From the distance...
Past Dead Man's Reef and the barrier islands, where the fairy nutmeg trees grow in thick miniature jungles, there is a stretch of open sea and a series of islands that have blossomed over night. So seemingly over night.
It is from this distance that a sound, clear and loud, comes. The call of a horn. And not just any horn. It sounds out to all, but there are the Few that are called by it, that recognize it for what it is. The Wild Hunt, commonly known in Somerset, England as the Gabriel Hounds that ride with The Hunter around the steppes of Somerset, the old mound of Camelot, and into Cornwall, are called to The Hunter just as surely here as there.
And who is The Hunter? Who else but the Holly King?
The waves crash against Dead Man's Reef where the water breaks and mermaids linger to pull down the unfortunate sailors whose navigator ignores the warnings of the New Queen's lanterns. Higher and higher, as if pushed by the sound of that horn. The tide comes in early tonight. The sailors at the New Kingdom's docks and waterfront remark on it, ship to ship, bow to stern, and those who walk the waterfront dodge the encroaching waves...
The sound of the horn approaches...
And a ship with sails of moonlight...
A ship of midnight blue ocean, with platinum accents and silver starlight fittings...
What is this? Heads lift, and people draw both away and nearer from and to the docks. What is this?
This is new. This is unexpected, in a kingdom which is both new and unexpected, filled with new and unexpected things; what is this? "The Hunt," it is whispered by women as they pull their children indoors, close the doors on the night and try to lock out fear and astonishment.
The Hunt...
But the Wild Hunt has withdrawn from the kingdoms of man and of faerie, so insist the old men over their pints. Young sailors and soldiers point out the obvious - "The horn is blowing, as surely as the wind over the sea." It is incontrovertible. It cannot be denied, argued with, or answered. What is this...
And the water is a bit rocky tonight, filled with the to and fro of crashing waves. The air is shuddering in hot and cold breaths, not driven by windy princes but by magic. Who? Noone is being kept away from the youngest queen's kingdom, but she herself is undergoing fits, of a sort. High above the sea, on the cliffs, in the palace, organdy curtains twitch aside for a moment, and then twitch back.
"There is a horn blowing, your majesty." Pistachio remarks upon it, calmly, as she says everything. What expression could she be startled, surprised into, what emotion? So far, none have deigned to test it. She remains unaware, child in woman's body, womanhood unblossomed, petals unfurled. "I believe it's for you."
The New Queen's reply is likely short and pithy, but it is lost under the call of the horn. What is this? The mermaids clasp strings of pearls and strands of seaweed below the rocking cradle of deep blue waters, wrapped around themselves in some ephemeral fandance of the deeps. A King? One to be brought down to our arms, cozily snuggled and bundled in with our loves? No, not this; not this ship, not this king. Pity, sisters...
But it is a handsome ship, and as with every handsome ship, the boys and girls whose mamas do not clutch them close in fear run and shout on the docks. Hoy, the ship! Throw us something...
The many sails of the king's galleon ship shift in time with the platinum steering wheel to alter the ship's course. It navigates past Dead Man's Reef, and for that time the horn is silent. For that time, the king who stands at the bow gives the steering and the sea his full attention.
A now eerie quiet, the sort of quiet that comes at the heart of a forest, within the Queen's Alleys at the latest part of night (that No Good Hour), settles on the Queen's Bay as the ship appears in full view, its sails open and catching the air.
And the horn sounds again, but now the king can be seen (for certainly the sailors with their spyglasses have them out, and the spies have eyes sharpest at night). He stands at the prow, the High King, the horn of a dragon slung around his shoulders but lifted to his mouth. It makes a deep sound, like a foghorn, with the exhalation of every breath.
It is the only anachronistic part of his apparel. The rest is modern cuts of modern clothing, a leather jacket fit for a longshoreman, a knit sweater fit for a Welshman, with wool trousers woven for a king. The only thing missing from the quintessential vision of ap Owain is a cigarette and a whiskey. He doesn't need a crown, he doesn't need the garments. He has the power without all the trappings.
The regal ship, Draigamor (seadragon), pulls slowly into pier, the ropes of light extending to haul it in, its sails dissolving into flickering orbs, like fireflies...
