It's been about twenty minutes since the phone call ended, brief as it was. He sat for a minute or two in the car, listening to the dogs in the back seat. Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Why is the car not moving? When is dinner? Do you know you smell like liver, Rhyddid? He gave me a treat while you weren't looking, Bwci. Why didn't I get a treat? Are we there yet? I need to piddle...
     It was on that note that Davydd exhaled, frowned and turned on the ignition. "Alright, boyos, alright..." And when the engine rolled over, the music began. From the CD player, his own voice. CDs are easy to burn these days, one may self publish even if one isn't rich. This one sounds professional. There are even other musicians...
     I like that one best, thinks Bwci...
     I like liver, thinks Rhyddid...
     Heavy thoughts made an ethereal practice out of the driving. Mind instinctively moving on streets and with rules he's memorized. He's on autopilot. Trying not to fulfill his own worry. Trying not to, as Edward said, become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
     I don't know how to talk about the unspeakable... how can it be explained? All I do is make her forehead crease with worry...
     Dogs muffle in the back seat, mrph and snort. I want liver. I need to piddle...
     I need a cigarette, Davydd's own mind states...
     He lights up as he rounds the way to Meniwell Tower, smoking as he parks in what has become his "assigned" spot. He cuts the engine, switches out the lights and gets the lads out of the back. Bwci promptly piddles on a cement pillar. All this takes place without so much as a thought or consideration. Davydd's mind is...simply elsewhere.
     And so it was as he headed into the Tower itself, barely an acknowledging wave to the staff he's gotten to know so well. He moves without his usual exuberance. He seems as pensive as he is. Trotting, wobbling, fat dogs behind him all the way, their clicking nails silenced by the carpet and rugs.
     There is no presence of him until the keys chime at the door and until the door opens itself, and his harbingers, his heralds, his dogs trot into their suite, look for the kitty, and then get distracted by the smell of food. Little nails chime against the kitchen's tiled floor.
     And Davydd closes the door. When his presence and Self do come up for air, they are a little lighter than before. The ... upset?... has been replaced by something weighty, but not as intense as before. "Heyho," he calls, voice lifting with warmth. "The old man's home..."

     "But where is Davydd," Sandrine says, face appearing around the blonde kitchen lentel. When the going gets tough, the tough bring out flowers and cook. The living room is awash in color and the greenhouse door stands proudly open. Peonies with much greenery stand in glass and marble vases around the room, with a rather large arrangement taking up part of the living room's low coffeetable. From where Sandrine stands, the smell of beef and fruit wafts, along with wine already open.
     "Come on you all, dinner is here," she motions to the dogs. Food and water sit in their kitchen corner, as if she expected they'd be hungry.
     Yet though the room gleams, Sandrine's demeanor shows signs of a struggle between cheer and working resolve. She is not angry. Instead, she works at remaining placid. Unemotional.
     "How are you?" she asks, coming to stand fully on in the kitchen archway. Hands curl in her apron, deliberately cleaning the dinner's residue from her fingers. The question is loaded, certainly, and she seems to mean it that way.
     "Went for a drive?" she inquires, stepping down into the sunken living room as to not tower over you.

     His senses are assaulted. Not merely with all the colors and smells, the sound of your voice, the smell of your perfume, the food, all of the things that would normally wash over him with all the force of a cresting wave against the Welsh shoreline, but those things to you invisible, inaudible. The rush of life, the touches of sparkling ...inspiration that you leave everywhere. The muted voices of clipped flowers. The strong life that is centered in the greenhouse. That little pocket of Eden, where well and carefully pruned plants live vibrantly. Vibrance, he is sensitive to. Inexplicably so, in his mind -- how can I ever explain this? -- and it moves against him -- all of this -- and makes him stand in place for a moment.
     The dogs are always hungry. And their master has a very non-vampiric appetite as well, as you have come to know. Eating meat is in his diet -- a diet that would even make the heartiest of his companions wince. And so, they all come. Dogs first as they, without a care in the world, may move through their evening like any evening. Davydd comes a bit more slowly.
     Hands in his pockets but with a smile eeking out -- most notable in his dark green eyes -- he rounds the corner of the foyer to the living area/dining room and exhales, beginnng to come out of his jacket a moment later. "Alright. Better," he adds a half-second after. But he can't lie. He's also worried. We will have to talk, we can't cook and joke our way out of this. "But hungry," he admits, grinning, turning his gaze from you, briefly, to the set table and then toward the kitchen.
     He greets you as you come into the sunken living room, you feel his hand warm against your side, flushing touch to your waist and then he bends. He closes his eyes, his kiss lingering at your temple. One of the best places to feel a pulse. And one of the more intimate.
     "I went for a drink... it just... took me a while to get here. Ended up in dinner traffic in the posh heart of the city," comes the lilt and drag of it. Davydd pulls back a bit. "You...look beautiful. Looks like spring is early," a note to the flowers and greenery and the life pulsing outside. "Spring is my favorite time of year..."

