I put the crown upon his head to a tumult of cheers. Blossoms were thrown upward from the fisted hands of fairy kings and queens and courtiers to rain upon the newly crowned head. As the blossoms pinpricked upon my skin, whispered against his own, power from one became the other's.
     Rhodri went to his hands and knees....
     And I was exhausted...
     Revel, I said, and salute your king with glasses that never empty, plates that are forever full, give him the honor that is owed him. The revelry will last all night. It's not that we need attend. In fact, kings rarely attend their own parties. It's not for them, you see, but for their subjects.
     So let them drink...
     Let them dance...
     Let them sparkle in all their orgiastic display...
     For me...
     For me there is a pillow with my name on it...

     By Rose... I am swept up in the frenzy, my hands are trembling with the Joy.
     By Mandrake... I am drugged with it, the newness, and the Want now constantly present...
     By Honey Tongue... Even my laughter drips with it, falls from me effortlessly...
     By Apple... My ears are crowded with poems...
     By Elder... Each passing moment since my crowning brings a new sensation...
     By Mistletoe... A king is in his power... all over...
     By Hazel, Wise Hazel... I know there is pleasure in waiting...
     By Heather...My energies are full, I am Youth Forever...
     Snapdragon, Snapdragon... you shall come in quite handy...
     And you, Thistle... the Thief's Whistle... where were you before?
     By Beech... I shall make this a night for you to remember...
     By Oak... Myself...the force of them all, together.

     You have never been here before. Neither has the Oak King, the New Oak King rather. These, the expansive and opulent chambers of the King of Avalon. There is a meadow of apple trees grown here especially, their fruit golden and blushed like the cheeks of Aphrodite. There is a cascading waterfall fountain that falls into a turquoise pool, meant for bathing but large enough for swimming and surrounded by pillows.
     The walls are windows that overlook the holly grove, called Perilous, and Avalon, and even unto the border nations, including your own. The windows open onto balcony patios interwoven with flowers of all colors and scents. The floor is red and white checkered marble (just like Powis) but softened with exotic rugs, from fairyland to Neverland and back.
     There are books and books, large untitled tomes. Instruments and writing utensils, and a gathering of more cushions, sofas too but so unearthly with all their swirled arms and rich elven velvets. The chamber is several interconnected, with the bedchamber around a corner...
     Even more sumptuous than the rest of the chamber, no surface of floor to be felt for all of the rugs and furs. The bed is quite enormous, it could fit five with ease, though hopefully it shall never be so crowded. Canopies hang suspended from the ceiling, the edges lifted outward, floating. Whites and reds, again. From the coverlets of silk and satin and fur to the decanters of red and clear glass containing red and clear liquid nearby...

     Davydd turns his head from where it rests against the glass of his window, his short red hair still pocked with the blossom-confetti. Dressed in his ceremonial outfit of bronze armor and scarlet cloaks, he is a glorious, if exhausted figure. He turns his dark green eyes, the color of his woods, to this kingdom (not his any longer) and to the kingdoms that extend far beyond it.
     And gauntleted hands begin to fumble at the gatherings of his cloak. "I need a drink," he murmurs in ancient Welsh, his Welsh, as his cloak piles heavily to the floor. He's soon to follow, from the looks of it.

     Rhodri does not hear him, not from where he lies upon the bed, stretched out and equally glorious now in nothing, his changed tattoos a wonder against his skin. Opposite to his father again, he is nothing but energy. It hums around him, buzzing like bees around nectar. His grin, saucy. His eyes, sparkling. His body, unearthly, with Celtic hounds joined by the hawks and the horses of the Oak King's pantheon. By the blossoms and forests of his newborn power.
     He reaches out with his hand, he takes one of the decanters and he pours himself a drink, as if he had heard his father after all.

