What's a winter like in Scotland? Chilly. But the southern climes are far more palatable than the growing darkness that will eventually settle further north. Why do any of them still remain around here? Easy...more darkness. Well, and a dear love of the land here. Perhaps that is not so unlike your Wales for you, dear Prince.
     No secret is made of that love where Wallach is concerned. Certainly Dunross is notorious for his own loyalty, but business and Camarilla needs sometimes have taken him elseplace. But Wallach? The only reason he leaves Scotland is because of a request by Plantagenet. Not even by the Camarilla itself. Sometimes Kindred are born of powerful Sires, and their birthrights are sealed. Sometimes Kindred are but what they are, and for Wallach, he's but a highland man.

     North of Glasgow, the hills rise to the east, a palette of browns, greys, patches of green dappled with late violet heather. Plane trees lined the road, still holding to the last leaves of the year. To the west...rolling greenness, falling towards a rocky drop to the coast. The M34 wends such for days...until one reaches the coast near Fort William, where the Ness empties into the Atlantic, at the base of the Isle of Skye.
     But you shall not need to reach that far. Your map will send you to a spot on the northwest coast of Loch Lomond, only a couple of hours north of the port city. A beautiful place, Loch Meriden, a tripple off Lomond itself. Here is the rustic home of Eamonn Donal Wallach, the second son of an old clannach. It is ensconced safely at lapping coast, the hills surrounding the house.

     Over the hills and along the smaller road that leads off of the M34 and to Loch Meriden barrels a dark Land Rover, its wheels and sides splattered with the mud of the moors he cut across not an hour ago. Chasing the setting sun. Ha, take that you golden, ruddy bastard. I'll see you at dawn! Be ready to face me. No quarter, Lord. None shall I give! Up the hills, undaunted. Assailing. Charging. Its lights the only lights for miles. Gods, who knew Scotland was sae dark...
     Storm the palace!
     Storm the palace!
     The driving song of some Welsh songbird and her band of backing boys is cranked. And a male voice, boisterous and beautiful, sings in Welsh accompaniment. The voice of a damned angel. Who would think that Davydd Llywelyn, noted for the rough growl of a Welsh prince, could sing so sweet? With such strength? And with him, piled into the passenger seat, two corgies -- one, a rare black... the other a blue merle. They howl along with him. Not so melodious of course. Green eyes are glinting bright. "Bah, lads... sing it with feeling. Come on now, Rhyddid...Bwci..." At the encouragement, the bounce up and down on the seat, barking. Smoke puffs from the mouth of the old dragon as he flicks his cigarette out the window, laughing.
The cigarette flares like a comet and dies...
     Can you hear me, Wallach? As I crest the hills with my hounds of hell? "That must be it, lads..." Davydd mutters to himself as much as the dogs. "Fine bit of navigating, Bwci... as always..." Grinning broadly, Davydd reaches over and scritches the ear of the blue merle.
     Down the road leading to your rustic home, Donal, there are headlamps. Bright. Motion. Expecting anyone?

     He was not. He is outside this night, Donal Wallach, as he is every night. Buildings hold little comfort for him. And when the sun rises, he simply falls into the earth, secreted within the arms of She That Never Changes. No matter if We do. It makes travel light and always safe. And no man should walk the woods alone, if he knew that of Donal Wallach.
In jeans and a thick grey sweater, Donal lifts from his work to see the approaching lights. Ears told him first, but with the trickle of color, he gives his attention. At his woodpile, his ax is easily thrown, and a brusque hand runs through the light brown hair on his head. Engine, 2.5L. 10 cylinder. Range Rover. And if it's a Range Rover...ah...sounds...it must be...
     "Mart! Llywelyn's coming!" His voice carries enough that even your ears might hear it. Hands wipe at his jeans, and Donal walks towards the dirt where vehicles tend to stop. Parking...well that would require a driveway.

     Forest green Range Rover at that. Mind you, its nothing sae fancy as His Majesty would drive -- all speed and sleek and black. This is a working car for a working prince. One who has to feed his own pigs, mind you, and fix his own roof. The Rover slows as it approaches, as lights pass over you and are thereafter dimmed. No need to blind them, wot? And then engine rumbles to a hush. Ripples of sound you and he can both hear long after.
     "Wallach!" comes the roar. The door is opened, and Davydd is standing, hanging half in and half out the vehicle. The dogs take any opening door as a sign to sally forth and out they tumble. As happy to see you as last time when they ate all your heather, begonias -- or whatever those were in the pots they dug in -- and Marta's fine buttered scones. Oh, and that slipper of yours. Davydd's grin is wide and wild. "Fine brisk evenin' to you, laird. I thought I'd wake Old Scotland up and give England a bit of a break, God Bless Her!" He is out of the car in the next step and the quiet of the night is shattered again -- this time by the slam of his door.
     Gloves are tugged off and mist of his breath hits the air. He hasn't changed one goddamned bit in eight centuries. "What's for dinner!"
     Oh, and he's dressed for the occasion. A woolen, black coat, long to his calves. This over a turtleneck sweater, hand-knitted of soft Welsh wool -- what else? -- and jeans, faded and fitted. These over a pair of Doc Marten's. A full beard he has, following the line of his jaw and surrounding mouth and chin as well -- fiery copper. His hair is as it was the last night of his life. Long to his shoulders, and at the moment... unruly in the wind...

