He held his woman, this queen of rowdy London girls and uptown lordly daughters, until she fell into a good slumber. Kissing her on her forehead, Davydd began to unwind himself from her. But gently, slowly, as not to wake her.
     With silent steps, the king rounds the bed and peeks in on his slumbering boys. It brings a tilt to that smile. Iowerth and Gwilym. Above their heads, the king moves his hand, quietly charming their sleep to last, peacefully, restfully. Their mother could use it.
     Come to mention it, so could he...
     Quiet ticking of the door barely whispers as Davydd leaves, and the great king moves in his dark way from the main chamber to the antechamber. Nurses are nearby should the babies or the queen wake.
     Wake...
     The air moves behind and around him as he cuts through it. There is such power in his wake, that stride of Mars always madcap before is straight with purpose. And backed by something tremendous.
     Pistachio.
     His mind calls out for her as he strides down the hall. He can feel the sliding of his vipers through his flesh, distending and curving. He will not have to call more than once.

     Fiona sleeps without fitfulness, deeply asleep. Where she is, none can disturb her - not unless they have the thin and reedy cry of a babe. But you have seen to it that it shall not come to pass, haven't you? She remains unmoving save for the slow rise and fall of those milk-filled breasts, one blushing cheek pressed to her pillow where she had curled half-against you. Her hair spills away, rendering the whole thing with a touch of Leighton.
     Power...
     She is like her creator in that she cannot deny power its due. It compels her; it attracts her. Even without her awakening to men as Fiona before her, she responds to it without thinking.
     Now it makes her sit up in her bed, blank eyed and without outward emotion save for the jerking catch of her breath to the back of her throat, parting her lips. She drags herself away from the coverlets, smoothing out her gown - a cotton-like white affair with eyelet lace at the cuffs of the sleeves, at the neckline and draping over her shoulders and along her hems. Over this, a grey-green cloak that fastens with a golden wave clasp.
     Her hair is still untidy from her pillow; she hasn't noticed, yet, the nut-brown locks squiggling to ringlets at the ends, the nut-green of her eyes still slightly disoriented beneath the air of calm as her feet find the hallway. By the time that she rounds the corner, her usual air of competence covers anything, everything else. "Your majesty."
     That is all she says. You sent for her. She is aware of it, aware of you; and patently, it is upon her to do your bidding. Why else was she made, after all?

     He holds out his hand for you to rest yours lightly upon. His green eyes are so much darker than your own, the shadow of the leaf rather than a leaf captured in sunlight. "Your room is not far..." He supposes it, states it.
     And while you may be able to correct him with your chamber's geographical location, you can see in his eyes that you and he are going to go there...
     And then?
     Davydd will not tilt your head back here, he will not drink from your throat here. But he will drink. His eyes are already marking the spot. "Did I wake you?" comes the voice melodic and deep.

     It makes her nervous; can you feel it, communicating itself through faint tremors, like the precursor to an earthquake? But she answers readily enough, without protest. "No, your majesty," Pistachio responds as if resigned. "Not far at all. Her majesty the queen prefers me to remain nearby."
     The queen, my mother who is not my mother, and yet the only mother I have known. What must it have been like for others, who knew both mother and father and something other than a life sprung immediately to anticipated maturity, borne of years and experience of one's own?
     Her hand obediently rises as bidden, her gaze drops. Pistachio makes a quarter turn. "I was asleep," she says simply, moving to lead the way back towards her chamber. Then, perhaps the unexpected : "It is what most people do, this time of night."

     "Do you dream, dear Pistachio?" He leads you, but he also follows, for it is you who knows the way. Davydd makes no response to his odd hours. It's just one more thing on a list of oddities a mile long. He merely smiles.
     "Of your day...?" he continues, his fingers sliding against your own as you lead him. "Of the things you wish would happen?" What is it to sleep where others come to dream? Do these dreams go outward then, becoming real in the dreams of other things? So universes are born. Again and again and again.
     "Don't be afraid, Pistachio," Davydd whispers, lifting tremoring fingers to his mouth. He kisses the finger pads as you lead him to your room. "There's no reason to be..."

     "Everyone dreams." Pistachio says it in a flat, even tone of voice. "Anyone who says otherwise is lying."
     Her gaze flickers to you, then away again. She was not this ill at ease when you were naked and had her in your lap. "There is every reason to be afraid." Her room has been reached; she comes to a halt, looking not at you, nor at her hand in your grasp but at the door in front of her - at its seams, where it meets wall and floor and lintel. "On the other side of everything there is another story that can either be investigated, or left alone. People leave alone the stories they don't know the endings to. Don't you?"
     Her other hand lifts, the one not caught by yours, to the doorknob, and Pistachio adds, "But then, you know the ending to this one. It's me that doesn't." And she twists the knob and pushes so that the door swings open.

