In the early morning winter mist, there sounds a booming voice, resounding through the tall building-mountains of London as once it did down dales and valleys in Cymru. Earthy, rich and strong, it carries, while all the city is a-bed.
     It's 3AM and Davydd Llewelyn is drunk...
     "Bachgen bach o dincer yn myned hyd y wlad. Cario'i becyn ar ei gefn a gweithio'i waith yn rhad..." An old song to an old city, and an old man to sing it, he moves in his long coat and Doc Martens, two fat corgies by his side.
     Remarkably, he's not stumbling in the street -- miraculously, there is no traffic to contend with. Davydd heads down quiet Covent Garden, all its shops but one are closed.
     "...Yn ei law 'roedd haeam ac ar ei gefn 'roedd bocs... pwt o getyn yn ei geg a than ei drwyn 'roedd locs..." And so it goes, all verses of Dafydd the Tinker, bellowed beautifully out onto the street by the Crown Prince of Nowhere.

     The sky above is dark and cloud-covered, looking as though it might yet yield up some snow to make this a white winter season - but there's a faint rumble, a distant flash of electricity. Rain, rain, and yet more rain, though no water's yet falling from the sky to douse any drunkards, singing or otherwise. Not for ever so long has this city of so many seemed yet so still, so quiet, hushed and blanketed...
     In this rarefied change in atmosphere comes a distant sound, gradually approaching. Not sirens, no, nor screeching brakes, nor even simple, common footsteps, but hoofbeats ringing out against stone and cement, a regular, even beat - cantering, then slowing to a walk, but approaching nonetheless. A feeling of strangeness accompanies it - this is set out of time. Still the waking world, still the true world, but not of the true world...

     Bwci and Rhyddid jump and bark. Immediately. Large ears are most sensitive. Noses most alert. And their bellows and barks, their sudden and quick circling about the feet of their inebrieted lord, stops Davydd, both in his tracks and in his singing. The air thickens, and he can feel it thick. A gloved hand comes out. "Shh...shh...." he says, waving them off. And while the tri-colored (Rhyddid) and blue merle (Bwci) corgies sit, there voices are constant, chatting and half-growling -- though this is a matter of discourse really and not agression so much.
     Davydd wobbles a bit and exhales, "Sheezus," to nothing in particular and squints his eyes at the gathering clouds. "A storm's comin and it finds me ill prepared, lads. Hmm..." he says to the sound he hears. It's not thunder.
     "Shite," comes the rattle of his earthy voice. "Hoofbeats, boyos..." he says down to his dogs. "This can't be good." But rather than take off or take a defensive stance, Davydd shoves his hands in his coat pockets and gallantly moves forward to face it head on.

     The horse comes into view - a red mare, it is, coat and mane glowing with a translucent quality that the London stones seem to shrink away from. More real than reality. Too real to be a dream. Yet the mare and her rider, a cloaked and hooded figure in black and charcoal grey, move as one, and their presence is alien-seeming in this place at this time : too many years have gone by for there to be any easy acceptance by the city of this intrusion.
     It is a weight that the rider seems to shrug off lightly, however, and he raises a gloved hand from the reins to salute lightly before he swings his leg over and down to slide from the mount, not immediately speaking. Underneath the hood, the man's mouth quirks up into a faintly sketched smile, but he tends to his horse first - briefly, carefully, but the mount is checked, one hoof lifted, a pebble pried quickly from a hoof and shied to the side at a cardboard box. Then he turns, whoever he is, to face Davydd, pausing for reaction before he makes any further movement.

     A blood red mare. Her name is Murder. I ride a horse just like this in my dreams...
     Thick arms cross over a thick chest, both clothed and draped in wool, also thick, to brace against the winter weather. The scarf blows around him as the wind wills it. As the rider salutes him, Davydd raises a hand likewise and tips back his head. He's just drunk enough not to really care what the rest of the city is thinking about this strange sight. And truth be told at 3AM in Covent Garden, there aren't many souls around to care. "What ho, hallo," Davydd says, voice rumbling low. The voice that belted out song now speaks quietly, with an edged curiosity that seems keener than his apparent drunken state would allow. He takes a step and a step and a step to the rider, head tilting to see past the hood. Do I know you? And the dogs trot behind him, their corgie grins expectant of some grand surprise.

     The smile quirks up again, though it's brief. He is, after all, not here on a social call. One gloved and gauntleted hand lifts to tug back the hood, away from his face. His hair is a familiar colour, recently familiar though in the one who had it, changed back to too brilliant a colour else - oak-white locks which are in places braided elaborately, knotted in other places, and all collected and secured with a leather thong. His face is angular, storm-grey eyes shrewd, darkened by something that lies inside of him, despite the smile.
     He is a small man, less than five and a half feet tall, but his stature seems to be of no import to himself as he bows, and speaks as he straightens. "Well met after these many years, my lord," Mad Peter says with quasi-formality. "It would seem we meet again, as I come riding to bear you message once more. Will you receive me?"
     The world seems held in stupor, unaware and uncaring, passing even this spectacle by. Faerie magic, or the luck of the draw - who can truly say?

