She's been back for almost two weeks, and oh, but she's been busy. Writing thank you notes, sending honeymoon pictures, trying like crazy to get things settled back into something approximating routine. It doesn't help with how moody she's been this week, and today in particular, everything has conspired to go wrong. Even her trip to her own castle has gone awry...
     That was a situation and a half. Fiona had sat there, upon her throne, being frozenly polite to visiting nobility and royalty. And all the while, in the back of her mind, tidbits of information were to her revealed until suddenly she stood bolt upright, all colour drained from her face.
     "I beg pardon, your majesty," Fiona told the Queen of the Winter Diamond sweetly and evenly, "but I think I heard something on one of my borders. Shall we continue this later? Oh, good. I'm so glad you understand." A warm and gentle smile offered, and then -
     And then she was back in London. Which is where she now sits, on your very own couch, waiting for you to get in, watching the moon rise over the river.
     She is in jeans and a velvet blouse of bright pink, blue ribbons wound through her hair. Arranged on the seat next to her are a handful of items which keep flickering in and out of existence, as if indicative of her agitated state. A sword; a butterfly knife; brass knuckles; a box of tissues. The last doesn't flicker quite so much, and there's crumpled used tissues balled up around her bare feet.
     Welcome home, Davy...

     There's a manly whistle at the door, a snippet of a song as he takes out his keys and unlocks the door. One of the locks isn't locked. You hear him pause and then he comes in. The look is half expecting to find you and half expecting to find some armed robber or sommat.
     But it's you -- thank goodness. Davydd's all smiles. "Hey there, sweetheart. I wasn't expecting to see you for a bit. How are you?" He turns, locking the locks again. Vampires are rather paranoid about their security. Keys are tossed on the kitchen island. He looks over to you as he starts coming out of his suit's coat.
     He's dressed quite posh tonight. Black suit, white button-down shirt, with the top two buttons unfastened and no tie. His hair is short again, going this way and that way in a modern muss with a slight Caesar edge.

     She isn't smiling, even though her heart skips a beat for the sight of you. Damn you. How dare you be so handsome? How dare she be so susceptible? The box of tissues falls to the floor along with a crumpled heap of used ones as she stands up, and for the moment, she impales you only with her reproachful look, her pout.
     Fiona takes a shallow, sobbing little breath. "How could you, Davydd? Why? Why did you do this?" She can't finish it; she twists to the side, rubbing her wrist over her eyes. "D-damn it," she mutters in a choked voice. "I - I didn't want..."
     She didn't want to just blurt it out like that. But it came out, and now she's stuck with it, tears running down her face. "How do you think I am!"

     Quick vampire reflexes catch the falling of the tissues with his gaze -- to him they seem to float slowly to the floor. Then his dark green eyes flicker up to your face. Fiery eyebrows knit together suddenly. What did I do?
     "What's the matter?" He heads toward the sitting area, head tilting to keep contact with your eyes. "Did I forget something? Not your birthday, I know that. What's this then?" his earthy voice is soft on that.
     No, he doesn't know what you're talking about. But you're clearly quite upset.
     He sets his suit jacket on the back of one of the easy chairs and starts unbuttoning the cuffs of his white shirt to roll up the sleeves.

     Upset is perhaps not the word. The weapons disappear, only because she's already on her feet. Well - they disappear, but the sword reappears in her hands, and she moves towards you more clumsily than usual. "What do you MEAN, what did you do!"
     The sword is swung. It doesn't come close enough to hit you, but it's still closer than is comfortable. Fiona's yelling now, for good measure, tears giving way to anger. "How many times, Davydd! How many fucking times has it been!"
     The sword is swung again, and this time, if you were to hold absolutely still, it'd skewer you like a piece of meat right through the middle. "How many WHORES, Davydd!" She is seeing a crimson haze of rage and pain. Tears are again falling from her eyes, rolling fatly down her cheeks as she bursts into tears on the word whores.
     It's good Fiona didn't pick today to wear heels, isn't it?

