It is never entirely silent here. There are the soft sounds and scents of night, this place so well removed from the village (let alone the city).
     It is in its way an oasis away from the Present. The tourists may come during the day - and no doubt some few have begun to trickle with the beginning of spring. But it is night-time now, and there is only the glimmer of stars and a thinly sliced wedge of pale crescent moon to hang overhead for illumination between boughs.
     Fiona is sprawled on the ground in white linen, arms folded under her head as she gazes up at the archways, attention given less to what she might see and more to what she might hear.
     There are tendrils of cool mist rising upwards from the valley, fingers of atmospheric condensation that spread themselves thinly. There are drifting blossoms and petals separating themselves from trees and shrubs and all manner of plants. They drift downwards in tender floral tribute, the colourful carpet of them both beneath her and catching themselves in her hair, on her clothing, in the cleft of her cleavage and against the dun-coloured denim trousers.
     "A nightingale," Fiona comments, then whistles lowly, mimicking its song - somewhat feebly on her first try, then closer to the true note the next. She looks comfortable, barefoot and almost organic, as if she'd grown there, or been laid to rest some time ago.

     Scotch. Newspaper. Chaise lounge. Cigarette. Plate of sweet beef pockets (half gone). Welshman. These are a few of your favorite things? Choosing to sit upon the outdoor lounger, padded though it is, Davydd is the very picture of a modern, major magician...
     The newspaper is Y Cymro, the Welsh language newspaper, published out of Flint. Sports section. Other bits strewn about. The scotch is old, some present from William, being thoroughly enjoyed. The plate of sweet beef pockets was once piled high, now one can almost see the bottom of the plate. And the Welshman? A Gwynedd mountain in a light spring sweater, hand-knitted that, and trousers, looking like he just stepped out of Swansea Gentleman's Quarterly.
     "Sure it's not a woodcock?" Davydd rolls out, smoke leaving his nose and mouth in tendrils of warmer condensation, smoke -- the souls of fire breathed in and like a proper dragon, breathed out -- as he cracks a smile, flashing a look at you. He takes a moment to Consider You, lyin on the ground in your white linen. "You look like Guenevere down there," he rumbles lowly, reaching with a sound to take his glass.
     Then a beef pasty...
     "We should take the Rover, go for a drive soon. Maybe head up the north country, go to the coast for a few nights," Davydd mentions, looking back to the food -- to hell with the paper, he tosses it aside. "I miss the ocean. I've been landlocked for a year, time to see it..."

     "I'm not sure of anything. I've lived in London pretty much my entire adult life," says the twenty-two year old in the grass. So that makes - what - four, five years? "But I say it's a nightingale, so it's a nightingale until I've been presented with proof incontrovertible to the contrary."
     Shifting slowly, Fiona doesn't rise just yet - to speech or bait, take your pick. One knee draws upwards lazily as she whistles again, first with her lips, then through her teeth.
     "Guinevere, hunh. Does that make you Arthur? If so, can I shoot Frenchmen on sight? Ones I'm not related to, anyway." She grins a little bit, then rolls over onto her side, propping herself on an elbow. Her hair drags behind her, caught with crystals and the chiming of bells joins the music of the avian orchestra for a moment.
     "Swansea? How terribly conventional," she teases. More seriously, she adds, "I like the ocean, but it terrifies me a little." She scrounges through the leaves and grass until she comes up with a suitably small pebble, tossing it at your ankles. "Old Man. I need to bother you some. I'm feeling too mellow to drive you mad in my usual fashion, though. You paying attention?"

