There's no place like home...
     There's no place like home...
     There's no place like -
     She isn't Dorothy, but it's still a bit of a relief to find herself back in the familiar flat over Pashmina's that she's occupied for so long. Sure, the furnishings have changed, but it's home in a way that nowhere else can be - and in the absence of others, it's possible for Fiona to just relax and be herself.
     If she can remember who that is...
     A flick of a couple of switches, and a mellow ballad from Nick Cave rasps out over the speakers in the living room while a dim lamp springs on to counter the darkness caused by the sealed windows. "Oh, we will know, won't we? Stars will explode in the sky... But they don't, do they? Stars have their moment, and then they die."
     She drops her bags on the sofa, looking over at the images on the walls, hands on the small of her back. Home. Now what? Ah, right...
     There's a click as she withdraws her cellphone from her pocket, settling comfortably in her jeans and sweater onto the loveseat. Readjusting herself, Fiona draws the long ponytail away from behind her back and forward over one shoulder, then lies back against the cushions, flipping open the phone to dial a by now long familiar number.
     "Not that you'll be there," Fiona mutters to the phone as the display begins scrolling the number being rung. "But that's the point, isn't it? Oh, well. I'll call, I'll tell you I'm home safe, I'll tell you to call me if you need anything and that if you want I'll invite you to dinner, and then I'll hang up with an I-love-you and go hang my head."
     "Who ever would have thought I'd be this twisted around the finger of any man..."
     Let alone two...

     The phone rings...
     Expectedly, during the middle of the day, it rings again...
     Unexpectedly, on the third ring, there is a click. Is he answering? How can he be answering? Or does he not have control of his phone? And if he does not have it, who does?
     Another woman?
     There is an exhale into the phone, the sound of a bed. Maybe he answered it on accident, woken by the sound, and rolled over on top of it...
     "Yeah," he says, maybe even in his sleep. His voice is very slow, dream-like. Maybe even like the voice of the dead. He didn't check the caller ID. He doesn't know who it is. Maybe another one of his two friends to tell him of his betrayal, so he can hear the sound of them walking away from him. Davydd breathes into the phone, and he savagely frowns from the massive hangover.
     Wait, no... he is still drunk...
     "What..." he breathes out, more than a little groggy.

     "Davydd?"
     Fiona's shock could not be greater. You're awake. You're awake in the middle of the day and answering your phone. Her shock would be large if a woman answered it - so soon after confessions made and titles bestowed - but this, this is more surprising. "I'm sorry if I woke you. I was going to leave a message. Are you - is everything alright?"
     She has no notion of what has occurred, what has transpired, where she lies in her pink sweater and her blue jeans, on her silver leather loveseat with her feet up. No notion, but -
     "If it's a bad time to call..."

     "Yeah," he says again. "I'm... up...I can't sleep. So..." Is he tired, or is he drunk? It's hard to say. His accent is a thick drawl, like it gets when he is drunk. You saw him at Davy's, remember? That night you had to help him to his car. That night he went outside Sandrine's building and shouted up songs to her and had to disappear quick-like when the bobbies were called.
     "It's not a bad time," he chuckles. Okay, he is definitely drunk. The laugh is kind of a sob, really. It's a quick burst of humorless sound. "It's catastrophic..." Davydd laughs again, the sound muffled under the covers.
     You hear him move on his bed. "What time is it..." And then the sound of a bottle rolling off the bed and breaking on the terra cotta floor. "Fuck me..." He moves again, expecting you to ask him a bunch of questions. He breathes into the phone, grunting as he reaches over the side of his platform bed to get a new bottle.
     "What were you going to tell me... in the middle of the day...are you leaving me, too? Why not... join the rest of the world...I might as well go out with," he pauses, opening another bottle of something-he-shouldn't-drink-anymore-of, grunting out with the effort, "...go out with what I came in with, nothing..."

     "Davydd. I'm not leaving you."
     That has to be said first, before anything else; and if she was shocked before, now she is appalled. Fiona sits upright on the couch, ignoring her hair being caught for a moment with an impatient shake of her head. "I was calling because I didn't want to disturb you. I thought you'd like to come to dinner, but ..."
     She cuts herself off, standing. She can't deal with this sitting down! "Where are you? Are you at your flat down by the water? Talk to me, darling. What's happened?"

     "Yeah... but... don't come... I don't want you to see me..." Which makes one wonder: what has he done to himself? Or is there someone else there and now he is wracked with guilt? "I fucked up... as usual," he growls. "It's what I do... I mean, given enough time... I'll fuck you up too. I'll say the wrong thing, I'll do the wrong thing...it's what I do, Fiona. I ruin things..."
     He is quiet for a long time, well...longer than usual with him. He usually has to fill uncomfortable silences with a patter of small-talk, conversation or jokes. But now, he doesn't. He takes a long drink, Davydd does, exhaling into the phone when he is done. "I saw one of my mates...my only two mates in the whole world... and he doesn't know what to say to me... after five goddamned centuries," now he's railing, "... five... centuries... and there's nothing now. Because I set fire to it... I fucked it up... I ... it's worse than if I had fucked his boyfriend... Duw, Fiona... I made him doubt me... it's worse than death that he doubts me..."

     She listens in silence, to the words and to the pauses alike. Listens to the breaths taken, the drinks taken, the eloquence and the incoherence, and then she speaks.
     "Davydd." Fiona's voice is quiet but definite. "You may have fucked things up. It happens. But you haven't with me - and I'm not going to let you fuck things up with me. You are my champion, remember? No matter how bleak things are now, I am not rescinding that - and I'm not going to let you give it up, either. You took a job, soldier, and I'm keeping you to it."
     She pauses for a moment, waiting for this to sink in. "Now ... I won't come over if you really don't want me to. But I've seen you hurting before - before we were together. I helped you then, and I will help you now if you will allow me. But I'm not letting you chase me away because you're hurting and feeling sorry for yourself - no matter how justified you are in that, I'm not going to be your next source of material for mournful music, love. I can't do that, so don't even begin to ask me."
     Her voice warms on the wires, dropping to a husky contralto. "Davydd ... I know you're drunk. I know you hurt, that this hurts you. But ... tell me this ... how much longer've you got on this earth?"

     Hurting, yes... and perhaps even prone to frenzy. Even in the middle of the day. Even after bottles... bottles of whiskey. "A long time. It already feels interminable." Big word, considering. "Ninety-nine years..." he croaks out, then takes another drink. "Ninety-nine now...the reign of a king..." Nine being the most holy number to some of the old religions. Double nine holding even more consequence.
     "Champion," he snorts. "I've never been able to champion anything. I've done only one worthy thing in my life... I killed Mithras. I saved England from tyranny... and then... did nothing...what a fucking waste. I'm too old to have done nothing..."
     "Fuck, my head hurts..." Yet he drinks. He is quiet after that. He only breathes, though he doesn't need to. For a time, he forgets. There is no breathing for longer than a mortal could go without it, and then he takes in a breath to speak. "Come on then... but... but be careful... if I tell you to leave... leave... do you understand...?"

     She knows nothing of frenzy, of course; nothing, really, of anything except instinctive magic, what she is. "Alright," Fiona assents. "If you tell me to leave, I'll leave. I promise. But not forever, Davydd. I want you to repeat that to yourself while I head on over - if I leave, it won't be for good."
     There are a million questions, and she doesn't know how to ask them - doesn't know the danger, though there's a hint of caution in her nonetheless. "I'll be over as soon as I can get there, love. I'll bring a few things. Try not to break anything while I'm on my way, right? As for done nothing, I can think of a few things you've done - and are doing. I'll explain when I get there."
     Fiona cradles the phone between cheek and shoulder, struggling back into her coat and picking up her keys. "Go where you'll be out of the light when I come in, alright? I'll be there just as soon as I can manage."

     "I'm in the bedroom... with the shades drawn...watch out for the glass," he says suddenly. "You're feet are so pretty...Fiona-bach. They are... so... be careful..." He seems to calm a bit knowing he's not completely abandoned. "I'm the huge lump in the middle of the bed...it's hot outside...fucking sun...I hate summer," he mutters.
     The call ends with that, and the lump under the blankets curls up against himself and the pillows, making a globe of gluttonous pain.

     The call rang off at that point, the phone slid back into her pocket as Fiona sped off to first a couple of shops, where she ran in and out waving her charge card as proof of importance. Laden with bags, she headed up the elevator with the not so faint impatience of a woman whose child or husband is ill.
     The doors opened, and then she was there, tapping on the door before letting herself in. "I'm here, Davydd," Fiona calls, softly, expecting your preternatural senses to pick up her words nonetheless. The door's closed behind her, and she angles her path from the door to the bedroom, casting a wary glance down at her pink ribbon sandals for signs of broken glass - and around for potential wreckage.
     How bad is he, doctor...

