Trains take too long...
There's far too much time between one point and another for staring out of windows.
What's a train window, after all, but a glance into another world, one which moves by far too quickly for anyone to step through and visit? Everything changes...
One ticket to Welshpool has Fiona straightening from her seat on the train, yawning and stretching as she tries to massage some life back into her limbs. She'd gone back to the studio to change clothes, even going so far as to grab a quick shower before slipping out again, with her 'Don't Notice Me' radar up on full (and praying that her 'Something's Odd About The Girl' energies don't jam the radar).
So ... this is Welshpool ...
No flourish of trumpets to greet her, nor would she know what to do with one if she found one waiting - she steps off the train in a self-imposed solitude, the sort that's chased off well-meaning grannies bent on advice and not so well-meaning young rogues bent on seduction alike.
Off the train, in sturdy black denim paired with a long-sleeved white linen shirt and black suede vest, a pair of black boots that must be a holdover from Drancy's wardrobe both by the clunky utilitarianism of them and the obvious signs of wear...
The long curtain of cornsilk hair's devoid of beads and baubles this time. No crystal to chime in announcement of her arrival. No music to accompany her footsteps; no drummers to drum her in, no melancholy whistle even of some bird. The downsides of arriving in the evening...
First to find Powys. That's perhaps not so hard. Then to get there, this colourless figure with black and white clad and the pale moon-gold of her hair, no jewelry upon her, nothing save a shoulder bag over one shoulder, a travelbag over the other, and a long object wrapped in brown paper under her arm...
What else is to be done? She'll beg a lift in the pub. "Yes, I've been invited. I'm not in it for my health, after all. Ah, thank you very much."
It helps that she does the asking in Welsh - it helps more, no doubt, that half the bloody village is probably related to Davydd.
There's not much to the village itself. Quaint. Small. Welsh. Delightful. The signs all point to the only reason anyone comes to Welshpool and that's the expansive, classical gardens of the only red stone castle in a stone's throw. Powis Castle this way. Powis Castle 3km.
Some folks walk it, but it's a bit much on a late night...
Well, you know what they say about the Welsh all looking alike. They can't help the red hair, it's part of it. When you ask for a lift there is a man who works at the castle, off for the night, but...well... it's hospitality, ain' it? And she does have an appointment with the boss. He's youngish. "I work in the gardens," he says, Welsh strictly of the midlands. "Happy to take you..."
So that's that then...
Up the palace, as they say, the lights are on, the red granite taking on a bit of a glow. To those with eyes to See -- no truly, to those who See -- the castle's got a bit of a roseate goldish light to it, summer sunset despite the persistence of winter. While in one realm the summer flowers and plants still lie dormant, in another the gardens are alive with color and fragrance and the humming of bees.
The gardens are lit as well, the road up from the village to the castle drive lined with lanterns, and walking along the curve of the road that leads from castle to village and flanks the world-class gardens, is a man in a raincoat and jumper. Purple and red violets spring up in his wake.
And undoubtedly...
Somewhere nearby there are likely to be the fattest corgis this side of Queen Elizabeth's pillow, god rest her soul.
"Bruf raf!!" Rhyddid warns happily as he hears the car approaching. "Eruf burf raf!!" Bwci retorts, insistent that he heard them first. And though he knows not to run in the road Rhyddid trots up a bit then back, just to make sure they know what's going on. Bwci, for his part, seems quite interested in what all the ruckus is about, it is just a car.... or is it something else?? "Raf raf raf!" Bwci says in three evenly spaced words, glancing sidelong at the man with flowers at his feet with his nose pointed in the air as he stands still, just so he knows that Bwci's doing his job... just in case of course.
All that racket, lads... you'd think we were expecting guests... The silent voice of Davydd ap Owain is as rumblingly droll as his audible voice. He stops, looks at them, hands on his hips and then looks to the village, waiting for sign of a car...
Or the apocalypse...
With these two it's often hard to tell...
"Much obliged for the lift," Fiona calls to the young man, with a quick smile offered his way - along with a five pound note left on the seat. Must take care of debts owed, even if it's hospitality, after all. With a toss of cornsilk hair, she pulls herself and her bags and parcel out from the seat. She's not terribly communicative at the moment - just thankful that her current 'effect' is something less like what the Beeb's shown of her...
Up the way, then, to and through the gardens, towards the castle. Should she be going towards or away? Fiona still isn't quite sure.
It's a meeting which may've been foreordained or might not be recorded even in Fate's little black book. The boots are steady, though, as she steps away from the car, turning to take in her surroundings. Both eyebrows shoot up.
"Well, he wasn't joking about it being a castle, I suppose. So much for the last-ditch hope that this is a bizarre practical joke."
Huge ears on heads much too large for their basset-hound bodies perk up as someone actually stops and gets out of the car. Well now, this is different.. er... what do we do? They look at each other almost as much as Davydd, as tense as if waiting for the cue to kill!.. or jump! ... or sit!.. or play dead! But as Fiona moves to get her bags, they snap back to attention.... annnnnd...
They're off! They go running up, and as they run a familiar smell comes to them, "We know this one!" and their little tails wag and wag and wag, and as they approach her they spin in circles, tongues lolling out and not quite jumping on her, but awfully close to it.
The trees and shrubs, vines and flowers, exotics and natives alike would seem to come alive. The earth breathes and speaks as much as any living thing (though likely not as much as Davydd himself), and as Fiona Arundel, descendant of Isabel the Queen of the Seven Towers, each one a sentinel upon some marking of the year, heads up the remainder of the drive from where the jeep stopped to the castle just in time to be assailed by the biggest pushovers in all Wales.
As the jeep rolls off, a hand out of the window waving farewell and you're welcome, and as the dogs turn about her three times at the least, Davydd comes into view, slicker over jumper over wool trousers, looking the country gentleman, or gentleman king. Hair's left a bit longer than of late, still very short but hair's allowed a wave where it was very short-shorn before.
