The sound of falling water...
From gutters to gardens, from roof to rain guides. Winter has arrived hard upon the heels of autumn. It is the Irish Sea and the great Atlantic that drips from the tips of the hardy ivy. Seas contained in the bowls of fountains that, until the spring, shall run no more.
So it has been more days than not. By night, the rain turns to mist -- the sun no longer risen to bring its wind, and with the wind, the showers...
For several of the nights it has been... perfectly clear. The stars showing themselves unhindered by city lights and street lights. Uncovered, with only the occasional stretch of grey across the sky...
You could see the winter growth in the gardens, the grass interminably green, the ferns, the ivy. The paths of stone, in patterns of Celtic knots. Stepping stones of dragons here and there. You have noticed the motif, perhaps. Here and there. There are elements of it...everywhere...
The sound of falling water...
The end of a shower. Warmth lingered on the skin, and from it... for just a moment... there was a rise of steam...
Time has gotten away from him...
He looked up and it was near Yule and the year was at his heels, almost spent. Last year, this time, he had been with Edward and William, toasting the death of Blancheflor in a castle's catacombs. This year...
Davydd stands in his the center of his chamber, towel around his waist, his clothes within hand's reach but may as well be miles away. His skin is bright and bold with vibrant blue, and with every motion, the dragons move...
It has been a joyous time.
Whoever would have thought that I'd be here? Walking the halls of an old Manor, spending my time with a Prince.
And so Sandrine Jorgenson walks through Powys, pondering what a Welsh Yule means. Blue eyes flit to the decorations already in place, the familiar touches of the servants. But does it not need something new? A sigh.
A turn down another hallway.
And Davydd? What of him? What shall I get him for the holiday? I don't know what he likes. In fact, I know so little about him. I want to know more, but I don't know how.
Another hallway turned.
Does he have a family? I never asked. What if...I just inserted myself into something? Oh, he said there was no one else. But, I should not worry, really. We are not...so...well...it's not as if he is obligated to me, I guess.
At the next corner, the opening door, she sighs.
I guess I don't really know what's going on. Why is love such a hard word? He's said it. I haven't, not really. Maybe I'm the confused one in all of this. What a mess, Sandrine.
Correspondence on my desk. I really should write those letters. And -- where is Davydd? Maybe I should talk to him about all of this...
A dark season, the Welsh Yule. But pregnant with hope. The nights progressively deeper, culminating at Solstice, Yule itself. The longest night marks the birth of the coming spring. Other religions had saviours born on or about...
The sun dips behind the mountains early here, so early. There is so much of the evening to fill -- however you see fit. And the darker the weather, you may have noticed, the brighter the house has become. Decorated for the season -- not in silver and gold and baubles and beads as is the custom in some quarters -- but with the forest itself. Ivy. Holly. Mistletoe...
Mistletoe...
It is everywhere...crowning the holly, red and white berries mingling.
Even in the darkness, there is bounty. It is merely... a different kind...
The halls are softened by long runners of rugs, interrupting and protecting the wood beneath. The smells. Evergreen. Beautiful and hardy. Wild but gentle...
There are several servants that attend you. It is a small but steady crew, splitting half the day and half the night. And they can be heard, though they remain in public quarters, venturing down private halls only when called -- or when cleaning. Another hallway turned, and you are in the private apartments. The suites that are now your home...
The opening door...
To the chamber you share...
There is so much to tell her, Davydd. Where would you begin that story? It is a knot, like the ones on your arm, boyo. It cannot come at her direct. Unless you want her to run screaming for the lowlands. And for the Truth...
...the truth is, she's here. I told her I loved her. And she came anyway. When questions are asked...
Questions will be answered...
But to do it ...gently...
Green eyes, dark as forest that surrounds the manor, lower to chest and beyond. To the knots and dragons vibrantly living there. At biceps, at wrists. Over chest, over groin. On shoulders. Over back.
And how, boyo, are you going to be 'gentle' about that?
There is an exhale, and fingers give a gentle tug. The edges of the towel drape away, like layers falling away...
Fingers trickle over the letters. And what of Davydd? Sandrine's pale brows arch, and her lips part in a breezy sigh. What was I thinking when I went to him? So little, apparently. And he was as nice as I expected. As friendly and funny as I thought.
Nights passed as I imagined. We became friends, he a companion.
But he expects more. He wants more.
She moves across the room in blue, stopping at a mirror. Thin hand lifts to touch the pearls at her throat, baubles of cream.
What will you say, if he asks? If he tires of...this. When he asks whether you love him? What will be your answer? I don't know? I don't know how I feel, but I want to stay around you?
Such are the words of friendship. Is that what I expected when I went to him? To be his friend?
Inexperience. That's what Christian called it. Am I so unfamiliar with these things? Davydd knows so much more. To think...I am wasting his time.
Well, he has not tired of me yet. And I have to figure out how to feel, what I believe I feel. But I haven't felt it yet. Where is it? Others speak of passionate romance, and my idea of such things...is talking about flowers.
Hands cup her cheeks as Sandrine looks into the mirror.
