The day has dawned a brilliant blue; not that you can see it. Your eyes are closed this time of day, aren't they?
The clouds - what few are there - are puffy and white, delicate scatterings which serve to provide lazy bits of shade across the fields, and do nothing to threaten rain on this day, of all days.
People have been streaming for days towards the Nameless City - no name has been found for it yet, still. It is a topic of discussion - the Mapmaker's Guild has been tearing its hair out, singly and in groups. A box of the hair has even been politely sent to the young queen. She has not yet decided upon a reply.
But then, she is busy, isn't she? Growing round with child, going round preparing for a wedding, growing slowly more and more irritated with the press of people - and, it must be admitted, the feeling of being ... watched.
It is almost miraculous that she has managed this escape. For instead of being waited upon by her handmaidens or visited by her aides and advisors, or even yet being loved by her husband-to-be, Fiona is in fact nowhere near her city, nor her palace. Instead, she is in a kingdom not her own - in among trees that press close, hissing with the writhing of dragons.
Her hair is brushed and piled atop her head, held in place with onyx combs that glitter whenever stray rays of light might penetrate the thick canopy overhead. She wears - how odd, how unmatched - a pair of jeans and a wide-necked white sweater, black boots upon her feet and leather gloves on her hands. And she presses through the woods cautiously, but with a certain determination to her - as if about to be faced at any moment with a tax collector.
When she reaches the clearing, will you be awake? Or will she have to wake you...
And remind you what day of all days this is...
No rest for the weary...
Above...or is it below, or rather beside this world of magic and fantasy, dreams and every sort of fairy extravagance, an old soul in an old body sleeps on a new bed in a new flat. It isn't quite right to say he sleeps, for there's no dreaming really involved. He exists ... or he doesn't. His eyes are open... or they are shut.
When they are shut in the one world, they are open in the other. Either way, the particular requirements remain -- darkness, death, dragons. It's all around here. Death that is not Death, Endings that are Beginnings, and dragons.
Small and skittering, darting beneath the leaves that are red and gold on the forest floor, blue drakes part before your booted feet. If one were prone to being revolted by lizards or creeped out by the creepy crawly things, one might well have a cardiac in such a forest.
Where land dips in small cliffs causing the streams to cascade downward, larger dragons keep a watchful eye. Perhaps for wanderers, such as yourself. Perhaps for their morning snack.
The holly grove is thick, but provides so little shelter, so little shade. The hazel trees do a little better. But it's the yew which does it best -- the yew and the ash that create the darkness wherein one might find the Holly King.
A twisting river runs its course, full of salmon and illuminated by the stray hither and thither of sunlight that still manages to penetrate the leafy canopy. It is by that river that the Holly King sits upon the large body of a fallen oak, his back resting against the body of an old ash.
He's dressed quite somberly, as is his idiom, in fashion that goes against convention on such a day as a wedding day. Black leather is threaded with bronze metal, his hair as burnished as the bronze, both appearing to create a small fire in the heart of this wood.
He sits in silence. He sits alone. In his hand is a small sickle like knife making short work of a pear. Beside him, a plate of grapes and a large urn-like flask, which is filled with a harvest whiskey. "You shouldn't scare people," he murmurs, his voice echoing in the leaves moved by the wind, in the water filled with fish, from the muzzle of every dragon. "Your maidens are going to faint when they've found you gone..."
She is not clad for this world, is she? Jeans. Sweater. The hair - well, that's acceptable, but the rest...
She has never been opposed to iconoclasm. Now, ironically, least of all - despite becoming an icon of some sort of another. And is her being here, with you, not yet another example? "I'll do as I please," Fiona tells you, with only a faint smile to lighten the words. That determination hasn't gone away now she's found you. She stops at the edge of your dark clearing, unalarmed by the little lizards that scurry and scatter below and above. They have their lives too, haven't they?
