Pregnancy sucks sometimes, but at least the morning sickness has (mostly) passed. It's getting on towards bedtime; Fiona's been spending the night in the city at her place, having a night to herself after a day of shopping. She's naked at the moment, examining her reflection in the mirror - the beginning signs of her state beginning to show.
Breasts filling out...
Hips swelling a little...
The faintest signs of roundness in both her cheeks and her belly...
She stands there with both hands pressed lightly to her stomach, her blonde hair cut short and a little bit fluffy, a little under shoulder length, framing her face. No makeup, this time of night. "I wonder if I dare eat anything," Fiona muses aloud to herself. "Or if it'll keep me up all night." She glances down at her belly. "What do you think, baby? Not that you can hear me yet, I imagine."
With a contented sigh, she reaches for her robe - silk, white with black border, patterned with enormous blue and dark red peonies. A pair of bunny slippers are on her feet - this time, the bunnies where sneakers and little headbands, the World Cup logo 'tattooed' on their tails. "Maybe a cup of tea, at least."
Keys jingle and jangle at the doorway. It's not Rhodri, he's at the bar. He called not an hour ago saying he was working on the books until late, maybe taking a turn on the taps to give Llew a break at Davy's. That leaves only Davy Himself.
And sure enough it is him coming in, wearing his black leather coat, dotted with moisture (evening rain). His expression is quiet, thoughtful. Rather, thought full. His hair shows the evidence of moisture, and he smells as though he's been in a bar. Or two. But he seems far too focused, too clear of eye, and quite frankly too quiet to be drunk.
"Did I wake you?" he wonders as you come into view. He smiles a little -- it's required -- as he sees the bunny slippers and robe. You keep him centered, oddly enough, with such sights as you in a robe and bunny slippers. "Care for some coffee or tea? I need a bit of coffee myself."
Davydd exhales, removing his coat and hanging it on the doorknob to drip-dry. He looks over to you. His t-shirt is a bit damp as well. It was stormy during his three hour walk. He looks... weary. Sad to say, it is worse than this. Davydd ap Owain is sober.
"Davydd?" Fiona turns to the door, smiling - she's genuinely smiling where yours is a requirement. "I was about to make myself a cuppa, actually. How are you, my adored one?" Ah, she's in that kind of mood; snuggily. Happy; she glows, radiant with it. Is she ever quite this happy when she isn't pregnant?
Well, you know what they say about finding and fulfilling one's purpose, don't you...
She approaches you on bunny feet, holding her hands out to you. "Mm, my darling. You look so good. Such a man," she murmurs, giving her head a little shake. "What do you think of my hair? I think it's a little too fluffy, don't you? I'm not sure I like it."
Her arms go around your waist - reaching your neck is too much effort right now. Fiona turns her face up towards yours. "Kiss," she demands. "What's on my Davy's mind? I didn't expect to see you this early."
Kiss? Easily done. "I'm damp," he warns, leaning in to kiss you. It's a gentle thing, and his lips are cool. It's a cool summer night, for sure. And he, being outside of the mortal realm, doesn't exactly conduct his own heat these nights.
"Well," he exhales, "...there is sommat on my mind. We'll get to it after a cuppa. You look good. I like the hair. Very ...Jean Harlow." He smiles at you, taking a moment to look you up and look you down. "Your adored one," he grunts that out and chuckles. "Makes me seem a bit like a sultan or some sort of Indian god." Fiery eyebrows waggle and he wanders further in.
"No Rhodri?" he wonders, heading for the kitchen. He takes down two cups (they're not on the highest shelf but higher than you may want to reach), and he takes the kettle, filling it with water and putting it on. He nods over to the sofa. Have a seat.
"Rhodri's at the pub, doing the books and spelling Llew a bit. Funny, I always thought he was pretty easy to spell - double ell, ee, double-you." Fiona smiles, mischief making her eyes bright as she moves to the sofa - letting you pamper her, and blowing you a kiss. "Since when have I ever minded you damp? We've showered together, for goodness' sake."
