The early spring has brought with it the spring showers. First thing in the morning, then like magic the clouds move away, just as Arthur had once promised his nervous young bride, and then by nightfall, with the last pink in the horizon, the misting returns. The pink echo of another fading day lingers on the red stone of the castle, remembered by the pinkish spotlights that bathe the old keep in summer illumination.
     Lanterns stand in the gardens and along the road that leads to the village, down the plateau and to the flowering valley. Trails of sudden streams make waterfalls along the way down, swelling the creeks that run nearby. As of last night, the house is brimming with life -- the laughter of children, singing from the ballroom-turned-music chamber. The Llywelyns and Herberts and Morgans are arriving the like flocking of animals to the ark.
     And just in time for the rain to set in...
     With him now for ...what... all of a week to ten, you've caught onto elements of what might seem like nightly rituals. The tuning of instruments one night. The tending of gardens the next. The studying over papers one night, that became phone conversations in rapid Welsh, medieval though it was Welsh as a whole is little changed, you could likely understand it. Something about balances of the pub in London, expected receipts for the gardens this year. Ah! Work! But it is infrequent. Input provided and that was done.
     And the man reads as voraciously as he does everything else...
     A book in a sitting if he's not distracted. There are four under the bed on his side of the bed, if you went snooping: one untitled, the other three of philosophy, law and poetry.
     It is outside the castle that he spends most of his time. Sometimes just sitting on the terraces and looking over the terrain with a faraway look. And once.... at least once... you might have caught a shifting of the world... a momentary buzz like a fly in the ear, the shimmer of the air, the glimpse of a wild and gorgeous place, and then the gardens reappeared.
     The Oak King strolls not in the manicured gardens of Powis Castle, brilliant though they are, nor along the paved, dead road, scattered over with the bones of boulders past. But right straight through the more untamed earth at the foothill of the castle's plateau. Nearby, two corgis ramble, noses to the ground, cross-crossing before him. He in a light sweater, caramel-brown over jeans, a pair of workboots and a hooded jacket over all of that.
     The air wiggles around him, shimmering suddenly as he continues to stride. He may be wearing a jacket covered jumper in the Here and Now, but for a moment, if you happen to catch it just out of the corner of your eyes, if you even happen to be nearby, there's a king walking the land in bronze and red...

     She hasn't admitted to what's been going on, with London and flats and things like that. There was tension for a couple of days, while she consulted during daylight hours with her family - and the family lawyers. At least there are some advantages - some recompense - for being the daughter of privilege. It does not make her happy. But she has had other things to think of, and that has made the difference.
     There have been other signs, though, of change - of her decisions. A stack of boxes arriving one day by hired car, moved into an unused stretch of tower; conversations held in English with a variety of people during the day, occasionally in the evening. Sometimes the conversations are self-evident - when Fiona is on the phone with her mother, the exasperated and very English tones are plain.
     Other conversations are held more in daylight hours, tending to such things as subletting the London penthouse, to wrapping up her remaining business there...
     It's a little shocking still, this letting go. She's never done it before, not like this...
     She's been exploring the grounds by day, and the village, going to all the places where by day you could not, for fear of the wrathful sun. Sometimes casually dressed, sometimes not - nothing too eccentric away from the castle by and large. And she's taken to practicing small magicks which she's comfortable with - confident that she 'won't fuck up beyond all recognition and blow a hole in the side of the castle'. Her hair - the bells and beads and crystal baubles are sung into her hair each morning, a humming canto with is a part of her toilette, prefaced by sitting in front of the mirror and brushing out her hair with long strokes, looking at herself and looking through the mirror to the reflection of other places - your kingdom sometimes, and sometimes a tower...
     She wanders through Powis, trying to learn it as she said she wanted to learn you, one hand to the red walls as if it were your chest, within the skin of it. Sometimes she is quiet for hours. Other times, she spends those hours in the kitchen or gardens, talking to cook or gardeners.
     Even with her tensions and frustrations, she is easier on people than she used to be - and easier on herself, perhaps.
     The castle has suddenly been filled where before there were only few, and it's ... disconcerting. Not disillusioning - perhaps the opposite, in fact, for what new lover or girlfriend doesn't try to put on her best face for company, for family? But there's a limit to how much Fiona can ever be anything but herself - it makes her a little quieter, perhaps, than is her wont, until the topic turns to something she's once again confident of, whenever she's found, whether by Morgan or Herbert or Llewellyn. Other than you, of course.
     She does not hover, when you are awake, though she does seek you out. Of all that is here, she knows you the most, the best - and that might not be saying much. But she still has her pride, her need to fight dependence with independence in the process of learning any sort of interdependence. And tonight is no exception.
     She's spent the day wrapping up business in London via telephone and email, confining herself by choice to a cloister-like empty room to serve as cell. The bedroom was bare of her when you woke up, though her things were still there; not too disorderly, but present : Fiona has not left the stadium, folks. Finally, things have been settled to some degree; finally, she can emerge from the barrens of cellphone and laptop to look for ... well, not just any redhead will do...
     She comes down from the castle, undoubtedly visible from a distance, clad in blues and greens and rosy pink. The shirt she wears is brilliantly blue silk from collar down to midsection, fading into the pink and then fading back out to emerald; it is large, it is loose, it drapes about her in distinct oversized splendour, the cuffs rolled up several times. Not one of yours - she must have picked it up in her punk days and then not known what to do with it.
     The jeans she wears are grey corduroy, ribbed, and tuck into floppy black boots with soft bottoms - it's as if the colour of the shirt was too much for the rest of her wardrobe. They had to cede their life to the silk...
     Fiona comes to a halt at the rise of earth, looking down to watch you in your stride, paused as if on the very edge of speech with one hand flung out to rest against the trunk of a birch tree, head tilted at an angle as she regards you. It is a brief unguarded moment - for you and she alike, even if gazes do not connect... One hand lifts a moment later in a cautious wave, as if reluctant to interrupt. Status reports surely can wait, can't they?

