A royal wedding is nothing but an excuse for celebration. In the capital city of a kingdom which has given refuge to every nature of elf, faerie, centaur, nymph and satyr, that is a revel indeed. The marketplace is crammed to full and overflowing with hawkers and vendors selling their wares; the harbor, filled with richly appointed ships of every description. With the fading of the sun there have been lamps and torches lit, and out over the harbor, the tracery of magical fireworks that light the sky in glittering bursts of colour.
Through the streets, beings of every description walk, run, dance, cavort, most of them in finery or costume. Everywhere there is laughter - everywhere, people. At the fringes of the marketplace, the taverns have opened their doors with tables outside as well as in.
Down at the waterfront, the sailors have their own bars, the soldiers, their own closest to the city gates. It's difficult for a soldier not to have a pretty girl on his knee and possibly either knee, tonight. Not only are the girls of the town looking to celebrate, but the courtesans and prostitutes are thick on the ground - there's money to be made, times like this.
More than a few revelers have made their way, though, down a long and crooked lane that runs slantwise from the docks to the city gates, all but shuttered in by buildings. Along this street, red lamps and candles glow in windows, and discreetly illustrated signs advertise wares of another nature. The Gilded Lily. The Laughing Oyster. The Peacock and Peahen. The Maiden's Fancy. Here, there, the doors are open. On balconies, flowers are strewn, their sweet perfume almost cloying as through the rest of the city, but here the flowers used are of a muskier scent. And here, too, there are revelers who take their pursuits of revelry more seriously.
It's a full moon overhead that glows brightly with the dying of the fireworks...
Davydd ap Owain, you've hit a new low...
He is unlike any other reveler here. One, he's not dressed like an Italian courtier, i.e., some ponced up git in tights and flowing garments and anachronistic fineries. While the rest of the marketplace cavorts in its fairy weirdness, stuck in its Medieval sensibilities partly due to aesthetics (modern clothes lack a certain...drama... that fairies prefer in their garments), the Holly King strolls with 21st Century shoes upon timeless cobblestones.
While the Oak King and the New Queen, his new wife, are occupying one another's bodies in goddess alone knows what configuration, the Holly King wanders unaccompanied and unsuccessful in keeping his mind from straying to the royal bed.
From pub to party to festival, from clapping hands of drunken soldiers to the clasping hands of opportunistic women, cloven-hooved and otherwise, Davydd wanders, a frown on his face and a thorny disposition following him.
It's like the fucking Mardi Gras...
...Like it or not, the docks and markets do provide ample distraction. And despite himself he actually finds it interesting. She thinks of everything. And he has to smirk at that, even give a laugh as he shakes his head and wanders the highways and byways of the market.
It's the girls on the knees that make him melancholy. As he passes them by, and their soldier boys, he sighs, darkness descending once more. My young girl is sitting on sommat, but it's not a knee for sure. I shouldn't begrudge her.
But I hate to think of her having fun without me. Like I'm not needed...
The Holly King's looking at the cobbled streets as he wanders away from the revelry. Needing quiet, needing a smoke, he turns up what seems to be like an alley. Maybe I'll get lucky and someone'll pick a fight...
The rattle of dice is what greets you, and the laughter of voices. This is not the same as that; there is revelry here, but it is a revelry less ... interrupted by royal sanction. "Give me six," a woman's voice orders, low and intent, and there is the shuffling of cards. To one corner of this alley there is a thriving den of gamblers - dice-men planted on their knees in an almost prayerful circle, players around crude tables and barrels for seats with cards of some sort in their hands. That the dice are twenty-sided only adds to the complexity of the rules without taking any of the intensity away.
Bookmakers sit in corners of nooks and niches here, not all of them on the ground - some sit on ledges that poke out from brick. Some have little books with feathered quills attached by slender chain, others have chalk slates. Few of them seem in any danger of going hungry. There are even children here - small, sharp-faced urchins with shrewd, knowing eyes and fast hands and faster feet. Runners for various bookmakers, no doubt.
Presiding on high above it all is a statue - grey marble, a woman with blank marble eyes and a faint, knowing smile. It is done in the style of the Old Masters, with a twist - this madonna's smile is too knowing to be saintly, and from her belt there hangs a money pouch, upon one open palm a set of dice. In her other hand between two fingers she holds aloft a playing card, though the posture is otherwise that of traditional benediction.
"Come on, come on," a sharp female voice cuts impatiently across. "Cut the cackle and deal if you're going to. Do you think I have all day?"
"Yes, Derina, we do," a man drawls. "Your ship won't be leaving port 'til the party's over and we all know it. Besides, you're winning; what's your hurry?" But he deals the cards anyway, from the sound of the shuffling. Behind him, another man calls out, "Taking odds on the duration of the royal marriage - place your bets." There's a general round of laughter and jeering, and some dice rattle in his direction.
And amid the ... more earthy elements of this kingdom's revelry, Davydd finds an odd kinship. Not so odd, really, considering who he is...and who he's always been. These are his kind of people. But he's a king nonetheless. When they move, the world moves with them. In his case, there's an added and most definite chill upon the air. Shadows that were only deepen. Shivers up the spine to the ends of the hairs standing on the neck.
And when he passes, the air hisses softly with the echoes of dragons...