You're red, Sandrine. And you speak to him about flowers and lemon trees and how hard it is to embroider on these new synthetic textiles.
Gah, Freya, I'm so embarrassed. All of the time. I know a man like him expects so much more...
One can only look at a mirror so long. Blue dress shimmers as Sandrine pivots away, moving to the inner door.
Where is Davydd? He'll know what to do or what to say...
Maybe a lie down would be better. I should think. Think about what I'm doing. How to ask him to be patient...maybe whatever it is people talk about will happen inside me. That I will feel love for him, desire for him in ways that isn't about textiles or gardens or sitting around watching stars.
That's it. A small rest in the room. And then I'll go find him and talk to him a little while...
I haven't a clue how to begin...
What to say when...
The words come easily, aye? When you don't mean them. The words are a flood, then -- I'd drown the world as surely as Jehovah. But as soon as meaning comes in...?
I shut up like a mute...or I talk in such a tangle that by the time I'm done, neither she nor I know what started it...
A mirror captures the motion and reflection of a slightly shaking head...the motion of dragons as he shrugs his shoulders in place at the thoughts...
You're a piece of work, Davydd ap Owain...
A pair of lounging pants find his hand...
And his eyes drift to his own reflection in the side mirror. A turn...
Were it any other woman, you'd be done with her now. Used up. Burned her crops. Stormed her gates. Were it any other woman, you'd be bored by now. You'd have been bored months ago...
But she walks in your garden. She talks so softly. Her smile is...
Her smile is Everything --
From the moment she stood from that Kensington sofa...
To the smell of her perfume on your pillow this morning...
She hasn't been like anything you'd ever known. You hang on her words of flowers. You look now for the magic she weaves -- more and more visible in Powys Castle by the night. A new tapestry here. A new gift there...
Life...your life, all life... were she not here, the world would be barren --
... It doesn't matter, boyo, what you do or what you say. Just so long as she...
...stays...
Whatever it means, however it comes...
The mirror captures a rush of blues, both dark and vibrant. Cobalt. Vivid. Illuminated on their own. Against shoulders. Biceps. Wrists. At back. Chest. groin. As Davydd turns, the mirror reflects the images at his legs, thighs, lastly the blue dragons coiled at the root of him. And his hands lift to his face. Breathe, Davydd...
And so, eyes closed, he does...
Her gasp would have been inaudible to the world. Nothing but a faint inhale, but piercingly sharp. With it, the sound of tapping heels coming to a halt. A blink of eyelashes that sound loudly in the world.
Freya...God...he's in here...
Sandrine's hands had left the door, lifted to reach idly for her pearls. Worry beads they are. But fingers do not make it. And like a mannequin, she stands, staring.
The stilling breath...
I missed the sound of her feet. Her heels. The carpets lied...
In the middle of talking to myself, I missed the perfume, the smell of her skin...
And now it comes in a flood...
Well, so much for breaking her in gently...
His hands slide away from high-cheekbones, from green eyes. A blink. And then the smile. Quick. Sudden. With a comet's care, it trails behind it illumination and warmth, from eyes to mouth, to the skin that warms in its complexion. Ruddy between the blue. "Good morning," he thinks to say, the smile widening a bit at that. Now, was that so hard...
Dark green glances to the blue you cannot miss, the form of the warrior that has been -- even for all your time together -- concealed. Now revealed...
Will she ...
Will she turn and run, afrighted. Skittish as a doe...
Or is this how the story is to begin...
"Um..." Sandrine re-animates, looking down, "I...I...can come back..."
"No," his voice is quiet, quick. And then again, softer, "...no... I'm glad you're here," his accent has thickened in the three weeks you and he have been here. The lilts and rolls over English. A swiftness and a lightness to it...
Davydd chuckles quietly -- as much to himself as to anything. Well, of course I'm glad you're here. Jesus, Davydd. The laughter ends in a smile and an exhale. "I don't turn eloquent until ten of the clock or three of the mead, whichever comes first." Green sparkles in a wink and he stands in front of you. A half turn and the pants are tossed away. Why bother, Llewelyn...
"Have you had a good night so far," a lean, a slow lean, and with closing eyes, a kiss is placed at your cheek. "I slept like a stone..."
A joke. You're always good for those. Sandrine smiles tentatively, her eyes somewhere between the carpet and below your knees.
"Sleep?" she starts, "Oh," kiss placed, "...I always sleep well here now, Davydd." Conversation made. Her lip reddens as she bites it, but quickly, she lets it go.
Blue eyes watch the colors at your legs. They move -- her brow furrows. Eyes move to your arms. There it's safe. But the picture's the same. Moving color upon your skin.
"What about you?" she blinks and looks up, realizing you are as close as you are. "You...are alright?" With the markings upon you?
With every muscle's motion, no matter how slight, they seem to shift. Celtic, the patterns of interlocking, eternal lines that become the interlocking forms of Celtic dragons. Cobalt. Blue royal. Deep and brilliant. Bright. Brighter than they should be...
