It was a long, loud and vigorous night...
     Long enough and loud enough that in the occasional still moments, the wing was remarkable for its exceptional stillness, as if it had somehow been emptied...
     Not that Fiona felt any real need to remark upon it, of course. After all - she's been kept busy enough.
     When morning finally arrived, it was likely with a small amount of relief, really, that she curled up with your immobilized form and passed into sound slumbers. There are some small downsides, occasionally, to being romantically entangled with the local fertility figure.
     It's not until four in the afternoon that she finally was awakened, and groaningly went and collected a hot shower, taking her own sweet time about it. She's almost embarrassed to show her face belowstairs again, but after a leisurely toilette, down she'd gone - to collect tea for herself and borrow the kitchen for a bit, with a brief stopover in the music room.
     Oh ... you didn't know that she could cook, did you ...
     Sunset comes, the last pink and gold glow sinking behind the mountains as night once again returns to Welshpool and Powis. It's actually perhaps ten or so minutes past then that she returns to the chamber, wheeling a tray-table on which are a coffee service with plenty of cream and sugar and honey, and a large covered dish.
     She's dressed more for convenience than fashion, this time, and despite her shower, looks just a trifle rumpled - faded jeans, a white t-shirt with a blue and white checked button-up over that, and the hot pink bunny slippers on her feet, hair caught back into a single long ponytail. Fiona peers over at the bed, looking for you as she brings the table forward, listening for the sound of running water. "Daaaaaavydd," she calls, a coaxing, teasing note to her voice. The expression on her face can best be described as ... remarkably satisfied.

     He's still in bed but he's awake. You can see the nose wrinkle and the eyes practically nail themselves shut, that face screwing up tight. No, no... do not go gently into that good night! Rage, rage against the...
     ...Is that coffee? Honey? Honey and cream...
     The dogs come by it honestly, you see...
     A lazy hand comes up, unceremoniously rubbing at his eyes his face and he turns his wakened self over to look at you, rolling over to lean on a massive shoulder, half pulling out of covers. An agile toe peeks out. If you were closer, you'd be grabbed.
     As it is, green eyes are instantly brilliant, instantly reflecting a magical realm redoubled, and as soon as they see you, locking onto you, they smolder.
     Well, it is spring...
     Fortunately, it being spring, he can be distracted by food easily enough. A way to a man's heart, for certes, straight through his stomach. "Look at this, boyos," he says to the corgis at the foot of the bed -- how do they do that? "If you stay in bed long enough after a night of wild lovemaking, you get rewarded with snacks...lessons to be learned, lads, lessons to be learned. How are you, Mrs. King?" he says quietly, sitting up, mouth sidewinding to the nickname. He rather likes it.
     Great self borne up by a hand to the mattress, Davydd ap Owain reaches for you and for a proper salutation. A kiss. A day, which is his night, cannot begin without it. "I think tonight, we will stay in here," he rolls out, voice rumbling in that chest. "So... what did you bring me? Coffee... honey...very good...what's under that," he says of the covered dish.

     It's an amusing thing to watch, really - and not something she's unfamiliar with, all in all. She's never really enjoyed having to be a morning person, when she's had to be...
     So she's amused and tolerant of the sight, though it's not by sheer coincidence alone that she's not in grabbing reach. She is familiar with your appetites...
     Intimately familiar, in fact.
     "Good morning, Scarecrow," Fiona retorts, the edges of her own mouth curving upwards. "I'm fairly well - no, scratch that, I'm ridiculously well. Although I'm sitting down a bit cautiously."
     This time, she lets you pull her closer, stepping around the tray and putting her hands on your shoulders, lips coming to yours. After that business is - enjoyably - taken care of, she pulls back again. "Coffee, cream, honey, sugar, and I decided that for my first day as your official fiancee, I'd bake something for you," Fiona answers in a faux-demure tone of voice, grinning with just an edge of mischief. "And it seemed that I had all the ingredients close to hand, after all..."
     She pulls free, lifting the cover from the platter, on which sits a cake. "Apple crumb cake," Fiona announces blithely, picking up a knife. "After all," her lips curve with sublime humour, "we had, it seems, all of these apples just going to waste. And we couldn't have that, could we?"

