Sunlight...
     The sun is coming through the windows...
     Wake up, Davydd...
     Shite. You immortal fuck, I forget you can't move. The light is so bright. I can feel it. I can see it with my eyes closed. Now I can't tell if they're opened or closed. There's nothing but light. Shite. And heat. Oh shit, this is what it feels like. I'm going to be a pile of ash on the carpet. The fucking cat's probably going to use me as a sandbox. Fucking cat. Fucking exploding in sunlight vampire curse bullshit.
     Wake up, Davydd. Come on! This isn't even fucking dignified! Oh no...
     Oh no...
     Now it fucking hurts...

     Davydd so-called-Llewelyn sits straight up in bed, taking a breath and losing a breath all at once. Feeling like he's on fire. He sits up and it seems like it's daylight. He thinks: shit, I'm not dreaming, this fucking sucks...
     The twilight's a bright place when you haven't seen it in a while...
     Every muscle is tensed, turned to immediate stone -- no, harder than stone... hard as Oak, precisely, and wide-eyed he stares forward. Breaths going uneven.
     "Shit," he thinks to say, but there's no release and it doesn't end. The energy rips right through all nine tattoos -- and one of them is in a very tender area, though... tender it's ...ahem... as stiff as the rest of him at the moment. "Sandrine," he whisper-winces. Am I awake? Am I on fire?
     Well, I'm not dead yet. I don't think.

     She sleeps as you do, rather soundly in the secreted room. All prepared for the trendiest of indoor living. Beside you, Sandrine's hair gleams against her back, she presently facedown beneath the pile of handmade blankets and coverlets out of older traditions -- yours and hers.
     But you move and twitch. Your mind speaks in hurried rushes and panic. That is what she effortlessly hears.
     A jolt, and Sandrine's head lifts, looking left and right, as if someone said something, someone called her attention.
     But at this hour? What hour is it?
     "Davydd?" she wonders, immediately thinking someone is in the room. The fear of a strangely-awakened vampire. But no one's here, she realizes in her haze. "Davydd?" Sandrine calls again, now aware enough to look in the direction where you should be.

     "Just... tell me if you smell smoke..." The Unflappable Davydd Llewelyn. A joke at his expense, and at this hour of the morning. Well, afternoon. It's like... five o'clock. Barely evening. Sky's still light blue and pink and orange and red -- ah, the palette of pollution! -- and there's just a hint of indigo. The nights are shortening now. The height of winter has come and gone...
     He is so tense that he's trembling. The energy moves through him so greatly, it sears like sunlight would sear. The 'holly' rips him; the 'heather' heals him; with the blessing of 'mistletoe' he can feel it all; in reaction, there's 'oak' to strengthen. All nine powers move through him in succession. He is obliterating and recreating himself faster than even you or he could truly sense.
     Something's happening... I don't know...maybe I'm dreaming, no, I'm not dreaming, I am actually in pain. The sun's still out... did we leave a curtain open?
     As if...
     Oh, and by the way... he does know telepathy. Welcome to the wonderful world of Llewelyn.
     Fingers curl and grip the bedding, tearing through the sheets and through the bed itself with no effort. The magician who made me is dying...right now... jesus fucking christ, how long is this going to last? Die already...

     Did we leave a window open?! Sandrine panics too, sitting up now and grasping the sheet to her nude form. The result of each night now, it seems. She blinks and pushes hair from her face, the bed squeaking as she bounces from her flop over. Eyes look around: no windows in here, door closed, no smoke, things locked. Yes, things locked last night. I recall.
     Secure in her review of the situation, Sandrine then looks at you; her panic now intensified. A window can close. The magics of the supernatural world you both live in...those she knows little about.
     "What's wrong?" she asks, hand lifting as if to touch your shoulder...fingers halt, however, in case she might injure you. "Freyja," she mutters in her native dialect, "...what is happening to him?"
     Dying? Someone's dying. "W...what...Davydd?" she asks, twisting to face you on her knees. Fingers keep the sheet at her chest. "What's...wrong? There's no sun," she tries to reassure, mixing her tongue and English in an attempt to talk to you.

     All I can say is that old fuck better not wake. This better not wake him up. I've worked too hard... Who could he be talking about...
     Davydd closes his eyes, takes a breath. I have the ability to harden my flesh... to become like oak. I have the ability to rip things apart, to break them, shatter them. I have the power to heal, to return something to its original state, even a person or a place. I have the ability to transform myself into any shape of earth and of my choosing, stag or snake or stone. I have the power to communicate through the mind, to talk to anything...tree or stone or car, things animate and inanimate, water and wind. And it's all moving through me. All at once.
     He opens his eyes, he sees you in front of him, and his eyes soften, deep green of inviting grass and valleys. It will pass. It better pass. I'll fix the bed, don't worry... don't worry...
     If you were to look at his aura now, there would be dragons of blue moving in the white, animate, living energy. Power of such force, moving through him, around him.
     And then, it evaporates, dissolves, he makes a mighty exhale and lies back. Hands leave the utterly destroyed portion of the bed and go to his face.
     And the tattoos...
     They are brilliant blue. Glistening. Beautiful. The dragons and leaves and flowers and nuts are all very vivid and for the moment, living. "Oh shite..." he murmurs. And his body loses its tension, becoming real, human. "I had a horrible dream. I thought I was burning alive. But before that, the fae who ... created these spells," tattoos, "...came to me, telling me she was dying. And I stood in the middle of Roman Londinium and London of Today. And Mithras' standard was embedded in the earth..."
     He reaches out for you, "I'm a son of a bitch, you must be scared to death..." I know you are. "Come here...it's alright..."

