A girl could get used to life like this....
     While Davydd slept where he lay after his bath with his queen in the petal dotted tub, naked and wrapped in king's cloaks for blankets, another king woke to find his queen smelling of roses. And though it was clearly Day in the kingdom of the Oak King, the heavy drapes were drawn for the Holly King's comfort.
     The Oak King woke his Queen with a kiss and with fresh fruit carried in by a servant's hands (a nervous servant, indeed, not wishing to waken the Other King, not knowing that such was impossible). He fed her, and he kissed her, and he loved her again, as if this were the morning after his wedding night. Such attentiveness. Such spoiling pleasure...
     Another bath, and clothing for the day followed. Outside, the festivities were beginning after the break fast. The King was clothed in reds and whites, layers of silk, velvet and leather, somewhere between the 18th Century and Rock and Roll. His hand always held onto his Queen's, her hand lifted now and again to his lips. He put his heart on display for all to see. This is My Queen. See, there is My Ring on Her Finger...
     There were song contests, performances, dance and theater, romancing and weaving -- all of the Arts on display for the honor and entertainment of the King, the Male Muse of this Inspiration. He fed off of it, and they from him, creating a delightful circuit. But Rhodri, the Oak King now crowned, was no passive observer but an active participant. In the Poet's Battle, four bards gathered and the King himself, trading barbs and innuendo with meter and rhyme and reason. Laughter followed each arrow-strike word, each well-chosen verse, framing each sonnet or epithet. Was the Queen well-pleased that her apparent lover won the day?
     His tongue golden with rhyme, honeyed with sugar and spice, his words lilting praise and barbs equally well. Quick-witted, purposeful, humorous Oak King. At the end, the crown was his, and he and his opponents embraced hands, he resplendent as the newest jewel in a glorious crown.
     As the day wore on into twilight, these revelries and displays began to wane, each heading to private quarters for naps, or trysts, and to prepare themselves for the Oak King's feast tonight. The moon now hangs low, the second day of its fullness, as it rises at the horizon over the sea and forests. And now, finally and for the first time in a seeming forever, the King and Queen are alone again, heading upstairs to the king's expansive chambers. It is a time to relax a while before public faces must be worn again...
     Rhodri looks to you as his fingers tangle with your own. He smiles as he walks you slowly down the hall toward the doors to the chamber. His fingers hum with your own, your magic and his magic always playing with one another, as if they too join hands and play with the fingers as they walk slowly into evening. "I like the splash we make together," Rhodri whispers. "What fun you and I are going to have, Queen Fiona...in or out of the bedroom."

     Her heart and her head have always been in tumult - whether or not pleasurably so. But this is a pleasurable tumult indeed...
     Heavy-lidded are the eyes so mercurial, blinked open to greet the day. And her King - one of her Kings. The roseate lips were parted in a smile, breath given to the name. "Rhodri..."
     She has clothed herself in her own choice - in blue and silver as of the sea. Time enough for gold later, perhaps, but it's cool colours, cool to contrast and reflect with the ring upon her finger, the ring in which is reflected forever the kingdom of her one husband's heart. Thus, blue as a summer sky, trimmed with silver and white lace, white furs spotted with silver for her capelet. And she walked, and she watched, her hand never far from the Oak King's grasp. Any division within her is invisible, here and now. All that anyone might see is her open-hearted self, love, adoration, a glimpse of Future...
     Each triumph, each victory is greeted with smile or touch or token, pale flowers taken from her hair and threaded through that of her King's, until Rhodri's crown was ringed with them. Which crown would he value more highly, the Oak King's victory-crown, or the crowning flowers of his betrothed's tokens? It is a pretty picture for the populace, but it is as sincere as it is pretty.
     "Splash?" Fiona murmurs in a low undertone as she walks with you, thumb running slowly over yours where hands clasp. "How many gallons of emotion have we displaced today? Can emotions be measured in gallons, or would it need to be pounds - no, I suppose gallons would do, for it speaks volumes, doesn't it?" She laughs, looking down to her feet for a moment, then back over her shoulder. "One track mind," she accuses softly. "Bloody male..."

