It's a slower song than some, and probably a good thing that Fiona's well and truly relaxed and casually dressed. She's dragged a stool up there, though she perches on it loosely, her hair down and flowing down her back. One hand's resting in her lap, the other curving fingers against the edge of the stool, fingering the wood grain.

"Oh my love
my darling
I've hungered for your touch
A long lonely time..."
     It's not inaccurate. Anyone who knows her, knows she's got an appetite beneath the fire and ice, behind the shove and the distance. But she's never given into it except the once, and then - well, it didn't happen then, either. Tarnished purity - does that even count? Her eyes are heavy-lidded, the blue shaded to grey as she turns her head to watch Davydd, then a quick glance to the man who could so easily seem his brother. Slowly, her attention returns to the big Welshman, though.
"And time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine..."
     Dragons steal high-born ladies, don't they? It's a strange sort of night. The music is heavy against her skin, her eyes sinking to the wooden boards of the stage. Audience? Oh, they're there - but removed, a television screen away. Funny how something so thin can end up being so thick. Her voice holds a clarity, with a slightly husky note to it, on this song, rising to purity on the higher notes. So easy to lose oneself in music, isn't it? Beneath the tension of her skin (it's like surface tension of water) her magic is waiting, building. Control ... who has control? Who has the key, really? She's thinking too much again, and subsides on her thoughts to give the close of the song her attention instead, the wound in her voice opening, power visible through it - blood through stigmatism, energy through pain, real, imagined, remembered.
"I need your love
I need your love
God speed your love to me..."

     Your voice lifts lightly, his sinks and become the earth against which the leaves of your phrasing fall and drift, blow and whisper. It is understated and -- when he wants it to be, clearly -- it is without roughness, deep but pure, a tenor with low registers so rich that they blend into your own, dissolving on the senses like honey and sugar on the tongue, like young wine even, disappearing in its singularity to become part of the song you are creating between you...

"Lonely rivers flow to the arms of the sea,
To the open arms of the sea
Lonely rivers cry:
wait for me, wait for me
I'll be coming home, wait for me..."
     For him, there is always a dual reality, one foot upon either world -- sunshine and brightness in one, darkness in the other, regardless of what 'half' of the year it is. The Oak King is in-between them. But he is not impervious to the changes in the world, the changing of the seasons. His voice echoes them. There is longing there, the longing of the world for the renewal of spring, that might well be translated to the longing between two people. There is depth there, and there is warmth there.
     Most of all, there is magic. Inspiration. Glamour. A striking blow to all things Banal. In it, the reverberation of Life, the twitching, bewitching energy that moves the world.
     Forest green eyes are fastened on his singing partner, and the eyes smile while the mouth is occupied, while the throat is otherwise detained. His phrasing, expert troubadour. But there is something of assurance for her there in his eyes. Something, perhaps, for her to grasp onto rather than on the side of the barstool.

     Duality is something Fiona's had to deal with for ... a while, now. She isn't tied to seasons, but she's affected by them - by the ebb and flow of time, of earth, of air, the changing of the moon and the dressing of the trees, the slow slap of waves against the shore. For all her fire, for all her melancholy, Britain is in her bones, and no matter where she runs to, even if she could escape her Hunters, she cannot escape herself.
     Ah, well... fox-hunting is very British, isn't it?

"And time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine?"
     She glances over at Davydd, lips curving slightly, the roil and shiver of magic escaping her. It emanates - it glows. Why do people stare at stages, but in longing for that which is not banal? Davydd and his dragons, Fiona and the elf-knots tied in her hair - even without them, the audience would be lost. That there is actual Glamour in it just adds to the entrancement.
     Dreams, after all, can come true. See? There it is, lurking under cover of the tablecloth, hands held by lovers, the sentimental touch of friends against one another in time of need. But dreams can turn to nightmares, oh, oh so quickly... It's the dark of the year.
     Fear of loss - the vibrato doesn't make her voice tremulous, but there's a hint of that wondering, questioning, almost despairing note before she shifts to the final verses.
"I need your love
I need your love...
God speed your love to me..."
     It's a long, drawn-out note, filled with loneliness and longing. Is it aimed at anyone in specific? Davydd certainly receives his share of it - a duet is a shared thing, and with magic, there's bindings. There's a release in it, too, of sorts, Glamour washing out over the audience. In the back, couples are slipping out, filled with the need to chase away the cold chill of winter in intimacy.

     The ending note is a shared note. It hovers for moments, like a lover hovering upon the edge of a kiss to be given. The pause is everything, the hanging note is everything. It is, at the very least, a refusal to End. And who is better at not ending than Davydd himself? But all songs, all notes, have a mathematical measure, a boundary within which they exist or fade away. At least for the moment.
     He pauses, then he smiles at the mic, sitting back after another measure of silent music ticks by in 4/4 time and the audience applauds and whistles. You're a hit, he mouths, and then he turns to the crowd, remembering them it seems, raising his pint which he was holding, Kelly was on the guitar. Kelly himself takes a bow as Davydd reminds people of next week's open mic night and thanks them very much -- in Welsh -- for another lovely evening. He even takes a moment to be conversational with a bird in the front row.
     But it's only casual, congenial thanks. He's elsewhere. He's in musical, magical LaLaLand. He glows with it, is made beautiful by it, beams and gleams in it. And then he's looking to you as the mic's cut off.
     "Diolch," he says to you, a hand coming out to skim your shoulder and he's smiling. "Best night at the mic I've had in a while," he says. "You're really quite good. We'll have to do this again. Kelly's sold a lot of drinks tonight," he chuckles, "...he's a bit of an old pirate. He likes the clink of coins...now you'll never heard the end of it."
     "Never!" Kelly says brightly, looking like... well, very Davydd like all of a sudden. It's the nose. It's the smile.

