Rain...
     Of course it's raining again, it always bloody rains when I go to England...
     London, you haven't changed half so much as people think you have. Oh, yes, your roads are better paved than when I first rode through. Your buildings are taller, your peoples more numerous, more ... mixed, but you are still underneath it all the same concatenation of sound and music and piss and blood and sex and love and hate and hope and despair and dreams that you ever were. Not that I ever stay...
     It's not my way, staying in one place. There is always somewhere else to be, somewhere else to see. Mind, I like a pretty maid to tumble as much as the next, but not enough to settle. For all that they joke about me and my mare being wed ...
     Concessions must be made, this time. For all the ways that are being woven between Avalon and Earth, there are still limits on what is forgivable. This time, he is not on funereal homage; this time, he must be ... discreet. For all his flamboyant ways, Mad Peter can be discreet when he must...
     So it is that the fair-haired fellow, forever middle-aged and ageless all at once, appears in an alleyway. There is no dramatic flash of lightning to accompany his arrival. There is a single, quiet pulse of Magic with that capital M to signify its taste, its wildness. This isn't a human magic, nor once-human. This is something else, and no doubt the spiderwebs are jangling for those who've spun them. He isn't waiting for them to arrive.
     He slips out of the alley, glancing at his reflection in a shop window - impeccable and shabby all at once, and he smirks with a wry humour for the sight. Worn tan trenchcoat, a white shirt buttoned up the front with a solid dark grey tie, black trousers and black boots - dress Docs, perhaps. Not that he'd know. The blonde hair rucks up a bit in front to give him that carelessly worn appearance. "Sense of humour, lads?", he asks aloud of the air, neither expecting nor receiving any response. He's here on business, he is.
     He hates having to rely on others for transportation, but feet won't take him where he needs to go in time, not without relying on more magic than he chooses to expend yet. Luck of the devil he might have, but who wants to test it unnecessarily? A taxi's hailed. "Hello, yeh, can you take me down to the docks?" The driver, a dark-haired man, scowls, muttering, "What trouble you getting me into this time?" "Trouble?" "Oh, just sodding get in and stop trying to play an innocent cunt with me, John." "John? Name's Peter, mate." "What-sodding-ever. Mind you actually pay me, for once. The missus doesn't like me being involved in your bollocksy shite, and you owe me several as it is." "...Right, well."
     Karma's decided I'm paying for someone else's sins tonight... Ah well, if I can catch up with the king, it's worth a few extra pounds and shillings and pence... Meanwhile, I suppose I can lean back and enjoy the ride, for once...
     Mad Peter, the Rider Through Storms and Strife, the Man Who Wouldn't Bloody Fall Off, leans back in a London cab with his eyebrows cocked up with a Puck's amusement. Reaching into his trenchcoat, he feels around until he finds what he's expecting - money, and cigarettes. "Silk-cut?", he inquires in offering to the driver, whose response is unprintable.
     I'm coming for you, ap Owain. Just like old times, innit? Hope you'll hold still so I don't have to commandeer a bicycle...

     Not to pick on the working class, but when one's looking for the Downtrodden and Forgotten, one's not likely to be strolling so much in the manicured gardens of Kensington and St. James Park. The Thames is as busy as it ever was, ships in, ships out, though crammed now with tourists and girls in half-tees with their own mates (boys and girls), and a few scattered lovers resistant to the cynicism of the Post Modern, Post Millennial Age.
     It's littered with bright lights and strewn with boutiques, mixing in with the Old Docks of Olde Englande, which will likely never change from the dilapidated state, the food of Victorian poets and authors. Authentic Britain, folks like to throw that term around, but both Londons are authentic. It's always been a bit of a painted up tart, a loose woman with questionable virtue, the Moll Flanders of Europe.
     He moves among them, moves in alleys and boulevards alike. No one bothers to look at the tall, copper-headed man in the wool coat. He's like every other slumming country gent, dapper Lord Somebody, completely unremarkable where ferris wheels and boat houses loom, no one sees him on Gabriel's Wharf or Waterloo. He moves among men, invisible and indistinguishable by the tourists from the cobblestones on which they trod.
     On the rougher side of the river, past the Thief River Motel, in the labyrinthine twists and turns of alleys he is the Bull of Minos. The only thread, Mad Peter, is the rivulet of Magic that follows him. Dwindling like cobwebs blown apart by the wind and then...
     Erupting...
     Seconds, nanoseconds of popping static followed by a suffusing energy, powerful. It both attracts and repels. And by the time that Others might wish to know Who or What was causing the disruption, it dissolves again like cobwebs blown apart by the wind...
     And then...