     She was far from unmoved.
     You two who know her so well, were you watching, would have seem the colour move up and into her face, seen the shifting, shimmering colours of her eyes radiant as the sky reflected off water by sunlight, by moonlight, by any light at all. And yet she held herself, contained to just the expressions which would do you honour fitting from a queen...
     What did it cost her, that grace, to withhold from common view the tug, the pull, the lure of you? She has been bound up to her two kings, she is still bound, but it is not a ... polite thing, those ties, those bonds.
     Whether Holly or Oak, it is not polite. There is nothing of politeness in that grasping need, the drawing wrench and knife's twist to the belly that is your draw upon her, separate or commingled. And yet ...
     Somehow ...
     Fiona maintains her gracious demeanor, cheeks blushed with apple colour, lips wine-darkened and eyes tumultuous - but there is the mask, the glass in the way of it. Her smile is warm, but publically acclaiming only to the extent which a satellite queen ought, and she makes the supreme effort : her eyes do not follow one king more than another any more than she ought.
     Not until the other kings and queens are no longer in view, at least...
     And here she is, and here you both are, you rapidly removing your outer layers while she stands in apple garments, the crowning wreath of apple blossoms at her hair making her now (and perhaps forever) the Apple Maiden. Is it Avalon that has done to her thus? Or is it something else?
     Her eyes are very blue, threaded with silver to make them seem the bluer, and now that you have withdrawn, it is harder for her to keep up the act. She moves carefully, drawing her cloak close, heavy as it is. "You two should take your ease, my kings. Allow me to wait upon you. You have both done waiting enough."
     The words are almost strange, even with their play upon them; Rhodri, you have waited for her, have you not? In this short span, waited, wooed and won, but in the longer sense, how long waited for a woman of any sort of equality, of openness and sharing and truth? Waiting, too, to go through motions that seem designed to spur the final consummation, culmination further and further away. It is little wonder that impatient grooms have urged elopements before...
     And Davydd...
     Your life has been one of frenetic activity, spanned between those endless, unceasing motions by a constant and equal tide of waiting for things to happen, waiting for people to be ready, waiting for the battle to be joined, to be ended, while always moving and never stopping but always waiting.
     And the both of you have tempted and teased and tossed and taught her, waited upon her impatience, her ignorance, her desires. Even if there has been a give and a take, an ebb and a flow, the play on words is True...
     There is a skin of cider within her cloak, but it is ignored, for now. She moves carefully, as if putting one foot down too heavily might destroy the dream, a soap bubble of imagery (what is real?) and dismiss the two of you back to some adolescent fever-dream. Before Drancy. Before Paul. Before, god help us, Isobel and her touch upon her fairy-blessed, fairy-cursed descendant.
     Fiona sets glasses upon a tray, scarlet and green-edged like hummingbirds' throats. "Tell me, of course, how I may best be of service to you both, my kings."
     As wife...
     As lover...
     As satellite queen...
     Or as something else...?

     We have caused quite a Stir. The Hornets of Gossip shall be buzzing at every hive, of the crowning of a king, and of the One Queen set in between. The newest queen of them all, the heir to the murdered Isobel. Unnamed though her kingdom may be, her name shall now be known throughout the thousand-thousand realms. Queen Fiona.
     But what is her relationship to These Two?
     Shall one of them be a match?
     Or shall she be... nestled in between...
     All of the permutations of this triangle shall be picked clean, but it will never lose its luster. It is far too juicy a grape of gossip for that. And with the three of us now absent from the banquet, be sure that hornets are buzzing wildly, sipping the nectar of every possible angle...
     Davydd turns his head at the voice, his gaze sharp but his expression almost distracted. As if he were lost in the woods of his thoughts, his gaze at her like a hand moving the branches away. "A drink... something... anything..." Davydd says, his voice soft. "And then you should tend to your lord..." his eyes flicker toward the bend of the chamber, the bedchamber he cannot see from this vantage. "I could sleep for a thousand years," he sighs sing-song, his armor chiming like soft cymbals in his motion. Now, he is Mars...
     After the heavy outer, ceremonial outer cloak, there is another which is also shrugged off, the heavy bronze and gold brooch, like an ancient Celtic artifact, going with it, unharmed as it lands upon the cushioning fabric. Slowly -- and now would not be the time to call him Old Man, no matter how much he may resemble one at the moment -- Davydd lowers his armored self to the many cushions propped in front of the view of the kingdoms.

     "My Queen, if you are looking for ...employment... come, let me borrow your hands for a while..." The voice of your new king all but sings to you, the honeyed tone of his voice a worthy companion for the lyrical syllables that trip from the honeyed tongue. "You are too beautiful to play serving woman. Should we not get you maidens of your own?"
     If his voice is music, his laughter is copulative. Rich, warm, begetting chuckles after it. "You may be of best service in my arms, Fiona... now... more than ever," Rhodri the Oak King speaks, his voice lifting and lowering from the bedroom of bedrooms.