     Oh shite.
     That's the look on his face as you come at him with a sword. He can disarm you -- he's not worried about that -- but he doesn't want you to hurt yourself. "Now, sweetheart... put the sword away and let's talk about this rationally..."
     This isn't the first time in his life he's had to say that to a woman...
     "There was just the one whore... and I only visited her the one time." One whore, but who knows how many other regular women, right? "It was a moment of weakness. I'm a man, sweetheart," his hands are up like a white flag. He doesn't want to have to disarm you. Someone could get hurt.
     "Now, put the sword down, love," his hands gesture slowly downward. "And let's talk about it... hmm? I know you're upset. Let's not do anything rash... like impaling..."

     "Oh, so it's alright if you don't have to PAY for it?" The sword is thrust at you again. It serves you right for teaching her anything, doesn't it? It catches almost at your sleeve, and she takes a step forward, ranting.
     "How many other women, Davydd? How many?" The pain is in her eyes, anguish in her expression; and that, apparently, does it. Her hands are trembling too much, now, and the sword crashes to the floor as Fiona turns abruptly away from you, choked up with a sob. "H-how long has it been going on?"
     Her shoulders are hunched, tight. She buries her face in her hands, swaying, looking about to collapse; but somehow she doesn't. "W-when were you going to tell me I'm not good enough?"

     He takes the sword as it falls, and he immediately inspects his sleeve. That's not important right now -- he has to tell his vampire mind that now is not the time. Pausing, he tosses the sword in the sink with a loud clatter.
     "I've been faithful, Fiona," he sighs, raking a hand through his hair as he comes over to you. He doesn't worry about getting kicked or slapped. His hands come to you and he braces you through your crying fit. "Well, apart from the whore. And I paid her, as if that makes a difference. I chose one of your little puppets, I figured ... of anything or one you'd find that safe. Isn't that the reason you made them in the first place?" Or was that just Pistachio?
     "Look, honey," he croons, his arms seeking to go around you and draw you do him. "It was two weeks ago. It was one time, I paid her and it was done. And you were on my mind the whole time. It was ... fifteen minutes, tops... of thrusting in and out and some wiggling about and that was that. And there have been no other women. That I promise you."
     He goes to 'shh' the tears away. "Sweetheart, come on," that earthy voice is quiet and soothing. "It was a two copper whore in a small whorehouse. I didn't even pay her with my money. I gambled for four hours and paid her with the money I won off the pirate. She meant nothing...I promise you that. For a night, I closed my eyes and pretended another woman was you. I don't do well when you're away, you know." He tries to kiss the back of your head, to bury himself in your hair. "Two weeks without you was just... murder..."
     "If it makes you feel better," he adds, "...she told me I needed to pace myself, I finished so quickly. I don't think she was impressed..."

     "I love you. And you're such a bastard to me." Fiona snivels it, then turns, squirming - trying to get away from you, then apparently changing her mind and hurling herself against your chest with a heavy thump. "You ... you don't ... augh!"
     She sniffles, trembling, leaning up against you. "They're my spies, you idiot! I don't - they weren't - Pistachio was for you in case you needed to eat her. The rest ... they're my eyes and ears, they're how I know what's going on in my kingdom and wherever! They aren't even puppets. They're their own persons, I just can - jack in and find out what they've seen, what they know. Most of them don't even know who I am."
     Fiona is sniffling now, rather than sobbing, clinging onto you as if afraid you're going to just vanish. "I love you so much, Davydd. Why couldn't just - why couldn't you just tell me you needed me? Don't you understand?" She whimpers, ducking her head - and then she attempts to suddenly head-butt you in the breadbasket. "You - you - you JERK!"

