Even Fairyland has nighttime sometimes, if only for setting the stage. And as stages go, Tir Na Nog has some particularly beautiful scenery and props - Drancy finally bowed to the inevitable to some degree, trading her jeans and cropped top for pale primrose silk robes with a high waist and low neckline 'while her things are being laundered'.
     So it's clad in what she secretly thinks wholly unacceptably, feminine-to-the-point-of-poncy, damned annoying clothing that she's now been exploring, wandering through gardens and turrets and palatial rooms and lawns that shift back and forth, blurring at the edges of her vision...
     Drancy has finally settled herself on a marble bench, elbows propped up on the ledge of the window it's under, as she stares out at a sickle moon that bathes a rose garden grown wild in pale light, more silvery than any on the world she's grown knowing. It'd irk her considerably if she realized her own almost wistful expression.

     A garden upon gardens, twisting on themselves, from rose to morning glory, vines to blossoms, dissolving into soft grass lawn. But the vines curl and twist around you, living things. Here, so evident. Things missed back home, perhaps, gone unseen, unnoticed. Here, they lift their heads. The whisper fragrance, their language, to the wind...
     Fortunately tonight the bench is a bench and not the front or back of any perverted male fae or spirit or fairy or whatever they are. Or, at least... it is so far. And there are sounds that might be heard in any garden here. Nightingales. Swallows. Thrush. Bluebird. It's damn near Disney...
     There is, to your left, the sudden sound of water. Chiming over stones, a stream that wasn't there. The water is crystalline to the point of being silver. And it serpents through the garden, rounding your bench. You are suddenly an island...
     And where water meets in a pointed fork a few feet in front of you, the water shimmers. And you can understand it. "Care to have a little company... some pleasant conversation?"

     She twists round on the bench, wistfulness giving way to a suspicious glower as Drancy searches for the source of the water, an exclamation of surprise stifled as she hurriedly lifts feet clad in soft leather boots dyed a pleasing shade to match the gown, up to the bench with the rest of her. Disney isn't the way to her heart, exactly...
     Biting back the first sarcastic remark to come to her lips (which is, in and of itself, indicative of if not progress, then something), Drancy mutters, "That depends entirely. Care to tell me who you are, or are you just planning on being all Freudian at me?" Well. Noone ever said she could entirely excise sarcasm from her speech.
     Well... she's not sullen, at least...

     "What's Froodianism?" Well, the brook's pronunciation is all wrong, but nevertheless lovely. Rolling consonants and vowels, like the roll of water over stones. Or the roll of Welsh off of Davydd's tongue. Or any Welshman's, really...
     The water seems to nevermind the Froodian or Freudian or whatever that is and moves along, as water tends to do. "I am Water. I signify transition, travel, dreams, and am often connected with the energy of the West. I like to drip, gurgle and take long runs through open countryside..." If water could laugh -- and why couldn't it really? -- it is doing so now...
     "Oh, and I have nothing to do with your sub or superconscience..."
     The water rings round your bench, flowing through the garden in front of you and behind you, circling around you like a moat, your bench has become your fortress. And through the garden, there moves a wind. A lifting of fragrance, another whisper. "Don't listen to him," he says, for this voice is assuredly male, at at your ear like a lover whispering -- well... if you knew what that would be like. "He's inconstant and can't be trusted..."

     Drancy listens to the babbling of the brook with amusement, at least at first, eyes half-closing at the accent. "You do, do you. You sound like a bloody ad in the personals..."
     The water rising is greeted with mild alarm, though, as she grabs at her skirts awkwardly, crawling onto hands and knees akin to some Victorian housewife shrieking at a mouse. "What the -fuck- are you doing?" Eyes widen, then narrow, as she retreats from the water, rising to stand properly on the bench, one hand reaching out towards where the window last was. The breeze makes her twist round again, looking from side to side.
     "Right, and a breeze is going to be less fickle?" she demands of the unseen voice, the tone making her twitch slightly, fairly bristling with impatience. "Show yourself, damn it, or I'll..."

     "Or you'll what? Battle the air? Like you battle everything, Drancy. Hereafter, I shall call you ... Flying Fists." The wind swirls around you as the water lowers, then falls away. Some of it soaked into the earth, but the rest of it rises in a column. The size of a tall man. Quite a tall man. And the water shimmers, coalescing into something of a form. Whipped by the air. And finally transforming into armor.
     And the shape the armor encases?
     Hwyll smiles quick and brilliant, silverish-blue eyes sparkling -- yes, like water -- the blond hair over his shoulders. "You've never met a spirit of the earth, have you? We're all fickle. Nature... is fickle." Hwyll grins, "But we don't mean anything by it."