Gamblers Alley or the Thieves Den, he wonders to himself as his sharp eyes take in the shapes of stones and those sitting on them. He doesn't bother stopping. The only thing that'd make him feel worse tonight is losing at bones or jacks. He's not of a temperament for gambling tonight.
Point of fact, he's not sure what he's in the mood for, apart from sulking and walking alone in the darkness...
With a smirk at the bet taking, Davydd moves on, passing the alley and those in it... not troubling them with his sudden and unwanted royal presence. There's a glow of light, he follows that, and the scents that promise far better entertainment.
A red light district...? Is she for real? Well, what port is without them, he supposes. And rather than have the people set up their own, she's gone and done it for them. She's a benevolent queen...
Everything and anything can be found - if the price is right. Or so they say. But how much of this is benevolence and simply shrewdness? Maybe you'll find out. Perhaps one in ten of the gamblers notice the sudden change, for they're distracted with their worship of the Odds. As you pass, you may notice that there are offerings placed at the feet of that marble statue - gold coins, earrings, rings, bits of silk, scraps of all sorts of things. If there is a being more superstitious than a gambler, it would be hard to find...
And with your passage, you find yourself in a quieter branch of the crooked street. There are people in evidence - but most people here are here for a more leisurely sort of pleasure, one with less of an element of chance. If you have the time and you have the coin you can get what you want here, so why worry? Why hurry? Here and there is feminine laughter.
The signs are on display for you to read. You know where you are, and the red lamps only heighten that certainty. The Gilded Lily is notable for the stands of lilies to either side of the door; the sign shows a golden lily, shaped to the more lewdly suggest what the contents of the house hold. The Peacock and Peahen has a flirtatious peacock with tail spread, peering over his shoulder; urns of peacock feathers stand to either side of the door, and more of them are scattered at the threshold. The Laughing Oyster is closer to the waterfront end of the street, and has its own restaurant attached - the first floor, the restaurant, which according to its chalkslate, has specialties of seafood and oysters; the cellar, the bar; and the upper floors, the commercial property. The steps are lined with mother-of-pearl - oyster shells buffed to that pearlescent beauty. The Maiden's Fancy is the most discreet of the four, the sign showing a silhouette of a young woman, seated, surrounded by suitors.
Why not just call it the Gilded Cunt and be done with it? He chortles at his own thoughts and pauses along the way to light a cigarette. Its smoke is spiced clove and nutmeg, with a hint of cinnamon and something of quince as he breathes it out, the fire that burns there is magical, red and gold.
Hands in his pockets and fag in his mouth, Davydd continues his solitary wandering down the heart of the Red Light District, his dark green eyes looking at each sign, each establishment, and to the windows overhead. But unlike Berlin and Amsterdam, not every window has a woman positioned in it, displaying what's on the sale rack, so to speak.
Duw, you're pathetic. Wandering around here like a sad sack. Course, if you hadn't fucked away your only friendships, you could be out and about with your mates right now. Davydd exhales scented smoke and wanders down to the waterfront side. The Laughing Oyster, eh? Apart from the ...obvious genitalia reference...looks like a good spot. I could do with some food.
And suddenly, there is a bright spot in his evening, as the very oddly dressed (at least when compared to everyone else) Holly King takes himself and his cigarette toward the restaurant. Food. A pint. A cigarette. And a view.
You can tell he's a king. Yeah, how? Because he goes right up to an outside table without so much as a by your leave or may I and parks it with a good view of the waterfront. Propping his feet up on one of the nearby chairs, Davydd settles in for a long sit and a chaste night in the Red Light District.
"Your majesty." The proprietress comes out and curtseys - she's also the madam, as her low-cut gown would tell you even if nothing else did. She's a little on the plump side, ample breasts pushed up and together by both her gown and her merry widow. Golden-red hair cascades past pointed ears, and she is that rarity, a freckled faerie, dotted liberally all over with brown spots. When she smiles, her teeth are even and white and somewhat pointy, like a cat's, her eyes a sparkling clear green like bottle-glass. "Welcome to our humble establishment."
That fast, it is. Someone must have seen you approaching and put two and two together. "I'm Sylvia, and I own and run this dump," she tells you, with a sparkle and quick grin as she straightens from her curtsey. "You're here at a good time - we were just winding down for the night. This part of the establishment, that is. Our other floors stay open all day and all night. What can we do for you first?"
She is friendly, without appearance of nervousness - but a little over-garrulous, suggesting she isn't as used to having kings come strolling into her establishment as all that. She has a leather-bound menu, though, which at least gives her something to do with her hands.
"Sylvia," Davydd croons, tipping his head back and letting the smoke dissipate on the air as he speaks, "...what I would really like is a plate full of oysters and a pint of really good beer, the darker the better. That..." he looks at her with his own flash of green eyes. He's a man who appreciates a woman with a buxom bosom and a buxom...everything. "...would make me very happy. Especially lathered in butter." With the edge of his short thumbnail he flicks the scented ashes to the ground to be carried off by the wind elseplace.
"And there's no need to curtsey," he whispers. "I'm not very big on ceremony. I just want some good food, a comfortable chair," he glances at the one he's in, "... and ... then we'll see... Anything in particular you'd recommend from your menu?" He may or may not strictly be talking about the restaurant, but hey...who knows.
You are lovely to look at, like a country girl. The best sort, those. Generous bodies, strong hands used to working, ample breasts and carefree enjoyment. "I hope it's not an imposition to your kitchen..."