And memory helps to make her eyes bright as well. One small hand lifts, rubbing the nape of her neck. "Mmm... everything is so sensitive right now," she murmurs. "My body's changing again. Something else is taking over and I'm becoming someone else. It's so strange, Davy. Don't you think so?"
She curls up, half on her side, back pushed against the cushions with her slippers against the very edge. "I'll have some of the raspberry tea if you can find it. A little honey but not too much, or I won't sleep well. Last time it was radishes. This time, it's honey. What's on your mind, my almighty conquering king and emperor?" Now she's just teasing.
"I wouldn't know, sweetheart. Closest I've ever been to pregnant is when I had a wicked case of the flu. Hmm... back when the flu killed you same as looked at you." He waits on the tea, leaning against the back of it. He folds his arms against his chest, glancing over to the stove as he hears the water begin to boil.
Doesn't take long with a gas stove...
A breath is released where none was remembered to have been taken. "Well, I paid a visit to Iowerth tonight and I met Prince Tiernan." He lets that hang on the air for a moment, heading back to the pantry and digging for the raspberry tea and honey.
"I think we're going to have to prepare for a royal wedding," he continues, a bag of raspberry tea in one cup and a standard Twinnings breakfast tea for himself. Just shy of steam whistling, Davydd lifts the kettle and starts the pour.
"Iowerth should be married in a year," dark green eyes find their way to you past the steam. "No more than two. If he wishes to carry on with his homosexual relationship beyond that, it'll be his wife's burden to bear..."
"At least it mightn't be twins this time," Fiona remarks placidly, settling herself more comfortably. It's hard to get comfortable when she's pregnant, though not so bad yet. She wiggles her feet in their slippers. "Come rub my feet when you're done?"
You continue to speak, and she takes a cushion as you do so; but her hands go still on the cushion. "...I should think you've rather had your fill of royal weddings for a while," she says carefully. You are brewing tea. She is brewing a storm, mercury in her eyes as she sits up. She meets your gaze through the steam.
"His wife's burden?" Your own wife is looking at you, her face drawn tight enough almost to resemble her mother's. "What exactly happened tonight, Davydd." Not a question.
"Well... I met the young man. Seems... intelligent. Respectful. The visit went well enough," he starts pouring, adding a drop or two of honey in yours, not too much, and a dollop of cream and two sugar cubes in his own.
"I left after an hour or so. I went downstairs to have a drink, cut up with Llew, good boy that. And then... after an hour of talking with them about discretion...they proceeded to have sex loud enough to where I could hear them downstairs and in a loud bar. Now," he comes bearing tea, his expression calm (calmer than you could ever imagine), "...I know I'm of excellent hearing, so... it may well have been missed by most. But Llew remarked on it. Said the boys rarely come downstairs."
He sets the tea upon the table for you, taking his with him to the easy chair. Davydd sips the tea, creamy and sugary. "The only way to really deal with a homosexual prince is by marrying him off. It's been done for centuries. Richard the Lionheart, Edward the Second, among others."
He exhales a mighty breath. "A prince with a prince... here as there, it's the same everywhere." Dark green eyes lift to you. "It simply isn't done, not on the surface of things. He has to produce, and he has to produce now, before rumors and innuendoes can have a chance to lock on. Even after they do, and he'll have to battle them for the rest of his life, he'll need a good wife, or at the least a patient one, and a few children."
"To me," Fiona says steadily, "it is more important that our children be happy. However, Iowerth is not homosexual." In denial already? She leans forward slowly, picking up her tea; lifting the cup to her lips for a sip. "...he's bisexual. There's a difference."
Another sip of tea is taken; has she ever been more English than in this moment, sitting there in her robe drinking tea woodenly and discussing in such steady, even tones the sexuality of her eldest child? "He knows that he will have to marry. He has no quarrel with it, and he does not find women objectionable. However, I find it objectionable to force him to marry because of bastard rumor. Rumor!"