     "Sadly, not everyone does. But I do... sometimes. I do most of my dreaming when I am awake. Mostly, I find myself working." Davydd blinks at that -- an interesting point of fact. He works more than he dreams, but then his work is a dream of a kind.
     As you open the door, he holds it open for you, entering your chamber, closing the door behind you both. "I have an idea of the ending," Davydd's mouth quirks to the side as his voice murrs in his throat. "But it remains unwritten. A drink... for you ... and for me... something light and sweet. Or... hmmm... I shall leave it to you. Lady's Choice."
     He comes in, a glance given to your surroundings, and he removes his coat, letting it drape upon a chair. His shoes were removed previously -- no shoes in the queen's bed! -- so he moves silently in sock feet. A king besocked. "Do you want to know what I know ... of the story," Davydd adds, his lilting tone moving over the quiet timbre of his voice.

     She enters, her glance darting to you briefly, then sliding away. Slowly, she moves to sit on the edge of her bed, the covers still disorganized from her interrupted sleep. "I apologize for the disorderliness," Pistachio says politely. "I know that you insist upon things in their proper order, but I was not expecting."
     It is a reasonably-sized room. She is not in danger of going wanting - but the apology is needed, to an extent. She does not entertain here, it seems almost certain. There is the bed - medium-sized, more than large enough for her but not much more than that. It has a wooden headboard and footboard, both white. Her bedspread is white as well, with pale blue beneath that.
     There is a soft, overstuffed armchair, made of something like a cross between leather and fur. It is pulled near to the fire, and a stack of books is next to it, one open in the chair with a pillow to hold it from closing.
     The dresser is next to the window, and the window overlooks the sea. Gauze curtains flutter in the breeze off the water; the window's cracked ajar. More books proliferate on top of the dresser, a brush and mirror in between twin piles, and the writing desk has still more books. It is not yet a maze to confuse your footsteps - but it could get there, in time.
     "If you mean to test my bravery, I don't know if I am one who wants to see my death approaching or not. I don't try to find out things before they happen - I don't read the end of a book before I read the beginning." Pistachio's hands separate and spread, and she leans them to either side of her and leans herself slightly back as she looks at you. "What is it that you wish me to do for you, your majesty? You know that I am yours to command."

     "Join me," he says simply, easily. He knows you will do so, and if you do not... well, still you will join him. That is how this works. Davydd takes a seat on the overstuffed armchair, and he lords over it no matter how overstuffed it is.
     His legs widen, relaxing and his hands slap on them. Come here to me my little chickadee! "I promise I won't kill you," he chuckles, tickled by the idea of life and death suddenly, or that you could think he would do such a thing.
     "You do not want a drink?" He looks around, glancing here and there, and then finally looking to you (as you are no doubt on your way over). Davydd tilts his head, looking at you. "Take your throne, Princess Pistachio," and with a wave, he gestures to his lap.
     At least this time it's clothed...

     There's a moment when she looks almost like her mother-creator, a mulish obstinacy combined with a look of the schoolroom. You almost expect to hear her say 'I've just brushed my teeth, thank you' or something to that effect. But Pistachio rises to her feet as smoothly as any fairy girl or nymph might, crossing to you. "I am pleased to have your majesty's reassurance on that salient point. Though in fact, my life is not as expensive as some things."
     Her virtue, perhaps? She watches you as if expecting you to bite (if she only had guessed) but it is in fact the title you gift her with that makes her blush. She eases herself down against your knees as cautiously as if she were in danger of treading on a landmine. "I have no such title, your majesty," she says austerely, catching herself in mid-blush. She folds her hands in her lap, and green eyes lift to green eyes. Her eyebrows arch, pointedly.
     It is a look which says loudly : And now?

     And now...
     "I am High King Davydd. If I want to make you a princess, Lady Pistachio, why then... I do believe I have the authority," he teases you, a grin perched upon his mouth as you blush. You blush. But can you smile?
     Perhaps...
     You sit so demurely, like a little kitten on his lap, but he's not here for demure. A tilting of his knees and the reaching of his hands and you are pulled to a much more intimate nearness, and fully surrounded by his arms. Davydd reaches up, moving your hair aside and over your shoulder.
     "You are pleased," he murmurs. "What else pleases you, Princess Pistachio?" he lightly remarks. His hand moves again, the back of his fingers lightly brushing against your neck.

