A break from baby seems in order. Not that she doesn't love her youngest son, but he's been firmly clamped to the teat for long enough now that she's begun to feel distinct sympathy for the common cow. Fiona's begun to take occasional trips over to the other side via Powis, checking in on couriers and courtiers with the comparative relaxation it brings. No constant demands for milk. No constraining clothing, either.
     She's just returned from one of those trips; fifteen minutes gone from Wales, five hours spent napping over there. Now she's appearing in the gardens, clad in red and gold silk robes like some triumphant duchess or princess returning from a tourney. Only the tiredness that still lingers at the corners of her eyes and mouth betrays her as something else; a tiredness five hours of sleep can't banish.
     Davydd, are you there? The message is sent to you, quiet, as unobtrusive as Fiona might manage. You haven't gone back to London or anything, have you?

     It will be a few weeks yet before he heads to London, though he can make himself available there quickly if he needs to (and he did just that a few nights before the birth, to attend a party of Ventrue elite. He crashed it, naturally). The end of the summer, with its days ever shortening, is slowly turning to the season of the vampire. By the end of September, he'll have more time than he'll know what to do with.
     As of now? He's slow to wake, but he's woken. He's made it past the toothbrushing and fang-flossing and into dressing. I'm in my closet. I can't decide what to wear tonight. Should I wear the olive and brown? That last bit seems to be to himself. Aye, it's real important stuff I've got goin' on here. What can I do you for? Where are you anyway?
     He decides on the olive and brown, taking out a chocolate brown pullover and a pair of olive green trousers, not for a suit but something sturdier, far more country gentleman that. Heavy brown shoes are tossed out the closet as well, and Davydd ap Owain (called Llywelyn) comes out after. I hear the wee boy has quite the appetite. I saw Rhodri before he passed out. Poor lad. Seems this one's keeping you both running.

     I'm in the garden, though I'm coming inside now. Should I change, then? I don't look at all modern. But the way I feel, I don't particularly want to look modern. There is a sigh for the thought, whispered with the essence of pears and vanilla sugar. Poor Rhodri. This nearly killed him, didn't it.
     She is quiet for a moment, then, her footsteps finding their way gradually to the tower, one hand lifting her skirts as she winds her way up the stairs. I need to talk to you, Davy.
     Always a bad sign, that. When the woman needs rather than wants to talk to you. Fiona comes into the doorway; her hair is long and heavy, and she wears a crown made of her own braids, wrapped around her head with long tendrils allowed to fall down to the base of her spine. But her look is something forlorn. "If you aren't too busy, anyway."

     He's still in his towel, his hair mostly dried but still damp at the base of his nape and therefore starting to curl. He looks at you, eyebrows cocking up as he takes in your look, your appearance. "Rhodri's fine," he assures softly. And then he motions you to come into the bedroom and take a seat. His clothing's laid out, but he'll get dressed in a minute.
     "Never too busy for you, poppet," he murmurs, and he bends to place a kiss on your lips, gentle and soft. Straightening, his dragons stretching as he does, Davydd looks at you directly. Those forest green eyes so tranquil and calm, though his universe has been anything but for all his life. "What's on your mind, cariad?"
     He'll dress as you talk, he's settled on that. He drops the towel, laying it on the bed a moment (it won't leave that much water behind) and then he's reaching for his trousers. All the while, he's looking at you. You seem resolved to something, or maybe dreading something. Or maybe you're just tired. You've just given birth, and a tough birth it was too.

