Long wooden tables are situated length-wise along the hall, with the exception of the head table, which sits across the width of the hall at the end farthest away from the double doors, closest to the hearth. Cloths of the finest fabrics in the brightest colors have been spread across the table-tops, all embroidered with delicate Celtic knotwork designs around the edges. Candelabras and baskets of flowers and fruit only found in the summertime have been arranged with care along the tables.
     All the beauty and magnificence that represents the Tuatha de Danann rests here in this single hall. Certainly, the rest of the castle is decorated and accented with finery and art, but most of it pales in comparison to the pure history represented here.
     Tapestries and paintings line the walls, depicting the history of the Tuatha de Danann. But by far, the things that probably draw the eye the most are the Great Treasures on display here: the Magic Sword of Nuada mounted above the mantle, the Slingshot of the sun god Lugh resting upon it, and the Cauldron of Dagda hanging beneath it over the fire. There is a spot to the left of the hearth, however, which is discoloured and seemingly bare -- not even a tapestry hangs on the wall behind the empty space. In the opposite corner sits the Dagda's harp.

     Servants bustle about clearing the tables after tonight's feast. As summer gets closer and closer in the physical plane, the feasts grow more and more frequent here -- a tradition, it seems. Most of the guests, save for a couple, have all left to enjoy what is left of their evening in other parts of the castle or to head off for whatever they consider to be home.
     In the end of the hall closest to the hearth, a slender figure stands staring into the fires, the light bouncing off of coppery hair and pale skin... the green of her silken gown takes on the appearance of a grassy hill set aflame by the setting sun.. the Summer Queen, Hafwen, stares into the flames, thoughtful and content. Tonight went off without a hitch.
     She stands alone, the servants having cleared out this end and most of the guests having been herded away from the royal woman, giving her some space. Oh, she is not unapproachable.. she is merely reflective. Soon she will emerge upon the Queen's Walk to enjoy the summer night, then perhaps take a walk out to the oak grove behind the castle. If anyone chooses to accompany her, she is likely to be open to it, as she is quite a social queen, despite her fiery mood swings befitting of her title.

     Well, all guests except one...
     He materializes in a chair at the butt end of a breeze -- now that sounded awful, don't you think? Bad word-choice, that, but as it were, what didn't exist now does and there's one fewer pillows in the chamber.
     Now, I ask you... has there ever been a finer fairy in all the land? Sure, there have been better ponces and princes, but who has his panache? Who can outmatch the Silver Prince? The Prince of Storms and Lightning, the very Bag of Hot Air that is Hwyll ap Gwyn?
     Fairy armor rests on fairy skin, boots of metal so silver it still seems liquid, twice at least the strength of platinum, his every motion a flash of lightning. And just like that, boots are on the table. Tsk. Manners. The rest of him is likewise clad in lightning flash armor, silver so silver it is beyond silver, a cloak of thunderhead clouds and long platinum hair spilling over shoulders and down past his arms, plaited in intricate webbings that only fairy maidens, courtesans of the wind, could do.
     His eyes are pure quicksilver, going from moody, thunderous cloud grey to flashing streaks of silver when he laughs or when he grins. He's such a looker, that Hwyll ap Gwyn.
     "Great party," he says, tipping his head back as he leans back in the throne-like chair, feet on the table with a goblet now in his hands. "And not just because I was the pillow beneath the ... pillows of Lady Harlequin..."
     Wait for it...
     "Though," Hwyll smirks, "...that never hurts..."

     One doesn't bring one's horse in to dine with the guests. Why this is, he's aware, but it's never entirely in some ways made sense to him - he's met horses who were by far better company than the typical guests at a dinner party. And now, here he comes - in through the doors, after dinner, merciful gods, not during, sans horse.
     But not sans messages; this is a more regular route than some. Peter Annwn, Mad Peter, Peter of the Valley - he's been called many names, but most often Peter, which has amused him no less than others, being by no means mortal and by no means Christian to take a Christian name. He has a dark cloak over dun-coloured leathers, green at his throat and white and silver flashing at his belt, a stack of missives in one hand as he strides in, already talking.
     "I tell you, it's a sad day when I'm relegated to little more than a common postman," he remarks, his hair as oak-blonde as was his cousin's, his eyes storm-grey but without anger. Perhaps it helps him fit in the present company. "Your Majesty, Your Highness, hope you'll put up with the mere familiarity of a humble messenger, for that's all I am, still. And I've ridden too bloody far this night for even my horse to be on her best manners."
     It's given with a quick, sociable grin that creases his mouth, parts the lips, crinkles the eyes as he sweeps into a brief bow. "Good eve," he adds, "to you both. Am I interrupting? Should I come back later? Or is this altogether a different sort of affair?"

