There's a cold in the air, a wind blowing from the north with the nip of frost hanging over the moon as it glimmers down over the roads leading to the towering red stones of Powis Castle. Fiona is at ease, relatively speaking; she's snuggled into her jacket and dozing on and off. "You should buy me furs," she says sleepily. "Brute. If I can't snuggle into you while you're driving, then the least you could do is get me a nice long fur coat."
     She yawns, sitting up and smoothing back her hair. Not that the trip has been that long a one; still, long enough for her to doze. "I'll have to check in with the nurse," she says idly, gathering her hair back in both hands and twisting it into a knot. "Hmm... should I do my hair pink, or stick to holiday colours, Davy?" She flips down the visor to examine her reflection in the mirror, mulling the question.
     Her hair is released as she turns to you, blowing you a kiss as she unfastens the seatbelt. "I hope it snows. I'm in the mood to make a proper Christmas dinner - very traditional and all. It's a pity it'll just be us, almost, but then, I do like spending the time with you." Fiona smiles contentedly as she swings open the door of the car, climbing out. She's blonde at the moment; dressed for London, but with a touch of class. A tailored skirt and blouse with cardigan and scarf, a long wool coat over it and a floppy beret to match her scarf now perched on top of her head. She turns, waiting for you with her hands folding inwards, into her armpits for warmth. "We'll have to take lots of pictures of Peter," she murmurs. "Maybe I'll make a goose. Or a crown roast..."

     He laughs and billows smoke, the cigarette perched precariously between his lips. "Crown roast," he mumbles. "Sounds good. Potatoes?" he wonders, glancing over to you as he turns up the road from Welshpool proper to head up the long castle drive. "You can sit on Santa's lap and tell him all about what you want. I thought you modern girls were anti-fur, including your own..."
     How can something that cute be so crass?
     Dark green glances to you as he leans against the door, head lolling on the seat's headrest. "I like it blonde, m'self. Or red. Red's good. Whatever you like, sweetheart. I don't mess with a woman's hairdo. So long as she has hair and it's clean," he shrugs, "I'm easy to please like that. Not like that other bloke of yours. Coo, he's demanding," Davydd rumbles, clouds of smoke puffing on his laughter.
     The lights are on, as they should be, and the castle is grandly decorated for the coming holidays. In a manner of days, the entire Llywelyn, Morgan, Herbert clans will be descending on the joint for the yearly booze up at the old manor. Davydd's descendants know how to make merry, for certes, and now you're a part of it.
     An arm comes around you and draws you near as you abandon the relative warmth of the Rover for the not-at-all warmth of the Welsh air. His long wool coat holds heat he didn't eve know he had! "I think I could do with a bit of Lord Peter," he murmurs warmly as he huddles you inside. He had a baby right under his nose! He doesn't need to make another one. He'll borrow his grandson.
     The door swings open and the couple hasten in. The foyer is lit and is warm with the fire lit in the hall (fireplaces dot the castle, not all of it's been converted to traditional heat), and there's the feeling of home instantly. And of the proximity of people. Not strange -- the house is full of them. "How about a warm toddy to heat up the body," Davydd grins, untying the scarf as he heads from the foyer to the great hall -- now living room.

     "None for me, merci. If I were any hotter, I would burn down the house."
     The voice emanates from the great hall -- specifically where one might see an upcurling of scented smoke, the soul of a Turkish cigarette, past the edge of a paper. Davydd does not need for the paper to be lowered -- though it is -- and he does not need to see the smooth pulling of That Mouth to know its owner.
     He knew William from the moment the first breath of speech was drawn...
     And there he stands, pivoting to toss the paper to the leather seat of the chair that has occupied him. His black hair cut short and stylish, he is a vision (truly) in the cocoa brown suit. Indigo eyes shift slightly from Davydd to Ms. Fiona Arundel-Morgan-Llywelyn (or whatever she's calling herself these days), and his smile slowly widens. "Mademoiselle.... Merry....almost Christmas."

     "Of course potatoes," Fiona coos at you, staying close as you draw her near. "What's a roast without potatoes? And maybe some modern girls are anti-fur, but I'm not. As long as it's not an endangered species. Unless," she adds practically, "it tries to eat me. In that case, I'll be happy to wear its fur."
     She starts to answer you about hot toddies and the like, but before she can, someone else speaks, and she turns, eyes rounding in almost comical surprise. You get a quick look, and then she is looking to the source of the voice. Did you know? Did you guess? What's going on here, Davy...
     "And a very happy Yule and Chanukah to you too," Fiona says quickly, once the first surprise fades. She stays at your side, as if almost ready to hide behind you in her wariness. "We missed you at the wedding, but thank you again for the lovely gift. Davy, I'd love a hot toddy if you're going to make them. If not, shall I go see about whipping up a midnight supper for our guest?"