(They are actually tiny dragons the size of butterflies, making them far more like dragonflies than fireflies)...
The anchor drops itself, slowly rolling on its chains to the water, and the plank unrolls itself from its side -- spiraling dragons that adhere to the pier. They serve as both plank and protection! They stiffen to great boards as the king's feet march down their backs, their mouths opening and hissing: Hail to the High King.
He wears the horn as surely as a crown...
He wears a look that won't be denied...
He marches like Mars down the docks and toward the palace...
Hail King Davydd, the ship says in a thousand small voices that sound like a great crowd...
More and more people pop out of houses, out of taverns, out of every house and window from which they peered before. There is a wariness, a sort of fear, in this kingdom of immigrants, this land of people who have fled persecution. The doors were opened to them, and there is to them, the watchfulness of the unknown. What will this be? Who will you be? What transpires now...
But children shout at the sight of the long boat, and their mothers and grandmothers and governesses cannot quiet them nor keep them in their beds. They will seize any opportunity, won't they? And it has been a night already where the air shivers upon itself, it folds in upon itself like the folding of some great sheet that is being packed up and neatly put away. The sheet which is then shaken out again, without warning, and all the windows of all the buildings shudder in their frames in sympathy.
Do you need to know what tonight is? Your modern clothing makes you stand out the more, even if your kingliness did not. These people - they are not unmitigatedly of faerie. Here and there you see a face as human as any you would see in London, Paris, New York, Chicago, Vienna, Hong Kong. They mingle with those of pointed ears, those with horns and antlers, those with four legs instead of two, those with bloody great wings. And all eyes are on you.
"The High King has returned..." "What does it mean, why is he here..." Is it an honour or a threat? The common people are uncertain. What else can they do? The guards of the wharfs and the docks - there are three sets of such. And now their representatives come forward.
One, the wharfmaster, resplendent in confusion, his ceremonial gilt mixed in with common sailcloth. A navvy's working clothes underneath the official cloak and coat and hat, the ceremonial sword tied in its peace knot at his side. He comes to the docks, and he kneels, waiting with a philosophical look in his eyes - ah, well, it was a good job while it lasted.
Two, rising from the sea next to the pier and pulling himself up onto the docks, shedding sealskin for human form, naked and ignoring his nakedness, the selkie-ambassador from the deeps. He nods to the wharfmaster, then kneels next to him; representative of the merkingdoms and the sealfolk and all the sea-people alike that have flocked under the New Queen's banner. He kneels, and he waits. If he has fears of this change, they do not show in his liquid, opaque, seal-like eyes.
And third and finally, a grey figure, smaller than your hand, dressed all in fur that streaks up onto the top of the wharfmaster's hat, wearing a tiny golden chain around its furred throat : a rat. It perches with naked hands and tail upon the crown of the hat, and in its high-pitched, squeaky voice, it cries out, "Hail to the High King! About time it were, too! Hail! Hail! Hail!" Wherever there are sailors and ships, there are thieves and rats...
"Yes," and the high king smiles. He bids those kneeling to rise with a motion of his hand. "I'm sorry I'm late," he notes to the rat and to you all. "I appreciate your greeting," he addresses the crowd, "...but I won't keep you tonight. There will be time for ceremony later and feasts to which all will be invited!" he announces.
Candies materialize in his hands and he tosses them up. They fly up, but they don't land on the docks to be wasted. They find their way to tiny waiting hands. For the adults, a bouillion of precious stone. To be kept or cashed in as they please.
"Wharfmaster," Davydd turns his attention to the man-in-charge, "... my ship will be docked here for a fortnight before it returns to the island. It won't need any additional protection," he smiles at that. "So don't waste an added guard. It shouldn't give you any trouble." But what trouble will others give it? Apparently, the king is not worried about this occurring.
"Now, I hope you will all pardon me... I'm late for seeing my future heir and grandson..." Davydd grins to those crowding around him as he starts to move past.
How cynical but true - money eases every passage and many fears. The crowd lets out a cheer, an excited tumult starting. Future heir? Grandson? The queen? Gossip has never had it so good, and that it is overshadowed by anything, it is by the fact that the drinks will - all of them - be on the High King tonight.
