The pace directing father and daughter towards the ballroom is precise yet unhurried, the trembling moonlight and wan summer breezes soon abandoned. This air seems pliable to sound and to light, yielding swiftly to life as it resounds beautifully through the cavernous halls. Argoel reaches to link her arm with your own, thoughtfully listening to your reply as it is intoned.
     "Well, I did not mean love brought about rebirth in the literal sense, but I see what you mean," she murmurs, gaze shifting to sweep over the painfully familiar sights of the castle. How many footsteps have touched upon this earth? A less compromising surface would bear her mark plainly now. And yours... well, your toes could have etched canyons by now. "I should know better than to even ask what I have." She pauses, drawing a breath, lashes fluttering away the stirrings of a "distraction" before it may be fully born. So that when she looks upon you, her regard is unhindered and true.
     "I would be blind if I did not see how it has changed you."

     Other than his bedroom -- ha! -- the grand ballroom is his chamber of choice. You know why. It is filled with musical instruments, some sounding with the breeze of entrance, others waiting to be played. The room hums when Davydd pulls the doors open wide.
     Fiery eyebrows quirk up and he tips back his head, as if to say. Is it that obvious? And then he grins, snorting a laugh at himself. "Well, I shave now so I guess it's pretty obvious." Ha. Davydd grins, madcap summer king that he is.
     "She weaves," he notes, arm still in yours as he makes way for the piano. "And I play. It is frightfully peaceful and... civilized." Remarkable, no?
     "And you know... there's little you cannot or should not ask," Davydd notes in a quiet tone. "You know me, I talk to walls." And walls talk back. Each stone has its own memory.

     The room hums when you pull the door open, and it positively sings when observed by the mind's eye. Argoel's arm disentangles as she drifts through the threshold, eyelids briefly fluttering closed. Confusion first is writ upon the forehead in spindly lines that span from temple to temple, soon easing into a pleasant calm. The cacophony became a symphony.
     "She caused you to shave, hmm? I hadn't noticed that," she jests lightly, though if she had truly managed to overlook such an obvious detail, it wouldn't be surprising. Hugging the wall to the right, the pace seems timed with a sluggish melody recalled through hazy dreams. She observes the walls, the sort that you admit to speaking to. Do they spill your secrets?
     Abruptly, Ara asks, "What do you think I would ask about that I do not? Your encouragement is often reserved for occasions when you sense hesitation." Her idle observation is chased by a mild smile.

     The room hums and he hums with it. A resonance that lights its way through him. He has an aura that surrounds him, bright light and sparkles, glittering essence of magic and nine spots of deep blue power, lighting the way where each dragon lives. Where each spell hums.
     He radiates inspiration, the raw elements used by muses throughout the ages of man. It turns him golden for those who can see it. It makes him... beautiful. It is lit in his eyes, periwinkle showing in the forest green of them.
     At the notion of shaving, Davydd only grins. A look tells you he will not be explaining it further but there is a funny story that goes with it. Well, it was funny for him. "Ah, Ari..." a chuckle as he sits on the piano bench. Yes, your father is going to play. "... I was just saying you should never worry about... knowing better than to even ask what you have..." He winks. "Course, look who I'm talking to, neh? You do not have to ask, you only have to look. Oh! I should have you do a drawing," the mouth slants a smile.
      As if you do tarot...

     One eyebrow arching crookedly upward, Argoel turns towards the piano with an affectionate grin. "Oh yes, a drawing. You know, I do baptisms and birthdays these days too. Just in case you have any friends in the market for entertainment. I should get a card made up." The vibrations of sound echo through her pace once again, though it is difficult to tell if it is that which you have once played or that which is to come which dictates her footfalls now. The moment of humor is effectively lost to those perpetual interruptions of thought.
     "Sometimes before I sleep, I can hear you singing," she murmurs absently as she finally reaches the piano, the pad of her thumb covering a particular yet seemingly irrevelant spot. "It is so faint, I used to wonder if you were just singing loud enough that the heavens overheard and whispered it in my ear." And fancy is dismissed by the earthy, utterly grounded chuckle that follows. Still, it leaves an inkling of a notion. "You should sing something," Ara urges lightly. Green eyes tilt heavenward as she adds, "Something old, that even the heavens would not have dared mention."

     "Yes... it would be lovely to hear him sing again," comes a familiar, female voice from the doorway. Dressed in a long green dress with a black scarf-shawl over it, Gwen leans against the doorframe, smiling softly. Fiery locks have been pulled into a long plait down her back, thick and shiny, tied off with a ribbon of green.
     She first looks to Ari, then to Davydd, smiling gently to both. It has been a little while, hasn't it? White Hart has kept her busy as of late, pulling her away for some time. But here she is, leaning against the frame of the door with her arms crossed over her chest... so much like the father, is she not? She says not another word, awaiting both of you to turn and look or acknowledge in some manner.