     He laughs. It's not uproarious. It's a snort and a throat-held sound. He looks from the crumb cake to you, back and forth. "You know, just a year ago I'd have asked for a royal taster," he winks. "Who would have thought. The girl with the magenta pageboy can bake." Davydd chuckles again and twists, arranging the pillows so he can remain in bed and eat at the same time, sitting propped up, covers falling to his waist and hips.
     Twisting again, he leans to pour a cup of coffee, "Cut us a bit... come into bed and we'll feed one another," it's not a double entendre -- Davydd means it exactly as it sounds. Sugar in the cup, even a dollop of honey and his eyes brighten, sharpen with the prospect of appetites entertained. "I'm pretty fucking fantastic myself. That's why I'm staying right where I am..."
     He'll shower, he can't stand not showering, but ... not while there's food to be had...
     Coffee cradled in his hands, lifted to his lips, Davydd smiles before he sips, and then you hear that dream-quiet, earthy voice, smooth and rough all at the same time: "As I walked out one summer's morn, I saw a scarecrow tied to a pole in a field of corn. His coat was black, his head was bare, and as the wind shook him, the crows took into the air..."
     "Ah, but you'd lay me down and love me. Ah, but you'd lay me down and love me, if you could..."
     He does have a song for every occasion. Davydd swallows the coffee with a heavenly groan, well... maybe not heavenly but it's a welcomed rush of heat and sweetness. Turning his red, mussed hair on the pillow, Davydd grins at you, the comet-quick smile, the green eyes warm and sparkling with the trail of his expression's light.

     "My grandmother taught me how to cook when I was still a kid," Fiona answers complacently, cutting the cake with a competent hand, grinning across her shoulder. "She told my mother that just because she landed a lord doesn't mean I should expect the same... Mother rather felt she was missing the point."
     The cake is lifted and put onto a plate, then carried over to be set next to the bed as she returns to fix a cup of coffee for herself. "You're too solid to be a real scarecrow, Davydd. Too solid, and too ... dragon-y. Any scarecrow'd catch fire from all the heat..."
     Sugar, and honey, and cream - plenty of cream, really, so that it's only half coffee, if that much. She sits herself down on the edge of the bed, leaning one hand over to touch your knee. "So ... did you sleep well?" What a question.

     His mouth twists at the rim of the cup and he laughs, a warm, waking sound. "Like the dead. As usual. Actually," joking aside, "... I did. I dreamed a while," he murmurs, sipping at the coffee as he watches you cut the cake. He watches you as you move to set it down. He follows you as you return to pour a cup for yourself. The smile pulls, tugs, wider and wider, warmer and warmer.
     His hair seems like flames, all sticking up and out of order, fiery red, bronze and coppery, thick it is, in waves that go their own way, particularly after such hard sleep. Fire he has in spades. And heat, he has that covered. Green sparkles in a wink when you mention the heat and he slumps carefully down, turning to lie on his side with the coffee cup cradled in, and his other fingers plucking a little of the crumb cake away for the first taste. Davydd closes his eyes.
     "The apples still taste like you," he murmurs. He smiles to think of it. "It's like having a Fiona crumb cake... hmmm... " Fairy men are gluttons, and if you're not careful they'll eat your whole cake...

     She leans over, unable to help herself, to run fingers through your hair, watching how it moves and reflects in the light. "Well, I hope they were good dreams. I slept hard - can't imagine why," she teases, straightening up and wrapping both hands around her mug.
     "Funny, it didn't taste like me to me," Fiona quips, "not when I was making it, anyway. I'm guessing you'd like to keep your own slice, this time? I'll cut myself my own, so you don't have to share." Fiona reaches over again to poke at blue-toned ribs after a sip of coffee, then sets her cup aside. "I haven't seen anyone," she adds, lips tugging up at the edges, "so far today. I think we may have emptied out the house, Davydd."

     "Mmm... they were good." He doesn't have to tell say anything else. It's the way he says 'good' that conveys it all -- and moreso. Davydd laughs, earthy sound rolling from his throat, lingering in his chest, smoothened somewhat by the coffee on the throat, as he licks his fingers. "You eating yourself would be something of a physical wonder. You could probably get your own show on telly if you could do that..."
     He takes alternating swallows of the coffee in conjunction with the crumb cake, looking like he's in heaven -- or in the most decadent wing of hell. "It is amazing," Davydd says seriously, "... I had no idea that apples were such an aphrodisiac..." The voice holds wonder, genuine surprise. Half the piece is gone and he leans back on the pillows and sighs, moans more like, finishing off the coffee and twisting, setting the cup aside.
      "I was thinking, as I was lying here waiting for you," Davydd murmurs, "...dangerous I know," he half-quips in continuance, "...but... I think I am going to show you some of Black Jack's treasure. You can pick any ring you want. I have the most extensive collection of rings from the 16th through 18th centuries. Black diamonds, yellow, pink, rubies... any bauble that pleases you...is yours. I just think you'd be happier having something unusual, a real treasure. Besides..."
     Davydd's voice drifts slightly as he stares openly, feeling the rush and want, the magic, the need that you inspire and the apples that will forever taste of you, your skin, your mouth, your thighs. "... I like the idea of you dripping in the jewels I stole... "

