Time does have a way of passing, especially when one's having fun. Fiona's been having more fun in the past few days than, it could be argued, she had in the majority of her formative years...
     Right about now, she's just returned to the flat above the pub with a cardboard box filled with magazines and periodicals and catalogues for perusal. Some of them are obvious - 'Modern Bride'. Others are a little less obvious - 'Modern Architecture'. All of them seem in entirety to add up to a considerable number, and are dumped unceremoniously onto the table in the living room before she then heads down the hallway towards the guest bath. "I'm here if you are," Fiona calls out loud. She slips into the bath, closing and locking the door, and there is the sense of magic being pulled, coalesced from the air, wrapped around herself...
     Really, she's all but given up on ordinary shopping these days except when she's got to. Maintaining separate wardrobes for her two husbands is difficult enough without adding the expense - and some of the things she likes so very well, you just can't get these days for love or money. But you can get them for magic...

     "Back here!" comes his voice from the master bath. Running water is shut off, and a towel is carefully hung back in place. Naked, he paces to his closet wardrobe, the mirrors catching glimpses of vibrant, crimson markings upon his white Welsh skin. "Just cleaning up from the cig smoke. Nasty habit," one that he doesn't share, oddly enough, with his own father.
     Rhodri ap Owain ap Gwynedd emerges from his bedroom, trousers on and fastened and broadcloth shirt (red) as of yet unbuttoned. His hair is dried, laying straight to his shoulders. Unlike Davydd, his hair isn't curly. Wavy only when it gets wet, and fine. It has an unearthly shine, a scarlet-auburn like waves of fire, only seeming moreso with the shirt.
     On his way to the living room, he peers toward the guest bath. "I'm off for the rest of the night. I'm giving Llew plenty of chances behind the bar. He's going to be the master pourer when Kelly's gone. Close the pub one day and folks lose their damn minds. It was busy down there, starting before first tea..."

     "Poor thing." Fiona grins as she answers through the door, glancing at herself in the mirror as she draws magic along her skin and through her hair; she wants everything to be just so. She does like surprising you - you and your father both. "I don't blame you for not wanting to face the rush - if it was that bad then, I can only imagine how bad it is now."
     She prods at her throat for a moment, then turns to the door. "I picked up a bunch of stuff for us to go through - no rush, obviously. I also started working loosely on the invitation list, Rhodri. I don't think that church you mentioned is going to be big enough unless we cut the guest list down by, oh ... two-thirds. Could you do me a favour and put on the kettle? I'm dying for a cup of tea."
     She turns back to the mirror for a moment, frowning at her reflection. It's not quite ... ah. There. Another brief tug of magic as she alters a bit of colour here, a swatch of fabric there, turning around to regard her reflection from all angles. "And yes," she calls, such mischief in her voice, "I've got a surprise for you. Not the wedding dress, but maybe something to wear to the rehearsal dinner..."

     "I was afraid of that, but," an exhale and perhaps you can feel the smile from behind the door, "... it's not that big a deal. We can pay our respects to Wales in our honeymoon. We'll want to introduce you to Gwynedd society." He points that out as he fills a kettle with water and activates the burner.
     "Want some biscuits?" he wonders, voice carrying. "And you know how I like surprises," Rhodri mulls with a ever-widening smile, a smooth line across his face. "Is it a naked surprise?" He cackles at that. Okay, so he and Davydd should really be separated. They're horrible influences on one another.
     He's taking two cups down, two saucers, two spoons. These items are arranged on the dining room table as the kettle begins to warm. Joining these items, biscuits in a tin and fresh cream.

     "What is Gwynedd society? And I'm still mad at you for springing Charlie and Stuart and their women on me like that, you know..." Well, it's a reasonable sort of question, even if the gripe might or might not be. "And no," you can almost hear the look you're receiving through the door, "it's not a naked surprise. It's a fashion surprise."
     The door opens, and Fiona comes out, down the passageway and into view, looking as if she should be trailing yellow feathers from her mouth. It runs in the family she's marrying into, after all...
     The golden oak hair has been elegantly coifed and groomed, very elaborate coils interlaced in a wrapped coronal around her head with curls beginning at the ears and lying gracefully along the sides almost to her shoulders and at the nape of her neck. Around her throat there is a black velvet choker that has in front a cameo of a butterfly, frozen in flight. She wears a quite elegant ballgown, the upper part of which is a very close-fitting bodice, the suppleness of the rounded curves of breasts and hips betraying the undoubted presence of a corset below. The gown is cobalt blue at the bodice, low-necked and threatening to slip off the sloping shoulders. The slender waist then bells out, a pale sky blue overskirt over the two 'bells' of the gown's skirting, only the dainty tips of a pair of soft ankle boots with slight heels betrayed in the minor lift to her height, bows and tassels decorating the dove grey leather. There are two bracelets of gold and sapphire around her left wrist, dangling teardrops of gold and sapphire at her earlobes, and - of course - she wears a ring on the appropriate finger. Your ring...
     Her lips are stained a wine colour, a faint dusting of pale silver to her eyelids and nothing more. She's decided it's not necessary, apparently. Lips widen slowly in a smile as she makes her way through the corridor to the dining table. "I keep feeling like I'm going to knock over your furniture," Fiona remarks, drawing a closed fan across her opposite palm. "Oh - that reminds me," she adds, glancing to the kettle. "I'm going to have to make you lay some jasmine tea in stock. I've become addicted to the stuff lately..."

