It was some time after nightfall when the heavens opened wide and all of God's little fat angels -- sort of like Bwci and Rhyddid with wings -- stood at the edges of the firmament and dropped buckets over Wales, with the valleys of Powys catching the lion's share, or cherub's share, of the deluge.
First, there was mist. Then showers. And somewhere between Oh, My It Looks Like We May Be In For It and the first strike of lighting, the rainstorm changed to Oh, Holy Shite, Someone Get Noah On The Phone.
Two lovers were sitting in a boat doing in the dark of night what lovers sometimes do (usually frequently) when the idea of being in a boat seemed quite a smart idea. Only problem, they'd have to paddle upstream to the plateau. It was safer to jump up and make a sliding run for it.
Sliding being the operative word...
The great oak door of Powis Castle rattles in its hinges as it's given a shoulder by the Oak King himself, knocking it open. Sounds like thunder to any who might be in the gallery, coming down the stairs or passing in the hall outside the main entranceway.
Davydd's sweater is worse for the wearing of so much rain. He's drenched through and through, having been an utter gentleman and giving up his jacket to the sopping wet young lady with him. Red hair, normally bronze-copper, is dark with being utterly soaked. Sturdy boots are covered with mud and he slips a bit as he stops himself from actually going in.
In his arms, a slip of a girl nearly lost in a huge jacket. Behind him, a pair of knavish corgies and rain coming down in the fistfuls. "Holy shite," he rolls out, laughing as he leans weight against the door and starts to deposit the young woman to her own feet on the marble. She's a fair sight less muddy than he is.
Well, someone had to do all the running...
"Fuck me," he sighs, looking down at himself. "Someone! Marti!" Davydd's great voice fills the marble halls. "Put a couple of kettles on! I think I have half the Irish Sea in my boots..."
That's the problem with intemperate weather - it's never at a convenient time, is it? But asking for it not to rain in Wales (or anywhere in the British Isles, really) is something of the order of asking birds not to sing; especially those damned feathered fiends which particularly like to take roost outside the windows following an all-night bender. Utterly inconvenient to the point of 'oh god shoot me now and end it all'...
The initial prospect of rain was noted - even remarked upon - with little more than casual interest that was tinged with indifference. Conversation gave way to intimacy, if indeed it ever had its lack, and intimacy gave way to expression, expression to something more, and well, here's a fine kettle of fish, almost literally.
One would almost expect to see fish swimming past the windows, the rain's that thick.
Any protests on the part of the girl at being scooped up and run away with are somewhat muffled by a number of factors - one being that it's raining far too hard for any protests to even be heard; the water in the ears makes everything sound a bit fuzzy, and with the beating of raindrops against the ground and the rush of the wind, there's never a hope of audibility making its way through the din. Another is that squirming at this state of the game would almost definitely mean being dropped. In the rain. And the mud. And the ... well ... everything.
Wanting to be intimate with the Oak King does not extend to wanting to be intimate with his estate.
While she's less muddy, she is no less wet; oak-blonde hair is soaked to a tow-coloured state, and the multicoloured silk shirt she's got on underneath the jacket is slick to the point of a second skin. The jacket keeps her from any suggestion of indecency - but not from shivering with the cold of it all. She stands where she's deposited, then takes a step forward...
And promptly skids across the marble, coming to a halt with knees bent and arms flung out to her sides, as if trying out for a bit part in a low-budget kung fu movie.
"I think," Fiona answers carefully, her own voice lower and just slightly shaky, "that I swallowed the other half of the Irish Sea. I'll be having a spontaneous rash of waterlilies when we go to bed. Where are the towels kept? I ask solely out of curiosity, mind you, and the heartfelt desire not to catch hypothermia."
"It's already done," comes a voice from about mid-way up the stairs. A young woman with long hair the same coppery hue as Davydd's and a smile that is a dead-ringer for his slowly descends the staircase with a smirk on her face and a couple of over-sized towels in hand -- how did she know?
"Marti's already in the kitchen getting the kettles on. Hope you dinnae mind that I'm a bit late. Charles was insisting that he go through all my bags first to make sure I had everything before coming. Oh, he sends his best, by the way..." comes the hesitant query from the woman.
So confident she is... roaming around in a man's home without him having let her in. But that's how it usually is with family -- and isn't the place crawling with them by now? So, the appearance of a daughter shouldn't be a surprise.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, shaking her head in an amused fashion, Gwendolyn tilts her head off to the left a moment, looking you both up and down. "Ach, look at you both... you cannae stay like this. Here," the towels are offered, "take these and dry off, then go get into some dry clothes... Marti and I will be in the kitchen with the tea..." For some reason, she doesn't seem surprised by the current state of the two before her -- in fact, she seems to have expected all of this judging by the amused grin on her face, reflected in the deep green eyes.
You fucking could have said something about the rain. Next time -- tell somebody! Oh... right... you weren't here yet. It's a wry expression that crosses Davydd's face. "You're a doll, you know," he says for the towels, reaching in and taking them. He gives one to Fiona, looking at her for a moment. Shite, you need both of them. He then hands her the other...
We'll need another couples for the dogs'n'me, that's for certes. Brave lads! How did you make it with legs that short!
