In the woods there grew a tree a fine fine tree was he      Making love to him was always something a little ...fabulous.      Literally...      The longer you have been with him, the more acquainted with it you have become. For when he moves on you, he moves as a man, sweats as a man. And so on. He always seemed a little on the...living side... on that tree there was a limb on that limb there was a branch on that branch there was a nest...      But tonight...      Tonight, there was golden light, the remembrance of sunlight on the skin, a warm hum like being out in the early morning. There was the smell of flowers, sweet grass. A meadow full of pink and gold. There was honey and fire in the kiss. There was music in your ears as he first moved in you. Laughter of some flowing river, or was that your laughter and his? In that nest there was an egg in that egg there was a bird from that bird a feather came and of that feather was a bed On that bed there was a girl On that girl there was a man From that man there was a seed...      And when he came, there was a flood of Life. Of pure, summer heady life. The thrill of bees. The twitching of thighs. The throb, the kiss of Life in its height. In summer. Warmth and light filled the chamber, or so it seemed, and the magic that you felt tonight did not merely crackle and then dissolve. It surrounded you both.      And it lingered...      Dreamlike, magical. None of your fairy princesses in all your legends had a more beautiful bower in that moment than you in the ostrich feather bed. He fell into slumber as he sometimes does, still on you and still in you, his red head making pillows of your breasts. Maybe it is just the lingering after effect of it all, but there is the scent of flowers and the soft drip-drop of blossoms falling off a tree and sliding against your skin...      And then his weight fell away, and lay where it yet lies, upon a meadow of flowers that once was a bed...      Open your eyes, and you will see it is no dream. Where you and he have lain has become flowered, purples and blues and pinks. Wild flowers of wild summer. And if you looked at him now, where he lies, he would shine, golden as sunrise in July, his tattoos vibrant as the day they were first made.      He moves in his unconscious waking, his hand finding your breast again. So it may go, as you know, from sleeping to dreaming to love making again. Primal and pure as Adam and Eve... From that seed there was a boy from that boy there was a man From that man there was a grave And on that grave there grew a tree

     Sandrine's hand comes to rest gently with the one upon her, stilling it. A gentle way of saying 'enough.' For her part, she is content to rest now, surrounded by a world that was unknown to her in her mortal life and now, in more vibrant color than possible, remains an alien place.
     Flowers are things to be touched. Gathered. Sent away to customers to decorate their lives. Things to be controlled -- as they only appear so often in the world.
     And now? They seem common. A florid expression of a vernacular.
     Once a pinpoint delight, now filling her bed and her senses.
     Now? It's forever Spring.
     "What about Cardiff?" Sandrine says softly, staring at the ceiling.

     Beneath you where there was once soft coverlets of silk and velvet, white upon a bed that never sees the spilling of blood, wildflowers of a Welsh summer grow, sprouting up and blossoming upon the linens and the silks as upon the most fertile of soils. Fertility the order of the day ... or night... here...
     Boughs of them drape magically from the bower of the bed, wooden frame transformed to the bows of an oak tree rather than beams of varnished oak with cherry carvings. Somewhere, there is a sound like a brook, and then... no... it is merely the Welsh bubbling from his mouth.
     Ending in a sigh, not a grunt: "You want to go to the City again...hmmm... you miss the Great Gaggle..."
     Fiery eyebrows lift a little as his eyes make an attempt to open, a blink to consciousness. And then he sees the great work of it all. The meadow, the flowers, and you like Eve right in the middle of it. Davydd laughs quietly, and he is beautiful, the twisting knots of dragons living against his skin. Quite living, quite vibrant. Look to his aura now, and you'd be blinded for certes...
     And you'd see the heraldry stripe of a Sidhe king...
     His hair is a touch longer, waves let to go their way, hair not quite long enough for ringlets. But red, bronze and fiery and brilliant. Davydd ap Owain sucks against his own lower lip, then looks at the meadow around him.
     The room's a bit transformed...
     These aren't flowers he had trucked in... they weren't here before... and they drop, blossoms of pink and yellow dripping, some dissolving from this reality to the next.
     So the hand was stopped, he left it be upon the breast for a moment, then drew the hand away, rolling over on his back to look at the work he wrought. And even though the Living feeling in you begins to recede, there is some hum upon your skin that for another moment remains.
     I can feel you ... receding into Death. We are like sunrise and sunset at the moment that one becomes the other. Neither able to walk in one another's country for more than moments. Oh, lady... how can we Be...
     "You see this..." he murmurs in Welsh, lyrical language best suited for song. "You see ...any of this... what do you feel... and see..." Davydd pauses, looking at you. "This is Me..."

