O beauteous evening...
     Found, as many other evenings, at the bottom of a glass. But this, o but this, is different from the others, for he sips not on beer but on Life Itself. What a charade the last Age was. Magic that was toyed with, but little understood. Life that was lived but never quite fully. O what a charade the last Life was. Every chair is now a throne, every laugh is now from the belly, every glass is full of blood, every meal is a bounty. With the Harvest King, every night is a banquet. With the Holly King, every night is Christmas Eve...
     He woke to find Gwilym sitting beside him, brothers cried tears of blood. There were quiet conversations, there was a quiet argument...
     But... endings are always beginnings...
     What followed was flight, first as a starling then as a falling birch leaf smacking against the stone of a Scottish castle. He found his rook, his protector, his guardian, his conscience. And earlier arguments fell away like the seasons. They come and they go, no less.
     Then there was the girl in the upstairs apartments. Would y' come have a dance love, he whispered, there was some modicum of laughter, and when she went for a kiss, he went for her neck. Her blood -- are all Scottish women descended of fairies? -- filled a cup sweetly, just a swallow or two. The magic of her forefathers, sweating in caves and painting themselves all over, can still be tasted as Davydd sweeps up a tiny device in his hands.
     As he sits in a chair, red hair burnished copper and bronze, face smoothened and beautified, he dials a number from memory's keeping. To a girl worried sick somewhere in France. Perhaps even angry with him for not calling for two nights...has it been two?
     The phone is ringing and Davydd's mouth is already open to quip his greetings...

     It was a beautiful day. The sky was clear, the air held crystalline in the keeping of a sun that looked hot but felt just lovely on the skin, glimmering on the French side of the ocean as if to cry forth, see, here is God, in every dancing and amazed gleam of light! It is the same sun under which Davydd smote and slew Goliath; it is the same sun under which some summer saviour lived and died. Be glad! Rejoice!
     There is, however, little rejoicing within railway trains and carriages, the wheels going round and round to carry people in tired fitful holds from one grey place to another. No matter where the railway stations lie, they all do lie : grey. Bulky. Uninspired.
     Seaside and sunlight or grey perspiration, it is all unnoticed by the unobservant. Early in the morning after two sleepless days and nights she left France with minimal luggage - the rest can be sent on; she doesn't need to travel with it. There is a need for lightness, curious evidence to match unhappy hollowness and weight that move through her by turns in interior trajectories. From France to London in fasting, then, the English noblewoman, the faerie queen and the punk argue in silence as to what to do, but upon one point there is agreement :
     Until this thing is resolved, there is to be no music.
     The passage to London ends in the early afternoon, and a woman's eyes are gone slate grey with blankness of not seeing and not giving in to tears, hollowness and pressure having worked a magic of their own to temper the line of her mouth into hardness, a firmness that does not break for speech unnecessarily. She has no voice; her voice has been sacrificed for a time, on loan to whispering words in the back of her own thoughts, the back of her own mind, the endless examining of possibilities turning over and over ceaselessly as London speeds away behind her, as wheels turn and lift with that continuing noise (BritRail may have its moments, but its sound rattles through to the bones). It is still an hour from Welshpool when Fiona's hands fly suddenly to her ears and there is a short, sharp cry. "Stop!"
     It is the first thing she's said since halfway between Paris and London. The dozing figure of a businessman shakes himself awake, giving the girl an odd look - but she's already picked up the pieces of her posture with a lady's dignity. The look he receives for his half-irate examination of his nap's interruption is one that two out of the three have composed together, the faerie queen and the punk.
     Had I known, young Tam Lin, what this day I should see...
     Nothing is said. Nothing is censured. Welshpool is achieved as the sun begins to sink from its eternal cyclical climbing, painting the sky gorgeous, gaudy colours found only in imitation elsewhere. The last stage of her journey, she goes on foot, from village to manse. With the grand estate spreading in front of her and one foot about to step down and hovering as if in fear of the line she's about to cross, the phone rings, and the effect is as if a thousand halogen lights have snapped on in front of Bambi.
     A moment later, she's shaking it off (and shaking), digging the phone out of her pocket, seizing it up, opening it up and relearning how to talk after young eternities spent in the music-less, soundless void. Her voice is awkward, scratchy from the day's lack of use and lack of food and water, and altogether wary of who it is.
     After all, if this is a pitch for aluminum siding...
     "...Hello?"