The wharfmaster accepts your commands with gratified relief. How does one deal with a High King? Especially when there's been no such thing, the entire time he's been in charge here - the entire time he's been alive, for that matter. You are bowed to many times, and you find your way magically cleared. The rat scurries down the man's hat to his shoulder, down his shoulder and sleeve to hop to the ground and scurry on ahead of you on all four feet. "Make way! Make way!", it squeaks. "The High King comes! Make way!" It shoots off down a side alley, and is gone.
Not that you are alone. Even if you lacked the accompaniment of the Wild Hunt; your Hunt - there are still people lined up now, to see you. They do not impede your progress. They do not speak, they do not cheer, they kneel on the sides of the streets as you pass in two long undulating waves that ribbon outwards. Peasants and courtiers; it makes little difference whether it is a soldier or a prostitute, a scullerymaid or a tailor, a prosperous merchant or a well-born prince. The High King is returned...
The way to the palace is lit, and there the gates stand open for you. Perhaps not everyone knows of your arrival, but it is the duty of the royal guard to know, to anticipate, to be prepared - and most definitely not to bar your way. And at the gate, another is waiting for you, patience her mantle as much as any cloak she might wear. Pistachio, her hood down and her hands clasped loosely together in front of her, waiting upon your majesty's arrival.
The marching steps of the high king's stride follow the scampering of the rat. "Thank you, Chamberlain," the king chuckles to the creature. It's a good thing Rhyddid and Bwci are on the ship, or it would have been rat pie and I'd have hated to see that.
Davydd turns his head left and right, acknowledging the faces that belong to the bent knees. Courtiers and peasants, soldiers and prostitutes -- each are given equal time in the king's gaze as he quickly marches past. He has a stride of a man who means business, same as ever.
As he gets to the gates and then past them, Davydd halts and turns. "Pistachio, how is she?" It is a quick question, coming with a touch of his hand to the woman's shoulder. "I'm not too late, am I? I'd be late to my own funeral, I swear," he is momentarily exasperated with himself. But he doesn't have time for that!
"Your Majesty." Pistachio is as serene as ever - isn't it annoying? She greets you leisurely, chin dipping downwards and then back up so that she can regard you. "I cannot say if you are too late; it depends entirely on for what you intended to be here. Her Majesty is alive, and at the time I left her, she was in excellent voice. You may have noticed some of the... side effects."
A queen in her own kingdom, giving birth - there are ripples magical which spread from such events. The shuddering winds that blow both hot and cold, the violently flourishing flowers in the gardens. Apple trees that bear blossoms and fruit and withered leaves all at once despite the season. Some things must be expressed - somehow...
"She is missing you, I know." Pistachio relents slightly, turning from you towards the interior of the palace. "The Oak King awaits certain arrivals. I imagine that yours may be among them. I will show you to him, and then I will enquire about the Queen."
She shows no curiosity, as ever, though curiosity swells and ebbs in the eyes of others, here in the palace especially.
To what further purpose have you come, High King...
What will happen next...
Even those who do not worry, wonder...
(Oh, he has a purpose...
As everyone shall soon find out...
But not tonight!)
"Oes, oes," he chuckles, "... I heard her. Believe me. And I'll enquire after her myself...what room is she in? Her master suite?"
He says all of this in quick Welsh quips as he continues to march, glancing back to you with a 'hurry up, woman!' expression.
My wife -- do you hate me? His voice places itself on the inside of his queen's ears. And his son's, too.
I swear to god, da, you'd miss your own funeral. Rhodri's voice chimes out later.
Unspeakable creatures. Fiona's voice echoes after yours and Rhodri's, but with a sort of self-satisfied, serene complacency. Men. Wipe your feet, both of you, before you come in here.
Pistachio follows at her usual pace, which nonetheless covers ground at a swelling rate. "She is not. She is on the first floor - for the past weeks, she has been unable to rise from her bed." You are informed of this, words which paint a picture for you, of Fiona swollen with children to a gargantuan degree. "His Majesty, the Oak King, is in the drawing room, over here." Where, no doubt, he was stuffed by the midwives and told in no uncertain terms to be patient. Whether or not he would, of course, is another matter.
