She's been considering it for days, now. Weeks. Something like that - some sort of human time scale which is meaningless, and logically, she knows to be meaningless, to him. There's not so much sun to go around, in London, that any of the available light gets wasted - at least, that's how it used to be. Autre temps, autre mores, as someone (such as William) might have said. Fiona stands by the window, looking at the fading glint of light as it plays over the glass panes, a pretty cavalcade of sparkles which she dimly sees herself reflected in, paused in thought.
     Everything's changed, since then. Since she braced herself with uncertain steps on the guard rail of a cement and steel bridge, hovering while shoving a crumpled piece of paper into her pocket - since she pushed off with desperation lending vigour to her limbs, and catapulted out into open space and nothingness, and fell into waters which never have been pure since her grandfather's grandfather's grandfather's era (and wouldn't he have had a few tales to tell, more merry and more deadly than she by far).
     She's garbed simply, in a scoop-necked gown of soft, crinkly white cotton, hair back in a loose, heavy braid. Simplicity. Everything's changed, but some things have not. She still ...
     Stepping away from the window, Fiona draws the curtains closed, turning to the largely empty room, with its pale wooden slatted floorboards. There's a bed in the room - queen-sized mattress on an old four poster frame, unscrupulously wheedled from her parents' estate, with matching dresser and loveseat. She's taken to keeping the mirror covered, when she isn't using it. A couple of cartons still wait to be unpacked by the closet, but other than that, the room is empty. She pauses for a moment, picking up the charm from the bureau and stepping towards the middle of the room.
     "Mm... not quite. I nearly forgot." Some mischief moves the lady's mouth, and she returns to the dresser, opening a drawer and taking out a plastic bag from it - a recent purchase, it seems. Two wineglasses, a bottle of red wine, a corkscrew - these, she places on the wardrobe's surface. A catnip mouse, then, she places on the bed, with an impish grin, and she holds up the charm, taking a breath.
     "I hope you're listening, and not asleep, but if you are, well, that's your own lookout. Huw ... Huw ... Huw!"

     I was napping...
     Beneath the loving shelter of a poplar tree. There is a stream that winds upon that Earth What Never Was, over slate-grey rocks covered with living moss that speak my name in such whispers. Cursing and for spite singing.
     For my time on earth is now done, and winter is unfolding there below. Or is your world to the side of mine own? I never can remember. But yes... I was napping...
     And the earth beneath me turned golden and red and I woke when all the leaves of the poplar suddenly dropped upon my head. Sometimes, my blessings come too well, my power too secure.
     Huw...
     Huw...
     Huw...
     It is spoken like an owl, like a breath of a child, teasing a candle's flame. I know not where I shall land, or how I shall appear. I am merely pulled.
     The wind outside picks up, and on it the water of a youthful winter. The first of many storms that London shall endure. And the wood of your floorboards creak. But by some herb he is drawn, and thus he appears in a moment more, materializing under the coverlets of your bed, taking solid form, and starting to rise.
     You have him in your bed. Did you think to ask him to wear his clothes?
     A hand shows itself and pulls the sheet off his face and he leans up on his elbow. His dark hair is all out of joint, his slightly slanted eyes, almond-shaped, are dark as night. And the beauteous face tugged by a wry smile as a leaf falls from his hair.
     "I was dreaming of spring. It is the only way I can see it. And here am I brought to earth in my brother's reign. Shhh," Huw lifts a finger to his well-formed lips, "... say not a word. He is slow of wit, perhaps he will miss me. And have you?"

     That makes her blush, despite herself, all her newly gained confidence shaken slightly, though she doesn't turn and run like a startled hind. "I wasn't expecting you to be naked!" It comes out tart, though perhaps softened by the colour in her face, and she turns her gaze away automatically, towards the covered mirror. A pity, perhaps, that it's covered.
     Slowly, her gaze slides back, though, bit by bit, one hand drawn up around the charm to her throat, though she holds it without wearing it.
     "How am I supposed to answer? Perhaps by flinging myself at you in girlish glee, then to sob on your shoulder and beat on your chest with my fists, while raining kisses on your mouth?" One corner of her mouth curves upwards. "That much a stereotype, I still haven't sunk to."
     "I have missed you, yes," Fiona admits. "Though I haven't been wanting to admit it, and I put off calling you accordingly." She turns around again, but keeps her gaze primly focused on your face.
     "You've got leaves caught in your hair," she states unnecessarily, "but you look ... well enough." Fiona tilts her head, consideringly. What to say, she's not sure. "I hope you don't mind my drawing you out here, then? You never call, you never write, a girl's got to do something..."