She spits the word out suddenly, cup clattering to saucer, saucer to table. "When have I ever cared a ha'penny for the opinions of others, Davydd? I married two men, not one. I was pregnant with your child and Rhodri's before any royal wedding to either of you. Are you saying that Iowerth is less brave than I?"
"No, but you're not a crown prince. You're not going to have to lead men into battle. You are not going to have to command seas and land, and eventually unseat your father. Regardless of whether he is homosexual, bisexual. It doesn't matter. The politics are the same. And ... believe it or not... if he is or...whatever... I do want him to be happy. Even if it takes a man to do it." He sets the tea aside. "But he is in a political position. As all of our children will be. They are not... just kids. They will never be..."
He stands. He has to. While hearing his son cop off with a man is ...upsetting, he burned off much of that in his subsequent three-hour walk. "I'm glad to know that he's a realist. He's ... a very smart young man. But he is in love. And that makes the smartest men complete idiots. I'm not a smart man, look what it's done to me." He smirks a bit as he paces in thought, wandering through your apartment. "But," sigh, "... back on the subject. He will have to marry, Fiona. He will not be able to lead armies, lead kingdoms without doing so. And if he stands a chance, he should do it now. I'm looking after his best interest, here. Not out of my own... whatever feelings I may have about it. If he's going to be a successful high king, he can't be thought of as weak. Unfortunately, it is considered a weakness. A flaw. A fault. Look at the world, girl. It's 2016, almost 2017, and it's still more an issue than ever. And do you think it's any different in the other realms? You'd be very much mistaken. It seems devil-may-care, but it's a brutal place, the astral realm. And it's a hard thing he's been born into..."
And the weariness on his face isn't really weariness at all. It's concern. Concern for his son. "Now... in corrupt courts, I hear anything goes. Perhaps it was Tiernan who... sort of flipped his switch, I don't know. But our courts are not corrupt. There are morays, albeit odd ones. And the universe, universes... are largely based on the Judeo-Christian model. It's a problem... and marriage is the only solution."
She listens without thawing, without expression. Through all that you have to say, she sits there, upright, her hands in her lap. And then she nods slowly. "Alright," Fiona says simply. "If that's what it takes to protect our son, then alright. But why are you here, telling me this? Are you afraid you won't be able to look Io in the eye to tell him? If Io is getting married... then don't you think we should talk to him about it?"
Slowly, slowly she stands up, as if far more pregnant than she is. With a sigh, she wanders over to the window, one hand folded over herself, the other twisting and fidgeting with the curtains. "I love you, Davy," she says softly, her back turned to you. "But he's our son. I want to help you through this, but I have to do what's right for him, too. I see what you mean. But - there isn't any sign that I've found," yes, she has known, "that his young man's been manipulating him. Now, it isn't impossible; I haven't met him, although I very much want to. I want a look at him for myself. If he is with my son, then I want to see him, know him, understand him." And, if need be, turn him inside out to make sure of nothing creepy-crawly going on.
No tigress has ever been more protective of her cubs than is Fiona...
"Who," Fiona asks, "do you intend to marry him to, or is he not allowed to know that, either?"
"Because you are his mother, because you are his queen, and because, most importantly, you are my wife." Davydd ap Owain ends that speech in front of you. Sighing, he gives his very substantial weight to the most insubstantial curtains, pressing them and himself to the coolness of the glass.
"I tell you these things so you can help me reason them out. A man's best counselor is always his wife. She will be truthful, blatantly even hurtfully so, where others might only nod and fawn. I tell you these things to hear them for myself, through the funnel of your own ears. Tell me I'm wrong, Fiona. Tell me I'm overreacting. Tell me whatever it is you think of it."
