Thank Lord Jesus, the Ever-Merciful Christ Our Lord and Saviour. A bucket of ice water, with ice chunks floating on top, became his altar, his prayers bubbling beneath the water as he shoved his face, eyes open, into the frigid depths. Holy shite, fuck and fuck me were his salutations upon lifting, copper-fire hair turned dark with the sudden drenching.
     Oddly enough, numbness worked. What to do with fire in the head? Dunk your head in ice. Brilliant! But you know what works better than a tub of pure ice water? Pure fairy whiskey...
     Concocted from the first honeycombs of the season, fermented with honeywine brandy and mead, distilled into a golden, sweet liquor, fairy whiskey is the most potent elixir known in the Otherworld. It would lay a king down, it would strip a fairy priestess of any thread or shred of decency and inhibition... and clothing, it makes kings of farmers and gods of kings. And it's a hell of a cure for caring shite about anything...
     Even brain splitting pain in the center of your forehead...
     He drank and he drank, the stricken king, until the throbbing pain was dulled. He left his coverlet and stained pillows, bathed himself, and dragged his cloak and himself to the next door chambers, the chambers he built for Fiona, for his queen -- they will still be hers, of course, as she is Rhodri's queen.
     As the feast crescendoed to a feeding, singing, political frenzy, Davydd, drunk, began to sing, to call for more whiskey. His songs were of love unrequited or love forlorn, love lost, love betrayed, nobody knows the trouble I've seen...all in a loud and stirring voice -- and to the perturbation of his single servant...
     "... I gave her rings, I gave her gold, I gave her my heart besides. But she gave her body to the Marcher Lord and rides now by his side..."

     Another bottle of whiskey is proffered, and with a sigh unheard by the King, the servant turns, giving his eyes a mighty roll as he moves from the Queen's apartments into the Oak King's, the door now standing open between the two.
     He's an older servant, and most resolutely a valet and not one of the busty winged maids one might have expected. He's wearing a red smock and otherwise white and silver garments, his short silver hair and pointy silver beard expertly and neatly cropped. He's ageless of course, but his eyes are old. He is the Chief Valet of all valets in Avalon. He tends only to the needs of royals.
     Even those most royally wasted... inelegantly wasted, he might add...
     The Head Valet wipes his hands on his smock and sighs as he looks over the ...absolute mess of the chamber. "By Goddess, I should ask for a raise..."

     Ah, politics. And thank whichever deity you care for that it's Rhodri that's got to deal with this set and not her; she undoubtedly has enough of the same waiting for her in her own kingdom, she hasn't got to put up with it here as well. Not when there's not a marriage yet save in vaguest sight...
     Fiona has climbed the stairs, dripping in silks and furs. She is, after all, a queen, and moreover has a reputation to build and to maintain - and no desire to disgrace herself or Rhodri. Thus, her coiffure is elegant, as are her clothes, as is her demeanor. Few would recognise her as Drancy, the London street punk, now...
     She pauses at the doorway to the Oak King's chambers, pale eyebrows lifting as she observes a song, the corners of her mouth tugging. "Feeling sorry for himself, is he," she murmurs, then steps inside with a courteous nod to the servant. "I take it that His Majesty is in poor health and excellent voice?", Fiona inquires, glancing now to the connective doorway. "What did he last request, and how long ago?"

     As you enter and speak, the silver-haired valet lowers into a regal bow. "My name is Witrin, Your Highness. Is there anything I might get for you to ease your night." A silver brow lifts as Witrin lifts his head -- but he does not look to you, he averts his eyes. But the look says it all: an aspirin, perhaps?
     But you ask him a question, and he must speak. "My Queen, I am not at liberty to speak for His Majesty's mood. I can only vouch for his volume," the voice is silken smooth. He's been doing this a long time. "He last request a bottle of the elixir. It is his second...complete bottle. I have given it to him. Most would be asleep by now. But he is not ...most..."
     That is certainly very true...

     From the other room, a moan that becomes a "Oh look... another bottle... Witrin!"
     Witrin clears his throat and rises. "Yes, My Dread Lord, what may I do for you?"