     "Ach, now, Old Man, I'm sure England's way grateful," his r's rumbling unbelievably, "...and when ya go, we'll be grateful too, lad," Donal chuckles, eyes bright and no less twinkled than the growing stars above. He runs over, arms extended immediately...it is the only way to greet a friend. "Oh, how are ya Davy-lad," he smiles, arms landing about your shoulders like logs, "...tis been such a while, eh? Too long, really..." his half-English Gaelic comes out. It's better than his Old Welsh. A shake of you and Donal frowns as he twists towards the house, screaming now, "Mart! Come see The Cymri, will ya?"

     "For ever damned love of Gailte, I heard ya th' first time, Wallach!" At the doorway, darkening it, is a curvy form. Her hair is almost the same tenor of Donal's, but droplets of red grace the strands. "I hear ya," she says, her white shirt falling at her shoulders floral skirt blooms in the evening light. With high-cheeks, she was of mixed birth, they say, but in truth, it is speculation. Blue eyes narrow as Marta stops and wipes her hands, hands coming to her hips. "Oh, tis you...and here we thought y' forgot our number," smirking disgust upon her features. Marta chuckles stepping into the moonlight, her feet picking up paces to almost a skipping beat. The disdain melts away, and genuine girlish joy takes its place. "Ah, Davy-pie," Marta calls, her arms no less open, "...come give a girl a rustle, huh?"

     The corgies -- lovingly known in English as 'Freedom' and 'Bugbear' -- give their own greetings. That'd be the translation of the jumping and the barking. "Rhyddid... Bwci... " The rest is a guttural growl, which the dogs, understanding, pay instant mind to. They sit like little angels in a row. Well, angels with devilish grins and big ears. The growl transforms to laughter, easily and swiftly. A quick and mighty embrace, fitting for descendants of the true Isle of the Mighty, wot? No damned courtliness here! "I've come to pay my respects, eat your food and kiss on your women, Wallach -- it's been too long!" This, in thunderous and grinning Old Gaelic. Back when we were family, all -- ah, those were the days. The embrace is followed by another, but it is then he hears Marta's voice and sees her coming along.
     Not that I don't love you, but ... it is Marta. Quick strides meet her and she's scooped up by the Welsh prince. "And the best of them all, the flower of Yr Alban," Davydd says with a grin. Copper eyebrows waggle. "A rustle and a flourish, but for the love of my laird there... I'll leave it at a hug, a kiss, and something to wet the whistle so I can give you your proper due for the rest of the evenin'..." You saucy bit of Scottish pie, you. A sound hug Marta is given and, lifting, wheels her about. Oh, aye... if she weren't Donal's woman, that same motion would have scooped her over his shoulder and up to his bed. "Wallach... you're the luckiest man in Alban..."

     "Ay, don't I know it, Davy-bach..." Donal laughs, passing you both with a slap at your back. "Well, c'mon in, ah, an' have a seat! A drink, eh? I made a few pints a bit back and they outta be good for you right now. Mart, got any pies left?" What would they be...if they could not eat? Not even the Embrace could take that from these two.

     "Whoo!" Marta cheers, arms at your shoulders. The hugs and kisses are welcome, and she's sure to return them with a bit more. A touch of her hair, a view of her full breasts. "Ah, you're too sweet, Davy, c'mon inside," she bobs her head, "I made pies, tis true. There's steak and mushroom and cream tarts..." Hands pat at your shoulders as she guides you within, in Donal's considerable wake.

     Nor him. He does not understand those who refuse to eat -- or who never learned the knack. To be able to eat, drink, screw like madmen and not suffer any ill consequences -- who could say No to this? They are mad, who do so. And such thoughts as devouring... something... do spring to mind after such a viewing as Marta gives. The grin cocks to the side, wide and warm. And fond. And fingers find her sides and some part of her skirt. A goose for the going ahead. Just a pinch of the round...
     Davydd chuckles and follows Donal's wake, the tingles of the slap yet lingering on the skin. "Pies and pints... I could not wish for more in all the world. So... how have you both been without me... other than bored and too well rested..." Corgies trot at his heels, one black, one grey swirled.

