Blood of a Scottish girl still lingers in his throat and upon the back of his tongue, the smoky residue with sparkles of a family's magic held deep within. As all things with Scotland, there is a tinge of enchantment, a lingering primal spark beneath layers of centuries and civility. Where else may a blue painted man move with such ease and such comfort? The sounds in the forest are of a man approaching, the slow striding steps of a man in no hurry. A man at ease in woods such as these...
     Davydd follows the path made by stags long before him, by the passing of the breeze knowing the depth of the wood and the location of the brooks that cut within it. You have only to listen. His hands in his pockets, a jacket over a sweater and the leather of London, he moves in dark clothing, in dark ways. But his eyes are lifted to the sounds and the trees, to the woods and the views, confident that his feet will find the way.
     There are stags in this forest, he's heard of the legendary hunting. He's heard all the myths of this place. And now he's a part of it, though no one shall know it but those who were there.
     There's a soft sound, a rich sound that leaves him. The rising and falling notes of a Celtic cadence. He watches the air change, the trees change with his passing. They feel him there. Surely you can't miss him, the king you crowned, your blood in the chalice. The sound of his voice is smooth, deep, fluent as the brooks that meander in the depth of this wood. A beautiful sound. An old sound. A sound that Celts recognize wherever they may be.

     It's the dogs that find things first. Their barking gets Ian's attention as he half-leans against a large boulder. He twists about to see the source of the dogs' irritation, looking over his shoulder. A nocturnal animal, he's sure, so he returns to his meditative stance, closing his eyes as the world goes on around him.

     Easy, lads... I'm a friend... I've seen you lot before...here... smell it for yourselves...
     Davydd pauses in his walking, holding his hands out to the dogs as the first of them surround him, Macsen among them. You're still here, old man? Aye...aye... me too... Dark green eyes lift to the surroundings, noting the path the dogs have taken, and the one who came with them -- or they one they guard -- is not so far. What follows then is a rush of Scots Gaelic, an older variety, one better known. Brother, he says, are you here?
     And he isn't looking for William...
     A hand gives a greyhound's ears a stroke, pats his head, the wolfhounds a touch more guarded, but he's no foe. Macsen seems to imply that with his turning to lead him to the one he must be out here to see, the Other Master.

     At Ian's side, a long stick. PIcked up earlier in the evening. His eyes open and he absently pokes the leaves around his feet as he slides himself upon the rock behind him. The dogs scamper back to him, and he smiles down to see them whiling around the stone. Ian lifts his empty hand and waves a little, but then both elbows come back to rest on his bent knees, hands clasping the stick between his legs.

     "It's a good night for a sit in the middle of a wood," Davydd begins, the old Gaelic moving easily from his Brythonic tongue. They're cousin languages, his and yours, and you together a kind of double family. Celtic men in the midst of foreigners, sire and childe in the midst of an even stranger crowd. Not that any can ever know it.
     He's quiet as he comes nearby, recently fed, your otherworldly mountain. Such men you gave rise to, Ian Dunross. Shall it cross your mind. Two kings, who else could boast such, and such men as Mithras wanted to call his own. You have them both -- whether you want to or not. So thus have you not conquered Mithras himself?
     Davydd sits on a slab of rock, knees bent and hands held between. "I wanted to thank you, while I could," Davydd murmurs, still in your language. And he looks to you, his green eyes deep as these woods, no longer giving off his golden glow. But his face, for the smoothening of his transformation, has gone quite lovely. "I am remembered of when William brought you to me. I had the chance to do a good turn for you both. You've done a good turn for now for him and for me, for more than that. So..." Davydd nods simply, as if half expecting you'll send him away with a wave as easily as you waved him over.

     "I didn't do anything," Ian murmurs, looking at the stick and the hands that enclose it. He might as well have said I have done nothing. A denial, perhaps, or a simple statement of the unnecessary observation. If it is another sire he is, there's no hint of it upon him. The air moves the same with him and around him.
     But suddenly, Ian looks over. His lips purse together and he looks back out to his solitary wood. "Be well, Davydd Llewelyn," the name he knows first. "I hope good things always happen for you."

     Davydd glances up to the sounds of the wind moving among the leaves of the trees, the rattling birch like the clapping of a lady's small hands. This pose has been captured before -- by William in fact -- in a painting of himself and Davydd Llywelyn, both on a log. Davydd wearing the same expression of wonder as he does now. He looks back down to you, then to the wood. "Diolch, brawd," sudden Welsh (thank you, brother), before he dips back into the Gaelic well. "Same also to you. I wish you and Gwilym the best, always."
     There's a pause, as if he's contemplating rising. He shall soon enough. "I'm heading out tonight. I need to put my feet on Welsh soil, and I don't want to put you and Gwilym out more than I already have. Just... between you and me," his voice lowers, "... it changes nothing between us. I'm happy to call you 'brother' and 'friend', you're William's beloved, his mate, and that makes you family." The rest is neither here nor there...
     With that, Davydd begins to stand, none of the newly embraced coltishness about him. He seems to have some modicum of control over his functions at least. "I'll not keep you," he whispers.

     "We're not put out," Ian says softly, the stick rising and falling absently before him. "I am sure there are lots of things you must go and do now," he observes. "Be safe where you go."
     Ian looks over again, his head nodding once. He would have preferred not to have this conversation at all -- it only emphasizes the point that something has happened. Perhaps a simple goodbye and slipping from the house, as normal. A wave and a leave. See you later. Maybe Ian does not know what to say. Or perhaps there's really nothing for him to say. Tonight, is like last night, is like the night before.
     Whatever his counsel, it is kept to himself. Ian smiles a little, but he's walled tonight, and his own woods shield him not.

     There's a glance to you and a nod. It's as simple as that. And as simply, Davydd turns, giving Macsen a pat. "I can't believe he still has you fetchin' his slippers, you old rascal," he says in Welsh from himself to the hound that was a present from him to his sister, from his sister to her husband. He snorts a short laugh and gives the hound a tussle before slipping off among the trees.
     Trailing behind him, the sound of a whistled song. The Gypsy Rover...

Posted by rowan at June 21, 2004 02:37 PM