     You know the voice, and it's smooth with wakefulness, smooth with things you can't imagine but shall soon see and know, smooth and pure and full of power. Such a greeting...
     "... I dream of your first kiss, and then,
     ....I feel upon my lips again,
     A taste of honey... tasting much sweeter than wine...
     I will return, yes I will return,
     I'll come back for the honey and you...
     Yours was the kiss that awoke my heart,
     ...There lingers still, 'though we're far apart,
     That taste of honey... tasting much sweeter than wine...
     ...I dream of your first kiss, and then...
     I feel upon my lips again, a taste of honey..."
     He is quiet for a moment, letting the song and the reverberations of it move through him, through the air, to your ears, allowing for the moment and the feeling to shudder through him and then he smiles. "Fiona... I've missed you... will you forgive a man's impertinence in not callin'? I hope you weren't too worried," but I know you better. "But, good news... I'm on my way back to Wales... or will be very shortly. Just need to say my goodbyes to William and Edward and then I'm off..."
     So that's where he's been...
     If you only knew...
     "How've you been...your business done then? You comin' home, woman, or are you going to make me come after you? I know your sort..."

     There's a small crackle on the line - no, not a crackle but a catch of breath. Really, it's a wonder that the phone isn't just dropped. But wait, there's the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. It isn't the telephone but the girl...
     He isn't dead.
     He isn't dead, and he hasn't left...
     The latter part of the sentence is left without its last word or so attached, a very real pain too close to the idea of it to be given any voice at all. Rather than being allowed to live, the three women in the back of the one woman's mind conspire to hold a pillow down over that thought's nose and mouth with untiring zeal until the thought, being incorporeal, is thoroughly strangled, thoroughly smothered, thoroughly crushed and dissipates in the evening.
     "My sort? I'm afraid to ask what 'my sort' is to you," Fiona answers, voice a little shaky and not quite up to her usual bite. "But I finished my wandering, you know. Now I'm ... more of a mountaineer. Finding a pitched piece of earth and rock to cling to for dear life and all that."
     There's a momentary pause as she shifts upwards a bit from where she's so abruptly sat in the dust and the grass of the path and its edge. "...As it happens, if I take one step forward from where I am, Rhyddid and Bwci will likely have my scent and come running, unless they're too lazy to. Though maybe I should make you come after me, then? I don't like making things too easy on you. That's cheating. I should hide myself somewhere on the face of Britain and make you try and find me."
     She's serious as she says it, even though exhaustion is threatening to claim her now that relief's set up its tent. Fiona's voice drops a few notches, to really almost nothing, not even a whisper. "I should make you have to hunt me down, Davydd, shouldn't I? But that'd involve not forgiving you."

     Now that's a thought...
     "Maybe you should," he waxes, Welsh inflection lifting as the tone beneath it deepens in his throat, the sound of male consideration of hunting female quarry. "And maybe you shouldn't forgive so easily. Maybe you should have some of the worry of two nights out of my own, painted hide. That'd be a fair end to it. Your sort, your sort...the sort of woman you are, in the shade of the petal of a rose, there is a thorn. To get to the fruit of the blackberry you have to fight through a bramble. It's worth it, it's worth the scratching, it's worth the fight." Davydd's quiet a moment. Wherever he is, he isn't moving, and the surroundings are quiet. No traffic noise.
     "So, you're within sniffing reach? Give the fellows a tussle for me. I'm a bit further than that. I'm in Scotland. It'll take me a night more, even if I were to fly there. Pity the Normans knocked over most of the fairy rings, the priests dissembling the pagan circles, which we both know were older than the pagans themselves. No more than one night more, and if I can swing it tonight, I will...just the traveling is all that's left..." Apparently other business is done.
     Whatever that was...
     "Mountaineer, eh." He chuckles. "I've got a mountain you can climb..."

     "You're a mountain in and of yourself. I spend half my time trying to get to one or the other side of you." Fiona sits cross-legged now, leaning forward with her chin propped upon one hand, phone pressed to her ear with the other hand. She ignores the trickle of tears that threaten to add to the evening mist upon the sodden earth.
     "I'm within sniffing reach right now. I might decide to run away and hide myself. Or maybe I'll hide myself in your own territory and see how long it takes you to find me," she remarks. "Before I left I was saying I hadn't been giving you enough Hell to go through. Of course, both of us usually manage to make our own without needing help - so maybe I won't."
     Her silence is less silent than is the silence of Scotland; there's the sound of the wind through the brush, her own breathing (slightly erratic with strong emotion), any sounds of traffic or planes anywhere within earshot...
     "We should rebuild some of the circles and rings. After all, with your limited mobility, every advantage we can find, right?" Fiona jumps to another topic for a moment, a hint of nervous energy returning as she begins to shove herself upright. "I'm glad your business is done, though. I did bring you gifts, but I'm thinking now that I should give them to Kelly."
     Now, that's just cruel.