     Well, it's not good...
     He's been like this for a night. Maybe two. There are empty wine bottles in the dining area. The once stocked bar is decimated. The kitchen is a disaster area -- there are two unclean glasses and a plate of half-eaten chips, the fish is gone at least. Normally fastidious, for Davydd this is a whirlwind of chaos.
     The bedroom is darker than the rest of the loft, with heavy drapes blocking out the harmful rays and leaded crystal glass reflects it back to the sky. The lights are off but you can see him. He is a lump in the center of the bed, completely mummified by his blankets, allowing now light in. There is broken glass on the floor here, and a graveyard of whiskey bottles. Irish. Scottish. Even a Welsh variety.
     The only part of him visible is his left hand, blue tattooed dragons peeking out, as if to see if everything's alright. There's the new whiskey bottle dangling from his fingers, precariously dangling and on the verge of joining its shattered comrade. "Here," his voice is muffled by the blankets.

     Well, this can't be allowed to stand. Fiona sighs, making sure the drapes are firmly in place and then picking a path to the edge of the bed, setting down the bags she carries. "Hi there, sweetheart," she murmurs, as if speaking more aggressively or with more volume might cause your head to come off. "I've got some things for you. You coming out or am I coming in there? Mind, the way you're cocooned, I think it might be a tight fit."
     She reaches down to ease the dangling bottle away with the intention of putting it somewhere a little safer, looking around with a slight frown. "Have you got a broom? - Never mind, I'll magic one up, love. But I'm here." Her other hand reaches to touch yours, fingers gentle where the blue begins against your skin.
     I do love you ... and I'm not going to leave you ...

      "You don't want in here, I promise you that," he rumbles and slurs, the hulking shape under those covers changing as he shifts his position slightly. He's wrapped up like a leper in his regret. His fingers curl as you take away the bottle, moving a little as if to ask to have it back.
     But then you fill it with your hand...
     "If... I had any shame left at all... I'd be embarrassed for you to see me ... weak and fucking crying... Sandrine would find me weak," he chuckles. "And did find me weak. My friends... have found me weak. Maybe I am... weak...after all..."
     "Broom?" he says after a moment. "In the kitchen." Of course he has a broom. "Broom closet..." His fingers let your go, his hand dangling like he's dropped off to sleep, but you know he hasn't. He's just drunk.
     Just?
     That's a euphemism if you've ever heard one...

     "Everyone is weak, sometimes, Davydd. The only thing is, people don't like to admit it." Her fingers tighten against yours, and Fiona sighs. "You've seen me cry. Alright, so I'm a girl, it doesn't count - so what? What's important to me isn't how many tons you can lift, of bricks or of regret. What's important to me is that I love you, and you're hurting."
     The bottle is set down gingerly, and she leans over to brush her hand over your blanket-clad figure. "I love you, you great git," Fiona repeats, whispering as if you have fallen asleep. "You're not weak. Maybe you have your moments... but we all do."
     She straightens and turns, whistling sharply with two fingers to her mouth. Magic follows the course of the whistle, and in a move reminiscent of The Sorcerer's Apprentice, your broom comes waggling from the kitchen to where Fiona stands next to your bed. "I want all of the glass on the floor swept into a single neat pile over there," she orders the broom, pointing to a spot off to one side. "Sweep the glass, the dust, the dirt - make sure the carpets are neat and tidily laid on the floor, and once you have finished sweeping the floors, return to your closet and go back to from whence you came. Thank you."
     She turns back to you, easing down onto the edge of the bed. "You can't stay in there forever, you know," Fiona says quietly. "Even if you want to. Why don't I draw you a bath? You can have another drink while you're in there, and we can talk."

     He's so deep in the muck, all he desires is to wallow in it. At that point, when you're at the bottom, don't you have to revel, at least a little, that you finally found it? "I fell and hit the earth, at last," Davydd breathes. "You said I should jump off a bridge... only ... I hit cement instead of water..."
     He begins to wrestle out of his cocoon. Slowly, great arms moving. He could use a bath. He smells like whiskey and stale blood and sweat. But at least he doesn't smell of another woman. It's almost like watching a man be born full grown the way he presses out of that wrapping. Or maybe more like a dragon cracking free of the shell. First, the entirely tattooed blue left arm. Then his other arm, richly decorated. Then a foot, then a leg. He gets frustrated and stops there, bits of him poking out everywhere. If he weren't so fucking depressed, he'd laugh.
     But there's no laughter. There's a moment of resting and then he presses the rest of the way out. Disheveled, with blood on his face, but faint. He is pale, but undamaged. "Go run the bath," he grumbles. "It'll... take me a minute." It is clear he doesn't want you to see him like this. There is a kind of invisible grappling between himself and the last threads of noble dignity.

     She doesn't tell you not to be silly; though she does lean in to touch her fingers to your cheek in fleeting caress, expression grave, childishly solemn, without a hint of laughter or mockery. "Come in when you're ready," Fiona agrees, turning to the bath and scooping up one of the bags as she does so.
     There is the sound of plastic rustling, of plastic snapping, being torn open; of the taps being opened, water running into the tub, and a rattling sound, of something being poured, splashing. And under and over and around and through it, Fiona singing quietly.
     "On wings of the wind oer the dark rolling deep,
     Angels are coming to watch over thee,
     Angels are coming to watch oer thy sleep.
     So list to the wind coming over the sea..."

     Davydd rises, hands to the surface of the bed, then his knees. The smile that was so ever-present on his face that it seemed sewn there is nowhere to be found, replaced by a smile that ages him.
     He seems like a Middle Aged wreck. He is certain that he looks like one. He makes a heavy sound on the floor, his weight landing a foot at a time upon the terra cotta. "What are you doin'?" he murmurs at the doorway, his body leaning on the frame leading to the large bath.

     "Filling the bath and adding bath salts," Fiona says unhurriedly, breaking her song in order to answer you. She's pouring purple crystals from a container into the hot water, steams of purple-scented fragrance wafting up. "It should help drive some of the tension out of your muscles and also help you detox a bit."
     She straightens up, putting the cap back on the bottle of salts and then leaning forward to twist off the water, pushing her ponytail back to look at you. "Why don't you climb in while I go clean up in the kitchen and get rid of the rest of the broken glass? There's a can of Guinness still in the bag," she nods to the bag on the floor next to the tub, "if you want it. And if you need or want anything else, you know my name, and I know you can yell when you want to."

     "Diolch..." he says after another moment. He's dragged the blanket with him, but he leaves it in the doorway. Pushing off wearily, and heading for the water. It's still the body of a champion. The strength is there. But he is weary. That weariness is visible not in his musculature but in his carriage. He even limps...
     That's when you notice the piece of glass in his foot. He's so drunk, he doesn't even feel it. Royal and immortal blood trails after him in a crimson line...
     "I'll do my best not to drown," he snorts. "As if...I could swallow the ocean and never drown..." Davydd exhales at the edge of the great bath, his body leaning against the wall. He rests his head on his own bicep. "There's a difference in being weak... having a weak moment...and what I've done... there's no excusing it... no changing it...I don't blame him for not trusting me anymore... or William for not calling..."

     "I don't know what you've done - or what you think you've done." Fiona sighs at the sight of the blood, moving to follow you into the bath. "Sit down, you're hurt. Let me fix it." It bothers her, this drunkenness, so great a drunkenness that you don't even see it, that the inner hurt is so great, so much greater than any wound. But she can't address it too directly.
     She waits for you to sit down, a hand light on the edge of your side, looking at you. "I don't know who 'he' is, nor why he doesn't trust you, nor why William isn't calling. And I know you wouldn't want me to interfere or stick my nose in directly - so you've got to let me help you where I can, Davydd. And first you've got to sit down."

     He looks at you oddly. What? Then looks down at himself. Then sees the trail and frowns. Davydd rolls his eyes at himself and lifts his foot. He's from the middle ages -- blood, particularly his own, doesn't bother him. It's a triangle wedge of glass on the arch of his foot. One yank, and it's out, tossed onto the sink counter to clatter there.
     And like a miracle, he heals instantly, looking at you as he does. "The fairies hate my kind," he murmurs. "Those who are here on this earth... and I endangered my dearest friends, and those they loved, when I planned to present myself at the fairy council. I would have revealed myself as a lie... and they would have suffered greatly for it."
     Davydd gets in the bath, not wincing at the salt, for there's no open wound for the salt to annoy. He bends with a sound, sighing as he is enfolded by the water like a tomb, his head resting against the side of the pool. "Edward... and William... are my friends. I have known them for... centuries. I've fought for them, saved them, watched them, protected them, but in the end... I betrayed them... I betray them now by even mentioning their names to you. But... you are the only person in my life... you are it... there is nothing else. And I trust you. I trust you never to speak of it...not even to your other husband..."
     His faces twists in his self-blame and his displeasure. "They hate us... the fairies... to them we are walking Death... we are the kings of banality... we immortals... who feed off of the blood of others. We represent everything they despise. And I was going to leave my world and enter theirs and leave my friends behind, these men... who I have loved for more years than most nations have survived. Longer than Rome. Longer than Athens. We have been. And I destroyed us..."
     Blood rolls from his eyes, in his tears that come, the grunting sobs of a man in desperate pain, the grief pulled from his soul through his eyes and his throat.