     He was in the process of pouring when you stepped out, a Cinderella vision. Water splashes in the cups, steeping immediately when it lands on the teabags. But he's so suddenly ... enamored?... in shock?... that one cup overfills, spills and it isn't until hot liquid lands on his toes that he wakes, grumbles at himself and then sets the tea down with a sigh at himself.
     But it all goes away when he looks at you. From top to toe, following the curved line of your waist as it is snugly held by the bodice. The kettle starts whistling again as he sets it on the burner, a wolf call of sorts, one that matches his suddenly sparkling look. He ignores it, patently, and moves to you. Just shy of your embrace, Rhodri pauses and he makes a courtly bow, 17th century for yours in return.
     "My lady," he breathes. He reaches for your hands, then takes a hand and your waist, moving you in dance. Glorious, smooth steps, graceful, he leads you in dance from the hall to the living room, and there he twirls you then takes you into his arms, bending you back in a kind of small dip. Enough to maximize the view of your cleavage.
     "Jasmine tea... perhaps you should wear the scent on your skin. Beneath and between your breasts, the inside of your thigh." His mouth finds your throat as he lifts you back. "Gorgeous," he husks out. "Do you ever want to see me in clothes? Do you ever want to stand by virtue of your own feet?" He smiles as he looks at you again, his hands going to your waist. They splay and trail along the curve of you, following the lines of your bodice.
     "Rehearsal dinner, eh? But what shall I wear that could even compliment such a glorious thing as this?" Rhodri cups your face with his hands and kisses you, warmly, teasingly. "I could bury myself under your skirts," he suckles your mouth, "... and make a home out of them...."

     There's a bit of a laugh for your look, the beginnings of a warning when you notice by virtue of a scald, hand coming up to her lips with a shake of her head. And you look back at her, and go on looking at her, bringing colour to her cheeks which is inspired by nature and not artifice. She doesn't quite know how to respond to that bow...
     You dance her off from hall to living room, and your steps are more assured than hers. It's been a good long while since she's done any dancing not of the 'shake your body and move like noone's watching' sort. She's content to let you lead for that reason if no other, though there's a squeak for the dip and a bit of a deep breath as she's righted. As deep as the corset allows...
     "I've got bluebell perfume, if you like," Fiona begins, then shivers, her hands falling to cover yours, fan still held in one. "Oh, stop. I'm glad you like the gown, but - mmm." There's a sigh for the kiss, and it's returned, as when could she not? She brushes her cheek inside the cup of your hands, then moves to pull back. "Wedding, Rhodri, wedding. Ball and chain. Screaming children. Drunk bridesmaids. Crises to be averted. Should I change?"

     "No, no," he responds quickly. "I like it. A lot." He grins. "Sit across from me, hmm? I want to be able to stare at you. And, I am looking forward to being caught again, being married again. The cries of babies, getting up in the wee hours and pacing the floor. Every thief secretly wishes to be captured..."
     And you have set a compelling trap. Your dress is a delicious snare. He stares again, eyes raking over you without shame, unabashed, unrestrained. "I should go pour a proper cup," he notes. "I like a perfumed inner thigh. Some garnish for my banquet when I go down on you." And the thought of going down on you does something for him. Evidently.
     "So, sweet," he backs off, grinning in a slant, "... you want to go over details then? We can make our lists tonight. We should start." He cleans up the spilled water and pours another cup for you and one for him.

     Fiona backs off as well, face still a bit pinker than normal - though such seems normal enough for around you and your father both, these days, doesn't it? "Alright, I'll allow that," she agrees primly, pursing her lips at you as if displeased. But, really, she's anything but. Why would she dress up for you if she didn't like to see you react - to know that she can draw your eyes, your hands, your lips with such speed, such alacrity, such ... steadfastness?
     "Mmm, if you wanted to be captured... no, I won't say it. You've got me getting as bad as you," she mutters. "And give me my tea, Rhodri ap arse. Just because you can't control your hormones for longer than it takes to pour and drink a cup of tea isn't my fault, is it?" She approaches a chair, then stops, drawing it out and then circling it warily. She stops again, turns. "...How the devil do you sit in this thing?"
     She remains standing, tapping the fan across her other palm as if it were a blackjack and you her potential victim, though it's the chair she glowers at. How to avoid crushing the gown - is it crushable? Or is it one of those mysteries of nature, like watching an albatross taking off into the air? "Details would be good," Fiona allows, trying not to look as if she's losing her cool. She tucks her hands behind her back, one hand circling the other wrist as she looks to you again with another not-so-deep breath. "How did women get anything done back then? Anyway, I was looking at the lists. I haven't even met all of your family, but I've met enough to have an idea of how big it is. My mother's side of the family - with children, grandchildren, spouses and all - amounts to probably a good fifty or so. Add that to your sum, now add my parents' friends, plus your friends and friends of the family, plus my own personal friends and anyone else we want to invite. I'm not sure where we should have it, but 'somewhere big' comes to mind. And ... what were you saying about Gwynedd society?"

