Pleasure, decadence and hedonism. What are three traits which are generally not associated with Lady Fiona Rachel Arundel, Alex? Fiona emerges from the shower with the languor of having been ridden rather into the ground, wrapping a towel around herself and heading into the guest room for a change of clothes.
     Once in the guest room, the towel is discarded to fall by the door, allowing the air to dry her the rest of the way in a display of casual nudity which has been gained not from habit but from association with Davydd; it hasn't been until Powis that Fiona's begun to shed her clothing much at all save when actually in the bath. There have been some advantages and disadvantages alike...
     The quiet cricket of her phone sending off its once-quarterly informative message gains her attention; brow furrowed, she makes her way from tableside to bedside to root among the bags and parcels with increasing irritation. "I know you're here somewhere, dammit. Where are you? Oh, don't give me that!" A jacket is shaken like a rat by a terrier, then tossed onto the bed. Finally in the pocket of a pair of jeans the phone turns up; it's flipped open with all of the alacrity of a crack vial in the shaking hands of an addict, and Fiona sinks onto the edge of the bed as she scrolls through to find the message.
     She listens; a pitch for telemarketing. Another. Message from Davydd... message from Davydd! "What time? ...Oh." The leaden silence which follows the realization of the five A.M. message stamp can likely be felt in the other room, reverberating against the floor perhaps to sink through into the bar below...
     Slowly, now, Fiona climbs into her clothing, all but ignoring what she chooses to wear. Underwear - underwear is good. Jeans. Turtleneck. Riding boots. Hair - pulled back in a simple knot, then ignored despite its lingering dampness. "Maybe I'll get consumption and waste away," she mutters, black humour and self-pity mingling to turn her eyes stark and grey. The phone is given another look, and she lifts it slowly towards her, punching in a number.
     "I love you too. See you when you get here." The phone is clicked shut, and Fiona walks out to the living room, arms wrapped around herself with the phone clenched in one fist.

     Decent people should get out of bed and shower and show some restraint. But who, really, is decent? What's the fun in being decent? If one may be gloriously self-righteous, that would be one thing, pious...another. But decent? Rhodri would rather be damned.
     He's still in his Rhodri guise, his actual face, his clothing casual for a casual night at the pub. Faded jeans, a grey t-shirt. Right now, dogs in chase play in scarlet hues past the hem of the sleeves, where it tugs tight against biceps. In Kelly's guise, such marks are hidden. But not quite yet. He's having a beer, he's already had a bit of lunch. Yours is waiting for you. Cucumber sandwiches, a lager, and a service of tea.
     As you come into the living room, Rhodri looks up, his eyes glimmering brightness past crimson lashes. "Why, Lady Arundel, don't you look nice...and you look like a lady, with your hair just so..." He smiles, that face of Celtic Handsome Youth warming in such a look and he leans back on the sofa.
     Pardon the stare...
     "There's a bit of lunch for you there," he notes, head resting on his hand, his elbow to the cushion of the sofa where he sits. "Classical English treats, those..." There's the unspoken specter of Davydd's Absence between, and his eventual re-emergence. "Heard from him?" he wonders, his face showing some concern. It's been days now...

     There's a slight softening of her face into a smile, but the smile has a sorrowful edge. It warms but the warmth is reserved for you and not at all for herself; arms unfold and one hand opens, showing you the phone as if it were a scorpion found lurking in one of her shoes.
     "Thank you for the kind words, though I'm beginning to feel they're more than just undeserved." Fiona moves to sit next to you, but not next to you; there is a distance left between, wider than the blade of a sword. It's narrower than a five ton lorry, but Davydd could sit there easily - and in a sense, he does.
     "He didn't say much. Just that he's alive and he'll see me tomorrow night - that was at five this morning, so it might be he means tonight, might mean tomorrow night, I don't really know." Fiona lowers her eyes to the food, not immediately moving to help herself. "I feel like someone stuck a scarlet letter A on my chest that he's somehow already deduced, and that the A isn't for Arundel."

