Sleep, that blessed substance - from it such dreams are made as cannot come true...
     Or can they? Fiona swims through the aetheric sea of her own unconscience, curled as if unborn in inky darkness. Her life is built upon impossibilities, fragile coincidences linked to stability in the form of her, the physical and spiritual presence which is herself. Consider...
     That her grandparents lived to have children, that her father lived where his brother did not, that her mother had her when it seemed impossible she have children at all - that she survived not only riding and heartbreak and ghosts in the graveyards of trains and horror of wars and genocide past, not only survived vampires and demon princes and angelic visitations but perhaps more astonishingly, survived the life she's led without cirrhosis of the liver or worse...
     That she has survived, and so have her dreams, to Love...
     Blue eyes snap open abruptly to stare upwards at the glimmering noontide sky, shadowed by a spray of flowering apple blossoms that gentle breezes rock for petals to fall upon her. "I know I've been thinking of redecorating, but this is ridiculous..."
     She never was very good at waking up. Fiona sits up slowly, brushing herself off and rubbing her eyes as memory filters gradually back to the surface. She's still clad as Drancy, though with that ethereality that marks her as something More than human alone. "...I'd kill for a cup of coffee."

     You might have thought that trickling sound was the water of your own fountains dripping upon the pools below, or perhaps the drifting and landing of those apple blossoms. Your own waking thoughts, trip-tapping against your brain. The final slipping away of the passing dreams. The sound of your ocean tide against the cliffs.
     It was not...
     It was sweeter...
     It was music...
     The sound of a lyre being plucked stops as suddenly as your eyes are blinked open, as your own voice sounds, that music becoming that slipping dream. "There is tea," the soft, masculine voice answers. That tenor. Do you remember it now, that voice? "Also, a selection of fruits and breads, My Queen..."
     Aurelius remains by your side, as he has been the entire time, his equine body tucked in a recline, the golden lyre in his hands set upon the soft grass. He begins to rise. It is surprisingly graceful for so large a creature. And perhaps you may see it now, the spread of fruits and breads (pastries with cream), tea and other small cakes, honey cakes and apple cakes and cakes with icing topped with crystalline edible flowers.
     The quiet is punctuated by the meeting of male hands, a clap that calls a maiden to him. "A service of coffee, please." He holds his hand aloft -- hold a moment. "Is there anything else you would desire, My Queen?" The golden centaur and the kneeling fairy maiden -- with iridescent wings, no less! -- wait upon your word.

     Freeze. Pause. Blink.
     Oh, yeah...
     Now memory comes racing back to fill in the void, after a moment in which Fiona's eyes widen, then squint, then turn to stare - and then jerk abruptly off to the side. There's a certain disorientation in waking up to such Memory, such surroundings, even if she's responsible for it all...
     "Thank you," Fiona says cautiously, rubbing her eyes again, freeing them of the bonds of sleep and its dust. "Tea and cakes will be lovely, really - I'll have a cup of coffee once it arrives."
     Fingers run back through fuchsia hair as she tries to fill in the blanks. Leather jacket - check. Denim - check. Didn't look under his belly when he stood up and I was still sitting down - uh, check. Mostly. A faint flush of colour enters her cheeks - she'd rather just not know. Instead, she turns to look over at the spread laid out, and her stomach rather suddenly gives a loud rumble. Magic takes energy, and as Davydd's magic was in part fueled by what he ate, so is hers...
     "Nothing else that I require," Fiona sums up as she moves with a very real even if nonsexual lust towards the fruit and pastries. "Thank you, Aurelius. I'll be more myself once I've eaten." Literally. "Are there any messages for me?"

     The lifted hand lowers and the captain of your guard, your Champion, motions the maiden away. "Of course, My Queen." He pretends he did not hear the rumble. A Queen's body never makes crass sounds. The lyre rests where it was laid, the light breeze from the sea moving against it, making it sound with a song yet to be plucked and known, yet to be sung.
     "The Four Winds have begun to move in their cardinal directions. Word will no doubt pass throughout all of the Fair Folk kingdoms, and beyond them. They will be the message bearers, the truth tellers, the dispellers of Rumor, where needed. The Viceroy has asked that I fulfill his office if you require such assistance or information. The General has moved the available troops, minus my retinue but for a handful of volunteers, to your exposed border, simply to ensure that curiosity does not get the best of those who might wish to trespass to... peek," he almost smiles!
     "The rest, My Queen, is of course thoughts of your comfort and rest. I have summoned maidens from the Empire of the Clouds to assist you personally. If you wish other, more feminine comforts or assistance..." Yes, he will not help you change your clothes. He should never see to such matters. For your dignity and modesty (not to mention his own).
     "But I do not wish to overtire you with news," Aurelius murmurs. He remains a respectful distance from you, his countenance no less lovely than you recall, but there is a... more personable air to it. He has protected you, he will gladly continue to do so by that look. It is a tender thing.

     Most Queens aren't also London punks somewhere within themselves. Fiona picks up a cake, taking a slightly larger-than-polite bite and chewing, trying not to wolf it down with undue and unseemly haste. She takes up a cup of tea as well, sipping at it with a bit of a sigh.
     Once her mouth is again empty, she speaks. "Well, I suppose it was inevitable that people would want to know. Hopefully Davydd and Rhodri won't hear about it before the coronation." Fiona is prepared to be philosophical. Surprises would be nice, but ... besides, they're both on the material plane right now, so hopefully...
     "I'll want a bath, but I think that I can likely handle that on my own, Captain," Fiona halfway smiles at that. No, you will not be called upon to assist her in the bath. Nor likely will any maidens - not this time, at least. "I will, however, go over such matters as I need to be informed of with you, and we'll discuss my plans. I've got to go on a little bit of a trip, you see."
     Nothing more is said for a few minutes as she returns her attention - quite ravenously - to the food at hand. She is doing her best to be polite and regal. Were she unobserved, she would likely revert to street punk and shovel food at her face and not care if she missed or not. Once half a dozen cakes and some fruit have vanished, however, she sits back, slowing her pace.
     "You have a lovely singing voice. Sometime if you're willing, we should sing together." Oh, she remembers - something, at least. And now that the inner woman has been if not sated, then quieted, she can pay attention to some memories and pleasantries. Fiona glances over to you, wiping her lips daintily with a cloth. "If there is other pressing news, please do tell me. I'm not going to be so tired as all that, and I need to go somewhere once I'm done here." Baths can wait...

     He bows his head, and yes there is a slight blush -- he is not wearing his helmet to hide it. "I thank you, My Queen." He glances to you but then lowers to take up his lyre. He holds it lightly. "Music is my solace." Well, if he is not to love, he must have something.
     And then, realizing he has said something so personal about himself to his Queen, he bows his head again as if to ask for forgiveness at such an emotional outburst. "Remaining news -- merely the congratulations and joy of seeing such a beautiful kingdom arise. It is the reflection of Yourself, as all queendoms and kingdoms are. Your current subjects wish it to be known that they are proud to be in such a kingdom and wish to convey their joy at such beauty. I have posted your guard and their schedules. As your champion, I shall be your primary guard. I have placed two outside of your suites, positioned more at each gate from the lower cliffs. Lookouts upon the promontories you created. My...thanks... My Queen for the ...architectural ...generosity and allowance to provide us easy means. It was... most considerate."
     He is very modest, to be so very beautiful. His gait leads him apart from you, only so far as to allow him to set his lyre upon a bench beneath the sheltering bows of an apple tree. His tail is as platinum as his mane, as honeyed as his ringleted head. His back to you for that moment, it allows him to compose himself from your own compliments. When he turns, his helmet is crooked beneath his arm.
     "I shall accompany you on your trip," he announces this softly. "But I shall tell your maidens that you will not require their aid." As Aurelius turns again, two other maidens appear. One bearing a coffee carafe upon a glassy tray, the other called for a message.
     "Her majesty shall be bathing. Please prepare the pools for her. But she would like time to herself. She will not require further assistance." The other winged maiden bows and flutters away, while the one bearing the carafe kneels before her Queen, her floweret-crowned head bowing and her fairy wings bowing as well. "My Queen," she speaks, her voice echoing in whisper-songs as she offers the coffee to you.
     But even these fairy maidens cannot help flirting a little. You may catch the slightest tremble of a wing in the centaur's direction. Like a butterfly showing its best colors, nature enticing nature. But it would seem as if the centaur were immune. With a serious and officious face he watches the fairy leave the tray of glass and the carafe, fluttering away as she is dismissed.