     "An illusion," Sandrine whispers, closing her eyes at your touch. She doesn't fall back, and the apron flutters lightly to her lap again. She bathed after closing the shop, and the smell of cream soap still lingers at her skin. "There's tenderloin and duck in black currants," she explains, still standing near you, "...with a bit of curried yam." Her hand touches your elbow, but it's almost hesitant.
     A sigh. She shouldn't have said what she said to begin. "Thank you," is the more gracious answer, "...for..." her hand waves at herself. For saying she was beautiful. "I'm glad you're hungry," Sandrine adds, "...I think you'll like your dinner..."

     "You take such good care of one who is... difficult to care for," he smiles more truly now, ice broken, melting. His eyes have wrinkles in the corners when he smiles. Close up, you can note the freckles on the small upturned nose of an old chieftain/prince. Something that speaks of sunburns past, like the corners at his eyes -- of thirty-six years of squinting. An archer's squint, his eyes focus keenly.
     He doesn't set you free. In fact, at the mention of the food, you find yourself surrounded, arms around your waist. You'll have to protest to get free. The hold is solid. And the look is unwavering. "You know... I do not tell you that often enough, maybe you don't think that I think it, but you are learning the ways. More than any who's ever come before you." His arms begin to slacken, his hold to recede just a touch. It is not to draw away, but to surrender to something. In this case, a kiss.
     Despite the scotch and the one clove cigarette...
     "I know you have been patient," he whispers, unable to keep from talking, even at the end of something surrendering and sweet. "Thank you," he breathes at your ear. "So... should I go tidy up a bit," his hold begins to recede again, and he upon the edge of turning. "Or is it still a ways off. Smells terrific. I love duck," he says suddenly. "...and currants. And yams...ah, I know... I shall put on some coffee..."

     Sandrine stands there, watching you go on. Staring. "I don't understand you," Sandrine says as you seem cheered up and ready for dinner. "Maybe I do not think what, Davydd? That you appreciate that I cook? I know that," she states, turning about to head towards the kitchen again. "Do you think that is the problem, truly?" her voice recedes as she moves under the archway.
     Soon enough, the sound of a moving pot and the arrangement of plates issues forth.
     Then suddenly, things go quiet in the kitchen.
     From the archway, Sandrine can be seen again, in her red dress. She tilts her head to the side and watches you for a moment, as if a light just came on. Something realized.
     "Davydd," she suddenly chimes, "...do not say anything for a moment. Just...wait..."

     Sometimes we just have a failure to communicate. I think I should learn some Finnish. Or something. Maybe German would help. Davydd turns back as you talk about cooking and his brow furrows in a decidedly huh? fashion. "Wha? No, no... not the cooking," he dismisses softly, "...though," brows opening outward, "...I like it very much, you're quite accomplished. I meant... just... in general. You... take good care of me, hmm?"
     And in a larger sense, he knows you don't understand him. You head in the kitchen and he collapses on the sofa. I can't get something that simple across. There's no way I'm going to be able to vocalize any of the rest of it. "That's all," he calls out. "Maybe you don't know how much it means to me, maybe I have been bad about expressing that. That's what I meant."
     And now he's reclining on the sofa, with his shoes on. Cretin. Eyes up to the ceiling as if he could peel it back and look at the stars directly. "The problem is not your cooking," he exhales, wearily. Seeing his shoes, he tsks at himself and then peels them off. Thump. Thump. "For one who likes to talk so much," he gruffs, meaning himself of course, "... I find I am not good at it. So... maybe I should shut up and let you do the talking for once..."
     And then you, inasmuch, say the same thing. So. He shuts up.