     In the back of the cab, Mad Peter rests without doing much talking, which suits the beleaguered driver just fine. Suddenly, though, he sits up. "Here, this's good." "What? But you said -" "I said this is good. Really. Don't worry - Chas? Right, then, Chas, this is good enough, I'll pay you for full." "You owe me enough," the driver grumbles, but Peter's dropping a hundred pounds over the open area between front and back, door shoved open and he's rolling out. It doesn't help the scuffs on the trenchcoat, but who cares about that?
     He's never been intended to be a fashion plate...
     Dusting himself off as he rises, slightly pointed ears tilt one way and another, eyes that might ordinarily be a penetrative blue and grey glow for a moment to an otherworldly silver. He recognizes magic when it's announced. He doesn't need it to come up and introduce itself. He doesn't even need to guess to know that it is you, Holly King, you of the winding of ways...
     A moment later, he's ordinary again, one more cynical bloke in a sea of Londoners and visitors to London's shores. But his head's still tilted, turning one way and another, attention cocked for that. "I should've written a note," Mad Peter says aloud, lips twisting with wry amusement. "Ah, bloody bones and bare skin, I'll find you yet. I'm a messenger, not meant to be a hunter, but I hunt..."
     He moves between people, not even pausing to see their faces now. Why bother? Their faces are not your face, and he has so far as he knows, no enemies left. (None save Isabel's, and they have had little interest in him; it may well be that he has worked for them, all unknowing and all suspecting.) Around a corner, down an alley. "I'm not made to fly," Mad Peter says aloud, "but at this rate..."
     Not a bicycle, then. Carelessly he walks up to a Vespa, carelessly he strokes the chains. The links are silenced as they are collected, not allowed to fall nor sing out their theft. A leg is swung over, and with no need for key, the Messenger sets the vehicle into gear. People scatter like pigeons as he heads along the sidewalk with a laugh and jaunty salute as the punkish owner scurries out in time to see the last of him.
     Karma gives, and karma takes away...

     A copper-headed man walks out upon a shaky pier. But he is not worried about being mugged. He is not worried about the pier breaking beneath him. His shoes meet the planks, what planks there are with the ease of an old captain on an well-sailed vessel. He walks to the end of the pier. No ships have tied here now for years. It is like looking at a stairway to Nothing. What was here was forgotten long ago and now it sits, waiting for someone to knock it down, waiting for Time to be done with it.
     Davydd ap Owain can sympathize. He, too, was like this pier. Waiting for Time to be done with him. And it is, and he is done with It.
     Do old piers dream? Do they stand in murky water pondering the past days, of clippers and caravels and boxes, ropes and men? With feet at the edge of the pier, Davydd ap Owain reaches into the darkness with his left hand, sinister fingers plucking at the air, and it pulls elastic in his grasp like the skin of a balloon. Those who stand at the edge of Nothing and stare into an abyss will find a pier that does not end and water that does not swallow them.
     On the other side, Avalon's silver rivers run -- the rivers that gave rise to The Thames in ages man cannot recall and science cannot enumerate --- and this pier stretches to there, leading those who might walk it not to suicide in murky, polluted muck but to a Moment, even if it is just a Moment, where they may stand upon the edge of Possibility rather than Finality.

