... My lover called to me. His voice was distant, his words merely drops in the miasma of oceans astral and primordial, as I stepped from his form and from my own and entered the visions that had merely crammed my mind before. The things I saw, the futures I saw -- just possibilities -- but they could be selected, even made real.
Through his body, through the song from my throat pulling in great, melodic groans, and through the motions we made, I was able to be with him and leave him, to exist in one world and travel in between them. I stepped in the ocean, the watery main that exists between all things -- dreams, divination, blood -- and into action.
It was beyond even my wildest imagination, what happened next. My standing amid the white-capped waves, seeing the columns and basilicas like fragments of Ancient Greece rise anew, white-capped waves becoming white marble. Colonnades and palisades, atria, temples. The twelve Crescent Islands were covered. And piers were made, and all those imaginings, be they dreams or visions inspired by the lovers in my life and the seas we shared, became fixed, real, solid.
I am certain I passed out. I am certain Tiernan lost consciousness. I woke and he was gone, a note left behind. And I sent The Draigamore back to sea. Past the land sight of Venice, in the center of the Adriatic, a ship was there and then... was not...
For several more days, I was out of contact. I stared at my kingdom, my twelve islands, in a state of shock. I heard the buzz of inquiries. A father seeking, a brother reporting in, another brother felt but little said, a mother making a request. Yes, yes... I'm sure I mumbled in reply. Yes, yes... I will be there in a while...
It has been a full week since the crown prince has been seen. Again, appointments with prospective brides were put on hold, their ministers and emissaries entertained during the Queen's birth and the prince's departure. Upon the eighth day, a message had arrived: The Draigamore was parked off-shore, sparkling from some new adventure, towing another ship to dock. The two remain off-shore, guarded by a perimeter of seadragons, all in the employ of the seadragon prince himself.
A small boat brought him ashore. No oarman needed; the even the lifeboats and barges are magically inclined. No one stopped him to greet him as he moved, for his was an appearance immediately and quietly commanding. He left a few gaping, to be sure, as he moved ashore in his oceanic gear.
This then, Your Majesty, is your son as he appears...
His fiery hair is short and mussed by the wind, as ever it seems. But the fanciful captain's coat and anachronistic 18th Century buccaneer apparel has been left behind. In its stead, dragonskin leathers of midnight and blue ocean that end in boots of the same, those boots with sturdy soles of scales that are both water tight and water gripping. His torso is covered in iridescent scales, shaped very like those of the actual dragonskin, but this made of water-tight and resistant metal. He wears no sword -- with his presence, he does not need one.
Clothing ... it is merely trappings, yes? What has changed is in his demeanor. His face, though it looks the same (ever so much like Davydd, but without the little scars here and there), projects such a bearing. That of a young king announcing himself. His periwinkle and sea-foam eyes swirl and in brightness lead the way.
"Mother... I'm sorry I'm late..."
It has been a slow recovery. When you were born (and your brother), she recovered fairly quickly; days instead of weeks or months. This, then, is the nature of fairy magic, of fairy time. And this in this pregnancy, has largely been denied her. Though she does not know of the sapping of her energy by an enemy, though she is unaware of her newest son's magic having been robbed of him while he still lay in the womb, now, at least, recovery may begin. And so it has...
"Early or late, so long as you're here, my darling boy." Fiona offers you a small smile, rising from where she reclines upon her throne. She has been giving some few (very few) audiences; easing back into official responsibility. And she rises to her feet, a cloud of white silk garments and pink flowers for her hair. She is seemingly serene, and only beginning to regain her energy; she moves to you and puts her hands on your shoulders, rising up on tiptoe to kiss your cheek. The court is ignored. Dismissed. As she takes hold of you, the surroundings change, colours running together and reasserting themselves to the topmost tower overlooking the sea and the land.
"I'm glad you're here," she tells you simply. "I know you've had a lot going on, and a lot on your mind. I'm afraid you've inherited some of the worst of me along with the best, darling. Something to drink or eat? I'll try not to make this too painful." And she grins - yes, grins, an impish smile that betrays her essential youth beneath the press of fairy years. Eyes which are young and old at once and touched by divinity look at you with a crowd of emotions. "I promise that I didn't ask you to come in order for me to yell at you."
"I'm not worried," he smiles as he returns the kiss (that smile -- it has been missing for a while, but it has returned), and Iowerth Rhudd Draig settles back against a crinellation of the tower, for a moment glancing over his shoulder to the sea. But his attention returns to you. "You are looking better. I'm glad."