     Removing the apron, Sandrine tosses it aside in a most careless fashion.
     "You are Davydd ap Owain, yes? A prince..." she reminds, "...a chieftain. I have known," she nods, "...many men like you, Davydd. My father was one," Sandrine tells. Have you heard this story? "My brother. My grundenvater. His too. The man I was once betrothed to. And I will say, Davydd," she comes and settles on the sofa's edge near your knees, "...you..." her gaze lowers to her forming lap, "...are not like them."
     "Maybe," Sandrine smiles faintly, "...I am used to men who..." and then Sandrine rattles something off in Middle High Norse, "...how do I say this, Davydd?" she sighs, not despondently, but as someone trying to tell the truth. "The men I have known, Davydd, would not have come in, complimenting me on my cooking after what happened today. They would..." she blinks and looks off, as if trying to hear her father's voice, "...my father," she begins, stiffening, "...would have come in, looked at my mother, and said that there was a problem and it would be fixed immediately." Sandrine smirks, finally looking at you, "...well, on a good day, he would have admitted a problem. Most times, he would have simply told her the way things were to be. That...is what I am used to."
     "Davydd," her fingers reaching for yours. "Do not think I do not know how you feel about me. I do. I knew that from the night we met again. Why do you insist, when we have difficulty, that it must be you and that...you need to tell me that you love me, or my dress is nice, or that you appreciate me?" exasperation there. "I know that, Davydd. Why do you presume blame as you?"
     "That...is never the stance of a chieftain," she says softly, as if knowing there is a rebuke in that. "Not a Liegensthane, as you. Maybe," she swallows, "...it is because you have had...experiences...where you were told that you never said nice things to her. I think now, that was an excuse to...dispirit you, Davydd." And it seems it was successful.
     "I am not like that," she reminds, finger twined around one of yours, Sandrine's face earnest as she leans to explain, to speak out of her place. "I do not need compliments at every turn. Or...a Prince...who shrinks from me and frets his time imagining a host of offenses."
     "I am a chieftain's daughter, Davydd," Sandrine says with a smile. "Have I ever told you that? And I do not know how to be..." her head tilts, "...with a man...who is no longer sure of himself. I do not know what to say to him. Just like, sometimes, I do not know what to say to you. Because...I do not know what you want from me, Davydd. And I do not know if you know either..."

     I will never understand women. None of you make sense. Maybe Plantagenet was smart to turn to the world of men. With a man, I could tell him to sod off and stop being difficult. But with you lot, there's never a good answer.
     A man gets a little civilized and he's not civilized enough. Or, the next thing he knows he's being called too civilized. Utterly inconsiderate by one. Too considerate by the next.
     Maybe I should not have tried to be amenable. Maybe I should not have tried to be... considerate...
     Fuck. I thought that's what you lot wanted. Make up your fucking minds...
     "I am sure of myself," he counters, and he'll argue that with you, he's sitting up. "...I'm not as sure of this," he gestures from himself to you. "I have been walking on eggshells, admittedly. I'm glad you noticed," there's a snort. He takes a breath. "Every time something is not... orderly, and get used to that by the way, because nothing around me is orderly," Davydd rolls on, "... I feel like you are going to ..." his hands wave, gesticulate, he grasping for a word that fits, "...clear off, hmm? That it will be: That is it. You know... you have been very patient," again, that quote, "...aye? And I am to gather from that there might be a night when you won't be? And from that... what, Sandrine? Not worry? I did this," another gesture to you and him, "...differently, you see. This time, I opened myself up. And I trust your father didn't do that in the Middle Ages, I know I didn't. Fuck that. I wanted to live. But it's not the fourteenth century, Sandrine. And it's not the twelfth. There are no more kingdoms. I ... am chief and prince of nothing but a big house and a pair of corgies. If it's a Prince you want at the end of the day, then you better hook up with Thierry..."
     He stands. No handholding. He needs to move. "What I want," he says, hand thudding upon the table softly, but with a punctuating tone, "... is an oak tree. What I want is to know that... know matter what happens or who pops out of the woodwork, be it fae or otherwise, that my companion," that word is weighty as he looks to you, his green eyes wide in his emotion, "...isn't going to ... lose patience and leave. I want to not worry about that. I have enough to worry about in general without having to worry about that too. That... Sandrine... is what I want. Can you ... or can you not give me that assurance? If not, fine... we'll shake hands and we'll call it done, I'll pack and ... go home. If so, then..." he sighs, "then... I will relax. I will leave it alone. I will not ... treat you too softly. I will not treat you like a little girl," he notes. Which is, he guesses, what he has been doing. You were the delicate flower. He was the heavy hand.
     How was he to know you wanted a heavy hand...

