After a very ... informative ... and lengthy conversation with the chatelaine of Avalon, Fiona has calmed down. Somewhat. She still is somewhat in shock - and likely to remain somewhat in shock, all told. But now more than ever she feels a need to talk to her two husbands; beginning, of course, with the first husband. The one whose FAULT everything always is. Davydd ap Owain...
     She will return to the palace so like unto Powis before she returns to her own kingdom, to touch base once more with the Lady Bianca and take whatever supplies that worthy has in store for her. But for now? For now, she is again upon her carpet, curled up as it rises into the air, changing her clothing even as she lifts out of sight.
     The golden hair is at its full length, now, but curled and coiled atop her head, pinned with jeweled combs of emerald and ruby so that the stones wink from the gold as if divorced from reality. The blue gown is gone, and in its place she wears a hunter green bodice which laces shut in crimson, throat and shoulders bared but paired with sleeves and skirt of heavy gold brocade. Her boots are as crimson as the lacing, and around her throat is a slender black choker with a primrose caught forever in crystal over the hollow of her throat.
     It is a bold look. It is the look of a determined woman, who is determined to be a pirate queen as much as any other kind of queen. And it is dressed in this fashion that she steps into the wood where she knows, at its heart, she may find Davydd so long as the sun is above the horizon over London...

     The way to him is tangled. The way to him is always tangled with thickets and jungle canopies of hazel and holly and yew. The earth is tangled still more with ivy and berries, with clumps of mistletoe that grow as crowns on every tree.
     It is the center of the Perilous Forest where he keeps himself, the heart of a forest few try to cross on foot or by horse. It ensures, at least, a peaceful rest while his body remains on the material plane, held still and immovable as stone.
     He sleeps on no bed but on the earth itself. The forest is his bower, the rising trees both the towers of his only kingdom and the walls of a would-be bedroom. Beneath his form, ivy is piled, curling even among his short-shorn hair. He does not rest bare here, as he does on earth. Always upon the body of the Holly King there is the chain of war, the heavy cloak of Life and Death, and the boots spurred with thorns that till the earth after the harvest so that life may spring forth again when his time is done.
     Davydd ap Owain sleeps on earth, both Here and There. Thus, his eyes are closed, his head is turned to the side to rest on a pillow of flowers. Perhaps the gift of some wandering nymph...

     There is a sigh and a smile combined as she makes her way through the tangle that surrounds you. She knows this tangle; she recognizes it as intimately as if she were seeing you instead. It is the tangle of your emotions; the tangle of her own emotions as well. It is one of the many and increasing likenesses you share. But she persists; as she always has. She goes to your heart...
     Many, perhaps, would not dare - even with having had shared moments, shared history. Fiona has no such qualms, no such fears. She expects that she will be safe here - now, perhaps, more than ever. Does she not carry your line within her? Twice-fold, though you know it not. Her feet are sure, her footsteps unconcerned. She will not be denied.
     And so she finds you, upon your bower, with your armour and your ivy. It goes straight to her heart as if one of your arrows, skilled archer that you are. And she stands, taking a moment for herself in her selfishness, looking down upon you. From the air, she collects a diadem of dew held fast upon a small yellow flower. "My king," Fiona breathes the words. "My love. Without you, I would be broken and incomplete - no man could hope to fill that gap; I would be inconsolable. My heart..."
     The words are breathed, sighed, almost silently, barely stirring the stillness in this chamber formed of wood and silence. And she crosses to you, kneeling next to you and tilting the flower so that the dew slides and shimmers and drops into your face, to your eyes, your brow, your cheeks, your lips, even as she kneels there next to you. "Awake, Davydd ap Owain, king of three kingdoms and high king to be..."