     Slowly, she lowers her hands to her sides in unconscious demurral. "Call me by name," she says aloud. "I'm not bloody Jackie Chan." There's a name which might mean nothing here...
     She eyes you with faint disfavour, suspicion quickening her gaze as Drancy steps down from the bench with care, mindful of her long skirts and half expecting to trip herself on them. She looks away for a moment, then back, taking a deep breath, as if about to engage the battle...
     "So that's what you are? A spirit of the earth? And Nature or men, it's all the same, and both about as constant and trustworthy." Bitterness leaks through her voice, a flash of old scars lashing out in the words. "Don't worry, I shouldn't think of asking you to mean something."

     "Something like that, yes," he says, quite congenially in fact. Rather toasty warm, with a touch of butter. "My father was the West Wind, my mother was the first flowing stream. Or... at least that's what they told me. Not sure whether I'm buying the whole thing, but I've no reason to doubt them. Sometimes, what is hardest to believe is the simplest truth. What can I say. I delight in paradox."
     Arms folded across a warrior's chest -- though he is more lean or slender by far than either Davydd or William, the only other two warriors of your acquaintance -- Hwyll rounds the bench and takes up a spot beside you. Arms unfold and hands grasp the edge of the bench behind him, he tilts his beautiful head back and he looks at the stars. The universe in fact. With all its nebulae, constellations, galaxies, comets. The grandest sky ever seen -- without such filters as humans' false light, lamp posts or skyscrapers. "You have trust issues, don't you. Not going to ask why. None of my business. I've never known more of a waste of unhappiness than that which is in you. You've got nothing to be unhappy about. Believe you me, if you want some misery, there are those just waiting to dole it out."
     Silvery shiny eyes look aslant to you, his expression still congenial and placid. "Who am I telling? You've already met them."

     That makes her hunch down, scowling again as she pulls her knees up to where she can wrap her arms around them and turning her face to hide it in the shadow of the folds of the gown. "Allegorical. My father and mother aren't anything like -that-." She doesn't want to think about her parents, though, whether she's home or she's here or somewhere else.
     Leaving her face hidden, Drancy speaks muffledly, attention on her knees instead of the magnificent panorama of stars and sky. "Trust issues? Ha. Bloody. Ha." Well, did you really expect a different reaction? "Exactly who am I supposed to trust? And what makes you say I've nothing to be unhappy about? You don't know me, but you seem to've all made up an awful lot of your minds about me. Oh, I suppose that's because of whatsisname - the one who turned into a cat." The sneer to her voice is self-mocking more than aimed outwards. "So now you just all know everything there is to me..."
     Jerking her chin up, her eyes narrow. "And just who is it I've supposedly met waiting to dole it out? Or've you been rummaging through my email as well? FBI - Fairy Bureacracy of Investigation?"

     "I don't need to tell you, you already know." And don't you? From electrified blue-tatted men, to a deadly aristocrat in a deadly car, to a humming guitar. And that's just the ones you know about. "Huw," he corrects, as if you didn't know. "He's an excellent tracker. He only lost you, briefly, when you went to France. I've heard the story," he leans in toward you, smiling. It shimmers, that smile, and he, beautiful, shimmers with it. "It was rivetting. He doesn't like turkey and liver treats by the way. He'd never confess it himself... but... just if you should take any stray cats in the future -- tuna. Tuna is always good."
     Still sitting near you, Hwyll gives you a bit of study. Maybe you'll think it's a lecherous leer. With the upraised eyebrows and the pursing mouth, perhaps that's an easy assumption. But then his expression smoothens, and he shrugs. "I suppose you're ready to go home then. I'm to be your escort." Hwyll's smile crackles as it spreads like lightning across sky. "I'll be carrying you actually. You'll finally get a chance to do what you've been wanting to do since you... introduced yourself to me. Ride me to the moon and back." Oh delight. Oh riot. And he laughs.

     Cheeks staining red at the reminder of the entire feline deception, Drancy mutters, "The next cat that I come across, I'm turning into a muff." It's doubtful she would, but at the moment, she means it, venomous fury lacing through her voice. The more you lean, the more she shrinks in on herself, grasp on her knees tightening exponentially.
     "Don't know what you're talking about," she only half-lies, resisting the temptation to throw an elbow out. "Nobody's come after me to try making me miserable until you lot." Which is, in its way, true - Davydd isn't trying to, William was no more than a flash in the pan to her, and whatever Dei wanted... he wasn't deliberately making her unhappy. Either of them. She doesn't think...
     At that last piece of news, and the suggestion, she jerks upright. "What the bloody -? My escort?" Her face goes increasingly red as she splutters confused denials and questions. "What makes you think I'd - I wouldn't if you were the last man on earth! Who d'you think you are, anyway, and what the fuck do you mean, you're carrying me?"

