...The air is heavy in London tonight. Despite the rain, the fog lingers, draping like laundry along the bridges, clinging like Dickens to the sides of buildings and the narrow streets. Creating halos of green and red and yellow when traffic lights change. The sort of night when curious girls might open books and conjure angels...
     Sorry, that was a cheap shot...
     But it's oddly pleasant for all that. Pleasant enough to fool the trees of the tree-lined avenues into almost budding, little goosebumps of soon-to-be-leaves pocking the winter-bare branches. Balmy-like. Enough that most, even you, have left your windows open for the light and soothing breeze. Ah, and that musical trickle of water. Zen and the art of living in London...
     Course, the only problem with you leaving your window open is that things seem to fly right through them, landing in your flat like they belong there...
     A leaf...
     A feather...
     A black raven...
     Yes, one of the sentries from London's Infamous Tower seems to have lifted itself up by its heretofore believed 'clipped' wings and now stands on your window sill, shielding itself from the falling rain. Well fed it looks and fat off the bounty of a civilized city. Healthy. This is not Trafalgar pigeon...

     The window being open is a given - Fiona, or Drancy, or whatever name people are calling her these days, is still too parsimonious not to take advantage of the fresh air when it comes.
     She's settled in at the piano (it came with the flat, and while she'd much prefer the space, it's a bitch to get these things out in one piece), picking out 'Chopsticks' in a feeble sort of fashion. Of course she had piano lessons when she was a child - along with ballet, and gymkata, and all the rest belonging with her class.
     So it is that when the breeze carryings things past her or by her, Fiona looks up with a startled expression. "The hell?" A blink. A leaf and a feather - unusual, considering the significance that combination has for her. The bird - more unusual, but then, she hasn't gotten round to getting a cat this time round. She rises from the piano bench.
     She's clad simply, in smooth, satin-like grey corduroy trousers paired with a crisp, tailored white man's shirt, almost stark in contrast to the shock that's her fuchsia hair. Taking a barefooted step towards the window, Fiona adds commentary, "Well, you're bold, aren't you. You'd better not be looking for a place to drop your end products, bird, or we'll be testing that old nursery rhyme about pies and kings."

     Ha ha ha. Very funny.
     If a raven can really look like a drowned rat, then this raven achieves it, royal girth or no. He's as big as a hawk, really. A true rook. As you speak, he tilts his head at you, rocks back and forth on his taloned -- quite formidable at that -- and then he hops down...
     ...By the time he reaches the floor of your flat, it's a drenched Davydd. Black wings have become black leather jacket, black button-down shirt -- both wet -- over black pants. Around his neck, a silver chain. On his mouth, the start of a smile. Gotcha. "So..." and he punctuates the thought with two notes, two fingers on two of the piano's keys. "...how's life in Posh Central? I don't normally fly in, but I haven't done that in aaaaages," and without so much as a good evening, he sits himself down on your piano seat, and his fingers begin making such sweet sound.
     He's letting his hair grow, it's a touch longer and for that a touch wavy and a mite darker -- true coppery bronze, gone blood-bronze with the wetness.

     She yelps, and sits down on the floor, then glares up with a look that tries - but fails - to say I Meant To Do That. "You can't use the door like normal people, oh, no, can you? And after I've already had any number of nasty shocks."
     Fiona climbs back up to her feet, eyebrows going up a bit, and she brushes herself off. "You play piano better'n I do, that's for damn sure. I've just been getting back into singing a bit. And life is ... well. I don't know. I'm glad to see you, though."
     Now, that's a surprise, innit?
     She turns, glancing towards the kitchen, and adds, "Your hair looks nice. You hungry or can I get you anything to drink?" Someone's stalling...

     "Ah..." his fingers cause a cascading sound as he travels the scales and ends at a single note. He glances over to you, grinning. "... I'll use a door when pigs fly..." A chuckle and he gives you a wink. Maybe I'll try that next time. "And thank you... drink would be lovely. Something warm. You wouldn't have fermented mare's milk by any chance would you," Davydd rolls out, that earthy voice of his singing as much as it speaks. He words have a sing-song cadence, lilting with Welsh despite his use of English.
     "Ah well, I can manage anything with strings," he notes, eyes back on the keys moving beneath his fingers. "For a man of such constant hot air," Davydd continues, drolly, "I can't play wind instruments to save my ruddy life. That, my darling girl, is what they call irony..."
     The song takes shape. Something celtic. Something old. Something written before there were such things as pianos. Or even harpsichords.