Your appreciation is enough to make even as seasoned a professional as she grin and redden slightly. She begins to curtsey, then halts herself. "I'm sure we can oblige, your majesty. We pride ourselves on taking excellent care of our customers. Why don't I leave the menu with you and I'll make sure that you're well looked after?"
There is another freckled smile granted in your direction, and then she turns away, setting the menu down neatly to one side of you and clapping her hands briskly together as she bustles back towards the interior. "No imposition at all, your majesty. You just set there, and we'll look after you." A wink is thrown over her shoulder along with the waving strands of red-gold, and then she's gone. You're alone again.
But not for long; in very little time indeed, there's another woman bearing down on you, a veritable Amazon. She's well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and an unsmiling disposition. She's carrying a stuffed chair, which she sets next to your current chair, then steps back. Awkwardly, she bows slightly, a duck of her shoulders and her head. "Your majesty. If you'll allow, I'll take the other chair away."
He's not sure whether to be honored or afraid. Very afraid. "Ah...sure," Davydd says finally, rising with his cigarette and the menu, letting you haul away his current chair. Isn't a throne ostentatious in the middle of the street? "Diolch," he says, giving the Gargantuan a nod. Any woman taller than he is makes him nervous.
Shrivels him right up, actually...
Davydd gives her a smile as he takes to the stuffed chair. "Much better," he allows, and with a glance he turns the previously vacant chair into an ottoman for his feet. He begins to settle back like he's in his own living room, or anyone's living room for that matter, lording over the Red Light District and waterfront.
Cigarette in one hand and menu in the other, he begins to puff and peruse the offerings, smoke winding up from his nostrils like a fire-breathing dragon in repose.
"Your majesty." The woman ducks her head in a curt nod again, not having much to say. The bouncer, presumably - she is dressed in simple clothes. Breeches, a tunic, hair bound back and out of the way. This is more visible, now that she has a lesser chair to contend with.
But she's gone now, with the chair you'd been using. Instead, you now have a comfortable armchair, and shortly, an attractive girl to wait upon you. "Your majesty." She smiles at you, and she is rather striking-looking. Her hair is the colour of ripe tangerines, skin the colour of cream with blue notes to it. Her eyes are a vivid shade of blue, with something familiar to the shape of her mouth, the shape of her eyes as they crinkle in her smile. She sets down a tankard which has quite the head on it still. "With her madamship's compliments, sir. First drink is always on the house at the Laughing Oyster. My name is Orange, and I'm to serve you tonight."
Her curves are not less pronounced than the madam's, but rather, exaggerated. Wide, wide hips, and large breasts fight against the sheen of shimmering silver satin. She isn't as tall as the amazon who preceded her; she's only perhaps five foot even, but with an odalisque's figure. "Would you care to be filled in on the house specials of the day, or," orange eyebrows quirk, "would you rather be surprised?"
"I'm a creature of habit," the king announces from behind the menu before lowering it to reveal the rugged face complete with a burning cigarette in it. "What are the specials?" Smoke puffs out as he speaks and the dangling bit of fire hanging there sparkles in the night air. His hand reaches up to take it as he sets the menu down.
Presumably, he'll leave the surprises for later...
"Orange is it..." Must be for the hair, he reckons. "Diolch," he exhales, reaching for the tankard. "Compliments to her madamship." He takes a goodly swallow, exhaling again as he sets it down. The evening's starting to improve.
Brothel or not, the Holly King doesn't kick back and tell the girl to give him a spin. He doesn't rake his gaze over her like hot coals or sommat. But he does take note of her. The hips are nice. The breasts are nice. Hourglass, very lovely. A petite little handful, this.
"Today's specials - first floor specials first," Orange begins self-importantly. It's obviously a bit of a plum to be handpicked by the madam to wait upon a king. She offers you a quick, gamine grin, then flushes a bit and continues. "Our special soup is a conch chowder, flavoured with saffron threads. Today's oysters are Galatia oysters, those are local. You can get that with or without the Pearl voucher for upstairs. Our main courses today are a prime rib or the kingfisher salmon; prime rib is seasoned with a rosemary and mustard sauce, while the salmon has an orange glaze." You receive another grin. "And you can either get a Rosemary or Orange voucher with either of those, of course."
She steps aside neatly to let another girl approach. This one's slightly taller and much more willowy, with very straight, jet-black hair and a porcelain complexion. Her eyes are black, and she wears a simple white shift; on a tray, she bears a trencher full of oysters on the half shell. This she sets down carefully; she is small-breasted, though with visible breasts and hips. "Your majesty," she offers, and offers Orange a small smile as she goes about setting the dishes out. There are three dozen oysters in the trencher, arranged in a treble line of twelves, and a plate of crusty hot bread with a butter seasoned with honey. A small shallow bowl has lemon wedges and a spicy white sauce in the middle. She steps back, placing her hands together and bows slightly, then takes the tray up again.
Orange smiles back at the other woman, then turns back to you. "And, of course, there are our upstairs and downstairs specials too, and desserts."
The only way to distract himself from thoughts of the Oak King and the New Queen feeding themselves all manners of confections in the midst of lovemaking is to make himself absolutely sick (sick, I say) with his own gluttony. Forest green eyes go slightly wide at the plate of food, the oysters and the honeyed bread.