     On earth, he does not move. His body, like a great monolith like the others of Stonehenge, lies still in his bed. His dreams slumber elsewhere, here ... in his place. Here... in his heaven...
     ...Is it raining?
     Does it rain in heaven, his mind wanders in that dreaming way. Until his eyes blink open, disturbed by the dew that falls from your tilted flower. Dark green the color of the forest around you, in them the reflections of that same forest. He opens his eyes, and for a moment he, in his dreaming, dreams that he is looking at his love.
     "That is the face of my woman," his Welsh is an intonation of deep song, lyrical in his sleep-waking. "Could that be her body, too?" In his dreaming, he dreams of you on earth -- of reaching out and taking you, rolling you in his arms and coupling with you on his bed of ivy, coupling with you while both of you remain mostly clothed but for what must, by necessity, be removed. And in this way, his hand lifts, reaching up to touch you, to clasp you by your waist and bring you to him.
     But you are no dream...
     You are and you are not... even as he is both dreaming and awake...
     The water of the dew slides against his face as he lifts it to kiss you. It is sweet where it lingers on his lips and where his lips meet your own. Davydd's eyes drift closed and he sighs.

     In your heaven, there is sometimes rain. There must be; for you are Welsh, and what would Wales be without its skies that are sometimes blue but more often grey, without the liquid that rattles on rooftops and makes lovers all the closer? But it is not raining...
     Fiona's smile is immediate and warm as you open your eyes and look at her. She loses herself in your eyes - even when she is in the heart of your woods. There is nowhere she prefers to be, nowhere more sacred to her, more meaningful than here. In the midst of your heart...
     "My love," Fiona whispers. Emotion moves into her cheeks, rendering them pinker, making the words thicker, heavier, almost too hard for her to get past the closeness in her throat. She moves to you, she kisses you where you kiss her. "Be gentle with me, darling..."
     Now, more than ever...
     You hold her, and her arms go up to wrap round your shoulders, clasp around your neck, and she holds herself to you with a rush of sudden high-pitched laughter, her skirts in a swirl and a muddle as she moves to almost on top of you. "Davydd... wake up. Not there, but here, wake up... this is a dream only there. Here, it is real. Wake up, darling. My king..."

     He can't fully surround you with his arms -- the ivy has him all tangled up. This creates an immediate frustration, as in his dream he can very clearly see him holding you, rolling you in his arms, and his hands freeing from the ivy so they can pull up your skirts. But he can't...
     ...And you're speaking...
     He won't admit that in his dreams you never speak but to moan and scream his name...
     But you are speaking and so his eyes pop open, pop open even as his arms can't grab you like he really wants to. "Huh?" Such eloquence. "Oh... oh..." his inflection lifts as his eyes widen. Davydd glances around and then realizes it really is you. With a huff of a sigh, he lies back, bringing you with him. He fights through the ivy with a bit of a curse then looks at you, lifting his head to kiss you. "I was dreaming... but this is how the dream started..."
     Finally, he is able to wrap his arms around you, his hug gentle... as you cautioned. "Mm... my queen. My love. What makes you stray out into the forest this time of day?" He is careful, you will note, to completely shelter himself in shade. But few rays of sunlight pierce the canopy of the Perilous Forest.

     "I know what you dream of, Old Man," Fiona retorts. She is almost gay - something you have not seen from her for some time, yes? She is so glad to see you. It shines in her eyes. You bring her down with you, she kisses you most emphatically when you kiss her. And it takes her a moment to pull back from that kiss.
     "My king. My darling... I haven't come here just to be tumbled by you, though," Fiona teases, one small hand straying over your chest. "I've come to talk to you - about some very serious matters." She struggles to sit up, trying to compose her expression back to sobriety. "We need to talk, Davy. King Davy - I don't know, it lacks solemnity. I'll save the Davys for when I'm feeling tender and adoring of you as a man, not a king."
     There is that wealth of love and mischief in her eyes still, even as she settles to kneel next to you. "Sit up, sit up... I need to do this properly. Please?" It's so winsomely said...

     His mouth is soft as it moves with, against and beneath your own. And you can feel from its embrace how, and in what mood, he is waking. But then, you were the one who leaned over with a bounteous bodice in the middle of the wood to wake him from his sleep. Davydd lifts both fiery eyebrows and his mouth cuts a smile as it is freed.
     "It must be serious," he quips with that wakening, earthy tone of his, "... for you to wake me from such a good dream." His arms move behind him and prop him up. The old king, as you always call him, sits up with a bland look on his face. "So, now that I'm awake..."
     His gloved and gauntleted hand waves at you. Go ahead. As he turns upon his bed of ivy and flowers to sit, his dark green eyes note your outfit with pleasure. Davydd gives his body to the large tree behind him, half sitting and half reclining to hear whatever business you have for him.
     But he is going to enjoy the view...

