The boots of the king are muddied, covered in the dark earth and leaves of his own forest trail. The earth is forever moist, fertile and constantly sprouting beneath the wide boughs of ash, amid the tangles of hollies, and he carries that bounty with him, that fertility with him unconsciously. It is as much a part of him as the mud and earth itself.
Past the rivers that are his own soul, past the last tangle of wild earth into crowds of flowers, the Holly King passes, clothed as a king should be here, he wears his station as surely as he would were he in nothing at all (though he would be decidedly more chilly and susceptible to ...drafts...). His tunic is deep green with a high collar threaded in precious gold. The embroidery of holly leaves is done with emeralds, with real rubies playing the part of plump and ever-ripening berries. His gauntlet gloves are lined with red fox fur, their outer shell is a stag's hide dyed deep green and threaded with the shapes of yew leaves. The trousers are suede as well, the same deep green of the gloves, but unadorned and untucked, covering the black leather boots. The cloak is the crowning glory, lined with red fox fur, the outer shell a thick and deep green velvet. The thread is precious gold that embroiders the cloak wholly, from the edges throughout the body of the great wrap, containing all twelve of the royal tree leaves, the edges decorated in dragons. The collar edging of the cloak is rimmed in fox fur and emeralds and rubies.
He is certainly not hard to miss as he steps out of the forest and onto the golden plain of the Young Queen's terrain...
Davydd stands there for a moment, not in pause to see if her army will greet him (he expects that he is, in fact, more than expected himself), but simply to stand in her space. To smell her air, her flowers, to see the vista of her land, the sweep of hills and valleys and coastline. He can smell the water. He can see her towers, the outline of her grand estate.
And for that time, he simply... absorbs...
There are sentries, here and there, that roam the roads that she has created; they do not interfere here, now. A King is a king is a King, and no bandit to stop and question, no evil to be halted at the border. And indeed, there is room for rogues, even here (how could it be otherwise), so long as they do not threaten those who come on the road.
Those that wander from the road, they take their own chances...
Men on horseback? Some, yes. And some that at first glance appear to be such, but closer examination reveals them to be - something else. Centaurs. Satyrs. Creatures of faerie and of further afield, perhaps...
And they come. There is a trickle of traffic along the Queen's roads. A household in motion - gnarled old man the size of a dwarf with dried roots for muscles, he carries an enormous sack upon his back. His wife, just as dried and twisting as he, carries a haystack upon her own back, from inside and on top of which peer six indifferent chickens and a rather surprised-looking pig. The chickens are ordinary colours, but the pig is blue.
A small caravan is further ahead, fairy men on horseback accompanying three wagons. Two of the wagons contain silks and spices, jars and flasks of who knows what. The third contains the merchant, currently dozing from in front by his driver, while from the back peer out several sloe-eyed beauties who attempt to wink and flirt with the guards - with little success, for whatever reason. They seem undiscouraged; the riders seem merely bored, and intent upon the city ahead. Geldings as they ride? Only their tailors know for sure...
Seldom is a King seen on foot. Where is the carriage? Where is the procession? Where is the armed guard, the following carriages of lithe female attendants? No musicians? No heralds? Why then... who shall notice you at all? There is no pomp, no circumstance as the King moves solitarily along the road, the road itself wiping clean the mud from his own kingdom.
He must cut an odd sight amid the caravans and travelers and ...blue pigs. There he is, in royal trappings, meandering along one of the life's roads into town, nothing to trade in but ceremony, nothing on him but the signs of who he is.
It is an amazing sight, this exodus. It is like the flood of immigrants past the gates of Ellis Island, a patchwork of fairykind and kin, motley in all its expressions. They come on foot, in carriage, from the neighboring kingdoms seeking something new, drawn to a new bright flame in the firmament, out of curiosity, out of need, out of interest, out of greed. And by sea, he can see, in the billowing low clouds of ship sails, the ringing bells of arrivals and departures.
As he stared into the distance past his own window, to the accompaniment of his queen's own pleasured sighs and moans, his visions stretched as a vista before him. Those god-given visions, and others more faint, just the impressions of things to come, things taking shape. Coins borne forward by cresting waves now become the ships that come in, loaded with rich and promising cargo.
Davydd moves along with the rest of the pilgrims, following the road to the grand estate of the Unnamed Kingdom, his head still aching, dark green eyes peering because of it, but far too taken with these wondrous things to care about the pain.
Fields and forests unfold, hills and dales. Wild land gives way to farmlands - the first sign of the approach to the City. These are new farms - yet already, already there are crops in the ground, the eternal patchwork of fertile lands being plowed. Milk white and bull black and blood red, cows of solid colours peer disinterestedly with liquid eyes from over a fence at those passing by. Every day is a little the same to them, on their bovine passivity.
And then there is The City. It has no name. Perhaps it needs none; perhaps there will be a name eventually, lying in wait patiently for the name to come into bloom in its season. And it is a sheltered city, backed by the tall pale cliffs, the palace above like a carved continuation; with arms outstretched, the Angel watches over the port and beckons...
There is even more life here, and lights that spring up along the water, along the walls. Guards too, yes, at the city gates, watching those who enter and those who leave. It is an open port, a free port - but they watch. They make note. They observe...
And from their observance, there is surely a message passed that there is a King approaching. A king without retinue. Walking. Armed? Does not appear so, sir. And so on...
Davydd is rather surprised he has not been stopped already, or accompanied. Any minute now, he expects to be deluged with welcomes! He only hopes their gowns won't rustle too loudly, the bows won't creak too pronouncedly.
"Pardon," he says in fairy tongues ancient and refined as he passes a pair and heads not to the fields and farms but toward the walled city and its crowning citadel. His motions are slow, his voice soft, as in his own amazement he is as taken by the spectacle as any tourist, mouth slack and all. It shall be a hard kingdom to name. Would only one name do for such a place as this?
Davydd strides toward the courtyard and welcoming gardens, not heading into the palace -- not yet -- but for a grand view of the port and sea. His hands land upon the marbled railing, gloved hands sliding along the smooth surface. The salty air fingers through short, thick strands of wild red, fiery bronze and copper.
The King is noticed. How could he be otherwise? A King is a king is a King...
But there is noone who intervenes. A King is permitted to wander, it seems - among the cobbled streets and the wide, curving ways like ramps, with the smaller staircases for those whose feet are not so hoofed, the gardens and the parks, the taverns and shops, all the pageantry that this newly created City has to offer.
And up - and up, there. There is someone who stands, quietly, stepping forward to greet a King where he watches. Young, she seems, with pale green eyes and rich brown hair, skin a colour caught between cream and tan, clad in simple elegance. Some lady in waiting, perhaps, bearing no sign of the mark of hard labour. Was she waiting? Was she sent?
"Your majesty. Hail."
For a moment more, he lingers, this king, his eyes on the ships below, the tide and ebb of commerce, the lower and lift of the birds who bob as heralds to it all. Davydd turns not at the voice, but at the Presence of Female -- something beyond mere sound, mere smell. The air itself changes, becoming a perfumed veil.
And Davydd turns, the embroidered cloak moving heavily but easily, to show the milk-white visage of thoughtfulness. And upraised fiery brows. He blinks at the young woman but then the corners of his mouth curl into a greeting (and inspecting) smile. "Thank you," he whispers. "I don't want to cause a complete spectacle..." Dark green eyes glance for other attendants popping out of the woodwork...
Of course, if they were as nice as this one, he wouldn't ... exactly ... complain...
"Are you to be my tour guide.... lady...?" His tone leads, his voice then pausing for a name. Or are you, as this amazing place, as of yet unnamed?
"Pistachio," she supplies with a calm mien and almost resigned expression. "That is, my name; her majesty, Queen Fiona, bade me receive you upon your arrival, but that you were otherwise to be permitted to explore until you found your way here."