     "Music is many things, and solace is an important aspect of it. It ever has been. I think that someday your time will come, Aurelius." Fiona smiles. She may still be clad in London punk's skin, but her sense of Self is reasserting itself, balancing her once more. "I believe I may have caught a glimpse of it, but ... we will not speak of it..."
     She picks up another cake, examining it as if considering from which angle to best attack it, then lowers it to hold onto it in her lap. Such honeyed words, no matter how sincere, will always make her appetite more hesitant. It is hard for her to accept such praise. "I'm ... glad you like it. As for the access - you're welcome, though I would say it bears more to logic than to consideration, really. I don't want you getting hurt. And besides, it'd just slow you and your people down if you had to go up and down steps, and even two-legged peoples will sometimes have too heavy burdens for stairs."
     The first handicap-accessible palace in the Marches...
     Fiona blinks as maidens appear and then depart, messages given and returned. She accepts the coffee with a faint smile and a nod. "Thank you." Such a production, all for a cup of coffee. Starbucks should really do this, they'd make millions. But they'd lose more than they made when women's lib groups rioted, no doubt. Ah well...
     "Where I am going, Aurelius, you will not be able to follow." Fiona sips her coffee, leaning back and taking up the cake again, consuming it by degrees. "You can accompany me as far as the border, but further than that, I'm afraid, you cannot go. I am going to the Holly King's Wood."

     "The border will be sufficient for my vow and your privacy," he agrees softly. He does not speak of what you have seen or not. He simply bows his head. If you have oracular visions, who is he to question it?
     "I shall wait for you upon the plain, if you prefer. That you may eat and contemplate in peace," a small smile -- he is capable of it, and it only makes him more achingly beauteous. Like a star is most beautiful when it is a sun that may be enjoyed.
     "And retire to your bathing pools at your leisure, My Queen," you do not need a man around for that. "With your leave," Aurelius' voice is quiet, his head once more bowed, with helmet coming on to hide his curls. Now he appears as an equine Achilles once more.

     The bath was everything that Fiona could dream of - literally, perhaps, the entire city and palace being taken from visions and dreams rather than anything she has experienced. Save, perhaps flashes of experiences held with Davydd and with Rhodri - and who would be her inspiration, if not the Oak King? Who would be the fruition of that inspiration, if not Davydd? It was ... luxurious beyond mention, sensual beyond belief, a bath which is a temptation in and of itself.
     Such a pity her husbands were not there to share it with her...
     Clean, there followed a brief not-quite argument upon her finding the denim and leather missing and regal gowns in their place. A royal order is nonetheless a royal order, and though the clothes smell faintly and fragrantly of lindenflower now, they are once more upon her person, leather jacket, fuchsia pageboy and all. Her rings are in place, as is her necklace, and she goes down the winding stairs to leave the palace, walking calmly and confidently to the plains.
     "This place is ... bigger than I thought it'd be," she mutters to herself. She, after all, is two-legged - and not using magic, nor wings, nor a steed to get around. But eventually, Fiona reaches the plain, scanning the horizon for centaur-sign, and reorienting her path accordingly.
     Such an oddly small and mortal-seeming Queen...

     He is there upon the golden-grassed plain, daisies and wheat flowers, sweet grains for making sweeter mead. His spear rests tip to the earth, embedded in it, until it needs to be employed or sheathed.
     A maiden stands in a curtsey pose before him, offering him a bowl of water. He takes it without giving her much attention at all and he lifts it, drinking. A simple diet for so glorious a creature. Simple, honest pleasures. It seems his celibacy is for all sensual delights in general, and not merely of physical flesh. The maiden flutters away as the emptied bowl is returned to her and as the centaur turns without the hoped for smile, wink, flirtation. Tsk, foiled again.
     The centaur bows as he turns to see you, his platinum tail flicking as he turns. A rear of sorts, but just a slight one to pivot. Yes, in battle he would be an amazing sight. "My Queen, I trust you found all satisfactory?"
     His slow gait carries him to you, less a trot and more a prance. It slows to a halt beside you. "If you are ready, My Queen," his hand comes out, large hand, strong hand, soft and callused all at once. But then, you know the hand of a warrior by now. His hand is out and he kneels.
     Yes, he shall accompany you to the border. But you shall be going ... riding... in style...

     "Quite satisfactory, thank you," Fiona answers, albeit with faint distraction. It is a strange thing, this being a queen. This ... kingdom, which she has raised, which has already begun to be populated. The sweetness of your compliments have stayed with her, but as ever, she mistrusts them; she could have done better, surely. There must be some dissent, surely. "Everything was as I envisioned," she admits nonetheless. "Though there was a ... misunderstanding about my clothing. It was resolved speedily."
     She observes the maiden's fluttering with veiled glance. She knows what is hoped for. She knows what you will not give. Why do people persist in asking? It is the lure of the unattainable. But there is still some seed of memory, suggested sight of what may come to pass (though not certainly; what in life is ever truly certain) and she smiles at you as you move towards here. "I hope that you and yours have everything which you might require? If not, you should tell me." She would not wish you or your men to lack, after all...
     There is another blink. All of this kneeling and its significance is not lost on her, but it is taking some ... adjustment. "Very well," Fiona says cautiously as she takes your hand. "I appreciate your company as well as your protection, Aurelius. I hope that you ... do not find it an onerous duty."

     His hand guides you to his withers, to the mane of pear-colored equine hair that sprouts there. With a twist of his armored torso, he assists you to mount. "Are you accustomed to riding?" he wonders this quite innocently of course. After all, what does he know really? "Grip with your knees and hold onto the locks. I will rise slowly once you are settled..."
     He remains kneeling, untwisting as you swing your legs over. There is no saddle -- nor shall there ever be. The equine hair is silken, the sides of the horse billow with his easy breathing, and there is warmth. You are receiving all that the fairy maidens ahead of you have failed to achieve. Perhaps this is all they wish -- to ride the greatest, most beautiful stallion in the Marches and all the kingdoms of the Fair.
     "I never find Duty onerous," Aurelius speaks softly. "Duty is my life, My Queen. And a worthy sacrifice. A gift, that I gladly give you." It is, perhaps, all he knows of love. "If you are ready..." he will rise.

     "I am accustomed," Fiona agrees with a faint twitch and quirk of lips - the first not for the sexual innuendo but for her own experience. Riding in gymkhanas and to hounds, to steeplechase... It's only after that when the connotation occurs to her, memories of thighs being spread across broad bodies made hard with centuries of war and theft, knowing green eyes and those identical grins and laughs. With that, she blushes, lowering her gaze as she places small hands to the base of your body. Those knees, yes, they have known horses before...
     "I'm ready," she declares, steadying herself and looking straight ahead, doing her best not to think about what is between her thighs. Boldly going where no woman has gone before. "Ready when you are, at any rate. How far is it," Fiona asks abruptly, "from here to the Wood?"