He does not seem to have a guilty conscience -- unlike his father who seems perpetually guilty of something. "I could use something to drink. I'm not hungry at the moment. When do you get to get sauced up again? Looking forward to a bender?" In his hands appears a bottle as iridescent as his armor and filled with something sweet. "You don't have to have a reason to see me," Iowerth shrugs. "Nor I you. But if you have a reason," he swallows the liquid, "... I am here to serve. Being as I am a good son."
And now he waits for you. If you have business, you'll get it over with first and then you and he can chat. If you don't, well then that'll be made clear when next you speak. There is a quiet contentment that fills all he does. He is as serene as the sea (and as complicated and destructive).
"You are a good son," Fiona agrees, her gaze softening. "But I don't have any bad sons. Remember that I said that, hm, next time I'm pregnant and ranting, won't you?" She is aware, now, of her past insanities. She does not entirely apologize for it; but acknowledgment is made, sharpening her gaze and the edges of her smile without detracting from it.
Your cheek is patted, and from the air, absently is taken wine from elsewhere within her kingdom. It is her demesnes to rule, after all. "First, I know by the way you looked that you thought I might be coming back here to look after you - or troubles you may inadvertently have caused. That look's stayed with me, even though I didn't address it then. I want to put your mind at ease."
Fiona brings you wine in a glass, redder than blood and darkened by sin. Her smile quirks, a bit lopsided now as she looks to you. She knows that sense of guilt that is there at times; in your father even if not presently in you. She has shared it on occasion. "And I wanted to tell you that I don't agree with your father about something fairly important."
His gaze softens as well, but as other young men might struggle to not look affected or touched, Iowerth doesn't bother. He smiles a little and nods. "I do try. My family is... very important to me. And the next time you're pregnant, I've decided to go on a cruise." He laughs then. "Sit on the deck of some earthly ship, let someone else sail for a while and I'll work on m' tan." As if.
"I thought I caught wind of something," Iowerth says quietly, seriously. "I have been... a bit distant the last week or so. And I know we have things to do." A shoulder lifts and lowers, and then he takes a the glass you bring. He sends his own bottle away. Whatever it was. Now you've piqued his curiosity. Oh?
"And what is that, mother? I'm not going to be in the middle of an argument, am I? I really don't care to argue with da." His periwinkle eyes widen a touch at that (like father like son) and he wears a look of comic exasperation as he sips the wine. "I love you and all... but..."
"I wasn't this bad when I was pregnant with you and Gwilym," Fiona insists, "really! I don't know what happened this time. But whatever it was, it's done with now. I've got my brain back." She smiles, that hint of mischief turning to self-mockery. "Mostly. Your father might disagree."
She doesn't take any of the wine for herself of course, now answering your earlier question. "When I can, I'll be tying one on right and proper. I intend to get more than a little bit cock-eyed on champagne, and whatever else takes my fancy. Your father and big brother will be called round once I've gotten up there - they seem to love to watch me making a fool of myself on champagne." The corners of her eyes crinkle with remembered mirth. "The last time was well before you were born, of course. Your father still gives me a hard time for chewing holes in his Todd Oldhams."
Ah, l'amour. Fiona sighs, settling back on a bench and making herself as comfortable as a cat, eyes half closed now. "I'm not putting you in the middle, darling. But it's you we're in disagreement about, and I feel that you need to know how I feel. As far as I am concerned, the only reason you need to marry is to have viable heirs, Iowerth, and marriage keeps the matter from being clouded as far as legitimacy and so on. Do you understand? That is, for me, the only reason."
She reopens her eyes, which are very blue today, a patch stolen from where sky and sea meet. "Your heart is and should be yours to give where you see fit. As should your companionship be; I disputed then and I dispute now that your being with a man would be the end of the world. In the world in which we were born, yes - it would be a problem. But here? For god's sake, they have fertility rituals out in the open with kings and queens participating which would make /me/ blush, let alone the pope. And we're none of us in this family ever going to be papal candidates, unless it's of a Medici strain."
He is quiet as you explain your position. Leaning against the tower's body, he seems to examine your words and perhaps even hear what his father's retort might be. "We have already started the process. Like it or not, to back away now would be... politically difficult. There would be questions, questions that would be difficult not to answer, and I would just as well not have curious pixies or fairies poking around in my business. I appreciate your point of view. I happen to agree on principle."
