It's not the same night as her conversation with Hwyll; Fiona needs time to think between conversations with faerie men, even if they're not as inclined to be such heady conversation as once they might have been. Once you've drunk from the well of Inspiration Itself, other sources do not burn in the throat so much...
     Besides, it would be gauche, or so Fiona senses, even if not thinks it consciously. Huw and Hwyll are such different people - different beings, innately, beyond the external traceries of personality alone. She ponders, she thinks, she considers what she ought to do; how does one win someone like Hwyll over? She hasn't given up on the idea, and she isn't sure enough of her position, of her argument. She's been holding back from giving Huw a call, so to speak, until she knows more, but -
     "If I wait until I know enough, I'll never call him," Fiona mutters to the empty apartment. "I mean, that's the point, isn't it? I don't know anything. Haven't a clue. Who knows? Maybe he's wondering if I'm going to call as much as I am."
     But to have a guest, one needs to prepare. She doesn't prepare the same way that she prepared for Hwyll; different men, with different tastes. She's dressed comfortably, jeans and a thin t-shirt, black and grey, hair braided back loosely with the usual crystals and beads she favors from time to time. A bowl of hazelnuts is on the table, a shiraz in the glass and the bottle near to hand. The apples of Avalon are on display, but not in reach, in a closed glass bowl on the breakfront between kitchen and living room. She takes up a position with a willow branch in one hand, a glass of the shiraz in the other, and reaches forward.
     "Huw, I invite you to be my guest for the evening - Huw the Hunter, guardian of the border of Chaos, Horned but not Belled..."

     A leaf drops downward from the center of your living room, rocking back and forth like a cradle before spiraling quickly toward your feet. And another and another in rhythmic dropping, first like a cradle, then like falling rain.
     And in their falling, whispered conversation...
     "I could never resist an invitation..."
          "...even from the Plains of Terrible Darkness..."
     "...the creatures of Fear are armed and at the ready... I have never seen such turbulence..."
     The leaves swirl, spiraling upward in brown and red and gold, shivering as he speaks. "I will try to make it... in the meantime... it has been a while... it is good to hear from you. The winds have been... gossipy, they all speak your name..."

     There's a small snort of poorly suppressed amusement, with a tinge of cynicism; ah, well. Winds. "What do you expect from such? I suppose that any publicity is good publicity, in some sense," Fiona remarks, holding the glass poised. Her eyebrows are narrowed in contemplation, though, and that contemplation reaches beyond the set of her features.
     "Fear is on the loose? I suppose that's not such a surprise, at that," she murmurs, holding her position as she watches the leaves fall, one by one and three by three. "I'm sorry that I call at such a bad time, but then ... my timing always was an issue... wasn't it?"
     There is good timing and there is bad timing and then there is absolutely sodding horrible timing, and noone needs to guess twice to figure which is Fiona's.
     Of course, her timing has a way of turning out to be good in the end...
     "I hope you're not injured, but if you can't make it - or if you need my help - tell me so. If it lies within my power and my ability, I'll help." Fiona says it genuinely, unaware of what extent this may turn out to be generosity to a fool's purpose. "...What has happened?"

     The leaves splash upward as if launched by the hands of an exuberant child. It is the meaning of delight and is his laughter from afar. "No...not injured. My hands are full..." There is sudden silence, sudden and complete, and then a torrent of elvish. "Fear searches, it is searching, it has searched and will continue until it finds the one who is trying to leave the Darkness behind. They have a ...traitor... and they are combing the lands invisible for any and all who may be hiding or helping him. It is taking our power and our concentration...our kingdoms on the fringes..."
     There is the distant sound of thunder and all the leaves fall as litter to the floor. When they rise again, they take the shape of a man, and then he is there. Not the Huw that was in your bed but the Huw as he showed Himself at Amesbury, feet taller than a tall man's height, curled ram's horns, the cowl, the nutbrown skin, the cloak that trails Autumn on the floor. The Satyr of all satyrs. Talismans tinkle against one another as he bends for your ceiling and then shrinks himself slightly to be more comfortable within the earthly confines.
     "As for the gossipy winds, it is what they do best. I understand that there may be some courting involved. You have consigned Hwyll into seclusion. His harem isn't allowed in his presence and I understand his Kingdom of Clouds is no longer blotting the cheek of the Summer Sun." Huw smirks. "And your timing is impeccable as ever."

     Perhaps she might have said something; perhaps. But then, there it is, the arrival, and she is silent as it happens. She is less afraid than she was in that other time, that other place, but no less impressed, for it is a sight to be seen, and it is a sight which the mortal world has seldom seen - she has seen it only once. Fiona smiles, though, to see it, a glowing, gloating smile. It is Magic. And now, if not then, she knows that she is, as well.
     "It's good to see you again, Huw. Here - have some wine. I seem to recall you saying, once, that you liked shiraz, so I hope I didn't misremember. If you're hungry, I've got some things I can cook in the kitchen, but I thought I'd wait and see how long you would be staying..."
     Hospitality has its own rules, its own importance, and Fiona has prepared for it. She holds herself still for a moment even after she speaks, as if waiting for something; whatever it is, she seems satisfied with it, holding the glass out as she looks to you, your horned form, your strength.
     "Has he really? I'm surprised that he's withdrawn so far as that. I hadn't expected it." Fiona looks meditative for a moment. "The Summer Sun? What do you mean? - Come on, though, sit down. I'm surprised my timing's actually impeccable, so I'll assume that to be some sort of crack." No bitterness, no, just easy banter, and throughout, curiosity. She wants to know; she is genuinely interested, and it shows in the tilt of her head, the glance she sends with the wine, though perhaps not so warm.

     Dark eyes glint for the dark, peppery wine. "I thank you," Huw smiles, "...but you do not need to cook for me." A wave of his hand and your living room is a sudden banquet, down to the damask table linens. Hospitality for hospitality, gift for gift given.
     He reaches forward and he takes the offered wine, and he moves to take a seat upon the carpet of his fallen leaves. You might notice the gait -- it is like a man's but is not a man's. There is the soft clip-clop thud that whispers from behind the veils of his many robes and cloaks. As Huw settles, the carpet of leaves becomes a pile of sumptuous, woven rugs.
     "I tease my friend," Huw notes with a swallow of the shiraz. "He has not spoken of what his Ruminations center upon. It is his business. But that he has business... that much I do know." He smiles at the rim of the glass. "So...is this a visit between friends, for old time's sake. I sense another purpose." Then he laughs. "Maybe not," the Satyr of satyrs winks.
     "As for your timing. Why is it that whenever you call I have a beast of Chaos on my ass?" Another swallow of the dark, peppery wine, and a cluster of red and purple grapes appear in his hand. "So... what's your pleasure, my lady?"