     He looks startled. Naked? And he lifts the sheet. Well, whattaya know. "Oh," he says finally, dismissively as he lowers the blanket back down for your modesty's sake -- for well you know he has none -- "I was napping naked. Well, such as the earth itself naps in My Reign, when all its leaves and fronds fall like... so many garments." Huw twists a smile and strong arms go behind his head, head resting on his palms and on you pillows. He looks around. Then looks confused. Where are we.
     "How long has it been? I know it was Autumn when I came... it is Winter now. It is the same year at least, I hope. How you must hate me, daughter of earth, and yes, I do wish I had a few kisses raining on my mouth at least, that I might know you loved me."
     What a line...
     "Yes, the leaves are hazard of the job. What can I say. But where are we anyway? This is not your room, not the room I knew. Not that I ever saw it as frequently as I wished," he grumbles at last, and then he rolls up, rolling onto his side, elbow propped on the pillow and he leaning into you. With those eyes that are the bandits of summer sun and warmth. "You look ... better than when I left you... fiesty, yes, flashy of temperment, like brass in the sunlight, and yet... there is some underlying.... is it sweetness?" he wonders, screwing his face up and narrowing his eyes at you. And then he smiles.
     His build is not as large as Davydd's, nor William's -- from what you know -- but he's strong still. And chimes and talismans tinkle about his throat as he turns. "I don't mind you calling me out, no..."

     She's doomed to blushing, lately, it seems, but Fiona resigns herself to it as best she can. And, truth be told, she's a little amused, nonetheless. "Less than a year has passed," she agrees. "Maybe two, three months? Not more than four," she's a little vague, herself, "but less than half a year, definitely."
     "I don't hate you, but you'll have to either steal kisses, or wait until my hard heart has softened enough that I can be persuaded." Her eyes are grey again, but not lacking in warmth that gives away the humour. "As to whether or not I loved you, well... I'll twist that knife later."
     She reaches down lightly, sliding her hand into those dark locks of hair, grabbing a fistful and shaking lightly, gently despite her grip. "Pfft. Lady Fiona Arundel, editor of The Magazine can never be called 'sweet'. What're you trying to do, ruin my reputation?" Maybe it's a mirror universe Fiona... her evil twin... or her good one...
     Fiona releases the handful suddenly, and grins. "Good that you didn't mind, since I did. Would you like some wine? Or would you prefer to see the rest of the apartment, first? And yes, you're in my bed again - God, that sounds decadent - just a change of locale. I moved."

     Surprisingly soft, that hair, and there's no resistance as you grab and tussle, his head moves at your bidding. As does his laughter. Throaty. He closes his eyes and grins a cat's grin -- surely you recognize that. Huw opens his eyes slowly, twisting to you as you set him free. A hand reaches out, he grins, and with a tug he pulls you in.
      Well, you started it...
     A kiss is stolen, brief. For he is expecting to receive a bang on the ear for it. "In your bed again. I think you like to keep me here." He kisses quick again, a bite to your lower lip and he lies back. "I'm good for hours now. So, what's this, then, about love? And tell me the story of your transformation. I find this wondrous strange. Where is the little girl with her cloak of pride and fear? I see a woman before me now...are you sure it's just been four months?"
     For all his teasing, there's a good deal of genuine compliment in that. "And no... no wine... and ... I like the view from here." Huw laughs again.

