"Time to call, lads..."
     Coins from all manners of worlds, countries, times and currencies clink in a cacophony of last bets followed by a three-part chorus of: I'm out, I'm busted. Around one of the tables at the Leaky Cauldron, a motley assortment is gathered, each one with frothy drinks and ever-lightening pockets. Two magicians, a clerk from Gringotts as the banker (of course), Dobby's fourth cousin twice removed, Robby the House Elf, and Davydd ap Owain, the dragon-covered sometime visitor, frequent subscriber to Cauldron pints and heretofore sidhe champion.
     "Alright, show 'em..." Davydd says, turning his own cards over. "Read it and weep for it, I have a full house complete with underground dwarf tunnels leading to fantastic treasure, including the pile at the center of the table."
     The two magicians fold with grumbles, two games down.

     The Leaky Cauldron is in the favoured position of being the gateway to Wizarding London from the more mundane Muggle side of things. As such, it's definitely an 'all ages' sort of place - particularly over school holidays. Even now, there's a few students on holiday leave from Hogwarts, whispering at tables, jostling each other or otherwise being, well, kids.
     The doorway opens again, and into the gloom descends a trio who could not even remotely be mistaken for Muggles; even for wizards, they are oddly ... exotic.
     Three total - two wizards and a witch. The witch descends ahead of them, hidden in shadow for a moment, the two young men visible first in the backlight of the alleyway behind before it closes off. Tall, perhaps in their early twenties, they are swarthy of complexion, almost copper-coloured, black hair partially contained beneath matching blue bandanas. Black vests are worn over slightly yellowed tunics tucked into black serge trousers, which tuck into leather boots; beaten bronze torcs are around their necks, golden hoops in their ears. One wears a green sash around his waist; the other, a silver one.
     The witch, by contrast, is younger - significantly so, perhaps 15 or 16 years old. Glossy black locks are coifed into elegantly shining ringlets that gleam as if oiled, caught up in a platinum hairband wrought in the shape of hummingbirds and ivy before the locks then tumble down her back to mid-waist. Cool black eyes are rimmed by a narrow line of green, in a pretty, rather sharp-featured face. Her mouth is lovely, with a full lower lip, but there's a suggestion of willfulness to it : spoilt princess.
     She's thin, even wiry, rather than being sturdily built as the young men behind her are. She's garbed in silks and crinolines, a black blouse snug along her upper body, shoulders bared but long sleeves smooth along her arms to the wrist. She wears a great number of silver and platinum bracelets set with various ivory and jade beads carved in a variety of animal and floral shapes, but her neck is conspicuously bare. Her ruffled skirts are brightly coloured emerald and royal purple, and over her shoulders is draped a black flowing cloak.
     She stops at the foot of the stairs, reaching her hand up to allow her hair to spill back out of the hood as she tugs it down, glancing around with cool disdain. "Rafe, Paolo. Find me a table for my work. I shall be ... needed, today." Her accent is not English, though her command of the language is natural, it seems, marked by a certain precision. The cool dark gaze moves around the room, taking everyone in, even as the two men hurry to do her bidding.

     It's just like one of those Sergio Leone westerns, when the gunfighter walks into the saloon and all the games, celebration and gabbing end. Robby puts his cards down and immediately cowers beneath the table. The two magicians, both former students of Hogwarts now practicing in the own rights (and rites), fall silent and look at one another. The Banker closes his box (sort of like the piano player closing the lid over his keys) and there's the gambler in the middle of it all, unaware of the gunfighter and looking around with an expression best translated as: What the hell?
     Davydd twists about in his seat to see what all the fuss is about, just in time to see the three gypsies -- ha! irony! that's his song! -- float in. It's like the James Gang just rolled into town. "I guess that means the game's up. Well," hands rub together and he pockets the coins from all over. "Next round's on me, lads. Since we broke the bank," at the horrified look on the goblin's face he leans in toward him, "Just kidding...see you next stakes day. I have a good feeling about that race."
     Davydd ap Owain, the bookie...
     "Hello, Sabine, lads," he says to them. Look, he doesn't care about the House affiliations. That's not his problem. He's as unaffiliated Here as he is Out There. "Actually, you can have this table. My game's done... I'll even be your first victim..." Pause. "Customer."