"I'm too hard on Iowerth," he suddenly, softly offers, rolling a half-turn away to give his back to the glass. The curtains pool around his legs in fabric waves. "And I should not blame Tiernan, even before truly knowing the boy. I ... don't think he is the reason. He is just the man," Davydd pauses upon that term, "...the young man upon whom my son has placed his... heart. And I know it's not just rutting in the dark. Those boys... I saw the sheen of fierce loyalty, of love, adoration." He folds his arms against his chest. It's not an idle gesture, but is one just now of self-protection. "I have seen that look in my own face for my own friends, though," his mouth cuts a smirk, "...I never fucked them. God the thought of that. But," he stops scaring himself for a moment, "... the love... that was there..."
And maybe that's why it's different when it's not about himself. His son isn't being frivolous. And he knows it. "I want him to be successful and happy. As much as any man might be. And I know he is careful. But you can only ever be... so careful. And I don't want him creating this... house of cards for himself that will one day," and he says this with all certainty, "...come crashing down on him, Fiona."
Her lips tremble, and she has to look away. "Damn you," Fiona mutters, pressing first one palm, then the other to her eyes, to suppress glistening water from being permitted to fall. "Why do you have to be reasonable and sweet now of all times? Couldn't you have started years ago?"
Tears spill out against her palms, trickle between her fingers, and her hands come down and together in her lap, the little queen looking away. "You're not being unreasonable. Not entirely, anyway. I want to protect him, too; he's my son. I just - I am younger than you. I'm close to being younger than he is," Fiona says epigrammatically, hands waved a little with the shake and slide of liquid. "Which sounds crazy, and if it were anyone else, anywhere else! I see both sides, Davy. If he has to be protected, then involve him in it. Huw would be the first to tell us, you can't protect someone unwillingly. He's tried, remember? With me? And look how well that ended up."
It ended up with you married to her, but that isn't her point. With a sigh, she dries her tears on the curtain (but doesn't blow her nose), moving back to the couch slowly, her eyes reddened and swollen, now. "You are too hard on him, but it's hard for you. It's hard for both of us, letting go of our little boy to become a man. And it's harder for you than for me; you have to look at it with almost nine centuries in the way. That's an awful big mountain, old man, for anyone to try and see around or over. But ... I can see another side of it too... what about the girl?"
"I wouldn't dream of forcing it on him." He then rolls his eyes at his own words, at himself. "Well, at least not without him being complicit in it. He would have to be. And I'm sure he knows it's coming. I doubt he will be prepared for it coming so soon. And maybe it is too soon."
Stepping away from the curtains, Davydd smirks: "Well, it had to happen sooner or later, right? I can't be bombastic and unreasonable, unrealistic and insane all the time. Law of averages, sweetheart. It's science." He is quiet for a few moments as he heads to the sofa to follow you. He's tea has gone cold. He can't bear to touch it now. He'll give it to the cat.
"Let's just play devil's advocate for a moment. If I have him married within a year, it might give off the scent of panic, desperation, something's wrong. It should start slowly. With several rounds of courting, as if we're just... taking a few swings of the cricket bat, so to speak. Culminating, just for conversation's purposes let's say, in a wedding some three years away. By the time he's married, it will have seemed orderly and expected. Perhaps even overdue."
"...and in the meantime," his voice goes earthy as he lowers himself to the sofa, "...he and Tiernan have to add to the court, Tiernan has to seem like he has a job other than being in our son's bed," his leg jumps at that, as he scares himself again, "...and perhaps should be involved in the final selection of the young woman, as a trusted advisor. We start by announcing, well... letting others announce, that the prince is ...looking for a match. That he has selected his terrain, which I will of course bless and secure with a treaty a mile thick," he winks, "...blood relation or not, and then it will begin..."
Davydd looks suddenly forty. An old king who's been at it a long time. "We have to remain in control of the situation, or it will spin far beyond our reckoning. We must be measured in our response and casual in our demeanor. It has to seem even as it is, simply time. And," his eyebrows go up for emphasis, "... Iowerth and Tiernan are going to have to be ... careful in what they do, around whom. They cannot be too free."