     There is the sound of an eggbeater playing a jig with a blender - no, it's a Vespa. Not even a very powerful Vespa, at that. The drone of it is persistent, growing closer. It is homing in on you, Holly King. Do you notice? Do you care?
     Mad Peter is both amused and resigned. He's spotted you, now - which has nothing to do with either amusement of resignation. For him, there is always Something More To Be Done. There are few who make a life of being the messenger. But he, for him, it is who and what he is - he is not a messenger, he is The Messenger. The one to whom falls the task when none other can accomplish. It is a matter of pride. It is a matter of fact.
     It is simple, isn't it?
     The Vespa reaches the edge where the pier meets the land, and there it switches off. Mad Peter leans forward over the handlebars, watching you with that quizzical fox-like amusement, arms folded and propped. An elbow hits the horn; he shifts and it stops.
     "Thinking poetical thoughts, then, your majesty? Some things at least do not change, do they?" Do you recognise him, in this too-mortal frame? It is a costume, more than the leathers he wore when he rode between your camp and the camps of the French eight hundred years ago. But what is life, what does it mean to be of that Other World, if not costuming and pageantry? He is as at ease in this as that, and it shows in his voice, the hint of a laugh that creases the corners of his eyes, the blue and grey of them, the altogether English Seeming of them. "Am I interrupting? I know, I know, bad manners to barge in on royalty, and nothing's on fire this time - yet - but even so..."

     The red head turns, fiery top Vesuvian with the Vespa's headlamps. You switch it off and he's comfortable in the dark again. "Bit ciao ciao for you, isn't it?" The way he says 'ciao ciao'. It's like 'frou frou'. Who died and made you mister fancypants? "Evenin', Peter," Davydd rolls out.
     His measured steps carry him from the far edge of the pier back toward terra firma. "Poetical thoughts? I suppose it can't help but be, being as it's me. It's been a while, aye? When was it last? I'm thinking I ...may have been inebriated."
     May have been. Ha!
     Davydd's shoes crush against the gravel at wood's end. "Maybe interrupting, but it is usually always entertaining. And I never mind it for an old friend. What brings you to The City?" He glances around, at you, at the Vespa. "And without your usual steed?"

     "It's not exactly regal, is it." Mad Peter apparently agrees with you, grin spreading and creasing his features. "Rather like a pony. I feel I should be hitching up my trouser cuffs." He straightens, he swings his leg over and off of the Vespa, hands going into the pockets of his trenchcoat. "I should've held out for something bigger, but you know, I've never felt the need to compensate..."
     He cracks himself up - well, someone's got to laugh at his jokes. But steeds of any description need to be tended to. Mad Peter turns, glancing to the Vespa, then waves a hand at it. "Go on, now. Go on home. You know the way." The Vespa backs away, engine off, and in a sudden burst of magic and speed, tears off towards home, wherever that might be.
     The Messenger turns back to you, Holly King, and do those eyes seem knowingly familiar? The cant of those eyebrows, perhaps, or something in the line and angle of the jaw, if softened. "I don't believe you were, but then, the last time was a solemn occasion. Best not dwelled upon by those who have no need to." He shrugs easily, moving to a post and leaning up against it.
     He never stands straight if there's something to lean against, it's just his way...
     "As for what's brought me to this place instead of another, well, for once I'm on my own time and my own recognizance. Though you do," lips and eyebrows twitch and quirk, "still owe me the promise of a hot meal - but this isn't the time or place, and I'm given to understand you've changed Ladies since then. No details, of course, just the Oak Queen being taken up with another man who's now left her again - she's got terrible taste, she keeps holding out for marriage and picking the fickle rogues, what can I say - and then apparently she's forgiven you or at least unwilling to challenge you, and ... well. I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I. I knew I shouldn't have had all of those coffee beans over in the Dreams of Numbers." He takes a deep breath, a hand coming out to pinch the bridge of his nose, then held up, palm outwards towards you.
     "What the devil's going on, ap Owain? I'm going to stick to calling you that or your majesty for the moment. It's less confusing."