     "I said out of the bedroom," Rhodri chuckles, his wide grin showing itself for the devil it is, and its master. His emerald eyes -- the only green thing in a sea of red and white that is his clothing and his hair -- look to your face, then to the door as you and he approach. "Hmmm... gallons...perhaps cubic feet," he tacks on, leaning in toward you.
     The Thief King steals a kiss. "They all saw a beautiful queen again today. And who had her undivided attention? Me, and a crown of flowers for my hair," which he is still wearing, by the by. "And I don't have a one track mind. It's just that... I like that track," Rhodri notes casually. "It has a nice...rhythm to it, don't you think?"
     As you and he approach, his hand setting yours free only so he can take your waist in his grasp, Rhodri glances to the door. His eyes narrow a bit. He ...could swear he heard a groan. Hmm... must be wish projecting.
     At the door, Rhodri turns, opening it with a flourish for you. "My lady," he announces, bowing low as a valet. "After you..."

     In his bowing, Rhodri misses the odd vision that the opening door bestows. Upon the pillows, where he had lain after his pre-dawn bath, Davydd his twisting, doubled over, his blue-painted form mostly visible as the thick cloak has all but twisted to uselessness in his motion. Hands to his red head, his eyes shut, Davydd doesn't hear the steps, hear the voices or the laughter, even smell the perfume of anyone's entrance.
     There is the quiet sound, the wince, and a curse of Welsh, and then his body, all musculature taut in strain, wracks as he moves uncomfortably, his stomach emptying its contents on pillows that will never be used again.
     For anything...
     There is the smell of sweat...
     Of blood...
     That hits the air with the breeze the opening of the door creates...

     "You like that track," Fiona agrees, smile growing in response to your own - how could it not? "And I don't know what they saw; I wasn't paying attention to them. The only one who had my attention also had my tokens, didn't he?" One lily-fair hand lifts to touch your crown, your cheek, then drops as a kiss is stolen, given, received.
     "Your lady is-"
     The words cut off with a sharpening gasp. What bow hides for one hides nothing for her, from her; the eyes go grey, leeched of all ambient blue by the sharpness of horror, a hand to her mouth. "Davydd!"
     The grey eyes turn to the Oak King briefly, and then she is hurrying forward, forehead taut in concern, fear, worry - what else could it be, for all her love, all her emotion? Sweat, blood, fear...

     There was laughter burbling from his lips, tugging at his throat like his grin pulled at his mouth, when the gagging was heard. You hurry forward and the Oak King is right behind you, closing the door. His first worry is audible: Poison? And he is at the pillows, his hands on his father's shoulders and pulling him over onto his back.
     It is a disgusting sight, and Davydd doesn't want it viewed, particularly by The Woman in the room. "No," his voice is hoarse, his expression intensely pained, and his vipers -- for that is what they are, not thorns -- are distended. It is a look that makes Rhodri drop his hold immediately.
     The pillows of white and gold are now crimson with ancient, magicked blood. Blood of his own. Blood of others. That wasn't his first episode apparently, and apparently he cannot make it to a bowl...
     "Da," Rhodri drops into the familial, "... were you served anything," he asks quickly. "Was anyone here..."
     Davydd shakes his head, his hands, red with his own dried blood going to his head again, fingers curling, his body twisting again in part to hide the evidence of his own suffering. "Gwydion," the god of poets, among other things, "... get her out of here," Davydd whispers, burying his head in unstained pillows nearby..." He knows better, really. As if she's going to go anywhere now. At his command...
     Rhodri looks both concerned and puzzled. "Da," father he calls him now, "... what's happening? Can you tell us? Can we help you?"

     "Davydd..." Fiona is stubborn in her own right and always has been. She may be lady, she may be queen, even, but she is also that punk, and no matter that it is a disgusting sight. She isn't going anywhere.
     She begins pulling away the worst of the pillows at the edges, the corners of her mouth tightening in disgust and lingering worry, even fear. Looking around, she grabs the first vessel that she can find, be it of ceramic or of gold, carrying it to the stricken king.
     "Here," Fiona says quietly, placing it close to Davydd, then rising again; she sheds her furs to one side, ignoring them, instead reaching for a soft cloth. It's dipped in a pitcher of water, then shaken out briefly, and she comes back over to where Davydd and Rhodri are, dropping to her knees next to the father.
     "What's happened?" Fiona wants to know - she always wants to know, doesn't she? Towel in one hand, she lifts her other hand hesitantly towards that spiky red hair, half worried of how it'll be taken, entirely wishing to help. "Gwydion, Davydd? Tell us..."