They were written into his skin in the 12th Century...
But how clear and bright they are. Such detail. Such artistry.
"...Oh... I'm a bit blue..."
Green eyes widen at that and he grins.
Too bad Edward wasn't here for that one. Riot!
"...Sorry," Davydd whispers in quick apology, half-meaning it, "I couldn't help that one..." You're as nervous as I am... it's a relief...
A hand comes out and captures one of yours. He leads it to his chest. To a pattern of interlocking lines against musculature -- a four-cornered glyph, a dragon for each season, four seasons for every year, eternity. And the chest it rests against is broad -- formed by sword and bow, both -- and now you know why it never proved a soft cushion for your head, for he's as solid as stonehenge. "Close your eyes," he whispers, "and I'll tell you what it means..."
Gods...you feel like Metatir itself. Steel and wood. Unbreakable. Eternal. Forged by the gods.
As you hold her hand and begin a tale, Sandrine blinks. A thought of some sort. But your humor finds her eventually, and she smiles. "Okay," she whispers, standing perfectly still while looking at your eyes.
You do not close them, and it makes Davydd grin. A tilt of his mouth, a slant. Strong woman, she who I hope shall be the only one who understands. His right hand, the dragon encircling his strong wrist, massages your own, until your fingers are loose, pliant, and he directs your first finger to the design. Without looking -- green eyes locked, rather, to your blue -- he leads you along slowly.
Blue leaps at your fingertip. It is as if by this motion you were that artist then. The one who did this to him. "This was the first of them," he whispers. "A journey through four seasons. Solstice to Solstice," your finger strokes against the head of the dragon, upper left to lower right. Back up and through the interlocking nots, from lower left to upper right, "...and marking dark half and light half of the year, unending. Without end, all seasons are joined here, halves of the year are made whole," your hand is lifted from his chest and that very same finger kissed, a press of his mouth.
"Immortality..."
Davydd lowers your hand, but does not free it...
Immortality? That she does not see. Sandrine's eyes flicker, trying to grasp the symbol, seeing you as a part of it. But a dragon as immortality? Seasons? That is a bit more complex. But she does not speak on it, she nods. Perhaps there is understanding in hearing the rest.
The mouth slides a little, a starting slant, and his eyes brighten, there's a glimmer there for you. For the sudden bout of poetry. "That was a touch obtuse, aye?" he murmurs. "What I mean to say is... I... got them... as a gift. They were a gift," said as a note, a reminder. Though, he has been daily... nightly... reminded for nearly a thousand years.
And every gift has its cost, but it doesn't devalue the gift itself, does it?
Davydd leads your hand, to the bicep, hardy muscle. There is a matching set upon right arm and left, encircling. No twisting, interlocking lines in this, but Celtic dragons meet mouth to mouth, vibrant cobalt, with mouths open, claws are spirals and their forms curl upon themselves. "These were after my victory over Rhodri," and Rhodri's death. "A sign of kingship," Davydd looks to you as he rests your hand upon that muscle, his hand covering your hand.
And a similar mark coils around his wrists -- those were the first you saw...peeking beneath his sweater...
Warm...
His skin is warm...
The colors almost seem to swirl at your fingertips. They are... as vibrant as if they were newly made...
Green eyes rest upon you. He is silent a moment. He waits to see how you absorb it. His gaze drifts to your hand.
The feel of your hand...
His thumb cannot be still. It draws light circles on your skin. And there is an opening radiance...
You make me want...
You make me want to do so much...
Just let me look at you... say you'll let me look at you and hold your hand. If it will not be more than that for a while, it will be enough...
No matter how much more you make me want...
Her fingers are first. A brush of air, settling onto skin. "A gift?" Sandrine wonders, fingertips drawing along the dragons' twin forms. "Who was Rhodri?" As you ease her further, so goes her dress at your legs. A swash of blue. "I know...of markings, but these are..." her blue eyes look to yours, "...this is not of an artisan, is it, Davydd?" Now comes worry. What has someone done?
A gift...
They come in many guises, Sandrinaar. Even dark ones, like that which was given you. And me.
Green eyes lift to yours. "No," he says, "... not an artisan. A great artisan," fiery eyebrows raise a touch. To think on it. I have not thought on it much. Not in the last four hundred years.
"When I was mortal, and was struggling to gain and then keep my nation, I ..." His jaw sets and brows knit together...
I have never told anyone, Sandrinaar...
"...had these... falling spells..." Davydd looks to you again, one eyebrow cocking up a bit higher than its partner. "Like... Caesar in the stories. And I... would wake up... I don't know, some... three days later and be marked," like this. "And I was victorious in the wars against my brothers Hywel first and then Rhodri...until I was... Prince of Wales. An independent ... Cymru..."
Davydd sighs and the smile returns, twisting wry. "Am I making any sense? Christ, I'm babbling like a ten year old ..."
Sandrine's brow flattens, her lips parting to hear you speak. Breathing.
I should ask who did this, but perhaps you do not know. I should ask of wars between you and your brothers, but now seems not the time. I should ask more, but in the end, it does not matter. I see that now.