     "Well, it's not like you can walk back to London from here, or... hadn't you thought of leaving?" Mischief plays in his eyes, wicked humor. Delight at the thought of tormenting you for the rest of eternity. Eventually seducing you and coming away with the unicorn's dowry. "You didn't get to Tir Na Nog by Virgin Airlines, for certes," he chuckles. "Huw carried you in his mouth. He'll be disappointed to find out you don't remember that." Hwyll rises with an exhalation, and a sweet western wind moves all around you.
     "Oh... and... so you don't have any questions then? You're... just ready to be on your way? I thought this was going to be a lot more taxing. Well," hands come together with a clap and a rub. "If that's all then... I guess we should get blowing... close your eyes..."
     As if he thinks you'll do that...

     "I haven't thought of a single bloody thing but leaving since I got here!" Drancy glares heatedly, rising to her feet, fists balled against her hips aggressively. It's a look which has in various clubs earned her respect, enmity, entry, and a few other things - coupled with a heavy gown of silk and brocade, though, it ... loses something.
     With a toss of her head aimed at getting her too-long hair out of her face, she waves an aggrieved fingertip in your face. She's aware of you, and trying resolutely to ignore it, push it away by concentrating on her ire.
     "Oh, I remember all too bloody well what he did. And I not only haven't forgotten, I still owe him a few kicks for that. And I think the only thing that's disappointing him is that I'm still here!"
     She turns, as abruptly as before, folding her arms over her chest, staring with bitter resentment across the garden. "I'm not leaving without my clothes." Drancy's eyes stay very much open, as she tries even to avoid blinking.

     You don't want to know what to do with all that energy? You don't want to know why you touched Llywelyn and jumped twenty feet? Or what about the time you were turned into a pebble, held beneath a raven's tongue to save you from throbbing shadows...
     ...Or the times you don't remember...

     "Blustery north wind, where wilt thou blow? Over the mountains," he sings, sweetly -- so sweetly -- "... and down to the sea, I shall carry the snow down and make the sea freeze..." Your clean clothes appear on the bench. Neatly folded. Warm, like just from the dryer. Or better... dried in the sunlight.
     Hwyll turns from you, a smirk upon his face, as if he's half-amused by you. "Blustery north wind," the song has turned to a murmur. "...one day may you warm and do the world no harm. Very well, princess, is there anything else you'd like before you go? A goodbye kiss? A final..." and he grins crookedly, "... handshake?"

     She stiffens, and where before there was heat to her anger, now she suddenly withdraws, a wall of ice almost palpably appearing. "...Don't call me that," she mutters through her teeth, and she's almost gone pale.
     Moving quickly, she stoops to pick up her clothes, holding them to her chest as if they could protect her from some evil, or from you - to her, no doubt, six of one, half a dozen of the other.
     "If all you're going to do is make fun of me, let's just go. I'm sure you're just dying to get back."

     There is a soft wind that rolls along the grass of this garden and valley, that moves through the vines. That kicks up the pollen and odor of surrounding flowers. And the fae folds his arms against his armored chest again, the steel-blue color of it rolling with the tide of water that formed it. "Princess? Why should I not call you that? You are dressed as one..."
     In pink, no less...
     "And I'm a better judge of that, being Prince of the West Wind, myself. Though, speaking as a prince, and from a professional point of view, it wouldn't kill you, I suppose, to be a little more congenial? Particularly to your hosts, who rescued you from certain Chaos. Or should we step back and watch a descendent scatter herself into Oblivion? You tempt dragons with your fingertips, you better get used to the fire, missy."
     The West Wind can get a bit blustery too, you know...
     "Why are you so obstinant anyway? Were you a slave? Did you have to serve a master, shackled in chains?"

