The morning after the wedding night. One may ordinarily expect a new bride to be cranky, sleepy, and sore. One does not ordinarily expect her to be so engorged that getting out of bed might yet require a forklift. Fiona sits up - more or less - by placing her hands to either side of her and with a groan, pushing until her shoulders are in contact with the headboard rather than the pillows and mattress; then she rolls, not without effort, off the edge of the bed and onto her feet. Blearily, she traces her footsteps to the bath, trailing mumbled profanities and long golden hair in a river behind her. Woe unto the man that interrupts her - even for 'good morning, sweetheart, I love you' kisses...
     When she emerges, the New Queen has dressed herself - thank god for magic, right? She's clad in pale blue cotton - a decidedly oversized cotton summer dress that is nonetheless put to the test at the belly, bright red and green swirled throughout in an almost tie-dyed fashion. Her hair - it looks as if she took a pair of kitchen shears to her hair. It's just under chin length and sticks out in all directions, not unlike a dandelion. "I," Fiona announces bitterly, "have HAD it with hard work. I quit. You can have the next baby. You can have my kingdom and my apartment and the balancing of my checquebook too, while you're at it. Where's the goddamn food? I need to eat. RIGHT NOW."

     All of the annoying husbandly come-backs and wise-cracking retorts are crowded at his lips as he smiles -- but wisely says nothing -- as he makes for his chance at the bath, pulling on a very non-kingly cotton shirt and unregal boxer shorts. He looks just like the young man you first bumped into in the hallway of his above-bar flat, his hair all out of joint, his eyes blinking their way into clarity, and a look of surprise on his face.
     You've... sprouted...
     A hand to his face and then into his hair, Rhodri heads not for the bath but for your chamber's front doors, opening them to clap loudly for a servant hovering nearby. Skittering soft servant feet are the first answer, followed by rapid bowing, and quiet Yes may I's. "The queen would like her breakfast banquet straight away. A little of everything, hmm?" He smiles to the servant. You know how pregnant women can be. "And... smoked salmon for three at least..." he tacks on. "And... coffee... yes, yes... thank you... quickly..."
     Closing the door, the king turns to his queen. "It's on the way, darling. And ... next time, if you allow a next time, I promise I'll do all the heavy lifting that nature allows. Come come," he murmurs, waving you to him even as he comes to you. "Tell me what is hurting, and I will put my hands to work."
     He kisses you on your forehead. "Good morning, my dove, fy glomen fair. You cut your hair, I see." He leans back a moment and grins. "I like it." Closing his eyes again, he presses his lips once more to your forehead. "I still taste like last night," the reason for no kiss upon your mouth, but nearly everything else is adorned. "I will get cleaned up first..." Rhodri looks down at himself, picking his shirt and giving it a sniff. How gamey am I?
     "...And then I will rub whatever is aching, feed you with my own hands, my queen, and thoroughly spoil you." He looks to your swollen belly, far more even than last night. With a growing smile, and a tender one at that, he places his hands there.
     And receives a kick for good measure...
     Wide-eyed and grinning, Rhodri looks to you. "I felt a little foot, I think. Da bore, hychydig babanod," he says to them both. The Welsh is a delight from that mouth. "You," a kiss upon your lips no matter the flavor. "Da bore, 'm drysori , 'm briodasferch..."
     Good morning, little babies. Good morning, my treasure... my bride...

     "Hmf." You get a look from under glowering eyebrows, but she allows you to kiss her forehead, even if she is ignoring you by and large. "Go clean up. We'll talk - oof - after." But after isn't coming just yet, is it? Not with her belly having bloomed out, and your obvious delight. It softens even her present sour mood. Something has to, right?
     "That's what woke me up," Fiona confides in you, looking down to your hand on her belly, the sudden movement that vibrates the flesh. "I don't know what happened. I feel like I'm hatching a couple of future footballers though. Either that or I'm hatching Pokemon." You kiss her, and she sighs a little. "Go brush your teeth. You can talk to the children later." And that's an order.
     After all, the children should know what to expect, right?
     Fiona trudges over to the edge of the bed, eyeing it dubiously. "If I go down, am I going to be able to get back up again? Maybe we should send for - for, well, not a doctor, but..."