     Enough is enough. Davydd holds you still, ducking away from the head-butt -- it's not that hard, your shorter than he is. "Well, then you had to know she fulfilled a base need and nothing else. My head was full of you. I could smell your skin, I could feel you under me, but you were five-thousand and more miles away. What would you have done in India... on your honeymoon? Hmm? You were with your husband having a much needed vacation. And I needed to clear my head."
     Literally...
     Holding you closely, firmly, Davydd looks at you. "I didn't go find some ex-girlfriend and fuck her. I paid for fifteen minutes of release. That's all. For fuck's sake, I didn't even remember it. Shouldn't that tell you something? Come on, baban," baby in Welsh, he always resorts to that when he's in trouble -- or when he is so far inside you he can't think. "I paid for sex... paid! A king!"
     He tries to smile, to get you to smile. "What could she possibly mean? She was a warm hole. I closed my eyes and thought of you. It was you I wanted..."

     She looks up at you, lower lip trembling, eyelashes wet and sticky with her tears. "Prove it," Fiona finally tells you sulkily, thrusting her chest towards you and folding her arms over her chest. "Prove it was just a base need, that I'm the one you really want."
     She is egging you on, daring you, glowering at you with one blue ribbon dangling almost completely out of her hair. Part of her is tempted to go Don't you baby' me! but at the same time, there is a part of her which responds to it. She likes being called that; if you but knew how much, she'd be in trouble. "So you're a king and you paid for sex. So what? You never pay ME for sex." And if you tried, you'd be in more trouble than you are now, even.
     "I love you, Davy," and she's trembling again, biting her lower lip and blinking to hold back the tears. "I love you so fucking much. Why couldn't you wait? It was only two weeks!"

     Davydd exhales, a hand patting you. "There's no good answer for that, or at least not one any woman could ever understand." Since you seem to be out of the causing-physical-harm portion of the argument, he steps away, heading for his bar and a bottle of bourbon. He is quiet as he pours himself a glass. A triple.
     "I couldn't wait... and my hand wasn't doing the trick. You know, you were off having god knows what sort of sex," he waves his hand at that, he doesn't want to hear about i. "And it was making me crazy you were so far away. I'm not looking forward to you going on tour, by the way. Who's going to take care of me for six months out of the year? How the fuck is that ever going to work?"
     He takes a swallow of the bourbon, pivoting around to face you again. "And you're my wife. I don't pay you in money. Love is the compensation." Exhaling again, Davydd crosses over to a chair and plops down into it. "I'm sorry I couldn't wait. I'm sorry I fucked someone else,.."
     "I love you too," he says, looking at you. "When you calm down, you'll remember that. And maybe tomorrow night we can prove it." He takes another swallow of the bourbon.

     "...I don't want to wait until tomorrow night." Fiona pouts at you, arms folded tightly over her chest, shoulders hunched. "What's wrong with me tonight? You'd rather cuddle a bottle of bourbon than cuddle me?"
     You can't win, can you? She moves closer to you, slowly. "I love you, Davy. I miss you. I want to be with you. I - I don't care about anything, just - I'll do whatever you want, okay? Just don't leave me." She sniffs, then abruptly, sits down on the floor.
     "I'm ... I don't know what's going to happen with the music," Fiona mumbles, looking down at the floor. "I don't ... really ... I like the idea, but ... there's something else which ... I want more, now." And it embarrasses her; you can see the blush moving up into her face. She looks down and away. "Take me to bed," she demands. "I need you."

     "Of course I'm not going to leave you, honey." He doesn't laugh -- he knows it's a great fear of yours. Taking another swallow of the bourbon, he sets the glass aside and rises with a groan. He offers you a hand to lift you up.
     He's not feeling particularly sexy. Having swords swing at him sort of kills the mood. And nearly killed his shirt! Not to mention him. But he stands there all the same, lifting you up gently by a hand.
     "I told you when I met you that I'm a wretched man," he murmurs. "And I do bad things. Stupid things even. Hurtful things. I'm sorry, darlin'..." Once you're standing, he scoops you up in his strong arms, able to carry you easily.
     "Do you forgive me for being a wretched man? This man... is still in love with you. Very much. He's just ... weak."

