The darkness is shrinking. With the sickle sliver, the moon cuts its waxing way into evening. From crescent to quarter to full, the moon will show its variable face, donning one mask after the other. So, too, myself, but in terms opposite. Where it will symbolize the waxing of the sun's influence -- the moon being nothing without the sun -- so it will symbolize the waning of my own. The more brightly it shines, the darker I become.
It's fucking poetic, that...
The covers are thrown back and a waking, tattooed man is sitting up, barefeet coming to the rugged floor, a hand to coppery hair, making it more punk-impish and disjointed than usual. He stretches where he sits, the tangled, thorny and fruit-bearing blackthorn and hawthorn wavering with the shifting of muscles and sinews. There's a groan for the popping, for the evening, and for the cessation of the blind-mad hunger that has driven him into you with Caligulaean splendor.
"Oi, lads," comes the first rumble of the day, the earthy voice more gravelly with his waking, his feet stretching out to roll against the upraised bellies of the two corgies.
You remember they're fairy men, right? Does this make him glam-sexual?
With another exhale of breath, this one quite grand, Davydd rises from the bed. Arms lift and fold over his head as he stretches and walks to the bathroom, his body an epic of poems, the battle of trees (Cad Goddeu) given a perfect male form.
At some point...
At some point, one form was absorbed into the other, so that before 'morning' there is only one of Fiona in the bed. One is, most of the time, enough - isn't it? Cornsilk hair is strewn about, milk-white skin perhaps a little paler than usually you leave it; exhaustion will do that even without blood loss. And her limbs are strewn about as well, the picture of unconsciousness, relaxed in the firm grip of sleep.
The dragging away of the covers is the first pebble in those deep waters. Eyebrows draw downwards, the corners of her mouth downwards as well for a moment, but it isn't a conscious reaction. And she is unmarked in comparison to you (save for blue shadows of the geography and topography of her flesh, save for marks of Romanesque bacchanalia)...
The second pebble is strewn b the shifting of the bed, and slowly she turns over, reaching out a hand - for pillow to draw over her head as she draws the world up over her ears to shut out what some would call reality? or for you...
Whatever it is, Fiona doesn't find it, and when you speak to the corgies, she lifts her head. Her eyelids weigh about a thousand pounds each, her lips throb with the weight of the straining effort of the lifting (or with bruising from last night's play in three acts). "Mmm?"
Ah, but at least she can enjoy the view, inasmuch as she can pry her eyelids open. You're walking away, after all. Groggily, Fiona sits up, clumsily, she tries to push her hair back, get it out of her mouth, out of her eyes, out from under her breasts, she doesn't need hair on her chest. "B... blck." She spits, she inhales, she makes the supreme effort and gets to her feet and doesn't even fall down after. Were you expecting Venus to be coherent, the morning after the night before? Give her some coffee first...
"No one speaks Gaelic here," the voice rumbles from the bathroom, a tangle of earth-borne Welsh, the perfect companion to the sound of running water. It's not so lyrical first thing in the bleeding morning. It's more of a clip-clop, like the starting of horses, darting this way and leaping that. An assault of syllables, consonants and vowels, with all the grace of a child playing jacks.
He appears in the doorway, eyebrows up-and-down, the expression slightly comical, slightly buzzed, slightly tired, toothbrush shoved in his mouth, which is now, of course, foaming. On him, it simply looks rabid. A crazy, frothing Welshman. Whatever he says to you, and it has to be filth from the way his eyes are raking over the bed, is thankfully muffled. The laughter's not. Guttural, the chuckling goes as Davydd rolls his way back into the bathroom.
Three ways till Sunday, I've had you...
The tapping is clear, one faucet is off, but there's still another one running. You can stay in bed if you like, no need to get up on my account. But these night's there's no loitering in bed. If he's in bed, he's either going to be fucking, fucked or knocked the fuck unconscious by sunrise. Nothing in between. "Fuck me, does water never warm in Wales," the curse comes in a lyrical rush as he's somewhere in the shower, in the water, cursing its lack of warmth with nice little Welsh epithets...