     "No, His Majesty's ... capacity ... is certainly well known," Fiona agrees, lips twitching just slightly. "Thank you, Witrin. If possible, I'd like some melonflower wine, but other than that, I think nothing for now. Bring another bottle of elixir for His Majesty, and I'll then bring it in to him."
     After all, there's nothing that says Witrin has to be the one to deliver it, is there? Fiona glances again to the doorway, lips twitching as she mouths Dread Lord?

     "It was a longer title earlier. His insistence," Witrin murmurs. He holds up a gentle hand to her as he moves to stand politely in the doorway, his hands folded before him. "I am here, my lord..."
     "I need a small glass...bowl..." The scent of fire follows. And smoke. He's smoking in bed...
     "Of course, Your Majesty. It won't be but a moment..." Witrin turns, his eyes on you for the first direct look. "There is a bucket of ice water nearby, should he set the room on fire, Your Grace. I shall be back with his glass and your requests." He bows and takes a momentary leave through the main door to the suites.
     In the meanwhile, you are secretively serenaded. It is a Welsh song. It is a Welsh soldiers song. Trodding through the mud, in the constant rain, I think of her and sing this sweet refrain. Though she will never see me come this way again. The song is from the Napoleon era. The verse is in Welsh but the chorus is in French. The song is about how he'll be dying in the war and she'll be greeting returning soldiers, hoping to see his face. But she'll never see his face again. Naturally, eventually she will love and marry another while he is lying in his grave. And she will bear another man's children while his stone goes faint in the rain.
     Real uplifting stuff...
     Witrin returns, an armful of bottles and his other hand bearing two glasses. One for your melonflower wine, and one for His Majesty's ashes. "My Queen," he murmurs, setting all upon the table. He opens the bottle of melonflower wine and pours a glass for you. "His glass and another bottle of the elixir..."

     "Well, we'll hope it won't come to that," Fiona murmurs with a twitch of eyebrow. He'd better not set the room on fire; for one thing, it's her room! And for another, from all he's said, he'd burn rather well...
     One corner of her mouth turns upwards despite herself, arms folded as Witrin removes himself, as she is serenaded. She doesn't lean up against a wall the way she ordinarily might; instead, she remains upright under her own power, despite the weight of cloaks and coronets, of kingdoms and of kings. And she listens, with the sea and the sky captured in her eyes.
     When Witrin returns, there is that faint almost-smile still, and a nod for the armful. "Thank you, Witrin. I think that will be all; if His Majesty has further requirements, we'll call." She will tend to the elder king for the moment, it seems, lips still twitching slightly. "Either that or you will be called for the sooner, if he decides he prefers a manservant to me."
     The thought amuses her. She takes up her own glass for a dainty sip, then brings up a tray from nothingness, sturdy silver upon which are placed bottles and glasses, her own glass and bottle to one side, the others to the other side. There is a nod, and the tray is lifted in front of her as if she were a nursing sister bearing medicine.
     But there is still the twitch to her lips, suggesting some faint amusement...

     "I shall not be far, Your Grace. But tug upon the golden rope, and I shall be at your side..." Golden rope? It must be in the other room. The servant disappears in a shower of glitter that dissipate and disappear just shy of hitting the floor...
     ... the Queen's chambers...
     It is more than sumptuous. The floor is an ever-blooming meadow of golden flowers and soft green grass. It is all fairytale, all the time. There are fountains of crystal clear water, bright plumaged birds that fly in and out of the stained glass windows overlooking Avalon by day, but at night sit and snore in a low white-noise of cooing. A bed hangs suspended by golden ropes and swings just ever so slightly with the gentle rocking of a hammock. Well, a little bit more than just slightly just now... with the occasional kick of the Holly King's leg to set it in motion, in meter to his sad songs.
     The other furnishings are from far off places, dreamed of places, things you yourself may have imagined and inadvertently shared with him. It is regal, and girly, and slightly punkish all at the same time. It is Drancy and Fiona and even a smidge of Isabel.
     The Once and Future King is half-clothed, pants pulled on once bathing was done, his feet bare...one upon the bed and the other dangling off the side to skim the grass (and push the bed in motion). His eyes are closed and the cigarette is in his mouth just lightly burning, ash threatening to dribble with his mouth's every motion to sing. "Ain't no sunshine when she's gone... it gets cloudy every day... ain't no sunshine when she's gone..."