     "Stupid." Fiona sniffles, leaning into you. Tears trickle down her face and now, down the back of your neck. Her arms wind around you, and if you needed to breathe, well, you'd be i trouble. "Don't you listen when I talk? Where would I be, without you? Where would I go?"
     She wipes her eyes on your shoulder - this shirt'll definitely have seen better days. Gulping for air, she then sighs. "Davy," she murmurs against your ear. "My Davy, I'd be lost without you. I'd still be wandering in London. I'd be all alone - I couldn't get out of myself enough to love anyone, if it weren't for you."
     A hand fists in your hair, tugging, and she lifts her face to look you in the eye. "You're my king," Fiona tells you, softly, accusingly. "All I do is dream of the night you'll come to me and cover me and tell me it's time. I want that so much. I shouldn't, it hasn't been that long, has it? Eighteen years by one clock and only six months by another. Why do I want it? I'm a modern girl, aren't I? Why is it that I can't wait for you to fill my belly again, see myself getting all soft and round and fluffy?"
     Fluffy is hurled at you like a dirty word, and her arms go round your neck again, tightly. She buries her face in your shoulder, trembling like a little bird.

     Don't you just feel like a bastard...
     He makes the soothing sounds he's made to the boys a thousand times -- he can't now, of course, they're grown men -- and his strong arms hold you tightly as he walks you to the bed. He has to kick his door open, and kick it closed, with you crawling on him, scaling him like a frightened cat.
     "You want it because we're in love," he says, "... we love each other and that's what many people do when they're in love. They want to people the world with it, like building a love army. Baban," he sighs, "...I'm sorry. It's alright now," he holds you to him in his dark bedroom. He keeps it dark -- no candles, no lighting of any kind. No windows in this room to disturb his rests with death-by-sunlight.
     With a hug, he lowers you to the bed, coming up right along with you, clothes and all. "I don't know where either of us'd be, to tell you the Gods' truth," he murmurs. "I'd still be wanderin' around aimlessly. I don't want to think about it." He comes to lie upon his side, facing you. He lies quite close to you, close enough that you might pick out some of his features in the darkness. He strokes your face with his hand, wiping away tears.
     "I am your king, and your husband. That's not changed. You're still the only woman I love, have loved properly. That's not changed. We're not on such shaky footing that this," the whore, "... changes anything. Please believe that. I missed you, too much. And I'm sorry." Cradling your face with his hands, Davydd leans in to kiss you. It is a soft thing, that kiss. While not tentative, it is careful. Are you ready to be kissed by these lips?
     "I know, the passing of time is a strange thing," he murmurs, "...between Here and There. It is timeless, in truth, but here we mark it in days," another kiss, "...and seasons," and another, "...and years." His mouth parts your own, suckling with the pricking of life and death -- his soft mouth and the sharp edges of his fangs. "But it is sharp, time," he continues to whisper between kisses placed, taken, suckled and given. "It strikes at our hearts with all we cannot do, be, go. It parts lovers and friends. Families. But we hold Time in our hands when we hold our own children."
     It is not time for him to cover you, to tell you to make way for him and receive his child. That was not the agreement, and the agreement must be maintained or all balance will be lost. But it is tempting.
     Stroking your face again, Davydd whispers: "I love you. Do you believe me?" His hand starts to lower, brushing your hair away from your neck. There follows the thudding of his shoes as he pries them off. They fall off the edge of the bed and onto the floor. "I missed you, girl."
     And maybe you can begin to feel how much. In the darkness of the room, you cannot see much, but the air tightens, grabbing you like clinging vines. You're in the brambles of his bed, where few other than you would survive. "It wasn't enough to think of you," his mouth grazes your face, your ear.
     He begins crawling out of his shirt. Worse for the wear, indeed, as buttons aren't unbuttoned but rather popped free as he twists out of it. A flicker of white covers you like a ghost as his shirt is tossed over you. It smells of him -- bourbon and cigarettes and something that is just definable as Davydd. "I need you. You are all that fulfills me. I need your laughter, your light. I need your body, your blood. Forgive me," Davydd whispers, his hands going to your own clothing.