Her hands wander to your shoulder of their own volition. Less afraid. Eyes wander now, left and right, trying to understand the markings without having to ask. It was not simply some title you have, Davydd. You are a Prince. And made so by hand of Fate.
She smiles, a wry, slanted affair. "You're not babbling," she whispers. Fingers come to rest at your collarbone. There come her eyes. "I will remember Hywel," more like Hee-will, "...and Rhodri," the r rolled harshly after the d. "And think of them here," finger to one dragon, "...and here," tip to another. Both made a part of you. Not vanquished, but subsumed into their brother.
"And I will remember Davydd," Sandrine finishes, eyes at you again. The Davydd of then, the one of fainting spells. That is the man she wishes to know, as much as the one of this age. That man...she may begin firstly to understand.
I know now. It hasn't always been that way...
I was frightened when it first happened. I thought I was stake-bound. I would go down in flames, the ones on my own pyre. But the fear did not last...
Fortune began to follow and ... who was I to question it? Were there not stories in a multitude of such things happening. To ancestors. To kings...
"Hywel was a greedy bugger," comes the murmur. "And Rhodri would have sold my body in pieces for the same honor. But..." The smile is spreading warmth, "...they were my brothers. And we ruled as one in me, as we could never have done had they lived..."
Such was the way of things then...
As you touch his collarbone, his smile deepens. Softens. "I will tell you ... anything you wish to know. I want to tell you... everything..."
And I want to kiss you. I want to take you to that bed...
I will settle for the kiss...
His hand lifts. A touch to your cheek. A lean...
He swallowed them, like older warriors ate of the hearts of the vanquished. There is no guilt for brother's slaying. They would have done the same. But they were not chosen...
Your lean is not shied away from. Sandrine simply closes her eyes, recalling such times when things as this were commonplace. When brothers fought, and the victor was the one chosen. When it was an honor to be the woman of a Prince.
"Tell me everything," Sandrine asks. "About you." How it was. How you earned your birthright. How you were and how you are now. How it will be, between us.
And all this time, I've forgotten that I'm naked. It dawns on me as the brush against your lips that follows, "I will," parts, lips captured. Fingers to your cheek lightly resting on your hair. I can't help it. The spark travels like lightning. The hair on the back of my neck stands and...
I'm absolutely free-form, aren't I...
Davydd leans back a little and green eyes sparkle. The comet of a smile trailing across his mouth. "I will, and... I'll grab my trousers, perhaps," he whispers.
And he's gone a bit red along with being a bit blue. Look down, and you'll know why. On second thought, don't look down. I'd feel bad if you fainted...
"Only if you want," Sandrine grins, seeming more comfortable now. "But you are in your own home, in your own room," she notes. "I guess...I am the one who should get used to things, hmm?"
The laughter comes from the gut and from the chest, rich, though not loud. And the hand that had touched your cheek, your hair, musses his own. Shorn short, the copper curls are tamed. There's not much to muss, really. Get used to things, hmm?
Well, that's a way to put it. Probably pretty damn accurate as well...
"Alright," Davydd murmurs, head tipping back. A brush of his mouth to your forehead. "Come in then." His words are a breath to your skin, and he doesn't step out of your hold, but rather draws you to him...
You cannot miss it, Sandrinaar. What you do to me. The golden light. The dragon risen from his sleep...
Alright, that was crass. But... again... accurate...
And he turns, bringing you in further. And the door is closed with a push of his fingertips. "From the beginning," he lilts, "I was born Dafydd," there's a slight change to the pronunciation, the 'v' is softer, "...ap Owain of Gwynedd, the youngest son of the great Prince of Gwynedd and Powys...in the year 1155 AD..."
Okay, maybe she wasn't that comfortable. Yet Sandrine closes the space between you, careful to keep some faint distance. She smirks as you begin, knowing you must realize her discretion.
"Dafydd," she takes care in pronouncing. "Dafydd," a brow lifts, "...shall we stand for this saga?" the last word taking on real Scandinavian meaning.
Too late now... you've invited him to be crass. There's no stopping him now...
"No, cariad," the Welsh you've heard before: dear. Love. "...I am thinking the bed..." Copper brows lift. Seeking your agreement. You've slept together before. Chaste. Shared space. Woke to be in his arms. It happens more often than it does not. He shares your space. You share his. He does not like to sleep alone...
Slow the pace toward the bed, to spare you... and your discretion. "Now," Davydd begins again, his voice soft and smooth, "...the family was close. Mother, father, brothers, sister. I remember growing up with horses, learning, music, a cook who was a second mother to me..." He shakes his head. Nothing remarkable. Gloriously normal.
"But in my fifteenth year, the great prince died..."
And the bed approaches...
"...leaving his land divided among his three sons as was Welsh custom and Welsh law..."
"And you were Cordelia?" Sandrine asks in teasing way. How much it sounds like King Lear. Her skirt flares as she walks, bobbing forwards and backwards. "Ah, sorry, Dafydd," she tries, "...I should not tease about a father dying and leaving his sons. I am sure you missed him."