     "As you wish, your majesty." The colour has resurfaced, and she folds her hands together tightly. She will not argue with you, unlike your wife. Not yet, anyway.
     You tip her back, and she almost jumps. You can hear the leap in her pulse, the startlement, the subdued violence of her surprise at the following murmur and the touch to her neck. "I ... what is it that you wish me to say?" Pistachio manages that much. She holds herself still, not trying to struggle off your lap through that stillness.
     "I do not know what pleases me. I would not know how to be a princess. I do not wish to displease you, but I also would not wish to displease her majesty." For her, it is a long speech. Pistachio turns her head to look at the coals lying in the grate, colour still recklessly high. "I am not given to guesses and taking chances, your majesty. I do not know how."

     You may not know what pleases you, but he knows what pleases him. His gaze rests on your face, his hand brushing your hair. "If you please me, how could you be displeasing her?"
     Davydd does not wait for your opinion -- though you, like your mother-creator, never run short of opinions. The hand that brushed back your hair, that caressed your neck, tilts your chin and brings your mouth to his.
     Just because one is born to be a courtesan does not mean one has to like it. One does, however, have to endure it...
     He parts your mouth as he wishes, tastes it -- will you taste of pistachios, Pistachio? There is clove and cinnamon in the taste of his own mouth, some headiness of wine that makes a partner drunk, and beneath that, lingering in the shadows of the suckle of his mouth, the prickles of holly leaves.

     There are many things she could have said, had you not stopped her mouth with yours. Many things, including, perhaps 'this, to begin with'.
     There is again that nervous start to her, the tremor of a girl. And she tastes... of many things, lyrically combined.
     Of nuts and clay and sweet dark earth,
     Of flowers that bud in spring;
     Of soft leaves with sunlight on them,
     And of the unconsciousness of the thing...
     And over all of that, there is something familiar to her taste. The lurking hint of it that you have seen out of her eyes, in her carriage, in the way she moves - her essence is not entirely unknown to you. How could it be? For her Self is wrapped around that familiar core. She was birthed out of earth and blood - pistachios, and a queen's blood. As Orange was familiar, so is she...

     The world ends and begins here. The source of all things is in the kiss of the Holly King. A hand in your hair tips back your head. Your mouth is freed, but your neck is taken instead. A ravenous kiss is placed at the heart of it and a regal tongue draws a crackling line of power from jugular to the crook.
     He knows the taste of your skin. You were designed upon Her Template, as those girls with the red lit lamps in the village. Davydd closes his eyes, his mouth latching onto your skin, clamping strongly as lengthening vipers pierce the soft skin.
     Around you, tightening, the coils of the dragon king draw you against him -- his thick arms as unrelenting as his mouth. Davydd breathes at your skin, not because he needs to but out of the pleasure of what he tastes.
     For you... to feel the Holly King taking your Life from you.... your entire life flashes before your eyes, like divination in a candle's flickering flame. Pictures of What Has Been. Pictures of What Still Might Be. With this, intense pleasure, erotic. And certainly, there are images plenty of that...
     For him?
     It is magical essence -- all blood is, to a certain extent -- but here it is different. It is not mortal, even as he is not. And so, his arms begin to go lax as his throat powerfully swallows the last draught. His mouth moves against your skin, letting the blood drip only to be captured by the swath of his tongue an instant later.
     And then the wounds are healed...
     The pain recedes...
     Davydd relaxes back against the back of the sofa, his body heavy...

     Her mouth is freed just in time. She has need of her mouth in order to breathe, and you can feel her pulse quicken at the touch of your lips, at the touch of your tongue. Even though she does not struggle; she does not try to fight you off. A small sound, no more than a whimper, and she is almost limp.
     The taste is so familiar, and yet not. Even as they all are formed upon that template, they all are different. Orange was a sensual creature, filled with knowledge and ripeness and merriment; Fiona's memories of such given over to the task of creating such a being. But Pistachio...
     In Pistachio are contained the dreams of a schoolgirl, unbudded but slowly blossoming. This pleasure - these feelings - this experience, it is like exposing her to a hothouse. She curls in your lap, throat still bared, eyes half-closed and unseeing of anything which you have not put before her.
     She is unmoving, save for the slight shivering she can't seem to stop. She leans against you, eyes still sightless, still mired in something. Pistachio's tongue passes over her lips, and then she speaks. "This isn't real. Is it." Abruptly, she sits up, then gasps as she sways. It's difficult even for those who are not mortal to make such sudden movements after blood loss. One hand goes to her forehead; the other, to the side of her neck.
     "I don't understand."