     Eyes widen for a moment, and then Fiona smiles again. She has been matched. "Thank you." She relinquishes the glass, taking up her own and moving to sit on the edge of a chair, leaning forward. As tall as you are, that may - perhaps, just - set the two of you at a level. "It's a visit layered with multiple purposes, not all of which will be immediately evident, I suspect, even to me. But I'm happy to see you, Huw. It's been a while, and a lot's changed."
     Isn't that the truth...
     She sips her shiraz, pushes back the heavy burden of her hair and looks to you, expression changing as her expressions tend to do, from smiling to contemplative. It is not that the usual rawness is gone; but it has been tempered in recent times, and she is not afraid. A lack of fear has changed her.
     "Not my fault that Chaos likes to harry you," Fiona retorts easily, holding her glass in close. "But I don't know. Like calls to like, maybe? If you consider me to be a beast of Chaos." She smirks, then relaxes. "My pleasure? Well, it's funny you should mention your friend. That my name is being spoken by the winds interests me; I have so little in the way of eyes and ears over there, I'd be gratified by whatever you might be willing to tell. As it is, I ... had some questions about him, and ... wanted to talk to you about that. His business. My business with him." She glances down, a brief smile parting her lips in a moment of self-consciousness that's gone almost before it lived. "And some business with you myself, but I'd prefer to hold that till last. But you see, it's like this..."
     How many stories have begun like that? She glances up, eyes as blue as they have ever been, a springtime world waiting to be unlocked for her pleasure behind the glass of them. "I'm taking my kingdom and I intend to make of it all that it ought to be - the best that I can do, for it and for myself and for those who choose to join me in it." And woe betide anyone who tries to stop her. Though it might be a relaxed Fiona that sits before you, the capacity for passion can be turned to a fight if she believes in the cause. Joan of Arc... "I have my reasons, of course. But I asked Hwyll to be my seneschal. Therein lies my business with him. But - I suspect I need to strengthen my case."

     He does not register surprise but immediately scratches his chin and cocks up an eyebrow. "The wind taking one position. It is like ...asking the world not to spin." He flashes a smile that is both brilliant and savage, carnal and congenial. "But it is an interesting proposition. He is apparently taking it very seriously. It is... a difficult decision for him, for he holds the position of consort in the Queen of Oak's court. Seneschal may not be enough to sway him, simply based on position. I am sure that he would wish to serve with you and build something with you in your kingdom. He cares for you, and he cared for Isabel."
     Huw pauses, taking another swig of shiraz and another mouthful of grapes. His thumb and forefinger capture his lip and squeezes a moment in Thought. "What would you wish to know of your ...potential seneschal. I am a confidante of his, I can share within reason." And likely some of the information may have a pricetag.
     "Let's talk about what you would want your kingdom to be. Perhaps there is something there, in your thoughts and in your ideas, that might sweeten the pot for him..."

     "At the moment, I am most curious about this Oak Queen," Fiona admits. "I'd never heard of her until Hwyll mentioned her, at which point he also told me that apparently she'd tried to get with Davydd and was ditched in my favour, or - well, something." Again, the shrug. She isn't alarmed, she isn't threatened. The current circumstances have her and Davydd apart - but she is as confident as she ever was of their relationship. No, actually, she's more confident, and perhaps with more reason for it; and besides, now she travels with a spare.
     As for what she wants her kingdom to be - her expression goes momentarily blank, not with lack of ideas but with the effort of sorting through them, spinning them out and into words. "I want," Fiona says slowly, "what I've seen in the back of my mind. It's been a long time since I've even thought about it - but you know, dreams. They fade if they don't get brought into the flesh." She shrugs, then goes back to her mental filing and shuffling of papers and cards.
     "It should be a free port," she begins, folding her hands around the base of her wineglass, eyes now focused on watching light reflect off the facets of cut crystal. "I want to attract those who create and those who know - libraries and gardens with the whisper of pages and of voices, vineyards and arbors ripe with fruit. There should be a marketplace near the harbor, the mouth of the water, where ships can bring trade to and from and people can buy and sell. I remember a balcony overlooking the water, the light rippling as the sun set. I want it to be a strong kingdom, though - able to make alliances or trade agreements not out of fear of being conquered or brutalized but out of respect. It should be a birthplace - safe, secure, but fiercely defended."
     Her gaze lifts, not quite clearing at first. "I suppose I am greedy," Fiona says candidly. "But that is what I intend to achieve. If I have any say in the matter, that is what I shall achieve. I want a living, breathing Renaissance of my very own."

     "I do not suppose the Oak ...the Holly King," he amends that with a quirk of a smile, "has told you that part of his story. She was one of the three queens who ...made him what he is today. There was Isabel. But also there was Hafwen, the Oak Queen of the Summerlands, and Ragnell, the Enchantress Queen. For Isabel, Davydd was chosen to be a Protector, an ally. For Hafwen, a consort, the Oak King. For Ragnell, the return of Avalon to England and the end of Arthur's sleep. Hafwen's consort was stolen at Davydd's death from the mortal realms and she remained chaste, faithful, waiting for him to return to her."
     His look becomes pointed at you and the smile broadens. "She doesn't know the heart and mind of Man. She was constant. He was not, but could not be. It was an ...unreasonable desire of hers. She is jealous as any fairy queen. And, yes, she doesn't much like you at all, I don't imagine. But what should that matter..."
     He finishes his grapes and nurses the remainder of the wine. Soon it, too, is gone, and he is holding the glass forth for a refill. "I like this that you describe. And who better to bring the ships into your ports but the princes of the winds. How about this..." He holds up his finger. "You offer him a higher position. Instead of Seneschal, or...chamberlain... you make him Viceroy. More like Regent in your absence, and charge him with gaining the alliances of the brothers to your cause. A cut of the treasure that he brings to your lands..."
     Now he waits for you to speak to that offer...

     "There's a lot Davydd hasn't told me." Fiona says it in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. It's true - but it no longer bothers her as much as it used to. "There's a lot I don't tell him, too. We talk about the things that matter, but really, I haven't been very interested in hearing about the women who've come before me. Why should I compare myself to them? He's lived over eight hundred years. Either he's met someone like me before or he hasn't, but trying to set myself up as if he were an ordinary man is stupid. He's not an ordinary man, even if he /is/ still a man." Bite her tongue. But she smiles as she says it, fond with memory, keen with anticipation, and her shrug is easy and light.
     "Frankly, if she waited longer than six or so months to grieve and move on, that's on her head. Six years, even - well, I don't know. I just think waiting for someone to come back who can't or won't or both - you grieve, yes. Get pissed, throw things, rain fiery vengeance down on his or someone else's head - hell, I'd have gone to him and kicked him in the arse!" Fiona says it confidently, though there's the return of that whimsical grin. "Of course, whether or not the kick would land is something else. But I tried to break his nose before I ever was planning on marrying him. If something like what you described happened, I'd either have to let go - or remind him why you don't just trifle with my feelings. I don't let go very easily or very well, and I don't really intend to get into practice. As for her not liking me, well..."
     She leans over, setting down her glass and looking over the items on your table. "I'm trying to figure out if I should be worried about her not liking me, but really, that's her problem, not mine. I didn't even know she existed until Hwyll mentioned her - and now you've told me a little more, but it's still within what he mentioned, more or less. What sort of kingdom has she got, do you know?" Fiona glances up, then rises, moving to collect the bottle of shiraz, moving over to refill your glass calmly, competently. She may be a queen in waiting, but she has no airs about refilling a guest's glass. There are no false airs.
     "Viceroy is, really, what I'd hoped he'd do - and what I would give in return. I suppose I misunderstood what I meant, but you're correct, I should make that plain to him... I do value his counsel and his skills, and I would value his services." Fiona turns, still holding the bottle, looking to you with a hand alight still to the side of your glass. "I have an image in my mind, but I may be ... uncharitable to this Oak Queen. May I speak of it, and you tell me if it is something I should not present to him?"