"Fiona Arundel... this is my daughter, Gwendolyn Llywelyn, also known as Dant y Llew," Dandelion, "...Gwen," Davydd continues, "... this is... Fiona..." The wry smile goes comet-wide and comet-warm, "...I'm absolutely sick over this girl, it's disgusting. You better keep your distance, it could be contagious..."
And whilst the two of you make acquaintances, Davydd turns yanking off each boot with a grunt and tossing it on the covered part of the outside steps. The boots have seen worse, they'll survive. The dogs on the other hand....
Looking at himself, then you both and then the two water logged dogs, Davydd comes out of his sweater and wrings it out. It'll have to do until more towels arrive...
"What ho, boyos," he says quietly, crouching to bring himself more on their eye-level and they huddle in, getting the mud wiped off on what was once a fine, fine sweater....
Who's this? Fiona's expression is briefly reminiscent of a rabbit in a trap - oh fuck, how did this happen? Someone she doesn't know - one of the family, no less, to go by that hair and those eyes - and this isn't quite the good impression she'd hoped to make. She takes the towel somewhat automatically, wrapping her hair up in it, jacket and silks and denim dragging downwards with the weight of wet.
"Pleased to meet you," she offers, not quite diffidently but with the manners ingrained from years of expensive nannies, governesses and finishing schools, helping her to rise above something other than her neckline. "I'm Fiona, yes - and it's a pleasure to meet any of Davydd's relations." Conveniently ignoring the fact of oh, slight differences in age which make her face grow uncomfortably warm.
One hand comes up in a sketched salute; Davydd receives a bit of a -look-, the colour heightening in her cheeks. "If you're going to be sick, Davydd," Fiona mutters, "I'll go get you a bucket, shall I? - Sorry, you're not seeing me at my best," she continues, turning to face Gwen with a wry smile as she continues toweling off her hair. "I won't apologise for your father, he's perfectly capable of defending himself."
Finally, she pulls the towel from her hair, bending to work on drying herself off just a bit. Sodden as the silk is, there's not much to be done before changing. "I need to be run through a mangle, I'm afraid. Err. So, I hope you haven't been waiting long?"
Even if she knew about the rain coming, would she have mentioned it? Not likely. She's as mischievous as her father, afterall... she -is- a Llywelyn. "A doll, he calls me... he says that only when he wants something," the red-haired woman says with a smirk and a teasing tone. Turning her gaze from Davydd, she offers Fiona a wink.
"Good to meet you finally, Fiona." Finally? "Here.. let me take the jacket from you and you can run on up to get changed and into some warm clothing," she says, not drawing any attention to the other woman's reddening cheeks. "I'll make sure this gets hung up and check on the tea. And dinnae you fret about your state or whether I was kept waiting...it all works out. I knew what to expect on such a day," comes the laid-back response with a gentle smile and vague wave of the hand. The green eyes flash with something... as though she grins at an amusing thought that only she knows of.
"There's more towels awaiting you both upstairs, already laid out with fresh clothing," Gwen adds, smirking at Davydd. "Give me that jumper.... I knew you were going to do that. I'll take the boyos out back for a hose-down and drying. They'll be cared for. You best be off caring about yourself and your lady before you both catch the death of yourselves!"
Well, it's true that I can't die, but there's no reason for you to suffer. How can the humored tone carry without the sound of his voice? Or is it more a matter of knowing him so well now that Fiona can simply fill in the blanks with her own imagination? Davydd rises, looking at the sad-looking, but nevertheless grinning corgis and he turns to Gwendolyn, holding what used to be a sweater toward her. "I think we're gaen to have to burn it," he rolls out. "Pity, I looked smashing in that..."
Barefooted, Davydd finally enters, turning to look to the dogs. "Go round the back, lads, they'll let you in, get y' dried and fed and all. There'll be fresh bits of sommat..." That's enough for Bwci and Rhyddid. They take off out of sight and headlong into the storms.
Davydd's closing the door behind him and the sorry state of his boots the next moment, taking the free towel back and burying his head in it. Well, it's better than him doing what he usually does first when wet, shake like a dog. But there's priceless shite in here. Wouldn't do to spot it all. "We'll meet you in the kitchen. A few minutes, aye? Won't be long, and you're a dear for tending to all that...ah... nevermind about the coat," Davydd grins a touch, eyes conveying something to his daughter. "I'll hang it up... upstairs. Well out the window first, then upstairs. I'd kiss you, dearie, but I fear you'd come out the worse for wear from it."
"Come on," he whispers to Fiona, casting her a green-worlded wink. "Gah," he wrinkles his nose and goes from 800 to 10. "Let's get out of this mess... my skin's wrinkling, I can feel it going all pruney..."
Where, one might wonder before realizing one shouldn't really. Bare of the jumper, he's a blue-skinned wonder, dripping where he stands despite the drying. Hair sticking up like a right barbarian.
"Thanks," Fiona murmurs to Gwen, with a half-rueful smile; she's on her company manners, she is. "It's kind of you to've gone to the trouble. I..." Whatever she was going to say is cut off by a sudden sharp sneeze, and she drags two fingers back against her nose and mouth.
There's a brief almost roll of the eyes in Davydd's direction, softened by a reluctant grin. "I'm looking forward to getting dry - we'll try not to take long about getting back down."