     For a moment, he suspects he might be having some sort of fit. He just blinks, and blinks and then those fiery eyebrows cock skyward like rockets. "Holy shite," he rumbles, surprised for a moment, and then simply shocked. "What the hell?" But he's grinning and folding space, coming over to give the bigger man a greeting hug.
     For a moment, all the troubles between them are dispelled.
     William is not surprised by the hug, nor is it awkward. Whatever the trouble has been over the past several years, there are more than eight-hundred years between these men. With a grin, William gives Davydd the continental greeting, just to watch him squirm. Once that's done, and Davydd's making a face while rubbing his cheeks, William looks to Fiona over Davydd's shoulder. He's a good four inches taller; it's not tough to do. "I am sorry to have missed it, but I am glad you got the gift. I am rarely able to attend such things, unfortunately. But marriage is suiting you?"
     His attention returning to Davydd, William takes his seat again, setting the folded paper aside. "And it is good to know that I can still be surprising," his mouth pulls in a slight smile, his indigo eyes dark but bright with amusement. "It is good to see you. It has been a few years now, ne c'est pas?" It has been a few. "I do not know the last time I was in this castle," he murmurs, glancing around momentarily. Maybe a century ago?
     "Ah, yeah," Davydd softly says to Fiona. "I'll do that. Actually, I'll have the kitchen do it. Why don't you have them tend to it, dinner and all? And I'll pour something while we wait." He heads to the bar, a fair bit away -- the chamber is quite large. It has two fireplaces just to keep the temperature reasonable. "How are things in Venice and Scotland?"
     "In Venice? Damp. In Scotland, cold." William takes up a new cigarette, lighting it. "I haven't been back all that long, but my work in Venice is done for the time being. I'll have to return in a few years to put the finishing touches on the building, but.. in the meantime, I relax and collect. I will be staying for two nights only," he mentions in quiet aside. "I have to head home for Yule. Tradition."

     She watches, minutely relieved to see the two of you not apparently at each other's throats - she is less than certain that her presence would be any sort of guarantor of good behavior. "I think marriage suits me fairly well, yes," Fiona agrees, "though I'm not sure there is any other answer to a question like that without ending up on daytime television."
     She turns again to you, the older of her two husbands, a hand light on your shoulder. "Alright. I'll go talk to the kitchen staff and then check in on Peter quickly, and then I'll be back." Her expression does soften noticeably, as it always does when Peter is mentioned.
     "Let me know if there's anything you would particularly like, and I'll be right back..."

     Peter? Indigo eyes drift in their attention from Davydd to Fiona. How many men does she have living here? William exhales a little smoke, "Brandy is sufficient for me. Don't bother hiding your bottle of Normandie. I give you alcohol so I can drink it when I visit," he intones, languid baritone an ease of sound. The English is tugged, elongated by the accenting of both France and Italy. He has been speaking Italian so much, it has changed his cadence.
     "My grandson," Davydd explains with a smile as he nods to Fiona and turns to William. "I'd like you to see him. He looks nothing like me," he cracks. Davydd glances to Fiona again, "Ah, no, love, it's fine. Dinner and the toddies will be fine. Have them use coffee, oes? The Frenchman's here."
     A Welsh hand lands on a broad French shoulder, a pat given before he sits on the chair next to William. "How's Ian... glad to be back home?"
     "Hmm... mais oui... always. Grandson? I must have missed the announcement..." comes the dry roll of his voice.
     "Well, if you'd answer your phone, Gwilym, y' wouldn't have to be surprised everytime you see me..."
     "It is hard to get a phone when one is swimming in the sewers of Venice. Congratulations. Do you feel old?"
     "Ha! I felt old three hundred years ago..."
     "Just three-hundred?"
     "So...does he still want to kill me?"
     "He doesn't want to bake you a cake," William chuckles. "But, fortunately for you, he knows my heart. That is enough, oui? I wouldn't hold your breath for reconciliation, but I wouldn't spend too much time worrying about it." Yet.
     "... And Edward...?"
     "Edward... has been in Spain. He and Valan."
     "Ah, good old Montague...I miss him."
     "Hmm... well.... they were in Spain. They are now in Switzerland. It is the Christmas Tradition. He has Switzerland. I have Scotland. You have Wales..."
     The quiet conversation slowly begins to dwindle...