     The coppery mane-covered head tilts slightly to the right, then drops down a bit with a smirked sigh. "Hwyll, Lord of the West... I -wondered- where you had been all evening," comes the amused response from Hafwen. Turning slightly, hands clasped gently before her, arms slightly bent... she is the picture of perfectly controlled amusement.
     "Shame on you.. the good Lady Harlequin would be horrified to know it was you she... took her rest upon. Tsk. Tsk," she teasingly chides the one with his feet irreverently rested upon the table.
     Then another makes his presence known. Moving away from the hearth and the Cauldron, moving to stand somewhere closer to Hwyll, Hafwen offers the messenger a smile. Thank goodness the horse was left outside somewhere... hopefully the stables. Waving to a seat nearby, she greets him kindly, "Good Peter, it is a pleasure to see you... care to take your rest with us a moment? No, no," she adds, holding up a placating hand, "you are interrupting nothing. Please come in and take what rest you can. Shall I send for some food? Some wine?"
     Turning her face to Hwyll, she asks him, "Or for you, Lord Hwyll? Though, you don't deserve any after that stunt you just pulled." This last is said teasingly. She knows how he can be like and really isn't bothered by it, but still loves to take jabs at him about it when she can.

     "The Good Lady Harlequin," Hwyll lifts his voice and lifts a smile and tilts his chin upward, "...isn't horrified by much, least of which sitting on a man's face." Sip. "Or a woman's for that matter," Hwyll tacks on with a wide and winding smile and a healthy swallow of the mead.
     "Peter!" he exclaims, and with the spreading of his arms, there is the flicker flash of lightning. "A friend I have not seen in a fortnight. Sounds like you've had a hell of a ride," armored feet return to the floor, and like the very lord of this hall, he settles back in the throne-like chair, his gauntleted hand poking about the remaining fruit and honeybreads. "More food -- more honeywine," Hwyll concurs with a smile. "I'm trying to get the taste of cotton out of my mouth. But don't you rather mean, My Queen, that I deserve more for my behavior? A man who behaves as I do is surely not deserving of less..."
     With that, Hwyll ap Gwyn pops a golden grape into his mouth. "So, what's this news? Anything for me? Any love letters or swooning Miss Me moans from elf maidens of far away lands?"

     "Oh, aye, it's been an interesting time." Peter grins easily, coming the rest of the way up with the easy stride of someone at home on horseback - a slight unconscious swagger resulting from so much time spent in saddle as much as from inborn confidence. "And it is good to see you both. I will gladly accept such hospitality as you choose to offer, Your Majesty. It's been a long way - I've come from the other side of the Gates of Dawn, and the hellbeasts were in a foul mood."
     He comes to a halt at the foot of the table, resting back on one heel and thumbing through the packets he holds. "Let me see," Peter muses with a quick grin of his own. "A letter for Her Majesty from the King of the Outer Plains - no doubt another suit for her hand, the poor man should give up, three wives are too many for most men and one was able to outmatch him... A paean of praise, a letter from some jealous lady who thinks Her Majesty is making eyes at you, Your Highness..."
     The envelopes are tossed, one by one, onto the table as he speaks, grin remaining raffish, piratical, though it sobers a moment later, "Ah, of course, some of the remaining ... reports on the investigations of recent events. There are ever spy circles cropping up who would seek noble and royal backing." The rider shrugs, tossing the remainder of the packet down, mouth briefly compressed into a single thin line. It expands back to normal as he retorts to Hwyll, "And had I known you to be here, like as not I'd have had more paperwork to carry, but no - the last I'd heard of you, you were threatening the Hunter," Huw, "with unending rain during his favourite hunting period. Your Majesty, I salute you - you are putting up with a ruffian."