     "I think Westminster, and why not. We have the money, we can get bumped up on the schedule I imagine. I'll let your mother try to sort that one out. She seems to want to," a wink to you as the tea service is set upon the table. "Ah, sitting. It takes a bit of practice. Here..."
     He comes over, a hand pressing to the construction of the skirt under your rear and gently guiding you to a sit, while the belling skirt realigns and redistributes itself. It bells up in front of you, but you are at least sitting. "Better?" he asks.
     Rhodri dresses your tea with cream and sugar and gives you a handful of madelines. "Gwynedd society... the well-to-do of northern Wales. You are marrying one of their noble families afterall, an unbroken line from King Arthur to the present. We will go to a choral event and I will introduce you around. After our honeymoon. And ...yes...I was thinking that after mentioning St. David's. Our families are both large, let alone all of the people your mother wants to impress by inviting. We may need additional seating in Westminster," Rhodri chuckles a bit, dressing his own tea.
     "So what sort of ceremony do you want? Personal vows or traditional? Large wedding party, small wedding party. Formal and lavish all the way through, or formal wedding followed by more personal reception?"

     "Well - I'll turn mother loose on Westminster and see what happens." Fiona has her doubts, but she is disinclined to give her mother much credit right now, for anything. She accepts the assistance with an expression that suggests she'd like to protest and like not to be grateful, but can't quite manage either. "Thank you," she mutters, sitting and eyeing the front part of the skirt where it rises.
     Heels together, then; she sets her fan down next to the cup and picks up a madeline, nibbling on it with more demureness than she'd give herself credit for. "A choral event," Fiona echos, looking vaguely amused. "I'll try to be respectable. I'm sure I'll love it, I'll just feel every bit as in costume as I do now. What are you planning for the honeymoon?"
     It's slyly slipped in, after your talk of it in front of her parents, your mentions here and there of such luxury and no doubt debauchery. Oh, she's curious...
     The madeline is set down, the teacup picked up, sipped at daintily and set down again. "I want it all," Fiona declares unabashedly. "But since I can't really have it all, I've been thinking traditional would be best. If we're going to be showing off - especially if we /do/ somehow by whatever miracle, holy or unholy, manage to get Westminster, we should do it up in style. Assuming we can afford it, at any rate. I know we can't make it as impressive as Princess Di's or anything that obscene, and to be honest, I found hers a little too ... froufrou in some ways ... too precious, but formal and lavish, most certainly. As for the reception," she shrugs a little bit, "I'm fine with it being a buffet instead of a sit-down supper, if that's what you mean - though the open bar will have to stay, I'm sure, and there'll have to be dancing. And, I'm adding one name to the invitation list who ... isn't a friend."

     "We have plenty of money. Even if we get nutty about it, we'll be able to afford it. As for the honeymoon, I was thinking something exotic. India, perhaps. Baths in orchid pools... bodies layered in scented oils... very good tea." He grins. "Something extraordinary, sensual. Indulgent." That's the word he's looking for: indulgent. "How does that sound?"
     Rhodri takes a sip of the tea, leaving the biscuits for now. "I wouldn't dream of not having an open bar," he laughs. "And Davydd'd never forgive me. Dancing, good. Yes. How involved in the planning do you want me?"
     As you mention the person to be added, Rhodri quirks an eyebrow in interest. "Yeah? Who would that be?" He is rather wretchedly curious.

     "I've never been to India." You've caught her attention; you can see it in the glitter to her eyes, in the way she glances down as if to hide her expression. It doesn't work so well with her hair so bound, with her clothing so unfamiliar and - let's face it - so unforgivingly feminine. The colour spreads in her face again as if being painted there from underneath. "Sure, that sounds ... promising."
     Fiona takes another sip of tea, sets it back down. It's almost as if the dress makes her a little weaker - sapping her, just a little, a little more uncertain, a little shorter of breath. Fingers lift to touch the butterfly cameo, then settle down against the edge of the table again, her gaze still settled upon the incurious biscuits. "How involved do you want to be? I know that it's a stereotype of the groom who just wants to know where to stand and that there's no hideous clothing in it for him. But I don't want you to be involved unless you have an interest - it'd be silly to make you do it if you're not into it, it isn't as if I've no female friends at all."
     Fiona smiles a little, and the tea comes up to her lips again. Sip. "I was thinking of inviting Paul." Sip. Down the cup goes again. Waiting...