     The sniffing little cannonballs of fur, the beetlebug rollie pollies known as Bwci and Rhyddid hurtle themselves toward you, but never jump on you (though decidedly NEAR you) and never full-on tackle you, though they do dance with their usual proclivity around your legs. It's amazing either of them could get airborne with such tiny legs and hefty waistlines.
     "Boyos!" that voice leaves him with a warm roll, a command and a sense of helpless humor -- humor at how helpless he is to truly stop their cavorting and helpless, how truly helpless they are to resist cavorting.
     When he turns, forever in an In Between state, this place an In Between place, he lets the illumination of the glamour, the splendor of his kingdom rest on him. There is that shimmer again, there is a beauteous world -- of rolling flowered hills, streams, a thick oak forest, Powis Castle as Powis Castle dreams to be, and to the side of it an atrium, a world even more glorious. And he, in bronze and red, some dream the Welsh had for their Arthur as he turns, whistles shrilly to the dogs, and shakes his red head.
     A moment later, and the shimmer fades, and he's squarely in the jumper, jacket and jeans and heading straight for you. "I wanted to check on the lake," he says, "... do you like to fish? We'll get waders for the river, I'll teach you if not. There's a skiff, too," a small boat that, "... I can row us out there on the lake one night..." Davydd ap Owain stands mountainous before you, a slant of a smile, to see you, then he's distracted by the colors of the shirt. "Where'd you get that? Looks like a Monet to me..."

     There's a laugh from Fiona as she drops to one knee, shaking her head with a crystalline sound as she holds down a hand for the two corgis to make a fuss over. "Hello, you two," she mutters, grinning despite anything else which might or might not keep her disinclined to grin. "Yes, I had rabbit pie - yes, there's probably still some back up at home. C'mere." She ruffles ears and tails and furry backs, then rises to her feet again.
     The sea-changing eyes which are as much a part of her as Drancy is, as Fiona is, they turn towards you, watching the turn with a curving up at the corners of her mouth. Pockets dimple as she regards you, for a moment caught up in ... well, just because it was someone else's dream doesn't mean it hasn't become hers, does it?
     "Depends what I'm fishing for," Fiona answers, finding her voice after a moment, wiping dog snuffle from her fingers onto her jeans and then shoving her hands into her pockets. "Daddy used to take me on fishing holidays in Scotland when I was very little - I used to tie flies for him. But it's been years, and mother was always afraid I'd fall in and drown. It happened to one of daddy's brothers when they were children, you see, and, well, mother's a little obsessive." She doesn't get it any place strange, does she.
     She grins again, a slightly quirky expression as she tips her head back. "Shirt? Oh, got this at a rummage sale - some artist was clearing out her storage space, very Bohemian, everybody used to come and park their stuff with her and then go away and never come back for it. She told me she had these sales about once every five years or so, and then it'd start all over; sometimes the original owners'd come back and buy their own stuff back. She felt it was only fair, they weren't paying the rent on it, after all. ...You look like something no artist could paint, Davydd."

     It's a quizzical look and then a smile streaks across his expression. "You must be in love," he murmurs, leaning in to place a kiss on your forehead. A pause, and then another at the side of your mouth. He then looks at himself, head bowed, hand plucking out the sweater away from his skin a bit, it fits snug, he can't help that. "I don't know, I look like every other country gentleman with two fat dogs heading up the path to a palace," he chuckles.
     But the world you saw for a moment can always be seen in his eyes. Dark forests, thick rooted oaks with twisting, interlocking arms. A meadow full of flowers. Streams like only Tennyson could describe. He winks to you. He knows what you saw.
     "I like it," Davydd quips, the hand that tugged at his sweater now tugging lightly at your shirt. "Would you like to wander a while...?" There's laughter, living first in his eyes, then sounding quietly. "You're dressed for it... that shirt's a carnival procession all by itself..."