     She breaks off a piece of the cake from her slice, bringing it to and past her lips, chewing and swallowing with eyes half-closed. "Mmm. It's never as good as a cake someone else's made, but it's still good. The apples help." One hand comes out to lightly slap your hip. "I'm flexible. I'm not -that- flexible. And don't bloody count on it - if someone's going to eat me, it's going to be you."
     There's a cheeky grin accompanying the sudden reddening flush spreading across her face to accompany the words...
     The coffee's picked up, a thirsty swallow taken of it - ah, caffeine, blessed art thou, the moreso when thou art Good Coffee - and she turns and sets it down again, picking up the knife instead. She carves off a sizable chunk, leaning over to put it on your plate. "Have as much as you like - you don't seem likely to gain weight by it, and there's plenty, you know."
     Fiona tilts her head as she straightens, then props her chin on her hand, smiling at you slowly, a smile which spreads into a grin. "You? Thinking? With something not between your legs?" She's teasing, and it shows in her eyes, though then she blinks as your words sink in, and she grows a bit pinker, voice going softer, uneven. "I ... are you sure? I mean - I have to admit, Davydd, I'd rather something like that than going round to lots of shops. It seems a bit silly to spend money on a ring, even with my family's associations with the trade, and ... well, it'd mean more to me. New jewelry always sort of feels artificial, don't you think?"
     Her chin dips downwards in a moment of self-consciousness as you look at her, though the corners of her mouth still curve upwards and inwards. "Well ... I suppose I could model them for you, couldn't I? Old Man ... seems there's some recompense for loving a notorious antique, hmm?"

     Davydd nods, "I'm sure," he says, "I want you to have your pick... a necklace too. We'll go in a bit. I'll show you where they are. You can bring them back here, lose the rest of your kit and try them on for me." He turns his head, looking to the rest of his slice of cake.
     He wants it...
     He really wants it...
     Green eyes cut over to you and Davydd grins roguish, eyes glinting bright, "And yes, me... thinking," he quips suddenly, smirking, "It can happen." He pulls off another bit, forgoing fork, eating it with his bare hands. The sensuality of touch is as important as taste. Davydd lies back, licking his fingers again, rolling his eyes in that Fuck me sort of look and exhales. "I'm going to have to save the rest for later. I'm feeling dizzy from all the blood rushing away from my head. You're a hell of a cook, woman," he murmurs. "Diolch," a whisper there.
     Twisting he sets his plate back on the cart, tempted to have another cup of coffee, but he wants his hands free suddenly. Propping his head up on his hand, elbow to the surface of the mattress, Davydd rolls onto his side, watching you eat. "Sawden awdl, sidan ydiw," Davydd sings lowly, "...sem fach, len ar gont wen wiw...Ileiniau newn man ymannerch, y llwyn sur, llawn yw o serch..." He looks at you directly, unwavering, smiling. "Fforest falch iawn, ddawn ddifrog...ffris ffraill, ffwrwr dwygaill deg...breisglwyn merch, drud annerch dro, berth addwyn...Duw 'n borth iddo..."

     "I knew there was a catch," Fiona quips, brushing crumbs from the cuff of her shirt. "But I suppose I can do my little turn on the catwalk for you."
     She finishes her coffee, then stands, carrying the empty cup back to the tray. Turning, she remains standing there, one hand up against one of the posts of the bed, grinning down at you almost as broadly as Rhyddid or Bwci would. "It helps to have fresh ingredients to work with," she murmurs, voice suddenly teasing.
     "And, well - you always did find me rather fresh, didn't you...?"
     Climbing back up onto the bed, she parts the hangings with both hands as she joins you, moving to stretch herself out against your back, curving herself to fit your warmth, lips pressing to your shoulder as one arm goes round your waist, over your hip, palm flattening between ribs. "Is that all Welshmen think about," she whispers, "or do you sometimes spare a thought for other topics? Sex, God, and farming..." Lightly, she bites down, then kisses again a moment later.
     "But I'm not going to let you have your wicked way with me just yet," Fiona adds sweetly, pulling away. "Bloody tireless man. Someday, I'm going to see if I can wear you out before you've worn me out - maybe on our honeymoon. Either that, or..." Her eyes brighten with sudden mischief and wariness commingled, and she shakes her head. "Come on, let's go see this jewelry. The cake will still be there after, you know."