     Your voice sounds far away. Each little syllable like a drop of water in a deep well. By the final echo, bronze lashes flicker then open, revealing two worlds, new worlds, reflected in his eyes. An island with terraced gardens, leading into forests so thick they could constitute jungles. Waterfalls fall where the light reflects off of his irises. It is a world without a sun.
     "The kiss was real... careful now," his voice is deep, earthy, but it lifts a little louder than the first murmur of it as you start to sway. His hand is there, he balances you. "And the bite... was real. I was really hungry." A fiery eyebrow cocks up at his own joke.
     "I thought she would have... briefed you on what pleases me." Tsk. He will have to instruct Fiona on how to make gifts for a vampire husband. A gentle hand pats your side. "I am sorry I confused you. I ... require blood. It sustains me."

     "I wasn't talking about that." Pistachio almost snaps it. It's the first time you've seen her this worked up. "I meant..." She shakes her head, looking down to the coals in the fireplace again, and closes her eyes.
     Better by far than meeting your gaze. She could be lost there and never find her way out.
     "I apologize," Pistachio says formally, as if trying to gather her defenses. "I meant no offense, your majesty. I hope that my blood was of sufficient flavour and quantity for your needs." If it weren't for her perch upon your lap and the continued hint of a blush that reddens her cheeks, you would think she were apologizing for insufficient wine at dinner.

     "Well, what did you mean then?" Now he smiles, for you are blushing. "I guess I should know better by now than to put words in a woman's mouth. Come, you can tell me?" Davydd leans in. "And you were very filling," he adds on. "You taste like a harvest banquet. What's not to like about that?"
     His hand rests upon your thigh, his other arm around you still, balancing you. Able to scoop you back against him at any moment. "So... what's the matter, Princess Pistachio?"

     "I do not know how to be a princess." It isn't the answer to your question - or perhaps it is. "And my being here would not please her majesty." Slender fingers knot and unknot nervously, her pulse again picking up for a moment; a little skip of uncertainty as you balance her.
     I should not be here...
     It is a dilemma. She was made as a gift to you - to serve you as you wish. But she knows her creator's heart (and how many creatures can say thus and be telling the truth) - it is a difficult place to be, and yet be a girl. Something must change.
     "I don't love you." How often have women told you that? But she isn't lying. She looks up, meeting your dark green wilds with her own leaf green nature. "She made me, but I did not - inherit that from her. You ought to know that, in fairness, your majesty."

     His eyebrows cock upwards. "Who said anything about love? I only wanted dinner." He smiles, patting your thigh again. "It's alright, Pistachio," the expression, while amused, is also sympathetic. "Do not worry about love. I do not love you, and I know you are not her. If she were not nursing my son and grandson, I would not be here. You can stand if you want. I'm done."
     Davydd looks to you as he moves his arms away, allowing you the space to move from his lap. "Don't be worried, Pistachio. She won't be angry with you. You've done nothing apart from what you were asked to do. Not even asked," he smirks. "So don't worry, yeah?"

     "Oh." There is absolutely no way to say that without it coming out sounding flat. Pistachio doesn't deflate, quite, but it's hard not to feel a little foolish after having been so spinsterish and Victorian. She carefully slides from your lap, unable to dispel the colour flooding her cheeks - in embarrassment, now. Quickly, she turns away. "Of course."
     She pulls herself upright, and with a touch of the grand dame (though still without looking at you), Pistachio inquires aloofly, "Will there be anything else this evening, then, your majesty? Your needs having been fulfilled. If not, I ought to resume my other duties."

     Davydd exhales as he rises. Still a winner with the ladies, eh Llywelyn? No amount of killing yourself could work that particular knot free. The corners of his mouth quirk upward at his thoughts. "No, Pistachio... there is nothing else...I'll leave you to it, then..."
     No drinks, no dinner, not even an invitation to a dance! Just a grab, a fondle and a bite. Some romance!
     "Have a good night, go back to sleep," Davydd murmurs. He's at the door, opening it to see himself out. "Sweet dreams, hmm?" With that, the king bids good night with the soft sound of the closing door.

     "Yes, your majesty." She doesn't turn to watch you depart. But you know better, now. She is not unfeeling or unmoved. The crimson in her cheeks gives lie to that. "Thank you for your courtesy. I am sure I will sleep well."
     Can you tell a lie when it's told to you? She won't be going back to sleep. She'll wander the palace until dawn. What her resolve will lead her to, even she doesn't know.
     Or perhaps this will be the night that her resolve finally breaks. Everyone has their bridges. Maybe you will inadvertently be Pistachio's.
     The door closes behind you, and she stands there, palms gentle on the surface of some leatherbound old book. It's not until the door closes that her hands tighten into fists like the snapping of a turtle's beak on some unfortunate fly.

Posted by rowan at November 08, 2005 09:45 PM