     "Yes, well, don't get too used to it," Fiona admonishes with a smile, trying not to look or sound too dazed or breathless. She's a bit flushed - flushed with the Glamour and with everything else, standing up and pushing her hair back with both hands, away from her face. "Looks like the crowd's thinning out a little already. And Davydd, you never told me you had a twin brother," she adds lightly. "For shame - Dot would have loved to know."
     Of course, Dot was much more fancying William, but there's a name that isn't needed tonight. There's too much temptation in the air already; the pub is thick with it, to Fiona's gaze. "Glad to've been able to help out with moving the drinks along, though," she grins to Kelly, glancing up at Davydd. "He's not the only pirate in this room, Davydd. Half the girls and probably some of the boys would love to find out if it's true that Welshmen do it deeper. At any rate, let me put this stool back - I've still got to find where I left my stuff."
     She's trying, oh, so hard, to act normal. It isn't coming easily this time; her hands are trembling slightly, her skin jumping with Glamour, motes of energy that dance lazily in the currents of air. A touch of Spring-time in the midst of Winter's embrace, perhaps.
     "As for my singing, well - call it the luck of the draw, mm? I sing well, and I win at cards, and you know what they say..." Fiona chuckles, drifting towards the edge of the stage, moving past the two men. "Maybe sometime I'll sing for you again, though, if you're sure you'd like."

     Brother, son, what's the difference?
     Kelly grins and takes his position back behind the bar for now as the pub settles down from the activity. Soon, the telly will be on and it'll be a different bar. "Aye, sad day for me that I have a black-sheep Llywelyn in the family. We're just from neighboring villages," Kelly Morgan adds, "...and you know what they say about it. All the Welsh from Powys look alike."
     Davydd laughs a little at that and waggles his brows sommat as he leans to put away his guitar. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Morgan," he rattles off. But then he winks. "Once a Morgan, always a cheater. Oh, did I say that out loud? Have mercy on meh," he murmurs with a little breathless humor tossed it. The rest is laughter at doing it deeper. "Aye, miners to the last man. You know, once you have a man who goes deep, you never go back."
     Kelly's laughing now, too, waitresses heading out to take the next rounds and he coming back to pack up. He packs up a guitar and a violin, and Davydd does the same. "Any time, lass," Kelly says lightly. "You're always welcome, whether you're throwing punches or not. In fact, a punch at that mug'd do him good from time t' time..."
     "We'll do it again," Davydd concurs, agrees and all but promises. "And I'll be heading back for Powys," he says to Kelly, "... so, next gig... likely in a month? But I'll see you in Cardiff in a couple of weeks, aye?"
     "Aye," Kelly rumbles, smiling as he hefts up his own instruments -- he'll get the rest of the equipment later. He looks to Fiona. "Miss, a pleasure. Next round is on me..."
     And now you're alone with him, the Oak King standing nearby with his guitar case and violin case. "The Rover's out back. Care for a lift?"

     Even if it brings a touch more colour to her face, the banter gets a laugh out of Fiona. "You Welshmen," she shakes her head, "leaving us behind in London to suffer it out." She doesn't mean it, really. She likes London as well as anywhere in Britain.
     Collecting her belongings into a neat pile - really, just the laptop and its case - Fiona glances to the representative of Summer, smiling slightly. "Well, why not? Otherwise I'll be calling for a taxi. Still haven't learned to drive, you know. I suppose I should do something about that - one of these days." She nods to the violin case as well. "You play that, too? How many fiddles do you put your bow to, anyway, Davydd?"

     "I play the violin, guitar and piano. Anything with strings," he chortles, a rush of red in his face that lights him. "I try to keep it to one, maybe two fiddles at a time. Otherwise, the tuning's a nightmare," he rolls out, color returning to normal. Is that his attitude on women as well?
     Gesturing with the violin case to the door, he asks you to come along with. "I'm parked to the side... do you want me to stop for a bite along the way, take out anywhere?" Such a gentleman...
     "Eh, sacrilege though it is, London's not all bad. I like the energy," he says on his way out, even holding the door for you as he holds the guitar case in one hand and the violin in the other. "You don't need to drive in the City... I rarely did when I lived here constantly..."

     "The chips did me fairly well, honestly," Fiona answers with a smile of her own, nodding her thanks as he gets the door. "Want me to take one of those? I've just got the laptop, and that's got a strap, so..."
     She steps out with a slight shiver at the cold air outside. "Always hate leaving the pub when I know it's going to be like this. You really do play well, you know - but you should know, it's not the first time I've heard you. Even if I didn't try to kill you this time." Ah, we grow, we age, we mature. We stop trying to kill people who barely know us. Right? Right.
     Lowering her voice, Fiona ducks her chin, letting her cornsilk tresses sweep forward on either side of her face, elf-knots more visible, now, to the discerning eye - not tangles, these, but actual elf-knots, carefully tied within inches from her scalp. "I know I don't need to. But as long as I'm not sure what I do need, I figure there's things I can do. It passes the Time... I'm living in the penthouse still, for now, by the way."

     There's a little bit of a smile and he's standing outside the pub with you, huddled against the wind for a moment. Damn English winter. "Diolch," he says, he smiles easily -- always easily, always brightly, always with exuberance. It's a warm thing on a cold night. And he holds out the violin case for you to take, then pulls it back with a grin. Kidding. "I've got it, but you can reach into the coat and grab the keys to the Rover," he suggests, stepping away from the doorway.
     "Penthouse is good living. You'll have to remind me of the locale," he continues. "Nice knots," he admires those openly. "So, the music keeps me honest," he goes on to note. "Keeps the energy flowing as it should. Keeps it in check. It has to have somewhere to go. Knots in the hair or songs in a pub. It's all the same. Expression. It has to be expressed."

     "Men, all alike," Fiona scoffs, reaching over to the coat a bit hesitantly - it won't bite her through coat and shirt and whatever else, will it? (And couldn't that just be misinterpreted.) She reaches, though, and rummages with a will. "Having me root about for you - at least it's your coat and not your trousers." She emerges victorious, as it were, holding aloft the keys and shifting towards the vehicle.
     As she unlocks the doors for him and for herself, she continues, "It's not bad, though I still haven't entirely gotten used to it - it's so big, and I've never been much of one for clutter. You remember my old place. So ... I don't have much more stuff, but it's spread thin." She sighs and smiles, a briefly subdued expression on her face before the animation returns. Hauling open a door, she adds lightly, "Though the centrepiece is a certain painting that has to be seen to be believed. Got it dirt cheap, too. And yet the most expensive painting I've ever bought."
     A nod, then, about the music and the knots. "They turn up, they go away on their own - I leave them be. Unless I cut my hair short, there's no getting rid of them, and I think that would be a pity. I've come to like my hair like this." Fiona drops the laptop in on the passenger seat, then leans against the door. "I'm ... still trying to figure out where to put things, I suppose, Davydd. I just don't know." And it isn't the furniture she's talking about. "I suppose it's different for everyone, but I seem to spend my life looking for things that aren't... there."