     Fiona listens in silence, regarding you without judgment, without anger - without even shock. She watches you heal, she watches you bleed - she watches you cry. And then she sits on the edge of the tub, fingers dabbling in the water.
     I will not speak of what I know. You know that I can keep my own council on these things.
     That is said, thought, sent to you, though with the expectation of its being unnecessary, with the anticipation of it going unremarked upon, ignored. And then she speaks aloud.
     "Your separation from them was foreordained, Davydd. Not by your going to any council. Not by betrayal. But by who you are and what you are and what you are becoming. I know it hurts. You're shedding your skin in preparation for a new self, and that is never easy - I've been through it. Remember?"
     Her hand comes up in a glittering arc of salt water, as if it were tears collected through harsh and arduous labour. "In ninety-nine years, you leave this earth - as you have told me - for good. You will hold no place and no part here any longer. They ... if they continue to be ... will not follow to where you go, Davydd. They will remain behind. And they would have no more sympathy then than now, though possibly more pain. It isn't easy... but it also isn't betrayal." Fiona looks at you, expression still solemn, still compassionate, and she holds her hand out to you - to take or to ignore as you choose.
     "Paths diverge. You said you were stuck, before. While you were ... stuck ... you were with them. But when you came to this fruition, you were placed on a different path. I don't know if you've lost them; I don't know anything about any of this, not really. But even if you have - that loss was foretold, the moment you chose to fulfill your destiny and become what you are becoming."

     "You can't just ...flip a fucking switch... and say that today, you are with your mates that you have bled with... that you fought in countless wars with... that married your sister and mourned her death... that hauled you out of gunfire. That poured their own blood out for you, not just once... and then tomorrow, they are not in your life. Do you know how much time five centuries really is? And I've known William longer. I've known him since he was nineteen years old, Fiona. He was a puppy. A huge... fucking giant puppy and I was already an old man. I wept when I thought he died...I cried my fucking eyes out for a Norman prince. Me, a Welshman."
     A hand comes to his head. He shakes it, he closes his eyes. "That's bullshit...paths... we make the paths. Hell, the wood were mine. I could have left it as it was... became what I was becoming.... and never fucking said a word. I was stuck... because I believed I was stuck... and I thought I hit bottom then." Davydd laughs suddenly, his vipers bared. Yes.... Fiona... there are vampires...
     "It's about sacrifice... I know...but I did not think I was going to lose everything..."

     "I'm not saying it's a switch. I'm not saying it's instant." Fiona speaks quietly, lowering her gaze to look at the water. "No, Davydd, I don't know how much time five centuries is, except for what I've seen through your eyes. How could I? I'm not that old. I'm only in my early twenties. You love them, and I know that - and that tells me everything I need to know. That you hurt. That this ... is more than just very hard on you. And that you blame yourself for it all..."
     She closes her eyes, pressing her lips together tightly. "I never said you didn't choose. I said you did choose. If it could all be undone, would you undo it? I don't think it's that easy. There will always be a tradeoff."
     She sighs, lifting her hand to her face, to her eyes, turning her head towards the door, away from you. "But things do change... and sometimes, very fast. As fast as things have unravelled, can you say - honestly say - that the shape of things as you see them now is how they will stay? I don't know - I haven't got any inside knowledge on this one, Davy," Fiona says softly, voice blurred around the edges. "But I'd hate to see the baby thrown out with the bathwater." She rises slowly, head still tipped down. "Take as long as you need in the bath. I'll ... finish the cleaning up, and if you need me, you can call me..."

     "They would never have sold me out the way I bartered them. That much I do know. Only I'm so fucking stupid... I'm not as smart as they are... I didn't see it. I didn't think about it. I didn't consider it. I just... fucking ....acted on it, this... impulse, this energy I was feeling building up, and everything was falling apart around me. My relationship with Sandrine, my ability to be anonymous...on the fringe...I was alone. I thought I was alone...but they were always there for me. I just never called them..."
     Davydd is quiet after that. He has said all he knows to say. Everything else is just a repeat, a refrain of regret on a repeating loop. He closes his eyes, his body soaking, the salt working against his skin. The dragons swim beneath the surface, writhing beneath the waves created by his every subtle motion or adjustment.
     What you must think of me... I am sorry, Fiona...

     I love you. The answer is simple, even as Fiona moves out of the bathroom, small bursts of magic coming as she dissolves piles of broken glass, cleans dirty crockery, sets crooked things straight.
     I'm sorry that you carry so much pain... that you hate yourself so much - that you are so certain that you are not lovable, that you are not wise, that you are not faithful. It is your own certainty that causes things to fall apart, Davydd. Because at your heart, you are certain of everything but yourself. You could track her by the trail of magic tickling at your nose as much as by - now - the growing scent of cooking in the kitchen. She is keeping busy. I don't know them - not really. I don't know enough to give you answers, only suggestions. And I know my youth and inexpertise counts against me. I just ... think that if I say too much, I'll become the target for your self-hatred. You'll lash out at me, to punish yourself - because driving me away would validate your fear of being completely alone, and that's right now what you feel you deserve.
     She is out of sight, moving among the cabinets, carrying trash away and returning to check on the food - the other bags she's brought, must be. So all I really can do is tell you that I love you, and that I wish I could lift this burden away from you. I hope you don't blame me too much for all of what's happened; I know I threw your life into disarray by my existence. And I know that my presence doesn't make up for what you've lost. I only can say that if you have lost two such good friends, I can hope two such good friends will then come into your life anew...

     Yes, you do know him well. You know that it was coming. Him asking you to go away. It's there... hanging on the air unspoken, crackling like static cling. But he doesn't say it. He doesn't say anything. Perhaps he sleeps, body soothed and relaxed by the heated water and the salt drawing some of the toxins from him.
     I am a brother killer he thinks to himself... or believes to be, but is too drunk to know that he is broadcasting it to you as well. I killed my brothers... what sort of man does that...kills his own family... and I almost did it again... didn't I... I did...
     Rhodri? Your other husband is named for his brother. Hwyll? That has to be coincidental, doesn't it?
     I never forgave myself for that... I did it... so I could be king... and I did it again... because I was becoming a king... ninety-nine years? I don't know that I deserve that...

     She doesn't say anything directly. There are things she can say and things that she cannot say - and this, she won't interrupt, not immediately. Bit by bit, the flat is being straightened up - cleaned up - stray motes of dust chased out to play with sunbeams, far away from the interior gloom made external.
     I don't know that any of us deserve anything in particular, Davydd. I know I didn't do anything to deserve becoming a queen - it was thrust upon me, and I'm still not sure that I'll ever do a good job at it. We work with what we're given. But you have a future. Don't throw that away... please...
     Water runs in the kitchen, and food is turned out onto plates. Cutlery, cookware is washed and put away. ** Would you like me to bring your food to you in the bath, or are you ready to get out? If you're getting out, I'll be right there with your towels and the rest. **

     "I'm not hungry," Davydd says after another moment, though he doesn't say it loudly and it doesn't sound convincing. He sits up after another moment, reaching behind him and pulling the plug. The water starts to drain and he is standing, a shoulder to the Spanish tile.
     You're going to make a fine queen... you're strong, you've a sense of yourself... you've grown a lot...a lot since I first met you. You'll make a fine queen, Fiona. He stands, dripping dry, looking like a wet dog by the time you come in. He was waiting for you to dry him off. He'll not pass up that opportunity.
     "How was the rest of your sojourn with the Oak King..." Davydd deftly changes the subject.

     She has a towel for you - large, as befits a king, fluffily luxurious and dark purple. She doesn't seem to have heard you say that you're not hungry - or, likely, is ignoring it as implausible.
     I'm not interested in making a fine queen. I want to be a queen that you can be proud of. Fiona begins drying you unhurriedly, moving around you and massaging you with the towel. Egyptian cotton, nubbled cloth - she did come prepared. Your good opinion remains important to me, you see. No matter what opinion you may have of yourself.
     Fiona smiles up at you as she comes round to your front again, then lifts a hand to slap at your shoulder. "Lean forward so that I can do your scalp." You are tousled, you are rubbed, you are massaged through a layer of thick cloth. And when she releases you, she leans up to kiss your cheek. "Pity I never learned how to shave a man..."
     Fiona steps away to hang up the towel, turning her back to you. "I enjoyed myself," she answers evenly. "He is different from you, but I love you both very dearly. And he enjoyed himself too, though we were both rather ready to see the back of the guests by the time we left. And now I'm having a little bit of a break for a day or three - I went to my flat first thing, which is where I called from. I'd just gotten in, in fact."

     Davydd leans forward, a hand on the wall for balance. There's a sigh for the tussling and drying. And much as he hates to admit it, and much as you know he'll deny it because it is his way, he does feel... strangely better. "I can teach you how to shave a man... but... once you start, you know it sets a bad precedence..."
     Davydd looks at you as you turn your back on him. "You don't have to keep saying that, Fiona...that you love us both. I know you do. I'm sorry I make you... feel guilty about it. I ...am happy you have him, really. He's a good boy. Strange," a light tease, as he looks down at himself, then turns to see himself in the mirror. He puts his hands on the counter, balancing there for a moment. "...but a good boy."
     Davydd exhales, a big one, emptying his soul into it, letting go of his anger for a moment. He turns the hot water and the cold water on, cupping the results into his large hands and dousing his face again. "God... I think I'm starting to sober up...you said you had a Guinness?"