     "I have a scotch, a cigarette and a beef pie," Davydd rumbles, "...and you want me to pay attention to you?" He grins down at you, cigarette in his mouth, bouncing as he speaks, looking at you incredulously like you have a second evil head growing out of your neck. "What is it?" he rattles on warmly, seriously, as he sits up, leans forward and puts the cigarette out for now.
     Frugal though... he just extinguishes the fire, leaving it whole to be smoked later...
     The scotch he won't part with, however, and he takes it back with him, looking at you, then to his ankle, then back to you with a smirk. "I'm not Arthur, no. I'm not heroic enough. I want too many smoke breaks. Arthur Pendragon wouldn't take smoke breaks." A pause. "Unless it meant lighting Saxons on fire. Hell, I'd even be up for that. I knew a few... so... what's on your mind, darlin'? Apart from throwing pebbles at me. You could put a man's eye out, you know..."
     Spoken with all the timbre of 'You Shouldn't Run With Scissors'...

     "You're talking about setting people on fire and you're worried about me throwing rocks? Besides, Old Man, if you've got eyes down there, I want to know when you had them added." Fiona jeers as she sits up, shaking out her hair with a cacophony of decoration. "And, well, food and scotch are important, I concede..."
     There's a but coming, can't you just smell it ...
     "But they aren't more important than Me." Her chin comes up pointedly, and she folds her arms over her chest and nods. So There.
     A grin creases her features a moment later. "Well, some of it's important and some of it's less so. I'll let you figure out which is which, but I've got a bunch of stuff to ask you, and I'm not going to let you be a wanker and not answer. First question, then - when's your birthday, anyway?"
     She'll lead up to things by a progression...

     "August second, the morning after Lughnassadh. We didn't have clocks, but I was told I was born at noon. Lughnassadh was the festival of the sun god, Lugh or Llew," he gives it a Cymric twist. "Stands to reason," he mutters, looking at you with a grin. "Why, you going to see if we are astrologically aligned? Or do you just want to know when you should give me presents and be nice to me?"
     What an ass!
     Davydd streaks a grin as he looks at you, finishes the scotch and sets the glass down with an exhale. Great arms lift, hands going behind that red head of his, his legs crossing at the ankles as he stretches out. "Is this going to be off the record?" Fiery eyebrows cock upward and Davydd peers down at you.
     But he's your ass, remember that...
     "And Saxons weren't people," Davydd protests, laughing. "They were Germans... I can't tell you how many times in my life I've fought the fucking Germans..."

     Fiona rummages about for another pebble, a certain gleam to her eyes. She doesn't throw it just yet, just holding it in her palm. "Bastard," she mutters affectionately. "Actually, I don't know - it just seemed like something I ought to know, really. I'm only marrying you, isn't it the woman's job to keep track of birthdays and special occasions? Hard to do, though, if I don't know."
     A smirk appears on her face for a moment as she retorts, "Now hold on just a moment - we're getting married, that means I don't have to be nice to you anymore! Besides, I haven't bedeviled you enough lately. - Actually, I'm going to have to head out of the country for a while," she adds more seriously. "I'll give you more information on that when I know more."
     Off the record. She snorts, sitting crosslegged and tucking her heels in. "I think we've all had our share of fighting the Germans, though I concede you've had a head start. So, anyway..."
     It trails off for a moment; then she resumes after that pause. "You talk to trees and other things, and apparently you can go back and forth between here and - other places pretty much like breathing. How do I do that?"

     Davydd laughs, the sound warm and earthy, held in the chest and living in his face. He folds his arms against his chest, mouth twisting. "Someone's going to have to remember anniversaries, aye... might as well be you and what do you mean: you have to head out of the country for a while? Where are you going? Are you asking me all this just to distract me from the fact that you're going off somewhere?" the smirk says it all.
     It's not as if he believes it...
     "Well..." exhale, "... I don't know that you can talk to trees and other things. I was given that ability. You'll have to try it and see. Try meditation with your back to a trunk, see if you can commune with them. Spend time with them. See what happens. I really don't know much about your abilities. Not trying to be secretive," he insists, "... I just don't know what sort of magic you've been granted, or what that'll enable you to go off and do. We can try it sometime, however. As for the going back and forth... I'm sure you can. It's a focus thing, a shift of focus. I live in between, for the most part, seeing both sides at once."
     Davydd tilts his head, looking down at you. "That I can show you... I think we should spend some time with the magic. We'll work on focus. Focus and control... they sort of go hand in hand. And it's what you need more than anything else... "

