Sweet Jesus, I thought the rain would never stop. I was standing under the awning like the second coming of Noah, shaking the rain out of what hair I haven't given the chop to and the water from my shoulders. Soaked through. I had to have been out there a good fifteen minutes before opening the door to the Towers and dripping my way in.
Wondering...
How I have come to this place...
With a warm little gift tucked under my arm for you, protected from the rain and the wind...
How I found myself here...
With bleeding trees, getting messages from a dead ex-lover, unseen for four centuries. Or more...
How I got to this...
Having to find a way to ...explain it all. The inexplicable.
And how the hell am I supposed to do all of this and keep William away from a virgin magician? Christ, Hercules was on a holiday in comparison...
There's no knocking now. There's the familiar sound of him coming down the hallway. That stride. The jingle of keys. The soft swearing in an old tongue when he doesn't find them where they should be. Finally the opening...
He's drenched. Fiery red-headed with the addition of rain to the copper. Dressed -- did you see him before he left earlier on errands -- in a thin, scarlet sweater over a white t-shirt. The black trousers. The thigh-length leather coat. And he's got something tucked under it...
"Helo!" he calls, in the Welsh variant. The smile cutting cross-wise. Dark green eyes sparkling. Trail of water dripping behind him as he comes in...
"Skorje!" calls the voice, a stronger presence now that you and she have found a path together. The doors are open to the greenhouse, but Sandrine's voice comes from the kitchen.
"Helo," she repeats, making herself visible in a simple blue dress, hair pulled up. She's cooking - just starting - and scents barely waft from her direction. "You are back early," she observes, picking up a towel and wiping her hands. "I hadn't even gotten the roast on," Sandrine explains, stepping down from the kitchen to meet you in the sunken living area. "Everything alright?" she wonders, now seeing that --
"Ach, you are wet, Davydd...."
"Well I know it," he gruffs with a snorting half-laugh and a grin. "Here, cariad... give a hold to this," he crosses over to you, hand beneath his jacket beginning to move, "...while I go change, aye? It was raining shite out there," he finishes in a lowered tone as he steps up to you. And there's something in the smile. Warmth -- naturally, around you always. But there's a certain lift to the expression. Like...
Well, like he's up to something...
"I love blue," he whispers, and appreciation is in his eyes as he withdraws his hand from the leather. In it?
A wee white cat...kitten, truly, about eight weeks old. It was nestled in the palm of his hand. As soon as it hits daylight, it mews.
And the smile streaks across him. "Got enough for three?"
"Dafydd!" Sandrine blinks, hands out to hold your package. But what a package. Your name is scrawled Nordic, and she tosses the towel over her shoulder to take the kitten from you ever so slowly. "Oh, it's adorable!" Sandrine mewls, cradling kitten to her chest. "Where'd you find it?" she wonders, finger brushing the kitten's little head while she leans to give you a kiss.
"Was it on the street?" she asks, setting the kitten at her cleavage to face her. "It has a name? What is it?" hand lifting fur to see.
"Well, if I had to name it now, I'd call it Lucky," he quips and the grin can't help the slant-wise slide, neverminding for a moment that he's soaked through and like most Welsh creatures doesn't like being wet. Funny thing that, considering it's the dampest bit of land on this fair green island. It even beats out Ireland most years. But though the sight of you with the kitten doesn't make him any drier, it certainly warms.
"I was ducking in out of a bit of the rain and, well, found myself in front of a pet store on Coventry, still open. Saw it and..." the smile warms and turns fond-ish. We're a perfect set, Sandrinaar. You're maternal, and I'm father to the world. We'd people the earth, you and I, if we could. "... couldn't not bring it with me. No name, that'll be for you to decide... and this way, it already knows us, aye? Before I have to make the introductions to Rhyddid and Bwci..."
The terrors of Gwynedd and Powys...
"We'll have a right mangerie when we get home," Davydd murmurs, a finger to the little kitten, and he whispers, "You're in the best hands in all the world. I wish I were that tiny, I'd never leave..."
Dark green eyes sparkle in the wink he tosses you and then he turns.