     "I change ladies like most men change their shoes. Or politician's change positions." There's a sidelong cant to his smile. "It can hardly be news. And that Hafwen hitches her ...wagon to rogues is something best addressed with her advisors. She has a good but capricious heart. But then... she is a summer soul." He sighs, he shrugs. As if to say: What may any of us do?
     "Ah, right... hot meal. Well, my table's always set, Peter, you know. Always. And Avalon is open. If I am not there, the table is yours." And then you get to the meat of it, speaking of meat, and he smiles. "Let's start with what you've heard," the king says in a kingly way, with a grin and a keen and curious mind. He, too, leans against one of the pier poles, arms folding against his chest.
     Of course he has what you are looking for, but it's like holding a bag of coins. What denomination are you looking for?

     A droll eyebrow is cocked your way. "Ah, news," Peter sighs. "It's a good thing for us both, your majesty, that I'm not sworn to any camp. As it is, I may tell you with a clean conscience," as if his conscience were one to be troubled, "at least some of what I've heard. Neither of us have the inclination to be here when the dawn arrives, so I'll summarize and pick and choose. By your leave, of course."
     The tie is tugged at irascibly. He was not made to be tethered. A gesture, and trenchcoat and short hair give way to his more usual habit, dusty leathers and boots and a dark green cap stained by weather and gods above alone know what. The hair lengthens a bit, giving him a very slightly shaggy look - the seasoned campaigner, settling in for Winter.
     "Ah, that's better," Peter sighs, reclaiming his lean. "Your kingdom wasn't open when you made the offer. But I've been busy, anyway - now, where to begin. Well - there's the matter of your transformation, though that's old news now. It's amazing how much has been going on since you chose to Change." Chose, or was Chosen - how much difference is there, when it comes to kings? "The Oak Queen took up with the Prince of the West Wind - he was her consort for a time, but now he's left her for another woman. Hardly surprising. More surprising, perhaps, that the same woman's nabbed Queen Hafwen's men twice, but she must be good, what can I say?"
     He is crude, but he comes by it honestly, born on the wrong side of the blankets in every regard. There can be little further off the right side than the bastard son of a fairy noble and a pouka. A few people have whispered rumours about what form the pouka was in at the time, but only a very few, and never twice. Though Peter's of wiry build rather than muscular, the tensile strength in them is not a minor thing...
     "Then there is the wall that you've brought down, and the rivers you're carving - between that and roads and entire cities and palaces, the landscape is changing fast enough that even I run the risk of getting lost." Peter swipes off his cap, scratching at the back of his head and then shoving it back into place. "Now, I hear rumours fly. Coronations. Queens. Kingdoms. The Oak Queen is thwarted at the wild border, but that doesn't mean that old enemies might not look to find a new ally. Oh, and then there's the matter of the Scattered Ones being gradually gathered up. The kingdoms are beginning to look new all over again."
     "So once Oak King, now Holly King - if that's what it is," Mad Peter slouches down another inch at the end of his recital, "now you've got the dirty, summarized version. You tell me what you can, and in exchange, I'll ... fill in details you're looking for."

     "Let me put you right on one thing. Isabel's heir has plenty of men, but the West Wind is not among them. Well, he may be in her employ," he peers, what are you up to, darling? "But he is certainly not in her bed. She is ... crafty," and perhaps some of this is news to him. "She is Isabel's offspring. Of that there is no doubt. If Hafwen has lost such a ... consort as the West Wind, I can only assume she never sweetened the pot. I can't speak to that, but I can speak to profit. And the Winds have always been far more concerned with Trade," ergo the Trade Winds, as it were, "... than Romance." He shrugs, his arms unfolding. "I wish I knew more of his reasons, but as ever Hwyll's reasons are his own and... usually escape all Reason."
     You speak of Coronations. Whispers travel far he knows and they have traveled at least so far as to your ears. But yours are the sharpest of all. "There are changes in my kingdom, the kind that comes when Kings Awaken to take their place upon the maps of the worlds. Holly King I have become, as I was meant to be. The Oak King shall soon be joining me." But of coronations he is not specific, nor to the identity of the Oak King.
     It's not that you're not trusted. It's just on a ...need to know basis. And right now, no one needs to know more.
     "For centuries, I've been as ... locked up as that world, it always a reflection of Myself. Guarded. Dormant. Tangled and Confused. But things that were sleeping are being wakened. Places that were locked shall be set free. Things will be more apparent... within the next few years to be sure."
     The smile returns, flirting at the corners of his mouth, his dark eyes glimmering. "I hope the Oak Queen's... pride... does not lead her to sides less fortunate. She has a beautiful kingdom. She has suffered ... political challenges. But a queen is a queen best when she sets herself up in her strength and her power, rather than... joining a dark rabble out of jealousy and spite. But it is quite possible indeed that she will choose rashness, a fiery response, to wounds newly felt."
     Davydd ap Owain marks you now, again with that regal form of curiosity. "Which kingdoms have been up in arms, and which have turned gossipy, wagging tongues to these affairs? If you are asked to carry messages, or gossip, you may let them know that emissaries will no doubt be sent to explain the matters more clearly. When the time is right."