     "It's been blessedly silent," Rhodri says softly by way of assurance. No messages on the phone, no banging on the door, and nothing slipped from mind-to-mind like children passing notes in class. "If he had deduced anything, he'd be here by now...daylight notwithstanding..." There's a slight smile but it's a touch wistful at the distance there between you, the invisible Welshman that separates him from the one he loves.
     "Glad he's alright though. Well," Rhodri exhales, "I'm sure we'll find out what he's been up to. I'll tend the bar... you can have the place to yourself..." A pause. "...selves..." He smirks at the irony then looks at his beer on the coffee table. "I don't feel the slightest bit guilty." Green eyes land on you and they fix there, a bright-eyed look of affection, of honesty, of desire. "I liked having you here, beside me... under me. My tattoos could turn to red letter A's and I wouldn't care..."
     Such passion when he speaks. Rhodri looks to you, then he breaches the distance between you, his hand coming to rest on your leg, patting assurance. "Believe them, Fiona," he murmurs. "Because I mean them..."

     "Thanks." Fiona doesn't immediately say more than that, but her hand slips onto yours, her own gaze still aimed downwards, tilted towards the sandwiches and towards the floor. Finally, she looks up.
     "I know this is going to sound stupid - and selfish, and ... well, it's probably rubbing sand or salt in your wounds or something," she says in a low voice, looking to one of the hounds as it paces along your forearm. "And I don't mean it that way, but it's just ... he called. But he didn't say he loved me. And it's a small thing, and it's not normally as if I need to hear it with every phone call, but ..."
     But with that potential of him not coming back, due to death or destruction or general mayhem or the possibility of another woman...
     "I really wanted to hear that," Fiona whispers, her fingers tightening on yours, over yours. "I don't know if it would've made me feel better or worse, but not hearing it, now..."

     "Can't speak for him, and won't," Rhodri murmurs. "But don't read too much into... well, into everything right now." A smart suggestion, really. "Deal with what presents itself, when it shows itself to you. Otherwise, you'll worry yourself into a coma..." His hand gives yours a squeeze. Unbidden, he crosses the distance again, this time placing a kiss at your temple. "Easy to say, hard to do, but try, love...hmm?"
     He sits back, his hand still in yours, his fingers entwining and lightly squeezing again. "He's not a man who says it often. He expects that if you know his heart, then you know. But... after days of not seeing him, you're not selfish, Fiona. It's a normal thing to want to hear. I just don't think you should do the new math to add up to him knowing anything about anything..."
     Though, he would note, it is possible. Not probable, but definitely possible. Still, no sense worrying over milk not yet spilled.
     His hand covers yours, patting it, laying across it. Warmth simply given, and support and strength. "It's not salt in the wounds. Nevermind me," Rhodri suggests. "You can think about me later," he smiles a touch at that. "When you're alone in the shower or on the train..."

     There's a vivid spill of colour for the thought as you present it to her, and she lifts her other hand, smacking the flat of her palm into your shoulder. It's not gentle, though not with full force, either. "Bastard. But you already know I'll think about you. That's all I promise to do though."
     No promises given for worry, or for ... temptations...
     "I'll try not to fret," Fiona agrees, sighing and letting herself tip sidelong into you, head going for a moment to your shoulder, to your warmth. "I'll try not to take things out on him too much, either. I'm just not at my best right this moment. Thank you for not pressing. I'm going to just - see what he says." She glances down at the Rock on her finger.
     It wasn't this heavy even the night before...

     His arm comes around you as you lean in. His shoulder is yours to take, in comfort, or however you wish it. It can bear you up in pleasure or in pain. Fingers drift through your hair, along golden strands like brushing sunlight and Rhodri turns his head, bending to kiss your forehead. "I'm the man who loves you," he whispers for the 'not pressing'.
     As if that should be reason enough for his magnanimity...
     He doesn't press in for a kiss, no matter how much he wants it. There is only the brush of his mouth to your forehead, the massage of his fingers along your scalp. "This apartment, this house, and my life are always open to you. Whether you're at your best or your worst, Fiona. That's what love is, you know. It's easy to love when everything's going well and in your favor..."
     His hand lowers from your hair to rest on your shoulder. Once more. Maybe just once more. The magic is tempting, the pull toward you quite strong, stronger than before, like the gravitational pull of a star upon a planet. Rhodri closes his eyes. "There's no reason to fret, really. Either way, you'll be loved. The question is by whom and how deeply..."