     Yes, the midwife. Or do they call them wise women here? The clothing so recently pulled on is then peeled off, left in little piles as the tattooed king steps into the bath's shower, three-walled and otherwise open air, a garden shower surrounded by orchids and other exotics, splashes of colors fed by the mist from the falling rain water. The water, in fact, falls from the ceiling painted with clouds, so it is very like bathing in the rain.
     Try humming and see if they fall asleep again. Footballers, could be, my apple. He is glad for the cooler water on fresh wakened skin and the honeyed and rose scented soaps left here by the servants. He uses the honey, you the rose. As he dallies in the shower you receive snippets of his own dream-addled thoughts. The sight of you in his arms as you both started to drift to sleep, naked and staring at one another. The vision of you round with his child (and sibling) and the trill that it causes in him.
     ... And then there is a gentle knock at the door...
     Your food is here...
     ... And he thinks of you full with the twins, your belly round and distended, sitting naked on the bed, hands delicately and valiantly attempting to cover your breasts...
     And still he showers...

     Whatever you call them. I'm thinking we should send for one. Things seem to be, ah - progressing. More rapidly and startlingly than she'd expected, though perhaps that's normal. How would she know? Instead of sitting back on the bed, she remains standing despite the ache in her soles, in her ankles, in the small of her back. Why? Because there's food coming.
     Instead of humming, she begins to sing, quietly - the song she'd been singing the previous night. It's a lullaby, after all. One hand on her belly, Fiona heads for the balcony, opening the doors and peering out into the salted breeze. "On wings of the wind, o'er the dark rolling deep, angels are coming, to watch over thee..."
     There is an angel above the city. It is marble, and stands over the entire city - not over just two unborn babies. Does it mean anything? But it isn't really a song about children, is it, even if it's a lullaby. "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, contented he'll rest..."
     I didn't marry men known for contentment. It's to you, but it isn't really to you; it isn't intentional. Fiona turns, watching the bowing and scraping of servants as they wheel in the buffet, silver-covered dishes and comfortable chairs. You're more contented than Davydd's been, but you're not really, are you? You always need something... a challenge, something to do. You'll never just sit in the mud and grow roots.
     She settles into one of the chairs as the servants leave, and there's a soft groan as her weight is eased off her feet, her ankles, the base of her spine. "You two be good in there," Fiona mumbles downwards at her stomach. "Yes, yes, I'm about to feed you, so shut up already. If you kick me one more time, I swear, I'll reach in there and drag you out by your ear myself, never mind midwives."

     Content...what? The voice bubbles within you, tickling in your ears. It was too much to hope that he could refrain from being "smart" all day. The shower water halts, and his slick steps can be heard moving from one end of the bath to the other, drying, brushing hair, all of the morning minutia.
     I'm not a potted plant, no. But then... neither are you. Besides, trees aren't fun to fuck. The bark chafes. If he were nearby you could throw a pillow at him but he remains annoyingly out of sight. Not that I know from experience, mind you. Though...the king's road was lonely...
     He appears at last, his hair magically dried by the sun's corona shining behind his head, able to drip dry before the first drip falls! Rhodri pads naked toward the bed, a late glance given to the door to see if anyone else is here. But before he goes to the bed, he turns to you in your chair, bending as he gives you an eyeful of him in his naked glory. A sweet, and very warm kiss, lands upon your mouth. "Good morning, my angel. You are beautiful," another kiss, "...radiant queen. Addola 'ch..."
     I adore you...
     "What have we for breakfast?" he coos out. His eyes are ravenous, green and bright, flashing with the sudden pangs of an empty stomach. "Gah... I'm starving," he murmurs.