     "On the floor." Fiona indicates the can where it's wedged up against one side of the tub, then smiles at you. "It might set a bad precedent, darling, but I don't think you'd abuse it. You'd be putting a straight-edge razor in my hand and having me hold it to your throat, after all."
     Her hair ripples as she turns again, moving to the doorway. "There's boxers and a shirt laid out for you on the bed," she calls, "along with a robe. I'll go put the food on the table. Follow me, won't you?"
     And, she adds with a low emphasis, nudging against your insides, I'm good at making myself feel guilty, Davydd. It doesn't always need you for it to happen. Do you think that you're the only one who feels the need to be punished? For whatever reasons, we're a bit alike in that. It just expresses itself differently. I'm a girl, after all, and you're ... well ... remarkably not.

     Face dripping, he looks from his hands to you and then to the corner of the floor by the tub, seeing the bottle there. "I'll teach you sometime then." He watches you go, but he doesn't follow immediately. Just because you have a cock doesn't make you a man, sweetheart. But...you're right... I'm definitely not a girl. He seems amused by that.
     When he appears again, he's taking a long drink of the bottled Guinness, walking naked, blue wonder into his room. He avoids the sun with a natural grace, his feet knowing where the darkness is without him having to see it. Setting the beer aside, Davydd slowly pulls on his boxers, adjusting himself for maximum comfort once he's there. He shrugs on his robe and takes a seat, his hand reaching out and swiping the beer back into his grasp.
     "Make sure the shutters are pulled tight, and then the drapes," Davydd instructs. "I'd be flammable even without the alcohol poured on and in..." He exhales loudly as he finishes the beer and even manages a manly belch. "Gah..."
     His hand comes to touch you. It's the first touch he's landed since you've been here. He doesn't kiss you, but he does pull you into his arms for a big bear-like hug. He doesn't say anything. He just stands there and holds you, resting his head on your head, then your shoulder and back. "Thanks for coming..."

     As I said. You're definitely not. Which is good. I'm not into girls. Fiona smiles, a certain serene mischief flavoring the thought, even as she moves to follow your orders, checking shutters and then drapes and twitching them firmly into position so that the sun's deadly rays stand no chance of penetration. She then returns to you, watching you, smirking at your self-adjustment with knowing eyes.
     There's another can of Guinness waiting for you for with your food, just so you know. Not that you were husbanding your beer, but I thought you'd like the mention.
     You come to her, you pull her close, and her hands slide to your hips in a pat and hold, her eyes closing. "You needed me, Davy," Fiona answers quietly. "Where else would I be? Silly male. Don't you know that I'd go to the ends of the earth for you?"

     That's too bad... I like to watch...oh well, I'll just have to keep that in my fantasy bank... He pulls back, his mouth twisting a little. His hand rests on your head and he kisses you. "Well, love, this is definitely the 'for worse' part of the vow...I guess it's good to get it out of the way..."
     Davydd lets you go and starts to head into the large open loft area, still so sparsely furnished but containing a bar, kitchen, a dining room table now at least. "So...what have you made for me...something with red meat? Gah, I'm fucking starving....and I need a beer... I'm starting to get a headache..."

     Only if you don't like watching me play with myself. Remember? Fiona glances at you sidelong, grin curving at the corners of her mouth. I could even work costumes into it if you really like, though I'd be disappointed if you only watched.
     "I got you a nice slab of steak, cooked a bit on the bloody side, and eggs hollandaise, and quite a lot of fried potatoes and onions." You turn her loose, and she moves to follow you into the dining area, perching next to the bar instead. "Beer's on the table, and if you like, I'll also make plenty of strong tea. Oh, and there's strawberry shortcake I picked up on the way if you fancy a sweet for dessert."

     He stands stock still for a moment, looking at everything you've done. He closes his eyes and vampire senses command him to pay attention to each separate sensation, each scent. Davydd opens his eyes slowly, like it... and you... would disappear, dissolve like a dream.
     But you are still here. Doing this for him. Being here. He blinks at you, and then he moves to the table, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "It... all looks so good. Thank you." He looks to you and the emotion bubbles up again. If you were so worthless, you would not receive this love. "Are you going to eat?"
     He digs in after that, hands working a knife and fork quickly, eating with great exuberance. Like he once did.

     The flat is clean - scrubbed and with the faint scent of fresh linen and of waterlilies. The drapes are tightly closed, the food is still warm. There are no flowers upon the table - but she is still there...
     "Let me make some tea, and then I'll have a bit of cake. I'm not that hungry for some reason - don't know why, just a little off my feed. Probably just all the excitement of the past few weeks." Fiona goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on, offering you a smile over her shoulder - and a smile as well, to see you eating, a smile that softens her at all angles. "Love you, Davy-boy. More beer, or you having tea with me?"

     He nods to your mention of tea. He doesn't speak with a full mouth. Rather, he makes a motion with the fork as he swallows. Do I have any wine left? The answer to that would be No. I thought I'd... ease off the drunk. Going cold turkey might kill me. He smiles a bit at that, at the corners of his eyes mostly, his mouth being busy with other things.
     Off your feed? He glances at you, nodding again. "It was a busy fortnight...and you had two randy lords," Davydd smiles as he spears his potatoes with his fork. "And one weeping in his pillows like a baby," he chews, then reaches for his beer, "...makes for a tiring time. Easy to lose your feed. The steak is... " He rolls his eyes and dives back in.
     I love you too... and...thanks for telling me the truth...you know... I need to hear the truth... not be pandered to...so...I thank you for that...you and... my mates... you know... that's what I have...

     The kettle is brought up to a boil, and Fiona brings down two mugs rather than one. "Sorry, you appear to have drained the cellar dry. You'll have to content yourself with the Guinness, I'm afraid. But I'll have the tea up soon."
     She brings the cake out, setting it on the table. It's a magnificent thing, all pink and white with gleaming dark red strawberries. "Two very randy lords. Whatever I may feel inadequate about, I'm not in any doubt that you both find me attractive." Fiona smiles, then returns to the kitchen to pour the tea. "I'm glad the steak's good, then. It seemed the sort of thing you'd want to eat after a bender, is all."
     I'm not very good at lying, Davydd. Truth just comes out too easily - at least, when I'm with people I trust and love. Such as you. A large mug is set down firmly to one side of your plate, and she carries her own mug, doctored with cream and honey, around to another place. "How're you feeling, darling?"

     Dark green eyes lift to you and he nods, his hands relaxing the eating utensils. "Better," he murmurs. "I will be better." He looks back to the meat. He can't help but finish it. And the potatoes and onions too. And the beer. Like he used to inhale her food. And now... you have learned how to see him at his worst... and to take care of him anyway...
     Davydd sits back with an exhale, wiping his mouth with the linen napkin. His hand lifts to his head, touching it briefly as the fog begins to lift. "I will need to rest a bit before I ...dive into that. I'd hate for it to come back up later..."

     "That's fine. It'll wait for you." Fiona grins lopsidedly, curling up in her chair and propping one hand against her cheek. Her other hand furls around the handle of her mug as she watches ou. "I promise, it's not going to grow legs and walk off..."
     She takes a sip of her tea, then sets the mug down with a quiet sigh. "I'm glad you're feeling a little better, love. I was a little worried. And thank you for not telling me to leave." The corners of her eyes crease as she smiles at you, bittersweet though the smile is, the faintest suggestion of tears caught unshed behind her eyelashes. "I'm glad I called," is all she says, though.
     Then Fiona pushes back her chair, straightening with a quiet sound as she begins clearing off the table. "Ugh. My back hurts. I need to get more exercise - all this rolling around in bed with you is doing wonders for my posture, but nothing for my lower back muscles..."

     "Here," he murmurs, "...let's go to the bed... I'll give it a massage. I think I need to lie down for a bit before heading back to the trough." He looks to you. He is relieved that you are here. That you called. He nods. Me too...
     Davydd scoots his chair back, rising with a stretch and a sigh. He puts his hand to his head, leaving his tea behind. Maybe you will remember it and bring it for him. "No rolling in bed tonight, unless it's rolling my way off of it to get to the toilet..."
     He is waiting for you where the kitchen ends and the hallway to the bedroom and bath begin. Leaning against the wall, Davydd looks at you, green eyes fixing all of their attention on you. And then he holds out his hand.
     Come with me... and stay a while...