     "Hmmm," the sound reverberates against you as you lie flush against his back. Grinning, Davydd half rolls, giving you a bit of his weight to contend with, lifting his head to look at you over a broad, vibrantly colored shoulder. A fiery eyebrow cocks upward suddenly. "I think about food," he counters in a mock protest. "... and sleep," he laughs. Rolling off of you, his hand reaches back and gives your rear a gentle slap.
     "Alright, alright... I suppose I'll stand under some water later," he rumbles, throwing off the covers to reveal a veritable congress of dragons. They seem to swirl with his motions, with the motion inherent in the depictions.
     The apples were quite inspiring...
     Quite.
     "I'm the most dangerous man in the world, in thirty minute intervals," Davydd quips out, voice lifting and inflection lilting as he strolls naked as a jaybird and with something of that strut to his own walk-in closet. A blue jaybird, that is. He rummages for pants and a shirt. "You do wear me out... but I'm like a bad penny, I keep coming back. Gah, Duw," he protests softly, but to what it is uncertain. There's the clatter of hangers in motion to follow it.
     "I think about music, too," he grins, poking his head out of the closet, pants half on and a shirt on but not buttoned. "And food. Did I say food already?"

     She squirms out from underneath, yelping in mock-protest at the slap, even as her gaze grows briefly heated. She's a girl, but she has her tomboy moments...
     Couldn't have been much of a punk without them, after all...
     "Bloody faerie bastard," she murmurs, sitting up and crosslegged as she watches you toss away the blankets and rise. If her gaze briefly dips downwards, then the apples of Avalon may surely take all of the blame - tonight, at least. "Someday," Fiona threatens, "I'm going to play the most dangerous practical joke on the most dangerous man in the world, and neither of us may survive it." She's grinning again, almost a silly grin,
     "You said food - several times, in fact," she agrees, watching you dress with some amusement. The vicarious pleasure of being the first one up... "And you think about poetry, and fishing. And women. And sometimes your family, or travel, or Bwci and Rhyddid. By the way, have I driven you half-mad lately?" One eyebrow cocks upwards, and she slides off the bed and to her feet.
     "Because if not, you know ... well, then, I'm overdue."

     He laughs from the confines of the closet, a dark laugh for a dark environ, and he steps into the light like a Welsh general moving from the depths of forest to the clear line of battle, dressed in a light, grey jumper over woolen trousers, a charcoal grey. "The way you tell it," he says, hands at your hips, "I sound like a regular Renaissance Man." His lips quirk a smile, his hands locking behind you as he bends for a kiss.
     "When we all know I'm Middle Aged," Davydd grins against your mouth. "I like practical jokes," he steps away, heading into the bathroom. He's at least going to pull a comb through his hair. "William had a break in once. I sent him a box of padlocks with a note that said: heard you needed help with home security." Davydd grins at his reflection. "That was funny," he snorts.
     Though he hates to lose the taste of apples, teeth are brushed. And though he looks good disheveled, hair is combed. It's a fresh-pressed fairy king who greets you, looking rough and tumbly, posh and noble all at once.
     "Half-mad? I don't think you've ever done anything, myself included, half-assed, darlin," Davydd cackles. "You drove me more than half mad last night, and a little crazy this morning...evening... if I may say so. But," hands lift, as if to halt any protest before it can start, "...I'm sure you'll come up with something. You always do..."

     "Ancient. Methuselah. Old Man..." She throws the words like taunts, murmuring them against your lips, one after another, kissing you and then moving to the edge of the bathroom door, leaning there. "William had a ... oh, that was mean." She's laughing; how could she not? "He must've been ready to throw them at your head, though."
     Absently, she fiddles with the buttons on her shirt, opening them, closing them, in and out, then letting the shirt slide off so she's in just jeans and t-shirt. It's not that she's tremendously impatient; she just feels the need to not hold still.
     "You've been driving me insane," Fiona retorts, "since I met you. What is it that you always say? 'I'm a bad man...'"
     Blue eyes briefly look lazy, eyelashes gone to half-mast as she mulls that one over. "I'll come up with something later," Fiona decides, turning on her heel to sidle back towards the centre of the room. "Right now, I'm going to give in to my heritage and be a girl..."