     "In love? With who, you? Don't flatter yourself, Old Man." Fiona grins, closing her eyes as she accepts the kiss to her forehead, then to the edge of her mouth, turning into it to brush her lips against yours as if to give lie to the words. "Don't knock country. You look good."
     She slides a hand against your hip to grab hold of a belt loop on your jeans, tugging. "I am that very wanderer of the night. And yes, though to judge by the way yours fits and mine, maybe we should trade. - I'll wander with you, certainly. I've been being antisocial a bit - I'll let you lead me down primrose paths for a bit before we go be social instead..."
     Fiona grins lopsidedly, turning to match your facing. "Besides, I've got a little bit of news for you." There's a momentary tension in her shoulders, dismissed a moment later. "So did you eat?"

     "Oes," he rolls out in that way of his, warm and humorous and thoroughly Celtic, "...I was country before country was cool." Such a Welsh brogue! English seems strange to him. And that's the way he likes it, quite frankly.
     And the tug on the belt loop...
     He liked that a little too much, he thinks. His ears go pink, and his cheekbone ridge and the bridge of his nose. "I had sommat, a bit of fruit and honey, though I could eat a royal feast if it were put before me. I was thinking... the house is full... we'll be with family for weeks. Not that I don't love them," Davydd immediately protests, long before anyone else could, "... but I'm not quite ready for the L-H-Ms tonight. How about..."
     There's the rogue's grin for you, the look of the Davy for certes, called Gypsy and Thief for good reason with sudden smolder of smile and eyes, as he leans in, hand covering yours that holds him by the belt loop. "...we steal away for a while. A bit of quiet adventure... a bit of privacy before our nights are completely claimed in parties, dinners, dancing and rocking babies to sleep..."
     "Besides," that seems settled as Davydd leans back, eyes glancing for the dogs -- ah, sitting nearby now, lads, "...you can tell me your news without an audience. I have a mind to be around water tonight..."
     With this drizzle? In Wales? At this time of year?
     The man's daft!
     Like a fox...

     "L-H- oh." She catches on, sometimes a bit more slowly than other times, but she catches on, falling into step with a small grin. "I figured you do love your family, don't worry. Sometimes love does get a boost by being at arm's length. I'm sure there's a ripple whenever I pass through a room, you know, though I haven't really met them yet."
     Not formally been presented, no...
     Fiona suddenly is overshadowed by feet of looming Oak King, and she blinks as you lean over her, colour rising into her cheeks. "Mm... okay," she agrees cautiously, that wary half-bite to her voice intimating suspicion as to what exactly she's agreeing to even as she consigns herself to it. "I don't mind stealing away for a bit - gives me a chance to ... process things. Talk to you a bit, and - so on, before I have to go put on my game face. Oes?"
     There's a hint of cheeky mischief as she parrots the one Welsh word back to you, not in Isabel's inflection but a mimicry of your own, nose crinkling slightly with the grin. She sobers a moment later, shifting to lift your hand on hers as she releases your belt loop. "Water? That sounds nice - I've always felt drawn to water... where?"

     For a moment, was it rather reminiscent of being loomed over by the ram-horned, horny Huw? The King is present in the man who persists to exist. More and more, it is both reflected in him and in the land. The two are joined now, more than ever. The king is the land; the land is the king...
     The jumper, jacket and jeans isn't fooling anyone...
     Davydd ap Owain takes your hand. He leads it to his mouth for a kiss. "Down the hill, to the stream and to the skiff," he murmurs there. "And to... someplace I'd like to show you..." The dogs are grinning up at him and Davydd turns his head suddenly, as if he's being chatted at.
     And so he is...
     "Yes, and you, too... both of you. Go to the barge," Davydd quips, "... make it ready..." and the dogs go flying off, bounding, leaping, yapping all the way.
     Turning, Davydd offers you his arm, solidity beneath the light cashmere of the sweater, the gortex of the jacket. "I like it," Davydd murmurs, "...the quiet moments, too. As much as I am a man of energy," a roll of his head toward you and he grins. "I don't know... sometimes quietude suits me. I like to do the common things, like hear about your day. How was it by the way..." He likes to hear what happens to the world while he is sleeping.
     Davydd leads you down a path, yellow buttercups peeping golden petals behind his steps, and there is the smell of honey and sunlight and summer storms, the hum of lightning on the tongue, buzz of bees in the ear, the feeling of walking through an old, cool wood, ancient trees on all sides. At the end of the hill, the way branches. One path leading back to the road that leads to Welshpool, another lesser traveled leading to the tree-lined river and the lake.

     Rampant masculinity has always had a compelling effect on Fiona, hasn't it? Whether in Huw or William or Davydd - the ones who polarize her the most, whether in resentment and an urge to kick shins or ... something else. She bears up well nonetheless, as you would expect no other result, smiling a bit as you kiss her hand.
     She's pleased by the little attention, almost more flustered than by the larger ones.
     "I'll go with you, surely," Fiona agrees, blinking almost owlishly and then eyeing the dogs as they fly across the solid earth with bounds that belie their bellies. "How are they going to make it ready? Marking it to keep any other hounds from gnawing away the rope and setting it adrift?"
     Her hand settles on your arm, comfortable with the feel of you, the strength of you. A draw you have upon her... "Quiet moments have their place," she answers, voice low and confiding as you lead her, head turned slightly towards you. She sees the world, but she sees two worlds, these days - about her, reflected in your eyes, in mirrors, though she prefers no mirror above your eyes. Not that she would admit that bit.
     "I spent most of the day on the phone," she admits, a bit grumbling in her tone and drawing it out to end with a sigh. "Taking care of some business. It's made me harder to live with lately, I'm sure - it's part of why I've been sort of - holding a bit more to myself at times. You've got me for the bitter and not just the sweet, I know, but it seems rather early to give you too much of my vinegar. But ... I've got things mostly settled now. Would you like to know more?"