"But," Sandrine spins, half-facing you as the bed comes near, "...you had a happy family? Well, as much as families used to be?"
"In Twelfth Century terms, aye," he has to laugh. "I knew my father loved me, that's more than I can say for other chaps I know of the same age. But you know... a father's love and a king's love... these can be different things..."
Cordelia...
Riot!
Eyes spark, green glinting and Davydd winks. "Aye well," he stops at the bed's side, arms around your waist draping, "It was what it was. The year has a Dark half and a Light half. Life is no different," he murmurs. "So, I was five-and-ten and in possession of northmost Gwynedd. My brother Hywel, my closest neighbor. My brother Rhodri in Powys. I knew that the day would come when I would have to fight them both. And... upon my father's passing... that's when the...falling spells started..."
"Would you like a drink, by the way?" Good lord, how about being polite, Davydd? Some naked gentleman you are...
"No, thanks," Sandrine grins, hair glinting as she lowers from your field of view, coming to sit on the bed. Hand pats beside her as she looks up, expecting to hear the rest of the tale.
And avoiding the obvious.
"A warring prince at fifteen," she grins. "Your people must have been very proud of you..." putting it into terms she knows. "And then you warred...and you were the victor?" Already she is moving across the bed, hopping and scooting in the same motion. Making space for you. Hand reaches up to pull back the linens on your side of the bed.
I should have grabbed my trousers...
There's a glance past a broad and blue shoulder to where his trouser's lie, just off the foot of the bed. Eyes drop to the linen and fiery eyebrows lift. Ah well...
"My father... he was a great prince. He fought Henry II..." The bed sounds with his added weight, his readjustment. His easing beneath linen, most soft, and with his roll. Elbow to the pillow, his head rests propped against the heel of his hand. "... most of my youth... until Henry grew bored," he snorts, and his son ... well, let us say that the Anjou pear didn't fall far from the tree, aye? "... and so... it was something, war... that was ..." Davydd pauses, eyes lifting, "... it came natural to me. But, oh... aye... fifteen, I was still green." He laughs, eyes winking, "... in every way. And my brother Rhodri... I think he thought he could take me in a few years. He didn't have the heart to ... kill me then." His eyes focus on your dress. The blue. Such flowing garments, Sandrine...
So... hmmm... where was I?
Dark green, fields and forests of Cymru. They lift to you with the lifting of his gaze, "So... I fought four years... spring, summer and fall... in league with Rhodri against Hywel. It seemed as if I would be fighting forever, and every winter we would retire to our keeps and women, tend to the lambing and the leaky rooves. I think the first time I ... fell... was in that last winter. That would be," green eyes narrow with the math, "... 1174. I fell when I was hunting, right off my horse. The woman who tended me told me I came riding up to the keep with a fever. I didn't remember any of it. I woke with this," a finger taps to the dragon on his chest.
"By the first of spring, I had defeated my brother Hywel, in possession of his land and married to the daughter of a Spanish count..."
Have you seen her so rapt before? Sandrine's blue eyes never leave you as you tell the tale, meeting yours and occasionally glancing to the matching story upon your chest. And why not? The magical tale of a son of a chieftan, and how he came into his own...
"Henry, the second?" Sandrine blinks. Such a time ago. Eyes lift to calculate. "This was...twelfth century?" She's never been the best with history. A smile peels at her lips. She had not realized the type of man she has found herself with.
"I can imagine that you spent much time in battle," she nods, coming repeatedly to that point. "But you survived. It is amazing," Sandrine turns upon her side as well, pushing off her pumps with a twist and drop, "...that your brother, Rhodri," liking the name, "...did not do away with you when he could." That's how it would have been at home. Aye, there's the connection, Davydd.
"My brothers fought, but in later times, it was not such as that," she explains. But enough of that. The fascinated grin returns, and she waves off her own experiences. "The falling, though...you were hunting, with others? They did not see you fall? Were you missing?" That confuses her.
"I used to go into the forest to think." He pauses, he grins. "This forest, but northwest of here... and I would watch the sun set over the water, looking at how wide the world was. At the end of the water line at the horizon, the priests said the world ended. We island people...we knew the sea was only the beginning. So... I went alone. I thought... I would maybe get a late hart. But... I felt a little dizzy. And... that's all I remember..."
He tucks the linen in around himself. Though only linen separates you from the whole of him, you won't feel him there... unless you want to. "Aye... 12th Century," his voice is faint. You would hear it, no matter. But to the rest of the world it might not have even been a whisper. Eyes drift to your feet, then snap back up to your face, your eyes. Davydd lies back, one arm to the bed, extended. Join me here?
"Your brothers... you will tell me of them, aye? I want to know. I want to hear the story of Sandrinaar," he drops into the old form of your name. Had you told him? No, but Christian...
"I was missing for three days. They thought me dead, but on the third evening I rode up to the Keep, wrapped in cloak and furs and seeming asleep. I was... an oddity. Probably even a fear," he lilts, "until spring brought victory and summer brought the news of a future heir. Funny, aye?" copper eyebrows cock up, "...the things we gloss over when we taste a little peace and prosperity."
