That was a long night...
     For a night long past half over by the time Davydd and she arrived at her place of residence, it was an unbelievably long night...
     But not half so long as the remainder of it, once he left ...
     What have I gotten myself tangled up in this time? Oh, Fee, oh, god, I know I've avoided pain by this - but what pain have I avoided, exactly? What do I do now?
     It's a damned good thing it's the weekend. There's no way I could face going in to work right now...
     It's been a picturesque night, at least, ending with Fiona on the balcony, sitting on the railing and looking out over the London skyline, a bottle of excellent wine mostly emptied as she watched the sun rise. The city, coming to life, as she lifts her hands in silent benediction and supplication - her hands, moving like a conductor's, with a wine-bottle sloshing faintly as she composes and coaxes.
     Why do I grieve when there was nothing there which has died?
     Oh, god, god, god - if there even is a god. Why are human hearts so fragile? Why do they hurt - why must they break? Why do I long continually for that which I cannot have - or that which will not have me? Lift this cup from my lips, for I'm damned by the taste of it, and so tired...
     Tired thoughts and prayers lead to tumbling into bed, as a rule. It was no exception. Hair sprawled on pillow, and waking to the taste of a bird's nest caused by poor dental hygiene following so much greasy pub fare and so much wine. Rolling out of bed and landing on the floor - well, that's usual. Fiona in the morning is only occasionally the picture of grace - even when 'morning' is six in the evening.
     Showers - showers revitalize, though do not dull. And all night's passions have remained trapped, whirling through dreams and nightmares alike, leaving her unprepared for the pale and hollow ghost she faces in the mirror.
     "I can't keep doing this. I can't - keep holding this in, and waiting. But..." Calling Huw's out - the last time she tried, she got a wrong number. And she's hardly going to call Davydd up to bitch him out for this - for all that it's his fault and her fault and nobody's fault except perhaps Isabel's, there's really no blame to easily be attached. "Who do I talk to? I can't just go 'oh, yes, he's the Oak King of Summer and I'm a faerie queen waiting to happen - if that's even what's going on."
     Wrapped in a towel, she paces from bathroom to bedroom to snag a t-shirt, then rambles out into the living room. "I'd get locked up," Fiona mutters. "But ..." Her palm comes up to smack her forehead. "I'm an idiot. Davydd said who to talk to. Gossip about him without him present - and ..."
     Well... maybe I'm wrong ... but I'm betting William at least has something to say on the topic of love and lust ...
     Dropping her towel, Fiona stalks for her office, t-shirt slung over her shoulder. The card's bound to be in the Rolodex. Now... to see if he's in.

     Far, far removed from this scene -- perhaps in pure Locality, but not in spirit -- Love Himself is lost. Battling, struggling, and like you, calling out to God. Lovers had and lovers lost. Lovers of the Past, Present and Future. Lust has no home, yet it still exists. And what if Love Himself does not survive? Would Love?
     A thousand-thousand prayers assault his ears, but he cannot send his angels to you, for he commands none. Your words, however, bolster him. Your words of Love and Longing become the shield upon his arm, the armor on his back, the song upon his tongue as he struggles through a Nightmarish reality that only a few could conceive of before fainting from it or dying of despair...
     Not so far removed, a man making a bollocks of everything he comes in contact with headed for Meniwell Tower, a late return after a late concert. He drank until dawn, he thought about his evening, and he laid to rest with a woman before the rising of the sun froze him solid. For one so vocal earlier, he was remarkably quiet. A long night, was all he said before he took himself to bed.
     Maybe a day will make a difference. Like that song, what a difference a day makes...twenty-four little hours...
     Removed from all of this, Eleanor's Son stands in a castle tower turned artist studio, mulling over a series of drawings while drinking morning ...make that twilight... coffee. Very sugary, creamy coffee. Short black hair is thick and mussed, like he just crawled out of bed. And drawings lie sprawled before him on an old dining table turned workspace. The figure of a man with artwork scrawled all over his skin...
     Indigo eyes pour over the story that will be told in vibrant colors airbrushed over naked flesh. Corners of that essential mouth upturn and from newly wakened eyes, the expression of satisfaction. Nearby, his cell phone rests, folded upon itself. In the other room, just next door, his lover yet rests. Lover and spouse.