     "No matter what, Rhodri," Fiona starts to speak, then shakes her head a little. That pull is not one way only, but she spends some effort in resisting it. Can you feel it, beneath her skin, the effort she puts into breaking that magnetism, holding it off with rigid muscles and a moment of clenched teeth?
     Inhaling deeply, she can smell the scent of you, mingling with the beer, the bread, even the clean cucumber scent. "I will always care about you. No matter what happens." The words are said simply, placed out there for your perusal. "Even if - I cannot see it happening that I would come to hate you, Rhodri. But I will never be indifferent to you; I cannot see that sort of weariness coming into my life."
     She swivels on her cushion, turning to face you so that the temptation to curl against you is lessened, the temptation to pull herself into your lap and howl a wave of raw emotion against your shoulders. Why should saying a hello so often involve a goodbye? One hand lifts, fingers curling against your cheek in a delicate movement, orchestrated by nature and polished by Dior.
     "I want you to promise me that you will not give up on life," Fiona continues, emotion darkening her gaze now, currents rippling through them with the tumble and tumult of her thoughts. "I don't know how it is that you keep alive. You said something about a ritual, that if you missed it, you - would die. That disturbs me; no. It hurts me. I can admit that now. Promise me that you won't miss it - or if there is no other way, then tell me. I will do whatever I can..."

     "That was me being dramatic," he assures softly, his head turning to place a kiss upon your fingers. "I won't die. It doesn't serve anything." It seems simple enough. It is, of course, not that simple. "This is sounding suspiciously like a goodbye," he murmurs, humor lacing the serious tone of his voice.
     He is quiet a few moments, a few moments he takes to stare at you. "My life is tied to his," he murmurs after a time. "How much, well... none of us really know. There have been years where we could not perform the ritual, and yet... I am still here. Like all rituals, it may simply be a kind of...sympathetic magic... or a pledge of faith. I do not think that my missing it will kill me." He smirks a bit. "Which is good, considering the positions we've been in the last day and night." Another pause, and the smirk becomes a grin. "And day..." Counting today. The morning came, and so did you.
     Rhodri closes his eyes and exhales. "Don't let's say goodbye, hmm? One, we know it's a damn lie if we say it. Two, it is impossible that we would not see one another again. I won't give up on life, I promise." He opens his eyes. "I love you, Fiona..." He says it, though others did not. His hand lifts, touching your cheek in like fashion. And he cannot help it (and, what's more, he doesn't want to). He pulls you in, gently, for a kiss upon your mouth.
     The body electric jolts in the current created in that connection. It gives you a physical, spiritual and emotional memory. In the sudden wide warmth of it is all the memory of what has transpired between you. Kinetic. Explosive. Sensual. Magical. Decadent. Inspiring.
     Rhodri exhales again as he lets you go, his hand falling away, his eyes drifting to look at your ring. "Remember... if the weight of that one doesn't suit you... I have a ring waiting for you." He figures he ought to stand. How the connection and the kiss affects him is rather obvious. He doesn't even bother with the pretense of explaining it away or disguising it. Taking up his bottle of beer (Boddington's), he heads into his kitchen.
     "I want you to make me a promise as well..."

     "It isn't a goodbye. It isn't - I don't mean it as a goodbye," Fiona insists. "I just - I don't know what's going to happen. I never know, Rhodri. Things happen, and sometimes I have a hand in it, but most of the time, nothing ever happens the way I plan on it. Ever..."
     She is quiet in the kiss, save for the soft sounds she makes against you, with you, her hand slowly sliding from your face to fall to her lap as you rise. "It would just hurt me very much to find you gone, or ... aging where I do not, or ... leaving me alone in this world. Even if I'm with Davydd - even if there end up being others after you. I'm finding it reassures me in some way to know you're there." To know you've put yourself at her service, where she has always in some ways been independent and alone...
     She takes a breath, then nods jerkily, trying to make a pretense at grace. "What promise? Let's hear it first." Fiona, ever vigilant...