The garment she wears is green, the colour of her eyes, of the nut for which she's named; a theme, perhaps. Her hands are clasped loosely in front of her, her regard remaining serious but without weight as she stands.
"You have come a long way," Pistachio remarks, "in a short while. I am to offer you any convenience which might please you, and as well, my mother thought that you might have questions - or comments. She said that I am to tell you that what you tell me will remain in confidence, for she knows how you like to use your tongue."
His mouth falls slightly slack again -- shocking -- but he doesn't blush, though if Queen Fiona herself said something of that nature he may well have, and have given her a look for it. But when you say it, it is without teasing and audaciousness. You mean it precisely as it sounds.
The slacked look quickly shifts to a grin. "I am a creature of comfort," his earthy voice made smooth as rocks by the river of such language. Stepping away from the railing, Davydd approaches his attendant. He reaches for her hand and he lifts it. A kiss of courtesy placed...
She tastes familiar...
Quite...
Davydd lowers her hand. "I do have questions, and I always have comments. It is an amazing queendom," another look cast about. "I would appreciate a guide. I could get lost, and that would be bad for my regal reputation."
Davydd slightly winces, his mouth cutting aslant, as his head aches, cycling through another round of visions and threading pain. "But... perhaps first," Davydd murmurs, "... a flagon or two of berrywine. I would like to see the chambers she will have designed for my own suites..." He is certain she has created such for him...
Familiar indeed, in taste and scent and perhaps even, slightly, the cadence of speech, the step of the walk. An amalgam...
"As you wish, your majesty." Pistachio's regard is just as serious as it was, the courtesy of the kiss to her hand acknowledged with a slightly bowed head and then another lift of those pale green eyes. "I am to be your hostess in her majesty's absence. She has offered her own quarters to you, as she will not be present to use them until later."
Later being as flexible a period of time here as in other realms, no doubt...
A step back is taken, and then Pistachio turns with a graceful swirl of silk, of braided and bound chestnut hair. "Please, follow me. Would you prefer I act the part of tour guide en route? There are some few areas of note, whether I take you to the Queen's chambers or to chambers for your Self."
"Please do," Davydd croons lowly. He blinks at himself and then smirks. That was a bit 'loungey' for a king. But the grin comes after, and no self-correction. "I most certainly want the grand tour. It's only fitting for such a grand place." He notes the stones, the way things come together. There is ...it isn't symmetry... but there is a kind of ...sense about the way things come together. It definitely isn't symmetry. It's...something else.
"Lady Pistachio," he says as he comes up beside her but slightly behind her, his hands interlocking behind him, covered by his cloak. "There seems to be a way...that things are put together. Is there a story that goes with it?"
He knows that there is, there must be, for things to be as they are. There is not a newness, even though it is new. There is more...character to the surroundings than something sparkling in infancy. It does not come with a blank slate, this queendom.
"I should like to see her chambers, naturally," he bends slightly, whispering as he says it. Grinning as he says it.
"As you wish, though I have no title; I have a name, which has always been enough," Pistachio says austerely, without offense. "And yes, there is a story, though I was not yet born when the story was unfolding to be able to be told."
She follows the path beneath an arch, away from the mighty view of the rolling sea and the city that takes shelter in the shadow of the rock. The way is circular; it leads to an outer balustrade of sorts, and then into the palace - an atrium, open to the air but closed to the elements, that then opens to the garden which is in the palace's heart. The one direct way to that garden...
"They say that the Queen began by summoning those she wished to command," Pistachio begins, folding her hands in front of her almost piously - a novice in a convent could do no primmer. "Not here but far away, in another world, She spoke their names, one by one, and brought them to Her by invitation, and presented to them Her arrangements. His Highness, Hwyll, Prince of the West Wind; he was to be her Viceroy. His kingdom rests above this one, and he faithfully tends to the kingdom when She is absent." And no doubt it is also said as well that it is good that it is only a kingdom to which Hwyll has been asked to be faithful...
Pistachio steps down onto the grass at the edge of the garden, glancing up at the uncovered sky. "General Dionysus Grappa, the Lord High General and Commander of Her Majesty's forces - she calls him Huw, I do not know of their history, but he permits it. These two were the first to be Called. And from them came others... gathering even before the Creation. And then, the Queen came to see the kingdom."
"It is a wise queen who first surrounds herself with allies, and then builds her kingdom," Davydd notes it to you, even as he would to Her Herself, were She present. His voice trails softly as his eyes take in everything, landing here and there, unable to linger too long before the next item claims his attention.
It is so beautiful. Mystical, fantastical, but with an attention to detail. It is no simple girl's fantasy but the dream of a queen becoming a Queen. "I saw a part of her army on the hills, her sentries in the trees at the border we share, and guarding the travelers from opportunists. How many people have found their way here? I counted a dozen ships at least...does she yet have a tally? Or perhaps this is a better question for her Viceroy," Davydd notes, nodding. "I will have to speak with him later." He smiles to you. "After we share a glass of berrywine..."
"And you... when did you come into being... and shall you attend her especially? That is, when you are not having to show me which hall to take or door to open..."
"Many." A simple answer. Pistachio glances back over her shoulder, arching an eyebrow as she then turns away again. "She came. She spoke with her allies, and then she came here, to the cliffs, with the Captain of her personal Guard to accompany her - Aurelius, the Pure. And then... she Changed things."
She walks across the pale green grass, pointing to the trees, the flowers, the shrubs and bushes. And she stops for a moment at an indentation in the shade, greener grass than the rest, perhaps five feet long.
"There was nothing here, before - just the cliffs meeting the sea. They say that she deepened the channel, rounded it, for a bluewater port. They say that she pulled buildings from the earth, then, where there had been nothing but sand and rock." Pistachio speaks of it in a matter of fact tone of voice - they say the sun shall rise tomorrow, as it did yesterday. "And once the City had been born, then she brought the palace into being, and the Guardian Upon The Cliffs to watch over us all - and all those, too, who come and go. And then she collapsed and was carried here, to sleep. There is where she slept."
The darker green grass is indicated, and then Pistachio continues on past it, up three shallow steps and into the palace once more. "The next day, she left for your kingdom, your majesty. That is when she built the roads, they say. And she has left instructions that all are welcome here - and especially those who have nowhere else to go. For a City is only a collection of buildings, if it has noone in it; and there are always those who will need somewhere to go."
Pistachio then shrugs slightly; not quite impatiently, but with a gesture as she begins following the wide sloping corridor that leads to the upper floors of the palace. "We will be at Her Majesty's chambers soon. This is one of the quicker ways; I thought that you might be thirsty, after all of this listening. The stairs are slightly faster for most areas of the palace, but the quickest route to Her Majesty's chambers is through these. As for myself... I was born sixteen days ago. I was not made for Her Majesty, however, but as a gift for you."
She doesn't look a day over nineteen...
The fiery comets of his eyebrows lift, arching upward slowly. A gift. For me. "A gift," he repeats, this time aloud. "For me." Davydd follows, his eyes lifting from the indentation of grass, the impression of his lover's body -- there is a last fond look for that -- to look at the beautiful fairy creature with the green eyes.
You make ham sandwiches for people, not people for people...
Davydd follows closely, a quizzical -- and amused -- look on his face. "To do what with, I wonder. Did she... elaborate at all, when she made you?" Your hand gestures, he follows.
"Not merely to pour me berrywine and lead me around palaces so I don't get lost, I don't suppose..."
"She said that was up to you to decide," Pistachio answers easily. "That you have at times made very bad decisions and very good decisions, but that ultimately, you are a good man and a good King. I am to inform you that I am talented with the harp and I am a skilled masseuse, and I am well-versed in tricks involving clothing and their care. I am able to play the part of a valet if you have need of one, or social secretary, or otherwise," she shrugs, "as you see fit."
She comes to a halt in front of the doors to what must be the queen's chambers, immense as they are. One is opened, and she slips inside before continuing.