     "Hullo dogs," Donal says, bending to pat the tangle of animals near his feet. He carries on, entering the wide living area and the rather traditional Scottish decor -- plenty of prints and wood -- moving to the right and few steps up to the raised dining area. A comfortable place...it is more like a seat in a pub, than a formal eating area. Benches line far and right walls, cushions and pillows covering the hand-cut and -carved wood. The table is large, requiring scooting around if one wants to sit on the set-in benches, but chairs are available on the sides open to the rest of the living area and the nearby kitchen.

     "I've been meself, y'know, Davy?" Marta says more genially now. "Been busy with th' ones who are about." Wolves and disposed kindred. "That always takes up meh time." She smirks and touches you again as she moves towards the open kitchen, not so far away. All able to be seen in the large spaces, nothing to hide.

     Donal looks up, scooting into his favorite corner edge of the bench seating. A chair is on the other side of the corner, and a cup sits there, cool now from earlier tea. "It's been quiet, really," he confesses, "...a nice change, hmm? Been that way..." Donal laughs, green eyes flickering, "...oh...'bout...what's it been, Marta...almost a year now?" Since those other two returned.

     "Bah... then I've come just in time," Davydd mutters with a grin. Can't have it too quiet -- gives Plantagenet ideas, it does. Once he's within, it's off with the overcoat. A shrug of broad shoulders then he tosses it aside, out of the way and onto a chair. A hand raises and gestures to the dogs. Go on, beneath the table, lads. He heads up to the table after Donal, a smile flashing for Marta again as she goes. My, how I do like to watch her going. You really are a lucky bastard, Donal. You get to see her comin' and goin'. If only Rose had been a fruit-filled pie of a barmaid rather than a willowy lady of the Monmouth court. You could pick your teeth with that girl...
     Davydd settles with a grin and a groan, like he's old, in the chair on the other side of the corner. "I'll be putting breeze up a Norman come the morrow, trust me. He's not a man to leave in the quiet. Need to see both his hands on the table..." Emerald eyes glitter with his wink. Davydd leans in toward you, as if he's to tell a secret -- something just between mates -- but then he pipes up, "...Is't possible that the Flower of Yr Alban," that'd be you, Marta, "...has actually grown lovelier since last I saw her? Must be all the love she gives. You know... I've half a mind to dress up like a stray, put m'self in a basket and leave m'self on the doorstep for her to adopt..." He laughs loud and rich, he does. Half-entertaining the thought. "So," he says with an exhale, hands landing on the table, "... Dunross and Plantagenet have brought peace in the valley?"

     In the kitchen, Marta does move, quickly bringing out trays and earthenware, the sounds of real pottery, old foods. "Y'can keep sayin' that, Llywelyn, cause I don't get t' hear such from the old dog there," Marta teases, giving a wink Donal's direction. "Y' can stay," she affirms, waving a slicer of some sort. Electric kettle is put back on as Marta continues orchestrating.

     Donal looks up with a wizen'd eye, his lips twisting as the jokes come fast and furious at his expense. He ignores Marta with a dismissive wave of his hand, turning back to you. "Yea, it's been a mite more chilly," he torments Dunross, "...which, really, God be told, 'tis a good thing, y'know, Davy? I hadna realized 'zactly how busy we'd gotten. Now mind ya, we're still runnin' like a goat in fresh field, but...it's not so bad as before." He's quiet a second, then asks, "You goin' t' see them, huh?"

     The kettle doesn't take too long. Marta sweeps over, hips and hair swaying in time. "Here ya are, lads," she murmurs, bending over the table to set a tray. An old teapot, sugar and milk are placed there, along with teaballs and a small can of loose leaves. She also leaves sweet plates, empty now, save a fork, knife and napkin lain upon each. "Pies up soon..."

     He can't help the laughter. Even if he could, he wouldn't. Nothing says love from Davydd so much as teasing well meant. He's a soft spot in his cold dead Ventrue heart for the two with him now. An old kinship. Brotherhood of Celts, albeit from different tribes. There is a bond there old as the hills of Scotland and mountains of Wales. "You're a peach, darlin girl... I think I will. Ha, so much for peace in the valley..." It amuses him, his reputation for battle and for being loud. He's proud to be a rebel in his heart.
     Settling back in the chair, Davydd rests thick muscled, Welsh wool covered arms upon the chair's own. Warm the grin that crosses his features then. "Hmph... a full few degrees cooler. I say the same whenever Rose slips in. I have to have an electric blanket on the bed, just to keep m' equilibrium..." She puts up with a lot, doesn't she. "... but..." a hand reaches up to rake back red hair, "... it's a good thing, them being back. Hey, Marta!" he calls out. "D'you know the Norman was in the bed of the Old Scot?" You being Goddess Rumor, you have to know. "The Brat Prince had a good chuckle when I looked shocked..." Green eyes slide back to Donal. "Did you know? I thought it was a bit... well... odd them staying on," like in the same house. "God knows," Davydd chuckles, "..I'd tell Mithras to fuck off..." And then he shudders at the very idea.
     He becomes oddly, and suddenly serious. Warm. Momentarily gracious. "Aye, I am, Wallach. I figure... he was do a wake up call..." All words halt when Marta bends. "You certain you don't have a sister," he growls, almost wistful. Then cuts a look to Donal with a grin. You lucky, lucky bastard.

