How many years has it been, really? I don't know, because we exist in two utterly different timeframes. Two utterly different worlds. Here, the world thinks I'm in my twenties. There, the world doesn't care how old I am, because I've already claimed what's mine. And inside, in my secret heart, I'm now and forever nineteen.
     How can I say that my heart is secret? I wear it upon my sleeve. Today, most of all...
     She is thinking such thoughts as she looks at herself in the mirror. She is seated upon a cushioned stool, gold brocade to contrast with the unmitigated white she wears. The gown could be cut low, but it's filled in with lace; cleavage made demure. It is a gown which strikes a balance between the modern world and ages gone by. Her two husbands would recognise a bit of a joke aimed at them; the low cut is not unlike that of a tavern wench's of a past era, the lace saving it from cheekiness. Long gathered skirts that pool about her ankles; and a long train behind her, her hair hidden beneath the veil that as yet does not hide her features.
     There is a bouquet, nearby; ready to be taken up, upon her cue. White roses and yellow daffodils; an unusual combination, perhaps, but one insisted upon by the bride. Everything must be perfect.
     "Everything must be perfect," Fiona murmurs to herself, to her reflection. Her reflection blinks back at her seriously, and the bride's image scowls for a moment in a most Drancy-like fashion. At least her mother is somewhere else, and not here, bothering her. One lace-covered hand reaches slowly for the bouquet as she rises to her feet. What if people are too shocked? What if someone faints, or throws up? What if?
     "My love has never been conditional on the world's acceptance."

     The forbidden chamber. At least for all those in suits. The bridal chamber (formerly private sitting room not far from the gallery which is lined in flowers for the bride's arrival and carpeted even to the garden) is a 17th Century wonder, even as you are in part, right down to the French lace and the gold brocade beneath your bum.
     Isn't it supposed to be bad luck? Maybe for the groom it is, but for the unofficial groom-slash-best man, there's no worries at all for broken mirror prophecies. The paneled door softly ticks open and a red head peeks in, followed by a mountainous form in finery.
     The black suit is regal, fit for a king. Modern, thoroughly. And flying in the face of fashion, it's a manly suit -- not all ponced up like a penguin-tuxedo. The tie is so white it is almost silver, the silk knot with a pin running through it, a stab of diamonds from one of his Black Jack Davy exploits. The black suit has a very modern cut, tailored specifically for him. The shoes are matte, not shiny patent leather.
     All in all, quite splendid. His fiery copper hair is shorn short for the occasion, but with enough length on top to give it that mussed modern touch.
     Davydd beams as he comes in, closing the door behind him. "Look at you, now," he croons, crossing the distance to come toward you, that march of Mars carrying him to you powerfully. Iowerth has the same stride, god bless him. "Bless," he exhales with a grin.

     The door opening has her turning, and when she sees you, there is a smile, radiant in its own way. "Oh, look at you," Fiona retorts, voice softening. She rises from her stool, the bouquet forgotten, and she holds a hand out to you. "You shouldn't really be here, you know. But ... I'm glad you're here."
     Isn't that just an allegory for your entire tempestuous, stormy courtship? One of you shouldn't be here. Should be somewhere else. With someone else. Have a little common sense. But all that's in the past...
     Her hands lift, in their thin lace, and you may see the compromise she's made between gloves and no gloves. Gloves they may be, lace they may be, but they're quite fingerless, covering only her palms. And those palms touch to your cheeks, drawing you down to her for an attempted chaste kiss, soft lips to yours.
     I was beginning to feel as if I'd have noone to talk to until daddy walks me down the aisle. Did you come to keep me company in my final moments as a free woman?

     Davydd chuckles, a rumbling sound that, held in his throat and chest. He takes your hand and he leans in for a kiss. "You look beautiful," he murmurs. Another kiss. "And of course I should be here," he gruffs with a grin, "... where else should I be? Sitting in the room watching Rhodri pace a rut through marble?"
     Eyebrows jut up and he grins, leaning in for another kiss. "Oh, to be the best man rather than the groom," he croons again. "I get to come in here and kiss the bride until her lips go red and ravished. Tsk, bad luck for whom?"
     One of his large hands clasps your own. He lifts it to his mouth. "Your husband is nervous. You'd think already being married to you would have cured that." Forest green worlds glimmer with a wink. "So," he tips his chin down to give you the once over, "... how are you holding up?"

