At the water's edge, she stands, looking out into the distance. A breeze has stirred up, casting long strands of hair about her, licking at her form like flames. She, who was there so long ago at his making, is one of two left of three.
     A face of infinite youth and beauty, tempered by great wisdom and a series of centuries, is upturned toward the light -- warmth spreading there and through her body. She is, like a summer flower, opening up to the sun to bask in its rays.
     But it brings her no comfort.
     The perfect, pale brow is creased with concern and worry as she stares off, watching, listening, thinking...waiting. Her troubles weigh heavily upon her, and it is obvious to any who know her.
     The Oak Queen worries...and that cannot be good.

     There are many who began to worry with the death of the North, the Queen of Winter, Isobel also called Isabel, Belle and Bell's Fury. (Or Jingle Bells, if you're Hwyll). A dark wind that first blew when Mad Peter cross the worlds and planes from the otherworld to the very mouth (multiple mouths, as I hear tell) of Hell, distributing her last rites, and the last gifts of a renowned gift-giver.
     It's been months. Well it might as well be centuries!
     There's a wind, a tempest, a row full of air, and the breeze becomes a storm of your hair. You know him when you smell the rain, hear the rumble and the streak of lightning that soon enough becomes the form and figure of Hywell the Blessed, West Wind himself and stormy seas.
     In chain better than silver, better than white gold and more precious than platinum he stands, long white-gold hair, straight and over his shoulders. His eyes are the color of the seven seas stirred by a great wind. His sword is lightning, glimmering from his waist, waiting for the next strike.
     "Hafwen, Beauty of Summer is her name," Hwyll begins, his smile slipping across his features. And his mouth is poised to go on with The Usual Flattery, but the crease in your brow stops him cold. Hang on, what's this then? "Oak Queen, you look.... perplexed..."

     Your presence is known, felt... though she does not turn or look to you. Ever still, she looks outward on the horizon. But her voice answers you....her voice, usually so radiant and strong, is faded, soft. She is distracted, worried...
     "I am concerned. He... he seems lost..." Only now does she turn to look at you with eyes the colour of a summer sky. "Hwyll, Lord of the West, forgive me." A smile spreads across her face as she moves gracefully toward you, her head inclining toward you as she holds out her hands to you.
     "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" she asks, her voice seeming more focused and clear now, smoothness returning to her forehead as she focuses on you now.

     He. "He who, most radiant queen?" Again with the flattery. A golden eyebrow quirks up and he reaches to take your hand. The metal mesh is like silk to your skin, although it is armor. It bends, it is supple this metal. Magic incarnate. "I have come to visit you, simply. I have missed your company." His eyes fix and the focus on you, his hand clasping yours, lifting it for a brush of his lips. "And it is concerning to me that I find you ... so concerned. I do not like to see you frown! Not so much as frown, my lady. Who is this he? What man in This world or That can vex you more than I?"
     There is truth in that!
     Hywll smiles, a flash of lightning and the air lifts and smoothens his flaxen hair.

     You brighten her smile a bit as you flatter and charm her... a talent so few actually possess. The Oak Queen does not retrieve her hand from you, letting you hold it if you wish.
     Closing her eyes and opening them again, she glances at the water once more. "His name is Davydd ap Owain...and it is he who troubles me. Or, rather, his state of mind. He seems lost. So lost. But, ah, let me not trouble you with my burdens, beloved one."
     Those bluest blue eyes turn away from the water, their gaze landing upon you, so close now. Once more her smile returns to her lips, their colour a similar hue to the firey locks that whip about her as the lightning flashes and air lifts.
     "But, yes, any excuse to receive a visit is a good one." She enjoys your company and has in the past. With a knowing little look, she murmurs to you, "Ah, but that you were the only man to vex me..." Such a tease, even after all her years.

     "If I cannot be the only one then let me be the best," Hwyll announces with a grin. Incorrigible is the Western Wind! Incorrigible in his mind, a blowhard in others. Take Huw for example. Lord Autumn has no sense of humor. Or style.
     But that name. Owain. Owain ap Gwynedd. Davydd ap Owain. Oh. Him. He gives your fingers a squeeze and then he folds his arms against his armored chest. "Remind me again what you saw in him?" Jealousy! Ah! The tempestuous Windy Gentleman eases after a moment, "Other than his mountainous size and mouth. Why shed tears or weigh concern for his part. He is nearly a thousand years old. Hasn't he gotten the hang of it by now?" White-gold eyebrows quirk upward, and then he sighs. "What's the matter with the Champion," he murmurs. "He is ...lost? Is he trapped?" Now he's worried.

     A blowhard to some, but not to her. The Oak Queen has always had a place for you, despite what others may say or think.
     Your jealous question gets a quirk of a grin as she murmurs, "Hm, I'll keep my own counsel on that subject... no offense to you meant." Let you think about that...or dismiss it. She only teases you anyway.
     Then the grin fades, drawing her face into something more wearied-seeming. "No, he is not trapped... or physically lost, to himself or to us. But... I can feel it. There is something wrong. He... how can I put this? He has lost his direction... his purpose." And it's easy to figure out what that leaves; not much.
     Sighing softly, she steps a little closer, touching your cheek gently with fingertips. "Do not let my burden be yours. I will see to this matter personally.. soon." Perhaps Beltane.

     A champion without a purpose. What is that phrase? A king without a sword, a land without a king?M.u< Hywll quirks again, but seems relieved that the man isn't physically upset, trapped or lost. "Metaphorically, you mean. Perhaps spiritually. Hmm...oh, nay... Hafwen, it is no burden to me to share what concerns you," and he reaches out with his hand again. "My Queen and my lady, you were always my favorite," he murmurs.
     The wretch. He smiles brilliantly, his hands to yours. "Is there anything I can do to cheer you? May I remind you that the Champion is an old soul. He's been through how many wars now, great wars, a dozen? More," Hwyll thinks. "You know, he's been lost before. Remember? That time he wasn't even on the island. He went underground. Isabel had to track him through Spain before we found him and could tell him who he was. Davydd ap Owain is a big boy. He'll make it..."