Of course I hate you, darling. Fiona's voice caresses you from the inside. It is flavoured - as her voice is always flavoured when her words are plucked from silent air. Her tiredness is conveyed with metallic salts, copper notes on the sea's fruit. But she is smug, and there is a sweetness to it, a satisfaction in apples and brandy and the heavy, lugubrious taste of cream and chocolate. Brute. Dictator. Rake. Disgusting, how much I adore you both. Get in here, won't you? If the midwives try to keep you out, tell 'em to go to hell.
Behind her doors, she is in bed. Propped upon pillows, the worst of it all cleaned away. There is still the scent of blood upon the air - your nose is too keen and too experienced to miss it. But there is also Fiona. Pale tresses are wound about her head like a halo before tumbling to the sides and off the edges of her pillows. The windows have been tightly closed, the draperies drawn, for she is bared to the waist, still, and her skin is paled to the colour of milk, the blue veins visible beneath the surface. Despite her lack of colour, her eyes are very blue. As blue as summer...
As blue as winter shadows...
And in her arms are cradled two infants. Fat and wrinkled and with the redness of the newborn, impressive indeed in size. Small hands blindly curl in front of them, small mouths blindly fastened to greedy task. Fiona's expression remains that of what was hinted in her thoughts : sublime self-satisfaction.
Rhodri had to be restrained. Not that it stopped him. He went out for a walk, he said. Not telling them, of course, that he would be walking around the side of the palace, picking the lock of a second floor window, flying up, then squeezing himself into the figure of a mouse and slipping under the door, past a midwife's leg, whiskers twitching as he watched his son (and brother) be born.
Once the babies are cleaned and you are made presentable for your lords, one suddenly materializes, scaring the midwives to death. A quiet death -- it wouldn't do to make royal infants cranky with a racket. Rhodri gives the women a 'There's not a room that can hold me' look and then he makes for the bed, his face exploding in a smile. Look at them and look at you. All beautiful. He kisses his queen, his wife. Sweetly, yes, but with that fire she's used to. Now the midwives are scandalized.
"Hello, wee boyos," Rhodri croons softly. He doesn't have to ask which one is his. One has fiery blond hair. The other, deep blood red. He kisses the blond one first. "Hello, my son," he whispers.
It's then when there's a clamour in the hall -- the sound of a man running toward the door. Rhodri perks up his head, grins to Fiona and then waggles his eyebrows. "You ladies might want to back up a space. I think the Holly King's coming..."
She turns her face up for the kiss, tired though she is. And she smiles. "Bloody thief," Fiona accuses you, shifting her double burden slightly but taking care not to dislodge them. "I should have known you wouldn't let well enough alone. How long have you been here?"
She doesn't really care; she continues without waiting for your answer. You receive a heated look, a pointed, spreading smile. I'm thinking of ribbons, Rhodri. If you've been spying, you'll have to pay the piper. But that will have to wait ... a good long while. And meanwhile, I'll torture you with thoughts, and memories. She is feeling pleased with herself, that is plain.
Gentle fingers move against blonde hair and red hair alike. "You may as well become part of the woodwork," she tells the midwives, with that faint impudence that makes her Drancy even when she is Fiona. "Rhodri's quite right - the Oak King and the Holly King will both be here, and that will be trumped, I think." She glances down at her two sons, nine pounds apiece if they're an ounce between them. "My heartbreak is on his way," she croons to the babies. "Your da and grandda." She looks up suddenly, sitting up a trifle more and then sighing.
I'm all pale and washed out and sweaty. Not beautiful at all. But they are. Gorgeous, aren't they? Can't believe an hour ago they were still inside of me. Fiona snuggles against her pillows, eyes drifting to half-closed. Where's Davydd? Surely it doesn't take this long to get here. Bloody man. I've been making a fool of myself over him from day one...
The gallop of male feet halts suddenly and the door is cracked open very quietly. And then the door's opened and he's coming through it, turning to carefully close the door. He's huffing and puffing just like a man who's run from one end of the palace to the other.