     "Her kingdom is of fair size, meadows of flowers, bees with thick legs of pollen. It is not one I frequent, it is out of my season, but I hear she has fabulous parties. Summer is about revelry, as much as Winter is in its own way. It is a ...fertile frenzy, the quickening blood and bel-fires. But then," his smile lazes, "...you have known an Oak King. Think it is the same...only in the feminine..."
     He looks at you as you pour him another glass. There is nothing a Satyr likes better than to have his cup filled. To the brim. Huw smiles. "Viceroy is ...of more appropriate station for the Prince of the West Wind. A regent holds more weight than a consort. And if you were to give him a percentage, a tribute, of the proceeds he brings to your port..." He pauses there, eyebrows quirking upward.
     "Of course, you called me here in audience. Say what's on your mind. Besides," the grin winds, "...it's not as if you can offend me..."

     "Two." Fiona returns to her seat, curling up and lifting her chin, expression contemplative rather than combative. It is a time not of rest, but of activity - but the activity is all turned to planning... "I would not want to give Hwyll less than his due, and I intend to be generous to those who serve me well." She says it without self-consciousness; it is, and it is true.
     "I trust that I have your confidence in what I tell you? I trust you, Huw, and I trust Hwyll, though I trust you in ... different ways, in some ways. There's overlap, but I wouldn't ask you to do what I'd ask him, and vice versa. But I do trust you - there's a lot of trust in this discussion," Fiona snorts quietly at her own choices of words, amused at herself, "and there are things going on which ... well, I'd like to tell someone who won't tell anyone else. And my only girl friends are, unfortunately, not cleared to know this."
     Dot only has a security clearance rating three...
     There's a moment as she picks up her own glass, smiling as she sips the shiraz. She isn't hungry; she isn't even thirsty, really. It's a time where she is comfortable in her own skin, and marveling at it, rare as it is, rare as it's been. But this - becoming - this transformation to queen, this caring for a kingdom, it brings out a different side of her, a different skin she wears, comfortably at least in this discussion, without tension. "This part is less than secret. It is an opinion, based on what you tell me of this Oak Queen's kingdom, and it is something I could say to Hwyll, along with my offer, but it mightn't be politic. And that is that to be consort to this Queen is a limiting thing. She is a woman who would wait eight hundred years on one man, blind to other opportunities, blind to her own loss. Her kingdom might be gay and frolicsome, but its potential is limited, because she can't see it - unless he takes an active hand in running it, not with her but for her, in her bed and confined to that bed, it will remain as it is, perhaps growing and perhaps dwindling, but remaining ... something less than what it could be. But I might be too harsh."
     Fiona looks over to you again, taking you in, looking you up and down with a tilt to her head. "I might be too harsh," she repeats. "I'm not confined to one season, am I? I am as I am. And ... I think that what I envision, I can do, and I will. As I will."

     "You have my confidence," he replies evenly and easily. "In fact, you've always had it," he suddenly smiles. "You're just only beginning to realize it and to use it. It's the least I can do, right? After turning you into a pebble and carrying you in my mouth to the fairylands..."
     Huw quietly measures you as he listens to you and sips his wine. "That is an interesting argument. It's one I tend to agree with. While it is a position, it is usually a position...under someone, both figuratively and literally. Now, some do not mind lives of luxury in a queen's bed and taking whatever role in court, if any, she decides to bestow. As for what Hafwen has offered Hwyll, I do not know. I do know that he has had some emotion for her majesty. She was a challenge... the Unattainable...for so long. And Hwyll's not the type to complain about being chained to a bed typically," a wry smile eases out. "But still... it is beneath his station for him to merely be an ornament. Though perhaps not beneath his function." Dark eyes glitter in a wretched wink.
     "I wouldn't judge her too much without knowing her. I do not know what her plans are or if she has them. That's the queen's purview. However," he holds up a finger, "...you should make your more detailed offer to Hwyll and gauge his reaction. You will be able to tell what she has, or has not, done or offered by his reaction. Be sure to watch his mouth," he mentions quietly in aside, "The corners of his mouth will twitch when you've got him interested. If his smile is buttery, he's not convinced. If he grins to excess, he's up to something, possible a counter offer."
     Setting the glass aside, Huw peers at the banquet spread. Soon, a honeyed pear appears in his hand. He's a strict vegetarian. "It may be that frolicsome is all she desires. That was never your way. It doesn't truly matter what her vision is, or if she has any at all. It only matters insofar as you are trying to woo a man away from her. Ply him with gifts... position, power, riches... appeal to his vanity, as much as his sense of honor..."

     "I've never been able to do anything the easy way. I don't play without drawing blood, and I don't want to be played with without being given the same respect." Fiona doesn't argue; it's true, and she can only expand on it. What she does, she does all the way or not at all. If she can't give herself over to it, how much is it worth her time, her being, her essence? "Very well; I'll make my offer first, expanded in his vision, and see how he reacts. I'm debating whether I ought to call him back before his time of contemplation is up or not; I feel, in a sense, that I have wronged him by not offering him what I intend in the first place. My mistake, after all, and one that I should correct."
     Even among thieves, there is some honour...
     "I do not think that she - this Hafwen - will ever like me. I have taken too much from her, by her lights, and when the truth comes out, I will have taken even more - and if I succeed, as I intend, in winning Hwyll away from her as well, she may very well wish to kill me." Fiona can say it without fear. A wish is not a deed. And of all of these things, only one has been done in any regard knowingly - and at that, begun before knowledge was granted. "Which means, under the circumstances, that I must bring up now what I'd intended to bring up last. This should be strangely amusing." The corners of her mouth tug, and she turns towards you, standing as she does so, looking at you in your otherworldly shape, with your otherworldly masculine appetites.
     "Not to crib from the greats," Fiona begins, "but how would it be if I were to try to make you an offer you can't refuse?"

     Huw bites into the pear, his head tilting as he looks at you. His expression, if it may be called anything, may be said to seem intriguingly perplexed. "What purpose would you have for one such as me?" he wonders aloud more than asks you directly. "I am one of the wild things, unaffiliated to all but the preservation of Order against the swelling mass of Chaos. How would having me improve things for you, how do you see it, Fiona?"
     It is not that he doubts his worth and more for his own morbid sense of curiosity. It is a curious look, indeed, that he gives you as he makes short work of that pear. His teeth are not like a man's. They are wild, belonging to a wild creature. He tosses the core to the side and folds his arms against his chest, smiling.
     "I have got to hear this one. This from the woman who threatened to castrate me..."