     There are those who dream of lofty realms, of Heaven and Hell in some fashion close to the truth of the matter. Fiona is not one of them; she has thought of it, certainly, since her ... encounter with it as a reality, but she cannot comprehend - no, rather, refuses to comprehend.
     It is one more complication upon which her mind must not dwell, or so she believes. Perhaps the time will come when she delves again into it - but for now, she has deliberately put thoughts of Heaven aside...
     Sinful creature that she is.
     It is well that there are things which Fiona does not know, which Drancy does not contemplate. Omniscience would be a burden that this personality would not handle with ease - not yet, at any rate, if ever. Who, after all, can fathom the many-splintered mind of God? Angels. Demons. Falling down more than through an elevator door from Heaven. Wars of words beneath the city between those whom the Church would call damned by their blood lusts - if not by all their other lusts made in life and further formulated and expanded upon in death. Angels in offices, demons in nightclubs.
     Even small things, such as mismailed genealogies, hold sudden significance... if known.
     The number is found, and dialed, even while Fiona struggles into her t-shirt, then drops into her chair while pulling hair up through the neckline. The downside of having such long hair. "Come on, William," she mutters to herself by way of encouragement. "I don't think I'll lose my nerve at this point - but at least answer before I start thinking of how once again, I'm interrupting other people's lives with my problems."
     Her finger hovers over the button. Pick up ... pick up ... pick up or do I hang up before I can break your peace...

     Pulled from his reverie by sudden strains of Debussy...
     The classical intonation of the ringing of a phone...
     Arms unfold and coffee is lowered by the hand that then reaches for the phone. By the third ring there is sound of activation, followed by a millisecond of inquisitive silence followed by: "Hello...?"
     He doesn't recognize the number from London. No one he knows well enough for them to call him out of the blue is still in London. Davydd is in Wales. Edward is in Switzerland. Who could this be...
     William lifts his coffee again with his heretofore free hand, his eyes drifting back down to the blueprints of a living portrait.

     Great. He answered. And ... I have no idea what to say.
     For a moment, Fiona is strangled into silence by having actually received a response, skin warming as she props her feet up on her desk.
     I've really got to start preparing a script for my life...
     "Hello, William?" The voice is cultured. No London punk to it - but there hasn't been, for some time, has there? "It's Fiona. I apologise for calling - I do hope it wasn't too late a call."
     How little she knows the nocturnal habits of the artist.
     "I hope you received the video I sent," Fiona continues, running her fingers through her still rather wetter-than-dry hair, fingers rubbing against elf knots tied in various places. "Though that's not what I'm calling about."
     A minute pause. "I hope you're well?"

     Oh yes, my great-great-great-great-great-grand-niece. There is amusement that washes over his expression, amusement that eases upon the congenial words that follow, in English: "No, no... it is alright. And thank you for the video," he adds on, turning away from his work, coffee in hand, and moving to his sofa, a souvenir from his time in San Francisco. "I enjoyed it. I was not sure what to make out of the very long and, may I say, prestigious family tree. It made for good reading. I am a fan of genealogy. You know, you and I are distantly related." The smile is audible in his voice and in the weighted silence of a man sipping his coffee.
     "But we can catch up on old family business later, so... what can I do for you? All things are well, I hope?" Are you in trouble? You do have a knack for that. "Oh, and I am doing well, thank you..." he finally answers, sitting back. "Going to Venice soon..."

     "...The what?" Fiona blinks - then reddens, her voice tinged with exasperation for a moment. "I need a new office assistant, I swear..."
     She clears her throat, head given a little shake. "That was meant for my father, William. I apologise - but now I know where it's gotten off to, yes? I've been looking all over for it. Related?" One eyebrow crawls upwards, followed by the other. "Well - six degrees of separation, mm?"
     A minute pause, and then she nods again. "Venice is lovely. I haven't been there in years... things are going - well, for the most part." It's the bit that isn't going well that's got her on edge. "Work is going well - I think my boss is happy with me, but I think he's more the sort to let me know when he's not. And..."
     Bugger it, spit it OUT, woman! Drancy dances with irritation as Fiona fumbles her way about. But how?
     "Actually, I'm calling - about Davydd. Don't suppose you're up for a bit of confidential girltalk, are you?"
     Uttered in as light a tone as she can, of course.