Jesus, it's colder in here than in the queen of England's snatch...
I've had warmer nuns...
If it were any colder, I'd swear I was fucking Rosamund...
You coming in to warm me or what? Holy shite, this is bringing back some unpleasant memories... The cold water, he must mean...
Slowly, she pulls herself along the wall, making her way to the bathroom with a roll of her hips that isn't an attempt to seduce. It's a reminder of the night before, the way a black eye might be to the winner of the pub fight. And it's not so bad an analogy - the winner of the fight can choose to regard his bruises in dismay or as a trophy, it's all in the eye of the beholder...
Fiona makes her way to the bathroom door, leaning in through the archway. "I'm going to demand some serious lap-time later, bastard," she remarks, words slurred by lingering sleepiness. "And you invite me in right after saying you'd swear you were fucking Rosamund? If you're sure your testicles are safe... brave man or foolish."
But she's already naked, so the idea of a shower is tempting. Cold water, however, is not, and she hangs back from the edge of the tub. "I think I'll wait here until I see some steam. Just because you can't wait until it heats up to jump in doesn't mean I've got to pay for your lack of foresight. Unless you're trying to tell me I'm only useful as a hot water bottle?" At least she doesn't say as a bloodbag.
"If you can find my testicles right now, then God bless you for it. A good swift kick might help me remember where they are," Davydd cackles. He sticks his wet, red head out of the shower door. There's some warmth to the water, but it's far from steamy. "And if I have to explain the joke to you..." he leads but says not more about Rosamund. The door shuts with a click. "Ah sweet Jesu of Mercy, finally..."
The hot water must have kicked in. Hey, it beats the baths of a thousand years ago in this castle, where a man might have to break the ice that settled on top of the water poured by the servants the night before. Or, god help him, dunk himself in the river...
"We can probably arrange a bit of lap time." That was an easy concession. "Here, it's warm enough now... I'll get out so you can have a little peace."
Wait for it...
"Which is exactly what you'd get if I stayed in..." Davydd cackles again. He's killing himself with this material, clearly. The door is opened and he comes out, grabbing a towel the same color as his markings -- a blue midway between royal and midnight. Glancing down to make sure he's dripping on the carpet, his one hand holds the door open for you, his other brings the towel to his hair, spiky red stuff as it is at the moment.
"You make a better set of pillows than you do a hot water bottle," he rumbles pleasantly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he makes a grin. Double-edged at that.
You can see he's thinking of popping you with the towel. He knows it would mean a certain kick, but it is tempting. Somehow, he manages to resist. "So," a clearing breath, "...we get fresh, then we get a bit of breakie, then I've got to make a few calls. I have some business soon... but, we'll bother with that later. Lap time after that. Promise..."
He's a wet thing as he leans in for a kiss and takes it just like he wants it. Better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission...
"I got more than a little piece last night," Fiona retorts easily. There's no anger, no sharpness to her voice; this too is part of life, it seems, or the life she's chosen. There are things which will cause claws to come out - but not this. "And I'm more of a pillow than a hot water bottle; I don't think I stretch all that well. You know, it's not fair."
She waits to kiss back, the mention of business and phone calls sinking in and making her nip at your lower lip, punk taking over to punish and knowing full well that the tables might turn (isn't that part of the fun?) but it's a kiss and it's meant all the same. "Mm," she murmurs, pulling back. "Go on, you git. I need to get warm and you're all wet. And deflated after last night, I shouldn't wonder."
Fiona pokes a fingertip at the towel, then attempts a sidestep towards the water. "You look good at any time I've ever seen you. And lately, you ... well, I'll tell you later. Go on - do your business." Fiona flaps her hands at you, magnificent in dismissal. What, her explain? When she can torture you in female wiles, er ways?
"Flattery will get you everywhere," Davydd smirks, tongue running over the memory of the teased bite. "I'll let you stroke my ego over bangers and mash. I'll be downstairs with the piano and food once I dress. Take your time. Maybe you should have a soak," he looks at you pointedly, first to your face and then toward your belly (and all points in vicinity).
