In the narcotic grasp of Avalon's apples, the King without a Kingdom rests. Thankfully oblivious to the sounds of a bed in fervent activity, and the giddy laughter of lovers joined, he slumbers heavily, his soldier's form half in and half out of his ceremonial gear.
And in the sleep of death what dreams may come...
What dreams may come...
In the Otherworld, when one dreams... where does one go? To the dreams of dreams? Or does one walk the other world, its alleys and by-ways, along the boulevards of cities both ancient and modern, missed by all the ghosts and all the girls heading to class...
Davydd wanders a cobblestone way, unseen under the lamplight as he wanders past a London alley, his shoes soundless as he walks and lights an ethereal cigarette...
"What are you doing there? You should be here."
With that, the landscape changes. Cobblestones become grass, covered by ice. Another path becomes a silvery river, teeming with the iridescence of salmon. The trees are barren of leaves, but even now, small buds appear on the many branches. In the cracks of ice, the tiniest of flowers bloom early.
And the voice? That is of the young man, whose face looks towards the setting sun in the west. Dressed in shimmering light, the outline of his balletic form is visible. Once you are present, he turns to see where he expects you, halfway behind him and at his shoulder.
"That was not a very nice place," he informs.
Now the cigarette seems out of place. With a breath that becomes a lingering, sweet mist, Davydd sends the burning object away, the sparks of fire transforming to fireflies that in turn are gobbled by the salmon jumping in the river. But Davydd's modern dress and modern mannerisms are unchanged.
His hands clasp behind his back as he comes up behind you, at your left shoulder. Shamans of the New World call that Death's Position. Personally, Davydd thinks lefties always get the short stick. "It has its moments, much as any place," he responds softly.
Dragons move against his skin, and forests shift in and out with the motion of the evening wind. All this, hidden by the leather longshoreman's jacket and woolen trousers and sweater. "I am not used to dreaming," Davydd speaks again, voice lilting, lightly wondering. "Or at least...not to remembering them..."
The adolescent's brows arch as if surprised. Must be difficult to have such limitations. But he strides forth to the west, as if he should walk right into the sun at the horizon. Beneath his bare feet, the ice crunches.
"Is that where you should rather walk? Not in your forest?" he wonders suddenly, eyes upon the always-setting sun. "If you prefer the other place, you may return."
"No," Davydd smiles suddenly. "...I am sure it was merely because... it has been... on my mind," the ice likewise crunches, an odd meter to his words, as he walks with you. "My last nights there, and of making the most of Time. Something, I am the first to admit, that I have not always succeeded in understanding."
Around you, around him, the dense forest of the Holly King, called the Perilous Forest of Arthurian fame, the white-trunked holly trees stark with their crowns of dark green leaves and crimson berries. The colors of Christmas for a reason.
"Is anything on your mind?" Davydd's mouth holds a smirk lightly, with bemusement and amusement.
For that, the young man stops and turns about, face curious. "You called me here," as if reminding. "Maybe it was of your thoughts of Time," he considers, turning to the sun again. "What of Time?" he wonders aloud to you.
I did?
Davydd looks along himself, then with the quirking of a brow, lightly shrugs one shoulder. "It's not really about Time," he answers, fingers untwining, hands going into his coat's pockets. "It's about action... even the action of Waiting. I am content with how things shall go. Of what is... starting to turn. I'm at peace with the turning of the Wheel. It is as it should be, and should have been."
But there is something else...
"I think of my friends. And of the wrong I have done them when I bolted from my position...and how they will feel when I have to leave them. That's my one regret," Davydd nods to himself, and he looks to you and to the departing sun. Even that much of it burns his eyes. Even in dreams.
"Your friends?" the young man asks. He does not seem to understand. "What wrong have you done? You have walked your path. They walk theirs. Disagreement, or even the crossing of paths," as in friends, "...are temporary and ephemeral. The path you walk is eternal. So is their own."
"That is the better way to look at it. "Even eight centuries is temporary," Davydd lilts, eyebrows opening upward, outward, his eyes widening a touch. The smile is a will o' wisp across his mouth. "At least I can see the path now. It is a good deal less cluttered and bramble-filled than it was before."
The young man walks on, though the sun never seems to come nearer. "A smoother road," he says softly, the silver fluttering around him. "The eternal road," he murmurs, closing his eyes.
"It is not always so smooth," he adds, eyes opening.
"What road is the Oak King on, I wonder?" beside, in the stream, a school of fish stares upwards. The young man smiles down at them, then turns to give them his attention. "The rest of Avalon? Shall you tell me this?"
"That for certes," Davydd notes wryly. "The Irish have a proverb: may the road rise to greet you. Sometimes, the road kicks your arse." Davydd pauses by the stream, the pod of silver salmon teaming beneath the silken surface of the water. Smiling as well, he leans over, his hand coming to grasp the limbs of a hazel tree. With a brief shake of the tree, he knocks some of its fruit of wisdom into the stream, chuckling as the salmon pod comes to life, slapping and wrangling away until the nuts disappear.
"The Oak King's road is now his own," Davydd says, arms folding at his chest as he watches the salmon swim around one another more peacefully. "But his hallmark is Inspiration. It is his gift. To inspire others around him to great deeds, great songs. He's the sheltering one. It will be interesting to see what he does with it, and with the kingdom he has inherited."