     "I know that," Sandrine says softly. And she does recede to her own place. To herself, she'd say. But it is no longer a place she fears. Sandrine said once that if you'd continue to ask questions, so would she. She hasn't vocalized them, but there is comfort these days. Understanding.
     "I don't think it's a gaggle," Sandrine explains. "They are nice. They like to discuss politics, but I like to talk about gardens and cloth. And they do, many times."

     "They seem well enough," for bloodsucking beasts of Banality. Davydd's mouth makes a twist and he lifts a bit, elbow to the flowered plain of the Once Bed, red head propped up on the heel of his hand. "I'm a king among my kind," he murmurs, "...and if I could... I'd remove the curse of the dark life from both our souls. I'm strong, and I can do much, but I don't know if I can resurrect you..." a pause. "... or stand five minutes in the sun. I wish I could," Davydd whispers. He's talking in rhyme again, or sing-song blank verse. King of his kind? What kind is that? The weird kind, for certes.
     He's quiet for a few moments. "I can't go with you to Cardiff, Sandrinaar. I've no place there. I don't belong, and I can't pretend to anymore. I've run out of energy to keep up appearances to the court of the Undead. But... you should go if you wish to go. A woman's ever as free as a man, she should do what makes her heart happy. They're your friends."
     A pink flower is plucked from the air as it falls, floating into his waiting palm. He places it upon your nose.

     Sandrine doesn't say much on resurrection. She manages a weak smile at the flower, but soon her expression returns to the museum-quality beauty that is forever hers. "I guessed not," Sandrine finally replies. Nor can she go where you are going.
     "If I leave, Davydd," Sandrine says quietly as she looks at the ceiling, "I will not come back." Disagreement is not her way. It has perhaps taken her weeks to formulate that simple statement. But her face turns to the side, to see the man with her. From her expression, this should come as no surprise.

     If I could take you where I must go, I would take you...
     If I had realized Then that this is where I would have been so soon, I would never have asked you to come with me...
     I thought I could walk three worlds, darling, when I'm only a man with two legs...
     "I know," he murmurs. And it has taken him weeks to ruminate on that reply. The flower falls but does not disappear. It is a symbol, lying there between you. His hand brushes that beauty, his face is serious, his dark eyes are grave. "You ... and I... we are, perhaps, the hope of a coming Time. Just... not in the way that we imagined at first, wanted, attempted. I cannot walk with you, or you where I go. It is not a crime," lips upturn just slightly, "... it is just our misfortune, and something between us we must bear. But... my heart will always house you," he whispers.
     There's no railing, wailing, crying, begging. There is the simplicity of knowing the Inevitable when one sees it and giving it a nod.
     "I am sorry, Sandrinaar. For both our houses..."

     "I have no house," Sandrine replies evenly, eyes back to the distance again. That is the way it shall be. She's resigned herself to it. "It is too late for me. I know that now."
     "I will...take a few things with me, and...the rest can return to London..."

     Davydd ap Owain settles down beside you, a long exhale moving with warmth against your skin. A hand rests itself upon your hair, his forehead at your temple. He says nothing, hums nothing. There is just the feeling of receding Day...
     His grasp like the last gasp of sunlight at the horizon...
     He cannot prevent either sunrise or sunset...
     It is a pity there is no ...In Between country for this...

Posted by rowan at March 01, 2004 11:52 PM