     "I have not ventured to the Dark Wood. But I imagine we will know it when we see it. And it... will likely know us." You braced upon his back, Aurelius rises. it is a graceful motion, but without a saddle your knees must press. He does not mind -- it is expected.
     Aurelius turns, his hand taking up his spear and holding it at his side. "If you need more of an anchor, you may hold onto my armor," his waist. "You are My Queen." And there is a soft smile to his voice. "It is no danger to my Chastity."
     The gait is smooth, as if you weren't riding at all, as he moves from walk to prance to easy canter. His head held high, his eyes are cast before him, watching the golden plain become meadows of flowers of all colors. Behind him, the platinum tail streams outward as a pennant. The mane at your fingers waving softly.
     Ahead, there... at the horizon... how far one may not know, but there is a dark line, like the line of evening encroaching upon this day. The first sign of rising land, tall trees and hardy mountains.

     "I imagine we will, and it will," Fiona agrees. "It will be ... eminently recognizable, as is its King." After all, how could she fail to recognize Davydd, having seen him, having known him? She smiles a little bit, gaze lowered. "So do you always manage telepathy, or is it this once?"
     Yes, she was worried about unchasteness... not for herself, for no matter what thoughts and comparisons occur, she needs and seeks no other lovers; but for you, for your vow. One hand goes to your waist, holding herself in place, thighs held just so that she is light upon your back - as if she were so heavy and solid to begin with. She lifts her attention to the trees, watching them approach, bit by bit.
     "So, truthfully, what did you think? It's the first time I've done anything like that." Fiona's a little nervous. She isn't going to change her mind, but as ever, when considering let alone confronting Davydd's darkness, there is that bubble of nerves in an already high-strung persona. Conversation might help...

     "Your creation is exquisite. It is very..." Sumptuous, decadent, beautiful, promising, "... I find it beautiful," he thinks to say. "It expresses an ideal and ...desire. And possibilities. Such things are often the reflection of their creators. As such, it is you at this moment. Perhaps it shall change over time, but I find it a beautiful expression as it is."
     The sky begins to dark, as if Day Itself is receding, surrendering to what lies ahead. Closer to it now you come, the air cools -- you are fortunate that the horse is warm -- and the sudden rise of the earth becomes crowded with thickness of Life. Even in Darkness. There are trees hundreds of feet tall, wide-bodied, their limbs intertwined. There are blossoming brambles thick with berries. Quince and spices fill the air, the smokiness of cloves. Like Davydd's kiss, spiced with what he has become.
     Crowning the trees in thickening clumps, white berries dotting the leafy firmament like stars, mistletoe. And the air is crowded with fragrances. Woody, warm, spiced, peppered with sweeter scents of pear, apple, berries, roses, grapes and all expressions of Plenitude, cornucopia.
     Aurelius slows his gait, dropping to a gentle trot as he crests the hillside and climbs toward the tree line. The ground is sloping upward here. "I hear the sound of running water," he notes. "Beware of dark rivers, My Queen. With the thickness of the wood, it may not be easily seen." He pauses, halting altogether. "Are you... certain you do not wish a guard?" He has to ask.
     For the wood is foreboding as much as it is alluring. But you know the man...

     There is another hint of a blush. To make such claims, after all, is to compliment her Self. "Thank you," Fiona murmurs. The little courtesies must always be attended to, for it's true that 'please' and 'thank you' are magic words. And, in truth, the only ones she knows. She has not studied magic; she is magic.
     The darkening of the sky is no surprise to her. She has been here once, though not in the flesh; in dreams, called here by its master, its king. One of the two men she calls husband, back when there was only one man to whom she was bound...
     There is a faint smile as she looks around, the hint of nerves still fluttering in her belly but moving lower for a moment. She moves to slide from your back, dropping to booted heels. "I am certain. Where I am going, Aurelius, you cannot come with me. And if the occupants of the wood mean me harm, even you could not protect me, my Champion. This," Fiona turns to look forward again, "is the kingdom of the Holly King. It is to his heart I travel. I cannot swear to my safety, but I will be safer than any other who would come here, especially without warning. You would be trespassing; I am at least nominally invited."
     She looks down at the ruby on her hand a moment, then lifts her hands to unclasp the diamonds from around her throat, wrapping the chain around one hand and holding it up. "This will be all the guide and protection that I may accept."

     Aurelius bows his head. "As you wish, My Queen. I shall be here," he points out, and there is firmness of conviction in it. "If you raise your voice in alarm, if you call for help, I will not care about trespassing." Just so you know. "For my life is yours, My Queen. That is the nature of my duty." Your bodyguard as he is.
     He turns his head, watching you slide from him. He holds his spear still and he takes a quick survey of the darkening surroundings. "Take care, My Queen. I will be here," a soft assurance and then he steps aside to let you ... tend to your business. He will say no more, warn no more, promise no more.

     "When I have done, I will return as soon as I am able." That is all that Fiona can promise. She goes in search of answers to questions she cannot easily put into words, in search of understanding - of Enlightenment. Her smile is as reassuring as she can make it, her hands going up to replace the necklace around her throat. "Thank you, Aurelius. I appreciate your concern and your service." It does not go unnoticed.
     Turning, Fiona looks up at the height of the trees, at the vastness of the earth's bounty, and then she steps forward, moving to the line of trees with a caution. For all she knows, she will be blocked from entering. For all she knows, she will quickly lose her way even if she manages to enter. She will attempt to make her way to the heart of this kingdom - to Davydd's heart, in metaphor...

     When those who are welcome or are permitted to enter stand at the threshold of the jungle of trees, vines and ivy leaves give way so easily to the hand, as if nothing more than a curtain. You are swallowed. You know what that is like. Stepping into his wood is not so different from being swallowed by his mouth. Skin prickles upon your body wherever his mouth has previously landed...
     And climbing roses, grasping the white wood of holly trees, holly leaves as well... prickle you as you enter. Like the bite and the kiss, the thrust, the piercing of your skin beneath your fangs. All of the delicious ache of knowing him, physical or emotional is there as you step into the Perilous Wood.
     And it is alive. Though Yew trees and Blackthorns are there, reminders of Death, Life is everywhere. For without Death there is no understanding of Life; and no Life without Death.
     The forest is dense, and as twisted as you know him to be. Full of secrets, you have said. You have said he was deep, and this wood, this part of his soul only confirms it. Holly, Hazel, Ivy, Yew, Willow, Rowan, Hawthorn, Blackthorn, Ash, Mistletoe, Apple. Forest upon forest tangles before you. Some pregnant with berries, others heavy with fruit. There is Harvest and Plenitude everywhere.
     And sounds... like his breathing? Is it? Could it be? The clawing and the hissing of dragons. The wind moving through the full trees.

     The flush that comes to her cheeks is not the flush of exertion. It is the colour, the confirmation of knowledge. How endangered she might be, how endangered she might feel - in the first moments, it is impossible to think of anything other than memories. Of being with her king, the First King she had known. Of being under... over... taken...
     Fiona pauses, just within the threshold, letting the feelings, the emotions run through her, from heart to groin and everywhere else between and without. "I miss you," she murmurs aloud. It is a paradox. She is within the Wood, and yet she is lonely, aching for the sound of that voice, feeling her heart contract around the Idea of that Name, that Being...
     It almost knocks her out of being Drancy and into being Fiona. She takes a deep, clove-scented, spice-filled breath, then lifts her foot. One in front of the other. Such is how things begin. Fingers brush through leaves, palms against tree trunks as she winds her way into the wood. She does not know which way to go, and so she trusts to her aimless intuition, as she has ever done.
     "So," Fiona offers, almost conversationally but not quite able to pull off that casualness. "Anyone home? Would you mind if I helped myself to a bite to eat?" Hazel and apple are perfectly edible, after all. "Or should I provide my own apples? I could do that much, I think. If you like. Might be a bad idea. Almost as bad an idea as talking to myself."