"If you have no use for me, then you are to feel free to give me as a gift to others, if there would be some benefit," Pistachio continues, "or ... not, as you wish. My mother asked me if I objected to this fate. I do not. Would you care for your wine here, or would you prefer to see the bath?"
Up to me to decide...
And like most men, he lets his eyes do the deciding for him, debating, weighing as his gaze slides upward and downward in memorizing blinks. "Bad decisions, hmmm," Davydd's thoughts modulate in his throat and then he smiles pleasantly. "I think it would be a very bad decision indeed to give away a gift given by a queen, particularly such a lovely gift promising massages..."
His hand lands upon the door, pushing it open wide enough for his kingly self and following the fairy geisha, if there are such things, into the Queen's chamber. "I am suffering...somewhat... from a headache that has no intention of leaving, but that a massage shall provide a good remedy for, I well imagine. Poor me some wine," Davydd insists softly, his hand reaching up and unfastening his cloak as he steps in, "... and bring it to the queen's private chambers. I shall save the bath for later..."
Dark green eyes lift then from the figure, appealing as it is, of the woman to the suites of Queen Fiona's private rooms...
"As you wish." A simple response to the request, given with bland expression, calm voice. Pistachio moves forward, picking up a lighted taper and moving to touch the flame to the tips of the candles in their holders along the wall. Light flares into being, illuminating the room with that soft, warm glow.
It is a large room, and it contains its contradictions - contradictions between luxury and an odd sort of asceticism, not quite monasticism. How much luxury is 'too much'? Most fairy kings and queens would say there is no too much...
Footsteps are muffled below by the thick, soft covering of furs that litter the floor, a carpet of them that silence progress. There is a bed (of course), almost large enough to act as a landing pad for a helicopter. The posts rise up, carved trunks wrapped with vines - but no flowers. The headboard rises solidly, depicting scrollwork that changes slowly, telling stories of what might have been...
There are doors leading to a balcony; to other rooms off this one, containing clothing, sitting rooms, the baths. But there is as yet a lack of other furnishings here, as if she considered completion - but hesitated for some reason, or was interrupted.
He does not ask you to play both geisha and valet. As you move to light the tapers, he removes his ornate cloak himself, spreading it out upon the floor of rugs to provide another layer of opulent cushioning.
As you tend to the lighting, to the retrieval of a glass (one for you, too, if you wish) and a flagon or bottle of the wine he has requested, Davydd wanders around the large chamber, a hand straying along one of the great posts of the bed, tracing the forms and figures of vines and ivy, catching a stray letter or two of the scripting before turning to the balcony doors
His gloved hands flip the latches of the door and open them inward, letting the breeze spill in with its smell of the seas, its perfume of spices from the markets down below, the sweetness of the flowers from the meadows nearby. "Pistachio, did your mistress also give you the gift of song?" he quietly wonders as he stares at the vista past the balcony. Pivoting, Davydd looks to you, hoping to see you approaching with the wine. "I like to be serenaded by beautiful women tending to my every need. It's a ...thing I have..."
"I do not sing, though I can play upon instruments. I can read aloud if you wish." Pistachio goes to the headboard, pressing at a vine until it woodenly loosens; she loops the glass into its coil so that it is held upright, then pours wine into it. The bottle is then set aside, the glass lifted and borne to you. "I apologize if that is insufficient, your majesty."
By some curious trick of geography, there is no sound from the city - only the whisper of the wind and the distant lull of the tide...
He chuckles at his own joke, turning fully around and leaning against the wall for a moment. Davydd pushes away from the wall nearest the balcony and returns to the bed. He says nothing as he steps forward and takes the wine from her fingers. He takes a long swallow, and then returns the glass to her care.
"Set it aside for now," the King commands quietly, "...I shall have more afterwards. I need your fingers for a while, dear Pistachio. First, to remove these kingly garments so you can better work out the kinks in the old king..."
Old, that's what she always calls me. Reminds me. Older than most trees in England, older than a good portion of London's buildings -- but not all, mind you. Davydd looks to the woman, wondering what... if anything... would encourage her to smile, to react, to show some emotion. Is she even capable?
"As you command, your majesty." Pistachio is just as grave, just as unsmiling, just as unsurprised. Perhaps being ordered to throw herself off the balcony would cause her to react; but would she hesitate? Would she disobey...
The glass is carried away to the carved vines again, and then she returns to you, patiently waiting until you seem ready and then moving to begin unfastening here, unbuckling there, lifting heavy garments and folding them over her arm for carrying to one side, then returning. "Is there more that you would know of the kingdom, your majesty? As I am unable to fulfill your hope." She can't sing songs, but she can tell tales.
Old - well, that in comparison to the Queen, certainly, though it is true that Fiona only ever says it with a certain teasing satisfaction. Age - and experience...
"Perhaps in a while, Pistachio," Davydd responds. "Perhaps you can spin the story of how she assimilated so great a queendom, so many allies, and now so many immigrants so quickly... while you work on knotted muscles..."
But for now, he requests nothing more. He is silent as you pull off the jeweled gauntlets and the jeweled tunic. He moves as your hands quietly suggest, sitting on the edge of the bed, as you remove his boots with quiet precision. Nothing remarked as trousers are removed.
There is no blush, no moment of modesty that follows as his kingly marks are revealed in all their glory. He is a living forest of blue, with the trees vivid and alive against his skin in blue color, the branches parting for the claws of dragons. God-touched still as he is, they are more vibrant, and they shift without his muscles' motions, even showing the occasional visions of things to come.
He is not stirred by her, but stirred in general, his mind pierced, heart pierced, and vitality risen in a rush of energy that has not abated for the past thirty-six hours. If this Otherworld kept time, that is...
Davydd crosses to the bed and gives his weight to it, causing even so formidable a bed as this to creak and shove in his following, settling motions. His red-topped head rests on his thick and folded arms, his colored back, muscled torso, rump and legs facing the bed's canopy. "Start at my head and work to my toes. There's not a territory that should be missed," Davydd commands, his dark green eyes closing, his mouth parting for a sigh.
"Tell me," he murmurs, "...of what others think of her queendom so far. What is the word on the valleys, what is the word from her army. And why did she make you so immune, dear Pistachio, to laughter?"
"As you wish, your majesty." Pistachio moves in silence, carrying clothing away and then moving to follow you to the bed, to kneel at your head. Her fingers are nimble; she begins gently, massaging at the temples and the scalp and then working her way from there.
But she still has not yet laughed, or sighed...
"I do not know all of what they say. What I have heard - there are many who are impressed with what she has accomplished," Pistachio begins, leaning over you to competently work. "Before the City was born, people watched, but with some indifference; she received notice first because of her allies, and there were many who thought that Prince Hwyll and the Lord General had gone mad to ally with one seemingly both so young and so weak. Prince Hwyll was before he gave my mother his allegiance, the consort to another Queen; Queen Hafwen, of known age and power. For him to leave her for Queen Fiona was seen as unprecedented, and though some few thought that perhaps the West Wind knew something that others did not, most believed that he had lost his senses in pursuit of new female flesh."
Gossip is always entertaining, isn't it? She continues her massage, fingers working over the nape of the neck and then to the shoulders. "Then the City was born, and opinions began to change. Some believe that she is not as young and inexperienced as she has been presented to be; that it is a sham, and that somehow, Queen Isabel won her way fully free of her prison and has come again in earnest. Most do not believe this, for the passing of Isabel from Creation was felt by too many; and as well, those who have met her say that though she is reminiscent of Isabel, there is no way that she could be her. They do not know what to make of her yet; they are wary of what her future plans may be."