     She's caught by surprise - she wasn't really expecting that, despite it all. "Mmph!" Fiona lands, expression startled, eyes widened, where you tug her to. "I-mph!"
     Kisses, stolen or otherwise, have a way of stealing more than just the touch of Fiona's lips. It seals off speech, brings a flood of colour to her face, warming her skin and her eyes. "One question at a time," she manages, finally, swinging a light cuff at the side of your head - easily warded off, and not with full strength at that, as if power's been sapped by time spent being kissed. "And you can check my computer, if you like, or the calendar ... four months."
     The view? That trickles down into conscious comprehension, and she yelps, squirming and struggling to sit up and readjust her dress. "Bad cat!" She mock-hisses, lips drawing back ferally at the edges to reveal neat little teeth, even and white. "No catnip mousie for you..." She smooths down the cotton folds a bit, regardless, and continues. "And I jumped off a bridge, and this is where I landed."

     "Nah, I believe you," Huw says at last, fending off the mock blow easily enough by the motion to lie backward. He makes himself comfortable, bad cat indeed, and makes motion between looking at you and looking at the rest of your new locale -- well, what he can see from the bed. "Four months it's been, then."
     After making himself comfortable, and lording over the bed in the process, Huw looks to you, eyebrows lifted, "You jumped off a bridge? As in to die?" He looks at you amazed, or horrified, maybe both. Maybe the horror comes in knowing you landed in The Thames. Dark eyes flick about the room again. "Nice apartment. But I guess that's not really the point. So," he rolls over again, head propped up on his elbow, "... you've chosen a path... you must walk it."

     "Four months," Fiona agrees, dryly, but not without amusement, settling onto a corner of the bed, folding her hands in her lap. "And yes, I jumped off a bridge." A shrug. "Do or die. I didn't die. And I checked up, yes, I've had all my shots, I'm still healthy..."
     Or healthy again, but what's the difference, really? She slides down to sit on the floor, resting arms on the bed, chin on her arms. "I changed things around a bit, yes. I'm giving it a try. If it works, well, it works. And if not ... I'm sure I can find things to fill my hours. You seem to manage, after all."

     Huw raises a finger. "I don't have hours to contend with. Or even days," he says. "It is easy for me. I exist. It is simple. For you... it is not so simple. You do not know your task. I know my purpose well, I only have one afterall." Huw leans in and lowers his voice. "To make leaves fall and birds fly south with all their songs..."
     His lips twist in sardonic humor as you slide away to safety. "And so... I feel that there has been a change," he says. "You have no need now of faerie princes and Lord Autumn and his hunt?" And still he smiles, his humor and his emotion unchanged. "Or shall I whisper to you sweetly," he wonders, "...and tell thee to get thee to thy bed, and here I lay," a look around as if to confirm it, "...the rest may follow as it may..." He's rhyming.
     Dark eyes fix on you. You can slide away, but you can't hide. "I can make you feel as if you lay upon roses, not a bed, and in such softness you might not care so much about the pain of a lost maidenhead..." Have you ever heard him speak so provocatively? Nor does he hide his look, nor try to mask it. He, in deepening winter, is perhaps entering the... coupling time of year. Do fairies have seasons?

     The colour that keeps rising, moves higher, almost strangling her voice when she goes to speak, to try and come up with answer for words that nearly rob her of the power of speech. "I didn't call you here only to send you away," Fiona manages, after a moment, dryly swallowing.
     "Um, but ... er, you ... don't normally talk like this." She sits back, brushing her palms over her cheeks self-consciously, as if she can will the colour to sink back down to normal. The perils of being fair of skin.
     There's a power in words which compels her, that influences her, rhyme or no rhyme, that if it lacked, she'd never have become a writer. "W-what's brought this on, so suddenly? I mean..." Any minute now, she's either going to melt, or back away into a corner.

     "It has been for your sake that I have foresaken all others. Four months to you. An eternity for me. And the world lies barren and dark. The smoke of fires lie heavy on the air, and spices of the season. And the longest night approaches. I... am.... in a mood..."
     And on the move. Is it fortunate or unfortunate? For when he moves the better part of the blanket falls away, and you have the spirit of Autumn in your bed, in the mood for love. Oh dear, what shall you do?
     Near you, Huw smirks. "The height of my power runs from Summer Solstice to the Equinox of Spring. After such time, I must rest, while Brother Spring and Summer have their day. But in my Autumnal reign, and in the darkness of Winter's cold fortress, I am... at the height of... all things... Me. Shall you make me wait," he whispers, mouth at your ear. "Shall you send me from here and thus deny me? Or do you not want this... as much as I?"