     Marta rolls her eyes as she turns to head off, seeming thrilled to have company and to provide a small spread.
     "Aye, they're in bed together," she shrugs, "...what'd you think they were doin'? Crocheting?" She shakes her head and bends to fish a tray from the oven. "You boys," something unintelligible following, sounding like silliness upon you all.

     Donal's elbow rests on the table and hand cradles his chin. Mithras? That sends him somber. "They been t'gether a while," he ruminates, everything worthy of a bit of quiet before speaking on it. Free hand lazily pours water for you both, seeming not too surprised by it all. "I mean, I guess'd so, but it's not like any should ask their business. Maybe it's all alright." As he is wont to think about most things. "I saw The Norman...oh... a few months ago, t' speak honest...he seem'd..." green-brown eyes look up, brushy brow pondering a word, "....happy. Content." For lack of anything more precise. Donal bends and reaches for the nearest dog, patting a head. "Y'can't ask too much more than that, Davy," honestly. So leave them be. Donal smiles and sets pot down, looking for leaves.

     There was laughter for that. Crocheting. And then it quiets. And all is still. Oh beware. Beware. "Well, you know...I should have guessed. He's French." He almost bites his own tongue for that, but instead just grins. Hands go up. "Oh, I'll leave it be, Wallach... No one's happier for the dark cloud to be gone than me..." But contentment? This I have never known. It's a foreign concept. Davydd leans in to feel the steam then back again. The smile still perched on his lips. "Bah, contentment. Well," an exhale, "... I owe him a visit. My turn."
     Settling back once more, feet are propped up upon some railing beneath the table. He lets you tend to the leaves for the now. "I would London were as quiet. I'm itching to be away and back in my Gwynedd," he murmurs. A rare serious moment. The madcap prince takes a step back, receding for the more intense and brooding sort. Though... the smile is resolute. It won't budge from him. Eyes sparkle to you both, shifting to take you both in. "But... for Yule I will go at least. We will see on't after. Nothing but a great deal of arguing circles. Maybe I shall move to Scotland with the rest of you lot...I could get used to this life of pies and sweet-cheeked women." That's for you, Marta darlin...

     From the kitchen, Marta emerges. This time, she has a small serving tray in her hand, and with mittened hand, she sets two pies upon your plate. Another two are placed upon Donal's plate, who bobs his head murmuring, "Thanks, lass, yer a good 'un."
     "I canna see you movin' up here, Davy," she says before turning about, making sure the view's pleasant. "If ya do, there'd be a lotta sadness in Cymru..."

     Donal agrees, smiling at his pie, "Aye, they'd ne'er forgive us for't. They'd say we'd b'witcht ya somehow." His grin is wicked, thinking that such might even be possible. He picks up his fork and motions at you with it, soon digging in afterwards.

     "Ya, an'd they'd say Sidhe did it," Marta calls from the kitchen, hands already pouring from a large earthenware container to a pint glass. The head comes up creamy, and the dark lager is perhaps little more than wheat and honey. Marta opens a small door under a cabinet with her foot...not really a refrigerator, but perhaps just a cool box for the mead. The container is replaced, and the pint is gingerly set at your hand for the taking. "There ya go, Davy. Enjoy."
     The pies were quickly warmed. And there's more too! The pastry wafts sweetly, crisp and flaky, but another aroma lies underneath. Something rich and heady, cuts of steak in a hearty sauce with large lobes of fresh mushroom. Homecooking of the oldest sort. In the middle of the table sits the requisite salt and pepper, but something says they might not be necessary...

     "Ahh... Marta... I know y' love me..." comes the normally rough and loud voice but softly. Steam rises from the pies and with its flavors, to his senses. All five will be employed. Green eyes lift -- flirtation can simply not be helped -- and the smile smoothens across his lips. Aye, he liked the view -- and it comes with a pint! God in Heaven, I have seen paradise. "Care to take up a perch with me?" His plate and glass are full but his lap is empty. It's either you or the dogs. The fork makes a flourish -- gimme a moment with the lager -- and he takes a healthy swallow of it. Have you ever seen him as blissful?
     The lager is set down after another swallow, and fork meets the pie, pastry broken for the heat and juices to escape. He'll let it cool a moment. "Ah, sure they would... but if this is how life is in the Hollow Hills, lovelies, I'm partial to the kidnapping... " A fond grin to both of you, a wink, and another swallow from the lager. "Ah, it's not so bad for England," he murmurs after a moment. "But Cymru is home. Everyone else is gettin' their homecomin, I guess I'm getting a bit wistful for mine own. Jesu, even Edward's returned to the Loire a time or two..." Albeit, once was business, dragging a mostly dead body. But still.
     There is room on his lap, Marta...