     "Oh, it is serious," Fiona agrees, looking at you with obvious pleasure taken - in your appearance, in your presence, in your company. "Terribly serious. But before I do anything else, I've got to do this..."
     She remains kneeling, placing herself lower than you, and now she lowers her head, dipping her chin so that the golden coils tremble with the motion. "My king," Fiona whispers. "I am here for a number of reasons, really, but ... there's something I've never done, not officially. And I think it's time, your majesty. High king, king of kings... I pledge my fealty to you, here and now. What I have - it is yours to command. In private, I may challenge you as your wife, as your woman, but that is between us as individuals. We are fast losing sight of who and what you are, and I would not do you that dishonor. You have told me so many times - as above, so below. Your majesty... I give you my loyalty and my honour and my love, for you are my liege, and I have sworn myself to you in so many ways, at so many times, but never have I given you the recognition and acknowledgment that is due."
     The view is still on display, the sloping shoulders the high, rounded bosom that is only becoming more pronounces, the slender, curvy figure which soon will change. But her voice trembles, and her eyes are downcast as she speaks, emotion and fervor in her voice. "I say hail to you, your majesty. I am yours - by right of marriage and by right of conquest. But I give you to my vow and my oath of loyalty willingly. I will fight for you when you need me; I will pray for you when you need my prayers. Davydd ap Owain... king of three kingdoms and high king..."

     In your kneeling state, you did not see the look on his face go from 'What are you doing?' to 'What are you talking about?' to understanding and then to acceptance. Your pledge has reached his heart. Sitting up, your king reaches forward with his hand to help you rise. "Please rise, my queen," he murmurs. "My wife..."
     His hands gently lift you and just as gently brush back your hair. Leaning forward, he kisses your forehead, each cheek and finally your mouth. "I accept your oath, and I thank you for it. Sincerely. Now, I feel like a king...I have one subject. But she is not one I can order around." He laughs at that. "I know where my bread is buttered." He gives you another kiss then settles back upon the tree once more.
     "Other than to compliment me and to kiss me and to look so ... beautiful when you wake me up," his lips purse a moment, and then spread -- a kiss made to you from afar and then a grin. Yes you are beautiful, yes he likes it. "...you say you have more to tell me? Even if not, I am glad you're here," he continues in a murmur. Davydd rests his head back on the tree, the dark green of his eyes glittering in the relative dim.

     She allows your help - now, more than ever. As often as not she might scorn that aid, insisting on rising on her own even if it is not necessary. But now - now things have changed. Fiona rises only with your help, allowing you more of the credit to her lift...
     And then she moves to you again, kissing you wherever you have kissed her, her arms going round your neck once again, eyes glowing with radiant happiness. Do you see it? Can you recognize it when you have seen it? "Oh, you can order," she says airily, arms tightening for a moment, "but obedience - you wouldn't want me too obedient. If I were obedient, then you wouldn't love me. I promise to defy you exactly as much as you need it. It will be good for you."
     She snuggles up, curling onto your lap. "I have more to tell you," Fiona whispers, lips moving to your ear. You can feel her lips curve into a grin, and her laugh is again high and sweet and pure - and just a little bit wild. "Davy, my Davy," she croons, nuzzling against your ear and then your cheek. "You are going to see me grow so fat soon. Promise me you won't faint when you see it - I won't be able to pick you up off the floor, I'll have to call in my guards. I don't know how to tell you this, but ... I suppose I should just do it like I always do, just blurt it out and let it stand for itself..."
     She looks up at you, a little jut and lift of her chin as her lips curve in a smile that threatens to take over her expression entirely. "Davy... Davydd. My king, my love. Do you want to guess? I should make you guess. I should be so cruel to you - but I won't. I can't. I'm getting my wish - the wish I've had since I first gave myself to you. And in the best way possible. Davy, I'll tell you half of it at a time - which half do you want to know first?"