He looks to you, dark green eyes serious. "They are going to have to be extremely diligent. Especially here. I think they've grown very lazy, very quickly. If I heard them, who's next? One of his mother's spies?"
"It should be several rounds of courting anyway," Fiona murmurs. She sighs, sitting slowly on the couch again. "Both to give him time to get used to the idea, to find a girl he can put up with - and, well, Davy, in all honesty, whoever he marries had better have a sense of humour! He takes too much after you; she'll need it."
She isn't even being snide, particularly; she leans up against you, and then her arms are around your neck, she's pulling herself onto you fully with a kiss to your mouth. "I think it would mean much to Io if you were to tell him you know and make it plain that while he has to be careful, you want to /help/ him," Fiona says quietly against your cheek. "He's terrified you'll send Tiernan back, you know - that you'd separate them. You'll need to be careful, my darling king. Maybe you should let me talk to him. Aren't weddings woman's work anyway?"
Her hands slide along your chest, and she sighs again, sounding almost forlorn. "I am going to have to meet this young man and make sure of who and what he is. And then I am going to have to do something, either way, about his mother."
"He is my son, god bless his soul," Davydd sighs it out after you kiss him. "She'll need the patience of a saint, the humor of a jester, and the constitution of an elephant. Such women are hard to find." He looks at you with a slant of his mouth, a cock-eyed corner lifting. "He's serious. Too serious. But... I blame myself for that. I... have been hard on him. I have asked too much. I still do." Meaning this marriage business, of course.
He exhales another breath as you murmur against his cheek. "I made them both flinch a little, I think." Leaning back, he gives his body to the sofa and his gaze to you. "I should speak with him. But... maybe it would be better for you to lead the way. I am not certain he would hear me should I start to explain it. But I don't want him to think I can't face him..."
His expression softens as you look upset as well. "We should be open with him, trust him... and this is hardest for me...but I am trying. Still... meet his young man, speak with him once you are satisfied. Not all of this has to be said or done in the first meeting. And be sure that Iowerth knows that... I love him. And that I want to help him. He will not believe it. He knows how I ... feel about certain things. But try to make a path for me, hmm?"
Davydd relaxes against the sofa, his arms coming up and going behind his head, his hands interlacing. "What do you think?" He wonders, truly, and he looks to you with upraised eyebrows. "Should I speak with him first... do you want to look in on him and Tiernan...what do you think, cariad..."
"I'll see what I can do," Fiona says simply. "You know I'm here to help you, Davy. No matter what." Her hands lift to your face, fingertips trickling down your cheeks like rain. "He needs someone who isn't noble, or who's had some life experience already. You aren't going to find that in a cloistered nobleman's home."
She hauls her weight against you; you become her couch, with you on the couch beneath you. "I will talk to Io if you talk to his lover," she suggests half-heartedly. "I don't know, Davy. I don't know. I've never had to worry about anyone's hearts but yours and mine and Rhodri's before. I do think I should talk to Io. I'm - not sure I'm ready to meet his chosen. Not right now." One small hand steals to her stomach. "Io at least has known me all his life; if either of us talks to him with his lover there, he is going to feel the more defensive. He will feel he has to protect his young man. He's going to feel that no matter what, but if he's /there/..."
She speaks her thoughts slowly, then sighs, dropping her cheek to your shoulder. "I don't know." Fiona sounds almost irritable. "Why do our children have to be so precocious? Give me my phone."
"They are genetic prisoners," Davydd grumbles, turning and looking for your phone without, you know, expending too much energy. With a great breath, he leans over and grabs your phone. "I don't want to meet with Tiernan," he notes. "That's Iowerth's job. It's his courtier," and when he says the word courtier he makes quotation marks with his fingers. Annoying Twentieth Century habit, that. "He gets that honor."