"What I have seen is this..."
Prophecy slips from him sing-song...
"I see a dream's return...
... I see a strong alliance whose strength will be tested..."
Avalon will return to England, and the cycle of the Bull God," Mithras, "... will be ended..."
Davydd blinks and looks to you, his arms unfolding. "And when my blood spills, as it should, and the sacrifice is made again, the King will be resurrected." Himself, he means. He, just one in a long line of Holly Kings. Christ included.
"It is a prophecy if I have heard one," the silver boy smiles at the fish. At least they are happy. "I did not know that the king of winterborne had the gift of seeing future paths, those not yet imagined." He turns around and smiles beatific. How many have known his splendor?
"The Bull God is not yet done," the silver prophet chimes too, eyes upon the sun. "And you are not. She is not," he nods, speaking of someone else. "Nor is the Gilded One," he says gentler. "None of us are quite through," he whispers.
"See, Your Majesty. We are together again, walking to the West. To the sun and to your waking."
"It is a strange thing to realize one has been asleep, when one thought one was moving in the world. And upon waking, seeing it... and oneself... for what it Is," Davydd murmurs. "Maybe the poets got it right, after all, when they said one day that Avalon would return. That Arthur would wake and bring with him another golden age. And could not humanity, couldn't we, do with a bit of that?"
Davydd is taken by that splendor, it is brighter than the sun. "So we are," he says, his feet moving once again. "I follow the sun to the west, but am glad that it is the stars that greet me when my eyes open. Night and moon, and the solace of the forest at midnight." That is his time. It is who he Is. And who he should have been all along.
"When one is awake," Davydd smiles to you, "... it is amazing how clearly one may see..."
"I am always awake," the teenager smiles, almost blushing. The holly and ivy that snake at his shoulders moves as he turns to face you, to see you fully.
"The night and the moon," he nods. "The shadows and shades. The real and unreal." The young man drifts slightly. "Such delineations."
The boy stops, realizing something. His face turns slightly askance as he grins at you. "Your forest is the nicest," he reaffirms.
"Diolch," Davydd grins to the blushing youth. "I think the pine cones give it a real ...lived in feeling...don't you?" Humor lights in his eyes, lives in his smile, wit sharp as his canines, ribald and bawdy, real and unreal. Such delineations...
"I like it, too," he whispers, as if it's a big secret. "It feels good to be home...and I am glad you like it. A river full of salmon is a good omen, I think..." And those belong to you...
"Yes," the boy looks over with a grin to the stream of following fish, "...it is very important." He shall always grace this forest. A sigh follows, with, "A time will come," he says to you, "...when such delineations shall have no meaning. It shall be opened, and such...will fall." He nods. "And the knight shall step through. We'll have balance then," the silvered boy explains.
"But that is another time, Your Majesty," he sigh-smiles. "And I am glad to know that you are better than when we last walked in your forest."
"Another time, and not too far away," with his death, he knows, he has seen it and felt it already, a balance long absent will be restored. It is a relief, at long last, to feel it. Davydd smiles over to you, a now familiar companion. Once more he steps alongside you, his boots crunching on the frosty grass and leaves.
"It is good to see you again," Davydd notes, his eyes going to the setting sun that never sets. "Thank you for coming to walk the road with me. When I needed wisdom most, Wisdom showed itself to me." And the streams are fat with salmon to prove it...
The boy winces, feet in the ice. His nose crinkles and he grins as he sometimes does - with a hint of self-deprecation. "I am glad we walk together," he affirms, nodding as he goes. Perhaps he comes to take his salmon for a walk. "I am glad of it, so that you will not be alone. It is never good, being alone."
"No," Davydd says in all seriousness, the echoes of centuries in his own self-exile rippling behind his eyes like the water in that stream. "... it is never good. But then, none of us are alone, really. Not in a forest like this."
Davydd smiles across to you. "We all walk the long road. It's better when one has good company." His hand comes out of his coat pocket and reaches over to you, breaking the ephemeral barrier that separates him from you, that particular delineation broken as his hand lands lightly upon your shoulder.
Indeed. The boy looks slightly startled, recoiling but not before his hand and arm are touched. He blinks pale lashes and gasps between parted lips.
A burst of white light gives way to a scene. Two figures dressed regally with crowns, joining hands as they walk up a set of stairs and onto a dais, their deep blue and gold robes dragging behind them.
A figure in black armor with large black wings, leaping across a darkened sky, silver blade lifted as if to strike.
A man in gold and red, a plume streaming from his helmet, driving across a sandy stretch of beach with a squadron on horseback with him.
A female figure, crouched within the trees, observing an open glade of sylphs in gauze dancing happily.
A rose in full bloom, thrown across a space and into a figure's heart.
The white flash comes again, but with a searing pain. The boy remains with you, staring at where he was touched. Silver eyes return to see you and your reaction, and he takes a step backwards, towards his beloved salmon.
I am the god who kindles fire in the head...
Fire in the head...
His third eye burns, gleaming with that silver light, the searing pain...
And in a chamber in a castle of dreams, an armored leg jumps, his body startled and his eyes opening from one dream into another...
Posted by rowan at March 29, 2005 10:56 PM