     His arms surround you, cupping you to him, pulling you more onto his lap. His hand strays to your belly. He can feel no stirring there yet, but he knows it is coming. He wants to feel it, for the child is his no matter if it is grandchild or direct issue. It doesn't matter. "I promise I won't faint," Davydd chuckles against your forehead. He bends his head and brushes your smiling lips with his own.
     "I don't want to guess anything. I like it when you blurt it out like you're afraid that when anyone hears it they'll change their minds about you, as if such could happen. Besides, it's obviously good news so... I don't want to deprive you of your moment."
     He makes a comfortable seat despite the armor. It is the armor of an archer, not a knight -- he was never a knight. There is chain and plate on his shoulders, on his torso, but there is leather on his legs. Supple, the leather makes his lap more comfortable. "Don't be cruel," Davydd whispers, "... to a heart that's true..."

     She laughs, and one hand flashes quickly down to between your bodies, to between your legs, her palm sliding against your leather-clad groin. "Your heart, even if not other areas? But even that I could forgive you for, Davydd, as long as you remain true to me," Fiona tells you sweetly, that glow of adoration still in her face, in her eyes. "I know you've got to eat. And you mustn't eat me. I am to be reserved for special occasions only - and not now."
     Her palm lingers, then pulls away, both hands on your shoulders now as she sits upright on your lap, her lips playing at your own now. "Davy, my sweet, wonderful, glorious Davy. My king... my champion... oh, I love you so much... You are going to be such a wonderful father and such a wonderful grandfather, I just know it. Twins, Davy. I'm having twins."
     Surely she's teasing - surely she's making it up. But look at her face. Have you ever seen her like this? Fiona laughs, swooping in to kiss your mouth, pressing and plucking and pulling away again, all in one faster-than-light motion.
     "You will have a son, Davy... and Rhodri will also. You two don't know your own strength..."

     Your hand upon the leathered groin makes the green eyes go wide for a split-second response. As your hand slides there, he must clear his throat for his body responds automatically. The response continues as you climb aboard his lap, turning to face him. Now, he looks surprised all over again. His mouth kisses back but you move ahead forward...
     A grandson...
     A son?
     He tries to speak but you kiss him and kiss him and then he gives up. To hell with that, and he kisses you back. Gently, he turns you in his arms, such strong arms and he lays you tenderly upon his bed of ivy. His arms hold you, but his body's weight is given to the ivy and the ground beneath it.
     Davydd tugs off his glove with his teeth, the vipers distended and grabbing (they are a kind of opposable thumb of the mouth) and making quick work of the leather. He spits it out, and the taste of leather, and his bare hand touches your face. "I'm going to have a son," he repeats. "...and a grandson...a son," he repeats, "...and a grandson." He smiles then, that smile not seen in months now, that madcap grin, that comet streak that makes him go from rugged to roguish to regal and back. "Oh, my girl... my beautiful, darling girl..."
     Like his dream, you are rolled in his arms, his hand disappearing in your hair, his mouth parting and covering your own in a deep kiss. Like his dream, he is having a son. He isn't for nothing. Life goes on. And he goes right on being a part of it. Lifting his mouth from yours to let you breathe, his lips moving against yours still he whispers: "My beautiful queen... mother of my child..." He grins. "I can't believe this...is it a blessing for all of us..."

     Her delight is complete - and visible; there is the flush of pink to her cheeks as her arms again go round your neck. "Your girl," she whispers, "and yes, Davy. How does it feel, daddy? You're going to have a son. And so will Rhodri. I only just found out," she continues, voice warm with emotion, "and I was planning on coming to talk with you anyway, so I came straight away. Adorable man, you realize that I'm going to be unable to walk in just a few short months? You'll have to roll me from bath to bed..."
     The arms tighten, your kisses answered by kiss and kiss and kiss. She breaks with kissing only to laugh, excitement and exhilaration in her voice as the dainty hands run through your hair. Then she pauses, pushing your head away slightly, peering up at you intently - as if to make sure you are, in fact, who you are; and she smiles, a glorious, brilliant smile, the likes of which she hasn't done since a decade before you first met her.
     "Davy, my Davy," Fiona croons, caressing your cheeks. "You are building your kingdom, you know, even if you don't realize it. A wife and vassal kingdom... and now an heir. Promise me that if when you wake in your bed in London you don't believe this to be real - promise me you'll come and see me. And I'll remind you all over again."