     He knits his eyebrows at that, making a 'Why the fuck would you want to do that for?' expression. "For what purpose? To rub his broken nose in it? I'd rather not have the drama. Besides, fuck him. Leave him in the past, Fiona. Leave him to wonder how beautiful you looked. Leave him to wonder whether your gown should have been white..."
     Rhodri sits back in his chair. He'll not tell you 'No' outright, but he is going to voice his opinion. "I'd rather not have to feed his ass, quite frankly, but if you want him there..." He'll let you have what you want, you can see it. Even if he doesn't agree with it. "It's our day, but really... it's the bride's day. If you want him there as part of it, who am I to disagree?"
     "I want to be consulted. I don't need to be in every decision or meeting but I'd like to know what's going on and to have it represent me as well. Fight with your mother on occasion," he smirks at the rim of the cup. "I am not a stereotypical man. I'd like to know." His green eyes linger at your lifted bosom, then lowers along the center line of you, landing in your lap.
     I want to be under those skirts. It is an audible desire, even if not intentional.

     "To rub his nose in it," Fiona admits, "but also because ... well ... in a way, he's responsible for me being here now, isn't he? If he hadn't done what he did, I never would have rebelled. Never would've run off and spent years in the punk movement - alright, punk revival, I suppose I'm not really old enough for the real thing. But if I hadn't done that, I wouldn't have been wandering down that street to meet Davydd, and if I hadn't been trying to break Davydd's nose I wouldn't have met you, and where would we be now?"
     It's perhaps an odd way of looking at things, but it's also plain that she does feel she needs to justify this one, this idea, this potential decision to you. "If you want, you and Davydd can take him out back and turn him into a newt before the buffet's opened so you don't have to feed him. I just - feel that I should in some way pay tribute to that pivot."
     She leans forward slightly with a rustling of the belled skirts, hand reached to touch yours. "I love you." Fiona's voice has gone quieter, softer, with an almost breathless quality to it. "Rhodri, I really do. I want this to be about us, not just me - I don't want to be one of those brides you hear about, where because it's 'her' day noone else counts at all. I'd hate that. I can glory a little bit in what I've got - alright, a lot - but I don't want to go insane with it. It /is/ our day... not just mine. I promise, you'll be consulted. And," a slight roll of her eyes as she pulls back, "regardless of what daddy said, no lavender cummerbunds."
     Your eyes lower, and the colour that has risen in her face is renewed, her own gaze going to her lap. There's just about enough room for two of you under these skirts. Mostly I feel conspicuous and clumsy.

     His smile widens and slants at the notion of two. Yes, two. I believe Davydd and I could create a spectacle under those skirts. Two mouths are better than one, but I'm sure that I can make one suffice well enough. I love the taste of you. You taste of apples, honey. It's why the apples affect us so. To eat the apples of Avalon is to be between your thighs. It is tangible bliss...
     He takes a swallow of the tea, he needs the tea to distract his tongue and taste buds. "I love you, too, darlin'. And you can go a little crazy with it," he grins, "... it will be the only wedding you have." A pause. "For a while at any rate. Alright, if you want Paul there... invite him. If he acts up, I'll simply pummel him..."
     Cup is lowered and Rhodri folds his arms against his chest. "I like the sound of India as well. I know a wonderful place in Chennai, off the Sea of Bengal. A luxury Imperial hotel. We will eat spices, oil our skin, cavort in silk, and indulge in kama sutra." He sips at the tea again. "Would you want Davydd to join us for a night or two... or simply keep it between us..."

     There is that colour rising into her face, it is just staying there. It might as well be burned in...
     As long as those apples don't affect anyone but the two of you, I suppose. Since I can't exactly go around harvesting apples off of every tree that grows there. Though she has some potential plans, oh, yes indeed...
     "I've already had one wedding," Fiona murmurs - oblique little reference to the other night. "But this one will be a more public sort of event. And if he acts up, I will wholeheartedly enjoy the sight of him bleeding. I don't think he will. Really, I doubt he'll even turn up - he's a bit of a coward, isn't he?" Especially after she broke his nose, perhaps he thinks he has reason to be.
     Cup uplifting, Fiona sits up very straight, as the corset demands. "Kama sutra? Heard of it, never done it. Am I going to have to go to flexibility and agility training to prepare for my honeymoon?" The idea amuses her. Your next question makes her blink. "I ... you know that I love both of you, but that's not my decision to make. Are you - comfortable with him being there? Of course, if he is, then he will have to give you the same privilege when the time comes; will he be comfortable with that?"
     And that sets her mind to working in ways which do not coincide with teacups. She sets it down with alacrity, glancing off to the side, hands folded tightly in her lap. She no longer knows what to do with them...
     "I think," Fiona murmurs, "perhaps I need next time to not tie this damned corset so tight."
     Blame it all on the corset...