     Ah, laughter. He chuckles at your response as he rests his hands on his kitchen's dining bar. "I want you to promise me that you'll not carry the weight of the world solely on your shoulders. That you'll remember, in the midst of everything, that you are deserving of happiness and have your own happiness to consider. Be mindful of that, love. It's so easy for you to want to shoulder the burden alone."
     The smile turns fond as he sets his empty aside and reaches into the fridge for a new Boddington's. "I'll not age, and I'll not die. You'll not get rid of me that easy, miss. I fear you're a bit stuck with me." Emerald flickers in a wink. "No curse to sleep all day. Plenty of excuses to stay up all night." More seriously, his eyes settle on you. "I'm here for you, Fiona. There's no changing that."
     Beer in hand, he returns to the living room, to the sofa. Sod the space between you, he sits flush. The can hisses as he opens it. Rhodri turns his head to look at you as he lifts the can and sucks up the hoppy froth. "Friend, confidante, lover, husband. Whatever man you try to find, there I'll be." He grins. "Thicker than most thieves." And then he winks once more taking a swallow of beer and settling back on the sofa, an arm resting along the back of it; his other at his side, hand bracing the beer perched on a jean-clad thigh.

     "I'll ... I promise to try." Fiona watches you, her gaze turned to follow you as you walk away, as you come back, as you sit down. Despite the weight of the conversation and the earnestness she feels, tries to convey, your sitting so close earns you a smile. "Thief..."
     Her hand goes to your shoulder, and she looks up at you. "The heart has four chambers. You're in at least one of them. I promise to try to let you fulfill the offer you've made me in some sense, at least - after all, if I really am any sort of royalty, in this world or any other, what's a queen or princess without a knight? Even if that knight is a rogue..."

     "Oh, I'm no knight, my lady. For a princess, a prince. For a queen, a consort. I'm a much better rogue. But ... I promise only to steal for you and not from you." A scarlet-auburn eyebrow raises. "Shall we agree to that much?"
     The connection is there, it is present, it is everywhere. Kissing, touching, even if only briefly, looks that cross whatever distance you try to put between you in vain. "In the space of that one chamber, I'll make myself at home," he takes another swallow of the beer then sets it aside, tilting his head to look at you somewhat aslant. "At least until I can sort out a way to pick the locks of the other chambers and make myself cozy in the entire palace of your heart."
     "I am... most assuredly that, my dear and beautiful lady," Rhodri murmurs, leaning in toward you, unable to help doing so. "And in my hands I've held the best jewel I've ever pinched." He closes the distance for another kiss. Brief. Not chaste, but brief. "And for the first time in a century, I've wanted to be ... pinched back..."

     "That," Fiona murmurs between kisses, "depends on what you intend to steal. I ... mm." She's wordless, kissing where kisses are laid upon her lips, eyes closed and allowing you liberty in these last minutes of freedom.
     Fiona slides back an inch, leaning forward to put both hands down between bodies before intimacy can slide further upon intimacy. "I still think you could do better," she mutters, cheeks glowing. "But if you insist, then I'll allow you to persist in your delusion. I don't see how to talk you out of it, anyway. When do you have to be downstairs?"

     "Whenever I want to," he says against your mouth. "And that's not going to be anytime soon." No, no... he is going to take these moments of liberty, these moments of moral freedom, these moments where there is no Davydd between you. There is only you and he.
     Rhodri's hands come to rest lightly on either side of your face, cradling you to him, his mouth covering your own in kisses intermittent and lingering, wandering to chin and neck, to closed eyelids, back to your mouth. There, he whispers Welsh endearments, not tender words of more romantic things, but poems, odes to the spell you cast with your lips, his desire for you, his need for you. How beautiful you are, how you stir him. Another poem for how grand you looked bound to his headboard, moving beneath him with curling and sashaying hips.
     You give him liberty, and like a thief, lady, he takes it...

Posted by rowan at October 29, 2004 07:08 PM