     Now that she is here, she is undecided on how to begin it. She looks down at herself, at her silks, her finery, looks at you briefly, looks around the room. And she does sit, on the very edge of the bed. "It's about Peter," Fiona says finally. "I am still worried about him."
     That is part of it, but it is not the whole. She curls up on the bed, dragging her heavy skirts up after her; her shoes are nudged off, allowed to fall to one side of the bed as she curls up on the pillows and blinks her eyes at you solemnly. Her hands are brought together under her chin. "I know this is going to sound silly, Davy. He is my son and I will love him no matter what, but - I know how close I came to dying. I could feel it, a couple of times... feel my life ebbing away. I yanked myself back. I didn't want to die, you see."
     So quiet, so matter of fact. As upsetting as the thought has been to her, it is coming out easier than she had thought it would. She looks at her hands where they are clasped together; absently, she smoothes them down over herself. Silks become denim and cotton, your wife suddenly there in just jeans and a thin black and white t-shirt. Only the hair is still there to provide its anachronism.
     "...Peter is ... well, he isn't a changeling. There's something about him which - I don't know," Fiona says slowly, "there just is. If this were five hundred years ago, I'd think he'd end up given to a monastery or burned at the stake or something equally grisly. But he isn't anything I can recognize. And I'm afraid of somehow doing something wrong. Not giving him everything he needs. Because no matter what he is, he's still ours. And I want him to be happy, Davy. Or at least grow up to suffer miserably in good company like the rest of us."

     He narrows his eyes at you. "No, he's not a Changeling. He's human, Fiona. Same as you and me. Well, I used to be anyway. Whatever energy you're feeling..." He pauses and cocks up an eyebrow. "Don't you suppose it could be ...an overreaction based on the difficulties of your pregnancy? Post partum?"
     Davydd snorts and pulls on his shirt. "Darlin' if this were five hundred years ago, we'd all be burning, I assure you. What makes you think that there's sommat wrong with him? Apart from the fact he's related to us," the quip is gentle, and while meant to humorously diffuse the issue, you can see the question is a serious one. His look is direct, piercing even.
     "Before you answer, you do know that happiness is not guaranteed just because you want him to be happy. I want him to be happy, and my other boys. You, of course. But while we can all sit around wanting everyone else to be happy, Life has its own rhythm. Things will come and go, including joy."

     "It could be. I don't know." But she is not overreacting to your asking her it. "I know every baby is different, Davy. He's different from Iowerth and Gwilym; I don't think though that's all there is." Fiona looks to you, then looks down, her hands tangled in her lap, thumb-tip to thumb-tip. "I can't point to something and go 'oh, this is definitely what's wrong and here's why'. Call it motherly intuition if you have to. I don't know."
     She sighs, letting her head tip forward and closing her eyes. "I know I was fucking insane while I was carrying him," Fiona says without emphasis, lifting her hands to massage her temples. "There were things I said and did then, which ... well ... thinking about them now won't change it. I'll have to fix some of the mistakes I've made. I know life has its own rhythm, Davy, but we still keep trying to make the decisions which will have the best possible outcome, don't we? And I have made some mistakes. I have my burden of guilt. I don't want to make mistakes with Peter..."
     "I want to make sure to do the right thing, whatever the right thing happens to be..."

     "You are worrying too much and thinking too hard. It's as simple as that," Davydd says it softly but bluntly. "It's a mind-fuck. Drop the guilt and just do your best. There is no such thing as perfection and every child is different. It's like... starting over, yeah? And... about what happened when you were pregnant? Darlin', I hate to tell you this, but no one takes what you say seriously when you're hyped up on motherhood. Trust me."
     He chuckles at that even, and with a shake of his head, kisses you again. "So, let it go," Davydd whispers, his hands cradling your face, thumbs sliding against your skin with the emphasis. "You can't control the outcome, you can't control the process, and you'll do your best. End of story."
     Punctuating that with another kiss, Davydd rises and winks. "When you can point to something, then we'll deal with it. Until then... I just suggest you be...open to the new experience, the new child. He's his own little fellow, you know. And he needs his mum to love him, whether he turns out to be an unhappy sod or not."

     "Some people do take me seriously, Davydd." Fiona looks up, scowling at you even as you kiss her. She takes the kiss, though, and her hands lift to tug at your hair. "Bastard," she mutters. "Look, there's things going on which need to be addressed, alright? Gwilym and Iowerth. Peter does need his mother, yes, and of course I'm going to love him. If I didn't love him, do you really think I'd be so concerned?"
     You get a light smack to the side of the head, and she lies back, rolling her eyes at you. "I'm tired," she complains, "and you aren't taking me seriously. But fine, you don't think it's serious. I'm making an appointment with a pediatrician all the same," there's the martial glint to her eyes, "and I'm going to make sure everything checks out normal with him. And then if it does, I'm going to be having a mother-son bonding session with the boys, to which you and Rhodri are not invited." So there.