     Davydd chuckles and he's glad he's on the other side of the car, putting the violin and the guitar in the back when he says: "It suits you. I like it long..." Ah, memories. Like the corners of our mind. Misty water-colored memories, of the way we were. Instruments stowed, he lifts his head, looking up at you, then through the windows to you on the other side of the car.
     "I think you're doing alright, better than I expected when I hauled you off the concrete," he notes. He studies you, and then he smiles. It's a tender thing, that. "You're more comfortable in your skin that you were then. Time has a funny way of settling things, you know." He pauses to close the back door and then piles into the driver's seat, leaning over to open the door for you, albeit from the inside. "Half the battle is accepting you don't know everything... the rest is being open to ...what presents itself. What are you looking for?"
     Wait a tick -- he seems to actually give a shit. What's going on?

     "If I knew what I was looking for, that'd be half the battle, wouldn't it? I've spent half my life afraid of myself and everyone else, I think." Fiona climbs in, shaking her head tolerantly and settling back in the seat, closing her eyes for a moment.
     Reopening them, she leans over to swing the door shut, pulling on the seatbelt, and glances over with one eyebrow cocked upwards. "Glad you like it, I suppose. What does anyone look for? I don't think I'm looking for anything that other people haven't looked for. I just - haven't found the right thing, yet. I'll know it when I see it."
     "I'm not a comfortable person," she adds after a moment, focusing her gaze on the Welshman. Her smile lingers, with that edge of melancholy. "But I suppose I'm a bit tired, in some ways - settling in, though not settled down yet. There's still fight left in me. So," she finishes, settling back again, hands folded over her stomach, "what am I looking for? What're you looking for, for that matter?" That it brings you out of your castle or other den, to startle young Englishwomen nearly out of their skins...

     The Rover is silent and once the doors close it's like you and he are in your own little bubble universe. The noise of London is shut out and it's just you two. "I don't know," he smiles grandly. "Do you believe that?" He chuckles softly, no nearer to starting the car than he was when he was in the pub. "Looking to have a decent sort of life, whatever that may be." Great shoulders shrug. "Life's not supposed to be 'answered', I don't think."
     The bronze-haired Welshman stares at you a while, a few minutes, a handful of moments taken. "Keep your fight," he whispers. "It's part of you. You know, I don't know... Fiona... what this life is supposed to be, or what I'm supposed to do with what I've been given. Maybe nothing. Seems a waste," his eyes widen a touch as he smiles a little, "... I'm trying to do what's right by those I know, to be a good man mostly," he tacks on with a grin. "When I'm not being a prick."
     He pauses a moment and then he leans in, voice lowering to a murmur. "I have my moments, too... when I get tired. I blame the weather, I drink and I brood," he smiles a little, "... then the weather warms and I'm right as rain. Maybe it's just the moon afterall..."
     Maybe it's the moon...
     Maybe it's the season...
     He should start the car...

     It's tempting, but the main thing holding her back at this point is fear, again - what will happen, if she touches him? Will it happen again? Did it go away, when she jumped off the bridge? Did the world stop revolving around the sun in favour of a different source? "I can't give it up," she answers him, softly. "It's too much part of who I am. But even when I fight - I need to know what I'm fighting, on some level, or all I'll do is ending up hurting everyone and myself. You're a big boy, I suppose, and can take care of yourself - but it's hard, being this vulnerable and still fighting."
     There's a small pause for breath, and she lifts one hand, lightly, to skim over his hair - does touching hair count? Let's hope not. "I don't know," Fiona says candidly, "but I do think you're lucky. You wear your luck like a six-pointed star, and you've memories and more than just memories to keep you warm through the darkness. And even when you're a prick, usually you're a good man," she adds, hint of grin in her voice as she pulls her hand back.
     It's dangerous, and she knows it. If it weren't dangerous - it wouldn't be tempting. Demons. Vampires. Strange faerie men with customs unlike her own.
     And her mother no doubt wishes she'd settle down with a nice accountant...
     "Anyway," she says lightly, "I've another bottle from my aunt's. Suppose I could see to it you give it a good home. Payback for the lift." Fiona isn't quite able to bring herself to break the spell, but it's - an opening. Paralyzing though it might be ...

     "We've both had our share of luck," he says, dismissing any notion that he may be born under a luckier star than you were. "And wherever possible, make your own luck..." There's a smile when you break the spell, break the quiet and break the pendulous possibility of.... what... and he turns, leaning back and starting the car. "Ah, a bottle for a drop-off," he all but croons it, "I should go into business for m'self...giving rides to girls and gettin' bottles..."
     From a safer distance he glances to you and winks, then his eyes and attention are on the road. "Where am I going, Fiona? Is that the question of the night, or what?" He chuckles quietly, glancing to you again as he pulls out onto the busy Strand.

     Settling back, the decision apparently made, Fiona closes her eyes with a small smile. "Yes, well, I limit myself to a bottle a month from aunt's cellars," she retorts. "The vintner takes the interest and puts it into the cellar, with his commission - this way it grows faster than I drink it."
     "You're right - and luck comes in one than one variety," she continues, looking out the window at the night streets. "Hm? Oh, directions, yes." How thoroughly mundane. She gives a series of quick instructions which, if followed, come to the area near St. James. "It's terribly posh. I hope they let me in with my hair down."

     "Hmm... and smuggling in some tall git with you. Could be tricky," he grins, sliding a look over to you. "But, I could always turn myself into a bauble, and you can wear me in." He thinks to say: and wear me out. But somehow he finds a way to keep from it.
     The drive passes in relative quiet for the first few turns. But then he starts humming. Maybe it's a nervous tick. Maybe it's something he has to do. Maybe... he simply wants to. The air crackles with the power of it.