     What Fiona does, first of all, is blush. What she tries not to do, is panic. "Aheh." It's a nervous little giggle that escapes her despite herself. "Um. You ... forsaked - forsook, others? You never mentioned that, before." She blinks a few times, trying to clear her mind, and failing miserably.
     You move, and she goes crimson, sliding back a half-inch and looking for something else to look at, considering she's on the floor and hence more or less eye level with ... well. Certain masculine portions of anatomy. She covers her mouth with both hands for a moment. And then you're right there, and she's ... flustered.
     "I'm ... uh, if I tell you yes, what happens then?" It's not quite stalling. For all her newfound confidence, there's still an element of fragility - this, of all things, she has no grounds to be confident on. "And ... do you just disappear for six months at a time? I mean, um." Somewhere, a quiet little part of her brain is squeaking.

     "If you tell me: Yes, Huw," and he makes no move to cover himself, why should he? He has no concept of Shame, "...then I take you by the hand and I lead you to me and to ... your next bridge," he can't help the metaphor. Or the grin. "If you tell me no, then... I will continue to be pleasant, hear all of what you called me here to hear and bid you adieu until you should call again. And, yes, I refused the offers and temptations of the women of my kingdom. As a matter of earning your trust."
     So he says...
     "As for disappearing... I come when it is time for me to come... I come when I am called by the One in all the Universe who wears the charm of calling. In Autumn, I am... able to come more freely, at my own will. In Winter... less so, but still better than the spring. In summer, it is difficult... even if I am called..." His voice ends in a hush and he leans in to steal another kiss.
     What a view...

     The kiss, more than the words, cause her to sigh, half-turning towards it. "You'd better not be lying," Fiona mutters. "If I find out you've got a wife and kids - or multiple wives and children - somewhere Else, I am going to be deeply, deeply hurt." And that is Truth, recognizable and sharp, even if her tone is not.
     She lifts a hand, grabbing at those soft flowing locks again, trying to tug you down to be level with her. "I chose you because of your strength, you know. Because of how it ... affects me, and what it reminds me of. I'm not very strong, inside, not when it comes to this." Utterly candid, she looks up with a brief plea lurking behind the veil of her eyelashes, in the glitter of grey in her eyes.
     "But that's why, when I went to make a choice, I chose you, and not Hwyll... because I could tell Hwyll wasn't interested in me, and maybe you weren't, either, but Hwyll's a ladies' man. I could never expect him to promise me anything. So ... if I say yes ... what do you promise me? Your company, when you're able to visit, and nothing more?" Well, she's still blunt, in her own way.
     "And ... what will you ask, of me in return?"

     "Hwyll has a woman in every port," Huw concurs. "You were wise to say no to him. The wind is a flirt, it carries pollen to ... entire fields of flowers." How's that for a metaphor. Even he chuckles at it. "And I will not lie. I do have offspring. But... our kind... there is not such a thing as ... marriage. To what end? My children are swollen streams, chilled rain," his mouth tugs on yours, "...holly berries..." You thought it would be simple. Or that they'd be named Tom, Dick or Harry?
     "I promise to visit when I am able. I promise to stay when I can. I promise to treat you with respect and with honor. I promise to be there when you decide to travel to the next realm for good. And right now.... I promise to take you gently. Now, come to the bed and to me. I cannot promise to be patient..."
     Huw lifts the covers and he lifts the sheet, he opens your bed to you, and himself. He in full view.