"Some believe her to be in direct opposition to Queen Hafwen," the girl continues, fingers seeming tireless in seeking out knots and undoing them, moving along muscled biceps and arms down to even the hands. "That she will raise a mighty army and advance to destroy Hafwen. Some say that rather than that, it is Hafwen who is raising an army, and that this kingdom will be hers within a century. There are rumors which have her sharing her bed with any number - including yourself, your majesty, and your son. Calmer heads hold that if she were sharing her bed with all who are rumoured, she would have no time for kingdoms - and some think that might not be a bad idea. I am told that there are a handful who intend to court her, as she seems so quickly so powerful."
"But of course, all of these are rumors from the nobility, the royalty. The 'common' people do not entertain these rumors as much, though some always will trickle down." Pistachio shrugs her shoulders, returning to smoothing her palms over the broad expanse of painted back. "Most have no reason to disdain her. She was regarded with suspicion, at first; she made the boundaries of her kingdom, and then opened them. She made a City, and then invited people to enter it - those fleeing other kingdoms or other troubles, no matter who or where they might be. Some have sneered about this, that it will be a kingdom of refugees, those too weak to make something of themselves elsewhere; but there is no denying that already the farms are being worked, already the marketplace is full of life and trade, the docks hold ships. And the army? Well..."
She's moved down further, now, speaking with that calm continuation of voice. "Armies seldom universally revere or respect a figure. I believe that there were some who thought her no more than a figurehead for the Lord General, or a puppet for the Prince. The City has changed their minds - not solely because she built it alone, but also because of the level of thought she put into things. The centaurs and the satyrs and even the men are impressed by her design; stairs would be difficult for those with hooves, and as well, the sloping ramps are useful for drawing carts of supplies. Whether a man on horseback or a centaur, it is undeniably easier to move quickly thus, and there are ways within the cliffs, with barriers and traps that she built to slow an invading force. They do not worship her as a goddess, perhaps, but they admire practicality - especially when it makes their lives a little easier."
Then there is another shrug, felt rather than seen, and Pistachio moves to the muscled thighs. "Immune to laughter, your majesty? I am as she made me. If I have a flaw or defect, I suppose you must attribute it to the fact that I am the first of my kind. Is it easier or more difficult to plan a person from a city? I suppose I must have laughed at some point. Is it so important?"
Take your clothes off, nothing. Ask her about gossip, and like all women, she launches into an epic...
The king seems to ask for gossip only to keep all matters light, for truly he seems to be in his own world just now -- a world of low-throated groans, ship-tossing sighs, and the commanding stretch of his body beneath little, feminine fingers. As arms were reached, arms were spread outward, his entire armspan given to the bed, his head turned to rest on the covers and pillows. As thighs are reached, thighs are similarly spread, without a thought for her reaction. For, indeed, she seems to have none.
"It is not a flaw, Pistachio, but it is important. There is little more delightful than the sound of a woman laughing. It's the sound I expect to hear when I'm in bed with a woman," Davydd dryly teases.
"I look forward, as the others, to see what she will make of this place," he mumbles into the bed covers, voice trailing with a deep, rumbling sound. Like a lion, or a dragon, purring. "It will never be boring with such gossip. Hmmm... courting princes. Do you know who is rumored to seek her hand... or other parts of her?"
"I will look into attaining laughter, then," Pistachio answers gravely. "Perhaps there are classes which I could take to broaden my knowledge." She continues her assigned task, indeed seeming to entirely lack reaction. It must be the fault of being surrounded by all those centaurs...
"They say that the Prince of the North Wind intends to seek her, but I believe that to be rumor and rumor only. He is one of her advisors, and he seldom seems to notice women - or men; which causes a sigh of heartache in many," Pistachio continues serenely. "He is handsome, but has little patience with such games. He is more serious than his brothers. I admit I find him admirable." In which way? She doesn't say, and her face is not in view to observe if there is blush or flutter to accompany the words.
"The King of the Mirrored Lake has sent gifts, but the Queen has not yet been to receive them. Daily they arrive; the rumor is that he saw a painting of her majesty somewhere, somehow, and was instantly smitten with her. And so he pours riches out, caravans arriving. His messengers sometimes overtake one another on the road." Pistachio reaches the feet now, fingers digging into soles, spreading toes, kneading. "And the Prince of the Receding Waters is another, but he is less generous. Some of the ladies in waiting refer to him as the prince of the receding hairline. The ladies whisper that the Captain of her Guard is in love with her, and that his vow of chastity is an excuse he gives them. And, of course, it is rumoured that there is a wandering nameless archer who seeks to pierce her heart and her flesh with love and his rod."
Pistachio settles back with a slight frown on her face. "I realize that it is supposed to be allegorical and romantic, but it seems to me that such simile sounds far too much like assassination for comfort where monarchy is concerned."
Prince of the Receding Hairline. Davydd cracks a grin, but otherwise does not crack a laugh. He is far too... blissful for such grandiose reactions. Dark green eyes roll and then close as his toes spread, feet flex at the digging fingers. "Hmmm... a painting." He narrows his eyes then. How the fuck could he have seen that? "I know of one but none have seen it but the Oak King and I." No one better have seen it than the Oak King and I...
"Are there any rumors of her and the Oak King? And what, dear Pistachio, have you been hearing about me, that you know of my decisions good and bad? I'm curious...hmmm... back to the thighs, my girl," a soft directive. And if your hand should...slip...well...
Davydd folds his arms again, thick biceps engaged and providing reasonable pillows. "You have very skillful fingers, Pistachio," the Holly King croons. "Keep rubbing... and keep telling me stories..."
"It is rather the typical rumor." Pistachio shrugs again, moving back up obediently. "That some painter, maddened by desire or love, spied upon a queen or princess and painted what he saw, demure or otherwise... and that painting, commissioned or otherwise, made its way into another's hand. Of course, in such stories, the princess or queen never marries the man into whose hand the painting falls. Usually she marries his faithful right-hand man or someone else altogether as the desire for her corrupts the man who has the painting."
So go the stories, don't they? She kneels to one side, using both hands on one thigh as if rolling and kneading particularly resistant, resilient bread dough. "Of you I have heard only a little, your majesty. I know, of course, that the Queen holds you high in her esteem, and that you have first place in her heart, before all others, even herself. She has told me of you, a bit."
Pistachio gives that now characteristic little shrug, moving her hands up to where thigh joins body and working down again. "You are a skilled warrior, and skilled at being a rogue, but ultimately, you are a king and to be treated as such. You are a gifted musician and singer and poet and magician, but you are at the core a man; and her majesty says that it is wise to remember that even gods are not infallible, because if you think otherwise, that's when one will fall on you."
"The Oak King, the rumors say, is madly in love with her, and she with him. I have not met him. There are rumors that she occupies a place between the two of you, and some speculate that the two of you will fight for her. Others think that one or the other or both of you will grow tired with her when she is no longer so new..."
There comes a throaty sound when you work on that thigh, the knotted muscles loosening in relaxation. But even so, other muscles tighten. "I am going to have to suggest to your queen that she make you a sister or two," he murmurs. "Massage is always best in triplicate."
Davydd shifts upon the bed but remains on his belly, his body moving beneath your fingertips as he readjusts. He lifts and turns his head, glancing back to you, watching you. You couldn't care less, of course, he realizes, but he might as well enjoy himself. Lifted up, he reaches for his glass, stretching and taking it with a thief's nimble touch. Deeply he drinks and he empties the glass, setting it aside to be filled in a moment.
Davydd does not speak to the rumors. He leaves them to be just that -- talk and gossip and speculation. "Tell me the story of how she built this, again," the king requests quietly, "... and move your hands to my back. Don't be afraid to put an elbow to me if need be," he smiles at that. "In fact... I've had a change of mind... bare your feet and walk on my back."
It'll be just like Tokyo...
"I believe that that is her intent - to make more. I am the ... test run." You are being massaged by an experimental product...
Obediently, Pistachio rises, sliding shoes off her feet and then moving to stand on the bed. "She came to her kingdom and stood upon the cliffs, they say, with the Captain of her Guard to watch over her. And she turned to him and told him that she was about to Change things. And then she did."