     "No, I'm asking you quite seriously," Fiona answers, one hand draping against her knee, fingers still curled around the rock. "Though the distraction factor undoubtedly is a blessing in disguise. Keeps you from wondering where I'm going and with whom."
     Both eyebrows quirk upwards, the mischief for a moment in her smile before she then continues. "I don't know - I like plants alright, but I've never found them intrinsically very communicative. Suppose I could try sometime." Her other hand comes up to waggle from side to side, then fists up under her chin as she leans forward.
     "I'm a little worried about the magic," Fiona admits, almost under her breath. "I mean... I've managed to do a few things intentionally, but ... there's almost always all these side effects. I did manage to move from one place to another once, though!" Her expression brightens momentarily, then falls. "But I caused a bit of a blackout when I did."
     Picky, picky...
     She shifts back, then up to her feet, tossing the pebble and catching it. "I'd like to learn more - if nothing else, I want to know what I'm capable of. About the only thing I can do regularly without some sort of feedback frying the system is taking care of my hair. Well, and experimenting with it." Her smile goes bright and puckish again for a moment. "I don't know if you'd like some of the things I've experimented with doing. But I haven't wrecked your bath so far, right?"

     "Not so far, thank the gods," Davydd rolls out on an exhale. "I like to be clean. If you fuck up my bath, I'll probably pop a vessel. And plants may not be your thing. I've found it to be exceedingly handy. Even in London. Course, in London it's a good sight better to talk to steel and glass. More difficult. Mostly, it's a matter of picking up messages that others have left, leaving messages for others. With plants, animals, it's dynamic, same as talking to you."
     Pause...
     "Most of the time anyway, 'cept for early in the evening when your monosyllabic. I thought I was bad, Jesu," Davydd lolls his head to the side. As if it were such a burden. "So where are you going, Fiona-bach? You going to tell me?" A toe comes out to nudge you. "Or am I going to have to spank it out of you. A man has a right to know where his fiancee's heading off to... "

     The girl snorts, running one hand back through her hair with a jangling of noise. "You'd pop a vessel, and then you'd fix it. You have that ability - remember? Or doesn't it work on baths?" Such a convenience - never a need for a plumber...
     "Nobody leaves messages for me," Fiona adds a moment later, nonchalantly. "Or at least, if they do, it's usually on my cellphone. Handy thing, cellphones. You'd think more people'd have heard of them." She's in a brat mood tonight...
     Swinging around, she heads over to one of the archways, leaning back against it with her hands behind her. "I'll have to experiment - I just worry about experimenting. I don't want to blow things up." Hi, how you doin' - boom! "Though," she adds thoughtfully, "I don't know. Maybe it's changed now. Now that I'm less ... tense ..."
     Funny what getting laid on a regular basis will do...
     Making a face, Fiona sticks out her tongue at you. "You'd be monosyllabic too, if you were me. If you brought me coffee in addition to that damn tea all the time, maybe I'd talk more sooner. At least you haven't seen me with a hangover so far." An unholy rebel gleam enters her gaze as she adds from her 'safe distance', "You wouldn't dare, Llewellyn..."
     She might've been prepared to tell all, but now it's become a challenge. "Besides, I only put up with you because you've got a cute arse - why should I tell you anything?"