     "Thank you, Witrin," Fiona murmurs as the servant disappears, moving forward with a steady grace to the other room. Her room, though she's never yet seen it, not even once...
     She turns her head from side to side slowly from the doorway, taking in the decor with another upwards tug at the corners of her mouth. There is delight in that expression, but it is a delight postponed - time enough for that later. There is a king to be tended to - a king in her bed (not for the first time and not for the last, either) who has need of a queen. Or so she thinks.
     Fiona, with her tray, approaches the bed with quiet footsteps, setting the tray to one side and lifting her melonflower wine to her lips. "You're in excellent voice, Your Majesty," she remarks without haste or bite to her voice. "Should I be tart? Or would you rather I coo over you instead of getting out my knives? Here; I've brought you your elixir. If you promise not to set fire to the bed, I may even let you drink it."

     The King's foot stops the bed's motion, coming to brace it in place as he sits up. Such a display. Surely there has been a dream some time, in some way, that might have included him in a fantastic locale, with a thick silken cloak falling slack at his waist as he sits up on your bed, bracing himself up on his elbows.
     "That depends," Davydd says, cigarette bouncing and eyebrows lifting, "... are you going to be a tart in a cute outfit?" His eyes sweep up and they sweep down, a sudden glimmer in his eyes. "You know what they say is a good cure for a headache..."
     But you mention elixir and he sits up with a soft groan, setting his cigarette aside -- saving it for later. He might need it more ...later. "You're Christ's sister," he blasphemes beautifully, a hand reaching out for you and his other for the whiskey. "How was the party? Sorry I missed it..."

     "The party was ... interesting," Fiona says carefully, moving the rest of the way up to the edge of the bed, setting her glass aside. "Resplendent with luxuries fantastical, costumes unbelievable, and increasingly, conversations political and politics unforgivable. I left Rhodri to it; they're swarming around him, he's quite capable."
     She leans gently up against the side of the bed, hands going to the edge to prevent it from swinging. "Besides, I felt it was time for a bit of a break for me," she adds, smiling slightly, "and I wanted to check in on you and make sure you were still somewhere approaching alive."
     She reaches behind her, grasping the whiskey and bringing it forward to within your grasp, one eyebrow sliding up almost coyly as she glances down at the bedding and then up to your face. "No costumes for you, not right now. If what I'm wearing isn't good enough, well... How's your head, Davydd?" Fiona inquires, voice pitched low. "Can't be all that good, if you think I'm Christ's sister..."

     "Hurts like hell," he says, "..but," a hand lifting for emphasis, "...I have remedied that with numbness. The ice bath helped, the whiskey was a miracle. Another bottle, and I hope to lose all feeling..." Davydd exhales as he lies back, his muscles unknotting and relaxing, as he does, in a pile of male flesh.
     You feel a leg wrap around your own, sneaking beneath that gown. "Thank you for coming up to tend me...I have been in this room by myself with one male fairy, not my idea of a good time. Coming up to join me? Feel like getting plastered on a floating boatilla of a bed?"
     And then it occurs to him: you've never seen this room!
     Davydd sits up, a hand going to his head, another hand still holding the bottle (it is a miracle that he has not spilled it -- but then he is a master of not spilling alcohol), "I forgot to tell y'. I made this room for y'...what d' y' think of it? I tried to work a little Hello Kitty in... but it ended up being too pink..."

     She stumbles slightly, glancing down at the leg that seems to have somehow insinuated itself under the folds of her gown. "Was it your idea or his, being tended by one male fairy? And stop pushing, you git!" Fiona makes the retort while slapping lightly at your leg, regaining her balance. "Keep that up and I'll fall over, and me only on a couple of glasses of wine."
     Leaning over the edge, she lowers her hands in order to hike up the folds of her gown - the better to throw one leg over the edge. That done, her hands come back up in order to make a grab for you, hands hooking onto ribs and shoulder so that she can pull herself up - or pull you off; but no, you should be heavy enough to use as an anchor. Once she's on, Fiona sits up, knees together, tossing her hair back from her face. "I'm glad I'm not drunk. I think I'd get sea-sick."
     Abruptly, her face explodes into a smile - it's that sudden and that consuming, corners of her eyes crinkling, edges of her mouth tugged up, forehead creased with it as well. "Bastard," she accuses softly. "Hello Kitty, my arse. It's lovely. And you pay entirely too much attention to things I tell you. Why do you pay so much attention, when you know as well as I do that at least half of what comes out of my mouth must be arrant nonsense? Tell me, Davydd, when did you make this?"