     "The Brat? In th' Loire?" Donal's brows arch curiously, a bit surprised to hear that. "On business, I guess?" He's already chewing quickly, peering at you between bites. "Last time I saw 'im, twas York. He'd came to drop meh off a package." As if Donal would go any further south than that. He wonders quietly, shaking his head as he returns to his food.

     In the kitchen, Marta's turning down the warmer as she sets lemon tarts on a stone square within. "Aye, I'm comin'," she says, bending again. "But, eh, Davy, if y' wanna go home for a while, why don't ya? There's plenny of others there in the City so you can go be with your people..."

     Davydd makes a bit of a wave with his fork as he takes the first bite in. A sound of immediate appreciation follows -- male joy and pleasure, that sound. Pie is soon half devoured and lager half gone. He's a man of tremendous appetite. As ye all know. "Well... bit of business in the start, then he stayed around the countryside." Davydd chuckles, "Course... if I had Plantagenet as a next door neighbor, I'd keep an eye on my boundaries as well. You better watch that one, Donal... " he warns with a slant of a grin. Green eyes smolder with humor. Fork pointed at you in a momentary gesture. "He's tricky..."
     There is quiet a moment more, conversation now coming in fits and starts between bites and swallows. He may be of the 12th Century and a barbarian prince but he's not rude and unmannerly. Raised by a hands-on Welsh queen, this one. Gwynamara of Dyfed -- lovely woman she was once. Course, not much to look at now. Emerald eyes lift and Davydd leans back to cast attention to Marta. "Oh, aye... I know... been too long. I should go." I will go. "You know... it'd make my life easier if I just conquered England in the name of Cymru and reestablished Gwynedd as the capitol of culture..." He laughs at that and goes back to eating his pie.

     "Hmm... well, hear tell the lights were back on at Knightsbridge. But he's been keepin out of sight, our Brat Prince. After I put breeze up the Norman and keep him on his toes for our well-being, I'll pop back down and check on Edward before the holidays...So, what have you planned? Anything? Going to hover about the fire with all your brood?" That said to both of you.

     The pies on the hot stones, and Marta is done for now. She reaches back into the cool box for the earthenware carafe and moves over to you both. Her hands brush at her apron, and she pulls up a chair between the both of you. "I think some will jes visit, aye, Wallach?" she queries, that being her last understanding. "I'll be makin' some pies an' breads...but it'll be a good Yule," she bobs her head.

     Donal nods, passing on his mead, and instead choosing to stick with tea for a moment. He makes short work of his first pie, adding, "Aye, 's th' plan," he nods, "I think a few o' th' folk around will come...an' we're t' help Marta make her deliv'ries..." for those who can't be present. "It'll be a right nice time, methinks." Waving his own fork now, Donal says, "An' y' should take Rose an' g' spend Yule with yer folk, Davydd," if you know what's good for you.

     Mouth full of pie, he has to pause to taste, chew and swallow. A blithe look on his face all the while -- none makes a better pie in all this isle than Marta. But after he does so -- only a few crumbs linger as evidence that a pie even existed -- Davydd sits back with a sigh, a grin and a hand reaches for what's left of his lager. Aye, he inhaled that. As much as he would were he living. With the same ravenous intensity of a man thankful for every bit of food that goes into his mouth. "Ah, that reminds me... I've your gifts of the season in the back of the Rover. Don't let me get away without payin my respects for the Lord's Birthday."
     A hand reaches up and rake-scritches in red hair, a smile slanting across his mouth. "Oh... well now... I think Lady Clifford would like the holiday back in the kingdom. I was plannin on't." He shrugs though. Not that I'm romantic or anything -- none of that rubbish for me. Bah. Love. Davydd grins, hand lowering to rest with his other at his gut. "Santa Davydd they call me, distributin gifts and spreading holiday cheer." He laughs at that, boisterous and full of fire and light. Emerald eyes touched with a bit of a jade corona around pupils. "I even got somethin for Dunross..."
     I better get acquainted with that man if he's really the true love of my only remaining brother. By marriage or no, that deal was struck and so it shall stand as long as either of us live. "I'm not sure what to do with m'self after the year though... I'm getting that..." Hands gesticulate, "... restless feeling..."

     Gifts for Dunross? Donal smile, but there is humor and skepticism mixed in it. Mouth full of pie, he waves his fork still, "I dinna know you were such th' Christian," he teases, "...way kind of ye, Davydd of the Cymri, Prince o' th' Pagans." Even as Diana had been. Donal chuckles and finishes off his cup of tea, looking to Marta, "Mind a pint, lass?" Please?