     "Mm, that sounds nice," Fiona sighs. "I was just getting comfortable on the couch at my place when I called - hadn't even taken off my shoes. But I can take my shoes off here, right?" She grins at you, picking up her tea and yours both at the same time, one mug to a hand, carrying them to the counter and setting them down. "Under the circumstances, I think some aspirins might do you some good as well."
     She follows more slowly, watching you watching her - watching your hand extend to her. And she smiles.
     It's a lopsided, tender smile, her heart as worn on her sleeve as ever it has been. "As long as you want me, Davydd," Fiona whispers. "As long as you need me. I don't want to go, you know that. Come on, Old Man." She moves forward to take your hand, slipping up to you to slide an arm around your waist and gently press up against you.
     Let's get you into bed, and we can try to massage each other's aches and pains away. Even if it only helps a little... my heart, my darling, my champion. Let's go...

     "Aye, you can," Davydd's voice rolls out, the inflection lifting Welsh-like at the ends of every word. "In fact, you know, once this place is fitted out and all, I'm going to insist folks take their shoes off at the door. I'm thinking... Eastern, you know...Oriental like. Move some of Powis' collection here. I've always fancied it, China...never been..."
     His arm comes around you, gently but strongly as he heads with you into the still spartan bedroom. Right now, it's just a place to lay his body. And where he's lain the last night is all thrashed and out of order. "I do need you," Davydd whispers, his dark green eyes landing a look on you. "I think you know that by now, don't you. Besides... as I'm in my dotage, I need a young girl to keep me going..."
     At the bedside, he stops, turning about so that both arms can surround you. Tipping down his chin he looks to you, one eyebrow cocking upward as he smiles a little. "Who's going to warm my milk for me and fetch my cane if it's not you?" He drops the jests and jokes for a moment, saying nothing at all ... just looking at you. And then with a little bend, he kisses you sweetly.
     A woman who can see me at my darkest hour... and still think I'm a man to love...

     "A young girl," Fiona scoffs lazily, her arms going around your waist. "Nonsense. No matter how old you get, Old Man, you'll always have the spirit of a young boy. Full of mischief and vigor - just the way I like you."
     One hand comes up from your hip to your shoulder, her smile curving her lips until they part again under your kiss. We all spend time in the darkness, Davy-boy. The trick is learning to look for the stars when we're there. It's not easy, I know. But I love you completely - I can't imagine ever not loving you. It's why I get so afraid of losing you... to another woman, to another cause, to your own self-hatred. Losing you would tear me apart.
     Her arms tighten again around and against you, and Fiona sighs against your lips before beginning to pull away. "Let's get you those aspirins," she suggests. "Before your head starts threatening to come off. You lose your head from time to time as it is, it doesn't need the help, love."

     "That's the god's truth," he exhales, sitting on his bed. In robe and boxers, he lays himself down, stretching out and giving his face to the ceiling. "Mischief, I am good at. My sister was better still, she had the face of an angel, got away with murder, that one. She was so much younger than I was. I was a man by the time she was born. She was just an infant when my father died." He chuckles a little. "Sometimes I remember things from then. Not often..."
     It is a trick, the vagary of the mind with Time. Things run together, and sometimes disappear like they never happened, only to come back suddenly and without provocation years after...
     Davydd turns his head on the pillow, his mouth cutting a sudden frown as he starts straightening the covers from his supine position. "It's not easy, no," he murmurs. "I don't forgive easily when it comes to forgiving myself. Edward tells me I'm a self-fulfilling prophecy on two legs. I scoffed then... but you know... he's right."
     Dark green eyes seek you out. "It's only your tenacity that's kept you with me. You ... haven't let me run or ruin it. Sandrine... didn't know what to do. She had never been with a man as weak as I. As frustrating as I. Rose... Rose never had patience. And my Spanish bride... ah... she and I were never together long. Separate bedrooms..."

     "You aren't weak." Fiona goes into the bathroom, returning with the aspirin and a tumbler of water. "I know it's hard for you to give yourself the credit for all you've accomplished, Davydd, but by your own acknowledgment, you're over eight hundred years old - and relatively sane." She sits on the edge of the bed, offering you the glass. "And you've been so many places - done so many things. Do you really think that just anyone could have come through it all reasonably intact?"
     She sets the aspirin down next to you, her hand moving to your forehead, smoothing through your hair. "I like you frustrating," Fiona murmurs. "I like that we can push at each other without pushing each other away - that we keep coming full circle back into each other's lives, into each other's arms. It - means a lot to me, Davydd. But Edward is right - you do do these things to yourself, as much as not."
     She leans forward, brushing her lips against yours and then straightening where she sits, adjusting the shoulder of her pink sweater a bit self-consciously. "Until I met you, I - couldn't really love anyone. It hurt too much, I was too afraid. Too much on the run. I still don't ... like myself very much, Davydd, but I've learned to give myself a little credit, at least. Don't you think it's time you started doing so as well? You can be your own critic and still allow yourself a bit of grace. If nothing else, if you've any opinion of my intelligence, there's got to be reasons why I love you and am as - tenacious as you say I am."
     Fiona sighs suddenly, closing her eyes, drawing her hand back into her own lap. "I don't - trust Rose with anything. Everything I've seen her do, she has an ulterior motive for; I think she'd do a lot to get her hooks back into you, one way or another, and that if she could get you, then she'd spend her time twisting the knife in you. Sandrine, I ... I don't know. I know you love her." Love, not loved. "I'm afraid I must measure up very poorly next to her. I'm not - graceful, like she is. All I can really tell you is that it's not only my tenacity, Davydd. I love you. I need you. When I'm with you, I feel like - like it's alright, a bit. The pressure of the world doesn't matter as much, because you're there - you're near me, and nothing could ever get that bad as long as I can lean up against you, as long as I can feel your arms around me and know that you still love me. That you're still there for me. That ... that you're not ever going to be like Paul."

     "You know... regular pharmaceuticals don't really work when you're not alive but... oh well," he grins and pops them all the same, swallowing them without the need for water, but the water gets the nasty taste out of his mouth. Screwing up his face, he winces like a child. "Phew, that's nasty. How do you people put up with all that...back in my day, we ate tree bark and it was still better than that."
     He sets the glass on the nightstand, rolling back over to lie flush to you. "Well, I always said you loving me was no credit to your wit," Davydd smiles a wry little smile. He listens to the rest, though, quiet through most of that. Finally, he exhales a mighty breath. "I don't know when or why I started feeling that way. Probably after I murdered my brothers... after I killed Mithras...I didn't know who or what he was at the time. I spent a couple of hundred years on my own... maybe it was then. I don't know. I don't know how to change that, Fiona. Me, being my own oracle of doom...thinking the worst, then making the decisions that make such thoughts manifest..." He shrugs. "Bit too Freudian for me tonight. You're from the 21st Century; you tell me..."
     Davydd's mouth twists as he shifts. He pats the bed beside him. "Come, lie down... I'll give your back a rub, love." Twisting, he makes his way out of the robe, tossing it at the foot of the bed and sliding under the covers. "I'm not sure what Rose's game is yet... though I'm no stepping stone for her anymore. She has far more clout than I do in this town. I'm persona non grata. Sandrine," he exhales a bit again, "... I confounded her and confused her, far beyond the language and cultural barrier. You know... I told her I loved her one night, the night I confessed it. She was pretty shocked. At first, she didn't feel the same way. I'm not sure... she was so hard to read. Maybe I just ... wanted to believe it for both of us. She certainly didn't stick around once the going got rough. I think it was too much. I was too much. Too weird."

     "Still worth a shot," Fiona retorts, sliding down onto the bed on her belly, arching her back for a moment with a quiet groan as she eases into the mattress. "Mmm... you've gotten me addicted to luxury, you blue-skinned bastard. And me, having been so ascetic and denying the flesh for so long..."
     She sits up again, pulling off her sweater and letting it drop to the floor next to the bed, then lying back down. There's a few scraps of pale blue silk and lace passing themselves off as a foundation undergarment; that, she leaves in place. "You've done things which were hard on you, Davydd. But how long before you can forgive yourself? Have you ever asked them for their forgiveness? Eight hundred years... it's a long time to spend convinced you're not worthy of the right to be on top of ground instead of under it. I'm not a psychologist or a Christian, but I'd say you should find someone or something you can ask for forgiveness from, and then do so - if you feel you have to atone, there are prices which are more constructive than tearing yourself down, over and over again. By now, I'd say you've probably cost yourself enough, but - I can't assign the value of the penance without you thinking of me as a religious figure, now can I."
     Her smile is sudden and puckish as she turns her head to look for you. Though if you want me to be your goddess, I imagine I could at least try to oblige. Though you'd need to allow for me being a jealous and imperfect goddess...
     Fiona resumes aloud, sighing as she rests her cheek on her folded forearms, shaking her head to shift her hair away from her face in a lazy ripple of pale gold. "I'm just telling you what I see it as. Rose came to me - having met me only once - to mention you and Sandrine, and bringing up Edward, and in general - I still don't know if she was trying to put me in my place, keep me away from you, or break you and Sandrine up, or - well, I don't know. Whatever it was, it was too subtle for me, considering at the time I was really focusing on my career and trying to forget about the idea of men, let alone the reality. For Sandrine..."
     She goes quiet again, chewing on her lip and shifting on the bed, pink ribbon sandals being kicked off slowly, the elastic ribbons stretching until slid off her heels. "I've loved you for - well, to me, it seems like a long time. I feel as if I was born with it built in, but it took meeting you to kick it into gear. And I, of course, had to spend time fighting against it before I could accept it as real, could accept you as real; but I don't know. You don't seem all that weird to me. Funny, isn't it?"