     "If you think you're seasick now, just wait..." he laughs. He proves a formidable anchor indeed as he doesn't even move during all the skirt hiking, leg throwing, body pulling action. He's like a soft rock, really, a living Gwynedd cliffside. Mount Snowdon with a smile. "Lie back and look up..." he whispers, conspiracy dripping of his tongue.
     There is a canopy above the bed, where golden ropes are anchored by massive hooks, and on the underside of this canopy the neatly pasted bumperstickers and emblems of your favorite bands, buttons like the ones you used to have on your old bookbag, like a mosaic of your life. There's even a picture of him up there, staring down at you with a punk pose, the snap of a magic camera catching him flipping you off. With a grin.
     "I made it a while back...I don't remember. Right before I created the temple and laid you on the altar. I thought you might like it. A room of your very own. It's a suite actually," he looks over his shoulder to the other side of the room, and there...lo and behold...there is a door. "You've a private dressing room with closets full of costumes in there, whatever you imagine," Davydd notes. "I was going to save it for your wedding night, but I felt such shite... I forgot I was hiding it."
     He pauses to open the bottle of whiskey, the bottle emitting a pungent honeyed tone on the air, and he takes a long swallow then lies back down with a sigh. His eyes close. "It's the same visions...over and over again," he murmurs.

     "Bastard." Fiona says it softly, laughingly, lingeringly, lovingly, staring up at the ceiling until she has to turn her head away, burying her face against your shoulder with a low laugh and the fall of tears. "You think of everything, do you? I'm glad you didn't save it. It keeps me from worrying about you quite as much, in an odd sort of way."
     An arm steals round your waist, and she shifts again, not sitting up but raising herself on an elbow as she turns to you, looks at you. "You do know that I'd love you just the same even without your extravagant generosity, right?" Fiona asks it quietly, lifting her hand to touch a fingertip to the corner of your mouth. "Rich man, poor man, beggar-man, thief... It's just that I love you. And that's all."
     Blue eyes look down at the opening bottle, then looks to you as you lie back. "Visions? What kind of visions?" Fiona twists, turning to face you, one hand on your thigh for balance. "Tell me - maybe I can help."

     "I know," he says. "I'm just incapable of enjoying Joy too long. I'm a man, Fiona, that only knows himself as himself when there is fight or sorrow." If he weren't drunk, he'd never say it out loud. No matter how true it is, and how much you're already aware of it. "Even if I weren't a king with a posh pad, serving up wishes and floating beds, I know you'd love me just the same. You loved me when I was a Nowhere Man. I was there. I remember." When you didn't know what he was or where he was from or anything of the kind. There by that tree. When you and he didn't know anything.
     "Two figures are dressed regally with crowns, hands joined as they walk up a set of stairs and onto a dais, deep blue and gold robes behind them. And then a figure in black armor with black wings leaping across a darkened sky, silver blade lifted to strike. A man in gold and red, a plume streaming from his helmet, driving across a sandy stretch of beach with a squadron of cavalry behind 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. Then... white light... and pain. That's it. Over and over again."

     "You're not a man of peace." Fiona says it without judgment being passed; it is as it is, and she's never expected otherwise. She slides forward, brushing hair back from your forehead with a cool palm. "I'm not a peaceful woman. Not quite the same things, but ... close enough. Broken edges that can fit together."
     She quiets, listening to you speak, eyes narrowed as in concentration as she tilts her head to one side. "I don't know," Fiona admits readily, "what it means. Are you expected to figure it out, like a riddle? Or is it just - what sense of obligation do you get, that it keeps replaying?" Her eyes close, and she lies back next to you, reaching for your hand without speaking.
     "...Of course, if this is a result of you touching the god," Fiona murmurs, "it may not be something which was meant for you..."