And then she did...
Pistachio steps cautiously onto your back, waiting a moment and then committing her weight to that foot. When there are no immediate protests, she lifts her other foot, all of her weight on one foot for a moment; then on both.
"She summoned up her magic and sank it into the earth, allowing it to spread out from there, down, out, up; and then she conducted the Change. The beaches changed first, they say, the piers coming into being, a seawall, the harbormaster's centre of operations. And from there, buildings and streets began to rise and form."
She walks slowly, listening even as she speaks for any protest, dubious as she is of this endeavor. She balances well, at least, without sleeping or sliding, and her toenails are trimmed, at least; no cutting. "The roads were laid first, stretching outwards from the City's nascent being; and then came the shops, the homes, the taverns, the parks. She grew trees to line the streets, and she sloped areas so that the rainwater could run into the harbor - or be stored for drinking water. There are cisterns as well."
"Then she made the Guardian of the Harbor and the City - the Angel who watches over us. It was only after that, that she made the palace in which you rest, your majesty. And once the palace was done, she spoke, though I do not know what it was that she said," Pistachio says steadily, arms outstretched for balance, "and she collapsed."
The muscles part like the red sea to the feet of this massaging goddess and his spine cracks softly then strongly as she makes her way up and down. Such sounds he makes, from the low to the full, from the gentle to the illicit, as she moves. He grunts, he groans, he rumbles and purrs.
Why, if one were coming in on these two and didn't know any better, one might think that there was something going on quite different from a fairy girl trodding on a king's back...
"A...story...for...leg...ends," he gets out, syllables pouring forth from his throat and lungs like air from bellows worked by her tender feet. "Your feet .... are ... from .... legend...Duw...yes...Pista...chio...." Fuck me, that feels good. Davydd rolls his eyes then closes them, his back yielding to the woman's feet.
Another crack...
A pleasured groan...
The creak of a bed...
All the tell-tale signs of a man having a ....damn good time...
"As you say, your majesty." Pistachio could have been a surfer, in another life, another place. She apparently knows how to brace, to ride, to bear the impact of shifts and tremors. But it is the North Wind and not the South that has her attention...
From base to shoulders she walks, arms spread for balance. "Is there another story which you would have me tell? The Queen has told me a few, but as I have said, I have only been here for sixteen days." Long enough, it seems, for Pistachio to know her own mind, even if not long enough to laugh...
"What...else...has...she...told...you...?" The words come out long and low and at the end of them streams a rivulet of laughing praise. If you're not going to laugh while you're in bed with him, someone's got to pick up the slack! "Ach, between the shoulders," Davydd directs with a grunt, his arms unfolding and spreading wide, armspan given to the bed again.
"Whatever...you want....to tell...me....is ...fine..." Yes, the king's royal baths in his future kingdom will be altered slightly to include a steamroom and an adjacent massage parlor, complete with fairy geishas to walk on his back and giggle for him.
As your steps land on his upper back, his hips lift slightly to allow another royal readjustment. Great shoulder blades, decorated hawthorn and blackthorn, fan outward and he groans at the following great crack. I should have had this done years ago...
"She told me stories from her childhood - some real, some not so real. She is not fond of self-praise." Pistachio says it in that same easy tone of voice that she says everything. "She praises you mightily, however, and blushes when she speaks of you, sometimes. She told me of a midnight chase she once underwent - I could tell you of that, it makes a fine story."
She continues her 'walk', rocking her heels back and forth along ribs, against muscles, fanning her arms. "She went on a midnight to Amesbury with cup and bowl and summoned Lord General Huw in his native shape from where he was, to appear before her in the flesh. And then she demanded of him - she challenged him to a hunt."
Challenging Huw the Hunter in darkest midnight, to a game of cat and mouse, predator and prey...
Well ... noone ever said Fiona was a genius, did they?
"She challenged him," Pistachio continues serenely, balancing herself with feet together at the base of your spine, "to hunt her through the streets of London for a span of time : three hours, I think it was. And at the end of that time, if she eluded him, he would grant her any boon for which she asked; if he caught her, however, he could name the prize of his choice."
Not that he's not interested in the story but...he is a man. And when given a choice of hearing about some story or other or hearing about himself, invariably he becomes distracted, Man. "She blushes when she speaks of me?" Davydd lifts his head. "What does she do when she speaks of the Oak King?"
There really is no point in stopping him....
But you continue on with your story, the story of his Queen. Foolhardy at that. "Humph," Davydd grunts. "A hunt.... I do not...re...member...Jesus," he groans as you make your way back down his back. "...She...did not...tell me... that...she won...a bet...from Huw..." A thing not easily done. He's sure he still owes the creature money. He's a fabulous cheat.
The muscles of his back, those rivulets and mountains from shoulder blades to rump are nearly fully relaxed, flexing easily, the spine cracked back into place. The small of his back is the last tightness to go -- but that might take a while.
"She blushes and smiles when she speaks of you, and her voice becomes quieter." Pistachio informs you of this dispassionately, unaware of if she is giving away secrets. Ought she not to tell? Noone has told her not to, and so... "She smiles when she speaks of the Oak King as well, but she does not blush, and her voice does not change as much. Her voice is fond when she speaks of either of you."
In competition, always...
"She did not defeat Huw." Pistachio arches her own back, then places a foot securely on either side of the small of your back - still on your back - and braces her weight. "The way she tells it, she evaded him through most of London, but he caught her when she was almost inside her safehouse - the chain was still on the door, and she did not make it inside. The contest ended in a draw... and she says that it was only a matter of months later that they parted ways, though as friends."
She rocks again on her feet, using her feet to balance and to propel herself up and down, from side to side, knees slightly bent, arms still outspread. "She said that he could have claimed her life, as it was in the heart of autumn, but that as it was a draw, neither of them laid further claim on the other - and that that, perhaps, is why she refused to give herself to him in the end. I have heard it said that Lord General Huw claims he underestimated who she was and who she would become..."
Interesting story. Have I heard part of it before? It is all starting to run together...
As you rock back and forth, his body barely moves with you but it moves. Each rocking causes a separate, soft grunt and at the end of that, a gentle popping. "Sweet mother may I," Davydd rolls out in a long exhale. "Diolch, my Pistachio," the flirt. "My back feels like a million gold crowns."
Now, for the front of him...
Davydd begins to slowly lift his torso, his hands to the bed's surface. "I think another glass of the wine, hmm? And I will roll over and you can work just at my scalp and temples." And who knows what else...
Glancing back to you, copper eyebrows lifting and green eyes sparkling, Davydd waits until you are safely off of his back before he turns.
Pistachio steps, does not hop off, so that she is standing on the bed; she walks off the edge, stepping down to take up the bottle of berry wine, then pours another glass. "As your majesty commands." It is said, not cooed; she is quiet, but she is not flirtatious. Obedient, but not obsequious...
The glass is brought to you, the pale green of her eyes a lambent sort of light as she settles on the edge of the bed. Pistachio flexes her hands, cracking her knuckles lightly in preparation. "Her majesty," she remarks, "will be here shortly."
A great hand, ringed in blue at his wrist, comes up to take the drink and in the same motion he rolls over, his royal-hued body settling back against the many pillows. Davydd rolls his shoulders as he settles back with his wine, taking a long swallow of it as he gives his legs a stretch.
As you have not reacted to anything else, he thinks nothing of being completely naked in front of you, nor thoroughly and quite physically delighted by the massage. He expects neither reaction nor commentary.
Davydd empties the second glass with another long and healthy swallow and hands the vacant glass to you. There is a smile there in his eyes. A twinkle that seems to indicate he'd rather you did express or register some emotion. But, just as long as you don't laugh, he guesses that's something...
"Ah, the parties there go on past dawn in most instances. But... if I see her before I must sleep, I will be happy all the same." Davydd pats his lap. Sit here. He rests back on the cushions, his head pillowed quite regally.