     "I was foreign to her," he notes softly, his hands move to your lower back, his thumbs at your spine, fingers radiating outward. He presses strongly, and then his thumbs circle in thought. "But in the end, we couldn't communicate. I couldn't tell her what was important to me... she never questioned or pressed for answers. It was a stalemate, an impasse..."
     "Rose," he continues on, his voice taking on a darker rumble, his thumbs shifting, his fists rolling alone either side of your spine, "... is a schemer. I'm not sure what she's on about. But you know, it's a small world, Fiona. Smaller among my associates. Incestuous, cannibalistic politics. I think she thought she'd get somewhere with the slayer of Mithras. Only, I never went anywhere. Hard to social climb that way. Not sure what she was up to when she met with you. Digging for information at the very least. I try not to think about it..."
     His hands work their way upward, fists rolling knuckles, pressing at either side of your spine up to the middle of your back before his thumbs echo that pressure back down to the small of your back. "I was never much of a Christian, only nominally Catholic. I don't think confession'd do it. I don't know, Fiona. Can you ever expect forgiveness for fratricide and murder? From betraying good mates... putting them and their loved ones in jeopardy... I don't know, darlin'. I don't know that there's much of a way out of that..."

     "Mmm..." Fiona purrs it, closing her eyes as you begin rubbing her back, making small, breathless sounds of mingled discomfort and pleasure. "Don't stop on my account..."
     She flattens herself into the bedding, sighing as you continue. Well, Rose didn't get anything from me - I didn't know much, and what little I did know, I didn't tell anyone, let alone her. I - know that in some ways, I haven't asked you much. I'm not sure how to explain that, but, I'm interested in you, in what you have to say... I just want you to be ready to tell me things. I don't want to take advantage, and I don't want you to feel caught between your promises or arrangements of confidentiality and my pushiness.
     Muscles loosen and unknot slowly, and Fiona sighs again, tilting her head to one side and then the other to help further loosen her neck. You can't expect forgiveness, Davydd. None of us ever has the right to expect it. But we have the right to ask for it, and even to get forgiveness... but the best way to forgive ourselves is to do something to make up for whatever sins we punish ourselves for. Restitution, leading the way to reconciliation. Even if the people who are angry with us never forgive us - we can atone by giving of ourselves to others, giving the opportunities we or someone else lacked. From what little you've told me about your work - you're doing that.

     I am beginning to. Nearly too little too late, but I guess... better late than never... Narrowing his eyes, he frowns a little, sighing as his hands radiate their circles outward, and then upward to the nape of your neck. "I don't know what to do about William and Edward. What could I do that would ever be enough? They both think I'm stark raving..."
     He is starting to get frustrated again, but tending to you keeps him in balance, and keeps his emotions in check. It is a pleasant distraction, massaging you. And maybe the aspirin have something of an effect. "You can ask whatever you want," Davydd whispers. "I don't think there's anything I can hide from you anyway. You're craftier than I am, Fiona..."
     His hands knead your shoulders as his thumbs press circles against the nape of your neck. "I hid things from them too long," Davydd muses quietly. "Maybe... I should tell them...the things I have not. Give them as much on me as I have on them... maybe that will help them see I mean them no harm..."

     "Talk to them," Fiona murmurs lazily, sprawling on the bed, one hand coming up to drag her hair out of your way. "If they won't listen, there's not much to be done - but you can try. It seems to me that the world you've been living in so long is a world of untruths, Davydd. Noone /talks/ to anyone, even when they're friends. I don't know enough about it to say. I - hope it wouldn't do you any harm, at least. But ... if it's a risk you need to take, then take it. I want you to be happy, Davy. I want you to be fulfilled. And you love them both too much to be happy without bringing matters to some sort of close, one way or another, to either - repair things or move on."
     She turns her head to look at you, eyelids heavy from the massage. "I'll ask you once I'm a little less distracted," Fiona promises with a slight grin, then straightening and burying her face against her arms. "That feels so good... I swear, I feel as if I'd been trying to drag horsecarts behind me. I don't know what I did to fuck up my back like this."
     Mmm... talk to them, love. If they love you enough that they haven't written you out of their lives - or tried to kill you or whatever you people do in lieu of going for joint counseling - then they must still love you enough to be willing to /talk/, at least. But before you talk to them, work on liking yourself enough not to fuck it up. Fiona reaches one hand back to grab hold of your wrist, patting it and letting go again. I swear, from the sound of it, you people need a relationship counselor. But then, we're all messed-up people, aren't we? You hid things from them because you thought that's what you had to do. Hopefully they'll understand that. It isn't as if you set out to hurt them - have you done them any actual harm, Davydd? You've said that it -could- have gone badly like that, but did it?

     It could have been worse, oes. If I had gone to the fairy court of the Silver Tree here in London... it would have been... I didn't think ...or wasn't smart enough to see it. I thought that if I met with the fairy court here I could set things right with them, then... set myself right elsewhere. But... I'm not sure now... if I would have even gone to court. I think I just wanted to tell William and Edward. I just wanted them to understand...
     Davydd's hands move to your neck, centering his attention there. His thumbs sliding upward toward the base of your head, Davydd kneads even more strongly for a few minutes before his hands begin working their way downward once more. The earthly immortals battle, my love. Kind against kind, kin against kin. There are not many of the fairykind on the material plane, the kingdoms having long ago retreated back to the Marches of the dreaming. But those who remain battle bitterly against those they blame for the end of their reign here on earth, namely those such as William and Edward...and I...
     As his hands circle, pressing along your sides, fingers digging in and loosening the muscles along your ribcage, he leans forward, his mouth parting at the nape of your neck. He breathes there. "I love the way you smell," he changes the subject. "What is this perfume...hmmm?" Davydd's lips wander over your skin, open-mouthed, to the crook of your shoulder and neck.
     I am thirsty...
     At your flesh, the vipers extend, the sharp edges pricking your skin but not breaking it...

     I feel so divorced from all of this intrigue. I did nothing to get a kingdom or title or even magic. It all just fell on me - descended on my head like a brick wall coming down. It's all rather odd. Fiona is by now relaxed, lying there beneath your hands with her eyes closed, sprawling with even, easy breathing. It makes me a little worried how I'll handle it when it comes up.
     She opens her eyes to lazy slits, turning her head for a moment. I'm guessing from what you say that it'd be a bit of a mistake for me to show up at any such court. Not that I'd know even how to find them, though I imagine if I put my mind to it, I probably could - but what would be the point? I'm married to you and Rhodri and I have my own kingdom, and I have things to do here. I don't need to make them feel threatened by seeming to stake a claim, do I? And let's face it - with everything we did or I did, not one of them ever came to try to help me, teach me or -anything-. It took you, Huw and Hwyll for that.
     Fiona lies flat again, smiling a little as your mouth descends against the nape of her neck. "Waterlilies," she murmurs. "I've been on this water kick lately. Do you think it suits me?" She sighs lowly as your mouth travels over her skin, shivering as your unvoiced murmur intrudes into her thoughts, as your fangs touch. You know I don't mind. Just be gentle... I'm weak enough as it is...

     He makes a sound in his throat, low and long. The sound he usually makes when his body collapses against you in his own release. "Waterlilies," he speaks in a whisper, his body sounding against the sheets as he moves flush to you, arms going around to surround you.
     And you and he take a slow journey, both feeling the minutia of the moment. The parting of skin to the slow puncturing kiss. Davydd closes his eyes, you filling all of his senses as your blood begins to pool in his mouth, ease with its magic down his throat. In suckling grasps, his mouth works your flesh. Three swallows, that's all he allows himself. Enough for a taste, enough for the energy, enough for a quenching...
     For now...
     His vipers slip from you, retracting. No, not so unlike the feeling... for either of you... of him pulling his member from you after orgasm. His tongue is gentle against your skin, flicking and healing. Only the dull sensations of fading pain giving evidence of his presence there. And as Davydd hugs you, his arms gently pulling you back against him, the boxers do not lie.
     But you taste... different...
     His eyes roll, closing as he considers it to himself, wondering if it is due to something you ate, or perhaps his own drunken state. Perhaps that is it. "Waterlilies," Davydd murmurs again, his hold gently drawing you in again for another soft hug. He cannot help the curling of his hips that presses the hardness of him against the small of your back. "I like that..." No kidding. "I think it suits you very well... it is ... my favorite on you, I think... you are my siren," he continues, mouth against your ear, where he sighs a growl as his body moves on its own again, pressing against you. "Look...hmm? You call me... and I come to you..."