     "Well, I do owe you a bottle, y'know," Fiona points out, with a small grin, propping her chin on her fist. She glances over at you, quirking up one eyebrow. "I don't know, Davydd. Do we really know each other well enough for me to wear you? Are you functional or ornamental, anyway?" She bites back the comparison : 'fully functional, for that matter?', but her cheeks redden slightly, and she turns her gaze back to the window, and to her reflection - and your own, beyond it.
     Too many worlds - too many possibilities. A never-ending, constantly twisting maze, and while multiple paths are present, how does one choose, when one cannot see? Fiona sighs, exhaling slowly, the tension showing for a moment in the curve of her neck before she relaxes.
     "So," the syllable drops quietly into the middle of the humming, a pebble into electrified waters, "what have you been up to, lately - when not singing for your supper, Lord Scruff?"

     "That's true," he quips as he drives, "you probably do for sommat," he caps it off with a smile -- the smile that never really leaves. If it did, then you'd have cause to worry for certes. Fiery eyebrows cock upward, "We've had dinner," he says to that, "...that's more'n most folks know about each other 'for doing a lot more than simply wearing one another," he laughs at that. Riot! and looks over at you, green eyes glimmering in a wink. "What... would I not make a good bauble?"
     The Range Rover heads toward St. James, Posh Central, home of kings and queens and kings who dress as queens. "Well, it's Wales... beautiful but not a lot happening really. I've been working in the gardens to pass the time, playing with a band of gents in Cardiff once in a month or so. Taking care of the dogs and cat and woman. Real down home stuff, nothing exciting. I come to town now and again to see my mates, Edward-bach...and well... I saw Wills at the festival, like you. Then he's off for the North Country for the winter. It's a quiet time, winter. I mostly hibernate."
     Davydd slants a grin as he looks aslant to you. As if you believe all that, even if it's true. He looks ahead as he drives, the song taking shape again.

     Fiona sprawls back in her seat, lifting one foot onto the other, then bringing her legs to slightly cross over each other as she lays one arm over her eyes, head tipped back so that her hair slides against the leather. "Well, Davydd, if we were 'most folks'," she drawls, "I daresay we'd never have ended up where we are. Magic and faeries and world-changing events ... after all, what's a world but one's perceptions of it, right?"
     It makes her laugh, letting her arm drop onto the area between the seats, and she shakes her head. "Pursuits pastoral - yes, I saw William, though briefly only, and not up close. I should say that I saw more of him than I'd intended... My coworkers," she adds inconsequentially, "were rather jealous." Of course - the assumptions one makes in the place of nudity, with all details known or not ...
     "Hibernation," Fiona then echos, with another low chuckle, an almost drowsy sound. "You seem too dynamic a person for that, Davydd. I assume a lot, I know. Ah, well. Time passes, we change, we evolve or we die. That's it," she points, "the turnoff, up that way a ways - you'll see the sign, it's almost vulgarly indiscreet." A fitting mention in some ways. She falls silent again, as if falling asleep, but her attention is sharp and alert beneath the surface - tensed and poised in observance of the music, the power below the music.

     It's not remotely modern, this tune -- nothing of the rock, jazz, swing or more modern celtica or alternative fare he's wont to play these nights. It's earthy. Of wet moss and dark woods and running brooks. And so the words run from his lips, sliding Cymraeg off the tongue, with its ancient cadences -- a faerie tune, no doubt.
     The song is broken for a laugh at 'hibernation', and you know him better and you've found him out in that. And he didn't think you'd believe him. Davydd glances over as he follows your directions, then cranes his neck to keep an eye out for the sign. "I've actually been in London quite a bit. On the other side of the veil..." he murmurs, seriously now. "I'm rather in both worlds at the same time, the world of faerie and the world of men." Now, how many straight answers have you ever received from him in the past? That was damned forthright.
     There's another look to you, Fiona, and a more serious sort of smile. "In universes of our own choosing, hmmm?" The smile twists a bit and lingers. "So we are, Fiona, dear... but ... it's alright. At least it's never boring..."

     The straightforwardness makes her blink, sitting up and leaning forward to lean against dash, head turning against her wrists as she regards him. The music is impossible to ignore, but the answers - well, they don't alter things much. You have her full attention.
     "I seem sort of stuck in between," Fiona answers, voice quiet, contemplating worlds other than this one, places other than this place of greyness and stone and humanity. "I don't know if it's like you - you seem if nothing else, to know what you're doing." She smiles, reluctantly, as she acknowledges it.
     Ah, virginity's curse, in more ways than one - fumbling around in the dark, with zippers, with veils, with half-hooded eyes and wanting, wanton touches that feed desperation, that are fed by desperation, leaving hunger and frustration in the wake.
     Fiona's smile is surprisingly sudden in answer to Davydd's. "No, it's never boring," she agrees. "Empty at times - but not boring. It's the waiting between moments that kill," she adds, subsiding back. "I'm not entirely sure what to do about those."

     "Living's good," Davydd remarks, "...it's a good filler for the spaces. I won't fill you full of shite advice. Sometimes I forget the simplicity of simply Existing, which is usually when I get into trouble. If it looks like I know what I'm doing," so be it -- that might well be the finishing touch to that sentiment. Green eyes are dark, mixtures of forest wood, moss underfoot and stubborn but flowering periwinkles, with the soft green of a thicket's clearing -- and the woods look at you even as he does. "Sometimes I've felt stuck, even recently," he pays attention to the driving, but glances to you from time to time as he speaks. "I have struggled with where to put my weight, on this foot or the other, on this side or the other. Being In Between doesn't come without its challenges. Like vines around the feet, the more you resist or struggle, the tighter you're tangled."
     Though the song has transformed to conversation, his words are lyrical yet, or maybe it's just the accent. Hard to say with the Welsh. They're all living in between some say.
     Davydd nods then. "Sometimes feeling like you're the only one in the world," he posits, apparently from experience. "Only one like you. Solitary. Alone, in fact, even when you're with someone... for who can ever hope to understand you but one like you. And ... who would be like you?"
     And then he smiles, warmth and sunlight peeking out from it. The smile of the Oak King like the warm grasp of a friendly hand. Even when he's in his Holly Winter.
     Fiery eyebrows sweep upward as he comes face-to-face with The Sign you mentioned. "Nice," he smirks. "Trendyville, wot? Beats the alley," he chuckles.