     Sandrine watches you, eyes widening as you speak. "Would you believe me, if I told you that I was not going anywhere, Davydd? Have you believed me...the other times I have shown you that I was not to leave you, unless you told me to?" She looks up at you, waiting expectantly. "Shall I say it once more? Will that make a difference? For, Davydd, I have said as such several times in the last year, and still, you need me to say it again..."
     Sandrine stands now, hands at her side. "The person who has you on eggshells, Davydd, is not me." And the bit on fathers, considerations, and centuries past is left on the floor. She seems not worried about what century it is, or what is or is not considerate.
     "And I turned Thierry down decades ago, Davydd. I walked...to you."
     "I will say it again. I love you, Davydd Llewelyn. I am with you. And I will remain so, until you tell me otherwise..."

     They did not have to live past their Own Time. They did not have to change their sensibilities to blend in. They did not have to live to see women's liberation. Do not measure me by them. My yardstick is longer by five-hundred years. Give me a little credit for that...
     In plain language, you have said it, and he plainly heard it. He tips up his head, arms folding against his chest. Very well, it is dropped. "I recognize you are not as... fragile as I thought you. I ... underestimated you, and I ... see that." But like a chieftain, and maybe even like your father, he doesn't admit he was wrong. He doesn't so much apologize for it as he notes that his perception has merely ...shifted.
     "So... you can get back to dinner," he notes and he pushes off the table. "The matter's shut and won't be mentioned again. Oh..." a half-turning pause and his eyes land on you. "I don't want to be compared to your Nordic chiefs again. I have outlived them all. This Wood," his flesh, his soul, "...has had to bend to winds they did not live to feel. I deserve my due for that."
     But for now, he's going to go smoke a cigarette on the terrace.

     Sandrine remains standing, brushing at her apron until the comparison observation arises. She frowns faintly, red-gold hair shimmering as she tilts her head. "You are a man, as they were. I compared not your longevity, Davydd, but strengths to strength. I was not cheapening who you are." She seems faintly disappointed, but if so, it disappears as she steps from the living area and towards the kitchen again.

     Davydd doesn't respond to that. Not in disappointment or in argument. There's a brief wave, and then the terrace door shuts...
     Let's rewind this a bit, old man...
     (On the terrace, there's a cigarette lit and a full moon over London. A snort of smoke. Figures. And then a mighty exhalation. He closes his eyes...)
     She asked you for space. You gave it to her. She asked you to go slow. You gave her that, too. At every point you've bent as that north wind wished. That's shite, Davy-bach. And where was your heart and what you wanted in all of this, boyo? On the lawn with the rest of your kit? Wrong woman...
     (On the terrace, the red-headed princeps folds his arms across his chest and vaults the cigarette over the side of the building. Litterbug...)
     Strength to strength... you've not even seen it yet, old girl...
     (And then, on the terrace, there's a quicksilver smile...)
     It's been maybe five minutes. Time gets squashed in between such two old forces. I mean, who in this flat keeps up with the passing minutes? There's a crackle of power that follows the closing of the terrace doors and crests like sunrise when he passes from living room to dining room and on his way to the kitchen...
     And when he gets there, if you open your 'eyes' Toreador, you'll see him beaming. And there's not a feeling of anger or upset. It's gone, like smoke on the wind.
     "Come with me," is all he says, a hand on your waist landing. His look brooks no discussion. But there's not a hitch to his even, lilting voice. Just the earthy warmth with which you've become accustomed.