     The grin is wide, warm and slanting. Green eyes look you up and down, making a big scene of it. "Because I give it to you on a nightly, you'd think that'd warrant some sort of advance warning. You going to let me wake up and wonder where the fuck you've gone off to? Well, it's a two-way street, little missy," the dragon's voice rumbles. "Just you keep it in mind. And I have a cell phone thankyouverramuch."
     Twisting on the chaise, he reaches into his pocket and pulls the folded flip-phone, "... even has satellite so you can fucking find me out in the wilderness. I get free Internet with this. Camera. Fuck me if it isn't the new age, post modern version of a Swiss-fucking-Army knife..." Davydd laughs, clearly tickled by the new fangledness of it all.
     "Well, maybe the tension had sommat to do with it," he blithely states. "But mostly... for magic to work... you have to have a point. The universe gets a bit pissed when you just do random shite for shite's sake. Have a goal in mind, an outcome, focus, and ...well... there it is. Like... if I wanted to... well, I don't know... if I wanted to break that pot over there...which I really don't want to, but if I wanted to break anything or ...better example...change my appearance. That's better. Like that night on the piano, well," Davydd grins like the devil, "...not the night on the piano, the first night. When I showed you Black Jack as he was... I had a goal in mind, I focused and there he was in all his glory. Now, mind you, I'm well practiced at it now so it's become natural... but it wasn't always..."

     There's a slight tinge of pink which moves across her face, even to her ears - spots of colour in her cheeks, over the bridge of her nose, a sudden case of sunburn. Well, when you toy with fire...
     "I know you've got a cellphone," Fiona mumbles, then exhales, a great, lung-emptying sigh that leaves her limp and slouched back as she stretches her arms up over her head against the stone. "I need to upgrade mine, really."
     She doesn't immediately answer, about travel and trips and the like. Instead, she talks about magic. Well - that's fair, right? The pink stays, though she doesn't explain it - just ignores it, for now. "Even when I've got a goal in mind, things go wrong. I mean - they've been going more smoothly for a while, lately. Except for the apple tree." Now, there's a way to not cause the flush to diminish. She squirms slightly, and murmurs, "I remember you showing me, yes ... you should wear leather more often."
     Fiona slides down to sit crosslegged on the stone steps, pulling one unbraided lock of hair forward, sliding it ribbon-like between thumb and forefinger. Immediately, it tightens into a spiraling corkscrew curl which bobs heavily, then hangs next to her cheek. "I'm - still working on it. I suppose I'm too impatient - I want it all to work properly now, though."
     Urgency ... immediacy ... right in the Moment ...
     "Maybe we should find a nice empty room far away from other stuff," she suggests, "for me to practice in. Something relatively indestructible. Though," Fiona slants a smile of her own, "I've been working on some surprises for you. Anyway," she relents at last, "I've got to go to Brussels." Well. Maybe not a full-fledged relenting after all.

     "It's that impatience that's going to keep you from it," Davydd notes quietly, seriously, for a moment. "You have to be willing to learn... willing to struggle...willing to not know... willing to find out...and willing to wait for the right moment, the right goal. You have to concentrate, to really want something. Rather than give you a room, when you're in Brussels," Davydd quirks, "...why anyone'd go to Brussels is a bit beyond me, but while you're there, why don't you keep a journal of your thoughts, what you'd like to do, magically. Like, for instance, and this is just a hypothetical, say you wanted to mark an instrument, put a spell on it that it would sing upon command or sommat, something tangible, darlin'... something you can put your hands on. And when you get back, we can work on it..."
     Davydd sits up, arms on his thighs, his hands dangling in between. "You know, after you're done putting your hands on me. How long are you going to be gone, anyway? If I'm going to have to be suddenly celibate, I want to prepare for it," the look you get isn't subtle in the least. He looks at you like a dragon looks at a chest of treasure. Or chocolate-covered brownies.
     "It took me years, Fiona, hundreds of years in fact to move as I move, as easily as I do it, to do what I do, as easily as I do it, and to go where I go, as easily as I go. You're not going to be that proficient when you start. You may not be that proficient in fifty years. The first thing you need to learn is how to be patient. And... I know... I'm an impatient bastard -- except when it comes to magic and war. I learned, love. And you will, too."
     Davydd sits back, eyes darkening a touch, "I'll see what I can do about the leather. A bit more modern than that, naturally." The eyes flash as his mouth forms a streaking smile. "Except in private... I'll give a bit of the Jack sometime, the saucy princess in you likes it I can see..."
     Naughty little princess, you... Davydd chuckles, leaning back on the chaise again, lounging with legs wide and arms folded against his chest. So... when do you go...?