Which means, the challenging look to her grey eyes suggests, no hanky-panky for you, Davydd Llewellyn! After all, it was hanky-panky which got us into this mess...
She's dredged off her shoes by now, by the simple expediency of stepping on her own heels and tugging and stepping. A wet slurping sound results until she's standing there, shoes squelching as she nudges them aside. She moves closer to Davydd at the whisper, wrinkling her nose at him and clutching the sodden towel to her chest.
"Oh, come on, before someone looks in the window and thinks we're re-enacting scenes from some damn pseudo-Celtic rubbish of a film or other." That's Fiona, covering any lingering embarrassment or reaction; she leans over to frog him one on his arm, then heads for the stairs. "I'm going to get into something warm and dry and I'll bite anyone who gets between me and that..."
Chuckling, Gwen holds up her hands, palms facing outward. "A'right... you deal wi' the coat. I'll take this," the sweater that she accepts from Davydd, "and get it tossed into the laundry.. I dinnae think it's completely ruined, but we'll see. And thanks fer not kissin' me in this state, da... this is my favourite outfit." This last is added with a wide grin. It's just a long, cord skirt with a green sweater, but still. She looks quite neat and tidy compared to her father.
"Yea, there you go. Da, the poor girl's catchin' the sniffles... off with you both! And dinnae you worry... take whatever time you need. The tea will be warm when you're ready," she teasingly chides, shooing you both off toward the stairs. Then, turning, holding the ruined sweater before her, she heads out towards the kitchen. Shaking her head and chuckling, she calls out, "Marti! He's sent the corgis out back... they need cleanin' up. Ach, what a mess. Is the tea ready?" A moment later, she's left the two of you to see to the rest, allowing you time to get dry, changed and calmed... leaving you to some privacy for a bit.
"I'll get my hugs and kisses later to be sure," the great Cymric voice raises, and taking the girl back up into his arms, he's soon up the stairways by twos and sometimes threes. Well, it's not the way he had planned it, or the way that he thought it would be. But in its way it was perfect, wearing half of Wales and memories of one another as one woman met the other.
True to his word, he was civilized. Setting his woman down on her feet on a soft, woven rug. Wet clothes were pulled off in layers and left on the bathroom counters, spread out on the round of the great tub, while he rinsed the rain off with water, and traces of Wales down the sink.
True to his word, he had introduced his new girl with all the humor he had threatened. But in those words, humor-borne though they were, there was something serious conveyed. He's sick he said, well she always knew that, but this time he meant it in love.
The Oak King's meticulous, in many ways, fastidious and seeking perfection. He takes his time when his turn in the shower is over, touching up a shave, drying his hair and looking at the clothes that were laid out, his body wrapped only in a white cotton towel, the kilt of some old celtic chieftain, it looks, or the toga of the last living Romano-Briton.
Downstairs in the kitchen, the kettles are perking, water placed in the pots, the tea steeping while it's put on the carts, and snacks and sandwiches to hold them off till dinner. Marti's a magician... when it comes to the kitchen. Though she's not quite the sorceress that the cook, mind you, but the woman can make tea and tiny sandwiches like no one's business on this island...
She glances up from her arrangement of cucumber and butter sandwiches and tiny cookies, her oval face and red riot of curls turning to the sound of Gwendolyn's voice. "I'll send Dewi...!" she calls out in response. "Dewi," another lively shout. "The boyos... out back... they're filthy and need to be hosed off I reckon. And dried!" she tacks on as the young man heads out of the warm confines of the large kitchen and dining area.
Oh, lovely, bliss and rapture - it might almost be enough to make Davydd jealous, for all the pleasure Fiona takes in the hot shower. It's still kept quick, though - she'd said they wouldn't take long, and she at least intends to be true to her word. Hot shower is followed by a large fluffy towel of her own, and a light slap to the man's hip as she heads out into the bedroom suite itself in search of something to wear.
The long hair's charmed into a single braid, still damp, devoid of its baubles and bangles and crystals and beads and bells - just a single thick rope to hang down along her back, from nape of neck following her spine down to and below her derriere, to hang heavy at the backs of her knees. It's one of the only magicks she can rely upon, really... How sad is that?
A scowl is given to her wardrobe - some of it's been unpacked and homes found for it, but the majority of her clothing's still in another section of the castle. Fiona settles on a simple one-piece loose gown in lilac shantung. It leaves her arms bare but covers everything else, tied gently at the waist with a white corded belt. She adds a white knit shawl which she wraps around her shoulders and upper arms, with a pair of open-toed sandals on her feet.
"Whenever you're done making yourself beautiful, Davydd," she teases, with a grin for the kilted king. "I'm just going to find some jewelry and I'll be ready. I'm thinking I'll avoid putting on any cosmetics this time. I have this feeling it's just going to get washed off again anyway."
Downstairs, Gwen busies herself taking the sweater out to the laundry, then returns after washing her hands to help Marti in the kitchen. "What can I do to help, Marti? Looks like you already have everything done... bless you, woman, bless you. Da and his lady Fiona will be famished and looking for warm drinks, certainly, and this looks absolutely stunning," she comments, looking down at the prepared trays. Beaming, she seems quite pleased about the arrangement. If either of the lovers are taking their time, she doesn't notice.
