The night passes to darkness, through darkness, to day. It is a passage marked by moments, by food, by blood, by sex...
     Some people would say that's all life is, in the end...
     But what do they know?
     It's had an effect of reminding Fiona that she's a girl; not just female, but feminine. It's not something she concentrates her energy upon save unconsciously, visited with eyes closed and lips parted as if for some forbidden fruit.
     Shocking...
     She drifts through sleep as if through sun-warmed waters, sprawled where she's been laid (in every sense of the word). Movement occurs only when it must, and the only thing which convinces her it's necessary is ... well.
     You know.
     Nature's call.
     When she finally awakens for longer than it takes her to drag her twinge-plagued body from bed to bath and back, the sun is setting again. She stirs, dragging a section of sheet along with her, caught and wrapped around one thigh and part of one hip. Turning, she looks down at the man that occupies the other half of the bed (and more, likely, than just half)...
     "Big appetites," Fiona says softly, watching you as the sky outside fades from red and gold to the purple of gathering dusk. "Don't know what's going on with you, Davydd. I'm hard to shake, even if sometimes I scare easily. I wonder though ... by running towards it instead of away..."
     Slowly, she stands, groaning as she stretches. She moves to the window, peering past a fold of the drapes, mindful as usual of the risk of any light penetrating within. That, at least, is not new.
     "I wonder if I'm doing the right thing? It's not something I've ever had to wonder about before. But I don't know your mind like I know my own, and I'm not used to being this selfish in pursuing what I want..."
     She stands there, a poor man's imitation of a Roman senator's wife, wrapped irresponsibly in thin sheeting. Under her breath, she hums a made-up or forgotten melody, unweaving tangles from her hair as she waits for the day to have its final death.

     At the day's final death, and not a moment before. Before. It seems your relationship and lives together may be told in Before and Afters. Before, he could speak with you in his suspended rest, his enchanted rest. But now, there is nothing before the dawn of Night. Nothing. He lies still where he is sprawled, the mountainous tattooed wonder of a man. His position seems very natural, the recline of a man who had a long, albeit very enjoyable, evening.
     But there is no motion, no clearing breath, no snoring, no twitch of a finger...
     It is not that he cannot answer. He cannot hear you. There is no telepathy. There is Nothingness. Nothingness like the Darkness in the chamber last night.
     You watch the sun sink, the last slivers of daylight as a corona against twilight indigo. Still, there is no sound from the bed. The muscled figure of the Welsh prince is held still, as still as a stone, a carved statue. He is, at this moment, little more than an icon...

     "If I were into statues," Fiona mutters wryly. "Or into defacing edifices - you know, one day I'll have to do that, Davydd. Pink bows around your masculine bits and maybe around your neck. A bit of lipstick and mascara... always assuming it didn't result in you going entirely berserk and killing me, of course. But that's the risk of graffiti, isn't it?"
     As the last rays of the sun die against the earth, she takes up a position in the window, draping herself there and draping the sheets around herself, looking to the bed for signs of ... well ... Life.
     "You're a horrible bastard, you know," Fiona says quietly, in a tone of great assurance. "But I love you. If I loved you less, walking away would've happened ages ago. But I'm here because I don't want to be anywhere else. Even though it's lunatic blue - all this magic, mine, yours, ours, other people's, me and my changing, you and your drinking blood. Have I mentioned that it's a little weird?"
     Fiona Arundel. Possessing the gift of understatement for another month thus far.

     The very instant, the very moment, the very head of the pin of evening comes and he wakes with it. Not immediate consciousness, but rather immediate motion, noticeable precisely for the Nothingness that preceded it. The large form rolls, and the bed sounds and shifts as he lands upon his back, his arms going out. He lies there for a moment. Maybe he heard you. He swallows.
     "I need more," Davydd says, his voice earthy, rumbly, rough. There is a twist to his expression, as if he is in a little discomfort. Maybe it is merely the discomfort of having to wake up after so long a night.
     Maybe...
     Forest eyes blink their way open and he rolls his head upon the cushion to look at you. As if he knew you were there, waiting for him. Perhaps it is simply habit, to not feel you beside him and to look to the window. Perhaps.
     I need more...
     "I am a horrible bastard," he whispers back. "I told you that, didn't I. You should eat," he notes.
     I need to eat...
     I need more...
     Davydd starts to sit up. When he looks to you, the look is direct and unwavering. Startling in its depth and brightness, in its focus, an archer's focus. A vampire's focus. It is a look that calls, that speaks soft volumes. He softens it a moment later, and shaking his head seems to look within himself.
     "I need more, cariad... I will need more, and I can't have it all from you. You... I would... there would be nothing of you left, and I cannot have that. I do not want that..."