     "...It's not fair," Fiona mumbles, against your mouth. But then, nothing ever is fair, is it? And while part of her is tempted to cling to her virginity, as if it could save her, part of her wants to give in. Wants to not be alone, more than anything.
     Losing Dot - and even if it's because they travelled down different forks, to different roads entirely, it was still a loss - hurt her deeply, more than she could admit. And even while patching up the holes with Davydd, with William, it's still ... lonely.
     "I ... all right." But her legs don't want to function, even as she tries to push herself to her feet, and Fiona bites down on her lip. "You're rather ... intimidating, you know," she whispers softly. "When you're like this." It's not a complaint, and she shifts up onto her knees, trying to raise gracefully, despite the obvious wobble to her gait.

     "So was Hades to Persephone..." he whispers. And is that not him? And is that not you? Read the myth again and see what you think...
     There is a smile, there is a wink, there is a soft chuckle...

     And in the corner...
     Oy vay...
     The heel of his palm comes up to his forehead and the angel of destiny has to face-palm himself. She never does anything the easy way, I'll grant her that.
     Shadowy wings, unseen by either of you, wrap around him and conceal his eyes. He'd rather not see the fall of the world's last optimist...

     She pushes up, finally, contemplating the picture with a slighty frown. "Are you trying to tell me you've more names than I already knew?" Like this would be such a shock. Fiona straightens, adjusting the straps of her gown self-consciously, gaze flitting about the mostly empty room.
     "You're not really helping, you know." She takes a careful step forward, as if progressing along a balance beam. She used to be a gymnast, and a ballerina, and all the other things little girls from the right families do while trying to grow up to be little princesses, and then big princesses. "If I fuck you," deliberately, she uses the crudity, "I end up giving away half of my life? Is that it?"
     There's still a little bit of her, under the surface, the desire to bite and to goad still there, Fiona's eyes narrowed now in concentration. "I'm not sure I want to be a Persephone..."

     "But you get to go out at the best times of the year. Persephone never complained," he murmurs, and he has to be teasing for he is laughing again. A wink and he pats the surface of your bed. Come here, little darling. "I didn't know I was supposed to help, do you need a hand getting to the bed, swete?" Old English for 'sweet'.
     "And... no... when you fuck me," nice how he turned that around, "... you will not be selling your soul. Do not worry. You will just be giving me your body, and I will be showing you what may be done with it," he crudely returns, but there is humor even in that. He's not going to force you, and he's not going to make it unpleasant. "We will go slow," Huw says, rolling over onto his side again, and the blanket, while concealing him, is gathered up against him tight when he moves, hunter's form indicated. As well as his excitement. "Each petal plucked from your flower, my meadow, will come with a gentle touch, a gentle word, and a moan..."

     The angel lowers his wings. Eyebrows lift and he jots something in his notebook.
     He's good...

     Her face reddens again, and she crosses her arms over her chest, even as she drops her chin and takes another careful step forward. At least, though, her brain's working a little more than it was, even if Fiona's breathing's a trifle erratic.
     "That isn't what I meant," she mutters defensively. "You're charming enough to talk grass into jumping to the donkey's mouth, but you're not telling me what I need to know. If that's deliberate, I'm not sure I should sleep with you." Not that much sleeping would be involved.
     "You know," her voice falters, then picks up, "if I ... do this with you, I'll probably fall in love with you entirely. I can't help that, Huw. It's the way I am. But you're saying that you'll come when I call, you don't sound too interested in seeing me except when I do. You don't give any indication of wanting to be with me, even, except to protect me... or to have sex with me... and I don't think that's very fair." Even with cheeks blazing, even while taking a small, measured, even step forward, she still manages to force the words out, in a way Drancy never could have. And she comes to a halt, casting a pleading look at you.
     "I'd like awfully to be convinced, but ... you can't. Can you?"

     He looks at you, and perhaps you'll notice a slight softening of his features. Perhaps not. "I am not of your world, or your time. You know this," he says, and has he not explained the...particular nature of his life? Or unlife, as the case may be. "I do not mean to mislead you, this deliberance you speak of. But I cannot promise you, nor have I ever lied, that I could be... like any other man to you. This is not my realm. I visit it...only for a short time every year...at the beginning of Autumn. That is my time, Fiona, and my Existence. I thought maybe I could spend time here... in a guise... but you know... that could only last 9 days." And he looks a little sad, Huw does.
     "I cannot just...come and go as I please. I'm not ...real here... like you. You can go to the supermarket whenever you feel like it. You can see your friends, whenever you wish it to be so. If I am on earth out of my time, I cause ill weather and floods, crops die, and horses do not foal. Autumn... cannot last the whole year. Not even if he wanted to..."