     "Right now, everyone is curious and everyone is gossiping. The Oak Queen has withdrawn to sulk, or so it is said by some; others are more sympathetic to her, but few are willing to directly take a position thus far. You are, after all, one of the Kings of Old." Peter shrugs his shoulders. He has little use for kings and princes, queens and princesses; all are much the same to him until they distinguish themselves as something apart. "And let's face it, ap Owain - you've always been good for business. My business, at least. People find you interesting, they talk about you when you are there to be talked about. Since you came out of your seclusion..."
     Tongues have wagged, some friendly, some malicious, but all active, all busy. Bees have nothing on these gossips of fairykind, for when there is no war and there can be no true peace, when there is no High King to set the kingdoms to work together, what else is there to do? Even skirmishes are little more than a form of gossip. Something to do, something to speak of, easily bruised feelings easily put aside with or without brooding for a rainy day when the children grow tired of the toys. There are some who are more serious and seek to Achieve, but they are few...
     "Most of the kingdoms are counting their borders and finding them removed enough from the action that there is little profit in direct alliance at this stage. Everyone is more interested in profit - noone is stupid or crazy enough to try to take Avalon from you." Mad Peter barks out a laugh, giving his head an equine shake. "But they are curious. Few have seen my cousin's little heir - but she has a knack for making a stir. And for attracting powerful men and powerful allies, yourself reportedly included. I have not been called upon by her and her advisors." A shrug. She has the four Winds at her command, what would she need a lowly rider of earth for? "I do not know her. But where Isabel's kingdom is concerned, I have a personal and abiding interest. I have sworn myself to blood vengeance for her death."
     All the more reason for his interest...
     "As to the Oak Queen? I do not think she will fall to Darkness. There is a bigger battle being waged - for all her jealousy, it has not been her way to act. It would take someone's persuasion to cause her to act now," Mad Peter says consideringly, gloved and gauntleted fingers tapping at his side in a broken hoofbeat rhythm. Even at rest, he rides. "When you were ... taken originally, she waited for you. When you were then won by another, she only went for confirmation at another's aiding. And after that other's departure, how likely is she to take another's counsel? She might, I suppose, but more likely she'll go back to waiting until someone else woos her anew. Know any handsome young men to throw her way, ap Owain?" He laughs, then sobers somewhat. "I'll spread the word, of course," he agrees easily. "On what time-scale will the time prove to be right? And have you heard of the statue in the city? They are fighting over how to call the city. It's nameless, so noone even knows what to do about it. The magical cartographers are about to go on strike, between you and she..."

