Day has slowly given way to night, and her first husband has had to return from his daytime slumber to the waking world. She has allowed him to slip from her, though with murmured endearments and last caresses, reminders of Truth - and the persistent reminder not to doubt that Truth. After all, Davy, you're going to be a daddy, it's not just a dream...
     She has risen from her own slumber, from where her husband's arms have so recently enfolded her, and her garments have fallen from her as the falling of leaves in autumn. A cool, cleansing rain stings only briefly, but serves to wash her clean of her tumble, the disarray of her splendor in the grass. Cool rain or not, stinging or not, languid soreness deep in her muscles and the latent awareness of her own belly - Fiona is smiling.
     So this is what it's like to be unreservedly happy...
     She redresses herself, a new outfit but similar. White bodice with blue waves embroidered upon the borders, pushing her rounding breasts up and together for support, the blue disk slid between from the chain around her throat. The sleeves are the colour of fire, red and gold seeming to flicker where they begin off the slope of her shoulders to flutter just at her wrists, and the skirts flow in the same combination of colours over hips, over thighs to her ankles where they meet the black of the soft leather boots that protect her feet. Her rings are on her fingers, her hair is loose and hanging in curling waves held back by a sapphire band at her forehead by the hairline. But there is no cosmetic, no false colour upon her face. The only thing she wears upon her face is her smile...
     The carpet is bidden back to her, and she climbs on and bids it rise, as she begins her flight back to Avalon with contentment wrapped about her as if it were her cloak and armour. Fiona feels no need for either, right now; what chill could touch her? What enemy would menace her? She is pregnant. She is a queen. She is loved.

     But what of your other husband?
     When you loitered all day out of his presence, did he wonder where you were? Or does he always know where you go when you are not with him. Where else could you be? There are so few answers to that question.
     It is evening in the bordering kingdoms, yours and his, and the moon hangs low in its first station. The two castles that sit within the kingdom of Avalon -- Arthur's castle in Camelot and the Oak King's castle in Avalon proper -- sparkle with the torches lit upon their ramparts. Guards are stationed, both castles seem active with the evening's revelries. Dinner for two kings in process.
     The windows of the king's grand chamber are open to the night air. The colored lanterns are lit, the oil pungent, fragrant as it burns in the glass bowls. Within, the king is reviewing his kingdom in maps, his red-gold hair falling to his shoulders. His hair has a wave to it, some hint of curl granted by his parentage. He wears a grand shirt from the 17th Century, its silken ruffles falling against his skin, unraveling where the shirt remains untied. White leather cups him and hugs his legs. His feet remain bare.
     Rhodri focuses his gaze on the map. No, it's not as he would like it. He reaches to the side, motioning with his hand. A perfectly white quill lifts, dips itself in ink and dictates. "The King may have a vision of his kingdom, but it is nothing without the shared inspiration of his people. So let this be the Oak King's first decree: that all inhabitants of Avalon shall have the opportunity to present designs for the new kingdom, and to take part in its magical construction." Rhodri pauses, glancing to the quill. "Send it to the printers... have copies distributed here and in Camelot..."

     And now she has returned. She makes her presence known; and upon finding that the king is in residence, there is only one place that she might go.
     Where else would she go, where else might she fly but to where her other husband now resides...
     There is the sound of a tap on the door. Fiona is not so rude as to simply walk in. But the tap is followed by the doors being flung open, and there is feminine movement in a rush, the doors being thumped closed again behind her. Scarlet and gold and white and blue, with eyes as blazingly blue as the sky, the sea, the flame itself. There is a woman flinging herself at you wordlessly, without care for what you are doing, without care for your surroundings or if there is anyone else present. "Rhodri!"

     The quill pen ducks, tucking itself back into the ink well, and the dried decree rolls up as a matter of self preservation. At the calling of his name, the Oak King is turning from where he stands at the king's private table, where he might have important (or intimate) guests dine with him. There has been no meal -- nothing but the ingestion of ideas. Maps and notes written in his flowing hand litter the table. There is a half-full glass of red wine in an alabaster glass.
     Rhodri raises his arms as you come at him, and he laughs. "Fiona!" he hails you back, laughter edging the syllables of your name. "It's good to see you too," Rhodri grins. "Did you have a wonderful day?" Or do the drugs make you this exuberant?
     He teases, it's his nature, but his arms come around you warmly and with his strength he lifts you in his hug. Before saying another word, he kisses you in greeting. He has missed you. That, and the wine, flavors his embrace.
     Lowering you, Rhodri keeps his arms encircling you. "You are the prettiest thing in all Avalon. And that's saying something. I put in a hanging garden that's quite lovely, really. But you...you make it seem quite ordinary..."