     Well, if all you're doing is stealing jewelry and money and having occasional quick fucks up against a tree, then yes, I would imagine the king's road was lonely, comes the acerbic retort. I suppose I just should count my blessings that you think that I'm fun to fuck, and shut the hell up, right?
     She is in a mood. You can sense it. You had your moment last night, and now it's her turn. Fiona grumps as she lifts a lid off a dish, peering at something which is undoubtedly delicious but which she just can't quite figure out what the hell it is. "I am not an angel and you can say that you adore me all you like. It is not going to do a damned thing for the sanctity of your balls if I decide to tear them off." Brave words.
     A spoon clatters against a serving dish as she helps herself to scrambled eggs, then to some sort of topping - gravy, perhaps; there's bits of spiced meat in there. "If you're so hungry, then sit down and eat," Fiona snaps, "and stop looming over me. I can't stand being loomed over." So quickly is the bloom off the rose, then? Did you really know what you were letting yourself in for? She helps herself to what looks like a baked potato - except when she cuts it open, it's pink inside. And she bursts into tears.

     He blinks again, like you've popped him on the nose. But he doesn't respond to any of what you say. As you cut into a ... whatever that is... and then break down into tears, Rhodri puts a hand on your shoulder, rubbing slightly as his hand waves at the rest.
     It is transformed to a banquet of Pashmina's. Green curry, yellow curry, sweet naan, spicy naan, jasmine rice. "I think this will be more to your liking. Never trust fairies when it comes to cuisine." With a gentle pat, he steps away to the bedside and to a wardrobe full of clothing.
     "No no, you have your fill, love," Rhodri says, pulling out such things... he'd only ever wear on stage and maybe not even then. Another soft word and the clothing is transformed. A white t-shirt with a Black Jack Davy logo in red, and a pair of jeans that have seen better days.
     "You're not only fun to fuck, you're fun to talk to, hang out with, see every morning and every night, and eat with, yeah? So how's the naan?"

     She sniffs, wiping at her streaming eyes. "Don't you dare humour me," Fiona mutters. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be such a bitch. I'm just, I don't know." Deep breaths. Deeeep breaths. She exhales, then slouches down in her seat - only to have her belly catch on the edge of the table, forcing her back up. You receive one brief, miserable glance, and then she looks back to the food.
     "Please... come eat with me. I don't want to be by myself..."

     "Sweetheart," he looks to you gently as he, dressed, crosses back over to you. "... of course I'll join you. And you don't have to apologize to me," he grins as he sits down beside you, pulling his chair close. "I understand. You're uncomfortable... as well as anyone would be if they had two Welsh princes playing football with their insides."
     Rhodri leans in, kissing you gently, murmuring "I love you" in the kiss. "Now, how about some bread? Some rosewater tea..." He tears some naan for you and pours you some sweet rosewater tea from the to-go jug. "It'll be great being back in London, being able to go down to Pashmina's. We can drop the boys off at gramp's," Davydd's, and he grins, "... whenever we're rehearsing. Here, try some of this, I bet you will like it..." He spoons up the jasmine rice with the yellow curry. "It's not very spicy. I do not know... do you not like spicy, or is it sweet? I haven't seen the cravings or aversions kick into gear yet..."
     The more awful you are, the nicer he is. Isn't he awful?

     "I don't want any bread." Fiona's sulky now, glowering at you again. "I'll have some rice, though." She sighs, propping her cheek on her hand and her elbow on the table's edge - almost in her plate. "I want lamb korma and yellow rice. And pickled vegetable mix. I'm starving."
     "We'll have to drop the boys off, won't we? I mean, we can't exactly bring them with us all the time," Fiona then points out, looking up suddenly with a frown. "They'll have to stay here most of the time. Hard to explain otherwise, unless you're going to explain them away as ... well ... not mine." She makes a face at you, and picks up her fork. "I want my body back. When are they going to be born?"
     She isn't into the 'enjoying the pregnancy while it lasts' state of mind so much, now...

