The green lawn and aged palace within spacious St. James' Park is in stark contrast to the traffic that marks its four sides. Glastonbury Drive wheels in, orchestrated by the roundabout on the east side of the park.
     It's like the Earth's Last Stand, rolling green earth, trees, a large wildish garden grove, home to squirrels and a panoply of birds, and a lake full of black swans and white pelicans, like some pieces of a royal chessboard. Buckingham Palace and Whitehall reminders that the grove has an end, the fountain stream of water lifting high and lowering with great splashes.
     It's the only place in this entire city where Davydd can come to think, to rest. The iron and steel, the noise and the lights and the constant streaming of a teaming humanity, crowding the river like rat kings, offer too much distraction, too much stimuli, that in the end the only way to remember who and what one is, is to lie on green grass and look up at a dark sky and hope for a glimmer of a memory of a star.
     You can't see stars from London anymore...
     His arms are folded largely against a large chest, dragons swirling, talons pressing at his skin like children pressing their faces to the glass of a candy store window, the shirt pulled snug no place to go, as he lies on his back, Cyrmaeg face turned to the sky. Doc Martenized feet are planted firmly on the ground, leathered knees bent, legs comfortably wide, a man quiet-seeming, resting like on his own plot of ground.
     The sound of the traffic is a constant hum in the background. Somewhere, a cathedral's bells are ringing, soon to be echoed from one side of town to the next as church clocks go off and everything from Westminster to St. Michael's to Our Lady of the Bright Ringing Peels will go off. It's part of London's symphony, like taxi horns and construction and high heels on steel grates are part of New York's.
     Davydd closes his eyes, quiets himself from the music of the modern city. The trees are like tender attendants, the grass becomes a bed, the wind is the hands of however many attending maids he'd prefer -- he is the king -- and there is a centered peace that follows. He can see it quite clearly, what this earth used to be, and it springs up around him on the other side of perception, valleys and rolling hills on either side of a river, a village first Celtic then Roman, with its short flat houses, cattle, primroses. Before the first coliseum made by Celtic hands and tracks where they had chariot races even before the coming of Caesar...
     His eyes were closed, perhaps he was sleeping, perhaps dreaming, when feet that moved upon the lawn made no sound. The coming of Caesar always did catch the Brythonic Celts off-guard, as if they thought no one should want to conquer a people so civilized, words to be echoed later by peoples everywhere.
     But when the shoes are quite near his head, when the steps stop and he can feel the weightiness in the air like a heavy metal, green eyes blink open, two worlds looking up to Jupiter himself, standing there in a suit, beautiful Roman god-like face turned down to look at him from Olympus. He doesn't say anything, he just stares for a moment -- as he imagines all people do.
     Olympian eyebrows lift and there is only a faint touch of amusement in his expression, the rest attributed to a placid state of compassion and concern, though the rest of his form and demeanor is pure strength. Hands tick at trousers, adjusting them slightly as William, like a god in repose, settles down in the grass alongside Davydd ap Owain. He, too, turns his face to the sky, to invisible stars and planets and satellites (some of whom he would swear his lover owns) and says nothing. Nothing, for a long while. And for that time, green eyed worlds and indigoed universes are turned to the sky and they lie there like a mismatched set.
     "Tired of fighting yet, Llywelyn..."
     "Tired of winning yet, Plantagenet..."
     The words trip out as easily as they did when the pair sat on a fallen oak tree log somewhere in the middle of Wales, twelfth century, a gaggle of drawn battles around them, both aged by it. William smiles a little, mouth quirking upward at the corners in that archaic way of his (Mona Lisa's smile, in fact, though no one has noticed), and he turns his head against the grass, eyes on the face of his friend and he grins. "Never, you know that."
     "Well," the great Cyrmaeg voice rolls out, an earthy rumble to such smooth-marbled Olympian tones of his friend, "...I hate to disappoint you, dux, but there's no winning this one." His mouth can't yet form a smile, but Davydd's lip twitches a little and he glances to his friend, fiery eyebrows cocking upward. "There's no glory in it this time," he grumbles on, "I've cocked it up so badly, I'm just throwing in the towel..." and he laughs, earthy and true.
     "Hmm... mais oui," William chuckles, looking to his friend and then looking to the sky. "You are a Minotaur in a china closet." Indigo glances and then looks back to the universe above, unseen, only evidenced in darkness. "Whatever it is, ap Owain of Gwynedd, you can tell me...what brings you to London. I'm going to go out on a limb and say it is Women," always in the plural when it comes to Llywelyn. It's always been that way. It's a pattern he doesn't seem able to escape.
     "You'd be right to think so," Davydd exhales and mightily. "But... non...that's not it, fair prince. That's the least of my worries at the moment." Davydd's gaze leaves the sky, but does not yet travel back to his friend. "I don't really want to talk about it, Gwilym...it's too difficult to explain and I've not been able to do it with anyone without making a mess of everything. Sandrine. Edward. I need at least one friend left on speaking terms."
     "Eduard," so many vowels in that, so little time, "...loves you, more than he can even speak, and he's not what I would call the greatest communicator. Both of you, well... me too, I am going to say, we are all impatient, sensitive men." William grins, turning his head upon the grass again. "You cry when you crush a leaf, Eduard has hero figures and seeks to Believe...mostly in himself, and I... I have killed myself more times than I wish to admit for the acceptance of my parents who are not even here anymore, thrusting that onto my Clan thereafter and continually disappointed."
     Fiery eyebrows sweep upward, outward and Davydd turns an incredulous look over to his friend. He doesn't say anything, miraculously, He just stares, peers at this strange creature William. What have you done with Plantagenet?