     You miss the look: The coffee poised just short of his lips, the lifting of indigo eyes, the upraising of black eyebrows in concert, "I will do what I can, even though I have a penis you know." As if you didn't know. William sits back, a sofa squeaking beneath great weight and he smiles. You miss that, too. Or can you hear it between the lines?
     "So... we are going to gossip about Davydd? I can do this, I have known him a long time." What's going on? "Did... something come to pass or... "
     Still a virgin, St. Joan?
     "Here, I will shut up, and you can tell me," he smirks on the other end. Indigo glances toward the open door leading to the grand bedroom. To sounds of someone waking up at last.

     "Oh, I know, but since Davydd was commenting last night that I should have girltalk with you, as he's not a gay interior decorator..." Fiona stumbles to a halt, then clears her throat.
     "Perhaps I should qualify that with an explanation. On second thought, I don't think any explanation I can make will be entirely make sense. Suffice to say that there was alcohol involved, and Davydd coming over to my apartment to see the new layout."
     On the phone with him not five minutes and I'm already making a fool of myself. Oh, this does not bode well.
     "That's - not what I called to tell you, of course, and yes, I know you have a penis." How do I get myself into these conversations? More to the point - how do I dig myself out of them? "I think it's more to the point that you're French and that you know Davydd."

     That mouth of his makes a smirk. What does the fact that I'm an artist, French and gay have to do with interior design. That shite. He lowers his coffee cup and lets that go. "Well, if we are going to talk about men and sex, mais oui, I am the one to come to," the baritone moves over the words casually, so easily, pausing only for the lighting of a cigarette. "So, alcohol, a Welshman in your apartment, sounds treacherous. Particularly that Welshman."
     He is waiting for you to spill it out. To ask him what you want to ask him.
     But you are struggling.
     "Do you want me to tell you how he treats women? Whether or not you should give into something you want because of his current involvement?" He starts tossing in lines waiting for a fish to nibble. "Or do you want me to tell you what he is like in bed?" William chuckles. "I do not know how much help I can be there... I haven't slept with him. I have heard him, however..."

     ...TMI, TMI, TMI! That's Drancy this time. Fiona's blinking, stunned...
     "Well, I pretty much figure I do know how he treats women, by now, actually, although I haven't slept with him either. At least we have that much in common." Her mouth twists wryly, though it's a smile despite itself. "As for his treatment of women, he hasn't killed me despite my trying to knee him in the groin, uh, at least once, and trying to break his nose at least once."
     She reaches forward for a bottle of caffeinated water that's been left on her desk, cradling the phone between cheek and shoulder. "...I guess you could say it's treacherous. He - offered to spend the night."
     And therein is only the very tip of the iceberg...

     "He.... offered to spend the night." A pause. Offered. As in asked? Llywelyn must really care. "Interesting. Well," an exhale, "... Llywelyn's a puzzle when it comes to women. He's never really had what I would call a serious, long-term relationship. He has been with Sandrine for ...I think it is three years now, and that's gone on longer than I thought it would. I thought he was rather serious about that." But then he offers to spend the night with you. What's going on in that pointed head of yours, Davy-bach?
     To your thoughts on knowing his treatment of women, there's no contradiction. He's not going to speak ill of his brother. But how does one say he's never been faithful? In his life? Ever? "That he offered and didn't just... make it happen," William continues, exhaling smoke as he speaks, "... means he wasn't going about it on the spur of the moment. I can't tell you what's going on in that Welsh head. I can say that it isn't... flippant. That wasn't on a whim. If he wanted to pull a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am, he wouldn't have asked permission."
     And now the Plantagenet expression is one of puzzlement. What is happening, frere...