     "Mmm..." Fiona sighs, still relaxed as you pierce her flesh, the slight whimper caught on the back of her tongue. You can feel the warmth of her, the flush that rises into her cheeks as you taste her, partake of her upon your lips. And then you pull her close...
     "Waterlilies," Fiona agrees, snuggling in against you, habit leading the curve of her bottom to press for a moment into the groove formed by your thighs, if not by what is between them. "And I wouldn't mind being your siren." She turns slowly in your arms, maintaining contact the entire way as her arms go up to wind around your neck. "Would you like me in costume, I wonder? Seashells and salt-damp hair... or maybe I could dig out my school uniform and see how you liked that. Though I admit to liking being your princess, I think, best of all. Since my dragon needs a princess to keep him well-fed and satisfied..."

     He has that look on his face when you turn around in his arms. It is pure ecstasy that look, eyes half lidded, mouth parted slightly. Closing his eyes, he swallows and with a lean forward, his mouth parts at your forehead for a warm kiss there before dipping to your lips.
     "Sea shells and bare-breasted," a corner of his mouth tilts upward as he leans slightly back, returning to his own personal space. Though he makes no move to rip off your clothing and set this bed in motion, his body cannot help the occasional motion, slight then strong. "With the jeweled combs in your hair... you could sing to me, make me helpless to resist you..." One eye peeks open and peers at you with the quirk of its companion eyebrow. "As if you needed any help there..."
     His hand slides around your back, fingers rubbing in circles again in renewed massage as they wander over your side and waist, on the way to your hand. Taking your nearest, slender hand, he leads it between you, his hand clasping over yours, pinning it to his groin.
     "Just your hands," his whispers. The rest of him is too tired... but this part of him is too rigid to ignore. Davydd exhales. With the blood, and with your hands, the other matters set aside for now. He closes his eyes again, leaning forward, his breath against your skin. "You can comb your hair and try to ignore my advances...which only brings me more surely to your side. Hmm... nymphs were always my undoing.."

     "I could sing for you," Fiona murmurs, breath skipping slightly as she laughs. "Just my hands, and not my mouth? You are tired, aren't you, darling..." She doesn't resist, though, curling against you as her hand gropes against you, rubbing in uneven rhythm. "But I'm not so sure about nymphs..."
     Her head turns, lips grazing your cheek. "Nymphs had better not be your undoing anymore," Fiona whispers, hand tightening for a moment and then releasing. "I want to be the only nymph you've got - present or future. Unless, of course, I don't make a very good nymph."
     Her other hand comes up to touch your cheek, cradling against it, and Fiona hums under her breath for a moment, then sings softly - for your ears only, her eyes seem to say, lips again tugging into a lopsided smile at the edges.
     "The currachs tomorrow will stand on the shore
     And daddy goes sailing, a-sailing no more.
     The nets will be drying, the nets heaven blessed,
     And safe in my arms, contended he'll rest..."

     There is rigid, and then there is Now. With blood and magic (your own) moving through him, and hunger both sated and encouraged, he is engorged fully. There is not more give in skin and flesh. It is formidable, like stone. As solid, but warm. His skin barely moves, sliding back and forth, putting all his nerves on edge.
     Even if you were to attempt to take him in your mouth, could you manage...
     Davydd turns his head to you, his mouth at yours. Open-mouthed kisses and open-mouthed sighs are given to your lips, with a hum there of copper and magic. The residue of your blood. Skin crinkling in the corners, he squeezes his eyes shut. A nice idea, but it's not enough...
     "Turn around," he whispers, kissing your mouth and your chin. His hand reaches between you, lifting your fingers from his skin, clasping at himself. But there's no peace from that either...

     "Looks like you're a little worked up," Fiona murmurs to you, confiding in you (as if you didn't know rather intimately already). "I wish you knew how much you get under my skin, Davydd..."
     She murrs as you kiss her, head tilting and shifting as she nuzzles against you, kiss to kiss, sigh to sigh. I shouldn't be surprised anymore, should I? It's been like this since the beginning. Everything you do knocks me flat ...
     You free her hands, and slowly she turns, slowly again, maintaining contact where she can, turning until she faces away from you as she lies on her side, partially curled forward. One hand lifts to free her hair where it's trapped underneath her, and she mms, then laughs. "Darling... do you want to be inside of me? You're too frustrated right now, aren't you - it's going to take you a bit, but I can help, you know..."

     "I am afraid I will hurt you," he whispers from behind you. There is concern in his voice more than fear, but it dissolves into a guttural growl when your bottom tucks into him neatly, perfectly in fact, against groin and thighs. When his hand comes to your hip, it is not to hold you in place but to steady himself.
     No, he did not frenzy before... he was close... but he managed to stave it off. Now... now... he is not sure. "I need you..." his fingers grip your hip. "Help me..."
     That was a quiet plea, but it speaks volumes. Physically, emotionally, magically, spiritually. There is not a layer of relationship between you that this simple phrase does not speak to. "Fiona... please..."
     Isn't it interesting? How the tables have turned. Usually, it's you acting this way and saying these sorts of things...
     Davydd releases a loud breath, his hips curling forward, his body pressing against yours, rolling his larger, stronger frame against your own. The vipers distend again. They, like his cock, are at full length, the edges peeking beneath his upper lip as he opens his mouth for another loud breath, his body reflexing in another grind against your bottom and back.

     Her hands go down to her jeans, unfastening snap and zipper. There is a wiggle and roll of her hips against you as she shuffles the denim down her hips, down her thighs, bringing matching scraps of blue silk and lace down with them.
     You can have me, Fiona tells you, thighs widening slightly as she leans back into the roll of your frame. She reaches back with one hand, feeling her way along your body, feeling for your cock to press it against herself, rubbing the head of it along herself for a moment, positioning you with a soft, shuddering sob. You do have me, Davy ...
     The jeans are down around her ankles, and she arches back against you, smiling with eyes closed. "I trust you," Fiona murmurs in a reed-thin voice. "My champion... my king..." She presses down against your cock, making a breathy sound as flesh parts way for flesh, eyelids fluttering for a moment. "I love how you feel..."

     He trembles, his body locking up as you rub him against you and then cover him. His hand grasps you, needing the anchor, his fingers fumbling against your skin. As if he were skittering downhill. He holds you as if his life depended on it. Not to mention his sanity.
     There's no gentle acceleration tonight, no gradual motion from foreplay to first entry. As soon as you cover him, his hands grip your small hips and pull you to meet him, pull you to keep you in place as the hard groin hits against your rear.
     Davydd loses sight and sound, his eyes closing, his ears ringing, mind buzzing with sensory overload, his motions pushed by a force greater even than himself, it seems. This need, this copulating need -- it's like the evolutionary compulsion of the world between your thighs. He is as helpless to it as you are...
     So the frenzy comes afterall...

     It is perhaps in some way the very definition of being a girl in bed with a man; that open-legged willingness, that almost complete helplessness, the willing sacrifice, the conquest, the prize. She moans as your hands pull against her, holding her in position, denim holding her legs from opening too wide.
     Davydd ... I, oh, please ...
     How quickly she descends down that slippery slope. You may be frenzying, but she is still caught - held - helpless. Fiona whimpers, swallowing the sound back against the back of her throat, hands tangling in a fold of the blanket as if holding onto it for dear life. Gravity working in reverse. It's sudden - it's full, it's fast, it's hard for her to hold onto reality right now...

     In a swirl of remaining intoxication, swelling emotion, aroused hunger and magic pounding in his gut, Davydd swims. His mouth fills with it -- with the memories of your blood, those three short swallows. His eyes squeeze at it -- with the memories of his agony, shown to you in the bath as he sobbed. His body slaps with it -- with the inability to stop, the inability to hear whether you are hurting or not. There is just this... need, gut twisting, member stiffening need. He fucks for survival.
     His hands grasp hard, they pull you to him, pull you to meet him as roughly as he moves forward to meet you. His breaths pound against the back of your neck, and you can feel his sweat trickling against your skin. Please, he whispers, please. As if he himself is begging for release, begging for it to end, despite how pleasurable it feels.
     And you can feel him start to tremble... to buckle...the rhythm starting to lose itself...

     There are things that women can do to men in these moments. Cruel things, sometimes. Things which emasculate a man, cut him off from any temporary pleasure he might receive. Some women would lie there, waiting for it to be over, wooden-faced and disinterested. Others would wait until it was over, then say, flat-voiced, 'Is that all?' Others would make comparisons to other men, other encounters...
     But there are other things that women can do, things which aren't cruel, as such, but which can bring fun and games to a shattering end, even if the sort of shattering which is on the other end of the spectrum...
     Fiona tightens her pelvic muscles, arching her hips back into the thrusts with a roll of her bottom in semicircle as if to pull away, and then back, and squeeze, and hold. Her hands dig in at the blankets as if she's about to try pushing herself up from the bed, but all the force is channeled into that tightening, that swirl of her hips, the milking action of thighs and sex. And though her hips are still, there are parts of her which are not. And there is a word...
     Mine ...