     "Get out your hooks and rope, then," he murmurs, words of humor but there's warmth in there for you. Your emotion is a song and he can hear it, he can hum it if he wants to, it may end up in a song one night. "My little queen sounds tired," he remarks, softness and knowing in his voice, though he calls it weariness not fear. "It's been a taxing handful of nights. The last month, if you look at it. The completely altered course of a young life. But get you to the house, put on one of my shirts, crawl into the large bed and wait for me there. We'll worry about hunting one another some other night. We'll have plenty of time for that..."
     To the notion of rebuilding rings, he suddenly grins. If only you could see it, the grin of the Holly King, vibrant and white and edged with two thorns. "We may have to do that. We'll talk about it one night but not for a few nights. For a few nights, there should only be singing and moaning and the sound of you saying my name."
     There is the sound, a sound suddenly, of him standing. The sound of a wood chair giving up its heavier ghost. "When you get to our room, be sure to open the windows, part the heavy drapes. Sing me a song, and I will hear it..."
     And you know how the birds are accustomed to fly in when you leave your windows open...

     "I am tired," Fiona admits, suddenly feeling the weight of it - a lesser weight than the one she'd been under, as someone being pressed might not notice the weight of their own clothing. But now that she is out from underneath that weight, with the still astonished incomprehension of it being gone and not yet of a mind to examine its flight, the waves of her weariness pull as water turning slowly steeped clothing into leaden garments. "I didn't sleep much last night." Or the night before.
     It's entirely too kind a thing, though she lacks the wit to recognise it. Fear - funny how she could be so unafraid of death as to not even know it when she sees it. But this fear she knew by name...
     Dragging her hand back over her hair, she looks to the castle as if just seeing it now, despite having been there some time. "Maybe I should arrange for a dinner for you when you get in tomorrow night," Fiona remarks, lifting her foot and finally taking that step, the step which puts her onto the long drive and fit to begin the climb. She reddens suddenly, face going heated, flushed as she listens. "Just for that," she retorts acidulously, a sudden return to her Self, "I should arrange to call out some other name at some random - moment. Just for that. And ..."
     A pause, though her feet keep moving, the crunching of gravel underfoot. "All right," she agrees, softer again, without the momentary savagery. "I guess I can let music back in, now." From where, however temporarily, it's been locked and barred in that lightless, windowless prison of grief and pain and fear. But temporary is an eternity to those who make their lives on the backs of song... "I don't know what song, yet, but ... I can do that."
     There's a pause as she covers a little bit more ground - no yapping of furry round beasts with something approaching legs just yet, the silence weighed with an element of contemplation.
     "I'm going," she decides, voice regaining a small amount of strength, "to steal all your favourite underwear to weave into a braided rug. And then," her voice strengthens a little more as she warms to the task, "I'm going to take off my clothing and hog your bath all to myself with you gone. I'll soak there for hours, Davydd Llewellyn ap Owain ap pain in the arse. And then I'm going to go have something to eat - I haven't eaten in days, and it's all your fault. I'll make myself some of that wild salmon, with mixed greens, and a bottle of the wine I brought back with me. And then I'm going to have cherries glaceau. And then? I'm going to bed. Without you. And you'll just have to make do with all the luxuries William can provide you with - but they won't be flavoured with me."
     Now there's the sound of Bwci and Rhyddid - the high-pitched yaps of 'Someone's there! Who's there? Which way? That way! Is it good to eat?' Over them, Fiona smugly adds what she clearly thinks is the coup de grace.
     "Oh, and do give William my love, won't you?"

     "Gwilym's got love a-plenty. That's his way. But...sure... I'll float a petal of your regard toward him to join the others. The man receives more perfumed letters in a day than I receive all year. Every other year," he tacks on. But he's not jealous, not in the slightest. The oldest jokes are rife with the rivalry of past years, but with the depth of love gained over centuries. The rivalry will always exist. It's ordained.
     To the rest, Davydd laughs. To the notion of braiding his underwear into a rug. To the notion of enjoying the bath without him. To the notion of you calling out some other names at random. The laughter is true. It's warm. It's living. It's from the gut. "Do that, my darlin'. Make a rug of it, mess of it, glutton of it all. Eat up all my chocolates. Untune all my instruments. Knock down the canopies. Pluck the last hen and call me by another man's name. I know your name, it won't matter." An exchange of names among fairy kind's same as getting married. You're hitched then, the one to the other. "I'll go around the house with no drawers, I'll bathe in the river, I'll find chocolate in the kitchens, I'll retune my harp. I'll hang new drapes, buy a new hen, and call you by your name. And I'll still love you, Fiona of the Arundels, no matter what you do..."
     "And when you see me," Davydd continues warmly, his voice lowering to a hush, "...you'll leave off your cursing at least long enough to kiss me. I could nip you all over," he suddenly growls, "...till your skin were black and blue." And then he sighs. "So... you have your revenge a-plenty. I have luxury all around me, but I'm hardly soothed..."