     He chuckles a bit. "I've seen worse vinegar from you than this week," green eyes go wide at that and the grin is a broad companion to it. But the smile's tempered for the time being, and Davydd looks at you as the way goes soft with the recent moisture, arm wound with yours, hand resting upon your hand. "I've gathered there's something with the family..." Red eyebrows drift upward as he looks to you again.
     Ahead, the rich green earth dips into a quick moving swollen stream. Spring and summer it may be sailed easily, while in autumn and winter it trickles to a creek. There is a barge, a skiff more like but a bit bigger, room enough for two, and two dogs of course -- who are naturally waiting aboard the vessel, looking eagerly at you both and barking.
     "I barely noticed," Davydd quipped, grinning to you, leaning in. "... this vinegar you're talkin' about. I wouldn't worry. So," he exhales, "...what's it all about then?" His arm unwinds yours, he brings your hand to his mouth again and then by your fingertips he leads you to the boat, keeping his fingers there upon your own to balance you as you board.
     There is a shimmer again, a brightening glow like a firefly against the night air. Of course it would be no ordinary boat...
     No ordinary stream...
     No ordinary journey...

     "Well, I've had to tell mother and daddy that there's ... someone in my life," Fiona murmurs, gaze moving to the ground ahead, mindful of her footsteps. She never is entirely one to look before she leaps - but with the sun having set, there is the added hint of caution as she moves with you. "Wouldn't say that it's up or down or anywhere, so much as - well, they need to know where to send the mail, don't they?"
     Which opens a welter of other doors, doesn't it? She doesn't touch on it directly just yet, the changeable gaze focused ahead, caught by the stream, by the skiff - by the dogs. "You know," she quips, "it seems unfair... we should get two more corgis, Davydd. Female ones. - So... mother now knows about you. And I've gotten rid of the penthouse. Oh, and I got fired, by the way, and they're trying to sue me, so I'm afraid you're going to have to deal with me being some sort of freeloading houseguest - I'll try to pay my way in bed and by stealing your socks."
     She's run out of ways to stall, so she's gone all Drancy on you - brazening her way through with nonchalance that's betrayed by the slight tremor in her hand as you carry it to your lips. "I've turned the Beeb down as well, for what it's worth, and the rest of my things're all stowed away in the bottom room of the tower. Been wandering about in the village, meeting people - some of them are quite nice, others're odd, but noone's questioned my being about, at least..."
     It trails off into silence as Fiona stops, not quite stumbling, looking to the boat, then back to you. "...Is this where I ask where we're going, Davydd, or shall I hold my peace and not pester you?"

     Eyebrows lift and lower, the Oak King sucks upon his lower lip and then the expression fades into sublime placidity as he takes it All in, chews on it, digests it and then absorbs it. Rather like the dry earth receiving the first spring rain, in a way. The first few drops bounce, splattering, and then, they sink in.
     "If I told you never-never-land, you'd never believe me," he rolls out, smirking. "So get in and enjoy the ride," he's not going to tell, and you wouldn't believe him anyway. The look will brook no argument and effortlessly he glides into the next topic...
     "Well," an exhale, "... maybe it's a blessing in disguise, Fiona. You were already disengaging from it, the idea of it. This just opens the way for you a bit faster. Sorry to hear about the lawsuit, but I'm certain your family will be able to reach a settlement. And don't you worry about me," the quiet smile slants and he looks to you, a foot steadying the boat as you get in, "...I'll be repaid as I may and to my liking, I'm sure. Bah," he ends his own teasing with a rumble and a roll of his eyes, "... as if I'd ask for such. My home is open to you. It was before, it still is. Changes nothing, sweetheart. Sounds as though you've had busy mornings and days. The castle's getting a bit cozy. We're lucky we're not three to a bed..."
     The corgis are rolled up little balls of Welsh fur, perfectly balanced in the boat, one at the bow the other at the stern. Finally, your hand is your own again, as Davydd releases you to get comfortable and he turns to untie the boat. He holds it steady, the boat pitching only just a little as Davydd climbs in behind you...
     The interior is rustic, which is another word for old and weather-beaten. But you know how appearances can be deceiving...
     As the water begins to carry the boat on its currents, no need for paddling here, Davydd reaches for you, half-reclining back against the stern, Bwci snoring at his left-hand side. "We'll go to meet your parents soon," he promises. "And I'll assure them of my intentions..."