     Hwyll's commentaries causes Hafwen's eyes to roll upward to the ceiling as she shakes her head, at a loss for words. It's a good thing that she knows you, Lord of the West, or you might have just gotten yourself tossed out in the hall or even outside on your arse. But the Queen has a soft spot for you, doesn't she? Some might say so, yes.
     Instead, she waves vaguely as though waving off the crassness of Hwyll's behaviour, chuckling softly as she signals to servants down the hall. More wine. More food. Post-haste. If Hwyll has something to keep his mouth busy -- other than Lady Harlequin's cotton garments, that is -- perhaps he'll behave a little.
     Offering a warm smile to Peter, she motions to a chair near Hwyll and takes up the letters given to her. "Food and drink will be forthcoming, friend. Please, make yourself comfortable... Hwyll already has..." she comments, tossing the 'ruffian' a grin before looking at her pile of letters. "A ruffian? Well... perhaps. But... he is charming... in his own way," she says with a chuckle, slightly distracted by the messages.
     "A jealous lady? Well... she'll just have to remember that just about every lady through the realms makes eyes at the Lord of the West. I wonder if she is writing such a missive to all the ladies in the lands..." she comments with a grin twisted upon her lips.
     Shaking her head at the letter from the King of the Outer Plains, she opens it, breaking the seal to glance it over quickly. "The King of the Outer Plans has more than enough wives. He doesn't need me to add to his 'collection'," she bristles slightly, seeming more than a little disgusted at the idea. Perhaps I should send him for this jealous lady... they might make each other happy..."
     Another moment later, servants arrive with platters of fresh meat, cheeses and breads. Goblets are filled with honeywine and pitchers are left with the platters.

     "I'll expect to see you in the clouds then sometime, my old friend," Hwyll says, most pleased -- he is seldom not pleased with himself, ruffian or no. "And if the West Winds are too rough upon the cheeks of Decorum, that I may be called a ruffian or rascal...well..." he tips the glass and finishes the lot and gives to both of his friends with a sweeping silver gaze of largesse, "...so be it then. If I were to stop ...blowing about, life eternal would quickly be a right bore. Oh, let's make them jealous by far. You should accept my offer," he says softly to the Queen, hand reaching for her own. "The one-thousandth time I've asked you, glutton for punishment, the punishing winds, should only be answered with 'Yes'."
     There's a snort for the king of the outer plains. "Nothing ever happens out on the outer plains," Hwyll smirks, "...he has to have three wives just to have a reason to get out of bed. Some folks have to make their own drama, you know. Oh! Food! Lovely!" Leaning forward, he puts his golden goblet back on the table, reaching for a pitcher of honeywine as soon as it's set down. His goblet refilled, he goes to fill one for each of them. "We should toast, as friends, raise cups together. I wonder how Old Dirt is doing," he says of Huw suddenly. "Last I heard, he was traipsing around Asgard, chasing after some Valhalla woman...god bless him...."

     "Seeing as I prefer the company of my horses and my unending journeys to any other sort," Peter chuckles, "I am hardly one to be o'erly concerned with decorum! But I thank you, Your Majesty, Your Highness, for allowing this low-born bastard in your high company." He sinks into a seat, propping his booted feet up on another and tipping his head back as one gauntleted hand lifts a cup.
     "Chasing a woman of Asgard? Was this before or after he was tutoring the slip of a girl you buffeted him for? My cousin's," he explains as an aside to Hafwen, "descendant, that - funny, too, Huw never was one of Isabel's consorts. He liked them a bit ... rougher about the edges, I think."
     A healthy swallow of honeywine is taken, and Peter sighs with the pleasure of it. "This is as sweet as the wine I had in Hell," he proclaims. "I do not know how Huw is, though - haven't seen him, really, since that jaunt. I've been riding hither and thither between the kingdoms, and occasionally, to among the mortals. My mare's ready to kick me if I go another season without letting her foal. That's quite drama enough for me."