     "I'm fine for taking it seriously, if there's something the matter. But I don't see the point in getting all bent out of shape over something that may only be an overreaction. But what do I know," Davydd rumbles, "I 'aven't got a womb." He chuckles at the smack on his head and comes over to sit on the edge of the bed.
     "I'm sorry," he murrs, his hand reaching over to stroke against your hair. "For not taking your intuition seriously. But I think you should have some bonding with your boys. And I think you should take Peter to a pediatrician. He has to go anyway. Have him checked out. It was a difficult pregnancy. It is better to be safe than sorry, right?"
     Bending, Davydd kisses you again, but this time it is not a simple peck. His mouth parts yours beneath it. "And when you're done with the boys, maybe you can join me...hmm? For a little bonding time. I've been feeling mightily neglected, you know..."

     "Better safe than sorry," Fiona whispers, and sighs. Suddenly, you are glommed onto. Her arms around your neck, tightly (it's good that you don't need to breathe), and she pulls herself up against you, into your lap. "I don't know, Davy. If we always play it safe, we're in danger of saying no to the things which make our lives worth living. Like us. And I think that's something we need to watch out for - that our being careful doesn't bite us - or those close to us - in the rear."
     You receive a long look, eyes blue and grey admixed, the sky before a storm. "I'm worried about our family. And maybe I'm worrying too much. But - Io is too paranoid, now. He thinks everything is about him, and not in the egotistical way. So I need to talk to him and straighten that out. And Gwi - I don't know what's going on with him. He ran by so quickly I thought we misnamed him and should've called him Hermes, or maybe Invisible."
     One hand frees from your neck, coming up to tug at your hair. "My husband," Fiona breathes out. "Do you know, Davy, even after all this time, I still do love you? Impossible, isn't it? But there it is. You're usually the one running out of time, though. Or frightening the hell out of me. Maybe I should frighten you a little more."

     "I don't want to be frightened," he answers easily, quietly. "I think fear is overrated. And I'm a vampire, for Christ's sake." His look is direct. Davydd exhales and for a moment he says nothing. "You are overanalyzing and worrying too much. If Io is paranoid it's because paranoia keeps you alive. He's the crown prince. I'd worry more if he weren't paranoid, love."
     "Look," Davydd continues after a moment, "...if you want to spend more time with the boys because you want a bigger presence in their lives, I'm all for that. I am sure they could use your guidance and love and support. But don't do it because you think you can change something, or need to make something right. All you can ever do with children is provide boundaries and love. The rest, love? They have to figure it out on their own."
     Davydd smiles, mouth quirking slightly at the corners. "I love you too. Just love me back. And love them. The rest will be as it will be. If I can't control shite, what makes you think you can, eh?" Laughing, he goes to tickle you. "You think you're better than me, is that it?"

     She bats at your hands, grabbing hold of your wrists. As if that would do something. "No," Fiona says with some asperity, "I don't think I'm better than you. I know I am. I'm your better half, remember?" You receive a light kick to the shin, and she leans in to brush a kiss against your lips, then bites on your shoulder.
     "I can't wait until he's off the teat. I so desperately need to get drunk." Bite. Gnaw. "Davy, pick me up and carry me somewhere. You're sounding old and cranky. And I'm sounding young and cranky. We need less cranky."
     She buries her face in your shoulder all of a sudden. "You're a vampire. But a vampire who gets his young and beautiful wife pregnant with startling regularity - or will, I suppose once isn't enough for it to be 'regularly' yet. But you're next, Old Man. In a couple of years."
     She is, astonishingly, not in the mood for sex. But you do get a sigh, and she snuggles into your arms more closely. "I have to talk to them," Fiona tells you stubbornly, but quietly. "But not right now. First Peter. Then I have to talk to Rhodri. Then Io and Gwi. And then it'll be your turn, Old Man. You're the one who set the precedent : the king comes last."

     "First, last, and always," Davydd echoes. And with a grin, he lifts you. "But that's alright," comes the whisper nearby, "I'm immortal. I could do with waiting now and then..."

Posted by rowan at August 21, 2006 11:11 PM