     Rafe and Paolo move towards the table at a silent nod of direction from Sabine; the princess of the Ruthven kumpania then comes down the steps the rest of the way, regarding Davydd. "Very well," she remarks. "I do imagine that you need to be told a few things, though whether or not I am the one to do it, well. I suppose that we shall see."
     She has almost unnatural grace - the grace that comes with having been a circus performer since almost before she could walk. The banker gets a cool look of something akin to amusement; the two students simply get regarded, without anger or amusement at all. The house elf? He gets no reaction at all, not even a glance, as she settles onto the seat which one of the two young men - twins by the looks of them - provides for her.
     One hand reaches in under her cloak, and pulls out - not a gun, nor even a wand, but a small wooden box, intricate with carvings. She places it down delicately, lifting off the lid and then lifting a silk-wrapped bundle from it.
     Sabine then glances up at Davydd, as if measuring him by eye, for a hangman's noose more likely than a tailored shirt, and unwraps the silk bundle by feel alone, touch confident and assured.
     "You will need to phrase your question, o Prince among Men," the quiet voice has an undertone of detached mockery, "and when I have shuffled, cut the deck. The price, as ever, must be paid in advance, be it silver or gold or gems; I care not, but payment must be tendered before I shall See for you, or indeed, any."

     Arms fold against the great chest and the Prince Among Men cocks up a fiery eyebrow at the intonation. Humorless as ever. You're in for a long life, kid. A moment later, he's reaching into his pocket, not for the coins he just won, but for something more ...personal.
     What he reveals in the center of his palm is the acorn of a great oak tree, but glimmering with something extra, what the French might call je ne sais quoi. He looks to Sabine directly and brings the acorn to the table, sandwiched between his palm and the wood and then handing her a tear-shaped golden gem, like a fire opal but not, like topaz but not, like a yellow diamond.
     "My question is this: Who is the destined queen for the Oak King. Is it the Queen of the North or the Queen Yet To Be Crowned?" The corners of his mouth upturn. "I know you don't like to do Love questions. This isn't about Love, it's about Fate. And that's something you know a little about." Davydd continues to keep his eyes fastened on you, not looking to Paolo and Rafe, nor reaching for his beer or any distraction at all.

     "I do whatever questions that are brought to me," Sabine answers simply, meeting Davydd's gaze with her own. "I See, and I interpret what I See." The long sleeves rustle; they are in and of themselves unusual for the witch, for usually she favours bared arms, summer or winter alike. What's magic for if not for convenience?
     She regards the acorn, then nods, taking the gem and ... making it disappear. Her nimbleness is after all a part of her training. Paolo and Rafe take up position to either side behind her chair, arms folded, expressions impassive. They're excellent guard dogs, in addition to being her cousins.
     "No question of such complexity can be answered simply - though you present it as either and or, you know as well as I that these things take time in the growing." Sabine's speech slows slightly, though she doesn't relax, as such - instead, there is a sharpening of her attention, her alertness, as she regards not the cards she shuffles between her dainty-fingered hands but rather on the eyes opposite from her own. She offers the deck to be cut, taking it back once that's done.
     "The past must be examined," Sabine remarks, and a gradual progression to lead to the present and future. Under the circumstances - only the Celtic Cross will do."

     There is nothing said as he cuts the deck. The cards whisper against his skin. There is conversation happening in other corners. But between the Romani Princess of Sight and the Oak King there is nothing but concentrating silence.
     Davydd ap Owain settles back in the chair, his hands lacing against his sweatered stomach. Dark green eyes look at the young girl, measuring expressions (if she has any) and watching the movements of her hands.
     The question reverberates in his mind. He is curious as to what the Universe has to say about it all. Kingdoms and vampires, Otherworlds and underworlds aside.

     There is little to read in Sabine's face; she has been well-trained not to show emotion unless she chooses to. There have been exceptions - she is, after all, barely ripe yet in many of the ways of the world! But she is presently serene and as immobile as a carving of ice as she retakes the cards, laying out ten cards in succession.
     The cards begin their existences as blank slates; no images appear save slowly, and only as she brushes each card in turn. The first card, at the center of the cross, has one overlaid; carefully, she touches it but not its fellow. "Death, reversed," Sabine remarks. "The significator - this stands in your stead, Davydd ap Owain. It is a major card in many ways. You come into this as a stagnant being, fighting against your nature; you have been immobilized in many ways, and you struggle against the inertia that has seized you. You have changed - but it is a partial change only, and you know not in full yet how narrowly you have escaped the trap which has held you."
     There's a glimmer to Sabine's eyes, now; the close observer will notice that her pupils have begun to contract. Her eyes are usually almost all pupil, the darkness of them huge, so that there is only that faint green limning. Now the darkness is increasingly swallowed up by that brilliant emerald hue, bit by bit - blackness slowly and grudgingly surrendering to the Sight that usually it blocks out.
     "You are crossed by the Nine of Bolers - Wheels, to my people; Pentacles to many. This influences you - this crosses you. Together these two cards are both you and your present situation. It means that you have attained material trappings - success and accomplishments, even certitude. But - obviously - it is not enough." Sabine taps the card as she speaks, causing a yellow-shawled old woman to appear, seated on a pile of wagon wheels. "Do you realize it yet, I wonder? It is part of your trap. You have the physical - but it is not enough."
     She pauses for a moment, one dark eyebrow sliding up sardonically as she regards you - waiting, it seems, to see if you will hear more. Two cards down - eight to go.