     You lay her down on your bed, and she curls in against you, touching your skin where she can. She doesn't mind the darkness, it seems. She knows it's you, after all; this darkness is comforting, comfortable. Whatever lurks in the unknown of it, you are there. You will protect her ... right?
     You kiss her, and she kisses back eagerly, fastening onto that touch, that contact. Lips part under yours, and she presses closer, a strangled sob escaping her in breathlessness. She is listening to your words, needful of your touch.
     "I love you, Davy. I believe you. I just ... I ... it hurt," Fiona whispers to you, wrapping your shirt around herself as if it can somehow shut out the hurts of two worlds. "I felt sick. As if someone had stuck a blunt knife into my chest, into my heart, and twisted. I wanted to throw up. I did, a little. And ... I didn't know what to do."
     You receive such a lost look, hopeless, heartsick in that moment of remembered heartbreak. "I'm not mad at you, Davy. I'm mad at me..."
     The shirt is slid away as you begin to pull away her own clothes, and tension slowly unwinds from her so that she lies there on your bed, pliant, amenable to your undressing of her. "I'm mad at me," Fiona whispers to you, eyes squeezed tightly shut in the darkness. "I wasn't there when you needed me. I wasn't - I didn't - I don't know anymore. My head is spinning," she complains. "Davy ... do you promise it wasn't because you wanted another woman?"

     "You can't be with me all the time, sweetheart," his mouth covers yours again. The kisses are there, and bourbon breaths carrying words. "It isn't your fault, love, don't blame yourself. Please. Don't be angry with yourself... it belongs to me, that anger. Don't swallow it. It is not your medicine."
     His mouth is rough as it moves from your mouth to your body. Your bra is ruined, your skin is marked wherever he goes. This parting... it has been the longest of your relationship so far, and your blood... so potent... it calls to him from beneath your skin. It rises from you, wafting from your skin. "My flower," he whispers, his mouth closes around a nipple, flitting his tongue there and then suckling strongly. As if it could pull your blood from you like milk. From one to the other, he all but devours you.
     "What other woman could call me as you do, fill me as you do, scratch and claw me then soothe me like you? I didn't want another woman. I wanted you. I want you." His mouth marches down your body like a regiment. His hands tug your jeans to smithereens, ripping them open with so little effort on his part. "No other woman tastes, smells, sounds, feels like you. I didn't want her, I promise you. I didn't think of her. I used her. I gave my seed to the bed and the ocean," not her. "I promise."
     Davydd closes his eyes as his lowers his mouth between your thighs. At the long-missed taste of you, he makes a choked sound in his throat. His arms slide around you in the darkness. It is as if you were held by Night itself, the mouth of Midnight on you, an unseen tongue tasting, pressing, swirling and thrusting. You can't see him, only feel him.

     She gasps a little at each kiss, at the movements of your mouth. Clothing ruined is no great sin to her; she glories in it, though can you see her smile as it's aimed at you, in this great darkness? "I love you," Fiona whispers, hands lifting to cradle your head as your mouth finds her breast. "All I ever want ... is to be with you. You make me ache inside, Davy. With you... I end up wondering. How can the two of us, both of us so imperfect, find out about what perfect is, so often? Over and over."
     Her skin is scented with, flavoured with apples. She is drowning in apples, fruit and blossoms, with the faint lingering residue of almond oil that hasn't quite washed away. One hand rakes slowly down from your hair to the nape of your neck, fingernails pressing in a little, moving in circles so slowly. And your mouth moves down, and she sighs.
     I have missed you, darling. She tugs on your hair - not hard enough to move you from between her thighs, if that were even possible, but a reminder. Her thighs spread for you, her eyes close; why waste sight on sightlessness? I need to be here, with you. Promise me you'll never let me go...