"Now they're never going to piddle," the Oak King's voice rumbles in humor, looking to the dogs now too excited to do the business that brought him out in the mist in the first place. It's a nice dash of humor in the otherwise weighty seriousness of the moment. A smile tugs at his mouth, then dashes across it in its usual comet-like trajectory, warming -- and, yes, very much brightening -- his features. "Welcome to Powys... here," hands come out for the bags, "... let me get that..."
It's somewhat distracting, really, and she blinks, having just a moment to turn and look before there's leaping and panting around her ankles. "Oh, uh, hello," Fiona manages, clutching oblong package to her chest and trying not to overbalance herself. "A long time since Scotland, boys. - Down, I don't want to end up stepping on you, y'know."
One boot descends, cautiously away from canine tails, and there's a grey-eyed glance cast in Davydd's direction, with half of a roll of the eyes. "I'm not taking responsibility for your dogs' inability to piddle out of the sheer delight of my company," the Englishwoman retorts, covering reaction with reaction. "But it's nice they seem happy to see me. I imagine I could be a burglar here for the ancestral silver, though, and they'd be almost as happy - just a bit more avid over my ankles."
She allows herself to become less burdened, hanging on to the elongated parcel but letting Davydd take charge of the travelbag and shouldercase. "It's very picturesque," Fiona pauses a moment to mention. "Thank you for the welcome. Are you sure the walls won't fall down if I cross the threshold?"
Rhyddid takes his opportunity to run off to the side, tail wagging, and do his business. He stares at the pair happily as he goes and Bwci's ears perk up at him, curious why he's leaving, then falling again as he realizes, and he continues his happy-dance.. but.. wait... a new smell...
Bwci becomes quite interested in the interior of Fiona's ankle, and finds himself having to practically push his way between her feet to get at this smell, how rude! How's he supposed to smell with her feet in the way?
Rhyddid meanwhile finishes his piddling, and joins the fracas once more! "Rrf," he asks Bwci as he wants a turn. And basically they are both quite under foot.
He laughs, a warm and good-natured sound that is, held in the chest and lighting in the eyes, like the laughter of the Welsh tends to do, and he shoulders one bag as he takes the other in hand. It's hardly a burden. "Right, the drive to Scotland," he had nearly forgotten it. "Well, you know," Davydd rumbles earthily on, "...once you feed them, they love you forever. Like me, they like the little sandwiches."
As Davydd turns to head up the drive to the castle itself, he takes a moment to look at it. It's a huge thing, red granite, stalwart and formerly defensible. Not any of those fairytale castles in France and Germany. This one housed hardy, working princes in its day. "Diolch," he says, and chuckling, "and no, I'm not worried about it falling if you cross the threshold." A pause. "I had it blessed first thing this morning... no worries. Boyos," Davydd gives a whistle, "...give us room to walk, will ya now... sorry, Fiona," Davydd sighs. "Bwci... go piddle, leave her feet alone. Duw," he groans with rolling green eyes, "... they've been going mad the last week..."
No more cat to torment...
No more Sandrine to be spoiled by...
The boys hop back, and let them pass, though Bwci is still quite interested in that smell at her feet, and he leans forward from a small distance, nose going wild as he sniff and sniffs, trying to get an idea of what it is.
Rhyddid for his part, runs back up to the door, then back to them, his pudgy legs running seven steps to any other dogs' one.
"I've dealt with dogs before," Fiona answers, mildly enough as she follows Davydd along the path, weaving from side to side in an effort to avoid stepping on Bwci. "You didn't introduce us last time, so hopefully you'll make up for it this time, right?"
Just like a man...
Needs a woman around to remind him of his manners...
She resumes a relatively easy gait - which is promptly spoiled by Rhyddid joining the fracas once more, and she stumbles, then regains her balance as the dogs then back off. A reluctant little grin appears on Fiona's features as she watches the dogs run.
Damn the man for being able to disarm her with his dogs, anyway.
"I didn't bring any food," Fiona answers absently. "If you're a very good boy, I'll make you some of my grandmother's fudge sometime. Or her kolaches. Or I'll just introduce you to her and see if you survive." Whatever she's walked through, she's aware only that it's apparently of fascination enough to Bwci that her ability to walk is somewhat impaired.
"I promise to take the boots off once I get inside and then you can bury your muzzle in, if you like," she scolds lightly, "but let me -get- inside so we can see if Davydd's blessing way is strong enough to overcome my English birth!" She glances to the man, and adds serenely, "It clashes with your hair."
He rises up at the notion of clashing, giving her a look of You're mad, you are. "What do you mean?" He looks down at his slicker -- dark green -- his jumper black, his wool trousers black with a bit of grey thread here and there. "It matches..." Not thinking that the castle clashes -- or that it was a joke in the first place.
"I thought I gave propers last time, I'm sorry... That fat dumpling there is Bwci," Welsh for 'bugbear' or 'mischievous spirit' (no kidding), "...and his partner in crime, Rhyddid," Welsh for 'freedom', naturally. "Sorry about that... lads," he rolls out grandly to the two dogs, "...this here is Fiona Arundel, Lady Arundel to be exact. And we're going to let her in, even though she is E-N-G-L-I-S-H," he spells it out.
At least he can spell...
Davydd glances to Fiona as they reach the great doors to the castle, striding ahead to open them for the woman and dogs, "Are you talking to me or the dogs?" Fiery eyebrows cock up and he grins. "I like fudge..."
He gives the doors a tug and a push and puts a broad shoulder to them, opening one door wide to reveal the red-and-white marble floors, the Indian vases and classical interior of one of Britain's showcase homes. "Come on in... I'll have Marti take your things to a room. Did you have supper? Would you like a bit of tea and some sandwiches, scones?" he tacks on. And he holds the door open for the menagerie -- the fairy girl and the fairy dogs...
"Not telling," Fiona answers Davydd smugly, in response to the question as to which it is she's referring to. She nods gravely to each of the dogs in turn. "You were a bit distracted the last time, so I'll forgive the oversight. Hello, Bwci, Rhydidd."
Her Welsh is flawless - perhaps too flawless, and flavoured with the tones of a faerie queen who by rights died a short time ago...