A hand comes out to find you, "I spent my life in battle, aye," Davydd says softly. "And Rhodri and I... we had our days. He had a fond heart. It cost him in the end. But we fought for years, when we weren't protecting our borders from the Irish and the Normans. Until Henry sent his youngest son..."
"By then," he adds after a moment, "I was used to falling. And marked over the years with this," his wrists, "...and this," his biceps, "...and this..." his shoulders. To each, he looked. To each, he gestured. "It was... 1182... when Henry sent his son to ... make peace in Wales on his behalf."
She moves as you suggest, feet bare now. There is a half-pause as you use her old name, but since you move on the tale, Sandrine interrupts not. "And you were stronger with each mark," she says assuredly. That is how any tale should go. "And you fought for Wales," Sandrine observes, pride there. "Enough for a king to send a son to make peace. You were strong," clearly so.
And the youngest son of the king registers not. What is a youngest son? "And you made peace with Henry then? You were made a Prince? Or were you a prince already?"
"I was a prince already," he murmurs, an exhale with a sound upon it as you move in. And I hear myself speaking, telling this tale -- I am listening too, Sandrine -- my mouth moves and the tongue wags and the story is out. And I am as rapt as you are. Not because it's some grand tale, love. But... it's just that I'm telling it. It sounds... so different... when it's actually spoken simply without... the need or the pretense of cloaking. "Prince in the old way... the Roman word 'princeps'. And, aye," Davydd grins, turning his head, a kiss upon your forehead, "... I was stronger. Not unbeatable. But... I could do more. Take more. Ride farther. Harder. And I wasn't once wounded by Rhodri or his captains once the dragons were at my shoulders there."
But if you were to look closely at him, Sandrine... bare as he is to you beneath the mere covering of a few layers of linen... you would see scars. A veteran's body...
"There was no making peace with Henry. He was not interested in peace. He wanted land. And he thought by sending in one of his sons he could pick Wales clean over the warring bodies of her own children. And I laughed when I heard he was sending his whelp William Plantagenet, the Duke of Normandy to me. I said to my captains, he's trying to get rid of one of his sons to eliminate one enemy, for it was true, all his sons were fighting him then. Henry the Young in France, Richard the Lionheart, Geoffrey of Brittainy, John Lackland making smooth with northern barons. And I told them... we would make Henry regret that he sent the Lamb to do a Lionheart's job, to make a deal with the Dragon of Gwynedd..."
"I got... the mark upon my back the night I heard the news that William Plantagenet was crossing the Welsh marches."
Sandrine's eyes narrow, her brow furrowed. "William Plantagenet was his son?" No, she had not understood this. "He was..." kindred? Like you and I? She did not know that vampires would meddle so...
"But you survived that too, Davydd," Sandrine's head bobs, half-asking. "So..." she wonders on how this story continues.
Green eyes hold to you for a long while, drifting to the side slightly as he recalls. It's been a long time, William, since I have thought of that time when we were enemies. "Aye... the very one. He was not ... immortal yet. That would not come for nine more years. He was a count and a Duke in France, and the only loyal son of Henry's legitimate offspring at the time. Who could know that then. What it was to me was less than I deserved. I wanted Lionheart. He who had been born the same year I was. I was going to make Henry regret the slight by showing this William how it was done on the island. He... had never even been to England before that..."
"...When I saw him...William... for the first time, he looked like... goddamned Jupiter. The rain didn't soak him, the mud didn't cling to his white, Spanish horse. We met under... diplomatic banners, as if he... and England's king were about to do me some... colossal favor. He would keep the Welsh Marcher lords off my back, in return for some... collateral of land, which the March lords would likely take on their own anyway. And," Davydd grins, "the assurance that with a peaceful border in England, Henry would recognize my right to kingship of Gwynedd and Powys, and by that... king of all Wales. The Devil was asking me to sign the dotted line, promising to give me what I had fought for..."
You were so young then, William. You were eighteen. But no matter how green your face, your eyes, boyo, they were as old as Arthur's. I discounted you. You made me regret it...
"We fought," he skips ahead, "... for a year or two, I kept him at bay. Just enough, and just barely. But I did not win, and he did not lose. I could not fight him in open ground. We had to use the forests, the mountains, the rivers. The land... fought... as much as we...Me against William. William against Rhodri. Wales against England and Wales...against itself."
"There's a painting," Davydd suddenly says, his voice quiet and lilting, lifting where, in English, it shouldn't. "... of me and William sitting on a dead tree stump, an old moss covered oak, muddy and bloody and soaked with rain and sweat. He's looking out ahead. I'm looking up above me, as if waiting for the next drop to fall. It doesn't have a title," green eyes find you, "...but I call it Consequence..."
He breaks here for a moment, looking at you. Just... looking at you. And then...
"The second time he pushed the crown my way, I took it. In return, my brother was put in a high tower, his captains brought under my rein. My sister filled his bed and I was... Prince of Gwynedd and Powys, and by that... king of all Wales..."