     "I am open to a night. Perhaps in London before we leave for India. It may do him good after the emotion of the day. Night. Hmmm... you'll have to have an evening wedding...but... no, I don't mind. As for giving me the same privilege? I think it would be good for symmetry. One night, the first night, and then I would leave you to his solitary care."
     Chuckling, Rhodri winks at you. "Aye, if I were you I'd start getting limber. Stretching, breathing, lotioning your skin." He grins widely. "Perhaps take a class or two of yoga. We'll be site-seeing as well. There are the temples of the Pallavan kings around Chennai. Protected sites. It won't all be oils and copulating." Pause. "Most but not all..."
     I think it is...particular to us, the kings of Avalon. But just to be on the safe side, don't offer apple juice to anyone else but us. I'd hate to have to kill a man.

     "Oh, I know. The wedding, I thought, could begin around eight or eight thirty at night, give an hour or so for the ceremony at most. I mean, we're not having a Catholic wedding, after all, neither of us is willing to convert, are we? C of E will do, right?" Fiona quirks up eyebrows at you with a bit of a smile, one hand going up to finger a curl, pulling it slowly almost straight and then releasing it to spring back up. "The reception could begin around ten and continue until whenever. I imagine we'd slip off by two at the latest..."
     There's a slight shift in her seat as if restless, as the images you paint do indeed make her restless, and then she moves to stand up. "That sounds quite pleasant," Fiona says primly. "Though I don't know anything about Pallavan kings. I suppose you'll have to educate me."
     She moves to pick up her teacup, then opts to just leave it sitting there, and she sidles into the living room, fingers lifting to brush the butterfly at her throat. No experimenting, to torment a man who can never have me? Oh, you're no fun at all these days...

     "Well, I'm Catholic but I'm not exactly ... devout," is the word he finally chooses. "I was raised Catholic," he counters, "...and the family's Catholic, mostly. So I think we can keep it to an hour, maybe a little less. Stately, formal." He nods to that, as if filing it away for now.
     Emerald eyes glance up to you and peer between scarlet curtains of lashes, his mouth sliding to the side in a look straight from the Devil. "We can play teacher and student. You can wear that little outfit of yours, socks to the knees, Mary Janes..." He winks and smiles and settles back on the sofa, arms raising and folding behind his head.
     "I'll leave the timing to you. It doesn't matter to me. I'd like a big hall for the reception, enough for a big band... room for dancing as well as eating and drinking. We're going to ...cut a rug. Should be entertaining. You've never seen Davydd dance, have you?" He laughs suddenly. "You just wait. You're going to be in for it. I'm a waltz and tango man. Davydd. Davydd is the Lindy sprung to life. Got a lot of practice in the second big war."

     She shifts under that look of yours again, not terribly far but a distinct motion as she turns away and to the window, hands behind her back, at the small of her back. "You like that outfit a little too much," Fiona murmurs throatily. And if you like it a little too, then she likes it to excess, with the promise of the schoolroom and innocence corrupted...
     "A big hall will be necessary. I wouldn't want to try cramming everyone into anything small! Besides, you invite the people you've /got/ to invite to the wedding, typically, and invite the rest round to the reception after - unless you're cheap, and who wants to be known for being cheap?" Her smile is a glimmering, delighted thing, turning back and turning it onto you with a hint of excitement she can't quite suppress. "I'm looking forward to it, you know."
     She takes a cautious step, as if testing how she moves, eyeing the edges of the gown's full skirts warily as they brush along the floor. "I still feel as if I'll knock things over when I go anywhere," Fiona mutters. "Davydd's told me that he can dance. I poked at him about having that ballroom at Powis and we never once used it. - Ha. It's almost tempting, isn't it? To have the reception there, I mean. But I suppose it wouldn't be large enough, and anyway, not right to traipse through a national monument like that."

     "I think Powis would be an excellent choice, and that's only half of the ballroom." Eyes twinkle with a secret, and the gardens and galleries can certainly handle any overflow. I could not think of a more lovely locale. But to go from Westminster to Powis Castle for a party is a bit much, certainly could not occur on the same night if we were to pursue it. Unless you wanted to marry in the tiered gardens," he lifts a brow. An idea, certainly. "I ... rather like the sound of that suddenly. An outdoor wedding, in the most celebrated gardens of all of Britain."
     He tips his head and measures your own reaction to the idea. "We could house the guests, have an entire weekend wedding. A pre-nuptial party, the wedding, a reception. Those who are not ... well, family or people you want to impress by keeping at the castle, we have houses in Welshpool, cottages and quaint hotels. And you and I could have the master apartments to adjourn to... "
     You can see he prefers this, that the idea is germinating, feeding on fiery, inspired ideas. "Every bit as glorious as Westminster, but far more personal. The seats of the Princes of Wales, a glorious red stone castle with world class gardens...."