     "There's emotions involved, William, and that almost makes things messy. I sent him home, though." Fiona closes her eyes, pausing to sip at the water. If not the water, then perhaps the caffeine will do the trick.
     What to say next? I can't start babbling about faerie queens to him. He'll think I'm nuts...
     Of course, he likely already does.
     "I think he - almost forgot about her for a minute or two. But - I like Sandrine, and I don't want her to get hurt..." There's enough people been hurt in all of this. "And we already know how I tend to deny the flesh at every given opportunity, right?"
     She exhales slowly, tugging down on the hem of the t-shirt. It's an old, old t-shirt - The Ramones. And now two out of the band's members are dead - long enough, as mortals count the span of years. Time ... all that's left.
     Her voice is quiet when she adds in, "Anyway, I - don't really know what to make of it. Or what to do about it. And I figure, well, out of everyone I know who also knows him, you're the most accessible - and the most likely to give me an answer I can halfway understand."

     "When one tells the truth, it makes life a bit easier, mais oui. I'll try to keep it straightforward." A pause. "As much as a gay French painter can," he drolls. Another exhale, "Emotions cause chaos," William smiles it out, "... and when one is struggling with or against them, it can get very messy, mais oui. There is no easy answer, you know. No easy advice that I can give. For me, personally, I just want Davydd to be happy. In that I thought he was happy with Sandrine, it saddens me to think that he is not and that he has not called me. Even more than I, he isolates himself when he is in some trouble."
     William is quiet for a few moments of Consideration. "I think the safest thing for your own heart is ... to do nothing about it. Until," he adds before you can protest, "... he settles his own issue, gets out of his current relationship and may pursue a relationship with you honorably. He is an honorable man, and I am glad that nothing happened, for both of you. But...for him... to save himself from the torment of the guilt he would have certainly felt. He wants you, but he was looking for an out. Someone to be the voice of reason." A pause and his mouth spreads in a smile. "I never thought that voice of reason would be you," he teases. "The world is becoming very strange, Fiona Arundel..."
     But all teasing aside...
     "I think you can rest assured that his interest is more than passing, but for your sake I would not knowingly enter the potential quagmire of a teetering relationship. It would not be pretty. For anyone. And I do not want to see anyone hurt when it could be avoided. Of course, I know what it is like to have a broken heart. To love and not to be able to reach the beloved. It is not a pleasant thing to wait, Fiona, but in this case, I think it wise."

     "I'm great at being the voice of reason," Fiona protests, though mildly, a hint of warmth to the words, "but only for other people. For myself, I have to run to people like you to tell me what to do."
     A pause, then, and her voice goes soft. "That's more or less what I told him, yeah. I mean - I think I'm a little bit in love with him. As much as I am with anybody I actually know. And - well, you're a guy, so it's probably alien to you, but if I did go to bed with him, I don't think there'd be any hope for it."
     Another curse of virginity. How many women lie down with men and find themselves altered by the experience?
     "But yes - I do consider Sandrine to be a friend, in a way. And - if I'd said yeah, sure, come into my bedroom and help me out of these trousers - then there'd be an awfully messy situation. This way, even if I got hurt a little, or he did - well, at least one out of three didn't, and that's better than three out of three getting hurt. I may be inexperienced, but I've seen soap operas, right?"
     She spins the chair around, letting her feet fall to the floor with an audible thump. "I don't understand it," she says honestly. "It's bigger than I am, and - I think it's bigger than he is, too. He scooped me off a sidewalk two years ago and we've been sniping at each other ever since, and both of us aim below the belt. And I don't think he's - unhappy, exactly, with Sandrine..."
     She's quiet a moment, again, Fiona is, leaning forward with a whisper of silken hair against the receiver as she slides to sit on the floor, legs folded indian-style. "I think,"
     In itself undoubtedly a surprise to some,
     "They're just - they ... it isn't even that they don't want the same things. But they're very different. He said that there - well, maybe I shouldn't go into that."
     Prudish? Skittish, certainly, but maybe prudery isn't the right word...
     "You know him better than I do," Fiona repeats. "But he seems to think I know him - better than I think I do, at least."