     Turning from the window, Fiona blinks for a moment in childlike solemnity. Her eyes are somewhere between blue and grey, like a mist that rises before the dawn.
     "I figured I'd wait for you to get up. I'm a bit stiff tonight." And it's all your fault. But she doesn't say it, doesn't even hint it, being without the laugh or smirk or glower of accusation. Is this a bad sign?
     "I've been calling you a bastard since I met you, Davydd. I'm not likely to stop just because you start to agree with me." Fiona rises from the windowsill, letting the sheet fall away so that she is simply naked, without pretense or defensive posturing. "What will you, proud king of the Red Branch kings? - Stay here. I'll ... be right back."
     It's an idea she's had, and though she's surprised, she reacts not viscerally nor with any of her fears but in action to find a solution. She doesn't wait for an answer, either - instead, she moves to the monumental closet, reaching for an oversized shirt that drapes over her skin from shoulder to the middle of her thighs. Then she emerges, giving you a very serious look indeed.
     "Stay here," Fiona repeats herself. "This shouldn't take me long. I ... hadn't planned on this, but - I'll be back."

     "Is that all?" Davydd rumbles, a short chuckle. His eyes spring wide for a moment and then with a wry turn of his smile, he rolls over. Coverlets are tossed back like drapes and he spreads out upon the bed, conquering it utterly.
     A large hand drags through short, bronze-copper-fiery hair, bits of it sticking up here and there like some vision of Peter Pan gone rather wretchedly hardcore. He watches you, he has a hard time not watching you -- you sparkle, you're tasty, he's hungry. It's simple arithmetic. A fiery eyebrow cocks up and his mouth cants to the side.
     Just what are you up to, Little Missy?

     It's only the hardcore versions of Peter Pan that would leave her at all inclined to play, though whether she's Wendy or Tinker Bell is open to discussion. As long as you're not averse to elbows in the gut, at least...
     Fiona smiles at you, though with a hint of wariness. She still apparently trusts you or she wouldn't be here, but ...
     Things are flavoured differently now...
     "I'll be back shortly," she paraphrases herself, then steps out of the room entirely. But she doesn't go far. Can you tell? Do you sense her passage down the hall, down the steps and then to the music room and then to a halt?
     Even if you do not, you undoubtedly feel what comes next; the pulse, the swell, the rush of magic gathering and being pulled into place, woven together and given substance. It is a strong magic, and it carries Fiona's scent with it - scent, and the headiness of apple blossoms born on the rushing wind.
     Considering how badly some of Fiona's other attempts at magic have gone, this could be a very bad thing indeed. Of course, there is always the chance that she's learned from her mistakes...

     You're not the only one who's wary...
     He remembers the piano, the London pub, the tree. Shite, his eyes roll upward as if waiting for the roof to cave in, maybe I should wait outside. But he doesn't move far. With a mighty exhalation, Davydd returns to the bed, his back, and he closes his eyes.
     Your magic washes over him, even from here. It moves through him, even from here. Beneath his skin, he feels you form it. He feels it, smells it, tastes it. Apples and wind. Mouth parting, Davydd breathes verses in Welsh, not in counteracting but in sympathetic casting.
     You are stronger, Little Queen, than you were before...