     "I'm a bad man," Davydd murmurs against your mouth, smiling there, "...and I do bad things. I'm wretched," he chuckles, sound clinging to his throat. "Wicked," he whispers. And then he laughs, brightly, warmly. A shake of his head and, laughing still, he heads out of bathroom and halfway past the bed. Those legs cover ground quickly, a stride that belong to Mars, quickness to Mercury...
     "I have every faith in you," the Oak King rolls out as he goes, "... that you'll drive me half mad by morning. You're a naughty little princess and you live to torment me." He takes a piece of apple crumb cake with him, glancing back at you with a wink, and he heads down the sharp-stepped stairs from bedroom to sitting room.
     "Thank heaven," comes the crooning voice below, "...for little girls...without them what would little boys do?"

~*~          ~*~

     Two keys are removed, singled out from a pocket of similarly fashioned keys, one for each keyhole of a double-doored entry. The doors themselves are rather ornate panel-like entries, very 17th Century, with the handles being more of man-height, at Davydd ap Owain's chest rather than at the more modern hip level.
     The hall is nestled in a turret opposite the residence halls, containing the more museum-like chambers, rooms left uninhabited and kept in tidy historical context for summer tours. At the top floor, there were museums within museums -- a library containing fine manuscripts from the Reformation Age, mostly the work of Henry Vaughn, the celebrated poet of Radnor and Powys. There was an armory with weapons dating from Davydd's age -- with his personal crossbow, in fact, now preserved for posterity -- and a chamber dedicated to the history of hunting.
     Up the last flight of stairs, down a largely empty hallway, though meticulously cared for nonetheless, there was simply this double-doorway where you and your fiance now stand.
     Davydd turns the left key three times clockwise until a mechanism within the door clicks, and then he turns the right key three times counter-clockwise until a mechanism clicks once softly then once again loudly. "We have a lot of the jewelry collection out on loan," William's suggestion, that, for which the family is paid a fairly substantial fee for letting stuff just sit around being gawked at, "... but I seldom let go of the best rings, and never the best hair combs," he lilts out. He opens the doors, they're quite heavy -- he actually has to work a bit -- revealing a long narrow chamber, likely a fencing chamber once upon a time, walls lined with 16th through 18th century wardrobes and cabinets, the center of the chamber largely taken up by a round table and several Golden Age Era chairs. The floor has a runner of woven rug, tapestry style, but is otherwise the familiar red and white marble found elsewhere in Powis Castle.
     Davydd glances to you, a grin streaking across that puckish face and with a waggle of his eyebrows he takes the keys, puts them in his pocket and strides in. "Welcome to Black Jack Davy's Lair..."

     She follows along companionably enough, talking but little, looking around. She hasn't really explored the castle from top to bottom, tip to toe, so far...
     She's been a bit busy for that...
     Clockwise, counter-clockwise - it gets a slight lift of her eyebrows. Not that it's surprising that priceless antique jewelry would be kept under lock and key, of course, but it's well worth noting the little touches. "I'm surprised that you've held onto so much," Fiona murmurs, eyebrows up again as she peers past you, expression reluctantly curious - that is, she's curious, but reluctant to let you see exactly how much.
     "Your hair's a little short for the hair combs, after all," she continues following you through the doors, trailing fingertips over wood and stone alike. "But I suppose if a memory is pleasant enough, you use both hands to hang onto it, right?" She pads carefully behind you, wrinkling her nose with a grin of her own as you glance to her. She's feeling less like biting someone or something than she's used to - this mellowness surely can't last.
     "You know," Fiona remarks, "I can't help but wonder how many women you robbed, altogether - well. You and Kelly. And you never got caught, that's practically a bloody miracle in and of itself. Thank you for the welcome, but," she cocks up one eyebrow, now, with a mischievous interrogativeness to the expression, "I should ask what I'll have to give up to get back out, shouldn't I? So. Are all of these -full-?"

     "I lost count... over three hundred years... a good part of my life and nearly all of Kelly's," Davydd says, looking around the room. He glances at you over a shoulder, grinning. "I'm afraid that to get out of here you'll have to give up your freedom to sleep with other men." A pause and a smirk and a grumble, "...or be without your kit being painted naked by them..."
     He goes over to a sky-blue painted, Faberge Egg of a wardrobe and opens it with a different key. "Some have music boxes. Some rings. Necklaces, pocket watches, hairpins, hair combs..." he starts rattling off the laundry list, chuckling. "Letters, correspondences..." Green eyes fix on you and he cuts a grin, "...no coins..."
     He pulls open one of the narrow drawers, removing it and taking it over to the table. "Have a seat, love," he pats one of the chairs. "Some of this is from other... collections made over the years, Middle Ages, Renaissance. I wasn't so much a highwayman as an opportunist in those days. Bit of a packrat, me..."
     Davydd sets the shallow drawer down, showing off a festival of rings. Diamonds, rubies, garnets, sapphires. Diamonds of every shade -- black, pink, yellow. Many are highly stylized. One in particular, he lifts, "This one is called the Rose of Caergaint," he looks to you, smiling a little, "...Canterbury. It was taken from the finger of the Archbishop's secret mistress. Called that for the rose petal cut of the stone, pink diamond, that... and then the work around the edges, leaves and thorns. Beautiful craftsmanship, this. The work of the finest goldsmith of the age..."
     He sets it back down, returning to the wardrobe to fetch another shallow drawer of rings. "If you see anything you like, feel free to have it. We're long past the stage where we're hocking our jewelry to survive..."