Davydd's hands appear at the small of your back, his fingers kneading. He knows where the pressure and stress will be at this time. Your back. Your feet. Your hips. Your breasts. He'll get to the rest in due time. "Meet him... meet Tiernan and we'll go from there. I'll have Hwyll pull up a list of available royal ladies. We'll have the Winds... whisper the news. They're such a fucking sewing circle," gossipmongers, "...they'll enjoy that."
"You going to call Io?" he whispers, wondering as the phone is relinquished. He sits back again and closes his eyes. He is still very much aware, very much engaged.
Sighing a little for the feel of that massage, Fiona stretches out on you. She takes her phone without a word, her mouth moving against your cheek to your neck. She kisses, then gnaws on you just a little. "...They'll adore having something to announce. They always do. We can have them announce that I'm pregnant again, too. People there will probably think it's about time."
She sighs again; a different sigh, this, and she flips open the phone. "Yes, I'd better call him. He's probably distracted right now, but he needs to hear this. And I'm his mother." And with that - she begins punching in her eldest son's number.
"I'm staying out of it," Davydd grumbles quietly, eyes remain closed.
The phone rings once, twice, but it's answered on the third ring. "Hello?" It is Iowerth. It's late. His voice is quiet. Maybe he was asleep. If so, it was only a nap.
"Hello, darling, it's your mother. Did I wake you?" Well, tough shite if I did. Fiona doesn't say it, tries to keep the edge out of her voice. Damned pregnancy hormones, making her mood swing from one direction to the other. "I think we need to talk, so - do you need coffee?"
She sits up on your lap, using you shamelessly. One hand moves to adjust the belt of her robe, a bunny slippered foot tapping impatiently.
He's taken a bit aback. You're calling awfully late. Need to talk? He wipes his hand over his face, raking back through his short, spiky hair. His sex-mussed, sleep-mussed hair. "Um... sure, I guess. It's not too late for you?" Not himself, surely.
But then, you are older.
"Sure... hmm.... where? You want to meet out or...?" I shouldn't have left that open. Maybe she'll want to come over here.
In the background, Davydd exhales. He looks at you with upraised, fiery eyebrows...
"It's a little late for the baby, but not so late for me. What I need to talk to you about isn't something I want to discuss in public. Either we discuss it over the phone, I come over, or we go to my other place." Translation : her kingdom. "I'll leave you the choice, but I do need to talk to you, Io. Which would you prefer?"
Fiona looks at you, and rolls her eyes. One hand holds the phone to her ear. Her other hand goes to your belt and begins undoing the clasp, sliding leather from the tongue.
Those fiery eyebrows inch upward every so slowly. What are you up to, you naughty little princess. You're on the phone with your son!
"Did something happen," his tone is so suddenly serious. "Your kingdom, I guess. I'll... see you there. Thirty minutes?" He sounds mildly concerned. "Or...do I need to just... get dressed and leave now. I'd prefer to shower, all the same to you..."
"No, no - shower, take your time. I'll meet you there in, mm... an hour." Fiona's lips curve up wickedly as she looks at you, one-handedly working your trousers open. That dainty hand sliiiides in to take a firm hold of you. "We'll meet on the cliff overlooking the ocean, hm? Thank you, darling."
She hangs up the phone, then, turning suddenly onto you. "It gives us time," Fiona explains, looking at you with that wicked gleam in her smile, "and time for me to clean up after. And still be on time, though - if I'm a little late? Io will simply have to wait. I am his queen as well as his mother."
"Alright," Iowerth breathes into the phone. Hanging up, he turns to look at his bed, and at Tiernan sprawled across it. "I have to go for a few. I'll be back soon, hmm? Just... rest." He smiles in the shadows of the chamber.
He bends, placing a kiss upon your parted lips, your forehead. "Hmm... Terry." He grins at the nickname. With an exhale, he drags a hand through his hair again and heads into the bath.
Posted by rowan at July 02, 2006 03:42 PM