     "If you're sure it would be alright," Fiona demurs, with the slow tug on one of those corkscrew curls, watching it glide almost straight down along towards her cleavage, careful not to pull to hard as to dislodge the elaborate upper braids. "Westminster would be difficult to get, and expensive, and ... well, it'd be nice in name only. At Powis, we could also get whoever we want to perform the ceremony - the best of both worlds, as it were..."
     The curl is released, allowed to resume its tight spiral up behind her ear and against her shoulder, and she turns to smile at you again. "As long as the government wouldn't be upset," Fiona murmurs. "I know I'm good at causing trouble, but it's supposed to be a wedding - it'd be unpleasant to spend it in gaol, separated from you by iron bars." The true reason why faeries hate iron, perhaps?
     She moves from the living room and towards you again, with a careful, light-footed step, slowly to ensure the safety of anything not nailed down. "We should see how Davydd feels about it, too, though it would actually make things easier for him. He could be there all along, not have to worry about transportation or sunlight - we'd actually be able to begin just a little sooner, since we wouldn't have to allow that travel time. And I suppose that you could say we'd be doing our part to boost the local trade," Fiona murmurs, all practicality despite the thorough impracticality of her garments. "Which would probably help in Gwynedd society, wouldn't it? - Rhodri, how will we handle the courts?"

     "I think it we have hit upon exactly where we need to have it and what we need to do. A weekend affair, with folks arriving by Thursday or Friday. Wedding on Saturday or Sunday?" he wonders suddenly. "If Saturday, then folks could arrive on Thursday for a pre-nuptial reception. Brunch and rehearsal on Friday, wedding on Saturday. Or Friday to Sunday, whichever. What sort of officiation would you prefer?" You of the mixed religions. Being a pagan is so much more convenient; nearly anyone would do.
     "Not only do I think Davydd would be okay with it, he might in fact insist upon it once it were mentioned. Local economy notwithstanding. I think the Welsh would look upon you with more favor for having come to them to sanctify your union to one of their own," a gesture to himself. "But it doesn't really matter what they thinks," he chuckles in aside.
     "Courts?" He asks. "You mean in Elseplace. This is a mortal wedding, my love. It is a mortal affair apart from a few, secret exceptions. The courts of Elseplace have nothing to do with it. We would have to have a separate ceremony for that. The official joining of our kingdoms. You think this wedding will be immense...let us deal with that separately."

     "Saturday wedding, with people arriving on Thursday and Friday," Fiona says firmly. "My grandparents will need to be there before Friday. They won't want to travel on the sabbath." She grants you a smile. "Not that they're terribly devout - life comes first to them. But why inconvenience them if we haven't got to? And that way we can leave whenever we wake up on Sunday and head to our honeymoon together."
     The topic of officiation is one she's not quite sure how to handle. "I was hoping that you had a preference," she mutters, folding her arms over the tight bodice of her gown, glancing down to see how the material reacts. In truth, it reacts very little, with the corset beneath it and the gown so very snug over it. "I'm not ... I don't feel very religious most of the time, past experiences notwithstanding. The one experience I had didn't involve any mentions of any specific god, and after giving it some thought, I went right on doing what I've always done. I'd say let's stick with Church of England, we can go for a moderately High Church wedding and that way I'm not going to have to attend any silly classes and noone's going to insist on premarital counseling for us because of being 'of different faiths'. I don't need any religion telling me how to handle my husbands. I'll find out on my own."
     Small hands lift to pat her hair, then to adjust the post on one of the sapphire earrings, blue gaze skewing off to the side in concentration. "Well, I'll ask Davydd later, just to be sure. And while it might not matter what they think, Rhodri, I'd like for anyone important to you - even middling-important - to like me, you know." Fiona's voice softens as she makes the point; it's a matter of concern for her. "I know you like me and that's more important, but other people, well, they don't have to like me, do they? So it's harder."
     Her hands drop, and she closes the rest of the distance between you and her abruptly. "You mean I'm going to have to plan two enormous weddings, to happen at separate times? When is the other wedding going to have to occur?" Is she complaining or excited? Her tone is certainly excitable, but that is no hint...

     "The royal wedding can't occur prior to my coronation. Right now, you're marrying the man who hopes to be King of Avalon. Right now, that is firmly in my father's grasp. But, once the coronation is complete, then we can move forward with planning the other. I think I am going to ask Davydd to postpone the coronation until after we've had a chance to wed here. There's no rush, after all."
     "Hmm... Church of England." He doesn't like that option. "How about this, we hire a non-denominational or pan-denominational minister. Or we can hire a rabbi and a priest. It'll sound like a punchline." Rhodri grins suddenly and winks. "What do you think?"
     Hands drop from behind his head and then fold against the massive chest. He tilts his head and looks at you, looks at you in silence for a while. Admiring study, feelings for you move over his expression as he stares at you. A wash of red for his desire, a softening look for his affection, first the tilt and then the spreading of a smile. "I am sure that all of my friends will find you as lovely and earnest as I do. You've already met some of the family. We should weekend in Powis soon, reintroduce you. I think that might help alleviate some of your concerns."