     And this is why Hafwen doesn't have him tossed out on his arse... because he really does make life interesting. He's right. Without him, things would be dull... quiet, but dull. Reaching for a goblet that's already been filled, she stops, realizing she is being held back a bit by her other hand...being snatched up by Hwyll's.
     "Oh, well now..." she says, flushing a bit, her cheeks beginning to match her long flowing locks. Clearing her throat, she reaches again, plucking a goblet off of a tray without dislodging her other hand from its captor. She pointedly avoids answering his offer, instead commenting quickly, trying to regain her composure, "I haven't seen Huw as of late, no. And Peter, really... you do a disservice to yourself. Low-born or not, we are reliant upon you for the news of the realms -- you are as important as any king, queen, lord or lady. You are always welcome in my court, and you know that." The colour has seeped from her pale visage once more. She is back in control of herself, it seems.
     After a delicate sip of the honeywine, she smiles, saying, "Well, I'm glad you enjoy it. Please... drink your fill. There is plenty." And there always will, as long as the Cauldron is here. Setting the goblet down, she uses her free hand to flip through the letters, looking for anything that looks immediately pressing. Without looking up, she asks, "Where are you heading after this, Peter?"

     "A herald, like a bard, commands as much influence, no... more... than any king. In fact, his kingdom is every world he travels. If anything, we should be bowing to you," Hwyll states for the record, lifting the goblet and settling back. Ooh, lady's fingers... an actual Lady's fingers, not the cookies by the same name. Hwyll gives the Queen's digits a squeeze and a kiss.
     "I tell you, one man's adoration, laid bare like the goodies on your table, one day, you'll say 'Yes' Hafwen. Until then, the Winds will blow, the lightning race across the land, and the thunder shall shake the earth..." He grins and leans back, freeing her fingers and looking to Peter.
     He relaxes again, this ruffian prince, taking up the whole of the throne, beautiful, dashing, eyes full of interest at the prospect of gossip. "All I have heard is the usual when spring is in the air. Lots of rutting, who's after who, and a pile of invitations to every feast from the Kingdoms of Here to the Kingdoms of Yon... surely, there has to be more going on than that..."

     "Oh, I'm well aware of my own importance - some say that I am far too aware of it." Peter grins, that quick rakish expression that flies over his features, bordering on a smirk. He shrugs a bit, feet still placed one atop the other, one eyebrow quirking upwards at the royal two across from him, even as he leans forward to seize a leg of some fowl and bring it back with him. "I appreciate your kindness, but my words are just that - words, as much a part of my duty as my duty itself. I am not of any of the courts, remember - not even the Wild Court. I owe my allegiance only to the Hunt, and only when they ride do I cease from my duties..."
     He chuckles in the back of his throat, then takes a bite of food. Chewing meditatively, he puts the leg down, looking around with a bemused expression - the expression of one caught almost in the act of wiping his hand off on his trousers. Instead, he alters his course to a napkin, wiping his greasy fingers off and continuing once he's swallowed.
     "I have, as I've said, been to the mortal realms again. If you haven't been recently, I can't say as I much like what they've done with the place - some improvements, surely, but they've largely done away with horses." Peter sounds almost indignant, with an undercurrent of tolerant amusement. Ah, what fools those mortals be. No, really. "Saw the Oak King - I've been tidying up," and the humour flees from his expression suddenly, voice leaden, "the last of Isabel's business."

     "Oh, I'm well aware of my own importance - some say that I am far too aware of it." Peter grins, that quick rakish expression that flies over his features, bordering on a smirk. He shrugs a bit, feet still placed one atop the other, one eyebrow quirking upwards at the royal two across from him, even as he leans forward to seize a leg of some fowl and bring it back with him. "I appreciate your kindness, but my words are just that - words, as much a part of my duty as my duty itself. I am not of any of the courts, remember - not even the Wild Court. I owe my allegiance only to the Hunt, and only when they ride do I cease from my duties..."
     He chuckles in the back of his throat, then takes a bite of food. Chewing meditatively, he puts the leg down, looking around with a bemused expression - the expression of one caught almost in the act of wiping his hand off on his trousers. Instead, he alters his course to a napkin, wiping his greasy fingers off and continuing once he's swallowed.
     "I have, as I've said, been to the mortal realms again. If you haven't been recently, I can't say as I much like what they've done with the place - some improvements, surely, but they've largely done away with horses." Peter sounds almost indignant, with an undercurrent of tolerant amusement. Ah, what fools those mortals be. No, really. "Saw the Oak King - I've been tidying up," and the humour flees from his expression suddenly, voice leaden, "the last of Isabel's business."