     The kiss is answered with a kiss, her arms going around your neck immediately as she cuddles up against you. She seems to have expected you to pick her up, and when her feet touch the ground, she pouts, giving you a coy look from under her eyelashes. "Up," Fiona demands imperiously. "I didn't give you permission to put me down."
     She is in a mood, isn't she? She's laughing again, leaning her cheek up against you. "I had a glorious day. And I have to tell you. I must, I must - do you know, I miss wine? But I'll continue to miss it and look forward to when I can have it again. Silly man - all your compliments. You know perfectly well that it isn't true; there's plenty of women who make me look plain here, and I doubt that I can compare to a hanging garden, especially if you made it. After all, you're so good with ropes and chains and suspended things."
     She wiggles up against you, her hands both going to your face, and she presses in for a long, pulling kiss that doesn't end quickly; it threatens not to end at all, until she needs to breathe. "I love you," Fiona breathes. "Rhodri, guess at my news. Go on - guess. You'll never guess, not in a million years..."

     He lifts you and he kisses you with a grin, his emerald eyes bright, shining worlds. "I am good with suspending things. In fact, you were my inspiration for the hanging gardens," Rhodri holds you, keeps your mouth to his, his every word a kiss. "Last night, with your hands pulled up over your head by the drapery rope, velvet and silk, you on your tip-toes, naked and glorious. And your garden," he chuckles, "... is the best I know..."
     His mouth moves beneath your own, giving and taking. When you free him from your pulling kiss -- it was not enough for him, he pulled you into his own, his tongue sliding against your own. "Do you want to hang again tonight?" Rhodri breaks the kiss and grins again. "Is that what you want? But first... your news..."
     Carrying you to the bed (where else), Rhodri sets you gently down and he joins you, sitting on his leathered knees. Studying you, he cocks up a bronze eyebrow and his mouth puckers in thought. "Something I wouldn't guess in a million years," he murmurs. "Hmm... well, I suppose there's no point in trying then is there," Rhodri laughs suddenly. "So... go on... tell me. I'm keen on surprises...."

     She blushes; you expected that, didn't you? No matter how much experience she has by now, it makes no difference. You speak of what you might do to her, and the rose enters her cheeks, the heat in her eyes, and you receive a look. "One track mind. Bastard. But," it's sighed, "I wouldn't mind..."
     You put thoughts into her head, and she has to squirm a little, fight free of the notions, the word-images you've painted. Fiona makes faces at you, then rolls over on the bed away from you, sitting up with a bounce of her golden hair. "Not even going to try to guess? You're no fun at all. Fine, be that way."
     She puts on an air of mock-disappointment, flopping onto her back and laying one arm over her forehead. "Alack and alas, that I have so uncreative and unimaginative a husband!" She peeks up at you - are you buying this? No, of course not. "What will you give me if I tell you?"

     "Alack and alas," Rhodri chuckles upon a groan. "As if." He settles back on the cushions, half reclining. "I should rather hear you tell it," he grins as he lounges. He looks like he should be having someone feeding him grapes with a face like that. No, he isn't buying it.
     His hand reaches out to you, capturing a golden tress. "What will I give you if you tell me? What will you give me if I guess correctly? Ah, I am such a tease," he growls as he bends over, hovering over you, kissing you sweetly. Completely. Pulling back with tender mouth tugging, Rhodri leans back once more.
     "If you tell me, and I surrender my guess, I will... grant you the knowledge of one secret hope of mine, a wish. Even though to speak it may mean it doesn't come true. But... you are worth it. So I will roll the dice and take my chances..."
     His mouth cuts to the side in that inherited way of his as he returns to you, closing the distance, parting your lips with his, entering your mouth with an insistence that is all his own. "And if I guess correctly? What then, Fiona..."

     You receive a smile - such a tender expression, suddenly. You kiss her, and you can hear the expelled breath that follows. "You are a complete fucking tease, Rhodri. Rhodri ap arse," Fiona murmurs, her hands sliding through your hair and then sliding free. "Why do I love you so much? But I do. You colorful bastard, you."
     Such thorny endearments - but you can see the glow to her eyes, the smile that wobbles but does not falter, not for a moment. "If you guess right - and this only counts if no one's told you already - if you guess right, Rhodri, then for three days and three nights..."
     She pauses for dramatic effect, but also so that you can see how serious she is. Her fingers brush your cheek, your forehead, your shoulder, then touch to your lips as she pulls away from the kiss again so that she may speak. There is something of tenderness in her gaze...
     "For three days and three nights, Rhodri," Fiona murmurs, "I will be yours, to do with exactly as you wish - with no other voice in my ears, no other thought but you. It will be as if there is no other..."
     No kingdom...
     No other husband...
     No memories of other men to compare you against...
     No division...
     No other claim, noone to lay claim but you...