     "I'm working on being patient," Fiona admits, sliding her hands into her pockets and lounging against the stone, one shoulder turned back, into it, against it. "At least it's nothing like being back at school - I think I'd kill someone, you know?"
     Even if there's room for the schoolgirl socks and knickers somewhere in there.
     She folds her arms over her chest, skin reddening again, the cream and white of her striped like peppermint. "Actually," she admits grudgingly, "I'm going to Brussels for a family to-do. My mother's sister's youngest just had another baby - her first boy. So of course this is a big deal, and I've got to go for the bris and all the rest, particularly since it's the redemption child."
     From the look on her face and the sound of her voice, it's not something that she wants to do, so much as she feels obligated to do... "It's turning into a bit of an impromptu family reunion, though, on my mother's side - daddy's even being dragged along. I'm going more to keep him company than anything else, and to see zaida and grandmum." Her expression softens slightly, just for a moment. "Besides, I've got to break the news to them sooner or later, right?"
     "So I figure I'll swing through Paris and stay at my digs there, at least overnight, and pick out some clothing for the party," yes, she's got even more clothes, which aren't here, Llewellyn, "and then head over to Brussels by train, and come back, repeat, and ... well, it shouldn't be more than a few days. Maybe a week. I don't know."
     Her shoulders tighten and then release, and she takes a deeper breath for a moment, holding it. "You shouldn't do that," Fiona mutters. "It makes me think bad thoughts, Old Man ... anyway, she had the baby less than a week ago, so I'll be leaving in four or five days. And," she sticks out her tongue again, one hand coming out of her pocket, "I'm not naughty."
     So saying, she hurls the pebble at your feet.

     "Quit stonin' me," Davydd mock-protests, "...it's not as if I danced around saying 'Jehovah', 'Jehovah'," he can barely get through that without laughing. Ah, hell with it -- it was fucking funny. Davydd cackles, unfolding his arms and sitting up just long enough to pour another drink. Aye well, I won't say that you just like the feeling of your man inside you. That'd be crass...
     Green eyes glimmer in a wink as he sits back again, an exhale of fumes over scotch recently sipped. Fairy gold, that. "I know y' are, darlin'... which is why you're probably seeing an improvement. Less with sexual tension being released," Davydd cuts a grin, "... nuclear explosion that it was, but more about patience and confidence. You're a damn sight more controlled than when we first met. Holy Jesus, I thought I was going to pop out of my skin."
     Another swallow of scotch bids another satisfied exhale and Davydd looks to you, dividing his attention from the view of the gold in his glass to the view of the gold of your hair. "Do you want me to go with? I mean, even if I don't go to the bris... whatever it is. Not that I have to follow you around. God knows I have enough to attend to. I have some business in London," a hand rakes through short, wavy red hair. "Both magical and ... not. But you know... I subjected you to my kin and clan. Turnabout's fair play you know..."