     Drancy's face contorts into a scowl for a moment, and she rather abruptly and not entirely gracefully sits down on the green grass and buries her face in her laundry. She doesn't respond, not immediately, tucking her limbs into her and leaving her face buried in the shirt and jeans for a long moment - taking a deep breath, and then not breathing at all for a bit.
     Eventually, in a muted, almost colourless voice, a reply comes. "I'm not one. A'right? You might be a Prince, I wouldn't know. Don't know anything about that. Or about ... chaos, or oblivion, or descendents, or..."
     Her voice trails off into a murmur, still hiding in the shirt. She's got to come up for air sometime...
     A change in tone, then, self-loathing evident. "Me? No, the only kind of slavery I ever dealt with was the kind I suckered myself into. A mistake I don't intend to ever make again."

     And he tumbles upon the ground before you, coming to a seemingly sudden cross-legged sitting. "Really? What happened, Little Wind?" he says. And suddenly, there's a soft blanket beneath you both, pillows, a bit of cool honeywine and some fruit and cheese. Hwyll reaches for an apricot. "I was once imprisoned in a book by a magician named Caolhin."
     At last perhaps you have found something on which to speak without railing at one another. "And I'm not really a prince," he whispers, "...I made that part up. But... the part about being the son of the West Wind and spirit of the first sea, that... was totally truthful." As far as allegories go. "So... give-give-give," Hwyll says, eating on the apricot, "...what happened and how did you get free?"

     "I'm... you haven't been to my world ever, have you. Or not in thousands of years." It's quiet, matter-of-fact, and surprisingly without derision, even though she doesn't look up at all. "Things don't happen like that anymore. If they ever did."
     A month ago, a week ago, she'd have said they never did. Now Drancy leaves room for debate...
     "Just." She rolls her shoulders, throat tight as she speaks. "It was a long time ago. I was stupid and believed someone was telling me the truth, did a lot of things for him. B-because... just because." She turns away slightly, shrinking in on herself again. "And then I found out he wasn't."
     It's not a proper story, by any means, but the self-loathing still present in her voice tells more than her words alone could, as does the added prim tag line. "I'm sure you wouldn't be interested anyway."

     "Something like that," he says again. "Though, I'm a bit shaky on Time. Perhaps it was yesterday. Perhaps it is a time yet to be. Here, it doesn't mean much." And for once Hwyll's serious. No come-ons, no jokes -- at your expense or otherwise. His legs uncross, and he leans back, propped up now with hands on the grass, his long legs stretching out.
     "So's what you know," he speaks in your vernacular. And for your benefit. "When honor is betrayed, I'm a captive audience. You trusted him, and he betrayed you. Was it for Love? Or did he... do something..."
     Rape is implied, but not stated...
     Hwyll tilts his head, golden hair shining against his shoulders. "If you assume that everyone is out to get you, how will you ever learn, Drancy? Magic or anything else? Or Love, and I can't imagine never loving..."

     She pauses for a moment to breathe - breathing is good, it means she won't pass out or anything. Pale oak-blonde hair slides forward over her face, and she retreats behind it, trying to hide behind it instead of using her laundry, which is now damp. Her eyes similiarly are slightly reddened, though only slightly.
     "Time... time is all there is, to measure things by." Drancy shrugs, squirming a little at the difficulty of sitting comfortably in a dress. "I don't know anything about honour. He told me ... things, and I believed him, wanted to believe him...." She sprawls back on the cushions in a little gesture of futility, putting one arm over her eyes. It seems to help her speak.
     "We were ... dating. Weren't telling people because he had a bit of a reputation for playing the field, see. And he wanted to protect me... from what people might say or think. We discussed plans for the future, after school, university, and so on. Last year before university. So, I was working on this paper for matric, you see," or perhaps you don't - how much would a denizen of faerie know about modern schools? She plows on regardless.
     "He wanted to see it, because he was curious... I let him see a rough. Unfinished. We were both working in the crew for the school play. Different schedules though, because of varying commitments... so last minute, I ended up swapping with another girl, planning on surprising him. Find he's up in the rigging with another member of the crew, working the lights, all right, I can go up to surprise him, except I heard them talking before I got there..."

     Apricot is finished and cheese is sliced, including some for you should you feel so inclined. But have you even been hungry here? A hand lifts the goblet to his mouth, he sips of honeywine and he listens. Not understanding some of the particulars -- you say rigging, he thinks you worked on a ship called Play -- but he's not about to interrupt a decent story for semantics and definitions. He'll look up the words in a glossary later...
     Hwyll lowers his cup to the grass, and his long legs fold again. Fingers busy themselves with fruit and cheese. Eating. But even with all the activity, he doesn't take his eyes off of you. Nor does he interject.
     Surprisingly, motor mouth listens... without uttering one blessed word...