"I might as well get the full story, aye?" the king grins as he looks to Orange, an appreciative look given to the other for her plate of food and lovely demeanor. "And the voucher system," he says as he reaches for a shell. Not wasting any time, he gobbles up the first oyster with all the grace of a man accustomed to liking his seafood. True gusto, that. A smile slides across his mouth as he reaches for his beer.
"I'll contemplate the specials of the... restaurant in the meantime," he notes. Yes, these oysters are an aperitif to be sure. As you talk, he eats and he drinks. A man of great appetite, it would seem. An oyster is all but inhaled.
"Of course, your majesty." Orange beams at you, and there is again, that faint flash of something recognizable about her. "If you take a voucher for one of us, we keep you company during the meal - otherwise, we wait on tables beyond just you, of course, unless her madamship's assigned one of us to you specially. It goes with the meal, you might say - it lets you get to know us, and then you can decide if you want to spend more time with us. Some people are in more of a hurry to just get upstairs, of course, but her madamship tries to encourage the notion of gracious companionship. Some of us, of course, are right now only available on vouchers - part of the training program her majesty insisted on."
The other girl slips away quietly, and Orange notes, "That's Pearl - she'll be Pearl until she leaves, and a new Pearl comes in to take her place. She's already got an understudy. In my case, my name's actually Orange - I'm on permanent staff, though." She explains without embarrassment or concern, and seems interested in giving you the information you need without becoming too talkative; every now and again, she hesitates slightly, as if to better measure what she's saying. "At dessert, if you take it, you're given our dessert menu and our liqueur menu - or, of course, you can go to the bar for your aperitifs. The dessert menu includes the upstairs menu, so to speak, while the liqueur menu has the bar's lists. The restaurant lets people sample the idea of what we offer without having to commit to the entire thing."
The oysters are slightly sweet-tasting - salt, and sweet, perfectly fresh, as if they've only just been pulled up from the ocean floor and opened. Perhaps they have.
"Apart from yourself," he says, eyebrows quirking upward as he cups another shell to his mouth, "...who do you recommend? I tend to work in groups," he continues without the slightest hesitation for embarrassment (he has none) or, in fact, that there's anything out of ordinary in making such a statement. "I like company... you're lovely and congenial, and informative," he grins. "I see no reason why you shouldn't take a seat and have an oyster with me. Or that we shouldn't have company while we're having oysters. Or whatever else... I think I'm prone to the salmon with orange...and Orange," he nods your way. "Maybe a cup of the chowder, for a taste of it. And... by all means... there will be dessert."
Davydd settles back in the chair, head tipping back against the high back of it and he swallows whole another oyster. The shells are starting to pile up. He savors them, to be sure, but he wastes no time in enjoying them. Dark green eyes give you their fixed attention as he waits upon your recommendations.
She flushes slightly, looking pleased. "I can't recommend anyone over anyone else, since it's really a matter of taste, isn't it? Everyone here is very talented or her madamship wouldn't keep us on. It's part of the rules, you know; everyone who works in a brothel has to take a test once a year, and we all take a shift - even the madams." She settles on the arm of your chair, reaching over to butter a slice of bread for you, placing it neatly on your plate and then licking butter off her fingers with a gamine grin you've seen before.
Pearl reappears with her tray, sweeping the oyster shells onto it with another smile and slight curtsey/bow. "Would you like more oysters, your majesty?", she inquires, with a slightly arch glance to go with her smile - coy, rather than irritated.
Orange meanwhile beckons another girl over - whipcord thin, this one, but with a ballet dancer's lean grace, high cheekbones and black hair pulled back into a single long, ropelike braid. "Rosemary, he's going to have a cup of the chowder, and the salmon," she tells the third woman with a pleased grin. "Could you put the order in for us, please? Your majesty, please let me introduce you fully." One small plump hand rests on your shoulder caressingly and she turns to the other two. "This is Rosemary," Rosemary smiles and drops a curtsey in her long white lace dress, "and that's Pearl." Pearl holds her tray on her hip, brushing her own hair back from her liquid eyes and offers a small smile. "Your majesty," they chorus.
"Ladies," comes the king's congenial greeting. "A pleasure, really. Pearl... yes... please another round of oysters, I think. The salmon and then dessert," he notes generally, like a commander plotting out his evening. He looks to Orange, her hand on his shoulder, as he leans to take the bread she's prepared.
My dear... are there any more like you? His voice is an ease within the mind and on the lifeforce of the full-bodied Orange. His mouth full of bread, buttered and honeyed, he reaches for Orange's hand. I find you absolutely delightful. Celts prefer curves. He grins at something not said, so far as the others know, and nods for his beer.
With his hand, he leads Orange to a seat, the prime seat. His lap. Allowing her the opportunity to get his beer along the way.
Pearl smiles, looking pleased. She takes the tray of shells away, mincing as she walks - as her tight shift requires. Rosemary curtseys again. "Of course, your majesty. Pearl will get the oysters for you as they're her specialty. I'll go put in the order and bring you a pitcher, if you wish, or a bottle of whatever you like." She waits a moment for her orders, then turns to go.