You'll get no arguments from him -- not on this topic. Iowerth exhales in thought, leaving his wine glass behind. "I have a court to offer, the wheels are moving, courtiers being chosen. In my mind, there's little reason to stop it from proceeding. Now, how much I may hide my life once I am king, well... I might not be hiding it at all. In fact, I might be rather ... celebratory," his smile and his voice move with the same, dark smoothness. Like the sliding of dark chocolate icing, that.
Your son comes to you, his hands reaching for your hands and he lowers to a crouch so you don't have to strain yourself looking up at him. "I do think he overreacted, and I overreacted in reaction to him. I have stopped that now," Iowerth confides. "Who I may copulate with on any given day, sorry mother, is neither here nor there on what sort of person I am, or what sort of king or visionary I may yet be. I ... do think... as it stands now with a growing navy, and a solidified court presence on the sea, that a wife may not be such a bad thing in three years. And a child soon after, to further solidify both what I am trying to do and what father is trying to do."
He smiles slightly but the depth of it is in his eyes. "Tiernan and I have... reunited and though he still needs space to sort out his own matters, my heart is not troubled. It is so full, and I have realized, with help, that a king's heart must be filled not only with the care of his people and those he would lead, but for his own cause. Someone close to me told me that the heart has four chambers. And I mean to employ all four to do what is needed. It is not... something being done to me. I thought of it that way in the beginning. It is something that I will undertake for the future, that I choose to undertake."
"Oh, I have no intention of stopping things now." Fiona smiles at you as you crouch there, a hand lifting to touch your face. "I'm sorry, darling, but I'm no fool; it's far too late for that. But I also don't believe in the one man, one woman, as God intended rule; obviously. I married two men, and I quite like that state of affairs. I don't doubt but that my children are going to follow in those footsteps. I try not to peer too closely at their sex lives, because I don't happen to think it's my business, and also because I find it difficult enough to reconcile that the men in my bed not only tally up in age to close to two thousand years, the number of women they've been with in that time... some things do not bear too much thought."
Your hands collect hers without argument from her. She is not ignoring what you say; she is just choosing not to respond to all of it. "I did not ask you here in order to tell you what to do, but to tell you that you have my consent and my approval. Your father is your father, and he is the High King. However, that does not exclude from him the possibility of being wrong." A low chuckle escapes her. "No matter how much he might like to think so. And he'd probably threaten to spank me pink if he knew I were telling you this."
Fiona sighs, closing her eyes and letting her chin tip forward for a moment, her hands still in yours. "...I look at you, and I see how much of me you've inherited. You're definitely your father's son, but there are things which you have gotten from me. I've felt ripples of it from here, when you exercise your power; the choices you make show it as much as that. And I know you'll do fine in the end, Io. It's probably hard for you to look at me and see me as anything other than what I am now, your mother, the queen. But you are doing well; you're integrating things and realizing yourself much faster than I did. Of course, it helps that you were raised here, but still."
She frees her hands gently from your grasp, now, letting her hands cradle your head, looking at you with undisguised emotion. "Who I am and what I am changes from day to day, depending on where I am and who I am with, but inside, I always stay the same. And it's hard, I know - hard to remain true to yourself though everything keeps changing. You have always had a firm sense of self, though, Io. Your brother doesn't. Never forget that I do know you are two very different people, and never forget that I do love you both. You're grown now, and it's hard for me to let you go; harder because for me, such a short amount of time's gone by. But I want you to know that no matter how big you've gotten and how many kingdoms you build or conquer, you're always going to have a home here."
He bows his head a touch and kisses your hand, and then he is rising. "It was a lot to grasp. A father and brother/uncle, a brother and brother/nephew," he snorts a bit, "... a mother who does not seem to change much on the outside. What has been twenty years here, only a year or two on the material plane. So much crammed into so little time." He holds your hand still. "With so much complexity, the more one struggles the worse it gets. I struggled, quietly and not so quietly. I'm sure I shall again. That's the nature of life."
He lets your hand go after a moment, returning to his wine and giving his back and hip to the side of the tower wall again. "You have hopes and dreams of your own, loves of your own, a kingdom of your own. Sometimes I have to remind myself of that. And... Gwilym..." He pauses upon mention of his brother. "I love him beyond comprehension. There is no expression for it. And I will take care of him for the whole of our lives, as he has me. I will always be on guard of his heart. Always. He is the other side of my soul. There is no space in between. It makes it difficult sometimes, overwhelming always."