     There is plenty. Why be afraid to take what you need?
     It does not sound like Davydd's voice but it issues internally. And then externally, in the sound of unseen creatures moving through the trees, echoed by the sound of a moving rivers. Waterfalls. The splash of salmon.
     Food is everywhere...
     Shall you go on wanting?
     At your feet, flickers of blue. Brilliant cobalt and vivid royal. As if the water had solidified...but it is not liquid. No, these blue...things...skitter as you step. Tiny dragons everywhere.
     Everywhere...
     A touch of the bark of the tree is like feeling his skin. The bark is not rough, but warm with his life and his power. It is like... a hand to his chest. As you touch a holly tree, it takes on the same vivid show as the tattoos that cover his left arm, and the dragons that belong to that tree show themselves. So, too, with the ivy at your feet. So, too, the hazel with it low hanging clusters of nuts, provocatively dangling over the river to feed the fish. So, too, with every tree.
     Up above, where the mistletoe tangles in leafy copulations with its host trees, there is a great, reptilian squirming. The nature of your Holly husband is also one of orgiastic delight. Wherever you look, He is everywhere.
     A pair of green eyes blink at you from beneath the boughs of the Hazel trees that line the banks of the river with the graceful willows. It is a peaceful, contemplative look. The dragon's body is covered in the same blue patterns as the tattoo that graces your Holly husband's chest...

     It isn't quite enough to make Fiona jump out of her skin, but she starts, taken aback. She hadn't ... really expected a response, or not one so soon. "Thank you," she says aloud, cautiously. A hand goes up to pluck hazelnuts, bringing them in cupped palm towards her chest.
     She glances down, and lets out a squeak. How ... unregal. Stumbling, she leans up against one of the trees, sighing for its solidity even as she glances with faint nervousness back down to her feet. Dragons? Well... dragons... it makes sense...
     And it's not insects...
     Not that she's ever allowed anyone to see how she reacts to your average London cockroach...
     Leaning up against the tree is oddly comforting. Perhaps not so odd; she leans up against her husbands in much the same way. Before she gives thought to how she will crack the nuts, she glances up - and there's another, very startled, almost comical expression, the squeak strangled. "...Ah. Um. I ... don't suppose that you're a friendly dragon of the variety that doesn't kidnap queens or princesses?"

     I do not have to kidnap you. You came to me. Remember. A dragon with a sense of humor. The green eyes are like His eyes. They smile at you as the dragon lies there in easy repose. An easiness that Davydd never seems to express on earth. Maybe this is the part of him that Knows before he can feel it and Understand it. I am as friendly as I need to be or as others deserve. But you should not worry. Eat the fruit.
     Is that... eat the fruit like Alice in Wonderland? Or eat the fruit like Hansl and Gretel. Or eat the fruit like Little Red Riding Hood...
     The Hazel tree's boughs are sheltering and peaceful. Illuminating? For light seems to pierce the dark wood and land upon the silver waters of the river. Nuts drop into the stream and silver and pink salmon flash and jump upward to catch them in their mouths.
     You have come to know Him better. Have you come to ask questions of him. I am the tree of Enlightenment. Of Wisdom. Of Philosophy. Perhaps of all, the best to ask. The Willow will want to gossip. The Apple will want to speak in rhyme. The Holly...
     The Holly isn't a tree of conversation...
     As you have come to know...

     "Well, that's true." She enjoys being run away with - by both husbands, really - but that isn't why she's here. Slowly, she looks down at the nuts in her hand, frowning quizzically. "I don't suppose you've got a nutcracker?" What this could be taken as Freudian symbolism of, she doesn't even want to think. Fairy tales are left to fend for themselves right now; she's conversing with a dragon.
     There's a hint of a sigh. For all the darkness, the tumultuous Life and Death, it is remarkably peaceful here. Fiona sinks down along the tree's trunk to sit in the shadow of it, tilting her head back to look at this... dragon.
     "I've come to know him better," Fiona agrees, "but I don't know what to ask. If I did, I would've just - done that, I suppose." Small hands fold closed around the gathered hazel, eyes that are very blue look to the running water. "I suppose as open as I am to him, I want a way to open myself more... and this is part of it."

     The dragon coiled beneath the Hazel tree slithers its tail upward, giving one of the branches a shake. You are pelted with nuts and another pile of them lands in front of the dragon. It brings a taloned claw down with a smack against the stone, opening the fruit for you.
     Taste... and know...
     Taste and know? Do you wonder, suddenly, if that's what Rhodri and Davydd have done with your apples? To taste you is to know you. Is that how they have learned so quickly.
     The salmon shimmer beneath the cascading waters. Swim ... and know...
     Walk ... and know... He is all around you...
     Sitting upon the rock, you may even feel a heartbeat. Is that possible? Are you within his skin as you have always wished to be?

     A hand is lifted as she squints, flinching not in pain but as if to ward off potential pain at the shower of nuts and fruit. "...Thank you." Fiona straightens, cautiously, warily as she leans forward, glancing from dragon to fruit and then picking up the kernels scattered among shards of shell.
     Just in case...
     The fruit is taken, examined, thought given to what she is doing. She feels suddenly overdressed, despite being in denim and cotton. There is a hesitation, and then she sets the kernel down, shrugging out of her jacket, bending to unlace her boots, kicking them off. Jeans are rolled off, the t-shirt pulled over her head, all of it bundled and stowed, secured between ancient tree roots. Not looking at the dragon, she picks up the fruit, colour staining her cheeks even as fuchsia hair lengthens, bit by bit, paling from fuchsia to primrose and finally to heart of oak, even as she places hazel upon her tongue.
     "He knows," Fiona says aloud, "that I love him and put noone before him..."

     All the flavors of him, the wild and the gentle, the sweet and the salty, rush from your tongue and tastebuds to your brain, like lightning across the synapse of your mind. It is him. The taste of him. Feel of him. Everything desired, everything felt and everything loved. All in one kernel.
     It is all there...
     Even as he and Rhodri have claimed the apples to be for you. The taste of your skin. What it is like for them to feel you. And it is there for you in the hazel. The taste of his skin. What it is like for him to fill you. What it means to you.
     And mostly what it means to him...
     There is longing there. There is love. There is desire. There is the occasional bite of jealousy and impatience. But he has needed you. He has needed someone. And he needs you still. For him... there is no one before you. You are his Queen.
     You can feel the slam of emotion in his gut echo in your own. Where blood would rush to his, it rushes to yours. What he has Seen... eating of the Hazel allows you to peek into, like a crystal ball, like a voyeur to his dreams.
     Of a vine covered citadel of red stone rising upward in the center of his kingdom -- it is there, in the center of the forest. The symbolism surely cannot be lost on you. Of such banquets, such plenitude, that no mouth should ever go without filling, no cup empty, no plate bare, no soul lost to be starved and hungry, searching for shelter even as he did. Even as has so recently.
     Such generosity.
     He would give everything of himself...
     And is doing just that...