He hasn't been caretaking of late and that was damn near considerate...
"Okay, I'm off," he says softly, another quick kiss stolen, you pulled in for it with a buccaneer's flourish, and there the Black Jack Davy leaves you.
But he's not far, just in the neighboring closet, in fact. Random thoughts streaming by like the water out of the shower head and down through the drain...
Gah, I'm fucking starving...
I wonder what I should wear...
I'm not looking forward to the ring I have to make...
What do I want: bangers and mash or smoked salmon? Salmon...
Ring you have to make? That catches her attention, lazy as she's been made by kiss and care, that much catches her attention as something unexpected. Fiona sighs at the warmth caused by your leave-taking even as she turns to draw herself a bath. And since this time it's not a point of ritual, she's got her own choices to make. She reaches for a basket of bath goods that she has - she made a trip to London for them, extra-special and on her own one day, down and back again - and sets it on the sink as she picks through them contentedly.
Lavender seems far too expected; cucumber-melon, too trendy. Rose, too sweet - what's in here that she'd use? Ah - there it is. Verbena, bitter and sweet, fragrant and yet not overpowering - ethereal and yet wholly of the earth. Friend to faeries and witches, that fits too - though how much healing Fiona's done isn't so accurate as how much blood she's got to replace, like as not. She looks at the tube of crystals, then shrugs and leans into the tub to twist on the water, nice and hot, upending the crystals into the stream.
Going into the body jewelry business, Davydd? Or is this actually relating to the wedding?
Why not fry up some scrambled eggs with the salmon? Add in a dab of cheese and it's a damned good thing you don't have to worry about cholesterol...
She shrugs out of your thoughts for a moment as she eases herself into the hot water, and the sigh she utters is felt as well as moaned aloud. Oh ... that feels so good ...
Sure you don't want to join me? Wait - I forgot, you're about to eat. I know better than to interrupt you while you're eating.
Ring. Telling Bone. Telephone, darlin'...
Ooh, and salmon and eggs. Better, smoked salmon omelette. Ah, that's it exactly... what is this, blue or black? Black, good. And no I'm not going into the body jewelry business, but if you wanted to, say, pierce something, I wouldn't be revolted...
There's sudden quiet as he's getting dressed. He's not so good with multi-tasking conversation. In battle or magic, no problem. In conversation, he can't hold a chat and do anything else terribly useful. Does it feel good? Such a teasing refrain in the depth of the voice you can feel more than you can hear. And there is some subtle feeling, it must be the water and the way it runs against your skin, but you might swear it was his fingers there instead.
I could inhale a whole buffet just now. Or several girls named Buffy... The sound of him laughing is audible, clearly over the shower, while his steps out of the closet, into his shoes and then down the stairs may not be. Cholester-what? What the fuck are you talking about, woman? What is that, some sort of mussel? You can tell it's closing in on summer, the sky's not half so dark as it was last week... He must be near a window...
Oh, that thing. I forgot we had one of those...
Sure she did, that's why she's been leaving her voicemail on, to intercept all her mother's calls...
I've had things pierced, remember? I don't dislike 'em. But there's only certain things I'm sure I want to live with for the rest of my life. Aren't you lucky, you're one of them? Of course, if I do get tired of you, you're a little easier to get rid of.
Fiona's thoughts are comfortable and easy as she relaxes into the water - soon, she's in the water up to her mouth, eyes closed and head tipped back so only her nose and upper lip are above the surface of the water, as well as two pink-peach tips and one knee.
I don't see how anyone could ever get tired of you, she tells you lazily. You're too ... T.S. Eliot. Too much. The ribbon and band of the stars, you'd never fit around my hat, but you fit nicely around my heart...
There's a gasp and a sputter as she surfaces suddenly, with a shiver despite the warmth. Trying to drown me? I haven't had your children yet! Bastard. Her 'voice' is softened though, warmer - butter spread on toast, the crumbs still sharp beneath the cream. Or maybe I'm just imagining it... you sure you have to make phone calls?