     Biting her lip, Fiona lowers her gaze, but her forward advance stops abruptly. "Then why?", she whispers. "Why hold off others for my sake... why not just tell me? D'you think I'd think less of you for not being able to? Or has it been so important to you, that you ... get me into bed?"
     She scowls - scowling is easier than crying, after all, at least easier on her dignity. "I'd rather know, Huw. How d'you think it'd feel? If you fall in love with someone, and you can't be with them - maybe it's different for you, maybe you don't fall in love, I don't know, but how would it be so much better for me than Hwyll? I don't want to be loved and left, even if not for another woman. I don't want someone who'll just ... introduce me to the banquet and walk away. Even if because he has to."
     She turns away, abruptly, braid swinging heavily against her hips and thighs, looking down at the floor as she hunches her shoulders. "I can't blame you for what you can't do. But ... you were going to sleep with me, anyway."

     He looks a little lost. Copy that look and slap it on the face of Any Man at Any Time. Even your beloved Davydd and William. The look is universal. Even angels wear it. "If it were that important to me, then I would have had you much sooner. Like the night you tempted me to a hunt and lost. And still... I did not press. You... were not ready. And... I did not say I was going to leave you, Fiona... or not be with you but... no... neither will I lie to you. I cannot love you as you would likely love me. I am not human."
     Nor is anyone else you love, though Davydd is closest of all...
     There falls a sigh and Huw the Hunter sits up, the blanket falling away. There's no hiding him. Nice form. Nature in all its best symmetry -- like all ideals, icons and figments of a young girl's fancy. "I want to sleep with you... no, I do not want to sleep, I do not understand that figure of speech," he says suddenly. "I want to lay with you. I want to feel what it is like to be real for a moment. Feel your heartbeat around me," and it doesn't mean your arms, "...and be the first one who has known you so well. So, I am selfish."

     "Maybe you need to try being female instead of male, for a lark," Fiona says, with a hint of bitterness to the words. She turns, but she doesn't whirl. Drancy would explode, energy turning to movement, out of control to chaos. She is not like that any longer...
     She lets her arms drop, hands clenched for a moment at her sides. "Imagine, if you will, being born with a part of you being able to be removed from your body, from your physical form. You can, at any point, lose that part of you, if it is not well guarded. And - eventually - you might give that part of yourself away. It will hurt - even if it's a gift made freely, yes, it will still hurt. But the act of giving it, if it is to someone who will be near you, and give that part of themselves to you in return, will make up for the pain, and more than merely make up for it."
     Turning, Fiona fixes her gaze on the winebottle on the bureau. "Now ... imagine giving it to someone who has no similiar part to give back, who can promise nothing, because he ... hasn't got that part to give. D'you think it'll stop hurting, then? D'you think it'd make up for empty nights and lonely days? I don't want a few hours of physical intimacy here and there, Huw. I want more. And yes, if it needs to be called such, then yes ... I'm selfish, too."
     Her face is pink, but her voice is tight, controlled, gaze focused above the waist as best she can. "Maybe I'm a fool, but I want to hold out for the most I can get..."

     For a lark...
     Why not...
     Autumn transforms himself into a dark haired faerie woman, a bit more buxom than most -- she is, afterall, the male mind's image of a faerie woman, namely...his -- and perfectly arched and plucked brows lift a little. "I do not think this is going to help me..." But all teasing aside, when he becomes Himself again, he is clothed in his usual layers of earthen colors, mostly browns. Like autumn fallen leaves. "I don't think you're foolish," he says, leaning on the old, knotted bow, chin on his folded hands, his beauteous face shown to you, tilted. "I can't offer much. If you were a faerie girl, we'd be handfasted and welcoming a child by now, I'm certain of it. For I have come to care for you. But you are right, I cannot be here with you always."
     Huw straightens, "Wise to guard your treasure so fierce, that none may steal it. Give it wisely, Fiona... or call me," he smiles suddenly. "For in years it may only be my Yesterday."