     A soft sound escapes her lips, somewhere between a cry and a moan. It is a sound he would be intimately familiar with; it would make him laugh, no doubt. She leans back against the tree again, needing the support, eyes closed but still Seeing.
     "My love," Fiona murmurs it, dazedly, hands going up as if to cover herself. From whose eyes? There is noone here to see save that which is of him...
     She shakes her head as if to clear it, shakes it and pulls herself upright, tries to pull herself together. To swim or to walk - or what? She has the sudden desire to push her way through to that citadel that she has Seen, but...
     "Would he want me to go there?" Fiona asks it aloud. She shakes her head; self-doubt, even with what she has Seen. "I don't want," she half-apologizes, "to be intruding..."

     The tree and the dragon have nothing to say to that. Green eyes only blink at you, much as Davydd is prone to do when he's not sure why you're asking the ruddy question to begin with. You are here to explore. Aren't you? The dragon lowers its head, returning to its peaceful repose, its contemplation.
     Around you, the dip and rise of the musty earth, soil constantly wet and teaming with all sorts of briars and brambles, fallen berries are scooped up in the mouths of passing drakes. But there's no help. No lightbulb flashing. No, the question you ask is one that only you may answer...

     There's a smile, reluctant upon her lips, self-conscious to the last as those changing eyes glance downwards at herself, at her nakedness. She has ever gone naked even when fully dressed. A glance to the discarded leathers, and they're banished - sent back to be tucked away, still scented of lindenflowers and rosewater.
     If she's going to explore, well... there's no need for her to be armored, not really...
     Pale grass-colored silk forms, flows over her, kirtled in at the waist with a slender golden chain. Her feet are clad in leather boots, but they are of soft kid leather, butter-yellow - spring-tide colours in Autumn's heart. More fitting clothing for going visiting than denim and leather. "After all," Fiona reasons aloud, "I'm sure he knows I'm here, or he will know, or will have known - and he'd be disappointed if I didn't carry through." Timidity is something reserved for very rare occasions indeed.
     She turns to the dragon, sinking into a curtsey that was last used on a visiting angel. "Thank you very much for your help," Fiona says gravely. "I appreciate it. I'm sure we'll meet again, eventually."

     The dragon makes a growling, purring sound but says no more, its head resting upon outstretched taloned claws. The hazel branches lower once more for the salmon, dipping and teasing the fish to jump...
     As you press forward, feet wandering wherever there is space, cool earth or soft vines -- for there do not seem to be paths yet made from your world to his -- or at least the paths are not as obvious. But there are ... guiding ways. A certain thinning of trees, or opening of a sudden thicket alcove that leads you onward into an ever-deepening wood. Not all paths appear to be paths in the beginning... but do you not find the way?
     Holly trees are far more plentiful the deeper you go. Their smooth white barked trunks and brilliant green leaves, the clusters of red berries -- now you understand the colors of the winter festival and their meaning. It is his time, a time called the 'Dead of the Year' -- but that is not true. It is simply not true. But as a reminder to the harshness of winter, the dragons of the holly are bellicose and hissing, sharp-clawed and prepared for battle. Life is sweet, but Life is biting.
     The Yew trees with their red-peeling bark, the symbol of Death again, but also of the Afterlife. Of Reincarnation. What was once alive did die, but it will live again. Death, yes, it is everywhere... and sacrifice. But always, always with renewal, always with the promise that Life will return. There is no ending...
     There is a pattern underlying the path you take. You go from grove to grove, each tree attached to a tattoo upon his person, even as he has described, each tree with a separate dragon guardian. Which shall you stop to address, if any? Or shall you seek to find Him, though he is Everywhere?
     There is a sudden break in the trees, where vines, vineyards, brambles of berries and ivy tangle in a labyrinth, a formal labyrinth -- not merely a tangle.
     And there in the center of it all, the red palace of the Holly King, reminiscent of Powis Castle but far more majestic, far more fantastical, with suggestive spires and wild, orgiastic gardens and groves of fruit. Cornucopia, indeed. Behold the Plenty of Eternal Harvest...

     It is Him she seeks to find, in this meandering, winding, traveling of paths that are not paths, ways that are hidden but which she finds nonetheless. It is her way, this, to wander and yet find herself where, astonished, she had dreamed of being and yet never admitted...
     Each grove is visited with a pause, each dragon given that same respectful curtsey. As much as she might tease and harangue, flirt and caress, there is a great respect which she has never lacked, even if it has seldom been shown on the surface where the entire world can recognize it. That would not be her way...
     Fingers touch, brush, slide along branches as she goes. In each grove, one tree is visited where a dragon sits, one strand of the long cornsilk plucked from her head and wound around a trunk, knotted or smooth. Here, she has been here, and here, and here...
     And then there is the break in the trees, and the way becomes clear to her. She may not know what it is she does, but she finds her way nonetheless. Fingers lift to touch the pink diamonds again, for just a moment, and there is a slow, wistful smile for the sight. Oh, but a hundred years is too long...
     Fiona steps forward, moving for the palace that is Powis but is not. She is not in her kingdom, and she knows it well. Powis was never hers either, but she was there because of its master. And now, she is here. "I am here," she says aloud, reminiscent of her entry to the Wood. Carefully, she makes her way through the gardens to find entry. It is not only the heart of the kingdom but the heart of the man that she seeks. She may hold it, but to understand it, experience it in fullness, sweetness and danger is not merely to hold it.

     "I know you are," his voice is sudden, edged with laughter.
     Remember him when you came to see him first in Powis? He had called you on the phone after Sandrine left him. He asked you to come to him, to see if... that inkling you both had would blossom into something Real and True. He was dressed like a country gentleman out with his roly-poly hound-guards, with a slicker over his sweater, a pair of hardy trousers and boots.
     He's a country gentleman once more, only dressed as he would in his own century, his own time. The leathers of an archer prince, over layers of wool. The boots are stag hide and muddy, and his gauntlets and gloves are much the same. The image of a man working in the fields, taking root in the trees and picking off the English or the Norman from a distance. There's a bow, a very sizable bow, slung over his shoulder and hanging at his back, a quiver of holly arrows, each one carved ornately, also slung and hanging closer to his hip. His hair is bronze-copper-fiery, shorn short to keep out of the way of flying arrows and an archer's aim. Thick, it stands up here and there of its own volition.
     "I was hoping it was you creating the ruckus down the way." Yes, he felt it. Of course he would. "I've been here... creating a few more roads. I could do with a few easier paths, oes?" Davydd folds his arms against his chest and he tilts his head, smiling at you. "But I won't ask you to ruin the surprise, or tell me how you came to be here. It's more fun for me to find out ... when you want to tell me. I am ... just happy to see you."
     Davydd pivots, as if turning toward a sound and he swings the bow around, notching it with a carved hollywood arrow. The power of the man, you have seen it on display in some ways, but not in this way. He pulls the chord back and lets the arrow fly with a great sound like the stroke of a harp. Where the arrow lands, another structure suddenly erects (how frequently things of his seem to erect around you, he is tempted to say) -- an atrium, temple-like structure, with red marble steps that lead downward from twelve sides, each wall has a carved bronze panel.
     Tilting his head again, he seems satisfied, and turns back to you, putting the massive bow back to rest against his back. "You made it through the woods," Davydd notes softly, "... past the dragons and the brambles. And now you are in my heart." He sighs as he turns. That sounded almost lovelorn, that sigh. "I have to tell you... that I did not realize I loved you as much as I do... until I had to give you up for a while." There is such emotion in his voice. "I was walking the streets of London tonight, I helped a homeless vampire find a family so ...she might have some sort of... future. I don't know. A chance at life. She was abandoned. I thought of you when I saw her. I thought of you in France... the story you never got to finish, I never let you finish telling me of ... how you were hurt and lost once. I am sorry, Fiona..."