     "I have ...some experiences with first love encounters. It is an emotional thing for a woman, sex... and for the first moment, how could it not be so? With men, it is never this way," quiet, if brief laughter. "Well, apart from the first moment they may have with another man. I suppose that is similar, in a way. So, it is not so alien."
     He is quiet, listening, smoking as you continue. "If it is bigger than you... and if it is bigger than he... then... what harm in waiting? If it is destined, then you may rest assured that it will be. There is no need to rush. Leave it to ...whatever it is...that is greater than you both to sort it out. Speaking as a lover of a man for whom I was destined, it will happen. I, a womanizer, eschewed the world of Woman for mine, but it did not happen overnight, and forcing it to happen on our timetables was met with disaster. Time, then, and Destiny will sort it out amongst themselves. In the meantime, save yourself the torment..."
     "Speaking selfishly for you for a moment," William continues, "...you do not want a heart that is only half-available, or half-dedicated. I would accept nothing less than what you want in that regard."

     "I'm not in any hurry. I'm just - confused, I suppose." There's a hint of wryness in her voice, though with laughter underlaid. "Time ... Time is definitely a part of this. She had no time, and it sort of left us in a muddle."
     That's bound to be confusing - easily skipped past, perhaps, or not. "I've been in love before. Just - well, I guess you could say I'm used to it not working out. And uh, to trying to break their noses when it doesn't."
     Does that mean she'll try to punch Andre next? She'd be in for quite a surprise...
     Destiny makes Fiona grow quiet for a moment, gaze indirect upon the window and the London skyline out of it. "No, you're right, I've got a long-standing pattern of selfishness - all or nothing. Jump off a bridge if necessary to get it. Don't you find Destiny to be a little bit frightening, though? What if it takes you out of the world?"
     Oak Kings and dragons and faerie men ...

     "The world is where you're standing, isn't it? Whose world would you be taken from? As long as you are in it, it is yours." And he does know a thing or two about that. "The only certain thing in any world is uncertainty," William mulls, a smile edging his words. "It is the same for you as it is for me, and we are in two different worlds, yes? I do not know... about that spirit," he remembers something, "...or what is guiding you. It is not a hand that is guiding me, so...I cannot speak to that. What choice have you but to trust it and move forward?"
     "I do not think you understood me," he murmurs, "I meant... by selfish... that you should be selfish on this point. In that you should make sure to take care of yourself first and foremost. Not Sandrine, not Davydd. You take care of yourself, do not accept less than what you wish for yourself. Do not give your heart to a man who doesn't deserve to hold it. Nor your body. It is yours to give or not, as you see fit, Fiona. That is what I meant. Though, mais oui, committing suicide by leaping off of bridges would be very selfish of you, but not in the good way. I think you should wait, to be patient, even though I know that is very hard for you, and things will materialize. Trust in that."
     A pause. "If you decide to ignore this advice, which is totally your prerogative, just be careful what you ask for, hmm? If you go after Davydd, you may get him." He smiles. "He's a good man, with a broad heart. I would give my life to him to save. But he is a complicated man. You may get him and then wonder why you chased him. And I do not mean this as a bad thing on him... just... there is more even than what you have seen... even as I know there is more than I have seen..."