     "No," Fiona says with a sort of dry amusement, "I never pictured you for one to play the piccolo. And sorry, we're fresh out of fermented mare's milk today," she adds, her head in the refrigerator. "Fresh out of mare's blood, too, if you were hoping for a bit of sacrifice - I've got milk, though it's rather more curdled and soured than fermented, and I've got ... erm. Tea, coffee, a rather nice rose that's been in here far too long, or water, of the bottled, flavoured variety." How trendy of her.
     She resolutely tries to block out the music, which works about as well as trying not to breathe, and turns out from the fridge to lean in the doorway. "Tell me, Davydd, 're you a religious man?" Such questions she asks. But though her tone is casual, the look on Fiona's face is a fierce sort of frown.
     "You don't, of course, have to answer, but..." Voice trailing off, she looks out the window, then down at the leaf and feather sitting on the floor, and she steps forward to pick them up.

     "I never drink... blood," he says, with a Transylvania-via-Welsh accent. And he laughs, actually giggles. Then clears his throat. "Coffee's fine, luv. If I drink water, I might explode. I haven't touched the stuff in ages." Kidding. As if.
     As you mention religion, fingers pause slightly upon the keys and he glances back to you, half-grinning as the song ...becomes something else. Some other tune. "As in Christ? Nah, not really. Seemed a good enough bloke, but just not the sort of club I wanted to belong to. Now, do I believe in powers of the universe and good and evil? Aye... that I do..."
     And then he sings. Hums reallly. Such a sound, that voice. Deep and sweet, both. Earthy, but with the smooth intonation of the water of a brook. Natural. Hyper-natural. He looks to you, sees the frown, and he stops the music.
     "Getting hassled by Bible thumpers?" Davydd wonders, and he turns about upon the bench, leaning back, elbows on the bridge of the piano.

     "Coffee, right, got it." She turns and hastens back into the kitchen, continuing to speak as she goes to the coffee maker. "Err." There's a pause, and Fiona says feebly from the other room, "How about a nice mochaccino? I saw one in the back of the fridge, and I've no idea how to use this bleeding thing, it came with the kitchen..."
     With a shake of her head, she wanders back to the doorway, muttering, "This place should come with its own barista. Last time I rent furnished based on my boss's recommendation, I'm telling you. - So."
     Change in direction, again. "You don't believe in angels, then, do you? I mean, sorry, I know it's a bit of an odd question." She bites her lip, dropping the casual act entirely as a total loss, tension radiating from her. "I fucked up again, y'see."

     "Let's just say that... I like to keep my options open. But... I've never met one, to my knowledge. Though, there was this little waitress," Davydd tilts back his head and his hands make a motion in the air, which could only ever indicate breasts, "...who took me in her wings once a fortnight when I was a single wretch..." He leans back, smirking a moment.
     But...wait...you're serious...
     A fiery eyebrow cocks up and his smile retracts. "Hmmm... so... what happened?" As you give off little sparks. "Did you get outed at work and fired or sommat?"
     The mochaccino finally registers. For a moment Davydd appears confused -- as all men do when women ask their opinion on what they're wearing. "Ah... well... nevermind then. How about tea? I want it more for the heat than the flavor," as he would, being that he's drenched. Clothes sticking to him and all.

     "Outed?" That gets a blink of confusion. "As what? A fairy princess? No, I make a point of leaving the wings, ears, gauzy skirt and star-tipped wand at home when I go in to the office." Fiona disappears back into the kitchen with a degree of gratitude. Walls between her and Davydd, when she tries to explain, might be a good thing.
     "Well, I was trying something out of one of those books, and ... much to my own surprise, it worked. Except I dialed the wrong number." There's the sound of water running as she fills the kettle - the same old tarnished copper monstrosity that she stubbornly lugged here from her old place - and the slosh and tnk as it's set on the stove. "And a bunch of ... people, I guess you could say, showed up."
     Tea. Tea. Tea thoughts. Keep thinking of tea. Soothing British custom, this. Tea...
     Fiona raises her voice only slightly, not entirely sure if she wants to be heard, at this. "Anyway, a dragon showed up. And a mermaid, and a woman who turned into a raven, or the other way round, and a centaur. And ... well. A... an angel."
     And nearly made me piss my pants...

     Now both eyebrows are raised and the expression goes from blank to: You're fucking joking. He leans forward, with a half-cocked, half-uncertain smile. That's the face of stunned fucking amazement. "Ah... what book were you reading? An angel? Really. With wings and all? Shite," a chuckles, "...did you shite yourself? I would have... huh.. you must have been working off a new age wiccan book. They throw in the kitchen sink. Well... you're still here, so... you didn't get smited, I take it. What the hell happened?"
     Gah. He suddenly wrinkles his nose and rises, pulling off the jacket, shaking it out and then looking for a place to hang it. The black shirt was silk, a nice silk, not that cheap shite, and it's glued to him at the moment.