     Marta looks up from her reverie, nodding as she pushes away from the table with a heave. "'S good o' ye, Davy t' think of both of 'em," she agrees, "Like I was tellin' Wallach when he come back from his visit to 'em." And why not? What's so wrong with the man? Marta sashays to the kitchen, returning quickly with a fresh pint glass. "As t' what t' do wit yerself...don't th' Councils ha' things for ye t' do, Davydd? I'd be thinkin' they'd keep ya busy. Issa big city, London is...."

     "It is like a monk's clock, Marta. Give it a wind once a year and it runs with faith steadfast in time as in God," quoth Davydd. I need a cigarette. Talking about London makes me want to smoke, drink, whore and forget. "I'm sure I'll be praying for quiet times come Candlemas..." Davydd smirks at himself and then grins to both of you. "So hard to believe a Christian is it? If it hadn't been for Welsh druids accepting Christ as the new Lugh, Lord of Sun and Light, we'd all be cavorting in caves and eating moss for breakfast..." He laughs. Riot! That was good! Then winks. "I'm about as Christian as Merlin... i'faith... but... no point in not being gracious now. I'll let you lot celebrate Our Yule..." Point of fact -- the Welsh were dyed-in-the-wool Catholics after the 7th Century. Well, so long as they could do it their own way, still holding onto Older Ways. "But you know... I figure it... I should at least try to act like a prince... once in a while...Just to keep everyone on their toes...I like to be shocking."
     He finishes his lager with a smile and a sound in his throat. "Good... straight to the heart of what I needed tonight." Turning his head toward Marta, Davydd flashes a winning smile. "Ah, lass... and if I asked you sweetly could I persuade another too?"
     Words of Dunross make him pause for a bit in thought. Consideration. A look of... reflection. "Oes," comes the Welsh in a warm hush, the equivalent of 'aye', "...I need to make good on't. I love William like the air... twould be wrong to exclude the one he loves likewise, ni?" Lips curl in a smirk and hands come up. "I'm starting to sound sentimental. No match for the Scottish lager it seems..."

     Marta grins as she pours for you both. "Tarts'll be out i' a shake," she says softly, making sure both pints are filled. Donal continues to finish his meat pies, wiping his fuzzy mouth with his napkin. He glances behind himself to the front windows ever so often, just to make sure.
     "There," she says, retaking her seat with a fold of her skirts. It's been a few moments since words were spoken, but she begins with a solemn, "Aye, it's wrong t' exclude someone," her gaze on Donal, chidingly, "...no matter how y' feel. If y' can't have char'ty for those who love someone you love, how can y' have char'ty for those who mean nothin' t' ya? How can y' be a Samaritan t' a stranger, ifn ya can't t' those who ha' meaning?" Ah, they have had this conversation before, apparently.

     Donal peers through bushy brows and half-lidded lashes, still hunched over his pie. Don't start, Marta. "Thankee," he snorts with a smile, dismissing the reprimand, hand picking up his pint. "No on'e gonna disagree, Mart, I was jes' sayin' that sometime, it's easier when it's someone y' don't know 'tall, as 'pos'd to someone y' half know. That's all...it was just talkin', woman." Goodness gracious.
     Both of them look to you then, expecting another opinion. Speak up!

     "Wot d'ye think, Davy...we're askin' ye spot on...what of Dunross? From what I hear," Marta confesses, "..an' it's not cause I've really met th' man or anythin', but from what I hear, he done good by many in th' Camarilla." And that's alright by her. "E'en Donal says that's true..." but there's a but lingering in the air. "Ain't that enough? Ain't that what we all wanna do? So...why's all the weird...seeing Will wit' th' man? I mean...yeah, so...Wallach says it's his Sire an' all...an' that's not new or anythin'. It happens." So what is the damned problem? Her eyes widen, looking at you both now, she insistent that someone explain the odd feelings that seem to happen when 'they' as a mated pair are alluded to.

     I'm not gettin in the middle of this argument! Oh well, dive in Davydd. "Oh... I agree... to be a Samaritan... but you know how it is, Marta... sometimes... it's easier to be kind to a stranger. There's no attachment there -- of anger or anything else. It can ... seem more gracious than perhaps it really is." He's known for his blunt truth and there you have it. "Not to say it is right, but there it is, love... human fucking nature..." And isn't it lovely? We've seen it unfold. Davydd motions with his hand as if to wave that argument off. Not the point.
     As both of you then look to him, Davydd leans forward, arms on the table. He's got his earnest face on. A look is shared with Donal -- don't just sit there, you old wolf, pipe up man! -- and then to Marta. Ah, and thereupon his expression softens, the charmer.
     "I guess, darlin, it's as easy as this. I married him to my sister. I knew him then, I've known him all along. I never knew that he was into Dunross as he is. Loyal? Oes, to the last drop of his blood. But e'en when he was here with Dunross last and Dunross was in a crate, I didn't think it was love. Nothin' to do with Dunross personally. I have no ill will for the man. I don't know him so well as all that -- only his reputation, and, oes, it's a good one. But it's one thing to hear of a man remotely. It's another thing when you find out your brother's in love with the man..." That's all.