     "You mean I had the freedom to sleep with other men before I came in here?" Fiona snaps her fingers mock-dramatically, shaking her head. "You should've said something! Oh, the opportunities lost." She moves towards the table with a slightly smug expression and an arch look. "Davydd, are you going to harp on about that painting forever? You've seen me a damned sight more naked than he has, you know..."
     At the same time, though, there's an undercurrent of slightly feral self-satisfaction of a distinctly feminine nature, tension that coils in her as she leans over the table, arms folded underneath her. "I won't get painted in the nude by other men," she half-promises, with a twitch of her lips. "...I'll just hit upon completely new strategies for driving you wild. - No coins, mm? Spent all those already, did you."
     At your word, she moves to the chair, settling onto it with one leg folded underneath her, chin propped on a fist with her elbow to the wood. She shifts, moving her hair out from beneath and behind her. "But a remarkably well organized packrat."
     Further commentary is cut off for a moment as she blinks at the drawer filled with rings, leaning forward, suddenly caught up in it despite herself. Ah, feminine vanity, how often you betray us! "...It's gorgeous," Fiona answers, sincerity in her voice, the blue of her eyes vivid as she looks at the ring, then at the other rings, one fingertip coming forward to touch very delicately the pink of the stone. "Don't know if pink's the best colour for us, though. Besides, am I a rose-sort? Even if I do have thorns, I admit."

     "I'm going to want to punch his lights out the next time I see him, you know," Davydd says warmly, bending to place a kiss upon the crown of your head as he sets down the second shallow drawer for you to pick over. There are gold rings mostly, yellow gold and white gold. There are a host of diamonds and rubies mainly. A good percentage of the stones are large-weighted. Some pear-shaped cuts, some marquis, some older cuts not used much nowadays.
     As to what suits you, he doesn't seem to know. Eyebrows cock up, the mouth twitches and then he smiles, pulling out a chair next to you and slumping down in it, lording over it and otherwise just spreading out. "I like the pear-shaped cut the best. And the yellow diamonds," he notes. "More sun-like," he shrugs his shoulders.
     Of course he'd like that..
     "But it's your ring, darlin'... you choose what suits you. We can get whatever you want resized. Pick them up, hold them to the light. You should take a few with you, mayhaps... try them on in the sun and see how they catch the light..."
     "And don't let me forget to show you the necklaces too before we head back to the room," bedroom, naturally, "... I want you to have an extra present...of your choosing..." Davydd smiles, watching you pour over the jewelry.

     "You know perfectly well that nothing happened," Fiona answers as she leans forward over the rings. "So he got to see me naked ... once. I've seen him naked, and let me tell you, no way in hell you need to worry that I'd cheat on you or dump you or anything for him. I mean - ow. A girl's got to draw the line, you know?" She glances up with that cheeky impudence showing in her grin, mitigated by the reddening flush of embarrassment that makes its way into her face.
     It's still a little odd - talking about sex in connection to herself. She covers her awkwardness by picking up a ring with a teardrop diamond in its top, examining it curiously. "My grandfather'd love to see these... his line of work, really. And you know, you're being particularly dragon-like now," Fiona glances up suddenly, shrewdly humourous in her assessment. "...All this wealth. Treasure trove - what made you be a highwayman, anyway? Was it the money? All of this? Or something else?"
     She carefully slides the ring back into its place, looking over the overwhelming selection. "I like the pear-shaped ones myself," she agrees, "and Russian cut, though that's a bit old-fashioned these days. And," Fiona adds, glancing up again with her hand hovering over a white gold ring weighted down with a marquis ruby, "you should say your thoughts. I won't give up my opinion, but while it's going to be my ring, at the same time, it's your ring I'll be wearing. There's ..."
     She settles back, holding the ring on her palm and frowning, trying to put it into words. "There's symbolism in the entire thing," she says finally. "Not so much how it reflects on you - but - I'm sounding like an idiot, aren't I."