     "After breakfast... I'll call the midwife. And then we will know... it does not look like long now. And... we will drop them off so Davydd can see them. He cannot stay here all the time." He has ... whatever it is he's doing... in the material realm.
     "They will be with us... whenever they can. But their schooling will be here. Until then, we can be more flexible. But... we'll worry about that bridge when there is a bridge."
     The green curry becomes lamb korma and yellow rice in answer to your wish. It is as you wish. Your wish is his command. He offers the new treat to you upon a fork, serving you a bite. As he shall all the others that follow it.
     He'll worry about himself later...
     Let me know if there is anything else you wish...

     "...Alright." Fiona sighs, and she leans forward, gripping the lamb between her teeth and slowly easing back from the fork. I'm sorry, comes the thought, miserable. I just don't know myself right now.
     And it isn't even her being worried about Davydd, for once, though there's that, lurking below the surface. It's more to do with her changed and changing state. She doesn't know herself. She doesn't recognise the world anymore. What is she to do in response to this, when it is so far beyond her control?
     She can't exactly run away...

     He takes another bit of the yellow rice, another bit of the lamb and offers it up to you. It is hard to adjust to how time moves here. We're not... from these parts. And being pregnant for the first time, I can understand how you would be feeling out of your element.
     "I have heard from ... previous wives..." a little smirk at that, "...that it is very disconcerting when you have no control over your body anymore. It is not something a man can understand. We do not have to deal with it. But... you also do not have to apologize to me because you do not feel good, or like talking, or even looking at me."
     Rhodri slants a smile. "If you want me to make myself scarce today while your women attend to you, I'll understand. I'm happy to do whatever you want..."

     There is another curt retort poised upon the tip of her tongue. But it's held in place for a long moment, and then Fiona pushes herself back from the table. "I don't know. Maybe that would be a good idea. But I don't want to be attended. I don't want to be fussed over."
     She shrugs, itchy in her skin, uncomfortable as she hauls herself up from her seat by degrees. "I don't LIKE being fussed over and the nicer you are to me, the more it makes me want to smack you and tell you to fuck off. I don't know what I want right now, other than to bite someone or something like that. Maybe I should ... go review the troops, or something. Except with as much as my back hurts right now..."
     Standing for long periods of time while armored men rearrange themselves into patterns according to some order doesn't appeal very much, either. "And before you say it," Fiona tells you warningly, a dangerous look in her eyes, "don't even fucking suggest a bath. I don't want a bath; I'm clean enough and I - god, I just fucking want this to be over with. I'm a horrible mother."

     Chuckling, Rhodri lifts his hands, "I'm not going to suggest anything. Believe me." He takes a few bites for himself. Of something else. The curry and the bread -- stuff you wouldn't touch. While he's stuffing his face, he decides to say nothing. It wouldn't be polite.
     But he'll think it...
     ou're not a terrible mother because you don't want to be uncomfortable, Fiona. I don't know a woman alive who really likes being the equivalent of eight months pregnant. Hell, my sister used to jump up and down and try every early birth remedy known to man...

     "I wouldn't do that. It might hurt them." Fiona looks up, shocked at the idea. Give it a week and she'll be trying to do jumping jacks. "I just hope they don't decide they like it in there so much that they're going to stay in an extra month..."
     She glowers down resentfully at her stomach, then picks up her fork again - picking at the food rather than consuming it. "Let's talk about something else. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

     "I've been thinking about our foray into music. I'm having a hard time thinking of a name that hasn't either already been used or isn't completely ..." Rhodri motions with his fork. Cheesy.
     "I've always like the idea of 'Saint ...'... saint something, but I don't know. Sound a bit metalish. A bit spandex and big hair," he smiles at you, switching subjects with nimble grace. "Have you thought of anything to call our enterprise? Any new thoughts on the matter?"
     Green eyes flicker to you to see if his distraction tactic worked, as he begins to eat more and talk less. He pours himself a glass of rosewater tea, cool and light with a hint of sweetness.