     His ears go pink, and then his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, making the freckles pop out, far more noticeable on the vampire's skin than before. He is shocked, amazed, happy to the point of delirium. His eyes swim in green with the old periwinkles of resilient flowers in the Holly King's meadows dotting the forest of his eyes.
     How he feels, he has no words for. Just the physical manifestations of his emotions. His face in your hands, he softens beneath your touch, his gaze going tender. "I don't know, darlin' girl, when I've ... ever been this happy. I don't know that I have been, before this." Davydd leans in, his mouth meeting your own in soft and lingering warmth.
     In your arms and in your kiss, he can believe himself a king. You call him and he hears you. He believes what you say is true. If you believe strong enough, perhaps he will believe it too.
     The arms of the high king to be encircle you strongly, and the kiss that blooms between you creates a second layer of clasping. For now, there's no worrying about how often he'll be able to be with you. You're with him now. It's enough.
     Davydd sighs against your mouth, his hands moving against the fabric of your dress. That same fabric begins to betray your thighs, sliding against your skin as his fingers press it upward.

     "I want your happiness," Fiona whispers against your mouth, "but I didn't do this for just that. I wanted you to know the truth. And ... from what Lady Bianca said ... it might be my fault, a little, my being pregnant." She is a little abashed to admit it, a little shy, but unrepentant. Her lips move against yours in an almost circular fashion, rubbing, nuzzling before pressing again, nipping just a little against your lower lip.
     "I've wanted to have your baby... so much... for so long... that it - happened, I guess, because of that... or at least a little bit because of that..." Fiona gasps a little as your hands move, as her skirts begin to pull away from covering her. But she doesn't protest. Instead, she laughs again, that same joyful sound. "Anyway... it happened... oh, Davy..."
     She doesn't want to talk. Words are bubbling up past her lips between kisses, without her intending, and she shifts position, moving up against you as she kisses you. Her fingers find little purchase with mail in the way, and she most deliberately and adorably pouts up at you. "It isn't fair," she whispers. "You've got too much in the way for me to put my heartbeat into your chest."

     Laughter moves softly against your mouth as Davydd pulls from the tangling ivy of your embrace to look at you with a twinkle in his eyes. "It is all your fault," he grins there. "Every time you pass me by with the waterlillies on your skin, I go stiff as stone." His hands slide beneath the fabric, losing themselves in your ornate clothing, and his mouth covers yours again. "Like now," your king grins.
     His pleasure rumbles in his chest, his throat, as his mouth tugs and pulls at your own, making it blush, feeling the heartbeat there. He sighs and chuckles, "It's good to be the king," as his fingers slide between your thighs.
     The armor has to go, he couldn't agree more. "The clasps are on the side," Davydd speaks against your neck, his face veiled by your golden hair. "There are buckles...the plates... then... pull the chainmail...over my head." His breaths are quiet but ragged, his fingers slipping against you gently.

     "My signature scent from now on." Fiona sighs contentedly, a little moan catching in the back of her throat. "You are so wonderful, Davydd. Davy... my Davy, my lover, my husband..."
     Her hands find the clasps, fumbling at the buckles with determination that chips her fingernails but does not deter her. She squirms against you, soft sounds spilling from her without the usual wariness, the usual failed attempts to hold them back. "You are my king," Fiona insists, "and I am your prize, darling. Your conquest. You conquered me and now you get to ravish me. Isn't that how it goes?" You are not getting a fight today. You are being given everything that she has...
     Her heart...
     Her body...
     The fruits thereof...
     She hauls on the chainmail, forcing it up and then yanking it off until it cooperates and she can return to what she wants more. Fiona shifts her position so that you are again hidden in part by the long flow of her hair, and she purrs a little as her hands come to rest against your shoulders, touching your chest and sliding back up.
     My lord ... my king ... I am always willing to be laid upon your altar... Davy, my sweet, wonderful Davydd... I can hardly make sense of anything, I'm so happy right now...