Despite the previous night, appetites are reawakening...
She begins scrubbing her skin - must exfoliate. Besides, it feels good right now. Fiona begins soaping herself up, working it into her skin and then into her hair, humming to herself. Summer is coming, she agrees, and it's going to bring all sorts of surprises. All ye good things and all that. I might even arrange for a few of them myself. Go get your work done, damn your blue balls, Davydd. If the nights are going to be getting shorter, we're going to have to start working faster.
Give me autumn over summer any day. The thoughts trail as lazily as your own, there is a quiet reverence to them. Waning daylight, longer evenings. Better still is winter, long nights and lots of waking hours. Time is short, even for long-lived things...
He sits at the piano, his keys moving over black keys and white, the dark and the light of him sounding with the gentle press of his fingers. Ah, I weary people. I always have, I always will. Only the most stubborn on this earth still call me friend. I've worn out ever woman and every welcome I've ever encountered. T.S. Eliot, Waste Land? That seems fitting. Or the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock? Maybe more like that. Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, the muttering retreats of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells..
Fingers strike the keys, you cannot hear the music, but it swells with such sweet melancholy, perfect companion for such a poem. It is one of his own creation, a meandering, minor key exhalation. Davydd stares at the keys and the expanse of an uncertain future.
He feels his phone in his pocket, and through it feels the pull of an entire world...
Start working faster at what? Getting you heavy with my fat babies? You're sounding very.... eager. After the last three nights, I'd figured you'd swear off sex for at least a week...
The song halts as he removes the phone from his jacket. He thinks nothing, says nothing as a phone rings somewhere in London.
Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself; I am vast, I contain multitudes. Fiona begins to wash the soap from her skin, unhurried in her ablutions. You know I prefer autumn, Davydd. I was born in autumn, and it's always been the time of year that's called me the most. But there's no point in shrinking away from the summer just because it's there.
She disappears underneath the sheet of the surface of the water, briefly blinking eyes open to look up through the wobble of the warm liquid as if it were a wall between herself and the world. You've worn me out often enough, she agrees, but some food and some sleep usually sets me right. Now and again I get cranky with you, but it'll take more than that to shake me loose. I've told you that before. You're Panic. I'm ... something else.
She comes up for air, her thought complete and water and shampoo streaming away to bob foamily away from her limbs. I'm avoiding having your babies just yet. Seems too much like something women do to tie a man to them in the hopes it'll make him feel more like sticking around, out of duty or adoration or obligation. It might work, but I'm sold on the idea of you sticking around because you want to be around me, rather than to protect the fat woman while she prepares to scream - I mean, sing.
God, I hate this man. He can probably fucking hear me, but I don't fucking care. What a git. Okay, done. Bad news, I've to London. And I have to go alone. You can argue with me when you get down here for your breakfast and lap time, but there's no changing it. I need to get this out of the way...
Whatever it is, it's not forthcoming...
I'm not quite ready for clones just yet, and make no mistake they're going to look just like me. And likely act like me, too. Maybe a couple of years. Now is not a good time. No rush. It's not like the world's going to end... He's laughing at that. It might, you know...
Are you done yet? Jesus, woman, my water bill's going to be through the roof. There's a man in Cardiff that needs to wash his car, for God's sake...
Why would I argue with you? So you've got to go to London. I'm attached to you, Davydd, but it's not surgical. You've got business - fine. I wouldn't drag you along to sign papers or whatever either.
Though the insistence that she can't come makes her more inclined to argue than she otherwise be; you can feel it, prickling beneath the skin as she rises from the tub, pulling the drain open so that she stands there in drippings of water and scent deep enough to roll around in, fast as it'd fade.
I can wait, Fiona's thoughts are dry, on the swelling and stretching and inability to sleep and hemorrhoids. Someone's been warning her ... Especially since you're only awake at night for giving me foot massages.