Orange blinks, going a bit flushed and almost sliding off the arm of the chair. "Oh, my," she murmurs, of course allowing herself to be guided down to your lap. "Well, yes. There's Emerald - she's one of the mixologists downstairs, and her sister, Sapphire." She shifts position, making herself all the cozier as she curls up just like a kitten. "There's the madam, of course - she's the only one with a 'usual' name, you might have noticed," she offers you a sudden mischievous grin, "because she's her madamship. And there's upstairs, Brandy and Amaretto. Her madamship likes to keep a well-rounded stable. Of course, if you're a connoisseur, you can talk to her madamship about putting down a training deposit?"
"Ladies," comes the king's congenial greeting. "A pleasure, really. Pearl... yes... please another round of oysters, I think. The salmon and then dessert," he notes generally, like a commander plotting out his evening. He looks to Orange, her hand on his shoulder, as he leans to take the bread she's prepared.
My dear... are there any more like you? His voice is an ease within the mind and on the lifeforce of the full-bodied Orange. His mouth full of bread, buttered and honeyed, he reaches for Orange's hand. I find you absolutely delightful. Celts prefer curves. He grins at something not said, so far as the others know, and nods for his beer.
With his hand, he leads Orange to a seat, the prime seat. His lap. Allowing her the opportunity to get his beer along the way.
Pearl smiles, looking pleased. She takes the tray of shells away, mincing as she walks - as her tight shift requires. Rosemary curtseys again. "Of course, your majesty. Pearl will get the oysters for you as they're her specialty. I'll go put in the order and bring you a pitcher, if you wish, or a bottle of whatever you like." She waits a moment for her orders, then turns to go.
Orange blinks, going a bit flushed and almost sliding off the arm of the chair. "Oh, my," she murmurs, of course allowing herself to be guided down to your lap. "Well, yes. There's Emerald - she's one of the mixologists downstairs, and her sister, Sapphire." She shifts position, making herself all the cozier as she curls up just like a kitten. "There's the madam, of course - she's the only one with a 'usual' name, you might have noticed," she offers you a sudden mischievous grin, "because she's her madamship. And there's upstairs, Brandy and Amaretto. Her madamship likes to keep a well-rounded stable. Of course, if you're a connoisseur, you can talk to her madamship about putting down a training deposit?"
Training deposit? It sounds like a boarding school, not a brothel. Davydd cocks up an eyebrow as he takes his tankard in one hand, his other arm surrounding the courtesan in his lap. "I suppose I should finish dinner before I start in on the dessert," he notes.
A long draught of the beer is taken. He'll have another before the dinner arrived. "Does your bar carry winterberry whiskey?" the Holly King wonders suddenly. "I feel I need something with a bit of a ... bite to it."
What is the matter with me? Used to be, all I had to have was a whore on my lap to feel king of the world. Now, I'm surrounded by them and I feel no better. I must be coming down with sommat...
"So, Orange, what's your specialty?" Everybody has one, you surely must. "I used to know this girl, she was a hell of a fan dancer, big feather fans..." With the tipping back of his head, he finishes the beer, ending it with an exhale and sitting forward (moving Orange with him) as he deposits it on the table.
"When the oysters are refreshed you can feed me... and tell me all about it." Davydd looks to the girl in his lap, her familiar mouth. Very like the one that branded him. His strong arm surrounds her, keeping her in place. There is strength felt all around her, and power too.
Perhaps the oysters are kicking in...
One hand rests on your thigh as she leans in against you - you get, of course, quite the ample view of her decolletage. "Of course, your majesty," Orange tells you with a sweet smile with just an edge of minx to it. "And we have a special vintage of forester's port right now, if you're interested." She leans forward to bring up a cloth, offering it coquettishly.
Of your doubts, she has no awareness. She is curled as prettily and daintily as any butterfly, and perhaps as ornamental. "My specialty, your majesty? Well, I don't like to confine myself to just one. Some people say it's my hips - I'm very nearly doublejointed, you know." The cloth is placed back down with light-fingered grace, and her eyes sparkle with ill-suppressed mirth. "But there's better dancers than I am, to be sure. My mother said that my best quality would always be that I'm a good listener, to be honest. I pay attention. I like to know what people think and how they feel - and, if I can, make them happy. Which is, I suppose, how I ended up in this line of work." You receive a wink, and then she looks up, suddenly alert, smiling widely. "And here's Pearl and Rosemary."
Pearl has returned with her tray, upon it another full trencher of oysters. She offers her tight-shifted little bow as she sets the trencher down, pulling the depleted one onto her tray. "Your majesty," she murmurs. "Madam Sylvia asks me to tell you that there will be no charge for the meal. Please, enjoy, and the salmon will be ready soon. Your soup will be out right away." Someone is hoping for repeat business, perhaps - or simply assumes that the profits from upstairs and the drinks will more than make up for the cost of the meal.
Rosemary has a pitcher on her hip, and a tankard in one hand. "Your majesty," she greets, once Pearl has stepped aside. Her smile is quick and warm - there's a touch of something almost Amerind to her. Her long dark braid swings in a lazy arc as she sets down pitcher and tankard. "Is there anything else that I can bring you, before or when the food comes out?"
Orange's lips tickle slightly, moving against your ear. "Rosemary is a dancer. She's very good at it, too - very highly in demand for all private and public engagements. She's won competitions in three kingdoms, I'm told." She turns slightly on your lap, expression slightly coy. "Of course, there hasn't been a competition here, yet."