     She's not sure if she should. Sandrine looks horrified, as if, oddly enough, she thought you were dying in front of her. Hysterics are not so quick to leave, and she stares at you and around you, as if seeing some vision.
     "No, no," she waves off, "...no, tell me! Are you alright? What...did that? Are you alright?" she asks. "Did someone do that to you?" Was that an attack?

     "I'm okay..." his voice cracks-quiet, not from anything felt here but because it's his morning voice. Rumbly and rough. Another moment taken, another breath and then he holds it, sitting upward. His hand moves over the torn bedding, repairing it with a whisper of Welsh on the way to taking your hand. His hands take yours, holding you gently, reassuring with strength, and his eyes lock onto yours. "I... am alright... it's alright. I think I may have done it to myself...I panicked. I panicked."
     He draws you to him, more and more certain of it. "I just panicked. No one can do that to me... flip a switch and do that... I'm not under command..." I did it to myself. Shite. Fucking fae magic bullshit. Davydd looks to you, a hand leaving your hand to reach up to your face, to still you, to touch you. "I'm okay...it's alright. I'm sorry..." And the glistening dissolves, drawn back in, settling. The light of the sun? It was me all along.
     Jesus...
     "Come here..." he murmurs, brushing back your hair with a gentle hand, pulling you him, his lap where he sits. "I'm sorry...it's okay..."

     She seems comforted, if still dispelling her own nerves. "I'm alright," she sighs frustratedly. Not much she can do, Sandrine now understands. Okay. She settles on her side of the bed again, falling back against her pillow. Her hand rests on top of yours, but she just needs a minute.
     "What's wrong?" she wonders about the panicking. "Why are you having...panic attacks?" Is that what it is? No Prozac would fix that. "Everything is alright, yes?" Hand heaves at her sheeted chest, but slower now. Blue eyes open and glance over to watch your response.

     I'm exhausted. I could sleep for aaaaages...
     Davydd exhales as he lies back again. Clean-shaven, he looks damn near ten years younger than his 36. "Nightmare... it was just a really bad nightmare." She's dead. Isabel the Witch is dead. What happens to the spell after the witch dies? Nothing, by Mithras, nothing. If it had not been for you, centurion, I would have been dead by now. But that can't happen now. Davydd closes his eyes, nodding once. "Everything is alright. Pucker," to coin a London phrase. Sounds like: puckah. "I don't usually dream," Davydd notes. "Last night... there were two of them. The first one... the fairy who scripted these," tattoos, spells, "...was there, telling me she was about to die. That she was going to give that girl," Drancy, "...her gift or whatever. Which is enough to send anyone into night sweats," he smirks. "And then I saw Mithras' Roman standard and I guess.... lost my shite."
     One green eye opens, peering at you, followed by another. "I don't expect it will happen again." She's dead. And I'm still here. And that energy moves through me still, does it make me glow?
     Davydd gives you your space, but would rather swallow you up. He feels his fangs distending. A roll of his tongue over them. "It was just a dream, that's all. I don't believe in all that hocus-pocus bullshite." And then he smiles.

     "No?" Sandrine asks, voice more than skeptical. Silly of you not to, her tone implies. "So, if she's dead," Isabel that is, "...what does that mean for you?" For us? "Maybe you should not be so dismissive," she finally says outloud.

     "I don't think it will mean much, in the long run," Davydd says simply, green eyes settling on you, a wealth of dark forest. "What it will mean... I do not know. I suppose if the dream was more a visitation and what she said has come to pass then... maybe that few minutes of searing pain will be it." A great and tattooed shoulder rolls, oak leaves seeming to flutter in the motion. Davydd turns his head to look to the other side of the room, and then lifts on his elbows, like he's looking for an ashtray. You've seen him do this before.
     "I don't feel... really very different from last night," he thinks aloud. "But... I suppose I should ...see for sure." And he sits up then with a groan, like an old man, and swings about, putting feet flat to the floor. He's standing a moment later, no covering for the physique and the markings you've come to know so well. A stretch, and the former archer mutters a phrase of Middle Welsh. Something like: stag of seven-tines. A fragment from an old welsh poem.
     And in the middle of your bedroom, the big white stag of legend, the one that gets chased but never caught. A symbol of yearning and virility in one enormous, antlered package. And then the bed creaks as, transformed back to himself, Davydd sits on the edge of the bed. "I've still got it."
     "I'm not going to worry about it, and I don't want you to worry about it either. I'm a big believer in not worrying until you have something to worry about."