     "That was so monumentally stupid," Davydd rattles off, a sudden grump in the dragon's voice. He half lifts (it's a nice motion to watch), taking another swig off the bottle before releasing the crunch and piling back down on the pillow-top surface. "I don't know why I did it. Just something ... I don't know... made me want to clap Gwydion on the shoulder like a mate...you know, after a plate of chips and halibut. Good game," he claps out, "... nice match. I mean, what the fuck was I thinking?"
     "...Nothing, clearly," Davydd answers his own question with the lifting inflection of the Welsh when they are stirred. "I don't know what it means either. When I try to concentrate on a face, the vision is gone. It may not be for me. Closer to it, it may not be something of my own path that I should see. He seemed surprised that I would dare to do such a thing. Hell... I guess I'm lucky I didn't pull a William and kiss him...!"
     That makes him stop his rant with a laugh, a blushing laugh at that. Kissing a bloke. What a nonsensical idea! As if I would! You know...do that...sort of thing...

     "You can't be Einstein every day of the week," Fiona murmurs, an arm lifting to over her head, eyes slinking open to watch you rise. "But I don't know. People have struggled for ... countless eras ... to lift themselves out of the mud and muck to get as close to the gods as possible. And you had one come to you - you must've done something right."
     She smiles, not quite wistfully, but with some mix of emotions there on her face, the outwards expression of tumbling thoughts. "And all you've got for your hubris is a headache, Davydd. You're not a pile of ash, you're not suddenly torn away from everyone and everything you love, I'd say you made out decent in the bargain. So... you surprised him, but he seems to've forgiven you. Why not?"
     She closes her eyes again, looking almost amused. "Thought didn't even cross my mind, Davydd," Fiona assures you breezily. "But if you had - I'd forgive you for it. It's a god. They're not like other people. And the god of songs and poetry - I'd be hard-pressed not to go all groupie, I'd imagine. Do gods sign body parts, I wonder? Well, it doesn't matter." One eye opens, peering upwards. "So you've got a visitation and a vision. What's next?"

     "I don't know. He and I ... we walk together when I sleep...we talk of how things are going. My forest. He is pleased with what I am doing. Things are...as they should be. I feel right about that," he notes more seriously. "I've come to understand the beginning... I lived the middle... and I've seen the end. Doesn't get more complete than that, I suppose."
     Davydd rolls his head over to look at you, surrendering his bottle of whiskey to you in a 'Here, be a doll and hold this won't you?' fashion, his thick arms lifting and folding beneath his head. "We talked about my mates, you know, well... you don't know... what I did to wrong them all in this. How much I think they'll never forgive me. The dread I feel in facing them again to look in their eyes and come face to face with that betrayal. Like they'll never see me again without seeing that too. I'll make it right, in the end it will be right. But the past is...comfortable. And sometimes it's hard to let go of it and just live the present that Is. Bah, I'm fucking reading too much into it," he frowns to himself. "Gwydion reminded me that sometimes paths cross... sometimes they don't..."
     It's just harder when paths are worn well with the passing of six centuries. Not to want to walk them and remember how things used to be. "We've all changed. I guess... it was bound to happen. And you, too. Look at you in a Queen's finery... you look lovely. Do you always dress this nicely for strange naked men lyin about in floating beds?"