"Madam Sylvia is very generous. Please kindly tell her that I appreciate her courtesy. If I might, a bottle of winterberry whiskey," he says to the girls, both Pearl and Rosemary. He'll let them sort out the who's and when's and wherefore's.
"And ...no... Rosemary, with the whiskey and the food on the way, I am content. Tonight is a grand celebration, oes? The wedding of the Oak King to the New Queen. I am going to drink and make merry..."
He looks to her, a little smile both to her and Pearl. "That'll do me fine for the now." Apparently he has it well in hand, a girl on his lap and food on the way. A look to Orange. I am certain she is a most lovely dancer. She is not my type, however. My hands need to feel handfuls of flesh. I like thick-bodied country girls, myself.
He settles back in the chair and exhales. "Double-jointed, eh? Do you do tricks? Special mounting and dismounts...what?" It's not like he has to have polite small talk chit chat...
Both Pearl and Rosemary give their little bows, retreating discreetly. Orange smiles, shaking her head so her citrus-colored hair ripples for a moment. "You'd probably like Emerald and Sapphire, then. They're built more or less like me, as I mentioned. And I don't know if you'd call it tricks, exactly. But..."
She rotates her hips in a semicircle, brushing against you as she does so. There's that minx smile back on her face, and she leans down to pluck an oyster from the trencher, holding it in offering to your lips. "I'm very good at riding. If you put me in the saddle, I can't be dismounted until I want to. I've been told that it's a family trait - among some of my family."
He chuckles a little, a sound held in his throat. It'll be better once he has more fermented drinks. He tells himself that like it's the gospel. It'll be better, Jesus, after the resurrection. But getting there can be pure hell...
"A pwca?" he wonders. "I have heard that about their men, but you know how men like to brag. Liars to a man." Each and every one of them. "You must be very much in demand, my little citrus fruit..."
His heart's just not in it. There's no use pretending. There's no amount of alcohol that's going to put it in him. With a great exhale, he smirks at himself.
"I'm going to make certain you girls are well taken care of tonight. And that the madame is well paid for her meal, despite her courtesy. She will get an enormous tip."
Ha, riot. In my younger days Io would have said: And so will you...
"Somewhere in the family ancestry," Orange agrees demurely, regarding you from beneath her eyelashes. "My mother told me. I've only been with a half-pwca, and once, at that, but it was an interesting ride!"
But men don't like to hear about other men as much, do they? She leaves it at that note - an interesting anecdote, punctuated by a girlish smile and a turning on your lap. "I won't say I'm the most popular girl in the House, but I have my share of friends. I like people, after all." In every sense of the word. "Well taken care of, your majesty?" The orange eyelashes flicker. "Well, that is certainly very generous and kind of you. Would you like a hot bath and a massage after the meal, or would you prefer...?"
You receive a questioning glance. She can tell, yes, that something is amiss - but she isn't quite sure how to put her finger on what it is. And sticking her hand down your trousers isn't the sort of thing she'd do - not on this floor, and certainly not on the restaurant's deck. Orange lowers her voice, then, and murmurs, "Your majesty... is there anything I can do for you?"
"I just have a lot on my mind," he murmurs, looking to you. "And when this is working overtime," he points to his temple, "...this," a check at his groin to make sure it's all still there, "...hasn't a chance, dearie. Try to distract myself as I have, and as distracting as you are," Davydd leans in close to emphasize the point. "There's no getting around it tonight."
No, it appears not, Davydd. Nothing is working. Not alcohol. Not women. Not cigarettes, newspapers, sporting events, or weddings. No, not even that.
His hand pats your thigh. "Perhaps another time, Orange." The pat of the royal hand is a signal for you to rise. "I want the dinner I ordered to be given to whomever needs it most." Out of his jacket pocket he removes a piece of mithril platinum. "This should take care of the meal for me and drinks on the house for all who dwell in it and all who visit it tonight. In celebration of my son's wedding." He hands it to you, smiling. "The rest belongs to the Madam in gratuity for her hospitality, and to you and Pearl and Rosemary for treating me so grandly."
Davydd lets the smile go crooked, "I'm sure you're quite popular," he murrs with a throaty growl, allowing his hands to get one last hand full. "One for the road," he whispers.
Slowly, with the question still in her eyes, Orange follows your signal to rise. "...Your majesty?" But you are a king, and moreover, a customer. She takes the mithril, looking at it and then back up at your face. "I will tell the madam?"
You still have a chance, you know - you can change your mind, sit back down, have beautiful and willing women crawling all over you. It would be so easy. And doesn't every brothel delight in serving the rich and powerful? But no one will compel you...
No one can compel you...
What decisions you make, they will be entirely your own, ap Owain...
She lets out a laugh and a bit of a squeak as you grab her again. "Your majesty, I'm quite sure that you're very popular yourself." Her eyes dance with mirth and merriment, the edge of that fey mischief shining for a moment. "If you should change your mind - you would tell me, wouldn't you?" She shakes her orange tresses back over her shoulders, and there is that slightly crooked and familiar smile.
"My dear, if the royal mind changes you will be the first to know," a finger touches the tip of your nose as he rises, tall mountain of a man that he is. "As for my popularity...well..." he grins, "... every dog has its day, sweets to the sweet."