     It hurts to talk. It hurts worse to think. A bloodied hand moves from his hair and braces the bowl. But there's no twisting toward it, no groan, no muttered Welsh curse or wracking of his body in nauseated discomfort. Davydd opens his eyes to the sound of water. "My head is on fire..."
     I am the god that kindles fire in the head...
     "I dream... of Gwydion..."
     "The Celtic Apollo," Rhodri murmurs to you, Fiona, from where he sits on his knees at his father's other side. He takes the twisted cloak and straightens it, pulling it up and over his father's nakedness, not for his modesty but for his dignity.
     "Visions," Davydd winces out. "In my dream... I touched him..." He pauses to make an agonized face. "Power in my head like an axe," he whispers. "No magic, no magic," he softly pleads, his dark green eyes glittering as he looks to Fiona and the water and the cloth. His mouth is bloodied and he sweats in the strain and in the nausea.
     Rhodri frowns, sighing. "Well, you're not going to lie on the floor all night. Can you move... if I help you?"

     The towel is brought to touch Davydd's forehead gently from on her knees. Fiona sighs, shaking her head but not speaking - not now, not immediately. What's to be said? "No magic," she agrees. "Relax. As much as you can, anyway."
     Gwydion? Gods? Poetry? She shakes her head again, just a little bit, lowering the cloth. "I know who Gwydion is. Well. In theory." Not in reality, to be causing epidemic levels of sickness from a dream. What is real?
     She is a faerie queen and a London punk...
     She isn't one to argue as to the nature of reality...
     "If I can help," Fiona offers, grey eyes darting from one man to the other, "you know I will. Getting you cleaned up some more likely wouldn't hurt either. You touched Gwydion, and ... he made you sick?"

     Davydd lowers his hands from his head, his forehead wrinkling as he winces with the touch of the cool water. "Moving makes me sick..." he waves that notion away. "Dizzy." Relaxation will be harder to come by than complete sentences from him, it seems. His muscles twitch at the gentlest touch on his forehead.
     Davydd opens his eyes. "I touched him... and his power...landed in my head.... fuck me..." It's not a request, mind you. His left hand fumbles for the bowl and his shoulders shift as he prepares to move. "It's... like a migraine... times a thousand..."
     Rhodri stands, "Alright then... I'll bring the bed to you..." Stay with him, his eyes say to you. As if he'd expect you to do anything else. There's a gentle look for you, his queen. A soft assurance that exists despite the evidence.
     Davydd gives you a grousing look, as if to say: Nice ruddy image this is. Good morning by the way. Fucking lovely day, isn't it? Aren't I just the handsome one. So far, there's not a rush toward the bowl...

     "Hold still." Fiona doesn't smile, just brings the towel into play again - nothing magical about it, just a wet towel and fairly gentle touch. "If your head's as bad as that, moving will only make it worse."
     Blood begins to flake and wash away as she draws the towel down, then back up, soft cloth wrapped around two fingertips. "Rhodri will be right back," she mutters, a brief glance to le fils before returning to le pere.
     "So why were you dreaming about Gwydion? Since," Fiona murmurs, as if hoping the words will provide a lifeline of sorts, "I don't imagine this happens to be coincidence." Nothing ever is, is it? She sighs, rubbing the towel to his forehead, his cheeks, along the sides of his throat, then back up to his forehead.
     "What's going on, Davydd..."

     "I have... since my transformation. He was there. We walk my forest and we talk," Davydd says, nose wrinkling, his hands going back to his head. He will have to move eventually. To the bath, first and foremost. "I don't know what else to fucking say. I dream of him from time to time... I fucked up and touched a god. I am now in fucking agony."
     And grumpy...
     Apparently...
     "Sorry," Davydd mutters under his breath. "God damn it... it's fucking like I have an elephant foot on my head cracking it like a fucking peanut..."
     Rhodri returns with his first round: pillows. Firmer ones from the king's bed. He kneels, propping his father's body with them, ensuring his dignity and comfort. Without a word, he rises and returns to the bed for the next round.