     The breath catches in her throat at the sound of your voice, and for a moment, her heart speeds up. That lack of control over her own reactions which has always plagued her, but especially where you are concerned. Always where you are concerned, from first encounters on. Right down to confessions in your own drawing room that she had not intended to make until she was making them, revealing her heart where it had been so cunningly hidden, on her sleeve...
     "Hoping?" Fiona blinks, forgetting how to use her hands, what they are for. "But yes... it's me. As English and noisy as ever. I'm here." How suddenly her tongue appears to have gone dumb, forgotten words and syllables, sounds that should mean something. Colour rises in her face, and slowly, she moves towards you, then halts as you notch your arrow. There is a blink, caution and wariness in her eyes as a cat suddenly dropped into a new place, and then she moves again towards you.
     "I made my way here because I love you. You were my first, Davydd, in so many ways. I ... know that you're busy, and you have so much to do." Vampires? She'll chew on that later. You've told her there's any number of creatures out there, but it's never been specific, she's always been disinclined to worry about it. Luck has seen her through, and her own unique brand of faith and fire. "...May I come to you?"
     It is a hesitation she would not feel if she were with you in London, if she were even in her own kingdom. But there is something in the air, strange and rich, and Fiona hesitates, asking your permission.

     He grins again, and that's the look of the King of this land -- wild and sweet, generous and decadent. He looks you up, he looks you down. "Come here, woman, and know me better..." he says it like the spirit of Christmas Present. Which is... not surprisingly...who he is, in a fashion.
     Among other things...
     "I'm not too busy to love you... I'm not to busy to want you..." He speaks it to you, there is allure there that his mortal self is usually not wont to show, so rough he is. The closer you come to him, the more rich the air. You are assaulted by the fragrances of his garden, the spices of cinnamon and clove, of quince and orange and pomegranate. Of wine, of mead, of all the libations that may fill a chieftain's cup.
     His removes his gloves as you near him, his hands free to give and to receive you. But the bow and the arrows stay put, the symbols of the Holly King.

     At your words, she moves forward, hands coming up and out to meet yours. "I love you," Fiona repeats, the words worth repetition. "You have been my first. I was afraid to love. Then I was afraid to love you; I looked at Sandrine and I felt scruffy and small in comparison, and I didn't want to compete, I didn't want to ruin any happiness you had with her. I'd rather be miserable and alone than hurt you..."
     Isn't that just like her...
     The fringe of her eyelashes sweeps down a moment, shuttering the chrysalis of blue and grey and green. But only a moment, and she closes the distances to take your large hands in her own small ones. "You were and are my first true love. What happened before left me afraid to trust and afraid to love, and it took me time and losing myself among others to find my way to you - for you to be ready for me as well. Dei - his otherworldliness, whatever it was, attracted me. Huw reminded me of you..."
     She squeezes your hands, then steps closer yet, leaning up against you as against your trees, cheek to your leathered front, eyes closing. "I gave myself to you because I need you. I've needed you since you picked me up off of the cement, Davydd. I need you now. You frighten me, and I need that, too. Ask me anything you want, and I'll tell you. I have no defenses when I am with you. I don't want any... you make me vulnerable, but I find I want to be vulnerable, when I am with you."
     In London, there were words that got in the way - comparisons and contrasts, history and concerns. Here, she is trembling in your grasp and clinging to you as if afraid you might push her away...

     On the contrary, he gently pulls you to him so that you are pressed to leathers that are softer than they may have seemed from a distance, so that his arms completely surround you. You feel the thud of his quiver against your hip. You feel the warmth of his mouth against your forehead, your eyelids then covering your mouth.
     "Come with me to my temple," he murmurs. "We will eat... we will drink wine... we will talk if you wish to talk. Or not, if you wish that too. I know... that you fear me. There is a part of me that should be feared," Davydd continues in a whisper. "But I love you. And I need you. I need the sanctuary of your arms, of your bed." His hand touches your chin, leads it to tilt so that he may kiss you again. "Do not worry, Fiona. Do not worry, My Queen. There will never be another woman for me but you."
     His arms loosen their hold and he turns, an arm remaining around you as he leads you to the temple that he just constructed. His hand grasps, it pats, it skims as he leads you with him. "I know it can be frightening too... trying to balance so much," two husbands, two men and now a kingdom, "... but do not worry about the loves of your heart." His mouth brushes your ear. "With the kingdom of my heart you may rest secure. With Rhodri's too. You were not my first love... but you have been the one I have loved ... the most completely. I know that I have been clumsy." His fingers tickle you as he continues to walk with you.
     As he does, paths are created through the vineyards, the orchards. As you move with him, there is the sudden realization that his kingdom is no longer... empty. He's been filling his court. There are knights with carved holly-wood lances, as ornately carved as his arrows, practicing and jousting in the distance, where his kingdom transforms into that of Avalon... and the lingering dreams of Camelot that still rest within. While you have the Winds, Davydd has the waters, there are stream princes carving rivers for his own means of trade. For his is the land of bounty that all other lands shall wish to benefit from. He has to have a way of getting the food to the other kingdoms, and to places on the earth where poverty most requires bounty. Ships are already sailing...

     Such strength. There is a sigh given for your strength, for the clasp of your arms, the press of your mouth. You move to lead her, and she goes willingly - as when has she not, since she gave herself to you? Almost everywhere, it has been willing, or with feigned unwillingness only, to lend sweetness to the fight and the victory. "I trust you," Fiona whispers, voice low and kept to the back of her throat, "with my Self, Davydd. I couldn't love you if I didn't... and I couldn't trust you if I didn't love you."
     Another paradox...
     She observes what she sees, taking note but only dimly. If you were not here, she would observe the more closely, but you are here, and her attention cannot help but wander to you, her gaze to you, her smile as well, to you. "This feels less out of place than I did when I came to Powis. I don't know why..."
     It is magical, as are you, as is she. It is real. Perhaps that is it, perhaps not. Blue eyes lift to look at you and she leans in. "Hold me," Fiona murmurs, trying for an imperative but not quite succeeding. "I considered walking here naked, but I thought that you might have company. Did I cause much trouble by coming?"

     He laughs again. It's his best expression. The cracking smile, the crinkling corners of his eyes, the warmth of the sound of it, the way it makes him look, both human and someone belonging to a story somewhere. "No, no...not at all, of course not. You can come here whenever you like. You will be its queen," he whispers as he walks flush to you. "When we get to the temple, maybe we'll see about nakedness..."
     The path turns to red marble, leading to one of the twelve red marble stairs, which leads to one of those bronze, embellished panels -- doors to the temple. Davydd extends his free hand, opening one of the doors, revealing what is within.
     It is not a throne room or a separate mead hall. But it is a place for celebration nonetheless. It is set as for a great banquet -- it is always set thus -- with a long table completely crowded with food. The table is an altar, there are candles and incense burning. The floor is red marble and bronze tiled, covered with furs and carpets. There are places for resting, places for sitting, places for eating. There are large urn-shaped jugs of bronze full of wine and mead. There is fresh fruit, chocolate, every imaginable and edible wish or desire.
     He closes the door behind you solidly. He unslings his bow and the quiver from his person, setting them aside. His clothing alters, simplifying. "This building... I have created it especially for the feasts and celebration of Samhain," Halloween, "...and Yule...on those days, the twelve doors will be open and all will be welcome within. Believe it or not, it is bigger than it appears. It will expand if more room is needed."
     Davydd pivots, his arms surrounding you again. "I wanted you to be the first to see it," he whispers to you. "I want to...I want you to come here... to celebrate your birthday. I am planning a huge party for you. Act surprised." He parts from the hold, taking your hand and leading you to the banquet table. "Now... you are here. Did you have something you wanted to speak with me about?"