He picks up the last of the drink and downs it, finishing with a hefty exhale. "Yes, please tell the madam. And make certain she knows it is not for lack of the hospitality or loveliness of her or her staff," he emphasizes, shrugging his jacket back in place. "On any other night but this, I would have thrown myself into with a storm."
But not tonight...
Not this night...
He takes a step away from the chair, his mind, having been Elsewhere all night, is now followed by his gaze. And without saying much more than goodnight, the Holly King takes his leave of the Oyster...and all its pearls....
There is noone to sway you, once your mind has been made up, is there? Not now. Not in this. The women of the House cannot stop you; perhaps as you depart, their temptation fades, vanishing as you move forward without looking back.
Perhaps all of this will be as nothing, now that you have (finally, ap Owain?) made up your mind.
And, lingering beneath the skin, beneath the sin, there is a faint thread of female amusement. Well, it's about time...
Was it real? Some ghost, vestige remaining of Isabel, lingering on in the currents that eddy about you, about her many times great grandchild's city? Or perhaps it was your own thought and not from outside at all. The waves lap at the wooden posts of the piers, the lamps on ships and on land reflecting off those repeating laps of waves. It is not silent; there is still the echoing of revelry behind you. Even the fishtailed people of the sea have given up their scales for a night to join in these celebrations.
But what of you, o king? Here and there, you may see some that are not locked in revelry. Some eyes do follow you, watching though not interfering. A face here, recognized. A head there, slightly bowed beneath the cowl of a cloak's hood. Watch - but do not interfere.
About time? And then some. But he doesn't linger on the stray thoughts that come and go, no matter their originating direction. The impulse is far more visceral, far more insistent than mere conscious thought. He does not hurry in the darkness, deeper once past the red glow of those tempting lights.
To the spies and the thieves, there is the innate sense of their presence, a recognition that is nearly reflexive. He knows they are there, but it does not stop him on his way to the sea.
The Old Man and the Sea...
He needs to hear it, the sound of the ocean in his ears. It provides good white noise to the thoughts in his head. His thoughts are not on wasted time, not now. There is only intense focus...
You must go into the sea and wash it off...
Not your sins, but the Past, away...
The past may go, but leave its lesson behind...
As he approaches the water's edge, the docks of his queen's burgeoning trade empire, Davydd ap Owain looks across the wide expanse of the bay that leads to the greater ocean. To kingdoms far and wide in this neverending dream (dreams found and dreams lost, dreams remembered and forgotten alike), and to the kingdoms yet to be.
One of those is his...
He does not remove a stitch of clothing. He does not protect his magical phone (it is magic, it can be revived). He doesn't even protect his cigarettes. Without further hesitation, and without a word, Davydd heads for the beach and to the water's edge...
Remember...
The water says this to you, the lapping of the waves. Remember...
Nothing is forgotten...
Look at how every detail has been constructed. Look at the care for even these, the lowest. And you...
You are not considered lowly, are you? You are a king. And you are going, now, to be what a king should be...
The water ripples and hisses against your clothing, seeping in and then dragging at the edges to pull you below the surface. Milk-white and jet-black are the colours of this ocean at night, sea green hinted at in reflections with the red streaks of light behind you.
Do you feel eyes searching for you in the darkness? Far above the city, balcony doors open and a nearly nude figure clad in a foam peignoir steps out. Both small hands grip the railing as she looks up to the moon where it hangs above the palace; then she looks down. Do her moon-dazzled eyes find you, where they sweep over the coastline. Do you hear the thoughts of the New Queen?
Forgive me, darling... I couldn't forget you. You're too dear to my heart to be forgotten. I don't know where it is that you are, but ... be safe ... please...
The prayer of every woman, every wife and sweetheart whose husband, lover, man has gone away to bloody work. Fiona bites her lip, remaining on her balcony and peering down into the darkness of the late night. It isn't sent in the way of her usual communications with you; this is more of a prayer.
You are loved ...
Even as you shed the past, there is that. You can't have done everything wrong. For here, in your heart, given to you, there is still Love...
I sink like a ruddy stone...
But there is no fear of drowning. With no oxygen to breathe, and therefore to keep him floating, the vampire does indeed sink, even as he would with or without the leather. The lungs fill with water, atrophied as they must be by now, expanding to their former elasticity at the insistence of the sea. Salt fills his nose and burns his eyes as he not so much swims as he strides upon the bottom of the sea.
The steps of the king stir typhoons of loosened sand and silt behind him, and whirlpools and eddies are created in his wake. The voices of the sea fill his ears and mind, the random thoughts of creatures swimming by, the voices of sailors above, the stray prayers of a queen...
I know...
And...
Don't worry...
These are his thoughts upon hearing them. Can you feel them past this ocean? Can you hear them past the sea? There isn't a wounded feeling, suddenly, when he thinks of where you lie or with whom. This isn't a usurped man, whose bed, whose crown, whose queen was stolen.
The marriage of his queen to another man, whichever man it might have been if not his son, has removed the last stop to this great wheel of change, letting momentum go free and carry him forward.
Mithras is dead... I killed him...
Not speaking his name, not thinking of his face, not remembering that act shall bring him back. From that one moment in time, I've been shielding myself. That its like never be experienced again. In so doing...
I hid behind my friends...I used them like the bricks and mortar to make this wall...
I shut off my heart...and with the distraction of a thousand lovers never once let anyone know me, or me know love until it was forced...