     She allows you to hand her into the skiff, sinking down to settle as best she can. She does not share her mother's uneasiness with water; it's clear that to her, the worst she sees happening is that she might get wet.
     Maybe she confronted that fear on a London bridge some time ago...
     "I'm trying to see it that way," Fiona murmurs, ignoring the talk of never-never-land with a brief darkly tempestuous look - all right, Old Man, the look says, we won't pick this battleground. But don't think you'll always get off this lightly... "...As a blessing in disguise. And it's not as if I'd have been homeless or hungry, begging in the streets, even if you weren't around."
     "It's been pretty busy," she concedes, one hand on the edge of the boat, her head turned to look from side to side and then up at the towering trees shading the way. "All the more reason I'm glad to get out for a bit. I was starting to feel a little bit imprisoned - even if only by my own stress. How old is this boat, anyway? It looks like you could've used it when you were a kid." Old man...
     Fiona grins halfway, leaning down to scritch Rhyddid behind the ears, then moving to you with a small sigh as you reach for her. "Mother's already at me about that," she grumbles. "The way she's acting, she seems to think she's all set to marry me off - or, well, she wants to meet you before then. Better bring a particularly good appetite - but don't go for fourths or she'll think you're penniless and starving."

     Arms come around you and he bears you up like the river bears the boat, like the earth bears the river, like gravity bears the earth and so on. He's solid and warm... and solid. And very warm. The coolness of the Welsh spring evening is no match for him. "They say that the Grail was actually a wooden bowl, rather than a golden cup," he murmurs, his hand in your hair, stroking against your scalp. "You know what they say about books, covers and old boats in Wales..."
     Well, maybe it doesn't have anything at all to do with the old boat, still... judge this not by its cover. Like that old sword you found, some disguises are simply better than others...
     "Close your eyes..." Davydd murmurs, sing-song lilting Welsh brushing against your skin...
     "Anawr gynhorfan...
     Huan ar wyran...
     Gwledig cwdd gyngain...
     Nef Ynys Brydain?"
     His arms tighten their grasp slightly as he sings softly, you and he borne on this swift moving stream. If you open your eyes, you will see the boat has become the barge he spoke of. A golden barge, with red cushions you lie on, and a King beneath you, with a golden aspect, clothes of bronze and red -- bronze armor, highly polished, the light and the warmth of the sun. And rowing the barge, stern and aft, two similarly decked, stocky Welshmen....
     Bwci...
     Rhyddid...
     "Garw rhyd rhag rhyn,
     Aes i lwrw buddyn...
     Yng nghyntedd Eidyn...
     Ei riydd rhyodres...."
     Davydd opens his eyes and smiles. Around you both the flowering meadows, the blossoming orchards of Avalon...

     There's a low, suspicious look at first as you tell her to close her eyes, though it's hard to resist the urge to close them in the first place - not with your touch against her scalp, the warmth of you beneath her. She rubs her cheek slightly against your shoulder, eyelashes drifting down.
     "They say an awful lot of things," Fiona murmurs, voice sounding very far away even to her own ears. She sprawls a bit, curling over onto her side against you with one arm over your chest, her hand creeping up to your shoulder. "Mmm..."
     It's the shift in light which changes things the most for her, which prompts her to open her eyes, blinking as she starts. That, and the shift from cloth to armour underneath her - muscle alone is not quite so hard as bronze. "...Buh?"
     That would be Fiona biting her tongue on what first popped into her mind, which would be along the lines of Holy shite, what the hell happened...
     Grey eyes gone suddenly wide though not quite panicked lift to seek out green ones, darting from kingly presence to rowers in question and accusation. She'd probably hit you if it weren't for the armour. She may yet forget herself - and it - and do so anyway. "Davydd," Fiona says carefully, "I won't deny that this is very picturesque. Romantic, even. But before we get to wherever we're going, can I at least ask if I'm going to need some sort of bloody fairy passport?"

     Fabled land of Avalon, land of apples, resting place of Arthur and fairy kings and queens, stretches out before you, a never-ending orchard of apple trees, full with life and the promise of life...
     Apple blossoms hang suspended forever on the air, blowing around like weightless snow, lifted from the ground where they lie strewn in drifts around the thick trunks of the apple trees that fill this orchard plain. With it, the sweet fragrance of honey, flowers and apples. Golden and pink-blushed apples hang heavily on every limb and bough, each one round and fitting well into the palm of a man...
     The silver, clear river that runs from the oak grove circles the orchard in a swirling spiral of no apparent beginning and no apparent ending. The water burbles softly, sweetly like music. There is no palace here but an open-air, circular atrium girded by nine columns, each one bearing the crystalline-blue carvings of Celtic dragons, their swirls sparkling like sunlight on the water. Where the river is wide enough, there are small boats and barges, within which the lords and ladies of Avalon are known to travel, sail and otherwise dally...