     "Wildness doesn't bother me the way it bothers some people. I see no reason for it to start now. Do you?" Fiona meets your gaze directly, expression open and just a bit challenging; and then she smiles. It isn't calculated, there is no intention to measure you in that look - she already believes she knows you, knows your worth, and it being already out of the way, why waste time? "This is not about politics in the way that my wanting Hwyll is. He is a political creature, moreso than I have been."
     "You're right," she continues, "you are wild - but you are also strong... and capable... and competent... People know you, people have relied upon you - not just to save me, not just to defend that border, I'll wager. And when you decide to do a job, you don't do it half-arsed. I've seen you play, I've seen you run... I haven't seen you fight, but I don't need to."
     She turns away, paces, feet padding quietly against the bare floorboards, braids swaying and wobbling against her spine like serpents on Aesclepius' staff. "I had been thinking of asking you to be captain of the guard - but in light of what you've been saying, in light of what I hope to achieve, I think that is thinking too small. I'm saying this not just because of Hwyll's titles and ego, but also with your own competence in mind - and with certain other considerations in mind as well." Fiona glances over her shoulder, one cornsilk eyebrow arching upwards in a perfect mirror of her own self-directed amusement. "I think that perhaps a more apt title that I would bestow upon you, if you were inclined, would be 'general'. I might need one - and age and experience should be granted their due, particularly by the infants doing the granting. Would you be interested?"

     "If you are going to continue with kingdom building," he grins, "...and buccaneering, you will likely need a general." There's a bit of teasing at that. "I'm not one for titles," he notes more seriously. "I'm more interested in what needs to be done and what the greater good or aim of it is and if it serves the Greater Good. You are right, I spend a lot of time on the frontiers, the unformed terrain that belongs to None but the Creator. I am a tireless campaigner. Do you foresee this being a problem for your personal vision. What," his arms unfold from against his chest and instead go behind his head, his fingers interlacing, "... do you expect your general to do for you? Is it a matter of setting up protections on the borders, to go hand-in-hand perhaps with the treaties your Viceroy will no doubt work to establish?"
     He pauses. "It is no doubt that you are making your own enemies, and have likely inherited some of Isabel's as well. I can see a use for it, but let's talk about your philosophy first..."

     "I'm not interested in conquering and laying waste to my neighbors. If they come to me for protection and choose to swear to me, that is different - but I can't offer that unless I'm in a position to carry through in the first place, and the center must be stable. War may come." Fiona has spoken of that before, and been misunderstood - perhaps misunderstood, herself. But she speaks carefully now, turning her head while looking over at you, speaking openly. "And if they fight me and will not be swayed, then I may not surrender. I will win. I would prefer to set things up so that any enemies will be ill-inclined to strike in the first place."
     She balances on her toes, feet together, leaning up and then settling back down, standing still once again. "The borders will need to be protected. The treaties will need to be upheld," Fiona agrees to these, "and the Greater Good still be served. No doubt some enemies will try to create a conflict between your duties, if you are my general. But I believe that your reputation is strong enough to draw not only powerful allies, but also powerful supporters, Huw. You and Hwyll both know who and what I am... that I am more than Isabel's descendant. A few others know also, but I don't think many even of them know that this is more than just an inheritance. This is intended."
     She speaks with the faith of a martyr, the light of her belief burnished in the blue of her eyes. It is not glory that she seeks to create - well, not a glory of war...
     "There are always those who will seek to destroy rather than create. I see pieces coming together. I am not the architect, but I will serve this intention. Destiny, Fate, Immaculate Plan, whatever you want to call it - what I build on one side, it will be echoed on the other. Look at me," Fiona insists, turning to face you, folding her arms over her chest loosely. "You know the realms, over there. This isn't a pebble being dropped into a pond. I won't be the center of all of the Chaos and Dark Things that you fight. But at least some of them? You won't have to go looking - they'll come to you, if you're there, because Darkness will try to extinguish any new light. That is what I believe. This is my philosophy, then - to build this new Jerusalem, this new Mecca, this new Babylon, this new Rome, and to make sure that its art, its passion, its splendors, its brilliance can be seen where I am... here and there alike."

     "That is the way of a Queen. You are, and how you Are, affects the world around you. The Greeks called it: As above, so below. It is the same between the visible, material world and the worlds beyond it. The Queen is her land and her vision. And it is also true that you get from the universe what you put into it. You have a glorious vision. It is very ambitious. I applaud that." He looks at you.
     This woman is a far cry from the slip of the girl I once stole from the hands of Darkness...
     Huw rises to his full height and then he bows with a flourish. "My name is Grappa Dionysus. I descend from the great satyrs of legend. I am one of the last of my kind. What few remain are now trapped in the Regions of Sorrow, Fear and Darkness. The rest were slain many centuries ago. I have served those on the Marches, from Fair Folk to angels to ...Others. Kings, Queens from Isabel to Minos to Arthur. I gave myself to the preservation of Light before Rome conquered the known world. And now... we put ourselves in one another's trust. To make this kingdom of Light in a dark world. Your majesty, I agree to be your general as I have from the beginning been your friend."
     The formal agreement given, the one you have known as Huw smiles. "You can still call me Huw. It is the name I chose when I entered the kingdoms of the fair folk. It is the name of the god of the sun." He peers a moment. "I think. I get them confused..."

     So much has changed in the time since things went balls-up in a club at night and led to the flight of pebbled birds. Fiona is still Drancy in some ways, but there is none of that scattered insecurity right now. She has a plan, she has a vision, and she has all the motivation that she could ever need. If it is to war she must go, so be it; but she seeks to Build.
     "If it lies within my power to assist you, then, as Grappa Dionysus, to help rescue those trapped in other Regions, I will." It is said unflinchingly; and while it's true that she doesn't know the depth of what she offers, it's doubtful that the knowledge would change her offer. Then she smiles as well, a slight relaxation in her shoulders; ah, there is a hint of that girl, in the release of tension. Not rejected...
     "I don't know one god's name from another," Fiona admits, moving with sudden speed to scoop up the wine bottle and refill glasses again. "I tried to learn and I kept getting them confused, and the last time I tried to give you a call as a result I ended up dialing a wrong number. Had a centaur, a dragon, a raven, a mermaid and an angel all in my living room and I think I was the most confused of all of them... here. Drink this, and now I'll explain why I think Hafwen is going to want to kill me."