"It's a job constantly in need of renovation," he mutters. Beautiful. Bah. Freshly pressed, freshly shaved and freshly dressed, he exhales. His skin warm from his shower yet, the clothes a softness, and everything is comfortable and DRY, by Christ. He looks like he's in heaven. Pulling on the shirt -- it's a soft mint green to go with the black trousers and black jacket. Mister Posh in the spring, ain't he? And the green of his eyes pops out brilliantly.
He looks like a bloke out of an advert...
"That looks nice," he perks up at the colors, lilac and white, and peers at it a moment as he steps into a pair of warm, dry -- Christ in heaven, shoes that have been spared The Flood! -- shoes. Tilting, his smile winds cattywompus. "Don't we look fucking smart," he rumbles, the cattywompus tilt of a smile becoming a full-on grin, "... you know what you need..."
He leaves that hanging there for you to pick up and runaway with, as usual, grinning...
"Here," he says, and he heads to his side of the bed, to his bureau and to one of the drawers. He takes out one of the many boxes inside, and he brings it over to you. "Lady Hamilton was ...loathe to give this up," green eyes lift to you, "... but give it up she did and now, I am giving it to you..."
In the box are two jeweled hair combs, substantial, mother of pearl with colors that go with the lilac. "I have hair combs galore," he says quietly, warmly. "Which is good, you having hair for miles. And they'll hold. These are 17th Century combs, made to last..."
"Oh, I think I have it, miss..." Marti smiles to Gwendolyn. "Shall I roll it out to the dining room, the kitchen table or would you like it in the gallery or ballroom? And... thank you, miss Gwendolyn..."She wants to hear some opinions on the Lady Fiona, that hovers in the air between you but she smiles politely and waits for instruction.
Need? One pale eyebrow lifts sharply, as if preparing to be the platform from which all sorts of abusive remarks might spring. Still, the expression softens a moment later as she begins moving round the edge of the bed.
"Lady Hamilton?" Well, of course that'd have to be her immediate reaction, wouldn't it? Fiona's expression is quizzical, even as her eyes move over the male figure in the room with evident appreciation. "We look," she declares, "very ... Easter. I almost expect us to pop round to the church to endow them with a new roof or something."
Fiona pauses for a moment, then adds with a slanting grin of her own, "Of course, with us being the two heathens that we are, I'd expect it'd rather be more 'or something'. Oh, these are beautiful!" She is unstinting in her reaction, as automatic as it is genuine, the changeable eyes widening as her head tips down to the combs, one hand coming up and out to lightly touch one mother of pearl facing.
"Are you sure? I mean, 17th century - that's ..." Old. Even if not as old as the Old Man who currently has her attention. She gives her head a little shake, then, drawing her hand back. "We shouldn't keep your daughter waiting," Fiona mutters, suddenly embarrassed into prickliness. "I mean ... they are beautiful, Davydd. I'll wear them tonight - they match too well not to. Am I to slick your cowlick down with my spit now, or shall we go?"
In the kitchen, she ponders Marti's question. The dining room is... perhaps to open. The gallery and ballroom, too formal. "The kitchen table will be fine, Marti. They'll both want to be comfortable, so that should be fine," Gwen finally decides with a smile.
There are opinions about the Lady Fiona, of course, and Gwen certainly picks up on the fact that Marti wants a bit of it said. Shaking her head, Davydd's daughter murmurs quietly, "The poor lass needs to feel comfortable, I think... then again, perhaps my presence is all that is doing it." Doing it - putting her at some discomfort. Meeting family is never easy, but meeting your boyfriend's daughter who's older than you? "But that's to be expected. So, yes... the kitchen table will do just fine."
Somewhere out back, the corgis are getting washed up and are likely giving poor Dewi trouble for it... but it's all in good fun.
Marti smiles and nods, "Bit more relaxing, isn't it. I love the kitchen. It's the heart of the home, really..." The home being a stately castle on world famous grounds. She'd be more than a little daunted herself. "I find her a nice young woman," Marti says, not really wanting to gossip but, being Welsh, unable not to voice her opinions...
"I'm sure," Davydd smiles, closing her hands over the box of two combs. "Some night, we'll empty Black Jack's pockets and I'll show you the others," he chuckles. "It'd make me and Lady Hamilton happy to have them worn. I mean, she couldn't have taken them with her," to the Afterlife.
He peers at you as you mention the cowlick, his hand raking through his hair, what cowlick? Oh, that was a joke. Smirking, he gestures for you to go ahead. "Oh aye, I'm famished," hands to the flat of his gut and his voice rolling out on an exhale. "All that runnin' and what-not, mostly the what-not," he cackles, enjoying that.
Rather immensely actually...
"So," hands come together with a clap and a rub, "...let's, before they think we've fallen in or sommat..." The grin winds its way across his mouth and he comes alongside you, arm around your shoulder, mouth at your ear, murmuring such things that should only ever be murmured...
The trip to the kitchens alone could take ten minutes. It's down the stairs from bedroom to master suite sitting room, out to the hall, then down another set of stairs, down the great hall as if heading back outside and turning left, opposite the gallery, down another hall quite a ways and then through a formal dining room and then to the wide kitchens, refurbished gourmet and modern...
"Hah. You know you don't need to, right?" Fiona shakes her head slightly, sliding the combs carefully into her hair at either side of her temples. "But thank you."