She steps over the threshold with a slight ducking of her head, the London punk resurfacing for a moment. "As to the hair, well - red castle, red hair, but they're different colours of red, you know. Not that I should talk, considering what colour my hair was when you met me." Bright fuchsia and no longer than to the end of her chin, it was...
She looks around with a cautious eye, moving down the corridor just slightly, then turns to face Davydd. "You promised me food," Fiona answers bluntly. "Lured me out into the wilds of Wales, away from the fish-and-chips I was planning on for dinner in Cardiff. A bit of tea and something to go down with it wouldn't just be lovely, it's all that's going to keep me from passing out."
The door is held open by a formidable Welsh arm, until woman and dogs are fully in. A turn and he's setting the bags down and closing the door behind them all. "Marti," his voice raises to fill the entry hall and the side hall that leads off from it. "We're here!" To indicate the anticipated guest, no doubt. "Usually I send the dogs to tell her to put a kettle on, but I don't expect they'll have the attention span for that," not with Someone New about. "And there's rabbit pot pie, should be done shortly. Tea and the usuals," cakes and what-not, "...should hopefully hold till its done?"
Davydd holds out his arm, gesturing to a hall to the left of the entry way, "Let's take a load off. It's a bit of a haul from Cardiff," he notes and sympathizes. "Well... insomuch as you have to travel by the rail and that's a bit tiring, aye?" Bags left behind -- Marti'll have them taken up no doubt, whomever Marti is -- Davydd leads you down the other hall to a gallery, a long, lovely interior walkway, lined with windows looking out upon the gardens. "So how did you come to be on the Welsh National," TV that is, "... I didn't know you were working for the Beeb..."
Meanwhile, the dogs have apparently accepted the fact that Fiona is now a new member of the family and she will be part of their pack from now on. They treat her like she belongs here for the rest of her days as they simply trot along next to Davydd and Fiona, giving them both room, but giving neither of them the amount of attention they once did. Unless of course, one were to offer them a treat?
There's a certain observation given to her surroundings. She's never been here before, after all, and it's a bit national landmark-ish, so to speak. "Visitors," Fiona mutters, sotto voce, "will please remain behind the velvet ropes."
She accepts the lead without particular resentment - all forty rooms and all that, wouldn't want to get lost. "I think I can survive that long. My stomach will no doubt try to argue, but I'll try not to stuff myself too full on cakes." Her mouth is watering already.
With a glance up and down the windows, out through the glass to the gardens beyond, Fiona falls quiet for a moment, the odd long package still tucked under one arm. "I wasn't and I might not yet," she murmurs. That's not a very useful answer, is it?
She relents a moment later. "I've been wanting to do something different. What exactly, I'm not sure - but I've been doing production work, and it keeps me hellaciously busy. So - I decided to give something else a try. It's a trial - they might not like me enough to keep me, I might not like it enough to keep them - but so far so good, right?"
Another minute pause, and Fiona grins, pure mischief showing for a moment. "Did I give you a scare?"
He can go from a man of 800 to a young man in mere seconds, the features taking on a certain boyishness when he laughs. "Aye, a bit. I was having a swallow of whiskey and spat it out on the tv to avoid choking." What is it with faerie eyes -- it can't merely be a matter of being Welsh -- that makes them twinkle like that in merriment and mischief alike? "It's a good thing I wasn't long from the shower, I ended up wearing a lot of it. I didn't know you could speak Welsh so fluently, well... at all actually," eyes go a bit wide at that. "... I guess I never thought to ask..."
Davydd doesn't seem to be stopping in the gallery, though there's seating enough. He continues to the double doors at the end of the hall, opening them both with a tug to reveal what was once a grand ballroom of an old castle, since converted to a music and living room. "This is where I spend most of my time," Davydd reveals a secret by the murmur. "Well, I've always done that when I've been here. Can you... hear the hum of all that's been left behind?" he wonders, turning to look at her. "Notes hanging about in the air, waiting to be plucked or played..."
There's the sound of an approaching cart. Davydd smiles and gestures for you to go on in. "Have a seat... I'm sure you'd love to relax... " He leaves one of the two doors open for Marti and the tea cart, and he moves toward the piano.
"Actually, there's a story behind that," Fiona admits readily enough. It'll come out in the wash anyway - so why not admit it, and get points for honesty? She pushes absently at her hair, which seems to be trying to tangle in this atmosphere. The elf-knots are still there, undisguised even if unbraided.
Her eyes are presently sea-green, pale and murky and underlaid with greys and blues and distance but no real detachment. Both arms wrap firmly around the object she carries as she pauses, tilting her head in order to peer into the former ballroom.
"Nothing ever truly goes away. It just goes somewhere -else-." Fiona lifts one hand to rub at her cheek absently, then nods, taking a breath. "I'm sure I'd love to relax, too."
But you're still here, and there's a few other things that haven't gone anywhere...
She doesn't voice that thought. Instead, she moves to the nearest open seat, laying the package - about five feet of it - over her lap. It seems to be slightly squashable, under the brown paper.
"So are you going to play for me? I suppose I can affect a drawing room air, if it's required of me." Fiona frowns for a moment, then shakes her head, shifting on the cushion. "I'd like to hear you play, mind you - sometime. But you shouldn't feel you've got to entertain, either."
God help me, I have no idea what to say, for once in my life. Oh, well, maybe not the first time - but it's strange.
"Sure," he says, a smile winding across his lips and dawning over his features. "I probably will while you have your snacks," he mentions, settling on the piano bench, an exhale. For now, however, Davydd turns to look at you, sitting straddled on the bench. "I'd be happy to play for you, Fiona. I like showing off," forest eyes widen a touch and he smiles again.
But in his eyes, there's something serious...
The something that is This Thing...
But before he can start it off or comment on your Beeb bits or anything else for that matter, Marti's coming in. A youngish woman, dark hair, brown eyes, round Welsh face and a uniform of a long kilt skirt (calf-length), a nice silk jumper, braided hair. A picture of Welsh domesticity. With her, a lovely cart from the 1940s or 1950s looks like, with a service of tea, a service of cakes, even a service of mead if either of you wanted. She smiles at you, "Lady Arundel," a bob of her head. "Dinner'll be ready shortly. Twenty minutes, cook says," she notes to you both. "There's cream and sugar and a bit of mead as well. Enjoy..."