There is a brief moment of silence. He listens to the sea and he reaches for his glass of wine, ruminating upon its flavors and the way the waves are hitting the shoreline. "I am ready," Iowerth remarks quite matter-of-factly. "I did not feel ready before, but I am now. To be a king, to have and share my visions, to foster dreams, alliances, to discover new oceans, even I think..." There is a smile for you, "...to have children of my own. The thought paralyzed me with fear just as recently as a month ago, but... only because I was running, my back to the world. When I stopped, when I realized that I was not a victim of my circumstances, it changed the world for me."
Iowerth finishes his wine, setting the glass aside. "Gwilym will find himself. I think his power....is a difficult one to master. And its side effects are certainly more difficult to contain. He has his whirlpools like I have mine, only his are invisible. Being a man of many faces makes knowing who you are at the end of the day... well, sometimes you just don't know. And then you have to sort it out. He's certainly more that way than I am. Try not to worry," he smiles a little then, reassuringly, "...Gwilym is brilliant. He is so smart, so mature, very strong, exceedingly brave. He will sort it out. And I'll always be there for him. He is first in my heart. Always."
Iowerth folds his arms against his chest simply to have a place to put them. And in his relaxation, his attire begins to change. There is a loose white tee-shirt, fitted at chest, shoulders and biceps but loose where it falls at his stomach and waist. The dragonskin turns to denim, the boots remain the same (a lovely snakeskin look to them actually). "Funny how I feel more comfortable in the clothes from There when I'm Here. They breathe better. Less fancy, I suppose. When you're ready to travel, or able to travel, I'd like to show you what I've done. The islands I showed you on my plan are now developed. I have a second dragon ship whose first mission will be to bring my family there. After that, it will be a ... gift to Tiernan if he wishes it. He's learning how to be a sailor in his own right. A naval engineer, even. He's... getting better, mother. He suffered quite a bit, out of body, out of energy. But his time on the material plane seems to have really helped him."
"Gwilym reminds me of something his father said once," Fiona says softly, "about how he lost himself in his disguises. How he was so comfortable, being so lost, that when love struck him, he didn't act - and then it was very nearly too late. My concerns for your twin are different from my concerns for you, Io. Because he is not like you. In some ways, he is more insecure. More afraid, I think. And he deals with his fears by charging at castles and at armies. He has an almost desperate need to be loved. I do worry about him. He is my son." She smiles a little. "And yes, it's odd. I have three sons. Two of them are now almost as old as I am. It's a very strange feeling, to realize that my children will age and grow up faster than I will."
She listens to you, looks to you, looks at your face, watches your eyes. "If you think you're ready," she tells you, tone matter of fact, "then you are setting yourself up to be slapped down by fate. None of us are ever fully ready. There will be things which will take you by surprise, and sometimes, overwhelm you. But I have faith in you, Io. I trust you to do your best, and that's all any of us can do. As for children ... I have always looked at it this way. It is not just the having of the children. It is who with. For you, your wife is someone who you may come to love, but you are unlikely to fall in love with that easily or readily. You have to choose her with a different eye. She is to be a partner, and love and business seldom mix well, I'm told. So the people you do love are the ones you must overlap that thought with. Would you raise a child with Tiernan? I have to admit," Fiona adds thoughtfully, her mind going on one of those infamous tangents, "he does look as though he would make awfully cute babies."
Thoughts you likely didn't want to hear. Fiona smiles at you, with a hint of that feline-edged mischief. "When I am ready to travel and able to, I would love to see what you've done. You got that from me, you know. A flair for architecture." One eye closes in a wink. "And I have heard rumors that you've inherited my singing voice as well." Ah, but teasing you is such fun. She shakes her head. "I am sorry for my part in Tiernan's pain," she says softly. "He's a good boy, at heart - too good, maybe, for the likes of us. But I did what I had to do to protect /my/ family... even though it meant destroying his."
He makes a sound and his face twists in mock agony. "Ugh... please, mother." And suddenly he's sixteen all over again. "Besides the fact he hasn't got a womb or any of the other necessary equipment, he is pleasing to look at," he chuckles at that. God, have babies with Tiernan. "I fear that my progeny will be projects as much as children. They're for a purpose and...their mother, my future queen, will be chosen with that in mind. Who would be a good partner, who would likely have intelligent and hopefully lovely children. There is some amount of science to it."
And you know how much he adores science...
"I... do sing. But... rarely for pure enjoyment's sake. It... has a function. Though it can be quite pleasurable, I hear." Iowerth then blushes and clears his throat. For a moment, he forgot he was speaking to his mother. Color risen high soon fades and he cocks an eyebrow skyward. "I would not raise a child with Tiernan, nor do I think he would want them. He will marry too, he has said. He knows he will need to for his own cause. He will have children of his own and I will love them, I am sure."