     Arms go wide, green eyes -- Cymru green -- go wide as well. And so too the smile. A triad reaction, how fitting. "Mad Peter!" he exclaims, the whiskey, brandy, scotch and mead -- yes, mead -- getting the best of him for a moment. "Boyos, look there... my old soothsayer, messenger of The Lady...go greet a friend..."
     And Bwci and Rhyddid (bugbear and freedom, respectively), wag their behinds toward the oak-haired man...
     It takes a minute. Takes a minute for the Understanding to make its way through his whiskey-steeped brain, and Davydd's glamour-brilliant expression fades. The red horse. You've come this way. Bearing a message. He becomes suddenly sober and sits down on the curb with an exhale. "Oes," Davydd breathes in Welsh, and he motions you to do it. He knows the news isn't good. "I will receive you," the northern dialect of Cymraeg clips and clops, drags and lilts among the falling mist threatening ice and snow. "You've come to tell me she's gone..." Davydd twists, looking at you. "I felt it like lightning, you know..." he mutters after.

     "Aye," Peter says softly, dropping to one knee and resting his forearm over the other. "She is gone. Slain indirectly, after a very long time - the Lady suffers no more. But she did bid me ride in the waking world this one time, for her, in her service, to bring news and gifts to those whom she favoured in her final hours, and I could not refuse her." The messenger smiles faintly, a wry, almost bitter twist to his mouth. "My cousin's powers of persuasion were long legendary, and how anyone could ever refuse her, I do not know."
     The rider shifts slightly, holding out his gloved fingers to be sniffed and investigated. "You were bound to her, once. If you had not felt her death, I should be more surprised than to hear that you had." He keeps his eyes on the dogs, rather than on the Welshman. "I have been riding since her death, and though I am nearly done, now, I am not yet finished. Some faces I have not seen in more centuries than I care to recall, I have now seen again - and some I never saw before, nor wish to again. Still, my cousin would be pleased to know there are many who will mourn her passing. Will you accept what I have brought for you?"

     "I am sorry for her suffering," Davydd says quietly. And the air tightens and like a thunderbolt, he lashes out at the concrete at his side, a fist going to it -- crushing the stone like the shell of a nut. "I am sorry for her suffering and sick of my... inability to move stars and mountains. Why, Peter, why," the Dragon hisses, fangs distended and magic energy blaring. Temper flaring native Welsh. "All I can do is stand back and watch it. For a thousand years of it. Her and Them and Me and Him," meaning Mithras, surely, "...you tell me why this thing has happened..." his hand rakes stone dust through his bronze hair and he takes a deep breath.
     You and London will thank him for that later...
     After many moments of silence, Davydd waves that selfsame hand, exhaling loudly, his head propped up by his other, gloved fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I need a place in this world... and I need a cause. Do you come to give me this," he whispers. "Vengeance," he wonders. "What is the spell to do when the castor is dead and gone..."
     Feel free to interrupt him. He could rail on for hours...
     "... Fuck... alright... let's have it," Davydd growls and he rises. "The whole ruddy truth. That's what I want. What happened to her and why. Why she chose me. Why this was done. And why on god's green earth I yet linger...let's have it. I want a story, Peter..."

     "Stories are not my specialty," Peter says somewhat flatly, straightening up out of his kneel and leaning up against the horse. "And if I could wreak vengeance upon those who cost my cousin her life, I would." His grey eyes flash for a moment, and briefly, his own unearthliness comes entirely to the fore - Pwca and Sidhe, and not a trace of mortality, nor was there ever, no matter how good the disguise.
     The moment passes, and he merely looks again out of place, oddly out of time. "I do not know the entire story, my lord. I am not a creature of the courts. I am a Huntsman, and that is how I prefer it - free to my own devices, save when I am set to harry my prey. Isabel was a creature of Summer, though, blithe and gay and as bonny and light as could be, even when she worked what she must. She chose you, and she would have you and no other - in whatever intimacies you shared, though, there were those who were angered, were jealous, envious, of one or the other or the both of you. Some personal - some ... political."
     He takes a deep breath of his own, and breathes out slowly. "She was beautiful, and she now lies under boards. You linger on because life still holds some meaning for you - what meaning that is, I can't really guess. Your purpose is in your own hands to determine - the two Courts both fear you more than love you, and with Isabel's death, that fear will have only increased. You are without a master or mistress, now, and the changes they have inadvertently wrought upon themselves, they fear. My cousin's successor has already been chosen by her power, I am told - and that successor will be announced at the next rade."

