Time passes not in leaping herds of minutes nor even clumsy packs of hours when one is waiting. Instead, time becomes elastic; it stretches, thinner and thinner until the waiting renders one almost transparent with the frailty of futility. Essays could be written upon the tick-tock tangle of waiting rooms and concert lines, of intermissions and interludes. Fiona has no such inclination - all the writing which she has intention of doing this week has been done, the almost cramped looping of her handwriting filling a small stack of pages and set off to one side. Tonight, she does not write. But neither does she give fear any more voice.
Instead, she has dined reasonably well (if a bit sparingly, appetite taking its time to return fully). The large marble bath has been run, filled with hot water and Schiaparelli scent and finally naked pale flesh that becomes parboiled like a lobster's shell and yards and yards of cornsilk pale hair. It's with the luxury of knowing she is sinning that she doesn't clean the bathroom up behind her, leaving the towels crumpled on the tub's edge.
In such repasts are idle hours spent...
But for all their luxurious trappings, the passing of hours is no less a vigil. Midnight has come and gone, and despite her best inclinations, the young woman hasn't been able to stay awake; fear is more exhausting than exercise, and less healthy or rewarding. Sleeping fitfully, nonetheless she sleeps, curled in the enormous featherbed in an entirely oversized shirt that is not her own. She's sunken into the mattress with a pillow held between her thighs and to her body, one arm wrapped around it snugly even in slumber. The long tresses, still faintly damp, are pulled back loosely and stir in the currents of cool night air.
At two, she wakes again, sitting up with a start to look around - without seeing what it is that she's looking for. A tall candle gutters on the table, its flame sheltered by a glass from the wind that whispers in and out through the open bedroom window; the drapes are pulled back, tied back to leave the open portal as a frame to the room within, the night without. Rubbing her eyes with her fists, she moves to sit in front of the candle, staring intently off into the darkness. "Bloody men," Fiona murmurs crossly. "Well ... I did promise to sing... I can at least waste a little time. I don't want to go back to sleep just yet."
The bed receives a slightly dour glance; too big, too empty, to filled with scents and memories. Fixing her attention onto some point beyond the darkness, she gives the matter some thought, then closes her eyes again, lips parting as her hands fold in her lap. No trace of huskiness is permitted in her voice; she could be a choirgirl if they had such things, right now, the way she chooses to sing. A canticle for a pagan king...
"When the marigold no longer blooms
When summer sun is turned to gloom
See the forecast winter snow
See the evergreen that lonely grows
Move close to the fireplace
Neglect the garden
See the ground harden
At a ghostly pace..."
It's dark and there is only the wind who seems to answer, blowing the thinner drapes to and fro. It is a Welsh spring and an early spring, and the wind bears a chill and a fine layer of mist. It's a Welsh spring and an early spring, and the Welsh mountains peek out from the fog like rising islands in an ethereal sea. It's a Welsh spring and an early spring, but who can tell it from the autumn?
When the marigold no longer blooms...
When summer sun is turned to gloom...
See the forecast winter snow
See the evergreen that lonely grows...
Move close to the fireplace
neglect the garden...
See the ground harden
At a ghostly rate...
A single starling moves against the mist, a single starling through the forest flies, a single starling takes his rest and listens to the song pass by, the sweetly sung carol from a young woman's mouth, the sweetly sung carol from the throat of a queen. A single starling lifts from his rest, a single starling takes to the wing, a single starling flies to an open window. The herald, the totem of the Holly King...
There is a storm coming behind it. A rush of warm air and of cool. A distant sound of thunder, like hooves approaching, rumbling from far away. The starling is black with a white speckled breast, like star-pocked Night, he is the harbinger of the Holly king.
It's that time of year once more and again
When the green turns golden brown
And the summer sun shall fade to winter sky
Old Oak King, it's time for you to die...
The King and the corn are born to fall
The Reaper comes for the barley and the rye
And all must fall beneath his scythe
Seasons change and we wait for darker days
The Old Oak King is a-sleeping in his grave.
"The golden summer sun is silver now
The fruit has fallen from the bow
The season moves to chestnut time
Toffee apples, treacle and mulled wine
Quilts and furs and woolens gay
You wrap around you
But the cold confounds you
On an autumn day..."
The song continues as Fiona sits there, opening her eyes to peer out into the gloom of night again. It's so strange to find herself so emotionally reliant - she, who all this time, she fought against it, maintained that stubborn resistance to depending upon anyone else's opinion or presence in the slightest. The world could turn and countries fall and she would observe with cynical scorn. And now...
