You sleep in my arms, a vision of Things to Come. I've been able... we've been able to let the other things that trouble us just slip away tonight. Tonight, it was just you and I. No talk about sacrifice. No talk about Rhodri. You and I talked. For the first time, in some ways.
     Davydd turns his head, waking from his latest nap. In his arms, you lie completely enfolded, tucked in his strength and smelling of him and apples. Always apples. He bends his head, breathing against your skin, the whiskers on his chin like the tongue of a cat -- rough and prickly. Davydd watches you sleep, remembering how you looked perched atop him, your hair like golden veils... first hiding, then revealing your breasts as you moved on him.
     Your hair's a mess now. It'll take weeks and an army of winged pixies to right it. And you'll curse my name for it. But maybe, too, you'll give a little smile, thinking of all the work it took to get it as royally mussed as it is. You've earned it, love...
     Beneath the blankets, long ago pulled up to warm skin cooling from the several cessations of coupling, a large thigh moves, readjusting. He can't help it -- he kisses you again. And for the first time in all his ruddy life, Davydd ap Owain, who called himself Llywelyn for years, though his nephews gave rise to that name, can say that he is happy.
     Honestly...

     "Mmm..." It's a sleepy sound, not of the waking world, eyes that are sometimes blue and sometimes grey and occasionally other wilder colours still closed to all but sleep. Fiona shifts very slightly, resettling more comfortably, a small pink smile on her face even in sleep.
     So many things said; so many things revealed. But she's said nothing untrue, even in the most passion-filled moment - there is none of it she will regret, now or when she wakes...
     You shift, you kiss her, and the sleepy sound is recreated, closer to waking, now. "Mmm?" A question, not quite a complaint. And a small hand skins lazily over your painted ribs, climbing to find purchase as slowly she opens her eyes.
     One blink, then two. "You're awake," Fiona accuses lazily, arm tightening over your chest. "Bloody dragon, don't you ever wear out? I love you," she adds, as a counterpoint to her insult that needs to be said; almost as if an addendum to the accusation. She yawns hugely, then rubs her cheek against you. "Bloody man..."
     But there's a smile there, wider now as she wakes a little further. What's on your mind, Davy-bach? Need more to drink?

     A hand rests against golden hair, fingers get tangled but pull free -- even without the usual bombast -- finding better purchase elsewhere. He pulls back just a tough, just enough for him to cast a slant-eyed look to you, dark green peeking between the lashes. And then he smiles, sharp teeth and all. "I'll sleep when I'm dead," he whispers.
     Davydd seems to take no notice of the insults -- he's used to them from you -- but is there in all his warm, blue wonder to be an anchor for your hand. Not flinching as your fingers trace over his ribs. "This is my favorite time of night... morning." It has been a night for such confessions. "Everyone is asleep... or should be," he rumbles on with a grin. "... the world is perfectly still of all the noise of Man and can be ... itself... for a few short hours."
     Just as he has been with you tonight, for these few, short hours...
     He looks at you, his arms tightening just slightly for a hug, his hand moving beneath the blankets, lightly tracing your curves before lingering at your hip. "No, I'm fine," Davydd says a moment after. "I don't need anything else. This.... this is good."
     You feel the prickles of a man's cheek as he bends, rolling you gently in his arms, his mouth finding the crook of your neck. He doesn't speak his adoration, he's a man of simple words unlike your Rhodri, but rather lets his adoration speak for itself in action.
     "This has been a ...hell of a night, Fiona Arundel..." Davydd teases. "And I'm going to enjoy it right up to the end," his voice finishes in a whisper between you. "Care to stay up with me while I watch the sun rise? I don't get to do this much back home," he says of the material world.

     "Just make sure that isn't any time too soon, love," Fiona murmurs, shaking off sleep as you raise her, smile turning a little wistful for a moment before returning to its fierce, blazing fullness. "And I like it too - I've always liked night-time better than day. It's got more stories, and while some of them are dangerous secrets," she shrugs, "they're some of them more interesting for it."
     She smiles, closing her eyes as she's rolled, head tipping back as your mouth moves to her neck. Her hand comes up to stroke your prickly cheek, and Fiona murmurs, "Cactus-face. Mind you don't give me rugburn." She doesn't sound genuinely worried about the risk, though, a finger tapping your cheek and then drawing along the edge of your ear.
     "I'll stay up with you," Fiona agrees, eyes opening as she turns her head to look at you. "Of course. Why not? As long as you promise not to explode or burst into flames. I have had dreams," she adds quietly, "of your death, on occasion. You aren't likely to die by fire, are you, but... well. Another time for that." She leans in, her lips finding yours in a questioning kiss.
     I will miss you...