     Beside you, Donal Wallach simply wipes his mouth again, preoccupied with adjusting his napkin on his lap. He'd prefer not to have this talk, but as things go with Marta, there it is. In the middle of his meal. In his silence, he appears to agree with you, eyes peering to see how Marta reacts to all of this.

     Her head cocks to the side, auburn hair dangling freely above the floor. "An' so since ye remember somethin' that happened..." she waves her hand, "...oh, how long ago..." she looks at Donal, trying to recall his version of the story, "...oh...eight cent'ries ago, twas it so...y' canna understand now?" She shakes her head, "I'm glad I'm not so God-strict stuck in th' past!" Marta looks at Donal, "An' so ye remember when you didn't bathe...d' ye wanna go back t' that too?" And then to you, "An' th' girl you were rogerin' before Rose? Not th' last one...but the' one four cent'ries ago. Y' said y' lov'd her too? Did any of ye," her eyes flickering between you, "...disbelieve Davy? Call 'im deluded?" No, I don't think you did. "Oh!" Marta's finger lifts, "That's it...in yer time, men dinna love men," she's quivering with the sarcasm, "...that's it. That ne'er happen'd! So, yeah, lads," those accusing eyes, "...childer ne'er been with sires before, men ne'er touch'd men before, Will's oft daft an' confus'd..." and the last to you, Davydd, "...an' the first tie that bind ye t' Will, in all this time...is yer sister. In eight..." she guesses it is, hands waving now, "...eight whole cent'ries, th' very very first thing that binds ye t' Will...is her?"
     She's disbelieving. All the situations, the events, the deep moments, death, living, fighting with William...and it's someone else that brings up the primary bond? Marta sighs, not really upset, just disappointed. "I hope...ye two..." and here she looks between both of you again, "...when ye think of all th' times you've spent t'gether, all the millions o' things ye done, I sincerely, pray t' th' Goddess, hope y'don't ever think about me as th' first or twentieth situ. I'd hope ye think about what's been between th' two of ye...an' not about th'...long ne'er you mind particularings. Ha. Y' marri'd 'im t' yer sister. I'm glad that's the first way y' think about William Plantagenet. As that man," her finger points out in the distance, "...that marri'd yer sister. Oh, then as the man you've known, personal-like, e'en longer than that long pass'd girl..." A shrug. Whatever. "Time t' get a new touchstone," that said to both of you, "...if ye need t' remember what attach'd ya t' someone."
     Marta reaches out to the stone carafe, lifting it and pouring to both pints, as if she'd said nothing at all.

     The rush of an inhale sounds like a breeze. Donal purses his lips and looks at you, admonished once more. Christ, he's heard this already...and it got passed through other relationships as well. "I..." he begins, then thinks better of it, reaching for his pint. "There's jes some thin's, Mart, that make an impression on yer life..." And marrying off a sister is one of them. "It's not th' only...I mean, I dinna meet Will like so...that's jes how Davy...that's what...comes up...for him..." Sorta. Kinda. Donal looks at you curiously -- that is how it works, isn't it?

     Davydd holds onto his chair through the ...rather furious Scottish gale that just blew over and he looks to her with a slow sliding grin. "Now, girl... you've ta'en it out of context... I'm not saying Cath's the only reason. Just the dearest. It's what made us friends. Before that... I'd have killed him given the chance...and I tried. What was between us first was his sword against my side, my arrow in his shoulder, and fields burned and Norman cousins on the land. Again." The Llywelyns, for all their roars of Welsh sovereignty and Welsh pride, were cousins soon of the Plantagenets. Eventually indistinguishable the one from the other. Davydd exhales. "It's just my way of thinking of the fond things, aye? Rather than the subjugation and conquest." He chuckles and tosses her a wink. "And I know there were... men what loved men and all that...it's just... I've never known that was a part of his life. He never showed nor spoke a word on't. All I see were... villages of women laid in William's wake..." The smile recedes somewhat -- but only for the space of a sip of that lager. "So, you know... I was a bit confused at first. It's growin' on me..."
     He's quiet for a moment. Actually quiet. A glance given to both of you as he settles back comfortably. "I'm not one to live on history. We didn't get to write it," so sayeth the Welsh prince, "...why should I live upon it like gospel?" He holds up a finger, "And the Welsh bathed. We were civilized. We had forks before the fall of Rome and ate off plates..." He chuckles suddenly and a grin is born on his face. It's like sunrise. When he smiles he is a lovely sight. Leaning over, Davydd reaches for a piece of Marta. "I've fought with and against him, lass. I've seen both sides. I've seen him in joy, in anger, in sorrow, in life and in death. Believe me, Cath-fach comprises only one tiny portion of it. I... just wish he had told me himself rather than me finding out about it roundabout. Oes? You follow me now?"