It is quite the vision...
Not that she'll care...
Eyebrows lift, and there is the barest flicker of a glance to run along your frame, commingled with skepticism - what, sit there? But she remains obedient. No other reaction given. If you did not have it from her own lips, that frank admission of admiration of someone, perhaps you would wonder if she could be moved by manly flesh.
Pistachio lifts her hands, frowning slightly for a moment - as if uncertain how to work from this angle, uncomfortable with making eye contact. Then she begins carefully kneading at your hairline. "Is there more you would ask, your majesty? And she is en route. I can tell."
Some connection, perhaps - known or unknown by Fiona, linking the two...
"No," he softly speaks, "...you have answered all the questions I have, Pistachio." Davydd closes his eyes, his hands bracing you where you sit so that at least you do not have to work to maintain your balance in such an awkward (but nevertheless pleasurable for him) position.
There is thanks in his look as you rub at the hairline and at his forehead, the burning forehead touched by the God who Inspires Fire in the Head. With a vengeance, he'd note. Davydd closes his eyes and he simply lets you rub, lets you speak whatever you would speak to him.
"Tell me more," he finally whispers, "...of your queen... I may only be one of her many suitors but... I should like to know more..." Yes, and he will be goaded by each and every one. Each and every gift that arrives will cause him to gnash his teeth and rail at them. Packages, more packages!
"As you wish, your majesty." She has never seen The Princess Bride. But then, she doesn't need to; she lives a fairy tale life, doesn't she? The fingertips continue their massage, eyes critically intent upon her task.
"Queen Fiona? When she comes, she is ... gracious," Pistachio decides upon a word, nodding slightly as she decides that it fits, "to everyone. But she is at a little bit of a distance - perhaps because she is the queen. She accepts deference, but I can see that it sometimes does not sit entirely well with her. I think she would sometimes prefer to walk with, sit with more ordinary people."
How does a confirmed former punk reconcile that anarchic edge with being a queen? But Pistachio continues, "I do not know if I am correct - other times she seems perfectly at ease. She has never given offense to anyone who has come to see her, though some of the ladies are put out that she has yet to select a coterie to dress her and to tend to her. They are waiting to see what she will do when - if - she comes to her kingdom permanently."
"She seems sad, sometimes." Pistachio's fingers travel along the hairline and past, to behind the ears. "She is very emotional, but she does not let her emotions rule her. I know that she is - thus far - largely unaware that she has suitors. She has been busy. There is much gossip about who she will choose, if she will choose anyone. Noone seems to think that she has any interest in women, but they are uncertain if she is with you or not, or if the Oak King will marry her. There is a rumor that she will not marry, but rather will build her kingdom into an empire first."
Eyebrows lift and lower in rhythm to your fingers' motions. For a time, they are his only response to all that you have confided. "She has much on her mind. Such is the way when all kingdoms or queendoms are first made. She will be quite the catch for whomever wins her trust," Davydd's mouth quirks at the corners. "I hear she is an excellent dancer."
Blinking his eyes open, Davydd looks upon the dispassionate face of his attendant. She is so close. But there is no look of hunger. His hunger does not trouble him here. No blood shall pass his lips in this Otherworld. "Is she nearby? What is her mood? Is she alone?"
"She is near." Pistachio serenely continues with the massage, features relaxed and child-like in their dispassionate consideration. "She is alone. I would describe her mood as anticipatory - conflicted - concerned - hopeful - reminiscent - do you wish me to continue? I could, but I will likely still be speaking when she arrives."
Pistachio lowers her hands, eyebrows arching. "Do you wish more wine, your majesty?"
"Mead, I think. And bring a bottle and another glass. Her majesty may wish to join me in a drink." Though she is near, the king makes no effort to clothe himself or to conceal his... kingliness out of any modesty, or even politeness. Instead, as you sit back, he only digs himself deeper into the cushions, his arms folding behind his bed and his legs splaying out for comfort's sake.
"Good, I am glad. There are things we should speak about before her next party. She will be busy. I expect I shan't see much of her," he teases. "Especially if I now must muscle past a crowd of would-be hopeful fairy men looking to snatch a rich and nubile wife..."
He'll have more rivals than he'll know what to do with...
"As you wish." Pistachio lifts herself away carefully, rising to her feet again with a curtsey. "The Queen will be with you shortly. I shall return with the drinks as you have commanded." She turns to the door; she is graceful and light on her feet, gait reminiscent of Fiona's though not the same. And she passes from the room...
Leaving the door ajar for Fiona's arrival...
The pain in his head is still there, but with a body well worked by competent fingers it is lessened. And the alcohol will help. It certainly couldn't hurt. It is the most relaxed he has been in nights. He has been on edge since the coronation, since the passing of power, since touching a god. He almost forgot what it felt like to be...comfortable...
And though the visions Gwydion imparted remain with him, they are joined by other visions -- of Fiona entering, of her potential shock and certain delight, of her rumored blushing, of having her all to himself. Those moments will be harder to come by in the coming nights. Of that, he is certain.
Davydd tilts his head on the pillows, his face turning toward the entrance. It is quite the vision. For as relaxed as most of him is, not all of him is thus...
There is the sound of the door being eased further open, and then there is Fiona in the doorway, hair worn in rippling braids pinned into place atop her head and out of the way - for ease of travel, no doubt. She wears a tunic of such a pale shade of blue that it is almost white, paired with darker leggings - robin's egg blue. If she were to cut her hair short and to bind herself flat, she could pass as a particularly richly dressed pageboy...
"You've made yourself at home." She speaks, and the corners of her mouth tug upwards, the corners of her eyes crease and crinkle in welcoming smile. The door is nudged behind her, and then Fiona moves towards the bed, eyes widening a bit. She purses her lips. "Funny, it's dark out, but looks to be noon by this sundial. Am I interrupting a dream?"
His mouth pulls in a sudden grin -- no, he is not sleeping -- and his eyes open slowly. "It was very kind of you to give me a woman for my birthday. Only, it isn't my birthday, and she's not my woman," Davydd chuckles. "... She gives a hell of a massage, though, I'll give her that. She walks a back better than the emperor's own private geisha. I've sent her for drinks. Medicinal, of course." Of course. Davydd pats his lap. "Come up here and kiss me good night. How was the party?"
You can see his very neatly folded clothing set aside. How richly he was dressed for you before. Like a king in his dark green, emeralds and rubies and embroidery of precious gold. Too bad you missed it. But he's still arrayed quite well for you, is he not? In his blues, his trees, his dragons and musculature.
"I like the blue," he notes, giving you the eye, up and down. "Goes well with your hair. That should be your color, I think. No one else should be allowed to wear it. You should issue a decree..." Davydd's voice trails off and he looks expectant of a kiss.
"Well, if you don't want her, I can always take her back and give her to someone else and give you myself instead." Fiona's mouth puckers again, and she crosses the distance from door to bed, moving to claim your lap. "The party was long. I don't know what to say to at least half those people. Fortunately, I haven't got to say much - they all just want to stare and make up what they think of me anyway."
She is on you almost immediately, arms going up and around your neck as she leans in to bump her nose to yours. "Glad you like it, but I doubt that such an edict would go over well with four Princes of the Winds in my employ. I do like blue, though. I like your blue." A small palm comes up to smack at your shoulder. "Big Blue..."
She stops talking, then; Fiona leans in to kiss you, eyes slanting towards closed, arms tightening a little around your neck. I miss having you around. How's your head?
He hasn't the heart (yet) to tell you that telepathy is like a hot poker in the eye at the moment, but he's thankful for the kiss and its distraction. It keeps him from wincing. "Eh, it hurts," he notes, parting the kiss with a last tug. "I couldn't have taken a grand hall filled with the inane chatter of courtiers tonight. Glad I was able to skip it." He steals another kiss, his arms surrounding you and pulling you tightly to him.