     Gracefully, nectar is poured into glasses, something of honey and fruit, flavoured with delicate spice. It is golden; it glows as everything here glows, ambiant and gorgeous as the tray is carried aloft between delicate hands, first to the elder. Blue eyes regard the High King yet to be.
     "Do not mire yourself from us too long in the maze of your own moods, King Davydd," Fiona murmurs low, voice surprisingly sweet and without artifice as she sets the goblet where he may reach. "I know it is necessary for you to do so, but remember that we love you, hm? Davy." Lightly her hand trips over a kingly shoulder, however armoured, and then she withdraws.
     As she is commanded...
     The tray with its other glass is carried to the bed, to the one upon the bed, her cheeks growing reddened with the sound of that voice. "In private, a queen may serve her kings as she sees fit," Fiona retorts, "and perhaps I am jealous enough of you both not to wish my appearance put to the test of other women. But here; something for you to drink. And if there should be need, I will provide more."
     There's a note of piquant, poignant truth in that statement, but it isn't true at the same time; she hovers at the side, at the edge of the bed, tray with its offering to the newly crowned king. Her glance goes from one king to the other and back, forming a circuit.
     It is weighty...
     And, perhaps, harder now to feel like a queen...
     "How does it feel?" Fiona asks it softly, offering the glass to Rhodri. "To be crowned like such. If it feels like anything at all that I can relate to," she adds frankly. "Right now, I - feel the division between our sexes more than usual. I don't know why."

     The High King to be... an enigmatic figure. A walking paradox of manly needs and kingly responsibilities. So much yet to be done. But he is dressed for it. His bare hand takes the glass that is offered, a look out of his thoughts to you taken, a slight nod in reply for your advice, but he is in those woods still, his journey taking him elsewhere. He knows it. You see it. It is time. And in his weariness, in giving himself to his son, and to you, he is also sad. Wistful, as he looks out upon his future.

     Rhodri sits up as you enter the bedchamber, and in doing so it is easy to see why you feel the division between the sexes more than usual. He is naked, clothed only in his power, the visible artistry of it, and in his virility so powerfully on display. And his need.
     He reaches for the glass with a radiant smile, a smile that takes its liberty with you. "Diolch, my beauty, my apple," he murmurs. He lifts the cup to his mouth with both hands, pausing for a grin at the rim, a grin you have seen between your own thighs on more than one occasion. "I am thirsty... that is how it feels. Thirsty for everything." Rhodri sips, then sets the glass aside. "Throbbing, thirsting, thrusting. I think... that about sums it up. Your entrance... was perfect...I am glad I had to be upon my knees for you would have had me there anyway." His tone is familiar, dropping the formal tones, more antiquated. He reaches for your hands.
     "I love you, my queen. I want no other hands to tend me for all of my lives," his fingers touch your own, and there is narcotic in his touch. Desire, concentrated, given a form. Rhodri draws your fingers to his lips, kissing them lightly. One by one.

     Davydd listens, of course he listens, his eyes cast to the world as the two of you go quiet. In a kiss, no doubt. Soon the bed will be shifting and you will be calling his name. My king, my king, you will say. Take me, my king. Davydd takes a long swallow of the liquid, and with the weight of his own spent power in today's exercise and with the weight of the armor, he sinks into the cushions with a soft 'remember me' chime.
     But he does not wish to take anything from Rhodri. It is his day. He should take his queen. He should enjoy her, and her him. Davydd smirks a little. Besides, you're probably too tired to even get a rise... Old Man...