     City. Statue. He's absorbing this like a sponge, of course, for he has been told absolutely nothing by the woman who loves him so much that she ...well...let's not get into that. But a King who doesn't know is a King who isn't around long. But still, the eyebrow can't help but cock up skyward a moment. "I've not seen the renovations myself, I've been busy in my own right. Though, I... do look forward to it." But... no... I won't ruin the surprise. She'd be heartbroken.
     "She has this... uncanny knack, and I'm not sure what else to call it frankly, than a knack... for drawing men and attention to her. I will say it must be genetic," Davydd remarks thoughtfully, quietly for it is in Thought. Hmm. Well. "Better gossip than war. I shall take wagging tongues to flying arrows any day. I've seen my share. I'm happy to keep you in business," now he grins. "That warms the cockles of my heart." And he means that. "Yes, profit is... always the point. Whether it comes in the form of entertainment," a gesture toward himself, "...or actual profit or sharing of power, I can imagine things are going to be... quite interesting. You should not be wanting good company or employment. If I do not keep you in office, no doubt Fiona shall."
     That is her name, the little Queenling.
     "By the next full moon, the cloudy sky of gossip shall be made clear by the illumination of...news. That is..." he looks to the sky, to the waxing crescent that marks the marching forward of time, "... in some three mortal weeks. The kings and queens of the surrounding territories shall be called in a council of witness, to see the crowning ... of my son," he speaks it seriously. "Three weeks, Peter. They will receive emissary messages, invitations. And the Oak King will return."
     He laughs suddenly. "Are they? Well, hmmm... I should see to that. I had not realized they went union on me. As for Hafwen," there is sympathy there, "... I do not know of any handsome men worthy of her. I cannot imagine her bed would be empty for long. She is among the most beautiful of women ever to grace the universe. And there must be at least one ...enterprising duke?" a raise of his brow, "...who would wish to claim a queen. She must play her own hand, her own suit of cards. She is the queen..."

     She who you love would be surprised, and then irate with herself for her surprise, at the notion of the attention focused upon her and her works. A queen is of interest to everyone - but to herself, it was not done for attention nor personal glory, and therefore there has been no thought to receiving such...
     "Attention isn't the half of it, but you and she do that well, it seems," Mad Peter remarks easily. "I look forward to seeing what you two do next. I'll be away to there in due course, bearing messages, of course. I go everywhere and I watch and listen, for I'm nobody's spy. It keeps business flowing the more freely." Someone who is welcomed everywhere equally, for he plays no favorites - except now, perhaps, some tongues have become more guarded in fear of him learning too much of his cousin's demise. Or perhaps it's only his own suspicions telling him so.
     Eyebrows raise, then lower. "Your son? Very well." Last I hear, there are only two that you acknowledge, Holly King. Is this to be one of those two, and if so, which one? Or have you brought in a ringer? This will keep things buzzing...
     "Ideas travel more slowly in some directions than others, and cartographers are slower than most to anger or frustration. It's not a profession which draws the choleric." Mad Peter's grinning again, enjoying himself as he paints the picture with broad, expansive gestures as he speaks. "Putting down a new city - well, new settlements do occur sometimes. Things do change. But new rivers and passageways, new roads and a city with no name? How can they put it on the map if it hasn't been named? And they can't even agree with one another as to what sort of nomenclature to use while it remains nameless. The apprentices have been getting into scrapes on their masters' benefit, while their masters sit drinking and looking increasingly morose. Old Pudd, the oldest of them all, he'd wandered the lands for the Master Template they all use these days, he was in tears. You've changed the template between the two of you. I look forward to seeing how he reacts to hearing you're crowning an Oak King, but I think I'll make sure he hasn't any ink pots to fling at my head when I carry the news."
     To the matter of Hafwen there is a moment of silence. Mad Peter understands women only as much as he must, as a messenger and political creature. His dalliances are ... short-lived ... "There is a king who's tried to take her to wife, but he's got two already," he says finally. "I think he hopes she'd move in and put the other two under control. It won't happen; but while she may need to play her own hand, she'd best start playing soon. Kingdoms rise and fall. This ... heir of my cousin's, who they say you are entangled with," it's always wise to be cautious when speaking to kings of their affairs with ladies of high birth, "is still for now regarded as the Upstart Queen by some. That is how she is being called - Upstart Queen, the Rebel Crown. The Oak Queen may come to lose ground if she gains prominence, simply because she has taken so much from that same already."
     It is never wise, after all, to look weak in a game of cutthroat politics...