It's meant genuinely, and briefly she touches Davydd's cheek with a fingertip before stepping forward, away from the mirror she's used for decorating purposes. "Fallen in? Definitely more or something..."
She permits herself to be drawn along and down, colour rising slightly, but she's in good humour; the snap and bite is missing for the moment, as she reaches across for his other hand, twining her fingers through his larger ones. After all, it's a big house ... she needs her native guide to lead her astray.
Nodding, she replies, "Aye... that it is. The kitchen is usually the best place to be." Marti is given a flash of a smile as Gwen murmurs quietly only to the other woman, "Aye, she seems nice... and though I only just met her, I must say that it seems she makes Da happy. He's practically glowin'." Clearing her throat a little, she straightens and says, "They should be down any minute. It wouldn't do for them to find us whisperin' like gossip-mongers, would it?" The flashing smile returns again, however... it never strays long.
Marti smiles as she sets out the cookies and sandwiches, the tea and all, the cups overturned and readied, cream and sugar. She doesn't say anymore. It's none of her business. The last Lady...she was a very pleasant woman, if a very private woman. A very kind woman and was the first to give the lord and castle the first airing out in years.
In many ways, her effects will be felt here for years. The gardens. The flowers that are kept in arrangements to her specifications and desires, without her even being here. The fingerprints of the North Queen will not be so easily wiped free...
A red head pokes into the open doorway of the kitchen. Not Dewi with dogs, though in truth he's likely not far behind. That's the sound of encroaching murfs and barks, the clickety-clack of nails. This red head belongs to the castle's lord, the soul of Powys and Gwynedd and the soul in truth of this land and this castle. Freshly dried and back to its usual -- of late -- copper-bronze-fiery waves, a bit longer this year than last. "I smell sandwiches," he rumbles with a smile, his fingers in the fingers of smaller hands, a partnered set, leading a young woman along.
He's in black and green, very spring king like. "Ah Marti, you're a wonder, and here it is... I promised," a kiss for his daughter upon her cheeks, his hand still lingering on the smaller, partnered set.
And glowing he is...
The transformation started three years ago is in full flourish now, it seems. He's not only glowing, he's golden. Renewed. Restored. Revived. And the land with it. The land with the king, and the king with the land, as they say. "It's good to see you, doesn't matter how late," he waves off, "...we knew you'd be here..."
With a smile, Marti makes herself scarce for the now. "I'll go check on Dewi and the dogs now..."
All in all, Fiona doesn't seem particularly inclined to go about changing things; any insecurities she might have about previous arrangements are kept internalized, where as a rule, the only person who has to deal with them other than herself is Davydd. And in truth, so far, even he hasn't had those inflicted on him so much to date...
She follows where she's led, a small grin lighting her features. "Food," she sighs. "My stomach's begun to think my throat was cut. For this blessing, many thanks, Marti." Lilac and mother of pearl and simplicity, tonight...
She steps to the side and away, freeing Davydd to give family hugs and kisses round as needed, moving to seat herself slowly, carefully, her intensity perhaps dimmed in comparison to the glow of him. Unhurriedly, she reaches for a napkin, opening it up in her lap and spreading the cloth gently. "I wouldn't worry about lateness," Fiona chimes in, in agreement. "After all, we nearly didn't make it back ourselves."
The daughter glances up at the sound of her father and grins. "Aww, thank you, Da.." she says with a laugh. Accepting the kiss from her father, Gwen tilts her cheek towards him, then withdraws, letting him get at the table and therefore the food.
Looking to Fiona, she adds, "And thank you... it is terrible out there, is it not? It's a good thing you both got in when you did, for it looks like it's gotten worse." Waving at the food and tea, she adds to both of them, "Please... dig in. Don't wait on ceremony in this weather."
Glancing back up at Davydd, she says, "Dewi's out with the boyos... they'll be all dry and as good as new soon enough." She sits, herself, reaching over and pouring the tea. Cups are set in front of Fiona, then Davydd and finally herself. Fixing her own tea, then passing around the cream and sugar, she adds, "I know I'm glad I got in when I did. I don't know if I could drive in what's coming down now." With that, she grabs at a sandwich.
He's not much on ceremony, but he is horribly mannerly. Or well, he has manner streaks which are prevalent unless he's being particularly bullish for some reason. That said, he's taken up the kettle to pour the first round. Good Welsh tea for goodly Welsh cups to warm Welsh spirits.
"If I'd known it was going to be a tempest, I'd have come back in to the tea kettle a lot faster, I can tell you that." A glance to Fiona and Davydd smiles. "As it is, I think I saw the Ark float by. Should have just rowed the little boat up from the river. Well, we'll have to look at the gardens tomorrow and see what needs to be righted, if anything. There's a few days before the tourists start descending..."
He settles down after the glasses are poured, taking the cream and sugar in turns. The sugar's in cubes, and three, no four cubes find their way into his cup. And four sandwiches on his little plate.
In truth, he could eat everything on the plate himself...
Giving you two a moment to Get To Know One Another, Davydd avails himself of the cucumber and butter sandwiches, settling back with a mouthful and his hands holding the thick cup of sweetened-to-death tea.