Davydd's eyes warm to the notion of mead and he rises. It seems he'll be doing the 'honors' himself, for Marti is heading out the doors and back toward the kitchens and Davydd's heading for the tea. "I think I'll start with tea. I think it's a bit early for mead," he drolls. A glance to you. "So... cream and sugar?"
In some ways, it's that underlying seriousness which has her so on edge. In other ways, it's all her, all on her...
Fiona shifts uncomfortably, turning to offer Marti a small smile even as the woman's leaving again, reaching for a cake and then settling back. "Cream and sugar," she agrees promptly. "Double cream, double sugar. I like it sweet."
As you probably already knew...
One booted foot swings up to rest on the other's instep, and she's silenced by a bite of cake. Godsend that it is - sugar, deliver us from evil by filling our mouths and preventing a wagging tongue. When she can speak again, it's a mild, even banal complaint.
"So you had to go telling everybody about my title, did you? Trying to impress the Joneses?"
A copper eyebrow cocks upward and Davydd looks up briefly as he pours, smirking. "We're not much for titles here, but it is your due, wot? I just said Arundel... she knows better, that Marti." Double cream, double sugar -- woman after his own heart when it comes to food. He knows just the mixture, he does, and he makes it expert.
The air is alive between you again. It can't seem to help it, same as you and him. Davydd pours a cup of tea for himself -- double sugar, double cream. "I'm glad you came... look," an exhale and he's looking at you squarely, "... probably just better that I come out with it and ... you can leap on whenever you like," surely he meant in argument and not ...something else...
Even his cheeks went a touch ruddy at the implication, his high complexion reddening easily, freckles standing out along the bridge of his Brythonic nose. His mouth twists and he takes the cup and himself back to the piano bench. "Sandrine and I have gone our separate ways, amicably agreeing that our... paths are simply not the same." Davydd sets his cup down on the piano, and his hands rest upon the keys, striking the whisper of a major chord. He looks to his fingers -- that's how you know he means it, he isn't looking at you. "And... I'm not going to go serial on you," dark green eyes glance over to you, "... I didn't bring you here to ask you to marry me." Though the look is on the tender side. "Or to move in or ... whatever. I... would ...though...like to... ask your permission... to ... well... to see where things go. Magic, music..." Hands make another chord progression, ending in C-major. "... and...maybe if it proves itself out, relationship and... alliance."
She accepts the cup in silence, listening to you talk with no more than a mutter of 'accident of birth, you know that as well as I do' that's half-hearted at best before she falls into a pool of quiet and settles into listening.
It's almost uncomfortable and yet not, sitting there, cup in hand, saucer balanced in her other palm, one elbow holding the parcel across her lap as she listens to you speak, the cadence and up and down of the lilt, the eyes focused not on your own but on the freckles suddenly standing out, at your nose, as if looking too closely where you'd catch her gaze might prove a dangerous sort of intimacy.
Everything's all sorts and shades of fragile right now, the air itself hovering to hum...
Carefully, Fiona lifts the cup to her lips, taking a sip and diverting her gaze down to her denim-covered knees. "I ..." Don't know what to say. That much should be self-evident, the single syllable holding, a note which turns into a sigh.
"Damn it, Davydd, why do you have to be so good at disarming me lately?" She actually says it aloud, frustration rendering the tone a bit pugnacious. She sets the cup back to its saucer, glancing up again, biting down on her lower lip. "There's a lot of thoughts in my mind right now. Just - give me a moment to sort them through. I guess I didn't need to bring this after all, though." She brings her palm down on the package with a light thump and a lowered glower.
This is where it gets tricky...
He doesn't grin glibly, or pass it off with a wink and a charm or two. He doesn't make light of it or protest it, even. "I guess I should have told you while you were in the car," he must mean the train, "...but it's not something one says on a telephone. I just don't go for that. Phones are for 'hey, meet me there' or 'go fuck yourself' or 'how's your mother?' but not for... well, for anything that matters," he says frankly.
Davydd's quiet, mostly, giving you time to put your thoughts together before he goes off on anything else. He lightly plays a song that isn't really a song so much as it is a lovely collection of corresponding notes, natural cadences, memories of tunes played before or half-remembered.
It begins to become a song...
A definite tune...
The cadence striking familiar upon the silent lyrics: Why would I leave my house and my land, why would I leave my baby...
Why would I leave my only wedded lord...
To go with the Black Jack Davy...
Closing her eyes, Fiona lifts one hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Funny you should pick that song," she murmurs, half-amused, voice nonetheless tinged with bitterness. "There's another I've heard, only recently, an answer to that one..."
Carefully, cup and saucer are set aside. Funny how it's hard to focus on hunger or thirst when one's mind is quite this preoccupied. Fiona shifts upright, giving her head a small shake.
"I wouldn't have known what to say on the phone either," she admits. "Probably have been pissed you didn't talk to me to my face, so that wouldn't have worked. I ..."
She bites it off again, her duality evident as she jerks her head to the side, curling up and jamming one fist up under her chin, gaze faintly disturbed. "Think it's a song you should hear, really."
And what luck ... the melody's not so very different, or at least how she's got it framed in mind ...
Carefully, in counterpoint, she picks up with some rather different lyrics.
"Two horses' trails within the grass,
a gypsy man and his bonny wee lass,
They're heading for the Hedgeford Pass
'Tis none but the Black Jack Davy.
The moon light glitters like his grin,
The lass lays back and she welcomes him in,
For to love this way could never be sin
Cause she now is the Black Jack's Lady...
They love all night and with the dawn,
the lady wakes and her Davy is gone
What a fool she's been to have tagged along
And be known as the Black Jack's Lady..."
"Aye, I know that one...the Black Jack can't be trusted, certainly not with a woman's heart, or with any man's purse or daughter," he quotes it like he's heard it a thousand-thousand times. He likely has. "You know... where that version originated?" He looks at you, he's serious, he is. Davydd looks from you to the keys of the piano, fingers spreading, covering the space quite easily between fourth and fifth and seventh.