She drapes herself in one of your towels, tying it toga-like and peering at herself in the clouds of steam that hide the mirror as if reaching forth to perform divination - a crystal ball in which she dimly sees herself. Fiona grabs another towel as she wraps up her hair, and then starts for the door, sailing majestically through it with her final word on your water bill.
Bite me, Davydd.
There is such an insinuation of desire, like the tangling of ivy spiraling its way toward you and around hands and ankles, as it is sometimes wont to do within the confines of the Holly King's bed. But these twining tendrils are invisible to the eye, just the presence of his pleasure. Don't tempt me before breakfast...
But, in truth, the hunger is waning with the waxing of the moon. Still able to be tempted -- you will enjoy him at the full of the moon, the very model of chastity - but equally tempted by the food that's been set before him.
No offense...
I'll have you know that no woman's ever complained to have a baby of mine in her womb. I hear that music plays during labor, and that there's not so much as a tear when delivering. And little fairies fly out between lifted legs and wrap the babes in swaddling mithril cloth. He's laughing. Not that I'd know. I'm never there. But I hear it's a religious experience. My Spanish wife liked me better when she held my children. They say it's the only way to live with me.
He might not be kidding on that. Davydd leaves off the piano and takes a seat on the sofa, the trays of salmon and eggs, biscuits and jam, tea and cream service sitting by. The food damn near hovers, so fast his hands go to this and that until his platter is full and he slows to enjoy pure magical essence in its best form. Salmon and mash.
I'm not any other woman you've been with before. Fiona selects clothing - simple clothing, easy to pull on (and off), something comfortable and soft. After last night, however agreeable she seems to be feeling, she still wants her luxury...
A pair of slightly baggy jeans, faded but in still fairly new condition - must've come that colour - are pulled up to her hips, closed and then belted loosely into place. A chemise of silk so dark a green as to almost be black save where the watermark of light shows is next, satin bow on the front, straps holding it in place - it's just short enough that it doesn't need to be tucked in anyway. She regards herself for a moment from the side, in the mirror, the towel that'd been wrapped around her now in front of her, the towel from her hair behind. I look like American magazine advert white trash.
It's not a plea for reassurance; she turns to the closet again, selecting a cream-coloured cashmere sweater with a heavy cowl neck. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulls on a pair of knit socks done in wobbling stripes of cream and fawn, then pulls her hair back with the hum of magic escaping her lips as a melody as she weaves the long locks into a Chinese bun, skewered with a long pale piece of wood.
I don't know the other women you've had, Davydd. I'm sure there's similarities, and I'm sure too you'll say plenty of them were unique. But can you honestly say that the reasons I came here are the same as for any woman before me? Fiona's thoughts are slightly peppery, but mostly flavoured with the wine of curiosity - and they say that there is no better wine for intoxication, save perhaps desire itself. You can feel her drawing closer, even though she's quiet as she moves down the stairs. Did you make enough food for me too, or am I fending for my own breakfast?
What do you take me for, a complete arse? Of course there's food for you. I'm not a complete mess of a man. And all women are unique. The only man who compares them is a fool. Am I losing my touch? Did you not note the impressive amount of sarcasm in all of that? I've been cooped up in the country too long. That last bit was to himself, very faint to you.
When you come to the ballroom, the lavish living room of the old red castle, you'll find Old Red himself, dressed like a country gentleman, which he is, reading his paper with a bun in his hand, the bun covered in salmon, egg, salt and pepper. There's a tea and coffee service nearby. He's dispensing with both this morning; he's gone straight for the dark beer. Looks like Guinness, smells like Guinness.
The paper is the main paper of Cardiff. There's another Welsh-language paper near at hand from Powys country, smaller that. The London Times also rests nearby. He'll get to that in a bit.
His clothing is all of the autumn colors, layers still permissible in Wales this time of year, wool-blend trousers, nice shoes -- both a cocoa sort of brown. The light sweater is a mixture of greys and greens. A brown coat, gloves and scarf lie on top of the piano, in case he decides to take a walk in the rain.