     His words are sing-song power, and here that power is everywhere. As the myths say: the land is the king, the king is the land. Red-blushed and golden apples grow, dip delicately from blossom and fruit-heavy branches as you sail by. Those apples he compared to your breasts, round and firm and perfect and sweet. The flowers are full of bees, the bees legs are thick with pollen and honey, the trees pregnant with the fruit. Apple trees do not bear fruit at the same time they blossom in reality -- but in this reality it is a constant state of fertility...
     A power in the front rank...
     Sunlight on the grass...
     Where can be found the lord
     of the heaven of the Island of Britain?
     "Shh," Davydd grins as he lies there, eyes opening, brilliant forest green like sun-touched thickets, "... the only pass you need is the one you already have. You'd think my heart would be enough," he teases in a quip, a tease that Bwci and Rhyddid both grin at -- such canine smiles for men. "We won't be staying long," Davydd cautions, "... I just wanted to show you... Isabel's kingdom ... your kingdom... or shall I say queendom, is that a word?" he wonders suddenly, eyes peering. "Ah, well... you know what I mean. It's not far... just... a little ways that way," and he gestures past the woods and golden fields of his own land, visible as the boat curves, rounding in the spiral that the river makes.
     "It borders my own," even as he said. "But this land," he continues, "... is mine... and it will belong to our children, Fiona.... when they are very small, they'll be able to come and go as all children do..." At play, dreaming, make believe.

     It's difficult enough to maintain that edge of strength and wariness, that sharpness which is defense - when surrounded by this level of wonder. Magic...
     "You know, for all that you were afraid I'd reject your heart for its age, Davydd," Fiona mutters, her eyes not so complaining as her tone as she slowly settles again, "you take a particular delight in your youth."
     She's relented, though, it shows in how she shifts, subsiding against your armoured chest, propping herself up slightly with one elbow. "I suppose you can call it a kingdom, Davydd - what's mine is yours, after all. It is beautiful."
     There's a wistfulness in her eyes and voice as she adds suddenly, "I don't know if I prefer it to the ordinary world. But sometimes - sometimes I think I've dreamed this before, Davydd." She shakes her head, just slightly, with the chiming of bells as she sinks down again, turning her gaze suspiciously on the two boatmen.
     "So," she mutters, sotto voce, "do they talk? You realize I'm now feeling awfully self-conscious about having let them jump in my lap."

     "If corgis had opposable thumbs, all our prayers -- and worst fears -- would be answered at once," Davydd rolls out. "They're neither hounds nor men, to be precise. In that reality they are dogs, rather sentient rascals, constantly after a meal, a pillow or a piddle. Here, they're guards fit for a kings. Like rooks, what, lads?"
     "Very like rooks," the one that was Bwci says, he works the rudder as Rhyddid rows. Both men are fiery headed, more red than Davydd even, he more bronze-copper. Both seem more traditionally Welsh, that is... shorter, broad chested and shouldered, and Rhyddid is a fair sight more lean than he is when he's a rollie-pollie four-legged terror.
     Rhyddid smiles, brown-eyes sparkling. "I still like liver snaps even here. I can't help it, you know... the liver snaps..."
     "Ah, the rabbit pie..." Bwci croons out. "I could eat a whole wedding banquet all by m'self..."
     Rhyddid reaches up and plucks an apple from the tree, tossing it to his mate.
     "... back in Powis, they don't really give much more thought to anyone's lap than any corgi would... or wouldn't..." Davydd murmurs. "They've been with me for a few years." He looks around. "Avalon," he murmurs. He smiles. Arms folding around you again, pulling you in, Davydd closes his eyes and once again his sing-song voice sounds...
     "Ei fedd meddwawd,
     Yfai win wirawd...
     Oed erfid fedel,
     Yfai win gofel..."
     His mead was intoxicating
     He drank stron wine
     He was a reaper in battle,
     He drank sweet wine
     of daring purpose in war...
     A reaper o battle-leeks...
     The world shimmers around you again, you feel the coolness of the Welsh evening, the slight moisture lingering from the mist that is trying to decide whether it shall become rain. Two pudgy dogs sit looking out and the plain, old wooden skiff drifts along the swollen creek, nudging at the banks until it stops....

     There is no immediate reaction in Fiona, even as she permits you to pull her close without struggle or argument; her head lifts to continue peering out over the bow of the boat, a long, thoughtful look at land and men alike. She turns for a moment in your arms, looking to your mouth, gaze candid and assessing for that moment.
     The world changes again, and only she remains unchanged, as unchanged as when she left it, as constantly changing within her own skin as ever she was.
     "I don't know what to say, Davydd," she murmurs after a resting moment, her own eyes closing even as the boat comes to a halt. She presses in against you, turning her face as if to hide it in your chest. "I don't know - it makes me want to not think at all, just react. I never was this - this greedy before you, was I?"
     Slowly, with an element of reluctance to it, Fiona reopens her eyes, turning to look up at the tree-lined sky, at the mist that swirls through the cool air, and she lifts one arm to pull her hair out from underneath her, spreading it out and back like a curtain.
     "Who is your song about, Davydd? It makes me think I should know some song in answer..."