     Once more, the queen blushes, shaking her head at Hwyll. Terrible he is! "One day, I'll say Yes... and then perhaps know some peace?" she asks, rhetorical and grinning, trying to hide the heat rising in her cheeks behind her goblet once more.
     Lowering the drink once more, she turns her gaze away from the flirt to the messenger. There's almost a look of relief in her face as she sees Peter go for the napkin instead of his trousers, but she quickly covers it up. Yes, they're his trousers, but it shows some decorum, certainly.
     "Done away with horses?" Hafwen asks, nearly disbelieving. "How barbaric..." she chimes in, then finishes her honeywine, letting her goblet dangle from her fingers lazily after the last mouthful. Resting her hip against the side of the table, as she has chosen to remain standing, she looks almost as comfortable as Hwyll might have been when he had his feet atop of it.
     Sky blue eyes focus suddenly, though, training on Peter with a sharpness of genuine interest. "The Oak King.. you saw him? How does he fare?" she asks softly, reigning in some emotion that isn't permitted to fully surface.

     O, you just had to mention him. Hwyll's expression sours and he even so much as frowns. The Oak King. They were not always so at odds. Were it not for one Queen's heart, they should be allies. But so long as he is the Unrequited and In The Way, so he shall be the one that causes that beautiful face to contract in an expression of Spare Me, as eyes take on a thunder-filled darkness.
     "Actually, they still have horses, only they're made of steel and glass and rubber, lacking in personality but gaining in speed. The things one sees when one's blowing over houses and trees," cyclone that he can sometimes be. He seems all of the sudden and altogether Frightfully Bored, even going so far as to twirl his hair around his finger, looking at the platinum wave it makes with rapt fascination.
     He's such a spoil sport, really...
     "I suppose he's still moping," Hwyll rolls his eyes. "He's so moody. Wears the curse like a chip on his shoulder. We all have our problems," he goes on. "I don't know why you bother," he mutters under his voice to the Oak Queen.
     When a perfectly handsome and rather wretchedly available prince is sitting beside you asking you to wed him...

     "That is not a horse. And being part horse myself - I'll leave it to the two of you to discuss which part, but I'd wager your first guess is likely incorrect," the son of a pwca and a sidhe smirks, "I think I know to recognize a horse for a horse and a non-horse for a non-horse, aye?" The pale eyebrows, like unto Isabel's colouring, rise roguishly for a moment, then sink back down.
     "The Oak King? When last I saw him directly, he was attempting to come to some sort of decision. We men do that sometimes, you know - the moreso where ladies of breeding are concerned," good or ill breeding, the slant of grin suggests, "but in some ways, he's come to conclusions, hasn't he? Or have - no, I suppose neither of you would have seen, not being the rider that I am. But still, if you go to the top of your tower, or beg, borrow or steal a lift from His Highness, there," the goblet's lifted in salute in Hwyll's direction, "you'll see for yourself. The Oak King's kingdom's awake, you know. Haven't you seen?"
     Well, he is a messenger...
     Hwyll gets a slight snort and grinning shake of the head from Peter. "He was befuddled when I saw him, but his kingdom was waking even then. And more recently, well ... you really should take a look, it's been a bit of a sight to behold, lately. All sorts of changes going on. You mean to say that neither of you have seen or heard?"

     The look on Hwyll's face is seen, but Hafwen does not draw attention to it. She knows how he feels... but she is the Oak Queen who swore to await the Oak King. She told him she would wait. Perhaps it was out of a sense of duty, or even honour, but she has waited... all this time.
     Holding up her hands, palms outward, she grins, murmuring, "I would not wish to guess which part, no... there are some things which even a queen must not have a hand at... lest she offend someone." And she wouldn't want to offend Peter. Instead, she remains happy to let that lie and not know what part is the horse or not -- a mental image she doesn't need.
     Once more he mentions the Oak King and once more she focuses more intently on the messenger. But this time, it is not an expression of interest but of confusion. "It's... it's awake? He is... here? What decision was he making? Peter, you speak in riddles. Will you not say what you have seen? Plainly and in clear words?" Turning to face Hwyll, her eyes plead with him...
     Do you know what this is about?
     Have you seen what he is speaking of?
     What have you heard, if anything?
     She is desperate to know what is going on...