     "Liar," Fiona scoffs. No, she doesn't believe you. But it does warm her eyes from grey towards blue, and she smiles as you kiss her. "But such a sweet man you are, to me. Why on earth would he be nervous? And you're flattering me. I look a fright."
     She's nervous too. Can you tell? Her nervousness is not merely because it is a wedding, but because of her announcement - of how things might go. Her resolve is unshaken, but she is less serene than she has of late become. "What about you? Not nervous at all, then, Davy-bach?"
     Her hand is drawn to your lips, and you receive a delighted smile, and the hint of a blush. "I don't know," Fiona murmurs. "Being married to the two of you doesn't seem to have cured me of much at all, aside from being a virgin. I'm ... holding up. It'll take more than a gathering of three hundred people to witness me possibly tripping on my train and breaking my foolish neck to destroy me."

     "Woman, please," Davydd rolls out a long scoff of his own, his grin going sideways. "You're lovely. And you know I don't say that lightly. Now, last night you looked a fright. I wasn't sure you'd clean up to look this beautiful."
     Laughing, he takes a half-step back in preparation for a nudge, slap, or knee to the groin. Davydd smiles at you in a more tender fashion. "Because here... I think it means more. Here, there is life and death and sorrow and joy. And it is visceral. And...to be honest... we are all human. Even if somewhat removed. So, here... in your home...the one you are making with him, and me," he tacks on with a smile, "...it has more significance."
     Davydd barks a laugh again, "Me? Nervous about kissing the bride at the altar as she announces she's taking me as well? Nah. Besides, it's my ruddy house," he wears a look of mock-indignance. "To hell with what they think. They don't like it, they can leave. Just means more food for me." Fiery eyebrows waggle in a dance.
     "I'm so hungry," he moans, hand to his gut, nose wrinkling. "Whose rule is it anyway that you have to get married before you can get stuffed. Fucking catholics. Always worried about who's stuffin' who..."

     She strikes out with a hand to grab your tie and tug. "Bastard," Fiona mutters, then offers you that radiant smile. "I love you, you know that? I mean ... I suppose it's implied, since I'm marrying you. But it helps. Means I'm willing to put up with your shit. And you with mine, of course."
     Her arms go loosely around your waist, and she takes a diminutive step closer, resting her cheek against your chest so that she doesn't disturb the powder and the lace unduly. "I'm nervous," Fiona admits in a quiet voice. "I've been nervous for a couple of days. Mother... didn't help. She did a lovely job planning the wedding, I'll give her that much, but she's almost ruined my nerves. Last night, I almost suggested eloping, but I wouldn't do that to everyone. I don't know how you can think of food right now. I'm so jittery I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon."
     One hand lifts to ruffle through your hair, her palm resting against your cheek. "Lend me some of your courage, would you, Davy? Mine's gone somewhere to hide," Fiona half-teases, offering a wistful smile. "I don't know - am I doing this right? I don't know how else to do it, though..."

     "Ah now, you're doing quite well. I had half a mind to send her packing, but after today it'll all be over, yeah? You'll be heading to India with Rhodri and the boys and I will be chasing pirates or sommat. You'll have a lovely time," he holds you lightly so as not to wrinkle your fabric, mess up your hair, or get you make-up on his new jacket.
     Davydd pulls slightly out of the hold and looks at you. A strong look that. Bravery, boldness...now that he has. A hand goes beneath your chin and he lifts it. "You'll be fine. At the end of that red carpet is a man who loves you, who has waited almost two hundred years for a woman such as you walk as you will walk, looking as you look, with your heart in your smile and his heart in your hands. And I'll be there, standing amid the flowers of your bride's maids. Matron of honor," he grins, "...and best man both, till you tell the gathered world what you mean to have. And you'll take one hand each of the men there... knowing that forever from this day you'll always have someone with you. Now," he bends, placing a kiss upon your lips again, "... my little soldier in white, buck up and be the general bride we all know you are."