     "Well, if there's going to be a prize," he grins out. "I'll happily take my chances. You know, thieves never work for free." Rolling toward you, the short distance that is required, he lies flush against you, a hand in your hair and his eyes on your eyes.
     Bending, his lips hover over yours. Yes, he is a tease. He sighs your name and he brushes your mouth with his own. "I love you, my lover, my wife," Rhodri smiles. "Hmm.. my hanging garden." And he, no longer hanging over you, plucks open your mouth and steals away with your tongue.
     Once a thief, always a thief...
     "Is it the sex of the baby?" he whispers at your mouth, then pulls back to see your face. Have I guessed it rightly? For what else could a new queen mother be grinning ear to ear about than the gender of her heir?

     I love you, too ... Fiona sighs as she leans against you, lies flush with you, reaches up to you. She doesn't want you to stop kissing her. She is - of all things - happy.
     You whisper, and she smiles at you, and her expression turns coy again; the lower lip protruding just a tiny bit as she smiles, the glint of her eyes from below the lowered lashes with her hair spread out on the pillow, mouth red from kisses given and received. "That's part of it," she murmurs, but it's only part. Not the whole. How does that measure for wagers made?
     Her hands, small as they are, they pluck and steal along your shirt, buttons being undone in their wake. "Is that your guess, Rhodri? Shall I count that as a partial success, and we grant one another rewards and penalties alike?" Isn't that what you do with her anyway?
     She doesn't wait for an answer, the tiny hands tugging the shirt away from your smooth chest. She leans in, her lips tracing along your wild menagerie, that ink which is not ink, images which do not remain still. "You're going to be a daddy, Rhodri," Fiona murmurs to one of your hounds. "You're going to have a son. And so will Davydd. Twins, Rhodri," her tongue slips out to glide along a well-defined pectoral, "you two don't know your own strength, and now I'm going to be all stretched out with your babies."
     Her hands go to your shoulders and she pulls herself up to be at eye level with you, the blue seas of her gaze dancing as her smile widens, pulls, opens. "My two husbands have given me two little boys," Fiona whispers. "We're having a son, Rhodri. You're going to have a son and a brother..."
     Somehow, she is able to ignore the Jerry Springer sound of it...

     He was grinning at the mention of rewards and penalties but he doesn't get a chance to remark on that, or even to offer one of his many suggestions of rewards and penalties alike. So when you say the words daddy and son, the grin nearly breaks itself.
     A son...
     A brother...
     A son...
     Your hands are anchored at his shoulders, and as you smile and pull yourself upward in your revelation, Rhodri's arms surround you. Suddenly, you're in midair, suspended in his swirling hold. He carries you to the open window and he shouts to the world: "Witness this, the queen in my arms, the mother of my son!" Looking to you with his eyes swimming in liquid and his face cracking with a great grin, he murmurs, kissing you. "The mother of my son."
     He carries you around the chamber, and then he heads for the door. "I'm going to carry you throughout this entire castle, shouting this news into each door. I am so happy... I love you... and I want everyone to know..."

     "Eek!" It escapes without her intending it to, and she glares at you, belligerent at the startlement of her sudden unexpected flight. But it softens; it melts. How can she be anything other than equally adoring, equally delighted? She answers kiss with kiss, her arms tightening their hold around your neck as you whirl her about, as you speak. "You'll make a scene, kick things into a muddle," Fiona warns you. "People won't know what to expect."
     The wedding is still two weeks away, remember? But this isn't the mortal world; who cares? She is already your wife, yours and your Other. She leans into your hold on her, her lips moving against your ear.
     "Twins, Rhodri," Fiona breathes there. "I'm going to get so fat that even you won't be able to pick me up like this. But on the other hand, it gives me the perfect excuse to do this..." She settles in your arms, widening her eyes at you with little-girl coquettishness, sucking on her lower lip and breathing out the words. "Daddy... you're going to have a son..."
     And she laughs, arms tightening again, laughter pealing out joyously. "Go on - do it," Fiona urges. "Make lots of noise. I'll tell Huw and Hwyll more sedately, of course, but go on, you're the king - exercise your dominance, your right. And when you've gotten it out of your system, we can fight over who won..."

     "I love you. You encourage me in all the ways you shouldn't," Rhodri grins. He hoists you up quite easily. At least at this point. "And I'd better carry you around as much as possible in the next couple of weeks, yeah? I may not get a chance to do it much longer."
     "Open," he says to the door, and so it does (remind you of Hwyll?) and it does so without commentary. And out into the hall you go, carried in powerful arms, brisk upon his powerful stride. "She is the queen most beauteous! Mother of my son! My wife, my lover, my love..."
     And so he proclaimed it, near and far, up and down hallways and passages. Doors opened and faces popped out. And cheers began. And torches were lit. No, he would not keep such a thing a secret.
     Like he said when you stayed in his apartment, he wears his heart on his sleeve...

Posted by rowan at July 12, 2005 06:48 PM