It is late spring in Wales. It is most definitely raining...
His hair is kept decidedly modern, thick red going this way and that way, curls appearing at the nape of his neck and in the general wave at the tips. Peter Pan gone mad, that is.
Sarcastic or not, brute, sometimes you need reminding. Fiona leans over the back of you, kissing the back of your head. She's not in any rush, clearly, to consider venturing out of the house...
You know, they say couples who are together long enough don't even need to talk out loud to communicate. She thinks that pretty funny, lips quirking over it as she veers off course and away from you in order to grab food for herself. For some reason, she's ravenous all of a sudden; coffee is good, coffee will help a great deal. And I can talk with food in my mouth.
Fiona pulls out a chair, evidently interested in eating before claiming any sort of 'lap time'. She hums to herself, the press of magic evident but not released as she liberally stirs cream and honey into the coffee, and props an elbow on the table. "So when do you leave for London? Do you object when you go to my catching a ride so I can swing by my parents' and do some shopping, or does 'not going with' extend so far as to not even being allowed to be in the city while you're there?"
Ah, there's the hint of belligerence you've come to know and hopefully love. Pale blue eyes regard you with a hint of sharpness for a moment, though her lips twitch again. Careful how you answer, Llewellyn...
Whether his mouth was open to retort or to bite the bun, it's hard to say. Historians may bicker about it for centuries. Dark green eyes shift to look at you sidelong and then Davydd sits back, hand smoothing over the crinkles in the paper. He's not above having it ironed before reading. He likes a crisp, perfectly folded paper. "I don't suppose there's harm in it, but I wasn't going to be driving," is how he gives his answer, then Davydd looks pointedly at you for a moment before the expression softens and warms and he smiles.
"You needn't stay out of London on my account. Might be good, in fact, if you're seen there without me, doing normal things a normal girl does. Shop, avoid her mother..." The paper is folded very neatly and then tossed aside and Davydd, now with his Guinness, settles back on the sofa and looks at you, beer propped up on his thigh and balanced with a large hand. "So... what I'm saying is, you're perfectly welcome to go to London, if you want to catch a ...ride... with me, you're welcome to. It's likely going to be the last ...express trip I take. I need to close that portal on the way back." A reminder to himself. "But it's probably safer for you if you're not seen with me."
Davydd's fiery eyebrows cock up and he mutters, "...a lot fucking safer actually. You should go see Kelly," he suggests suddenly with a swig of the stout. "Do a lot of shopping," he grins. "I'll even buy. How's that?" Buy? Davydd? Davydd never buys. He usually just makes gifts out of things he's stolen from other people. He's a bit cheap.
Both eyebrows go up at this combination of informational tidbits, but for a moment, Fiona concentrates on filling her mouth. Suspicion wars with curiosity, now, and her thoughts taste like fortified wine - heavy with brandy, the taste of iron somehow underneath the grape, iron, and copper as well...
I can tell asking too many questions isn't going to get me far, but I'm going to ask some anyway and see what happens. Isn't it just like her to signal her intent? Of course, she might just then do the opposite. Mouth filled with eggs, she chews and washes it down with the sweetened coffee. Why is the portal being closed? I mean, it's yours to close, though I'll miss being able to get to London that fast without causing a major blackout - but what sort of danger am I going to be in? And why're you offering to buy me things, Davydd?
Someone should teach her not to look a gift horse in the mouth ...
Fiona swallows, then continues with both hands now around the coffee cup, warming her skin and watching the liquid shift and shimmer. "Not that I object to people buying me things - I like being spoiled absolutely rotten and right now I'm still feeling a bit unripe. But you're behaving oddly, and if it affects me, I'd like to know what's going on before I get jumped in a dark alley by your debtors. Especially," she glancing up at him, a clarity in her gaze, corners of her mouth curving faintly downwards before relaxing, "since right now it sounds like you're planning on jumping out of a window and actually being there when the ground arrives. You're not leaving Kelly to pick up the bill, are you...?"