"Besides," Fiona adds after a moment, tilting her head as she looks at you, "they won't notice I'm gone. I just have to make sure to get back before the ceremony. Otherwise - well, let's not talk about that. We haven't much time as it is." Are her words almost alarming, Holly King? She advances upon you suddenly, moving with all of the impatience of a wave, sweeping in along the beach.
Fiona comes to a halt again, just as suddenly. From closer up, you can see the rounding of her curves - just that side of visibly pregnant. She would still be on this side instead of that if it weren't twins, but her body is ripening, more and more. Does that place her in your realm - that of Harvest?
"I needed to see you today," Fiona says simply, sitting on the tree - perching, rather, careful of where she sits, giving you a little bit of space to call your own. Something in her suggests the wisdom of it. "I needed to talk with you today. Before."
"Would you like a grape?" He picks up the plate and he offers it to you. By the way his lips are curving, you know the vipers are distended. As they frequently are when his emotions are engaged -- be it lust, anger, fear, jealousy, or his kingship. He is still getting used to them. He moves his tongue against them. Perhaps he, like other creatures, goes through a teething phase. Who knows.
He plucks a grape with a gloved hand, the grape is purple and full of juice. In even the lightest grasp, some of its juice leaks out. "Are you here to tell me you love me again so I won't cry when you are walking down to the shore with the Oak King?" The Holly King humorously begins peeling the grape with one sharp fang, turning his head to spit out the skin.
Why should a king have to choke down the skin of a grape, after all, when he has teeth perfect for the peeling thereof?
"You don't need to check on me," he softly notes, dark green eyes looking at you. And then he really looks at you. There is a softening there, a show of emotion behind the stateliness. "I wish you had worn your finery," the Holly King softly utters. "I will not be able to see you in it myself. I'm sure... you will be very beautiful. But my son in utero," lest it be confused for his Other Son, "... will be there at least."
He pops the peeled grape into his mouth, the flesh decimated immediately. "I'm glad you've come. So... my queen..." he gestures to you. "...please join me... have a seat..."
"That's one of the things I'm going to tell you, but it isn't the only one." Fiona leans in towards you, smiling at you. It's a lopsided smile - she is suddenly becoming emotional, despite the determination which has driven her here. "But it isn't the only thing. And I'll show you my finery - do you think I intend to let other women dress me? I have to put up with enough pomp and circumstance. I could cope with handsome men dressing me, but ... women, not so much."
She edges closer to you, then, abruptly, up against you. "I'd be in your lap," Fiona tells you sweetly, "but I'm getting fat enough that I feel self-conscious about it. And the reason I didn't wear my finery to get here, well." She indicates the trees all round with one hand, then lifts the hand to grab your face, sliding along and then leaning in to kiss you. "Your fangs aren't the only thorns here, Davy."
He tastes like plump-bodied grapes and plums, a magical sustenance that will invigorate him when he wakes elseplace. And he kisses you, tugging on your mouth with a wildness he hopes you remember for the rest of the day. Just short of biting. In fact, he has to pull away from it.
Davydd lifts his hand, his fingers touching his own lip, bleeding where he's bitten it through. Not even a breath may be taken but that it will be healed. "I like my women like I like my grapes," he deadpans, "...plump and juicy." He starts a smile, but he has his own emotions.
He goes about peeling another grape, his body leaning back against the old ash tree. He is waiting to hear what's brought you all the way out here to the Middle of Nowhere, braving thorns and dragons...and his own dark mood.
There is a little gasp as you kiss her, and her eyes roll back a bit in her head, eyelashes fluttering down to veil her gaze. Her hands lift, coming to rest against your chest, and she leans in against you. "You make me weak, Old Man," Fiona mutters. "You make it so there's nothing I'd rather do than lie up against you, letting you do ... anything you like."
And she leans in against you, letting her eyes close. You lean against the tree, she against you; and for a moment, she's silent. When she speaks, it's quietly.
"I wanted to point out to you that the only thing standing in your way is yourself," Fiona murmurs, letting her voice come out in counterpoint to the rippling of the river, the wind through the trees. "You put me aside because of your work - and because you were afraid of those who might hurt me, in London. Here, at least - I am a part of your work, Davy. Mother of your heirs, queen of a vassal kingdom, working with you to build your own kingdom. There is nothing standing in the way of you here... except you."