     "That's pretty much it. Not even the uniqueness," Fiona admits. "The ... aloneness. Feeling - it isn't even the understanding, I think, but rather - who would I be able to be with? I don't have an easy personality to begin with," her lips quirk, twisting wryly in acknowledgment of the sheer depths of the understatement, "and all of this..."
     Well. One hand sketches in vague illustration. "Normal people never interested me much - even if I had my fears. I was friends with Dot since school, because even if she wasn't always smart about what she did, she went ahead and _did_ them. Who, these days, really does anything, much?" Who indeed. "But - Dot and I went down different roads. And she'd never understand what I've turned into - even what she sees, she thinks I've sold out to the Establishment."
     And there's another wry quirk. Establishment. Touching so many different worlds, and a part of none - how Establishment is that?
     "My parents think they've got me back," Fiona continues, gaze going distant. "And I'm ... marking time. Waiting. Keeping my eyes open. Can't really spend too much time anywhere except by myself, because Things Happen around me, and I don't know how ... explosive ... it'll get. It really limits things, and,"
     There's a grey-eyed glance, colour shifting like the Irish Sea, from blue to silver-grey for just a brief flash of light reflecting off her pupils,
     "Who'd be with someone like me - or want to, anyway? Hell... who'd survive?"
     She looks up, the silk of her blouse rustling quietly, a whisper against the leather seats, and smiles. "Trendyville. I kinda miss living over Pashmina's - but I guess we all adopt skins to live in. But yes - find a place to park, and we'll be about it, mm?" One hand lifts, running through her hair, and she draws breath, letting out a quiet trill of notes in a whistle. For a moment, the winter winds seem to pick up, then still, but she doesn't even notice -that-. Her attention's back on you.
     "If, of course," Fiona adds politely, "you want the wine."

     There's a look to you before he turns his attention to parking the Rover in a spot, one of the few empty. The expression is priceless: What, me turn down alcohol? Davydd laughs, turning his head to look at you as he pulls in and puts the auto in park. "If? I'm coming up for certes," he says, his inflection lifting high, riding high as his smile. "Maybe we'll both have a glass of something. I'm not in any rush to push off..."
     There's nothing said for your soliloquy on solitude. There is quiet understanding, however. But apparently the rest is going to wait until he's out of the car at least. Lights are off, keys in hand, he's heading out of the Rover by the next minute, waiting for you to come out so he can engage the locks and alarm.
     As if anyone'd steal it...
     "You're not unlovable," he remarks seriously, looking past the hood to you. "It only matters, in the end, what you think of yourself. To hell with the rest of them. As for love," he exhales at that and gives his head a bit of a shake. "Wish I could help you there, darlin," that was damn near tender. "But I don't know much about it myself. I've lived forever as an exile." Maybe that's metaphoric. "It's just time, Fiona. That's really it, sad to say. It's just Time that'll show you, prove it out."
     With another clearing breath, he raises his hands, engages the lock and comes around your side of the car, one of those arms going around your shoulder. "Let's off with the serious shite," he murmurs. "Let's have a drink, you and me... we'll be weird together..."

     Eek. Physical contact! Fiona's gotten out of the vehicle, laptop slung over her shoulder when an arm descends upon her shoulders. "Weird? Well, that should be easy," she quips, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her key ring. There's far too many keys on it these days...
     You never know when you need a spare, so why throw out old keys? They'll fit - somewhere...
     "I'll muddle through somehow, Davydd - I have so far, right?" Her shoulders slowly relax under his arm as she moves towards the building, simply nodding haughtily to the uniform on duty as she makes her way to the elevator. There's a special key for the penthouses - not too many people get those. "Hope you don't mind being high up," Fiona quips, doing her best to keep her tone light. No, really, I do this every night. Really. "But I've got a great view..."
     She's entirely forgotten about the painting that faces the front entryway, visible the moment anyone walks down the corridor after the door.
     The key's inserted, then turned, and the elevator opens. "After you, Lord Scruff," Fiona quips. How cute - she's given him a nickname.

     Scruffy! I shaved! A hand runs across his chin as if to accentuate that, but he's clean-shaven these nights. Mostly. Shaves several years off his age. But he laughs at the moniker. He is scruffy. Of soul if not of aspect.
     "You've managed quite nicely for yourself," he agrees with a nod as he takes a position to the back of the elevator, leaning against the railing as his arms fold against his chest. "And I like being high up. The higher the better. I like a bird's eye view," he grins, raven you've seen him be. He does tend to go 'bird'. But then so did Huw. Hwyll tended to butterflies and hot air.
     He can't seem to help it tonight. For the lifting, the near magical lifting of the elevator, his voice sounds again, low and deep, smooth as a river stone, mellifluous as summer honey. "I went out to the hazel wood," he sings, closing his eyes, "...because a fire was in my head. And I cut and peeled a hazel wand, an' strung a berry on a thread..."
     Green eyes open and look to you. "When white moths were on the wing, and moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in the stream and caught a little silver trout..."
     And the corner of his mouth upturns a little: "When I had laid it on the floor, I went to blow the fire aflame. But something rustled on the floor and someone called me by my name..."
     The look is direct and the arms unfold. "It had become a glimmering girl, with apple blossoms in her hair, who called me by my name and ran, and faded through the brightening air..."
     The elevator continues -- the penthouse is far -- and he comes to stand beside you, "Though I awoke with wondering, through hollow bands of dreary lands, I will find out where she has gone and kiss her lips and take her hands...and walk along long dappled grass, and love her until time and Time is done, the silver apples of Rhiannon, the golden apples of the sidhe..."

     It's impossible not to listen - that's the beauty of it, and the curse of it. It's the sheer impossibility of it that makes it work - temptation or otherwise. Fiona sighs slightly, leaning back against the door of the elevator.
     And there are memories, are there not? Even if not of that song, but of other Songs. Songs sung, not to her, not by her, but for and by Isabel - lurking shadows, twilit moments. Sunrise is glorious... sunset is a wistful thing.
     "I don't know that song," Fiona says quietly, "though maybe I should learn it, mm?"
     Wondering. Well. That's a familiar feeling. Where does one's feelings end and another, long ago, have her feelings begin? Does it even matter? Tipping her head to the side, the long cornsilk strands brush against her hips, her thighs, the elf knots glimmering in fluorescent lighting as if it were blacklight - responsive to the music, the magic beneath it. "Davydd..."