     That makes her bite her lip, arms folding over her chest again. "I'm not, though. I'm stuck here, and you're ... stuck there, or whatever it is, and I have no way of getting there from here." Even though the idea tempts her, she's not ready to cut ties between here and there.
     "I'm just ... what I am. I don't know whether it's wisdom or foolishness, but it hurts anyway," she remains honest, at least in private moments, "and I won't pretend it doesn't... what do you mean, your Yesterday?"
     That, at least, distracts Fiona from potential grief, though it doesn't unfurrow her puckered brow.

     "Time is only Here. Time... what is that to me? I will always be there. It will always be As It Is. Call upon me, should you ... not find a better match... and no matter how much time for you has passed, it will seem like Yesterday to me. And, yes, we seem stuck. I do not know what your magic will waken in you. Perhaps you ... will be able to travel when I am not. I do not know."
     Huw tugs at his gloves, one by one, and he looks like he's preparing to go. "Hurt is unavoidable. But... do not think that I do not care. That I would not like to see you plump with my offspring..." His mouth tugs. "Instead of another man's. Already, I do not like Him." Whomever he will be. "I will make sure the wind is never at his back, and that from September to December, he is never free of rain. Now... I should go or we will make it worse..."

     That makes her blush. She's still too much of a modern child, here where there is Time, for the idea of herself, pregnant in that possessive sense, not to embarass her a little, even if she responds to it at the same time.
     "Maybe," Fiona echos, wrapping her arms around herself. Brave face. "And for all you know, there might never be anyone else, so no fair cursing him in advance. But ... yeah. I'm - sorry, for disturbing your nap."
     There's certainly an element of 'I will NOT cry, god DAMN it' to her, right now, as she lifts her chin in that peremptory little way she has. She moves to say something, but halts, and instead, all she does is whisper, in a tiny little voice. "I'm sorry."

     "Do not be. There is no fault here, dear Fiona. Do not blame yourself. Do not do that. No fault to you, nor indeed to me. And if you ...find that man... and you have his babies, I will visit them." Huw grins, eyes twinkling. "But I promise here and now that I will not steal them." Spoken like a true faerie. "I will... bless them. And protect them."
     He crosses over to you and places his hand upon your head. "I find you strong, where I first found you weak. I find you confident, where I first found you fearful. I find you lovely. Maybe one day, I will find you in Tir Na Nog. Do not... as they say... be a stranger..." And bending, he leaves you with a kiss.
     Leaving with a hug of cool and mild wind. The leaf that was in his hair in the beginning falls to the floor.

     It hurts, even so, even if apologies aren't, strictly speaking, needed. She was ready to do it - and even if the decision was the right one, it doesn't really help her put away her grief, for 'might have beens'. Even if there remains a 'maybe someday'.
     Fiona drops to the floor, tears that have been dammed up behind her eyelids slowly trickling down her cheeks. All right, so she's crying. She's -not- going to howl, dammit. Slowly, she crawls forward, to pick up the leaf, lifting it and climbing to her feet and approaching the mantlepiece, the covered mirror.
     One slender hand lifts, pulling the covering off, and she regards herself for one long, mournful moment, her reflection staring back at her. Gently, she takes the leaf, placing it in a small box wherein already rests a feather. Other women collect men's hearts. Fiona collects tokens, it seems, from faerie men. She looks for a long moment, at the two wine glasses, picking up one of them in a too tense hand, looking as though she's about to throw it.
     Then, at the last moment, she pulls open a drawer, and slides the glass inside, bumping the compartment shut again with her hip. Picking up the bottle, corkscrew and remaining glass, she goes over to the bed. Someone's going to call in sick tomorrow morning, after having polished off a whole bottle of very good wine by herself, but ...
     ...Sometimes, such excesses are simply necessary.

Posted by rowan at June 15, 2003 09:45 AM