The blue eyes open, they turn up to you. "I'm not going to really contest you about London," Fiona tells you plainly, "but I want to. I can't claim that I can take care of myself - even if I could, you wouldn't believe that I could. And it's not a risk you're willing to take - so we can't openly be together there. I'll admit that hurts, a little; I've told you before that I want to be your woman. The shape my life has taken has been influenced, both here and there, by your decisions - my plans for here, my plans for there, but in dramatically different ways."
One small hand steals downwards to cover your own, and she sighs. "Neither of us is going to rob Rhodri of his moments. Tempted as you are in some ways, I know that - you wouldn't hurt him like that, and neither would I. Today isn't your day, but - it could have been. And the next day could still be yours, Davydd. And I want to make sure that you know this - because you are your own worst enemy. You always have been, and I won't allow you to hurt yourself to this extent, like this, anymore." Fiona tilts her chin up, looking at you steadily. It takes bravery to say this. She doesn't know how you'll react. She only can hope...
"Please," Fiona adds, more quietly still. "Don't hurt yourself like this, Davydd. I know you hurt right now, and you always blame yourself for everything. But - for there to be a proper harvest, you have to cultivate growth, too. Can't you promise me that you'll do that inside... as well as out?"
"I don't want to rob him of his moment," he insists. "I've been trying to stay out of the way. If anything. I want him to have his time. I wouldn't have given him a kingdom ...and my wife," a pointed look to you, "...if I didn't. I need him, Fiona. I need him in the world... worlds. I need him and I need you. So... no, there's no hard feelings."
Davydd looks to the canopy of the trees, exhaling. "I know why all these things have happened. I think I may even know the point of it all at the end of things. But I can't say that it's a comfortable process. I didn't see that coming, no. And ... this is precisely why I said to you... that I couldn't give you what you deserved. I can't give you what you want right now."
Dark eyes shift their attentions back to you. "But he can. And... sure... I'm a bit perturbed." He folds his strong arms against his equally strong chest, puffing out a bit as only men can properly do. But the defensive retort never really comes. It lies there on his tongue until it gets sour, and his face twists with the taste of it. Time for another grape...
This time he doesn't bother to peel it...
"Well, when you're the cause of all the misery you see around you," his color lifts and his arm unfolds to gesture hotly at all the beautiful greenery around him, greenery that doesn't look the least bit miserable in truth, "...relationships and wasted time... you know... taking blame is the least you can do."
There's a hefty breath given, and he plucks another grape, his energy calming once more. "I'll learn to till the ground eventually," he murmurs. "Until I do... I will remain there. If at the end of my century term I have still not learned, then... I will get the fate that I deserve."
"Davydd."
Your name is stated firmly, and the eyes that look at you have a surge of gunmetal grey to them. "You are not the cause of all misery. Have you made mistakes? Yes. Have I? Without a doubt. If that is the lesson that you've learned..." She rises, fingers gripping your front to help, and then she moves to stand in front of you, looking at you directly. "I understand that you have pain, but stop letting it poison you, Old Man. What you have just said - I will not let that stand. Will you sit there and tell me that you'll get 'the fate that you deserve' - if it means that you leave me to be without you, your sons and other children as well? I told you that I would fight for you. Do you think, as you sit there, that I would not journey into Hell to find you, if I had to?"
You receive an exasperated look, and then Fiona turns slightly, to look at the river. "I don't know what I have to do to convince you. I suppose today, I can't - because you're too conflicted. You want what you want, and the things you want are contrary to one another - and that, combined with all your grief, it makes it too big a burden for you. So - fine."
She turns back towards you, and in the motion, there is a ripple of silk - the woven petals of white roses and white hawthorne, blended together in a gown with trailing sleeves and flowing skirts. Her hair glimmers with the tiny jewels woven into her braids, two heavy braids that hang to either side of her face while the rest of her hair is loose save for the tiny, delicate braids that hold it all in place from any wind that strays. There is the glittering emerald on her finger - and around her neck, a flat blue disk that rests against her collarbone.