     "Well, peanut-brain," Fiona murmurs, moving to rinse the towel, "we always knew you were a bit touched. This just proves it."
     Love and adoration, you get. Respect, you get. But you also get bad jokes.
     She rinses out the towel, wringing it out and then soaking it again, wringing it partially and then returning to continue her ministrations. One hand lifts to gently smooth back the agitated hair, one fingertip touches to a thorny mouth. "Just try to relax," Fiona counsels patiently. "You're in pain, and the pain makes you tense, but the more you tense against it, the more of a grip it's going to have on you. We'll get you patched up as best we can, but you'll need to do that."
     She drapes the towel over Davydd's forehead, moving to cradle his head upon her thigh; then leaning forward, she adjusts pillows, fingertips beginning a careful, gentle massage just behind the ears, where the jaw hinges.

     The touch to one of the thorns makes him twist, his body stretching. Davydd's bloodied mouth parts, a kiss left behind on the attendant finger. A leg lifts, knee bending and foot going to the cushioned floor. As fingers move at his head, his bent leg drops, thighs wide, no thought to modesty or dignity given.
     His only thought is comfort...
     Davydd sighs a groan, his leg lifting up and down in a slow but steady rhythm. A powerful thigh, created by hard labor, riding, climbing, striding in that way of his, bearing layers of armor. His foot digs in a moment, muscles showing that his voice does not. His head fucking hurts.
     A lot.
     A bloodied hand reaches up and pulls the towel over his face. "Dim the lights..." There are few lights lit but there are several lamps here and there, hanging colored lamps with candles flickering.
     As Rhodri returns to the pillows, this time bringing a coverlet and another batch of cloths for Fiona, he glances to the lamps and nods. "I'll get them, da... just lie still. You know, she has witchcraft in her fingers," Rhodri notes gently. "Even without magic..." Bending, Rhodri leaves a kiss on the top of your head and then covers his father's nakedness, again, with a thick feather-filled coverlet.

     "Shh," Fiona mutters. She glances up to offer Rhodri a small smile, taking the cloths and stacking them next to her, settling so that her thighs are less tensed, are at a lower angle for Davydd's comfort. "Don't give me so much credit."
     Her fingertips begin gently, concentrating on that hinge, then traveling to the join of skull to neck, not digging in too deeply; not when there's this much discomfort. A gentle touch, skin-level and no deeper, at least to begin with. "You're with those who love you," Fiona murmurs, half-croons it, "so you've nothing to tense up about. Noone will think less of you. We're proud of you, you know, hm?"
     Maybe the words aren't ones Davydd needs to hear. But they can't hurt; and Fiona finds them comforting to say, passing her palm again over his forehead, smoothing his hair again before reaching for a cloth. This time, it's his shoulders which are bathed, and down towards his chest, collar bone and biceps.
     "We love you, and if Gwydion's visiting you, then you must have done well, to earn a god's favour, Davydd..."

     "Yeah," Davydd growls. "It's all well and good until you lose your third eye..."
     Rhodri can't help it -- he chuckles, muttering in Welsh as he tucks his father in. The Welsh: Better your third eye than your right testicle. The Oak King smirks, less worried when Davydd banters. He settles down with an exhale. "Well... dreams are as real a thing as any else. What's the dream with a god but an audience with a god. At least you now know it's strictly a no touch policy, da..."
     Dark forest eyes peer at Rhodri beneath the towel and he gruffs. The tension loosens a bit, but he is far from relaxed. His hands go to his head again as Davydd sighs, turning upon Fiona's lap. He is resisting the urge to vomit. His skin pales and a hand fumbles for the bowl.
     "I think we should not make him talk so much. If it is as things usually are, it will last for a number of nights, in threes. Three or six or nine or twelve," Rhodri notes softly. "I hope it is only three..."

     "For all our sakes," Fiona agrees, fingertips drawing through Davydd's hair again. Then gently she uses both hands to support his head, lifting it in order to replace her thigh with a cushion, easing out from under him. "Rest seems like a good idea - once you're feeling better, however long it takes, we'll worry about ... other things."
     Such as food supplies and sources, and debriefings of a sort...
     Fiona edges the bowl closer, nudging it to under Davydd's hand - well within range, and a better receptacle for vomited blood than her lap would be. "I think under the circumstances," she says lightly, "it's just as well that you two are the only gods I've ever known."

Posted by rowan at April 01, 2005 08:17 PM