     "Coffee," Fiona agrees with a smile. "I'll be back once I've checked on them. If Peter's awake, I'll bring him through, otherwise you'll have to wait, I'm afraid."
     She slides out to her own routine. A guest is a guest is a guest, and the English and the Welsh - and those of faerie - all alike have their traditions of hospitality. How it will go, she doesn't know, but she isn't going to let herself ponder that too much; no point in it, as her other husband would say. She checks in on her son, sleeping peacefully (unless the last two, this one sleeps the night through without trouble or fuss), exchanging words quietly with the nurse after making her trip through the kitchens. Food needs to be started sooner rather than later, after all.
     You are given time with old friends. She does not vanish forever, but there is time to be taken, as she moves from kitchen to nursery, from nursery to the master suite, changing from travel clothes into something more suitable for entertaining. Her hair is braided quickly with a humming trill on her tongue, then the heavy braids pinned up to the top of her head as she changes into a long straightlined skirt and high-necked blouse, a brooch pinned at the throat. Her rings are left on; the proper garment of the mistress of the manse, the wedding rings as sigil and signal to any onlooker as to her position as surely as the ring of keys of the chatelaine.
     She is unhurried, but not lingering; she returns downstairs in due course, having marked time by internal clock as well as by glancing at a clock. "There should be food available soon," Fiona remarks as she re-enters the room. "I hope I'm not interrupting at a bad time. Shall I have them bring it in here, or open up the dining room?"

     The lady of the manor enters, and out of habit both William and Davydd rise. They glance at one another, catching the other in a moment of Automatic Courtesy, before returning to their seats. They both command their own chairs in different ways. Davydd, with his comet-like energy, is barely contained in his. William, the larger of the two by far, has the intensity of a blue giant. Everything in the surround area is pulled into his orbit of majesty.
     Brandies have been poured and cigarettes are stamped out, smoldering where they were left. Hovering on the air -- the paused conversation of two old friends playing catch-up. "Congratulations, Fiona. Mais non, please stay. I received your fudge," that mouth pulls in a slow, smooth smile. "I thank you. My husband thanks you." Something that he does not say aloud lingers nonetheless in his expression. The smile is knowing. Of too much. "How old is your Peter?"
     Davydd settles back, offering her a hand and tipping his head back. "I'm all for dining informally..."
     "Oui... that is fine," William answers. "I do not need fanfare."
     Glancing to Fiona, Davydd quirks up an eyebrow. "...Peter's ...what... four months old? Six? Shite, I have no mind for time," Davydd rumbles.

     "Try ten months," Fiona answers placidly, though there's a blush that reddens her cheeks as she focuses on the question and attempts to ignore nuance. What is it that is not being said? She is ever wary of such, though not so far reduced as to retreating into a Drancy-like shell. "You never did have much of a mind for time, Davy, but it's all right; we love you anyway."
     She moves to take the offered hand, the blush receding in favour of a warmth in her smile in eyes gone blue. "I'm glad you got the fudge. If you want more, let me know; I can always make some more for you to take with you, before you leave. My grandmother's recipe." She addresses herself to her husband for a moment - "Peter's sound asleep, the nurse says he's been as usual. I'll need to replenish the stores before I go back up to town is all." She is being delicate in the presence of a guest, glancing over discreetly.
     "I'll go notify the kitchens, shall I? That we'll be dining in here." And give you more time to speak, Fiona's tilt of the head implies, but she does not say.

     "Ten? Sweet Jesus," Davydd exhales. With a roll of dark green eyes, that expression is of a man asking himself: Where has all the time gone? But then he grins. "I was never good at math...you know this. So, he's ten months."
     "He'll be gnawing at your heels any day now. You will have to take him hunting. Let me know when you do a night run. I will bring the greyhounds."
     Twisting Davydd looks at Fiona, nodding as she speaks of Peter. "He's fond of the nap, that one. Can't say as I blame him. Diolch, love. I think Will and I will go have a spot of billiards until things are ready. You up for a game?"
     "Up for beating you mercilessly?" William intones. "I never tire of it." Rising, he makes his own tower.
     Smirking, Davydd follows. "As if. You'd still be eating with your fingers and shitting out of windows if it weren't for my influence."
     "Whatever helps you sleep at night, ami..."
     Though the banter is old hat, there is a stiltedness to it. A palpable discomfort. They have much to say to one another. Much more to understand. To forgive.

     "I'll go and let the kitchens know, then," Fiona answers composedly. "You two have fun now, mm?" She turns to go, and as she sails off, her voice can be heard drifting back, "I've never understood why it's deemed especially manly to play with sticks and balls, but as long as you're enjoying yourself, I'll turn a blind eye. Try not to put any eyes out..."

Posted by rowan at December 12, 2006 09:20 AM