The remainder of this version of the story causes Sandrine's lips to part. Such a story! With famous, nay infamous, people. Mortals to kindred in mortal actions. Is that how things are done?
"It is like a history book," Sandrine whispers, hair spilled across your arm. "Of princes and kings...and wars. And stories. So," she swallows, "...you did not make peace the first time, but you did the second time? And your brother lost a battle and your sister was wed to Henry's son?" Am I getting this correct?
Sandrine sighs, looking up as she half-rolls onto her back. So rarely has she heard tales as this. "Lands and horses and paintings," she murmurs, returning to her side to see you.
Ah. But this was so long ago. She smiles, halting herself, and sees the man beside her. "And then you...and Henry's son," because it is Henry in the books, "...were enemies and became kindred both?" Amazing coincidence...the sheer serendipity it all. "That's amazing, Davydd. All of it...as if you were...it is like hearing the story of Aeneas or...Thor..."
It sound more serendipitous than it played, but that's the beauty of History. It all becomes a kind of epic poem in the end. Thor. Arthur. Gwynedd. Normandy. "I think I come out more like Loki than Thor... but ..." he laughs, "... it is strange to ... tell the story. I didn't think of it that way then. I thought of it... as it was. A hard bargain, driven hard. I underestimated Henry's youngest son. I have not done so since. If William tells me, Davydd... I am going to do such-and-such, I ... know it will be so. The... world has always... seemed to bow for him that way. I do not understand it. But... it is his gift. Mine... are different." And blue.
"I took the offer the second time. Rhodri was defeated... for a time. I delivered my sister Catherine to Jupiter, and came away from it... though strong, feeling my thirty-three years. I didn't see Catherine after Monmouth. After four short years, she and her unborn child were slain. Henry was dead. William was off to Crusades with King Lionheart and all bets were off. William, whom I had come to respect as a rival, maybe even love as a brother for Catherine's sake, had died, it was reported, on Crusade, in a city on the coast called Arsuf..." Davydd's eyebrows open upward, eyes widening a touch, "... by that winter, my brothers' sons... Hywel's sons and Rhodri's sons were old enough to fight, my own sons -- the countess wife gave me two sons and two daughters amid all of that. If there's a miracle in any of it," Davydd laughs, "it was that I found time to do my marriage duty. Not bad though, aye? Four children from four visits?" Green sparkles, deepening, as he winks. "Aye well... they were getting old too. And I. I took a ride to the coast from my castle. And I fell for the last time. Waking up this time on the sandy beach, my groin all blue-ish and covered with dragons. It's... the one tattooing I'm glad I missed."
Riot!
She was with you, until the last part. But as you explain, Sandrine laughs, understanding how the last episode's loss was most fortunate. "So you...had a wife and children," she grins. "And it all continued." That is how it goes. A sigh comes again, a tale told well. Sandrine smiles at you for it, knowing you have weaved something grand.
"Kingdoms rise, join, and fall," Sandrine offers philosophically. Her hair? It still rests burnished flaxen against your arm. "The men and women involved follow suit. But you went on, even afterwards, your children taking up your charge." She supposes. "And the line of Henry? They went on as well," she recalls from history. "Well," a quirk, "...after a fashion. Though," Sandrine offers, "...it is sad of your sister." That part she remembers. "It happened a lot then...women and childbirth."
"Aye, so it did..."
He does not ruin the story with a murder. Better it is told, better it would have been, if she had died giving birth. It makes a better tale. Like Tristan being Mark's nephew instead of his son, to soothe the taboo of incest. It is the modern age's... insistence for graphic truth that makes it so... unhappy and unfulfilled. The truth, plain and graphic, was never meant to be swallowed whole, with both eyes open...
"Well, my family continued, but it was Rhodri's son Llewelyn Fawr," Llewelyn the Great, "... who carried on the family name. Until his own son Dafydd died childless. And then the story goes, as all Welsh stories do. With battles and with consequence. My line is still going. And aye, Henry's line went on. Henry's son John had a daughter... Joan... who married Llewelyn Fawr. What William and I started, continued after. Plantagenets and Llewelyns. Joined at the hip..."
And they both paid for it in the end. Too stubborn, too hot-headed, too proud...and the island was... just too small...
"I was ... embraced by Mithras of England in 1192," he whispers, his head turning, his eyes fixing on your flaxen hair. But maybe that is enough of the story for now...
"I never thought my story," Davydd says, eyes softening a touch, "... would have led up to this. I'm glad I did not know it," soft, he breathes those words solemnly, "The surprise in it is all the more sweet, all the more deep."
And then I roll my eyes...
"Listen to me," the dragon chides, a cluck of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "All filled up with poetry. The things my heart... and my love... make me say." The chiding is gone. Only the Truth is left behind. "Poetic, and maybe awkward rhyme though it may be, it is... true. It has been a long life, Sandrine, coming to this..."