"Thank you," Fiona answers courteously, taking a small plate for herself and settling a couple of sandwich sections onto it. After a moment, she adds a couple more, and then some of the biscuits. There is nothing fragile about her appetite, at least.
Her cup's next - tea, of course, which is doctored not dissimilarly to Davydd's, with sugar and cream all in the obliged unconcern for her waistline of the young and active. Worry? Why worry? He'll work it off of her before bedtime, no doubt...
"You'll have to let me know if there's anything I can do to help," Fiona remarks, "with getting things straightened up, or - well, whatever. I hate feeling useless. But yes, the weather's certainly not on our side tonight - from the sound of it, the gods are bitterly angry, I suppose you could say." She half-smiles at her own comment, shaking her head just a little bit.
"I'm afraid Davydd hasn't told me an awful lot about you, though he's told me a bit," she confesses, sweeping her braid back over her shoulder before she lifts the cup to her lips. "Anything I should know if only to avoid a major social blunder?" Lightly, she kicks Davydd's ankle under the table, as if by way of explanation.
Washing down a large mouthful of cucumber sandwich with tea -- similarly sweetened as that of the other two -- Gwen pauses to laugh. She had nearly lost her mouthful of sandwich, thanks to Davydd's jokes, but managed to save it with the tea. "Da... you're terrible. The Ark..." She snorts at that, adding to Fiona, "Sorry... if I accidentally spray you with food or drink, it's not a sign of not liking you... it's a sign that my father is jokin' around again and has caught me off-guard. Might want to get a shield..." Hearty laughter rings out through the kitchen from her.
Shaking her head at Davydd, she sobers a bit, saying, "Well, hopefully the rain won't wash out the road like last year. But, then again, this may pass in an hour, so who knows? I'm sure the gardens will manage. They could use the soaking."
Glancing back at Fiona, she offers her a bright, warm smile and says, "Nah... I'm his daughter. That should be enough, should it not be? That's bad enough, believe me." There's a wink to that. "I manage White Hart for the family, teach children how to play the harp, and try to keep Charles away from the hedges, the poor soul... his hands are so arthritic these days, but he says that those 'fancy-shmancy cutters' don't do the job like an old pair of cutters... so he insists on doing it the old fashioned way."
The mouth was poised over the sandwich like a great hitter, say, Babe Ruth, over the baseball mound. Like Napoleon at the border of Russia. When he gets the kick on his ankle, unexpected that, and jumps a smidge in surprise. Blinking, looking at the wee lass -- well, she's not that wee, she's tall for all that -- and then smiling blithely. "I can't tell you everything," he murrs, decimating the first of many cucumber sandwiches with a grin. "Besides, where's the fun in traveling the well-paved road..."
Davydd does take a moment -- which is historic, mind you, with food lain before him -- to look at the two women, and to watch the healthy appetite of the young woman show itself. He grins at it, then polishes off another of the finger sandwiches.
"So," he says with an exhale and a swallow, "... we should all play sommat before we head our separate ways. Kelly's here, we've a room full of instruments and ready hands...it'll be like the bloody Von Trapp Family Singers," Davydd chuckles, "... but still we should. Fiona's a fine musician in her own right, vocalist," Davydd says. "And Gwendolyn here," Davydd says, leaning in toward Fiona, "... is all but sitting in the chief harpist's chair. She teaches the children in the family to play, among others..."
And maybe one day your own, Fiona...
That goes unsaid...
Davydd finally reaches for his tea again, taking a hefty swallow before digging into the cookies and tea cakes. "White Hart's the old place in Gwynedd," Davydd explains to Fiona, "...not far from St. David's Chapel in Gwynedd, where my sister, St. Catherine, is interred..."
Waving one careless hand, Fiona shakes her head. "Risk of association," she assures Gwen. "Hanging round the Old Man, I've gotten to expect choking, coughing, and spraying of food and drink." Sometimes she causes it, sometimes he does - they take turns, don't they? "I'll just start waterproofing my wardrobe. It'll come in useful both out of and indoors, at this rate."
There's a pause while she works on quickly polishing off a sandwich section - what with side trips along rivers unknown and historic and then being thoroughly drenched, she's worked up a fair bit of appetite herself. "No," she agrees to Davydd almost primly, "telling me everything'd entirely ruin your fun. He seems to like seeing my facial expressions," she adds dryly, turning back to the other woman. "We're in a constant state of revenging ourselves on each other, I think."
Her plate's readjusted; sandwiches and cookies and cakes take a certain geometry, you know, all of their own. The feng shui of her plate thus realigned, Fiona resumes with, "I don't believe I've met Charles yet. Still, if the hedges're that important to him, you won't be able to keep him away with anything less than rope and maybe not even that. We all have our passions, right?" Her smile is quirked at the edges, almost quizzical, and spoiled a moment later by her balling up her napkin to toss it lightly at the redhaired mountain of a man across.
"Davydd, I don't think you could qualify as a Von Trapp even if you bleached your hair blonde and took lessons in being stern and rockbound from a German governess. But I'd be happy to sing with your family and I'll try not to disgrace you in front of them." Fiona wrinkles her nose, confiding in Gwen, "He seems to have a high opinion of my voice - even after we get half-drowned, that is. Frankly, I think I'll be lucky not to start a riot."