     "To be as free as you, Peter, men kill themselves and nations have risen and fallen into dust. Cherish it." Green eyes are to the sky, to the hidden stars, to the false day that London's lighting creates -- a perpetual twilight. Hands in his pockets once more, Davydd exhales again. Better that than explode. Yes, better for all concerned and certainly anyone in the vicinity.
     "So... your message..." he says again. "I'm sorry ..." A shake of his head and a roll of his shoulders, composure settling on him. "...you were about to say...you have leave to speak, no man here is your leige to give it. Speak it, old friend."
     The corgies have since settled on the sidewalk, heads turning between the two of you, ears cocked in attention...
     The Oak King stands solitary, feeling the coming mist, the chance of snow and sleet, the smell of the salt sea not far away. He closes his eyes and he waits to hear it.

     The messenger smiles, faintly and sadly, but inclines his head for a moment - acknowledgement given. Peter turns to his horse, unbuckling the black saddlebags and taking out something swaddled in pale blue silk, then turns back to face Davydd.
     "Men have lived, and men have died, by both our hands," he begins, speaking as though reading from a message. "Years have passed, and we have changed - you the more than I, because you have remained in the world while I have not. I have charged Peter, my cousin, most faithful of any of my blood, to bring you this gift - the last gift I can give you, of all the gifts and curses I ever bestowed upon you. You have praised my name and you have cursed it, sometimes both at once, but despite your laughter and your despair, you never truly deserted me. Do not believe you have failed me now, for there was nothing that even you could do."
     "The gift I give you now, you may well consider gift or curse, but I ask that you hold it next to your heart for three days and nights before casting it from you - there is no magic in it to compel you or change you, but only a sentimental wish of my own that this last request will with what you find within not lead you into anger, nor hatred." Peter closes his eyes, hooding storms from witnesses, and continues. "Little do the Courts know what havoc they have unleashed. I fear for the innocents who will be caught in the crosswinds, but there is nothing I can do, now - my wishes will be carried out by the faithful, and perhaps mitigate the hazards, the dangers, the damages. Remember always that my heart dwelled often and warmly next to your name, and if you spare thoughts, let them be fond, I pray."

     He was still as an oak through all of that, green eyes settled on some part of London ahead of him. What he sees and what he feels is so obvious upon his expression they need no translation. But there are no tears to check, merely the ruddy complexion of this earth-bound Mars, raised high and dark in emotion. And the key that the pagans gave him hums where it hangs around his throat.
     A gloved hand comes out to accept the blue wrapped thing, even as his eyes are turned away. Proud man in high emotion, and like a proud man he averts it from the other, half-turned from Mad Peter. The dogs get the brunt of it and they suddenly lay low along the concrete.
     "Diolch," Davydd mutters, soft and ancient thanks for the message you have given. He will safeguard that in his mind, the words memorized, burned on the brain.

     The package is given, with a very slight bow, and Peter turns back to his horse, away from ancient memories and ancient kings alike. One foot in the stirrup, and he speaks again. "She did love you, you know. Everyone knew it. She did not always do the wise thing, the right thing - but what she did, she did with all her heart."
     And then he lifts himself into his saddle, lifting up the reins in covered hand, the mare prancing nervously for a moment before settling. "You have what is left of her. Guard it well, and do not allow years to drive her far from you. I would say 'go in peace', but for such as thee and me, there is never peace. Go well, then, through what life you make for yourself." He tugs the hood back into place, then, with a final, lightly drawn salute against the air.
     A few clouds drift in creating patterns against the afternoon sky. The winds pick up considerably making it quite windy.

     Gloved hands of a king cradle a gift as gently as a dove in the hands, though these hands have killed time and time again, brothers and kin, infidels and Christians alike. Around one wrist, the dragons and heather of healing and restoration. Around the other, the talons and thorns of the bellicose holly. And he, the creator and bringer of both. Blessing and Curse. War and Peace. He, the balance in between.
     Davydd turns as you mount the blood red horse, head inclined, with the full lordly countenance of one who has walked this earth for many, many years. And in equal measures, there is the riot of laughter and the riot of tears in his dark green eyes.
     He says nothing of love, but as you speak of peace, the laughter finds expression, and the tears find allowance, burning unfallen at the corners of his eyes. "Aye," Davydd Llewelyn barks, voice rough. "Not for us, old friend. A bounteous life, and as good a one as you can muster. I will be seeing you." He has no doubt of it. For he 'sees' on occasion as he sleeps.
     "C'mon, lads," Davydd more softly says to the dogs at his feet. "... time for a bit of pie and a drink, wot?" And the blue swathed gift is tucked into the inside pocket of his coat, next to where his heart yet beats.

     The horse and rider turn as one, with a final nod, and leaning low over his mare's neck, Peter urges her into a gallop. There's a fanfare of hooves, and then even that's silenced, as abruptly as the click of a switch. Red mane and red tail flowing like water, they turn a corner, and they are gone, as though they never were.
     The sleepy city slowly begins to filter back into focus, traffic bleating in the distance, passersby here and there trickling past on the street. Somewhere overhead, a baby begins to cry, and the sound of its tired mother attempting to soothe it with words and lullaby override its fretting. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed. London goes on, with or without Isabel in the world.

Posted by rowan at June 21, 2003 11:36 PM