     You lift for a kiss, and you receive a kiss. But it comes with knitted eyebrows and a peering look. You have had dreams about it...? You mentioned it casually once before, didn't you? Tucked in the corners of other conversations -- you and he both have that bad habit. An eyebrow cocks up in question to you, but his arms remain where they are, holding, clasping, and occasionally wandering.
     "I won't burst into flames here, no," he notes. You've seen more than you have let on. This, his expression tells you. "That ... particular... requirement is only valid on terra firma," so to speak. "What have you dreamed, Fiona... and how often, love..."
     Davydd looks concerned. Moreover, he seems saddened that you have had to witness it, perhaps over and over in who knows what sort of gruesome manner, when all he wished to do was to keep you at arm's length from it. "It ... is just a passage, you know. From one thing into another. I won't feel pain, and it won't be at anyone else's hand." None but his own. "I don't want you to worry, or even to wonder or think about it... I just... don't, Fiona. Just know that ... it won't happen until it must happen..."

     "On occasion." Fiona remains close, even after the kiss, curling up against your solidity, arm still around you, head sliding to your shoulder as she turns on her hip. "And I'm glad you won't burst into flames. The smell would take forever to get out."
     She wrinkles her nose at you and grins. You're being teased...
     I love you, she reminds you, as if you'd somehow forgotten or were in danger of forgetting between kiss and speech. She draws a finger down idly along your arm, watching its progress.
     "You were walking, and it put me in mind of the old song - nursery rhyme - about walking to Galilee. I don't know why, exactly. But you were walking, as if very tired - walking straight, but as if you'd been walking for a very long time and you just - were so focused, so fixed on your destination that you couldn't see anything at all. And the road had been crooked, but now it was straight, ending at the edge of a field."
     Fiona shrugs slightly, as if not entirely comfortable going into details - but you asked. She glances at you, then turns her head to watch the breeze off the ocean stir the curtains in front of the balcony. "You ... stepped off the road, onto the grass, and you took up your sword as if seeing it for the first time - as if it were the first thing that could distract you from your walking. And you spoke to it - I'm not sure exactly what you said, but it was something like this."
     She closes her eyes again, as if to copy out the words from her dream - or dreams - to where you could hear her. "Hello again, old friend. It's been a long road, and a long time since you've seen any sort of proper use. I wish that you could go with me to where I go, but you are of this world, and I am not. When I go, you will be gone, too; that is the nature of temporal things. At least you won't be cutting open any Saxon bellies this time!" Fiona lifts a hand to absently brush at the tangles of hair where they lie, then continues, eyes open again but not really looking anywhere in particular.
     "Sometimes you say something like that. Sometimes it's a little different - but not much. And then you take your sword in your hands, and - well -" She pauses, clearing her throat and glancing down, hand tightening slightly on your arm. "And then you stab yourself in the stomach with it," Fiona says in a low voice. "And you fall. And you bleed, and the blood is everywhere. The field is - it shouldn't, but it just goes red. The world goes red, a bit. And the flowers which were white all start to go red. And that's usually about when I wake up."
     To the question of how often she has the dream, she doesn't answer...

     You have never seen him do this...
     You've seen him almost do this, when he gets very agitated, or very excited. But you have never seen it pass from his eyes and roll down his cheek. A tear, solitary and uninhibited by hand or turning of his head or bark of laughter to distract from it, rolls down the cliffside of that Cymraeg cheek, his skin going flushed and freckled beneath it.
     "I'm very sorry, love," Davydd murmurs, his eyes narrowing (they burn a bit), but no other tears seem to be on the verge of following. "I have already seen it. I won't be making any grand speeches. I'll... be there with the earth as I should be. It will be very quiet. And the seasons will come and go on schedule without so much as an extra leaf in my honor. It's... the natural state of things, that passing. And I will wake up here," he smiles suddenly, and he kisses you. "And you will be here to see me take my place as High King..."

     Her hand comes up to catch that tear, smoothing it along your skin. "It's just a dream, Davydd," Fiona says quietly. "As long as it doesn't mean that I lose you - I ... can ... try to reconcile myself to it. I saw it - it doesn't mean anything else. After all," she manages a faint smile, "what do I know about such things? I just - worry about you, that's all."
     She closes her eyes as you kiss her, lips parting under yours, following you when you move to pull away. I told you that you are my emperor... isn't that what a high king is? Ardh Ri - ruler of all. My king, my love, my lord...
     Her hand touches your hair gently, and she opens her eyes to look at you seriously, drawing back to speak with lips slightly swollen from kissing. "I only hope that I can be good enough for you, Davydd. I've been winging it, you know - and while it's all maybe not too shabby a beginning, it isn't the same as being actually a ruler." Fiona shakes her head slightly. "Making decisions for others, about others, life and death - this is all new to me. I ran away from being responsible for anyone but myself for a long time, and I even threw myself away until you picked me up off the street."