     "Certain... blossoms have blown... carried by other winds," Hwyll says, looking to Hafwen and to Peter and then lastly to nothing. "Blossoms of an apple tree. I wondered what kingdom had given birth to such. The apples of the valley... the seeds of happiness, the ground is rich with tender care," he whispers. Then sighs, brows lifting then flattening.
     "I am of no kingdom," Hwyll notes, "...but live in each one. I travel so extensively, that it is long...long before news catches up to me, or I hear it repeated upon the thousands until I am sick of it. But... no... nothing but those blossoms have I seen... no news but those..." he says directly to Hafwen.
     With narrowed eyes he peers to Peter. "There is only one way the land of a king, long dormant, can wake, and that is if the king returns. The land is the king, and the king is the land. If it is waking then he... is... waking..." It sounds as if he is not sure. But what other reason could there be? "It has been sleeping for centuries. Why now?"
     And now the West Wind is fidgeting. His wooing seems to be at an end, and he both awestruck by the news and filled with his own selfish unhappiness...
     If the King is returning, our game is at an end, Prince...

     Peter's eyebrows arch upwards, and he shakes his head quizzically, with a small shrug. "When I spoke to him, it was to bring him an item which had been my cousin's, which sought to make its way into his possession. I have been very busy, off and on at odd times, delivering items and messages... I wish that she had been in tidier order, but her end was not quick, and she was driven half-mad by the end of it." As ever when speaking of Isabel, his expression grows more somber, voice harsher, until he is almost the Huntsman he occasionally plays the part of.
     It smoothes away again, and he allows his feet to thump to the ground, shifting his chair in with a slight shrug. "When I saw him, he promised me pay in exchange for trumpeting the end of his Exile. The Oak King's exile is at an end, Your Majesty, Your Highness; three years in Cymru, and at the end, he has emerged." He sips from his goblet with surprising fastidiousness, suddenly every inch the herald he's been called, chin rising; the Sidhe blood more noticeable now than the Pwca.
     "All things change. We all know this, as does he. He has returned - but that does not mean that he has given up his mortal holdings, as why he should, I do not know. His lands are fertile and ripe, the trees have been on the move - the streams fill their banks and overflow with salmon. Every patch of earth and sky teams with life and vibrancy. Spring came early to the mortal lands which are his, and surround his - I am not the only one to have witnessed that."
     There is a small pause as he contemplates the rim of his goblet. "Isabel's Tower has opened, as well..."

     The Oak Queen seems content that the Lord of the West was not withholding information from her after a long moment of starting at him. Nodding slowly, she murmurs, "Blossoms of an apple tree... and his kingdom awakens..." Which does mean, yes, that he awakens. But what causes this sudden awakening and why has he not tried to contact her? Hafwen is confused and feeling rather left in the dark... the fires of the hearth die down just a little, dimming the hall until the three of you remain ensconced in a single bubble of dim light, shadows reaching into the corners of the hall. The servants seem to be strangely absent. This discussion is not for other ears right now. Her blue eyes look down a moment at the goblet in her hand.
     He is back.
     His long Exile is over.
     Yet... why has he not contacted her?
     Glancing back up first at Hwyll, a look of perhaps sympathy there, as though she knows his thoughts. For him, she tries to hide her elation... but as she looks to Peter, it grows a bit. He's back! Composing herself, she murmurs softly, "I know that this business with your cousin is difficult for you... but necessary. You are... dedicated." Her lips move into a gentle smile offered to him.
     She hears the 'but' in the conversation, though. He's back, but...
     But what? She's not fully grasping something here... she recognizes this and this fact taunts her somewhere in the back of her brain.
     Then something else is said and it takes a moment to register before she repeats, "Isabel's Tower... opened. By whom?"