"Despite the fact that I increasingly suspect to get a ceremony out of you will take a loaded crossbow," Fiona says lightly, "I will remind you of what I have said before. You already are my husband. We married each other in Powis, at the border of worlds. I am already your wife - that the life within me began with you proves it. Tonight, if you need the darkness to cover you, then go somewhere that you can feed that darkness without choking on it. And when you can spare a thought - think about what I've said, rather than about where I am."
"I don't want to fight," he rumbles, irritated. "Look... I'm just saying that I've made a lot of mistakes." That Welsh inflection lifts, along with his coloring. He sighs again and looks at you. "You won't have to go all the way to hell," the Holly King waxes on. "And I know you'd come, you won't have to, alright?"
Davydd puts his hands to his head, his eyes widening as you get exasperated, he gets exasperated. And he nearly loses his plate of grapes on top of it all. His hands lower, one to the plate to hold it where it is. "Fiona... you don't have to convince me. I have to sort it out for myself. You can't answer any of this. Not because you're not smart, love, but because I'm the one what has to do it." Davydd sighs, his gaze pleading with you. "Please don't worry. You can't spend your energy on me. You've other things you have to do now, and I've got to get in control of my own power. You can't help me. The most you can do is love me."
His mouth slants a sidelong smirk at your crossbow accusation, but it doesn't last. You're far too lovely in all your finery. "It's very beautiful," he murmurs, "...and so are you. Now... go off and be merry, would you? And let me glower in peace. I can't be moody with you hanging about and kissing me and being all," he waves his hand accusingly, "... pretty and sweet-smelling. Go on," he whispers. "Go to your king. And in a while," not tonight, mind you, not for two weeks at least, "...this king will come to find you."
He turns his head, not wanting you to see the spring of emotion in his eyes. "I promise not to choke. Promise me... you won't think about me. You'll just be with him and in the moment. You two... you deserve it, without having to worry about the Holly King's mood."
"You put yourself in Hell," Fiona says, matter of fact about it. "And I try to pull you out, because it's all I know how to do. I can't help spending energy on you, because ... you're one of the things I have to do."
She sighs, then steps towards you. "Kiss me," Fiona orders, "and then ... if you insist ... I'll go. I'll let you be moody and grumpy and sour, and tell yourself that you're a fool, ap Owain, and maybe even that you don't need me. You're a man, right? And it's okay." So seldom does she use that word, but she uses it now - repeats it, in fact.
"It's okay if tonight you don't need me," Fiona says quietly, letting her chin drop, looking down at the verdant earth. "But I need you. This is something I didn't count on - this is something I don't know how to do. I came to see you to make sure you were alright, but I also came to see you because I needed to. Maybe I shouldn't be frightened of it, Davydd. But I am. And for once, my first reaction isn't to charge at it head-on."
She sighs again, then lifts one hand to wipe at her face slowly. "Just ... remember that noone can replace you, alright? The need I have for you... it isn't just sexual, or magical. The emotions that tie me to you - noone else can fulfill that role. And it scares me to think that someone else could ... replace me. With you. So - do what you need to. I'll - try not to think too much. And ... when you're ready... call me, or come find me, or - whatever."
She tips her face back up, and you receive a slantwise faint smile, eyes still closed. "If I thought it'd help, I'd have brought you chocolates..."
He actually smiles at that, a pointed smile though it is. "You should know better, aye... coming to see me without bringing me food." He smirks and shakes his head.
But he does, indeed, kiss you...
It is not one small kiss and then away with you. Rather, you are taken by the hands and guided to his lap. The grapes can, and do, fall now, discarded for the little drakes to eat. Don't look down -- it's like a pirana feast down there.