     William smiles, sudden warmth and Olympian beauty. "We're all so busy trying to prove ourselves to one another, each one thinking that the other is better off, it's no wonder we speak and can't hear one another, Davy-bach." He grins at Davydd's stupefaction, and lowers his voice to a murmur: "I made my living in being perceptive. It came with the territory. It's the only reason I kept my head. So," he exhales a clearing breath, "... trust a brother, princeps, trust a friend..."
     For a time, again there is no sound but the sound of traffic, of the last echoes of distant ringing bells, and those not so distant. For a time, oak-grove eyes and twilight eyes turned their attention back to the sky, to the trees that edge it and to all the moments that have led up to this particular moment in time. A far cry, on the surface, from two men, a decade difference between them, sitting in the Welsh woods hashing out peace.
     Maybe it was never a far cry from Then to Now...
     "I wanted to give you fair warning, Gwilym," Davydd starts, voice a hush, barely voiced at all, mostly mouthed. "You and Edward both. That's why I came to London. I wanted to ... tell you in person, not over the phone or by mail, but like a man, and with the respect my love bears y' both." He swallows and he looks to his friend, a strum of emotion in his eyes, but it hangs there. "I don't know where to begin or how. Or how to do it without fucking crying or cocking it all up...I can't fucking open my mouth without cocking something up. I might as well be gay as to speak..."
     William blinks at that then laughs. Warmly, richly, rightly laughs. Genuine, like humans laugh, natural even though he's very supernatural. A look to Davydd and then he laughs all over again.
     "What's so fucking funny?" A begrudging smile appears, it's hard not to smile when Jupiter's cracking up. Eyebrows screw up and he peers. "Are you laughing at me or with me..."
     "At you," William chuckles. "Look, Davy..." he exhales a chuckle, wiping his eyes, "... it is easy, yes? Here, I will do it. Davy," William looks very serious, very suddenly, "... I like to be fucked, I've always liked it. Now," he grins brilliantly, "...your turn..."
     "Oh Jesus have mercy," Davydd groans and turns away, "I don't want to know that...Jesus, Gwilym..."
     "Well," William chuckles, "...maybe I don't want to hear what you're about to say, mais oui?"
     Davydd stops and blinks. Well, you have a point on me there. With a mighty sigh, Davydd rolls his eyes a moment, clearing his head from thoughts as dramatically as he can and then he folds his arms against his chest tight, face given to the sky again. "I'm not a vampire at all, Gwilym. I'm a big poncin' fairy, a king exiled, cursed and wandering the world, how's that?" he gruffs. A glance to William and then he sighs, "The bit with Mithras was true. All but the embrace..." That's sort of like saying: Yes, Judge, I told you the whole truth. Apart from the bit about the murder.
     William listens, his arms folding to make a pillow for his head, neverminding the grass marks that might be appearing in his suit. He can buy another. "I remember you told me the story once," he offers after a few minutes, "... I think we were in the trenches," world war number one, "... both very drunk, pretty well expecting not to live until the next flight. Mustard gas hanging in the air, death everywhere. And you were weeping and I was numb..." His features lose their smile in remembering. "You told me about Mithras. There was a ..."
     "Bitter fog..." Davydd murmurs in recollection. "And I was lost in it, couldn't see my hand in front of my face, practically. Not even when I tried to become the fog to get around it..."
     "And he found you there, a big fight but you were surprised and bested and taken to the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, still blackened by the fire of 1184."
     "Not even the rain could wash it away, that's right..." Davydd is quiet for a moment, hearing the urban forest around him hum, behind it the traffic. "I was already immortal when Mithras attempted the embrace. He couldn't complete it, he couldn't handle the blood. But it was too late, even though I fended him off I was cursed by it. I have to sleep same as you," green eyes glance to his friend, "... right after...when I tried to get back to my family, it burned... just... searing... to be in light. I thought that whatever I once was that I was transformed. It's taken me many years to realize how I was transformed. And how I was not."
     "I always wondered what you did to get the marks not to fade." The tattoos. "I know only that they could not be natural, but... was it something from the embrace? I could not know that and it was none of my business to know," William says. "So..." a breath and acceptance, "... you are... supernatural. We all are, even if we're different..."
     "But a supernatural who cannot live in your world, Gwilym," Davydd says in a breath. "And after so many years living among You All, knowing your ways and secrets, do you think they'll let me simply ...hang out?" Davydd's arms unfold and hands come to rub his face.
     "I don't know, Davydd... I don't know what They will do, as a group, as a governing body. You've managed for a long time now... clearly... among those who could ... see more than meets the eye and yet... here you are, in the Camarilla, lying in a field with an elder vampire..."
     "A good enchantment," Davydd whispers. "Belief is the greatest of them all. I believed I was cursed, even when I knew I was not such a creature as Mithras. I went to my fellows, even as I shall do again, and I presented myself to them, but cursed... they would not, could not believe me. I wandered solitary until I couldn't stand it, found an oasis in a desert and was taken in. Even as you believed me when I told you my story. Even as everyone believed me when they knew of Mithras' plan and then he was gone and yet I remained. Belief is more powerful than any of us..."
     "Certainment," William murmurs. "That is very true, Davydd..."
     Arms folding against his chest again, Davydd exhales, eyes turned back up to the sky. "In all this while, Gwilym, my kingdom, my Self has lain dormant. For centuries." A helpless look follows. "But I can't ...exist in sleep anymore, Gwilym. I can't be dormant anymore. Or if I do, I shall simply sleep eternally and finally. I cannot continue to pretend to be one of You, and I feel my path is going to a place... neither you nor Edward can follow..."
     William looks from the sky to his friend again, this time his gaze remains there. "If you cannot remain in Our World, and we ... cannot go to yours... shall there be a middle country? Will Earth do, Davydd?"
     Davydd looks squarely to his friend. "I don't know."