     You know, it's one thing to say this shite to yourself in the mirror, it's another thing to have a 16 year old tell your shite to you. But Davydd doesn't so much as blanch. He tilts his head, and gives a nod. You may continue. All other commentary is held. And while his expression is relatively expressionless, you can tell that he is listening.
     Absorbing...
     That is the great thing about the Universe: it tells you what you already know but sometimes refuse to see, to voice, to hear, to taste it. The things he has seen in the seasons since waking from Rosamund and the Second World War. The things he has seen in the seasons since Sandrine.
     How funny it is that a woman so stuck and unable to move has allowed him to snap himself out of this... inertia. To the extent that he has...

     "The distant past - the Lovers, reversed." Sabine strokes the card gently. A naked couple of gypsies embrace in a wooded glen; the woman has a red flower in her hair, the man a red bandana around his neck, but otherwise, they are embracing in nudity. "You have made wrong choices in the past, Davydd ap Owain. You have had many frustrations - frustrations in general, but frustrations in love in particular. There have been quarrels..."
     The girl's gaze is distant, absorbed with things she Sees that are not there, not in the room physically, but oh, they're there nonetheless, crowding in memory if nothing else. "Your emotions have been unstable. You have been fickle, Davydd - oh, so fickle. It led to the Seven of Koros - Cups. Many ideas have come to you - your attentions, your interests have been diverse, and this has led to scattered forces. You have spent all of your time recently building castles in the air - very pretty ideas, but they are wasted effort. This is the recent past."
     "We then come to the past, cusping upon present," the next card is tapped, "in the form of the Ten of Koros, reversed. You have been estranged from others - there is betrayal, possibly loss of friendships, and this has been shaping things, the heavy clouds which occupy your thoughts." The emerald eyes regard Davydd for a moment, then shift back downwards.

     Isn't that the Lord's Gospel. Any lord's gospel for that matter. The cards never lie. There is a sudden chuckle, the slight rolling of his eyes at himself and an exhale. Go on...
     ...There was his mortal wife, the Spanish countess, the mother of his four children and the mother of three great families, like the Welsh Eve. Or maybe Lilith depending on your opinions of the Welsh...
      ...There were the three queens -- Ragnell, Isabel...whom he called Ysbail, Hafwen, all of whom chose him, created him, endowed him and imbued him and in the end none had him...
      ...Then there were a host of nameless faces, women lured from their castles, their jewels, their corsets. The many maidens that graced the road that Black Jack Davy robbed...
     ...And Rosamund Clifford Caermichael... who saw him at his most exhausted point, with whom he battled up until the end...
     ...Sandrine... who restored something in him, and yet with whom he has been unable to comfortably live... the woman who by not understanding him has caused him to understand himself...
     And Fiona...
     Green eyes drift upward to lock onto the modern Cassandra and he snaps out of his reverie to hear the next reading...