"Tiny and dry," he mutters...
She's beaming now, the instinct honest. The kitten is cradled once more, hidden in the crook of her arm. "You're so sweet, Davydd," Sandrine whispers, leaning in to give you another kiss. Cheek, nose. Lips. A promise for later.
"You should go dry and I will find...Frikka...a home." That's it. Frikka. "Hmm," Sandrine twists, looking around for suitable 'home' makings. "Box, blanket...ah. I have cloths," she remembers, putting Frikka to her nose and mewling at her as she wanders towards her sewing room.
He would protest it, but what's the use. You see straight through it. Damn near literally. Even if he wanted to protest or put it off or shrug it away, you'd see the hue of it. Again, the one perfectly suited for the other. He's coming to know this more and more, Sandrinaar.
And you can see that, too...
Just like you see him register that promise. Fiery eyebrows cocked up, and the smile that holds the unspoken promise at its edges. As fast as a secret. Davydd moves away with a wink, and only for the fact that he's registering a chill from the damp. Keys come out of pockets, and money clip, and a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, all along the way to the hall.
"Frikka," he says from the bedroom. His voice carries the distance with no need for shouting. He could whisper and you would hear him. "What does it mean in your language, melys," sweet, he calls you in his tongue. Dear. Sweet. So many endearments. That one, however, you have heard whispered to you. That one he usually reserves for times when he breathes the word on your skin...
You, with your fine senses. You can hear the leather coat being hung in the bathroom -- if it drips there, who cares? The sweater come up and off. An exhale. Shoes. Trousers. One by one the layers removed. His steps softening. And then no steps for a moment. Subtle sounds of dressing.
"It's..." Sandrine calls from the sewing room, "...like how you say Fricka? Or Frigga...with g's," she explains poorly. "The old stories of the Aesir," she reminds, shuffling heard. "Ah, here's a good box, Frikka, and now we will find something to go into it..."
"Aesir," he murmurs, muffled as a shirt is pulled over, "Aesir," he repeats, thumbing through his long memory, "Oh...oh aye. That's right," his throaty voice, it has the quality of earth, his voice, lifts, "... wife of Odin..." And it makes him grin. You have much in common with her. The spinning, the weaving, the devotion, the maternal...
When Davydd emerges, he's got a towel to his head and he's dressed rather nicely considering he's not setting one foot outside this house again tonight. A pair of black wool trousers and a cobalt blue shirt. But he's barefoot. So much for civility. "I didn't think I'd want a cat, to be honest," he says, "I never liked them much. I'm a dog man, but..." an exhale, and a smile as he leans against the doorway of the sewing room, "...I've been bewitched." Davydd pauses there, to watch you. "How would you feel about heading back home tomorrow or the day next?"
That causes Sandrine to pause, Frikka in one arm and other hand on a box. She twists, a little surprised. "I'd love to, Davy," she murmurs, nodding appreciately. "I think I have grown used to Powys," she murmurs, chuckling at the notion.
"You're not going to be afraid of bad Bwci and Rhyddid, will you, Queen Frikka?" Sandrine looks to the kitten huddled in the bend of her arm.
The smile is slight but true, "It's been a busier trip than I anticipated. I'm anxious to tend to matters Welsh. You know, I spent all those years in London, got used to it, formed some rather nasty habits," fiery eyebrows waggle and the smile slants, "...but as soon as the chord was cut, I've no desire to stay overlong. I want to walk the gardens with you. It's almost spring..."
And show you the start of the rose that will one day bear your name...
"...And I'll speak to the lads," he says, seeming to talk to you both. "Never fear on that. Though, I have to say," Davydd chuckles and reaches up, giving the goatee a scratch, "she's not over anxious to meet them," he whispers. And then there is a very soft whisper of Welsh. Cath fach -- you know by now that 'fach' is little. Cath? Cat. Blino? Worry. Do not worry, he said.
And the kitten responds by purring...