     His eyes widen a little. "A dragon, raven, mermaid and a centaur?" He grins at that. "And an angel. I know a few. Did you have to be scraped off the floor? I would have," he harumps softly as he sits. "Centaurs can be ... rather single-minded...I think that's the word for it. You appear to have made it unscathed."
     Huw gladly takes the wine and another cluster of grapes appears in his hand. "I will begin assembling a force for you. I have many allies, good friends, able commanders. You will need a captain, a personal guard, a palace guard. I know one who I would trust with you and your care. I will have him meet with you... in your kingdom if you can manage it. It is difficult for him to travel here...at your leisure, your majesty..."
     He smiles when he says it, and he begins plucking the grapes and popping them in his mouth. He even pops one into his wine. "So... why do you think Hafwen is going to want to kill you. Apart from wooing away the Prince of the Winds...have you not given her reason enough?" Eyebrows quirk upward.

     "Nothing dented but my pride, though I almost soiled my underwear. I still remember it far too clearly for my own good, though," Fiona grins as she slides the wine across to you, then lifts her own glass to her lips. Her smile curves around the rim, then parts for a swallow. Now, then, the hard part's out of the way...
     "The Name of Aspiration," she quotes, the tinkling of bells in her hair, "Sentinel of Dreams and Aspirations, Cherubim of the Order of Dreams. No idea what all of it meant, but ... well, he wasn't amused, and then he was amused, offered for me to get something out of the audience, but really, what do you ask of an angel? So I apologized and said goodbye. In no hurry to call again, so to speak." She can think of it now without that absolute gut-clenching horror and shame, now. She's grown since then...
     Bared feet are quiet, floorboards giving minute creaks and groans as she passes over them. Movement's helped her to think more than once in the past, and she's pulling a handful of scattered threads of thought and memory together, without the help of Odin's ravens. "I think that I will be able to manage to go there," Fiona says without looking up from the surface of her glass, the reflections in it. "I'll need to settle some business here, but then I will travel to my kingdom. I can feel its pull from here, though it is a gentle thread, tied around a finger and not my waist. Or my neck. I'll then meet with whomever you choose, and I will - alter aspects of my kingdom, prepare it for my vision. I will walk the borders, I think, and learn what I can."
     She turns back towards you, moving to the table and setting her glass down with a deliberation that is not accidental, not self-conscious. "The Oak Queen has lost more to me than she knows, and will have lost more. I believe that with your advice, I will be able to tempt Hwyll to transfer his allegiance to me," Fiona begins, one hand sketching a brief motion in front of her and then coming up to touch a knuckle to her lips. "Davydd... has his own purpose right now. We have opted for a long betrothal. In a hundred years, roughly, the time will come - we will marry then. Until then, he has his own work, and there will be no other women in his heart."
     No doubt Hafwen thought something like this as well? But no, she's continuing. She has more to say. "There may be other women in his bed," Fiona shrugs, "but he has assured me that his heart and his spirit rest with me, and that I am the end of that era. We will see each other from time to time, to claim our due of each other - but he has bid me to take what I wish of life. To marry if I choose, with all that might follow - to grow where and when and what I will. And he has given me what I demanded, my tribute as his queen; all the hair combs of all the women that lie in his long, lengthy past, lifted and plucked and taken on the winding Grey Road. He is mine, at least as much as I am his."
     There's a sudden hint of blazing Summer in her smile. Woman can glory in victory as much as any man, if she is suitably minded. "I did not know of Hafwen when I won him," Fiona says, factually. "I did not need to know. It is cleaner this way, that I didn't know. But there is more, you see. Davydd, yes, and Hwyll, perhaps, but..." Ah, this next bit is the tricky part.
     Trifling fingers rifle through her hair, feeling the shape of crystalline beads, pulling through and letting strands fall where they may. "I will be marrying, as my king has given me leave to do. He does not yet know this, and I have not yet answered my suitor yes, though I have told him it is not a no. He is confident of his success, and he knows I love him. He has as much of my heart as Davydd lays claim to," Fiona begins, sitting on the edge of the table and leaning forward towards you. She takes up her wine, she sips it, she sets it aside again. "He laid suit to me three times; I denied him, but he won me anyway. He has asked me to wed him three times; I cannot still refuse him, and he knows it. You may know of him. His name is Rhodri ap Davydd, prince of two worlds, thief between, and heir to Avalon. I have tasted Summer before; I can't be so blind as to fail to recognise it again. And he, too, is mine..."

     There is a long period of silence, and of direct looks. No grape popping, wine sipping or syllable-lilting words. "I think you will need a general after all," he says quietly, smile tracing over his features. He peers at you as if to say: how have you managed all of this? "I will raise a glorious army for a glorious kingdom." He pauses to grin. "With all due speed..."
     His eyes widen a touch and he chuckles. "From a virgin I chased and lost to a woman, a queen, with not one but two kings. You have... Become since last we met. And you didn't need any lessons but your own experience. Are you proud of yourself? You should be. If I may continue to speak plainly, as I am now in your service."
     This is how empires are made, he thinks. Huw begins to rise. "I thank you for your words on those of my kind. Should any survive in the Darkness where they have sought refuge, then perhaps they shall have their long due restoration. I will go to your kingdom and begin to settle borders there, if there are any ... issues, I will have them sorted out for your arrival. I do not think you will have difficulties with Hwyll. Tell him I have pledged my hands for your labor. Give him conciliation's, stroke his ego. I think you will find the Prince, though political, will give you more of his ear. You would do well to have his voice as Viceroy. His charm sounds as if it shall be needed as much as my strength."

     "I thought that a general might be needed," Fiona agrees, though her lips part in a smile and a laugh she can't entirely contain. She is flush with victory; she glows with it. Praise from you, it appears, is high praise indeed. "Though I can't claim very much credit in this matter. I ... did nothing, you know. I was just Myself. The rest - followed." As night does day. As spring after winter, summer after spring, autumn after summer...
     "I will see you in my kingdom," Fiona promises, watching you rise without halting you. She has told you everything. Or, at least, everything she recalls to tell you for now. "And I will speak with Hwyll again. I will apologize to him for not offering him his due. And I will tell him, as you say. I trust in you more than I do in myself, for you can be where I, for now, cannot. Your people will have safe haven in my lands for as long as they wish it and they abide by the respect of my lands. Knowing you," her lips quirk faintly in another smile, "I imagine that the respect will be given ... even if not where it is immediately seen. Until then, General?"

     He bows his great horned head, the tall creature you once courted for your own. But he is no rightful suitor for a Queen. You have him in the office that suits him best. "Until then, My Queen. Ah, and...dinner's on me..."
     With a hearty laugh, he disappears in a swirl of leaves, red and gold and brown. And the banquet he called up becomes a dinner for two as if called up from Pashmina's below you. Curry and naan. Just as he remembers.
     Gone are the rugs and the carpets, gone are the drinks and the grapes. But there lingers a trace of him yet in a golden leaf he left behind...