It is not a polite kiss, an amiable kiss, a tentative kiss or even tender. It is as if he had not kissed you in months, perhaps even years. It is a reuniting and a reawakening of hunger. "Big blue," Davydd grins, the smile streaking across his mouth and the light of that comet grin sparkling in dark eyes. "...has missed you as well. It's been a long few nights... a long month."
He lets you do what you wish with him. He's not going to complain. "The girl? It was a very nice thought, very sporting of you considering my track record with women," Davydd chuckles. "But I like mine with a bit more... emotion, reaction, laughter. Keep working on it," he kisses your forehead, "... I'd love a harem for Yule...I've always wanted one of my very own..."
A palm smacks your shoulder again, but weakly; she's giving her attention to the kiss more than anything, leaning into it, snuggling up to you and sighing with lost breath, stolen breath. "Mmm," Fiona almost purrs, "good. I'm glad you've missed me." She licks her lips, glancing up at you through her eyelashes, cheeks a bit flushed as she grins. "Kissing me like that, I almost believe you might miss me. Even if you talk of harems at the same time. Bastard..."
She sits up, she leans back, she wraps her hand around that 'sundial' and gives a quick squeeze and a tug before releasing, sliding back a little on the bed. "Sorry that your head still hurts," she coos, then reaches up to begin unpinning her hair. "I flew here as a linnet. I didn't want to draw too much attention - I've had enough of courtiers for one night myself. Enough bloody fussing, already. Did you have a bath? I made it with us in mind."
"No, I was too busy getting out of my kit and having a nubile woman walking on my back to make it to the bath. But, I could do with a soak." He smirks as you grab and tug the sundial, "Careful. That's an antique," he growls with a grin.
Davydd sits up as you shift, backing away, and he turns, legs draping over the side of the bed. He gives a mighty stretch, the final cracks of his back sounding as he settles fully into place. "A linnet, aye? Myself, I walked," he glances back to you with a slant of a grin. "...one among the many immigrants to your city. I took a bit of a tour myself and then Pistachio showed me the first spot of land upon which you rested after your creation. A very deserved rest, I might add." Seriously, he looks to you. Even the ...sundial begins to tell of waning hours, as it were, as his mood turns. "It is ...astounding, Fiona. Your creation. Your queendom. What you have achieved, and in the time span you have achieved it, is quite amazing. I am ...very impressed."
"Come have a look at the bath, then," Fiona invites, rising to her feet and shaking out the long waves of her hair. It alters her - makes her look more undone, something more of magic and less practical, right down to the grin on her face. "An antique, hm? Does that mean it doesn't work anymore?"
She turns away, running her fingers through her hair, boots silenced by the layer of fur. "Walked? You must be tired, then. Did you receive everything you've asked for?"
Fiona turns back, eyebrows arched in paused question, and then she glances down, cheeks reddening at your praise. "I ... well. I'm glad you like it," she murmurs, one hand finally making its way through the spidersilk of hair to land at her side. "I hoped that you would. I mean - it isn't as if I've done this before..."
How quickly she goes from teasing to self-conscious, how bad she is at accepting praise, no matter how much she desires it...
"If there's anything you feel ought to be changed, let me know. I'm sure you've got - well, more experience at this than I do." Fiona's smile as she glances back up is lopsided, wistful. "Would you like to see the bath now, or no?"
"Well, now, darlin'... I don't know, it's been so long since I've used it," Davydd croons out. Bastard, he smiles. He knows it before he says it. "Well, some things, they say, just get better with age. I don't know... do you think it works, Queen Fiona?" The King is rising, bare feet to the carpeted floor, so many rugs! And with a sigh, he stretches as he walks.
The stride is the stride of a king, of a powerful man, slow in his thoughtfulness. "I haven't really got that much more experience than you, remember. My kingdom has been dormant far longer than it ever was awake. In fact, it's only been in the last few years that any real structure of mine existed at all. Avalon, Camelot... they were here before me, maintained by the energy of Arthur's legends, not by any skill of my own. I think it is beautiful, a grand thing. And ... I hear you have opened your kingdom, as I have done, to all those who seek shelter, or a home to call their own. We are true allies, Fiona. Same in mind, and in action moving forward together."
Davydd reaches for your hand as he waits for you to show him the way. "I would like to see the bath, and to get in it, and to talk with you a while. In treasured privacy," Davydd whispers. "I want to hear about your day, the contests, the feasts, the gossip. I hear," he clears his throat, "...that you already have several admirers, princes, who have sent you gifts of courtship. I would suggest to Rhodri that he announce your betrothal before I have to wage war on someone. I don't think I could bear any more rivals for your attention," he kisses your fingers, "...or your affection..."
"I hope it works," Fiona retorts immediately, "because if it does not, I will be sorely disappointed. And if it does work, I anticipate just being sore in the morning." She smiles sweetly at you, moving ahead to the doors to the bath, turning to face you.
"You've been a prince and a king for your entire life," she points out more soberly, "and I've only ever just been me, Davydd. But I'm glad you like it. I wanted - well, it doesn't matter what I wanted." You take her hand and she looks up at you, smiling lopsidedly again. "I'm glad you're here."
Her heart is in her eyes...
"Let's go bathe, and then we can gossip," Fiona murmurs, leaning up to touch the back of her free hand to your cheek. "If anyone's sent me gifts, I haven't seen them yet. Doesn't matter, does it? Foolish bloody king, don't you know where I stand by now? Come on."
She turns, leaving her hand in your grasp as she opens the door that leads to the baths - immense, steam roiling off the heated end, the gentle lull of the fountains and pools and waterfall that pours down along one wall. "You're already naked," Fiona points out, tugging her hand back towards herself. "Go ahead and climb in..."
Davydd cocks up both eyebrows in amazement, again, and whistles long and low at the bath. "Very nice," he draws out in a pleased, rumbling tone. "Only thing missing are eunuchs with feather fans to cool your skin as you rise from the spa," he cracks with a grin. No eunuchs here. No, indeed.
He eases himself into the large, heated pool, seeming like a hero out of legend as he does so, the steam off the water like the mists of Time and History. "I suppose I have a few years on you," he teases. "But you've done much in your short time. You should be proud of yourself. I am proud of you. I look forward to seeing more of it. Tonight, I could think of nothing I wanted more than to see my queen in her private chambers..."
For once, Davydd doesn't mention the other rivals. Perhaps he just doesn't have time. He relaxes, his arms outspread against the lip of the heated pool and he watches you, his mouth slanting, his eyes fixated on you and what he assumes will be your imminent disrobing...
"I'm glad you approve. After all, I did come all this way to be with you. In more ways," Fiona adds, turning her back to you as she nudges the door closed, "than one."
She moves back towards the bath, sitting and pulling off her boots, setting them aside as she rises again to now bare feet. "I'm glad you're proud," Fiona says quietly. "Your good opinion means a lot to me, Davydd. It has ... well, for a long time. I want to be able to be a good partner to you as much as I can." She closes her eyes with the admission, drawing the tunic up and over her head, shaking her hair free. Now she's clad in leggings and a bodice of cream-coloured silk and sky-blue leather.
"You'll have my undivided attention tonight," Fiona promises, untying the top of the leggings and rolling them down off her hips, stepping out of them. "No calls, no visitors - I haven't even told the guards that I'm here, though I wouldn't be surprised if they somehow know. They're talented that way. So how much have you seen?"
"I walked with the pilgrims along the road, meandered through your city, stood out upon your courtyard and looked over your harbor and bay. It's thriving, and they are excited, those who come here, in its newness. It ...reminded me of the immigrants going to America in the 19th and 20th Centuries. There's a feeling of promise out there. And hope. But I haven't toured all of the castle. Pistachio brought me here fairly directly."
Nice bodice. Davydd doesn't halt mid-sentence, but he does pause. Undivided attention? You promise? "Diolch," he murmurs. "I could do with a bit of that. We've not had much time where I wasn't in crushing pain, or you weren't in the throes of passion..." With someone else. When was the last time we made love? I can barely remember.
