proffered gloves. "Are you a poet, sir?"

He touches the brim of his hat briefly before rising, somehow managing to capture her hand before it hides in her pocket again.

He brings it up as he bends over her fingers, his breath feathering against her knuckles.

"I am but -- a simple man. And entirely, hopelessly, at your service."

"I'm not sure what I've done t'merit the honor," she says, still smiling.

(Still blushing.)

"But I am thankful t'you. These are my favorite gloves."

Her skin warms under his lips.

He withdraws but a bit, letting her fingers rest upon his palm, still intently holding her gaze over the top of his dark glasses.

"The honour is entirely mine, mademoiselle."

He dips his chin, briefly in reverence, and his tone grows broad for a moment.

"I am Vlad Tepesh, Prince of Wallachia, bearer of the Order of the Dragon, and your humble servant." The last is spoken in a softer, more intimate voice.

She listens with rapt fascination -- she hasn't met many bona fide princes.

"Mr. Tepesh," she murmurs with a polite bow of her head, halfway into a curtsy before she even realizes it.

She blinks hard, shaking her head slightly.

"You may call me Kate. Kate Barlow, simply. I'm afraid I have no fancy titles t'match yours," she chuckles.

"Kate."

He covers her fingers with his own, stepping in a bit closer, drawing her into the lee of his body, into the shadow of his warmth.

"If we are to use our given names, then please -- call me Vlad."

She trembles under his touch.

It's only after a short pause, when his body is closer to hers than propriety would strictly allow for, that she finally tears her eyes from his. She looks down shyly, searching for her voice.

"If you insist, Your Highness."

Beat.

"Are you...you new t'the bar? I don't recall seein' your face before."

His lips twitch into a reserved smile, his head dropping to one side, observing the colour flowing into her cheeks. Life...

"Yes, I suppose that I am. Solstice granted me a boon."

He turns just a little, offering her his arm.

"Walk with me?"

She debates the gesture for a quiet moment, eyes fluttering up the path to the bar before returning to his arm. But he is new, after all, and quite polite, and Kate would hate to offend...

She takes his arm, and gives him yet another small smile.

"A boon, I'd say, for us all," she compliments, before pausing to correct herself. "What I mean t'say is... welcome t'Milliways. I know it can be awful strange at first, but we don't bite."

His laugh is quiet, rich and low, originating deep in his chest and washing over her like dark chocolate.

"You are the first -- to bid me such. Thank you."

An invitation is an invitation, it seems, no matter how offhand the manner in which it is offered.

He sets a slow pace, ostensibly to make the walk back to the bar last as long as possible. (And in dreams, such paths as these can take days to walk.) He speaks in a measured tone, with measured words, pronouncing his words carefully.

"So tell me, my dear, how it is that a lady such as yourself comes to be here at this hour and unescorted?"

She chuckles quietly when he laughs, finding the sound to be quite infectious.

"I fear I ain't much of a lady these days," she says. "Not a proper one, at least. I work here, in the stables, and rarely have myself an escort."

Another small gust of wind causes her loose, blonde hair to whip around her face before she tames it back again.

"You are one of the few here I've met who sounds t'be closer to my time. Is Wallachia on Earth?"

He blinks rapidly for a moment, pursing his lips as he thinks. His free hand comes up, gesturing as if he could still the wind.

The wind, strangely enough, obliges him.

His hand returns to cover her own. "Have you heard of the Danube River, Kate? Strauss wrote a waltz about it, I believe."

She watches, transfixed, as the air seems to still on command, lips parted in question. But, before she can voice a word, his hand tenderly returns to her own, drawing all of her focus with it.

"Yes," she murmurs, swallowing to wet her suddenly dry throat. "It was one of my father's favorite pieces. 'The devil take the waltz, my only regret is for the coda...'"

She smiles, quoting Strauss' alleged reaction to the premier performance of the piece. Her father found humor in the account, and would sometimes mutter the words after practicing his violin.

"Ah, very good. Well. My home is deep in the Carpathian mountains, overlooking a river. A river that runs down to the Danube before it turns towards the sea. It was the last line of defence against the Turk. The last -- frontier of Europe, if you will allow me the indulgence."

He leans in close to speak, as if he's sharing his innermost secrets with her.

She breathes a soft, nervous laugh, tipping her head away from him demurely.

"I know a thing or two 'bout frontiers," she says. "Out in the wildernesses of Texas, though, granted it's not quite so wild as it once was, since the Indian wars.

"Your lands sound so much more intriguing."

"Texas? Really? Mountains and desert plains both, then. I have only read about the New World, I have never been there."

He gives a contented little sigh as they walk.

"As it is, I have only just conceded to make London my home. The dawning of a new century is upon us, and I cannot afford to let it slip through -- my fingers."

"It is the only home I've ever known," she says, finding it easy to slip into a more refined diction in his presence. Perhaps it's due to his title, or the intoxicating thrum of his own soft accent, but her breeding isn't so far behind her. "You feel so honestly... alive, out on those desert plains with nothing but dust and sky for as far as the eye can see. Nothing to hold you back."

Freedom.

She smiles wistfully.

"Who watches over Wallachia in your absence? Do you have family, to take the throne?"

She is intoxicating, and he can't help but be drawn in.

"My kingdom is well attended, fear not, my dear lady. And it was the only home I had ever known -- the wildness of its forests and towering mountains, the savage beauty of its storms. It pains me deeply to leave it behind."

Again he gently squeezes her hand and leans closer.

"So much so that I brought a bit of it with me, that I might never forget the land that holds the bones of my ancestors."

Again, she feels herself tremble under the weight of his gaze, the penetrating depth of his eyes such a stark contrast to the gentleness of his touch and the subtle closeness of his body.

"What is that?"

He pauses at that tiny shiver and turns to face her. His free hand brushes that same errant strand of hair back, and tucks it behind her ear.

"Just a bit of earth. It might seem a strange superstition to one such as yourself, perhaps. But I carry it with me whenever I must travel. It soothes my dreams and -- eases my sleep."

"Oh."

Another hard swallow, and when his gloved hand brushes the chilled cuff of her ear her emotions war amongst themselves over whether she should back away from him and his subtle advances.

"S'not strange," she murmurs, shaking her head gently. "I know what it's like. Homesickness. Being away from Texas is hard on my soul."

She doesn't end up moving an inch.

"But here -- the bar -- has been like a second home to me. Perhaps you'll grow to feel the same way, if you decide to keep comin' back."

In the end, he is the one that creates distance again, a small and utterly proper smile on his lips.

"I haven't decided yet," he confesses, taking up their ambling pace again, as if there was nothing at all unusual about this late night encounter. "The mountains here are lovely though. And the moonlight on the snow does remind me of home."

He is quiet for a moment, before he continues, his tone a bit wistful.

"I suppose you've made friends here. You seem to me to be the lantern around which all the fireflies gather."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject