The hail stops falling from the sky. The clouds drift away revealing the morning sky. The wind dies down and the air becomes calm.
It's too damn cold. That's Fiona's opinion, and she's sticking to it. She's pulled her long hair back into a braid, which then has been wrapped up to be secured atop her head, leaving room for the heavy muffler in bright green shot through with silver threads that's wrapped round her throat several times. Her clothing is obscured by the long, heavy coat she's wearing, and her progress is slowed by the weather - even if it's cleared for the moment, there's snow and ice on the ground, making her boots prone to slippage.
"Bloody hell," Fiona mutters aloud to herself. "Am I destined to be at the mercy of the elements every time I go to do anything?" Resolutely, any thoughts of faerie men are shoved out of her mind as she continues her slow march along the sidewalk - until she hits a patch of ice obscured by snow and a discarded newspaper, and ends up sliding with a high-pitched shriek, into the side of a building. SMACK.
"Right, that's it." She's fed up, now, and ... well, what with one thing and another, the power's been hanging heavy on her of late anyway - an oppressive weight which she's unaware of, by and large, which gives her skin a curious translucency to those who can See as well as see, a fierce nascent flame that is lambent within and around her. Abruptly, Fiona stops dead, glaring around, as something older moves in her blood, taking over for her. "We," she informs the air loftily, "are unamused in the extreme. This must change."
Winter must have its little pleasures. Though the bride of Summer is not known for her sunny disposition, She can be said to have a sense of humor. So long as all jokes are at your expense. And if She can be said to belly laugh, your lofty and haughty Queen Victoria tone must be sending her right off her rocker.
Somewhere...
But as it is, the snow begins to drift downward in intermittent flakes, possibly adding insult to injury. At least there wasn't a torrential downpour of pelting sleet. She has a sense of humor, but she's hardly slapstick, the Queen of Winter...
Somewhere not too far away, wandering about in the inclement season, is a well-dressed man, vestments suited for the weather, with a long overcoat of heavy wool, beneath this a white turtleneck of handwoven knit, wool taken from the backs of Welsh sheep and made specifically for him. Grey gloves, with fox-fur lining no less, and a matching scarf, wrapped around his neck, and up and over his nose and covering his ears with expert wrapping. Be it blowing sand, or blowing snow, Llewelyn knows how to get around it. And so, his stroll through Kensington Park, not far from Covent Garden, with his two, fat rolly-polly corgies at his heels, is relaxed.
Even with the air crackling nearby. Like children tapping on his arm. The hair on the back of his neck bristles and he gets a chill that shivers through him -- and one that has nothing whatever to do with the weather. Davydd peers into the streetlit darkness, then looks to the fat dogs taking a squat in royal pansies. "Hurry it up, boyos... my bits are starting to seek warmer climes..." he rattles in Welsh.
The dogs are rather unsympathetic.
It's not as if she can control it, or even that she's aware she's doing it at all. It's been happening more and more of late, though - power denied must either return to its source, or push out behind walls until something gives way, for good or for ill. Fiona's eyes gleam with a mercurial light, and she begins to unwind the scarf from round her throat. Once, twice, three times, and the green mohair's off, dangling from one hand before slipping through her fingers.
In dreams ... she's been moving through dreams, of late. Whenever she sleeps, she sees things, half-remembered fantasies which seem more real than all of London's flats. She walks through gardens where summer never ends, the rose scent and freesia heavy on her breath to taste like honey - through forests of endless autumn, the green and gold and crimson leaves falling around her to tangle in her hair with whispers of memory and laughing pleasure and regret : climbing through storied towers to look out upon a land blanketed in fresh new greenery, a tangle of fields and riverbed, a road leading off in the distance, sunset's glow upon the water... A tall mountain overshadowing a valley, crystalline snowflakes dropping slow about her, hovering as if suspended to fall gently against eyelashes and cheeks, the river's babble silenced in the icy freeze of winter. It's been ... interesting, half-remembering.
As Fiona remembers dreams, hers or someone else's though they might be, she is divesting herself of her outerwear. She pulls off the gloves that match the muffler, then begins unbuttoning her coat, shrugging her way out of it. The scarlet sweater she wears underneath is next, garments trailing out behind her on the ground as she begins walking, pausing to put booted foot up on a rise in the curb, untying laces and struggling out of them. She's down to designer denim and a thin silk blouse in pale leaf green, by now, and her hair's begun to pull itself loose from its coils, power spilling out from her skin to warm her, and bring her a taste of summer in winter's heart.
Though Davydd feels the rise of it, it's the dogs who pay it mind. The rise of ...something. They don't know, of course, they're dogs, but they sense Change. And the Old Dragon senses it, too. And mainly wants to ignore it.
But he can't, and dark forest eyes glance upward from the frosty ground, a gloved hand motioning to the dogs. They're not on leads -- he's breaking the law -- but they're trained to hand signals and to the sound of his voice. With rumbling barks, the corgies Bwci and Rhyddid nose the air and nose the ground and come at Davydd's heels.
Subsconsciously, he begins to turn toward Covent Garden. Toward Sandrine's shoppe -- that's where his woman is, smelling of flowers and perfume. It makes him smile beneath the fox-fur scarf. But his eyes tend again toward that tapping, that rise of energy, that mark of something on the air.
And he narrows his eyes, says, "Shhh, boys," to his dogs, and watches a woman undress in the street. It takes him a minute before he realizes it's you. And when he does, he visibly sighs.
"Shite," he murbles, beneath the scarf, and with a heavy exhale he motions to the dogs. Follow me, he whispers. And, understanding him perfectly well, they move to follow him, crossing the street from the park -- it's late enough that at least the traffic's down to a dull roar. Decent folks are home having dinner by now.
"You're going to catch your death," comes the rumble of the Old Dragon, Welsh accent flicking at his tongue and at the edge of English words. He'd laugh at the double entendre, but it's sort of a location joke -- you have to "be there" as they say. "Ah, boyos... leave her kit be," he gruffs, and the dogs drop the clothing.
She is, at first, oblivious to everything but the warmth - and the warmth is there, certainly, glowing around her. Not quite summer, perhaps. An early spring, pushing green shoots up from the rooted soil, rather. Her hair's unbound by now, flowing down around her, feet bare against the frozen pavement. Fiona shrugs lightly. "I don't think so," she responds, that something else moving behind her eyes - it's some thing else, though, and not someone else. Only memory possesses her, not some other entity. "Are your pups friendly?" she adds, bending to offer them hands to sniff, smiling.
the air around her is warming by degrees, an invisible element of temperate weather. Lady Fiona rises, luxuriating in it - all that's missing is the gleam of sunlight. "Hello, Davydd, by the way. You're looking well, even if overdressed." Compared to her, no doubt. She's shrinking - well, no, not shrinking, but the show around her and under her feet is melting into a pool of water that will freeze over once she's passed. "Walk with me, or do you need to get the pups back to their food bowls?"
"They're relatively harmless," he says, and his hands are yet in his pockets. A moment and then he reaches up, a gloved hand tugging down his scarf. He's shaven. All the way. Clean-shaven for the first time ever, as far as you know. And it takes off almost ten years. He looks closer to thirty, rather than closer to forty. There's a scar beneath his mouth, at his chin, faint but visible now that the goatee is gone. And though he'd never say it himself, he's a downright lovely man.
His hair is growing out, though it's still very short. It's darkened with winter and the little bit of extra length. And were it to grow out to his collar, it'd be curly. As it is now, that is only hinted at -- his hair's still too short to curl. It's the only way he can tame it.
You hold out your fingers and the dogs take a sniffle, but they sense the power and circle around you clockwise and then return to Davydd. He glances at the puddles you melt then quickly looks back to you. "No, I should be getting back. The lads have had their piddles, and I should have my supper. And you should put your shoes on," he remarks, lifting his head, hands back in his pockets. "At least. Women who melt snow with their bare feet, who don't subsequently catch their death of pneumonia, usually attract the ...wrong sort of attention." And not the kind I'm looking to bask in.