     His hands must pull from you as you tug at him. Davydd laughs, the cackle of old, rough and warm, full of life and mischief. There's a brief protest as you lift the heavy chain (and it is heavy), and he twists out of it as the chain falls chiming to the ivied ground. Dragons move, twisting over his shoulders and chest as his musculature shifts in the return of his arms around you. They hiss against your skin, sigh and sing as you are cradled to his chest.
     He is careful, so very careful, to lie upon his side and not to cover you. Oh, the temptation is there to roll you on your back, but here there is no risk of him smothering you. Strong agile fingers pluck the laces of your bodice, picking the lock of your dress and letting the cloth begin to fall away. Rhodri had to learn it from somewhere, didn't he.
     No matter how gentle his touch, his kiss is tugging, wild, a little rough. But even then, your king is careful not to let an errant canine pierce your flesh. Oh the temptation is there to feel your flesh part beneath his kiss, to feel the penetration of body, heart and soul. But there is no risk of his feeding from you.
     Not yet anyway...
     Davydd sighs against your ear and throat. "I love you, my darling jewel, my apple tree, my brightness." With a tug, your bodice is pulled loose, loose enough for his mouth to find the swell of your breasts and nipples. "One day, my son will be here instead of me," he breathes against your skin. "I will try not to be jealous." His tongue rolls the pink flesh in his mouth and he suckles upon each one, forgetting the sensitivity and tenderness...

     "Oh, god..." That is given for the sensitivity, the soft moaning cry of it echoing, lingering on her tongue like a flavour. Like chocolate which has been allowed to soften. Like thick red wine...
     She doesn't mind the roughness. She doesn't even mind the awareness of your fangs. She arches as you expose her, her hair spinning out from her in a gauze as the pins fall away, as she is unlocked and unraveled. "Davy..."
     Her hands cradle your head, her thighs spreading. "You have no reason to be jealous," Fiona whispers. "Davy... I love you both, but don't you know how long I've wanted your baby? I've wanted you to fill me and take me and I've wanted to feel your baby inside of me since we first ... got together ... I've wanted it. I've wanted it because I - I have just always wanted you so badly, I don't even know how to explain, I'm not sure I understand it."
     A thigh hooks around you, and she pulls herself closer for a moment, lips grazing the side of your neck and falling away. "You are my king... I would never have been so afraid of you, so threatened by you when we met ... if I didn't sense on some level how thoroughly I would end up giving myself to you..."

     A hand comes free of you to land on the ivy as he lets you rest upon your back, his body guiding and moving you gently. The ivy creates a pillowed effect. It is very soft, very like a bed. On his knees, one hand bracing against the bed of foliage, he begins to unfasten his leather, his mouth clasping and pulling at your nipples, tongue coiling around the rising flesh.
     His is rising, too...
     He can't leave them alone. They are already more rounded, and with you so sensitive, moaning loudly at each clasp and tug and roll, it just eggs him on. Davydd buries his head in between them, his breaths crashing like cymbals against your skin as he positions himself between your legs, guiding himself against you and then within.
     You are a picture of dishevelment, the pair of you. Half clothed, body parts visible among the disarray and ivy. Keeping his weight off of you, his head lifting from your breasts, Davydd thrusts himself deeply, both hands going to the foliage beneath you.
     He can't speak, he just can't be coherent when all the blood has rushed from his brain and straight to his cock. Thick, he presses you inside out as he starts to slide back and forth, his hips rolling side to side. It is with abandon, with the abandon of his joy, his love, his lust, that he moves against and upon you, uncaring of any and all who might be aware and watching. The Holly King makes love to you here, in the wild, in the wood.
     "Here, I am whole," Davydd murmurs in sing-song-spell. "In the body of my queen, my goddess..." His eyes roll and his head tips back. His body moves on its own, as it wills.