     What? She had peacefully gone back to her dinner, fishing pasta out of boiling water to set aside on towels. "Davydd, I am about to finish the pasta," she laments, one hand on a bowl, the other on a toothed strainer. Blue eyes look at the hand upon her wrist, so Sandrine sets utensils aside. At least the pasta is out and draining.
     "What's wrong?" she asks, trying to wipe her hands on a fresh towel upon the countertop.

     The hand on the waist takes you firmly, and his right hand removes the strainer from your hand with a little disarming squeeze. Works with a sword as well as a strainer. "Sod the pasta, we don't need to eat...who are we trying to kid," he rumbles. And then, the world moves. To him, you are as light as a feather. And you now see the world from ... a completely different angle...
     Over his shoulder...
     "Nothing is wrong, cariad..." Davydd clips, carrying you from kitchen, through dining room, down through the living room and toward the hall where you keep your bedroom. "I'm just doing what I should have done the first night..."
     Put you over my shoulder, take you to the bed and show you the ways. Oh, and there'll be no arguing...
     And you knew he was strong. Metatir you called him, right? With a body of oak, solid and formidable. But could you have guessed at it, before you were at its seeming mercy? And if you noted his aura now, you'd see it bright and white with hovering colors around each of the tattoos, covered by clothing though they are. Bright and white, like a mortal just frozen. And, what's more, you can feel the aura. It's a hum, straight through all the layers of clothing, his and yours.

     She screams out when she's turned upside down, the world not right suddenly. It is an unbecoming position, and it is much like holding Frik when she's upset. "Stop, put me down!" Sandrine demands, rather confused at this point on how to act or how to right things. "Davydd, put me down," she says again, this time more along the lines of agitated. To kick and scream is inappropriate. But this is inappropriate as well. Is the dress bouncing in disturbing ways? Isn't her hair messed?
     "This is not funny, Davydd," she says, "...please put me down." No, she is not used to such upside-downness in her world, and Sandrine's voice sounds softly strained. She's stuck. As she always is. Unable to defend herself, unable to make changes, and unable to make changes without making herself look rather unladylike.
     And there's the rub. Paralysis.
     "It is not funny," she whispers, seeming on the verge of crying.

     "It's not meant to be funny," comes the roll of English flecked with Welsh consonants and colored with Welsh vowels. Well, maybe a little funny, but that's just the way I am. Undignified, funny, bloody, mad, poetic, lusty, romantic, and most of all... alive. He stops his march, and with an adjustment, you're in a much more dignified hold -- and slightly more traditional hold -- but make no mistake...he's not putting you down until he gets to the bed.
     "You're going to have to get used to a topsy-turvy world, lass, one that isn't always proper," his voice lowers into a hush as he moves down the hallway. The light from the bedchamber lighting the way. Rather like the headlight of a train at the other end of the tunnel.
     And you're going to have to give a little...
     His arms hold you firm but gentle and he moves you past the threshold of the room that used to be All Yours, neat and tidy. And he kicks the door closed...
     A half a moment later, a white cat is tossed out, banished for the night and left to the whims of two grinning corgies...

     She is right out of her element now, face reddened, hair undone, and she not in control of her arms or legs at the moment. Sandrine looks at you, an almost accusing teenager. "Just...put me down," she says again, as if expecting you to listen. Blue eyes watch Frik dismissed and Sandrine tries to see her pet with sympathetic gaze.
     "I know the world isn't always neat," Sandrine states petulantly, not sure how to get down.