     "Well, I'll let you practice with Rhodri's kingdom before I let you have a crack at mine," Davydd rolls out, chuckling at the end of it. It's a good segue from death and disembowelment. "You've a hundred years to practice. I wouldn't worry about it now. It comes... as all things do, love... with experience. Making mistakes, trying not to repeat them, doing your best for others, convincing others that you're doing the best you can for them. At the heart of the matter," he notes.
     He kisses you again. Not the sweet and gentle pecks of afterglow, but something that still has some heat to it, some longing to it. Open-mouthed and teasing, giving and taking. "I think you're doing fantastic so far," Davydd murmurs at your mouth, teasing the swollen flesh. "You make me happy, at least." His nearly forty year old face looks grand when he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. The best smile is one that comes with experience of highs and lows. "You make me...very," the rest is a rumbling purr as he covers your mouth with his again. "Very," muffled, "...happy."
     Fine sheets pull as he moves beneath the covers. His arms tighten around you, squeezing warmly. "Mmm... beautiful... you look like you've been ravished all night. I should call Gwilym," William, "...to come paint this for my own walls." Davydd grins, nibbling at your mouth. "Emperor, hmm? I don't know about that... sounds a bit too Roman for my taste...."

     "I'll try not to burn any kingdoms to the ground in your absence, High King Davydd," Fiona answers easily, "but if you're not around to keep your firm manly dominance over your woman, you can't hold me responsible for the results."
     She answers kiss with kiss, hands going to your shoulders in order to pull herself just a little bit closer. I'm glad that I make you happy. I didn't think that I could. Does that mean you don't want any hot apple crumble with Devon cream? Now, that's just playing dirty...
     But there are apples in her kisses, springtime promise in blossoms and autumn answer in harvest, soft sounds escaping her as she creeps against you. "If you want me to pose for him again, I suppose I could," Fiona murmurs lazily, "but I thought you'd forbidden me to ever have him see me naked again. And it'd rather lose the effect if I were to go get dressed. Ardh Ri... I like that idea."
     She crinkles up her nose, grinning at you with lazy grey eyes peering through a tangled lock of cornsilk hair. Like when you compared yourself to being the football captain. I like it. I love you anyway, but power's a bit of an aphrodisiac, I guess. I like the idea of being the High King's woman.

     It is ...something of an aphrodisiac, yes. The arms that hold you, thick and covered in dragons and trees, do not so much tighten as they seem to coil. There is power surrounding you, not of the magical kind but of the simple, manly variety. A hand that has held many a woman, many a sword, many a bow in the service of Time splays against your hip, guiding your thigh upward to hook over him. The turn-on is very much two-way.
     The woman of the Ardh Ri...
     He shall have no concubines, but a loving and sensual queen. A woman who will bear his babies, who will become more voluptuous with time and children, who will sit upon his lap as well as any throne, will be in his arms... the woman of the Ardh Ri. You are in his arms now, queen, he who is more than a king. He is your man.
     Apple crumble.... are you trying to kill me? His thoughts are crisp as autumn leaves and come with the smolder of cinnamon and clove. Davydd grins into the kiss. "The only apple I want... is the one I already have..." His mouth moves from yours, finding your neck again.
     He can't possibly be serious...
     But you feel him again, a not so subtle sliding between your thighs...
     The High King's woman... there will be poems about you. Songs I will sing... and I will think of tonight... for a long while...

     Her thigh slides and drags over you, against you, movements slow and sensual. Her smile is warm and genuine and just a little bit crooked as she looks over at you.
     Trying to kill you? No ... but let's face it, you'd just burn the calories off anyway... I could use blackberries if you prefer.
     Her lips twitch, and then she sighs, remaining open-mouthed, eyes closing as your lips move along her neck, and she shivers, thighs spreading a little wider so that she shifts, sinks against you, hands to your shoulders and fingernails curving to bite just a bit.
     I will be thinking of you... but right now ... I want you to make me think of nothing but you...

     Woman... the things you do to me...
     His mouth lifts to claim your mouth again, his hand comes to claim your thigh. He moves you easily, so light you are in comparison, his arm hooking under your leg to hold it. You feel the press of him, the tease of him, the first slide in and out.
     Outside, the arrival of the sun is heralded by a blush of pink against the otherwise indigo sky, landing against your own skin wherever his mouth lingers. He will miss the sun rising. But he won't care. He won't even recall he was waiting for it until he's sitting in a pub at the end of the week, nursing a cigarette and a beer before heading out into London. He'll see it in the reflection of light against the glass. And he'll smile to himself.
     Sure, he's mad. All Welshmen are mad. But who would ever have guessed that love and happiness would be the reason?
     "Fiona," is whispered across your skin as Davydd suddenly fills you. He opens his eyes, he looks to you and he smiles. Sure... he's mad. All Welshmen are mad... but who ever thought you'd be the reason?

     Nothing compared to the things you do to me - and the things I want you to do to me...
     It's left hanging, an unpunctuated thought silenced by a moan against your mouth as you slide into her, a hand pressing dainty fingers against the back of your neck as you kiss her. Fiona gasps a little. The effect you have on me...
     The sun is rising outside, and she has no reason to pay it any mind. It's hard for her to comprehend, sometimes, when she sits back to think about it, that she could have such desire - such libido - such fulfillment. Her fingers tighten, fingernails again biting, a low sound that isn't quite a cry yet escaping her.
     "Mmm... oh, Davydd... take me..." Fiona almost whimpers it, arching her back and pressing close to you, then dropping her head to your shoulder. My champion... that makes me your prize...

Posted by rowan at May 01, 2005 06:08 PM