     "You know you don't have to worry." Fiona's voice is suddenly quiet again, as sudden in forgiveness as if she'd never been put out or angry or afraid, despite a lingering tremulousness that stirs her voice as a breeze over a harp's strings. "I'm as greedy as you are, Davy. All my love and all of me is yours... all William will ever get from me are whatever crumbs fall from my lap after you're done feasting."
     There's an almost embarrassed silence as she pauses. She hadn't really meant to say that - she'd meant to make you suffer a little more (if you would) for her own sake, to soothe the raw wounds where the ropes and manacles of her fear have rubbed her open against her past.
     "All of my perfumed letters will be yours," Fiona continues after that moment, clearing her throat against a sudden press of tears, "but some of them will be skunk-scented. Camphor and eucalyptus and maybe even bile. But some of them - I promise - they'll be jasmine and lavender, bluebell and crocus, lily of the valley and snowdrops and snapdragons and honeysuckle and cinnamon..."
     Down on one knee, she submits to having her face washed by jumping corgis, easily ignoring the scrape of canine toenails against her skin and clothes. "Bwci and Rhyddid miss you almost but never quite as much as I do."
     She straightens, sweeping upright suddenly, the glow of a smile lingering as she looks at your dogs and your house. "I'll curse you," she promises, "and then I'll kiss you, and I'll let you do to me whatever you want. And I'll fight you all the way to the bed until I can't and have to give in. I love you... even though I shouldn't."

     I love you....
     Even though I can't and shouldn't...
     He smiles at that and all of that and all that isn't said. He'll say his goodbyes and he'll take to the sky and he'll think of his feather bed. He'll come to the house and he'll come upstairs and he'll love a girl that shouldn't be there. And it's all as it should be...
     Nothing like we thought it'd be...
     "Open the window and wait for me," is all he says of goodbye. And he hangs up the phone with a never-nay-more, and he's soon to take leave of his room.
     Open the window and wait for me, comes the voice of the king in your head. I'll fly from the highlands to the mountains of Wales, from the wild woods and straight to your bed...

     Even if her fears are soothed, nerves are still raw and tangled. She waves the dogs away as she listens to that voice - the voice she's in the past cursed and hated and loved and wanted so very much to hear - and she begins to move into the house.
     She opens her mouth to speak - and then there's the sound of the phone being turned off at the other end, the monotonous buzz of a dial tone greeting her. "Bastard," Fiona murmurs, voice thick again, still, with emotion, blurred by tears which want to come though now of relief and not fear of hurt.
     Then your voice is in her head. Leaning up against the doorposts, Fiona closes her eyes, murmuring with lips and thoughts as one.
     Oh, you bastard ... you know how that gets to me. All right. You will find a window open for you, my king. But do make sure that it's you that flies in and no wild and uninvited winds make their way before you, my love, my heart. I miss you...
     There is a pause, her hands cupped round the now closed phone, eyes still closed. It's as well that the viewing of the gardens ends before sunset; the picture she makes right now isn't one she'd want to display for the tourists.
     I need you, Davydd.
     The thought is whispered aloud as well, a small breathed admission. Having made it, she straightens again, opening her eyes to her actual surroundings and away from the mental image of her window opened by her with arms and heart held as wide. She whistles sharply, once.
     "Come on, Bwci, Rhyddid - you two beggars need to come inside and keep me company. Let's see who's about to give you some food, and I'll let people know that the master of the house will be home tomorrow. Things can be gotten in order while I glut myself on creature comforts while I wait for the creature..."
     With a single glance back and a single thought back for the long winding road, the thin skein of fear that's led her from Paris to Welshpool, Fiona pauses. And then she swings the door open, shooing the dogs in ahead of her, and bangs shut the door again behind her with finality to sever the last of that incorporeal string.

Posted by rowan at June 20, 2004 07:36 PM