     "Don't you dare postpone your coronation," Fiona says firmly, moving up to you with a hand coming up to swat your shoulder. There isn't much force behind it; her hand brushes rather than smacks, her own face reddening for it. "Your father's already set the date, remember? And things are already in motion. Besides, I promised to attend in full regalia - you aren't allowed to take away my chances to show off for you!"
     She drops her hand, playing with the bracelets on her other wrist, gaze lowering with those reddened cheeks still in evidence, sighing very quietly. It isn't an unhappy sigh, though it isn't a deep sigh. "Definitely, looser corset strings next time," she mutters to herself. "As for the minister - why not go all-out? We could have someone we both actually respect or whose spiritual views come closer to matching ours marry us. I mean, I'm not really Christian or Jewish any more than you're more than nominally Catholic, are we? The vows can be worded to sound close enough to High Church vows no matter who we go with that most of the people in attendance aren't going to notice. Oh, and that reminds me."
     She smiles at you sweetly, retreating back a step or two. "I'm willing to promise to honour, but you do realize that obedience is right out, don't you...?" Her back is turned as she moves back to the window, almost restless in her movements. "We can weekend in Powis," Fiona murmurs, "though I don't know if it'll alleviate my concerns. I've just - got a lot on my mind. It distracts me, right now."

     An eyebrow raises, a laughing arch, soon followed by its twin. "You seem to obey me well enough when you're tied to my headboard," he notes, and it is worth noting. He watches your skirts move as you pace away. "You like to obey and you like to fight obedience. You want to behave by misbehaving. Suits me fine. Before the wedding congregation we'll leave 'obey' out of it. That's a word best belonging to the honeymoon..."
     His mouth puckers in thought and then with a grin he nods. "Agreed on the minister. Let's rest on it for a night, see what ideas come to the fore. Could be a court official, for all of that. But for now..." For now, it's left as an open topic. "We can work on our vows over the weekend in Powis."
     As you speak of what's on your mind (everything!), Rhodri smiles and he stands, coming up behind you, his arms surrounding you, his head bending to put his lips near your ear. It is a rocking, a dancing embrace. "Remember, love, to enjoy it. It will be busy, hectic, chaotic, but remember to smile, hmm?" Closing his eyes, he leaves a kiss on your ear, a kiss that becomes a tug and a breath at your lobe. "I'll promise that I'll let you ... make me obey, too."
     A hand to your delicately crafted hair, he bends your head, his mouth at your nape. "Would you like to dance," he says at your ear. "You are dressed for it," he smiles.

     There is a rise and fall of her chest for your words, the colour extending from cheeks to even the nape of her neck. She blushes as if sunburned for just a moment. You're on to her...
     She avoids commenting on the honeymoon, gaze locked to the street outside, fingertips running fine over the draping's edge and letting it fall again. "It's no rush," Fiona murmurs. "We'll find someone, I'm sure. Court official, minister, some sort of high priest - if you'd been in the military, we could have a commanding officer marry us. But then you'd have to be in uniform, and I'm not sure that's the sort of ceremony we're after, anyway."
     You come up behind her and enfold her, and there's that soft sigh, quiet little exhale as she leans against you all too willingly. "Mmm," Fiona murmurs as you kiss, a hand coming up to rest on your arm. "I wish I didn't adore you so much, Rhodri. It makes me weak. But I do, and I don't really want to stop, and you enjoy it far too much, do you know that? I don't know why I feel so conflicted right now. I'm not even sure why I do. I blame this outfit. It makes me feel strange..."
     Your mouth travels to her nape, with another small sound. "I can try, but I don't know how well I can dance in this," Fiona warns. "I feel almost afraid to move too much, and this - well, I'll try and stop complaining. I really do feel odd, though." It isn't exactly a complaint, but it's something she's puzzling over, gnawing at, it colours her thoughts as well as her skin. She smiles to you, adding, "Are you pleased about your, uh, promotion?"

     "An even better idea..." You feel his hands at your gown's construction. He says not a word as to what he is doing, but you can imagine what it must be. Surely after the last few months, you should know. The gown's constriction begins to loosen as fabric parts at his hands, his fingers coming to the corset.
     "I am glad you adore me," he smiles from behind you, his voice containing the warmth of that expression and a low sound -- his own adoration and desire. The corset slackens, setting you free. You can breathe! And though he can reach parts of your skin, feel the softness of your flesh, it is a greater tease that he does not completely unclothe you, toss you over his shoulder and fuck you on the nearest surface. In fact, there is only the embrace returning with his arms around you, his mouth near to your ear. His hands pull the fabric until it, heavy, falls to the floor in a luxurious pool. "Come," he murmurs.
     Rhodri turns you in his hands, leads you out of the pool of fabric and he pulls you to him in a gentle dance, a slow waltz that makes its spiraling way quite easily through his living room, avoiding furniture.
     I am pleased. He has favored me of all his children. It is what I have wanted. I feel myself growing more powerful already. Like feeling the coming sunrise.