     "Alright." Fiona takes the bottle, cradling it in the crook of her arm, waiting, listening, watching, expression intent upon you. "You've lived in a roundabout sort of way, haven't you? But you've lived, and that's more than most people in the modern world can say they've done. Why I love you. Because you're alive - no matter the technicalities," she waves her free hand, "but you are. You're colorful."
     She waits until you're comfortable again, then settles the whiskey to between her thighs, sitting up just a little bit, propping herself up. "You play parts so there'll be consequences you can live with, and sometimes there's consequences you regret nonetheless. I know a little something about that - even if my own way's a different sort of way than yours. I know about giving things up to be on a road."
     Fiona shrugs, drawing the whiskey back up to her chest, bringing her knees up and curling up as she turns towards you, gaze intent upon your face. "Either they'll love you enough to forgive you, or they won't. It's not that simple, no - and I do understand it, and I'm more sympathetic than you might be if it were me," she halfway smiles at you, a knowing glint in her eyes, well-humored and not particularly bitter, "but you'll do your best. And in the end, Davydd, no matter what comes of it, you'll have done your best, and if it works, you can take pride in it, and if it doesn't, you can take comfort in it. And if I keep talking about this, I'm going to wax poetical, and this isn't about us, it's about you."
     She sets the whiskey bottle down on the pillow, one hand holding it in place. "I always dress this nicely for strange naked men who change the topic, it seems," Fiona retorts easily, "but yes, we've all changed. Grown. Evolved, if you like. Some people change slowly; some, more quickly. Sometimes it's like shedding a skin, and sometimes it's like giving birth and being born all at once. But I've got your number, you know." And she smiles, but the smile is tinged with a hint of sadness. "You gave yourself away to me, and me? I don't know, Davydd. I'm not a man. I'm not a king. I have my role in this just as much as you do. Do you still think I'm innocent?"

     "Yes," he smiles out in that drunken way he has, of never seeming to take anything at all seriously -- or everything all at once too seriously, there is no in between with him -- and his smile goes crooked. "You are innocent. As the driven snow..." Here it comes. He rolls over, the bed shifting as he does, and up on all fours he plies a smile from your mouth to his with a kiss.
     "Lie down with me," he's trying to tempt you. "My head's swimming too much for anything but the most innocent of embraces, I swear to you," pie crust is stronger than that promise. "Please," Davydd says again, quietly, seriously. "Until I sleep."
     He looks at you from his position, his nose next to your own. "Yeah, I'm as hard to read as a child's bedtime story. All the same, though I'm no mystery to you, lie beside me on the bed I made for you." Though the Oak King may have desire in his skin like a narcotic, the Holly King is not without his own set of lures and traps and tangles. No mandrake to fuel the bel-fires here, but a wholly different kind of danger.
     "No one is innocent," Davydd says as he lowers back to the bed, lying outspread on his back, an arm lying wide to receive you -- for he has no doubt that you shall join him. "We all have played a part, Fiona. And we must play them out. This is the hand that has been dealt, as it were..."

     "You're still a bastard, drunk or sober," Fiona accuses softly, smile tugging reluctantly at the corners of her mouth as at her heartstrings. "But I wouldn't have you any other way."
     She sighs, one hand lifting to touch your cheek. "I'm already lying down with you, brute. But I'll stay with you until you sleep, yes. You're all the mystery of the world, even if you don't know it. You're the salmon that swims in my bloodstream - the urge of mischief that tugs at the tip of my tongue. You're every glimmer of starlight that I see, Davydd ap Owain. You're so generous, even while you pretend to be anything but; I do think that if I were cold and shivering, you'd pull off your dragons and have them surround me to warm me... but only if you couldn't warm me with your own arms."
     She rolls to your side, arm flung over the breadth of your chest, pulling herself up to kiss your cheek. "But, my Old Man among Old Men, answer me this... am I still your Dulcinea?" A telling question...

     "And thy name is like a prayer an angel whispers, Dulcinea... Dulcinea," he sings back softly, sweetly, as he in a dragon's grasp surrounds you. How many arms does he have just now? It feels like ten, you are so surrounded. He rolls to lie upon his side, you scooped up and swallowed, and the bed rocks to stillness.
     "I'll have you know that my mother and my father were married," Davydd murmurs. "And I was their loving son. I'm not a bastard. A son of a bitch... yes... a bastard, no." He doesn't comment to the rest, as if modesty prevents it. He would give the skin from his back to warm you, were it not so messy a solution. Or for Edward and William...and even Valan and Ian. Maybe one night they will remember that. One night, maybe his reminders will be enough for himself.
     "Tomorrow night... I will go see your kingdom," he promises softly. "I will have a hangover, but I will go. I want to see it. To see what you've done. You know... it's taken all I have not to peek at it from my forests," Davydd slants a smile, eyes closed. He doesn't say anything more. He smells your hair, he buries his face there, and takes comfort on the pillows of your breasts.

Posted by rowan at April 04, 2005 06:43 PM