     Power has always been an aphrodisiac. To men, to women, they have chased it, crawled for it, clawed at it, demanded, begged, sung for it, sighed for it, prayed...
     Fiona has always run from it. And yet power has chased her down and thrust itself upon her, and like begets like. It has always been a prerequisite in these mating calls, has it not? Now her skin flushes, as her hand is touched, as she settles by the side of the bed, gaze dropping. The tray is placed gently down, her fingers tracing the cold metal.
     "You were everything any woman could desire, throughout the coronation." The words are pitched between you both; spoken aloud, but for you both, tone intimate and low with a faint hair-thin quaver through the middle. "I love you. It was rather a helpless sort of feeling, that - watching."
     She is affected; of course she is affected, how could she not? More, perhaps, than ordinarily, though 'ordinarily' is still extraordinary to most. She sighs, her free hand lifting to the crowning wreath she wears, to begin unpinning it from where her silken threads are woven through vines to help hold it in place.
     Her hand is still captive, and she wants no reason to draw it away from where it is held, the suffusion of magic, of desire, of love shining on the gleet of her skin.
     "I had thought to make a gift of my own to you both," Fiona half-whispers it, eyes closing. "But, of course, I'm feeling almost shy tonight. Your fault," she sends the accusation to stand for itself in all its latent unfairness and feminine illogic. "Both of yours. Here." She leans forward for a kiss to Rhodri, knowing full well that such a kiss won't be any mere peck. Lips part for lips, but she's steeled her resolve so that she can pull away. "Another drink for you two, and a drink for myself. You worked hard, and it is my turn to be of service. I insist. It is important to me."
     Slowly she untangles her fingers from that of the son's, giving him that sudden wide, blazing sun of a smile to show her amazement, the delight she takes in him, tinged with the everpresent astonishment that she is loved.
     She circles round to collect more glasses, turning so that you may watch if you choose, to admire the line of her back, the long hair with is silk rows, the gown so cunningly, artfully woven. It is a show that she had arranged for the two of you, in your honour - others may see, but will never know the true meaning of it all. Carefully, she pours the fermented fruit - her fruit; golden and sparkling, made and bottled upon the occasion of her engagement (the first one), aged for a time and now brought forth, from her power, by her hands, with her hands, for you to ignore or to drink according to your own demands.
     It isn't what you do with it, but that she goes through these steps as carefully as a tea ceremony. It is a weight which she must lift by herself...
     Don't be sad. The thought is given to you, Davydd, with an almost overly serious look from eyes gone grey as the glass is set next to your first. You are working, always. And you are not replaced. I ... have a gift for you, later. Her hand smooths over the nubbly red hair, then slides away. Always first, Davydd. That is what you are. We'll need to talk about that later, but ... find some rest, some balm in Gilead?
     Rhodri may distract her, but she cannot forget - refuses to forget that...
     But she moves away; it is, after all, Rhodri's Day, and she has a glass to give, a king to serve. Her cloak has slid off, now, and she returns to the bed with a glass for you, newly crowned Oak King, and a glass for herself - and such a smile, such open-hearted love as she leans forward. I love you. You are ... indescribable.
     And the glass is held out...

     You had to pull away, and even as you pulled his mouth was set to follow, and did follow, and did kiss again until you pulled out of reach. "Very well," Rhodri whispers, "... I will allow you to serve me in peace... and in this bed when you return..."
     It is no mystery that the power moves through him, that he is its instrument as well as its player, that his body shows the effect of such and is, therefore, on edge. He lies back and will await your return, his hand coming out to take his first glass. And he drains it with a swallow, singing a sigh as he sets the glass aside.
     He does indeed watch you go. He admires what you have done, the importance and the care you assigned to it. And now to his every pleasure or wish. You pamper and he allows himself to be lavished by your care.
     He hums a song of his own devising as you move from the bedroom to the larger portion of the chamber, mostly concealed from this place. The steps you must cross to go from one to the other...

     Davydd does not respond in kind, no thought returned for your own that slipped within his already crowded mind, a rivulet of apple-blossomed words. Dark green eyes lower to the liquid remaining in his first cup from you. And likewise as his son, he downs the rest.
     A portion of his armor has been shed, leaving blue-dragoned shoulders bare and his chest. Vivid, serpentine forms in thickened muscle woods. The Chieftain of Chieftains, this. He makes a wave to your thoughts, his hand coming out for the refill. Davydd looks to you then, his gaze seeking your own out, and he gives a wordless endearment of love to you. The brushing of a finger of his upon a finger of yours as the glass is exchanged.
     But the brooding (or is it weary, simply?) look does not change. He looks to the world again as you draw away from him. He will sit there. He will listen to you with him. He will hear how you cry, mew softly for the mouth upon your skin, sing to him in that voice of yours, sweet and earthy both. He knows how your body will move, for he has felt it move for him. He knows the taste of you.
     The Landless King as now he is does not need you in his mouth to know that. He tilts the drink, closing his eyes, breathing in the flavor of the drink as he swallows it.