     Even if he wanted to pull out (and he didn't), he is not certain he would have been able. Magic throbs where bodies are tightly connected, the throbbing transforming to spasms that intermingle with the far more controlled spasms of muscles around him, keep him right where he is. Inside you, convulsing, his body out of his control and knocking wildly against you.
     He does not breathe, and cannot breathe. It is good he does not need to breathe to survive, for he does not through the whole of an extended orgasm, tantric in proportion, magical in nature, long and intense in duration.
     Swollen inside you, jerking and releasing with every milking pull, his cock is locked in place, even despite its slight slackening.
     Davydd's hands fumble, grasping your hips and desperately holding you still, his breaths leaving him again with tumbling, male groans. Ah... don't move... So sensitive, he couldn't take it. The whine in his throat tells you that much. With a grunt, his hips curl forward, sending him deeply within you as his spasms, and his rigidity, start to subside. There he will remain, until his slackening draws him from you.
     There's a tugging chuckle edged groan and sigh. A whisper of 'I'm sorry' in his native Welsh.

     It seems to be becoming habit. This tight connectedness resulting in her being so thoroughly filled, so thoroughly taken - and, really, it isn't as if she'd want it differently. You can feel it, the soft, shuddering femininity of it, the whimper that escapes her as if driven out of her as she arches and squirms within your grasp. She will be a little sore, later, pleasantly stretched, aware of having been had...
     You hold her against you, and slowly, she relaxes with a low sigh, trying not to move - or not more than she absolutely must, at any rate. Mmm... my Davy... Fiona smiles. She can't help it; the smile appears there, a slow, lazy smile, eyes closed as she is held against you. I love being so close to you. I love feeling you in me. I love being your woman, Davy...
     One eye opens, one hand goes back to pat at one of yours awkwardly, and she murmurs, "Don't be sorry. So... should I ask if it was good for you...?"

     You can feel the blush. It is a rush of sudden warmth within you and against you. "Cheeky," he grunts. "I think you know the answer." The trembling that still exists, that causes fingers to pad against you clumsily tells you all you need to know. "That...thing at the end... was..." His words cut off in a chuckled growl. There is no word in Welsh for that sentiment.
     Slowly, Davydd's breathing, and his coloring, returns to normal, and you can feel him slackening within you, sliding slowly and gently out of you, despite the occasional twitch of his hips against you in short, sympathetic thrusts. "I love you," he whispers at your neck, kissing you gently.
     And in the release of magic and essence into you, his energy finally begins to calm. Davydd holds you in the spooning position, his hand slipping around you, fingers pressing gently against your abdomen, seeking purchase further down.
     "Are you hungry.... dizzy after...?" With loss of blood? Though it was not much, perhaps dessert might not be a bad idea...

     "Mmm..." Fiona sighs as you slacken, as you slowly return a bit to normal in various dimensions of time and space. "I love you, too," she answers, still lazily, one hand lifting to go over yours at her abdomen, a pleasant shiver sliding through her.
     "Hungry... getting a little," she murmurs, eyes closing. "Not feeling much like getting up, but a cup of hot tea and a piece of cake mightn't be uncalled for. Give me a few, though, before I go getting up and all. This is just too nice." Like getting out of a hot bath to answer a ringing phone.
     I know that I can't exonerate you for your self-perceived sins, Davydd, comes the added words, subdued and gentle. But ... for anything and everything you've done in the past? I love you, and I forgive you, Davy... You have a fresh future to look forward to...

     He doesn't forget about you...
     For all his grousing about how he is perceived as a lover, one thing may never been denied: he is not a selfish lover. His mouth parts at the nape of your neck, opening widely for a kiss against your skin, suckling (that's going to leave a love-bite) as his fingers dip between your thighs, pressing lightly and rolling you in his grasp.
     Cake in bed... just like when we were first coupling... His mouth moves to your ear, the deft tongue coiling, dragon-like around the lobe of your ear, grasping it as if it were low-hanging fruit, as his hand quickens its slide against you.
     Thank you... Fiona... for that...and this... being here, in my arms. Being here, when I ...tried to shut out the world...

     There's a soft purr from her, a little gasp at the suckle and bite, a larger gasp as your fingertips slip down along and a bit into her. Her back arches, and she murrs again, flushed as she is...
     Mmm... not apple, this time... strawberry... more like your hair - and my skin... Fiona sighs, another low moan escaping her as she shifts in breathless restlessness. Davy ... don't you know, you silly man? There's nowhere else I'd rather be ...
     And it is true, without artifice or cupidity; as much as she loves your son, she does not prefer him to you. At most, there is an even division, sometimes tipped if anything in your favour. I love you, Davy. Fiona opens her eyes, turning her head a little to smile at you, warmth in the expression, in the creases at the corners of her eyes, in that lopsided, self-conscious and almost shy slant to her mouth.
     I love you so much. I just hope you won't ever leave me, that's all...

     Never...
     "Never," he says it against your mouth as you turn your head to him, to show him your smile. The smile that he captures and claims. He rises, his body shifting and twisting to allow him to kiss you, wandering and deeply, and still allow his fingers access to slide and swirl against you.
     The kiss breaks only to allow you to breathe before his mouth covers yours again. He smiles a little, his eyes to little slits, taking a peek at you, to see how you react as his fingers quicken. I love you... and any woman who draws me a bath and lets me sob in it, or gives her neck to me to make my supper... why... she has my undying devotion. Truly, where would I go, Fiona, if not with you at the end of all things?
     His fingers move solely for your own pleasure, to give you your own release, after having given him so much more. You are sweet and true...why would a sane man wish to leave you?

     It is intoxicating. Maddening. Invigorating, in its own way...
     Fiona shifts against you, squirming where she is caught and held. Shivering as she is kissed - as flesh that is only too willing is manipulated. Your words soothe her, even as your hands inflame. I love you ... please, I can't ...
     It is anything but tame. Anything but domesticated. And it's a good thing that she's already pregnant, with her orgasm so imminent, your seed already in her. Already, she is trembling in your hold, cheeks flushed and lips parting...
     So you admit that you're sane, then? The thought comes faintly through the crashing rush of white noise where her thoughts begin to fall apart. Fiona gasps, stiffening a bit as a sharp cry is bitten off, and she presses back against you. "Davydd... oh, I... oh, god..."

     If only either of them suspected...
     Davydd parts the kiss to let you cry out, his mouth returning to your ear where he whispers, "My sweet girl and her sweet cries." His fingers have pity on you as you tremble against his hand, slipping instead to be snug within you, your grasping muscles suddenly having something to hold.
     I'm about as sane now as I'll ever be... so, take it cum granis salis, if you will... Grasping subsiding, Davydd gently removes his fingers from between your thighs, moving them back to your hip, which he begins to gently massage. That, and your lower back.
     "I could be in the mood for cake," he murmurs thoughtfully. Davydd draws you against him, draws your lips to his own. Gently, he kisses you, plucking your lips like harp strings with brief but potent notes.

     It takes her time to come down to earth, flesh growing sluggishly heavy in the aftermath, the little quivers and tremors caused by your hands, by your will. "Mmm... Davy," she mews, sighing as you hold her, as you massage her, as she shifts position to wrap her arms again around your neck.
     "I love holding onto you," she whispers against your mouth, closing her eyes and leaning into the kiss, kissing back, nibbling with her lips as she rubs her nose to yours, rubs her body against yours in close embrace. I love being so close to you. You're so wonderful to me, Davy...
     And, get this... she means it...
     Fiona draws back just slightly, smiling tremulously. "Give me a minute to get my feet under me," she murmurs, "and I'll bring cake and tea in bed. Unless you'd rather be all civilized at the table, darling? We should probably make the bed at some point, anyway..."

     "Cake first, chores later..."
     His large hand comes to pat you on your hip, fingers tickling your side as you both begin to recover (although he's had more time to do so than you). His fingers drum lightly against your skin and then thick arms surround you, and a host of dragons.
     His breathing moves lightly against your ear as his arms pull you against him. "We'll change the sheets as well...hmmm... that way, no one has to complain about getting the 'bad side' of the bed at the moment." Davydd smiles, bending his head and kissing your shoulder and the side of your neck. "I love holding you, too. You are a wee thing." He grins against your neck. "And surprisingly flexible..."
     Closing his eyes, Davydd ap Owain snuggles in. It would seem he is in it for the duration. The cake may have to wait until the morrow...
     And the chores as well...

     "I've been working on being flexible," Fiona murmurs from within the circle of your arms, closing her eyes again with a sigh of contentment. "You just get to benefit from it. Or did you not mean physically?" Flexibility of the mind, versus flexibility in bed - though in this case, it could be both at the same time...
     "Not that wee, bloody dragon," Fiona grumbles against the pillow, smiling despite the grumble. "But you're a cuddly dragon," she breathes out, "so I'll forgive you for it. But you're buying me some new lingerie later..."

     "Sure," comes the distant murmur, the lazy sounds of a man about to doze off after incredible sex. Or even mediocre sex, were such to occur. "Whatever you want..."
     Davydd hugs you to him, his strength everywhere around you and against you. His arms promising security and his soul and mind, for the moment, quieted...

Posted by rowan at May 09, 2005 10:31 PM