     Though he's back in his jumper and jacket and jeans the element of the king remains. He looks at the golden crown of your head then straight up between the tree-limbed and lined sky, mist catching some illumination of moonlight as it starts to gather. It's going to rain on us, you know...
     Both corgis jump out, game for jumping though their legs are small, and then tug on the rope, a tug of war, growling, and pulling the boat up on a bit of muddy bank as well. You're not much further from where you started. In the close distance, Powis Castle and its pinkish lights and Welshpool and its blinking street-lamps and the occasional car beam.
     But he's in no hurry to move. He lies there, arms around you, you pulled into his chest. "The song is called Y Gododdin. A poem from the 6th century. I have it memorized. It has 1120 lines. I soak up poetry like dry earth soaks up water." He smiles a comet smile, hand returning to move against your scalp. "It was one of Ragnell's battles, though Gawain himself was long dead by 550, I believe." Ragnell, one of the three queens you've heard him speak of. "It's a famous Welsh epic, Y Gododdin...it is about the battle and the men who fought there. I sing it when I go to Avalon...well, it among others."

     "So we'll get wet," Fiona murmurs, apparently in no more hurry to move than you. If it were London, she'd be in more of a hurry. If it were even Cardiff, she'd be more interested in seeking shelter. But here and now...
     "You've got one hell of a memory, then," she half-teases, eyes closed as she leans into you. "And here I thought only women had that sort of memory, to cast back what's been said ages and ages ago. - Is it very hard?" The question might seem a non sequitur, and she actually lifts her head, looking up with a slight frown.
     A small pause is left to hang in the balance, and then Fiona clarifies. "Is it very hard, I mean - being alive like this? Not just with the regret of other people aging and growing old and dying, but ... also the ones who fell. From what you've said - you've been on battlefields. Is it something you just get used to? - Sorry, I'm being," she almost smiles, "nosy again. But I want to know."
     Maybe there's something in her mind...
     Or maybe she's just putting off returning to the castle, and the cross-examining of the gathering...

     Oh, that face -- that expression. Eyebrows in an arch, the look is deadpan. You know he's about to say it...
     ...and then you clarify....
     "It is what it is, Fiona-bach," he murmurs. "Killing was hard... but I got over that quickly when I had to," the voice rumbles on, earthy even though the inflection is light, Welsh requiring able mouth and nimble tongue. "It is hard to watch friends suffer. It is hard to lose people you love. It is hard to lose," his mouth twists. "These things do not change with time. I have never really had a hard time with watching someone age and pass on to whatever else awaits them. I have never become accustomed to injustice, to murder, to the evil that men and women are capable of committing. There are some things, cariad, that .... you just don't get used to. Or shouldn't..."
     Davydd lifts his head, looking to you. "Make sense? And don't worry about being nosy," he chuckles, "... it's alright. I've lived a long life. You're curious, it's natural. And there's nothing to regret or to hide, really... only to protect the names of the innocent," he tacks on, tone droll.
     "Why do you ask..." he does wonder, and he can tell there's something behind the question. "Are you worried you're going to age and I'm not going to love you?"

     The look alone is enough to earn you a swipe to the side of the head - on principle, you understand. Chalked up to your account, even if you didn't say it this time.
     She lowers her hand again, this time to your shoulder, the pale eyebrows drawing together, lower lip briefly caught between her teeth as she listens. "I don't like losing," Fiona agrees, leaning in to brush a kiss to your cheek, then pulling back again, arm draped over the solidity of your chest. "Not people, not things, not ever."
     She returns your look, frowning and wrinkling her nose deliberately, then relaxes, just as deliberate an action as she sits up, both palms light against your chest. "No, that isn't really one of my worries, Davydd. I mean - I'm changing, I can feel it. But ... I can also feel that in some ways, I've - I haven't stopped, exactly. Stopping would mean stagnating, and I'm not. I don't know how to put it into words very well..."
     Fiona chews on her lower lip, frowning again, though this time without deliberation. "I'm still alive, but ... ever since you - crowned me," there's a hint of colour at the words, "I'm not ... just here anymore. Not like you're in both places, but I'm not - I could be wrong, but - I don't feel like my body is ... growing anymore. It's going through its cycles, and I'm connected to it, but - it's ... bah. We need to reinvent the language to have this conversation. I don't know how to say it."
     Shaking her head in rueful frustration, Fiona pulls her hands into her lap, looking over at you. "I'm sorry. No, it's not that, though - I hope that we'll last a long time, but I don't think it's age that'd put an end to us. That would be too easy for us, anyway. But..."
     She hesitates a moment, then leans forward against you, chin to her hands, elbows to your chest, blue eyes seeking out green worlded ones. "I was thinking that maybe we should do a - a tribute to memory, for you. Here, on the river. If nothing else, it's your past which brought you here, isn't it?"