And, of course, part of the bill would be the widow, wouldn't it...
He really hates his breakfast peppered with inquisitions, but done with the bun and now, with a long swallow, done with the stout (he's going to need another) Davydd gives you the whole of his attention. Startling as it is, the dark forest eyes a shock of wild-wood color and the pale, Cymric skin pink with you reddening just a touch as it does when he is either irritated, horny, angry or otherwise agitated.
But he doesn't seem agitated. He just stares at you for a moment, then sighs. "The portal must be closed to protect the children. If I were the happy go lucky Prince of the Autumn or what-have-you, a more or less harmless sidhe, there'd be no need. But a man such as I, a creature such as I, has no business wandering in a magical world full of magical children. They don't need more darkness in their world. They have full plates already. And I don't want anyone else finding it and using it. Not to get there, and not to get here. It closes when I next cross it."
There's a certain sadness about that. Maybe he has a child or two there himself, or long lost nephews or sommat. Maybe he has a fondness for them all, even the wormy ones.
Eyebrows arch upward, the trajectory of fiery comets that marked the birth of kings, "As for the danger, its source is many and varied, cariad. I walk in a dark world full of dark things, and am a dark thing myself. You've made a choice to live with it," you chose to keep the ring and keep the man, "...but I don't have a lot of friends in that world or any world. And some who walk that road are just prone to being arses and shites. Being with me may do wonders for your sex life," Davydd grins at that, color going high again, the egotistical shite, "...but it's not exactly beneficial to the life span. I don't want to scare you, I just want you to be wise. You know me. That's reason enough for some to want to figure out what you know, which is why I'm not telling you anything. The more you know, the worse it gets, darlin'..."
Davydd smirks, "I'm not jumping out of any windows and I'm not going to stiff Kelly for the bill. But... it's better for you to be seen with him than with me. He's the owner of the pub. He's the man who lets me have a drink. Sure we look alike, but everyone from Gwynedd looks like. He's as mortal a thing as an immortal thing can be. Kelly's lived a long time by being wise. Certainly it wasn't because he learned anything from me," Davydd rattles off. "And... I'll...well... I'll feel better if you're with him. Not in London by yourself."
There was a time when she'd have flinched under that direct scrutiny, unable to bear the full weight of you. But she's worn the full weight of you on her hips, and that seems to give her the strength to bear the weight of your regard; she looks back at you, listening in silence until you've done.
"Alright." That's rather sweeping, isn't it? Too sweeping; she negates it, or rather, mitigates it a moment later. "I can see why the portal needs to be closed. If you're putting others at risk, it shouldn't be those who haven't signed up for it." As she herself has. Is she crazy? Has she lost her sense of self-preservation? When did she gain a sense of self-preservation to lose?
"Being with you," Fiona continues, tone turning towards austerity, "has given me a sex life. I'll grant you that much and no more." Ooh, ouch! "But you're not scaring me, Davydd. I ... told you before, that I'm changing. I'm not who or what I used to be - I don't know what I'm turning into, but I've changed quite a bit already, and only a bit of it is because of you. I've been dancing with danger for a while yet - seems to me this is a pretty poor time to start to get scared of it."
It's a valid point, isn't it? Fiona thinks so; she gives herself a small nod of acknowledgment, looking down at her breakfast and frowning. Which really isn't fair to the food, which is quite excellent, but there you have it.
"I don't really know anything," she says slowly, looking down at her hands - the pale, unbroken skin, the tapering nails kept not too long but not quite short, the smoothness of her skin and flesh where any calluses have been ironed away by softer living and pampering as well as magical renewal of her flesh. "I've seen some things, and I've done some things, and I've been some things and I've been through some things. But those are experiences, not knowledge. It's like ... wandering through a library, having books on various subjects fall on my head. I've collected learning experiences, but I haven't really learned anything about them."
She glances up again, a faint hint of a smile making itself plain in her eyes, though her mouth only quirks to blow you a kiss. "I'll visit with Kelly, sure. He can hide me if my mother tries to track me down via my cellphone..."