     There's the faint sound from the back of her throat. She makes no move to stop you; she is sapped. This must be what it is to be Samson, shorn of hair. Meeting her downfall not in a barber's chair but in a ballgown...
     She takes a deep breath as the material unfolds, closing her eyes. There is no magical return of will and energy; it is, after all, a psychological effect as much as a physical one. The only magic in it is of the mind - as all the best magics are, perhaps?
     Fiona turns as you lead her, a slight shiver as she moves into your arms. She's been naked around you often enough by now, but this is just surpassing strange to her. Her booted feet are willing to move slowly more readily than to quicken. Right now, a waltz is about her speed...
     I'm glad. I was worried that this would put some sort of barrier between the two of you. I wouldn't want to come between you - you've been friends as well as family for so long, it just ... well, it worried me. Fiona's 'voice' os slowed as well, slightly thickened, like honey that's been allowed to cool. Not hardened, but thick, textured with sweetness. I love you too much for that. I would have had to do something. How will this ... 'more powerful' affect you? What will you do with it?

     I will admit, comes the voice as he quick sashays you in a waltzing circle before slowing again, that I am not sure. I am expecting that it shall simply move through me here, so long as I am needed here. For if that energy, that inspiration, that rightness cannot move within the world, I'm really not sure how good it is.
     The dance steps slow and shift. Now, a slow tango, him moving forward, you guided backwards. It is easier to follow than you might have thought. His body tells you where to go, how to get there. Bending, he kisses you, a hand on your waist, another holding your hand, fingers entwining.
     You know, my darling, I should get you a whole series of Merry Widows. You would look wonderful in Parisian lingerie. Straps and garters and real silk hose. Delicate, lady-like, but thoroughly wretched. Even as you are.
     He stops his dance, his arms drawing you in until you are flush to him and with a bending arch of you backward, a gently-guided dip, you are kissed. Rhodri straightens and stepping back, arms' length, he bows. With a wink, he rises. "Would you like to get into something more comfortable? A pair of my sweats and a t-shirt?"

     We'll come up with something.
     She's sure of that. If you and she cannot come up with a good use for it, then noone can. And she isn't even thinking of the bedroom in that connection.
     You dance with her, her expression almost solemn as you lead her through the steps, her attention focusing on not missing the cues, the leads that you give her. When you kiss her, her lips are soft and pliant beneath your own, her hand squeezing yours as fingers entwine.
     I need to give you more excuses to ravish me? But if you want to buy me nice things, I'll try not to kick and scream. Fiona is slowly, slowly getting used to the idea of being spoiled...
     You dip her, you kiss her, you step back to bow, and there's a lingering sigh on her lips. "What I really want right now ... I don't know." She smiles, a small, almost wistful smile on her face, and then she turns to gather up the gown slowly, folding the exquisite material up to her chest, standing there in dove grey silk stockings and leather boots and pale blue silk knickers, the line of her back to you for a moment. "I just feel strange. Let me go get rid of this stuff, then... one of your t-shirts, maybe. I just suddenly need to feel - secure, almost."
     She shakes her head; she doesn't understand it at all. She turns, moving back towards the corridor with the gown. "I'll pilfer one of your pub shirts, I guess. And then we can curl up with more tea - well, you'll probably want a Boddington's - and watch a film or talk more wedding talk or something. Order something in tonight?"

     "We can watch telly and talk. Sit on the sofa with a good quilt, some tea. Here... I'll join you," in getting comfortable he means. He heads to the master-bedroom, flicking on the light first in the room and then in the closet. He tosses out a pair of lounging pants for himself and a t-shirt, and takes down one for you, one made soft by much wearing, washing, wearing again. "Here's one," he offers. "I think the pants would be too big," a wink.
     The rascal.
     He's turning, rolling out of his shirt, hanging it up (never tossing it aside), then not a moment later Rhodri's out of his kit, boxers left behind for a moment of humility (accidental though it is). "How about we order a ploughman's pie from downstairs, have good pub food. I'll probably have Boddingtons," now that you mention it, even if it is from Manchester. "It'll be hot from the oven and easy to get. We shouldn't give all our business to Pashmina's with a perfectly good kitchen downstairs."
     Shirt and lounging pants on, all cotton, he pulls a coverlet from the closet. Could it be you're about to have a regular sort of evening? The first with him?

     "The pants would definitely be too big." Fiona rolls her eyes at you, setting the dress aside - it melts away, spun sugar and magic that it is; the boots go as she walks, leaving her in silk and crepe-de-chine. Those, she leaves on and takes your shirt from where you've hung it, giving you a bit of a tempestuous look as she pulls it on, covering herself with your scent.
     "Ploughman's sounds good. Easy sounds good. I'm not in the mood for curry right now anyway. Maybe I'll have a cider instead of tea, then." Fiona grins at you, almost despite herself; she reaches up to her hair, dragging her fingers back through it, braids and curls unfurling so that it ribbons and flows back down her back in long waves, not quite as straight as ordinarily just yet. "Mmm... maybe I should dye my hair red... match the two of you for a change..."
     She moves over to the couch and flings herself down on it onto her stomach and elbows, then rolls over onto her side to look at you with a hint of a smirk. "So ... where are you going to sit?"

Posted by rowan at December 24, 2004 04:11 PM