     "Entangled," how that one word spreads across the expanse of his tongue. "That's a word for it. Copulating is also a word," he cracks the word and cracks a grin. Well, you brought it up. "I have a penchant for upstart queens of unnamed kingdoms that happen to border my own." There's a twinkle in his eyes. He may have been dormant a while, but he wasn't born yesterday.
     Yes, kingdom building the Old Fashioned Way...
     He grins again, a comet streak across a dark sky... illuminating the firmament of his face from eyes to mouth and back again. "Perhaps the other kingdoms can entertain themselves... and the cartographers, too... with coming up with their own names for it. I've no idea what she's going to call it. I find it's not wise to wonder what women are thinking. I'm sure Fiona will come up with something... fantastic and clever. And her... council, her captains will make it known. Old Pudd worries like and Old Woman."
     He takes a moment of quiet, a moment of thought. He turns his gaze to look across the snaking body of The Thames, the original serpent, the tongue of the dragon of the Isle. "I wish the Queen of Summer well," he thinks to say. "I am sure she will ... rise above her challenges with the dignity I have witnessed myself for nearly a thousand years."
     "So...now...do you have your news? Do you have your word from the devil's mouth hisself on what you've witnessed? And will you have dinner now, then?"

     "I have news," Peter qualifies, "but the news is hardly mine. It is ... information." And information is a currency in which he trades. "It is your news, and I will carry it as I ever do. My news," he smiles faintly, "I am not a maker of news. That would disrupt, interfere with my Purpose. I am a Messenger..."
     There's a glance across the water, then back to you, Holly King, a downcast chin and upturned eyebrow. "Copulating is indeed a word. I'll keep it in mind; mayhap I'll find a use for it, next to some pretty nymph on my rounds." Or in giving his gossip on his route. He did bring it up, in a fashion, though not so crudely (for once) as he could have.
     "Old Pudd is lamenting, I think, because he's too old - or so he says - to go on the walking routes again. He has no shoes to last his feet the job - as he's half my age or less, I've little sympathy for his tears," Mad Peter grins, "but I've put forth the notion that I could do the routing myself, for a fee. For some reason, he's reluctant to take me at my word. We'll see how it goes."
     To the matter of Hafwen he says nothing, save for a silent nod. He has a different picture of the woman from the one you have, neither better nor worse - merely different. He is, after all, no king, nor ever sought to be. His station is as common as the dirt, as more than a few have whispered, and never has he set against someone for saying it, so perhaps it is true...
     "I will be going to the nameless kingdom on my way," Peter says casually. "Is there particular word or message that you might have for them? No dinner for me tonight, I fear, save that which is in my saddle. By taking time out for myself, I fear I've set myself behind and must ride to catch up."

     "Yes... I would have you take a word to my... neighbor." Ha! Neighbor! Maybe I'll use that later. "Give the Queen of the Unnamed Kingdom my ... best wishes for her empire building." Davydd's mouth slants. "And I shall look forward to seeing the work she has been doing," behind my back, "...as soon as I receive an invitation, that is."
     For no king or queen appears upon the territory of another without an expressed invitation. To do so without would be viewed as an act of war, or at least extremely rude.
     "I won't keep you. But if you have need, feel free to stop in Avalon should you pass through that way. The table's set, and you, old friend, are always welcome to take your place at it." Davydd starts to step toward the pier again (apparently, he's not finished), and then he pauses, pivoting.
     "And ... one other thing... should you speak with Her herself... don't take any apples from her hand. She... has this...uncanny ability with them, best avoided really. She likes to offer them. I think she has ... a wicked sense of humor?" Grinning, Davydd turns, his stride carrying him to the edge of the pier.
     And then he is gone... following to where the pier continues to lead...
     To a golden pier awaiting a ship on the edge of Avalon's own sea, where the rivers and lakes guarded by The Lady of the Lake meets an unending, dreaming ocean...

     "Apples?" Mad Peter is left to ask it of the empty air, eyebrows slanting upwards quizzically. Apples. And a message. And him without even a steed. He looks to the air with that twisting, wry smile, then looks to the water. "I'm a rider of earth," he says aloud, taking from his pocket a handful of millet. It is sown at his feet, and where it falls, a patch of fairy road exists for him to cross upon. He treads heavily upon it and is gone in the flicker-flash of magic and momentum. Behind him, the wind and the birds are left to eat of the fairy ground...

Posted by rowan at January 08, 2005 08:00 PM