Fiery eyebrows lift and then he looks to the corgies at his feet. "Let's to supper, lads." And he starts to turn, a last look to your garmets. "You'll at least want to grab your kit, miss," spoken as if he didn't know you. "The bobbies may book you for selling something." Namely yourself. It's the dead of winter. Think about your power, Fiona.
With power comes consequence...
It's harder when she scarcely realizes she's doing it. Power has an identity of its own, and it has not finished its course. "Oh, very well," she mutters, still with that slightly grandiose manner. And she points, crooking her finger, and the muddled heap of clothes ... come to her.
It's a series of small charms, she essentially uses the magic as a lady-in-waiting, dressing herself again, before turning eyes gone the colour of the sky before a summer storm upwards to your face. "You don't want to get involved, and I don't entirely blame you, but I've got to muddle through on my own, if noone does." It's a far cry from Drancy, even so, innit?
Giving the scarf an extra turn about her throat, her hair still unbound now, she begins picking her way down the sidewalk, with only a single charm still on her, now - she moves over the icy sidewalk without concern or fear for her neck. Subtle and refined, and hinting at far more control than she's any right to have.
It's not about not wanting to get involved.
The air speaks to you, seemingly, but the voice you know so well is not so much audible as it is tangible. There, in your mind. There, upon the rivers of the blood that moves through you.
It is about not seeming to be any different than the cabbie that just passed. It is about not melting the snow, changing the weather around you. The City has eyes, Fiona. More than a thousand. It is about... self preservation. The world does not suffer magic well.
And maybe he speaks of America's Salem. Or burnings in front of Notre Dame. Heresy and Misunderstandings. He does not elaborate on that point. He does not feel he has to.
I use it when I need it. I do not use it lightly. It is not a light thing, Fiona. No, it is very heavy, this.
Should you turn, you will not see him. Has he already crossed the street? Or has he become Something Else? Maybe the ice beneath your feet. A part of the nearby building. Where are his dogs? But then Davydd moves from a shadow -- there are many shadows around -- and he turns toward Convent. Perhaps it is you who should walk with me.
That confuses her, for a moment, hearing voices. "Joan of bloody Arc..." She murmurs it to herself. William would no doubt laugh and agree, for wholly different reasons. Fiona turns, casting her gaze about in a widening circle. And it's the first time anyone's put it to her that way - or, in fact, put it to her much at all.
She is not immune to its logic.
"Fair enough," the lady agrees with the air. Is that enough? Probably not, but then she's moving, moving to follow, adjusting the buttons of her coat. She tries reaching out with a very small flare of the power that harnesses her, to think the words as she said them... Fair enough.
His stride is slow, not the usual march of Mars, letting both you and the short-legged dogs keep up with him. And, in truth, to make sure he doesn't skid like a skater on the ice. But his shoes handle it well enough, the suede dress Docs. Davydd glances over a shoulder to you.
You may find the ability to keep yourself warm, for example, handy. But temper it. Warm yourself beneath your coat, a rosy tint to your cheeks, who should notice this. You melting ice like the Queen of Summer and unclothing in the streets is something else altogether. There are ways to move in this world, Fiona. The best and the surest is to move quietly.
Even as he does now, lessons given to you within your own mind, held within you as if murmured to your heart. He pauses, and with the way safe to walk, heads slowly across the street toward the more intimate area of Covent Garden. The dogs sashay behind him.
"So," he says audibly at last, a great frozen cloud leaving him as he turns to you, "...how've you been? You... seem to be handling this... well..." Your power. Better than before. You're not speaking in tongues, at least.
Her skin is flushed, now, both from the weather and from mixed emotions, of which embarassment is surely one. She moves to keep up with him without much said while she listens, absorbing the lessons with an intense determination which is both wholly Drancy and wholly Fiona.