     "Apparently, I pulled him out of the middle of something important." She comes out of the kitchen with a tea tray with two mugs and a pot, and opens her mouth to say something. And stops. And stares. Fiona makes a strangled noise, and turns around to march back into the kitchen, muttering something about, "Forgot the sugar."
     The tray's set down, and Fiona pauses to regain her equilibrium, with a mental shake of 'I did not need to see that'. Then she picks the tray up again, and tries again, avoiding looking at Davydd as she comes back through the doorway. "I didn't shite myself, but mainly because I hadn't eaten, I think. I did swear, and I didn't get smited - smote? Smitten? Whatever. He didn't hurt me. Said he was putting on the full act because he expected me to've been summoning him deliberately, as opposed to by accident, and suggested next time I be more specific."
     A pause as Fiona sets the tray down on a little table by the balcony doors, pulling a chair back for herself. "The centaur wanted to fuck me, but I said no."

     "Centaurs are like that, I hear. All the stories, they're either fucking or raping, or trying to trick women into fucking or raping. Good move on your part, couldn't possibly be comfortable," Davydd looks down at himself, picking the shirt away from his skin. Dark green eyes shimmer -- and the air shimmers with it -- as he glances up to you.
     "Oh diolch," he grins on the coffee and sugar and moves to the table too, jacket left on a doorknob. It won't dry worth shite, but it's worth the effort. "I think it's smote, actually." Davydd plops down with a half-grin. "Well, huh... okay. I've never seen an angel, but ... I'll take your word for it. Scary shite... I got enough of that looking in the mirror every morning." Fiery brows lift in an arch and the half-grin comes full on. Davydd lifts a hand, raking it through drying hair. Disheveled now, and in a definite wave from the wetness. "That's the thing with magic though. Like being careful what you wish for. Being specific helps. What were you...trying to do, then? Or were you just trying out one of the pat spells?"

     "Um. Do you want ... no, I guess you don't need a towel." It was too belated anyway. Fiona settles down more fully, lifting the teapot to pour the brown-red liquid into the two cups. "I tell you, I'm never saying 'I'm bored, wish something would happen' - with my luck..."
     Fiona puts the pot down with care, so's not to burn herself, and pushes her hair back out of her eyes - she's added a series of small beaded braids along the sides of her face, bells tinkling quietly when she moves. "You're not frightening to -look- at, or at least, not from the perspective I think you mean. But yes, I nearly pissed myself. It was ... an experience I don't think I'd care to repeat in a hurry." Especially not when it involves yanking an angel out of his lover's bed, no.
     "I was trying to give Huw and Hwyll a ring, actually," she adds frankly, with a sudden lift of her chin and half-defiant glare. "Figured if I wanted to know more about sprouting pointy ears, I could do worse than go to the source. Besides, it's not as though I've loads of people to talk to about it, and I'll be damned if I constantly go crying on your shoulder - it looks wet enough as it is."

     Touche! Davydd cackles. "Aye .. true enough. I'd make for soggy company. I'd ask to dry it but if I get caught in your flat and in your skivvies, there'd be hell t' pay. Angels popping out aside." Davydd nods about Huw and Hwyll. A half-frown and tilt of his head and all. "I can understand why you'd want to talk to them..." He doesn't bother speaking ill of them. He wishes them no ill, nor does he truly think ill of them.
     "And," he exhales, "I know what it's like to be ...sort of out on your own," as I am now, "... looking for someone walking your path, or at least one like it." He nods, and there is understanding in the forest green gaze. "I thought you had a charm or sommat... or ... didn't you? How did they get here in the first place?" He came in that day and saw them both. Well, different flat. Same cast of characters.
     "I shouldn't have tried to steer you from them in the beginning," he says. "You're of Them. I didn't think that then, I wanted to protect you from it, I think." He peers at you, more at himself through you. "But I think you need to have... some sort of ally, or comrade, something. We're not the same, you and I. You're fairy blood, child of the Sidhe. Me?" He smiles warmly, "I'm just an ordinary bloke with a few extraordinary gifts."
     A pause...
     "And I am a sight first thing in the morning... it's a wonder Sandrine turns on the lights at all..."

     "I'm also," Fiona points out, slouching down in her seat, "living in London, working in London, and not planning on relocating to Tir Na Nog or whatever the proper name of the place is. I might not be ... whatever you consider human, but I consider me human, dammit." Scowl.
     She lifts her teacup to her lips, a brief pause that buys her time to think of what to say, perhaps. "I had a charm. I lost it when I jumped into the river that time, you know - when I jumped off the bridge." Wait - did he knows about that? Well, he does now, and to Fiona, it's all in the past, so what difference does it make? "I appreciate the sentiment. Honestly, I'm not sure how I've managed to get through things intact as it is. Maybe because I don't put out." A bit of Drancy-humour, that. "Or just I irk people enough that they almost want to kill me, but not quite..."
     She sighs a little bit, then, and adds in a briefly wry tone of voice, "I'm just not sure why I've got pointy ears, or what's gone on or going on, and I'd like if not a full explanation, then at least a cheat sheet. Before I end up with - with werewolves digging up my flowerbed, or something of that sort."