     The look does as much to move her as an ode would. It is her way, to melt for you both, to concede and surrender when the battle's been done. She is, and so she loves...
     The glasses contain that cider, brewed from the apples of Avalon that felt from the tree grown from the piano - and was that not, perhaps the first telltale harbinger of events then yet to come? A piano, touched by Rhodri and by Fiona both, but possessed by Davydd; and the results, sweeter than honey, the fermented, alcoholic essence of her Self. What else has she to give her two kings?
     As she moves, her fingers now unwind the garland of apple blossoms from her hair, petals shedding and being strewn - growing more plentiful, perhaps - where she walks. "I am new, compared to you two old things," Fiona remarks. "An upstart in your chambers. The noise in your pistols, maybe." She smiles, delighted by the imagery. "So ..."
     She returns to the bed, sets down the cup where another king may receive it, glancing to the first. "You both will need to tell me what commands you will have of me and my fledgling kingdom," Fiona says quietly, still with that almost mischief. She, who entered astride a centaur, with modest honor guard, with a gown woven of apple blossoms by fairy fingers. She has gone to effort indeed, but what might it portend?
     Well...
     Right now the first portent will likely involve the loss of the gown...
     Followed thereby by the oldest song of all...
     But for now, she sits, watching her two husbands, with their libations she's brought in offerings. "I will give to you whatever it is you wish," Fiona promises, the words spoken for both of you to hear. "Tonight, after all, you have both ... done a lot, haven't you? So - command me as you see fit."

     "Today, I do not wish to command," Rhodri murmurs. His emerald eyes lock onto you as he smiles at the rim of the cup. He can smell the apples, the smile broadens and with full knowledge of what shall happen he sips. "I wish my queen to be with me, loosen off your gown and be my equal..." He says he does not wish to command, and yet what does he do? He commands you to disrobe. "My victory will be here..."
     On the oldest battlefield there is, the marriage bed...
     Rhodri closes his eyes and then tips back his head, his hands both cupping the glass and tilting it back as he drinks deeply. As if it shall be the one thing, the only thing that could sate his thirst. You.

     Another pair of hands lift the cup. He, more than the other, knows exactly what it contains. Even as it was poured, he could smell it. He knew it like he knows your skin, Queen Fiona. Davydd paused only briefly, and then he too closed his eyes and drained the cider in a single swallow.
     But there is no tossing down of the glass, the roaring for you to get prepared for him. He doesn't suddenly show himself in the bedroom. Davydd makes no outwardly sign at all that he has just swallowed the aphrodisiac of aphrodisiacs. The only evidence, you will miss. The slight tremble of his hand, the dropping of the cup. He rests his head back on the cushions and he closes his eyes.
     And he falls into a sudden, charmed sleep...

     They are opposites this day, the son and the father. While the father sleeps, the son is in motion, his hands coming to assist you with your disrobing. Gently, as if this were your wedding night, Young Queen, and you were still a virgin. "Today, you are my queen," he whispers at your ear, his mouth finding your neck. "And I am, at last, your king... love me as such."
     Rhodri does not spare a glance for his father. He doesn't look past the wall that separates the chamber or the curtains that would at least make an attempt at privacy if they were drawn.

     She trembles at the words, as if she were the virgin she were being treated as. In simple motions she is captured - as she always will be; the baited bear, the hunted hare, the stamping stag, flying before the hunters until netted, until pierced, until driven to ground in defeat.
     The battle, the champion and the prize, in one body...
     "You are a king today," Fiona whispers, closing her eyes as her own unsteady fingers are assisted, as layers of flower silk are unwoven from her, the subtle shadings and colors winding away like so many ribbons in the wind to fall with the cessation of that wind. "And you are always my king. I do not feel very queenly."
     She is a bit overwhelmed, by more than touches, distressed as much as disrobed, milk-pale skin flushed with heady emotions - the wine of arousal, muddled by confusion, by her own inability to simply be in such moments. Her head tips back, allowing your mouth its purchase at her neck, her hand coming up to gently touch your cheek.
     I love you ...
     It echoes in the chamber, even as she herself echoes, climbing into the nautilus chamber that is the bed, the spiraling twist of emotions and complications that wind the two of you together into her heart. There are two of you; but she loves both of you with all her heart.
     Fiona shudders, turning to face you, to bump noses with you. "Rhodri," she whispers the name as if afraid of waking Davydd from his much-needed, much-deserved rest. "Show me what it means to you to be the Oak King..."

Posted by rowan at March 20, 2005 07:25 PM