     He sees a vision in those apples that flavor you. His dark hand brushing against flowering apple blossoms, black against the pink. Those buds are giving fruit. Bearing fruit. At his feet, apples everywhere. As far as he can see. They are his family, all sprung from you and him.
     His mouth lifts from you, trailing up against your groin, your stomach. As he reaches your breasts, gnawing and suckling, you can hear the chiming of a belt unfastening. His freeing of your breast makes an audible pop, as if to make sure anyone passing by would know what you two were up to.
     "I'm a dark thing," he murmurs, his hand stroking in the darkness. You can feel the warm pulse of him there below. Thickly, he fills you. "I need your light." His words are tugged by a growling groan. His weight is borne by the heels of his hands, the bed bearing that weight with his heels digging into the mattress and bedding.
     In his mind's eye, the crowding of scenes. He lies with you in darkness, you give birth to apples by day...you that flowering tree. You are the progenitor of his great family, whether you bear his own children, or his grandchildren.
     "How can I let you go," Davydd speaks on ragged breaths as his body moves against and within your own. It is not as gentle as it should be. The thrusts are complete, loud, as is the rattling of the bed in the dark. "When you are the beginning of everything for me..."
     "You are everything," he whispers at your ear. "Mother... maiden...queen," he pants there. "Everything," he groans. You feel him between your legs -- that thickness pressing. "You are the woman I love, the mother of all our children." Those that exist now. Those that are yet to be.
     The one that you are carrying now...
     Davydd slows, his thrusts no less deep, but he does not bounce you so greatly. He smiles, he can't help that. He knows something, feels something. Do you know? Lowering onto you, he cradles you as he loves you. It is suddenly a tender thing, this between you. It goes from body-slapping copulation to completeness and love. He suckles your lower lip as he moves.
     "Come with me," he whispers. "Wherever I go. My queen, my sweet little queen," he coos it rhythmically, his hips lifting and lowering lewdly wallowing, if you could only see it. "Oes," he whispers, his head bending, placing his mouth at your ear. "Come with me."

     You come to her, and she moans, soft sounds in the darkness. She cannot see; does not see, does not know anything but your touch. Sensation will have to be enough. "Davy..."
     And then you are there, and it draws a loud sound from her; a cry and a moan all at once as you fill her, her hips arching up a little, thighs wrapping around you. Fiona squirms, tightening her hold on you - all of you.
     I need you. How could I forget you, when I need you so very much? How could I do anything but love you?
     What you see, she is unaware of. Your words, your touch, those are what she knows. And it is enough.
     Can you feel her setting down that burden, that knowledge of your lapse? Do you feel, do you understand that surrendering sigh as her body relaxes to yours? Fiona's mouth moves against yours as you claim her, and she squirms, unable to do anything but.
     I need you ...
     Wherever you go, I will follow you ...
     She tells you this, so intimately, voice given over to soft cries and rising moans. The bed squeaks, but not so loudly as does she, this modern girl, this living creature, this woman who is your wife, your lover, your queen.
     Call me by my name... I'm yours...

     His mouth covers your sounds, swallowing them as if to keep them silent. But there is no need for discretion. "Fiona," is groaned between joined mouths, "... Fiona of the Flowering Tree." He calls you by your name, and gives you another.
     That is your symbol...
     The flowering tree...
     The tree that started it all between us... now you are that tree...
     Though Davydd cradles you gently, the bed lurches with great energy. That energy spills into you with a choked groan in his own throat. The bed rattles as he releases into you. But your womb... your womb is already full.
     He rests his forehead against your forehead, his breaths pounding. As the power drains from him, filling you with life, vitality, he has to close his eyes. They burn with liquid. "Lovely girl...my sweet flower. That is what you are..." His voice tugs in emotion. "You're the flowering tree... the flowers, your fruit... our family."
     His mouth brushes against your neck but his distended fangs do not pierce your skin. No matter how thirsty he is. And you feel his hand move, cupping against your womb and lightly rubbing it.