"There was a woman in the 1690s... left her wealthy merchant husband to go... gallivanting off after Black Jack Davy. The highwayman was a bit...well, he was like the James Bond of his day, really. Lot of bunk, lot of sex-appeal, not a lot of reality to it. But the freedom...the notion of freedom that Black Jack Davy and all 'men of the road' represented was a great fantasy to those who felt ...stuck, whether they were scullery maids or high-born ladies," he glances to you, "... married to men much older that they never loved, but were bargained for like beads at a bazaar. Well," Davydd exhales, tipping his head. "...one night, this lass runs off with Black Jack Davy, makes love all night in the wild fields, only to wake up and find him ... gone... lying still as death beside her, cursed to be unattainable to mortal women I guess. Dying at the day. So, her freedom and happiness eluded her again and the heroine had to return to her prison of a marriage. Course," Davydd smiles over to you, "... that's just one telling of it. The other is that Davy's a right bastard who...doesn't know how to love a woman. The truth's probably somewhere in between cursed to die in the morning and being an asshole..."
He exhales, "I know... from your vantage... it seems risky and I'm not about to sit here and tell you that you shouldn't feel nervous or aren't entitled to that opinion. Especially after chatting up with Rosamund. I can't imagine she had much nice to say, but...well... you'll have to form your own opinions. Me? I know you're a woman who makes up her own mind. I'm happy to take my chances with that. All... I would like is to have a chance to prove the balladeers wrong and Rose short-sighted..."
Davydd is quiet a moment and he looks to you squarely. "The only way I can prove myself is by being utterly truthful. Fortunately, I despise lying." Davydd swings about to sit straddled on the bench again, leaning forward his arms on his thighs, his hands between them in casual pose. "I think we could be ... a good partnership. And I want to be able to help you gain a better understanding of some of the things you can do. I want to see you blossom into your own destiny, and ... I'd like the opportunity to link yours to mine. I think we'd be a formidable kingdom, Fiona..."
"Rose has nothing to do with it," Fiona says somewhat abruptly. She's been sitting there, listening, cheeks going progressively redder and redder until she's ducked her chin suddenly so that the tangle of hair descends to half-curtain her face.
This time, both hands lift, and she scrubs at her face vigorously. She's not got on any makeup for it to smear or even to itch; this is a rub intended specifically to try to get her brain to cooperate on a path.
Knowing her, it's not going to be the path she intended to take... it never is.
"I've been friends with women, Davydd, often enough to know spite when I see it." Fiona smiles halfway. "She reminds me a lot of Dot, to be honest - though I don't imagine either Dot or Rose would consider that as a compliment. But they seem to think alike, under the skin of it, and ... well ... there's a reason why I bailed when I did, on so many things. Not all of my reasons were entirely because I was ... afraid."
Her hands lower slowly to her lap, and she straightens up with a low exhale. "If I - if I weren't tempted, Davydd, it'd be easy. I'd tell you to bugger off - sorry, you're not my type, I'm holding out for someone who hasn't got red hair, I don't know... " She shifts restlessly, rearranging the package, then pushing it off her lap with an impatient gesture, letting it clatter to the floor. For all that it's wrapped in something soft, there's something heavy, and apparently sturdy inside.
"I'm afraid," Fiona admits bluntly. "Of you. Not so much of magic anymore... but you've always had the power to hurt me, Davydd. More than most. Certainly more than anyone else I can think of, and what you want - it's not something I've ever -done- before, uh, even in the less obvious sense," her face, which had been returning to its normal colour, is suddenly suffused with a wash of red again, "and I'm half-blind. I hate not knowing what I'm doing. But at the same time..."
There's a descent into silence and stillness, Fiona lowering her gaze again for a moment, then looks up, expression cross. Scowling, she stands up, folding her arms over her chest tightly.
"It's all your fault, you know. I'd never had any intention of falling in love with anyone, really, let alone you, and you're older and you've got more experience and you're expecting me to make decisions when I'm halfway between wanting to pitch something at your head and kick your shins and - and - and well never mind the other half!"
There's the grin that's been missing, a cut and a slant at the mention of his shins. "At least you're aiming lower these days," he gruffs. The grin falls away, he doesn't mean to laugh at you -- but you are a funny creature, can he be blamed for that? "I never meant to hurt you," Davydd says seriously after a moment. "I just couldn't love you, hmm? I made a promise to a woman, and I didn't break it. It... simply didn't work. I was honest with her. Her road's not my road. It's kind of funny, since that's the reason I always gave Isabel for not taking you in then. Our roads were different, I said. They were... only because I made them different in my mind. Sure, I'm a bit ahead of you on the road, if you want to continue the metaphor, and I'm not partial to it either way, but... Fiona-bach... someone's always going to be ahead of you, behind you, over you and maybe, god willing, beneath you. Feelings might get hurt but if you don't allow yourself a chance to feel them, then what the fuck good do they do you?"
Davydd remembers his tea, takes the cup and takes a swallow. He promptly makes a face. It's gone tepid. There's nothing worse! "I never had any intentions of anything either. Do you want me to make the decision for you?" He chuckles suddenly. "I can do that if you'd rather, but I'd rather you use your capacity to speak your own mind and heart. Lord, woman, you're never short of opinions. It's been brewing for nearly two years," he notes. "I've felt it... I think you have. I think we should let it have its due." A pause. "Eventually. Fate's funny about coming back to get what's owed it."
Davydd rises with an exhale, coming over to sit alongside you. "And I'm not talking about tonight either, or rushing into anything. I don't want to hurt you, and I understand that you're afraid. But believe it or not, even sometimes against my better judgment, all I've been trying to do since I helped you off the concrete is... help you, and protect you. I know sometimes it may have been hard to tell, but... " There it is. "I even asked her once if I could take you in," he grins, "...have you live with us. I think she saw the writing on the wall a bit with that. But I didn't mean it that way. But I was... compelled... I felt compelled to reach out to you, even as I do now."
And out comes the right hand. "If I hurt your heart, I swear to give you a boon of equal worth," Davydd murmurs.