     "A tribute to memory?" the Welshman clips. "What? Like a funeral?" Oh, it's vintage Davydd he lets fly for a moment, the tone, the expression and all. "Or more like a celebrity roast, I think you mean," mildly accusatory, teasing quite naturally, the rumble of that voice goes, and he's already laughing, eyebrows cocking up, green-worlded eyes going wide.
     "And crowning was a word for it," the chuckle rolls over the lyrical rise and fall of Cymraeg. "So's shafting..." And now he's killing himself with his own laughter at his own joke at your own expense, which is how he likes it best.
     Fully expecting you'll have some comeback, some repartee, some punch, pinch, kick or grab. You've been so serious, you knew it had to raise it's wise-ass head sooner or later. Davydd grins like the very devil beneath you, eyebrows dancing and waggling up and down.

     "You don't need any roasting, I think you're quite done already. Maybe stick a fork in you." Fiona brings her elbow down forcibly in the direction of your ribs, struggling to sit back up with a bit of a scowl. "Honestly, Davydd." Oh, now you've got her doing it, too...
     She gives her head a shake, bringing her palm down in a slap onto your stomach. "Hmf. I was thinking of something more along the line of candle-boats, but if you're not interested, you're not interested," she mutters in an offish tone, folding her arms now over her chest. "Anyway, I suppose we should be getting back up there, before they come looking. They're your family."
     Ah, there's the hedgehog you've come to know and love, yes? Her face is red with embarrassed blushing that borders on but doesn't quite cross over into flustered, her chin lifting in that almost prissy way she sometimes has. She moves to roll fully away from you, intent clear : getting out of the boat. "You can stay here if you like. I'll tell them to light the pyre."

     "Come on," the rumble softens but the hold tightens -- good luck getting out of the arms of oak and holly, "... Come on, now, honestly," Davydd rolls out, twisting at the elbow but not letting go. "Can't we have a bit of fun?" Meaning: can't I have a bit of fun?
     "Look... look," he grins as he holds you quite still, those arms -- muscles on muscles this man must have, or so it seems when held at his mercy, "I'm sorry... you're serious... I shouldn't have but I thought you'd enjoy a bit of auld lang syne. A candle-boat?"
     One arm loosens just enough that fingers might 'goose' against your ribs. "Tell me about the boats," Davydd murrs. "This time, I'll shut up and be serious. I swear it. Welsh bandits' honor..."

     "Hmph. Well..." Her tone softens slightly, some of the stiffness released from her in your hold. Anyone would think she didn't entirely mind it. "I suppose. I'll tell you and then you can tell me if it's a silly idea or not."
     Slowly, she settles in again, the chiming bells in her hair ringing in the gloaming. Fiona settles her chin against your shoulder, then turns her face so her cheek brushes it. "I don't know if you've ever seen it - I don't even know where I saw it myself, honestly, though I'm sure I didn't just dream it up myself. I'm not that original."
     One hand comes up to grasp at your fingers, with a light slap - don't do that! "It's a way of - giving light to the dead, though. Small wooden boats, with one or more candles in it, to represent the souls that have crossed over. The boats are put onto the water and sent out towards the sea, to guide any lost and wandering spirits out into the wideness of the world to find their way home."
     She shrugs, suddenly self-conscious, almost shy. "I just ... thought it might be something to do. I don't know... I guess it's silly. After all, they're all dead, aren't they?" Candid grey eyes lift, then look away. "Listen to me," Fiona mutters, "the one who keeps rejecting the past, trying to give some sort of tribute to it. Am I a hypocrite or what."

     Davydd lifts up a bit, and you being on him as you are lift with him. His arms slip away from you, giving you your freedom while they, instead, bear his weight and hold him in this half-sitting position. And he's staring at you as if you've just uttered the most extraordinary thing ever (trademark).
     And then he blinks...
     "You would do that... for those that I have lost, over the years," he murmurs. "Even for the ghosts of Davydds past who no longer exist? A tribute to those memories? I..."
     I fucking don't know what to say to something that is that selfless and giving...
     "That's... very thoughtful of you," Davydd thinks to say a few moments later, eyes still narrowed, peering at you extraordinarily. "...I don't think I've ... ever had anyone care like that," he murmurs seriously, "... for my own memories. Not even me, to be honest." He blinks again.
     "I think that'd be fucking brilliant," and he's sitting up and cradling you on his lap and his mouth is on yours in a heartbeat, softly suckling its way, stealing its way -- crafty thing he is -- into a lingering play.
     He doesn't even stop, nor does he care, when it finally starts to rain...

     The look given back is one more of confusion and uncertainty than anything else - at least at first, when she isn't sure if you're thinking she's gone from half-gentle lunacy into full-out violent madness. She's a little defensive, isn't she?
     The blink breaks the spell to some degree - she can move, even start to speak, though you beat her to speech, and Fiona settles for placing her fists in her lap, attention given to you wholly. "It isn't easy, confronting the past," she mumbles, shrugging, trying to minimize the entire matter. Sweep it under the rug, before it calls attention to itself...
     "I don't see," she begins, interrupting herself in order to somewhat automatically lift her hands to your chest and shoulders as you pull her close, "I don't see that it's so thoughtful of me, but, mm..."
     Kisses have a way of stealing away words as well as intention. Whatever words she might have been intending to offer end up lost among the raindrops with the passing seconds of time well-spent.

Posted by rowan at March 22, 2004 11:41 PM