     Silence reigns absolute - as absolute as it ever is. She has learned something, it seems ...
     There is no brilliant glowing beacon sent up, this time. It glows and you sense it, but it is localized - contained from what it would have been. Whether or not by intent, of course ...
     Well, that's another thing entirely.
     Eventually, there is the sense of her presence returning, the subtle footsteps that being bare only you would hear (if anyone else were here at all to hear), and then, the doorway opens. She steps back in, carefully, carrying a tray of food. "I apologize for the delay," she murmurs, moving to the side of the bed. "Anyway, I ... well, I did something." She makes it sound like a guilty confession as she remains there, holding the tray with its plates and dishes and pitcher. She glances to the door, then to your face. "It's not exactly how I'd planned on this, but ... shall I go ahead, or is your heart not up to surprises?"

     His head turns on the pillow. He watches all of the moments of your entry, of your approach to the bed. Forest green eyes lift from the tray and plates to your face, both eyebrows cocking up, and then his mouth slants a smirk. "After that production number? Sure... what did you bring me..." Maybe pies will stave it off long enough to see what you're up to.
     Davydd rolls onto his side, his head lifting, propped up on the heel of his hand. Come a little closer, darling, say the eyes. Ah, those eyes -- deep woods resonating within the color of them, a wild, shuddering, bountiful, fertile world, a paradise among heavens.
     "Are you going to stand there all night," he clips in Welsh. "Seems a waste of beautiful, warm skin to me..." Not to mention the pies...

     She brings the tray closer, moving closer to you - within your grasp, really, and there is a glance from Fiona to the door. And then there is the sound of a set of footsteps, as if in echo of her return, and the door opens again - and there is Fiona.
     Two of her, but only one still wearing the shirt taken from the closet...
     The one next to the bed sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed and placing the tray within your reach. "I'd been planning this for a while," she remarks. "Saving it for our wedding night. But under the circumstances..."
     "Under the circumstances," her doppleganger agrees, moving to the other side of the bed, "it seemed better to hurry things along. Besides, we all know you're in much too much of a hurry to get through that long without a spare."     Two sets of mercurial gazes turn upon you, two heads of cornsilk hair the colour of the heart of oak. Everything is doubled...
     Or is that squared...

     Eyebrows open upward, threatening to leap off his face. Davydd sits up, looking to each of the Fionas in turn. Fiona Prima and Fiona Secunda. And the smile becomes a dual-pointed grin. A hand throws back the other portion of the blankets, not so much a suggestion or an invitation as a get in here now.
     How well he likes it...
     How perfect you are...
     How intense his lust...
     The reaction is physical (obvious from where he sits), emotional (obvious from the blood you share), and locational -- the room feels the immediate press of Need. His complexion deepens, a flush of red lifting to the surface, the blue tattoos turning indigo at the fringes.
     "Put the tray down," the Welsh insists, "...and come back to bed..."
     Now, is not suggested...
     Now, is demanded...

     "I can't maintain it forever," Fiona cautions, taking up a pastry from the tray, taking a bite of it and filling her mouth with it. You can almost see her drawing energy from it - as if all it would take would be a little more concentration and she simply wouldn't need to eat. It'd just crumble to nothingness in her hand, converted to pure energy...
     But she sets the tray aside, making sure it's safely out of range of flying pillows. (Not that she's expecting any flying pillows, but this is YOUR bed.) Then one of her moves closer onto the bed, unhurried motions as she drops next to you.
     She's teasing...
     She's got to be...
     No one would be moving that slowly for any other reason, would they?
     The one with the shirt - Fiona Prima, perhaps - settles on your other side, snuggling up. "So," she begins, "do you think-"
     "you can tell," the other continues,
     "which is which?" It's finished in unison. And in unison, they smile.

     "I love you both equally," Davydd drawls out with a grin straight from the Devil.
     He seems well acquainted with having two women to deal with at the same time. Take that however you please, probably best not to ask too many questions. One strong arm each and you are pulled into a piling grasp.
     "I won't play favorites, I promise," comes the deep rumble of the dragon's voice in the close (and getting closer all the time) confines of the bed.
     Hand here...
     Hand there...
     He sinks into the doubled grasp, his mouth opening at one of the throats. Prima. Secunda. It doesn't much matter...

Posted by rowan at September 18, 2004 03:24 PM