     His complexion goes high, a quick wash of Mars red. It's not embarrassment. High, sudden and explosive emotion, however momentary -- he's a possessive one, ap Owain. But then, dragons never were known to be keen on sharing their treasure. And you are his prize gem. "Aye, aye, aye, we all know Gwilym has a third arm," he rolls out, rolling his eyes afterward. "Makes him popular at parties, to be sure. He was a fine one with the ladies, once. A real ladykiller and heartbreaker. Before he became...well... before he realized he liked men. I don't want to talk about William's dick," Davydd protests in a lifting inflection, "...while you're looking at rings..."
     "...or any time for that matter..."
     The color disappears in an instant afterward, and his expression is once more warm and open. He looks at the one you're holding, leaning in and taking it, turning your hand slowly over. "Oes... it means everlasting, eternity, unity. I think the Romans started it, the ring-giving." He looks at you, not sure actually, his smile winding for a moment, he slides the white-gold ring, the ruby substantial, onto your finger. "I like this one," he murmurs. "Red and white symbolize the halves of the year in Wales," green eyes look up from the joined hand, the ring on your finger shining. "In Celtic mythos, there was a tree half red, half white..." He leads your hand to his mouth and kisses it.
     "Symbols are everything, darlin... there's Meaning in the Universe. Symbols are a way of expressing that meaning..."

     And, of course, it was partially in the half-sly hope of seeing that burst of possessiveness that she goaded. She is far from displeased, even while half-wondering at herself...
     "Was he? I guess I can see that, but the only man I'm interested in seeing that much of is you." Fiona catches her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, adding sotto voce, "And if you haven't figured it out by now, I'm not sure what I need to do, because I'm not getting 'property of Llewellyn' tattooed across my arse!"
     She goes silent thereafter, listening, looking at the ring, watching as you slide it onto her finger. "Rubies and diamonds and gold, oh my," Fiona mutters, her smile self-deprecating, wobbling as you kiss her hand. "I sort of think it should be something like this - because you're all red anyway, and ... well, I like how it looks. Even though it looks as if it's big enough for me to deflect bullets with," she adds, not critically but with a chuckle, leaving her hand in yours, curving her fingers against your palm as she examines the ring.
     "I want to pick something that'll have meaning for us, Davydd," she ventures, voice dropping in volume. "Because you could practically put anything on my finger and it'd still be proof of what we're doing. Rubies - rubies make sense. You're red," her free hand comes up to ruffle your hair with great deliberation, an almost insolent grin appearing on her face. "And hot... and I think there's enough passion to warrant rubies. Didn't they used to say that rubies were dragon's blood?"
     "And diamonds," Fiona continues after a moment, waggling her finger so the setting shows up, "well. Hardest substance known to earth - after your and my skulls. It did take us two years. And I can't think of anything more golden than you, you know."
     With a wry twist to her mouth, she looks up from the ring, looking to your face, to your eyes. "Does marrying you make me an honourary Welshwoman? Or are you going to have to put up with being that great Welsh git who married an Englishwoman? I like this one, I think. I like that you put it on me more."

     Mouth slide a rakish grin as you tug on his hair. "Red hot," Davydd rumbles as your hand leaves his hair sticking up after, displaced and puckish, thick it sticks where it was last moved. "I like it," he nods, "...and I like the idea of it," he finishes softly. Red and white. It suits him, it suits this, and it suits the kingdoms it represents.
     A kiss of your fingers and then he sets them free, sitting back in his chair and grinning a mile wide. "I'll spank the Englishwoman out of you eventually. You'll be good as Welsh in a manner of weeks. You already speak the language. God knows you're stubborn and hardheaded enough. You're feisty," his voice growls that out, mouth slanting a grin as he looks here and yon at you, "... you're practically Welsh as it is. The fairy bits trump the English bits in you..."
     He looks at you, at the ring again, and then he stands, putting taking up both shallow drawers and returning them to the painted wardrobe, bringing a deeper drawer back with him. This is filled with necklaces and other baubles. Box upon the table, he removes one of the treasures from within it, holding it out with both hands and tilting his his head, imagining it around your neck.
     It is an architecture of pearls, dripping elaborate, high-necked design. It looks strangely Elizabethan, but it is older. At the heart of the necklace, dripping from the pearled edge, another large ruby. It would rest at the hollow of the throat, just beneath it.
     "I thought of this last night. Of how good you would look wearing this and nothing else. It is from Portugal... from my time on the Iberian peninsula long before I started doing this for a living," Davydd smiles a little, the corners of his mouth upturning. "I want to drip you in jewels," Davydd murmurs, letting the cool weight of it lie against you, "... and give you all the spoils of all my nights. It ... is for a queen's throat," Davydd says softly, hand skimming your oak-blonde hair, "... and it is my queen who should wear it..."