     No, he's decidedly off his feed. The honeywine is no longer sweet, the food is bland, the news is boring and trifling and ... well, it's not at all good! Hwyll ap Gwyn sets aside his goblet, lightning rippling across his armor, flashing in his eyes as he sits back, arms crossing at his metaled chest.
     It is at the mention of the Tower that his platinum brows lift and likewise his mood. A corner of his mouth tries to upturn. It makes his overall expression a little less glowering, though still not exactly the mirth and merriment one has come to expect from Hwyll ap Gwyn. "Isabel's Tower, you say?" And then he puckers his mouth in a thoughtful smirk, lightning flashing again, but this time in thought, rather than jealousy. "Isabel had a descendant," he notes, "... of some acquaintance with ap Owain," he notes for the record.
     He doesn't say how often the man visited the girl's flat, mind you. Just... acquainted...
     "Interesting that both would occur the one upon the heels of the other it would seem. Well," Hwyll says, leaning in and looking to Peter. "I'd say this merits a visit... it's spring... it's a season for storms," Hwyll notes offhandedly, the same way one might pluck lint from one's bellybutton.
     Yes, he is going to find out what's going on...
     "If I bring back worthy news," he murmurs, looking to Hafwen. "Will Your Majesty reward me with some favor of hers, close to her heart?"

     "Isabel had a descendant," Peter agrees, with a slightly indifferent shrug. It's rather like saying ... oh, look, there are flowers in the fields ...
     More surprising if she had no descendants at all, really.
     "Though I suppose it's more remarkable," he concedes, "that one of her more or less mortal descendants, apparently, was tagged as being her heir. I don't know anything about the girl, I'm afraid - I don't tend to keep track of every offspring of the family. One can't. I'd have no time for my work." Quite literally true, with how some faeries tend to breed. "It's not inconceivable that the Oak King knows her - after all, Huw met her too, didn't he? Heard something about her being drawn to this side of the worlds, as it were, for a visit."
     One pale eyebrow cocks interrogatively at the Prince of Winds and Storms, then lowers as he turns his attention back to the still not entirely pleased Queen. "I'm afraid I don't know who's opened Isabel's Tower, Your Majesty," Peter answers. "Probably her heir, as that's most often the way of things - if so, then the girl's likely come into her power, and hence, her kingdom. But I haven't heard anything of her being seen at the tower. I haven't gone for a visit, though, so I really - couldn't say."
     As to the topic of his dedication, he offers no comment. Whatever pact he and Isabel had sprung, it has not yet freed him entirely from her service - and that, in a way, chafes. The messenger smiles faintly, the half-mad light glimmering in his grey eyes. "Oh, it's spring," he agrees. "I'd told Ap Owain I'd be by once I'd delivered his message, to collect my pay. Do tell me when you're going, Your Highness - tempting though it is to see how you do your business, I'd rather not get drenched in the collection of payment for mine."

     An acquaintance? To the Oak King? And both towers seem open and alive at the same time...? No, she mustn't think it. Coincidence...nothing more. Right?
     The Oak Queen looks from Hwyll to Mad Peter and back, seeming at a loss for words, even as the room gets a bit darker, the circle of light from the hearth hugging the three of you more closely. Forcing a smile, the proud Danann woman holds her head high and replies simply, "Hwyll, please go with my blessing..." No verbal response is given to him regarding his request...others are present. But her eyes lock on his briefly.
     I must know!
     Once more she pulls her gaze away from the prince before her as she says to Peter, "Thank you for all of this information... all of this news. If you see him," the Oak King, "could you... mention I enquired about him?" Let him know that she's aware of his presence. See what comes of it. Materializing before the messenger, a crimson velvet bag sits open, revealing precious jewels. A pre-payment. "But... please do not tell him that I'm sending Hwyll," a simple, yet intense looks fixes upon Peter as she says this.

     The prince rises from the chair only to lower to his knees, still tall even then, the sidhe Prince of the Wind and Storms. He takes her hand, he kisses the center of her palm, the heart of it, and he makes a promise, mouthing words without voice...
     You will know...
     With a smile, Hwyll rises and he turns to Peter with a grin, seeming moment by moment more of what ap Gwyn should be. "There's only one way to find out for sure..."
     Maybe it will be bad news for ap Owain, but good news for ap Gwyn...
     Such a glorious prince, "For such a journey," he looks to Hafwen, "I will need several fingers to braid my hair. Whom shall I employ?" As if he would do it himself when women are about. Were such not beneath the standing of a Queen, she should do it herself.
     Oh, he would rather it...