     She slides her arm away from her eyes, staring up sightlessly and blankly at the sky through her hair. "I heard them talking," she says finally. "Him and this other girl... he was using me to get at my papers, and my work, so they could get better grades. They were planning on stealing my paper, and submitting it ahead of me and accusing me of being the thief..."
     Even talking about it after this time hurts, it shows in Drancy's face and eyes, the vulnerability that usually the anger and borderline indignation hides. Her teddy bear, her shield against the world.
     "They had ... other things to say, too. About me. Not ... nice things. Which I could cope with, if they hadn't been pretending so hard otherwise..." Her voice trails off, bleakly. "It doesn't matter."

     Thieves. These he is aware of. And through the telling of your tale, he had grown progressively more quiet. Until, by the end of it, his beautiful face is contracted in a frown. "It matters," Hwyll says. "Betrayal always matters." A pause. "I am sorry for seeming cruel. You play rough, I was...playing your game. But in return for your story, and in light of the honor that should be repaired, I will offer myself to you. To be your teacher. To show you, Little Wind, what your magic can do."
     And Hwyll is resolute. He rises to a kneel. "Hwyll ap Gwyn makes this promise. And he never breaks his word." Oath is everything.

     "Game?", she echos, face a study in confusion. She clearly doesn't understand. After all, to her, it's not playing...
     Drancy shrugs it off, then blinks again - off guard again. And oh, how she'll hate herself for telling that little story, later. "W-what? Teacher? What're you talking about?" Clearly, she should have spent less time reading Nietzche and more time reading Perault. She uses both hands to push the heavy weight of her hair up, away from her face, to stare uncomprehendingly. "Why are you doing this? What are you doing?"

     "I'm making a promise. You need a teacher. Something more than the tattoos. Something more than control. Control is first, you're gaining that. Now, you need to know what you can do. Who you are. Why trees bleed and you are compelled to touch them. Why dragons dance beneath your fingertips. Why you attract the attention of others like you. How to grow, how to gain, how to protect yourself. All of this. I will teach you."
     And perhaps teach you trust in the process...
     "When we go to ... Londonium..." so it was called the last time he remembered being there per se, "...I will stay behind with you..."
     Oh ... great...

     One of which tattoos has since faded out of existence, its control and presence both burst in the club, leaving her belly again bare. Drancy frowns, staring aghast at you, the piqued curiosity at the suggestions forgotten in light of that other fact.
     "What? Y-you can't stay with me. I, I don't have room, and besides, I mean."
     God have mercy on me... It wouldn't be such a problem if it weren't a bloody temptation...
     Stubbornly, she repeats herself, averting her eyes. "I mean, I can't live with you. And... oh god. You can't stay by yourself in London, can you."

     "I don't require much space..."
     And behold, he becomes a potted plant...
     "I won't piddle on the carpet," and he's Hwyll all over again. "Unlike Huw, I won't piddle in a box of sand either. I'll get on quite well. Don't you worry about me. It'll be easy!" he grins widely. "And you can show me... how the Other Side lives." Gold brows waggle and he sits back, offering you a cup of mead. "Let's drink on it, call it a deal, wot-wot?"
     Hwyll winks and the smile is nothing but congenial. There's not a thrust of lust behind it -- though hard to imagine he'd have an innocent thought.

     "You'd better not," she replies somewhat grimly. "I've only got one bedroom. And no couch for you to crash on, either..." She runs her hand over her face. "All right, I'll show you... but I'm not going to get drunk with you. I don't trust you quite that far."
     Or myself, dammit...
     She accepts the cup nonetheless, if only as a token. "And if you decide to go get laid, you can do it outside my bloody apartment." It's a weak attempt to shoulder her shields back into place.

     "Get laid," he murmurs. "Sounds painful. Isn't that what you do with bricks or eggs?"
     But you know that he knows that you know he knows what you mean. And it is understood. Not that it will be an issue...
     You take the cup, the deal is struck. "We will leave... after you have had a chance to rest a bit. Care for a strawberry?" And lo and behold there are strawberries. Almost as big as your hand.

     Drancy looks skeptical at that comment, eyebrows drawn together. So many ways she could take this passive acceptance...
     She lets it slide. Time enough for regrets later, when she's had time to realize how deep a hole she's dug for herself. "Thanks," she says guardedly, taking the strawberry and turning it round in her hand, preparatory to taking a bite.
     "Damn, these're big. So elf shite is more potent, huh... Think I'm going to go change, if you don't mind."
     Gives me some space from too much male beauty, and from my own weakness...

Posted by rowan at May 26, 2003 07:32 PM