     "Names with texture. Suede. Silk. Something like that. I haven't seen much of that sort of thing." Fiona resettles in her chair, closing her eyes and leaning back. "If you want to go with that - or you could pick a martyr pretty much at random, add an apostrophe s and some word. But that's a bit long to fit onto a drum kit."
     She takes a bite of naan, now, reaching over to tear off a piece and pop it into her mouth. Closing her eyes as she chews, Fiona gives her head a little shake. I want a cat. That's what we're doing today, Rhodri. We're going to go get me a cat. Diversion, indeed. With that decision reached, she opens her eyes and begins to eat in earnest.

     A ...cat...
     Are you sure?
     Aren't they evil?
     Rhodri grins, "Alright, sounds like something even I can handle. Sure... a cat. Any... particular kind? I'm sure your market's full of them. What with all the cat-houses down there..." He can't help the chuckle.
     He also can't help the commentary...
     Taking a hunk of the sweet naan, Rhodri sits back in his chair. "We'll sort it out," he murmurs. "First things first: a puss. And then the naming of the puss."

     She certainly seems sure, doesn't she? Fiona nods decisively. "You can't buy a cat. All you can do is pay money for the privilege of bringing one home," she declares, more at ease now than you've seen her all morning. "As for what kind - it has to be male. It has to be friendly. It has to be outgoing, even, and able to take on dogs twice its size."
     She leans back, wiping her face and then her fingers, and begins counting off qualities. "Talkative but not endlessly so, friendly and willing to be a lap cat at times but with a mind of his own. And, of course, he has to want to be with me. If he doesn't - there isn't any point, is there?"
     Is she talking about a cat, or is she talking about one of you?

     "Sounds like my sort of bloke. And... oes... he'll have to hold his own around the corgies. They're getting a bit cranky in their dotage. Poor old things. Well," Rhodri exhales, throwing in the towel. "I'm ready to go when you are. We'll get a carriage, hmm? So you can be comfortable...I'll have it piled with pillows."
     Leaning in, Rhodri grins, nuzzling just behind your ear. "I love you," he whispers there. Just in case you forgot. Or maybe you weren't paying attention.
     "I'm going to have to fight for a spot on your lap, I see," he waxes on as he stands. "Two husbands, two sons and a male cat. Are you sure you want it to be male?" He looks at you with a smirk. "That's a lot of testosterone in one place..."

     "My lap is plenty big enough right now," Fiona points out, glaring down at her belly again, "though I don't think anyone can fit on it right now. But I'll book you a reservation." Slowly and with that difficulty, she rises to her feet with a small wince. "You do realize that you're going to have trouble talking me into getting pregnant again, don't you? I feel like a beached whale on steroids."
     Of course, next time it probably won't be twins...
     She sighs, leaning against you for a moment. I love you too, you bastard. I just - I'm not very good at showing it right now, that's all. If we're calling a carriage, I'd better get changed.
     She straightens with a palm on the table, then frowns as she looks down at herself. Her expression suddenly alters. "Oh ... shit. I've got to change right now." For there's two small but spreading darker semicircles where the cotton stretches over her breasts. Fiona turns and - did you know a pregnant woman could move that fast? - darts into the bathroom again.
     "Got to have a slash RIGHT NOW!"

     Da, you're missing all the fun...
     Rhodri holds his smile for after you dart out (he's no fool... or kamikaze), and while you dash for a slash... what's a slash? he suddenly wonders... he heads for the door. A clap of his hands, calling another fluttering of servants and their kowtowing.
     "A carriage for her majesty and I. We are going to take a ride into town. A small retinue would be good, nothing fancy," Rhodri murmurs. The servant nods, bowing and departing.
     Resting against the door for a moment, the Oak King allows himself a soft chuckle, a breath of sound. You're missing all the fun, Davydd...
     Folding his arms against his chest, Rhodri pushes off the door. It's like the start of a new adventure. Not just a new morning. Not even just as the first morning of his marriage. It's... well... it's the first day of the rest of his life, to be honest...

Posted by rowan at September 16, 2005 10:30 AM