     One eyebrow is arched upwards; well, well, and well. Peter just shrugs though, rising to his feet. "Your Majesty, I do not involve myself in politics; even at Isabel's behest, I was but minimally involved. Where love and politics cross, you will not find me, save as messenger." The words are offered simply, without anger or real emotional attachment : this is why he is a messenger, not a courtier, not nobleman or lord. It is not accident of birth alone...
     It is deliberate choice.
     "I will carry your message." It is what he does. One eyebrow is raised at the pouch of jewels, and leaning forward, Peter selects three gems from the contents. "I will leave you to His Highness, and ride forth tonight to bring word to the Oak King. If there is a return message, I shall negotiate such passage at that time." The boots are placed the more solidly upon the floor, even as the gems are tucked away in one fist.
     "Is there anything more which either of you require of me?" Mad Peter is already halfway out the door, in spirit if not in flesh...

     The Prince of Winds and Storms on his knees? Sure, she's a queen, but this does take her by surprise. Once more, colour rises in her cheeks, her free hand lifting to touch her lips, as though to stifle a sound, or to cover up the fact that she is gaping. She doesn't regain her composure until the prince has risen once more.
     As to the question of who will braid his hair, Hafwen finds her voice, saying quietly, "I will do it for you..." Payment for a favour, perhaps? Or a bit of a delay tactic? Hard to tell, perhaps, for her expression changes to one of calmness, placidity, worry-lines smoothing out finally, leaving her flesh unmarred once more.
     Turning back to Peter, she nods once and bobs her head quickly, sending fiery locks to flutter about her momentarily. "Thank you, good Peter. May your journey be swift and without incident," the Oak Queen offers, noting his discretion in the amount taken from the pouch. It is left there for now... it would be rude to make it vanish before him, wouldn't it? "I have no further messages to send, no. But thank you. My kingdom is, of course, always open to you..."

     You know, in some fairy kingdoms, braiding a man's hair's as good as being married to him. And for most, they'd figure that's as close to it as Hwyll ap Gwyn is likely ever to get...
     The smile is true and warm and wide. He glances from the object of his adoration to Hafwen...ha! just kidding...from Hafwen, rather, to Mad Peter, who's not so mad really. Crazy like a fox, they say, to stay out of The Fairy Fray. "You'll see me, surely, the wind blowing through the barley," Hwyll says to the Herald. "Go well, old friend. And give Huw a swift kick on the backside for me if you see him. He owes me more coins than even I can count..."
     Still standing at the tableside, Hwyll turns to the Oak Queen, hands seeking hers and the smile teasing a touch. "You know, Your Majesty," he whispers, the great big flirt, "... it's been known to take hours..."

     "From what I understand," Peter retorts, with a broad, masculine grin, "Huw managed to win from you a few times as well, and it nearly came to blows." But he'll not go on about it; he only half-heard, a tale Huw told him to talk him down from battle madness, when he'd thought he'd found one of Isabel's killers...
     He bows slightly, once to the queen, once to the prince, and then rises. "When I have news, I will return. Try not to destroy anything just yet, Hwyll Half-Seasoned," he grins, "because if there's anything more difficult than riding through the Between with the hounds of chaos on my heels, it's riding through the between with the hounds of chaos on my heels /and/ storms and lightning following me. We may save the dramatic for another occasion..."
     Peter turns, then, the great cloak swirling, to clomp towards the exit. Heigh, ho, it's a messenger's life, lads... never long out of the saddle, and we wouldn't have it any other way.

     The messenger's words bring a slight, quiet smile to her face, but it fades quickly even as she nods to him as he leaves.
     The queen's attentions are drawn from the retreating Mad Peter, Peter of the Valley, by the whispering voice of Hwyll and the touch at her hands. Eyes, sky-blue, seek out his as she murmurs softly, "I can do it quickly... for now... perhaps I can do a better job of it later..." A promise made?
     There is a pause as she squeezes the fingers of the Lord of the West as her expression changes again... to that of determination. When she speaks again, it is not a question or a request... it is a statement, even a demand -- though not one made haughtily or in anger.
     "Take me with you."
     I must see with my own eyes...

Posted by rowan at March 26, 2004 01:55 PM