"I know, Fiona," Davydd says quietly, his voice reverberating against the water and in the vastness of this chamber. "I know it's important to you, what I think. But you don't really need my approval. You're past that, darlin'... really...and truly ...you are. Look at what you have done. Take that in for yourself and for your confidence."
Her hands lift to the front of the bodice, her eyes dropping to it as she begins to work at the laces. "I wanted to build something which would last. I wanted people to be here who would /want/ to be here - who would have something to contribute, if only because their contributions have never been welcomed anywhere else. Sooner or later, everything stagnates and has to be renewed; I'm hoping if there is a constant flux, a constant renewal, that it will be a little less painful for those who make their home here ... when things happen."
The bodice is added to leggings and boots, and she makes her way to the sloping marble steps of the bath. "I want your approval for reasons other than that, Davydd," Fiona admits honestly, "but ... let's not talk about that now. Come here, hm?" She's moving towards you, so it isn't really necessary. "I'm glad you like it. You'll be welcome here, you know, whenever you want to be here - even if I'm not here."
He waits for you to come to him, you're already on your way. His arms slide against the marble, submerging, his fingers reaching through the water to reach out to you. Fingers clasp beneath the surface and he draws you to him. "You don't need my approval," he echoes. "And... it makes me...happy to hear that you know it is a partnership across time that we are making." That you understand the importance of it, not simply because you love him.
"You will be High Queen one day," he murmurs. "One day, the other kingdoms will look to you to be a symbol of what queens should be. I think you are off to an excellent start, Fiona." Davydd kisses you gently, a sweet brush of his lips that becomes a playful tug.
As his arms slip around you, and as he pulls you to him, flush against him -- your body meeting his, his legs tangling with your own. "Thank you. Always you are there opening your homes to me." Another kiss. "I love you, Fiona-bach," Davydd whispers at your ear, and then his mouth finds your neck.
"So...what's the latest gossip?" he wonders just beneath your ear. "How did the contests go? Did your Oak King win you any treasure?" A part of him wants to know all of the dirty details.
"I look at my parents and see what it is to have a marriage based on imperfect meetings. Not just imperfect people - who's perfect, after all? But ... imperfect goals, imperfectly aligned, where one or the other can't give what the other needs, or wants." Fiona leans up against you, tangles with you, lips brushing your cheek with a sigh as your mouth slides against her ear, her neck.
"I look at my grandparents, and I see what a partnership - a true partnership, with love and respect and hard work, what it means," Fiona murmurs, "and I know that's what I want. But then, I want it all, don't I?"
Her eyes close, and she turns her head, the fingers of one hand sliding through your hair as she rubs her cheek against yours and then nips lightly at your own ear. "He carried away championship titles," she murmurs, "and he's covering himself in all kinds of glory. People are reveling in the presence of the new Oak King. No doubt in my absence sweet things are throwing themselves at him with abandon. Just like I'm throwing myself at you right now."
Fiona smiles, sliding her body slyly along yours for a moment, emphasis, punctuation to her words. "I love you, Davydd. More than anything, I love you. I wish you knew how much..."
"He is glorious," Davydd notes softly. "He is an amazing young man," if any man from the 1500s could be called young. Only here, only with these two, your men. "And he is a worthy king for you. I will advise him to announce the betrothal on the twelfth night of celebration. I may announce it myself."
You speak of your love for him; he speaks first of his son. "I know you love me," Davydd grins slightly. "You don't have to keep proving it to me, like I'm going to forget it. I ...can't help how I feel." He covers your mouth with his own, lest you have any doubt of his feelings, or what they might be. There is nothing sly or subtle about how he moves along you. Beneath the water, his hands grasp your hips and lift you slightly. And even more easily than usual, thanks to the liquid surrounding you.
"On the night of the Holly King's feast, I will win my own titles for you. I will give them to you in secret," he promises against your mouth. "I want you to sit with me on my night, lay your hand upon my arm, and I will sneak a touch beneath the table. It will be the eleventh night, the night before the closing night."
Upon lips and chin, eyelids and cheeks, along the line of your jaw, the lobes of your ears, he kisses you, suckles flesh. "What other gossips do you have for me? What other tales to tell? Did you think of me?" Davydd teases softly. "Even though you were busy... even though you were in his arms..."
"I do have to keep proving it," Fiona insists, "because no matter how you feel, when we're apart you can look at the proofs. They're not as warm as a body, but I don't want you forgetting me when you're with someone else." You are not the only one who is jealous; and now it's voiced. Even if she didn't intend to.
You lift her, and she sighs, lifting her arms to go back around your neck. Her favourite place...
"I will sit with you," Fiona promises in return, voice softening. "You know that I'll be with you. Gossips ... hm..." Her eyes close again, her fingernails scrape at the nape of your neck, at your shoulderblades as she balances against you, thighs spreading to half-straddle you. "Everyone is trying to take his measure, and mine. They are impressed by him; they feel he is a worthy heir to you, and they wonder what it is that you will do next. Noone believes that you are expended. There is a murmur as to what this presages. And they wonder about me, of course."
She shrugs, unsurprised about that. It was to be expected. "They wonder as to my exact relationship with you, with Rhodri; they wonder who I am and what I will do, how much of what I've done has been engineered for me by Huw and Hwyll, or even by you, acting under my cover. They wonder if I am intelligent, some of them - several have all but accused me to my face of being empty-headed. Now I remember why I dyed my hair fuchsia."
Fiona makes a face, lips twisting wryly. "Others expect me to go to war - with Hafwen, or with whomever, depending on how greedy I am for territory. None of them, of course, dare to just ask me outright what my plans are, and I don't think it's in my interests to tell them, so I let them think what they like. They will anyway. And I look to the future, and..."
"...And?"
You straddle him beneath the water, and his hands hold you there, fingers outspreading and conquering the territory of your flesh. You are warm, the water is warm, and now he is warm. It is more intoxicating than the berrywine. As one hand braces you to him, another slides around you, fingertips slipping between you both and disappearing.
"How could I forget you, Fiona?" Davydd smiles against your mouth as his fingers find their way between your thighs. "Sweet petal," a new nickname is kissed against your mouth. "... there is no queen for me but you. I think of you all the time, you know. Sometimes too much," he half-growls with a grin. "And, yes, there is such a thing." He thinks of you with your other king, beneath him, over him, alongside him. "Don't worry," he assures you, "... even when I am having dinner, I will be thinking of you on a plate."
Has he already loved you today? Has his mouth or fingers wandered where I wander now? Do you ever tire? "Did you nap today?" Davydd wonders. "With the contests and the feasting, have you had time to rest?" Even though he thinks you might have been up all day, perhaps you are tired, he does not let you go. Instead, he gives the floor back to you, his head dipping as both hands lift you easily again, his mouth parting at the swell of your breast.
"Mmm..." Blue eyes close, lips part as her head falls back for a moment at the touches on her skin. "I miss you whenever we are apart - and whenever I think of us parting, even when we are not apart. I try not to think of such things."
She leans forward again, thighs tightening against yours, using the vise-like grip for a moment to pull herself forward. She sighs as she's lifted, making small sounds in the back of her throat as you touch her, tease her, tempt her. "It's been a long day, but don't worry about me. I'm not tired," Fiona murmurs. "I'm with you, after all, aren't I?"
As if you are so energizing, to conquer a day's activities beneath the sun...
"I look to the future, and I have my inklings as to what will be. My dreams, true or false. Dreams of what might come to pass, dreams of glory, of fortune, of peace, of love. Some things that I am terribly afraid of as well. Moments like this, though..." Fiona smiles, raking her fingernails gently over your shoulder, over your bicep. "I'm glad I don't have to confine them to dreams."
Posted by rowan at April 17, 2005 09:04 PM