She seems aware of unspoken currents, but steadfastly doing her best to ignore them, only a faint pinkness to the back of her neck and in her cheeks. But that could be attributed to the warmth of the kitchen or of the tea, right? "...Your sister is a saint? Well. She was your sister, so I suppose that makes sense."
"Good lord... that would be a most cacophonous concert if there ever was one, Da, and you know it!" Gwen teases him, waggling his finger. Well, what would a harpist be doing in a 'jam session' anyway? Making a face she says to Fiona, "He and I clash a bit on this... I'm a purist when it comes to the harp and he's all gung-ho about bringin' it about into contemporary music. I'm not snobbish about the whole thing... I just haven't figured out how to play contemporary stuff on the blasted thing. It just doesn't sound right to me, even if it does to him..." She sticks her tongue out at her father, as though this is part of an old, long-standing argument -- but of course, it's all in jest and fun. "However, if you know any of the more traditional pieces, Fiona, I'd love to play with you sometime while you're here. I think it would be lovely."
"When," not if, "you come to White Hart sometime, you will meet Charles. I would be lost without the dear old soul. He is our grounds keeper out there and a lovely person. He'd probably just adore you, Fiona. He's good like that."
Grabbing at another sandwich -- who needs a plate, afterall -- she takes a sip of tea to cleanse the palate, then adds, "I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship..." With that, she balls up her own napkin and tosses it at her father, also, joining in on the fun. She then dives into her sandwich with a grin.
Whatever currents are unspoken, they remain that way. Of course, Gwen could just Look to see what really happens... but now is not the time nor the place. She falls silent at the mention of her saintly aunt, allowing Davydd to speak on this topic.
"Well, I don't mean 'saint' because every brother thinks his only sister is a saint, much like a departed mother, but she's an actual saint, canonized by the Catholic Church and all. Patron Saint of Martyred Mothers. Interesting story, I mean... it aaages old now," he almost dismisses the passing centuries with a wave, not quite though, grinning as he tries vainly to get out of the way of the balled up napkin.
"See, she was close to giving birth, the story goes," he continues a bit more soberly, "...when she was murdered. Well, I had her returned to Wales to be with her family, with her widowed husband's leave, and placed in the cathedral. Her husband died on Crusade a year or two later. And it was ... hmmm.. I don't remember exactly, but some time later that tears of blood began appear on the face of the statue. And then tributes of roses started... eventually, young mothers to be made pilgrimages to her tomb, to lay hands on the effigy... eventually, she was made an official saint..."
That's the seriously abridged version, mind you...
"White Hart's not a huge estate, nothing like this old thing," he says of Powis. "It's an old estate, probably, what Gwen... 15th Century? It came into the Llywelyn family about then or other. There's another house the Morgans tend after, but that's their legacy. This is the Herberts, and White Hart's the Llywelyn property."
Davydd looks across the table to Gwen as he finishes his tea, picking up the argument midstream, "... I think it can be used it modern music perfectly well and easily. Alan Stivell added electric pickups, others have. I'm not saying to go Jimi Hendrix on the thing and light it the fuck on fire," he laughs, rolling his eyes and making a quick end to the jam-filled cookies.
"Mmm. I don't think we have any actual saints in my line," Fiona remarks, fairly placidly. She's been making short work of her food while listening to both Llewellyns. "Martyrs, certainly, but ... well, the Arundels got where they did by making sure to have a foot in either camp all the way through til now. Now the family's too small for that, alas."
Sounds heartbroken, doesn't she?
One eyebrow cocks upwards. Tears of blood? Tributes of roses? Well - she can't really argue, what with some of the 'weird shite' she's been seeing of late. She nods slowly, then turns to Gwen.
"I do know a fair number of traditional pieces, though whether there's overlap ... I actually do need to do some singing, soon - haven't been doing quite enough lately, and I don't want my voice getting all out of shape." Fiona swallows thirstily at her tea, then sets the cup down, reaching for the pot to top it off.
"Mind yourself, Old Man," Fiona returns lazily, with another light kick to Davydd's ankle. "If it doesn't sound right, lead up to it by degrees. Have you done any listening to Celtic fusion, Gwen? That's a good interim way, though of course if you don't listen to new stuff at all, it mightn't sound very good to you. I do like what the Pogues and Flogging Molly and a few others've done, myself, but I'm still a bit into punk."
Finishing off her sandwich and tea, Gwen pushes her plate and cup away from herself a bit, not wanting to spoil her appetite for dinner later. Besides, she'd rather let the two who survived the Flood out there eat their fill after their ordeal. Ever the hostess, even when she's not in her own home, so to speak.
She merely nods at the accounts of the tears of blood and tributes of roses, not adding anything to the story, really, save, "It's true. Or, they say it is. I haven't seen it happen yet myself." Honestly, she's too busy usually keeping up with White Hart and teaching the children to get out sightseeing or the kind... even if it classifies as both a miracle and a family-related trip.
Stretching a bit, she admits with a grin, "I've never listened to any of that stuff, no. Call me old-fashioned if you will... I've just been so absorbed with things that I have to admit that I don't get out much." She flashes a grin at Fiona, then sticks her tongue out at her father once more. "The 'Old Man' gets out more than I do... mayhaps I need to drop the kids here one day and have him babysit while you take me out for some exposure to these things, hm Fiona?" She teases, of course... or does she?