The starling is met with an outstretched cautious hand, with a palely glimmering grey and blue admixed gaze, the fingers moving in a coaxing gesture.
Come here, little bird, if you will... you're wild, but I'm not so tame myself... at least, I didn't think that I was...
The small, dark bird with the star-pocked breast cocks his head this way and that. And soon as he rises to take to your hand, your hand is taken instead. What man is this, what a man is this, who holds your hand so lightly. Smoothened fingers, some of their calluses lost, press to your fingertips, steepling. And the red hair is burnished bright, bronze and copper and deeper auburn almost crimson, and it comes in slightly longer waves than when last you saw him, a fortnight past. The face that was roughened handsome has smoothened, the underlying beauty of the Welsh face revealed, its high cheekbones seeming more distinct. The eyes are the same deep green, but the sunlight of the oak forest is gone. Instead there is a richness, a deeper power, a deeper wood than you have known.
He's dressed in blacks that make his skin seem a touch more pale (though the Welsh were never known for their color), black sweater over black leather pants, with a dark coat fluttering behind him with the rising of the storm winds from the west. "The golden summer sun is silver now," Davydd sings, "...and the fruit has fallen from the bow... the season moves to chestnut time, toffee apples, treacle and mulled wine..." He pauses, smiling, "...and I've missed you..." His hand lifts, fingertips padding from your fingertips to your face, then down to the vision in his shirt. "That shirt's never looked better, and you..." He bends, as he must, to kiss you, as he does, warmly, resoundly, wildly and then tenderly.
"Your king is home," Davydd murmurs, and as he eases onto the bed, the bed itself begins to change...
The peacock feathers turn to clumps of holly berries, hawthorn and blackthorn blossoms, fruit on the vine and tendrils of ivy, the posts turn to the white-barked holly...
It isn't the first time that you've taken bird-form to fly in through her window...
But this time is different from times past...
For one thing, in times past she was almost more likely to slam the window shut in your face. For another... well... look at you...
She draws back in startlement, breath catching in her throat. And here is a little taste of what it must have been like to be confronted by the highwayman of Black Jack Davy, all caught unaware and exposed - vulnerable in the lack of expectation. "D-Davydd?"
She pulls back slightly, stiffening, the look on her face mistrustful. Sleep hasn't fully been banished from her face, from her body, and there's the urge as ever to kick and bite and scratch at the unknown, but the voice, the touch tell her it should be you even if the eyes suggest well, maybe not.
There's the words of her song echoed back at her, she's still tangled in her own confusion and half an ounce's worth of mistrust as you touch her face. The kiss, though - the kiss...
It's as impossible to counterfeit a kiss as a fingerprint...
You sit down and she takes a half step forward to follow, still staring. And then things begin to change further, causing her head to whip from side to side as she tries to take in all of it at once, almost falling over in her efforts. It's like sticking tape to the bottom of all four paws of a highly nervous and high-strung cat.
"...What are you doing?"
He recognizes That Look. In the old days it'd come with a bit of heaving bosom and a fat load of cash and jewelry. Sitting on the side of his bed, the bed transforming all around him, Davydd looks up at the handiwork, the veil slipping between This World and That by his will. He reaches forward and takes your hand, leading it to his mouth. "I'm getting in bed and getting comfortable," comes the familiar quip, though from a face without the scar on his chin. The face is His Face. When he cracks a grin and cocks up his eyebrows, surely that can't be missed. But lovely, Christ, and you though Huw the Huntsman was sommat to look at.
"I'm in need of a hair cut. I've gone a bit ... wild... without a woman's touch to keep me civilized," he all but sings. Davydd leans back on the bed, his hands now behind him and bearing him up. "A bit of a change, I know," he murmurs. "But one you can get used to? A lovely man with the soul and mouth of a devil..." Davydd grins a bit, his eyes tending downward on yourself, watching how the large shirt moves about you -- what it clings to, aye, and what it billows around. And the cornsilk hair. "You've not seen anything yet," he hints, the lips taking a bit of a sideways tilt, the dark eyes rascal bright.
"You're a sight for these eyes. Beautiful, a little nervous, like I haven't had the virginal prize. Your legs are trembling," Davydd notes, fiery eyebrows lifting slightly as he sees them, "...and I haven't even been between them yet," he chuckles and sits up, hand taking your hand again and leading it to his mouth. "It's good to see you, darlin'..."