     "I - guess that's true," Fiona agrees slowly, though with a hint of skepticism in her voice. For her, the world is the one she was born into - not the one into which she was thrust. Such a difference of perspective. "But you're right about moving forward. You can't ever go back, and trying to is only painful. And staying still is painful, too."
     She listens - how avid an audience, when it is matters of the heart! Her heart, at any rate. "I've never given much of myself away so far," Fiona remarks, "though I didn't mean committing suicide. I meant - crossroads, really. If you find yourself on the middle of a bridge from one place to another and you're not sure which route to take - there's two options. Or ... you jump off."
     One hand, unseen, gestures, a leap up, a dive down, illustrating her principle. "The third road. Not the first choice, not the second choice - something different, maybe ordinarily overlooked. And it doesn't always lead to death - there's a nice soft river down there."
     There's a pause, and then a chuckle. "I'm not going to chase him, William," Fiona says, finally. "I've been chasing one man for a while, and I'm not sure anymore if he ever existed. No idea how to find him, and - well, Davydd's not someone you chase. He's more a hunter than prey... I've had turns of hunting him down and being hunted down by others in the past. But there is more - I know this, yes."
     There is always More... no matter how many layers of onionskin get peeled away, Davydd, there is more. How could it be otherwise? For as fiery and golden as Summer is, where there is light cast, there is shadow.
     "The problem with depth," Fiona quips, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand, "is that it has gravitational pull. There's a certain merit in shallowness. I just - feel awkward now, I suppose. Him and his damned dragons!"

     There is warm and genuine laughter when you mention the merit in shallowness. "It is much like the bliss of ignorance, the merit of shallowness. This is true. "Well, I think that is all I have for advice. I do not usually get calls for it, so I thank you for allowing me to hand out solicited opinions, rather than the unsolicited opinions I usually give."
     William leans forward, stamping out his cigarette, one last exhale of fire and smoke, an eyebrow lifting. "Dragons?" Maybe he's never seen him in short sleeves, or in any state of undress. Could that be? "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" he mulls, teasing.

     "I'll have to cultivate shallowness most assiduously, but yes, thank you for your opinions. It's always better to get a knowledgeable opinion than a clueless one, isn't it?" Fiona does laugh outright then, some of her tension easing. "Somehow, I figured that between your obvious - experience, and your friendship with Davydd, you'd be a good one to give a call on the matter. And I'm all out of girls to gossip with anyway."
     And, really, she just somehow can't see the Mongolian photographer she works with having much to say on the topic - aside from raised eyebrows in a sort of Why are you telling me this? expression.
     And then Fiona blinks. "Hm? No, I, uh, have actually seen you further undressed than him," she admits, the redness in her cheeks of a sudden also colouring her voice. "I meant his skin. Though I have to admit," she adds, drolly, "I'm not sure how mother and father will feel if I ever do introduce Davydd to them, anyway."
     There's a mental picture for the ages. Lord and Lady Arundel, being presented to their daughter's boyfriend...
     Well... at least we know she's not a lesbian now, dear...

     "I am sure they would be due impressed, as they should be, mais oui." He lets the issue of what is or isn't on Davydd's skin go. Or metaphors for genitalia. Whatever it may have been meant to be. "He's a charmer anyway. The man could talk himself out of a firing squad. I've seen him do it. He's phenomenal," William chuckles. "He even has me believing his shite half the time," if William only knew!
     "Well, I hope it did you some good, or at least made you feel better. I should go, however. My mate's stirring around. I should see to him for a while." He'll let you read between the lines on that.
     "If you want to talk again, or if something happens, it is okay to call. If I don't answer, leave a message. And... take care, yes? I hope I was an alright stand-in for a girl, despite my lack of breasts..."

     "Of course. And you were a wonderful stand-in for a girl, William, don't worry. In fact, I hereby dub you 'honorary woman'. Wear the title with pride, I'll send you your badge and recipes for chocolate fudge in my next care package."
     Is she serious? It's Fiona. She might be. There's a hint of laughter in her voice nonetheless. "Take care, William. If you see Davydd, tell him I said hi - make him sweat a little. He needs it..."
     She pauses a moment - just enough to see whether or not there is laughter before she hangs up.

     "Oh... wait... about that genealogy report... I'll... send it back to you?"

     "If you wouldn't mind - daddy's a bit frantic." Fiona actually calls her father 'daddy'?
     Does that mean she's a 'daddy's girl'?
     "Thanks for everything, William. I'll talk to you later, mm? Take care..."

     "Bonsoir, amie... and ...I'll look forward to the fudge."
     The click signals the end of all that....
     In Scotland, William sets down the cell phone and does indeed move into the next room, shutting the door to the studio, perhaps for the night...

Posted by rowan at February 15, 2004 01:28 PM