Many a young lady's fantasy of being asked to dance, or conversely her absolute terror in not being asked, were answered here. When it is absolutely still, one might even be able to detect one last, lingering sigh. Or maybe that was you...
     The motif of red and white alternating marble squares continues here, a pattern unbroken from the gallery, but in the sweeping sheer breadth of this ballroom, such patterns may seem to swirl. Windows line the eastern wall, facing the gardens. To the west, the walls are paneled in crimson brocade, textures rich, and setees and lounges line the wall, north to south in luxurious comfort. Light is provided by two great chandeliers, more than enough for the current purpose of this hall.
     For while there has been no formal dancing here in over a century, music has not likewise been forgotten. It is museum-like, this collection of stringed instruments, a veritable testament to the passing of musical time, from era to era. Viola to violin. Luito to classical guitar to electric guitar. From 1565 to 1965. Stradivarius to Les Paul.
      ...You might remember the way this ballroom used to be, now. The smell of the oil lamps, the thick perfume sent wafting by the billowing of ladies fans. In a row, they stood like partridges upon a tree. But when the music began, they whirled and they danced like fairies in a ring...
     He is dressed in a brown and charcoal sweater, with a blue thread run straight through. A mock turtleneck, it is spun of the wool of the best lambs of his own country. It follows his soldier's build at his shoulders, his chest and his arms, and it falls soft and slack over dark brown trousers, brown with a blue thread run straight through.
     He stands in the center where the ladies once danced, a violin stuck under his chin. The song is plaintive and the song is sweet; melancholy and lovely both. His eyes are closed and his lips move in silence -- verses and chorus remembered still.
     His hair is growing out since the last time you saw him, the copper-red showing its natural wave, but it's still cropped short at his nape. Where's the beard? Long gone, lovely -- long gone.
     His strong fingers move up and down on the neck of the singing violin. And his eyes squeeze when the note strikes true. So sweet, it is piercing...

     She stood outside of the room, listening to the song, remembering it, remembering you play it for her in the past. Eventually, it beckons to her and she cannot resist its call.
     Stepping into the room, she stands just within the open doorway, leaning back against the edge of the door frame, reaching back to hold onto it as memories flood over her.
     She is a lovely vision, your daughter. A jumper of the deepest forest green hangs from narrow shoulders, the neckline dipping down just slightly to show off a bit of flesh, and the silver knotwork pendant hanging in the hollow of her slender throat. The green wool is the same as her eyes, making them stand out a bit more, if that's possible. A long black corduroy skirt floats down to her ankles, showing off her black suede boots.
     Hair that seems spun from the same lot as yours tumbles down her back, tied only loosely into a ponytail, but low, at her shoulders. It frames her delicate face so well.
     Her eyes close for a moment as the music washes over her. How she's missed that sound and your presence. She misses the past a bit, but the past is long gone, and she's learned to accept it.

     What is time, what is it really...
     We have both seen it come and have seen it go, a parade of decades, a century carnivale, with masks to masques, year to year, twelve pagan festivals a year and a handful of saint days. This castle and White Hart House have been full of children, now your grandchildren, great grandchildren, your nieces and nephews. And his.
     Davydd pivots, eyes opening. Smiling, he holds the bow still, he plucks the strings, he ends the song in a sigh. Violin and bow tucked beneath an arm, he reaches out for you. "Look at you, now. A sight for eyes most sore, you are..." His voice rises and falls, drags and lilts in the Welsh of the valleys of Powys. Davydd's smile is like quicksilver, lighting his eyes like a flash of lightning.

     Grandchildren and great grandchildren... and neither of you look a year older for it. She, herself, looks to be in her late twenties, nearing her early thirties, at most.
     Coppery eyelashes flutter open as the song ends and her eyes are drawn to you as you speak. And then her lips curl upward into a warm smile. Your words bring blood to her cheeks, causing her to blush.
     "Well, such a welcome." Pushing away from the door frame, she crosses the room to meet you, saying softly, "It has been too long. I've missed you.." She's always been so warm with you, having a close relationship with you. It was you she could always speak to about her troubles, when no one else would do.

     Hard to believe this family's history began with four fat red-headed babies, born of Davydd ap Owain, one of the great princes of Wales, and a Spanish countess. He only slept with the woman on four occasions -- his life was full of war -- but by every spring, after each of his winter visitations, her belly was swollen with your ancestors.
     And so on and so on the story goes...
     "Ah, I've missed you, too, Dant y Llew," dandelion. He remembers your birth, he remembers making you laugh when you were just a fat, red-headed baby born of Davydd ap Owain. His strong arm goes around your shoulders, and he pulls you in for a hug. "We're back to stay now," he says and upon the end of that statement, he smiles and he protests, "Aye... I know it, I say it every time I go to that cursed City."
     He parts from the hug, smiling, his hand still holding your own. "How have you been, and things at White Hart? I think I will pass a few summer evenings there. I could do with a bit of fishing. All is well?"
     It is approaching time. Time to pick another young woman of my own family, one of my own descendants. The ceremonial begetting of another guardian. "Still with the harping?"