     Her arms tighten around your neck, as if she could hold you in place by the force of her arms. As if. She sucks air into her lungs and releases it again, sighing in contentment. "I'm yours," Fiona murmurs. "Yours. I love you..."
     And from this moment, as you've named her, so you've named her kingdom...
     In the days to come, the announcement will be made, the symbol raised above the city, above her palace. Pale pink and white flowers springing from rich brown bark against a field of blue.
     The Kingdom of the Flowering Tree, as named by the High King Davydd ap Owain...
     But here and now, she is with you. Her arms are tight around you, as other parts. Your hand moves, and she half-closes her eyes in the darkness. Fiona murmurs, "I love you, Davy." So soft, almost lisped, those words, one hand sliding down against your skin to cover your own much larger hand at her womb. "I want to be your girl. Am I still your girl, Davy?"
     As if anyone else could be...

     He nods his head against your own, sliding his assertion. "Oes," he whispers. "You are my girl. My lady. My queen." He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth. There he sighs, his back arching. He makes one last stroke but then, softened, pulls from you and rolls over to lie on his back, his pants still on, hanging at his knees.
     Legs moving, he kicks them off, his body a blue spectacle in the process, and then he's lying beside you, his arms going around you in cradling fashion. His right hand returns to your lower belly, cupping you there. "Do you know," he murmurs softly. He could taste it, feel it on the blood at the surface of your skin. It is there at his lips, that taste. Sweet... sweeter now. He lifts upon an elbow to look at you, his other hand remaining on your belly. Gentle is his touch.
     You may not know. You may not have missed a cycle yet. Bending, Davydd places a gentle kiss at your mouth. "My flower, it seems, may be sprouting another bud..." And I do not think it is mine. Such a strange thing to want something so badly and to so badly not want it at the same time. It is not my turn. It is not what we agreed.

     She sighs, comforted, languid now in your arms. All threat of violence driven away by your presence, your nearness, your promise. "I like being your girl," Fiona whispers, nuzzling, lips parting softly against the skin at the corners of your mouth, at your shoulder. "I like being yours."
     She slides up against you, now, spooning with you, her hand going to yours to guide it, to rub it lightly against her skin. "Mm.. do I know what?", she asks, voice lazily soft. It's a summer evening sort of voice, hushed and at ease. "...Bud?"
     Now she twists in your arms, turning to look to your face with quizzical frown, lips still parted a little. "...What do you mean, Davy...?"

     His arms enfold you as you turn around to face him. He gently guides you back down. "I mean that I think you are pregnant." Davydd's eyebrows quirk up and he grins. "I could be wrong... it's early, if it's so." But the way he looks, the way he touches you. He is pretty certain it is so.
     "Is it a surprise?" he wonders softly. If it's a surprise to you, it certainly won't be to Rhodri. That little sneak. "You are mine," he grins. "But it looks like I have to share you. Again." He laughs at that, sighing and shaking his head.
     His hand lifts, moving to your breast. He presses the nub there, squeezing and rolling it before dipping his hand between your thighs again. The flower of his Flower. "I could taste the change," he breathes between you. "And...your blood speaks to me. It calls to me... and it says to be careful."
     Grinning, he nuzzles your neck. "I wanted to fill my mouth with your blood. But ... it isn't safe. Not until we know for certain." The idea of your fertility... you know what it does to him. "I miss your taste. You are the only thing that really nourishes me." Davydd closes his eyes tightly. "Everything else is just ...so hollow..."