"I knew you didn't mean to," Fiona answers, voice suddenly quiet. One hand slides into the back pocket of her jeans, the other hand coming up to rub at her nose, shoulders arching back a little. "I mean ... the only times you meant to hurt my feelings ... I don't know. It did hurt at the time, but mostly because at the time I -wasn't- doing anything to deserve it. Or I thought, at least. And you were just so generally out of sorts - that was the trip to Scotland, actually," she admits. "I ... could tell you were angry, and I didn't know what I'd done."
There's a pause for listening, and she pulls her hand back out of her pocket, sinking back onto the cushion and turning, knee not quite touching yours as she looks past you - still not at you. No fair influencing her with your charming grin, after all...
"Most women want the man to make the decision sometimes. It's our way of having our cake and eating it too - or rather, being able to do what we want to do and then complain virtuously about it afterwards, that it wasn't our decision. But no - I don't really want you to choose for me, Davydd. If you did, there'd be resentment down the line, either way. And - knowing me, there's bound to be some anyway, either way - but that sort'd poison things." Absently, she reaches for her tea - tepid or not, she needs something to distract herself with.
The cup's brought to her lips and then back down, untasted, Fiona's attention on the ceramic rim. "It would've been hard for you to talk me into living with you and her," Fiona mutters wryly. "I ... was attracted to you back then too, you know. I just - didn't let myself know." She sets the cup down with a rattle of china, then turns to face you squarely, reaching up one hand very carefully towards yours.
"You hurt my heart by being, Davydd. But it'd hurt more for me to say no to you... and I'm very tired of always hurting. Just, I worry that you don't know what you're getting yourself into," there's a rueful quirk at the corner of her mouth - yes, she's warning you, "because you've never seen me like that. Are you sure that you want ..." This? Her? The entire thing?
"I was a rude fuck that trip," he says, hand almost shaking yours -- he was tempted under the circumstances. We're agreed then? Excellent! But he doesn't. He just holds it, skin leaping on its own and dragons making a small twitch -- in all their stations. "I wasn't sure how to help... anymore. I mean, taking you to a Scottish banshee," dark green eyes widen again. "What was I thinking? I just wanted you to... be able to control your energy at the time... and... I wanted to... do all sorts of things. Very conflicted man."
Eyebrows cock up at your warning, and mouth puckers slightly as if he's considering that or reconsidering as the case may be. But it ends in a comet smile, mercurial, sun-filled and he laughs. "Me? Knowingly get in over my head? Get involved with impossible women? I don't know what you mean?" He laughs at himself, and looks to your hand, nodding. "Aye... I'm sure. I don't need it spelled out for me anymore than it's already been noted, Fiona-bach. We'll... be discovering some things about one another to be sure. We're going to fight, we're going to laugh, we're going to learn," forest eyes on you again, eyes the color of oak leaves in summer, that, "...and I'm going to be with you every step of the way. Black Jack's... tired of rambling... I think he's met his match and he knows when to give in to the greater sway of it."
He doesn't pull you in for a huge hug, a soul-stealing-dance-reeling kiss, but just lifts your hand to his mouth. There will be time for all that by-and-by. First...
"Before we have our supper and... talk a little more, or play and sing, which we should do tonight I think, there's... something I want to show you..." A kiss to your hand and he sets it free, standing.
It wouldn't be Fiona if there weren't tension, no doubt. What would she be like without that taut set of nerves? But they're pulled tighter than usual right now; as if on some level she'd half been expecting you to admit 'oh, no, I was just having you on, go on with you'... "I didn't know what to make of you on that trip," she murmurs.
"In some ways, I still don't..."
She holds onto your hand, though with a very light touch, blinking slightly. What has she just agreed to? Dear god, what has she just gotten herself into this time...
Oh, some people are bound to laugh at this news...
"I don't know if I'm an even match for you," she begins, a bit shakily, easing back in the seat, "but I am going to give you a bloody hard time no matter what - old man." Ah, you had to tell her how old you were, didn't you? You'll never hear the end of it now. There's a caution in her eyes, the grey-green turning slowly more towards blue as she watches you. It's such unfamiliar ground, this, and any step could be a misstep for all she knows.
"Supper's a good place to start," she agrees promptly enough, returning her hand to her lap and examining it - as if expecting to see a mark on the outside of her skin to match the changes going on inside of her at the touch and kiss. "...Show me? Oh, and here. You should take this." With one toe, she nudges the package in your direction, wrapped as it is, glancing up covertly with a return of that almost mocking mischief.
"Old?" he protest, "I'm only thirty-seven." He winks. Well, plus eight centuries and a few years. "Old and set in my ways," Davydd rumbles, giving you a look and your own set of warnings. He smiles in a twist and then looks at the box. A cocked up eyebrow gives away his partial suspicion. Is it going to explode? "Alright..." he exhales, and he picks up the box, starting to unwrap it.
"You know, my friend... in Scotland... she called me on it as much. Asked me what the fuck I was doing. Told me I was miserable before I wanted to realize it. Since that trip... I knew why ...I can see," he rolls on, "...that I'm going to be making up for that one for a long fucking time. Mind like an elephant. So what's this?" he asks even as he continues to unwrap it.
"I'll show you old," he murmurs under his breath. The wrapping gives way and he opens the box to see what it is...
Part of him thought of listening for a ticking sound...
Apparently if Fiona wants to cause an explosion, she's not going to go about it with something so prosaic as a pipe bomb...
At least, not when she's right there in the room with you.
There's a briefly smug look on her face as she curls up, back against the arm of the seat, though she's mindful to keep her boots off the furniture. She was raised right, you see. "She was fairly nice to me," Fiona admits. "Seemed to know it wasn't my place to be, and that I hadn't any real idea of anything. I was lost, and ... I didn't understand anything. I was pretty miserable, though for once I wasn't trying to take it out on anyone else."
She'll admit that about herself, at the moment, anyway. Absently she runs her fingers through the long cornsilk hair, ignoring how they catch on the tangled strands. "As for what it is, open it and you'll see. With all the surprises we seem to keep putting up for each other, I think you can survive one more."
The box unwraps easily enough, the exterior rolled in bubblewrap. It's taped into place, easily undone, and when the lid's finally lifted off, inside, there's a ... sword.