     "Mebbe," Marta leans in, "...he dinna tell ya...cause what'd y'd say...is jes what ye said. Again." And she's done, she'll explain no more. Pushing back from her seat, Marta stands, brushing out her skirts, "I'll be gettin' th' lemon tarts out," she proclaims, flipping around and sashaying once more towards the kitchen.

     Donal's brows lift, watching her go. He looks weary, that one, unable to remove his gaze from her. His shoulders fall, then that ruffled look turns to you with a wrinkle of his lips. Apologies. See what I live with? What am I supposed to say or do? Since he has no words, Donal picks up his pint and takes a long drink of it, soon returning to the quiet of his pie's remainders.

     "You've a good heart, Marta," Davydd's voice lifts and easily fills the space she put between herself and them. "And you're right, lass. I'll... make my amends on the morrow...to both of them..." Green eyes cut across the table, and though reproached and chastised Davydd's all easy smiles. Little troubles him -- tis only talk and Truth. He lives a life of accidental zen. A foot nudges you beneath the table and he leans in, a whisper. "Real firebrand," comes the Welsh in a hush. Any thought of apology is waved off as Davydd sits back.
     "Now that I've been shown my place by your woman," the dragon rattles, lifting his own pint of lager. It'll be downed shortly, "...I think we should ask her to sing a few highland ditties... soothe the sting..." Green glitters in a wink. Another nudge beneath the table. Come on, old friend, nevermind it. She's a woman... it's how they are...

     She waves the compliment off, hands needed to pull the warmed flaky tarts out. No hard feelings, and her take on it is perhaps like yours. Just truth between long time friends. Soon she begins to hum a little, checking out how the tarts are, slightly warmed.

     Donal looks up, finishing the last of his pie. The fork is set down, and the sheepishness begins to wear off. He smiles as you nudge him, then chimes at the suggestion, "Hmm. Maybe she'd play th' pipe," he asks, making sure his voice was loud enough to hear. "She's so good at that."

     I've got a pipe she can play...
     It is good that Llywelyn has some amount of internal moral dialogue and can keep from uttering -- at least sometimes -- the first thing that lands upon the tongue. But to mention of it, he grins. "Ah now... that would make the evening steer well and true. If I got on my knees and asked you sweetly, Marta, flower of Yr Alban, would you?" Can you really resist that, Marta? Thought of getting the great Llywelyn on his knees? Well maybe it's not such a high honor as all that, from what you know of him and his ways... but still, the almost-chivalrous intent is there. It's about as courtly as he gets. He's no knight...
     The next moment finds Davydd preparing to stand. Scooting out the chair. Finishing the lager in a long swallow. Preparing to get on his knees if need be.

     "Ach, don't be silly," Marta says, glancing over as she finishes setting up the pies. Small plates are brought over, gleaming yellow tarts in shells brightening up the dish. Bits of mint and rose petals are on the side, and one is set before each of you. "Mebbe th' harp instead tho," she requests, "...I could sing in th' meantime."

     Finishing his own lager, Donal reaches out to fill pints again. "That's a right lass, there," he points out, nodding, "...an' a bird's voice." He beams at the tarts, murmuring, "What would we do wit'out ya, Marts?"

     "The harp, even better, the divine instrument... we'll fashion a duet, love..." He who is known for a few things, but having a sweet voice in song was ever his claim to fame... that and a sharp tongue and sword, primarily. And fingers that can pluck the strings of a heart such that stones bleed at the sound. So it is said. And all is right in the universe again. Closing his eyes, Davydd holds out his hands. A deep inhalation drawing in scents and first tastes of the tarts. He reaches out for the refill of lager, opening his eyes even as the last few drops settle into the foam. And he grins. A lift of his glass. "I love you both, you know. Saints, the pair of you." He said the 'love' word again. Bit of a rare night for Davy-bach...
     A swallow of lager and he retakes his seat. "I'll have to come to Scotland more often. I haven't been this well tended in a moon's time...It is no wonder that your house isn't filled to the gills with those refusin to leave. The pies alone... were the company awful... twould be reason enough...and for my part, without you Marta... I'd starve and die..." Green glitters again, another wink, and settling back within the embrace of his chair Davydd sighs. Even the restless, fiery, smoke-breathing last true Llywelyn on this green and lovely earth can be stilled and soothed.... and content... sometimes.

Posted by rowan at July 25, 2000 12:43 PM