     She's a little pink, touched by your acceptance of her suggestion, pleased by the pleasure you take in it. She's not so touched as to fail to respond to the teasing like a bull to a red flag.
     "You and what army, Old Man?", Fiona retorts as she reclaims her fingers, chin jutting out in defiance. "Just because I'm young enough to be a schoolgirl next to you doesn't mean you get to indulge in dirty fantasies. Spanking, my arse." It's an easy escape from sentiment, at least for a few moments; and even in that escape, she's rather extraordinarily careful of the ring on her finger.
     She watches you rise, moving back to the wardrobe, expression alert with lively interest. "God, more? Davydd, this is fantastic! I mean ... I've seen society women with less jewelry - and less gorgeous jewelry - than this stuff." Her skin, already pink, begins to deepen a bit as you speak, her own voice silenced in open-mouthed surprise, eyes wide, startled by the sight of the necklace in your hands. Her own hands drop to her lap, clasping together loosely as she perches on the edge of her chair.
     "I didn't know you'd been to Portugal," Fiona manages, chin dropping slightly as you drape the heavy coils about her throat. "...You make me feel almost shy sometimes, Davydd. I don't even know what to say to this. It's ... you're very good at painting seductive images with your mouth. But this necklace," her mouth tugs up at one corner, "it makes me think bad thoughts. You are a very piratical king. I wonder what it would've been like to meet you at a different time."

     "I lived in Spain and Portugal for my first two centuries," he reveals it quietly with the trace of a smile. Satisfied, very, in watching your reactions. His hands part the drape of your hair, moving it over each shoulder, and he clasps the necklace. "After my attack, I returned to Wales... a mess of blood, thought I was dying ...or would. Something was very wrong at any rate. Not knowing who might have been behind it, I slipped into my castle and took my wife Anaia and our four children out of Wales and back to Spain. I did not stay with her, I could not. But I remained in Spain and Portugal for many years, two centuries worth, in the desert and plains of Andalusia. That is where I came to find this..."
     Davydd grins, stepping back and rounding your chair to get a look at the necklace from the front. "I'm having very good thoughts," he grins, "... it looks beautiful on you. You were meant for red and white, cariad." Fiery eyebrows lift at the notion of being a practical king. He is rather. "Practical, yes... you see how I keep things until I need them. I'm a bit frugal, but the measure of a king is in what he brings to his land, to those who follow him, and to those he loves. It's no different, really, from the measure of a true man." He grins. "Ah, now you have me when I'm clean and smell good," he cackles. "But I do have to say I was a dashing highwayman, and quite a good guerilla warrior, with fronds and vines hiding helmet and armor. The trees of the Welsh forest moved once at my glance and at my whisper..."
     He takes the box back, returning it to the wardrobe and then locking the wardrobe. "If you don't mind, love, I'd like to head back to the bed," he glances to you past a broad shoulder. "Between the apples and the ring and that necklace... I'm fit to be tied..."

     "I'm glad you made it through," Fiona murmurs, a bit distractedly. She bows her head further to allow you to fasten the necklace clasp, closing her eyes to the sight of the table's top. "...Whoever made it was a genius. How many wives have you had, anyway? Old Man..."
     She straightens in her chair, chin lifting again so that you can see her, a slow smile warming her features, crinkling the corners of her eyes, lips parting very slightly. "I tend to wear a lot of blue and green, actually," she teases. "The red I like to wear best is you, Davy..." Her gaze drops, to the ring on her hand, then lifts to your face, smile still intact. If anything, it widens just a little.
     "You have your practicality, but it was piratical I called you - a pirate king. Highwayman, warrior... I like the thought of you in leather, Davydd. I like you in trees, too. I don't deny you clean up nicely, and I know I'm being such a girl about it - but it does seem to me that sometimes it's a shame that the world's become so banal. I like it here because it's not, you know."
     Carefully, she rises to her feet, a fleeting fey expression on her face as she sweeps her hair back from her shoulders. "You're asking?", Fiona teases. "...And if I were to say no? I won't, though. I'm feeling a little overwhelmed, to tell you the truth," she admits. "I don't entirely know what it is that's got me this way, but let's have that fashion show you mentioned some other time..."
     "Right now," she adds, stepping towards you with a sly, sidelong gamine glance, "I want you to prove to me the truth of what you always say."
     A bad man ... who does bad things ...

Posted by rowan at March 30, 2004 09:48 PM