     Lips twitch faintly, the sight of the food serving to amuse her. And then she remembers herself; she has no reason to be silent. There is noone watching, noone marking things down to use them against her - and even if there were, so what? Fiona laughs, the sound low and excited and pleased. She bends, taking up the leaf carefully, and she moves to the great covered glass bowl with the apples of Avalon on display. Nudging up one edge, she slides the stem of the leaf beneath and allows the weight of that bowl to hold it in place. And then she turns back to the food for two on display.
     Well. No sense in letting it go to waste. And no time like the present in which to recall a Prince, to make apologies and present a reframed offer...

     She could change her clothing, make herself look different from how she looked for Huw, although it seems almost unnecessary. But she thinks on it a moment, and then, with a nod, there is Magic brought into play. After all, her aim is to flatter, and it is flattering for a woman to dress herself up for a man - even if the aim is to persuade and not to seduce.
     And isn't every act of persuasion a seduction halted at an earlier stage? Jeans and t-shirt give way before the weight and press of magic, going from ordinary to extraordinary, grey and black and blue becoming gold and purple and green. Twelve steps and she's in her bedroom, selecting a pair of jeweled combs from a box upon her dresser, glancing in the mirror as she twists her hair up with practiced ease, humming under her breath as she slides the tines in, just so, teeth clamping silk tresses. A ring upon a finger, a delicate chain around her delicate throat, gems at her ears - stateliness walks out of the bedroom again, to go into the kitchen, disposing of a dead bottle of wine and dirtied glasses and selecting new glasses, new wine for the table.
     Standing next to the table that Huw had summoned, Fiona rests one hand on the bottle, and she speaks aloud. "Hwyll, Prince of the Air, I call you to me that we might speak again. Come to me, and I will explain myself upon your arrival." Her eyes are intent upon the air in front of her, darkened slightly from before - blue, but with traces of grey, darkened silver as she considers what she must do, and what she desires.

     Before, you lit candles. You chanted to the air. You held onto charms and you spoke secret words, or demanded with song lyrics. But now you move with intent, and moving with intent you move far more successfully. Is it any wonder that now the universe seems to unfold like a flower at your feet?
     With a windy flourish, the Prince of Winds arrives, dressed in all his finery -- in silvers and blues and whites, his hair unbound but for the intermittent braiding by what must have been fine and slender fairy hands. Yes, he has maidens to attend to nothing but his hair.
     When the winds die down, Hwyll is standing before you with a slight smile on his features. "Counting by my moons, I am only on day two. But I like a woman who knows what she wants and doesn't want to be kept waiting. Is that...?" Hwyll gestures to the bottle. It has the look of white wine. It could be flower wine. Or better yet, honeywine. Which is, in fact, the answer to his dangling question.

     "Apple blossom honeywine, o breezy Prince," Fiona answers, with an answering slight smile of her own. "I apologize for rushing you, but I have been active... and is it truly such a surprise to you that I might wish to see you more, rather than less? Here; sit, make yourself at ease. There is food, and there will be wine, yes, and there will be conversation, but first..."
     She takes up the corkscrew and plunges the curving tip into the cork, past the foil seal while looking at you, giving it a few decisive twists. "I have not summoned you here to demand answers of you impetuously, like a nervous or frightened little girl. Rather, I have summoned you here for a different, although related purpose. Here, allow me."
     With a sighing, hollow pop, the bottle surrenders its cork, and Fiona lowers her eyes to tend to the pouring. There is colour in her cheeks; she is still flushed from previous conversations and thoughts, and they have stayed with her most visibly in that dusting of pink just below the surface of her skin. She is generous with her wine, and the glasses are three-quarters filled; one is left aside, and the other she lifts gently in both hands, bringing it over to you. "I hope that you will approve," she remarks. "Taste it. You are my guest, and I have summoned you here at undue haste. Allow me to make reparations."

     The smile is beautiful, as if it could be anything else, as he measures you, your offering and the bottle in your hand. "Apple blossom honeywine," he repeats as you proffer it to him. "I would be a poor prince if I did anything other than admire such a vision bearing such a cup. Of course, you may speak at your leisure," his hands take the cup from yours. "I am here," he smiles, "...and now I have treats. If you're not careful, I may stay all night..."
     Cup in hand, Hwyll turns, taking a seat upon a large, ornate cushion as it materializes right beneath his rump. He takes the opportunity to taste the wine, to give it the reverence it deserves, and he closes his eyes with a look of sublime and exquisite delight. And you're not the first to see that look.
     Unlike the other men you have served apples, he doesn't leap upon you. Rather, he settles back for a long and pleasant conversation. "You have grown more subtle and more lovely than I could have imagined. Now, you look like a Queen, and not because of the dress or the combs. The combs are exquisite by the way."

     It probably helps that this wine wasn't made from 'her' apples...
     Having seen what they do, she is more careful with them, of them. But she smiles at your pleasure nonetheless. "Thank you. They were a gift from Davydd - a betrothal gift, part of his promise to me for the next while, one of the set of those that he gained upon the Grey Road during those years of his wandering ways." Fiona doesn't sit right away. Instead, she portions out the naan and the curry onto plates, careful and meticulous in her motions. A plate is prepared, and then set delicately in front of you, and then she returns to her own seat, takes up her own wine.
     "I have just finished speaking with another who I hoped to tempt to my service, you see," Fiona murmurs, "and in speaking, it occurred to me that I had things to say to you which should not be held back." She lifts her gaze from the surface of the pale golden wine to look at you, expression meditative for a moment, and then she shrugs as if impatient with herself. "I hope you will hear me out a little while, because I do feel this to be important. Here, I'll begin, and then you can react - I may have grown subtle, but I don't think that I can be as subtle with you in this as perhaps you'd like."
     A sip of wine gone, the glass set aside, and she leans forward with her hands together in her lap, attention focused on you - you, and only you, and she is in earnest. "I owe you an apology, Hwyll; when we spoke last, I wronged you. I didn't realize it at the time, it took someone else's words to put things into context, for me to realize my mistake, but having made that mistake, having come to this conclusion, I couldn't wait until you'd finished your contemplation of my offer to pull you back. The insult I gave you wasn't intentional, and I hope you know that, but nonetheless, it was my mistake, and I bear the responsibility of fixing it. It is a point of honour with me, but more than honour, it is a point of friendship. I should not rest until this is addressed."
     Are you confused yet? She isn't giving you much time to be. She stands, one shoulder shrugged restlessly, and she moves towards where you sit, halting next to your chair, looking at you steadily still. "You are, after all, a prince - and I can only cry inexperience, and a vagueness of thinking when I spoke with you. Offering you a position as chamberlain was not, in truth, what I had intended for your scope, your experience, your ability; it was and is too narrow, too confined, and ultimately, too insulting for someone who has a realm of his own; with your importance. I retract it, because I have reconsidered. There is a role I would see you in, but I can only beg your patience and ask if you will hear of it, after all this."