Davydd folds his arms against his chest, the form you've gotten to know indicated by the pull of fabric. "What would you think about... giving shelter to a little girl who needs a ...great deal of training," he poses. "I think my paternal streak is getting the better of me..."
Sitting down in a chair, Sandrine begins stuffing the box with swatches of unusuable cloth. Small enough squares for a small kitten to arrange. She looks up at the question, then sets Frikka down into the piles of cloth.
When Sandrine sits up, she sighs faintly. "It's not like bringing home a kitten, Davydd," she laments, seeing where this is going immediately. "I don't like her much," she confesses, "...and if you're thinking that she'll grow into some wonderful thing, you give her and her kind too much credit." There.
He crosses to a cushion strewn chair and rids it of enough of them to sit on it. There's a glance around and a look to you. He sincerely hopes Christian Lausanne is not hiding out in the sewing room again tonight. One never knows...
"I don't think that," he notes and it's not out of defensiveness or anything of the like, just a simple statement of truth as he knows it. "Nor do I have any attachment to her, even if she is my granddaughter," and he truly believes that, despite the spirit's hesitance to name him thus. Or rather, convinced because she will not. "But what worries me most is that she has a power, and right now it's not controlled. And she's like a beacon. Easy to find. Easy to claim. Easy to use."
Davydd settles back in the chair with a half-frown. Never before has he seemed more a chieftain than right now. Beset by a decision. And he is quiet for a moment. Looking to you, looking into space -- and to his thoughts. Keen he is, and brilliant. Not something most know. Not something most see. "If she had more control... understanding... she could hope to fend for herself. I can teach her to control herself." Green eyes settle on you and he smiles a little at last. "Maybe you could teach her to be as polite, composed and strong as you are. I know you don't like her. She thinks she doesn't want to be liked..."
"Granddaughter?" Sandrine asks, attention now away from the mewling Frikka. "What?" Sandrine murmurs, shaking her head at you. You're not making much sense. "What's going on, Davydd?"
"I know it sounds mad," hands gesticulating in a 'crazy' gesture. "It's not going to sound any more sane when I explain it, but," he rolls his head toward you, "...I believe that the little punk girl is my own descendant, born out of god-knows-which tryst that I had with the maker of these marks during my... time," however long it was, "...those ... years following Mithras." Davydd sits forward then, arms on his thighs and hands together, and he looks to you. "The artist-magician who made the mark on me can speak... and has spoken... through her. I know it's her, and I know it sounds mad, but so does the fact that I can turn into any object I see fit for ...however long," long enough to spend a day in the sunlight as an oak tree. Handy way of taking shelter. Become ...something other than a cursed undead abomination...
"... or that I can speak to our little Queen there," he murmurs, nodding to the cat in your hand. "But regardless of Drancy's history -- I would have the same concerns if she were," his hands gesticulate about again, "...I don't know...Willamina, Queen of America. She has no control. Having no control, she is a danger to herself. And presents a bit of risk to those who'd care for her. And you're right, love," Davydd murmurs, rising from the chair, "... if I take her in to teach her a few things, there's no less risk in that. None of the choices are to my liking..." With a half-groan, he plops down beside you, arms across his knees. "I've already heard William's been sniffing around her. It'd be nice if she could defend herself..."
Okay, now it is too much. You keep adding things with each sentence, things out of the blue. Sandrine stops and sits back in her seat staring at you for a long moment. Then suddenly, she gets up and picks up the box with Frikka in it.
"I'm going outside for a bit," she whispers, trying to pass you to the door. A turn and Sandrine's facing you. "Is this what you do? You...run around and then drop something at the door, as if you were leaving me a rat in my shoe? Why didn't you talk about this last night? Or night before? You never told me...that this was going on..."
Christ, Davydd...
How did you get here? You were walking along ...what was it? Regent? Minding your own business on a rainy night, and wandered in blue as the marks on your skin to find a woman in palace apartments. And then, what was it? Oh aye, then the princeship. Then getting out of that, thankfully, you left for Wales.
And then the marks...
And then the story... or part of it...
And then some girl touches a bleeding, literally, tree and the whole thing just ...