     Ordinarily, she might smack you, bounce a palm off your solid muscle for the quip. Right now, she is too glad to see you, too glad to be with you. She only left you a short couple of days ago, but it feels as if it has been weeks... months... even years. Too long...
     She follows you up the steps, hip bumping yours as you stay so close; looks around to take in the interior, hands coming up together to touch her lips as she takes in the sights, blinking with that childlike solemnity that sometimes takes over her expression with such surprising speed. You have seen her youthen before your eyes before. She will always do so, no matter what age others may take her for.
     "It is ... impressive," Fiona says finally, not minding the door being closed. Your arms close around her, and she relaxes, leaning into you again, breath sliding in and out as you hold her. "You don't need to throw me a party, you know. But I will try to act surprised. I'll try to forget, that'll be better - then I won't need to act."
     Her hand is held; she is being led. Fiona blinks at the fertility of the table, then looks up at you. "I wanted to see you," she says simply. "I wanted to be close to you. This is closer than I could be anywhere or anyway else. I miss you all the time. I don't know why it was so important to me. I wish I could speed up time, sometimes. I keep planning surprises for you, and then having to wait until I see you again. Not seeing you does give me the time to plan them, I suppose. What about you? Do you want to speak with me about anything?"
     She isn't being coy; rather, she is reordering her thoughts, trying to lead them away from all of the confessions and adorations she wishes to lay before you, here, more than ever...

     He takes one of the grail-like goblets and one of the bronze urns and fills it full to the brim with a fragrant red liquid. He hands it to you with a smile and then pours one of his own, equally full. He fills a plate for you -- fruits and breads and some protein, pheasant it appears, quail with chocolate sauce. He licks his fingers, being honestly gauche a moment and uncaring, and hands it to you as well turning then to do his own.
     "I just want you to know that ... just because I ... can't marry you at the moment... doesn't mean I ... won't have time to see your or don't want to see you. I ...won't be seeing anyone else. You know that, but I'm saying it anyway. When I am not helping fantastical creatures find their way to me, way to here, way to sanctuary, when I have a moment to steal for myself ... I will be giving it to you. I am glad you gave me a key. I... will be using it. As often as I may."
     He takes his goblet and his plate over to a pile of furs, pillows, rugs and blankets. "There is ... just so much emotion," he quietly admits. "I do not know where to begin. There is no beginning," he counters. "Everything I do ... it is for the family of man and my family. My family is big these days," he smiles at you and takes a swallow of the spiced drink. "What did you think of the forest?"

     She accepts the goblet in both hands, taking a swallow while you prepare the plate and then transferring it to one hand in order to accept the platter. She moves with you, follows you with her eyes and then her body as you speak, as you travel, sinking onto the soft cushioned pile. There is no purpose in discomfort, now, is there?
     "I gave you the key both to make sure that you knew that I love you still, and to reassure you that I still want you; also because I want you to have a place while you currently do not, and because I want you." Fiona's words come out one after the other, plate settled on her knees, goblet close by. "I know we've ... worked things out, but I still feel badly that I can't see you as much as I see Rhodri. I want things to be fair. As greedy as I am," she smiles faintly, "I want to consume you. But I know you have your work. I don't hate you for it. I love you. I respect you, Davydd, and what you're doing."
     She looks down at the plate, taking up a bit of fruit and chewing on it meditatively as she considers your question. "It is fantastic in every sense and meaning of the word. But it welcomed me, I think. They knew me. I tried not to disturb what I found there, though I did leave my calling card," the fine strands of golden hair tied round the trees, "for you to receive. I thought you might like it if I did."
     There is a pause, a quietness as she considers things. "I want," Fiona says finally, "your darkness, you know. As much as I want to consume you, I want you to consume me without holding back, sometimes. I don't want to die, of course. But ... I like to play with fire, I suppose." The smile returns, slowly but growing. "Which is probably why I walked into your woods without prior warning or explicit invitation. Why I wanted to find your heart. Partly, I wanted to be with you. Partly, I wanted to see what you would do."
     Even knowing there's always the risk of you grabbing me and throwing me over your lap... I'm a terrible flirt, I know. Davy, my Davy, do you have any idea how much I adore you? All of you, forest and soul and man and king? You are a conqueror...

     The drink is ... not wine, not a single wine anyway, but an intoxicating concoction -- the dream of a thousand wines, but spiced and flavored with something exotic, magical. It's an elixir. It is the potion of love shared between Tristan and Isolde; it's the wine of Bacchus; it's the healing potable in Arthur's grail; and before that in Ceridwen's cauldron.
     "You consume my heart," Davydd says, turning his head to you as he balances his plate on his lap. With a wicked turn of grin, he leans into you. "You consume my lap whenever I get half a chance... meat enough for most," he teases. A gentle pat of his hand comes after, soothing the tease like a kiss soothes the nip of his teeth. "But... don't concern yourself with being right or fair, Fiona. Just ... love us as you have been doing. You'll burn yourself out trying to keep it 'fair', keep it 'balanced'. Love him. Love your children. Love me."
     The wine is heady stuff indeed, even he feels the effects of it rapidly. He eats the quince, he eats a part of a pastry, he picks at the meat on his plate, and then he sets his plate aside. He picks at yours, feeding you with his own fingers.
     "You are welcome to wander in my woods... whenever you wish," Davydd speaks softly. "Wander it, you will never have to miss me. When I must rest to regain my energy, you can come to me here. My table is always set, eat your fill. Drink your fill. Consume me thus," he speaks at your ear, his mouth wandering at your neck. "Let's make ... a new promise. Let's meet.... once a month. New moon... do you think you can get away?"
     His hand lifts your plate off your lap, setting it aside. "I don't want anyone else's blood but yours, no other sacrifice on my altar but your body." A hand strokes your face. "I want to consume you..." A grin is a toothy one indeed, the thorns of the Holly King visible. "...and only you... I love you... you are my Queen, my goddess..."

     A hand lifts, sliding through your hair and then down along your cheek, her own cheeks flushed with wine and desire and emotion, all of them strong, all of them heady. "I will try my best," Fiona murmurs, allowing you to feed her even as she moves a little closer, until there is no real distance between you and she. "I wish there were something that I could give you, though."
     Your mouth roams and she closes her eyes, content with the plate's removal. A hand falls to your thigh, gentle touch, light touch, thorns and claws still held in reserve for now. "The new moon? I think I probably could. Most months, anyway. I never paid half so much attention to the moon before you, you know."
     Your hand touches her face, and she looks up to you, eyes again open. "That is very much what I feel," Fiona says slowly. "I love you, as a man... as a king, as my husband. But I worship you as well. I want to be naked underneath you, receiving you as if I were some sort of pagan priestess - receiving a visit from her god. I want to see you all ivied and thorned and feel that weight and significance." Abruptly, small hand grab at the front of your armour and she pulls herself to you with sudden violent urgency, pulling herself into your lap.
     "Bloody male," Fiona murmurs into your neck, "this isn't fair. I have to get even, you realize." She presses her lips to your cheek, to your throat, then nips with sharp white teeth that lack the thorny points of your own. "I want to be your prey, like I tried with Huw. I just didn't know, then, what I know now. Even though I know I'd lose to you..."
     That's rather the point, isn't it?