     You are set down, gently but with a bit of a bounce upon your bed, and you're not alone. For as soon as you land, he's landing with you, until you are reclined on your back and Davydd over you. Fiery eyebrows lift and dark green eyes are filled with warmth and light, with strength, and if you'll notice with a great deal of affection. "The world is never neat," Davydd corrects, a gentle hand landing on your face, a lover's touch, and he bends. Your mouth is his.
     But his voice does not stop...
     It moves on your blood and in your mind, at your ears humming... as if he were whispering...
     I want to feel you melt... taste it on my tongue...
     And he's not talking about your blood...
     The kiss is a fiery tangle. Wild, lilting. And his mouth hums with power. But even so there is a tenderness. Your lips are plucked like flowers.
     Even when the kiss parts, you can still feel it...
     ...I want you to...look at me... I have not shown you ... what the world is like. I want to show you what I know... the glorious mess of it, all of it, Sandrinaar. I made only one mistake. I thought I said too much and showed too much. I didn't do enough...

     She doesn't understand what's come over you. When the kiss is done, there is an audible sound as Sandrine's lips part from your own. She brings her fingers to her lips and stares at you. "I don't understand you," she confesses, as if hearing your words. What is wrong with the way things are now? What's so urgent or wrong?
     "It can be neat, sometimes," Sandrine says softly. She's sure of it. It has been for her, quite often. Yes, it is not for some, but the neat world happens too. What is wrong with it?

     "I know you don't... and I haven't explained myself well... but...shhh," his fingers come to your lips and lightly press. "I think it is better... shown and felt...if I try to put words to it, you'll only get more confused." And he smiles, and he gleams with it.
     The neat world isn't natural...
     I am...
     The neat world is an artifice...
     Salons, gentility, manicured gardens...
     Beyond that lies a wild wood, my love. And wind that blows and water that wears down stones. That world, that world is not a bad world. It is what's real. Just like me. I step on cracks in the sidewalk. I whistle in church. I talk to the grass of graveyards. I am many things, fierce and gentle, but none of them are neat. And I can't pretend to be neat, just because I don't want to frighten you.
     Maybe you need to be afraid. Maybe I need to scare you...
     There is no more that is said in spoken voice. There is a look, softened in emotion, but strong and keen all the same. Another bend, and his mouth is yours again. And you feel the weight of his form...
     In the kiss, there is the warmth of life, fertile valley, vibrant meadow, twitching earth beneath the dew of rain. You can feel him, you can hear him twisting out of the sweater. The kiss parts only for the instant he lifts it off. By the time it launches from his hand to some part of your otherwise neat room, he is suckling at your lips again.
     And the dragons on his shoulders... on his biceps... on his wrists...on his chest are all displayed, and with them the secrets they hold. Have you ever looked at them closely? Have you ever noted the leaves? Did you look them up in your book of herbs and plants, Lady of the Gardens?

     But she does not smile. Sandrine's hand holds your shoulders, to cause your advance to slow. And even as she touches your skin, she trembles, not knowing what effect the creatures on your arms may have upon her hands and herself.
     Her head turns away, and cheeks that were flush earlier, now are soaked with tears.
     "M..maybe...maybe...I am not the type of person you need," she whispers, not sure what to say. Maybe I am not like others. Maybe I have failed. Maybe there is something wrong with me.
     Sandrine quiets and stills, not sure where to go or what to do. Yet she is not sure about this either. "Forgive me," she admits defeatedly. Forgive me for ever coming into your life. Forgive me for...whatever keeps me from you. Forgive me...for not knowing how to change. Forgive me for being afraid of everything.
     The bed sighs again as she tries to sit up. That's it. Sit up. Sandrine shuffles, now realizing she should be upright...

     He stops and it's abrupt. And the energy withdraws and retracts. As majesty could never do. And he rolls off of you as you sit up. He lets you go your way. To do anything else would be rape. There is a breath, and he lays his arm across his eyes. "There's nothing to forgive, Sandrinaar..." he prefers the true form of your name. "When I ... asked you to melt for me... I didn't mean for you to cry."
     He sits up and the sparkles and aura are muted. The tattoos lose none of their vibrance, however. They swirl and shift with every muscle's movement. "I ... just wanted to show you a little magic. It's what I am." He leans over with a sigh and grabs the sweater. It comes back on as easily as it was thrown off. "I think I need to leave you alone. Give you space. You can... think about what you want. I have already told you what I wanted." He pauses, looking to you. He wants to shush your tears. He wants to kiss them away, dry them with a gentle hand.
     And he offers to, twisting where he sits, fingers a moment from your face. "I wish I knew how to bridge this," he whispers. "A gap I didn't even knew we had until tonight. I can restore things back to their original condition, I can even make you mortal for a night. I can break... any object in this room and put it back together again. I ... do not know how to fix this." He wipes away a tear, and then... he lowers his hand.
     "You know... you have to think about the kind of life you want to live. If you... want things to be perfect and in their place, including me, then..." he sighs, eyebrows lifting even as his gaze lowers to your hands, and his which now overlays one of your own. "... then I think we are not going to fit well. You've seen how well we've done so far. I can't be that. I can't exist... in that. It's not me."