"All right," she says aloud, both to the silent speeches and to the question finally answered. "I'm ... all right. Out of mourning, I suppose." She tilts her glance sidelong, then down at the ground, a faint, pink-lipped smile given to nothing. "It's like learning how to ride, or how to surf, or something ... it's bigger than me, but that doesn't mean I have to get trampled or drowned. Of course, doesn't mean I'm in control of it, either. It's not a tame lion."
He laughs, and eyes glimmer in it, green like forest, like the skin of Wales. "No, and you without a stool and a whip yet, aye?" He winks and the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle in a grin, hidden by the fox-fur scarf. "I don't pretend to know what sort of things you'll be able to do, you'll discover them over time," he murmurs to you as you walk. And he pauses abruptly.
The dogs stop to take a piddle against a lamp post.
"You pair of squats are the piddlingest creatures I've ever met," Davydd rumbles. And it seems to amuse the dogs. They grin their corgie grins. He looks to you, rolls his eyes and heads off the main street.
The side streets of Covent Garden are cobbled and quiet. This time a night none of the shoppes are open. Not even hers, and hers is open later than most. But she's there, he knows. Waiting with some tea. He idly thinks of giving her a flourish on the counter of her backroom, but she'd think it was undignified. He may have to do it anyway.
But that's for later. For now, Davydd is strolling, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. That, no one can show you. Who you are, I mean. What you can do. There's only one teacher for that. His voice moves against you, but beneath your skin. And that's you. Not much help, is it? Davydd looks to you again, and tugging down the scarf shows the slant of a grin. Handsome thing.
The cafe's closed but their iron furniture's still out. He takes a seat on one of the chairs. "Still going to see my lady about herbs and flowers," he wonders. Changing the subject. Enough lessons for one evening.
"No hope at all," Fiona agrees, with a faint amusement as she looks to the corgies. "Not a bloody tot of it. We'll see, though." I've been having dreams...
It's a sudden thought, but she thinks it, doesn't say it. Not out loud for the careless air to hear. "I don't know. It's interesting, but ... I don't know if she wants to, still, for one. And for another, I don't want to be a burden. On anyone." There's a tilt to her chin, now, and a sparkling, not quite angry pride that reflects in her eyes fiercely. Arundel. Lions and tigers and bears...
A change in topic, then. "My family is having me up for a hunt next weekend, so I suppose I'll have to wait and see. While dodging prospective marriage candidates, of course. I've suggested her name to my mother, by the way." Not such a change in topic, then, perhaps.
"Ah, best not to judge that book by the cover. Still waters run deep. Sometimes, the Nordic are a hard lot to figure out. She's Scandanavian," he mentions. As if that should explain everything. The chair's too cold. Davydd winces and rises, "Bah," he rumbles, "...winter..." And it's just started. Yule was last night. But well, the nights are long. He has to be thankful for that.
He nods as you speak of burdens. "Bah, no burden there. I think I made things difficult," he mutters, then smirks. Fancy that! The expression softens a notch. "She's not like me, you know. Magic... she doesn't understand it. She knows plants though. She can name every plant in my garden." He has a garden? "It's one of the things I love about her. She's steady and she can pluck the knowledge of a plant as sure as she can pluck its petals. Oh, good on you for the reference. That's her clientele. The fox and trot set," he grins. As if that weren't his own. Well, he'd say he is the Perpetual Outsider.
In more ways than one...
Davydd nods for you to follow him again, and reaching in his coat he takes out a silver flask, with an embossed celtic dragon on it. He hands it to you. Brandy? Something to keep the chill away, obstensibly. "Hunt? Lovely. I love a good romp over hedges and streams. What say you, lads," Davydd growls to his dogs. "We'd love a good fox, wot?"
"Well, she obviously knows her stuff, and since mother does throw more parties these days - my father's thinking of stepping down, he says, but he says that every year - she has need of such services regularly. And my mother will take my recommendation on that, now." Now that Fiona is working for The Magazine, and has gone all respectable.