     "If you ever tried to convert me to a religion," Fiona retorts with a sharpness that's not mirrored in her gaze, "then it'll be to the worship and service of Davydd Llewellyn, god of sex, scones, and carrot seed tea!"
     Well, there are worse things to have one's fiancee accuse you of being than a sex god, right?
     She crosses from the archway to stand next to you, one hand lightly dropping to your shoulder, plucking at the material of your shirt. She settles down on her haunches, leaning in to murmur, "Oh, but I do like the feel of my man inside of me." It's a Drancy moment; it shows in her eyes, and in the faintly feral glance she offers sidelong, even as she sidles away, out of easy grasping range. "I like wrapping my thighs around your hips and squeezing. I like you polished and refined, but I like you better rough - with a bit of an edge. It gives me something to catch on."
     She slides back further, making sure she's out of reach, the grin both savage and shit-eating at the same time, arms folded over her chest triumphantly. "I've picked up a few tricks," Fiona agrees nonchalantly. "And you weren't the only one. But hell, back then, I didn't even believe in magic. Control? I didn't know there was anything to control."
     She lets loose some of that vigor and energy with a slow shake of her head, letting her palms smooth over her sleeves, then down along her sides to find and rummage in her pockets again. "I'd like you to meet my family, and you'll have to eventually, but ... I don't think this is the best time for it. I can tell them you got hung up with business and couldn't come - even if they wouldn't normally believe me, The Rock will convince them you're real. Zaida's going to have such fun analyzing it, you know."
     And then an edge of mischief re-enters her gaze, and she says carefully, "Well, I could tell you what a bris is. If you really want to know..."

     "Well, I imagine it isn't a fish fry," Davydd grins out. He can feel himself staring. He can feel himself robbing you of your clothes, at gunpoint or not (those were the days). He can feel his own distraction. And he smirks at it. You're just too easy, ap Owain.
     "Ooh, worship and service," he coos roughly at that, "... I like the sound of that. You bring me tribute... thigh-wrapping is highly encouraged, the god is pleased." He chuckles. But yes... oh yes... he did hear you. And yes... oh yes... he does enjoy it. The look could set the air on fire...
     If he thought about it hard enough...
     Davydd nods shortly, "Fair enough. You know me, being the giving man that I am, I thought I'd at least offer, cariad. So! You're off to Brussels. I guess I'll go visit Edward, take care of my business in London. Meet me there, and I'll drive you back."
     Suddenly a grin appears, fiery eyebrows cock up and an earthy laugh bubbles up from his throat. "Aye, you've learned. Quickly too, I'd say," though you're out of reach of his hands, and he's not about to put his scotch down at the moment, you're not out of the range of the warmth of his grin, the summer, golden glow that surrounds him. That feeling... like you're ...almost seeing him, his realm. "You know those summer gods," Davydd murmurs. "Always wanting their worshippers on their knees..."

     "If I told you what it is... it'd totally ruin the mood." Fiona's gaze is low and dark, eyes gone as grey as the Irish Sea - tempestuous, the smile on her face a blatant little one, lacking any hint of wistfulness or innocence, for just a moment. It is a woman's smile, a smile of appetite...
     See what you've done?
     Distraction isn't hard to come by, around here...
     "I'll have to see what I can do - to make sure you miss me quite thoroughly while I'm away," she murmurs, smile lingering like a sweet taste on her tongue. "I'm sure I'll think of ... something ..."
     A moment later, she's nodding as well, brisk, businesslike. "I appreciate the offer, actually - just, quite a lot of it's going to be during the day, and I'd have to explain why you're not around. Easier if you're just not there - plus which, daddy's at least used to being the token goy," one corner of her mouth tugs upwards, "you're not. Am I ever going to meet this Edward? I keep hearing about him." And from the most different of people.
     Her eyes drift half-closed, and almost in spite of herself, she takes a small step back and forward. "Actually," Fiona murmurs confidingly, "I've got a new trick... I've been practicing it all week, when you've been sleeping..." She brings one palm up, held upwards, and furls her fingers in towards her palm - almost a beckoning movement. And ... shoelaces begin to untie themselves ...
     Buttons begin to slither open ...
     The belt buckle begins to give ...
     Zippers ease themselves downwards ...
     And the mischievous little minx grins at you in obvious self-satisfaction - taking a step back again, clearly preparing to flee back into the castle, laughing at you ...
     Naughty little princess ...

Posted by rowan at April 08, 2004 08:45 PM