So complicated it all will be, but rather than looking at it as a trap I begin to see that complexity as an opportunity.
"I do think you will like what I've done in the Crescent Islands. I've gone Greek," he grins. "Which of course fits right into the homosexuality-slash-bisexuality motifs. There will be an oracle," he gestures to himself, "... there are temples and atria, columns and colonnades. Even a coliseum for horse races and the like. It's quite grand. Philosophy, the arts. Instead of moaning the loss of the Golden Age of Thought and bacchanalias, why not just have a renaissance? Outdoor theaters, comedies and tragedies. I think it will be quite something when there are inhabitants." Iowerth laughs at that. "Right now, it's just like a setting for a movie."
There is understanding as you speak of Gwilym. He doesn't counter anything you say, or dispute anything you say. He absorbs it. "He ... must have inherited some things from his father. My brother. I have to say, I don't know him very well," he speaks of Rhodri suddenly. "I don't understand him very well. He seems to love you though, beyond words. Which of course I approve of." As if you asked. "But I think his masks are still in place. They... are sometimes hard to see behind. With Gwilym, it is easier for me. We are twins, symbiotic. With Rhodri, I find that I struggle to understand what motivates him, what inspires him, how he thinks about things. Of course, we've never spent any real time together in what have been years for me. Father, father I know. And I'm not under any delusion that I'm perfectly ready to be king and there'll be no mistakes. I'm simply.... ready for the opportunity. Ready to try, hopefully succeed. I feel... ready to make the attempt."
Iowerth comes back over to you, bending and kissing you on the cheek. "How is the new love of your life? The bundle of Welshness known as Peter in mixed company." Now, doesn't he sound so like his father. "Is he doing better, as you seem to be?"
Her amusement is evident - to the point that she covers her mouth slightly while she tries not to grin. That you forget that she is your mother - it's not entirely surprising, in this family, is it? "Your father and brother have always admired my singing," Fiona says placidly.
"As for Tiernan, I'm not sure what you thought I meant," you receive an upraised eyebrow, "but I meant that he would make pretty babies. I anticipate seeing quite a few children around here; at least my next few will have playmates of an age, yes? The real trick will be having enough kingdoms to go round. But that's always been the risk, with royalty."
She looks to you, watches you as you speak, you gesture, you move. She absorbs what you say, then chuckles quietly. "Try not to steal too many of my best people. Find your own, hm? This kingdom was difficult enough in the building; you have no idea how many were resistant to the idea of me. More than I realized until after the fact, to be honest. As for Rhodri..."
She inhales, closes her eyes, exhales slowly. "His mind moves very quickly," Fiona says slowly. "Quicker than most. Your brother is in some ways very like him, but his being is leavened more by his insecurities. He has enough of your father in him that it is inescapable, I suppose. Rhodri is ... best thought of as someone who has known that there is no peace save in moments, and has accepted that. And he moves so from moment to moment, collecting them like gold. He has known very great loss, your eldest brother. But he has learned that grasping too tightly only makes the straw prickle harshly, and run through fingers the faster. I would describe him as implacable beneath soft fur. But I'm his wife."
And you ask about your newest brother, and her eyes light up. "He is a darling. But so quiet! Not like you and your brother, you were always demanding something. Peter demands, but he does so with imperious motions, and those eyes... we're having my parents in for a look at him next week. He is doing better, yes, though I still want to take him to a doctor and get him checked out."
Oh. You meant him having children of his own. Not my children. Iowerth laughs. It is rich and musical, reminiscent of his father's and yet without his father's earthiness. No, Iowerth's is far smoother, like the sound of a river in motion. He rolls his eyes at himself and then sighs away the last of his mirth. "I'm sure he will have lovely children one day. I would say his daughters should marry my sons, but I'm not sure we could take anymore overlap," his voice intones, that dry, dry tone of his humor.
"I will discover as many new landscapes as I can," Iowerth murmurs. "I expect father will want to have backups should his Rhudd Draig experiment go horribly awry," a smile edges that dry tone. "But do make him wait a while, will you? He has to give me a fighting chance. As for Rhodri... I can... well imagine. Maybe one day we will have a chance to speak more. I do admire him. I admire his cool, calm demeanor. I try to emulate it when I can. When I'm not erupting like Vesuvius, that is. I'm doing better. Still a bit... on and off," black and white as you and Gwi keep telling me, "...even Tiernan sees it now. I'm doomed. But mollification isn't bad. And he and Gwi keep me balanced. I'm better for having them around."