"That's not what I meant," Fiona mutters, even as you bring her hand to your lips, as she takes another step forward. "I know what you're doing - you're changing things, but ... what are you /doing/?"
Her other hand comes up, to finger a lock of your hair, unable to resist the urge. Her eyes never leave your face, the fingertips sliding down to release the lock and touch your cheek, touch your chin, then fall to her side even as her other hand stays where you left it.
"I don't know what I think of it," Fiona murmurs, voice low. She's uncertain and wary - she's used to being the one who changes, not the one who people change upon. "I'm sure I'll survive it - but you can't blame me for having questions, can you?"
The shirt falls a little past the middles of her thighs, but not much further than that. Coltish lower limbs are bare, the opening from the collar revealing down to where the swell of her cleavage begins and then a little more. It's by necessity; broad as your shoulders are, the difference isn't one which shoulders alone can account for. "I'm sure I haven't seen anything yet," she mutters, and involuntarily, her gaze drops to your crotch, both eyebrows arching upwards. "Don't tell me that's changed too!"
She blushes, suddenly embarrassed at herself, but more at your reactions, at the strength of her own reaction - virginity's curse should have fled a while ago now ...
"Keep it up," Fiona mutters, mouth twisting, "and I can guarantee you won't be between them tonight, either..." Ah, the lies lovers tell. "...I'm glad you're happy to see me. Am I going to have to get a haircut, too?"
He laughs, the nose still wrinkles, the mouth still cuts the same slant, the laughter is boisterous and rich, the eyes still roll the same way. "Jesu, no... it didn't," he notes, eyes slightly wide as he glances from his crotch to you, and his pale complexion holds a brief ruddy hue. "And don't change a hair on that head," he whispers, his hands leading you toward the leathered lap.
It's a serious look he gives you, but one that's not without its humor, not without a smile. Davydd tips his head to the side as his other hand pats his lap. A place for you to sit, no better throne. "Some things have changed, Fiona, but much remains the same. I'm Davydd ap Owain, the man who loves you. The resident of Powis Castle. The blue painted dragon that likes to eat in bed. I'm still a fan of good beer, energetic fair-haired ladies, and short squatty dogs. What's changed? It's a long story, and one I'll tell you," he tacks on before you can, "...ad nauseam if you want. Suffice it to say: the business that I was off to is done. The king is crowned," he says softly to you. "And his little queen, his nervous little queen, should know the man she's about to marry. Davydd ap Owain he is called, the King of the Harvest, the Holly King of the Waning Year. Happy Halloween and Merry Christmas all in one man." He cuts a grin then. "Huw will have to bow to me when next he sees me. For without me, there is no Autumn..."
"Well, you walk in here looking as if you've been subjected to a fairy makeover, you can't blame a girl for asking," Fiona mutters, face going berry-bright again. But in a way, it helps that she's said it; it helps to see that it really still is you inside that too-beautiful darkness.
It isn't just some fairy trick...
Slowly, she moves forward again, moving to stand up against you, her knees to your knees as she leans forward to brush her lips against your forehead. "If you'd changed those things, I'd die of a broken heart," she answers, as seriously as you, expression briefly solemn. It changes a moment later as she allows herself to drop, not sink, onto your lap. "As long as it's done, I guess. I ... don't really understand, but I've spent the past few days digging graves, Davydd - I can wait a little while on answers as long as I know that it really is you."
She leans in against your chest, eyes closing as she presses into the solid warmth of you, looking ready to curl up; then, instead of curling, her hands go to your chest, fingernails digging in a bit as she leans up to bite at your shoulder. "That's a little bit of a downpayment," she threatens, "for having scared me so much, you bastard."
And a moment passes and she looks up at you, the face of you, and first she scowls, muttering, "I don't have a clue about what you're talking about. But..." She smiles, the expression blossoming into brilliance, softening the sharp angles.
"Huw? Huw who? Let's leave owls alone tonight. But if you want, I do have some plans in mind for Halloween. But I think first you need to prove to me that you're still you. After all," and her look and voice combine coquetry with a pouting hurt indignation, the look of a cat whose people have been away, "you were gone and you didn't even call."
With one hand she reaches up behind her shoulder, dragging the drapes around the bed free of their ties...
Posted by rowan at June 26, 2004 06:21 PM
