Though it is one of the larger rooms in the castle, the ballroom is Davydd's little sanctuary. Soon, the instruments (all but the piano) will be cleared away and dancing will ensue. But for now, it is one of the few rooms that has yet to be tossed into a total uproar of chaotic wedding activity...
     Music is his meditation. It always has been, it always will be. When he is upset, it is there. When he loves, it is there. When he is angry, it is there. When he simply needs peace and quiet, always it is there.
     Dressed in black wool trousers and a white button down shirt, he looks half way formal tonight. His copper-bronze hair is in that professorish cut, let to go in waves where it will, layered to keep the curls at bay. The suit's coat lies on the piano bench, containing the cigarettes he will continue to smoke, and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to reveal those amazing tattoos on his forearms and wrists.
     Davydd composes tonight. On the table, a quill moves upon paper transcribing the bars and the notes, the measure and the tempo of this sweet melody. Something for his lady fair. Something he thinks of when he is with her. Something she tastes of, smells of.

     Perfect moments of peace are rare and hard to come by. They are easily broken; fragile, like soap bubbles. And like soap bubbles, they can't possibly last. Today's soap bubble seems destined to be broken by someone in specific; an elegantly sculpted woman whose blonde hair owes much to an expensive hairdresser and less and less to nature.
     Which isn't to say that she is unattractive; Fiona certainly owes a certain amount to her mother there. However, where Fiona's features are more classically British, Mara's features are more European, a touch of the Slavic dragging at the corners of her eyes, lifting her cheekbones until you could grate cheese on them. Genetics are aided by style and possibly the touch of the surgeon's knife to reduce wrinkling and spotting and all the other signs of age, and her clothing - a cashmere shawl over black matronly dress with pearls - must have cost plenty.
     "Have you seen my daughter." It isn't a question and it's asked less than it is demanded, dissatisfaction pulling at the corners of her mouth, reducing her attractiveness and her grace. "I am trying to find Fiona, though I don't imagine you know where she is."

     At the first sound of your steps, the quill on the table dropped idle, as if it has something to hide. But the sweet sounds of the melody continue on. Drifting notes, a minor fall, a major lift hold a bittersweetness. Love is like that. It is joy, it is pain.
     Glancing up, Davydd looks past the antique grand piano and the flowers from the garden that are on display over its shiny black surface to see the woman enter. "I have not seen her yet this evening," his accent is resolutely of this land (as are his Brythonic features), the trilling Rs and the lilting consonants, "...actually, no. But I heard a rumor she was in the garden..."
     He rises after a moment. A huge figure in fine clothes. "I'm Davydd ap Owain. I don't believe we have had the pleasure. I'm just in from London...enjoying Powis so far?"

     "Mara Arundel." She says it less as if it is a pleasure than a duty, and a grudging one at that, looking at you and then at your hands with haughty, upraised eyebrows. "...Fiona's mother," she adds pointedly, as if the point needs to be made. Her accent is English, uppercrust - relentlessly so. Only the very keen ear indeed can hear the softened undertones beneath it of Belgian French, the language of her childhood.
     "It's alright, I suppose," Mara continues resentfully, a hand lifting to touch to her hair. "It's far too big, of course. Fiona will never be able to keep up with it. She couldn't even make her own bed most mornings, I can't see her keeping on top of a kitchen staff, let alone the staff of a place like this. God knows," her voice trails off to a lower tone, "but then, it isn't exactly likely to last, now is it."

     "What," he rattles obtusely, "...the castle? I wouldn't worry about it lasting, Lady Arundel. It was here before England was England." There is something twinkling in those eyes as he gestures for you to have a seat if you like. Davydd leaves the piano for the sofa.
     "Rather bleak notion on your daughter's marriage, don't you think?" he offers with a bland look, the slight quirk of fiery eyebrows. "When it is full of the family, it is barely big enough," he soldiers on, despite you and your attitude. His large form takes up the whole of the chair that endeavors to hold him.
     Davydd settles back, watching The Mother in her defensiveness hold her position. "Well, too big or no, I hope you enjoy the time and the gardens. Hard to argue about those..." His mouth cuts a sudden smile.