     The smile comes easily and it is as relaxed in timbre as he seems to be by the position of his body on the floor cushion. He recognizes Pashmina's; he recalls when he stayed here a fortnight. How different you've become. And you have realized your own faux pas!
     He could almost weep with pride!
     He takes a little of the naan and another swallow of the wine, and he tips his head back to study you for a moment. "I will hear you, Fiona. I did not take offense at it. I just couldn't give you the answer you wished. So, please," he smiles broadly and dips the naan in the wine and eats it, surprised at how well that works he does it again. "Tell me of your idea and desires..."
     Now the naan is dipped into the curry, chased down by the honeyed wine. It works remarkably well together.

     "I am glad that you are not offended," Fiona says courteously. She turns from your chair, again returning to her own. How long will she remain in it this time? She is still a creature of restless and changing moods, that much is plain. But then, for that to change would be for her to be something other than who and what she is. "Thank you for your forbearance."
     She sits, she ignores her food though not her wine; the glass is lifted, turned, she watches the liquid spin against the crystal interior. "What I had in mind for you holds another title, and other rewards. Hwyll ... I am not entirely good at being this formal. I can do it for a time, and then I grow impatient with it and it all comes out at once. You know this; you have experienced it coming out and down in your head in a heap. But then, you've opened my closets as well, haven't you?" One eyebrow cocks up, wry-humored at the recollection of your time spent here before.
     Fiona grows silent. She closes her eyes, she sets aside her wine, taking a deep breath and then letting it out, calming herself and finding the words. "For the duties I described - for the kingdom I intend to build, I'll start with that. A free port, drawing the creators of the worlds, artists, artisans, musicians, writers, chefs - those who, as I said once, create and those who know. Voices and paper should whisper, rustle with the secrets that brim at lips and eyes and at the tips of pens, the light glistening on the water, orchards ripe with as much fruit as boughs can bear, vineyards growing to please their tenders, the soft lowing of livestock at the outskirts and the whirl of pageantry at the center. The marketplace by the water will have goods borne to and from it in trade all over, and my kingdom will be strong enough that its alliances and agreements will be brought forth out of respect. Fear should have no foothold there. It is to be a womb and then a cradle and then a nest, for brilliant dreams to come to fruition, echoing from there to here. It is to be a new Byzantium, my heart..."
     Eyelashes flicker as she reopens her eyes, and she turns her head to look not at you but past you, as if still seeing the images against her irises. "There will always be some open fields and some woodlands," Fiona murmurs, "but my kingdom will not remain lonely for long. And I need you, Hwyll, to accomplish this. But not as chamberlain; that was a foolish thought, ill-conceived. If you will help me," she shifts, looking at you again, "if you will serve this vision, this purpose, I will name you my Viceroy. Fully ten percent of all wealth you bring to my kingdom will go to you. The fuller my coffers, the richer grow your own. You will have the running of my court and kingdom in my absences, and I will listen to your counsel in my presence. And, of course," the corners of her mouth tug a bit, "you will have help from my General, I am sure, should you desire it..."
     Her hand finds her glass, and it's lifted again, in a sketched salute. "Do I tempt you, Prince Hwyll? Shall you accept and I trust you with my secrets as well? Or must you pause to consider? You will need not be chaste, as with my previous offer. I have no need of your sexuality, and I leave that to your own keeping. So..."

     "I did go through a drawer or two," he murmurs at the brim of the glass as he smiles, as he drinks, and he waggles his eyebrows. "But, really, it was Huw who did the real rummaging. I mostly watched tv... and cleaned your house..." Startling eyes sparkle in a wink and he sits back.
     And he mulls over your proposal as he does the drink. He, too, looks into his glass. He sees in the golden liquid there the reflection of a golden kingdom, like Byzantium only not as hot and humid (hopefully).
     "Viceroy... ten percent of the wealth..." he repeats, his head tipping back to make his calculations. And then he smiles. "Who better to bring the ships to your port but the Prince of the Winds? And to do this... I will speak with my brothers, so that your ports may never know an empty season. And my pockets will never want of coins."
     Hwyll raises his glass to you and he rises. "Your Viceroy accepts, with pleasure, My Queen." He grins, "And friend... it is good that I do not have to tell you know. I have been fretting in seclusion. How could I tell you 'No', when I promised that I would aid you. But I could not say 'Yes' before. I gladly come, to be your regent, to be your voice and your law when you are away, to bring favorable winds to your pleasure and glory."
     He drinks to this, he drinks long and he drains the glass. "I have the most wonderfully learned harem. They shall teach on beauty and grace, and fill the halls of your palace with music. Yes, I can see it now. Music, art, language, philosophy, silk, banquets, an example to the world of what it yet may be. All of the ...airy pursuits and dreams," he grins, "...and to this I heartily approve. When do we start?"

     "I would have you start your part at your earliest convenience." Fiona's smile blossoms into being; it grows. It is triumph upon triumph, and she glories in it, as how could she not? She is, after all, a woman who has just stolen a man out from another woman's nose. All's fair in love, war and politics. "For my own part, I will have some things to do here, and then I will join you and the General; my worlds must be managed carefully, so that an absence in one will not cause an outcry in another."
     She drinks, though does not drain the glass. She does not need wine to feel giddy, exhilarated and flushed with success rather than liqueur. "I am glad that you have accepted, Hwyll. Huw has pledged himself to me as well - he is the general of whom I spoke. He has gone to settle my borders and raise my army, selecting guards for my care, for my palace - all such matters as I have left in his hands. And now that you have pledged to me, I will share with you a secret - one which you know, one which Huw knows, one which only one other person in either place knows beyond myself."
     Fiona's smile remains, though grows quieter now, one hand stealing up to stroke a fingertip along the chain around her neck, winding it around that fingertip. "Davydd is upon his crusade. I do not know what his work entails, but we will not be wed more than we already are for the next hundred years. He tells me that there will be no other queens for him; I am the queen who holds his heart and his spirit. We will see each other, at times, but we cannot be together in earnest while he walks the earth in this work. However, he does not bid me to chastity."
     "Rather," she continues, curling herself up in her chair as if it were a particularly comfortable throne, "he wishes me to wed, and have in this time all that I might desire to experience, which he cannot grant me now. These haircombs are the token I have demanded of him, which he has given willingly. And there is another thing, beyond my Holly King, once Oak King. I have been found by the man which I will wed; I have been courted, and I have been won, though I have not yet told him I will marry him. He does not need to be told; he knows it already. Three times he came to me, and was refused, and then won me nonetheless; three times has he courted me, sought my hand, and received a no, and he knows that my no now will be yes. And this is important, Hwyll, because this is as yet still held secret from both worlds. The identity of my suitor will surprise you."
     She draws it out, teasing, watching you, watching your smile, your eyes, seeing how you react. And she rises to her feet, taking up the bottle and refilling your glass as a proper hostess must, remaining there by your side to look upon you with that almost smug little smile still in place, silver cleared from her eyes to restore them to blue.
     "Rhodri ap Davydd," Fiona says quietly, "has asked me to marry him. I could not refuse him, but until I could be certain that everything will be smoothly in place for my kingdom to grow to what I do will it to be, neither could I say yes. Do you think that my kingdom will be an adequate bride-gift for my two kings, Prince Hwyll?"