"But, ah, perhaps it's something I should work on. Maybe something like that would appeal to the children more, too," she grudgingly admits. "And I would love to hear you sing, Fiona... the voice is the best instrument of all, but you do need to take care of it, aye," she adds softly with a gentle smile to the other woman.
"I'd be happy to watch the children," Davydd offers, agreeable to the notion of it. "I can put them to work in the fields, just like the old days," words, syllables and fractions of consonants and vowels roll with quiet laughter.
The 'Old Man' this and 'Old Man' that doesn't bother him in the slightest. He just sits through it, grinning in a slant. "Old is as Old does," he finally mutters, pushing his own plate forward. Davydd? Not eating everything in sight? He must be saving himself for dinner, too. "What did I do now?" he quips suddenly to Fiona, smirking.
Beneath the horizon line of the table, a large hand lands upon a neighboring thigh and gives a squeeze and a pat. And a slight 'goosing'. "So what's for dinner anyway?" Davydd wonders suddenly to Gwendolyn. "You know everything else that's going on," lips twist, "...might as well share the menu..."
Nodding easily, Fiona offers, "Oh, I don't mind. I don't know if it'd be your sort of thing, of course, but I'm sure we can stick Davydd with the children for a night or three. And I can loan you some cds in the meantime, if you like." Music is, after all, the stuff of life.
She makes a small face at Davydd, picking up her cup to take a deep swallow which is interrupted halfway through with a bit of a coughing fit. It's followed by another, slightly harder kick. "Bloody Llewellyn," she grumbles, giving him a dirty look, face suddenly flushed. "You haven't gotten anything that you didn't earn ten times over. Just wait," she threatens, "until it's time for you to meet my family."
She glances back to Gwendolyn, almost apologetically. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be ill-mannered - here, I'll be back in just a few minutes, I've got to go wash my face, now." She scrapes her lower lip with her teeth to clear some of the sticky sugar-residue of the tea off, sliding her chair back from the table. "I'll be back in a bit."
"Ooh, I just love a woman who knows how to toss out threats along with a good kick to the shin," Davydd croons, casting a wink to his daughter. I'm a bad man and I do bad things.
"Oh, some CDs would be fantastic! That's if you don't mind, surely," the daughter agrees eagerly. It's not that she doesn't like the newer stuff... she just hasn't been exposed to it much.
It's a good thing that Gwendolyn had finished her own snack and tea, or else Davydd may well have ended up wearing it, she burst out laughing so hard and so suddenly. "Oh no! Don't apologize... here, let me help you," she offers, jumping out of her chair. She shoots her father a mock exasperated look, shaking her head as she says, "Besides, I think he needs to sit and brood about what he's done... and no previews of the menu for you, mister. You'll have to wait for it, like everyone else..." This is added with a waggle of a finger in his direction.
The 'bad man' gets a look, as if she knows what he's thinking. Then again, Fiona hardly is likely to be in a position to object too strenuously, is she?
"You're just lucky that all I've done is kick your shins, mister," she murmurs, picking up her plate and moving towards the sink. "And no, really, it's alright, but thanks - I'm just going to wash my face and put on some lipgloss - I think it's as safe as it's going to be, now. Though I agree that your father needs a timeout. Maybe he'll listen to you; goodness knows I can't get him to pay a lick of attention to what I say."
Despite the asperity, she doesn't seem terribly upset; she can't be entirely serious. Fiona gives Davydd one of her patented 'looks', then grins. "That serves him right," she agrees with obvious approval. "Keep him in the dark - make him guess. A little suspense will do wonders for his appetite."
An angel so insistent upon wearing its own halo is up to something. So they say. Davydd wears a look of near-on righteous indignation. A What Did I Do? if there ever was one. But it can't last long, that look, for he doesn't mean it. He smirks, sitting there looking rather satisfied with himself, then raises his hands in an 'Alright, alright!' motion.
"It's a good thing I have the reflexes of a jungle cat," Davydd rumbles, "... or I'd have been neutered long since." As the two of you women fidget about and look ready to head into the facilities with one another to gossip about him, Davydd reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, removing smokes and lighter. All this food and talk, makes a man want to drink and smoke.
"Fair enough. I should probably check on Marti anyway," Gwen comments to Fiona as her offer is politely declined. "Besides, I should keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't go peeking into the ovens and whatnot," she adds with a grin. "Looks like he's ready for a drink anyway..."
With that, she heads over to the liquor cabinet and calls over her shoulder, "What's your poison tonight, Da? You're getting -one- drink before dinner. It wouldn't do to have you snoozing at the table, -Old Man-," she teases, turning her back on him to hide her Cheshire Cat grin and the wink she throws Fiona on her way out of the kitchen.
"Oh, absolutely, keep an eye on your father. Someone's got to keep him out of trouble." Fiona ruffles Davydd's hair as she passes behind him, deliberately rucking up his hair into untidiness like unto a bird's nest. "I'll be back soon, I promise."
She passes out the door, heading back towards the stairs - the braid's too tight, making her scalp ache, and her face needs to be washed and painted before she meets the rest of the family. Meeting them in ones and twos is one thing, but if she's to be faced with the entire clan...
Well. She wants her war paint.
Posted by rowan at March 28, 2004 12:10 PM