     It was bound to happen...
     When the Oak King stopped pretending to be something he Most Assuredly Was Not and returned to the In Between world, modern materiality and immortal and eternal Power of Life Itself, he was bound as a book to find the faerie-blooded magician, progeny or no. It's rather like asking the moon not to find the tide, the tide thereafter not to find the shore, water not to be wet and sand not to grow damp.
     The elevator continues, though the singing has stopped, and in weighty silence he stands nearby. He is more than the manifestation of nine spells, though that best explains him, even as you are more than Isabel, Ysbail in his Welsh, and certainly more than Fiona or Drancy. He is a king in exile, a king twice crowned, one for each world -- but ruling now in neither.
     His hand captures a faerie knot as he brushes back a gathering of cornsilk hair near your face. "The problem is," he murmurs, "I do understand you, and you.... you know me better than you realize."
     And this that was all but guaranteed when he hauled you off the concrete that night is merely Destiny of several years' making.
     His kiss is sudden, soft, an electric brush, a momentary ripple like the eddy of a warm-watered pond. It pauses, waiting for the fall out, waiting for the elevator to crash, the world to end, his skin to erupt and dragons to leap outward.
     And you to knee him in the groin...

     It was bound to happen...
     Famous last words. Literally, in the case of Dickey Chapelle - but she was a woman, and in many ways, would have understood Fiona, no doubt.
     You step close, and her eyes widen - the name acted as a summons, even if she didn't intend for it to be such. Isn't that the way it always works?
     She doesn't intend ...
     She just - does ...
     Born a lady (and is every lady a whore under the skin? only men know for sure) and thrown it all away, deliberately, in rage and pain and fear - how many times is she going to be born before she's out of lives? Nine lives, like a cat - nine spells for Davydd. Symmetry : halves. How do they fit together?
     Maybe that's what she's afraid of finding out...
     The kiss catches her off her guard for all that it was obvious. Startled not by the hidden but by the opaque - it couldn't be more her. Luck attends her, but luck deserts her just as quickly, as it always has. Fiona's lips are soft, unenhanced by gloss, tinged with the faint lingering taste of cider and vinegar and salt and of herself.
     There is no volcano, though the buzz of magic rises in its rhythm, coiling and unwinding, undulating in the elevator. The dragons seem quiescent - but then, she isn't touching them, is she? Only the one dragon which is the coalescence of the nine.
     Eyes gone blue widen, and her chin lifts (but not her knee), as if she's going to return the kiss, lips parted slightly - or maybe it's a question. Or maybe -
     Whatever maybe it might be is irrelevant. The elevator's stopped, after all. And what follows the stopping of an elevator? The doors open behind Fiona's leaning back, and she lands with a sudden thud on the floor.

     Eyebrows cock up and The Moment tumbles to the floor even as she does. What happens next is...well... what was bound to happen. He laughs at her. With her. No, no... it's at her. And at himself. Stepping out of the elevator as the doors start to close and the elevator to buzz in alarm having stood open for longer than iit should, Davydd offers Fiona a hand, laughter in his eyes, so recently from his throat and mouth.
     The irony is amusing. Once again, your ass down on the floor and once again Davydd's reaching his hand out to haul you up. "We've got to stop meeting like this," he drolls out, Welsh syllables lilting and vowels dragging long.
     He exhales a clearing breath, looking at you for a moment of saying nothing at all. "I'll understand it if you want me to get in the box and go downstairs," he notes. He won't be offended or surprised. "And... we'll just call... it even on the wine." Green eyes flicker lower than your eyes, to your mouth, and back.

     "Nothing is broken except my dignity," Fiona manages, lying on her back on the floor, looking up at the ceiling - it has a skylight in it. She'd never noticed before. She arranges one arm under her head, waving Davydd's arm off for the moment - yes, she has changed, since that first fateful encounter.
     Drawing her knees up so that her feet aren't still in the elevator, she remarks, "It's an interesting change in perspective, this one. Shh, you'll ruin the mood." As if the mood hadn't just been shattered into a million little fragments to litter the interiors of their minds as well as everywhere else. She actually lifts one foot to rest it on her other knee, then, almost reluctantly, looks back up to reach for his hand.
     "I never knew we had a skylight in here," she comments. "And you can still come in for the wine, even if I then send you home, Davydd." As she sits up, her smile is decidedly wistful. "But come on in - break the silence a little..." You're good at that ... "And you can see my place and pretend to be a gay interior decorator or something. Make me laugh before you go. At something other than myself. Okay?"

     "Bah," Davydd rumbles good naturedly, "... dignity's over-fucking-rated. Let the queen and drunk American sorority girls worry about dignity and the loss thereof. Sod it," he smiles a bit and gives you a tug at last. Laughing at the thought of playing gay. "I don't know fuck all about interior design," he quips, Welsh inflection lifting again. "I can't even fake it. Now, if William were here, he could be your gay friend... I could leave... and you could gossip about me..."
     The tug is gentle enough, but he moves you quite easily, lifting and then drawing you to him. Mood ruined? Have you been hanging out with mortal men again? Have you forgotten the chief tenet of faerie men? They're always in the mood. "You know it's flattering when you send a woman ass-backwards on the floor from a single kiss. I knew I was good," his expression is amused, faux surprise, "...but who knew I could make a woman swoon her way right out of the elevator." A pause. "Good thing we weren't on the stairs," he murmurs, grinning a touch.
     I could go on all night!
     Davydd closes his eyes, murmurs something in Welsh and places a kiss on your forehead. It's alright, he said. Warmth lingers on the skin where his lips landed then and then now. "Here, I can't be gay but I'll try to trip over some of your furniture, how's that...."