     Placidly, Sabine continues, unmoved by all that she Sees. And, after all, why should she be moved? This is not her life which she Sees. It is removed from her; detached. It does not cross with hers. And that is in many ways a relief; a contrast to the readings she's done of late.
     "The Six of Chivs - Swords in your sort of deck, Your Majesty," she murmurs, the faint mocking lilt to her voice again. "After all, there -would- have to be Swords, would there not?" For all that what she tells is what she Sees, perhaps it's not -all- that she Sees; but she does not add to it, so it remains a mystery. "The present - you have escaped and attempted to avoid a danger. You shall eventually succeed in gaining that which you desire - but there is water between you and then. We shall examine what comes after you cross the waters... Here ends the past and present. From here on, we move to examine the future."
     And, after all, isn't that the point of the reading, the question? To know what the future holds? Sabine's gaze holds yours for a moment; then she turns to the remaining four cards. Only four - it seems a pitiful bridge to the future.
     "The Queen of Koros - Cups, again - reversed. This is tied to yourself. It is what you are, or what you have - it represents your self. The bird in hand, as it were. A fair-haired woman - a good woman, but perverse in many ways. She opposes your moral view... it is not necessarily that she is evil, but her ways are not your ways. There is little poetry to her - she is not a visionary. It is the yoke about your neck, is it not?"
     Sabine's smile hints almost at cruelty, almost at sadism for a moment as she lifts her gaze to Davydd's, green eyes shining, pupils contracted to pinpoints. "Poor thing," she mocks in a murmur, "how difficult it is." The smile cuts off abruptly, as if someone else's voice had been channeled through her lips, and she resumes, expression blank. "The next card is the Chariot, reversed. You are in conflict, Davydd ap Owain. There are problems with trouble you. You are struggling to keep your control, and your control has slipped - you allow victory to slip through your fingers, because to do otherwise would be an unethical victory. Those around you - they madden you, in some ways. You have taken no direction but your own, and you find yourself now shaped nonetheless by those whose direction you did not seek."
     She quiets for a moment, the dark lashes gracefully sweeping down. She makes it look easy, but to those who know what to look for, she is a conduit; she channels the power and the Sight, and she interprets it, plucking paths clear to see what the truth is, as a virtuoso upon a harp. There is a price.
     "The next card it the Queen of Koshes, Your Majesty. Staves, or Wands, if you prefer. Your desires, your fears, your dreams, your hopes for the future are bound in this card. A blonde, blue-eyed woman, with a strong sense of honour, she is chaste. She seeks a home, to love and make her own, whether she has one or no; she is a strong woman nonetheless, for all that she may or may not desire." Sabine glances up, the blackness of her pupils all but drowned by green. Quietly, she states, her hand hovering over the last remaining card.
     "The outcome, Davydd ap Owain. Do I turn the card, still, or do you foreswear an answer?"

     "Cut the theatrics, Sabine. Just read the cards," he murmurs, a lilt of droll Sidhe humor -- if Sidhe could ever really be called droll. "If I were afraid of the answer, I wouldn't have asked the bloody question."
     You must be dead-spot-on as ever... the freckles on the bridge of his nose are showing with the momentary rise of color in his very passionate response. Fucking teenagers.
     But the next moment finds him normal-colored and waiting for the ultimate answer (at least for today -- the universe is more fickle than he is). Davydd folds his arms against his chest again, one corner of his mouth upturned and the other downturned. He has heard nothing that he hasn't already told himself.

     "You paid for the full performance, Your Majesty," Sabine murmurs slyly; is that a hint of a - gasp - sense of humour? Well, maybe she has one. If so, though, it's gone a moment later, as she adds primly, "Why any woman would, I have no idea. But the outcome..."
     She leans forward to touch a fingertip to the last card, eyes closed. For some reason, she seems more - drained by it than usual; even Rafe and Paolo are eyeing the situation with some concern. Unnoticed by herself, one of her sleeves has ridden up, revealing the white bandages wrapped around the slender forearm.
     "The Emperor," Sabine announces, eyes reopening suddenly, even as the card itself formulates its picture. Authority, power, leadership - confidence. Attainment of goals and male influence. You know the answer already, Davydd ap Owain. You have the answer, and you are the answer. It is for you to claim your Queen - whichever she may be - and not for me to tell you who she is."
     And... she looks... smug, just the faintest hint of a self-satisfied smile on her face. She's exhausted, but only a very careful eye indeed would notice it as she cleans the cards up, tucking them neatly back onto the desk, a small smile playing about the corners of her mouth.
     "You know the answer already," Sabine repeats, focusing her gaze on Davydd with mild difficulty, pupils slowly returning to their normal state. "It is upon you to act."

     Yes, he did know the answer. The answer to the question was embedded in the question. He stood in front of the great mirror and asked to see himself, which was of course guaranteed as he is... who he is.
     And all of the answers are pointing in the same direction...
     The ones he felt a year ago...
     The words of counseling friends...
     Magic...
     Music...
     Electrical shocks in the middle of the street...
     How many portents does a man need?
     Davydd looks at the emperor and frowns. But the Truth is the Truth and it is undeniable. He is not a vampire. He does not belong in their world. He should not be sleeping with their women. And until he turns his back on them, he can never be true to himself and to the reason for his own Existence.
     But if he turns his back on one, he will have to turn his back to all...
     Including his two brothers...
     William Plantagenet...
     Edward Meurelle...

Posted by rowan at February 15, 2004 01:51 PM