     Dandelion. How that nickname would make her smile... and even today, it has the same effect. A wildflower that most find to be a nuisance, but perseveres through even the harshest climates and weather. That's your Gwen, is it not? A delicate flower, but tough as nails when necessary.
     The hug is returned warmly, only ceased when you pull back. There's a sigh as she murmurs, "Aye... and one of these days we'll just tie you down so that you cannae leave again, hm?" Laughter follows this, echoing lightly through the ballroom.
     "White Hart is fine. In truth, things have been rather quiet as of late." No news is good news. "The upkeep has been going smoothly, and there haven't been any disturbances or trouble." Nothing from vandals, which is a big relief. "Charles is getting old, but still insists on trimming the hedges himself and cleaning out the gutters on his own, but what else is new? He takes such pride in his work." She refers to Charles Mansbury, the grounds keeper.
     The time is near, yes, and the whole family wonders who will be picked. But she says nothing. Your mind will be spoken on the matter when you are ready to tell. Or act. "Yes, of course. I play a little each day, to remember. I've been teaching a few of the children."

     We're all weeds in the world, dearie...
     Davydd nods for the report. He was not worried. It's been years now since the vandals disturbed his saintly sister's resting place, repaired by the hands of the saint's own wedded lord. Not a peep since.
     "Charles still at the hedges?" Davydd begins to walk you toward one of the benches, violin in his other hand, your hand yet in his. "And you still at the harp." Davydd smiles, suddenly comforted. "Like the language," he continues in Welsh, "... teaching the harp is essential to who we are. Who We All Are," as those born of Wales. "Thank the lord for your lessons to them." He is not yet ready to speak it. But it will have to be spoken. It is like the passing of the seasons. Every hundred years (or so), he clasps one of his bloodline. "This year, Beltane, we will speak of it," he says to your thoughts. Your curiosity. Your quiet. "You, Hew, Llew and I." Davydd grins like lightning, spreading warm and wide. We rhyme.
     Davydd takes a seat on the bench, setting the violin to one side, you have room to sit upon his other side. "I think it will be a good late spring for the gardens. I wish I could see it in the light of day." Davydd chuckles a little, "I should not care by now, aye? You've seen it. How are Powis' gardens so far? Are the new hybrid roses budding?"

     The quiet has done wonders to help erase the damage once done there, done to the saint resting there.
     Chuckling, she replies, "I dinnae think we'll be able to get Charles away from those hedges until he's long gone... and even then, I'm sure we'll catch glimpses of him out there, trying to snip away a stray branch here or there, only to get frustrated when his ghostly hands have no effect." Though the thought of Charles passing on isn't a pleasant one, it's a fact that he's getting older and older with each passing year... and what she speaks of, one could definitely imagine in the old fellow.
     She lets you lead her along, feeling comforted by your presence. Glancing at you out of the corner of her eye, she smirks and murmurs teasingly, "You know... I could just Look." She could use the Sight and catch a glimpse ahead. She teases. But she cannot help it. Each year, leading up to Beltane, there is so much tension... she's never been good with surprises.
     Settling down next to you as you move onto the gardens, she nods, glancing down the length of the ballroom. "Aye, they are budding. Some are even nearly in bloom. They're so lovely... you should at least come out to see them later," in the evening. "The scent is magnificent."

     "Aye, I will... you know," he clears his throat. "I had Gerald," the groundskeeper at Powis Castle, "... develop a special rose. Pink and gold. You know, I'm not much of a romantic," Davydd leans back against the wall of crimson brocade. Red is his color. It picks up in his complexion, his hair. "But I thought... if the roses turn out, I'd name it for the lady," Sandrine. The woman who is rarely seen. Still, there is a protective wall between the woman he loves and the family he gave rise to. "I think you'd like her. I'm glad you're here for a few nights at least. I want you to meet her."
     Hell, you remember Rosamund. Blonde, beautiful, but a little on the chilly side. Ha. She couldn't be any colder if she were actually dead, rather than merely undead. "I'll pop by the greenhouse tonight, take a look at them. You know, she's mad about flowers. She owns flower shops in town," London. "I brought her here when we were first ... seeing one another," vampires don't date, do they? "... and...I remember... she started pruning my plants." He chuckles quietly, then sighs. "Ah, me... do I not sound like a fool. I haven't told her," he notes. "She doesn't know about my beautiful," he squeezes your hand, "...and talented children."

     "I think the lady would like that very much so," your daughter murmurs softly, squeezing your hand. She means if you named the roses after her. "And I would like very much to meet her." Gwen has always had this protective streak in her, for any of her family, but especially for you. She does indeed remember Rosamund...and didn't care much for her. But she held her tongue out of respect and love for you.
     And if you say she'll like Sandrine, she does not doubt your word one bit. You, who know her so well.
     There is a chuckle as you mention Sandrine pruning your plants. "Well, it could have been worse." Glancing to you, she murmurs quietly, "How will you tell her? How do you think she will take it..." ...take us?