I struck off my limbs so that I might never alter...
I imprisoned myself, out of fear I sought shelter in distractions...
There is a burst of magic, magic that will lap upon the shore and smack against the rocks as the ripples and tide carry it back to shore. It shall whisper that the king was there in the mist that lifts from tide and ebb.
Does your sea speak to you, Queen? Can you hear what it says, the trade secrets of sailors and the dreams of whales alike? And what of the dragon that swims in your oceans, leaving the bay for the open sea?
It is impossible for her not to worry. You know that, don't you? That as strong as she may be, as strong as her feelings might be - where you are concerned, she is still as fragile as a hummingbird's egg. But she sighs, a few silent tears shed to fall in their glittering spasm. Salt to salt; lesser sea to greater. "Be safe," Fiona whispers, "please..."
The ocean surrounds you; they say the pressures of the deep can conjure visions. It is ever-present, closing in with its cold grasp - an endless embrace that you alone of the world of Men need not fear. Seaweed swirls and twines; fish dart and swim. There are sharks here, and kraken too, but they offer you no menace, king of kings. How does a beast kill a king...
Over the water, there is a song starting, a high, pure voice that lilts out over the waves. Some of the revelers hear, perhaps. The Queen...
"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.
Hear the wind blow love,
Hear the wind blow
Lean your head over -
And hear the wind blow.
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.
Hear the wind blow..."
Quietly, the moon begins to sink beneath the rim of the world, slow to be snuffed out in its pale reflected glory of a thousand roman candles. What will you become, Holly King? What will you do...
A pair of hands rests upon the queen's shoulders, the skimming touches of her other king's fingers. He says nothing, the Oak King, he only stands with her in retreating moonlight, being the body she can grasp -- even when her thoughts turn to the other.
A kiss upon the side of her neck is the only word he speaks...
The sun will rise... there in the distance it is promised, the paling line against the otherwise dark. All things must come to an end, every end is another beginning. The sun rises, and it sets, but it always rises again, a daily resurrection.
No longer shall I fear my self or these hands...
No longer shall I hide behind the love of others, using them as my shields of protection against a non-existent enemy...
No longer shall I hold back the power of my heart...miserly even, if not mostly, with myself...
No longer will I wait to die...
For I am Death...
...and the Life that comes after...
Rhodri's hands skim your shoulders as he wraps a blanket around you and then his arms. Silently, he holds you as he watches the first signs of the day make themselves known. One sort of bird hushes, another wakes and greets the day, and the sound of crickets give way to the buzzing of bees.
The coming of the sun marks the blowing of morning winds. The snapping of ship sails is the wake-up call to drowsy or hung-over sailors. Amid this symphony of dawn, Rhodri gently turns you in his arms, his hands reaching up to dry your tears.
"Trust him," he whispers. And he gently smiles, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. He does not tell you to get back into bed. You can stare out at the sea and cry all you want. He will be here with you. Rhodri kisses your forehead again, this time his mouth remains pressed to your skin.
Grey eyes lift to the figure of her Other Husband, and she sighs, with no complaint in embrace. "I do trust him," Fiona whispers, though her throat aches as she forces the words past her lips. "I trust him - it's me that's not ..."
The words stop there, unable to finish. A wavering, watery smile is lifted, and she closes her eyes with a spill of further tears. "I just worry about him when he isn't here. He might be older than you, but you're more self-sufficient." An odd thing to say. Fiona shakes her head, a little downwards cant as she then turns in her blankets, turns in the Oak King's arms, wraps her arms around that painted neck.
"Between you, you've had thirteen hundred years without me. I haven't been there to look after you, to take care of you, to give to you. What am I supposed to do?" She sighs, and it's a descant note as she leans into the embrace, into the kiss. "I just don't want anything bad to happen anymore."
He holds you close, parting that kiss to look at you. Rhodri smiles. "The bad comes with the good that follows it," he murmurs. "You can't have one without the other," he murmurs as his hands brush against your cheeks again. "I know you worry, and I know he has given cause... but he has lived, Fiona, through things that should have killed him."
The smile becomes a grin. "I do not think brides are supposed to cry on their wedding nights. You have cried more than once tonight." But then, you are pregnant. "He is amazingly resilient," Rhodri whispers, bending to kiss you softly. "Like you..."
Strong hands brush through your hair, moving it back and settling it. "We managed for the first thirteen without you, this is true," his smile slants, "...but we didn't enjoy it as well..."
There is a pause for a moment of stillness, blue eyes looking out over the water, at the hint of rising sun. Then she turns her back on the ocean, with irresolute purpose. "I'm sorry. I'll try not to cry anymore." Talk about promises she can't keep.
But then, she would give you the world if she could, wouldn't she? Both of you...
"I am not resilient," Fiona retorts with sudden stubbornness, a sudden flare. You kiss her and her arms twine tightly around your neck. "Carry me back to bed," Fiona orders, mercurial as she can be. "I need you to hold me. And I need..."
"I need not to think..."
Davydd...
With or without titles, I don't care...
Come back to me...
With that thought lingering, unspoken, unsent, the New Queen leans in against her new husband, waiting for the strong envelopment of his arms in an embrace that might for a time soothe her fears. It is a new day that is dawning. And when the night falls, it will fall upon a new era...
Will it not?
Posted by rowan at September 11, 2005 09:35 PM