     "In my experience with heaven, there's little it wouldn't dare to mention, but I will try... let's see..." He thinks and his fingers move over the keys. Haphazard musicality. Sweetness. The grand piano is old, a century old at least, and so finely and so frequently tuned that even the barest touch fills the grand hall with sound. The grand ballroom is the perfect music room.
     "I sing every night," he notes quietly, eyes glancing up. "So... maybe it is not so strange..."
     He stops when another voice, not the piano's, issues against the marble. Red head lifts and green eyes flicker at the sound. There's a smile. "Isn't this the right rare evening? Two lovely girls, both of them mine," daughters both, "... and a room full of music." With a nod, Davydd gestures for Gwendolyn to enter and his fingers move over the keys again.
     A quiet song takes form. He won't interrupt your conversation. The modulations are simple enough. An old Welsh song, this. One, at first, without words. The Song of Three Birds.

     It takes a moment for Argoel to register that the new presence is truly here, and not merely part of the assemblage of memories long past. How disorienting it always seems at first -- the seasons, years, and often the setting changes, but never these sweetly familiar faces aglow within. When the realization sets in, warmth settles in the gaze that greets Gwendolyn.
     "It is so good to see you again, Gwen. You have grown almost more elusive than our dear father." Her eyes twinkle faintly. Nevermind her own recent fit of absence that left only a trail of outdated, hasty postcards in her wake. Ari, too, gestures in invitation, as though to reinforce the welcome.

     Smiling, Gwendolyn steps forward once beckoned by both, not truly wishing to interrupt or intrude. But could she really? It is family here, of course. Her hands fall down to her sides as she moves gracefully across the floor, nearing her sister.
     "Ari, it is good to see you," she says softly, offering open arms to the other woman. "Aye, White Hart keeps me busy these days... not as much as running after old Charles, however. He's still set on trimming the hedges himself, even at his age, and running more than he can handle... but I'd be lost without him. I dinnae know how he keeps on going as he does." She tosses a smile at Davydd as she says this.

     "I'm the least elusive man I know," Davydd protests. "Hell, I'm easy to find. All you have to do is listen for the non-stop gabbing." There's a wink and a glitter of green, a tinkle of keys in a laugh-singing lilt. The song is played, his green eyes moving between fingers and daughters.
     And then it switches, a cadence that is sweet, and then longing. There is a gentle rhythm.
     "I've heard there was a secret chord
     That David played, and it pleased the Lord
     But you don't really care for music, do you?
     It goes like this
     The fourth, the fifth
      The minor fall, the major lift
     The baffled king composing Hallelujah
      Hallelujah, Hallelujah
     Hallelujah, Hallelujah..."
     No, he didn't write it, he can't claim it, but when he sings it, his voice changes the ownership. It's impossible to think of anyone else singing it. The voice is deep and peerless smooth, gravelly only when he wants it to be. He doesn't sing loudly, you can talk over him easily.

     Before the words of the song begin, Argoel draws in to Gwendolyn as she completes her approach, squeezing her fiercely in a hug. "It is good to see you too," she murmurs in return, loud enough to not exclude their father from the conversation, but restrained enough to not try to overwrite the sounds drawn from Davydd's fingers. Rocking back against her heels, she slips back a pace or two, hovering close at Gwen's side.
     Lips part as though to speak again, but her jaw snaps closed as the heart of the song begins. Arms folding comfortably across her chest, attention is suitably settled upon Davydd. The voice may be crafted to be overwritten easily, but the conversation can wait. For now.

     The other sister appears to agree. Even as she is embraced and returns it, even as it parts, she does not speak, letting the music and words flow about her. So many fond memories does she have of years ago when Davydd would sing and play... childhood memories... teenaged memories... memories from not that long ago?
     Her own fingers can draw the song from a harp's strings as easily as plucking a flower from its stem.. but for now, they are still, and she is the audience. Gwen may get lost in the music, if she is not careful, and so she refrains from closing her eyes, as her first instinct suggests. Settling comfortably in her stance so near her sister, she merely listens.

     You were each introduced to your father when you were infants, though you did not know him then. When you were seven, he was Uncle Davydd, even as he is to most of his family to this day. You were educated. You were taught music. Languages. When you were of age, you were told of your lineage. When the time was right, you were welcomed into a circle and given a golden chalice. You were told to drink. Drink, he said, he smiled. And when you did, it opened up the world.
     Fingers move over the keys, a rolling sound.
      "Maybe I've been here before
     I know this room, I've walked this floor
     I used to live alone before I knew you
     I've seen your flag on the marble arch
     love is not a victory march
     Its a cold and its a broken hallelujah...
     Hallelujah, Hallelujah
     Hallelujah, Hallelujah..."
     The song goes on, but he halts it there, dark eyes lifting from his fingers to his daughters. Davydd winks. "I like that bit. A bit moody, but then so am I. No flowerly love ballad. It's real. When love is real, it hurts as much as heals."
     And now I'm rhyming. It must be time for bed.

Posted by rowan at September 18, 2003 11:32 PM