"I'm not trying to scare you," despite himself, the Welsh inflection lifts and the Welsh vampire's complexion gives him away. He's so on the surface with his emotions. You never really have to doubt how he feels. If he doesn't come right out and tell you out of some sense of politeness or hospitality, he'll show it in his skin and in the tone of his voice. "I'm just answering your question. You wanted to know, and now you have as much as I can give you."
And now he's up and off the sofa...
"This isn't about you, Fiona, or whether you've changed or not changed, or who you are or who you aren't. They aren't going to give a fuck, do you follow? Shite, I barely care and I love you..." He regrets that as soon as he says it, smirks at it and waves it off. You know what I mean. "They don't and won't care. Just like any hoodlum on any street, maybe no more no less. Just... if you go to London, do me a favor," Davydd says, turned toward you, his body language not cutting you out, just agitated. "...stay with Kelly. Go shopping. Do normal shite. And don't worry about me. It's not that big a deal," he dismisses it even as he himself raised it, "... I'm just scheduled to do some groveling at nine o'clock and make amends by a quarter of ten."
He takes his coat and he takes up his scarf. "I'll be waiting in the room," the room where he first bled you and drank you and covered you on the floor. "When you're ready to blast off, come on. I need to get there by eight-forty-five to make it to the bar..."
Fiona watches you, eyebrows silently arched as you go through your litany of emotion. She's barely emotional about it at all right now, just making observation to observation - and no, there's no fear apparently in her. It's as if every fear she ever had was about herself, selfish little beast that she is...
"I said I'd do that," she agrees, picking up her coffee and taking a swallow. "But one thing I have to make plain - I'll do my best to do normal things. I'm not normal. If bombs go off or the power goes out or whatever, well," she hesitates, "I'll do my best not to cause anything. I'll do my best to be safe and act normal and not give the message that there's anything strange about me - oh, dear, why did the lights go off? I do hope they'll get them working again and soon. Terribly inconvenient, don't you think? Tsk, tsk."
At least in the past almost all the oddness has happened to Drancy and not Fiona...
Not that that fact would slow down many for very long...
"I'll just," Fiona declares, "finish my coffee and get my shoes and coat and hat and purse." Her accouterments. Her accessories. Her jewelry as well, though the Rock glints with its own brand of fire and ice on her hand already. "Go ahead - and, Davydd?" She pauses for a moment, watching you gather yourself.
In the end, love might not be enough to fix everything, but I do love you. The thought is sweet, but serious - thick as lemon curd, smooth as it but with unexpected currents of gooseberries and plum. And for all your effort to protect me - if you need me, call. I may not know what's going on, but what's the point of marrying a magical nuclear reactor if you're never going to make use of it?
He looks at you and blinks, Mars in his onslaught paused momentarily. I'm glad somebody does. the thought is quick to quip. But the look of humor doesn't last long. If only Love could be the answer. It'd be an easy fix for a weary world. Then he smiles a touch once more. Not that Love was ever easy for me. And... thanks. I'll call you if I need you.
And he realizes that if he needs you to pull him out of a jam, then the world's going to hell in a handbasket anyway. Why not bring out the Kracken? The thought makes him chuckle, makes the corners of his eyes crinkle in the slant of a grin. A moment later, the coat is on and the scarf is done around his neck, very poet-like that look, academically disposed.
Davydd's stride is a quick-step march that covers the distance between breakfast and piano and doorway. Mars in his gait, Mercury in his swiftness. Warrior and thief both, it suits him. And as he puts physical distance between himself and you, there is a sudden distance in thought as well. The air is, for once, silent.
In the darkness of his halls he wanders, downstairs to a secret stair and hall, darkly illuminated by sputtering torches singeing against red stone walls roughly hewn. The oldest part of the castle leads downward to the aviary terrace and to the secret room of the ring of stones...
He is quiet as he walks. There is no thought given to you. His only thoughts turned inward and to London.
Posted by rowan at September 20, 2004 11:31 PM