Her smile does not leave. Ice blue eyes with a warm grin. Sandrine leans in, edging even closer. Her hand rests at your stomach. Touching. "I find...a warrior with the gift of poetry...beautiful." Indeed. With blue ritual markings, a sign of a God's blessing.
A cleaning blink, and Sandrine's lips are soon with yours, as if she should gain the same gifts from a touch. Or to twine with the dragons upon your body. Left arm pushes her upwards, and with one hand at your left, the other reaches for your right bicep. Simmering hair that once rested upon your arm now dangles above, hiding the kiss from the rest of the world.
"It..." she begins, London accent all but gone these nights, "...has been a long time, Prince Davydd, that..." a blush forms, supported by a strengthening of Sandrine's brow, "...I have been...with a man as you." You know this, yes?
The smile comes again, and Sandrine's eyes close, lashes brushing her cheeks as she kisses you once again.
The hand to my stomach...
The world becomes clear. Night...becomes day...
Winter, Summer...
... even if it is only your hair...
Davydd sinks in the linen, no sound but his breath -- and yes, he breathes -- and his pulse -- yes, there is a heartbeat -- and the sound of the bed. Your mouth finds his own, parting. A welcome. His hand lifts, and dragons disappear in the flax.
Fingertips at the nape of your neck and at your scalp. Their touch is gentle, and strength lies just beneath it. Metatir you thought him...
With a body of oak...
Did you know that I could become a tree...
A bridge over a river...
The ring around your finger...
Davydd smiles into the kiss, parting it to suckle at your mouth, to speak. He whispers, "It has been a long time ... in fact, never... that I have been called ...beautiful." His voice rumbles, like a chuckle but never transforming fully into a laugh. Something between chuckle and moan, aye. "So," green eyes sparkle, "...we're even..."
No cause for nervousness here...
Here... you are safe...
And his left hand finds your waist and he holds you to him. And the kiss, though slow, widens. Hand in your hair, gently slides. Hand at your waist begins a coil. There is no rush, no. No throwing himself madly in. No Thirty-Minuter, the infamous nickname he has among Some in The City. And it wasn't for his flying nights as a WWI pilot either...
The bed sounds again, softly. And muscles tighten, bulk seeming all the more so as his form is on the move. A gentle roll to lie you on your back...
A sweeter roll of mouths...
Surprise begins to melt upon the tongue...
Sandrine laughs as you roll her about, but soon it's clear the laughing is not about the movement. "It has been a long time since you were with a man as you?" she teases, fingertips at your shoulders.
No, it's not what you meant. The grin returns as she tilts her head to the side. Somehow...comforted by your own saga.
"Davydd," Sandrine asks, face coming still again, smile fading. "This...will not...be...just for tonight, will it?" If I give myself to you, will that be the end?
Ruddy Mars -- you're blushing, boyo...
Beneath the swirl of cobalt, and dragons laughing blue, hues both deep and brilliant, there is a flush of blood. A flush of warmth. And laughter is born from it, rich and rumbling. "Duw, touche'...the castle gates were wide for that one, aye?" Lilting his voice lifts and lowers, the Cymraeg on it rising, falling. Coloring his English. Swirls of Cymraeg from his tongue, like the dragons on his arms, his wrists, his shoulders...
But laughter falls away quite naturally, not abruptly, it clears in a breath and then you speak. A hand smooths against your cheek and the linen has fallen away in the hover. No, no hiding either...
"No, Sandrine... it will not be just for tonight," Davydd murmurs, back of his fingers touching soft skin. His head tilts. "I didn't wait for eight-hundred-years for Fate to catch up with me, to only wish it for one night." His finger taps your lips and when he grins, crow's feet appear at the corners of the veteran's eyes. Green sparking. "If you give me a year," he whispers, "I shall ask for ten. If you stay with me for twenty, I will want twenty more."
And so on...
The grin recedes, a natural fading like day into twilight. Serious the look, placid the expression. The weight of it is borne by his eyes. "I do not see an end..."
Blue eyes glisten as you speak. Ten. Twenty. More than that. Maybe I was to wait for this. For a chieftan's son. Not one of my own brethren clans, but one of another. Was it for this I was sent across the sea?
Sandrine nods when you're done, trying to find composure again. "Okay," she barely whispers, the word lost in her throat. She will trust you. You even more than Christian, who has given so much. The convinction of earlier is lost in a swirl of emotion, but even so, there is no rush to turn back.
I'm not going to fill your head with anymore stories and tell you, like a rascal, that this night's not going to be like any other you've spent. I don't have the knack for getting that out without simultaneously being insulting. That, is Plantagenet's gift. It's called diplomacy in some parts...
Truth is, it won't be like any other. And not for the reason most -- particularly my mates -- would latch onto...
Fingertips brush at your cheek, the back of his hand along your throat, and there's no quip or jest or making light. No winking eye. No rumbling laughter. There's the down sweep of copper till it hides the green, and warmth immediate. A tongue full of long-dragging vowels and lilting consonants is murmured into your mouth, until by the joining, nothing can... nor needs to be said...
Posted by rowan at May 07, 2003 01:03 AM