     Both you and her other husband take delight in how loud she is, how she expresses the pleasure and joy she takes in you, in this meeting of flesh upon flesh. And she is so very sensitive right now; every touch makes her threaten to come apart. Some women are sensitive enough to reach orgasm solely by having their breasts played with - and to judge by the sounds she is making, to judge by the colours she turns, Fiona has become one of those lucky number. "Davydd, oh, Davy!" She never used to call you Davy. Now she claims the nickname as if it is hers by right of birth...
     And you are in her, and she cries out, bodice hanging off among the curling ivy, her breasts and abdomen bare to you, her skirts kicked up out of your way and the sleeves fluttering with every lift and fall of her arms, the small hands lifting to touch you here, to touch you there, darting, swallow-like touches against your chest, against your shoulders, against your back. "I love you," she manages shakily, confiding in you, "I love your dragons, too. I don't care who knows it. I want to trumpet it from rooftops, Davy. That I'm yours and you're mine - oh!"
     Fiona's eyelashes flutter, lips rounding as if in surprise, half-smiling as you thrust back and forth in and out of her. "My lover... my king ... my Holly King, my ascendant lord and master..." The breath escapes her, and she takes a huge gasp of air, words becoming noises now, sobbing cries that rise in pitch as if scales. "Need you ... so much ..."

     It is too much, even for him. Your sensitivity, your sounds, your news. Your king gives his weight to his knees, letting his spreading thighs bear him up and balance him. His hands go to your hips, his fingers fumbling with what remains of your clothing. He lifts you, he cradles you, he loves you.
     His words come in thunder, his gasps backed with lightning, and there is the sprinkling of dew that makes it past the leaves of his wood as his body cracks with the convulsion of his own orgasm. Now, there is no need to pull out, no need to save you from the Life that pours from him. Twelve times.
     Davydd bends, his head against your breasts, his breath ragged and uneven, loud and edged with his voice. Momentarily blind, Davydd finds his way against your body with his mouth. He swallows as his length begins to soften.
     Not even half an hour this time, Old Man...
     Davydd chuckles at his own thoughts, groaning. "Woman, woman... you've turned me into a young man," he jokes at his own expense, trailing kisses up to your throat. "All fire... no stamina..." Lifting his head, he looks at you, as dreamy-eyed as he did when you first woke him.
     And he grins...

     There is no complaint from her for it all. There is no need to complain; there is only the echoing of her cries through the woods (no doubt scaring the game) and the clasp of her hands on your back, the dig of her nails into your skin. She is so very pink and white right now, flushed and golden.
     "Oh, Davy..." There is an extra shuddering pleasure taken in feeling your seed empty into her. She squirms against you, smiling, still trembling a little with the overall pleasure of it, the overall stimulation and excitement and yes, release of it all. Her hands clutch, mouth moving softly against your skin as she cuddles up to you. "You're always young, Davy," Fiona murmurs back to you. "Just a young man, tumbling his girl under the trees. You'll always be that young. You just forget it sometimes, because the world is so heavy - because you have trouble letting yourself be happy. But you're going to be happy and you're going to work hard - you've a wife and children on the way, Davy."
     She wriggles in your arms, kissing your cheek and then landing a lopsided kiss over one eye. "My sweet, darling, wonderful Davy," Fiona whispers. "You're going to be a wonderful father, a wonderful king. My husband..."

     A wonderful father...
     I was that, once...
     A father to my own babies, the first I ever had...
     A father to my country, even with the blood of my brothers on my hands...
     A father to another king's son as I taught him as much as he taught me...
     To other children, the son who has ridden with me and my protection (and I, his)...
     To even you, the girl I picked up off the street, who I treated as my daughter until I fell in love....
     Well, sometimes even now...even as my next child grows in your womb...
     Davydd closes his eyes, letting you dote on him, letting your words move over him. You're going to be happy, Davydd. And you're going to work hard.

Posted by rowan at July 04, 2005 08:57 PM