Not an antique - but not one of those overpriced replicas moviegoers collect in the fond delusion they're buying a 'real' sword. From the appearance, it's been tested on some rocks or the like and been pronounced unlikely to up and shatter. It's blued steel, at that...
From under her eyelashes, Fiona watches for your reaction. "Can't have a castle without a sword. I thought you might have some already, but I thought it might be like bottles, so I brought one myself."
He blinks a bit at that. It's not often a woman buys a man a weapon, replica or no. He looks at you and grins, plopping back down on the sofa and laying the box and the sword across his lap. He pulls it out, takes a measuring look at it, turning it over, looking at the light moving against it -- he can see where it's balanced and where it's not. "How did you know I had a fondness for hanging implements of destruction on my walls?" He looks at you seriously, looking along the sword again.
He looks at it a long while...
He feels the hum of it in his hand...
He can hear it singing...
And then he looks to you for a long, long moment. "The sword sings," Davydd whispers, his Welsh thickening. "In the faerie realm, it's called the Oakbrace. You ...I don't know, maybe you can, Fiona... what... struck you about it? When you picked it up... did it show itself to you...?"
For in the faerie realm, the Oakbrace is a magical weapon, a sword fit for the Oak King. With oak leaves on one side of the hilt, and holly leaves on the other. It lengthens there, for those with magical sight. And when Davydd holds it, both he and the sword gleam.
And then he...shows it to you...
As it appears to him, and he to it...
Both of them glorious. The intricate knotwork on the blade that glows greenish when he tilts it. He stands with it, admiring it. His own power moving over it and through it. The pommel a mixture of oak and holly. Strength in Battle. Cad Goddeu, the Battle of the Trees.
You can hear the old incantation, the Battle of the Trees. He can hear it in his ears, against his senses from within. "I've lived through many varied shapes," Davydd whispers in Welsh, "...before I came this form. Raindrop, swordblade, shining star... the thunder of a storm..."
"You're you. And I thought I might need it, to put it between us, to remind you," Fiona begins, humourously enough, one hand lifting to collect her hair back away from her face, then pulling it up from the nape of her neck.
The words and the humour die away a moment later as your gaze turns serious, then turns away. "I like knives, myself," she murmurs, with a small shrug. "You're not peaceful. Neither'm I. Didn't figure you'd have much need of a sword, but I also figure you'd buy for yourself anything you -do- need. Isn't a gift something you don't need? Otherwise it's all socks at Christmas."
Silence again as you give the sword your undivided attention, a hint of puzzlement in her gaze, marred by some lurking suspicion. Magic...
Or, in Fiona's brain, something along the lines of 'oh, no, here we go again'...
"I ... it was a curio shop, I came across it when I was in London last," Fiona murmurs, gaze captured by what you're showing her, voice a bit numb. "It had all sorts of stuff - mostly rubbish. I don't know why I went in - I don't usually go in for those sorts of places much..."
But she went in, and ...
"That was the only thing in the shop which I thought worth a pound or sixpence," Fiona murmurs, the English sounding odd to her own ears. "There was a necklace I was tempted by, but there was something wrong in the design, so I didn't. I just - got that, and some odd looks, for being a woman and buying a sword."
He lets it disguise itself again, the resplendent high-grade faerie steel becoming tarnished, antiqued, a little scuffed. Useless decoration. "There's... an old incantation, cantrip," whatever you want to call it. "Most have forgotten it." But not me. "I will teach it to you. Obviously, the things of Trees call out to you. Once bitten, as they say," Davydd smiles then, remembering the biting tree.
"You were meant to find it, it seems. And me. Thanks for... reuniting us." And carefully he sets the Oakbrace back in its place in the box. He will leave it here tonight. It can sing with the piano. Then when he goes to bed, it may go with him.
Then again, so may you...
His face reddens a touch, such high complexion, any wave through him shows itself, and Davydd stands again. "Come with me for a moment," he murmurs, holding his hand out for you. "There's something I want to show you... and then... we'll return here, have our dinner... sing our songs and... just enjoy one another's company."
"There's a means which shapes our ends, but damned if it wouldn't be nice to get a nod in now and again," Fiona mumbles. She's slightly shaken, but only just - it's not the first time that the merry hand of coincidence has gripped her, by now, and she's learned to just make her snide comments to help it roll off her back without digging hooks in quite so well.
She shakes her head, letting her hair drop back down in a long wave along her neck, along her spine. "Nothing to thank me for, honestly. It happened, but ... I suppose I'm glad you like my present. Even if it turns out to be on your side."
You hold out your hand, and there is still that faint hesitation, the habitual reserve - for all that it's been two years in coming, she's not entirely adjusting to it yet. Perhaps it's Sandrine's ghost in some small way, the shadow of before. But her hand comes out to yours, and she rises, stretching her neck from side to side for a moment before regarding you with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
"After what you just showed me, I'd think anything else would be anticlimactic," meaning the sword, "but sure. As long as there's dinner to come," Fiona adds with a sudden small grin. "You lured me here with the promise of food, Llewellyn... don't think I'm going to let you off the hook."
"The pie can wait a few," Davydd says with a slant of a smile. "This is important..."
And before you start getting it into your head that he's going to pull you off to some dark corner and try to do Bad Things, he leads you back toward the gallery, where the scene of baking rabbit pie has begun to permeate. "Smells like it's done, too. This won't take long, I promise..."
Mark that down...
From the gallery, Davydd turns you both toward a red door. Beyond this, the many leveled gardens of Powis Castle, among the best gardens in all of Britain and, quite frankly, Europe. Down winding stone steps from fountain terrace with its overhanging boughs, not yet blossoming in this world -- ah, but when the two of you walk past them, they burst in color -- and down again to the Aviary Terrace, where wild birds and peacocks live, among trees and exotic flowers. To the back of the aviary he leads you...
And a gate appears from out of nowhere...
Davydd looks to you and then leads you inside...
There are nine stones set at intervals of nine feet in a circumference around this hidden space. The room is largely undecorated, with decorative sconces only at the cardinal directions.