     "I'll pass on William," Fiona answers, though she does laugh, even without intending to in earnest. "He's too much for me - I'm not a simple soul, but I know when I'm better off." Does she, really? Can she have any idea?
     Her smile hovers, lingers, even with the tug. But she's startled again - too much time in the mortal world, too little exposure to faerie. It's weakened her in some ways - not her power; it'd take more than -that- to affect her there, more's the pity - but her melancholy's swept over and through her, damming up like grief between all the cracks where fire would normally fly.
     "If it were stairs, Davydd, I don't think I'd have stopped falling yet."
     Have I stopped yet? Then why doesn't it feel like it?
     She closes her eyes a moment. "Goodness has nothing to do with it," Fiona murmurs, smiling again, just a little. "You and Mae West, Davydd. But yes - good thing..." Her voice trails off at the touch, at the kiss, receiving it with trouble in her like a benediction and a swelling.
     "Try not to trip," Fiona agrees, stepping back, turning with keys in hand, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. There's enough of it - does it brush you as she does so? The scent of it is jasmine and smoke - jasmine for the care of it, smoke from the pub. She makes her way down the hallway, with another angling shake of her head to get her hair all gathered up and flowing in its silk and water way down the arch and curve of her back and hips to thighs.
     The key rattles in the lock. The door opens. "Well, here we are," she mutters. "Care to go on in ahead and let me watch your arse, for a change?"
     Ah... Drancy... there you are.

     It's a good thing you said arse and not ass, otherwise he would have transformed himself into a donkey and trotted on in. And he half thought of it anyway. He doesn't answer to that, he just looks, then glances back behind him as he enters in. Do I have an arse? I've never seen it?
     "So," and Davydd turns around in a circuit, clockwise naturally, giving your place a quick survey before heading further inside. "...this is nice... look at you, posh pad in the city, television personality. You've changed a good deal since you last tried to knee me in the gonads..."
     "I just love what you've done with the place," he croons in a falsetto, then cackles. But then he looks around. It is nice, actually.

     It's nice... empty... large... but nice... Nothing to grab the eye, of course. A couch. A beanbag. A throw rug. Most of it looks like it was picked up entirely from her old place and just - distributed randomly throughout.
     But...
     There is something...
     In contrast to all the rest...
     A painting, which hangs on the wall. A conversation-starter. An ice-breaker. And to the knowledgeable eye, there is only one man who painted it - and only one woman it could be.
     Fiona, naked save for jewelry, recumbent in contemplation. The Soul is there, spread out in oils, the blonde tresses are there, the fire, the vulnerability - all on the surface.
     And usually she only allows one to show at a time...
     "Glad you like it," Fiona comments from behind Davydd. She's been here long enough that the painting is part of the scenery, fading into the backdrop - or at any rate, despite it all, she's not thinking of it now. Distracted, no doubt.
     Oh, the damage which two lips upon two lips to make four lips can do ...
     She shifts to move past him, towards the kitchen. "Let me go get the wine," she's continuing, hair whispering against the wall where she squeezes by, "and see which I'm willing to surrender to your greedy thirst, o Singer of Songs."

     Then he gawks, his eyes going wide, his mouth dropping open, he shakes his head then...no... it's still there. He'd know that hand anywhere. Now, he's trying not to stare. And failing. Davydd draws close to it, though that's not the best way to view the work, really. It's better from a few feet off, but this thing is just...glowing...
     Like all of William's works...
     "When... did you do this?" he wonders quietly. And then Davydd pivots, staring at you like your some creature he doesn't recognize. A Drancy that takes off her clothes. For other men. And allows them to make pictures and evidence of it. But with that look comes... amazement...
     Not judgment...
     Davydd looks back to the painting and takes a step back, or two. He looks past the fact that you are naked, past the fact that William witnessed it, past the fact, even, that William painted this at all. He looks at what is meant to be shown. The purpose of it and the Truth in it.
     "It's beautiful," he murmurs, this singer of songs. "And..." I see the you I recognize, I see the you that I suspected. "You're... beautiful, you know... because you least suspect it," Davydd continues, "...and even a little because you fear it.... or what it means. A kiss in an elevator." And you don't want to be hurt.
     Davydd looks back to the painting. "I care for you, Fiona... I want you to know that... and I am ... sorry if my fear before... when we met, my being afraid of it... if that hurt you..."

     "Whi- oh." And her first reaction isn't pride; it's embarrassment. To reveal so much - to anyone who cannot see, well, it's immaterial. To most of the people who might come in and out of her apartment, it is a slap in the face of conventionality, a raw shout, albeit with a fine veneer - for, after all, it is Art.
     But to have someone enter who knows - who sees, who Sees - that is another matter. X-ray vision is rarely entirely a good thing, is it?
     "I ... guess," Fiona mutters, "it was a while ago now - six months? A year? I lose track of time," she admits.
     She shifts along the wall, leaning her head back a moment, then straightens up, strength pouring into her as if from the painting directly. "Everything has the power to hurt, you know. I don't know how beautiful I am - if I am, it's all on the outside anyway, so what does it matter?"
     Folding her arms over her chest, she glances away, then back again, and up to meet your eyes with her own. "You know I care for you, don't you? I mean ... not every time I've called has it been about me, I hope." A brief moment of humour lights in her eyes amidst all the self-consciousness. "I care for you and about you. I'm attracted to you. I might even be a little bit in love with you. But if you hurt me, you had plenty of help from me in it... William," one hand comes out in an arc towards the painting, "saw too bloody much." Her hand comes back in, pushing back her hair.
     "Don't you agree?"

     An eyebrow lifts and he looks back to the painting for a moment. "He has... that ability," he murmurs. "It is what his art is ...about. The soul." It is his way to redemption. Davydd turns from the painting, his full attention landing on you. There is the twinkle of a smile in his eyes, in concert with Understanding. "I know..." He looks to his hands, eyebrows knitting in a look of concentration. "We're... kindred spirits, as they say."
     Forest green eyes fasten on you again. "The attraction is mutual ..." A pause. "It's why we fight like we do, curse like we do, frighten one another as we do." Davydd chuckles in an exhale, eyes widening slightly, then he rakes his hand through short bronze hair. "If I stay," he continues, leaning against the wall next to you now, "...I'm going to end up ....staying all night..."
     Is that what you want? Is it what I want?