     "I don't know," he says seriously, softly. Davydd narrows his eyes in thought, his brow furrowing for a moment. "The more I try to tell her, the more I confuse... her. Or frighten her." He smirks suddenly and then the smile goes wry. "She thinks I am an odd creature. I have tattooes all over my body and turn into animals when given half a chance. If you didn't know any better, you'd be frightened too, I warrant. Though you love your da, and your da is very glad for it."
     It is for all of your protection that he likely lives at all. He, solitary in his darkened world, has had only his family, his children and his guardians to see to him. You support him and he, in turn, supports and protects each one of you. There have been just two women in all that time that he spent more than a night or two with: Rosamund Clifford Caermichael and Sandrine Jorgensen. Rose didn't understand him either -- and didn't care to. Sandrine doesn't understand him either, and doesn't know how to. Davydd snorts a soft laugh at that thought.
     "I don't know, merch-bach," daughter-dear, "...how or what or when or if. I don't think she would... understand it." His eyes drift upward to the ceiling, then to your face. Fiery eyebrows cock upward. "Or my lying with another for that other to bear my child. I know she would herself if she could. I think it would hurt her."
     But it will happen.
     Davydd exhales a mighty exhale, a clearing breath. "Course, one look at the two of us and she'll as much know." He grins. "You're the spittin' image, I swear it. The apple that fell closest to this tree."

     "Aye, it will be difficult. And she may even get angry. You must expect that...her anger. Anger born out of confusion and misunderstanding. What we are... 'twould be difficult for anyone outside to understand," Gwendolyn murmurs softly, looking back at you, her eyes so like your own offering such a gentle gaze.
     "But if she loves you, she will try to understand. And perhaps that's all that can be asked of her." But it will be more than difficult... to make her understand that your lying with another for a child has nothing to do with her, but merely the continuance of the line.
     "How old is she? Is she old enough to understand the importance of the continuance of the family?" Such values are oft lost on the modern mind. And then the unspoken question: will you tell her of your choice at each Beltane? How much of the family life will you share?
     Then there is talk of the apple falling from the tree and this causes her to smile again. Though she is not broad like you, she is tall for her gender, nearly standing as tall as yourself. And the facial features, the hair, even some of the expressions... there is no mistaking it. "Ah, well.. I am proud of my heritage, da." And do nothing to hide it.

     Every Beltane, there is a fire lit in an old hall. Every Beltane, there is blood that is spilled into three golden chalices. There is a ceremony done. There is a song that is sung, the song of becoming. And three glasses lift to three mouths that bear his curve. Once every fifty or one hundred years (or so), a woman is brought to the ceremony, young, healthy, beautiful, and couples with the king. And every following February, at Imbolc or thereabouts, a red-haired, green-eyed baby is born. That is the truth of it.
     Davydd nods to what you say, he listens. And though he is older than you by several centuries (more than a few), he respects and accepts your counsel. "She's old enough," Davydd murmurs. "And maybe she would understand. She understands family, lineage. It would be foreign to her... that I could still produce. I think this would be the shock of all shocks," and he laughs. And even blushes a bit, which makes the freckles across the bridge of his nose suddenly noticeable. "Aye, you're right. Well," a hand rakes through his hair, "... I may need to broach it with her when she meets you." He grins suddenly. "For there's no mistaking it. Even though you're fairer than I am. How did that happen? Ah, right... you had a beautiful mother...that must be it..."

     The Sight has taught her much, including a wisdom beyond her years. She respects the fact that you are her father, but she gives her counsel freely to you, to her brothers... whether it is taken is up to each of you.
     Giving your hand a squeeze, she murmurs, "Well, it might be difficult at first, but perhaps she will understand. Or, if nothing else, just accept it." Because really, that's all that is needed. Does anyone truly understand it? Even Gwen doesn't pretend to completely understand it... it just is. It's life. It's all she's known.
     You blush and she smiles... ah, yes, speaking of producing children to your daughter. But it is no secret among the family, is it? As you mention the difference between the two of you, now it is her turn to blush again. "Yes.. that must be it," she repeats, grinning at you.
     Beginning to rise, she murmurs, "However... I have some things I need to tend to. We can talk more later." Time is running away on her. She needs to call Charles, among other items on her list, to make sure all is well. He is expecting her call.

     The last squeeze of a hand brought a smile and he rises with you, a kiss left on your cheek. "We will be up rather late, if you want to visit us upstairs. But... take all the time you want. Rest after your trip. You know where to find me."
     Davydd looks at you for a moment more and nods, "Diolch," he thanks you in your shared tongue. No better daughter could a man ever hope for...

Posted by rowan at August 05, 2003 08:44 PM