     "Of course it's fair," Davydd murmurs with a cocking grin. "You want to be laid on an altar. You want to be covered with honey and wine, grabbed by the hips and fucked as a holy sacrament. You want to be the communion and the cup. You want to be the doe pierced by my arrow." He could go on -- and starts to -- but you climb up on his lap.
     That usually stops it...
     That urgency, that fierceness. He smiles at it, smiles at you. "That's it," he whispers. "That is the warrior queen that's mine. You want to see me... ivied and thorny?" he winks to that. He can't help it. His hands land upon your shoulders, he pulls you into him, and the kiss is fierce, the forcing open of your mouth and the ravishment that follows. Your mouth blushed, the blood called to the surface of your flesh.
     When he parts the kiss, ivy leaves drip from his hair and your hair, a crown of holly leaves and berries interspaced only with softer, sweeter ivy. His eyes reflect not his kingdoms, for you are in it, but of the myriad scenes of such sacrifice. He rises, his hands cupping you to him as he lifts.
     "Be my wine tonight," he says, moving you to his table. "Be my pastry and my bread. Be the life that fills this kingdom. Be the promise to them... of the sweetness that follows winter..." You are set upon the table, laid among the other dishes, the other symbols and signs of his bounty, bowls and plates moving out of your way. "When I come to you, when I thrust inside you, when my groin slaps between your thighs, don't think of me and you... " His hands press the center of your body and your clothing rips away. "... think of Life and Death. Think of Birth and Rebirth. What we do tonight is make a universe. Think of your kingdom... and give birth to greatness..."

     That kiss...
     It brings the blood to her flesh and more, it brings her wildness to the surface, glistening in the shine of her eyes. She is half-wild right now, trembling in your grasp, not with fear but with excitement. You rise and she with you, arms twining about your shoulders as the ivy about your crown.
     "I will always be that promise to you - to you and to your kingdom," Fiona answers as you set her down. "I -" She interrupts herself with a gasp as her clothing is torn from her, leaving her naked once again, save for her jewelry. "I will be for you what you wish, Davydd. Your Queen... your vessel... and when you rise, I will rise with you."
     Already, her magic is stirring, swelling in echo of what she has wrought thus far, growing anew in answer to the pictures you paint with your words. Magic responds to desire, to need, to will, and she has ever had the need to create. She reclines upon the table, spilling her hair back so that it isn't caught under her hips. "Come to me," Fiona whispers. "Holly King..."

     The doors open, bronze shimmering and sounding as cymbals as his hands grasp your breast, fingers dragging downward with the prickles of holly leaves. Murmured words, an incantation or a song, a prayer or a promise, a chant, a cant, falls from his lips, and the leather falls away, revealing those writhing, hissing dragons.
     You have seen them in their wood, they recognize you, they move toward you as his hands grasp your hips. As you are pulled toward him, your hips off the edge of the table, you see the trees perhaps as you have not seen them before. The leaves moving, the forest coming to life on his skin as if you were walking through it all over again. Holly leaves and dragons up the whole of his left arm. Hazel, Alder, Ash, Willow and Yew. Around his length what appears to be an actual second crown of mistletoe -- so real and vibrant the plants look it is as he has been ritually decorated for you.
     His magic fills you even before he does. When the sudden thrust is landed, your hips held suspended by the strength and possession of his hands, that energy bursts. "Take it." And another. "Use it." The table begins to rock forward and back beneath you as you are pulled to him and knocked away with the strength of his meeting you. It is rapid, consuming -- that is your word and your wish, and he grants it.
     Outside, the world is affected by it. There are grapes swelling with juice, bowers of flowers, abundance. And the gateways opened to London, symbolized by these very doors, are anchored and opened, charged and made real. Bounty given, given freely, as freely as he gives himself to you.
     And what shall you do with the magic, with the power that is coursing through you?

     She cannot help but stare. As is so often the case with the intimacy between you and she, it is made new, over and over again it is new. So many times it is a first time, as a first time, and this is no exception; it is no exception in that it is exceptional.
     She would not refuse it if she could, and she cannot. As before, she is made your vessel, yours. Dragons and trees - she recognizes them, acquiescent in her nakedness, her openness, wanting nothing more than your possession. And she is so pale and pink and unmarked beneath you, nothing there but her Self...
     But what is to be done with it? She is a queen; she is your queen. In your kingdom and bound to her own and to Avalon, Fiona squeezes her eyes closed as her hips lift, concentrating past the sharp hiss of pleasure, concentrating not on your devouring of her but upon that magical energy. You thrust into her, and she thrusts it out with the roll and tensing of pelvic muscles. And...
     Beyond the Perilous Wood, a road ripples and snakes from her city through the plains and over the rolling hills and between the bowering trees, dividing to lead to each of her kingdom's shared borders. It is a simple road, wide but unpaved, packed earth with wild grasses growing along the edges for a green and growing rade to follow it. It stops short; the way will need to be connected from within, by the masters of those domains. But it is there, a beginning...
     Over three kingdoms, a gentle rain begins to fall, raindrops that are warm to the touch and which glimmer with silver. The fragrant scent of apple blossoms comes with them, mingling as a residue to flavour the air; mingling with water to heal, to nourish and soothe. Those that drink will find balm where before they had found none. Those that bathe will be made whole...
     That same rain falls over London, over Dorset, over Oxford, over the whole of England. Those touched by it remember sudden memories of the past - perfect moments, forever caught in clarity and preserved. A first kiss; a task completed; loving words, praise from on high. Some will sigh and nod and some will drink to forget again, but for now, they remember. And where that rain comes to land, crops will grow taller and taste the sweeter. It is the same in England as in the three kingdoms in this...
     She is of all seasons comprised, moving from one to another without concern. Youth and innocence, fertility and wisdom, blood and sacrifice. She takes you for all that you give and returns it with all of herself - all of her Self, creating perfumed bowers in secret gardens hidden by hedges of thorn and briar that only true lovers will find and enter, alleyways of shadow where the hunted may hide to the frustration and confusion of the hunters, sudden bounty of lost and forgotten purses and folded bills in pockets and purses for the needy. Tonight, a destitute man struggling to raise six children following the death of his wife of cancer will win the Sweeps in the poorest part of London. A rich, bored, lonely woman will be moved to charity. A bully of eight will find solace in a friend on four legs who would otherwise be put to death by injection...
     Magic is sent out and finds homes across two worlds, three kingdoms here and one there. She is comprised of two worlds; she could not readily give one up for the other, not now, any more than she could give one husband up in favour of the other. But there is more, yet. She has not yet done.
     You take her, and she is open to you. There are soft sounds, little animal cries and panting, but she does not speak, all her breath driven from her by what you and she do. Fiona's skin is flushed and slick with sweat, her fingernails dug into her palms as she squirms underneath you, hips lifting and falling, breasts rising and falling with every heavy, aching thrust of you. Energy flows along the lines that you have created, and the rain that falls suddenly increases, the wind picking up to whirl and rattle against windows in sudden warning. A street sign in Picadilly Square rocks violently and falls, narrowly missing an old man hurrying on his way. Perhaps he'll think again before he commits another selfish crime. A window smashes open, giving a small girl the chance to get away from her drunken mother, running out into the street to be taken up by police. Maybe she'll live another week. Protection must have its sword as well...
     And there is the nascent glow of forming white gold, ivy-like tendrils woven around a ruby. It is heavy, it is masculine. Whose head it was made for is certainly not hers. But it is a crown, forming upon the rocking table to one side, half-hidden among the plates and cloths, becoming made real as her lips part in sudden almost banshee wail. Your Queen calls you by your name, even as Fiona's thoughts are silenced to a static white noise...

Posted by rowan at January 01, 2005 01:19 PM