His gloved hands come up to cradle your face, to hold you to him as his mouth opens yours, coupling with it, tongue to tongue and suckle to suckle. He sighs there, letting it break of its own accord. "I've been cruel to you," the Holly King whispers at your mouth, his finger and thumb pressing your lower lip into a slight squeeze. As if it were a grape that he could peel. He leads you to his mouth again, for a moment devouring that sweetness. "And on your wedding day," he chides. "I need you," he whispers. "And I'm not going to leave you. That I promise you. There's no one else for me, my queen, but you. I've sealed that fate long ago, aye? You did, when you kissed me." He grins. "And then fell on your ass out of the elevator."
And suddenly he's laughing -- at your expense, naturally -- and he leans back against the tree, laughing as he hasn't laughed in ... a long while. It's from the gut, it's real, warm, musical. He wipes at his eyes and then blows a kiss to you.
"You're beautiful, my queen. Go to your other husband in joy. I will drink myself silly, that you can count on. I will be at the banquets later," he promises, "... being the dutiful father of the groom.."
You bring her to your lap, and she sighs, leaning in against you, her arms going tightly around your neck. The kiss - can you tell how much she needed you to do this, to take her close and hold her, kiss her and embrace her? She trembles for a moment under that kiss. "We're an awful lot alike, Davy," Fiona whispers against your lips, rubbing her cheek then to yours with eyes closed. "Maybe too much alike..."
"You fear losing everyone you care about. Me - I just don't have as many people to care about. Maybe it was fate's way of preparing me to be the balance between the two of you." Fiona curls up, her hands lifting to fist in your hair. "I've got the two of you - I've got people I know, otherwise, but noone I'm truly close to. Dot ... we're friends, after a fashion, but I don't think we'll ever be close. Not the way you've been close to people. Until I had you, I didn't know what it was like not to be lonely."
She sighs, rolling her eyes tolerantly at your laughter. "Yes, well, you kissed me," Fiona points out accusingly. "I was just standing there, minding my own business, and you kept kissing me. I drew the line at two kisses, though - three, and I would've belonged to you." She smiles, then, and whispers, "But it was three later, wasn't it? And it's three now. I'll go... now that I've had my kiss."
"We are too much alike," he grouses a bit at that. "And you know me too well. It makes it hard to argue with you. And you know how much I like to be contrary." Davydd grins a bit. See, he remembers how! "The two of us... with friends like us, who needs enemies?"
He and Rhodri are both quite the handful. In different ways, thank god. But still... you'll never be bored...
Davydd brings your hands to his mouth. Bending his head and closing his eyes, he kisses them. He presses his mouth to them and breathes there for a moment. "Three or four," he whispers there. Opening his eyes, setting your hands free, Davydd looks at you and he sits back once more against the body of the tree. "I wish my best to thee and thine," he whispers. "I will ... bring you my wedding present later. Enjoy it, Fiona. And him. He's a good man," he speaks of his fellow Oak.
"Both of you deserve happiness. And... if I have anythin' to say on't, you'll have happiness. Even if I have to make you be happy." He grins at that. Pot, kettle, black.... no?
"I will be the best friend to you that I possibly can," Fiona promises, "even if it kills me." She smiles faintly, a certain sadness, a melancholy in her eyes. You kiss her hands and set them free again, and slowly, reluctantly she rises to her feet.
"You will have happiness too - for the same reasons, Davy. You deserve it too. I love you..." Fiona takes a step back, and her wedding finery melts away, back to her jeans and sweater, her hair returning to its bound state. "I've got to go before they realize Pistachio isn't me. I love you," she repeats, then turns resolutely away.
It is so hard, leaving you. Even if it isn't for good - there is always the fear, that you might make it permanent. You have left her before, haven't you?
Of course, it wasn't permanent then, either. There is the faintest, briefest glance back to you, one hand going up to the bark of a tree. "Call me," Fiona orders, "if you need anything. Anything at all. I'll - talk to you later, then, darling. See you on the flip side..."
And then she moves hurriedly, resolutely forward, with a jerk of her chin and her shoulders. You're left alone again - your wife off to marry another man.
Posted by rowan at August 28, 2005 08:43 PM
