He hasn't come. He hasn't called, either. What's wrong with that man? He seemed so happy...
     She isn't going to let it ruin her day or her mood, of course, but it does leave her inclined to pout. Aiming that pout at Rhodri would be more than unfair, it would be distracting them both from their rightful business (and wrongful business as well). Fiona is left with only one thing that she can possibly do.
     Trailing silk sleeves that glimmer like butterfly's wings in her passage, she makes her way down into the belly of the earth of Avalon - the cellars, beyond the food stores or any man or woman's visible eye. And it is there that she reaches through air and ether for that strange device, so unknown to here, her cellphone, here that she summons up that slender trapping of a life left behind though not forgotten.
     Humming to herself, Fiona punches in a well-remembered number, leaning up against the cold stone as if she is instead of calling you by voice, she might summon you by dark ritual to appear before her.
     Like the witch you have called her - though for calling you, Old Man, she'd be far overdressed...

     Give the man time, give the man time...
     One ring, two rings, three rings, four...
     It might seem like he's not going to answer, but it's early yet in his day...night...and it's not as though he had a restful sleep. Anything but. Such dreams, girl, such dreams! He dreamed you would give birth to two sons, one of which would be his own. He dreamed of making love in the wide open woods, coupling like mad, like two pagans fucking in mud.
     The magic of it moved right through him and over his own skin...
     A hand fumbles, reaching out from a heavy cover of blankets to answer the cell. It's your ring-tone: Black Magic Woman. There's a heavy breath, then a guttural, "Mmm... hey baby," he smiles into the phone. "I was just dreaming about you..."

     "Oui?" It's her voice, but it's in French. She leans back against the wall, smiling as she hears you answer - it's a smile she can't help, filled with happiness to the point where it turns into a silly grin. It echos down the wire, connection of magic and electrons that it is, making her all schoolgirlish for a moment. "Mon Davy..."
     Fiona pulls herself to a moment later, even as she slides along the wall to sit half on her knees and half not, pushing her hair absently from her face. What is it about you that can so easily bring her back to her youth, her childhood, the mental images of pigtails and school uniforms flickering by as if it were a projected backdrop on a stage? "Silly man," she breathes out in the darkness and the cool air. "And you are silly, Davy. Oh, but I love you, even when you've just woken up. You're sexy when you've just woken up."
     She continues, still in English for the moment. "Sexy just about all of the time, but especially then. So." She toys with the edge of a sleeve, the edge of a pout in her voice. "Why aren't you visiting me by now, Davy? Was it a good dream, at least?"

     You miss the look -- the immediate cocking up of both eyebrows, the slow sidling grin. "J'aime les filles francaises," he replies. "Vous savez que j'ai une faiblesse pour les crumpets francais." Such fluent French -- the language of a diplomat, a traveler, and a prince.
     "Why am I not there? Because I just woke up," his voice is rough with that morning grumble of his. "And I'm going to have to take a shower. A really cold one too, I hate that," such a woe-is-me sound. "It was a great dream," Davydd breathes into the phone. "Great news. If you were here, I'd ask you t' kick me."
     The grin is an audible grasp. "And...ah..." His words dissolve into an evil, absolutely evil chuckle. "The rest of the dream was bloody terrific. Apart from the mess I woke up to, and now... here I am wanting my woman and she's no-fucking-where to be found..."

     Her own French is quite fluent - an aunt who lived in Paris, her grandparents and countless aunts and uncles and cousins in Belgium, it added up. "Why take a cold shower?" Fiona asks, voice caressing. "When if you are coming here, you can always ... pop your cork."
     There's a giggle for the simile, and she cradles the phone to her as if cuddling you by proxy. "I am so to be found! Bloody man. I am right here. It isn't my fault that you aren't." Ah, the games that lovers play.
     Fiona lowers her voice to a breathy whisper, returning to French as she tries to get comfortable on the cold ground. "Ne me dites pas que vous avez oublie entierement la mere de votre enfant. Homme terrible! Prenez la pitie sur moi, pas vous? Venez me voir tandis que je suis encore beau et avant que je suis gros et affreux avec ces deux petits garcons."
     She laughs, then, a bit breathlessly after that rush of French, and her voice drops again to a whisper, eyes closing in sublime excitement. If you could but see her now, curled there with the phone cradled to one ear with both hands, cheeks as pink and flushed as they have ever been, what a picture she must make. "Mais puis, vous etes un petit garcon vous-meme, hmmm? Je ne vous deteste pas. Je pourrais ne jamais obtenir l'excedent vous aimant assez. Mais - venu bientot, pas vous... papa?"

     "I will come tonight. It may be later... maybe just before dawn... I will do my best, hmm? And you can parle your francais to me then," he grins. "In fact, the king is going to make a decree," you hear the bed springs -- his large body must be in motion. "From here on out, the national language of our bedroom will be French. At least for you. Me, I'll speak whatever. That's the king's right," he laughs.
     There's a long groan, perhaps he is stretching. It sounds like the stretch sound, plus a little bit of the Woman, why are you tormenting me? sound. "You should take pity on me. I'm old and lonely. You are young and surrounded by handsome courtiers and another husband. I don't even have a sheep nearby..."