You speak of the new wee bairn as they say, your eyes light up, you become incandescent, and your eldest smirks. But that wry smirk can't last long. It pulls into a true smile soon enough. "To be fair, it's hard to be more demanding than Gwi and I. I'm glad he's doing better. And I'll try not to be jealous of the new man in your life. It won't be easy. First born, first forgotten," Iowerth teases with a sigh. "I'm sure Rhodri's beaming. How's da?"
"You will have a fighting chance. Of that, rest assured. And I ... will have to wait a bit. Peter is going to need time and attention; he will not grow up as fast as the two of you." Fiona smiles a bit, her expression momentarily wistful. "Which is both good and bad, in different ways. But he will have more children. I'm not done yet, you know. I don't think those two would let me be done even if I wanted to."
She chuckles, your mother does, and now she rises, putting her hands on you, taking your face between her hands. "You will always be my child. My firstborn. Don't forget it, Iowerth; I won't be confusing you with any other young men that wander along," a hand lifts to tug on your hair, "red heads or not. As for your father, he thinks I'm insane, of course. What else is new? I'm a new mother, though, and as such, he tries to humour me. He just isn't very good at hiding that he's humoring me."
A white bird rises with shrill cry, and Fiona turns towards it, one hand still on your shoulder. "A messenger... would anyone be looking for you, Io? Or is it for me?"
Iowerth smirks at the mention of Davydd ap Owain humoring you (he can well imagine) but it turns tender with the tugging of his hair. "I'll remember, mum," he says, sounding every bit your boy. He enjoys this quiet moment with you, giving you a hug and a kiss on your cheek again. He is a man what loves his mother, there's no doubt of it.
But at the shrill bird's cry, Iowerth straightens, his attention flicking upward to the sky, to the bird and its trajectory. "There could be all sorts of people looking for me... and you... though it is a sea-gull." Tilting his head to look to the bird's feet (any sign of a message at the talons), he speaks to it: Looking for someone?
The harsh cry echoes again, and Fiona looks to the bird. "For me, then. A moment, Io, please." She steps forward, offering out her arm unflinchingly for the heavy bird to land upon. Tell me what you've got.
Silence, for a long moment. Her eyes close, her chin tips downwards in thought or concentration, and then, finally, she says, "Very well. Go - you've done your job. Tell her she knows where to go to collect payment."
She turns to you, all trace of good humour gone. "It's Gwilym," Fiona says quietly. "Apparently, one of my people saw him. He's safe, but he's been hurt."
"Where," is the only thing Iowerth says. The casual clothing of a friendly mother-son chat are gone, and it is the dragonskin and scales again, and a cloak made of an actual ocean wave that springs from his shoulders. It pools around his feet, but does not dampen him or the surroundings.
Not unless he commands it to, that is...
"Be calm," Fiona commands, though there is evidence to suggest that despite her efforts - she is anything but. Her eyes have gone steel grey, and her knuckles are white. Carefully, she laces her hands together in front of her, turning to look out over the sea. "He is with General Ramanthus. I am sure that the General will tend to him well. He went there, wounded. My ... agent... says that he looked as if he barely knew where he was going."
She is worried, concerned, angry - emotional. It is difficult, not leaping to defend, to protect, to savage the attacker. "But we do not know why he is wounded. He is safe, and there is time to get other information. Do not be too hasty." She tells you, but it is herself she is telling...
"I want to go to him, but my time here is growing short. I will have to return to Peter before it is time for him to nurse." Fiona speaks as calmly as she can manage; it is a struggle nonetheless, one which you witness. "I ... will tell Rhodri, and send him. Politically - it is his heir, after all. And I'll call Davydd."
"I am perfectly calm," his voice is steady but his eyes are keen. "I'm simply worried about him. I'm going to the General's. I will let you know as soon as I know something." Iowerth grasps your arm lightly. With a kiss upon your cheek he transforms. Not an ocean wave, nor a seadragon -- he is not in his element for that -- but he becomes a swift-flying bird, descending from your tall tower and to the outskirts of your suburbs.
I know the general well... he is in excellent hands. I will report shortly...
You leave behind her a woman more worried than you found. Fiona bites her lip, closing her eyes against the press of tears. Then, without a word, there is nothing there behind you. A queen vanishes, finding her way across the planes to Powis Castle once more.
Posted by rowan at August 24, 2006 07:19 PM