     Two kings...
     Two kings?
     Hwyll reacts with a surprised gape, hands on the hip, the what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about-how-come-I-didn't-know-this-already sort of look. "Two kings... two, as in the ...Holly King and...who was that other you mentioned?" No, he heard you. "Rhodri ap Davydd ap Owain, the son. And the father." Well, how do you fancy that?
     Apparently, you fancy it a lot...
     Hwyll smiles, "I see I will have my work cut out for me. Your secret, My Queen, is safe with me. Besides, it is best to let such things be known when they can be of the best purpose, use and profit." The smile smoothens. "It is all a matter of timing. I will outline some... thoughts for you...and I shall not speak with the... soon to be very upset with you Oak Queen about my... change of plans. I am still in a rather... delicate situation with her." He's been occupying her bed. "I would prefer that the announcement of your betrothal...betrothals come from your Viceroy's mouth, and of course I shall let that be the announcement of ...How Things Are and Will Be."
     He takes up his plate, "We should discuss what type of court hierarchy or... arrangement you would like your court to take. Queen, Viceroy...I will need my own servants and officers... I have a court that I will simply bring to yours, my brothers have theirs that, if I may gain their favor and fealty, I will have additional members. Of course, I have fabulous ladies-in-waiting...well..." He laughs brightly. "They don't wait much, but some of them are patient. But...have you given it any thought, have any preferences?"

     "The son and the father," Fiona confirms, smile widening a notch for just a moment. She didn't try for it; it just happened. But for once, she can enjoy what's - just happened, and go with it. Maybe that's been the secret all along...
     "I haven't said yes to Rhodri yet, anyway," she murmurs, settling the bottle down and picking up her glass. "So no announcements are yet in order. Considering the - likely results from certain quarters, I want my kingdom to be secure before battle lines are drawn. I leave it to you to decide when things ought to be announced - for now, I intend to give Rhodri my answer and perhaps tell my parents. Eventually, I'll also tell Davydd, of course - really, it'd be good if he hears about it on this side, and not after it's announced formally as a court matter." That, she suspects, would not go over well at all. If there's going to be any yelling and screaming, better it be gotten out of the way first.
     Now she draws her own plate in front of her, picking up her fork and taking a hungry bite of curry. "At present, I have no real preferences, Hwyll, save that I not be wrapped in cotton wool or kept from knowing what's going on. I will be busy and unable to tend to every detail even when in attendance, but I do not need cosseting much. What is needed for form's sake, fine - but I am wary of being kept from things by pomp and circumstance. If you have recommendations, I am only too happy to hear them."

     "While I like big, active and flourishing courts, I do not like to have too many court bureaucrats or officials. I would prefer, at least in the beginning, to limit it to... you, naturally, the Queen, myself as Viceroy, Huw..." his eyes widen, "...unbelievably...as general, a chamberlain for your personal matters and a captain of a house guard, which Huw," a nod to you for your information, "...is already working to fill. As the court grows, we will no doubt have to have ministers of other posts, which will also be a way to draw and bestow favors, court alliances, et cetera. Minister of music, and so on. These can be added over time once the core court is established. And you will be apprised of all, My Queen," Hwyll replies easily with the slant of a smile. "You will receive messages and reports and gossip, I'm sure..."
     His eyes widen to the notion of you telling Davydd and he then rolls them, "Better you than me, I thank you. I don't even want to be a fly on the wall or ..." he winks, "...the knob of the door!" He eats more of the curry, swallowing your news as much as the food. "I will wait for your word before anything is said. You, myself and Huw should meet when the first phase of preparations are done. For now, we will meet here... if I think we are attracting too much ... notice, I may suggest another venue..."

     "Very well." Fiona is willing to acquiesce; it is simple, she likes keeping it simple for now. She eats calmly, savoring the spices and giving thought to what you say. "I leave it to you to find a chamberlain and we will allow things to grow naturally, as they have been planted. I will be busy taking care of my business here - I will of course be open to reports and to meet, and if another venue proves desirable we will take one up. Once my business has been settled, I will meet you and Huw in my kingdom and begin working on ... things ... there for a time. I cannot stay away from here for long, of course."
     She leans back in her chair, fingers curling closed against her palm in her lap and then lifted to under her chin. "We'll see how Davydd reacts." She doesn't know. It occurs to her to worry, but right now, she doesn't worry. It is in the future, still, and things must unfold. "Send word to me of how the preparations go, and when they are done, we will meet. Once you leave, I have somewhere to go..."

     "I will speak with Huw when I return. It will not raise suspicions, he and I are very old friends. There will be nothing new with me flying around to annoy him." He finishes the last of the naan and the last of his refilled cup.
     "But, with the Oak Queen, we should tread very carefully. You are going to be making her .... fabulously angry. I hope that I may be able to bridge the gap for you. For she does care for me. And I for her. It may be something I can repair short of war. But, we will see. My exploits in her bower may not be enough to soothe the anger of losing so many pieces in one day."
     And he has his own concern, you may see. "We should keep our meetings short, just in case." And with that, Hwyll rises. "We will speak soon. I will draw up a few items and send them to you. Once Huw secures your borders and raises a force, we should move quickly to make the announcement. Too much activity will create undue notice. As it is, it will be hard for Huw to do what he must do and not alert the border nations. I will work with him to create diversions elsewhere." He winks to that and smiles.
     "For now, we should part, My Queen...though your curry and naan and apple blossom honeywine," he grins, "...want to make me linger past my welcome..."

     "Do as you must," Fiona says quietly. "It may lead to war, but I do have hope that it will not. For what it is worth, I do not wish her ill. Indeed, I had no knowledge of her, when I set all these things into motion - I did not know of her until you yourself told me of her. I doubt that this will soothe her temper - but," she taps her fingertip to her lips thoughtfully, "I believe that I may be able to - through you - perhaps alleviate some of her wild rage. You will be Viceroy. If she is willing - offer her ... oh, yes." Her smile widens with sudden Idea. This must surely be bad for someone...
     "There is someone of whom I know," Fiona begins, rising to her feet as well, "human, but - touched a bit, perhaps; inspired. I am on friendly terms with him - and he is a songwriter and poet, a storyteller who works with paper and pen. He is often at loose ends. I will see to hiring him to spin stories for me. If she will take it in good faith, then I will have the stories and songs he spins, in part or full, done for her. Or, if it is more to her liking, and he is of suitable temperament for Adventure, we will arrange for him to go to her service - entirely."
     When was it that a mortal bard or poet last toiled in the service of an unearthly faerie Queen? There is a Welsh poet who may be in for a surprise. Oh, Emrys...
     "For now, let us part," Fiona agrees with a nod that sends earrings dancing. "I will await your reports, your items. And take the rest of the bottle with you, if you like, and the rest of the food; I have no more need of it. Until we meet again, Prince Hwyll - my Viceroy." And there is the sudden blinding of her smile. Triumph.

Posted by rowan at December 03, 2004 07:33 PM