     There's a quiet, almost smothered laugh - a giggle, really. "I can't promise to remember to speak French all the time in the bedroom," Fiona protests, warmth flooding into her cheeks. "You have a habit of putting things out of my mind, Davydd. Silly man..."
     She goes quiet for a moment; her smile is too wide for her to talk past. "...I feel like my heart's expanded in my chest and it's too big to fit," Fiona murmurs confidingly, cupping the phone to her lips. "I might be young and surrounded by courtiers, but it's you that I want, you that I'm talking to. Don't you know by now that no one comes before you in my regard, Davy? Only Rhodri can even come close. My darling king, sir."
     There is silence for a moment as she hangs on the line, and you can hear the sound of her breath escaping in the pause before she speaks anew. "I've been in love with you for such a long time, Davy. Don't you know that everything I've done since I met you, it was in the hopes that you'd be proud of me? And now ... I finally have what I want. You... and I'm yours, now... even if I'm anchored to a spot, it's because I'm carrying your child, yours and Rhodri's. How could I fail to be anything but demanding of your presence? My wonderful lover. My king. The father of my child. Is this what marriage is supposed to feel like? If so, I feel very married, now. I even feel like baking cakes and cookies for the two of you."

     "Now, you're just being unfair," he chuckles. "I'm going to have to go soon, handle myself in the shower and then stop at a bakery. Bah, I'm so easily led it's ridiculous." Him? Easy to lead? Like a mule. Davydd sighs mightily through a grin. "I'm happy too, and I mean it. And I know... I also know I don't always see things in the most positive light... but... I do know, darlin'. And when I get there, I'll show you that I know."
     He has to be quiet for a moment. You miss him getting all misty -- and he's not about to tell you! "I am proud of you, girl. You don't have to worry about that. That and my heart you have. And if I were there, I'd give the rest of myself over t' y' as well," he cackles at that. "Christus, if you weren't carrying two princes I'd tell you to materialize on my lap right about now. I look forward to the night where you need me for stud service," he laughs again.
     Davydd breathes into the phone again, "But it won't be long, right? Where should I meet you? In the open woods again?" He grins at that, but the smirk of it makes a sound: "It's not very comfortable ... not as comfortable as your bed... I could be comfortable between your thighs, but that would mean you'd be lying on bracken and grass..."

     "It's the wife's prerogative not to fight fair," Fiona retorts, leaning against the wall with her smile regaining ground on her lips. "We have that in common, Davy. Both of us tend to win the lottery and look to see what the tax will be. It's hard to sustain things with that. But ... I am happy. Maybe for the first time. I don't remember ever being this happy before, and if you'd told me a year ago that I'd be this happy to be pregnant of all things - but I am. I want this. I want you. I want forever."
     You can hear the warmth move into her voice again, colour that must be entering her cheeks as well. "I'll need you for stud service," Fiona promises, voice going husky and soft again. "I'm going to make you be my king, Davy. Exercising your right over your queen. I'll have to see about getting special outfits for it, for when I'm servicing my royal husband. You could meet me in my kingdom, you know. I can be there quickly enough, no matter where I am otherwise. And I do have bedrooms and suites there - I suppose I should make you one of your own, but so far I've always liked you in my bed too much to give you the excuse to sleep anywhere else."

     "Have you sorted that out with the Oak King? Who sleeps where... when... if not, we probably should. Better to talk about it out in the open with us both, rather than have to deal with bruised egos of sensitive Welshmen. I'm happy to fill the queen's bed when I'm able," he grins, "...and when she desires..."
     "When I come across," he notes, "... I'll let you know where I may be found...that way, if you are with the Oak King you may politely make arrangements to meet me. You're going t' get a reputation," the gravely voice teases.
     And then he sighs: "I hate to cut this short love... but I've got William ringing in... I ...need to take that call. I'll see you after, aye? I love you..."

     "I'll talk to him," Fiona promises, "and we'll work something out. I'll set up a suite or something. Something luxurious enough for even you," she teases, voice caressing again, ending on a slight, soft sigh. "Promise."
     "Let me know... and I'll be there with bells on, dearest." Her voice is softening now, growing fainter, as if she's running out of air. "I already have a reputation, and I don't care. I don't care who knows it, Davy - I've got two wonderful husbands and I'm going to be giving them sons and heirs. What's to hide? I'm your queen, aren't I? And you are my king, most definitely that." Slowly, she draws herself up to her feet, one hand on the stone of the wall as she begins to gradually pick her way back up towards airy sunlit halls. "My champion..."
     She bites her lip for a moment, then nods, unseen. "Give my love to William, won't you? I'll send him more fudge the next time I'm on earth," Fiona half-teases you. "You can spare a crumb of my regard for him now, can't you? Now that I'm pregnant. I love you, Davy. I can't wait until you're here, with me. Do take care..."

     "I will.... and if I get the space to talk to him... I'll let him know. I'll see you soon, love...au revoir!" He chuckles and the phone clicks...

Posted by rowan at July 13, 2005 07:30 PM