     She almost cries at your words. You can see the tears gathering, though she wills them not to fall. "Bloody impossible man," Fiona sniffs, lace lifted and pressed to the corners of each eye in turn, "things like this are exactly why I could never hope to leave you. And you wonder why I love you so much? Because how could I not... how could I do anything but adore a man who wants my happiness so much?"
     Your cheek is touched again, and she gives you such a glimmering look for the soft touch of her lips. "I'm glad that we're doing this," Fiona murmurs. "I want you acknowledged as much as I want you. Where my heart goes, let the world know and celebrate with us. Let all the women be jealous of me - I won't care. Because with us, we've got something almost unbearably perfect."
     Both small hands lift to your front, as if to grab you; but then she sighs. "You'd better get out there and give the same speech to Rhodri, if he's half as nervous as I am," Fiona says ruefully. "I don't know why he's so nervous. He knows I'm not going to run out on him, surely. Why is he so nervous?" She looks at you. "What's he got to be nervous about? You've both got me already, two hundred years or no two hundred years. I don't understand."
     Two hundred years; it stirs an echo in her, a little jarring, a little disjointing, and she cocks her head to one side almost exactly like a martinet. General you call her...

     "Well, maybe it's not nervousness as much as it is excitement acting as nervousness," Davydd rumbles lowly with a smile. "I don't get nervous, I just get hungry," he notes with a wink. "Hmm... aye, anymore perfect and we couldn't stand it."
     He doesn't think of perfection. It is what it is, as it is. It has its ups and its downs. But it is here, a bond among three. Strength when one needs it, comfort when one needs it. And love...
     Davydd smiles, stroking your face with the back of his hand. "I love you," he murmurs. "And... I don't really need acknowledgment, I have yours, that's all I need. But.. it is important for you and thus it is important for me."
     He clasps your hand again, lifting it to his mouth. Davydd closes his eyes. "Now, I should leave you be, hmm? You've got to ... get ready for the long walk." Green eyes go wide and he grins in a streak, a broad smile that shows those pointed teeth. "Or...as your pirate-thrashing son would say, time to walk the plank dearie..."

     "My pirate-thrashing son had better exercise a trifle more care with his life," Fiona retorts with a different sort of sniff, "or maybe I'll stop being so sweet and understanding. He isn't too old for a hiding, you know."
     But she smiles. And your hands are squeezed. "I miss you whenever we are apart," she says softly. "But yes, go - go on, before you make me cry any more, and ruin my makeup. I've got one or two last preparations to try to make myself as beautiful as is humanly possible for me to be. I wonder," she says suddenly.
     "Did I do the right thing by our boys, raising them the way we have, with only such glancing knowledge of this world, this plane? They're as human as we; can't help it, they're from our flesh. I don't know." But it will have to be saved for another time. There's a light tap on the door, and Fiona gasps. "Ten minutes. You'd better go, Davydd. I'll see you..."
     Her smile is sudden and rather glorious, offering up to you with a glow. "I'll see you on the other side, won't I? Go, now. Let me fix my face."

     "Darlin', when it comes to children, it doesn't matter where, or when, or how. After a certain point, it's out of your hands, and in theirs. But," he brushes a kiss on your cheek, "..we'll talk about it later." He steps back with a wink.
     As he gets to the panel door, opening it, he glances back and gives you another wink and blows a kiss toward you. "Gah," he rolls out when he steps out, "...how soon till the beef pasties..." to the sound of laughter from those nearby.
     You look beautiful, little queen. Soon, you will be covered in flower petals and men. I will see you then...

     She smiles at you as you depart. There will be time for things later. There will be all the time in two worlds. You know it. She knows it. She doesn't have to worry about it.
     You depart, and she turns to the mirror, lifting her fingertips to her reflection. Everything must be absolutely perfect. For you, for Rhodri - who else would she do such things for?
     She has never truly grasped that you love how she looks best rumpled and untidy, disheveled and blushing upon the bed...
     There's the swell of music, and Fiona straightens, adjusting her veil. A twitch of fingers cascades it across her face as if closing a visor, and her hand comes down upon her bouquet as if taking up a sword. Turning to the door, she marches there before settling into an easier, more graceful sway.
     Her father is at the door; Lord Peter offering his daughter his elbow. He receives a smile for it, obscured by the veil, and for a moment, Fiona's eyes go misty. All living things pass away - all living things, save those whom magic preserves until the end. Her father is not one of those things, and now it touches her for a moment. Her resolve steadies, and the march continues.
     See you on the other side ...

Posted by rowan at May 11, 2006 10:02 PM