     She'd wince, but that wouldn't do any good. A man changing into a stag. Why it still bothers her, she doesn't know, but the unknown's presence in her bed might have something to do with it. Well, maybe it's good that it hasn't changed. Whatever it is.
     "The problem is," Sandrine says, "...is that we don't know when or if we have something to worry about, Davydd. Isn't that why we're awake so early?" Isn't this the direct refutation of your last point?
     Sandrine sighs and closes her eyes. "How have you lived your life...without knowing, really, what is going on with you? Have you not worried, when happen and you have no...no...idea why it is happening? How can you say that you are not sometime controlled?" As a rhetorical point. Sandrine sits up. "I...could never be like you, Davydd. You...trust and assume all is well," she smiles and shrugs, "...but in truth, you really do not know how or why you have come to be as you are..."

     "What choice do I have?" he answers your rhetorical question with another rhetorical question. "My solution to the riddle was to exist. And though I will never understand why those certain metaphysical forces chose me, scrawled upon me, originally planned for me, I do know that Mithras changed everything. My fate changed. Mithras saw it. It was the last thing he saw..."
     Davydd looks up at you, an upside-down view, but a beautiful one nonetheless, and he sighs. "Whatever story someone was writing for me in 1192 ended there. Since then, I have written my own. I have... made it what it is. Or what it isn't," he whispers. And he rolls over, lying on his stomach, strong back -- an archer's back, with carved definition between his shoulders. "I'm not in the fairy realm. I'm not in their fight. I'm not in the vampire realm either. I belong to no story, no group, nor could I ever be. Magicians would want to study me from the inside out. Vampires would want to slaughter me. Tell me, Sandrine, what choice I have, but to shrug and move on as if nothing at all were the matter..."

     She is quiet a moment, turning her face towards the foot of the bed. "You may try to seem normal," whatever that means, the roll of her eyes suggest, "...but that does not mean that you stop trying to find answers for yourself."
     She is not much of the philosopher, but with that, Sandrine lies back upon her pillow, her cheek beside your nose. "You stopped asking questions, Davydd," she whispers. "It's easier to stop asking, to wander, and call it mystical serendipity."

     Davydd can only blink at that, but as he looks at you -- you know that he knows you are right. He knows that he has done that. And you know, or you may easily guess, that it was done on purpose.
     And now it looks like he's going to have to ask the questions anyway...
     Go where he doesn't want to go...
     Wake... one that he does not wish to wake...
     Something he's avoided for nearly a thousand years.
     But you know he's no fool. There are some places he was just not prepared to go. "There are only two people to ask," he whispers. "Neither of whom are in this world..."

     "I understand," Sandrine nods. "But, maybe there are other questions to ask of those who are here, before you take the most difficult roads, if that is where you are to go."
     "I will be with you," she smiles, "...wherever you go, though. Or," she laughs, turning on her side, "...waiting here, knitting, for when you return."

     "I might need you to bring your knitting along. The needles might come in handy," he tries humor, but it doesn't come with the usual quip. Preoccupied now, he wonders upon things heard in a dream, and wonders what it will all mean. She said she didn't know. Maybe it will mean nothing. Maybe it will change everything.
     This hocus-pocus shite is for the birds...
     Davydd rolls to lie on his back again, legs spreading out, and he sighs. His arm lifts and is lain over his eyes. His mind going a million miles an hour and in about as many directions. Who will I ask? How will I ask without revealing everything? How will I go about it and not get myself killed? What is going to happen to Drancy? Will she find out some...secret about me? Will I have to destroy her too?

     "Mm," Sandrine purrs, "...now you're thinking too hard for this early in the evening." She smiles, and decides to take a luxurious straddle across a familiar lap. The bed bows as she moves, one leg sliding beneath the sheets to land at your other side.
     "How about this," not thinking about Drancy, "...if you ask questions, I will ask them too." Sandrine doesn't explain this, hand sliding her burnished hair to one side. She leans forward to take the hand at your eyes and place it at her heart, between rounded breasts. "And if you try not to be afraid, neither will I." A life unexamined, you both once agreed, was the easy path.

     "Even if I end up being the secret master who starts Gehenna by waking up his sire?" he quips. Davydd laughs...
     ...but secretly, he's a bit worried...
     And your breasts are ...well, apart from being amazing and distracting...they are as close to art as he can comprehend. His fingers spread, feeling the skin beneath them. So soft. Green eyes are fixed upon them, their shadows, his thoughts starting to ribbon outward from thoughts of Mithras and Gehenna and fairie kin to thoughts of how your breasts fit in his hands, how they feel in his mouth. And taste....
     Davydd nods, "You're on," he whispers, and he leans upward, hand moving to your hips as his mouth replaces it. Welsh is whispered on your skin, at your heart, at the center of your chest. Dragging syllables of an ancient language moving against your breasts. Lilting language, almost sung -- words are muffled as he fills his mouth with you.
     And the words...
     They ellicit that ...humming that moves against your skin, that energy. You have tasted it on his blood, has it become addictive yet? Magic. And he rolls you in it, as surely as he rolls a nipple along his tongue.
     So much for the question and answer portion of this evening...

Posted by rowan at June 20, 2003 09:47 PM