     She is quiet as you speak of her and touch her. Sandrine doesn't shrink from your hand. She sits up, unmoving. Her hair falls at face, and she makes no moves to right it. But a nod comes as you finish speaking of how you are and what you are not. She seems to hear.
     "I want to be with you," she says softly, then twists her lips. She's no longer sure of what that means or how it happens.

     "I know you want to be," he says, "...and I love you...but, maybe you need some... time. To think. Time with me not... pulling at you, getting underfoot." He takes in a breath and something seems decided. "Where you can think. I think that's what needs to happen. Maybe it'll be for a night. Maybe longer. But then, what does it matter to us. Time's the least of it." Davydd rises with a soft sigh, a pat to your thigh.
     It is for the best. Nothing untested lasts.
     "It takes as long as it takes to prove true. For now... I think that... if I stay, if we talk this to death, we'll wear it, and ourselves, out." He bends, he places a kiss on the crown of your head, but then he moves away. "I need some time myself," he admits. "And... I'm sorry for not handling it... better... or more expert, maybe that's the better term." He frowns a touch, keen green eyes sparkling. "I handled it... the best way I knew how at the time. Know that... regardless of how it ends, either ending or unending," he motions with his hand. "I love you." But that doesn't mean things will, or even should, work out. Davydd takes a stilling breath, closes his eyes for a moment.
     "I'm going to... take the dogs for a walk... I'll be at Kensington. If you want to call later, before sunrise..." Not that far off, actually. A few hours. I can feel them ticking away. "I have my phone on me. Well, it's in my jacket. Anyway." Another breath and he looks softly on you, a sigh, and Davydd turns.

     She nods again at your words, but she doesn't respond verbally. Sandrine seems a little dazed at the moment, her cheeks still damp. Hand lifts to wipe at her face, to put on some semblance of a stiff upper lip. "I will call," she whispers, not keen to watch you leave.
     She is spent. Instead of rising to follow you out, Sandrine turns to look at the head of the bed, then brings her feet upon the coverlet to lie upon her side.

     "And I will answer," Davydd murmurs. But for now, he needs to be outside in the moonlight. He needs to be alone. He needs to clear his mind. He needs to feel his heart break. He needs to give you time to collect yourself. Time to think about what you want. Time to consider, before either he or you takes another step forward together in Time, what you want of him. You want to be with him. You love him. But what does it mean to you, Sandrine?
     As he opens the door, Frikka trots in and immediately jumps onto the bed. She purrs. She curls up against her mother. For it is Sandrine that the cat claimed, not Davydd.
     There is something whispered in Welsh. Something from the oak king to the cat. A look exchanged and then he closes the door behind him.
     He doesn't want to go. It tears at him. Half of him wants to walk back there and knock the cat off the bed and curl around you. But... you've already told him that such doesn't help.
     His plan was to carry you on his shoulder, dump you on the bed, ravish you until your toes curled and your body gave out and personally introduce you to each of the nine gifts. Maybe even to make you laugh. Maybe even to melt you. But he failed.
     He locks the door behind him, and behind the corgies that follow him. They know something is wrong. Their characteristic grins are tempered by furrowed canine brows. And their master is being uncustomarily quiet.
     Davydd shoves his hands and the keys in his pocket and wanders down the hallway. As his finger presses the elevator, he sighs and rests his forehead on the wall. "Self-fulfilling prophecy..."

Posted by rowan at June 04, 2003 12:35 PM