What a wonder he is. In the light of your chamber, he looks like the night you met him in his leather coat and Welsh King sweater made from the wool of royal sheep. And when his face erupts with its own mighty grin, his eyes go crinkly at the corners like every thirty-six year old's should do. His vipered teeth are visible, distended from a wave of emotion (not from the scent of blood). His hair is as blood red as his son's, darkened a bit since you last saw him and his hair's going a bit curly with all the sea spray even as short as it is.
"There it is," he whispers, "...my family. Strange, beautiful creatures ... every one of us." He is at the bedside a moment later. As the Oak King had before him, he kisses his wife. Warmly, tenderly -- as if that is hurting too. "Look at what you did, aye? Look at these men around you," Davydd's grin remains, basking down like moonlight on his son and grandson. He closes his eyes and kisses each infant on the soft crowns.
"So... King," Rhodri murmurs, a hand lightly skimming the cheek of his wife and then the soft fiery blond hair of his newborn son. "... what shall we call them, these new men? Sons of such a queen as ours."
Davydd opens his eyes and straightens. He looks to Fiona and then to Rhodri, lastly to the two sons. There is a palpable pulse of power around him. It makes newborns wiggle slightly as they continue to eat. "Across the ocean, there is an island that bathes in moonlight, continual twilight where all days and all nights come to rest. It is full of silver watered rivers and moonlit pools. It is the kingdom of Iowerth Rhudd Ddraig, the heir of High King Davydd." Edward the Red Dragon.
He moves his hand to the other child, nodding to Rhodri to join him. Twin kingly hands lie one upon the other. "There is another kingdom waiting, not far from here, my son," Rhodri speaks softly. "It is full of apples and sunlight as bright as the shine of your hair. Music and legends comprise the very air..."
"You, as the first, shall be given a guild," Davydd speaks. "The Order of the White Stag, named for you... Gwilym Gwyn Garw." William the White Stag.
By the time the pronouncements are done, both he and Rhodri show their emotion in tears rolling down their cheeks. And, as all things between them and now you and the boys you hold, one set of tears are crystal clear... the other set are red...
"Bastard," Fiona murmurs. She would lift a hand to touch a royal cheek, if her arms were not already occupied in supporting two royal infants. And she smiles under the kiss, and goes on smiling. "You missed all the screaming. Being late worked out for you, didn't it."
Her smile wobbles; it is softer now, tender, filled with such emotion, and love. Her hands curve against the backs of her sons' heads, cupping them gently to their feeding. But she doesn't interrupt, just listens (would you have thought it possible?) and remains where she is.
Fiona waits patiently for royal proclamations to roll out and echo through the floor and through the air, then speaks as well. "And," she tells the two infants, "don't be thinking that just because the two of you are princes and your fathers lavish you with such praise and titles, that you'll be getting away with much. They're full of nonsense, both of them, but I intend to knock at least a little bit of sense into you." She pulls her younger son away from her breast, arranging him against her shoulder while a nursemaid steps forward hurriedly to handle the other; it takes two hands to burp an infant, after all. "Two little princes, yes - sons of two kings, after all. But life won't ever be too easy for you. Considering who your parents are, poor mites, you won't let it be."
Fiona looks up with a smile, arms empty of her sons for the moment, and she crosses her wrists on her lap, under the pendulous breasts still full of milk. It is a witch-light smile, with her framed by the two nursemaids, the two chubby infants with their waving fists. "Some things," she says demurely, "were made very clear to me. You mightn't think so, but I had a surprising amount of time in which to think, while these two were struggling out of me. I will need to talk to both of you at length... and I can't guarantee you will be happy with what I have to say." Beware of new mothers. Their hormones are out of balance and they are as full of themselves, it seems, as they are no longer full of baby material.
"For now," Fiona closes her eyes, leaning back against the pillows, "I admit, I'm a little bit tired. Do you two want to hold your sons for a bit, though? A little bit of," her smile grows, turns into an ill-concealed grin, "male bonding? Or are you two Welsh gits too emotional to be trusted with the holding of babies?"
The maids are scandalized by the way she talks to you both. They will charitably forgive her for it, because she's just given birth - but you two know her too well. If anything, Fiona is being sweet...