     Pregnant.
     You can see the word flood her eyes with understanding, a new awareness. Everything falls into place with that one word, doesn't it? Pregnant...
     "I ... that is, we ... didn't exactly talk about it, we ..." Fiona is blushing, colour rushing into her face. And she squirms up against you with sudden vigor, burying her face against your shoulder as if too embarrassed to look at you.
     Your hand moves, and she moans softly. Even hiding her face, you can feel how she reacts to this. To understanding. To knowing. "I ... oh," she says softly, voice grown small and faint. "So that's why..."
     Why she attacked you (in part, even if not in full).
     Why Rhodri has been so very amorous - even beyond the usual. That - determination...
     Why she now wants nothing more than for you to open her legs again and claim her, again and again and again...
     "And when we do know for certain?" Fiona's fingers lift to touch your mouth, one fingertip tracing the curve of your lips, finding one of your thorn-tipped fangs and stroking it. Just for a moment, and her hand falls away. "I ... like being your meal," she admits.
     "Even if that's something you might think is weird - I do. Not because it feels good, though there's that, too. I like... knowing... knowing that there is that in me which gives you so much more..."

     You stroke the fang and the look is pure ecstasy, and pure torture. His blood rushes to fill him, and does so. It's as natural a reaction as a dog twitching its leg when it's belly is rubbed -- only far more threatening and sexual. His mouth closes around your finger and he suckles strongly.
     But with a groan he frees your finger and rolls away, an arm slung across his forehead. He needs to still himself. Closing his eyes, his other hand goes to his chest. "I think I need you too much," he softly admits. "I could drink whole cities and never be full. I am only full when I drink you. It worries me."
     Red hair moves vibrantly against the white pillowcase as he turns his head to you. He smiles gently. "You can get one of those early tests for hormone shift. At the chemist tomorrow... get one of those and we'll ...see. A grandda again. I don't know if I can take it." He grins suddenly. "I feel old..."

     "Next time," Fiona promises you softly, her arms going around your neck, "it'll be your turn again. And I am looking forward to it, Davy. Even though I shouldn't; I shouldn't rush things like this. But I want to feel my belly getting big with your babies. How did you say it? Your fat, red-headed babies."
     She smiles, a vivid, glorious smile at the thought. Everyone has dreams. "I never thought I'd want children at all," Fiona murmurs to you, confiding in you. "But look at me now... here I am, planning not only my third but my fourth! How many children should we have, darling?"
     How can she even ask you that? You might say anything. But there is another matter to be discussed, one which makes the smile fade to a slight frown. "I don't know what to do about that," Fiona admits to you, quietly. "I do heal quickly - more than I ever did, because of the magic. Do ... my spies, does their blood fulfill you at all?" She looks at you, hesitant; as if on the brink of saying words she can't call back.

     "No," it's a simple, truthful reply. "Your puppets...your... spies, whatever they are. Normally," he chuckles softly, "...normally they repulse me. It's like... eating a robot. It is you but not you. I find them ... confusing and...occasionally grotesque. Like something that shouldn't be moving, but is. And Pistachio...never took to me. She expects emotional attachment, not just being supper. It was a sweet thought." But no, that does not satisfy him.
     "I will work on it, this... issue of the blood. Maybe I need better consecrations. Maybe, I should only drink the blood of dragons and stags." Davydd snorts a laugh. "Maybe it would make me a better lover. I can't believe the audacity of that ..." He pauses, glancing aslant to you then smirking. Never mind. "Anyway, it is my issue, not yours. I will see how we may work around it. In the meantime, you can revel in how mad I am for you."
     His arms come around you again and he rolls you in his arms to face him. Davydd kisses you sweetly, his fangs teasing your flesh but not piercing it. "Until you say 'when', that's how many. But I'm sure Rhodri's going to want his share. Let's not jump ahead, hmm? You shouldn't plan for the fourth with the third in utero. You'll give it a complex," he winks.
     He rests his head against your own and exhales. "I'm happy for you and for your king," he breathes. "And for our family." He tips your head back and kisses you gently. "My flowering tree," he grins again. "Every child is precious to me... whether it is my direct issue or not. I'm not jealous," Davydd assures. "I'm old, but not jealous."

Posted by rowan at May 28, 2006 06:43 PM