     "Too much alike, but not enough alike in the ways which count?" Fiona retorts, though not without a wry smile of her own as she leans back. The smile lingers, then fades slowly, trouble in her eyes.
     "If you stay," Fiona's voice is very quiet, "Davydd ... I've changed, but I haven't changed that much. If I'm a little bit in love with you now, what do you think it's going to be in the morning?" Her words aren't despairing, quite, but there's a faint sadness there nonetheless. "You care, Davydd. But I don't think you're in love with me. And ..."
     And, and, and. It's such a word for adding negatives, isn't it?
     "If you stay, Davydd - what about Sandrine? I mean ... I know I don't hold much of a candle to her, but I see a lot of pain in that." Frustrated, Fiona slides slowly against the wall to sit on the floor, sighing and looking up at you. "You've got your castle, your corgis, your lover. What would I be? Where would I fit into all that? I might be a bit in love with you - but I'm ... not casual, Davydd. I'm not Isabel, who'd go back to another world. We exist in the same space, and we've coexisted mostly by not being in the same part of it at the same time..."
     She pauses, lifting her palms to press against her eyes.
     "It'd be easier if I could just tell you 'there's someone else," Fiona mutters. "But the only 'someone else' there is, I kissed exactly once, and never saw again. He doesn't call, he doesn't write," she adds self-deprecatingly, with humour, "and god only knows who he really was. I might love you, a little - but you're offering to pour oil on a refinery fire. I'd lie down small and wake up big..."
     "And then, where would we be?"

     He lowers to a crouch beside you, not to tower over you. Balancing upon the balls of his feet, his arms resting on his thighs, Davydd looks to her. "You're right, and you're wise beyond your years. We would be in for a mess of pain: you, she and I. I will say... oes... there is something that finds itself with you, something...an understanding... a communication, I guess... I... don't have that with her. I've not had that with anyone. Understanding. I think that ... if I were to stay... love would be the least of it."
     Davydd sighs as he leans his head back against the wall, and he knocks it there three times, as if that'll knock sense into his brain. "You and I, we're exiled royalty... maybe there's...no way to take the crown unless we do so together. A faerie-blooded witch, heir to Isabel's power, her kingdom.... and the Oak King of Summer. Without one another, Fiona, we drift without purpose." Davydd looks to you, "...with one another... we cause chaos." He smirks. "You know, if it weren't so ironic, it'd be pathetic, honestly." He sighs again and starts to stand.
     "Though perhaps we are Our Future, maybe it is not yet time..." he posits. "She threw us together out of need, out of.... a lack of time. But she's gone now... now, all we have is Time..."

     "It'd be throwing open a gate - but I don't know what lies on the other side of that gate, and I'm a chicken," Fiona confesses frankly, without real embarrassment at -that-. She looks at Davydd, with a small hint of a smile. "The world keeps changing, faster than I can keep up. I'm tired."
     Three knocks, and she leans over to knock on your skull with her fist. Tap, tap, tap. "No, no echo - it's solid." Fiona leans back again, drawing her knees up to her chest. "We drift, but I don't know if we're each other's purpose, you know. For all I know - if we were together and we didn't kill each other, we'd - I don't know. Contribute to the inevitable heat-death of the universe? What's the future, anyway? Stuff which hasn't happened yet."
     She nods slowly, but doesn't stand up, simply looking upwards. "You're looking for something to get you through the Now," Fiona says simply. "But I'm someone who knows that there's always tomorrow again to stare in the face. Joan of bloody Arc - was it you or William who called me that? I forget. Time is, Time was, Time is past - Isabel is dead, ding, dong, and hallelujah, I'm the queen of the cats."
     Now she rises, by degrees, and leans against the wall, hands behind her back. "It'd be different, if things were different. But if I were just a normal person, we wouldn't be interested - any more than if you were. And if you weren't with Sandrine, you'd - be probably back where I was a year ago, before I jumped off that bridge. Right now, you're on a bridge, Davydd. It shouldn't be me you jump for, right now. I'm half in love with you already, but there's also someone else - if we do it or don't do it, there'll be regret - but at least if we don't, nobody hurts but the two of us - and nobody else has to know."
     She quirks up a smile, and for just a moment, it's a fey, puckish smile, oddly illuminating the sorrow in her eyes.
     "And there's still always a Tomorrow."

     He chuckles finally. "No, darlin'... my bridge was a ...long time ago. Some day I'll ... tell you. So," another scratch against his noggin and he looks to you. Then he holds out his hand. "Friends then," he proposes. He'll leave the rest up to... the roll of the Fatal dice.
     And he'll buy his lover a new cat...
     And leave the rest be...
     "I should go," he murmurs lowly. "And... keep the bottle," he adds on, "... maybe we'll just split it sometime. And... thanks for the singin'... it was a good night, oes?" There's no kiss again, not even so much as a peck. There's a platonic handshake, with all the snap-crackle-pop of the power that exists between you and then he draws away his hand. Soon, the rest of him follows.
     "You're a piece of work, you are... take it easy, kid..."

     The handshake's accepted, even with all the regret in her eyes. Fiona does manage to smile, despite it - even if it's forced around the edges, its heart is genuine enough.
     "Friends," Fiona agrees. "I've few enough I can count. I'll keep the bottle for ... next time..."
     A next time of undescribed state - involving unknown people -
     "And probably open a bottle of something else for myself," she adds frankly, rising to her feet. It serves to draw her hand away as well as anything else ever would, and she takes a step back, then another - reluctant steps, letting the energy fade between, be grounded in something else.
     "Pieces of work," Fiona quips, "often come to end over a balcony. But I'll hold you to that 'some day', Davydd. We've all got our ... stories to fulfill. Right now - yours is somewhere else, and ... my pages're still empty. Take care getting home - oes?"
     She mimics his pronunciation, but holds a smile up for him to see. Don't question it, her eyes seem to say, almost plead. Just ... go.
     She might not have the strength to maintain it, without anything but faith to back her up, a second time.

     Davydd was poised to respond but then he reads the look on your face. There's only a nod, just the slightest bit of a smile, and then he's gone. Disaster averted? Perhaps. Peace and happiness averted? Perhaps. Love averted? Who knows. The world is topsy-turvy tonight. Lust out of whack, Love out of season, arrows off the mark, and faerie men rebuffed.
     What's the world coming to?

Posted by rowan at February 15, 2004 12:23 PM