Becomes a nice pile of otherworldly chaos. God damn them...
"I am trying to get it out as best I can, Sandrine," he's lying on the floor now, arm across his eyes. Looking at a field of dark and blue. "It's not that I'm trying to ... get it all out at once." A moment more and he's sitting up again, eyes looking to you. A plaintive moment, and then there is some resignation. "I don't blame you for being lost or... thinking I'm holding onto all this shite and dropping ballistas," old war term, think catapult shots, "...on you. It's not intentional. There's... just not a good way to talk about any of it. Not a way that'd make sense."
And you feel it, because you feel so much more than he does. You can tell things about how air changes around you. That fiery Welsh temper is risen to the surface. A press of his lower lip between finger and thumb and then he's standing. "I tried to tell you that night when she was here. When I touched her and she damn near got sick on your nice carpets." He shakes his head. "I'm lousy at this shite," a hand rubs at his eyes. "Nevermind, cariad. I'm sorry."
A hand waves a little, "If you still want to get some fresh air, I'll... see you in a bit." I hope.
You know... I wouldn't blame her if she told me to go to Wales by myself and get fucked...
She frowns, not out of anger but of displeasure. Sandrine is not one for confrontation. A sigh comes again and she tucks Frikkabox under her arm. "I am not mad, Dafydd," her voice showing, "...just...I wish you...would tell me things earlier. As they happen. When they happen. Not...keep it inside like I am unable to handle things. And then you drop these...explosives..." she sighs. A twist of her lips and she looks to you. "I...I don't understand what has happened to you, alright?" her brows arching. "You are...different. Everything about you is different. And it has only been a few months..." since we got together.
The sigh comes again, almost like relief. "I don't...understand what the people have done to you, Davydd. You are special, I know this. But...I am not ready for...a girl too..."
"Why can't I be a normal undead eight-hundred-year old with a cleanliness fixation and a love for women, wine and song?" he bemoans with a lilt, half-teasing, half-true. Davydd raises his hands. No, you're right. "I'm sorry for the bombs. No more. I promise." Big promise, Draig o Gwynedd. And can you keep that one, boyo?
An extensive exhalation, coming from some pit of his gut and maybe a deeper layer of blood or two, and then, sympathetic, empathetic woman ... you feel that little burst of energy wane. And then there's a press of his mouth at your temple. A whisper.
And a kitten's mew...
"I think I'm going to sit in the greenhouse for a bit, until dinner's done," Davydd murmurs. "Maybe your roses can talk some sense into me..." There's a gentle pat of his hand to the small of your back and he parts a bit. "Tomorrow... before we go to Wales," you are coming with me, aye? "...we can get some things for our little Queen here..."
And there's no more talk of Drancy, no mention more of the girl...
"Okay," Sandrine sighs with you. No, she's not ready for another person to take care of. Despite her teaching, it was not instinctual to her. It was partially a way to survive, to stay safe from the others in the clan. Teaching is the drudge work and well, what teacher was ever a threat?
"Dinner'll be done in a bit," she whispers, sharing the belief that you both need to think. "I'll be with Frik in the kitchen, getting her some dinner." No anger, no resentment. Just some space. Sandrine is so particular about her space...physical and otherwise.
"Do you want to see to the wine?" she calls, moving across the living room and tickling Frikka.
"Sure," it comes quietly, and for all his talk of the greenhouse he knows he won't end up there. The last thing he needs is to have the uninvited advice of hybrid roses. Better this, to be in quiet. To listen to you cook. To drink a little wine, even though he's not really into it. And to not think at all...
"Do you already have something picked out wine-wise?" he wonders, as he wanders into the living room some moments afterward. "It's not my forte. I know two kinds of wine: red and white. William's the wine wizard," he murmurs, William tossed in there as an afterthought.
While he waits to hear what you want done for the wine, and when, he roots himself onto the sofa. Sitting at first, then swinging his legs up for a good, long sprawl. Davydd rests his arm over his eyes again, his other hand resting on his stomach. So much for the roses...
Posted by rowan at May 09, 2003 10:06 PM