     You receive a sharp look, even though she accepts your offer of a seat. "It isn't the castle I'm referring to, no," Mara retorts. "The marriage. He's far too good for her," she adds with a sniff, "and mark my words, he'll realize it sooner rather than later. I only hope she doesn't rush into anything foolish - though with Fiona, that's an impossible hope."
     "Oh, the gardens. The gardens are rather nice," Mara concedes, as if giving away a valuable point. "Though I do hope you won't let her change gardeners on you. It's very kind of your family to put up with all this fuss, I must say." She gives you another look, a piercing one, and for a moment, you see her as she must have been as a child; tiny, fragile, in poor health. All dark eyes and hollow cheekbones, all too aware of the things under the bed not being where real nightmares spring from. But she's continuing on with a smooth comment.
     "How exactly are you related to his lordship, by the way? I don't believe that Fiona ever said."

     "You know, it's one thing to have doubt in your children and the world they face," Davydd looks to his hands, and then to you. Your looks are sharp; his are blunt as Welsh oaks. "It's another to wish ill on what they do. Who they love. She's marrying well. She seems happy. He's a good man. What else could you possibly ever want for her? Your job is done, it was done well. Mostly, that happens despite our best efforts."
     "Still," he doesn't give you much of a chance to butt in, "...children make their way, don't they. They leave. That's what they are supposed to do. And we... parents... are supposed to realize this, rejoice and watch them live and learn." Davydd frowns a touch, his gaze not moving from you.
     "It's no fuss for us, Lady Arundel. We love Fiona. The families love her. She's a part of it, as easy as that." Large shoulders roll. In the motion, the white fabric of his shirt pulls against his form. There is more blue beneath the white.
     "The family's quite large, the Llywelyns, Herberts and Morgans. I'm a Llywelyn. A distant relative, let's say." He smiles at that. "We use Uncle Davydd around here... it doesn't much matter if I'm brother, father, cousin or, indeed, an uncle." Another shrug. "And the gardens are supported by the Crown, mam. It's the one concession we have made."

     "If I have doubts about Fiona, it's with good reason. I suppose you think that you know my daughter better than I do?" The barbed hostility is cool, glacial; you could flake ice off her words into a glass for a drink. "Her father and I have done our best by her, though, and it will be a relief if her new husband can get her to settle down a bit."
     Your words do nothing to placate her; rather, the opposite. She takes refuge behind her defensiveness, large, pellucid olive eyes dark and stormy as she regards you. "Well! It seems at least there will be plenty of people around," Mara murmurs acidly. "I suppose that's a blessing, at least. So you've no idea where Fiona or her father might be?"

     "I didn't house her in my uterus, no... I don't know her better than you do," he blithely replies. "Maybe it's why I don't pass judgment on her. You have ...whatever it is you have with her. I get to love her. That's enough for me. I count myself blessed in that."
     With an exhale, Davydd rises. "You can feel whatever it is you feel, Lady Arundel. I merely ask that... when in my presence... if you haven't anything kind to say... don't speak. I would look to the gardens if I were you." He pauses. Then smiles suddenly. "Of course, she could be in one of the many bedchambers having pre-marital relations. Romance is in the air, and the night is young..."
     He leaves the musical transcriptions on the table and heads back to the piano. He does not return to the bench, but rather lifts his jacket and retrieves cigarettes and lighter. "Good luck in your search," Davydd says congenially, but he's not sticking around.
     Nor does he say it was a pleasure. He's no liar...

     A touch of colour enters her face, but she isn't one to show hurt; instead, she simply retreats further behind her mask. "I imagine," Mara says spitefully, "that you must have better things to do, indeed. Good evening to you." Rather than allow you to leave to get away from her, she rises with surprising grace for her age; she isn't unsteady on her pins in the slightest. She makes her way to the doors with head raised high, those classic cheekbones in profile.
     "If you should run into Fiona before I do, I would appreciate it if you would tell her that I am looking for her. And please tell her, no more last minute additions to the guest list; the reception will be quite outrageous enough as it is."
     Though Lady Arundel does not slam the doors behind her, there is a finality to her departure, as if by her leaving, she somehow contrives to slam the very air in her passage...

     "Bloody hell, that's an unfortunate woman," Davydd mutters to no one in particular. Just himself and the inanimate air. "Well," he exhales, and he sits back on the bench after all, returning to his song.
     Your mother is looking for you... where are you... ?
     Fingers glance over the blacks and whites, music created. The quill lifts once more and prepares to write. Words he does not speak but rather feel are jotted down amid the notes, a sudden break in music for a poem.
     I'd avoid her if I were you...

Posted by rowan at April 26, 2006 12:25 AM