"Yeah," it comes in quick stereo from both sides of you, the voices of two anxious fathers. With that tone that says: We've been waiting for the suckle-fest to end just to have the pleasure. They both stand. "If I hadn't been sailing a ship from my new country, I'd have been here. You don't hate me, do you?" Davydd looks suddenly concerned. "That I missed it?"
"Don't feel bad, da," Rhodri smirks as he takes his son from the nursemaid. His hand expertly rubs on his son's wee back, inspiring a belch that makes him grin like the devil. "I see he has his mother's lungs," he teases. "Besides," he continues to Davydd, "...I had to pick locks and duck under the door as a mouse just to see it. Our Lady was a true champion," he croons cradling the swaddled infant, carefully holding its little round, blond head. "She didn't curse me too much, though it is all my fault." He glances up, winking to his wife.
Davydd doesn't speak. He holds the infant, tiny in his arms, and he bends, kissing its tiny fists as it is handed to him post-belch. "We'll all sleep in here tonight," the high king whispers. "You'll get some much needed rest and we'll wake up with the boys." He glances to the nursemaids. "Bring the basinets here, and everything we'll need for the first night."
"You two can share the blame," Fiona says placidly, settling back as you both set things in motion. She has no need to move; all will be brought to her. Just as she wants it to be. "And it's good for you to have to work at it, Rhodri - things get to be too easy for you, and then you settle in to coast along, and that's when you run the most risk of losing everything."
Just as she nearly was lost...
She watches the nursemaids scurry, so like mice themselves in their white caps and grey gowns and white aprons, her hands folding loosely over her sore belly. She is in the center of the massive bed, her hair still spread out in a fanning starburst of waving locks. "I don't hate you. You have had your work to do - but that doesn't mean you're getting off freely, Davydd." You receive a smile that is more worrying than reassuring. She is maddening. She is doing it on purpose.
Glinting eyes and feline smile that expands by warm degrees as she watches her sons with their fathers - Fiona sighs, as if to relent. "But that can wait," she murmurs, "until later. For now, loves, pile on, why don't you? I'm really quite fagged out. I've got to sleep - it's easy for you, you haven't been squeezing out eighteen pounds of babies through your pelvis. They take after their das, really. Not at all after their mother..."
"They are plump," Davydd rumbles gently. "Plump Welsh princes both. And they'll be like their mother, I'm sure. You've a blond one at least," he points out, with a grin.
The bed becomes suddenly full as both husbands join you, slowly settling back with the babies cradled in their arms. They'll trade off in a bit, letting brothers bond and grandda and grandson get to know one another.
"Hmm... oes, we'll worry later. Tonight, you rest. Well... and nurse..." Davydd's voice rumbles again as his dark green eyes glance to your breasts. "Other than that, my wife, you do not move unless you must."
Rhodri leans over, brushing a kiss against your temple. "We'll handle everything else. It's the least we can do," he teases himself. "Yeah, we get all the fun. You'll learn about that later," the Oak King coos to his young son. Corrupting him already!
"Mmm," she sighs, the sound again contented as she sprawls against the profundity of pillows. "Brutes. Why did I marry Welshmen? Ah, well. In for a penny, in for a pound..."
And she lets out a little laugh. She's allowed to be joyful tonight. She's allowed to be triumphant. Isn't she?
Fiona pulls the sheets up to just barely cover her breasts, giving each of you a singularly demure look. "I'm going to enjoy driving you two mad while you can't do anything about it, you know." Her voice is a caress. "But for now, I think I'm going to dream of the day when it doesn't feel as if there's been a rugby match held inside of me." She accepts a glass goblet from one of the maidservants, draining it thirstily and letting it slip back onto the tray even as she slides down in the bed.
I feel ... as if I need to go someplace quiet ... and dark for a while ... so tired. It's a lazy murmured thought, the same low pitch and ebb as the sea. Her chest rises and falls, even as she falls into sleep. And after all, there are still babies and fathers, even if the queenly mother's reverted to being a sleeping girl...
Posted by rowan at November 05, 2005 08:38 PM