She chuckles slightly. "If you two liked, I could get you invited along for the weekend, though I can't imagine you wanting to. But if you're after a fox..." A pause, then a shrug. Why not, after all? Fiona is not Drancy, but she is no teetotaler. She opens the flask, tipping it back to take a mouthful.
If you know your brandy, you'll be able to rate it as fine. Very fine indeed. With a resonance of flavor that precedes the fire. As you tip it back, Davydd's hands come out and then he laughs. Too late. He just grins, folds his arms against his broad chest and waits for you to jetison.
William's brandy must be sipped, or it'll send you straight to Jesus...
"We'll have to pass, days are booked solid from here to the Second Coming. But ...thanks for the invite," he says and genuinely means it. His hand comes out to take the flask from you. How far we've come, Fiona, from the exploding tree and leaping dragons and flying fists. Davydd grins. "Remember, this isn't the 19th Century. You don't have to marry anyone you don't like. When she brings it up, remark on how lovely the flowers look." And he chuckles. "Ah... the burden of being Woman. Always someone trying to tell you what to do..."
She chokes, but manages not to spray, though it threatens to come out her nose instead, eyes watering. Fiona nearly ends up ass over teakettle in the snow and wet. "Ahh, damn," she gasps, trying to regain her equilibrium.
Leaning up against the wall, Fiona uses its strength and solidity as a brace, unconscious that she's even doing it - drawing a little of its strength into herself, counteracting the imbalance.
"Not a trouble," she adds, once she can speak, about the invitation. "If you change your mind, let me know - it's once a month, I believe." She turns the flask loose, and makes a face. "My mother's a bit more direct than that, and she's carping about the loss of the family line - as though it's my fault she and my father had a girl instead of boys."
He tries not to laugh at you. "You're too quick. I didn't even have a chance to warn you." He winks and takes a swallow of the stuff. Even he has to widen his eyes at it. Capping it, he tucks it back in his pocket for now. "Ah," rolls the great Cymric voice, "...that's better. I was starting to freeze, inside-out." An exaggeration to be sure. Hands back in his pockets, he takes up a bit of building himself. No rushing to Sandrine -- for he's sure you'd have to part ways there. Unless you wanted to watch.
"Aye well... tell her she can blame her husband. Not your fault he was shooting girls," Davydd rumbles, smirking. I had two boys and two girls, myself. My brothers had all boys. Too many heirs, not enough kingdoms. "And life, apart from the nitpicking of parents, a problem since Adam fucked Eve?"
"I've always been too quick. You knew that, though - and at least I didn't try to break your nose for it." She can laugh about it, now, and she does, easily, laughing at herself as well. "Though I ought to be quick to be off, before people start calling my cell."
Voyeurism hasn't thus far been one of Fiona's quirks, though you never know. She pushes off from the wall. "I've told her and him both. One of these days, maybe it'll sink in. Still holding out on that entire fucking thing, though. I'll keep you posted, eh?"
Davydd lifts up his hands, and maybe it's the brandy that has made his cheeks go pinkish. "I don't need to know. If you have to keep me posted," his coloring 'miraculously' returns to normal, "... gloss over the details. I don't need to know," and he chuckles, breath freezing when it hits the air, despite the brandy.
You mention heading off before your cell rings and he nods, half bowing. A whistle to the dogs and they trot over to him. Goddess only knows what they've been up to. Though one could make a guess that they've piddled at least once. A gloved hand reaches into his coat again, this time removing cigarettes and zippo -- the zippo bearing the picture of Elvis Presley. He lights up quickly, a flash of fire and his face is illumined. But you know the flame has little to do with it. You can See as well as see, you know. But behind the mundane act, magic lives and breathes. Green eyes, though dark, sparkle. And he exhales a plume of smoke that becomes a dragon. Just for a split second. With a wink, he starts to turn around, rumbling Welsh to his two dogs.
Posted by rowan at June 10, 2003 03:42 PM