     He wrinkles his nose, freckles and all, at the mention of werewolves. He knows some good sorts, but some of the pups these days. He'd just as soon give them a wide berth.
     He takes the teacup, finally, and holds it. Lifts it lastly for a sip, but drinking it is secondary to drawing out its warmth. It's not about the taste. "I don't think it has to do with putting out or not," Davydd murmurs, smirking, "...I don't believe in all that Mary the Virgin magic bullshite. But you know... you have a way. You can conjure dragons and angels. I'm sure if you wanted to get those two fairy gits in your house again, you could do it. Probably as easy as wishing them here. Fairy men are sluts," Davydd rumbles a laugh. "They'll do anything for a tickle. Leave out some honey on a slice of bread, or a bowl of milk with nine drops of honey in it for nine nights. Some shite like that. They're bound to show..."
     Davydd takes another sip of tea and sits back with a sigh. "Ah, I needed this. It'll help for the flight home." Oh sure, he could take a cab, but it's not nearly as fun.

     Drancy blushes hotly. "I'm not planning on inviting them into my bed, just into my living room. Besides, any man willing to share me has right off failed the first test," she adds with a grimace. "I'm ... not sure how I feel about the idea, and that'd be a messy sort of thing to drop into the middle of." Especially on the first go-round.
     "I got told to just invite them, or summon them, by name, and that it should work. The mermaid and the raven-crow woman both said they'd be willing to stand watch for me, with warning, but I don't think it'll be a problem." Overconfident, much? Fiona then pauses, peering over the rim of her cup. "So this was a purely social call, then?"

     "Actually," he says, setting down the teacup with nary a comment to your blushing, like he doesn't even see it, "... it was a purely social call. I felt the urge to be fantastical, and thought I'd fly around the city. Did a little spying on an old friend who never fucking calls me anymore then here. Course, it decided to rain shite. I'll fly home," he smirks, "... scare my woman. In fact, I should probably go."
     As he stands, he looks to you, dark green eyes glimmering. A glimmer that catches on the air around him. "I don't know much about spell casting, I fear. I'm good at what I know, but..." he shrugs. The rest of it's just not my area. "I think, though, if you call, the Kingdom will answer you."
     Me, they try to ignore. Ignorance is bliss.
     "I'm glad to find you well," Davydd smiles warmly, easily. A bend and he places a fatherly kiss on the crown of your head. "You'll be alright, you know," he whispers. "Angels or no." Drawing back, Davydd heads for his coat.
     "If you get them, give them my regards, aye?" He pulls on the wet jacket and makes an expression that can best be translated: Gah. Fuck.

     "If they come when I call, that's not necessarily a good thing," Fiona jibes. "After all, I seem to remember a certain redhead telling me that keeping a low profile would be the best way to keep my body inside my skin."
     She rises as well, reaching up to awkwardly pat a shoulder. Physical displays of affection leave her uncertain of how to respond - she's just not good at them.
     "Don't scare her too much. I owe her a cake or something, though - she's been kinder to me than I quite deserve, as have you." Fiona glances at the tea tray with the leaf and feather both still on them, contemplatively.
     I should try calling them with these - who knows, maybe it's from them, for a change...
     "Don't get sucked into any jet engines," she adds. "Sandrine'd have my head."

     Davydd chuckles. "I'll do my best. I'm sober, so at least there's that." He makes a last check for his keys and cigarettes. "Ah, and I'll not scare her overmuch." Though it doesn't take much admittedly. "Eh, let's not talk about deserving. We're all lucky bastards."
     Once the coat is settled on his broad shoulders again, the raven appears, settling the feathers of his wings. A little disheveled looking from the rain, but air-worthy. The big black bird trundles forward, half-hopping, wings preparing to fly.
     A voice moves against your blood: You know the way. Trust it. And take care, oes? Oh, and pop by Davy's sometime. I could use a girl singer to go with the new band...
     With that the great rook lifts and moves out of your window, past your balcony and blending in with the greater darkness of all London...

     "Huh?" Well. That was an intelligent response. Fiona steps back, shaking her head a little bit. New band? Hell of a way to break the news...
     But she'll stop by. Why not? Aside from summoning dangerous beasts, she's not doing so much in her free time these days - and this is likely to be a lot safer than interrupting angels at sex.
     Fiona sighs, closing the windows and goes back over to the table, picking up her tea cup. "Men. Bah." She picks up the leaf and feather in her other hand, letting them rest musingly in her palm.

Posted by rowan at June 22, 2003 08:26 PM