North...
South...
East...
West...
There are no windows here and the flooring once was stone. It is now dirt, the stones long since removed to other portions of the garden.
Perhaps it's with a little disappointment that she follows, away from the promise of pie and Bad Things alike. Or perhaps she's innocent of such thoughts, though certainly no less curious as to where it is you're leading her.
She doesn't talk much along the way. What's to be said can be said in due course, but she's busy absorbing things, and as mouthy as she can be, there's no real cause for it, not when curiosity weighs upon her tongue like a stone. Curiosity, and that slight sense of unnerving tension, the feeling of things clicking into place, with spring attending in footsteps...
She blinks as the gate appears - blinks, but doesn't yelp. It's not two years ago...
She steps inside, moving in slowly, and then - stops. "Nine," Fiona murmurs, voice gone distant, tongue slightly thick. "Three times three... I'm supposed to know this, aren't I."
It isn't a question, but it isn't quite a statement, either. One hand comes up to cover her eyes, and she inhales deeply, straightening her back. "Nine trees, nine beasts of the field; nine birds of the air, nine fish in the sea. The nine rivers meet, and life is renewed in the west and beyond, all things returning to whence they came. Nine tall towers, nine white ladies... But only one of you, Davydd."
She takes her hand away from her eyes, turning to look over her shoulder, expression faintly troubled. "I don't know everything, but I ... have learned a little, in two years. Why are we here?"
As you recite your poem of nines, he smiles and he says nothing. Hand still holding yours, he leads you to the center of the circle. There he turns you both toward the east, his other hand finding yours. "You have learned a great deal," Davydd's eyes are warm and they are fond. "And you've come a long way from the girl who wanted to punch my lights out," his mouth twists a little. But he goes serious again. "I want to show you a way that you can get to me if ever you're in London and I'm not... and... now you will know one of the ways I have magically appeared in London when you thought I was in the wilds of Wales..."
Leaning in, his whispers Welsh against your mouth. You can feel a soft spring breeze, the smell of a fresh morning, the light Eastern breeze...
The circle is cast. The air hums with the ending phrase of your incantation, leaving your tongue with the last lilt of song. You smell green grass and then...
"Don't think I'm not still her," Fiona mutters, though it's less warning and more habit, really - like climbing out of bed on one side and not the other when waking. She leaves her hands in yours, face warming a moment.
She goes silent as you continue, frowning just slightly, blush almost tangible as you whisper against her mouth, against her breath; your disappearance does little to prevent her eyes from widening, and she scowls.
"Just like a man ... taking off right before dinner ..."
She shakes her head, almost tempted to stay behind and sulk, just to spite you - but of course she can't do that. Curiosity and magic go to magicians and faerie just as much as cats...
A bit shakily, Fiona turns to mimic the directions, the incantation, eyes narrowed as she steps forward with a grim determination that is as English as it is her. But how can one really sustain indignation in the face of magic? She can't, not over this. "Davydd!"
From here, London is a universe away. People mill about this twisty cobblestone street, chatting and shopping, and passing the day away. The street is packed with shops. Shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels' eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon, and more, as far as the eye can see.
A directory floats above the street, changing colors as one passes stores. With each step, a new shop's name lights up, and an arrow points to where the shop is located. All for your convenience, of course.
Off in one direction, however, past Gringotts, is Knockturn Alley, where the brightness of Diagon Alley seems to dim.
The wind against the face, the smell of flowers. This dissolves, dissipates into the smell of a city. He is standing in the space between two old buildings, a great wall of Welshman, glancing back as you appear and he catches 'wind' -- ha! -- of your voice. He grins, taking you by the hand again and leading you out onto a street in a city... a side of the city... you've never seen...
"Welcome to the other side of all things," he murmurs. "That way," a nod toward an intersection of cobbled streets, "... is the London you'll recognize. Here... well... this is a little nook of magic called Diagon Alley. Magic shops and the like. Real... magic shops. Not that occult rubbish one usually finds, particularly in Glastonbury..."
He pauses, turning to you, a hand lifting to brush back cornsilk hair. "Sorry for the theatrics but ... I wanted you to know." His lips start to form a smile, slightly impish. He's known about this place all along! "We'll come back tomorrow," he murmurs, "...when there's not rabbit pie on the stove... I just ...had to show you. This is... how I just...show up. Davy's isn't all that far, actually..."
For once, she doesn't stand out at all, with her vaguely theatrical style, her essence. If anything, here she stands out for being ... too normal ...
She catches up to you, coming to a halt in your shadow, as it were, chin tipping upwards. "The world's gone mad. I don't recognize anything anymore, but I don't really feel a need to, either. Real magic? Though I suppose at least that'll keep me from summoning angels like the last time." Last time?
Well ... Davydd doesn't tell her everything, after all.
"I'm glad you told me," Fiona adds simply, eyes half closed as you brush her hair back. "Tomorrow's soon enough. And I suppose it's a better way of travel than some..."
There's a small pause, and then with great care and deliberation, she lifts both her hands towards you, planting both palms carefully on your shoulders. She doesn't try to throttle you, her knees stay exactly where they ought to. She looks up to you, lips parting slightly, and at first there's no words. Then, of course, she speaks, no doubt ruining it all forever.
"Can we go back to - your home, now? Because, Llewellyn, I'm really quite sold on the notion of that rabbit pie." The words are spoken with careful lightness aside from one almost slip, a stumble of the tongue, Fiona's hands remaining where they are for the time being. "No more surprises until after I've eaten, or I'm going to have to take some revenge..."
It's a picture that you'll probably see fairly frequently -- the comet slant of a grin, the sparkle in the eyes, the waggling of two fiery eyebrows. And then he leads you back into the shadows of an Alley's alley...
Your hands on his shoulders...
...His hands on your hips...
The Weasley's have a family spell, they say it's been in the family for aaages now, for calling one of the oldest living dragons in the world, well... outside of Romania and Hong Kong. You doubt it'll work, or at least not as expected, but you're willing to give it a go. Closing your eyes, you repeat nine times: Draco Draconis...
Posted by rowan at March 06, 2004 08:14 PM
